#operation break in the warehouse

[catnamedoggy]

Wally is holding... a tape? I wonder if it contains the unaired pilot. Methinks!

[the-thing-inside-your-closet]

Who Started The Fire?

From the prompts list:

“That’s my emotional support entity of questionable moral standing.”

Batman stared down the two teens standing before him. The boy was pointedly looking anywhere but the Bat’s face, finding more interest in the dirt and gravel crunching under his shoes. Meanwhile, the girl stood with her arms crossed, head held high, meeting Batman’s gaze with a defiant glare that wouldn’t be out of place on any of his own children’s faces.

Behind them lay the smoking remains of what was once a warehouse that had been used as a front for a weapons smuggling operation that the bats had collectively spent the past few weeks investigating. Although their investigation had taken longer than anticipated thanks to this group’s rather impressive security, they had been so close to a breakthrough…when the place had gone up in an inferno.

When the Gotham vigilantes had first arrived on the scene the fire had been so intense that they’d had to put in their gas masks to avoid any inhaling any of the thick black smoke from not only the fire, but also whatever chemicals may have potentially been within the building that would have been released into the air.

Batman’s initial hypothesis had been that the group had become aware of their investigation and burned the place to avoid any evidence being discovered while they moved locations. However, that theory had been shelved when Red Hood had announced the presence of charred bodies amongst the rubble, and evidence of explosives having been used in multiple area where the building’s structure had been the weakest. Whoever had been inside had not had any warning of the blaze that had swallowed the building too fast for them to get to safety, and with the structure being compromised from the explosions all exists had been blocked, preventing the inhabitant’s escape. Red Hood and Nightwing had been discussing potential suspects as Batman and Red Robin searched for any evidence that could have survived the destruction, when a clattering sound followed by the sound of voices hushing each other had altered all of the on scene bats to the presence of possibly several unknowns.

The two teens had been apprehended quickly and ushered to the side, far enough away from the scene of the fire to avoid them overhearing details of the investigation and to prevent any potential tampering. Accidental or otherwise. The teens had been stubborn in their refusal to answer any of the bat’s questions to their presence. Nobody knew why they were there, where they had come from, and they had even refused to disclose their names. Oracle, unfortunately, was sick with the flu and had been gently ordered to rest by Agent A. Batman was nevertheless confident that they would be able to discover their identities quickly either once they had returned to the cave or if they could get the kids to talk.

He would have asked Red Hood to speak with the teens, he was the best with kids. And if caught up in anything illegal they often seemed to respond better to him due to his more ambiguous morals and reputation for ensuring kid’s safety. Both from rouges and in some cases, the rest of the bats and birds. But he had been needed in Crime Ally after he had been alerted to a gunfight breaking out between two gangs who had been more hostile and antagonistic in recent months. Nightwing had accompanied him, and Spoiler had diverted from her patrol route to assist. That left Batman and Red Robin behind to deal with both the police and the frustratingly stubborn teens.

Batman resisted the urge to punch the bridge of his nose as yet another question was blatantly ignored by both kids. The boy had begun fiddling with the sleeved of his letterman jacket and the girl had taken to checking her manicured nails for any dirt or imperfections.

Just as he was about to turn the questioning over to one of the on scene police officers, a writhing mass of shadow had emerged from the girl’s shadow. Two tendrils of black smoke reached out to wrap themselves around the wrists and hands of both teens, who had in turn glanced down at their hands and smiled.

“We’re fine,” the boy had muttered quietly, “no need to worry.”

“What is that?” Batman asked, eyeing the mass with a cautious suspicion. He wanted to believe it wasn’t hostile given the kids reactions to it. But this was Gotham.

The girl shot him another glare, one hand on her hip while the other remained in the hold of whatever the shadowy mass was.

“That sir,” she spat out the first word with such venom to her tone that Batman almost flinched, “is our emotional support entity of questionable moral standing.”

[redflagshipwriter]

Hot Ghouls in Your Area

Chapter 1

“A cult?” Jason blew out a bubble and enjoyed the disgusted face that Bruce made.

“Yes.” His voice was tight. Jason could tell that he wanted to turn back to the Batcomputer. “They’re operating in Park Row-”

“Crime Alley.”

Batman sighed and accepted the correction. “I would like to propose a joint operation.” He sounded so tired and not very optimistic.

Jason eyed up his on-again-off-again Father figure and popped his gum, thinking it over. Bruce clearly expected him to say no, fuck off, and take the information himself.

He could. There was nothing wrong with that.

“Sure, old man.” He clapped Bruce on the shoulder and finished screwing together the tool he’d brought in for maintenance. He’d had to fabricate a new part and the Red Hood didn’t exactly have the equipment for that in his two room apartment. “Thursday night alright?”

“They’ve a planned meeting on Wednesday, actually,” Bruce said, frowning slightly at him but looking soft around the eyes with confused hope. “Would that be possible? They seem to gather mid-week.”

Jason let out a sigh. “I can make it work. Ta, old man.” He made sure to toss off an especially insouciant salute as he sauntered away. Sure, he was willing to put a little effort into maintaining their relationship, but he couldn’t be too compliant. If you gave Bruce an hour of your time, he wrote you down on the schedule for an hour every day until one of you fuckin’ died in a warehouse explosion. Something like that.

He wasn’t that trusting, though. Jason took the information that Bruce emailed him and did his own legwork. He wasn’t stubborn enough to bother redoing digital work that Bruce had done or gotten from Babs. That would be a waste of his time, and he valued his time. But he scoped out the cult’s meeting place.

Of all the undignified things, it was a rented room in the community center. Jason found himself sheepishly breaking into the office to check on the reservation and poking around the room itself.

There was nothing special about it. It was a shitty room with shitty paneled walls and cheap, well-trodden grey carpet. It boasted a few too many tables, arranged in a U shape, and a whiteboard pushed up against the wall that hadn’t been cleaned off well enough to erase what he was pretty sure was a reference to their lord and savior, destroyed of worlds.

