#telegram from the front

[duncandonuts06]

Just want to say I love Schatzi. I think he's cute 😀👍🏻

Can we make an admirer club for him? /j XD

What is his fate after the war ended? Will he and Davenport met? Will he meet other engines (canon character) from the franchise or he just like exist in same universe as they are without meetings each other?

aw thank you very much!! So happy to see he's got some admirers! With each passing day the Schatzi fanclub grows larger XD

All awesome questions! His fate is murky. I am still in the research and development phase of his story. I have thought a lot about what his life would be like after the war and haven't fully decided what path I wish to take yet. Whatever happens it's likely it won't be all sunshine and roses. Here comes my nerd brain:

After the Treaty of Versailles, Germany had to surrender all military technology to the allies. This included airplanes, trains, ships, and weaponry. A lot of it was either scrapped, used as target practice, or integrated into allied armies for training purposes. Many Brigadeloks survive to this day and found second chances on logging railways after the war. Whatever happens to our lad, he is still going to go through a lot of hardship. All of his friends and family finally get to go home and live out their days in peace while he, most likely, would become a prisoner of war even after the war itself is long over with. Maybe his comrades find a way to save him and bring him back to Germany or take him somewhere else. Either way everyone he knew and loved will be separated from him for a long time, maybe even forever. I don't have the heart to put him through too much pain but I do love me some angst!

Schatzi will never meet Davenport in canon but I definitely want to make some little one off interactions between them for fun. They are very different in personality and build which could cause a lot of drama not to mention the whole enemies in war thing. As for canon Thomas characters! I am not sure! I sorta would like to keep it a separate story that only exists in the same "universe" but it's fun thinking about how the Skarloey engines in particular would react to him. He's so much bigger and different than them it would be like worlds colliding. I think Sir Handel in particular would absolutely despise him.

Thank you for the wonderful ask! woohoo enjoy the paragraphs oops

[diamondnokouzai]

MONSTER EATING COMIC AUTISTIC GIRL PROTAG

[jinjeriffic]

DCxDP Prophecy universe

(Title subject to change)

Sometimes Danny really hated Clockwork. You’ll know him when you see him. “Cryptic and unhelpful as usual”, Danny groused. “You’d think the Master of Time could be a little more descriptive considering it’s his damned errands I’m running here, but noooo! I’m starting to think this whole apprenticeship is just an excuse to foist his busywork off on me.”

Here Danny was, aimlessly flying above the rooftops of Gotham, trying to figure out who he was supposed to be delivering his message to. He had a name, but no description and no location. I’ll know him when I see him my ass. Whoever this Damian Al-Ghul was supposed to be had better stick out like a sore thumb or Danny was never gonna find him. Speaking of…

Danny paused in mid-air. There was someone crouching on a nearby rooftop, peering over the edge. He was young, wearing a red and yellow outfit with a dark hooded cape. He wore a sheathed sword on his back that looked way too real to be part of some casual cosplay. Welp, if this ain’t him then Clockwork picked the wrong errand boy. Now, how best to approach this?

Danny considered his options. The cloak and apprentice staff Clockwork had loaned him gave him a suitably spooky appearance on top of his usual ghostliness but he wasn’t gonna go around scaring kids, armed or not. The friendly approach it is then.

“Hey there!”

Wow, the kid had some good reflexes. At the sound of Danny’s voice he jumped as if electrocuted, spinning around and drawing his sword in one smooth movement. He held the sword in front of himself in a defensive position and his stance showed that he knew how to use it. “Who the hell are you?” he barked.

“Easy there” Danny raised his hands in a placating gesture “I’m just here to deliver a message. I’m looking for someone named Damian Al-Ghul. You wouldn’t happen to be him, right?”

A deepening scowl was his only answer. “I repeat, who the hell are you?”

Danny sighed “Look kid, I’m just trying to do my job here. I have a prophecy to deliver, so if you’re not this Damian fella…” he trailed off invitingly.

“A… prophecy?” the kid hesitated before lowering his sword slightly, scowl still firmly in place.

“Yep” Danny popped the end of the word for emphasis “Phantom, apprentice to the Ghost of Time and part-time delivery spectre, at your service” he threw the kid a mock salute. “My Boss told me to come to Gotham to give a prophecy to you’ll know him when you see him” he dropped his voice to a lower register and made airquotes around the words, “and you’re the only memorable person I’ve seen tonight, so…” Danny spread his arms in exasperation.

The kid hesitated visibly before letting his sword hand drop to his side. “I am the one you’re looking for.”

“Great! Hang on.” Danny pulled a messenger bag out from under his cloak and started rummaging around in it, causing the kid (Damian?) to twitch “Now where did I put..? Aha!” Danny pulled out a faintly glowing envelope in triumph. It had a large purple wax seal on it and Damian Al-Ghul written in elegant cursive across the back. Danny floated closer and held out the envelope to the kid.

“The prophecy… is a letter?” Damian drawled, eyebrows rising in disbelief. Danny shrugged.

“What, did you expect a dancing, singing telegram? I only do those for the really good tippers” he shook the envelope slightly “So, are you gonna take this or what?”

Damian finally reached out and took the letter, turning it over to scrutinise both sides. Danny tucked his bag back under his cloak and rose into the air.

“Right, I’ve got other errands to get done, so… see ya!” he turned to leave.

“Wait”

Danny turned back to face the kid and to his surprise, saw that Damian was holding out some folded bills towards him.

“You know the tipping thing was a joke, right?”

“Tt. I am told it is rude not to tip delivery people” Damian sniffed “I am simply acting within expected social norms”

“Wow, um… okay” Danny took the folded bills from Damian. It looked like it would last him for a couple of good meals and he wasn’t exactly swimming in money, okay? Ghost apprentice wasn’t exactly a paid internship. “Thanks?”

“You’re welcome” came the haughty reply.

Danny shrugged and tucked the money into his bag. He rose back into the air with Damian’s eyes tracking his movement. With a wave of his staff, he opened a portal back to Clockwork’s realm and passed through it leaving Gotham behind.

****

Robin’s hand rose to the communicator in his ear.

“Oracle, did you get all that?”

Now has a Part 2!

[a-very-tired-jew]

You know the saying about a stopped clock and all that? Ashley Rindsberg has an article that does just that for Pirateswire.

For the uninitiated, there has been a concerted effort across various social media platforms to disseminate and normalize terrorist propaganda and rhetoric. This comes from a core group of people who are moderators for multiple subreddits that are seemingly unrelated to Israel and Palestine but have all suddenly become very (((anti-Zionist))). These moderators all stem from one called r/Palestine and have a Discord server where they coordinate brigades, misinformation campaigns, and attacks across different platforms and subreddits.

This is what their Discord looks like.

You can clearly see they have actual "taskforces" for spreading their rhetoric across various sites and platforms. The irony here is that they often accuse anyone who speaks out against them of being a "paid Israeli propagandist spreading Hasbara", but here we clearly see they're organized to spread their own misinformation.

Here is a photo of their call to brigade some posts.

What is important to note is that they're getting a lot of their information from Resistance News Network (RNN). RNN is something I have talked about before when I covered Dropout's Palestine channel in their Discord server and how people were pushing it as a source of information. RNN is a telegram channel that collects and aggregates information and content from recognized terrorist groups and spreads it. This is not done in a neutral "this is what they're saying" but in a "we support this" manner. Here is a list of the channels they aggregate from:

RNN has repeatedly and clearly made its stance clear that it sees violent terrorism as a justifiable means of "resistance", even when that "resistance" targets civilians and is laced with violent bigoted rhetoric that these supposed Leftists object to. In fact, RNN is actually associated with known terrorist fronts like Samidoun and is clearly misleading Leftists in its narrative that it supports "resistance" and whatever that means to Westerners.

It doesn't.

It supports violent extremist ideology that results in terrorism. Not resistance or revolution. But I've talked about how many of these terrorist groups are purposefully misleading naive Westerners and have been for decades. I've talked about how this has been the game plan for years and we have actual confirmation of this from a meeting that took place in Philadelphia due to FBI wiretaps.

I would not be surprised if we found that members of this misinformation network, as Rindsberg calls it, are active on here Tumblr as well. Considering the number of accounts that justify the actions of these terrorist groups and their rhetoric, pretend to be Jewish and justify violent antisemitism, and spread misinformation...well it seems more than likely. They're across multiple platforms, and if they're on the likes of Quora then they're definitely here as well.

So when jumblr calls out specific accounts for not actually being Jewish and spreading antisemitic rhetoric and terrorist propaganda then you should stop and consider that there is actual precedent for this. It's actively happening and you, the goy, who are calling Jews "Nazis" are actively falling for it.

[hahahax30]

Hey hey, for those who don't know, South Korean women and girls are currently suffering from a disgusting misogyny epidemic by the hands of men who use Telegram as a forum to exchange deepfake porn of women and girls in their family, school, university, work, etc. These men also exchange videos of them groping those women and girls. It's a repeat of the Nth Room crime.

There are hundreds of thousands of men in those Telegram chats. Think about it. Hundreds of thousands of men--someone's father, uncle, brother, son; a girl's classmate or a uni student's 'friend'--drugging the women and girls in their life, groping there for plenty of others to see, create deepfake porn or providing pictures of the women and girls they know so that others may create the deepfake porn, and men posting private information about the women and girls in their life to encourage others to sexually assault them.

Think. About. It.

Many Korean feminists have been trying to shed light into this crime. They've specifically been trying to make this known outside of Korea because Korea's rampantly misogynistic and their newspapers won't talk about this new Nth Room unless other, international newspapers report on it.

These Korean feminists are also suffering from harassment on all fronts: from YouTube, the men in the Telegram chats who demand when women decided they should have rights, etc. One of the most vocal feminists, @/dvu84djp on Twitter, has suffered much of this harassment. I urge everyone to check her page for more info on the matter, since I don't live in Korea, don't know Korean, am not Korean and all I can see is a repeat of what she and other K feminists are saying. I also urge everyone to go report this asshole on YouTube, since he's been one of the most vocal in spreading hate against the feminists fighting for basic human rights for their women

[sweetbuckybarnes]

Who is This?: Chapter 1

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: Bucky had a wife during the 40s, she was left heartbroken after the telegram arrived (missing, presumed dead). It's surprising when 80 years later, she was working behind a bar in Madripoor of all places!

Masterlist | Series Masterlist

Bucky followed Sam and Zemo into a loud bar, he immediately wanted to turn around and go home, why had Zemo demanded he go back to being the Winter Soldier (even if it was one night)?

The sound of heavy drums and guitars also deafened his hearing, a song he had come to learn was The Wild Boy by a band called Duran Duran. A few bartenders and waitresses were walking around, there was only one who stuck out to him - a dark-haired young woman who reminded him too much of his departed wife.

His heart breaks even more, thinking of the woman he had left behind, his girl. The love of his life. Bucky doesn't think he will ever 'get over' her.

The way the young woman walked, carrying a tray of empty glasses (before being tossed an empty bottle by a patron), was so similar to the way his girl walked in the hole-in-the-wall diner she worked in.

She wasn't quick enough to duck under the bar before they got to the door leading upstairs (which was coincidentally next to the bar), Zemo was talking to the bouncer. "Excuse me, gentlemen," the young woman said, squeezing between the back of Zemo and the front of Bucky. Which is when he got a good look at her face.

There she was.

His girl. His wife.

He couldn't even say anything to her, as he was taken upstairs and away from his girl. He could only hope he would be allowed back in at the end of the night to see her.

Y/N Barnes made her way behind the bar, glancing up at the TV where the Kansas City Chiefs were currently playing the Buffalo Bills at Arrowhead Stadium, then down at her phone which showed the live score of the Dodgers game against the San Francisco Giants.

She had been a long-time Dodgers girl, even after she found out they had moved from Brooklyn to Los Angeles.

"Did you see the way he was looking at you?" Yasmine asked, pushing a dry Martini in front of a 26-year-old woman.

Y/N looked up from the glasses she was putting in the dishwasher. "Huh? What are you talking about?"

"One of the men who went upstairs. The way he was looking at you," Yasmine fans her hand for dramatic effect. "I would drop my panties for him in a millisecond."

"Like you don't do that every night."

Yasmine rolled her eyes and served the next half-drunk who had come to the bar.

"Don't listen to her," Anastasia told her, rolling her eyes as Yasmine flirted with her current flavour of the week.

"It's not often I do, darling," Y/N replied, fiddling with Anastasia's curls for a second, before spotting a patron. "What can I get for you, darling?"

He hung off the bar, obviously far too drunk to understand what was going on. "Another beer and your phone number," he slurred.

She shook her head, reaching over and grabbing him another beer. As far as the boss of the bar (whoever that was) was concerned unless they were unconscious- why should you stop serving them? Y/N thought it wasn't right, but no matter how often she voiced this - she was shut down.

She set the beer in front of him and then went to the register to add it to his bill (good thing she currently has his credit card behind the bar).

"Oi, sweet cheeks!" He calls, but Y/N doesn't pay attention looking over at Yasmine and Anastasia with a raised eyebrow. "Sweet cheeks! I asked for your number."

Y/N replied by simply raising her hand proudly displaying her engagement and wedding rings to the drunk. It was only a small diamond (given Bucky worked on the docks before he was deployed), and the plain band she inherited from her great-grandmother.

"What's the matter with that 'un?" He hiccups. "He got you costume jewellery or somethin'?"

Y/N shook her head. "I'm going into the back for a moment," she tells Aidan.

Little did the drunk patron know, all those years ago, this was the date she was handed the telegraph - putting in such blunt words. Her James was missing, they presumed him to be dead. It breaks her heart that they never got to have a proper funeral.

"You alright, honey?" Elizabeth (another one of the waitresses) asked, she had been outside on her break. Elizabeth was the only one who knew her true age and about her James.

"It's the day I found out James was missing," Y/N said, before bursting into more tears.

Elizabeth wrapped Y/N up in a hug, everyone oblivious to the fact that Y/N's presumed dead husband was now running through the bar, flocked by Sam and Zemo, and into the alley behind the bar.

