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cissyenthusiast010155 · 1 year

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The Morally Grey Ch 1: Mistreated Meeting ~Peggy Carter xFem Scientist!Reader

The SSR captures Reader, an eccentric, genius scientist for her time, but they can’t seem to crack her. That is until Peggy Carter gives Reader a run for her money…

Mommy… Masterlist

Requests & Prompt-List

Warnings: angst, teasing, pet names, interrogation, abuse of government position, implied physical abuse, wounds, cuts, swollen lip, implied injuries, implied hitting, implied punching, implied physical harm, etc.

Enjoy (:

“Y/N L/N, you are under arrest…—” the male agent grunted along with other words as she shoved you to the floor and then picked you up in hand cuffs.

The SSR had picked you up after they had found your lab filled with “questionable” experiments, as they called them. But the problem was, they had the lab, they had you, but they had nothing connecting the two.

Personally, you did not find the term “questionable” nor “experiments” during for your work… You were a scientist, an inventor. You had inventions, creations, technology, etc… “Experiments” were for junior high science fairs.

You were good at covering your tracks, for the most part at least. You had been caught at a black market auction, having bought the last Vibranium since the War. They couldn’t tie your lab back to you, but they had found it, and they had been tracking you for a while now. And so, you were sitting in the SSR interrogation room, being grilled by their best agents.

First a duo, a small, brunette man with a tall, blonde man. They played good cop, bad cop. But you would never fall for something so simple. Then, it was a crippled veteran, who did a softer approach. Trying to appeal to your better nature. But that didn’t make you budge either. Then the two men came back, only angrier. And so on. They brought in one or two other agents, but the main three always came back.

They had been at it for hours…

The blonde agent came in a final time, this time he brought a stick… He sighed and told you that he didn’t want to do this. You were almost offended. You spat in his face and told him off, the fact being that you would never give in to a tactic as degrading as physical persuasion. He did not like that…

Once he was done with you, the agent you came to recognize as Sousa came in. His face told you that he was definitely against what his colleague had just done. He sighed, and you noticed that he was carrying a first aid kit. He brought his chair around and next to you.

“I’d like to clean you up. Is that alright?” He asked, although by his tone it sounded like he was practically begging to make right the wrong that he felt had been done onto you.

You bit your lip and winced lightly as you had forgotten it was swollen and bleeding. You nodded lightly. The brunette agent nodded and smiled lightly, his face full of concern at your wince. He sat and began cleaning your wounds.

“I’m sorry…” he muttered under his breath, obvious not wanting his superiors to hear, but feeling bad enough where he felt he needed to say something.

“It’s alright…” you mumbled, not meeting his eye.

“Why didn’t you give him something? Anything…?” Sousa asked in his normal and somewhat honest tone, although you were sure this was also just another tactic.

“Don’t negotiate with terrorists.” You huffed with a shrug, which you immediately regretted and winced lightly again.

“Try to stay still…” Sousa muttered, looking at you sympathetically.

When he had finished patching you up, he sighed in content and moved himself and his chair back. You were getting tired by now. A knock on the door indicated Sousa was needed, and you sighed as you were left alone once more. Then you sat there. For a while.

Suddenly, the main lights of the building turned off. You assumed it was night time and that the lights had been turned off for the night. Now only the little lamp on the table gave you a way to see.

Just when you thought that they were going to leave you here for the night, the door opened once more. A classy brunette entered the interrogation room. Your head perked up.

“My name is Agent Peggy Carter. And you are Ms. Y/N L/N.” the female agent spoke in the most elegant British accent ever.

You shrugged, trying to hide any and all reactions that the British agent was successfully pulling out of you.

“Doesn’t change anything. I’m not talking.” You huffed.

At this, Agent Carter smiled in a gleaming, challenging manner. She then took a seat, across from you. You shivered at her close presence.

“Everyone has left. It’s just us.” The woman explained with a tone of a hidden agenda.

“Ah. They wouldn’t let you in here with me before?”

“No, they would not allow it at all.” She curtly said, “But I’m confident I’ll have you talking before they come back.”

Peggy spoke with sparkling eyes and a calculated smirk.

“Good. Starting off better than all those men from before…” you mused aloud.

The brunette chuckled and nodded in recognition and amusement. She put her hands together and on the table, as if to signal that the interrogation was beginning. Her face got more serious.

“First most, I wanted to apologize for my colleague’s behavior. I agree with you, I don’t warrant or believe in unneeded physical abuse of any kind.” Peggy sympathetically spoke.

You couldn’t tell if her sympathy was forward or just another tactic…

“Hmmm…” you hummed, nodding lightly.

Honestly, you were too tired to tell…

“You know… I have a friend who I believe is a lot like you…” she purred, setting the bait, her dumb, little smirk returning.

Your dumbass was too focused on her hair, her eyes, her hands, her neck, her lips to recognize her trap…

“Oh?” You spoke.

Peggy smirked.

“Yes. His name is Howard. He’s an inventor, like you. He likes to experiment, likes to create. He’s a genius. And I believe you are too.” the brunette charmed you.

