#grey accent chair target

[piratesfromspace]

Night Blue (Price x Reader)

Pairing: Fem!Reader x Price

Rated: Mature

Word count: 3k

Summary: "Between two containers, he sees the target, bloodied and tied up to the floor." or when Price comes to your rescue.

Note: I'm not the author of this fic, it is actually a Christmas gift from my boyfriend (yes I have the best boyfriend ever)! He writes for a living and has yet to dip his toes in fanfic territories, but I think he did fantastic and was very good at writing with the female gaze in mind. His take on Price has me drooling. He used the codename Rain, but note this is not part of the Rain Universe. Please let him know in the comment what you think of his first CoD fanfic!

Content: military!fem!reader, Reader has blue eyes but no body description other than that, mention of food & alcohol, rescue mission, implied torture, competency kink, typical level of violence

Muffled voices. Metallic clinking. Crowded interior. This could be your next mission. Or the last one. But it isn’t. It’s only a date. Well, Only. If only “only” could be only. It isn’t. It’s been years. You know him. This isn’t a first. But somehow, your heart is racing. It’s a fancy restaurant, after all. In the middle of good old London. He always had great taste, if not old-fashioned. But he’s late. He’s always late. You never understood that. How could someone that precise on the field be this messy in civvy street? Where the heck is he?

Did he try to take the tube? Again? He can’t do that. Not anymore. Not after what happened the last time 141 was deployed in London. He should be in a cab right now, on his way, with a big, innocent grin on his face. At least, you hope he is. You don’t want to drink this expensive bottle alone. Spend the night by yourself. Fall asleep in a cold bed. 

“Don’t let me down, Bravo 6.”

You said it aloud with a sigh. Someone answers.

“Oh, you know I won’t, darling.”

He’s here. Where did he come from? Doesn’t matter. His noise discipline is on point. That’s something he brings from the field. Ever so stealthy, he takes the chair before you and says “hi” in his thick accent. Thick as his moustache. What’s the name again? Mutton chops or something. He’s so damn proud of it. It’s cute. You noticed he trimmed it for the occasion and probably added some kind of oil to it. You smell it from here. An odd but somewhat comforting smell. Like a cosy fireplace or a warmish glass of Scotch. You wonder if your sheets will smell like that in the morning. He’s trying to say something, but you're already lost in the thought. Split seconds where you don’t listen, only think about those infamous mutton chops climbing your legs. Focus, damn it. What is he wearing? A suit? That’s strange. Well, you always thought anything besides a loaded chest rig looked weird on him. Wait, no. That’s not true. He wears jumpers and cardigans quite nicely. You always pictured him as an old British gentleman. A sailor embarking on a frail boat. Or a hunter walking to a black forest. Something like that. Old-fashioned indeed. It’s an acquired taste. 

So you talk. Like a lot. Spend time in each other’s eyes. Those grey-blue marbles, in which you see more than what is said. The joy of the moment, of being here, yes. But also the sadness, the pain. What is supposedly left behind, somewhere on a desolated field, and yet always comes back to scratch those eyes. It’s okay. You have the same. That’s why it’s working. But you remember. You remember how bright, much brighter, these eyes were the first time you saw them.

TEN YEARS AGO

Black and white. Night and snow. Somewhere in Northern Europe, the winter wind sweeps the clouds across the sky and dusts the flakes off the trees. But two bushes remain still. Until they don’t. All ghillied up, two operators crawl in powder snow. They talk as loud as the wind allows them to. 

“Follow me and keep low, lieutenant. Target’s right ahead.” 

“Solid copy.”

Captain MacMillan leads the way in near-total silence. His second in command, Lieutenant John Price, tries to keep up. He misses the warmth of the base. Of a pub. Of anything warmer than this icy desert at this point. But he needs to stay focused. They’re deep into enemy territory, trying to retrieve an ally he only knows by reputation. A track record he admires. So he wonders. What happened? A trap? A mistake? Perhaps it’s a warning in disguise. It goes to show that no one is ever too good to get caught. To get killed. 

Listen to the captain. Do what the captain says, his head repeats. Enough to forget his instincts or the will to think for himself. Violence and timing. Once you’re on the field, only these two matter. They don’t require you to think. Only to act, and act at the right moment. Old man MacMillan told him so. And despite his age, Alpha Six is teaching him a lesson. The captain moves like a damn ghost. The cold doesn’t seem to bother him. It’s almost like the snow melts around him so he can look like a real bush. The deadliest bush in the country, probably.

“It’s a goddamn convention around here, John.”

Price looks down. The warehouse and its surroundings are barely lit, but using thermal goggles, he can already count twelve guns guarding the target, plus three engineers working on an Infantry Fighting Vehicle. Guards, not soldiers. The new plague of the free world: PMCs. Former soldiers, swapping insignias for fatter paychecks. Russian, probably. He hears them talking through the wind. Or maybe French. They hire all across Europe, after all. The captain’s accent brings him back to Scotland.

“We could wait for them to break off, but that’d be playing with the target’s life, and we’d probably freeze our asses to death… There’s only one way to do this, innit?”

“Right. Care for a suggestion, captain?”

“I’m all hears, lieutenant.”

“That IFV. Maybe it is operational. Maybe it isn’t. I don’t want to find out. We take it down first. C4 should do the trick. They hear the boom. We split. You dance, I get inside. Once the target’s identity is confirmed, I take the long trek home through the forest, and meet you at LZ.” 

“You forget your rank, lieutenant. Why should I be the one dancing, John?”

“With all due respect captain, you forget your back. I’m sure the target’s a big boy. Unless you’re ready for the fireman carry of your life, you let me do it. If you hurt yourself, who will put those Christmas lights on the tree? Your wife will never forgive me…”

“Alright John, lead the way.” 

They don’t need their ghillies anymore. The bushes become men. They check their weapons. Price is about to take point when MacMillan nudges him. His fatherly smile almost lights the dark.

“The next time you bring my wife into this kid, you’re going down.”

“Roger that, captain.”

One of the engineers went for a cigarette. Lord bless the smokers. They all leave their post, eventually. Even when they don’t, that smoke will shake their focus. Move fingers away from triggers, grenades, alarms. Enjoy that last cigarette, lad. This smoke’s about to kill you faster than lung cancer. MacMillan jumps from the white shadows, arms instantly locked on his prey. His combat knife bites. Screams die in the engineer’s throat. Blood bubbles explode. The wind covers almost everything. The fluff of the snow takes care of the rest. 

Words come to them, though, and both captain and lieutenant freeze instantly. Their weapons are up, ready to strike. But they don’t want to fight. Not here, not now. More words. Price is trying to make sense of them, but he skipped too many classes for that. Damn you and your bad boy attitude, he thinks, until he hears a laugh. The words are repeated, but not as a question. That delivery transcends all languages. It’s a joke. Tension goes down, but MacMillan is already one step ahead. 

Pripyat. Urzikstan. Many more. Price has fought next to the captain since he joined the SAS. It’s a weird thing, but by now, he probably knows him better than friends. Better than family. And it shows. They don’t have to speak, but that’s always been a requirement on the field. What’s more impressive is they don’t have to sign full sentences either. They’ve experienced enough settings and parameters to understand how the situation will eventually play out. So they commit to the action, together, before the scenario can even start. Like two polished pieces of the same high-precision clock, they act as one to define time itself. 

“Together”, he signs.

For the two engineers, it’s time to die. Focused on the scratched hull of their IFV, these poor bastards never see it coming. A .45 ACP bullet penetrates their skulls at subsonic speed and settles down in their brains, avoiding any ricochet on the armoured surface of the vehicle. They climb on top of the tank. Price removes the bodies to find a hatch while MacMillan gets a block of C4 ready. Except for the wind, the place is silent. Which means no one knows they’re here. Good. But it could also mean the target is dead by now. The same thought has crossed the captain’s mind. He suddenly acts faster, despite the gloves and the numbed fingers they’re supposed to protect. Price follows and places the C4 inside the IFV, next to what he remembers to be a fuel tank.

About ninety-two seconds later, John learns his memories are correct. From the safety of distance, MacMillan has blown the IFV straight to hell in one glorious explosion. But it only takes about twenty more seconds for the PMC to react, learns Price on his watch. And that’s bad news. They’re still sharp. Drilled. Ready to respond. And they do. John counts half of them spreading out of the warehouse through truck gates and access doors. Their plan is sound. They’re looking out, trying to nullify the effect of surprise with a solid assessment of who or what is outside.

And it’s only one man, but he gives them a round for their money. MacMillan uses every trick in the book and every weapon he carries to make them think there’s a whole squad hunting for them behind the snow, between those big black trees. And they fall for it. At least one of the mercenaries does, and chooses to provide firing support from the door he was supposed to shut behind his comrades. 

John sees the opportunity immediately. Timing. In just a few rounds, the mercenary will have to reload. Or maybe he will suddenly realise the door is still open and stop firing. An empty mag hits the floor, and Price jumps out of cover. Violence. He grabs the mercenary’s weapon with one hand while the other secures the kill. The bastard’s heavy, and the thump of his fall makes a lot of noise. Silenced handgun raised, Price waits for a moment, scanning the entry corridor for potential targets. But no one comes. More words, inside. More shots, outside. Chaos is settling in, everywhere.

Another opportunity, then. Price presses on, checking his corners with the precision of a machine. A door opens to his right. Two mercs, rushing out of a room to help their comrades overwhelmed by MacMillan’s tactics. John is almost as surprised as they are, but not quite. Timing. They’re too fast, and likely to fire from the hip. Violence. He empties his mag on the two targets. One mercenary drops suddenly, like a puppet cut from its strings. The other falls, but slowly. His vest caught the heat. If he’s good, there’s a chance he might go for a sidearm, or a knife. No time to reload then. Price runs and then falls on his knees to finish his target with a clean cut from his combat blade. The bastard knows death is coming, but he’s not ready to embrace it just yet. His arms move in a life-or-death reflex, and Price is stopped a few centimetres away from a kill. There’s no timing anymore. Only violence, a test of raw strength. John tries to stab the merc down the neck. The poor guy can’t do anything but buy some time, and wait a few seconds for someone to go check the corridor. But no one comes for him. Only death, in the form of a straight silver blade slowly piercing his throat.

Rolling to the side, Price suddenly remembers to breathe. Staying on his back, he reloads his weapon without thinking, his two eyes locked on the door the mercs have opened seconds prior. He counts. One when he entered. Two in the corridor. With half of them still outside fighting MacMillan, that’s two mercenaries unaccounted for. Usually, it is the wounded, the insecure or the frightened you leave behind. But when it comes to target protection, it’s the other way around. Your last wall of defence is also the toughest. The big guns stay with the target until the end. If Price wasn’t so actively trying not to think, maybe he would have remembered that. 

He enters the room. More like a hangar. It’s dark. Only the moon and distant muzzle flashes provide some light through large, rectangular windows. Timing? Put the night vision set on, find the bastards, and apply a bit of violence. Wait. Price holds on to his set. Did someone cut the power? It could be MacMillan toying with them. But more likely, the mercs have figured their opponents are properly equipped. And now, they’re just waiting for Price to put his night vision on. They want him to rely on the tool, for there’s no faster way to blind a man than putting the power back at the right moment. So Price throws the night vision set away, into the room. Five thousand quid of government-issued tech crash on the industrial floor. One second. Two seconds. The light goes back and the night vision set dies a second time, broken apart by crossfire. 

The shots from the right probably came from that little accounting office Price sees through a piece of shattered glass. He resists the urge to throw a grenade, that could threaten the target’s life. His back on the wall, he’s getting closer to the office. More words. They come from the left. These mercs can’t shut up to save their lives. What is it this time? There’s a trace of panic in the sentences. They’re probably asking for reinforcements, but there’s a hell lot of static on the other end of the line. MacMillan has done his part, and there’s no military base around anyway. In typical Laswell fashion, Kate had saved the only piece of good news for the end of her briefing, Price remembers. So good luck with that, lad. But keep talking. The echo allows John to move closer and closer to his next kill. Until the warehouse is silent again. Until something inside the office decides to move. 

It’s a lock. Inside the door, it jiggles enough for Price to notice someone’s about to leave the office. He waits for the final click to bash the gate. It arrives a split-second later, and John kicks the door like his dad used to kick rugby balls on Sunday mornings. Wood breaks. Bones follow. Price puts another bullet in another skull. It happens so fast the merc can’t even fight or scream. But his finger was already on the trigger, so his assault rifle yelled for him. The burst catches price off-guard. Bullets pound his plate and the walls alike. He falls. 

When the kick finally fades, the world is backwards. Literally. Between two containers, he sees the target, bloodied and tied up to the floor. Or is it the ceiling? He’s not sure anymore. His ears are buzzing. His chest is compressed by the impact. There’s no gun in his hands. He wants to rise but he can’t. Someone comes. Someone that’s not MacMillan. Price rolls from back to belly. The world looks finally looks right again. Well, right as it can be when you’re crawling unarmed in the face of the Grim Reaper.

His weapon raised, the last merc stops next to the target and fires. Not rounds, but words. More words. Insults, probably. Weirdly, they’re not aimed at Price. They’re for whoever is still under the same black hood they always put on prisoners. She answers, proudly, in their language. 

Wait, she?

Gunshots. They come from outside, from the forest. Surprised, the last merc tries to sneak a look between the crates. Price gathers the little strength he has left to look for a weapon. But he’s still dizzy. A hippo with a full belly would be faster. He looks up, facing death with both eyes open. Only death doesn’t come for him. The target is free. She climbs on the mercenary like a damn spider, using her legs to maintain the bastard’s weapon against his chest while she strangles him with the little piece of plastic tying her two hands. John finally finds his sidearm. He wants to help her. He wants to shoot. But SAS lieutenant John Price is not so sure of his aim anymore. So he looks, and eventually, the mercenary crumbles.

Price now moves a bit faster and a bit closer. The target’s still fighting. But her prey is long dead. There’s no breathing left in him. His neck is broken. So broken that little piece of plastic is slowly severing head from body. And yet she fights, furiously. Moving slowly, talking even slower, he tries to calm her down. She releases her grip on the dead mercenary. Describing his every move out loud, John carefully guides his blade between her two hands and next to her neck. Underneath the bruises and the cuts, she’s a woman alright. Their eyes locked. Back to the mission.

“Lieutenant John Price, British SAS. I need your codename, fast.”

“Why are you here? I had it under control!” 

Her voice is confident. Not a single taint of doubt in it. Price chuckles.

“I’m not sure I see it that way, darling. Now, give me your codename so I can get you out of here.”

“You’re welcome, by the way.”

Again. Confident. She’s looking at the half-decapitated mercenary with disdain, not disgust. She killed before. In more ways than one. More brutal ways. 

“I had it under control.”

Her time to chuckle. She pauses. Takes one good look at him. That sort of threatening gaze birds of prey will give you if you happen to drive through their land. She measures. Judges. And weirdly enough, the whole thing ends with a sight smile.

“Codename’s Rain. Nice to meet you, lieutenant. Now, can a lady get a proper extraction, or what?”

“Sure thing, ma’am. Follow me.” 

They grab some gear and step out of the warehouse. Outside, the night is silent again. The moon shines on the black of the trees. The white of the snow. The red of the dead bodies. 

And the blue of their eyes. 

[perry-the-platypus-f1cs]

Bells ring after the eagle cries

Chapter 2: new beginnings old memories

Summary:

Bells is on his way to re-integrate himself back into the military but old memories come bubbling up. (please comment if any grammar is incorrect or if I need to explain anything further. as always have an amazing day or night!)

Chapter Text

Bell pov: 

The helicopter looked…..run down to say at least several panels were missing and bullet holes were scattered around the hull and doors of the helo. The bullet holes make my mind tingle with old memories of Vietnam which I promptly shake off reminding myself that I wasn't there. Laswell huffs a small laugh beside me noticing my scrunched-up expression. 

“It's the best we could do with such short notice” she states as we continue to walk towards the parked helicopter whose side doors swiftly opened, revealing a tall bulky man with short slicked back hair wearing a leather jacket with a grey t-shirt underneath, a gold chain and pair of dog tags dangling from his neck resting on his chest.

On the left side of the leather jacket was a Russian flag that made me crease my eyebrows together slightly confused. I glance sideways at Laswell tilting my head. When we reach the helo, the man calls out.

“Kate, Good to see you!” he spoke joyfully, helping Laswell and myself into the helo. His voice had an obvious Russian accent to it he then turned to me and smiled “And you must be Bell?” he said tilting his head slightly waiting for my response. I simply nod “Yeah.. that's me.” I say my voice even but still a bit uneasy. He then turns back to Laswell. “The captain is waiting at the warehouse,” he says, his voice now serious.

Laswell nods in confirmation and the man walks back to the front of the helo while me and Laswell sit down and hook ourselves in. I feel us lift up off the ground I turn to Laswell and ask quietly.

“So who is that exactly?” 

“That’s Nikolai, the best pilot I know,” she replies as I stuff my duffel bag under my seat and strap it in. After a few minutes in silence, I speak up trying to start a conversation or get answers to which one I’m trying for I don't know “So. What exactly has happened in the past few centuries that you haven't told me?” I asked, leaning back in my chair, determined to see if she was lying about anything.

She looks up from her computer in her lap and glances back down at the screen before closing the laptop “Well the reason why you're on this helicopter and not a civilian plane back to America is because we need your help specifically, help with a new terrorist..he's just been recently broken out of a Russian gulag, we don't know his next target but the higher-ups believe that you could help us in tracking him down and neutralising him. From what I've read in your reports, you're a good soldier."

She speaks calmly but there's a hint of desperation in her voice. I lean forward slightly letting out a sigh “Well then. Who is he?” 

She reopens her laptop clicking her fingers on the keyboard a few times before turning it around and displaying the illuminated screen. My eyes zone in on what it says and my blood runs cold as I feel my heart drop down to my stomach as I read the name.

Vladimir Makarov

As I read the name, memories come rushing back to me, a never-ending onslaught. I can vividly remember the cries of a young boy, yelling, and burning anger at a face I can't recognise anymore.

I can feel a dull throbbing in my chest as I remember the young boy I held in my arms years ago as his mother died of blood loss on her birthing bed. I remember the relief I felt when I stood in a courtroom with the same young boy clinging to my side as I was given custody and I remember tears running down my face as Arash shot me leaving me for dead in that car. I remember not thinking of survival but praying that my nephew was safe.

…..

…

Oh dear god. How did this happen?

I feel a single tear run down my face. I suddenly feel very aware of my surroundings, of the CIA officer sitting across from me, of the fact that I am in a helicopter heading towards a place that I do not know full of people I do not know who are all hunting my nephew.

My nephew is a terrorist.

My nephew is a terrorist. 

