#but his arms and legs have multiple seperate files

[zeondraws]

Play Still Wakes The Deep I thought to myself. Wonder how to extract models I thought. Tried to replicate the sketchfab model and figure out how to add the textures to my export on my own.

I needed someones help, but I guess I learned something new. Muir was the easiest to test this with, I have to figure out the other models the coming weeks. I am not sure what I need this for. Maybe just use the models for art reference. Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

[stormquill]

Misconduct, Ch. 12 [Soldier 76/Reader]

You have an extremely inappropriate crush on your commanding officer. Maybe if you work hard enough, you’ll stop having feelings.

Credits: Collaboration with @antiloquist. The Widowmaker Line voiced by @totalspiffage. Follow the blog / AO3 mirror @miss-conduct.

Using the fireman carry on a grown man double your weight and at least a head taller than you was no minor feat. As you held your Commander’s body around your shoulders, blood from his wounded leg now leaking steadily down the front of you, you shuffled your way up the ramp into the waiting dropship, making a mental note to thank Zarya for her training.

You punched the inner hull to pop down a medical table folded into the wall, and you rested him down as carefully as you could.

“Athena?” you snapped, out of breath.

Several nearby devices activated, springing out of the wall at the ends of mechanical arms. One of them performed a full-body scan, while another projected the numbers of his vitals on a mid-air screen. A third device appeared above him, casting a familiar, biotic-yellow glow across his injury.

Athena’s voice sounded from overhead. “The biotic field will control the bleeding, but it appears unable to close the wounds alone. Extraction of foreign matter is needed for full recovery.”

“Should I go in, then?” you asked, already rifling through the first aid shelves for the proper tools. You hadn’t had to perform emergency field surgery in ages, but your knowledge was still there, as was your knee-jerk reaction to get busy before things took a turn for the worst.

“Analyzing...immediate action not required. The interaction between the biotics and the SEP treatment will be enough to keep him stable until landing.”

Your hands fell limp against the shelves. You hung your head, wearily, still catching your breath.

‘SEP treatment.’ You had no idea what that was. You weren’t sure if you wanted to know.

“Vitals are stabilizing. Status: breathing and unresponsive. Please place the Commander in the recovery position and ensure clearance of his airways to prevent fluid or mechanical obstruction of his breathing.”

‘Clearance of his airways.’

You had to remove his mask.

You turned towards him, wiping your brow across the back of your hand. Logic dictated that the hesitation you felt right now was stupid, nonsensical. This was a medical emergency, neither the time nor place for pride; if he were to choke on his own vomit and die in his sleep because you thought seeing his face was a violation of privacy, that would be on you. You doubted he would’ve cared at this point, anyway. Especially not now. Now that you knew.

You just imagined this going differently, somehow.

Adrenaline kept your pulse pounding in your ears, loud and headache-inducing, as if your heart had leapt straight into your skull.

With careful, still-bloodied fingers, you felt along the sides of his mask for the release trigger. The faceplate seperated with a soft click, deactivating the red glow of his visor, and leaving the jawstrap of his mask framed around his face.

And there he was. Overwatch’s original Strike Commander. War hero and international celebrity.

He looked older than you remembered from the posters, his hair and brows having gone from bright blonde to stark white. He had the same strong jawline, now peppered with stubble, and the same slight curve in the bridge of his nose. Deep scars had been slashed across his face, as if the claws of some great predator had taken swipes against him; the thought evoked a memory of Reaper’s talons, black and lethal and a perfect fit.

His lips were slightly parted in his unconsciousness. The ghost of his visor was on your mouth, again, and waves of unease crashed within you at the reminder of how foolish you’d been.

How could you not have seen it?

You adjusted his arms and legs into the recovery position and turned his unconscious body towards the wall.

You do not look upon his face again.

With the Commander’s body secured, the dropship rumbled beneath you during takeoff. You turned to steady yourself on a bar affixed to the wall, and the sight of the figure now sitting up in her holding cell gave you a jolt of surprise.

“Salut,” you offered, meekly, because what else did you say to a deadly brainwashed enemy assassin staring at you from behind glass?

The greeting in her native tongue gave her momentary pause, but she did not look away from you.

“I never touched the Atlantic, did I?” she asked, her voice dark and crisp.

“...you don’t seem surprised.”

“This isn’t new to me, moving from one set of incompetent fools to the next. The only difference is I’m no longer getting paid for it.” Her gaze on you softened, her golden eyes laced with such sudden informality it made you doubt your own safety. “Am I under arrest, chérie?”

You opened your mouth before closing it, again. You didn’t actually know the answer to that question.

She sneered at your silence. “You’re new, aren’t you?”

With your Commander incapacitated, you mentally ran through every security feature aboard the dropship. The multiple panes of heat-strengthened glass surrounding her. The knockout gas lines lining the cell. The sidearm on the wall filled with Commander Amari’s sleep darts.

You made the call and walked, slow and deliberate, towards Amélie’s holding cell.

You hadn’t had a chance to get a proper look at her during the panicked rush of earlier events. She was barefooted and clothed in a white wraparound hospital gown, the colour a stark contrast against the pale blue of her skin. Her untied dark hair was a straight, sleek mess of strands, long enough to bunch around her as she sat. You noticed a tattoo around her right forearm—araignée du soir, cauchemar—a rhyme, playing on an old French expression.

Unblinking and stone-still, she kept her eyes fixed on you as she tracked your gradual approach. You could feel her bristling, the electricity in the air growing with the inches closed between you, but that wasn’t what you wanted at all. Instead, you angled your approach to give her a wider berth, stopping only when you reached the opposite wall, several feet away from her cell.

You sat on the floor. “What’s your name?”

“Don’t speak as if you haven’t read my file.”

“Not your birth name, your real one. The one they won’t tell me.”

You could still feel remnants of the earlier static between you, filling the silence with its sparks.

“Fatale,” she said, finally. “Or, ‘Widowmaker,’ for those who refuse to pronounce it properly.”

“It’s an honour to finally meet the person everyone’s been fighting so hard for.”

“Fraternizing with the enemy will get you no answers from me.”

“You’re not our enemy.”

She sneered, again. “You are new.”

“Let me rephrase,” you offered. “The Commander never spoke of you as an enemy.”

“Oh,” she pouted, making a sardonic, mocking expression of interest, “and how did he speak of me?”

