#ignore the agent he ain’t important

[rooksruckus]

[whatisreggieshortfor]

Pretend to Be Desirable

A volleyball player and an idol have to pretend to date. It should be fine… right?

Yaku x gn!reader

“You’ll be presenting a relationship together.” His publicist stated, no room for debate. “We need to give off the impression that there’s a romantic appeal to both of you, it’ll help merchandising sales and boost your popularity with fans.”

“I’m not really sure I understand.” You offered, he ignored the adorably confused pout that was already forming in your face, “Me, I get. I sing a lot about love, yada yada. But why does he need this?”

The publicist sighed, and so did your agent, “I hear you don’t spend a lot of time on social media.” You shook your head no, “Well, one of his high school teammates, someone up and coming in the fashion model world, has shared some… let’s say concerning memories about his behavior back then. It makes him seem unapproachable. To counteract that he needs to be portrayed as capable of holding a relationship.”

“So we just… pretend to date. I look desirable to fans, Y/N looks like their songs are written from their experience. I got that right?” Yaku was annoyed that it was Lev of all people that landed him in this meeting. He wanted to get back to training, the entire team was convinced he was in trouble right now. He was not looking forward to the teasing he would get when he put those rumors to bed.

“Yes.” Your agent nodded, “But it is also important that neither your team, nor Y/N’s band know that it isn’t real.”

Your brow furrowed further, “I can’t tell them?”

Yaku sighed, “I understand why I can’t tell the team. Miya and Bokuto don’t exactly scream ‘I can keep a secret’ when they open their big mouths every chance they get.”

You chuckled, suddenly not looking nearly as confused, “I see why my guitarist calls you prickly.”

He rolled his eyes, giving you a smirk, “That teammate used to refer to me as ‘demon-senpai’.”

“Aw!” You laughed harder, almost clapping your hands in your amusement, “That’s actually kinda cute.”

He absolutely did not blush, looking back at his publicist, “I’m ready to pretend to be desirable. Do you have a backstory or do we make that up?”

“It’s yours to decide. But it needs to be public knowledge for the next six months, so assuming neither of you have an ex or one night stand that might show up, you’ll want to plan an amount of time that made you okay to go public.” She shrugged, standing from her desk, “My office is yours while you work it out. We’ve already sent word to the athletic trainer that you’re here because Y/N is going to be performing at a charity match we’ve arranged for the team. When you make the announcement to them, they’ll think that you were informed separately because that’s the type of information partners share with each other.”

Without another word, the two of them disappeared out the door, and you immediately spun your wheelie chair around.

“Wheeeeeeeee!” Yaku was not a soft person, why did he want to smile at your antics? Your chair suddenly stopped, face to face with him, “Ready to make up some shit?”

Walking into the gym, Yaku was not prepared. He really should’ve been, he played with or against damn near everyone here since high school, but he wasn’t. Well actually… he was prepared to be unprepared. Miya was first, because he just had to be.

“Yaku, why didn’t ya tell us ya had some love in yer life?”

“Didn’t realize it was your business.” Yaku rolled his eyes, just knowing it was going to be a long practice.

Aran patted his shoulder, “He doesn’t have to share things he doesn’t want to, Atsumu.”

“But we’re a team, ain’t we?”

“Which performer are they?” Hinata jumped around excitedly, “Iwa couldn’t tell us.”

Shit, he probably should’ve asked, huh?

“We’re called Little Future.” Yaku spun around, seeing you enter the gym with a gleaming happiness, “Hey… darling?”

“Uh, yeah, yeah, what’s up?” Dear god, they both sounded so stiff.

You held up a bento, “I made you lunch! Meant to give it to you during the meeting, but you know how I get.” He jogged over to you, hoping to end the interaction quickly. The less time you spent with the team the better.

“‘Little Future’? Sounds kinda… pessimistic, don’t it?”

“Big word for you, Miya.” Sakusa rolled his eyes, nodding at you when you glanced over.

Aran raised his hands as the two of them started arguing, “Hey now, no fighting. Miya, be a bit nicer. That’s your teammate’s partner and they are doing a free show for charity. They don’t deserve the disrespect.”

“Thank you, uh?”

“Aran Ojiro, team captain.” You shook his hand as it was offered, introduction on the tip of your tongue as a voice called out to you.

“Y/N?” Turning you saw a friend from high school, someone you hadn’t seen much of since idol training started.

“Iwaizumi?” Your eyes went wide, rushing over to pull him into a hug, “It’s so weird seeing you without the annoying brunette cutting in!” You spun around, suddenly feeling on high alert, “He isn’t here, is he?”

“No,” Iwa laughed, “Oikawa plays in Argentina these days.”

Heaving a sigh of relief, you grinned, “Good, some ocean between us.”

“What’s up between you and the Great King?”

“Hinata, no one calls him that.” Iwa sighed, but the orange haired boy wasn’t deterred, looking at you with wide curious eyes.

You hummed, elbow propping on Iwa’s shoulder like you used to in school, “Hard to tell. Could’ve been when I had to lend Iwa class notes and he thought I was a member of his fan club. Could’ve been when I gave Makki and Mattsun tickets to a show and he spent three days blowing up my phone about why I didn’t send one for him- I finally had to threaten to change my number that time. Could’ve been when I received a confession on Valentines Day our third year and he had assumed I brought it to confess to him.” Iwa didn’t look bothered by his best friend’s old antics, only offering you a chuckle before he was introducing the team. “Holy shit!” You exclaimed when he made it to Kageyama, “You’re the kid that used to drive him nuts! The one that was better than him, right?”

Iwa nodded, grinning broadly as he nudged your shoulder under their scrutinizing gaze, completely ignoring the boy going pink in the face with a mix of annoyance and embarrassment, “Remember the other guy he used to complain about? The one that always beat us to go to Nationals?”

“My guitarist actually went there! But honestly who could forget ‘yOu ShOuLd HaVe CoMe tO sHiRaToRiZaWa’?” You asked, making a face like you were being put out.

“That’s the guy.” He pointed to Ushijima.

“No. Way.” You excitedly hugged the tower of a man, even though he just awkwardly patted you on the back in return. “Semi is gonna flip when I tell him I finally met you.”

Iwa looked at you curiously as you continued to talk to the team, glanced at Yaku, and then spoke directly to Aran, “Let me borrow Yaku for a moment, I need to speak to him and Y/N about the training they’ve been doing together.”

“Oooh, training, huh?~”

“Literally fuck off, Miya.” Yaku rubbed his forehead, following the two of you to Iwa’s office.

Leaning against his desk rather than sitting down, Iwa crossed his arms over his chest and quirked a brow, “So, how long are you stuck faking this?”

Yaku almost choked on his spit, but you pouted, “Couldn’t you at least pretend I could fool you, Hajime?”

“Never once have you pulled it off, so no.” He chuckled, directing his gaze to Yaku, “What’s your story for a meet cute?”

“Train.” You offered, no longer looking as bothered that he figured you out so fast. “I figured I’d see his Team Japan sweats and strike up a conversation.”

He nodded, “Knowing you there’d be questions of what sport he plays before bonding over mutual players you both knew, yeah?”

“You got it.” Yaku nodded, he really wished they didn’t need to keep going over the details again as he watched the two of you talk. He didn’t need the reminder that he could never actually get someone like you to fall for him. He’s only known you a few hours, but he saw the way the team had already fallen for your charms. Kuroo used to tell him that people needed to grow used to him, his temper, his tendencies, something about him could always send people running to avoid him. In school it didn’t matter, he had dreams to achieve. Now he just wished someone could look at him and think maybe he was worth it.

Unfortunately, his traitorous heart had the sudden desire for that to be you, part of him glad he could spend the next six months pretending it was.

But as he looked at you and his athletic trainer, Yaku had an unsettling thought. How did he feel like the third wheel in his own fake relationship?

A month had passed in the blink of an eye- with it the charity show where you performed in his alternate jersey while your band wore fan versions of some teammates, and then two months were gone, before suddenly you were halfway through the timeframe you’d been given and life had become a different normal.

“Morisuke!”

He looked up at the sound of your voice, no longer surprised to see you visiting the gym during their breaks in training. Some days you brought him lunch, some days the two of you went out for a quick ‘date’ to be seen by the public. It left an aching in his chest how easily you fell into a familiarity with him and with his team, offering high fives and greetings as you raced over to give him a hug. Ignoring the flush that wanted to erupt in his face, shoving down the fuzzy feeling he got as you kissed his cheek, he directed his attention to you. Your enthusiasm was captivating, something about an upcoming show you had and he was nodding along before suddenly you were thrusting some kind of pieces of card paper into his hands. Tickets. “I think I counted enough out- one for each member of the team, there should even be a couple extra. I can get more if anyone has a significant other, but some would just bring each other, right?”

He chuckled, so you had noticed that, huh? “This is really generous, Y/N. Are you sure you’re allowed to do it?”

You frowned, confusion in your eyes, “Why wouldn’t I be? I bought the tickets.”

His eyes widened, “You bought all these!?”

“Of course,” you blinked, wide and innocent, and so damn beautiful, “I can’t take away the revenue that my musicians or the staff would get from them by using my connections to get them for free, but I can give them to you guys with no charge.”

He’d have to be blind to miss the way half his teammates were not-so-subtly eavesdropping, some of them had never heard your music before they found out the two of you were ‘dating’, but now it was like they couldn’t get enough. He couldn’t get enough. Always had it playing, playlists made of your albums were all over his phone. He’d give a lot to see you perform live again. Heaving a sigh, he nodded, finally taking the tickets you were still pressing into his grasp, “Yeah, okay, I’m sure these idiots will appreciate the effort.”

“What about you?” The question sounded like a joke, your smile and glittering eyes enforcing that, but something in your eyes made him think you weren’t sure how he’d feel about it.

He gave you a smirk, rolling his eyes, “Yeah, I appreciate it, too.”

You didn’t like him, not the way he liked you, but he was able to pretend the affection was real instead of staged as your smile lit up your face and you pressed another kiss to his cheek.

When the team found out you had a televised interview coming, Iwa invited them over to watch- which is how Yaku found himself surrounded by a bunch of grown men crowding a living room. He didn’t understand why they were so invested- he knew he had to watch, regardless that he wanted to, in case anything you mentioned in it was something he needed to know as your boyfriend. But they didn’t have the same stakes in it. You honestly just had them under a spell. He knew some of the players had unwittingly developed crushes on you, and he couldn’t imagine how much it would hurt him when the facade ended and you decided to move on. He would hate seeing one of them pursue you.

The interview started before he could spiral down that train of thought. (Again). He watched as you were asked about your music, influences, inspiration.

Eventually you mentioned his name. It wasn’t a surprise to him, not really, this was part of the plan. You needed to play up your ‘relationship’ for the fans.

But as a question left the interviewers lips, he could also see the way you froze and tried to play it off with a stiff chuckle, “I’m sorry, what did you ask?”

She didn’t seem phased, waving her hand to dismiss the apology, “I asked how your current partner differs from ones you’ve had before.”

Your brow furrowed, hardly noticeable to anyone but him since he had spent weeks learning you, as you tried to process what was being asked, “I’m sorry, I don’t think I follow you. Are you just asking about venturing out a usual type?”

“I’ll simplify,” something in her smile turned almost poisonous, like she was catching you in the wrong, “I have sources that informed me that before your idol training you dated a man named Matsukawa Issei. And you had a brief courtship with fashion designer Azumane Asahi. The differences between them and the man you claim as your current partner are very noticeable.”

You scoffed, the sunny disposition they knew you to have falling away. Yaku had seen this happen before, when ‘fans’ would interrupt your public outings together to offend one of you by saying the other deserved better. But he knew this would shock the team, and more than that he wanted to see how you’d respond. Your polite posture shifted, almost making a combative stance in your seat as you leveled a look at the woman across from you and she seemed to realize her mistake, “I never had a courtship with Azumane Asahi. We were and are only friends, we consistently shut down rumors there was any romantic angle to the relationship between us. As for Matsukawa Issei, as you so graciously pointed out, that was before idol training. We were still in high school, we were kids. We had thought our friendship could be more, and we were wrong. He’s still a close friend of mine.”

Clearing her throat, she still tried to maintain her original point, “You haven’t addressed the actual question.”

Rolling your eyes, you continued, “Your actual question was trash, but fine. The two men in question that you’ve mentioned are fairly tall. You want to address the difference between them and Yaku- fine. He’s on the shorter side, but so what?”

“It raises the question of how he caught your attention.” She offered, judgmental eyebrow raised.

“Maybe because he didn’t expect anything after giving garbage.” You shot back, Yaku could imagine your agent was frantically trying to shut the footage down as soon as your demeanor had shifted, but the producer didn’t seem to be budging as the camera kept rolling. “Yaku- Morisuke didn’t pursue me. I pursued him. I knew a high school friend of mine had applied for the national team, so when I saw him in his team sweats I struck up a conversation. It wasn’t meant to lead to where it did.” Suddenly there was a soft look in your eye, and he had to question how you could fake it so easily, but you were already speaking, “I never intended to develop feelings when I met him, but his height doesn’t factor into that in any way. He’s strong and he’s smart and he’s friendlier than people give him credit for and he’s supportive even when he doesn’t know exactly what I’m talking about. Yeah, he’s short. But he’s my short king. That’s all anyone really needs to know.”

He didn’t pay as much attention as the woman tried to regain control of the interview, only noticing that you called it short before they were cutting to commercial.

He didn’t notice when Iwa took the seat next to him.

Until the man spoke.

“You still think it’s fake?”

He jumped, head jerking to look at him, “I have no idea what you mean.”

Iwa rolled his eyes, “Y/N has never been able to fool me. I know when something is fake, when they’re lying. You’ve seen how they get when someone they care about is insulted. You really think that was play acting?”

“Only for a couple more months.”

Sighing, the athletic trainer patter the libero on the shoulder, “You can’t fool me either, you know that, right? Just admit how you feel.”

Yaku would sooner tell Lev that he wasn’t that bad at receives than tell you he had feelings for you he shouldn’t have.

As in: never.

When the six month deadline hit, Yaku had a sour feeling in his gut. He didn’t want you to become a stranger. Posed dates and staged sleepovers could end, fine. He could live with that. But he didn’t want to go back to never seeing you. He didn’t want to hear your name later, or see advertising for a Little Future show, and have to look back on memories of you rather than send you a text to hang out.

You were uncharacteristically quiet, sitting in the same wheelie chair as before, and he would’ve given up the dream of keeping in touch just to see you smile as you spun around again. But you were stiff. Like you didn’t want this to happen…

Did you not want this to happen?

Yaku couldn’t even listen as they talked, too busy analyzing your body language, until he found the words spitting out like vomit interrupting them.

“Y/N, you wanna catch a movie tonight? Maybe dinner?”

You blinked, shifting to look at him, “You… you wanna go out? Like a date?”

He shrugged, “Not like a date. A date. End the fake relationship, maybe start a real one?”

Yaku wasn’t one to lay things out in the line. But even as he held his breath, just waiting for your answer, he couldn’t feel a single regret lingering on his mind.

Especially when the bright and sunny smile bloomed across your face, grasping his hand in both of yours as you laughed, “Looks like someone doesn’t have to pretend to be desirable anymore.”

Dealing with Iwa’s cocky proven right attitude would be worth this.

Masterlist

[moonchildsaurora]

Time of Our Lives

✤ collab with my Moon Queen @hereisleo​ ✤ undercover agent!Woo x female undercover agent!reader   ✤ genre: Spy AU // action, chaotic fluff, inconvenient love confessions ✤ t/w: sfw, rated M, contains: swearing, mentions of guns & death ✤ count: 1.4k+

a/n - WELL DAMN. I’M BACK! It’s been a hot minute in this ghost town of a blog huh? After being stuck in the writers block for quite sometime, I’ve finally crawled out of that void. This piece was actually written...a year ago, something fun I wanted to try and roped my other half of Tea4Two into an impromptu blurb night. I started it and Leo finished it! Honestly, feels refreshing being able to write once more after months. Please enjoy & let us know your thoughts 💙

And it was in that moment, you knew, he fucked up.

All those weeks of planning went right out the window. The onslaught of bullets didn’t have to take you and your reputation out, when your partner was doing such a fine job of that. Two of Headquarters’ best agents messing up one of the most classified operation on the board – over a damn Alexandre Vauthier gown.  

You threw a side glare towards the man who was currently reloading his gun beside you. Head reeling from all that happened within the span of the few minutes that just passed.

This was a mess you definitely, did not see coming.  

“You look ridiculous in that!”

Were you personally offended by that comment?

Yes.

On the contrary, you felt like city royalty in lavish shiraz velvet. Unfortunately it proved to be too much for Jung Wooyoung to handle, if his erratic mood spoke otherwise over the days leading up to this assignment.

You been through the strategy so many times over you could recite every detail in your sleep. You knew exactly what you were getting yourself into, and so did Agent Jung.

But that didn’t mean he had to like it. Not one bit.

Wooyoung thought you looked ridiculous alright, ridiculously gorgeous. So when he saw you enter the hotel’s lounge bar from his corner, the bourbon went straight down the wrong pipe.  

The slit of the gown was a sinful display of leg and don’t even get Wooyoung started on that equally sinful plunging neckline. All hope was on that single waist belt, holding the entire outfit together.

“You alright there?” asked the bartender, patting Wooyoung on his back as he coughed through the stinging liquor. He managed a thumbs up by the end.

If you had heard him coughing his lungs out as you walked past the bar, the poker face you wore proved to be impeccable. A low whistle was heard as just as you disappeared behind the conference room doors.

“Well, ain’t the Chairman lucky today?”

The bartender mistook Wooyoung’s unimpressed expression for a cue to further elaborate, “The Chairman loves women with class and sophistication.”

A vein popped, or perhaps it was his knuckles cracking.

“A sight for sore eyes is an added bonus.”

You weren’t there to provide favours of any kind. You were there to take down this nefarious narcissist of a scumbag who’s sat far too long at the top, bleeding hard-working corporations dry to fund his own personal gain and allowed corruption to run wild. So how very rude of these ignorant bystanders to insinuate such things about you.

His habitual reaction to bite back was interrupted by the soothing tone of your voice coming through his in-ear. You played the role of the pseudo informant extremely well, dropping light flirtatious remarks to lure the Chairman in lowering his guard down.

It was all acting, this was pre-planned – Wooyoung kept telling himself.

“I must say, I wasn’t expecting such a gem to be the one liaising on the other end of this deal. Come accompany me to the penthouse once this is over…I’ve some wine imported from Italy we could try and sheets to keep us warm my dear.”

Absolutely not.

“Fuck this.”

The glass slammed down on the counter top. “Excuse me sir? Where are you going?”

“Gonna get my lady, I’d suggest you clear out right now!”

To hell with this game play. The rest of the squad were already stationed outside, awaiting orders. Pistol cocked and loaded, Wooyoung did not hesitate to set the fire alarm off. It blared throughout the complex sending patrons and hotel staff alike into a frenzy.

Either way, the Chairman was going down. Preferably with a bullet or two to the head after what he tried to pull on you.

“HANDS OFF YOU FILTH!” roared Wooyoung, kicking the doors down and aiming at his target.

Wooyoung didn’t even register your exasperated shouting of his name before the Chairman gave the signal for the bodyguards to bring the rain.

You had tossed your new pair of silver heels aside, opting to dodge and roll in bare feet so as to not lose balance. How those were sadly broken already and your damned gown was still intact, baffled you.

“You better have a fucking good explanation for this! And you owe me a new pair!” you hissed at Wooyoung.

He took a quick shot around the corner of the couch and managed to pick off another bodyguard.

“Look, the guy is rotten to the core and I’m just speeding up the process where he’s done and dusted.”

Another shot, another body drop.

“Don’t worry, I’ll buy you as many new pair of shoes as you want once this is all over. And on that note, would you let me take you out for coffee too?”

Your hard stare was met with Wooyoung’s toothy grin.  

The fucking audacity.

You gave credits where it was due but he was something else. Jung Wooyoung shouldn’t affect you this much and yet, he did. He didn’t flinch when you raised your gun towards him, there was implicit trust that you weren’t going to use him as target practice. The goon who tried to sneak aim at him fell to the floor, joining with the party of cooling bodies.

“You owe me a pair of heels…and coffee!” you bit out. Wooyoung let out a whoop of excitement which turned into a groan when you continued, “And you’re telling Boss what happened today.”

“Okay, hear me out, I didn’t mean it in a bad way when I said you looked ridiculous…” he said as both of you tucked your heads down when shots were fired near your hiding place. “You look ridiculously gorgeous and I can’t stand the thought of that sleazy bastard pawing you.”

It may have been the odd tug of your heart strings, or even the unwavering determination steeled into his eyes that did not shy from your gaze. For once instead of running from honesty, perhaps it wasn’t such a bad idea to give into it. Now that it confirmed Wooyoung was on the same page as you were.    

You never did claim you were good at planning either. And so, among the mess of bullets and broken glass, a single chaste kiss was shared. Too fleeting for your liking but sweet enough to placate two hearts, for now.

“Thank you,” and you meant it. Fingers fondly caressing the sides of his sculptured jawline.

Then the flick to his forehead brought him out of his love-drunk daze and back to reality.

Wrong time for a confession but with life as undercover agents, wrong time was also the right time. It still did not excuse the fact that you were pissed at him for cocking up the mission but –  

“We could be like Mr. and Mrs. Jung.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself!”

He chuckled and swooped down to steal another kiss. You could get used to this.

“Do you know you look hot when you’re angry?”

If you had your heels, you would have thrown it at his head. Alas, you didn’t have the chance to do so as the rest of the squad took care of the surviving Chairman’s strays and approached you and Wooyoung with the most exasperated face. Ah, you were going to get it on the ride back to the Headquarters. Even if it was Wooyoung’s fault.

Partners always got blamed together.

“See? It wasn’t too bad, gorgeous.”

You clenched your fists around Wooyoung’s suit lapel, he only raised his arms in surrender and grinned, eyes twinkling with mirth and was that fondness? You were annoyed, not angry at him anymore but simply annoyed.

“Wasn’t too bad? Wasn’t too bad for you, Jung Wooyoung but my reputation does take a hit. How do you plan on salvaging it?”

The grin widened and you immediately knew he had something up his sleeve. He grabbed your wrists and you let go of his jacket, he cleared his throat and straightened his black suit.

“Well, I do have an afternoon tea reservation for two at The Ritz and a bejewelled pair of silver heels waiting in the car. I owe you coffee and a new pair of heels, you said so yourself! And you owe me a date!”

You can’t help but laugh at his words. A man of his word, a fine man at that.

“Fine. However, don’t think this is enough to satisfy me.”

Wooyoung looped his arm around yours and leaned down to give you a swift peck to your lips, not minding the stares or silence that fell behind them. You smacked him lightly for the public display of affection yet followed his lead to the lift.

“Of course not, Mrs Jung. I intend to woo you!”

[chokemewanda]

Remember The Feeling

Peggy Carter x f!reader

Masterlist

Warnings: tiny bit of smut

Peggy Carter was more than a crutch for Steve’s happy ending

“I mean he’s nice an’ all. Always a gentleman, walks me right to my door and we been on three dates now. But I don’t know, I don’t think I want to settle down with him.” You sighed, running your finger around the rim of your coffee mug.

Your friends sighed, giving each other ‘the look’. You saw it every time this happened. You’d meet a guy and go on a few dates but nothing ever came of it. They weren’t interesting, they were too handsy, they weren’t handsy enough, the list went on and on.

“You know, you’ll be a spinster at this rate.” You weren’t listening. Your attention had been captured by Agent Carter as she walked with purpose through the break room, filling her coffee cup and leaving again.

“She’s quite a dame, ain’t she?” You asked, watching her retreating form with a wistful sigh. “I bet it’d be real nice to be her. She could have any guy she wanted. Even Steve Rogers.”

“I don’t think it would be one bit nice. Why can’t she just settle down and get married like the rest of us have to. Why’s she gotta make things hard on herself?” It was always the same questions. People wondered when she’d remember she was a woman with expectations on her shoulders.

You hoped she never remembered. She was doing amazing things for women, making strides that no woman had ever managed to before. She was an Agent. A damn good one.

You and all your friends were just receptionists that sat around and gossiped all day without ever managing to look quite as swell as Peggy did.

“You think she’ll hire me? She oughta need a receptionist by now and I fuckin’ hate working Lieberman’s desk.” You sighed, chin on your hand. Your friends had gone back to discussing their plans for the weekend while you daydreamed about red lipstick.

//

You complained about your friends a lot. Called them old gossips and ragged on them both for having settled down with men that weren’t good enough for them. But you loved them.

They complained about you for daydreaming and passing up guys that would marry you in a heartbeat. But they loved you.

They proved it by pulling strings and landing you the job as Peggy Carter’s assistant. You don’t know how and you didn’t asked, just squealed in excitement, hugging them both.

“If only we could get you this excited by a fella.” They had sighed but you weren’t listening. You were going to be the Peggy Carter’s assistant.

For your first day you put more effort into your appearance than you did for any dance hall. You wanted to impress, to look as good as she did. It was near impossible but damn if God didn’t love a trier.

She was everything you expected. She showed you the ropes, explaining things properly and gave you a proper set up. She trusted you with more than any other employer ever did. You were allowed type up important letters and send them off for her.

You hero worshipped her and you knew she could tell. You got flustered whenever she walked into the room and she gave you the same smirk every time, pursing her red lips.

You stopped going to the dance halls, staying late to work and then getting back to your apartment you shared with your friends just in time to fall asleep and do it all again the next day.

Your friends were pissed off, wondering why you bothered working on your career instead of looking for a husband.

You didn’t know either but the thoughts of settling down with some banker or accountant with slicked back hair and anger issues that you’d probably only find out about after you married him made you feel physically ill.

So you pushed the thoughts away and ignored the pressure from everyone you knew to settle down and didn’t think about those late night dreams of red lipstick stains on your thighs. It didn’t mean anything.

You told yourself it’d happen. You’d meet a nice man eventually and he’d marry you and make you a mother and that would be that.

You were typing out a letter Peggy was dictating to you one day when she perched on the edge of your desk, skirt riding up her thigh. You swallowed, watching the keys of the typewriter with laser focus because if you looked back to her skin again you’d get thoughts you didn’t need to deal with.

“Are you okay?” She asked and you nodded, flexing your fingers while you waited for her to continue. You glanced down at her rising skirt again before focusing. “Do you drink?”

“Um.” You hesitated. “Some times. I don’t really like the taste of it.”

“You should come over for dinner and a drink. Tonight.”

///

You were a mess. A jittery, sweaty mess. You’d never been so nervous to visit a colleagues house before. But here you were, standing on her porch and staring at the door. You hadn’t knocked. You needed a minute. Or two.

“Aren’t you going to come in?” She asked and you blinked, wondering when the door had opened. You laughed nervously, making your way inside. You had expected other people but it seemed it was just you and Peggy.

