#file type search

[connectedaero]

Top 5 Google Search Tricks For Developers:

1) filetype: (ex: git cheat sheet filetype:pdf)

2) Keywords, not sentences (react network request).

3) Exact phrase: ("css grid javascript").

4) Site-specific: (site:http://sitename.com keyword)

5) Time filter (Click on "Tools")

Read More on Reddit \/

[charlie-rulerofhell]

just wanted to find one specific piece of information ... and then somehow ended up extracting all nearly 300,000 voicelines of the game, and spent the last two hours listening through all of Samuel's 800. love how he spends the majority of that time either swearing at random people / events, or complaining about the stench or the weather. or dropping some Jewish wisdom.

i also know now that his favourite dish are his mame's hamantaschen, that he once had a lucky knife but lost it, is no early bird (well, given he gets sleep at all), has the funniest battle insults ('God made a joke when he made you!' nearly broke me), got dragged into a mine once by some older boys and wandered around lost in there for a whole day (give me your knife, Sam, where are those fuckers now?), has about a dozen different terms of endearment for Henry and the pettiest exchanges with Hans ('Did he tell you that or did you figure it out yourself?' -- 'Stop the mockery, and answer when a no­bleman asks you something!' -- 'But of course! Forgive me my insolence, my lord!')

gotta say, it was worth it.

[silverbastardgoldenfool]

- ass

- assass

- fool's ass

[sneezingfetishftw-fics]

Insufferable (2/7)

Chapter 2 is up! The next part was taking a while to write, so please enjoy this quick lil interlude with Velvette (and a bit of plot at the end), I promise we’ll get back to poor sick Vox next chapter lol.

Previous chapter: 1

Next chapters: 3 4 5 6 7

Wavs: 1 3

————————————————

Velvette walked out the door, ready for action. Vox was always going on about how she could stand to learn some more professionalism, this was her chance! As she traversed the hallways, she realized there were a few other bits of bookkeeping to handle. She sent a text out to Val’s main assistant. “Filming for today is cancelled. Val currently unavailable, consider me as your point of contact for today (and probably also tomorrow.)” She pulled up Vox’s notes, grateful the man was so meticulous. Ok, plenty of talking points here, but what were all these markings? Oh. Those were the spots where Vox was planning to use his hypnotic eye, for the facts that were a harder sell (or maybe just straight up lies?) Velvette didn’t exactly have that option, she would have to rely on the skills she learned in social media to help her spin the story.

Velvette walked into the studio and all conversation stopped, everyone’s eyes on her. She reminded herself they weren’t just admiring her outfit. She had a job to do. “Vox is unavailable. I’ll be doing the interview in his place.” Several eyebrow raises, but then a sigh of relief as they realized they wouldn’t have to deal with Vox’s insufferable attitude. “Oh, and you can turn the temperature back to the default. It’s freezing in here!” Another collective sigh of relief. “How’s the equipment, everything working now?” The employee over by the AC nodded. “Good. I suppose you’re not so terrible at your job after all. Oh, and let’s turn the lights back up, it looks a bit gloomy in here.”

Another employee came up to Velvet. “We’re ready for the sound check, Ma’am.”

“Ma’am? I’m not a fossil! Try that again.”

Awkward throat clearing. “We’re ready for the sound check, Miss Velvette.”

Velvette suppressed the urge to roll her eyes. It was a little bit better of a title, she supposed. She sat down at the desk, watching with amusement as the employee lowered the mic. She took a sip from the water bottle at the desk. “Testing, testing, I’m Vox and I’m a stubborn, whiny little bastard who had to be forced to take a fucking break for once!” That’s what she wanted to say, but that wouldn’t exactly be a good way to show she could handle the responsibility. She settled for the more boring standard, and the setup was a breeze.

“I suppose we should start by addressing the elephant in the room,” the interviewer began.

“Yeah, you could stand to lose a few pounds,” Velvette thought, but she held her tongue.

“This interview was supposed to be with Vox, CEO of VoxTech.”

Velvette had thought for a while about how to answer this question. Would his illness come across as weakness, a sign that this was a good time for enemies to attack? Or would a cover-up be even more suspicious? She responded with the answer she’d prepared, with just the right level of adjacency to the truth. “Val is sick. Nothing major, but as someone who cares so much about his business partners, Vox thought it best to take it upon himself to make sure Val is well taken care of. He’ll be working from home the next few days but felt that the interview was best conducted in person, thus he sent me.” The CEO being sick was too much weakness to expose, but without a compelling reason Vox would look inconsiderate for skipping the interview. Taking care of Val had a level of believability and, Velvette was hoping, would humanize Vox a bit and enhance his likability. The interviewer seemed unimpressed. Fine, extra details then. “Vox knows that for such a big product like this there will be many questions. I’m here to handle the initial facts, and then after you’ve had a week to collect your thoughts, Vox will conduct another interview to answer those more in-depth, burning questions. We could, of course, get a different interviewer if you don’t appreciate his methods.” She flashed a toothy grin.

“No, no, that won’t be necessary,” the interviewer responded quickly. “I look forward to interviewing Vox next week.” He shuffled his papers awkwardly. “Right, then. Let’s get started.”

The interview itself passed without too much trouble. There were definitely a few moments where she had to pull something out of her arse, but the interviewer seemed to have bought it. Eventually, it was finally over. Ugh, these people were so boring.

When Velvette returned to their residence, the place was eerily quiet. No sound but the constant whirring of Vox’s fans, which could be heard even from the entryway. Velvette popped into the bedroom to see what was up. She found a mostly naked Vox (ew!), asleep and a (thankfully still clothed, also asleep) Val. A second glance at Vox revealed that he seemed to have some kind of screensaver, a little DVD icon bouncing from wall to wall of the screen. Was that normal? She couldn’t remember, she wasn’t exactly in the habit of watching him sleep. Never mind, better to let them both get some rest.

Velvette decided to continue her self-assigned responsibility of Vox’s affairs. She had just claimed the man was working from home, after all. Thankfully, his computer seemed to still be functioning. First step was checking his calendar. There was some big meeting scheduled for tomorrow. She seriously doubted Vox would be healthy enough by then. She did a quick scan of his sent messages to get a feel for the right tone, and then she sent out an update to all the participants. “Meeting rescheduled - it has come to my attention that some of you still aren’t prepared. I’m giving you until next week to figure it out. Don’t disappoint me.”

As she closed the email window and considered her next move, something caught her attention - a folder on the desktop labeled “Fuck Alastor”. Their rivalry wasn’t exactly a secret, but still she wondered just what was in there. She clicked it open and took a look. Inside were millions of photos, all of the same subject: Alastor. Captured by security cameras, perhaps? There’s no way the radio demon would willingly let Vox take so many photos of him. She stopped looking at the photos and went back to looking at the list of files in general. The most recent one was from this morning. And its file size was significantly smaller than the other files. Velvette took a look at the file details. Hidden extension? But it already had an extension - .vxc, for a raw photo from a VoxTech camera (presumably kept in original form for the sharpest image quality?). She unchecked the checkbox to reveal the actual extension: .exe. Oh. Velvette may not know computers as thoroughly as Vox, but she knew enough to know that was a bad sign. She sighed. This might be about to get a whole lot worse.

[orcelito]

Got jumpscared by my own full legal name showing up in my email notifications bc I forgot I emailed my code to myself today just in case my VM ends up stopping working again (I got nervous & didn't wanna lose my progress lol)

Goldfish level memory retention

& the funny thing is that the email itself is just. This

Full Legal Name code • hi

[savvylittlecoxswain]

me when the google docs mobile app crashes every time I want to search for a particular word:

[haresvoid]

Modern au Ome they are an illithilich that has just lived for thousands of years, hides out as a human professor at a college, is a lot more confident / direct with communication because it realizes what can be said and understood without overly complicating things and also is secure in its morals and actions. Has a ghoul guised as a human teachers assistant.

Also does criminal work on the side stealing info, data, and materials from big companies and the government to make under the table cures and cheap / free medicine for those that can't afford it or can not easily get it

[ithidunes]

Every time I finish a sketchbook I get consumed with 2-3 days of desire to go through and get pictures & digitally organize all the alpha-draft type thumbnails or comic planning into someplace I could organize my thoughts chronologically better but. Since i haven't done it for any of them yet and i just wrapped up sketchbook #27 it feels, ah. A little daunting lol

[infoanalysishub]

Complete List of File Types Indexable by Google

Discover all File Types Indexable by Google, including PDFs, DOCX, images, videos, and code files. Learn how to optimize non-HTML formats for search visibility and use the filetype: operator effectively. File Types Indexable by Google: A Comprehensive Guide for Webmasters and SEOs When it comes to search engine optimization (SEO), content is king—but so is the format that content comes in.…

[xaviergalatis]

disrespecting on the gang we gone send blitz I got ail types of weapons all type of sticks I got q' I got p's I can serve you bricks favorite rapper body flipped Ivpin the block Imma shooter i got Nina clips Imma shoot from the 3 I cannot miss I could fuck around withme all day get your sippin on wock little bitch imma syrup activist she thought she was touching my dick spinning on yo block I'm the youngest nigga standing on business I cannot go broke I am way to rich I get to the bag route try and run up on me you get ran down hit a nigga with the G Lock he a man down hit his ass with a hundred rounds where the fuck he stay at this ARP gonna hawk him down nigga try to run up on me I left that nigga face down doublanned his bitch ass run up a little check quick like 4 flat I could show you where the door at spin the block he got head tap you talking on the web but you really cap every time I get on the mic you know I really snap

[webslinger-holland]

Busy Woman | Bob Reynolds from Thunderbolts

Summary: She's always busy and he thinks she doesn't notice him, but she does.

