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itsthecline · 8 months ago

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stop staring at me

maybank!reader x rafe cameron

summary after rafe almost killed your brother , you had some choice words to say to him and later that night to kie

warnings profanity , reader pushes rafe and snaps on kie , allusions to depression

it was that time of the year for the enduro to take place , which meant jj was entering himself , and most likely betting on himself too. the enduro was a huge bike race. there was only rule : race to the old buoy and back. jj was confident in himself this year , telling you to get a good spot to see him win. so , that’s what you did.

you stood at the finish line with sarah , kie , and pope , watching your brother talk to john b before the race. just as cleo finished up her work , rafe rolled up beside them. “great , my brother’s here,” sarah groaned , lips curling in disgust.

from the distance , you could still tell rafe was looking at you. his eyes were squinted due to the sun beating down on everyone , but you couldn’t read his mind anymore. you didn’t know what he was staring at you for. especially when he lost the right to stare at you such a long time ago. you had heard the rumors that he was dating sofia— you knew her , worked with her at the club. he didn’t have the right anymore.

“if he fucks with jj at all this race , i will personally take on the task of killing him,” you announced , crossing your arms and glaring at him until he looked away. john b jogged up to you guys , grabbing his jacket and sarah before walking away.

“what do you think that’s about?” pope wondered , eyes following your friends.

you shrugged , muttering you’ll be back before heading to jj. in your path was rafe. it almost looked like he was walking toward you , so you moved to the side and pushed him with your hand when you crossed paths. “asshole,” you cough. you hated hating him , but right now you were more worried about jj. “i don’t know what you’re up to , little brother , but do not be stupid. please?” you started blunt when you reached jj and his bike.

“i’m not up to anything that’s going to end up doing us more harm than good. promise,” jj assured you , squeezing your hand, “trust me that i’ve got this.”

so badly , you wanted to. you wanted to believe that this was jj’s year to win , but you knew rafe inside and out. you knew how dirty he was always willing to get. “just be careful. i don’t want to pick up jj guts if you crash , ‘kay? you know rafe and topper are gonna wanna—“

“y/n! i said i’ve got this. jb is gonna ride with me. chill,” jj interrupted you almost whining, “go back to the group. i’ll see you when i cross the finish line.”

you rolled your eyes before deciding he was right. “love you , dork,” you smiled , knocking on the front of his bike before heading back to your friends. you hear jj shouting he loved you back in response. sarah intercepted you before you made it all the way back to your spot.

“what you and jj talk about?” she questioned , watching her boyfriend over your shoulder, “did you know?”

“know what? what are you talking about?” you rambled , swatting her hands off of you in confusion.

sarah looked over both her shoulders like she was paranoid someone was listening. “john b just told me that jj bet the last nugget on himself,” she whispered , getting closer to you so her words wouldn’t slip out into the loose air.

“are you kidding me?”

you were anxiously waiting alongside your friends for the race to end. you hadn’t seen jj since his rocky start to the race. the most intel you had was what the announcers were giving you. and it wasn’t sounding good. that’s when he decided to change courses , taking a near fifty foot jump to potentially cut in front of rafe and get into first place.

“i’m going to throw up,” you groaned , holding your stomach and covering your mouth. you squinted you eyes , not having the courage to look at it head on as you see jj flying through the air on his bike. your eyes clamped shut , waiting for everyone to cheer or ooh. whichever one happened , you knew you’d have to wait until everyone was done either the race to do something , and that’s what killed you.

sarah grabbed your shoulders and shook you as she jumped up and down , screaming, “he made it! oh , my god! he made it!” your eyes shot open seeing jj land upright , which was enough for you.

you and your friends , the crowd too even , went crazy , cheering jj on as he was so close to finishing with rafe right behind him to see it. “oh , my god,” you flinched , seeing what rafe was about to do before everyone else, “i’m going to kill him.” rafe was always competitive , and he was very serious about the enduro. the fact that he was racing jj just pushed him harder. he was swerving , trying to get jj to wipe out right in front of him , fighting for first place.

“they’re going to crash,” sarah predicted , holding your hand in hers tightly. it was like her words triggered the action , like her saying it sealed the deal.

their bikes collided , sending both jj and rafe flying over their bikes and into the sand. it took everything in you to not run onto the track and check on your brother , not seeing him move immediately. sarah anchored you in your spot , not letting you jump into action. topper was coming up in third , now first ; john b was right behind him. of course , it got worse.

john b was headed right for jj , and topper was going to win. you completely turned away this time , not wanting to see john b hit jj with his bike. you didn’t hear any collision , only cheering and the announcer shouting about topper’s first place win. “guys!” sarah shouted , dropping your hand and running out to the boys as soon as the last biker crossed the finish line. you followed her out but headed for rafe instead.

“are you fucking kidding me?” you yelled , shoving him back down into the sand as he was getting up with all of your force, “you almost killed my brother! and yourself! you idiot! do you think at all?” your voice was loud , louder than you had ever used with rafe before. the anger in your eyes was new too.

rafe pushed himself up off the ground and dusted off his clothes before glaring down at you. “what do you care?” he sneered, “your brother’s fine. i just made sure he didn’t win ; heard he bet something real valuable on himself. spending money like a pogue.” with that , rafe turned , wanting to walk away before the argument escalated like he knew it would. it always did.

“asshole!” you yelled , shoving at his back to successfully make him face you again, “stop taking your shit out on us! stop staring at me all of the time! just stop!” you continued to shove at his chest until he grabbed your wrists to stop you. he had noticed the people starting to stare at you two before letting you go , and you felt someone’s finger hook on your belt loop ; like they were ready to pull you back in case rafe did something. your guess was kie. it was always kie who did that.

“knock it off , y/n. i’m not doing this shit here,” rafe groaned , wiping his hand down his face in frustration just as sofia walked up to him.

she spoke softly , eyes not even taking a moment to look at you. she was focused on rafe. “everything okay over here?”

“rafe doesn’t need you to back him up right now , sofia. he’s a grown man,” you barked , getting her to snap her neck in your direction.

“no , i don’t,” rafe agreed, “and i don’t need to argue with you anymore. seriously , y/n , this is ridiculous! the race is over! your brother lost , and that means you lose. it’s over,” he finished , grabbing sofia’s hand and walking away from you , hot and angry tears rolling down your cheeks.

“you okay , bubs?” jj asked you as stepped in front of you , grabbing your face in his hands. his eyes scanned yours , but he couldn’t find anything behind them. he followed your gaze , turning over his shoulder. he found himself watching rafe and sofia making out by his truck , so he quickly looked away. “y/n?”

“you have something to tell me?” you questioned , blinking hard once as you focused on what was important in the moment, “hmm?” you huffed , quickly wiping at the tear and running a hand through your hair as you came back to reality. you already knew , but jj needed to tell you himself as well.

“fuck,” jj cursed , looking down at his feet in the sand. it was bad. “let’s go talk,” he suggested , pulling you by your arm away from everyone else down the beach. you stopped after you got far enough , crossing your arms and looking at jj for some sort of answer. “i — i , uh , i bet the last nug,” he confessed , still not looking at you. he didn’t want to see the way your face dropped, “fuck!” he yelled , throwing his helmet onto the sand in frustration. his hands covered his face before he plopped to the ground.

“fuck is right,” you replied simply after taking a deep breath so you didn’t lose it on him too. you moved and took a seat next to him , wrapping your arm over his shoulder. “you did good today , jacky,” you reassured him , kissing his temple, “we’ll figure it out.”

it was later that night , and you found yourself swinging on the bench that hung on the porch. after the race , everyone started flipping out about the money. you ended up agreeing on the next course of action. that left you all to your own devices , and you desperately needed to be away from everyone.

“hey , i’ve been looking for ya.” kie’s sweet voice brought you back from your swirling thoughts, “you look lonely,” she added softer , taking a seat next to you.

“i’m not lonely,” you brushed her off , crossing your arms and scooting away ever so slightly, “i don’t need a babysitter right now either , kie. i know everyone’s talking about me— about me yelling at rafe earlier ; i can see the looks you’re giving me.” you thought back to how worried jj looked when he first saw you after the race , and it killed you to know you were the reason for the wrinkles in his face. “i’m fine.”

kie let out a slow , deep breath and nodded. “okay , well , no one in the history of ever that’s said that was fine , so i’m gonna ask you a question , and i want you to answer it honestly because i’m not here to judge you. i’m your best friend ; i’m here to help you,” she leaned forward , trying to catch your eye before she accused you of anything, “what happened between you and rafe?”

your eyes betrayed you , flashing with hurt as you looked at her. “nothing.”

