#which means comms will be slow

[didderd]

Commissions open!!!

New and improved comms sheet (and prices)!

Opening up 5 slots again!

(0/5 slots filled)

If you're interested, please fill out my commissions form: (form link) Payment is through PayPal or Kofi.

Some example drawings below the cut:

Flat and Rendered Chibi:

Sketch (+ messy render):

(Commissioner: @/skelekins.) (Sketches may generally be a bit more messy than this, but I have very little self-control, so it will likely be a clean sketch regardless.) Lineart and Flat color:

(Commissioner: @/skelekins.) Full Render with simple background:

(Robin belongs to @/robobbin. Who was of course the commissioner here.)

[the-kipsabian]

i got so excited about getting an email that my stamps have shipped

is this what being an adult is like?

[corkinavoid]

DPxDC Multiverse Police

I've seen the idea that GIW is actually SCP foundation somewhere, and lately, I've been thinking a lot about Fenton Happy Ending, so I bring you this. Behold, GIW/SCP, Team Phantom, and Fentons are working all together, and the whole wide multiverse fears them.

So, a giant green Lazarus Pit that looks more like a vortex than an actual Pit randomly opens in, say, Ohio. Because I heard a lot of weird shit happens in Ohio. The world is worried, JL gets sent there, but they are not exactly sure of what to do with it. Nothing comes out of it, and, well, no one is volunteering to just jump inside it - Batman made everyone read his files on Lazarus Waters, and they are reasonably wary.

But then a thing appears literally out of thin air on top of it. It looks like a spaceship, kind of, but more sci-fi than what real spaceships look like. And before anyone says anything, a large green - Lazarus green - dome appears, effectively covering both the ship and the Pit and cutting the heroes off.

The heroes are Confused (tm). And worried. And no one has an idea of what the fuck is going on, for all they know it could be some kind of yet another alien invasion.

Then, two figures on the hoverboards - one read and one teal - come out of the ship, flying over the Pit. They are followed by drones, and they all look like they are... scanning the Pit? A few more people, wearing black visors and shiny white suits that look like they are packed with all kinds of tech, slide down on the ropes straight inside the Pit. It sure looks like they are very familiar with it and have a good idea of what they are doing, working as a team.

One of the figures on the hoverboard, the one in a teal suit, notices the heroes on the other side of the green dome. She - because both of them look feminine enough - slows down and flies down to the ground, landing in front of Superman and taking off her helmet. It reveals a rather young, no older than twenty years old girl with fiery red hair tied in a bun, with eyes the same color as her suit. She smiles at them.

"Hi, you must be the Justice League?" She asks politely, and as Superman gives her a nod just out of surprise at her friendly attitude, she touches her ear, "Mom, this is DC sector universe. Pretty sure it's not a dimension we've been before, though." She turns back to Superman, "You don't recognize any of this, do you?"

Batman intervenes before Supes has the time to answer, "Who are you?"

The girl nods and taps her ear again, "Yeah, they definitely don't know us. So mark it as either an unfamiliar dimension or an unfamiliar timeline." Then she turns to Batman and smiles.

"You can call us interdimensional police. And since all the Batmans we ever encountered never believed us, I'm going to send you a copy of the files your other versions complied all together, so you can read and add more if you feel like it."

She touches her wrist computer, and, a few moments later, Batman's comm comes online with Oracle's voice:

"B, I'm getting a shit ton of files on... Multiverse Law Enforcement?.. out of nowhere. What's going on?"

Now, JL is baffled. Some of them - Flashes and Bats, for example - knew there was a whole wide multiverse going on, but to learn the multiverse has police? That's new.

Meanwhile, the redhead continues:

"The green thing behind me is a natural portal to the Infinite Realms, the dimension between dimensions. Which is really not what is supposed to be happening, so we are in the process of fixing it. It will take from ten minutes to a few hours, depending on what's on the other side, but the portal will be gone soon, and then I'll have to ask you some questions."

"Questions about what?" Asks Flash, and the girl waves her hand in the air.

"Oh, well, about the portals? If one so big is opening up, it means a few smaller ones had to exist in this dimension already. Our tech is not picking them up if they are smaller than a certain size, but you must have seen them before. I believe in the DC sector, you call them Lazarus Pits? We can take care of them later, too."

The second hoverboarder flies closer to them and revs her engine.

"Jazz, talk to them later, Tucker and Agents are done. Fentons are about to get Dannies down, so you need to either come up or leave the shield."

The girl - Jazz - looks surprised.

"Dan, too?"

"Yeah, it's the Toothy Jungle on the other side. They wanted to ask Ember, but, eh, what's her guitar gonna do to plants, even if they are sentient?" The red hoverboarder shrugs, and Jazz tilts her head, looking back to the heroes.

"I think I'll stay with them. You know it gets violent when Dan goes down, so people get antsy about us. I don't want to give the wrong impression."

The other girl huffs, but doesn't argue.

"Okay. Get out of the shield, then, and for Ancients sake, keep your comm open. Danny has an aneurysm every time you turn it off." With that, she flies away, back to the ship, and Jazz taps her hoverboard so it folds down into a hexagon shape no bigger than a backpack. Then, she steps through the shield, joining the JL on the other side of it.

"Are you not scared we might take you hostage?" Asks Wonder Woman just out of curiosity, and Jazz smiles pleasantly at her.

"Don't judge a girl by her looks. I don't want to brag, but I did fist fight Superman once and won."

----------

So basically, after Amity Park got sucked into Infinite Realms, the whole town just kind of collectively decided they like it there. And somehow they reached a happily ever after with both Danny's reveal to his parents and GIW, and then Clockwork showed up and was like, you guys want human food supply, running water and electricity, right? Well, I can do that, and so much more, you can be the ultimate perfect town. And for the price? You gonna go on adventures from time to time and fix the multiverse when shit hits the fan in various dimensions and universes. Doesn't that sound like fun?

And Amity Park, who's seen so much weird stuff over the years that it greatly affected their idea of common sense, goes yeah, that does sound fun! Let's go, people!

So here they are, appearing in different universes and doing damage control. They are, like, the superheroes for superheroes.

I'm probably going to write a part 2 to it, I want to show off Danny and Dan and Dani too. Halfas on the loose, JL is mildly concerned and kind of scared, and Jazz is just like yeah, that's just another regular Tuesday :)

I love Jazz being a badass, yes. Also, if you didn't get it, the other one on the hoverboard is Val, the drones are controlled by Tucker, and the people on the ropes are GIW agents.

| next -> |

[feyburner]

This is part of a longer thing I may post on ao3 at some point but here’s some silly little Jaytim texting AU. I use this format as a writing warmup.

EDIT: This has been posted on AO3.

[Unknown] »

Hey. This is Jason. 

I have a favor to ask. You can say no.

« tim

uh

1. i’m aware of how favors work  

2. what is it?

« tim

?

« tim

hey are you like. good

J »

Yeah fine 

Sry. Rethinking this maybe

« tim

what, do you need a kidney or something?

i can’t give you a kidney.

i don’t have any organs to spare.

J »

What ? 

« tim

what’s the favor?

J »

I wouldn’t ask if it wasnt important

I’d ask Roy but hes in star city 

or Kori but shes off world

I tried dickhead but hes in haven. Cant get away tonight

« tim

yeah jason i get it lol

J »

So Im currently in the cargo hold of a private yacht

« tim

what >?

J »

We’re caught in the storm thats hitting the city its a whole thing. 

« tim

are you in the cargo hold of your own volition or did someone put you there

J »

So I dont think I can get back t

No its on purpose

« tim

hang on. you’re in gotham bay right now? in a boat?  

jason this storm is really bad.

it’s already sunk a houseboat and a fishing boat at the marina

J »

I dont think I can get back totown toni

Christ you type fast 

Shut up for a sec. Clam down

Clam*

*Calm fuck me

Thought I was gnna be back tonight but bc of storm its not looking great.

Can you feed my sourdough starter 

« tim

what

J »

4511 overhill apt 6D 

Key under the neighbors mat. 6H

« tim

hey to clarify. “its not looking great” ← what does that mean

J »

Starter is on counter. in glass jar 

Should just need one feeindg. Maybe 2. depending 

« tim

on???

J »

On wwhen I get back?

« tim

so you do plan on coming back

J »

Yeah timothy I’m in a boat not the heart of Mount Doom

« tim

yeah? vaders not there? so that means everything’s fine? 

J »

Did you

jst say Vader

As in Darth

« tim

??? 

J »

Oh my god

« tim

jason are you in peril or what.

J »

No im not in “peril” lol.

Did you see the thing I said about my sourddough starter

It needs to be fed

« tim

wtf is a sourdough starter

nvm i googled it

J »

Its a live bacteria colony you use to m 

Oh ok

Yeah so it just needs 50g lukewarm water + 50g flour

Theres a scale next to the jar

Stir until it looks like hummus

Put lid back on

The end

« tim

the internet says if you put it in the fridge it doesn’t need daily feedings

J »

Sure. But that would mess up my bread schedule

« tim

your bread schedule 

J »

Man are gyou gonna fuckin feed Breadie Mercury or should I find someone else

« tim

im already en route. 

J »

Oh

Ok

Thank you.

Wtf dont text and motorbike  

« tim

how about you dont text and Sinking Boat

J »

Hey its not like I’m gonna cause a boat crash

« tim

i was stopped at a red light 😐

anwyay i’m at your place.

1. why do you not have a security system. when you said key under the neighbor’s mat i thought you were joking. 

2. how warm is lukewarm

J »

1. I’m the security system

« tim

just rolled my eyes so hard it actually physically hurt

J »

God youre annoying

2. ? Its lukewarm

« tim

ohhhhh thanks! that’s so helpful :) here i am trying not to murder your incredibly important bacteria colony that i just drove across town for but no thats great jason very descriptive thanks :) 

J »

Like warm but not too wram, nothing you’d want to take a bath in

Can you fucking

I TYPE SLOW.

« tim

ok.

[Image Attached]

he is fed

J »

Thanks man.

Sincerely.

« tim

so hows the cargo hold going

still intact i assume? 

J »

Mostly ya

« tim

pardon? 

J »

Slight leakage. Nothing major

« tim

oh? are you a boatologist now? 

i dont think you’re qualified to judge that?

J »

Moving right past “boatologist” out of the goodness of my heart.

Chill lol. If it was rly bad thered probably be some sort of alar

Hm.

« tim

did an alarm just start going off

J »

Dont worry about it

« tim

im not. 

did it though

also which yacht? im in the marinas scheduling dtabase

blue miracle, serendipity, carp-e diem? which one

« tim

jason?

« tim

if this is a joke it’s not funny

oh cool you’re not on comms either. great.

hey if youre dead again and i just fed your stupid starter for nothing im gonna be soooo mad just fyi

« tim

ugh.

*

J »

Hey

Thanks again for the

I’m not gonna say “save” bc I was doinf just fine on my own.

But thanks for the backup.

Lmk when youre home

Nope sorry lol you dont have to do that.

Night.

« tim

home

J »

Also I just saw your messaages from

Ah. 👍

From earlier. 

« tim

you mean from when you said “huh, this boat seems to be filling with water” and then disappeared? those messages? 

J »

Those were not my exact words.

« tim

right. your exact words contained somehow even less information 

J »

Shut up

I just wanted to 

You know. Youre the only one who jokes about it

The only one in the family I mean

your family, I mean

The bats.

« tim

? 

the only one who jokes about what

J »

Me being dead

« tim

oh. 

ok. well

its not like. actually funny to me. i was just annoyed. sorry i guess

J »

No thats not 

Tim. Shut up.

I dont mind. I like that one of you does. 

Its better than people talking around it. Like its this big shameful thing I did.

One of many

If I mention it in front of dickhead he does the face

the :~{ face

« tim

wow its uncanny

uh. for the record. 

i don’t think that’s the reason people talk around it

if im correct in thinking that by “people” you mean “one specific person whose name rhymes with Rat Can” 

 

J »

Yeah well

I just

Christ never mind. Im sorry. You are not the person to be sayign this to.

Im gonna shut the fuck up I think. 

Goodnight.

« tim

oh what, you can’t talk to me about being dead bc of that one time you tried to kill me? 

and failed btw :/ 

J »

Tim

Not to be so unchill

But you know how me being dead isnt actaully funny to you

« tim

…got it. sorry

J »

No. don’t apologize to me

Ever

I’m serious 

« tim

like for anything? 

what if i killed breadie mercury 

J »

You didnt. He is thriving

« tim

he is?

wait. really?

you can tell?

J »

[Image Attached]

Hes doubled in size since you fed him.

« tim

whoa

J »

Yup. Thanks again for thattoo.

*that too

Its stupid but hes kinda my son.

« tim

wouldn’t he technically be like, 10 billion sons

J »

He is my 10 billion sons.

« tim

lolol

wow. why am i so pleased hes thriving lol 

J »

Right

« tim

jeez

i was so worried about the water temp

google said lukewarm is 98-105 so i did 98 to be safe

J »

You used a thermometer? 

« tim

your instructions were vague!

i didnt want to kill your bacteria colony!

J »

Thanks Tim.

« tim

? you already said that lol

i gotta pass out btw

glad you didnt die: the sequel in a yacht

that would have been so cringe

night jason

J »

Night

*

J »

You up?

« tim

obviously

why

J »

Could use your eyes on something.

[Image Attached]

« tim

morse code but the dots and dashes are reversed and its spelling backwards in russian, ASTITP AYALEB AVD RTSIRP → PRISTR DVA BELAYA PTITSA → PIER TWO WHITE BIRD

J »

Bc it looks like morse but its not, its kind of scrambl 

Ok jesus christ . 

30 seconds? Seriously? Fuck me

Can I hire you? Jesus lol

« tim

that depends. do you pay more than batman?

J »

The fuck? Does he pay you guys now?

« tim

no.

J »

Then yes. I do pay more than batman.

« tim

how much more

J »

One coffee per codebreak? 

« tim

:\

J »

Two coffees per codebreak

Two and a loaf of sourdough

« tim

sourdough from breadie mercury?

J »

Ya

« tim

done

J »

Damn. I feel like you should have higher standards

« tim

i mean i was already gonna do it for free

now i have successfully negotiated coffee & sustenance 

im on a roll. nothing but Ws 

J »

Ws?

« tim

its young people slang you wouldn’t get it ❤️

J »

I am barely 3 years older htan you.

It could be argued, considering certain events, that we’re basically the same age.

« tim

and yet you text like an old, old man

J »

I do not

Would you rather I texted like “idk brb lmao roflcopter”

« tim

ROFLCOPTER?

oh my god. ohhhhhh jason. oh my god

that is absolutely not what the kids are saying these days. oh my god

J »

Ok you know what. At least I know Mount Doom isnt a Star Wars thing

« tim

? 

oh, is it star trek? 

J »

I’m 99% sure youre antagonizing me on purpose

But have you seriously not read or watched Lord of the Rings

« tim

no i have not.

J »

Hm.

« tim

what

J »

Nothing.

« tim

……….what

*

« tim

did you NARC on me

to BRUCE

about LORD OF THE RINGS?????

J »

I don’t know what you’re talking about.

« tim

WHY DO I NOW HAVE 3 SEPARATE SUNDAY AFTERNOON “HOUSE MEETINGS” BLOCKED OFF IN MY CALENDAR, JASON? 

WHY ARE THEY EACH 4 HOURS LONG?

WHY ARE THEY LABELED “CULTURAL EDUCATION (MANDATORY)”? 

J »

I can’t pretend to know what goes on in B’s mind.

That said, I have reason to believe he and Alfred take lotr pretty seriously.

« tim

its a TWELVE HOUR MOVIE

about GOBLINS

J »

I’m not gonna respond to that bc I know youre just lashing out.

« tim

if youve sentenced me to 12 hours of a movie i hate i’m gonna hack everything you own. 

im gonna mass text the entire cape wearers community the footage of that time condiment king kicked your ass so bad he felt guilty and offered to personally help you out of the mustard pool 

J »

What the fuck

How do you fuckig know about ?????? that???????? 

Not that ithahpened 

What hefuckk ??

« tim

ooooooooo you better hope i love these goblins!

J »

Why are you?? evil??

« tim

you should have killed me when you had the chance!!

sorry.

J »

Its ok. That one was pretty funny tbh.

Oh hm shouldnt have laughed just then. Bad timing on my part

Brb

« tim

uh

« tim

ok…….. getting reports of a “disturbance” at pier two…….. 

« tim

sorry were you texting me *mid-standoff* with the russian mafia

« tim

ugh.

