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7s3ven · 7 months ago

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FILE LOADING. TF 141 x hacker! Reader, pt 1

( full master list) (intro to this series)

IN WHICH… you needed a way to lessen your prison sentence and TF 141 needed an efficient hacker… as well as someone to spoil.

Notes: hacker! Reader, reader has a criminal background, reader has piercings, tattoos + tooth gems

A/N: first cod series finally lol… please like this post guys, I finished it right after I slipped while practising a taekwondo kick and body slammed into the tiled floor 😭.

—

The air inside your prison cell was muggy and overall unpleasant, causing beads of sweat to form on your forehead as you fanned your face.

The pathetic excuse for a window was not helping, letting only a small amount of oxygen enter the tiny room.

In all honesty, you weren’t treated as badly as other prisoners. A coworker of yours had pulled some strings the moment you were arrested, which meant you got better food and some perks.

But as always, life in jail still sucked.

You were too busy staring at the blank wall in front of you to notice the metal door keeping you locked up was now creaking open.

“Get up.” The warden harshly nudged your shoulder, barely giving you a moment to compose yourself. Your hands were yanked behind your back, the cool metal handcuffs digging painfully into your soft skin.

Your jaw clenched as you were dragged down the dimly lit hallway. You knew better than to ask questions as they would not be answered. All you could do was walk in the direction the warden shoved you in.

The breeze from the well-ventilated interrogation room was the first thing to hit you as you entered. You arched an eyebrow at the woman sitting at the table, her hands gracefully clasped together.

“And you are?” You didn’t recognise her as you slumped into the seat across from her, purposely sending the warden a biting glare.

“I’m Kate Laswell, a CIA operative.” She didn’t waste time before she spoke, leaning forward to catch your attention.

Your lip peeled back into a sneer, “The worst kind of people.”

She ignored your jab. “I’ve come here to give you an offer. You see, SAS is in need of a hacker and I’m told you’re the best fit for the job.” You watch as she opens a slim folder, spreading out the images for your careful gaze to study. They’re printouts of your exploits, files nobody was supposed to obtain. You had deleted your digital footprint after hacking databases, you were sure of it.

“You’re good. Too good to waste in a cell." You hear her softly sigh.

“I did what I did. The justice system isn’t so flattered by my ability to retrieve their sensitive information. Plus, I did murder someone… a few people, actually. So in all honesty, this isn’t an unfair punishment.” You leaned back in the uncomfortable chair, crossing one leg over the other.

“We are well aware of your long record.” Laswell sends you a pointed look. You merely grin, your canine teeth glinting in the light.

“Did you see my arson report?” Your lips spread into a grin, “Because that’s the best one. Set an ex-boyfriend’s car on fire and it just lit up. It was great. You should read it sometime.”

Laswell cleared her throat, reminding you of the situation at hand. “As I was saying, I can lift your jail sentence with a click of my fingers but only if you agree to work for me.”

“Thought I was working for SAS.” You interrupted.

“You’ll work for an elite team called Task Force 141… but you’ll answer to me. I give you the orders.”

“And the catch of this job?”

Laswell’s lips curve into a faint smile. “This is not a job offer, Miss L/N, it is a uniquely presented opportunity. You will get no pay for your services. The reward it reaps, however, is greater.”

You paused for a second. What could possibly be better than money?

“Freedom.” As if reading your mind, Laswell spoke again. “If you do this, you’ll be free before next year. This is possibly your only shot at freedom, do not throw it away. If you stay locked up here, you’ll only rot while the world keeps spinning.”

Now she had your attention. “You must be desperate if you wanna hire me.” A chuckle slipped past your lips but it was mainly to ease the awkward tension that had settled. “What would the job include?” You tilted your head, subtly shifting forward to hint your interest.

“You’ll be working alongside Task Force 141, giving them intel on possible threats and making their jobs easier by gaining access to classified information. I hear you don’t work well with other people but really, what choice do you have?”

Her words prodded at you and the teasing smile on her face aggravated you but she was right. You had no other choice.

The room was silent as you weighed out your choices. The walls seemed to close in on you, a stark difference to the freedom you were promised mere moments ago.

“So I risk my life for this so-called elite team… and in return I get some vague promises of freedom? Smells like bullshit. You lot will probably stab me in the back.” You scoffed.

“You’ve already painted a bright red target on your back. It’s only a matter of time before people realise you’re worth more dead than alive. With us, you’ll have protection. And a purpose.”

Laswell stood up, pushing her chair back with deliberate calmness. The legs scraped against the concrete floor as she did so. “Make no mistake, L/N, people like you don’t simply disappear. Someone will come for you… someone who wants your head on a stick.” Her words hung heavily in the air.

There was a flicker of fear in your eyes and like a feral predator, she ate it up.

“Okay.” You slowly murmured. She had convinced her with her carefully concealed threats. “I’ll do it.”

Laswell smirks. "Good. Pack your things. Your new team will be picking you up in an hour.”

—

The loud roar of the helicopter blades filled the air as you stepped onto the tarmac, shielding your eyes against the bright sun. You rubbed your aching wrists, clicking your tongue at the bruises the tight handcuffs had left.

A few soldiers are waiting for you into the chopper, their silhouettes barely visible through the dark tinted windows.

“Couldn’t just send a car?” You grumbled as you climbed into the helicopter. Laswell followed close behind, unbothered and seemingly used to such a commotion.

“Always for the theatrics, John.” She jokes with the man sitting across from her, eyes crinkling as she grins.

You glance at the man’s name tag, reading Captain John Price. He’s handsome… for a man his age. In a ruggish and rough sort of way. A cloud of smoke slips past his lips as he calmly puffs on a cigar, not at all caring how the chopper unsteadily tilts to the side.

“This the hacker? That pretty ‘lil lass over there?” A voice, thick with a Scottish accent, cuts through the silence. Your eyes dart to stare at the burly man with a Mohawk as he looks you up and down. “Thought the hacker was a bloke. Ain’t complainin’ though.”

You stiffen at the comment, running your tongue over your top row of teeth. It unintentionally gives him a view of your shiny tooth gems. “Thought you lot were an elite crew. Y’all don’t fact check?” You lean back into the cushioned seat. It’s surprisingly comfortable, much better than the stone-hard mattress back in your cell.

The Scot laughs, unbothered. “She’s got bite. I like ‘er. Name’s John McTavish but most call me Jonny. You can call me Soap if ya want.”

You sarcastically laugh. “Soap? What kind of muppet name is that? You had a reputation for eating soap as a kid?”

Soap’s eyes light up, not what you were expecting with your insult. “Ay! The cap’n said the same thing! Called me a muppet too!”

“You still are.” Someone chimes in from the front. You didn’t even realize there were two more people squeezed in to the seats in front of the controls.

The one in the passenger seat turns around, smiling. With his soft brown eyes and gentle features, you can’t help but find him pretty.

“Y/N L/N, right? Nice to meet you. I’m Kyle Garrick.” His voice has a slight British accent to it. “This is Ghost next to me.” He jabs a thumb at the man wearing a skull mask who’s doing a poor job at steering the helicopter.

“Ghost?” You question, “What sort of name is that?”

“Simon Riley.” Ghost grunts out. His British accent is somewhat aggressive, evident in every syllable he barks out.

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. For some reason, he annoys you. It’s more like the way he’s looking at you through the eye-level mirror.

The chopper shakes again. You watch as Kyle grasps his seat, his grip so tight it almost cracks the delicate leather. “Sorry.” Simon gruffly replies.

You raise an eyebrow, leaning forward. “What’s up with him?” You nod your head in Kyle’s direction.

“Fell out the bloody helicopter when Ghost was last flying.” Kyle replies. You almost laugh. It’s not something that should be amusing but your lips quirk into a small grin.

“So… does this whole arrangement cover my food and accommodation?” You question, suddenly aware of how hungry you are. Laswell slips out a small folder, handing it to you.

“Your accomodation will be one of our safe houses twenty minutes away from base. We considered having you live on the base itself but socialising isn’t part of your job. You’ll be living with the Task Force to ensure you don’t run. And all your costs will be covered. You will be given an allowance for your own expenses such as impulsive purchases.”

“Thought you said I got no money.”

“Once you have completed what is necessary, you will no longer have access to the allowance.” Laswell clarifies.

“And I walk free.”

Laswell nods, “Then you are free to go. If needed, CIA will pay to transfer you to another country so you can start anew. Most do not get second chances, L/N, so be careful.”

You lick your cracked lips, aimlessly playing with the hem of your oversized shirt. Maybe you could go to Europe; it had been a little dream of yours as a kid.

“Should go to Scotland, lass.” Jonny pipes up above the loud helicopter blades.

“London’s better.” Simon retorts, “Can actually understand what they’re saying.”

“What about Korea?” Kyle butts in.

“You aren’t even Korean.” Jonny argues back, lightly scoffing.

“Yeah, but I wanna go. Is that a crime, Soap?”

Their pointless bickering was comforting in a way. You had spent the last few years of your life locked away, isolated most of the time and alone. It was nice listening to people talk again.

Simon landed the helicopter with surprising grace, being the first to unbuckle his seatbelt and jump out. Kyle was next. Laswell unlocked the sliding door, stepping aside to allow you to slip past first.

You merely stared at her before muttering a tense thanks.

“Watch your step.” Kyle warned you as he held out a hand to steady you.

“It’s literally three feet. I can manage.” You snap back, effortlessly stepping out of the chopper. Jonny lightly chuckled while Kyle slowly withdrew.

“Feisty.” Kyle muttered.

You stared up at the safe house, tilting your head. “It’s… cute.” You hummed. It was a cottage, not the first thing you expected as a safe house.

“Were the pink roses your idea, Riley?” You joked, pointing at the pretty flowers.

He grunts, a sound you’ve suddenly become familiar with. “I prefer Ghost.” He corrects you.

You shrug. “Used to call inmates by their last name. Helped me ignore them when they tried hitting on me in the early years of prison.” You stepped forward onto the stone cobble path, admiring it.

“A small cottage… bet this is a military dream, huh?” You kicked a pebble.

“It is, actually.” Jonny pipes up, “It’s every man’s dream to retire in a cute little house with a pretty lass.”

You lightly scoffed, “I ain’t here to play work wife, McTavish. Can’t even cook.”

“Thank goodness we have Gaz then.” Jonny retorts, “Bloke should be a chef if this career doesn’t work out.”

You take a moment to study the house and its surroundings while the others file through the door. There’s a small white Pickett fence wrapped around the land, bright green blades of grass wrapping around the neatly painted wood.

The cottage is clearly old but well renovated. Rows of vines adorn the side, a surprisingly aesthetic sight. There’s a garden filled with sweetly smelling flowers and the same pink roses sitting at your feet are also perched on top of the porch.

The windows are the favourite aspect of yours. They decorate the stone walls, a sharp gothic detail to them.

It’s almost too pretty for a criminal like you.

“You comin’ in?” It’s Kyle who notices your absence, peeking his head past the doorway. For a moment, he thought you had made a run for it but he was relieved to find you standing among the garden.

You clear your throat, pulling at the bottom of your shirt. “Yeah.” You step onto the rickety porch, the wood creaking under your weight.

The interior of the house is so different from your tiny cell. Walking past the door almost feels like walking into an entirely new life.

Jonny is scavenging through the fridge, pulling out a tall bottle of beer. “Want some?” He offers it to you.

“I can’t drink, warden’s orders.” The words slip past your lips before you can stop them.

“It’s just a beer, can’t hurt ya. ‘Sides, you ain’t in jail no more.” Jonny insists, shaking the bottle. It’s tempting but on instinct, you glance at Laswell.

She’s sitting beside Price, talking to him in a hushed tone and going over a file, presumably one containing details about you.

“I ain’t stopping you from drinking, kid.” Laswell says, feeling your stare on her face.

Hesitantly, you snatch the bottle from Jonny, popping the lid open with practised precision. You haven’t tasted beer, or any other alcohol for that matter, in a long time. You’ve never liked beer… but the first burning sip feels heavenly.

“You got any vodka?” You ask, glancing into the top cupboards.

“Do we look Russian? Nah, can barely drink that shit straight.” Jonny’s face scrunches up at the thought.

“Bourbon then.” Your words catch Simon’s attention.

Jonny grins as he reaches up, grasping a fancy-looking bottle. “Only other person here who likes bourbon is the LT. Guess he isn’t alone anymore.” He pours you a glass, handing it to you in exchange for your bottle of beer.

“Don’t understand how you lot can stand beer. Too bitter for my liking.” You mutter, pacing around the room.

You hear Simon quietly hum in agreement. “Finally someone smart.”