When Bucky was sure Zemo, Sam and Sharon were asleep, he slipped out of the safe house and into the night - determined to find out if the woman he saw in the bar was that of his (presumably? should be?) dead wife.

He eventually made his way to the front door of the bar, the bouncers had long since gone home. He could see lights on in the building and just about make out words being spoken thanks to the Super Soldier serum running through his veins.

He grasped the handle and gave it a push, the door hadn't been locked, as it gave beneath the slight push.

He could see three young women sitting on the bar, a man who was counting the money from the register and another man who was dancing.

The young woman sitting closest to the bar, had golden curls hanging around her head. "Mark, you didn't lock the door!"

The man dancing, Mark, looked over at Bucky, eyes widening when he saw the size of Bucky. "I say we just serve him, then lock the door behind him."

As the bartenders and waitress argued amongst themselves, Bucky's eyes never left the woman in the middle. It looked as if she had been crying. "Babydoll?"

The woman stopped giggling, tipping her head back to normal and looked at him, before dropping her glass as tears welled up in her eyes. "James?"

The curly-haired woman gasped, setting her glass down and giving Y/N a push off the bar.

Bucky held his arms out to catch her as her feet landed on the floor. He couldn't stop looking at her big eyes, he'd always loved her big expressive eyes. He always knew how she was feeling by just a look in her eyes.

"James? Is that you?" Her hand came out slowly, and shakily, as if she couldn't believe what she was seeing in front of her.

"Hi, babydoll," Bucky smiled, tears starting to fall down his cheeks, a heavy sob held tightly in his chest at the moment in time. As soon as her fingers met his skin, Bucky let out a heavy sigh of relief, reaching over and pulling her into his arms. Y/N's arms dug themselves away from his chest and up around his neck before her hand soon started fiddling with his hair.

The couple stood there for a moment, finally finding their slice of peace. Some came barging into the bar, and the dark-haired woman who had been sitting on the other side of Y/N practically demanded Mark lock the door before the Hounds of Baskerville came in.

Y/N was so happy to finally have her James back in her arms, but there was a whirling sound she couldn't let go. "What's that noise?"

Bucky looked from his wife to his arm and back to his bride. "I'll explain everything to you later, but... I lost my arm, and I now have a prosthetic one," he tells her, letting go of her for a moment so he could take his glove off and show her the black and gold Vibranium one he had made.

"Ok, James. It's a good thing you gave me this," she reached beneath her top and pulled a ring out from beneath, hanging from a chain. "Before you were deployed."

Bucky smiled, cupping her face so he could kiss her. Bucky pulled away chuckling a little. "Babydoll, will you please put my ring back on?"

She reached behind her to unclasp the chain, and slid Bucky's band off, "if it doesn't fit we'll get it resized."

"I don't care what size it is, as long as you put my ring back where it belongs," Bucky almost growled, a piece of him falling back into place with the ring back on his finger.

The next morning - Sam, Zemo and Sharon came into the living room, seeing Bucky sleeping on the sofa (Sam was expecting this, after being told by Steve), however, there was a lump lying next to Bucky they didn't recognise.

Sam slowly makes his way over, gently easing down the thick blanket lying over Bucky and the lump.

Lying there, practically on top of the 'bionic staring machine' was a young woman.

"Did he somehow pick up a girl?" Sam whispered. Sam and Sharon were trying to be quiet - however, Zemo (who didn't care) started clattering around the kitchen, causing Bucky to wake up in a start, which then caused the young woman to look up with tired owl-like eyes.

"What the hell is going on?" Bucky nearly demanded, keeping his arms wrapped around his companion.

Sam raised his eyebrow. "I could ask you the same question, Barnes?" Sam looked at the young woman in Bucky's arms. "Who is this?"

Bucky looked down at her, Sam watched as a smile grew on his face. "This is Y/N. Y/N Barnes. My wife."

[back2bluesidex]

To Be Popular - JJK [Prologue]

Pairing: Social Media Influencer! Jungkook X Marketing Manager! Reader ft. Yoongi

Summary:

You love everything about social media - apart from the ever-growing number of social media influencers. You don't understand how these people gain followers and admirers just by installing a camera and doing very basic things in front of it. And you despise how some of them can do anything to gain fame, to be popular - even if it includes uploading their bedroom scene in pornsites aka people like Jeon Jungkook. But when your company launches a new product and your department head tasks you with signing Jeon Jungkook up as an endorsement partner - you have no choice but to chase him like the corporate slave that you are. However, things turn worse when you embroil in a dating rumor with him and have to keep the game going for the sake of everything. is it really for the worse or things will turn in a way you never expected it to?  

Theme: Strangers to lovers au, fake dating au, kind of enemies to lover au, angst, smut, fluff.

Full Series Word Count: 26k

Chapter word count: 1k

Warnings: a tiny little smutty scene, dirty words.

Masterlist | Patreon (For access to the complete series)

Taglist requests are open.

Minors, I am not responsible for what you consume online. So, act more rationally and stay away.

A/N: After brooding for a long time, I have decided to (alongside your votes) release one of the patreon exclusive, since no other stories are working out. Though this is originally a drabble series, I will release longer chapters here.

Chapter index: -

Prologue | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 |

Or read the full series right away on Patreon at a discounted price today!!

Your eyes zero on your laptop screen - the quality is just above what is called grainy. 

But you can clearly recognize those tattoos. Moreover, you can recognize that voice, even if he says nothing good but filth. 

“You whore!” a slap rings as if to punctuate the man’s breathy voice, “look at your greedy hole swallowing me up so good!” 

You look at what his voice is referring to. The place where his cock disappears into her, creating a lewd, wet sound, her arousal drips down the back of her thigh - your own thighs come against each other as an impact. 

Even though their faces are not visible in the 3 minute video, the whole country knows who they are. 

Social media influencer Jeon Jungkook and Youtuber Kim Doona. 

There are a plethora of reasons behind why you don’t like these social media influencers. If you have the energy to make a list then it will go like: 

1. These people think of themselves much more highly than they actually are. You mean, they are not even celebrities or making the country proud or something. What the fuck make them so obnoxious? 

2. They have an awful number of dumb followers. Why do people even follow them? For showing their makeup and skin-care routine? For screaming loudly at the gaming screen? For recording themselves eating, doing the most random shit every normal human being does on a daily basis? You just don’t understand why. 

3. These people are absolutely fame-hungry. They can do anything and everything to boost their followers even if the said actions aren’t really positive. 

Take an instance from the current scenario - two of the most popular social media influencers have dropped their bedroom scene at an adult site and it got monetized within a day. Nice move because they gained both money and fame 10x overnight. 

It’s not that you have paid to watch what you are watching currently - you would rather die than feeding into the delusions of these influencers. You are watching because you despise these people and there was a leaked version circulating on Telegram. 

You scoff at the screen but the wetness in between your legs scoffs back at you. 

You hate them, yeah, but it’s not like you are totally immune to the sexy scene they have portrayed. Especially the way Jeon Jungkook’s tattoo arm held onto the female’s waist, or the way his muscles flexed under the dim light, or the way his cock- 

“Y/N! What the fuck?” you scold yourself, slam-shutting your laptop with unnecessary force. You blame it on your temporary state of celibacy that has been forced upon you since your last break up. 

And the fact that you have a fat crush on your manager - doesn’t make things any less painful. 

So you decide to shut off your system for the night and go to sleep as you should have done long ago. You have work tomorrow and a meeting, being wet after watching some influencers fuck each other wouldn’t help you with your career. 

Or would it? 

Your jaw hangs ajar, threatening to touch the floor as Min Yoongi, aka the manager you have a fat crush on, presents the campaign plan of your company’s new product’s marketing. Everything was fine until Yoongi suggested influencer endorsement and if this is not a joke of the universe then you don’t know what it is because you can see Jeon Jungkook’s picture gracing the screen.   

“Jeon Jungkook? Why?” you utter these words without so much of a thought. 

Yoongi looks at you with his narrowed eyes, “why not? You know, he is really famous. He is trending currently.” 

“Yeah but the reason he is trending- well. I don’t think he is suitable for our brand image.” you press on. 

Yoongi chuckles at your constipated expression, “Y/N-ah” he calls you softly and a tiny part of your heart melts, “I am sure our brand image can go up with a few charitable works here and there. But the company wants a return of what they are investing in marketing. I bet signing up Jeon Jungkook will help.” 

“Y/N, you know we are already at a tight spot right? Our last campaign wasn’t as successful as we expected. The company may take steps if we don’t do this right this time.” calls Mrs. Lee from the other side of the table. 

“And before you ask me why him, why not the other influencers…” Yoongi chimes in again, “We are selling gaming laptops and this guy is addicted to games. He has more followers than the actual streamers. He is young, hot, and talented in many areas. In one word, he is perfect.” 

“You awfully sound like you want to date him.” You scoff at the man. He only chuckles. 

Yoongi tries to say something but a knock rings on the door. One of the staff opens the door only a little and says, “Sir, he is here.” 

Yoongi nods and says, “send him inside.” 

“Who is coming?” you place the question. Only for Yoongi to smirk as a response. 

When you are about to press more, the door swings open revealing the man who-should-not-be-named, Jeon Jungkook. 

Your eyes go wide as you take him in - all baggy clothes and a cute bucket hat perched on the top of his head. Bambi eyes scanning the room like a puppy brought to his very new home. As if he is not the guy who is going viral for fucking on camera and selling it to an adult site. 

He bows deeply and opens his mouth to greet, “Hello, I am Jeon Jungkook.” 

You feel your blood pressure raising at the thought of working with him. You will survive it right? 

You will have to. 

Permanent Taglist:

@phenomenalgirl9 @chimchimmarie @coffeedepressionsoup @meowstake @vonvi-blog @nochuel @chimmisbae @i-have-no-life-charlie @mikrokookiex @jjk174 @lallataegi @savageyoongi @jwnghyuns @parapiop7 @futuristicenemychaos @armystay89 @ryryvna @purple-realms

[tldrthor]

Not even death (2) | bucky barnes

// Summary: In the wake of the attack, (y/n) and Steve are moved to DC for protection. Rumours of corruption within SHIELD come to a crescendo, and they learn the identity of the man who attacked them at Bucky's grave. The world is turned on it's head.

// warnings: ws!bucky barnes x avenger!wife!reader, lots of grief, canon-typical violence, angst, f!reader, platonic!steve being a cutie patootie

// word count: 4.1k

enjoyed? please like/reblog! you can find my masterlist here <3

part one | part three

The second best day of her life was the day Bucky came back from the POW camp in Europe. The day that Steve Rogers, her tiny, frail friend, was suddenly two feet taller and double the weight. It was the second best, but probably the most confusing.

To describe it, we have to start somewhere else.

Colonel Phillips sat behind his desk, the heavy weight of authority evident within his posture. His fingers drummed lightly on the edge of the paperwork in front of him as he studied the transfer forms with surgical precision. His words came clipped, almost dismissive, as he finally looked up at the young woman standing before him.

"Nurse Barnes," he began, his voice cold and matter of fact. "I need you to understand that you've been given special treatment here." His words were sharp, cutting through the sterile tension of the office. His eyes flicked to the top of the paper, then back to her. "I see that Sergeant Barnes is your husband. We understand him to be missing, but I am sorry to say... it's unlikely he is still alive."

He spoke softer, then. Like he had realised halfway through that the girl in front of him – she couldn't have been older than 25 – was likely a widow.

"Yes, sir." The girl answered, her words as flat and mechanical as she could make them. Her sweaty palms smoothing her creased white uniform.

"You'll be sharing a cabin with the other women on base – Agent Carter here will show you around, get you situated. You'll start in the infirmary tent tomorrow."

He dismissively waved towards a figure in the corner of the room -- an image of perfect composure in her neatly pressed uniform and pinned hair. The nurse suddenly felt inadequate, vulnerable even. She hadn't been thinking straight since she got that awful, awful telegram. The one she had prayed would never come.

Agent Carter stepped forward with quiet grace. Her smile was warm and genuine, a soft hand outstretched to the nurse, which she quickly shook with her own.

"Peggy Carter," she introduced herself. "Come with me, I'll show you to our cabin."

"(y/n) Barnes." The nurse introduced herself, unable to say much else in the wake of the worst few weeks of her life.

"So," Peggy's voice broke through the silence as they walked. "Where were you stationed before?"

The nurse swallowed hard, the words scraping out of her dry throat. "The French front." She could feel Peggy's widened eyes on her, but she kept looking towards the cabin they were marching towards.

She let out a quiet, nearly reverent sound. "God, so you've seen warfare then." It wasn't a question, rather an acknowledgement, a small recognition of the horrors of the front.

The nurse's heart quickened at the mere mention of her previous station, a cold shiver moving down her spine. She didn't want to remember the chaos, the blood, the screams. But it hadn't left her mind since the moment she was deployed.

"Yes." She muttered, her voice barely above a whisper. There was so much more to say than just ‘yes’,  but there wasn't a way to succinctly describe some of the horrors she had seen.

They climbed the steps to the simple wooden cabin, Peggy opening the door with a soft creak. "Well, here we are."

The room was simple – clean, functional and small – but the nurse barely registered in the space.

"The top bunk at the end is yours." Peggy said gently, motioning towards the far corner. "I'll let you get set up, if you need anything let me know."

She swallowed, looking upon the nurse who seemed so... defeated. She spoke, perhaps out of turn; "Colonel Phillips hasn't given up on the men. There's still hope."

"Thank you," The nurse whispered, her throat too tight to speak. Peggy stepped back, giving her space.

"Take your time. I'll check on you later."

In the present day, her dreams – as they always were – were filled with memories of Bucky and the war. The sound of his voice was a particular issue, recently. She felt like she was forgetting it. The way his arms had felt around her on their wedding day, and then the day they said goodbye before he shipped to the Italian front and she to the french front. It all felt like the memories were slipping away.

But tonight, on Steve's couch, the dream shifted. She found herself walking through a foggy graveyard. She knew immediately that something was off, but it felt real enough. She could hear his voice – just faintly, calling her from a distance. 

She tried to run to him, but her legs felt like stone.

