#filed under; affiliates | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

halcyone-of-the-sea · 10 months

Note

Hiya! I’m so happy your requests are open omg your writing is impeccable. So I’ve been with this concept in my head for so long since I read this prompt somewhere: what is with your weird fascination with me?

And just immediately my head started creating a story about reader having the nickname ‘Death’ because she has the highest body count known, skilled as no other and, also, imposible to know on a deeper level because she is like a wall, not letting anyone in. Until John Price needs her for a mission and is, as the prompt says, fascinated by her (and feeling other things he doesn’t want to admit), and is able to break her a little when he gets hurt in a mission after months of working together.

Glory to the Reaper

PAIRING: John Price x F!Reader

SYNOPSIS: He was strange, you admitted to yourself. Always around even when you didn't want him to be. But perhaps the Brit just might surprise you.

WORDCOUNT: 5.8k

WARNINGS: Angst, blood, death, gore, canon typical violence, avoidance tactics, fluff, pining, hurt/comfort, etc.

A/N: I switched around the codename but it's still the same plot! Enjoy, Anon!

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

Your eyes slip over the file on the table, slowly caressing the parchment with easy and careful consideration of every word and comma—searching. Focusing. You hum under your breath and slide the page away to spy on the one behind it, the room quiet and the air cold. Outside the window the entire compound is asleep, only the light of the street lamps illuminating the land; inside this office, your feet barely shuffle over the tuft of the rug.

Clicking your tongue, you go to the next document in the pile.

The still-warm body flinches and jerks below you, but you barely notice—he hadn’t put up much of a fight; wasn’t memorable. Sighing and itching over the mask along the bottom of your face, you snatch the last six papers from the desk and fold them four times, stuffing them into your vest pocket.

Stalking with sure steps, you press into the radio on your gear as you step over the body and head to the door. Bloody bootprints follow behind you like a crimson shadow of surefire death.

“Actual, intel secured. Heading to Evac now.” Laswell was listening intently on the other end, your Op of the highest priority.

You wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t, surely. The small click from the other end greets you as you shove open the office’s door and saunter down the hallway paved with glints of marble and pools of viscera like a Roman horror story. Eyes numbly slide past the scores of bodies; necks slit and stomachs burst from bullets fired through silencers.

“Good job, Tomb,” Laswell utters, voice fast and serious as always. “What’s the clean-up status?”

Your lips flinch upward, “I suggest fire and a prayer, Actual. But no one knows I’m here. Main house is neutralized.”

A small pause later and a huff of dull amusement.

“Copy, Tomb. Your ride is waiting—best not to miss it, we need you back sooner than later.” The structure of your lungs rearranges in a small chuckle that echoes off the ceiling; molten silver from the moon slips over your darkened form. The patch upon your right shoulder is illuminated in steady intervals, the familiar image of a mausoleum and a guarding Sphinx.

Alone, that patch is, with no other dark affiliations beyond that demonic cause. Many see it right before they meet their end, but the insignia was entirely left to ruin—no one sees it and lives besides other soldiers.

“Copy.” Your voice is easy and bland as the curtains from the single open window shake in the breeze. “Tell the boys I’m on my way.” You pass the window and slap a gloved hand to it, hearing the squeak of the frame as it hits back down before you turn the corner, slinking away to reform into a figure that evokes grim glances and sliced sentences.

—

You stare into blue eyes with a sheen of disinterest coating your own, hands stuffed into your pockets and gear heavy on your chest. From your shoulder, the strap of your rifle sits as you speak, tilting your head, “Captain Jonathan Price of Task Force 141.”

The man was tall, you admit, fit and formed to harsh military life. Undoublity he’d been in the service for decades. You’d seen his face before—the brunette beard and the strong jaw; small eyes with wrinkles, it’s how you had ID’d him. Plus the bucket hat. Laswell had told you he’d been inquiring about your file and you’d done your own digging off the books.

John grunts a greeting before nodding.

“Pleasure. Tomb, was it?” On the tarmac, you glance around with stiff shoulders as the blades of the helicopter slow down behind you. Morning was just on the horizon, and you hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep on the flight back.

Lips thin, before your vision slides back into place. John’s hands are crossed casually, but his blue holds glints of intrigue. You don’t like that. “...The one and only. Excuse me.”

Walking past, you move like a crane, legs taking long, steady, strides. A hand comes up to scratch at your cheek through your face covering. Laswell was expecting you immediately.

And those feet at your side were not supposed to be there. Your eyes shimmer lowly at the shadow of John as he follows.

“Should tell you that Laswell’s in building two, then.” Pace halting, the Captain continues off on his own as your sharp gaze burns into his neck. He spares a glance over his expansive shoulder before adjusting his course to the East. “Told me to bring you to her. We need to have a little chat, yeah?”

You stay silent, watching John travel to the larger building where Laswell was apparently now waiting for you. After a still minute where you listen to the birds waking up and the scent of dew is in your hidden nostrils, you sigh deeply and roll your shoulders before beginning to walk behind.

“Hm,” Garbled grunts are only heard by you as you stay well enough back from the man. Cautious as you stare at his head.

He holds the door open for you when you finally make it, and you stand blankly from the opening as John’s calloused hand clenches over the door. When you don’t enter, the Captain shakes his head and releases a deep chuckle.

“Alright, then,” he mutters, shuffling through the door first. You follow the strain of his back until you look away and reach for the barrier, pushing it back from you. Making your way inside, you sigh and wonder what you’re getting into.

“Laswell said you don’t like strangers,” eyes peek back at you as the buzzing from the overhead lights echoes in your ears. Your throat releases a hum; shoulders showing a picture of wound ease. “Can’t say she’s wrong, now can you?”

Watching another soldier pass the two of you, you tilt your head to make sure the stranger’s footsteps turn the corner before you answer John’s question with a raised brow to mirror his own.

“Did she also tell you that I don’t plan on joining One-Four-One, Captain?” His bearded smirk catches you slightly off-guard, perplexed by not even the hint of shock in his gaze. He’d done his research.

John grunts as his eyelids narrow, amused. Your muscles tense.

“Affirmative.” The meeting room door is opened and this time he allows you to ease your paranoia by slinking in first.

In the room sits an occupied Laswell, a long table, a projector, and black-out windows. Confused but used to last-minute changes, you simply enter silently and pick a chair with your back to the wall and a good view of the room.

“Laswell,” you utter in greeting as the woman hums a hello, shifting through numerous files. In your breast pocket, you pull out the files you’d stolen and toss them onto the wood. John stands near the entrance with crossed arms, hips shifting every so often as his feet re-situate themselves.

He blinks down at the papers and then back to you with a careful glance at Kate.

Your Station Chief chuckles when she looks at you, tilting her head before she snatches the prize.

“Good work as always, Tomb.”

“Why is he here?” You get to the point, one hand going up to brush over your hair as the other sits limply on the seat’s arm. Your gear sits heavy on you, but that brutal tic of curiosity blooms.

John’s lips twitch before he answers, “An offer. Knew I wouldn’t be able to meet if Laswell wasn’t the mediator, eh? You’re bloody difficult to track down.”

“Offer?” Small talk never mattered to you, hadn’t since you’d signed up, and probably never would. You didn’t understand why people beat around the bush—just say what you need to say and get it over with. There was only so much time in a day.

It seemed John Price carried part of that opinion as well.

Blunt, you admit to your opinion of the man, and sure of his strengths.

“I need your skill set.” Kate looks back and forth between you two before she focuses on her work, multitasking. John continues, pointing a hand at you in demonstration from their hold on his chest. “Mission in three days. Turkey…” He watches you closely as if gauging your abilities. “You in or out?”

You wait in a dim silence for a minute or two before you tilt your body to Laswell, eyes still stuck in stormy blue and pale wrinkles inlaid with dirt.

“Kate?”

“Totally off the books,” the woman says confidently, pen sliding over paper. “Two targets in Bursa. There’s a file in your office.” Raising a brow, John hides his cheeky smile behind a bored mask.

“Take your Lieutenant,” you glare, “Ghost, was it?”

Price shakes his head, hat flinching along with it. “On assignment. I’ll need an answer today, Tomb. Time’s ticking.”

Your jaw clenches in annoyance, “Capture or kill?”

John shrugs nonchalantly, “Either. Is this a yes or a no?”

In this game of cat and mouse, you find yourself slipping. Your obligations as a soldier call to you to take the mission immediately, but for the simple fact that this Captain was unknown to you—and apparently, you weren’t unknown to him.

John was checking all of the boxes of people you didn’t like to be around.

Your voice grits out, eyes burning in their glare, “...When?”

His smirk makes you want to storm out.

“Tomorrow. 1300.” The air in the room is thick, tense like a thick layer of molasses was overtop everything. Under the table, your foot taps to the steady beat of your heart, your face tensed, and the layers of your facemask suddenly too formed to your neck and chin.

Twitching your nose you dig your eyes into John, peeling down his expansive shoulders and chest to take in the layers of packs and other miscellaneous items. His thigh holders and the way they hug his legs. You end with one last dead-on look into his eyes, trying to pinpoint intentions and flay the lines of his brain.

Most people glance away, but John returns the look with a casual tilt of his head and a raised brow. Not at all off-put.

Your hand steadily clenches over the chair.

All you give him is a firm nod—nothing more than a mere jerk of your chin. Kate sighs from where she’d been watching.

“Perfect. John,” she points her pen at the Captain as you both stare off. John grunts before his eyes flicker to the side, leisurely roving back moments later. You blink and rub your forehead. “You have your answer. Now would the both of you get the fuck out of here?”

“Copy, Kate.” John sighs, and you huff; standing as you plan out the amount of time you have to clean up and sleep before you have to leave. With an easy brush of your shoulders, your form shimmies past the Captain with dull enthusiasm.

You weren’t happy about this, but fine. You’ve been through worse.

As you shuffle down the hallway to the armory, your ears quirk when the footsteps ring in the drums of your ears like a hiking beacon. Already you’d memorized the walking pattern.

The thump-bump, bump-thump, of boots and the clink-clank of metal on metal. Shoving down a growl you hiss out into the air, not turning around.

“Problem, Price?” A gruff humph bounces.

“Negative, Tomb.” His shadow comes to conjoin with yours, large body standing side-by-side. Eyes flash to the side of your face, hidden from all by the cloth—like a bored cat, you continue to pave your way to silence; hoping whatever thought this man had in his head would disappear. “Just curious, see.”

“Curious?” your brow raises, the make of your muscles showing your unease. “Can’t help you with that.”

“No, probably not, eh?” John grunts and reiterates as strange emotion spikes in the lines of his face as he glances along you. “Tomorrow. 1300. Don’t be late.” With nothing more, he halts and pivots, peeling back to leave your side as his sudden absence leaves you devoid of heat.

Confusion breeds in your chest, but your steady legs carry you on until your tension leaves. Under your breath you utter a question as you enter the armory, shuffling your rifle off of your chest. “What the hell was that about?”

—

Price and you stand inside the safehouse with fast hearts and narrowed eyes. Blood was dripping down your hands, the black gloves flooded with gore that sure as hell doesn’t belong to you.

“Fuck,” John growls, guttural reverberations echoing off the walls. With stiff ribs, you go and lightly peel back the fabric of the nearest window to study the street below; looking for any suspicious figures. Frowning, you see nothing and let the curtain fall, eyes wafting to the Captain.

“We either lost them or they have surveillance on the building. Best for you to not leave either way.” The mission had gone sideways—apparently one of the targets had an ID on John as a member of One-Four-One. One thing led to another and resulted in you sticking a knife into some man’s gut to get away when he’d been spotted. You blink at his agitated expression, the black beanie on his head ruffled as he runs a hand over it.

But you don’t say anything else. Peeling off your gloves, you listen to him as a rain of blood splatters the carpet.

“This sets us back—since when does bloody fuckin’ Metin Baydar know who I am?” John’s hands are clenched, jaw so tight you wonder if his molars will crack under the pressure. A smirk twitches your lips at the thought. “Tomb,” you slowly tilt your eyes to him. The man sets his lips and crosses his arms, the brown casual wear in his chest bunching. “I’ll need you to be my eyes on this, yeah? If I leave this position I jeopardize your safety.”

“My safety?” you huff a laugh and push your gloves into your loose pants. “Captain, I don’t need you to worry about my safety.”

He seems to pause for a moment, and with a shake of his head his blue eyes shutter closed. A deep, tight, breath is taken and those tiny lids are forced back as you lock gazes. You send a blank look his way and he nods firmly.

“Keep low.” Is all he grunts, feet standing apart and his stare intense. “Copy?”

A swirl of amusement dances in your gut—you tap the earpiece in your shell with a stained streak of blood on your fingers. John stares, unreadable.

“I’ll leave when the streets cool. Just keep on the line so I can relay my intel, Price.” After a moment of silence, your eyes tighten with intrigue. “How do you wonder Baydar knew your face?” Standing by the window again, you peek out and keep John in view. His form shuffles, and he scoffs before walking beside you. Over your shoulder, he also views the buildings and businesses below. You still at the sensation of his breath on the back of your head, hand twitching over the curtain. It ruffles your hair for a moment before you snap out of it, eyes blinking rapidly. “Your Task Force isn’t exactly known,” you finish your sentence, voice strained.

Clearing his throat, as if realizing how close he’d gotten with only the intention of gazing outside, the man’s form jerks back; taking a step or two away to give you distance. Your far-gone eyes blankly continue to look outside but your chest gains some tension to it. You don’t know why.

This Brit is strange. You frown, watching a cat traverse the concrete far below. Not that I really have much to go off of.

“Haven’t a clue.” John sighs again, one hand going to itch at his chin. “Your guess is as good as mine. One thing I do know is that we have to fix this. Now.”