You were nervous all through dinner, voice shaking and cutlery clinking together as you ate. She seemed amused, asking you questions about your family and friends.

“You don’t have a boyfriend?” She asked carefully. “A pretty girl like you could be a wife by now.”

“I’d have to quit my job.” You told her and she nodded slowly. “And become this perfect little woman who cooks and cleans and lets a man writhe around on top of her for three minutes once a week until she died.”

You didn’t mean to sound so bitter. You knew she had lost her love. She probably would have married Steve and had a couple of kids for him. You felt sick at the image of her and him in your mind. She was so much more than Steve’s dame.

“I know how you feel.” She told you softly. “They expect us to just settle down with a man and give up anything that makes us who we are.”

“Yes.” You sighed, relieved she understood you. “I mean I’ll probably settle down some day. Just not until I find someone worth it.”

“What do you see? What kind of a person do you see yourself loving?” She asked, leaning her chin on her hand, elbow propped up on the table.

“Someone who recognizes me.” You told her with a laugh. “I want them to see the things in me that others can’t.”

“Pardon me for not beating around the bush. But you’re not using male pronouns.” She told you quietly and you swallowed nervously.

“I’m aware.” You told her and she grinned, leaning back in her chair. “I don’t want to settle down with a man.”

“Men are over rated.” Peggy promised you.

//

You moved in together. As house mates. You were in the spare room while she had the master room with the soft pillows and the warm blankets.

People suspected you both to be spinsters, having lost your chance with men and living together because there was nowhere else to go.

You wouldn’t have wanted to be anywhere else than in between her sheets, caressing her body like you’d never seen it before.

It was how Steve found you both. Your head between her legs and her fingers tangled in your hair as you woke her up in the usual fashion. With your tongue.

He had explained himself after. He’d come back for her. Peggy had politely told him that she had a life outside him. Her hand curled around your hip possessively as she thanked him for thinking of her but she was fine without him.

You had blushed wickedly the whole time, convinced she was going to give you up for the good Captain.

“But he was the love of your life.” You told her quietly when he’d left.

“Now who on Earth told you that?” She laughed, running her fingers through your hair. “I’ve got everything I need right here.”

///

“I’ve always wanted a best friend like that. They’ve been supporting each other since they were young.” The nurse hugged her clip board to her chest as you sat with Peggy in the day room, babbling away to her.

“Best friend?” A young care assistant asked with a laugh. “Lesbians.”

“No.” The nurse was scandalized, jaw dropping as she watched Peggy cup your cheeks, talking quietly.

“Yes.” She affirmed. “They don’t know a thing about each other right now but they still find each other every morning to sit together and talk about an old friend the other reminds them of.”

“It’s kind of sweet, in a way.” One of the porters told them, joining in on the conversation.

“They’ve both forgotten everything but each other.”

This was written incredibly quickly because of a discussion with @msmarvelwrites , it wasn’t edited and it’s currently 1:34am and I’ve a 13hr shift starting at 8am tomorrow. So enjoy and remember. Steve should’ve left Peggy damn well alone.

[shurisneakers]

shut in [2]

Summary: When your high profile mission goes terribly wrong, you’re forced to hide in a safehouse with a man you’ve never met before. With seemingly nowhere else to go, you’re forced to work together to figure out who is trying to have you assassinated before it’s too late. (Sam Wilson x Gender Neutral Reader, Hitman AU)

Warnings: cursing, implied violence, drama kings, and stupid tv show references

Word count: 3.4k

A/N: ayeeee, we’re back for part two. i also appreciate feedback so if you would like to, please consider dropping me an ask or comment ly guys!! also if you want to be on the taglist, it’s mentioned at the bottom of the chapter.

here’s my ko-fi if you’d like to support my writing <333

Previous Part || Shut In Masterlist

Hours were spent on the road in thick silence. 

The both of you had been driving around for a while now. You were a considerable distance away from the mansion and Pierce, but you didn’t dare to stop.

Initially you had only put the pedal to the metal without solid plan. Get the fuck away from there was the only objective you cared about. 

Hours later a signboard registered in your frantic thoughts. Familiarity struck a chord, and all of a sudden you had a vague idea of where you could go. You were unsure if it still existed, but it was a risk you were willing to take.

Darkness still coloured the sky, but the roads were deserted. No cameras along the highway was a welcomed feature. You eased your foot off the accelerator, carefully assessing the path you were taking for your exit. 

You saw a small clearing near the highway, taking a deep breath before pulling the car into a sharp turn off the road and into the woods.

“Where are you going?” your companion jolted up when the car swerved abruptly. 

You didn’t answer; just kept your eyes peeled for the structure. You didn’t have a backup plan if this didn’t go right.

It took much longer than you anticipated before you found it, pulling the car to a stop. You were deeper into the woods than you would have liked. 

You stuck your head out of the window to confirm you were at the right place. It looked like you were.

“Where the hell are we?”

“My summer vacation house,” you murmured, unbuckling your seatbelt. You stepped out of the car to assess the damage. .

Another door opening and closing told you that he had gotten out of the car as well. However, he trudged ahead, leaving you behind. 

The car was pretty beaten up. The metal gates hadn’t done it any favours.The question was whether it would still work if you needed it to.

Probably would, but not for too long.

You looked to the side to see where he went. He was standing in front of the house, arms crossed over his chest as he ran his eyes all over the building.

You trekked past him, walking up the two steps to the door. Pulling at what looked like a doorbell in any other scenario, you tugged off the outer shell to reveal a small scanner underneath.

You pressed your thumb to it, tapping your foot impatiently as it gave a beep of approval. The door gave a soft click. You let out a breath you didn’t realise you were holding, twisting the handle to let yourself in. 

“You’re kidding right?” he asked incredulously from a distance behind you.

“Hey, man, stay outside if you want. Suit yourself.” You were sure he could fashion a bed out of leaves and twigs if he was that desperate.

Fumbling for the light switch, you sigh in relief when the room is illuminated.

“Whose safehouse is this?”

“Ransone’s.” You shrugged nonchalantly, moving ahead to inspect the place.

“I have every single one of his safehouses committed to memory.” His voice was becoming fainter as he planted his feet firmly at the doorway, refusing to move. “This ain’t one of them.”

“He’s sneaky. Once watched the next episode of Desperate Housewives without telling me.” The house wasn’t as dusty as you thought it would be, clearly being maintained once in a while although not regularly. “Broke my whole heart, he did.”

“Whose house is this?” he asked once again, tone hard as steel.

“Best that you don’t ask questions, buddy.” You looked at him wearily, a slo warning in itself, ending the conversation there. “Or else you’re welcome to leave.”

The entrance opened directly into what you assumed was the living room, or a sorry excuse for one. It had a couch facing an old cable television set, mounted on a small cupboard.

In the same space was the kitchen, with a microwave, a sink, and shelves lining the wall. A small mini fridge sat atop the counter.  There was a dining table with six chairs for a family, almost like a sick joke. You found yourself letting out a short exhale at it, moving onto the next room.

It was bare except for a shelf pressed against a well. Opening it, you found yourself looking at multitudes of what looked like burner phones, microphones, cameras, some as small as a button. Regular security cameras and monitors to go with it, trackers, anything you needed was available in those four drawers.

You pocketed a burner cell to use for later, moving to the room on the opposite side of the hall.

However, unlike the rest of the rooms you had seen so far, this one was empty. Not even a shelf decorating it.

The next door you opened was a bathroom, the final being a bedroom with one bed in the centre pushed up against the wall. A wardrobe in the corner contained numerous t-shirts of black and grey of every size, tactical pants and other necessary items of clothing.

You eyed the last door at the end of the hall before finally deciding to pursue it.

It opened to the patio in the back, two steps leading down from the house into the wooded area. Pillars held up the corners of the roof. It all looked picturesque, meant to blend in as a normal house.

You stood there for a second, taking in the silence around you. Nothing could be heard for miles, so if something were to happen-

You shook your head, forcing your imagination to stop running wild. You shut the door behind you, steadily making your way back to where the guy was.

It appeared that he had caved. He had moved from the doorway, instead taking a seat on one of the dining chairs. He was observing you, eyes keen as you took a seat opposite to him.

Dropping the burner phone on the table, you looked at him expectantly. Silence ensued until it dawned on him what you were implying. 

“I’m not calling him,” the guy said, leaning on his palm. Coward. 

“Fine.” You pulled it back, snapping it open to dial the number.

You let it ring all the way until the very last second.

“Hello?” the low voice resonated from the other end.

“Ransone.” You rolled your eyes at his tone, somehow letting your exhaustion tear down any kind of filter you usually had while in conversation with him. 

“Y/N?” His voice jumped two octaves higher to his usual pitch, dropping the facade immediately. 

“Did you set us up?” You ignored the small glance you got from the guy at your name.

“What?”

“Did you set us up?” you repeated brazenly.

“What?”

“Oh, cut the shit Ransone, was this a trap?” The guy next to you exploded impatiently.

“Wilson?” Great. A name to the face.

“Answer the fuckin’ question, Vincent.” The mention of Ranone’s first name had you surprised. No one dared to call him that.

“No, Sam,” came his response almost mockingly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Sam Wilson. It sounded familiar. You’d heard it tossed around a few times at the organisation.

“Why were both of us on the same assignment?”

“I told you, I wasn’t sure if Wilson was going to show up.” You could hear his chair faintly creak in the background. “This was his mission first.”

“The hell is that supposed to mean?” you interjected. Faint memories of a passing comment he made during your briefing were beginning to surface. 

“It means,” Ransone emphasised. “I called him first. He was being a bit… difficult. So I sent you as a backup.”

You looked at Sam. He dismissed you with a wave of his hand, as if to say to ignore what he was saying.

“And you didn’t think it was important to tell me that you were sending someone else?” If Ransone had told you, he should have mentioned it to him too.

“Oh, grow up.” Ransone sounded irritated, a tone that he seemed to reserve for Sam specifically. “You’re not children anymore. You can handle a few miscommunications.”

“Bullshit. You and I both know this isn’t an accident,” Sam retorted, dangerously good at not giving a shit. 

“You better watch yourself, agent.” Ransone snarled. “I don’t like being questioned.”

“Like I give a shit about what you like or not. We were outnumbered 8 to 2. You tellin’ me you had nothing to do with this? That the stars just aligned to royally fuck with us?”

“Yes, I waited until Mercury was in retrograde to plan this hit,” he drawled sarcastically. “Don’t you for a second forget what you owe me, Wilson. You’d be stupid to believe I’d let it go so easily by having you killed.”

His voice was ice by the end. Sam’s eyebrow furrowed as he leaned back, crossing his arm over his chest.

“Then what about me?”

“Y/N,” he sighed, instantly sounding softer. “I didn’t think he would show. That’s it.”

“You’ve never been unsure of anything.”

“Which is why I sent you in. Pierce had to die one way or the other. Don’t care how.” It wasn’t what you were talking about, but it brought up something else. 

You looked at Sam. Should you tell him that Pierce was dead before you got there?

You decided against it, not knowing what his reaction would be and too tired to gauge it over the phone. If someone else had gotten to Pierce before you, it meant that Ransone didn’t get a chance to deliver a dramatic end to his life, which would tick him off endlessly. 

“How do I know you’re telling the truth?” Sam broke the momentary pause.

“You don’t.” He paused. “Distrusting me is the wisest thing you could do.”

You scoffed at his stupid Game of Thrones quote. How he was this obnoxious at a time like this was beyond comprehension. 

“Give me your location.” He couldn’t sound less interested, like a parent forced to pick up their child. “I’ll send someone to come pick you up.”

Sam’s finger tapped at the table, drawing your attention to him.

He slowly shook his head, mentioning to his ear then drawing his finger in a circle indicating his surroundings.

Disclosing confidential information over the phone wasn’t the wisest idea. You had no idea if anyone was tapping into Ransone’s calls, listening for sensitive information. For all you knew that’s how they got to the mansion before you. 

“Forget it. We’ll figure it out,” you told Ransone, eyes still locked on Sam.

“All right, stay low for a while. Keep me updated.”

You cut the call without another word, removing the battery and tossing the phone onto the table.

“What now?”

Neither of you said anything for a while. The silence rested uncomfortably between you as you stewed over what to bring up. 

“Did you kill Pierce?”

“Christ, we still on this?” he scoffed.

“It’s a yes or no question.” 

“No,” he stared at you. “I didn’t.”

“Did Ransone send you to spy on me?” It wouldn’t be the first time it had happened, although you thought he had moved past the need for that years ago. 

“No, I was there for a mission.”

“You got any proof?”

He rolled his eyes. “Scout’s honour.”

He lifted his hand up in a mock-salute. A wince flashed across his face; barely, but enough for you to catch it. His arm dropped back down again.

You examined him silently, searching for any hint of a lie or bluff. You found nothing, only an adamant set of eyes staring right back at you.

Your chair creaked as you pushed yourself away from the table. You could feel his gaze following you as you walked down the hall to the bathroom. Shuffling through the shelves for something you were sure was there, you soon stepped back out.

You had no idea why you were doing this. You didn’t even know the guy.

He had his sleeve pulled up to his shoulder, examining the wound from the bullet graze. Dried blood streaked his forearm, partially covering his tattoo.

You tossed the first aid kit onto the table, watching it slide across to where he was sitting. Sam glanced at the box, then up at you.

You just turned around silently, walking back down the hall and towards the bedroom, shutting the door behind you.

__________

Sleep didn’t come that night, and predictably so.

Whether it was the survival instinct guarding you from the stranger in the house, the adrenaline from the mission or even the anxiety of not knowing what exactly was going on, you were sure that you didn’t catch even a bit of shut eye.

Morning came around after what seemed like days rather than hours. You still stayed in bed well past the sunrise, pulling at the hem of your pillow. Your knife was still strapped to your thigh and your gun found a place on the nightstand, just in case.

When you heard the opening and shut of cabinets down the hall, you finally pulled yourself up, stretching to get rid of the weariness in your muscles. You decided against the gun but left the knife strapped to your thigh as you shifted off the bed.

You paused at the doorway, hand on the knob. Shoving aside your hesitation, you opened the door quietly. You could handle it, easily.

Walking towards the kitchen, the volume of his ruffling and filing through the kitchen only became louder. You stopped at the entrance, watching as Sam slammed a cabinet door shut.

“C’mon man,” he groaned before turning around to lean his body weight against the counter. There was a small bump under the sleeve of his arm, different from the curve of his muscle. You assumed he had bandaged the bullet graze the night before.

He was still wearing the same thing as yesterday. Dust was slightly settled on his shirt and one knee of his pants was ripped slightly.

“Mornin’.” You quickly looked back up at him, not realising when he had seen you. “Get any sleep last night?”

You wordlessly shook your head and he shrugged in understanding. 

“Did you?”

“Oh yeah. Out like a light.” He pushed himself off the counter.

“Really?” You watched as he pulled out a chair for himself, taking a place at the dining table, same place he was sitting the night before.

“Sounded like the reasonable thing to do.” He had an unnatural amount of faith in the fact that you wouldn’t murder him. Although you couldn’t judge if he was simply putting on a show, having stayed awake just as you had. 

“I'm stuck in a safehouse with a stranger, forgive me for being a little careful,” you muttered defensively, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Hey, never said you were wrong.” He lifted his hands up. “But just to make sure; are you going to kill me?”

Your eyebrows furrowed. “No?”

“And I’m not going to kill you. I’d say that’s enough reassurance to get at least a nap in.”

“Give me one good reason to believe you.”

“If you killed me, Ransone would blow the roof of this place with you still in it. I’m one of the best he’s got.”

“Bullshit.” You scoffed, walking around the table to go see what you could find to eat. Ransone wouldn’t do that for anyone, and he knew that.

He didn’t bother responding but you could sense him tracking your movement.

The first cabinet you opened consisted purely of jars of peanut butter, stacked together neatly. The one beside it had jelly arranged in a similar fashion, jar to jar and taking up the entire space. Adjacent cupboard had loaves of bread, probably the most you’d seen together in a house ever.

The next cupboard was... empty.

“You have got to be fuckin’ with me,” you cursed under your breath. “Is there nothing else here?”

Save for a few plates and cutlery, every other shelf was empty. Your frustration only grew with each drawer you opened and shut, finding nothing but the same three components over and over again.

“There’s some soup on the top right, behind the bread.” His voice came from behind you. You checked where he mentioned, finding multiple cans of tomato soup. “I hope PB&J is your favourite, ‘cause that’s really all we got. I checked twice.”

“We won’t be here long anyway. It’s fine.” You walked a few steps towards where the TV was, sitting atop a small cupboard. If you weren’t getting gourmet meals, hopefully it would be compensated with some entertainment.

Rummaging through it didn’t prove to be a major hassle since there were only three DVDs; Die Hard, Notting Hill and Megamind. Beside it sat two books, American Gods, and Pride and Prejudice. That’s all. 

“Really made sure to cover all demographics with those movies. There’s only one local news channel, everything else is static,” Sam informed you, unmoving from his position. You sighed, tossing the DVDs back and shutting the door.

“There’s a room over there with some basic shit. Burners, mics, cameras. Clothes are in the bedroom drawer. Should probably take a shower while you’re at it, I can smell you from a mile away and it’s giving me a migraine.” You pushed yourself off the ground, pointing towards the rooms as you walked down the hall. “Backyard’s all heavily wooded. If we try hard enough, I’m sure there are a few trap doors or crawl spaces or whatever around here.”

You could hear him follow you as you gave him the tour of a place you were sure he already had examined thoroughly before you greeted him this morning.

Pushing open the door to the suspiciously empty room, you stepped to the side, allowing him to observe. The both of you had the same thought process as you split up, sticking close to the walls, running your fingers across the plaster to look for any major differences.

“Got it,” he called out. You spun on your heel to face where he was standing. A small chunk of the wall was missing, a small button in the centre of the cavity he had created.

Pressing it lightly, the mechanical sound of sliding doors filled the air as the entire side of the room gave way to shelves upon shelves of weapons. Guns, knives, ammunition, bulletproof vests; enough material to last you years.

The doors slid shut when you pressed the button again, not until you had a mental note of what was available in case you found yourself in a situation where you required them.

“That about covers it. Don’t think we’ll be here long so just think of it as your three day long staycation.”

“I’ve had a better time at funerals than I’ll ever have in this shithole.”

________

“What do you mean they escaped?” Their voice was booming, dripping with slow rising anger. “Someone explain to me how the fuck that’s possible.”

“They took the car and left.”

“They took the car and left,” they said mockingly in a high pitch. “I know that, you fucking imbecile. I’m asking how they were alive long enough to do it?”

“They teamed up. Took out nearly everyone,” the agent was monotone. His arm was in a sling and his partner stood beside him, thick bandages around his midsection.

“They shouldn’t have been there together. They shouldn’t have been sent together.”

No one said a word, not even daring to breathe loudly.

“This wasn’t supposed to fucking happen. We killed Pierce. Everything was perfect,” their voice dropped as they spat out the last word. “So then how did this fucking happen?”

“Boss, we’ll-”

“I want them dead.” They interrupted, casting silence in the room. “I don’t care how you fucking do it. I want you to find them and rip them to shreds. Both of them.”

“Yes, boss.”

“And if you even fucking think of coming back without a proper update-” they brought their hand down harshly on the table. “-I’ll make you wish you were never born.”

The agents just nodded, faces pale as they shuffled out of the room silently.

“Fucking idiots.” They nursed their forehead on their palm, calming the nerve that was menacingly visible on their temple. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

Part 3

[fromthedeskoftheraven]

Visions of sugarplums

Pairing: Agent Whiskey x female reader

Content: Pining, workplace romance, fake dating if you squint, oh no we’re snowed in, mention of food, kissing, making out, mostly-non-explicit sex (under-18s, jog on), so many sweet pet names you’ll get cavities, romantic Jack because apparently I'm a sucker for that

Word count: ~4800 (yeah. Jack is a demanding muse)

Prompt: “Hoping one day you’ll make a dream last” (Let Her Go, Passenger), for @yespolkadotkitty‘s follower celebration writing challenge 🎉

Note: I said canon Whiskey who? This cowboy drinks respect women juice.

Part two: Kentucky welcome Part three: Just say you will

Taglist (if you’d like to be tagged, un-tagged, or make a request for future fics, feel free to let me know): @writemessystarwars @keeper0fthestars @flightlessangelwings @yespolkadotkitty @emesispo @songsformonkeys @beccaplaying

-----------------------------

A whirl of snow stings your cheek like a slap as you hurry through the grounds of the posh ski resort that sprawls across the valley, dotted with cozy cabins and million-dollar chalets.

Your sheer stockings, low-cut dress, and teetering heels are no match for snow bursts and the wind that cuts through you like a  knife. Inwardly cursing your alter ego and her penchant for skimpy fashions, you tug your thin coat more tightly around you.

This mission was supposed to be a piece of cake. A few days at a luxe resort, posing with your partner as an arms dealer and his girlfriend to get close to your target, and everything was going swimmingly...until your search of the target’s study during a cocktail party was interrupted by two of his security staff making their rounds ahead of schedule. The adrenaline rush of your narrow escape is still humming in your veins.

Beside you, long strides making quick work of the path, Jack Daniels has transformed himself from intelligence agent to wealthy gun runner with the world on a string. The cashmere overcoat that cost more than your first car is the perfect finishing touch to his sharp suit, and his dark good looks stand out even in the hazy moonlight.

Rounding the corner of a chalet, Jack slows his steps to a stroll. A strong arm pulls you flush against his side as he walks, letting an easy laugh float on the wind like you’ve said something witty. Before you have time to wonder what’s going on, another couple materializes in the pool of light from a lamp, squinting against the gusts that throw fresh powder into the air like confetti.

“Evening,” Jack says with a tip of his hat and a winning  smile, the very picture of a genial Southern gentleman. “This weather sure is pickin’ up, ain’t it?”

The couple mutter their agreement  and hurry on their way. Once they’re out of sight Jack’s hand slides to the small of your back, guiding you as you both quicken your strides again. Your teeth are chattering by the time the wind blows you onto the porch of your own cabin, and in a fumble of hands on the doorknob you step together into the blessed stillness of the spacious room.

A  cheerful whistle pierces the air and you turn to find Jack brushing snow off of his black Stetson and favoring you with a lopsided smirk. Even damp with melting snow he manages to be striking, all sultry eyes and dashing mustache and wayward strands of dark hair curling over his  forehead.

“Nothin’ like a little skirmish to get the blood pumping.” He carefully sets the hat on the fireplace mantel to dry. “I feel like...”

“...A tornado in a trailer park,” you finish with him, earning one of those wide, dimpled grins that always dazzles you a little in return.

“Just so,” he says.

“That’s another one in the ‘win’ column.” You try to suppress a shiver as you pull the flash drive that might as well be a smoking gun from the cleavage of your dress. “A few bumps in the road, but we got what we needed.”

Jack ignores the congratulations, stepping close to take your chilled hands between his large ones. His hands aren’t much warmer than yours, but the thrill that trickles down your spine has nothing to do with the cold.

The frown lines between his brows deepen. “Darlin’, you’re colder than a well-digger’s belt buckle. Go on and have yourself a hot shower while I get a fire started and check in with HQ.”

“I can wait, I’ll help you,” you offer.

He shakes his head, already moving toward the fireplace. “Don’t you worry, sugarplum, ol’ Jack’ll have this place snug in no time. You just get comfortable.”

Helpless against the lure of hot water and fuzzy socks, you rummage in your suitcase for a change of clothes. Still, you stop at the bathroom door to look back at Jack where he’s stacking logs with the same determination furrowing his brow as when he’s reviewing dossiers or cleaning his guns.

The two of you have been almost inseparable for the year that you’ve been working for the Statesman agency. Even your code name was assigned with your partnership in mind, a little inside joke Champ never gets tired of telling when he introduces the two best agents in the New York office: “...Because you can’t have a Manhattan without Whiskey and Vermouth!”

Jack comes on as strong as his namesake liquor, but you’ve seen the  steely nature under his flashy Southern charm, the practice behind the effortless shows of skill, the tender heart he hides with bravado.

And he has no idea you’ve fallen in love with him.

As though he can feel your gaze, Jack looks up, his stern expression relaxing. He gives you a wink and waves one hand to shoo you along before getting back to his task.

With a sheepish smile, you duck into the bathroom and turn on the shower before you can do something stupid.

Like asking him to join you.

***

"Mission report, Agent?”

Champ’s projection flickers into the armchair across from Jack, looking like some kind of Halloween effect with the flames dancing over the logs in the fireplace behind him.

“We’ve got all the intel we need.” Jack adjusts his glasses, stretching his legs out in front of him with a sigh. “Agents ready for pickup.”

“Glad to hear it. Where’s Vermouth?”

Jack glances toward the sound of running water. “She’s just showerin’ to warm up. We got caught in a snow flurry coming back to the cabin.”

“That so?” The ghost of a smile flits over Champ’s face. “I thought you’d want to be the one warmin’ her up.”

Jack’s not sure if he’s more annoyed by the teasing, or how quick he is to take the bait. “Champ, this ain’t a Fourth of July picnic. In case you’ve forgotten, I’m on a delicate mission with my partner.”

“Now, don’t get your feathers ruffled, son,” Champ says mildly, reaching for a highball glass. “You confided in me about your feelings, and I’m just givin’ you a little nudge of encouragement.”

“I did not confide in you.” Jack leans forward to jab a finger at the hazy image of his boss. “You tested Ginger’s new truth serum on me.”

Champ’s grin is distinctly unrepentant. “Well, you looked like a man who needed to get somethin’ off his chest. ‘Sides, I won twenty bucks from Tequila for being right.”

Jack only grunts, slumping on the couch again. “Your granny’s special mint julep recipe, my ass.”

“Jack, she’s a pretty girl. Smart as that whip of yours. You think you’ll be the only one to notice? Anybody can see Vermouth thinks the world of you, but one of these days she’ll be wearin’ another man’s ring if you don’t stop pussyfooting around and make good on all that flirtin’ you do.”

That idea settles in Jack’s stomach like a bad oyster.

Of course, Champ has a point.

You are pretty. No, scratch that...beautiful. You’re a hell of a good agent -- the quickest route to Jack’s bad side is to suggest otherwise -- but you’re so much more than that. Your sweetness and spirit are more than a man like him can hope to deserve, but damn if the way your eyes light up when you smile doesn’t thaw something long dormant in his chest.

If he’s been hell-bent on keeping things professional between you, his dreams are anything but. When he closes his eyes he sees you, soft and yearning and his. His to have and hold until he wakes up aching, with your phantom touch lingering on his skin.

He’s starting to forget why professionalism was so important to him in the first place.

“Champ, you got anything else related to this mission? Been a long day here.”

“Matter of fact, I do.” Thankfully, Champ has the grace to go along with the change of subject. “That storm’s kickin’ up too much snow to get a jet in there. You’ll have to hunker down and wait for a pickup in the morning.”

Well, if the universe wants to hand Jack another night in your company, who is he to argue?