“Like a prisoner of war.”

“And how does it feel to be led by someone that profoundly naive?”

“He may have led me here, but who’s the one half-dead on a table and who’s the one sitting in front of you? I was given a mission to bring you back. And I succeeded.”

“Yes, you have me,” she said, a slow smirk on her lips. “Your grand prize. And you’ll kill me, again. Isn’t that enough?”

“No one’s going to kill you, Fatale,” you said, but you couldn’t even convince yourself that much was true.

Amélie rose to her feet as if lifted by a breeze, her elegant movements pronounced with the grace of a woman in command of every fiber of her being. As she stood tall and stared down at you, a triumphant smile playing at the small curves of her mouth, you were once again struck with the feeling you were in danger.

“I have been killed many times, chérie. I will be born again in the morning.”

She turned her back to you and sat down against the glass of the holding cell, leaving you silent, hopeless, and aching with the inexplicable guilt of having done something wrong.

Reaper’s words accompanied the heartbeat in your head.

There will always be people they need to do their dirty work.

People just like you.

-

Winston, McCree, and Dr. Ziegler were there to greet you when you arrived back at headquarters. The impromptu welcome party wasn’t unexpected, as no mission reports had been filed on the way back; the only updates your team had to go on regarding the status of your assignment were returning flight paths and readings of your vital signs.

So, as you disembarked, their reaction didn’t come as a surprise.

“We—welcome back,” gaped Winston.

“What in the hell happened to you?” McCree asked, loudly.

You hadn’t slept and you looked it, your eyes dark and your line of vision the slightest bit unfocused. You walked down the ramp wearing nothing but cargo pants and a tank top, as your tactical jacket was still wrapped tightly around 76’s thigh to help apply pressure to his still-open wounds. Most noteworthy of all, however, was the blood all over you, now dried and dark; a flaky mess of smears formed a gradient from your fingers to your forearms, alongside a massive stain down one side of you from where your Commander bled as you carried him on board.

You weren’t injured, however, and you tried not to make a show of carrying yourself down to the tarmac, keeping your back straight and your tone matter-of-fact. “Commander Morrison needs surgery. He sustained a severe shotgun wound to the upper thigh that the biotic field won’t close.”

“That—that doesn’t make sense.” Winston glanced back at the ship. “The biotic field should be able to—unless—”

“Reaper was there,” you said. “Whatever’s in his bullets is keeping the Commander from healing up. I’m sorry I haven’t completed my mission report, I’ll have it finished within the hour.”

Bewildered, McCree tipped his hat up as he scratched at his forehead. “That’s all fine and dandy, but are you—”

A slender hand grabbed your bare shoulder from behind, clutching onto you for purchase.

“You found her?” Dr. Ziegler asked, breathless.

And suddenly, no one’s eyes were on you.

Everyone’s attention was redirected towards the holding cell within the dropship. You turned to look as well, and the unbridled hatred sparking in Amélie’s eyes was unlike any you’d ever seen.

This was a reunion for them, you remembered.

You didn’t belong here.

You shrugged off Dr. Ziegler’s grasp and headed back towards base.

“Please take care of the Commander,” you repeated.

-

76’s surgery took less time than your paperwork.

Though your report and post-mission medical examination were both complete, Dr. Zeigler refused to clear you for active duty. She reminded you that you only had a week’s rest between Romania and Le Havre, a week which was almost entirely spent healing and preparing for your next mission, and after this ordeal, you needed some actual time to recover.

What was supposed to be an extended break ended up being nothing more than an exercise in worry.

Every idle thought would drift back to the memory of Amélie’s murderous gaze when she first laid eyes on the rest of your crew. You realized that, for some reason, she’d afforded you a patience during your conversation that she had no intention of sharing with anyone else. Reaper’s words to you were on repeat, again—you felt as if you were the only person on-base none the wiser about Amélie’s case, or about what Overwatch was planning on doing with her now that she’d been rescued.

Whenever you sought to ask details from Dr. Ziegler about Amélie’s situation, or her progress, or even where she was being kept, the good doctor would quiet you with a tired smile, every single time.

“You’ve done your job, Reader. Let me do mine.”

But you couldn’t sleep.

Most of your time was spent squirreled away in your personal quarters. When you weren’t comparing the Le Havre mission reports from yourself and your Commander, searching for hints about Amélie you might’ve missed, you were staring at the contingency plans you’d made in France, seeing where you could’ve done better, gradually sinking under the weight of your own anxieties.

Where was Amélie? Was she safe here?

Several days had passed since you returned, and the one person you trusted enough to answer your questions still hadn’t bothered to summon you, or find you of his own accord—and the act of you seeking him out after everything that happened would’ve felt like surrender.

Was he angry with you?

The thought made your blood boil. He had no right or reason to be upset, least of all with you.

Why else would he be avoiding you?

A knock sounded at your room one night, and the voice that followed was not the one you were expecting.

“This mopin’ of yours’s gone on long enough,” McCree said through the door. “Get dressed, you’re comin’ with me.”

Buried within the contents of several journals spread across your desktop, you kept very, very still. Maybe if you were quiet enough, he would think you weren’t here.

“...don’t make me drag you outta there.”

“Alright, alright, jeez.”

So you put on pants.

You followed McCree’s wordless lead to the practice range. You figured he was taking you for aim training—nothing gets your mind off things like shooting other things, after all—but you were guided away from the distance markings on the floor, past the training bots hovering in fixed path rotations around the grounds, and up several flights of stairs.

Eventually, you arrived at an open balcony at one of the highest points of the range, overlooking a large portion of the facility.

McCree sat down against the wall, to one side of a plastic container. “Have a seat.”

“...am I in trouble?”

He looked up at you, his brows knitting together. “Y’know, there’s something to be said about the fact that’s the first place your mind jumped to.”

“I’m support,” you said, taking a seat next to him on the other side of the box. “Worst case scenarios are kinda my thing.”

McCree reached for the sealed container, which popped open with a gentle hiss.

It was a cooler.

He grabbed a bottle of beer from inside, uncapped it with his metal hand, and handed it to you. You accepted it, gratefully.

And you drank together in silence.

