#i'm team no moustache

[hansoeii]

when 2022 me thought it would be fun to draw stede with a beard and a silly little curled up mustache and start calling him steard for the fun of it

AND NOW IT'S REAL

THEY DID IT

MY CREATION.

IT IS REAL. HOLY FUCK

[jessieren]

The newly discovered 'Purposeful-stache'

Not sure where he's going but that's a man with a plan right there...

Plus I hope that's our contract under his arm and he's off to study it carefully...

[the-busy-ghost]

I love my old Scotland rugby top, but there's no denying that this shirt was designed to be worn with a certain amount of late 1970s chest hair and maybe some sideburns, and that's just not a look I'm capable of pulling off

[reiderwriter]

Hi Kacie!! Now that your requests are open... Could I request a smutty fic where Spencer finds out reader has a not-so-common sensitive spot (like her legs, hair, arms, whatever body part you want). Maybe he finds out kinda in a public setting after she gets all flustered and wants to keep pushing to test his theory?? You can take as much inspo from this as you want<3

(If this emoji's not taken)-💃 anon

A/N: Hello! Sorry for going MIA for a while there. It was the beginning of a new school year here in SK, so I've been really busy! I've been chipping away at this one little by little, and it's finally done! I hope you enjoy it ♡

Warnings; Smut, 18+ Minors DNI, case details, misogyny from a bartender in the opening scene, Semi-public sexual experimentation, edging, PinV sex, use of pet names (good girl), slight degradation, cum play, etc.

Masterlist

The back of the bar was dimly lit as you walked through it, keeping pace with your teammate as you kept one eye on the shady inhabitants of the bar. 

You'd been sent - with Spencer of all people - to ask the local dive bar staff about suspicious regulars. A fact that didn't exactly take into account his general lack of intimidating looks and your status as the newest member of the team. 

A trial by fire if you'd ever seen one. 

You tried your best not to stick out like a sore thumb, but the people in these parts could spot a Fed from a mile away. And though Spencer was remarkably pipe-cleaner-like, they'd certainly recognised enough FBI in him to clam up upon your entrance. 

“We got some visitors, I see. What can I be getting you, little lady?” The barman greeted you as you reached the first stool at the counter, a patronizing smile on his moustache clad lips. 

“If it's okay, we'd like to ask you some questions. I'm Agent Y/N with the FBI. This is my partner, Doctor Spencer Reid.”

“You're a Fed? Now, why would you bother doing all that hard work when you could be warming my bed, girl. It's definitely more honest and satisfying work.” 

The way the man leered at you over the counter has you freezing momentarily. Your instincts were saying fight, but you held your tongue just long enough to not ruin any rapport your team could build with locals. 

“I'm flattered, but already spoken for I'm afraid. Have you seen any suspicious men in here in the last six months, one that would pass through only semi-regularly, maybe with a few female companions, though never the same.” 

Professionalism at the cost of your peace of mind was going to be a hard learn for you as you grit your teeth and swallowed the bile in your throat. 

He just continued to leer at you as he dried up beer glasses. 

“You're looking for a man who likes cheap whores? Maybe you are in the market for a career change after all.” 

That was about all you could take, and luckily, Spencer Reid was well aware. 

Quickly grabbing you by the wrist, he pulled you behind him defensively and leaned over the bar, his voice low and somewhat chilling. 

“Disrespect my partner like that again, and I'll have you charged with aiding and abetting a murderer who has kidnapped and ended the lives of three local girls. Local girls whose fathers you're more than likely acquainted with, who absolutely have multiple acres of property and just enough bullets to put you in the ground.” 

The blood rushed to your ears at his voice, but the light grip of your wrist held you in place indefinitely. 

All the fight left your body, as you found yourself coming dangerously close to melting into Spencer in relief. 

He forced the man to answer some more basic questions, but it wasn't as if you could hear them. He stroked a quick thumb back and forth across your wrist as all the thoughts fled your head, and the words fell asleep on your tongue, resting there until he released you from his grip. 

You'd known that the area was slightly sensitive for a while, having accidentally brushed up against things and felt serious chills shoot up your spine. What you hadn't known was that it was that kind of sensitivity. 

Though, in all honesty, you hadn't exactly known that you could feel that kind of excitement for Spencer either. You just hoped he wouldn't notice. That much. 

Having finished his line of questioning and reiterating his threat, he moved his hand from your wrist to the small of your back and adeptly guided you from the restaurant and out of the line of vision of every pair of eyes in the place. 

“Are you okay?” He asked when he finally got you to the car, voice still quiet and low, and slightly too close to let you fully relax. 

“Peachy. He talked to you at least.” You turned away from him and began opening the passenger side door. 

“Nothing new or useful, though. Your bpm is high,” he joined you in the car, putting on his seat belt while you completely let go of yours, letting it zip back into itself.

“My… my what?” 

“Your bpm is high. Your heart was beating so fast,” he said, reaching over you to help you reclip it. “Were you nervous, Y/n? Or just sensitive?”

“Your mouth is entirely too close to mine to be asking that question,” you breathed out, cursing your eyes from stealing a glance at his lips. 

Only five minutes into this sudden attraction to Spencer Reid, and you were already mortified and extremely horny. In equal measures. 

“What would be the appropriate distance to ask that, then?” 

“I hear Australia is lovely this time of year.” 

He chuckled softly at you as he finished adjusting your seat and then moved far enough away to let the ground swallow you in peace. 

Never one to leave well enough alone, it seemed that Spencer took it upon himself to experiment with you for weeks on end after that. 

He'd constantly ask you to pass him papers, pens, anything that'd allow him to run a finger across the inside of your wrist. On more than one occasion you'd caught him staring into your eyes as he did it, and it took a nearly embarrassing amount of time to realise he was checking how dilated your pupils were before and after. 

When he'd gathered enough data for that line of questioning, he moved on to bigger things. 

You knew you were in danger of seriously falling head over ads when he offered to walk you to your motel door in a seedier case location. 

You, an FBI agent with a real-life gun and badge and job at Quantico, and you were jumping at the chance to have a man walk you to your room. You'd have been embarrassed if you weren't burning with anticipation. 

You hoped that like every other man in history, he was gently trying to insinuate himself into your bedroom, and by extension, your bed and more intimate places. 

So you were more than slightly disappointed when he started wishing you a good night. All of the aforementioned disappointment fled your body, though, when he picked up your hand and dropped a kiss to the inside of your left wrist, repeating the action on the right before wordlessly retreating. 

You stared at his back as he walked purposefully down the corridor and into his own room, leaving you to pick up your jaw and retreat to your room to lick your wounds. 

You wished it was him picking you up instead and found your brain imagining just that as your fingers dropped between your thighs that night. 

It became a case tradition for him to tease you like this, kissing your wrist after innocently walking you back to your hotel room. The others thought it chivalrous, almost cute and childlike, a form of courting that graced the good old days. They didn't know he grabbed you by the waist and held you against his hard-on every time you rode an elevator together. They didn't know his tongue darted out a few times to lick your wrist on occasion. They didn't know how you once mentally begged him to bite you there and how you shuddered as he ran his teeth along the vein there. 

Spencer was coming to the crux of his research regarding how far he could push you before you cracked. Only now, it was how far he could get without pushing you against a wall and jumping your bones. 

You knew you were in danger when he offered to escort you home after a case. 

“To walk you to your door, you know? Like always,” he smiled at you, the picture of innocence as you became damp between your thighs. 

“Sure. Yeah, okay, I'll get my keys, let's go.” 

You weren't sure how no one else noticed that Spencer didn't have a car to drive himself home after taking you to yours. You were unsure if they'd connect the dots between him escorting you home and his own apartment being 45 minutes in the opposite direction. 

Luckily for you, you could keep your hands at 2 and 10 the entire journey, away from his grasp. If he'd have touched you right then, you're sure you'd have driven both of you right off the road into a ditch. 

Or a pedestrian. 

The drive was calm, but pulling up forced your heart to your throat and kept it suspended there, almost like it was frozen at gunpoint, a deer in the headlights. 

“We're here.” 

“Great. Let me walk you in.” 

In. You swallowed hard, wishing very much for him to be inside of your apartment. 

“Okay.” 

Stepping into the elevator a few minutes later, he waited mere seconds after the doors began closing to pull you into his personal space. He was hard, he was so hard once again and his cock was now straining against your ass.

“Spencer, we need to talk about t-that,” he stroked your wrist as his hand splayed across your stomach, holding you firmly against him. 

“About what, Y/N?” 

He pulled your arm up almost as if inspecting the wrist for imperfections, and your head melted back into his chest. Why was this elevator so goddamn slow? 

You sprung out quickly when the doors pinged open finally and moved straight towards your door without a glance back, but you felt him close behind you. 

“Y/N, wait for me, wait, I'm sorry,” he called out quietly as you forced your keys into the lock as fast as possible. 

“Y/N, I'm sorry if I stepped over the line, I didn't mean too, please look at me-” 

You got the door open and turned back around to grab a firm hold of his tie and yank him into the apartment behind you. 

“Months. Spencer, you have been edging me for months, and I am sick of it.” You half growled at him, slamming the door behind him and then pushing him up against it. 

“I can feel how hard you are right now. Obviously you want to fuck me, so why aren't you?” 

His face went from shocked to intrigued, then shot straight for mischievous as he cracked a smile, and you felt his hands wrap around your wrists slowly. 

Before you could react, he had your positions swapped, your arms above your head pinned at the wrists and his breath hitting your neck as he answered. 

“I wanted to see how long it would take you to break.” 

Your lips leapt to his, hitting him angrily as you searched for more pleasure in his touch, one leg pushing up to wrap around his waist as his hips settled between yours. 

He met you at your level, giving just as good as he got.   

“Call it scientific curiosity,” he murmured, lips trailing down your neck, but hips pinning you in closer to the wall, keeping you trapped there. He made his way along your shoulders and then pressed light teasing kisses up your arms while rutting his hips into you, dry humping you against the wall as your eyes glazed over in lust. 

“You react when I touch you, you heat up. But it gets worse if I touch you here, right Y/N?” His lips again found your wrist, but this time his teeth grazed across the veins he found there. 

“You get so horny now when I look at you. I can grab your wrist and make you beg for my cock, isn't that right?” His mouth was back by your ear as your legs went limp under you. He still had you caged against your own door, and you had no idea what to say to that. 

Part of you wanted to protest purely because of the rough tone of voice he was using. The other wanted to flood to the floor and tell him yes, beg him to just fuck you and be done with this pure torture. 

“I asked you a question, Y/N. Isn't that right?” 

“Yes, yes, Spencer fuck, I don't care anymore, yes. You can touch me and I'll react to you, please help me.”

“Good girl.” 

He pulled away instantly, but his hands wrapped firmly still around your wrists. Slowly, he pulled you towards him as he slowly walked backwards further into your apartment. You thought for a second about just throwing yourself back into his arms, to close the space he'd created again between the two of you. 

You tried it, lifted your head slightly, begging his lips to return there, but he held firm. Each step was an agony of need, and you fought to hold your tongue, begging yourself not to beg him so pathetically. 

“Such a good girl, I'm holding you by the wrist, and you won't even protest about how slow I'm being.” 

Your mouth fell open as you registered his words. 

“You're being an ass.” 

“What was that? You want me to touch your ass?”

“Spencer!”

“Don't worry, we'll get to that.”

His back finally made contact with your bedroom door, and you stumbled forward into his chest as he kept his grip even still. 

“You're going to listen, right? You're going to listen to me and do what I ask you to do, aren't you?”

You wavered again. He'd been teasing you, but now he was serious, his tone light and his voice soft, but you could feel the strength in his grip. You could feel his arousal at your hip. 

“Yes, Spencer.”

“Good. Get on your knees on the bed. No clothes.”

He released your hands and opened the door for you as you tried your best to walk forward calmly. 

By the time you reached the bed, you'd removed most of your clothes, but you hesitated at the underwear as he watched from behind you. A quick glance over your shoulder saw him palming his cock through his pants, still leaning against the door he'd opened for you. 

He was getting off watching you, and you were frozen in arousal. 

“No clothes, Y/N.” 

“I know.”

“Underwear is clothing.” 

“I know that, too, Spencer.”

“Then take it off.” 

You shot a quick glare over your shoulder as you unclaimed your bra behind your back and threw it to the floor. 

“On my knees, right?” You said, climbing on the bed still clad in your panties. 

“I also said no clothes.” 

“If you're so invested in my state of dress, how about you come and help me rectify it.”

His lips twitched in small annoyance, but he followed the trail of clothes you'd left, ridding himself of his tie, shirt, jacket, and pants along the way. 

He climbed on the bed slowly behind you, not opposite as you'd presumed he would. His hands reached out to touch your back before slowly sliding all the way up to your neck and pushing your upper body down into the sheets. 

You let out a little squeak in shock, but let his hands guide you, feeling especially pliant when he grabbed your hands and crossed them behind your back. 

“Maybe the panties can stay. I'll just decorate them afterwards,” he said, and with that, he pulled your hips up with his free hand  guiding you into the position he wanted you in, and pushed two fingers into you. 

“Fuck, Spencer-” your brain short circuited as he pumped the digits slowly in and out of you, setting an agonizing pace but holding you so tight that.you couldn't even press your cunt back into his fingers. 

“What? What is it, Y/N? Tell me how you feel?” 

“Feel good, so good Spencer, p-please more.” 

He shifted slowly behind you, pulling his fingers out almost completely before pushing them back in, this time with another finger added. He didn't quicken his pace as you assumed he would, but he took his time stretching you out further as you moaned and whined underneath him. 

“More. You wanted more,” he reminded you, and his voice was like a sharp hit straight to your cunt, rough and hot and filling you completely. 

You barely registered the orgasm that flowed over you, your brain replaying his words on a loop as he continued pleasuring you. 

“That's it. That's a good girl. Get my fingers nice and wet.” 

When you finally grounded yourself in the moment again, your cheeks flushed as you realized just how wet you'd gotten. You felt your arousal still dripping down your leg and turned your face further into the sheets to hide your embarrassment. 

He pulled his fingers out of you, though, and with his now free hand he crouched over you and hooked his fingers under your jaw lifting your head and body up, forcing your crotch back into his as your back arched. 

“Don't hide from this. Look how wet you are for me, Y/N. Taste it.” He tapped his fingers against your mouth and you were ashamed at how fast your lips dropped open, tongue falling out to let him wipe his cum stained fingers against your pretty little lips. 

You tasted yourself on his fingers, wrapping your tongue around them and sucking as he dragged his dick across your back, trying to relieve himself in any way he could. 

“Good girl. It's time for one more, Y/N.” 

You released his fingers with a wet pop as he pushed you back into the sheets. Lining himself up, he entered you easily, your cum providing ample lubricant. 

You whined at his first few pumps, certain he was going to continue his torturous pace and leave you begging for more hours into the night. 

Instead, he let himself work you up to it, each thrust gaining in speed and strength until you could hear the slap of your skin against his more vividly than your own heartbeat. 

His cock was thick, filling you perfectly as you lost yourself in the sensations. 

“One day, I'll handcuff you to this bed,” he said, leaning down and whispering in your ear as each part of your body vibrated with lust. 

“I'll tie you down to this bed, and I'll treat you like a princess. I'll eat your cunt for hours until you cum every time my breath hits your cunt, and I'll cover your pretty tits in my seed. I'll let you use my cock as your personal sex toy, and I'll fulfill every single need you have.” 

His hand released your wrists as both of his hands came to wrap around your waist, pushing you deeper into the plush covers and changing the angle of his dick. 

You screamed at the pleasure, forgetting the paper thin walls your apartment boasted. 

“Fuck, Spencer.” 

“And you're going to love every single second because your brain switches off every time I touch your delicate little wrists.”