COD TAGLIST (comment to be added/removed): @jenepleurepasbaby @rm25711 @talia-the-gemini @margaaaa30 @mixplara @alex—awesome—22

@lunamoonbby @little-b33 @ghostswife-8 @tea-drinking-nerd @certainlygay @lucienofthelakes @supaturtl3 @pr3ttypupp4 @royalz658 @whoreforfictionalmen18 @ashy-akuma @1bucky-barnes-wife1 @chloepluto1306 @voguiing @eyeless-kun @joshwashingtonmybeloved @fuzzyducky3 @childishname @angel-bugz @kee-0-kee @undercover-smutlover @10honeybee01 @kat247 @munson24 @sweetlittleblackrose @babybimbo777 @wfinniegenx @galactict3a @hyperfixatedcatlover @creepumiku @yoontoons @moraxnomora @1ckyfairy @lunerbitch @tizylish

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alive-gh0st · 1 month ago

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˗ˏˋ❝Afterglow❞ˎˊ˗

Mark Grayson x Med!Reader♡ྀི

….ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ��ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨.ـ…

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

⛨ summary: you’re here to teach, not manage a walking concussion with charm issues. but he keeps looking at you like you hung the stars—and asking questions like you owe him answers. it’s temporary. it’s professional. it’s absolutely not personal. right?

⛨ contains: sfw. slow tension. hospital-grade sarcasm. emotional constipation. accidental pining. reader being done™. mark being so not subtle. vending machine cameos. background bureaucracy.

⛨ warnings: mild language. cecil stedman. lingering looks. golden retriever energy. mild secondhand embarrassment. one scalpel-related flirtation if you squint.

⛨ wc: 2839

prologue, part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌a/n: honorable mention to donald for surviving government-grade stress, doing 99% of the admin work and getting 0% of the appreciation. chapter three is happening. probably. don’t look at me like that.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

The hum of fluorescent lights should’ve blended into the background by now. So should the low thrum of activity—boots echoing against concrete, the shuffle of files, hushed conversations between medics and masked vigilantes. But somehow, everything still feels a little too loud.

Maybe it’s the migraine brewing behind your eyes. Maybe it’s the fact that he won’t stop staring at you.

You shift your weight, cross your arms, and resolutely pretend you don’t notice.

That Invincible is standing three feet to your left, burning a hole through the side of your head with an intensity that shouldn’t be allowed from someone who wears goggles.

You’ve been ignoring him for seven minutes and counting.

You’ve acknowledged literally everything else in this sterile, underground chaos bunker—someone called Sea Salt (you can’t be bothered to care enough to remember properly) pacing in the background, a superhero with a dislocated shoulder yelling about insurance coverage, the world’s most suspicious vending machine—but not him.

And still, he stares.

You exhale slowly. Sharply turn your head.

He flinches like you threw something at him.

“Can I help you?”

The words are flat, clipped. The tone you use when a patient insists they know better because they once watched half an episode of ’Grey’s Anatomy’.

Invincible stammers. Actually stammers, like he doesn’t know what to do now that you talked back.

Your brows lift. “You’ve been standing there like an underpaid mall cop—gaping at me like I’m the last donut at a police briefing. Do you mind?”

He fumbles for a reply. You regret asking immediately.

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

A few days earlier.

You were on your fourth cup of coffee and hour three of mid-insomnia spiraling when the email came in.

A subject line so vague it practically screamed delete me.

“URGENT: National Heroic Outreach Program — Personnel Request.”

It sounded like someone stitched together LinkedIn buzzwords with a glue stick and a dream.

You almost deleted it without opening. Fingers already moving to close the laptop.

And that’s when your eye caught the numbers.

A full contract breakdown, bolded in crisp font at the bottom of the message. Enough zeroes to make your exhausted brain glitch.

You squinted. Re-read. Laughed.

Then read it again.

Field medics, trauma therapists, stabilization specialists…

Working directly alongside sanctioned heroic units. Teaching them.

Short-term. High risk. Higher pay.

You were already muttering “absolutely not” as you clicked Reply.

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

And now here you are.

In the middle of a hidden operations center that smells faintly of iodine and military-grade deodorant, trying to keep your expression neutral while Invincible looks at you like you invented sunlight.

You narrow your eyes.

“Seriously man. What is your problem?”

“I don’t have a problem,” he says almost too quickly. “I just…”

Didn’t think I’d ever hear you again—he wants to say, but the words die in his throat.

You groan like a middle-aged man.

“Fine, whatever—keep your staring fetish a secret. But you’re still in my space.”

And somehow, despite the sarcasm, despite the walls you’re already rebuilding brick by brick—he smiles. Like you just handed him a sunrise.

Weirdo.

The silence stretches.

Finally—finally—he stops staring. You can feel it.

Like the sun setting. Like freedom on the breeze. You don’t know what bliss tastes like, but you’re pretty sure it’s this exact moment.

Invincible turns his head. Doesn’t say a word. For the first time in almost ten minutes, you can breathe.

The air tastes clearer. Your shoulders lower half an inch. You feel like Eren Yeager looking out at the ocean, finally glimpsing the other side of the fence—finally, the taste of freedom.

You close your eyes, let your arms fall just a bit looser, and begin to reach for that fragile, sacred—

“So… what’s your name?”

You shut your eyes tighter. Channel the serenity of that dog meme you saw once—some old lab basking in the light like he’s ascended to a higher plane. That’s you now. Resigned to whatever curse has chosen to follow you. Accepting the inevitable.

“…Hello?” he tries again.

You breathe in. Deep. Steady. And swallow a curse.

“It’s not important,” you finally say, voice flat.

He blinks.

“Uh—it kinda is? We’re working together, technically. It’s basic team-building. Knowing names builds trust. It’s psychologically proven—like in war movies or HR seminars. I feel like not knowing your name makes it hard to build rapport. Or connection. Or, you know, that dramatic tension where I save your life and you cry over me in slow motion.”

He’s rambling now.

You open one eye. He’s serious. Or, worse—he thinks he’s funny.

You tune him out.

Just completely power down. Close your eyes again, channel the dog meme—serene, resigned, ascended. Accepting your fate as a woman destined to be cornered by a golden retriever in a super suit.

But of course—of course—luck hates you.

Footsteps echo behind you. Measured. Heavy. Government-issued.

Invincible’s voice finally stops.

You open your eyes slowly, carefully.

Cecil Stedman stands a few feet away, looking like someone who’s been awake for forty-seven hours and hates it less than he hates incompetence.

He looks at the hero. Then at you. He exhales like he regrets every decision that’s led to this moment.

“Invincible,” Cecil says, deadpan. “It’s not your job to harass new personnel.”

You smile. A flicker of victory warms your chest.

But it’s short-lived.

“And you—” Cecil turns to you, voice sharp and gravel as he states your full name and last name, “…stop ignoring people when they’re trying to learn from you.”

Invincible’s head snaps up.

Your smile dies on impact.

“…yes, sir.”

You hate him now. Fully. With your entire soul. You will refer to this man as Sea Salt until the day you retire, but only behind his back (you have bills to pay).

Cecil nods. Done with this interaction.

“You’re both assigned to Medical Rotation C for the next three hours. Report to briefings on time, don’t destroy anything, and for the love of god—try not to bleed on each other.”

He turns and walks away like he didn’t just detonate a small emotional warhead and bounce.

You blink slowly.

The superhero grins. Way too close to you.

Invincible repeats your name. Softly. Like he’s trying it on. Like he’s going to wrap it around a sentence any second just to hear it out loud again.

You don’t look at him.

You stare at a crack in the ground and plot how to fake your own death.

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

This is fine. Totally fine. No one has died yet.

Except maybe him. Internally. Repeatedly.

You’ve been working together for exactly twenty-three minutes and some change, and Mark is dangerously close to pulling a muscle from glancing at you too often.

It’s not subtle. He knows that. He’s just hoping you haven’t noticed yet.

Mark Grayson—Invincible, world-class puncher of bad guys and part-time public disaster—is on assignment. Medical rotation. One-on-one.

With you.

You haven’t said more than three words since you got here.

Okay—technically, it was four if you counted “Don’t touch that,” which he did. Emotionally. Spiritually. Like a prayer.

He glances sideways. Again. That’s… what? The fifteenth time?

You’re focused. Like laser-cut precision focused. You haven’t looked at him once since the briefing ended, and that alone is doing something catastrophic to his brain chemistry. Your sleeves are rolled up, fingers moving quickly as you sort through supplies and assess whatever half-broken med bay gear they shoved into this basement. And he—

Technically, he’s supposed to be learning. Technically.

He commits the angle of your jaw to memory. He might need to sketch it later. For science.

A cart wheel squeaks. He jumps.

Smooth. Reeeal smooth Mark.

Mark’s dropped the same tool twice. He’s reorganized the same three items five different ways. And when you leaned over earlier—just for a second—he forgot how to breathe.

He thinks he said something to you. Maybe. You didn’t respond.

You probably didn’t even hear him.

Which is fair. You’re working. This is work. He should be working too.

Instead, he’s cataloging every tiny thing about you like it’s the last time he’ll get to. The little crease between your brows when you concentrate. The way you tilt your head when you read a label. The way your lips move slightly when you mutter to yourself. It’s ridiculous. He knows it’s ridiculous. But it’s also—

He nearly knocks over a tray of syringes and freezes like a man in a minefield.

You just say, “Don’t,” without even looking up.

That’s it. One word. And he listens.

Like his soul has been stapled to your command.

He exhales slowly. Starts organizing gauze packets like they’re puzzle pieces and not the only thing keeping him from going absolutely feral with nervous energy.

You’re right there. You’re right there. And not in the middle of some catastrophic collapse or stopping someone’s bleeding from a stress wound. Just—here. Breathing the same recycled air. Wearing scrubs like they’re armor. Not looking at him.

Mark resists the urge to break something—anything—just to make you look at him.

He peeks again.

Yeah. Still perfect.

“Invincible.”

He startles.

You don’t even look at him. Just gesture vaguely at the scalpel in his hand. “That’s upside down.”

“…Right,” he mutters, flipping it. “Just testing you.”

“You failed.”

You don’t say it with heat. Not quite. But not nicely either.

He clears his throat and tries again, forcing himself to focus on literally anything that isn’t the fact that you’re within touching distance. That you smell like antiseptic and cheap gum. That you’re here, and for some reason—still kind of talking to him.

He wants to say something normal. Something clever. But everything that comes to mind sounds like it belongs in a YA novel or a fever dream.

Instead, he peeks at you again.

You don’t notice. Or maybe you do.

But you don’t look back.

And still—he grins.

Because this? Being close enough to reach, even if you never turn around?

It’s more than he thought he’d ever get.

It’s not enough.

Mark lied.

All that pretending—organizing, fixing, standing next to you for three and a half hours like it didn’t matter—like breathing the same air wasn’t scrambling his brain chemistry?

He thought it would be enough. Just this. Just being near you.

But now you’re packing up.

And suddenly, it’s not.

You toss a roll of gauze into your bag like it keyed your car in a past life. Peel off your gloves with the grace of someone absolutely done with today.

The neckline of your scrubs shifts when you move, collarbone catching the light, and he has to look away.

You’re leaving.

You’re actually leaving.

He thought he’d be okay with it. He’s not.

You stretch your neck like it’s stiff, roll your shoulders with a sigh, and Mark swears it’s the most captivating thing he’s ever seen.

Which is insane. It’s a shoulder roll.

But you’re doing it. And it’s happening five feet from him. And he doesn’t know when—or if—he’ll see you like this again.

Normal. Off guard. Not covered in ash and dust.

You zip your bag shut.

And that’s when panic hits him.

It spikes in his chest like a bad punch—jarring and immediate and almost embarrassing. Because if you walk out now, that’s it. You’ll vanish again. And he’ll be stuck wondering if he imagined all of this. You. The way you said his hero name like it was a dare.

His fingers twitch at his side.

He has no idea what he’s going to say.

He just knows he needs to say something before you’re gone.

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

You clear your throat. Loud enough to be polite. Dismissive enough to make a point.

“I’m done here.”

He blinks. “Oh. Yeah. Right.”

You wait for him to move. He doesn’t.

You arch a brow. “Door’s behind you.”

Invincible stares at you like you’ve just committed a federal crime. “You’re—leaving?”

You frown. “Yes? That’s what normal people do when the job is finished.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Frowns.

“I just—” The hero shifts, eyes darting anywhere but your face. “I figured we’d—maybe—uh, debrief?”

You blink.

He looks panicked now. “Not like a real debrief! I meant like… decompress? Debrief-light? Low-stakes post-mission rapport-building?”

You pause. Then snort. You can’t help it. It slips out before you can stop it.

He looks like he just won the lottery.

You sigh, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “If this is your way of asking to walk me out—”

“Yes.”

“…I didn’t finish.”

“Still yes.”

You stare.

He fidgets. “Is that okay?”

You hesitate for a breath. Then roll your eyes. “Fine. But if you get weird again, I’m tasering you.”

Invincible grins. “I’ve survived worse.”

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

A few days later.

You look like shit.

Not in a poetic way. Not in a cool, morally-gray antiheroine way. Just in the deeply human, overworked, underpaid, sore-back, I-haven’t-slept-since-Tuesday kind of way.