"Bucky!" She called, nearly crawling along the floor in her desperation to get to him.

The fog parted just enough to reveal a figure. Not quite Bucky, but tall and hauntingly familiar. It was wrong, though. As the figure stalked towards her, she saw the glint of his left arm.

It wasn't Bucky. It was the man who attacked her in the cemetery, the one who had bestowed on her what she was sure was at least four broken ribs. His eyes were cold and empty as the all-too-familiar metal arm reached for her.

"(y/n)?" She felt something on her shoulder, and suddenly she jerked awake with a gasp, her breath coming in sharp, ragged bursts.

Steve sat in front of her, whispering soothing things, his hand on her shoulder. He had bags under his eyes, and didn't seem like he had been asleep. A lamp in the corner cast soft shadows over Steve's living room.

"Sorry, nightmare." She whispered, once she got her breath back.

He nodded, a sort of half-smile on his face. "I know. You were calling for Bucky."

His hand still rested on her shoulder, his touch steady and gentle. It reminded her of how she used to comfort him when they were just kids -- whenever he got into a stupid fight, or the neighbourhood kids took to showing him what for. The weight of it anchored her to the present, even as his mind drifted back to the foggy graveyard and the nightmare she couldn't shake.

She inhaled sharply, still failing at steadying her breath. "Sorry... it's just –" she faltered, her eyes on her lap as her hands shook. "It's like I can hear him, feel him. But I always lose him again."

He nodded, humming in recognition.

"I was thinking about the Italian front, the other day. Do you remember?"

He smiled, the memory of the first time he disobeyed orders to save his best friend. The day he promised his other friend that he would do everything he could to bring home her husband.

One of his greatest victories.

"I remember. You were so angry at us – and he couldn't stop grinning because you had come all that way just to tell him off."

Her pensive face broke, at that, revealing a reminiscent smile.

"God, I'd do anything to go back to that."

The atmosphere in the crowd crackled as Captain America walked back, his best friend at his side, and a sea of men trailing behind them. Their victory hung thick in the air.

"Prepare yourself," Steve murmured, his voice low but edged with something akin to amusement. Maybe he should have warned him...

Bucky's gaze flickered to a ripple in the crowds in front of them -- the crowd parted with the ease of moving water, but it wasn't a force of nature that cut through them.

No. It was something more personal, smaller than all of them but ten times as dangerous.

She emerged from the crowd, eyes blazing, shoulders tight with fury.

His wife.

"You two," she shouted, her voice slicing through the charged air like a blade, "are two halves of one whole idiot!"

"Oh my god, what the hell are you doing here?!" Bucky rushed forward with a rather aggressive passion, very nearly knocking her to the ground. If she wasn't so apoplectic with rage, the hug would have softened everything.

Unfortunately, she was very nearly vibrating with anger.

She screwed up her face, wiggling out of his touch. "I came to get you, James." She jabbed a finger in his face, her hand trembling with an uncontainable rage. "Do you know how worried I was," She frowned, "that damn telegram nearly killed me!"

The men around them chuckled before giving the not-so-happy couple some space. He smiled at her with a soft, love-sick smile. He didn't even have it in him to feel guilt, although he was sure he would eventually. He knew military transfer orders, he knew the bureaucracy behind all the paperwork. She had probably fought tooth and nail just to find her way closer to him.

"You transferred here?" He spoke as his hands moved up to hold her face, his thumb stroking her cheek as she furrowed her eyebrows and scoffed at him, slapping away his hand before turning away to the other moron in the situation.

The crowd around them had dissipated now, leaving only the both of them, and a much, much taller Captain America. Steven Grant Rogers. The kid she had spent most of her life protecting in some way or another.

"Don't even get me started on you." she snapped, her voice venomous. She stared him down, his new stature making no difference in how uncomfortable he felt with her intense gaze. He had the decency, at least, to sheepishly look at the ground. "What the hell were you thinking, Rogers?"

"I- " He started. He held his hands in the air like she was holding him at gunpoint. He wished she was, he was much better at that than dealing with grief turned relief turned anger.

She hissed, "Save it. Get yourselves to the infirmary tent, now." She turned on her heel, leading to where the men were beginning to line up to be checked over.

"Fury wants us to move to DC, says we’re better protected there.” After a full breakfast, the situation didn’t feel as dire. She looked at her friend with skeptical eyes, her fork clinking on the plate as she put it down with more force than she had meant to.

She tilted her head and squinted her eyes. “Fury’s up to something.”

“Why do you think that?”

“I don’t know if you have the clearance but…” She hesitated. The weight of the words she was about to speak was almost too much, but she couldn’t back down now.  “We’ve had some intel. Someone’s using unauthorised SHIELD resources. We think whoever it is… is based at the Triskelion in DC.”

Her word’s hung heavy between them. She could see the suspicion on Steve’s face, the flicker of concern. He leaned in slightly, his eyes piercing as they met hers. “You think Fury’s hiding something?”

She sighed, dragging her hand through her fresh-washed hair. It was the last thing she needed, the organisation she had built up with her bare hands and dearest friends to be compromised. “I… ever since I stepped down as director, I’ve felt like something’s wrong. I regret putting Alexander Pierce in control, I’m worried it’s completely compromised.”

“I think Fury knows something I don’t – the question is what.” She shook her head, her words faltering for a second. 

Steve didn’t say anything for a long time. He didn’t have to. He could see it in her eyes – the frustration, the fear, the doubt. They both knew that if SHIELD was the next big bad, it was going to be harder than just killing aliens that come out of a big hole in the sky. It would be questioning the very thing they fight for in the first place.

“Okay.” Steve finally spoke, his voice low but steady. “Let’s just be careful. We’ll figure it out together – Nat’s already out there anyway, we can ask her to keep an eye out.”

Days later, they were on the move. The rumours they were tracking seemed to grow louder, and a certain name that neither of them wanted to ever hear again kept popping up through the cracks. 

HYDRA.

Natasha met them at the new apartment – they had decided to all move in together for safety. Fury assured the commander that there was nothing behind the move, that he didn’t expect anything from her.

“You think we’ll investigate the rumblings about SHIELD being infiltrated.” She frowned at him, finally figuring out his motive.

He smiled, his cards on the table. “Commander, I know you will.”

She couldn’t help but feel a disconnect between her life before and her life now. She didn’t know what had caused it – maybe something about the attack. She had been targeted before, the victim of many plots over the years. Who wouldn’t want to take out an enhanced, seemingly unaging artefact from a time period that was quickly fading from living memory.

But this one felt… different. She couldn’t help but think of Bucky when the knife-edged memory of her assailant made its way to her consciousness again. Something in the way he moved…

She looked up at the Triskelion, her new place of work. It was somehow familiar and unsettling at the same time. A place that had always symbolised SHIELD’s strength – her own blood, sweat and tears – now felt like the beginning of something far more dangerous.

Weeks passed. She almost forgot about the potential mole within SHIELD, she was kept so busy with work given to her by Pierce. She hated being around him, even though she had seen him rise the ranks as a young man nearly from the beginning of SHIELD. Something about him… she could tell he didn’t have good intentions anymore.

Steve and Natasha were starting to dig into the activities that SHIELD was covering around them. There was money, moved around so much that it was impossible to trace it to its destination. Weapons missing from the armoury’s logs. People who walked like they had more power than they should.

And then Fury was attacked in broad daylight. Declared dead. Steve crashed down stories into the foyer of the building, having been attacked by the STRIKE team that (y/n) once commanded. Pierce himself marched into the Commander’s office and declared she was being held on suspicion of treason – she would never have gone quietly, and she got a nice gash across her upper arm to prove it.

They found each other in the hospital after their no good, very bad day.

“Thank god.” Steve wrapped his arms around her as she found him outside the hospital.

She reciprocated. “Is it true? Fury’s dead?” She demanded, a tone in her voice that showed more vulnerability that she would have liked. She looked between him and Natasha, who had tears in her eyes for the first time in a long time.

He could only nod in response.

The truth hit them hard – the realisation that SHIELD had been compromised so thoroughly that it was completely unrecognisable. HYDRA was back, and it was using their own creation to cement itself again.

After that, everything changed. The triskelion was under siege. The situation had escalated faster than anyone could have predicted, and suddenly, they were fighting not only for their lives but for the world. They had picked up Sam Wilson, an ex-air force special forces pilot with helpful strategy ideas and even more helpful wings.

“So, how’d you make it to commander so young?” He had asked her.

Steve, Natasha and (y/n) had just laughed in response.

And then her world shattered even further, even more maliciously. Sitwell grabbed and thrown out of the car in front of a truck – a most effective way to shut him up. Each of them was attacked by an assailant that had haunted her since that moment at Bucky’s grave. She had been so distracted by the return of that memory that she hadn’t seen the knife coming.

One second, she was fighting with everything she had to hold her ground and protect the civilians around them, and the next – pain. Cold metal cutting into her side. A scream of shock that didn’t even escape her throat before her body crashed to the ground.

The world blurred around her. She heard Steve’s voice, desperate, calling her name as he fought to hold the line. And then… the mask fell. For a split second, she thought she must be hallucinating. The pain from the stab wound – and the steady trail of blood seeping through her top – was enough to make her think she could be.

She couldn’t tell which outcome she would have preferred in that moment – for her husband to be dead, or for her husband to be killing her.

The air felt too thick to breathe.

And then, she heard Steve speak his name, stopping in his tracks, too. And her heart stopped.

It couldn’t be. Not after everything – she had mourned for decades. So how could her dead husband, body somewhere in a ravine in Europe, be standing here, now. How could her Bucky – her wonderful, generous, brave husband – have caused the sea of thick crimson that had started to pool around her.

The man who had broken her ribs, and tried to murder her only weeks earlier. That same man, the one with no memory, with no soul, stripped of everything he’d ever been and replaced with a cold, mechanical weapon. A ghost from the past, a soldier she couldn’t recognise.

Natasha had told them the name earlier. A name that sat bitterly on her tongue.

The Winter Soldier.

Her chest tightened as the world seemed to freeze around her. Her pulse was pounding in her ears, and for a moment, she thought she might choke on the grief, the shock, the guilt.

Her hands shook violently as she struggled to push herself up, the pain almost unbearable, but it was nothing compared to the agony in her heart. The man who was supposed to be dead, the man who was supposed to be lost forever, was standing right in front of her — twisted and broken nearly beyond recognition.

But she would recognise him anywhere, anytime. Her Bucky.

The world seemed to tilt, everything spinning around her in a dizzying blur of emotions. How could this be? She couldn’t reconcile the image before her with the man she remembered, the boy she had once loved. She had grieved him. She had clung to every inch of him like it was her only lifeline – his touch, his smile, his cheeky jokes that made the burden of what they were just that little bit easier to manage.

Now, everything she thought she understood was unraveling.

She couldn’t fix this.

The sound of Steve’s voice reached her through the fog of her emotions. She knew he was moving toward her, his panic filling the space between them, but she couldn’t focus on that. She couldn’t focus on anything other than the man standing in front of her.

How could he not remember her?

How could he not remember them?

He locked eyes with her as he raised his gun. Those blue eyes that had looked at her lovingly since the moment they had met, now replaced with emotionless disdain. She decided that her only course of action was to close her eyes and accept whatever this cruel twist of fate had in store.

The Winter Soldier.

A name that would haunt her forever.

Both Bucky and Steve had been sitting outside the infirmary for what felt like hours. The sounds of the camp were muffled around them, but they could hear the laughter and celebration from the mess hall starting already. Closer, the occasional sharp sound of boots on gravel as men trickled in and out of the infirmary, patched up and sporting bandages in various places.

Dugan passed by, a small bandage wrapped expertly around his forehead. “Hell of a woman, Barnes. You’re a lucky guy.”

Morita, who had a nice bruise forming on his cheek, waggled an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of her anger.”

Bucky only grinned and shrugged, his attention never straying far from the door. “Hey, you should be so lucky.” He smiled.

Finally, the line in front of him cleared. He stood, wincing slightly as his leg protested the movement, and made his way into the infirmary. The air was thick with the smell of antiseptic and sweat. The soft sound of hospitalised soldiers and the rattle of medical equipment filled the space.

And there she was.

The moment his eyes met hers, the world around him seemed to still. Her frown deepened, but the way she looked at him told him all he needed to know. She was mad. Madder than he thought he’d ever seen her, maybe aside from the time he and Steve decided to play baseball indoors and smashed her favourite vase.

Bucky took a hesitant step forward, trying to make light of it. “Hi, Nurse.”

She didn’t even look up at first, but when she did, the way her brow furrowed made his stomach twist. She motioned for him to sit, a sigh escaping her lips as she set the clipboard down next to him. 

“Sergeant Barnes.” She said, a quiet edge to her voice. “What did they do to you?”

Bucky winced as she touched a bruise near his cheekbone. He had been through a hell of a lot worse in his life, but he wasn’t exactly in the mood to pretend like it didn’t hurt. “Nothing too bad. A little blood, some bad food… the usual.”

The corner of her mouth twitched like she might’ve smiled, but it disappeared almost instantly, replaced by that serious look. He could feel the weight of it pressing down on him.

She frowned. “You really shouldn’t joke right now.” She murmured as she worked, pulling out some supplies. The cotton swab was rough against his skin, and he winced as she dabbed at one the cuts across his eyebrow. The silence stretched between them, thick and heavy. Bucky could feel the tension even in the way her fingers moved – quick, precise, anxious.

When she finally spoke again, her voice was small and fragile: “I thought you were dead.”

The words hit him like a punch to the gut, his throat going dry. There was no anger to her words now, just a quiet, raw vulnerability. He looked at her then – really looked – finally seeing the bags under her eyes, her red-raw hands from sanitising and scrubbing them over and over and over again. The shine over her eyes from tears that she fought not to spill.

He leaned forward slightly, covering her hand with his. His thumb brushed over the back of her hand gently, “I’m sorry, baby.” His voice was gravelly but soft, “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Her eyes met his, and for a moment, everything else disappeared. The anger was still there, tucked away beneath the surface, but it was quieter now – he saw it for what it really was. Love.