“y/n/n , c’mon. you can tell me everything. i heard you guys at singh’s ; i heard what he said today — heard what you said,” she tried again, “i know you. i know something is wrong. i know something has been wrong. i wanna help.” kie hadn’t brought any of her worries up to anyone yet.

you took a deep breath before shifting and facing her. “do you see me asking you what happened between you and rafe , kie?” you wondered aloud, “because i’m not. it’s not polite,” you added , grabbing her hands in your, “i know you. i know rafe way more than than i’d like , and i know something happened with you guys during your little kook year , but i’m not asking you. it’s not my business.”

“y/n—“

“no , kie!” you cut her off, “i choose not to talk about this thing i have going on , okay? it’s not because i don’t love and trust you. it’s because it’s over! it doesn’t matter anymore. and— and i can’t talk about this specific thing with the people i want to most. it’s killing me ; it really is , but i’m fine.” kie didn’t say anything in response. she just looked at you with her jaw slack. “i love you. i’m going to bed.”

and with that you went inside and tried to sleep , wanting nothing more than for this day to end , wanting nothing more than to be able to start dreaming and see rafe like you used to.

taglist @maybankslover @annatartastic @maroonz @ravenmedows @yootvi @icaqttt

#twin maybank!reader #pogue!reader #ex girlfriend!reader #rafe cameron smut #rafe cameron x reader #outerbanks rafe #rafe cameron imagine #rafe outer banks #rafe cameron #rafe x you

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groxglitch · 2 years ago

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Walter: Got a job for you, 621. This one comes from me personally. There's exactly one Wendy's left on Rubicon, and they just brought back the Baconator. I don't know about you, but both myself and the rest of the crew are tired of living off Coral mealworms and smuggled-in combat rations.

Your job is simple: Insert, make your way to the Wendy's drive through and place the order. Once it's ready, pick it up and make your way to the rendezvous point for extraction. I've forwarded everyone's orders, as well as the needed COAM, to your account.

Intel suggests Balam already has a token force on-site to claim the Wendy's for themselves, including a reinforced MT squad and that one Redgun that keeps sending you hate mail, Iguana or whatever his name is. They're not mission-critical targets, but I can throw a little extra in for every hostile destroyed. That should send a clear message to Balam that the Wendy's is neutral ground.

Don't let us down, 621. This one's for the guys who keep putting your AC back together after every sortie. Ayre: Raven, can... can we get spicy nuggets? It should be an option in the Four for $4 and you know I love spicy food. I don't have the COAM on hand but I live in your head anyway, so... y'know.

#armored core 6 #armored core vi #shitpost

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batsandbirdbrains · 2 months ago

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So I recently remembered that Dick’s mob enforcer era exists and so this little nugget has been bouncing around my head all damn day

The one where the yj team finds out about Crutches

So let’s say that after season 2 of yj, Dick is extra depressed, blames himself for everything that went wrong, and everyone’s also being Really Mean to him about everything. Do I want the Tarantula shit to have happened all at the same time? Maybe. To add to the trauma of it all. Can do without it tho I guess so I’ll leave it up to interpretation.

BUT I do want to also have made Artemis not join the under cover op, so instead Dick had to do double duty and spend half his time as Renegade, Deathstroke’s Apprentice, to make sure Kaldur had backup when he needed it.

Anyway for the main idea, it’s really just that everyone realizes they haven’t seen or heard from Nightwing since the invasion ended. It’s been like 8 months, and he’s never shown his face on the Watchtower, hasn’t been in the news, hasn’t checked in on comms, or asked for intel for a case, nothing. Even Batman grudgingly admits to having a bit of a falling out with him, and he hasn’t heard from him in months.

No idea how to get to this point, but maybe he shows up on a security feed from a totally unrelated case the League and team are working on involving Black Mask, and now they’re looking into a connection with the Tevis crime family. And lo and behold, there on the screen, even though it’s grainy as hell, is Dick Grayson breaking a guys wrists with crutches and kicking the shit out of him. And the more they dig, the more they find out about “Crutches,” a new enforcer that Tommy Tevis himself seems pretty damn find of.

And no one can figure out how Nightwing, their former team leader, the nineteen year old kid, is somehow connected to a mob family. Some say he must be undercover, he must be running his own op, somethings going on.

But the more they dig, the grimmer it looks. Dick is living with Tommy and his family. Tommy calls him a son. And they see pictures and videos from months ago of Dick looking rundown and actually needing those crutches, and he was so thin and gaunt, a blank look in his eyes that hasn’t quite gone away even in more recent images. He’s looking better now, and there’s pictures of him with Tommy that Batman admits look like he’s genuinely smiling.

It’s concerning.

Then maybe they dig a little deeper and find out about tarantula. Or if she’s not part of it, maybe they find out Deathstroke was a bit more involved with his apprentice than anyone realized. And they start seeing proof that Nightwing was actually looking more and more run down before the invasion even ended, that he was clearly spiraling while still somehow managing to hold it all together enough to fool the entire team and the justice league to thinking he was fine. That when he probably needed them the most, they all turned on him and blamed him for everything they didn’t like about the invasion.

Idk I just like to make Dick spiral out of control and then having everyone else realize they fucked up and caused a lot of it.

#dick grayson #young justice #nightwing #fic ideas #someone write smth like this pls I beg u

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fatcatlittlebox · 9 months ago

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There were so many interesting nuggets in that scene with Gal and Adar. Many. But one thing in particular that stood out to me was the fact that Gal did not admit to Adar what Sauron had offered her. And I think she kept it secret because as ambivalent and confused she feels about him, she instinctively knows that what Sauron feels for her is unique. She is unique. On some level, his feelings were and are real. And that, at least on Sauron’s part, those intimate moments meant something to him. Gal does not want that information in Adar’s hands. Why?

Now if she were the least bit cynical about it, she’d offer that huge piece of intel to Adar and let him weaponize it against Sauron. Like “hey the Dark Lord fancies me. Let’s lure him in and stabby stabby 😈.” But her reflex is to guard it. Guard Sauron. She minimizes their connection instead. It’s just like Halbrand forging Gal’s armor or not drowning her in the Glanduin. They keep protecting each other, supposedly arch nemeses. And I don’t even know if THEY realize why. Dumdum denialheads.

#haladriel #saurondriel #trop spoilers #trop speculation

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mx-loar-tev · 10 months ago

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So, about that fic idea of time traveller/serial killer JJ...

I'm toying with plot ideas.

1. Who would end up on her kill list?

Hastings, Askari and Doyle are the one that would take priority in S6. There are also the ones that JJ would feel the most justified to kill.

Izzy, the bank robbers and the other guy (forgot his name) in Hit/Run would definitely anger her so much that she could decide to preemptively get rid of them before they attack the bank in Washington. Not only she almost lost Will (the guy got shot and almost blown up twice), her son was taken hostage and she had to violently fight in front of him in their home. Her maternal instincts might push her to kill Izzy at the very least. Especially if she had already murdered three people in cold blood before that.

I'd need to rewatch the show, especially seasons 6 to 8 to see who could be on her kill list, but there's another name that come to mind: Diane Turner, the woman that stalked and killed Maeve. JJ had seen how devastated Spence had been after Meave's death, so of course she would do everything to save her and give them the opportunity to date.

The replicator is also someone that could be on the list. After all he tried to kill them all and succeeded with Strauss. I don't think JJ liked Strauss that much, even after she got sober, but the section chief is still "one of them". She also saw what Strauss' death did on Rossi, and for that only the replicator deserves to be on the list. He might not be her easiest target though.

2. About the cases:

With the amount of cases she worked on for over a decade, I think it would be hard for her to remember and keep track of it all. I'm sure she'd try to use the Intel she remembers to help with the case and save more victims, but the load of work that would come from trying to PREVENT all these crimes from happening is way to much for a single person.

Maybe there's some cases that sticked to her though, maybe she could focus on these ones if she wants to prevent them. But she can't save everyone and I'm sure it'd impact her mood severely to realise that.

I think she has a notebook written in code where she put every nugget of informations she can remember, along with ideas of how to approach each situation.

3. The butterfly effect.

Each time she changes something, kills someone that would have lived in the original time line, it has unpredictable repercussions. After a while, it would be hard to predict for JJ what would happen then. And sure, saving people's life is good. But there's no way to predict if someone else isn't going to hurt the person JJ just saved. Or just create an chain of events that would ends in tears and pain. It think at some point JJ would be overwhelmed by it all.