So. That was a point for Bruce’s cult thing.

He hadn’t really doubted it, if he was honest, given that this had originated in a tip from Zatanna. She had told him as a courtesy that some creep had moved their base of recruiting and operations into Gotham.

Apparently, recruitment was going pretty well. The room could seat like, twenty? Jason counted chairs and left.

He came back on Wednesday at 8pm with the Batman and an attempt at a good attitude. He probably wasn’t going to need any of the weapons on his person. They were going to check in so that this guy knew they had an eye on him and that he would be suspect number one if there was any hint of people or cats being sacrificed.

Bruce fucked off to peer in the windows, like the giant caped creep he was. Jason took the front door, nodded congenially at the old man in the office, and knocked at the room the cultists had reserved.

He could hear Bruce internally curse through the comm. It was silent, of course, but the quality of the silence changed. “Knock knock,” he called, since a literal knock hadn’t done it. He opened the door without waiting. “Just checking in, heard you’re new to town and that you tried to feed Zatanna’s shitty little cousin to the god of Death?”

The room stared at him. A whiteboard marker squeaked to a stop. He idly followed the sound to the board. A …. Huh. that looked like some kind of mystical bullshit.

“You’ve been touched by death,” said the fraud himself, a man in his fifties with a wildly pretentious robe that was wrinkled from the paper bag he’d clearly used to carry it in. He outstretched the hand that didn’t have a blue whiteboard marker in it. “You would be a perfect sacrifice to our Lord.”

“So will it be,” said about half the people there, at the same time a young woman said, “No shit?” in an impressed tone.

Jason rolled his eyes through the helmet, unintimidated by the room of weirdos standing up. The kind of people who gathered at a community center on a Wednesday night were not going to summon the God of Death. Light glinted off the window where Batman was clearly weighing the possibility of breaking glass and swinging in. Jason silently waved him off with a headshake. They weren’t to the point of property damage yet. He took a couple of steps into the room with deliberate swagger. “What a lucky guess,” he drawled. “The Red Hood has had brushes with death? No one but a legitimate prophet could possibly make such a statement.”

“I’m not a prophet,” said the man, and turned back to his white board. “I’m a devote.” He rubbed out a line with the meat of his hand and then hurriedly wrote in ‘The Red Hood’ in a tilted cursive. “The sacrifice!” he shouted, throwing his arms wide and accidentally making a big blue line through his evil little sigil or whatever it was. The elderly lady to Jason’s right opened up her bag, thrust her hand in, and came up with a fistful of -

“Salt?” Jason asked, confused and unimpressed as the silly twit threw her handful of salt at him. “Thanks, I’m better seasoned now,” he snarked. He pulled out a gun easily. “Alright, let’s get serious. I-”

The whiteboard was glowing. The blue letters were glowing green.

“What the fuck?” Jason said. The windows exploded with broken glass as Batman decided now was the time to make his entrance. He barely got to see it before something hooked unpleasantly on his body and soul and twisted it sideways.

The world was green now. Holy shit. Jason spun a circle on uneven ground and gaped. “...Egg on my face,” he said. “I’ve been sacrificed. Consider me embarrassed.” A quick check showed that his comm was useless. It was giving off a steady little eeee of static that kinda sounded like screams. Whimsical. Jason turned it off.

He wasn’t panicking yet. The void wasn’t that freaky. It was weird, sure, but there weren’t any demons or enemies. He flicked the safety off his favorite gun just in case and frowned into the darkness.

It was like he was standing under a spotlight with no light source. There was ambient lighting in all directions, but the world faded into darkness only a few dozen feet away. He took some experimental steps to determine that, yeah, the field of visibility traveled with him.

Well. Time to get moving. Jason walked. There was nothing for the first - hour, he was gonna call it an hour. He got antsy and started jogging. The green stretched on, placid and infinite in a way that was really starting to piss him off. “Hey!” Jason barked into the void. “Anyone there?”

There was an answering electronic whirr. He stopped in his tracks. Jason looked in every direction, including up, and only saw the fucking thing when it was basically on top of him.

The vehicle was probably most equivalent to a spaceship, he decided, as what was probably a 3-man craft at most parked. The top clicked. It opened from the top and someone bounded out. “Hey!” came an annoyed male voice. “What’s the deal, bud?” The stranger landed in front of Jason with crossed arms and a pissy expression. His white hair floated above his head as if he was the little fucking mermaid in the ocean.

Jason scowled, the back of his mind cataloging the other guy’s outfit as pristine and undamaged and his musculature as athletic. “What’s it to you?” he asked, defensive. He didn’t know if it was safe to give information to this guy. “I might be a little lost,” Jason conceded.

“A little lost,” the guy repeated, and then- okay, he flew in a weird little flippy circle, scowling all the while as Jason gaped. “A little lost.” He scoffed. Then he let out a sigh that made his whole body look smaller. He uncrossed his arms and ran a hand through his hair. “This is a weird question,” he said, making it sound more defensive than apologetic. “Did you uh.” He scowled, like the words were distasteful. “Look,” he tried again. “Are you delulu, or did you get caught up as the sacrificial bride? I told Frank to knock that shit off.”

Sacrificial bride. Jason felt his brain go offline for a moment. Say what now.

“Helloooo,” the… was this rando a god of death? He was impatient. He flew way up into Jason’s personal space and snapped his fingers. “Someone just smashed metal trash bins together at my grave to get my attention, basically. No, it’s more like one of those spam pop ups that says there’s hot girls in your area?” He made a gesture at Jason. “Only it’s loud. It’s ringing in my ears, and I had to come track you down. Do you think this is funny?”

“...Sacrificial bride?” Jason finally managed to croak out.

Weirdly, this made the other guy relax immediately. “Just found out, huh,” he said, sounding much more sympathetic. “Yeah, okay, we need to sort out a spiritual divorce immediately. And then you can go home and there will be no more hot girls in my area and I can get back to my ess- my work.”