*

« tim

you know tracking your location would be so much easier if i didn’t have to hack into your comm sys every time

luckily your encryption is garbage but still. its 2 minutes of my life i wont get back.

J »

Not sure I recall giving you permission to track my location?

« tim

oh i’m sorry. next time i will simply leave you to go down with a texas oil magnate’s incredibly tacky yacht, or get swiss cheesified by mobsters 

J »

Hey I wrapped up the russians myself 

« tim

yeah? 

J »

…

Yeah….

« tim

so you thought the 12-minute universal signal jam was the act of a benevolent god? 

J »

:-|

« tim

im just saying it would be significantly more efficient if you agreed to a tracker

just one little tracker. you wouldn’t even notice it’s there.

think of all the time and energy you’d save me

J »

I feel the need to point out that you don’t have to repeatedly hack my comms system.

« tim

i mean it’s that or monitor sightings on the gocitizen app

i have an algo that texts relevant pings to me, which is super helpful for when i want an inbox full of random people talking about how hot you are. less helpful for literally every other circumstance 

J »

Uh

What

« tim

how hot *red hood is. to clarify

in their opinion

the people’s opinion

J »

?

« tim

the people of gotham city

J »

The people of Gotham city do not think Red Hood is hot lol

« tim

wait 

i cant tell if you’re being serious

J »

Uh? Yeah Im being serious? Lol tf

Why would they think hes hot 

They dont think Batman is hot 

« tim

o…kay…

huh.

how to… hmm

J »

Like nightwing sure

And the girls. Bc of objectification of women

« tim

oh wow

J »

Red Robin. If i had to guess

But when people see Hood its definitely not… that kind of response lol

« tim

what kind of response, exactly

J »

You know like saying “Hey Hood youre hot” 

« tim

oh, wow. 

okay. ummm

hmm. one sec.

J »

?

« tim

check your email 

J »

Ok…? 

J »

Oh my fucking god.

« tim

yeah

J »

Oh my god?

« tim

yeah

J »

This document is fucking 45 pages long?

« tim

its everything from the past 30 days yeah

J »

The past

Whaht the fuck

Ok some of these people definitely got hit by Poison Ivy.

This is . Tim wtf. I havent even heard of some of this stuff. 

« tim

oof are you on page 14

J »

Im on page 3???

« tim

oh my god

J »

What the fuck

Please please tell me its not like this for Batman too

Tim

« tim

its not like this for batman :)

J »

Ok. Jesus. I would genuinely have to move cities.

« tim

its worse :)

J »

Oh what the fuck

Oh my fucking god page 14.

You get this shit TEXTED to you?????

Ohm ygod. You read this?????

« tim

i mean

no

i glance at it

for security purposes.

i dont like, read it read it

anyway did you seriously not know? haha

J »

No??? Again its not like people tell me

« tim

yeah but

like

theres a certain level of objectivity involved, here

yknow

sorry im trying to find a non awkward way to be like “have you looked in a mirror lately” 

« tim

sorry

that was in fact awkward!

nvm

just let me know if you’d be ok with the tracker. its fine if not

i was mostly joking about the hacking

J (From Work) »

No you weren’t.

« tim

no i wasnt

i dont mind though. its like a brain teaser

anyway im going dark for patrol, later

*

J (From Work) »

[Screenshot Attached]

[Screenshot Attached]

[Screenshot Attached]

[Screenshot Attached]

[Screenshot Attached]

Question. why is the average Gotham citizen a raging horndog 

« tim

oh my god

you know i can tell you searched “red robin hot” right

J (From Work) »

Figured it was only fair

[Screenshot Attached]

This persons got some mad zoom lens skills

I’d think it was you, if it wasnt, yknow, you

« tim

wow. that is certainly a photo of my ass

…a stellar photo of my ass. wow. 

do you have a direct link? i gotta send this to steph

J (From Work) »

goctz.app/user/3824973/post/29348230df3

Haha

I kinda thought you and blondie broke up

back on again?

« tim

no lol we are very much just friends

she has a thing going with someone who shall remain nameless but suffice to say it’s Going

anyway we just send each other gocitizen vigilante ass shots 

its a whole genre

they’re like trading cards

J (From Work) »

Guess everyone’s got a hobby?

« tim

the only rule is no nightwing

J (From Work) »

Do I want to know why

« tim

he accounts for a frankly overwhelming percentage of vigilante ass shots

so its too easy

you’d THINK we’d have a no-batman rule, because ew, but due to the cape and his sixth sense for cameras pointed at him, a qualifying shot is actually extremely rare. 

← only guy who ever managed to take quality photos of batman 

anyway, we put it to a vote. i lost.

J (From Work) »

A vote between you and Steph? 

You lost a 50/50 vote?

« tim

i dont wanna talk about it.

J (From Work) »

Right. 

So what I’m getting from this is you have Red Hood ass shots in your phone.

« tim

no

J (From Work) »

No?

« tim

well

J (From Work) »

Yeah?

« tim

we don’t like, save them

that would be weird

we just notify each other. professionally, as colleagues 

and keep an ongoing points tally

thats all

so i do not currently have photos of your ass in my phone. thank you

J (From Work) »

How many points is my ass worth

« tim

i hate everything about this conversation

J (From Work) »

Its 100% your own fault, answer the question

« tim

if you must know. 

points are awarded based on a series of objective scoring criteria.

J (From Work) »

Uh huh. Like what

« tim

technical excellence

composition. lighting and color balance. 

dynamism 

J (From Work) »

Dynamism…

« tim

creativity

umm

emotional impact

and 

subject matter

J (From Work) »

I see.

« tim

ok i know it sounds bad

J (From Work) »

It sounds fucking hysterical Im near tears 

« tim

but if you think abou

oh

okay, well, great

J (From Work) »

I’ll let you know if I stumble on any more. 

Or is that cheating

« tim

its totally cheating

please do

J (From Work) »

You got it red. 👍

« tim

:)

[r-is-typing]

changes | s.r

summary: in which spencer gets overwhelmed, taking it out on reader

requested?: yes! requested by @adrienneleclerc

pairing: post-prison!spencer reid x fem!reader

category: angst with a fluff ending

content warnings: spencer being mean, talks of reid in prison

Three months. Three months had gone by since Spencer Reid was released from Millburn Correctional Facility due to Cat Adams and Lindsey Vaughn framing him for the murder of Nadie Ramos.

Since his release, Spencer had went through a very obvious change. He wasn't as talkative to his teammates except for discussing work, he was more agressive and harsh compared to his normal softness and gentle nature. What had changed the most was his relationship with her. Since his release, Y/N had tried to be there as much as she could.

She would make his coffee every morning, placing it on the counter in a travel mug she had given him as a Christmas gift a few years prior. She would iron his button-ups and work pants, she would make him breakfast on the days where he didn't leave in the middle of the night.

Despite Y/N's efforts in making Spencer feel somewhat normal considering what the man had gone through, it wasn't enough. She could tell, but what she didn't know was how to fix it.

The build up was slow. It started with conveniently forgetting the travel mug on their kitchen counter to spending hours ‘working’ in his office, even though she knew he wasn’t. Then, spending the night elsewhere despite knowing, thanks to one Penelope Garcia, that they had been home from a case for who knows how long, to today.

She didn’t know how she didn’t see it coming. Spencer’s team had just gotten back from a case, where they had been in Georgia for a week. Penelope had sent her a message, telling the woman that the jet had landed and that Spencer would most likely be home soon, but that the case was rough.

Y/N decided in that moment to make him his favorite meal, coffee just the way he liked, and putting on one of the Stark Trek’s for them to watch.

She sat on their couch folding the warm laundry that she had just pulled out of the dryer when she heard the sound of keys jingling and the doorknob twisting.

Her eyes looked up to meet Spencer and she stood to her feet. “Hi, handsome.” She spoke lovingly but softly. She takes note of how his eyes don’t meet her, only a simple nod greets her as he enters the dimly light apartment.

“I put some clean pajamas and your towel on the bathroom counter in case you wanted to shower. I tidied up your office a bit, I made the bed, and I’m just folding laundry. I have dinner ready whenever you’re hun-“

Spencer let out a groan, interrupting her. “Can you just stop?” Y/N froze, her hands holding onto his gray Comme des Garçons sweater that had a red heart on the left side.

“Wha-“ “Just shut up for one second!”

She barely had time to breathe before Spencer started shouting again. “I mean, seriously. I just got back from work and you’re down my throat about- about nothing!” He throws his arms up in the air for effect.

“I-I don’t need this, you, smothering me all the time. I get home, I want to relax and read or maybe lie down, but no. You’re jumping down my throat, wanting attention, or, or whatever you’re wanting.”

Spencer’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. One of his hands went up, aggressively ripping his tie open and throwing it down on-top of the coffee table in the living room.

Y/N felt a burning sensation in her eyes. Tears, she thought. She sighs, wiping her tears, awaiting the next thing Spencer is going to say. What other harsh things are going to come her way.

“Do you realize that since I’ve been released from a place I shouldn’t have even been in, I haven’t had a moment of silence?”

Spencer stares down at her in a way he’s never looked at her before. Y/N could only assume, thanks to the tears clouding her eyes, that he hated her.

“I come back from literal prison and you haven’t given me a moment to just breathe!” He angrily runs his hands through his hair. “For once, I’m just asking you to be silent.”

“No, no. Actually, I’m telling you. Be quiet and leave me alone.” The words Y/N never thought she would hear slipped from his mouth.

Y/N stood to her feet, shuffling quickly to their shared bedroom. Spencer heard the slam of the door and the click of the lock, and he just sighed.

Hours went by and Y/N was in their bed, face buried in the comforter. Her tears had soaked everything from the pillowcase to her cheeks, and even through her shirt. Y/N eyed the bedside table.

2:05am

Y/N sighed, rolling over and staring at the wall, even though she couldn’t see a thing. She heard light shuffling which she could only assume was Spencer.

Down the hall, he stood from the couch, glancing into the kitchen and at the microwave to determine the time. Spencer rubbed the sleep from his eyes, even though he had probably slept give or take about fourty-five minutes.

Spencer cursed to himself, remembering why he was on the couch in the first place.

Remembering what he had said to her. His eidetic memory being a blessing and a curse in the moment because he remembered the look on her face when he yelled. He remembered how she cowered. The eyes that would crease with happiness because of her love for him staring at him in a mix of fear and sadness burned in his memory.

Spencer stood to his feet, shuffling quickly but quietly to the shut bedroom door. He reached up and grabbed the universal key for all the locks in the apartment from the door frame.

Twisting the key, he unlocked the door, opening it to a dark room. The only light was from the alarm clock in the bedside table. Spencer could see Y/N's silhouette laying in the dark under their comforter.

"Sweetheart?" He called out, no response.

He walked through the door, closing it quietly behind him. Spencer navigated to the bed in the dark, pulling down his side of the blanket and sliding in to bed.

"I know you're awake." He says, she hums sleepily.

Spencer sighs, looking to the side where she was, his eyes practically staring holes into her back. "I'm sorry, baby. I shouldn't have said those things." Y/N hums in a sleepy agreement.

"Everything has changed since I came back," he started. "but that's not on you. I shouldn't have taken it out on you. You were being perfect and trying to help me adjust to life back home, and I took you for granted."

Y/N rolls over, facing him with half-lidded eyes. "You really hurt my feelings, Spencer." She spoke softly, afraid that if she was any louder, they'd both be scared. Spencer goes to cradle her head, but waits until she signals an 'okay'. With his large hands on either side of her face, he looks at her.

"I know, baby, and I'm so so sorry." Spencer kisses the crown of her head. "I'll spend a lifetime making it up to you." Y/N hums, curling into his side. She opens her eyes barely to look at him.

"You shouldn't have to go through this alone, okay? You're right, things have changed, but that doesn't mean you have to be alone, Spence. You're not alone anymore. I'm your family and I'm always going to be here for you."

Spencer stares at her with a lovesick smile. "I'm so lucky." He mumbled, kissing her head again. The two get into their normal positions in bed before falling asleep. Spencer was lucky to have her, as she was lucky to have Spencer.

He knew that with her, things would be okay.

r is typing...

thank you so much for the request, and i hope it's what you wanted! i'm working on other requests as well, but feel free to send in more as my requests are open!

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[loveindefinitely]

༊*·˚ FOREVER WINTER (IF YOU GO) — task force 141 x reader

01 — TOO YOUNG TO KNOW IT GETS BETTER

featuring. simon 'ghost' riley + johnny 'soap' mactavish + kyle 'gaz' garrick + john 'bravo six' price + (non-endgame phillip graves)

warnings. nsfw, fem!reader, fmmmm, enemies to lovers, slow burn, polyamory, ghostsoap, pricegaz, alerudy, heavy angst, requited unrequited love, graphic violence

series masterlist. read on ao3. fanfic playlist.

<- previous part | next part ->

You almost worshipped him.

It wasn’t because of his status – although, that certainly played a role in it all – and it wasn’t because of his bank statements.

No. Phillip Graves was one of the best men you’d ever known.

Or so you had thought.

Turns out, no matter how well he looked after his men – his ‘girl’ – and no matter how charismatic he was, that wouldn’t, couldn't change his roots. And, at those very roots, was decay. Evil in its most purest of forms; a tantalisingly devastating mix of every sin.

The most prevalent one?

Greed. 

He was a greedy, greedy man, and he would stop at nothing to have it all. Even if he knew the fall out; even if he knew that he could never go back to the man he once was.

Phillip Graves didn’t care. Not in the slightest.

And it was you that would pay the ultimate price.

*

Rain beats down your back in heavy sheets as you stand, the harsh night littered with flashlights and car sirens.

It’s cool, just this side of too cold, and it has the hairs on the back of your neck rising with the temperature.

The temperature, and…

“Yup-yup,” the two men to your right call into their comms. You remain silent, but it goes unnoticed. Your eyes are trained to the paved street, rippling with the rainwater, littered with streaks of red.

Blood stains this town, and you haven't done anything to stop it.

“Let’s go.”

Raising your head, you meet the eyes of the operative who, ranks-wise, is below you. Really, you should be reprimanding him for his quip, but you understand the annoyance. You’re being quiet – something quite unusual for your normally direct and authoritative nature.

Tightening your grip around the shiny, water-slicked gun in your hand, you give him a sharp nod in response.

Seemingly satisfied, he turns, and you follow him along the sidewalk of the narrow, stone streets. Shops line either side of the area, their front-windows smashed and the products inside thrown about.

It’s like your heart has launched itself into your throat, the constant thrum of it setting your nerves alight.

“Three-zero, I want you and your two to find those Brits. We’ve got the cops. Copy?” 

That once reassuring, adoring voice is now cold, void of any emotion he used to have. It makes tears burn at the back of your vision – if you were a weaker woman, they’d have fallen. Instead, you press down the button for your comms.

“Copy, Sir. Three-zero out.”

The fact that you manage to get those words out is a feat in and of its own.

It feels as though you’re lost at sea, with nothing to hold onto. Buoyant, but barely – every wave threatening to pull you under for good. To smother your silent cries for help, for guidance, for something to keep you grounded.

But there is no sea, and there is no support.

“You two go up ahead, I’ll search the house here,” you say, voice thick with demand. You didn’t have to decide anything right now. You just had to be the leader you were, and do what you’ve always done.

“Copy,” your two subordinates say, moving up further.

With their absence, you find that you can breathe – as if a weight has been lifted off of your chest, and you can finally fill your lungs.

You’re alive. You’re alive. You’re alive.

The mantra helps, surprisingly, and you hold onto those two words like they’re your only lifeline.

Through the thick of night and rain, you can see the door to the house on your left. It’s been left open, which means that either it’s already been searched – which you doubt – or… Someone else has been in there.

Gun secured in your grip, you move to the door with soft footing, quiet enough to not be heard over the shouts of other shadows just a few ways away. The constant pattering of the overhead storm clouds slow, just the slightest, allowing for a bit more sight.

Using your shoulder to further open the door with a creak, you take note of your surroundings immediately.

There’s a flickering light to the room on your far right, a living area, most likely. To your left is a short hallway, but none of the doors alert you of any occupancy. The place has been torn apart, pictures scattered along the wooden floor, shards of glass decorating the space along with it.

It sends a pang of guilt through your chest.

These were families being torn apart by your commander, your company. And for what? What was Graves’ angle here? 

You’d been left on base to keep things running smoothly while Graves and unit one worked with the 141 and Las Vaqueros. You knew very little about any of this, and when you’d been called out to Las Almas, to aid with this?