She nodded slowly, swallowing thickly. “I know you say that,” She muttered. “But sometimes I wonder… how much longer I’ll get to hear it.”

Bucky’s chest tightened at the implication. He couldn’t imagine what she’d gone through in receiving that telegram. Living with the fear of her husband, gone forever. He knew that if it had been him in that position, he’d have gone mad. 

He pulled her hand toward him tilting his head so their foreheads touched, his voice low and steady. “You’re stuck with me, you hear me? No one’s getting rid of me, not even you.”

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. They didn’t need to. It was just the sounds of their breath mingling in the quiet of the infirmary. There was finally a moment of peace amongst the chaos of the war, even if it wasn’t perfect.

But the reality of their lives could never stay far for long, and she pulled away gently, putting that professional mask back on. Bucky had to fight the urge to pull her back, to keep her in that soft, quiet space. She had always been strong and capable, but he felt that she was different now… hardened to the world in a way she wasn’t before. He wondered if he would ever see the sweet, innocent girl he left in New York again. 

“I’m on the clock, Barnes.” Her tone returned to being sharper, but it had a softer edge now. “You’re gonna have to send Steve in. I need to check him out.”

Bucky’s mind returned to his alarmingly big, formerly small-friend. “What the hell happened to him, anyway?”

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[letaliabane]

Trip Up - Valet!SimonRiley and Maid!Reader

The abbey was on alert today. A telegram from the Lord Price's sister stating she would be visiting along with members of the Crawley family who had moved into the village.

This included the new heir to Downton Abbey Matthew Crawley, John's third cousin, who was rumored to marry Lady Mary, John's oldest daughter.

'I can't stand the thought of my only purpose being to marry. To be thrown at every heir to Downton so that the money stays in the family,' Mary said in frustration, putting on her earrings as you did her hair, 'All I want is to be chosen for me any only that.'

You nodded, putting the last of the beaded pins in her hair. She had chosen a lavender skirt with a cream blouse for the day, finished with a simple cardigan.

'It just feels so belittling. What do you think Y/N?' She asked, looking thoughtfully at you through the mirror.

You gave her a gentle smile, 'I agree m'lady. If it were my choice, I would indeed marry for love. It's more important than most things.'

'And of course position. I could never forget that! This new heir is apparently quite middle class and I just won't have that!'

You couldn't help but sigh at her words.

Mary was a kind young and beautiful lady, but at times had a cold heart and hard exterior to protect it, which included a cruel nature to those she despised.

'How is that new valet doing? Mr Riley wasn't it?'

'Oh, he's quite settled in m'lady, now that it has been a few months,' You said as you moved around the room, clearing and folding clothes away to where they belonged, 'I think he's still shaken the staff up but much better than it was previously.'

Mary tapped her perfume to her wrists, saying, 'Thank goodness, I felt terrible for Papa. He talks about Mr Riley like a dear old friend, it would be a shame if he doesn't feel welcome here, even as a valet.'

'Agreed, now I should probably head down. Will that be all m'lady?'

'Yes, thank you Y/N.'

You made your way down to the servants hall, putting away anything that needed cleaning from the daughter's rooms. Before too long, the staff were rounded up at the stairs, Mr Garrick doing final inspections of uniforms before we went up to meet our guests.

'We should go out to greet them all, now be on your best behavior. I'll have nothing less!' Mr Garrick said, the younger staff nodding nervously while others remained silent.

'Remember to not go running off William, I'll need your help with the bags,' Graves muttered to the youngest and newest of the footmen.

Mr Riley who was standing at the base of the stairs turned to him. 'I'm happy to assist you if needed.'

'No need! Don't more mistakes do we Mr Riley?' Graves was quick to quip back. You couldn't help but shake your head, following the other maids up the stairs.

The staff were lined up at the front of the incredibly beautiful house as the cars rolled in one by one through the gates, coming to a halt just in front of the tall double doors.

Lord John pushed forward first, her Ladyship Liliana close behind him to also greet Matthew. From the look of him, he looked like a kind man. Young, blond and blue-eyed just like his mother, Isobel, who followed close behind him. Older, a little grey-haired, but back straight with a smile.

The daughters greeted their aunts happily, while awkwardly greeting the newcomers. After brief chatter was shared amongst the family, they began to move into the house slowly.

Suddenly a scuffle erupted, the maids gasping as your eyes turned to see Mr Riley crash hard onto the pebbled ground, stones flying about messily and, to your horror, his mask.

You glanced up and saw Graves, an ugly smirk on his face as he looked down on the valet, his foot strangely kicked out in place before walking towards the back entrance.

'Riley, are you alright?'

You looked to see John coming to his side, grabbing the mask from the ground and handing it to him. The rest of the family watched on in shock.

'I am my lord, my apologies,' You heard Mr Riley grumble, keeping his face down as he placed his mask back on properly.

When his lordship had turned back to usher his family inside, Johnny, who stood tall at the door awaiting their entry, gave you a nod which you returned.

As the staff quickly dispersed, you went to Mr Riley's side, gently pressing a hand to his shoulder.

'Here, let me help you, Mr Riley,' You quietly said, grabbing his arm and slowly assisting him until he was steadily back on his feet.

You shook off the pebbles and dust caught onto his suit jacket and pants. 'There, much better–'

'Don't!' He suddenly snapped, slapping your hand away.

You gasped, taking a step away. Though his face was covered, there was a deep anger in Mr Riley's eyes that you had never seen before. It almost frightened you.

Mr Riley froze, taking in your change of demeanour. With a sigh, he uttered so quietly you almost missed it, 'Please don't pity me Miss ... I don't need it.'

He pushed past you roughly, his loud footsteps quickly becoming distant against the pebbled walkway as he left you behind.

The day continued as usual except, you noticed very quickly, the distinct absence of Mr Riley for the rest of the day. You had overheard Mr Garrick say he had taken poorly and couldn't continue to work.

Like bees that had caught the honey, the staff buzzed excitedly with the sudden gossip of his possible resignation or firing. Though the staff had calmed down since his arrival, it didn't change their stance that he didn't deserve the job.

It made you furious. Why should a man who had been at the house for a few months be let go just because of a small mishap? Something that wasn't even his fault. Nothing even happened!

Soon drinks for the family were complete after their meal, and dinner was being served in the servant's hall, but there was still no sign of Mr Riley.

After nibbling at your meal and failing to work up an appetite yourself, you found a tray and dished up some stew and some hot bread that had been served.

'What are you doing love?' You looked up to see Mrs Patmore enter the kitchens, clearly having finished her dinner.

'Oh, I was just making up a plate for Mr Riley, him not being well enough to join us. You won't mind Ms Laswell?' You addressed the head housekeeper who had appeared behind Mrs Patmore.

She nodded with a smile, 'Of course, just this once. The poor man has been through enough in one day.'

With a nod, you finished piling up the tray before making your way carefully through the corridors of the attics where the servants lived in and at end of the corridor, a light shone from beneath a door.

Making your way over, you peeked into the room. Through the mirror that hung on the cupboard, you could see sitting on the bed there sat the shaking silhouette of Mr Riley, and in the quiet, the soft sobbing emitted from him.

You couldn't help but feel your heart break at the site. Taking a step back, you cleared your throat. 'Mr Riley? Are you there?'

A shuffle was heard from within the room, footsteps approaching before the door opened to reveal Mr Riley. His eyes were swollen and red, his hair dishevelled and his shoulders tense.

You gave him a reassuring smile. 'I brought some dinner up, in case you were hungry.'

Immediately he deflated at the sight of you, eyes softened as he took in the tray of food neatly placed. 'That's very kind Miss. Even after what I did to you earlier ... you are still so generous.'

'It's nothing really,' You placed the tray in his hands which he placed off to the side, looking back to you.

'But it's the very opposite of nothing. I-I really am sorry for this morning, that was very unkind of me Miss.'

'No need for apologies Mr Riley,' You said, trying to keep your voice steady, 'You've been wronged since you arrived here and I hate to see you like this. Please don't let them drag you down. You are so much stronger than they are.'

He sighed heavily, eyes shying away from yours, leaning against the door frame. 'I hate to admit it ... it's very humiliating. Couldn't stomach any more of it.'

You shook your head firmly, stepping closer to him. 'You shouldn't be made to feel that way. Be proud of being here, John–I mean ... Lord Price chose you to be here for a reason. You've earned your place and you shouldn't have to hide or be ashamed.'

Mr Riley looked down at you, his eyes finally meeting yours and scanning your face. He clearly could see the tears in your eyes and heard the tremble in your voice.

'Why do you do this Miss?'

You were stunned, almost at a loss for words. Couldn't help but get lost in the beauty of his eyes, a thousand words and emotions even in silence. So instead, stepping even closer, chest to chest with him, you carefully reached for his hand. You felt him stiffen beneath your gentle touch momentarily before he allowed you to clasp your hands with his.

'You don't deserve to be treated as such. I don't like to see it,' You said, looking up into his eyes.

Not wanting to encroach on him any longer, you slowly pulled away, unable to hold back a small smile when you felt Mr Riley hold tight to your hand just a little longer before letting it drop from his grip. 

The next morning the servant's hall was busy with the staff filing in, breakfast of hot porridge with honey and buttered toast was served by Daisy and Mrs Patmore.

As Mr Garrick sat down, allowing everyone else to follow suit, Mr Riley appeared at the entrance to the hall and you couldn't help but smile, ignoring the scowl of some of the other staff.

'Ah, Mr Riley!' Ms Laswell greeted as she passed on bowls of porridge down the table, 'Good to see you up and about!'

'Indeed Ms Laswell, can't keep me down too long,' He muttered, looking straight at you as he did.

'That's good to hear, come and get yourself some breakfast we have a busy day ahead of ourselves!'

He nodded, making his way around the table and taking a seat beside you. And as a bowl of porridge was placed in front of you, you felt the fleeting caress of his gloved hand across your own beneath the table.

Call of Duty Masterlist a/n: I'm on a roll I tell you! And I love writing for these two.

@lostintransist @teapartydreams

[metamorphesque]

Short Story: "Why do flowers die so soon?", Vardges Petrosyan

(translated from Armenian by Tathev Simonyan)

…I remember the last days of my life, which were unlike any that had come before. To the world, I seemed so happy: I had brothers, a sister, a family, a child who was a bell and a brook’s murmur. What else could one need for happiness? And yet, something was missing, for I was not happy. And then, out of nowhere, she poured into my life.

Has it ever happened that, on a hot summer day, while you’re standing there, dazed by the sun and dreams, someone playfully poured cold water on your neck? At first, you might startle, maybe even scold the one who did it, but then you suddenly feel that’s exactly what you’d been standing in the sun for, perhaps you’d been standing your whole life just for that.

That’s how she poured into my life—wild and astounding, asking for nothing, careless as could be. Now I can’t even recall if she was beautiful. In her eyes, there was an inquisitive sadness, a sliver of sky, and a bit of rustling. It felt as though those eyes were always gazing at life, asking, “Why...?” She came uninvited, wrapped herself around my days like a grapevine curling up its wooden stakes, offering me all the clusters of her youth—everything she had. And she asked for nothing. Nothing at all. Until the very end, I couldn’t convince her that I loved her too. Perhaps I didn’t truly believe it then, for I kept reminding myself every moment: I have no right to love her. And maybe that’s why, when she laid her whole life at my feet, I kept glancing at my watch; she brought me the full nakedness of her youth, while I closed the curtains and turned off the light. I never went out in public with her, and the world never found out that I was finally happy. Our love was akin to a fire we tried to cover with our hands, though the flame was scorching and uncontainable.

I’m afraid my beginning is dragging on too long.

I was ill before I died. All day long, my mother, my brothers, and my wife—sorrowful and pale—remained by my side, though in those last days, we no longer understood or recognized one another. Only she was missing, the one I waited for and loved most. She couldn’t come to our house. My brothers knew I would die; the doctor had told them so. They believed it, perhaps even expected it—sad and resigned. Only my mother didn’t believe it, though not because she was unaware of what the doctor had said…

Perhaps it’s best if I tell you about my last day. By then, I already knew I would die that very day. That’s why I wanted to laugh when the doctor tried to give me an injection, examined my stomach, and then prescribed some medicine: “Give him this twice a day for a week.” I didn’t blame him—this calm, warm-handed man; he just didn’t understand me, and no doctor understands that people only die when they’re truly exhausted. Someone might grow tired at eighteen, and another at seventy. I was tired. But I wasn’t sad. My bookshelf was in front of me, though I didn’t think about the fact that my fingers would no longer touch those books. I knew that other fingers would, and for books, it makes no difference. Books are a bit like gossipers—they reveal their secrets to anyone, so I knew that they’d share them with someone else, too. With sadness I only looked at the acacia tree rustling below my window and at the sky in the distance. I wished I could take with me, to that place beneath the ground, just a bit of that rustling and a sliver of sky. But I knew it was impossible.

“I’ll go grab some cigarettes,” I suddenly heard my older brother say, even though I knew he didn’t smoke. He was either heading out to send a telegram to our relatives or he simply didn’t want to see me pass. I understood and said goodbye with a glance, knowing we would never meet again in this world. He left. I asked my wife to take our child outside for some fresh air. “I’ll take him,” she replied, not realizing she’d never hear my voice again. I also said something to my mother, but she didn’t leave. This saddened me deeply, and I slowly closed my eyes. I don’t know how much time passed, only that I suddenly heard my mother’s gut-wrenching scream and knew I had already died. Through my closed eyelids, I saw everyone come rushing in, saw them carry my mother out—the first to sense my death, though the only one who hadn’t believed it was near.

After that, everything unfolded as it always does.

