#Fury Shepard

[atonalginger]

Music Tag Game

I was tagged by both @silurisanguine and @aro-pancake and no I didn't forget I just wanted to be at my desktop so I had my screenshots and art available :)

List 2 songs or a playlist that represent your OCs or characters who you love - and don't forget to tag some other people so they can have fun!

I've got a lot of ocs...I'll try not to bloat the post but I think It'd be fun to include a lot of them so I'll do a read more at a point.

Dr. Jamie Melody

-Bow Down by I Prevail -Brick by Boring Brick by Paramore -Backyard by Whale Bones Ranger Julien "Fox" Prince

-Hurricane by I Prevail -Bury the Light by Casey Edwards, Victor Borba -Me and My Gang by Rascal Flatts

Bella Cherise

-Lillith by Halsey -Ascensionism by Sleep Token -The Death of Peace of Mind by Bad Omens

Lila Aiza, Fury Shepard, and Goose

Lila Aiza -Succubus by Trust Fund Ozu -Pieces by Elley Duhe -Paralyzed by NF Fury Shepard -Down For It by Willie Jones -No Plan by Hozier -The Parting Glass Goose -Doom Crossing: Eternal Horizons by The Chalkeaters, Natalia Natchan -Sleeping in the Cold Below (From "Warframe") by Keith Power, Alan Doyle, Damhnait Doyle -Hoist the Colours (movie soundtrack version with the child singing) Kitty Lincoln

-Boots by Kesha - There's Fear In Letting Go by I Prevail -Guys My Age by Hey Violet Boss Joe "Cowboy" Ledger

-Rip and Tear (from Doom 2016) by Mick Gordan -Easy Come, Easy Go by Daveed Diggs, Rafael Casal -It Will Come Back by Hozier Boss Annie "Seraph"

-Diamonds (with Normani) by Megan Thee Stallion, Normani -Phantom Regret by Jim by The Weekend -Graveyard by Halsey

...I think I'll stop there...

[shayafury]

Neon Commander Shepard female - Paragon / Happy N7 Day 2023

I am so happy to share my new fan art of Commander Jane Shepard from Mass Effect!

Started that one on as a sketch no so long ago and I am so happy that I managed to finish it for this year`s (2023) N7 Day! I had so much fun drawing here and I hope you like the end result!

You can also find this art as a print in my Etsy shop :https://www.etsy.com/uk/listing/1605393029/neon-commander-shepard-female-paragon?click_key=43c037f704a80a1b94f0e8388c7b37482d06728a%3A1605393029&click_sum=cf38e06f&ref=shop_home_active_1

[frenchy-and-the-sea]

Early morning I-can't-sleep-for-stress-over-a-medical-procedure thoughts: Well, OBVIOUSLY I have to make my weird Mourn Watch Rook something like Moritani so that her nickname can be Mori. Obviously.

[bits-and-babs]

✦ 𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐔𝐁𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 ✦

captain john price x f!reader (raven) | smut, 18+ | 4.2k

summary: when a seemingly bulletproof mission goes awry, captain price makes the vital mistake of pursuing the target alone and contributes to the chaos that almost claims the life of one of his men. When he returns, he lacks the humility to accept your reprimand lying down.

cw: mwiii spoiler free. war and violence, mentions of wounded, ooc price maybe a little? angst, enemies to enemies that fuck, reader is pathetically attracted to price because same, literally a voice kink fic disguised as a deep throating fic, very light degradation, bratty behaviour from reader, heavy face fucking, hair pulling, praise, gagging, very little aftercare.

price mlist | main mlist | taglist

It all goes tits up.

Shouts of distress arise across the coms in the CIA conference room, blaring through the headphones glued to the watchers’ heads. Ghost’s gruff voice calls out a casualty, leading General Shepard to launch out of his seat and crash his fist against the tabletop. Mugs of coffee tip over from the force of the impact, liquid bleeding into top secret documents- they aren’t his primary concern.

“Lieutenant, this is Gold Eagle. Is there an issue, Ghost?” Shepard’s voice snarls down the coms.

“Sir, it’s Soap- he’s been hit.”

Hanging your head between your shoulders, you barely register the orders that Shepard screams into the microphone of his headset, his spittle peppering the laptop screen where he oversees the mission descending into chaos. Your ears are ringing, your heart thumping wildly against your sternum. Further panic ensues, Gaz shouting a brief, hurried explanation of the mission breakdown. “… snipers in the mountain, sir. Had to dispatch them- I can’t see Captain Pri—”

“Bravo 2-6, this is Raven. Confirm Captain Price’s location,” you insist, swallowing the alarm that threatens to haemorrhage from your lips.

“Negative, Ma’am. Lost him while dispatching the snipers.”

“Fuck,” you mutter, feeling your blood boil at The Captain’s recklessness. “Fuck!”

Your fingers blur over your keyboard, focusing your attention on John Price’s coms. Again, Shepard barks orders at Ghost, but you can’t hear him over your own heavy breathing and pressing tone as you address Price in a fury.

“Captain Price, this is Raven; confirm your location immediately!”

Silence at first. Coffee drips from the edge of the tabletop by your feet, pooling into the navy-blue carpet. It stains like blood, a dark smear. You can imagine it in Price’s camo uniform, spreading thick and fast from a bullet wound- a direct hit to the chest.

“We’re gonna lose Hassan.”

“Captain Price,” you yell down the microphone, simultaneously relieved to hear his voice and enraged at his increasingly frequent decision to go AWOL, “We will most definitely lose Hassan if I must bury every member of 141! Return to Team Bravo immediately!”

You’re almost certain you can hear Price’s teeth grind together, the enamel straining under the weight of his fury and threatening to crack down to the root. “Are you tellin’ me we let him go?”

“Captain Price, I am telling you that we were given faulty intel. I am telling you that we are sustaining heavy losses and that Sergeant MacTavish is critically wounded, and I am calling for EVAC!” Your knuckles are bleached where your fists hover over the keyboard, nails digging into your palms so hard you’re sure the indents they leave burrow straight to the bone as you await confirmation of Price’s retreat. “Task Force 141 is a priceless tool against Al-Qatala. I cannot afford to lose every member for the sake of a man we will ultimately have to chance to apprehend again!”

Your eyes float to General Shepard. He’s furious, his irises swallowed by the hollow blackness of his pupils as he jerks his head in confirmation of permission to evacuate 141. It shouldn’t have come to this.

“Do you copy, Captain Price?” You yell down the microphone, finally losing your cool with the maddening Englishman that continued to defy your authority.

“… Yes, ma’am.”

**

The ticking minutes-hand of the analogue clock that hangs above your desk sweeps away half of the day before you have confirmation of 141’s safe return to American soil. A further two hours of urgent, life-saving surgery have you chewing your nails to the quick. By the time word reaches you of Soap’s stable condition, your nailbeds are bloody and raw.

“Intel confirms a convergence of Las Almas fighters on the Mexican-Guatemalan border. We believe they intend to smuggle Hassan out of Mexico and into Venezuela, where they would almost certainly grant him sanctuary. Air surveillance suggests that armed guards patrol the border twenty-four seven, concentrated significantly around a central point where we suggest they will attempt to help Hassan over it. Ghost and Soap will lead a special operations unit to kill all Las Almas fighters on sight. Captain Price and Gaz will handle Hassan and the fighters guarding him with the help of the Mexican Special Forces. Captain Price, you have execute authority, but we want Hassan alive for interrogation.”

Enraged by the complete breakdown of the mission, your mind replays your mission briefing repeatedly, scanning the tiniest of details in vain hope of understanding how such a concise and faultless plan had almost killed a vital member of your task force. You couldn’t have made it more transparent, having covered every possible eventuality. Even the risk of faulty intel had been accounted for, enough backup issued should teams Alpha and Bravo find themselves outnumbered, yet…

“Captain Price and Gaz will handle Hassan and the fighters guarding him.”

High-ranking officials sidestep you as you turn the corner to your offices, just barely escaping your warpath as you zero in on your target. The heels of your polished shoes crack against the lino flooring of the hallway like gunfire, the sound ricocheting off the walls and alerting those in your way to your fury.

Perhaps it would explain the wide-eyed shock already present in both Shepard and Captain Price aimed at the door of the General’s office when you throw it open with rage.

“John!”

“I fucked up--“he attempts to assure you of his guilty conscience, gesturing vaguely to his commanding officer, who no doubt had already laid into him over his poor decision-making. It does little to dispel the bubbling temper that churned in your stomach and coated your tongue with a sour taste.

“You’re damn right, you fucked up,” you scoff loudly, watching Price cross his thick, bulky arms across his chest as he surrenders to your verbal onslaught. “Your decision to ignore my plan and, arguably, go AWOL nearly cost Johnny his life! I’d issued a faultless mission briefing and paired you with Gaz against Hassan! With Gaz!”

General Shepard watched you chew up Price from his seat at his desk, lacing his fingers across the surface littered with pictures that looked as though they’d been ripped from the bodycam and air surveillance footage of the failed mission. Photographic evidence of Price’s incompetency—or rather, his blind faith in himself that he could singlehandedly take on a small army of Las Almas fighters and legendary terrorist fighter Major Hassan Zyani.

A bitter spark flashes across Captain Price’s cerulean eyes, his inflammatory retaliation worming its way between his gritted teeth and rumbling in his chest.

“It’s easy for you to criticise my split-second decisions when you sit behind a desk every mission, barkin’ orders with coffee in your hand.”

It’s a miracle that you restrain yourself, momentarily considering issuing a reminder of your military prowess in the form of hand-to-hand combat. If it weren’t for the haggard strain of John’s voice from his bellowed EVAC orders in a desperate attempt to save Soap’s life, you’d have connected your balled-up fists to his face. Instead, you spit in retaliation.

“Need I remind you that before I used to call the shots, I used to shoot people?”

Price lets out a bitter laugh, shaking his head at your comment and opening his mouth to argue. You don’t let him, smothering the threat of his stupid rebuttal of ‘with what, a water pistol?’.

“Your decision to pursue Hassan nearly killed Johnny,” you repeat the undeniable fact, punctuating it with a violent jab of your finger towards him, “Do you realise how close I was to calling into Scotland? How close I was to organising the coffin to bring him home in? How dare you undermine me- disrespect the resume that put me in that seat and the people I killed to get there, Captain.”