“You should tell Laswell,” you mutter, turning around and walking past him to stand around your packs—all of which hold your gear. Your knife was set into a small sheath inside your shirt, leather wrapped around your waist as you stopped near the coffee table. You pull the lip of your clothes up and grasp at it before peeling the metal out with an inquisitive eye.

If there was any breakage to the tip, you’d be furious.

John watches from across the room, catching glances at your bare skin riddled with scars and burns; unmarred flesh foreign. He feels his breath hitch before you drop your shirt back down and bring the blade into the light.

Holding it parallel, you gaze along the edge and tilt your head, eyelids half-closed.

“Kate?” Price answers you, clearing his throat. “No, it’s better not to create any more shite. She’ll be good off not knowing, yeah?” The brunette’s brow raises in question.

You hum and don’t reply.

The rest of the mission was spent with the two of you conversing over the open line of your comms as you scoured the streets for any sign of the target, feet carrying you over the city as the chill of the late afternoon set in. Presently, you didn’t know how to feel about your situation. Working with others was a strain on your focus—on the walls you’ve built up; John had obviously noticed that you didn’t exactly play well with others. It was plainly stated in your file, after all.

“—attitude, or lack thereof, is a detriment to the structure of any team/unit/platoon that she is placed into under all circumstances. Recommended reserved operations to limit drawbacks.”

Having a pleasant attitude wasn’t your job.

Stalking around the corner, your ears twitch to John’s voice. “Sitrep, Tomb. What’s it looking like out there?”

It was strange, then, that the man over the line was so eager to speak to you. Your sigh hits on deaf ears, and you respond as you carefully walk past civilians making their way home.

“Quiet. No sign.” The silence re-settles and you gradually loosen again. Like a cat, your ears twitch to hear the muttering from the commuters; eyes sliding with watery film across faces.

Baydar owns a restaurant as a front for funding terrorists. Anyone exiting from this direction could be part of it—

“You said you’d never join One-Four-One,” John’s voice makes you shove down a flinch, ripped out of your focus. In your pockets, your hands close into fists, and a deeply annoyed mask fits itself over your expression. “Why’s that, then?”

“What is this?” Your voice goes cold, “interrogation time?”

“With a record like yours, you’d get pick of any Task Force or SOF in country.” The Captain seems to ignore your hiss and jab as his deep voice continues; accent low. You hear the drag of a cigar and the puff of smoke. Internally, you’re thankful for the casual yet attentive acknowledgment of your skills—how the man doesn’t seem in the slightest worried about you. “Why is it that you’re always alone out ‘ere? Couldn’t wrap my head ‘round it, truthfully.” A tobacco-slick chuckle, “Bloody hell, people would kill to get you on a mission like I did, eh? No doubt.”

For a long time, you don’t answer, leaning against the wall across from your target’s restaurant doing recon. Frown tight and face stiff. John’s voice fizzles.

“Ah, fuckin’ forget it Love, just a man’s curiosity speaking for ‘im. I’ll leave you to focus.” Before the line can click, you open your lips—as if the things have a mind of their own.

“People are unpredictable.” The Captain’s breath is gently puffing over the line. He listens and you know he hangs on every word; it was a strange feeling to know that. From under you, your feet shuffle. “They do things that don’t make sense. I don’t like dealing with it.”

A grunt. “Well, can get behind that…” John had a smirk on his lips, you can hear it. “You’d lose your head if you met MacTavish.”

Your focus waning, you blink, getting sucked into this strange interaction with an even stranger man.

“Yeah?” You wonder, head tilting to the side. “One of yours?”

“Hm,” he affirms and the chill of the night caresses your skin. John chuckles. “Sergeant. Bloody good shot, but can get into trouble faster than his fucking gun can fire.”

Your mouth quirks. “Sounds horrible.”

“Makes my job a living hell,” John admits and you shock yourself by listening. “But no one better to keep by my six…You’d ease up to him.”

“I’m not joining, Price,” Your voice mutters out like how a dragonfly snaps its translucent wings on still air. “This is it.”

In the safehouse, John hums under his breath, staring out the window at the blinking lights of the city as you watch the restaurant with far-off thoughts. A smile twitches his lips. For some reason there was something about you he wanted to figure out—something to unravel. You were like Ghost sometimes, but more… fascinating. Darker.

And you knew how to get the job done better than anyone.

John wanted you on his Task Force, your expertise, and the only way to get that was to take you apart like a puzzle of razor blades. Study you. Learn you as the edges cut up his flesh. The Captain had no idea what picture you’d make when everything was in its proper place, but he’d be willing to try with the very tenacity that had gotten him this far.

But there was something else there, too. Some kind of tightness in his chest when you looked at him; he'd gotten it when he’d seen you on the tarmac back not so long ago like some schoolboy. Those blank eyes of yours…why did he want them to light up?

Why did he want to see your laugh?

John wasn’t immature enough to not know his own feelings or attractions, but this was an entire section of its own. Blinking, the man grunts to himself and smirks. “Well, better make it last, then.”

You feel your eyelids carefully pull in surprise.

“I…” Your voice starts but dies off, swallowing saliva down as your mouth clacks shut with a connection of teeth. Closing your eyes, you steady your heart, which had suddenly created a concerning skip in its beats.

John places the cigar back to his lips and takes a long drag, leaning out of the window to watch the smoke disappear into the twinkling lights. Lips peeling his beard hairs back.

—

As it turned out, the mission in Turkey wasn’t the only time you’d have to deal with John Price, and it certainly wasn’t the last time you’d see his face in front of yours. One mission turned into two—two into three and so on. You hadn’t exactly wanted it, but you found you couldn’t turn him down either.

At whichever base you were stationed at, all of a sudden he’d just show up; standing on the tarmac with his arms crossed and that casual set to his shoulders. The first time you’d seen him after Turkey, you had half convinced yourself he was a mirage. And then he’d smirk at you and tilt his head and you’d have no control over your words.

It was pathetic…disgusting…it was…it was…

You shake yourself back to the present when a bullet whizzes past your head, a sharp call from across the utter warzone you’d found yourself in the middle of.

“Tomb, what in the hell’s wrong with you?!” John’s voice is harsh, and you lock onto it. “Get your gun up!”

You sigh, unperturbed. Peaking past the large crate you use as cover, your eyes glare at the enemy soldiers across the dock, fixing your finger’s position over your M4A1. The small unit you’d been dragged into by John was mostly dead—only four of you remaining from the ten.

It wasn’t supposed to go down like this.

Jerking back, a splintering of wood explodes in front of you as the next fast piece of metal nearly takes your nose off. With a grit of your teeth, you flick your safety off and swivel your shoulders.

Popping from the top of the crate, your sharp eyes lock onto the first visible body before you press your finger to the trigger with practiced ease as the word shrieks all around you. Recoil is eaten into the padded kevlar of the junction of your shoulder and arm.

When you dart back, the body has yet to hit the ground.

“There she is!” John calls, and you look forward with a steady stare as the brunette laughs from behind his own crate a few feet away. “Keep your head in the game, Tomb.”

You frown, normal facemask back over your chin hiding it. While you loathe to admit it, John had grown on you in these…what was it…? Months? Yes, that seemed about right.

Months of joint missions. You could hardly believe that he’d dragged you out like this.

“Tell the others to flank,” Your voice whisps over the line like smoke, “Left side—there’s a gap in the crates.”

John looks you in the eyes and blinks, eyelids twitching. With his beard covered in gunpowder, the man looks across the open space between the gunbattle to the left. Sure enough, right before he’s forced to snap back down to cover, the Captain spies a very well-hidden gap in the defenses.

He smiles viciously like a dog, and barks a laugh to you, nodding, “Good eye! Boys,” the two don’t pause their assault but call their questioning voices over the line. You don’t listen, occupied with giving off bursts of gunfire and trying to avoid the eyes of your fellow dead soldiers. Your lungs are compressed inside of your ribcage like prisoners. “Flank left. We’ll cover you!”

“Sir!” Steadying your breath, you avoid John’s confused glances and scoff to yourself, resituating your clammy hands.

When all’s said and done the four of you are the only ones left. Letting your gun sit on your chest you use the body as an armrest, allowing it to hang off the side from the trigger-guard. Your fingers twitch, and as John speaks to the two men, you stare silently at the gushing bodies of your fellows like phantoms spring from their chests.

John’s voice slows when he sees you apart from them, glancing at the soldiers at your feet before ordering the remaining men to get to the evac point. They try to argue everyone should be going together, and on all accounts, they’re completely right, but John won’t hear it.

“Go—that’s an order.” Reluctantly, the two glance at each other and speed off.

You jolt at a call of your name, head turning to face stormy blue as they gaze at you with concern. Stopping a few feet away, John stands still and folds his arms, face going rigid with concern as he glances you over for wounds.

His head slightly leans in, chin down.

“...You alright?” Hand flinching, you clear your throat.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” You ask, fixing the position of your feet and forcing away the images of dead bodies and blank eyes.

You’d seen scores of men dead before—friend and foe—but you had thought you’d never have to see more of your own fall. It had been a long time since you’d felt the distant lull of numb horror in the back of your brain; like some ocean wave that drowns you under every time it comes back. It always comes back.

John narrows his eyes and frowns deeply, glancing around and hiding the slight way his right arm sags.

“Tomb?” He says it so lowly that you really have to focus, ears straining. That gravel was back, and you found yourself latching onto it. “Eh, you just focus on me, yeah? I’m right ‘ere.”

“I know,” you snap, eyes shuttering away only to find more vacant stares. You flinch back and look up into the sky; a sudden burn in your brain that you need to quell.

The man grows even more concerned with you, taking a step forward and clenching his jaw. He studies you, your shaking tension and the clench and loosening of your fists—attention always on you but roving to the dead men all around. Something clicks with a violent inhale.

John moves to you without a word and grasps you around the shoulders quickly. You gasp at that, immediate reaction to shove away, but only gape at the warmth that he brings you instead—the steady presence and chest to lean on. As the Brit drags you, you focus instead on calming your breathing.

The Captain lightly shimmies down your facemask and you suck down tight air as you go limp into his side.

“C’mon, Tomb. It’s alright. I’m here. I’m right here.” He’s muttering to you, disguising his pained grunts in favor of taking care of you.

That strange affection for you had grown in your time together…not that he’d said anything. It was more proper of him to watch out from a distance, not sure of your own feelings or the probability of you gazing back at him with the same amount of concealed longing. Many a night he’d sat on his bed and wondered. Wondered how an animal so extraordinary and remarkable took the form of a woman with a black sphinx patch and sharp eyes.

John had heard you laugh once through your expeditions together—sniping in Greenland. Once had been enough; if he never heard it again, he could still recall the pitch and frequency to the yawning of his soul. He didn’t need to hear it again.

It was locked into the fabric that made up your skin and speech, and every time he stared at you he could find it in your eyes.

The Captain puts you down near a crate around the corner, letting you lean into it as he turns and captures your neck from either side. You shake under him, blurry vision stuck to his dog tags as they wink against his chest.

“Tomb,” John says again, and with a lick of your chapped lips, you carefully turn your head up. Blue eyes crease worriedly. The thumbs on the sides of your neck caress up and down your rapid pulse steadily; calluses creating stimuli. A small smile meets you. “There we are, atta girl. Focus.”

Tears dribble down your cheeks, and you flatten your lips, whispering out brokenly, “I said I don’t like teams.”

John’s heart breaks.

“Oh, Sweetheart,” his hand captures the back of your head and you’re brought into a deep and firm embrace—gear pinching and prodding but neither of you care.

When was the last time you’d been held like this? The feeling makes your mouth quiver, your face stuck into the junction of the Brit’s neck and shoulder.

“John…” You whimper out and his arms around you only tighten—his tense nose shoved into your scalp as his eyes closed tightly.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, heart racing, “I’m so, so, sorry.”

You don’t know long he holds you there, the air filled with blood and death but just so soundly resting atop his vest and limp to his gentle swaying. The tears dry at some point, they always have to. Sniffling, your burning face takes in the scent of beard oil and gunpowder and you find yourself calmed by it.

Calmed by John.

The man holding you waits a moment more before he slightly leans back, staring down at you intently; nervously. You lick at the tears drying into the line of your mouth to taste the saltiness on your tongue as fingers grasp at your chin.

Angled up, your face is on full display.

John sighs and the drowned keratin of your lashes flutters, embarrassment flooding you. His eyes crease before his hands come up to take away your sorrows with a soft brush of his digits. The man clears his throat tinily, voice deep with emotion.

“Better?” Your eyes dip away from his, knowing you’d been staring.

“I…” Glancing over his right shoulder absentmindedly, you only get a word off before you see a fountain of red. Blinking away the last of your tears, John’s finger on your cheek stops moving as you freeze—stiff to the touch.

His panic spikes again.

“What’s going on—”

“When did you get hit?” Your voice is hard and laced with something you can’t name. Shaving back from John you frantically grab at his arm. In an instant, the Captain is whirled around and shoved back into the crate; he grunts loudly, eyes snapping wide.

“Fuckin’ hell.” He grumbles, but flinches when you peel at the bloodied layers of his compression shirt. John smirks, letting your touch rove him as your nose scrunches. He represses a shiver at the bite of your nails, whispering out, “If you wanted to throw me ‘round, Love…all you had to do was ask.”

You blink rapidly and turn your fast gaze to his eyes as you stutter, fingers covered in blood and holding apart the fabric of his outfit to show a bullet graze to his pale upper bicep. John’s cheeky smirk grows and against all the pain and the dark corners, you feel a bubbling in your gut.

A small chuckle snakes out, like twinkling bells.

“Shut up,” your smile leaves him breathless, smirk falling to a small open-mouthed screen of obvious admiration. A hum marks the back of his throat, eyebrows loosely curving upon his forehead.