You gulped and your eyes widened, your mouth going dry.

“I don’t think you are a bad person, Y/N. I think you are misunderstood. Like my friend.” She continued with a purr.

You felt seen.

A few minutes of silenced past.

“Thank you…” you whispered.

“I want to help you, Darling. But in order to do that, I need to understand you and your situation…” Peggy purred.

Darling… That sent sparks to your core…

“Ok…” you shuddered.

“Okay…?” She asked.

“Ok… I’ll tell you...”

~~~

Chapter 2 Out Now!!

Peggy Carter Masterlist

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singswan-springswan · 2 years

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selkie!JackThompson came @ me like a bad case of shingles so here’s a drabble to feed the hungry gremlin

He happened to be stationed on a carrier: a real privilege, he's told. But after a few weeks it gets normal, he's accustomed to the swell and sighing drone of planes in the air, and the salt tastes the same from the deck as it would on a battleship, or cruiser. It's nothing special, really. Jack's never been much interested in planes. He's a seaman, not an aviator, and he doesn't think twice about what it is they do. Sure, lots of people appreciate their skill, fawn over it even, only Jack can't find it in himself to care. He's not too predisposed to those pilots either. Most of them are arrogant. nervous. cocky. a few of them are young. A little too young.

But it's not Jack's job to worry so he doesn't. The hum of planes in his face makes no difference as long as he can still hear the water over them—and he always can; it's in his blood anyway.

Jack spends his lazy hours topside. His bunkmates wonder if he likes to watch the birds drill, if he's fascinated by mundane launch and land procedure or watching them soar sputtering through the misty haze. A few of them are themselves fascinated, and Jack doesn't bother to correct them. What would he say? no excuse for needing fresh air would ever fly; he's the most relaxed member of the crew of this ship, even more at home than men who've been sailing since adolescence. but he's not going to talk about how the spray feels on his face either, how it feels like something private and sacred: a caress from the ocean, where his soul belongs. No, he's not talking about that. And he's never going to mention how standing on the open sea makes the skin in his trouser pocket itch, now a silky bandana sort of piece instead of a jacket (for convenience more than anything), how many times he's almost slipped it on and jumped the rail. It's easier to stay quiet, and snark when he doesn't want to. it's kept them off his back so far. no one's asked yet if he knows how to swim. That's the beauty of enlisting in a ready fire aim type of war: they ship you out before they have time to wonder.

Jack can live with the temptation looming over him. He has in the past; this is nothing new. there are simply more eyes and higher standards now. Besides, at least he's here. He could be much worse off, as far as stationing's concerned; he could be in the army, miles inland away from even the nearest whiff of coastline. And Jack is used to not swimming. And not being able to swim. It's fine. Being here is enough.

(it might be hella risky but he can handle it). As it turns out, Jack cannot be trusted with the risk. He'd only been ship-side for a rough month when one idiot aviator almost blows his life's secret. and okay. It isn't really the kid's fault. It’s jump in after him or let him die, and... Jack does have a heart. whether or not he has a brain is an arbitrary thing. The plane comes in too low on approach, and Jack's not flight crew but he's up on the deck every spare minute so he's seen plenty of good and bad landings. This one is shaping up to be the latter. He doesn't know who's flying. He knows half the pilots are baby-faced—though how or why he couldn't fathom—and he could guess just by the loose momentum that this one is inexperienced.

No one panics. Obviously this guy could feasibly land the bird or he'd never have been shipped out. But it's windy, pulling a brisk breeze in the overcast dawn hours, which might have something to do with the wobble in his wings. Jack doesn't know. He doesn't care either. He isn't worried. He just sits to watch from the middle deck railing with a coffee in his hands and a jacket for the wind. Even in his human form, he doesn't chill easily, but it's cold enough that he'd get odd looks if he went without. He bites down a yawn and pulls on the caf, watching the plane come in just for something to do.

Then the yelling starts. There's a squad on the main deck: not in full gear but alert nonetheless, tracking the patrol's approach with growing alarm. Four pilots. They must have figured something wrong with their wingman, though Jack finds it hard to give a crap this early, before he's even finished his caf. They yell at the wind and take staggered steps out of line. Someone on the intercom calls for crash and burn teams. Jack's ears perk. Was it really that bad?

It is. It was going to be close either way. Something goes wrong right at the end, and a near scare becomes a disaster. Jack feels the impact crunch through the ship, feels it in his feet and his elbows on the rail. He swears and lurches back, coffee lapping from the cup to spill on his hands, but he's sprinting for the stairs before he can think to be bothered.

That was just a kid. He's sure.

The squad is gathered at the butt of the runway by the time Jack comes skidding to a stop. they're gaping with sick expressions. The plane is there. it's right there flat on its back. The nose is crumpled awkwardly and the landing gear points skyward, but it's right there. The cabin couldn't be too badly off, and the pilot is trapped inside. that kid is going to drown.