With that, another wave of pleasure spread through your body, sending prolonged shivers throughout your body. 

You felt him withdraw and heard the sticky mess of him stroking himself behind you until he made good on his promise and sprayed his generous load across your ass and panties before collapsing on the bed next to you. 

The two of you laid there for what felt like hours, sharing nothing but your labored breaths and the space of the bed before he finally rose. 

You tried not to sleep, but your entire body felt stiff from the awkward, if enjoyable, position he'd held you in. 

Your eyes drifted shut, and you just listened to his movements. A creaking floorboard here, a stumble against some furniture there, culminating in some running water and a return to your space. 

“Y/N,” he whispered, cautious to rise you from what he assumed was much needed sleep. 

“Mmmm,” was all you could reply.

“I realize now that I made a pretty big mess, so we need to get you in the bath.” 

“Mmm,” you protested, brows furrowing as you tried to gather your sheets closer around you, cradling yourself in the warmth. 

But doing so only made you more aware of the sticky wet mess around your torso and legs, and you let out a small, frustrated sigh. 

“You're stubborn, you know that, right?” He said, admiration coating his tongue as he lifted you slowly and helped you place your feet on the floor and walk towards your bathroom. 

“Spencer, shouldn't have a bath, too sleepy.” 

“I know, I'm going to stay.”

“In the bath?” 

“In the bath.” 

“Good.”

And it was. You let him lift your legs one by one into the scorching water and melted back into him, your head resting on his shoulder as if it were the most comfortable pillow you'd ever used, and you slept. 

[yeyinde]

past and pending | John Price x f!Reader

"Fuck, love," his voice carries the taste of cigars and scotch when it rumbles in your ear. You smell the heady Maduro on his skin when you sink your teeth into the freckles on his shoulder. He tips his head forward; his rasping groan is heavy with smoke. "The things you do to me."

(you haven't stopped thinking of what it would feel like to burn your lips on his cigar, and numb the sting with the scotch on his tongue.)

warnings: smut; literal filth; kiiiiiinda an illicit relationship(?) but ya'll are consenting adults; power imbalance by proxy; breeding kink (slight); gendered reader; female anatomy; little substance just pure filth

notes: alt title was: when ur boss has baby fever and ur like, well damn, i guess i'm taking one for the team; this man is sooo damn fine, and Barry Sloane is a 1.88m snack (and tbh, scousers always make me a little weak in the knees)

Price looks like he smells of cigars whiskey cheap leather and hickory and i am feral. 

It starts in Madrid. 

(Though, if you're being honest with yourself, it really starts on a motorway outside of Dorset.)

Scotch in one hand, cigar in the other, he stands on the balcony, and gazes out at the water in the distance. Eyes fixed, crystalline, on the families below playing in the sand. A gaggle of children. Their mothers lean over the railing of the tapas below, shooing them off to find their fathers. 

The sounds carry through the streets, bouncing off of the stucco. High-pitched giggles from the kids playing in the cobblestone roads. The admonishing calls of their parents. Laughter from passersby.

You watch him from the doorway. Catch the longing in his eyes; wistful and melancholic. 

A family. Children. 

It's not your mission—this isn't what you're here for—but there is an ache in his gaze that makes you bite your tongue, words stifled in your throat. 

You've never seen your Captain look like this. 

He notices you—has probably known, you don't doubt, that you were there from the start—but there is something almost painful about the way he gives himself one more moment of this, one more fleeting glance, before he has to take up the mantle of a commander, of a leader. 

When he turns to you, it lingers in his eyes. A shade of mourning you can't quite understand. Can't quite reconcile about the man who, hours earlier, was barking out well done! and nice shot! when you took down an enemy operative. A bullet an inch below the eye. He clasped you on your back, grinned wide under the moustache, and it tasted of gunfire when he leaned in close. 

("Mm, got 'em right in the fuckin' head!")

John Price is a man you'd never thought could feel anything except the high of the challenge, the chase. He smelled of scotch, Maduro, and gasoline. His voice was always ragged, and hoarse, from how loudly he bellowed on the battlefield, a roar that echoed in the distance. 

This—

This is new. Different. It's both softer and sadder than you'd ever imagined him, and how it fits inside the man you'd known as one of the only people you could genuinely trust, is jarring. And simply put: it doesn't. 

The idea of his longing fills you with a visceral ache. 

(You're a good soldier. You wonder if you could—)

"Ready, then?" He asks, and digs his teeth into the cigar until it dents. The glass is placed on the dresser, empty. His lips stain the rim, and you think about bottle caps and Iceland.

You can't stop staring at him, now. Like an idiot. Like a—

Silly little girl with a crush. 

You fluster. Force a nod when his brows buoy, bunching in concern. Bewilderment. You're not acting like yourself. 

(You really haven't been since Reykjavik when he turned to you, and said—)

It's pushed aside when he takes one last drag, chest swelling with the inhale, and breathes out, words a plume of smoke. 

"Let's get these steamin' bastards."

If Madrid started it all, then his hand on your thigh is certainly the cataclysmic finale, the end. 

Well, that isn't entirely true. 

It's the offer of a cigar. A little scotch. 

(Maybe more than a little, really.)

Alone in a tapas in Madrid, he orders too much food for two people, and a bottle of their best scotch. 

Asks, gruffly in aborted Spanish, if he can have a smoke, too. 

(You end up having to translate both his Spanish and English to the befuddled waiter; the heavy accent renders his words to nothing but growled smoke.)

The mission was a success. Gaz perched on the loft across the street, the man cornered by Price, his only exit cut off by you—it was as smooth as one could go. Easy, almost. Effortless. 

It should have been the first sign that things were going to unravel, quite quickly, from that point on. 

Gaz declines the invitation. Laswell in your ear, well, you've earned it. You should have said no, too. Stayed in your room, ordered out, and poured over the piles of documents that will be waiting for you sooner or later. Red-tape means every moment must be noted down, each breath counted. Each step. Each choice. It's a mountain. 

But Price had his face turned toward the streets when he asked. The breadcrumbs of his gaze led you to a woman holding a blue swaddle in her arms, cooing down at the lump hidden under soft cashmere. Old ladies congregated around her, faces lit up with joy. 

He watched for a moment, and you saw that aching thing in his eyes when the woman peeled back the layers, showing off a ruddy-cheeked baby with a smattering of curly brown hair on his tiny head. 

A catch, then, in your throat, when the words were out before you could stop them: I want to.  

"...to go," you added hastily, flushing brilliantly under the lights in the hotel room. His hotel room. The one used to reconvene, to plot, to plan. The one that reeks of him��

The man you captured is held in a prison by the authorities, departing tonight under the cover of darkness. His weapons sit in the corner. Focus. You stare at them to ground yourself. "With you, that is."

Price turns, eyes finding yours when you lift your chin—automatic, magnetic: your Captain looks at you, and you offer a nod in response. 

The longing is thick, palpable. It burns, and it aches, because it isn't for you. It's for some unattainable thing he's decided not to pursue. 

You taste the flavour of it when he speaks, when he clears his throat, and gives a gruff good in response. 

It, of course, is not good.

It's very bad. 

Dangerous, even. 

The attraction you feel toward Price—Captain, boss; off-limits —isn't anything new. It's not incipient, but it hasn't had a chance to take root, to hold firm. You haven't let it.

You'd felt the same swell of intrigue before; a fledgling thing that always dissipates before trouble starts. This should have been no different. 

(But trouble comes quicker than you'd expect.

And you've always been rather good at lying to yourself.)

The look in his eyes. The tightness in your chest. Scotch on your tongue. 

It festers when he leans over, eyes pools of cerulean, and says, want a cigar?

And now—

Now: 

Your lungs are heavy with smoke that, apparently, isn't supposed to be there. 

Not supposed to inhale, dove, he tells you, words rough from his own puff, and drenched in humour. 

You sputter, knuckles pressed to your mouth to stop yourself from looking foolish in front of your Captain. Too late, of course. His eyes dance with mirth, lips crooked with the tang of it. 

You duck your head. "Fuck, that's disgusting." 

"Don't blame the cigar." He grins, easy, relaxed. The bucket hat on his head looks out of place in a tapas in Centro, but he's never felt more touchable to you when he's bathed in the mundane. 

(At least it isn't the leather jacket, the beanie—)

You swallow down the acrid taste of tobacco on your tongue, sending him a sharp glance from the corner of your eye. "Who do I blame, then? The teacher?" 

Price lets out a soft huff, a little chuckle under his breath, and tips his head in concession. "Yeah, alright. My fault, love." 

Love. It makes your chest feel tight. Head dizzy. You can blame it on the pungent concoction of cigars and scotch, but it sits too heavy in your chest for you to pretend. 

You drop your gaze to the table, to the half-eaten plate of setas al ajillo that sits in front of you as if it will somehow have an answer in the oil. That you might find god amongst the sauteed mushrooms, and he'll smack sense into your head. Don't be stupid. Don't be—

"Another?" He rasps, the word sticks to his throat. 

The smoke from the cigar makes your head feel gummy. It's a balm that soothes over all the little voices in the back of your head that scream at you to stop. This is a bad idea, they say. You'll regret it in the morning. 

But—

You want to impress him. Stupid. Price meets your stare when you lift your head. A smile. A nod. 

He doesn't mention the way your hand trembles when you take the cigar proffered to you between a thick thumb and forefinger. He has a burn scar on his first knuckle. A round circle. 

It's not the way you'd hold a cigar. 

Your eyes linger for a moment on the burn, mind startlingly empty, as if refusing to partake in piecing together whatever it means, if only for his privacy. His own sense of untouchability. 

Price is the core of the group. The man who everyone—even Ghost, to some extent—relies on, and absolutely respects. It's ironclad. Unshakeable. 

He's the man who is always looking at you, at others, first. When something happens, his eyes are drawn to everyone else, making sure they are stable on their feet as the world around them crashes, and burns. 

You know because, now, you're always watching him. 

A silly little girl with a crush. 

It began in Reykjavik.

A slurry of imported chemicals drafted by a man with an abhorrent agenda led you, Price, and Laswell on a chase through the city. It was close, down to the last nanoseconds. And then—

"You alright?" 

Shaken. Terrified. You turn to him, and he's there, watching you. Eyes drawn tight. Taut, humourless smile pulling on the corners of his—for once—clean-shaven face. 

It's hard to begin to grasp the words necessary to properly convey what you felt at that moment. Panic. Horror. Dread. Fear. They come close, but they miss that unnameable feeling of your heart leaping into your throat when the seconds ticked down to five, four, three…

Too late. Too—

And then a gunshot. A bullet in the man's head. Success. It felt too close to be considered a win. Like grasping at victory with the tips of your fingers as it fumbles from hand to hand. Narrowly snatching the win from the jowls of defeat that nipped at you. 

"S-sir—"

He's there. Hand on your shoulder, firm and steady: it's the only thing that keeps you from toppling over. 

"Mm, stay alert," he mumbles, eyes cutting back to the throng of agents—on loan from Norway as Iceland hadn't the means to take care of it on their own, the very same people whose pride refused to allow you any intel, almost leading to—

"Eyes, ears are everywhere."

It's the solid weight of his presence, his unmovable utilitarianism, that reinforces the liquid relief in your knees, giving it the stability needed to congeal, to harden.

Iceland was the first taste of reality. The first mission where you realised every single second mattered. 

"Did good," he says under his breath, and nods at you when you turn, bewildered, to him. "Might not seem like it, but you held yourself up. Did what needed to be done. Good job."

There is a softness in his eyes, one that you can't place, but it makes your pulse race. 

And now, that same something swims in his cerulean gaze, slightly misted from the scotch, but remarkably the same. 

You drop your gaze again. His stare is heavy—its not oppressive, or intense, but its—

A lot. Weighed down by something that has been steadily building since you bunkered down in a frozen bivouac on the fringes of the Arctic. Each breath of plume of pure white. Nestled tight together under a single insulated blanket, sharing heat. Keeping each other from the white death looming at the edge of the door. 

It sits there, now. The tendrils of frostbite in his eyes: memories of when the snow piled so high outside your door, you'd begun to fear that this little shack was going to be your icy prison. 

His chest under your chin. Heat bleeding into you. 

("Gotta stay warm," he'd rasped, gaze flickering to you in steady intervals. "Can't turn the heat on. They'll see us.")

In the morning after everything, he found you on the terrace overlooking the landscape, the rolling hills of white in the distance. Back in the sanctum of your hotel. The one free from tundra and sleet. From the howling winds that slammed against the shack you both holed up in for the night. Surveillance. Your first taste of it. 

"You good?" He murmurs. It's a loaded question, and feels more like a test. 

Still—

"I will be." A lie.

"Go on." He calls it. 

You turn to him. "We—;" the words are heavy on your tongue. Blame, and anger, and— "if they shared information with us, we would have gotten to them sooner."

And then you bite your tongue, eyes darting across the barren balconies. Eyes and ears are everywhere, he'd said. Test: failed. 

"Mm, yeah," he mumbles. His presence is comforting. A kinship born from ice and darkness. He leans against the railing beside you, fingers looped into the straps on his tactical vest. "Could have done a lot of things quicker."

"Why did we need to wait?"

His laugh is caustic. "Bureaucracy." 

"Sounds pointless when people are waging chemical warfare on the innocent." 

"Mm, you're not wrong." He adds, his breath a plume of white when he huffs. "But red tape is the line that keeps us in check. Can't go around shooting whoever looks at us funny."

"But—"

"I agree, though." His words are low, and doused in the residuum of anger from missions you've yet to experience. A chasm is carved between you. An uncrossable moor. "Fuckin' politics."

His hand is almost as heavy as the steel in his eyes when he pulls it free from the strap on his chest, and lays it on your shoulder. "Get some rest. Maybe a bloody drink if you can. They only got vodka," he spits the word out like it's blasphemous, and considering he's never too far away from a cigar in one hand, and a scotch in the other, you think, to him, it might be. 

It's a dismissal. A nice chat, have a lovely day, ta. He's your Captain, a man who shares each success with everyone, but bears the weight of each failure on his own. This debacle only reinforced the notion that you can't keep operating in the strict lines given to you, but there is very little you can do to stop it.

Fuckin' politics, you think. And then—

Cacoethes. 

"I mix a mean vodka cranberry," the offer is out before you can swallow it down. "I mean—it isn't scotch, but—"

He pauses by the door, hand in stasis over the handle. The silence is stifling. 

"Sorry," you murmur, chastised. Embarrassed. "I didn't—I hope I didn't cross a line."

He turns his head, brows drawn together. 

(You wonder if he, too, thinks of the cabin. Of the bottled water shared between you, the heavy breath that settled in the middle of the negligible space that separated you, turned toward each other to protect your vulnerable pieces from the frigid cold.)

Then, a flash of teeth. His moustache wobbles. "Sure," he murmurs. "If you can make it taste like it isn't vodka, I'll go for one. Not much of a pint, but…"

"Should have taught me how to smoke in Iceland," you say, reaching for the proffered cigar in his hands. Your eyes slide over the burns, the pock marks in his flesh that could not be self-inflicted, but you turn from them; your gaze, instead, fixed on him. "Might have kept us warm."

A rasping chuckle falls from his lips. He has a smear of ash in the corner. A dollop of oil on his beard by the seam of his mouth. "Iceland," he repeats the word, and it sounds like an old friend, filled with a touch of fondness you can't quite capture when you think back on the time spent there. 

(A panic attack in the shower stall, head full of vodka and cranberries— definitely not a pint, he rasped, but still took another swallow; your eyes were fixed on the bob of his Adam's apple—and him. Run. Run. Don't look back—

Alright? His eyes are on you. On Gaz. Laswell. He makes his rounds between everyone, silently checking in. It warms you, and makes you think of the taste you caught on the rim of the water bottle. Hickory. Smoked sandalwood. Scotch. Your nose pressed tight to his chest. The heavy weight of his arm around you. Gotta get up, lo— 

Love. You wonder if that's what he was going to say before he cleared his throat, and looked away from you.