The ER lights buzz too loud. The coffee machine’s broken again. There’s a spot on your scrubs that might be blood or ink or maybe just your will to live leaking out.

It’s a Tuesday. Maybe.

You’re half-asleep at the nurses’ station when Carla walks up with a folder. She chews her gum like it’s keeping her tethered to this plane of existence.

“Room 9’s yours.”

You blink up at her. “Seriously?”

Carla shrugs. “Guy’s already in there. Looks like he could pay off my student loans in one go, but what do I know. File’s clean. Probably just here to flirt or die. Those are the only two kinds we get.”

You sigh. Take the clipboard. Totally miss Carla’s knowing expression and lazily stroll down the hallway.

Your pen’s already clicking as you push through the long corridor, shoulder nudging the door open without thinking.

You flip through the back pages first—vitals, allergy list, something about minor lacerations. The usual.

The door clicks shut behind you as you scan the first page for the name.

“Mark Grayson…” you murmur, before finally looking up.

He’s already watching you.

Smile crooked. Sheepish. And oddly familiar.

You blink. Shake your head. Tap your pen once against the clipboard.

“…What can I do for you today?”

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˖⁺‧₊˚❤️‍��˚₊‧⁺˖ ⋆ ˚｡⋆

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Before the bunker. Before the clipboard. Just burnt coffee and bad timing.

The room smells of government-grade stress and poor decisions. Fluorescents hum overhead. Somewhere outside the door, someone’s arguing with a vending machine again.

Cecil Stedman doesn’t look up from the file in his hands.

Donald stands nearby, half-glancing over his shoulder like he’s expecting someone to call out his name and ruin his night any second now.

“I don’t need someone who wants to save the world,” Cecil mutters, flipping a page. “I need someone who knows how to keep it breathing long enough to do that.”

Donald doesn’t answer at first. Scrolls through his tablet with the dead-eyed speed of a man two cups past his caffeine limit.

Cecil drops the folder on the table.

“Her.”

Donald glances down. Sees your name. Frowns.

“She’s not exactly—uh, team-oriented.”

“Good.” Cecil leans back in his chair. “We don’t need another idealist who thinks CPR is optional. We need someone who’ll tell a cape to stop cauterizing wounds with laser vision.”

Donald shifts. “She’s got a record of pushing back on authority.”

“Yeah. So do I.” He picks up the file again, thumbs through it like he’s reading between the lines. “Field trauma specialist. Surgical certs. Five years ER, three years private contract, and one particularly colorful incident involving Invincible.”

Donald raises a brow. “You want her for the hero-medical crossover?”

“Yeah. Not full-time. Just this once.” He thumbs through the file again.

”She’s not exactly a fan of the spandex crowd.” Donald reminds him.

“Which is why she’s perfect.” Cecil taps the edge of the folder. “She doesn’t worship them. She knows how they break. And better—how to keep them from bleeding out on asphalt.”

Donald crosses his arms. “You really think she’ll say yes?”

Cecil shrugs. “Send the contract. Let the pay do the talking. If that doesn’t work… remind her how many heroes think gauze solves internal bleeding.”

A beat passes. Donald exhales slowly.

“We’re asking her to train them. Teach them medical response. Basics. Field aid without powers.”

“Exactly,” Cecil mutters, eyes back on the file. “We’ve got too many weapons and not enough medics. Time we taught the kids how to stop the bleeding before they cause it.”

“And you think she’ll go for it?”

“Temporary contract,” Cecil repeats simply. “Send the numbers. Dangle the autonomy. No long-term commitment, no spandex worship, just her and a bunch of capes learning how not to be idiots for a few hours.”

Donald nods once and turns to leave.

Cecil stays where he is, flipping back to the front of the file.

A photo clipped to the corner. Dark circles under your eyes. Expression flat. Hands gloved, steady.

Unimpressed with the world and clearly not afraid to let it know.

He smiles, just barely.

“Let’s hope she doesn’t kill anyone.”

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ongoing TAGLIST: @pickledsoda @f3r4lfr0gg3r @bakugouswh0r3 @katkirishima @delusionalalien @bellelamoon @monaekelis @feminii @sketchlove @lilacoaks @cathuggnbear

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taglist sign up: 𓉘here𓉝

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vamphorica · 6 months ago

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I know Mello wrote Another Note: The Los Angeles BB Murder Cases after a conversation with L, but to my knowledge, we don't exactly know how this conversation was had. I somehow don't believe L would have visited the House just to talk to Mello, and somehow, even a phone call seems a little bit too extensive for someone like L to conduct for such a discussion. I imagine he and Mello sent several very long emails to one another, in which Mello flooded L with questions, and L answered them as succinctly as he was able. Mello would sit at the computer for hours, rewording his questions and deleting large paragraphs under the illusion that the detective had far better things to do than respond to him, especially given the tone of his responses.

What he didn't realise is that L would see these emails and always stop what he was doing to read them twice over, three times if necessary. He would tell Watari to reschedule any appointments he might have had and carefully word each sentence in a manner he thought would be as efficient as possible, so that this young successor of his wouldn't find the story tedious. He always found Mello's enthusiasm, all too clear in his queries, to be rather endearing, and for a brief time felt as though his work was interesting, as frustrating as it could often be.

The last email was sent by Mello, no longer interrogating L over the case as he felt his responses had been sufficient for him to begin writing his book. He had documented all that he needed to know, and had broken into a file cabinet in Roger's office to retrieve additional information about Beyond that either L would not have been aware of, or felt inappropriate to explain. Instead, he thanked L for his time and told him how hard he was working to be worthy of his position, eventually. He couldn't have been more grateful for the opportunity to follow in his footsteps.

L didn't reply, not out of lack of trying, but he could not bring himself to warn Mello of what his role really comprised of. That to be L was not an enviable title, and that he would only find pursuing such work disappointing and meaningless. As such, the email thread was concluded, and the next time Mello heard of his predecessor's condition, it was in Roger's office once it was confirmed that he had been killed by Kira.

#i am capable of writing something nice from time to time i promise #mello #mihael keehl #l lawliet #another note #death note #hardly analysis #headcanon #manga #vamphorica writes

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luveline · 2 years ago

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𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲 𝐯𝐚𝐦𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐬? | 𝐦𝐢𝐠𝐮𝐞𝐥 𝐨’𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚

you have a bad habit and miguel finds a solution —a begrudgingly in love miguel deals with his gf’s oral fixation. 1k. requested here

cw mildly mature themes/love bites. mdni

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

Miguel knew when he passed you his hand that you'd start some weird shit like this. You withhold for a while, but eventually his fingertips end up by your mouth. You brush them against your lips absent-mindedly. He knows you like the feeling, knows you draw an unconscious comfort from being able to chew on something, and he's not interested in demonising you for something you can't help.

What he can't abide is your using him like a dollar store chew toy. The second he feels your breath against his fingers, he pulls your joined hands down into the gap between your thighs on the workbench and warns, "Don't."

"Sorry, Miguel," you say, blinking back to attention.

"Can't you chew on a pencil like a normal person?"

"Sorry," you say again, not really sorry. Miguel's not really mad. "I forget that it's you."

He likes the sound of that, even if he's still disapproving. It's hard to be mad when the level of trust you have for him extends so far, the comfort he gets from your mere presence reflected in you and your lack of shame surrounding a bad habit. Miguel sighs and goes back to his sketching. You squeeze his hand twice and do the same.

If you can't bite him, you'll bite yourself. It starts with your nails and stretches to your cuticles. You've hurt yourself doing it before, and Miguel doesn't want to see you do it again. He winces at way you nibble your skin.

"Could you cut it out?" he asks.

"I'm not doing anything."

"You're trying to start the next apocalypse."

"It's not hurting anyone," you insist.

"It's hurting you."

You let go of his hand to take the computer mouse, dragging and dropping a file from the first monitor onto his. He doesn't bother opening it. It's some flirtatious drivel or tech he doesn't want to deal with, undoubtedly.

"It's okay," you sing-song quietly. "You're such a worrier."

He thinks, Fine. Leaves you to your work, gets on with his own, and tries not to worry about your poor fingertips. Ten minutes become an hour, and he forgets what you'd been squabbling about, distracted by work. You drop file after file onto his screen until he gives in and opens one, finds a note drawing done with a jagged cursor of him, he assumes, frowny-faced with a bright red heart drawn around himself. The majority are the same, though the first one you sent him is Miguel with a smile, his cartoon version captioned, "secret softie :3". He puts a couple in his files and the rest in the recycling basket.

He's retrieving the ones he deleted guiltily when you hiss. He checks on you from the corner of his eye, and notices the little red line of blood building in your cuticle.

"There's actually something wrong with you."

"Ouch," you murmur, waving your finger around. "Stings."

"I told you."

"D'you have a bandaid?"

Miguel doesn't have a bandaid in the workshop. His first aid kit is half nano tech, half traditional wrap around bandages, all overkill for your surface wound. He takes pit on you and your crinkled face and pulls your hand toward eye level to inspect the damage. You've pulled the cuticle skin up toward the bed and torn skin that should be left alone, blood quick to congeal in the air. He should've just let you bite him.

"Idiot," he says, and kisses the side of your hand. "Don't do it again."

You grumble at his name calling but seem otherwise appeased. It's not long before your hand is going back to your mouth, but you must remember his demand, choosing to tuck your hands between your thighs. You squirm in your seat and can't focus on your work.

Miguel thinks, Fuck it.

"Alright, come here."

You wheel your chair closer.

"What, I have to do all the work?" he asks, holding out his arms. "Come here."

You stand and slide between the desk and his legs. His thighs are big, and your own press to the top of the desk from the lack of space. You put a hand on his arm curiously.

"Kiss me," he says.

You lean in quickly and kiss him. A tentative thing where you're usually confident laying one on him.

"What was that?" he asks.

"A kiss?"

"Kiss me properly," he says. He bracelets your elbow in a big hand, a soft touch to reassure you. "You've wanted to all day."

You have the decency to pretend (albeit weakly) that he's wrong. "Whaaaat? Who told you that?"

Miguel sighs and takes your face into his hands instead. He takes in your expression slowly, your eyes, your pupils like black dimes, lashes kissing in the outer corners as you look down to his mouth. You bite the inside of your lip and he loses it —Miguel tugs you against his chest and kisses you firmly, hand at the small of your back and pulling urgently upward in an attempt to bring you closer.

He can feel the little line from your own biting on your lips as he presses against the seam of them, and he doesn't know what he's going to do with you besides kiss you: he won't let you chew on him, no matter how nice your mouth is. He'll just have to kiss you until you can cope.

Or you could always bite him in other places.

"Wait, wait, I can't breathe," you say, pulling away.

Miguel works his fingertips under the back of your shirt, feeling the slope of bare skin there absentmindedly. "My bad. How's your compulsion?"

"Wanna play vampires?" you ask.

He laughs and leans away from you, a feigned disapproval. "Wanna play get a grip?"

"Grip on your neck?" you ask.

"How about I bite you? See how you like it."

You pull your knee up, socked foot digging into his thigh as you lay your cheek on his collar, straining up every time you want to kiss his neck. You press sweet, chaste kisses into his skin, seemingly unbothered by the pretzel-like position you've twisted yourself into.

"You act like I'm a chair."

"You told me," —kiss, kiss— "to sit here, Miguel, I don't know what you want from me." Third kiss, then a fourth.

He tamps down goosebumps and gives up. "Can you chill out while I work?"

"... I can keep kissing you?"

"Do what you like. I need to finish this net."

You lounge. Miguel struggles to keep it together, but at least you aren't biting your nails anymore.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

thank you for reading! i hope you enjoyed!! if you did and you have the time, please think about reblogging <3

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0mg-bird · 6 months ago

Text

How Did It End?

Post Prison! Spencer x Fem!Fiancee Reader

Summary: Almost four months since Spencer came home and the fairytale that once was your life has come crashing down around you.

Warnings: ☹️ ouch. Angst. PTSD. Taylor Swift ‘How did it end?’ coded. hurt/comfort. this hurt to write, don’t hate me. Reid my poor baby has some stuff to work out.

W.H. Auden once wrote,

‘Were all stars to disappear or die, I should learn to look at an empty sky and feel its total dark sublime, though this might take a little time.’

Poetry was something you were no stranger to, given the fact you taught an advanced creative writing class at the local high school.

You once enjoyed poetry.

But now, when the words feel like knives aimed at you, you can’t bear to indulge in the afternoon readings like you used to.

Instead, afternoons are spent in an apartment that somehow lost its warmth. Before, you’d claim it’s because Spencer was gone, that things would be brighter when you brought him home. He’s been home for three months, a little longer, the weather has begun to change, warping into a melancholy winter. You sit at your desk, staring at your computer screen, spinning your engagement ring around your finger.

You’ve been trying to get back into writing, trying to revisit your archived story. Though, it’s hard to revisit a fictional romance mystery when there’s nothing to inspire it.