For two days, people gathered around me, and I saw many familiar faces I hadn’t seen in years. They cried or stood somber and silent, then left. Sometimes, those sounds or that silence wore me out, and I wanted to ask them to talk or be quiet. But there was such calm within me that I didn’t dare to open my eyes. With a strange sense of wonder I began to observe people—many of whom I thought I knew well. Not knowing I was watching, they felt no need to pretend. I recalled what I used to think of them when I was alive, and, truthfully, at times, I felt embarrassed by those old thoughts and judgments. But that wasn’t what preoccupied me the most; every day, I searched for the one who never came. I knew she couldn’t simply come and stand quietly by my side like the others. I knew that as soon as she entered, everyone would know. My heart ached with longing; I missed her deeply, even thought of asking my mother to call her, but I was too worn out to open my eyes. I was so tired, and for the first time, I could think of her in peace, knowing no one would interrupt—not with a phone call, nor a glance, nor love, nor hate. I thought of her even when they carried me down my street, the street where I’d grown up, loved, and grown weary.

The street was full of sunlight, but for the first time, I didn’t feel hot; instead, I wanted even more of the sun, bigger and warmer. I looked at my street: trams, cars, people stood with a kind of sadness that wore my heart out. I didn’t want to be the reason behind anyone’s sadness; thus, I didn’t feel bad at all when I saw a boy and girl under a tree, holding hands and smiling into each other’s eyes. At first, I thought they hadn’t noticed the procession, but then the girl looked directly at me and smiled again. The boy looked too, with kind and happy eyes. I wanted to smile back, maybe even wave, but I was too tired, and besides, if I lifted my hand, the flowers would fall.

Then we walked into the cemetery, and that’s when I saw her. I saw her and smiled—or rather, that smile had been there on my face the whole time because I’d been thinking of her in my final moments. For two days, through my closed eyelids, I saw that no one understood that smile; some even looked at it strangely and confused. But at the graveside, she understood; I even saw her smile back at me. Then her figure was obscured from my view by my relatives, my loved ones, and I remembered our last night together…

We were walking through the darkness. Only in darkness could we love each other freely in the open world, which is why we despised not just electric lights but even the stars when they shone too brightly. We were walking through the dark, and she wanted me to say that she was the one I loved most in the world. I was silent, perhaps already sensing that I was too tired of keeping that sentence unsaid, one I longed to cry out through all the speakers of the world. I was tired—tired of this darkness, of the lights, of everything—yet she waited. And later, under the ground, I deeply regretted that I hadn’t said those words meant only for her, belonging only to her, but it was already too late.

As I reminisced about our last night together, they started to lower me into the ground. I caught a final glimpse of her between my relatives' feet and heard her gaze. "Should I come with you?" she asked. "Should I?" That’s how I used to hear her voice through the receiver back then. In that final moment, I realized that if I just nodded, she would come, but she was only twenty-one, so I replied, "Stay." She heard my gaze, heard silently, just as she always had. Soon, she was obscured from view, and I realized I was already beneath the ground. After that, I heard the familiar sounds of stones and soil. And then, nothing more; only the thick fragrance of flowers lingered, frozen between me and the earth, then, thinking of her, I grew numb: I tried to recall the date and the day, but could only keep track of the calendar for a week or two.

Thus, days turned into months, and perhaps years went by. And I remember the words I never said to her, to the world, which is why I began to murmur this belated confession from beneath the earth. I began to exist through those unsaid words. Each day, I tried to remember how long our love lasted. A few... months? days? years?…

One day, I looked up and saw the sky once more; they had torn down our cemetery and replaced it with a garden of grasses and flowers. I had become a flower. I looked around in excitement, eager to find her and give her the words that were meant for her, belonged only to her... But she was not there; all around me were unfamiliar flowers that I did not recognize. I realized I must have been beneath the earth for perhaps an entire century, and she, too, might now be a flower, a blade of grass, or a handful of grain—who knows where in all the fields of the world... I was ready to search the globe for her, but I was just a flower, and I died as soon as I tried to lift my feet from the soil. I died for the last time. When I once more turned into soil, only then did I understand why flowers die so soon: all flowers might once have been people who rose from the earth in search of that someone, only to not find them and wither away, dying one last time. I realized that nothing in this world can be found twice, and I longed to cry out with all my floral voice, “Don’t let go, people, don’t lose what you have!”

[wawa0628]

“Would You… Care To?”

Summary: Steve was practicing talking to you. In front of the mirror. Just like a movie star from the 1940s, completely into the role. While going back and forth in the room.

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Avengers!Reader

Warnings: nothing

Word count: 0.5k

Fluff | Pre-Relationship | 1940s Romantic Flavor | 100 Cups of Sugar

⸻

It was quiet in Avengers Tower that morning.

You padded barefoot down the hallway, a half-finished smoothie in your hand and your mind only half-awake.

You were just passing Steve’s room when you heard it.

“Hey there, doll—no, wait—Sweetheart.”

You paused.

Wait. Was that Steve talking to someone? No, not quite. You tilted your head, one ear angled toward the door, footsteps quiet.

“Would you… care to get coffee with me sometime?”

Your brows lifted. Was he rehearsing?

“Care to—CARE to?! You sound like a telegram, Rogers!”

There was a thump, like a fist lightly knocking against a desk or possibly his own forehead and then a heartfelt, frustrated,

“ARGH!”

You clapped a hand over your mouth to keep from laughing.

Because Steve Rogers, Captain America himself was pacing around in his room like a boy in an old black-and-white film, trying to figure out how to talk to you.

Your heart did an embarrassing little leap.

⸻

Inside, Steve was spiraling.

His sketchbook sat forgotten on the desk. Every line he’d drawn this morning had turned into a soft angle of your smile. He couldn’t focus. Couldn’t even breathe properly when he imagined walking up to you in the kitchen and saying it.

Would you care to get coffee with me sometime?

He groaned again, dragging a hand through his hair.

“Get a grip, Rogers. You’ve fought Hydra. Aliens. Loki. And now you can’t ask a girl to get coffee?”

But this wasn’t just any girl.

It was you. You with your laugh, your stubborn streak, and you write a portrait of a team member on the briefing documents more cute than anyone else.

You made him nervous. In the best way.

⸻

You knocked softly.

He froze.

“…Steve?” you called gently through the door.

Silence.

Then a crash—something definitely fell. Possibly a chair.

“…Y/N?” His voice cracked like a teenager. “Uh—hi. Didn’t hear you there.”

You smiled to yourself. “Yeah, I figured. Everything okay in there?”

“Yep. Perfect. Fine. Uh—just sparring. With… air.”

You had to bite your lip to keep from giggling. “Do you normally flirt with air, too?”

Dead silence.

Then, a breathless laugh from behind the door. “You heard that, huh?”

“All of it.”

A long pause. And then, the door creaked open slowly—revealing a very pink-cheeked Steve Rogers in a blue checkered shirt and vintage jacket, tousled hair, and the unmistakable expression of a man caught mid-daydream.

You raised your smoothie and gave a soft smile. “For the record? I’d love to get coffee with you sometime.”

He blinked.

You swore you saw his pupils dilate.

“…Really?”

“Really, Stevie.”

And just like that, his shoulders relaxed. He smiled, really smiled, the kind that made your knees wobble and your smoothie melt and scratched the back of his neck.

“In that case, I better go practice saying something cooler than ‘care to.’”

You winked. “Don’t. I kind of like the telegram version.”

And from the way his eyes softened, from the way he leaned just a little closer, you knew he liked you back.

⸻

Thank you for reading! I am Japanese and my English is not very good. I apologize for any grammatical mistakes.

I also want to be friends with people who enjoy the same Steve and Bucky fanfiction💖

[eretzyisrael]

The Hamas Al Qassam Brigades Telegram channel has a post copied from another channel called "One Heart Team" where they claim to be raising money for a soup kitchen in Gaza.

The entre charity is a scam to raise money for Hamas.

There are no names associated with the organization. It asks for money in a non-traceable way, through PayPal, Click (Jordan), Vodaphone Cash (Egypt) or cryptocurrencies. 

It has a Facebook page, also with no details but with a number obviously staged photos from as far back as 2020.

It also has an Instagram page with some more professional videos and showing people wearing jerseys with their logo, a new logo they only switched to last year.

Their current logo was ripped off from another, legitimate, charity called Our Heart Speaks.

This all proves it is a sham charity, but how do we know it is a front for Hamas terror fundraising?

Because it has a website that was never completed. It has a structure but most links don't go anywhere, the only links that work are the ones asking for donations. 

But on the bottom of their main page they have a section for videos. And the web designers needed vieos to put in as placeholders to prove that the platform worked. So the video they chose was a Hamas Al Qassam Brigades military music video!

The lyrics include:

Victory, victory, victory, victory, victory, victory, victory after victory, after victory, after victory. Sword of Jerusalem, O my nation, made against breaking, kneaded with might and dignity, embroidered with pride. The occupier tasted humiliation from it, tasted oppression. Sword of Jerusalem, in the sky is your place, like the eagle. Sword of Jerusalem, drawn against the creed of disbelief. It said to Qassam, we will protect Al-Aqsa. We loved Hamas, a childhood love. We loved Hamas from school days. We loved Hamas from the first whistle.

Not exactly the type of video you'd expect from a soup kitchen.

Hamas is known to use charities as fronts for fundraising; here is a perfect example. 

[withthecolorizedkennedys]

Could you write a fanfic where the reader visits the Kennedy compound and gets hit on by whomever? It could be fluffy or smutty, either would be nice

Summer Tides

synopsis: When kick kennedy's english friend arrives for a summer holiday, her brother jack thinks he's found his latest conquest. between tennis matches, sailing trips, and sunset conversations, the real question becomes not whether she'll fall for his notorious charm, but whether he'll survive falling for hers.

word count: 3.3k

pairing: john f. kennedy x reader,

rating: e for everyone!!!

The telegram from Kick had arrived in April, just as the daffodils were pushing through the soil in your family's garden in Hampshire.

SUMMER AT HYANNIS STOP FATHER SAYS BRING FRIEND STOP YOU MUST COME STOP SAILING AND SCANDAL GUARANTEED STOP

Your mother had raised an eyebrow at "scandal" but relented when your father, charmed by the diplomatic connections of Ambassador Joseph Kennedy, pronounced it "an excellent opportunity." You'd met Kick Kennedy during her family's London season, when you were both attending finishing school. She was brash where English girls were demure, competitive where they were accommodating, and utterly unconcerned with appearing proper. You adored her immediately.

Which is how you found yourself, on a bright June morning, stepping off the train at Hyannis Station, squinting against the Massachusetts sun that seemed somehow more assertive than its English counterpart.

"There you are!" Kick's voice cut through the station noise as she bounded toward you, tanned already and wearing a blue-and-white striped dress that matched the nautical flags snapping in the harbor wind. She embraced you with American enthusiasm. "I've been dying without you. It's all politics and prayers at breakfast, and the boys are absolutely insufferable."

"How many brothers are actually here?" you asked, gathering your suitcase. You'd met Kick's elder brother Joe Jr. in London—handsome, serious, groomed for politics—but the others had been just names in Kick's stories.

"Just Jack and Bobby and Teddy. The little ones are terrors, but Jack's the one you need watching for," she said, giving you a significant look as she led you to the waiting automobile. "He's decided he's irresistible this summer. Keeps asking when you'd arrive."

"How would he even know who I am?"

Kick rolled her eyes as the driver loaded your luggage. "I made the mistake of showing him that photograph from Claridge's. He's been like that ever since." She lowered her voice to a murmur. "Joe's off with Dad in Washington, so Jack's been strutting about like he owns the place. Thank goodness you're here to deflate him a bit."

The Kennedy compound revealed itself through a screen of pines—white clapboard buildings with green shutters facing the sea, surrounded by manicured lawns that rolled down to a private beach. Cousins darted across the grass, their voices carried on the salt breeze. It was exactly as Kick had described: America distilled into one privileged enclave.

The car had barely stopped when the front door swung open and a tall, lean figure loped down the steps. He moved like someone accustomed to being watched—a rolling, deliberate gait that suggested both athletic grace and the awareness of it.

"That'll be Jack," Kick muttered. "Right on cue."

He was taller than you'd imagined, with chestnut hair sun-bleached at the temples and a smile that transformed his face from merely handsome to something more potent. He wore tennis whites despite the lack of racquet, and a faint sheen of sweat suggested he'd been playing earlier.

"Miss Kick Kennedy," he drawled, "returning with your long-promised English rose."

"This is precisely why I didn't want to leave you two alone," Kick said, but there was fondness beneath her exasperation. "Jack, this is—"

"I know exactly who this is," he interrupted, extending his hand to you. His grip was warm and firm, lingering just a moment too long. "The girl who told the Duke of Norfolk his opinion on Auden was 'embarrassingly derivative.' Kick hasn't stopped talking about it for months."

You felt heat rise to your cheeks. "He was being condescending."

"I'm sure he was." Jack's eyes—blue with flecks of amber—crinkled at the corners. "I've been waiting to meet the girl who can silence titled Englishmen."

"She can silence untitled Americans too," Kick interjected, nudging her brother aside. "Come on, I'll show you to your room before Jack convinces himself he's being charming."

As Kick led you up the steps, you glanced back. Jack Kennedy stood watching, hands in his pockets, with an expression of amused interest that suggested he was already plotting something. Against your better judgment, you found yourself curious about what it might be. ━━━━━━━━━

The tennis courts at Hyannis Port gleamed white in the morning sun, the chalked lines startlingly bright against the green. You'd agreed to a doubles match only because Kick had insisted it was the quickest way to integrate into the Kennedy social rhythm.

"The teams need balancing," Jack announced, appearing at your elbow as you adjusted the borrowed racquet's grip. "Eunice plays like a professional, and Bobby cheats. You're with me."

Kick snorted. "Subtle, Jack. Really subtle."

"I'm being practical," he insisted, but the glint in his eye betrayed him. "Besides, how else will our guest learn the Kennedy way of tennis?"

"The Kennedy way?"

"Win at all costs," Kick and Jack chorused, then laughed.

You soon discovered that "Kennedy tennis" involved creative interpretations of the rules, relentless trash-talking, and an alarming level of competitiveness. Jack proved a focused partner, calling out encouragement between points and strategizing during changeovers with an intensity that seemed comical for a casual game.

After you missed a straightforward forehand, he positioned himself behind you, one hand lightly on your waist.

"You're rotating too early," he said, his breath warm against your ear. "Keep your shoulders square until the last moment." His free hand guided your arm through the stroke. "Like this."

