#Hide File Extensions

[techdirectarchive]

Video on how to Show or Hide File Extensions on Windows 11

Video on how to Show or Hide File Extensions on Windows 11

[kanerallels]

Ok, since you opened it up to AU requests from other fandoms, and since you've been TGE-posting the last two days . . . I would LOVE to see a snippet of Maia and co. (any "and co" will do, but my first choice is Csethiro or Beshelar and Cala) in a SW AU. (Also do not feel pressured to do this. I recognize it is kind of borderline on the list of what prompts you're looking for. I'm just. I think it sounds fun.)

OH MY GOSH friend. I was literally JUST thinking about this idea. Like yesterday. This is more a set up for the au than anything else but enjoy it all the same, there is a good chance I snap and write an addition later on:

When Emperor Palpatine died suddenly (from what, it was still unknown. A failure of the heart in his sleep, poison, assassination from enemies both close at hand or mysterious were all explored and summarily rejected), the Senate went into an uproar trying to determine his heir. The Empire had only been a true Empire for fifteen years—the succession rules were unclear, to say the least. There were those who campaigned for a political replacement, for a new election.

But those closest to Emperor Palpatine claimed to know his will. That his rule would be passed on to his closest kin, his half nephew. There was much murmuring over who this half nephew was. They knew of the half brother—a proud man who, unlike his fellow Nabooans, put no stock in the beauty of art and craftsmanship, but seemed to relish the art of war and profit.

However, Varenechibel (for so he was called) had died in a ship crash earlier that year, along with his three eldest sons. The fourth remained—a half human boy of eighteen, who had been raised by a distant cousin on an Outer Rim planet, safely out of the way.

He was out of the way no longer, and rumors flew thick and fast about this Maia Drazhar—whether he would be a ruler like his uncle, if the stories of his mother were true, calling the boy himself an inbred fool who would run their Empire into the ground. Very few had any faith in him, and most hoped that Mas Amedda, the Emperor’s Grand Vizier, would steer him in the right direction.

Some, like Senator Organa or Senator Berenar, seemed to hold out hope. Though when the boy himself finally appeared—tall and awkward and dark-skinned, accompanied by his scowling guardian and an elegant looking Twi’lek man who was as pale as the new Emperor was dark—hope did seem to flicker out. It would seem, it was remarked, that Mas Amedda had his puppet after all.

This all changed a month into the new Emperor’s—who, in Naboo fashion, had chosen a ruling name of Edrehasivar—rule, during which he hired two bodyguards of decidedly non-human descent, politely ignored Mas Amedda’s every suggestion, and began quietly ruling in a way that would have made Palpatine’s heart, should he have possessed one, quail with rage and horror.

The general Senate was up in arms, Bail Organa found himself positively delighted, and a young Umbaran woman, whose family was currently in negotiations of a personal sort with the Emperor, was revising her opinions rather rapidly. Csethiro Ceredin hadn’t expected much of Emperor Edrehasivar. What she had expected had been disproved, and she found she would be very interested to see what came of the Emperor’s rule.

She was far from the only one.

[importantpuppystarfish]

Punishment for disobedience by Hanni

Managers x Hanni

Warning: BDSM, very hardcore & rough, humiliation, degrading, triple penetration, bruises, destroying the body, whipping, sadism, metal rods, total mess, gangbang, anal, treatment like a slave.

Note: please this is all just a fantasy for reading and stuff, this can be uncomfortable to read so if ur weak hearted or a fluff enjoyer, typically do not read.

Hanni stood at the heart of a lively fan event, her long dark hair framing her delicate features as she forced a faint smile, her right hand raised in a peace sign for the cameras capturing her move. She wore a light green satin dress over a white long-sleeve shirt, paired with black sneakers, her youthful and polished appearance captivating the crowd of adoring fans, her growing fame as an idol under HYPE, one of the most powerful agencies in K-pop industry.

At 18, Hanni had already endured intimate stuff and coercive history with her 8 managers, who had subjected her to sexual encounters since her trainee days, a practice that, while normalized in this universe’s industry, had left her deeply scarred.

As She had grown up, she had seen this as an unavoidable part of her rise to fame, but the cumulative trauma had finally driven her to take a stand—she had reported the managers to a court, hoping to expose their sexual activity with her and break free from their control. She also planned to leave the agency.

Unbeknownst to her, the managers had just received word of her legal action through their extensive network of industry connections.

Today there was a fan meeting of Newjeans. Hanni was there, wearing the same outfit in the picture..

The manager's rage was a palpable force as they watched her interact with fans, their eyes burning with a fury that promised a brutal reckoning. Hanni felt their gazes on her, a shiver running down her spine, but she maintained her idol persona, her smile a fragile mask hiding the terror that had consumed her since filing the court case, her mind racing with the fear of what they might do if they found out what she said in the court.

As the fan event concluded, the 1st manager, a 50-year-old with a commanding presence and a reputation for ruthlessness, approached Hanni, his face a mask of professional calm that barely concealed the storm brewing beneath. “You did well today, Hanni,” he said, his voice low and laced with venom, his eyes boring into hers with an intensity that made her stomach churn.

“But we heard about your little stunt in court. You think you can betray HYPE and get away with it?” Hanni’s heart pounded, her fingers trembling as she clutched the edge of her dress, her voice quivering with fear as she tried to explain. “I… I just wanted it to stop,” she said, a little amount of tears welling in her eyes, her voice barely audible over the lingering chatter of departing fans. “I didn’t mean to betray anyone… I just couldn’t take it anymore… the things you’ve done to me…” The 1st manager’s eyes narrowed, his tone icy as he stepped closer, his presence looming over her. “You’ve made a big mistake,” he snapped, his voice a low growl. “HYPE owns you, Hanni. You’re our slave, and tonight, we’re going to teach you a lesson you’ll never forget. You’ll wish you’d never stepped foot in that courtroom.”

Hanni’s stomach twisted with dread, her mind racing with memories of the sexual encounters she’d endured at their hands—encounters that had started as coerced “bonding” sessions but had grown increasingly violent over time, leaving her body and spirit scarred. She knew their anger would lead to something far worse than anything she’d experienced before, but HYPE’s influence was absolute, and her attempt to seek justice had only tightened the chains that bound her to her managers. She tried to run.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The moment the fans had dispersed, and she tried to escape, the managers’ demeanor shifted from professional to predatory, their rage boiling over as they grabbed Hanni, their grips on her arms bruising as they dragged her out of the venue and into a waiting black van parked in a secluded alley.

Inside the vehicle, the 2nd manager, a 47-year-old with a sadistic glint in his eyes, immediately backhanded her across the face, the force of the blow splitting her lip and sending her crashing against the van’s interior wall, her head spinning as blood dripped down her chin. “You thought you could betray HYPE?” he roared, his voice filled with venom as he punched her in the stomach, making her double over, gasping for air.

The 4th manager, a 46-year-old with a brutal streak, joined in, grabbing her hair and slamming her face against the van’s window, the impact bruising her cheek and causing her to cry out in pain. The 5th manager, a 42-year-old with a penchant for violence, tore at her clothes with his hands, ripping her light green satin dress and white long-sleeve shirt to shreds, the fabric tearing with a sickening sound as Hanni’s cute screams (AHHHhhh) filled the van, her body exposed in her underwear as the managers continued their assault. The managers smelled her underwear, it seems it was already wet, it smell good. The 6th manager, a 45-year-old with a cruel smirk, forced his mouth onto hers, kissing her with a brutal intensity that bruised her already swollen lips, his teeth biting down hard enough to draw more blood, his tongue invading her mouth as she gagged, her cries muffled by the violent kiss.

“You’ll learn to keep your mouth shut,” he growled against her lips, his voice dripping with malice as he punched her in the ribs, the crack of bone audible as Hanni sobbed, her body trembling from the relentless beating in the confined space of the van, the journey to the hotel a prelude to the horrors that awaited her.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Upon arriving at a private penthouse suite in a luxury hotel, the managers dragged Hanni inside, her torn clothes hanging off her in tatters, her body already bruised from the beatings in the van.

The suite was dimly lit, a large bed dominating the center of the room, surrounded by a table laden with sinister tools: a bullwhip, belts with heavy buckles, some knifes, a cattle prod, a basin of water, a small branding iron with the HYPE logo, multiple metal rods of varying sizes, a spiked dildo, and a metal gag for oral torture.

A mirror was positioned to reflect the bed, amplifying the sense of exposure and dread that consumed Hanni as she was thrown onto the floor, the door locking with a heavy click behind them.

Her breath caught in her throat as the 1st manager stepped forward, his voice a chilling growl that echoed in the oppressive silence. “You thought you could go to court and expose us?” he began, his tone seething with anger, his fists clenching at his sides.

“You’re nothing but our slave, Hanni, and tonight, we’re going to break you for your betrayal. You’ll never think of defying HYPE again.” Hanni’s eyes filled with tears, her voice trembling as she pleaded, her body shaking uncontrollably, blood dripping from her split lip. “I’m so sorry… I just wanted it to stop… please, don’t do this! I’ll drop the case, I swear!”

But her words were met with a cruel laugh from the 2nd manager, his fingers caressing the bullwhip with a twisted fondness. “You’ve crossed a line,” he sneered, his voice dripping with malice. “You’re going to wish you’d never opened your mouth in that courtroom.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It began with a ferocity that left Hanni reeling, the managers’ rage over her court action fueling their power to unprecedented levels.

The 2nd manager smashed the bullwhip with savage force, striking her back, each lash splitting her skin, drawing bruises, the sound of the whip cracking against her flesh mingling with her screams of agony.

She stumbled forward, her hands reaching to shield herself, but the 4th manager grabbed her arms and held her in place, his grip like iron as the lashes continued, her back becoming a mess of welts and open wounds.

“You think you can betray HYPE?” the 2nd manager roared, delivering another lash that left a deep welt across her lower back which left a high amount of huge open wounds in her back.

“You’re nothing, Hanni! You’ll pay for this!” Hanni sobbed hysterically, her body trembling as she gasped, “I’m sorry… please, stop… I’ll drop the case!” The 1st manager watched with a cold smile, his voice cutting through her cries like a blade. “It’s too late for that. Keep going—forty lashes. Make her bleed for her betrayal.”

The whipping continued, each strike tearing into her flesh, her cries echoing through the suite as the managers unleashed their fury.

The punishment escalated as the 4th manager released her arms, only to deliver a series of brutal punches to her stomach and ribs, his fists slamming into her with such force that she doubled over, gasping for air, her body wracked with pain.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The 5th manager joined in, landing a vicious punch to her face, splitting her already swollen lip further and causing a very little small amount of blood to gush down her chin, her head snapping back from the impact, her cheek swelling instantly. “You thought you could ruin us?” the 5th manager snarled, his voice filled with rage as he grabbed her hair and punched her again, this time in the jaw, the crack of bone audible as Hanni cried out, her face a mess of bruises and saliva coming out from her mouth .

The 6th manager kicked her legs out from under her, sending her crashing to the floor, where he and the 7th manager, a 41-year-old, began beating her with their fists and feet, targeting her face, stomach, thighs, and arms, leaving bruises and welts on every inch of her exposed skin.

“This is what happens when you betray HYPE!” the 7th manager shouted, his voice a mix of anger and sadistic glee as he stomped on her stomach, making her retch from the pain, her body curling into a fetal position as she begged, “Please… stop… I can’t take it…”

But the 1st manager’s voice was unyielding. “You’ll take everything we give you,” he said coldly. “You’re our slave, and you’ll learn your place.”

This took darker turns as the managers focused on Hanni’s mouth, their rage manifesting in a brutal assault on her oral cavity, determined to punish her for speaking out in court.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The 3rd manager grabbed a metal gag from the table, forcing it into Hanni’s mouth and securing it tightly, the rod stretching her jaw painfully wide, her muffled cries filling the room as drool and some blood began to drip down her chin, her lips already swollen and bleeding from the earlier punches and forced kissing in the van.

“Let’s destroy her mouth for talking to the court,” the 3rd manager sneered, his voice filled with malice as he motioned to the 2nd manager, who stepped forward with a sadistic grin.

The 2nd manager forced his dick into Hanni’s mouth, the metal gag preventing her from closing her jaw as he thrust deep into her throat, the deepthroat causing her to gag violently, her eyes watering as she struggled to breathe, her throat burning from the punishment.

“Choke on it, you little traitor,” the 2nd manager growled, his hands gripping her hair as he thrust harder, the tip of his dick hitting the back of her throat with brutal force, her gag reflex triggering repeatedly as she retched, vomits and saliva mixing as her throat was ravaged.

The 5th manager joined in, forcing his dick into her mouth alongside the 2nd manager’s, the two of them stretching her mouth to its limits, her lips splitting further from the strain, vomits gushing as they fucked her throat with no regard for her suffering.

“Look at her mouth—ruined for HYPE,” the 5th manager laughed, his voice cruel as he thrust deeper, making Hanni choke and gag, her face turning red from lack of air. The 6th manager grabbed a small whip, using it to lash the sides of her face as they deepthroated her, the strikes leaving red welts on her cheeks, her muffled screams vibrating against their dicks as they continued their punishment.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The 8th manager then took another thin metal rod, and forced it into her mouth, the metal searing her tongue and the inside of her cheeks, her muffled screams intensifying as the heat blistered her oral cavity, her mouth destroyed by the relentless fucking, beating, and deep throat fucks, lots of vomits and saliva pooling on the floor beneath her.

Looks like the punishment escalated further as the managers turned their attention to Hanni’s body, their sadism reaching new heights.

The 4th manager stepped forward with a belt, the metal buckle glinting ominously, striking Hanni’s stomach and thighs with the buckle, the sharp edges cutting into her skin, leaving jagged marks and deep bruises, her body jerking with each blow as she lay on the floor, still gagged and choking from the deepthroat assault. The 8th started fucking her, searing pain making her scream "AAAA noooo" through the gag, the sound muffled but piercing as the smell of her body filled the room, her body convulsing as the beatings left a permanent scar, marking her as HYPE’s property.

“You’ll always belong to HYPE,” the 8th manager said, his voice devoid of empathy. “You’ll never escape us now.” Hanni’s muffled screams turned to whimpers, her mind reeling from the pain as she gasped through the gag, “Mmmph… mmmph… I’ll die.. Please i'm sorry, I,'ll tell the court I lied…”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

But the 1st manager’s response was merciless. “You’ll take it all, Hanni,” he said coldly. “You’re our toy to break for what you did.”

Hanni’s cries were incoherent through the gag, her body limp as the pain overwhelmed her.

The punishment took a darker, more sexual turn as the managers removed the gag, leaving Hanni’s mouth raw, blistered from the deepthroat and metal rod, her lips swollen and torn, her throat so damaged that she could barely speak.

They forced her onto the bed, positioning her on her hands and knees.

Now, they tied her up in the bed. Her wrists and ankles tied to the bedposts with rough ropes that cut into her skin, leaving her spread-eagled and vulnerable, her bruised and weak trembling as she begged for mercy, her voice barely a whisper through her destroyed mouth.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Let’s show her what happens to traitors who betray HYPE,” the 1st manager said, his voice dripping with malice. The 2nd, 3rd, and 4th managers positioned themselves at her lower end, their intentions clear as they prepared for triple penetration in her vagina. Hanni’s eyes widened in terror, her voice a desperate plea through her ruined mouth. “Please, no… I can’t… it’s too much…” But her cries were ignored as the three managers forced themselves into her pussy simultaneously, the sheer size and force of the three dicks tearing her apart, her vagina stretched beyond its limits, she started to pee as she could not control.. Her urine went mixing with the dicks in the triple penetration, mixing with her cries as they thrust brutally, their movements synchronized to maximize her pain. Hanni screamed in agony, her body convulsing as the pain ripped through her, the triple penetration a new level of torment compared to the sexual encounters she’d endured in the past, her vagina is destroyer profusely as they fucked her more deep.

“Take it, you little whore,” the 2nd manager growled, his voice filled with sadistic pleasure. “This is what you get for going to court!”

Simultaneously, the 5th, 6th, 7th, and 8th managers focused on her asshole, their punishment reaching new heights as they forced four dicks into her anus at once, which is not logically or scientifically possible, but they managed to do it, gaping her asshole off to human limits, the sheer volume and force causing excruciating pain as her asshole was stretched beyond capacity, the pain far worse than anything she’d experienced in their previous encounters.

Hanni’s screams turned to guttural wails, her body shaking violently as the four managers thrust into her shithole with no regard for her, their anger at her betrayal driving their brutality, their dicks filling her anus completely, the pressure causing her anal walls to tear, feces seeping out as her asshole was destroyed. “Look at her shithole stretch,” the 5th manager laughed, his voice cruel. “She thought she could betray HYPE? Let’s destroy her!” The 7th manager added, “Keep going—let’s see how much she can take before it breaks.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The relentless fucking tore her anal walls further, the pain so intense that Hanni’s vision blurred, her mind fracturing under the assault, the four dicks in her asshole creating a scene of unimaginable part, her body unable to cope with the sheer volume and force. The pressure and damage caused her bowels to release, her feces leaking out onto the bed, mixing with the fluids as the managers continued their punishment for Hanni, their laughter filling the room. “Disgusting little traitor,” the 8th manager sneered, thrusting harder. “Your shithole is ours to ruin.”

This continues as her asshole intensified as the 6th manager grabbed a large, spiked dildo from the table, its surface covered in sharp protrusions designed to inflict maximum pain, and forced it into Hanni’s already destroyed shithole, the spikes tearing into her anal walls as he thrust it in and out.. Hanni screamed the loudest in agony, her voice hoarse from the earlier deepthroat. “Feel that, you little bitch?” the 6th manager taunted, his voice filled with sadistic glee. “This is what happens when you betray HYPE.”

The 7th manager then took a metal rod, heating it over a flame until it glowed red-hot, and forced it into her anus alongside the spiked dildo, the burning metal searing her anal walls, causing Hanni to scream louder than ever, her body convulsing as the pain seared through her, the heat blistering her insides as more liquids poured out from her anus which left gaping and unusable.

The 5th manager grabbed another heated metal rod, forcing it into her vagina, the burning metal searing her vaginal walls, the pain so intense that Hanni’s screams turned to incoherent wails, her body shaking uncontrollably as the heat blistered her insides, the penetrations and burning rod creating a scene of unimaginable sadism, her vagina and anus both destroyed by the relentless fuckings.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The 7th manager dragged Hanni’s head to the edge of the bed, positioning her so that her head hung off the side, her mouth forced open as he and the 8th manager took turns deepthroating her again, their dicks thrusting into her throat.. They took 3 large dildos and tried to insert it on her mouth too.. two dicks and 3 dildos stretching her mouth to its limits, her lips tearing further, vomits and saliva mixing with the burns as they fucked her throat, her gag reflex triggering repeatedly as she choked, her face turning more red from lack of air. “Look at her mouth—completely ruined,” the 7th manager laughed, his voice cruel as he thrust deeper, making Hanni choke and gag, her destroyed mouth.

The scene is still the same, Hanni on her hands and knees, tied to the bedposts, her body a mess of her body waste, bruises, and burns. Three managers—the 2nd, 3rd, and 4th—were at her lower end, their dicks triple-penetrating her vagina, then after that they insert a heated metal rod forced in, burning her vaginal walls and again taking it out as they thrust brutally, her pussy torn.

Similarly Four managers—the 5th, 6th, 7th, and 8th—were at her anus, their four dicks filling her shithole, a spiked dildo and another heated metal rod forced in as well after, tearing and burning her anal walls, liquids and feces leaking out as her anus was destroyed.

The 7th and 8th managers were also at her head, their dicks deepthroating her alongside the 3 dildos burning her mouth and throat as they fucked her face, her lips torn and blistered, vomits and saliva gushing as her mouth was ruined, the mirror reflecting the scene of 8 men destroying her body in every way possible.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Finally to end it, the 7th manager dragged Hanni to the toilet.. There was a bathtub of water, they took her there, tying her hands behind her back, her swollen lips and destroyed mouth trembling as she begged for mercy through her ruined oral cavity.

He forced her face onto the bathtub full of water, poured more water over it, waterboarding her until she choked and gasped, her body thrashing in panic, the water mixing with her destroyed mouth.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Feel that, Hanni?” the 7th manager taunted, pouring more water as she struggled to breathe. “This is what happens when you betray HYPE. You’re nothing—just a toy for us to destroy.”

Hanni’s voice was a desperate wheeze as she begged, “I can’t… breathe… please…” The 5th manager, still recording, laughed coldly. “Keep going. I want to capture her breaking completely.” The waterboarding left Hanni trembling, her mind fractured by the terror of near-drowning, her body soaked and shivering as the managers moved on to the next torment. Hanni was feeling like she was getting drowned in a river.

The managers then pissed onto the water bathtub, further more degrading Hanni as they forced her face inside the water more, letting her drink the water mixed with their piss.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

The final layer of torment was psychological, designed to shatter Hanni’s mind as thoroughly as her body. The managers forced her to face the mirror, making her watch as they continued their acts, her reflection of the image of her in waste, burns, bruises, blood, a destroyed mouth, and a ruined gapped anus . The 5th manager played back the recorded footage on a screen, forcing her to relive her screams and cries, his voice mocking as he spoke, the camera zooming in on her swollen lips and blistered mouth. “Say it, Hanni,” he demanded, his tone cruel. “Say you’re a worthless slave who deserves this for betraying HYPE.”