If it weren’t for you, Price’d be standing in the pews of a church in Glasgow, draped in black and drenched in red.

Clearing his throat suddenly from his seat, General Shepard just barely splits the brutal tension bludgeoning your skull in the form of a migraine that only seemed to arise in the presence of Captain John Price. It thumps against your temple when Shepard makes a show of standing from his seat and pointing to the door.

“I can leave you both here to sort out your differences. The last thing you will both do is undermine my authority by screaming like petulant children in the corridor in front of my colleagues. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, sir,” you both manage to address him, eyes still pinned to each other like a missile’s locking system. Shepard grunts, and you note the twitch of a muscle in Price’s lower eyelid, his anger threatening to claw its way out of his face before he erupted with it.

The door to Shepard’s office swings open, heavy footsteps passing the threshold. In a sick, comedic chain of events, he doesn’t bother to pull it closed again. Instead, it creaks as the hinge closes achingly slowly.

You feel sick when you stare at Price. Not because you fear the words he could aim towards you in a critical hit—instead, you felt nausea at the concept of hearing the gravelly tone of his voice alone, the stabling force of your commanding officer absent.

It’s a dirty little secret that you’d never allowed yourself to speak. Even four Proseccos deep into a rare Christmas gathering of 141, you’d swallowed the word bile down that threatened to use your inebriation to rid yourself of the guilt. Price had admonished your choice of alcohol that night, commenting on how you could have chosen something better- like whiskey. The rumble of his voice in his sarcastic assessment had pooled in your stomach like the liquid amber he had suggested.

How could you possibly admit that the tone of his voice, so gritty and deep, swelled in your clit when you went to bed at night. That you replayed the ridiculous, pathetic one-liners he’d utter over the coms to you. The one time you’d issued a warning of an incoming threat, and Price had offered thanks in the only form he knew to give you: “Tha’s a girl”. You’d made a late-night Amazon order for new bedsheets and a mattress protector that same evening.

Click.

The door shuts, and the sound makes you jump as though John had slammed his fist on a big, red nuclear button.

“Are you done?”

The swallow that drags down your throat at the husked whisper he’d started with is far more audible in the now silent room. The spiteful gaze you had levelled at Price melts away, transfixing on him instead with something akin to dumb-struck, doe-eyed idiocy.

“P-Pardon?” You stumble over the two-syllable word that had confidently come to mind. Working in a building that relied so much on manners, there was absolutely no excuse for butchering a word you used upwards of fifty times a day.

Price’s eyebrow arches pointedly at you, the flickering ember in his irises that had previously resembled an inextinguishable fury instead glows with an amused curiosity at your very sudden surrender.

“Are you done making me look like a rookie in front of General Shepard?” He clarifies, stalking forward. He crosses the space between you both with long, cocky strides that make your heart pump double time when he finally settles in front of you. “Are. You. Done?”

“Hah-!” You laugh. You mean for it to mock his ridiculous notion, but instead, it’s all choked, nervous and airy because that damn voice knocks the oxygen from your lungs like he’d rendered a sucker punch to your gut. Price’s eyes pin you to your spot on the floor, root your feet to the coffee-stained carpet.

It’s utterly infuriating how he tilts his head in a smug observation of your panicked expression. You can see the exact moment he notes the tremble of your inhaled breath and the heat of your arousal rolling off your body. Fuck-

“John-“

There it is. Comprehension. The glistening sweat at your temple, the wide-eyed nervousness in your expression, and the breathy whisper of his name all surged forward and lit the bulb of realisation in his mind. You can practically see the golden glow of it in his pupils, a switch tck’ing when he murmurs an ‘oh’.

His lips split into a toothy, wily grin, “Oh, look at you, Station Chief.”

You bristle with panic with the way he makes a point to emphasise your rank, your lips parting in shock when he reaches up to grasp your chin in his hand.

“Who are you to question my decisions? You don’t even know if you want my cock in your mouth or your cunt.”

The sheer filth he utters makes your head reel as though he’d fed you some of his mind-numbing whiskey. You’re confident you’re gawping at him when he smirks at your reaction, his calloused thumbpad brushing across the bridge of your jaw. It reminds you of the way he caresses the trigger of a sniper rifle before he fires it and how you’d spent so many nights imagining that touch when you circled your clit-

“How ’bout we start with your mouth?” He urges you with a smokiness that rivals the puffs of his cigar. You loathed him for his smoking habits when the acrid scent clung to your hair but worshipped him for it when you buried your nose into your pillows when you came with a silent cry of his name.

You see his smirk widen suddenly, and it takes you far too long to realise that you’d let out a devastating whine at his lurid suggestion. John’s fingers and thumb settle on the pillowy flesh of your cheeks on either side of your mouth, pushing against them until your lips are pursed. It’s undignified, far beneath your station, but then-

“Gunna wanna open that mouth nice an’ wide for me, Dove.”

You sink to the floor of your commanding officer’s office floor before your rational mind even has a chance to talk you out of the offence- or acknowledge the choice of pet name that cheekily undermined your call sign. Your perfectly tailored office trousers crease beneath the weight of your knees… But suffering through cleaning and ironing them again was worth the rumble of a groan that fell from John’s lips as he watched you kneel for him.

“Fuck,” Price hums in appreciation, those gorgeous sky-blue irises swallowed by the midnight black of his pupils once more, “Spend all your time issuin’ orders, but you just needed someone else to take control, didn’ you, Love?”

For a moment, you hesitate. It’s improper, the way your knees ache with the hard floor beneath them. A tiny, quiet voice urges you to stand and rush out of the room before you damage your reputation any further, but the clink of John’s standard-issue belt buckle has your jaw falling slack before the idea can truly take root.

“Look at you,” he stresses again as he pulls the length of the belt from its loops with a slow thwppp sound, “So greedy for my cock. Anyone would think you’d been desperate for it all this time.”

John drags down his zipper, watching you look at him through your lashes. You don’t dismiss his hypothesis, instead choosing to stick your tongue out for him in an obscene act of fervour. The haggard groan that lurches from John’s lungs settles deep inside your cunt.

“You filthy girl,” he gasps, hurrying his hand into his trousers. He doesn’t even strip the pants from his hips, instead fishing his cock from his boxers and settling his balls against their waistband. “You have, haven’t you? How often did you touch yourself beneath the table while I spoke to you over the comms? Hmm?”

You’re so far gone now, so drunk on the idea of the agitating, ridiculous, utterly infuriating Captain finally fucking you that you might have answered that question-- if you’d heard it. Instead, his voice, which previously captured every fibre of your attention, drowned into the background of the thumping pulse in your ears. His cock sits just in front of your face, and it’s like you can’t breathe.

Ruddy and red at the tip, his cock already drools precum down the curve of its shaft. Veins throb beneath the thin, velvety skin, their ridges glistening beneath the wet tracks that his leaking seed leaves. It settles at the base, where his heavy balls rest against his boxer’s elastic waistband.

His question dies in the thick tension in the air, and you lean forward on your knees to press your drooling tongue right at the base of John’s cock where his precum pools. Your unexpected starting position causes John to spit out a curse, his fingers flying out to grip the strands of hair at the crown of your skull. “S-Shit-“

Saltiness coats your tongue where you lap up his cum, flattening your tongue against the underside of his shaft to trace his pronounced frenulum. Dragging your tastebuds upwards, you collect the tracks the droplets had left behind until the tip of your tongue rests on the underside of his fat cockhead. It’s disgusting, the relieved whine that escapes your open throat, but the vibration tips Captain John Price over the edge.

“Fuck! Eyes on me, Dove. Wanna see your eyes- that’s it.” John’s face contorts, brows creasing, and the edges of his lips turned down beneath the coarse hair of his beard as you look up at him, kissing the head of his velvety dick and slipping it into your mouth.

“Take orders so well. So obedient,” he purrs, the rumbling sound edging into a moan when you ease more of him into your mouth. He’s trying to play off the power dynamic, you note. Getting off on the fact that you’re his superior, but that he held the authority like this. A playful resentment teases the edge of your mind, urging you to remind him of his place.

You drag the edges of your teeth over his shaft. Not hard enough to hurt- just enough for a singing hiss to echo in the quiet room when you pull back from his cock.

It’s a mistake.

John grasps your hair at the back of your head, winding the strands around your fingers and suddenly rocks his hips forward. The length of his cock slides deep down your throat, and you splutter as your nose crushes into his pubic bone. “Couldn’t fuckin’ help yourself, could you?”

His gravelly reprimand swirls a ghost-like touch around your clit, and you gag around the length that intrudes against your throat walls. Price tuts softly, feeling your nails dig into his flesh beneath the camo canvas still covering his muscular thighs. It’s only when tears cling to your lashes that he draws your head back with a pull of your hair.

Gasping down a heavy breath, you splutter when John groans loudly. His cock twitches, drooling more precum as you gasp for breath, and he drags his eyes across your face. “Good fuckin’ girl. Takin’ me like that- didn’t it feel good?”

God, you’re nodding pathetically, tongue already lolling from your lips in a silent plea for more. The heaviness of his cock against your tongue and the vibrations of his lurid tone are enough for you to cum on their own, and you want more of them. John groans, a chuckle settling somewhere between the sound as he grasps the nape of your neck.

“Jus’ like that, you dirty girl,” he urges you, his free hand tapping at his balls in a wordless order. This time, you obey, tonguing over his finger before taking one of his balls into your mouth. You can hear the shaky exhale that rattles in his lungs when you suck.

“So fuckin’ good for me. I’ll fuck you against that desk one day, you hear?” You see him point in the corner of your vision, his index finger aiming at General Shepard’s desk. Realisation slams into you and rocks your clit with arousal- Shepard could walk in at any second and see his right-hand man stuffing Captain Price’s cock down her throat in the ultimate show of disrespect. John doesn’t seem worried about it. In fact, it’s as though he gets off on the idea, his eyes darting to the door as he details his plans for you.

“Think you’d look real nice on it. Far better than ‘is tacky nameplate. We’d make a mess together, get our cum all over it so he can smell jus’ how wrecked I left you-“

Moaning around the length of his cock, your clit throbbing desperately with his words, the vibrations cause John’s hips to lurch forward again. The head of his dick prods the back of your throat, but John’s tight grip doesn’t allow you to pull back. He’s buried to the hilt, twitching against your palate.

