#because my Five did work for an undercover operation against her will so she learned some stuff

[abeltownshipslittlebitch]

Sam, just fucking around: 51 looks like SI, which is short for Stark Industries.

Sam: So Area 51 is actually owned by Tony Stark.

My American Five: Somehow you made a correct assumption on a wildly unscientific method.

Sam: I’m good like that.

Sam: Wait, WHAT?

[ficsilike-reblogged]

What’s in a Name?

A/N: This is quite possibly the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever written in my entire life. But it’s soft. Because Marcus Pike is soft and deserves all the love. Granted, I’ve only watched The Mentalist all the way through once, so...do with that what you will. 

Pairing: Marcus Pike x F!Reader (no y/n)

Rating: PG for mention of guns??? I just want to be on the safe side. Idiots in love. Falling in love with someone and not knowing their name. Cliche use of a Quote from Romeo + Juliet.

Word Count: 3.3k 

Summary: The five times Marcus Pike tries to learn your name and the one time he actually does.

Pike was unlucky in love. He knew it. He had started to accept it when things fell apart with Lisbon. His friends and fellow agents, the assholes, actually took pity on him and said he’d find the right person eventually. He just didn’t anticipate having to meet her over and over again.

... that which we call a rose By any other name would smell as sweet... (Romeo + Juliet)

Sometimes, every once in a while, he actually hated his job. Sure, he got to go undercover, stop criminals, right some wrongs, and be called ‘agent’ on top of it. But, right now, listening to some sycophant rant and rave about the “superiority of Cubism over Dadaism,” he wanted to switch careers. There was supposed to be a sale of a stolen Cézanne happening at this gallery in Los Angeles and Pike had suspected the guy with the too-tight three piece suit and bad transatlantic accent was the ring-leader of the whole theft and re-sale. He just needed to not spork his eyes out until he saw money pass hands from the agent he’d sent in to pose as the buyer and the thief-turned-art-asshole. He thought it would only take an hour or two, busts like this usually did—but this guy loved the sound of his own voice so much that he had been going on a tangent about 20th century art movements for nearly four hours now and had somehow gathered a bit of an audience, too, debating with others, and the like. It was exhausting just listening to him.

“If you give me ten dollars, I’ll spill some red wine on his shirt and he’ll be forced to leave.”

Marcus looked to the left at the sudden voice and found a woman pretending to look at the piece in front of him, just like he had been doing. She was pretty, dressed in a high-end dress and sky-high, red-bottom heels, and looked every bit the part of an old money socialite. “Ten dollars?”

“I’d do it for free, but I need to receive some sort of incentive so I’m not just doing it out of spite. I heard that’s bad karma.” She hid her smirk behind the lip of her champagne flute.

“I’ve heard spite is a fantastic motivator.”

She hummed and squinted at the painting as if she cared. Maybe she did. “This is an awful piece of work. Truly, one of the worst I’ve ever seen.”

The man behind them continued to talk just as a waiter passed by with a platter full of red wine and she skillfully plucked one from him without missing a beat. She finished her champagne and handed Pike her empty flute. His eyebrows raised as she smiled at him.

“I’m Marcus.” He held out a hand for her to take. She shook it with a smile but didn’t give her name in return. She winked and walked away—right toward the mark.

And yes, she dumped red wine all over him.

There was a collective gasp and he watched the scene with a muted sort of fascination as she then managed to make the art thief smile with some joke she must have said and then he walked away to clean up. The crowd dispersed. The other agent was able to snag the thief and make the exchange and handcuffs were placed on his wrists all within a couple of minutes.  

Maybe he should have actually paid her the ten dollars. She really did just speed everything up.

But, when he looked around to find her, she was gone. 

                                                            **

The second time he met her was at an art auction in D.C. There was no sting. No operation. The Art Squad had recently helped the auction’s sponsor recover a priceless Van Gogh piece and they had insisted the entire Squad come to the black tie dinner and auction, foregoing the 1000-dollar-charge-per-plate the ticket usually cost. The food was good. The wine and champagne was obviously expensive and Pike was sure he’d see some of the art that was being auctioned off in his case files in the next few years. That was just the way of the world. He looked around at the displays and glanced at the sheets where people had written down their bids. Some people were being generous—most others were being cheap. 

He slowed to a stop in front of a small Dalí and then down at the auction sheet. It was currently up to only a few hundred dollars. He wouldn’t win, he was sure, but he could pretend to participate in this ridiculous auction.

“I didn’t take you for a Dalí fan.” Her voice was still smooth and he knew, instinctively, that she was smiling before he even turned to look at her. She was draped in sky blue silk and pearls, reminding him of Botticelli’s Birth of Venus.

“I think he’s iconic, to be sure.”

She sidled up to him and looked at the small painting. “Thinking about bidding? It looks like everyone else is besotted with that original Warhol.” She hooked a thumb over her shoulder to reference the crowd steadily growing on the other side of the ballroom.

But all he could focus on was the smell was her perfume. Expensive and floral, it seemed to fit her perfectly.

Manicured fingers handed him a Mont Blanc pen from the depths of her designer bag. “Best of luck, Agent Pike.”

As she walked away, he realized she knew his last name now—somehow—and he still didn’t know hers.

Pike tried to find her again in the mess of rich people, to ask her name and how she knew of his ‘agent’ status and last name. But all he managed to do was catch a glimpse of blue silk as she exited the venue.

“Do you know her?” A tired-looking man asked as he walked to Pike’s side. “She left a large donation and my boss will kill me if we don’t have a name to write in our next list of donors.”

“I…I don’t actually. Did she bid on anything? Maybe we could get her name that way.”

And for the next fifteen minutes or so, he filtered through the crowd, trying to ask inconspicuously about his Venus and if she had bid on anything. And, when he finally learned that she had bid on an Alphonse Mucha sketch. And he almost felt lucky. Almost!

Because, as he made his way over to where everyone was pointing, he saw only two scribbles on the sheet. Surely he could discern which one of the names was hers. 

One was Richard…

And the other one was just a scribble of blue ink, smudged beyond legibility.

                                                         **

(A few weeks later, he was delivered a package at his office. Inside was the Dalí he had bid on. On a slip of paper was a smudged smiley face and the word: Enjoy!)

                                                        **

The third time he met her was decidedly less glamorous. The Art Squad had been trailing a group of thieves across the East Coast when they finally caught up to them in Boston. Pike had hoped they’d be able to catch them in the act and be done with it.

Instead, what they found when they stormed into the art museum, was the thieves holding several hostages. And, of course with his luck, she was among them.

Her hands were behind her head and she was on her knees as one of the thieves pointed a gun to the back of her head. Boredom was, surprisingly, coloring her face but she smiled when she caught sight of Pike. “Hi, Marcus.”

“Hi,” he said in return, fighting a smile of his own.

The whole thing was over in just over an hour and the hostages were released and the thieves were carted off in the back of a police van.

And maybe now he’d finally learn her name.

He was the lead agent on the case so he had to answer a million and one questions from other agents, from outside law enforcement, from the press. And, belatedly, he watched his least favorite agent, Rhett Brown, approach his unnamed Venus. The agent was fine when given a gun and told to shoot—but how he’d managed to wind up on the Art Squad was a mystery. He’d lost or misfiled more paperwork than anyone else Pike had encountered put together.

Pike knew he needed to finish all of this nonsense—and really, he shouldn’t call it nonsense, this was important—if he wanted to even have a chance to get her name. But the local police asked a lot of questions (they were doing their job, he couldn’t blame them) and then the press conference dragged on (again, they were just doing their jobs). And by the time he finished, he jogged back to where the former hostages had been held as they were being questioned.

And, of course, she was gone.

Pike pulled Rhett aside and asked for his notes.

Rhett nodded and stuck his hand into his suit pocket and then froze. “Oh no.” He quickly patted down his other pockets and shouted at another agent, “have you seen my notepad, man?”

                                                            **

Pike was tired when he met her for the fourth time. 

The deposition had lasted longer than he anticipated, stretching long into the night. The case was a strange one, involving inheritances, forged wills, and a “disappeared” Jackson Pollock that “reappeared” across the country. The hotel was nice, however, and he slumped into a stool at the hotel’s upscale bar and ordered a pale ale.

It was set in front of him quickly and he drained half of it without much fanfare.

“I always thought you looked more like a whiskey kind of guy.” 

He nearly spat out his drink. 

She slid into the stool next to him and ordered a top shelf cognac. Her lips were painted a vibrant shade of red and left a mark against the glass as she took a sip of the amber liquid. “Long day?”

“You could say that. You?”

She nodded with a small smile. “What’re you doing in New York? More FBI business?”

“Something like that.” He took another drink of his beer and she watched him over the edge of her own glass. “How’d you know I was in the FBI?”

“We have friends in common. I know Charlie—you helped him get back his precious Van Gogh.”

“Ah, Charlie.” He nodded in understanding.

“Yes, he went on and on about the FBI agent who saved his marriage—imagine that, an entire marriage hanging on the edge of one painting.” Despite cognac being meant for sipping, she had already nearly drained her glass. “Imagine my surprise when it was you—the man from the gallery opening who basically gave me full permission to dump wine on a pompous asshole.” She watched him laugh as she took another sip of the dark amber liquid. “Charlie pointed you out when you came to the auction. The man can hardly remember his children’s names but he remembers yours.” She smiled and he could have sworn he’d never seen anyone so beautiful. “But I like the um…” she gestured at his chin and then placed her finger beneath her nose in a childish imitation of a mustache. “It’s a good look.”

He laughed—she was good at making him laugh. “I was undercover.”

“Oh?” It came out with another laugh. “Aren’t you mysterious?”

“I’m mysterious? You know my name and my job—and that I think Dalí is iconic. I know nothing about you.”

“What is there to know? I procure art for people who have too much money. I spend more time on planes or in hotels than I do in my little apartment in New Orleans. I like Humphrey Bogart movies and a good blanket.” She smiled before polishing off the last dredges of her drink. “See? Now you know more about me than I do about you. And it is all far less interesting.”

His heart had lodged itself higher and higher into his throat as each word passed her lips. “No…I-I think you’re really interesting and beautiful and I…I would love to know more.”

She was embarrassed, he could tell, but she still smiled. Her mouth opened to say something else and-

-a bellhop stepped to her side. “Your bags have been loaded into the car, ma’am.”

She turned and thanked him, pressing a few bills into his hand before she stood and grabbed her purse. She put a few more bills—far more than her drink could have possibly cost—onto the bar top and signaled to the bartender that she was paying for both their drinks before he could even think to stop her. “Thanks for the company.”

“Yeah. Of course.” He was in a bit of a daze as she leaned down to press a quick kiss to his cheek. The familiar scent of her expensive perfume touched his nose as she pulled back.

“I’ll see you around, Agent Pike. But really,” she once again mimed the mustache, “it’s a good look.”

He murmured his goodbye, head still pleasantly swimming, and watched her walk away.

It took him a full five minutes to realize he still didn’t know her name.

                                                     **

The fifth time he met her, he’d been stuck at O’Hare International Airport for five hours. Five hours in the worst airport known to mankind. His flight back to DC had been delayed and then delayed some more and then delayed some more. He’d only been in Chicago for a few days to help lead some training to the local arm of the Bureau. Nothing exciting. And now he was stuck waffling between two equally awful airport restaurants for dinner while he continued to wait.

“Hey stranger.”

He turned to see her walking toward him, a designer carryon being wheeled behind her scuffed sneakers. Her hair was up in a lop-sided bun and she had traded her dress for a pair of jeans and an oversized band t-shirt. And why was his mouth filling with saliva? She threw her arms around him in a hug that he quickly reciprocated, squeezing her around the middle as she laughed lightly in his ear. “It’s good to see you. I see you kept the facial hair.”

He laughed and scrubbed a hand over his patchy beard and mustache. “Yeah, I guess I did.” Pike cleared his throat, trying to not sound so smitten. “Where’re you heading now?”

“Home, thankfully. I’ve been go-go-go since I saw you last. It seems everyone wants to give works of art as presents this year. I’m kind of scared what Christmas is going to mean.”

He smiled, liking to know about her life, how she felt. “Been anywhere exciting?”

“Paris and Milan lose their charm after a while. But I finally got to go to Casablanca.” There was a near twinkle in her eye now. “I felt like I should’ve been running around in a trench and fedora, chain-smoking. God knows how many times I muttered ‘here’s lookin’ at you kid’ to myself like a loon.” She shook her head as she bit her lip. “Sorry. I ramble when I’m jetlagged.”

“It’s okay, really. I…I like it.”

She shoved at his shoulder with another laugh. “Careful. You’ll make me fall in love with you.”

“Would that be so bad?” The words tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop them—something he usually did when he let his stupid, romantic heart take the lead.

She tilted her head as she looked at him with an almost shy smile playing on her lips. “No. No, I don’t think that’d be bad at all.” They looked at each other, each fighting a smile and stupid fluttering of their hearts for the near-stranger in front of them. She broke the little daydream by clearing her throat and glancing away for a moment. “And you? Been anywhere exciting?”

“Just Chicago. Had to lead some training. My flight’s been delayed for a couple hours. Hopefully, I’ll be out of here before midnight.”

“Well, if you’re looking for a good place to eat in this hellscape, I’d recommend the restaurant near C26. I’ve yet to get food poisoning from them—and the food’s pretty good, too.”

“You want to join me?” He asked, something optimistic blooming in his chest.

But her smile fell. “I wish I could. But my flight starts boarding soon.”

As if on cue, there was an announcement over the intercom. “Hello passengers and welcome to Flight 306 to New Orleans. Right now, we will start boarding with our group one passengers and active duty military in uniform.” 

“That’s me,” she said with a sigh. “But it was good to see you, Marcus.” She reached out and squeezed his hand.

He squeezed her hand for a moment, keeping her still. “You know, I still don’t know your name.”

She paused and then laughed, a full-belly laugh that quickly had him laughing, too. “It’s-”

A passenger cart beeped as it zoomed by, carrying a few elderly women.

“Group one, you’re free to board. Group one,” the announcement seemed to echo in the terminal, overly loud on the old speakers.

He swore he saw her lips move. He did!

But then she was squeezing his fingers again and walking away.

                                                     **

The cherry blossoms were in bloom. Aside from the terrible crowds they brought and the overall mugginess that came with the season, it was one of the things he liked about living in DC. He was sitting on a bench and watching the wind blow through the trees, rustling the pink and white petals gently. His lunchbreak was ending soon and he’d have to get back to the office. The other agents had caught on about his “mysterious lady friend” when he’d finally arrived back from Chicago and had been ribbing him about it ever since. (“How did you not get her name already, Pike?!” A question for the ages.) He crumpled the wrapper from his sandwich and tossed it in the nearest bin, preparing to leave the park.

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, just for a moment.

But when he opened them, she was standing in front of him like something out of his daydreams. She smiled at him before helping herself to the space beside him on the bench. “I was told you like this bench when the blossoms are in bloom.” She waggled her eyebrows. “Your fellow agents are very chatty, you know.”

“You came looking for me?”

“’Course. I was in town. The auction I need to attend isn’t until tonight and…yeah,” she trailed off, embarrassment coloring her tone as she looked away from him for a moment. “Yeah, I thought I’d see you.”

His smile was so big he was sure it was going to break his face. “I’m glad you did.” He reached out and curled his fingers around hers as they rested on the bench beside her legs.

Her smile was shy but she squeezed his fingers in return as she kept looking out over the cherry blossom trees. “It’s pretty here. I’d love to wake up and just see this.” She waved her free hand toward the blossoms.

“Well, it happens every year. You can come back.” Or you could stay, his traitorous, lovesick heart whispered. But no, he wouldn’t say that. No yet, at least. He could take this slow.

But then she kissed him, quick and soft—he nearly missed it. And she was quickly leaning back against the bench, trying to school her features into indifference.

“What is your name?” He asked, question bursting forward.

She guffawed and pulled her hand back with an exaggerated flourish, fighting another smile. “I told you at the airport!”

“There-there was a transport honking and-and an intercom and then you left-!”

She cupped his cheek in her hand and the words died in his throat. She smiled again, fighting a laugh, and whispered her name.

He whispered it back, rolling the letters across his tongue carefully, pressing it into his mind to keep and hold.

He liked her name.

Part Two

[blackmissfrizzle]

City Boy and His Country Girl- Part 2

Read Part 1

Characters: Erik Stevens x black!reader

Summary: Erik takes the reader to the shooting range and learns some interesting things.

Warnings: Language, a dash a violence, Fuckboi!Erik but mostly softboi!Erik, and mentions of smut

A/N: I’m loving this series, so I hope y’all enjoy!

Hanging out with Erik was a total shock. Back home you were used to people talking shit by dressing it up and making it seem like a compliment, but Erik, but Erik Stevens didn’t have no trouble speaking his mind.

If he didn’t like an idea you had for work it wasn’t a ‘Oh, it could be better.’ It was a ‘Texas, that shit fucking sucks. If you wanna beat them colonizers you need something better. Wake me up when you have something better.’

He had no filter on some of your outfits. “Y/N/N stop dressing like you about to go to the hoe down! This is New York City, dress like it!”

Sometimes you wanted to gouge his eyes out, but then you remembered whenever one of your coworkers insulted you, you didn’t break down and cry in the restroom, because Erik was already thickening your skin. You even found yourself snapping back at your coworkers when they tried you.

Then the self-defense training was a whole another beast! Erik was ruthless.  He trained you like you were gonna join the ghost operation, he was a part of in the Navy. It didn’t matter if you just threw up, your ass better be ready, his words, not yours.

Also, it was pure torture, but not because of the physical pain. It was because somehow someway Erik always ended up naked. His raised scars were a little jarring at first, but once you got used to them, it added to his appeal.

Erik was an Adonis, a Greek statute in the living flesh. Half of the time you got knocked on your ass because you were too busy gawking at his body. Sometimes it felt like he knew you were staring because he would just smirk at you.

And then those damn gym shorts he’d be wearing, do nothing to hide his dick print. And what you could tell from it was that it was nothing to play with.

Today he was teaching you a new lesson: how to shoot. Little did he know that you had expert marksmanship. Daddy-daughter bonding with your dad was spent hunting, fishing, and shooting. Erik Stevens was in for a surprise.

“Texas, you need to keep your legs shoulder width apart and keep your feet planted,” Erik instructed, sticking his leg in between yours, forcing you into the stance.

Having him this dangerously close to you made you tremble. His scent was intoxicating and having his hard body pressed against you made you want to lean back into him and stay there.

“Damn girl! You shaking like a damn leaf, you scared or something?” Erik joked, knowing him pressing himself against you had you shaking like that. Every time he trained you, he noticed the lust in your eyes. That’s why he always took off his shirt and wore his grey sweats. One time he caught you looking at his print when you thought he wasn’t paying attention and he made his dick jump to mess with you. The little gasp you made in reaction almost had you flat on the mat while Erik had your ankles up to your ears and deep in that puss.

“No,” you said, snatching the gun off the counter. “Can we start now,” you asked, annoyed at how easily Erik affected you.

Erik raised his hands in surrender. “Damn, my bad. Remember if you miss more than five, you gotta cook me some of your bomb ass fried chicken.” Erik reminded you of the bet before pressing the button.

The targets popped up instantly and for the first time in a while you felt like you were home. Effortlessly, you hit each bullseye, leaving you wanting for more.

Facing Erik, he was standing there slacked jaw. This was the first time you had him at a loss for words and you were gonna enjoy it. “Huh, you quiet now, Oakland,” you cuffed your hand around your ear. Teasing him some more you began crunk dancing in his space. “I can’t hear you, Stevens!”

Erik was doing his best not to laugh at your silliness. He still wanted to pretend that he was mad at you, but it was proving to be harder by the minute. “Girl calm your silly ass down! You had me go through all that, just for you to breeze through like you were the one in the military. What about my fried chicken? You know a nigga hungry!”

“Boy, stop being a cry baby,” you smacked your lips. “That’s what you get for assuming shit and I wasn’t gonna leave you hanging. I know them hoes ain’t feeding your greedy ass.”

Digging for his keys in his pocket, Erik grabbed your hand and rushed the two of you out the building. “Shit lets go then! A nigga hungry!”

“Ole greedy ass,” you mumbled, letting Erik shove you into his loud ass yellow, McLaren 570s.

--

Erik was tearing into his plate. The only time he got a home cooked meal was with Y/N or with his aunt and cousins, which was traditional Wakandan food. So when he got some soul food he had to savor it.

“So, Texas, tell me why you so good at shooting?” Erik asked you, when he finally stopped eating to drink some sweet tea.

“My daddy used to take me out back all the time and we practiced shooting. You should see me with a shotgun.”

“Makes sense,” Erik nodded his head, thinking on how you were raised in the south. “Y/N, lemme ask you something. Its been on my mind for a while.”

Dropping your fork of mashed potatoes, you responded with worry at the seriousness of Erik’s tone, “What is it, Erik?”

“You call anyone else daddy besides your dad?”

It took awhile to catch his drift, but when you did you threw a roll at his face, which he caught with his mouth. “Ewww, no! What the hell is wrong withch yo nasty ass?”

Erik busted out laughing, causing the roll to fall out of his mouth. He had inkling that you never did before, but he loved messing with you. “Awww, c’mon on ma, you ain’t have a nigga give you some dick that you couldn’t call him nothing but daddy?” He asked, licking his lips and tilting his head looking at you curiously.

You couldn’t handle the warm feeling Erik was causing to your little bundle of nerves, so a quick diversion was needed. Resorting to your old childish antics, you stuck a finger in each of your ears and yelled, “La la la la la la la la la la.”

Taking hold of each of your wrists, Erik pulled your fingers out of your ears. “Girl grow up! Why you always shying away from talking about sex?”

“Because it’s unlady like and you not my man, Mr. Stevens.” Talking sex was a regular with your friends on girl’s night and it could get graphic, but something told you talking about sex with Erik was whole another thing.

Off rip, Erik sensed you were an undercover freak, you just needed the right person to bring it out. “Man, I don’t need to be your man to give you that good daddy dick,” Erik said, smiling, clasping his hands behind his head so you could admire his biceps.

Rolling your eyes, you got up from your seat and grabbed both of y’all plates and went to the sink. “My mama warned me about men like you, Erik Stevens.”

Getting up from his seat, Erik crept behind you, caging you in between him and the sink. “Princess, I promise there ain’t no men like me,” Erik whispered.

“Shit, Erik! Stop scaring me like that!” You yelled at him, trying your best to calm your nerves.

“My bad, ma.” Erik apologized while he took the dirty plate out your hand and bumped you with his hip to move you out of the way so he could finish the dishes.