A lie. Yes. 

He calls it. Yeah? 

No. Never. The way the amber light from the early morning sun caught the lazuli in his eyes made your heart shatter, and ever since he pulled you from the wreck years ago, you haven't stopped thinking of what it would feel like to burn your lips on his cigar, and numb the sting with the scotch on his tongue. 

A tight smile. Distant. Hidden. Always, Cap.

He relents.

You wished he pushed. Gave you a reason to spill your vodka-filled guts on the tarmac to rid yourself of this rut you'd fallen into. An endless stasis of does he, he can't, could he, he might, don't get your hopes up—

His hand is between your shoulder blades. A soft smile in your direction.

—too late.)

"Ah, Reykjavik," it's a slow burn when he speaks, heavy with smoke. Voice thick, full of static. His eyes catch yours. Price leans in close, as if he's sharing a secret; something confidential and meant only for you. The heady scent of hickory fills your nose. You roll the scotch in your glass, but taste vodka on your tongue. "Might have, but then we would've had to keep it lit while running away from the terrorists in the snow." 

"I've seen you keep one lit in a hurricane, sir." 

There is something coarse in the way he huffs; a gravel-filled husk of droll mirth that rumbles from his chest. His knuckles brush yours when he passes the cigar over. "Only time I ever lost one was when our heli went down in Mexico. Simon got an earful that day."

"Amazing." 

The cigar is less intense when you let it fill just your mouth until the smoke is stagnant between your teeth. It's—sweet. Robust. 

"You sound very impressed," he husks again, words pitched low. "But I'll have you know it was my last good one. Quite a shame."

Fingers touch again. You wonder if it's on purpose. If he, like you, can't get enough of the warmth on your skin. If it makes him think of the chill—

"It sounds like one. I don't know how you finished the mission at all, sir." 

"I had a spare." He smiles, but it's taut around the edges. Then: "none of that—," he stops, clears his throat again. Lower, barely a whisper, he adds: "none of that sir stuff here. Just call me—"

"Cap?" You breathe, heart thudding in your chest. The scotch. The cigar. Maybe, it was packed with weed. A little nicotine. Something that might make your heart race, your palms sweat. Your stomach burn. 

"John." 

Your heart pounds, but it's off-rhythm. An irregular beat. The pattern is wrong, the crescendo stutters. It's not—

"John," his name is caught in your throat; a corrugated wobble of a breath barely recognisable as a word, but he finds it, anyway. His eyes lift, catching yours. It's heavy. Oppressive. You think of his arm on your waist, his breath in your ear—

Another tight smile. His eyes are liquid sapphires. "Yeah, love."

Love. Love. Twice, now, he slipped and uttered it.

(Lo—

Thrice, then, if you count Iceland.)

"John—," you need to stop. To put distance between yourself and this man who is wholly off-limits before the wet tip of the cigar, once clipped between those full lips, will become a crutch. Addicting. 

You don't know where it starts. 

The cigar in your mouth makes him groan low in his throat. Your eyes drop when he shudders. His hand on your thigh. Voice in your ear. 

"Gotta stop this, love." 

The first thought: he knows. 

The second: he knows. 

There is a chasm between them. In that paradoxical degree of separation lingers a firm, judicious no. It is resolute. Ironclad. 

But the sheath is made of latex. Your hands feel the sting of the rubber bands when your fingers pluck at the bonds holding it all back. 

"And if I don't want to?" Your lashes fan your cheeks, eyes peering up at him through the wisps cresting over your pupils. Tongue peaks out. A tease. "John? "

His pupils dilate in response, blown wide until pits of coal eclipse the sapphire; a black hole lined with a thin halo of blue. The hairs on his upper lip flutter when he heaves out a breath through his nose. 

John's smile is tight. A fleeting thing that flickers across his face before disappearing into a hard frown. "You don't know what you're getting into, love—;" he stops himself, clears his throat. Your name falls from his lips, saturated in smoke. 

You meet him. One step back, one step forward. A dance until those blues fix themselves solely on you. 

Maybe, it's the scotch. You've always been more brazen with amber than clear. 

His Adam's apple bounces when your hand drops, covering his. Your fingers stroke the powerful hands that hold your flesh firm between scarred fingers; nimble and dexterous despite the thickness of them. 

"Then show me."

His groan tastes of tobacco and ash. 

It should be awkward, and uncomfortable, but it isn't. 

Price's hand curls over your waist, tucking you to his side as you lean against him, hip bumping into his thigh, hand settled on the warmth of his back. 

You wonder if everyone around you can tell that you're going home with this man, your boss, and he's going to fuck you when you get there. It feels sacrilegious. Wrong. 

But not even the spume of trepidation that wells inside of your gut is enough to stop you from getting this. Him.

You want it. Need it. 

Your hand slips over his chest on the corner of the street. His eyes flash, caught in the light from the veranda. 

Does he feel it, too, you wonder? All those moments that lead up to this? Soft words over the comm. Late nights spent pouring over coordinates and maps, reaching for something at the same time. Hands brushing. Eyes meeting over the median. Smiles shared. A world in the dead of night when everyone else had long gone to bed. You should have, too. You didn't. You stayed up as long as you could, soaking up his company. 

Mornings met by the coffee maker. 

No tea, it seems. 

They have tea, sir. 

Not the good kind. 

You're just picky.

Look at this—it almost makes you ashamed to be British. 

Only that? 

He's untouchable—well: should be, rather; but Price is anything but. He's a constant amid many raging storms, a rock in times when the world feels like it's spiralling down toward some cataclysmic abyss and your fingers aren't quick enough to reach out and catch it. 

But he is. 

Always. 

Your failsafe. Your security net. The only man on the planet who will rage against insurgents and terrorists, and politicians and red tape in equal measure for his team. He'll risk his neck, offer his jugular, if it means you can finish the mission. 

Gaz in your head. He said something to me once… stuck to me, y'know? We get dirty, and the world stays clean. 

It bludgeoned into you then just like it does now. It's the perfect iteration of exactly who Price is. He's not a hero. He doesn't pretend to be one. But if him gunning down a man on the fringes of society means that innocent people in the cities get to sleep at night without even knowing what he, and his men, sacrificed, he's content. He never asks for anything except the freedom to keep peace—however it comes about: in a hail of bullets, a fist against a man's jaw until he spits out blood and teeth and the truth, or in cuddling together on the verge of hypothermia so people in a country he has no connection to can continue to live without fear. 

John is—

Well. It was inevitable, wasn't it? 

They can't forge a man like him into existence, and expect you not to feel overwhelmed in his presence. 

This feels inevitable. 

And sure—human resources and internal affairs might have opinions about that, but it's been brewing since he pulled you from a burning wreck on the motorway (a small travesty in what could have been calamitous had you not decided to trust the SAS with an impeccable moustache, and your gut, and broke every rule in the book), and then looked you in your soot-covered face, and asked: have you considered a transfer? 

Your drug enforcement days slipped into the past when he offered you a spot on his team.

And now—

Your lip is raw from the cigar burn, but the taste of scotch on your tongue soothes the ache. His hand is heavy on your waist, flesh hot to the touch like he is burning up in a fever. 

A woman wanders past, the same one you saw earlier with a baby swaddled in blue, but—

Price only has eyes for you. 

"C'mon, love," he husks in your ear, his breath heavy with smoke and scotch, and sending shivers racing down your spine. "Wanna come back with me?"

And you—

("I'll follow you—")

"Anywhere, John."

His hands are reverent when they brush across your skin. The heavy weight of his palms pressing against the back of your thighs makes you tremble. His rough skin feels good as it grazes yours, touch softer, more gentle than you thought he'd be. 

It's a strange contrast—you'd come to expect gruffness with your Captain. His voice, his words, his practices all carry the same abrasive lilt to you, and you assumed that he'd fuck you the same way. Rough hands, brutal commands barked out. 

It's none of that. It's—

His eyes peer down at you, spread out below him, and he carries the same tenderness in his eyes as when he stared at the women from before. Families. It settles inside of you. This unexpected way he handles you so gingerly makes your heart pound, and makes your core knot. 

He looks at you as if you're the best thing that has ever happened to him. 

And you can't be. It's impossible, isn't it? This man who'd lived many lives before you even knew how to shoot a gun, or tie your shoelaces, should not be looking at you as if you'd offered him salvation. 

But he is. 

You press the back of your forearm to your crown, arching your back for him. His eyes are drawn to your body, to the way you open up for him, and the darkening of his eyes makes you pant. 

Your hand reaches up to his chest, palm pressed against the thick bed of unruly auburn hair that covers his pulse, and the feel of his thick body over you makes your cunt throb with need. You want him. You want him so badly that it hurts. 

"This what you want, love?" He husks in your ear, beard tickling your skin. "Want me to fuck you, yeah?"

It had sprung up when you first tumbled into the room. The dance is familiar—the steps ingrained in your head, now muscle memory—but he isn't just any partner. You stood before him, unsure for the first time since you caught that aching sense of wishfulness in his eyes and knew that you wanted whatever permeated in those cerulean depths to look at you, and hold you in the same regard. 

Now—

Your body is fever-hot, and he stands by the minibar, offering you scotch. 

"I want you—," the words tumble out, a breathless lull in the otherwise silent room, broken only by the glass nozzle clanking against the side of the cup he set out. You've shocked him. You swallow thickly when he turns, brows lifting. 

"I want you." You repeat, firmer this time. 

"Are you—"

You skip the introductory waltz and immediately jump into a tango when you breathe: I want you inside me, John. 

You know he aches for it. You can feel him twitching inside of you; deep and full. The head of his cock nudges against something soft in your cunt that makes you spasm around him, whimpering. 

"Yes, sir…" you pant, heavy and breathless. The way you address him makes him grunt, makes his hips cant into you, the movement tinged in desperation. "Fill me up."

Price groans, rolling his hips into you. Each thrust knocks the air from your lungs until only the cloying smoke from his cigar resides inside. You're dizzy, dazed. He fucks you like he's worshipping you—each time he moves inside of you, he aims for that gummy place that has your nails digging into his sides, legs locking around his waist, caught on the bend of his thighs, as he rides you through it. 

"Fuck, love," his voice carries the taste of cigars and scotch when it rumbles in your ear. You smell the heady Maduro on his skin when you sink your teeth into the freckles on his shoulder. He tips his head forward; his rasping groan is heavy with smoke. "The things you do to me…."

He tastes of smoke. Loam. Sandalwood. Butterscotch. "Please," you murmur, tongue laving over the indents of your teeth in his skin. You wish it was permanent. "It's your own fault, Captain."

"Yeah?" He grinds his cock inside of you until your eyes roll back, mouth dropping open as white-hot pleasure spools in your core. "Sounds like you need some discipline then, soldier." 

Fuck —

He does it again, thrusting into you this time until he's seated in deep. You whine at the bliss flooding your core. 

His hand lifts from your thigh, and you blink your eyes open, watching as his tongue sweeps across the pad. His eyes are wicked in the soft light spilling from street lights outside; bluer than the wide, open ocean. 

You shiver when they drop to your cunt, spread out for him and stretched taut over his twitching cock. A frisson passes; waves crashing against the shores, frothing white. 

His hand drops, thumb pressing against your clit. "Gonna cum for me?" He murmurs, a sonorous knot in the quiet room. You hear the roar of the ocean in the distance. Humid breeze flutters through the open balcony. 

Anyone can hear you. Can hear how badly you want your Captain to fill your cunt, to make you see stars, and swaddles of blue—

You keen low in your throat when his thumb rubs tight circles over your throbbing clit, cock knocking against the gummy walls of your cunt. His head brushes your womb, presses there tight for a moment until your back arches in that deep-seated ache, that quiver of pleasure-pain that lacerates through your core. 

"Fuck, fuck—," you whimper, needy and breathless, hips working in time with the insistent press of his thumb, working you in small, shallow circles. "Cap— Captain, please—"

"Fuck, love—," he throaty words a bitten, jagged plea that sticks, thick and molten, between his molars. You can feel him twitch within you. Feel the way he batters into that spongey nook inside of you that has the Aurora Borealis flashing behind your lids. "You're a cheeky little thing, aren't you?" He pants, bending down to press his teeth over your raw neck, already bitten and bruised, chafed by the coarse hair of his beard. 

His groan rolls out of him; dredged up from deep within his chest. The rumble of pleasure, the sloppy way his hips snap into you, now, all practise and control dissociating with his desperation to get you to cum on his cock so he can fill your pussy up with cum, deep enough that it floods your womb—

"Cum for me—!" He snaps, the words chewed out and broken, punctuated by a deep grind of his cock. "Need to feel your pussy cumming on my cock, love; you want it, don't you? If you be a good girl and cum for me, I'll fill your pussy up—"

Your toes curl at the wrecked, raw tone of his voice, breaking over the end. He wants it. You feel him throb within you at just the thought. 

"Yeah," you whine, that spooling coil in your belly pulling tighter and tighter with each brutal thrust, each nudge of his cock as it bludgeons inside of you. "Want you cum inside my pussy, John—"

His head tips, forehead dropping to rest on yours as his eyes roll back, fluttering with the sultry plea that drips from your cigar-singed lips. 

You taste smoke when his thumb presses against you, the other sliding over your body until he has a palmful of your breast in his grasp. Each roll of his hips makes you see white; tendrils and wisps of smog fill your eyes until all you can see is a hazy blue through the curtain of snow. Fog on your breath. His words in your ear. 

It pinches taut when he turns his head, beard scraping your skin, and presses his lips to your temple. Slurred words that taste of tobacco. "Need to feel you cum on my cock, love —"

Liquid bliss spumes deep when you cum—a deluge of euphoria richer than scotch, and more addictive than nicotine. 

His name is a choked sob into the thick blanket of desire that weighs down on you. 

He drops, his torso flat against your chest as he slots his mouth over you, tongue delving deep as he ruts into your pulsing cunt, fluttering like a heartbeat as you cum around his cock. He groans into the messy kiss—hickory and smoke and the bitter tang of scotch—and you feel him jerk within you before he pushes in as far as he can. He doesn't stop until your cunt swallows him to the base, where he sits taut against the seal of your cervix. And then you feel it. You feel him throb deep inside of you, stuffed full of his cock, and a molten spume spills out when he cums. 

He's cumming inside of you, filling your pussy up—

Your cunt clenches, a soft flutter against him at the thought of it, the feeling. 

His head lifts, then, and you can see the draw of his brows, the clench of his jaw, the grunts that slip out, deep and punctured, from between the grit of his teeth, and you think you could get addicted to the sight of him in bliss. 

Your hands slide over the slick bulk of his back, nails raking softly over the skin as he shudders against you, heaving from exertion. 

"Christ," he rasps in your ear, whiskey-timbered and heady with malt. "You're gonna make me lose my goddamn mind, love."

You tip your head back, grinning. "What is it you like to say, Cap?" You purr, fingers dancing over the indent of your teeth. "We're all a bit crazy."

You lay with your head tucked on his shoulder. His arm is bent at the elbow with his palm under his head; your hand rests on his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heart under your skin. 

It's—

Cosy. A little moment where you feel liquid and blissful, eyes lidding as you peer at his naked chest—flushed roseate, peppered with auburn that that runs all the way down to the indent of his groin—and map the dusting of rust-coloured freckles that peak through the wisps of coarse hair. It's domestic. Basking in the acrid afterglow of your illicit coupling. 