“Fuckin’ droolin’ for it, Love. It’s dripping down your chin—Fuck, you look so pretty like this,” He’s slurring his words as he watches you bob your head up and down on his length, swallowing around him and just barely holding back your gag reflex. It’s quick, messy, and loud, the wet sounds ricocheting off the office’s walls.

“D’you think he’s got cameras in here?” John muses, his voice thick with his incoming orgasm. The sound of it, the arousal coating his tongue has you whining desperately, “Why don’t you touch yourself, hmm? Give ’im a show.”

You sob around his girth like he’d just offered you a miracle. Fumbling, you don’t even bother wasting time trying to shove your hand down your trousers. Your fingers find the vague outline of your cunt through the crotch, roughly circling your clit through the layers of material.

It’s all you need. Your eyes roll back into your skull at just how close you are to cumming, your thighs trembling beneath your weight. You soaked through your panties and into the crotch of your trousers.

“Fuckin’ slutty girl,” John gasps, and you feel his cock jump at the sight of you already teetering on the edge, “’s my voice getting’ you off? Fuck, you’re fuckin’ perfect-“

Stop. Stop; you need him to stop. Your orgasm is ebbing at the edges of your abdomen, threatening to swallow you whole and drawing up tight, but John won’t shut the fuck up.

“C’mon, Love. Deeper. Deeper, that’s it. I’ll fuckin’ lick your pretty pussy if yo-“

His promises drown out with the surge of bliss that roars in your ears. Price times it perfectly, rocking his cock further down your throat so that you gag around his length. The lack of oxygen causes your nerve endings to sing when it cracks down your spine, bursting through your abdomen and spidering across your limbs like white-hot plasma.

Everything is loose with ecstasy, and it allows Price to issue one, two, three more brutal thrusts of his hips before he’s choking out a haggard warning that he’s going to cum.

“F-Fuck-“He chokes out, holding the nape of your neck before burying himself as deep as he possibly can without choking you, hot ropes of cum spurting down your throat. Even in your post-orgasm haze, mind numb, you swallow him down greedily. Big, heavy gulps, even licking your lips when he removes his dick from your throat to milk out the last drops of his cum onto them.

“Tha’s my girl, good, don’t let a drop go to waste.”

Price’s hand pushes back the mess of your hair from your face, careful to remove the strands that had clung to your tear-soaked eyelashes. You hold your breath, heart stilling its rapid beat as he brushes his thumb across your cheekbone to swipe up the tear tracks that had leaked from your eyes during his assault on your throat. It’s a single moment of tenderness, barely there, before he withdraws his touch to stuff himself back into his pants.

“Can you stand?” Price asks, his voice even hoarser than when you’d first walked into the room, like the moans you’d elicited from him were like sandpaper in his already raw throat. He holds out a palm- but you’re not cock-dumb enough to believe it’s a makeshift olive branch.

“Yes,” you whisper, matching his brutalised tone with your own as you bat away the helping hand he offers you. Price can’t help but scoff at your dismissal. Turns out even a dick down your throat wasn’t enough to change your uptight attitude. He watches you stand on shaky feet, trying to smooth out your creased knees before Shepard could wonder how exactly you’d made such a mess of yourself.

Besides your heaving breaths, still desperately pulling oxygen in your lungs to soothe the burn, the room is silent. Price finishes righting himself, smoothing his fingers through his cropped hair.

“Don’t forget what I said,” he murmurs, eyes sliding over to the desk. His promise to fuck you on it only barely re-enters your mind following a pointed look. Satiated somewhat by the blistering orgasm that had ripped through you, your rage struggles to roar to life like it had when you’d entered this room. Now it smelt like sex, and your anger only simmers in the base of your stomach.

“That is not happening again,” you promise him firmly.

“Mhmm,” he hums, following Shepard’s footsteps towards the door, “We’ll see about that, Dove.” 

cod mwii/kinktober taglist:

@mockerycrow @bubuslutty @cheezitwh0re @haunt3dh3art @levi-llama @thebiscuitsheep @maelstrom007 @alexxavicry @bug-sy-boy @glennrheesworld @kittenfrostt @luvfromkat @blingblong55 @whore4dilfs @wolfyland07 @doggydale @dog55teeth @cabreezer0117 @cathnoneofyourbusiness @marygraceee @thatchickwiththecamera @legend-o-zelda @whore-for-anime @i-love-ghost @cyberpr1m3 @mockerycrow @bubuslutty @lundenloves @cheezitwh0re @haunt3dh3art @babychoi03 @infectedkura @allekat1988 @whore-for-anime @soupbinsoup @passi0np1t @mockerycrow @cyberpr1m3 @i-love-ghost @allekat1988 @infectedkura @babychoi03 @freakquenci @maviee @yunggoblin @sleepystaarr @watyousayin @soupbinsoup @passi0np1t @damn-dean-blog @pheonyxmoon @magicalreviewphantom @limegreenbabx @johfaam0 @iaur @justsayk

@mortallyuniquepeach @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog @crybaby-blue-blog @heart-atttack @pansa-1-san @maviee @emotion-no-hot-yes-hotel-trivago @s-u-t @ghostslynx @solidly-indulgent @glitterypirateduck @gummyfang @bii-aan-ckaa @konigsblog @crissteetee @crissteetee67 @sylvanasthebansheequeen @akaym2 @exploremyworldsm @thriving-n-jiving @su57 @cabreezer0117 @cathnoneofyourbusiness @marygraceee @thatchickwiththecamera @legend-o-zelda @eatingtheworldsoffanfiction @tusk89 @bellasbees01 @dog55teeth

[radiocrypt-id]

I got- I can't!

Imagine being 15, you've grown up your whole life with this one belief in this one God and you were told you were Chosen by Him, for Him. And you're 15. You believe so fully in the spirit of your religion, not necessarily the word, that you want to go to a non-religious school to try and help other kids maybe find your God because you genuinely believe that could be helpful to some of them, because it's all you know, and it's helped other strangers (human trafficking victims she helped in the black pit before) so why not other kids her age? You're 15 and all you can think about is helping others. And you start thinking about your religion, and reading books, and asking questions and you come to the conclusion that maybe your God and His Father aren't actually all that great. Maybe the church you're in has done some really bad things that you can't possibly make up for. Maybe that church is still doing bad things. And then you find out your family is actually in a cult for that God, not just part of the normal church, and you suddenly have to undo all the cult shit in your brain you were raised with, while that cult stuff you know about is actually useful to your friends, like having that knowledge is helpful for them! You're 15 and you stop going home. You have no real adult supervision or carer, just your other 15 year old friends.

Imagine you're 16, you're gay and figuring that out on top of navigating your first full romantic relationship and being the sole creator and cleric to a new God that you honestly find to be very two dimensional and empty. You're on a quest to find an evil being and stop them. You nearly die. Your friends nearly die. You're 16. You're 16 and feel something calling out to you, you know it's divine because you've felt that sort of pull before, but you've never felt one like this. You find memories and hints and pieces and you figure out that the evil being you have to stop, isn't evil, she's just hurting. She's hurt and She's a God. She's your God, and she's so happy to see you, and she has so many ideas, and so many hopes.

You're 17. You've spent your rest time (summer vacation) tearing across the world chasing down and defeating another evil thing that you and your friends accidentally released in the first place. Your God is with you, you have no time for Her. No time for anything but trying to survive and stay sane. You know She's disappointed in you, but you're one person -ONE PERSON- and you're 17. You missed your birthday. again. You've saved the world; again. You're so fucking tired -like always. You're Chosen, and alone, and have no idea what to do with your life, let alone your God. You aren't very good at school, but you go to every class. You're drowning as you try to rewrite your understanding of the world from what you grew up with, having no idea how to do anything without a book and godly hand to guide you. You only ever followed before, your new God is demanding you Lead. You don't know how. You're only 17. You see your horrible, abusive parents spitting abuse and racist rhetoric at your baby brother, who you haven't seen in two years, on the front steps to your school and for the first time ever you are filled with righteous fury. Your God answers your call, not knowing what you need but so eager to help, eager for your attention, she starts talking to you but you're busy -why can't she understand that you're fucking busy? trying to not die, trying to be safe, trying to keep your friends alive, trying to navigate a world that hates you, you're 17 and you're busy goddammit just wait!- and she snaps back at you and flees. The next time you see Her, maybe an hour later, She's got a creature with Her that nearly destroyed you and your friends last year sitting in her lap, so smug to see you again.

You're 17- no, 16- no, 15 years old and you're expected to build and carry the world on your shoulders, Chosen from birth, raised a lamb to follow a Shepard, not to be followed behind. You have no one and nothing and everyone expects everything and you can't back up, you can't pause because if you do someone dies and doesn't come back. You have to be a hero, a chosen, a saint. The steps behind you crumble to dust with each step you take forward and the new one is already cracking under your weight. There are only wrong choices. There's no hand reaching for you. God, you were taught, will save and guide you. God knows best. Why is your God looking to you, a mortal human, to be saved, raised and guided? You're a child.

You're just a child.

You just want to go home, wherever that is. You thought it was your God, but She's not exactly helping you out either, is She? She's just disappointed. Like everyone else. Like you.

You're 17. You think it would have been better to never do any of this. It would have been easier to stay, blind and naive. Sometimes you think you should have stayed in heaven. Sometimes you think about the God you killed by not being good enough for it. Sometimes you lay on the floor and stare at the ceiling and pretend you don't exist for awhile. Sometimes you work your body so hard you forget it's there and your mind shuts up and you exist without being you. Sometimes you wish you never asked any questions or read any books. You're 17, but sometimes you wish you were 15, with no idea yet.

You're 17. You wish you were good enough.

[criminalamnesia]

Ezra, I just had a thought about your traitor series and I gotta let you know about it because if I don't, it's going to eat me alive. I know you're going to wrap it up in the near future and I want to say that from start to finish it's been a wonderfully written series. So far we're seeing how the false accusation the 141 levelled against the reader is affecting them, but I'm sure in the bigger scheme of things it's going to affect their standing in the eyes of other organizations and teams.