My nephew is a terrorist. 

m̴̛̺̙͐̔̋̈̓̉ẏ̸̥̜̘̟͍̮̪͆ ̸̦̖̙̣̼̳̮̓̀ǹ̸̥̲̳̔̎̈́̿̑ę̷̣̩̬̩̭̹͍̩͑̉́̑̇̿̽͆̎̔̈̆̉̾͌ͅp̵͉̼̼̑͋͐̆͆̽̍͐̑̕ḩ̵̛̪͎̮̯̣̠̳̪̣̳͋̏͊̈̽̄̈͒͂͘̚͝͠͠ͅę̷̧̠̰̘̝͎͖̝̰͒͆̌̑̾́͗̋́̿̈͜͝w̵̢̩͕̺͖̱̦̟̰͖̔́̓̊͐̃̃͘͠ ̶̡͉͇̞̰̺̲̘̂̌̄̓͊͑͛̀̚̕̕i̸̲͊͗͋̓̒̓s̵̬̰̼̻̯̺͎̦̤̗̝͐̓̿̿̅̈́̓̚͜͝ ̶̧̡̛̝̙̥̹̫̠̤̪̠̈̆̏̅̉̈͒̅̚ͅạ̸̧̢̞̮̖̬͍͚̬͍̠͇̤̌̓̓́̏̎͑̂̕͘̕͝ ̵̛͍̝͉̟̥̮͖̱͕͎͖̓̓́́́̓͗͂ͅṱ̴̢̨̡̛̛͍̦̻̭̱́̆̆̊́̿̓̀̌̕ė̵̹̝̫̞̮͍͉̜̈́̆̓̆͗̋̅͘͝ͅr̴̢̤̝͚̟̲͓̜̰̀͋̒̎̄́̇̎̂͌͊͂̏̚͘ŗ̴̡̲̗̞̹̘͍̯̯̬̮��̌́ͅo̷̭̩̤̫̹̼͙͗̀̂̽̈́̈́̀̒͛̎̈̑͜͝ŗ̸͙̥͔̳̱̮̼̟̗̤̞̥͖̱̆́̉̊̃̿̋͝͝͝i̵͇̺̘̬̒̔̂̓͒́͑̂s̶̹̰͙̭̞͚̿̽̆̋̀͑̓t̵̢͖̮̤͈̙̹̞̘̹̼̟̾͆͒͒̓́͊͌͐͘̕͘͜ ̷̡̨̦̖̬͈̜̱̮̙̤̇́̎̋̄͊́̉̏̂̍͜͜͠ͅ

“Volodya,” I whisper I can feel tears in my eyes that I swiftly wipe with my sleeve. I hope that I was quick enough so that Laswell didn't notice I then looked up at her face. Her face was blank. I can feel my heart sinking all over again.

She turns the laptop around again now facing her she then speaks up her voice questioning and almost demanding “Do you recognise him?” I shakily let out a breath I didn't know I was holding I could feel my voice catch in my throat I felt unable to answer but I forced the words out of my mouth “Y-yeah I….. I’ve seen him before” I whisper almost quietly enough for her not to hear my voice is broken and shredded.

She nods and I can feel her trust slipping every second  “Did you know him? She asks, her tone strained and slightly demanding I wrack my brain for an answer for something I can tell her without thinking further I lie.

“N-not really I was sent with one of my COs to infiltrate a KGB headquarters. There was a school tour going on, and when we were there a kid got separated from the group. He was that kid, I helped him get back to a teacher. It's weird seeing a kid grown up especially when they….became a terrorist” I say my voice shaking. 

I don't know why I lied. But to be fair I couldn't just be like ‘Well yeah I know him he's my nephew!’ and I have a feeling if I did tell the truth it wouldn’t end well for me. 

She seems to believe me because she lets out a hum before the helicopter plunges into silence once again. Before I knew it was on solid ground again I'm still shaken from the amount of memories I regained over the past few days. I was remembering more and more of who I was before Adler. 

I unstrap my duffel bag from the binds I put it in before getting myself out of my seat, now standing Laswell exits the helo with Nikolai and me following behind her as we exit the helo onto a concrete airstrip where the warehouse is close by. 

The front of the warehouse is open revealing the interior which had a large central table sitting in the middle with chairs spread about as well as a large flatscreen TV perched up on another smaller table the outer walls had shelves of files and weaponry I let out a small whistle at the shear amount of weapons and the different types of weapons displayed on the walls. 

As we continued to walk towards the warehouse I could see several different people surrounding the central table all of them were wearing standard military tac vests and other gear. One of the men was tall, he was wearing a skull mask that looked too real for it to be fake, another was a smaller stocky man with a mohawk who was sitting with his hands folded on the central table. 

The other two were standing with both their arms crossed, one had dark skin and a cap with the British flag on it, the other was like the first man tall, well built but this one had a boonie hat on and a roughly trimmed beard. 

Laswell then speaks up beside me “Welcome to task force 141 Bell.”

AO3 link:

[queenmayor23]

Grand Piano VI {Dean Winchester X Male Reader}

An oversized teddy bear sits in the rocking chair.

TJ: Whoever you are... Whatever you are, just come out before my revolver does.

The bear fades out of reality, and a man replaces it in the room, clapping. The man was pale in the face and dressed in a high-end suit. His greying beard and the oak wood cane were the only factors to reveal his age. His thick Southern accent and gravelly voice put TJ on edge.

Man: You spotted me. Very impressive.

TJ: The only thing that goes in that chair is me. I won't even put a blanket on it. 

Man: Good idea. Though it is a comfortable chair, you probably want to keep it from wear and tear.

TJ: You have about ten seconds until I take out the revolver in my nightstand. So who are you, and what do you want?

Man: My name is...

The man chuckles, smiling at the thought of his answer.

Man: I have been called many things over my lifetime. Some called me a Lord of Chaos, others one of Order. But I am merely an agent observing for a bigger mission. One that may have you separated from Dean Winchester for a long time or bring up some memories that make you want to run into his arms.

TJ: Okay, what do I get out of this fantasy football recruitment?

Man: Knowledge. Power. Tools to fight the upcoming war. A family with Jackson Lunden, like in the dream. Or. A thrilling adventure with Dean Winchester. But all of that depends on how you react to the return of John Winchester.

TJ: So he's alive?

Man: For now.

TJ: Hmm.

TJ nods, thinking about all the variations of things that could happen if they were ever in the same room again. Then he thinks about what scenarios could put them in the same room.

TJ: You said that there was a bigger mission. Care to explain?

Man: I want you to take my place. 

TJ: As a what?

Man: As a keeper of balance. Live as long as you want, but when you are ready to die, have someone in place to take up the mantle. No possession is needed. 

TJ: You look 45, 50 max. How long did you live?

Man: Over 500 years. I stopped myself from aging. Then when I knew I was getting tired, I allowed my internal self to age while remaining physically the same externally. But just because I did it doesn't mean you have to. You can look like whatever you want to as long as you do the job. 

TJ: Meaning?

Man: The Winchester Brothers will find themselves in a war between heaven and hell, and people like me, and hopefully you, use our power to create balance. The angels have to be good, and demons create chaos. When angels start to blur that line, and they will, you have to push them back. You will inevitably make deals with monsters that will put lives in danger. And because of your new abilities, those closest to you will become targets, including Jackson, Richie, and everyone at the lounge. I myself have lost quite a few loved ones over the years. Yes, most to natural death, but the ones that hit harder are those you lose, knowing you have the power to save them and can't. 

TJ: Okay, say I want to do this. How do I acquire these powers?

Man: When the young you and Dean "connected," it seeded a bit of my power in you. 

TJ: Wait, so that was you?

Man: It was my power presenting itself to you in a form that would not threaten you. When you accept it, it will pour into you, as I will peacefully die in my sleep.

TJ: And I get to have an everyday life when I'm not dealing with balance keeping?

Man: Of course. Well, as ordinary as you can get for someone like you. I imagine running an underground bar is pretty hectic. I would've loved something like that in my younger years. Don't even get me started with prohibition-

TJ: Fine. I'll do it. As long as it comes with some sort of instruction manual. This is new territory for me. 

Man: Here's the thing. There are no rules other than good equals good and bad equals bad. So if you want to poof to Paris for a date, you can. Want the President dead? Send a werewolf to attack the White House. Time travel can be iffy, but just make sure you bend your knees and don't interact with yourself in your own form. Oh, I should mention it helps the balance keeping when you go hunting, including demons. They're overpopulated down there, anyway. Other than that, you should be good. It shouldn't matter because you'll be semi-omniscient. So… thanks, and have a good and productive life.

The man snaps, and TJ falls asleep again. 

[miekasa]

mie what are your thoughts on gamer!armin? i know we have streamer eren, but do you think armin would game too?

Unfortunately... this is a very cute concept, and I can see almost all boys fitting some kind of gamer/streamer aesthetic :((

He has a pc setup, but I think he might also have a console or two. He would be one of the lucky bastards who got a ps5 for retail price and he’s so lowkey about it even though it’s kind of a big flex (see, now, if Connie or Eren had it they wouldn’t fucking shutup about it ever bye). 

He keeps the ps5 in his living room tho, and honestly uses it very casually. It’s really more for when you wanna play games with him, or for when his friends come over and wanna do more multiplayer stuff together. Or for things like Just Dance. 

He would probably also have a Switch but got it as a birthday present or something; he didn’t want to buy it himself/have too many consoles, but since he has it, he does use it (and he really likes it)! Lowkey he takes it with him to some of his more boring lectures and he’s in the back of class playing Kirby lmaooo

His pc setup would probably be all white with a lot of neutral/grey tones, and maybe blue? or like sage green as his accent color, idk I feel like those suit him. His computer case and monitor and desk would be white, but his keyboard/keycaps could be green/blue and the mat for his mouse and stuff. His headphones, too. 

Speaking of which, I think he would have one of those keyboards with the round caps that kinda give typewriter-ish vibes, but are still very clicky and satisfying to type on. He uses his setup for games, but also for work lmaoo so it’s pretty practical. 

I think he would also have pretty lights around his setup. Not the typical rgb/led ones, but maybe those hexagon (?) tile things, or just a simple string of, like, Christmas lights he found at target or something. He always has the lights on if it’s dark out; he doesn’t like the only light source to be from his screens because he thinks it’s too harsh and it hurts his eyes. Baby. 

He has like a fake laptop next to his desk for his cat to play with so that it doesn’t jump on his desk when he’s gaming or doing work.

When he plays games, it’s usually with his friends esp if they’re multiplayer. He doesn’t like gaming with random people, it makes him nervous. Sometimes even his friends can be too much for him after a while lmaooo 

He gets really excited if you wanna play games with him. He doesn’t think he’s the best gamer in the world, but he’s good enough to show you the basics and somehow it feels easier when you’re playing with him. 

Has a thing against first-person shooter games, but he’s a little too good at them. He doesn’t like them because they kind of make him dizzy after a while and because some of them are a bit violent yet... he’s scary accurate at them. Him, Mikasa, and Levi... a little too good at games like that despite never playing them... is there something you guys wanna share with the class...

He complains that you’re “distracting” him when you sit on his lap when he’s at his computer, but it’s highkey one of his favorite things. Even if he’s actually doing work, and not gaming, he kinda sorta really likes that you would just wanna sit in his lap and take a nap. He pokes fun at your for it after tho, let that be known. 

Very protective about food and drinks near his computer. And by protective, I mean they’re not allowed with a six foot radius. Except water, but even then it must be bottled. Food/drinks and technology don’t mix. Not to mention it’s all white, he’s not taking any chances. And he cleans his desk religiously. 

He has glasses he’s supposed to wear when he’s looking at screens for too long. He looks very cute in them. He hates being photographed in them. You have gotten away with taken far too many photographs of him in them. 

Sometimes he just sits in his swively chair for fun. Not to game, not to do work. Just to spin around for a bit. He also likes to let you sit down and spin you around for fun. It’s how you have long conversations and make decisions about what to eat for dinner.

Lets you have a profile on his desktop. He also lets you have a villager on his Animal Crossing island and is very bitter if you do not let him do the same, even though you both have your own islands. 

Even if you don’t play with him a lot, he’ll still get you matching headphones. He’s very shy about it. 

If he streams, it’s probably because Eren or Jean stream too and got relatively popular, and then he did by association. He doesn’t mind it. His solo streams are a lot more calm than Eren’s or Jean’s or Connie’s, but people like them anyway. It’s a lot of fun when they all stream together. 

People really like watching him stream on his ac island. His is so pretty (because he spent 6 straight weeks putting it together when he first got the game. No sleep, no other games. Just him collecting recipes like a little worker bee). 

He usually mentions you off-handedly in his streams, and eventually people catch on that you’re his girlfriend. He wouldn’t necessarily ask you to show your face (and he definitely wouldn’t make you if you didn’t want to), but he would mention to you how much people ask about you. 

He... lowkey... kind of likes how much people like you (and likes the comments that tells him he’s lucky or the jokes about if his girlfriend is single). He never responds to them, but deep down... he... has a thing for them. I will not analyze why here, but I will let you take a guess <2 

He lets you use his computer for anything you need to. If you wanna play (with his friends, without him; which is really fucking funny by the way, because Connie probably wouldn’t even notice that you’re on the mic for at least an hour), or do your homework, or just watch videos, or whatever.

His cat sits on his lap or his desk, or at it’s little mock cat-desk sometimes, but on chill days/when he’s playing calm games, sometimes it his just on his shoulder. Takes a little nappy nap. Occasionally licks his cheek. 

[liquid-luck-00]

My Life is One Complication After Another

Inspired by this post by @dolphin-ghost

Happy New Year everyone

Some cursing 🤬

Ao3 ~~~ Part 1 ~~~ Next

~~~~~~~~~~

Marinette has always been willing to give everyone a second chance. That may have been why she still had people to consider them as her friends. That is why when Lila started yet another lie about some celebrity she, Adrien, Chloe, and Juleka were holding their laughter and rolled their eyes.

"Honest Alya I'm like this" Lila crossed her fingers "with Bruce's kids." Alya must not have recognized the name as the liar gave a small laugh "oh, right Bruce Wayne, he prefers to only go by Bruce."

"Oh my God, Girl you have got to give me an interview for my blog!" Alya lapped up the story.

"Of course" Lila smiled, then looked over at Marinette "Anything for my best friend."

At this point, Marinette wasn't paying attention to the liar. Instead Mari was talking in low voices with her actual best friend, Adrien. They sat on the very back bench and Juleka and Chloe on the bench in front of them.

That was their normal, it had been since their eighth year. Now two years later it was routine, her classmates shunned her only talking with her for class assignments. Otherwise they ignored her and that may just have been the best outcome.

She, Chloe, Juleka, Luka, and Adrien were in the park working on a photoshoot. Adrien was behind the camera while Juleka and Luka were modeling. Marinette and Chloe were changing for the next set. When they came out Mari noticed several reporters around the perimeter. Security had them handled and she focused on modeling her creation.

However this wasn't the last she saw of the reporters. They were always at the school questioning the students. What they were asking she didn't know as she was never questioned.

Three weeks of spotting and avoiding reporters, with them swarming the school she needed to get creative in order to transform. Lila was of course bathing in the limelight and attention.

Mari was the last person out of the school as she was getting the homework for her three friends who didn't come today. The first thing she noticed coming out of the courtyard was the purple limo. Her honorary uncle came to pick her up. As soon as the door closed said uncle was crushing her in a hug.

"It's Rock' n to see ya Nettie" Jagged spoke, the hug muffling his voice slightly.

"Same here Jagged," wiggling out of Jagged's hug she reached over to hug Penny. "so what's with the escort?"

"A close friend of ours wanted to meet you and He and his son's are waiting at our room," Penny explained.

"Okay..." she hesitated exiting the car to head inside "but why? Is this a commission or what?"

After a silent elevator ride, Penny hesitated at the door before speaking. "We are hoping you could clear something up actually," as she opened the door.

Mari stepped in and noticed them. The eldest looked to be around mid to late thirties, black hair and bluebell eyes, dressed in a dark charcoal suit.

The youngest of the boys seemed to be a couple years younger than her, shorter than her by a head, tanned skin, short black hair, and jade eyes. A scowl on his face partially hidden by the collar of a black peacoat and slacks as he sat on the arm chair.

A boy around her age with chin length black hair and azure eyes, a red hoodie under a grey bomber jacket and black pants. He looked like he hadn't slept in at least a week, and if how he was holding the travel mug in his hands it was probably true.

Next to him was another boy who looked a couple of years older, black messy hair about 5 cm at the longest and a white tuff in front, cerulean eyes, a brown leather jacket and distressed jeans. He seemed familiar but couldn't place it.

The last boy also had long black hair but seemed to be layered and shorter in the front, sky blue eyes, a blue varsity jacket and jeans. He would either be the eldest or second, he had a bright smile but kept shooting a glance at Fang.

Speaking of which once she was in the room and she saw him, he charged at her, knocking her over. Mari was giggling as Fang rolled over and she was lost to the world as she doted on the crocodile.

"Nettie" Penny finally managed to get her attention.

"Sorry," she stood "but if it wasn't done we wouldn't be able to talk. Hello I am Marinette Dupain-Cheng it is nice to meet you." again she smiled.

"Bruce Wayne" the man introduced himself, "and my sons. My youngest Damian." he gestured to the boy with green eyes. "Next is Tim" gesturing to the boy with the mug who rose it in acknowledgment. "Jason is the second oldest" the boy with the white tuff gave a lop sided smile. "And my eldest Dick" whose smile seemed to become brighter.

She smiled nodding at everyone before realization hit. A quick snap of her fingers before pulling out her phone, opened up her texts and started typing, ending with a quick picture of Jason.

I think I just met your idiot friend

She put away her phone. Not even a minute later another went off.

The ringing stopped once, twice, thrice, and on the fourth Jason, spoke up. "Sorry I should take this."

"Go ahead this can wait a moment." Mari smiled.

As soon as Jason answered the phone "What the hell are you doing in Paris!?" everyone heard the caller as Jason was holding the phone an arm length away.

"How did you know... you?!" it dawned on Jason.

"Guilty," she smiled. "I guess you're not as big of an idiot as Roy made you out to be."

"Hey!" Jason called before turning to the phone. "What the hell did you tell her Harper!" By now Roy was on speaker.

"You can't prove what I said, ya know," she could practically see Roy's smirk.

"Video's however," she was now smirking.

"What!!" Jason seemed to freeze.

"Bug! No!" Roy was sounding like he was going to start panicking.

"I think I have a few saved," she tapped her chin.

That was when Bruce cleared his throat. "As amusing as this is we have business to discuss."

"Talk to ya later Mari." Roy bid her farewell. "Oh and Jason don't underestimate her." the call ended.

"Okay so how do you know Roy?" Dick finally asked.

"Oh. It was at a charity ball hosted by Oliver Queen," she replied nonchalantly.

"Was it the same one where a baby elephant ended up at the event. Following you the whole time." Penny asked exasperated.

"I still don't get how you think we had anything to do with that." Marinette finally sat down. She ended up sitting on the ground leaning against the couch next to Jagged, Fang resting his head on her out stretched legs.

"I have so many questions,” Tim finally added to the conversation.

"Tt. can we stop beating around the bush already," Damian was irritated and it showed. "Are you or are you not my biological sister."

He seemed ready to pounce, unfortunately that was dangerous in Paris. Especially as she saw an akuma right outside the window. The question asked now forgotten as she focused on the corrupted butterfly.

"Nope, Nope. I am not dealing with an akuma today." she stood up. Took a deep breath and let her anger and frustrations to the surface. The smile fell from her face. "If you want a puppet have a marionette" Kwamii Adrien is rubbing off on me.

The butterfly changed targets and was heading towards her, finally gaining the other's attention. She vaulted over the couch and made a beeline to her backpack. By then the akuma was close so she tossed the backpack over to everyone and rolled out of the way.

"Glass jar, unscrew it" she called out.

"How pathetic running from a bug." Damian moved quickly to catch the butterfly but it moved and found something in his pocket. He was engulfed in purple and then he stood there in evergreen armor with golden accents. A red and yellow cape and a pitch black sword in his hand. Pocket knife, the sword is where the akuma is.

"Screw it" she turned and with two quick jabs his two arms went limp. A third knocked him to the ground.

She picked up the sword and went to Dick who was holding the jar. She took the jar, broke the sword, and went to catch the butterfly. As soon as she screwed the lid on the butterfly began to turn white.

She let out the breath she was holding as she compartmentalized her emotions yet again.

"What the fuck was that!" Jason screamed and so did Dick, minus the curse.

"Where and why do you have one of those," Jagged asked.

Finally Damian shouted "Why can I not move? What did you do?" he accused.

"Okay so the butterfly was an akuma used by Hawkmoth, Paris’ villain, to manipulate anyone with strong negative emotions. These champions or Akuma are used to attempt to retrieve magical jewels from our heroes. The jar was given to me and a few others in my class, because our class is a hot bed for akuma, by Ladybug, one of the heroes." she gave a short and simple run down. "As for Damian, those were a series of pressure points,” infused with magic to-take down people easily, "it should wear off in a few minutes."

"Teach me please!" Tim begged.

"I dunno." she started to chew her lip and shift her weight.

"Roy's warning now makes a lot more sense," Jason hummed.

"Tt. adequate," Damian muttered softly, Marinette is sure she is the only one who heard.

"Okay so where were we?" she smiled turning and sitting back down with Fang.

Next

~~~~~~~~~~

Taglist: @dolphin-ghost @unabashedbookworm @bookgirl14 @laurcad123 @mochegato @vixen-uchiha

[whump-town]

Ambushed

Warnings: attempt sexual assault and Emily's potty mouth

No Pairings

Summary: A bathroom break goes very, very wrong

It's whumptober so I have to at least try this month to make things awful. Also, this is for @olivinesea, who has been waiting on this fic for months... maybe longer

Hotch’s order had been for Reid to follow him, that it would be the two of them departing tomorrow morning at four a.m. for Charleston, West Virginia. The way Hotch had marched across the catwalk with his file spoke measures about his mood before his clipped tone did. The second Hotch roughly called his name Reid flinched, looking pleadingly to Emily. Knew he was the target and was pleading with her to find some way to save him. With a sigh of resignation, she leans her head into her palm, knows what she’s about to put herself through for the sake of Reid and Hotch.