Your index presses into a thick patch of hair just below his pectoral, catching the curls on the tip until they wrap around your finger. He rumbles deep in his chest, and pulls the lit cigar up to his mouth, biting it between his teeth, before dropping his hand down on yours. 

Cerulean peaks through a thick breath of ashen smoke. You feel shy, suddenly. Demure. Maybe, it's the scent of sex and tobacco thick in the air, the taste of spice and scotch on your tongue, or the way his cum stains your inner thighs, leaking out of you, and drenching the sheets below. Proof, then, that you fucked your Captain. 

Most people start at the bottom of the totem and work up. It was a running joke amongst your class when the physical demands of the role became too much, and the drills got harder, and harder the more you sloughed through the ropes. 

All the way to the top. The easy way. On your knees, soldier, you'd pass between each other in covert secrecy, eyes fatigued but grinning wide. How easy it would be, comparatively, to just lay back and let your drill sergeant have his fill. It was all chatter. Jokes. None of it was real, and if anyone of you ever had the notion to act on it—

That has never been your goal. Sergeant, Lieutenant, Captain—none of it meant anything to you until a hand appeared out of dense, black smoke, a gruff: c'mon, now, I got you following. It still doesn't. Not really. Does he know that, though? That you'd followed along dutifully behind him, not over some sense of grandeur or hero-complex, but because you admired the shape of him, the grit. 

John's hand slides over yours, fingers tangling between the brackets of your own until you're locked together, palm pressed against palm. 

There are years worth of things you want to say, but they dissolve in the malt still saturating your tongue. 

Price's hand is rough. Scarred and weathered; aged and worn. 

Your hands don't quite fit together. His brackets are too wide for your slender digits to rest without being swallowed whole by him. His fingers are the exact opposite: too wide, too thick. The seam between your knuckles aches when he slides his into the gaps. Like everything about him, this, too, is stretched taut. 

Still. Still—

His hand folds over yours, devouring your palm, and suddenly all your listing axes are righted, centred. The ground you walk on is firm, solid. 

It's always like that with him, you find. 

His warmth bleeds into your palm. 

Price shifts. His hand slips from behind his head to take hold of the cigar in his mouth. The knob of his wrist rests on your shoulder, cigar dangling between his fingers. 

You wonder if this is the moment when we shouldn't have, we can't come in. 

He clears his throat, always a low rasp as if he'd just gotten done screaming. Hoarse and rough. You don't think you can go back to before when you didn't know what your name sounded like falling from his lips when he cums—

"You don't know what you do to me, love."

Don't hope—

"And what is that?" You peer up at him through the wisps of auburn. 

His eyes make your pulse race. A lagoon in the middle of the Arctic. A deep, endless pool of blue. 

Price offers you the cigar, and bends down to press his sweaty forehead against your temple when you lean up and take it. 

Scotch. Hickory. Smoke. 

A motorway in Dorset. Your superiors snapping at you to leave it alone. You followed him then, and when he mumbles in your ear, words drenched in malt and petrol, you know you'll follow him even now. 

"You make me want things, love. Things I shouldn't."

You catch his clear blues in yours. The cigar burns when you press it to your bottom lip, catching the taste of him on the end. 

"You have no one to blame but yourself," you whisper, squeezing his too-big hand in yours. "I learned from the best, you know." 

"Cheeky—"

—he takes you back to Iceland when your allotted off-time mysteriously syncs together: a fumbling romantic at heart. he has no idea what he's doing. wooing, courtship, and long-lasting were never words in his vocabulary, but he tries.

—on his phone, you catch a glimpse of what he was looking at so intently on the plane: romantic places in Iceland: romance for idiots

—it doesn't surprise you, then, when you find the article yourself that he sticks to each individual one like it's a personal mission. flowers. chocolates. "don't know what's so special about these bloody things. do you really like them?"

—it surprises you, even more, when you press your lips to cheek, murmuring, "i like you more," and see the flash of roseate flooding his cheeks.

—Gaz is firmly on team "i don't want to know" but too bad for him, he's the only one you can really tell.

"please tell me he doesn't wear The Hat... y'know...," his face looks a little ashen when he says it. You smile. "...Please. No, you can't—hey! You can't just walk away—!"

[soft-for-them]

First Plate - Senshi x GN! Plus size reader

Summary: You fancy Senshi (and fantasize about him) and he fancies you too... it might take a while for you both to confess.

Comments and reblogs are much appreciated and help more people read my works, hope you like!

A/N: I'm semi back and still not proof reading properly, so spelling mistakes are inevitable. This is gender neutral and with a plus size/chubby/mid size/fat/ect reader in mind but really anyone can read.

---

His body is strong; not the unhealthy skinny strong that you see come and go, not the type muscles that guys who’s never actually traversed a dungeon before have but the kind of muscle that’s developed over time in a dungeon along with a good balanced meal too of course.

His bulky arms aren’t just for show and his abs, solid and there, are covered by a thick layer of fat and a healthy flocking of dark body hair.

What more could a person want?

He’s shorter than you but it does not bother you in the slightest for if he were to wrap his strong arms around your middle then his face would bury itself in the softness of your plush tall-man body, oh and how you long for that, it’s the thing of dreams, your Senshi filled dreams that make you feel too warm for comfort.

You often wonder what his kisses would feel like on your body, you fantasise about the light feathering of his facial hair as he pecks at your exposed skin, his fingers gracing every scar and stretch mark on your soft body, his own desires being centred around you and only you.

Would he tell you how beautiful you are or would he just focus entirely of planting his quick kisses all over until you melted into a goo on the floor?

You’ve always daydreamed about him being gentle and considerate, he is when he speaks to you and he is to everyone else in the group, you’re mind just wonders too much about a more romantic scenario.

Does he even find you attractive?

You shake your head cutting that though off before it becomes rotten. You trying to rid your frazzled mind of the ever growing suggestive thoughts and feelings, your face hotter that the small campfire that currently cooks your team's late dinner.

You try to pry your eyes away from Senshi’s strong hair covered arms, said man currently frying some wild veggies that you found earlier on whilst of the rest of group hunted a monster or two, you really do try for but your eyes instead catch on to curve of his wide nose and the shine of his full moustache.

You’re like goo in seconds.

With an audible groan you flop backwards, a hand covering your eyes, the flowy fabric of your robes crumpling in odd shapes as you wipe away any sweat with your other hand.

You feel a shadow loom over you, a small shadow but one that blinds your limited vision non the less.

“What are you groaning about?” the voice of Chilchuck Tims in full father mode questions as you peak through slightly parted fingers at the more mature adventurer.

You’ve been with Laios’ party on and off since before Falin got eaten by the red dragon, the little adventures you had with them interspersed with you many little jobs that paid for your rent.

Before you joined Laios and co you did odd jobs collecting gold from the dungeon walls or helping lug dead bodies back up to the surface. Once you joined the party as a part time member, being good at finding things and knowing a small amount of magic, you had cut back on the more unsavoury jobs but still mulling around the top floors of the dungeon.

Chilchuck had been the man who made you quit your old jobs, back then you had been overworked and underpaid so badly that you didn’t even have a full room of your own (you shared with another adventurer for a while) nor a full bag filled with your possessions, so the half-foot rather fathers you like he does with a lot of the other party members.

(Itzusumi is obviously the closest to how his daughters used to been when they where little, though you moan and groan and mess around all the same despite being a fully grown adult.)

“I feel warm.” It’s true, you do feel warm, though not form sitting anywhere near the fire.

“Then move.” he says back nudging your arm with his boot, a hand on his hip and the other hand on his head as he peers down at you, “Stop moping around, foods nearly ready!”

You take your hand covering your eyes and swat it at his boot more teenage like moaning coming from you as you jokily call him ‘dad’.

Before you even know it Itzusumi comes over and starts swatting at Chilchuck’s boot too much like a cat would do, his two work children finding entertainment in tormenting the half-foot.

---

Senshi watches on as you and Itzusumi bug Chilchuck your laughter filling the air.

Your laughter that sounds like a siren song to his ears, your laughter that heals his soul… fuck, he’s down bad.

Truth be told Senshi has been in the dungeon a long time, long enough to recognise the odd ones out that prefer to linger around the dungeon rather than around the tall-men above ground.

He has heard about your for a long time; the tall-man who spends most of their time on the wooden bridges and inside the trees, hanging around graves and merchant stands around the upper floors. You were always a treasure collector or a goon to the revivers, an odd little goose among the ducklings always wondering off path to find old coins deep in the dirt and giving advice to new adventurers who didn’t know any better.

The orcs had told him about a round robed person who wondered around talking to everyone and anyone like danger wasn’t a thing and he never thought much of it until he actually met you.

When he first laid eyes on you he knew it was fate, it did not matter that you were trying to coax Marcille to eat his cooked walking mushroom dish, he knew it right then and there.

It must have been the way the low warm dungeon light caressed your face or how you greeted everyone that passed, he’s embarrassed to say that his eyes lingered but they did, they’ve been lingering for far too long now.

And now hear he is trying to get closer to you without making your uncomfortable (or without setting Chilchuck or Itzusumi on him for the two of them really seem to care about you a lot).

He likes you too much to flat out say how he feels, to say that you make him blush like he was young again, make him daydream like he has all the time in the world to do so. Your joy and wonder is intoxicating and you’re rather pretty to look at too.

It makes his face go red as he dishes up the last of the food from his wok.

---

You’re still bugging Chilchuck when the first plate is passed over to from Marcille, slight confusion gracing your face as you look at her.

“Where’s your plate Marcille?” you ask as Itzusumi turns her childish gaze onto you, your plate filled with all sorts of meat and veggies catching her cat eyes.

You playfully push her away as she paws at you, turning her around with one hand so she facing Senshi (who from even from far away is clearly red in the face).

He steadily plates up more food but you soon realise that you have the first plate.

“Senshi told me it’s your plate.” Marcille says, a knowing look on her face.

“Oh!” heat blooms on your face like spring flowers.

Looking back at Senshi you see him looking away from you before quickly being distracted by ravenous Laios and Itzusumi.

He gave you the first plate… Oh, you might melt right then and there.

[pedripics]

Pedri: ‘This season I ask that injuries respect me and that I go for everything’.

(Mundo Deportivo - September 4, 2024)

If Spain won the European Championship he promised to grow a moustache and an interview with Mundo Deportivo. In the summer he fulfilled the first part and last Tuesday at noon, during the first national team break, the second part. Pedri González had an intense summer. A sprained knee left him out of the team in the quarter-finals of the Euro, when he was at his best, but he took a physiotherapist and a physical trainer to Tenerife to work during his holidays with the aim of recovering his best version for the start of the season. And he succeeded. He is being important with Flick, who has given him the baton of the team. The Canarian feels like never before, he is much more liberated, ‘loose’, as he says. Also in interviews, where he speaks clearly and assumes his role as a leader despite still being very young. Being European champion was a confidence boost and now he wants to keep winning: with the national team and, obviously, with Barça, the club of his life.

A man of his word, you told us during the European Championship that if they won you would give us an interview and here you are, delivering.

“Yes, yes, words have to be kept and in the first training camp we've had I've been able to give it to you.”

You also promised a moustache, which didn't last long.

“Yes, I only had it in the summer, now I have a beard and I have to remove it because otherwise my mother gets mad at me.”

Everything is going very fast. It's only been a month and a half since you won the European Championship and so many things have happened.

“Yes, it's true that it seems like a long time ago, but if you look at the short time ago, it's very fresh. But when you achieve something like that it seems like a lot longer ago than it really is.”

You were injured in the quarter-final against Germany, but you stayed with your team-mates until the end and they gave you the victory. What was your feeling?

“When I got injured I told them to try to make me a European champion and they did. It was a pleasure and since they gave me the option of staying in the training camp, it was clear that I had to stay with my team-mates there to try to win the title.”

Were you very scared when you got injured after Kroos' tackle?

“When I felt the pain in my knee I was scared because I had also seen what had happened to Gavi. I had several injuries, they are very hard and thank God I was lucky. It was a small thing compared to what could have been and we are now perfect.”

Then you were getting back to your prime, but you are back to your best from what we're seeing this season. It has however cost you your holidays.

“Yes, especially during the holidays I had a lot of work, I had to recover well to try to get to that first game and in the end I made it. A lot of work with the physio, physical preparation… But well, that's what I had to do.”

What does it mean for a footballer to be a European champion?

“Apart from being a dream for any Spaniard, for me, as I'm still at the beginning of my career, it's a great motivation for what's to come, a lot of confidence and above all, a dream come true.”

I would like to talk about the confidence that comes with it. Do you feel different when you enter a dressing room after winning the European Championship?

“You're still the same person, but it's true that it gives you a lot of confidence. There are a lot of players who retire and don't manage to win it and I think it's a source of pride. We are also the national team with the most players and you can feel that in Spain.”

And now the Nations League, I don't know if after the high of winning the European Championship, it is difficult to adapt to a competition that is considered the smallest of the national team competitions.

“Yes, we were just talking about it a few days ago. Everyone said that it's a minor competition, but at the end of the day you're playing with the best in Europe, who are going to want to win a title and for us, it's an important title. Of course, we want to go and win it and defend it again.”

The coach, Luis de la Fuente, emphasised when he named the squad that they were an insatiable group.

“Yes, above all I think that's the right word. It's true that we won the European Championship, but we want more. It's clear that it's going to be complicated, that nobody is going to give us anything for free, but we have to work to try to live other experiences similar to the ones we had when we won it.”

Now two away games, first Serbia, with a hostile atmosphere, and then Switzerland, who were one of the revelations of the European Championship.

“Yes, they are two difficult teams. Both games are away, which, whether you like it or not, is noticeable. You don't have the affection of your fans, but we're going to go all out. First, we'll go for the Serbia game, give everything and try to get the three points. We want to get off to a good start.”

On a personal level, now that we are back to school, what does Pedri want to be for this season? What is his goal?

“Above all, I'm trying to work hard so that injuries respect me. That's all I ask for this season, and to try to help the team because I think they have strengthened very well. And here in the national team, I will go for everything.”

How important it is for you to have this continuity. You’ve now played four consecutive games, how are you feeling at the start?

“I'm feeling good, very good. Before the European Championship I already said that I had found something that suited me very well. I feel good about the work I'm doing and that really shows. On the pitch, I don’t think I’ve ever felt like this, with this desire.”

We talked about it in the interview at the European Championship, all these new habits make you a very methodical Pedri, a very hard worker.

“Yes, that's right. I think that's what has given me to be at this physical level now and I think that's what I have to do, that's what's good for me. A lot of things that are going to help me to be well throughout the whole season.”

[whohasthecards]

Hangster AU -- Firefighter Bradley & Best Buy Employee/Aviator Jake

AU where Bradley is a firefighter and Jake is still an aviator. Jake is on a long leave, probably because of the mission, and he takes another job to pass the time. He works at Best Buy.

Bradley comes to Best Buy to buy something, he's still in uniform, so Jake knows where he works at. And they snark at one another, but Jake manages to throw the box of what Bradley needs at him, smirking all the time.

---

"Can we stop debating the merits of 10 different wires and connectors and just give me the box, please," Bradley said exasperated as he held a hand out for the box this Ken doll was holding.

"Sure, here, catch," Jake said shrugging throwing the box lightly at him. "No need to get as red as your fire truck."

Bradley groans, rolls his eyes, and walks away. He was never wearing his fire department shirt in public ever again.

---

Bradley put his keys on in his bronco. And turn it. Engine sputtering.

"Oh come on," Bradley muttered, moustache twitching.

He stepped down again on the brake and clutch, twisting the key. Nada. Bradley groaned and hit his head on the steering wheel wondering who the fuck to call.

He jumped when he heard a knock at the window, seeing Ken doll, looking sympathetic.

He opened the door.

"Need a jump?" Ken-doll asked.