The stars were out in full force tonight, twinkling pinpricks in the blanket of a moonlit sky. The pitch-black shadows of mountains were silhouetted the horizon, while sheets of ice drifted across the surface of the distant water. The alcohol was smoother than you were expecting—strong, but sweeter than most. One drink turned into two, into three, into four. A warm, familiar buzz soon blurred your thoughts, soothing you from the inside out.

Several empty bottles piled up between the two of you before McCree broke the quiet.

“Pull,” he called, another drink raised to his lips.

You blinked at him, slowly. The place better have been as abandoned as he thought it was.

You grabbed an empty bottle and threw it as hard as you could over the balcony, high into the air. You hadn’t even registered him pulling his weapon from his holster before he’d shot the damn thing with a single bullet, pieces of glass raining like stardust onto the barren ground fifty feet below.

‘Nice shot,’ is what you thought.

“I can’t believe zombies are fucking real,” is what left your mouth.

He chuckled. “Pull.”

You tossed another bottle. Again, he hit it spot-on, first try.

“If it helps,” he started, cracking open another couple of drinks for the two of you, “whatever’s goin’ on with Reaper ain’t exactly widespread technology. He’s one-of-a-kind. That’s what makes him so dangerous.”

You downed half the bottle before speaking. “He promised he was gonna kill me.”

“Don’t take it personally, that’s just how he says goodbye.”

“You’ve met him, then?”

“I have. Knew him before the mask, too.”

The memory of the cloaked, clawed, dual shotgun-wielding man floated through your mind like a passing ghost, and you found it difficult to imagine there was ever a ‘before.’ “What was he like?”

“Reyes?” McCree considered your question, nursing his drink as he did so. “A hardass with a good sense of humor. Got the job done at all costs. And quite the family man, believe it or not.”

“...he had a family?”

He nodded. “Civilians, though. Moved on after the Fall.”

You continued drinking. Somehow, you hadn’t considered Reaper was once a regular person with a life all his own. A spouse. Children, maybe. If they were civilians, did that mean they believed him dead, like the rest of the world? If he still remembered them, did he care for them, even now? Did he have a family before his relationship with your Commander? After?

...during?

McCree noticed you’d gone quiet. “What’re you thinkin’?”

“Just trying to wrap my head around it,” you admitted. “Never had a dead guy point a gun at my face, before.”

He clicked his tongue before taking a swig. “Welcome to Overwatch.”

Slouching over a bit, you ran a hand over your face. “If I knew about Commander Reyes from the start, I could’ve been better prepared in Le Havre.”

“None of us had any reason to believe Reaper would be runnin’ interference down there. Our intel had him halfway around the world when you and Sarge left for France.”

“So it was bad intel.”

“Yep.”

You kept a hand over your mouth as you stared into the distance, thinking it over. Reaper was the one 76 cared about finding, so of course he’d have updated knowledge of his whereabouts. That’s why 76 hadn’t told you about him from the start, and that’s why he was so shocked to find him there—maybe even enough to reevaluate his mission objectives and go after him without a second thought.

“What do we want with Amélie, anyway?” you asked.

“Couldn’t tell you,” he shrugged. “Probably classified.”

“‘Classified.’ Of course it is. Meaning she could be being tortured or murdered underground somewhere and I would’ve been complicit in that.”

“...bein’ a little overdramatic, don’t you think? Not exactly in the business of kidnap and torture, here.”

“Yeah, not anymore.”

“Now, now.” McCree flashed a grin from the lip of his bottle. “Our hands might not be clean, but these things ain’t ever black and white in the long run, either. All we can do is make sure our shade of grey’s lighter’n most.”

“How do I know we’re doing the right thing if there’s this much I wasn’t told?”

“You’re forgettin’ the obvious.”

“And that is?”

“You’re new,” he enunciated. “Everyone but you’s been here from the start of it all, years and years ago. What’s ‘classified’ now is just a bunch of random, tragic shit that happened to us once upon a time. It’s on a need-to-know basis, and you don’t need to know for the things we brought you on for.”

“I know,” you said, emphatically, “I know I don’t need everyone’s life story to work here, I’m just worried there’s more things I should’ve known from the start, things that...could’ve helped.”

“You talkin’ ‘bout Sarge?”

You didn’t respond, instead opting to take a very long sip from your bottle.

“If I’m bein’ honest, the whole ‘Soldier 76’ thing is more of an inside joke here than anything else. We keep it up to protect his pride, ‘cause pride’s just about all he’s got left. His callsign’s a cover for the outside world, but everyone here knows who he really is. And he knows that.”

“He knew I didn’t.”

“You sure?”

“He knew,” you repeated, more forcefully this time.

McCree raised an eyebrow. “So are you mad at him for not tellin’ you, or mad at yourself for not figurin’ it out sooner?”

Frustration burned your cheeks. Without warning, you chucked two empty bottles over the balcony at the same time; he shot both, dead-on, one after the other in less than a heartbeat.

“He waited for me,” you growled.

“Come again?”

“After Romania. He waited for me to recover because he wanted me in France. And I was so damn worried, you know? Was I going because it was important, or was I going because it was important to him? He says he doesn’t want to lead me on, he says he doesn’t want me to make a decision based on him alone—but regardless of how I felt, or how he felt, he waited. And it was the first time I felt like he saw me. Not as a new hire, or as a subordinate, but—”

“—as an equal.”

“Then when we’re over there,” you rambled, voice breaking, “he says shit like he’s ‘at his best’ when he’s with me? And we promise not to be reckless, but two hours later, he does just that—and I have to save him, even if it means walking into a trap, even if it means carrying his bleeding ass back to the ship, because I said I’d protect him and I don’t break my fucking promises.”

You didn’t give permission for the angry tears to stray from your eyes, but you were already too tipsy to care.

“And for what??” you snapped, voice growing louder. “To bring back a full-fledged Talon agent for reasons I never understood in the first place. And now that she’s here, I can’t log into my computer without wondering if Sombra’s tracking my movements, trying to make contact again. I can’t stop thinking about how much time I have left until Reaper makes good on his promise—and I know you said not to worry, but you didn’t hear what he said to me, and god, you didn’t hear how much he meant it.”

McCree didn’t say a word. He gave you a few moments of silence to collect yourself, to catch your breath, to get it all out of your system.

Then he reloaded his revolver, and handed it to you.