If Hotch has a problem with her rather blatant insubordination, he doesn’t say anything about it. He comes in and sees her, her go-bag at her feet and two coffees in hand, and raises an eyebrow. Ultimately, he carries on his path towards their SUV. Sharing not a word just a glance that she takes to his equivalent of a motion for her to follow him. She knows his silence to be of low social battery drained by the early morning and fatigue, nothing personal.

Besides four a.m. is way too early to be talking to anyone.

It gives him time to think, to try and not sour this entire trip with his bull in a china shop mood. He’s just unsettled, has this awful feeling in his stomach that he’s grown accustomed to developing whenever they take cases in the mountains. It’s not that he is afraid of them, this isn’t a matter of ghosts or monsters, but there is so much uncertainty every time you enter them. He spent his entire childhood roaming the Appalachian Mountains, knows them by their many dimensions. Chasing squirrels, knee-deep in rotting leaves every fall. The cooling breeze sweeping through pine needles, snakes striking at ankles. The trees swaying to tunes unrecognizable to his ears. Hearing his mother’s voice calling his name, turning to find nothing but shadows. Knowing someone, something, is watching around every turn.

Quantico is about all the Virginia he can handle, the city nestled warmly where the southern Virginians rarely touch it but northern Virginians are everywhere to be seen. The accents not so thick and the city full of tourists-- people from Pennsylvania, New Jersey, New York, etc. Fewer woods to get lost in.

Charleston?

He’s going to be neck-deep in the mountains everywhere he looks.

Emily’s here so that’s bound to make this whole trip more interesting. With her annoying wit and much to be desired charm. It’s like she can feel him thinking about her. With a yawn Emily sits up in her chair, shooting a sleep-stained scowl at him. She rubs her fists into her eyes, attempting to force herself back to awareness. “That coffee went right through me,” she tells him, clearly annoyed. She’s prone to oversharing but, for some reason, with him, it’s so much worse. He assumes it’s just because she knows it exasperates him. Doesn’t anger him but he typically sighs and shakes his head.

Secretly, he likes it. The way she’ll invade his person like no one else has the courage to. Casually laying across the couch and putting her feet in his lap or leaning against him. Talking like they’re lifelong friends and not two people distantly connected for the last twenty years as enemies, tied together by their hatred for one another. Only recently having learned there’s something more, still a nice enough connection that binds them as friends.

She squirms in the seat, bladder a little too full to be comfortable. The darkness outside consumes every indicator of where they are on the road. She can hardly make out the tree lines and aside from yellow precautionary signs aligning them with the turns on the road, there are only thick, choppy clouds of fog. It’s a little after five-thirty so they still have to be in Virginia. “Where the fuck are we?”

He grunts, furrowing his eyebrows at her explosive fuck cutting so harrowingly through the peaceful silence. It’s not an unusual occurrence, he’s used to the way she effortlessly tears through the walls and caverns he builds up around himself. “Strasburg.”

She groans, “really?” She should have made Reid come on this stupid trip. She could still be in her own bed, pressing snooze and rolling back over. Instead, she’s got to pee so freaking bad and she doesn’t know if Hotch is in one of his “no stops” moods or not. He’s such an asshole about making stops when they’re on the road. “I’ve got to take a leak, boss, so… We’re looking at a bathroom stop soon or new detailing on these seats.” She looks down at the worn seats, runs her fingers over the loose seams and torn fabric. “Not that they couldn’t use it.”

He seems more agitated with her oversharing than with having to stop-- looks like a bathroom break in her future.

She stays silent for a few minutes, just watching what she can from outside her window until the next town comes into view. She shoots him a glance, wonders if he’s actually going to stop, and breathes a sigh of relief when he uses the turn signal, pulling them in that direction. There was no way she was going that long without a bathroom break.

Hotch pulls the car into park, frowning when he sees the lack of lights guiding their path to the gas station and even around the side of the building where he knows the bathrooms are bound to be. Leaving them standing in the dark facing the woods. She’s already unbuckling, moving quickly so she can go pee, but he beats her out of the car. Opens his door first and announces, “I’ll go with you.” She frowns, cuts his back a dirty, confused look but doesn’t say anything.

He’s already standing on her side of the car when she gets out, glaring ahead at the empty field and then towards the woods.

“So you do care,” she mumbles, bumping her shoulder against his. “You don’t want me to get eaten by a bear.”

He grunts, still half-distracted by the darkness and the threat it presents.

She’s imagining him fighting a bear. “You know,” she keeps his pace, curiously looking around as they go. “I think you’re a really tough guy,” she says, “but Hotch vs. A Bear just… I’m rooting for you, really, but I’m not stopping to see who wins. No offense. I think you’d put up a good fight but I think, as a general rule of thumb, watching your friends get mauled to death by Pooh does not fall into the typical bonding experiences that strengthen dynamics.” She’s rambling, not in the same way Reid would have. At least with Reid, Hotch would still likely have the semblance of not only control -- the timing to include himself in conversation -- but also a clue about what the in the world they’re even talking about.

She sees him glare at her and so she glares back, “I said no offense!”

“Go to the bathroom, Emily.”

She smiles as she makes her exit, feeling triumphant with herself. She’d seen that little smirk, not a quirk of lips detectable to the naked eye but the way his eyes had flipped up. Looking to the stars, eyes searching up and away from her. A Hotch smirk and the very best kind.

Distracted by the graffiti all over the walls she hears the faint thump of something outside and humorously wonders if it’s a bear. “Hotch v Bear”, round one, and she’s in the damn bathroom.

While she’s washing her hands her stomach growls and she wonders if he’ll end up following her into the gas station too if she goes in for a snack. The man’s a shadow when he’s worried. She’ll probably try to reach for a snack and find him right underfoot mean-mugging the cashier for no apparent reason. A snack though… She’s starving and maybe if she’s feeling feisty enough she’ll start an argument with him until he gets a snack too. It’ll entertain her for a while.

“Hey,” she frowns when she steps out of the bathroom and finds that he’s not there. Not leaning against the wall like she thought he’d be. “Jesus, did that bear really get the--”

A gun cocks in her ear, slow but unmistakable.

“Slowly put your service weapon on the ground and raise your hands.”

She’s frozen in the spot. Eyes glued to their shadows cast out far around them. Drawn out caricatures of them.

“Do it or I’ll kill your friend.”

It wasn’t a bear.

She reaches for her gun, steady and slow movements. Her fingers curl around the metal and she wonders if she’d be able to move fast enough. That there’s a good likelihood if Hotch isn’t within her line of sight that he’s already dead and if she doesn’t do something she will be too. But she can’t risk it.

“Rob!” the man grabs her gun before she’s got it on the ground. Jerks it back from her grasp. To their left, coming around the section of the building facing the woods and completely dark, another man steps out. He’s younger than she is, probably thirty-fiveish, and dressed in work gear. Jeans that have plaster and paint stains and a t-shirt that is stained to the point of no return. “Get the G-man.”

Rob nods, disappearing just as quickly as he’d appeared.

“Listen--” as soon as she can open her mouth the gun taps the back of her head. A sharp warning followed by the order to shut up. No negotiating then.

A grunt turns both their attentions to the side of the building. Hotch stumbles out before Rob. His hands bound in front of him by rope and when he looks up to find her she watches him blink blood out of his eyes. There’s an open wound across his forehead, blunt force trauma split the skin open and now the wound weeps fat crimson tears down his face. His mouth is taped shut, deep grey cutting into his pale mouth. He’s disoriented enough to fall, tripping over his legs as he’s shoved forward.

Rob keeps a gun pointed at his head the whole time but looks to the man behind her. Waiting for the next instruction and as the man gives them she watches Rob react the same she does. Whatever is happening here Rob is an accomplice but he’s not in charge.

“Walk.”

The gun nudges her forward. She bites back her anger, annoyed with this constant nudging business, but her voice is still laced with it. She can play even-tempered but it’s going to take more control than she wants. But she has to play along. Unless she wants to die tonight or, worse, watch Hotch die. “Where?” she asks “Tell me where I’m walking.”

“The woods,” her answer comes, grunted and annoyed. “Now walk.”

Rob pulls Hotch up to his feet (so he’s stronger than he looks, Emily notes) and pushes him forward again. Hotch manages to stay standing this time, bringing his bound hands to his face to swipe at the blood. The glimpse she gets of his blood-stained fingers is what brings her to motion. To be close enough to inspect the wound herself.

“Straight ahead.”

She steps forward, shivering as the wind blows and she’s reminded that despite it being the middle of June it’s likely only sixty degrees out here. Getting out of the car, she hadn’t been planning on being kidnapped. If she had maybe she would have grabbed her jacket. Her fault, she supposes lack of forethought on her part.

As she steps into his gait, the two of them shoulder to shoulder but not close enough that she thinks Rob or the other man will say anything she glances over at him. A look she means to use to articulate her worry and to ask if he’s forming a plan on how to get them out of this. She’s met with his blood-stained eyes. He doesn’t know how they’re getting out of this. It hits her hard, unforgivingly.

If he’d set his shoulders and sent that haggard, worn look she’d understand he thought they were up against fools not even worth the exertion of escaping from. That the bump on his head pissed him off more than hurt him. Something akin to annoyance would mean he already had his plan, she should wait for the cue. Here, in the place she’s searching for his tactile brilliance, is trauma. He’s locking it down behind walls as quickly as he can but she still sees it. Trapped, they’re trapped and he’s blanking on what to do.

Well, maybe he gets a little leeway. He did get hit in the head.

So, fine, she’ll do it herself.

Can you fight? Dave said it was creepy, the conversations they passed through glances, and now she’s hoping creepy is enough to keep them alive.

He looks back, one glance over his shoulder, and gives a sharp nod.

Good.

Next comes the part she’s not really sure how works. The part where she never actually says anything at all, they just move together. Concisely at the same time. She moves for the unknown man and Hotch knows to go for Rob. Both trusting that the other can handle their target. She can hear Hotch take Rob off his feet at the same time her body smacks into the unknown man. The air is taken from her body, leaving her to pause for a dangerous second as her body fights to get it back. His elbow swings sharply into her cheek, smacking dancing lights behind her eyelids.

She’s trained for this kind of stuff. This shouldn’t be so hard.

It’s a bit of a panic, throwing her hands down. Just punching down blindly and hoping the blows land.

There’s a gunshot-- it takes her too long to recognize the sound. Her ears ring and her body aches. The wrangling limbs, the man underneath her, stops as they all identify who it is overcoming as the largest threat.

It’s Rob, blood-flecked across his face.

Hotch’s blood splattered across his face.

Emily screams, disembodied as she throws herself towards Rob but she’s stopped, grabbed by the hair, forced back down through the leaves, and sticks. The leverage pins her to the man’s chest, both pulled upright. All she can do is stumble back. She’s immobilized by the forearm he presses against her windpipe. “I oughta kill you,” he growls, smacking the gun against her temple. Not enough to draw blood but it cracks, makes the area of her scalp throb. “Stupid fucking bitch,” he pulls her tighter, ignores her fingers scratching at his skin as he cuts off her ability to breathe. “Both of you. I should have just killed both of you in that damn bathroom. Started with the G-man and I could have had hours, until day-light, with you trapped in that bathroom.”

He eases his hold on her not out of preservation of life but in his realization that he’s angry with himself for being so reckless. He and Rob had never had problems before. One woman wasn’t all that hard to control and after seeing Hotch and Emily walking so close, bumping together they thought it could be fun. Force him to watch and see if that makes this any more fun. To see him bargain for her life or sit there lifeless in his resignation that he could do nothing.

But Hotch was stronger than he looked.

“No!” her voice is scratchy from the pressure had against her throat. Combined with her desperation it cracks, pops like roaring embers in a hearty fire. “Stop! You’re killing him! Get off of him!”

Rob has Hotch pinned to the ground, his hands around his throat.

The other man holds Emily still, prevents her from being able to pull herself away. This isn’t how he’d intended for this to go but, he has to admit, this is fairly interesting as well. He’d expected it to be G-man that was forced to break. A big strong guy like him doesn’t take losing well. Feeling Emily shiver and cry in his arms is nice. Her desperation hums in his veins, arousing him in a way he hadn’t anticipated. He doesn’t want to lose that just yet.

“Get off of him, Rob.”

Hotch’s arms are still bound, all Rob had to do was push him over. It was over in a flash, leaving Hotch face down in the dirt one second and watching the trees above him fade out as Rob pushed down harder against his windpipe, his fingers digging into his neck. He couldn’t move. Unable to do anything more than turn and twist his hips, his arms pressed into his groin where Rob had immobilized them the second he threw his hips over Hotch’s.

Rob doesn’t let go, not immediately. He pushes down a little harder, wants to feel the snap of the other man’s neck but his name is called again. This time, not the light order the first had been. Rob doesn’t release Hotch and with an annoyed huff, the other man raises a gun. Emily cries out again, stunned by the gun right by her head, and flinches falls with a crash to the floor when the trigger is pulled. Her head a roaring buzz, trying to swivel its way off her neck. No matter how hard she pressed down on her ears she feels the throbs of pain as if her head was swelling. The world pulsing.

Rob’s dead.

She looks up and she’s looking right into his eyes. Shocked and open, not expecting the betrayal of his partner.

“Hey beautiful,” the other man crouches down beside her. Takes advantage of her confusion, of her shock. Her friend dead. Knowing she’ll follow soon after. “You never told me your name, you know. I’m Mark.” He strokes her hair back from her face, pushes her down to the ground.

Fighting is futile.

She had a chance with Hotch. Their odds nearly even, two against two. Even tied up and bleeding, they’re a threat that can’t be replicated and certainly not by an Unsub. Not one who takes women from gas station bathrooms in the ugly hours of the morning. Not ones dumb enough to take federal officers.

But it’s over.

It’s over and Hotch is dead.

“Don’t cry,” Mark whispers against her throat. He wipes her tears away with the back of his finger, shaking his head and mockingly comforting her. “But,” he holds her head, tenderly cupped in his palm. “You’re so pretty when you cry.”

Emily turns her head from Mark’s hand, finds herself looking at Hotch. His still body, head turned away from her. This is how it ends. Hotch dead and she’s powerless. She’s left his turned cheek, even he can’t bear to see. So she looks to the scar under his ear from New York, the hearing he lost and never fully recovered. A scab from shaving this morning. His hairline, the greys that were popping up around his temples and ear. Still sparse enough that he doesn’t look aged by them. And the blood. The wound Rob inflicted on him in their initial meeting. It doesn’t bleed now, it hadn’t been agitated in their fight. Color had started to creep into its edges, bruising to further demonstrate its anger in having been disturbed so violently.

Now he’s just dead.

She tries not to make a sound when Mark gets her pants undone, tries to make out unaffected. His hand cups at her hip, cold fingers curled around her. There’s a certain level of invisibility she’d felt on the other side of the yellow tape. After years of having used her body to get things, to win Ian Doyle’s trust and eventually his secrets, she’d thought herself too clever for this. Got too comfortable, perhaps. Surrounded by the likes of Hotch and Dave and Spencer and Derek. How many times had she stripped down to just an undershirt, leaned in too close over one of their shoulders just because she felt comfortable? Knew they wouldn’t hurt her.

But she’s losing.

After all the ways she’d won, all the ways she’d found victories in men’s selfish desires, and now she’s laying in the woods. She’s losing.

She’s going to die too.

But she doesn’t.

She jerks, unprepared for the sudden sharp pain across her temples. Her hands coming up to protect her ringing ears and not expecting the dead weight of Mark over top her. She writhes away, feels something hot and wet landing on her breast, sliding down her ribs. Sticks and rocks push against her shoulders but she fights with a terrified panic, crying in her blinding fear. Her fist connects hard with an audible crack of bone against bone and everything stops.

She pushes herself up and back, the back of her hand swiping through blood and sweat across her face. Leaves give beneath her, too slick with dew to hold properly as she moves backward. Sticks dig into her skin. Rocks turn over as she kicks them. Until she’s got an actual picture of what’s happening. Until her brain can work over details.

Mark is on his chest. His head split open, a terrifying weeping wound. Shot.

“Hotch?” she’s removed. Only partially aware of things as she takes them in. Of Mark’s death. Of the damp ground beneath her. Of the chill in the air. Of her own pounding heart. Of Hotch laid out on his back, eyelashes fluttering but open. Gasping sounds -- from her and from Hotch. His chest rising quickly with his shallow breathes.

Her knees scream smart pain as rocks and twigs dig into her flesh, deadened leaves chilled by the night’s air seeping through the material of her pants. She doesn’t even realize she’s moving, it’s automatic. It’s uncontrolled. “Hotch?” she touches his cold skin, taps at his cheek an indistinct beat she hopes will raise him from whatever unconscious solace he’s found. He breathes, shallow but audibly as his body tries to work again.

She touches his throat, grazes her fingers against miserable, chilled skin. He’s alive. Despite all the odds. Despite what she’d seen. Alive.

She cries as she leans forward, pressing their temples together. Cheek to cheek, their cold skin warm against one another. “I thought you were dead,” she sobs, fully allowing herself now to break. To feel the terror and isolation she’d felt thinking he was gone. Killed right in front of her. “You fucking bastard,” she holds onto his clothes, feels his hand come up and his fingers fumble to grasp her. To feel her alive and well. “I thought you were dead.”

He lets out a huff of breath, as close to relived laughter as he can manage. “Me too.”

She pulls back just enough to look down at his face, his pale lips twitching up and the blood caked across the side of his face. “I’m never going on a road trip with you again,” she says.

He nods, breathlessly whispering, “fair.”

She shivers, the breeze picking up. “Can you walk?” They can’t be that far from the car. She’s already pushing her hands into his pants pockets before he can answer, in search of the keys. Distracted to the point that she misses when he shakes his head. When he admits things are a little worse than what she thinks. “What do you mean--” and she looks down, his left hand shakily lifting off his abdomen.

“Shit!” she pushes his hand back over the wound. The first thing that comes to mind is to ignore the problem but that’s not very rational. “Why couldn’t it have been a bear?” That seems like it really beats watching him bleed out in the woods. She lowers her head, turns away from him for a second. She can’t lose her cool. He just saved her and now she has to return the favor. At this point, she refuses to go home without him.