4. Lying to the team.

We know JJ is a great liar. Probably the best liar in the team. Her teammates failed countless times to see through her lies. But no one is perfect, especially with the amount of lies JJ would need to keep track of. I'm not sure yet how she would react from the worried and/or suspicious stares from her teammates. She'd be in a lot of pressure, that's for sure, so maybe she might slip at some point. And when you're surrounded by profiler, that can be a fatal mistake.

5. Her pregnancy.

If she killed Askari and Hastings before her humvee was blown and she miscarried, she probably would have given birth to that child. Her pregnancy and taking care of a newborn would impact the story and her ability to keep going with her mission.

6. Romance.

Sorry, I needed to put that here.

I'm quite flexible on who I ship JJ with. I'm a die-hard jemily shipper, I'll admit, but I think Will is okay even if he's not perfect.

I don't like writing Will as a bad guy, but that doesn't mean I can't write them breaking up for some reasons (JJ's odd behaviour since she arrived in the past and went on a killing spree might damage her marriage.) So that's a possibility, I guess.

But I also love the idea of polyamory. Though I'm already going that route in the fic I'm currently writing so I might want to try something else.

I could just not focus on a ship. Not every fic needs to be shippy. After all, the main interest of this fic is JJ, her psychology, the way she interacts with everyone in her life. There'd also be a huge chunk focusing on motherhood since she'd be pregnant.

Thinking about it, JJ being aromantic is something I haven't explored yet. That could be fun to write.

I haven't decided what I gonna do in that department yet.

7. How it'll end.

Or more exactly, what tone do I want to give to that story?

I mean, it'll probably be dark. But do I want a happy ending for JJ?

Even if she feels justified, what she does is morally blackish grey. That plus the weight of the lies and the amount of work that double life would require would be enough to burn her out. Once she stepped into the darkness it would be a downward spiral.

On the other hand, I like the idea of girlboss JJ being a successful charitable hitman/vigilante. I want her to have a little Deadpool vibe (sans sexual jokes and 4th wall breaking). I want her to find a confortable place where she's okay with what she's doing, even if it requires unsavoury methods.

Regardless of her state of mind, should the story end badly for her? Would her teammates find out about her? Would they arrest her? Would she escape? Would she be killed?

Or would she thrive in her new side work and remain undetected by her fellow profilers?

Would she stay at the BAU, considering she had become an unsub herself?

Do I want a happy ending? A sad one? A bittersweet one?

Thanks for reading through my musings.

If you have ideas or want to discuss that story, feel free to leave a comment/reblog and comment/send me an ask.

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darkmaga-returns · 3 months ago

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Let’s start with that phone call. The Kremlin readout is quite sober – but it does reveal a few nuggets. There is no comprehensive deal – yet – between Moscow and Washington. Far from it: we are just in the initial tentative stage of talking and talking about several interconnected dossiers.

President Putin gave absolutely nothing away. The agreed-upon pause on attacks on energy infrastructure – not energy and (italics mine) infrastructure – spells out as Putin imposing a stop on dangerous Ukrainian hits on the Zaporizhzhia nuclear plant.

That may be lost among all the Western hysteria; but there are two absolute conditions expressed by Moscow for anything in this riddle to start complying with objective reality – and not muddle along as a reality show narrative trainwreck:

1.“The settlement in Ukraine must take into account the unconditional need to eliminate the root causes of the crisis, Russia’s legitimate security interests.” 2.“The key condition for preventing the escalation of the conflict should be a complete cessation of foreign military aid and the provision of intelligence information to Kiev.”

US special envoy Witkoff is spinning that ceasefire “details” will be ironed out on Sunday in Saudi Arabia. No matter the amount of shrieking, Kiev will have to accept it.

Putin-Trump did not spend over 2 hours just talking hockey, hazy Black Sea navigation prospects and a quite limited energy infrastructure missile strike one-month pause.

In this incandescent juncture, what matters is off the record. And that might as well have been Iran. And the prospect of serious Hard Rain fallin’.

I’ve stepped in the middle of seven sad forests I’ve been out in front of a dozen dead oceans I’ve been ten thousand miles in the mouth of a graveyard

A certain psychopathological entity in West Asia is obsessed to ram all its opponents through the mouth of a graveyard. Putin must have had the chance to explain to Trump that Russia respects the UN Charter and abides by international law. Russia and Iran – top BRICS members – signed a comprehensive strategic partnership last January in Moscow. Russia provides detailed ISR/air defense/EW intel to Tehran.

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acideathr · 1 month ago

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‧₊˚♪𝄞࿐₊˚⊹ 𝖙𝖜𝖎𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖉 𝖜𝖔𝖓𝖉𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝄞₊ ⊹ 𝖊𝖛𝖊𝖓𝖙 ● 𝖌𝖑𝖔𝖗𝖎𝖔𝖚𝖘 𝖒𝖆𝖘𝖖𝖚𝖊𝖗𝖆𝖉𝖊 𝗯𝗼𝗼𝗸 𝘁𝘄𝗼 ● 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝘆 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗱𝗿𝗲𝘀𝘀𝗲𝗱 ⤿ 𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗿𝗲𝗲 ● 𝗱𝗲𝗳𝗶𝗻𝗶𝘁𝗲𝗹𝘆 𝗴𝗼𝗼𝗱, 𝗯𝘂𝘁…

♫ .. “ ... 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘯𝘦𝘹𝘵 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘳 ... “ ★ . •° . －𝘢��𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘳 ．．• ♡︎

rollo: here we are.

deuce: i can smell the sugar.

deuce: oh, look! trey's make me those things before!

deuce: they were unbelievable! what were they called again...?

rollo: financiers.

rollo: they're made with wheat flour, almond flour, and browned butter.

azul: you can just see how buttery they are. i imagine they're a bit calorie dense...

rollo: they taste as rich as they look — quite befitting, given the name "financier."

rollo: you see how they look like bars of gold? they say those who eat them will line their pockets with riches.

deuce: riches, huh... haha, sounds like the perfect treat for you, azul!

azul: i don't believe in leaving things to chance… but i suppose doing something for good luck couldn't hurt.

deuce: what's the difference?

azul: oh, there's a world of difference between simply hoping for providence while doing nothing and covering every possible base.

deuce: i think i get it... maybe?

azul: it means there's no point in crossing your fingers and hoping for good grades on a test if you didn't bother studying for it.

deuce: oof...

azul: rollo, are any of these treats supposed to improve test scores?

rollo: i'm afraid not.

azul: oh, too bad. isn't that just terrible, deuce?

deuce: rgh... i can't even argue with that...

azul: a lesson learned, then — if you can't take the heat, get out of the patisserie.

azul: but if you're ever truly in need of help, my doors are always open.

rollo: while we don't have any academic panaceas, we do have many other sweets. lately i've noticed gluten—free confections growing more common.

rollo: this right here is their best—seller.

epel: whoa... are those...

epel: macarons?!

azul: they certainly are, though a little oddly shaped.

rollo: they're shaped like bells. they're meant to look like the bell of solace.

azul: ah, of course. they're small enough that i could just pop one in my mouth. i think i'll have one.

*munching*

deuce: mmm, it's nice and sweet! i should bring some back for the guys in heartslabyul.

rollo: unfortunately, macarons don't keep well. they're a treat people can only experience when they visit here.

azul: the yellow color was a good choice to evoke the bell.

azul: and the ganache filling is as refreshing as it is delicious.

azul: ah, and i believe those are little nuggets of dried grapes and apples in there too. they look like colorful jewels.

epel: *munch, munch*

epel: they're definitely good, but… not filling at all.

azul: why do you look so unimpressed, epel? i thought macarons were your favorite food.

epel: how'd you know that?!

azul: likes and dislikes are the first thing you should look into when you want to get closer to someone.

azul: but was my intel mistaken? would you prefer something with a stronger flavor profile?

epel: no, i'm good! ...i think.

azul: excellent, then my intel bears out.

azul: go on, epel. have as many as you like.

epel: haha, thanks... haha...