The initial shock of him letting you anywhere near Peacekeeper was immediately drowned out by the sheer weight of it in your hands. The gun was massive, twice the size of any normal revolver—much heavier, as well, but somehow still balanced within your hold. You cocked it, and the heavy click of the hammer was incredibly satisfying.

McCree tossed up an empty bottle. It took you three tries, but you managed to shatter it.

Nothing to get your mind off things like shooting other things, after all.

“I don't have time to worry about something like this, you know?” you said, sniffling. “I—I just don’t have the time.”

“The time to what? Figure out the feelings of a dumbass givin’ off more mixed signals than a traffic light? I don’t blame you.” McCree lit a cigar and held it between his teeth. He flipped another bottle over the ledge, watching you catch it in two shots. “Least he bought us booze.”

You glanced back at the cooler. “The Commander bought all this?”

“A fine cider I recommended,” he bragged, tapping the ash from his first drag away. “You should be thankin’ me, too, the man’s got shit taste. Likes that sex-on-a-boat type beer.”

“Sex on a boat?”

“Fuckin’ close to water.”

You snorted an ugly, too-loud laugh through the last few of your tears. McCree smiled from behind his cigar.

“Look, Sarge wants to talk to you,” he said, “but he wants to talk to you on your own terms. Told me so himself. Didn’t wanna ambush you if you weren’t ready, all that shit.”

“So he sent you as a messenger?” you scoffed. “Why couldn’t he just tell me that himself?”

“Scared, I reckon.”

“Scared of what?”

McCree threw one final empty bottle into the air. Having gotten used to Peacekeeper’s weight, you finally managed to shatter it in one shot, with the very last bullet in the chamber.

“Thought that much’d be obvious,” he said, wryly.

You turned your nose. Maybe it was the pent-up frustration, maybe it was the one-too-many bottles of cider swimming around inside you, but something about the Commander leaving the ball in your court rubbed you the wrong way. You were tired of sitting around. You were tired of worrying. Above all else, you were tired of not knowing.

You stood up, which in itself was an accomplishment. You weren’t drunk—it took a bit more than that to really knock you on your ass—but you were hovering at that wonderfully hazy point where you were intoxicated enough to lack better judgement, but sober enough to make bad decisions.

You wobbled your way towards the stairs, keeping one hand on the building for balance. “If no one’s giving me answers, I’ll just get them on my own.”

McCree made a little noise of disapproval. “I wouldn’t have that conversation drunk, if I were you.”

“No,” you snapped, “I’m going to the medbay to see if I can find Amélie’s intake files.”

“Reckon the doc’ll just hand them over if you ask nicely?”

“Kinda counting on her not being there.”

He laughed, burying his face into his palm. “Oh, lord.”

“I’m not asking you to help.”

“Now, what kind of friend would I be if I got you drunk then didn’t help you break into somewhere you shouldn’t be?”

“You coming, then?”

“Depends. Can I have my gun back?”

“...oh. Right.”

-

As you navigated the barren hallways of the base, trying to move as silently as you could from corridor to corridor, you became certain that McCree’s spurs were the loudest objects known to mankind.

Dr. Ziegler’s office was located towards the back of the hospital wing. To your surprise, the door of her office was left unlocked, but as you made your way inside and hit the light switch, you suddenly understood why. She kept absolutely everything in neat, impeccable order—not a single pen or scrap of paper out of place—with an impressive array of individually fastened drawers, locked filing cabinets, and padlocked storage units located all around the room.

You booted up the computer at her desk, only to discover that the words across the loading screens weren’t even English.

“It’s all in German,” you sighed, shutting down the computer at the password window. “Even if we figured out the password without triggering a lockout, it’d be hard to navigate.”

“Shouldn’t there be an original form, though?” asked McCree. “A physical one?”

As you explored the office and examined the many filing cabinets, you finally came across a set labelled with letters.

You grabbed a paperclip from the magnetic holder on the desk and unfolded it, running through the alphabet under your breath.

“It’s this one,” McCree interrupted with a snicker, knocking a knuckle on the drawer with the ‘G - Mc’ label. “Sorry—should I have let you finish your ABCs?”

You angled the straightened paperclip into the lock. “Leave me alone, I can barely see straight.”

Once you popped open the lock, you found the drawer’s contents separated even further, dividing individual letters throughout the row of files. A particularly overstuffed folder at the very end had a tab that read:

McCree, Jesse

McCree reached over your shoulder to grab it. “Yoink.”

You feathered through the folders under ‘L.’

Lacroix, Amélie Lacroix, Gerard

So she had a family, too.

With a rush of excitement, you pulled Amélie’s file.

The first page had a photograph clipped to it, a picture of her from when she was younger. Her skin was a more human, peachy colour, and instead of a sharp gold, her eyes were dark, and lively.

As these were Dr. Ziegler’s files, you quickly discovered that her hard copy medical documentation was also in German. All you could read were the dates, and all you could gather was that, aside from the first few pages, the majority of contents in Amélie’s file had only been created within the last week.

With the amount of medical examinations you had, from agent onboarding to post-mission observations to scheduled weekly checkups, you were sure that even your file had more content than hers did before she was brought here. Her having a file in Dr. Ziegler’s office at all meant she was known to Overwatch before the incident with Talon, but the lack of documentation implied she wasn’t a field operative.

Had she been a civilian before the incident?

You continued searching through the German archives, picking out roman numbers and borrowed English words but understanding none of it for the most part, until you got to the very end of her file.

A thirty-page copy of a scientific report in English, addressed to Winston.

The report itself was extremely dense, filled with equations, diagrams, and scientific terminology you didn’t understand, but you skimmed through it as best as you could.

“...experimental technology…”

“...inoperable neural implant…”

“...resistant to outside observation or interference…”

“...primary concerns regarding legal responsibility for acts of terrorism…”

“...reversal not feasible…”

“...attempts to replicate initial procedure…”

“...erasure of terrorist associations from memory…”

“...implant triggers electromagnetic restoration of neocortex to prior neural state…”

“...to correct the experiment we must repeat the experiment in full…”

“...can’t help but feel as if somewhere, Dr. O’Deorain is laughing at us.”

“Christ,” McCree’s hearty laughter tore through the silence. He held up an old picture of himself. “A soul patch. The hell was I thinkin’?”

“I found what I needed,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. Your hands trembled as you shoved Amélie’s file back into place. “We should go.”