It comes to a head when the 141 has to work with another team for a larger scale operation, one with a lot of moving pieces and the need for all to handle things with a delicate touch. They're told right from the first second of meeting this team that they all know about the wake of Shepard's betrayal and how they subjected the 5th member of their team to things that would put most people into the ground far sooner than they had lasted.

They're told that beyond the objectives of their shared assignment, they shouldn't expect much in the way of pleasantries or niceties. They're told by the commander of this team that they are working with that the only reason they are collaborating with the 141 is because of their connection to Laswell. The change in how the 141 being received would be noticeable because this was a team they worked with amicably in the past.

Johnny's attempts at cracking jokes are met disinterested side glances. Kyle's attempts to be social are met with radio silence. John's attempts at giving orders during drills are ignored (the commander of the other squad gives the same orders to their team and they are followed).

Simon gets the worst of it.

He's met with various looks of pity at best and disgust at worst. If the 141 knew of his relationship with the reader, it's not that much of a stress that others would find out about it after the reader is discharged. To rub further salt into the wound, he'd find himself bested by the other team during sparring matches because they come at him with a single minded fury that's usually reserved for enemies.

They're told that beyond their advertised skills, they're being kept at arms length because if they're capable of turning on one of their own because of 'evidence' that although it was convincing at first glance, unravels at a second or third look, falls apart, who's to say that they won't turn on anyone else that's suspected of having ulterior motives.

It's here that the 141 realizes that although *they* emerged from this ordeal relatively unscathed, they've done just as much damage to their own reputations as they did they did to the reader physically, emotionally and mentally. They all realize that this won't be going any time soon.

your mind is so powerful!!! I actually love this. there would definitely be repercussions and I think that’s very realistic. people talk, after all. gossip is a form a currency many love to exchange.

[continuous-spec]

ME Fic: Countless Messages

Summary: Garrus' first time saying I love you.

Links: Ao3

Length: 807

Garrus woke with a jolt as Shepard kicked his spur. The blinding pain almost had him wake her up until he noticed her curled to the side, thrashing her legs in anguish. He stood and grabbed two cups of water for them and sat on the side of the bed, massaging at her back.

Her teeth started to grind away as she held her breath, then soon followed by heavy snores. It had become a cycle for her: grind, stop breathing, snore. Even in sleep, Shepard couldn’t catch her breath.

Garrus worked his hand up to her hair, softly running his hands through until her jaw unclenched and her breath began to normalize. He continued to massage circles into her back and took the datapad of reports she had studied earlier.

Notifications began to pile up, reports and messages from the Alliance coming in full fury. He read and took notes, analyzing the data for her- one less thing for her to grind her teeth about.

But the countless messages kept coming. All begging and pleading just for Shepard. Each new one tore and pulled her in different directions until she was so spent she hardly had anything left.

Still, she found the time to pour paragraphs and paragraphs of herself into the messages she sent Garrus each day. As if she was trying to make up for the six months apart.

Her messages range from war room updates to small things that he loved to read about most. From her childhood to her favorite music to trashy TV shows that she used to have time to watch.

Garrus’ favorite so far had been when she finally found Boo after his fifth escape attempt. A zoomed-in photo of a hamster in distress locked back up in his cage with several layers of duct tape wrapped around it, captioned:

“Known fugitive on the lam was finally captured and brought in. I need your expertise on this interrogation, Vakarian.”

Each message was an excuse for her to give more of herself to him. And always signed just for him with -Love S.

Love.

Garrus stumbled over the word, always catching it in his mouth the countless times he'd tried to say it. 

Garrus fell in love with Shepard as she hung from the Normandy airlock. On their final push on the Collector base, she barely made the jump. But he caught her. He held her suspended in the air, and she beamed a bright smile at him- all while gunfire surrounded them. Not that, in that moment, he allowed himself to recognize it as love.

He always expected the worst, that she’d leave. One quick fling, and she figured out she’d want something closer to home.

But she kept coming back, kept assuring, kept peppering her love into each of her actions and words towards him. With each word she sent. She gave every piece of herself to him.

Now, knowing that she would remain at his side through hell and back, a worse realization came to him: that if he said the words, he would lose her. This time, they wouldn’t have Cerebrus's funding to bring her back.

“Garrus…no, hmmm. Run!” Shepard’s chatter cut through his thoughts. Her legs thrashing out again. A whimper trembled out of her lips, and her eyebrows knitted in pain.

Garrus stroked her hair again, massaging the base of her skull. His mouth plates pressed to her hairline.

Her eyes parted with mint green iris peeking out. Her eyebrows relaxed as a small smile formed.  

"Hmmm, I love you," her words fell so easily from her lips. So open to the hurt, open to the vulnerability those three words could cause.

He could give that piece of himself, just as she had done countless times. 

“Shhhh, I’m okay. I’m here, I...I love you too, Shepard,” Garrus' voice hitched in his throat, but he continued. "We're on the Normandy, in your room. Boo's still locked away, and fish are still swimming. Everything is okay for now. Keep sleeping."

"Double-check the duct tape," she mumbled as she closed her eyes and her body pressed deeper into his touch. He caressed her face, not knowing when he'd get another chance to see her like this.

The bags under her eyes had grown heavier. The orange glow of her scars seeped through, breaking up the blue hue of the aquarium. The gray at her temples began to multiply and spread. But Shepard always looked so beautiful to him. Especially when she finally rested.

He let her go, returning to the datapad and finishing up one more thing for Shepard before she woke.

It’s late. Just got up for some water. You’re still asleep. Wanted to say how beautiful I think you are. -Love G

She at least deserved one message that didn’t ask anything of her. 

[writing-jellyfish]

Memories

Angst, '09 mw2

It's been a month since Shepard's betrayal and the loss of Roach and Ghost. Soap has been writing down the rage-filled thoughts in his journal every day, wishing, praying, begging to get his hands on Shepard for revenge. He wanted the war to end, he wanted nothing more than to murder everyone with his own hands out of fury against the world.

He draws small art in his journal only to be scribbled over by the chicken scratch of his handwriting, pencil tearing into the pages from how hard he pressed the graphite. Soap's head is filled with dangerous thoughts that would have him immediately kicked out of the SAS if anyone heard them.

He draws Ghost in a futile attempt to remember him. He remembers the structure of his face from the very few times he got to see the Lieutenant unmasked, making sure to remember it in case he needed to identify his body.

It's almost funny how you can see someone everyday and be by their side twenty-four seven but hardly remember their face. Soap grows more frustrated as he tries to draw different eyes for Ghost, trying to remember the brooding shape he always had with the charcoal irises. He almost throws his notebook into the fireplace of the small house he used to call home out of frustration and guilt.

How could he forget his own teammates face, his eyes? How could he forget and all he can remember is how badly burnt him and Roach were? He screams out his cries that are filled with agony and despair as he stares at the faceless drawing.

[18caramel]

Petals (Johnny Cade x Dallas Winston)

Warning: smut, removed slur Word count: 2.3k

A/N: What you are about to read is a part of my fanfiction on AO3 called "Bad Influence”. If you are interested in it, you can find me by my username @18caramel, or by clicking on the link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/53118478/chapters/134401192

both Dally and Johnny are 18+

images taken from Pinterest :)

Johnny didn’t know. But he sensed it.

It was Saturday night. He walked the street alone, heading back to his place. He spent some time with Darry and Two-Bit, mainly watching TV. Since Pony wasn’t home he decided he wouldn’t annoy Curtis with his presence and left, his heart aching from the thought of his parents getting drunk again. He despised it. He despised them.

His mother wasn’t home either, probably wandering somewhere downtown, while his father lay in his room, unconscious from all of the drinking they had done on Friday.

And then, when the clock struck eleven, Dally showed up. The front door opened brusquely, smashing something in its way, making Johnny instinctively jump from his bed. He approached the door, his heart racing, his hands getting sweaty. He was afraid. Afraid it would be one of his father’s friends, reckless, just like him.

Did he feel better seeing Winston standing in the doorframe, trying to pick up the empty bottle of beer, and then smashing it against the wall? Maybe he did. Johnny entered the living room, shushing his friend.

“What?” Dally’s voice was rough and unbalanced. Johnny understood then - Dallas wasn’t in his right mind. Was he ever though? - Johnny thought to himself, snorting, before coming closer to help him get into his room. He didn’t want him to wake up his dad. He could get violent.

“Come.” Johnny took Dally’s left hand, seeing that the right one was loosely holding a fresh-cut bouquet of roses if it could’ve even been called that way. Johnny knew they weren’t for him, probably for Dally’s new girlfriend, but seeing the pinkish petals falling from the sepals on the floor, he guessed that something went wrong between them.

He dragged him towards his room and made him sit on the bed. Dallas seemed to be gone, his face painted with a disheartened grimace as he threw the bouquet on the bed and rubbed his hands together, trying to calm down.

Johnny couldn’t dare to sit beside him. With his heart still abnormally beating, Johnny tried to figure out what state Dallas really was.

“Nasty broad,” Dallas suddenly mumbled, pulling his hair, alarming Johnny, “Fucked Shepard.”

“Which one?” Johnny asked, his hands shaking out of fear. Of course, he was talking about Tim, but Johnny had to make sure.

“What?” Dally looked him dead in the eyes as if he had caught his prey. Anger, deterioration, blazed through his eyes, “What did you say to me?”

“N-Nothing…” Johnny stuttered, taking a step back. But there was nowhere to go. Dallas got up from his bed like a fury and pushed his prey against the wall, his hand wrapping around Cade’s neck, beginning to choke him.

“Curly’s a fucking...*,” only then Johnny saw the red fog surrounding his pupils and reassured himself - Dallas was high, he didn’t mean it. He didn’t mean to grab him like that. He was under substances. “Thought you knew it by now.”

Johnny wanted to laugh to his face, and say meaningless things, but couldn’t. Too afraid of Dally snapping at him, Johnny planned on getting back to his bed, but Dally’s tight grip kept his fantasies far away from reality. He carefully studied Dally’s face, desiring to escape.

He wanted to shout at him ‘Aren’t you one yourself for coming here each time you need comfort’ but he never would actually do it. Johnny lacked pride. There was nothing he could ever do to fix it. Dallas was the one who talked like a piece of shit, not Johnny.