Her earlier remark about bonding has aged like milk.

Something cold nudges her hand just faintly grazes her fingers. Despite everything they’ve been through in the last hour she still flinches, tries to move her hand away from what she suspects is a spider. There are sticks poking her back and ass but she’ll be damned if she’s going to become a jungle gym for a spider to crawl all over. Except she looks down and finds fingers, Hotch’s right hand pushing at her fingers.

It’s candy. Slowly, trying to find her courage and work through her panic, she lifts her palm back up. Looks at the stark contrast of his white mint on the decaying leaves.

She laughs.

They say nothing and yet they share an entire conversation. All glances, his pain pinching at the corners of his eyes, fatigue weighing him down quickly, and her slight humor over his grandpa candy. The mint is crushed, it hadn’t survived their rough journey well. “Are you trying to tell me my breath stinks?” she asks, tilting her head and raising an eyebrow to dare him. A playful sort of smirk on her lips as she declares, “Because I swear to God, I’ll punch you in the balls, Hotch.”

He smirks and as he opens his mouth a branch cracks, a flashlight shines right into their eyes.

“Hands up!”

Emily raises her hand to cover her eyes, wincing. “We’re -- We’re federal agents!” The flashlight lowers just a bit, enough so that she can see it’s a man standing before her.

“Your buddy hurt?” he asks.

Emily looks down, Hotch is already looking back at her. He’s shivering now and she knows whatever is about to happen is all on her. “Shot,” she answers. “Some guys they… they ambushed us? Dragged us out here.”

The man nods, “can he walk?”

She looks back down, Hotch’s eyes sinking shut, fighting to stay open. “I -- I don’t know? Maybe?” No. No, but she’ll drag his ass out of here if she has to.

“Alright,” the man steps forward, and Emily tenses. “I ain’t gonna hurt you little lady but you ain’t getting that big fella up without some help.”

Hotch remembers very little of what happens next. Standing seems to pull all of the blood from his body, at least there isn’t any in his head. Everything is confusing, a strange man is on his left and Emily on his right. He wakes up in a truck bed, rocking back and forth. His head in Emily’s lap and the cold wind grabbing at the blanket pulled under his chin. “We’re almost there, Hotch. Just hold on.” But she sounds like she’s underwater. Far away.

And then everything is still.

“And that’s how I saved us.”

He follows the sound of the voice over to his right, to Emily. She’s sitting up in bed, legs curled underneath her. There’s a chunk of gauze taped to her temple but she’s not wearing a hospital gown. She looks good, nearly restored to the Emily Prentiss he’s used to seeing around the office. The others are gathered around her, Dave smirking at what must have been a rather grandiose retelling of what happened.

“Technically,” he rasps, “I saved you first.”

Emily’s face betrays the first thing she feels hearing him. He’s been laying there for four days, unresponsive. He’d been on a ventilator the first two days. Throat nearly swollen shut from Rob’s attack, bruised badly. But now his eyes are open and he’s challenging her, picking a fight having been awake a whole minute. She's weirdly thrilled to see him glaring at her, too high and too exhausted to hide it.

“Are we really going to start keeping score?” she asks.

His eyes burn, they’re too heavy to keep open. He lets them slide shut, smirking still. A moment passes, maybe longer, and he feels a hand take his. Plastic sitting uncomfortably against his palm. It takes him a moment, the drugs trying so hard to pull him back under. It’s the mint he’d given her.

She doesn’t smile now, they share no knowing glances.

He hums, closing his hand around the mint.

“Considers us even,” she whispers.

He manages to crack his eyes open just a sliver, voice is completely gone but she just barely make out what he says: “not a chance.”

[milliedazzledust]

Viens, Embrasse moi (Bucky Barnes imagine)

Request by @husherstan​: One Shot with Bucky Barnes in which he and the reader are spies. Idk if you watched The Man From Uncle - American and Russian spies together to get an intel. They hate each other and have all that sexual tension. Based on the song ,,Les Yeux Noirs" by Pomplamoose (I have no idea what the lyric says) where they dance to prove who is the best.

Words: 4.689 words

A/N: I spent the last couple of days listening to tango, Pomplamoose and the ost of tfatws, I guess I was inspired coz this is super long so be aware. Thank you for that request - I’m really self-conscious about my writing so I’ll hope you’ll it! (ps: the title mean “come and kiss me”)

The mission was simple. Get inside the mansion during a fancy party by some rich man, retrieve valuable informations about Hydra’s whereabouts and get the hell out of there. Steve had decided to pair Bucky and Y/N for this. Two spies with specific skillsets that he knew would get the job done. This is why they had landed in Paris earlier that day.

They had taken a hotel room inside the infamous Le Meurice, courtesy of Tony Stark. He thought it was hilarious to provoke them since he knew they didn’t particularly like each other. That was what everybody thought, except Natasha. She had told Y/N she could see right through their games. The frustration and the tension together were a ticking time bomb that would either lead to one of them dead or both of them in a bed.

They hadn’t talked to each other the whole flight, they were too busy studying the blueprints of the mansion they would infiltrate, rehearsing their role and getting into character to care about annoying one another.   Bucky had ditched the uniform for a white shirt and a black tie. His suit jacket slung over a chair next to the luxurious bathroom where Y/N was getting ready.

“What is taking you so long ?” Bucky complained as he sat on the bed, putting on his cuffs.

He heard the bathroom door opening behind him.

“Gotta look the part if we want to blend in” The woman smirked.

The moment he saw her, he froze. If there was an undeniable truth he would never lie about, it was her haunting beauty. She was breathtaking. She had chosen to wear a provocative dress that night, a dark shade of green falling of her shoulders, putting the tattoo on her back on full display. It was made of silk, so soft Bucky swore he could feel his fingertips aching to run through the material. The high-length skirt sat perfectly on her curves and the Sergeant gulped when his eyes trailed down her leg. The dress was slit to the middle of her thigh. He could almost see the knife strapped around her muscles, hidden just under the satin gown. His gaze finally stopped on her high heels, admiring the whole outfit. She looked feminine yet deadly and had a confident glow, a radiance he could feel across the room. She was captivating.

She sniggered, pleased by his reaction. Like a wolf hunting his prey, she walked up to him without hurry. He was still sitting on the bed, his eyes glued to her body, following her every move. His mouth was dry, no word were enough to describe how mesmerizing he thought she looked. Without breaking their gaze, she started to undo his tie. Making it roll agonizingly slow around his neck, she tossed it on the bed. Bucky felt his heart skip a beat when she opened up the first two buttons of his shirt.  

“That’s better” She whispered, adjusting his collar. He shivered when her fingers grazed his skin and tried to hide it with a cough, but she could see right through him.

“You look …”

“What ?” She coyly cut him, a hint of defiance in her voice. “Sexy ? Ravishing ? Yeah, I know”

She had a glint in her eyes he couldn’t miss. She was enjoying his bewilderment.

“Pick up your jaw off the floor, Barnes. We’ve got work to do”

And with one last cheeky smile, she was on her way out. He shook his head vigorously, swearing under his breath, before grabbing his jacket and following her to their rental car.

Nestled in the woodland, away from the noises of the city, was the mansion. It wall all concrete and tall glass windows. The architecture made it seem a few centuries old and Y/N stopped for a short moment to admire the gigantic house surrounded by trees.

“And here I thought nothing could impress you” Bucky joked as he noticed her interest.

She rolled her eyes in annoyance, letting him lead her to the entrance. Before they could step inside the venue, a man in a grey suit stopped Bucky, putting a hand on his chest to prevent him from coming in. The Sergeant tensed, hoping he hadn’t been recognized. He had told Steve earlier that day that it might be a mistake to send him inside a place filled by Hydra agents. Even with the fresh haircut, somebody that knew the Winter Soldier could have easily recognized him.

“Votre invitation, Monsieur “ (your invite sir)

Bucky didn’t move an inch. He coldly starred back at the man, not understanding a single word of french.

“Il est avec moi” (he’s with me) Y/N quickly answered.

As soon as the man turned to look at her, his whole demeanor changed. With a smirk on his face, he eyes the woman up and down. By the way he licked his lips and he puffed his chest, she could easily guess he liked what he saw. She faintly heard Bucky grunt but ignored it. Seductively, she put a hand on the stranger’s shoulder and brought her face near to his.

“Pour être tout à fait honnête, il n’est pas de très bonne compagnie” (if i’m honest, he’s not very good company) She told him without a trace of an accent.

The man snickered.

“Puis-je demander le nom d’une si belle créature ?” (can I ask the name of such a beautiful creature?)

She smiled, pretending to be pleased to talk to him.

“Eléonore Charbonnier” She introduced herself with a name that wasn’t her own, faking shyness.

“Bienvenue, Madame Charbonnier. C’est un plaisir de vous avoir parmi nous ce soir” (Welcome, Miss Charbonnier. It’s a pleasure to have you tonight) He replied, bringing her hand to his lips before kissing it lightly.

She was playing with her hair, drawing his attention and Bucky didn’t like one bit to just stand there, silent, without a clue of what they were talking about.

“Tout le plaisir est pour moi” (The pleasure is all mine) She attractively responded with a lopsided grin.

She exchanged one last look with the french man and took a step inside. Bucky followed her closely, but not without one last threatening stare toward the stranger.

“That went smoothly” She congratulated herself.

“What ? You flirting with him or him eye-fucking you ?”

She laughed at his irritation.

“Such a potty mouth you have, Sergeant” She joked.

He responded with an unpleasing grunt before offering her his arm as they stepped into what seemed to be a ballroom. The place was enormous with a checkered floor contrasting with the golden walls. Crystal chandeliers spiraled down from the ceiling, illuminating the room while marble pillars surrounded it, carrying a large upstairs balcony. The place was already filled with wealthy people, all potentials investors for Hydra. Bucky glanced around the room, trying to spot the organization’s agents hiding among the guests.

“How are we going to get to the second floor ?” Y/N asked him discreetly.

“We mingle”

She raised an eyebrow.

“That’s your plan ?”

They were aware of the noises and the crowd but even more so of the curious stares in their direction.

“Alright” She shrugged. “Let’s dance”

“No” He quickly replied, which made her smile.

She turned to look at him and playfully tilted her head.

“No as in you can’t dance … or you don’t want to ?” She elatedly riposted.

“Both” He grunted, quickly glancing at anything but her.

He groaned when he saw how amused she was by the situation.

“My, my … and here I thought there was nothing Bucky Barnes couldn’t do”

He took a tentative step toward her, placing his metal hand on the small of her back. They were now inches apart and the attraction between them became a tangible thread in the air before any of them could speak a word.

“Now is not the time to play, doll” He muttered. She didn’t know if it was his tone, his proximity or his hand moving slightly lower, but she felt the premises of desire starting to form in the pit of her stomach.

“Steve should’ve paired me with Sam. At least he’s fun” She provocatively replied.

Her answer had an immediate response. He instantly stepped back, removing his hand from her body. She watched him closely, pleased when he pursed his lips with exasperation.

“You owe me a dance” She added and winked at him.

He gave her a dirty look and she chuckled before looking around the room, trying to think of something to get upstairs without being noticed.

“There’s literally one guard blocking the access” She stated seriously.

“Think you can distract him ?” Bucky asked.

“Consider it done.”

With one last glance, she moved to one of the waiter, grabbing a glass of champagne. Leaving Bucky behind, she took a sip of her beverage, seductively playing with her hair, swaying her hips until she was almost in front of her target. She knew he was already looking at her, she could feel his eyes on her body. Pretending to lose her balance right when he was next to her, she let him catch her in his arms.

“Oh my god ! I’m so sorry !” She apologized.

“Are you alright, Madame ?” He asked her with a thick accent.

“Yes, just a bit dizzy” She answered with an alluring chuckle.

She noticed his hands on her hips, she knew he didn’t let them there to keep her steady. When she looked up at him, she purposely bit her lips and placed a strategic hand on his arm. She saw the man gulp and smiled. It was working.

“You look …” He didn’t finish his sentence but instead put one of his hand way lower than it should have been. If it was anybody else, she would have break every fingers of that hand, but right now, it was exactly the reaction she was hoping for.

She glanced back at Bucky, who was fuming. The guard caught that and tried to turn his head to see what was distracting her, but before he could do that, she kissed him. Slowly, without an ounce of passion and with force she pressed her body against his. Her eyes stayed open, and she watched Bucky taking advantage of the situation by sneaking behind the french man and quickly getting upstairs. Once she was sure he was out of sight, she took a step back. She cleared her throat, smoothing her dress.

“I should go freshen up” She shyly told him, fluttering her lashes.

“There’s a bathroom upstairs” He offered.

She smirked. She knew her plan would work.

“Merci” (thank you) She told him with a fake accent.

She climbed the stairs, pretending to look for something, while the guard resume his position. Bucky was already waiting for her in the hallway, standing against a wall where no one could spot them.

“Did you have to kiss him ?” He inquired, infuriated, as she joined him.

“If I remember correctly, you told me to distract him”

“With your lips ?” He ironically continued.

She chuckled, her fingers fiddling with his jacket. She slowly leaned toward him, her red lips tentatively grazing his cheek.

“Careful, Barnes, one might think you’re jealous” She whispered against his ear.

He rolled his eyes.

“I don’t get jealous, doll”

She smirked, lowering her eyes on his lips.

“You keep telling yourself that”

“I’m just saying …” He kept talking as they walked to their destination. “Stop flirting with every man we come across”

“Is that an order, Sergeant ?” She knew she was on thin ice and she loved every minute of it.

He groaned. He was exasperated and she could see how much it drove him crazy. It had been that way for months now, they were always bickering, ready to bite each others head off.

Walking strategically through the corridor, they knew exactly where they were going. They had studied the place. Behind one of the doors was Hydra secret files on the super soldier serum and their experiment to create more Winter Soldier. The mission was to retrieve those informations to thwart their plan.

They had no trouble finding what they were looking for. From outside, what seemed to be an abandoned storage room was in fact a huge chamber with computer equipments and piles of files. For a second, Y/N thought it was unusual there was no one to guard the place before she silently followed Bucky inside. While he was looking through the papers, she took the flash drive she had hidden in her cleavage and plugged it into a computer. It was a malware designed by Stark to discreetly sneak inside their files, break every firewall and find their secret without leaving a trace.

“Anything interesting ?” She interrogated Bucky while Stark’s program was doing its magic.

He looked up from what he was reading and she visibly saw him gulp and shut the file he had in his hands.

“Nothing that I didn’t know of already”

She eyed him suspiciously.

“Why don’t I believe you ?” She accused him, backing up against a desk.

“Because you're a spy” He answered truthfully. “You don’t trust anyone but yourself”

She hummed.

“And that’s exactly why I know you’re hiding something” She continued, crossing her arms at his reluctancy.

He stopped what he was doing and looked at her. She could see his jaw tightening and his fists clenching. For some reason, he was getting angry at her. She tilted her head, curious at his reaction. Without a word, she raised an arm, opening her hand. It was a silent request to give her the file he was reading, which he eventually did.

She started to read and realized it wasn’t about the Winter Soldier initiative but about the Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes and what had happened to him in details after he fell off a train in 1945. She didn’t go through the end of the first page and shut it before handling back to the man in front of her.

“You’re not reading it ?” He questioned.

“No. If you want to talk about it, you will.” She shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t need to know the details of a procedure you’d rather forget”

He raised an eyebrow, surprised by her actions. He was expecting her to be more curious and try to prey informations out of him, but instead she just stood there and gave him an honest smile.

“Don’t look so flabbergasted, Barnes. I might be a spy but I’m not cruel”

“It’s just … I wasn’t expecting that”

“Expecting what ?” She asked, turning back to the computer.

“…To be given the choice not to talk about it”

She was shook by the force of his sincerity for a moment, but didn’t comment. It was rare for Bucky to share anything this personal with her. They had work quite a lot together, but it was always teasing and bickering. This was different. She could just guess it by the way he was looking back at her. He cared about her and valued her opinions and judging by his gaze, she had just given him a reason to trust her a little more. He suddenly cleared his throat, somehow embarrassed, and she grinned.

“All done” She declared, showing him the flash drive.

“Good. Let’s get out of here”

Just as he said it, an alarm started to ring inside the room. Both of them tensed, suddenly anxious.

“What is that ?” He groaned.

“They know we’re here”

“Shit”

She hid the flash drive in her cleavage before slowly backing against the wall next to their exit.

“So much for being invisible” She muttered under her breath.

Bucky half opened the door, picking outside to see what they would be up against. Armed men were already scattering the hallway, ready to launch the assault. He quickly closed it back, his expression now a mix between worry and annoyance.

“They’re at least six of them waiting for us” He informed her.

She secretly hoped they would avoid a situation like that but seeing as they had no other choice, she mentally prepared herself to give them hell. Bucky watched her with wide eyes when he saw her tearing her dress in half, making room to move freely.

“What the hell are you doing ?!”

“Mingling” She simply answered, repeating what he had told her earlier, before taking the knife attached to her thigh.

Bucky grabbed the handle and glanced back at Y/N one last time before the fight. They shared a knowing look, both of them reassuring the other with a silent nod. As soon as he opened the door, the gunshot started. The music and the people downstairs were a slight contrast to what was happening, the noises were loud enough to cover the sound of bullets shot across the room.

It wasn’t unfamiliar territory for Y/N or Bucky, they were used to fighting. Doing it together was different though. They had discovered they were a pretty good match on a battlefield. It almost felt like a quick pace tango, a choreography only they knew about. Bucky watched her smirk, and she saw him wink. They were about to give them a taste of their talent.

She let the Sergeant go first, knowing his brute force and especially his vibranium arm would most likely knock some of them out. One of them dodged her partner and went right to her. She blocked every of his punches and flipped the knife she had in her hand, stabbing the man in the gut. She rolled upside down, making him fall on the floor, unconscious. Another one tried to take advantage of the situation and decided to kick her. She twirled around, blocking him before hitting his chest with her heel, knocking him out of breath. From the corner of her eyes, she saw two of them going after Bucky. The agents would have had the time to attack, but all it took was a look between the Avengers and Y/N threw her blade at the Sergeant. He grabbed it mid-air and less than thirty seconds later, the men were on the ground, bleeding to death.

She started to make a movement toward her next target when she felt an arm wrapping around her waist. It all happened too fast. All she felt was the bullet touching her shoulder before her body was pushed against a wall and the men were out cold. Normally, she would have resisted but instinctively, she recognized the musky scent of Bucky’s colognes and the cold sensation of his metal hand against her hip. She realized he had shoved her out of the way when one of their opponents had fired, aiming directly at her.

“Are you alright ?” He whispered, making her shudder.

He was so close she could feel his heart beating. He was towering her, shielding her body with his own. The situation was quite ludicrous. They were surrounded by men they had just taken down but none of them seemed to care. She opened her mouth to demand that he release her, but the words never formed. His chest flushed against hers, he was slowly invading her senses. They were both exhausted by the effort, and his staggered breath was enough to send a fire coursing through her body. She risked a peek at his face and swallowed when she saw his blue eyes darkening with an emotion she couldn’t quite place.

“Don’t look at me like that” He spoke with such intensity she shivered.

She licked her dry lips before speaking.

“Like what ?” She teased.

Bending his head, he buried his nose in her neck. She struggled at the proximity, purely a reflex. He answered by pulling her even closer. He looked up at her again, his mouth hovering a few inches from hers. Every nerve ending inside her was screaming for his touch but she didn’t move, simply stared at him. She wasn’t going to kiss him, but there was still a strange satisfaction flowing around them, pleased that they were just as susceptible to the treacherous desire between them. She could see it in his dark crystal-blue eyes, in the thundering beat of his heart and his metal hand, possessively holding her, gently stroking her covered skin.