Bradley, sighed, "Yes please."

"Give me a sec to bring my car over."

"Thank you." ---

"Man, you've been having issues with the lights and radio, too? But you just replaced the bulbs, right?"

Bradley deeply sighed and rubbed the space between his eyes, "Yeah."

"That's fucked up, man, good luck, better bring it to the shop for the wiring."

"No comment on the wires on this one?"

"Car wiring is a whole another thing I ain't gonna touch, too much of a headache for me," Ken-doll said, flicking the toothpick in his mouth to the side.

"How do you know so much about wires, anyways? You work with it a lot at Best Buy?" Bradley said going back inside his truck to try to start it.

"Nah, not really, I studied engineering, and my other job. You pick some stuff up along the way."

"You studied engineering and you work at Best Buy!?" Bradley said fingers slipping from the ignition.

"Anything wrong with that?" Ken-doll said, raising a brow.

"No, I mean-- Oh look the car's starting," Bradley said flustered. "Thank you, man, I'm Bradley Bradshaw by the way, incase you need anything, I'm by the fire station." Bradley said holding out his hand.

"It's Jake, and if you need anything from electronic goods to repair, come to Best Buy for a wonderful service," Jake said shaking his hand and winking.

"Should add auto-repair to that slogan."

---

A series of events caused them to meet again. And they hit it off, go one dates and all that.

Jake likes listening to Bradley's stories about his job, and Jake tells him about some crazy customers he had to deal with.

Bradley never asked about Jake's previous job/other job, and Jake,,, forgot.

---

One day, Bradley's station gets a call for a jet having to do an emergency crash landing. And they have to make sure that the area is clear and be prepared for anything that might happen. If the pilot gets stuck or something gets lit on fire.

And they're listening in on the radio with the pilot and pilot's instructor telling him what to do. Calm, steady, smooth, and knowledgeable.

Familiar.

They arrive on scene, get the pilot out, and the instructor comes eventually in a rush.

"Is my pilot, okay?" A familiar voice asked.

"Yeah, we're getting him checked out at the hospital, nothing severe."

He hears the man sigh, "Good."

The man turns the corner, and his eyes flickered to Bradley for a moment, before focusing back on the fire captain.

"I'm Lieutenant Commander Seresin, thank you for helping during this incident."

---

"You work in the Navy!?"

"Yeaahhh--"

"You didn't tell me!?"

"I forgot!"

A pause.

"Also does the team know we're dating?"

"The station? No, why?"

"Wanna mess with them?"

"I'm listening."

[misshoneyimhome]

i love the willy kick you’ve been on but can you do an auston enemies to lovers? maybe she’s will’s best friend in it too?

I can always do something with Auston, bb 😉❤️ And of course, as always, I got a bit carried away - I mean, how can you not love this handsome face 😍

Word count: 4.3K

・✶ ｡ﾟ

I'm so furious at you for making me feel this way

"Ugh, he's just so annoying..." you muttered quietly as you entered Willy’s apartment, returning to his place after a casual dinner with the team.

"Come on, y/n, you have to find a way to be around Auston. He's one of my best friends, and since you're one too, I want you two to get along."

**

For months, William had been trying to build a connection between you and Auston. 

Having just moved to Toronto six months ago, your childhood friend William Nylander had been so kind to introduce you to the city. You had happily accepted a new job opportunity, and within a few weeks, Willy messaged you on Instagram after seeing your post about the move.

As children, William had always been one of your closest friends, but due to his moving around, it was sometimes challenging to meet up. However, thanks to social media, you both managed to stay updated about each other's lives.

And as your old friendship quickly rekindled, returning to its comfortable roots, you swiftly became best friends again.

Soon after spending quite the amount of time together, William had introduced you not only to his closest friends but also to the entire team. However, there was a catch – Although your heart might belong to another team, Toronto had to earn a soft spot as this was your new home.

Fortunately, you clicked well with everyone on the team, including their significant others. Yet, for some reason, Auston had irked you from the moment you met him.

He hadn't particularly done anything against you, but it was his smug expressions and comments about your sudden switch in team loyalty just to impress Willy that grated on you. Then, he had the nerve to suggest that you wanted to cosy up to your "so called" best friends to gain entry into the NHL world and snag hockey tickets.

"Probably just to boost followers on her Instagram," he quipped one evening, speaking low enough for only a few people to catch, yet loud enough for you to hear.

However, your intentions were far from that. Fame or social media followers were nowhere near your goals. All you wanted was to spend more time with Willy, and since you loved watching hockey, you were more than willing to pay for your own tickets.

So, from that moment on, every time Auston was around, you saw red. He exuded excessive confidence and an overall air of being too much. Sure, he was a star player on the team, but he wasn't constantly on top form. He had his off days, yet he was terrible at owning up to his mistakes.

To say the least, your thoughts about Auston weren't exactly positive, and his opinions about you weren't any better.

In his eyes, you were plain and uninteresting. A workaholic who seemed to indulge excessively on weekends, not holding back when it came to alcohol. He observed you flirting with almost every guy when out, and your perpetually upbeat and positive attitude was just too sickeningly cute for his taste.

The only reason he put up with being around you was because he recognised how much you meant to Willy and what a good friend you were to him. That, he could respect.

**

"I can be around him, Willy - I just prefer not to," you quipped, as the two of you headed first to the kitchen to grab a few snacks before settling on the sofa after a long walk with Pablo and Banksy.

"I mean it, y/n/n, I want you two to get along," William sighed lightly, though his friendly smile remained.

"I know, but we just... don't," you attempted to flash a sweet smile as you conveyed your feelings to William. "I can't put my finger on it... maybe it's his terrible moustache that he's always so damn proud of..."

"He's a Movember ambassador..."

"Well, he doesn't limit it to just November," you replied, a hint of disgust in your expression and a sigh. "He's simply not my cup of tea, and I'm definitely not his either."

William regarded you with a thoughtful expression, slowly coming to terms with the idea that the relationship between you and Auston might not improve, although a part of him thought otherwise.

"You know, you two are actually more alike than you think," he chuckled, trying to gently nudge you out of your comfort zone.

"Oh really?" You retorted with a light huff. "And how exactly am I similar to that self-absorbed so-called hockey star?" You raised an eyebrow.

"Well, for starters, you're both incredibly stubborn," William laughed heartily, a point you begrudgingly had to admit he might be right about. "And secondly, you're both insanely passionate about what you do. And you both care about your family and friends..." He continued softly, meeting your gaze as his words began to ease your tense demeanour. "Come on, Auston's a really great guy once you get past that tough exterior of his, and you're a wonderful person too - he just needs to see it. Then, I think the two of you could actually become pretty good friends."

William genuinely believed in what he said, but he was gradually growing tired of the ongoing friction between you and Auston. So, he made an effort to establish some sort of connection.

"Alright," he sighed deeply. "I suppose I can give him another chance..."

"That's all I'm asking for," William chuckled lightly before both of you diverted the conversation and turned your attention to the TV show you had planned to watch.

**

A couple of days later, you found yourself back in your usual spot at the Scotia Bank Arena, where the Leafs were facing off against the Senators.

Despite your efforts over the past 48 hours to shift your thoughts about Auston, making an attempt for the sake of your best friend William, as the players were announced and his prominent face appeared on the large screens, applauded for his talent, you couldn't help but feel a knot of discomfort within you.

"Fucking twat," you muttered under your breath, fortunately unnoticed by anyone around.

However, as the game began, you shook your head, attempting to push away any negative thoughts about him. You concluded that he wasn't worth your energy and mental space, but avoiding thoughts of him was easier said than done. After all, you were at a hockey game where he played, and his number was frequently mentioned.

Nonetheless, you did your best to ignore it and enjoy the company of other fans, including girls and families supporting the players. The arena reverberated with cheers and excitement as both teams alternated in scoring and taking the lead, making the match almost unbearably intense to watch.

During the third period, the score stood at 4-4, and with just three minutes remaining, if nothing changed, the game would head into overtime.

Your pulse raced alongside your quickened heartbeat as your eyes fervently tracked the play. And just before the buzzer sounded, number 34 skilfully manoeuvred the puck around the skates of two Senators and swiftly shot it under the goalie's pads, concluding the match with a 5-4 win for the Leafs. Which also secured him a hatty for the game.

"Of course," you thought, lightly shaking your head as the entire arena erupted with cheers and excitement, loud applause echoing through the air, and hats being thrown onto the ice.

Following the game, everyone gathered outside the locker room, waiting for the players to finish showering, attending to media commitments, and celebrations, where Auston was naturally announced as the player of the match.

You were engaged in conversation with some of the girlfriends as the players gradually exited the dressing room. And as one of the last to emerge, you patiently waited for Willy.

"Hey," he greeted, approaching you with damp hair, dressed in his post-game outfit. "I thought you had a date tonight?"

"Oh yeah, but we rescheduled since he had to cancel," you replied with a sweet smile and a light shrug.

"You didn't ditch him, did you?" William chuckled.

"What, no, he just cancelled on me. So, I chose to come here and offer my support to my best friend and his team," you playfully responded with a light smirk.

"Alright, well, I just need to finish up some things with Brad, then maybe we can go out for a late-night snack?" William suggested.

"Sure," you said with a friendly smile as William began to walk away. However, your smile quickly faded as a certain Arizona lad playfully joined your personal space, prompting you to turn and face him. 

"Already tired of your new victim, y/n?" Auston's voice was filled with his signature confidence, clearly relishing the moment, especially after tonight's game.

"What's that supposed to mean, Auston?" Your tone was sharp and fierce as the tall lad stepped in closer to you.

"Well, just seems like you've been through every eligible bachelor in Toronto, and nobody seems to be good enough for you," a smug grin stretched across his tanned face, his ridiculous moustache curving along his lip.

"I haven't been through every bachelor in Toronto..." you retorted defensively. "Besides, there's nothing wrong with having standards - I mean, at least I'm not like you, poking into every available cunt you can find."

Your words seemed to hit a nerve with Auston, yet he responded with a dismissive huff and a chuckle, brushing off your comment.

"At least I'm getting some action - maybe you could use some too," his chuckle was cocky, and you couldn't help but express a disgusted look.

"Well, I'm sorry I don't sleep around like you do and actually prefer to be with someone I genuinely like," you retorted, matching his smug attitude. Though you knew it wasn't entirely true; you were open to casual hook up now and then, but you did prefer to get to know a person a bit before getting intimate. 

"I'm just saying it might be good for you," Auston chuckled. "Besides, didn't you just get dumped last year? I mean, you should be out there, playing the field after ending a relationship."

"I didn't get dumped! And how do you even know about that?" you retorted sharply.

"Willy mentioned it a while ago," Auston replied with a smile.

"Hmm, well, yes, I... we broke up, but that doesn't mean I've given up, you know," you huffed gently, almost desperate to make a point. You understood Auston wasn't the most romantic person, and his confident, boyish manner shouldn't make you believe that all men were like him. "And I especially don't need to go around sleeping with everyone."

You crossed your arms defensively, fixing him with an intense gaze.

However, your stern comment only made Auston chuckle even more. "Whatever, still think it'd be good for you."

And as if on cue, William returned from his chat with Brad, and Auston quickly walked away after nodding to his teammate.

"Hey, you ready?" William asked with a friendly smile.

"Yeah, I'm all set," you replied with a smile, though your attempt to contain your annoyance wasn't entirely successful.

"What was that all about?" He chuckled a little.

"Oh, nothing," you gently rolled your eyes. "Just Auston being Auston."

Knowing you well enough, William merely chuckled and let the matter drop.

**

The following Sunday, you found yourself feeling freezing, sitting outside on a bench and waiting.

Your date had been rescheduled, and now you were impatiently enduring the cold while waiting for him to show up by the outdoor ice-skating rink the city. The first 20 minutes were bearable; you assumed he was just running late. But after 40 minutes with no replies to your messages and no sign of him, you started feeling rather foolish.

This turn of events caught you off guard. Based on your last two dates, everything had seemed to go smoothly, and you'd been texting each other every day for weeks. However, suddenly, for some unknown reason, he appeared to have lost interest in you.

But you wanted to maintain some semblance of dignity, to believe that he had a valid excuse, and that something unexpected had caused this delay. However, you also didn't want to be too naive. And after an hour had passed, you realised it was time to leave. It wasn't a mere mistake about the time; he had indeed stood you up and ghosted you.

And just when you thought things couldn't get any worse, a familiar voice spoke from behind as you stood up from your seat.

"Still waiting for your knight in shining armour?"

It was Auston. Of course, HE was here. And he'd spotted you.

"Shit," you muttered to yourself as you slowly turned around to face the last person you wanted to see right now.

"And what are you doing here?" you flashed him an unsatisfied grin, letting out a deep sigh.

"I was just ice skating with some friends," he simply replied, one hand tucked comfortably in his pocket to keep warm, while the other held his pair of skates. "So, are you here alone?"

"Why do you care, Auston?" your tone softened, yet it held a deep, sharp edge.

"Just noticed you were sitting all alone from across the rink..." he spoke almost gently, taking another step towards you, a smirk still on his face.

"And what? So, you thought I was looking pathetic, and you decided to come over here with your smug face and revel in the fact that I'd been stood up? Well, I'm sorry Auston, but I'm not in the mood for your annoying comments right now," you said sarcastically, feeling your tone might be a bit more aggressive than intended. However, you couldn't seem to control yourself at this moment. It turned out you were more hurt than you initially thought.

"What... no, y/n, I'm sorry, I didn't know you'd been stood up," Auston spoke, his smirk slowly fading as he noticed the genuine sadness and disappointment on your face. "Honestly, I didn't even know you were on a date; it was just a joke."

Your eyes met his, and you found yourself unable to respond immediately. While slowly, you felt tears starting to well up, but you tried your best to hold them back and not let it show. 

"I'm sorry..." you said. "I just didn’t find it particularly funny..." Your arms crossed over your chest, not defensively but more as a way to comfort yourself, as a tear trickling down your cheek, and your heart heavy with disappointment.

Auston's expression had also completely changed. He seemed almost... concerned about you?

In that moment, Auston found himself genuinely impacted by seeing you so vulnerable. You were completely exposed emotionally, and he felt a sense of empathy for you, being treated in such a manner. While you might not have been his favourite person, he also didn't believe you deserved to be treated this way. And it stirred an unexpected urge in him to offer you comfort.

So, without overthinking it, he found himself speaking up.

"Do you want to skate together?"

His words surprised both you and himself. You never expected Auston to ask you to spend time with him, let alone attempt to console you in an emotional situation.

Baffled, you stood there, still in your skates, amidst the cheerful sounds of people skating and having fun around you. You simply stared at the man before you, shaking your head gently, trying to gather your thoughts to respond.

"What?"

Auston chuckled lightly, realising the surprising nature of his question. Yet, a sense of warmth grew within him as he contemplated trying to uplift your spirits.

"I asked, do you want to skate together?"

Though still slightly baffled, you regarded him with a curious look.

"I thought you were here with your friends?"

"I am," he flashed a smile. "But they have each other – you, on the other hand, seem like you could use some company."

You weren't entirely certain what to make of this situation. Was Auston joking? Was he playing around or something?

But oddly, he seemed genuine.

"Why... would you do that?" you inquired, a curious smile forming on your lips, prompting Auston to release a soft sigh.

"Well… maybe Willy has asked me to be a little nicer to you… and, since he's my best friend, and hanging out with him also means being around you from time to time, I figured…" Auston shrugged lightly before continuing, "Maybe I can, I don't know, try and get to know you a little bit better. And since you're all alone, why not now."

You found yourself holding your breath momentarily, contemplating his words. Yet, as you observed him, his smirk faded, gently licking his lips and replaced by a soft smile on his face.