⭑♪⊹ ࣪ ˖ 𝗺𝗮𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁 ⭑♪⊹ ࣪ ˖ 𝘁𝗮𝗴𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁

©𝗖𝗢𝗣𝗬𝗥𝗜𝗚𝗛𝗧 ● @acideathr 2025 ⤿ my work is not yours to take; posting chapters requires significant time and effort. all credit is due to aniplex and yana toboso; show your support by downloading the twisted wonderland. this blog particularly caters to players who cannot access the en game because of their region or those who aren't willing to download the game

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alexandralyman · 2 years ago

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Neither Confirm Nor Deny (Dave York x Reader)

Dave York has taken over my life. I dived headfirst into Pedro Pascal fandom and this asshole caught me (among others, looking at you Commandante Veracruz). 7k of self-indulgence later, here's Dave x Reader as CIA agents and partners - AU, Dave went into the CIA after the military and never became a contract killer. Oh, and Carol and the kids don't exist in this.

Rated M for smut and vague mentions of bad people doing bad things

https://archiveofourown.org/works/50244982

You're a CIA agent on assignment in Europe caught up not in enemy crossfire, but in the love/hate relationship you have with your asshole of a partner, Dave York.

You hate how much you secretly love how good he is not just at his job, but between the sheets as well. He drives you up the wall most of the time (and fucks you up against them even better), but when your own agency betrays you at the end of an op, he's the only one who's still got your back.

You can never confirm what he really is to you, but you can't deny it either.

neither confirm nor deny

You practically fling the door to the safe house open, making the rusty hinges squeal loudly in protest as if to remind you about the need for stealth and discretion. Normally you’re the very model of both during a mission, but right now you don’t give a shit. Let the damn place get compromised, it doesn’t matter anymore.

Nothing fucking matters.

You’re met on the threshold by the barrel of Dave’s gun, aimed for a kill shot and immediately withdrawn when he sees it’s you. Protocol when entering the safe house was to knock first with two taps to announce your entry and that everything was fine.

Everything isn’t fucking fine.

“Jesus Christ,” he swears, because you never break protocol—except, of course, when you very much do—and he almost just shot you in the face for it. “What the actual fuck…wait. What happened? What’s wrong?”

Dave York is infuriatingly good at reading your moods. He knows when you’re happy and he knows when you’re angry, which is far more common and usually directed at him. He also almost always knows when you’re horny, which isn’t uncommon, especially around him, but is dead last right now on the list of emotions you’re currently experiencing. Murderous is first, and he’s familiar with that one too because it’s also frequently directed at him. It’s infuriating because you’re a highly trained CIA agent with a highly trained poker face you could easily clean out Vegas with, but at the moment even the most oblivious person in the world could tell that you’re on the verge of a volcanic eruption and not just your asshole of a partner who knows you all too well.

“They’re letting the bastard walk,” you practically spit.

Dave blinks, “What?”

“Yeah,” your voice is more bitter than the ridiculous amount of espresso he drinks like it’s water. “Apparently he cut a deal, and they’re letting him walk.”

Dave is many things, slow on the uptake isn’t one of them. “They flipped him,” he says, matter of fact. “He’s an asset now.”

You’d spent months trying to bring down Andrei “the Crow” Morozov, arms dealer, sex trafficker, Eurotrash asshole extraordinaire. Hours and hours of sorting through the mountains of intel for the nuggets of gold, late nights, shitty safe houses, getting two ribs cracked in Düsseldorf and not going to hospital because you would have been pulled from the mission, just dealing with the pain because you were so close, so close, to finally catching the slippery bastard and putting him away for good. It was all for nothing, Morozov shot you a shit-eating grin as the cuffs were unlocked and walked out of custody a free man.

“Give Irina’s mother my love,” he’d said with a wink, and three agents had to hustle you out of the room with his mocking laughter following you lest you go after him with your bare hands. The things he’d done to the poor girl, barely more than a child. You’d promised her mother, you swore to the woman that the monster responsible would be brought to justice. Instead, you watched him walk away free and clear with the blessing of your own damn agency.

“It makes sense,” Dave says, setting his gun back down on the battered coffee table that was scattered with nicks and cigarette burns courtesy of the many nameless, faceless agents who’d sought sanctuary for the night. “He’s connected to all the major players in Eastern Europe, with the amount of intel he could provide if they keep him in place it’s no wonder the plan was to flip him all along.”

That brings you up short as a new, hotter fury starts to burn under your skin. “It was? You…you knew?”

He gives a shrug with a broad shoulder that you may end up dislocating depending on what he says next. “Officially? No. But I suspected. Didn’t you?”

You…didn’t. Fuck, you one hundred percent didn’t expect the CIA would stab you in the back and worst of all, Dave did. He shouldn’t have put his gun down, because you have a new target now.

“And you didn’t fucking tell me? After all that fucking work to catch the son of a bitch? When I didn’t shoot him in Germany despite having a clear shot because I thought he was going to be locked up for the rest of his life, not let out to keep ruining lives because he’s a fucking ASSET to the CIA now?

When I was making promises I couldn’t keep, you think, but don’t say.

“The CIA has gotten into bed with much worse than Morozov when it serves their purpose. You know that. What makes this different?” Dave asks, the infuriatingly calm eye in your raging storm.

It was different because…because…

Because of Irina and all the others. The ones whose names you knew. The ones whose names you didn’t and would haunt you forever. Because you’d looked Andrei Morozov right in the eye in the underground club in Düsseldorf where he sold girls as easily as shots to asshole men and swore to yourself that you’d make him pay.

Because it was personal.

You couldn’t do this. Not now, running on no sleep and barely any food and the ash of your own failure in your mouth. Tears start to burn behind your eyes, but you’d walk barefoot through a minefield before letting Dave York see you cry.

“You should have told me. We’re supposed to be partners.”

You could almost handle being betrayed by the higher ups, the ones who sat in windowless rooms looking at names and numbers on reports and decided which was more valuable, some teenage girls or the man who’d sold them to the highest bidder. The CIA made deals with all sorts of devils, dictators, terrorists, lowlife arms dealers. You couldn’t handle being betrayed by Dave

, who was by your side the whole time you were on the ground putting faces to the names on those reports. Anna. Olga. Irina.

He calls your name when you leave, your real name, not the one you were given for the mission with a passport and credit cards to match. He’s been calling you by that fake name for months, or, when you push him onto his back in a safe house or a hotel or wherever you’re holed up for a few hours and take him inside, he calls you baby or sweetheart in a voice that gets increasingly more wrecked with each roll of your hips into his and you pretend to hate it.

The sound of your real name from a man who rarely uses it almost makes you stop on the narrow stairs of the ancient building before you reach the outside.

Almost.

You’re in Paris, the city of lights and romance and the final stop on this farce of a European tour now that Morozov’s been caught and released in pursuit of bigger fish. The station chief said to take a few days to decompress before heading back stateside. Do some sightseeing, or some shopping. Patronizing jackass. You almost stabbed him with a pen. As if you were in the mood for museums or boutiques after Morozov walked, like this was a vacation and not your life’s work. You find the French equivalent of a dive bar instead and speak the international language of alcohol to the bartender, drink until it’s too dark to see the Eiffel Tower or the Arc de Triomphe or anything except the bottom of an empty glass before ordering another. A man sidles over at some point between drinks three and four and tries to pick you up, a local with an accent you would have swooned for once upon a time. He’s attractive enough and you’re tempted, there’s more than one way to forget your absolute shitshow of a job. You’re definitely no stranger to this one, but not with anyone else since…

Fuck.

You’re not dating Dave York. He’s your partner, because you did something terrible in a past life and this is karma biting you in the ass for it. And it’s not that he’s a bad agent, far from it. He’s one of the best in the agency. He’s also smug, and irritating, and you want to punch him in the face on a near day basis. He’s fucking good at his job, and that means he knows with pinpoint accuracy just what buttons to push to drive you up the goddamn wall. He also knows just what buttons to push when he’s fucking you against a wall, which happens on an alarmingly regular basis. He understands the adrenaline rush at the end of a successful mission and the helpless frustration when a target skips through the net instead, he’s the only one who knows why you currently have a large bruise across your ribs and the unseen marks the work leaves on your soul.

Parisian sights and a pretty Frenchman offering a turn in the sheets both hold no allure, you go back to the safe house once the bar closes, far drunker than you should be. Not drunk enough to forget the smirk on Morozov’s face, for that you need to fuck Dave until everything else fades away. Only the small garret apartment is empty, his gun isn’t on the table and the air already feels stale, like no one’s been there for hours. Maybe he went out looking for you, although if he did, he would have found you. Maybe he went to find someone to spend the night with, someone who doesn’t throw things at his head and threatens to strangle him with his own tie when he’s being a dick. He’s seen you do it too, so it’s not an idle threat. The mission in Monte Carlo. The second one. Where the two of you posed as a wealthy businessman and his mistress, and caught the target’s eye in your cut-down-to-the-navel dress with no room to hide a gun and had to improvise. Dave fucked you from behind on the balcony of your hotel room afterwards, still in your dress and heels, and he wasn’t the slightest bit turned off by the fact that you’d just killed a man with your bare hands and a length of deceptively strong silk from Hermès. If anything he was even harder than usual, quickly unzipping his suit pants with one hand as he shoved your dress up with the other and whispering all sorts of deliciously filthy things in your ear as he buried himself to the hilt over and over again with the lights of the city glittering below like a fortune in precious jewels.