Groaning, you delete half of the last paragraph you’ve written and try to type something that isn’t cliche. Pushing through the urge to stop, you write until the words flow thoroughly and there’s a key turning in the door.

There he was, the love of your life.

Spencer trudges into the apartment and drops his bag by the door, his shoes find a home beside it. The circles under his eyes are darker than they were this morning when he left, he runs a hand through his hair and glances over at you when you stand with a grin.

“Hi.” You do your best to beam, conveying just how much it excites you to see him.

“Hi.” He mumbles, tossing you a tight lipped smile as he walks towards the bedroom.

Trying to push away the sick feeling in your gut, you turn back to your blind optimism and take your glasses off.

It takes eight steps from the bedroom door to the closet, it takes him three steps to pace and grab casual clothes. In about a minute, he takes off his day clothes and pulls on something that doesn’t feel constricting. You memorized every foot step he makes in this home, it’s easy to focus on when you spent some time not hearing it.

By the time he comes back out to retrieve his bag and sit on the couch, you grab up your laptop and sit on the other end of the sofa.

Paperwork and files soon lay on the coffee table and you watch him organize and complete end of the day tasks. Patiently waiting your turn, when Spencer finally relaxes back into the cushions, you slide closer.

“How was your day?” You ask.

He grunts. “Nothing worth talking about. Oh, I’m going to Connecticut next week to do a seminar, I’ll be gone two days.”

You nod. “That’s exciting, right?”

He shrugs, then there’s silence.

You scoot closer. “I was working on some things, I think I’m finally getting back into the groove of it. You want to read the last chapter I made?”

He motions to the coffee table. “Yeah, just leave it there and I’ll take a glance later. I’m debating on if I want to shower before dinner or after.”

“I was thinking we could go out for dinner, we haven’t in a while.” You offer with a hopeful smile.

Spencer frowns. “I’m not really feeling a social scene right now.”

“Oh, yeah, no, of course.” You quickly say. “We could do take out then, Italian maybe?”

He shakes his head. “We shouldn’t do take out anymore, it’s basically inviting a serial killer into our home, giving him some place to come back later when I’m not around.”

Right. The paranoia.

You knew things were going to be different when Spencer came home, and you did your best to adjust with an open mind. Sleepless nights consoling him, countless days spent trying to pull him from his own mind. Through tears and breaking points and a few instances where he utterly scares you, you know he’s still your same Spence, but just a little hardened now. He’s still the man who spent too much on a ring, still the dorky guy you fell for those years ago.

Things are just…a little rough.

“Okay.” You say to his statement. “I’ll whip something up then.”

At the sight of your willingness to give something up, he feels immensely bad.

“No.” He sighs, shaking his head. “No, I’m being stupid. Italian sounds fine.”

The bad habit of being too harsh on himself has been hard to kick, but it’s getting better… you think.

So you order Italian and eat in front of the television while Spencer fact checks what the characters are saying, criticizing the antics of these fictional people. It feels so normal, the whole situation, it makes you momentarily have amnesia, as if the two of you are exactly like before. You lean into his side and laugh at the sitcom, thinking that this Spencer hasn’t experienced what he has, that everyone around the two of you still feel the happy affects of your love, that you test wedding cakes and look for a bigger place. A place the two of you can buy together and start a family.

“I’m gonna shower.” He says, rubbing your shoulder.

Looking up at him, you smile playfully. “Want company?”

There it was, that reminder that things weren’t like before.

He kind of just shakes his head with a smile and leaves without anything else.

You know he doesn’t mean to, but sometimes he makes you feel about an inch tall. He used to look at you with this heavy gaze, something needy, something that never failed to make you feel like the prettiest girl in the world. His hands would find a home on your skin, he used to kiss for fun.

You don’t remember exactly when he last gripped you in a way that wasn’t just polite.

You know he has fears, he has it in his head that he is a danger to himself and you, that his hands are murderous, but it doesn’t feel the best when you’re constantly rejected by the man you’re going to marry.

Rubbing your eyes, you clean up the dinner mess and then go to the bedroom to slip into pajamas. The floor length mirror shines your reflection, you stop to stare.

Maybe you weren’t the first pick, maybe you hated what you saw sometimes, but the thing about Spencer was he was so sure that no one could ever do it like you. A slew of compliments he’d give you, the fever of his love was scorching.

You give the girl in the mirror a smile, then comb her hair with your fingers and smooth your tank top.

Silly enough, you turn to the side, wrapping your arms around an invisible bump, and you smile fondly at the thought. Two kids. A boy and a girl. Little geniuses. That’s what he and you would talk about. The next thing after he marries you, the next thing he’d do was give you a baby. He swore up and down at night when you laid with your head on his beating heart, he’d give you the family you craved and your face would hurt from smiling so much.

All plans are at a stand still now.

And that’s okay, wasn’t it? This was a rough patch and you’re helping Spencer get through it because you’d help him with anything-

The bedroom door opens, Spencer walks in and you step away from the looking glass.

“I’m going to get ready for bed.” You mumble, walking past him, cheeks burning red.

To say the least, Spencer feels horrible. Here you were, giving him your undying loyalty, holding his hand through all of it, and he’s the reason life has stopped. You’re so brave about it, always patient and understanding.

He hates it.

You should be angry, you should be arguing. He knows his bad moods kill you, he knows you’re waiting for things to be normal again and they won’t. You get up in the middle of the night when he’s asleep and put on your wedding dress, just to smile at yourself and promise that soon, it’ll be better. You think he doesn’t realize, that he’s passed out, but from the bed he watches you turn in front of the mirror and bite your lip, the way you always do when you’re too pleased with something. Then he sees you cry, softly, hand pressed to lips so you don’t make any noise and inconvenience him. You only let the break happen for a fee minutes, then you wipe your tears, take off the dress and tell yourself that it’s all alright.

Things will be okay.

What if they won’t?

What if it all just crumbles, every wall of the castles built?

It’s not a matter of ‘what if’s’ anymore, is it? Not when the two of you argue into the morning about things. You’re trying so hard to give him the benefit of the doubt but when he isn’t giving you anything at all, it makes for situations like this one.

Head in your hands, you pause for a brief moment and breathe before looking back up at Spencer. The two of you have been at this for about an hour and a half, all because you mentioned how unfair he’s being. Here you were, taking the scraps he throws to you like you’re a dog, and he’s saying it’s you who is unfair.

“I know you want things to go back to the way they were, but it’s not gonna happen.” He says in that bitter tone you hate, looking down at you, sitting on the mattress.

“I know things are different, Spencer.” You claim. “But I didn’t think I had to be okay with you hardly looking at me, or-or not baring to ask me a simple question like how my day was.”

He scoffs at you, running a hand through his unruly hair. “I’m sorry if my attention isn’t devoted to you now.”

You stand to match his position. “Don’t make me seem selfish.” You shout.

“I’m- you’re not selfish, I just…what do you want from me?” He questions, throwing his arms out and staring at you with absolutely no love in his eyes.

“What do I want?” You reword. “What I want is some progress. Every day I wake up, and I do my best to convince you that you’re not something evil, that these unforeseen circumstances don’t define you, and it’s like I’m stuck in a loop. I can’t help you if you don’t help yourself.”

A lump forms in your throat, your eyes burn but you can’t find it in yourself to let those tears fall.

“That’s the problem!” Spencer shouts. “You’re looking at me like I’m some sort of sick animal and I can’t stand it!”

“You’re looking at me like I’m not the love of your life anymore, so I suppose some things change.”

Silence.

Spencer’s at a loss for words.

Your tears start falling now. You wipe at them with fever.

“I’m trying to give you time, Spence.”

“Angel-” He tries to interrupt, only to be stopped with the movement of your hand in the air, halting him.

“Don’t. Don’t be like this. I know this hasn’t been easy for you, but I have felt so alone.” You say with a squeak. “And you just… don’t care.”

He shakes his head, demeanor changing. “Of course I care!”

“Really? Because it feels like you gave up on me when you gave up on yourself.” You gasp lightly, trying to calm your shaking hands. “And that’s mean, baby. I know you have been through so much and you lost the game of chance, and I’m sorry- I am so sorry, but you can’t toss me aside like I haven’t formed my whole life around you!”

It’s strange, standing in a room that once knew laughter and the warmth of your escapades. Only now, it’s ghostly and tired and blue. Spencer wants to defend it, wants to shout that you’re just not understanding him but it’s wrong. You understand him better than anyone ever has, and you’re immensely right, he’s abusing the situation. He knows all of this and can’t help but back peddle like his life depends on it.

“I’m not trying to toss you aside, I’m sorry.” He says, reaching out to grab you, deciding his touch can’t be your downfall.

But you side step him. “But you are, do you not understand? Use that smart head of yours to realize the instance here.” You plead. “If you’re done trying, then I am to because I have no more to give. I’m empty, you took it all from me, Spence. What do I get in return? Nothing, not even a fucking marriage.”

There’s a certain level of hurt that mixes with the anger and creates something crazy in your brain, makes it malfunction and all your repressed thoughts come out.

As you go to leave the bedroom, Spencer follows after. “What does that mean?” He asks.

You need to get out, these walls are whispering with your promises of a future, they’re getting louder.

“You aren’t going to marry me.” You state, searching for some place to hide and sink away.

“Of course I am.” He claims, calling your name to stop you.

“You can’t even pretend like you love me, Spencer, you aren’t going to marry me.”

A hand catches your arm and spins you to face him. His eyes are confused and reeling.

“I do love you, I always have.”

There’s a waver in his voice, is there?

I swallow. “Say it again. With feeling.”

“I love you!”

As the air leaves your lungs in a death rattle sort of way, you just can’t feel the warmth. It makes sense, ghosts have no heat, no matter how beloved they are. You know he expects you to give a different statement than what you do, and it hurts when you tell him the truth.

“I don’t think that’s enough now.”

“Don’t say that.” His tone comes out angrier than intended.

“I just did.”

One might describe him as a scared dog, one who lashes out now like he never used to.

“It’s not enough? Then why don’t you just spare yourself?” He spits, resembling a man you’ve never known, tossing your arm aside, probably too harshly.

The knife twists in your chest, you’re convinced you’re bleeding. Slowly, you nod. The ring seems to hold on for dear life, but you still pull it from your finger and offer it forward.

Everything inside of him feels sick as he reaches out his hand, watching as you drop the diamond into his palm.

With your heartbeat in your ears, you go to the door, sliding into your shoes and grabbing your heavy coat to brave into the weather. With Spencer calling your name, you shut the door on his impending questions of where you’re going.

Spencer stares at the door, and for a moment he can’t believe it all happened like it did. But he said the words and you followed his lead like the faithful partner you are and now you’re gone.

It takes him twenty two minutes before he begins to really panic. What if you’re gone forever? What if some force is going to take you now? Where did you go? Are you cold?

And if you left, that meant he’s alone for good, alone like he’s always been. How could he do this to you? He’s horrible, he’s a monster, all of those things he’s thought about are true.

He sets the ring on the counter, then throws the dirty coffee mug into the sink with such force, it breaks.

He paces the apartment while you stand at Penelope’s door, your dearest friend you only know because of Spencer, trying to hold it together until she comes to find you.

“What happened?” She asks, taking in your appearance.

“I don’t– know.” You sob out.

Two weeks later…

…

…It’s a weird feeling, having your spine split in half from carrying so much weight uphill for so long. You know a lot about weird feelings now, that empty space in your chest, Spencer sized, that’s your new lover.

Penelope sets a duffel bag by the pullout couch where you hardly move from, she’s been making trips to the apartment over the days to retrieve what you need.

“Hey, lovebug.” She coos softly, sitting by your knees, petting your mess of hair. “How was work?”

You open your mouth to tell her it was fine, that today was actually a good day, all the way up until Spencer texted you and asked if you wanted to move all of your things out.

A strangled sigh leaves your cracked lips.

This sums up how the last two weeks have been, and you wonder if Pen is a little embarrassed for you yet, the way you can hardly get out of bed.

“Emily and JJ and I are going out…why don’t you take a shower and come with us? It’ll make you feel better.” She says in such a gentle tone, one she’s learned that can get you to do anything.

It drags you to the shower, where you sag against the wall and do your daily crying. Then you get dressed and tame your hair and somehow make it to the bar.

Emily and JJ look at you with pity and you have no energy to be upset.

“Reid’s not enjoying it either.” Emily offers in a corner booth, because the conversation has turned to discussing the loss of your life.

Pen and JJ nod in agreement.

The BAU feels like they’re going through this break up at the way Spencer’s moods affect all of them. They’ve never known his anger like they do now, how he’s quick to snap, how the littlest thing sets him off. They’ll spare you, they won’t tell you how he swiped the picture frames off his desk, the ones of you and him. They won’t mention the fact that he hasn’t smiled once, that he looks like he doesn’t sleep.

They won’t tell you any of this but they’ll offer words of condolence or comfort, neither work.

“It’s going to be alright.” Emily encourages, squeezing your hand from across the table. “Heartache doesn’t stay forever.”