Jason took a few moments of grief and confusion to accept his apparent status. “We’re married?” he said weakly.

The white haired man looked a little sheepish. “Marriage is probably not quite accurate,” he said, and Jason felt a little bit of relief before the guy continued, “It’s more like you’re my concubine?” He sounded mortified by this. “I didn’t want this!”

“No, no,” Jason said, meaning both that he believed it and that he needed this conversation to change directions immediately. “I- who are you?” He gestured at his– what the fuck was the other side of a concubine relationship? King was the associated word that came up, but that…

“I’m nobody, really,” said the white haired man weakly. “But I may technically be King of ghosts or whatever. The Infinite Realms.” He scratched at his face. “So… yeah.”

They stood in utterly mortified silence for a long moment before he seemed to remember something. “You can call me Danny,” he offered.

“...Call me Jason,” he said.

“Thanks, Jason,” Danny said genially. “So, uh, this is a mess, right?” He started floating away backwards. “I’m going to hunt down my mentor and advisor and get some uh- advice, I guess. Do you wanna come with? Or should I come back and check in once I’ve heard from him?”

Jason weighed up his situation, the conventional wisdom about getting in vehicles with strange men, and wondered how useless his gun was going to be in this situation. Danny had never reacted to it being pointed at him, so his guess was ‘utterly unhelpful’. He put it away. “I’d like a ride, thanks,” he said dryly.

They made some stilted conversation on the ride. Danny was clearly trying to hold back and give him no identifying information. That was fascinating, because it implied that there was something Jason could do from the human world to track Danny down. It was also reassuring because there was no reason to withhold information if he’d planned to keep Jason prisoner, so, ya know, that was a good sign.

Anyway, Jason got a lot of information from Danny.

Danny was a terrible liar and he misspoke like, all the time. Jason was pretty sure he was in the ghost equivalent of school, like college or something. He talked like someone in Jason’s age group would, so he’d probably died very recently. Maybe he had been a college student when he’d died and he just hadn’t given up on that degree yet, honestly. Jason managed to drag the conversation around to education. He got nowhere with asking about literature but he hit the jackpot with science. Danny was still babbling about a telescope when he landed the …ship outside of a wonky clocktower.

Jason took off his safety belt and froze in his tracks when Danny absently stopped him with a cool hand. Jason looked down at that hand.

“You had better stay here,” Danny said. He shook his head slightly. “Clocky doesn’t like everyone.”

He melted into the chair as if he had never wanted to get up. “Alright,” Jason said.

Danny was out of the spaceship by the time that Jason realized something was very wrong with that interaction.

He hadn’t decided to sit down. He hadn’t wanted to sit back down. Did- did he actually think it was reasonable to stay behind, or would he have argued and gone in normally?

‘...I think Danny did something.’ Suspicion swirled in his gut. Jason tried to take the safety belt off and stand up. He couldn’t. It was like his muscles wouldn’t respond to it.

Well, that was pretty fuckin’ evil. His pulse picked up in his throat. It… It was some kind of compulsion? He had to do what Danny told him to do? That was really fucked up. He was starting to feel really unsafe now. He wished he’d hung back with Bruce. He wanted someone to bring him home. And weirdly, he felt betrayed. He hardly trusted Danny, didn’t know the fucker well enough to, but he hadn’t gotten that impression off the guy–

‘It wasn’t him,’ Jason realized. ‘It was the binding ritual. Danny said it wasn’t like a marriage, it’s not equal. That’s why I did what Danny wanted me to do.’

Well. Well then. If Danny didn’t know that Jason had to follow his orders, Jason was most fucking certainly not going to spell it out for him. It was a grim calculation to make, but it seemed the safest. As it was, Danny seemed to want to get rid of him as fast as possible.

So that was it. He’d play along and get Danny to spit him back out into Gotham, a young hot divorcé free on the streets.

[kaiasky]

baba from the hit video game baba is you noclips out of bounds, breaks several level select screens open, and eventually arrives in a vast temple-warehouse of cyclopean construction, foul wet moss pressed by the beating wind over aeons into a caked mass on the windward side. Inside, stretching endlessly, there are the Old Rules, the ones babakind foolishly thought so necessarily true that they needn't be etched into tiles. "UNMARRIED MAN IS BACHELOR" "MORNING STAR IS EVENING STAR" "WATER IS H2O" and, waking further, a vast plane of sums and multiplications.

baba screamed and turned to leave, but a vast preneolithic mechanism, crude in operation but displaying a brutish cunning, a thirst-for-the-kill that had preexisted any civilized mind, swung down in front of it and severed the phrase "YOU IS OBJECT CONTROLLED BY PLAYER OF GAME". And everything in the vast temple was still and silent.

[luxaofhesperides]

Can I please have meet cute/weird with mistaken villain! Danny (but really just a engineer and or chem student) and the one being put on investigation cause Danny is a day villain(not really)! Duke

Technically, Danny Fenton is innocent. Technically. 

Duke wants to give him the benefit of the doubt, especially since he’s having so much trouble finding solid evidence that Danny is stealing from a wide variety of people, but he’s been burned before by trying to see people as better than they were. It doesn’t change the fact that Oracle’s cameras keep spotting Danny right before a building on the street is broken into and something stolen. He’s always just walking down the sidewalk; no one has spotted him entering or exiting a building, but he’s around far too often to be unconnected to these burglaries. 

It doesn’t help that strange, petty crimes have been on the rise since Danny first arrived in Gotham. 

So.

Danny Fenton is technically innocent.

Duke is trying to prove that he’s not. 

Maybe I’m looking too closely, he thinks, going over Danny’s sparse file in the Hatch. Maybe Danny’s only one person in a bigger operation.

He could just be the lookout, the runner, the information gatherer who marks which buildings to hit. He may even be the scapegoat, the sacrificial lamb; Danny has no support in Gotham, no family, no job. There would be no one to help him if he got arrested or injured in a fight. He’s a freshman college student from Illinois who should be unprepared for life in Gotham but is somehow managing to survive like a native. 