The Paris safe house is a lot less lavish than a five-star hotel, the hot water in the tiny bathroom can be described as only slightly less icy than the cold tap and the floors are so uneven that if anyone did break in they’d probably trip over their own feet before getting a single shot off. It’s extra hazardous when drunk, even for a highly trained agent, but you manage to navigate your way to the sink to splash some water pulled from the frigid depths of the Seine on your face and stay upright long enough to strip off your clothes, leaving them in a heap where they fall. You grab a T-shirt from the back of a chair that you think is yours in your inebriated state, until you slip it on and realize the shoulders are far too wide and the hem is too long. It’s one of Dave’s, well worn and soft and you drank way too much alcohol tonight to bother trying to pretend that you don’t like the way it feels to wear his clothes. He’s not here anyway (where the fuck is he?) and you’ll take it off before he comes back.

You fall into the empty bed that’s not really big enough and yet it feels like it stretches on forever without someone else there to hog the blankets and tangle your feet with his. Your own gun stowed under the lump of a pillow and the taste of failure in the back of your throat more bitter than the booze, you close your eyes and drift off in a sea of regret that a monster walked free and innocents suffered, all because of you.

Your fault.

All your fault.

********

“Bonjour. Or should I say bonsoir, Mademoiselle.”

You’re awake at once, reaching for the gun under the pillow and closing your fingers around it just as the voice registers through your bitch of a hangover.

Dave.

Sitting up is made an Olympic sport both by your not full healed ribs and whoever’s playing the drums behind your eyes like a headliner at a death metal festival. Someone you manage it and crack open a lid to find your dick of a partner sitting in a chair next to the bed. It’s too small for him but somehow it doesn’t look awkward, he sits easily, comfortably, as far as you know he could have been there for hours. As you blink stupidly at him he leans forward and taps a fingertip against your lips.

“Open up, sweetheart.”

Taken completely off guard and too hungover to argue, you do as he asks without thinking. He pops two white pills on your tongue and hands you a glass of water.

“Drink,” he instructs, like he’s talking to a child. You resist the urge to scowl like one and swallow the pills down, chasing them with the water.

One secret about the CIA is that it has access to some really good drugs. Those weren’t aspirin, and it doesn’t take long for your headache to go away and the twinge in your ribs to fade so you can feel human again. Two things then happen at once, you remember why you were hungover in the first place and that you’re still wearing Dave’s T-shirt.

Three things, you clock what he just said. Bonsoir.

Not good morning. Good evening.

“What time is it?” you ask.

“Almost 1800 hours, Sleeping Beauty.”

Fuck. You slept almost the whole fucking day. You have a vague memory of stumbling to the bathroom again at some point and then falling back into bed afterwards, still alone with no sign of Dave anywhere. It’s probably not surprising that you crashed so hard, you’ve been running on nothing but coffee and sheer rage since Düsseldorf, but it feels wrong to have been sleeping when you should have been doing something, anything, to get justice for all of those girls.

Dave is watching you carefully and while his words were sarcastic, his tone wasn’t. He knows what you went through to bring Morozov in. He was right there the whole time, pouring over intel and CCTV footage with you, staking out meeting sites and infiltrating the underground clubs and back rooms where business was conducted by men who would have killed the both of you and not thought twice about it if there was the slightest hint of your cover being blown.

“They let him walk,” you say, more to yourself than him. “He fucking smiled at me, and he walked.”

Dave tosses a phone onto the faded comforter that offered no comfort the night before, without him in the bed beside you. “You have a message,” is all he says.

It’s not the burner phone you’ve been using for the mission, it’s your real phone. You pick it up and when you check the lock screen it shows a text notification. Your heart stops when you see it’s from Irina’s mother. You gave her your number, your real number, when you swore to get justice for her daughter, not the burner one that would be discarded and forgotten as soon as the job was over.

The flash of guilt that you failed them both is a gut-punch on an empty stomach that makes bile rise in your throat, acrid and sour, and then you see what she wrote.

Thank You!!!!

You look up from the message in sheer confusion and meet Dave’s eyes. He’s still watching you with what would look like nothing but cool detachment to anyone else, but you can see the laser focus of a sniper behind that dark gaze.

“Check out the BBC’s homepage,” is all he says.

That answers nothing until you go online and see the top story staring up at you from the screen.

SUSPECTED ARMS DEALER ARRESTED AT ST PANCRAS, accompanied by that same photo that’s clipped to the dossier you read over and over again every night like a fucked up bedtime story. A quick skim of the article reveals the important facts, Andrei “the Crow” Morozov, wanted by Interpol and half a dozen countries for a variety of crimes, had been found on the Eurostar when it arrived at St Pancras station in London from Paris a few hours prior, thanks to an anonymous tip received by the Metropolitan Police. He’d been discovered barely conscious and handcuffed to the pipes in a toilet that had been marked out of order. Morozov had been taken to an undisclosed hospital, where he was currently being treated for multiple broken ribs and other injuries while under reported guard by MI6. A list of his alleged offenses followed, including the trafficking of vulnerable women and girls from Eastern Europe into the sex trade.

You look up from the screen. “Multiple broken ribs?”

Dave’s face is perfectly calm, placid, his expression betraying no remorse for what he did. It was him, you know it in a heartbeat just as you know that he can put a bullet between someone’s eyes from a quarter mile away and what he looks like when he comes undone inside you.

“At least fifteen. Maybe more, it’s hard to be sure after the first dozen. One for Irina. One for Anna. One for Olga. One for all the other girls. The rest for you.”

Morozov had cracked two of your ribs, Dave had broken most of his in return and turned him over to MI6.

“They won’t let him walk too, will they?” you ask, fingers tightening around the phone. If the bastard walks again….

He lifts one shoulder in a shrug. There’s not a speck of blood on his clothes, he could have just come back from a day playing well-heeled tourist at the Louvre instead of stuffing an internationally wanted criminal into a train car bathroom after breaking over a dozen of his ribs. Hiis expression is as serene and unaffected as the Mona Lisa’s, keeping his own secrets from everyone except you.

“Unlikely. Even if they wanted to his arrest was public thanks to the cops sending out a press release, it would make them look bad to just let him go. It also makes him completely worthless now as an asset, since if he did walk everyone would suspect he worked a deal to get out of the charges.”

Dave York is very, very good at what he does.

“And if they do,” he continues, unconcerned by the prospect, “well, he won’t get far.”

You know it’s true, because you know him.

“Everyone must be pissed,” you say, imagining the utter chaos that must be going on in the upper ranks. To catch and lose Morozov in the same day, publicly, no less, and to have him end up in custody of MI6. Publicly the CIA and MI6 were allies…privately they each had their own agendas that didn’t always align.

Dave’s facade cracks at last and reveals his amusement. “Oh, they are, baby. I was there when the call came in from London. The station chief was already on thin ice, he’s going to get demoted for this and sent to a far less desirable posting where he won’t be served fresh croissants for breakfast every morning. Thought he was going to have an aneurysm when he was on the phone to D.C, serves him right too, the fucking prick. Everyone else is scrambling to avoid the fallout.”

You cross your arms over the soft cotton of Dave’s T-shirt, annoyed that you forgot (didn’t want to) take it off. “Don’t call me baby. Do they have any suspects?”

Translation: Do they suspect you?

He shrugs again, still completely unconcerned. “Sure. Do they have the right suspect? No, and they won’t. Now as good as you look in nothing but my shirt, go make yourself pretty. We're going out for dinner, I worked up an appetite today and I’m not eating alone.”

Go make yourself pretty? He’s such an ass. You ignore the burn in your cheeks at his casual acknowledgement that the only thing you’re currently wearing is his T-shirt and throw a pillow at his head with deadly accuracy.

“Clock’s ticking, partner,” he says, catching it easily in one hand.

Well…you could go for some actual food to eat after the liquid dinner you had the night before. That’s what you tell yourself, anyway. You’re a CIA agent, you’re an excellent liar. Especially to yourself.