Taking this blessing you jumped on the counter besides Erik to keep him company. At this angle you had the perfect view of his profile. Erik had the most beautiful skin, smooth and rich. He was probably one of those lucky niggas who only used soap and water on his face while you had to use fifty-eleven million products just not to get one pimple.

Right now, studying him you didn’t realize how attracted you were to his jaw. Your favorite thing was when he was deep in concentration like now or when he was annoyed, his jaw would clench, and you swore you do anything for that man.

Feeling you stare at him, but wanting to lay off on the teasing, Erik asked you a question. “So, what type of men like me did Mrs. Y/L/N warn you about?”

“Silver tongued devils that make women lose all common sense.”

Flicking his tongue suggestively, Erik answered, “I gotta admit this tongue is talented.”

Smacking him on the back of his neck, you mumbled, “Nasty ass.”

“All you gotta do is ask, ma. You don’t have to revert to elementary days to show that you like me,” Erik joked, rubbing the back of his neck with a sudsy hand.

Ignoring his comment, you changed the subject before you do something stupid and ask him to show you how talented his tongue is. “Enough talking about me. How’s the work project going?”

“Oh, it’s dope, Texas! I feel like a slacker with the kids coming up with all the ideas. All I’m doing is the actual production of the filtration system.” Erik face lit up as he went on to explain how the kids at the Outreach Center were coming up with ideas for a water filter for Flint.

The way Erik got hyped about the kids he was helping, told you he’d be an excellent father. Before your brain could dream up what you and his nonexistent children would look like his phone pinged.

Since he was busy washing dishes, Erik asked you to get it. “Oooooo, it’s a text from Ashley.”

“Which one,” he asked absentmindedly.

Rolling your eyes, you forgot that Erik had a roster of girls. “She’s got a diamond emoji next to her name.”

“Ohhh, Anal Ashley. What she want?”

Shaking your head at his fuckboy tendencies you read the text in a ditzy but sultry tone. “Daddy, I need you.”

At the sound of your voice saying daddy, Erik almost broke the glass he was washing. He would have to remember that for a later date. “See, you can call a nigga daddy. And tell her I’m busy.”

“No, I can’t. I was just getting into character. And nigga, no you not!”

Erik finished washing the last dish and then dried his hands with a towel. “I’m hanging out with my bestie. Ain’t that doing something?”

Even though you didn’t want him to go, you needed him to go. Or those feelings you were ignoring were gonna grow deeper. “You can hangout with me anytime. Go see one of your hoes. You know you get cranky when you haven’t had sex in awhile.”

There was no way Erik wanted trade time with you with some random girl for meaningless sex and meaningless conversation. But he also had a painful erection since he heard you read that text and he didn’t want to push up on you that hard.  A poor substitution would have to do. “You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m about to watch Real Housewives of Atlanta guilt free without you judging me.” Whenever you put it on, Erik would grumble and complain about you watching trash tv.

Grabbing his keys, Erik walked to the door and you followed. “A’ight, imma head out. Lock this door as soon as I head out.” Erik commanded you, knowing you had a tendency to forget to lock your door.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Can you go now? Nene is calling my name.”

Before leaving, Erik kissed your cheek and bid you goodbye. Taking in that he kissed you, you floated to the couch, daydreaming about the man, forgetting to lock the door.

“Y/N, LOCK THIS DAMN DOOR!” Erik furious voice broke your daydream.

“Go away, Erik! Nobody’s gonna rob me while I’m here.” You yelled back, not moving an inch from your couch.

“I’m not leaving until you get your country bumpkin ass up and lock this door, deadass!”

Grumbling you got up and locked the door. “Happy now?!”

“Thank you! Imma hit you up when I’m done.” Erik told you.

Returning to your couch, you turned on your tv and tried not to think about how Erik was having sex with some one other than you.

—

“It happens to everyone, Daddy. Let’s watch some tv.” Ashley suggested, reaching for her remote with one hand and stroking his arm with another.

Erik couldn’t believe he couldn’t get it up. Especially with help from the henny.

Ashley was a beautiful girl, no doubt. A redbone version of Naomi Campbell with the attitude to match for no apparent reason, but that never stopped him before.

The thing was she wasn’t you. When Erik had his eyes closed, he could pretend it was you sucking him up, but once his eyes opened and he saw Ashley he instantly went soft.

“Nah, imma head out instead,” Erik said, lifting up from the couch.

Tugging his arm, Ashley pulled Erik back to his seat. “No, stay.”

“Listen, Ash, to be honest I don’t think this,” Erik motioned between him and Ashley. “is gonna work. I’m ending this tonight.”

Ashley’s mood changed.  “It’s because of that cow you’re always posting on your snap, huh?” She said, referring to you.

Lunging across the couch, Erik’s hands wrapped around Ashley’s throat. His hands choked her tight enough to let her know he meant business but not too tight to do any damage.

“Don’t you ever fucking disrespect her like that again!” He warned through gritted teeth.

“Now Killmonger wants to come out to play! Get your crazy ass out my house!”

Erik shoved her into the couch before he hopped up. “Lose my fucking number too! I don’t wanna hear from your ignorant ass anymore.”

“Nobody wants a limped ass dick nigga anyway! Good riddance!” Ashley shouted as Erik slammed the door.

While he was walking to his car, Erik texted the one person who he knew still be up.

MSG ERIK: Hey, I’m on my way over so get ready because we ain’t watching that RHOA shit. We watching The Godfather.

MSG Y/N: Already??? Damn Oakland, I didn’t know you were a minute man 😂 and who tf you think you are??? This my house and we’ll watch whatever I want PERIODT!

MSG ERIK: Girl, don’t play with me before I have to make an example of you 💪🏾 and like I said we watching The Godfather.

MSG Y/N: 🙄🙄🙄 whatever. I’ll leave the door unlocked.

MSG ERIK: Y/N KEEP THAT DOOR FUCKING LOCKED!

You read his message but didn’t reply. Erik hated being left on read. Happily, you skipped to unlock your door, knowing that was one more thing to piss off your bestie.

Sliding into his driver’s seat, Erik double checked his phone to see if he was reading it correctly. It said you read his last message, but you didn’t reply.

“This little girl really left me on read. Imma get her ass and that door better be locked when I get there,” Erik mumbled to himself while securing himself.

Soon as the car roared to life, Erik sped down the streets of New York rushing to get to the one woman who made him want to pull his hair out and cuddle her at the same time.

Tagging: @fd-writes @raysunshine78 @momobaby227 @thickemadame @twistedcharismaaa @marvelmaree @ladydragonpurplefire @l-auteuse @thehomierobbstark @titty-teetee @nerd-lovely @soufcakmistress @chaneajoyyy

[thelastbertinelli-a]

Old Friends. New Enemies || Discord

Events: Helena and Sharon oversee a weapons deal and Dinah interrupts Date: 19.06 Involved: Helena Bertinelli, Sharon Carter @sharcarters and Dinah Lance @heartheblackdamncanary Mentioned: N/A Trigger warnings: guns tw, violence tw, gun shot wound tw Word count: 2,363

DINAH: Kicking ass and taking down criminals was the best kind of stress reliever, only trumped by sex in Dinah's book. But she was trying to avoid thinking about sex at the moment because that made her think about Ollie and the line they kept toeing closer to and how much she wanted to just jump across that line every second of the day. So, kicking as was the night's plan, and she'd followed up on a lead for some kind of weapon's deal going down in Gotham tonight down by the docks. Because of course anything shady was going on down by the docks at midnight under the heaviest fog they'd seen in months.

Watching from a nearby rooftop, Dinah thought again how she wished she had Oliver by her side or Babs in her ear. Or Helena standing by on her motorcycle a block away. She couldn't think about that though; what she could think about was how no one needed to own an assault rifle and that carrying money in suitcases was way too stereotypical.

HELENA: Going undercover in the Mafia was anything but easy, going undercover and taking over the Mafia was even more difficult but Helena had planned this for a long time. She was finally close to bringing down the Cosa Nostra and getting revenge for the murder of her family. Pretending she was one of them was hard though and Helena hated every minute of it, she especially hated it during days like these when there was a deal going down and she had to supervise it when all she wanted to do was break it up.

Fortunately she wasn't alone and she had Sharon's help, but it didn't make her like this side of things though. "I think we're almost ready to finish up here" she said as she turned to Sharon, she just wanted this deal to be over so she could go home and work on her real plans.

SHARON: She fit in too easily with this lifestyle. If asked, Sharon would claim the natural way she moved around a deal like this was just in her training. SHIELD had made fitting into any environment, easy. As if it were her second nature. But there was something about monitoring a weapon's deal like this one that felt just as natural and curling her hair in the morning. Slipping into a life that was all too natural for Sharon. (Tony would have made a comment. If nothing else but to point out that shedding her identity was too easy — Germany was still fresh on his mind. Five years in the past but the silence between them had kept it recent.)

Double checking the weapons, she tipped her head towards the person they needed to pay. "We have what we need," Sharon confirmed, looking towards Helena briefly. A trained glance, one that checked to make sure that she had Helena's approval, as anyone working under Helena should. Sharon buckled one of the suitcases. "Payment," she said simply. "Have we agreed on a price?"

DINAH: From a distance, something about the stance of one of the women looked familiar. Familiar enough to set Dinah on edge in a way that she wasn't before. Busting arms deals was nothing new for the Black Canary, but there was something off about the whole situation. Something that curled in her gut and made her want to look the other way, because she knew that if she continued to watch she might find something she didn't want to find. Some things couldn't be unseen; some truths could not be unlearned.

But she was the Black damn Canary and she couldn't look away, so just as money was starting to exchange hands, she dropped from the rooftop, twirling her batons in her hands as she made her presence known. "Yeah, about that. Should have brought earplugs," she said before letting out a canary cry.

HELENA: If it was one thing Helena had learned a long time ago it was to always be prepared. Hope for the best but prepare for the worst or however that saying went, of course that wasn't always possible but for certain situations Helena tried to be as best prepared as possible. One of the things she had prepared for was the deal being interrupted by a hero or vigilante, Dinah dropping down through the skylight proved her right.

Dinah let out a canary cry and Helena quickly ducked to roll out of the way, then she activated the power dampeners she'd had placed in the warehouse. Once they were on she got to her feet, drawing her gun and aiming it at Dinah. "Should have known it was going to be you, Canary" she said, her voice cold and hard as she looked at the woman she had once considered her best friend, who she had once been in love with.

SHARON: This was a familiar scene in Madripoor, too many times had she been standing in the room with criminals and pretending to share their ideals — pretending that she was an authority in a place she didn't belong. (Five years, she had spent there. Maybe she did belong there.) Sharon looked up, an arm over her face to block the glass that was raining down on them, and frankly she wasn't even a little surprised. This kind of interruption was familiar. The woman dropped down and Sharon looked at her just for a moment before the word registered. Earplugs. Sonic attack. She was unexpected, Sharon hated to admit.

But knowing that Helena and Dinah had been teammates for some time — she hoped that Dinah wasn't going to blow their entire operation. And she hoped that Helena had some kind of plan for this. (Too many hopes and not enough plans.)

Helena was already moving and Sharon ducked behind the men they were supposed to be doing business with, using them as a human shield. Even with the barrier, Sharon's ears were ringing, the man in front of her dropped and she shook it off. "One way to say hello," she commented, glancing at Helena and saw something in the gaze directed at Dinah — the Black Canary. Sharon looked at Helena, a question in her gaze as to what had happened here, but it lasted only a moment. This was messier than she had anticipated.

DINAH: Dinah felt the moment that her powers were silenced and it left her seething and ready for a fight. They thought that her powers were her only weapons? It wasn't even the only one she was born with. She had two fists that could be just as deadly, and she hadn't travelled the world to be taken down by some arms dealers.

Canary. The voice stopped her in her tracks before she'd even registered the gun pointed in her direction. She met Helena's eyes, hoping for some hint as to how to handle the situation. A sign that this was just Babs sending her out on a solo mission without thinking to alert Dinah about a possible run-in. There was none of that. Did she address her as Huntress? Helena Bertinelli? Dinah had sworn to never be caught off guard like this again, but here she was, letting Helena undo all of that progress.  "I have a habit of interrupting sketchy shit," Dinah shot back with a shrug, not backing down at the sight of the gun pointed at her. Helena wouldn't shoot her. Dinah had to believe that much at least.

HELENA: "You seem shocked, Canary" Helena commented, tilting her head slightly as she looked at her former teammate. Just a little over a year ago Dinah was someone Helena would have done anything for, someone she would have given her life for and now? Now she was aiming a gun at her and if it came down to it, in order to not blow her cover, she would pull the trigger. She wouldn't kill her but she wasn't about to let Dinah ruin something Helena had worked towards most of her life, not when she was so close to finally getting revenge on the people who killed her family.

"You shouldn't have come here" she said as some of her men began regain their bearings after the sonic scream, aiming their own guns at Dinah. "You know her boss?" One of them asked glancing between the two women. "I thought I did, but I was wrong" she replied with a shrug, still keeping her eyes on Dinah.

SHARON: It was Dinah. Of course it was Dinah. Sharon should have asked Helena right out the gate about Dinah once she realized that Dinah hadn't been invited to this party. Thankfully, Sharon was always prepared. She reached into the pocket inside her jacket and pulled out the earplugs from years ago. (She had always imagined she'd need it if she ever teamed up with Dinah again, to prevent herself from getting hit by the blast. But now she was using it as a real defense against Dinah.)

Pulling her gun from her holster, she set herself up behind the vehicle, gun pointed at Dinah, the shot she was aiming for was nonlethal. But between the three of them? Sharon knew she was most likely to be the one to pull the trigger. "Heartwarming reunion guys," Sharon said, cocking the gun. "But you two are terrible when it comes to timing."

DINAH: If Helena's voice had surprised her, Sharon's voice was a shock to the system. A woman she hadn't seen or heard from in... years... except for when a mission took Dinah to Madripoor and she found Sharon deep undercover in a way that blocked Dinah out of her life. Out of her life until recently in the middle of the city's chaos. Evidently it had been too much to hope for that they could slip back into old habits. Seemed she wasn't the only one who had changed during Dinah's time abroad.

"You know I can't let you do this," Dinah said, trying to ignore the growing pit in her stomach. "It would set a bad example. Something about justice and all of that." She didn't even know what the play was here. Undercover? Likely, but her gut told her it was something bigger than just a single op. "I can't let these weapons stay in Gotham, and there's honestly no damn reason for them to stay anywhere else. So, why don't you just let me do my thing and we can set up a big bonfire for them?"

HELENA: "Let me?" Helena scoffed, she hoped Dinah didn't think that would actually make a difference, like she'd suddenly change her mind. "Last I checked I don't need your permission" she had to be convincing in her act, though she found it wasn't too hard right now, she was already angry at Dinah. She decided to use that. "You're outnumbered" she said, gesturing with her free hand to all the others with their gun aimed at Dinah.

"You don't have your powers right now, and you might be good but you're not invincible, you can't stop a bullet, let alone this many" Helena didn't want to hurt Dinah, she didn't want her dead no matter how angry she was at her. If she had to though, she'd shoot her in order to not blow her cover. She had amazing aim, it wouldn't be a lethal shot but it was still a bullet, she wanted to avoid it if she could. "I'm going to give you one chance to leave, unharmed, but that is as far as my generosity goes."

SHARON: This entire exchange felt like a shit show waiting to happen. Dinah was looking at Helena, and Helena had zero give in her stance. Two strong forces that were unwilling to budge. Sharon didn't know the full story as to why Dinah and Helena stopped talking, but there was a tangible rift between them where friendship had once existed. (A force that Sharon hadn't thought she'd get sucked into the middle of — or even to the side of.)

Going back to Madripoor was starting to look like a dream.

Helena offered Dinah another chance, a last moment to leave. But they both knew Dinah well enough to know that she'd never walk away. Not from something like this. (Even if Dinah knew the plan, she was pretty sure Dinah would never go along with it. She always had a better grasp on right and wrong than Sharon did. Years in SHIELD had numbed her to a lot of things.) Sharon aimed her gun and took the shot, carefully aiming to make sure that Dinah was only wounded. She lowered her gun and glanced at Helena. "You talk too much."

DINAH: She had faced down the Twelve Brothers Silk alone. She'd survived her imprisonment by Creole and Savant. She could spar against Wonder Woman and hold her own. Nothing prepared Dinah for the kind of betrayal that stabbed her in the front -- two hands that she'd once trusted her life in, holding the gun and pulling the trigger.

Crack. Dinah took a step back, not even registering what had happened as a reality until Sharon lowered her gun. In the next second, pain sensors fired through her shoulder and she looked down to see red already spreading from the source of it. She shot me. The thought sent her staggering another half-step back to smack roughly into a shipping container before she slid down to sit in shock. Helena watched and Sharon shot me.

HELENA: Dinah getting shot was something she'd seen before, in fact she'd seen Dinah sustain a multitude of different injuries. It was different this time, she'd never been the cause of Dinah's injuries, directly or indirectly. Helena didn't allow herself to react though, she couldn't, instead she simply lowered her gun and turned to address the other Cosa Nostra members. "Make sure the deal is completed" she said before she looked at Sharon "since you shot her you can make sure she doesn't bleed out on my floor, I don't want the Justice League breaking down my door because one of their so called heroes died." She quickly left after that.

[xxx-cat-xxx]

ghosts

Here are some post-Civil War team feelings and a bit of whump. Thanks to @whumphoarder for beta reading ❤

__________________________

Sometimes, Tony remembers.

Tonight he lies awake in his bed after Rhodey forced him out of the workshop at 3am, away from the prototype for his leg braces. Tony didn’t put up a fight because the guilt was still fresh and sharp and seeing his best friend navigate his wheelchair through the messy workshop was making him pliant, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to be able to rest. 

Sleep evades him, but the memories are there. Pepper, every night, making his heart ache in rhythm with his fractured sternum. His parents, dead in the car with smoke still rising from the broken engine. Siberia and the wormhole and Rhodey dropping out of the sky, falling and falling and falling until Tony’s body hits the mattress and he opens his eyes with a gasp. 

And then there’s the team. Sometimes, the ghosts come back to keep him company.

*

The plan was for Natasha to infiltrate an NSA division suspected to be running an undercover espionage programme with illegally obtained citizens’ data. She was supposed to go in, disguised with a photostatic veil as the lead technology officer, copy the evidence, and leave after the shift was over. Tony and Steve would be waiting outside with her ride home, ready to interfere in case something went wrong. 

Which it did, because, unbeknownst to their intel and definitely against the rules of the department she worked for, said technology officer was having an affair with one of her colleagues, who’d realised something was off when she tried to slide her hand into Nat’s pants in a storage room and in turn got punched in the face.

Nat was held, drugged, and interrogated. She didn’t spill, of course. Her cover didn’t get blown until half a day later, when Tony and Steve burst through the door to rescue her. She even managed to transfer enough of the evidence to Tony’s servers to build a solid case against the NSA division before she got blasted, so from that perspective, the mission was a success.

A success that came with a price, however, Tony thought as he leaned back in the pilot seat, having just maneuvered them out of the danger zone. The adrenaline was fading away to leave behind exhaustion and a pulsing pain in his hand. 

“Not again...” he muttered as he carefully removed the armour on his right arm to reveal a swollen, possibly broken wrist. He’d had to retract his gauntlet to open the digitally coded lock to the facility and he’d paid the price for forgetting to put it back on five minutes later when an overzealous security guard kicked him in the arm. He should really look into cloning again—an extra arm would definitely come in handy.

Behind him, Nat was throwing up into a basin, so quietly and efficiently that it almost looked like she was in control of what was happening. She was pale and sweaty, the stuff they’d drugged her with clearly not agreeing with her system. But the real sign she was still a bit out of it was that she didn’t protest at all when Steve sat close beside her and placed a hand on her back while she heaved.

“Don’t redecorate my quinjet, Romanov,” Tony said flippantly, swiverling his chair around. “I just finally got the blood out of the upholstery from your run-in with the Frankfurt cartel.” 

Still retching into the bowl, Nat flipped him off without even looking up. Tony noticed she was trembling slightly.

He got up and moved over to the lockers, limping a bit―(when did that happen?)―as he went, and fetched the threadbare blanket Bruce used to wrap around himself after de-hulking. Steve bit his lip when Tony draped the tattered thing over Nat’s shoulders and he knew they were all thinking the same thing.

The absence of Bruce and Clint was almost tangible. Steve tended to be the one to get their spirits up before the missions, and Tony would chatter continuously during the fight, but afterwards it had usually been Clint who’d take care of them all in his own, inscrutable way. He was especially good at building the team up again after things went wrong, taking the blame off each of their individual shoulders and distributing it evenly across all of them. 

“Not your fault, Cap. Can’t save ‘em all,” he’d remind the soldier after a particularly rough mission. Or he’d thrust a jammed weapon into Tony’s hands and tell him to stop brooding and make himself useful. “Don’t give me that emo look,” he’d tell Nat whenever she was sulking. “We talked about this.” And nobody would ever know what it was that the two had talked about, but a bit of tension would fall off her shoulders.

Tony wonders, sometimes, whether they’d instinctively known that Bruce’s departure and Clint’s retirement would mark the beginning of the end of the Avengers. Whether somewhere deep inside, all of them were counting the days they had left.

“What happened to your wrist?” Steve broke the silence.

“He frac’ured it again,” Nat said hoarsely, slurring her words just a little. “Will never learn to put that glove back on.”

Tony laughed.

*

Their first stop was at the compound’s medical bay where they were told that Nat couldn’t do anything more than sleep off the effects of the drug and make sure to stay hydrated. Tony’s wrist, to everyone’s surprise, was only badly sprained this time, and they let him go after bandaging it. 

He was starting to feel the effects of the fight by then, the beginning soreness of his muscles and annoying pain from all his bruises. Exhaustion was clinging heavily to his limbs; he hadn’t slept the previous night, busy going through the intel and testing the comms to make sure the mission would be successful before leaving at daybreak.

Nat also looked like she could use a bed, unsteady on her feet and even less talkative than usual, but there was a silent understanding between Steve and Tony not to leave her alone in a dark room while the drugs were still messing with her mind. They all had their own ghosts, and even if she didn’t talk about them, they weren’t about to let Nat fight hers on her own.

They gathered in the common room where JARVIS had already ordered Thai and pizza, as well as ginger lemonade to combat the nausea. Bruce would have made a fresh jug himself if he were here, Tony caught himself thinking, and quickly shook his head to get rid of the melancholic feelings that threatened to overtake him.