You were suddenly, acutely aware of his height, the solid warmth of him behind you, the way his fingers splayed against your waist through the thin cotton of your tennis dress.

"I think I've got it," you said, stepping away.

He didn't move immediately, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Just being helpful."

"If you two are quite finished," Kick called from across the net, "some of us would like to actually play tennis."

Jack winked at you before returning to position. "Ready to demolish them?"

Against all probability, you made a good team. His athletic prowess compensated for your rusty strokes, and you discovered a shared ruthlessness that Kick later declared "frankly disturbing." When you won the deciding point—a perfectly placed lob that Jack had coached you on—he lifted you briefly off your feet in celebration.

"A natural Kennedy," he declared, setting you down but keeping his arm around your shoulders. "We'll make her an honorary member, won't we, Kick?"

"God help us," his sister replied, but she was smiling. "Another competitive maniac is exactly what this family needs."

As you walked off the court, Jack's hand brushed yours—accidentally, perhaps, though you doubted anything Jack Kennedy did was truly accidental. The contact lasted barely a second, but it lingered like sunburn on your skin. ━━━━━━━━━

The family picnic on the beach was orchestrated chaos. Servants laid out blankets and wicker hampers while younger Kennedys darted between them, snatching sandwiches and disappearing toward the water. Rose Kennedy supervised it all, dispatching her brood on various errands that somehow resulted in an orderly arrangement of food, drinks, and sunbathers.

Jack materialized as you were settling onto a blanket, situating himself beside you with practiced nonchalance.

"Lemonade?" he offered, handing you a sweating glass. "Made with sweat and tears. Mostly Bobby's tears, after I thrashed him at sailing yesterday."

"You're awful," you said, but accepted the drink.

"I prefer 'persistent.' Awful suggests I might grow tiresome."

"Who says you haven't already?"

His laugh was genuine. "You wound me. And after I saved you the best spot on the beach."

"I wasn't aware this spot had been reserved."

"Everything good in life requires advance planning," he said, leaning back on his elbows, his body a diagonal line of tanned skin and white linen. "Speaking of which, I've entered us in the sailing regatta next weekend."

"Us?" You raised an eyebrow. "I don't recall volunteering."

"You're the only one I trust not to capsize us deliberately," he said. "The Kennedy competitive streak runs deep."

Before you could respond, he reached for a bowl of strawberries that a servant was distributing. He selected one, perfectly ripe, and held it out to you.

"Taste of summer," he said, his expression serious for once. "Cape Cod berries are the best in America."

Before you could take it from him, he moved it toward your lips, clearly intending to feed it to you directly. You froze, caught between the rudeness of recoiling and the intimacy of accepting.

Kick's groan broke the spell. "For heaven's sake, Jack." She snatched the bowl from him. "Stop terrorizing my friend."

"I'm being hospitable," he protested.

"You're being transparent," Kick retorted, but there was more amusement than censure in her tone. She handed you the bowl directly. "Don't encourage him. He's insufferable enough already."

Jack affected a wounded expression, but his eyes never left your face as you bit into the strawberry—sweet and sun-warmed, juice staining your fingers. You met his gaze deliberately as you licked them clean, a small victory when his smile faltered momentarily.

"See?" Kick muttered. "Now you've done it." ━━━━━━━━━

The sailing trip was Jack's idea, naturally. He'd appeared as you sat reading on the veranda, declaring the afternoon "too perfect to waste on dead Russians." Before you could defend Tolstoy, he'd whisked you down to the docks where a sleek sailboat waited, its white hull gleaming against the blue harbor.

"The Victura," he said, helping you aboard with unnecessary attentiveness. "My personal escape vessel."

"From what are you escaping?"

He smiled, untying lines with practiced efficiency. "Expectations, mostly. Family comes with plenty of those."

You watched him work, noting the ease with which he handled the boat. His usual performance gave way to genuine competence as he raised the sail and took the tiller, guiding you smoothly away from the dock.

The wind caught, filling the canvas with a satisfying snap. Jack adjusted the sail and settled beside you, one hand on the tiller, the other braced against the gunwale inches from yours.

"Have you sailed before?" he asked.

"On the Solent, a few times. Never alone."

"You're not alone now."

You glanced at him sharply, but his expression was guileless as he guided the boat into deeper water, the Kennedy compound growing smaller behind you.

"Worried I'm kidnapping you?" he asked, noticing your backward glance.

"The thought had occurred."

He laughed. "Relax. I don't have provisions for a proper abduction. This is just..." He gestured at the expanse of blue surrounding you. "The only place where nobody's watching."

Something in his tone—a rare note of earnestness—made you study him more carefully. Without the audience of his family, Jack seemed less performative. The wind ruffled his hair, and he squinted against the sun's glare.

"Do you mind it?" you asked. "Being watched?"

He considered this, adjusting the sail slightly. "It's all I've known. Dad has plans—for all of us, but especially Joe. I get to slip under the radar sometimes." A grin crept across his face. "Which has its advantages."

"Such as?"

"More freedom to pursue personal interests." His gaze was direct, unambiguous. "Like showing beautiful English visitors the best views in the Cape."

You rolled your eyes, but couldn't suppress a smile. "Is this your usual routine? Sailing and flattery?"

"Nothing usual about it," he said, suddenly serious again. "I don't bring many people out here."

The boat sliced through the water, carrying you farther from shore than you'd intended to go. You should have felt concerned, but instead found yourself relaxing into the rhythm of the waves, the steady presence of Jack beside you, his shoulder occasionally brushing yours as he adjusted course.

He began pointing out landmarks—the lighthouse, a distant island, the curve of the Cape—and telling stories of childhood adventures. His gift for narrative was evident; he rendered his siblings as distinct characters in an ongoing family saga, mimicking their voices with uncanny accuracy.

"You should write," you said when he finished a particularly vivid account of a childhood prank.

He looked surprised. "I do, sometimes. Nothing worth reading."

"I doubt that."

A smile spread slowly across his face. "Maybe I'll show you. If you promise not to judge too harshly."

"I make no such promises."

His laugh carried across the water. "Honest, at least." He adjusted the tiller, bringing the boat around in a wide arc. "We should head back before they send out a search party. Kick already thinks I'm a terrible influence."

"Aren't you?"

"Absolutely," he admitted cheerfully. "But even terrible influences know when to retreat strategically."

As you sailed back toward the dock, he drifted into a quiet sort of thoughtfulness, his profile sharp against the fading light. You found yourself watching the line of his jaw, the way his forearms flexed as he steered, steady and sure.

He caught you looking and held your gaze without his usual smirk or quip. And in that stillness, something passed between you. Not words, but a sense—like maybe, underneath all the charm, there was something else taking shape.

Then he grinned, breaking the spell. "Race you back to the house?" ━━━━━━━━━

"'...and do tell your charming friend with the pretty eyes that I look forward to meeting her properly when I return.'" Kick finished reading Joe Jr.'s letter with a dramatic flourish, lounging across her bed in a silk robe. "Can you believe him? He's never even spoken to you, and already he's staking a claim."

You sat at her vanity, brushing your hair before dinner. "He's only being polite."

"He's being a Kennedy," Kick corrected. "Dad practically invented strategic courtship."

From the chaise lounge by the window, where he'd installed himself uninvited twenty minutes earlier, Jack snorted. "Bit late, isn't he?" He was leafing through one of Kick's magazines with feigned disinterest, but his eyes flicked up at Joe's mention. "Besides, I thought you were bringing her here specifically to distract me from getting into trouble."

"That was before I realized you'd be one," Kick replied. "Now I'm just hoping she escapes with her reputation intact."

You met Jack's gaze in the mirror. He offered a half-smile that managed to be both apologetic and not at all sorry.

"My reputation survived finishing school with you," you told Kick. "I imagine it can withstand a few weeks of Kennedy attention."

"Few weeks," Jack echoed softly, almost to himself. Something in his tone made you turn toward him, but he was already rising, tossing the magazine aside. "Better get dressed for dinner. Mother hates tardiness almost as much as she hates Protestants."

"Jack," Kick admonished.

He raised his hands in surrender. "Just reporting facts." At the door, he paused, looking directly at you. "Save me a dance later? Kick's convinced the new gramophone player to work."

After he left, Kick groaned and flopped back on her bed. "I've created a monster. I never should have mentioned you were coming."

"He's just amusing himself," you said, though you weren't entirely convinced. There was something in the way Jack looked at you sometimes—a flash of sincerity beneath the practiced charm—that suggested more than casual diversion.

"That's what worries me," Kick said, studying your face. "You're actually falling for it, aren't you?"

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Hmm." She narrowed her eyes. "Just remember—Jack collects interesting people like some boys collect baseball cards. He's fascinated until he isn't."

"You make him sound rather fickle."

"Not fickle," Kick said, her expression softening. "Just... young. We all are." She sat up, suddenly businesslike. "Now, wear the blue dress tonight. It makes your eyes look dangerously intelligent, and that always confuses the boys." ━━━━━━━━━

The final days of your visit acquired the dreamlike quality particular to endings—each moment sharper, more saturated, weighted with the awareness of its impending conclusion. The Kennedy routine had become familiar: competitive morning activities, leisurely afternoons, evenings filled with music and debate and laughter.

Jack sought you out constantly, with increasingly transparent excuses. I need a partner for charades; I found a book you must read immediately; The view from the east lawn was particularly spectacular at sunset, and wouldn't you like to see it?

Kick observed it all with amused resignation, occasionally running interference when her brother's attentions grew too obvious, but mostly letting the situation unfold with the fatalism of someone watching an approaching storm.

On your last evening, you slipped away from the family gathering, needing a moment alone before the whirlwind of departure. The sky was smeared with sunset colors as you walked along the path to the small dock where fishing boats bobbed in the twilight.

You weren't surprised when footsteps crunched on the gravel behind you.

"Running away?" Jack's voice carried on the evening air.

"Just breathing," you replied, not turning around.

He came to stand beside you, hands in his pockets. The golden hour light softened the angles of his face, catching in his hair and turning it bronze at the edges. Neither of you spoke for a long moment, watching the water turn from blue to silver as darkness fell.

"I've been thinking," he finally said, uncharacteristically hesitant.

"A dangerous pastime."

His smile was quick but faded almost immediately. "I was wondering if you might write to me. After you leave."

The simple request caught you off guard. You'd expected a final flirtation, perhaps a bold declaration or attempt at a kiss—not this quiet uncertainty.

"You want me to write to you?"

"Is that so surprising?" He looked genuinely perplexed.

"I rather thought I was just this summer's distraction."

He winced. "Kick's been sharing her theories, I see."

"She's protective."

"She's right, usually," he admitted. "But not about this." He turned to face you fully. "I like you. Not just because you're pretty, or because you're Kick's friend, or because you're new and different. I like how your mind works. I like arguing with you. I like that you don't let me get away with anything."

The naked sincerity in his voice startled you. Without his usual armor of charm and wit, Jack Kennedy seemed suddenly younger, more vulnerable.

"I might write," you said carefully. "If I have something worth saying."

His smile returned slowly. "You always have something worth saying. That's rather the point."

The breeze picked up, carrying the scent of salt and distant rain. Jack stepped closer, near enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him.

"I'm leaving for Harvard in the fall," he said. "It would be nice to have someone to tell about it. Someone who sees me, not just the Kennedy name."

"Is that what I do?"

"From the first day. It's terrifying, actually." His smile turned rueful. "No one ever accused me of enjoying discomfort, but I find I don't mind it with you."

The compliment, if that's what it was, held none of his usual polish. It felt raw, unplanned—and all the more powerful for it.

"I should get back," you said, suddenly uncertain. "Kick will wonder where I've gone."

"Kick knows exactly where you are," Jack replied, but he made no move to stop you as you turned toward the path. "Think about it? The letters?"

You paused, looking back at him. In the gathering dusk, with the sea behind him and the wind ruffling his hair, he seemed both familiar and strange—the charming boy who'd greeted you that first day, and someone else entirely, someone you'd only glimpsed in quiet moments between performances.

"Maybe I will," you said. "If you promise not to be insufferable about it."

His laugh carried across the water. "Now that," he said, "is a promise I definitely can't make."

You smiled despite yourself and walked back toward the house. Just before you reached the garden path, you called back over your shoulder without turning around:

"By the way, Jack, I already asked Kick for your Harvard address."

His startled laugh carried across the water. You kept walking, biting your lip to keep from grinning too broadly, quite certain you'd managed the impossible: leaving Jack Kennedy momentarily speechless.

Let him stew on that during his fancy Harvard autumn.

As Kick would say: game, set, and match.

[sweetbuckybarnes]

Who is This?: Chapter 2

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: Y/N talks about how she met James Barnes and how she found herself in the modern world. Follow on from this fic.

"What the hell is going on?" Bucky nearly demanded, keeping his arms wrapped around his companion.

Sam raised his eyebrow. "I could ask you the same question, Barnes?" Sam looked at the young woman in Bucky's arms. "Who is this?"

Bucky looked down at her, Sam watched as a smile grew on his face. "This is Y/N. Y/N Barnes. My wife."

"I'm sorry, what was that? Wife? You two are married?" Sam asked, looking between Bucky and Y/N.

"Indeed we are, aren't we darling?"

Y/N looked at Bucky first with a smile then with dead eyes. "I'm still pissed with you," Sam couldn't place her accent. It was a strange combination of Brooklyn, southern and English.

"Babydoll," Bucky sighed, as his wife got up from the couch and walked to the kitchenette.

"No. Don't you babydoll, me. I had two officers with a telegram in their hand as they flat out told me you had fallen off a train in the Alps of all places, whilst you were on some stupid mission with Steve, they never went looking for you, they simply declared you were missing and you were most likely dead."

Bucky's face falls, realising how much she had missed him after he fell off the train. After he had escaped to Bucharest, his memories came back in flashes - her face had always been there front and centre. He never had the time to sit Steve down and ask him about the gorgeous girl in his memories. It had taken another trip to the Smithsonian Institution - and that's when he saw her further into the exhibition, her arms in both Bucky and Steve's as she looked up at him in awe. Bucky and Y/N were married on January 15, 1941 - four weeks after Bucky signed up.