“Copy that,” he says out loud. “We’ll await contact in the morning.”

Champ smiles. “Plenty of time for any long-overdue conversations you might want to have.”

“You’re startin’ to break up. Whiskey out.” Jack pulls off the glasses and tosses them unceremoniously onto the coffee table, scrubbing a hand over his face.

Sparing a glance at the darkening sky outside the window, he hauls himself off of the couch to put another log on the fire, trying not to think about how Champ just might be right.

***

When you emerge from the bathroom in a cloud of fragrant steam, Jack is lounging on the couch in front of a crackling fire. He’s traded the designer clothes for jeans and a faded button-down shirt and managed to tame his tousled hair. You know he takes pride in his trademark hat and bespoke suit jackets, but there’s something about him when he’s dressed down and softer around the edges that tugs at your heart.

He looks up when you come into the room, cheek dimpling with a smile. “Well, don’t you look like a new woman? Thought you were fixin’ to turn into an icicle on me for a minute, there.”

“Here’s hoping our next assignment involves sandy beaches and umbrella drinks.” You hug your sweater around yourself. “What’s the word from Champ?”

“Looks like we’re here for the night on account of this storm.”

As if on cue, a gust of wind rattles the windows, making you jump.

“Come and have a seat by the fire, sweetheart.” Jack picks something up from the coffee table and waves it at you. “Got a protein bar and some water for you. I don’t know about you, but a handful of damn canapes ain’t going to see me through to morning.”

“You sure know how to wine and dine a girl, cowboy,” you tease, dropping onto the couch.

His laugh is as good-natured as ever. “When we get back home, I’ll cook you the best steak you’ve ever had.”

“The best steak since the last one you cooked for me?"

“Well, a man should always be improvin’ his technique to keep a woman happy.” His dark eyes twinkle with mischief, and you roll your eyes but can’t quite smother a laugh.

The protein bar tastes something like chocolate-flavored chalk but you’re hungry enough to make quick work of it, washing it down with gulps of water. Jack nudges your shoulder and you find him offering his flask with a wry smile.

“’Fraid it’s all I've got in the way of dessert.”

The whiskey inside burns its way down your throat and mellows to spread its warm glow through your chest. With a sigh, you hand back the flask, watching Jack’s throat ripple with the swig he takes before reattaching it to his belt.

The liquor’s fire contrasts with the chill of the day in your bones, setting off a shiver that shudders through your shoulders and arms.

“Honey, you still cold?” Jack’s voice is rough-edged with weariness and whiskey.

“Well, I like a nice walk in the snow as much as the next girl, but I was half naked in that ridiculous outfit,” you say dryly.

One corner of his mouth quirks upward. There’s something unreadable in those fathomless eyes as he watches you for a moment before opening one arm, arching a brow in invitation.

Some tiny, winged creature takes up residence in your chest where your heart should be, and you immediately scold yourself. Jack’s your partner and your friend. Of course he has the decency not to want to see you miserable after a long, cold day.

So you tell yourself, even as you go to him, nestling into his side and letting his arm come around you to hold you close. His hand is relaxed on your shoulder, his thumb trailing back and forth in a gentle rhythm.

“Better?” he murmurs.

You feel like home, you think.

“Better.”

With Jack’s heartbeat steadfast and comforting under your palm, the last of your reserve dissolves. You tuck your head into the crook of his neck and melt into his warmth, breathe in his scent, musky and tinged with leather and sandalwood.

Quiet descends on the room, fleece-soft and a little sleepy, as you stare into the fire and let your mind wander. The hypnotic trace of Jack’s thumb over your shoulder is the only indication that he’s still awake.

You sneak a look at him. His eyes glitter black in the gathering dark and his profile is regal, carved into the stern dips and hollows of a Roman sculpture by the play of light and shadow from the fire.

He’s beautiful. You wonder if anyone’s ever told him.

“Jack?”

He hums in answer, almost the purr of a contented cat.

“Do you ever think about retiring?”

A soft snort of laughter rumbles against you. “You callin’ me old?”

“We both know I’d punch anyone who did,” you scold, giving his chest a playful swat. “I just mean...do you ever imagine doing something else? Something more peaceful?”

“Well, I’ve got a patch of land in Kentucky with a farmhouse. One day I suppose I’ll give up the apartment in the city and trade the Silver Pony in for a ridin’ mower.”

You frown. It’s a jarring reminder that after all this time, Jack still has his secrets. “You do?”

He nods. “It’s been in my family for generations, my granddaddy left it to me. Always thought I’d raise a family there. Houseful of kids, dogs, the whole nine yards,” he says ruefully.

He doesn’t have to tell you why he never did.

The tragic loss of Jack’s wife and unborn son is no secret in the agency, and you might know better than anyone about the hole they left in his life. It’s always broken your heart for him, but the idea of this family home that sits empty but for his ghosts makes it suddenly, achingly easy to imagine Jack building a cradle in the barn and reading bedtime stories and teaching little ones to ride their first horses.

“Maybe it’s not too late,” you offer. “You never know.”

He squeezes your shoulder for an instant, a silent recognition of your kindness, before going on with a breezy sigh. “What about you? You fixin’ to go plant yourself by a pool somewhere with a fancy drink in one hand and a book in the other?”

“What, and not get to play fake criminals at cocktail parties with you?” you scoff. “Not a chance.”

His smile is sharp and sweet as molasses. “Well, I'm always happy to escort the most beautiful woman in the room.”

There’s something so plain and sincere about the sentiment that you’re taken aback.

Jack throws around compliments like other people talk about the weather. But you know when he’s just greasing the wheels of conversation, filling the space between words...and this isn’t it.

Ignoring the rush of heat into your cheeks, you default to the safety of humor. “Flattery will get you everywhere, Agent Whiskey.”

The smirk, the laugh, the sly innuendo you’re expecting don’t come. He shifts to look at you, so close and so handsome it hurts, and the naked admiration in his eyes makes your breath catch in your throat.

“Ain’t flattery, sugarplum.” His thumb travels fleetingly to the bare skin of your neck above the collar of your sweater. “You’re as pretty as a Kentucky sunrise and twice as bright, and that’s the truth.”

“Jack, that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me...that anyone’s ever said to me,” you blurt out, and mean it.

His dimple deepens, and a dash of his usual devilish charm flashes across his face. “Well, if we’re bein’ honest with each other, I must confess to thinkin’ lots of complimentary things about you.”

You can barely hear him over the hammering of your heart.

“Is that so?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he drawls. The flicker of his glance to your lips is so quick, you could almost miss it.

But you don’t.

Maybe it’s the whiskey, maybe it’s the wind wailing in the eaves, maybe it’s the thrill of almost being caught by the bad guys, but something prods you on, dares you to play with fire. Your hand shifts almost imperceptibly on his chest, letting the tip of one finger find the warm, tanned skin at the open neck of his shirt.

“And what are you thinking right now?”

Something hot and swaggering flares in his eyes and you know, you know he’s picked up your gauntlet.

“Well, sweetheart...” His hand moves from your shoulder, trailing lazily to the nape of your neck. He tilts his head to watch goosebumps erupt in the wake of his touch before turning that smoldering gaze on your face again. “Right now I’m wonderin’ what you’d say if I were to kiss that pretty mouth.”

“I’d probably ask what took you so long.”

You barely finish the sentence before his hands cradle your face and his lips are on yours, stealing your breath with their plush softness.

Nothing in your experience of lukewarm flirtations and flaky boyfriends has prepared you for Jack’s affections. He’s a force of nature, possessive and generous by turns, and his approving hum when you open for him and the hot slide of his tongue against yours have you clinging to him like you’ll drown if you let go.

It’s only when you’re nearly dizzy that you break away for air. “Jack,” you whisper, sinking a novel of emotions into one syllable.

His lips brush your forehead. “I’ve got you, sweetheart. My beautiful girl.”

“I’ve always been your girl, Jack.” You rest your forehead against his, closing your eyes against the glaring, shimmering audacity of the words. “I love you.”

The exhale that fans over your cheek is your name. Your real name, the one thing he almost never calls you. His hand is gentle, tilting your chin up. “Look at me.”

You gather the nerve to lift your eyes to his, only to find them soft. Happy.

“Honey, I love you.” His dimple makes an appearance with an apologetic smile. “Hell, I was smitten from the first handshake. But you were a new agent, and things were workin’ out so well, I never wanted to upset the applecart by tellin’ you so.”

Your laugh is breathless with relief. “Well, then,” you say, toying with the button that stands between you and his bare chest. “I guess we’ve got some lost time to make up for.”

“Oh, I like the sound of that.” With the agility of his training, he hooks one hand around the back of your knee and the other around your waist and moves you to straddle his lap. His big hands splay across your back to pull you snugly against him as he traces the line of your jaw with his nose. “Now where were we, darlin’?”

Your head is spinning with the nuzzling of his nose over your pulse point and the broad warmth of his chest pressed to yours and the growing hardness under the tight denim of his jeans.

“You were--” You break off in a gasp as his teeth graze the sensitive skin of your neck. “You were kissing me better than anyone else ever has.”

“Baby, I’m gonna make you forget about ever kissin’ anybody else.”

You don’t bother telling him you’re way ahead of him.

Jack’s hair is soft and thick when you weave your fingers into it like you’ve always wanted to, stroking where it hints at curling at the nape. When your hand slips under his collar to shape the strong column of  his neck, caress the vulnerable skin under his jaw where his pulse is thundering in time with yours, the low growl in his throat sends heat spiraling straight to your core.

He surges up to capture your mouth again, a hot, demanding crush of lips and tongues that makes you move restlessly against him, wanting more. He doesn’t miss it, and when he slides one hand to your lower back to press you even closer on his muscled thighs every nerve in your body lights up.

“I want you, Jack,” you plead between kisses. “Need you.”

His hands slide underneath your sweater and come to rest, warm and calloused, on the soft skin over your ribs. When you least expect it, he gentles the kiss into something almost chaste and when he pulls away, just enough to look into your face, his eyes have gone solemn.

“Tell me to stop, sweetheart. I will.”

You could burst with love for this man.

“I’ll strangle you with your own lasso if you do.”

Jack barks out a surprised laugh, lighting up with a grin before he goes in for another kiss. “Gonna take care of you, sweet girl.” His voice is silky against your lips. “Gonna give you everything you need.”

His hands move, bringing your sweater with them to whisk it over your head, and you feel the weight of his appreciative gaze roving over your bare skin and sheer bra.

“I can’t remember when I’ve seen anything so gorgeous.” His hands are back at your sides, fingertips teasing at the edges of the purple lace that leaves little to the imagination. When his eyes meet yours again, they’re blown dark and deep with desire. “And I reckon you’d look even prettier spread out for me on that big bed.”

That’s all it takes to have you scrambling to your feet, shimmying out of your leggings and socks as you cover the handful of steps to the luxurious bed that faces the fireplace. You reach for the clasp of your bra, but a click of Jack’s tongue halts your movement.

“Slow down, there, honey.” There’s a hint of command bleeding into his voice that you know well from missions, the sound of him giving orders and expecting them to be obeyed that always kindles a flame in you. “Let your man unwrap his gift.”

A blush warms your cheeks and trickles down your neck as you drop your hands to your sides and wait for him beside the bed, anticipation tingling in your limbs.

Jack has beautiful hands, as graceful as they are strong, but they’ve never been so mesmerizing as they are now, making quick work of his shirt’s buttons and carelessly shedding it to the floor.

You’ve seen him shirtless before -- it’s hardly avoidable when you spend most of your lives together -- but never like this. Never when you’re openly staring at his broad shoulders and lean waist and the smooth planes of his chest, all bronzed in the glow of firelight. And certainly never when he’s calling himself your man and looking at you like he’s starving and you’re his favorite meal.

His arms slide around your waist and the heated press of his skin against yours tears a soft whimper from your throat. He catches it with his mouth, blends it with his own hum of satisfaction in a searing kiss.

He keeps his lips on yours even as he eases you back onto the bed, laying you down on the fluffy comforter with his hand cradling the back of your head. He stands again for as long as it takes to shuck off his jeans and kick them away before he’s crawling over you, settling his warm weight over your body and into your welcoming arms. You’re so swept up in the kiss that reunites you that you barely notice the skillful flick of his fingers that frees you from your bra...until he bends his hot mouth to your breasts and lightning spikes through your veins.

“So perfect,” he praises against your tender skin. “So good for me.”

He’s perfect. Even more than you’ve imagined on the lonely nights when you give yourself over to fantasies just like this, of Jack pressing you into a mattress and murmuring sweet sentiments in that liquor-and-honey voice while his clever hands find you more than ready for him.

A whine escapes you when the cool air of the room suddenly replaces the heat of his body, leaving you bereft.

“Don’t you worry, honey.” Jack’s voice drops an octave, even as a smirk coaxes his dimple out of hiding. “I said I’d take care of you.”

Warm hands slide your panties down your legs and off, and he strips off his own boxers to come back to you in all his naked glory.

His strong biceps cage you in and his mouth finds yours again as your hands roam greedily over golden skin and taut muscles and the hot, hard length between you.

“Jack, you’re so beautiful,” you sigh, over his panting breaths into your neck. “I’ve wanted this. Wanted you, for so long.”

He raises his head to look at you, lush lips parted and eyes blazing. “Honey, you’ve got me. For as long as you’ll have me.”

He kisses you like he’s sealing a promise.

And then he’s inside you, like he belongs there. Maybe he always has.

Every surge of his body, every stroke of his hands, every gritted curse and word of praise pressed to your skin makes stars burst behind your eyelids, and when you’re clutching blindly at his back and keening his name like an incantation, his voice is a desperate rasp in your ear.

“Let go, sweetheart. I’ll catch you.”

You do. And he does.

And when he grips bruises into your thigh and shudders in your arms and buries a broken declaration of love in your hair, you know beyond a doubt there will never be anyone else.

***

If there’s a heaven, Jack’s pretty sure he's died and gone there to be lying in a cloud of down comforters with you tucked close to his side, head pillowed on his shoulder and legs tangled with his own. The bare skin of your back is petal-soft under his stroking fingers as he watches the firelight dance on the ceiling.

“I love you, Jack,” you murmur, and his heart swells too big for the prison bars of his ribs.

“I love you too, sweetheart.” He laces his fingers with yours on his chest, brings them to his lips. “You know, I dreamed about this,” he confesses.

You raise your head, resting your chin on his chest to look at him. “You did?”

“I did. Felt a little guilty about it, if I’m bein’ honest, but I don’t guess I could help it.”

“I won’t hold it against you.” Your eyes sparkle at him in the dim light. “Did I live up to your dreams?”

He smiles, sweeping a stray lock of hair away from your face. “Oh, honey, they couldn’t hold a candle to the real thing.”

You look pleased with that answer, nuzzling a kiss into his neck before settling your head on his shoulder again.

“I can’t wait to get you home,” he muses. “Have you in my own bed.”

He feels you smile against his skin. “As many nights as you want, cowboy.”

“Careful, there. I might take you at your word, you’ll go home and find movers at your place.”

You sigh out a laugh that’s music to his ears and draw idle shapes on his skin with your fingertips in the quiet.

“Jack,” you say again, soft as a peach blossom.

“Yeah, honey?”

“Will you take me to that farmhouse sometime?”

His greedy heart can already see you there, breathing life into the place.

You, perched on the kitchen counter, feet swinging in time with your chatter while he cooks for you. Sitting with him on the porch swing to watch the sunset splash its tapestry of pink and orange and lavender across the sky. Soft and sweet underneath him in the big cherry wood bed, greeting the pale glow of morning with sleepy eyes and kiss-swollen lips.

A backyard wedding.

Tiny, mewling cries in the night and your silhouette framed with moonlight from the picture window while you nurse a baby who has Jack’s eyes back to sleep.

The peace that washes over him is too good to be true, too hopeful for his battered heart, too honest for his life of compromises.

He closes his eyes, drinks it in anyway. Claims it. Squeezes you a little closer in his arms.

This is the dream that lasts.

“That’s a promise, sugarplum.”

[silkling]

And here is the next installment of my Falsely Accused AU! I hope everyone likes it.

Falsely Accused: The Discovery

Ultra Magnus was not often a mech of regrets. He couldn’t afford to be. He led a planet. If he regretted too many of his decisions, it would lead to indecision and uncertainty that might cripple him. He had more than just his own pride riding on his shoulders. He had the lives of every Autobot, be it civilian or soldier, weighing him down even more harshly. So no, the Magnus did not often allow himself to regret. But as he stared at the painfully familiar helmet on his desk, he felt the unfamiliar emotion settle heavy in his spark, alongside guilt so strong it almost choked him.

He did not regret often. The few times he did, it was usually because he had made a very severe mistake.

This time, it had been no different.

———

Ultra Magnus sighed as he set aside Jazz’s report, scrubbing a servo down his face. The loss of their informant was blow indeed, but he was mostly relieved that his subordinate had escaped Lockdown unharmed. The bounty hunter was a formidable foe, and for all of Jazz’s skill, the rogue cyber-ninja had managed to offline many mechs both stronger and older than the young bot. Quite frankly, Jazz was lucky to be alive. It was with relief that he signed off on the report, setting the data pad it was on aside to be collected and filed later.

Next, he picked up the data pad that contained this quartex’s reports from Trypticon. The first few were routine inventory reports. Nothing about them sparked much interest. Another was a report on an altercation a Decepticon prisoner had had with a guard. Not surprising, though it was a shame the ‘Con had been offlined in the attempt to subdue him. It was the final report on the data pad that made him pause. It was a medical report from the medic stationed at Trypticon, about the small two-wheeler who had killed Yoketron. The former cyber-ninja had gotten caught in a fight between two other prisoners, and guards had assumed he had been one of the instigators and thus subdued him aptly. It was only after other prisoners had spoken up and the security tapes had been observed to discover the start of the fight that the truth had been revealed. But that wasn’t what the medic raised concerns over in the report. No, they wrote that they believed something was wrong with the young mech’s optics. They’d attempted to treat him, but when they’d gone to remove the visor in an attempt to repair wound to the young bot’s face, he had shifted away. The medic had been unable to convince the mech to let him treat him properly before it had been time to return him to his cell. Magnus paused, his brows furrowing. That was certainly odd. Though, he couldn’t bring himself to be too invested. He simply signed off on the reports and set the data pad aside.

It was hard for him to care much about the mechling who had offlined his oldest friend. He had known Yoketron since before he’d been Magnus. It had felt like a stab to the spark to learn that the Ninja Master had fallen. When he had learned it was Yoketron’s own student, the hot flash of betrayal had only fueled his rage. It had only grown when the report came in that the youngling had also stolen the protoforms. Given all the information and evidence, Ultra Magnus had not had much hesitation when it had come to stripping the youngling of his badge and casting him from the ranks of the Autobots. He’d had even less hesitation in sending him to Trypticon. He may not be a Decepticon, but a traitor of his caliber deserved no other fate. As such, the Magnus could not dredge up concern for the two-wheeler’s odd behavior. He was likely just being anti-social, as reports from the guards suggested him to be. Medics were notoriously soft-sparked, so the Magnus took that particular report with a grain of salt.

His comm. unit buzzed with an incoming call, and the Magnus accepted it. Few mechs had access to his personal comm. link. Only his friends and those on his personal team. Sure enough, Jazz’s voice came over his audials. “Ultra Magnus, sir. You got a minute? I gotta talk with you. It’s about my last mission. It’s…it’s real important, sir.”

“Jazz. Is it about your report? I finished reading it, everything seemed to be in order.”

“It’s…not about the report sir. It’s about somethin’ else that happened while I was on Lockdown’s ship. I didn’t put it in my report. I thought it was more important that I tell you first.”

That was certainly odd. Jazz was not one to ignore protocol, so why would he withhold information from his report? The young ninja was a reasonable bot, with a good helm on his shoulders. A clever youngling. Ultra Magnus didn’t think he’d keep information from the report unless it truly was important to discuss it first.

“Very well. You may come meet me in my office.”

He did not have to wait long. The youngling arrived quickly, and Magnus sent the command for the door to lock behind him. Jazz took the seat in front of his desk, and there was a deeply troubled look on his faceplates even past the visor. He was quiet for a moment, and Magnus was about to prompt him to speak, before he looked up to meet his leader’s gaze.

“Master Yoketron’s last student….did he ever graduate, sir?”

Ultra Magnus startled, a severe frown twisting his lips. “Jazz-“

But the youngling actually cut him off. “Just humor me for a mo’, sir. Please. I promise I’m goin’ somewhere with this.” he said, sounding desperate.

Magnus forced himself to stop and think. He frowned, processor turning over the question. He had always allowed Yoketron to manage the Cyber-Ninja Corps as he saw fit. He had never seen it as his place to infringe on his friend’s domain, so he had kept himself out of his business.

“I do not know.” he said carefully. “Jazz, what does this have to do with your mission?”

Jazz looked away, still looking so troubled. “I’m gettin’ there, sir.” he said. “Just bare with me, please.” He looked back at his leader. “See, I’m pretty sure he didn’t graduate. Master Yoketron only ever took one student at a time, and whenever his student completed their training and graduated, he’d host a formal celebration. It was an event open only to former students, so that the graduated cyber-ninja could meet and forge bonds with their newest brother. Cause all the cyber-ninja saw each other as brothers in arms, see. There ain’t too many of us, so whenever a new one joins the ranks it’s a big deal.” he explained. “I was Master Yoketron’s student before….well, before him.” Ultra Magnus knew who he meant. Though he didn’t know where Jazz was going with this. “I remember my ceremony. But I never attended the ceremony of another. Which meant he didn’t actually complete his trainin��.”

Now, Magnus was starting to get a bad feeling. He frowned, looking his subordinate in the optic. “Jazz. I do not understand what this has to do with your mission.”

Jazz shot him a rueful, bitter grin. Magnus was startled by the uncharacteristic expression. “I don’t think that a bot who hadn’t finished their trainin’ would have what it takes to defeat and offline Master Yoketron, steal the protoforms, and hide them so well that none of our top agents could find them. I don’t think he’d have the means to send them off planet either. He wouldn’t have had the time or resources.” Jazz met his gaze head on. “I don’t think he would have been able to do what he was convicted of.” his voice was soft as he spoke. “But I think there is someone who could do all that and who has the resources for it. An ungraduated cyber-ninja couldn’t,” Here, he reached into his subspace. Magnus’s bad feeling grew worse. “But a graduated, disgraced and exiled cyber-ninja probably could.”

And Jazz put Yoketron’s helmet on the desk in front of Ultra Magnus.

Magnus’s systems briefly stalled, and his spark felt like it froze in his chest. He lifted his gaze from his old friend’s helmet to meet Jazz’s visor.

“Yoketron’s student didn’t offline him, sir. Lockdown did.”

———

After that, Jazz had left the office. He had been called away by another duty, and Ultra Magnus had been left behind with new information, an old friend’s helmet, and regret settling heavy and hard in his tanks. His processor warred with itself, one half desperate for Jazz to be wrong, but the other knowing his was right. It was true.

An ungraduated student would not have the skill to kill his Master. Nor would he have the ability or resources to steal the protoforms. There was also the corrupted security feed, which Magnus had never insisted on de-corrupting. If he had, would it have shown Lockown’s presence at the Dojo that day as well? Even the youngling’s presence at the scene could be explained. As Yoketron’s student, the Dojo would have been his residence at the time. If he hadn’t been there at the time of the attack, then he would have returned to see the Dojo’s ruins…and his Master’s corpse. His discovery at the scene could easily be explained as little more than unfortunate timing. Which meant…

Which meant Ultra Magnus had sentenced an innocent youngling to a fate typically reserved only for the most dangerous prisoners of war and for traitors.

He saw the report from Trypticon out of the corner of his optics, and dread settled in his spark. He had had convicted a youngling of a crime he had didn’t commit, and he had spent mega-cycles paying for it. He had sentenced a youngling for a crime he didn’t commit, and he was still paying for it.

Oh Primus, what had he done?

[dragonheart-swtor]

Imperial Agent Storyline: Drunk History Version

Since people really seemed to like the last one! Y’all’s collective wish is my command. Spoilers for the Imperial Agent storyline, obviously. Enjoy!

- so you start out with your agent on Hutta, a little polluted slimeball of a world that literally everyone but the Hutts canonically hates. there's lore but we're going to ignore it. the important thing is that you're here to con a Hutt, always a dangerous gambit, into working with/for the Empire.

- you sneak into a corner to space facetime your boss, a guy we only ever know as Keeper because Intelligence is weird about names. sneaking into corners to facetime people is a repeating theme throughout the story.

- you are informed that you've already got a cover story set up, and you'll be posing as an infamous pirate called the Red Blade who'll be able to get in close to the Hutt in question, whose name I've forgotten. Nethro or Nefro or something.

- "wait, what about the actual Red Blade," you ask your boss, probably

- "he's halfway across the galaxy, you don't need to worry about him," your boss replies, in a textbook example of what we in the writing business call “foreshadowing”

- (spoiler alert: you need to worry about him)

- but we won't worry about that for now. bada bing bada boom, you stroll on into the Hutt's place. you are immediately confronted by a guy who, shock and horror, actually knows the real Red Blade and knows you ain't him. (one would think that all-seeing Intelligence would have known about him, but nuance.) this is a problem for a number of obvious reasons.

- your options are as follows: bribe him, kill him, or sleep with him. (this is also something of a recurring theme throughout the story.) whatever option you take, he's dealt with. (yes, this is the man eris fucked five minutes into her storyline.)

- (I didn’t want to pay him money, leave me alone.)

- anyway, the mission progresses smoothly. meet the Hutt, do some jobs for the Hutt, betray the Hutt's right hand and stab him in the back right after convincing him you were friends, invade the Hutt's rival's palace, McMurder the Hutt's rival, you know. your average day at the office

- most of the way through, the Hutt's other right hand starts to be suspicious about you. this is Kaliyo Djannis, and she will be Plot Relevant™.

- by which I mean she shortly thereafter walks in on you facetiming your boss and gets hired by Intelligence to help out for gods know what reason. welcome to your first companion

- (or possibly you walk in on her facetiming your boss in your room, I.. don't remember, honestly. something like that.)

- anyway one Hutt is dead the other is working with us bada bing bada boom this is going great and hey remember when I said you needed to worry about that guy you're impersonating this whole time? yeah, about that,

- so the real actual Red Blade comes sailing in to Hutta and Intelligence immediately calls you up like "hey, hate to bother you, but your cover's about to get blown in a big way and we need you to murder the guy whose identity you've stolen before he can expose you.” 

- "so, just like that training mission last week. gotcha, boss, no problem."

- murder time™

- congration you done it! go home to Dromund Kaas.