He helped himself to rice and curry and sat down heavily in the armchair, switching on the TV and flipping through the channels as he ate. Nat held her head tipped back against the sofa, still pale, eyes half-closed. She was alternating between taking small bites from a piece of Margherita and sipping on her lemonade. Next to her, Steve was devouring the pizza like his life depended on it, but Tony was long past joking about the man’s increased need for calories.

“Who wants a drink?” Tony asked over the background noise of a news anchor announcing breaking news on the NSA data leak.

“Daiquiri,” Nat ordered, and it was a testimony to what they’d all been through together that no one questioned her ability to stomach rum a mere hour and a half after puking her guts up into a plastic bowl.

Tony pushed himself up from the chair and made it about two seconds on his feet before the headrush made him stumble blindly into the table. 

"Whoa..." he breathed out at the same moment that Steve said "Steady" and jumped up to help. 

“Think I really need that drink,” Tony commented, leaning on the larger man for support and rubbing his eyes with a groan until the haze cleared. 

“I think you really need to sleep,” Steve scolded in his best worried-dad voice. Tony snorted and gazed up at the other man until he sighed and gave in. “Okay, I’ll get them. Sit down before you fall over.” 

Tony gave him the prettiest smile he could muster. “That’s what I like to hear. Scotch for me, please.”

And so it ended. Nat had fallen asleep against Steve’s shoulder (or, having allowed herself to fall, to be precise; they all knew it was a gesture of trust and nothing that happened accidentally. Tony was stretched out in the armchair, idly swirling the ice in his scotch glass. Pink Floyd was playing in the background, and Steve was subconsciously tapping his foot along with the rhythm while finishing off the Thai leftovers.

The two men shared a smile across the coffee table—briefly, casually—and then Steve gently shifted Nat to lie down on the couch where she immediately curled up like a cat between the pillows, her dark red curls falling loosely over her face. He covered her with a blanket and threw another one over to Tony, who set down his glass just in time to catch it. 

Steve left for a bit and returned with a novel and a cup of tea. Tony turned up the music a few notches and slowly let his eyes slip shut. He already knew that they’d all still be there come morning. 

*

Tony isn’t sure why it’s this mission that comes back to him that night. It’s nothing special, nothing even particularly successful—just a bunch of injuries and comfort food, typical for how they used to operate. 

He wonders whether Steve knew, back then. Whether Nat had already picked her side.

If anyone were to ask him now, he’d say he’s angry—furious, even—because that’s easier to deal with than the sadness that comes along with betrayal. And what he’d never say is that he misses them. 

He doesn’t. 

He really doesn’t.

(He’s always been such a good liar.)

Tony blinks into the darkness and their faces disappear. The memories might fade by morning, but the ghosts are here to stay.

[legacyofabsolutewalnuts]

@swtorpadawan tagged me in this meme, and I am hella into it. This is my favourite musing bc swtor in the canon of star wars is fucking hilarious. On a side note, for anyone who does this and chose only one oc, but has thoughts about the others oh my god do and let me know. Im a snoopy bish give them all to me. In this case I’m going to try to keep it brief while covering my main four, Viticalia, Thomsyn, Belville and Montym. Partly bc I’ve been thinking about their dynamics for a joint Alliance Commander AU lately

This got really long, bc I couldn’t choose one, and Im a wordy bish, so I’ve put the actual answers under the cut, so as not to kill everyones dashes

What would your OC do if they were thrown through time and into Star Wars the Clone Wars:

1. Who would they fight for?

I think most of them would either end up going independent or siding with the Republic. Montym and Belville would actually be the most likely to commit to the Republic, they’re both two people who value loyalty and understand that sometimes things need to be changed from the inside out. Thomsyn I think would stay with the Republic, but may end up with the Grey Jedi. She isn’t inclined to this whole “just peacekeepers” deal and would want to take the fight to the Sith directly. Viticalia would be an independent, committing to neither except for who would pay her most, or just destroy the CIS and take her place at the top of it. She would not be willing to submit to being ordered around by Dooku, or lord forbid Grevious or Ventress, and she definitely wouldn’t appreciate Sidious being unwilling to step up on the frontline with his troops.

2. If not a force user, would they keep their job (Would a trooper still work for this new Republic and would an Agent be loyal to the Separatists?)?

Bel would probably make a play to join the SIS. And then immediately question how the SIS went from agents like Theron to seemingly having the capabilities of two people and paperclip. I’m just saying how did no one put any of the diddly dang dots together. He’d be the type to pull off an op and then basically drop it at the Jedi’s feet like “here, give me a job.” I’ll get into why he would go to the republic in a bit.

3. Who would they hate?

Vits would despise Dooku and Sidious. She would like Ventress but find her training considerably lacking. She understand some cunning, undercover work, and what it can do, that’s why she and Bel get along, but the lack of commitment to stand beside your men and fight with them is something she despises.

Thomsyn would have some problems with the way the Jedi, but she and Montym would both have a much bigger problem with Senate oversight. They’re both used to working with politicians, but the inability to work without that oversight would bother them. Neither of them think the Jedi are infallible, but they both have a big problem with the idea of needing politicians to greenlight things like humanitarian missions. 

Bel would have a huge problem with the Jedi that he keeps under lock and key. Part of it would be due to Kothe. The other part is...well he’s seen what happens when Sith lead, he doesn’t really think the Jedi should be given military power for their ability with the Force either. 

4. Who would they get along well with?

Bel would actually get along really well with GAR Specforces. I think he’d adjust pretty easily to them, and people like Skirata and Vau would be comfortingly familiar as Bel actually got along really well with Shae and Torian. And he would very much enjoy the troopers, he understands their mindset, and especially with the Commandos, they understand the importance of intel people like Bel are meant to provide. He’d also be all in to spar with the ARC’s, and hone his skills against theirs.

Montym would have had a romantic crush on Obi-Wan within five seconds of the man dramatically dropping his cape and that’s really all there is to it. He would also get along well with Senator Organa.

Like I said earlier, I think Vits would have liked Ventress, and probably tried to poach her as an apprentice in a damn second. Thomsyn I’m not really sure who she’d get along with best.

5. What would they think of the Jedi Order?

Viticalia has, and always will be fascinated by the Jedi in that sort of detached, research-esque way. Otherwise she doesn’t care about them much, although she does find it a bit amusing to watch some of them tout the ideals of the Republic as things go down hill. She at least never had any misconceptions about the Empire. Thomsyn and Montym sort of understand how the Jedi could have come under such heavy control of the Senate. They both would have hoped for better, but aren’t that surprised, not after Saresh.

Bel could not care less about the Jedi. Likes them well enough individually for the most part, but that’s his approach to any and all force users really.

6. What would they think of the “rule of 2” Sith?

Viticalia thinks its the stupidest thing ever. Probably starts taking on as many slightly sensitive people as she can and calls them her Apprentices just to piss off these new “Sith”. Really she’s just adopting herself a bunch of children, but it counts and that’s all she cares about.

7. What would they think of having a clone and droid army fighting instead of typical soldiers?

Bel understands what its like to be treated as less than a person. As an asset only. It’s still something he does to himself, thinking about himself as only an asset or a liability, which is a mindset Theron’s working on having him get rid of. So he would sympathize pretty heavily, which is part of why he’d go to the Republic. He’s turned the tide of a war and saved countless of his coworkers in the military before, he would try it again.

Viticalia and Thomsyn would have more practical issues with the idea a droid army. They aren’t creative, they can’t interpret, and they aren’t built for every situation. Thomsyn however would have a lot of problems on the legality of clones, whereas Vits is used to slavery and is prone to forgetting about how that works.

Montym thinks the whole idea on either side is terrible, for various reasons, but cannot stand that clones are not legal citizens but the Republic uses them anyhow.

8. If Republic - if they became a general in the army what would their relationship with their clones be like?

I think Montym would accept a position as a General, Thomsyn...maybe for a while. Montym is a little better with handling the cost of war, whereas Thomsyn counts on herself to keep everyone around her alive. I think they’d both be on good terms with their troopers, Montym would take a bit longer, he’s quiet and a bit...odd, but when he likes people he makes it clear. Thomsyn would get close to them quickly, and each death would hit her pretty hard.

9. If Imperial - what would they think of the complete lack of sith and excess of droids in the Separatist army?

Viticalia has soooo many problems about tradition with the way the Sith operate, but in particular thinks the CIS is...stupid. The idea of a civil war is fine, sure, but their execution is lacking. Bel thinks they’re stupid but also finds it very funny. Terrible tactics, questionable leadership, not a good spy in sight... but he also thinks the way the Republic has alienated so many of their own...well he’s seen it before with Imperial worlds, and after Saresh it isn’t surprising. He’s largely disillusioned and just wishes someone would learn from their mistakes already. Part of what would push him to join the Republic in this case would be that he values peoples lives a lot more than droids, and he hasn’t valued the Sith as leaders in a long time, so he has no reason to go to the CIS and as far as he’s concerned, Republics got the better chance. 

10. Consider they were born in this era - where would they fit in Clone Wars canon?

This I’ve actually thought about this a bit. Thomsyn and Montym would be still pretty much the same, Jedi, although Thomsyn would not have joined the Grey Jedi in that AU as she would be more accustomed to what this Republic is like. Viticalia I would go with a Jedi who leaves the order eventually, simply because it would be really fun to explore a much more light-sided Vits. Bel’s a bit more difficult to place, in a society that doesn’t put as much importance on genetics and perfection, he would have the chance to do whatever he liked, which he didn’t in the Empire. In an au that follows his canon life a little better, he would probably join the SIS, but more likely as an anaylst or undercover agent, not as a sniper and agent. 

Honestly time travel and born in that era, they’re def aus I’ve thought about writing

[white-collar-lawmen-and-conmen]

The Execution

Summary: You execute your revenge plan and seize an unexpected opportunity. (Sequel to The Salted Coffee Hit List.)

Word Count: 2,769

           Ryan went down fast once he had erroneously decided he could trust you, and after two more face-to-face operations plus a lot of in-character communications over the phone, he gave you some damning evidence which you relayed to Peter to build your case. While you couldn’t enter the broker’s office without thinking of the time you’d had Neal and Peter both interrupting every few minutes, you hadn’t had the time to get back at them for it because the case had to come first.

           By the time you were back in your routine, that had been nine days ago and you weren’t even sure Peter would remember what had happened without some prompting. Hell, he could barely even remember to get his own clothes from the dry cleaner’s without a reminder. You caught yourself wondering if it was even worth it anymore.

           Then you realized that you had the element of surprise over them both. After plotting – um, pondering on it for a while over a TV dinner, you decided you couldn’t let them get away with it. It would set a bad precedent.

           Despite what most cop shows might have led you to expect, being a senior agent didn’t give Peter the excuse – or the guts – to order his agents to always bring him coffee. All members of his team alternated with who got all the coffees, and you bided your time until it was your turn.

           “Y/N,” the barista called loudly, barely looking up from the coffee cups as he put several down in a cluster.

           You grabbed a couple of white salt packets off of the utensils counter as well as two thin red stirrers, then started checking the names on the coffees as you were putting them into a cardboard drink carrier. You left yours, Diana’s, and Clinton’s free of tampering. Neal’s, with added cream, and Peter’s, straight, were left out of the carrier for just a moment. Trying not to look suspicious to the baristas or any other customers, you quickly but calmly opened both men’s drinks, dumped a salt packet in each, and stirred the salt into dissolving faster before trashing the stirrers and putting the tops back on.

           No one suspected anything when you carried all the drinks back up to the twenty-first floor, across the bullpen, up the mezzanine, and into the preferred conference room. Keeping a straight face was a bit of a challenge, but you had been under higher stakes than this before, and you were not about to let your amusement ruin this for you.

           “About time,” Neal commented, his dull eyes lighting up as soon as he realized there was coffee in the room. Peter looked like he had been halfway through chastising his informant when you came in, which probably explained said informant’s boredom.

           You put the carrier down on the table while keeping your own cup in hand. Jones looked at his watch briefly before standing up to reach for his coffee. “I thought it would take longer. Lunch rush.”

           “They’re starting to learn our order by heart,” you remarked, grimacing slightly. How much money did that branch make from tired FBI agents? Probably as astronomical amount.

           Peter let everyone else get their drinks before he got his, but he was also the first to try drinking it while the steam was still rising from the slot in the lid. Sitting down normally, you kept an eye on him as he took a sip, made a face, forced himself to swallow, and then stuck his tongue out at either the heat, the saltiness, or both.

           “Something wrong?” You asked, keeping your face even and tilting your head.

           “I think I just tasted my tongue burning off,” your boss said, disgruntled. You were silently delighted. It was so hot that he couldn’t even pick up on the salt. He was going to drink the salted coffee again.

           “The steam was supposed to clue you in,” Diana quipped.

           “What have we got since I left?” At your question, the team got back on track. Diana and Peter filled you in with a quick review.

           The five of you continued looking at your case for several minutes before the steam had quit venting out of the coffee lids. Neal took a taste of his while listening to Jones report on accounting figures and the face of disgust he made was worth every second of anticipation. As soon as he knew his coffee was tampered with, his eyes shot up to you.

           “That was low,” he said, interrupting Jones.

           “What did I do?” You asked earnestly, blinking. Neal didn’t buy it for a second. Diana looked at you suspiciously and drank some of her own coffee. Since she hadn’t been deserving of sabotaged beverages, she didn’t find anything wrong with hers and shrugged at Jones.

           “It was almost two weeks ago.” Neal frowned.

           “Congratulations, you can count.” You smiled sweetly at him.

           Peter rolled his eyes and looked up to the ceiling. To brace himself for dealing with conflict, he drank some more coffee. It had cooled down enough by now for him to realize that the taste was god-awful and he turned around so quickly his tie flew, like he was going to spit it out in the trash can. He didn’t end up doing that, which disappointed you a little. It would’ve been more interesting if he had since you really hadn’t put in that much salt.

           “For God’s sake,” he grumbled, turning back around after forcing it down. “What the hell was that for?”

           “Huh,” you said thoughtfully, locking eyes. “I guess I must have accidentally mixed up the salt and sugar.” You kept up a polite smile.

           Peter looked at Neal as if to say it was his fault. Neal made an innocent face at him and gestured to his own, almost untouched, coffee to emphasize that he was a victim, too. Peter just strengthened his glare and continued to blame Neal.

           “I haven’t touched yours,” he objected, “I barely even touched mine!”

           “Because there’s so much salt in it you could melt the ice off the road!”

           Diana snorted and leaned back in her chair. “There’s free coffee in the kitchenette.”

           Neal gave her an apprehensive look. “That’s not real coffee.”

           “Ick.” Peter picked his cup up for a third time, but this time he dropped it into the trash bin. Neal pushed his along the table so that when the boss turned back around, he repeated the process with Neal’s cup.

           “How long were you planning that?” The thief asked you, crossing his arms.

           “I’ve had the idea since you wouldn’t shut up in the van.”

           “It took you two weeks to do that?” He shook his head. “Wow, Y/N. Wow.”

           So what if it was unsophisticated? It was unpleasant for them, and that was all you had wanted. “You weren’t expecting it and I ruined your afternoon because now you don’t have coffee.” Although you wanted to stick your tongue out at him, you decided against it. Instead, you sipped on your perfectly tasty latte with smug pride.

~~~ The Execution ~~~

           Although you couldn’t accept coffee from Neal or Peter for a couple of weeks, the salted coffee hit list had been successfully carried out and was absolutely worth the inconvenience of having to get your own drinks for a while. The boys appeared to have taken it with some salt (pun intended), but there were no reprisals – they must have realized that they had it coming. Both of them had worked undercover before, and both knew how freaking aggravating it was when the utility of the earpiece was abused.

           Work carried on as uneventfully as it ever did when your colleagues included a contemporarily-renowned con artist. When you joined the bureau, you had thought it would be exciting. It was, but you had confused the movies for real life. When you all caught wind of a case which involved a stolen identity, a missing persons profile, and long-term embezzlement, you all jumped to seize the investigative leads.

           You almost forgot how boring it could be to sit in the van while someone else was doing the tough work. For a moment, you understood why Neal had been so insufferable. You worried about him, too, of course you did. This sympathy only lasted for a few minutes as Neal charmed it up with the receptionist inside while he waited for his appointment with the in-house accountant. If he could so freely wing it and expect you to stay quiet, then he should have been able to keep his mouth shut when you were watching your words and policing your body language.

           “How did you do that?” The soprano voice asked with laughter. You rolled your eyes at the flirting while listening with a headset over your ears. Neal responded with the French word for sleight of hand, trying to appear cultured and suave.

           “If this goes on for much longer, my lunch is going to make a reprise,” Peter shared, looking at you and pretending to have to settle his stomach.

           You picked up your phone to check the time. “I thought the appointment was at one?”

           “It’s supposed to be,” the senior agent grumbled. “This should be time theft.”

           If Neal could hear you now, he would be offended. Your eyes darted to the recording equipment, just to see. The light was off on the equipment – the line was only open one-way. But that could change…

           Peter wouldn’t go along with it because work was serious and had to be prioritized. You were glad he knew that, but Neal apparently didn’t, and sometimes that man only learned lessons when they were beaten into his skull. Though you’d been content with your petty revenge, this teaching opportunity was too good to pass on.

           “Hey, boss, he’s just going to be hitting on that poor girl for a while,” you said craftily, giving a yawn into the crook of your elbow. “There was a Starbucks just a couple streets back, I’d love a pick-me-up.”

           Peter yawned after you and blinked, apparently just then realizing how tired he actually was. “Me, too. I could use a stretch.” He got up and patted his pockets to check he had his wallet, phone, and badge. “Your usual?”

           “Yes, please.”

           You waited for him to shrug on his coat, jump out, and close the back of the van before you pressed the two-way communication button on the recorder. The light turned green and you smirked.

           Neal kept flirting with the receptionist, and you kept yourself quiet. Though it was tempting to suddenly start chatting in his ear and distract him from the pretty woman’s attention, your point would have a lot more heft behind it if you waited until he was mentally invested in the task. He enjoyed flirting, but he himself said that it was more of a game than a serious endeavor.

           Almost ten minutes after Peter left the van, the sound changed and someone faintly called Neal’s name on the other end. He quit talking with the receptionist and a few seconds later, he was introducing himself as Nick Halden and the other man’s voice was much closer than it had been before. The accountant introduced himself by his nickname, Walt, and Neal very subtly snuck in a comment on how the accountant’s office looked so that you and Peter would know where to go if things went sideways.

           A couple of minutes into the meeting, a thumping on the doors had you stand up and open them for Peter with your headset still on. You took both coffees from your boss and let him climb back in and close the doors. He had graciously gotten your favorite latte. You smelled it first, and then took a tiny, slow sip.

           “Don’t worry,” Peter said dryly as he sat down. “I thought about it, but exercised some self-control.”

           “Ouch,” you remarked back at a normal volume, knowing Neal was hearing every word while he was also trying to concentrate. “That stings.”

           “So does too much salt.”

           Neal didn’t let on that he was hearing voices. You knew he wouldn’t or you wouldn’t have risked it. You had always admired his composure. Before long, he had become, for the most part, a behavioral mirror of Walt. Neal did it so skillfully that if you didn’t know exactly what he was doing, you wouldn’t have known he was manipulating his behavior at all.

           A few minutes passed by, and Neal’s careful questions and inconspicuous prods started to show a little more about what the bad guy was thinking. It was time to interrupt again, you noted, and had a legitimate reason to do so. “What do you think?” You asked Peter, swiveling in your chair. “Is he the one pulling the strings?”

           “I have a hard time believing someone else is doing it,” Peter said thoughtfully. “Accounting is very precise, and it’s not all about crunching numbers and filing taxes.”

           “I know what this kind of job’s like,” Neal was saying, sounding earnest and a little… patronizing, maybe? It wasn’t a straightforward inflection – you would have had to see his expression to know for sure. “You spend all your time up here, crunching numbers, filing taxes, and no one even knows your name. Guys like us deserve a thank you once in a while, is that so much to ask?”

           You thought quickly and acted to catch Peter’s attention before he realized that the uncanny repetition was Neal hinting that he could hear you. “He could just be the brains behind someone else’s greed,” you pointed out.

           “He could, but I don’t think so. Not enough money’s gone missing to make up two cuts.”

           “Maybe not yet,” you countered. “But if he thought this could go on long enough, they could rake in plenty for two people, or even three.”

           Peter leaned forward, thinking about it carefully. You couldn’t wait for him to reply. Although Neal’s tone wasn’t cluing you in to any irritation or stress, you knew it had to be there. And in the meantime, the accountant was agreeing vehemently, getting braver because of Neal’s expressed sympathy.

           “I suppose,” he said slowly, “But the way they’re talking, there’s not room for another person.”

           “Let’s hope he’s the only one, then. Less paperwork.”

           Neal kept continuing in the direction that his conversational partner was leading. It was becoming excessively clear that Walt felt the company owed him more than he was being given. There wasn’t anything concrete enough to use as evidence, but it was obvious that if you were persistent enough, you could get something out of him.

           “I gotta spend my whole life cleaning up their messes and making their lives easier. And what do I get? Barely 80K.”

           You rolled your eyes as the suspect whined at Neal. “Oh, is that all?” You sarcastically asked, then snapped, “Jackass.”

           Peter was shaking his head. “The city’s not a cheap place to live, but that’s a lot more than most people get. I think he’s doing fine.”

           “Greed like that should be illegal,” you commented. Thinking that a perfectly respectable salary was too low and feeling entitled to embezzle as a result was just inexcusable. No one was entitled to rip off other people. No one.

           “In his case, it already is.” Peter mumbled, his low tone letting you know he was having similar thoughts.

           The appointment continued on, but didn’t last very long. Most of that time you were respectfully quiet, not wanting to push too hard and actually jeopardize the case. Every few minutes, you would pipe up with something that sparked a short exchange between yourself and your boss. You had counted up to six interruptions before Neal was politely but firmly dismissed, and “Nick” gracefully made an exit while persuasively cajoling Walt to keep in touch.

           There were a couple minutes of silence, and then the sounds of an elevator door closing and beeping with every floor as it descended. Presumably isolated, Neal let himself sound annoyed as he spoke again. “Seriously, Y/N?”

           Peter was confused for a second before it dawned on him to check the equipment. The light on the box was still green. Peter slapped the button to turn it back into a one-way receiver and then turned an accusatory look on you. Now you understood how Neal felt right before one of those famed Burke lectures.

           Putting your hand up quickly for a chance to speak first, you managed to hold him off long enough to say plainly, “Worth it.”