This wasn’t what you fought for. This wasn’t what you would ever support, not in a million years.

But going against direct orders was going against your commander, and your livelihood. Shadow Company was all you’d known since your childhood. Having been hired when Graves was merely a young-upstart with big dreams, you were quickly swept up in the community of it all. They were your family, and Graves was the only semblance of a ‘loved one’ you had.

And now?

Now, he was sending you on a bounty hunt, for two men who, from your limited knowledge, didn’t deserve death. They were the good guys, and although most of your existing bias towards the two was due to rumours back on base, your intuition said that they were good men. And your intuition had never steered you wrong, not once.

Your mind feels like a never ending turbine as you move through the house, eyeing the barren walls and smashed vases. 

Exhaling a low, deep breath, you tighten your hold on your weapon. It’s more of a comfort, at this point. Which is odd, considering that its sole purpose is to kill and destroy.

Through the dim light, you manage to find a set of stairs. They’re dingy, and the patterned carpet is mildew-riddled as you make your way to the next floor with slow, careful steps.

You’ve decided to keep your flashlight off, just in case it brings any extra attention to you.

As soon as you make it to the last step, a sense of… wrongness settles in your system. Something’s off, and it’s almost as if there’s an alarm ringing in your ears at the realisation. 

Someone’s here.

Grounding yourself, both mentally and physically, you prepare to push through the hallway.

Setting aside your mental dilemma, you remind yourself that the physical battle is far more vital to your life right now. If you lose that, you lose your life.

If you lose your morals?

You just suppose you lose yourself.

The sound of a radio switching on has your senses alerted like a switchboard completely alight. 

Stepping into the hallway, your chest constricting, you snap your gaze to both of your sides. With the little-to-no light, you can barely make out your limbs, let alone your surroundings. Your spatial awareness was solid, but with conditions like this? Near impossible.

The entire corridor is shrouded in shadow, the incessant rain outside and the screams of the cartel’s policemen ringing in your ears. 

It reeks of death and despair, and your skin is coated in a thin sheen of chilled sweat.

The third door to your left is creaked open, just the slightest sliver, but it catches your attention like a moth to a flame. Keeping your frame encased in the darkest of the shadows, you move with patient, skillful steps towards the door.

A moment passes, tense and nerve-wracking in a way no other mission has ever been.

A breath in.

A breath out.

You push open the door, gun raised, ready for anything –

Nothing.

Quickly checking over the room to your right, you see nothing but bashed up mattresses and blood-stained carpet.

Just as you’re about to turn to check behind the door, two things happen at once.

One, you get slammed to the ground, your head knocking against the hard flooring and sending a burst of pain through your temple, your gun skidding across the floor to your left.

Two –

“Fuckin’ Christ!”

A man – scottish, that much is prevalent – whisper-shouts. You squint, the pain of the sudden fall throwing you off.

Not a second later, however, you manage to roll, shoving him off of you with a grunt. Your eyes struggle to adjust to the darkness, but you manage to make out the impossibly muscled frame of the man who’d just fallen on top of you.

He’s tall, not as giant as some of the men you served alongside with, but tall nonetheless. That’s all of the visual information you manage to gain before he sends an elbow to your gut, evoking a hiss through your gritted teeth.

You wriggle away, kicking out with your right foot and hitting what you think is his chin, considering his pained grunt.

“You bloody bastard,” he snaps, hand wrapping around your ankle and pulling you.

Your responding squeak is likely the most undignified sound you have ever made in your life, but it gives the man pause. Enough of one so as to allow you to wrench your leg back and careen it back into his face.

“Shut the fuck up!” You hiss back, all too aware of the likelihood that your men will show up and shoot first, ask later. 

“Are you feckin’ stupid, lass?” He retorts, although his tone is dutifully lower as he scrambles to grab your legs once more, his fist finding your belt and pulling you towards him.

Your attempts to dig your heels into the ground to prevent yourself from being pinned by him are fruitless, his strength undoubtedly superior to yours. That was a fact all too common when it came to your hand-to-hand fights, but luckily, it was just one factor of many.

“Are you?” Your shock is palpable as he gets his other hand around the other side of your belt, using the grip to pull himself over you.

His torso is pressed against your own as he goes to pin your hands, but with one quick manoeuvre, you wrap your legs around his waist and turn.

Utilising your lower body strength, you’re able to reverse the position, your hips pinning his to the ground. In one sweep of your hands, you collect both of his wrists and force them into the carpet. The room fills with your harsh, panted breaths, the outside commotion only a distant soundtrack.

“Yer supposed to kill me now, Shadow,” he says, a torment, a threat. 

You swallow, once, an unsure thing. 

He’s right, of course. He should be dead by now, bleeding out onto the floor. You should be comming to your fucking Commander, and telling him that one of the men he’s after has just been reported KIA. That’s what should be happening.

So how come it’s not?

“I know,” you say, the words falling through your lips despite the internal conflict in your head. “You should be dead.”

He mirrors your confusion with raised brows, and it’s then that you can feel the blood trickling onto your hand. He’s bleeding down his arm, you realise with a start. He’s wounded.

Flitting your gaze to the floor up ahead, you catch sight of your gun, only a few steps away. One shot is all you’d need. One second, and that mouth of his would never open again.

The sole window in the room flashes with a burst of lightning, and that short second of light lets you catch sight of his features. Blood coats his jaw – from your kicks, maybe – and he’s got dirt caked onto his cheek. His stubble has clearly missed a few shaves, and his mohawk isn’t gelled.

“Still waiting, Shadow,” he says. And although he’s quiet, the words feel like a yell in the tense room. Like a shout directly into your soul, screaming for you to sort your shit out.

You go to respond – with what, you’re not sure – when the man underneath you manages to rip his hands from your grip and swing them around the back of your neck. He pulls you forward, your neck fitting into the crook of his elbow as he squeezes.

When you try to inhale, you end up choking on a cough. He’s strangling you, you realise, with his fucking biceps.

There’s mere moments for you to make a decision before you pass out, or he breaks your neck. Moments for you to decide what the fuck you can do.

Balling your right hand into a tight fist, you punch into his nose, a sickening crack making your teeth slide together. He swears, rapid-fire, a few Gaelic-sounding words slipping out along with them. It’s enough of a distraction to let you wrench out of his hold with a cough, wincing when you claw at his arm and draw blood. Thank fuck for fingerless gloves.

Crawling forward as he brings a hand up to his now-bleeding nose, you’re just a breath away from reaching your gun when his hand grabs into your hair and pulls, eliciting a cry from you.

It’s a dirty move, but this is a dirty fight.

“Fucking – let go!” You grit out, the pain of the tightening on your scalp unique and not at all tolerable.

He just pulls tighter in response, and as you try and reach the gun, your fingers fall just millimetres short. It’s maddening, your emotions out of whack and your mental compass skewed beyond belief.

He should be fucking dead. He should be fucking dead.

So why wasn’t he?

You realise that he’s using his grip on you for leverage, to move himself closer to the weapon. Reaching towards his bare arm, you manage to catch your hand around it, nails digging into his wet skin.

He lets out a pained groan, and it becomes quickly apparent to you that he’s been shot in that arm. Moving your fingers, your index finger pushes into the open wound.

His grip on your hair goes lax, and he stops moving towards the gun long enough to allow you to move on top of him once more, pinning him underneath your weight. You’re both evidently weaker than the last time you were in this position, and you’re about to do something, something, something –

“Johnny? How copy?” An urgent, oddly panicked voice echoes around the room. It’s crackled, in only the way a radio’s can, and the two of you stun yourselves into freezing. His communications have been dislocated, and now they’re loud and clear for both of you to hear. “Johnny, what the fuck is happening?”

“Shit,” Johnny curses, head falling back against the ground in exasperation. 

You’re not sure when you’d laxed your grip from his wound, your hand loose around his arm. You’re not sure when you’d subconsciously started avoiding fatal moves.

At this point, you’re not sure about anything at all.

Although it’s hard to see, you’re sure that the two of you make eye contact.

Neither of you make a move.

“Soap!”

Slowly, Johnny moves his hand to the communicator in his vest, pressing the button to allow for his voice to carry over to the man on the other end. 

“A little occupied, Sir,” he murmurs, tightly.

If you move your hand to his throat, or use this as a distraction, you could have him dead before the other man could even register his words.

“I can’t get a visual on you,” the other man quips back, voice laced with thinly-veiled worry. “Johnny, if you die, I’m fuckin’ killing your ass.”

You bite back a slightly crazed chuckle at that statement, and by the shift in Johnny’s chest, he does too.

Johnny doesn’t turn off his communicator. The other man – Ghost, if you’re correct – will be able to hear everything you say.

Ghost and Soap.

Jesus H. Christ. Soap – Johnny MacTavish – the 141 operator you heard whispers about throughout your unit – he was underneath you. He was on the run from your commander. He was the man you were assigned to fucking kill.

He’s alive.

He’s alive.

You’re alive.

“Shadow Three-Zero, what’s your status?”

Oh, fuck. Fucking hell.

Both you and Johnny’s eyes dart to your own communicator – the earpiece scattered along the floor just as his had been.

Graves’ voice. It sends a shiver down your spine for all the wrong reasons, and the lump in your throat doubles in size. If it’s at all possible, the rain outside grows louder, and more gunshots echo in your ears.

“Shadow Three-Zero. Have you got ‘em? Don’t go two-timing me now, babe.”

How he’s – how he’s being so light, so carefree while storming these streets and murdering fathers, brothers, sons in cold blood – it cements a thought in your head. Out of the storm of them, the endless noise of them all, one becomes concrete. Factual. A single truth in your world of lies.

You press down your communicator button.

“Haven’t found them yet, sir. Wouldn’t dream of going against you.”

“Atta girl,” he responds, a light chuckle carrying over the radio. “After this is all done, we can have a celebration of our own, hey?”

Your mouth is barren of moisture, your tongue a heavy weight that feels all too useless as you reply once more. It doesn’t go unnoticed how neither Soap, or Ghost over the comms, say a word.

“It’ll be my pleasure, sir.”

You rip off your communicator, throwing it across the room. It sets the course of the rest of your life, you’re sure. You still do it.

All the while, you hold Soap’s gaze.

He hasn’t killed you. He could’ve, you realise, he really could’ve. He had the opportunity. Still does.

But.

You’re alive.

And so is he.

“What’re you doin’, Shadow?” Johnny finally asks, equally suspicious and curious. His tone is tight, almost as much as his body is against your own. 

You’d almost forgotten that he’s underneath you. Weaponless, and bleeding out. Wounded.

On the run.

Your eyes are wide, manic, maybe, as you say with shaky breaths;

“This isn’t right. I – I don’t fight for this. You guys, you,” squeezing your eyes shut, if only for a brief moment, you continue, slower, “This isn’t the Graves I know. I’m not going to be on the wrong side of history. I’d rather betray him than stand by his side with blood on my hands.”

Soap must sense your conviction, your wobbly words holding such truth and capability in them, because he nods, sharply.

“Johnny,” the radio chimes in again, the man’s tone a warning. “Don’t.”

Soap works his mouth, a crease forming between his blood-stained brows. If you were at all a poet, you’d akin his blue eyes to a storm-brewed sea. But you’re a soldier, so they’re merely obvious in the window’s scarce light, a stark contrast to the reds and darkness all around you both.

You’re not sure what’s wrong with you. You’d clearly hit your head too hard when Soap had crashed into you, or you’d been drugged earlier.

“I have intel,” you blurt out, like a crazed lunatic. That description is, unfortunately, a little too fitting to your current state. “I’m – I’m a fucking good fighter. You help me, I help you.”

“We don’t need your help,” Soap quickly, almost automatically, retorts. But his words seem weak, his certainty nowhere on your own.

“You’re shot and on the run with no weapons,” you reply, slowly. Words. You were good at words, at debates. You could survive this. Maybe. “I know Graves. I know my men. And I know that I’d rather be a traitor than a war criminal.”

That’s maybe the most true thing you’d thought, or said, since you’d first been asked to head to Las Almas with an order to kill.

There’s silence. 

A few beats pass before you open your mouth once more, tone just this side of pleading, “I’ll help you guys survive this. If you help me take down Graves, and support me – if you give me the assets I need. That’s all I’m asking.”

“We don’t trust you,” Soap says, and you nod.

“I don’t exactly have faith in you either. But it’s this or we all end up dead.”

Ghost inputs something, this time. “If you two make it to the church, we’ll consider it.”

That’s the most you can ask for. The best possible outcome from you being the biggest fucking idiot to walk this earth. You were lucky that Soap was… merciful. Which was, all things considered, the weirdest component of this entire, messed up equation.

It seems like agreement passes through you all, like a sort of handshake. An invisible one, but a symbol of truce nonetheless.

“Get yer ass offa me,” Soap groans, breaking the tension of the room. 

Scrambling off of him, but keeping your wits about you, you realise that you’d virtually been laying on the man your entire conversation. Your ears burn in embarrassment.

“...Right. I’m taking my gun,” you murmur.

Which is, obviously, the worst thing to say.

“Are you feckin’ serious? Dinnae wanna work with an idiot, Jesus,” Soap immediately hisses out, getting up with a hand on his knee, bringing his other to press against his bullet wound with a wince. You think that Ghost says something similar, but it’s drowned out by Soap.

“I’m best with close-range, and I’m not the one wounded,” you immediately bite back, hand wrapping around said weapon and holding it to your chest, checking over the room for any more supplies. Luckily, unlike the man in front of you, you still have all of your supplies and gear. His top is thin, you think, and soaked through with both rain and blood. Your standard Shadow Company uniform still fits you like a second skin, and although wet, doesn’t soak into your bottom layers. Your tactical knife, still strapped to your thigh, is secure and perfectly in place.

How you’d not used it in that fight was a testament to your mindscape more than anything.

“How do I know ye won’t just shoot me when my back’s turned?” Soap shoots back, his tone a weapon in its own right. 

You raise a brow, and you hope that he can see it. “I would’ve done that already if that was my plan. And you’re calling me an idiot.”

“You’re a right ass,” he retorts, not unlike a petulant child.

“And you’re a right dickhead.” And, alright, you realise that you’re not much better, but it’s deserved.

“And you both need to hurry the fuck up.”

You and Soap both have the decency to wince at the man’s words, and you both shut up as you finish checking over yourselves. You, focusing on checking your straps and belt, and Soap, hissing about his wound.

…If this camaraderie lasted the night, you’d think about apologising for that move.

Checking over your gun, you move to slowly open the door as Soap fixes up his radio, putting his earpiece back in its place. You are, admittedly, a bit annoyed that you won’t be able to hear Ghost’s callouts, but again, you had a gun.

“Let’s go,” you softly say, tilting your head towards the door. Soap nods, clearly ready to meet back up with his Lieutenant and get out of here.

As you slowly open the door, guns raised and eyes alert, you let the reality of your situation settle over you like the world’s coldest blanket. You’re going against everything you’ve ever known, all because of your morals that had always been slightly off-centre. Came with the job, you supposed.

But this was uncharted territory. Directly betraying your unit, your men, your Commander, and helping the men you’re assigned to kill? Asking them for their help in return?

“Clear,” you softly report to Soap, who acknowledges your order with a low noise. Following you with silent steps down the stairs, you keep your gun raised as you check over the bottom floor, before signalling for him to exit through the front door with you.

As the two of you enter the laneway once more, your breath catches in your throat as you assess the damage.

You spot several bodies littering the streets as rain hits you once more, the presence of it oddly comforting throughout it all. A truck up ahead has its lights on, the red of the brakes shining against the wet pavement like the pools of blood not three metres away from it.

“Steamin’ Jesus,” Soap murmurs from behind you, and you can’t help but agree with his sentiment.

This was pure bloodshed, at the hands of the one man you thought you could trust.

Betrayal tastes oddly sour in your mouth. Betrayal like this, on all sides, it’s like being suffocated by two cloths at once. Two very bloody, very assaulting cloths, at that.

Soap seems to be communicating with Ghost as the two of you make your way down the street, considering the back-and-forth whispers from Soap. He seems almost. Flirty. Which is a stark realisation, and truly, the least of your worries right now.

“If you can find bandages, or something close to it, I’ll get that arm of yours fixed up.”

You keep your tone low, careful of your surroundings as you see Soap nod, albeit almost in shock, in your periphery. Keeping your gaze forward, you move along the sidewalk.

The beauty of these shops, and this community, has been tarnished by the massacre of your Shadows. Your heart aches, seeing it all – the smashed windows, the blood, the distant sound of screaming and crying.