“You’re bleeding” He said after a while, his gaze falling on her wounded shoulder.

She didn’t even turn to assess the damage and kept her eyes focused on him.

“I’ve had worse” She told him, voice filled with need and desire.

“Y/N…” He warned her.

His human hand crept into her hair. He was inexplicably drawn to her, she was intoxicating. When he traced a path over her cheek with his thumb, she closed her eyes, savoring the moment.

“Fuck” He cursed under his breath.

He kissed her temple, the movement so gentle yet so significantly filled with unsaid feelings. They heard noises, more people coming their way, and just like that their frozen time was up. He took the piece of cloth she had torn apart and wrapped it around her bleeding shoulder quickly before grabbing her hand and leading her toward their escape route.

She followed him without protesting. He led her to a window and both of them jumped. The car wasn’t far and they sprinted to get to it. They could already hear the agents rushing, they had to hurry. Bucky glanced rapidly in Y/N’s direction, making sure she was alright. The blood had started to flow on her arm through her made up bandage of clothing. She simply nodded her head to reassure him. They drove in silence, checking every now and then that no one was following them. Apart from the altercation, the mission was a success. No one had recognized them and they had what they were looking for. Worn out and a bit dizzy from the loss of blood, Y/N let herself relax and yawned. Bucky felt himself breath a little better now that they were out of harm’s way and surprised himself when a smile spread across his face at the sleepy form of his partner.

Later that night, they safely got to their hotel room. Completely tired, Y/N let herself fall on the bed. She watched Bucky from the corner of her eyes heading to the bathroom. He came back with a few items and silently sat next to her. He unfastened the cloth around her arm without looking at her or asking her permission and opened a bottle of alcohol. When he poured it on her injury, she hissed. She tried to push back, a reflex to get away from the pain, but instantly stopped when she felt his cold hand keeping her in place. She glanced down at her shoulder and studied the wound.

“Doesn’t look too bad” She inspected.

“The bullet didn’t do any damage”

“Good” She sighed, falling back on the bed.

She watched him clean it then wrapped it up with gauze. He was methodic, every movements seemed rehearse, like he had done it many times before.

“Thank you, Bucky��� She murmured.

She saw the corner of his mouth rising, forming a small grin he was trying to hide. Without a word, he stood up and started to walk around the room. Y/N observed him curiously, wondering what he was doing. She sat back against the headboard of the bed and followed his moves. He stopped next to the door and dimmed the light.

“What are you doing ?” She asked, half amused, half confused.

He held up a finger, silently telling her to wait. He took out his phone and suddenly music filled the room. He discarded his jacket, tossing it in a corner of the room, rolling up his sleeves. That simple action was enough to raise the temperature of her body. He was aware of her hungry gaze on his muscles, following his movement and didn’t miss the way she bit her lips. He slowly walked to the side of the bed, right next to her, raising his metal hand toward her.

“What is this ?” She interrogated him, her voice so small she wasn’t sure he heard.

“You said it yourself, I owe you a dance”

She starred back with doubtful eyes but took his hand nonetheless. He led her to the center of the room and began to slowly sway with her.

“La bohème” She recognized the song.

“You said you loved it”

“Didn’t think you’d remember”

“It might come as a shock, Agent Y/L/N, but I do pay attention” He flirtatiously sniggered.

Her breath caught in her throat when he pulled her closer and sneaked an arm around her waist. Spinning and circles and shuffling his feet to the rhythm, he made her laugh. He surprised himself thinking he wished he could carve that sound into his head and never forget it. They danced together, their body close, and she knew she must have been blushing. It only made his smile grew bigger. He stood looking down at her with a hint of danger in his eyes. There was so much more she saw in him than an experiment and a super soldier, but she would never admit that. For some reason, she wanted to find a flaw in him, something that would level the field between them. Until she realized that with him, all bets were off.

“I’m not sure I like that” She said, hating the note of anxiety in her voice.

“What ? Dancing ?”

“Us not being at each others throat” She sincerely answered. “But I’ll admit, you’re a pretty bad dancer”

She felt the rumble of his chuckle against her body.

“You can still fight me if you’re up for it” He replied, smirking down at her. She smacked his chest and he pretended to be hurt for a second. She rolled her eyes at his antics.

He made her twirl and she felt an adrenaline rush when he drew her close to his chest. She wrapped her arms around his neck and made a movement to brush her hair away but his hand stopped hers. Instead he carefully laid it on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry, what were you saying about my dancing ?” He smirked as he made her spin once again.

“That you had no sense of rhythm” She joked.

He laughed and dropped his head, studying her.

“I like it” He confessed, an answer to what she had admitted earlier.

A surprising sense of comfort suddenly settled in her stomach at his admission.

“This stays between us, Barnes” She warned him.

“Is that a threat ?” He laughed.

“Exactly” She whispered, laying her head against his chest as they continued to move together, too lost in the music to halt. “One word to Steve and you’ll be on the wrong end of my knife”

She felt his smile when he lowered his head to kiss the naked skin on her uninjured shoulder.

“You have my word, Agent Y/L/N” He winked. “And just so you know, I’m a better dancer than you are”

“No you’re not”

“I guess I’ll just have to prove you wrong”

“Is that your way of asking me out ?” She smugly smiled with a hint of seductiveness in her tone.

“Maybe… is it working ?”

“I still haven’t decided if I want to fight you yet”

He grinned, he couldn’t help himself but felt at ease around the dangerous woman. After a while, they stopped moving. Bucky felt her body relaxing and her weight getting more heavy as she started to fall asleep against him. He buried his nose in her hair, closing his eyes to enjoy their moment out of time. When he was certain the woman was asleep, he carried her to the bed. He made sure she was comfortable enough under the covers, taking extra precaution not to touch her wound. Then he sat next to her, already knowing the moment they would get back, he would go to Steve for advices. She would be mad, most likely with a newfound desire to kill him. They would probably fight, but strangely that perspective only made his smile. He was ready to wrestle if it meant they would both win in the end.

[dragons-bones]

FFXIV Write Entry #1: Delayed Gratification

Prompt: foster || Master Post || On AO3

IT BEGINS.

The Jewels and Java cafe is the brilliant brainchild of my friend @catpella and was used with permission. :3

--

“Again, I am so sorry,” Synnove hissed, mortified, as they walked down one of the many hallways of the Arcanists’ Guild.

“It’s perfectly all right, my love,” said Aymeric fondly, squeezing her hand. “If we miss the ferry, we can simply teleport.”

His lady sighed heavily and muttered, “But I like the ferry ride…”

He laughed and raised her hand to kiss her knuckles, and satisfaction purred in his chest at the way Synnove’s golden cheeks rosed with pleasure. Galette, in her usual position draped around her mama’s neck, didn’t bat an eye. Ivar, behind them, made a disgusted noise, followed soon after by Tyr’s annoyed elder brother huff; he ignored them, well used to Synnove’s sons’ idiosyncrasies.

It was not the first time one of their getaways had been temporarily delayed by a work-related emergency; their friends and colleagues were normally keen on ensuring the pair of them got to take vacations, but sometimes matters arose that absolutely could not be handled by anyone else. This one, thankfully, had occurred while they were still in the city and easy to reach. Very easy; they’d been merely around in the corner from Mealvann’s Gate in the Jewel and Java café, enjoying sweet treats before they planned to wander over to the ferry quay for the journey to Bloodshore and the cabin, when Thubyrgeim’s emerald carbuncle, Din, scurried in with a note from the Guildmistress.

“Oh, she’s playing dirty,” Synnove had muttered as she read the note. Din had twitched an ear in her direction, but he had clearly been in the midst of gossiping with Galette and Tyr, their noses and ears and tails moving in the way of creatures who didn’t need sound to communicate.

(Aymeric had, not for the first time, suspected that Synnove’s carbuncles’ aetheric harmonic matching capabilities were nowhere near as common as his lady implied they were. Certainly, he’d never ‘heard’ any other carbuncles speak, but he also knew Synnove’s quintet limited their direct communication to Synnove’s immediate social circle, and it would not be out of the realm of possibility that other carbuncles had similar preferences…)

Aymeric had peered over his shoulder, setting down his fork with its piece of rolanberry shortcake on his plate, and shook his head in amused exasperation at the sight of the Guildmistress’s shorthand, which was as atrocious as Synnove’s. “What seems to be the problem?”

“One of the fourth-years needs final approval for her thesis project’s spell changes,” she had said, refolding the paper, then pinching and dragging her nails along the crease to sharpen it. A chip of her bronze nail lacquer ended up left behind. “Yamomo—” the chair of the aetherophysics department, he had recognized the name immediately, “—had to ‘port out to the Range. It’s either an unscheduled detonation or one of the Squadrons fired on a part of the island they’re not supposed to, Thubyr’s writing got a bit sloppy there.”

A bit sloppy?

Pointedly ignoring his look, his lady had continued, “Solkthota’s presenting her thesis project at the next conference, and guess where that is?” Her voice had turned as dry as the Sagolii.

Aymeric had giggled even as he had fished Roksana out of her bowl of melting ice cream and absently began cleaning her face with a napkin as the white carbunclet had purred. “Does it start with ‘Radz’ and end with ‘Han,’ by chance?” he said.

“Oh, you’re good,” Synnove had said with a rueful laugh, and waved down one of the café’s waitresses to get their desserts packed to go.

Now, they approached one of the warded workrooms in the Guild’s north wing. As they did, Synnove carefully smoothed out her expression from huffy and annoyed to professional interest. For all that she did want to be vacation right now, enjoying the lazy trip around the southern coast of La Noscea to sightsee or nap or cuddle, she would never take out that frustration on one of her students.

She dropped his hand—reluctantly, though she quickly skimmed her thumb over his knuckles first—and opened the door to the workroom, stepping inside, with Aymeric following just at her heels.

The workroom was large and well-lit, the early afternoon sun streaming in through the many windows. The part they immediately walked into was a small observation area, with a setup of desks similar to a small amphitheater leading down to the main floor; this must be one of the practical demonstration workrooms, then. Two students were off to the side, a dark-skinned Highlander lad and a tiny grey elezen girl who had yet to hit her growth spurt and could have been anywhere between sixteen and twenty-one summers old. At the front of the workroom, pacing nervously, was a gangly Sea Wolf young woman, skin the color of storm clouds and hair such a shocking shade of daffodil yellow he would have thought it was dye if her eyebrows hadn’t been the same color.

All three students’ head whipped up and around when Synnove entered, and Aymeric saw the two sitting ones’ jaws drop as he took a seat at one of the other desks, Ivar and Tyr jumping into seats next to him as the twins tumbled down his arms to the desktop. The presumed Solkthota paled and stammered out, “Professor Greywolfe! You’re supposed to be on vacation—”

Synnove waved a hand and closed the short door on the partition between the observation area and the presentation area. (Briefly, as the latch on the door clicked into place, he felt the faint snap of a ward activating.) “Hadn’t left yet, Solk, and an emergency means Professor Yamo has to put the fear of the Twelve into someone,” she said absently. Her voice had gone from her usual faintly Ala Mhigan and Lominsan accented lilt into the crisp tones of a Gate arcanist on duty. “Remind me of what your thesis was covering? Professor Yamo hasn’t given me a copy yet.”

The young Sea Wolf took a deep breath and launched into a technical diatribe that almost immediately had Aymeric’s eyes glazing over. He recognized a few words and phrases—Shotamian manifold, harmonic oscillation—and knew just enough from listening to Synnove’s explanations over the years that this project didn’t seem to be carbuncle focused, but otherwise it was all Allagan to him. Instead, he made sure Amandina and Roksana hadn’t taken a page out of Galette’s playbook and hadn’t gotten into the bag of treats sitting beneath the desk at his feet, and leaned back in his seat to observe. Faintly, he could hear the other two students murmuring to one another, but about what, he was too far away to tell.

(They weren’t looking at him as they did, at least, so if he was the subject of their conversation, they at least had better manners about it than most Ishgardian nobles.)

Solkthota finished quickly, nerves clear as day on her face, and Synnove nodded, reaching up to pet Galette’s tails. “All right, no time like the present to test this.” She gestured towards one of the person-shaped targets at the end of the room. “Let’s see what this modified Ruin can do.”

The student took another breath as she unhooked her grimoire from her belt, opening it and quickly turning pages to the correct one. Solkthota removed her channeling stylus from the strap on the grimoire’s back and held it up in the air, the tip pointed towards the target, and began to cast.

The bolt of power had barely left the stylus before Synnove was roaring “DOWN!” and tackling the Sea Wolf to the floor. Aymeric grabbed the twins just as the word began to leave Synnove’s lips, and was on the floor beneath the heavy ironwood desk, the shrieking carbunclets tucked close to his chest, just as the echo of it was overtaken by the roar of an explosion. Tyr was on top of him and his little sisters as a bright light blinded him, blocking it out, but having an enormous topaz carbuncle atop him did nothing to muffle the sound or the feel of the room trying to shake apart.

The silence in the aftermath was nearly as deafening as the explosion had been.

Tyr rolled off his head, shoving past Ivar, who hung from the desk, chittering in excitement because big boom and, of course, he had watched. Aymeric crawled out after Tyr, and as he stood, the girls immediately pulled themselves up onto his shoulders and tucked into his neck, shivering. He absently stroked first Roksana, then Amandina, and hurried to the other end of the observation area to where the other students had been. As he walked, he noted that the ward on the partition was flickering oddly, like cracked glass, but the spell still held—barely.

The Highlander boy had covered his elezen classmate’s head with his torso, and she was shoving at him now, her voice muffled by his bulk, saying, “Tyon, gerroff, you’re heavy!”

Aymeric bent over to help Tyon keep his balance as he pushed himself up and crawled out from the desk. “Are you all right, you two?” he said.

Tyon rubbed at one ear, and accepted his proffered hand to get to his feet. “Ears’re ringing,” he said while also blinking rapidly. His tiny classmate popped up next to him, patting her dark blue hair back into place and scowling faintly.

Synnove, meanwhile, was lowering her arm; the right one, upon which she wore the ring denoting her as a master arcanist. The glimmer of a shield fell away as she did, and then she was standing upright and helping Solkthota to her feet. Galette’s ears were pinned back and her nose was twitching, but otherwise she seemed utterly unperturbed.

“I am so, so sorry,” the Sea Wolf was saying, her whole body shaking and her eyes wide with mixed shock and horror. “I know I did the math right, I know I did—”

“Honey, take a deep breath,” Synnove interrupted, hands on Solkthota’s shoulders and her voice firm as she looked up at the young woman. “In for seven, and hold, hold, hold, little more, and now out for seven. That’s it. And again…”

As Synnove calmed her student, Aymeric and the other two began righting chairs and wiping plaster dust from the tops of the desk. Tyr came over to headbutt Tyon’s thigh, and the Highlander gave his head a firm rub; as he did, an emerald carbuncle that appeared more vulpine than the standard manifested, yipped what was likely a hello, and then went to sit on the elezen girl’s foot. She immediately bent down and scooped the creature into her arms, tickling under its chin.

Soon enough, Solkthota’s breathing was under control, and Synnove gave her a grin. “There we are. Now, what’s the first rule of science?”

Solkthota’s answering grin was shy and watery. “It’s not science until you write it down.”

“Very good,” said Synnove, her green eyes glittering. “So let’s do that first. Next, we’re going to go through your arrays page by page; your working theory is sound, but the math fell through at some point.” She suddenly pointed towards the young elezen, without looking. “And no helping her, Atreanne!”

“Oh, come on, Professor G!” Atreanne said in a high, nasally whine. Her carbuncle added its own whine as emphasis. “I’m the best at it!”

“And Solkthota will learn better if you don’t feed her the answers,” Synnove said, her voice wry in the way of someone who had. “But you and Tyon are welcome to stay and observe, both of your physics work could do with some polishing.”

Tyon and Atreanne exchanged looks, wide-eyed, and then bolted for the partition.

“I’m glad now it wasn’t Professor Y today,” Aymeric heard Atreanne whisper to Tyon. “Professor G’s way more patient with screw-ups.”

“Professor G likes screw-ups,” Tyon whispered back. “They’re more fun, she says.”

“They are more fun, now hop to it, kids!”

Solkthota was dragging over the desk that had been pushed up against a wall, and Tyon and Atreanne grabbed chairs from the observation to bring over and sit with their classmate and teacher. Synnove, meanwhile, looked at Aymeric as she walked backwards towards the slate chalkboard.

“Can you get me some fresh chalk?” she said, a rueful grin on her face.

Aymeric laughed and gave her a sweeping bow, the twins peeping excitedly as they held on. He righted them as he straightened, and turned to head to where he knew one of the storage rooms were.

It was a good thing he had remembered to pack a few books to read.

[mmvalentine]

The Bargain Pt 5 | Feysand

Modern AU. Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 6

Rhys hadn't seen Feyre in a year.

He knew that, because his social media sent him a reminder that he had posted a photo of her finished tattoo a year ago, and he had not heard from her since.

Not that she had any obligation to contact him, of course. In fact, this was why he made the six month rule with his clients- he knew how easy it was to become attached to someone who you have been vulnerable around. And he didn't want to influence anyone like that, particularly not Feyre, who seemed to be having a tough enough time as it was. So although he thought about her often, after she left the shop that last time, for the most part he tried to let her fade into a pleasant memory, and not to dwell too much on whether she was okay out in the world.

But Rhys knew he'd never forget Feyre, because after she was gone he had actually started to paint again. Had locked the door of the studio behind her, arrived back at his apartment and stayed up all night with his crusty old oil set. Paper had never been particularly interesting to him, so he had painted his coffee table. Swirls and eddies of colour like Feyre had drawn on his arm in the gaps between his black line tattoos.

Over the next few weeks, Rhys' plain and understated flat became a frenzy of line and pattern and colour. He started posting photos on his instagram and to his great surprise, they garnered more attention than some of his better performing tattoo posts. He was even commissioned to paint shop fronts and feature walls in restaurants.

By the end of the year, Rhys was still in the studio most of the time but spent a week out of every month painting murals around the country, like he had always wanted to do. So no, he would not be forgetting Feyre, ever.

In May, Rhys got a contract in Berlin. It was one that he was slightly apprehensive about, since apparently it was a team effort and he didn't have much experience collaborating. He didn't love the idea that several people who had never met would be trying to create something cohesive in a short amount of time. On the other hand, it was an all-expenses paid trip and he was about due for a holiday.

Rhys landed in Berlin early in the morning, and had a couple of hours to kill before his meeting. He spent some time wandering around the strangely grey, concrete world, and found these amazing rainbow bursts popping up unexpectedly on street corners and in alleyways. Rhys found he rather liked it.

When eventually he walked through the tall glass doors of the building he'd been directed to, Rhys wondered about the team he'd be working with. There were a number of very well respected German street artists, and if he had to collaborate, he hoped it would be someone who he might recognise.

He was utterly unprepared to walk into the room and see Feyre sitting at the table, deep in conversation with a man with dark skin and white hair.

"Ah, here he is. Feyre, this is Rhys," the man said, while Rhys stood with one hand still on the door handle and gaped.

Shock registered on Feyre's face, but then it settled into an easy, broad daylight grin.

"Thank you Tarquin, we've actually met." Feyre's fingers trailed over her tattoo as she spoke, not taking her eyes from Rhys'. "Remember me?" she asked, with a little tilt of her head.

"I, uh, yeah of course I do," Rhys said. "I wasn't expecting to see you here." "Nor I you," she said.

"Rhys, good to meet you in person," Tarquin said, extending a hand. "I know we've only spoken on the phone before now, and I'm so glad you could come over for this project."

Rhys shook the contractor's hand, and settled into the chair that was pulled out for him. He nodded and smiled at Tarquin, but then found his gaze snapping back to Feyre like a magnet. A rose petal blush stole over her cheeks.