~~~

~~~

A/N: Woohoo! Thanks to @whizzer-fashion for my first commissioned story! Also, yay for my first posted series!

My requests are closed, but if you’d like to get around that little issue, please drop me a line or ask about my commission options or go straight to my Ko-Fi page. A oneshot of this length is $4 (pricing formula: cost = $1/500 words, + 500 words free). Imagines are $1 each, and you can also get a 2-for-$1 would include package.

[peraltasames]

mountains and valleys (and all that will come in between) - chapter two

Jake, Amy, and four distinct yet painfully similar times the universe pulled them apart and pushed them back together.

read on ao3

part two: florida

Jake doesn’t speak until somewhere around the border of Virginia and North Carolina.

He listens to Marshal Haas, located in the passenger seat, as she briefs them on their new identities. He glances over at Captain Holt, who is listening much more intently than himself and twisting his wedding ring around his finger, likely trying to memorize how it feels before he’s forced to part with it. He looks out the window at the many streets, houses and towns that they pass, dimly lit by the moon and streetlights. He thinks about Amy.

It isn’t until Holt grabs his shoulder and informs him that the marshal just asked if he has any questions that he finally opens his mouth to talk, his voice coming out a little hoarse from lack of recent use.

“How long did you say it’s gonna take to catch Figgis?”

“It’s impossible to say, but we’re predicting somewhere between four months and a year,” Haas says with the same no-nonsense, clear tone that she’s been using since picking Holt and Jake up at the precinct hours ago after a much too short goodbye with the squad.

It seems so far away already. It feels like it’s been years, not hours, since he wrapped Amy in a hug in the corner of the briefing room - all the privacy that they were allotted - and kissed her hair repeatedly while she tried to stifle her panicked cries.

“It’s crucial that you follow every one of these rules exactly as I instruct you to,” the marshal continues, “or he’ll find you before we find him.”

“I know.”

She’s only stated this a hundred times since they left New York - follow the rules, follow the rules, follow the rules. He understands that she’s doing her job and trying to keep him alive and he should really be grateful, but he does not think that she understands the complete and utter torture of being apart from Amy Santiago.

He’s done it for the past three weeks, a much shorter length of time than the one they’re facing now and with frequent texts and phone calls and reassurance that she was okay. Still, they were by far the worst three weeks Jake experienced since they started dating last summer.

To make matters so much worse, they had just agreed to move in together. They were just about to take the next step in their relationship, a step that he hoped would be the first of several ensuing advancements towards a lifetime together - because, god, there is no way he’s ever going to find anything better than this. She is absolutely, undeniably, the best thing that has ever and will ever happened to him.

And now that’s on hold - maybe for four months, maybe for a year, any amount of time being too long for him.

Nobody else sees it, but as he turns his head to resume staring out the window, his tired eyes might just shed a tear or two.

-

The first few months, he doesn’t cope well.

The first month consists of cases of cheap beer from the K-Mart around the corner, watching movies he doesn’t like in front of a crappy TV with all the lights turned off and sleeping until two in the afternoon.

The second month is still getting used to calling Holt “Greg” (which feels wrong for a multitude of reasons), eating burritos in the hot tub and rejecting Greg’s pleas that Jake - Larry - take better care of himself.

The third month is his birthday passing and Holt giving him a small nod and smile when they walk outside to retrieve the papers in the morning, not being able to say anything aloud because Larry’s birthday is in October.

The third day of the fourth month, Holt comes over for dinner. He’ll tell the neighbourhood walking group the next day that Larry simply cooked too many burgers and invited his closest neighbour in proximity over for a casual meal to eliminate food waste.

They play loud music - Larry’s favourite band is Nickelback, to Jake’s horror - to allow them to talk somewhat more freely than they do outside while in the confines of the kitchen, though Holt still insists on using their fake personas to help them “stay in character.”

“How are you doing?” Holt asks, taking a sip of his soda. Greg drinks soda. Holt does not.

“I’m fine.”

“I can tell that something’s bothering you, Larry,” he insists, looking Jake in the eye. “Is it…girl trouble?”

Jake deciphers his code immediately, understanding what he’s really trying to ask is do you miss Amy?

He nods. “Yeah. Girl trouble.”

There’s a pause, and he can feel Holt’s eyes on him, analyzing his pained expression.

“Perhaps I can offer some advice,” Holt says with a casual wave of his hand. “One heterosexual man to another.”

Jake turns up the dial on the speaker to drown out his words and speaks softly, barely loud enough for Holt to hear him.

“I miss her so much,” he admits. “And I can’t stand not being able to talk to her or the Nine-Nine or my mom and not - not know if she’s okay-“

He doesn’t realize he’s shaking until Holt pulls him into a firm hug, steadying him, and his laboured breathing slows marginally.

“She’s okay,” Holt murmurs. “She’ll be okay as long as you stay alive long enough to come home to her.”

They stay like that for a few moments until Holt releases him, finishes his beverage and excuses himself for the night.

Before he retires to his own bungalow next door, Holt pats him on the shoulder in the doorway and offers his best attempt at a reassuring smile.

“Thank you for dinner, Larry,” he says. “And if it’s any consolation, I also miss my…wife.”

It does help, barely, to know that they’re in this horrible situation together. That every night Jake lies awake drinking and fiddling with the thermostat - the house is always way too hot - and thinking about his girlfriend, Captain Holt is a few dozen yards away thinking of his husband.

Mostly, this realization fuels his burning desire to get the two of them home - to Brooklyn, to the precinct, to the people waiting for them.

-

Halfway through month five, he decides to stop waiting for the FBI to figure it out.

He knows they’re professionals and everything, but he’s a damn good detective and he thinks that what he lacks in resources, he may be able to make up for in motivation.

(His motivation, to be precise, is a picture of Amy that he printed at Staples on the wall of a storage unit he rents.)

He doesn’t tell Holt about it - he knows he won’t approve and he’s learned by now that it’s easier to beg for forgiveness than ask for permission. He’s pretty sure the captain will forgive him with ease once Figgis is behind bars.

The late nights and early mornings spent drinking diluted iced coffee from 7-Eleven and combing through files on the internet are difficult, yet so, so much better than doing nothing. He feels like a cop again, he feels like Jake again, and he’s getting a little bit closer to all of that legally being true every single day.

There’s one night, or maybe two, where he hits a dead end and wants to give up, but he doesn’t.

There’s too much at stake.

-

Jimmy Figgis finds them before they find him.

It’s a plan of their own invention, a plan that they only have hours to assemble, and a plan that there is no reason they shouldn’t be able to execute perfectly.

It’s also, unfortunately, a plan that doesn’t account for Coral Palms PD showing up and foiling their operation.

Jake doesn’t realize how royally screwed he is until he feels Figgis’ gun pressed to his head and - at the exact same time - sees Amy.

He sees her in the literal sense that she’s standing right in front of him, gun drawn, her composure steady despite the evident fear in her eyes. For the fourth or fifth time today (and therefore the fourth or fifth time in six months) she is in front of him, in the flesh, and he’s still trying to process that she’s really here in Florida and not just a hallucination.

But, he also sees her in a different way, a way that only a man with a gun pressed to his temple could.

He sees her kissing him victoriously, wrapping her arms around his neck for the first time in half a year; her dark hair hanging down and the silhouette of her body over his as they remember how to move as one; her head against his chest while she drifts off into a peaceful sleep.

He sees them walking up the stairs to her apartment and collapsing on the couch in front of the TV; waking up at eight o’clock in the evening and ordering so much Chinese food that he feels a little sick afterwards; staying up until the early hours of the morning talking and catching up on every little detail of their lives.

He sees her across the desk at work, eyes glued to the computer screen, perfectly unaware of the fact that he’s gazing at her like she’s the sun, the stars, the entire damn universe.

He sees her in a white dress, walking down the aisle towards him while their friends and family watch with wide smiles; her with a small bump under her shirt that isn’t part of an undercover disguise to infiltrate a prison; her with streaks of grey in her hair that match his.

He sees an entire future that could slip away if Figgis pulls the trigger.

So he nods at her, and hopes that she understands that it means he wants her to do whatever she has to do to ensure that they get that future.

The next few moments are a blur - the sound of a gunshot, unspeakable pain in his right leg, Amy running after Figgis, sirens in the distance. The minutes that follow are similarly hectic, between watching his worst enemy get cuffed and shoved into the back of a squad car and trying not to curse in pain as first responders treat his bullet wound.

Things don’t slow down at all, really, until Amy kisses him and says she loves him, effectively drowning out all of their surroundings.

-

Two hours, one brief surgery, dozens of stitches, a lot of drugs and too many cups of bad hospital coffee to count later, the Nine-Nine is once again reunited.

They’re all gathered around Jake’s hospital room, and his eyes scan the room like he’s doing a mental roll call:

Peralta, sitting up against the headboard, one hand holding a cup of blue Jell-O and the other on Amy’s back;

Santiago, curled into his side, resting her head on his shoulder and pressing occasional kisses to his jaw and cheek;

Diaz, leaning up against the wall with a barely-restrained smile and crossed arms;

Boyle, hovering near Jake and searching for the best photos of his new son Nikolaj on his phone, shoving the screen in Jake’s face every time he finds a good one;

Jeffords, occupying one of the chairs next to his bed, eating a ham sandwich;

Holt, in the chair next to Terry with an ice pack on his injured limb and a new record for the biggest smile Jake’s ever seen on his face after a lengthy phone call with Kevin;

Hitchcock and Scully - well, they were there, but they left in search of the vending machines about fifteen minutes ago and have yet to return;

Finally, Gina, sitting at the foot of the bed and loudly catching him up on the details of her personal life, which Jake tries to follow.

“Wait, so Natasha said she would bring you to the Rihanna concert-”

“She promised.”

“But instead she took her new boyfriend Brad.”

“It’s Ben, Jake,” Gina sighs, shaking her head. “God, keep up, man.”

“Sorry,” Jake says with a small yawn, “it’s been a long day.”

It’s been a long six months, really, but the past few days on the run with Holt and the hours that followed of trying to catch Figgis once and for all haven’t been particularly restful. He’s also still a little lethargic from the anesthesia he was under while a surgeon quickly repaired his leg, and he’s only stayed awake this long because he missed this - all of them together, talking and bickering and laughing - so much.

“We should let Jake and Amy get some rest,” Terry suggests, getting to his feet and tossing the wrapper from his second sandwich of the hour (“post-adrenaline Terry is a hungry Terry!”) into the trash can.

Amy nods gratefully in Terry’s direction before returning her head to Jake’s shoulder. There are some whines of protest - they all come from Charles - but eventually all members of the squad bid the couple goodnight and filter out of the small room.

It’s finally just the two of them, in complete and total silence.

He puts down the Jell-O cup and shifts his body down on the bed to a much more reclined and comfortable position, pulling her along with him.

“How are you feeling?” she asks, rubbing his chest lightly with the palm of her hand.

“Uh, amazing,” he says with complete seriousness. “I’m in bed, on drugs, with the most beautiful girl in the world.”

He looks down just in time to see her cheeks begin to redden before she tucks her head into his neck to hide her face and reconnect her lips with his warm skin.

“I missed you so much,” she says, and her voice trembles, her composure wavering now that they’re alone.

“I know, babe,” he whispers, running a hand through her hair, “I missed you too.”

Jake tilts her chin up to kiss her - he hasn’t had a free moment to kiss her since the ambulance - and her lips respond impatiently. She deepens the kiss right away, and her hand swiftly moves from his chest to the back of his head, pulling him closer and stroking his hair simultaneously.

“Love you,” he mumbles against her lips. She only sighs - a high-pitched, dreamy sigh - in response before sliding her tongue back into his mouth and relaxing all of her weight onto his body.

“Can you believe not one vending machine in this entire hospital has Cheetos?”

Amy jerks away from him, her teeth catching on his lip and making him wince slightly, as Hitchcock and Scully come barging in with arms full of junk food.

“Where did everyone else go?” Scully asks cluelessly, munching on a bag of beef jerky.

Amy sighs with exasperation, and Jake would be a little more mad about the whole situation if she wasn’t so darn cute when she’s annoyed.

“They’re trying to boink, Scully,” Hitchcock chimes in with a smirk.

“I - we are not boinking in a hospital!” Amy exclaims. “I was just kissing my boyfriend who I haven’t seen in six freaking-“

“Oo-kay, Ames,” Jake says slowly in an attempt to calm her down, then turning his head to the two men in the doorway. “You two. Out. Now.”

They respond to Jake’s stern expression by hastily walking back out into the hallway and shutting the door behind them.

“Where were we?” Jake raises his eyebrows suggestively.

“Jake,” she narrows her eyes. “You know we’re not boinking in the hospital, right?”

“I mean…one quick boink wouldn’t hurt-and it’s been six months, Ames, you know it’s gonna be quick-“

“As two adults who have had sex with each other many times, we should really stop using the word ‘boink’.”

“Fair point,” Jake concedes, patting her arm. “So should we…um, make love-“

“Oh my god, Jake, no.”

He frowns and settles back into the soft pillows, huffing dramatically.

“Your doctor said in a few days we’ll be able to engage in ‘light to moderate sexual activity’,” she states, sliding her arm around his torso. “But for now, you need to sleep.”

“Okay.”

Burying his face in her hair and hugging her closer to himself with both arms, he finds it remarkably easy to fall into a deep, serene sleep.

-

Jake is discharged from the hospital at eight the next morning, and by nine-thirty they’re boarding the first plane back to New York. He doesn’t bother to get any of Larry’s belongings from the house - he really never wants to go back there again, nor does he want to return to Coral Palms or Florida in general. He’s much more concerned with getting back to Jake’s stuff - leather jackets and hoodies and his DVD collection and mixtapes full of Taylor Swift songs.

He sleeps through the flight, because seven hours really wasn’t enough to make up for all the sleep he lost, and wakes up to Amy kissing his forehead and a view of the Manhattan skyline. It’s perfect.

He figured they would go to her apartment - he hasn’t asked, but he assumes his is no longer his after six months away - but, once she hauls their bags into a taxi, helps him into the car with his crutches and slides in beside him, she gives the driver his address.

“Your mom paid your rent while you were gone,” Amy explains, reaching for his hand. She’s kept some form of physical contact with him since he woke up this morning. “I know we said we would move in together, but I thought you should adjust to being back before we worry about that.”

“Thanks, babe.” He squeezes her fingers and thinks about how incredibly lucky he is. “Is my mom-“

“She’s already there, and no, your dad isn’t coming. Karen and I agreed you wouldn’t want to see him quite yet.”

Jake nods and squeezes her hand twice more, interlocking their fingers.

When they pull up outside his apartment building, he takes a moment to breathe in the somewhat gross (Florida stunk too, but way worse) but gloriously familiar smell of his neighbourhood. It’s a hot day, but still cool enough for the airport sweatpants and t-shirt (they both read I Love Florida, which he absolutely does not) that he’s wearing. He’s had enough of shorts and tank tops for a long, long time.

His mom pulls him into a bone-crushing hug the moment they open the front door, making him drop his crutches, which Amy retrieves as she drags the bags past the threshold and begins organizing his stuff.

“Oh, it is so good to have you home, honey,” Karen says loudly, affectionately, as she continues to squeeze her son.

Jake looks over her shoulder at Amy as she moves through his studio apartment, which is decidedly much cleaner than he left it. It’s completely spotless, actually, except for a couple of stray hoodies of his - one on the couch, one on a chair in the kitchen. He wonders how much time she spent here - honestly, if he had the option to wallow in an entire room full of Amy’s belongings and clothes and things that smelled and felt and reminded him of her, he would’ve taken it every chance he got.

“Good to be home, Mom.”

As soon as his mother releases him and helps him hobble to the couch, Amy strides over to give Karen a quick hug and Jake a quick kiss before heading to the pharmacy to pick up his pain meds and the pizza place around the corner to pick up an extra-large meat supreme and a salad, because he “really needs to start thinking about his health.”

Man, it is so good to be home.

-

In bed that night, after Karen is gone and Charles comes over to check on Jake again and they eat a lot of pizza, they finally catch up.

Jake tells her about everything - the WITSEC process, the hot tub burritos, his job at the ATV dealership - and, in turn, Amy fills him on everything he missed.

She talks about work, sparing no details from some of her juicier cases, and he listens with eager anticipation and tries to guess how she solved them before she finishes the story.

She tells him about how she got a lot closer with his mom and went over there for dinner a few times to check in on her, which Jake appreciates immensely.

While he holds her and strokes her hair gently, she talks about the nights she spent at Rosa’s watching Nancy Meyers films, eating ice cream and crying because she missed him so much. His heart breaks a little, but he makes a mental note to thank Rosa for taking care of her despite her policy regarding the discussion of feelings.

“Never again,” Jake mumbles against her hair sometime after midnight. “I’m never gonna leave you again.”

In the moment, he really believes it’s true.

[alittledizzy]

in the strangest locations rating: pg word count: 3k Summary: Dan's first week on the job. (A prequel to Celebration.) Notes: Written for @waveydnp for my thirty minute fics for charity fundraiser to benefit PhandomGives. 

[read on ao3]

The basement office smells of stale air and weirdly sweet, like the smell of Dan's grandmother's car when he'd leave a bag of sweets open in the summertime and they'd all melt together into a sticky sugar lump.

"Hello?" Dan calls out. His heart is tap-tap-tapping fast in his chest, the queasy beat of anxiety he can't shake in situations like this. His whole life so far has been about pushing past and working around this feeling, trying not to let it defeat him. It's the voice in the back of his mind and the sweat underneath his collar and the butterflies in his stomach. He's wondering if maybe this is the wrong office after all, or maybe it's the right office but his new partner isn't around, or maybe he-

"Oh, hi! You must be Dan!" A person pops out from behind a closed doorway. He's wearing a suit but there's a stain on his tie and one leg of his pants are rucked up enough that Dan can see a bright green sock, definitely not bureau standard. "Howell, I mean. Dan Howell?"

"Yeah," Dan says, holding out a hand. "And you're Lester?"

"Call me Phil," his new partner says, and closes Dan's fingers in the grip of his own. "It's nice to finally meet you."

*

Phil Lester is also British.

Dan had known that going in. He'd read Lester's - Phil's - file and then done what any millennial worth his salt does, and googled the fuck out of him. He knows where he's from and that he's got dual citizenship and that he likes leaving sometimes scathing hotel reviews.

He knows that Phil's last partner requested a transfer away from him, but the part of the file that listed why had been redacted. He's intensely curious; was being stuck with someone fresh out of Quantico a punishment for Phil?

Or was it a test for Dan?

If it was, he's not really sure what it's mean to accomplish because he's known Phil Lester for all of a day and all he has to show for it is a full belly - Phil values his lunch break and also values company while he takes it - and a growing sense of admiration for a man who seems to have been given the total shit end of the stick in terms of bureau assignments and still seems happy as a fucking clam about it.

*

It only takes two days for reality to settle in, consequently the same amount of time it takes for them to be given their first assignment as partners.

"We got a case!" Phil seems elated. "And I think this one got sent down to us especially for you?"

He slides Dan a folder. Dan picks it up and flips through it. "Phishing? We're investigating... an email fraud scam?"

"Yep." Phil still looks far too delighted. Dan doesn't get it. "Pacific Northwest. Oregon, I think?"

"Yeah," Dan mutters a confirmation, still skimming the file. "I don't get it. Shouldn't this be easy to shut down? This looks like your average Nigerian prince bullshit."

Phil shakes his head. "Keep reading."

Dan can feel his own brow wrinkling in confusing the more he gets into the file. "What?" He mutters, then a few seconds later more loudly, "What?"

"Yep." Phil grins. "It's fun, isn't it?"

"I mean, not if you're one of the people getting ripped off, but... how are they doing this?" Dan flips back to the start to see if he missed anything. "How did manage to phish seventeen high ranking cyber crimes assigned agents?"

Phil shrugs. "That's what we're supposed to figure out."

*

"So why us?" Dan asks, clipping the buckle of the airplane seatbelt together.

They're in economy. He's not sure why he's disappointed. When Phil said they were flying out that evening he'd pictured in his head some kind of Mission Impossible scene where they donned full suits and strode into business class wearing their sunglasses.

Instead Phil's in jeans and a hoodie and Dan feels overdressed in the button up and the same trousers he wore to the office.

"Because we won't be targets," Phil says. "I've not had any cyber crimes cases, and you're brand new so no one's going to have heard of you. The last three agents they put on the case of this guy all had their security breached before they checked into the motel in Oregon. They think we'll be able to go undetected. We're not technically undercover. We're just - not... overcover? Either? So... you might want to dress a bit less..."

Phil seems to flounder for a word.

"No worries," Dan says, face going hot as he feels every bit of his comparative youth and inexperience. "I brought some stuff."

*

He didn't actually bring some stuff.

He sits on the edge of his motel bed, staring at a stain on the carpet.

("Not much of a budget of us, I'm afraid," Phil had said, standing in the lobby area. It's an open plan, two long flat buildings parallel with doors all facing open air.

Everything about it feels seedy and cheap. It's not even properly in town, it's on the fringes where things begin to look a bit worn down.)

He's not sure what the protocol is now. Phil said goodbye to him in the car park, but - what happens next?

It's only half six. Does he get dinner on his own?

Does he meet back up with Phil tomorrow?

Is he meant to be doing something with the case file?

Why hadn't he fucking asked?

He has the strange urge to ring his mum just to hear a familiar voice, but he refuses to be the person who needs his mum to tell him that it's alright on his first week of being an actual employed theoretically functional career adult.

He could go get some clothes so he doesn't look like an idiot when he and Phil meet back up. He's got the keys to the rental car - which Phil, for some reason, put entire trust and faith in Dan to drive even though Dan's only six months past being old enough to legally hire a car to begin with. But what if Phil looks outside and sees the car gone? Should he just take an Uber instead, or call for a taxi? But then what if Phil came to his room and Dan wasn't there but the car was? What if Phil saw him being picked up, or dropped back off? What if-

He stands and starts to pace around the room. His heart is hammering too fast and he's got that queasy-sweaty feeling that he gets when everything starts to become just a bit too much.

He jumps at the knock on his door. When he opens it, Phil's standing there - still in the same soft looking hoodie with his hair pushed back off his forehead and glasses on, and fuzzy pajama pants from the waist down. "I can't believe it but we forgot to exchange mobile numbers. Also, do you fancy a pizza?"

"Pizza?" Dan asks.

Phil's smile falters a bit. "Unless you just wanted to do dinner on your own. I just thought-"

"No, pizza's good," Dan quickly says. "We could... talk about the case, too?"