You don’t visit the Eiffel Tower or hold hands on a famous bridge or do anything soppy and romantic. You’re not dating. You’re two CIA agents who caught a very bad man, have barely eaten in the past week, and who fight like mortal enemies and fuck like rabbits. Sometimes both at the same time.

Dallas. The conference where you were chasing down members of a suspected South American terrorist group. You had a screaming argument while you were riding him, his large hands tight on your hips guiding you up and down even as he said you wouldn’t recognize good intel if it slapped you in the face and you called him a self-important jackass who thought he was God’s gift to intelligence and he could take his intel and shove it. You only stopped yelling at him when you came.

Three times.

Dave leads you to a nondescript restaurant off the tourist path, tucked away down a narrow street. The service is French, otherwise known as indifferent, the food is excellent, and while you’d sooner stab yourself with one of the steak knives than admit you made yourself pretty for him, the dress you pulled from your cover identity’s wardrobe is pretty by any objective definition of the word. It may not be a date, but it is dinner in Paris and you’re supposed to blend in while on assignment. It’s not for him.

Another lie you tell yourself.

Dave likes the dress, you can tell. He pulls your chair back like the gentleman he most definitely isn’t and his hands brush over your bare shoulders when you sit down, lingering for a moment against your skin. When the waiter finally deigns to appear Dave orders the braised short ribs without bothering to look at the menu, saying with a wink across the table that he’s got a craving.

You order them too, because fuck men who hurt women and enjoy it.

They’re fucking delicious.

You don’t feed each other dessert or stroll along the Seine afterwards looking at the lights. You do duck into an alley, because Paris is for lovers and for two CIA agents who got paired up unwillingly and drove each other crazy fighting before falling into bed and doing the exact same thing while fucking instead. Dave doesn’t kiss you when he presses you against an ancient wall that’s probably seen its fair share of forbidden trysts over the centuries, instead he sucks a mark into your neck that’ll bruise like your ribs from pleasure instead of pain, one hand shoved under your pretty dress and the heat from his body keeping you warm in a cold, unforgiving world.

“Here, baby?” he asks in a voice that echoes right between your legs, nuzzling and nipping at your skin with one hand at his belt ready to unbuckle and unzip. You’ve fucked him in alleys before, buzzing with adrenaline from a mission and riding high on success while riding each other hard. But not tonight, as easy as it would be to wrap your legs around his narrow waist and muffle your cries in his shoulder while he fucks you against the wall.

“No, not here.”

Not the safe house either, with its shitty mismatched furniture and the ghosts of CIA agents past lurking in the shadows. You find a hotel instead on a cobblestone street, the kind of thing tourists would book for its classic Parisian charm without considering the lack of an elevator. You don’t have any suitcases to lug up the stairs to your room, where Dave presses you against the door as soon as it’s closed, caging you in with both arms. You feel anything but trapped.

“You should have told me,” you say, hands flat on his chest and looking into those dark eyes. You should have told me those girls didn’t matter, you should have told me they were going to stab me in the back and make a deal with the devil, you should have told me!

“You should have known,” he retorts. You should have known they didn’t, you should have seen the knife before it struck, you should have known.

You’ve seen Dave flatter, flirt, and charm to get what he wants, but with you he doesn’t placate or sugarcoat his words. He’s also right, which you hate, you should have known and you would have if you hadn’t let it get personal.

“But,” he continues, head tipping down with a sigh, “yeah, I should have.”

“Me too.”

His admission deserves yours. You’re still going to be salty about it for a while though. Maybe until your ribs fully heal. The bruise is a sickly yellow now, the edges starting to blend back in with the surrounding skin. It’ll disappear eventually but you’ll always remember where it was, a souvenir of your trip instead of a fridge magnet or a keychain. Dave will remember too, he’ll remember examining it in another hotel room when it was the purple of overripe fruit, before winding an ace bandage around your middle with his mouth set in a thin line. His fury had been silent, as quiet as the moment of calm before the storm, while his hands were careful, gentle even, for a man who could and did kill with them his touch had been delicate and feather-light.

Yours hadn’t been, when you jerked him off afterwards with rough strokes that made his silence turn to deep groans as his hips rolled with the movement of your hand. It wasn’t quid pro quo, you just needed to do something to deal with the frustration and that always ended with doing him. He couldn’t reciprocate, not then, not for a while, couldn’t make you come with his fingers or mouth or cock, not when it hurt just to breathe, let alone have an orgasm. Or three.

Now though, he strips the pretty dress from your body with far too much efficiency for a government employee and grazes fingers across the still-marred skin. Somewhere in London there’s a man lying in a hospital bed with his whole torso turned black and blue because he did this to you. You know the only reason Morozov isn’t dead at the bottom of the Seine is because you wanted him to rot in a cell for the rest of his life instead. Dave would have killed him otherwise. Fifteen broken ribs was him showing restraint.

You lift his hand to your mouth and suck on his finger, wrapping your lips around it. The backs of his knuckles are faintly bruised, a match to yours. He’s still fully dressed in charcoal trousers and an army green sweater. The man wears clothes beautifully, something you used to find irritating. He looks even better naked, something you also used to find irritating.

Dave replaces his finger with his lips, reaching down and hoisting your legs around his waist to carry you to bed like he carried you in Düsseldorf after Morozov caught you in the side with a tire iron. You fall back to the mattress and he stops kissing you only long enough to yank the sweater and T-shirt underneath over his head before he’s on you again, nipping the underside of your jaw while his hands roam the length of your body and push your thighs apart. You’ve been wet and ready since the alley, since dinner, since you made yourself pretty (for him) and his fingers find no resistance between your thighs despite how long and thick they are. Just the slightest touch has you trembling, clutching at his arms and legs widening in silent invitation.

“Fuck,” he mumbles, quickly shoving his pants and underwear both down with his other hand so that he’s wonderfully, gloriously naked. “What do you want? What do you need, baby? My fingers? My mouth? This?”

He’s got his cock in his fist, rubbing it up and down your slick heat without letting it slip inside. It’s difficult to breathe, but not because of your rib this time.

“Yes,” you moan, lifting your hips to try to line him up with where you need him. It doesn’t work, the bastard keeps himself just out of reach.

“Hmm,” he chides, breath hot against your skin as he trails his lips down your neck and across the tops of your breasts. “Even I’m not capable of using all of them at once on your lovely pink cunt. You have to choose. Tell me what you need and I’ll give it to you.”

You want his smart mouth to eat you out, and not just because he’ll finally stop talking. You want his long fingers pumping deep. You need his thick cock to fill you, to fuck you, to find every last sweet spot the way only he can and absolutely ruin you.

“Dave?”

He looks up and meets your gaze. “Yes, baby?”

“Fuck me with that big dick you’re so fucking proud of until I can’t fucking walk, and then do it again.”

He smiles, showing his teeth. It’s the smile of a man who just got handed exactly what he wanted on a silver platter and you’re too needy and desperate to care. He leans down and presses a kiss to the tip of your nose, a sweet gesture from a man who’s capable of such shocking violence. But then again, so are you.

“There now, was that so difficult? All you ever have to do is ask.”

It’s getting less and less difficult, with Dave. He’ll give you what you want, what you need, you know he will.

His hips thrust and his aim is as accurate as it is with his sniper rifle, precise and true. He buries himself inside of you and adjusts his trajectory as he goes to follow the arch of your back and the tilt of your hips as you take him all the way in a hot slide that pushes the air from your lungs as he fills you with him instead. Your nails dig into his shoulders to carve your name into his skin in cuneiforms of lines and half-moons, an encryption only the two of you can decipher. He rests his forehead on yours, weight braced on his arms, breathing more heavily than he ever would while sighting a target, giving you both a moment to adjust before he does what you asks and fucks you. It’s hard, it’s fast, it makes your toes curl into the hotel sheets and your pulse race under his mouth when he presses it to your neck and whispers hot against your skin.

“That’s it, baby, taking me so well. So fucking deep. How? How is it always this fucking good, drives me fucking crazy.”

You wrap your legs tight around his waist, tug on his hair, run your nails down his back and scrape your teeth against his jaw like you’re lighting a match. All the things that you know drive him fucking crazy. He lifts you with an arm under your lower back like you weigh nothing, changing the angle to that one that’s like gasoline on a flame and pulling a high-pitched cry from your throat that he echoes with his own deep groan. You hate that he’s the only one who’s ever done this, fucked you like it would be a war crime to stop. His hips move in a rapid-fire tempo, unrelenting, cock a piston, impossibly thick and hard as it drives into you again and again and again. You can’t stop any of the noises that escape you, the cries, the moans, the desperate pleas, the yes, yes, more, please, more and your only consolation is that neither can he with his grunts and growls and fuck, yes baby, yes, take it, fuck!