JJ nods like it’s going to fix the way you’re as empty as a drum.

“We all know how you’re feeling, don’t worry.” She says, her perfect, Barbie doll smile.

It makes you sick. You really shouldn’t take the anger out on anyone, but you do because there’s so much of it and you can’t stop it from flowing.

“You know what I’m going through?” You question her.

“Yes, I’ve had heartaches too.”

You suddenly can’t stand being here, you need to leave.

“You can go home to a husband, Jennifer, you don’t know how I feel.”

With those as your parting words, you flee, you tell Penelope you need air and you’ll see her at her apartment.

While you brave the cold city, the three women ask themselves how it could have possibly ended like this, with the greatest love of all in shambles. JJ calls Reid, of course she does.

“You need to fix this.” She tells him.

“…How is she?” He asks, sitting on the sofa, eyeing the framed pictures on the wall.

“She’s…lost. She’s ghostly, she-…Spencer, she loves you and she can’t stop. Fix it.”

“I don’t know how.” He says, monotone.

“How did it end, anyway?” She asks, seeing Emily and Penelope return with more drinks.

Spencer sort of sighs, though it’s sad and broken.

“I don’t know.”

- - - -

The air bites, it’s as cold as you feel, makes your bones ache. You wander in hopes of getting lost permanently, but to no avail, you know your city. Your city that feels so harsh and cruel, it’s one big reminder that you used to not walk the sidewalks alone, that you once stole kisses under streetlights. And as you’re walking down fifth avenue and memory lane, your feet drag you to the place you really want to go. In the time you left the bar and got frostbite from the early stages of falling snow, you’ve worked yourself up enough to believe you could stand your ground. Your anger has made a platform to stand on, you’re at the top of the fucking podium by the time you knock on the apartment door.

Why are you knocking?

Your name is on the fucking lease.

You shove the key in the lock and barge in, mouth agape, ready to fire.

And then you see it.

The bedroom door is only halfway shut, but you see movement. In the room that is gray and sullen, Spencer stands with his back to the door, staring at the cascade of white that he has laid on the bed like a memorial, like it was an open casket viewing.

Your podium shrinks.

“I was going to wear my hair up.” You say, causing him to turn and face you.

He’s tired, hair messy, unshaven, and those round brown eyes are the saddest things you’ve ever seen.

“I like your hair up.” He says, the words echo off exposed brick walls.

Heart beats pass, ba-bum ba-bum in your ears and you quickly huff and bush melted snow through your hair.

“I’ll get my things out now, if you want.” You say, choosing words carefully, eyes watching the way his avoid you.

“I don’t have any boxes.” He says, fingers brushing satin and lace before he picks the dress back up, puts it in the dust bag and death marches it to you. “You would’ve looked beautiful…you always look beautiful.”

How is it he can be so blissfully unaware? The smartest man you’ve ever known and he’s saying things to break your heart, with no clue that he’s doing it. You take that dress- that beautiful, vintage gown with the hundred fabric buttons running down the back, and lay it over your arm, then rock back on your heels.

“I can grab what I can and come by when you’re at work to get the rest.” You offer, wishing he’d say all the things you want him to say, like stay and I’m an idiot and I love you.

Spencer only nods. “Yeah. That works.”

“Okay…” You whisper, then drape the dress over the reading chair in the corner, the one too small for the both of you. You used to curl as small as possible on his lap with your legs over the arm and your head on his shoulder.

Every corner of this place is haunted.

In the closet, you pull the string and the lightbulb burns orange. You grab the two handheld suitcases, the ones you came home to find on the bed one day with Spencer telling you he was taking you to London while your school was on Spring Break.

When you come back out, Spencer’s left the room. There was no way he could watch you pull open the drawers where your things sat beside his.

With a knot in your throat, you fold and place things neatly and keep your cool like the mature adult you are.

That is until you grab the MIT t-shirt you’ve worn in. It’s a light gray color now, the neckline stretched so it only hangs right on you and not Spencer. Holding the ratty shirt you refuse to let him toss, that’s when you decide you don’t want to be a mature adult.

You’re a teenager with a broken heart is what it feels like, the world is ending and your soul has been split in half.

One tear comes, and then another, and one more until your face is soaked with your desperation and mourning. You ball that silly t shirt up at toss it away, and decide those suitcases are insufferable and onto the floor they go.

You stare at them, the clatter they made did nothing for comfort. With a raspy sigh, you sink to your knees to put everything back inside, and your blurry eyes drift to Spencer’s socks that appear in front of you after he hears the bang.

Wordlessly and gentle, he lowers his tall frame to crouch in front of you. The look in his eye is fools gold, it makes you think he’s the Spencer he was before everything.

You look at him, sure you look like a mess but you don’t care. Your chapped lips part and he’s prepared for the scolding, for your temper.

It doesn’t come.

“We were supposed to grow old together.” You sob out. “It was gonna be you and me, Spence, wearing matching outfits when we’re eighty, going to senior discount days at the theater.”

Those are the words that bring him back to reality, and the fall is harsh and he’s mortified that he’s done this to you.

You hiccup for air, pushing his hand away that tries to grab the suitcase. “I was going to walk down the aisle to an instrumental version of Heartbeat by The Fray, it’s unconventional but it’s my favorite song.”

“I know.” He whispers sadly.

“We didn’t make a deposit on that little venue with the pond, they gave our spot away but that’s okay, we were going to figure it out because we always do. We always do, Spencer.”

You’re not even sure you’re making sense but he understands, you could go mute completely and he’d understand because you’re his person, who he’s ruined.

“I know. I know, baby, I know.” He keeps repeating, adjusting to pull you away from the mess and into him.

With no strength left, you have no fuel for the fight. You fall into him, face in his chest as he sits against the bed and hugs you like he’s not seen you in years. It’s what it feels like, he hasn’t had you this close in too long. His fingers press into your skin, the warmth is almost groundbreaking in feeling, makes him unsure of where to hold you because he wants to touch everywhere, all at once. A lifeless frame full of hunger, you can’t move as you feel his caring grip in your hair, his lips to your crown as you can’t seem to get a solid breath in.

“Don’t make me leave you.” You plead, curling into him like a whimpering dog, clutching his chest to make sure there’s still a heart in there that beats for you.

Spencer’s crying now, the familiar feeling of fear in his lungs that don’t want to expand if you’re not around. He drags hair out of your face and presses his forehead to yours.

“I don’t want you to leave. Don’t leave me, don’t leave me.” He says with the emotion of the man before.

And just like that, you waltz right back into each other, you know the steps. Sitting in your fairytale, on the cold hardwood floor, listening to the steady beat of his heart, you both determine this isn’t the end of the greatest love affair they’ve ever seen.

You’re not sure how long you stay like this, in his lap, face red and salty as you stare at your bare left hand, but eventually the tears stop for the both of you. Spencer is the first to speak, he gently shifts, his hand sliding up your arm and shoulder to rest on the side of your neck, as if he’s checking your pulse.

“I’m sorry.” He rasps. “I’m sorry for everything, all of it, every single thing I did and said and ruined. I’m an idiot, angel, and you don’t know how lovely you are.”

Like water to a flame, those words are cooling. The grief and remorse in his tone makes you grab that hand checking your lifeline, and hold it.

“I’m sorry too.” You say. “For everything that went wrong and the fact I couldn’t do anything about it.”

His chest shudders, he leans down and kisses your forehead. “It doesn’t matter, it’s over now.”

You tilt your gaze up to meet his eye. “Is it?”

Bless you and the ground you walk on that he should worship better. Spencer gently runs his finger down your cheek and across your jawline. He nods then. “Yeah, baby, it is.”

#spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid hurt/comfort #spencer reid x fanfiction #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid fanfiction #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #hurt/comfort #spencer reid #matthew gray gubler

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mariacallous · 2 months ago

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Attorneys suing the United States government over its use of vanishing Signal messages to coordinate military strikes last month in Yemen allege that new court filings by the government reveal a “calculated strategy” by Trump administration officials to evade transparency laws through the illegal destruction of government records.

US defense and intelligence agencies on Monday submitted supplemental declarations in court outlining their individual efforts to preserve the messages at the center of the “SignalGate” scandal. American Oversight, a watchdog organization whose attorneys are suing the government, claim the declarations reveal “troubling inconsistencies” in efforts by US officials to archive the material, with the Central Intelligence Agency in particular alleging that it had archived no messages of any substance.

“Using encrypted, disappearing messages on Signal for official government business violates the Federal Records Act and represents a calculated strategy to undermine transparency and accountability,” claims the group’s interim executive director, Chioma Chukwu.

The use of the private group chat—in which some messages were configured to automatically delete before they could be archived—was first revealed by The Atlantic’s editor in chief, Jeffrey Goldberg, on March 24, after he was inadvertently added to the group by Trump’s national security adviser, Michael Waltz. American Oversight subsequently filed Freedom of Information Act requests over the chats and then sought a temporary restraining order in a Washington, DC, federal court in an effort to compel the government to salvage any messages yet to be deleted.

In addition to Waltz, known participants in the chat group include, among others, Secretary of Defense Pete Hegseth, Secretary of State Marco Rubio, Vice President JD Vance, Director of National Intelligence Tulsi Gabbard, and CIA Director John Ratcliffe.

WIRED has requested comment from the Justice Department, the Office of the National Intelligence Director, and the White House. The departments of Defense and State declined to comment. The CIA could not be immediately reached for comment.

The declarations filed by the government late Monday show a scattershot attempt by multiple agencies to comply with the court’s demands, with several days elapsing during their various individual efforts to obtain and preserve the messages.

Judge James Boasberg, the chief judge of the US District Court for the District of Columbia, issued his initial order to preserve the communications on March 27, while giving each agency four days to describe what actions were being taken to obey. “We were really trying to seek preservation of Signal chats more broadly,” American Oversight’s deputy chief counsel, Katie Anthony, tells WIRED. “But the court was not willing to step outside the one specific chat we all knew about for certain."

The declarations ultimately offered scant information about the methods that were employed to preserve the messages or the degrees to which those methods are forensically sound. And it is unclear from the disclosures what portion of the chat—alleged to cover five days in early March—might have been irretrievable by that time. According to reporting by The Atlantic, some of the messages concerning the military strikes, which targeted Houthi fighters in Yemen, were set to delete automatically after four weeks. Others were reportedly set to disappear after only one.

The US Treasury Department was initially alone in providing the court a timeline of the messages that it was able to retrieve. Treasury Secretary Scott Bessent had received a preservation memo on March 26, his acting general counsel said, as well as advice regarding his fundamental duty to preserve records. Resultingly, "images were taken from the phones of Secretary Bessent and Mr. [Daniel] Katz," Bessent’s chief of staff. The messages begin at 1:48 pm EST on March 15, 2025.

"The Atlantic article was about a chat that took place the 11th through the 15th,” Anthony says, “so pretty much everything was gone—from the only defendant who gave us clear and specific information about what they were able to save.”

The Department of Defense told the court last month that its attorneys were "in the process" of complying with the agency's preservation rules and that Secretary Hegseth’s communications team had been asked to forward the Signal messages to an official DOD account. Pressed by the court for further details last week, the DOD said Monday that a search of Hegseth's device had been conducted "on or about March 27," adding that screenshots of the "existing Signal application messages" had been preserved.

American Oversight’s lawyers had urged the court to seek greater specificity, arguing on April 4 that "vague, incomplete assertions" in the government's original declarations had only cast fresh doubts on its "purported efforts" to preserve the chats. In light of new reporting, the group argued, the government's response seemed otherwise "grossly inadequate." Politico had reported two days prior that as many as 20 private Signal chat groups had been started by Waltz’s team with a slew of cabinet officials.

“It seems very likely that the individuals who are defendants in our lawsuit are probably involved in some of those other chats, and we have this problem on a much wider basis,” Anthony says.

The Department of Justice, meanwhile, opposed the court’s involvement, arguing that its efforts on behalf of a watchdog group were legally confused and that the question of whether any laws were broken is in any case moot. Members of the public, it argued, have no "enforceable rights” when it comes to challenging the destruction of specific government records. A court order was unnecessary, the department said, because the government was already taking steps to do what is required. A “partial version of the chat” had already been committed to a federal record keeping system, it said, by “at least one agency.”

Among other new details, Monday’s disclosures provided a range of dates for the preservation efforts at multiple agencies, including the date that Hegseth’s phone was finally “searched.”

Screenshots of chats on Marco Rubio's phone were likewise captured on March 27, the State Department said. The Office of the Director of National Intelligence said its screenshots were taken the following day, on March 28. The CIA said it took a screenshot of the chat on March 31; however, it also clarified one of its previous declarations to the court, revealing that the image shows mainly the name of the chat group and some of its members and settings but not any of its “substantive messages.”

American Oversight previewed a case to amend its initial complaint during a hearing last week, with plans to encourage the court to expand the scope of its review to include the now-reported widespread use of Signal by top officials across the national security state.