They hadn't on the plane, of course. Sensitive, classified material.

Dan assumes.

"Great!" Phil says, shooting Dan one of those bright smiles. "I'll be back in a few minutes."

*

Dan changes into his own pajamas quickly before Phil comes back.

He can't be sure, having never actually had a partner before, but he's fairly sure pajama pizza parties aren't standard operating protocol on assignments.

But then Phil is sat cross-legged on the full sized bed chewing on what appears to be half a slice of pizza he just shoved into his mouth in one bite. "Sorry," he says, looking sheepish when he sees Dan staring. "I was really hungry, and this pizza's good."

It is good, actually, and if Dan can just relax for five goddamn seconds he might enjoy it. Instead his body feels full of jittery energy still. He folds one foot underneath him while the other rests on the floor, foot tap-tap-tapping away.

Phil pulls out the case files after a few minutes. There's not that much to talk about; they're here to monitor the situation and close in on the suspect once the bureau can get a lock on him.

"They wanted you," Phil says again, sounding almost proud.

Dan's not sure why that makes him feel so nice. "Why?"

"Your computer background," Phil says. "You specialized in profiling hackers, didn't you?"

"I specialized in whatever meant I got to spend most of my time alone," Dan says.

It's a bit of unintentional honesty, but it makes Phil laugh so he doesn't think it's that bad.

"What about you?" Dan asks, taking a bold step forward into casual conversation territory. "What's your specialty?"

"Linguistics," Phil says. "But I don't do much with it. Translations sometimes, but I'm sort of... I get the cases no one else wants."

"Like what?" Dan asks, settling back against the headboard.

"I had to investigate a comedian last year," Phil says. "Because someone reported one of his stand up bits. I had to track him for six months."

"Was he funny?" Dan asks.

Phil shakes his head. "Dead boring. All his jobs were about like, sleeping with women and disappointing his mum and sport."

"Not a fan of sport?" Dan asks.

"Or disappointing my mum," Phil says. "She gave birth to me, why would I want to call her stupid in front of people? Also she's not stupid. She probably heard me say that, using her mum senses. I wouldn't call you stupid, mum.."

Dan laughs. "I don't think she can hear you, but I believe you."

He thinks about the third thing Phil said the comedian talked about, and how Phil hadn't mentioned that at all.

But Phil's probably into women. Most guys are into women. Dan's really got to learn how to stop trying to project non-straightness on every man that talks to him for more than three seconds.

Especially his new partner at this job that, if all goes well, he'll be at for a very long time.

*

The rain starts around midnight.

Phil's been gone for an hour, the pizza demolished and the case discussed and almost another hour of random conversation layered on top of and in between the two.

It was nice. Like - proper nice, in a way Dan hadn't expected.

Phil's funny, and kind, and talking to him already makes Dan feel less scared.

The rain can fuck off, though. It's pounding against the windows, only drowned out every few minutes by massive cracks of thunder.

He can't take his eyes off the silhouette of trees across the way when the lightning strikes to accompany it. Framed by tall trees and threatening clouds, it looks like the setting of a horror movie out.

He hates storms at night. He won't sleep much, he already knows. He keeps the light turned on and his laptop up, distracting himself with music until he can't focus anymore and then watching youtube videos of fluffy animals.

It's fine - it's working. He'll be exhausted the next day, but he lives half his life deprived of adequate sleep. Adrenaline will save the day. It's fine, he's fine.

And then the power goes out.

*

He's shivering in front of Phil's hotel room, soaking wet from the dash across the half-full parking lot.

He doesn't even know what he's going to say when Phil answers.

That he's a fucking child and he's afraid of the dark?

He should just pack his shit up right now, go back home and tell everyone he couldn't do it. None of them thought he'd really be able to anyway. Even his nana, his biggest supporter and fan, made sure to tell him at least twice a year that failure's not the end.

They won't be surprised that he couldn't even hack it a week.

He feels sick and scared and ridiculous but self preservation kicks in two seconds after he knocks. His stomach lurches and he takes a step back, then another, and starts to walk away. He wishes there were a corner to turn, some way to hide.

Phil catches him before he gets too far. "Dan?"

He sounds sleepy. Of course he was asleep. It's fucking one in the morning.

"Uh." Dan turns around. "The power's out."

"Oh - wow." Phil frowns and looks behind him. "You're right. I slept through it."

"Sorry," Dan mumbles. "I'll just-"

He waves a hand, but just as he starts to walk away again thunder crashes. It's chased by lightning only seconds later, shockingly close.

Dan shrieks and drops his phone. "Fuck. Fuck!"

Phil steps out into the rain and grabs Dan's phone for him. There's naked concern in his eyes. "Come inside."

*

Dan stands dripping in front of Phil's door until Phil comes over with a towel.

What a fucking mess. He's a fucking mess.

"Here," Phil says, handing him a bundle of dry clothes. "You can change in the toilet. I always bring extras, anyway."

Dan slinks into the toilet. Every bit of him is drenched, hair and shirt and pants and socks. He leaves them in a soggy pile on Phil's floor, only keeping his pants on. He can live with that level of dampness.

When he steps back out, he's got apologies on his tongue but Phil speaks for he even has the chance.

"It's awful out there." Phil peers out the window. "It's probably good you came over here. My phone's almost dead, I'd only just plugged it in before I slept. Here's yours, by the way. You've got a bit of a scratch in the corner but I tried to clean the mud off."

"Oh," Dan says. He'd forgotten he'd even dropped it. He takes it from Phil. "Thanks."

"Did you-" Phil starts to ask something, then stops. "Are you alright?"

His face looks so, so kind. It's almost enough to break Dan.

"I'm okay," Dan says, nodding more to himself than Phil. "It's just a lot."

"It is," Phil agrees. He sits down on the bed and pats the spot beside him. "Come on, have a seat. Keep me company until the power comes back.

Phil wants Dan to keep him company. Phil, who surely can see the state that Dan is in, who can surely see how much Dan is struggling, is asking Dan to keep him company.

There's not much in the world that he's got any faith in, but in that moment he suddenly finds he has faith that Phil Lester is not going to make him feel as awful as most of the people he suffered through his Academy years with always did.

*

Dan wakes up with an ache in his neck from sleeping half propped up against the pillow. He's cold - body on top of the blankets of Phil's bed, still wearing Phil's pajamas.

He looks over. Phil's properly in bed, having apparently gotten under the bedding some time after Dan fell asleep.

He can't remember how many hours they stayed up talking, but by the time Dan's body did wear itself out the storm had faded off into a light patter of rain and the sun was threatening to come out. They didn't even talk about anything important - their respective childhoods in England, Quantico stories, Phil's seemingly endless recollections of strange and esoteric cases that have been given to him. The last thing he recalls if Phil grilling him on what his mum's dog Colin is like.

Apparently Phil really, really likes dogs.

Dan gives him one more look then gingerly gets out of bed and walks into the bathroom, collects his wet clothes, and retreats back to his own motel room.

*

He gets another three hours of sleep in his own bed before Phil's knocking wakes him up.

He's prepared for some kind of awkwardness, but instead Phil's fully dressed and smiling brightly. "I hope you've enjoyed our fantastic stay in Oregon."

"What?" Dan's confused.

Phil just shrugs. "They got him. They want us back home today."

*

"I can't believe we didn't even have to do anything," Dan says.

Local police made the arrest, and higher ranking field agents descended to take him in. Now he and Phil are sat on a plane back to DC.

Dan's full of restless energy, but in a different way than before in the motel room. Now he's just sort of disappointed that this was his first real case and the actual case part was... non-existent. All that hype and nothing to show for it. He wants a refund on the amount of emotional energy he's spent anticipating this.

Phil shrugs. "Sometimes assignments are just like that. It's not really like it is on television. Sometimes the agent who saves the day is behind a computer on the other side of the country. Is that... what you wanted, though? Excitement and like, guns and stuff?"

"Not really," Dan admits. "The guns freak me out."

He's still wearing Phil's extra hoodie from the night before. It's cozy, and he firmly pushes away that faintly giddy feeling inside that comes with wearing the clothes of an attractive man that he is rapidly realizing he mind find himself liking quite a lot.

He also pushes away the memory of Phil asleep in bed beside him. He's probably straight, Dan thinks. He probably thinks Dan is straight too. He's only got room in his head for one crisis, and not being an embarrassment as a special agent has to take precedence right now.

Phil is giving him one of those pleasantly surprised looks. "Me too," he says. "I'm also really bad at them. I'm a horrible shot. My last partner - he requested off me. Thought I was, I believe the exact words were, a fucking weirdo who has no place in the bureau."

Dan looks at Phil. He can see right away that Phil's struggling a bit with what he's saying.

"Jesus," Dan says.

Phil shrugs a bit, just a lift of one shoulder. "I don't try to be, but I suppose maybe I am. So if you want... if it doesn't end up... working out. It's alright. You do have options, they won't - they wouldn't question it, I think, if you wanted to transfer away."

"No." The pang of emotion Dan feels is as solid as a punch. He meets Phil's gaze directly and says, with almost a note of defiance in his voice, "I think this is going to work out just fine."

[dylanssourwolf]

Sterek AU: Never Trust A Skinny Baker | Stiles just wanted to come home and run his bakery with Scott, but of course normalcy isn't something he'll ever find in Beacon Hills. The FBI thrust him into an undercover investigation of what they think is a serial killer, and Stiles already knows it's something different. Worst of all, there's a model that keeps coming in for cupcakes between shoots. He's angry and beautiful and an alpha werewolf that happens to be Stiles's best customer. What could go wrong? Oh yeah, he's a main suspect in the fucking case. All Stiles has to do is not get murdered by whatever homicidal monster is out there, all the while trying desperately to not fall for ominous Derek Hale. Let's just hope he doesn't get compromised.

Read the whole thing here: NTASB

           “You do understand the risks of this operation, yes?” Agent Raphael McCall turns to look at his lanky intern. “This thing is dangerous, primal, and will not hesitate to kill again. We shouldn’t even be letting you do this.” He sits back down in his chair and takes a deep breath as he slides the case file across his large, oak desk. The boy picks it up and wastes no time in flipping through photos and autopsy reports as Agent McCall leans forward on his forearms to speak in a hushed tone. “You absolutely cannot tell anyone while you’re investigating. Not Lydia, not the Argents, and definitely not my son. Comprende? I know his nose is probably stuck into this mess already, but under no circumstance do you compromise yourself.”             Agent McCall reaches forward and snatches the file back and goes through the important details, skimming over the police reports and the crime scene photos right to the last couple pages in the folder. “Everything in this packet is what you need to learn. It’s your alias. Your reasons for coming home, what you’ve been up to here at the FBI headquarters, how your internship is going, everything. You say nothing that isn’t in this packet.”                     “What if the answers aren’t in this packet? Do I call you o-or like, shoot a text?” He makes finger guns and receives a glare from the agent in response. “You know what? I’m great at improvising, I’m sure I can just, uh, make something up based on this—” he wiggles the pages midair, “—incredibly thorough biography.”            He rises from his seat in front of the desk and Agent McCall follows suit. “The only people you consult with are your father and the rest of the Beacon County Sheriff’s Department. They’ve already been briefed and await your arrival.” He reaches into his suit pocket and tosses a pair of keys at the boy. “We pulled some strings and got Scott to send your car up. It’s parked out front.”            “Whoa, wait—”            The agent stops from his departure and takes another deep breath as he turns around at the kid behind him. “What is it?”            “Do I have a cool code name or anything?” He starts bobbing his head to music that isn’t playing. “I could be like, Batman or something.”            McCall opens the office door and shakes his head. “You’re going home. You don’t need one.” He motions for the kid to leave. “Your alias is just yourself, Stiles Stilinski.”            Stiles’s face falls into pursed lips. “Whatever. I’m going.” He jingles his keys as he walks out of the office and into an array of cubicles. “Hey one more th—” He turns and the door closes. And locks. Twice.            “Just go do your job, Stiles,” Agent McCall says through the door. “This creature isn’t going to catch itself.”

TWO WEEKS LATER

          Chocanthropy is what they agree on. It took a teeny bit of persuading, but once he had Scott convinced he’d be home for a couple months taking a break from his internship at the FBI, they rounded up their cash and bought an abandoned building repossessed by the county for a whopping $750 so that they could fulfill Stiles’s dream of opening a bakery together. He’d always had a passion for baking; it was an activity he usually did with his mother but after she’d gotten sick, he just stopped doing it and it was as if that part of him was fading away with her. Stiles wasn’t about to let that happen. Baking was one of the best things his mother had ever taught him, one of the only things rather. He’d made everything from cakes and cookies, to the most incredible chocolate soufflé anyone has ever eaten, so the least he could do was take something he loved and start something for his mom.           Scott hangs the neon sign on the building, the eerie, unconventional font spelling out Chocanthropy in bright purple. The silhouette of a howling wolf curves around behind the lettering and lights up a pale white, contrasting against the blue of the subtext reading Bake Shop. It gives Stiles chills to know that this is theirs. They paid for it.

          “We’re officially open for business.”           Scott gives Stiles a high five as they head back into the shop. The wallpaper is lavender with white crown molding along the border. The dark wood flooring expands the length of the small shop and booths of black vinyl stretch along the right wall. There’s a record player in the corner and a couple dozen strands of string lights running underneath the edge of the dark wooden countertop. Behind the counter is the menu, prominently displayed on a chalkboard hanging from a large piece of gray driftwood bolted to the ceiling. Pastry toppings rest in jars on the shelves along the back wall underneath the menu, a centerpiece for the artwork of wolves and werewolves that hang on the walls, all vintage movie posters from The Wolfman, Lycanthropus, and La Loba.             “The result of our hard work. It’s more perfect than I’d ever imagined.” Scott watches Stiles beam as his amber eyes scan the shop.           “Your mom would’ve loved this, you know. I’m sure she’s so proud of you.”           Stiles smiles, pulling Scott in for a hug. “Couldn’t have done it without you, bro. Thanks.”

          He spends the rest of his day in the kitchen, baking batches of cookies and cupcakes to sell the following day. He faintly hears Scott on the phone with the Beacon Hills Tribune trying to get an ad space for their shop. He lets the indie record on the player set into his bones while the pastry bag of rosy strawberry icing sets in his hand. Around the edge, fill the middle, curl the top. He’s got flour on his hands and smeared all over his face, the plaid apron around his waist decorated with streaks of food dye and icing. He’s got four dozen made and four dozen to go. It’s not like the daily flavors are going to bake themselves.           Stiles puts the strawberry icing down and flips through the recipe book on the metal counter behind him. Chocolate Guinness or Patty Cake? His mind wanders. He’s too consumed by the fact that the sink isn’t working properly and soaking himself to even hear the bell over the door ring.           “Hey, Scott!” He sounds desperate because, well, the water pressure was a bit high when he took the sprayer head off and now he’s flooded the kitchen. “This stupid sink is broken!” He’s managed to shut the water off. Stiles angrily grips the sprayer nozzle in one hand and heads out of the kitchen to look for Scott when he notices a man staring at the movie posters hanging on the walls. He overestimates the length of the hose and is yanked right back into the kitchen.           “Oh my God, please tell me you weren’t waiting long,” Stiles dashes out and panics, running his fingers through his dripping hair. “The sink broke and I have no experience in fixing those kinds of things and I have no idea where Scott went so I—”           “Do you have any red velvet cupcakes?” The man doesn’t turn around.           Stiles blinks. “Uh, yeah.” His hand comes up to scratch the back of his neck. Nervous habit. “I just made two dozen.”           The guy looks like he’s come straight out of a movie. The dark jeans he’s got on lay perfectly over the curve of his hips and wrinkle around his black boots. He turns, and Stiles notices how his jacket hangs over his broad shoulders. The smooth, oiled leather draws the attention right to the gorgeous light green eyes currently glaring at Stiles from the opposite side of the counter. “I’ll take a dozen.”           “Sure, okay. Give me a second to pack them up.” Stiles offers a small smile to the man who just continues to stew in a shroud of vexation. He disappears in the back room to find Scott jotting down information just before he hangs up the phone.           “Stiles! So, we got an ad in tomorrow's paper!”           “That’s great. Can you help me with…?” Stiles nods toward the door and guides Scott out in front of him. “He wants a dozen red velvet.”           "On it,” Scott says, stopping at the register to let Stiles scurry behind him into the kitchen to box up twelve perfectly decorated cupcakes. He seals the edge of the purple box with a sticker that reads, Never Trust a Skinny Baker and a logo printed underneath. He brings the box out and pushes it across the counter just as Scott closes the register.           “This, is for you,” Stiles chimes, sticking a business card on top of the box. The man glances between Scott and Stiles before he grumbles something incoherent. "Enjoy your cupcakes,” Stiles beams with artificial charm. “Tell all your friends about us.” Stiles gets an eyebrow lift in return before the man grabs the box and heads back out the door.           “Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.” Stiles mumbles something about being pleasant and lets Scott go back to the storage room to print out some flyers their friends agreed to hand out. "Something doesn’t set right with me," Scott says, turning briefly to look at his best friend before continuing to the back of the shop. “That guy gave me a weird vibe.”           Stiles shrugs and brushes it off. “Hey, is Allison coming?”           “Yeah,” Scott yells. “She’s supposed to bring Lydia and Isaac, too.” Stiles shuffles back into the kitchen to pick up the bag of strawberry icing again, trying to figure out why that pair of jade eyes looks so familiar.

[poisonichors]

⋆ ◦ ° ☾ taylor hill + cisfemale + she/her — have you seen valery ‘val’ kashnikova? they sure have been hanging out at valdez county park a lot recently. they are a twenty-one year old known as the uncertainty principle*, and they currently work for the savages as a soldier, which they’ve been doing for five months. a heterosexual taurus, they are determined + independent, as well as stubborn + two-sided. thorns on a rose, lips against a loaded barrel, the moon cradled in tufts of white. × lacey. twenty-one. she/her. est. ×

*  ❝ THE UNCERTAINTY PRINCIPLE articulated, in 1927 by the German physicist Werner Heisenberg, that the position and the velocity of an object cannot both be measured exactly, at the same time, even in theory. ❞

throwz this post on2 th dash like a shit flingin monkey hENLO i’m lacey bt u may also refer 2 me as? mr steal yo girl cos i will kindly respond 2 both ty

also i am so sorry for those of you who have to read this bible if u dont wanna read the whole thing its totally ok i’d jst cover the personality n valdez sections ja feel

plots and stats pages will be coming soon but until then!! click that heart button and i’ll hurl myself full force into those DMs whether you like it or not

ANYWAYS HERE’S VAL!! MY BADDEST BABE OF EM ALL

so, the breakdown.

VAL KASHNIKOVA

Valery is the poster girl of a family based off money and status. Her father who fronts as an owner of establishments on Wall Street also operates as the undercover head of a Russian mafia syndicate. Her mother is an ex-model, now focusing on the social aspect of the family.

Her mother consistently pushes her to play the role of the socialite’s perfect daughter, and prospective wife. Shoulders back, chin up, tummy in. Smile, Valery. No one wants to marry a scowling woman.

According to her mother, Valery’s sole purpose was to marry into another family of money. Valery was taught to walk, talk, and breathe etiquette growing up. The wife of a rich man must not be outspoken, opinionated, or insubordinate. She must always do as told, and with a smile on her face.

Being an only child, Valery finds it increasingly difficult to do anything but what she is asked of her parents. Choices were always made for Val before she could open her mouth; which remains the prime reason as to why she has such a tough time deciding things for herself, no matter how small.

She always feels the need to appease her parents, now that she’s all they have left. After Mikhail passed away, that is.

MIKHAIL KASHNIKOV

Mikhail was Val’s older brother of four years. He was the favorite, seeing that he excelled in everything he did. Valery was inevitably compared to her brother, growing up. Being neglected didn’t bother her as much as seeing Mikhail take on all the responsibility of carrying on the Kashnikov name.

One sibling had to deal with all the pressure while the other child was merely pushed away. An unlikely bond was shared between the two of them, despite being in polar opposite positions. Mikhail gave Valery the affection she was denied from their parents while Val was Mikhail’s escape from the world of law and politics. This shaped a very close bond.

Mikhail was a good influence on Valery to say the least. Though she’s independent in nature, Mikhail was always there to guide her through agonizing public events, seemingly impossible assignments, or give her advice through trying times. Valery could easily say that her brother raised her more than her parents ever did.

Most would say that Mikhail was incredibly protective of Valery, but only few truly knew that she was just as protective of him. In the midst of superficial families and business deals beyond them, Mikhail would always find them ways to run up to the roof and act their age like they very much deserved. It was only during times like these which made Valery’s childhood actually feel like childhood.

IN LOVING MEMORY

On his way home from a friend’s party, Mikhail’s Bentley was severely hit by an oncoming car. Word returned that a member of their rival mob deliberately drove into her brother’s vehicle.

Mikhail was rushed to the hospital and tended to by the best doctors in the country, but it was to no avail.

Mikhail Kashnikov, 22, was pronounced dead on August 29th, 2015.

After learning what had happened to her brother, Valery, age 18, stepped in and was immediately taken under her father’s wing to train and avenge his death. She slowly turned into a fighting machine driven purely by hatred and an insatiable need for vengeance.

SEPTEMBER 2015 - AUGUST 2018

She trained heavily with weapons, only needing two year’s time to become a skilled marksman and know her way around guns and knives (which are her specialty). She’s basically good at anything that requires a target. Hand-to-hand combat could use some work, but Val is never one to leave home without a weapon of self-defense on her person.

Valery operated more as a decoy when she first began, simply gaining trust and seducing information from rivals. As her confidence with firearms and blades grew, she gradually began to carry out more gruesome tasks, thus leveling up in her field. Jobs always were a little easier for Val than the other men. Besides, who would've thought a pretty girl knew how to use a gun?

TRIPLE-THREAT

The only part of growing up that Valery didn’t mind was learning music ━ let it be singing, dancing, or playing an instrument.

Dancing operated more as a front for combat and other agile ways. However, it slowly blossomed into a passion she shares heavily with singing and playing the piano.

Mikhail would play the piano while Valery sang along, they almost found comfort in such a cheesy activity. To this day, everything Valery knows on the piano is because of him. She sometimes likes to take private trips to it; she finds an odd comfort in the belief that when she plays the piano and sings, he can still hear her.

VALDEZ

Valery ’s family has shared an amicable bond with the Savages for years. Upon news of the outbreak in Valdez, the twenty-one year old was sent to serve the Caitos as a symbol of Kashnikov support. This isn’t out of the ordinary, seeing that Val’s training included working under other alliances to gain combat experience and further networking.