Warning: NSFW smut 18+ minors DNI, mutual pining, slow burn, teasing and flirting, sexual tension and eventual smut, mentions of nudity, some language, fem!receiving, praise, unprotected sex, p in v, just saying...I've warned you, listened to too much Sabrina Carpenter and got inspired

Pairing: Bob Reynolds x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 3.9 k

Type: Oneshot

One thing was certain: Bob Reynolds was not a morning person. He hated seeing the early sunlight leaking through the curtains and dreaded getting out of bed every morning. But he recently learned something...

She was a morning person.

And that's what got him out of bed in the morning.

Sometimes, Bob woke up before everyone else in the tower. He'd grab his keys and go out to a local coffee shop just to get her something. By the time Bob got back, he would find her hunched over the kitchen island, reading a debrief file, and enjoying a donut.

He was nervous to approach her; something about her made him not really know how to act around her. He timidly set down the special drink he ordered for her, sliding it closer to her and retracting his hand quickly as if he feared she'd bite him like a wild animal.

Very slowly, Y/n tore her gaze away from the file in front of her and to the plastic to-go cup of coffee in front of her. Her eyes drifted upwards until they found the socially awkward boy standing in front of her.

“Did you get up early just to bring me this?” She knew. Of course she knew. She always knows.

“I was already up,” Bob mumbled, which was a lie. A huge lie. He’d set three alarms.

Accepting the drink, Y/n kept her gaze locked on him and was curious if he'd break under the pressure. “That right?”

He nodded too quickly and avoided her eyes as if they were burning. “Yeah. I— uh— I like walking in the morning.”

She hummed and glanced back down at the file. She brought the drink to her lips. “You didn’t poison this, did you?” she asked casually, as if it were a normal thing to say before sunrise.

Bob shook his head innocently.

"Good," Y/n smiled at him appreciatively. The look alone caused him to blush and his heart threatened to break out of his chest.

“I—It’s a caramel macchiato!” Bob blurted, louder than he meant to. He was just desperate to keep her attention on him. She looked back up at him with the tiniest smile on her face. He faltered under her watch. "W—With an extra shot...of...espresso."

"Is it just a coincidence that you know my coffee order?" Y/n wondered curiously.

He cleared his throat and tried to sound normal. “You… mentioned it once.”

That got a smile out of her—a small one, but a real one. One that made his heart leap so high.

She eventually redirected her attention back down to the file like nothing serious happened. Bob could feel the heat rising in his face. He wanted to say something else, anything, but his mind was just white noise. His hand came up to rub the back of his neck—a nervous habit, one he was sure she’d noticed by now. Then Bucky entered the room.

“There he is,” Bucky announced with an all knowing smirk, swiftly moving through the kitchen. “You're up early today. Out fetching coffee again?”

Bob groaned softly and backed away from the counter.

“You fetch hers too?” Bucky glanced between them, then grinned. “Of course you did.”

She didn’t say anything—just kept reading, totally unfazed. And Bob stared at Bucky unamused.

"You didn't bring us back anything?" Bucky looked offended and searched around as if expecting his coffee order to just magically appear.

This was something that Bob was teased about constantly by the team because all of them knew about the crush he harbored on her. He ultimately didn't want to have to explain his reasons to Bucky of all people, so he opted to leave the room.

But as Bob turned to leave, she glanced up again. Not with a smile this time, but with a thoughtful sort of look.

Like she was waiting.

The rest of the team was scattered around the base—except Bob, who was just walking and hoping he'd find something to get his attention. He didn't have a real destination, but he might have secretly hoped he'd run into her in the process.

Spotting her open bedroom door just ahead, Bob straightened his back in posture. He walked past her room, glanced inside, and continued on. Then he froze like he’d hit a wall when he realized what he just witnessed.

The lights were soft, the window cracked open. A breeze fluttered the curtains slightly. And there she was—laying on her bed, reading a book. Bare legs behind her and feet hanging over her back given that she was on her stomach. She looked completely at ease.

Just like bees to honey, Bob did a double take and backed up—slowly, quietly—just to get another glimpse of her laying there. He wasn’t even being subtle about it.

Hovering in the doorway, Bob awkwardly placed his hand on the doorframe. She was reading with her head propped on her hand, glasses sliding slightly down her nose. She looked so relaxed; she hadn’t noticed him at all.

Which, for some reason, made him ache a little.

“Hey,” he offered, voice hoarse and soft.

She glanced up, then smiled a little when she saw him. “Hey, Bob.”

He stared for one second too long. And then another. The silence stretched between them like taut wire.

“Did you need something?” she asked, brushing her hair back behind her ear.

"Yes—I mean no. I was just—passing by." His voice cracked. He cleared it and stood straighter. “I was, uh… going somewhere.”

"Where?" Y/n pressed.

Bob blinked, fiddling nervously. “Somewhere... not here.”

She smiled—lazy, amused. "Well. I wouldn't want to stop you from your very important mission."

His mouth opened and then closed. The gears in his head were grinding so hard, he could practically hear the smoke. She was doing that thing again—talking to him like she knew. Like he was a deer and she was just waiting to see if he’d bolt.

"R—Right," Bob's words caught up with his thoughts. He blinked twice and awkwardly shuffled away from the door. "Guess I'll get out of your hair then."

Her gaze found the page she left off on, still unfazed. "Have fun."

As Bob disappeared down the hallway, muttering something unintelligible under his breath, Y/n let a small smirk tug at the corner of her mouth. She didn’t look up from her book, but she didn’t keep reading either.

About once a week, Alexei prided himself in making a big hearty breakfast just for the boys with claims of them needing to spend time together as men. He served every kind of protein imaginable: bacon, sausage, eggs, ham, even steak once. He’d sometimes take requests—except waffles.

Bob had asked for them once.

Alexei had looked him dead in the eye and said, “Waffles are for children and men who fear chewing. I make you meat instead.”

And Bob obediently ate the ham served that day.

The three of them seated at the kitchen island. Bob sat with a fork in hand, picking at a pile of food he didn’t remember asking for and mindlessly thinking about her. Meanwhile, Walker was already halfway through his plate, Bucky was drinking a black coffee, and Alexei was flipping something massive in a cast iron pan over the stove like it owed him rent.

“Eat,” Alexei barked when Bob just poked at a sausage link. He promptly slapped two more onto his plate without asking. “You need more protein; women like men with muscle."

"She knows, guys,” Bob groaned, changing the subject. “She definitely knows.”

"Knows what?" Alexei glanced between John and Bucky like they'd left him out of a group chat. "I do not know. Who knows what?"

"Of course she knows," Bucky proceeded to lower his coffee. "You're not exactly subtle about it—bringing her coffee, walking past her room, turning into a tomato every time she so much as breathes in your direction."

"Ah, you mean her," Alexei connected the dots because even he saw how he looked at her.

"He’s hopelessly in love with her, but won't say anything." Bucky announced.

“She’s too busy for me anyway,” Bob mumbled, shoulders hunched. “She’s got stuff going on. Important stuff.”

John snorted. “That’s your excuse now?”

“She’s literally everywhere,” Bob said, throwing up a hand. “Working out, reading briefings, sparring—like, I’m supposed to just waltz up and flirt while she’s in the middle of combat training?”

“You already do everything but flirt,” Bucky pointed out and John agreed. “You bring her coffee, open doors for her, wait for her to finish meetings just so you can walk the same direction."

Alexei grinned. “He is soft for her.”

"I’m not soft—" Bob sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “She doesn’t even notice me.”

“Oh, she notices,” John said with a smirk. “She’s just pretending not to, which is way worse.”

“I can’t just say something,” Bob muttered. “What if it ruins everything? What if she laughs at me?”

“She won't laugh," John said confidently.

"And we’re not judging," Bucky added. "We’ve all been there. Someone cold, deadly, completely out of your league—”

“Whose out of whose league?”

All heads snapped toward the hallway.

There she stood. In absolutely nothing, but a towel.

Her hair damp, held up loosely in a messy bun. Her skin flushed pink from the hot shower. Her body glistened in the light, littered with small specks of water still. The towel hugged her body like it had been custom-measured to torment Bob specifically—just enough to cover, far too little to handle.