He gets up also, leaving the blanket which once covered them in a ball on the couch. "Sweetheart," he said softly.

"They told me on our fucking anniversary as well!" The tears couldn't be held back as they started rolling down her cheeks.

"It may be late, but happy anniversary," Bucky says, which gets a watery sob out of Y/N - who returns the sentiment.

Sam walks around the couple and into the kitchenette. "How long have you two now been married then?"

They looked at each other. "If you don't count the time we were separated, three years."

"And if you do?" Sharon asks.

"Eighty-three."

"Seems like I owe you a lot of anniversary presents. And birthdays, and Christmas..." Bucky trails off. "Seeming like I'll always be in debt to you, doll."

She shakes her head, "I have you here now. That's the only present I need."

"So how did you two meet?" Sam asks.

August 3rd, 1922

It was the first day at Brooklyn Heights Elementary School. Winnifred Barnes held her eldest son's hand as she took him to school.

Little James Barnes was terrified, it would be his first full day away from his ma, he didn't know anyone and he had a strong feeling like he wanted to cry (his father George had firmly told him men don't cry).

The mother and son duo were stood in front of a little peg, which had his name stuck to it, he was in between someone called Steve and someone called Y/N (the little girl had already taken her coat off - which her mother was hanging up for her, as she dug through her backpack on the floor).

"Y/N what have I told you about sitting on the floor like that?" Y/N's mother said, cupping her hands underneath her armpits and sat her on her knees.

"I can't find my crayons, mama!" Y/N exclaimed, looking up at her mama.

James looked down into his backpack and saw the small pack of crayons his father had brought back home one night. "We can share mine," he tells the little girl on the floor, sitting down next to her.

She looked at him with a big smile. Even at four years old, he couldn't help but think she was the prettiest girl in the world.

"That's how you got your girl? Crayons when you were four?" Sam asks.

"No, I had always known she was beautiful, but it took me a long time to persuade her for a date."

Y/N looked at her husband with a singular raised eyebrow. "You went from girl to girl with no consideration of their feelings. I didn't want to be put on the same list."

"Not a chance, since we locked eyes on that cold floor in elementary school, I have always been yours."

January 15, 1940

"Please, doll," Bucky nearly begged, as Y/N made her way around the counter at the local diner where she currently works. "Just one date."

"No, James, you can't ask me just because you don't have a date for the night."

Bucky sighed, he loved how she was the only one (apart from his ma when he annoyed her) who still called him James. "But, doll."

"And what have I told you about calling me doll?"

"I could take you to Coney Island," which was shut down saying that was his and Steve's 'place to hang out without her'. Bucky denied it, saying that it wasn't right that he and Steve spent time together without her. "What about the movies?"

"The three of us have already seen everything at the movies right now."

Bucky looked at the ceiling, as he fiddled with his ice cream float. "You don't want to go to Coney Island, we've seen everything at the movies and you don't want to go to a diner..."

He heard someone make a passing comment that the river in that park upstate had frozen over and was perfect for. "Ice skating! That's it, I'll take you ice skating!"

Y/N looked over at him, "Will it shut you up?" He nodded. "Fine, you can take me ice skating."

Bucky let out a loud cheer. "I promise you, you won't regret it, babydoll."

Bucky leaned over pressed a kiss to her cheek and ran out of the diner - he missed Y/N rubbing her cheek with a growing smile on her face.

"You were smitten with me?"

"Since day one, babydoll."

They shared a kiss when the door was pushed open by someone who looked like he had a homemade costume Steve used to wear. "What the hell?"

"Alright, that's it. Your time is up. Tell me where Zemo is," someone came storming in, dressed like Steve, shield in one hand as he pointed at the other people in the room. Y/N looked from Bucky to Sam to Sharon and then back to Bucky.

"We know you're hiding him," his sidekick added, crossing his arms.

The Captain America wannabe ordered them to turn over Zemo, which Y/N countered with a comment about the Captain America wannabe running his mouth.

"How did I miss you?" He flirts.

Y/N raised her eyebrow at him, then looked up at Bucky (who whispered into her ear that they were trying to get the shield back). "Give me a second," She puts on a look on her face and makes her way over to the Captain America wannabe. "Oh my God, is that the shield?" She could see him preen at her words. "Can I have a look at it?"

Stupidly, he hands her the shield, Y/N looks it over, and then up at him. "Thanks," and makes her way back to Bucky.

"What are you doing with my shield?"

"I think you mean, my shield. Considering that it technically belongs to me."

Captain America wannabe looked at her confused, what the hell was she talking about? "Who even are you?"

"Who am I? He doesn't know, James!" Y/N looked up at Bucky.  "He doesn't know!" The couple laughed. "I'm Y/N, Steve's half-sister, and this muppet's wife."

"Wait, so how did you end up 80 years in the future?" Sam asks as the trio settles in for the night.

"Howard wanted to make another Super Soldier after the war after Steve had 'died'," she puts quotes around died, then turns her head to look at Bucky. "Yes, I know what happened to Howard and Maria," Bucky's face fell - she knew what he had done as the Winter Soldier(the war crimes he had committed had been plastered all over the news during his trial). 

Sam looked between Bucky and Y/N as he asked. "What happened? I presume you volunteered."

She nods her head. "I did. But, something went wrong. They gave me the serum, and I remember collapsing to the floor and the next thing I knew I was waking up in the year 2019, Steve's face over the top of mine, tears in his eyes, saying he was so happy to see me."

"Steve knew you were alive?" Bucky asked, looking at his wife in surprise. There were about two weeks between the Battle of Earth and Steve went back to the past. 

"I don't remember much from when I woke up, because I was falling in and out of sleep, for a long time." She says, looking up at the ceiling.

[fairy-writes]

hello there i hope you have a great day today, can i request an albert x reader. the reader is holmes younger sister (could be an age gap but if you uncomfortable you can make the reader sherlock older sister). im kinda interested that the reader and albert is ike in a fake engagement but slowly they fall for each other. im sorry if its a lott or confusing 😖😖😖😖

FAKE… OR IS IT?

Reblogs and Comments are greatly appreciated!!

__________________________________________________________________________

Fandom(s): Moriarty the Patriot

Pairing(s): Albert James Moriarty x Reader

Word Count: 2.9k

Genre(s)/Tag(s): Female!Reader, Holmes!Reader, Fake Engagement, Reader is short

Notes: I wrote this with the reader being the Holmes’s middle child. So, in between Mycroft and Sherlock :)

Here are their ages!

Mycroft: 31 | Reader: 27 | Sherlock: 24

__________________________________________________________________________

“Sit up straight, Sister.” Mycroft chastises, and you roll your eyes, propping your heeled feet up on the coffee table, much to his chagrin. You can tell he’s less than pleased with the mud on the table by the tightness around his eyes. 

“Bugger off, Mikey.” You grumble and slouch even more in your seat. His frown deepens, but he knows better than to try and get you to obey. If anything, it would make you rebel even more. 

You had never been one for proper manners if you could help it. You had always been a rough-and-tumble type of woman, playing in the dirt with the neighborhood kids while Mycroft and Sherlock dealt with their studies. Sure, you also had studies of your own. But overall, you tended to ignore whatever your governess taught you in favor of learning how to handle weapons from your father. Mycroft sits back in his seat and sighs, 

“At least sit properly when the company gets here.” He mutters under his breath. 

That gets you to sit up straight.

“Company?! Since when?!” You choke and hurriedly set down your teacup before you can spill it down your front. Your elder brother had summoned you to his office that morning with a telegram. But he hadn’t explained why you were there, even with your pestering. Mycroft glares at you pointedly and is about to answer when there’s a firm knock on the door. 

“Come in.” He calls, his voice booming and loud in the quiet room. 

A tall young man, perhaps your age, enters the room. He’s attractive, almost devilishly so. With slicked-back brown hair and piercing green eyes, he’s dressed in the typical uniform of all soldiers. 

You recognize this man. 

Your younger brother wouldn’t shut up about his family. 

Lieutenant Colonel Albert James Moriarty. 

You glare at Mycroft, who ignores your look in favor of standing up and shaking Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty’s hand. Brushing off the front of your dress, you stand as Mycroft gestures to you. 

“This is my younger sister,” He says. Your name follows soon after. You plaster a bright smile on your face and extend your own hand. Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty bows slightly and introduces himself before you turn to look at your brother. 

“I assume this is where I take my leave?” You ask, and he raises an eyebrow, 

“On the contrary, dearest sister, you’ll be taking part in this meeting.” Your face betrays your shock before you can school it into a facade of perfect calm. 

Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty notices but doesn’t comment. 

Mycroft gestures for you to take your seats before his desk, and you do so, perching on the edge of the seat like a bird ready to take flight. In contrast, Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty sits back, relaxed in his chair, setting his hat in his lap and steepling his hands together. 

“So, mind telling me what this ‘important mission’ is about?” He says politely, and you look at him from the corner of your eye.

Important mission? 

Just what was your elder brother planning? 

Mycroft leaned his hands on his desk and then leaned his weight on his hands. It seemed he wasn’t taking a seat quite yet. 

That meant things were serious. 

“There’s a mission I am entrusting to the both of you. It’s of the utmost importance and must be handled immediately.” 

Wait…

“You’re what?!” You blurt just as Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty opens his mouth to speak. You don’t give him the chance to talk. You stand and jab a finger at Mycroft, the other hand clenched in the fabric of your dress skirt. 

You weren’t about to be a pawn in your brother’s game. You weren’t even an MI6 agent or soldier of his! 

“Absolutely not! This can’t possibly be legal! I’m just a civilian!” You stand and jab a finger at Mycroft, the other hand clenched in the fabric of your dress skirt. Mycroft stares down at you. He had always been the tallest of the three Holmes siblings. You were saddled with the hefty burden of being the shortest. 

“You know this as well as anyone that MI6 operates outside the law,” Mycroft says simply, and you grind your teeth. He had a point. But still… 

“What about Miss Moneypenny?” You ask, and Mycroft shrugs, 

“She’s on another mission with Colonel Moran. You two are the only ones I trust with this.” He says, turning his intense stare onto you and Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty. 

You flinch at that. Mycroft never openly said he trusted you. It was sometimes implied, but he knew how fickle you could be! Was this mission really that important?

Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty stands and accepts the papers Mycroft hands him. He then extends a hand for you to take. Begrudgingly, you take it and allow him to help you to your feet. 

At least your ‘mission partner’ was a gentleman. 

You accept Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty’s offer to take you back to the Holmes London estate and sit across from him in the carriage. He opens the papers Mycroft gave him and begins to read. 

“Oh dear…” He mumbles, and you look over from where you had been watching the scenery go by. He has a frown pulling at his lips and creasing his brows. 

“What’s the matter?” You ask, and he turns the papers around so you can read them. 

“It seems we’ll need to be engaged for this mission to work.”

Your engagement was announced within the next week. 

You had even commissioned an artist for an engagement photo of sorts. Granted, it was just for show, but still! You had to stand still for hours in a dress your mother picked out and that you loathed all for one portrait. 

You never understood how royalty could do it. 

Speaking of your parents… 

Part of the facade was to make sure everyone was in on it. Maybe ‘in on it’ wasn’t the right word. Because this was a top-secret mission, after all. So you couldn’t exactly tell your parents that this engagement was fake. But you did have to tell them you were getting engaged lest you incur the wrath of your mother. 

Wanda Holmes was a proper woman. She was everything you weren’t. Prim, proper, ladylike. The only thing you got from her was her height and her temper. She hated that you weren’t the little lady she dreamt of having. But there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it. 

In contrast, Timothy Holmes was a bit of a rule breaker. He fostered your love for weaponry and often challenged you to a shoot-off to see if you let your skills rust over. You inherited his knack for getting under people’s skins, and it was a wonder that he was still married to your mother after thirty years. 

Telling them was an… interesting adventure, to say the least. As your carriage rumbled up to the country estate where they resided, they met you outside. Your mother had her hands clasped together, a newspaper crunched in her grasp. Her face was dark with disappointment. 

Like the light side of the moon, your father all but bounded up as you stepped out of the carriage. 

“Dearest daughter!” He bellowed, and you couldn’t help but grin. 

“Dearest father!” You tease right back and step forward into his embrace. He squeezes you tight and lifts you up into a spin. You shriek with laughter and cling to him to make sure you don’t fall when he sets you back down. 

“Darling, at least let her get into the house before you bother her.” Your mother says, and you roll your eyes but don’t say anything. 

Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty steps out of the carriage, and your father’s demeanor changes. His smile is still there, but it no longer reaches his eyes. He extends a hand, and when Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty takes it, you can tell he’s holding back a wince from how hard your father squeezes it. 

“Timothy Holmes. It’s a pleasure.” Your father says curtly, and you can tell Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty can tell he’s being judged. But he offers a polite smile nonetheless,

“Albert James Moriarty. The pleasure is mine, Mr. Holmes.” He says, and it’s then that your mother approaches. Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty shakes her hand,

“You must be the infamous Wanda Holmes. It’s lovely to meet you.”

Your mother’s face smoothes over, and she looks at you,

“At least you’re marrying someone with manners.” This is her only comment, and you can see that the newspaper in her free hand is the one announcing your engagement. 

Perhaps you should’ve informed them by telegram instead of coming to visit for dinner… 

No… That would’ve made her even angrier than she already was. 

She soon ushers you into the little cottage that served as your parents' retirement home. The minimal staff on site has already prepared and served dinner, but you don’t eat just yet because your father catches your shoulder. He has a knowing gleam in his eye, and you can’t help but get a giddy smile on your face. 

Of course, he wouldn’t forget. 

Your mother notices, and her face sours. 

“Can’t this wait until after dinner?” She asks, and now your father scoffs,

“Of course not, my love! It’s tradition!” He crows, and you can see Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty start to ask, but you’re taken out back before anything can be asked. 

Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty follows you out, and by then, your father is setting up targets with you, assembling the two pistols you always used for this little exercise. You brush off your hands on your dress and hand your father the revolver. You take your own and pocket it in the holster strapped to your waist. He does the same and looks to Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty. 