Hanni’s voice was a broken whisper through her destroyed mouth as she repeated, “I’m… a worthless slave… I deserve this… for betraying HYPE…” The 4th manager laughed, his voice dripping with contempt. “That’s right. You’re nothing without us. You’ll never forget this night.” They took turns degrading her, calling her vile names and forcing her to beg for more pain.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hours later, the punishment finally ended, leaving Hanni a broken shell on the floor of the suite, her body a canvas of unimaginable horror—deep welts and lacerations from the whip, jagged cuts and bruises from the belt buckles, punches, and beatings, a branded HYPE logo on her hip, the word “HYPE” carved into her thigh, burns from the electric shocks and heated metal rods, a destroyed mouth with swollen, and blistered lips and a throat raw from deepthroating and burning, a vagina torn and burned from the triple penetration and metal rod, and a ruined anus that gaped open, from the four dicks, spiked dildo, and burning rod. Her body was a testament, every inch of her marked by their cruelty. She was barely conscious, her mind shattered by the psychological torment, her voice reduced to faint whimpers as she muttered through her ruined mouth, “I’ll be good… I’ll do anything…”

The 1st manager is satisfied. “She’s done,” he said, his voice devoid of emotion. “We’ve broken her completely. She’ll never betray HYPE again.”

the 2nd manager smirked, putting the whip away. “She was fun to break. Too bad she’s such a mess now—hope she can still perform.”

The 5th manager stopped the recording, his voice smug. “This footage will keep her in check. If she ever tries to go to court again, we’ll release it. She’s ours forever now.”

The 7th manager glanced at Hanni’s broken form, his tone indifferent. “Get her cleaned up enough to move. We can’t have her like this on us yet—she’s got more events to do for HYPE.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The managers called in a private doctor loyal to HYPE, who patched Hanni up —cleaning her wounds, bandaging the worst cuts, stitching her torn lips, and giving her painkillers to dull the agony, though her destroyed anus, vagina, and mouth were left untreated, the damage too severe for immediate repair. They did care about her long-term recovery but as for now, they only needed her for her next scheduled appearance, her value to HYPE tied to her ability to perform, even in her broken state.

They dressed her in a long-sleeved outfit to cover the marks, applied heavy makeup to hide the bruises and swelling on her face, and told her to act normal at her next event, using the recorded footage as leverage, the images of her destroyed mouth, body, and leaking anus a constant threat.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Days later, Hanni was forced to attend a small fan signing session, ofcourse she was not able to walk.. Haerin, Daniellie, Hyein are confused why Hanni was acting weird.

her body still in agony, her wounds fresh and some infected, her anus, vagina, and mouth so damaged that she could barely sit or speak. She was heavily medicated with painkillers and sedatives, her movements slow and her expression vacant, but she gave a weak smile for the fans, her hands trembling as she signed autographs, her swollen lips making her speech slurred and barely intelligible.

A fan approached, her voice bright with excitement. “Hanni, you’re my favorite! You looked so happy at the last event—I love your peace sign pose!” Hanni’s voice was monotone as she replied, her words barely audible through her ruined mouth, “Thank you… I’m glad you liked it…” Her mind flashed back to the punishes, her body aching beneath the makeup and long sleeves, the pain in her destroyed shithole, pussy, and mouth a constant reminder of her punishment. The 1st manager stood nearby, his voice a harsh whisper. “Keep smiling, Hanni. Don’t let them see what a mess you are. You know what happens if you betray HYPE again.” Hanni nodded slightly, her voice barely audible through her swollen, blistered lips. “Yes, sir… I’ll be good…”

[thatonegreenleaf]

here is a resource list of *most* of the cc/mods I use to make my sims/ the amazingly talented creators that create them!

⤞ g e n e t i c s ⤝

🍃 - @northernsiberiawinds (face/body overlays, presets, skin details. maxis match/maxis mix/alpha.) some faves: ♡ | ♡ | ♡

🍃 - @obscurus-sims (face/body overlays, presets, sliders. maxis mix/alpha.) some faves: ♡ | ♡ | ♡

🍃 - @sims3melancholic (face/body overlays, skin details, eyebrows, contacts. maxis mix/alpha.) some faves: ♡ | ♡ | ♡

🍃 - @nesurii (face/body overlays, skin details. maxis match/maxis mix.) some faves: ♡ | ♡ | ♡

🍃 - @luumia (sliders, body hair. maxis match.) some faves: ♡ | ♡ | ♡

🍃 - @golyhawhaw (masculine face/body overlays, facial hair, skin details. maxis mix/alpha.) some faves: ♡ | ♡ | ♡

🍃 - misc: teeth by @magic-bot, face details by @okruee, eyelashes by @mmsims, wrinkles by @miikocc, belly overlays by @sammi-xox, non-default eyes by me.

⤞ m a k e u p / p i e r c i n g s / t a t t o o s ⤝

🍃 - me (eyeshadows, and some eyeliners and lipsticks) some faves: ♡ | ♡ | ♡

🍃 - @pralinesims (extensive collection of earrings, facial piercings, and makeup.) some faves: ♡ | ♡ | ♡

🍃 - @reevaly (large collection of tattoos that range from everyday to grunge to fantasy.) some faves: ♡ | ♡ | ♡ <- tsr

🍃 - flowers and dots tattoos by @starrysimsie, dragon and snake tattoos by @ms-marysims, body blush by @plumbheadsims, face blush by @/virtygo.

⤞ h a i r s ⤝

🍃 - @simandy (wide variety of everyday/fantasy/alternative hairs. m/f body frames. maxis mix.) - some faves: ♡ | ♡ | ♡

🍃 - @wistfulpoltergeist (masculine hairs of varying lengths. mostly m body frame. maxis match.) - some faves: ♡ | ♡ | ♡

🍃 - @simstrouble (everyday/formal hairs. most feature a fun accessory! m/f body frames. maxis match.) - some faves: ♡ | ♡ | ♡

🍃 - @johnnysimmer (shorter & masculine hairs. m/f body frames. maxis mix.) - some faves: ♡ | ♡ | ♡

🍃 - @sheabuttyr (wide variety of natural and protective hairstyles for textured hair. m/f body frames. maxis match.) - some faves: ♡ | ♡ | ♡

🍃 - @thekunstwollen (everyday/formal styles. straight, curly and textured. m/f body frames. maxis mix.) - some faves: ♡ | ♡ | ♡

⤞ c l o t h e s & a c c e s s o r i e s ⤝

🍃 - @nucrests (casual clothes and accessories with many options for variations. m/f body frames. maxis match.) - some faves: ♡ | ♡ | ♡

🍃 - @sforzcc (themed sets of casualwear with a large amount of variations. m/f body frames. maxis match.) - some faves: ♡ | ♡ | ♡

🍃 - @ooobsooo [KK's sims] (casual to formal masculine clothes, lots of layers and patterns. mostly m body frame. alpha.) - some faves: ♡ | ♡ | ♡

🍃 - @gorillax3-cc (wide variety of casual/formal/alternative clothes and accessories. m/f body frames. alpha.) - some faves: ♡ | ♡ | ♡

🍃 - @serenity-cc (many styles of everyday clothes and accessories in themed sets. m/f body frames. maxis match.) - some faves: ♡ | ♡ | ♡

🍃 - @sentate (variety of clothes and accessories ranging from casual to high couture & avant garde. f/m body frames. maxis match.) - some faves: ♡ | ♡ | ♡

⤞ m i s c e l l a n e o u s ⤝

🍃 - more columns mod by @/weerbesu

🍃 - hide CAS UI toggle files by @vyxated

🍃 - most poses I use are by @helgatisha. some faves: ♡ | ♡ | ♡

🍃 - reshade preset by me.

there is so much CC I use that it would be impossible to include it all here, but this covers the majority! If you're looking for something specific, check my wcif tag, and if it's not there, feel free to send an ask, and I’ll try to get to it when I am able! also, if anything above leads to the wrong place, please let me know! there's a lot of links 😅

[g0dlyunsub]

don't pretend.

spencer can see through all of your lies, including the bruises you’re hiding behind makeup.

pairing :: spencer x fem bau!reader

warnings :: mentions of prisons, physical violence, bruises, reader gets injured, patching up, fluff

word count :: 1.6k

author’s note :: oh, looks like i’ve spawned another hurt/comfort fic yet again…

accompanying song :: who hurt you by role model

you’re an ambitious profiler. 

you’re such an ambitious profiler that you interview offenders with the most extensive list of records whenever you have time. you want to understand more than just the simple question of why they did it. you want to explore the how’s and what if’s.

and you’re soft-hearted, so much so that you jeopardize your own safety. 

things should’ve gone smoothly with your fifth and last inmate of the week, had you been a little more aware of your surroundings.

but you placed too much faith on your ability to make peace with the man who unyieldingly worshiped violence.

that was your only mistake, but it was a costly one. 

you had kindly asked the guard to release the handcuffs, even though he insisted that they stay on. 

it’s alright, you told him with the wave of your hand. 

but you should’ve noticed the look of challenge on the inmate’s face. it was like he was taunting you, almost as if to say, do you really feel safe being in the same room as me?

it was your soft-heartedness that almost got you severely injured. 

he managed to land punches to your left cheek and scratched his nails into the flesh of your leg as he fell, right as he was tackled to the ground. 

he laughed when he saw you holding your hand against your throbbing cheek.

you arrive at the office as early as you can, a layer of makeup thicker than usual coating the bruise swelling your left cheek. 

you pretend to bury your head in the case file that you retrieved from your desk when the rest of the team started to flood into the room.

when spencer arrives, he gives you a nod and gleefully chirps good morning as he takes his seat beside you. 

spencer knows your routine like the back of his palm – he knows you’re busy with interviews at the federal prison on saturdays and sundays, and he knows you always need a caffeine boost the next morning. you gladly accept the cup of coffee that he sets in front of your hands with a small smile.

as hotch is debriefing the case with garcia, however, you can’t help but feel his eyes drilling into the side of your face, as if he can see through your cover. 

your makeup can’t be that obvious, right?

your thoughts are interrupted when hotch closes the cover of his case file, stands, and announces wheels up in 20. 

you lift yourself with the support of the table and wait for everyone else to exit before you follow, doing your best to disguise the limp in your walk.

---

“alright. jj and prentiss, go to the morgue. morgan and reid, go to the crime scene. dave, you and l/n can set up with the local p.d. i’ll go talk to the victims’ families.”

as hotch assigns roles to the team, everyone nods when their names are called out. but spencer raises his hand slightly and clears his throat.

“actually, hotch, do you mind if i switch with rossi and set up with l/n and the locals instead?”

hotch hesitates for a second, but nods slowly. 

“sure. dave, you okay with that?”

the italian agent cocks up a questioning eyebrow but gives a warm smile. “i don’t see why not.”

you’ve never heard spencer contest hotch’s orders before, so you’re stumped as to why he’s suggesting an alternative role this time. but you soon brush off the thought, and decide to occupy your time re-reading the case files before the jet lands.

you sink into your seat with a heavy sigh, forcing your eyes shut as pain travels down your legs. you’re thankful that hotch assigned you to set up at the local p.d., since it doesn’t require much locomotion and spares you the struggle of getting up constantly. you watch as spencer spreads the corners of the map and sticks push pins into the corkboard. 

“how did your interviews go yesterday?” spencer breaks the silence first and moves to grab a red marker. with his practiced hand, he quickly circles the areas of the crime scenes on the map.

you gulp.

“they went pretty well, you know, nothing out of the ordinary.”

spencer caps the tip, and a click sounds as the plastic edges meet. he nods, wets his lips with his tongue, and turns to look at you. you meet his gaze for a brief second before you look away, pretending to busy yourself with the m.e. reports that jj sent over.

“green neutralizes red.”

his sudden remark startles you. you drop the papers in your hands and look up. “i’m sorry?”

“green contains the wavelengths that are missing in red light, so when they mix, the colors neutralize each other. that’s why concealers with a green base are better at covering up more reddish bruising,” spencer elaborates, and starts to match up the photos of the crime scenes to the locations marked on the map.

you blink. oh.

there’s no way he’s talking about you, right?

“um, yeah, green’s a common color corrector,” you mutter as you nervously tap your fingers against the wooden table. “but there weren’t any bruises or marks of assault on the victims.” 

spencer scoffs as you finish your sentence.

“it’s not about the victims. you. i’m talking about you.” 

you swallow slowly. 

“i-i don’t know what you’re talking about,” you try, a fake smile plastered over your face as you shake your head left and right. 

spencer studies you with a scrutinizing stare, eyes boring into yours like he’s counting the number of times you blink.

“could you grab that for me?” he asks at last, pointing to the book that’s two tables away, the one titled florida’s topography and bathymetry. without thinking, you nod and stand.

fuck.

what a clever way to set you up. now you have to somehow mask the limp in your steps and pretend like the pain coursing through your legs is nonexistent.

you do your best to walk normally, but it’s hard to tell if you’re doing a good job from his unreadable stare. you hold the book out with a bemused smile, hoping it’s enough to cover your pained expression.

he doesn’t look convinced. 

“that,” spencer points to your leg with an accusatory gaze, “why are you walking like that?” 

he swiftly takes the book from you, and your hand instinctively grips the side of the table for support.

“like what?” 

you’re going to make him pry the confession out of you. 

“like you’re hurting,” spencer utters quietly. his last word catches your breath completely.

“is that why you asked rossi to switch with you? so you could interrogate me?” 

“who hurt you?” spencer ignores your question, setting the book aside and leaning over the table to get a closer look at your face. 

instinctively, you retreat and look down, but he walks around the table and kneels in front of you. your brain buzzes with the words he’s just declared. it’s not what did you do, or what happened to you. instead, it’s who hurt you. 

“i… it’s nothing.” you shift in your chair, but he stops the seat from turning completely by laying a hand on the headrest.

“tell me. please.” 

you can’t fake it anymore, especially when he’s already hammered the nail into the hole perfectly.

you rub your sweaty palms on your lap. “one of them tried to hurt me during the interview. i-it was my fault, i asked the guards to take off the cuffs. i thought they’d be more willing to cooperate that way.”

spencer’s expression mellows as you speak, but he doesn’t return a comment. somehow, this makes you even more nervous.

a second after, he lifts his hand and slides a finger along the slightly swollen area of your cheek. he hesitates when you start to wince in pain.

tapping his knee with his index finger, he instructs, “let me take a look at your leg.”

you comply.

when you lift your leg, spencer’s hand slips between the wedge of your platform's heel, and gracefully sets your foot on his knee. 

you observe him gently push the thin fabric of your trousers upwards. you hold your breath when he leans in to inspect closely, and you almost shudder when the vapor of his warm breath tickles the gash on your flared shin. 

spencer steps back to retrieve a first-aid kit lying nearby and rolls up the sleeves of his shirt. without saying a single word, he pulls a cotton pad and a gauze roll from the bag.

as he wraps your leg with the gauze, he looks up to meet your lowered gaze.

“tell me his name.”

you bite your lip.

“it’s fine. you should focus on the geo-profile instead.” you exhale as spencer unfolds the rolls on the hem of your trousers to cover your leg again.

“you do know that it won’t take me long to go through every incident report,” he retorts back with a challenging glint in his eye. your cheeks heat up with a hot flush of red.

goddamnit, spencer reid. 

you hastily brush yourself away from him.

“what are you going to do?”

he pauses, every second of silence only feeding your suspicions. you watch the corner of his lips tug into a smirk.

“you know, nothing out of the ordinary.”

you huff.

“don’t use my words against me.” 

he shrugs with an indifferent expression, but chuckles before standing back up.

“his name. or do we want to do this the hard way?”

[skzophreniic]

⍣ ೋ cw: explicit sexual content. use of vibrator. bit messy.

⍣ ೋ notes: hullo guest of room 801. i see you have requested a personal communication line with our general manager christoper. i'll have to forward him your request and see. don't worry though, i'm not sure he is capable of denying you anything :)

INTERNAL INVESTIGATION REPORT Filed by: Concierge Aeryn Subject: Staff Conduct – Unauthorized Use of Executive Amenities Staff Member Under Review: General Manager Bang Chan Requested by: Guest (Room 801)

[Location: General Manager Christopher's office, 2:12 p.m.]

The door to General Manager Bang Chan’s office clicks shut behind her—quietly, purposefully.

It always unnerves Aeryn, how the soundproofing works. How the outside world cuts off so cleanly, as if the very walls themselves conspire to protect him. Or hide him.

She’s holding the letter in one hand—folded precisely once, no wrinkles, no smudges—and a soft pink clipboard in the other. Because aesthetics matter, even in war.

Bang Chan looks up from his laptop, brows raised slightly, not in alarm but in a kind of cool anticipation. He’s in his tailored charcoal suit, shirt unbuttoned just enough to suggest he’s had a long morning—but not long enough to explain the state of his tie (missing) or the faint imprint of someone’s lip gloss on his jawline (left side, cherry red).

“Concierge,” he says smoothly, standing. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Behind her, the door opens again.

“Sorry,” Seungmin mutters, stepping in with a deadpan expression and a steaming cup of black coffee. “Figured you’d need this.”

His gaze flicks to Aeryn’s clipboard. “Ah. Suite 801.”

A pause. Bang Chan exhales through his nose and reaches for the coffee, the very picture of composed.

“I take it this is about the... formal enquiry?”

Aeryn offers him a smile far too polished to be kind. “That’s correct, sir. The guest has raised some questions regarding the nondisclosure terms surrounding your last... engagement. Specifically as it pertains to any equipment added mid-stay.”

Seungmin coughs.

Chan’s lips twitch, dangerously close to a grin. “Is that so?”

“She’s also requested a formal investigation and a full reconstruction. For documentation and research purposes.”

There’s a silence. The kind that only exists in a very expensive room, built to contain very expensive secrets.

Chan sets his coffee down. Rolls up his sleeves. Unbuttons his cuffs.

And then—finally—meets her eyes.

“Well,” he murmurs, voice low and just a little rough. “I suppose I’d better walk you through it.”

[Location: General Manager Christopher's office, 12:12 p.m.]

It starts with an extension request.

A polite one. Professional. You even knocked on the General Manager’s door like you hadn’t shown up in nothing but a barely-tied robe and a mischievous smile. As if the slight sway in your hips wasn’t deliberate. As if your bare legs weren’t a test he was already too aware of.

He opens the door himself—of course he does—and looks at you like he knows. That stare of his: sharp, calculated, interested. Always in control.

“Come in,” he says, stepping aside. His tone is polite. Neutral. But you catch it—the flicker of something darker beneath the words. Something curious.

You sit. He doesn’t.

“What can I help you with, Miss…?”

You tell him your name, lips twitching.

There’s a pause. A muscle ticks in his jaw. “Right.”

You explain your request—wanting to extend your stay, preferably in the same suite. He listens attentively, nodding, folding his hands like a proper manager. But his eyes… they never leave your thighs.

“I’m afraid there are procedures for that sort of thing,” he says finally, walking around his desk. “Especially if it’s… a special room like yours.”

And then, almost casually: “Have you signed the NDA yet?”

You blink. “I—no?”

He nods like he expected that. Like this was part of the script.

“Then we’ll need to take care of that first.” His drawer opens. A sleek document appears on the desk, printed on pale pink letterhead. “Sign here.”

The pen he hands you is gold. Heavy.

You sign without reading it.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, quiet enough you almost miss it.

Then: “Would you mind standing for a moment?”

You do. Confused, but intrigued.

He circles you slowly. Looks you over like you’re an art piece. No, a luxury amenity. Then, he brushes your robe off your shoulder, lets it fall slightly—no resistance from you. He hums when he sees the lack of anything underneath.

“No undergarments?” he asks, voice silk.

You smile. “Is that a problem?”

“Not at all,” he says. “In fact… I think it helps speed up the process.”

Before you can ask what he means, he nudges you gently backward—until the backs of your thighs hit the edge of his desk.

“Lie back,” he instructs, already loosening his tie. “We’ll keep this… efficient.”

You’re halfway reclined before he reaches for something in another drawer—velvet-lined, discreet, and utterly not standard issue. He holds up a slim, blush-pink vibrator. High-end. Sleek.

“Just a small evaluation,” he says, tone mock-professional. “To assess your suitability for extended accommodations.”

And then he turns it on.

The first contact is a whisper against your clit—barely-there, maddening. He watches your hips twitch, listens to your breath hitch, and smiles like a man who has all the time in the world.

“This setting is for guests requesting late check-outs,” he murmurs, dragging the toy in slow, steady circles. “It’s gentle. Teasing. Nothing too disruptive.”

You’re already panting, your thighs falling open wider for him.

He presses a button. The vibrations intensify.

“This one’s for those staying more than three nights. More persistent. Demands patience.”

You gasp, legs trembling, fingers digging into the edge of the desk.

He leans down, mouth brushing your ear. “Shall we see what happens when we activate the ‘executive suite’ tier?”

He clicks it again.

It pulses deep. Relentless. Your hips buck, and he places a hand firmly on your stomach to keep you still.

“Now, now,” he soothes, voice low and cruelly calm. “Stay still for me. You wanted to extend your stay, didn’t you?”

You try to speak—try to say yes—but it breaks into a whine, breathless and high. He slides the toy lower, dragging it up and down your soaked folds before circling your clit again with a precision that makes you see stars.

“You’re soaking my desk,” he remarks, almost fondly. “I should write you up for that.”

You can feel it building—fast. Too fast. You lift your hips for more, chasing it.

He pulls the toy away.

Your whole body arches in protest. He tsks.

“We’re not done evaluating.”

He brings it back, lower speed this time. Draws it up slowly. Watches you squirm.

Then—without warning—he slides two fingers inside you, slow and deep. Your body shudders, clenching around him instantly. He groans low, the sound almost reverent.

“So responsive,” he mutters, pumping them in time with the toy. “You don’t even realize how much you’re giving me.”

You’re close. So close.

But he doesn’t speed up.