No makeup. Barefoot. And utterly unbothered. Just looking the picture of innocence.

When Bob saw her, he could have sworn his soul left his body.

The room went dead silent.

She couldn't really read the room, just noticed four stunned, absolutely useless men just staring at her like she’d walked in wearing fire.

She raised a brow. “Did I… interrupt something?”

“Nope,” John said, way too fast. “Just guy talk. Carry on. Totally normal.”

“You’re… uh… wet,” Bob blurted, mortified instantly.

She looked down at herself, then back up, amused. “Yes, Bob. That’s generally what happens when you shower.”

He made a small, broken noise that might have been a whimper.

"Just carry on. I'm not even here," Y/n waved off. She moved across the room and made her way over to the refrigerator, oblivious to the sets of eyes that tracked her movements.

The towel swayed. Bob’s jaw tightened. His face went red, then pink, then red again. His hand subtly shifted under the table as he sat up straighter, panicking slightly.

Spotting her peach yogurt, Y/n bend forward just enough to reach the back. The towel hitching up just high enough to give any of them far too much hope.

Each of them react different.

While Bucky sported a wolfish grin, he didn’t even try to look away. His eyes lingered—appreciative, amused, and entirely unbothered by what was clearly a nuclear-level distraction. He leaned back in his chair like he was settling in for the best part of the morning.

His lips curved. He was definitely tempted to whistle.

“Damn,” he muttered with a low chuckle. “Morning just got a whole lot better.”

Walker was mid-bite when he saw her. One second he was chewing toast, the next—he choked so hard he had to thump his chest to recover. He reached for his mug like it was a tactical maneuver, taking a long, steadying sip of black coffee. His eyes shamelessly watched her every move.

Walker murmured under his breath, “Sweet mother of—"

Next, Alexei is the only one unbothered by her actions. Instead, he finds pleasure in watching the other's reactions, smiling wildly like he was enjoying his favorite show on tv.

“Is very fun to watch strong men crumble,” Alexei commented cheerfully, sipping from his own mug and enjoying every second of this.

Especially Bob's reaction. That’s when things got really good. Because Bob was gone.

Frozen. Stuck. Statuesque.

He didn’t move. He couldn’t move.

“Ohmygod—” Bob choked, barely above a whisper. He slammed his eyes shut like he could unsee what had just happened. He tried to focus on his breathing.

He cursed under his breath like he was fighting to keep it all together.

He keeps telling himself in his head: “Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t—too late.”

Withdrawing from the fridge, Y/n successfully closed the door and spun around on the heels of her feet. She held up the yogurt cup and was handed a spoon by Alexei. Peeling back the foil and dipping the spoon into the yogurt, Y/n brought the spoon up to her mouth and savored the first bite.

Her gaze flicked across them casually, but then landed—lingered—on Bob.

Her brows knit slightly. “Something wrong?”

The others were no help at all. Because John was hiding a smirk behind his cup and Bucky watched the interaction with the widest, all-knowing smirk on his face. And all the while, Bob was struggling to breathe.

Bob finally managed something that resembled speech.

“N-No,” he croaked. “Nope. All good.”

She blinked. “You sure?”

Bob nodded. Too quickly. “Yeah. Great. Perfect. Totally normal morning. Nothing weird at all.”

“Okay.” She turned and walked off, towel swaying with every step like she was floating. Everyone's gazes trailed after her as if wanting to commit the image to memory. "If you need anything from me, just ask!"

They heard the door of her room shut softly. They huddled together to speak in harsh whispers.

"Why didn't you say anything to her?" Bucky spoke first.

“She was wearing a towel,” Bob whisper-yelled. “What was I supposed to do—confess my love while she’s practically naked?!?!”

John, still gripping his coffee like a lifeline, muttered, “I would’ve.”

Alexei shrugged. “You were supposed to suffer in silence. Like the rest of us.”

"Didn't you hear what she said?" Bucky brought their attention back and Bob looked confused like he'd missed something important. “She said if you need anything, just ask—that was an invitation,”

"What?" Bob asked, clearly not interpreting it the same way.

“She basically dared you to say something.” Bucky pointed out.

Bob groaned in frustration, dragging both hands over his face. Feeling like it was another missed opportunity. “But if I say something now, it’ll be weird."

“I don’t think she’s the one uncomfortable,” John said, not even pretending to hide his grin.

"That's what I'm saying! She knows, definitely knows. And it amuses her. She's messing with me," Bob threw his hands up in slight defeat.

"Ah, but you like it.” Bucky said flatly.

“…I do.” Bob confessed timidly.

"Just don't get too excited there, sunshine." John remarked. John’s gaze dropped—and Bob followed it, his stomach dropping.

And Bob immediately slapped his hands on the table, desperate to block any view of his pants. He felt his face turning pure crimson in color; the others only chuckling in amusement.

The base was mostly quiet in the evening. The lights were dimmed and the place had a soft hum from something far off like white noise in the background. Everyone just about in for the night.

All except Bob who found himself wandering the dark hallways aimlessly. He slowed down as he neared her open door, being curious about why it was still open this late. Peering inside, Bob found her sitting on her bed with legs curled beneath her. She absentmindedly stared out the window, admiring the city lights. The faint glow lit up her face, soft and calm.

Bob hovered in the doorway for a moment too long, rehearsing a dozen things in his head before any of them made it to his mouth.

She noticed him, but didn’t turn. “You’re not great at sneaking up, you know that, right?”

He stepped inside sheepishly. “I wasn’t trying to sneak. Just… trying to find the right moment.”

“That so?” She finally looked at him, her expression unreadable but clearly open. “Is this it?”

Bob hesitated. “I—uh—guess it has to be.”

He stood awkwardly in front of her bed, wringing his hands together as if the action would put him to ease. She watched him in anticipation, waiting for him to just come out and say it. She didn't even know that she held her breath.

“You’re probably too busy for this. For me," Bob said. He nervously rubbed the back of his neck.

“Too busy for what, exactly?” That seemed to get her attention.

“I don’t know. For… whatever this is. I mean, I’ve been trying not to make it weird, but it probably already is weird. You’re always working and focused and—God, I sound like a lunatic—” Bob wanted to cower into himself.

“Bob.” She stood up right in front of him.

He stopped. His eyes met hers. He searched for something, really anything that could have been mistaken as a hint. Rejection or acceptance.

"I already told you: If you want something,” she said gently, “all you have to do is ask.”

The silence stretched between them. He opened his mouth and closed it, desperately trying to gather his courage. She waited for him patiently, not pushing him past discomfort. And then:

“I want you.”

Her lips curved into a quiet smile of satisfaction. As if she’d been waiting exactly for this.

"There it is," Y/n accepted.

Bob didn’t answer—at least, not with words.

Any space between them was quickly closed. His hands cupped her face, thumbs brushing over her cheekbones as his mouth crashed into hers, finally giving in to everything he’d been holding back.

She met him halfway, fingers tangling in the front of his shirt to pull him closer. There was no gentleness in it, not at first—just hunger, urgency, months of glances and tension and unsaid things pouring out in one sharp breath.

Her hands found his shoulders, his back, tugging him in like she’d been waiting just as long because she truly had. She guided him toward the bed, slow and steady, letting him follow her lead.

Their clothes began to slip away piece by piece until there was nothing left to shed. His hands finally rose, gently framing her waist like she might vanish. Then his palms slid up—slowly—over her ribs, along her back, until she was pressed against him, chest to chest.

He lifted her without a word, carrying her the rest of the way to the bed, and laying her down like something sacred. When she laid back and pulled him over her, he hovered for a breathless second and searched for any sign of wanting to stop all this.

Her legs shifted, opening just enough to let him settle between them. She weaved her fingers through his brown locks of hair, drawing a soft moan from his lips. He whispered her name like a damn prayer.

"I've waited so long for you," she breathed. He kissed his way down her stomach slowly and worshipfully. Her thighs trembled under his touch and he gently coaxed them open to accommodate his shoulders.

When his mouth finally found her—hot, desperate—she gasped his name and arched against him. Her voice breaking on every syllable, but he desperately needed to taste her. He took his time with her.

Because he wanted to memorize every moan, every whimper, every shake of her legs around his shoulders.

Her hands gripped at whatever they could find—his hair, the sheets beneath them, even his shoulder—as he worked her over with patient intensity. His tongue worked eagerly, drawing every last drop of sweetness she had to offer him.

When she came undone, it was with a cry that echoed off the walls and he held her through it.

She was still catching her breath when he kissed his way back up, slow and reverent, like he was savoring the aftermath. Her fingers tangled in his hair again, pulling him toward her until their mouths met—hot and hungry this time, tasting the want between them.

“Bob,” she whispered against his lips, and that alone nearly undid him.

He groaned low in his throat, like he couldn’t contain it anymore. “Say that again.”

She did—his name soft, broken, beautiful—and it lit something inside him. He pressed his forehead to hers, trying to catch his breath, but the way her hands ran down his back and dug into his skin left him trembling. That was all it took.