Val’s current rank is a Soldier in the Savages. She’s only been there for five months, so she’s diligently working on gaining trust through carrying out tasks and slowly making her way up the ladder.

The Kashnikova’s only condition is that she is allowed to conceal her visage when operating. She’s not open to showing her face around Savage halls and prefers to seek cover as a civilian when out in public. She prefers that very limited people know of her identity as a Soldier (maybe if you’d like to snatch up a plot about that?), which proves the importance of her saving face when not on the job. 

PERSONALITY (HER FRONT)

Valery, finally away from home and family for the first time, is beginning to find herself. She’s naive and wide-eyed, seeing that she was always under direct authority and her choices were always made for her. A small fish in a big pond, if you will.

Despite not having many prior experiences, the brunette is very playful and open to new things. This makes her quite impressionable, seeing that she always chooses to see the best in people and has a hard time telling when someone doesn’t have her best interest in mind. Nonetheless, all she wants is to have fun! Bringing a smile to her company’s face is of utmost importance to her.

You can find her hanging out in Valdez County Park during the day. She can be seen either feeding the animals, teaching yoga, or trying her hand at some new instruments.

THE UNCERTAINTY PRINCIPLE

so the reason i gave her this label was because while she has two personalities, it’s impossible to pinpoint who she really is or at what point she’s transitioning from one mentality to the next. I decided it was a good play on the chem theory insert collective groan here, seeing that there’s no telling if she’s just being nice or has an ulterior motive. while it’s stated above that its a “front”, it’s more so her just trying to go back to being her normal self before her life in the mafia and crime syndicates. this causes a constant teetering back and forth between how she identifies herself in varying scenarios.

PERSONALITY (ON THE JOB)

Valery can be cold and calculated if need be, just how she was back home. Her work comes first and foremost to anything else. Fooling around isn’t in her nature when it comes to tasks at hand.

Her forté includes destruction of property, extraction of information, seizure, arson, armed combat, and termination.

uhhHh still figuring her out

omg figuring almost was fingering i cried a little bye

[thisweekingundamwing]

TWIGW April 15-21

Good morning lovely fandom!

Here’s your round up for this week!  If you submitted something we missed, drop us a line, we’ll get it corrected! 

And if you find something you like, remember to leave the creator some love!

XOXO,

Mod CB

Fanfiction:

A Little Piece of Gundam Wing

The archive is being ported to AO3! Check it out!

AerisEithne

The Snow Queen

Days after the incident that nearly sparked a new war, Relena returns to the Sanc Kingdom to contemplate her future. She can’t help but wonder which path the perfect soldier will choose… and whether their destinies will continue to collide.

Pairings: 1xR

Warnings: Gundam Wing (Frozen Teardrop), Preventers

@anaranesindanarie

Tout pour toi mon amour

A collection of Dorothy and Relena oneshots for @maevemauvaise

Pairings: DxR

Warnings: none

Death Unspeaking (Chapters 19 and 20!!)

What happens when a Gundam Pilot is mute? Will the other Pilots look down at him because of it? Will he overcome the odds or will the odds overcome him?

Pairings: 2x3

Warnings: Graphic Descriptions of Violence, Underage, Mute!Duo Gundams, Eventual Canon Divergence, Mobile Suits, Fighting, Eventual Yaoi, AU, Sign Language, just pure awesomeness, Blowing Shit Up, blowing ships up, Circus

a_river_of_stars

Post Nihil

Much of Trowa’s past is lost to him, but he can’t help feeling drawn to the pale boy who’s been haunting his dreams. When the boy turns out to be real, Trowa follows him into space. But something’s not right. A deep sense of sadness has taken hold of Quatre, and Trowa makes it his mission to free him from it. Unfortunately, Quatre seems to think he deserves to be miserable.A love story told as a series of codas, all taking place between Episodes 35-49. This is my first fic for this fandom, so please be kind. I'm new to this site.

Pairings: 3x4

Warnings: Temporary Amnesia, Troquat, Quattro - Freeform, 3x4 - Freeform, 4x3 - Freeform, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Guilt, Teens Acting Like Teens, Atypical Treatment of Amnesia, Probably ooc, Canon Compliant

@claraxbarton

Of All People

After his relationship with Zechs ends, Trowa meets Duo - a vaguely familiar, handsome stranger who promises to help him forget his ex.  Giftfic for @kangofu-cb

Pairings: 2x3, 4x5, past 3x6

Warnings: AU, academic au, nice and fluffy, no really, happy endings and fun times, and SMUT

@claraxbarton , @kangofu-cb

Bad Company

"The only hell and the only paradise are the ones we build ourselves." - Unknown Years after the wars, Preventers has decided to tackle one of the most powerful and oldest of all the Terran crime syndicates. Embedded dangerously deep in an undercover operation targeting the violent and bloodthirsty Sinaloa Cartel, Trowa Barton is pushed beyond even his flexible morals - and when his new "partner" arrives in the very unexpected and unwelcome form of Duo Maxwell, the one person he'd been trying to protect at all costs, both men must deal with the realization that preserving peace for humanity is turning into a bloodsport.What follows is race against time to uncover the evidence they need to bring Sinaloa, and its beautiful but deadly leaders, down - all while keeping each other alive in the process

Pairings: 2x3

Warnings: Post-Canon, Undercover Missions, Undercover as a Couple, Implied/Referenced Torture, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Human Trafficking, Gang Violence, Canon Typical Violence, Explicit Sexual Content, Moral Dilemmas

@duointherain

The Dance Politic

A star-struck Heero finally confesses to Duo, who is now the mayor of L2.

Pairings: 1x2, 5xR

Warnings: none

Foopy, kirallie

Knights of Avalon

Multi-series crossover fic

The Galaxy is a weird, wonderful and dangerous place. There is far more to history than anyone remembers.

Warnings: Very AU, Stargate pushed up to movie in '04, sentient weapons, many dates have been played with to fit

Ginnybag

Past Tense

'Milliardo.... I'll be waiting on the other side....'A quarter of a century after the fight at MOII, the Epyon System follows the last command given by its maker, returning him to where he will, once again, be needed. But 25 years is a long time and the world he left behind is not the one he wakes in, and fighting to be more than the ghost that he has become to his friends and family may be one battle Treize Khushrenada really cannot win.

Pairings: 6x13, 3xUne, 5xMariemaia, 4xR, 2xDorothy

Warnings: Other Children, Past Relationship(s, )Past Zechs/Noin, Past Treize/Une, Hints of Treize/Dorothy, Newtypes, POLITICS!, Sanc, Past Heero/Relena, Past Treize/OFC, Past Treize/OMC, Dysfunctional Family, Family Issues, Parents & Children, Discussions of Politics/War/Abuse/Sex, References to Drugs, Romefeller Foundation, Mentions of Past Nastiness, ZERO System, Canon - to a point

Wild Roses: Cold Comfort

December AC 191: Six months after creation, Treize's new Wing is rapidly gathering a reputation as the best of the best. A routine patrol in space cements Zechs's status as an Ace and leaves Treize injured, revealing the depths of his religious beliefs.As the 10th Anniversary of the Fall of Sanc combines with the fallout, Leia begins to doubt her husband, Lady Une summons the Zodiac to form, and Noin earns her wings. On Christmas Eve, Treize marks his 21st with a mission he did not expect, culminating in professional triumph and personal revelation for both men.

Pairings: Zechs Merquise/Original Male Character(s), Zechs/Otto, Treize Khushrenada/Lady Une, Leia Barton/Treize Khushrenada, Zechs/Otto/OMC

Warnings: Graphic Descriptions of Violence, Nuclear-powered suits, The Duchess of Richmond's Ball, Medical Euthanasia

lithle

Salt

Three months after the events of Like Oxygen, Duo shows up on Wufei's doorstep. As familiar, dangerous patterns assert themselves, Wufei's left wondering if there is, or could be, anything between them beyond self-destructive desire. Sequel to Like Oxygen

Pairings: 5x2

Warnings: Unhealthy Relationships, Post War Trauma, Suicidal Thoughts, no EW, Post-Warm Explicit Language, Sex, Bad Decisions, POV Chang Wufei, everyone is broken, But Maybe Trying to Get Better?

Lthanz

Life is War

Multi-series crossover fic

Sequel to 'Life is Fringe'. Five years later, Max, Chloe, and Kevin have settled into their new lives. However, they soon find themselves caught up in a power-struggle between two powerful men competing to control the fate of the world. Loyalties will be tested but a greater threat looms in the darkness, ready to strike.

Characters: Maxine "Max" Caulfield/Chloe Price, Kate Marsh/Original Character(s), Maxine "Max" Caulfield, Chloe Price (Life Is Strange), Kate Marsh, Olivia Dunham, Treize Khushrenada, Natasi Daala, Lucrezia Noin, Lady Une

Warnings: Science Fiction & Fantasy, War, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Original Character(s), Post-Canon, Crossover, Multiple Crossovers, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, pricefield

Luvsanime02

To Be Kind

A @gwcocktailfriday submission

Cathy knows that this isn't going to work anymore.

Pairings: Cathy x OMC

Warnings: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Mild Sexual Content, Mild Language, Mild Angst, Cocktail Friday

Maldoror

The Source of All Things

Center, a planet where magic and technology blend. Or more accurately, fight tooth and nail. A planet of Sources, holes in our boring dimension letting through arcane power, chaos and pseudo-deities. In this hot-house of myths and very real dangers, Trowa and Quatre find a mysterious man at the end of a shamanic voyage. Portents suggest this Heero Yuy is crucial to Center’s survival. He’s important enough to have some interesting enemies after him, at any rate: a devious killer and thief called ‘Shinigami’, and a very irate Dragon. Beyond them looms an even greater threat. Indeed, the greatest of them all.

Pairings: 3x4, 2x5, eventual 1x2x5

Warnings:  alternative universe, Science Fiction, Fantasy, Plot Twists, fairly graphic depiction of sex, Mild description of self-harm, Mathematical Magic, weird science, crones - Freeform, Magic and Technology brawling and eventually screwing, Eventual Threesome, Kinda, Insanity of arcane origin, The universe is a pile of marbles and other dubious allegories

Two Halves

The two kingdoms of Sanq and Lin were at war for years; a conflagration involving magic, armies and political murder. The conflict left both nations devastated and strewn with refugees. The king of Sanq finds his infant son, lost at birth, among the death and the ruin, a miracle he barely dared to hope for. But there isn't just one boy, there are two, clinging together like two halves of a whole that cannot be separated. Decades later, the truth behind that second child’s existence will put a hole in the world, or possibly save it.

Pairings: 1x2

Warnings: Fantasy AU, medieval setting with magic, starts with our heroes as children, Cousin Incest, sort of, eventually, being royalty this is in fact the norm and rather expected of them, Canon-Typical Violence

Neutral

La última impresión

Pienso en todo esto mientras espero que Duo Maxwell haga su aparición anual. Cuatro años han pasado desde que abandonamos nuestras vidas militares y ��l, desde el término de los conflictos armados, cada año aparece en la misma fecha, sin importar en qué parte del mundo esté yo instalado.

Pairings: 1x2

Warnings: Creator chose not to use archive warnings

@remsyk-blog

Souls for the Bayou for @maevemauvaise and written for @fandomtrumpshate

For Trowa Barton, exploring the bayou is the ultimate adventure. Drawn to its borders since before he could walk, he spent his childhood learning its paths and uncovering its secrets.  But a chance encounter sets him on a path that spans across time, challenging everything he thought he knew, plunging him deeper into its mysteries than he ever thought possible.

Pairings: 2x3

Warnings: Supernatural - Freeform, Fae & Fairies, Fae Magic, Bayou, Cajun, Childhood Friends, Childhood Memories, Mystery, Slow Burn, Technically Speaking, Young Love, Use of accents, Original Character(s), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, I don't want to give it all away at once, Fandom Trumps Hate

Martini Time

Trowa is not the first pick for Relena's protection detail, nor is he even second or third, but his presence is requested at this particular party, involving a very particular dress code.

Pairings: 3xR, implied 2xR, implied future 2x3xR

Warnings: Cocktail Friday, 1950s Theme, Another stupid charity party, dressing up, Comments on Trowa's hair, Unwanted attention, Sharing

SkullQueenLorita

Wrong Number

Duo, as Quatre's self appointed wing-man and in an attempt to reduce some of Quatre's innocence, gives Quatre the number to a sex hotline. Quatre reluctantly agrees to it. Unfortunately for Quatre, Duo got distracted and gave him the wrong number. But maybe that's a good thing.

Pairings: 4xOFC, 2xOFC

Warnings: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Wrong Number AU thingy, Quatre is a cinnamon roll, Duo is Quatre's self appointed wingman, Duo shouldn't be Quatre's wingman, Duo was trying to help but messed up, Quatre is weak against freckles, but that's later, Heero has a gilfriend, Duo doesn't believe she's real though, Booy is he proven wrong later, Quatre swears, and gets mildly flirted with, Texting, group chats, Quatre has a tattoo, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Drunk Texting, Drunk flirting

tb_ll57

Properties of Zero

Four years after the war, Zechs is an embittered relic wrapped up in his own suffering. A chance meeting with Quatre Winner may lead to something more, if Zechs is willing to try. If ZERO will let him.

Pairings: 4x6 (main) with multiple background pairings

Warnings: Post-Endless Waltz, Artificial Intelligence, Psychic Bond, Psychic Violence, OZ wins the war, Everybody Lives, Politics, Rough Sex, Dubious Consent, Drug Use, Drug Addiction, Enemies to Lovers, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Zechs is not a great person, But kind of wants to be, Quatre is not that innocent, ZERO is not your friend, ZERO may not be your enemy either, Resistance

white_fox

Life Is A Highway

On an impulsive plan to travel from California to New York City to propose to his longtime girlfriend, Heero Yuy did not plan to pick up a hitchhiker in nowhere Texas. Faced with some setbacks and a growing attraction to his passenger, Heero goes through more challenges than he planned on facing.

Pairings: 1x2, 1xR

Warnings: light slash, Fluff, Road Trips, Dubious Morality

Snippets:

@fadedsepiascribbles

WIP Wednesday - Awkward Une

@lifeaftermeteor

LAM!verse - Snippet featuring Wufei and Sally discussing future opportunities

@remsyk-blog

Dreamscape

Photo Edits/Manipulations

@gundamwing-ellesmith

What if Gundam Wing was real? - Chang Wufei’s office ft. Sally

Headcanons / Meta / Discussions:

@lifeaftermeteor

L5′s origins and history

@robo-rad

Pet headcanons

Multiple Contributors

White Fang meta discussion

Fanart:

@anaranesindanarie

Pilots as pixies

@constantscribbles

Relena meme

@duointherain

Duo

His Excellency, Mayor of the Confederate Second LaGrange States, Duo Maxwell

@drkstars-art

Quatre stickers

@elfbingo

Duo VS Wufei a commission for @lifeaftermeteor 

@forksplitdoorknob-blog

Gundam desktop wallpapers

@napalmarts

Post-war Duo and Heero

@noelleian

Meilan Long

@shigerugal

Gundam Titans

@zibelinbelt

Gundam Wing PDF cover

Calendar Events:

Cocktail Friday

https://gwcocktailfriday.tumblr.com/

A new prompt every Monday!

Submissions should be posted Fridays between 3 and 5pm EST, and tagged with @gwcocktailfriday, and are included in the This Week roundup on Sundays.

Interview with a Creator by @remsyk-blog @interview-with-a-creator

Remsyk has created an online interview for fandom creators to fill out and then she features one each week so that everyone in the fandom can learn a bit about each other.

If you haven’t filled out her interview, go! do! now!

This week’s featured creator is @ellewritesfiction check her interview out here!

Discord Meet Up!

@lifeaftermeteor has organized our next fandom-wide Discord Meet

You can join the channel at any time (it is permanently open), but “official” events will start around 0900 EST both April 28 and April 29 and run until…well, whenever!  Fans are encouraged to pop in and out of the channel as their schedule and time zone allows.  

More information can be found here

Diamonds in Stars Challenge

@terrablaze514 has posed an OT5 challenge to the fandom!

Hello Gundam Fans! April is the month of Gundanium and the warriors who use them. It is also the month where Art and Creativity is celebrated. 

Those who are interested will write an OT5 (friendly, platonic or romantic). A diamond has five points, just like a star. This challenge is just for fun; writers are free to choose which trope, type, rating, genre, etc. to work with. If you want to write a poem about Gundam Wing (pertaining to the five pilots, gundams or other major characters) that’s a bonus! So send your shooting star here (or post on AO3). Make sure you tag it as #diamondsinstars or #gwdis. Entries are due on April 30th. Have fun! 

30 Day Gundam Wing Challenge

Daily questions about Gundam Wing. Please tag your participation posts with @gundamwing30daychallenge for them to be recognized.

Challenge questions and more information can be found here

Pick and choose which questions you wish to answer (or tackle them all!). The point of this challenge is to stimulate fandom participation and to promote conversation and interaction between all fans!

[dontcallmecarrie]

Live Through The Rain

On a bit of a WtNV kick lately, despite not being completely caught up yet. Add in dubious amounts of sleep and caffeine, a bout of Maria Stark feels, plus my knee-jerk reaction to stress, and I think you guys can tell where I’m going with this. 

Fandoms: Marvel Cinematic Universe [films], Welcome To Night Vale [podcast]

Warnings: for everything Night Vale related [Librarian-caliber gore, cosmic horror, dystopian themes, etc.] plus unreliable narrator [because of different priorities, skewed ideas as to what’s normal, etc] and large amounts of crack because reasons. Under the cut, also because reasons.

Here’s a fic idea/minific-I-might-expand-later-on from some premises I kinda want to play with, with bonus Maria Stark backstory because turns out she’s a pretty major influence and butterfly effect ftw:

In which Maria Stark’s hometown was Night Vale.

Maria Carbonell grew up in a small, quaint town with good schools, [literally] breathtaking infrastructure, and left a legacy that had everyone warily looking over their shoulders and in the rafters before speaking her name. 

She may or may not have been part of the reason the town referred to an incident only as the Time of Knives, featuring a teenage Maria and a truly terrifying number of Librarians, and had been taking classes at the community college and interning at the local radio station when an errand to investigate the appearance of mysterious portals ended up leaving her stranded in New York. 

She didn’t have much to go back to; her father had entered the Blood-Space War when she wasn’t quite eight, and his letters always reached her regardless of where she was. Her mother was bitten by an antique years ago, and she’d been an only child. Besides, she could hear the radio just fine, so the homesickness wasn’t that bad.

So Maria Carbonell did what any Night Vale citizen did: she rolled with it, and settled into this new world with what she had in her pockets, and little else. Turns out, it was just enough, especially paired with her skills from when she’d earned her Undercover Operations badge, back when she’d been in Girl Scouts. 

Time passed, and she fell in love with Howard Stark, and you guys know the rest of the story.

He thinks she’s got some odd quirks, but didn’t everyone?

And Howard…changes, over the years. Hardens, becomes colder. Becomes more secretive. In another life, Maria might’ve been dismayed, by that. 

But in this one, she’s reminded of home more than ever before, because…really. Besides,it’s not like she doesn’t have her own secrets, like the bloodstones she’s carried in her pocket since leaving Night Vale, and she’s so proud of his progress in making a Vague Yet Menacing Government Agency. [Really, his attempts at secrecy are adorable.]

He’s gone for more and more time, searching for Captain America, and Maria’s left holding down the fort, smiling prettily for the cameras and unnerving literally everyone else, because the spies who work with Howard are seeing her skills with counterintelligence and information-gathering and debating about whether she’s a deep-cover agent or something else. [Howard, for his part, gets very offended by any implications of his wife being a spy, plus he researched her background himself, thus their reluctance to say anything otherwise.] Plus her skill with anything with blades? Ditto. Jarvis is slightly wary at first, but they become friends soon enough, bonding over watching Howard’s back and sharing recipes [even if Jarvis had to modify some, because apparently people around here didn’t like adding crushed pumice to brownies. Weird].

Just…Maria Stark’s content to be in the background, but is kicking ass and taking names because she was born and raised in a small town that regularly deals with eldritch abominations and temporal disparities and it’s hard not to be a badass after having earned merit badges in Concealed Weaponry and Advanced Knife Fighting Techniques before puberty. 

She loves quietly but fiercely, and takes on the world with a bright [vicious] smile and a knife tucked out of sight. [Turns out it’s genetic.]

I could go on, but this got off-track as is, so…

Tony’s birth signifies a change. 

[Of course it does.]

Suddenly, the differences between Night Vale and the rest of the world are so, very vivid. 

 For instance, her pregnancy had been very interesting. 

She was just happy Tony had ten fingers and toes, really. And didn’t mind that he’d taken after his father in looks, because her side of the family had tentacles in their family history, and while Maria didn’t see what all the fuss was about, these people were surprisingly squeamish about extra appendages. [Weird.]

Time passes, and Howard’s still out and the mansion’s mostly vacant, excluding Jarvis, so nobody should be surprised at just how large a role she played in raising him, really. 

In canon, Tony was always closer to his mother than his father, but here? Well…he’s got Night Vale in his blood. 

Here, Tony’s childhood is unusual, and it’s not even because of the genius thing. 

His bedtime stories are of flying police cars and Hooded Figures and Radon Canyon. Howard’s not home very often, but his grandfather’s letters arrive like clockwork, so there’s that. [It was only when Tony got older that he realized the irony of it, really.] The Sumerian lessons, and the self-defense against Librarians, and the best way to handle assault rifles, were all part of his fondest childhood memories. Even if they had to be kept secret, because he noticed how some people looked at his mother, like she was an alien in human skin. [Or a Librarian, or…]

Time passes, he gets older, and Jarvis is despairing in the back because Tony inherited his mother’s taste, and explaining just why there was motor oil in the cereal bowl had been a trip and a half.

Tony’s growing up, and while he’s blowing through classes, and being a prodigy just like in canon, here, when he’s at home he’s learning how to make hot chocolate just the way his mother makes it, with a dash of chili powder and just a hint of antifreeze. The stories now include the Void and Street Cleaning Day and monsters great and terrible [Librarians, what can you do? Plus the Woman From Italy] and whenever the signal’s good, they hear the broadcasts together.

[Part of Tony knows it should be impossible, but then, so’s the bloodstone circle chants, and the small bits of dark magic his mother knew and taught him because she’d earned a merit badge for Combat Incantations. He’s not good at it, but it’s enough for a pinch, so whatever.]

Sometimes, he wants to visit, but life in the spotlight, plus it being practically impossible to find sometimes, meant it’d be something for the bucket list instead. 

Time passes, and he gets older. 

He’s learned from his mother how to smile for the cameras, and he’s not even a year into MIT but he’s already sick of hearing everyone comparing him to Howard because sure, they had a family picture every so often, but really the last time he saw his father had before the man had left for yet another expedition, nearly five months ago. 

Maria’s still done her best to bridge the gap, but here there’s also the Family Secret to contend with; Tony’s got Night Vale in the blood, after all. That’s not a small thing. 

The car crash still happens, and Maria still dies. 

Except here, Tony chalks it up to time-traveling assassins from the Society For A Blood-Space War, because he’s heard of them before and it would’ve taken a lot more than a mere car crash to end Maria Stark neé Carbonell. 

The Winter Soldier, meanwhile, had to fight for his life and only narrowly made it out because the target’s wife put up unexpected resistance. The scene had to be set on fire to get rid of all the biological evidence, and HYDRA had to do some emergency surgery even though nobody’s quite sure as to where the machete wounds, or third-degree burns, even came from.

Maria had taught Tony how to handle assassins from an early age. She thought it’d be his grandfather, or his father, that’d be the reason for trouble, but just in case…

Tony’s grieving, of course, but he’s a bit more at peace than in canon. [It helps that he recognized the lingering scent of dark magic, and knew she’d fought back, when he goes to the scene.] But he’s got Night Vale in the blood; death and fire are like a second skin, to him. 