He keeps you right there, on the edge—over and over, until your body is trembling, sweat slicking your skin, whimpers spilling from your lips.

“Please,” you gasp.

He raises a brow. “Please what?”

“Let me—fuck, please—I need to cum—”

“Hmm.” He leans in. “I suppose we can add that to your amenities.”

And then he does it—cruel little circles with the toy while his fingers curl just right and your whole body locks up, pleasure crashing over you like a tidal wave. You sob out his name as your legs shake, thighs clenching around his wrist, your back arching off the desk.

But he doesn’t stop.

Keeps going through your orgasm, holding the toy against your overstimulated clit as you twitch and moan and try to wriggle away.

“Too much?” he asks, feigning innocence. “Then maybe we need to reconsider your extension—”

You whimper something incoherent, begging, panting, desperate.

He finally clicks the vibrator off.

Removes his fingers. Watches your slick drip down them.

Licks them clean.

“I’ll approve your stay,” he says, straightening. Adjusting his cuffs. Then, without hurry, he reaches for the top button of his shirt. Undoes it. Then another. His eyes, dark and knowing, never leave yours.

“But I’m going to need a more… thorough evaluation.”

A pause. His tongue flicks over his bottom lip, and he smirks.

“Let’s discuss the premium package.”

______________________________________________________________

🗒️ INTERNAL SERVICE MEMO From: Concierge Aeryn To: SKZotel Staff – All Departments Subject: Incident Debrief – Suite 801 / General Manager Conduct Classification: Staff Eyes Only / Group Chat Archive

Team,

Per guest request (and because Seungmin couldn’t keep his mouth shut for five minutes), below is the transcript of this morning’s staff group chat regarding the… situation in Suite 801 involving General Manager Bang Chan.

Please note: The following messages have not been edited for professionalism, confidentiality compliance, or emotional damage. Names have not been redacted because frankly, if I had to be in that room with him and Seungmin, you all get to suffer with me.

Proceed accordingly. – Aeryn Concierge, SKZotel

series taglist: @nightmarenyxx

[bi-writes]

the lamb experiment

a body is given. and it cannot be taken back.

pairing: ghost (+ tf141) x curvy!fem!reader word count: 6.3k summary: the 141 are not known for their pliancy. in an effort to take back control, they send a lamb to slaughter.

cw: (18+) mature language and content, suggestive language and content, dark!tf141, military criticism, unhealthy power dynamics, graphic descriptions of violence + gore + torture + murder, themes of dubcon (but reader is consenting), piv, cumplay, fear play, size kink, praise kink, curvy!reader with hair long enough to hold

You don't think you've ever been the object of anyone's affections, not really. Although you are blessed with many gifts, even physically, you do not see yourself that way when you look in the mirror. How you feel inside betrays you when you look in one, and instead of staring too long, you always turn away.

This time, you stare. Because her ass looks nice, and her skin looks soft, and her face isn't disagreeable.

This reflection almost terrifies you. In front of you lies a woman you do not know.

She looks good. Your clothes are a size too snug, and it squeezes all the parts of you that normally you attempt to hide. Your thighs, the cinch of your waist, every curve you cover up with your uniform normally is on display, and instead of your hair in a standard bun, it lays free. You are anything but the soldier you always see, and just when you think about running, there is a knock at the bathroom door.

You open it, straightening out your outfit, and you look down shyly when you see the face on the other side of the door.

"It's...a little tight," you say, tugging at the waistband of your pants, but the woman tuts, crossing her arms over her chest as she steps back to look you up and down.

"It's as it should be," she responds, very matter-of-fact. "Now follow me. Need to debrief before your flight."

Her name is Laswell. You have not been graced with any other name, and you suspect it is because she wants you to call her Laswell and nothing else. She is blunt and intelligent, and there is no room for anything but the truth with her. If you answer her with a lie, she waits until she hears what she knows is expected.

When you sit, she spreads a few files out in front of you. Four manila folders, three packed with documents and pictures, one with documents only. You reach for one, eyeing the labeled name.

MacTavish.

You open it, and you're overwhelmed with the information. You see a man with pretty blue eyes and a military history that would put your old squadron to shame. Flicking through the pages, there are numerous confirmed kills, no small list of disarmed explosives, reports written by others and himself that even at a quick glance exude something impressive, utmost intelligence and extensive knowledge. You take note of his unique hairstyle; shaved sides of his head and tuffs of dark waves that run down the middle. You acknowledge how much you like when it gets a little long, falling in curls over his forehead.

The next file is equally as large. You flip it over, and you tilt your head to the side when you see a picture of him. He isn't posing, but his stature is one of confidence, and he's gorgeous. A strong facial structure, dark eyes. He keeps his hair short, and his skin is dark, and as your eyes roam lower, you notice the strong muscles of his forearms as he grips a rifle. His skill sheet is no less impressive than his sergeant counterpart. He has been in so many dangerous situations, and he comes out with nothing but scratches; and he seems to be deadlier with nothing but his hands than any small firearm could be.

Kyle. It's fitting.

You look away from his pretty face to their commanding officer. There is a picture of him with the other two sergeants, and you notice how he stands taller than them, but just as broad, and you think military fatigues suit him well. He wears his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and you can see the expanse of his strong arms and his large hands, and you take note of his carefully sculpted beard and the hat he wears. When you flip through the history, you are overwhelmed with the amount of ops he carries under his belt. This man is a war machine. You suspect there is a number on his head somewhere, in some distant country, and it makes you shift in your seat when you realize this isn't someone easy to kill.

He does the killing. And that's all that matters to the Crown.

John. That is the one that has to matter most.

"He's the one who calls the shots." Laswell's voice cuts through your heavy thoughts. She takes the last folder and opens it for you, and immediately you notice the lack of photos here. "But this is the glue."

Ghost. That is the name that sits on the official documents, but there is a dirty sticky note pasted next to it with Laswell's chicken scratch.

Simon Riley.

"His name is redacted," she says simply. "And so is his face."

"He has no face?" You ask, and when you realize how you worded it, you think it a stupid sentence, but Laswell only stares.

"Not one that matters," she responds. You look back down at the documents. He is tall, and you observe that he's most skilled with a sniper rifle, although he doesn't lack confidence or efficacy in any other form of combat. Hand-to-hand, smaller firearms, rifles, he uses them all with a terrifying accuracy, and you pull the papers closer to you as you read more.

"The glue," you murmur, not quite understanding. "And what am I supposed to be?"

"The solvent. The hammer. Whatever the fuck I need you to be."

The thing that breaks it apart. The thing that tears. The thing that makes them bleed.

And so you lie. It is what you do, what you are taught. Laswell is good at it, and you are a fish to water with it. You lie until it comes as easy as breathing, you learn to pretend until it is all you know, and when you create your second life, it is easy because it is the only one Laswell tells you to know.

You are a soldier, and you do as you're told. When your orders are to forget who you were and become something else, you do it, because that is how it works. And you know what you are in Laswell's eyes--you are a weapon, and you gave your body to the state, and she can do what she pleases with it.

And you know, really, what she expects you to do.

It isn't spoken of. She never says it out loud. But when you study the files she gives you, you notice there are more details that what is necessary. You learn more about them, in ways that feel intimate, that feel secret.

That John's favorite color is red. That MacTavish likes a traditional meal. That Kyle has a sweet tooth and likes jazz. That Ghost downs two fingers of Kentucky bourbon to unwind.

They are things to help make them agreeable, you think, but agreeable in what way is up to you.

But red looks good in lace. You've been told the stomach is the way to the heart. Chocolate is supposed to be an aphrodisiac. And alcohol is the perfect enabler--and armed with this information, you will divide and conquer.

Break and tear apart. Separate. Sever the bond. That is your mission, that is what you've been told to do, and you will do it because that is what a good soldier does, and this is all you are.

Laswell's pet. Her pretty little soldier. The hammer to her nail, the bone for her dogs, the string that will mend the ones snapped by her own puppets.

She wants control, and she isn't stupid, and neither are you. When you look in the mirror again, you understand why she picked you. No matter how far her men stray, they cannot change what they are at their core.

Men.

And men are fickle.

You suspect, you hope, even these ones are. They are not gentle, and Laswell makes sure that you learn well why it is they need supervision. She shows you pictures, videos, eyewitness statements of their spiral into violence.

It's not that they weren't war criminals before, but they were her war criminals. Unsanctioned ops, sure, but they toed a line that was drawn for them. But then the red tape became too much, even if there wasn't very much of it for them.

They began to ignore orders. When they were told to stay put, a sergeant would slip off, and under the guise of protecting them, all four would end up in a firefight. And when this became a frequent excuse, they stopped coming up with them. They simply showed up in manila folders like the ones you held, enemy casualties sometimes in the hundreds, and they did not appear even when required.

Debriefing? Their connection was bad. A hearing in front of their superiors? They're on a mark, and they cannot move. And then it was just silence. The occasional response to real crisis, and then back underground, until all Laswell could get from them were limbs taken off the enemies they weren't allowed to kill just yet.

They knew how to disappear. They knew how to hide. They knew how to stay put, come back up overground, and then scurry back underneath where no one would find them.

But that wouldn't do. Not for the CIA, not for SAS, not for either of their governments who soon realized they had let loose a group of soldiers-turned-mercenaries who hold valuable secrets that could put their politicians at the forefront of Congressional hearings, NATO violations, and then in the right mess of breaking off relations with a numerous amount of countries they already held fragile relationships with.

The 141 is a liability. They need to be the ones pulling the reigns again, no matter the cost--and they tell Laswell to do it, and to spare no expense and to pull back the curtain on what she believes might be crossing even the lines she has drawn before, to go beyond it.

She draws this line around you. A circle, a fence, wrapping around you as she molds you into what she needs you to be. She is honest. Not always kind, but honest, and because she is, you want to succeed.

Finally, you can be of use. Finally, there is something that will give you purpose. Even if it hurts, even if it kills you, you want to give her what she needs, because it isn't fair.

You have already given them everything, and you have nothing to show for it. So you paint your face, and you zip up the tight pants, you lie and you learn and you listen, and when she tells you that they will not be gentle, all you reply is, "I won't be either."

Men are fickle. And they fucking deserve this.

You are wearing red when John sees you for the first time. It is in your hair, a bright red scarf that keeps it out of your face, and you know he looks right at you and not through you when your eyes meet.

When he eyes the open door of your room later that evening, you pretend not to notice his gaze when he drinks in the sight of you in red lingerie.

It is the first morning you are with them that Johnny wakes to the smell of something in the rec room. You stand there, at the stove, stirring a wooden spoon in a warm pot, and when he steps in, you turn to see him, and you smile. You exchange no words, but when you hold a tasting spoon out to him with a soft potato and a spoonful of wonderful broth, he can't help the way he closes his eyes. There's a beautiful woman cooking stovies in the rec room, and when he opens his eyes, you are looking right back at him.

And then it's the music that plays in the evening that catches Kyle's attention. They are trailing back to their rooms after drills, and he catches sight of you in your room, and he can hear Ella Fitzgerald, and when you look over your shoulder, he is there, and he doesn't shy away.

And then--fuck--it is so easy.

Wherever you go, they follow. Unconsciously, you suspect, but they do, and you live the lie, and it feels fucking euphoric. You know you've won when you run your knuckles down John's cheek for the first time, and he keens, nuzzling the side of his face into your hand and chasing after your touch.

They are animals. You watch them when you join them on ops, rifle in front of you as you follow them, and you keep a neutral face as you observe them wreak havoc. They kill and they maim, and they sleep like the dead at night, as if the heinous ways they kill do not bother them at all. John points, and Kyle pulls the trigger. John nods his head, and Johnny detonates, nothing but a dull reflection in those blue eyes. John clicks his teeth, and Ghost sweeps.

He sweeps, and he kills, and if it wasn't so fucking terrifying, you would have admired the way he did it. The elegance that he took on an entire room of moving targets, how he never let himself be pinned down in one spot. Whenever someone gets too close, he goes hand-to-hand, and it's fucking brutal the way he finishes them off. He keeps throwing knives in his boot, and they sink into eye sockets as if running through tender meat. He puts blades through their mouths and doesn't let them go until the light leaves their eyes.

You hate that it makes you warm. That there is something deep in your belly, that twists there, that tells you that you like it. When he turns around and meets your eyes, wringing the blade out of someone's neck and letting them drop on the floor at your feet, you don't flinch. You simply kick them to the side and step over them, and Ghost watches as you lick over your teeth as you pass by him.

Insatiable. Fucking hungry. He eyes the sway of your hips, and when he finds his next target, he uses his hands again just because he needs to feel flesh under his gloved hands, needs to tear it apart. And when he feels you watching him again, he grunts as he stands to his full height. He's a fucking bear, and you leave him with a hint of a smile before you turn the corner.

You are not sure if you are pretending that day.

They ravage, and then they go back to their beds, and they wash the blood from their clothes with ease--and the worst part of it all is that you do it, too. You come out of the same places that they do, and your face is splattered with their targets. Your jeans have flecks of brain matter, your hands are dirty with someone's singed flesh. When you finally stand in the light back at their base, all John does is sit you in front of the bathroom mirror and wipe at your face with a warm towel.

He tells you how good you've done. How special you are. How he has never seen a woman keep up with them so easily, fit into their pack like she was meant to be.

He says that you belong, but he doesn't say to who. You wonder, for a second, if he means that you belong to them all.

When you report back to Laswell, you tell her this. What you don't tell her is what you've had to do to gain this status. You don't tell her about the blood you spill. You don't tell her about the bodies you see or the men that lose their faces or how worked up the boys get after an op and how it takes them hours between your legs to lose the adrenaline.

You don't tell her this because this is for you. It's all for you.

They tell you things you aren't supposed to know. When you're in their beds, they talk, and you listen. Kyle tells you about the man they are keeping in the cellar. That he's been there for 29 days, and he hasn't said a word, but that Ghost will be next to speak to him, and he will talk then.

Kyle tells you that it is a mercy that Ghost hasn't visited him yet, but they are done playing nice. When he says this, you have the image of Ghost standing over a man who pulled a gun on you in your head, and you remember watching him with a sickening relief as he pressed his thumbs into the man's eye sockets and pushed they were nothing but squished matter. You squeeze your legs together; and this time, you don't feel bad about it.

Johnny begs for you, his bonnie lass, to keep close to him on the next op because you strayed too far today. He fucks you to make you say yes, his lips on your ear as he tells you to promise him that you'll do as he says, and that if you promise, he'll let you come. So you promise, and he fucks you boneless, and the next day, you are glued to his hip when you raid a foreign embassy for nothing but answers.

You know they know. They don't say it out loud, but you know that they all know where you go at night. One night, you are kneeling under John's desk, kissing the pearly tip of him before taking him down your throat for what feels like hours. The next, you are letting Kyle bend you over his desk, rattling it against the wall as he tells you how pretty you are. And in the morning, you are pressed against the shower wall, Johnny holding your wide hips in his hands as he fucks into you, begging you, bonnie, please--give it to me, tha's it, right there, ye can do it, good girl--

Good girl. That's what you are. You're a good girl, and you do as you're told. You smile, and you keen, and you give them big, soft eyes, and you let them have the illusion of control. Maybe they think they're pressuring you. Maybe they think they scare you. Maybe they think this is why you get on your knees for them or let them pool your pants at your ankles or allow them to have you whenever they want, but the reality is that you want it, and you need it, and this is working.

They don't even realize you've fucked them into submission because they're too busy showing off.

A domino effect. You expect them all to fall once you have the captain, but there is one chess piece that does not move willingly.

Ghost.

He is an unmovable object. He stands still and rigid, and he is a statue that refuses to be pushed or pulled in any direction but one he deems. Even in the middle of the nights, when you notice he is awake, he never joins you when you drink his favorite bourbon outside. He doesn't ask for a cigarette when you smoke one, even though you never actually take a puff of it. He passes by you, and he doesn't look at you, and you are invisible.

You want to be content with what you've accomplished, but it isn't enough.

This is the glue. He is the glue, and without him, everything falls apart, and you cannot fail. There isn't room for it. And maybe you feel bad for preying on the parts of Ghost that you think he prefers to keep hidden, but you need to catch him before he gets too far away.

A kitchen accident. A knife that plunges too deep, that draws blood and makes you cry. You are in the bathroom, tears coming down your face, blood in the sink, and your hands are shaking as you try and patch yourself up. You are loud enough to draw the attention of the lieutenant whose door is only just across the hall, and when he sees you there, he doesn't leave you.

One moment there is nothing, and the next, he is behind you, a pervasive warmth at your back, and you whimper when a gloved hand wraps around your injured hand. Wordlessly, he turns the faucet on, running your hand under the water, and you hiccup, looking away and breathing deeply.

He wraps your hand in his room. You sit on his bed, and he works to cover the wound, and you know he has done this before. Soothed another's tears, quieted soft cries, covered up cuts and bruises and things that will scar.

He kneels in front of you, and when he stands to his full height, you tip your head back to look up at him. You think you will meet a soft gaze, but he glares, and he seems angry. When you open your mouth to speak, he tsks, and your tip trembles as you close it.

"Y'can fool the others," he says lowly, finally. "But not me."

You frown, confused. When you sniffle, he snarls.

"I know why y'r here," he murmurs. "Isn't the first time Laswell has sent one of her little...toys."

You clench your jaw. For a moment, something envious rattles you. You aren't like anyone else. You are certain no one has accomplished what you have, that no one has gotten this close to rock the fucking boat or pet the beast. He doesn't get to demean the progress you've made like this, even if he's figured you out, because you aren't going anywhere.

Not until you get everything you need.

"Excuse me?"

"Y'r a spy. You're CIA's whore, and I don't like y'here, puttin' y'r bloody nose where it don't belong," he kneels, his voice low and gruff, and he reaches over and grips your chin hard. "Y'may have fooled them. In their fuckin' beds...in their heads--" He draws you closer, and you swallow. "But y'r not in mine."

You meet his eyes. They are dark, and they are meant to scare you, but the feeling that runs through you isn't one that terrifies you. He is a magnet--and you can feel the field of his presence, and it has you. This is supposed to be your show. They are men, and they are stupid, and you hate them, and Ghost should be eating out of the palm of your fucking manicured hand, but there he is, spitting against his mask, and it is you that aches to see what is underneath the cotton.

"So, little lamb..." Ghost rumbles, and it is with his entire chest that he speaks. "Wot is it you're here to do, eh?"

You shake your head, "N-Nothing. She...all she told me was that this was a joint operation...CIA and SAS--"

"Y'r on the piss, I know that," he hisses, clicking his teeth. "Joint operation," he laughs, but it is without humor. "Is that we're calling this now? Being barracks bunny for the 141?"

"Fuck you," you snap, shoving his hand off. "You're a fucking bastard, and if you think--"

"If I think wot, eh?" He stands, and you choke as he grips you by your throat, lifting you off of his bed and forcing you against the wall. You grip his wrist, but it is useless, because he's a brute, and you are nothing to him. He holds you there on your toes, and you grip him tighter, but he doesn't budge. Even digging your nails into him doesn't make him flinch. If anything, he seems amused. "Wot kind of trainin' she make y'do, eh? Did ya have to practice? Who'd y'shag to get y'r stripes?"

"Eat shit," you spit, and he snickers. There is fire in your eyes, venom on your tongue, you are a fighter, and when the world is so quiet, fighting feels good, and he knows this feeling well. He understands what it means to be nothing and then something, what it means to worthless and then useful in the eyes of government and government alone.

Because you are useful, but only to Laswell, and only as this, whatever this is. Whatever you are. Pet, prize, toy--it doesn't matter what the name is today, but it will stick tomorrow, and you wonder, sickeningly, if that is your destiny.

To be unknown. To be used. To be the property of what you do not know. To be given, to be taken, to not know and to be content with not knowing.

To accept it because it is still better than whatever you were before.

He sees this. He looks into your eyes, he breathes in, and he hums, and when his grip loosens just enough, you put your toes on the ground, and you lean in, and there you are.

One and the same. Bitten, chewed, spit out, two people who are products of their suffering and the culmination of their sheer fucking will to live, even if the living is miserable.

Maybe that is what it is. Maybe it's what's broken that will put you together. Ghost is the glue, you are the solvent, and you will make it so.

Because I can't fail, I can't do it, I won't go back, I can't go back--

"I'm here for me," you whisper. "I'm here for me, and no one else--" You gasp, and it isn't a lie, not really. You are here for you, this is for you, even if it is at the downfall of someone else. If you need to step on necks to get ahead, you will.

Ghost is the last piece. The last one you need to move. He is stuck, but now you know what it is you need to do, you know how to set the game into motion.

"Ghost," you breathe, and it's soft, it's quiet. You meet his eyes, and you lean close, and he feels your breath on the front of his mask. "It's not what you think."

"You're a lamb."

"I don't wanna be a lamb."

"It doesn't matter what y'want, y'are a lamb," he growls, and you whine, and he hums, and you can see the crinkle of his eyes, and you know he must be smiling. "Tha's wot y'are, and y'can't run away from tha'."

You blink, and he stares, and there is understanding. You are prey, and you belong, but you don't know where. But then you remember you are a soldier, and it isn't your job to know. Your job is to lie still and let them have you.

And to not tell my handler how much I like it.

"It's what they made me," you whisper, and when there are tears in the corner of your eyes, he is gentle. He smooths his hand down your throat, rubbing a thumb over your trembling lip, and you know that he understands you. "It's not what I wanted."

"It's never what we want," he murmurs. "Never."

You hold your breath when he cups your face with a big gloved hand. Dark eyes on soft ones, and you wonder what it would be like to have him. He doesn't keen the way John does, doesn't kneel the way Johnny kneels, doesn't follow and listen without objection the way that Kyle does. No, he's a brick wall, and you need to be what knocks him over. You need to shake the foundation, split it in two.