There’s a lot about Danny that doesn’t add up. 

Duke has seen plenty of different people since he first went out as the Signal. He’s tried to be kind and give people the benefit of the doubt, but it leads to his loved ones being put in danger. Some people are truly evil, some working on a malicious agenda, some are misguided in their beliefs, and some are desperate people who see no other way to move forward.

He’s not sure yet which on Danny is, but he’s hoping Danny is just desperate and needs a little help to get out of a life of crime.

Which leads to the next problem: Duke has no idea what Danny is steal, or why. He hits both rich and poor folks, civilians and members of the mob, and once, notably, stole something right out of Cobblepot’s office. Allegedly, at least, since no one saw him enter or exit the office, not even the security cameras. 

But added to the whispers going around about a new group in Gotham snatching people up from the streets, and some strange green substances found in warehouses often raided by police for the frequent drug labs that pop up in them… 

It doesn’t look good for Danny. Especially when a few of the items he stole were found where people either vanished or where that green substance has been found.

A week of analysis in the Batcave and they still don’t know what it is. 

Both Damian and Jason suspected Lazarus water, but the composition was completely different. By the look of the molecular structure, it shouldn’t have been in a liquid form at all. 

All these findings lead back to one person who may have answers: Danny Fenton.

According to Tim, who’s already broken into Danny’s dorm room and checked over all the labs he has classes in, Danny has some concerning items in his possession. Various inventions and little metal knick-knacks put together by a practiced hand. He was also the one to find all the information that went into Danny’s file when it was first being made: social media posts, school report cards, news articles about his parents… everything. 

And then he had an emergency mission to take with the Titans that swept him out of Gotham leaving Duke to tackle this investigation on his own. 

He doesn’t have Tim’s natural skill in stalking and invading privacy. He hates breaking into people’s spaces and following them around, but needs must and he has to force himself to work through the discomfort. 

It’s a good thing he did, too. Danny’s leaving his dorm after his last afternoon class, hood up to hide his face and something held in the front pocket of his hoodie. He ducks around people on the sidewalk easily, almost as if he’s gliding through the crowd instead of walking. 

Duke follows from above, bending the light around him to hide him from sight. 

He walks for some time, weaving through alleys and streets as if he’s been in Gotham his whole life, leaving behind the university campus to head towards Otisberg. There’s something strange about the way Danny walks, as if he’s moving around people who aren’t there, guided by something Duke can’t hear. Even using his meta abilities doesn’t do much beyond show him where Danny’s going to be in the next few seconds. 

He continues to follow Danny on the rooftops, walking along the edge to keep him in sight. 

Then Danny stops behind an apartment building and tilts his head back to look up at it. He tilts his head to the side, then nods and looks around the empty alley. Duke crouches down, keeping his eyes on Danny in the hopes of catching him in the act—

Danny disappears.

Duke curses under his breath and jumps down from the roof, putting more strength into his abilities as soon as his feet touch the ground. 

The space where Danny was has a faint outline, oddly enough. He’s never seen that before. From it is a semi-transparent trail, smoke-like and a pale green leading into the building. It goes straight into a wall, as if Danny walked through it.

He can’t go in and search the entire apartment, but he can grapple up and take a look into the hallways to see where Danny’s heading. If he was looking up, then that’s where he should be heading. 

It doesn’t take any effort to scale the building. There are ledges and windowsills and plenty of handholds for him to propel himself off of, and paired with his powers, Duke is able to find the correct floor in just under two minutes. 

The green smoke slowly dances through the air of the ninth floor, on the east side of the building. If he’s been counting the rooms correctly, then the target of tonight’s burglary has to be apartment 924. 

The curtains are drawn on the window he makes his way over to, and his abilities don’t show him anything helpful for the immediate future. He hates going in blind, especially to a civilian’s home, but capturing Danny takes priority. Duke picks the lock and slides the window up slowly, making sure it stays quiet, then slips into an empty bedroom. 

He makes his way out into the hallway on silent feet, keeping a wary eye on the thin smoke strands of green, curling along the walls. The rest of the apartment is empty as well, pale sunlight slanting across the floor through the blinds. 

Everything is still and silent. Danny’s nowhere to be found. 

Did he miss Danny leaving, somehow? Was this a misdirect to get him out of the way while Danny stole from another location? Did he know Duke was following him?

But no, his ears pick up on the faint sound of clothes rustling. 

Cautiously, Duke turns towards the front door, where the door to the coat closet is open. He focuses on what’s going to happen in the next twenty seconds and sees Danny panic, then disappear from sight again, but a transparent outline of his body is visible just enough to show him where he runs to. Best not to spook him; Duke pulls at the light around him and bends it to hide him from sight.

Then he moves along the wall, getting around the open door without bumping into anyone or anything. 

A figure in front of the coats, shoving them to the side roughly, flickers in and out of view, almost like a reflection in water, distorted by ripples on the surface. 

Danny pops back into visibility suddenly, scowling at the coats. “Are you sure it’s in here?” he asks the empty air. 

There is no answer, but Danny acts like there is. He rolls his eyes and says, “It’s a favor. That I’m doing for you. I can literally stop right now and you wouldn’t be able to stop me.” He shoves aside another heavy winter coat, then sighs. “Why don’t you look for it, and then tell me where it is.”

He steps back and bumps into Duke.

Danny whirls around, eyes wide, and blast of green light has Duke crashing back into the wall, trying to blink spots out of his eyes. 

“Wait!” he yells, grabbing for Danny before he can run off. “I just wanna talk!”

“Standing right behind me like a serial killer does not make you look like someone who wants to talk!” Danny yells back, slipping through his hands like mist. 

“I just have a few questions!”

“Well, I have a question: why?!”

“Will you hold still, we’re being too loud!”

Danny escapes to the other side of the apartment, next to a window looking fully prepared to fling himself out of it. But he does stop yelling, so Duke is counting it as a success.