The last of his control broke. He kissed her hard, needy. She arched into him, nails leaving little red trails down his back, her legs curling around him to pull him even closer.

His body trembled with restraint, every muscle tight with need as he hovered just above her, their breaths mingling in the space between.

Her legs tightened around his waist, heels pressing into his back, urging him closer. "Bob..." she whispered, her voice a shiver in the dark. "Don't make me wait any longer."

He swallowed hard, eyes locked to hers. “You have no idea how long I’ve dreamed about this,” he murmured, brushing her hair back from her face. His thumb caressed the edge of her jaw, slow and reverent. “I don’t want to mess this up.”

“You won’t,” she promised. “You’re already everything I want.”

He kissed her again—deeper this time, like he needed it to breathe and his hips slowly rolled forward. Their bodies aligning in a way that stole both their breaths.

Careful to draw himself back out partially, Bob thrusted and moved deliberately. He was too busy feeling the tension in her thighs, the way her fingers flexed against his back, and the way her breath caught in her throat when he rocked his hips just right. His name slipped from her lips again.

“God,” he groaned into her neck, barely holding himself together. “You feel… oh, God… so good.”

"Then don’t stop,” she whispered, voice barely audible over the sound of skin slapping together. She tried meeting his thrusts. “Don’t you dare stop.”

And Bob didn’t.

He moved with aching slowness, letting the tension coil tighter, letting it drag out—each motion deeper, more desperate, more consuming. Until they were both trembling from the force of it, completely lost in each other.

The sound of their bodies moving together filled the room, slow and rhythmic, a symphony of want and wonder.

He stole a glance downward—just once—and the sight nearly undid him. The way they moved together, how perfectly she welcomed him, how her body responded like it had always been meant for his. A quiet curse escaped his lips, and he dropped his head to her shoulder, breathing hard.

“You… you’re everything.”

She turned her head, lips brushing against his temple, her voice breathless. She corrected him. “I’m yours.”

That did something to him. He gripped her tighter, forehead pressed to hers, his rhythm faltering only because he was overwhelmed—by her, by the way she looked at him, by the way she whispered his name like he was her only tether.

They could feel it building, that tight pull low in their stomachs, coiling tighter with every movement, every breathless sound that spilled from the other.

“Bob—” she gasped, her voice trembling, wrecked with need. “I’m… I’m so close—”

“I’ve got you,” his own voice rough and unsteady. “Come with me.”

His hand slid down between them, finding the spot that made her cry out. Her walls clenched around him as her body seized beneath him, and that was all it took.

She broke first—back arched, head thrown back, breath catching in a stuttering moan of his name. And as he felt her fall apart around him, he followed—his own release ripping through him in a wave so sharp and overwhelming he could barely breathe.

They held onto each other through it—through the trembling, through the gasping, through the aftershocks that left them both reeling.

And still, he held her like he was afraid to let go. Because now that he had her, he never wanted to stop.

PLEASE LET ME KNOW YOUR THOUGHTS OR IF YOU'D LIKE MORE WORKS LIKE THIS!

[leveragehunters]

CoPilot in MS Word

I opened Word yesterday to discover that it now contains CoPilot. It follows you as you type and if you have a personal Microsoft 365 account, you can't turn it off. You will be given 60 AI credits per month and you can't opt out of it.

The only way to banish it is to revert to an earlier version of Office. There is lot of conflicting information and overly complex guides out there, so I thought I'd share the simplest way I found.

How to revert back to an old version of Office that does not have CoPilot

This is fairly simple, thankfully, presuming everything is in the default locations. If not you'll need to adjust the below for where you have things saved.

Click the Windows Button and S to bring up the search box, then type cmd. It will bring up the command prompt as an option. Run it as an administrator.

Paste this into the box at the cursor: cd "\Program Files\Common Files\microsoft shared\ClickToRun"

Hit Enter

Then paste this into the box at the cursor: officec2rclient.exe /update user updatetoversion=16.0.17726.20160

Hit enter and wait while it downloads and installs.

VERY IMPORTANT. Once it's done, open Word, go to File, Account (bottom left), and you'll see a box on the right that says Microsoft 365 updates. Click the box and change the drop down to Disable Updates.

This will roll you back to build 17726.20160, from July 2024, which does not have CoPilot, and prevent it from being installed.

If you want a different build, you can see them all listed here. You will need to change the 17726.20160 at step 4 to whatever build number you want.

This is not a perfect fix, because while it removes CoPilot, it also stops you receiving security updates and bug fixes.

Switching from Office to LibreOffice

At this point, I'm giving up on Microsoft Office/Word. After trying a few different options, I've switched to LibreOffice.

You can download it here for free: https://www.libreoffice.org/

If you like the look of Word, these tutorials show you how to get that look:

www.howtogeek.com/788591/how-to-make-libreoffice-look-like-microsoft-office/

www.debugpoint.com/libreoffice-like-microsoft-office/

If you've been using Word for awhile, chances are you have a significant custom dictionary. You can add it to LibreOffice following these steps.

First, get your dictionary from Microsoft

Go to Manage your Microsoft 365 account: account.microsoft.com.

One you're logged in, scroll down to Privacy, click it and go to the Privacy dashboard.

Scroll down to Spelling and Text. Click into it and scroll past all the words to download your custom dictionary. It will save it as a CSV file.

Open the file you just downloaded and copy the words.

Open Notepad and paste in the words. Save it as a text file and give it a meaningful name (I went with FromWord).

Next, add it to LibreOffice

Open LibreOffice.

Go to Tools in the menu bar, then Options. It will open a new window.

Find Languages and Locales in the left menu, click it, then click on Writing aids.

You'll see User-defined dictionaries. Click New to the right of the box and give it a meaningful name (mine is FromWord).

Hit Apply, then Okay, then exit LibreOffice.

Open Windows Explorer and go to C:\Users\[YourUserName]\AppData\Roaming\LibreOffice\4\user\wordbook and you will see the new dictionary you created. (If you can't see the AppData folder, you will need to show hidden files by ticking the box in the View menu.)

Open it in Notepad by right clicking and choosing 'open with', then pick Notepad from the options.

Open the text file you created at step 5 in 'get your dictionary from Microsoft', copy the words and paste them into your new custom dictionary UNDER the dotted line.

Save and close.

Reopen LibreOffice. Go to Tools, Options, Languages and Locales, Writing aids and make sure the box next to the new dictionary is ticked.

If you use LIbreOffice on multiple machines, you'll need to do this for each machine.

Please note: this worked for me. If it doesn't work for you, check you've followed each step correctly, and try restarting your computer. If it still doesn't work, I can't provide tech support (sorry).

[lassiie]

HACKER!STEPBRO HEESEUNG (fic out now!!)

pair hacker!stepbro heeseung x reader

MDNI ! NSFW ! Truly Obsessive, psychosexual, dark vibes step bro Heeseung who stalk you. "You’re not scared of me, baby. You’re addicted... Just like me."

hacker!stepbro heeseung who tracks your location 24/7 and pretends not to care when you lie about where you’ve been.

hacker!stepbro heeseung who sees you wearing something new and smiles to himself—because he saw you trying it on in your room last week, through your camera.

hacker!stepbro heeseung who keeps a file of every photo you’ve ever deleted—every nude, every moment you thought no one would see. But Hee did.

hacker!stepbro heeseung who watches you get ready for dates and sends you anonymous texts like, “don’t waste lipstick on someone who won’t make you cry.”

hacker!stepbro heeseung who you dared to hack you—just to tease him, flashing that crazy angle, undressing slow—until he hijacks your screen, darkens your room, and whispers through you mic: "Keep peeling. I want to see every inch before I decide how hard i'll fuck you."

hacker!stepbro heeseung who watches you fuck someone else live through their hacked laptops camera, and sends you messages mid-thrust: “He’s not even close to make you cum. I’d ruin you.”

hacker!stepbro heeseung who you bickered with—so he fucked another girl raw in his dorm with your moans in his AirPods, eyes closed the whole time like she was just a body for you to echo through.

hacker!stepbro heeseung who sends your hookup a virus mid-text so their phone dies before they can confirm plans.

hacker!stepbro heeseung who slowly rewrites your kinks via search suggestions. One day it’s “soft dom...” the next it’s “stepbro makes her beg.” You think it’s your idea. He knows it’s his.

hacker!stepbro heeseung who swapped out your vibrator for a hacked one he controls—so now your orgasms don’t belong to you, they belong to him.

hacker!stepbro heeseung who programmed your vibrator to sync with your webcam activity—so the moment he can enjoy with you.

hacker!stepbro heeseung who has an encrypted file labeled “every time she came” — full of timestamps from every night you touched yourself.

hacker!stepbro heeseung who tracks your cycle and only texts you during ovulation with messages like: “Would you let me breed you if I asked nicely? Or do I need to ruin you for anyone else first?."