You need to sever the fucking bond and do your fucking job.

"So when can I have what I want?" You ask him softly. "When...when is it my turn?"

He tilts his head to the side, curious, and you slide your hands up his forearms, over the muscle of his biceps. He is everything you cannot have.

And he is everything that you suddenly realize you want.

Forbidden. Unrelenting. The oxygen to a raging fire. He isn't the glue, he's the catalyst to whatever the fuck you bring to the experiment, and even though you know this will be disaster, you want it. You want it so badly.

Destruction tastes so good. Control is victory. Sex is power, and you want him, you want this, you want him to have you, to own you, to make you see what he sees, because it will be familiar because you are the same.

"Y'r a soldier," he says lowly. "Not about what we want. 's about what they want."

"Fuck what they want," you groan, looking away, and then a few tears slip down your face. "Fuck what they do with us. If I die for them, they only tick some fucking statistic. It means nothing. So why can't I do what I want with the time I get before...before I'm just...before I'm nothing again?"

And there it is. The mirror you hold up. The common ground. The level playing field. The two paths that cross, this is it, I have it, I have it, I fucking have it, I have him, he's mine--

He kisses you. You don't get to see his face, but his lips are there, a precious amount of skin that you're blessed with seeing until your eyes are closing.

His bed is warm. He fills it well, the breadth of him almost too much for its size, but it doesn't matter because he fucks so well. He eats your cunt because he's hungry, your thighs on his shoulders shaking as he laps at your wet folds.

He does this different. John is soft and slow, Kyle takes his time, and Johnny is always eager and sloppy. But Ghost watches. He slides his tongue in soft motions, watching, and when your thighs twitch and shake, he does the motion again. He flattens his tongue and drags it, and when you whine and arch your back, he revels in the way you move. He drinks what you spill, he fucks you with his tongue, and this is different because this isn't just attraction.

There is something about him. Something underneath the layers he covers himself with, under the mask, something that you can see that others cannot even though he doesn't take those layers off.

You know this is true when he's inside of you. His mask hasn't come off, but his mouth is on your ear, and he groans, and he talks, and you feel like he spoils you this way. Ghost never talks. You wonder often if maybe he has a limited amount of words, and he never says more than he has to lest he runs out of them. His eyes speak, and it's more than enough, but now, he talks, and it is a gift, and now you know.

He cradles your head as he fucks you, and he kisses you until you can't breathe, and then when he talks, it takes everything in you not to beg for more.

"Such a nice cunt...'s so nice..."

"Fuck--y'feel me, luv? Right there--" And he presses his palm down on your stomach, and you cry when he grabs your face and forces you to look at him, because he's cruel and he's mean, but his cock feels so good--

And you think it can't get better, and you think he can't go any deeper, and then your thighs are wrapped around his waist, and he's leaning over you, and you think you're forgetting your name.

You forget yourself. You forget the reason you're here. It's so hard to think when you're not yourself, when your mind is in the stars, when everything feels far away and so close all at the same time. There is a place for him inside of you now, and you know that even though he will ruin you, even though he already has, you will never be rid of him.

You've severed the bond. You've made your own.

When he kisses you again, and when he grinds his hips down so nice that your clit aches, you know suddenly what it feels like to have real control. The feeling that Laswell chases, the feeling she wants so fucking badly that she's made your body a weapon, your cunt a tool, your brain the hivemind that will make her every wish come true, you understand now.

You will make the sky blue, the birds sing, but you did not realize the power you held until you had Simon "Ghost" Riley buried so deep in you, that you aren't sure you're even really here anymore.

You gnaw on his arm, your tongue tracing the tattoos there. You taste sweat, and you swallow it, and you go numb thinking about having more of him inside of you. You want to bite and eat and take as much of him that he will let you--no.

You will bite and eat and take as much of him that you want, because he's yours, and you get whatever you want.

Your fingers grasp the cotton of his mask, and your grip is enough to pull his lips off of you, and when your eyes meet, the gaze is different. He's desperate. For once, there is something disorderly there, and he pants, and he wants something from you, and finally you have something to give him.

You fuck it out of him. You lay him on his back and let him look at you, and you fuck him because it feels good, because you want it, too, because it's all that matters. You cry into his mouth, sob, "please--! please, please, please--"

And he tugs on your hair in response, guiding your hips as he loses his composure, "'ve got you...y'r mine...'s olright, yeah--nggghhh, fuck, luv, th's it..."

You do want it. You do need it. You need them, but you want Ghost the most, because he is the piece that does not move. He is not willing to do anything except for the sake of his pack. Ghost is impenetrable, even your pretty cunt isn't enough to change his mind, but that isn't what this is.

This is mercy. Ghost, he is the product of all of his misery. You, you are the result of every man to ever betray you, the outcome of your unwavering desire for revenge. You are the same, somehow, and he knows this, and that is why can't help himself. That is why Ghost is underneath you, that is why he bares his mouth to you and lets you lick into it and allows you to taste the forbidden fruit.

Because he thinks you are him, and he thinks you think so, too, and all he's ever wanted in his life is just for someone to see him the way he saw himself.

When he comes, he paints your cunt and fills you, and you collapse, your body on fire as you come down from a high that takes your breath away. His big hands cradle you against his chest, and you don't move, too afraid to let go, and he kisses your face when you whimper. You can taste yourself on his tongue, and when he pulls out, you gather it up on your fingers and suck. He groans, and he kisses you, and then he sinks back to his knees because he doesn't hear the ringing in his ears when his mouth is on your pretty pussy.

You're just a lamb, it's all you are. Handpicked by Laswell to head into the lion's den, a scarred animal that has no one to protect her, straight to slaughter.

He knows what it feels like. He knows what it feels like to be used and forgotten, to have nowhere to go, to be backed into a corner with no way out, and he pities you.

Ghost pities you because there is nothing behind your eyes except fear. But it's a lie. You're so good at it now. It's a lie, and you tell it so well, and you're warm inside. Not from taking the last moving piece, but from the satisfaction of knowing you have done what others cannot. What others never could.

It's late when you finally settle beside him. He leaves you when you ask for something to eat. You watch him slip clothes on haphazardly and leave, the door swinging shut behind him as he shuffles to get what you need.

To provide. To protect. To shield. Ghost is good at those things, you knew he would be. A man does not nurse a brother back to health without it, does not protect his mother and defy his father without being good at being a dog.

He's a good guard dog. And when he goes, and the door is closed, you smile because the dog is mine, all fucking mine--

You reach for your phone, and you pull up the only contact in it. You type a simple message, and then you send it, and for good measure, you shut the device off, tossing it into the pile of your discarded clothes.

>> we have joy.

You are good at pretending. You can tell a lie without blinking. You have been taught to be this thing, and you do it well, because you are a soldier, and this is your mission, and you cannot fail, and you didn't fail.

When you see Laswell again, many weeks later, she is not surprised to see you covering up with long sleeves and keeping your hair down. One tug on the collar of your shirt, and she gets glimpses of the love bites that have marked bruises all across your skin. She lets you go, tells you to sit, and she smirks.

You smile back this time.

Men are fickle. And they fucking deserve this.

"Good girl," she takes out another manila folder, but it's different this time. When you open it, you have schedules of upcoming ops, intel the boys are working, evidence of their reckless abandonment of order in favor of the chaotic success of getting the job done. You have seen this first hand, you know what they do and how they do it. But now there is another factor, another subject, right in the middle of it all. It is you.

Laswell takes a seat, spreading out the papers, and you meet her eyes. This time it's different. This is the truth, and you want to feel bad for your betrayal, but you don't. The fact of the matter is that you and Laswell, together in this room, have more power at your feet than you know what to do with.

A lamb to slaughter, and yet you sleep with the wolves.

"Alright," she says. "Now let's get to fucking work."

[ckret2]

Chapter 92 of Bill Cipher using his involuntary human girl disguise to give Agent Powers the manic pixie nightmare femme fatale treatment: the last step in Bill's plan to trick the agents into leaving Gravity Falls has been executed; and Ford gets an opportunity to prove he really is the twin of professional con artist Stanley Pines.

When Powers pulled into the motel parking lot with Goldie, Trigger and Dale were already there, leaning against their car, with Trigger holding a laptop balanced on one arm. Dale gave Goldie a puzzled look as the pair joined them. "Why is she...?"

"She's cleared to view this material," Powers said brusquely. "Now, let's see what's in this file."

For added security from passersby, they piled into the government vehicle, Trigger and Dale in the front, Goldie and Powers in the back. Trigger awkwardly positioned the laptop on the center console so that all four of them could see it, and then he opened up the flash drive's folder, revealing well over a hundred reports—Powers did not remember making that many reports. Together, they began skimming through the documents.

It was like being sprayed with a fire hydrant of information as his memories rushed back in.

Report after report about weird things happening in and around the Mystery Shack. They exchanged concerned murmurs during the first couple of files—"Do you remember any of this?" "No."—before they fell silent, simply reading about the paranormal hotbed of the century. Ghosts, rogue AIs, a zombie attack—some he'd remembered, some he hadn't—and yes, Powers had been able to vaguely recall the zombie attack, but only as a memory so distant and abstract it felt like a dream. But he couldn't recall how they'd been attacked by zombies.

Until now.

Their investigation had apparently discovered Stanford Pines had an extensive criminal history under multiple names, was hiding some kind of doomsday weapon in the shack, stole radioactive waste from a... government facility...? hm.

Goldie nudged Powers and muttered, "Hey. Weren't you investigating here because a tipster reported there was somebody dangerous in the shack?"

He nodded slowly. "Could be."

Trigger was frowning deeper and deeper with each report. "How could we have just forgotten all of this? I wrote half of these! I—I remember them now, but... but now it feels like I never didn't remember." He looked at Powers in confusion. "We... didn't remember this earlier, did we? Didn't we have no idea what was happening in this town...?"

"We didn't," Powers said firmly.

"I think something's coming to me," Dale said. "About the doomsday weapon. I only came into town at the end of your investigation for the big raid on the shack—"

"I completely forgot about the raid," Trigger said with quiet horror.

"—but I—I remember the gravitational anomalies. Gravity kept turning off and on. Our cars were floating around."

"We were trying to find the doomsday weapon beneath the Mystery Shack," Trigger went on. "Somebody found a secret door in the gift shop..."

Powers murmured, "The moment we lost our memories."

For a split second, from his peripheral vision, Powers saw a flash of something almost triumphant in Goldie's face before her expression turned serious again. It nearly confused him until he recalled that only the other three of them were having their normal lives upended by the discovery of what had been done to their minds. For Goldie, there was no normal life to upend. She already knew her mind had been destroyed by at least one encounter with the Blind Eye. What was a horror to them must have been a relief to her: the missing pieces finally falling back into place.

He took her hand; he wasn't sure whether for her comfort or his own.

Trigger scrolled quickly through several more reports—by now, just glimpsing the first few lines of each report was enough to unlock the buried memories. "This is everything we should have known last summer."

"It fills in all the gaps," Dale said. "It doesn't explain how we forgot it all, but..."

"Maybe some kind of... psychic defense field...?"

"Anything's possible. Once we get that equipment to scan the walls for electronics..."

Powers had tuned out Trigger and Dale's conversation. He was thinking about Stanford Pines—the con artist with multiple PhDs who had spent most of the seventies in several countries at once, according to everything their investigation had dug up. His past was so muddled they'd even entertained the possibility that there were multiple people who'd used Stanford Pines's identity—he had a dead twin brother (allegedly), it was difficult to tell whose trail was whose. But after everything he'd learned today, he'd begun to wonder about Stan Pines again.  About how he'd managed to find that radioactive waste. About his doomsday weapon.

"Memory gun," Goldie said, dragging Powers's attention back to the present.

Trigger and Dale stared at her. "What?"

She nudged Powers, "We found blueprints in the museum for a gun that erases memories—and a huge cache of stolen memories. Some secret society in town has been using it."

"Society of the Blind Eye," Powers said, taking over the explanation. "They're in cahoots with the Department of Cover-Ups to keep sensitive information secret. There's more than one active Bureau case in town." He took a deep breath. "We were on more than one Bureau case in town."

Dale's brows shot up in surprise at the same time Trigger's furrowed in confusion.

"Obviously, there's only one explanation," Goldie said, reaching toward the laptop to tap a picture of the Mystery Shack taken during one of their stake-outs. "Whatever's going on here—the DCU doesn't want anyone to know about it, including us. They called their friends in the Blind Eye to wipe our memories and keep us away from the Mystery Shack."

"'Our memories'?" Trigger echoed.

"She's with the Bureau." Powers could explain the rest later.

Goldie's theory was sound—but. But he couldn't believe Bureau's own parent department would treat its agents that way. He didn't want to believe it.

He was too afraid of the possibility to believe it.

Surely there must be another reasonable explanation. "Or, the Blind Eye betrayed the Department—and us."

He could tell by the look Goldie shot him that she hadn't considered that possibility. "Huh. It could have," she conceded. "It doesn't... doesn't quite sit right with me."

"None of this sits right with me." What did Powers do now? The agents in this town were drowning when they hadn't even realized they were in hot water. The Blind Eye, the Trembley case, the Pines case... There was something big in this town, and the police were in on it, the Bureau was in on it, he was in on it—and he didn't even know what it was or who he could trust.

But he knew where he could find out.

As Powers opened the car door, a look of panic flashed across Goldie's face. "Hold on, where are you going?"

"To the Mystery Shack. It's time we finally get to the bottom of this. I'm not leaving until I see what's behind the vending machine and find Stanford Pines."

"Whoa-whoa-whoa! You've gotta be kidding me! Tell me you're kidding me!" Powers was only halfway out of the car when she caught him by the lapel and tried to drag him back into the car. "You'd have to be crazy to go back! It's obvious somebody higher up on the food chain than us doesn't want us snooping in there—"

"Or a rogue local cult," Powers said.

"Either way!" Her grip tightened. "You got your mind erased for going there last time! Do you want to get brainwashed again?!"

The thought terrified him. But the thought of not finding out what was happening terrified him more. He couldn't afford to think about what might happen to him; he pushed the thought aside. "This time is different. They won't be expecting our arrival and they won't have time to set up—whatever they did last time," Powers said. "And even if they do, we'll be split up. That way at least two of us will remember. Trigger?"

"Yessir!" Trigger hopped out of the car after Powers.

"But—but you can't," Goldie said desperately.

"Why not?"

"Because—" Her mouth hung open for a second as she tried and failed to think of a counterargument. Then, with a low growl of frustration, she dragged him into a kiss.

For a moment he hung there, half in and half out of the car, one hand on the back of the seat and the other hovering in the air, uncertain what to do with itself, until it finally settled on Goldie's waist. And for a split second, Gravity Falls and its horrors were a thousand miles away.

But only for a second. And then he put his hand on Goldie's shoulder, gently pushed her back, and tugged her hand off his suit. Her hand was so small and delicate compared to his; and her grip was so tight he was almost afraid he'd hurt her prying her off.  "I know," he said softly. "I know. Me too." 

Her face was flush with rage, her eyes wide with terror. "But—it's—too dangerous. You know it is."

"I know. But we're all in danger until we know what's going on." He had more people than just himself to worry about. He had to worry about his team.

His whole team. Goldie had already lost so much; what would happen to her mind if she lost any more?

She struggled a moment longer to think of another argument; then let out a noise that was half sigh of defeat, half groan of frustration. "Fine. Just... Get out of here before I give into the urge to break your knees."

####

"You two are cute," Dale commented.

"He'd be cuter if he did what I said," Bill muttered. Why couldn't everyone simply obey him at all times without question! He'd even pulled out the desperate kiss routine, humans were supposed to be suckers for that corny trash! He flung himself back into his seat with an indignant huff.

The plan had been going perfectly until now. He'd convinced Powers that the government and the Blind Eye were working together. He'd convinced Powers that they'd been brainwashed. The agents opening the flash drive and discovering what they'd forgotten was supposed to seal the deal. It was the key to his plan working! It was supposed to convince the agents that their own government was behind whatever was happening in the shack and they should stay out of it. It should have terrified Powers out of Gravity Falls! Not made him charge straight back into what looked like an obvious trap!

And if he found the portal... If he got his hands on either one of the Stans and dragged him downstairs too, where he could see Bill had started repairing the portal...

Now what?

Bill scooted behind Dale and leaned around the shoulder of his seat. "Hey, you should go through the rest of the reports. Maybe there's something else important we forgot."

"Good idea." Dale settled the laptop on his knees. "Powers said you're... with the Bureau?"

"Yep, proud eagle. Cryptology expert," Bill said.

"Oh." He gave him a mildly surprised look. "Sorry, I don't think I remember you."

"No prob, Bob, I don't remember the Bureau either!"

Dale nodded slowly. "Riiight. Memory-erasing gun."

"Bingo," Bill said. "Powers and I'll tell you the whole story when we rendezvous. But maybe we should focus on the reports first, don't you think!"

"Right, of course." Dale turned his attention to the laptop.

And Bill slid out his phone and kept it behind Dale's seat, where he wouldn't notice Bill typing.

####

UNKNOWN: STAR GIRL WE HAVE A PROVBKDM

UNKNOWN: PROBLEM

UNKNOWN: APPARENTLY PANIC MAKES THUMBS SHAKE! I HATE FLESH SO MUCHH! HA HA!

MABEL: Who is this?

UNKNOWN: ITS BILL I STOLE A PHONE NOT IMPORTANT DONT TWLL ANYONE

(Ah. Mabel should have guessed that. She added his number to her phone.)

BILL: POLWERS AND TRIGGER ARE HEADWD TO THES HACK

BILL: THIA WASNT PART OF THE PLAN

BILL: TELL THE STANDS TO HIDE

BILL: STANS

MABEL: OK! I'm looking for them!

MABEL: What went wrong???

BILL: IDK THEY DIDNTR REACT LIKE THEY SHOUDL HAVE

BILL: POWERS SHOULD BE TOO TEIRFIFIED TO GET WITHIN A MILE OF THE SHACK INSTEAD HES ONT EHW WARPATH

BILL: HES FIGURED OUT WAAAAY MORE THAN HE SHOULD HAVE IDK WHATS GOING ON UNDER HIS STUPID OPAQUE SKULL

MABEL: Did they figure out we tricked them??? 🙀

BILL: NO HE BUYS IT FOR NOW. HE RAN THE WHOLE MARATHON HE JUST REFUSES TO CROSS THE FINISH LINE 

BILL: BUT IF HE GETS HSI HANDS ON THE STAND WHO KNOWS

MABEL: OK, I warned them!

BILL: GOOD! TELL THEM THEY CANT HIDE BEHIND THE VENDING MACHINE PWOERS IS HEADED THERE FIRST

MABEL: Ummm... Grunkle Ford isn't hiding. 

MABEL: He said he knows how to handle this.

BILL: NO NO NO NO NO

BILL: WAHTEVER HES DOIGN HE CANT DOT TAHAT

BILL: STAR GIRL LISTEN CAREFULLY

BILL: I NED YOU TO SCREAMJ IN HIS EAR UTNIL HIS EARDRUM RUUPTIURES. THAT SHOULD SLOW HIM DOWN

BILL: IF IT D OESNT WORK BITE HIS EAR OFF YOUR RBRACES SHOULD REALLY SHRED THE CARTILAGE 

MABEL: He asked you to send whatever you can think of that the government people know about the agents but we shouldn't know.

BILL: WHY????

MABEL: IDK!! He went downstairs to get something.

MABEL: But it sounded important!

BILL: FGINE

BILL: IF THIS GOES WRONG ITS O NHIS ARROGANT LITTLE HEAD AND TELL HIM I SAAID SO

BILL: BUT DONT SHOW HIM MY TPYOS

####

"That vending machine might be booby trapped," Trigger said as they walked toward the shack's back door. "We lost our memories just as it was opened."

"We'll find Ramirez. He must know how to get behind the machine without triggering the trap." Beyond that, Powers intended to demand that Soos produce Stanford Pines—and, if he couldn't do that, then he'd better produce some damn good answers. Powers raised a hand to knock.

A voice behind them said, "It seems I got here just in time."

Trigger and Powers whirled around. Standing on the lawn—as casual and jarring as meeting a ghost from your childhood nightmares in the grocery store soup aisle, like running into something that hadn't quite ever been real—was the superior officer who'd taken their flash drive last summer.

"You!" Trigger said. "What are you doing here?!"

The officer barked, "Stopping you two knuckleheads from blundering into the same mistake you made last summer! And you're lucky I am. If Director Gunn had done his job right and contacted me, you wouldn't have made it this far."

A jolt of alarm shot up Powers's back. Director Gunn had sent them to Gravity Falls. Or allowed them to go—he'd been reluctant to let them continue on this case. Nobody outside the Bureau should have ever even heard the code name "Director Gunn."

"Instead," the officer went on, "I had to find out what you were up to from museum security when you triggered their silent alarm! Mr. Jake Armstrong," (Trigger flinched in surprise) "Mr. Gary Walter," (and then Powers's back went stiff) "just what do you have to say for yourselves?"

He was important enough to know their names. They didn't even know each other's names.

Powers took a deep breath. "That we want to speak to Stanford Pines."

The officer snorted, and for a fleeting second his stony expression cracked as a smirk curled up one corner of his mouth. Powers couldn't believe it. He genuinely thought their request was funny.

And that—that, of all things—was what finally cut through his anger enough for a little fear to trickle through.

"Well," he said, "I'm afraid you get to speak to me."