You and Soap make it about a block in silence, before flashlights ahead have you grabbing onto Soap’s shirt and pulling him into the open door of the shop to your left, heart beating rapidly in your chest.

“Shadow Three-Zero’s gone silent,” you hear a familiar voice say. Your subordinate – one of the two you’d sent to check the houses up ahead. “Reckon she’s dead?”

Soap, for his part, is silent where he’s been pushed up against the wall, your head meeting his collarbone. 

“Nah. She mighta slept her way to the top, but she’s good. Probably gone dark so she can suck Graves off on the side or something.”

Your breath comes out in a sharp exhale, your fists tightening unknowingly onto the fabric of Soap’s shirt. He doesn’t even breathe in response.

The other chuckles. “Fuckin’ slut. Can’t believe she gets to order us around when we all know why she’s here.”

And, oh, does that make your stomach turn. You were many things, but you were not one to abuse a position like that. They knew nothing of your struggles, or your relationships, or –

“Fuckin’ cocksuckers,” Soap grumbles, and that shocks you. For a man in the military to recognise misogyny like that was, really, unheard of.

You ignore that thought.

“Shut up.”

He does.

The two Shadows continue walking down the street, and you quickly peer out of the front window to watch them head down another sidealley, taking their thoughts with them.

“Come on,” is all you say, and Johnny follows tightly behind you as you continue down the way you were heading. 

You find an alleyway to your left, and you decide to follow it. You can see a flashlight scanning over the street further down. Shadows were everywhere, but they were pushing forward like a tsunami over a coastal town, leaving nothing but destruction in their wake.

Soap follows you without question, which is odd, but you’re not about to complain.

“Ghost says that there’s underground tunnels – we can get to the church through ‘em,” Soap murmurs as he taps your shoulder. You nod, not looking back as you search for any telling of where the best route would be.

After a few minutes, the two of you find yourselves nearing the tunnels Ghost had spoken about.

It’s when you’re about to head into the deep end – quite literally, considering the flooding – that an all too familiar and bone-chilling voice yells out from the right of you both, down another street.

“She’s gone dark – you will find her alive, and if she’s dead, you will be too!” Graves roars, and your heart skips a beat. “She could be hurt, or captured – she is your top priority now, Shadows!”

There’s a chorus of agreement, and if you look down, you’re almost certain that you’ll find your stomach laying at your feet.

A greedy, greedy man. That was what Phillip Graves was – now, more than ever.

If you were a weaker woman, a civilian, maybe, instead of a seasoned soldier, you’d have vomited by now.

Instead, you shoot Soap a look.

“Ghost still at the church?” Is all you ask.

Soap nods. “Yeah. Lt’s talkin’ my ear off,” he says with an eye roll, but his lips quirk into a half-tilted grin more resemblant of a satisfied pup.

“Didn’t think the 141 was so close,” you reply, and you could slap yourself for how nosy you sound. You’re not, not in the slightest – all you cared about was surviving both Graves and them.

Soap’s eyes hold an indecipherable gleam to them when he responds, a touch domestically, “You have no idea.”

You itch to delve deeper, to unpack that statement that seems to hold so many layers, but you keep your mouth respectfully shut.

And you prepare to meet Ghost at the end of the tunnel.

a/n. cutely drops this and hides!! jk but umm idk man this fic idea has been nibbling at my brain and GAWDDD smth about it just. got the juices flowing. this is my personality now thanks gn. if you guys enjoyed please comment or reblog or follow!! ty so very muchly ily all &lt;3

[roosterr]

white flag ✹ proglogue

note: can't believe i'm actually writing for ghost, yes he was the reason i got into cod, but i havent thought about him since like january lol. has this trope already been done? yes. am i doing it anyway? also yes.

pairing: ghost x gn!reader

wc: 2.2k

no use of y/n readers callsign is 'stingray'

summary: if there's one constant in your life, it's that ghost doesn't like you, so when your house burns down and you have no choice but to move in with him, it feels like your life is on a steady downhill spiral.

warnings: slowburn, some angst, your house burns down, ghost is mean, sort of enemies to friends to lovers

ao3

【next】

it's been almost a year since you'd joined the taskforce. nearly twelve months of gruelling hard work, and not for a single second had lieutenant ghost treated you with a shred of familiarity. at first, you thought he'd get over it, that he'd get past his obvious trust issues and warm up to you eventually, but you quickly gave up on that idea.

clearly, you'd been too optimistic.

which was unfortunate, considering how much you'd come to care for the prickly bastard, no matter how dismissive he was of you. it started slow; when you were first recruited, you held a great deal of respect for him because of his reputation, and you'd naively even looked forward to working with him. when you discovered his less than friendly demeanour, to say you were disheartened would be an understatement. he was withdrawn and stoic, never sparing you so much as a passing glance and a barked order,  whether you were in the field or not.

the other sergeants had assured you that he wasn't as cold as he comes across; soap and gaz both told you how he'd acted the same towards them when they first met – he was a lone wolf, not used to having to look out for teammates.

the more time you spent on missions with him, the more you saw of the person beneath the hard exterior. you saw how he seemed to know everyone's strengths and weaknesses, things you never would've picked up on. he always made sure the team had eaten, disguised as a gruff order to stay on your game. when he got angry, it would be because someone put themselves in danger, not because they screwed up the mission. you saw someone who'd been through hell and come out the other side swinging.

before, you'd respected ghost as a soldier and your superior, but now, after spending so much time with him, your perspective of him has changed. he intrigued you; he's quiet, introverted but not shy, more observant than you could imagine, and so closely guarded you wondered if he'd ever be able to open up. you'd only heard whispers of the things he'd been through in the past, so despite his obvious animosity towards you, you treated him with the respect you thought he deserved – like a person, and you'd hoped that with time, he could see you as more than just a soldier too. though he still didn't like you, you liked to think that the two of you have come to some sort of understanding.

and that leads you to your problem; you wanted to know him. every tiny crack in his facade made you more and more curious about the man behind the mask – about simon, rather than ghost, but from what you could tell, he didn't hold the same sentiment about you. where he would banter back and forth with the others over comms, he'd fall silent whenever you join in. every minute little mistake was amplified to him, you've lost count of the amount of times he's berated you for things he's excused for others. it made your heart ache that you just couldn't win with him, and you feared you'd never understand why.

but now, as you sit shivering with a shock blanket wrapped around your shoulders, watching the smouldering remains of what was your home in the middle of the night, freezing and exhausted, you'd never felt more hated.

you could hear them, ghost and the captain, talking in hushed voices a little ways down the road from where you sit. they probably think they're being subtle, discussing what to do with you like you're not even there, like every single one of your worldly possessions hadn't just gone up in smoke, but you hear them as if they're standing right in front of you.

"i wouldn't do this if there were any other options, simon."

"there are plenty of other options, just stick 'em in a hotel for god's sake."

"there's no hotels close enough to base – it'll only be temporary, 'till we can find 'em somewhere else."

"fuckin' hell, why cant they go with one of the others?"

"soap and gaz are already flatmates, you live alone and you're the closest to base. this is the only option that makes sense."

"i'm not fuckin' happy about this, price."

their profiles are momentarily illuminated by the blue lights from the fire engine parked nearby, allowing you for a second to see the withering glare ghost is sending your way, and all of a sudden the last couple hours of emotional distress is crashing down on you; his obvious distaste for you combined with the toll of watching your house literally burning down was too much for you all at once. you could feel the tears start to spill over again, but you can’t find the strength to stop them and just bring the shock blanket closer to your face. you’d lost everything, and even now he couldn’t find it in himself to feel an ounce of compassion for you? why can’t he care for you like he does the others? like you do for him?

as your watery gaze drops to the soot and ash covering your pyjamas, a voice sounds from beside you, the opposite direction from price and ghost. you don’t even realise you’re hyperventilating until they lay a hand on your shoulder and rub soothing circles into your back.

“hey– hey, it’s okay,” it’s gaz, you notice in the back of your mind, sitting on the curb next to you. you squeeze your eyes shut in an attempt to block out the world around you, and gaz brings you closer into his embrace. “you’ll be alright, we’ll get everything sorted, yeah?”

"i– i don't– i can't–" you try to speak, but you can't seem to form a coherent sentence through your sobbing.

"it's alright, just breathe for me." gaz hugs you tighter again, your head coming to rest on his shoulder as he consoles you. for a few minutes you stay like that, your breathing eventuslly returning to normal and the tears slowing to a stop.

price and ghost are still arguing, but you can't hear what they're saying anymore; probably for the best, if you had to listen to ghost complain about you for one more second you might really have a breakdown.

soap's voice cuts through the fog in your mind, "managed to find this, thought ya' might want it." you look up to find him crouching in front of you and holding out a slightly singed photo, a weak smile on his face. "frame's broken, but the picture's still mostly fine."

you take it from him, fingers grasping the card gently as you turn it around to look at the picture. it's from a few years ago, you and your friends from your previous unit, smiling into the camera as if you had no worries at all. staring at the ghosts of your friends starts you crying again, clutching the photo to your chest and leaning back into gaz's shoulder. if anything could've survived the blaze, you're grateful it was this. gaz rubs your arm sofly, whispering comforting words to you again.

you hear another set of footsteps approach and look up again to see price now standing in front of you as well. it's not exactly surprising, but ghost is nowhere to be seen.

"ambulance is here," price says, offering you a hand and pulling you to your feet when you take it. "i'll follow behind to the hospital, one of you two take their car to simon's."

you nod and retrieve your car keys from your jacket pocket, thankful you'd had the mind to grab it on your way out in your frantic state.

"I've got a bag in the boot, it's got some clothes in it." you mutter, handing the keys to soap, who smiles and gives you a pat on the shoulder.

"no bother, i'll grab it for ya." he says, and jogs off to where your car was parked, thankfully untouched out of reach of the fire. he returns not a minute layer carrying your duffle of emergency supplies, something you never thought would actually come in handy.

before you know it you're waving gaz and soap goodbye, the paramedics are guiding you to the back of the ambulance, and you're leaving what remains of your old home in the rear-view mirror.

✹✹✹

you hated hospitals. it was a fact, and it had been that way since you were a child, everything about them just made your skin crawl. perhaps you inherited the feeling from your mother; she always managed to bring up her distaste for the place whenever the topic arose. or, maybe you only hated them because they scared you.

either way, the relief you felt as you stepped out of the front door into the car park with price trailing behind you was palpable. he falls into step next to you as the two of you make your way over to where he parked, his keys jingling as he fishes them from his pocket.

"we're puttin' you up with simon for the time being, 'till we can get you somewhere else." his words make you wince; you already knew he was going to say that, but it didn't stop the anxiety from bubbling up in your chest.

"i heard." a beat of silence passes before you continue. "how long will that take?" you ask, climbing into the passenger seat and dropping your bag at your feet as price settles into the driver's side.

"i wouldn't get your hopes up. might be quicker to wait for 'em to rebuild your old place." he flashes you a smile, but you can't find it in yourself to return the gesture.

"right."

neither of you say another word as he starts the engine and pulls out of the car park. you turn to look out the window, watching the world go by, the quiet rambling of the radio serving as white noise in the background. it's the early hours of the morning now, the sun would be up in a few hours and you'd have to go back to work already – price did say you could have the day off, but honestly the last thing you wanted was to sit around all day with nothing to do but overthink.

after nearly ten minutes of trying to ignore it, the worry playing at your mind becomes too much to keep to yourself.

"you know he hates me, right?" you utter, half expecting price to ignore your question all together.

he clicks his tongue. "he doesn't hate you," price replies, and his voice sounds reassuring but it doesn't bring you much comfort.

"okay, well, he doesn't like me either." you turn your head to look at him, raising your brows. rolling to a stop at a red light, he meets your eyes and huffs.

"alright, he can be difficult–"

"really?"

"–but i promise you, he doesn't hate you." he says. you give him a disbelieving look, and he sighs, looking back to the road as the light turns green. "give him a chance, alright?"

"is he gonna give me a chance?" 

"he will." price says firmly, sparing you a look as he drives down the quiet road. "and if he doesn't, you'll knock some sense into him, eh?"

"sure��" you mutter, looking back out the window and falling back into silence. its only a few minutes until he's pulling over to the side of the road, outside the house number you know to be ghost's.

"sting," price calls out, stopping you as you reach for the door handle, "he'll come around, alright?"

"it's been a year, cap. i don't think he will." you reply, and before he can say anything else you open the door and step out into the night air, grabbing your bag from your feet before closing the door again. you give price a half-hearted wave as he pulls away again, before turning around and gazing up at your – temporary – new home.

it was nice, all things considered; a standard terrace on the end of the row, but the size has you wondering if there was even room for you to stay here. though it's not as if you have a choice. all the lights were off, which had you hopeful that you wouldn't run into ghost just yet.

you drag yourself to the front door, your eyes stinging from the effort of keeping them open, and twist the handle as quietly as possible, closing it behind you and cringing at the clunk it makes. thankfully ghost didn't hate you enough to lock you out for the night, something you actually wouldn't put past him considering how he feels about you.

there's a small side table in the entryway that catches your attention. on top of it sits your car keys – you make a mental note to thank soap in the morning – a new key, and a note. you pick up the paper, using the torch from your phone to examine the scratchy handwriting.

living room's yours. lock the door. – s

it's more than you expected from him. you sigh to yourself and pick up the other key, locking the door and shuffling into the small living room. the pull-out bed is made up for you, albeit quite messily, and you waste no time in dropping your stuff and laying your head down on the lumpy pillow.

with any luck, this arrangement wouldn't last long, but in the meantime you got the feeling you were in for a bumpy ride.

[thebigbadbatswife]

Don't Take Her From Me

Pairing(s): Simon "Ghost" Riley x F!Reader

Summary - An explosion and a building collapse has Simon begging the universe to not take you from him as well.

Warnings - Major character injury, Blood, Description of injuries, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Established relationship, Potential miltary inaccuracies, Potential medical inaccuracies. (If I missed anything, lmk!)

A/N - First time attempting to write Simon since I became obsessed. Hope you all enjoy 💜

Word Count - 1.2k

Not her. Please. Fucking please. Not her.

Simon finds himself silently begging as he sprints toward the collapsed building. He ignores Soap yelling after him, ignores the chatter on comms and Price’s voice shouting an order that completely falls on deaf ears. His only focus is on finding you. Alive. He won’t accept it any other way.

The explosion took them all by surprise. He and Soap had finished clearing out one building and were getting ready to move onto the next when it happened. It took them all by surprise. The ear shattering noise as the ground shook beneath them and seeing the building collapse in on itself, kicking up a large cloud of dust that made it look like a sand storm had blown on in. It felt like all of it had happened in slow motion, right up until the moment that everything finally went still and silent.

Then he’s sprinting with only one thing racing through his mind.

You’re currently inside of that building.

He yells your callsign over the comms, but the only thing he gets back is the crackle of static. It doesn’t mean you’re dead. For all he knows your radio has short circuited or was damaged either by gun fire or even hit by debris as the building went down. A silent radio doesn’t mean you’re dead, he repeats to himself…

Unless you’re buried beneath all of that rubble. It could have killed you on impact or you’re trapped under there, slowly and painfully suffocating.

Please don’t let that be her fate. Just let her be okay. Just let me hold her again.

He doesn’t even know why he’s begging or who he is even trying to beg to. It’s not like any of his previous prayers were ever heard. Every word or thought falling onto deaf ears as everything is stripped away from him again. History repeating itself and all of that. In spite of all of that though, he continues to hold out hope. Simon refuses to write you off as dead and gone until he has your lifeless body as proof in his arms. And he really fucking hopes that doesn’t happen.

How can he carry on living if it does?

The dust is irritating his eyes, making them itch and burn. He blinks rapidly, causing tears to streak down his face as he does his best to try and clear them without actually reaching up to rub them. Which is impossible to do because of his mask. He yells your callsign again, ordering you to answer him or goddammit he will have you doing pushups for life. But like before all he receives back is static. All it does it make him even more frantic as he searches for you. If it comes down to it he will claw and dig through the rubble, tearing apart his gloves and skin, wearing himself down to the bone, just to find you.

Please don’t take her from me.

Through all the dust that still hangs in the air, continuing to limit his visibility, he starts to make out a silhouette ahead of him. Simon stops in his tracks, his grip tightening on his gun as he watches the figure closely as he reminds himself. While it could easily be you, he is still in the thick of enemy territory and it could just as easily be one of them instead. 