You look over and find him like this—his gaze trapping you like his arms had. Like music, it takes you into its melody. Staring, your smile, gradually too, leaks out.

“What are you doing?” Your question is breathy. "What is your fascination with me?" John’s eyes stick with you, the shining, shimmering, blue. There are tempests held there and if this man was anything, he was a storm of intentions and promises.

“Looking,” John answers lowly. "Just looking."

You take down a breath, “At what, John?”

He chuckles at you, face close and pleasant, “Y’know, I haven’t quite figured that one out yet, Love.”

Blindly you wonder how the world can still turn while you both stand here—was it, even? How can life go on when such things are uttered to light? When they’re buried deep into your marrow like the dirt on top of a grave?

How can the Reaper knock at your doorways when love exists in such quantity…in the fractures of his eyes? Only when his lips brush yours do you understand.

It’s all here, and then it’s gone. Nothing can truly be as it was in the past, and therein lies the small, glorious, deaths. Both a blessing and a curse.

Your lips press deeply into one another and the blood of old wounds dries.

TAGS:

@luuvbuzz, @emerald-valkyrie, @anna-banana27, @blueoorchid, @cryingnotcrying, @writeforfandoms, @homicidal-slvt, @jade-jax, @frazie99, @elmoees, @littlemisstrouble, @alpineswinter, @phoenixhalliwell, @idocarealot, @lavalleon, @facelessmemories, @h-leigh, @20forty9, @glitter-anon-asks, @emily-who-killed-a-man, @neelehksttr, @aeneanc, @escapefromrealitysm, @i-d-1-0-t, @pparcxysm, @hawkscanendme, @caramlizedtomatos, @konigsleftkidney, @sanfransolomitatm, @maelstrom007, @jemandderkeinenusernamenfindet, @pheobees, @glitterypirateduck, @uselsshuman, @fan-of-encouragement, @halfmoth-halfman, @ghostlythunderbird, @I-inkage, @pukbadger, @kopatych11, @0nceinabluem00n, @cocrorapop, @knightofsexyness, @abnormalgeil, @smallseastone, @jacegons, @330bpm-whiplash, @simon-rileys-housewife, @4-atsu, @tiredmetalenthusiast

2K notes · View notes

yukipri · 5 months

Text

Clone File: Morbs (YukiPri OC)

Basic info:

Name: Morbs Number Designation: CC-4413 Generation: 1 (0.9) Rank/Title: Chief Mortician of the GAR, Kamino Chief Mortuary Trainer (former) GAR Affiliation: Entire GAR, primarily stationed with the 212th Attack Battalion Character status: YukiPri Original Character

Disclaimer: Morbs' story will likely make more sense if you've read The Prime Override, as he's introduced with context in this fic. He will also make more sense if you've read about the other 2 clone medics mentioned in this file, Ashe and Stabber.

Backstory beneath cut!

Overview:

Clone morticians are specialists even among medics. Every clone medic knows the basics of how to care for the deceased, but in war, priority must always go to the living. As such, it is common to find only one clone mortician per star destroyer or permanent GAR base, with greater numbers stationed in Tipoca City or various Republic medical centers.

Morbs, or CC-4413, is considered the Chief of this group of medical specialists. He is the originator of the division, and was assigned to develop both the position and the training curriculum of clone morticians in tandem with Ashe’s primary medical training.

Prior to the start of the Clone Wars and through the early war period, Morbs oversaw the Tipoca City Primary Clone Morgue, which processed all clone bodies. There, he managed biopsies, distribution of cadavers, and the care and processing of all of the bodies of his deceased brothers. He also trained other clone morticians who had completed general medical training prerequisites and were approved by Ashe, as well as future Chief Medical Officers who were required to have completed hands-on training time in the morgue to earn their certifications.

Morbs would have been content to remain in this morgue for life, but as the main body of the GAR prepared for deployment, it became clear that the number of bodies being processed on Kamino would plummet. Morbs was reassigned to the front lines, where his expertise would see more active use, leaving his morgue behind in the hands of his assistants. He primarily travels with the 212th Attack Battalion, but frequently visits medical centers and goes where he is needed.

Background:

Morbs was one of five Generation 0.9 CCs selected by Nala Se to begin the development of the clone medical track. While all subsequent medics are CTs, the Generation 0.9 CCs underwent manual age acceleration, putting them physically ahead of their Generation 1 peers in chronological age. Morbs and his fellow CCs were test subjects used to establish the start of the medical specialization path before their younger brothers were of age to begin that training.

As CCs, they are overqualified for the general medical training that Nala Se is building, and Nala Se quickly turns to using them for other experiments as well. Their unique position as the first experimental medical clones gives Nala Se more oversight over them than any other clones, with far less supervision as well. They are “her” clones to test as she pleases.

In the depths of her labs, Nala Se conducts experiments that she had been banned from conducting on standard troopers by the contract with the Prime Clone, Jango Fett. Morbs later learns that these tests would be considered “torture,” and are illegal in the Republic. He and his brothers are tested for the physical limits that clones can reach, including tolerance for exposure to various stimulants such as heat or chemicals, as well as sensory limits such as their maximum threshold for pain. She also experiments with the potential for building up tolerance and even immunity to various drugs and poisons. She takes all of the data she gains and incorporates them into the medical training for the clones—thus, ensuring that her tests still fall under the scope of “developing medical training.”

Two of the five CCs perish as a result of these experiments. Ashe is ordered to decommission the third when he fails to meet Nala Se’s standards. This leaves Morbs and Ashe as the only survivors of their initial group. They cannot speak of their experiences to anyone else, as Nala Se is the only other witness. Not even Kote knows what they experienced. Between the two of them though, they can never forget that their senior medical positions were earned with blood.

Morbs has always been a quiet but keen observer, and knew from early on that Ashe has reasons for wanting to be in the medical track, and that this is a path that he’s chosen and is motivated to push through. Morbs is brought into the Ghosts’ plans relatively early, and having had the most first-hand experience seeing just what Ashe’s position entails, he wishes he could do more to help his brother. However, Morbs is also realistic, and knows that he doesn’t have the same passion and dedication driving him. He does what he can, but he can’t see himself being the medics’ leader that Ashe is. He feels guilty for not being able to offer to take Ashe’s place, when he’s the only one in a position who could. He tries to make up for it by loyally following him, and doing what he can as a supporter.

In addition to not having the drive, Morbs also feels he is cursed with misfortune. While he excels as a medic and not even Nala Se can find anything lacking in his record, most of the patients that Morbs touches seem to end up dead for reasons unrelated to his skills as a medic.

He’s assigned to oversee a group of cadets, who end up having a fatal genetic mutation that gives them all heart attacks while he’s on observation. The wing with patients that he oversees collapses due to an architectural problem, and they all die. He’s conducting a surgery, when the power goes out, and he’s unable to save his patient with the tools he has available. He tends to some brothers, who leave his exam room fine, but are killed in a training accident a few hours later. He’s assigned to take over a simple check up, and finds his patient already dead before he enters the room.

Every additional incident makes him increasingly uncomfortable with working with living patients. He knows he has the skills, but it doesn’t seem to matter, because most of his patients end up dead anyway. Statistically, it’s not impossible, but after a certain point it’s certainly improbable, and yet it continues to happen. Clones are rarely superstitious, as they have no cultural basis for it, but Morbs feels that there’s something absurdly wrong with the amount of death that seems to follow him everywhere.

He only feels that he’s safe for his brothers when working with those already dead. He can’t kill them if they’re dead before they’re even assigned to him. When Nala Se announces that a new mortuary sub-track will be added to the primary medical track, Morbs dives for it because he can’t think of a better position for himself. If death follows him, he might as well embrace it.

As he and Ashe are given more access to resources including those from outside of Kamino to help them develop their respective training curriculums, Morbs finds himself increasingly interested in not just the practical aspects of death, but also the more cultural and spiritual elements as well. It’s sparked by his own unluckiness and wondering if others have experienced the same, but is fed by his curiosity when he realizes that most nat-born cultures have different ways of processing death and grief that are deeply engrained in how they handle their dead. Nat-born lives are for the most part extremely foreign and utterly irrelevant to anything clones will likely ever experience, but death is almost universal. Morbs finds this fascinating.

The clones are brusquely told that they “march on,” when they die, as Mandalorians do. But why? Where do they march to, with whom? What is waiting there? If that is the inevitable eventual fate of all of them, regardless of Ashe’s or Kote’s efforts, shouldn’t it perhaps be Morbs’ job as the Chief Mortician to at least consider what happens after?

While Morbs has no answers for the afterlife, he certainly has many thoughts, which he shares with the silent cadavers who he works with. It seems like they can hear him, he thinks, for all that none of his words are spoken out loud.

While sitting in on a Ghosts meeting as they develop code words for their growing underground organization, Morbs mentions off-hand that their brothers who are dead, but aren’t, are, “Marching on to join Kote.”

It’s not his fault that their overseers failed to really explain what “marching on” means, nor really instill any true understanding of “glory” either. So if they choose to define it for themselves, with “marching on” meaning to join their other brothers (who may or may not be dead), and “glory” as fighting for their brothers, something tangible that they actually understand and care for…well. They are, after all, supposed to die for the glory of the Republic anyway. No one will question the language.

While most of Morbs’ brothers are exceedingly practical, and must be, Morbs finds his niche in thinking about the not practical. If having ways of respecting and mourning the dead helps all other sentients, why shouldn’t it help them too? Morbs experiments with how he thinks their dead should be treated, and the bodies in his morgue are, as always, his silent audience.

He grows to consider the dead bodies in the morgue “his men” in “his army.” After all, those who are also marked dead, but are actually just with the Ghosts, are also allowed to “consider serving” despite being equally dead on record. And are not the bodies that he repurposes to hide the missing bodies, the dead whose organs and limbs save the lives of their living brothers, not also serving their brothers? Just because they were unlucky, like Morbs, doesn’t mean that they aren’t still being helpful, aren’t still actively saving their brothers. Because that’s all what any of them want to do: help each other.

Morbs assigns himself their Commander, as he is in charge of them, cares for them, and directs their “campaigns.” The rows of cold lockers that house their bodies are “barracks.” He talks to them, praises their missions, and grieves for them when they finally march on to their second deaths via cremation, only after which they are truly gone.

While none of Morbs’ students go to quite the same level as Morbs himself in humanizing their deceased brothers, he makes sure that all of them leave his morgue with a firm understanding that even when dead, their brothers are still their brothers. Pieces of his ideology and treatment of bodies linger in all of the medics who handle their dead.

Morbs treats the dead as his men because he wants them to be able to live on just a bit longer, but admittedly that’s not all. It’s something that also helps with his guilt over not being able to assist Ashe in his decommissionings. He can’t stop those deaths any more than Ashe can, and he can’t even share in the pain of murdering them. But he can promise them, and can promise Ashe, that once their bodies leave Ashe’s blood-stained hands, that Morbs will welcome them gently to his morgue. That they’ll be treated tenderly, with humanity, and that their existences won’t mean nothing. That if they’re capable of it, Morbs will do whatever he can to ensure that they too can serve Kote before their bodies are gone.

Morbs likes to think it offers Ashe some comfort.

General Info:

Most clones have only ever heard of Morbs, who is extremely elusive. Even after deployment, he rarely leaves the morgue wing attached to medical. Whereas Ashe feels a complicated mixture of self-loathing and knowing that he’s unwelcome in other spaces because all other clones loathe him too, Morbs is simple. He likes being with his men, they’re his favorite group of clones. The living get plenty of attention amongst each other. He just is happier with his own men, and prioritizes giving them his own attention.

He’s eccentric and more than a little creepy, but his reputation means that many of his brothers are very curious about him. He has a strict “no one alive past this line” rule at the entrance of the morgue, with very few exceptions, so not even those who try to catch a glimpse of him while visiting medical have much luck. Spotting him outside the morgue is both like an exciting cryptid sighting, but also potentially a bad luck omen. Morbs is oblivious to the excitement his presence causes, as he’s usually just in a rush to get back to the morgue.

Morbs is so mysterious that only a very limited handful of his brothers knows how truly odd his habits are. He has an assigned bunk, but ignores it and sleeps in a specially padded cold locker so that he can “sleep in the barracks with his men.” He calls it his favorite bunk, and tells the other medics he wants to rest there when he one day inevitably dies. He will sometimes forget to take care of himself, ignoring his own living needs to eat, drink, exercise, hygiene, etc. until a medic, usually Stabber, drags him out of the morgue to handle it. Stabber thinks Morbs is an example of how truly unfair their genetic enhancements are, because Morbs somehow maintains his solid CC-class physique with essentially zero effort on his part.

Unlike Ashe, who wants to be out in the field, Morbs never wants to leave his morgue for anything. Once he has been relocated into the morgue on the Negotiator, he only steps out when absolutely necessary. He doesn’t want to see the sights of the outside galaxy, doesn’t want to see the people or try the foods. He thinks all air outside of the morgue that is not optimized for the preservation of clone bodies is distasteful. He especially hates heat, sunlight, and humidity, insisting that it will “cause us to decay faster.”

The one exception to this is if there is a morgue, funeral, cemetery, or something else death-related going on. He learned about other cultures’ death practices, and he’s admittedly still curious about them too, mostly in the context of whether there’s anything else he can do to improve the experience for his men. If the ship is planetside and there’s supposed to be a famous cemetery, he might be seen quickly slinking outside, face completely veiled to avoid exposure to the elements.

Relationships:

Morbs maintains a close relationship with Ashe, though it’s one he’ll rarely show in front of others, always maintaining a professional distance if they have company. But Ashe is the only living person that Morbs will seek out for company, always while Ashe is alone. Morbs is the only one who knows the extent of what Ashe suffered during his early training, and had experienced much of it with him. He is concerned about Ashe, but doesn’t offer medical help, as he feels Stabber does that enough, and he doesn’t trust himself to think of Ashe as a patient; that never ends well. He will instead offer Ashe silent company.