hacker!stepbro heeseung who doesn’t sleep. Doesn’t need to. Not when you keep your curtains cracked, and your thighs parted, and your breathing shallow at 1:22 a.m.

hacker!stepbro heeseung who lets you date other guys—but only so he can hack them, stalk them, and wait until they slip up. Then he sends you the evidence like a love letter. “See? I protect what’s mine.”

hacker!stepbro heeseung who watches you masturbate and types “slower” into your open Notes app. And almost cum when you actually listen.

hacker!stepbro heeseung who learned the way your breathing changes before you come and trained his own body to sync to it—until you finish together, apart, every single time.

hacker!stepbro heeseung who knows you touched yourself wearing his hoodie and rewatches the footage every night—hand wrapped tight on his dick, whispering “you filthy little sister.”

hacker!stepbro heeseung who buys you lingerie and mails it anonymously to the house—no card, just your size, your taste… and the scent of his cologne already soaked in.

hacker!stepbro heeseung who fucks girls mean when he’s mad at you—gripping too tight, biting too hard, fucking too deep.

hacker!stepbro heeseung who lets a girl ride him—face blank, screen lit—while your live shower feed plays like his personal porno.

hacker!stepbro heeseung who you tried to escape—so he pinned you to the bed, forcing you to watch your crush hacked laptop when he's gaming, as he fucked you hard, growling, "Let him hear how good you sound when you’re mine."

hacker!stepbro heeseung who you called a creep—yet now you sit with legs parted in front of your screen, waiting, aching, praying the webcam light will flicker.

hacker!stepbro heeseung who you told to stop—yet you started dressing for him. Walking slower in front of his door. Leaving your webcam uncovered. Secretly hoping he couldn’t stop.

hacker!stepbro heeseung who corrupted you so gently, so thoroughly, that now when he types "Be good. Leave the door unlocked tonight," you obey. Without question. Without panties.

hacker!stepbro heeseung who you tried to forget—but he replaced your lock screen with a photo of you on your knees, mouth open, eyes glazed—and captioned it: "My good little stepwhore."

hacker!stepbro heeseung who forced you to admit it—fingers buried inside you, voice low and dangerous: "Say it. Say you want to be my dirty little stepsister. Say you like it when I ruin you."

hacker!stepbro heeseung who finally snapped—after weeks of playing nice—dragged you to his room, stripped you down in front of your own hacked camera, and fucked you, whispering, "You belong to me. I’ve owned you since the first time you came here."

Will be out on sunday 15.06 I just know you’re gonna love it... almost as much as you’ll be slightly terrified by it. Because, well, the topic is a teensy bit... let’s say... intrusive.

Reblog, comment, scream into the void—give this post the attention it craves! Be bold. Be nosy. I dare you. 😘

yours dearly, Lassiie

[bunnis-monsters]

The harpy farm is pretty hectic, but at least your schedule is neat and organized.

Today you are tasked with visiting the Cherry acres where the type 1 harpies live.

The type 1 harpies are the most human like, having bird feet and wings as their only inhuman features. They are rather affectionate and playful, always wanting you to stay there forever.

Currently, there are only four harpies that reside in the Cherry acres.

The first is Robin, a cheerful red headed harpy that runs to greet you, nearly tripping over his own talons.

“(Name), you’re finally here!”

His arms pull you into a hug, and his wings wrap around your body as he chirps happily. “You’ll be here all day, right?”

You nod, rubbing your cheek against his in an affectionate gesture. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll be in this section all day. Where are the others?”

He huffed, his wings fluttering a bit. “They’re busy sunbathing, just stay here w-“

“Hey, stop hogging (Name)!”

Finn, a green finch harpy stepped forward, scratching the ground angrily with his talons. “Jay and Dove are sunbathing, but I knew something was off when you wanted to stay here this morning even though you always steal the warmest rocks!”

The little Robin harpy puffed up his chest, his wings fluffing out in annoyance. “Can you blame me? You guys always get all of (Name)’s attention!”

You rubbed your temple, stepping between the two before a fight could start. “Come on, there’s no need to get all fussy. Take me to the others, today’s preening day.”

The two immediately stopped, perking up at your words as their wings fluttered with excitement. “Preening day?

You nodded, holding up the bag of various supplies to clean their feathers and talons. “Mhm, now let’s get going. I’m sure you two don’t want to wait.”

They led you out towards the lake where the other two were warming their feathers in the sun.

Dove was a beautiful dove harpy, with delicate wings and long white hair. He smiled when he noticed you, calling out. “(Name), it’s nice to see you. Jay just too a dip in the lake.”

He came over, reaching out a talon to hold onto your leg. “You’re still so warm and soft, little mate.”

Dove squeezed the soft flesh of your calf lightly before pulling his leg back. “Those are the preening supplies, which means today is going to be a good one, hmm?”

You brushed the dirt from his talon off of your calf, then crouched down to get a good loom at everyone’s feet. No one seemed to be injured, but your little daredevil wasn’t there quite yet.

“(Name)!”

Jay, a Blue Jay harpy swam towards the rocks, using his talon to grip onto the textured surface and clime up. With one look, you could see his talons were all scraped up and torn again.

“Jay, sit down and I’ll tend to you first.”

The rest groaned, surrounding you as they complained. “You always preen him first!”

“Jay, you get hurt on purpose, don’t you!?”

You laughed, taking out the first aid kit. “You think Jay can think that far ahead?”

Your words seemed to settle them down, and it took Jay a moment to register them. “H-Hey, don’t be mean, I just like to have fun!”

“Yeah, and you’ve hit your head so many times that even (Name) isn’t sure what to do with you anymore.”

Jay puffed out his cheeks, being pouty as you cleaned and bandaged his talons before filing his nails into a point. “That’s not true, Robin. Don’t be so negative, Jay is a free spirit.”

The Blue Jay harpy perked up at that, fluffing out his wings as he gave the others a cocky smirk. “See? I’m a free spirit.”

Dove sat down, rubbing and nuzzling against you as you began preening Jay’s feathers. “How are the others doing? I heard the newest harpy in the Peach acres is still rejecting you.”

You paused, your hand settling onto Jay’s wing. “Yes, his name is Raven. He isn’t like any of you, he’s a rescue.”

Finn clawed at the dirt, searching for worms. “A rescue? What happened to him?”

You continued your work, Jay whining slightly and leaning into your touch as his hand moved down his bare body and to his hardening cock.

It was normal for harpies to tend to their sexual needs in public, so none of you were surprised. “As you know, harpies like you are descended from wild birds. Humans are only permitted to buy and own domestic harpies, like parakeets and pigeons, for example.”

You moved Jay’s hand away, taking over jerking Jim off as he cooed and buried his face into your neck. The others gathered around, a bit jealous of all of the attention he was getting.

“In his case, his owner was neglectful and ended up killed by Raven. The owner didn’t truly know how dangerous wild harpies are.”

Dove pulled to closer, opening your thighs a bit so his cock could settle between them. “Ah, I guess that makes sense… h-hey, I wanna play with (Name) too!”

Robin whined and scurried over, abandoning the fishing pole he had been using. Unfortunately, you had no more hands to jerk him off with, your free one was preoccupied with Finn’s cock, so you opened your mouth and took his tip between your lips.

Between bobs of your head, you’d pull away momentarily to speak again. “You’ll be getting a new member soon as well, boys. I hope you’ll be nice.”

Dove chirped as he began to preen you back, nuzzling against your pulse point. “We’ll try, but it’s already hard enough sharing your time among the four of us when you’re here…”

You squinted, eyebrows furrowing when Robin held your head in place and fucked your throat, cumming down it while letting out a little cry.

After swallowing and wiping your mouth, you scolded the younger harpy. “Robin, I told you to be gentle. You’ve lost your mouth privileges.”

He whined and lowered himself to the ground, burying his face into your belly as he tried to appeal to your more motherly side. “(Name), it’s hard, I can’t help it… you just feel so good…”

His wings fluttered and rubbed against you, and you patted his head when he hid his face in your breast if it were his mother’s plumage. “Hey, I don’t fall for the baby bird act. You’re a fully fledged harpy, keep that up and I won’t play with you anymore.”

Robin sulked, his wings covering his body as you preened everyone. He was the youngest of the group, so you tried your best to be gentle with him, but he was also cocky due to his youth.

If you didn’t train him now, he’d end up being a cruel and dominant male that didn’t care about others feelings.

After everyone was preened and taken care of, you spent the rest of the day keeping them company, and eventually Robin cheered up enough to cuddle with you while you read them stories.

As you stored your boots and changed out of your uniform shorts and shirt, you glanced down at the schedule.

Tomorrow you’d be visiting the Peach acres… and you weren’t looking forward to meeting with Raven again.

The scar on your upper thigh came from that harpy, after all.