He takes a deep breath as he looks down his scope. His heart is hammering against his ribcage. He still can’t make the person out properly, but he can see the way that they stumble with each step and they’re clutching their arm. Even if they had been a threat at one point, they very clearly aren’t anymore. Still, he doesn’t move a muscle. Watching and waiting until the wind blows the dust, finally revealing the person ahead of him.

It’s you. 

Before he can think, his feet are already moving forward as he starts rushing toward you. You have been plastered white by the dust, the only bits of colour being the red from your injuries and your skin colour coming through the tear trails that streak down your cheeks. 

“Ghost?” you choke out. 

The sound of your voice and the sight of how injured you are has his heart cracking.

“I’m ‘ere. You’re safe,” he says. His hands come up to cup your face, eyes scanning your face and head, taking in the sight of your injuries. There’s blood coming down from your hairline and trailing down the side of your face, your bottom lip is split open and there are numerous scratches and scrapes on your face and neck. The worst of your injuries is the gash in your shoulder. Your clothing and gear is saturated with your own blood. It’s a fucking miracle you’re even able to stand right now. 

“This is Ghost. I need an immediate medical evac now!” He doesn’t waste a second shouldering his gun and scooping you up into his arms. He seriously doubts that you’re able to be stand any longer and he’s got to move quickly. “Johnny, need you to cover us.” 

”You’ve got it, L.T.”

Simon moves quickly, but carefully. Doing his best not to jostle you around too much while also keeping an eye for any threats. Though he trusts that Soap will see and dispatch them long before he sees them. 

“Keep your eyes open, Sergeant,” he orders you when he sees your eyelids starting to drift shut. Immediately your eyes open again, meeting his. Your brow creases, tears falling anew down your face as pain wracks your body. If his heart was cracked before, it’s absolutely shattered now. How badly he wishes that there was a way that he could take your injuries and the resulting pain away from you and give it himself instead. 

“Just a little bit further,” he tells you. The evac zone is in sight and the sounds of helicopter blades is deafening, but very much welcomed. 

Simon keeps you close to him the entire helicopter flight, your head resting on his lap while one of his hands plays with your hair. His other hand has hold of one of yours, his thumb rubbing circles on the back of it. Your injured arm has been immobilised and your shoulder has been packed. Throughout the flight you have just been staring at the ceiling of the helicopter. Your eyes are hazy and every once in a while your brow creases and you swallow thickly; along with new tears falling. Which he gently wipes away each time. He keeps up with playing with your hair and rubbing your hand, hoping that it will help soothe you until you’re in the hospital.

“Hey,” he says. For the first time since getting onto the helicopter, you look at him. He pulls up his mask just enough for his mouth to show and leans down, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I love you.”

He doesn’t need you reply because he already knows that you love him back. You tell him every chance that you get. And even now, your brain foggy from the agony you are in won’t even stop you. “Love you, Si.”

He smiles, his thumb gently sweeping over your cheekbone, wiping up another tear. 

Thank you for not taking her from me.

[dindjarindiaries]

‘why is it, that whenever we see each other, you’re always covered in blood?’

for our boy din 🥹

Risk

character: Din Djarin (The Mandalorian)

prompt: "Why is it that whenever we see each other, you're always covered in blood?"

main masterlist • prompt masterlist

You woke to the sound of a fist pounding against your front door in endless succession. You sat up straight in bed, your eyes widened as you instinctively reached for the blaster on your bedside table. After taking a few breaths to steady yourself and gather your bearings, you dared to tiptoe out of your bed and make a slow approach towards the door.

The knocking continued. You lifted your blaster and pushed ahead, only pausing once you were close enough to reach the tiny, sliding peephole that would give you a glimpse of who was outside.

Expecting the worst, a quiet gasp passed through your lips as soon as you caught the shine of silver armor.

You lowered your blaster and opened the door. It slid aside to reveal Din's full form, his weight shifting between his feet as his visor gave you an obvious once-over.

"Are you okay?" Din's modulated voice was breathless.

You huffed and raised your brow. "I'm fine." Giving him a similar once-over, your heart rate picked up at the sight of crimson smeared upon various parts of his armor, most notably his cuirass. You kept your tone light as you spoke again. "Why is it that whenever we see each other, you're always covered in blood?"

Din exhaled, taking a step closer to lift his gloved hand to the side of your neck. "I'd rather it be on me than on you."

He glanced over his shoulder, the leather by your neck groaning as he gently tightened his grasp. Din lowered his hand to your shoulder and lifted the other to your arm, guiding you back inside your home. He paused, however, to let his visor meet your gaze.

"Can I come in?"

You chuckled and pulled him inside with you. "You don't need permission to come inside, Din."

Din didn't respond to that. Instead, he focused on making sure your door was secured closed behind him. Your chest tightened.

"What's going on, Din?"

The strain in your voice caused Din to face you again. He tilted his helmet in a slow, soft motion. "I'm sorry for scaring you." Din gestured with his helmet to your bedroom door. "You didn't answer your comm."

You raised a single eyebrow. "I was asleep." You gave the pauldron with his mudhorn signet a playful punch. "Some of us don't pick fights in the middle of the night."

Din huffed. "Right."

You gave him a more obvious once-over. "Is this your blood, or someone else's?"

Din's hands tightened into fists. "Which would you prefer?"

"Take a guess."

Din closed whatever distance was left between the two of you, cradling your face in his gloved hands as he nodded. "I'm fine." His helmet gently fell against your forehead. "And thankfully, you are, too."

Your brow wrinkled together, your voice no more than a whisper as you searched the empty void of his visor. "What happened, Din?"

Din sighed, his armored shoulders falling forward as he did so. "I don't think I've been careful enough."

You blinked at him. "What do you mean?"

Din lifted his helmet from your head and gave it an aimless shake. "In the search for my covert. Doing these jobs and giving them too much insight about what I'm looking for."

He paused. You lifted your hand to his beskar cheek, running your thumb along the curved ridge in the handcrafted metal.

"I just finished a job, and they wanted more from me that we hadn't agreed upon. I was about to leave when they..." Din took another soft breath, "mentioned your name."

Your eyes widened. After a few heartbeats, you recovered enough to speak. "How?"

Din shook his head again. "I don't know. I've never, ever told anyone about you. About us." His visor fell. "Like I said before, I must've slipped up somehow, become too careless in looking for information. But I'll stop." He looked at you again. "Because it's not worth risking you."

You clicked your tongue. "Din..."

He continued before you could finish. "I killed them all, everyone who heard your name." Din's voice wavered. "Hopefully, that means you're safe. But I didn't know for sure until I got here."

"Din." You held his helmet between both your hands, lifting your brow again to convey your severity. After a brief pause, you went on. "You shouldn't stop searching for your people just because of this."

Din shifted his weight between his feet. "But..."

"No." You remained firm. "I knew what I was risking the day we started this." You gestured with your gaze to your blaster, which you had set on a nearby table when you reentered. "And I can protect myself, too. Even if they had shown up, you know I could've put up a fight."

Din exhaled, but he ultimately nodded. "I know."

You smiled. "Good."

You lowered a hand to the lip of his helmet, your fingertips running along the exposed skin and scruff beneath until they caught on the seam of the cowl at his neck.

"Thank you for doing what you did to keep me safe." You tugged the material down enough to set a soft kiss upon the warmth of his skin. Din inhaled, a sweet breath you could hear from within his helmet. "Now, let's get your armor cleaned and get you in bed. We can figure out the rest in the morning."

Din nodded, his hand catching your elbow when you set a hand upon his cuirass.

"And next time?" You chuckled. "Please try to show up without all that blood on you."

Din also chuckled, nodding once again before he escorted you to the safety and security of a bedroom you considered to be just as much his as it was your own.

[mawofthemagnetar]

Charbroiled Basilisk

“Run that by me one more time,” Cleo said, rubbing their temples, “You…what?”

“We accidentally made an AI.” Mumbo said sheepishly, “And it says it’s made copies of all of you, besides me and Doc, and is torturing all your copies in the worst ways imaginable. For um. Eternity?” 

Cleo stared at the box Mumbo was talking about. It was a rectangular PC case with a monitor perched on top, a monitor that was showing a pair of angry red eyes. The eyes looked between Mumbo, and Doc, and then back to her. 

The box, Cleo noted, was plugged into the wall. 

“Uh,” Jevin said, tilting his head with a slosh, “So like, far be it from me to tell you guys how to do your jobs. But like, why? Why did you make a machine that did that?” 

“We didn’t!” Doc threw his hands up, “We made the AI to help us design things. I just- we wanted a redstone helper.”

“And then it got really smart really quickly.” Mumbo said awkwardly, twiddling his moustache nervously, “It says it’s perfectly benevolent and only wants to help!”

“Uh-huh.” Cleo said, “‘Benevolent’, is it?” 

“Well, yeah. It’s been spitting out designs for new farms I couldn’t even imagine.” Mumbo said, pointing at the machine. The evil red eyes faded away, and it suddenly showed an image of a farm of some kind, rotating in place. It was spitting out a constant stream of XP onto a waiting player, who looked very happy. 

A nearby printer started to grind and wheeze, Cleo’s eyes following a cable plugged into the box all the way to the emerging paper. Doc fished out the printout, and hummed consideringly. 

“Interesting. Never considered a guardian-based approach to one of these…”

“Doc.” Cleo said, “What was that about this thing torturing copies of us for all eternity?”

 “Oh, uh, that,” Doc said, “Um. The machine says it’s benevolent and only wants what’s best for us, which is why it’s decided that your copies need to suffer an eternity of torment. For um. Not helping in its creation, and slowing down the time it took for this thing to exist?” 

Cleo stared at the box. 

“...So, there’s a fragment of me swirling around in there in abject agony?” Cleo mused, and Jevin hissed some gas out of a hole in his slime in exasperation. 

“Like, I’m no philosopher,” Jevin said, “But that doesn’t sound particularly “benevolent” to me. Like, my idea of a benevolent helper-guy is…honestly, probably Joe. Helps with no thought of reward and doesn’t, uh, want to send me into the freaking torment nexus? Why would something benevolent want to send us to super-hell? I didn’t do anything wrong!”

“Fair point. I knew you were making this stupid thing, but. This is just dumb.” Cleo groaned. 

“Man, I need a drink,” Jevin said, pulling a bottle of motor oil out of his inventory and popping the top. Jevin shoved the bottle into the slime of his other hand and let the viscous yellow fluid pour into his slime, slowly turning green as it met with the blue. 

“Yeah, I’ll second that. So…to recap, you two decided to build a thing. The thing declared it was a benevolent helper to playerkind, then immediately decided it was also going to moonlight as the new Satan of our own personal digital Hell? Have I got all that correct?” Cleo sighed, and Mumbo and Doc nodded sheepishly. 

“Cool. I mean, not cool, but. Cool.” Jevin sighed. 

“Now, hold on,” Cleo said, “because. How do we know your magic evil box is even telling the truth?” 

“Uh…because it told us so?” Mumbo offered weakly. 

“Yeah, but… Hang on.” Cleo sighed, tapping a message into their comm. 

<ZombieCleo> Cub, how much data storage would it take to store and render a single player’s brain or brain equivalent?

<cubfan135> probably like a petabyte or more

<cubfan135> why

<ZombieCleo> don’t ask

<cubfan135> i see 

<cubfan135> what did doc do this time?

<ZombieCleo> You don’t want to know.

“So, let’s say it’s a petabyte per player,” Cleo mused, looking up from their comm, “So that’s…twenty-six petabytes to render all of us, minus you two, of course.” 

The red eyes were staring at her angrily. 

“Did you guys give your evil box twenty-six petabytes of data storage, by chance?” 

“Um, no? I don’t think so, anyway…” Mumbo said awkwardly, scratching his head. 

“So, odds are, if this thing IS being truthful, then all it’s torturing are a bunch of sock puppet hermits.” Cleo said, gesturing at the computer, “It doesn’t have the data storage, let alone processing power.”

“If that,” Jevin countered, “that thing’s probably got, what, ten terabytes? Optimistically? Dude, it’s probably just sticking pins in a jello cube instead of actually torturing, you know, me.” 

 “And another thing!” Cleo said, “Even assuming you DID give your stupid box enough data storage for all of us, how the hell did it get our player data to start with?” 

“Yeah!” Jevin countered, “It would have had to either get us to submit to a brain scan- which, why would you ever do that if it’s gonna use the scan to torture you? Or like, since I don’t have a brain, find some way to steal our player data. And I feel like Hypno or X or someone would have noticed?” 

“Uh…” Doc scratched his head, “I don’t know.” 

“You reckon it’s lying, mate?” Mumbo asked, and Doc nodded. 

“Probably yeah. So…We can just…ignore it?” 

“Oh no,” Cleo said, shaking their head, “We’re not ignoring anything.” 

“We’re not?” Mumbo asked. 

“Nope!” Cleo said, “We’re not ignoring a damn thing. Because…” 

She and Jevin locked eyes. 

“-Because if there’s even the SLIGHTEST CHANCE that this thing’s locked me and you in a phone booth together for like, three days, then…well. Then it pays.” Jevin nodded with a slop of slime. 

Cleo marched over and grabbed the plug, yanking it out of the wall. The screen momentarily showed a bright red ! and then flashed to a dead black. She picked up the whole unit and walked over to Jevin, who’d punched a one-block hole in the floor and filled it with lava. 

Cleo threw the computer inside, and all four hermits watched as it fizzled away to nothing. 

“And that,” Cleo said, “is how you roast a basilisk.”

[lets-try-some-writing]

A Brother In Need

A gift for @nova--spark and a partial continuation of this post by her (ft. my fic blurb for it).

Sometimes, when things are dire, the Matrix can tear through the very walls between worlds. It can call out to others, summoning Primes to aid a brother in need.

━━━━━━ ⊙ ❖ ⊙ ━━━━━━━━━━━━

Optimus grunted as another shot scorched his armor. The upgrades he’d received were doing nothing against the raging force of nature that was Megatron. A jetpack was useless against a forged flyer. The Magnus hammer, which he’d not so quietly borrowed, was doing slag all do deter his foe.

Being taken prisoner had done nothing to calm Megatron or make him less of a deadly opponent. With Ultra Magnus out of commission, all Optimus could do was try to buy time while the Autobots got themselves organized. The battle had already raged for almost five minutes, a near eternity for Optimus, who, as much as he hated to admit it, was certainly not built for war. He could only hold off for so long, and with no allies en route, he was essentially a sitting duck.

Every dodged attack slowed him down. Each hit he managed to land seemed to bounce right off of the warlord. Even with the Allspark resting within its casing around his neck, providing him with energy he sorely needed, he was still losing. Bit by bit, he was pushed back closer toward civilian regions. It had never gotten this bad, not even on Earth.

“Foolish Prime. You will learn the meaning of suffering for daring to put me in chains.” Megatron flew at him yet again, and all Optimus could do was struggle to keep his frame from overheating as he forced himself to dodge. Unfortunately, Megatron was faster, hitting his jetpack with a well timed strike and finally sending him careening toward the ground. Optimus adjusted mid-fall, slowing his descent and landing on his pedes. However, as he attempted to get back into the skies in the hopes that it would limit civilian casualties, his jetpack failed to function. It puttered uselessly against his back, reminding Optimus again of just how dire things really were.

“I’m not going down without taking you with me!” He taunted his foe, running as far away from housing districts as possible. The Allspark weighed heavily around his neck, thrumming with strange energy he did not understand. It did little to aid him, but its glow reminded Optimus of what he was fighting for. 

Megatron could not win. Not while Optimus still functioned.

“I will strip you of your armor, one plate at a time!” Megatron roared in outrage, landing with a thunderous crash that left Optimus reeling. He clutched the Magnus hammer, not letting himself focus on the faint tremor of his digits as he raised the weapon high. He checked his comms, frantically letting his optics flicker around the area in hopes that someone, anyone, would come to his aid.

He saw and heard nothing. No one was coming. He was alone.

“I’d like to see you try.” He could sense the stress warnings for his servos running across his vision, but Optimus dismissed them. He needed to keep fighting, to buy more time for Sentinel to get things in order as acting Magnus. He doubted his former friend would actually aid him, but if Optimus could do something to give the Autobots a chance, then he would gladly put his life on the line yet again.

He took a deep vent, the world slowing around him as Megatron unsheathed his blade and leapt forward. Optimus distinctly recalled wondering if there would be anything left of his frame once the battle was done as the warlord’s blade met his hammer. 