“Dal…you gotta calm down,” Johnny begged him, placing his hand on top of his, trying to remove it.

But he didn’t listen. Instead, Dallas brusquely dragged Johnny to his bed, pushing him on top of it. Johnny trembled like a puppy as Winston stood in front of him, his eyes on fire.

Johnny tried to sit up, but could only lean his elbows on the bed, too scared to stand up. Dallas watched Johnny’s frightened pupils palpitate as he scanned him further down, stopping at the fly of his jeans. Johnny gulped, staring at his friend.

“The hell you’re doing sitting like that?” Dallas hissed at him, and before Johnny could answer, Dally crawled into bed, placing his knee between Johnny’s legs. Cade whimpered, catching Dally’s attention as the tall, young hood rested above him, their eyes locked.

Johnny felt his heart skip a beat as he watched Dally’s hungry eyes devour him, bringing color to Cade’s cheeks. He was suddenly ashamed and embarrassed, reminding himself of his innocence. He felt trapped.

Eyeing the beast that blocked his way, Johnny surrendered. He let go of his fear and awkwardness, replacing them with a new feeling growing inside of him - lust. Lust for Dallas Winston.

He bit his lip, giving him a signal. Dally couldn’t wait any longer, and Johnny teasing him only ignited his craving. Dallas abruptly leaned in, pressing his lips against Johnny’s, passionately kissing him.

Johnny liked it. Dally’s aggressive state scared him to death, but also turned him on. The greaser felt it in his pants. And Dally’s knee wasn’t helping him.

Suddenly Dallas broke the kiss, grabbing Johnny’s neck. Cade couldn’t dare to move.

“You want it? Tell me, Johnny,” he held Cade by his throat as he whispered in his ear, “ I’ll stop if you ask me to.”

“Take me,” Johnny whispered back, his voice cracking. His stomach twisted and turned from what he had said. Dallas brushed a strand of Johnny’s hair away from his face, and bit his neck, leaving a crimson mark on his closest friend.

Johnny groaned, letting him do it. It was too late to back off, he got Dally so excited that he could sense it through Winston’s teeth. Johnny suddenly felt so hot and tight in his jeans and silently begged Dallas to take them off.

Winston took his jacket off and removed his t-shirt. His bare body mesmerized Johnny, and he wanted to touch it, but Dallas wouldn’t let him. After he unzipped his jeans, he gripped Johnny’s hair, sending him down to his knees, as Dally himself sat on the bed, his legs wide spread. Cade, speechless, stared at his friend.

“Show me you deserve it.” Winston’s impudent facial expression changed into a mischievous smirk as he pushed Johnny’s head closer to the bulge formed in his underwear.

Johnny felt uneasy once again, knowing that he was inexperienced.

But he chose to give it a try. He undressed Dallas completely, and let out a heavy sigh seeing his hard, fervent cock, and placed his left hand on it. Dallas leaned back, closing his eyes.

Johnny hoped that Dallas didn’t have any ferocious expectations as he licked the tip, sending an electric shock down Dally’s spine. Cade never did anything like that with anyone, so he took a deep breath and decided not to think about it too much. Dally was high anyway, he couldn’t judge him too much, could he?

He worked Dally’s length back and forth, his tongue placed under Winston's cock as he sucked it, Dally’s groans leading him to go lower and lower. It wasn’t that easy, Dally was large, so Cade could only get to the middle of his cock.

Dallas enjoyed it, but it wasn’t enough. This time, Dally gently caressed his cheek as he watched Johnny give him pleasure. His seductive eyes made Johnny feel uncomfortable, but he still appreciated his tender touch. Even if it didn’t last.

Dally grabbed Johnny’s hair one more time, lowering his head, and making Johnny instantly gag. Dallas understood and decided to switch positions.

“Let me fuck your mouth, doll.” Dallas pecked Johnny on his lips, waiting for his approval.

Cade silently nodded, mentally getting ready for it. Dallas didn’t stand on ceremony and shoved his dick right into Johnny’s mouth. He began slowly but quickly fastened his pace, watching the scene from above, gasping from pleasure. Johnny did well at the beginning, he kept his tongue below his cock as he did before, while Dallas made him salivate, but then he started to feel nauseous. Johnny leaned his hands against Dally’s thighs, letting him know that he was getting tired of it.

“Get on the bed,” Dally ordered, and Johnny executed. Johnny even took off his t-shirt, while Dallas stood naked in front of him, searching for something in the pockets of his jacket. He pulled a small vial and held it tightly in his hand.

“What is it?” Johnny asked, getting scared. Dally sat beside him on the bed and kissed him.

“Something to help you relax.” Dally explained, but saw that Johnny wasn’t convinced, “Down there.”

Cade nodded, trusting him. Dallas proceeded by stripping off Johnny’s jeans, making him blush. He never had that kind of intimacy with anyone. Dallas didn’t seem to be embarrassed by anything happening in Cade’s room. He gently stroked Johnny’s cock, making him lose control of his mouth. He moaned into Dally’s neck, his body shaking from the euphoria Winston gave him.

Dallas removed his hand and put two fingers inside Johnny’s mouth, making him suck on them. Not sensing enough moisture, Dallas spit on his hand and placed it back on Johnny’s aching cock, sliding up and down. Johnny felt like he couldn’t hold it any longer, but made an effort not to bust right there. He bit Dally’s neck instead, making Winston smile from pain.

“Dal…Dally…” Johnny groaned, holding his breath.

Hearing his begging, Dallas stopped what he was doing, not wanting Johnny to come yet. He caressed his thighs and made Johnny turn to his side, but Cade didn’t feel like the spoon position would assure him a pleasant moment. He rolled on his stomach, and stretched his arms forward, his fingers touching the rose petals that laid in front of him. He silently waited for Dallas to make the next move, not daring to look at him.

Dallas sighed, seeing the naked body lying under him as he searched the drawer for any kind of lube. He found petroleum jelly and smeared it on his cock, and then spread Johnny’s asscheeks. Cade nearly wheezed from the cold touch on his anus, feeling anxiety build up inside of him. He was about to lose his virginity.

Dally opened the bottle with the liquid before doing anything else and let Johnny sniff it. And then he admired Johnny’s back, leaving kisses all over it, making him feel better about the whole thing. He calmed down a little by then, understanding that Johnny was still new to it all, and didn’t want to hurt him.

“Johnny,” Dallas brought his attention, gently running his hand on his bare back, “You’re driving me crazy.”

“Dally, I’m a bit scared. It won’t hurt, right?”

“It might.” Dallas didn’t want to disillusion him, but had to, “Try to make me stop if I’m too rough.”

Johnny wanted to nod, but when he felt Dally’s finger slowly entering him, he got tensed up and bit his lip out of shock, forgetting how to speak.

“Relax,” Dally commanded, slapping him.

Johnny obeyed and let Dallas continue with the second finger. Cade wanted to scream by then but didn’t know if he’d do it out of pain or out of pleasure. It felt different. It was something new.

Dallas continued fingering him. Johnny groaned and arched his back as Dallas played with his hole, sticking out his fingers to lick them from time to time.

The moment came when Dallas went wild, and couldn’t wait to shove his cock inside Johnny any longer. He came on top and rubbed his cock in between Johnny’s cheeks, making him gasp from excitement.

As Dally entered him, Johnny felt his eyes swell with tears one more time. When Dallas felt the tightness of Johnny’s hole, he couldn’t be so gentle anymore and precipitately slipped his cock inside of Cade, who flinched from the sharp pain.

“Dally!” Johnny screamed, biting his hand, trying to shut up. It was bad enough that his father was home, but if his mother would get back and see it, she’d send him off to a mental hospital.

“Fuck,” Winston stayed still for a moment, devouring it, “You’re so tight, angel.”

Johnny smiled through the pain, but it faded as soon as Dallas started to move, instating a certain pace. As he thrust, Dallas felt ecstatic, so he went deeper and deeper, ignoring Johnny’s whines that turned him on even more. He grabbed Johnny’s hair and pulled it, wanting Cade to arch his back.

Dallas fucked him harder and harder, and Johnny couldn’t hold it anymore. Stimulating his prostate, Dally felt Johnny being close, and wrapped his hand around Cade’s cock, stroking it.

Johnny let out a scream of pleasure as he reached his orgasm, cumming on the bed sheets. Dally was unstoppable from then on, he banged Johnny so hard that the greaser below him couldn’t feel his anus anymore. Winston was rough and made Cade tear up as he thrust, his balls slapping against Johnny’s asscheeks.

Dallas whimpered as he came inside, crushing on the bed next to Johnny. Cade finally felt relieved, as he breathed into the pillow, trying hard not to cry. He enjoyed it, but it was emotionally devastating.

Winston smiled. He kept his eyes closed for a moment but then sat up in Johnny’s bed, taking the flowers in his hands. He ripped the remaining petals and threw them on top of Johnny, giggling.

“Don’t make any more mess.” Johnny rolled his eyes as he turned around and laid on his back, his eyes studying Dallas.

“We already messed up,” Dally sighed, noticing the hickey he left on Johnny’s neck, “Why not make it pretty?”

˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖

A/N: thank u for reading! for a more in-depth story you can find it on AO3 "Bad Influence" by @18caramel, here’s the link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/53118478/chapters/134401192

[average-mako-enjoyer]

One of my moots just asked me how I envision the Shepard twins dynamic, and it's pretty much this:

What the fuck did you just fucking say about me, you little bitch? I'll have you know I graduated top of my class in the N7, and I've been involved in numerous secret raids on Batarian slavers and I have over 300 confirmed kills. I am trained in gorilla warfare and I'm the top sniper in the entire Systems Alliance.

You are nothing to me but just another target. I will wipe you the fuck out with precision the likes of which has never been seen before in this galaxy, mark my fucking words.

I can kill you in over seven hundred ways, and that's just with my bare hands. Not only am I extensively trained in unarmed combat, but I have access to the entire arsenal of the Spectre Unit and I will use it to its full extent to wipe your miserable ass off the face of this planet, you little shit. You think you can get away with saying that shit to me? Think again, fucker.