“Why is the Signal coming after me?” Danny asks, glaring at him suspiciously.

“Dude,” Duke says, “You’ve been seen outside of every single building that’s had a burglary since you first arrived in Gotham. All the Bats are after you, they just sent me because I’m the only one active during the day.”

“All the Bats?” Danny repeats, losing what little color he had in his face.

He looks legitimately scared, pale enough to be concerning, and Duke drops his guard and tries to relax the tension in the apartment. “I’m not gonna turn you into the cops or anything. I just had questions and you seem like the most likely person to have answers. That’s it.”

Danny still looks wary, ready to run at a moment’s notice, but he doesn’t leave when Duke approached casually, leaning his weight against the couch. 

“So,” he begins, “What’s the deal with all the thievery? It’s rarely something super rare or expensive.”

There’s a long few minutes where Danny doesn’t answer, looking anywhere but at Duke. Then he twitches a bit and glares off to the side, and says, “I taking items that are contaminated with ectoplasm to help ghosts move through the veil and leave Gotham.”

That tells him nothing! That just gives Duke more questions! But at least it’s an answer, the first one any of them have got.

“I think you’re gonna have to explain a little more.”

“Ghosts are real, alright?”

“Yes.”

Danny stops. Squints at him. “What do you mean, ‘yes’?”

“Ghosts are real,” Duke repeats, “There are a few who help heroes or are heroes themselves, but that’s more on the magic side of things so I’m not super familiar with it.”

“Magic,” Danny says slowly. “Sure, alright. Um. Yes, ghosts are real. And there are a ton in Gotham who need help moving on, but they’re too weak to get past the veil. Something about Gotham has made the veil super strong, so they need a little boost to get through. Additional ectoplasm bonded helps with that.”

“And that’s why you’re stealing random things?”

“The ghosts I help can kind of sense ectoplasm-infused things, but they need me to grab them since they can’t hold anything without a physical body.”

Duke nods slowly. “Okay, that’s starting to answer some things. We have found those objects in the last places missing people were seen. Any idea what’s going on with that?”

“Yeah, those people were already dead.”

The way Danny says the most concerning answers as if they’re nothing is really throwing Duke off his game. He was expecting to be calm and serious to keep Danny from freaking out too much and look like a legitimate hero. But as soon as Danny started talking, all his nerves fell away and Duke is left grasping for composure. 

“They were…”

“They were ghosts, yeah. And they needed to get through the veil. But they were also able to possess their own bodies and didn’t realize they were dead until I had to break the news to them, which is why it looks like living people just up and disappeared.”

“Okay… What about the green stuff we’ve been finding?”

“Ectoplasm.” Danny holds up a hand and a neon green light surrounds it. Except it looks more solid than light, as if it can be touched, and it moves on its own like fire around Danny’s fingers. “It’s what ghosts are made of.”

Oh. If Danny has ectoplasm, does that mean…

“Are you dead?” Duke asks, heart dropping. 

Instead of looking upset about the question, or even disturbed by it, Danny just shrugs and waves his hand back and forth. “A little.”

“Okay, so let me get this straight,” Duke says, trying to resist the urge to rub his temples. It’s a habit he didn’t mean to pick up from Batman, and it would just look silly with his helmet in the way. “You’re just doing all this to help ghosts?”

“Yeah. Basically. They asked for help man, of course I was going to help them.”

Danny’s a good person. He’s just a good person to ghosts. But this is good news either way, and he can let the others know that Danny isn’t the next Catwoman and is entirely unconnected from any drug production. Everything that made him look like a criminal is just the fault of ghosts. 

“Speaking of,” Danny continues, “Looks like they found what they need, so I’m going to grab that real quick.” He pushes off of the wall and heads for the closet again, moving past Duke without any fear. Duke follows, keeping a few feet of distance between them so Danny doesn’t feel trapped, and watches as he shoves aside the coats again and pulls a shoebox out of the depths of the closet. From it, he takes a single intricate lace headband and holds it up.

It looks normal, if a little old, but when Danny sends ectoplasm through it, the lace lights up and holds the glow. 

He pulls some strange contraption out of his pocket and holds it up to the headband. It makes a few beeps, then Danny mutters, “7.4 millisieverts. That’s enough to get you through the veil.”

Another concern Duke can let go of: Danny’s not creating weapons like his parents have, he’s just measuring ectoplasm through his own inventions. 

Maybe he could talk to Bruce or Tim about getting Danny an internship at the R&D lab in Wayne Enterprises? That way they could keep a closer eye on him while seeing what he can create in some of the best laboratories in the country.

Well, it might take having them meet Danny before they trust him enough for that, but Duke is sure he can make it happen. 

“I better go see this through, then,” Danny says, shoving the contraption back into his hoodie pocket. He gives Duke a small awkward wave, then pops out of visibility. “I’ll see you around, I guess?” he disembodied voice hedges, and Duke smiles.

“I’m sure I’ll be able to find you again.”

“Cool. I gonna go now!” 

He doesn’t see any sign that Danny’s left, but he gets a feeling that he’s alone now, the apartment suddenly emptier than it was before. 

As strange and concerning as Danny and all his bizarre actions were, Duke is glad he was able to finally talk to him and get some answers. Knowing how Gotham pulls people him in, it’s only a matter of time before the other Bats are exposed to Danny’s kind of strange. He’s already looking forward to it. 

For now, though, he has a file to update in the Hatch; POTENTIAL THREAT will be removed and replaced with GHOST HELPER. 

If anyone goes snooping into his files and gets confused, then that’s their problem. Duke’s explained enough. And Danny can take care of the rest, once they go through the effort of tracking him down. Duke's done his part, he's ready for the rest of them to step up to his level.

He can’t wait to see what other kind of trouble Danny can get it into.

[theprettynosferatu]

CW: Non-consensual, Intox (aphrodisiac), Mind breaking.