- "You're on Imperial soil now, agent. Welcome home." [nonhuman Agent immediately experiences 27492738957 microaggressions] (this joke isn’t mine, for the record)

- first off, Intelligence HQ has a bomb aesthetic, as does the entire Empire in general

- second off, you do walk in on your boss talking to - by which I mean "being given a speech by" - a Dark Lord, which is less than optimal for a number of reasons, first and foremost that speeches by Dark Lords of the Sith quite often immediately precede someone getting killed

- said Dark Lord is one Darth Jadus, who will proceed to be a thorn in your side for approximately the next three hours of gameplay

- (don't worry, after that three hours you'll get a worse thorn)

- Darth Jadus decides he likes you and declares you "his" agent, which you immediately get the gist is about the worst thing that can happen to an Intelligence agent from the way everyone around you treats you like you've just had a ticking bomb strapped to your back for the rest of this meeting

- you're sent on a handful of missions, including one to the Dark Temple which, you know, Force-deaf people aren't supposed to be in, but Jadus Does Not Care

- Jadus calls you into his office at one point and tells you he's going to do some ritual to bind you to his service or something, it's not really clear, but it's clearly Not Optional and also terrifying in concept

- now, quick sidebar. there are basically two paths to take here: one where you suck up to the Sith and treat them with the utmost care and respect and fear like you're kind of supposed to, and one where you mouth off at every opportunity. Eris is mortally terrified of Sith, so she just kind of.. submitted knowing she was going to die if she didn't.

- my second run, however, was just a "hey how bad can I fuck this up" character because I already knew the story.

- I decided to mouth off to Jadus at every opportunity, including adamantly refusing this ritual.

- "What can he do to me?" I asked the person I was playing with. "I'm the protagonist! It's not like he can kill me!"

- Jadus: *kills me*

- me:

- (mechanically, anyway; story-wise I'm sure he just. put her on the brink of death. but mechanically speaking he literally actually did kill my toon)

- (this should be a warning for exactly how much this storyline is willing to put its usually-heavily-plot-armored protagonist through.)

- anyway.

-  do some missions, blah blah blah, Sith possession in the Dark Temple, blah blah blah, you know the drill

-  well, turns out Jadus is going on tour with several hundred Imperial civilians, military, and Sith, allegedly all hand chosen, to share his ~vision for the Empire~. that's all well and good, whatever I gue-

- sorry what do you mean his ship exploded

- what do you mean a member of the Dark Council just blew up in orbit

- cue Kill Bill sirens

- Panic! At The Intelligence HQ

- this throws everything into chaos; not only was Jadus more directly involved in Intelligence, but he was a Dark Councilor so now there's a massive power vacuum

- the Sith who ends up filling this power vacuum? Jadus's daughter, Darth Zhorrid.

- remember when I said you'd have a bigger thorn in your side after Jadus?

- so yeah. so Zhorrid is, for lack of a better word, fucking terrifying

- she's sadistic and completely careless of others' lives or wellbeing and oh yeah she also instantly latches onto you even harder than her father did and demands you find his killer

- a lot of your meetings with her aren't really plot-relevant so I'll sum them all up here:

- Zhorrid was horribly abused by Jadus, completely broken. She tells you a story about how she used to sing, and her father hired a tutor, then had her sing at a Kaas City performance until her throat was so damaged she could never sing again. He tore every scrap of joy out of her life, completely failed to teach her what she needed to know to survive the rigors of the Dark Council, and instilled every ounce of hatred, sadism, and complete lack of pity he could in her.

- She kills people for no reason other than a whim, because she was listening to a Sith opera and the aria was "very moving" (an actual literal thing that happens).

- She acts like a complete spoiled brat child. At one point the other Dark Councilors literally beat and torture her, presumably for this reason because she's insufferable and arrogant and way out of her depth, and she cries to you about it

- If you’re like me, your response to all this is basically “cool motive, still murder”

- I have sidetracked  very hard. where was I

- so you spend a while trying to hunt down the people who blew up Jadus's ship. There's a bunch of rebels, you hunt them down, they've got biotech weapons called Eradicators set up to destroy cities on multiple planets, skippity skip to the big reveal

- Jadus is alive, and he organized the whole thing so he'd be able to remake the Empire into the image he wanted. He tortured and enslaved the survivors of the Dominator's destruction

- Jadus gives you a whole speech about how fear is a gift to be shared and "Through victory my chains are broken" but there must be chains to break and blah blah blah holy shit this man is genocidal

- you have three choices: join him for real, pretend to join him so you can sabotage his ship and then kill him (at the cost of hundreds of thousands of Imperial lives), or refuse outright and save those hundreds of thousands of lives but Jadus escapes (and you know he's allegedly likely to return and do even worse damage later).

- (Quick sidebar again, for those who haven’t played it: Eris chose the second option and has nightmares about it for the rest of her life. It's actually extremely haunting in-game - as you're running through Jadus's ship to sabotage it as fast as possible, you can hear the distress calls from various colonies and planets being attacked, the screams of the dying that you doomed. It's horrifying.)

- so yeah there’s really no winning that situation but hey! at least Chapter One’s over. surely in Chapter Two things can’t get worse.

- Chapter Two: Things Get Worse

- there's this guy, Ardun Kothe, an SIS agent. he's a huge threat for some reason I don't remember. you're supposed to infiltrate the SIS to get close to and eventually kill him. not an easy job, but okay, we can do this.

- Intelligence sets up the meeting; months ago they sent the first word to Kothe that there was an Intelligence agent ready to turn and they've been building up from there, sending him a steady stream of information

- enter Hunter, aka the worst bastard in this entire storyline and that is an achievement. He's the one you meet first on Nar Shaddaa.

- you do some missions for the SIS, whatever, it's not important. You finally get to meet the rest of the team - and Ardun Kothe.

- Kothe wants to speak alone, which is p typical tbh. He expresses some doubts, which you assuage as best you can; he gives you your code name: Legate. It's from a form of sabbac, he explains, you'll have to play with him sometime.

- (It is difficult for me to make what happens next funny instead of horrifying, so forgive me if the tone changes a bit here.)

- Everything is going fine.

- "I'm sorry about this, Legate."

- What?

- "Keyword: onomatophobia. Engage Thesh protocols, phase one."

- Everything is not fine.

- You black out and have an extremely rude awakening.

- So it turns out whatever happened with Jadus, the Dark Council decided you were too dangerous (usually for doing your job too fuckin well) and that you needed to be leashed. So not you have mind control programming in your brain, and anyone who has your keyword can take complete and unequivocal control of your body. this is, in a word, not great.

- (This is, as I mentioned, actually extremely horrifying. You have dialogue options and they don’t change what you actually say. You have an opportunity to shoot Kothe and even if you try to select it nothing happens. But we’re not here for the horror take (not today, anyway) so let’s just This Is Fine that and move on)

- Tl;dr you can’t harm Kothe or any members of his team, you’re forced to obey anyone who has your keyword, and this wouldn’t be that much of a problem because we’ll just tell Watcher Two what’s happened and oh wait you can’t tell anyone about your programming either. well, shit.

- You go on to work double agent, like it was planned, with this new, uh. twist

- about a third of the way through the chapter, your mind kind of cracks and you start having hallucinations - seeing things you know can't be real during a holocall, passing out in the middle of your ship and waking up in medbay.

- After that, a new voice lives in your head! Watcher X, someone you either killed or let flee on Nar Shaddaa, has sort of joined the party. Is he an AI in the spinal implant the real Watcher X gave you? is he a figment of your broken mind trying to process its situation? Who knows! Not you! either way, this is not optimal but at least he seems to be being helpful this time

- so anyway we should probably try and figure out how to undo this programming bc Intelligence is being Wholly Unhelpful

- (ASAP, please, especially with how horrible Hunter acts toward you - let’s go with “uncomfortably leery,” which I promise is generous.)

- by the way, your companions still have no idea what’s going on during all this, although they try to be varying levels of supportive (thank you vector I love you bug husband)

- Good news! The Intelligence Archive almost definitely has information on what they did to you and how to fix it. Bad news! You’re definitely not authorized to look that up and crashing the power mainframe to make sure they don’t see you do it sends the security droids after you. whoops.

- Good news! There’s a way to fix you. Bad news! You have to make and inject yourself with a still-kinda-experimental cocktail of chemicals and it may or may not give you permanent brain damage. it’s fine. this is fine.

- also it takes a while to kick in which is Less Than Optimal and by the time it finally does you’ve just been left with a binding order to stay and guard the door on what is, for you, a suicide mission. there’s some incentive to “break your chains” for ya.

- You fight and kill Kothe. Who, shock and awe! is an ex-Jedi! this was in no way painfully obvious by how he kept talking about “sensing” things, I’m sure. definitely not.

- Hunter escapes, because of fuckin course he does. Hunter, who suddenly seems far more in control of everything than he had before. Hunter, who knows far more than he should. Hunter, who ends up leading you to a much, much larger conspiracy.

- End Chapter 2.

- Hate to disappoint, but Chapter 3 is honestly the least interesting to me personally, so this’ll be brief compared to the previous chapters

- You spend a lot of time hunting down this much larger conspiracy, including Hunter specifically. There's a lot of betrayal and secret reveals. (It's not tedious by any stretch of the imagination, but the story beats definitely don't stick in my head as well as the first two chapters, even after two playthroughs.)

- you go to Voss and, in order to get into a Voss-only archive, get married to a person you just met before almost immediately leaving the planet (and your new spouse) behind. this is never mentioned again.

- you get hold of a holorecording from the Star Cabal, the big conspiracy. problem: the holorecording contains a trap for the brain-enhanced Watchers, and now half of Intelligence is in a vegetative state. this is not optimal.

- partially as a result of this, Intelligence basically gets dissolved, which is Not Great because it puts you right under the thumb of yet another asshole Sith lord

- the Watchers are recovering, though, so that’s something. Watcher Two, now Keeper (the old Keeper got promoted), contacts you so you can keep working on this Star Cabal thing.

- you get intentionally captured so the Star Cabal can torture you and you can “break” and give them false information to lead them into a trap. you are immediately afterward expected to get back to work like nothing happened. this is never mentioned again.

- You track the Star Cabal to their base, way out in the Unknown Regions iirc, and infiltrate it during a meeting of the top agents.

- murder time 2: electric boogaloo (well, more like murder time 45, to be honest, but shh it’s fine)

- You fight the Star Cabal guys, chase Hunter through the whole place, and finally corner him.

- (Salt warning ahead on my part for the next story beat, if you can call it that.)

- Hunter, when beaten, reveals what I personally think is the most bullshit stupid reveal in the entire game: he is actually a she, and has been using a stealth field generator (or something similar) to change his/her appearance the entire time. There are multiple interpretations of this - "he's trans" is my least favorite, sorry-not-sorry, because a) it's pretty clear she still considers herself a woman and Hunter is just a convenient persona, and also b) a clearly predatory man is absolutely horrid representation as far as playing into harmful stereotypes about trans people, thanks. Personally, my rather cynical interpretation is that they wanted one more shock value reveal at the end of the storyline and I guess couldn't come up with anything better. It's my least favorite thing in the whole IA storyline.

- anyway, that's not really important. I just needed to be mad about it for a minute. ignore me. moving on

- The important part is this: what you gain from the Star Cabal's base is an item called the Black Codex, an ancient piece of technology with the power to erase all records of a person's existence.

- Unless you are very stubborn about it the Agent’s reaction to this is basically “oh thank fuck I’m freeeeeeeeee” and you fly off into the hyperspace sunset with your crew, giving middle fingers to the Sith whose grip you’re escaping all the way. which, really, who can blame you.

And that’s the Imperial Agent storyline, folks. Roll credits. I’ll probably do the Bounty Hunter storyline next while it’s still fresh in my mind, but I could also do the Sith Warrior storyline probably if y’all’re more interested, vote now on your phones.

[katehuntington]

Title: In Bad Waters - part ten Word count: ±3400 words Episode summary: Still in possession of the Winchesters’ belongings, Zoë meets up with the hunters on her next case. When it turns out to be a little more complicated than anticipated, she accepts their help in order to make an important deadline. Part ten summary: Zoë and the Winchesters face the aftermath of losing a victim. Especially the huntress takes it hard, and the reason soon surfaces. Episode warnings: Dark! NSFW, 18+ only! Descriptions of domestic violence/child abuse. Drug use/addiction. Angst, gore, violence, character death. Description of blood, injury and medical procedures/resuscitation. Swearing, alcoholism. Supernatural creatures/entities, mentions of demon possession. Descriptions of torture and murder, drowning. Illegal/criminal practices. Mentions of nightmares and flashbacks. Author’s note: Beta’d by @winchest09​​​​​​​ and @deanwanddamons​​​​​​​. Thanks, girls! Gif isn’t mine. If you are the creator or know who made it, please tell me so I can credit you.

Supernatural: The Sullivan Series Masterlist

S1E02 “In Bad Waters” Masterlist

     The black Harley Davidson rolls into the parking lot of the Hampton Inn, followed by the Chevrolet Impala. Zoë hasn’t said a word to Sam since she found Taylor at the Dawlson home. Both of them gave a statement to the local police and managed to talk their way out of an interrogation at the department, Zoë continuing her role as agent Sharon Evans. Without missing a beat, Sam improvised and said he was her partner. They kept the cops in the dark, hoping they will not be making their ghost hunt more difficult than it already is.

     Sam also talked to Jeff Dawlson. The poor guy was a mess, but the widower made clear that he was certain that this wasn’t just some ordinary murder. The silence, the windows that didn’t break, the door that didn’t open. He called it a force, something he couldn’t possibly begin to explain. Even for a skeptic down to earth guy like Jeff, this was obviously not from their world. So Sam told him everything about Laura, all that they know. Jeff took it quite well, even thanked them for their attempt to save his wife, but he was devastated, never to be the same.

     Quiet, Zoë gets off her bike, takes her laptop case out of the saddlebag and strolls to the entrance. She’s glad no one stole her Macbook when she left it at the terras, the database as valuable to her as John’s journal is to the boys.      Sam follows her, watching the huntress as she makes her way to room seventeen; not a single remark has left her lips, yet she keeps a straight face. People passing by don’t notice anything about the strong woman, but Sam can only imagine that this is messing with her.

     The huntress slips the key card through the lock and opens the door. As she expected, Dean is obviously present. A KFC bag and several paper wrappings plus an empty bucket that once contained fried chicken are scattered on the bedspread, loud music is blaring on the radio. Dean, who is freshening up in the bathroom, apparently didn’t hear them come in, because he keeps singing along with the song.

“There’s a lot of people sayin' we'd be better off dead. Don't feel like Satan, but I am to them. So I try to forget it, any way I can. Keep on rockin' in the free world!”, he belts out.

     His younger brother halts and raises his eyebrows, but doesn’t laugh or chuckle; his brother’s poor vocal skills would have been amusing if the circumstances were different.      Zoë doesn’t appreciate his singing either and she slams her fist on the bathroom door. “Hey, Neil Young! Shut your piehole, will ya?”      They hear a glass breaking on the bathroom floor and Zoë rolls her eyes while sighing deeply. Wonderful.      “Fuck,” Dean curses softly, then sets up a voice loud enough for Zoë to hear it. “Sorry!”

     Without responding she walks away from the door and turns down the volume of the radio completely, allowing a deadly silence to hover the room. As Sam picks up the paper wrappings, Dean pops his head around the corner.      “What the hell are you doing here?” he asks them both, when he notices his brother by the door.      “I could ask you the same thing,” Sam returns.      “I let him break in,” Zoë says before Dean can answer.      “Didn’t expect you two to be back anytime soon.” He walks out of the bathroom, buttoning his white shirt, since he doesn’t have a change of clothes. “The shower is amazing, by the way. It’s so big and it has this fucking awesome massage setting--”      “Something occurred at the Dawlsons,” Sam interrupts.

     His older brother halts and looks from Sam to Zoë, who sat down on the bed, staring at nothing in particular, her gaze blank.      She can feel his unspoken question and decides to answer. “She’s dead.”      Dean expected something like that when he sensed the mood, but it still comes as a shock. He needs a few seconds to collect his thoughts.      “Dead as in hit-by-a-car-dead or killed-by-a-ghost-dead?” he asks carefully.

     A depressing quietness remains between the hunters. Zoë doesn’t reply; words aren’t necessary. When her eyes meet his, Dean knows enough. The oldest of the brothers breathes out with a sigh and looks away, shaking his head; damn it.      “Did you see Laura?” he wonders.      “We did,” Sam responds on Zoë’s behalf. “We tried to stop her.”      Dean frowns at that. “How did you know Laura was inside the house? So far no one witnessed her actual attack, right?”      “I had a vision,” Sam explains.

     Both Zoë and Dean look up at him, stunned by his statement. Zoë is well aware Sam had one. But what she didn’t know is that Sam told his brother about his ability, which she presumes, as he just blurted it out like that.      Dean however, bites down the mixture of concern and frustration. He tries to ignore the fact his brother shared this information in the presence of the huntress, which they only met a couple of days ago.  Filing it under either carelessness, he addresses the other issue: since when does Sam have these visions when he’s awake? “You fell asleep or something’?”      “No, this was the first time he had one during the day,” Zoë answers before Sam does.

      The comment triggers Dean to snap his head towards her, unpleasantly surprised to learn she’s all up to date with Sam’s powers. Agitated, he glares at his brother.      “You told her?!” he exclaims.      “Yeah, so? We hunt together, so what’s the big deal?” Sam returns defensively.      “You wanna know what the big deal is? If this goes public amongst hunters, some of them might seriously keep an eye on you, Sam!” his brother snaps.      Zoë tries to cool the looming clash. “It’s safe with me, Dean.”      “That’s not the fucking point!” He counters angrily, focusing on the huntress. “He doesn’t realize how dangerous this could be!”      Sam reminds him of his presence. “Don’t talk like I’m not even here, Dean.”

Zoë’s not sure where it’s coming from, but she has the sudden urge to defend Sam. She can relate with the youngest Winchester, she’s going through the same after all. Dean has no idea what these special abilities feel like, how painful and confusing they are, how they wreck their mind. He’s not the one experiencing them. Who the hell does he think he is to tell Sam how to handle this?      “Like you have a clue what’s going on,” she jumps in. “I think hunters are the last ones on earth you should worry about.”      Dean narrows his eyes at her, reading into her words. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”      “Haven’t you wondered where this is coming from?” she looks up at him, waiting for an answer. “Because I for one have never encountered a human being with supernatural powers. Have you?”

     Silence. It might not have yet occurred to Dean, though, but Sam and Zoë have thought of it constantly. People, normal, random people, shouldn’t be having visions, period. Zoë is right; It’s not normal, it’s not human.

     Dean however, decides to ignore her notification and points his finger at his younger brother in the way a father would do to his son. “You shut up about this,” he warns. “If you wanna talk about it, talk to me. If you share this with anyone else--”      “Don’t you treat me like you’re Dad!” Sam counters.      Zoë rolls her eyes the moment John is mentioned. She turns to the window with her hands placed firmly on her slender waist.      “I am responsible for you and I am the one who has to drag your ass out of trouble when you have God knows what on your tail because of this freaky stuff. As long as Dad ain’t around, I’m gonna talk to you like that. Suck it up!” Dean returns sternly.      Sam huffs and grinds his teeth. He hates, absolutely hates it when he’s treated like a child. It doesn’t matter if he’s talked down on by Dad or Dean; he can’t stand it. He's twenty-two for Christ's sake!      “No. This is my life, my problem. I’m not gonna listen to you,” Sam sneers, cynically.      Furiously, Dean raises his voice. “Yes, you are!!”      “Would you two SHUT THE FUCK UP?!”

     Both brothers seize their argument and look at Zoë, who turned around to face then. Enraged, she glares at them, her penetrating eyes darting from one to the other, disgusted by their behavior.      “How old are you? Fucking ten?!” she asks resentfully. “People are dying and you two are actually arguing over who’s boss and who’s not?!”      Sam gulps; she has a point. This is senseless; because both Dean and Sam know that neither of them are willing to admit their wrong. Even Dean seems to be ashamed, his green eyes breaking away from Zoë’s penetrating stare.      “I’m gonna be honest with you two. If you don’t get along, that’s your problem, but you’re no good to me if you don’t function together,” she continues, gritting her teeth in frustration. “An innocent just died, Goddamnit!”

     They could hear a pin drop in the spacious hotel room. Having enough of the Winchesters’ stupidity, Zoë turns her back on them and saunters to the end of the room. She sits down on the bed, sniffing, then she wipes her nose. 

Sam and Dean exchange a look, both noticing how much this is bothering her. So far the huntress seems to be a lot more careless about cases; she’s more the shoot-to-thrill type. She was willing to leave this case in her rear view mirror after all.      Dean  carefully attempts to find out what’s really going on with the fellow hunter. “What’s wrong, Zo?”

     Instead of answering, she just shakes her head. Avoiding their questioning eyes, Zoë folds her hands together and rests her elbows on her knees. For a long while she doesn’t speak, but then she starts to open up, just a little bit.      “I was supposed to watch her,” she claims. “Yet I was goofing around and bored, while she got slaughtered.”      “This isn’t your fault,” Sam replies immediately, trying to take away the guilt.      “It is.” Her piercing gaze moves to meet his. “I should have known, I should have drawn a conclusion from the first two killings, but I didn’t.”      “Hey, we didn’t see this coming either,” Dean brings to mind.      “It doesn’t matter. Someone lost their life again while I could’ve prevented it,” she states, her voice fragile now.

     Sam furrows his brow, confused. Again? What does she mean? With a questioning look, he glances over at Dean and is surprised by what he sees. Compassion, compassion for Zoë. He realizes Dean might know more about her past, after all, he and Dad worked her case and casted out the demon that possessed her. Dean wasn't in a sharing mood when his younger brother requested more details about what happened back then. Sam thought he didn't know more and that their dad kept him in the dark, but now he begins to realize that he simply didn't want to elaborate on it. Is it not his place to tell? Or did that hunt go wrong?

     Dean offers some reassuring words, trying to convince her. “Zo, what happened back then was out of your hands.”      “Don’t go there,” she warns.      “You shouldn’t still be blaming yourself for that, nor should you feel guilty about today,” he presses.      “I said: Don’t. Go. There,” Zoë repeats, glaring over her shoulder.      Sam glances from one to the other, disorientated, unable to follow the conversation. The oldest of the Winchester brothers isn’t spooked by the threat, however.      “Maybe you should step away from the case,” he suggests.      “What?!” she cries out, perplexed.      “It’s obvious that you’re emotional about this, Zo,” he starts to explain, deliberately getting under her skin.      “Emotional?!” She scoffs, fury in her eyes, pressing her clenched fist in the mattress. “Oh, I’m sorry. Am I not allowed to give a fuck about people dying? My mistake!”      “I’m just saying that maybe you should let us take care of this one,” he explains.

     He might say so, but Dean doesn’t want her to quit. What he does want, is to trigger her. He used the same technique on his brother before and it worked like a charm, it seems like it might just work on the huntress as well. He can sense her blood beginning to boil as she rises to her feet; he really pissed her off this time.      “Are you fucking serious right now?! I don’t quit on cases, I don’t take the easy way out!” she yells, pointing at her chest.      “You were gonna before you allowed us to help you. So tell me why the hell you’re so worked up all of a sudden,” he bounces back.      “No!” Zoë shouts outrageously, her voice hitting a higher tone than she anticipated. “I don’t wanna talk about it!”      “It’s been over four years, Zoë. It’s about damn time you talk about it. This isn’t healthy,” Dean pressures.      “I just can’t, okay?”

     Her voice is suddenly softer now as it breaks, almost begging him to stop. She averts her gaze quickly, but Sam could see her eyes glister. Slowly, he starts to get the idea of what happened back then, remembering the first file in her database, the one consisting of the demon that possessed her.      “Zoë, if this has something to do with that Diligo Vesco demon...” he carefully starts off. “Whatever happened, it wasn’t on you.”      “My hands--” She holds them up in front of her. “- and his blood all over them. Now don’t you tell me it wasn’t me.”

     Confused, Sam cocks his head from Zoë to Dean, who watches the woman with his arms crossed in front of his chest. His stance is still defensive, but his eyes tell a different story, one of empathy.      When the huntress spots the confused expression on Sam’s face and turns to Dean as well. “You didn’t tell him?”      “I didn’t. Wasn’t sure if you’d be okay with that,” he says.

     With a deep breath, she prepares to say the words that bring her so much pain. Words that remind her of that dreadful day, the moment that everything got screwed to hell. Her heartbeat has sped up throughout the conversation, first by anger, but now that she has to admit out loud what went down four years, four months and five days ago, she feels like it’s about to jump out of her chest. A panic attack is prevented when she breathes in through her nose slowly and lets the air flow from her mouth again, repeating it once more while closing her eyes. Then she looks up at Sam and swallows back the tears. She can’t break, she never has and she won’t now. With a trembling voice, she speaks up.

      “When I was possessed, I killed my dad.”

      Sam’s jaw almost drops to the ground. For a moment he just stares at her, his eyes large, unable to form words. Poor, poor girl. Losing a parent is one thing, but she experienced her father’s murder like she was the one killing. How do you get over that?      And just like that, he sees Zoë in a totally different light. Her attitude makes more sense, her eagerness to hunt, her reluctance to new friendships. She lost one of the most important people in her life, no wonder she shut herself in.

     Both boys watch her struggle, there’s not much they can do to make her feel better. She walks over to the window and rubs her face. The brothers can’t see the tears run down her cheek, but they know she turned away to prevent them from witnessing her sorrow. She can’t show her weakness, not to them, not to anyone.

     Dean notices something about her that he recognizes in himself. The huntress is unable to express how she feels, simply because it hurts too much. It’s easier to stuff it away and sweep it under the rug, hoping that way it doesn’t have to be dealt with, that the pain will slowly fade away over time. But let’s be fair; it doesn’t.

     Zoë sighs deeply and takes heart, turning back to them when the tears have stopped falling.      “We shouldn’t be talking about me, guys. Our ghost is getting more violent by the hour. We need to stop this,” she reminds them.      Sam glances at his brother and their eyes meet. He knows she’s avoiding the subject, but they have to admit there is truth in her words. Laura might be killing someone right now, especially since Sam left the Shire residence unattended. They decide to give it a rest.

     “You’re right, let’s get our head back in the game. I’m gonna get the doctor to talk, I won’t take no for an answer.” He grabs his tie from the chair and folds it around his collar as he looks up at Sam, awaiting a follow up from his younger brother.      “I’ll check on the Shires and keep you guys in the loop,” Sam suggests.      “Sounds good to me. Talk to them too, fire it up a little. Maybe they know more about this. We need more intel to wrap this one up and we need it fast,” Zoë urges, checking her watch and startled to see that it’s almost five o’ clock.      “Take the car. I’ll walk, it’s just a block away,” Dean nods at the car keys on the drawer, while struggling with his tie.      “C’mere,” Zoë beckons him to edge closer and takes Dean’s tie in her hands.      Skillfully, she redoes it, her hands moving swiftly. Dean can’t help to take in her pretty face. Her makeup has run down a little, it emphasizes her frame of mind. Focused on her task at hand, she avoids his unraveling eyes.