“This attack on government transparency threatens the very foundation of our democracy,” Chukwu says. “And we are committed to using every legal tool available to expose the truth and hold those responsible accountable.”

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lenitriedtowritestuff · 9 months ago

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The Run and Go

Natasha RomanoffxEx-Widow!Reader // Enemies to Lovers(Ish), Angst, Series (?)

*Images are not mine, credit to its sources and creators

Prompt: You, an ex-Red Room graduate turned mercenary, take up an assignment to retrieve some sensitive information from the Triskelion. You run into Natasha as you escape, much to your anger. You can’t seem to escape her after this first encounter as different circumstances force you to work together.

Summary: The Triskelion’s infiltration was going so well. That was until a certain redhead makes an appearance, leading to a long-awaited confrontation.

Trigger Warning: Poorly researched hacking concepts and lingo, bad spy/escape sequence, guns, google-translated Russian, swearing, canon-typical violence, implied/mentioned physical and emotional child abuse, the Red Room, bad fight scene, minor injury, let me know if I need to add more.

Word Count: 3,858

A/N: Did I watch Iron Man 2, Captain America and the Winter Soldier and Black Widow, analyzing Nat’s and other Widows’ fight styles? Yes, yes I did. Was I successful in writing an interesting fight scene in line with what I saw? Probably not, no, but here we are.

Let me know if anything needs to be fixed!

Part 2 ->

Main Masterlist | MCU Masterlist | Recced Fics

Breaking into the Triskelion had been almost effortless. It was easy to slip into its walls without raising suspicion, to become invisible once inside. No one expects a mouse to simply walk into the cat’s den. Then again, you were not a mouse, and the cat thought itself untouchable.

There was no air of importance to your stride, no urgency in your steps. Your clothes showed little rank, most agents barely sparing you a first glance as you walked through the hallways alongside them, not realizing you were most definitely not one of them. Pride was always the downfall of man, you thought.

The hallways and floors all seemed the same to you. The absence of windows was glaring in the lower levels, being only lit up by white, fluorescent lights, basking the stone walls in a similar hue. The floors were a familiar, polished, gray color, reflecting the light upwards. Despite the unoriginality of the corridors, you’re able to find the control room rather quickly, having already memorized the interior layout of the building before even dreaming of stepping inside. It was somewhat dark inside the control room, mainly lit up by the several rows of screen monitors and a few of the same fluorescent lights that decorated the hallways.

There was a singular agent in there when you stepped inside. He barely looks up from his screen, unbothered by your sudden intrusion. You pick a desk and sit down, beginning your search for the files your employer had asked for.

There was a vulnerability in one of the system's firewalls, one you quickly exploited. It took you longer than you wanted to admit, but you were able to completely break through it, making it easier to find the necessary files. A cough interrupted your concentration, causing you to turn to look at the agent sharing the space with you. His eyes never strayed from his own monitor, raising a cup to his lips as he continued to type away on his keyboard. After confirming you were still in the clear, you returned to your work.

It took you a few extra minutes to find the ones you were looking for but were able to download all of them onto the pendrive given to you by your employer. Once you had everything, you deleted all the information you took from S.H.I.E.L.D.’s servers. You even deployed a nasty virus that will keep them occupied for a few days for good measure.

There is a small part of you that feels satisfaction at having been able to take something from the organization as easily as you had. You stand nonchalantly from the seat you had claimed as yours, approaching the communal pot of coffee hidden away in one of the room’s corners. The singular agent hidden behind his monitor just barely acknowledges you, his eyes leaving his monitor for a few seconds before returning to his work. You serve yourself some coffee in a paper cup, taking a few sips before slipping out of the room.

The problem had never been getting in. No, it was about getting out.

The walk to the elevator was relatively short, the hallway empty as you made your way towards it. It was almost eerie, the way things were going, given that it was typically around this part where you would walk into some form of trouble. You knew that downloading that information was going to tip off some server moderators, adding an extra layer of difficulty to your escape. Even so, the invisibility you have managed to maintain is still your greatest weapon.

Two agents stepped out of the elevator once it had reached your floor. One of them acknowledged you with a singular nod while the other barely spared you a glance.

You step into the now empty space, the computer screen showcasing your face, along with a fake alias and a serial ID number. The creation and uploading of the fake S.H.I.E.L.D. agent profile had taken you weeks to accomplish, but its completion was the key to slipping in and out of the building mostly undetected. Having some of the organization’s face-changing technology would have made the infiltration a lot easier, but that technology is too safely guarded for you to have been able to get your hands on it.

The doors had not shut closed yet, waiting for you to state your destination. “Lobby,” a voice that is not your own rings out from your vocal cords. The voice moderator that you had nicked from one of your past jobs had come quite in handy, especially for this mission. The piece of technology was hidden away under the collar of your stolen uniform, its detection nearly impossible.

“Confirmed,” the automated voice of the computer rang out into the enclosed space, and finally began its descent. Breathing was becoming an easier task as you were one step closer out the Triskelion’s door.

The elevator stopped a few times as it continued to go down, letting agents in and out on different floors. Most of their trips were short, some engaging in small talk before exiting the confined space.

“Controls,” an older man dressed in a blue suit commanded, followed by the computer’s robotic voice, “Confirmed.” He had a kind face, dark brown eyes aged with crow’s feet and his hair white and thinning.

“Working hard or hardly working?” the man asked, his tone light and jovial, as the elevator continued its descent. You sent him a friendly smile, adding a small chuckle for good measure.

“Not sure yet,” you replied, not dropping the smile, “Every day is unpredictable in S.H.I.E.L.D.”

The man replied with a chuckle of his own, “That, it is.” The elevator opened into another level, allowing the man to step out. He sends you a friendly smile as he departs, leaving you alone in the confined space once more.

You reach the lobby shortly after. The space was wide, a glass canopy overhead, allowing the warm glow of sunlight to stream in. The walls were decorated with a mixture of off-white stone, dark tile and stained wood, the floor a dark gray that complemented the space nicely. S.H.I.E.L.D.’s emblem was showcased proudly in the very center of the room, reminding everyone who walked inside of where they stood.

The lobby was full of people, some dressed in nice, neutral-colored suits, while others were dressed in tactical gear. Security hung around the entrances and exits, eyes sharp as they overlooked the crowd.

There was purpose in your stride now. The longer you took to get out, the larger the possibility of getting caught. It was only a matter of minutes before someone noticed the missing information that burned in your uniform pocket, if they did not know already.

You made your way across the lobby unperceived. The sense of satisfaction from a successful mission had begun to bloom in your chest as you easily blended into the large group of agents that zipped in and out of the building. That was until you felt the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end, the sensation of a pair of eyes staring you down from somewhere behind you making you come to a stop.

Your eyes scanned the room methodically, until you spotted a set of familiar green eyes and fiery red hair, ones you thought you would never see again. There was a flicker of recognition in her features, but it lasted for less than a second, slipping on her perfectly crafted mask of indifference, her expression unreadable as neither of you break eye contact. A wave of burning hot emotion overcomes you, before you stamp it out. Emotion is a weakness. Emotion is for children. Emotion gets you killed.

Neither one of you had looked away from each other, as if a silent conversation was being held between the both of you. You subtly raise your head, your eyes narrowed and daring. It was a silent challenge, and invitation to your long-awaited encounter. It was a dangerous game to play while in the confines of hundreds, if not thousands, of highly trained agents, especially when one of those agents was Natasha Romanoff, but it was one you would play, nonetheless.

You’re the first one to break eye contact with her, quickly becoming invisible within the crowd of agents. A cat has spotted you and was about to give chase.

It would almost be thrilling to be running from the Black Widow turned Avenger, were it not for the blazing resentment snaking its way through your chest. It had been years since you last saw her, her defection to the very organization you just stole from had left you filled with a sense of bitterness and betrayal.

The rest of your journey towards the garage went uninterrupted, but you know she was somewhere nearby, following your moves closely as you weaved through the lower levels. Spotting the redhead had suddenly made you itch for a fight, adrenaline fueling your body.

Your bike comes into view as you reach the final garage level. The vehicle was hidden away in a secluded part of the parking space, far away from the other cars. The keys jingled in your hand as you pulled them out of your uniform pocket. You would have closed the distance between you and your escape, except that you felt her ghost-like presence lurking from behind you, finally making herself known.

With a singular deep breath, you stick your hand out to the side, showcasing your keys to her before tossing them forwards, the sound of metal clattering against the smooth asphalt a few feet from your motorcycle.

“I didn’t expect to ever see you again, Romanoff,” your modified voice echoed in the vastness of the garage. Your hand instinctively reaches for your concealed gun, pulling it out in one swift movement as you turn to face her.

“I would say the same to you,” she stood a few feet away from you, her stance paralleling yours, guns raised and aimed at each other’s heads. Her eyes had a hard edge to them as she stared you down, “Why are you here?”

“Just seeing the sights of Washington, D.C. There’re so many museums here, you know?” there is vexation in your tone despite your sarcastic words, “Plus, how could I skip out on admiring the Triskelion’s architecture? Bet the engineers had fun building it.”

The both of you had stepped closer to each other without realizing it, her firearm about a foot away from your own. She ignores your quip, instead choosing to make a go for your gun. You mirror her movements, both of you trading guns before aiming them at one another once more.

Neither of you said anything as you continued to stare each other down, the tension thick enough to be cut by the edge of a knife. Her eyes were studying yours, searching for something and you’re not quite sure what it is. There was a subtle change in her stance shortly after as she dared you to make the first move. So, you did. You went for her gun again, this time flinging it across the empty garage, the piece of metal skidding across the asphalt. She does the same, the Red Room’s training being activated on pure instinct.

The beginning of your fight was not a fight at all, though. You were both following a basic combat sequence of simple parries and blows taught to you in the confines of the Red Room. The drill was the one that was taught to the youngest of girls, set to provide them with the basics. It was more of a dance for the both of you, perfectly choreographed and in sync with the others' familiar response. It was child’s play.

For a brief moment, you felt like you were back in the Red Room, the both of you locked in the familiar dance as your handlers watched you engage in a sparring match. The parries and blows you sent each other’s way were predictable, neither of you having the heart to truly fight and hurt the other. Your punishments for your defiance would vary, the ones you remember most being obligated to practice the same ballet move until your feet bled. The other usual punishment was to be made to fight an older Widow, one that would not hesitate to hurt you, to teach you a lesson for holding back. Eventually, your sparring sessions no longer started with the predictable routine of parries and blows, replaced by hard tackles to the ground, bruising kicks and skin-breaking hits.

Old habits die hard, it seems.

Your mind snaps out of it as she grabs hold of your arm mid-swing before securing a hold over your shoulder, allowing her to throw you onto the ground. The wind is knocked out of your lungs, and it takes you a few seconds too long for you to recover.

“What did you do?” She asks as she manages to hold you in place, her legs straddling your waist while her arms have you pinned down against the ground.

“That’s not your concern, dorogoy,” you smirk up at her as you smash your forehead against her mouth. The distraction allows you enough time to securely grab her by her forearms, your freed legs find her stomach, flipping her over you. She lands roughly a few inches over your own head, the force of the flip enough to leave her stunned for a few moments, allowing you to quickly get to your feet.

“I have to go,” the voice moderator that had been hidden under your collar was knocked loose, your voice sounding strange as you taunt her, “It was nice seeing you.” You were scooping your bike’s keys from the ground before she pushed you into the vehicle, knocking you both onto the ground.

In hindsight, it was dumb of you to believe she would stay down.

The back of your head hits against the floor, stars filling your vision for a few moments, your bike tangled under your feet. You feel her grab the fabric of your stolen trainee uniform, dragging you away from your bike and towards one of the garage's walls.

You struggle against her, managing to break free from her hold. Once back on your feet, you send a few firm punches her way, and she is unable to dodge a few of them.

You were sloppy in your attack though, as she gets a firm grasp on your arm once more. Her other hand gets a hold of your shoulder and pushes you back up against the building, slamming you against the wall once, twice, three times. A string of coughs escapes you, air not reaching your lungs. You feel the fight begin to leave your body and hate that she was able to incapacitate you. In a last-ditch effort, you press your hands against her face, forcefully pushing against her with all your might. This somewhat works, placing a bit more space between you, enough for you to raise your leg, and knee her in the stomach. This sends her back a few inches and you send another swift kick to the affected area. Your legs react before your mind does, trying to close the distance between you and your knocked over bike, the keys within your view on the ground.

You were still a few feet away when you felt a sharp and burning sting emanate from your lower back, your body locking up against your will and effectively sending you tumbling to the ground. She threw a fucking Widow Bite at you.

“Cheater!” you yell at her, your body completely unable to move. She catches up to you, one arm cradling her stomach, before grabbing you by the scruff of the stolen uniform and dragging you up against the nearest wall. Your body felt numb, every single one of your nerve endings having been lit on fire mere seconds ago.