####

Bill stared at his phone as if the force of his glare could will it into coughing up another text from Mabel; and because of that, he saw the bright colors in the emoji of Mabel's next message fifteen minutes before the message itself actually arrived, and several minutes before the message was close enough that he could actually read what it said:

MABEL: 🎉🌈😎 We won!!! 😻☀️💃

He reread the message several times, as if he expected the future message to blur and disappear as they slid sideways into a less lucky timeline. But it remained clear—a future so probable it was almost guaranteed.

How the hell had Ford done that?

####

"As you may have guessed by now, this building isn't just a cheap tourist trap," the superior officer said. "What happens in here goes over your head, gentlemen. It goes over your entire bureau. It's a matter of international security."

"Why?" Powers demanded. "What's under this shack?"

"A top secret facility," the officer said.

"For what purpose?" Trigger asked.

"That's top secret," the officer said. "This whole affair is so classified that you should never have been assigned to investigate in Gravity Falls in the first place—but it was also so classified that we couldn't tell you there was something here you shouldn't be investigating. A SNAFU we're implementing measures to prevent in the future. And you two can help by leaving and never thinking about this place again."

It all clicked into place. Of course the Mystery Shack was a government facility.

He'd almost put it together earlier, but had been too distracted by the horror of realizing all he'd forgotten—but it was odd that Stan Pines had known exactly where to find that radioactive waste, much less how to get it all in and out of the facility in one night, wasn't it? Almost as if someone else had given him instructions on how to get it. Odd that based on the reports they'd found in the flash drive—and their resurfacing memories—it seemed that Stan had been on the verge of using a doomsday weapon... and then hadn't. As if it were a test. Odd that a "superior officer" had just so happened to come by so soon after the doomsday weapon's near activation, right after they'd forgotten everything. As if he were already on site.

It would have been utterly astounding if it wasn't so disgusting. The Department of Cover-Ups had covered up their own tracks so heavily that they'd gotten investigated by their own sub-department. And who had paid the price?

"It's too late for that," Powers said. "We already investigated it, we know something's happening here, and your attempt to make us forget failed. And I think we have a right to know what's in here that was worth erasing our memories over!"

"I'm afraid that's not possible," the officer said.

"Why not?" Trigger demanded. "All we want is to see it! We're not going to tell anyone—we're on the same side!"

Powers was closer to the shack than the officer was—and for the moment, the officer was focused on Trigger. Part of him was tempted to turn around, kick in the door, and head straight for that vending machine. If it came to a fight, it was two against one.

The officer said, "Because you already know too much! In fact, I'd be giving you the same treatment you got last year if I wasn't so sure that forgetting what happened again would just make you come straight back to town searching for it again."

Powers was suddenly acutely aware of the strap across the officer's chest leading to a shape at his hip that could only be seen when his coat moved just right—a shape the size of a bulky gun. And suddenly, the idea of turning his back on the officer seemed impossible.

"And you should consider yourselves lucky you get to leave with your memories," the officer went on. "The side-effects of repeated mind wipes aren't pretty. You've got a genetic predisposition for Alzheimer's, don't you, Mr. Walter? Your mother?" (Angry bile surged up his throat. His mother had been in a memory care facility for the past two years.) "We don't know yet if the gun exacerbates those odds. I'd hate for you to help us find out."

"Then you could have let us go last year!" Powers said. "If you'd just told us we'd stumbled into some secret operation and sent us home, we couldn't have done anything about it!" And if he was honest with himself, it wasn't the secret happenings under this second-rate tourist trap that bothered him. In this job he'd seen everything from A to Z—aliens to zombies. He doubted anything could truly shock him. No—what really bothered him was how he'd been kept from finding out. "Why didn't you just let us go last year?"

"For one thing, that's not how my department operates." (Powers had assumed Gravity Falls was an aberration. What made him so sure people weren't getting their memories erased all over the nation? What did he really know about how the Department of Cover-Ups worked?) "And for another," the officer said, "we needed a good excuse to test the long-range memory gun. And there you were, with several dozen men."

There you were. The words hit like a hammer to the heart. In the corner of his eye he could see Trigger turn toward him, looking for guidance; but Powers couldn't turn to meet his gaze. There they were, convenient guinea pigs for a weapon of mass amnesia. Was that all their government saw them as?

While Powers was feeling the bottom of his stomach drop out and plunge into the dark as his life upended itself, the officer's expression didn't even twitch. His stare was stony and unsympathetic, the creases in his cheeks and between his brows sharpened by the hard line of his mouth.

But although his expression didn't change, his voice did. It dropped into a wholly different accent, slower, smoother—and far more menacing. "You see, we'll take any measures necessary to ensure that this town's secrets... remain buried." The chill in the officer's voice seemed better suited to the dark hidden chambers collecting dust under the museum, the cold cavern beneath the angel in the graveyard. The man with the voice from the Blind Eye's stolen memories looked directly in Agent Powers's eyes and said, "Is my meaning clear?"

Powers's throat went dry.

Trigger had immediately tensed when the officer changed his voice, even though he couldn't know what it meant. (Or did he? Had he heard the voice once and forgotten, Powers wondered? Was it coming back?) "Sir, what's going...?"

"Yessir," Powers said hoarsely. "Perfectly clear."

The ghost of a smile twisted one corner of the superior officer's mouth. "So. What is going on here, agent?" His voice had returned to his usual gruff, militant bark. That was his real voice, Powers realized; hearing him in person, it was much more obvious  than it had been in the recordings just how fake his British accent was. He must be working with the Society of the Blind Eye undercover—which meant this was his real job.

Powers should have listened to Goldie. She'd been right. It was stupid to think the Blind Eye might have backstabbed the government. The Blind Eye was the government.

In his mind's eye, he could see his own face twisted in terror, his arms strapped into the same chair where Goldie had been restrained as she'd lost her mind—just another video amongst the thousands that had been literally forgotten in the museum basement.

He swallowed hard. "Weather balloon," he said. "Or—or meteor shower. Nothing happened here."

The officer nodded sharply. "You're a smart man, Mr. Walter." He turned to Trigger. "What about you, Mr. Armstrong?"

Trigger gave Powers a bewildered look. For a moment, he looked ready to argue; but a sharp look from Powers deflated him. "Nothing unusual to report, sir," he said grudgingly.

"Good." The superior officer tilted his head. "I think your car's over there."

Powers could feel the hairs on the back of his neck raising as he walked away. He had to force himself not to glance over his shoulder to see if a memory gun was pointing at his back.

"What was that?" Trigger whispered. "Do you know him from somewhere else?"

"I'm afraid we all do."

"Where would—?"

"Later." Not until they got back to Dale.

And Goldie.

####

(Another chapter where I don't think I made any changes due to TBOB except futzing around with department names. But for TBOB-unrelated reasons, this one went through HEAVY revisions: initially Powers accepted Bill's version of the story much more easily, but then I went, no. We should terrify Bill a little first. And give Ford more to do.

I thought this chapter was gonna be the wrap-up, but then it doubled in length so I split it in two lmao. Next week for sure. Let me know what you think!!)

[blackleatherjacketz]

Dreams

Aaron Hotchner x BAU Female Reader

Summary: Hotch calls you out on being distracted and won't let you leave the office until he gets to the bottom of it.

Warnings: 18+ Only, Mature Content, Power Dynamics, Sex Dreams, Profiling, Daddy Issues, Praise Kink, Degradation Kink, Spanking, Finger Sucking

Word Count: 2.9k+

Read More Criminal Minds

Hotch’s stone cold gaze burns into you from behind his desk, his lips pressed into a thin fine line as he smooths his hand down the length of his tie before settling into his seat. That harsh, judgmental glare is usually directed at the unsubs he’s interrogating or even family members he thinks might be hiding something important, but tonight it’s directed solely at you.

This can’t be good.

“May I ask what this is about, sir?” You sit down in the leather chair in front of his desk, keeping your spine as straight as possible in hopes of masking your growing anxiety. He’s never asked you in here alone after your initial interview, and you always assumed that that was a good thing; staying off his radar, out of his scrutinizing gaze. But then again, he had often asked Rossi and Garcia into his chambers on a regular basis, but that was only during business hours. Had you done something so terribly wrong that it warranted him keeping you here after closing time? Were you in trouble? Did Derek actually tell him that he saw your Tinder profile and that he matched with you as a joke? Was that allowed? Was he going to fire you? Because of something as menial as that?

He nods stoically, armed to the teeth with his classic unreadable expression as he takes you out of your anxious spiral. “Your paperwork from the last case we worked on was messy, to say the least, agent.” He opens the case file and slides it across his desk toward you, pointing to a handful of your mistakes underlined in bright red ink. “This is unlike you.”

The heat of embarrassment flushes your cheeks and warms its way down your neck as you lean forward to take a look at your sloppy paperwork. They were simple mistakes that could be easily remedied, but a lot more than you would normally make in a single week, let alone all of them clustered together into one single form.

Shit. He was right, this was unlike you.

“I’m sorry sir, I’ll fix this immediately. I don’t know where my head was at.” You offer instinctively, attempting to collect yourself and stand up before he quickly motions for you to sit back down.

“That’s not all, agent. You’ve been distracted these past few weeks, showing up late more than not, unable to focus or be fully present on our cases. I hired you because you’re one of the best, and I don’t feel like I’m getting that version of you lately.” His tone grew soft but remained slightly wary, like thunder rolling off in the distance before a heavy storm approached. “Do you mind telling me what’s got you so distracted?”

No.

You’d been attracted to your boss from the very first moment you saw him, but it was something you had hoped would fade away over time, not build immensely with every second you spent within his orbit. You’d been able to manage your draw to him for the first six months under his wing, burying yourself in case work and impressing him with your extensive medical knowledge, but there was something about the way he looked at you on the plane that night. It was as if he knew what you were trying to hide this whole time, as if he was delighted by the knowledge that he kept close to his chest along with everything else. There was something about that glimmer in his eye as everyone else dozed on the jet that made you believe he felt the same way, but he would only let it slip just long enough to instill a delusion in you so great that it haunted your dreams.

Dreams that left you aching for his touch, yearning for his sweat to melt into your skin as he hoarsely moaned your name before nipping at your skin. Dreams that were so vivid, you had to convince yourself that they were fake, taking inventory of what interactions had actually happened, and which had been fabricated by the melatonin in your brain. No wonder your work has gotten sloppy.

“Nothing, sir.” You lie, fearing the worst if he finds out that you have some stupid school girl crush on him.

He exhales slowly, disappointment weighing on his breath as he leans forward in his chair to silently close the file. “Whatever it is that you’re dealing with is affecting your work, and I’d be remiss to ignore it. The last time I let something like this slide, another agent’s life hung in the balance.” He paused, no doubt referring to Prentiss’ ordeal with Doyle. “Now, why don’t you try again and give me the truth?”

You’re not getting out of this, are you? He’s going to find out the truth sooner or later, no matter how hard you work to cover it up. He always does. That’s his job, for Christ’s sake. How could you have been so arrogant to think that you could keep something like this from the best profiler in the country? From your own boss? How could you think that he wouldn’t catch on to the blatantly obvious signs you’ve been so desperately trying (and failing) to hide from him for months now?

“I just…” it pained you to start. “I just haven’t been sleeping very well lately.” It wasn’t a lie, per se. Your suggestive dreams had forced you to stave off the sandman as long as possible for fear that you might say his name on the jet or in the hotel room you shared with JJ while you slept. There were no secrets amongst profilers, especially in slumber, and he was so close to finding out yours, you just couldn’t risk it.

“No? And why is that?” He raises his eyebrows as he looks you over, pushing the file to the side. “Are you having nightmares? It took Reid a few months to adjust to this job, too, but eventually the nightmares faded. We have an excellent therapist I can refer you to if that’s what you need.”

“Not nightmares, sir, no.” You knew that if you lied to him outright he’d know immediately, his trust in you lost forever. You weren’t exactly sure which fate was worse, him losing respect for you or him finding out that you have feelings for him.

This was going to be more difficult than any case you’d ever worked on.

“Then what is it?” His expression remains neutral as he stares you down, patiently awaiting your answer.

You sigh heavily as you realize you’ve run out of time and euphemisms . Here goes nothing.

“I’ve been having … dreams about someone on the team, and no matter how hard I try to ignore it, how many times I’ve tried to bury it down, these dreams, these images have stirred something inside me that I can’t quite shake.” You look down at your feet as you nearly confess the whole truth, your voice wavering the closer you come to revealing yourself.

“Someone on the team?” He repeats back to you after clearing his throat, his tone a little more husky than normal. “What kind of dreams?”

As if he didn’t already know the answer.

“Sir, I…” you stammer, unable to form your lips around the words as that infernal heat returns to your cheeks, making you feel as if you’re about to catch fire right here in his office.

“Are these dreams… sexual in nature?” You’ve heard him say that word about a thousand times before, referring to the motives and orientations of the unsubs that you chased, but this time it was different. This time it was laced with something personal, as if he had suspected it all along, but couldn’t quite bring it to your attention until he had a solid case of irrefutable evidence.

Always the profiler.

“Yes, sir.” You swallow hard as he gets closer to the truth, beads of sweat forming at your temples as you watch the puzzle pieces click into place in his mind.

“And who are they about?” He keeps his eyes on you, leaning forward ever so slightly.

“It doesn’t really matter, sir.” Another lie, your sense of self preservation still fighting for its life in the recesses of your mind.

“No?” He tilts his head with a hint of a smirk as if your answer gave him everything he needed to know. “I think that it does. I could be more cautious about who I put you with in the field until we get all this figured out, keep you two separated in the office.” He leans forward onto his elbows, eyes sparkling with a scoldingly delicious sense of judgment. “Now, I want you to tell me who you’re dreaming about, agent, and know that if you try to lie to me again I’ll know.”

Shit.

“It won’t make a difference, I have to see you every day no matter who you pair me with.” You let the truth slip out a little quicker than you expected, surprising even yourself as you prepare to be berated, fired, or worse yet, laughed at.

Only that doesn’t happen.

The silence that follows your confession is monumental, hanging in the air between you two like a cloud collecting moisture from the seemingly calm bodies of water below it, growing darker and heavier with each passing second. It weighs you down, pushing onto your chest and almost paralyzing you until he says something… anything at all to break the silence and let the rain fall from the sky to wash away this painfully awkward moment of vulnerability.

“The bureau frowns on interpersonal relationships between its team members, especially those involving an agent and her superior officer.” He spouts off the official statement the FBI has ingrained into him since he joined, his usual robotic tone returning briefly before he takes in a slow, deep breath.

“I know that, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable or anything, you just…” you start rambling in a hurried attempt to take the focus off what he had just discovered.

He raises a hand to get you to stop, his Adam's Apple bobbing up and down in his throat before finally speaking again. “But that doesn’t mean it can’t happen.”

What?! What did he just say? Are you still dreaming?

“What?” You blink a few dozen times in order to reorient yourself, attempting to decipher if this interaction is, in fact, real or imagined. You dig your thumbnail into your palm just to be sure, inflicting a flash of pain into your skin to ground you in this reality. You’re definitely not dreaming.

“If that’s something you actually want.” His words pierce that heavy cloud looming between you, releasing a steady stream of rain sprinkling down as the dark gray color fades to a sheer, translucent white. “If not, you should tell me now.”

You can barely catch your breath, barely find the words to express all the emotions you’d kept under lock and key for so long.

“No, of course I do. Of course I want it, I want you.” You can’t believe that he’s actually interested in this, that he’s entertaining the idea of being romantically involved with you at all. If he had felt the same way about you this whole time, harbored these forbidden desires along with you, then his stoic nature had definitely served its purpose in keeping it close to his vest. “You’re not upset?”

“Why would I be upset?” His mahogany eyes hold your gaze through thick, onyx lashes as his lips curl into a soft smirk. “Do you think I haven’t noticed all those stolen glances from across the briefing room, or how long they linger on my face and hands? That I’ve been blind to the way your pulse races whenever I touch you, or the way your breath hitches when I say your name or give you even an ounce of praise?”

Oh god, he’s good. He’s had you figured out this whole time, hasn’t he?

“How long have you known?” You finally manage to ask, straightening your spine in an attempt to regain some composure as that heat starts to spread from your neck and chest down into your core, forcing the muscles in your abdomen to clench.

“I’ve suspected it for a while now, but I had to be sure.” He leans back in his chair, that disciplinary look in his eyes replaced by something far more dangerous. “Tell me more about these dreams. What are we doing in them that keeps you so distracted?”

Your mouth falls open in surprise, your heart suddenly galloping in your chest. “Tell you… more, sir?”

“Do you call me ‘sir’ in these dreams, too?” He asks almost immediately, raising an eyebrow in eager curiosity.

The rest of the moisture that resided in that metaphorical misty cloud suddenly pours down in thunderous sheets of rain, nearly soaking you both in a layer of desire in the process. That heat inside of you is barely assuaged, though, and only continues to grow in intensity as his words taunt you to take the lead.

“Yes, sir, I do.” You respond breathlessly.

“Good girl.” He watches your face as you react to the term, as if he’s waiting for an unsub to fall into one of his traps that he’s so expertly laid before them, grinning from ear to ear when your blush only deepens.

“You’ve been profiling me,” you defend yourself as he clocks your daddy issues with little effort, trying to slow the rapid beating of your heart as you take the bait. “That’s not fair.”

He stands up from his seat and slowly walks around his desk, each step slow and deliberate until he’s standing in front of you, gently leaning his hips against his desk so that they’re now level with your eyes. “What isn’t fair, agent, is that you hid this from me when we could have done something about it months ago.” He folds his arms across his chest and looks down at you. “I don’t intend on letting you leave this office until we’ve fixed this problem, is that understood?”

“Yes.” You stare at his hips, eyeing the growing outline of what lies between them before shifting your gaze back up at his face through heavy lids.

“Good. Now, tell me more about your dreams.” He leans back just a little, the confidence of kings emanating from his newly relaxed posture. “Am I praising you or punishing you in them?”

“Punishing me.” Your stomach flips as you look down at your feet, still somehow ashamed of your subconscious desire.

“Punishing you, how?” He reaches out and grabs your chin, not allowing you to hide from the truth as he tilts your face upward, forcing you to look at him.

“I…” Your lip quivers as he squeezes your chin a little tighter, forcing that moisture to collect between your thighs as you rub them together.

“Use your words, agent,” he orders.

Goddamnit. Had he actually seen the content of your dreams, somehow? Or were you just that easy to read?

“You had me bent over your desk with my skirt up around my waist, your tie shoved in my mouth and your handprint on my cheeks,” you finally oblige him, letting your mind wander to the delicious details of your most recent dream, watching his breath hitch ever so slightly before he clears his throat.

“Did I, now?” He raises an eyebrow at your confession as he searches your face for any signs of deception. As if you would lie about any of this. “And the other times?”

“Other times?” You whisper as he lifts his thumb off your chin to brush it across your bottom lip, slightly tugging on it to view your teeth before letting it bounce back into place. You can see his pupils expanding with each passing second, those different shades of chocolate and mahogany blending together into the darkest shade of espresso you’ve ever seen. He’s looking at you the way he had in each and every one of your fantasies, only this time it isn’t some salacious trick of the mind; this time it’s real. “The other times I’m going down on you on the jet while everyone else sleeps, or you’re fingering me underneath the conference table while Garcia briefs us on a new case.”

He grins and pulls on your bottom lip again, watching in awe as he tugs it halfway down your chin, stretching it enough to smear some of your spit across your chin. “You've got quite the imagination… fantasizing about me degrading you on government property, right here in my office.”

“Mmm hmmm.” You hum as he slowly glides his thumb into your mouth, pressing down on your tongue before you instinctively wrap your lips around it, tasting the salt of his skin for the very first time.

“Is that what you want? You want to be punished?” His voice is hoarse now, that last bit of control he has slowly evaporated away into nothingness. “Do you think you deserve it?”

“Mmm hmmm,” you repeat, sucking his thumb all the way down to the knuckle, stroking it with your tongue to show him what you can do.

“We’ll see about that.” He leans in close enough to whisper into your ear. “Now get up and bend yourself over my desk.”

[bananayuyu]

Tell Me No {2}

Pairing: professor!Yunho x f reader

Genre: smut, dark academia vibes

Word count: 4.9k

Summary: Your relationship with Professor Jeong is blooming, but finals are coming and have you stressed beyond belief. Will you be able to survive them, when all you want to do is spend time with your gorgeous professor?

Warnings: smut, MDNI, oral (f receiving), fingering, squirting, praise

A/n: I've got part 3 planned out already, lmk if you wanna be tagged!

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Masterlist | Read it on ao3

"How's my favorite student doing?"

Professor Jeong's whisper is so soft you can barely hear it, his face not lifting from the stack of papers on his desk. The classroom is quiet, but not silent, and the blanket of soft chatter is hiding your interaction just enough that you decide to respond.

"Fine, I guess," you whisper back, his head raising in concern. His face is serious as he looks deep into your eyes, trying to read why you've just said that.

"After class," is all he says in return, and you know from the nervous shifting of his eyes that it's time to walk away, time to slink back to your desk.

You were nervous, terribly, horribly nervous for finals, that was why your head was spinning and you were barely getting sleep. It was make or break time, the last two weeks of the semester when every bit of work you'd put in would either pay off, or disintegrate in your hands.

You wished you found school easy, but you just never did. As much as you loved to write you found the structure of classes and exams hard to cope with, even though you knew how important it was for your future career.

If you were ever going to make it as a writer, you'd need connections and letters of recommendation and people on your side. You'd never tasted an ounce of support from your family, when it came to these dreams. Being here had helped you understand how important these University relationships were, that your professors or peers might be people many years down the line who helped you succeed. You'd received more positive feedback in the last few weeks that ever in your life; even your annoying classmate liked your work enough to tell you.

"That last story prof read was yours, wasn't it?" Marcus asks as class ends, the room filled with warmth from the wood stove in the corner, winter now upon you.