"Alright," you replied softly, meeting his gaze as your eyes reflected the city lights around the rink. “But only if you promise me one thing…”

"Which is?" 

"You won't laugh at me skating…" you timidly requested, a hint of embarrassment colouring your cheeks.

"Why would I laugh?" Auston gently smiled.

"I'm good at skating, but I'm also rather clumsy," you admitted, a small smile forming on your lips, and Auston simply replied with a casual chuckle.

"Don't worry, I'll catch you if you fall then."

After putting on his skates as well, both of you headed onto the ice together with soft laughter. And surprisingly, Auston turned out to be excellent company.

Surely, at first, it was a bit awkward. Breaking the tension that had built up over months between you wasn't easy. But gradually, as you continued skating side by side, the atmosphere lightened. William was, of course, the primary topic of your conversation, as he was your strongest common link. However, the conversation then gradually shifted to hockey – what you both liked and disliked about the sport. And soon, you found yourselves sharing personal details, discussing your upbringing and your personal stories.

Auston even laughed when you shared childhood stories about you and Willy, talking about the times when you gave him advice about girls during your teenage years. He then reciprocated by sharing stories from their road trips and the challenges of growing up while playing in the NHL. He delved into tales about his family, highlighting how supportive they had always been, and mentioned being the protective brother and the struggles he faced in finding close friends with whom he could form genuine bonds.

And this sudden display of vulnerability started to alter your perception of him, if only slightly. As you continued gliding across the ice, maintaining your closeness, Auston began discussing how many people in his life had come and gone, primarily seeking his friendship for the sake of public recognition.

You found yourself developing a small soft spot for him as he gradually opened up, revealing a side you had never seen before, one that he probably never showed to the team or to many others. And despite having tried to maintain a distance from him, you slowly came to realise that you did, in fact, know Auston quite well. You understood that he wasn't comfortable discussing emotions or engaging in heartfelt conversations, so this talk was a significant step for him.

Eventually, both of you skated to the edge of the rink to pause for a moment, a brief silence settling between you before you decided to break it with a soft sigh.

"Is that why you said those things about me when Willy first introduced me to the team?" you looked up at him, facing each other, both resting a hand on the border. "That I only wanted to be close friends with him because of fame."

Auston understood exactly what you meant, and you were spot on. That had indeed been his initial thought about you when you re-entered the life of one of his best friends.

With a gentle nod, he softly replied, "Yes."

Another quiet moment settled between you, and it became evident what this misunderstanding had truly been about. Auston's initial desire to shield Willy from a potentially damaging friendship, and your perception of him as cocky and arrogant because of his defensive stance from the start.

Once again, your eyes locked, a bit more intensely this time, as you both felt the opportunity to break free from this tension between you.

"Well, I hope I managed to prove you wrong then," you sighed softly, offering him a sweet, friendly smile.

And Auston simply matched your expression. "You did," he replied.

With a few shared light laughs, the profound tension suddenly dissipated. And a new sensation seemed to grow between you both – perhaps even a potential friendship.

But just as everything seemed to settle into a comfortable rhythm, someone suddenly appeared out of nowhere and forcefully crashed into you, causing you to fall over and straight into Auston, who lost his footing and ended up falling backward onto his back, pulling you along with him. In the midst of the fall, you accidentally collided, your head hitting his face, resulting in both of you letting out loud yells.

"Fuck!" Auston shouted.

"Shit, Aus, are you okay?"

Your head was spinning from the adrenaline rush.

"Yeah, I think I'm good... how about you?"

"Well, I did land quite softly," you tried to offer a light chuckle, prompting Auston to do the same.

And slowly, with a bit of assistance from the stranger who had accidentally bumped into you, both of you managed to regain your footing. However, your attention snapped back to Auston as you noticed something alarming.

"Fuck, your nose is bleeding!"

Auston touched his nose, confirming that it was indeed bleeding from the collision.

"Come on, let's get out of here," you suggested, gently taking his hand as you both stepped off the ice and made your way to sit on a nearby bench.

Auston tried to lean back to prevent too much bleeding, while you gently guided him and then applied a piece of tissue to his nose. Thankfully, you had had the foresight to have a package in your pocket, though not specifically for situations like this, it turned out to be quite practical.

Sitting closely on the bench, you carefully wiped the blood off his nose, feeling a twinge of guilt despite knowing the accident wasn't your fault. And Auston's intense gaze focused on you as you attended to him.

"I guess this wasn't how you thought your date would be," he chuckled.

"Maybe not," you gently smiled back. "But despite the blood, I actually think it's been a rather fun day," you softly admitted, meeting his eyes.

Auston reciprocated your smile, feeling your gentle touch close to his face.

"He's an idiot, you know, for blowing you off like this," he gently spoke, causing you to pause and look up at him.

"Thanks, but I suppose it's just my luck… you were right, I've dated so many guys, and although I promised myself never to give up on love, it's just not always easy," you softly admitted.

"Hey, it's his loss – I mean, you're... sweet, funny, and quite good-looking, so if he doesn't want to date you, he’s the one missing out. You shouldn't feel bad about it."

"You really think so?"

"Yeah... I mean... I know I haven't always treated you nicely, but... I've always thought you were hot," Auston chuckled.

"You're not too shabby yourself," you flashed him a sweet smile, eliciting another laugh from him. 

As you sat closely together amidst the vibrant winter wonderland in the heart of Toronto, both of you couldn't help but feel a sense of connection.

It felt odd.

It was as if all previous tension had vanished. You were now just two individuals, engaged in pleasant conversation, enjoying each other's company.

And Auston finally understood what William saw in you. He had never felt this comfortable opening up and expressing his thoughts to someone. No one had ever made him feel so at ease and relaxed during a heartfelt conversation like you. You were certainly something else.

But then clearing your throat, you broke the intense gaze you shared.

"Perhaps I should better get going... it's getting late, and I shouldn't be keeping you from your friends like this," you timidly suggested, looking down at your hands for a moment before beginning to unlace your skates.

With a nod, Auston followed suit, swiftly changing back into regular shoes. Standing with your skates in hand, you exchanged a sweet smile before an unexpected surge of confidence propelled you to lean in and plant a timid kiss on his cheek.

"Thank you, Auston... I really enjoyed spending time with you today," you softly expressed, while tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

"You're welcome," he replied, exhaling softly. 

But then as you turned to walk away, an unexpected desire to keep you close surged within Auston. And with his free hand, he swiftly caught yours, drawing you back toward him, pressing his chest against yours before tenderly kissing your lips.

The kiss was gentle, yet both of you found yourselves leaning slightly into it. Auston dropped his skates, using his hand to cup your face, holding you just a little closer, before slowly pulling apart.

You exhaled deeply, confusion mingling with a pleasant sensation, ultimately giving way to a smile.

"So, I guess this means we're good?" you tentatively joked.

"Yeah... and the next date you're going on will be with me," Auston stated firmly, wearing a wide grin.

"God, you're way too confident," you teased, playfully rolling your eyes at him.

"Maybe, but I know you like it," he countered, raising an eyebrow before leaning in to connect your lips once again.

[jellieland]

Gem Cleo watches Scott leave. He's throwing wary glances over his shoulder at the tower that has what looks to her like a big red curly moustache on it.

It's always nice to see him, and this is a bit different to their usual encounters, which is really refreshing every now and then.

She pulls out the pufferfish he gave her and smiles at it brightly. "Hey there little guy!" She says. It stares back at her with unblinking black eyes.

"Dunno if you can call me a little guy when you're on a team with Bdubs, but sure, hey Cleo!"

She startles slightly. It's Martyn. He's not actively stabbing her, and apparently they're allies, so she turns to face him without much concern. "Hello Martyn!"

He's leaning against the rocky wall of the clock tower. He grins at her, and for a split second, his gaze flashes over to where Scott is disappearing into the trees across the river. "You still remember that thing I told you about last time, right?" He asks, giving her a meaningful look.

"Oh, yes, of course, absolutely!" She nods enthusiastically. "How could I forget!" It's funny, no-one else has really prodded at the details of Cleo's, uh, "amnesia cold", as much Martyn, although he's for sure just completely making things up to ask her about.

He looks highly amused. "Right, right, good. Just checking."

He glances over at the treeline again.

"So!" He says, and it's so very casual that it's a little bit concerning, "Don't suppose you'd let me know if Cleo's listening along or not?"

"Martyn!" She exclaims. "I'm-"

"Yeah, you are Cleo, I know, I know. Just." He pauses.

There's something in his eyes, suddenly, that gives Gem the impression that if she says the wrong thing here, something will be lost. She can't tell what, or why, or how. But it's a feeling she can't quite ignore.

After a second, Martyn shakes himself slightly and continues. "Actually, you know what, it doesn't matter. I-"

"No. She's not." Gem watches curiously as he goes very still. "I'm gonna tell her about it later, though."

"Huh." He says. It sounds very nonchalant. "Right. Well. Don't suppose I could tell you a secret, then?" He gives her a conspiratorial look. "Just you, I mean."

Gem leans in a little, intrigued despite herself. "I shouldn't..."

"Oh come on, you know you want to."

"Weeeeell..." She jumps in place a couple of times, and then nods quickly. "Alright, go on then!" He opens his mouth, and she quickly raises a finger to point at him, narrowing her eyes. "But! If it's something Cleo would want to know, I do have to tell them. It wouldn't be fair otherwise."

He considers for a moment, and nods. "Sure, seems fair enough to me. Trust me, though, Cleo would not want to be bothered by this. They have better things to worry about."

"I'll be the judge of that!" She pauses for a moment. "Because that's me." Another beat. "Because I'm Cleo."

He chuckles. "Well, Cleo, I just wanted you to know that I get it now." He says, lightly.

A few seconds pass.

"Um. Ok?" She says, because he seems to be waiting for her to respond. "Uh, I mean." She goes back to her perfect and beyond reproach Cleo impression. "Right. I understand what you're saying completely, Martyn."

He raises an eyebrow, grinning. "Well that's impressive. And here I thought I was being pretty cryptic."

"Oh. Um, I mean, what are you talking about? Explain yourself!"

He laughs, expression almost nostalgic. "Ah, I just meant I get why you chose him, last time." Once more, he looks over at where Scott disappeared from view. This time, he doesn't look back.

Gem frowns a bit, and stays silent. It feels wrong to speak.

"I wondered about that a lot, you know." He sounds vaguely wistful. "But I get it, now."

There is quiet for few more seconds before Martyn looks back at her, and the spell is broken.

He looks cheerful. There's nothing in his expression to suggest that he isn't.

"I think it's mostly that you and him are the only two on the server who have the slightest bit of common sense, honestly." He says. Something suddenly seems to occur to him, and he snorts. "Pretty sure he's alright at math, too."

"Oh, really?"

"...You know, I'm not sure actually."

He meets her eyes. His are just starting to turn the bright red of danger, the colour creeping in at the edges of the blue.

"He keeps his allies alive." He says. "For as long as he can. Even when it hurts him. Wasn't even a choice for you, really, when you consider that."

There's obviously something here she doesn't understand, but what exactly it is she doesn't know. "Good for him." She says awkwardly.

"It's not, really." He says.

"Oh. Um. Bad for him?"

He laughs at that. "Sort of, yeah." He looks down at the pufferfish she's still holding. "Alright for you though, right?" Before she's decided how to respond, he continues. "I just thought you'd like to know that if I were you, I would've chosen him too."

Gem frowns at him. There's something here. There's something here, but while she can certainly guess, she just doesn't have the context to know what that something is.

She listens to the noises of the river for a while before she speaks.

"Are you sure Cleo wouldn't want to know that?" She asks softly.

To his credit, he does appear to consider it, staring out over the river and frowning slightly.

After a minute, though, he looks back at Gem and shrugs. It almost looks resigned.

"Cleo already knows." He says.

She opens her mouth, but he keeps talking.

"Plus she would not appreciate being reminded of how similar we are." He grins, his expression suddenly sly. "And anyway, I completely made all that up. That was a test to see how good you were at being Cleo, and you failed."

"Hey!" She yells indignantly. "What! No! That's so rude!" She draws her sword and he cackles, dancing back.

"Ha, you should've seen your face!"

She glares at him. "Why are you so good at acting, huh?"

He raises an eyebrow. "Aren't we all?"

"No!"

He snorts. "Yeah, I guess not. Just pure skill on my part, then."

Gem shakes her head at him, exasperated. How much of that was true, she has no clue. But if that's how he wants to play it, that's ok. "How about this: I won't tell Cleo about any of that so long as you don't try and mess with me again."

"What?" He gasps and claps a hand to his heart. "I thought you were Cleo!"

She narrows her eyes and raises her sword, and he hurries to continue, holding up his hands in surrender.

"By which I mean yeah, sure, sounds good to me am I right?"

"Good." She nods firmly. "That's what I thought you meant."

He nods back at her a couple of times, then starts to retreat towards the river, still facing her. "Well. See you, Cleo!"

"Bye! If you see Etho tell him to be afraid!" She shouts after him.

"Will do!"

And he disappears into the trees after Scott.

What an odd man.

She wonders if he knows that she wouldn't have told Cleo if he'd just genuinely asked her not to, without the deal or the confusion or the trickery. She's genuinely not sure if he realizes that.

She still doesn't know how much of all that was genuine.

She wonders if he does.

For some reason, she suspects not.

[mrs-avenger3000]

Seeing Red

Pair: Wanda Maximoff x Fem!Reader

Summary: After Steve went into the ice, HYDRA took out their frustrations on his doe eyed little sister Y/n Rogers. Now after being experimented on for half her life, she’s back in Steve’s life. She’s a part of the team. A team that included the elusive Wanda Maximoff who just so happened to have saved her life. An accident forced them together, but it seems something deeper, more mysterious, is keeping them together.

Word Count: 2.9K

Warnings: 18+ Violence, fighting, implied smut, kissing, smut, swearing, angst, fluff, soulmate au, PTSD

A/n: I had this idea whilst reading Vampire Academy. I loved the idea of Rose and Lissa’s bond, so I tweaked it a little and turned it into a soulmate story…

Please do not copy my work or repost with the intent to take ownership of my work :) Feedback is as always welcome as are reblogs, comments and likes

1945

Things were never easy for you, you've lived through a literal world war. You lost your boyfriend and then your brother. You had given up at this point. Without your family... what did you really have? Your parents? Dead. Brother? Dead. Your love? Also dead. The only person you had left was Peggy, and she was just as distraught by Steve's death as you were.

Despite this you kept going. You were determined to ensure your brother didn't sacrifice himself for nothing. You had made it your mission to destroy HYDRA. Every fibre of your body burned with pure rage as you saw what they were doing to your home.

You had mixed feelings about Steve's sacrifice. Because yes, he thwarted their plans, and saved millions of lives, but it cost him his life. And it cost you your brother. This was the guy who would light all the candles in your bedroom every time you had a nightmare. He'd tell you that as long as the candle burns, you were safe. He's the guy who nursed you when you were sick. He taught you never to back down from a fight; he is- was the only constant in your life and you miss him terribly.

You lifted your head as you heard the door to your apartment open. You smiled sadly at Peggy. Her eyes were reddened and puffy. It didn't take you long to deduce that she had been crying again.

"I wanted to stop by... to see how you were." She mumbled, her voice slightly hoarse. You sighed, looking at your feet..

"I'm okay." You say, still looking at your feet.

"I wish I could say the same... I really, really do. I miss him so, so much." She sniffles, her eyes becoming glassy. You took a sharp intake of breath, thinking of him always hurt now. You used to think of your brother and be nothing but happy, but now that he's gone, the happy memories hurt because you know you can never experience anymore.