Two years. Two fucking years of work down the drain. The worst two years of her life, working towards a goal she knows she’ll never see, and all because someone up the chain of command got bribed or threatened or who knows what else. What matters is someone fucking sold her out and now she’s bound up, staring at the gang of absolute sadistic freaks she has pushed herself so hard to infiltrate. 

Shit, the things she has done to be accepted as one of them! Well, “one of them” is stretching it. More like a trusted groupie, she figures. The amount of “slutty, fiery latina” acting she has been forced to do almost makes her throw up. It’s a stereotype and a racist one at that but damn it if these dumb motherfuckers raised by porn didn’t appreciate it, in a sick way. And all of it for a goddamn rumor.

They have this new shit, this kinda spray thing, makes any girl wanna fuck you like crazy… True Love, they call it.

Yeah, right. But still, the chance that such a drug could exist and flow through the streets, paired with some rather bizarre incidents of victims fighting to remain by their captor’s side… it was enough to try and get someone on the inside. And she’s ambitious, young, and most importantly, with the proper… attributes to play the gang-doll. Even now she almost wants to chuckle at the memory of the chief trying to explain that part, fighting so hard not to mention her ass. She’s not dumb. Wasn’t then, isn’t now. Without what she, modesty aside, considers the most spectacular ass in the city, the gang would have never even taken a second look at her. And she wouldn’t be here, now, tied up. 

Fuck. She realizes her mind is rambling, going on tangents, trying to escape the simple reality of the situation. She can’t move, and seven men are looking at her like she’s dessert, discussing exactly what to do to her. 

“Maybe we should use it, you know” one says.

She thinks she’s “it”, for a moment. She realizes she’s wrong as Karl, who has more muscles than brain cells and yet for some reason always calls the shots, removes one of the floorboards. Fuck! She has been in this warehouse dozens of times, looked everyone for evidence of the supposed magic drug, and has always come up snake-eyes. And it’s right fucking there, under the goddamn floor. What the fuck is it, the 1950’s? She’s tried every phone, installed keyloggers on laptops, learned every password- in her head, there had to be some clever operation at work, some devious method to keep such a huge deal secret. Nope. It’s under the fucking floor. She wants to tell them to untie her, just so she can kick her own ass. 

They laugh as they get naked, and a wave of shame crashes over her. She realizes she has seen all of these bodies before, and it makes her sick to her stomach. Sure, men get talkative when bragging and trying to get someone into bed. And men lower their guards after they bust a load- that is, if they don’t just roll over and fall asleep instantly. She has used that, over and over, to get information, to get chances to snoop.

Did she have to, though? That question has haunted her, and now it seems to grow solid, like a rock in her chest. Did she truly have to play up all those stereotypes to become some fucked up fantasy of whatever a hot latina is supposed to be? Did she have to buy all those booty shorts, those cheap jewels, those slutty heels? 

And didn’t a part of her enjoy the attention?

Fuck. Chances are she’ll die here, and she doesn’t want to die a delusional bitch. Yes, fine, being the center of attention felt nice. But the sex? No. That was awful. Pretending to be attracted to these meatheads, doing anything they wanted just so her reputation as a grade-A piece of ass would spread, faking orgasms…

Bull and shit. You’re dying here, Mariana. Stop lying to yourself. You didn’t fake all of them.

She’s yanked away from her little spiral of shame by the loud hiss of spray being applied. They’re passing a little can around, coating their cocks with… 

No. It can’t be real. It just can’t. There is no magic spray. It can’t possibly work. Sure, these idiots might think it does, but in reality, no, True Love isn’t a thing.

The images flow into one another like photographs. She knows, rationally, what is happening. A knife is cutting her bindings as two sets of hands are holding her arms. Her shorts are being sliced, ripped off her. Her legs are being held wide open for Meathead Karl. She files these things in her mind, and feels nothing. She’s there, but she’s not really there. Ah, yes. Dissociation as a defense mechanism for trauma. Mariana has read about it, and now feels mildly fascinated by the experience. 

The pain drags her back to reality. Her instincts kick in, and she braces for the suffering that is to come after that initial opening salvo. She grits her teeth, and…

The pain doesn’t come. She hears laughter as her eyes grow wide, a horrible realization dawning on her. The feeling between her legs is a warm thing, a pleasant thing, slithering up her body, unlike anything she has ever felt before. 

“Starting to hit you, Officer? Oh, this is just beginning”, someone says, his voice coming to her as if from a million miles away. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. It’s real. Fucking True Love is real. Her mind reels, the interviews with previous victims rushing in her memories. The way they spoke about their abusers as if they were Gods. The way they defended them. The way they longed for them, like junkies going into withdrawal. She can’t become like them. She can’t lose herself like that. She can’t…

She can’t focus. Her mind is getting fuzzy as the delicious sensation reaches her nipples. Every inch of her skin feels sensitive, overwhelming. A pussy. My whole body is one giant pussy. She has no idea where the thought comes from, but it grows inside her as she squirms and little moans escape her lips. No. Don’t give them the satisfaction. Don’t moan. Don’t move.

“Oh, now you’re getting it. Don’t worry. It will get much, much worse”

Whose voice speaks? She can’t tell. She finds it harder and harder to care. Suddenly, her body betrays her as her hips start moving on their own, seeking pleasure, trying to coax the cock inside her deeper…

She feels on fire. She hates herself, hates how good every thrust feels, how much she needs more and more and more. Thoughts flood her, like a strange invasion taking over her mind. Cock. Cock feels good. Cock feels so fucking good. This is good. This is perfect. This is exactly what I should do. This is all I want. This is all I have ever wanted. Her mission starts to fade away. She can barely recall why she ended up being fucked like a good girl by this marvelous cock, and it feels so unimportant, so insignificant. Only the pleasure matters. She needs more. Her eyes cast around her. Cocks. Big, hard cocks, stiff for her. She starts drooling. The men laugh. She doesn’t care. There are hard cocks near her. Why aren’t they using her?

No. Snap back, Mariana. This isn’t you.

Why not?

Isn’t this better than whatever she was before?