"I am so excited to finally have the two of you here," Tarquin said. His voice was slightly accented, and very warm. "As you know from the brief, my company has just settled its headquarters here in Berlin and we want a summer themed mural."

"I'm sorry," Rhys interrupted. "It's just the two of us?" Tarquin nodded. "Originally I wanted a whole team of artists, but then we redid the budget and it was decided we'd just hire two." "I'm curious, you have so many wonderful artists here in Berlin, why did you fly us out from New York?"

"Actually," Feyre said. "I live in Berlin now." Rhys blinked. "Oh," was all he could think to say.

Tarquin prattled on for another forty minutes about his company, the 'feel' they were going for, their target audience and so on. When Tarquin had first approached Rhys, Rhys was genuinely interested in his work but now that Feyre was here sitting opposite him, he couldn't take in a damn word. Couldn't even remember what he already knew about the business, just sat there wondering what had happened in the year since he had last seen Feyre.

How was she? Was she still with that whatshisname boyfriend? Had she been tattooed by anyone else this year?

Finally Tarquin stopped talking and told them he'd take them on a tour of the building, show them the mural site, and then let them settled in. He stepped out to take a phone call, and left them with a mood board he had collated for the painting. Then Rhys was left alone with Feyre.

And for the life of him didn't know what to say to her.

He just sat there, swallowed, and tried to stop staring at her. She noticed, and blushed.

"What are you looking at?" Feyre said, looking down self-consciously. A curl fell over her face. "I'm sorry," Rhys said. "I just didn't expect to see you." "Me neither," Feyre told him. "I mean, I moved cities, I moved continents and yet here you are."

Rhys nodded. "Here I am." He cleared his throat. "So ah, when did you guys move over?" "Just a few months ago," Feyre said. "And it's just me. I broke up with Tamlin." She shifted in her seat. "You were right. It got worse, and then better." "Oh, good," Rhys said. "I mean- not good, I'm sorry to hear that."

Feyre laughed. "No," she said. "It is good. And I'm really enjoying living here. I can't believe you're here." "I thought I'd never see you again," Rhys said. Feyre's eyes flickered. "You thought about seeing me?" she asked.

Now it was Rhys' turn to colour. "I... I just wondered if you might get in contact later in the year. You know, let me know how your tattoo's healing and all. Is it alright?"

"It's great," Feyre said, holding out her arm for Rhys to inspect. "I know I said I might call, but I just couldn't," she confessed. "As the months went on I got so embarrassed."

Rhys cocked his head. "Why?" he asked. "Because I had such a crush on you!" Feyre said. "And I bet every girl you tattoo falls in love with you, I didn't want to be one of them." She laughed, and looked away. Rhys just stared at her.

"You... had a crush...?" he started to ask, but then Tarquin breezed back into the room.

"Sorry folks!" he said. "Important call, but terribly rude of me. Now. Let's get on with that tour huh?"

And then he ushered them out of the room, and didn't leave them until they were all saying goodbye and Feyre was heading toward home in one direction and Rhys was going to his hotel in the other.

No matter. They had all week to get reacquainted.

****

Thank you so much to everyone who has been commenting, I've been astounded by the love you guys have been giving this story and I appreciate you all very dearly!! I thought it would be a little niche one, I wrote it because I like art and tattoos, and I really didn't think it would do this well. Would love to know what's working for you, so I can keep bringing it to you :)

MASTERLIST

TAGLIST: @ghostlyrose2 @highladysith @stardelia @feysand-loml @tillyrubes10 @ratabrasileira @live-the-fangirl-life @maybekindasortaace @annejulianneh111 @thebonecarver @rowaelinismyotp @loosingdreams @whythefuckdoiexist @inejsarrow @swankii-art-teacher @sjmships @courtofjurdan @teddytdr @positivewitch @thalia-2-rose @darling-archeron @rapunzel1523 @fairchildjace

[ihatecoconut]

No Longer Me

Cross posted to AO3

Natalia Romanova is eight years old and ‘the best the Red Room has ever seen’ when she’s pulled out of one lesson by some handlers she’s never interacted with before. They say nothing but her name, take her away from the training rooms, still dressed in her ballet gear, and down the long twisting corridors to Dreykov’s office. She’s been in the Red Room long enough to know the punishments for showing fear, but still her heart speeds up as they open the doors, usher her in and point to a chair.

There’s a second chair across from his desk as well and there’s a small blonde girl sitting in it, maybe the same age as Natalia herself when she was first brought into the Red Room. She sits next to the girl- toddler, really- and sits up straight, keeping her posture; they only could have brought her in here as a punishment and she isn’t going to give them a reason to extend that. The blonde girl shifts a little in her seat as they wait and Natalia wonders if they’re going to make her kill her, she knows how she’d do it, the girl’s face is still small enough that she could be smothered by one hand over the mouth and nose, holding her down with the other hand.

Dreykov enters and she rises instinctively, feeling the other girl copy her just a beat too late. His mouth twists up a little at that and neither of them get praised as he sits at his desk. Natalia keeps her eyes on the floor obediently and yet she can still feel him looking over her body, over the way the leotard hugs the figure that has not developed yet.

“Natalia.” He says, she can hear the proud smile in his voice and lets herself relax slightly. This isn’t a punishment.

“Yes, sir.”

“This is Yelena Belova.”

She turns to look at the girl who is already looking back up at her, bright blue eyes and blonde hair and the remnants of baby fat still on her cheeks. Natalia imagines the way her cheeks would feel soft under her own hard hands.

“The two of you have been assigned to a mission.” Dreykov continues, leaning forwards until she looks up at him. “Exciting, hmm?” He has switched to English.

“Yes, sir.” She repeats, uncertain. This is a new situation and too often new situations have meant pain and punishment, no matter how proud he seems.

Dreykov gestures with one hand and she is given a manilla folder. A brief for the mission. She curls her fingers around it like it is the most precious thing in the world. Most Widows don’t get to leave the Red Room until they have completed their training at least once, if not twice, to be able to leave at eight years old is a privilege she hadn’t dared even imagine.

“Yelena is to be your sister,” He continues, eyes fixed on her face. She schools her expression, scared that he can read her thoughts, “you will read that in the brief, and the fact that you will be a part of an all-American family.”

She doesn’t dare open it in front of him, but her fingers itch to comb through the details.

“Your handlers here will make sure you actually look like sisters. Blonde hair.”

Her red hair is the one thing that she herself owns, the one thing that nobody else shares or can take away from her. It makes her stand out in the Red Room; it makes the handlers favour her. It makes her who she is. She can’t argue.

“You will meet your new parents shortly,” Dreykov adds, turning away, “the Iron Maiden and the Red Guardian, hm?”

Her heart freezes in her chest. None of the girls in the Red Room have ever met or seen the Red Guardian, but the Iron Maiden is a regular guest- whenever she comes to report to Dreykov, she stops by the training rooms and watches them. In a world where every adult would as soon kill her as praise her, the Iron Maiden is what Natalia is most scared of, she represents everything that Natalia doesn’t want to become. Hard, cold, attuned to everyone’s movements, paranoid and yet unquestioning, the perfect spy.

“Yes, sir.”

He raises his chin, surveying them both. “Remember, she’s your sister now.”

And that’s it, they’re dismissed. Yelena blinks up at her, still too young to properly understand what his tone means, and Natalia runs Dreykov’s parting words through her head as they are escorted out. Sisters. How do sisters act?

“Take her hand.” One of the handlers orders as they make their way back down the corridors to what could generously be described as a salon.

Natalia switches the hand that is holding the file and hold it out for Yelena to take. She does, with what would be a concerning amount of enthusiasm to anyone else. The handlers punish any physical contact for the first few years, even before they start training, starving them all of human contact, and then use that to reward them with hands on shoulders, on elbows. The warmth of the little girl’s hand sends shocks up Natalia’s arm, unexpected enough that she nearly yanks her hand back; they’re being watched, however, and so she forces herself to relax and keep walking.

 The Iron Maiden herself appears while Natalia’s hair is being bleached. She has been reading the file to distract herself from how there are hands near her throat, in vulnerable places, and reading parts aloud to Yelena, the bits that she will hopefully understand.

“Natasha.” Melina Vostokoff says, watching her.

Natalia- now Natasha, an American name- cannot rise to meet her as she feels obliged to do, so she just keeps her eyes down, respectfully.

Melina sighs, “Look at me.”

She brings her gaze up instantly, moving her head fast enough that one of those bleaching her hair yanks on it.

“Hello.” Melina crouches down in front of her, smiles warmly, but Natasha can see the utter lack of emotions in her eyes, the blankness created by the Red Room. “I’m your mother now.”

Yelena, who has not been given a new name, beams at this, hopping off her chair and coming over to hug Melina. Natasha watches the same reaction she herself had experienced not long ago, the desire to shake off the girl’s unexpected warmth, the touch that has not been earned by killing another girl.

“How long will this take?” Melina asks, rising and allowing Yelena to continue clinging onto her legs.

“Another hour, maybe.” The handlers continue to speak in Russian, even as their newly minted family practices their English.

“Alright. Send them to me when you have finished. We need to pick out clothing.”

She places Yelena on Natasha’s lap, ignoring the way that Natasha instinctively flinches away and leaves. Natasha takes note of her outfit as she does- jeans and a t-shirt- in the way they have been trained to. It’s one to fit in, not stand out, not the sort of mission outfit a Widow would normally wear. She looks down at her own ballet clothes- practical, the same grey as their normal uniforms, the same one that Yelena is wearing.

Jeans. She flexes her legs and wonders what they will look like when not wearing clothes designed to show them off.

Yelena snuggles deeper into her lap and she lets her, wrapping her arms around the girl and looking again at the file. The same line as before jumps out at her: Long-term mission. Minimum two years. Maximum six years. Six years away from the Red Room might just render her useless to them, would strip her of all the skills they had taught her and leave her a normal fourteen-year-old. She shut her eyes and hoped.

 There are locks of red left on the floor when they’re done with her hair from where they cut it first and she wants to pick on up, keep it in her fist and remind herself that she isn’t the all-American girl they’ve made her out to be, that even if six years do pass, she will still be the same little girl who killed other little girls to survive. Yelena beams when they are stood, side by side, in front of the mirror and compared. They do look like sisters, now, Dreykov was cruel and frightening but he knew how to use them.

Melina greets them in the hanger. She’s standing in the middle of several boxes, more have been loaded onto the small plane that will be taking them to Cuba to catch their final flight over to America, Ohio, but these ones are open, and Natasha can see clothes in them. Each one is labelled: Pastels, Darks, Denim etc.

She’s still holding Yelena’s hand when they approach and Melina smiles approvingly.

“Come, pick some clothes.” Her Russian accent has all but vanished in the time since they last saw her.

Natasha picks out clothes that fit the brief she has been given, mostly jeans with some bright t-shirts and outer layers. Yelena tries to take all of the clothes and in the end, Melina and Natasha end up picking most of her clothes out of the pastels box. Natasha can see that Melina has completely forgotten what it is like to be a child as young as Yelena, to have that innocence- she hasn’t been one of them for too long, hasn’t been constantly faced by the newer recruits, watching the handlers break their spirits slowly and then all at once until they too follow orders like a robot, fire rounds into the centre of the target.

Alexei joins them then, tall and smiling, a man who did not have his childhood stolen by a man that treats them as tools. His is brunet, but light enough that it is not unthinkable that he would have blonde daughters, briefly Natasha wonders how much thought was put into creating their fake little family. He produces documents for them all, passports, birth certificates, a marriage certificate for him and Melina- for Alex and Melissa Spier.

“Spider!” Alexei laughs when he tells them their new surname and Natasha and Melina both smile back, even if neither of them find it that funny. It’s Dreykov again, another reminder that no matter how far physically they are, they will never escape the Red Room.

He seems to notice their hesitation because he puts the documentation away again and opens his arms for a hug. Yelena runs to him immediately, allowing him to pick her up and calls him ‘Papa’ without any hesitation, he laughs at that, switches her to one arm and opens the other to Natasha. She walks forwards, she knows what is expected of her and allows him to wrap her up.

“Don’t tense so much.” Melina says, frowning slightly behind her and Natasha tries to forcibly relax her body. It doesn’t work.

“It is fine,” Alexei says, releasing her, “you will get used to it.”

And then it’s Melina’s turn. This was their last chance to be pulled off and she realises, as Melina leans in to kiss her new husband that she passed whatever test this was because they didn’t pull her off, didn’t find another girl who wasn’t yet afraid of contact.

Yelena laughs at the noise they make when they separate and for a moment, Natasha allows herself to believe that this could be real. And then a handler approaches with two syringes and Natasha breathes out. Even while the charade is up, the rules still apply. Every Widow sedated on entry and exit.

“Set a good example for your sister.” Melina murmurs to her and Natasha drops her shoulders, smiles calmly up at Yelena and doesn’t stop, even when they push the needle into her neck. She thinks Yelena might have screamed, but the drug starts working immediately.

 When she wakes, it’s in a car, late at night and Melina turns around to smile at her.

“Welcome to America.”

As if on cue, they pass a sign welcoming them to Ohio and Natasha allows herself to breathe. They made it, all the way, and without anyone calling them back, locking her back up. She has a sudden desire to throw the door open, roll out of the car and run and run and run.

“The child locks are on.” Melina tells her, still turned around, dark eyes watching her, unreadable. “And you still have a tracker.”

Of course, Dreykov’s best agents know what she thinks, how she thinks and of course they prepared for that. Hatred burns through her, even as she returns Melina’s calm smile.

 The house they’re staying in is already furnished, agents have been posing as moving companies over the past week to prepare it for them. Two bedroom, two bathroom, kitchen, dining room, living room, and a small storage room that they will be keeping anything that could blow their cover. Yelena is yawning when they arrive, already tired despite the long period of unconsciousness and Alexei carries her into the house, waving at the few neighbours that are still awake and peering out at them curiously. Natasha follows, keeping close to him and slips into the other bed in their shared room.

Yelena is young enough that she will forget all she ever knew of the Red Room, memories fading until they only come up in bad dreams that she cannot understand, and Natasha suddenly hates her for it, hates that she will be happy here in Ohio while all Natasha herself will ever be able to think of is the fact that the Red Room will take them back one day, without warning, without mercy. She watches the blonde girl, sleeping happily in the new bed and turns away. She can’t sleep, something’s wrong.

“Put your arm up.” Melina’s voice says from the doorway.

Natasha sits up, fast, irritated that she hadn’t noticed the movement.

“Put your arm over the headboard.” It’s an order and her body knows how to respond to those.

She lies back down and raises her hand, hooking the wrist over the edge of the headboard and a feeling a rightness comes over her in waves, along with the sleepiness that has been kept at the edges by her unhappiness. There’s no handcuff holding her arm there, but this is how she sleeps, how she has always slept for as long as she can remember.

“Thank you.”

“Goodnight, Natasha.”

She pillows her head on her upper arm and shuts her eyes. “Goodnight, ma’am… mom.”

Melina sighs from the doorway, but she doesn’t sound annoyed, just tired. “We’ll get there.”

Sleep is already taking Natasha, the day’s travelling too much for her small body, but she hears the words and cannot help but wish that they could stay there.

[sorcerersofnyc]

The Last Thing Left (Zemo x F!Reader) 3/9

If it wasn’t so painfully ironic (and hilarious to watch,) Helmut would find the relationship between Sam and James a little sad.

Ghosts weren’t enough to hold two people together.

While they wait for Torres to locate Donya Madani, Zemo brings Sam and Bucky to the home he once shared with you.

You reunite and he reflects upon his relationship with you (his wife's friend and his friend's wife) and your journey from being people with mutual friends to partners.

Chapter 3: Sam and Bucky try to understand your relationship with Zemo. It isn't complicated, but he remembers a time when things very much were.

Angst, various mentions of death & mourning, Zemo's wife's name is Heike because of comics.  The reader likes waffles (this is a non-negotiable fact)

Note: Main Character is neutral in most regards, but the story was written with my own cultural background in mind. (In other words, I won't say what she looks like but I envision her as being black.)

First Chapter | Previous

***

A fresh breeze filters in through an open window, swaying the room as Helmut’s words take root.

“Partner?” Sam leans forward in curiosity. “You mean like a life partner or a partner in crime?”

“Yes,” is Helmut’s unhelpful reply. He sends you a conspiratorial smile, one you return with a roll of the eyes.

“Helmut and I are engaged in a… civil partnership,” you explain, “for legal reasons.”

“Amongst other things,” he adds.

“Yes, amongst…other things.” A deep honey-like scent wafts into the room from the kitchen as you share a fleeting glance, a private moment despite the scrutiny of James and Sam. You must have put on a pot of tea.

“That should have been in the reports,” James narrows his eyes and examines the room carefully. “Why doesn’t anyone know about you?” Despite his position on the other wall, he angles his body toward Sam, ready to defend against any traps you might spring.

"Well…" you tilt your head in contemplation, "there was a significant delay in the processing of our paperwork. Nothing was documented until after Helmut’s prosecution."

"How much of a delay are we talking about here?" Sam asks, turning his assessing gaze toward Helmut as if to ask, ‘did you do something?’

"Around—what was it, Helmut? A year and a half?"

"18 months," he agrees. “Our paperwork seemed to have gotten misplaced. It's so difficult to find reliable lawyers these days.”

Sam didn’t seem to believe him.

"I'm his spouse on all official records,” You cut in before either of the two to speak, “but I'm sure you understand why privacy is important to me.” When he testified to his crimes, he made it clear that he had no accomplices and the investigation proved the same. The lawyer ‘misplaced’ the paperwork long enough for public interest in his case to die.

You didn’t need that sort of public scrutiny.

Sam seems to agree.

“We would never compromise your safety,” He assures you. He has his own family, people he loves with targets on their backs. He thinks of them as he addresses you.

The teapot whistles in the background.

“Thank you.” You smile and excuse yourself from the room. “The tea is ready.”

Helmut wants to pull you back to him, but he settles on meeting your gaze as you make a hasty retreat through the archway.

You’re gone all but a few seconds before James begins to speak.

"OK Zemo,” He says, his voice low and threatening, “it's about time you tell us what's going on—your partner? Really?"

"I’ve no reason to lie, James—but perhaps you’re not used to honesty,"

“Not from you," James lurches forward like a beast seeking prey. He glares down at Helmut, a mere arm's length from Helmut’s chair.

Helmut doesn't doubt Jame's violent intent, but he isn't particularly afraid. He settles back in his chair, moves his hands along the length of the arms, and brushes a thumb across the cool metal of the gun strapped beneath.

"Simmer down, Buck.” Sam lifts his hands. “This is weird enough as it is.”

James hesitates but relaxes his defensive stance.

"She doesn't seem to like me and Sam," James continues, reclaiming his position on the wall. “I don’t plan on waking up with a knife in my back.”

“She would never do such a thing, it's far too messy." Unbothered by their altercation, Helmut rises from his chair. He moves toward the bay window and liberates a copy of  Arsène Lupin, gentleman-cambrioleur , from the floating shelf.

Before James can say whatever it is he wants to say,  Sam intervenes once again.

“What I think he means is, 'how do we know we can trust her?'”

"You won't come to harm under her care, you have my word."

His word.

James scoffs at the mere suggestion. Trust isn't something that exists between them and it never would.

But the air is so thick with tension and he can hear the unspoken words that linger in the air: ‘What about your late wife?’

So Helmut flips through the book absentmindedly, stopping at a dog-eared page.

“My companion,” he begins to explain, “she was my wife's dearest friend.” He glances up from the pages of the book to meet Sam’s gaze. “She lost her husband when your friends made Sokovia into a battleground so I found it prudent to ensure her wellbeing.”