Time passes, and canon ensues, for the most part. 

He still becomes the Merchant of Death, still sells weapons that devastate landscapes and smiles for the camera. [It’s Tony Stark, of course.]

The changes are more minute than not, here; they’re in how Jarvis lived a few months longer than what the doctors had expected, after having been diagnosed with cancer [bloodstone chants for the win], they’re in how Tony actually likes DUM-E’s smoothies, because the tang of motor oil’s a very good counterpoint to the mellow notes in the alfalfa, they’re in how he sometimes turns off the music and puts on the radio, when it’s late at night and he’s alone in the workshop. [Rhodey, Happy, and Pepper get clued into his unique background, of course, and roll with it..]

Canon ensues, and shit goes down.

He’s still captured on a bright day, not a cloud in the sky and the sun scorching down on him.

The change here is, Yinsen’s feeling tendrils of darkness where there’s supposed to be a heart. The difference here is, Tony first wakes in the middle of his impromptu surgery to a doctor who’s looking at him with horrified awe, and the arc reactor goes in anyway because turns out that physiological quirks aside, his heart still doesn’t like getting shredded, protection around it or no. 

Tony left his bloodstones back home, and he was never quite as good at magic, so he goes with what he knows, to break out. Except here, he also has the shadows to help him, and their captors become increasingly drawn and tired as the days pass by. Yinsen doesn’t breathe a word, but watches with fascination as this all goes down.

They break out, of course. 

Not sure if Yinsen makes it, in this one. Hmm…details, details.

Tony crash-lands, and it might’ve killed a normal human, but…well. He’s not normal, now, is he? 

Canon ensues, with a few tweaks. 

When he meets Nick Fury for the first time, Tony doesn’t get why the man twitches like that when he offers him a drink. [Fury’d seen Maria cheerfully add Tabasco sauce to her tea, like hell he was going to drink anything her spawn offered him!] And that talk of a bigger universe? Adorable. Why’d he’d booked it shortly afterwards, he did not get, either. 

The palladium tastes like grape-flavored cough syrup, so of course it had to go. [The headaches he got from it were secondary, really.] Natasha gets hired, because he recognizes the gleam in her eyes. He hasn’t seen it outside of the mirror for decades now, like hell he wasn’t hiring her. [It’s months later that he finds out she’d been born five minutes away from Nulogorsk. Nice.]

The Avengers assemble, of course. 

Except here, there’s a lot more weirdness to contend with; Steve is so, very not prepared for the chaos that is Tony Stark. [Nobody is, really.]

The fight with the Chitauri’s the first time people start to twig that he’s Not Normal, though. Kinda hard not to, when he’s so very nonchalant about fighting alien armies [his laser knife fighting skills were very rusty, but decent enough in a pinch]. When he diverts the warhead from its intended target, he remembers all the warnings about the Void, but curiosity killed the cat so he glimpsed it anyway. 

Wasn’t much of a Void, really; the aliens are mildly alarming, to be sure, but this still isn’t the cosmic horror of the Things That Should Remain Unseen that he’d been expecting. [Overall, 4/10, for being a disappointment.]

[Loki, though, he saw the Void, Tony knew. It was obvious, from the look in his eyes even if the others didn’t quite recognize it.]

Time passes, and he carries on. 

Thanos is a threat, to be sure, but Tony’s already been quietly preparing for the Blood-Space War, so it’s a minor issue. Even if the others don’t quite agree. 

Tony talks in Russian with Natasha, sometimes, and alarms the team as his more private quirks start to show the longer he sticks around. Steve’s horror at his not blinking at the soap in his smoothies is pretty entertaining, to be sure. The less said about Clint’s finding his homemade chocolate stash, the better, and Tony only knew a few phrases in Triple Spanish but it was still enough to get the room’s attention. 

Wanda tries to get the drop on him, but turns out his worst nightmare’s a scorching sun with a Smiling God in a desert so it’s pretty much impossible to manipulate that into anything she can work with. That Tony threw a fireball right back at her didn’t exactly help, either. 

Ultron still happens, except here, JARVIS has some…quirks, because Computer and Fire Science is a department in Night Vale Community College and that implies a closer relationship between the two than one would expect. [Ultron doesn’t happen, is what I’m saying.] 

Civil War, if it were to happen, would be…fun. I mean, it probably wouldn’t even happen, because no Sokovia, and without the time crunch Tony’s able to hit everyone upside the head with the paperwork and broker something that’s approaching functional. 

Thanos…well. If Infinity Wars were to happen, Tony would go ‘screw it, time for the big guns. JARVIS, help me find Night Vale, time for that vacation’, and…well. Thanos is formidable, sure, but Tony can get his hands on Librarians and he’s the son of Maria Stark neé Carbonell, so really, who’s the scariest here?

Not mentioned: HYDRA’s got some ties with Desert Bluffs, Phil Coulson’s from Red Mesa [thus the nonchalance at all this shit going down], if I wanted even more crack I could easily try shipping Thanos with the Woman From Italy, and I could probably—uh-oh.

…this is going to be its own AU, isn’t it. Dammit, brain!

I mean, this is pretty rough considering it’s off the top of my head, but…oh no. Brain, don’t do it.

[bigyack-com]

Here's How Ex-Nissan Boss Carlos Ghosn Escaped From Japan

Sometime last fall, a security contractor based in Asia took a call that he found curious. The man on the other end of the line, a longtime acquaintance and, like him, an expert in protecting VIPs and valuable cargoes in challenging environments, was looking to hire for a job in Japan. He offered few specifics. The assignment would involve escorting someone out of the country, he said. It would pay well. And he was looking for operatives with military or police experience and, ideally, fair-skinned East Asian faces-the kind that wouldn't stand out in Tokyo. The contractor wanted to know more. Who would the operatives be protecting? What was the specific threat? Would the client be carrying cash or gold or something else of value? The caller wouldn't say. The contractor was noncommittal but said he would get in touch if anyone else came to mind. They hung up, and the contractor didn't really think about the job again-until he and the rest of the world saw the news about Carlos Ghosn. Just before New Year's, Ghosn, the ousted leader of Nissan Motor Co. and Renault SA, completed a daring escape from Tokyo, where he was facing criminal charges that could have put him in prison for more than a decade. Despite being under intense surveillance while out on bail, with a camera trained on his front door and undercover agents tailing him when he left his house, Ghosn somehow made it to Lebanon, where he lived for most of his adolescence and is a citizen.

 On January 8, 2020, Carlos Ghosn addressed the media in Beirut accusing Japan and Nissan of unfair treatment For Ghosn, who'd spent more than 100 days in solitary confinement in a Tokyo jail and was contemplating trial in a country where prosecutors virtually never lose, it was a stunning coup. Lebanon has a policy against extraditing its citizens, and as one of the most successful member of the country's diaspora, he's a national hero, with friends who include some of the biggest names in local business and politics. His face is on a postage stamp. Safely in Beirut, he could finally attempt to rebut the allegations against him, which he argues were the result of a conspiracy between nationalist factions, both within Nissan and the Japanese government, that were determined to take him out of play. And, most important for someone who spent the better part of two decades building and cultivating his public image, he could set to work restoring his reputation as a great man of business, maybe even preparing a comeback. A few weeks after Ghosn's escape, it's not at all clear that he'll be successful. While he is, for the foreseeable future, beyond the reach of Japanese law enforcement, his legal problems are nowhere near being resolved. Ghosn is still under investigation in France, where Renault is based, while the government of Japan has issued a so-called Red Notice in his name through Interpol, exposing him to possible arrest the moment he enters a country less hospitable than Lebanon. Japanese prosecutors have also obtained an arrest warrant for his wife, Carole, claiming she gave false testimony in their investigation. And the task of restoring his stature as one of the leading lights of global capitalism is enormous. Even some of his closest former colleagues remain unsure what to make of the allegations against him. It's hard to imagine major corporations, banks, or investors agreeing to work alongside a man who's officially a fugitive. Gathered with his family in the country of his youth, Ghosn has undoubtedly upgraded his personal circumstances. What remains to be seen, though, is whether he's simply traded one form of confinement for another. While out on bail, Ghosn spent much of his time at his lawyers' office in central Tokyo, in an anonymous mid-rise building near the Imperial Palace. Forbidden under the terms of his release from accessing the internet anywhere else, he'd been given the use of a cramped meeting room with a bare table, whiteboard, and a laptop. It was also the sole location where Ghosn was allowed to call Carole, and even then only with the approval of a Tokyo judge. From April, when he had last seen her, to the end of the year, he received this permission twice: once in November, and again, for one hour, on Christmas Eve. Being unable to see his wife was the hardest part of his ordeal, Ghosn would say later, an absence that "put me on my knees." His mood only darkened on Christmas Day, after a pretrial hearing during which he learned that prosecutors wanted to delay the second of his two trials until 2021. In all, his lawyers told him, it might take five years to fully resolve his cases. Ghosn was indicted four times, all for financial misconduct. The first two charges accuse him of underreporting his compensation in official filings, leaving out tens of millions of dollars that investigators say he intended eventually to get. In the third and fourth indictments, for breach of trust, prosecutors accused him of improperly benefiting from Nissan's relationships with partners in the Arab world, and in one case of diverting $5 million of company money to his own ends via a car dealer group in Oman. Ghosn has denied wrongdoing, arguing that the compensation prosecutors claim was misreported was only hypothetical, and that he never misused Nissan funds. (He also settled a civil complaint from the U.S. Securities and Exchange Commission, which claimed he failed to adequately disclose his compensation, agreeing to a $1 million penalty without admitting the agency's allegations.) Most criminal defendants, in Japan or elsewhere, don't have the option to simply exit their proceedings if they believe they can't win. Ghosn-with ample financial resources and passports from Lebanon, France, and Brazil-did. For months, a team of more than a dozen security operatives, led by a U.S. Army Special Forces veteran, had been designing a plan to get him to Lebanon, the country where Ghosn has the most extensive connections. The secrecy was intense: Some of the participants, according to a person familiar with the operation, didn't know the identity of the person they were going to extract, even after they'd accepted the job. The team's leader had a career that couldn't have been more different from Ghosn's. Born in Staten Island, N.Y., Michael Taylor joined the U.S. Army after high school and was accepted into the Green Berets, accumulating skills that included HALO jumps: the delicate art of leaping from a plane at 30,000 feet or more and free-falling as long as possible before opening the parachute. He was deployed to Lebanon during the country's brutal, 15-year civil war, which ended in 1990, and there met his future wife, Lamia-like Ghosn, a member of the country's Maronite Christian minority. After leaving the Army, Taylor put his abilities to work in the private sector, setting up a Boston-area company, American International Security Corp., that protected executives in dangerous places, prepared vulnerability assessments for critical infrastructure, and even planned operations to rescue kidnap victims. He also collaborated with agencies like the Drug Enforcement Administration and Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives, on one occasion working undercover to investigate Lebanese drug traffickers, and developed a relationship with Duane Clarridge, a legendary CIA officer who oversaw a private espionage network in his retirement. Taylor, 59, also had a habit of operating in gray areas. In the 1990s he was indicted in Massachusetts for charges including illegal wiretapping and pleaded guilty to misdemeanor offenses. Later, the New York Times reported that he was connected to an "off-the-books" espionage network in Afghanistan, which was operating in apparent defiance of military rules against using private contractors as spies. (Taylor wasn't accused of wrongdoing.) And in 2012 federal prosecutors charged him with bribing an Army officer to win $54 million in contracts and conspiring with an FBI agent in an attempt to kill an investigation into the matter. Taylor pleaded guilty to wire fraud and violating federal procurement law and was sentenced to two years in prison. AISC's business collapsed. It's not clear how Taylor was connected to Ghosn, although Lebanon is small enough that there would be only a couple of degrees of separation between their extended families. Even for Taylor, getting the executive out of Japan would be an extreme assignment. After almost 20 years at the top of one of Japan's largest companies, Ghosn was perhaps the best-known foreigner in Tokyo, hardly someone who could slip onto an airplane or ship without being noticed. And he wasn't a hostage of a militant group or an abducted child; he was a criminal defendant, under prosecution by the government of a bedrock U.S. ally. Taylor and everyone he hired might face charges if their identities were discovered, at the very least restricting their future travel and employment, and at worst landing them in prison. The security contractor who was approached about an operation in Japan said he would never accept an assignment as perilous as the Ghosn job; those who might, he said, would need extremely generous compensation for the risks involved, perhaps pushing the total cost to $15 million or more. Yet according to the person familiar with the operation, Taylor was eager to help, and not only because of the potential payoff. Despite their drastically different backgrounds, Taylor sympathized with Ghosn, the person said. Taylor had been denied bail in the runup to his own trial, confined to Utah jails half a country away from his home in Massachusetts. In Ghosn he saw someone in a similar situation, a man he felt had been treated unfairly. Whether Ghosn was guilty seemed beside the point. On the ground in Japan, Taylor would be assisted by an old friend from Lebanon, George-Antoine Zayek. A gemologist by training, Zayek had joined a Christian militia during the civil war, sustaining a severe leg wound during the fighting. Doctors in Beirut wanted to amputate; instead, Taylor helped arrange for more sophisticated treatment in Boston. Zayek kept his leg, but acquired a limp-and a lifelong loyalty to Taylor. He became a U.S. citizen and was involved with Taylor's companies in the 1990s, later working for him in Iraq. Taylor declined to comment on Ghosn's escape; Zayek could not be reached for comment. The final phase of the Ghosn operation began just before Christmas. On Dec. 24 a company called Al Nitaq Al Akhdhar was billed $175,000 by MNG Jet, a Turkish aviation group, for chartering a Bombardier Global Express jet, which has a range of more than 11,000 kilometers (6,835 miles). If anyone from MNG had tried to visit this client, they would have found it difficult: There's no company called Al Nitaq Al Akhdhar at the Dubai address it provided on the charter paperwork. Around the same time, MNG has said, a different client arranged to hire another plane, a shorter-range Bombardier, to fly from Istanbul to Beirut. On the morning of Sunday, Dec. 29, Taylor and Zayek landed at Kansai International Airport, near Osaka, on the chartered Global Express. On board were also two pilots and, according to people familiar with the flight who asked not to be identified, a couple of large black cases of the kind concert roadies use to hold audio gear. Later the same day, according to surveillance camera footage reported on by Japanese media, Ghosn left his residence, a rented house in the busy Roppongi neighborhood. He wore a hat and a surgical-style mask. (Used to protect against germs, these aren't unusual in Japan.) Taylor's advance team had chosen Ghosn's next destination carefully. During the months its members spent observing the plainclothes agents following Ghosn around Tokyo, they'd noticed something, according to the person familiar with the operation. For some reason, the Japanese operatives typically didn't follow their target when he entered a hotel. Ghosn soon arrived at the nearby Grand Hyatt Tokyo, which is attached to Roppongi Hills, a giant mall and office complex with a confusing array of entrances and exits on different floors. From there, according to Japanese media, he made his way to Shinagawa station, a major rail hub, and onto a high-speed train to Osaka. Ghosn's presence on public transport wouldn't, in itself, have been suspicious. Under the terms of his bail he was permitted to travel domestically, and he'd previously visited Kyoto, which is on the same bullet-train line, with one of his daughters. Like everything else about Ghosn's escape, the means of departure from Japan had been chosen with utmost care, with Taylor's team evaluating a wide range of scenarios. Using a fake passport to get Ghosn onto a private jet as a passenger was a gamble: Japanese entry stamps contain QR codes, which if scanned would quickly reveal the subterfuge. Another option, spiriting Ghosn onto a cargo vessel that would be purchased for the operation, was eventually rejected as too complicated. As part of their reconnaissance, Taylor's people had surveyed airports all over the country, looking for terminals where security was lax. A few months ago, the person familiar with the operation said, the team observed that the X-ray machines in Kansai's private terminal were much too small to scan a large box-and oversize items were simply waved through. The routine was the same on the night of Dec. 29. Airport officials didn't examine the large black cases that Taylor and Zayek had with them, and they were loaded onto the Bombardier without incident. The plane was bound for Istanbul; filing a flight plan listing Lebanon as the destination would have raised too many red flags, according to a person familiar with the subsequent investigation. A little after 11 p.m., the jet was in the air. It landed at Istanbul's Ataturk Airport about 12 hours later. An MNG operations manager named Okan Kosemen, who'd helped arrange the charter, was waiting to greet it. In subsequent statements to a Turkish judge, Kosemen recounted that when he came on board, two Americans-presumably Taylor and Zayek-led him to the rear of the cabin. There, waiting in the bathroom cubicle, was Ghosn. Kosemen waited for the crew to leave, shooed away a technician who wanted to work on the aircraft, and bundled Ghosn into a Ford van to take him to the second plane and to Lebanon. (Kosemen says he didn't know he was aiding a fugitive when he arranged the charter and that one of the people involved threatened to harm his family if he didn't cooperate. MNG also said it had no knowledge Ghosn would be on the flights.) Ghosn's passports had been taken as a condition of his bail-with one exception. He had two French passports, a privilege granted to citizens with particularly demanding travel schedules. He'd received permission to keep the second one; Japanese law requires foreigners to carry their identity documents at all times. The caveat was that it had to be kept in a plastic case, sealed with a lock to which only his lawyers had the combination. But Ghosn got it open and later presented it to an inspector at Beirut's Rafic Hariri International Airport like any other traveler. It was the first legal act he'd performed since leaving Japan. For the first few days after Ghosn's departure, official Japan seemed unsure how to react. Prime Minister Shinzo Abe and his deputies made no official statements; at the Ministry of Justice and the Tokyo prosecutor's office, journalists struggled to get a comment from a spokesperson. The near-silence briefly fueled theories that Ghosn might even have had a subtle green light for his escape-that elements within the government had grown tired of the public-relations headache of prosecuting such a high-profile defendant and decided it would be better to be rid of him. Those theories were soon discarded. On Jan. 7 prosecutors said they'd obtained an arrest warrant for Carole, citing what they claimed were false statements she made more than eight months earlier. Ghosn's representatives viewed the move, which was soon followed by a report that Japan would seek a Red Notice for her, as a clear attempt to intimidate him before his first public appearance since his escape. That was planned for Jan. 8 in Beirut, in the offices of the national journalists' association, and billed by Ghosn as a chance for him to expose the "injustice and political persecution" behind his predicament. As the appointed time approached, Japanese camera crews thronged the sidewalk outside the venue; most had been denied accreditation to attend, a decision Ghosn said was motivated by what he viewed as unfair treatment by the Tokyo press. Shielded by bodyguards, he entered the room just before 3 p.m. His hair, previously jet black, was wispy and gray, and deep lines marked his face. But otherwise he was unmistakably Ghosn: confident, unflappable, and in total command of his material. His address lasted more than an hour, illustrated with documents projected onto the wall behind him. Ghosn argued that the allegations against him had effectively been cooked up, the result of a conspiracy to halt his plans to more closely integrate Nissan with its partner Renault. The plot's organizers, he said, included Hiroto Saikawa, his successor as Nissan chief executive officer, Hitoshi Kawaguchi, who was in charge of government relations, and board member Masakazu Toyoda. All have rejected his claims. Only two topics were off-limits: the particulars of his escape, to protect the people who helped him, and the identities of Japanese officials he believes participated in the conspiracy-a concession, according to a person familiar with Ghosn's planning, to concerns within the Lebanese government about complicating relations with Japan more than he already had. "I am here to clear my name. These allegations are untrue, and I should have never been arrested," he said. "I was presumed guilty before the eyes of the world and subject to a system whose only objective is to coerce confessions, secure guilty pleas, without regard to the truth." His escape, he said, was "a risk one only takes if resigned to the impossibility of a fair trial." But as Ghosn's speech went on, entropy took hold. He jumped rapidly from allegation to allegation at a pace that was difficult to follow even for observers versed in the latest Ghosniana. At one point he committed the No.1 faux pas for foreigners in Japan, comparing his arrest to the attack on Pearl Harbor. There were flashes of arrogance, with Ghosn describing Nissan as "in the dirt" before he arrived and boasting that "20 books of management were written about me." He devoted a significant stretch of time to a relatively minor issue-whether his comped use of a room at Versailles for his 2016 wedding celebration constituted a sort of kickback for Renault's sponsorship of the palace-providing a convoluted explanation that he later summed up with, "If I had thought there had been an ethical problem, I wouldn't have done it." He then spent more than an hour gamely answering questions, switching among English, French, Arabic, and, out of deference to a small but enthusiastic crew of Brazilian reporters, Portuguese. He may not have exactly been having fun, but he clearly felt liberated. That feeling won't last if his former captors have anything to say about it. The Red Notice initiated by Japan has triggered a legal proceeding in Lebanon, and the day after his press conference Ghosn was summoned by the country's Ministry of Justice. Prosecutors questioned him on the Japanese allegations as well as a separate issue: whether he committed a crime by visiting Israel as Renault's CEO. Lebanon considers Israel an enemy, and it's illegal for citizens to travel there, with violations punishable by a jail sentence-a reminder that Ghosn's globalist values may not be fully compatible with those of his new home. And it will, for now, be his home: The government has formally barred him from leaving, taking possession of his French passport. In an interview in Beirut, Justice Minister Albert Sarhan insisted that Lebanon will carefully consider any requests from Japan and that it's too early to say Ghosn won't be extradited. But given the political and legal context, that outcome is highly unlikely. 0 CommentsGhosn says he's eager to clear his name, something his lawyer has suggested could occur through a trial in Lebanon-a country that ranked 138th in the most recent Corruption Perceptions Index published by Transparency International. At his press conference, Ghosn was more expansive, saying he would welcome being judged "anywhere where I think I can have a fair trial." When he puts it that way, it's a reminder that for everything he's lost, he still has plenty. Among the remarkable things about Ghosn's situation in Japan, where he stood a very real chance of becoming one of the few corporate leaders of his stature ever to be sent to prison, was the degree to which all his advantages-connections, money, access to the global media-seemed to count for nothing. That turned out to be only half right. Ghosn may not have been able to beat the system, but he didn't need to. He had the resources to go around it.(Except for the headline, this story has not been edited by NDTV staff and is published from a syndicated feed.) For the latest auto news and reviews, follow CarandBike on Twitter, Facebook, and subscribe to our YouTube channel. Read the full article