Dave yanks you against him with those large hands, holding you flush to his hips, and grinds instead of thrusts. The effect is immediate, your thighs tremble, your stomach tightens, your nerves sing as he hits every sweet spot inside you at once and lights them all up like Times Square. You clutch at him helplessly, jaw dropping with a silent scream that he hears nonetheless.

“Let go, baby, let go.”

It’s not an order, it’s a plea from a man who wouldn’t beg for mercy under torture and it breaks you instead. You let it all go and fall over the edge, keeping him locked tight inside and bringing him with you.

You’re partners, after all.

He groans, giving a final, dirty grind of his hips. A lock of dark hair falls on his forehead and his broad chest is covered with a faint sheen of sweat as he shudders through his own climax until he finally collapses down

Dave groans, giving a final, dirty grind of his hips, a lock of dark hair falling on his forehead and a faint sheen of sweat on his broad chest as he shudders through his climax and collapses down into your arms. You run fingers through his damp hair, his weight pinning you to the mattress and holding you fast. You’re not going anywhere, not this time.

Afterwards he lays next to you with his long limbs stretched out on the bed, naked, skin marked in places from his time in the service. Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country. At what cost though?

“I can hear you thinking, baby.”

You flick him on the shoulder. “Don’t call me baby,” you say, but there’s no bite to the words. He never does in front of other agents or contacts. A cocky young field agent called you “sweetheart” once in a briefing and lived to regret it. Dave had watched you sharpen your tongue on the man and run him right through with it as you tore his piss-poor interpretation of the data to shreds. Then he told the analyst to get you a coffee and to take notes silently for the rest of the briefing.

That night in bed with him you were sweetheart and baby and darling and sugar, each ridiculous endearment teased into your skin and whispered in your ear, until you finally shut him up with your mouth and ignored the point he was making. No one else gets to call you those things, only him.

In another bed you stare up at the plaster ceiling with its graceful antique fixture and feel his eyes on you. I can hear you thinking. Even the sex wasn’t enough to quiet the thoughts in your head tonight.

“How do you-“ you start, and stop, not sure if you really want to go down this particular road. Dave waits with a sniper’s patience, going even more silent and still beside you. “How do you make it not be…personal?” you ask the one man who won’t lie to you.

Irina. Anna. Olga. You would have shot Morozov through the heart despite the orders to take him alive if you’d known they were going to let him walk, and ruined your career in the process.

“Who says I do?”

Dave puts his fingers under your chin, turns you to face him and brushes a thumb over your lips. His eyes are dark and hooded, the eyes of a trained killer, a man more dangerous than any two-bit arms dealer and the one you let into your bed. He looks at you and sees what other men would miss, that even though you’re naked and flushed you’re still so, so angry.

“If you take nothing else from me ever again, take this piece of advice. Don’t work for the CIA.”

“Kinda late for that,” you interrupt with a roll of your eyes.

His thumb presses back against your lips. “Hush now and listen. Don’t work for them, make them work for you. The intel, the equipment, the slush funds, take it all and use it. Put men like Morozov in prison when they won’t. Because you’re not the kind of agent who won’t let it become personal.”

From anyone else you would have taken it as an insult, the first rule of intelligence work is compartmentalization. It can’t be personal. It’s just supposed to be names on a list and numbers on a page. Let bad men walk to catch worse ones. Collateral damage is a given, whether it’s a few cracked ribs or some broken girls.

“That sounds…” a number of different things go through your mind, starting with the fact that it sounds very much like treason, but you settle on one word, “…dangerous.”

Dave drags his thumb along your jaw. “The best things in life always are. Now, I believe you told me to fuck you with this big dick I’m so fucking proud of until you couldn’t walk, and then to do it again. And you know I always follow orders.”

You know he doesn’t, Dave York gets results like no other agent, but that’s not the same thing as following orders. He only follows the ones he wants to.

He rolls easily on top of you, making space for himself between your thighs. He’s making space for himself in others places too, something you wouldn’t acknowledge under torture. This is all you’ll allow yourself, to run your hands down his broad back to where it narrows at the waist, muscles rippling and flexing under your touch while the rapidly hardening line of his erection is hot against the crease where your thigh turns to hip.

“Is this what you want?” he asks, voice low and rough. One hand goes under your knee, pushes it back, opening you up. You’re still aching, still needing more, as wet as he is hard, and while his fingers can drive you crazy and his smart mouth never looks better than when it’s fitted snugly between your legs, what you want, what you need, is for him to break you into the mattress again until you shatter completely.

“Baby-“

You pull his head down to kiss him silent, kiss him deeply, kiss the man who’s gone to hell and back with you and would do it all again tomorrow. He pushes inside with a grunt, not making you beg any more than you’ve already done. This time he sinks down into you, warm and thick like honey, chest against your breasts, face buried in your neck, and fucks you with steady rolls golf his hips that you feel all the way down to your toes. It’s slower this time, less frantic, a more gradual build under your skin. Dave’s pace never falters, you feel that he would do this all night long if you asked. A hotel bed in Paris, an alley in Boston, in the back of a car, in a field, Dallas, Monte Carlo, Düsseldorf, Jakarta, you’ve fucked and fought your way around the world with Dave. You’re not dating, you don’t go to the movies on Saturday nights or argue over whose turn it is to do the dishes, there’s just this. Mission completed, Morozov file closed, new assignment in the morning.

What happens in the hours between stays there. It has to. You’re already compromised enough.

Dave groans, his hand finding yours and lacing your fingers together against the mattress. You keep your legs locked around him, thighs wrapped tight over his hips. Everything else fades away, there’s nothing except him on top of you, inside you, doing what you asked and fucking you until you tighten around him and cry out, shuddering through another orgasm. He doesn’t stop, the bastard just keeps going with a quick kiss to your temple as he fucks you through it and starts working you up again.

“One more,” he pants, shifting his hips. “Need you to come on my big dick one more time for me.”

You let out a huff of a laugh that turns into a bitten-off moan as he finds that blissful angle again, because his big dick is doing a hell of a job getting you there. The thick drag of it is more delicious than any fancy French dessert, sparking across over-sensitive nerves and hitting that spot buried deep in you on each stroke. You gasp and clutch at sweat-slicked skin, Dave fucks you and fucks you and fucks you, until you can’t take it anymore and fall apart in his arms. Even then he doesn’t give in immediately, drawing it out like the final note as he plays you as expertly as a concert pianist. That part of you that secretly wonders if he’s just been playing you the whole time is silent, drowned out by the hot rush as he floods you with warmth while you’re still quivering, pulsing hot to the same rhythm until you’re both fully spent.

After a few long, blissful moments where neither of you move or speak, Dave stirs first.

“Can you walk?” he asks. It’s not a rhetorical question. Fuck me with that big dick you’re so fucking proud of until I can’t fucking walk, and then do it again.

You’re tempted to lie, you’re so tempted because the absolute last thing Dave York needs is an ego boost. You’ll give him this, though, he earned it tonight.

“No,” you mumble, and wait for the inevitable smug, smart-ass remark. It doesn’t come, there’s only a quiet hum from him as you stroke fingers over his damp hair. His large hand splays over your ribs, covering what’s left of the bruising. It could have been worse, you could have run into that building and not come back out again. You got off easy with two cracked ribs, relatively speaking.

This job, this life, is dangerous. It wasn’t the first close call and it won’t be the last. You know it. Dave knows it.

Sleep is a luxury now, alongside regular meals, relationships that aren’t built on half-truths and lies, and downtime. It steals up on you, eyes closing against the anonymous room that you’ll never see again after this night, in a city that’s just another name on a map. There’s a faint rustle of sheets, and a warm body that settles next to you with a brush of lips to your cheek.

Whatever comes next, Dave York will be by your side.

Your partner.

(yours)

#dave york x reader #dave york x you #dave york smut #dave york fic #unapologetically in love with this asshole

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vlad-theimplier · 9 months ago

Text

WIP Wednesday: Custos Custodium

In which Jensen and the Task Force take on Sheppard in Dubai. I rearranged some lines to give a bit of characterization to anyone but Jensen and MacReady (who have plenty), and to make the tactical briefing a little meatier. Apparently, one of the divergence points between our world and the world of Deus Ex is that 10mm caught on over 9mm, but we know NATO exists and still prefers its familiar cartridges.