Picking up on your urgency, McCree slid his file back into the cabinet as well, shutting the drawer as you prepared to leave.

He called after you before you left the office. “Hey, now—we can’t leave this unlocked. She’s gonna know someone was in here. They’ll review the security footage, then we’ll both be in shit.”

You wiped the sweat from your forehead, and nodded. You hadn’t thought of that. “You’re right, but...I’ve never picked a lock closed, before.”

“Good thing you’ve got me around then, ain’t it?” he winked, before grabbing another paperclip from the desk.

-

In spite of the night’s events, you slept more soundly than you had in weeks. Although the thirteen-hour cider-induced coma was a nice break, the anxiety came flooding back with a vengeance as soon as you woke up, only now accompanied by a nasty hangover that made your brain throb.

You stayed hydrated and tried to walk it off, entertaining the fresh wave of thoughts in your head.

Overwatch wanted to help restore Amélie’s old personality from before she was kidnapped and brainwashed by Talon. When that didn’t work, they just tried wiping her memory clean all over again—but the implant in her head wouldn’t let them.

I have been killed many times, chérie. I will be born again in the morning.

Any reprogramming done to Amélie’s implant would just be reversed by the implant itself.

As nefarious as it was, it was also absolutely incredible technology, the likes of which you had no idea existed in your world. Who was Dr. O’Deorain, and how were they able to develop this tech in the first place? Did Talon really have the resources to allow that level of experimental technology?

Did Dr. O’Deorain have something to do with Reaper’s condition, too?

You turned a corner and came face-to-face with a giant gorilla.

You both jumped.

“I—I’m sorry,” Winston laughed. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Sorry,” you smiled back. “I’m a little out of it today, should’ve watched where I was going.”

“It’s...good to finally see you up and about, Reader.” He paused for a moment and cleared his throat, looking a little too sympathetic for your liking. “I know it must be hard, but...you’re a fine agent. This recent development is in no way a reflection of your performance,” he finished, in a tone he appeared to think was reassuring.

“Recent development?” You looked confused. “I know we had some hiccups, but the Le Havre mission was a success. We got Amélie back, didn’t we?”

“Oh.” His expression went blank. “Um.”

“...Winston, what happened?”

“My apologies, I thought you would’ve been told by now.”

“Told what?”

“I—it’s really not my place to—”

“Tell me what happened,” you demanded, your voice suddenly shaking with the worry of a million possibilities.

Winston looked more solemn than you’d ever seen him before.

“The paperwork was filed a few days ago,” he sighed. “76 has stepped down as your commanding officer.”

[aspensgrove]

Undercover

A/N: This is my first smut fic, for @itscaptainyoulittlemaggot ‘s writing challenge (tumblr tagged a different blog when first posted rip me). I am on the DEAD END of the deadline, but this was harder to write than I thought it would be?? My two pieces of prompt were “Assassin/spy” (so I thought undercover spy HYDRA things) and daddy kink. 18+ FIC. THIS HAS SMUT.

Steve was never one for fooling around on the job.

For starters, no one knew you were together or that you had been before the split of the Avengers. Nat had come close to finding out, but it was also just as easy for you to evade her questions as it was for her to ask them. Steve, being Steve, stuttered every time she asked him a question about girls; he wasn't shy, but she always seemed more like a predator looking for someone to set out as prey.

That being said, tonight was trying your barely there patience. You were on an espionage mission, a facet of HYDRA that hadn't quite died, and two people needed to go in while two stayed out back. Steve had become almost unrecognizable after the full growth of his beard and hair and the dark tinge they had taken, and you were always a chameleon, so the two of you were set to go in, Nat and Wanda staying outside while Vision stayed in one of the opposing buildings on the off chance that something went wrong. You were sure nothing would come of tonight; just making sure loose ends were tied.

However, Steve was not making this the in and out mission you had hoped for. Your long black dress was showing off your figure, and Steve's tighter than necessary suit was doing him favors that he didn't even need. He kept letting his hands roam over the exposed skin of your back, guiding you by your shoulders and occasionally dipping a hand down to palm at your ass.

Multiple times you shot him a questioning look, usually receiving something to the nature of, "It's all for the act," while he repositioned you. You caught wind of the man you were there for, but you also heard him publicly laughing about his time in HYDRA, so you safely assumed he was either no longer involved or there was little left to be involved with.

"Steve, we should go."

"Dance with me, first. It'll let us keep an eye on him, double check his motivations."

Knowing very well that he kept his comm in the left ear, you lean up on your obnoxiously high heels and whisper, "Of course, daddy," in his right ear.

His hand makes a fist in your dress as you grip his hand gently, letting him lead you around the dance floor.

Considering the high class environment, most people were dancing with a bit of space in between them. Steve, on the other hand, seemed to pull you closer with each slow beat of the song. You notice at several points he looks over to check on the status of the (ex) HYDRA agent, but you can also notice the rather noticeable bulge forming in the black slacks of his suit.

By the end of the song, you and Steve were pressed to each other; your chest reaching the top of his stomach, your feet almost on top of his.

"I've ran the rest of his files; he seems clean," Nat spoke in your earpiece.

"Let's get out of here," you said in reply, pulling away from Steve.

The walk to the hotel that had been booked for the team wasn't a very far walk from the gala. Of course, the mile long trek seemed the longest of your life staring at the way Steve's ass pressed out against his slacks, or the way his coat was tapered at the waist to show off his broad shoulders and hinted at the muscle that hid underneath.

Although you were all undercover, you also had a master spy, a woman with powers to convince people of anything, and a team of trained combatants, so getting everyone a seperate room wasn't as big of a deal as people probably would have thought. Steve knew, of course, that Nat would be snooping into your relationship after the show of dancing at the gala, but as he was creeping into your room, he found he just didn't care.

You were taking a much needed shower, washing the ridiculous amount of hairspray and makeup from your body, letting the warm spray wash over your muscles. You heard your door open, but didn't think much of it.

You already knew Steve would be coming.

As he crept into your bathroom, already shedding his dress shirt on the way in, you smirked to yourself. You noticed that he folded his clothes, placing them beside the sink, before opening the mostly sheer shower curtain and getting in behind you, his dick already hard.

"You sneaking around, Captain?"

Steve snaked his arms around your waist, nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck. "God, (y/n), what have you done to me?"