Note: I have a 20% discount on your first month on Patreon, code: hunni

I plan on writing about the harpy farm a lot, so please send asks and questions about these characters and ideas for future characters from the other types’

————————

NSFW TAGLIST: @avalordream @bazpire @im-eating-rn @anglingforlevels @kinshenewa @pasteldaze @yoongiigolden @peachesdabunny @leiselotte @misswonderfrojustice @dij-ology @i8kaeya @lollboogurl @h3110-dar1in9 @keikokashi @aliceattheart @mssmil3y @namjoons-t1ddies @izarosf1833 @healanette @lem-hhn @spufflepuff @honey-crypt @karljra @zyettemoon1800 @exodiam @vexillum-moeru @imperfectlyperfectprincess1 @enchantedsylveon @mysticranger575 @readeryn68 @danielle143 @kittenlover614 @filthybunny420 @annavittoria-mm @makimamybelovedwife @blubearxy @omglovelylaila @toocollectionchaos-universe-blog @fruk-you-usuk-fans @hammerhead96-blog @slightlyusedfloormat @bubblez-blop @sunshineangel-reads @heroneki-neko @soapybabyboop @anonymouskiwi @flamefoxx @sandramalikstyles-blog @breathingstarlight

[simstichy]

🎵SIMSTER STARTER SET🎵

This set includes 4 new items all base game compatible with custom thumbnails and English and Spanish titles and descriptions

🎶Record Player with Speakers

New Functional Stereo

8 swatches

758 polys

🎶Record Player

New Functional Stereo

9 swatches

650 polys

🎶Vinyl Wall Display

New Wall sculpture

39 swatches

64 polys

🎶Pile of Vinyls

New clutter item

10 swatches

Stackable

90 polys

🎶Single Vinyl

New wall sculpture

13 swatches

30 polys

💡You can find all my CC by typing ‘EstenzoLarra’ into the search bar💡

Made with S4S + Blender

🔽Download & Screenshots under the cut 🔽

—-TERMS OF USE—- Please avoid redistributing or upload my CC elsewhere. Contact me if you want to publish any recolors of it If you use it, kindly tag me so I can reblog it. 💙Thank you so much for your support!💙 —————————————————-

I have checked and my sim file share account hasn't been hacked or anything but there's always the link to the download on mod the sims just in case.

DOWNLOAD -> MERGED(SFS) | SFS FOLDER | MODTHESIMS

Additional Screenshots:

[pathologicalreid]

omg consider this a request to bury reader again lol. imagine having to go through that again…imagine SPENCER knowing you’re experiencing it again…….margot pLS IM BEGGING🧎‍♀️🧎‍♀️🙏🙏

black hole | s.r.

in which the BAU has to race against the clock to find you after you've been buried alive, again

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: angst content warnings: spoilery content warning at the end of the post. lol. claustrophobia, being buried alive, death. reader does NOT die, spencer reid crashout, kids/pregnancy, blood, hospitals, spencer's addiction, being drugged, the replicator, i probably missed something!!!! word count: 5.35k a/n: guys can u believe my first fic on here was buried alive. and here we are. doing it again?

Spencer was surrounded by people who cared about him, and yet, the only person he genuinely wanted to see was nowhere to be found. He’d sent you home from the office, passing the car keys along and swiping the incomplete files from your desk.

You’d kissed his cheek the same way you’d done it thousands of times before, and he’d taken it for granted. He should’ve turned his head to kiss your lips. He should’ve left the files to finish tomorrow and gone home with you. He shouldn’t be looking over his shoulder right now, searching for something that wasn’t coming. You weren’t coming.

He’d sent you home, only to find himself standing in your kitchen hours later, surrounded by evidence of a struggle. There had been blood smeared across the floor, a nauseating pattern that, in his professional opinion, looked like someone had been dragged. Without enough time to DNA test the blood, he couldn’t be sure, but once the crime scene unit had typed the blood and it came back as your type, he felt comfortable in his assumption. You had been taken.

Abducted right from the home that the two of you had created for each other, a safe haven to retreat to when the world felt too cramped, too dark.

Remnants of fear lingered in every corner of the house, skylights built into the ceiling for optimum light and nightlights in every room. Spencer had designed the house for you, and Derek arranged the construction. To the average bystander, the open floor plan looked like a modernization of the original structure. To you, each wall was placed purposefully so that you’d never feel like they were closing in on you.

The first person he called was Alex. Part of him wondered if he’d chosen her because she was the only member of the team who hadn’t been around to witness this the first time. The first time Spencer had been standing in a room and had been told you were missing; it felt as though time had completely stopped. This time, it felt like a jackknife to the chest, stabbing him continuously until his legs went out from under him, leaving him gasping on the phone to his friend. The rational side of his brain tried to tell him it was because Blake lived closest, but the irrational portion of Spencer Reid was the only part of him that ever had second thoughts.

That irrational side of him was the side that was in love with you, and he couldn’t justify the probability of this happening again. The math couldn’t be completed, and Spencer was once again left in fragments, nothing more than a shattered mirror that bore the reflection of someone who had it all.

Now, back at the BAU, he stared at the confidential FBI folder that had been abandoned on the kitchen counter by your abductor. It had been dusted, only to find no sign of fingerprints. The evidence was laid out on the roundtable; each page, each horrifying photo served as a memory of what had happened to you two years ago. Left on top of the folder was a piece of paper torn from the journal your therapist had instructed you to keep. Scrawled in unfamiliar penmanship, the note read: He who fears suffering is already suffering from what he fears.

He wasn’t concerned with the origin of the quote; he’d recognize Michel de Montaigne as surely as he would his own work. No, Spencer’s concern laid solely with the implications of the quote, and there was only one outcome he could come to. After all, suffering and your name were synonymous in his mind, even after all of this time.

You kept your eyes closed, grounding yourself just as your therapist had taught you in your hundreds of sessions. Soon enough, Spencer would wake up to your soft whimpers, and he’d coax you out of your paralysis. His hands would find their way to your shoulders, skimming his palms over the cotton of your sleep shirt, and he’d pull you up.

Any minute, Spencer would use the fader to illuminate your bedroom, providing you with the light that you needed as proof that everything was going to be fine. You’d anticipated this; the second anniversary of you being buried alive was just around the corner, and with it, the trauma bubbled to the surface. Even still, you found yourself frowning at the things your senses picked up—the smell of the dirt, the hard surface you were lying on, and the eerie silence of your surroundings. It took you a moment to realize that Spencer wasn’t cooing your name, trying to get you out of your nightmare without scaring you too much.

Clenching your fists, you found yourself missing the familiar pressure of your wedding ring on your left hand, and you told yourself that this had to be a dream. Since you’d gotten it, you only ever took it off if it was absolutely necessary. You’d missed the band so much that you’d gotten a cheaper one to replace it while you had the two pieces soldered together.

You took a deep breath, immediately overwhelmed by the rich earth that flooded your senses, the scent so pungent that you could almost taste it. Against your better judgment, you opened your eyes, letting the lids flutter open while you tried to adjust to the all too familiar darkness. A wave of nausea ran through you, churning your stomach while you tried to swallow it down—not wanting to lay in a puddle of your own sick. “No,” you breathed, having half a mind to sit up and look around, but as your eyes adjusted, you estimated there were only a few inches from the tip of your nose to the roof of your enclosure.

Tentatively, you felt around, grazing your fingertips across the interior surface of your newfound prison. Opposed to the smooth silk of the casket, you were met with a rough wooden surface that grated against your skin, tugging and pulling at the ridges of your fingerprints while you tried to bury your panic.

Denial only got a person so far, and there was nowhere else for you to go except to accept it. This was happening to you again.

This time, it seemed as though you were trapped within the confines of a wooden box, a collection of old two-by-fours haphazardly connected with various nails and screws. You could smell the age of the wood, damp and mildew only served to nauseate you further when mixed with the smell of the dirt.

He’d been put in time-out. Not that Hotch would ever use such layman’s terminology to describe the action taken but being told to sit in the roundtable room and stay there until they knew something felt like a child’s punishment. A flash out of the corner of his eyes signaled that JJ and Rossi had returned from checking the house, meaning Spencer had some explaining to do.

“What did you see?” Hotch asked as soon as they walked into the room. Spencer turned his head to gaze out the windows, watching the cacophony of the joint task force as it entered the next hour. He avoided JJ’s curious eyes, knowing that she knew.

Rossi’s leather boot tapped at the worn carpet in the doorway. “There was a cup of what looked like water on the kitchen counter,” he responded, nodding at the rest of the team as they all filed into the room. “The crime scene techs took a sample of it for testing. The field test came back positive for narcotics, but we won’t have an exact makeup until it comes back from the lab.”

A test that you didn’t have time for, but Spencer felt it was unnecessary. Hearing what they knew from the scene was enough to turn his stomach inside out, the kind of information that gets delivered and then all of a sudden, your ears feel like they’ve been stuffed with cotton. He’d subconsciously tuned out any other news to protect himself while he looked at the data on the form that Rossi had given him. For a long time, Spencer had accepted that his brain was one that worked with figures and reason, but looking at the numbers in front of him—nothing processed. Every number seemed foreign to him, and nothing made any sense to him.