     “Should I tell them the truth?” Sam proposes.      “Not yet,” she tightens Dean’s tie and dares to look up at him. “You try to speak with the doctor first. We're sure he actually knows something, but we aren’t certain about the Shire family. We don’t want to spook them.”      “Okay, let’s go then.” Dean picks up his suit jacket and heads for the door.      Sam hesitates in the doorway, glancing over his shoulder at the young woman. “What are you gonna do?”       “I’m gonna look into Laura, see who she was close to. I can imagine the kid would’ve tried to stay out of that toxic household as much as she could, maybe she stayed over with friends a lot. Could lead to her next victim,” she explains.      “We’ll get her, Zo,” Dean assures.      “Hell, we will. Taylor was the last one killed by Laura Shire,” she states determined.

      Just after she pronounces those words, the door slams and locks. Surprised, Zoë stares at the doorknob, which felt like it was just ripped from her hand. As she slowly turns around, she feels chills running down her spine, the tingling sensation way too familiar. The bathroom light starts to flicker, then the faucet of the sink turns, water splattering on the porcelain. Suddenly the TV flips on, but all broadcasts a disorted image and static noise. She exhales clouds of warm air, her breath condensed, the temperature suddenly changing. It turns ice cold in the room.

      Zoë gulps. “Oh, fuck.”

      Seems like she doesn’t have to search very long to find Laura’s next victim; it’s her. Anxiously, Zoë searches the room for something iron, but then suddenly the image of the ten year old girl appears in the corner. Her blonde hair looks darkened, her pupils hazed over with white. The nightgown she was wearing the night she was killed is stained with blood. Then her eyes sink deep into their sockets, leaving gaping black holes in her small skull, before her form flickers and suddenly stands right before the huntress. Without an iron forged weapon or anything to use in the huntress’ defence, Zoë stares at the poltergeist for a brief second. This is it; she’s fucked. Even though she realizes the boys can’t hear her, she cries out one of their names at the top of her lungs.

  “SAM!!!”              

Thank you for reading. I appreciate every single one of you, but if you do want to give me some extra love, you are free to like or reblog my work, shoot me a message or buy me coffee (Link to Kofi in bio at the top of the page).    

[wolf-555-writer]

Secrets To Keep

A little somethin’ I wrote. Enjoy :)

Natasha Romanoff x Female Reader

Summary: There are enough secrets within SHIELD. It’s built on secrecy. But some are more important to be kept than others. For the sake of keeping your job and your fellow redheaded Agent’s job. Can you keep a secret?

Word Count: 2,937

   A firm knock on one of the neutral white doors inside a long, monotonous corridor. Natasha opens. “Hello Agent Romanoff”, a stern voice speaks. She nods curtly as a gesture of greeting. “I’m here for the- uh, mission prep”. Scanning the hallway first, the Agent walks inside as Natasha makes room by stepping back and opening the door further. She closes it immediately after. A black-greyish jacket with a SHIELD logo on its back is hanging on a chair and a pair of widow bites are neatly placed on a wooden desk next to a thigh holster holding a Glock 26. The blinds of the two large windows are half closed. Yet, a small amount of sun rays still manage to pass through which ensure just enough light to see the most beautiful woman in front of you with ease.

“Seriously, was that the best you could do? ‘Mission prep’?”. Visibly hurt by her mocking comment you scoff. “Sorry, okay. I’m not the master spy here”, shrugging your shoulders, “I’m just a simple agent. Besides, I had other things on my mind”. A perky grin appears and Natasha responds, “Hmm, I wonder what that might be…”. Without hesitation she moves closer and kisses you on the lips as her hands make their way to the back of your neck smoothly. Arms wrapped around her waist tightly, you press her body against yours as if you hadn’t felt her in ages. After your lips parted, you assure her, “Next time I'll think of something better, okay”. And the next time, and the next time after that… Thinking back to what Natasha had said, “SHIELD is basically all about keeping secrets. Everyone has them here, so what difference would one more make?”. She was obviously right. Not about the difference it would make, though. Because when it gets out, serious consequences will follow. Without a doubt. But those worries quickly fade due to the current sight in front of you. Natasha has taken off her shirt, showing her lean waist and well developed muscles. She rests her arms on your shoulders and raises her eyebrows. “Phone?”, is the only word that comes out. “Oof, that just hurts. Simple agent or not, I ain't no amateur Nat. I left it in my locker at the training facility. You?”. She grins, “It's turned off”, and moves her eyes to the desk where you see the piece of tech behind her arsenal of weapons. Can’t be too careful.

Her lips touch yours again, but this time with more passion and desire. She pulls on your shirt as it lifts up, exposing the skin on your lower back. Her hands feel warm and soft now that they make their way upwards, sending ripples of pure joy through your entire body. The heated kissing is interrupted by your shirt that needs to pass. The item of clothing is tossed away quickly, ending next to Natasha’s near identical one. She starts to undress further while you sit on the edge of the bed to loosen the laces of the combat boots. Cocking an eyebrow at the redhead. “See something you like, Romanoff?”, you tease, seeing Natasha glance at you while she bites her lip. “Oh, I see a lot that I like…”. Not getting enough time from the redhead to remove your pants as it’s still dangling around your knees when you hit the soft mattress. You try to wiggle your legs in a way that the thick slacks come off and it lands on the floor beside the bed. Sensing the warmth and weight of Natasha’s body on yours, you let out a long breath and close your eyes. Her lips touch the skin on your neck, your chest and you feel her red hair tickle while she hovers over. Opening your eyes, you stare at her. Both your hands on her hips while she sits upright on top of you. She runs her left hand through her hair to get it out of her field of vision. A cheeky grin forms at the corner of her mouth as her intense green eyes stare down at the person underneath her. Eyes still locked on the woman on top of you, wanting to never lose sight of her. She leaves you completely breathless. Everytime. Over and over again.

How in the world did I get so damn lucky?

Natasha’s lovely voice snaps you out of dreamy thought. “So, how was your day?”. “Come on Nat”, you look away and sigh, “You for real? You wanna talk about that right now?”. “Well, yes, I’m just interested in your daily activities, or stuff that bothers you. That’s no crime, is it?”. Meanwhile playfully drawing with the tip of her index finger over the muscles in your abdomen that have become sore from the killer workout earlier. She sure as hell knows how to get your blood pumping. And especially, how to make you wait. “Of course not. I would happily tell you all about that. But… I don’t know how much time we have now, so-”. At that imperative statement, intensified by your sad puppy eyes, she places both hands on the pillow, each one beside your head, giving you an exclusive view. “You got no patience at all, you know that don’t you”. Your hands slowly start to move up her waist, towards one of the only two pieces of clothing she’s still wearing. “Yeah, I’ve been told it’s one of my many charming qualities. But I mean…”, letting your eyes drift away along her fine features, “can you blame me?”. She laughs, “Just shut up”. Her lips centimeters away from yours, you can almost taste that addictive sweetness again, a wide smile present on your face. Then she stops and freezes. By now you've surely waited long enough, right? It’s not funny anymore. You shake your head confused and cease the unstrapping of underwear. “What’s wrong?”

“Romanoff? I know you're there”, followed by a fist banging on the door. “Shit”. “Is that-”. “Shhh”. Natasha grabs her pants and shirt and slips them on in seconds. Never seen anyone dress that fast before. While you stay quiet, pulling the sheets to cover your almost naked body and to hide your presence, Natasha opens the door just a crack. “Yes?”. “Did I interrupt someth-”. “What do you want Barton?”, Romanoff interjects.

“We’re expected for an emergency briefing. Coulson called us in. Didn’t you check your phone?”. Natasha ignores his last remark and replies, “Ok, I’ll be right there. Give me a couple seconds to get ready and get my gear. You go ahead, see you there Barton”. Almost back to complete privacy, closing the limited air gap, when Natasha’s movement is countered. Barton presses up against the door with force which is clearly noticeable in his voice. “And what about (Y/N)?”. “Yeah, what about (Y/N)?”. “Do you know where she is? She’s also needed and doesn’t answer her phone too. Quite a coincide-”. “Nope. Just check the training facility, she's probably there. See you in the briefing room”, and with a final, powerful push she shuts the door in his face.

A short lean against the doorframe and a muffled sigh that couldn’t possibly be described as relaxing turns into instant action. Natasha strides to the desk with two long paces. “Get up, we gotta move”. The rule seemed obvious at the time. She grabs her phone and can't help but think that it wasn’t the smartest move. That maybe the two of you have been too careful. You climb out of the bed and pick up the black pants of your SHIELD uniform to put it on. “Does he know?”, you ask, reaching for the shirt on the floor while pulling the pants up. “No he doesn’t, but hurry. He’s looking for you and we can’t be late (Y/N). Not again”. Noticing a pinch of distress in between the lines. But mostly annoyance caused by Barton showing up in the wrong place, at the wrong time. 

“I knew it!”, a voice from the hallway shouts out. Natasha dashes to the door and swings it open, causing Barton to almost fall over from leaning against it. Apparently still in the wrong place. He looks at you with wide eyes as you’re busy with putting on the shirt in haste and switches to Natasha again. “I knew it”, he repeats with less volume and a grin reaching from ear to ear.

Natasha stays quiet, staring at Barton with a piercing gaze that screams nothing good. “What the hell man”, you call out as you’ve joined Natasha, swiftly tucking the shirt in to give a more professional appearance. Not that it matters anymore, because the damage is already done. At least you're fully dressed again - finally.

“We need to go”, Romanoff states blankly and marches off. Without saying another word about what just happened, you both follow the redhead. An awkward silence hanging around the three agents now that Barton managed to squeeze himself in between Natasha and you. She feels a pair of eyes trained on her and sighs as she eventually ends the absence of sound.  

“Just-”, she raises her arms, agitated by the turn of recent events, but drops them just as fast as a sign of surrender. “Keep it quiet okay. I’d like to stay in SHIELD, keep my job”. “Yeah, and me too”, you add firmly. Worries rising to the surface once more. 

“I would never screw you over like that, Nat. You know me. (Y/L/N) here on the other hand…”, motioning at you with his thumb, “I’m guessing gets enough screwing”, he snickers. “You think you’re very funny, don’t you Barton”, you say annoyed, glancing at him with narrowed eyes. “On occasion, yes”. “Jokes aside, I’m dead serious, Clint”, Natasha expresses. He better not make another joke, you recommend inside your head. For his own sake, judging by Natasha's, well, everything. “I know, Nat”. He gives her a small nod. “My lips are sealed. You can trust me”. A short, reassuring smile appears on Natasha’s features. Confirmed what she already knows. Of course she can trust him. 

En route to the briefing room, in a more crowded hallway now with Barton leading the way when he gazes over his shoulder. “So… how long has ‘this’ been a thing?”, he asks, pointing his finger to connect the two of you. With an inquiring look in his eyes, unable for you to see, he rubs his chin as if buried in deep thought. After a few seconds of intense thinking Barton turns around. “I’d say somewhere after that covert mission in Berlin two weeks ago. Probably needed to share one room, with only one bed. No doubt. It always starts like that. Always”. You and Natasha exchange a look. She chuckles lightly. A suggestive smirk on your face when you respond, “This ‘thing’ has been going on a lot longer. But Berlin was much fun, I’ll give you that”. The disbelief in his eyes made Natasha add, with a quick wink, “Let’s just say we’re good at keeping a secret.”

Barely recovered from all the new information Barton received this afternoon he notes, “But now it’s like, our little secret, isn’t it”. At these words Natasha shoots you a glance. One you recognize all too well. “No, we ain’t gonna do that”. “Admit it, it would make it a lot easier”, she whispers with clenched teeth. “No no, way too messy. I gotta stop you there Nat, not a good idea. This is your assassin brain talking”. “Too messy?”, she scoffs. “Do you even know me? I've got my ways (Y/N), you don't even want to know...”. “True. I don't. Ever”. Even though she has dropped her reinforced steel walls around you, it still remains a mystery what goes on in that head of hers. Maybe for the best.

“What you guys talking about?”, Barton questions as he stops to open the two glass doors blocking the current path. “Uh, nothing. Hope we’re not too late”, you quickly cover and all enter. Standing at the other end of the circular conference table, Coulson looks up from the file he’s holding and flatly states, “Agents, you're late. Close the door. Quickly. We have an important mission to prepare for.”

“Mission prep, huh”, Natasha repeats while she eyes you. Shut up, you mouth to the agent in question. You'll have to do what you've been doing for a while now. With success, fortunately. Flip the switch and be an agent again. Same goes for Natasha. Be each other's colleagues, and just that. How long will we be able to keep this up? You shortly look at the Russian spy. How long will I be able to keep this up? To hide it, you rethink as Coulson's words fly past you. One thing's for sure, whatever happens, I won't ever regret the time spent with this amazing woman, with whom I've secretly fallen in love with…

BONUS: The concise, but clear briefing finished rapidly and you march towards one of the quinjets that’s ready for takeoff. The gear needed for the assignment already packed inside. Clearly a serious matter of urgency behind it, you reckon, suddenly starting to feel guilty about your lateness. You pinch your shirt awkwardly, pulling it down and square your shoulders. Something’s off. Coulson is leading the way and in the distance you spot some other agents waiting on the aircraft, all geared-up. Not like Barton, Romanoff and you. Natasha and Clint are walking in front of you, just chatting, completely relaxed. Not like you. “Hey, pssst”. You tap Natasha’s shoulder. She turns her head over the spot you’ve touched with an expression that reads, what? “Just- come over here”, you signal with your hand as unseen as possible. She slows her pace. “What is it?”. “I think I’m wearing the wrong shirt”. “What do you mean wrong shirt? We have to gear-up on route. Did you already forget what Coulson said to us minutes ago?”. She laughs, but you can’t seem to share it with her. “Well, this is not mine, that’s what I’m saying”. You grab a piece of fabric of the dark shirt to show. Now that Natasha understands what you really mean, she’s trying her best to keep herself from bursting into laughter. “That explains why mine is a little more ‘loose’”. “And mine too tight…”, you grunt. “Can't we like, switch or something?”. “When do you honestly think we can do that?”, she voices discreetly, both stepping on the tailgate of the plane. “I don’t know, maybe-”. “Just accept it for now”. “But-”. “We’ll swap shirts after the mission, okay”. A low growl escapes your mouth. She’s right, you have no other choice at the moment. There’s no time. You grab the gear reluctantly while dropping your shoulders and sigh. Perhaps a little too loud.

“Everything alright, Agent (Y/L/N)?”. Coulson’s sudden presence behind you surprised you and with one quick movement you turn around, a poker-faced expression. “Yes sir, all fine”, you lie. Probably for the best, all things considered. Or not? “Well- actually, it’s not fine”. You reconsider. Should I tell? I’m sick of the secrets. But I can’t, I really can’t. I know damn well what the consequences are... “Sir”, you begin, scraping your throat. The Agent in charge of the operation waiting patiently for the words that are about to be spoken. “I would like to apologize for being late to the briefing earlier”. “Oh, it's all cleared up. Just don't let it happen again Agent (Y/L/N)”. “How so?”. “Agent Barton explained the situation”. Did he now? Feeling a slight panic, but mostly anger boiling inside your stomach. “Sir, just out of interest, what did he tell? To make sure he isn’t covering for my very own mistake. The truth is more important”. Except in this case of course. “He told me that you were with Agent Romanoff”. Not making it better Barton… The idea formed by a certain redhead's assassin brain doesn’t sound so bad anymore. “Did he also say what we were doing?”. “I’m not sure why you want to know all this, but he said Agent Romanoff and you were training in close-quarters combat. Correct?”. We were surely close, very close, though not a lot of combat involved… “Almost sir, we were actually training our knife-fighting skills. Don’t want to be stabbed in the back by surprise”. Shooting a quick glance at Barton, who returns a way too excited smile your way. “Usually I take my phone with me on the mat, but this time I left it in the locker”. Technically not a lie, one of the few truths to your story. “Luckily Agent Barton was there to bring you and Agent Romanoff in”. “Yes he was”, you agree, trying to sound as neutral as possible. Coulson continues. “I haven’t had the time to tell, but Agent Romanoff and you did an excellent job in Berlin a couple weeks back”. “Thank you sir. I thought so too, if I may say”. Replaying some images of that mission in your mind, but definitely some other scenery than to what Coulson is referring to. You buckle up and hear him speak. “Agents, last mission briefing in 30, just before we’ll touch down. Be ready”. Wishing you could go back to Nat’s room, the moment just before Barton ruined all the fun, and without this cramped shirt on. Actually, without any clothing on. You sigh once again. This is going to be a long day…  

[simsadventures]

You’re a Tease (Loose Sequel to You’re Annoying)

Summary: You can’t help yourself but annoy Bucky. You made a step forward- from name-calling you now provoke him with your body. Will he snap or is his self-control strong enough?

Warnings: teasing reader, angry Bucky, smut- MUST BE 18+ TO READ THIS STORY!!, fluff

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Superhero Reader

Word Count: 2632

A/N: I felt like I needed to do a sequel to You’re Annoying. I loved writing the story and wanted to make it a little spicy. You don’t have to read the “first part” to read this one- she annoyed him, Bucky was pissed, then he kissed her to shut her up. Now we’re here. Enjoy xx

Masterlist

Weeks. It’s been weeks since Bucky kissed you suddenly, and ever since that, you couldn’t stop thinking about it. How soft and plump his lips were, how incredibly right he felt pressed against your body. 

  But, unfortunately, nothing happened since that night. At first, you held back, didn’t even tease him one bit, which made the team pretty suspicious. Sam would even feel your forehead, telling you that you must be fatally ill not to annoy the hell out of Bucky. 

  And because Bucky still didn’t do anything, you took matters into your own hands. You wanted to piss him so bad that it wouldn’t stop with the kiss. Nu-uh, a kiss wouldn’t shut you up this time. 

  You wanted to be as subtle as possible so that the rest of the team wouldn’t notice what you were doing. Wanda, of course, knew everything, but that was just because of her powers and because you couldn’t say no to her pouty face. You even managed to keep it from Nat, though you were quite sure she knew something was up. 

 You started with the little things, the obvious and notorious ones. You started calling Bucky names again. You kinda missed his pissed off faces every time you came up with something new. Like the other day, when you were both (along with Wanda and Vision) in the kitchen. 

 “Whatcha making, Bucknator?” He squinted his eyes and if looks could kill, let’s say you’d vanish from the planet Earth in a blink of an eye. “Oh come on, this one was good, you gotta give me that! Bucknator, like a terminator, huh? Nothing? Jeez, you’re a bore!” 

  You could hear Vision coughing to hide his little giggle, and you were happy at least someone laughed at the fantastic name! Bucky just turned around and walked away. Well, you still could get under his skin, even if it wasn’t his skin you wanted to get under. Wanda just looked at you, shook her head and continued her conversation with Vis.

  Another one of your jabs came after a mission. It was an easy thing- some pirates were holding people on their ship and expected a ransom, so you, Bucky, and Sam came in, saved the day and flew home. You were always sent on these kinds of missions- near water so you could use your powers to the maximum. 

  When you were loading everyone into the quinjet, you noticed that one of the bodies was laying near to you, and next to him was his electric baton. You chuckled under your breath and used water to bring it to you. You lowered the voltage to a minimum so that you wouldn’t actually hurt him. You weren’t a psychopath, after all. 

 You sneaked behind Bucky, who was currently talking to the pilot, took the baton, pointed towards Bucky’s butt, and struck. 

  He jumped up like a scared cat, and you lost it. You dropped the baton and just started laughing hysterically. You didn’t quite expect Bucky losing it too, only in the other sense of the word. Your laugh was cut short as you felt a metal arm closing itself around your throat and pushing you against one of the walls of the plane. 

 “You think you’re so damn funny all the time, don’t you? You’re being stupid and childish, and someone should teach you some fucking manners.” 

 He let go of your neck and marched towards the pilot, to tell him to “just set off already man!” and irritated walked to sit next to Sam, still not even looking in your direction. He was such a drama queen, you couldn’t even believe it.

 You then played little more unfair. You saw that just simple annoying wouldn’t make him fuck you senseless, so you pulled another card. You looked good, and you knew it, so you were about to use it to your advantage. Unfair, you knew that, but you needed him.

  You started training only in your sports bra and leggings. Even Steve had to do a double-take of you. You smirked and continued on your way to the mat. You had to spar with Nat, because as Tony said: “You won’t always be around water, and we can’t save your cute ass from beating all the time.” 

 He had a point, so you started training just like everyone else, and not only strengthening your mind. You could feel Bucky’s eyes on you, but you didn’t let him know that. You stretched, bent down multiple times so that Bucky could see your ass perfectly. When you finally stood up and went to spare with Nat, you looked over at Bucky, who was now watching your every move, like a predator watching his prey. It made you shiver, which you tried to hide by yelling at Nat to not take it easy on you.

—-

 Oh and she didn’t. You were leaving the training centre with multiple bruises, and what you were sure were a few cracked ribs. Even though Nat told you it was nothing, it hurt like a motherfucker. You kinda expected Bucky to make a move, but that night, and every other night, your bed was cold. You needed to up the teasing, and Tony provided a perfect occasion for you to do that. His birthday party. 

 Your body was still covered in some bruises because the team was really trying to show you just how much pain you could take in training. Those didn’t stop you from wearing a red satin dress, with a slit to your mid-thigh and a low neckline. You and the girls actually really tried to look presentable, so you spent the whole day pampering each other and doing each other’s make-up and hair. And the result was brilliant. 

  You even managed to talk Sam into going with you, though he knew about the tension between you and Bucky. You had to promise him to cook him whatever he wanted for a week, in exchange of possibly having his ass kicked by his friend. 

 All so dramatic! “Why would Bucky kick your ass, Sam? He always acts like I’m a fucking brat, nothing else.” 

 “Oh, trust me, Y/N. You might be a brat, but then he’s a fucking brat-tamer.” Well, you really hoped for you. You needed to be tamed so hard! 

 Once in the main room, you could see just how many people Tony actually invited. Not only were there other agents and lab techs, but also some celebrities and politicians. You knew you’d have to mingle and talk to all the important people in the room, and it made your eyes roll. You hated to mingle. You wanted to stay close to your friends, teasing the hell out of each other, and not try to be polite to people who don’t actually dive two damns about you. 

 But it was required of you all, so you kept your mind to yourself and started to make your way through the room. Around halfway through the crowd of pretentious people, you met with Bucky. 

 “Ah, Sargent Barnes, Miss Y/L/N, it is so nice to finally meet you!” the minister of defence hollered at you two, and even though Bucky looked like he wanted to continue to ignore you, he couldn’t. 

 You answered the minister’s questions, and even flirted with him slightly, seeing how it made Bucky uncomfortable. He was clenching his fist and setting his jaw, and probably thought nobody noticed his tense posture. It was when you touched minister’s arm and tilted your head to whisper something into his ear, that Bucky snapped.

 He apologised quickly, grabbed your upper arm harshly, and pulled you towards the dance floor. He then spun you, so you were facing him, gripped your waist and started swaying to the music.

 “What’s your problem, Barnes? I was having a nice talk with the gentleman!” You hissed into his ear.

 “A little too nice, don’t you think?” His grip grew even tighter, and you were pretty sure you’d have his fingerprints imprinted into your skin. 

 “Ouch!” You swatted his chest, and he let go, just enough for you to not feel pain, but still gripping you tight enough to not let you go. 

 “What is it, huh? I thought I was being stupid and childish? Maybe minister wanted to teach me some fucking manners,” you whispered the last part seductively to his ear, which only resulted in his metal hand travelling across your back, to the back of your neck. He gripped it tightly, and pulled you closer to him; so close, your noses were almost touching.

 “See, this is where you’re wrong, doll. He ain’t gonna teach you anything, ‘cause when I’m done with you, you won’t be able to walk for days, and then I’ll do it all over again.” A flame lighted in Bucky’s eyes, and before you could comprehend what was happening, he was kissing you.

 You forgot you were on a dance floor, you forgot you were on planet Earth. All that mattered at that moment was Bucky’s lips moving in sync with yours. He demanded an entry to your mouth, to which you obliged and let him explore you. Your whole body was singing with lust. You were so horny it actually physically hurt. 

 Bucky suddenly pulled away, probably aware of the place where you to finally decided to devour each other, interlaced his fingers with yours, and pulled you out of there.

 What you couldn’t see, was Steve, Sam, and Nat smirking like crazy at the events which unfolded in front of them. They all knew you two wanted each other, and that it was just a matter of time till you finally admitted these feelings, or whatever it was. They were all thrilled, both that you finally did something and that you took the doing of something more elsewhere. 

—-

 Bucky’s steps were full of determination. He always wanted you but didn’t want to start something which could possibly hurt you both. But the longer you annoyed and teased him, the more he realised just how much he wanted you. And when he saw you touching another man (and he wasn’t even talking about the fact Sam took you to the party, he’d kick his ass later), something inside him just snapped. He wanted you all to himself, and that was precisely what he was gonna get. 

 You pulled you inside his room and didn’t waste another minute, so he pulled you to him and kissed you again. This one was much slower, full of unspoken things between the two of you. 

 “I need you, sweetheart! So bad!” You could have sworn your insides melted when he said those words. You literally jumped into his arms, which took him by surprise a little, but he managed to keep himself standing, while you kissed him again. “I need you too, James.” 

 This did it for him. After the endless nicknames, you gave him, hearing you saying his first name made him dizzy. It sounded perfect coming out of your mouth.

 He threw you to his bed and climbed above you, to kiss down your neck and your collarbone. You held back a moan and intertwined your fingers in Bucky’s hair. He pulled the tiny straps of your dress off your shoulder and growled when he noticed you were braless. 

 “Such a naughty girl. What am I gonna do to you?” 

 “I’m yours, James, do whatever you want to me, please.” You were desperate for his touch. You could feel his hands sliding your dress down your body, till you couldn’t feel them anymore. You were left only in your panties, and you suddenly didn’t like the amount of clothes Bucky was wearing.

  “That’s unfair, James. I’m here almost naked, and you haven’t shed a thing yet? I think it’s time to change that.” You started to undress him, piece by piece until he was also left only in his underwear. You pulled the elastic band of his boxers until he was left standing there completely naked, at your mercy. You gripped his cock and smirked when you heard Bucky hiss above you. 

 You pumped him a few times in your hand, before you lowered yourself to the knees, and took him entirely in your mouth. He probably didn’t expect that as a string of curses left his mouth, and his hands clenched into two tight fists. 

 Before you could start moving properly, Bucky pulled you off of him. You pouted and wanted to protest, but he kissed you to shut you up. Again.

 “As much as I want that smart-ass mouth on my cock, I need to be inside you, baby girl.”

 You let him pull you back to your feet and pull your panties off. He stayed in a kneeling position in front of you, and before you could ask him what he was doing, he dived towards your heat. You spread your legs a little so that he could have better access, which resulted in Bucky humming excitedly into your core. This sent another set of tingles through your body, and you couldn’t do anything other than let this beautiful man devour your pussy. 