Morbs claims to despise Stabber, especially since he’s the one responsible for taking him away from his morgue on Tipoca City and forcing him onto a star destroyer. Because Stabber is the CMO of the 212th, prior to Ashe joining them, Morbs is forced to interact with him the most. Morbs doesn’t like Stabber because he considers the other medic, “far too alive.” Stabber’s high energy, movement, and noise levels all grate on Morbs’ preference for stillness and darkness. Still, he reluctantly respects Ashe’s former assistant’s skills as a medic, and will follow his orders.

He also won’t admit it, but Stabber was the one who gave him his name. Stabber had a habit of announcing that Ashe’s work buddy “has the morbs,” a phrase he’d picked up from one of Ashe’s training resources that he claims means “has emo vibes.” Stabber liked the sound of the word so much that he began shouting it every time he encountered Morbs, and it ended up sticking. Morbs pretends he doesn’t care, but secretly thinks it’s fitting.

On the other hand, Morbs has a surprisingly amicable relationship with the Jedi he interacts with most frequently, Obi-Wan. He was very leery of letting Obi-Wan come anywhere near the morgue, not trusting an outsider with his delicate men who are unable to defend themselves. However, Obi-Wan found Morbs’ ruminations and philosophies fascinating, and was easily able to bait him into a conversation by expressing interest. Despite being surrounded by war, Morbs often seems strangely detached from it, preferring to speak less about the realities of war and the gears that move it, and more about why various cultures frame death and the afterlife in certain ways. While the conversations are often melancholy in nature, Obi-Wan appreciates the strange normalcy of it, knowing that Morbs would likely have these same questions regardless of whether there was a war. Morbs likewise is invested in hearing about death traditions from an outside perspective.

While the other clones aboard the Negotiator were at first both morbidly fascinated by Morbs, they were discouraged from actually interacting with him because he says things like, “You should not be in here, unless you are dead. Unless you would like to be dead, in which case I can help you,” or, “Oh, well you don’t look like you’re dying. How unfortunate.” However, they gradually realize that Morbs is not as aloof as he first appears.

He isn’t opposed to speaking, as long as it’s about his men. They realize that while Morbs refuses to let any curious bystanders or unqualified personel enter the morgue for no reason, he’s always eager to learn more about those in his care. Clones who have lost brothers can always count on him wanting to hear about the deceased, and if they’re present in his morgue, Morbs may even allow them to visit. When the first clone brings Morbs some flowers, because he saw that some nat-borns planet-side were laying flowers by the graves of their lost loved ones, Morbs is tickled by the action. Clones are not granted proper graves, and those in Morbs’ morgue are still “on duty.” But Morbs creates a little sterilized shrine in a corner of medical close to the morgue, where he collects these offerings and allows his brothers to visit. If the tablet Morbs laid there is turned a certain way, Morbs knows that one of his brothers wishes to speak to him about someone deceased, and he slinks out of the morgue to listen to them.

Because Morbs is the Chief Mortician, he not only processes the bodies that pass in front of his own hands, but he obsessively goes over the reports sent to him by all other clone morticians and standard clone medics, who are in charge of marking all final fatalities. As such, he has the most comprehensive knowledge of all deceased clones. On the rare occasions that they are able to conduct larger, collective remembrances, if Morbs is available, he will often be called to lead them.

Obi-Wan observes that Morbs is acting almost like a priest or other religious leader, but Morbs scoffs at the idea. He has no intention of leading a religion; he just cares about his men.

And all of the clones will join his army, one day.

Appearance:

Morbs wears a modified version of the clone mortician uniform, a black version of the standard softshell white medic uniform. As the Chief Mortician, Morbs wears a longer knee-length version of the uniform, along with a black kama over it to signify his CC status. He also has a rank bar, and red shoulder pieces to show his personal training from Nala Se, like Ashe and Omega. He technically has armor, but he’s never worn most of it since his fitting, and he doesn’t plan on wearing it either. His men serve without wearing armor, so why should he? If the ship is ever boarded, he intends on going down with his men in the morgue, a plan that no one will allow him to follow through on.

The one piece of armor he does occasionally wear is his helmet, which is a black version of Ashe’s. He must occasionally process bodies that have been exposed to hazardous conditions, and in these cases, he’ll don his helmet for its filtration and advanced sensors. He is so utterly uninterested in his own armor that it was left unpainted, and Ashe decided to paint it black for him, so it can match Morbs’ aesthetic preferences. While Morbs never acknowledged the gesture, he shows his appreciation by not protesting when he’s told to wear it.

After leaving Kamino, he grows his hair long and wears it loosely tied back, because as a non-combatant, he isn’t limited to practical hair styles. The exact length changes constantly as he uses his own hair to create wigs and patches for any of his men who may have had their own hair damaged. He refuses to share his hair with anyone who isn’t dead.

He also gets tattooed, two dark lines dripping down his cheeks from his eyes. He saw nat-borns with the look in some funerary documentaries he watched as a cadet. He doesn’t know that what he saw was nat-borns with running makeup, but he likes the look because it looks like a trail of permanent black tears on his face. He takes it to be a metaphor that he is always thinking of his men.

Morbs also has deep permanent bags under his eyes. This is due to a mix of him constantly forgetting that he needs sleep, along with him not wanting to sleep because he has so many thoughts to ponder.

While he usually just wears his uniform, he has a veil that he throws over his head whenever he has to step outside of the ship or Republic medical facility for any length of time. He also has an ornamental headdress he’s fashioned for special occasions, such as when he has to welcome an exceptionally large number of men to his army, is conducting a field cremation, or is leading a remembrance. The headdress is created from shards of plastoid armor he’s had to pull from his men.

Note:

Morbs’ designation, CC-4413, was chosen because the number 4 means “death” in many Asian cultures, due to how it sounds similar to “death” in many Asian languages, including but not limited to my own Japanese/Chinese cultures. Tetraphobia, or the fear of the number 4, is a thing! The number Thirteen is an unlucky number in other cultures. The number “4413” felt fitting for this character who is so immersed in death and bad luck!

Related links:

Clone File on Ashe

Clone File on Stabber

Read them all on AO3

PLEASE DO NOT REPOST, EDIT, TRANSLATE, OR OTHERWISE USE MY ART. To share, please reblog! Reblogs and comments greatly appreciated!!!

❀ You can see the rest of my art through the Masterpost pinned to the top of my blog!

#YukiPri art #Morbs CC-4413 #Ashe CC-2222 #clone trooper #YukiPri OC #clone OC #OC #the clone wars #thePrimeOverride #Artist comment: Here he is months after I posted him on Patreon ^ ^;#I thought it would be hilarious and ironic to post him on Life Day #His story will make a LOT more sense if you've read the Prime Override!#what the Ghosts are and how they work is all explained in there #and yup he also gets a Plague Doctor bucket #He and Ashe are the only ones who do #Ashe is the Doctor of Life (but feared to be death)#and Morbs is the literal Doctor of Death (post-mortem)

517 notes · View notes

pinkslaystation · 2 months

Text

Impressive yet Unimpressed.

König and gn!Reader

In which König overhears gossip about him, and the change in his actions affect you, physically and mentally. yALLLLL i'm back >_< here's some unedited shit for the könig girlies (me) - also why do i get this writing motivation late at night :/

Part 2 ;> Word Count: 2.3k

Everyone knew König was infatuated by his partner. By you.

His closest closest friends, included Horangi, were aware of your slightly secret relationship - considering you were all in the same team.

The way he his eyes found you during training, the way he gently held you in his arms when it came to practicing shooting, the way-

You get the point.

Sometimes when your team went out for missions, König found himself committing slight mistakes, such as being distracted by you leading to a close call of a bomb detonation.

"König are you fucking insane? Where's your mind at, man? You're fucking up the team!" One scolded at him in the aircraft post-mission, flying your team to safety.

But König attention remained at you, his eyes focusing on how you managed to still look good regardless of the numerous scars and fresh bruises littering your face. His hand held a (squished) flower that he found, hoping to decorate your hair once landed.

And his feelings were most definitely reciprocated. Your eyes would roam his large frame, muscles tensing as he gripped a fellow teammate in a headlock (me when König? me when.), and you often found yourself unconsciously leaning back into his chest as he held you protectively during practice.

Walking around the base, recruits recognised you, your hair always sporting a different single flower sitting by your right ear.

But not only as his partner, but you also appreciated him as a friend, training you when you first joined, helping you revise for tests, filing paperwork with you.

And although you both found comfort and love from each other during the long weeks of being at base, König often found wanting more from you. He wanted everyone to know he's yours and that you're his. He wanted to take the relationship to the next step, he wanted marriage, he wanted kids, he dreamed of retiring from the military and moving to cute little cottage in the Austrian countryside with you, content that you would both be no longer affiliated with a workplace that screamed violence and limited possibility of survival.

And although the military was all he knew, given he enlisted into the military freshly 17, he knew it wasn't his future, no.

His future was with you.

König found himself walking towards his senior's office, smiling under his mask as his mind frequently hovered over you. Teams for the next missions had been released during the previous meeting, and König wanted to switch to be in the same group as you - so he'd be at peace that your safety in within his arms.

But as his hand gripped at the door handle, his focus switched to the muffled voices from within the office, his ears perking up at his name being thrown into the conversation.

"...he's got soft, sir!"

"We could've died in the last mission, sir, I mean he's an insertion specialist, but the only thing I see him inserting himself into, is his girl, sir!"

König froze. Soft? He's gone soft? He's been described as a fucking battering ram, the fuck do you mean he's gone soft?!

"Like the last training session, this guy spars everyone, and lord does he beat everyone, but the moment he's paired with them, he's fucking rolling on the mat or he surrenders?! How is this fai..."

"...he lives and breathes them sir, it's putting the other soldiers at risk. Does he have to come with us for this mission?"

König zones out. His entire life is the military. In his bare room in the barracks. Not a little cute little cottage in the Austrian countryside?! His home is at the Kortac base, his mind is with his team, and he definitely doesn't live and breathe you.

The muffled voices pause, as if coming to an agreement, and König hears footsteps, quickly hiding behind the door, which opens to reveal the voices.

His teammates.

The teammates he's grown up with.

They thought he was going soft...becoming weak...

König furrowed his eyebrows in humiliation.

A mission without him? That's like asking for death. He'll show you death.

König naturally found himself coming to you, having overheard this mood upsetting gossip about him.

But little ol' you didn't know any better, when he dashed into the common room only to grab a cold beer from the fridge, without a regular smooch to your head, not even a look in your direction, it didn't register how much deeper the crack in your relationship had become...

The day of the mission had come, and although König had told you that went to talk to the higher ups, you couldn't help but be a bit upset considering they hadn't switched you to his group, finding yourself still in your own.

But you didn't mind. You just wanted this mission to be over, so you could find yourself resting in his arms rather than on this random soldier's shoulder.

The aircrafts that held your group and his, raced over the landscape, planting itself by the safe house in the darkness of the Saudi Arabian night.

As the multiple groups landed, soldiers scattering the group as they exit the aircraft, you find yourself making eye contact for the 6'10 colonel.

You send a slight smile his direction, only to be met with a hidden frown behind his mask. You're confused. Usually, his eyes would crinkle with his smile, but your thoughts are interrupted - you're on a mission.

You're huffing, your vision blurry and you find yourself back onto the aircraft? But this isn't your team, as your look around your surrounding, realising you're lying in the middle of the aisle bordered by soldiers. It's König's team.

To your right, you see König...and he's not even looking your way? And to the left is Horangi, his hand rising for a slight wave.

Why aren't you with your team? Where is your team? Where is the air craft going? Why is König not looking at you???

Your eyes shut in pain, and you wince at the slight pain by your abdomen; it's the last thing you feel as you find yourself losing consciousness, failing to see König falling to his knees to aid you as you pass out.

"...bullet grazed abdome..."

Huh?

"...ight concussi..."

Bright light shines in your face.

"...few days..."

This could be the medics, but the way the lights blind your vision, you question whether your well-being is at safe hands or not.

You open your mouth to speak. You can't.

The dryness of your throat restricts you from speaking, but thankfully, one of two medics catches the movement of your lips.

"Soldier, you're okay! Jus' a concussion and stitches on your stomach, cleaned up, not to fret. 6 to 7 days 'til you're free to go, give or take-"

You raise your hand to point towards the freshly scented bouquet of flowers.

"Oh, yeah. Someone brought them...didn't catch the name, solider. Now rest. You need it."

A week of your teammates visiting you goes by, a week of fresh sets of flowers sat by your bed everyday, and although you're happy to be back with them in training, you're dishearten that König didn't find his way to your hospital bed.

Everytime you asked, you received the same response.

"Not sure dude, haven't seen him in a while, stuck in the gym by the looks of it."

You raise your eyebrow. "So...he never visited me?" Voice quivering.

Your teammates shrug.

"Your guy's gone mad in training. Struck his elbow into my neck, and now I want to be on the bed beside you." One said.

"Missed me so badly, you guys have been sending me so many flowers, 'n this place has become a forest!" You laugh, followed by a painful cough, and your friends rush to your side.

"I'm fine, I'm fine, just wanna be back with the team. Just wanna be back with König..."

The medic ends the visitation, walking your friends out the room, leaving you to close your eyes once again as sleep evades you. Outside the room, a confused group discuss.

"We never got her flowers?"

"Forget the flowers - why is there a medal there?"

Whilst you were resting away in your bed, König was awarded for his bravery, putting himself forward to rescue his soldier, you. He felt selfish for enjoying this familiar attention, being praised by someone other than you.

He was impressive on the field..

He walked into the hospital room, when he knew you were resting, after begging and almost on the verge of bribing the medic to let him in after visitation hours.