You know what? I am going to contact my friend the Shadow Broker, so you better prepare for the storm, maggot. The storm that wipes out the pathetic little thing you call your life. I will shit fury all over you and you will drown in it.

Also, this is my brother, and he will fuck you up.

Hi. I will fuck you up.

[fictionalcanadianshowdown]

Kaidan Alenko is from the video game series Mass Effect. He is a marine with Biotic powers. He is a romance option for Shepard.

Wolverine is from Marvel Comics. Cursed with a berserker fury, the violent mutant known as Wolverine has a reputation of both as an outstanding superhero and as a lethal killer. He is from Cold Lake, Alberta.

[alittlebitofloveliness]

Shepard Angst Fic

Y'all are getting this here before I edit it and post it on ao3 tomorrow because I am desperate for external validation and because I NEED folks to cry over my self imposed Shepard sibling angst.

**************

“Angel!”

Angela Shepard is no stranger to yelling. The name Shepard carries with it the guarantee of a temper hotter than the late Autumn sun and the vocal cords to make sure the whole street knows it. Ma is only ever happy when she’s hacked off, Curly has never once been quiet for longer than three seconds back to back, and she herself wears fury like socy girls wear their hair ribbons. 

So yes, she’s no stranger to yelling– but she ain’t never heard Curly yell like that. He doesn’t sound mad, he sounds scared– and that is infinitely worse. There isn’t a lot that scares Curly Shepard, or any Shepard really. They’ve all seen too much.

“Goddamnit Angel,” Curly roars again, “get out here and bring the first aid kit!”

That spurs her to action and she snatches the small first aid kit out from under the bathroom sink and hightails it to the living room.

Curly is there, wide eyed, Tim propped up against him. For a second Angela doesn’t realize what the problem is. When she does, her brain refuses to let her believe it.

A dark stain is spreading rapidly across the side of Tim’s shirt, even as Curly half drags half carries him over to the couch and deposits him on it as gently as he can. Despite how careful Curly’s being, a pained grunt still forces its way out from between Tim’s clenched teeth.

“Call Manuel,” Curly orders, naming Tim’s second in command, “get him to bring the truck back now and be ready to drive. And get Sylvia down here too.”

Running to the kitchen, she dials Manuel’s home number and hurriedly explains the situation, cold terror making her harsher than usual. She doesn’t bother trying to get ahold of Sylvia- Sylvie knows everything that happens on the east side, she’s probably already on her way.

“What happened?” She demands as soon as she gets back to the living room. Curly’s hands are slippery with blood and he’s got a wad of rapidly reddening gauze pressed tightly against the wound in Tim’s stomach. Her older brother’s face is twisted in pain, his breathing even more laboured than it was a minute ago, tight gasps forcing themselves out from behind clenched teeth.

She’s seen knife wounds before, of course she has. Connor Tyrril from the Brumly gang had died from an infected knife wound last year, and Tim and even Curly had been sliced before, long gashes that eventually faded into rough scars– but never anything like this. The slashes they’d sustained in the past were meant to hurt, but this wound was very specifically meant to kill. 

She doesn’t know what to do. 

“Who did it?” She demands, hands fluttering uselessly. Curly seems to have a handle on what to do, his wide eyes at odds with his steady hands, counting under his breath as he applies pressure, but Angela doesn’t have a clue how to help and isn’t even sure that she can. “What happened?”

“A few of the boys from Tiber street apparently weren’t too fond of Tim’s latest shipment,” Curly explains, pressing a new piece of gauze over the others, already soaked through with blood. 

“Names Carlos.”

“Dustin Blackwell and Ian Forrester. Tried to fight ‘em off but they had about seven buddies backing ‘em.”

“They’re dead.” Angela vows, horrified to feel the way her eyes are stinging. She means it too. If anything happens to Tim those assholes are dead, juvie and jail and records be damned. The steely look buried under the panic in Curly’s eyes tells her he agrees.

Tim groans, despite how hard Angela can tell he’s trying to hold it back, and Curly stiffens, hands jerking slightly and tearing another horrible sound from Tim’s throat.

“Go see if there’s any more gauze somewhere,” he orders, pressing the last of the stuff over Tim’s wound, the fabric reddening as if by magic, “grab some of my t-shirts if you can’t find any.”

Angela runs to do as she’s bid, wishing she could do something, anything else. For all Curly is usually the last person who should be left in charge of anything, let alone any sort of crisis, right now he seems to be about the only person who knows what to do and Angela can’t help but cling to it like a lifeline. She can’t fix Tim, but she can sure as hell help Curly help him and if all she can do is grab t-shirts, you can best believe she’ll grab the whole stack in her drawer and Curly’s too.

She can’t have been gone more than thirty seconds but Tim is noticeably worse when she returns, sweat beading on his forehead, his skin looking closer to grey than its usual light brown. 

“Hold this for me,” Curly nods to the wad of gauze he’s pressing on with both hands, “don’t worry about hurtin’ him, just press as hard as you can. I’m gonna check his pulse.”

Tim lets out an almost inhuman scream the second she touches him, and it’s almost enough to have her jerk away and apologize if that wouldn’t render the whole thing useless. Curly waits until Angela’s hands are pressing hard beside his before he deigns to move one away, deftly pressing two fingers under Tim’s neck with one hand, counting under his breath. It seems like a long time before he stops counting even though the clock says it wasn’t more than a minute, and the tightness in his jaw belies his anxiety. 

Not good then- or getting worse.

“Well?” She snaps, too full of fear to know what to do with it, trying to hide behind a more familiar anger.

“It’s slow,” Curly snaps right back, her twin in soul and temperament and right now a visceral type of fear, “and gettin’ worse. He’s fucking bleeding out, Angel what’d you expect!”

“Shut up! He ain’t gonna bleed out! Shut up!”

Curly glares a second longer before his mask slips just a bit and she sees herself in his blue eyes. For a second they’re three years old again and Tim is in the reformatory and they’re both so hungry and alone and scared it feels like nothing will ever be okay again. Then she blinks, and Curly’s jaw tightens, and they’re back to now, in a no less horrible present.

“Damnit,” Curly snarls, but his voice breaks, “where the fuck is Manuel?”

“Quit arguin’” Tim speaks for the first time since Curly dragged him in and Angela could sob. His voice is the same gruff bark it’s always been, just as steady as it always is despite his laboured breathing, even as his lean form has started to shake uncontrollably under her hands, making it hard to keep the gauze and now one of her own t-shirts pressed against his wound, “and listen’ to me.”

Curly watches him with wide eyes, forever in awe, the way he’s always been, always willing to follow Tim anywhere, even off a cliff. Of course, Angela can't exactly blame him when she’s the exact same way.

“L-listen,” Tim repeats, his black eyes shining with an emotion Angela can’t place, and she is listening because its Tim talking and he always knows what to do. He’s going to tell them what to do and he’s going to be okay. They’ll do what he says and everything will be fine. “Listen.”

He swallows, grimacing as he lets out another strained breath before his sharp eyes focus on them again. 

“You’re good kids,” he says, fierce, so fierce, and Angela blinks because that isn’t right, it isn’t a plan, it isn’t a way to fix this. And it isn’t even true. She and Curly are about as far from good kids as it’s possible to be.

“You’re good kids,” Tim repeats with conviction, like he can hear what she’s thinking, “don’t let nobody tell you otherwise, savvy? I’m damn proud of you. Both of you.”

“Tim-”

“Good kids,” His eyes have taken on an almost glassy quality, “My kids.”

His entire body goes limp. Angela screams.

Manuel chooses that exact moment to burst through the door, Sylvia on his heels, and there's no time, no time for anything anymore except for Curly to grab Tim’s shoulders and Manuel grab his feet, and Angela try to keep pressure on that fucking stab wound all the way to the truck and then to the hospital until a team of nurses rolls Tim away on a gurney. Even then, the only reason they manage it is because Sylvia and Curly both half drag her away.

“Let go, I’m goin’ with him!”

“You can’t.” Sylvia’s voice cuts like a blade. “They ain’t gonna let you in the operation’ room Angel, so quit havin’ a fit and come sit in the waitin’ room.”

“Shepards stick together.” Angela turns to Curly for support but Curly doesn’t seem to be all here right now, staring vacantly into space and trembling like a leaf. “Right Curls?”

“C’mon,'' Sylvia shakes her head when Curly doesn’t answer, “We aren’t doin’ much good for ol’ Timmy in this parking lot, and we won’t do much more in the waitin’ room but at least there’ll be a place to sit.”

Unable to argue, Angela follows Sylvia inside, Curly trailing dreamlike after them, and they sit in the waiting room and do just that: wait. Manuel had left as soon as the doctors got Tim inside so he isn’t there with them, but Angela can’t find it in herself to care. Tim runs a gang, not a family. Manuel knows that as well as any of them.

Angela squeezes her hands into fists to stop the tremble in her fingers. Wonders how Sylvia can still be so unfeeling when her best friend has just been stabbed. Decides she doesn’t care. Watches as Curly slowly returns to himself, pulling out a cigarette and offering her one. They both pretend it’ll stop their hands from shaking. They’re both wrong.

She wants to do something. To start a fight or cause a problem, maybe kick up a fuss in the food court or swear at a nurse, do something to assuage the fear and the anger burning it’s way through her chest, do anything that isn’t just sit here and wait.

You’re good kids, Tim’s words echo in her head every time she’s about to get up and do something, keeping her rooted to the stupid plastic chair, doomed seemingly forever to the horrific purgatory of the waiting room. She isn’t a good kid, but Tim thinks she is, so she can be, at least for now, at least until she knows he’s okay.

“Anyone here for Timothy Shepard?”

Angela’s on her feet immediately, Curly at her side. Sylvia rises more languidly to face the woman at the nurses station, cool as ever.

“I don’t have any news yet,” the nurse says apologetically, seeing Angela and Curly’s tense faces, “I’m sorry. I just need someone to fill out the intake forms. Is he a minor?”

For a second Angela hates the warm faced woman more than she’s ever hated anyone.

“He’s eighteen,” Sylvia strolls forward, reaching a manicured hand towards the woman’s clipboard, “I’ll fill it out.”

The nurse starts to hand the clipboard to her, then freezes. “Um, I’m only supposed to give it to an emergency contact…”

“I’m his wife,” Sylvia lies smoothly, “you ain’t gonna keep me from seein’ my husband. I doubt he’s even got anyone listed considerin’ we only recently got hitched.”