"Help him!" someone shouts, maybe Jack. "get him out of there!"

But even without turning he knows they're shaking their heads. "It's too dark." The sun's not up yet. "It's too cold. you'll freeze in seconds!" They're chattering about mobility, hysterical and shocked. The plane is still there—it's just sitting there—not quite floating but too wide to sink too fast. The ship moves away from it slowly; soon the wake will disrupt the craft's precarious slant on the surface, and it'll go like a stone. Jack doesn't put much thought to diving overboard. there's a rail, a net, but he clears it no problem. They don't realize until he's halfway gone. They shout. They curse his idiocy. But that's fine; it's better they don't know.

Their words break off in a rush as the water crashes over him. It's almost a happy reunion. It's like coming home.

but Jack has to focus. He's always been able to when it counted. Now safe beneath the inky, choppy waves, he fishes his skin from the pocket of his pants and pulls it on properly; he needs to breathe, and he'll need his hands. The world shifts like it finally clicks into place. This is better. Jack can see much better now, can swim much better now. He finds the ruined plane and shoots for it. His jacket drag through the water. Maybe he should have taken it off. But he's not so worried about a windbreaker right now.

With his selkie eyes, Jack can see right away how bad the plane looks inverted. He reaches it, runs his hands across the splintered hood and searches for a point of restraint. The glass is totally compromised in more than one place. The pilot's still strapped in, helmet, mask, and all, unconscious or very close to it, which is convenient but also concerning. Jack's got a time crunch now. The water is too cold for a human; the pilot will lock up and lose circulation if he doesn't drown first. There's blood drifting around the cockpit.

It doesn't take long to find an emergency release for the hood. Jack shoves it in. The plane shifts. it's going to sink soon. He can taste blood on every inhale.

The straps are tricky to pop. they're designed to keep a man in place while he dogfights, and Jack doesn't really know what he's doing, but he finds out well enough after a few too many trials and errors. Time is not his friend. The pilot's still pinned somewhere: somewhere that's making him bleed. (it's his leg) at least he's unconscious. They might have to... Jack doesn't know if he's got the guts for spontaneous amputation. But he has to take his chances. Either way, this man could die. The odds sure as heck don't look good, even with a selkie doing the personal search and rescue. He's not sure how long it's been, or how long it'll take. The plane is starting to sink much faster. He can feel it. The surface, when he spares a glance up, is already far away. Jack swears.

It's a miracle he gets the man loose eventually. something shifts in the body of the crumpled plane, he finds the plate cutting into skin and manages to pry it loose. He forgot to hold his breath. He gags on the rush of blood.

But there's no more time to waste. Jack yanks the pilot from the ruin of the cockpit. He slings an arm beneath his shoulders, pulls him clear of the diving metal shell. The surface is very far away now. He makes it there in seconds.

The ship—the carrier—has inched away on its course, leaving the foamy churn of its wake to swat at Jack's head. Seems no one wanted to wait.

He rips the pilot's mask off. He can't tell how drowned the kid is already, but his head lolls and he's freezing to touch. Jack squeezes up with both arms. They can't wait for a solid surface to start doing compressions; if there's no coughing by the time they're onboard, this whole thing might be a lost cause.

But it's okay. There's some weak sputtering by the time Jack catches up to the carrier, and he's not wildly sentimental but he's shaking with relief. He shouts to the people on the rail, still up there staring like big dumb idiots. It's a bit lighter out; their eyes should be able to see him against the dark water. Someone's running for a floater to toss out. The pilot vomits, which is... a good sign, if not unwelcome. He's still limp but he's hanging on.

"Is that a motherkriffing tail?" he mumbles in a raw, weak voice.

Jack slips out of his skin as a raft lands beside them. The chill presses closer. The pilot is shaking.

"You're delusional." he tells him.

They rack up in the medbay to get thoroughly steamed. Ace won't lose his leg—the cut wasn't too deep—but it'll never look right and he'll walk with a limp. He'll undoubtedly get ill from the chill of the water and the damage to his lungs. Oh well. At least he'll live. Jack himself hardly has any problems. Cold doesn't bother him. He's a selkie after all.

"The hell are you?" The pilot asks when they're sitting in their cots alone and the room is empty otherwise.

Jack can't decide whether to raise a brow or frown so he does both. "A frigging seaman, Ace. The hell do I look like?"

The pilot doesn't answer out loud, probably because he wants to stay sane. Good for him.

"I should be dead." He pans out bluntly.

"You're welcome."

Jack likes to think he gaslit the guy into keeping his trap shut, but even if he's quiet out of gratitude it gets the job done. No one would believe him anyway. He was barely conscious when they dragged him aboard.

Speaking of which, Jack's a hero now. if he'd known he would like it this much, he'd have done crazy selkie crap ages ago. They're trying to promote him, or give him a medal or something, which is great. He just hopes they don't ask him to swim for an audience.

#jack thompson #selkie!jack #selkie #selkie AU #agent carter au #Agent Carter Series #SSR Agent Jack Thompson #jack thompson is a goofball #he a little confused but he got the spirit

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