"How could you tell?" you ask, rolling your eyes as you turn back to face him.

"You always include a cat in your stories, no matter how irrelevant, it's pretty fucking obvious."

"Okay, sorry for doing that, I guess," you sigh, eyes hitting the ceiling again.

"I'm not tryna be an asshole, seriously, it was good. And prof obviously loved it too, he was smiling the whole time he read."

A jolt of happiness shoots through you at the mention of Professor Jeong's admiration, and it takes every bit of your will to avoid smiling.

"Well, thanks then," you respond, shooting Marcus a quick, tight smile.

"Wow, see, the ice is breaking, you aren't being such a bitch to me anymore," he laughs, grabbing his bag and zipping it closed. "You finally warming up to me?"

"No, absolutely fucking not," you grimace, staring back at his waggling eyebrows.

"Forget I said that, then," he laughs, standing and walking out of the room, your eyes snaking over the empty desks around and the small line of students at the front of the room, asking for extensions or extra credit work to make up their grades before the end of the semester.

"I asked you to rewrite this paper three weeks ago," you hear Professor Jeong telling the boy in front of him, filing the short stories from the day into his bag.

"I know sir, I'm very sorry, I was just too busy with my other classes-"

"I know this is upsetting to hear, but I can't give you more of an extension than I already have. This is a small school, we do not operate with the goal of passing as many students as we can. Other students in this very class have made up work I've requested, within the time I requested it. It simply wouldn't be fair to them to let you get away with this." His eyes raise to meet yours for a moment, before moving down to the boy again. "Listen, you got good grades on your first two papers, and if you do well on the final, you will pass. Just focus on the final, and you will be fine."

The boy shuffles off in frustration, and several students behind follow him too, not bothering to try to convince your professor of giving them second chances. Was it too harsh? You couldn't tell how you felt about it, because a part of you felt so flattered by what he'd said. You were the student who redid work on time, and had worked your ass off since to maintain high grades in all your classes. If you'd neglected work like your classmate had, you'd understand your professor not giving you another chance. You didn't know what the boy's life was like, whether there were legitimate reasons for his inability to rewrite the paper; so much panic, so much worry over a person you didn't know was a clear indication of just how stressed you were.

You could care all day about the plight of everyone around you. But until you secured your independence and stability, you really needed to focus on yourself.

You waited patiently for the last student to exit the room, before gathering your things. You and your handsome professor had tried to not be obvious, to not spend time lingering around each other when other students or faculty were present. But there was something about always being the last to leave class that you liked; even on days when you didn't follow him home, you still got to have at least one private conversation, and even if he hadn't touched you, the few moments alone would leave you tingling with warmth all over.

He hadn't let things escalate any further, in the weeks since. You still made out when you visited his house, still felt his hardness through the thick cotton of his pants, let him touch you and tease you and drive you completely insane. But never had he seemed to want to push it further, and though you should have been laser focused on school, you couldn't help thinking about it. Did he not want you like you wanted him? Was he caught in feeling wrong for liking you the way he did?

Together you exit the building in complete silence, the air still but frigid. You had worn your favorite black leg warmers today, paired with your thickest tights, a white thermal turtle neck, and your warmest navy blue sweater. You even had long socks on, the white contrasting against your dark blue Mary Janes, but you still shivered as you stepped outside. You should have brought your winter coat today, but there was nothing you could do about it now. Usually on clear days like today, the sun warmed the winter air by early afternoon, enough that you wouldn't need so many layers.

You walk fast to help warm yourself, moving through the routine you knew well by now. You wait by the platform as Professor Jeong buys your tickets, and he slips one carefully in your hand as he walks past, only glancing at you a moment before moving to stand ten feet away. Your body aches to follow him and be next to him always, but you know as well as he does that you really shouldn't get caught. As sweet and wholesome as this whole thing felt to you, it wasn't something other people needed to know about. You were sure most wouldn't understand, and those who did might only tease you about it endlessly.

It takes several minutes for the train to arrive, running late due to the freezing weather. Though it'd barely snowed in the morning, enough water froze over on parts of the track to require some last minute maintenance. You both rush to the door with every other waiting passenger, pushing your way close to the front to not miss out on a seat. On days like today no one was walking home, and the trains got uncomfortably full.

You push in behind him, handing your ticket off quickly, and stumble into the seat to his right, pretending like you'd accidentally ended up there and were just thankful to be sitting. People crowd the isle, a pair of legs mere inches from your own. You were thankful they belonged to a girl, one who leaned down and whispered 'sorry!' when a bump in the track knocked her sideways and into you slightly. Most of the students lived just one stop down, and in a few minutes the car is much less chaotic; you finally chance a glance in his direction, taking in his profile, the soft plane of his cheeks and perfect curve of his nose.

His head turns, and suddenly you snap your head away, feeling almost shy. He widens his thighs, leaning forward and sitting more comfortably, but the movement has caused your legs to touch and your whole body burns at the feeling, the opposite of relaxing. You want to mount him, climb into his lap and kiss and ride him until all your problems are forgotten. But you're in public, still several students and other professors littered through the train car, and you have to keep your composure.

Finally, you arrive at his stop. Forthsmith station is as barren as it always is, and as soon as the train is gone his hand is on your back, the two of you making quick work of the small walk to his house. Even he feels cold in his thick wool suit, the late November weather not usually this cold, the two of you clinging to each other for any warmth you can find.

As soon as you're greeted with the warmth of his cozy home, you sigh in relief. He lights the fire under his mantle, and as the wood starts crackling you walk to him, wrapping your arms around his back and squeezing hard. He chuckles, tugging on your arms to release, before turning around and pulling you in, sighing at the perfect feeling of your head tucked in his chest and arms around his back. In a moment you're raising your head to kiss him, and it's warm and sweet and so gentle, making your frigid body melt into him. You hold onto his neck, pulling him in. It's so easy to get lost in each other the moment you're alone, when you have to pretend in all other contexts to barely even notice each other. Soon your kiss is paired with heavy breaths and tongues, and the heat between your thighs is growing fast, your body begging you to find something to grind against.

You pull him to the edge of the couch and push him down on it, climbing onto his lap and straddling him. His cock is obviously hard, and immediately you're grinding against it and kissing him, his hands coming up to grip onto your ass and guide your movements. You've barely spoken a word to each other, because this is all you really wanted to do; to be back in each other's arms after so many days apart, your schedules not allowing for a moment like this in too long.

"How's my pretty girl feeling?" he asks, breaking the kiss and pulling his hands to the sides of your face.

"I'm fine," you whine, frustrated he's not matching your movements anymore. "I'm horny," you whisper.

"I know, angel, I can tell, but you looked upset earlier, I want to know if you're feeling alright."

"I just want you to touch me so I can forget about it all," you sigh, pouting at him.

"That's not how adults deal with their problems, angel," he responds. You roll your eyes, but finally give up your humping, slumping into his chest again. "Tell me what's wrong."

"I'm just very stressed for finals," you say.

"Which final are you most stressed about?" he asks, running a hand down your back.

"Yours," you say, snuggling into him more.

"Mine? Why mine?"

"Cause it's two parts, two separate days, that's really intimidating."

He sighs, taking in a deep breath. "I'm not going to lie to you and say it's easy, but I know you can do it." You just grumble beneath him, not responding with anything coherent. "What always helps me when I'm nervous about something is to do a trial run. I did that with my thesis defense, I performed it to my roommates probably three times in the week leading up to it. It helped a lot."

You nod your head against him, wondering just how hard the rest of your academic career would be, if you'd ever be able to get to the point of defending a doctorate thesis.

"I know what we should do. I will have you do a mock exam tonight, I'll time you and everything, and then you'll get to see that it really isn't so bad."

"What?" you asked, head shooting up. "I don't want to do that, I'm tired..." you whine, looking pathetically frustrated.

"I'll reward you after, how does that sound?" he asks, squeezing your thigh in his hand.

"But the exam is like four hours total," you sigh, pouting.

"We'll just do one section tonight, you get to choose. Which one are you most nervous about?" he asks.

"The- the short story," you stutter. "I think the essay portion will be fine, I've written so many five-paragraph essays in my life. Writing a whole short story by hand in two hours sounds awful though."

"Awful? Like I'm trying to torture you?" he mocks, smirking.

"Shut up," you grumble, turning your head away and making him laugh.

"Okay, short story it is. I'll get you some paper and a pencil and we'll do it in my office, so it feels more like you're at school," he says. "And I promise the reward will be worth it darling, I promise to make you feel so good." His voice is low and sensual as the sentence leaves his lips, and your body shudders with need, your chest flushing. He gives you a quick chaste kiss on the cheek before standing you up, moving to his office to set out the materials you'd need, and pulling out his desk chair for you. In minutes you're sitting at his desk and he's starting his timer, leaving the room to start preparing dinner while you panic internally about what the hell to write about.

It was so hard to come up with something on the spot, no prompt to help you. But like always, the feelings you were having translated right onto the page, and before you knew it a creepy and mysterious story was pouring out of you, atmospheric and unnerving, matching the anxiety you were still feeling about the next two weeks of your life. An hour in he'd brought you a cup of soup, and gingerly you sipped at it without spilling on your pages, careful to dip your roll in the broth and avoid sending crumbs flying in all directions.

"You done?" he asks when he enters again, the timer on his phone beeping. You'd made it the two hours, time flying remarkably fast. Your hand was starting to cramp, but you felt proud of yourself. You'd actually managed to do it, and he was right; you were no longer so fearful of his coming exam.

You nodded at him with a genuine smile, turning your papers around to show him your completed work.

"See, I knew you could do it," he says, leaning down across his desk to place a kiss on your cheek. "Now read it for me, from start to finish."

"Oh, sir, I- I don't know-" You cut yourself off with a sigh, looking away from him.

"I want to hear it," he says, voice low and buttery in that way you love, your insides rolling.

"But it's not very good," you pout, looking back to him.

"I'm sure that's not true," he says, sitting himself on the edge of his desk and crossing his legs. "Come on, read it."

"Okay," you say shakily, letting out a trapped breath.

"'You know what you must do, child,' my mother says. She's staring down the letter I've received, the letter from Lucifer himself, calling upon me. Red ink stains the page, the characters boxy and sharp. 'Come now, or he dies.' And I know exactly who he's referring to. Dahlia is slinking around the side of the room, his rose gold fur shining in the moonlight. My mother tries to resist him, but she's never been able. Who would have ever guessed that a demon lived inside this beautiful cat, cursed for a thousand years to be stuck in this strange form, never knowing who or what will come along next in his life?"

It starts flowing out of you the moment you get over the hurdle of simply starting, and then Professor Jeong's eyes are fixed on you and sparkling with awe, spurring you on further, making your heart sing.

"It was a long trek to the station. The Midnight Train stopped only once in our town, across the river from my family's old stone cottage. As I crossed the bridge the water twinkled, a soft breeze blowing through the tall grass in the valley. It was peaceful and quiet, soft moonlight illuminating the path ahead. Not a soul was out, just the haze of smoke from chimneys. I breathed hard as I neared the station. My body was not up to this sort of journey, but I'd known from the moment I started my letter that I'd be coming here. There was no where else for girls like me to go."

It was easy to speak, easy to feel proud of your work when he looked so pleased. You read through the horrors of the Midnight Train, tried your best to make your voice spooky and haunted, but all it did was make a chuckle escape from deep within him, his beautiful high cheekbones on display. You take in a sharp breath to calm your own laughter, steadying yourself for the last page of your story.

"Through the back door of the dining car, a final room appears to me, and from the shadowy darkness a skeleton comes, creaking in its movements. 'Ms. Delphine, a pleasure,' he says as he bows, his middle ribs clicking together. 'I always appreciate a visit from one of the chosen protectors.' I stare down at my precious companion in my arms, his face soft and tranquil, as if he hadn't noticed the horrors around us. 'It is a true curse, and a true calling,' I nodded, staring into his empty eye sockets. It was clear I had much to learn. The damned see life differently. Of course they do, I thought. How could I have been so short sighted to think otherwise?

The skeleton moves aside, holding a hand out towards the back of the room. With careful steps I glide forward, finally making out the shape of a door. When I open it, the sky is bright and birds are singing, flowers dotting a lush field. In the distance I spot the Unchosen Castle. It is strikingly shiny and bright. I hold a hand up to shade my eyes. 'We'll be seeing you,' the skeleton says. I turn back to him, the room brighter now. Rotting flesh is hanging off his left knee cap. A bullet hole is obvious in the side of his skull.

But as strange as it is, I don't feel panic. When I look down, Dahlia is asleep in my arms. I was called upon, but expected to leave. My old life out of reach, my new life a set of honors. But I had no desire to step out into that field. I close the door instead and breathe in the muskiness. The darkness greets me. For the first time in my life, I feel completely at home."

"Wonderful, just wonderful," Professor Jeong says, shaking his head and clasping his hands together. "Promise me you will write horror books when you're older."

"I want to," you smile, blinking as you look up at him.

"It's a wonderful style, almost a cozy horror, if that makes sense."

You turn your eyes down, overcome with the way he's so perfectly described what you were going for. To know it had translated off the page sent your head spinning. Could you really do this, become a successful author? It was him above anyone else, who was making you believe in that future.

"Come on, let's go back to the living room," he says as he grabs your empty bowl, pushing in his desk chair once you stand out of it.

As soon as you're back in the coziness of the fire-lit room, your hands are on him and his are on you, grabbing for every bit of each other.

"My little genius," he sighs, kissing you soft and tenderly, arms wrapping tightly around you. "You did so good for me, doing exactly what I asked. And you wrote so well."

"I wanna be good for you, that's all I want to do," you sigh, opening your mouth further, relishing in feeling his tongue against yours, the soft warmth tantalizing and true.

"Let me taste you then," he says, and you suddenly can't breathe, jitters snaking their way up through your legs and landing straight in your core. "That sound good?" he chuckles, your shocked face so utterly adorable, and you murmur a soft 'mhm' before kissing him again.

He lets you deepen it, pulling your faces together and relishing in the taste of each other's mouths. Your body is tight against him, on your tiptoes to reach as high as you can, but still he is bent over slightly to meet you, holding onto your low back as you arch into his touch. Your hips press against his, and you can feel how hard he is already; you swear he's yearning to fuck you as much as you're yearning for it too, but he's taking his time, waiting patiently, and something about that is making your brain melt even more.

You'd never been treated so respectfully in your life. It was such a confusing feeling, because you knew he shouldn't be wanting you like this at all. But if anyone was a fly on the wall and could see how he acted, you were sure no one would think negatively of him at all.

Slowly he breaks the kiss, planting a final peck on your nose before leaning down and undoing the strap on each of your shoes, helping you carefully step out of them. Then he pulls off your leg warmers, setting them in a pile beside your shoes. The anticipation of what's coming off next sends shivers through you, and when he looks up he catches sight of the lust in your eyes, his eyes shiny in the yellow light. He takes his time with your tights, pulling gently at the waist to move them over your hips, and his hands feel electric against your bare ass, making your mouth water. As he pulls them down your thighs he relishes the moment, planting soft kisses in your plushness and moving closer and closer to the small nest at your center, making you squirm.

"You smell amazing, angel," he says, his pupils blown at he looks up at you, his eyes darker now than you'd ever seen them. He looks good like this, his cheeks slightly flushed, hair faintly disheveled. You wonder what he'd look like after a good ravishing, how perfect he'd be with swollen lips and completely messy hair. You reach down to mess it up further, the dark black locks soft and lusciously thick in your hand. Soon he's pulled your tights completely down, and you hold onto his shoulders to balance as you step each foot out in quick succession.

"Come here," he says, leading you to the couch and sitting you down as he'd been earlier. When he leans in you grab onto his suit jacket again, pulling him closer and deeper, loving the feeling of the soft, thick wool in your hands. Since winter started he'd been wearing gorgeous suits every day, and you'd be lying if you said it wasn't so incredibly distracting during class.

"You like my suit?" he asks, chuckling as he makes his way to your neck and places gentle kisses from your jaw to your shoulder, making you shudder in pleasure.

"Yes," you sigh in response, tipping your head back.

"Does it turn you on?" he jokes further.

"Yeah, it does," you chuckle, lifting your head back up to nip at his ear in retaliation. He just laughs and pulls back, before diving into your plush lips again and devouring you. He's been thinking about this for days, and it's making his head fuzzy that you're half naked in front of him, spread wide on his couch.

Finally he moves down to your thighs, leaving gentle nips and licking along the length of them, making you wetter as your cunt tingles in need. It's agonizing waiting for him to get there, but when he does, when he licks a slow stripe up the entire length of your slit and moans at the taste, it's more than worth it. Your back is already arching, knees pushing themselves even wider so he has all the room he needs. He does it again, before focusing his attention on your clit, licking slow half circles around it, the warmth of his tongue too perfect to comprehend.

He spends his time working you up, holding onto your thighs and whispering praises, 'god you taste so fucking good,' or 'good girl, open up for me.' Your cunt is flushed and pink and wet for him, and finally he brings his right hand to meet his mouth, slipping to finger slowly into you and making you almost scream.

The deepness of the feeling is instantly delicious. You reach your hands out to grip onto his hair, groaning in pleasure as he starts sucking harder, pumping his fingers in and out of you slowly, but with force. He's curling them up in that perfect way, hitting the exact spot that drives you crazy, and the pleasure builds fast, your cunt feeling fiery-hot and utterly amazing. It's taking your breath away, how smooth he is, how each movement seems perfectly controlled and perfectly tailored to you. He looks up once, catching your eye, and you almost fall over the edge in an instant from the sight of him between your legs, his pink cheeks stained with your wetness. You throw your head back, moaning loudly, and he picks up his speed slightly, feeling the walls of cunt starting to shake, knowing what's about to come.

Suddenly your pleasure is growing higher than you expect, but even as it reaches amazing heights, it keeps building, keeps growing. You're almost screaming at the feeling, so intense you're unable to comprehend it at all, and then suddenly you feel it, your legs shaking, your cunt squeezing down on him, and the extreme wetness spilling out of you. You look down to see his face covered in your squirt, a look of pure satisfaction on his face as he milks you through all of it, your high-pitched moans the most beautiful melody. Your orgasm lasts longer than any you've ever had, and by the end you're dumbfounded, slumping back into his couch and breathing uncontrollably, blinking in your confusion.

"That was so hot, fuck," he groans when he finally pulls away from you, moving back up to wipe a hand over your cheek and take a look at your eyes. "You feeling okay?"

"Yes, I definitely am," you chuckle, a small tear escaping from your right eye, and you wipe it away quickly. "That was fucking crazy."

"Have you ever squirted before?" he asks.

"No, I didn't know I could," you answer, smiling shyly.

"Fuck," he sighs, ego doing somersaults at knowing he was the one to help you discover that ability. He chuckles before sitting himself down next to you, wrapping you up in his arms and cradling you, planting soft kisses on your forehead as you come down.

Twenty minutes later you're a yawning mess, your body completely wracked from how hard you came. It was also growing late, the street outside dark and gloomy, the fire crackling in the corner was giving you much needed warmth that was only adding to your sleepiness.

"I don't think I can make it home," you tell him, looking up with upward turned eyebrows, hoping he'll let you stay.

"No staying here until finals are done," he says, shaking his head, and you pout and shove your head in his chest, frustrated. "I want you to stay here with me too, darling, but I can't be the reason you don't make it to your classes tomorrow."

You sigh in knowing he's right, that it's probably not a good idea to stay when you have such important days ahead. It takes all your remaining energy to stand up, redressing in the warmth of his living room, and sliding on your shoes. He brings your bag for you, carrying it as he walks you back to the station, before sending you off with a quick kiss on the cheek.

The train is nearly empty so late, and the air feels colder when you step off, without him by your side. But all you can think about is his mouth and fingers and tongue, and that night you sleep like a baby, completely and totally content.

next part ->

Taglist: @iamalily @atzri @marii1087 @dilfkimhjj @yunyuniverse

Thank you all for the feedback and support <3333333333

[hotchscoffeecup]

stricken

summary: hotch tries to hide a panic attack from the team. you walk him through it.

pairing: hotch x reader (platonic)

tags: panic attacks, recall to foyet attacking hotch, mentions of knife violence, recall to foyet killing haley

words: 2k

“He kept them alive.” Morgan sighs and throws the file containing photos of the most recent victim in a long string of murders down on the table.

“These stab wounds are precise,” Reid adds. “He must have extensive knowledge in a medical field; a doctor or a medic, maybe.”

“No,” Emily counters. “This man doesn’t have the confidence to match either of those professions. It would be something that allowed him to blend into the background, where he could observe and hone his skills. He might be a Medical Assistant or Vet Tech.”

“I’ll start cross-referencing work records with clinics, hospitals, and veterinary offices in a twenty mile radius.” Penelope ends the video call and disappears from the wide screen in the conference room, leaving the digital photos of the victims and the crime scenes in full view.

You stare at them, bewildered by the cruelty this unsub inflicts on his victims; the psychological torture he inflicted to coincide with the physical. You click your pen absentmindedly as you pour over the evidence left behind. As you tilt your head, squinting at one of the images, you notice Hotch in your peripheral vision. If you’re not mistaken, you see his hand shaking at his side. You blink and it stops; instead, he flexes his hand open and closed.

The others are talking, exchanging ideas and identifying characteristics to further bulk up the profile. You turn in your chair, brow furrowed as you watch Hotch reach up and loosen his tie.

“Hotch, what do you think?” Morgan asks. The team all turns to look at him and he swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “Hotch?”

Without looking at anyone in particular Hotch excuses himself, tucking his head and swiftly dipping out of the room.