Anyway, Jensen does actually like some of his coworkers. Read all about it at https://archiveofourown.org/works/55686901/chapters/141357007

“Listen up, all of you!” Miller said in commanding tones. “We’ve finally got a lead on this man, an arms dealer goes by Sheppard.”

Jensen’s eyes widened behind his shades as the name registered with him. This was the bastard who’d escaped their grasp in Detroit—he damn well wasn’t getting away this time. John “Sheppard” Trent, 42, looked the way he remembered from Detroit, anonymous but mean. And as if Jensen needed another bone to pick with the man, Miller added a nugget of new intel: “He’s ex-Belltower. One of the Special Forces commanders who disappeared during the Incident.”

“And he’s come out of hiding?” MacReady asked. “That cannot be good.”

“It’s not. He’s selling weapons and military-grade augments to terrorists.” Miller swiped at the screen to reveal an Indian man with swept-back hair, stubble, and a haunted look around the eyes. “This is Arun Singh, the undercover agent who lured Sheppard out of his hole. Best UC Interpol’s got. For three years he’s worked to get us in tight with the Jinn, an Iraqi smuggling cartel that’s infected the Eastern Hemisphere like a plague. Last week, our arms dealer sent a message to the Jinn, offering to sell them a shit-load of black-market merchandise dirt cheap. They told Singh to handle the buy.”

A woman’s voice came over comms in a German accent, overriding MacReady’s scoff. “They’re not going to like it when Interpol disrupts their party. Is Singh’s cover really that good?” Dietrich, Jensen realized, looking at the screen. And she was worried about the right things.

“It is right now,” Miller answered. “We need to keep it that way.” He swiped again at the screen to show a sprawling but incomplete edifice, jutting out of the sea in graceful curves of steel and white concrete marred by tarps and scaffolding. An inset proclaimed it the “Desert Jewel.” “This is where the deal’s going down: a half-finished high-rise hotel that’s been abandoned ever since the incident. It is not a pretty picture inside.”

“Let me guess.” MacReady, of course. Mouthy bastard. “Most of the laborers were augmented with heavy-duty industrial rigs. So when the Incident hit and they all went schizo, things got gruesome real fast.” He stared at Jensen. Jensen stared back, curling his lip deliberately.

Miller nodded. “And no one except for some homeless junkies has been inside the place ever since.”

“So what’s the plan, Director?” Jensen asked.

“Singh’s meeting Sheppard on the ground floor, inside the hotel’s main atrium. He’s sent the bulk of his Jinn crew to the penthouse levels to secure a vantage point. I want MacReady’s team to take up positions overlooking the atrium and make the arrest. Dietrich, put the SAW and the marksmen on this little artificial island section here, across the lagoon from the atrium, where you can suppress and snipe as needed. Frost, you’re in reserve, up on the roof just back from the atrium. Rig ropes for descent. Jensen, you’re going in solo from the penthouse.”

Suited him fine. “My objectives?”

“Keep the Jinn from joining the party. As far as we can tell, only one route connects the atrium to the penthouse level—a halfway-decent elevator shaft here.” Miller swiped again, and a wireframe schematic popped up insertion points and the elevator in question. “I want you to block access to it.”

“Fine. Just cut me loose. If anyone spots me… I assume non-lethal is preferred? Doubt I’ll have time to cuff ’em, but Singh’s cover will be stronger if he’s not the only one still breathing when this is done.”

Miller nodded approvingly, but MacReady couldn’t resist a jab. “And if anything does happen to him, you’ll be the one telling his wife. After you get out of the hospital, of course.”

Jensen ignored him. So did Miller. “One last thing,” he said. “Singh told us the Jinn are using some kind of portable wi-fi device to boost communications. It could pick up anything he sends our way. He’s got a better chance of maintaining cover if you disable it, but if it comes to it, your number one priority is keeping the Jinn out of that atrium.”

“I’ll keep an eye out.”

“Good. Any questions?”

Lieutenant Frost chimed in. “Sir. Director. Why is this our op? Not that I mind—we’re all itching to mix it up—but Station Muscat is practically next-door.”

“Muscat’s resources are occupied elsewhere. We were the closest station with the manpower for an op this size. We did get the intel on this mission at the very last minute, no fault of Singh’s, so we’re all scrambling a little. Sheppard has stayed ahead of the Task Force for so long by pulling exactly this kind of stunt, on the rare occasions he shows his face at all. It’s our job to make sure it doesn’t work this time.”

“Aye aye, sir.” Frost took the answer as the gentle reprimand it was meant to be, and Jensen once again admired Miller’s leadership acumen. There were no further questions. The agents and soldiers turned to the briefing screens and reviewed the scant intelligence they’d received, or busied themselves checking their weapons and armor, as the trio of VTOLs sped onwards.

According to the map, they were coming in over the Persian Gulf a few hours later when Miller spoke up once more: “Ears here.” He checked the screen to make sure the other two teams were looking. “A new wrinkle has arisen to keep us on our toes. Sandstorm coming up out of the southwest, straight from the desert. It’ll be barreling down our asses—we can’t afford to make mistakes. Our pilots will keep us up-to-date on the storm’s progress. The window’s tight, but all signs indicate the deal is on. As you were.”

Silence descended once more. The indicators for their birds crept towards Dubai. Around Jensen, the agents began rechecking their rifles and donning their helmets. He gave his own weapons a perfunctory once-over, then rolled his shoulders and wrists. He crossed his left arm over his chest, running his blades out at the wrist and elbow, slow, then lightning fast. The myomer and servos whined quietly, just audible over the rush of wind and engine.

MacReady leaned forward. “Not gonna go all wonky on us now, Hanzer, are ya?”

“Why? You want to put a control chip in me? Don’t worry, I’m in spec.” Jensen locked eyes with him and bent his right hand almost to his right shoulder. His blade flicked out halfway, the tip coming to rest against his temple without even dimpling the flesh. Then, slowly, he pointed the blade at MacReady, giving him a chance to flinch or hold up a hand, to show fear.

“But if I do lose it, I guarantee you’ll never see it coming.” And he snicked the blade out to its full extension against the shoulder of MacReady’s combat vest. The alloy rang quietly on the ceramic plates, but MacReady didn’t move. Every eye turned to look at them, including Miller’s. Jensen withdrew the blade.

“Agent Jensen! Am I gonna have a problem with you on this op?”

“Nossir. MacReady just had some questions about my capabilities.” He met Miller’s gaze through his shades, deferential but uncowed, letting the double meaning hang in the air.

“Good. Because you’re our only Aug, and our only infiltration specialist. I intend to make good use of you.” That last was delivered as much to MacReady as to him, Jensen thought.

Miller resumed reassembling his rifle, ramming home a magazine of 7.62 NATO. Jensen grimaced. He supposed the AIC didn’t plan on getting tied down in a firefight, and Dietrich’s heavy gunner could always share, but it bothered him that their commander might find himself running dry in a pinch. At least the sidearm he wore was a ten-mil like everyone else’s. Not that Jensen had an augmented leg to stand on: no one else on the op—hell, probably no other agent in the hemisphere—carried a forty-five, but he could jam nine-mil into the Destrier in a pinch. Still, if they’d had time to actually plan this mission, they could’ve optimized logistics a little better. Or at all.

Chikane broke in on his maundering. “Time to put away your happy thoughts, gentlemen. We’re approaching the target.” The team was one-third women; Agent Montañez—Carmen—rolled her eyes. Jensen met them and twitched his hand by his crotch in a subtle jerk-off gesture. She hid a smirk behind her gloved hand.

Fortunately, Miller missed the byplay this time. “You’re up first, Jensen. Let’s do this.”

The pilot opened the team circuit as Jensen stood. “Strike-One, Strike-Two, this is Strike Leader. Engage hush drives and descend to angels one-five.” The VTOL quieted, slowed, and dropped in the sky. Jensen rode the change in altitude effortlessly. He thought about telling Chikane he flew like someone’s grandmother, but Malik wasn’t there to laugh.

The cargo ramp descended, and the jump lights came on red. Jensen rolled his shoulders. They were low—less than two thousand feet, for sure. He’d told Miller about the Icarus, of course, but he might have played up his skydiving “experience” a little. Well, too late now. Green lights and a tone. He stepped forward and leapt into the sky.

#deus ex #wip wednesday #adam jensen #jim miller #duncan macready

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