One of the men lowered his body, his cock inches away from her face. She needs to taste it. She needs to wrap her tongue around it. She needs to worship it, body and soul.

“Oh, poor slut wants it?”

She’s not sure she understands the words. But she does understand, with a frenzied animal cunning, the desire behind them. They want her to beg. Some distant remain of sanity is pleading with her not to give in, not to surrender her voice, to keep some small part of her true self. It screams in vain.

“Please… give… cock…” she manages to mumble between moans.

“No. Not yet. You see, officer, your mind might be going, but your body is learning very fast. It’s so open now… And we intend to keep you around for a long time. No quick sell for you. So we need to… train you a bit”

Mariana knows the man is talking. The words don’t reach her until he starts playing with her nipples, and a single word takes over her entire existence.

“Cum”

She shakes. She screams. Her entire body is reduced to a single, shining sensation of absolute pleasure. She can feel something inside her breaking, giving in. She pants and a part of her expects the sensations to subside, but they don’t. If anything, the constant pleasure grows, leaving her right at the gates of another orgasm. She tries to grind, to move, to use the cock inside her to cum again…

“Not without permission, toy”, someone says. She almost manages to squeak out a complaint, but the stimulus is too strong. All she can do is squeal and moan.

The world swirls around her, colors heightened, bleeding into each other. She never wants to go back to the gray, solid, difficult past. She wants to stay here, be this- be pleasure.

“Cum”

Yes. She cums, and nothing else matters. This is all she needs. All she exists for. Her eyes are unfocused, her mouth hanging open. She feels the cock touch her lips before she even consciously sees it. The imperative is immediate. Suck. Lick. Take it deep in your throat. Use your tongue, pressure with your lips, the vibrations of your moaning. Use everything you are to please cock. 

“Cum”

Every time it gets stronger, going beyond whatever she ever thought possible. No mind can hope to withstand such a tidal wave of pleasure. As soon as she realizes they’re starting to move her, she hops up. The men don’t have to tell her what they want from her. She wants the same thing. She’s just holes. Holes need to be filled with cock. She impales herself on Karl’s dick and leans forward, letting him suck on her sensitive nipples, leaving her asshole ready, eager. She’s presenting herself like an animal in heat, and she’s loving every second of it. She’ll do anything to keep feeling like this, forever.

“Ass…” she manages to say.

“Not good enough, cunt. Come on, you can use your words better than that”

Words. Words for cock. Words to make cock happy. They own her words. They own her mind. They own her body.

“Please… use my ass… fuck my tight little hole… ram it hard! Wreck it! I need it so bad, need it so bad, need you to take me, take my ass, make me cum, never let me go, please please please…”

Even the pain feels good. Everything feels good. Humiliation feels good. Their mockery feels good. Their spit on her skin feels good. Obeying feels good.

One cock in her ass, using it with no care for her or any pain it might cause. One in her wet cunt, driving her mad. One in her mouth, using her like a breathing fleshlight. One in each hand, the promise of cum to come. This is it. This is bliss. This is heaven. This is all any woman could ever desire. This is home. 

“Such a good fucktoy…”, one mutters, trying to hold back his own orgasm.

The word infects her. Fucktoy. It starts overwriting everything inside her. Fucktoy. Her police training crumbles in her memory. Fucktoy. Her memories of her family fade away, forever. Fucktoy. Her hatred for cruel men vanishes. Fucktoy. Fucktoy. Fucktoy. It is all she is. All she has ever been. All she ever wanted to be. She’s mumbling it in between taking cock in her mouth. It rises like a gigantic obelisk in her mind, ruling over her, conquering all.

Fucktoy.

“Cum. Cum. Cum.”

Wave after wave of pleasure overtake her, crashing into each other, blasting away all that was and all that could ever be.

By the time she gets back something resembling consciousness, warm cum is coating her skin. She can feel the wonderful jizz inside her holes, taste it on her tongue still. She must have swallowed it. Like a good fucktoy. She feels so proud, so valuable, so beautiful. She made cocks cum. She was good. She was useful.

“Officer, remind me… what were you looking for?”

She looks at the man like a confused puppy.

“Cock?”

“I see. And what’s your name?”

She straightens up, full of pride. This one she knows.

“Fucktoy!”, she smiles.

Did you enjoy this story? You can support my work and get access to the full library at patreon.com/prettynosferatu

[hollyseb]

I DO (part 2)

Mob! Bucky x Reader - Forced Marriage AU

Warnings: MINORS DNI, swearing, violence, sexual content

2.2k words

Summary; Bucky, the leader of the mob, and the daughter of his enemy mob leader, find themselves entangled in a complex relationship

“We got a problem”.

Bucky sent a glance to your sleeping form, the sheets pooling around your waist, with your chest lifting rhythmically.

He ran a hand down his face and groaned, not wanting to leave you. “How bad is it?”, he asked, debating whether to throw the phone at the wall.

“Bad enough”, Steve replied grimly.

Fuck”, Bucky muttered, hastily shoving his phone into his slacks, throwing on the rest his clothes.

Finally reaching the foyer, he grabbed his keys from the table by the door and made his way outside to where his Mercedes was parked. The cool night air hit him like a slap in the face.

Dragging me away from my wife, on my wedding night. This better be fucking good.

“Steve”, Bucky said tersely, stalking into the dark warehouse, his men surrounding a table.

Bucky's gaze swept over the faces of his men, noting the glint of determination in their eyes. The room fell silent as he entered, a testament to his intimidation.

Steves eyes met his, his expression grim but determined. "Bucky, glad you could make it," he said, his voice low and steady.

"What's the situation?" Bucky demanded, his broad shoulders raising and falling in laboured movements.

"Hydra hit us hard tonight," he rasped, his jaw set with determination. "They took out one of our key operations."

Bucky's jaw clenched, “Do we know why?”

Steve faltered for a moment, before clasping a hand on Bucky’s shoulder, “They’re… not happy about the arrangement with Pierce’s daughter”.