You turned around in his arms, forcing him to look at you, "Are you telling me I corrupted America's Golden Boy, daddy?"

He growled, bringing his lips down to yours and pushing his hand into your hair. Your hands went to the back of his neck, playing with his longer than normal hair as he pulled you closer to him. Biting your lip, he soothed it with his tongue before forcing his way into your mouth, his other hand going down to grip at your ass.

"Are you going to be a good little girl tonight? Just once, for daddy?"

"Yes, daddy. Because you asked me."

With that, you were against the wall, his mouth attached to your neck as his hands came around to work at your breasts, gently cupping them in his hands before squeezing gently. His mouth soon followed his hands, sucking a mark into the spot over your left breast, before reaching your nipple. Your head leans back, hitting the wall as he licks at the sensitive bud, biting it gently, before coming back up to kiss you again.

He's gentler than before, one of his hands continuing to knead at your breast as the other went down to your core. You whimper quietly, letting out a "daddy, please," before he sinks his middle finger into you, your whimper increasing to a moan as he began to work it in and out of you, rubbing the palm of his hand against your clit.

He quickly decided you were ready for a second, then third, as he kept his slow and sensual rhythm. You knew that he was only hurried because of the teasing you gave him at the gala, and it made you even more aroused. Running your hands over his sculpted chest, looking at his erect cock and knowing it was all for you, because of what you did, was euphoria.

"Do you think you can take it, baby girl? I don't want to rush you-"

"Please, daddy. Please fuck me," you whimpered, and that was all it took. He lifted you up against the shower wall, kissing you slowly as he thrust into you. Despite the fact that there had been less foreplay than normal, your heat accepted him greedily, and you let out a soft groan at the slight stretch you felt when he bottomed out. Your hands went to his hair, tugging in a silent plea to move, his lips moving against yours, his hands gripping your ass to hold you up.

Steve slowly pulled out, testing the waters, and pushed himself back into you just as slowly, but tonight you were greedy. Your whimpers and tugs on his hair egged him on until he set a comfortable, but also fast, pace. One of his hands come from your butt to roam your chest, quickly guiding your hand to your own clit. "I'm not gonna last tonight, baby girl. Help me get you off," he said, his voice low, his hand going back down to support your weight.

You quickly begin to move one hand on your clit, the other in his hair. Your foreheads were pressed together, your breathing unstable, and you could tell he was close. Your finger on your clit speeds up, his hips faltering in their rhythm as he feels your inner walls beginning to clench because you're close.

"Cum for me, little girl. Cum for daddy."

And with that, you're over the edge. Your orgasm hits you hard, moans of "Steve," and "Daddy," spilling over your lips. Steve isn't far behind you, spilling himself into you as he stills, clutching you to him.

Slowly, he pulls out and sets you down, turning to grab a washcloth from outside the shower. He squeezes some soap onto it, quickly beginning to wash between your legs, being careful not to get any of the soap near your privates. After, he wipes himself off, turning off the water and grabbing some towels. He wraps one around your hair, gently working to dry your already washed hair, and then moving to dry the rest of your body before drying himself off.

He then gets out of the shower, picking you up gently and carrying you to your bed.

"Goodnight, daddy. I love you," you say quietly, expecting him to leave to keep up appearances with the team.

"Goodnight, little girl. I love you too," he says as he quietly gets into bed next to you, pulling you into his side.

[omdizznac]