He decorated your room with the freshest flowers, arrays of bouquets of roses and tulips, dahlias and peonies, as if it were a room full of boyfriends waiting for their girlfriends on valentines day.

There you rest, your chest heaving as you snore. König leaves a flower in your hair, by your right ear, before leaving your room.

It's been 10 days since you've been admitted into the medical room, and 0 days of being with König. Awake that is...

Your teammates are right, he's busy in the gym. Men's only gym...what a calculated move, you think.

Though you're still questioning your actions. What did you do for him to be ignoring you?

So here you are, walking into the combat room, numerous pairs sparring, including König. You aimed to talk to him, ask him why he didn't visit you during your admission to the medical room, and why a shiny gold medal rested, engraving his name, rested underneath your sweatshirt.

The medic warned you, "No physical combat yet - a few more days 'til the cut on your abdomen closes."

And you weren't here to spar, God no.

You were here for König - who's currently...on top of a recruit, fists beating against the poor opponents bloody face.

You push pass the crowd, surrounding this brutal fight - you call it a fight although, from a third party, it looks just like a murder.

"König! Stop! What the fuck are you doing?" You shout at him, trying to get his attention. But your voice is overpowered by the hollering and whistling of the surrounding crowd.

"König! Enough!" Still nothing.

"Köni-"

His eyes meet yours. But not a look of adoration, no. A murderous look. A look that could kill. His eyes, a gentle blue, now a bloodshot red. Like a madman. Like a man-hunting lion.

A shiver runs down your spine.

Another voice breaks out into a shout.

"Who's next" He looks to his left.

"- to fight -", He looks to his right.

"the big the almighty, the Austrian King, Kööööniiiiig!" He announces, elongating syllables, as if a commentator for an illegal underground boxing ring.

"Any contestaaants?" His voice annoys you, why isn't anyone helping the poor soldier? And why is König behaving this way? All macho?

Normally, a quick spar with König would consist of a few skilled moved thrown around, before continuing to the next opponent according to the rotation. Not like you would know, he usually just rolls on the mat or he surrenders, too afraid to hurt his precious lover.

You begin to scream, "Stop this figh-"

König eyes rest on yours, and this signals the commentator-wannabe to point directly at you.

"The neeeeext opponent-"

Oh no.

"isssss-"

Why is everyone looking at you?

"Youuuuu!"

Me?

In a matter of seconds, the crowd formed around König and the now unconscious soldier moves to border you and König.

König stands up, his 6' 10 self towering over you, even though he stands 7 metres from you.

He steps towards you slowly, and your eyes fall down to his boots.

His left foot moves, then his right foot.

Left.

Right.

And now he's right in front of you, red eyes cutting into you. He scoffs, looking down at you condescendingly.

"Wait-" Your mouth runs dry again.

He steps forwards once again.

"Wait, König, I can't, I was disch-"

But this doesn't stop him.

He grabs your sweatshirt at the chest, unknowingly clutching onto the tucked away medal, and with a swift move, he places his second hand onto your back, and throws you straight onto your back.

He throws you directly onto your back.

Your thankful that you didn't land onto your front, your stitches would have broken immediately, but at this point, you're not too sure, and you're clutching onto your stomach again, curling into fetal position onto the floor.

Something is definitely broken. You can tell, because when you open your eyes, you see people staring from above you, while you lay on the mat, laying in a blood of a deep red liquid.

Your ears are ringing once again, and you lay motionless on the floor, cursing internally for being so weak.

König smirks at you on the floor.

Weak? Him?

Soft?? HIM??

He chuckles as people begin to pat his back, fist bumping and side hugging the soldiers around him.

He turns to you once again.

"Shows over, liebing, get up now." He breathes heavily.

You don't move.

"Schatz...enough acting..."

Nothing.

He steps towards you, kneeling to reach your level, his eyes catching sight of the pool of blood.

"Meine Liebli-"

His fingers touch your skin and his blood runs cold, whilst yours run down the mat from your broken nose.

"Schatz?"

The crowd dissipates and the medic runs into the middle of the scene.

"I told her no physical exercise! König, why didn't you stop her!" He scolded at König.

"Now help me carry her to the medical room - again!"

König, who didn't dare to speak, looks up, eyes wide open.

"König!"

The medic looks down at him.

An unimpressed look rests on his face.

YALLLLLLLL the angst, call me mcdonalds cos i'm loving it :D Quick notes: The move König pulls at the end is written a little confusingly (MY APOLOGIES LMAO), but it's inspired by the wrestling move -> The Arm Throw. I hope this helps you visualise it better. I've decided to start a tag list! -> lemme know you're interested to be tagged in my future posts! tags -> @lilliumrorum

#call of duty #cod #konig angst #konig x reader #konig cod #konig mw2 #konig call of duty #call of duty modern warfare #cod mw2

235 notes · View notes

im-totally-not-an-alien-2 · 1 year

Text

Danny thought the guy Tucker had dragged over to talk tech with was cute but there was something...off about him. He seemed nervous but not in a "a ghost is about to attack way" but in the subtle ways he checked the exits every so often or the way he made his body language purposely relaxed.

Sam would say he's just being paranoid since Tim Drake was the adopted son of a billionaire (and independently wealthy too) and Danny did not trust billionaires or wealthy people in general. Danny still felt something was off.

Seeing as Tucker and Tim were hitting it off he decided to leave them to it and continued to manage his own stall at the glorified science fair Bruce Wayne was sponsoring. Billionaire or not he really wanted that scholarship to Gotham University. He had pulled out the best designs he could make such as a fully functional portal gun, some variation of wrist rays that did different things and were disguised as normal watches, force field shield generators designed into bracelets, and even a modified version of of the fenton thermos that instead of working on ghosts it worked on physical matter such as chairs and other items...and it wasn't disguised as a soup container!

He preemptively put a note on it that it wasn't safe or designed for the containment or travel of organic beings.

He had some other things too, but these seemed to be the ones Tim were the most fascinated with. He asked a lot of questions to Tucker who happily chatted with him about the tech up until he asked a question Tucker didn't know the answer to and he turned to ask Danny.

Danny answered without looking up from the metal boots he was working on. They were going to allow the user to jump to great heights and deliver electrified high powered kicks. Tim then asked if Tucker wasn't the one who made these.

Tucker laughed and told him it was all Danny and jokingly mentioned that Dannys parents were evil mad scientists, hence his move to Gotham. Tim looked...alarmed. Danny pointed his screw driver at Tucker in warning, "What Tuck means is that I wanted to get away from the stigma of my parents being criminals, which is why telling everybody is counterproductive."

Tucker sheepishly apologized and admitted he had gotten carried away. Danny didn't think Bruce Wayne would disqualify him for having crappy parents but hes been treated pretty badly for less. Tim made an excuse to leave which Danny took as a bad sign. Crap. But he still had some confidence seeing as his inventions had caught the attention of Tim and kept it for so long. That had to mean something right?

---

Phantom knew that Gotham was "Batmans" territory and he didn't like others interfering on his turf but there was something so unnerving about Tim. He needed to find out more. He may have only been in this dimension for a few months but something smelling fishy had the same meaning in all the dimensions he's come across before.

So when he phased into Tim Drakes apartment under the cover of invisibility and found the cold case files of several murdered individuals going back the last two years alarm bells started to ring in his head. Last he checked Tim was in no way affiliated with the GPD and shouldn't have access to these. Then he noticed he had jewelry matching what one of the victims was wearing in thier photo. The same antique necklace that was noted to be missing from the victims body in the report. Upon further investigation Tim also seemed to have the murder weapons for a few of the crimes as well.

Wtf.

Tim Drake was a serial killer.

---

Tim stared at the batcomputer. He now had no doubt that "Daniel Nightengale" was some form of alias. It was a well crafted one he could give him that but after days of meticulous digging he found an inconsistency. Following that led to another and another until he finally had enough to unravel the lie.

Unfortunately it didn't give him a single clue towards the truth, at least not that he could see.

Yet.

All the same, Tucker didn't seem to realize the situation he was in. It was clear Daniel was dangerous if the gear he had at the presentation was anything to go by. Some of that stuff could give Bruce a run for his money.

Tim was sure Danny was up to something and would strike soon. Mad scientists usually have some sort of goal in mind after all.

---

This kicks off a period were Danny and Tim keep trying to stalk one another both in and out of costume. Both of them making flimsy excuses to escape one another- Tim because he's needed as Robin/Red Robin and Danny because he doesn't want to be murdered or outed as a "meta"

Jason finds out about both of thier suspensions by stalking them both as civilians and laughs until he cries. He then throws fuel on the fire by planting "evidence" that would point to Danny being evil/a serial killer such as hacking into dannys laptop while Tim is "visiting" Dannys apartment while he's away and making the screen show partial blueprints labeled "Death Ray Plans" only for the computer to crash when Tim tries to click on it, thus erasing everything.

He messes with Danny in a similar way, planting fake bloodsplatter in Tim's kitchen around the sink and watching the metas horrified face via Tims security cameras that he hacked into before later breaking in to clean it back up before his little brother got home.

Jason doesn't think he's ever had this much fun.

#two heros think the other is a serial killer #fanfiction prompts #prompts #dp x dc #danny phantom #danny fenton #tim drake #red robin #yum #robin #batman #robin iii #jason todd #red hood #robin ii #this was funnier in my head #the other bats find out about Tim stalking this guy and are like: oh he has a crush #dispite him vehemently denying it #most of the bats are like: yeah if my parents were well known supervillians id probably change my name and move towns too #Tim: You dont get it #Tim proceeds to show what little proof he has only to get a pat on the back and told he should just ask him out like a normal person #Jason is having the time of his life #i was originally going to have the cameras and fake bloodsplatter around the tub before i realised that was creepy in a different way #oops #tw: blood #tw: serial killer #i had fun with this #im still smiling like a loon as a type out the tags #long post

1K notes · View notes

noideabutsims · 4 months

Text

Donut Co. Rough And Rumble Pirate Playset

Merry Christmas!! We are (kinda?) back and here with one of the absolute hardest thing we have done yet. Autumn spent over a month perfecting this pirate ship and we are SO excited to get to share it with you! Hopefully soon we will be back with more, but in the meantime - Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, and we hope you have a wonderful New Year! <3 ------------------------ 1 Swatch - Dollhouse -BGC New mesh - All Shadows and LODS. All of our CC can be found by typing " Donut " into the search bar! Infants that can sit up can play with it, toddlers and kids can play too!

This item works best if you use the [ + ] keys, or the TOOL mod, to change its size to fit your kids better! There is slight clipping at full size (Sorry)!!

The preview photos - GUYS these are amazing!! These beauties are not done by us - they were done by @aghilasims who is so amazing and wonderful!! They did amazing with the previews and yeah go check out their stuff because they are awesome!! (Just look at that juicy preview set - there is even a simlish version!!) ---------------- Name: Donut Co. Rough And Rumble Pirate Playset Buymode Description: ARRRRRRRRRRRR - Donut Co is bringing you possibly the best gift for under the tree this holiday season! (Well...if it fits under the tree!) This large oak wood ship is surely going to be a hit with all the kids! Grab your binoculars, pick up a pirate, and set sail for the seas! Surely you'll find the Kraken in no time! (Use the [ + ] Keys to size the item up and down! Use TOOL Mod for more precise sizing!) -------------------------- ****DOWNLOAD**** Curseforge: https://legacy.curseforge.com/sims4/build-buy/donut-co-rough-and-rumble-pirate-playset Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/posts/donut-co-rough-95239501?utm_medium=clipboard_copy&utm_source=copyLink&utm_campaign=postshare_creator&utm_content=join_link Google Drive: https://drive.google.com/file/d/1cWkANAqHHJfURyFn6U0b1L5j40KVfWDC/view?usp=sharing --------------------------

Re-colors, and using this item as a mesh/base is fully allowed! you can include the mesh, and do what you please with the item, as long as you link back to the original. There are posts for all of our cc on our main 3 platforms (Tumblr, curseforge, patreon. ), So there is no reason not to link back! Will be releasing more content soon! stay tuned! ❤️ (NOT affiliated with EA or Maxis in any way! We just make CC! )

142 notes · View notes

pixelpaladin · 1 year

Text

Deep dive to Spam bots on Tumblr (Spoiler: FSB mentioned)

(TL;DR: Russian business man is heavily investing into companies behind the bots, mentions of FSB, Shell companies in tax-evasion and weak business law countries, Huge industry and money laundering)

I got annoyed about the bots on tumblr, so I decided to do some investigation into who is behind them and funding the operation, here is my findings:

The graph shows how a network of “affiliate marketing” companies for “dating” services is connected and some of the key players behind said companies

The first “company” I ran into is called “Digital international Inc” and it is shown as the “legal entity” behind of many of the websites the bots tend to link to, it also has its address listed in the Marshall Islands.

By looking at trademarks owned/filed by that company, we find 2 more companies/trademarks that are/were owned by the same legal entity.

First of these is called “Mirelia Services Co.”, currently known as “Mirelia Networks”, which lists its main business as “advertising and marketing” and is registered at the same address as “Digital International”.

Where things get interesting is when we look at one of the trademarks that was passed between “Mirelia” and “Digital international”, a trademark for an LGBTQ+ dating app called “Hitwe”,

The trademark application for “Hitwe” is listed as “Rescinded/canceled” but from the original registration documents and later ownership transfer filings, we come across an interesting company

“Matar Trade & Invest Ltd.” This company has other similar “dating” and “marketing” companies linked to it, and is owned by “Vladimir Mnogoletniy”, a Citizen of Russia, who has lived in Ukraine for over 10 years and his runs his businesses there, but interestingly does not seem to have officially moved there, and maintains his Russian Citizenship as his only one.