 You were nearing your high, but as if Bucky could feel it, he pulled away, and let you gasping for air, and crying for a release. 

 “Patience doll, I want you to come on my cock, after all, I’m teaching you some manners, remember?” His voice was hiding a hint of threat, but you couldn’t care less, as you saw him standing up, your juices spread across his chin, smiling like an idiot. 

 “Whatever, James, just take me finally.” You never needed to have sex more than in that very moment.

 Bucky didn’t hesitate and entered you in one swift motion. He let you adjust to his length for a second before he started pounding into you mercilessly. You wanted to cry for every holy person you could think of because Bucky was hitting all the right places while playing with your stiff nipples. But the only name on your tongue was his. 

 You were a breathless mess, whispering James over and over. He loved it. You were so tight he could barely breathe, and seeing your body writhing underneath him, your tits jumping with each thrust, he was a goner. 

 He bit your neck playfully while whispering sweet nothings to your ear. He could feel you were nearing your release and wanted nothing more than seeing your body blissed out. “Come on, Y/N. Come for me, doll. Wanna feel that tight pussy squeezing my fat cock.” 

 It took just two thrusts for you to come undone underneath him. Your toes curled, and a scream rippled through your mouth, sounding more like a wounded animal than a happy woman, but you didn’t have the energy to think about that. You kept your hands in Bucky’s hair, and praised him silently, which pushed him towards his own climax. He stilled in you, and you could feel thick ropes of cum filling your tight hole, and it only made your blissful state that much sweeter. 

  You were full of Bucky, and you never wanted to let go. When he pulled out of you, you gasped a little. When you looked at him, you could see he was watching his own cum streaming down your pussy and to your ass. “I could watch this forever, doll. You’re so pretty like this, little tease.”

 You pulled his arm so that he was lying next to you, and draped your leg across his torso. You kissed his bare chest and whispered, your eyes closing from all that excitement,” your little tease.” Bucky hummed in approval and hugged you closer to him. His little tease, he liked that.

[tabloidtoc]

Star, January 25

You can now buy a copy of this issue for your very own at my eBay store: https://www.ebay.com/str/bradentonbooks

Cover: Meghan Markle’s life is a lie 

Page 1: Emma Stone’s baby joy -- after months of speculation thrilled mom-to-be Emma debuts her baby bump during a hike with a pal 

Page 2: Contents, Sutton Foster and Nico Tortorella and Debi Mazar filmed a scene for Younger’s final season 

Page 4: Candace Cameron Bure came out swinging again against commenters on a holiday pic she posted on Instagram of her and her husband Valeri Bure and kids Natasha and Lev and Maksim and she got a load of snark for the heavily retouched pic 

Page 5: Karlie Kloss usually steers clear of dishing on her sister- and brother-in-law Ivanka Trump and Jared Kushner but on January 6 Karlie broke her silence after Ivanka tweeted and quickly deleted a post calling a pro-Trump mob storming the U.S. Capitol building American patriots and Karlie begged to differ tweeting that accepting the results of a legitimate democratic election is patriotic and when one Twitter user urged her to tell her brother-in-law and sister-in-law she lamented I’ve tried 

* Olivia Jade Giannulli posted a clip of herself dancing maskless at a beach-house party and the New Year’s Day Insta came days after her mom Lori Loughlin was sprung from prison and the clip which featured her toasting with a glass of vino came less than a month after she aired her regrets in an interview -- the party girl feels she’s suffered too from the scandal and she was just letting off steam 

* Rege-Jean Page has sent pulses racing with his groundbreaking role as the rakish Duke of Hastings in Bridgerton but it was his reference to James Bond’s legendary martini preference in a tweet that had fans speculating he’s in line to take over from Daniel Craig as the next 007 -- the biracial actor has been vocal about the importance of inclusive casting 

Page 6: Jessica Simpson whose own father once bragged about her double Ds is enjoying a very particular benefit of her recent 100-lb slimdown which is she’s gone down two cup sizes and she says she feels more athletic and her body is more in proportion -- in addition to easing back pain she feels a different sort of weight has lifted because all that talk about her breasts made her feel they overshadowed her as a person 

* Drew Barrymore is nursing a private pain as her ex-husband Will Kopelman went public with his new love Vogue staffer Alexandra Michler and the two are serious while Drew is still single and she is alone and feeling like the odd man out -- there are times when Drew absolutely regrets divorcing Will especially now that he’s dating again and Drew was holding out hope for a reunion but when she discovered Will was seeing someone new she knew there was a good chance it may not happen and even worse her own attempts at finding romance have fallen flat as she’s tried online dating a few times but had no luck 

* Star Spots the Stars -- Jimmy Fallon and wife Nancy Juvonen, Jennifer Lopez, Eva Longoria, Ryan Seacrest, Jenna Dewan, Aubrey Plaza, JD Martinez 

Page 8: Star Shots -- John Legend gave his son Miles a zip around the water on a jet ski during a vacation in St. Barths, Ellen DeGeneres on a bike after lunch with friends in Santa Barbara, Brooke Burke dressed in wintry workout gear sipped a hot drink 

Page 10: Leslie Jones on Celebrity Wheel of Fortune, Christina Aguilera playing video games with her son Max 

Page 12: Kit Harington takes his dog for a walk in London, Sean “Diddy” Combs passed out gift cards and gift bags to those in need in Miami, Mindy Kaling online shopping 

Page 13: Gabrielle Union and her husband Dwyane Wade on a hike, Jenny McCarthy maneuvered her trash bins to the curb in Chicago 

Page 14: Coach Tom Jones on The Voice UK, EJ Johnson at the beach in Miami, Margaret Qualley and boyfriend Shia LaBeouf on a hike in L.A., Dua Lipa eating during a getaway in Tulum, Mexico 

Page 16: Normal or Not? Tori Spelling out in Los Angeles with her dogs and husband Dean McDermott -- normal, Nicole Kidman and an alpaca -- not normal 

Page 17: Jennifer Garner playing the drinking game from The Crown in which participants who can’t repeat a phrase correctly must smudge their faces -- not normal, Kate Bosworth celebrated her birthday with husband Michael Polish and some bubbly in Beverly Hills -- normal 

Page 18: Fashion -- stars stun in Pantone colors of the year Illuminating Yellow and Ultimate Gray -- Mindy Kaling, Thandie Newton, Jorja Smith 

Page 19: Ariana Grande, Zoey Deutch 

Page 24: Olivia Wilde made news stepping out as Harry Styles’ plus-one to his agent’s wedding in Montecito and he introduced her as his girlfriend as the two mingled and held hands -- the next day Harry and Olivia who hit it off on the set of her upcoming psychological thriller Don’t Worry Darling in which he stars were spotted heading into his L.A. home -- wedding guests weren’t the only ones surprised by the new couple as Olivia’s ex Jason Sudeikis dad to her kids Otis and Daisy has been nurturing hope of a reunion since their split in late 2020 and he was surprised she’d go for one of the actors in her movie -- now Olivia is conflicted because she’s having fun with Harry but there’s no denying her feelings for Jason continue to linger and some are betting her romance with Harry will flame out in no time and no one would be surprised if Olivia and Jason ended up getting back together 

Page 25: Florence Pugh and Zach Braff had Hollywood abuzz after a pal wished her a happy birthday on social media and cryptically referred to her as FPB -- that extra B caused many to surmise that Florence has quietly exchanged vows with Zach and taken his last name and Florence hasn’t done much to shut down speculation by strategically hiding her ring finger in photos shared on Instagram 

* Zoe Kravitz filed for divorce from Karl Glusman after 18 months of marriage because she was fed up with having an MIA husband -- things between the two hit a breaking point after Karl failed to check in with his wife while filming Please Baby Please in Butte, Montana -- Zoe couldn’t take being ignored and when she and Karl finally spoke they had a big fight and she pulled the plug shortly afterwards 

* They called it quits in October after two years together but Bethenny Frankel and Paul Bernon are now giving their relationship another shot -- they split up because their long-distance romance proved too difficult but Bethenny really missed him and it turns out Paul missed her too and it seems second time’s a charm because a loved-up Bethenny and Paul indulged in PDA at a Miami studio as they watched her daughter paint with the artist

Page 26: Cover Story -- Meghan Markle exposed -- Meghan’s older half-sister is dishing some major dirt about the former actress’ rise to royalty in her new bombshell book 

Page 30: Inside Kim Kardashian’s escape -- Kim reached her breaking point with Kanye West months ago but took many steps before she finally left him 

Page 32: It Ain’t Over Till It’s Over -- these celebs more than made up after breaking up and they made it all the way down the aisle -- Justin Timberlake and Jessica Biel, Kelly Ripa and Mark Consuelos, Adam Levine and Behati Prinsloo 

Page 33: Kristen Bell and Dax Shepard, Chrissy Teigen and John Legend, Prince William and Kate Middleton 

Page 36: Beauty -- sweet dreams -- get better ZZZs and wake up looking gorgeous with products that nourish 

Page 38: Entertainment 

Page 48: Parting Shot -- Splashing out on a romantic getaway in Tulum, Mexico Bella Thorne and boyfriend Benjamin Mascolo made time to keep it tight on the sand 

[sergeant-donny-donowitz]

The Home That War Built (Parental!Aldo Raine)

Not an AldoxReader fic. Aldo becomes a parental figure to fem!reader, totally platonic

Crush between reader & Hirschberg is implied

Reader has a twin sister

Reader is Hans Landa's daughter

If any of these things make you uncomfortable, please do not read! ______________________

@owba-chan @war-obsessed @inglourious-imagines @tealaquinn @struggling-bee @frozenhuntress67 @kwyloz @sodapop182

Let me know if you wanna be added to the IB or OUATIH taglists! :)

Requested by @svonschroeder _____________________________

***1943*** The basterds stood in a line, somewhere in the middle of absolutely nowhere, in nazi-occupied France. They had a new mission. "Her name is Y/n Landa." Aldo stood with his hands at his hips, "The kid's German, Double agent, working secretly for the French Resistance." Aldo sighed, and looked at the basterds. Every once in a while, he'd be struck by the reminder that a few of them were young enough to still be in school. Hirschberg somehow tricked his way into the army at 16. Here they were... Aldo sometimes wondered how many kids like that were fighting in a world they couldn't even call home anymore. Sometimes it broke his heart... Still, he was Aldo the Apache. No one could know that. The only one who even knew that side of him was his wife, Maggie... He didn't even have the luxury of getting a letter from her, given the absolute secrecy of the basterds. "The French say the kid's gone missing. General says it's our job to find her. Nazis are definitely involved, you boys know what that means, dont'cha?" A few of the basterds started to smirk, ready to begin loading their guns and sharpening their knives. Donny was already eyeing his bat. 

It took some spying, some threatening, and a whole lot of nazi scalps to do it, but they did it. Another mission accomplished. "Holy shit...She's alive right?" Wicki muttered as he took your pulse, "If you could call it that." From the blood and the bruises, you had obviously escaped someone that had no intention of letting you escape. You mumbled, as you drifted in and out of consciousness. You saw the basterds standing over you. You didn't recognize them. And the fact that half of them were wearing nazi disguises... You gave up, looked past the faces and pleaded softly, "Tu ihr nicht weh ..." Hugo frowned a little, and he crouched by you, as Aldo asked, "What she say, boys?" Hugo ignored Aldo for a second, and asked, "Wer verletzt?" Wicki looked back at the basterds, "She said 'don't hurt her.' Hugo's asking who..." Your voice broke into a whisper as a tear streamed down your face, streaking through drying blood, "Emmeline." The basterds looked to Aldo, and he shook his head, "General didn't say nothin' 'bout no Emmeline..." He crouched down by Hugo and Wicki, and shook his head, wondering "What's the world done to you, kid?" Wicki looked over, "I don't think any bones are broken. I'm not sure about internal bleeding." Donny spoke up, "We left a fucking trail of dead nazis here. And a big one. We gotta move, lieutenant." Hirschberg peered out from behind Donny and Omar's shoulders and looked at you. Beneath the blood, there was a face, just about as young as him. A double agent, working on the side of justice, and there you were, half past death's door. A day passed, and when you woke up, you were in what appeared to be an abandoned hostel. You didn't remember anything after the moment you stumbled away from the nazis' grasp. When you saw unfamiliar faces, you tried to get up, but you just couldn't. "No, no, it's ok, kid! We ain't nazis." The man had a scar around his neck, and after hearing that accent, you had no doubt he was telling the truth. He said, "You might know us as the basterds. My name's Aldo." "The Apache?" You murmured, as the weary blurriness in your eyes gave way, and you looked at the rest of the faces. One by one, their names were etched into your memory. "Now," Aldo pulled a rusting, dusty chair by your side, "Tell us what you can. Who you was runnin' from, where they are, where you needa be goin'." "Please...They have my sister." Hirschberg set his gun down, and asked, "Emmeline?" 'Emmeline.' Now you remembered the moment the basterds found you. You nodded, "She's my twin." Donny looked to Aldo, "You sure general didn't say anything about a sister?" You shook your head, "She's not in France. Father keeps her locked up in Germany. She's been outspoken against everything father is from the moment we knew who he really was." "Your father, does he know about...this?" "That I'm a traitor? Undoubtedly by now." You grinned slightly with satisfaction, wondering what his reaction could have been. Aldo couldn't wrap his head around it. "Why did they hurt you? How did they find out?" "Well.... They still don't know I'm working with the resistance. They think it was an isolated incident." "What incident?" Donny asked what everyone was thinking. "I work in a science lab..." That was an understatement. You were a genius, and you were being exploited in the nazis' attempts to build a nuclear weapon. "I sabotaged a very important project, and destroyed the plans and data." You had a chemical burn on your forearm to prove it. "What kinda plan?" Aldo asked, genuinely curious. Whatever it was would definitely be of interest to the OSS. "A nuclear bomb." There was a heavy silence blanketing the room, and you said, "I set them back at least a year. Two or three if they don't find me. Even if they do, I'll do it again, even if it kills me." "What do you mean two or three if they don't find you?" Aldo asked, and Utivich nodded, "Yeah...what's so special they got to find you for that?" You sighed, and explained, "I don't just work there. I am the project... Everything that was in those plans, it's here." You raised your throbbing, bruised arm to your temple, "I sabotaged every step of the way, but this time, they were too close to solving the puzzle. I had to destroy all of it." "So they tried to kill you?" You nodded, "They didn't even report me to anyone. They got the guards to do it. But I got away..." "What happens if they find you?" "Nothing anymore. My father probably has worse things in store." "Father?" That struck Aldo, "You don't even call him...whatever the German word for dad is?" You scoffed, "Hans Landa is the last thing a father could ever be like." You shook your head, "The only reason why I pretended to go along with all this was because if I didn't, he would murder my sister," Your eyes lowered to the ground, and your voice shook with rage and sorrow, "He would murder Emmeline." In that moment, the basterds were outraged. Aldo, however, was speechless. His blood was boiling. His heart broke, wondering how a man could even think of killing his own child. How could a man blackmail one daughter for the life of the other? The answer was simple. That man had to be a nazi. These were some of the things that made Aldo wonder how cruel life could really be. For years and years, he and his wife would have given anything for even a chance of having a little one running around. And to see someone so horribly mistreat their own children? Aldo reckoned the only solution to that would be to have that man's scalp. Wicki changed some of your bandages, and checked again for signs of internal injuries. You answered a few more questions, and managed to eat a few bites, and then fell back asleep. The basterds filed out, and Hirschberg asked, "So what now?" Aldo shook his head, "Wait till we hear from the general again." And they did. It took a few days, but in that time, you softened the basterds' hearts. Even Hugo's. He shushed Smitty and Omar when they were being too loud and you were resting. Out of the basterds, Aldo was the most worried about you. Especially after he finally heard back from the general. "We gotta hand Y/n over to the resistance." Hirschberg, who had spent the most time with you, was the most intrigued with you. It was nice to talk to someone just about his age, who wasn't a total basterd. Besides, it wasn't everyday he met a bonafide genius. He just liked talking with you. And he was going to miss you... Which prompted him to answer with a more agressive tone than he meant, "What do they want with her?!" Aldo sighed, "They're sending Y/n back to the nazis." Donny didn't even bat an eyelash, "Oh so it's a suicide mission. Isn't that just dandy?" Hugo nodded, being fully acquainted with the ways that nazis met traitors, he wasted no time in telling the truth. "He's right. They'll kill her." Aldo shook his head. If he knew the nazis would kill you, he would never have agreed to the terms. "The resistance has a man on the inside. He says the nazis that hurt y/n were executed on her father's orders. Says her old man's got some power," He looked around, then said, " 'parently he's called in favors, and got Y/n off the hook. Passing it all off as some teenage rebellion. Resistance needs Y/n to stay as an informant, and are gon’ give her back to the nazis. Her father's sending for her, back to Germany." You were standing by the doorway. It was the first time you managed to get up. "He will lock me up. Away from Emmeline. Away from anyone and everything that I truly know or care for." You sighed, and said, "That is, until the scientists start falling too far behind in their plans. They will send for me again in time. And I will do all over again."

Aldo looked at you, and his heart stopped thinking about all the things they would do if you were caught again. Would they sentence you to die by a firing squad? Would they just torture you and hide you away until there was nothing left to do? Would your father actually kill Emmeline just to get to you? "Look kid...when you get home. Deny it. Deny everything your dad says he knows. You don't tell 'em you were with no resistance, and you ain't gon' tell 'em 'bout us. Even if he knows everything that you know, don't say nothin'." You smirked, "I know." Something about that smirk was heartbreaking. It was a telltale sign that you'd played these games before.

**** Days passed, and you all waited in the hideout until someone from the French resistance contacted the basterds. You were leaving the next morning. Hirschberg was sitting with you as you both talked about nothing. Aldo walked in, and you and Hirschberg smiled at each other, and then looked away. Aldo came to say goodbye. His heart hurt because every step was decided by the resistance, There was no mother worrying about you, and no father to know best. Different governments were using you, a kid, as a pawn against each other. Aldo wouldn't be surprised if it got you killed some day... But there was nothing more he could do.

Hirschberg left, after hearing Omar and Donny beginning to argue about baseball again. Aldo stayed with you. He was more of a boxing type of guy anyway. You were both silent for a while, then you shook your head, "What if I crack...What if I am just a coward..." "No you ain't. You're just a kid goddamnit." He looked at you, and you saw something in his eyes you never saw in those of your father: Worry. "When you go tomorrow, you promise me you gon' stay safe." He handed something over to you. It was his knife. He wrapped your fingers around the knife's handle, "You gon' stay safe..." "They won't kill me, Aldo. I know too much." That was what Aldo was worried about... But he smiled softly, and started heading to the door. "Get some sleep, kid."

"Goodnight!" He smiled again, "Goodnight, kid..." You didn't sleep. You looked at the ceiling, wondering what would happen...  Before you knew it, it was morning. The basterds and double agents were hiding around as the exchange was made. Resistance fighters posing as nazis handed you over to real nazis, one of which you recognized as Dieter Hellstrom. He gripped you by the back of your shirt, and muttered "Du warst zum letzten Mal ein Schmerz im Arsch, Y/n." "You've been a pain in my ass for the last time Y/n." You looked at the car window, and saw a face that could have been your reflection looking back. "Emmeline..." Your voice almost broke in tears and laughter of joy, but she did not reciprocate. She shook her head softly. Her cheeks were stained with tears. Dieter swung the door open. You felt the cool press of his luger behind your neck as her shoved you into the car, "Keine Spiele." "No games." Before Dieter climbed in, Emmeline whispered in desparation and guilt, "Du hättest nicht zurückkommen sollen. Du warst frei..." "You shouldn't have come back. You were free." ***ONE YEAR LATER***

That car drive was the last time you saw Emmeline for a year. She was locked again in the empty old house surrounded by cold loneliness, deprived of ink, and any lose pieces of paper.

Her ideas and her words were too dangerous to find their way to the allies. You were sent away to a laboratory in Munich, where you did your best to set them back, though you did not have any reliable contacts to pass all the information on to. One year passed, and you were brought back to France. You were put in an empty room, with two evening gowns you could only have imagined seeing on the likes of someone like Bridget von Hammersmarck. There was a box of jewelry that belong to the mother you never knew. And there was Emmeline. You threw your arms around each other, sobbing, and trying to find words to even begin, but a guard beat his gun against the door, and barked orders for you to be silent and get dressed. Your father had appearances to keep up. What for, you wouldn't know until you arrived at a small cinema named Le Gamaar. You understood now, recognizing all the biggest faces in the high command. Of course they'd be expecting to see Hans Landa's brilliant daughters: The ever profound writer Emmeline, and the mathematical prodigy Y/n. An unstoppable duo... Your father knew that, so the moment you arrived at the cinema, he made sure you were separated. The more seconds passed, and the more nazis you recognized, the more hope you lost. With every moment that passed, the end of the war seemed further and further away. The outcome appeared bleaker and bleaker with every poster of Stolz der Nation that you saw. It was then that you spotted something that made your heart beat again. Sergeant Donny Donowitz and Private Omar Ulmer were heading into the theater. You quickly looked around, and saw Lieutenant Aldo Raine in a flashy white suit. You couldn't help but grin, knowing he was definitely up to something... And... Apparently so was Frau von Hammersmarck? You were shocked, but...then who wouldn't be? Still, you knew there had to be a bigger meaning behind it all, and bounded down the steps. Suddenly you saw your father speaking to Aldo, and pulling Bridget von Hammersmarck away. Your heart stopped...you knew the look in your father's cold, cruel eyes. It was the same look when he solved any case he was given, or when he learned the truth about you or your sister. It was that look: Impressed that you'd made it so far, and somehow, so accusive. He knew everything. He'd known all along. The moment he disappeared with Frau von Hammersmarck, you rushed to Aldo as quickly as you could without kicking up any unecessary attention. You spoke in a long thread of words, wihtout taking a breath, trying to explain it all at once. Aldo raised his eyebrow, trying to keep it all underwraps, "Hey, hey it's alright kid. It's all gonna be alright." "You don't understand! Y-" He was afraid if anyone heard either of you spoeaking in English, the plan would be ruined. "Come on," He led you outside, to an alley, where Smitty and Hirschberg were hiding out. "I need you to go, Y/n. Take your sister, and go. Run away." Smitty shook his head, "They won't get far, Aldo. Someone's going to notice." "I'm not letting Y/n and Emmeline stay in there. They deserve a chance to get away." "Even if they ran away, and a nazi saw them, he'd bring them back here to their dad." Hirschberg spoke up, "I'll go with them." Aldo looked at Hirschberg, his youngest soldier, and a damn good basterd. So much so, he not only lied about his age to join the military, but he was so good at it, he even convinced the OSS years ago, If any of the basterds could keep you safe, it was Hirschberg. Aldo looked at you, and knew you and Emmeline deserved a chance. "I'm goin' back inside before Landa realizes I'm gone. Utivich, stick to the plan, and cover for Hirschberg. Son, you and Y/n find Emmeline, and get the hell outta here, you understand?" Hirschberg saluted Aldo, understanding the implications of Operation Kino, and knowing it may be the last time he saw any of the basterds, "Yes, sir." He and Utivich hugged, after being the closest thing to brothers they had, and went their ways. You looked at Aldo, and  spoke softly, "Thank you, Aldo." He chuckled, and told you what he told you a year ago, "You promise me you gon' stay safe." Last time, you had leverage, and could not be killed. Now, there was a kill on sight order if you were spotted anywhere but in Le Gamaar.  You lied to Aldo, to keep him assured, "They won't kill me, Aldo. I know too much." He smiled softly, and looked at the sky. For a moment, he wasn't in France, he was back in Maynardville, Tennessee, looking back up at that same sky with his wife, Maggie. Aldo would've killed to have a daughter like you and Emmeline, and spend his life with that kid and his wife back in Tennessee, but life was cruel and absurd that way... He shook his head, and for a moment, you could have sworn you saw a glimmer in his eyes, like that of a tear as he said, "Goodnight, kid." You all went you ways, and you snuck Hirschberg into the theater. As the two of you glided through the crowds that were heading into the theater, he slipped his hand into yours. You glanced back, and saw that  a guard was looking at you. You smiled at the guard, and he smiled back, and quickly looked away. Hirschberg smirked at you, and the two of you rushed up the stairs. He blushed as he quickly tried to explain himself, "....It's more convincing this way." You smiled, "I suppose so..." You looked at each other for a moment, smiling as if you'd just fooled the world. Just then you spotted your father leaving a room that was off to the side. "There!" As soon as the coast was clear, you and Hirschberg hurried to the room. You froze for a moment, seeing Bridget von Hammersmarck laying dead, in the middle of the floor. What's more, there was a nazi, aiming a gun at Emmeline. Emmeline was looking right at him, not even fazed. Just waiting. Landa wouldn't even do his own dirty work. You knew he wouldn't. But you wouldn't let anyone else hurt her. You disarmed the nazi, and shot him dead on the spot before Hirschberg could even get a step in. "Who taught you that?" You smirked, "A lady never tells." Emmeline looked up at you, as you pulled her out of the room. She smiled, "Better late than never, is that what people say?" Hirschberg glanced at you, though you didn't notice, as he smiled and nodded, "Yeah, better late than never..." ***Meanwhile*** Hans landa was sitting across from Aldo and Utivich "Well, let's just say she got what she deserved. And when you purchase friends like Bridget von Hammersmarck...you get what you pay for." "What'd you to to 'em kids, huh?" Aldo was glaring at Landa. He cackled, "Kids these days..." He held up a framed photograph that was on the edge of his desk. He was quite a few years younger in the picture, and standing with a woman, presumably his wife. There were two baby girls about a year old, wearing identical clothes, and bows in their hair, held by their mother. Landa smiled out of cynicism as he showed them the picture, "Just like their mother, those girls." He shook his head with a sigh, "If only they'd taken after me." He looked up with a grin, "It's not so easy to get rid of two of them... Especially when they're so well known." "What do you mean..." Smitty fell into the web of intrigue that Landa was weaving. Landa shrugged, "Well...Marie... My beautiful Marie," He sighed, as if in longing, as his fingertips traced the portrait of the woman. "She was brilliant," His expression changed. He gritted his teeth, and practically spat, "Too brilliant. And too empathetic." He shook his head, "I suppose, that's where Emmeline and Y/n get it from." He cackled again, "It's not so difficult to convince the world that an emotional, sweet, kind-hearted, lovely little thing like my dear Marie would just..." He snapped his fingers harshly, "Under the pressure of two babies, and after some post-partum depression? It wasn't so hard to convince everyone she fell into a pit of psychosis, and delusion as I was away, working long hours for a revolutionary political campaign." Aldo and Utivich could not believe what they were hearing. Hans Landa murdered his own wife because she knew of his early involvement with the nazi party. He sighed in lament, his thumb grazing over the old photograph, "And when she ran away with meine kleinen Lieblinge, my two little girls...She jumped into the Rhine in a delusional episode." He shook his head, and tsked “Tragic, really,” He looked up at the two basterds with a sly, telling smirk, "You drowned her?" Smitty shook his head, spoke quietly in disbelief. Hans smiled in acknowledgment, but went on with the tale that convinced even the most astute at the time of the murder, "She jumped...I couldn't stop her, my Marie." He sighed as he tapped his finger lightly over the two babies in the picture, "Fortunately, I was able to swim out and save meine kleinen Lieblinge..." He sighed, "But they choose not to save their poor papa's heart now." Even with his charade, his hands shook in fury, and he slammed the frame down on the desk. The glass shattered, and he went on, "So you see, Aldo. It is far more difficult to convince the world that two young, brilliant girls like Emmeline and Y/n have simply gone mad, and drowned in the Rhine. All these years, I've had to fabricate plans to keep them in line." He scoffed, "I suppose that's the price of being a single father, isn't it?" He stood up, and shrugged "But I know when I'm beat, lieutenant. And if I come to stand before a tribunal, the first thing they would have been told was that I murdered my daughters. Instant death sentence. Even if I did come to make a deal with your general. Correct?" Aldo didn't know exactly how to play the game, so he just followed along, "I suppose so..." "But! If...per se...Emmeline and Y/n burned with al the other nazis, that's how they will be remembered by the world. As nazis. Killed in the OSS' plot against the nazi regime, without an ounce of guilt in my conscience." Utivich spat, "You're a monster." "Oh please, Private Utivich. We all have appearances to keep." All the while, you, Emmeline, and young private Hirschberg were lurking around outside of the building. "We can get access into the building, just play along." Emmeline pulled you and Hirschberg in through the front doors. "Isn't Y/n like...your dad's number one enemy?" You rolled your eyes, "Oh please, he's had me reduced to a bratty teen with a rebellious streak in order for him to save face." "Sh," Emmeline turned and you were both silent. She greeted a few guards. The guards, like every other nazi stationed in Paris, were ordered to kill you and Emmeline if you were spotted outside of the cinema, but...you both carried yourselves with such confidence, and looked so innocent, the guards wondered if there was a change in orders, and let you on your way. She ordered the guards to clear away, citing a need to speak to her father urgently. The three of you stood outside the door, listening in as Landa and Aldo struck a deal with the brass. You all heard Aldo conclude the deal, "Yes sir..." Then, he, Utivich, and Landa were uncomfortably silent for a moment. Aldo played dumb, "So you're really willing to let the whole high command burn?" "I've made the deal, haven't I, Aldo?" Aldo really couldn't believe it. The will power that man needed to not strangle Landa in that moment was immeasurable. "That includes your own daughters?" Landa shrugged, "Sacrifices must be made for the greater good. Besides, they were always troublemakers." Utivich shook his head, "They're fucking heroes! Emmeline's been writing speeches and documents exposing Hitler, you, and everyone else in that theater! Y/n's been sabotaging scientists and-" "None of that matters, private Utivich." Landa smirked, knowing his plans had all come into place. "The world will know them only as former nazi's daughters, who burned at the premier of Nation's Pride. A writer and a scientist, burning along with the nazi high command. Now, how do you think history books will read that?" You and Emmeline glanced at each other outside the door, and nodded without a word. You both started to head back outside. Hirschberg shook his head, and whispered, "Hey! I'm not a twin, I don't know what you're fucking thinking!" You looked at Emmeline, "To the allied lines?" She nodded with a smirk, "To the allied lines." Hirschberg frowned, and looked between you and Emmeline a few times, "To the allied lines?!" *** Aldo was standing face to face with Hans Landa. Utivich was scalping Herman. "But I do have one question. When you get to your little place on Nantucket Island, I imagine you gon' taken off that handsome-lookin' SS uniform. Aint'cha?" Hans Landa, for once in his life, looked absolutely terrified.