[eggsyunwinftw]

Imagine Being Kidnapped by Kingsman’s Old Enemies

A/N: Hey pals! Sorry I’ve not updated in a while, I have mocks next week so things will be a bit slower :( hope that’s okay, and I’ll queue up some fics so you can’t avoid me ;P. ALSO I posted this on the wrong blog earlier sorryyyyy :P This was requested by @thestrawberryblondehobbitbatch so I hope you like it!

Warnings: Violence, kidnapping, swearing.

You woke up to hushed voices and a throbbing headache.

Prying your eyes open, you tried to reach up and rub them - only to find your hands tied behind your back, tight enough so you could feel the zip ties digging into your wrists.

“What the fuck?” You mumbled, voice still groggy from being unconscious. In the darkness, you could just make out the figures huddled in the corner of the room as they glanced over at your, still deep in conversation.

You felt a shiver of fear run through your body. These people were definitely not your friends; the guns in their hands and the pain in your head could attest to that. So who were they?

It was then that one of the silhouettes made their way out of the darkness. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man and he walked with the sharp posture of a soldier. There was a shotgun holstered on his thigh and he spun a knife between his fingers, the metal reflecting what little light there was in the room.

“Good. You’re awake.” he moved closer, kneeling in front of you, eyes locked on yours. You thought you recognised him; his voice and movements seemed familiar somehow.

“I see you’ve remembered me. I remember you, Emrys. You took down my organisation five years ago - you and Galahad, was it?” You knew exactly what he meant. Five years ago, when you’d only just joined Kingsman, you took your first mission with Agent Galahad. It was rough, and cold - three weeks in Russia in December, two of which were spent staking out the gang in an abandoned barn.

You recognised the man then. He was the ringleader of the operation that shipped drugs and body parts in an illegal trade network through Europe. Agent Galahad was new to Kingsman as well, so you worked well together, with him in the field and you hacking your way into the gang’s systems with ease.

Agent Galahad asked you out when you got back. You fell asleep on him in the cab, but he carried you inside and left a sticky note on your forehead with a time and a place.

(He did the same thing four years later when he proposed.)

“Yep, that was us. We fucked your operation right up, didn’t we?” You smirked at him, and he placed a calloused hand on your shoulder, making you flinch.

“You did indeed. But now -” He paused to look back at the others, two of whom were unlocking the cell door, “-you can help us fix it.” You rolled your eyes but felt fear gripping your core.

“How?” The man smiled, showing missing teeth and several gold fillings. You saw one of the others moving forwards, with a long chain that he quickly pulled around your ankles, tying you up completely. You tried to kick him, and hit his nose - he let out a long string of curses and the leader glared at you, raising a meaty fist that slapped your cheek.

“Time to go, Agent.” He grabbed you around the waist and threw you over his shoulder, and you screamed, wriggling and squirming but held still in his uncomfortable grasp.

They led you down a tunnel, standing close to the walls and walking in perfect formation. The man carrying you stood at the back, and as you moved your hands to maintain the feeling, you found that you could reach the wall. Bracing yourself, you dug your nails into the wooden wall and scratched four lines across it. At least if Kingsman found this tunnel, they might guess where you were.

Blood gathered under your nails and splinters embedded themselves in your fingers, but you kept scratching, leaving a long trail down the wall.

The tunnel made a sudden turn, and the walls turned to stone. The group picked up their pace, walking towards a door at the end of the tunnel. When they pushed it open, you saw a room similar to your cell, but with a computer in front of a cast iron chair.

Dropping you unceremoniously into the chair, the leader stepped back and pressed a button. A set of steel cuffs wrapped around your ankles, and just as your hands were freed, they tied a rope tightly around your waist.

“You’re going to break into the secret service computer network. And you’ll implant a virus that can destroy their security, releasing the names of their undercover agents and any weapons plans they have. We’ll use them as leverage and your government will give us the resources we need. Understand?”

You looked at him, eyebrows raised. “You want me to hack into MI6?” He nodded, and his gang began to whisper together.

He held up a hand and the mumbling stopped. “That’s correct. Can you do it?” You bit back the temptation to roll your eyes and settled for breathing deeply.

“What if I don’t do it?” The leader smiled condescendingly, and spun his knife around between his fingers, dangerously close to your face.

“Then we’ll kill you, Agent. Slowly and painfully. Are you willing to take that chance?”

Panic began to build in your chest. You tried to compress it; you were an agent, a good one too. You squeezed your hands together, stroking your wedding ring and taking a breath.

“Try me."
 ***

An hour later, and several more bruises later, you still wouldn’t crack. The gang leader (whose name was Sebastian) had tried all manner of methods to convince you help, but none of them had worked. You were still hoping that some other Kingsman agent would rush in to save you.

Somehow, Sebastian cottoned onto this. "They’re not coming for you Agent. They’ve given up on you. You might as well help us now because your Galahad’s clearly not coming to get you.”

Eggsy. Would he really give up on you? You’d both promised each other years before that you would always come for each other. When he saved you from Valentine, when you didn’t sleep for a week so you could watch over him on a dangerous mission - even when everyone else stopped hoping, you two had faith in each other.

“Alright,” You murmured, just loud enough for Sebastian to hear. “I’ll do it.”

“Good, agent. You did the right thing. Pity it took you so long,” He smirked at you, pushing the table with the computer closer to you. Fisting a hand in your hair, he yanked your head close to his.

“If you betray us, I will end you. You have two hours.”

**

The familiar feeling of a keyboard helped to calm you racing heartbeat. You saw that they’d already prepared the software - they just needed you to locate the MI6 system, get past the firewalls, and find the relevant information.

When you began to type, the code felt foreign to your hands. You had taught many agents how to input it, but you’d been waiting to use it for an emergency.

“C'mon, Eggsy, you have to learn this! What if you can’t get out of trouble some day?” Eggsy grinned at you, wiggling his eyebrows.

“I’ll wait for you to come ‘n find me. S'not like I’d let you get rid of me so easily,” You rolled your eyes dramatically; Eggsy leant across the desk, seemingly about to whisper in your ear. Until he pressed his lips to yours and grabbed your waist, pulling you closer.

You always felt butterflies when you thought of the emergency code. This time, it was because of the barrel of a gun you felt pressed into your head.

Merlin would know where you were. If you could just finish the code, it would be less than an hour until they found you. Then all you had to do was pretend to hack until Kingsman got you out.

Enter. All you had to do was wait. For once, you let yourself feel proud, for developing the code that had just sent your location and a distress signal to Kingsman headquarters.

Sebastian pressed the gun harder into your head. “What was that? Are you in?” You shook your head, typing in all the codes you could think of. You just had to bide your time.

“Not yet. It takes time, you know. They have some complex encryptions,” He huffed, but let you get back to work.

Come on, Eggsy. I need you.

***

Your two hours were almost up.

The gun against your head wasn’t pressed as hard; you could still feel the dull ache the pressure had left.

Sebastian was getting desperate.

“Have you done it yet? You have five minutes, agent, and then I will kill you,” You didn’t look back at him, typing even faster. You entered random codes, anything to make you look like you were working.

Bang!

The gang members’ heads all turned to the door. What was that noise? It sounded like… a gunshot.

“What the hell was that?” Hissed Sebastian. Immediately, he took the safety off of his gun, and his cronies began to pull out weapons.

Come on Eggsy, you thought.

Grabbing your arm, Sebastian pressed something on the chair that released the cuffs on your ankles. He yanked you out of the chair, pulling you in front of him and pressing the gun against your temple. “If this is your agency… I won’t hesitate, Emrys,” You felt hope building in your chest.

There were footsteps pounding the corridor outside. The sound of a gunshot reverberated through the room - please, let it be Eggsy. Suddenly a silence fell. Sebastian didn’t make a noise, and neither did the intruder on the other side of the door.

Until the door was kicked through, and a man in a smartly tailored suit stood there, holding a gun and an umbrella.

“I think you’ve got our hacker, bruv.” Sebastian jumped into action, firing two shots at Eggsy - who dove out of the way with a practised ease and kicked the legs of two other guys from underneath them. with Sebastian distracted, you saw your chance; you twisted his arm backwards and brought your knee to his stomach, sending him sprawling on the stone floor. You ripped the gun from his hands and kicked him, knocking him out.

“Y/N! Behind you!” Cried Eggsy, and you turned around just in time as a woman came up to you, a knife pointed straight at your throat. You threw a punch at her and she reeled backwards, where Eggsy threw her against the wall. There were only two people left, and they stood in the corner of the room, pointing their guns at you and Eggsy. The pair of you made eye contact and dove to the side as the pair shot at you.

You saw Eggsy’s umbrella lying near you, and grabbed it, pulling it towards the two of you. Opening it out, you felt the impact of the bullets and frantically pressed a button on the handle. It sent out a flash of light, and you flinched, but heard the sound of two bodies dropping to the ground.

Peering out from around the umbrella, you saw that the entire gang lay on the floor, dead or unconscious. Slumping against the wall, you looked up at Eggsy, who was staring at you.

“Glad you could make it Eggsy,” He shot you a smile, but the pair of you jumped as a sudden movement caught your eye. It was Sebastian and in his hand a remote. A cut was dripping blood down his face, but he looked you dead in the eyes and pressed a button.

“Security measure,” He whispered, before collapsing. Eggsy looked confused, and you felt the same; until the sound of ticking hit your ears.

Eggsy looked at you, panicked. “What the fuck is that?” Furrowing your brow in concentration, you tried to figure it out. Security measure? What would they have used -

“It’s a bomb! Fuck, Eggsy, we need to go,” Eyes wide, Eggsy grabbed your hand and sprinted out of the room, down the tunnel you had both come through. The ticking seemed to speed up - or maybe it was the blood pounding in your head as your pulse raced. There was a door up ahead, or at least the frame of a door that had clearly been kicked down.

The two of you ran faster still, the ticking reaching a crescendo and the door coming ever closer. Just a bit further, and you were safe -

***

The explosion could be heard from miles away.

It sent a fall of rocks down the mountain, and the entrance to the cave collapsed. No one inside could have survived - at least, that was what Merlin told the pair of you when you were sat safely in the plane, flying far away.

“And Emrys - good to know your code works. And well done on not letting those fuckers do anything awful. Galahad, good job too. But if you ever try and threaten me into saving your wife faster again, I will end you.” There was humour in his voice, and he rolled his eyes affectionately when Eggsy wrapped an arm around your shoulders.

You and Eggsy left the cockpit of the plane, ready to remove your dusty, blood-stained clothes.

“Glad you’re alright, babe. You were fuckin’ badass in there. How did you get 'em to let you use a computer?” You told him the whole story and he listened intently. As you finished, a curious expression appeared on his face.

“So what did you do if you weren’t hackin’ into MI6?” You hummed, unsure. Trying to think back over the codes you used, you were hit with a sudden realisation.

Biting your lip, you replied, “I just used whatever codes I could think of. They just happened to be the ones I used when Roxy and I hacked Harry’s computer last month…” Eggsy looked shocked, but couldn’t hold in his laughter.

“Oh my God, babe. You mean you -” He was overcome with laughter, and you grinned in mock shame.

“Yeah. I linked all their servers to a porn website. Oh god.”

Eggsy pulled you down onto the seat next to him, kissing you deeply.

“I fuckin’ love you, Y/N,” You smiled into the kiss, reaching a hand up to stroke his cheek.

“Love you too, Eggsy.”

[niskrp]

:// SEARCHING OPERATIVE …

… searching for AGENT 013 / ACE OF HEARTS. classified files indicate that they go by KIM JUWON. born in YONGIN, SK, in 1992/20/02, further investigation makes it clear that they joined the agency TWO YEARS ago. they are a CLANDESTINE AGENT who specialize in LTU OPERATIONS. higher clearance is needed to access further information…

… ENTER PASSWORD TO ACCESS THE COMPLETE FILE.

:// ACCESSING BACKGROUND FILES …

tw: mention of suicide, infidelity

1992 (100 days).

kim hyunsik and his wife, nam seohyun, pose in front of the camera, slotting together in a practiced way. their eldest son, seungwon, stands in front of them, forgetting to smile in favour of peering up at the pale, pink thing in his mother’s arms. their friends and family clap nonetheless, laugh and coo at baby juwon, still oblivious to his surroundings, lavishly decorated as they are.

the kim family is picture perfect.

a flash, and the moment is gone, seohyun’s friends swarming the couple the first chance they get. she raises juwon up to meet his aunties’ eager smiles, but hyunsik knows what she really wants. he graciously plucks juwon out of her arms and the space is soon filled with a glass, champagne and bubbling.

children are supposed to be born out of love. but not even juwon, hyunsik thinks, rocking him absentmindedly, can mend the gap between him and seohyun, though she stands no more than a few feet away.

if seungwon is their firstborn, then juwon is their last resort.

2001 (9).

they’re on their second detour of the day, seungwon trailing behind an excitable juwon, only mildly irritated at the prospect of walking him home from school. it’s never just one thing with him. first, a drink, next, they’re across the city pressing their noses up against the national police university’s gates.

“why are we here again?” seungwon mutters.

“cause i wanna see the police!” juwon answers like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“they’re not police ye-”

“they’re so cooool!” juwon says a little too loudly. several students in uniform turn to look at them.

seungwon hushes him and not so subtly drags him by the backpack, ignoring his cries of i want to be just like them! the students think it’s all in good fun, looking on in amusement. seungwon sighs. “why, what’s so special about them.” his voice falls flat.

it’s after they round the corner that seungwon lets go of juwon, his brother’s pout doing little to soothe his impatience.

“they fight for justice!” and where did he learn that word? seungwon thinks.

“yeah, well, dad fights for justice, too.”

“but the police are way cooler!” a pause. “what dad does is boring.”

“whatever,” seungwon snaps, and whirls on his heel, marching towards home, where they should’ve been all along. “i’m telling him you said that,” he throws over his shoulder.

juwon freezes in horror, a split-second before he’s sprinting after him. “wait!”

2009 (17).

he goes through the night in a bit of a daze, dreamlike, disbelieving.

with his father’s recent ascension to justice of the supreme court, it’s been a string of events, one after the other. there’s just an endless stream of important people to meet, just another hand to shake, another person to smile at.

and his parents? they were certainly doing their part, talking and smiling, always smiling, father’s arm wound around mother’s waist, in her hand a sparkling glass of wine that she seemed to take endless sips from.

it’s as though the last few hours never even happened.

i know you’re having an affair, she had said, voice low and steady, abruptly ending whatever screaming match they were having just a few moments before. her mouth had wired shut after that, red lips pressed together in a taut line, the only signs of her fury present in the slight trembling of her hands.

his father had merely sighed, a quiet resignation while his two sons stood frozen in the background. he’d taken a few steps towards her, eyes darting to her arm though he didn’t dare reach out to touch her, not now. “i don’t want to make a scene, not tonight. can we talk about this later?”

and somehow, they had all piled into the car in relative peace, if not in uncomfortable silence. if the driver had noticed the tension in the air, well, it wasn’t his place to say anything.

it’s why juwon finds himself in his father’s office, the first place he’d gone to after they returned home, his mother sweeping into their shared bedroom. father still has his blazer on, eyes turned towards the floor, gaze unfocused, waiting for him to speak. there’s a hunch in his shoulders, but whether or not it’s of guilt… juwon isn’t sure.

an inhale, and he pauses, a million questions, a million answers, some that he decides he’s better off not knowing. what is there to say? what can he say? his parents had taught him to never fidget. he grips at his knees instead. “are you going to leave?”

“of course not, juwon,” his father answers automatically, and his eyes snap up, but there’s no rush, no weight to his words. “i’d never leave you or your mother.”

it’s simple, matter of fact.

“then why?”

“marriage,” his father begins, and leans backwards in his chair, “is more than a union of two people. it’s a merging of families. what we have… what your mother and i share,” he corrects, “is more than being husband and wife.”

his father finally stands and makes his way towards juwon. he stops next to him, claps a heavy hand to his shoulder. juwon meets his eyes.

“i have to a duty to your mother, and to you, and to seungwon,” he says slowly, “but we fell out of love a long time ago. i hope you can learn to understand that.” his father is quiet when he finishes, honest in his words, but not pleading. simple.

to understand… in time, he thinks he will. because this is the world they live in.

what other choice does he have?

“i forgive you,” juwon says, and he does.

a wry smile is all he gets in return.

2010 (18).

he does his duty to the nation, and to his parents, though perhaps not in the way they’d expected. after highschool was graduation, and with it came enrollment into the korean national police university.

it wasn’t ku or snu or even yonsei, but it was still a degree, juwon had pointed out.

my children should be able to do what they like, is the only thing his father said with a smile, his mother turning to him helplessly.

within reason, she argued.

in the end, no one, not even nam seohyun’s circle of friends, and certainly not his father’s circle of justices could say anything bad about a police officer. it was simply in bad taste.

and so juwon stays in his hometown of yongin, where knpu had always been, where his dreams, if he could call them that, had always been. he breezes through post-secondary with less friction than he’d anticipated.

2014 (22).

his parents will take any opportunity to brag, just as all parents do, just one more thing they can laud over each other, and his graduation to inspector is no exception. they make him attend a party in full uniform, his peers are all in business but they rove their eyes over him all the same, suggestive whispers of officer drifting around him like smoke.

it’s quiet after that, not by choice but by necessity. he begins his fieldwork immediately, rotating every few months into a new line of work: investigation, patrol, riot policing, they’re meant to get a taste of it all. he doesn’t have time to get on his knees, schmooze the chairman of so-and-so, beg for praise, acceptance. he’s better than that.

or at least he thinks he is.

if there’s one thing that juwon learns, it’s that everyone is out for themselves.

whether they’re wearing a suit in a conference room or pressed down to the dirt with juwon’s boot on their back, people are all the same.

juwon adjusts accordingly.

2016 (24).

an unexpected attachment to the narcotics department derails his plans for next decade or so of his life, or perhaps for the rest of it, looking back now.

it’s routine at first, until it’s not. it’s routine for the sake of routine, for painting a picture of someone he’s not—officially, it’s called undercover work.

you’re not playing a role, they’d told him, you’re playing a different version of yourself. truth is a matter of circumstance, juwon surmises. truth is convenience, lies are of omission.

his dreams of becoming a detective are lost somewhere along the way.

he’s simply too good at what he does: lying and manipulation, lying to maintain the lie. he’s more useful where he is, though he can’t quite find the pride to support his superiors’ praise.

he stays all the same.

2017 (25).

he accepts a transfer to the nis without much thought, commendation, recommendation, doesn’t consider the new weight placed upon his shoulders—it’s all the same, anyways. anonymous dedication to freedom and truth, our nation will count on you, those who exist these gates—he’s a cog in the machine, like all the rest. national police, national intelligence, organizations meant to inspire pride in the populace, but it’s all propaganda. nothing he does will ever change the world, no matter how many lives he ruins, no matter how many people he puts behind bars, it’s all the same.

but the results he gets are enough. he completes the st program with ease.

2018 (26)

he’s a newly minted agent, and quickly becomes water under the bridge. long time undercover operations where juwon ceases to exist, if it comes down to it, we’ll disavow any knowledge—he’s used to the feeling of drowning.

“kim juwon.” one of the higher ups, he recognizes, greets him on the way to his debriefing. “welcome home. and good fucking work.”

but he fights to stay afloat.

juwon merely bows in response, doesn’t bother with a thank you, sir—the man is already moving on before juwon can even raise his head—people like him only cared about results, no matter the cost.

the results being the dismantling and subsequent arrest of a gang with a large stake in the distribution of cocaine—he’s just come back from the south, his first assignment, totaling five months. it was slow work, like most undercover ops are, establishment of identity, trust, or at least the lowering of suspicion, bridging the gap between us vs. them. until he had found a sort of diamond in the rough: a man desperate enough to get caught in the affairs of the gang, threatened to be their dealer.

it’s a fact that juwon had exploited mercilessly, preying on his vulnerability, working his way into his confidence until he had found his way in. it was quick to unravel, after that.

so when the man is put on minute-to-minute watch, in case of suicide, juwon knows for a fact that it’s his fault.

“how so?” the prison guard had asked when juwon told him as much.

“i was supposed to be his only friend in the world.” juwon stares at the man curled on his cot from a monitor. “i made him trust me. and i betrayed him.”

“he’d be better off dead,” juwon mutters.

“yeah, well, that’s not for us to decide.” a beat. “only for us to carry out.” the guard sends juwon a cheeky grin.

juwon can’t help but bark out a laugh, shaking his head at the irony of it all.

“see you later, man.”

“yeah.” juwon takes one last glance at the broken man on the monitor. “see you.”

and he leaves it all behind him.

postscript.

“that can’t have been easy.”

“no.” juwon keeps his head lolled back against the plush armchair, stares up at the white of the ceiling. “it’s scary just how easy it was.”

:// ACCESSING PSYCHOLOGICAL EVALUATION …

outward: comfortable with teamwork, not by nature but by design. police academy made sure of that. though not much of a team-player himself, juwon will be the first to kick everyone’s ass into gear, growling into their faces about wasting time and the like. he recognizes the need for team-oriented exercises, the building of interpersonal skills,but to be honest, he’s glad he spends most of his time as an ltu operative alone. beyond that, he can follow orders just fine. along the same lines, tends to keep to himself, likes to watch rather than be watched. observant but also intuitive, sensitive to other’s feelings, but most of the time maintains that it’s none of his business. friendly enough to grab a drink with, takes things lightly, an easy smile playing on his lips. in his line of work, it’s necessary to be able to hold a conversation. though only when he wants to.

inward: cynical and disillusioned view of the world. privately believes that his work, the work of the nis, the police, it’s all futile unless a large scale reform is carried out, which it never will be. on the day-to-day, he’s making a difference, sure, but nothing is really changing. to add to that, recognizes that people are selfish, uses that reasoning to maintain his own selfishness. love, family, relationships, none of it is genuine, it’s simply a business model.

… END OF FILE. CONTACT THE AGENT DIRECTLY FOR MORE.