Thinking for a moment, you glanced at the teary woman in front of you, sighing you turned and walked into your bedroom. Pulling a cardboard box out from underneath your bed, you smiled as you saw the black-and-white picture of you and your brother at the carnival. He had face paint on and you had drawn a silly moustache on yourself. Placing the picture in your pocket, you grabbed what you originally intended to and walked back over to Peggy.

"Here, it was his favourite... it... it still smells like him." You whisper, handing her his favourite jumper. You nodded as she held it to her chest, sniffing it slightly. This seemed to make her cry harder.

"Thank you." She whispered as she slipped the jumper on over her uniform. You smiled as she did so. You knew your brother would have married this woman. She was his future, and you understood why. She was a beautiful human inside and out and you felt extreme pride when you refer to her as your friend.

You two sat and talked for hours until there was a noise that had Peggy reaching for her gun. Your anxiety bubbled as you watched her go check it out. You grabbed a knife from the kitchen and gripped it tightly. There was a loud commotion and shots were being fired, the loud bangs echoing through the walls of the apartment. You could smell the burning of... something, as the air suddenly felt warmer. Something was burning. Your worry increased as you heard Peggy groan in pain. The sudden puff of smoke confirmed your suspicions. Your apartment was now burning. "Y/N! RUN!" Peggy yelled as she came rushing into the front room, only to be tackled by a large burley looking man. He pinned her to the ground, and you glared at him.

"Let her go!" You yelled as you rushed over. Before you could get to him, you screamed as the front door was smashed in wood flew everywhere as it splintered off the door. The door crashed to the floor and your eyes widened as more people filed into the room, they were dressed in a uniform, they were soldiers and you then noticed the marks on their uniforms. Your rage soared as the HYDRA men burst into your home. You gripped the knife tightly before going after them. Even though you had no idea how you were going to win against a small army of HYDRA agents, you were determined to win. You punched, kicked, stabbed your way through the agents, but it was no use. One guy punched you so hard in the face, stars clouded your vision and you felt your eyelids become heavy.

The last thing you heard before you faded into the darkness was Peggy's final scream for you. "Y/N!" she yelled as you hit the floor.

HYDRA had got you now. You were theirs. And nothing could be done about it.

Today

The ringing in your ears intensified as you began running through the halls. There was only one thought in mind. "I have to get out." Your feet moved quickly as you rushed down the hall. You were being chased, but you had one advantage your advisories didn’t. During your time in HYDRA, you had been turned into a super solider just like your big brother was before he died.

You saw the wall and something inside you knew that you were only on the second floor. So you braced yourself and launched yourself out of the window. Glass shattered all around you, slicing your skin. Even more so when you landed. You slid across the ground. A cry leaving your lips as you did. You rolled over before you pulled your body up and broke out into a sprint. All you could think about was not getting caught. It didn’t matter about the fact nothing looked familiar, or that your body was begging you to lie on the floor and give up. You didn’t care about the blood that was seeping into your clothes all you cared about was getting away.

You were so caught up in getting away you didn’t pay attention to your surroundings. You slammed straight into a couple. The man’s hands shot out to steady the girl as they looked angrily at you. Until they saw your condition. The noise of the world hit you at once and you kept turning around, your eyes squinted as you looked all around the place. Tall buildings, loud noises. And they’re way too many people. The man came into focus as he gave you a concerned look.

“Can you tell me your name, doll?” He asked, and you squinted at him. Your heart was pounding in your chest so loud you could barely hear anything else. You swallowed.

“Where am I?”

“New York.” He replied softly.

You shook your head defiantly. “No, no, this isn’t New York. I- no!” You grabbed him by the collar. “Where am I!” you demanded as you shoved him backwards before stepping back from him a few steps. His eyes widened as he looked to your left.

“Watch out!” You heard someone new yell. Suddenly, you were encased in a red glow. It’s spirals moving you. Your body instantly warmed, and you strangely felt comfort from this red embrace. But your comfort didn’t last long as a body knocked into you. You both went tumbling to the floor, causing you to groan as you scraped your already bleeding cuts. Despite the pain, you felt insanely warm. You opened your eyes to see a curious and worried green pair staring back. Your heart jumped into your throat as you gazed at her. She was truly beautiful.

You flushed as you realised that she was practically straddling you. Her cheeks turned red as she stared at you. “Wanda!”

That voice.

The girl you now know as Wanda got up and held her hand out for you. You took it. Her touch was warm, and it left soft tingles on your skin and for a second she didn’t let go of your hand. You blushed softly before your eyes widened. “S-Steve?” You whispered softly. His eyes teared up as he rushed over to you.

“Y/n! How? How is this-” you cut him off by throwing your arms around his shoulders hugging him.

“You died! I- I mourned you.” You cried. His tears wet your shirt as he hugged you tightly.

“Peggy… she said HYDRA attacked and took you and she hasn’t seen you since.” He mumbled. You nodded.

“I… I’m like you now.” You mumbled, and he pulled back, cupping your face with his hands as he surveyed you.

“You’re not my little sister anymore… you’ve grown up.” He smiled, kissing your forehead.

“I was so lost without you. When you didn’t come home… when you went into the ice. I thought you died, Stevie.” You mumble, your voice cracking as you started to cry again. He squeezed you and you gasped in pain, causing Wanda to step forward, worry present on her face.

“Steve, she’s bleeding.” Her voice was like silk, so smooth, and yet she sounded so panicked. You glanced up at your brother through heavy eyelids. The exhaustion was catching up quickly, and you struggled to keep your eyes open.

“I… I think I’m going to close my eyes now.” You muttered as the world started to darken. You remember Steve picking you up before your eyes closed fully.

Steve glanced at Wanda, his eyes widening. He scooped her up and held her to his chest. “Let’s get her back to the tower.” He rushed out as he began running.

~/~/~/~

Steve sighed as he watched Bruce work on his little sister, his worry increasing when Bruce pulled out surgical instruments. “Just need to throw a few sutures here, Cap. Nothing too serious. She's lost a lot of blood, so I'm going to have to replace it. I've already started a drip and she should be okay in a couple of hours.” He muttered, focusing on what he was doing. His focus was momentarily taken off you as he heard the door open. He smiled softly when he saw Wanda walk in. She had been feeling antsy ever since she left. She didn’t know what, but something was urging her to come seek you out. The way her heart fluttered when you and her locked eyes confused yet intrigued her. Her eyes widened when she saw Bruce stitching up her side.

Steve have her an exhausted smile as she took a swat next to him. Wanda frowned as she could feel how anxious he was. “You never mentioned you had a sister.” She commented with a snippy edge. He glanced at her, noticing her small smirk. He sighed, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“When I went into the ice, she was seventeen. She’s at least twenty-three now. She should be at least 80. Which means for 80 years she has been in HYDRA’s clutches for decades and I didn’t figure it out.” He whispered sadly. Wanda reached over to squeeze it.

“You couldn’t have known.” She whispered.

“But I should have. I should have known.” He repeated, seeming distraught. Wanda wanted to take his mind off it so she asked about her. It helped distract Steve enough, so he wasn’t constantly hovering over Bruce. It also helped to quench Wanda’s compulsion to ask about you more and more.

“When we were kids, our parents used to take us to this field and there was this tree that Y/n made it her mission to climb for weeks. She tried and then when she did. She fell off,” he chuckled. “She never wanted to get down. My father usually had to climb up and get her.” He smiled at the memory.

“And then our parents died, and we only had each other. And then Bucky. She lost him too. She lost everyone. I’m glad Peggy was there for her once I went under. I always wondered if Y/n had a crush on her.” He joked, causing Wanda to giggle.

Bruce had finished stitching you up. He pulled the gloves off his hands and stood up. “The sedation will wear off soon and I’ve given her some medication to help with the pain.” Bruce smiled.

Steve nodded, his eyes travelling to the door. Bucky walked in, his eyes widening. “Y/n?” He whispered, his voice strained. He looked at Steve and he nodded.

Bucky hugged Steve tightly, laughing in excitement. “I can’t believe it.” He whispered, pulling back.

“Me either.”

An hour later and you began to stir. The pain in your side was bearable, but you could tell it was numbed. “Steve…” you called out, reaching up to rub your eyes. You looked down and saw that the girl who saved you… Wanda was resting her hand on yours. You looked at your hands and then at her before your eyes shot up to see Steve.

“Y/n… how- how are you?”

You smiled. But then your smile dropped. “B-Bucky?” You gasped. He stood up and grinned, walking up to you.

“Hey doll, happy to see me?”

“Is everyone who is supposed to be dead not dead? Is Peggy?”

“No… no she, she died a few years ago.” Steve said sadly. You frowned.

“I’m sorry. Did you at least get some time with her?”

Steve smiled, nodding. “A little.”

That little piece of information made you smile. Peggy had always wished for more time, that was it, and you were glad that they had gotten time together, even if it was only a small amount. Bucky came around and held your free hand. He brought it up to his lips he kissed your hand, and then smiled brightly up at you. "Things haven't been the same without you. I've missed you every day." He sighs, and you cast your eyes over to Wanda. She seemed annoyed. There was a small crinkle in between her brows that gave away her annoyance. You wanted nothing more than to. Make it go away. You pulled your hand from Bucky's grip, a small smile on your face.

"I missed you too, Buck." He frowned.

"What happened to you?" Steve asked, and you sighed.

"Well... since you destroyed HYDRA's plan to blow up the world they were angry with you so they took their frustrations out on me, at first it was purely anger based torture, but then they decided they needed me, so they experimented on me and then once they successfully turned me into an enhanced super solider, they froze me I guess, I don 't really remember much, I woke up a few years ago. It was weird I was the same age, but it was like a million years had passed. The world looks so different now. I- I don't think I'll ever be able to catch up." You explained. They all listened to your story intently. Wanda squeezed your hand as if to remind you that she was still here, or to support you, you didn't know which.

"They tortured you?" Steve asked brokenly.

You looked up at him and shook your head. "I survived, I'm okay."

"You're strong." The girl spoke up. You looked at her and smiled softly. Her eyes captured you as she stared at you. You couldn't find the strength to look away. Her features were soft, her eyes assessing you. There was this connection like there was something about her that pulled you into her orbit. She was truly gorgeous, from her fair skin to her cute button nose. You swallowed. Clearing your throat, you smiled.

"You feeling okay?" She asked, her hand still on yours. Her warmth was comforting.

"I'm as okay as I can be." You say with a smile. She continued to stare until a noise blurted out, causing you to jump. Steve smiled apologetically at you. He then pulled out a small square thing and tapped it. You frowned.

"Yes, Tony. I know. She’s okay.” He said, talking into the tiny magic box.

“I’ll update you on this when she has rested.” He muttered. Shoving the square thing back into his pocket.

A sudden chill wracked through my body and in a second the room had warmed and the chill of the room replaced with a toasty feeling. You glanced at Wanda and saw the red tint in her eyes. You tilted your head slightly, looking at the glow in her irises.

“Your eyes change colour?” You asked.

"A side effect of my power." She said, her hands glowing as she showed me. The red glow is similar to the red shield that encased you earlier, only darker, more vibrant. You looked at her in pure fascination. Your hand came up to touch her glowing hand, but Bucky quickly intercepted grabbing your wrist softly.

"Careful, doll, that energy stings." He said, glancing at Wanda's frown.

"Only when I want them to." She said with a feline smirk. In the split second, she made a decision. A small ball of her power shot out from her finger and slammed into Bucky's hand that was still gripping my wrist. He hissed in pain, ripping his hand away. He started shaking his hand as if it would stop the pain. Wanda giggled as he swore at her.

You grinned at the interaction. Your mind was reeling from today. So much had happened, and there was still so much to learn. You were eager to learn all about this new era, but even more eager to learn about the powerful redhead at your bedside. As if she could read minds, she turned to you and smiled. You smiled back, loving the blissful look on her face. You didn't spare Bucky a second glance as Steve called him over.

Tag list

@blackxwidowsxwife @g-cordelia @causeitswhatjesuswouldfreakingdo @cristin-rjd @yeetus-thyself @xxxtwilightaxelxxx @upsidedowndanvers @wanda-nats-slut @i1ovewanda @littlewinchester15 @fishlikestuff @gengen64 @procrastinatingsapphictrash @liladoesfanfics @baller2412 @rice-wiife @tomy5girls @srtamercury @nothingisrealanyway @marvelwomen-simp @darshikaria @ria900 @ic-4u @atlas-nex @xxromanoffxx @kcthewifitheif @fairydxll @strangegardentaco @maxxione @pbeckn26

[th3-0bjectivist]

My visit to the NASCAR Hall of Fame (Charlotte, NC - JUN 29 2024)

Every year for a few years now, I try to do an Independence Day post where I walk around a few cemeteries and snap some cool photos. But this is an election year, and I'm concerned that I'm going to have to soft-block some political zealot high on their own farts that will leave intellectual gems in the comments like 'Drumpf IZ Hitler!' or 'down with left-cucks in 24!'. So instead, I'm going to share some pictures that I took at the NASCAR Hall of Fame in Charlotte, and you can leave all the unrelated jabbering political frivolity that you'd like in the comments section.

For the record, I'm not into NASCAR at all. I haven't watched a full single race in my lifetime, and I tend to associate it with rednecks driving in circles. Which, to my chagrin, I was dead wrong in my interpretation on. Well, except for the redneck part. There's a hell of a lot more to these beautiful cars than I thought. My visit to this specialized museum was a delicate mix of history, art and science lessons!

The first thing I learned is that although these cars look fully assembled from the outside, they have nearly all the standard parts taken out (the radio, the average driver wheel, the headlights, etc.) and the bodies are composed of a flat sheet of durable metal. These days the car panels, which are composite materials like plastic coated with fibreglass, are then painted over to make a colorful, and often very corporate piece of art that is ready to drive at breakneck speeds. This all makes the modified car as light and agile as possible on the speedway.

In the U.S. south, where I reside these days, stock car racing's roots took hold from prohibition. Stock car racing wasn't just about competition; it was about taking your very fast car and running moonshine and illegally imported booze to different regions around Appalachia. Getting away from highway patrol meant stripping your car of excessive weight and parts, allowing for maximum maneuverability around hairpin turns and extreme acceleration up and down steep hills… all while a 1000-pound barrel of booze was strapped down in the back seat.

This is a picture I snapped inside the Hall of Honor, and that man is Richard 'the King' Petty. As a non-NASCAR fan, his face is the face I most associate with NASCAR, as his signature moustache, glasses and hat stand out to me as a truly memorable and iconic driver. But it’s not just the driver that participates. In NASCAR, your team is composed of a chief, who spots opportunities from television monitors and signals the driver through radio to execute specific moves to win the race, all while managing the rest of the team.

The pit crew consists of mechanics, a jackman (runs around the car with a heavy jack to raise the automobile during a maintenance pit stop), a cut-off valve attendant for refuelling, and a driver attendant who helps the driver get in and out of the car. It doesn't just take an individual driver, but a full team to assist the driver in winning the race. Drivers have suffered concussions, bone fractures, severe burns, whiplash, traumatic bodily injuries and death. Talk about bleeding for your craft!

And now for some art! Pictured above is a full-scale clay model of a Next Gen Ford Mustang. These days, clay models of racing cars are developed from digital designs and used to capture approvals from companies to lay down a final design for a race-worthy automobile. Once you pack a V-8 engine into one of these babies and recreate it out of a steel tube frame, you've got a vehicle that can reach speeds above 200 miles per hour.

Here's my pops, Dave, who I took to this museum as a birthday present. He's a NASCAR freak, and this little excursion to the Hall of Fame actually made him cry for a beat as he recalled decades worth of memories of racers, historic moments, and images of historic back-to-back victories for drivers and their teams.