“Mind giving us a signal?” He asks, his tone much more friendly yet still a bit frosty at the same time. 

Your ‘fiancé’ seems to pick up on what’s happening quickly and nods. He allows both of you to take a stance before calling out a signal. 

The game takes less than twenty seconds. 

You whip out your gun and unleash all six bullets in the cylinder and barrel. Your father does the same, and before you know it, both of your guns are empty, and your ears are ringing. Holstering the weapon, you wait for your father to do the same before approaching the targets. 

Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty is called forward to inspect the targets as well. 

“I believe your daughter is the winner.” He tells your father, and you grin proudly. 

“Guess I haven’t lost my touch, Father Dearest.” You tease, and your father slaps his thigh in defeat,

“And I guess I’m losing mine!” He chirps, and your mother calls from the doorway.

“And it’s time for dinner!”

The carriage ride back is quiet. 

“Where did you learn to shoot like that? I’ve never seen someone so accurate in a quick draw.” Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty says, and you jolt lightly. The food you had eaten was sending you into a food coma, and you had been dozing until he spoke. 

“My father. He was known as “Dead-Eye” for a long time until he retired from the military.” You said, and he nodded in appreciation. 

“He taught you well.” 

You smiled and played with your fingers. 

“Thank you, Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty.” You say genuinely, and he arches an eyebrow, 

“You should call me Albert. We are engaged, after all, my dear fiancée.” His tone is borderline teasing. But you can tell he’s being genuine.

And for whatever reason, it makes your heart race. 

The mission is kicked into gear three months after announcing your ‘engagement.’ 

The gala you are attending is only for married or engaged couples. Everyone was investigated to ensure no one single was sneaking in. Why they wanted to keep single folks out was a mystery to you. But you relented and accepted the invitation as the ‘Future Mrs. Moriarty’ with as much grace as you could muster. 

You produced the invitation from your handbag and handed it to the man checking said invitation. Your free hand was looped through Albert’s arm, resting in the crook of his elbow. He chatted amicably with the doorman until you were announced as a couple and ushered inside. 

The air was already alive with the sounds of music and dancing couples. The two of you make some rounds around the sides of the dance hall, looking for your target. Hell, you even danced the waltz to a few songs! All those lessons you thought were useless were sure coming in handy now… Perhaps you should thank your mother for forcing you to listen to your governess as a child. 

Albert leans down to whisper in your ear as he brings you in from a gentle spin. 

“He’s at the top of the stairs.” He murmured, looking for all the world like he was whispering sweet nothings to his fiancée. But instead, he was walking you through the next phase of the plan. Seeing as your job was to kill your target, he was instructing you on how to get to his office, where he would meet you and find the documents he was looking for. 

Albert was to find the incriminating evidence. You were to kill the target if he tried to resist. 

The office was warmed by a crackling fire. There’s a large mahogany desk in front of the fireplace with documents and papers scattered across the surface. You clutch your purse closer to your chest, feeling the sturdy weight of the revolver inside. It was comforting. 

You had one job, so you would do it, and you would do it well. 

The doorknob turned, and you jumped, sneaking a hand inside your handbag to draw the revolver. The door opens, and the target spots you in front of the dying light of the fireplace. 

“Who are you?!” He bellows, but you know no one would be able to hear him over the sounds of music and talking. 

He doesn’t hear the door shut behind him until Albert slides the lock into place. He whirls and tries to push past your fiancé, but it’s like trying to move a stone wall. 

“What are you going to do to me?!” The target demands, and Albert smiles a terrifying smile. It was nothing like the kind and even tender smiles he had been giving you as of late. This smile darkened his eyes. 

It was almost… Cruel…

“Nothing if you cooperate.” He says darkly and pushes the man to sit in the chair before his desk. You walk behind him and press the muzzle of your revolver to the back of his balding head. He freezes, a drop of sweat traveling down his temple. 

Albert rifles through the desk, and no one says a word for what seems like forever. 

At least… Until the target tries to run. 

The chair has a low back. It’s almost more of a stool, so he throws his head back and cracks it into your nose. You stumble back and fall, tripping over the hem of your dress. The only thing keeping you from firing your gun is the fact that your father had engrained it into you to not keep your finger on the trigger until you were ready to fire.

Albert freezes and reaches into his suit jacket coat, but you’re faster. 

Before the target can even make it two paces, you fire your revolver, and the bullet sinks into his skull. Brain matter and blood spatter across the carpet. The pain sets in as Albert helps you to your feet and hands you a handkerchief for your bleeding nose. 

There’s no way you could go back out into public like this…

And as always, it seems Albert reads your mind. 

“We’ll escape out the window.” He says and pockets a few documents. 

“Did you get what you need?” You ask, and he nods, his smile tender and warm again.

It makes your heart flutter. 

The two of you escape out the window like Albert had said. Luckily, the carriage was already waiting outside, so you were able to retreat without being seen. 

Mission accomplished. 

You scowl at Mycroft as he reads through your very first report from MI6. 

“It’s a bit lackluster, but everything went according to plan?” He asked, and you huffed. 

“Except for the part where I broke my nose.” You say, your voice slightly garbled from the bandages on your nose. Mycroft simply nods, 

“These things are expected to happen. Be glad it wasn’t anything more serious.” He says, tangles his fingers together, and leans his chin on them. “If you’d like, we can feed the newspapers a story about your and Lieutenant Colonel’s parting of ways. You don’t have to be engaged to him anymore.” He continues, and you freeze. 

Not be engaged anymore? 

“What about Mother and Father? They’ll be furious.” You say absentmindedly, and he cocks his head to the side. 

“Since when have you ever cared what they think?” He says, confusion coloring his tone. You avert your gaze. 

“I’m just saying… I don’t mind taking more missions from you from now on…” You mumble and stare at the carpet. But you can hear the smile in his tone when he speaks next. 

“If that’s what you desire, sister dearest. I’ll let Lieutenant Colonel know of your decision.”

[narwal-ed-in]

ARMY GLITTERATI - (Band of Brothers x Bimbo!Reader)

✨glitterati✨- /ˌɡlɪt̬.əˈrɑː.t̬i/ - 1940's slang for famous people, glamorous people, in the spotlight.

Summary: “You want to become a combat medic for the 101st?” “What, like it's hard?”

Warning: Period typical sexism, Fem reader, she/her pronouns, slight body shaming (not directed at reader). NO BETA READ. I WROTE THIS JUST NOW SO PLEASE DON'T EXPECT MUCH.

No disrespect to the real veterans of WW2, all my BoB fanfics are based on depictions by actors in the miniseries.

Borders by @plutism

BEFORE TACCOA

The war is raging and everyone is doing their part to help the men on the front.

For you, that mostly meant trying to look your best at all times, no matter how inconvenient the situation.

"Looking good is a ginormous part of the war effort, it's good for boosting troop morale. I saw it on a poster at the teaching hospital" You reasoned with your father after he complained about you buying another pair of shoes and some expensive vanishing creams.

"Darling, I think they meant that we should all keep our appearances up, not buy out our local department stores"

"Oh my god daddy, you're suffocating me! I'm just doing my part by looking nice..." you glare at your father in his work clothes and eye him with a grimace "...and clearly you're not"

When you get a telegram informing you that you've been selected to participate in a program that aims to send female medics into combat you jump on it.

This is going to be so much fun.

"I'm going to be the talk of the town when everyone finds out. Not even Reverend Smiths boring old story about dying for ten minutes in a car crash and seeing Jesus will be able to outdo this!"

Your supervisors at the hospital are shocked that you've been chosen, seeing as you're not the sharpest knife in the drawer.

You had once walked out of an operation because it was bloody and you were wearing white (all the nurse uniforms are white).

You hoped you wouldn't be assigned to the army or the airforce.

The army is too basic, and if you were stuck on an airbase somewhere then nobody would be able to see how fab you always were.

The navy was your goal, their uniforms were sooo cute, you were just dreaming of all the ways you could style it.

It's just your luck when you get assigned to airborne.

"THIS BLOWS! I'm in the two most unglamorous branches at the same time"

After your initial breakdown you realized it wasn't that bad. If you were jumping out of planes it just meant that your hotness would have a bigger audience since it would literally be raining down from the sky.

"When the Germans see all this falling from the sky, they're going to flip their friggin wigs! AHHHH"

CONNECTING WITH EASY

You're assigned to Easy company and meet the men a few months into their training at Camp Toccoa.

You show up randomly in the middle of the day.

Although the men had been told a woman would be joining them and they had been expecting you, they hadn't been expecting YOU.

You were a ditzy thing and looked like you’d jumped out of one of their pin up postcards. The brass surely couldn't expect them to put their lives in your hands.

"I'm sooo happy to meet everyone. You know, the other girls in the program are such massive liars, they said airborne was where all the uggos went, but that's so not true. After all, I'm here"

You always woke up an hour earlier than the rest of Easy so you would have time to put your face on.

It was one of your tenets to never be seen by anyone outside of family without makeup on, or with your curlers in.

Malarkey, Skip, Penkala, Shifty, Bull, Christenson, Lip and Winters had all been kind to you from the beginning, expecting nothing in return.

But some of the guys had other ideas.

George was one of the men that befriended you initially. And although he did have the ulterior motive of getting it on with you, he eventually stuck around because he actually liked you.

You guys have great play-flirting banter and you're both very entertaining people to be around, especially when you're drunk.

On the rare nights anyone gets passes they want to be around you and George because they know that's where the funs at.

You get sloppy drunk with George, flirt with men from Easy and other companies all night, then end up with your shoes off at 3am, sitting on the curb and crying about one of your ex boyfriends.

Perconte was one of your original detractors but when you found yourselves making the same brain dead comments about obvious things, you both decided to put your two half braincells together to form the singular braincell you share between yourselves.

Talbert was trying to get into your pants instantly. Nobody was surprised.

But just like George he grew to be genuinely fond of you.

What was surprising was Joe Toye taking you under his wing.

Toye could see that you were absolutely clueless and the worst part was, you had no idea.

Toye couldn't bear the agony of watching you skip around camp with your happy-go-lucky attitude, harping on about celebrity gossip nobody cared about.

"Y/N!" Toye yelled as you all got dressed to run Currahee "Why the hell is your PT shirt pink?!"

"Isn't it just the most gorgeous thing you've ever seen, Joe? I put a red handkerchief in with my laundry. Cosmo said carnation pink is the color of the summer"

Huffing and puffing, Toye took out one of his spare shirts and forced you to wear it.

"And when you give it back, it better not be fucking 'flamingo pink'" Toye said.

"Oh honey, this isn't 1939, flamingo pink is so over. I wouldn't be caught dead in that. You know, Joe, sometimes I feel like you don't care about fashion at all" You scoff at his cluelessness as you walk out.

Joe Toye is secretly your best friend in the company.

Toye taking you in meant Gaurnere and Johnny Martin had to be around you, much to their chagrin.

They didn't want some girl hanging off of them.

You win Gaurnere's respect when you coach him on what to write to his girlfriend back home to assure her that he's serious about their relationship when she began doubting his intentions.

And you win Johnny's respect when you help him find the most romantic gift for his wife for valentines day.

"Y'know, back home they call me the love doctor...Well, they used to, before I told Betsy Kline that Rob Jones was her soulmate but then he left her at the altar to elope with his housekeeper"

Sobel despised you from the moment he laid eyes on you.

Not wearing your red lipstick everyday was torture, but you had to stick to natural colours so Sobel wouldn't be able to tell what you had on.

He tried with everything in his power to get you kicked out, but much to everyones surprise, you kept up extrordinarily well with the men when it came to physical training.

"I do a lot of Pilates. It's really good for flexibility and helps you keep a positive outlook so you're not be such a 'negative nancy' all the time. Some of you could really use it. Some more than others..." you said as you side-eyed Skinny who just looked around incredulously

Eventually most of the men come to consider you a friend and a confidante since you give remarkably sound relationship advice.

"It's like sooo hard being the smartest person and the hottest catch in this camp at the same time"

The hardest nuts to crack in your immediate friend group end up being Leibgott, Cobb and Doc Roe, all for different reasons of course.

Leib was snide and arrogant and spoke to you like you were a silly little girl.

He didn't shy away from telling you how dumb he thought you were to your face.

Your relationship eventually becomes friendly but he will still be mean occasionally.

He always ends up apologising though and feels really bad when he makes you cry (the other guys nearly bite his head off whenever this happens).

"Jesus Christ, Y/N, stop being a baby already. I said I was sorry" Lieb said to you as you cried into your pillow.

"You can say sorry to me, Joey, but how are you going to tell Rita Hayworth you're sorry for saying nobody cares about her nighttime face washing routine?" You spoke inbetween sobs.

"I ain't saying sorry to Rita because I ain't sorry I said it. I stand by what I said. Nobody cares how some broad washes up at night"

"You take that back! That routine saved my life" You jumped up, pointing an accusing finger at the man.

"How the fu-"

"You're a horrible, horrible man Joseph Leibgott"

"Oh put a sock in it" Leib rolled his eyes, making you cry even harder.

Toye, ever protective of you, had enough "I swear to god Leibgott, leave that girl alone!"

Cobb was just straight up cruel to you and made sure you always knew "your place".

Roe didn't seem particularly close to anyone.

But as you all of you went into the more specialised aspects of your training and you and Roe spent more time together, he found himself looking out for you.

You were sitting alone on the grass after everyone had groaned and walked off the moment you started talking about an article you read in a magazine.

You sigh sadly, pulling at the grass when a shadow falls over you.

Bringing up a hand to block the sun you finally recognize who it is. It's Eugene Roe.

"I, uh, I was wondering if I could sit with you?" he asked.

You nodded excitedly and he took a seat beside you in the grass.

"What was it you were telling the others?"

You gasped "You really want to know?"

"I guess…"

Doc had seen everyone walk away, and although he didn't care much for mindless conversation, he knew talking to people meant a lot to you and had come over to cheer you up.

Without missing a beat you began one of your famous tirades.

By the end of your first year in Toccoa you end up finding your place.

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