They're quiet—finally—and Helmut finds their discomfort pleasing.

Turning his attention back to the book, he reads a line you underlined.

'Quel dommage que je ne sois pas un honnête homme!' What a pity that I am not an honest man!'

“Would you like some honeybush tea?” Your voice cuts through the silence a few moments later. You stop at the threshold and gaze back warily gaze wary.

“I expected Helmut to be alone, but I have other drinks too.”

“The Tea is fine, thank you.” He sets down your beloved book and walks across the room to meet you. Ever so gently, Helmut coaxes the tray from your hand and sets it down on the center table.

“I made lunch as well... si comes ese tipo de cosas .” You mutter, leaving the room once again.

Helmut pours himself a cup before gesturing toward the tray.

"Please, you are guests; have a seat, enjoy some tea." Grabbing the book with one hand, Helmut returns to his favorite chair.

James doesn’t move an inch but Sam takes the seat near the window. His body sinks into the fabric with a sigh.

“Hopefully Torres finds Donya soon. I don’t want to impose for too long.”

“She really is a lovely hostess.” Helmut takes a seat and returns the book. “I intend to enjoy her hospitality while I can.”

***

At first, living with you was easy; Helmut stayed out of your way, he spent his time conducting research and it was quiet.

But the walls were thin and noise echoed through the open vents—He could hear you crying late at night.

He wanted to help, but he had no temporary comforts to offer. The only thing he had was his anger and his plan. You’d rest easier with the Avengers buried in the ash heap, he told himself. That day, when you hugged him, he felt as though you encroached on something, something that would break if he failed to tread lightly.

When you looked as though you wanted to talk or share a fond memory, he mentioned something about the old-fashioned décor and suggested that you change something. He bought you books from the shops he passed on the streets, jars of pigment, and blocks of clay.

He observed you, found what you liked, and got them for you.

“Thank you,” you’d say with a smile, and that was more than enough for him.

He didn’t expect you to return the favor.

But then you’d do things like make him breakfast (always with black coffee and a side of bacon, his favorite.) You’d buy pillows in the same specific shade of burgundy to accent the walls. You’d leave the paper on the kitchen island and kept a jar of honey with the tea.

And he hated you for that, for doing the things Heike would do, for sharing her habits, humor, and sensibilities.

‘Good morning, Helmut,' you would say in the morning, 'Would you like to visit the market with me?’ or, ‘Helmut, you can’t survive off coffee, aren't you hungry?’

He’d refuse you every time.

It was difficult, disappointing you,  but the thought of enjoying a pleasant breakfast, or taking a stroll through the market hurt even more.

He could still feel their bodies buried beneath his feet.

So he opted for uncomfortable silence, and unsteady peace, the ghosts of your loved ones a wall between you.

*

Weeks went by and he continued his research. It took a while, but Helmut could see the steps of a plan unfolding in his mind.

He wouldn’t be the one to send the Avengers to their graves, he’d make them kill each other—and for that, he would need the Winter Soldier, James Buchanan Barnes.

So one day, after reading and rereading the S.H.I.E.L.D.  files he managed to decrypt, he told you he was going on a trip.

“There’s business that I need to attend to.”

“You’re leaving?” You looked up from the clay you were molding. It hadn’t yet taken form, just a sad lump of grey. “For how long?”

“Not long.” He promised, “I’ll be back soon.”

But he returned two weeks later.

Exhausted, Helmut had just taken off his shoes when you walked upstairs to meet him, red power on your hands.

“Helmut! Where were you?” You demanded before you took notice of your tone, the accusation present in your voice. You amended your words quickly.  “I was worried... I missed you while you were gone.”

“My apologies,” was his unsatisfactory reply, his back still turned.

When he finally turned to look in your direction, you wore a troubled look upon your face, and the look reminded him of Heike.

It was the worry of a soldier's wife, of someone waiting by the door to greet an unknown future.

“I’m sorry,” he offered, genuinely this time, and placed a hand on your shoulder.

For a moment that you would reject him. He was certain you considered doing just that, but when you didn’t move or knock away his touch, a strange sense of relief filled him.

You sighed.

"When you've gotten settled, come down for dinner.” It was an order, he realized, not a request.

"Of course." An amused smile tugged at his cheeks.

"Where did you go?" You asked, lingering by the door as he set down his bag. He wasn’t dressed for business in his drab gray jacket and worn shoes.

“I visited an auction house out east."

“An auction house?” You tilted your head and assessed his clothing again. “To bid?”

“Not exactly."

Not at all, really.

He tracked down information about an auction where fanatics were gathered to bid on HYDRA paraphernalia. He hoped to find the book that once belonged to the Winter Soldier's handler, but it wasn't didn’t exist amongst the garbage he found there.

The trip hadn't been a complete waste, however. He managed to rid the world of a few dozen agents and others who would support their cause—but he wouldn’t tell you that.

"What I hoped to find wasn't there.” He settled on saying.

“It took you weeks to do that?”

“I needed to visit Berlin as well. My family collected many cars over the generations. I’ll take you to see them one day if you like.”

Helmut had no plans to get you involved in his plan to end the Avengers,  he couldn't. But he remained true to his word and joined you for dinner that night.

He helped you set the table and you ate paprikash (which, he assumed, you made for his benefit more than your own.)

"Ozenik suggested I make it," you explained. "It was never my favorite but it was fun to make."

"You did a good job."

"Thanks...I thought was time to try something new."

He agreed.

You ate dinner together the next night too, and the next, and the next night after that.

Helmut grew to enjoy the time you spent together—it was a pleasant change of pace.

Even so, he had his ‘business’ to attend to. He would still have to leave.

Sometimes he would go for hours, sometimes he’d be gone for days, and sometimes entire weeks would go by and Helmut wouldn't call or even text you.

And you were frustrated.

Once he returned home to find you painting angry red lines across what might have been an abstract swirl of blue and gray.

One evening discovered you rearranged the dining room completely.

Then one day, during dinner, you attempted to bridge the gap between you once again.

"I received a message last night," You began, "a reminder that I purchased tickets to see a play last year.” It was summer, but the season had been unusually rainy, confining you inside for most of the week. “I’d have to travel to see it but it might be fun. Would you like to see it with me?”

"I'll be gone again soon," Helmut told you. “My apologies.”

You frowned.

"I haven't even told you the date. How do you know you’ll be busy?"

"I have plenty of work to keep me busy through the end of the year." His reply hung in the air for what felt like an eternity. He didn’t even bother to look up as he continued. "If you need to travel, I'll speak with Oeznik about arranging that for you."

You looked down at your plate, sighed, and set down your utensils.

"It's fine." You told him, but it wasn't. You were angry at his rejection, at his nonchalance.

"You know...you don't need to force yourself to be here with me, Helmut." You stared directly across the table at him, meeting his gaze. "We don't have to stay together if you don't want to. I have my benefits from the veterans association now so...if there's somewhere else you'd rather be-"

"There isn't." Helmut looked at you, his eyes dark piercing. "How could you think that?"

“How could I not when I never know if you're going off to the market or leaving for weeks?” A dangerous edge crept into your voice and you didn’t bother to amend it. “What sort of 'business' are you conducting? You won't even tell me."

"You don't need to worry," he tried to assure you, but his weak appeal only seemed to make you angrier.

And that anger, your anger,  frustrated him to no end.

Who were you to question what he did with his time?

Heike always understood when he was gone for longer than expected. When he returned, she greeted him with joy and relief, not accusation and scorn.

But you...he didn't know what he expected from you.

You weren’t his wife, you weren’t involved romantically. You weren't even friends, not really.

So really, what tethered him to this place?

What he planned to do was dangerous; he might not even survive. He fulfilled his promise to see after your well-being, did everything he said he'd do, and yet...and yet…

You sighed, huffed really, and gathered your plates quickly.

“I’m trying, I’m really trying but I’m tired, Helmut,” you told him. “You go and move us to this...this ritzy tourist city and what am I supposed to do? Find friends with similar life experiences? I can’t even sleep through the night and you...you just...” You take a breath as you turn away, leaving with your half-eaten plate.

“I don't... I don't fit in here.” You confess resignation carried in your voice. “I don’t think you understand that and I don’t think we’re good for each other either. ” You decided. “We’re too different. I appreciate you trying to help me, I do, but… but maybe I should leave.”

***

Thanks for reading! You’ve come so far and soon you will be rewarded. Next chapter we’ll see the steps Helmut took to amend your relationship. And in the present timeline, we get to see something super cute (something that involves hand-holding, perhaps?)

Feedback is very much appreciated. Please tell me what you think!

Tag list: 

@actuallyanita

@fillechatoyante

@viviace 

@buckyandlokicanhaveme

Previous | Next

[starr-fall-knight-rise]

HASO, “Contract Killer.”

Hope you guys have a great day!

The room smelled horrible, though that would only be readily noticed by those species that had any acute sense of smell. Though for most everyone, that fact went largely unnoticed, or if it was noticed, the occupants of the room didn’t really care. The walls of the cramped room were lined in rust streaked metal, and large metal crates served as tables and chairs for the assortment of rough and tumble visitors who graced the blackmarket under A136. Human music rolled through the room as a constant background to the din as a beautiful, but rough and tumble woman sang a mournful sea shanty about an astronaut blasted out the airlock freezing to death in his space suit as he looked on at the beauty of the universe.

At the bar two tall Drev bartenders used all four of their hands to prepare drinks for their waiting customers ranging anywhere from, Human, to Kree, to Celzex. Rockus laughter filtered up into the air as men and women gambled with ten sided dice,, and strange glowing chips. The floor below their feet was stained and mottled with unknown substances which had likely never seen mop. When they moved it wasn’t uncommon for them to flash mechanical enhancements, a hand here, or an eye there, some clearly lost to accidents, others…. Perhaps replaced on purpose.

In the throng it wasn’t even uncommon to see alien/human couples blatantly and proudly interacting with one another without garnering so much as a sideways glance from those around them

Drinks poured, staining the bar till the metal rusted and the wood ran dark.

At the side of the room a table sat raised slightly away from the others surrounded by stained and rotting curtains, and at that table sat A Drev. The armor she wore was half Drev and half of medieval human make. One of his shoulders was covered with a metal pauldron and armor that went all the way down one arm. Leather straps criss-crossed her chest. Next to her sat a woman, with beautiful, wavy, honey-blonde hair and bright red lips. She wore mostly black, and a long leather coat.

When she leaned back she rested her large boots on the table spinning a playing card between two fingers.

The Drev looked on into the crowd, her eyes scanning over the people that thronged before her, people and aliens alike, an unwashed mass, looking and waiting for her target, and AH, there he is, just the person she had been told to expect.

He was tall, though the clothing he wore blended so seamlessly into the crowd, he wouldn't have garnered much attention, especially not here.

He wore a dark brown jacket with a grey cowl pulled low over his face. He kept his head down, though she noted the slight bulge at either hip where he likely concealed two weapons.

Which he reached forward, she saw the glittering of a metal gauntlet, either that or a metal hand.

On his shoulder rode a furry little Celzex, though it’s once bright fur had been stained mostly grey and black, probably from some horrible accident.

Beside her Beatrice leaned forward, her red lips parting in a smile, “That him?”

“Yes it appears it is.”

She went to stand, but the Drev pushed her back down, “I already have men on it.”

Beatriss frowned, her full red lips puckering down into a pout, “You never let me have any fun.”

“There will be time for you, yet.”

They watched as the figure pushed his way through the crowd and took a seat at the back of the room. Without, it seemed, any prompting a waitress scurried form the darkness and set a drink down before him. Credits exchanged as the woman vanished back into the crowd. 

Two fingers moved forward from the edge of the room, pushing their way through the crowd.

They would have been impossible to pick from the crowd if it wasn’t for their purposeful strides forward.

The figure took a sip from his drink, only the bottom of his chin visible under the hood and part of his right cheek covered in a mechanical mask.

Behind him, the two figures had moved into position. One man reached out to rest a hand on his shoulder, but fast as a striking snake the stranger grabbed the man by the arm tugged him forward and slammed his head painfully into the tabletop knocking him cold almost immediately before snapping to the side blocking a punch by the second man, and then elbowing him directly in the throat.

The two men hit the ground in seconds.

“Not bad.” The Drev muttered in open admiration, and Beatrice looked up at her with an open expression of jealousy. The Drev smiled slightly, the corners of her mouth turning up in the familiar human expression. She liked when Beatrice got jealous.

The sudden brawl had hardly stopped the debauchery taking place around the rest of the room . That was until the Drev, Jeea, rose to her feet and clapped once.

All around her, the entire room seemed to part like the red sea, and at the very end of that part was the man and the two prone bodies.

He did not flinch, barely even seemed surprised as he stood, and walked into the center of the room.

“We can do this the easy way, or we can do this the hard way.”

The man raised his hands, “That depends entirely on you Jeea.” his Drev accent was impeccable, that surprised her.

“Captain Kall, your skills as a warrior impress me,”

The man smiled under his hood, “Than you are easily impressed.”

Jeea snorted slightly, “Come, sit.”

He hummed deep in his chest, not dissimilar to the sound of pleasure so common among her people, “Pity, I was so looking forward to the hard way.”

She waved the otters away, and the music began to play again as the man crossed the room and slid into the booth next to her and Beatrice: who was still pouting, her arms crossed, two long knives held in either hand.

Geea leaned forward and took a better look at the man, with half his mechanical face, mechanical hand and plunging hood.

“You don’t make yourself as difficult to find as I would have assumed.”

He leaned back in his chair as his Celzex companion hopped onto the table. Beatrice ed it with some measure of malice, but even she knew not to mess with a Celzex. It was more than likely the thing had friends, and if it had friends, it also had pirated Celzex weapons.

“Kall…. That is a Vrul name isn’t it.”

The man shrugged, “Could be, though I thought Vrul names tended to have five letters and not four.”

Geea grunted, either way, “Your reputation precedes you, Captain, which is strange considering you haven’t been on our radar long.”

THe man waved over the waitress for another drink, “I make it a habit of keeping off people’s Radar, but you would know all about that.” he glanced around at the bar, “Aren't you concerned that holding operations here will get you noticed by the GA? Last I heard the UNSC had done some operations on this planet.”

Beatrice snorted.

Geea shook her head, “A day long visit by the UNSC’s favorite pet Admiral hardly counts.”

Beatrice spat at the floor making a face, “The GA’s little pet, i would like to cut off h-”

Geea held up a hand, “Now, now Beatrice, it’s not the Admiral we are angry with. He is simply a figurehead, a representation of everything that is wrong with the GA. As far as I know he isn’t so horrible.” She reached out a hand and placed it atop the other woman’s, “He did advocate for a cause near and dear to our hearts.”

Beatrice Made a face, “Still don’t like him.” 

The man across from them shifted in his seat, “I hardly see what this has to do with me. Me and my crew try to keep a low profile. GA or Anti-alliance doesn't matter either way. We just want to make money and keep to ourselves.”

“And is piracy generally part of keeping a low profile?”

The man crossed his arms and leaned back in his seat, “I would hardly consider it piracy…. I like to think of it as…. Liberating materials already doomed to be misused.”

“That sounds like piracy but with more steps.” Beatrice muttered.

Geea held up a hand, “No need to get defensive here friend. It’s not like the rest of us are law abiding citizens.” A couple more waiters and waitresses moved forward to refill their drinks, one of them trailing her hand suggestively across the captain’s shoulders.

“We are just here to speak to you, and maybe hire your crew.”

Captain Kell leaned forward slightly in his seat, the mechanical face plate glittering in the light above, “Alright, and what is this job of yours.”

“I want you to Kill Admiral Vir.”

There was a pause the silence between them filled with the rolling conversation from the rest of the room.

“You want me to what!”

“You heard me clearly the first time.”

The man stood nearly tipping over his chair in the process, “That’s it, this conversation is over.”

Beatrice grabbed him by the arm and forced him roughly back into his seat. At That moment, the people sitting at the nearest tables turned around, throwing back their coats to reveal  large, and surely illegal submachine guns.

Captain Kell took a seat, hands raised slightly.

Geea leaned forward, “Just hear us out.”

“I’m not a hitman or a mercenary. And the last thing I want to do is put that kind of heat on my people especially not Admiral Fucking Vir, do you think I am insane! I’ve never even done that sort of job. I steal shit, that’s it. I am no killer.”

Geea waited for the man to finish his little tantrum before she continued, “And that is precisely my point isn’t it. No one knows who you are, no one knows who your ship is. In fact, your ship doesn't have a beacon, which means you are not properly registered with the UNSC or the GA, meaning that they cannot track, find or know where you are.” Captain kell began to laugh, “Are you fucking serious. Killing him while he is on-world is one thing, but killing him while he is off-world is a completely different can of worms. You would have to be able to board his ship, the motherfuking OMEN, the most advanced spaceship known to man or alien with Celzex weapons, and Vrul shields. Oh yeah, and let’s not forget that he has an entire fucking clan of Drev onboard, a shitload of marines, oh and lets not forget one of those drev is a SAINT.”

Geea leaned forward, “Someone does their homework.”

Captain Kell laughed, “Does my homework, more like reads the news. He’s got the media crawling up his ass half the time. If it isn't a picture of his dumbass on a magazine cover, than its a viral video of some asshole marine on his crew showing off all the dumb stuff they get to do onboard.”

“See, that is exactly the sort of thinking we need, and we know your ship. We know it has the most advanced boarding capabilities in the known universe regardless of whether you are trying to hide that fact or not. If anyone can board his ship and take care of his men, then it’s you.” She pointed at the Celzex on the table, “Powerful friends, and with our help, I have no doubt that we could do it.

He shook his head emphatically and crossed his arms over his chest, “I don’t understand, I thought you said earlier that you liked him. He did help the LFIL.” he glanced between the two of them suddenly unsure that he had read them correctly. He had, but she did enjoy watching him squirm.

“I like the man as a person. He honestly does seem like a nice guy, funny, charming, awkward in an endearing way. But this isn't about my personal feeling of the man, this is about my beliefs as a Drev, this is…. Political, and sometimes good people have to go to make way for something better.”

Captain Kell held out his hands, “I guess I just don’t see your vision, business is going very well for me right now. I doubt I would profit from the collapse of the GA. I can really only see this getting worse for me.”

Geea frowned, “The GA has taken over my homeworld to mine our holy battlegrounds. It has taken away the traditions of my people.”

“Didn’t the traditions of your people recently change.”

Behind them, the room had sprouted into a rocus crowd of dancers as the woman began singing about the queen of Pirates. 

Geea crossed her arms, “This isn’t about the saint, she is doing what she can for our Drev in the way she believes is best, but I believe there is a better way. I will follow her religious traditions as I believe in the old ways, but I also believe that our home planet should not have been desecrated by the GA in the first place.” She waved a hand around the room, “The GA has too much power and far to much influence, one of these days the idea of a democracy is going to fade away until they take all the ower for themselves, and, I for one, will not be ruled by a tyrant.”

Captain Kell didn’t seem impressed by her argument, “The GA has existed as a democratic republic since long before the Drev and the humans were involved. What makes you think that they are going to change so rapidly.”

“Because I know humans.”

Even though she couldn’t see his face, she could almost guess at the slight raise of his eyebrow, “Oh really, you know humans do you? How fascinating, tell me more.”

Beatrice snorted.

Geea glowered at him.

Beatrice smiled “Se not wrong.” She grinned slyly, “She really does KNOW humans rather well.”

Kell tapped his fingers on the table, “Knowing someone in the biblical sense is hardly knowing humans. Admiral Vir is likely helping to keep the democratic nature of the GA against humans and otters who might try to change that, so forgive me if I See nothing good that can come of this.” He stood again this time doing his best to ignore the armed men and women on the next table over.