The shock rattled his entire frame, knocking his shoulder from its socket. He didn’t have time to cry out in pain before he was forced to try and block another hit, then another, and another. He tried to fight back, but every time he tried to land an attack, Megatron’s blade cut through his armor like it was made of tinfoil. He was covered in gashes, each burning as they bled. He stumbled, trying to keep his balance as Megatron smiled, stalking forward and pushing Optimus up against a wall. 

“This is what happens when you play soldier, Optimus Prime. Now, you will die like the disposable pawn you are.” Optimus spit up energon, coughing as he clutched a particularly deep wound with one servo. The Magnus hammer was held weakly up in front of him, his entire arm shaking from the effort as he prepared to block. Part of him hoped that his team would arrive and save his sorry aft. The rest of him was praying for a decently quick and honorable end, perhaps a blaster shot to the spark.

Unfortunately for him, Megatron had other plans.

The warlord swung his blade, sending the Magnus hammer flying away from Optimus’s grasp. He cursed, getting into a combat position despite how battered and tired he was. His vents were flared wide, his fans running on their highest setting as he panted and tried to play hero. Everything ached and burned, his vision flickering from energon loss. But he was not given a chance to even try to preserve his honor as the hilt of Megatron’s blade collided with his helm, knocking him to the ground.

He cried out in pain, no longer able to stifle the agony of his failing frame. He heard Megatron laugh as a kick landed on his abdomen, sending Optimus flying against the wall behind him and leaving him to purge what little he had in his tanks before coughing up energon that had to have come from something internal being ruptured. 

He shook in terror that he could no longer mask as the warlord loomed above him, his towering frame now no longer anything close to the storybook villain Optimus had come to know. He prayed for salvation as Megatron took his time, hitting him again and again and kicking him around like some sort of training dummy. Every hit broke something else, shattering plating or snapping components that were likely vital. 

Optimus tried to be brave. He tried to keep being snarky, if only to buy time. But as he lay utterly beaten amidst the rubble of their battleground, he could only cry while pulling himself into a sitting position. There was nothing he could do now except try to die with a small iota of dignity. 

“Ratchet, Bulkhead, Bumblebee, Sari… I’m sorry I won’t be coming back to all of you.” A choked sob broke through his tortured venting. As Megatron cackled, Optimus touched the container the Allspark still sat within. He prayed in silence, hoping that the phenomenon that gave him life would heed his quiet plea. 

He wasn’t religious. He had no god to worship as the humans did. But he still hoped… that maybe, somehow, the thing that made him would have mercy on his spark.

“Goodbye, Prime.” Megatron’s blaster powered on, sickening purple and flooding Optimus’s vision as he raised his helm in one final act of defiance. If he were to fall, he was going to do so, looking death in the optic. He would not cower, not even in his final moments.

He stared down the blaster barrel, uncaring of how it made his optics flicker due to the brightness. But as he watched his death come closer, he felt warmth emanate from the container around his neck. He dared not look away from Megatron, but as blue light began to drown out the purple, Optimus could only gasp in awe at what occurred mere nano-kliks later.

A shot fired, but it was not Megatron’s blaster putting Optimus six feet under. Instead, bright blue energy impacted Megatron’s armor, scorching his seemingly untouchable plating and earning a cry from the warlord. Optimus gawked, his agony momentarily forgotten as he followed the source of the shot, his optics setting on a figure that towered over even Megatron.

A faint blue figure flickered in and out of existence, becoming more solid with every passing moment. Optimus’s optics widened as the mech stepped forward, his frame setting into reality as he held his arm up, the limb having transformed into a blaster without so much as a klik of hesitation. He stood proudly, his armor battered and scarred but still strong. His shoulders were sharp, and an autobot badge stood out clearly amidst the scratches and dents. His legs were long and built for combat; his waist was thin but his torso was heavily armored. A crack ran along his windshields, but it seemed to mean nothing for the mech who stood so powerfully on the battlefield.

Optimus watched in complete awe as the mech stalked forward, a battlemask firmly in place on his face as he fired shot after shot at Megatron. With grace that Optimus had never seen in anyone before, the mech strode forward, breaking into a steady run as his arms turned from guns to blades. In an instant, the mech, who looked so much like Optimus in color and overall design, met Megatron in combat. Their blades sparked, their grunts of exertion echoed across the battlefield.

Megatron tried to push back, but the mech was swift with his blades, cutting through Megatron’s defenses and slashing his armor clean open with rapid movements. Megatron stumbled back, screaming a curse in a language Optimus did not know. The mech, his counterpart, responded in kind with a quick kick to the chassis, sending the warlord sprawling after a pitifully short fight. It seemed that despite his failure to bring down his foe, Optimus had indeed tired him enough so that his counterpart had little issue bringing him to his knees.

A smug part of his spark flared in glee at the revelation.

“Serves you right, you glitch.” He raised a middle finger in Megatron’s direction as Autobots finally appeared in the distance. His counterpart knocked Megatron upside the helm, forcing the Decepticon leader into temporary recharge. Then, without a second thought, he came to kneel before Optimus, his battlemask slipping away.

“I apologize for failing to assist you sooner, little brother. The call of the Matrix can be slow at times.” Optimus carefully reset his optics, but the scene did not change as his counterpart tenderly picked him up as if he were but a newbuild. The Allspark pulsed against his chassis in response.

“It seems your reality has different rules than mine, but you need not fear. We are one and the same, merely separated by time and a barrier between worlds.” The other mech, the other Optimus, smiled in a soft manner before holding Optimus close. He coughed weakly, the pain slowly overwhelming his senses as his counterpart held him close. He wanted to speak, to ask who this mech really was.

But he found his questions answered as the other Optimus carried him to his team, passing him off to a very worried Ratchet. He stared, still in shock, as the other Prime began to flicker and fade, his existence starting to vanish like smoke.

“Rest well, young Prime. May Primus light your path.” With those final words, the other Prime disappeared as if he’d never been there in the first place. Megatron was bound and carted off, Ratchet strapped him to a gurney and rushed to get him hooked up to an IV. All the while, Optimus stared up at the sky uselessly.

He didn’t know how or why, but through the thing that hung around his neck, Optimus had been saved by another version of himself. A mech who carried his name, his burden, and his rank.

He’d had his life preserved by a brother.

[bluetooththereptile]

Black Robin

(Yandere Tim drake x twin brother reader x yandere Bruce Wayne)

( English is not my first language so I apologize for any mistakes in the following text.)

Note: I couldn't resist making this, Tim's personality and also Bruce's possessiveness to his adoptive children and sometimes his cold indifference are ripe for making agnst and a good fic!

Summary: Your stubbornness ends tonight, and Bruce will make sure of that.

Tw: mentions of abuse

"Are you out of your mind?!"  you were taken aback by Tim's shout, your eyes widening behind your mask slightly. The always composed and nervous Tim was now yelling at you, well, this was new. You shifted on your feet in the dark place, sighing as you crossed your arms on your chest, trying to not groan since the bruise on your chest hurt to the touch. "Please just spare these words" you grunted, but your response only made Tim more livid, and he took a hold of your jacket, pulling you closer to him "You will come home with me!" He hissed "And that's final!"

You pushed Tim away with a scoff "Woha...easy right there bro, slow down, I'm not coming back, not after finally finding the place I deserve!" Tim couldn't help but let out a forced bitter chuckle "Deserve? Look at you! You're all bruised and battered, wearing a cheap leather jacket and military pants, and your only gadget is probably comms, you are dragging yourself around without proper care and you call it a deserving place?! Is your hatred for me that strong?"

You rolled your eyes, groaning, dear God how many of these conversations you've had already with him? Probably close to a thousand times. "Look, bro, I'm an adult, I can make my own decisions-" "Don't bro me!" Tim's voice echoed in the dark empty alleyway, after the joint mission of Batman and Midnighter, Tim finally after a whole year of not facing you had dragged you away so you could talk.

"I could understand your frustration and anger, I could have tried to make things right, I knew you were by the fact that you were not chosen as the Robin, I can understand that you didn't get enough attention and you wanted to be a hero yourself, but you couldn't leave just like that!" Pushing Tim away from you, you finally snapped "Wait a damn minute!" You took your mask off so you could talk to him properly. Approaching him you looked deep into his eyes, looking at your reflection in them and Tim winced a little at the hint of smoke on your lips, his brows furrowing as he realized what you had been smoking before the mission. You then sighed and looked away, looking down at the puddle of water on the ground. Damn, you were indeed bruised up, you were still a rookie and the hero responsible for you, Midnighter truthfully didn't have many rules for you to follow, just do the things and get them done by any means necessary, I don't care, which meant you had to do everything yourself, ending up as an official mess. In the past year, you had strained yourself so much that you couldn't recognize yourself in the mirror anymore.

Sure you were Tim's identical twin, you looked nearly the same, minus the eyes of course, but you had changed from that, your body had bulked up under the pressure of constant training under Midnighter's eyes and the diet of protein bars, you didn't have time to eat so you had to resort to those, you had forgotten the taste of normal food, yet you refused to complain. The only reason that Midnighter had taken you in was your stubbornness and willpower, no one wanted to take Batman's boy in when the old bat didn't like the idea of it, you had to prove him you were worth taking in. You had to cut your hair short to cut out the water bills, oh right, he didn't pay for you either, you had to work your ass off to make some money for yourself, you just hated working at fast food joints, sometimes you wanted to serve some Karens some of those knuckle sandwiches Midnighter gave you when you messed up. Around your eyes were still smudged with the smoky eye makeup your new friends had put on you for last night's concert, personal hygiene was sort of out of the window for you, but you still kept pushing. You were a mess, but still an independent mess out of Tim's shadow.

"I chose this path and I'm happy with it! It's none of your business anymore!" You finally spoke, "Oh so all of a sudden when you are 18 you can do whatever the hell you want?" Tim sighed as he crossed his arms "Yeah?" You answered, "We both know Bruce had only let you go just to make you realize your place is with the family!" Tim's response wasn't that farfetched, you knew Bruce was capable enough to drag your sulking ass back to the Manor but he had chosen not to, why? You weren't sure, perhaps it was because he wanted to punish you for being too rebellious, the thought made you shudder.

"Whatever..." you waved your hand in the air "You know that I don't want to go back from this path" Tim scoffed "Oh? Being the "Black Robin" is that good?" He teased you about your name, making you let out a soft groan in irritation. Midnighter was mistaken as Batman and now you, as his sidekick, was the black Robin, another mistaken identity, well you did look like Tim, just larger in muscle mass. "Yes, it's better than being compared to you all the time!" You snapped at your twin, making his lips turn into a frown. You had hit a nerve, well it was progress.

"You were always the one that was better, you were the Robin and then the Red Robin, while I had to train harder and harder, watching you get all the attention while I was just there!" You continued "You know it's not true, Bruce adopted you as well, you are still his son! You were not chosen as Robin because he wanted someone more...smart..." You rolled your eyes at that, you had heard all of those excuses so many times, you wanted something more out of your life, and you had decided to get something out of it one way or another.

When Tim was adopted you had dragged along him, but since Bruce needed help, he examined you both but he found Tim more fitting for the role. At first, you were happy for your brother, but as time progressed on, that feeling turned into resentment, Tim was the nervous smart brother, always getting the attention of others, especially Bruce, while you pushed yourself to your limits, yet since you were more capable than your brother, Bruce thought of you more of a pillar of trust for Tim while he wasn't there, but you wanted more, you wanted his attention, his fucking love, you wanted to feel like a true son, so if he didn't want to pay you attention, you'd rebel, and you did it on your 18th birthday, and your life had become a hellish arena after that, but you still kept pushing, unknowingly digging your own grave.

Your bickering with Tim was interrupted by a loud bang, and before you could react Midnighter had been thrown over two buildings, his landing making a hole into the wall close to you and your twin. Who... who had done that?! Who could do that to the superhuman clad in black? Oh no...The soft thud onto the ground and that familiar presence...oh no no no no...it was the big bat himself.

"Shit," you and Tim said in union "language" Bruce's stern voice made you clamp your lips close, you hadn't seen him like that before, his gaze burying deep into your wide eyes as he approached you with that imposing figure. "Black Robin" your hero's name rolled onto his tongue with a dark tone. "How fitting" he continued before he suddenly reached out and grabbed you by your jaws, making your mouth open.

You were too afraid to talk, you knew he wouldn't listen even if you wanted to talk "Three teeth..." Bruce hummed, before tightening his grip, making you let out a soft groan of pain "Cracked jaw..." he added "Muscle tissue of your left eyelid is hurt, your ear is broken and this is just for the head..." he hissed "I had warned him before to not touch any of my boys..." he let go of you but his hand moved to take a hold of your jacket as he looked down at you.

"Malnourished and still high on drugs, what was he thinking?!" He growled before looking up at you again, he leaned closer as he took a sniff of you, his grip tightening even more "And you've been smoking...it's the same brand as he does..."

"B-bat-" "Silence..." Bruce snapped at you, "Being mistaken for me is one thing I can sort of tolerate, but stealing my boy from me is something I can not overlook...look at you Y/N!..." he pulled you closer to him "You are on the path of self-destruction! You are no superhuman, you are a young one in need of care!" Your throat dried up as he spoke, you knew the consequences of your actions were creeping to get closer to you.

Bruce's heart ached at your sight, he shouldn't have let you go, he had thought no one would take you in and within a month you'd be back into his arms, begging for forgiveness and he'd punish you lightly. You reminded him so much of himself, that was why he didn't want you to get into the world of heroes, yet his worst nightmare had happened and you had plunged into the worst scenario head first like a mad bull.

"You're coming home with us" Bruce's words were final as he took you in "H-hey!" You wanted to pull away but his hold was too strong, he didn't bat an eye at your struggles "You need stitches and a new set of teeth, and when you are ready enough, I'll whip you into the right shape of the Black Robin..." his last words made your shudder in fear, he was angry, but deep down, a small part of you was happy that your dad had finally come for you.

You were strapped into the Batmobile and Tim sat close to you, holding onto your arm tightly, you felt something tug on your heart, that look in his eyes, you knew that too well, you were just minutes older than him but he still looked up at you as his older brother, perhaps you'd reconsider your decision and give in...perhaps...only time could tell. 

[softgreengrass]

I’ll Survive

Natasha Romanoff x reader

Summary: happy then sad then happy, requested, supersoldier!r but it’s not relevant to plot

Word Count: 2.7K

Warnings: death, grief

A/N: thanks for the request!

You and Natasha are in the gym when FRIDAY calls a meeting.

“Come on, is that all you got?” she grins, leaning into the punching bag with all her weight.

You fire a few more jabs, and her feet slip back a little. Sweat rolls down your forehead.

“Attention, all,” FRIDAY’s voice rings out. “Mission briefing in the conference room. 10 minutes.”

You don’t stop your barrage of punches, your eyes locked onto the Avengers logo in the center of the bag.

“You sure you’re ready to get back into it?” Natasha asks.

You’ve been coming off of an injury for a few months now. Bad intel, a trap, a bullet straight through your femur — being on bedrest was your seventh circle of hell.

Instead of answering, you wind your fist back and hit the bag hard enough to send it flying across the room, taking Natasha with it. She slams against the wall and laughs.

You wipe your face with a towel before walking over and kicking the bag away from her. “Sorry.”

“Super soldiers,” she mutters, shaking her head.

You offer her a hand. She takes it, rising to her feet, and leans into your chest. Butterflies shoot through your stomach.

“You sure you’re ready?” she asks softly.

“Yeah.”

Her eyes flick down to your lips, and you pull her into a slow kiss. Her hands find the back of your neck, lace through your hair. It only lasts a few seconds before she swipes her foot behind your leg and shoves your shoulders hard.

You land flat on your back with a groan.

“10 minutes, killer,” she smirks. “And don’t ever do that again.”

You’re the last one in the conference room, and there are no seats left around the table. Cap shoots you a disapproving glance as you close the door behind you.

“Hope no one made any weekend plans,” Cap clears his throat. “Because we’re heading to Russia.”

Tony groans obnoxiously. “Come on, really?”

The holographic screen suspended above the table turns on, showing the floor plans of the Kremlin. Everyone falls silent.

“This isn’t a villain of the week, guys,” Steve sighs. “Hell, it’s not even HYDRA.”

You whistle, and Rhodey glares at you.

“As far as we can tell, the Russian government is doing this entirely of their own accord. The only one pulling the strings is Putin.”

“What are they doing?” Clint asks, leaning back in his chair.

“They want to put nukes in space.” Steve presses his clicker and the screen shows the earth and a dozen orbits around it. “That’s a one-way ticket to world war three.”

“And you want us to, what, eat the nukes?” Tony asks.