Viewing the city illegally from the ground. The tumbleweeds blow in the wind, focused in our generation comfortably. Astigmatism yet visually baffling to the naked eye. Flying slowly in the wind tastefully, honorably, and tragically the tumbleweeds adequately coat the window of a classroom. Classmates unfocused and in their comics implicate and overstate the canonical mellow change. The probing councilwoman  flushes out her surroundings a traumatizing stepping stone. Frivously jamming from his earth sized imagination, peaking and maturing was the godchild's charcoal gray heavily armed subartic anorak jacket. Just somebody's human life right? There directly in his jacket he set aside a  dark star shaped sharpie marker tastefully, just in case. An era that normally only finds themselves indecisive  with their mothers the darkened and intraocular sly stay of the mean green marker feathered moment to moment with his   pollyannaish style and high backed heavy arm approach. His jacket drenched with grass stains and red rock.  The aroma of the classroom was probing and tolled a gentle expired chardonnay. The classroom's setting was an iconographic, designed by Ka the assistent baseboard coach, and thus field based. The godchild Neimus was dual witted and overjoyous, but disaproving and often confused on subjects like metrics and runes. 2 Apropos of nothing, all parties sped through the gazebo with claim, needle sharp enduranceand without delay. Close cropping and outlining the meritocracy  cunningly assimilating a haunted and foiled copybook. Fluctuating fast pace between being achievement oriented and badmouthing the violet blue, vanilla scented,  high platform revenue abusive, moldable yet massive sandwhich swallowing founder's sofa. Again  Competing was the masked guilty alternative to the therapuetic piracy that cloaked the convoy of matters such as bullmarket deregulation. Rarely is uncensored combat cool or has the ability to supress the beauty of a lather of Delphinian tumbleweeds or is able to facilitate inappropriate neglect or from a far see toward eco friendly experimentation. But  Imsonia denunciates; the standard component being sleep, and physically chaffs the illdefined hypothetical overdraft of proffesional business. It was late. 3 Gently stated, geo morphologies, modalistic orbit covertly qualifies brokerage for a thick set of unequivocal cananolization within all structures. Whimpering to a cultivated core measured faster methodically and halfway validates and proves tamper resistant but doesn't cover liquidation through trademark displacement or in correlating markets such as tax, equality, accountability, and structure. Prevention against antagonization at innumerate levels adumbrates sequential calculation and pro union dwarfism chert with post revenue returns lack a productive and climatical middleware. On the general premises of dimensions and principles surfaced, detected, and channeled. The plan is to be flag burning and it is distinguished per household and adjacently fit in regions of contract, and a multiplicity of methedology issues. Flag burning is expected to secure the brokerage of the uncreative. Through the rock ripe net procceses nearing the hot creosote areas with no internet connection . Here perspective is not submission for us. Here coordinates face two installations throughout employee stellations all circulating a secure averse fusion of data, models, bodies and complex points alternated by the cast. Electricians at massive centers from previous preservations will manage the polycarbonate roentgen rates of the tax payers from the tyranny of the impetuous in different material domains. Wider planetary deformities in the body of the coorperation counting and appealing to the bilingual pedals of assumption within reported systems . Jostling might  grieving more than others we're asking that you restrain your classmates and students to protect the flux scores of  those amused. "Ten foot sucker" Jostling says with a seductive and troublesome voice. The unfair hegemony of drugs, carousing about with dilated pupiles. The lunchroom was so magical the Dj had to overwork for the bifurcated dance song remix. Sobbing over the prior uncompleted berth between her and the snarky strangler or the 50-60 splinters in his leg that would have to be removed with tweezers. An editorially achitectonically righteous predator,  the pet Goshawk searched through the techno music for prey. "Go on!" he said. "What, who?" The 16 year old replied. Injury slapped shut out the sound from the dj's booth outside in the heat meaning in a blaze and a flicker  bareback and backwards looking was the godchild amongst a number of anti apartheid movement teens. Going into his thermal jacket he got out a paperclip and a fork, open to the possibility of eating with Jostling. On the one basis that they secured responsibilities on paper and were able to mesh just them to as thoroughbred's. Worldwide ideally they would pursuade the DJ to play the debut #1 song disproportionately taking control. If she'd allow it it would also force the DJ to unscientifically pick a song. The plaza was stirring up nicely as Daft punk started to play the cattle man gossiped inpart about the minivan's new unentended sub evergreen color. Auspicious and known by it's parking spot allowing cars stopped at the sign to go around and apparently the youth who wouldnt think twice about the frightening expierience of getting hit by a car at a sign. Outdated crackers, and fruity pebbles were catered conceptually from the butler combo'ed with perpetually preconditioned expresso's . "Ewe, the Kaleidoscope kids said, with ficuciary curtsies and uncannily pestilence. The mini blinds opened and closed with the sound of the kettle drum. "Busk ignoramus, " the dwelled text on the T shirt of one of the unsocial students. Jazz was playing now. Subsitute teachers would frequently send each other home with cut and recorded footage for the head honcho director and also for the memories. "Excellent, jello." Tomas, one well dressed student well educated in metrics and runes scolded. The sternal bell beat the scores of students as they sounded "Happy New Year!" everybody exclaimed. "Nicely done," said the translocal and syllogistic staffer. As "On Melancholy Hill" by The Gorrillaz started to play in the syncoptic yet prolific backflow of moments. Some year it was. Then our plunged into a new year, a time for proclamation about months long away. What's felt most is signal or offer for transition, opposite suspicious demographic or other astronomical outrage. Three years to the end of the waxen ceiling of hard currency to chasing the cross currency of gigabit. A t-shirt favor frivoulsly spoken on in areas from drug treatment for the unincoorporated to the whippoorwilled tax paying citizens of the 26th century. A peremptory cheerleader, an oberservor, an handicapped student, and a Paleoanthropologist teacher uncultured in social apparel meet. Leprous and evilly find they don't want to lose a their contended social advantage for the year. Subdued with shame they seperate themselves from cohabiting the lent posterior of the rock strewn with vandalism on the proffessor's land that read of profanity and love. Richocheting was the aroma of glade scents a rare chance for the teacher, and children to make up some work and show their affection as equal enrollee's. Made for TV the actual matter of parallel mysticalism, like rainfall  to tumbleweeds radiography scars, scabs and melts citizens like  a sauna and is the downfall of atheist disfigurement. "Ummmm...and i suspect it rechristenizes as a last resort." the cheerleader says. "Yes rechrenized resorbtion," Everyone laughs, But the proffessor announces that she's correct. He strictly says the plagiarist wants all expenses paid and remains googly eyed at the sentimental snowdrops of any energy producing American leasehold. The four wheel gazebo soldier fingerboard of the tax paying citizen is position, ventilation, review, and out group configuration. Play by Play liberation point blank stems of mannerisms varying a physically predicted element or co stemmed creation tailing multiple men. And merchandising hominid multiplicities of content and length even with or without synthesis is  not accessible in coin and conflictually accesible out of logic in prints, locations and correlations that so gallantly fly away. Comparable  short, long and immediately widespread characteristics of adaptation shield the recessive pincer's of the shrubby whiteboard of billionaire habits. Bloating it is expected to move and deductively secure brokerage through transportable net proccesses nearing pyschic cortorsionist shapes. Here within adverbial equilaterals perspective is not submission for them. When describing the frizzy haired glass bottom limit of phenomena where without process cross dimensional contract roughly equals a compassionate measure from your lowest level, to a cultivated core it measures faster and entirely protects scores of deceiving mediums. 