"That's what I thought...Now that I can't abide." Aldo didn't realize Landa wasn't just terrified about what was to happen. "How about you Utivich? Can you abide it?" Utivich didn't look up, "Not one damn bit, sir." "I mean...if I had my way, you'd wear that uniform for the rest of your pecker-suckin' life..." It as then, that Aldo realize Landa wasn't looking at him. He was shaking, and sweating, and looked as though he'd seen a ghost. Two, in fact. Aldo looked back, and jumped a little, though...he was relieved, as he chuckled "Well I'll be damned..." Landa whispered, "Meine kleinen Lieblinge..." "Talk. Now." Emmeline muttered, standing by your side. He tilted his head, in disbelief, and tried to find some words. All he could say was "P-please...." Hirschberg leaned against a tree and chuckled, "You gonna have to try harder than that, colonel." Landa stuttered, "Ich bin dein Vater, nicht wahr?" "I'm your dad, aren't I?" You shook your head, as you raised a gun, "You are not." Landa shook his head in desparation, "No...no! Please!" He looked back at Aldo, begging, "I made a deal. You said so yourself! The OSS wants me alive." Emmeline tugged at your arm, "Y/n...put the gun down." You shook your head. She begged, "You are many things, Y/n...but you will not stoop down to his level. If you kill him, the OSS will go after you. That's what he wants..." You looked to Emmeline, and her face was stained with tears again, like the day she asked why you came back, when you were free. You looked at Landa, the man that could never be a true father. There were other ways to be free. You looked at Emmeline...You couldn't let anyone separate you from her again, even if it meant Landa got to walk away. "You wanted us to burn, and be remembered as something we are not." The gun clicked Emmeline turned to you, whispered a desparate "No!" But you were a step ahead of the game this time. You put the gun away, and stepped toward Aldo. You handed him his knife, which he'd given to you a year before. "But you will be known for what you really are." Landa looked at you, with wide, terrified eyes, "Y/n...liebling, no...don't do this..." Aldo smirked, "Thank you, kid..." He looked back at Landa, "I'm gon' give you a little sum' you can't take off."

You and Emmeline watched as Aldo and Smitty peered over his final, writhing, screaming, blood-stained masterpiece. Somewhere along the line, Hirschberg slipped his hand into yours... Both of you looked at each other, blushed, and turned away. ***ONE YEAR LATER*** The basterds were meeting up at Aldo's cabin, up in the Smoky Mountains. When they went their ways at the end of the war, they promised to meet up at least once a year. Wicki moved around a lot, but he made it. Hugo moved to a quiet, small town in the Pacific Northwest. Donny went back to Boston. The rest of the boys were scattered around the east coast...except for Hirschberg who moved to California for college, and was teasingly called a traitor. It had been a year, and Aldo and Maggie Raine were setting up for the party. Aldo insisted on having a big barbecue, as a call back to Le Gamaar. You and Emmeline helped set up. After the war, after everything you and Emmeline went through, Aldo took you both under his wing. Maggie was smiling, and Aldo asked, "Now what's all this 'bout darlin'?" She smiled, "Y/n is thinkin' of goin' back to school." "Back? Ain't much else they can teach the kid!" Aldo chuckled as he set up the grill, and Maggie shook her head, "No, she wants to be a science teacher." Aldo grinned, "Really?" He sighed, "That ain't so bad. She gon' get to go down to town every day, maybe get to know the people more. It'll be good for her." Maggie nodded, with a soft sigh and a smile. She loved you and Emmeline as if you were her own daughters, just as Aldo did. She worried about you two in the beginning, seeing how much you had gone through just to survive, and worried you wouldn't be able to adjust. But, time was beginning to help. Maggie saw you and Emmeline laughing together in the distance, as you arrived from the butcher shop in the town. "Lord knows they was scared half to death. Them babies deserve every moment of sunshine life has to offer 'em." Aldo nodded with a sigh, "I know darlin'. I know..." Maggie cleared her throat, "Y'know...Emmeline's been goin' down to Mr. Kronberg's malt shop a lot." "Well shit, Maggie. They got some damn good vanilla shakes there, I don't blame her. She likes the jukebox, too." He chuckled, remembering that was the first place he and Maggie showed you and Emmeline. Maggie nodded, "Uh-huh, well...she also likes Mr. Kronberg's boy, David." Aldo sighed, "They grow up so fast, don't they, Maggie?" She sighed, "I suppose they do..." He chuckled and gave her a kiss on the cheek, "Well, I better take 'em beers in to the ice box." He picked up a case, and started to walk inside, but slipped on a step. You called out, "Dad look out!" You and Emmeline ran over to help him up, while Maggie stood by with a teary smile. Aldo looked up at you and Emmeline. He didn't mind the broken bottles, "You called me dad..." He got up, smiling wider than you'd ever seen before, "You called me dad!" Just then, you heard a car pulling up in the front of the house, and familiar arguing encompassing slamming doors. Donny and Omar were still fighting about  baseball. ‘Some things don't change,’ Aldo sighed, and he looked at you and Emmeline, 'But some things do...' That was life. Things changed, before, during, and after the war. Now that it was all over, and he was back up his Smoky Mountains, back with the wife he loved so much, his cabin didn't change much while he was gone. But now, they had you and Emmeline. It was a little louder than it used to be, but life was beautiful again. Aldo smirked, "That Hirschberg I see?" "Where?!" Aldo chuckled,"A-ha! I knew it!" You were clearly flustered, after having denied there was anything between you and Hirschberg for a year. Aldo chuckled, "Well, now, kid...As your dad, now I have to embarass you." "You really don't." He smiled, as he opened the door, "Well...Them’s the rules." and he watched Hirschberg basically run the rest of the basterds down as he raced to the door. Aldo looked back at you, "You gon' tell me to look at that boy's face, and tell me I'm wrong?" Maggie rolled her eyes as she and Aldo wrapped their arms around each other. "Don't you go snoopin' around them kid's lives, now." "I won't, I won't! Not all the time..." You and Emmeline laughed, and you all went outside to meet with the basterds. As you and Hirschberg looked at each other with quiet smiles, and blushes, you knew that didn't change. But when you looked back at Aldo, you smiled, knowing sometimes, change was good. You looked at him, at Maggie, and at Emmeline. You had a home now, and nothing could change that.

[soviet-history-detective]

What is the cost of not respecting boundaries?

(For those who haven’t seen, Part 1 and Part 2) A quick rundown for the people who are wondering what’s going on: Hello, folks. I am one of the leading Chernobyl/Legasov researchers who runs this youtube channel. I found the audio fragments of Legasov tapes which became quite a hit and received praise from Craig Mazin. Legasov tapes, which the migty HBO couldn’t find with their Russian-speaking consultants and millions of dollars of budget. I found rare photos and pre-Chernobyl videos of Legasov, translated a substantial amount of documentary material on Soviet near history topics, a good chunk of that being on Legasov and Chernobyl.  I am a live and let live kind of person and I was willing to look the other way with the Valoris shipping business cause “they were shipping the tv show characters and fangirling about the actors” so I ignored it and posted historical information, answered questions, unearthed and translated documentary videos and text material.   Then I abruptly stopped and went quiet cause the shipper gang went too far and started writing gross shit, rape fantasies and dragging real people who weren’t even in the tv show into their godawful fics -one of them being someone I highly admire, respect and look up as an inspiration and role model notwithstanding. 

They didn’t stick to Valoris, they had to involve the people who were not in the script at all. People whose names they learned from me. They had the audacity to discuss their fucked up fantasies (which they call headcanons) right under my nose, they couldn’t control themselves since they are completely driven by base animal instincts and some of them are downright sociopaths with no boundaries: Rabid and depraved, driven only by the primitive sexual instincts, with a two digit IQ, no understanding of boundaries, ethics, morals, completely bereft of common respect and decency. It’s creepy as hell -run for the hills kind of creepy.  (When I say no ethics and morals I don’t mean only sexual perversions. One of them is notorious for plagiarizing other people’s content in multiple social media platforms and acting indifferent when called out.) So I got creeped out, grossed out, infuriated, disillusioned and went quiet. Blocked everyone who was associated with Valoris to avoid their gross thirst talks. Blocked the tag too. Stopped posting new finds after the last Legasov video compilation. Stopped translating videos and text material for a long while.

They are way past normal shipping. This is some seriously fucked up shit.  Here are a couple of examples (Warning: Gross content, rape fantasies, scroll past the images and continue reading below if you can’t stomach or are a minor)

Here is more rape:

Their biggest argument is “We are writing fics about the fictionalized tv show characters” which is total and utter bullshit, because:

Nikolai Ryzhkov was not in the tv show at all.

Neither was Vladimir Gubarev. Why are they in those fics?

This isn’t all, there are public posts here where they were bouncing ideas and coming up with the most abhorrent fantasies about a real person who was NOT in the tv show. I don’t have the time to search them, plus they are really gross, you are better off not seeing it. (A paranthesis here: I’m totally indifferent about explicit fics if they involve only fictional characters and not promote rape culture. Just to make things clear.)

If you are using the names of real people, you are shipping real people. Period. I can write a fic using the shipper gang’s names in an alternate reality setting where they are an evil gang of cannibalistic cunts who raid maternity wards and butcher all the babies then burn puppies ad kittens alive for fun. Or I can write a fic where they all get sodomized with saguaro cacti dipped in ghost pepper sauce by sadistic rogue KGB agents. It’s fictionalized versions of them in an alternate universe after all, so it’s totally ok. Right? Well, there really is no point arguing these things, and that is not even the point of this post. I’m just saying it’s fucked up, creepy and wrong in every way. 

Not to mention they bully and gaslight people who speak up against them. Grown ass women bullying a 15 year old and adding a transphobic comment after learning they are trans is NOT COOL. @ihatefandomsfuckyouall can testify as the target of their bullying. That’s wrong and creepy as hell. 

HOWEVER. Like I said in the previous post, this won’t be about a holy jihad against shipping or some big anti-shipper crusade.  Nope, nope and nope with nope sauce.

Ship away, ship all you want, ship till you drop, ship till you turn Fedex green with envy. I am not here to lecture sociopaths driven solely by primitive sexual instincts and bereft of any kind of boundaries, morals, common respect and decency. There is nothing I or anyone can do about it. Like i said, I have no intention of trying to talk sense into anyone or giving sermons. So rest assured that I am well aware it’s pointless and stupid to wage a war against shipping, however gross and vile it is. I can’t stop you from sexualizing anything that walks (or has been long dead) and spewing sick ass fantasies. I will repeat for those with two digit IQ: I know there is nothing I or anyone can do to stop you from doing what you are doing, absolutely nothing. So I will do NOTHING. Got it? Whoever claims otherwise is full of shit, I will do absolutely NOTHING, you got my word 100%.

Seriously I won’t hate on you, I won’t call for holy wars and witch hunts. So, rest assured, I will not make any move against any of you, nope. Besides I don’t have the time for that, I have a busy life and better things to do. No war, no hate, no screaming, no drama, nothing. Is that clear? Capiche? Comprende? Понятно? 

Well, now let’s get to the heart of the matter:

I have been quiet but not idle. I’ve been contacting people, sending queries, making phone calls, digging state archive repositories. I have been finding material and boy did I find material! I happen to be one of the very few people who are blessed with an extraordinary ability to find things no one else can find. You have seen what I can find by utilizing search engines and going through links. Even Craig Mazin himself was mighty impressed with my finds, the proof is out there in public view, I won’t bother digging it up now.

Anyway. It turns out I can find hell of a lot more than that by contacting people, sending queries, making phone calls and digging through state archive repositories. Some of it costs pretty penny but no matter, I don’t mind paying for never-before-published video footage that is not on the internet. Some of it is not even digitized so you gotta pay extra fee for digitization and it can be quite high depending on the video length and media.

We are talking about HD videos here. There is excellent AI video processing software out there which can turn even the most primitive 19th century videos to crystal clear 60 fps HD so we are good. (Example: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5HbElEqm1TQ) I have photos that can’t be found by searching the internet. You’d drop dead if you saw some of them. I’m working on getting the full footage of Legasov’s IAEA presentation. It’s hella difficult, you have to personally go to Vienna and go through the seven hells and seven lower hells to obtain access. Also you need to be a research scientist with a reference letter. (All this info and list of requirements can be found on IAEA official site.) I won’t get into the details but I have it all sorted out, scientist and all. It wasn’t easy and it took a damn lot of time, effort, pulling family connections etc. Now the only remaining roadblock is this accursed coronavirus. As soon as the pandemic subsides a trip to Vienna shall be in order. The long Q&A session following Legasov’s report is unfortunately not available, but Legasov’s report certainly is (after fulfilling a laundry list of requirements.)

This is not all. There are photos (in addition to the publicly available ones I posted before) and video footage of Ryzhkov visiting Chernobyl, Legasov’s meetings, partial video of one Polituro meeting. There is this one precious footage where Legasov is laughing and drinking vodka. I won’t even say how many hours of work it took to find that. (Plot twist: I’m not the one who found it!) I have a pile of videos of Ryzhkov when he was the chairman of the council of ministers of the USSR, which are historical records of tremendous importance and not on Youtube. Buddies who have seen them had insta-man crush on him without even hearing my translation. Some of you would KILL for those, I know for a fact. For the Legasov drinking-partying video you would sell your soul to the devil (who wouldn’t?)

I have an IAEA report with an extremely rare photo you can’t find by searching. I won’t tell you who is in it cause I don’t want to supply anything you could use for your gross fics. Suffices to say one of them is someone you are drooling about and the other one is a big shot name that’s not on your radar and will unleash all kinds of fic ideas once you hear it. So nope. I ain’t giving you another Ryzhkov, I learned my lesson. I have video footage of that same man giving high praise to Legasov, talking with a tone of fondness, defending him against accusations. Such a sweet video. It put tears in my eyes. I can see you gang drooling a lake over that one so hell fucking no.  

Did I mention I started translating Legasov documentaries? Every single one on youtube. Including the entire Звезда Полынь. Also planning to convert some Legasov footage to HD using the aforementioned software tools. 

I have actually been posting videos and text material translations left and right, just out of your sight (nice rhyme, isn’t it?) 90% the material I listed above is either in the pipeline or in my hard disk.  @tryingtobealwaystrying can verify. She helped out a great deal with the IAEA business and I owe her one for that. We are both individually damn good at finding stuff but it turned out we can work wonders as a team. As a result, we have a treasure trove of the highest order in hand and in the works. 

And, here is the deal: YOU WILL SEE NONE OF IT.

N.O.N.E.

Not a shred. Not a pixel. Nothing. Ничего. Совсем нет. 

Get it now? “You didn’t see it cause it’s not there!” 

You won’t see it cause it won’t be there! 

So, this is it. I can’t do anything about your shipping scumbaggery but I can cut off your supply and deprive you of material and information. You will NEVER be able to find any of it on your own (let alone afford the fees for.) 

I will deprive you of the fruits of my labor. 

Indefinitely.

Of course that doesn’t mean I’ll keep it all to myself. I will share them but not in public. In fact I have translated and posted some videos you wanted real bad, one of them got 1000 views overnight but they are not public, for my work is not for the eyes of the wicked and unclean miscreants. I post them in shipper-free foreign forums you can’t find and send links privately to decent, wholesome people who are interested in Chernobyl and Soviet history for the passion to learn and admiration for the historical figures, not for spinning depraved fantasies and writing horrendous, projectile-vomit-inducing sex fics. And -as those of you who possess three digit IQ’s might have figured out!- I am not alone in that. (Plot twist FTW!)  Congrats, folks. You managed to alienate and drive away the top Chernobyl-Legasov researchers and translators with your hideous debauchery, extreme scumbaggery and abominable attitude. So, this is your punishment: NOTHING. This is the consequence you will deal with. This is the cost of your choices. 

A big nothing is all you will ever get from now on. 

See, told ya, there is absolutely nothing I can do about your gross shipping and scumbaggery so I will do NOTHING. 

Got the joke? LOL. I have awesome humor don’t I :) 

No more videos. No more photos. No more answers. No more translations. No more information.

You royally fucked up, people. You don’t get to eat the cake and the icing, especially not when you offend and insult the cooks, take a dump in the middle of the restaurant and masturbate while rolling in it. You could have kept it out of sight. You could have exercised some goddamn tact. But no, you had to behave like animals in heat. 

Well, you can continue obsessing over the TV show scripts until you get sick of it.  I will be posting translations of different parts of Soviet history like the WW2 era. You can ship Hitler and Stalin all you want. Get those headcanons rolling! I will even give you a prompt: Stalin cheats on Hitler with Mussolini. LMAO. 

You know what, I take back the not a pixel thing. We may post screenshots from the videos and low-res crops from the photos from time to time just to rub it in your face. 

Here is one where they are grilling Velikhov shortly after Legasov’s suicide. Oh boy you gotta see his face when they start bombarding him about Legasov’s death.... 

Here is the shot from a long video where the legendary Premier Ryzhkov is sporting the legendary 80′s Soviet glasses in all his superlative handsome glory. He is giving an interview about important historical turning points in this video and this isn’t even the best shot. You have to pay to get a copy but before that you need a superpower-like ability to find where it is in the first place. I scaled it up to 1440×1080 but not gonna put the high resolution version cause I’m such a darling.

  Here is Ryzhkov in the famous white work attire of the Soviet era. Looks familiar, yes? Do I need to tell WHERE he is and what he is doing? (Hint: The year is 1986.)

Oh man, oh man. How worried he looks, so heart-wrenching. The footage is only about 3 minutes but absolutely solid gold. I won’t say whether there is Legasov or Scherbina or BOTH of them appearing in this footage cause I’m such a sweetheart.

Unfortunately I am not at liberty to post any Legasov shots cause I am not the finder of the Legasov videos we currently have at hand. Too bad, so sad.  There you go. Enjoy your cold dish of nothing. Bon appetite. Adios amigas!  WHAT IS THE COST OF NOT RESPECTING BOUNDARIES? @tryingtobealwaystrying​ @the--arch @ihatefandomsfuckyouall​ @rarravai​ @weronikaisback​ @live-long-and-time-warp​ @tryingtobealwaystrying​ @chernobylgal86​ 

[velvet-helvetica]

Fireworks in Goodneighbor

Here's my gift for @falloutfandomeventhub’s #Celebradiation2020, written for @bi-mirandalawson! This scene takes place immediately after Fallout 4′s Dangerous Minds quest. It features dialogue between Hancock and Deacon, with cameos by Magnolia and Nick. There’s also a hint at a Sole Survivor femslash pairing, although the exact pairing is not specified. Enjoy!

It was the fireworks that woke him from his psychedelic slumber. At first he thought the fireworks were in his head—a pleasant side effect of the cocktail of chems he had imbibed several hours before. But the colors, the emotions were wrong. They didn’t stir him the way they should. As he squinted, he realized the fireworks were streaming in from the boarded-up windows.

They were coming from outside, across the street. From the Memory Den. A massive power surge had temporarily lit up the entire building. The marquee lights snaked along their path in a frenzy, lights up and down the building flashed interchangeably. Sparks flew from a previously-unseen Tesla tower on the roof, showering the street below with discharged electricity.

Then as suddenly as the fireworks show began, the Memory Den grew cold and dim. Then the building illumination returned to normal, the marquee blinking its obsolete advertisement for a centuries-old vaudeville act.

What the hell is that doctor up to now? Hancock wondered.

The Mayor stumbled off of his lounger and wandered out of the Statehouse, determined to find answers. But as he stepped outside, the crossing to the Square zoomed back, suddenly seeming very far away. His head wasn’t quite right yet.

He leaned against the doorway of the Statehouse, content to idly observe the ebb and flow of nocturnal street life. Through his hazy drug-addled vision, he glimpsed a private eye with a metal arm staggering past, muttering strange phrases in a low sandpaper voice. Moments later, two women scurried past him—one of them wearing a bright blue Vault suit. Their arms interlocked, they giggled inebriated as they headed straight for the Hotel Rexford.

Heh, they’re gonna get some tonight, thought Hancock. Good for them.

Whatever had happened at the Den, the main players were already gone. Instead of pursuing the mystery any further, he headed to the Third Rail. Hancock casually saluted the bouncer then sauntered down the stairs.

From afar, Hancock spied a lone man seated at the bar, nursing a half drunken glass of scotch. Strange to find him here before happy hour, the Mayor thought.

Hancock slipped onto the empty stool beside him. Deacon popped up his sunglasses and regarded the ghoul seated next to him.

“Well hello, Mister ‘Of the People, For the People.’’’

“Hey my man. How’s my favorite secret agent?” 

They exchanged a series of friendly fist bumps, then Hancock ordered his current favorite, a gin and Quantum from Whitechapel Charlie.

While he waited for the robot barkeep to mix his drink, Hancock eyed Deacon’s latest disguise. He was bald today, with a threadbare plaid shirt and a beat-up pair of old jeans. The sunglasses, which looked custom-molded to his perfectly square eyebrows and weathered features, threw off what would otherwise be a spot-on drifter impression.

“I thought you agents were all about tailored suits and tuxedos rather than that bum get-up you wear all the time. Live a little, man! Dress up! Have some pride.”

“This from the man wearing the ruffled ascot of our Founding Father—one who lacked the modesty to leave enough room for the co-Fathers to sign.”

“Exactly. Why go half-ass when you can be as fabulous as this?” Hancock gestured his arm down his body with a flourish.

Deacon laughed. “Hey, I can be fancy when I want to be. This particular mission required a little more subtlety, that’s all.”

Whitechapel Charlie set Hancock’s glass on the sticky bar top, which emitted an eerie blue glow. Hancock picked up his drink, threw his head back and downed the cocktail all in one go, then exhaled a satisfied sigh.

Deacon raised an eyebrow. “Since when did you get all fancy with the gin and Quantums? I thought you were all about ‘keepin’ it real’.” Deacon added air quotes with his fingers for added emphasis.

“I’m still keepin’ it real, man,” Hancock insisted. So what if his drink choices lately were a step up from the moonshine of his drifter days? He was Mayor of this town now, dammit. He could drink whatever the hell he wanted. Secretly though, he was annoyed that Deacon had struck a nerve.

“If you say so, Mister Mayor,” Deacon replied skeptically. He spun his glass around, then put it to his lips, slipping the last slivers of scotch into his mouth.

The ghoul let his remark slide. He bought the agent another scotch and ordered himself some vodka. Hancock wanted to find out what the hell was going on in his own town, and talking to Deacon was the fastest way to get answers.

“Hey Deac, you see anything go down at the Memory Den? I was having the most mind-blowing trip, man, ‘til all this shit starts flashin’ in my eyes. How’s a ghoul supposed to come down easy when his own town’s blowing up on him?”

“Well, we can’t have that,” Deacon cracked. “You have your blue newcomer to thank for the fireworks.”

“The Vault Dweller?”

“Yep, her and Nick Valentine. They gifted Doctor Amari some brains from the dearly departed Kellogg.”

“Kellogg’s dead? Shiiiittt.” Hancock shook his head, taking in the news. “Good. Fuckin’ bastard deserved it.”

“Amen to that, brother.” Deacon and Hancock clinked glasses, drinking to celebrate the death of the Commonwealth’s most despised mercenary.

“So they took Kellogg’s brains downstairs to do some Frankenstein shit, I take it.”

“Something like that. I wasn’t in the room where it happened... But from what I gathered, they hooked Nick to Kellogg’s grey matter, judging by how he looked afterwards. Was even talking like Kellogg for a bit.”