“I’m not gonna ask you again, what the fuck are you doing here?” her tone is hard and almost dangerous, her eyes scanning over every single one of your features in search of any telltale signs of a lie. It was only now that you realized that she was bleeding from her slightly swollen lip, a trail of crimson running down her chin. There’s a small, sick sense of pride that settles within you as you watch the blood flow from the split lip you gave her.

“Fuck you, Romanoff, I don’t owe you shit,” the familiar sparks of anger were building up inside your chest.

“Answer the question,” her tone is even and low. It was not until now that you realized she had picked up one of the discarded firearms, the barrel of the gun being pointed directly at your head. Something within you was emboldened by this, leaning forwards as the tip of the gun presses lightly against your forehead.

“You’re not gonna shoot me,” your eyes staring directly into hers in defiance.

“How are you so sure about that?” she asked through narrowed eyes, digging the barrel further into your skin, her finger hugging the trigger but not squeezing it.

“Because you would have shot me the second you saw me if you truly wanted me dead,” you reply, and the words taste bitter in your mouth. There is a visceral hatred in the gaze you level at her, the teasing air that had coated your initial confrontation having completely dissolved.

“Why are you so angry at me?”

The question had been so simple. It made you want to explode.

“Did-did you seriously just ask me that? I have to tell you?” you almost choke on the acidity that coursed through your tongue as you spoke those words. A bitter laugh makes its way past your lips, your head shaking slightly as a sense of indignation floods your chest.

“Tell me Natalia, did you think that everything would be magically solved the day you defected?” The burning sensation of unfiltered anger and overwhelming resentment are spilling out of you, and you do your best to push them away forcefully. Your mask cannot break. Your mask will not break.

Emotion is a weakness. Emotion is for children. Emotion gets you killed.

The words repeated over and over again in your head, a never-ending chant driven into you by your handlers. Emotion had always been the one thing that you struggled with in the program as a child, constantly making you hesitate and clouding your judgment. Your handlers recognized this weakness in you, and they worked you tirelessly, trying to stomp it out of you. Your struggle against emotion is what got you recycled four times before you finally graduated.

Natasha’s face gave away no indication of what she was thinking. Her features were schooled perfectly into a mask of indifference, and that made you all the more angry.

“I had to get out,” she defends herself; the gun being slightly lowered.

“I don’t care,” you want to yell, you want to scream, but you don’t, “You leaving made The Red Room all the more difficult to survive.”

Something about what you just said made a crack in Natasha’s mask. It was nearly imperceivable, but you saw the twitch her brows made at your statement.

“The Red Room doesn’t exist anymore. Dreykov is dead,” she states factually. Her tone was so confident, so sure, you almost believed her. But she was wrong. He may have gone into hiding, never showing his face, but his whispers still rang inside the halls of the Red Room, his fingers choking the life out of every Widow still stuck there. His presence was a stain that would never leave.

You can’t suppress the bitter laugh that escapes you, “Is that what S.H.I.E.L.D. told you?”

The numbing feeling that had spread throughout your body was beginning to wear off. There’s a small twitch in your leg, one that Natasha notices and she knows she is running out of time.

“I was there, we rigged bombs up a five-story building,” Natasha recounts, her eyes taking a similar hard edge from earlier.

“The Red Room still exists, Natasha,” you talk low and slowly, your tone was no longer defensive or angry. She needs to know she is wrong. “Dreykov isn’t dead.”

“It’s impossible, I killed him,” she restated adamantly. Her mask was slowly cracking, but you do not feel victorious about it.

“He’s alive, Romanoff. I’m not fucking with you,” your tone was exasperated, “Why would I lie?”

“Why are you here?”

“Chert poberi,” the curse slips past your lips, your annoyance at the redhead radiating off of you, “I took a job, I’m a mercenary now, that’s all you need to know.” You finally push yourself off the ground, your legs stumbling slightly as the pins and needles continue to prickle under your skin. She allows you to stand, backing away from you with her gun still trained on your head.

“Listen, I don’t care if you believe me or not. Dreykov is not dead, and the Red Room is still alive and well. You don’t need me to tell you what happens in there,” you shook your head gently as the familiar, bitter taste of your words coat your tongue.

You made no effort to move away from her yet, despite desperately wanting to leave. Her gun was still trained on you, and you were beginning to doubt whether or not she would actually shoot you. A single wrong move could mean the difference between life and death, or worse, getting turned in.

But she was no longer focused on you. Her mask had slipped off, and for the first time since you were children, you could read every emotion in her eyes. There was conflict there, torn between the lie she had convinced herself of and the reality of your words. There was wariness in her gaze, but there was something else too, something bigger.

It was guilt.

She believes you.

You begin to move away from the wall she had you pinned against, your bike about ten feet away from you. It’s clear she has no intentions of stopping you, instead lowering her gun slowly, her eyes never leaving yours.

She… she was letting you go.

The gaze you send her is cautious and untrusting, but you continue to move away from her, nonetheless. She eventually breaks the eye contact you had maintained, her eyes dropping down to the ground, her breaths slow, heavy and unsteady. There is enough space between the both of you for you to run. You caution one last look at her, but she has not moved a muscle.

“See you around, Romanoff,” Your tone is not victorious nor teasing, it’s dejected and almost sad.

With that, you run towards your bike, scooping your keys from the ground swiftly before driving away, leaving Natasha behind with her thoughts.

Part 2 ->

#marvel #marvel fanfic #avengers #natasha romanoff fanfiction #natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha x reader #black widow x reader

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itsappleexpert · 1 month ago

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nectar-cellar · 1 year ago

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making default replacement CAS - TS3

hi i'm writing a rough outline of one way to make default replacements. i discovered this method recently on reddit as shared by 80sBabyGirl and it's worked well for me so far, so i want to share with other creators out there.

a disclaimer: i'm no expert on how to do this so please read w a grain of salt. please also feel free to add further comments and correct me on any errors. i'm sharing this post not as a 100% foolproof tutorial but more of a guide or outline of the basic steps.

i like this method because you can easily turn any CC package into a default replacement package, without exporting a bunch of textures meshes etc that beginners may not be comfortable doing. also great for lazy people like me.

i have had success using this method to make default replacement hairs, beards, and clothing. i assume the principle is the same for most other CAS items although i'm sure there are more complicated exceptions out there.

so with those disclaimers out of the way, let's start:

first, you will need to download Sims 3 Package Editor (S3PE) and Sims 3 Object Cloner (S3OC)

next, you will use S3OC to clone the in-game item you want to replace, such as a hairstyle.

make sure to "deep clone", include the thumbnails, and do not check "renumber internally".

next, you will open the cloned in-game hair using S3PE. you will also be opening and editing your cc hair package in S3PE, so make a backup of that somewhere before proceeding with the edits.

80sBabyGirl on reddit:

"First, export the Maxis hair's CASP resource to a folder, and close the file. Then, export the CC hair's CASP resource to a different folder. Go back to the Maxis hair folder. Don't open the CASP file, don't copy the file either, just copy its name. Go to the CC hair folder and paste the Maxis hair's name to replace the CC hair's name. Then import the renamed CC CASP resource into the CC hair file. Delete the original CASP resource to avoid duplicates. Then you can do the exact same process with thumbnails. For hairs with accessories, you can retrieve thumbnails for all 3 swatches inside the CASThumbnails.package file that's in the Thumbnails folder."

finally, save the cc hair package, close it in S3PE, and put it in your overrides or packages folder to test in-game. it should now function as a default replacement.

thumbnails

another way to make the cc item's thumbnail into the default replacement item's thumbnail:

in your cloned game item, double-click on the thumbnail resource. click on "copy rk".

in your cc item, double-click on the thumbnail resource. click on "paste rk".

this will make the game read the cc item's thumbnail as the default item's thumbnail.

handy reference for which thumbnail codes are for what

in summary

ultimately you are just editing 2 resources in the cc package to turn it into a default replacement.

the CASP resource

the thumbnail resource

testing in game and the textures are fucked up??

whenever you default replace anything, you usually have to delete your caches and re-apply the item in CAS for it appear properly.

the textures are still fucked ?

if this happens, it may be because the default textures and the cc textures need to be properly linked in S3PE.

in your cloned game item, double-click on each "_IMG" resource. click on "copy rk".

in your cc item, double-click on the corresponding "_IMG" resource. click on "paste rk".

you will need to do this for the multiplier, mask, specular, and normal map textures.

this will make the game read each texture as the default item's texture.

in conclusion:

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milkywayhou · 1 year ago

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YOU'VE GOT EMAIL (König X OC: Medical Student!Snow) PART I

Summary: When the Colonel from some Private Military Corporation group accidentally send KorTac's secret file via email to a random civilian girl.

König send wrong email to a wrong person

TWs: A lot curse words (from Snow), both of them being passive-aggressive, slow burn (kinda). I just wrote this for fun

Words Count: 3k (That's a lot for an email lol)

From: Colonel_Kö[email protected]

To: [email protected]

02/28/23 at 03:42 pm

Subject: KorTac Tactical Operations File E12345 Classification: Top Secret

Lieutenant,

Apologies for the inappropriate transmission. As head of KorTac Special Forces, securing sensitive documents is of utmost priority. Please confirm deletion of the attached file and we’ll consider the matter closed.

While I understand your confusion receiving such a file unsolicited, KorTac business must remain confidential. I trust a responsible professional such as yourself understands the necessity of discretion in such matters. Please don’t hesitate to contact me if any other issues arise.

Colonel König

KorTac Commanding Officer

From: [email protected]

To: Colonel_Kö[email protected]

02/28/23 at 07:12 pm

Subject: RE: Creepy email

Excuse me,

I have no idea what you’re talking about. All I know is I got some weird files from “KorTac Tactical” that I definitely did NOT ask for. Do you know how scary it is to get secret military documents out of nowhere? I thought it was one of my friends pranking me at first.

Instead of lecturing me about deleting things, maybe you should be more careful who you send your “top secret” info to. I’m just trying to study neurology over here, not get dragged into some clandestine Special Forces stuff.

Lighten up a little, yeah? It was an honest mistake I’m sure. No harm done.

Snow

From: Colonel_Kö[email protected]

To: [email protected]

02/28/23 at 08:02 pm

Subject: RE: RE: Creepy email

Ms. Farron,

I can assure you there was no “creepy email” or files sent from this office. As Commander of one of the world’s premier private military factions, securing classified intel is of utmost priority. If some file was erroneously transmitted to your address in error, it did not originate from my users.

While I understand the desire to shrug off mistakenly received sensitive documents, national security does not warrant such lackadaisical treatment. If you have relevant data in your possession, basic courtesy requires replying to the original correspondent – in this case, myself – to ascertain the source of error.

Do let me know if you retrieve any files in question. And in future, a bit more discretion and less indignation may serve you well when inadvertently encountering restricted information networks. Consider this a learning experience.

Regards,

Colonel König

KorTac Commanding Officer

From: [email protected]

To: Colonel_Kö[email protected]

02/28/23 at 08:22 pm

Subject: RE: RE: RE: Creepy email

Hi Colonel Tightpants,

Thank you for the condescending lecture. As I’ve said THREE times now, I never got any files from you or KorTac or wherever before. All I know is I woke up to an ominous email saying “Top Secret KorTac files” or something. Pretty annoying/alarming for a simple student!

And excuse me for not dropping everything to thoroughly investigate a mistake that wasn’t even mine. Some of us have actual classes to study for, not play secret agent all day.

If you’re so worried about security breaches, maybe focus on your end instead of harassing innocent people via multiple snobby emails. I’ve got better things to do than argue in circles with Mr. High-and-Mighty.

Please remove me from your contact list going forward. And do try to lighten up a little!

Regards,

Snow

P.S. The file is attached. I called it “Creepy Email From Creepy Colonel” for your convenience. Have fun decrypting your own mystery ;)

From: Colonel_Kö[email protected]

To: [email protected]

02/28/23 at 09:42 pm

Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: Creepy email

Ms. Farron,

I will not be spoken to in such a disrespectful and unprofessional manner. While your frustrations are understandable, maintaining proper decorum and respect for sensitive operational matters is not an optional courtesy – it is imperative.

You’re accusations of “harassment” are as unfounded as they are insulting. Do not mistake my patience and courtesy thus far for weakness. Should any real documents surface from my network in error, I expect their immediate return without petulant games or sass.

As a private military organization operating across the globe, security is no light concern for this command. If unable to grasp even the basic responsibility of confirming received documents' origins for the sake of national safety, perhaps the world of intelligence is beyond your current realm of comprehension.

Consider this your final warning. Any further unsubstantiated claims or uncooperative behavior will be met with the full weight of legal action and your academic institution will be notified accordingly. Is that absolutely clear, Ms. Farron?

Reply confirming so or cease contact immediately. I will not tolerate insubordination, especially from an civilian amateur dabbling where she has no clearance. Maintain discretion as instructed or suffer consequences – the choice is yours.