The nurse checks the chart again. 

“What’d you say your name was?”

“Sylvia Shepard. Maiden name Devares.”

“Well it’s true he ain’t got anyone listed…” Angela can see the nurse crumbling, “I don’t suppose you got your marriage licence with you?”

“‘Course I do,” Sylvia reaches into her cleavage and pulls out the forged marriage certificate Curly had made a few months back when Sylvia needed Tim’s help opening a bank account, “there, see?”

The nurse glances at it and finally passes over the clipboard. 

“My apologies Mrs. Shepard.”

Angela winces. Sylvia is many things, but she ain’t a Shepard, and she sure as shit ain’t Tim’s wife. Still, the charade has worked wonders in the past, and it’s working wonders again now.

“Thanks.” Sylvia offers her a perfunctory smile and turns on her heel, strutting back to her seat, Angela and Curly trailing behind.

“What’s takin’ so long?” Curly mutters to her, while Sylvia purses her lips, flipping through the forms, “we’ve been here an hour. How’s he still in surgery?”

Angela doesn’t know, so she doesn’t answer.

They wait.

Sylvia finishes filling the pages with her chicken scratch handwriting and returns them to the nurses desk. An ambulance arrives with some broad sporting a gunshot wound. Nurses bustle, doctors hustle, people come in and out of the waiting room, and still, they are not called.

Curly’s knee bounces more with each passing minute. Sylvia looks so bored Angela could slap her. Something somewhere is beeping and Angela is going to lose her mind.

“Family of Timothy Shepard?”

He hates being called Timothy, is all she can think this time, when a doctor gives them a practiced sympathetic look and tells them Tim's finally out of surgery and they can see him. He says a bunch of other stuff too, but Angela doesn’t understand half of it, and she isn’t really listening anyway because they can see Tim now and everything's gonna be okay.

Then they walk into the hospital room and Angela’s world shatters.

She is used to Tim being many things- tough and smart, the type of responsible someone only becomes when you walk the fine line between being a father and a brother. She is used to his rage, the one thing he inherited from both parents, is used to the cold fury he tries to mask it with, with the almost inhuman level of self control he wields like a knife. She is used to Tim fighting, lying, cheating. To Angela, Tim has always been untouchable, larger than life. Not a hero, no, but not a villain either, instead something amorphous and not entirely human, more powerful than anyone else she knows. Now though, for the first time in years, he looks entirely, brokenly human. 

And small. That isn’t right, Tim isn’t small, has always towered over her and Curly, even now they're going on thirteen and have finally started to properly grow. 

He’s lying on a pillow, his brown skin still has that same bloodless grey tinge as earlier, even though at least two of the tubes plugged into his arm seem to be giving him more, which is good since half the blood in his body is still on the couch in their living room. Even still, what use is the hospital blood if it isn’t making him better? There’s a bag on clear fluid- what do they call that again? An IV?- in a needle beside the blood going into Tim’s arm, and a tube taped under his nose. At first Angela thought there was a sheet pulled up to his chest but when she stumbles forward she realizes with a jolt of horror that those are bandages wrapped so thoroughly and tightly around Tim’s entire chest she can hardly tell where they end and the actual sheets begin.

Somewhere, somehow, the doctor is still talking, Sylvia taking in each word with sharp eyes and looking anywhere but Tim, but Angela can’t hear anything over the roaring in her ears. Curly trembles almost imperceptibly beside her and she knows he feels it too, the horrible wrongness that hangs in the air, making this room one of nightmares.

Angela isn’t stupid. She knows she’s seen and lived through a lot of terrible things, faced horrors that most kids never dream of. Still, this has to be the worst thing that has ever happened to her.

Finally, the doctor leaves and the room is pitched into silence.

Sylvia pulls out a pack of cigarettes and lights one carefully, admiring the slight glow of the tip for a second before taking a long, slow drag. Only once she exhales, blowing a cloud of smoke that almost seems to fill the tiny room, does she look at Tim.

Something grim and dark settles in Sylvia’s hazel eyes, hardening more and more with each breath she watches the tube force through Tim’s lungs. The look sends a chill through Angela, a horrible itch starting at the back of her mind. Next to Tim, Angela probably knows more about Sylvia than anyone in the world, but right now she hasn’t got the slightest clue what she might be thinking. 

“Curly,” Sylvia says, in the same husky drawl as usual, disarmingly nonchalant, “you got your switch on ya?”

Curly blinks. “‘Course.”

“Give it here.”

Her tone leaves no room for argument and Curly doesn’t try to, pulling the blade from his pocket and placing it in Sylvia’s waiting palm. Manicured nails wrap around it with practiced ease and that horrible itch in the back Angela’s mind suddenly becomes painful.

“What-” the words die on her lips. She can’t bring herself to ask what Sylvia is going to do. She knows what she’s going to do. The dark haired girl has never been one to get angry, but she always, always gets even. An eye for an eye. A humiliation for a humiliation. A stab wound for a stab wound.

A life for a life.

Without another word Sylvia turns on her heel and stalks away, letting the door slam behind her.

Then it’s just Angela and Curly and the boy in the bed that is supposed to be their brother but isn’t. 

There's a horribly ugly fake leather armchair in the corner of the room Angela drags it closer to Tim’s bed and perches on the armrest, Curly half collapsing into the chair itself. 

She’d thought the waiting room was bad but this is worse, sitting beside Tim but being unable to reach him, watching him fighting a fight that for once neither she nor Curly can fight with him, no matter how much she wishes she could.

He’s going to die. 

The thought rises, unbidden, from the part of her mind that is forever young and terrified and hopeless and immediately she knows it to be true. The earth is round, the sky is blue, and her big brother is going to die.

Panic flares in her chest but the more she tries to tamp it down, to banish the thought back to the depths of wherever it came from, the more it demands to be heard.

He’s going to die. Tim is going to die and there is nothing she or Curly or this entire fucking hospital can do about it. Tim is going to die. She and Curly will lose the only real family they’ve ever had and her whole shitty life will get so much worse without anyone to take care of her. Curly will go off the rails, will end up in jail or dead too and then she will truly be entirely, unequivocally, alone.

“Angel?” Curly’s voice is plaintive, small, and she knows he feels it too, “what are we gonna do?”

She knows what he really means, what he’s really asking. She doesn’t have any answers.

Instead she reaches out a trembling hand and Curly grabs hers like a lifeline, squeezing her fingers so tight her bones creak. Angela hangs on just as tightly.

They haven’t done this in years, not since they were seven or so, have barely touched at all in the intervening years, both too used to physical contact meaning pain to ever really be comfortable touching anyone. Now though, the pressure of Curly’s hand in hers feels like the only thing tethering her to the earth. 

They stay like that, hands clasped together in a silent vigil, until Tim wakes up.

It’s neither a slow, nor a pretty process. First a machine starts beeping like crazy and then half a dozen nurses and doctors rush in and kick her and Curly out again into the hallway, but when all is said and done and they’re allowed back in the room, Tim’s black eyes are open and the breathing tube is gone from under his nose. 

Angela Shepard doesn’t believe in miracles, but in that moment it feels like she’s been granted one. Then again, she thinks, as Curly starts mouthing off in an attempt to hide the unshed tears in his eyes, Tim has been the cause of nearly every miracle she’s ever witnessed, and this one is no different.

As Tim starts to yell and Curly’s unmistakable donkey laugh fills the room  Angela can’t help but chide herself for being so stupid. Tim Shepard never lost a fight. Just because this one looked a little different didn’t make it any different.

[shayafury]

Commander Shepard / Traditional neon Here is a new Fan art of Commander Shepard in my traditional neon art style! I had so much fun making this one and it has been some time since I have done something like this =]  For this one I used a high quality paper from Arches size A4 - 300 grams 100 % cotton, high quality watercolours from Neva palate and high quality pastels /both dry and oil ones/ and for some accents gold metallic acrylic paint. I hope you like it!

Also you can find the original on my Etsy shop https://www.etsy.com/uk/listing/1680678350/original-shepard-neon-traditional-fan?click_key=71ee7df822a75e52b65529b412d71a49230dbc01%3A1680678350&click_sum=fca6389d&ref=shop_home_active_1

[serendipitys-teapot]

WIP Wednes... Opps.

Well, I didn't get around to this yesterday, but I was super touched to be tagged by @milkywayes and @lilmissnatcat24 thank you, friends!! This is a scene from my current WIP I'm finishing up, which is sadly still nameless...