He is also the CEO or a major of many other companies, the main one being “Genesis”, the company behind a controversial fitness app “BetterMe”, which has been shown to aggressively sell user data to less-than-reputable ad companies and affiliates, as well as being used to redirect money from scam dating sites and lessen the impact of credit card chargebacks from those sites [See footnote 1]

What makes him a particularly interesting individual is that his father, who is a Captain of the Second Rank in the Russian Navy, is doing security work for “Sevmash” - A Russian shipbuilding company, the only one that is making nuclear submarines in Russia. He also co-authored a research paper that talks about “Military Counterintelligence activities”, The other author of said paper is an FSB officer.[See footnote 2]

Sources and footnotes:

Footnote 1: “BetterMe steals traffic” - Article by SH[IT]HAPPENS on Medium Footnote 2: “Why don’t I no longer shake hands with Vladimir Mnogoletniy.“ - Article by SH[IT]HAPPENS on Medium

Tangent: one of the other companies that I came across that seems to be working with Mirelia is “Traffichunt”, which seems to be one of the companies selling bot spam advertisements as well.

Another interesting thing is that the lawyer who filed for most of the trademarks, has quite a repertoire of similar trademarks under his belt:

Most of these seem to have been rejected because the address he listed in the applications does not exist

If you read all the way to here, thank you and I hope that bot’s never bother you again.

#spam bots #deep dive #osint #spam #research #i hope i dont get merc'd #tumblr bots #please read #bots #spammers #opsec #phishing #cybersecurity #sex bots #fake accounts #long reads

888 notes · View notes

qxldnya · 1 year

Text

ENEMIES TO LOVERS

Part 1

Jude Bellingham x baller!reader

(ongoing series)

Sypnosis; it is clear that you and jude aren't very fond of eachother but what happens when both of you need to make a mutual deal?

Wc: 500

Warning: swearing, wall pinning:), jerk jude? (ik he is a sweartheart irl)

A/n: there's unfortunately a lack of enemies to lovers fics on jude so i decided to take matters in my own hands, yw;)

It had all started with one stupid mistake that snowballed into a complete catastrophe.

Because, you know, it seemed like that was the common trend with your life nowadays. You'd been in the common area, sketching a few mindless doodles after training when your mom had called.

For a brief moment, staring at your vibrating phone with a scathing hatred, you'd considered just letting it go straight to voicemail.

This would mark the... seventh? Eighth time this week? That she'd called to ask about the same fucking topic.

It was never, "Hi sweetie! How's it going at the club?" or "Honey! Are you feeling ok?"

Picking up the phone, you're met with the same line you've grown to memorize over the course of the past month or so.

"Have you found a plus-one to the wedding yet?"

The question has you pondering whether or not it would really be a bad idea to just discreetly smash your phone into the brick wall next to you. Repeatedly. So you can't take any calls for the rest of the month.

So fucking tempting. Instead, you just turn the volume up, pressing the small buttons a bit too hard in your small fit of annoyance. It's just quiet enough to not disturb the other students across the room, but loud enough so you can continue to sketch comfortably without having to put the phone to your ear.

Plus, no one's sitting close enough to hear you anyways. The cause of this whole plus-one fiasco was a result of your Aunt Sylvie's wedding.

Had it been under normal circumstances, you'd have merely taken a Friday off for classes and driven down to the chosen venue, had a grand time, and been back by midnight.

These were not normal circumstances.

Because your aunt has never affiliated with anything that could be filed under "normal circumstances."

Why? She's loaded. Like. "Vacation homes in Peru" loaded. Oh, and famous, too. One of the most successful football managers in your country, to be precise.

An elite coach, she got you to step a foot in the football world at a young age and teached you everything you know. And you commended her for it, you truly did.

The occasional "gift" of joining almost any club you wanted was always proved to be a welcome perk of being her sole niece.

And she was truly a good aunt to you; overall, a very sweet woman with some fat stacks of cash. And maybe a bit of a controlling streak.

So it wasn't too surprising that she got engaged soon after her rise to fame, to another baller. Nor was it very surprising when they'd announced their wedding details: a fully paid wedding destination trip to none other than the Bahamas.

For an entire week. At first, you'd been absolutely psyched. College loans meant vacations of any sort were always out of the question, so this was some sort of god-sent miracle to rest your fatigued brain.

She'd reserved rooms for all the guests at one of the most luxurious resorts, planned numerous exciting activities and events throughout the week such as snorkeling and jet-skiing, prepared top-tier food accommodations - everything. Quite literally the experience of a lifetime. And you were certain the wedding ceremony was going to be absolutely beautiful as well.

There was only one catch. Every guest needed a plus-one

As in a romantic partner plus-one. Some bullshit about couples activities, photo symmetry, and singles proving to be too costly by taking up more rooms - apparently even the filthy rich needed to worry about budgeting sometimes.

To be honest, you didn't completely understand it. But hurrah! Your mother had come to save the day! By trying to set you up with fucking Tom. The son of a long-time family friend, whom you'd quickly grown to despise.

He was just... not it. At all. If you had to use one adjective to describe him, it would be slippery. Because he's as greasy as he is deceiving, you think to yourself sourly as you tighten your grip on your phone.

You'd had one too many bad encounters with him that just teetered on the edge of being socially unacceptable enough to warrant him a ban from family events.

But he was smart enough to take note of that, and often just barely toed the line around you, hence why your parents didn't see anything wrong with trying to get you two together for the wedding.

Despite your numerous protests and refusals, of course. Your mother's voice in your ear reminds you that you've forgotten to respond, and you just sigh, pinching your brow.

You'd tried getting a plus one! You really had! But it seemed like despite the whole "all expenses paid vacation" bait you'd used to keep any potential candidates on the hook, no one really felt like coming along as your romantic partner.

Especially not after one date. With a girl they met on Tinder. Fuck! There's a good chance you've been placed on a list for suspected organ traffickers at this point.

"Honey?!! Your mom asked again.

You don't want to cancel on a luxurious trip like this, but also, the thought of having to share a room with Tom, let alone act like his date, is enough to make you reconsider. Who knows what that creep would try to pull?

And then the doors to the common room open and in walks the infamous quartet that seems to be known everywhere across camp: James Reece, Trent Alexander Arnold, Phil foden, and of course, Jude. Your training partner for the upcoming World Cup.

"Honey? Did you find someone to be your plus one??" Her pitch rises a few octaves with excitement. For some reason, you're not really paying attention, just looking at the group, and specifically, Jude.

Man, fuck that guy.

"Uhh..." is all you can respond with, still distracted. And to be honest, you're not sure why.

He seems to be in a foul mood like always, teeth grit as he lets out a slew of insults towards his friends, who merely laugh good-naturedly in response.

And for a brief moment, he turns towards you. Your eyes meet, his crimson irises seemingly studying you intently, before he just curls his lip and turns away. Bitch. You scowl back at him. Out of everyone you could've been partnered up with, it had to be him.

Despite your best efforts or admittedly, failures he'd - turned down any prospect of friendship, or even a simple truce between the two of you, which had made this past season difficult.

Especially with partner duality as we call it where we basically have you compete with our partner. Those were awful to deal with. A small voice reminds you that although you did try to be nice, you kind of stuck your foot in your mouth and made a pretty awful first impression at the beginning of the season You bash the small voice with the one who held a grudge.

And for some reason, whether it be the frustration with the whole wedding situation, or because you just really hate seeing his face, you begin to sort of angrily fixate on him, as if you're silently blaming him for all of your current problems right now.

And so, not by your own accord though, your mind wanders. That fucking look he gave you. Like you were nothing but an insect for him to regard with absolute disgust. You knew being the only women to play with men would backlash. Even though you earned your spot and worked hard to get to your position despite your aunt being who she is.

You imagine confronting him someday, asking why he has to be such a complete jerk to everyone he encounters in his miserable life.

"What's his name?" Her question doesn't fully register, and to be honest, you've completely forgotten what she's talking about.

You're too absorbed in your own thoughts about your asshole of a teammate, and in this moment, the question seems to relate to just that. And so, you make a horrible mistake.

A truly, truly horrible mistake.

"Jude," you mumble with a glare, still focused on the retreating form of the brunette. There's silence. The four men exit the room.

"You found a plus one!" Comes the shriek of celebration, and you're immediately startled out of your stupor and almost drop your phone onto the floor.

"Jude, huh? Is that his first name or his surname? How long have you known him? Is he nice? Wait, you need to tell me the details later, I have to go call your aunt and tell her the good news! Oh, I'm so proud of you!"

What?

"Wait, WAIT!" You try to interrupt, your notebook almost falling out of your lap as you lurch forward to bring the phone to your ear, but she hangs up before you can explain, leaving you with nothing but a dead line.

At first, you're too stunned to process what just happened. And when the realization finally dawns on you, the only rational decision seems to be: freak the fuck out. You try to call her back repeatedly, but the line is busy, and you assume that she's probably too busy gushing to your aunt about your "brand new boyfriend."

Oh, fuck. You bury your face into your hands, mortified that your mother now thinks you're taking Jude, of all people, as your stupid plus-one. And now she's gone and told your aunt. Fuck. You now have to tell them both the truth before this all gets too out of hand...

...And you'd rather do that from within the privacy of your own apartment. With a quick glance around the front of the room, you're pleased to note that nobody's looking at you funny or whispering to themselves, like you'd feared.

Maybe using speakerphone hadn't been the best decision, but the commotion that surrounds you has gone on like normal, and nobody even bothers to give you a second glance as you get up to leave.

Thank god nobody heard that, you think shamefully to yourself, snatching up your bag and hurrying out of the room.

Declan Rise finally turns around from the seat directly behind you to watch you leave, mouth agape in pure shock as he silently mumbles a "no wayyy-" And then, he whips his phone out and begins texting.

It takes about two hours before you're able to get ahold of your aunt. And she gives you the exact same treatment your mother did, if not worse.

"Darling!" She exclaims as soon as she picks up. "I am so overjoyed to hear you'll be able to attend the wedding! You're my only niece you know, and I was afraid you'd cancel on me! I just simply couldn't have dealt with that. The bridesmaid coordinations would've been thrown off entirely!"

"Actually," you begin with an awkward laugh, but she cuts you off. "Well, in other good news, you were actually the last person we needed to RSVP so the fiancé and I have officially booked everything! I'll have your ticket details sent to you within the next few hours. And I am so looking forward to meeting Jude, he is an excellent player! Even though I'm not that keen over you dating a fellow college who am I to stand in the way of true love! Just don't tell the rest of the world just yet I do not think they would take it that well. But you will have to tell me what he's like."

You try to speak again, starting to explain the situation, but she doesn't respond. There's a muffled voice from somewhere in the background, and she's silent for a few more moments before she clears her throat and giggles.

"I have to run, darling. I'm going to a meeting. But I'm just- I'm so excited! I'll see you in three weeks~" She hangs up. And you're left to sit on your bed, absolutely dumbstruck, because it seems that literally NOBODY is willing to let you get a single word in today. But now, there's a real problem.

She has reserved you and your NOT-boyfriend Jude spots at her wedding. Her ultra-expensive vacation resort wedding. And you sure as fuck can't pay her back for all of that if you decide to drop out last second.

Not that you think she'd charge you, but you'd assume it would be the most respectful thing to do in such a scenario

However, it's that... or go with Tom. You crash face first into your pillows and scream.

The universe is probably laughing in response. First day of the world cup training. You were really looking forward to it since it was theoretical and noy out on the field just yet. Today we were just taking it easy and just start out with a game plan on the board.

Each row sat two people, and you absent-mindedly wondered who you'd be paired up with. And as it turned out, you didn't have to wonder for long.

So here you are, standing awkwardly by your desk and trying not to full on gawk at Trent who's supposed to be sitting next to you for the rest of the season. Holy, shit. He looks like a fucking model, with his perfectly tanned skin and sharp crimson eyes that regard you without a single hint of interest.

His shoulders are broad, as well as his chest, and you can't help but let your eyes linger on his lips- Internally slapping yourself, you try your best to smile in a not-creepy way, forcing yourself to go back to a more normal headspace as you stick your hand out in greeting.

What you meant to say was "Hi," and then introduce yourself with a little, "hey?" But for some reason, you can't help but fumble your words like an idiot. So instead, you decided to just keep quiet anf not embarrass yourself even more.

You wake up the next day, groggy and disoriented. You'd been up all night trying to figure out how the hell you were going to get out of this, because if you tell your mom now, she's definitely going to guilt trip you into going with Tom. And speak of the devil, she sent you a text.

From: Mom

Hi honey! Good morning! I hope you're having a good day. And you better tell me all about this Jude guy soon

At least she's actually sending you good morning texts now instead of suspicious download links to dating websites! So, maybe paying your auntie back isn't such a bad option. At least less than 5,000$, right?

She messages you again. You groan, and pointedly ignore the text, along with a few others from your best friend mason who instantly clicked with you since you first started your career at the National team, tossing your phone off to the side as you roll out of bed to get ready for your first training.

You'll read them all later. And hopefully you'll get all of this bullshit sorted out later too, but for now, you just really need a coffee. Your cat jumps onto the bed with a loud purr, reminding you that it is, in fact, breakfast time.

At least for her, anyways. You stroke your fingers through her soft fur, smiling as she keens into your touch. Perhaps it won't be so bad. You'll get through this, no matter the outcome.

But something's off today, you note, as you make your way to the rest of the team forty minutes later. For some reason, it feels like a lot more people are looking at you than normal. Not a huge change, but you can feel a few lingering gazes that make you more than a bit uneasy

You quicken your pace. The attention - or more likely your own paranoia - only worsens as you make your way towards training, trying your best to keep calm.