Morgan arches a brow. “What do you think that’s about?”

“I don’t know,” you say, concern edging into your tone as you push yourself up and out of your chair. “I’m going to go find out.”

As you exit the briefing room, you survey the bullpen and catch a glimpse of his jacket fluttering around a corner. You weave through detectives and uniformed officers, the din of voices, papers shuffling, copiers whirring, and phones ringing echoing throughout the space.

“Excuse me,” you say, maneuvering around three officers chatting by the water cooler.

You turn down the hall you swear you’d seen Hotch disappear into, but all you see is a janitor’s closet at the far end of the corridor.

As you turn around to retrace your steps and search for Hotch, you hear a whoosh of breath. This stops you in your tracks as you strain your ears and turn back towards the closet. Hesitantly, and feeling somewhat foolish, you reach for the handle and open the door.

Your lips part and your heart drops as you identify your Unit Chief braced against a shoddy shelving unit. In the dim light of the single lightbulb illuminating the space, you make out the rapid rise and fall of his chest as he struggles to take in a full breath.

Without hesitation, you slink inside and close the door behind you. Fortunately, the space is wide enough to grant you enough room to be in there without it feeling confining.

“Hotch, what’s wrong?” you ask, inclining your head to look up into his eyes. They’re wild, dilated pupils flickering back and forth across your features as he swallows.

“I can’t—” he starts and stops, closing his eyes and scrubbing a hand across his face. “I don’t know why, I just— I can’t breathe. I can’t—”

“Okay,” you say, voice soft but firm. “Hotch, I think you’re having a panic attack.”

His brow pinches as he wrestles with that observation. “A panic attack? No, I don’t— I’m fine. It’s not—”

His hands shake as he reaches for his tie, fingers fumbling with the knot causing them to shake even more.

“Let me help,” you say and telegraph your next moves clearly; reaching forward to completely undo his tie and first button of his shirt.

He releases a heavy sigh and something of a sob escapes his lips. “I’m the, the Unit Chief. I see this stuff every day. I don’t—I’m not—” He swallows hard and looks up at the ceiling, as if there would be some sort of solace to find in the popcorn ceiling tiles.

“I just…I can feel it,” he rasps. “I can feel it.”

“Feel what, Hotch?”

His breathing quickens; coming in short succinct bursts that leave him panting and unable to catch his breath.

“His knife. I can feel it.” He squeezes his eyes shut and a tear leaks down his cheek.

Realization dawns on you then and your heart fractures for your Unit Chief, the pillar of the team; the one who bears the brunt of responsibility to ensure everyone else on the team is okay and ultimately sacrifices himself in the process.

George Foyet. You’d joined the team after this case, but everyone knew the story. He’d incapacitated Hotch inside his own home and stabbed him repeatedly; slowly, and in places that would inflict significant damage, but not kill him. Foyet later would go on to kill Hotch’s ex-wife, Haley. Hotch had been on the phone at the time of it all and heard his wife die. You can’t imagine the turmoil he must have gone through; physically, mentally, and emotionally. It’s no wonder this case would trigger such terrible memories.

“I was alone.” Hotch breathes heavily and clutches an arm around his waist. “I can feel it now. I can—the knife, it was, oh God—” His hand taps rapidly against his leg. When his knees begin to wobble, you’re quick to react when he collapses.

Instinctively, you throw your arms out and thread your arms beneath his as you crash to the floor together, knees slamming into the hardwood as you fall. Hotch sobs into the crook of your neck as he clings to you and you wonder just how long it’s been since anyone has held him. Hesitantly, you shift your weight so you can hold him properly with one arm wrapped around his back while the other cradles his neck. You brush your fingers through his hair and speak grounding words to him.

“You’re safe, Hotch.” You then tell him your exact location and repeat your name to him, reminding him of all that is tangible. You describe the room you’re in, from the arrangement of products on the shelf to the cloying scent of bleach and Windex that lingers in the air. You draw attention to the distant sounds inside the bullpen and instruct him to focus on your voice. “I promise that you’re safe,” you repeat.

“Foyet is dead.”

His grip tightens around you and his tears soak into your blouse.

“He can’t hurt you or anyone else.” You fight to keep your own voice from cracking as you bear witness to your friend’s pain.

“I need you to breathe, Aaron.” His first name feels strange on your tongue, but you need to bring him back. “In for four,” you say and breathe deeply through your nose for four counts, patting Hotch four times on the back to offer a different type of stimulation for him to try and ground himself with through physical touch. “Out for your four,” you say as you release the air in your lungs and pat him four more times on the back.

You continue to model this pattern until you feel him start to relax under you. His breathing continues to shudder, but he’s trying to self-regulate.

“Good, Hotch,” you encourage as he works to regain control. “Keep breathing. You’re safe.”

You continue to pat your hand against his back, acting as a metronome for him to keep time. You find yourself rocking him gently as you do this and eventually he shifts beneath you.

Tentatively, you begin to pull away. You don’t let go of him though, not yet. You want to make sure he has a tether to reality and physical touch can help him remain grounded.

Hotch sniffs and wipes at his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket. He keeps his eyes downcast and shakes his head. “I’m so sorry,” he says.

Your brow knits together as a wave of utter confusion washes over you. “Hotch,” you say, almost sternly. His eyes flick up to meet yours and you look at him straight on. “Don’t ever apologize for that. In fact, I’m sorry, actually.”

Now it’s his turn to look puzzled. “For what?”

“That you felt like this was something you had to do in private. That you felt like you couldn’t tell one of us.”

Hotch rubs at his eyes. “It’s not that,” he begins. “I’m not supposed to break. I’m the Chief of this Unit. I’m supposed to—”

“That’s bullshit, Hotch.” An exasperated sort of smile crosses your lips then as you realize you never use that kind of language, especially around your boss. “Apologies, Sir, but you know as well as I do that you don’t have to save face for any of us. We’ve all been to hell and back in one way or another. That case out there; the precise stab wounds, keeping the victims alive…it’s exactly what Foyet did to you.”

Hotch bristles, but you continue on.

“The body remembers, Hotch.” You drop your hands to his wrists and squeeze. “You survived the improbable. Your wounds healed and you did the mandated counseling, yes, but you’re still allowed to break down. You’re allowed to have bad days.” You incline your head to meet his gaze head on. “But you can’t shut everyone out. You don’t deserve to suffer alone.”

Hotch nods slowly and takes a full deep breath before meeting your eye. “You’re right.”

“I know I’m right,” you say and you smile when his lips twitch up at the corners. “I know because you taught me that.”

“I remember,” he says, though he doesn’t bring up the unsub that could’ve killed you. It had only been your third week on the team and the case had brought you out to Boise, Idaho. When you’d located the unsub, he’d engaged you in a physical altercation where he’d successfully disarmed you and put you in a chokehold. Oxygen had been effectively cut off from your airway and you were so close to losing consciousness that you’d be dead right now if JJ and Emily hadn’t incapacitated him when they had.

“I was going to quit the team,” you say. “After that case, I didn’t think I had what it takes to be a member of the BAU.”

Hotch’s brow twitches as he relaxes back against the wall. “You never told me that.”

You shrug, “I didn’t have to. When you found me in the break room after hours when I thought everyone else had gone home and talked me down from my own panic attack, I tore up my resignation letter.” You smile then. “The minute we stop feeling, that’s when we can no longer do this job. That empathy is what gives the families hope and keeps our victims alive. When we lose that, we lose our humanity. Never stop feeling. Feel everything, and then feel it again. Talk about it. You’re never alone. We’re a team. We’ll always have one another’s backs.”

“I said all of that?” Hotch asks, both amused and in disbelief.

“It’s what I tell myself every time I feel the strain of this job is getting to be too much, and it helps keep me grounded.”

He tilts his head and laughs to himself. “I should probably write that down.”

You laugh in turn, “You probably should.”

Hotch moves to stand up then, scooping his tie off the ground and offering you a hand as he does so. You take it and allow him to pull you to your feet.

“Thank you,” he says and offers you a genuine smile. “I just hope that these bags under my eyes don’t look puffier than they usually do now.”

You roll your eyes and open your arms to hug him. He chuckles as he embraces you and thanks you once more.

“Don’t ever change, sir.” You rub your hand up and down his back and feel that the tension has completely relaxed out of his posture. “Don't ever change.”

[seaslugfanclub]

Heyyy !!! Love your writtings and drawings !! You Rock !! And I was really curious about your thoughts on Y/N and Ratigan's relationship! Like how Ratigan grew to like them and all- I have a funny headbanging that the park Attendant managed to save him from Lucifer the cat one time XD

Ratigan and (Y/N)’s First Introduction

————————————————————————

Being in the Disney parks is overwhelming enough, but try being less than a foot tall.

Oh sure, Disney can bring all of these fictional characters to reality, but guess it was too much work for them to size up the smaller characters!

Ratigan is not having a good time. Just like his entire life, he’s had to fight tooth and nail for even a modicum of respect. Now he has to fight even harder to get a room to himself.

Disney didn’t think that far ahead about having a rodent sized villain living amongst the others. For the first few weeks of Ratigan new existence, he had to rely on his extensive talents in order to carve out a small space for himself in the villains breakout room

Oh, how humiliating it was to sleep behind a wall socket like some common vermin!!

And the food situation! It’s nearly impossible to get access to the fridge, and the cabinets have nothing that could even begin to match his expensive tastes.

Not to mention the other villains less than stellar reactions to seeing a ra- ahem- a mouse in their living area

Most of the female villains would screech at the sight of him, jumping onto chairs and demanding for the male villains to kill him.

Yes… it certainly hasn’t been all champagne and caviar…

Ratigans new life only began to improve after his less than respectable meeting with the park attendant (Y/N)

————————————————————————

“(Y/N).”

The park attendant wiped off their brow, setting down a box full of spare costumes to turn towards the intimidating woman in the doorway.

“Oh, good afternoon Lady Tremaine. How’re you doing?”

Tremaine didn’t bother with the pleasantries,

“I have not seen Lucifer since breakfast. Would you have any idea where the little creature is?”

(Y/N) shook their head, “No, ma’am. I’m sorry.”

“Well I have matters to attend to soon, and I need Lucifer with me. Find him.”

With nothing but a small grimace, Lady Tremaine left, her shoes tapping sharply against the linoleum tiles of the hallway.

“…..ok…”

(Y/N) shuffled in place for a moment, beginning to think of the cats usual whereabouts.

————————————————————————

“Luci!! C’mon baby! *pst pst pst*

(Y/N) shook a bag of Lucifer’s dry food, hoping the sound would lure the chunky cat out of hiding.

They had been searching for a good 15 minutes without any sign of the feline, and (Y/N) was beginning to feel an anxious flutter in their chest.

Turning up empty handed to Lady Tremaine was not an option.

(Y/N)’s search had lead them to a quieter wing of the villains building, this area mainly being used for storage and management meetings. The park attendant stopped for a moment, hoping to hear the sound of little paws, before going back to shaking the dry food.

“*pst pst pst pst pst* C’mon Luci, your mama’s looking for—” (Y/N) paused, faint scuffling could be heard further down the hall.

Finally!

(Y/N) followed the sound, approaching one of the storage rooms at the end of the hallway, but the closer they got to the scuffling, something else could be heard.

….Yelling?

The door was already slightly ajar when (Y/N) fully pushed their way into the room, causing two pairs of eyes to meet them.

In the back of the room, amongst filing cabinets and schedules of years past was Lady Tremaine’s cat, Lucifer, who’s claws were primed and at the ready… and the heaving body of Professor Ratigan pressed into a corner.

From the look on both of their faces, (Y/N) walked in on something intense, although Lucifer’s expression was one of disappointment while the professors was one of quiet relief.

“LUCIFER—The hell are you doing!?!!! Go, your mama’s been looking for you!” (Y/N) yelled at the cat, who seemed physically pained to leave the rodent alone. Reluctantly, Lucifer trudged pass the park attendant, who was still admonishing him.

“Like you’re not fed enough! What, Where you dropped as a kitten!?”

Once (Y/N) saw Lucifer’s tail disappear around the corner, they immediately turned their attention towards the still cornered Ratigan.

“Professor, are you alright!? I am so. sorry.”

They dropped the bag of cat food to rush towards the rodent, slamming down onto their knees as their eyes flitted over Ratigans form.

His chest was rapidly going up and down, Ratigan obviously still trying to catch his breath. His usually slicked back hair was now falling in front of his face as he stared up at (Y/N).

He seems frazzled, but thankfully free of any scratches or missing appendages.

“…alright?” Ratigan heaved after a few moments of silence, “You asked if I’m alright? OH YOU MENTALLY DEFECTIVE WRETCH, HOW ON EARTH COULD I EVER BE A L R I G H T???”

(Y/N) flinched at the sudden increase of volume, staring down at the now manic looking rodent in shock.

“Ever since I’ve been brought to this demented park, I’ve been nothing but humiliated and scorned! Forced to fend for myself like the common vermin because YOU PEOPLE didn’t have an iota of sense that taking me from the grave would cause me to live amongst GIANTS”

Ratigan began pacing, his eyes wild as he continued,

“I have had to scrounge and scrap to continue this miserable existence, reduced to living off of stale crackers and tap water, to lay my head beneath electrical wires. I’ve been forced to scavenge in these back rooms for supplies since every employee runs off at the sight of me before I can even open my mouth for the simplest of requests. Oh! And let’s not forget me being preyed upon by that devil in feline form! I’ve been hunted by that beast for the past few hours, nearly meeting my second demise! Left alone to die like a cretin, like I’m NOTHING. DO ANY OF YOU KNOW WHO I AM? DO ANY OF YOU KNOW WHO I USED TO BE? I HAVE NOTHING NOW. NOTHING.”

Finally his tiny body gave out, Ratigan collapsing to the carpet dramatically, arm covering his eyes.

“Oh…I’d have been better off a bloated corpse in the Thames.”

(Y/N) couldn’t find any words, watching helplessly as Ratigan sprawled across the floor. Their throat felt tight.

They’d only been hired several months ago, and they’ve only just begun getting along with a few Villains. (Y/N) rarely saw Professor Ratigan, and when they did they reasoned that he had the same provisions that the other smaller Disney rodents had.

When (Y/N) first arrived, they got to meet Ms. Bianca and Mr. Bernard in front of their tiny apartment styled home, which was built into one of the walls of the Disney Protagonist’s building. During the quick introduction, it seemed that the company had thought of everything the couple could’ve needed.

Guess the same quality of service didn’t apply to villains…

(Y/N) sat in silence for a few minutes, allowing Ratigans words to fully sink in, before finally speaking up.

“I didn’t— …..I’m sorry.”

Ratigan didn’t lift his arm from his eyes, “Please. Spare me your pity, human.”

“Oh please, don’t start with that— I’m sorry that you’ve been screwed over, I wasn’t aware that the company’s been this irresponsible.”

Slowly, (Y/N) reached out their hand, palm open in offering,

“I’m still pretty new here, but I think I’ve got a way to pull a few strings…”

Finally lifting his arm, Ratigan looked up at the park attendant. The scent of their sincerity almost nauseating, but what else did he have to lose?

Taking (Y/N)s palm as an invitation, he lifted himself off the carpet and onto (Y/N)s hand.

Oh, how low he’s stooped.

————————————————————————

Turns out (Y/N)’s “few strings” was the one of the villains that they had managed to befriend. With Ratigan in hand, (Y/N) went all the way to the other side of the building to the villains lounge, where they explained the professors dilemma to a very confused Hades, asking for his help.

As distrustful as Ratigan was around humans, he could appreciate this park attendants persuasiveness through subtle manipulation and use of accumulated favors.

Hades, who’s always been a fan of things creepy and crawly, (and also wanted to earn some brownie points with (Y/N) ) agreed to help their little charity case

Half an hour later Ratigan still sat in (Y/N)’s hands, looking up at the now nervous park attendant as they fidgeted in place, staring at the door of their managers office.

After a few minutes and some smoke leaking from underneath the doorway, a very pleased Hades opened the door. The god strolled up to (Y/N), patting them on the back and commenting how “he warmed him up for you” and was about to leave before acknowledging Ratigan in their palm.

“Ya’ better be grateful, tiny. You’ve found the only person in this park who gives a shit about you.”

Just as Ratigan was about to demand an explanation on what (Y/N) was planning, the park attendant strode into the office. Where the pair met eyes with a very pale manager.

The previous anxiousness on (Y/N)s face instantly melted into professionalism, introducing themselves, then placed Ratigan on the managers desk and asking him to share his current quality of life with the sweating man before him.

One slightly confused but melodramatic explanation later, (Y/N) went on to say how “disturbing” it was to see this type of mistreatment in a company who had bragged about the quality of their intellectual properties well being, and that it would be “unfortunate if word about Disneys beloved characters being mistreated got out to the general public, especially those protesting Disneys new holographic AI.”

(Y/N) went on to virtually demand that the company recorrect this oversight, and give Ratigan a fully furnished living space and amenity’s just like the other mice in the park.

The office was dead silent once (Y/N) had finished speaking.

The manager dabbed the sweat from his forehead, cleared his throat, and nodded. The pasty man tried to come up with excuses for the company before conceding, agreeing with (Y/N)s “request” and apologizing to Ratigan, who for once in his life was speechless.

(Y/N) and Ratigan left the managers office with the promise of Ratigans new home being fully constructed within two months, and full permission to take any food/ rodent sized items from the protagonists building.

Ratigan, who was still dazed with the sudden change of luck, was dropped off in the Villains lounge. (Y/N) promising to pick up some fresh food and maybe a rodents sized bed from the “good guys place” before running out of the room.

It wouldn’t be until months later that he’d fully express his gratitude…. But for now, he admitted , he is lucky that he found the one person in this park who gave a shit him.

———————————————————————

Hope this answers your request! I thought it’s be nice to learn how Ratigan and (Y/N) first met!

I’ll definitely make another post about their friendship and more fluff, but how could I resist writing some angst? 😭

[superficialdomina]

Down Under - Part 2

Word count: 2.1k

Part 2 Warnings: 18+; minors DNI. Loki thirst. Aussie slang. A big lizard. Language. Reckon that's about it.

Part 1

Series masterlist

Image credit

Part 2

The SHIELD operative who’d been sent to guide you into Hall’s Gap found you an hour after dawn, as you were packing up camp – just appeared out of the bush like Waltzing Matilda’s ghost, wearing an ancient cork hat and carrying a walking stick taller than she was.

Bruce offered her his hand. “Bruce,” he said. “Thanks for meeting us.”

“Aah, Dr Banner!” she said in a broad Australian accent, enthusiastically shaking his hand. “Great to finally put a face to ya name! Call me Ray,” she added, smiling widely as she nodded at the rest of you.

Thor – who was imposingly dressed in full battle attire, his red cape fluttering in the morning breeze – took her hand and kissed it magnanimously. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Ray.”

Ray looked horrified as she pulled her hand out of his meaty grip, and Thor’s face fell as she wiped it on her shorts. “That what yer wearing, mate? Ya might get a bit warm.” You saw Loki hide a grin behind his hand.

“Ah - what happened to Agent Herriman?�� Banner cut in before Thor could respond.

“Ol’ Jack? Crook, mate. Laid up down in Ballarat.”

Banner looked to you, and you realised he was waiting for a translation.

“Oh – he’s sick,” you supplied, distracted. You turned to Ray. “He doesn’t have this – this new infection, does he?”

“The horny bug?” She shook her corks to clear a swarm of flies that had gathered. “Nah, got the ‘rona.” She was still eyeing Thor as though he were a serious threat. “We ready to hit the frog n toad?”

“Just one more thing,” Banner said, pulling a series of small plastic cannisters from his pack and passing them around. “Antifungals. Take one every 12 hours. If you do get exposed, these should protect you.”

“Assuming it’s a fungus,” you added pointedly.

“Assuming it’s a fungus,” Banner agreed. “You too, Ray.”

Ray took the small bottle sceptically, stashing it somewhere in her myriad of cargo pockets. “Righto. Watch out for snakes.”

You left the campsite in single file, Ray in the lead. The climb wasn’t especially steep, but it was steady, with no undulation to offer respite to your burning calves. The bright summer sun quickly turned the warm morning into a swelteringly hot day, and your pack, filled with standard camping gear and an extensive list of SHIELD tech equipment, was heavy. You shifted uncomfortably at the sweat that had gathered between it and your skin, the damp spreading through your shirt.

You glanced up at Thor, ahead of you on the trail, still ridiculously dressed in battle leathers. They must be finding this heat brutal, you thought.

There was a scoffing sound behind you, and you realised the branch you’d just pushed past had flung back to nick Loki square in the face.

“Oh - sorry,” you said quickly, grimacing at the angry red mark across his eyebrow.

“I should be more careful,” Loki said acidly. He wiped his forehead, leaving a dusty, sweaty smear, but he didn’t complain further.

If Loki was handling the conditions with stoicism, Thor was more than making up for his silence. His face was bright red, and sweat poured from every conceivable inch of skin. He had begun using the corner of his cape to wipe his brow, and it was now a murky, rusty brown colour. At least he’s getting some use out of it, you thought wryly.

“Gah! These infernal flying creatures will be the death of me!” he bellowed, arms flailing at a cloud of bush flies.  “Why must they congregate in the immediate vicinity of my face?! Aargh!” he spluttered, voice raised an octave, dramatically forcing air out his nose. “One of them has just flown up my nostril!”

“Supposed to be good luck,” Ray called back seriously, “’specially if it comes back out ya mouth.” Thor made a gagging noise; Ray didn’t seem to hear him. “There’s water in about half a k; we’ll stop there for smoko.”

“What is "smoko”?” Loki asked, as you carefully passed him the next cleared branch.