He stood up suddenly, sending his office chair flying behind him, the aged wheels clattering within themselves as he looked around. Horrified looks were sent to him from everyone in the room. It only took one glance at your picture on the screen for him to grab the paper from the polished wood table. “I have to… I need to…” He rambled aimlessly, staring at the paper while he blindly tried to find his way out of the roundtable room and down the ramp.

Practically bolting out of the bullpen, Spencer sought the fresh air that the campus would bring, but Hotch had told him to stay put, so he settled for the more or less abandoned interview room that neighbored Morgan’s office. The room sat unused most of the time, a fine layer of dust coating everything in plain sight.

Gracelessly pulling at the strap of his watch, he flung it across the room, each faint tick of the seconds a haunting reminder that you were rapidly running out of air.  He lowered himself to the ground, sitting down before his legs had a chance to give out beneath him. If he had shut down the first time, he was nothing more than a shell of himself right now, merely a pile of skin and bones that concealed organs—like a heart that was breaking. Pulsatile tinnitus made it seem like his heart was pounding in every area of his body, causing him to pull his legs to his chest, condensing himself so he didn’t take up so much space.

A soft knocking saved him from his own pit of despair, a familiar curtain of brown hair on narrow shoulders greeted his eyes, and the soft smile that Blake gave him dripped with pity. “Do you mind?” She asked rhetorically, gesturing to a chair in front of him before taking a seat. “What is it?”

Spencer’s brows furrowed, too stressed to deduce the meaning of her question. “What is what?” Dropping his hands, he thumbed the hem of his slacks, fiddling with a loose thread to occupy his busy mind. He tried to act as if there weren’t tornado sirens going off in his head, cluing him to an impending storm—one where he was bound to be swept up.

“There’s more to this thank you’re letting on,” Blake nudged the toe of her boot against Spencer’s sneaker. “Hotch wouldn’t have taken you out of the field if there weren’t exigent circumstances.”

Sometimes, he had to remind himself that even though she hadn’t been a profiler for very long, Alex had plenty of experience in the bureau. She had a knack for reading people and reaching conclusions, and, at this moment, Spencer despised her for it. He turned his head, resting his cheek on his knee, the displacement of his face causing one of his eyes to close. “She’s pregnant,” he confessed, the weight of the secret crumbling from the air around him.

He shut his other eye to avoid the look of shock that had inevitably taken place on Alex’s face. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen; you were supposed to be able to wait three more weeks until the second trimester and be able to tell everyone. It was supposed to be a joyous moment, not a secret choked out when there were no other options. “Hotch knows?”

Blinded by his eyelids, Spencer nodded. Hotch was the first person he’d told once that little plus sign popped up. Before you’d told any friends and family, Spencer knew he had to tell Hotch about the baby; he had to keep you safe. What a waste that had been.

Just last week, you’d gone to see the baby for the first time, the sonogram had been gleefully posted on your refrigerator that same day. He knew the chances that JJ and Rossi hadn’t seen it were next to none, so really, there was no more secret to keep.

You were just barely nine weeks along, the last few days had been spent debating whether or not you wanted to do a blood test to find out the sex, and now you might never know. He’d thought you’d be better off at home. He’d thought getting away from the office at a normal time would be healthy for you, but instead his well-meaning gesture had placed you under the radar of someone who wanted to hurt you. What was worse was this person undoubtedly knew who you were and what you were afraid of, they’d probably been watching you for a while.

Guilt burrowed deep inside of his gut when he lifted his eyelids, looking at the paper he’d taken from the roundtable room. Mixed in with whatever they’d given you to knock you out had been an unlisted narcotic. The field test hadn’t been precise enough to name the drug, but in the end, Spencer found he didn’t really care about the specifics. He only cared about what he knew. Narcotics were known to cause miscarriages, and when you combined that with whatever had knocked you out—GHB, Rohypnol, whatever—it only killed more hope. It brought Spencer to a place of desolation.

He was miserable as he handed the paper off to Blake, vaguely aware of the people passing by in the hallway, rubbernecking near the door to try and get a glimpse of him. “Did the UnSub just take whatever was left over in your medicine cabinet and give it to her?”

The question was innocent enough. Maybe in another lifetime, you’d have a few pills left over from various hospital trips, but that wasn’t the case in this timeline. “We don’t keep narcotics in the house,” he answered a tad too quickly.

Interrupting his thought process, JJ poked her head into the interrogation room, “Uh, Hotch wants everyone in the roundtable room.” Her sorrowful blue eyes pierced through Spencer, with him sitting on the floor, everyone felt so much bigger than him. “The Replicator sent us a message.”

You gasped a sob, trying to rein in your emotions so you wouldn’t use as much of your limited air supply, but with every passing moment, you found it that much more difficult to hold yourself together. Reaching up a hand, you pressed your palm at the ceiling above you, pushing up at the roof of your enclosure to no avail. Paranoia was beginning to creep in, telling you that the things you were hearing were the worms in the soil preparing to return you to the earth.

Swiping your hand on the wood, you repeated the motion until you were clawing at the rotting material, attempting to burrow yourself out of confinement. The split grains tugged and pulled at your fingertips, leaving splinters to interrupt the fine lines of your prints. You were on the verge of throwing a tantrum, kicking and scratching at your confines, until one of the boards broke, bringing you to a screeching halt.

You’d kicked one of the boards loose, breaking it and leaving the void to fill with dirt. Lowering your shaky hands, you took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to regulate your breathing through techniques you’d learned over the years. You’d spent countless hours in therapy trying to help your claustrophobia, but you’d used that time to navigate things like elevator rides and tiny bathroom stalls. You never thought you would need to prepare for this to happen to you a second time.

You couldn’t halt the tears when they finally came. Part of you knew that crying would use up what little oxygen you had at a fast rate, but the other part of you, the despondent part, didn’t have the energy to care. You tried for a moment, covering your mouth with your bleeding palm to contain the volume of air you were taking in, to no avail. You had finally lost control, and the fuzzy feeling in your brain was only exacerbated by the scent of the dirt that coated your hands.

It just wasn’t fair. Subconsciously, you knew the concept of fairness should’ve been something you’d given up on years ago, but as the air surrounding you grew stale, it was all you could think about. The idea that you’d spent your morning with Spencer trying to prove to you that your bump was showing, giggling while using the false name you’d assigned to your unborn child as you insisted you were just bloated.

Slowly, you dragged your bleeding fingertips down your torso, leaving them resting hesitantly on your lower belly, the exact spot that Spencer had insisted was protruding just that morning. Bile rose in your throat as you feared what your day of turmoil meant for your baby. You had no idea how long you’d been in the ground, and you had no idea how much time you had left. Spencer would’ve figured it out—he had last time. One sleepless night, you’d made him explain tidal volume to you, and he’d let you comb your fingers through your hair while he told you the story of the last time he came to your rescue.

As you lay there, paranoid, wondering if you were imagining the pain in your head and stomach, it occurred to you that you never should have come back to the BAU the first time. The sleepless nights you’d spent combing through the trauma of your teammates, convincing yourself that what you’d been through was nothing in comparison to their scars, had been entirely unnecessary. You kept a tally of the flights of stairs you’d taken when one elevator ride would’ve sufficed, wearing the count as a badge of honor. You could count on one hand the number of elevator rides you’ve taken in the last two years—they were usually spent with your head in your hands and Spencer’s hand on your back.

You’d always compared yourself to Emily, who’d lost her life, and Hotch, who’d lost his love, and you decided that if they could return to the field after those events, then there was no reason for you to lag behind. You forced yourself to play a part you didn’t belong in, and you could never forgive yourself for it. It’s part of the reason you let your eyes fall shut when the air grows thin, wondering if there was any point in coming back to a life you weren’t mean to be living.

He'd run out of things to throw, eyeing the books that he’d left scattered on the ground, his watch still discarded somewhere in the interview room. His tie was loosened to the point that it was almost slipping off of his neck while he desperately tried to catch his breath. Each time he settled down, he remembered you were suffocating, and the cycle continued.

The Replicator had all but taken responsibility for your abduction, and the world around him had begun to spin. Quickly, everything began to make sense, repeating a crime that had been committed against you and using narcotics to knock you out.

His addiction had never been officially documented in any FBI files, but that didn’t stop Spencer from placing fault on himself. There were easier ways to incapacitate someone, and somehow, the Replicator had chosen the method that was likely to do the most harm. Spencer put his trembling hands over his head, knowing that if he’d never taken that vial off of Tobias Hankel’s corpse, you wouldn’t be in this situation now. His mind that had been previously praised for genius drew convoluted lines between the dots, making connections that he never should’ve considered.

In the doorway, Alex came to his rescue once more, holding a Kevlar vest in her hand while smiling at him kindly, “We found her.”