Ok, something is up. Is there a hole in your shorts? An embarrassing stain you hadn't noticed? Fuck, you'll have to ask Mason when you see him. You swear if it's something along those lines, you're going to lose it. As if shit isn't already stressful enough for you. The group of people working at the camp start thinning out as everyone rushes to there oh so important planning for the upcoming World Cup, and you feel like you can finally breathe normally again.

The pitch is right up ahead, and you make a beeline for it, ready to find out if you really did publicly humiliate yourself in front of half of the team just by walking to training. But you never actually make it into the pitch

Because right as you're about to go outside through the doorway, someone yanks you to the side and against the wall beside it. You yelp, wincing at the sudden motion. It didn't hurt but it sure did startle the shit out of you.

Jude's eyes are boring right into yours, only inches from your face as he towers over you. Oh come on. You try to move away from him with a glare, but he keeps you firmly in place.

"What the hell are you doing?" You hiss, indignantly staring up at him. He doesn't respond. On any normal day, you would've shoved him off with a parting gift of some choice words and maybe even the middle finger as a garnish on top.

But this feels... much different from the usual spats you both have. You flinch away as he snarls at you with a scathing venom that drips from his every word.

"Why the FUCK am I hearing that we're dating?"

#jude bellingham fic #jude bellingham x fotballer reader #jude bellingham fluff #jude bellingham blurb #jude bellingham x reader #jude bellingham smut #jude bellingham imagine #jude bellingham #trent alexander arnold x reader

670 notes · View notes

shu-of-the-wind · 4 months

Text

Okay so I have been asked to cast an eye over SB197 in the WV legislature, which is a new bill introduced to both add a new section to WV law as well as amend an existing section about child neglect and abuse, to see what potential issues I see.

TLDR: this is not only really dangerous from a standpoint of people being trans publicly, since one of the big editions is making being trans a display of obscene material and punishable by law, particularly within school grounds, but I am also seeing a lot of parental rights additions that make me REALLY SCARED of how trans kids are going to be treated in WV. I’m going to go thru it section by section and break down why each section frightens me, so hopefully this is educational for folks.

My creds: I worked in family law as an attorney for three years, I was affiliated with a public defenders office for that same amount of time working primarily with juvenile offenders, and I am still an attorney even if I haven’t worked in those fields for the last six months. Plus I’m trans. And I love WV and wanted to live there. So.

WEST VIRGINIA'S FUN NEW SHITSHOW HORROR HOUSE TIME.

The new section (formally titled §18-5-29, Obscene matter in public schools prohibited [I will be calling it the Obscenity section]) is about 700 words of absolute garbage. Essentially what it distills down to is the following.

Section A: prohibiting anything they label as “obscene matter” in or within 2500 feet of any public school library, classroom, building, or other facility under the supervision of the state board of education and requiring that any school officials or personnel who become aware of the material remove it from school grounds. “Obscene matter” is currently defined in §61-8A-1 of the WV code, pretty fuckin broadly (unconstitutionally so in my opinion but ~that’s me~). So basically anything an “average person applying contemporary community standards would find taken as a whole appeals to the prurient interest or is pandered to a prurient interest” (basically, anything ~unwholesome~), anything that an “average person applying community standards” would find depicts sexually explicit conduct in a “patently offensive way,” or anything that a reasonable person would find “taken as a whole, lacks serious literary, artistic, scientific or political value” which basically means E V E R Y THING.

Section B. This is the one that scares the shit out of me tbqh, cause this is folding in the amendment section I mentioned earlier to another part of the WV code specifically relating to child abuse and neglect. This section mandates that any “school officials or school personnel while engaged in a professional capacity or activity” shall be found to be a “custodian of children” under WV law. This basically makes EVERYONE a mandatory reporter, which like…most professionals already are, but at the same time this is EXPLICITLY MAKING ANYONE WHO WORKS IN THE SCHOOL IN ANY CAPACITY (see: any school officials or school personnel) mandatory reporters regarding “obscene matter.” So if an adult working at the school even SUSPECTS that a child has been exposed to “obscene material “while in any public school facility (unclear from the phrasing if the exposure happened on school property, or if the professional just learns about it there) and they decide not to report it (or they “fail to make a TIMELY report” when there’s no real definition of what timely means) then they can be prosecuted for a misdemeanor and imprisoned.

Section C. The state superintendent is going to establish a procedure to file complaints alleging violations of subsection A. If they find that a violation occurred, they will TELL THE COPS THAT IT HAPPENED.

Section D. No government funds (state or federal) can be used to develop or operate programs “designed to promote or encourage sexual activity, whether homosexual or heterosexual” or “to distribute or aid in distribution of any legally obscene materials” within 2500 feet of a school building or facility. Which, woof. We could unpack everything about that one, but it’ll be most of the review.

Section E. If an adult is found to have committed a felony under the child neglect statute related back to this one (if they’re found to have neglected kids by allowing them to view or possess “obscene material” is my understanding, this bill isn’t written that well) then they will be subject to penalties set forth in a felony, which I’m guessing (on average) is at least a year in jail and a thousand dollar fine, from what I’ve seen of WV felony statutes.

Section F. THIS IS THE OTHER REALLY SCARY ONE TO ME FROM A LEGAL STANDPOINT. “Any student or parent, guardian, or custodian on behalf of a student shall have civil cause of action against a county board, public charter school, state board” if the entity caused or was negligent in allowing a violation of the preceding sections, basically if they let anything slide PARENTS CAN SUE THE SCHOOL which like…if you’re talkin about a trans kid who is not out to their parents, they’re found to have “obscene material” (fanfiction?? Fanfiction could qualify here??? Risque art that isn’t even definitionally pornography?? A book abut transitioning that they’re hiding from their parents???) the school is mandated to not only out this kid to their parents, but the parents can then sue the school if the school DOESN’T OUT THE CHILD. Just spinning a hypothetical here but I hate this.

The rest of the bill is adding in definitions to Article 8A of the WV code, which are as follows. Anything italicized is the new language that has been proposed to be added by the bill; anything NOT italicized was already in the law:

(g) "Graphic," when used with respect to a depiction of sexually explicit conduct, means that a viewer can observe any part of the genitals or pubic area of any depicted person or animal during any part of the time that the sexually explicit conduct is being depicted.

(h) "Identifiable minor" means a person: (i) who was a minor at the time the visual depiction was created, adapted, or modified; or (ii) whose image as a minor was used in creating, adapting, or modifying the visual depiction; and (iii) who is recognizable as an actual person by the person’s face, likeness, or other distinguishing characteristic, such as a unique birthmark or other recognizable feature; and shall not be construed to require proof of the actual identity of the identifiable minor.

(i) "Indistinguishable" used with respect to a depiction, means virtually indistinguishable, in that the depiction is such that an ordinary person viewing the depiction would conclude that the depiction is of an actual minor engaged in sexually explicit conduct.

(i)(l) "Matter" means any visual, audio, or physical item, article, production transmission, publication, display, exposure, exhibition, or live performance, or reproduction thereof, including any two- or three- dimensional visual or written material, stereopticon, moving picture, slide, film, picture, drawing, not exceeding $500 video, graphic, graphic novel, or computer generated or reproduced image; or any book, not exceeding $500 magazine, newspaper or other visual or written material; or any motion picture or other pictorial representation; or any statue or other figure; or any recording, transcription, or mechanical, chemical, or electrical reproduction; or any other articles, video laser disc, computer hardware and software, or computer generated images or message recording, transcription, or object, or any public or commercial live exhibition performed for consideration or before an audience of one or more.

(j)(m) "Minor" means a an person under eighteen years of age or a person representing himself or herself to be a minor. Any prosecution under this article relating to a victim who is representing himself or herself to be a minor shall be limited to investigations being conducted or overseen by law enforcement.

And the big doozy here is this one:

(k)(n) "Obscene matter" means matter that:

(1) An average person, applying contemporary adult community standards, would find, taken as a whole, appeals to the prurient interest, is intended to appeal to the prurient interest, or is pandered to a prurient interest;

(2) An average person, applying community standards, would find depicts or describes, in a patently offensive way, sexually explicit conduct; and

(3) A reasonable person would find, taken as a whole, lacks serious literary, artistic, political, or scientific value.

(4) For the purposes of any prohibition, protection, or requirement under any and all articles and sections of the Code of West Virginia protecting children from exposure to indecent displays of a sexually explicit nature, such prohibited displays shall include, but not be limited to, any transvestite and/or transgender exposure, performances or display to any minor.

(l)(o) "Parent" includes a biological or adoptive parent, legal guardian, or legal custodian. (underlining this one for the legal side note that remember that custodian language from before??? that's where this kicks in)

(m)(p) "Person" means any adult, partnership, firm, association, corporation, or other legal entity.

(n)(q) "Sexually explicit conduct" means a ultimate definitive sexual act, normal or perverted, between persons of the same or opposite sex, actual or simulated, including genital-genital, oral-genital, anal-genital, or oral-anal sexual intercourse, sodomy, oral copulation of any kind, sexual bestiality, sexual sadism and masochism, masturbation, excretory functions and lewd exhibition of the anus, genitals or pubic area of any person, or lascivious simulated sexual intercourse where the genitals, breast, or pubic area of any person is exhibited.

okay. well.

I mean. This is all just gonna be an absolute garbage hellscape if this gets passed. THE IMPORTANT THING IS IT HAS NOT BEEN PASSED. If you live in WV, you can call folks and say that you are AGAINST the passage of SB197. Call your state or county representatives! They are the people who vote on this! If your representative is on the Judiciary Committee, so much the better, that’s where the bill is being evaluated right now!!! Here is the list of delegates on the committee! Call them!! Make a point to be upset!!! Explain why you don’t want this bill to pass!!! Keep an eye on the Committee website for the dates that the public hearings will be held on this bill, because there likely will be a public hearing people can speak at!! You CAN actually do something, it’s not the end of the world.

Even if you do not live in WV and you live NEAR WV, then 100% reach out to folks you know who live there and give them a safe space to land if they need to get out of the state!!! There are things you can do. Just….a heads up to everyone that this is on the table and it’s something they’re going to be discussing.

#transphobia #queerphobia #west virginia #us politics #political and legal analysis #legal analysis #alix is a lawyer #i hate this #i love west virginia as a state and i hate this as a trans person and an attorney and a child welfare advocate #every bone in my body is full of bees looking at this

69 notes · View notes

molagboop · 6 months

Text

Metroid Dread Model Deep Dive: Raven Beak, Part 1

You know him, you've (probably) fought him, he's a staple of this blog...

It's Raven Beak! We're finally doing this.

Today, I'm providing a comprehensive look into Raven Beak's model. I probably won't have enough space to cover the entire thing, as the image limit for Tumblr posts is capped at 30, but we're starting with the head and working our way down.

The rest of this post is under the cut for your convenience.

Navigation:

Fullbody turnaround and helmet meshes

Helmet details

Shoulders, arms, and hands

Arm cannon

Wings and torso

Legs and feet

Raven Beak is referred to as chozocommander in the files: his textures are abbreviated to "commander[whatever]" in the files, with the name of a mesh or general purpose specified in the square brackets (commanderbody, etc). Raven Beak appears in three maps: Hanubia, Artaria, and Itorash. As Metroid Dread's cutscenes are executed in-engine, his model can be extracted from the map packages for the aforementioned regions.

There are several models linked to him during cutscenes that aren't part of his base model: chozocommander_arm, chozocommander_face (appears in Hanubia and after the mask breaks in Itorash), chozocommander_wing_r (which he rips off during the cutscene preceding phase 3 of his fight). chozocommander_arm is a more detailed version of his left arm that exists in the actor files for both Artaria and Itorash, the two zones where a cutscene involves the camera getting close to his arm while he chokes Samus out.

With that out of the way, our first order of business is his helmet, and there's a lot to look at.

Here's a list of all his meshes. We'll go over each part as they become relevant. Relevant to our current objective is helmethead, helmethead_clean, helmethead_cinematic, and brokenmask.

You'll notice that each of these have two meshes to their name. The names that are lower on the hierarchy are the actual helmets, and those higher on the hierarchy are overlays for the eyes to make them glow.

Here's what that looks like without scene lighting:

With the overlay...

... and without the overlay.

helmethead_clean features Raven Beak's helmet without the crack from the Super Missile: this is what we see during the opening cutscene in Artaria.

helmethead bestows the crack over the right eye.

Of all the helmet meshes, the cinematic version is the cleanest and most detailed: this one is used during parts of cutscenes where the camera zooms in on Raven Beak's face.

I'll be using this model to explore the smaller details.

All helmet meshes except the broken mask have their own textures: the broken mask uses the basic helmethead's textures.

brokenmask (left) and brokenmask01 (right). These are used to animate the sequence where the helmet breaks in the post-boss fight cutscene.

Earlier, I mentioned that the cinematic mesh is cleaner than the others. The textures and geometry on the cinematic mesh are crisper and more defined because it's used when we want to get a good look at his face: you don't need to see every plane of his beak in high definition during combat.

Here's a closeup of each primary model for the helmet to demonstrate. From left to right, we have helmethead_clean, helmethead, and helmethead_cinematic. helmethead_clean appears to have the lowest clarity in its textures. helmethead is passable, but the planes on helmethead_cinematic are leagues cleaner: there's very little artifacting (the janky crunch affiliated with lower quality jpgs), the colors appear richer, and effort was made to define the negative space.

Look at the owl-shaped crest in the center of the headdress (helmethead left, helmethead_cinematic right): there are darker lines between the arch behind the head, and care was put into darkening the spaces between the eyebrows, around the eyes, etc.

I've already hit the image limit, so we're going to examine the details on his face even further in another post: I've waited so long to share all the little differences between these helmet meshes in excruciating detail, so I suppose it's only fitting that our first entry is about more about that than it is showing off the finer details of the headdress and mask themselves.