Every car has the potential to be a race car. It just takes some weight-loss surgery or a good initial design, some driver safety features, and a colorful skin to make the whole thing faster, more agile, and more appealing to the eye. I have to say I never expected to absorb so much from the NASCAR HoF. I was grateful for my visit and wanted to share a portion of what I learned to Tumblr as a fun little sidebar.

I hope you enjoyed this post. And rest assured, you will never see another NASCAR post on my page ever again… y'know, unless it’s a meme or something!

Happy 4th,

th3-0bjectivist (Luke)

[ADDENDUM (07/05/2024): Tumblr ryanthedemiboy pointed out to me in the comments that the third paragraph in this post probably needed some modifications regarding the actual description of the panels, which I originally and ignorantly described as an ‘outer metal hull’. While this might have been the case with older NASCAR vehicles, in modern times the panels are at best ‘metal-skinned’, if that, and manufactured from carbon fibre. Also, older NASCAR vehicles were painted and repainted, but ever since the early 2000’s these vehicles are simply wrapped in a vinyl skin. Thank you for your insight ryanthedemiboy, I will ‘stay in my lane’ so to speak in the future and give these topics, that are alien to me, the research they deserve before I post!]

[itsscromp]

Unexpected friendship

Ok so, so it's time to flex my literacy muscles again and branch out to other COD characters. Today it is Alex Keller's turn, Originally this was conceived as a Simon idea, but it shifted course as I feel Alex would be a sweeter touch. Also, shout out to bestie @callofdudes for helping pre-conceive the idea. Warning: Slight angst but ends in fluff. Word Count:1.2K

You didn't know how it happened, all you knew was that you were tasked with a mission to defuse an explosive when you found it, But as you began to defuse it, everything soon went blank. All you could remember was that you were in throbbing pain.

You were in a coma for about 2 days, Waking up to the bright lights and beeping sounds of the monitor next to you, just great. You tried to prop yourself up until a pair of arms gently sat you back down.

"Easy sergeant, just relax" Price said to you, feeling a slight relief when he was their.

"What... What happened..." You groaned as he handed you a cup of water to soothe your dry throat.

"You were caught in a blast radius when you tried to defuse the bomb, placed in a coma soon after." He took a deep breath, you could see that he was biting his tongue on something important.

"Price ?? What happened..." You grew increasingly concerned.

"Y/n... there's no easy way to say this, but... they did everything they could..."

He gently pulled down the blankets to reveal to your horror... Your right leg was amputated.

During the explosion, the blast radius practically shattered the bones in your right leg almost beyond repair, When you were brought back into medical, the doctors tried to do everything to avoid an amputation. But they knew the multiple surgeries that would follow, they knew you couldn't do that. So it was in your best interest that they went ahead with the amputation.

"Price... where's my leg..."

"Y/n, I know this is a lot to take in right now but you need to calm down.."

"Where's my fucking leg !!?" You tried to get up, but Price gently as he could, held you down. "Get off !!" You cried as the news of this overwhelmed you.

"Y/n... It's ok... It's gonna be ok" Price tried to hold his own tears back, seeing you like this.

You were a vegetable now, your military career was officially over because of this. You would be forced to leave, you couldn't do it, you didn't want to leave Price, Simon, Johnny and Gaz. It slumped you into a deep depression. They could see it during the months of rehabilitation, You lacked the same bubbly energy that you had. Feeling unmotivated to simply get out of bed. But what really hit you hard was when the doctor then came into your room to take some measurements of your thigh.

"What are you doing ??" You said bluntly.

"I'm just taking measurements of your thigh so we can fit you with a new prosthetic le..."

"No, No prosthetics..." You immediately said before he could even finish the sentence.

"Sergeant, you'll be able to walk again" He tried to convince you, softly smiling.

"No, I have the choice. If I don't want a leg, I say I don't want a leg !!!" You tried not to yell at him, but couldn't help but raise your voice at the frustration of it all.

Price could see you fall down in the dumps faster than you could, he knew neither of the others could help you with this sort of situation... But maybe someone outside the team could.

One day and a couple calls later, Price knocked on your door and gently entered inside. "Hey, kiddo... How are you feeling ??" He went over and gently took your hand.

"They measured my thigh... I don't want a leg, or a wheelchair or anything" You were about to cry again.

"Shhh shhhh, It's ok" He gently kissed your temple as he gently rocked you.

Once you calmed down, he spoke up again. "Y/n, I have someone I want you to meet... Is that ok ??"

It took a little bit but eventually, you nodded, slowly he let you go and then went to the door, inviting the mystery person in, You looked over and saw a man with tattoos, a moustache and a prosthetic leg.

"Hey, pal... my name is Alex, the cap has told me all about you y/n" He gently smiled, kneeling by your side.

"Hey..." You didn't even look at him when he came over to you.

He could see how much this whole situation has affected you, the doubt, the insecurities and the fear. He knew it all to well.

"Y/n... I get it... I really do..." He looked at you sincerely.

You sat there for a bit until you began to look at him, you saw kind eyes and a genuine smile. He was telling the truth.

"I felt everything that you are feeling right now, I thought that I was going to lose my job because of it, I thought I wouldn't be able to live my life that way I would. But that..." He gently took your hand and gently squeezed it. "That wasn't true, I am still thriving in my own life and job just like I was before, this... this is just a slight hurdle, I know you can jump over it." He smiled at you.

Price who was standing nearby saw the familiar glint in your eyes shine again for a bit.

"And plus" He lifted his pant leg up slightly and showed off his prosthetic, which had a camo colour. "You'll be able to customise it to many different colours" He smiled proudly.

Your smile started to grow a little. "Pretty cool"

"Yeah, it is actually. Y/n, I promise that this is only temporary, what your feeling. You still have so much purpose with the captain and your team. Ok ??" He squeezed your hand gently.

Alex was right, this was only temporary. What you were feeling is temporary, true it will be hard and all, but you will be back onto your feet.

"And if you want to, I'll be there for you every step of the way." He offered.

"Ok..."

So after that, you began your rehabilitation process. It was long, hard and painful. but like he promised, Alex was there with you for every step of it all, when you began to tumble, he helped pick you up. When it felt impossible, He'd help remind you. All the way through it.

8.5 Months later

You were back out onto the field, now fixed with your prosthetic leg. You shined so hard again, You were happy again. Having this leg didn't stop you at all. Alex then called you as soon as he heard the news you got the leg.

"Y/n, hey I heard you got your leg ??" You could hear him smile through the phone.

"I did, It was a little getting used to but that's more of putting no weight on it for too long" You shrugged as you began to put your leg back on.

"Yeah, that happened to me the first time, But it gets easier. I'm really proud of you pal, I really am. You showed immense courage throughout and never gave up. You should be too y/n."

"I am Alex... I couldn't have done this without you" You felt happy tears brim in your eyes as you said that.

You made an amazing friend, who was able to help you and guide you since day one, But one who also got what you were feeling. You would never be truly alone.

A/N: If this proves to be popular, I'll consider opening up to Alex requests.

Taglist: @callofdudes @fun-k-board

[octuscle]

So this one Black guy I've been working out with said he needed a new boyfriend, and now I'm swelling up with muscle and fat. My skin's gotten a lot darker, too. What's happening?

Malcolm is a picture of a man. A nubian god. Ebony black, flawless body. Works as a personal trainer here at the studio. Actually, you have no idea why someone like that is training with a linnet like you. But you didn't question it. You enjoy it as long as it goes well.

The chocolate protein shake after training tastes bitter. And sweet at the same time. It's incredibly rich. Malcolm empties his canister in one go. You can't quite manage it. But almost. And then you have to burp. Malcolm laughs. And you say goodbye with a fist bump. You can feel the questioning looks from the other guests. What does the Adonis want with the linnet?

I'm neither particularly clever nor particularly successful. The training with Malcolm is actually starting to take effect. But you still have arms like twigs. And your pale, pimply face with the red hair isn't exactly an eye-catcher either. Nevertheless, you got a decent job as a developer in the administration department of a large insurance company. It pays good money. And you work in a nice team where you are largely left alone. Thank God. Because things are different today. As you develop your code, you notice how your hands change. Your fingers are getting meatier. And the skin darkens. You grin. Is it the chocolate milk? Hardly. More likely the light in the office, you suspect. You're having a good run today. Work is going well. Normally you need your peace and quiet, but now you feel like listening to music at work. You put on your airpods and ask Siri for some chill tunes to help you concentrate. At lunchtime, you order something from the Indian restaurant. In the evening you had sushi. You've forgotten the time. You look at your watch. Obviously it's time to go home. Apparently you're fantasizing. When did you start wearing such a fat gold watch? And the back of your hand really looks like you probably do after three weeks of beach vacation. In other words, like a normal person after a three-week beach vacation. You'd probably be red as a sheet. Barry White is booming out of your fat overears. It's time to go home and go to bed.

While you're brushing your teeth, your moustache is bothering you. You didn't have one this morning. And the whiskers are black. But your teeth are dazzling white. But maybe it's only because of the dark color of your face. Damn, it must be the protein shake. Your pyjama bottoms are tight around your thighs. And the T-shirt is stretched across your chest. When the alarm clock wakes you up at 05:30, it doesn't. You ripped it off your upper body in your sleep.

Malcolm is waiting for you with a big grin and a chocolate protein shake. As you fist-bump, you notice that his skin is barely any darker than yours. You're lifting more than ever. You're sweating like a pig. But this is the best workout ever. As you rub the sweat from your forehead, something is different. Something is missing. Your hair. Your hands are calloused. Like from years of hard workouts. You look in the mirror. The horseshoe on your face makes you look older. Is that why Malcolm calls you "Daddy"? You just grin about it. Nevertheless, you need to take a shower now. Malcolm, because the first paying customers are about to arrive. You, because as head of department you want to be the first and last in the office.

Normally you can easily wrap towels around your hips in the gym. Today it only lasts a few steps. Then it slips to the floor. No wonder, with your roid gut padded with healthy fat. As you pick up the towel, your gaze falls on your reflection in the mirror. Your cock is dangling between your legs. As big as a beer can, even though it's flaccid. And it's as black as a piece of coal. Like your bushy pubic hair. You're no longer a pimply twenty-year-old Irishman. You're black African-American prime beef. A sweaty black piece of prime beef. You need to take a shower.

Malcolm has soaped himself up by the time you arrive in the shower. Damn, your cock has a life of its own. He slowly gets up. Malcolm grins. And drops the soap.

Pic found @roughridingrednecks

[fiveredlights]

I can't lie, I'm obsessed with your daniel ricciardo: team principal fic so I'd like to hear what's to come please? :3 probably cheating by asking about 2 fics in one but is the inception one Maxiel as well? Because oh boy I would love to hear about it too...

I'm sorry, you write so well I just want to hear about all of them now :D

daniel team principal au:

Max nods slowly, blinking a couple times as he searches for what to say. Daniel reaches across the table with his palm up and Max slides his hand in without hesitation.

Easily, one might say.

“I think maybe we have already gone through all the difficult bits so we deserve the easy things now,” Max says simply.

inception au:

When Max finds Daniel he’s lounging on a beach chair, wearing some god awful designer patterned silk set, sunglasses low on his nose, nursing a beer, rolling his three sided die in between his fingers.

And he’s got that fucking moustache again.

the interlude/summer break chapter is basically just max and daniel sitting down being like whatever shit we’ve held in to each other over the past couple of years needs to come out because i think they both know they’re probably exiting summer break in a different type of relationship.

like they probably know they love each other but this is the final hurdle to cross that bridge so they don’t enter a relationship with ghosts that pop back up halfway through!

inception au my (not so secret now) beloved child that mainly exists in my head… it’s basically if arthur and eames were together and the main focus of the movie but with maxiel. it’s a very loose interpretation of the movie, like the characters aren’t 1 to 1 but the whole dreaming stuff is roughly the same. no dead wives or estranged children they do it for the money and for the fact if they pull this off toto or whoever the client is will wipe their ledgers clean.

sebastian and lewis run the whole thing, and they recruit charles (the ariadne) as the architect etc. he’s a little bit infatuated with sebastian and daniel laughs his ass off when he watches charles realise that lewis is seb’s husband. whoops. alex and george are also there, alex as the chemist and george as the money.

maxiel are in a ??? relationship, like a friends with benefits that hate each other but also flirt with each other until their dying breath but also only ever fuck with each other. so dating but without ever saying the word dating otherwise both of them will run. max is the arthur, daniel the eames and their totems match—daniel has a 3 sided die and max has a poker chip with 33 white squares on the outer ring (because i’m annoying like that)

the actual inceptioning itself is something ridiculous like toto hiring them to intercept into christian or zak’s mind to get them to sign one of the mercedes drivers because toto doesn’t wanna fire them (because 💰) so he thinks paying this group to perform a complicated and never done before inception is easier… yeah rich people are weird but anyways

[treblrebl]

Cam - The Unsung

Booth should add Cam's name to his list of saints. That woman has one HELL of a thankless job as the administrator of the Medico-Legal lab. The irony of her position is that the better she does her job, the less it looks like her position is needed. And being the calm, steady one in a team full of highly individualistic, radical personalities means that her own specialized intelligence often gets ignored. When you have 'works-on-a different-plane-of-thought' Brennan, affable-yet-utterly-mad scientist Hodgins, and queen-of-lateral-thinking Angela on your team, your astute leadership skills and pathological expertise are not given their due importance.

Which is a bloody travesty. The Medico-Legal lab's job is not only to determine the truth, but also to make certain that the analysis can be utilized and presented successfully in court. Before Cam, the team was essentially a group of genius scientists working on individual remains on an as-is basis. Booth was correct in Season 2 when he told Brennan that Cam's objective is to ensure a successful prosecution. And in order to safeguard the findings of the team from being thrown out on a legal technicality, she is bound by the rules of the Justice Dept, the FBI and the Jeffersonian board. It sucks that time and again her team chastise her for doing so.

I mean the poor woman was treated like a traitor by her team for not lying to the authorities when Brennan was framed by Pelant. I mean, sure Angela, Cam should just lie about the evidence implicating Brennan. It's not like evidence in murder cases has a long chain of custody, and any fudging would be soon discovered. It's not as though Cam wouldn't immediately nuke her career and possibly her freedom by actively sabotaging a Federal murder inquiry.

And look - I love Hodgins but I'm surprised how fans of the show either ignore or simply brush over the times he blatantly uses his financial privilege without considering the ramifications to other people. I mean seriously, do we really think he would be so free to full off half his shenanigans if he wasn't the last scion of the Cantilever group, and thus enjoyed donor privilege? He regularly swipes items from other departments and exhibits, often without approval. He brews alcohol in Jeffersonian owned instruments and sets off minor explosions. His intentions are never ever malicious, and he is genuinely an adult version of the boy who loved to take everything apart to see how things worked. But let's face it - ANY other person would have faced severe consequences for these actions. Remember the Founder's Day party? It would have been Cam's job to take the heat for the decimated Mexican succulents and unauthorized drinking in the workplace. I wonder just how much she's shielded her team from - and whether she's ever been acknowledged.

Gods even in the episode where Wendell comes back after his chemo and lets Cam know that he takes medical marijuana to deal with the pain - did she have ANY recourse but to let him go? She stuck her neck out for Finn but Caroline bulldozed her, and with justifiable reason. She was stuck between the same rock and hard place with Wendell. And wow, the way Angela and Hodgins immediately painted her as a moustache twirling villain laughing at Wendell's pain infuriated me. They should realize how hypocritical their stance is - after all when Brennan left for Maluku and Booth for Afghanistan they had a proper cause and mission. Hodgins and Angela left simply because they could, and because they didn't want to put in the effort of breaking in a new team, however temporarily. Cam was left in the dust.

So here's to Camille Saroyan - woman of infinite patience, empathy and the ability to handle rambunctious adults. May she one day get the recognition she deserves.