Colonel König

KorTac Commanding Officer

From: [email protected]

To: Colonel_Kö[email protected]

03/01/23 at 09:29 am

Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: Creepy Email

Colonel High-Horse,

Spare me your thinly veiled threats. If you’re so sure I have hide some Top Secret Files™, by all means come search my dorm room yourself since you clearly don’t believe a word I say. Oh wait, you can’t – because there’s NOTHING.

Maybe take a break from power tripping over email and try listening to the person who’s actually involved for once. Not my fault if your big bad security systems have holes. But I guess acknowledging mistakes isn’t very military, is it?

You wanna see uncooperative and petulant? Keep harassing me and I’ll forward our whole conversation to the national news. Something tells me they’d love to hear how easily “the world’s premier private military” loses confidential files.

So for the last time – I did NOT receive ANY files from you or KorTac aside the one you accidentally send. If you’re incapable of comprehending that, then you’re dumber than you look. Consider THIS your final warning to lay off before I take action, Colonel Tightass.

Snow

Formerly Civilian, Currently Pissed Off

From: Colonel_Kö[email protected]

To: [email protected]

03/01/23 at 08:55 am

Subject: Enough

Ms. Farron,

Your insubordination has crossed several lines. While I sought to resolve this discreetly, you force my hand with threats and insults. Know that I do not respond kindly to such provocation.

If you insist upon escalating this beyond reason, so be it. However, tread carefully – you are ignorant of forces beyond your control. Dare to sully KorTac’s name to fuel your petulance, and all your academic and personal records will undergo… thorough review.

Accidents happen, as you claim. But any damage to our operations will not be taken lightly, no matter your perceived innocence. Heed my words well, girl – you do not wish to become an enemy of this command.

Consider this last attempt at civil discourse. Cease contact and let this die, or suffer consequences you cannot imagine. The choice, as before, remains yours.

I expect no further correspondence. You are now on formal notice – proceed at your own peril.

Colonel König

KorTac Commanding Officer

From: [email protected]

To: Colonel_Kö[email protected]

03/01/23 at 11:38 pm

Subject: Go to Hell

You want a fight, you’ll get one you pompous prick. Your “command” and threats mean nothing to me.

If anything happens to my academic career or personal life, the world will know exactly who’s responsible. I don’t care how elite you think you are.

Bring whatever you’ve got – I’m not afraid of some borderline psychotic and his glorified gun club. You want a target? Consider it painted on your back from now on.

Have fun trying to intimidate me, ASSHOLE. You just made the worst enemy of your pathetic life.

Goodbye forever. Don’t bother responding – you’re officially dead to me.

Snow Farron

Future Doctor, Current Pain in Your Ass

From: Colonel_Kö[email protected]

To: [email protected]

03/02/23 at 01:29 am

Subject: So Be It

Foolish girl. You have no concept of the forces you now contend with. Consider carefully the hole you’ve dug, for there will be no mercy if you proceed.

However, my integrity will not permit baseless threats against civilians. If you agree to cease hostilities and let this dissolve quietly, no further action will be taken. Your record and life will remain untouched.

The choice is simple – walk away unscathed, or persist in this idiocy and face consequences beyond imagination. Think carefully on your next move, little one. Tread no further, and this can end.

You have one hour for a sensible reply before measures are taken. Make them count.

Colonel König

KorTac Commanding Officer

From: [email protected]

To: Colonel_Kö[email protected]

03/03/23 at 02:04 am

Subject: Bite Me

Yeah, I’m real scared of your “forces” and “consequences beyond imagination.” Give me a break.

You think I’m going to bow down to your threats just because you’re some big shot Colonel? Please. I’ve dealt with way scarier than pompous bully babies like you.

So do your worst, tough guy. Come at me with everything you’ve got. I promise it still won’t be enough to make me back down from a pissant fraud like you.

Your “hour” can go fuck itself. You want to end this? Then stay the hell away from me and leave me alone forever. Otherwise this isn’t over by a long shot.

Tick tock, pal. Your time is running out and so is your chance to slink away with your tail between your legs. Better figure out your next move fast!

Not holding my breath for anything “sensible” though. Later, loser!

Snow “Untouchable” Farron

From: [email protected]

To: Colonel_Kö[email protected]

03/05/23 at 11:09 pm

Subject: wassup bitchhhhh

Hey asshooooole its ur girl Snow again!! Had a few dranks w/ friends to forget ur stupid email but the pain remainsss lolll

Jus wanted to let u kno ur still a total dickhead no matter how drunk I get. Probly shouldn’t be emailing u since last time but fuck it YOLO right???

Anyway ur threats meant nothing I had a blast tonight. Try n stop me next time I feel like partying fuck face!!! No1 messes w snow n gets away with it

Also saw some guy who looked like u at the bar what a coincidink lol. Hope he feels as stupid as u in the morn ;))

Hope ur having a shit night missing out on the fun. Don’t reply I prob wont even remember this! Byeeeeeee loser stay mad <33333

Xoxo drunk snow

From: Colonel_Kö[email protected]

To: [email protected]

03/06/23 at 01:50 am

Subject: RE: wassup bitchhhhh

Well well, what have we here. It seems our intrepid Dr. Farron has landed herself in an inebriated state this night.

Can’t say I blame you for seeking alcohol’s comfort after our little disagreement. Dealing with my “stupid emails” and “threats” must have been terribly traumatic. You have my deepest sympathies, truly.

While unwise to conduct militarized business intoxicated, I’ll admit your drunken ramblings provided some mild amusement. The imagery of you partying it up solely to spite me was rather quaint. Do try to stay safe in your revelries, dear – would hate for some unfortunate accident.

As for your daring insinuation about encountering my likeness at a bar, I can assure you my nights are occupied with matters far more pressing than drinking. But I appreciate the laugh, strange as it came from such a belligerent tongue.

Enjoy your hangover, Snow. And sleep well – who knows what mischief tomorrow may bring.

Regards,

Colonel König

KorTac Commanding Officer

P.S. Do refrain from over-indulging too often. Wouldn’t want those fine medical skills to dull prematurely, now would we?

From: [email protected]

To: Colonel_Kö[email protected]

03/06/23 at 05:28 am

Subject: RE: RE: wassup bitchhhhh

Yeah yeah, laugh it up. We all do dumb shit when we’re drunk occasionally. At least I have an excuse, unlike you and your constant stick up the ass personality.

That being said, I suppose I owe you an apology for that ridiculous email last night. Not my finest moment, to say the least. But you seem to bring out the worst in me, so.

Consider us even for any “amusement” you got at my expense. I’m suffering enough with this hangover from hell as it is.

Just so we’re clear though – I’m not some damsel for you to patronize or imply threats towards. Keep your smug sarcasm, I don’t need it. We’re done here, got it?

Good. Now fuck off and leave me alone to die in peace, Dickhead von Buzzkill. And next time – lay off the sauce OR lay off me. Your choice, Colonel

Snow “Moderately Sober But Still Pissed” Farron

From: [email protected]

To: Colonel_Kö[email protected]

03/06/23 at 09:33 am

Subject: RE: RE: RE: wassup bitchhhhh

Alright Colonel Buzzkill, I’ll admit my constant insults aren’t getting us anywhere. As much as I hate to inflate that already massive ego of yours, maybe there was a tiny little misunderstanding somewhere along the way.

Med school has been kicking my ass lately and I’ve been on edge. Between the mounting student loans, endless assignments, and stressful exams, I’m about one Red Bull away from a full breakdown. Not that you probably care about such peasant problems.

Anyways, my point is – I may have overreacted a bit to this whole email mixup. Even if it WAS totally not my fault *eyes emoji*. Can’t a girl blow off some steam without the world’s most uptight Colonel threatening her into an early grave?

Lay off with the intimidation tactics already. I said I was sorry for getting drunk and belligerent, more or less. What more do you want, my first born child in sacrifice?

Just, try to lighten up a little if we have to keep interacting for god knows what reason. I’m too exhausted to keep fighting a war on 20 different fronts. Truce?

Overworked and Underpaid,

Snow

From: Colonel_Kö[email protected]

To: [email protected]

03/06/23 at 09:01 pm

Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: wassup bitchhhhh

Oh? So the fledgling doctor deigns to admit a modicum of culpability at last. How gracious of her highness to acknowledge her part in this debacle, no matter how begrudgingly.

Though I’ll not deny deriving a certain satisfaction from seeing you squirm, that was never my aim. As Commander of KorTac, security of sensitive data is no laughing matter – a concept you seemed unwilling or unable to grasp at the time.

However, as one engaged in higher pursuits of intellectual rigor and public service, I can understand the pressures that come with such territory. Medical education is a noble yet arduous path, as I’m sure even your addled mind comprehends on occasion.

Very well, Ms. Farron – consider this matter put to rest. A temporary ceasefire it is, for the sake of future global stability if nothing else. But tread not again where you have been warned, or I shall not be so gracious next transgression.

Do try to mind your health and studies in lieu of drunken revelry. Wouldn’t want to lose such a pugnacious spirit to frivolity or misfortune. Now, do run along – no doubt some looming assignment awaits its dissection.

Colonel König

KorTac Commanding Officer

From: [email protected]

To: Colonel_Kö[email protected]

03/07/23 at 02:19 am

Subject: Aw, you DO care!

Aww, is that actually concern I detect underneath all the big important Colonel bluster? I’m touched, really. Who knew you had a soft spot for lowly students like me.

Admit it – you just can’t stand the thought of little ol’ me disappearing in some “frivolous misfortune.” You’d miss having me around to aggravate that permanent stick up your butt!

But don’t worry, it’ll take more than a silly paper or two to take me out of commission. Unlike some people, I actually know how to unwind without threatening international incidents *cough cough*.

All jokes aside though, truce accepted on my end too. Maybe now we can move past wanting to strangle each other every time we’re in the same email chain. Small victories, right?

Anyways, gotta get back to the grind. Thanks for not making me regret extending the olive branch…this time. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!

Your Favorite Almost-Doctor,

Snow

From: Colonel_Kö[email protected]

To: [email protected]

03/07/23 at 08:05 am

Subject: RE: Aw, you DO care!

Cease this incessant jesting at once, fraulein. I neither “care” for you as anything more than a potential security concern, nor possess any jovial qualities to “aggravate.”

A commander's duties require maintaining surveillance of volatile elements wherever they arise. You have thus far proven yourself quite the unpredictable variable, so forgive my reluctance to take eyes fully off the matter.

As for your studies, consider this the only encouragement they shall receive from me. Master your craft with distinction, then mayhaps our paths need not cross again in the future. Though I admit the thought of you disappearing into obscurity does bring its own satisfactions to ponder.

Now then, if you’re quite finished wasting both our time with your misguided attempts at levity, some of us have real work to which attending. Do try and keep yourself from causing further disruptions, medic. You may resume your “grind” in peace.

Colonel König

KorTac Commanding Officer

From: [email protected]

To: Colonel_Kö[email protected]

03/07/23 at 12:56 pm

Subject: RE: RE: Aw, you DO care!

Always so grumpy, Colonel Grumpy Pants! Lighten up a little, will ya? Not all of us can be stoic hard asses all the time.

Speaking of asses, mine is practically dragging on the floor from exhaustion. Between classes, labs, studying, and my various part-time jobs, I’m surprised I have any brain cells left at all.

Don’t even get me started on these student loans. At this rate, I’ll be paying them off until I’m 90. Not that you military bigwigs have to worry about pesky things like money, I’m sure. Must be nice.

You know, maybe I should just forget this whole doctor thing and become a sugar baby instead. At least then I could afford to eat once in a while AND maybe some lucky rich person would be willing to pay off my debts. What do you think – interested in an investment opportunity? I promise I come with lots of free sass and jokes at your expense!

Kidding of course…or am I? You’ll never know!

Your favorite broke and tired med student,

Snow

From: Colonel_Kö[email protected]

To: [email protected]

03/07/23 at 03:37 pm

Subject: RE: RE: RE: Aw, you DO care!

One of these days that improperly-filtered mouth of yours will find its owner in hot water she can’t jest her way out of, medic. I’d advise reigning in these fanciful sugar baby musings before they land you in a far less pleasant situation.

However, your frustration with the systemic burdens of medical education is…understandable. The modern model leaves much to be desired in terms of sustainability for both student and society. A dysfunction perpetuated by greed and shortsightedness at the highest levels, as with so many ills in this world.

As for offers of “investment,” I’ve no surplus funds to patronize frivolities. Nor the patience to entertain speculative propositions from volatile girls who can’t keep themselves from inviting more trouble than they bargain for. Focus that restless energy on your studies as discussed, and all should proceed smoothly.

Now then, if there are no further inanities requiring response, I’ve a command to oversee. Best of luck with exams and endeavors, Farron. Dismissed.

Colonel König

KorTac Commanding Officer

I will write the next part later when I have time <3

Also comment love and reblogged are very appreciated! 💖

#könig cod #konig mw2 #konig call of duty #könig #cod oc #cod fic #cod mw2 #könig x oc #könig cod mw2 #cod könig #cod x oc

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