I would not have been able to dive this deep a year ago when the image limit was capped at 10. I hope they increase it further so I can inflict you with more model facts.

I am working on the second post. The navigation section at the top of the post will be updated as things go live.

#raven beak #chozo #metroid #power suit #metroid dread #blender shenanigans #model refs #metroid dread spoilers

78 notes · View notes

dendrobium-writes · 14 days

Note

Am I allowed to file my dolls as dependents on my taxes?

Dendrobium Nobile and its affiliates do not provide tax, legal or accounting advice. This material has been prepared for entertainment purposes only, and is not intended to provide, and should not be relied on for, tax, legal or accounting advice. You should consult your own tax, legal and accounting advisors before engaging in any transaction.

A tax dependant must be a qualifying child or relative. Unfortunately, Dolls typically fall under neither category, and thus cannot be claimed as tax dependants.

It may be possible to claim it as a dependent domestic partner, but the rules may not apply depending on your specific circumstances.

You may use the following questionnaire to determine whether or not your Dolls qualify as dependants if you are a taxpayer who is a U.S. citizen.

#dendrobium.asks #dollposting #witchposting

35 notes · View notes

emwritesstuff · 5 months

Text

DYNAMO | Steve Rogers x Reader | part 1.

HYDRA has made their share of human experiments. You're just one of them. One of the least successful ones. One of the least functional ones. At least your life in the facility gave you a few things: unwavering resilience, cool(ish) superpowers and a great sense of humor. Steve Rogers would strongly disagree with that last one. A single chance encounter with him reluctantly brings you into the Avengers Compound, and you're determined to make his life as miserable as you can. Feeling's mutual.

AO3 | Masterlist | Playlist (coming soon!)

notes: starting off a steve x reader/oc that I had lying around for a long time to cleanse our palates. (warnings: mentions of human experimentation, violence, cursing, stressed!steve rogers) (2.5K words)

1: THE CATALYST

In The Adventure of the Dying Detective, sir Arthur Conan Doyle wrote: “I wonder how a battery feels when it pours electricity into a non-conductor.”

Well here’s how she feels, Doyle: exhausted – drained, if we’re getting scientific – and with a massive migraine. Sometimes nosebleeds, too. That’s how you feel whenever you use your abilities. It’s never a good time, and lately it’s been getting worse.

That’s why you’re back in this godforsaken place. Not exactly back. You’ve never been here; this specific facility was basically only an archive of sorts, and when you were still HYDRA you were confined to labs and larger, safer bases.

This place is really under everyone’s nose. It sits under a parking building in Detroit, right at the corner of a busy avenue. It’s a smart choice of location, because amidst the bustle of people coming and going for their cars, nobody looked at you twice as you went in, dropped into a maintenance hatch and ambled around until you found the heavy vaulted door you were looking for.

You’re positive there’s some information about you and the experiment you were a part – the shining star, truly – of, in here. When HYDRA fell and all of its secrets were leaked to the internet, you weren’t very worried about backing up your own records. You just wanted to live.

When you’ve spent most of your life being trained and turned into a human weapon, only ever seeing the real-world during the few missions you’ve gone on, places like McDonald’s and department stores become a whole new world of wonders once you get to experience them.

But now you needed them. Soon after the fall, however, most of the data was erased by hackers that were still affiliated with the organization. Lucky you.

However, every good terrorist knows to keep physical copies for safekeeping. And if the manila files stamped with your name were anywhere, they had to be here. Or in at least 3 other places just like this one, but you had already checked the first couple of them, and the other was blown to shit by Tony Stark and his little avenging friends.

They were really very good at that – blowing things up and causing havoc everywhere they went. Aliens, HYDRA, murderous crazed robots – whatever the enemy might be, something was sure to be exploding. And in the end, they’re still revered as heroes. Must be fun.

Anyway. Back to the files.

There’s immensurable amount of them, and they were meticulously organized, thank god, but you still decide you’d go through each one just in case.

You’re not in Assets. Also not in Agents. Or Work in progress.

Either way, it has to be here somewhere. Just maybe misplaced. Or concealed.

This place is basically your last hope, before you’re obligated to hunt down the hackers you know of and squeeze the information out of them instead. One of them has to have kept a copy somewhere, but these people were hard to find, and you are starting to feel like you’re running out of time.

The migraines and nosebleeds are getting more frequent, lasting longer, and hurting more. Not to mention the amount of times you lost control and fried every electronic on the vicinity. You could walk into a hospital, but that would probably mean getting dragged to the Raft as soon as the American government took notice of your existence.

And you seriously doubt any regular doctor would know how to deal with… whatever is going on with you.

You don’t miss your former life at all – but at least the scientists and doctors in HYDRA kept you somewhat stable. You survived this far, so someone is to blame.

It must be the adrenaline, but right now you feel great. No spots, no headache. Bouncing on your heels, bobbing your head to the music on your earbuds, while you rummage through an ocean of paper. The archive has been long abandoned, a thick layer of dust covering every surface you hadn’t touched. It’s dead quiet, too, and you start thinking you might spend the night.

It’s been a while since you’ve rested your head in a quiet place, where you didn’t have to look over your shoulder every two minutes. Yeah, that’d be fucking nice.

You’ve been on the run for god knows how long. In fact, you do know – it’s been a little over a couple of years since the public downfall of HYDRA, and everyone you used to know was either arrested, dead, or had gone underground like the rats they were.

You like to distance yourself from your former peers, mostly because if you knew they were all a bunch of Nazis – or if anyone had told you they were actually the bad guys – you probably would have found a way out sooner. Imagine your surprise, finally being free to live in the real world and finding out that everything you’ve been taught was fabricated. Still, authorities weren’t about to make that distinction so, like a HYDRA rat, you also went off the grid.

It’s safe to say you don’t really trust people these days.

You hate it, having to live in hiding. You’re not really very good at it, to be honest. It’s hard being coy, and you wear your heart on your sleeve; your face betrays you when your lack of skill for lying doesn’t. Half-truths and misdirection are the only things keeping your anonymity intact lately, and it works as long as you lower social interaction down to almost zero.

Having to decide whoever looks like they would ask the least amount of questions is exhausting. So is dodging those questions. Dodging bullets is easier. You’d backflip your way out of a full cartridge before facing a 10-minute conversation with someone.

You huff in frustration. The dust that now swirls in the air makes your eyes dry and your nose itch, you’ve already been through what’s probably a good fifty files and still, you found nothing. Not even a mention to your name or your identification number.

You scratch their faint marks on your forearm absentmindedly.

It should be here.

You’re starting to get a little offended, even.

“Can’t find what you’re looking for?”

A male voice coming from the door gets you to stand in alarm. Its owner is tall and wears a navy tactical suit, and you can make out his striking blue eyes even in the dim light of the room. He’s carrying a shield, painted in red, white and blue.

You stare at Captain America, and he stares back. He’s blocking the door you entered from. From your earlier survey you know there’s a possible exit to your left, but you doubt you can get there before that oversized dinner plate of his slices you in half.

“Who are you?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know, Cap.”

He scowls at you and you give him a smile, a crooked thing that makes you look a little crazy. “Are you HYDRA? Nat— Yes. We got company.”

So, he came with a team. Cute. Just like the comics.

“Used to be, technically. I’m done with that life.”

He cocks his head. His gaze pierces through you like laser sight.

Now there’s someone you don’t want to be trapped in a conversation with.

“So why are you here?”

You sigh. Too many questions, not enough fucking off to wherever sunny green fields he lives with his superhero friends in.

“I must’ve left my library card in here somewhere. You’d think no one would care that much about Tolstoy, but they do.”

“Do you really think this is the time for jokes, agent?”

You watch him as he tightens his hand around his shield, and moves his feet towards you a few inches. “Ah ah – I wouldn’t do that.”

He takes another step, and you narrow your eyes.

“I don’t feel like fighting today, so. Don’t.”

“Aren’t you done with the life? You shouldn’t be considering me your enemy.”

“Do you rehearse those lines or what?”

Cap clenches his jaw. It brings you a strange kind of satisfaction to annoy him. A small victory, knowing you can get to him like that.

Yet you still feel like you’re a gazelle being hounded by a lion.

There’s still a considerable distance between you, but you know he’s strong and fast, stronger and faster than you, especially when you haven’t trained properly in so long.

And Captain America hates HYDRA. He wouldn’t hesitate in kicking your ass.

“This doesn’t have to end in a fight. Come with me, and share your intel.” He puts his shield down, and you furrow your eyebrows.

He’s wrong. It always ends in a fight. That’s just how the world works.

“You might even get a lighter sentence.”

Of course. That’s what this was about: you giving them everything you know and then getting locked up. As a treat.

“I’ll pass. I do value my freedom, I’m sure you’ll understand. Considering.”

Gesturing vaguely to his outfit, you dip down to continue rummaging through the next box of files, even finding one with the 2006-7 New Year’s Eve Party planning, but nothing about your program. Priorities.

“I can’t let you walk out of this. I’m sure you’ll understand, considering.”

You snicker.

So much for having a good day with no headache.

On the wall to your left there’s an outlet. You put your hand over it, and the electric current floats towards your palm as if it was liquid. The lights start to flicker.

“What—” You hear Captain America stammer, and you chuckle. So blissfully ignorant.

He has no idea of the freak of nature you are. Well, not really of nature. You’re more of a synthetic made kind of freak.

More energy flows into you, and the room goes dark. You rise to your feet and watch electricity crackle around your fingers, illuminating your face with a blue glow. You don’t see the Captain anymore, but you do see the glint of the shield as it’s being lifted up.

You’re sure he sees you, but he’s probably too stunned trying to process what you just did.

“Apologies in advance.”

When you extend your arms in front of you, palms aiming to the spot where you think he might be, you can’t see much.

After power flashes out of you, everything is clearer. The bolts light up the space between you and him, much narrower than you calculated, and you have to adjust your position so you can hit him.

He gurgles and shakes like a fish out of water once it reaches him, blinding blue and white encasing his body like a cocoon. He drops to the ground.

It feels like hot water in your veins until it’s burning.

It hurts, it hurts like a bitch, and as Captain America is convulsing on the floor your groans turn to wails. You haven’t done this in a while, and you forgot how much pain there is when the fuel starts running out.

You stop after a few seconds, dropping your hands at your sides, and stumble into a metal shelf when your balance falters. You could never stand using your powers for very long. But this time you don’t have to. Cap is immobile on the floor, only his eyelids twitching. Maybe you went a little hard on him.

You’d feel more sorry if he didn’t want to arrest you.

At least he’s alive. That’s something.

You taste something ferulic and wet when you lick your lips. Nosebleed.

One. Two. Three.

Your heat starts throbbing, and suddenly even the dim light is too much on your eyes.

There’s the migraine.

You were almost returning to your search when you hear the faint voices coming from his intercom. Cap? Rogers, over. Steve, you there? Over.

Rogers groans, starting to stir up. You had to get out of there, and fast, before the rest of his friends came to the rescue.

Fuck it, you could always come back another time. Or even go after those hackers already, because you doubted this place would be up for much longer, now that the Avengers knew of its existence.

You wipe your nose on the sleeve of your hoodie, grab your backpack and slip through the left exit, leaving America there to deal with his own future headache.

It took a while for Steve Rogers to recover his senses. He gained control of his eyes first, finding himself staring at a humidity stained ceiling. His extremities were tingling, and his insides felt like soup.

The burning sensation on the surface of his skin subsides after a while. His heart is racing, and he can’t really remember the last time that happened. Or why. Right now, it’s because he just got attacked by a human defibrillator.

Steve? What’s going on, Cap? Over.

He needs a minute to realize the voices are in his earpiece, and not hallucinations in his head.

I’m starting to worry, Rogers. Over.

He groans, rolling over. “M’ here. Over.”

Steve hoists himself up, thinking the girl must’ve fried his pain receptors, because his toenails hurt. And his earlobes, and his right leg. He shakes his head as if his ears have water in them.

She’s gone. For a second, he even doubts she was there at all, but there are footprints on the dusty floor, leading all the way to a door on his right.

Who—?

“Damn, you look rough.”

“What the hell happened?”

Natasha Romanoff and Bucky Barnes show up through the same hallway he had come from earlier.

“I—I got electrocuted, I think.”

“You think?!”

Steve picks up the shield, panting.

“There was a— girl. She’s some kind of enhanced. Can’t have gone far. I’ll explain later.”

His body regains its normal functions as he’s trudging through empty corridors, Bucky and Nat at his heels. He still feels a little frazzled, but it could be worse, and he’s thankful it was him and his serum-improved body at the receiving end of the lightning.

It could be so much worse.

As it turns out, the girl is nowhere to be found, not a trace to be followed even after the trio splits up to cover more ground. Bucky insists Steve needs to be checked at the med bay ASAP. Natasha assures him that they’ll clear out the facility afterwards, even if she’s convinced none of the paper files have anything of relevance anymore.

The girl seemed to be looking for something in there, though, and Steve remembers reading frustration and dread on her wide, doe-like eyes.

She didn’t even look like someone who could be an agent, though due to the too-large hoodie she wore there wasn’t much to analyze anyway. That gets him intrigued.

Steve has a hard time letting go of things. Especially open-ended things. He spent nearly two weeks obsessing over the ending of Blade Runner, because he needed a goddamned definitive answer.

He needs to know, like he needed to know if Deckard was human or replicant.

He’ll find her.

You can’t shake the feeling that you’ll be seeing him and his team again. Maybe they’ll hunt you down, since there was a big demand for ex-HYDRA people they could fill jailcells with.

Whisking away along a maze of corridors and endless doors, you manage to find a second vaulted door. You leave the whole facility undetected, hopping out a window and disappearing in a back alley.

Maybe you are a rat.

#steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x you #steve rogers fic #enemies to lovers #emwrites

79 notes · View notes