“Damn. Must’ve been some head trip.”

“Yeah, no kidding. I don’t know how they probed into his noggin’, but they drained the power grid while doing it. My poor Barbara even glitched out a few times.”

“Aww... You still seeing your old flame?” Hancock asked. Deacon winced, briefly regretting bringing up his dead wife. 

“Yeah,” Deacon admitted finally. He sighed as he finished his second drink.

“Hey, man, it’s cool, we all got our vices,” Hancock assured, patting Deacon on the back. “But if you ask me, chems are way easier for forgetting your problems. And cheaper.” He fished out some Jet from his pocket. “Want one? On the house.”

“Nah, I’m cool,” Deacon politely declined. “That’s the difference between you and me. I don’t wanna forget all that stuff.”

“Suit yourself.” Hancock took a puff of Jet, and wiggled his head to work in the high.

Deacon continued his story. “Anyway, Irma only charged me for a quickie—I mean, I wasn’t in there that long.” Hancock chuckled as Deacon corrected himself. “Just long enough to say hi, tell her how things are going. That I miss her.”

“What a sweetheart you are. That Babs was one lucky gal to have you.”

Deacon scoffed. “Anyway, what do you care how I spend my caps? I thought you’d be happy with me building up your precious tax base.”

Hancock was taken aback. “That hurts, Deac. That really hurts. That cuts me deep.” 

Hancock leaned into Deacon, jabbing a leathery hand into his own chest. “You think I’m just about the money? Don’t get me wrong—I love my money. But that ain’t what this is about.”

Deacon smirked. “Then what is it about?”

Hancock waved him off. The ghoul stared off into the distance, shaking his head in disappointment. Then he grabbed his glass and gulped down his vodka.

“I don’t know anymore, man,” Hancock said at last. “You know, a few weeks back I had to kill Finn? The lil’ shit was shakin’ down that Vault Dweller as soon as she stepped into town.”

“No big loss,” Deacon dismissed. “Never liked that asshole anyway.”

“Neither did I, but that’s not the point. The point is... I wanted Goodneighbor to be for everybody. For drifters like me, the ghouls, the gangsters, the misfits...even for lil’ shits like Finn. But then I had to turn around and kill him. And I’ve been shakin’ down people for stealing from me, or stealing from the drifters.”

Hancock threw up his hands. “What’s wrong with me? Since when did I turn into the Man?”

Deacon laughed. “Whoo, Hancock. You know what they say about power.”

“This ain’t funny, Deac. I’m telling ya, this ain’t what I signed up for. I’m seriously thinkin’ of leaving all this shit behind. What’s the use of giving everyone freedom if things ain’t truly free?”

Deacon shook his head. “I don’t have an answer for you, pal. But it sounds like you can’t make up your mind about what you want.”

“Thanks. Thanks for nothing. You’re no fuckin’ help.” Deacon laughed some more as Hancock grunted in frustration.

“Hope I’m not interrupting anything important, boys.” 

Magnolia had strolled into the bar unseen. She leaned in between Hancock and Deacon and flashed the pair a radiant smile.

“Not at all, doll.” Hancock pecked Magnolia on the cheek, then she turned around and kissed Deacon’s cheek. “Showtime already?” Hancock asked.

“It sure is,” she winked. “Same time as always.” She went to the stage to prepare for her set.

“Well, that’s my cue to go,” Deacon sighed, standing up. “I got a feeling things are gonna get busy soon at HQ.” He dropped a few caps as a courtesy tip, ignoring Whitechapel Charlie’s preprogrammed grumblings.

Hancock stood up too. “You’re not gonna stay for the show?”

Deacon shook his head. “Nah. She’s lovely, but you know there’s only one synth for me... No offense, Mags,” Deacon added, acknowledging Magnolia out of courtesy.

“None taken, hon,” Magnolia replied. “You stay safe helping my friends, you hear?” She adjusted her microphone and began her first song.

I see you lookin’ ‘round the corner Come on inside and pull up a chair No need to feel like a stranger Cause we're all a little strange in here.

“Okay, bro, see ya later,” Hancock said, fist bumping Deacon as a goodbye. “You know you and your buddies can lay low here anytime. Even if all ya do is give me shit.”

“Appreciate it, dude.” Deacon grabbed Hancock’s forearm and whispered a warning into his ear. “Hey, man, watch out for the Institute.”

Hancock scoffed. “Pssht. The Institute can’t fuck with us, man. Goodneighbor’ll never stand for their shit.”

“I hope so, man. Just don’t underestimate them. They’re watching.”

As Deacon made his exit, he glanced back at the ghoul, concerned for his friend and what he feared was coming. Guess I better introduce myself to this Vault Dweller, he thought. Or better yet, have her come to me.

Pondering what Deacon said, Hancock sat back down in his stool and lit a cigarette. He exhaled a plume of smoke and reveled in the sound of Magnolia’s voice filling the room.

Have you got a history that needs erasing? Did you come in just for the beer and cigarettes? A broken down dream you're tired of chasing Oh, well I'm just the girl to make you forget.

[venusofthehardsells]

Dreamgirl [part 3]

ReaderxBucky Barnes [part 2] Summary: Bucky tries to adjust to his new life in the Avengers compound. One day he meets a girl who might be everything he needs in order to move on, but is his past really that far away? Warnings: NONCON in this chapter - if you are triggered by or uncomfortable with this DO NOT READ, death, masturbation, psychological manipulation, violence, vomit A/N: Holy goat, this took forever to write. Thank you so much for all your comments and your patience! ♥ This chapter was really difficult for me to get through and I won’t be surprised if this is not your cup of tea - I’m not even sure it’s mine at this point. Maybe chapter four will be kinder to Bucky. Who knows anymore. Let me know your thoughts ~

The run back to the compound is a complete blur. Bucky is drenched in sweat when he throws himself into the last empty chair in the briefing room, one minute before the clock hits the hour. He avoids looking at Steve altogether; he can’t bear it, the concern from his friend. Instead he spends the entire briefing staring at Stark as if he is actually saying something of importance, which he never does. Nothing relevant to him at least. Bucky is still not ready for field duty. It’s just about the only thing he can agree on with Stark. It doesn’t make much sense for him to be there at all, but Steve and Fury insist. Something about keeping him in the loop, in case he suddenly becomes fit for going on team missions. So he shows up and he tries to care.

But today, he doesn’t hear a word Stark or any of the SHIELD agents are saying. His running clothes are strangling him. He keeps checking the time on every screen within view, watching the digital numbers change every minute. How did it get so late in the day? He almost doesn’t dare blink, afraid the hours will vanish again in a brief second of inattentiveness. No matter how hard he tries, he can’t piece the morning together properly. He was talking to her… God, the mere thought of her makes him dizzy, everything from the scent of her perfume, to her sweet smile, to the little yellow hearts on her nails. Is it possible that he was so far gone fantasising about her that he lost himself that deeply? Could he have been asleep in his seat without realising it? No, he’s pretty sure the coffee cup was empty when he left. He doesn’t remember drinking it though. His head pounds and he vaguely thinks this is what a really bad hangover used to feel like. The sweat from the run back dries on his body as he sits there and when Tony Stark finally wraps up, Bucky feels cold as ice. Despite the hour and his long sleeves, his teeth are almost rattling in his skull. Worse is he can tell how bad he is starting to smell and it’s making his stomach roll and lunge inside of him, or at least it feels like it. If he had eaten any breakfast, he’s sure it would have been on the floor by now. He ought to get lunch though, to make up for the meal. Bucky considers it for less than a second. He knows he should eat, that he needs to with his crazy super metabolism and all, but he cannot remember ever having felt less hungry. The mere idea of food, the taste of greasy fried bacon, rubbery texture of eggs in the mouth, even the slightest thought of that fucking smell of cooking oil, fuck, it’s enough to make him sick. As soon as people start to leave, Bucky is out of the door, ignoring Steve’s call of his name. He jumps into the first bathroom he passes and flings himself into a stall, not a second too late. He pukes into the toilet the moment his head is horizontal and it just won’t stop. Even though there’s nothing in his stomach save a bit of coffee, his body wants it gone. Badly. His flesh hand shakes holding onto the edge of the basin. The metal one is a little more calm, but he can tell his thumb has made an indent in the porcelain. Was it always this bad to throw up? He can’t recall, he hasn’t done it in seventy years. Whatever HYDRA pumped into him has kept him healthy and fit and mercifully out of situations like this. Bucky keeps heaving for several more minutes even though there’s nothing to chuck up. Just when he is sure all of his entrails are about to fall out through his mouth, the cramps finally let up and he sits back against the wall, the sour taste in his mouth almost enough to set him off again. He runs a hand through his hair; it’s sticking to his forehead and his neck in the cold sweat that has erupted all over him. “Bucky?... Are you in there, pal?” Even though he knows Steve has seen him at his absolute worst, he tries to pull himself together. As quick as he can without stumbling he gets on his feet and splashes some cold water in his face. Takes a few slurps from the tap too to clear his mouth. The man staring back at him from the mirror above the sink is paler than he remembers, and his eyes are a little wider, but otherwise Bucky doesn’t look as out of sorts as he feels. “I’m okay, Steve,” he answers with a strain in his voice as he exits the stall. Steve doesn’t look too convinced, standing against the wall with his arms crossed and a frown on his face. “You sure?” “Yeah. All good. Probably just need some more sleep.” He shrugs and realises that he does in fact feel exhausted. “I, uh… might have overdone the running a little bit.” “How long were you gone?” Bucky bites back a remark about minding his own business. “Left around five-ish I think,” he says in what he hopes is a casual tone that hides his annoyance. And the fact that the nausea is bubbling back up already. “Jesus Christ…” Steve runs a hand through his perfect blonde hair, looking equally concerned and impressed. “That’s almost seven hours Buck! That ain’t a run, that’s…” His voice stops short of whatever word he was about to say, but Bucky can guess. Torture. Self-harm. Inhuman… They hold each other’s gazes across the bathroom for a moment of hard-strung silence, before Steve averts his eyes. “It’s a problem,” he says then, clearly using all of his self-control to sound somewhat calm. Bucky wishes for the millionth time that Steve wouldn’t try so damn hard. His old friend is walking on eggshells around him and it’s driving him up the wall. The small army of therapists and doctors working on him already treat him like a brittle antiquity and the other Avengers as though he’s some sort of unstable explosive. Stark is the only one who doesn’t seem to care if he breaks or blows up and it would be refreshing if it wasn’t for the fact that every one of his vicious jibes and insults makes Bucky feel like less than the dirt under Stark’s shoes. Of course, he deserves it, there’s no doubt in Bucky’s mind about that; sometimes one of the others tells Stark to back off, but Bucky doesn’t see the point. He is a killer, he is a monster. Should he ever forget it, they’re all there to remind him with their caution and their adjusted voices. Bucky Barnes is still not really human, is he? If only Steve, of all people, would just treat him normally, he’s sure it wouldn’t be so excruciating to exist. He bites down on his lip. “Yeah, well, like I said… I needed the extra time.” Bucky fights the urge to cross his arms and sticks his hands into his pockets instead. To think that he was almost happy only this morning. “Bucky, you know you can talk to me about-,” Steve starts, but Bucky cuts him off before he begins to sound too much like one of his shrinks. “Stark’s parents, okay?,” he all but hisses, no longer able to look Steve in the eyes. “I dreamt about Stark’s parents again, saw their faces and I just… forget it. I’m fine, Steve.” His voice almost cracks at the last words. He needs to find another bathroom without Steve in it so he can puke his guts out in peace. The way Steve looks at him, hurt, shocked, utterly helpless, feels a little bit better than stepping on a landmine and almost having both feet blown off, but only a little. Bucky can’t bear it. Before Steve manages an answer, Bucky pushes past him out of the bathroom and down the hall as quickly as possible. Moments later, he hauls himself into his own room and locks the door behind him. A weary air of guilt, worn threadbare over the past few months, scrunches his features as he trudges to the toilet, kneels down and vomits again. It’s quite fitting for how sick he feels when he thinks of Steve’s expression - the single constant in his life and he’s screwing that up too. Steve just wants to help him. It’s a quality in very short supply and Bucky knows he should value it more than he has done so far. He should try to be more open, more cooperative. After all, it’s Steve… When his stomach stops fighting, he peels off his clothes and crawls into the shower for the second time that day. It’s quickly becoming the only place he feels remotely comfortable. No one to judge him but himself, no dreams but the ones he chooses. As the water starts to trickle down his body, he begins to relax. It takes longer than usual, he’s already so worked up from the day and it’s not even two pm yet. But he forces himself to let go of everything, at least for a little while. His muscles unclench slowly as he lets all thoughts seep from his mind until he is thoroughly unburdened in the little safe space of steam and water. Bucky’s flesh hand glides down between his legs and takes hold of his cock. Practicality tells him an orgasm will help him loosen up enough to maybe catch up on a little sleep before dinner and still, he hesitates. He knows exactly what he wants to see, who he wants to see, but he’s afraid to try and imagine her. It’s okay, it’s just a fantasy. Bucky groans and gives himself an uncertain pump, then another. I won’t mind, James. You can think of me. Let me help you feel good… Her whisper in his head is as clear as if she had been standing behind him, breathing the words on his neck. He can almost feel her hands glide down his shoulders, his arms, until they close around his wrist and gently makes him let go. Let me take care of it for you. Her much softer hands replaces his own around his cock and he can feel her body press into his back, her lips on his shoulder, her nipples against his skin, her hip nudging his ass, her arms tight around him, her scent of coffee and floral perfume filling up the air. He hardens in her grip before she even starts moving. See? You need this. It’s okay, James, I think of you too. “Fuck…” The way her fingers slide up the underside of his length, trailing the vein there with her painted nails is almost painful and he moans loudly. Do you want to know what I imagine? What I think of whit my fingers inside of me? Bucky can’t hold the sounds back anymore. He groans at the images flashing through his head, of her hands that he has already touched now stroking him so intimately, and dear god, those same fingers disappearing into her slick, warm folds while his name falls from her lips. He moans again and thrusts his hips up a little to meet her strokes, bites down hard on his lip when her thumb traces the head of his cock. Both of her hands work relentlessly on him, one fast, one slow and he can feel every muscle in him contract until he’s trembling and the only thing on his mind is the release he desperately needs. I think of this, she whispers and the words are a brief chill on the back of his neck beneath the heat of the shower and the heat building inside of him. I think of this big, hard cock inside of me, stretching me… There is a bit of hot water running into his open mouth as he throws his head back, but he hardly notices anymore. He is panting, nearing. His legs are shaking. He is so close, he’s going to- …stretching me so good, filling me up until I- He cries out with the release before he can stop himself and his vision flashes into white. The force of his orgasm is so intense he staggers and leans on the tile wall. Cum covers both his shuddering hands and his stomach. It takes a while for the shower water to get rid of it all; he watches the white fluid slowly run and circle into the drain like a peppermint swirl. Bucky can’t remember the last time he came so hard, but then again, he can’t remember the last time he came from a fantasy of this kind either. Her smile when she looked at him from behind the counter in the coffee shop is the only thing he sees as he turns off the water and towels himself dry. A part of him feels like a creep for having used her to get off, or at least the image of her, but Bucky is so tired of feeling guilty and at the same time, he can’t help but hope she really does think of him, too. Guilt is too easy, he decides as he wraps the towel around his hips and leaves the bathroom. His life has become one long agonising guilt-trip for simply being alive and while he is still adamant he is to blame for all that Stark and everyone else accuses him of, he is starting to feel sick of it. Maybe she can be the one person he doesn’t have to feel guilty about. If he can allow himself as much, that sliver of normalcy she offers with her sweetness and her adoring eyes, perhaps somewhere in the chaos of the twenty-first century even Bucky Barnes has a chance of healing. “Do you honestly believe that?” The voice makes him snap his head up. He briefly meets his own startled gaze in the mirror above his desk and in the span of a single heartbeat, every trace of warmth is gone from Bucky’s body. Right there, behind him, in his room in the compound is the monster that haunts his dreams and sometimes his waking hours too: staring back at Bucky from above the edge of the black mask covering half his face, are the cold, calculating eyes of the Asset. “No… how…” “I’m never far away.” Bucky watches in silent terror as the Asset takes four almost languid steps towards him and stops right behind him. “This mind…” The Asset lifts two silver metal fingers and taps Bucky’s temple. “…isn’t just yours. Not anymore.” “Shut up,” he manages weakly and even with the mask on, Bucky can tell the Asset is smirking. “It’s been a long time, but I gotta hand it to you. This new life is quite comfortable. I’m especially gonna enjoy that pretty little plaything of yours. Looked real good in that tight skirt today, didn’t she?” The word doesn’t exist in Bucky’s cache of languages to describe the dread flooding his veins then. There’s no longer blood inside of him, only ice water that bites and rips as it courses through him. His hands are gripping the edge of the desk so tightly it’s a wonder it doesn’t splinter. “Don’t… don’t touch…,” he tries, but his voice is sticking in his throat like a knife with a serrated edge that hurts worse the more he fights to get it out. “Or what?” The Asset slowly turns his head and Bucky follows the direction of his eyes in the mirror, somehow already knowing what is happening, what he is going to find. His galloping heart nearly crashes through his chest anyway. She’s lying on the bed behind them. Asleep, Bucky realises with rising panic, no longer wearing the work uniform, but instead a silky little one-piece that drapes to show off every single detail of her body from the point of her hip to the rounds of her soft nipples. His girl sleeping in his bed, wearing something for only him to see. And he wishes she were anywhere else. A contented sigh escapes her mouth and she turns a little, making the delicate fabric drag enough to allow him the conclusion she hasn’t bothered with underwear. “You sure know how to pick ‘em, Barnes. Quite the little dreamgirl, isn’t she?” “No…” The Asset sits down on the edge of the bed and reaches a gloved hand out to rest on her thigh. She hums in her sleep as that monster slowly strokes her skin, inching closer and closer to her barely covered folds. He raises an eyebrow without looking away from Bucky and dips his fingers beneath the fabric, starting to draw languid circles there. Bucky wants to rip the entire arm off him. He wants to call out her name, tell her to run, but the words keep lodging themselves somewhere behind his lips and the Asset just sits there calmly, working her clit while watching him with satisfied triumph gleaming in his eyes. “Do you think she dreams of us?,” the Asset almost purrs as she lets out a moan in her sleep and bucks her hips up to meet his movements. “Stop it,” Bucky whispers, his entire face contorted in rage. It is as if he is frozen in place in front of the mirror; both of his hands are locked around the edge of the desk that he wants to fling into the Asset’s smug face and his feet are solidly planted on the floor. He can’t move. Only watch as the Asset starts to rub her clit faster and the sound she makes when she finally comes undone has him hardening beneath the towel. Then the scent of her cum washes over him and he has to bite back a moan of his own. It makes his knees go weak. “I don’t think I want to stop, Barnes. Your little squeeze is delicious.” The Asset holds up his hand so that Bucky can clearly see the white cum running down the black glove. “And she seems to like it, doesn’t she?” White-hot anger surges through Bucky’s frozen body as the Asset takes a deep breath of her essence covering his fingers. Get away from her, he shouts inside his head; blood is thundering so hard in his ears that he almost misses her confused little voice. “James?...” She looks at the Asset, then meets Bucky’s eyes in the mirror. Her heartrate is faster than normal, probably the aftershock of the orgasm. “What’s happening?” “Get out…,” he wheezes in that strained, almost-not-there-voice that is all he can manage to force out. What is wrong with him? Her eyes widen when she realises his panic and she moves to get off the bed. She doesn’t even make it to the side before the Asset grabs her shoulder and drags her back. “Not so fast, pretty girl.” She shrieks as the assassin pushes her back down into the mattress and quickly straddles her before she can roll away. “I’m gonna have a little more fun with you.” “Let go of me!,” she hisses and lashes out at his face, at the mask, but the Asset easily captures her wrist in his silver metal hand before she can make contact and pins it above her head. “Not yet,” he says quietly, getting hold of her other wrist as well. She is completely locked beneath him. The Asset takes his time to admire the view before him, seeming to relish in the way she squirms uselessly between his legs. “James, please. Help me,” she begs, her voice unsteady and shrill and it rips at Bucky’s very soul to hear. He is trembling in place, but that’s all. Why can’t he just fucking move?! The Asset grabs the crotch of her flimsy one-piece and tears through it, pushing it out of the way. She immediately struggles harder, but the Asset merely squashes her wrists tighter and she cries out in pain. Stop hurting her, Bucky mouths desperately. Nothing but air comes out of his mouth, but he’s sure the Asset can hear him. Let go of her, you have me, you can do whatever you want to me, kill me if you like, just don’t hurt her. The Asset audibly chuckles and turns his head to meet Bucky’s gaze in the mirror. “You shouldn’t have shown her to me, Barnes. What is yours, is mine.” He undoes a buckle and a zipper with casual indifference only using his flesh hand. The motion is efficient and Bucky knows from the worst, most repressed parts of his memories that it’s from experience. He always lies whenever people asks him if he remembers all the people The Winter Soldier killed, tells them yes, because he cannot bear to unearth certain victims yet without surely shattering himself beyond repair. When the Asset frees his cock from its restraints of his gear, already hard and leaking, and lines himself up with her exposed entrance, the faces of all those forgotten victims seeps back into Bucky’s mind and he wants to die. It would be easier than to face those ghosts, the ones he didn’t just kill but wishes he had. Please, just let go of her! You can have this body, I don’t care. I won’t fight you for it if you let her go. Listen to me!, he yells inside his head, but the Asset doesn’t acknowledge it. Don’t fucking touch her! “James, help me!,” the girl cries, the one that isn’t a ghost, the one he hasn’t… “You don’t have to do this, please don’t do this, just let me go… let me go, no! Stop, please, no! No!” Her words disappears into a scream when the Asset plunges into her in one unforgiving thrust. He leans back and closes his eyes, savouring the feeling of her tight walls around him. Bucky clenches his own eyes shut at the sight, flinching with every cry and sob the Asset now wrings from her as he starts to thrust his hips at a brutal pace without letting her adjust properly. He can’t look at it. He can’t stand there and look at the Asset hurting his girl and not being able to stop it without going mad. The sound of her crying is bad enough. “Wanna know how good she feels?,” the Asset growls and the sobs turn back into screams. Bucky immediately knows he’s made her cum. Again. Even in his petrified state of terror and disgust, the thought of her warm, silken cunt throbbing around his length almost makes him see stars and he can’t remember a time he has ever been more ashamed of himself. “Stop it,” he gets out, choking on the words and the fear and the wrath. Please just stop it. “But I’m not done with her yet. I’m sure she has more to give,” the Asset says between breaths. Instead of slowing down his thrusts, he increases the force behind each movement, jolting her body harshly each time he bottoms out. “Come on, pretty girl, you can take more than this. Don’t hold back on me.” Bucky can tell from the desperate, high-pitched sounds she’s trying to stifle that he is not letting her come down from the orgasm. Instead, he pushes her right into the next one. Tears are streaming from her tightly shut eyes as the high shoots through her and the Asset still doesn’t let up. He let’s go of her wrists and grabs a hold of her throat instead; the metal fingers closes easily around her neck, unyielding despite how she now claws and scratches at his lethal prosthetic. He is far enough above her for her fingers to only graze the mask in her turmoil. Somehow, Bucky’s eyes have managed to fall open again and he almost wishes he could gorge them out entirely. Let go, you’ll kill her! She’s gasping for breath through the tight grasp on her throat, her struggle slowly growing weaker. “She wouldn’t be the first,” is all the Asset answers before he reaches down and pinches her clit. The sound that escapes her then is so horrifyingly raw and desperate Bucky can’t believe it’s coming from the same girl who had in a soft, sweet voice asked him about something as mundane as coffee.  Her back arches off the bed and her arms and legs flail in a vain attempt to get his hand away from her overstimulated bundle of nerves. It’s too much. Every part of her is shaking violently under the unbroken string of orgasms the Asset forces out of her pinned down body. He lets out a groan and his hips finally begin to stutter and lose their ruthless pace. He lifts his hand from between her legs and for half a second, Bucky thinks it’s over, that he’s finally done with her. She will be in pain, but she’s alive. They both are. That’s all that matters. He has already pricked his finger on the peak of relief when the Asset raises his flesh hand and removes the mask. She stops struggling. Stops heaving for breath. Her bloodshot eyes just stare up at the face of the man she knows as James in shocked disbelief as her arms fall limply to her sides. The Asset’s lips spread in a sinister smile as he watches the fight leave her completely. He thrusts into her one final time, spilling his cum with a deep groan and his metal hand tightens on her throat until her eyes roll back in her head and she goes still. There is a strangled cry, like a small animal being trod on, and Bucky realises the sound is coming from himself. You… you killed her… The vicious grin on the Asset’s face turns into a knowing smirk. “Did I?” Bucky tries once again to free his hands from their cramped hold of the edge of the desk, only to find that he’s no longer standing at it. Instead, his eyes are looking right down at his own dark vibranium fingers clutching the dead girl’s neck. His knees are solidly planted on the bed, her body trapped beneath him, his cock still inside of her… With an agonised howl, Bucky sits up in the bed and stares at an empty room. His heart is thumping so hard and rapidly against his ribs, his entire frame trembles with it. The images from the nightmare flashes before his eyes every time he blinks and he rubs them in the hope that they’ll leave him alone. Both his hands come away wet with tears. This has been the worst dream he has had in months. He slowly clenches and unclenches his shaking hands to make sure they still obey. That they wouldn't somehow… She wouldn't be the first. He curls into a mess of sheets and limbs and pillows and let the crying rake through him. Everything hurts. It's hard just to get air into his lungs. There is a gentle tap on the d,or, so quiet he almost misses it. "Buck? Pal, you in there?," comes Steve's soft voice. "You didn't come down for dinner and… I, uh… Bucky, I just… if I was outta line earlier, I'm sorry. Don't want to bother you, I just gotta know if we're good?" A particularly violent sob leaves Bucky before he can prevent it and Steve's enhanced hearing picks it up immediately. He opens the door carefully, giving Bucky time enough to tell him to go to hell, but he doesn't.  "Oh, Buck," Steve sighs when he sees his friend and quickly shuts the door again, before kneeling down next to the tangled heap of bedding and supersoldier. Bucky reaches out with his flesh hand and grabs onto Steve's shirt  "Don't leave," he manages almost desperately between sobs, afraid of how gravelly his voice sounds, afraid it'll disappear again. "Of course not." Steve settles in next to him and places an arm around Bucky, awkwardly at first because of Bucky's wrapped up fetal position, but with a bit of shuffling and wiggling they make it work.  "Of course I'd never leave you."

From Alhabor’s private notes, page torn out and crumbled: I miscalculated today’s dose. Not enough to kill him which would have been a fucking nightmare. Didn’t include it in the report, hope I won’t have to. Must be more careful from now on. Too close to the target for mistakes at this rate.

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