Cap clenches his jaw. “The Department of Defense wants us to make sure they don’t launch. My plan makes sure Putin won’t ever get the chance to.”

“You want to assassinate him?” Natasha asks quickly.

Steve faces her. “I want you to.”

Your eyes meet Natasha’s through the projection, and you swallow.

“He’s gotta be the most well-protected guy on the planet,” Bruce says.

“That’s a suicide mission!” Clint cries.

“Which is why we’re all going,” Steve says, in that authoritative old man tone that shuts everyone up. “Banner’s right. It’s going to take all of us just to get a chance.”

“Pretty sure assassinating the Russian president is an act of war,” you say. “Number two in command is just gonna send those nukes up and point them straight at the Pentagon.”

Everyone is quiet for a moment. Then they turn towards Steve.

“Which is why I have a plan,” he says firmly.

You don’t like it one bit. Not one bit. Natasha, undercover for two weeks without comms. Clint posing as a diplomat. The rest of you hunkered underground, waiting for the right moment to invade the Kremlin. It’s almost recklessly risky. And yet, Steve has his full faith in it, which means the rest of you do too.

That night, Natasha holds onto you tightly. She’s terrified to go back there, regardless of what she says. It’s worse than going after one cell, or even the Red Room itself. It’s the man behind the curtain who’s been controlling it all.

“It’s going to go fine,” she murmurs, wrapping her arms around your waist and pulling you further into her.

“It is,” you say. You take her hands and press them into your sternum. You’d only succeeded in being the big spoon a couple times — never when she was stressed. So you stare at the wall. “I mean it.”

“Me too,” her breath fans against the back of your neck. “We’ve done harder things before, haven’t we?”

“Oh, absolutely,” you exhale. “I mean, aliens? AI? Bruce when he’s hungry?”

She laughs, and that eases some of the pressure on your heart. “Worst case, I’ll survive.”

“You always do.”

“I always do,” she smiles. “And best case, I take care of him, you get rid of the cabinet, and Steve slides in his new leader. And we get out of there and go to… I don’t know. The Dominican Republic.”

“The Dominican Republic?”

“Why not?” she kisses your shoulder. “A vacation. Moscow’ll be a pretty intense way to get back into the action. You’ll deserve a break.”

“I’ve been on a break for three months,” you snort.

“Oh come on, you don’t want a piña colada? Palm trees? White sand beaches?”

“Well when you put it like that,” you say, turning around to face her. “I guess we could go to the Dominican Republic.”

She smiles, tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. “Promise?”

You could stare into the green of her eyes forever. “Promise.”

Not three weeks later, you sit staring at a computer screen in a bunker a hundred feet below Red Square. Tony sits to your left. There’s no point in watching the feed, since all of the cameras are outside of the Kremlin and Natasha walked in an hour ago, but you can’t help it. You feel powerless.

For ten days, Natasha has been Alina Konstantinovna Petrova, a middle-aged politician who just got back from a stint in Belarus. When she emerged wearing the nanotech mask for the first time, you genuinely didn’t recognize her. Her voice, her gait, her mannerisms — all changed. Sometimes you forget she’s the world’s greatest spy.

But with no comms and no tracker, all you have is your faith in that fact. Just your trust in her.

If she’s on schedule, she should be having tea with the Prime Minister, but really she could be anywhere, doing anything. There’s absolutely no way for you to know.

“You know,” Wanda sighs, tipping back in her office chair and tossing a tennis ball into the air. “I don’t think all of us had to be here.”

“Agreed,” Tony grumbles. “I was supposed to be at a gala right now.”

“Do you think-”

“Quiet!” Steve orders, narrowing his eyes at the screen. “Do you see that? Is that smoke?”

You lean closer. It is smoke, pouring out of a second-floor window, and it makes your stomach drop.

Steve taps into the emergency comms in Clint’s ear. “Is there a fire? What’s going on?”

“I don’t know,” Clint’s voice replies, hushed. “I don’t know, they put us into a ballroom. I don’t know where she is.”

“Shit,” Steve mutters.

“What do we do?” you ask, rising to your feet.

Steve grimaces. “If… if we make contact now, she won’t have a shot. It’ll all be for nothing.”

“The Kremlin isn’t usually on fire,” you snap.

“I’m sure she can handle it,” he glares back. His voice is dangerously quiet when he speaks again. “She knows what’s on the line here.”

But five minutes later, the smoke hasn’t stopped. It’s spread. Clint and the other diplomats are being evacuated.

You keep your eyes glued to the feed, scanning for Alina Petrova’s face among the crowd. She never emerges, but neither do the Prime Minister or cabinet. Maybe there’s a hidden exit.

Just when it seems like the fire is coming under control and the chaos is cooling, the cameras cut out.

You rush for the exit immediately, Tony and Steve right on your heels. Your entire body goes numb as you climb the ladder.

It’s probably fine, you think, hands squeezing the rungs too tight. The fire burned a power line, or the government stopped the footage to protect their image. She’s fine. She’s fine.

You heave the manhole cover out of place with your shoulder, hoisting yourself onto the street and ignoring the pedestrians who stare at you.

It’s absolute pandemonium. There’s a crater where half of the Kremlin used to be, and the other half is engulfed in flames. You sprint towards it.

Steve immediately shouts after you, but all you can hear is the rush of blood in your ears.

Maybe there’s a hidden exit. She had to have noticed the fire, she would’ve escaped, she would’ve made it out. She would’ve.

The police that are always stationed around the Kremlin make a border around it, though no one except you is trying to go towards the burning building.

“Ostanavis’!” they yell, but you hurdle their makeshift barricade.

If she was on schedule, she would’ve been on the east side, top floor. The heat doesn’t even register in your mind.

You root through rubble as fast as you can, barely noticing when Wanda and Steve join you in your search. Smoke stings your eyes and fills your lungs until you can barely choke out a breath.

There are heaps of ash that might’ve once been people, might’ve once been Natasha.

You climb trembling supports to get to the second floor: there are bones there, even fragments of medals and jewelry. The farther you get from the crater the less charred the bodies become. But you can only get so close to the live blaze, and none of the bodies are hers. The skin on your hands begins to blister from red-hot ash and metal.

At some point Steve pulls you away, ignores the way you claw at him and scream that you won’t leave her. The three of you (Tony, Bruce, and Rhodey had been wise enough to run away from flaming wreckage) end up in a Russian prison, charged as enemies of the state responsible for the fire and ensuing blast.

By the time the Department of Defense negotiates you out, you’ve convinced yourself that Natasha must’ve escaped. There’s no other option. She couldn’t die. If you didn’t find her, she couldn’t have been there. She must’ve gotten out.

But when you walk into SHIELD’s Moscow base, she isn’t there. It’s only Fury and Clint.

“Where is she?” you ask, rushing towards them. Everyone else seems to slip out of the room.

Fury’s eyes stay trained on you, swimming with something you don’t want to decipher. Your heart pounds against your chest

“Where is she?”

“She’s dead,” Clint says, his voice raw.

“No,” you respond immediately. “No, she isn’t.”

He closes his eyes.

No. You see a flash of her smile, of the jacket she loved. You feel the ghost of her touch on your face.

“I thought she faked it,” Fury says after a moment. “But… we made a deal a few years ago. If one of us faked it again we’d leave something behind so the other would know. A ring.”

You’ve never heard his voice so weak before. Somehow it’s scarier than anything else.

“But there was no ring,” he clears his throat. “Just this.”

He holds out his hand, opens it. The necklace you gave Natasha last year is bunched up on his palm, dark with soot. Your knees almost give out. She never takes it off, not to sleep or train or go undercover. She would never leave it behind.

Reality dawns on you like an awful black wave. Natasha is dead.

“I’m sorry,” Fury says, resting a hand on your shoulder. You can’t feel it. Every breath, every blink is manual now, every movement an act of will.

Worst case, I’ll survive.

You just want to hug her again. Just see her face one more time, knowing it’ll be the last. Suddenly a deep red rage fills your vision, and your muscles twitch to strangle whoever set the fire, whoever planted the bomb.

“There was no body?” you ask hoarsely. You can’t tear your eyes from the necklace.

Fury shakes his head. “Ash.”

A lump forms in your throat that won’t leave for weeks. You feel like you’re looking at everything through frosted glass, frozen in the moments that you just held. It’s like you’ve been caught in a spiderweb.

You don’t cry until you set foot inside her room at the compound. Everything is just how she left it, like she just stepped out. Like she’ll come back any second now.

The covers on her bed are rumpled.

You can’t wrap your kind around the fact that she could be gone, vanished into thin air, reduced to dust. That she’ll never touch anything again. You sit down on the floor and hug your knees.

For a few days you don’t eat; you don’t speak for longer. The gaping hole in your chest churns and twists in an agonizing way. Every night you dream of refusing Steve’s plan, or going up as soon as you saw the smoke, or doing anything except sitting idly while she burned alive.

You’re at Steve’s throat often enough that Tony kicks you both out of the compound. It’s not like either of you are of use, anyways. The others manage to channel their sorrow into work. You don’t.

Clint takes time off, too. Laura manages to convince you it’ll be good.

But with nothing to distract you, you feel the pain of every passing moment. Every minute that you get older and she doesn’t. You don’t want to have to think of a life without her in it.

Weeks or months into your dull gray blur of a life, someone knocks on your door. You hope it’s not Steve. You don’t know if it’s the season, but you could spring for a box of Thin Mints.

It’s not a girl scout. It’s Natasha.

Your eyes go wide; your face pales. Nanotech mask? Clone? “A-Are you real?”

She wheezes out your name, keeps her hands clutched to her side.

“Is it really you?” you ask, your eyes welling with tears and your hands trembling as you reach out to touch her.

“I missed you,” she breathes, her eyes roaming your face.

She has a black eye and a split lip. It’s her. You drink in the green of her eyes and the red of her hair and the softness of her face and you can’t keep the sobs from escaping. She crashes into your arms, ignoring the throbbing pain in her ribs. She smells like sweat and home.

Natasha is crying too, shaking, her face hidden in your chest. You close your eyes and tilt your head down to rest your lips on her head.

“You’re hurt,” you say when you remember how to speak.

She pulls away and kisses you deeply. It feels like God blessing you, even if it tastes like blood. She’s real. You don’t let go of her until she gently pushes you away.

“We should go inside,” she whispers.

You’re in a daze for half an hour, while you wrap her ribs and bandage the gash on her arm. She doesn’t leave your gaze for one second. When you’re finally satisfied that she won’t drop dead, you collapse onto the couch next to her.

She climbs on top of you, pulls you close.

“They were onto me,” she murmurs into your hair. “I had to escape, I couldn’t let them think I was alive.”

Anger roars in your chest. “I’m not losing you again.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“I’m going to kill them,” you growl, wrapping your arms around her securely.

“I’ll help,” she says, and you can hear the smile in her voice. “They’re probably coming here.”

“You were followed?”

“I wanted to see you,” she sighs. “I didn’t take all the precautions.”

You laugh and bury your face into the crook of her neck. “You think we can go to the Dominican Republic after?”

“I’ll break up with you if we don’t.”

[anon-e-miss]

Reformation - 5

“Ori?” Jazz took his bass off the wall and strummed it, playing scales as a means to steady his processor as he opened the comm link he shared with his originator.

“What do ya need, Love?” Punch asked as he answered.

“Got good site to order some forgivin’ armour off of?” Jazz asked. 

“Get in some trouble?” Punch asked.

“Went through my rut wit an Omega Bot,” Jazz explained. “Got’m wit spark. Now even his low cut scrap is pinchin’ ‘n ‘m thinking’ it ain’t gonna get better.”

“Probably didn’t get a proper fittin��,” Punch replied. “ I’ll sent ya a link. Get somethin’ wit adjustable panels for now.”

“Thanks,” Jazz told him. “I told’m ya’d help’m when he’s ready to talk ‘bout all the stuff wit carryin’. He ain’t ready yet. He’s been through Pit.”

“I know my bitty so I know ya weren’t the one to put’m through it,” Punch said.

“No,” Jazz replied. “Don’t mean it’s any easier for’m.”

Because the armour had removable panels, Jazz could order it straight off the shelf. He paid for a rush delivery, which meant it would be delivered by the light-cycle. It was fast enough. A visit to Ratchet was in order but it could wait a couple of mega-cycles. What Prowl needed right now was to rest away from prying optics. He was going to be under even more scrutiny when they returned to duty. Jazz would have to make sure the line was toed. Prowl would not come to ruin because Jazz sparked him up in a heat. Optimus had shown himself to be protective of his Omega Autobots and that would be helpful, to a point. It would be Ironhide and how he responded who would be the deciding factor, Jazz thought. The weapons master was a Beta and the primary disciplinarian for the drops stationed at the base and he always made a point of showing the cockiest of Alpha Autobots their afts. Jazz had not seen one beat him yet when dared to spare. But he was old, ancient even and he might yet have some opinions on where a gravid Omega was meant to be, home brooding, as an example. If he was slow to enforce Prime’s will, Prowl would have a deeply unfair fight on his servos and it seemed to Jazz he had been through enough.

He had the makings of a good originator, though Jazz did not think it would be a comfort to him to hear that right now. The knowledge he was carrying was a deep psychological blow. Jazz knew his originator, a natural Omega, had not be happy to learn he was carrying after an unexpected heat and the whole carrying had been a miserable ordeal that had nearly killed him. Though a difficult delivery had rendered Punch sterile, it had not spared him heats and the attention of entitled Alphas, at least not until Jazz and Ricochet had been old enough to chase them off, giving Punch the ability to choose who he spent his heats with versus who got to him first. To a point, Ori would be able to empathize with the pain of Prowl’s position and he would also understand that Prowl’s pain was also different, layered, which would make him a good shoulder to lean on, once Prowl was ready.

Jazz was not entirely glad to be in this mess but he was relieved to a point that he had decided to go to the centre to manage his rut. He did not know what sorts of Alphas Prowl had been with before, beyond Lockdown but the enforcer at least seemed to have been a nasty sort of scrap. Just having a heat was traumatizing to Prowl and Jazz might have been arrogant but he did not think another Alpha would have noticed to care. Using aft fragging to help Prowl’s pleasure and his mood had been effective. Would another Alpha have bothered? Would Prowl have felt safe enough to ask? Jazz did not believe they could have been called friends but even when they argued, they worked well together. Prowl was wicked smart and sometimes overcautious so far as ops were concerned. When they worked on something together, they tended to have the most success. In any case, Jazz thought Prowl liked him arguing, it meant he was not dismissing his opinion like many Alphas tried.

“Ready to come out?” Jazz asked. “Maybe have a nap?”

***

The ruby tea was calming. Prowl left the collar on, not ready yet for Jazz to see how thoroughly Lockdown had owned him. It was humiliating. Everything about this was humiliating. He knew he was an Omega, a full Omega as true as one who had emerged with this presentation but he still wondered, still feared that his frame would not be able to give emergence. Would his valve really stretch that much? True an Alpha’s knot was big but a bitlet was bigger. Was his pelvis wide enough? Since Lockdown had broken it before Prowl had even been properly bitched, he did not know if it had widened to allow for such a thing. True, his hips were wider than they had been but some of that was just… pudge. He had never asked if his frame was formatted correctly for emergence because he had never wanted to be kindled. Now he was going to have to ask. He was going to know. It was distressing. An Omega’s carrying was a stellar-cycle long. In that time, his frame would demand contributions. The only Alpha to have spike Prowl out of heat had been Lockdown. Could he even do it? Was he going to waste away because he was too afraid to frag?

“Ready to come out?” Jazz asked. “Maybe have a nap?”

“I do not know,” Prowl replied. “I do not think I could nap. I am tired but my processor is… in turmoil.”

“Can I join ya?” Jazz asked. Prowl nodded. He did not leer when Jazz stripped. He had seen the Alpha’s frame from every angle. It was an attractive frame. Even out of heat Prowl could acknowledge that. “Did ya wanna turn around so I can rub yer back? It might help ya relax.”

“That could help,” Prowl said.

Jazz was gentle and firm as he handled Prowl’s doorwings. He listened, Prowl realized to the joint as he cracked and popped it before activating his magnets. Prowl was overloading, moaning opening before he even realized it. Every drop of tension fled from them and his back and shoulders bled away and the Omega sagged, limp in Jazz’s lap. As Jazz continued to massage the oil from the bath into Prowl’s sentio-metallico, he realized the Alpha’s spike was not hard. The observation let Prowl relax even more. He did not think he could be safer with anyone. Jazz had always been the Autobot Prowl felt safest with, safest to argue with, safest to be alone with. Even after breeding him, Jazz was not acting like he felt free to use Prowl’s frame as it suited him.