“How about enough money for you and your to retire to a small moon on the other side of the galaxy.” he paused and turned to look at her.

“And I should believe you because?”

Beatrice reached under her chair and pulled out a holopad sliding it across the table so he could see, “Take a look for yourself, Half of that upfront, and then half after we take out Vir, payment drops if you hurt the Saint.”

Eyes still obscured, she had trouble seeing his face, but after a moment he nodded, “Alright, I can take you up on that offer, but if you fuck us over, I will make you reget it.” he turned to look at her one last time, “Meet me at the dock when you’re ready. If I am going to do this, you better be damn straight that I am not going to do it alone.

[shianhygge-imagines]

So Far Away {Watch_Dogs 2} [Wrench/Reader] The Job

AN: Well... I had to write it eventually! Been having this plan to fix Wrench’s relationship with Reader since I first started writing this series. And since I’m currently unemployed and ghosting my friends (they know and understand), I just decided, “Fuck it! Imma write the story!”

It’s a prologue, so it’s a bit on the short side.

If you like the content I create, please consider donating to my Ko-fi! Please help me feed my tea addiction!

|Masterlist Link|

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You get phantom pains sometimes, searing pain that starts at your stump and descends from forearm into fingertips that had been burnt to a crisp years ago. Nowadays, you live in Manhattan, having been determined to leave your memories and experiences of DedSec behind. You send an occasional message to Marcus every now and then, just to reassure him that you’re still alive and kicking, but you ignore the others.

Especially, Wrench.

You groan and sit forward on your sofa, burying your face into your remaining hand. “Fuck, here we go again.” It had been years since you’d last contacted Wrench… years since you had to step up and save him from himself… and your heart’s desire hadn’t lessened a single bit.

McCullum, your partner in crime, frequently chided you for loving such an ‘insensitive and selfish fool.’ By now, you were exhausted by the talks. You know that Wrench isn’t good for you, but damn it, the heart wants what it wants.

Even if he cheated on you, sold you out for another woman, and convinced your other friends to abandon you…

“It’s ten in the morning, brain. I don’t feel like having a shot right now!” You wailed, flopping onto your side to lay on the couch. You tried dating other men, even discovered a love of women, but even when your body was pleased, you just felt empty inside. When you left San Fransisco, you left behind a part of yourself.

“Y/N.” A deep accented voice coaxed you from your thoughts, and your eyes twitched briefly to meet icy blue.

Speak of the fucking devil. You groaned, “What, McCullum? Can’t you see I’m trying to brood here? It’s a Monday and thunder storming outside, perfect weather to go with my shitty mood.”

“You’re not still mooning over that garbage fire of a boy, are ya?” McCullum shot you an unimpressed stare, silently judging you and your oversized shirt and sweatpants. “You know my opinion on him.”

When McCullum takes a seat, setting down a disposable coffee cup on the coffee table in front of you, you huff and force yourself to sit back up, pushing up with your arm before grabbing the cup. Blowing into it, you take a sip and moan in contentment, “Chai latte with soy milk. I love you for this.”

“I know you do. But you obviously don’t love yourself enough to let go of the boy.” He’s right, he’s always right.

You sigh and sulk, still sipping from your latte. “We can’t all fall in love with a gorgeous, kind-hearted English doctor with the patience of a saint. We’re not all that lucky.” You pause before shaking yourself, shedding the depressed attitude for a moment. “So, you came all the way to the heart of Greenwich Village for a reason, right? So we must have a job.”

McCullum’s back to deadpanning, leaning back against your reading chair and crossing his arms over his chest, dark grey wool sweater fitting him perfectly. “We’ve been contracted, but you’re not gonna like it, Y/N.”

“Well, it can’t be worse than that time in Oslo.” You catch the way your taller companion tenses, “… it is, isn’t it?”

“It’s the client, Y/N.”

“I’m going to hate this job, aren’t I?”

Your partner winces, “Our clients are DedSec-”

“Shit.”

“And their target is Artham… the cyber terrorist group.”

“Double-shit.”

“Will CyberMasque take the job?”

You let out a distressed, high-pitched wail, “Yeah… guess we’ll be vacationing in San Fransisco again.”

“Actually… DedSec came to New York.”

“…what.”

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[fromtheboundlesssea]

Into the storm: celia being rescue by ned and howland please and thank you

Celia could hear the sound of fighting outside.

It was the sound of steel against steel and flesh instead of the cracking of bones when a hammer met its target.

It meant that Robert had not come for her. What if... what if it was someone like Rhaegar? What if Rhaegar had come and someone had followed.

She could still hear the prince’s cold words against her ears and she shuddered at the thought of him being so close again.

She heard the fighting stop and feared who won and who lost. And so, she slid off her chair and ran to her bed. There was a trunk at the foot of it. Maybe they would think she had gotten away.

She crawled into the trunk, piling her dolls and silks around her so that no one might see her. She closed the trunk over her head and peered through the cracks and waited.

Waited.

The door to her room opened and unfamiliar armor appeared and Celia’s stomach dropped painfully low. What if they were bad people too?

“Lady Celia,” called a voice. “Lady Celia.” The accent was strange and Celia’s heart began to tremble and she took in a sharp breath, trying not to move.

The person who had entered paused and drew close to the chest, slowly opening it.

Grey eyes and a solemn face greeted her and she knew who he was by the direwolf embossed on the leather of his doublet. He was a Stark.

Robert told her she could trust the Starks. One was to be her big sister soon.

Tears began to fall down Celia’s cheeks as she stood quickly and wrapped her arms around the man’s neck and cried. He hugged her tightly, picking her up like Robert did when she had a nightmare.

“I have you,” the Northman said gently. “I have you.”

[ka-writes]

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Notes- Did I decide I was gonna write a fic at 2:00 AM? Yes yes I did... anyways I don’t have an archive account yet but I wanted to get it out there.... um here is chapter one of my space AU, because I absolutely fell in love with the AU.

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Inspired by:

Humans are Space Velociraptors

By:FreshRoses_InMyGarden_NeedTheRain

Some kids come from storks, others come from crashed spaceships

By: mmmajora

Home Again, Home Again

By: teeth_eater

All works can be found on Ao3

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Ohh also challenge if you wanna do it, fill in the Title! And another one... if you were an alien what question would you ask a human other than basic questions, like name and age.

Also suggestions are always appreciated! And if you wanna support my main blog it is kadoodle.. also I have no updating schedule so I will when I want to.

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Warnings: Cussing, mentions of tight spaces and characters being trapped, mentions of corpses, and needles.

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“Humans are [Insert text here]”

Chapter 1: Idiots kidnap the wrong kid..

Honestly, life hasn't been bad. His needs were met, most of the time, and he had a.. place to sleep…

Yeah no life wasn’t great.

Tommy was easily, barely, avoiding Social Services. Sleeping on benches and occasionally grass. He got whatever wasn’t wanted and had an official bag for the first time. He had some spare clothes, and no money. The authorities stopped looking for him after a while and the only main challenge was getting essentials.

No one would miss him. No one would look for him. Therefore he was the perfect target among many others. The only thing setting him apart was his sheer ability to survive, not a want, like many of the others, it was a fact he would survive. Not that his captors knew that of course.

Alternative: Tommy gets kidnapped by aliens and sbi rescues him.

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He woke up in a cage.

Not a cell or a room, a fucking cage.

There were a few others in various cages around the room. All of which were either dead or close to it. Most of the ones still alive had been there for months, possibly years. No one knew of course.

The smell of rotting bodies stenched the place with a coppery coating. The room wasn’t large but not quite small. It was dull grey with layers of grime settling on the floor and cages. The room was long and skinny, lined with cages against either wall in a zig zag format. The only light was coming from the small door window, which happened to be positioned right in front of Tommy. It glowed a faint yellow and was blurry, not allowing Tommy to see into the hall.

Shadows would occasionally pass by the window. None ever stopped at it. Causing the ever growing hunger to grow more. Once one had stopped at the door, not for more than a second, before it screeched. It was inhuman and sounded like a hurt hawk from one of those nature documentaries. Tommy shoved his hands onto his ears and waited for it to stop. The thing chuckled, not like a human, but something close to it.

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Tommy waited for what seemed like hours before something happened. The door opened, sliding into the ceiling. A weird looking creature stepped in. It looked like it had a porcelain mask over its face with a painted smiley face. There were no ears or hair, instead just more porcelain, which formed a spear which sat on shadows. The thing was wearing a lime green hoodie and black leather pants that seemingly faded into the creature's legs. The knees bent inwards causing it to look awfully awkward as it crouched near Tommy’s cage. The hands were long and lanky with no real palm. The creature also had a tail that looked close to how Tommy pictured a devil's tail to look. This was the first time in ages Tommy was glad to be behind bars.

The thing pointed at itself and said,

“Dream.”

In the most heavily accented English Tommy had ever heard. That didn’t matter as much of the fact that the seemingly painted smile moved with the words.

“Come.”

The creature unlocked the cage and half dragged Tommy out of the cage into what Tommy presumed to be the lab. He noticed a window. The only thing for miles was stars. He was in space. He had been kidnapped by Aliens. Fuck.

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Humans were a heavily avoided species. The things were what kids would expect to come out of their closet. They were feared, and for good reason.

The first ship to find Earth was ecstatic. Finding another intelligent species in what would’ve been deemed as a planetary desert was a scientific breakthrough. Causing the entirety of the media to go insane for a couple of years.. That was until the first ship ventured onto the planet. It was immediately shot down. The entire crew was killed and the entirety of the ship was destroyed in a matter of minutes. The ISF (Intergalactic Safety Force) deemed it as a no flight zone and claimed to punish anyone in the desert. Even so poachers smuggled humans and within days had their ship crashed.

The only ones allowed to take humans were scientists, who were specialized in taking care of difficult species. They were allowed to test on said species and do whatever they wanted, in the name of science of course. Most people didn’t care how they treated them and were really only interested in what could kill them.

Which is where Wilbur came in. He was a toxicologist, a scientist studying poisons, he also dealt with various potions and other chemical mixes. This knowledge is what gained his entry to the Dream Team Ship.

He had been testing on around nine different humans for the past six months on the celestial calendar. This time Dream, his boss and the captain, brought in a juvenile human. He was skinny and lanky. Clearly had been starving before being taken. He felt bad before shaking off his pity.

“V74 and V83. Make sure he can communicate beforehand.” Dream promptly stated before leaving the kid in the room.

Wilbur tried not to think about his terrified face, before he clipped on the translator. Usually it is worn on the back of the head, since humans brains are vastly different than most species, it is clipped to the left side of the head.

The translator looks like a simple device when in reality it took dozens of celestial years to perfect it. It’s a small silver disk that ingrains into the part of the brain that controls communicating. After the body gets used to the device it can translate any language into one you understand instantly.

It took a couple more years for the translator to incorporate the estimated 7,000 languages spoken on Earth. For a planet that has been isolated it has a more complex and diverse set of cultures and languages, than Pellucidian has had in centuries. To say Wilbur was jealous, wouldn’t be far from the truth. Not that he studied cultures for a living. It was something that always interested him.

He put the device on the kid’s head and grimaced at the pain that was on the kid’s face. He quickly dried up the blood and mixed a solution that would ease the pain. It was clear and tasted like water, which is the only way they got humans to take the pain reduction.

The kid relaxed for a spilt second before tending at the unfamiliar setting.

“Where am I?” He snapped, causing Wilbur to jump back a bit, before collecting himself and standing up.

“The Dream Team craft’s labatory.” The kid’s face flashed with panic for a split second, “You have two testings scheduled for today. It will go quickly.”

“Will it be painful?” The kid asked. As standard for testing, Wilbur ignored the question and measured the substances. He quickly cleaned the puncture spot before giving him the needle.

The kid winced in pain. Wilbur swiftly led him to the testing chair. It had restraints that moved with the patient's body, which prevented bruising while keeping them in place. Wilbur clicked them on and sat at the desk located to the left of the kid.

“What did you inject into me?” The kid asked clearly trying to fight off the anesthetic.

“A dosage of Lidocaine, which is an anesthetic for your species. It’s only to numb pain that may come with the solutions we will be using today.” The kid’s face flashed with a deeper panic than before, causing Wilbur to tense. “We won’t start yet, since we have a list of questions to go through before we begin.” Wilbur lied. He hated testing people, especially kids. Dream of course didn’t care, like the rest of the Dreamon species. It made him sick. That was when he made a split second decision. Hoping he could get a distress signal out, without alerting the other crew members. He was gonna get the kid off the ship, at the next stop of course. Which was in three celestial hours.

The kid scoffed, clearly not believing the lie. He paused a moment thinking over his options before he smirked,“Fine. Ask me what you want bitch-boy!” Wilbur gasped, clearly not anticipating the insult.

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Chapter 1 End

1406 words

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End notes: Why the hell does google docs make it so hard to copy and paste??

Also I had to do some intense googling for this... I hope you enjoyed!

(Also also this is my first ever fanfic... please give feedback and reblog!!)

Minor mistakes are forgiven... don’t expect me to be perfect... I am dyslexic.

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Tommy: ....

Wilbur: ....

*intense starring*

Wilbur POV: I am kidnapping it.

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Chapter 2:

[xxmiizcornerxx]

Darker the Berry (POC! Reader x Aizawa)

A/N: Okay so heres the late story I’ve promised! Sorry for the delay, my internet has been booty buttcheek and my only source of comfort has been Mario Kart 8 deluxe and my Soundcloud listening history 😣 ANYWHO~ This story is on the issues(insecurities) of colorisim. And this is for my insecure baes out there that just needs some love🥰So enjoy! (And hopefully my internet doesnt give out once im done (┬┬﹏┬┬).....)

A/N: Oh! Another side note, this is in Aizawa’s POV for the most part!

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‘Oh for fucks sake. This is just embarrassing.’ 

Thought Aizawa Shota, aka Eraserhead, a somewhat well known hero. At least till another well known pro hero comes around. Anyways, it was late at night and Aizawa was at a small restaurant waiting for his date to come. But by the looks of it, he probably just got stood up. Recently he has been trying to “get back out there” to not only have his comrades off his back but also because he was becoming lonely. He wanted that emotional support from someone other than his students, family and friends. Someone he could come home to every night to ramble about absolutely nothing or about everything going on in his world. And sure he had his best friend and his cat to talk to, but its not the same. He wanted that somewhat perfect love he sees everywhere he turns. 

 With a tired sighed, he was getting ready to leave but all of a sudden he could hear an all too annoying familiar voice. Even without his quirk, Hizashi Yamada is the loudest man on God’s given green earth. “HEY SHOTA!!! WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?!” He asked loudly making the people in the restaurant jump but Aizawa was accustomed to it.

“OOH! ARE YOU HAVING A DAT-?!” Aizawa instantly covered his mouth annoyed, “How about you shut up? Anyways yeah but I was just getting ready to-” he was cut off when a 5′8 dark skinned woman with the most beautiful set of dark eyes that was barely covered by the few dreadlocks that poked out of her high bun. She was dressed in light shades of grey and white that made her skin pop out. She was truly what they called a goddess among men. “I am so sorry I’m late! I got so busy with work, I lost track of the time and decided to come straight here.” the woman rambled not fully realizing that Aizawa was too busy silently thanking whatever deity that was here for not only sending Hizashi for stopping him from walking out that door but also blessing him with the most gorgeous person he’s ever seen. 

“It’s alright. My colleague here just stopped me from leaving.” He stated in his usual monotoned voice removing his hand from his friend’s mouth and sending him a look that said ‘ If you say or do something to ruin this for me, I will personally rip your vocal cords out.’, thankfully Hizashi got the memo nodding in slight fear. “Indeed I have! And now that you’re here miss, I can get what I’ve came here for and leave. Have a goodnight you two!” he stated as quietly as he can possibly get and left. “Sorry about my loud, somewhat obnoxious colleague. Here let me get your coat.” Aizawa said gently taking the woman’s coat setting it on the back of her chair. “Oh its alright, I have also been ‘plagued’ of having a very, very loud best friend. But you learn to get used to it.” she joked a bit taking her seat which only left the hero himself to take a seat. “I see. Well I don’t think we’ve properly introduced ourselves. I am Aizawa Shota, an absolute pleasure to meet you.” He said with a tiny little smile. “It’s wonderful to meet you, Aizawa. I am Y/N L/N.” she returned the smile flashing her pearly whites a bit. And with that led the beginning of a great date. The night was filled with a few laughs, a few stories about their past as children and teenage years.

Soon the two were at a park, the air was brisk and cold. The moon, stars, and streetlights illuminating their path and a small light drizzle of snow softly falling from up above. It was like a seen from a Hallmark Christmas movie, just absolutely perfect. Aizawa and Y/N were getting along great and were sitting on a bench somewhat snuggled up against one another but not quite because personal space still exists. Currently the topic of conversation landed on insecurities. Aizawa admitted to Y/N about how he felt about his own unkept look and how it took a lot of faith for him to even go out tonight. “That’s reasonable.” said Y/N, “But just in my own opinion, that unkept look is your own. Not many people can pull it off and still look as handsome.” she chuckled giving him a soft nudge of her elbow to the barely blushing man. “Well what about you? What are your insecurities?” Aizawa was genuinely curious about what she could possibly be insecure about. She was practically perfect in all aspects; has a good sense of humor, an amazing sense of style, very well educated, has more confidence than anyone he knows, and to top it all off, just carries herself respectably.

Y/N bit her thumb a bit nervous, for what she was about to reveal is going to be silly or at least that's what she thought. “Well. The thing I am most insecure about is my....complexion. As you can clearly tell I am not in anyway light skinned or even milk chocolate. And I know it is silly to be insecure about but from where I come from looking like me is a target in more aspects than one. To some being dark skinned has even been turned into a personality trait.” Without even noticing, Y/N ended on an entire rant about how her skin was and still is a target for ‘dark as night’ jokes or the ‘loud mouth, ratchet, Hot Cheetos’ girl. How people within her own community would just assume that she (and many others) fought or was angry all the time or lived in a really bad area where there was a lot of sun. Or the worst of things, that if she was a slave back then she’d be in the cotton fields. Every time she was told that or something similar, Y/N’s self-esteem would just crumble entirely. It made her feel unwanted, unloved, unnoticed, and just down right ugly. By the end of her little rant, she found herself trying hard not to cry in front of Aizawa. She didn’t really intend to just lay it all out there on the table for him, but maybe it was for the best. If they were going to continue dating then it was best for her to lay out all of the cards on the table and show him what he’s getting into.

“Sorry about that. I didn’t mean to make everything so gloomy with my little insecurity reveal.” she said giving an awkward smile to the now stunned man. He personally didn’t understand how anyone could be cruel to their own people, let alone for how they looked. It was foolish and childish to say the least. But he was more than proud of Y/N for being able to overcome it all. “Well I’ll be honest here. I won’t pretend that I have any form of resemblance of what you must’ve gone through over the years simply because of your skin color, but I will tell you now. Your skin is beautiful and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. I am willing to learn about the struggles you face and if fate allows it I’d love to be by your side as I do.” He said in a serious tone, gazing into her eyes and gently taking one of her hands bringing it to her lips planting a soft kiss upon her knuckles. “All those people in the past or in the now that has anything to say about your skin in a negative light are simple minded nincompoops' that have yet to be enlightened. After all, don’t they know?” he asked tucking a dread behind her pierced ear. “Know what exactly?” she asked with the most brightest smile that night. “Don’t they know that the blacker the berry, the sweeter the juice?” That alone made Y/N laugh but Aizawa was being serious. “Boy, don’t do that. Plus how would you know?” she asked as her accent came out a little. “Well I don’t. But why don’t we find out?~” he asked teasingly leaning into her ear.

Needless to say.....

Best. 

First Date.

 Ever.