“Um - morning tea?” you replied. You swallowed as his long fingers took the branch from you; you weren’t often this close to him, and his lean body was distractingly luscious. Fuck, he really does look good in hiking gear.

There was another yelp from Thor, who had mistaken the snap of a stick underfoot for the strike of a snake.

“It’s the scorpions you’ve got to watch out for,” Ray added, not pausing in her climb up the overgrown track. “At least a snake’ll let you know it’s there.”

Thor’s mouth hung open as he stared after her.

Hall’s Gap was nestled into a long, flat gully between two mountain ranges, with a lake at one end and a steep climb out of the valley at the other. When the five of you arrived in the late afternoon, you quickly set up a small base camp a short distance from the lake edge, in the long shadow of a high rocky outcrop known as Sundial Peak.

You washed briefly in the cool water, rinsing away the sweat and grime of the day’s hike. It was all so… familiar. Feelings you had pushed aside all day came rushing back. Memories of the last time you had stood in the Australian bush, your back turned to your family home after another long, drawn-out argument with your conservative, narrow-minded father. Tears streaming down your face as you decided it was time to pack up and leave for good.

That was years ago. You can’t step in the same river twice, you reminded yourself. You were not the same person who had walked away from them that day.

Somewhat cleansed – literally and metaphorically – you made your way back to camp. A squawk from a large eucalypt announced your arrival; Thor ducked dramatically, covering his head with his hands.

“Gads! What the Devil is that noise?!”

“What – you mean the cockatoo?” you asked, puzzled. “That squawking?”

“Cock or… Two?”

Before you could correct him, Ray also returned, a very large, very dead goanna heaved across her shoulders. She slung it to the ground in a single, fluid movement. Thor saw the flick of its tail out of the corner of his eye and gave a high-pitched yell.

“It’s dead, you buffoon,” Loki sneered at him, “and it has legs.”

Ray grinned. “Caught him scurrying up a red gum.”

Your eyes were wide with hunger and glee. “They’re meant to taste really good!”

She gave a comical double-raise of her eyebrows. “Once that fire’s got some decent coals under it, we’ll get ‘im cooking.”

Later, as you all licked charred remnants of the oily white meat from your fingers, you made plans for the following day. Bruce picked up his cell phone and waved it around hopefully.

“Won’t get any signal up here, mate,” Ray said, as she casually carved a goanna rib-bone into a fishing hook.

 “In that case,” Banner muttered, giving up on his phone reception, “I guess we do this the old-fashioned way.” He pulled out of his pack a large, paper map, and smoothed it on the ground.

“We’ll split up tomorrow. Thor and I will go into town and see what we can learn. If we’re lucky, I’ll find some unlucky bastard who’s dead enough to give up an infected brain sample. You two,” he glanced up at you and Loki, “will head into the national park to look for signs of Hydra. Ray will wait here for us and keep an eye on –”

“Fuck off,” Ray laughed, then realised Banner wasn’t joking. “Begging ya pardon, Doc, but if you think I’m waiting around here like an arsehole, yer dreaming.” She pointed her sharpened bone in the direction of town. “I’m coming with you.”

“Ah,” Banner hesitated. “Um, alright. I guess Ray’s coming with us.” He looked at you again. “Everyone back at camp by dark. If you don’t find anything, we can continue Thursday. If you do find something, stay in touch with the satellite radio. Apparently,” he added dryly, “there’s no cell service up here.”

Ray threw her head back and cackled with laughter.

You reached the summit of the Sundial by mid-morning. Dropping your day pack, you sucked down a large swig of water, then looked back at Loki below you on the trail. His hair was pulled into a low bun, that goddamn Akubra slung low over his eyes. It was, admittedly, sexy as fuck.

“Are you OK, Loki?” you asked as he neared you. It was reaching the hottest part of the day, and you were pretty certain that Norse Gods weren’t meant to be out in this kind of weather.

“Fine,” Loki snapped. His face was pink, and grimy with a combination of sweat and dust. At your small recoil, he softened. “I’m fine. Just... Hot.” He reached the uneven spread of rock you were standing on, and looked out across the valley, where the outcrop’s finger-like shadow fell over the smattering of houses far below.

“It’s pretty exposed up here. We should keep heading down and find some shade.”

“A moment,” Loki said, turning to look down over the other side of the crest. “How far are we from SHEILD’s first suggested location?”

You pulled out Banner’s tightly folded map. “We’re… Here.” You pointed to the little triangle marking the summit. “And Stark’s algorithm predicted these,” your finger passed over a small cross etched in red pen, “as possible Hydra sites. This is the closest one.” Loki peered at the little markings, then out across the landscape again.

“I am correct that the first of them should be in the next valley?” He pointed.

“Um…” Maybe? “Yeah, I think so.” You looked again at the worn paper. “At any rate, there’s probably water there. Give you – ah, us – a chance to cool down.”

You continued along the steep trail, descending now, watching your step in the uneven terrain. To the right of the track was a sheer drop; a misstep could send you on a severe short-cut to the creek at the bottom of the valley.

Loki must have stumbled behind you; you were briefly showered in loose scree and rock that had caught on his boot. You were about to ask him again if he was alright, when you heard it – running water. No, not running, you realised excitedly. Falling.

Another 300 metres, and the two of you stood at the foot of a roaring waterfall.

“Well,” Loki said, delightedly throwing his hat to the ground. “Shall we?”

Before you could answer, his long legs were carrying him to the water’s edge, a shimmer of seiðr peeling away his clothing as he went. Naked, he slid into the deep pool and dipped under the water.

Holy shit. It was only a second’s glance, but it was an image that you were certain would remain with you for a lifetime. The God of Mischief’s long, broad back and perfect, muscular ass, flexing as he strode away from you before it vanished under the surface. Holy shit.

You freed yourself from your own gear and waded in, gasping as you did. Unlike the Asgardian prince, you had opted to keep your underwear on, but the flimsy fabric did nothing to dull the slice of the cold. You knew the secret to quick acclimation, however, and with a hasty three, two, one, you ducked your head under the surface. When you reemerged, Loki was nowhere to be seen.

A short swim brought you to the foot of the falls. This close, the sound of it drowned out everything else; no birdsong, no insect buzz, no gentle wind through the treetops. Just the eternal roar of water crashing into the plunge pool. Even the force of it splattering your face was secondary. Behind it, the undercutting formed a dark, cavernous chamber, isolated from the world by the endless curtain of falling water, its sound muffled by its reflection off the rock face. The pool itself was deep – you couldn’t touch the stony bottom – and the rock was sheer, with wet striations reaching upwards to an uneven overhang way above. The seclusion was almost eerie.

“Fuck!” You jumped as something wrapped around your ankle in the dark water, before Loki’s mischievous grin emerged. “Jesus Christ, Loki!”

“Just ‘Loki’ will do,” he smirked. Does what it says on the tin, you thought grudgingly, eyeing him. His bun was gone; his wet hair was slicked back from his glistening face, fanning out over the pool and his bare, pale shoulders. His sculpted, naked body was only inches away from you under the water; you tried desperately to think about anything else.

“Good news, Agent,” Loki continued, still with that shit-eating grin. “I found a cave.”

Part 3

Tags in comments xx

[simspaghetti]

This has been a long time coming, I've been wanting to make something like this for ages and I finally had some time over the weekend to get it done - I dunno how useful this will be for anyone else, but hopefully at least a few other people might find this template handy!

Here's a full size picture of what the blank template looks like:

I made a couple examples of what it can look like edited over screenshots - as you can see you can just resize the boxes & text as you like to get the ideal final product:

Instructions for use:

This is a .psd file, and as such it needs to be opened in an editing tool that allows that file format - I personally use photopea which is a free online alternative to adobe photoshop - Disclaimer: I haven't tried using it any other editing software like photoshop / gimp but it'll probably work in there too, if you have any problems in those apps lmk and I'll try and fix it!

Each section of the template is separated into folders, open these up and you can edit the text / image elements for each section, you'll need to hide and unhide layers to be able to do this (the little eye icon next to a layer toggles it to be hidden / unhidden)

If you need to resize the boxes, make sure to hold down the shift-key so that you're able to do it more precisley

I have included icons for every career in the sims 3 including all of the expansion packs, however I have not included the skill images you might need as that would be a bit too extensive

For the skill images, I recommend downloading this ultimate icon collection from ModTheSims, as it'll almost definetly have everything you could possibly need to use :)

Terms of Use:

Please don’t claim as your own or reupload without my permission, I’d love to see you use them in your game if you do choose to tag me - but that's totally optional :) Alter and customize the templates literally however you want, but if you’re gonna reupload a downloadable variation of them I’d appreciate a link back to my blog

Download Here (Simfileshare, .psd file)

The font used for this template is DM Sans, it can be found in all variations here - I only used 'bold' & 'bold italic'

Credits: Heavily inspired by the gorgeous Clean UI created by JustMiha, as well as these promotion templates for TS4 by CupidJuice - and thanks to TheSpiritRealm on MTS for compiling all the icons I used - and total credit goes to EA / Maxis for the icon designs as well I did not make those lol

[enwoso]

Lovie wanting a fringe so she cuts one herself one day at training and alessia freaks out and has to get it done professionally to fix it

the chop | alessia russo x child!reader

grumpy masterlist

“mummy, mummy!” you squealed as you ran into the changing room, the girls having just came in from doing their outside training. you not being able to go and watch as it was raining and alessia didn’t want you getting sick.

so you’d been stuck inside but you had made you own fun, making things with paper, cutting paper, sticking paper, drawing and giving yourself a hair cut!

a small yelp came from your mummy as she laid eyes on you, you had given yourself a fringe — well sort of. your hair at the front being a wiggly sharp chopped line across the front of your face. it wasn’t even and it definitely didn’t look nice, even though you thought it looked pretty good.

“lovie? what have you done to your hair” alessia winced as she touched the bits of your hair, thinking maybe you were just pulling a prank on her and it was a wig or clip in extensions. it definitely wasn’t, it was most definitely your hair.

you stood with a big grin, proud of your work you’d done on your hair. “cut it!”

alessia just stared blankly at it, she didn’t have the words to say anything. she was speechless. “woah what happened to you-“ katie laughed as she seen your botched hair at the front.

“she’s given herself a fringe!” alessia smiled sarcastically as she was panicking what on earth was she supposed to do.

“ah nice, looks great!” katie grinned, you still with a big smug smile as you were really proud as the rest of the girls began to file in all with similar looks to their faces as the one your mummy had on her face when she first seen you. a look of shock horror.

“why have you done that lovie?” your mummy asked as you stood in front of your mummy sensing the fact she maybe wasn’t as happy with your hair dressing skills as you were.

“cause poppy has a fringe, i wanted one too!” you admitted, poppy was your best friend from school. the two of you were attached at the hip, always being the last in the line when it was it was pick up time because your too busy chatting with your best friend.

a small scoff came from alessia as she shook her head in pure disbelief, “well why didn’t you ask, mummy would have took you to the hairdressers!” you just shrugged, that idea hadn’t popped into your head, plus where was the fun in letting someone else do it.

you had plenty of experience, you had cut paper before, card, glitter paper and plenty of your barbie dolls hair. so how hard would it be cutting your own hair.

“what am i supposed to do with this now, do you think it’ll grow back?” alessia rattle out, panic laced her voice as she looked towards her friends for some advice. not knowing what her next move should be, maybe hiding every single pair of scissors that you could potentially get your tiny hands on.

“less it’s hair! not her limbs of course it’s going to grow back!” lotte deadpanned as alessia gave a look of realisation mumbling that what lotte said was a very valid point.

“well at least it’s not as bad as leah’s bangs!” beth joked as a gasp was heard from leah across the changing room.

“ay! mine are very nice thanks meado”

“okay, lord farquaad!”

“why don’t you maybe just take her to the hairdressers?” emily suggested with a shrug of the shoulders as she had watched the whole conversation pan out, wondering how alessia hadn’t already of thought of that or how nobody else had mentioned it yet.

“yes! foxy your a genius!” alessia jumped up as emily sat in disbelief. how had the blonde not thought to take you there.

and take you to the hairdressers is what alessia did, phoning a local hairdresser hoping they’d be able to squeeze you in to fix your botched fringe and luckily they could.

“so am i just fixing up this?” the young women asked as she pointed to your fringe as you sat in the chair with a cloak around you.

“yes, just do what you can” your mummy said sweetly as the young women cutting your hair nodded. spraying water on the fringe as small giggles came from you as the water drops fell onto your face.

your mummy watching intently as the women fixed up your fringe the women actually doing quite a good job at fixing it so it didn’t look as bad.

when the women was finished she looked towards your mummy for her validation, “yes! that looks better already” your mummy smiled as a sigh of relief came from the blonde.

“how long will it take to grow out?” alessia asked out of curiosity as the hairdresser took a look at your hair before finding an answer.

“typically around three to four months, just depends on how fast her hair grows really” the women told alessia as she hummed her top lip inbetween her teeth as she slowly nodded along with the words.

“fabulous.” your mummy whispered through gritted teeth.

alessia paid for you short haircut before receiving some advice on what to do if you alessia wanted your fringe out of your face, by putting it in clips and head bands in your hair.

your mummy lifting you back into your car seat as you sat happily with your new look, you liked your fringe. you didn’t understand why your mummy’s grump about it. you looked cool.

“and lovie, no using scissors when there’s not someone in the room with you- in fact just don’t use scissors” your mummy told you as she buckled you in as a small whine came from you.

“but- but what if i need to cut paper or-“

“tear it, rip it do anything but use the scissors!”

[dimlylittorch]

sighhhh the silco brain rot is real. i need him like i need air. he’s on my christmas list.

My Masterlist🌱

Silco x transmasc!chubby!sweetheart!assistant!reader

extension of this drabble

this is very ‘by me, for me’😀 so reader may not cater to everyone, forgive my self indulgence. IT ENDED WITH ANGST I’M SORRY. THIS IS PART 1, THERE WILL BE MORE I PROMISE

You had been working for Silco for a few weeks now, and to be quite honest you liked your job. He treated you well, the pay was good, and considering you lived in Piltover it was nice to see a whole other world that you never knew much about.

Silco had taken a special liking to you- it was clear to anyone no matter how hard he tried to hide it. Let’s just say he liked to keep you on a short leash. He felt more comfortable when he had you at his side, more at ease. Of course, you were such a sweet little thing you never even noticed. He’s very nice to you- maybe he’s just a great boss, right?

He initially had planned on having you as more of a trophy, not really expecting you to do any real work. But much to his surprise you took your job seriously. On your first day you’d walked in with your own satchel bag, notepads and pens at the ready for whenever he needed you. Having people at his disposal was a common thing for him, of course. But having someone be so eager to work for him? It made his chest stir in ways he hadn’t felt in years.

When you were in the room, his eyes were always following. He couldn’t help it. You were like a swan surrounded by geese- you stood out beautifully compared to everyone else in the Undercity. Whether it be your topsider clothing or your kind features, it didn’t matter. You kept his gaze all the same.

One thing he adored about you was your clothing to be honest. Everything you wore was soft and clean, nothing like the others. You weren’t here to fight, so no need to dress like it, right? You were oblivious to how often he had to kick someone’s head in before walking back into his office to give you a faint smile and nod before discussing business. The first time you wore a turtle neck he swore his heart stopped. A brown turtle neck with earthy green pants and brown boots. When you saw the look on his face as you pulled your jacket off, you paused.

“I’m sorry- I meant to ask you if Earth tones were okay” you say softly, gaze laced with worry that you’d done something wrong. “I can go home and change if it’s not the office attire you had in mind-“ you start to say, but he quickly cuts you off.

“It’s fine.” He says simply, but his heart was hammering in his chest. “We don’t have a dress code.. just as long as you look nice.” I murmurs before he takes a puff of his cigar, trying to seem nonchalant- but in reality, he didn’t ask anyone else to look nice. Only you.

His words made a smile form on your lips, as sweet as always. “Of course- I think I can manage that.” You say sweetly.

He had gotten you your own desk in his office of all places. He always wanted you within arms reach if possible. Anything you requested he got for you. Although he had to make it seem like he was begrudging about it, in reality he had it ordered within a day.

You had been sitting at your desk, sorting a few papers into different folders before glancing over at him. “Do you think.. maybe I could have a filing cabinet?” You said softly, your voice quiet but he heard it clearly throughout the silent office.

“Whatever for?” He muttered with faux annoyance.

“Well- it would make keeping track of the files a lot more convenient. I can make them more easily accessible for you that way.” You say tentatively. “That is- if you plan on keeping me for long enough to set it all up.”

He’d tensed at your last words- the thought of you leaving making his blood pressure spike. “I’ll see what I can do.” Let’s just say you had a filing cabinet next to your desk the next day.

He’s always hesitant to have you do any work that involves you talking with other people. You’re not used to how rough they are, and he’d hate for his favorite little assistant to get dirtied by some street rat. He does find that you do well with his other workers. It’s often the same case as him- they have to maintain their image, so they act like they don’t like you. But in reality they do appreciate a non threatening presence every once in a while.

He had snapped at one of his men that were rude to you, even though you had simply smiled and taken it before making yourself scarce. He came up to you later and told you he’d ’handled it.’

“Assistant” he murmurs as he walks into his office, slamming the door behind him. You were sitting at your desk with your sleeve rolled over your hand, resting at the corner of your eye as you keep your gaze on your paperwork. You might’ve shed a tear or two.. who can blame you? These people were much scarier than you were used to. Silco certainly didn’t. He walks over to your desk, standing next to the filing cabinet and leaning against it while taking a puff of his cigar. “The moment someone has a problem with you, they have a problem with me.” He says quietly, his tone laced with a little layer of venom. “Be a good boy and let me know the next time someone misbehaves, hm?”

One night you end up staying in the office later than you had expected to, grabbing your bag and heading out the door. When you realize how late it is you hesitate, seeing how the streets were full of all kinds of.. people. Lucky for you Silco was just coming back from some business, raising and eyebrow when he sees you outside by yourself at that time of night.

“Assistant?” He questions quietly as he slips out of the alley way and into the light. You flinch slightly, but quickly relax and smile when you see that it’s him.

“How was your meeting?” You say sweetly as you stand in the doorway to his office, completely unaware that his ‘meeting’ was just settling a score or two.

“Business as usual” he murmurs as he moves to stand at the bottom of the small step. “And what, might I ask, are you still doing here?”

When he’s only a few inches in front of you, you feel your face flush slightly. You smiled wider, hoping he wouldn’t notice it. “I didn’t realize how late it had gotten.. I suppose I’ve gotten used to you kicking me out at quitting time” you chuckle.

“Hm” he hums as he glances around, noticing the stragglers wandering down the dark streets. “I’ll walk you home.” He speaks, leaving no room for argument. You couldn’t refuse, could you? So you simply followed him down the winding streets.

“I’m sorry to make you walk me all the way up there..” you murmur faintly as you both stroll along at a leisurely pace. It was easy to walk without fear when he was next to you.. no one would dare come up to you- or him, for that matter. “But I really do appreciate you.”

He doesn’t miss the way his heart skips a beat when he hears your words. ‘You.’ You could’ve easily said ‘I really do appreciate it.’ But you said ‘You.’ It drove him up the wall knowing how the smallest things you did and said made him feel like a teenager again. “What kind of man would I be if I didn’t walk you home..” he murmurs while taking a puff of his cigar.

And of course, his words make your heart skip a beat too. He could’ve easily said ‘boss’ instead of ‘man’. But he didn’t. He saw himself as more than your boss. You liked that. More than you thought you would. You felt stupid for letting yourself get worked up something so simple.

Once he’d walked you to the elevator that led up to Piltover, you both stopped at the door. Keeping your eyes downcast shyly, he couldn’t help but let his eyes trail over you, hands slipping into his pockets as he tosses his cigar and steps on it, oozing as much confidence as usual. It was hard to hide the way your cheeks were burning slightly. When was the last time a man was nice enough to walk you home?

He knew you’d be safe from here.. no sense in going up with you. He starts to turn away to slip back into the dark streets, but before he can you grab his arm, keeping him from leaving. He tenses, slowly looking over his shoulder to meet your eyes, his eyebrow raising questioningly.

When you realize what you’d done you quickly let go of him, but not before straightening out the sleeve of his shirt. “I’m sorry.” You say quickly. “I just-“ you add, trying to think of something reasonable to say. When you can’t think of anything.. you decide to settle for the truth. “You’re a really.. good man.” You say gently as your eyes meet his own.

The second you had grabbed his arm, every nerve in his body was on fire. You’d barely touched before, and it was something he didn’t know he needed so desperately. When he hears your words, he can’t help but stay quiet for a moment. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had said he was good, let alone complimented him. And your honesty? He adored. He didn’t know anyone that dared be honest with how they felt. “I don’t think you know me very well if you think that.” He says quietly, trying to make his voice uncaring. His eyes glance down at his sleeve where you’d just touched him.. he swore he could still feel your hands on him.

“You’re kind to me.” You say softly. “And you listen. You’ve never yelled at me- not to mention you walked me all the way over here..” you murmur.

He could hardly believe his ears. Yes, he had been especially nice to you. But for someone like you? That should all be the bare minimum. “Do you always get emotionally attached to your employers?” He snaps, taking a few steps away from you.

Your heart freezes at his tone, quickly taking a step back yourself. “I.. I thought-“

“Perhaps you should try to be an adult.” He says firmly as he adjusts his shirt where your hands had been. “Whatever you’re thinking- get it out of your head. I don’t pay you to think, do I?” He mutters coldly as he starts walking down the alleyway.

Leaving you standing there was one of the hardest things he’s done. He couldn’t show weakness. He couldn’t let you worm your way into his heart. But you already had. And he’d just ruined it all.