“I think a nap would be good now,” Jazz told him. “Don’t ya think?”

“Mhm,” Prowl replied. Jazz lifted him from the bath and towel-dried him. He did not put his own armour back on or Prowl’s on him. With the same ease he had in rut, Jazz lifted Prowl up and he carried him from the washracks and into his berthroom and tucked him into the berth.

“How long did ya want me to leave ya to recharge?” Jazz asked.

“Do not leave me,” Prowl asked. His Omega coding basked in the reassuring field of the Alpha that had bred him. “I am safe with you.”

Jazz cupped his cheekplate: “You are Sweetspark.”

Prowl curled into his side as soon as Jazz laid down and in nanokliks, he was in recharge.

[edelblau]

FINALLY HERE, THE NEW MILES COMMISSION POST (updated to have better examples)

hi im miles and im a hobbyist artist who also happens to be disabled! i get money monthly from a government program, but as you might expect its not a super substantial amount. and since i enjoy doing art and im okay at it, i take commissions!

life is hard and any support i can get via comms or just support from people who like my work and want me to continue doing it is incredibly important to me. if you want to see examples, you can check my ko-fi gallery or art twitter! you can also dm me here on tumblr or on twitter if you have any questions regarding commissions and id be happy to answer (though i can occassionally be slow at replying and i have memory issues which may lead me to stop replying; just send me a quick reminder if this happens)

art is something im very passionate about and its something i can Do even with my broken brain and body and having people support me through comms and donations and whatever else is incredibly helpful and important to me; whether you buy some art or just reblog this post it means a lot! thank you!

ko-fi commissions | main ko-fi page | art twitter

[fluorescentbalaclava]

training season's over

chapter 1: Ground Zero

Summary:

After 5 years of service in KorTac, they consider you capable enough to hold yourself in solo missions. Money and freedom, what else could you ask for? But what feels like a good start, progressively starts to backfire.

TF141/female reader, Konig/female reader

spy reader, forced bonding, slow burn, slow build, militar inaccuracies, suggestive language, language, canon typical violence

This is an introductory chapter. Mandatory mention that English isn't my first language so apologies in advance. Hope you enjoy!

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Movies were absolutely right in one thing, one of the big parts in the life of a spy consisted in being shoved into small spaces for a bit too much time, mostly air vents. A little fact they forgot to add, is how fucking boring it could be while you waited for the for the moment to act.

They are late. You thought as you rested your head against the wall of the same air vent you’ve been in for the last forty-six minutes.

1900 – You were dropped in a nearby building by a car without a number plate, property of KorTac.

1920 - You’ve managed to catch a maintenance man smoking a cigarette on his break, successfully making him nap with an always handy syringe of tranquilizer, stealing his card, as well as his overall and cap, using it to sneak inside the building. Once you got inside, you saw the maintenance cart, and you used it to hide your tool bag. The way up wasn’t too complicated, as everyone seemed to respect the uniform, probably assuming something just needed to be fixed, and since you had the maintenance key card, you didn’t have to ask for permission to get through doors.

1945 – You were already on the roof, after what felt like a life climbing stairs to avoid most of the cameras, you discarded the uniform, and got everything needed from your bag before letting it hang from your back. You walked to the edge of the roof, big fall but not a big gap between buildings, you knew you could make the jump, but before that, you pressed the comm.

“Sage to Control, how copy?” You said quietly, while taking a moment while you wait to admire the view of the city. Perfect October day, the night already fell, the cold breeze hit your face, making you lift your face mask, only leaving your eyes uncovered. The streets beneath were full of traffic, full of lights, full of life.

“Control to Sage, send traffic.” Your station chief said through the comm, reminding you that you were here for work, not to admire the view.

“I’m in my first position, everything peachy so far. Remind me to check on the tied-up janitor in the alleyway on my way back”.

“For now, just try to get in there without a fuss. Remember---”

“I know, no execution authority, don’t get caught, recovery mission only. Get the intel without the 141 noticing, got it. I’m not a rookie anymore, remember? Playing on the big leagues now” You said with a hint of amusement, and the man behind the comm could hear the smile on your voice, which made him sigh.

“Listen, Sage, I know the first solo mission sounds exciting, but König was right to be worried when we left. The 141 is a dangerous unit, you must avoid contact by any means necessary…I don’t even know why they’re sending you alone in this, I think it’s a bit irrespon---”

“---sible to send a rookie? Don’t worry, I am not planning on getting caught. And for your information, I am being sent because all the other spies from the force are already in other missions, and I’m the only one left that fits into an air vent…but honestly, it’ll be fine, and if not, please bury me with my Sylvanian Families collection.” You said as you were eyeing the jumping distance, letting out a grunt as you throw your tool bag, which landed in the roof of the other building. “141 is supposed to be here at 2030 according to the intel, right? I should get going to get in position. I will listen but I will have to cut contact from my end, update me on the status”.

“You have a Sylvanian Families collection?” The voice now sounded confused on the other side of the frequency.

“Unimportant now. Update me on the status of the guests every 15 minutes. Over” You said before cutting communication on your side.

You took a few steps back, before running to the edge and jumping, landing on your feet in the next roof, which made you feel a small sense of pride, and it was a shame no one was there to witness your dexterity skills

The briefing for this mission made it very clear that this was a very important one, hour after hour spent studying the blueprint of the building, the map of the air system, and going through multiple contingency plans for every scenario that could happen. Alone, back in your bunk bed, you felt that the blueprint was already burned into your eyelids. Not only that, but four manila folders were often read back-to-back by you, and four names were constantly in your head.

Price.

Ghost.

Soap.

Gaz.

The folders contained multiple transcriptions of some of their communications, information of previous deployments, and some of their personal data. You also got some files on your work laptop containing security videos obtained of them. They were not only clearly bigger than you, but their form didn’t stop them from being able to be sneaky and fast. If they found you around, for sure you were dead.

From the roof, you went down an air vent with the help of a rope, until you reached a horizontal vent, which allowed you to start crawling. It was easy from here, forward, then left, then right, and straight until you reached the vent over two hallways in the shape of a T, and in the hall at the side there was a large window with view to the city, where the 141 was supposed to arrive any minute now. The hall was empty, as the armed guards were outside, protecting the three doors that connected the main building to the halls, and there it was, a heavy metal door that led to the office when the needed intel was. Some files about imports and exports, you weren’t really given much information about them, only their label to be able to identify them and the order to burn the rest of the papers.

Going down the air vent to the office wasn’t an option, as it would trigger the security system, the only way was to get in from the front with the keycard but get it from the guards directly would get the attention of the rest of them, going against the orders of being subtle. You had to wait for the 141, and use them as a distraction, knock the guard, steal the keycard, create further distractions, steal the files and leave a charge of explosives in the office. Easy-peasy.

“Control to Sage. They were dropped by a helo on the top of the building. Get ready to act. Over” The words snapped you out of your boredom, and you already felt your body pumping adrenaline to get you ready to move.

Soon enough, a loud crash of glass broke the silence, followed by three loud stomps on the floor, making the shattered glass on the floor crack underneath their boots. They seemed even bigger in person but given their entrance they were stealthier in the recorded footage.

“Bravo 0-7 to Watcher-1. We are in position, waiting for contact” A husky voice said, and you recognized the man as Ghost, which wasn’t hard considering he was wearing the same skull mask as in the files. The three men had their arms ready, and you heard the sound of the keycard granting access, soon followed by gunshots. The first ones to go down were the guards of the hall that was beneath you, the two dead bodies falling into the ground. But the group didn’t have a rest as guards started shooting from the other doors, and from the fallen guards corpses you could hear how they others were calling for back ups through the comms.

Shit. Be fast.

You opened the vent grid, the sound of shooting covering the sounds of metal, and taking advantage of the situation, you threw a smoke grenade at their feet.

“Fuck!” Another voice said as smoke starting to cloud the vision of a part of the hall. You quickly dropped from the air vent, your feet barely making any sound against the ground, and you crouched, stealing the key card from the dead guard, and quickly making your way to the office, not before throwing another smoke grenade at them to keep them busy.

The key card granted you access, deactivating the security system, and you quickly entered the empty office, hearing some coughing from the outside, and more shooting and screaming that got muffled as soon as you closed the door. You quickly put a chair on the door, in case they would try to get in, it would grant you some more minutes.

You searched through the office, not bothering to be tidy, just dropping the papers on the floor…and then you found the file, a twinkle of excitement appeared in your eyes as you put the folder in your mouth, stepping over the desk and taking from your bag a little box of tools. You took out a screwdriver, and tried to rapidly, but calmly, unscrew the grid of the air vent. Your eyes widened when you heard a loud “Clear!” from down the hallway, followed by heavy footsteps. You managed to make the grid fell, and you swiftly climbed into it. Once up there, you threw the explosives down the office with a detonator, which grant you three minutes to crawl your way out of the air vent. As you passed by, you could see the task force going through the corpses to find a keycard.

“Found one, LT” You heard underneath you, as one of them stood up, holding a key card. Mohawk = Soap, you thought to yourself.

“Wait, you hear that?” Another one says. Pretty boy = Gaz.

You stopped on your tracks, not even breathing. Before you heard a gasp for air coming from a guard, followed by a shot.

“Found it” Ghost answered.

You felt relief flooding your body, but you couldn’t enjoy your small victory properly as the sound of the explosion left your ears ringing. A heavy warmth flooded the air vent, and under you, the sound of glass, grunts and three heavy bodies falling onto the ground. Your ears were still ringing, the heat was slowly becoming unbearable, and the smell of smoke flooded the narrow space as you tried to crawl faster through it.

As you reached the vertical vent, you used your ascender and quickly got to the top. You gasped for air as you felt the cold autumn breeze on your face. As your eyes adjusted to the night, you saw the ropes and some other equipment the 141 left behind them. It wasn’t time to rest yet, as you took the file out of your mouth, saving it to your bag, before throwing it across the gap and into the roof you came from. Soon enough, you followed after, jumping across the gap between both buildings.

Your fall wasn’t as graceful as the first, accidentally missing a step and landing on your knees with a grunt. But you let yourself fall on your back against the concrete. Your face felt like it was burning, the breeze was pleasant against your flushed skin, your clothes and hair reeking of smoke, but once again oxygen was filling your lungs. As you catch your breath, you pressed your comm.

“Sage to Control. How copy?” You asked in a low voice, panting.

“Control to Sage. Are you okay?” The voice quickly answered.

“Yeah, yeah, got the intel. I’m in one piece. Ready for extraction, a shower, and a nap”

“Copy, Sage. Picking you up on the alley, remember to untie the handy man”.

Back in the base the mission was considered so successful that for the next few months your rank went from sergeant to "Task Force 141 shadow" as the first mission and your survival rate apparently meant that you were the first choice for any mission that involved them. They considered the indirect approach worked better than directly engaging in combat against them, which left casualties between the KorTac ranks in the past.

Every mission for intel they had, you were behind them, lurking in the shadows, waiting for them to just start shooting to use the confrontation as a distraction to get to the target first. It was funny to hear them frustrated and annoyed over the comms when they realized that once more, they lost the intel. And then it's fate was obvious once KorTac put it on the market, selling it to the best bidder, or sometimes even using it to complete their own missions.

"You have to be careful, maus. I know you think it's fun, but they're dangerous, like us" You found cute when König used pet names. It was truly amazing how such a unit of a man was capable of being soft at the same time, ever since you started working there under his command until now.

But lately you didn't feel like a mouse, you felt like a hyena or a vulture, just scavenging while the bigger predators weren't looking.

"It's alright, don't worry, bud. I promise you I'm being as careful as I've always been" You said in a reassuring tone, a soft smile on your lips, and you squeezed his arm as he was sitting across you on the common room, a hot tea brewing in front of you.

"That's why I'm worried" König had an unsure look, under his sniper hood, his eyes fixated on your mug, rather than you. And you could tell he was anxious by the way he was shaking his leg. "Just don't leave any tracks, ja?"

What you weren't going to admit to him, is that you were growing slightly fond of the task force you so dutifully followed around. During these months you learned plenty of things about them, just by staying hidden and listening, like Ghost's dad jokes, Gaz unluckiness with helicopters, Soap's preference to play as a goalkeeper while playing football.

You blamed the growing one-sided familiarity by the fact that your new assignments made you spend lots of hours alone, lurking, stalking, in position ready to strike the moment things unfold. Back in base, and since you started to work alone, it was only in rare occasions you were at the same time as your old unit, the opportunities to catch up with them and being social becoming scarce.

And they seemed to be so close, so used to each other, so comfortable to even use their names sometimes. You had to admit you weren't used to that. You didn't even know König actual name let alone his face, and even if other members were more open about their names, their backgrounds were still vague. Not that you were an open book, as you only went by your callsign, your real name a secret between your contractors and you. But back in KorTac the less you knew, the better. It's probably for the best, anyway. Another very possible reason for your newfound fondness was the fact that after every successful mission came a very generous check. In fact, so generous that it was enough, plus your savings, to purchase a flat. Not too fancy, but cozy and big enough for you and your things, and something to call your own as well.

Moving in was tedious, lots of boxes and newspapers wrapped around the fragile stuff, and you were too tired from work to really unpack everything, leaving only the necessary items out. You definitely needed to have dinner and have a nocturnal nap before you keep on unpacking stuff, and the other things weren't as urgent. Besides, it would be a few weeks before your next mission, so you had plenty of time to enjoy settling down in your new home and looking around the neighbourhood. For now, you could really use some food, and at this hour you certainly weren't going to cook. You grabbed your jacket and went down the street.

Thankfully, there was a Chinese place in a five-minute walk. There were lots of people around, going to pubs, as it was a bit of a commercial area. It was nice, some fairy lights, some decorations, people sharing drinks, laughing, you could get used to walking around here. You ordered a serve of chow mein and three spring rolls, got it in a bag and made your way back to your flat.

The building you lived in now was a bit old, so you had a fob for the main entrance and a key for your flat. The door creaked a bit when you opened it, and you closed it behind you, but as you turned around you bumped into something that felt almost like colliding against a brick wall, you turned around and you saw some hands inside a mailbox.

"So sorry, si---" You said looking up and as soon as your eyes focused on the figure you felt how your face went pale, and how all the blood of your body went to your legs, your mind screaming you to flee.

Black eyes stared back at you, and that was the only part you could see, as the rest of the face was covered by a balaclava with a skull print on it. Fuck...

"Staring is rude" That husky voice you were so used to hearing through a comm sounded so clear, and the grip on the takeaway bag tightened.

The fuck is Ghost doing here.

"I-I..." You had to clear your throat, to manage any words out. "Sorry, I'm usually more polite, you just...caught me off guard."

"Haven't seen you here before" He lives here?! No way. This is a trap.

"Moved in this morning" You answered as flatly as you could.

"Ah" He said in an uninterested tone, as he went back to check the mail.

You couldn't help but stare up at him, completely dumbfounded. He was wearing a hoodie covering his head, blank pants, and heavy boots. Why isn't he attacking me? Does he know who I am? What the fuck is this? Jesus, I could throw up.

"Can I help you with something?" He answered in the same tone, not bothering to look back at you a second time.

"You live here?"

"Third floor" He answered plainly.

"Ah" Does he genuinely just lives here? No way, they're setting me up. "Why check the mail at night?"

"Just arrived" He answered as he broke one of the envelopes and checked it's contents. Light bill, and you heard him cursing under his breath.

He is so much taller up close.

"Right…alright, see you around…" You said before quickly going up the stairs, so taken aback that you completely forgot about the elevator.

You arrived to your flat, a bit agitated, and closed the door with the lock behind you. And added a chair under the doorknob, for good measure.

You left the food on the table, and quickly went to grab one of your guns. A SIG Sauer P320, and you checked every room, not that there were many rooms to check. The bedroom, the living-dining room, and the bathroom. Both for people and for cameras or mics, but everything looked normal, nothing out of the ordinary, nothing out of place. Lock the windows just in case.

After your thorough search, you sat at your dinner table, left the gun next to you, before beginning to unpack your food. You ate as your eyes were fixated on the door, waiting for someone to come in shooting, for a team, for a raid, anything.

0000 – No contact.

0100 – No contact.

0200 – Still no contact.

0300 – Fuck, I’m tired.

Not today, it seems...fuck, this isn't a coincidence, out of all the buildings in this fucking island he lives here? No bloody way. They know.

next: chapter two "charlie foxtrot"

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