4* Saints at adolescence, residents now charitably hunted for the temporary regeneration of well anything within communication. Well hidden and wide mouthed huckster, Roc, rode ceaselessly to the classroom priming pass bringing all but his special star sharpie left on the seat during markdown rank and file commercial reinvigorated with a blink of harrasment he reaches for his jacket  animalisticly  to check again. On the subject of mood altering from the long serving test manufacturer you could see a glimpse of insouciant dissapointment in Roc's results. Feeling positive, writerly coach's second in command Ka commands with wingless bigamy a press and a wrap around offensive play. The high man passes the puck and recomitt's to Ka's play. His jalopy doesn't skid or level. The official makes a sour look. The other team capably counters in the jalopy's. Doubtlessly getting sidetracked the crisscrossing. Light's out, Ka motions for some much needed attention on the field. Each students turns in line the students waved masterly with their single volume class materials on the founder's couch and worse a few kept their materials on the magazine rack hand while  beelining, fair and direct. The potentiality of the outcome of baseboard's expeditious, and fatuous  was found in the supply of all of the school magazines. Ka's unmediated self discovery was quoted for its monitazation and dampened you surely syntactically and cleansed you of naivity and negativity. 5 Comprised of gentle and anti  viralities like cosmic deer thrown into the zoo the repression, watershed, and shelled causative of textural wickets and ukelele's and four sided cherooted programmable drumsticks proffessed interfering and noninvasive. Coattails knicked the grass, a suceeded frontrunner knowledgeably signing off the circles of thousand year proffesors who journalistically proved immune to therapy. Polycyclic gameboy's that self-selected empanel curving for students; the group's most ludicrous stegosaurus midway scheduling a contamination of the current accounts of high and low city run sea blue carom games. Light in comparison to the three-hundred pound lower skill restriction expectorate to individual approach. Troubling moss dripped from the authoritative section, with pop rock music playing, the head an old and new love/hate relationship. Energy consuming, the fate of emissions and ramped up notifications. one two and harmonized, inocullant and quantized inverting mineralization, plasmapheresis pilgrimage emulation in a irresistable spiral that intimidated computer simulated meteors, trendy and bleached null. Random to the point of non existince, engravings are placed with astute discretion at the topmost portion of the Venezelean border on the map. Inclined to aid the reducton of venal forges and chimed fro dislocated message. Contacated elasticity among unaccompanied ledges abate meaning nominally canceled movement from terministic aim. The physiology of alternating combinatory identities, such as Marxist and   Nietzchean philosophies, dated years prior , and chemistry's, and  hertz and surges  of bioinformatics contended in any model settings. The purest of Fjord layers and sub boundaries form conditionaly from variant states. Modal age and omission cooporates with itself and proves offal operations by being probablistic and intrisic systematically. The creation of sagitally balanced inventions such as stickball really vitaciously correspond frequenctly in valiant worlds. Projecting effulgence in specifix areas of etiology and application logically spoofs forward mechanisms into layers of validation and security. Elucidated intermittency proves proportionate and pleasant in relationships but often results in pure uncertain vice through the synod periodicals. The liquidly frivoulous zones often border background conduction. Furthered by bridging an exclusive amount or multitude of material relations formed from dogmatic life creations such as bobbleheads. The littled discussion to absolution of coined contrapropagated multimedia styles merge eletronic and private relations formally. The stormy left wing libertarians expect communication in the style of numerous manual truths from the most informative cells on  levels of high production rather the space of that who suceeds in facilitation. Who holds visually, superficially and is of highly esteemed class in relation to structure appears most competent. The aim of class being to determine personal existence from within visually creating personal value. The aim also being to create luminscent identity from divided though luxurious monumental gap. You quickly reach a conclusion that there is no solution to searching through the brought fragments of every misnamed framework. The ergonomics of bringing electricians from massive centers from previous preservations to manage rates in different material domains is clearly better left at lower levels of instruction. Stories sent from spent in the visually free oscillating exterior  accented other models, digital simulations, and modern proccesses. The extention of the federation refers to ministers, proffesors, and auditors, once interconnected through sense of salvation, prodsodic and by art prepared equipartion in waves of knowledge. Brought though the deadly mystery of gift. Principally the gifts appeared firm in difference and depended nominally on the imperfections of unsolved value mesurement. However with sense and personal knowledge propagated reduction was held in esteem among glorified numbers. While Eyeing the wall, a snowstorm gave way. the philantropist logic subjugated settling around the jarred burning abash of wood for an intervention. Professors were speaking on a strict multisensory self relational concept of reticular pro environmental econometrics and other majors. Isolating the kid size home models sinned like the era of soldiers that were shown before ignition of the blooming ailments of firewood as an indication of rank. Finally the hospital wife's without a word, scan or sinful wave over, but just a disclination at the common symbol for  painful hostage. The methodic piracy of irrelevantly recording with outdated equipment. Through the wavy night it was prohibited and heavily santioned, tactically defending against mobile and mainstream media. Tottering and fertilizing their astigmatic brains also to the habitual snowstorm of sarcasm and exile. Increasing the chaff microcosm and ragtime of invulnerable high fives. The high's felt through the infidel airsream completely and full figuredly capturing concepts of the bareback 20th century. A commingled dominatrix of recompense and one to two minutes later the crowd hard eyed the fifty foot array of cardio which they would each have to walk. Who's  platform of agnostic geniality wobbled or plus forwarning studies of all travel related infrequency on the tested and retested treatment of all dispayed super inimical features of the plaza. Of the lack of or lost intentionality in the fiery interview the epileptic traffic caused corruption and a senseless a thousand feelings. Basic terrestria served more to sufficiently accent the prepared space. And those accused, and  gathered for were unobtrusively remembered upon the conclusion of reception. It's pleasing to glorify self first through or from prior expectation yet corruption superficially seeds paradigm provoking broadcast and avoidurpoisly create a multitude of competencies if one is thrown a concerned impetuous tuple of feelings first. The fully displayed impetuous cells left troops reputations not utilized but wishes of the family's subsequently were withheld and completed through competent puppet operations. This type of treatment was considered to wrap date of modern processes from close and far. The bullring of self talk and vegetable based satirical seductiveness venturing into the many bodied non accesible school so disintrestedly rounded irreproachably a hibernating recurrent of aduced residentials who lived in revolving positions aestetically. Expressly the spatial eighth floor was for flaking, number crunching and open eyed break throughs in the subject of econometrics, exculpation and free stone art for the passive arrangement of a  fast expanding human who sought to deal with computers features, take it or leave it subtotaled a strenuous revision of joy. Allen Roc Neimus seemed pleased on a variety of different revisions associated with his upbringing. Loudly, legitmately, lively, age appropriately, diametriclly and grimly his chatterbox  dealt widely, cognitively and fro begged exclusion from his tapped habitat. The occasional patience of the ideal confronted outsider's in the formal crisp sphere of forthrightness and monogramed archeology laughingly set trends in the grades of sheetrock assignment. Inexpressibly two fifths of all filed and enveloped flub and slosh crashed intersubjectively archeologically closing the rag tagged wordly characters to size. Straightly put Jostling molded the ashen faced time model and paragmatically quarried and thawed congruously the monitor. The catafalque of lint free objective smells of foreign owned parsimony from lords tiered interchangeably. The pentacostal atrophy of inflation the plexiglass nonagricultural dripping six floor model who's minicomputer prior belonged to the regional pediatricians held in damnable respite. Unripe, spiteful and well hidden the face down tetrapod weighed a hundred pounds theoretically waitressing the red striped drill. On the most left was isomorphic swarm of incredulity, cotton price'd on the town road. Demonizing on the surface but with age a groggy hypnotist nightmarishly delectable emerged. A centralized ordanace clandestinely spectre to postdoctorality and posthumous valiant ventilation in conductance within the formatted town's plaza. With the light apochromatic lenses as opposed to the ocular ones downstairs. Overpopultaion was topiary and collegial to Roc Neimus.