Garrus sighed as he brought a hand up to rub his eyes in frustration. “That’s not why I’m here. You’re my friend and I’m worried about you.” “Well, you’ve had a funny way of showing it.” Sidonis spat as he crossed his arms, and Garrus stared at him in frustrated consternation. “Then why the hell am I here with a peace offering?” He asked as he waved the bottle, the moonshine sloshing dangerously, and Sidonis seemed to wilt as he looked back at him. “I know, you’re right. Sorry. I don’t know why I’ve been so on edge lately.” He uncrossed his arms, his palms falling open as he gazed down at them in his lap. “I’ve just been… miserable. I’ve been fucking miserable, Garrus. I hate it here. I hate this ship, I hate this life, I hate this reality.” The scorn and vitriol in his subvocals was matched only by the heartbreak, and Garrus’ chest ached for his friend. His hand came up to rub Sidnois’ back in small circles for a few moments. “I had no idea you were struggling this badly. Maybe we can talk to Anderson about getting you some extended shore leave on the Fleet, get you some therapy and help.” He suggested gently and breathed in relief when Sidonis sighed and nodded his head glumly. Guilt ate at Garrus as he took in the other man’s forlorn expression as he continued to stare blankly down at his own hands. “I’m sorry it took me this long to see you were struggling. I should have checked in with you sooner. I’ve been really busy.” “Yeah. I’ve noticed.” Sidonis muttered darkly as he stiffened and looked away. “You haven’t had the time of day for me ever since she joined the crew.” Silence fell between them like a wall of ice, and Garrus drew back. “Let’s leave Shepard out of this.” His words were firm, but Sidonis continued on heedlessly. “No, let’s not. I see the way you look at her. I’m not fucking blind. The whole goddamn ship probably sees how you trail after her like a lovesick puppy. And don’t even get me started on your subvocals whenever you talk about her. It’s sickening.” “Enough.” Garrus sat up, his back stiff as anger and embarrassment began boiling in his core. Sidonis stood abruptly as he turned to sneer down at him. “What the fuck do you even see in her?” He threw his arms out wide as his voice began to rise. “She’s just using you, Garrus! She’s using all of us! I don’t understand how you could let your dick distract you from how obviously suspicious she is!” “Enough, Sidonis!” Garrus snapped, his expression hardening. But to his consternation, the other man ignored him as he continued. “She’s so obviously with Cerberus! It explains everything! She’s sold us all out, and it’s only a matter of time until we’re all dead. It’s going to be the Gabriel all over again!” “Enough!” Garrus slammed the bottle down on the side table before surging to his feet. He stood toe to toe with Sidonis, using every bit of his height advantage to look down at the other man as fury rolled off him. “Don’t you dare talk about her like that.” They glared at each other, both breathing hard as they refused to back down. Finally, Sidonis’ eyes narrowed. “Pathetic. I can’t believe you let a woman reduce you to this.” He hissed, and Garrus’ mandibles twitched as he balled his hands into fists. “You have no idea what you’re talking about. Shepard isn’t a traitor.” “Keep telling yourself that. Right up until you feel the knife slip in between your back plates.” The quiet words seemed to reverberate through the room. Without another word, Sidonis turned and walked through the door, slamming it with a clang behind him. Garrus remained where he was as he willed his heart to stop racing, his pulse thrumming beneath his plates as Sidonis’ words echoed in his ears. Finally, he fell back onto the couch. Slowly, his gaze landed on the bottle, its clear liquid catching the flicker of an old light on the ceiling above. Cursing, he reached for it before tipping it back, praying the burn could quiet the wriggling doubts in his chest.

Let's tag @kalliesa @angry-jager @dwarrowdams @nicolasadrabbles @otemporanerys @misseffect just in case anyone is interested in participating!

[fanartfic]

In my head, Shepard is a 5’5 ball of fury. Being a soldier with no biotics, she makes up for it in other ways. Like being as tough to kill as Garrus.

I know it’s just the game style, but I really wanted to see my Shepard as the short and stocky queen she is, so here she is in her N7 armor.

[ronearoundblindly]

Hi! I hope you're doing well🥰

Can I be greedy? I NEED me something from the kiss prompt lust if you're willing, of just about any of them, for Autumn (Rosie) and Steve? I genuinely cannot pick, there are at least 10 kinds I'd die to read about🥲 I miss them.

(No pressure!)

eeeeee, I miss them too! I choose --a kiss after a small rejection-- because we all know I love me a bit of angst before the fluff with 🍁 Steve Rogers x super soldier!reader 🍁 [one of my Valentine's Fics for 2024]

Warnings for not much (super mild cursing) except please remember that this reader chose the name Autumn Rose Barnes after rescued from Hydra. Steve calls you 'Rosie,' zero other physical or personal descriptors. It's not an OC! Sorry to lecture, but I've gotten complaints and needed to explain this multiple times...Also, you and Steve adopted a German Shepard mix named Maple. WC 1370

Your Team, an Autumn Is Healing tale

With the fastest, most forceful, super soldier movements you can manage, you shred the single page of paper in your hands.

Those cowards delivered it while you were in your garden. They put it under your door, far back in the building, and they ran away with their tails between their legs.

“‘Not able to authorize you at this time’ MY ASS,” you screech.

“I’m sure the Council didn’t make the decision lightly.” Steve diligently picks up tiny pieces off the carpet as you toss them everywhere.

It’s all you can do not to burst straight through the walls.

“How dare they? Have I not done enough?! What more do they want??”

You aren’t an Avenger, not now, maybe not ever, and the future just looks blank when before it seemed so clear.

You can fight—you should fight,—so why not put you to work? Why not let you on the damn Team?

“They don’t trust me,” you think aloud. “All this power, and no one wants me.”

He stops at the trash and puts his hands on his hips, dejected. “That’s not—Sit down, okay? This isn’t about any of that. You are wanted and trusted here.”

“I can pull my weight, Steve. I can give back what you all have given me. I can be a team player, I promise, please. PLEASE. Tell them. Please tell them I’m ready.”

“Rosie, no one doubts you are ready or capable or any of that, and you are part of the team. More importantly, I am on your team. We all are. Only thing that happened today is some bureaucrats covered their asses—“

You and maple cock your heads in shock, but the language changes nothing.

“Then why can’t I be of use?!”

“Here,” he specifies. “In here, in the compound, of course, we trust you. You know this place. You know all of us. But sweetheart, there is so much out there.”

He changes tactics. “We don’t need—I mean, the Council doesn’t see—you were trained as a soldier, yes, but that’s not who you are. That was so you’d obey their commands. The rest of us, we’re grunts. And frankly, I’m glad you won’t be in harm’s way.”

After thinking for a few seconds, something obvious occurs to you. Steve always fights for what you want, and he’s…not now.

You rush toward him with an accusatory finger up. “You did this.”

“What? No,” Steve balks.

“You did this, didn’t you? That’s what you told them to get them to say ‘no.’ You told them I wasn’t up to it, not a real soldier. You told them I’m not cut out for the Team because you didn’t want me fighting beside you.”

“I said I wanted you safe,” he tries softly.

It’s not a wall you’re about to burst through. “You took my chance!”

“Rosie, that’s ridiculous. I never—“

His phone makes a noise like a foghorn—the call to the jets. Danger. The Team needs him.

You both look up from his hip at the same time, eyes locked between fury and compliance.

“Better go.” You scowl. “Wouldn’t want to hold you back.”

His face falls, and he stands there, listening to the alarm sound again, then again.

Without another word, Steve gives up and leaves.

You lock the door and remove his entrance privileges. It won’t keep him out, but it will slow him down and make a point when he returns.

If he wants to keep the battlefield personal, then this can be your domain. He can apply to participate. He can go through a crucible of grueling interviews and tests and then last-minute, made-up tests because they just wanted to find one reason…

And Steve handed it to them on a silver platter.

When he comes back he tries the door. You can hear the mechanical lock beep in rejection of his hand print. He tries again. He knocks, he calls out with a louder knock, and then, finally, he uses the override command, the one that they technically all have because you can’t be trusted. Not really. Not fully.

He enters the dark rooms quietly.

You’re on the bed, laying with your hands wedged between your thighs, Maple’s belly warming your feet, the window blinds all the way up, moonlight and stars visible as a small comfort.

He doesn’t know if you’re asleep or awake until you speak.

“What was the point—why put me through all this if I can’t help? Am I just a thing to breed?”

“Rosie, honey, that is not and never has been true.” Clearly cautious from your argument, Steve stays a short distance away.

“Then why did no one look for me? I was right there, strapped down for years, because that was my purpose, that’s what I was created fo—”

“So was I,” he exclaims gruffly. “I was made to do one thing, and one thing only, and I still sat in the Arctic for seventy years! It doesn’t prove shit—“ he kneels down beside the bed, holding your hands and whispering pleas into you skin “—and no one but you can define your purpose.” 

Maple whines and bows her head over the edge.

”I want you,” he continues. “I trust you. If it makes me selfish to…fine, I’m selfish. So be it. I don’t want you out there with me, I’m sorry. I don’t. See, I lost people when they got sick, when they went to war, when I went to war, when I came back, when I didn’t come back.”

He pauses, tracing small patterns over your thumb while he squeezes your hands.

“Please. Please, sweetheart. Just give me this one thing because even though you have a serum, I can’t…I can’t imagine…if anything ever…

“We are super. We are not indestructible,” he admits. “Losing you would destroy me.”

Steve looks fragile, his features shadowed by more than the night.

“You don’t need to become an Avenger. We are already on your team. We are your team. You have nothing to earn. You have nothing to fight for. We lo—I love you. I’m in awe of you because you became so much more than they tried to make you be.”

The dog howls gently in agreement.

“Me and Maple are your biggest fans, too.”

Said ‘fan’ harrumphs on cue, making Steve burst into a smile.

“There’s a whole fan club. We have a slogan—‘Go Autumn’—there’s gonna be t-shirts and scarves.” He drops your hand to spring up. “We’re your cheerleaders, right, girl? See?”

He hurdles over you to his side of the bed and starts hopping up and down with his fists in the air. Maple goes ballistic barking.

“RAH, RAH, ROSIE! RAH, RAH, ROSIE!”

Steven Grant Rogers, born the fourth of July, one-hundred plus years ago, jumps on the bed, bouncing till you reluctantly roll off and stand. 

Maple gets down with Steve, panting, and watches intently, thinking her dad has really lost the plot in a super fun way. Maybe she’ll get a treat even.

He steps in front of you, running his fingers through his disheveled hair.

“Wha’d’ya say, Miss, can I be on your team? Do you want me? You trust me?”

If you weren’t so close to tears, you would have answered him immediately. Instead, you hum.

He scoffs. “You Barneses are so picky.”

Steve pulls you into a hug, lifts your chin and says softly against your lips, “go, Autumn, go,” before capturing you in his zeal.

The truth of it is you know he wants you, and you know he trusts you. Knowing that Steve feared for your safety makes you more anxious to have him out there.

You hold him tighter.

He's right, of course, that risk is everywhere and nothing is promised. How could he say 'no' to peace of mind? You'll never be lost. He will never lose this one thing.

Though you will not be joining the Avengers, one of the many things you are a part of is this: a slow dance in the dark with a good man.

A slow, slow dance between his tongue and yours, that is.

After what feels like hours of him kissing you so sweetly, Maple is bored and stretching into a ready stance.

She yips indignantly.

You pull away from Steve. “I know, girl. I always want him to come home, too.”

He rests his forehead to yours. “She’s right. I should respect her mom’s independence.”

Maple squeals and flicks her head (and ears) to the side. Where’s her treat, you crazies? She put up with your tension all night, and she deserves a reward.

Ransom Drysdale and a kiss as a 'yes' ⬅️ ➡️ Lloyd Hansen and a kiss on a place of insecurity

[Main Masterlist; Light Masterlist; Ko-Fi]