The distance between Quantico and the cemetery was no more than a blur to him. He had no idea when it had started to rain, but he found each pelt of a raindrop to be soothing, welcoming the constant drumming that occupied his minds, keeping him away from catastrophizing.

Rossi, Hotch, and Emily had arrived only moments before the second SUV, but they’d wasted no time in getting the cemetery staff to dig at the coordinates Penelope had found in the message sent by the Replicator. The rain made the soil move like sludge off of the makeshift casket that contained the love of his life, and he took his first step toward you when he saw the broken pieces of wood.

A familiar arm went out in front of him, blocking his path to you with a sense of fraternal protection, but Spencer tried to push Morgan away. He was the weaker of the two, exhausted by his own emotions as he shoved his way through to you. Distantly, he heard himself asking to be let through, but it wasn’t until the lid of the casket was popped that Blake spoke up for him, “Derek.”

Immediately, Derek’s arm dropped, releasing the hold he had on Spencer and allowing him to run to you. The sopping ground sept into his shoes as he ran, falling into the mud while Emily and Hotch precariously pulled you out of your enclosure. Morgan’s intention had been to shield Spencer from the harsh reality of your death, but even if you were gone, he still felt an otherworldly pull to you. After all, what was the point of promising ‘til death do us part if he wasn’t with you when you went?

Mud coated every spare inch of his clothes, but he couldn’t care less as he scrambled to take your hand in his, gently pressing his fingers to your wrist and waiting for something—anything. “Baby, please.” He couldn’t tell, the radial pulse could be undependable, so he moved his hand to your neck and crouched his head over your face, immediately comforted when he heard the faint whistle of air flowing through your nostrils.

Relief flooded his senses, inclining his head to rest his forehead against yours and nodding profusely when Emily asked him if you were alive. His chest shook with a sob as he pulled back, tugging his FBI jacket off and laying it over you to try and warm you up, the rest of the team following suit while JJ and Hotch tried to flag down the ambulance. He tuned out the frantic discussion of the team and the loud blare of the emergency vehicles.

Shifting so he was sitting on the ground, he gingerly placed your head in his lap, using his fingertips to deftly wipe away the dirt and blood that covered your marred skin. He noted a scratch on your head, and a quick scan of your body didn’t show him any visible injuries, though your hands displayed a nauseating portrait of your time in the ground, torn apart with dozens of splinters. “I’ve got you,” he cooed to your unconscious body. He looked up to see a team of EMTs running towards you, decked out in rain gear and medical supplies, “She’s pregnant.”

His words elicited a stare from one of the rain-soaked paramedics, telling him he had reached the same conclusion that Spencer had already resolved himself to. “We’ve gotta get her out of this rain,” he said, loading you onto a spine board and lifting you to the gurney so they could easily roll you to the ambulance, leaving Spencer scrambling to catch up with you. He practically threw himself into the ambulance, refusing to separate himself from you.

Spencer squeezed your hand, hoping you’d squeeze back, staying as far back as he could from the paramedics while keeping his fingers intertwined with yours.

Nothing hurt when you came to, but you could feel the familiar pressure of a bandage around your leg. Sensation traveled up to your hands, each of your fingertips precariously wrapped with cause, initiating the healing of your cuts from when you’d tried to scratch your way to freedom. Slowly, you took a deep breath, letting the antiseptic air of the hospital flood your senses.

Through your eyelids, you could see that the room around you was bright, and a soft smile tugged at your lips despite yourself—Spencer was here. You felt him now, the soft touch of his hand on your arm, the imprint of a hand you knew as well as your own. The warmth of his palm served as a brief distraction before your brain registered a dull ache in your stomach, and somehow, you just knew. A low keening sound slipped from your throat, more from the compressed escape of air than a complaint of any pain you felt.

“I love you,” Spencer whispered gently, his voice hoarse with emotion, “So, so much.” He took your hand in his and pressed a kiss to your battered knuckles. “Oh, honey,” he sighed, gently squeezing your hand, minding your wounds.

He was so gentle with you—he always had been. His fingertips drifted over your arm with an attention to detail that rivaled a medical doctor, minding the IV in your arm when he moved past it. You tried to mumble an I love you in return, but the words came out unintelligibly.

Spencer’s ministrations came to a halting stop at this first sign of life, “Hey,” he cooed, “What was that?” You felt the side of your mattress dip as he took a seat on your bedside, he hushed you gently, dragging a knuckle up and down your cheek while silently pleading for you to speak.

He was testing you, that much you knew. He wanted to know if being deprived of air had cost you your ability to speak. You shook your head at him, denying the implication as you cleared your throat determinedly, “I love you, too.” Your voice was gravelly, likely from all of the screaming you had done in the tomb, but it was there, and it was coherent.

The hospital sheets scratched at your skin while you tried to coax yourself into opening your eyes, the promise of seeing Spencer providing an incentive. Taking a deep breath, your eyelids fluttered open, looking up at his sorrowful eyes. Even so, he smiled at you softly, just happy to see you awake, “There’s my girl.”

The tear tracks on his face were like daggers to your heart, bringing with them a terrible reminder of whatever fear he felt when you had gone missing. You blinked additional sleep out of your eyes, focusing on him and his exhaustion, “How long?” You asked, watching him reach over for a glass of water, guiding the straw to your mouth.

He waited until you’d taken a few sips before answering your questions, “You’ve been asleep for two days.” He said, setting the cup to the side—close enough that you could grab it on your own if need be.

You made a face—two days was a long time—and sighed, relaxing back into the pillows while you tried to find the right words to say. “How’s…. Am I…?” You stumbled through the question, tears welling in your waterline before you even had the chance to ask. Swallowing thickly, you could only hope Spencer understood when you were getting at before you had to force the words out.

Your husband shook his head softly, “There’s no heartbeat.” His voice was tight, but he maintained his position as a pillar for you to lean on, keeping your hand in his just in case you needed additional support.

It didn’t hurt, not right now. You were sure the grief would hit you at some point in the near future when the sun hit your face just right or a blue car passed you by. Some inexplicable harbinger of grief would enter and exit your life just as quickly as your child had. “Okay,” you breathed, gazing at Spencer, hoping your eyes would have the ability to convey how you felt.

“They haven’t pinpointed a cause; it could’ve been any number of things, but it’s not… Are you in any pain?” He cut himself off to check in on you; he studied your expression with a stoicism that rivaled your boss.

You shook your head, “No.” The achiness you felt wasn’t strong enough to fully qualify as pain, and anything that was there, your body had already gotten used to. You were sure there was something in your IV that was assisting the numbness in your limbs.

Spencer raised his eyebrows doubtfully, “Would you tell me if you were?” He asked you, giving you a look that reminded you he knows you better than you know yourself.

“Will you just… not tell anyone I woke up yet?” You shifted uncomfortably on the bed, “I’m not ready.” You needed time to prepare for the prying eyes and barrage of questions that were bound to come with the BAU.

His head bobbed, “Anything. Anything you want,” he promised, dragging his knuckle up and down your cheek. Subconsciously, you leaned into his touch, prompting him to cup the cold skin in his warm palm. “You could go back to sleep if you wanted to.”

You hummed woefully, “Not yet. I missed the light.” Besides that, you wanted to enjoy your sedated mind before it became overwhelmed with a flurry of emotions. Right now, you felt peace, and you deserved to have that kind of silence. Surely the dam would break, but as long as you could hold it off, you just wanted to lay in bed with Spencer. “’m cold,” you mumbled thoughtlessly, thinking of it as a throwaway comment before you remembered who you married.

Spencer had a pile of blankets to his left, and he deftly pulled the top one from the pile and got to work placing it over you. “Is this better?” He asked, timidly tucking the blanket under your side and making sure you were well-covered.

Wincing, you slid your hand beneath the blanket and lifted the side, creating an opening for him to slip into. Your silent invitation was accepted when Spencer kicked his shoes off and joined you in the crowded hospital bed, “Much better.” You rested your head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart, “Spence?”

“What is it, honey?” He asked, skimming the pad of his thumb over your side, his large hand splayed against your back.

Clenching your left hand into a fist, you sighed, trying to ignore the tears that were pricking your eyes. “Did you find my ring?” You remembered missing it in the ground, but you’d forgotten until just now, your finger once again intolerably bare.

A gentle kiss was pressed to the crown of your head, “Yes.” He twisted back, plucking the familiar ring off of your bedside table and returning it to its rightful home on your ring finger. “It was on the back of your sink in the bathroom,” he explained, twisting the band so the gem was facing out.

Small, sad tears trickled from your ducts. You sniffled, and Spencer’s grip on you changed—not tighter, but firmer as if he had anticipated this moment. The moment when what you had been avoiding finally caught up with you.

“I’ve got you,” he reassured you. You didn’t even have to ask for him to rub small circles on your back, whispering sweet nothings into your ear. As it had been for years now, Spencer was the only reason you felt safe enough to let your eyes fall shut, and even the darkness of sleep didn’t seem so intimidating when you knew you had him near.

spoiler content warning: miscarriage