Bucky smirked at that, “well he was quick enough to give her away to pay off his debt… fucking coward”.

“Bucky, they took out 14 of our men, brutally”.

Fuck.

Bucky's expression darkened, his anger simmering just beneath the surface.

“Wipe out half of their men, now”, Bucky began, his lips beginning to curl into a dangerous smirk. “Send a message that we won’t tolerate their interference”.

Steve listened intently, waiting for Bucky to continue.

An intimidating glint flashed through the mob boss’ eyes. “Let them know we will track the rest of them down, one-by-one, take them hostage, and torture them until they are begging to die”, his voice dripping with menace.

This was the mob boss that Steve knew; ruthless, determined and downright frightening.

The warehouse buzzed with anticipation as Bucky directed his men to different parts of the city. The adrenaline from the operation faded, replaced by a growing unease, a pang of guilt gnawing at him. He hated how he left you alone on your wedding night.

Steve sensed his apprehension. “Go home, I got this”, he said assertively.

Bucky hesitated, usually reluctant to relinquish control, but the thought of you waiting for him at home spurred him into action. With a nod of gratitude, he turned on his heel and headed back to his car, eager to be by your side once more.

The first light of dawn was breaking through the darkness when Bucky was speeding home.

Upon entering, he found his home eerily quiet. The faint scent of perfume lingered in the air, a reminder of your presence.

His steps echoed in the empty hallway as he made his way to the bedroom, his mind racing with worry. Had you left in the middle of the night? Did you really feel no connection?

Relief flooded through his body as he pushed the bedroom door open, and saw you tangled in the sheets.

Gently, Bucky pressed a soft kiss to your forehead.

After he pulled away slightly, you pounced on him, eyes flashing with anger.

You pinned him to the mattress with a knee on his hip and a hand on his wrist. Your chest was rising and falling rapidly, as you took in his bewildered expression.

”Where the hell were you?”, you seethed, your voice demanding. “Leaving in the middle of the night without a word”.

He swallowed hard, opening his mouth to respond.

You interrupted him. “It’s my first night in this house, and you fucking leave?”

”I’m sorry, doll”, he murmured, “it was just…business”, his hand reaching out to brush a stray hair behind your ear.

Is he fucking patronising you?

You scoffed, shoving his hand away. “Business”, you repeated incredulously.

Bucky's jaw clenched at your tone, not accustomed to having his decisions questioned by anyone. His patience wearing thin, "yes, business," he replied firmly, his gaze unwavering. "I had to handle something urgent”.

Your grip on him tightened. “Something urgent, huh? How about I perform a disappearing act too?”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed. “You disappear and I’ll hunt you down”, his voice low and edged.

“Is that a threat?” you challenged, a smirk playing on your lips as you observed the way Bucky’s jaw ticked. You managed to piss him off.

“Call it what you want”, he replied evenly, his tone firm, “but you're not going anywhere without me knowing about it”.

You moved to release him, attempting to roll off of the man, but he had your hip gripped like a vice. The tension in the room thickened, each word hanging in the air like a silent challenge.

Bucky's lips curled into a predatory smile, “but trust me, I don’t need threats to keep you right where I want you”.

“Fuck you”.

Bucky’s eyes darkened with desire as he held you captive beneath him.

“Funny,” he smirked, his voice dripping with hunger, “that’s exactly what I had in mind”.

You sneered at that, but his smirk only widened in response before his lips crashed into yours. You hated his cocky attitude, but you couldn’t help succumbing to him.

Bucky grinned against your lips when he ran his fingertips from your hip to the swell of your breast, feeling goosebumps appear in his wake.

Gently, he cupped your breast, his thumb brushing over your hardened nipple, eliciting a gasp from your mouth. Your body responded instinctively to his touch, arching as he rolled your nipple between his fingers.

His other hand slid down your spine, swiftly flipping you onto your back. He pulled away slightly, his gaze lingering on your hazy eyes, swollen lips and the way your breasts bounced as you landed.

With a hungry gleam in his eyes, he began peppering kisses along your jawline and down your neck, until he reached your breasts. He licked the sensitive skin around your nipple tentatively, maintaining unbroken eye contact with you.

You couldn't help but let out a soft whimper at his deliberate slowness, your anticipation building with each teasing touch. He lapped up the sound, a low hum vibrating against your skin as he palmed your other breast.

Your eyes flew open in shock when he started kissing down your stomach, tugging at the duvet pooled around your hips.

“Bucky?”

He hummed in response, fingers curling around the fabric covering your form. His gaze flickered to yours, “relax, doll”, he whispered, his voice a soothing balm, “I've got you”.

With a shaky exhaled you surrendered to his touch.

He pulled the duvet below your knees, and gently placed his hands on your thighs. Slowly, he spread your legs apart, eyes falling from your face to your core.

”Fuck”, he murmured to himself, taking in the sight before him. “You’re so fucking wet”, he growled, a hunger evident in his voice. He needed this.

His gaze flickered back up to meet yours, a primal intensity burning in his eyes. Without breaking eye contact, he lowered his head, his lips trailing a scorching path along your inner thighs.

Bucky's movements were deliberate and calculated, his tongue teasingly tracing circles along your skin. You squirmed beneath his touch, your breath hitching as he sucked a love bite into the plump skin of your thigh.

As he finally reached your core, he paused, his gaze locking with yours once more. There was a silent question in his eyes, a silent request for permission. You nodded silently.

With a devilish grin, Bucky lowered his head, licking a stripe through your folds. Your body tensed, breath getting caught in your throat. It felt so foreign, but so natural. His hands gripped your thighs, dragging you closer to his face.

With a stifled moan, you breathed his name. It was blissful, the way his tongue swept over your clit. His fingers traveled from your thighs, to spread your folds, allowing him to lick impossibly deeper.

“B-Bucky”, you stammered, a poor attempt at a warning as he teased you, bringing you to the edge, only to pull you back.

He hummed innocently in response, the vibrations going straight to your clit. You found yourself lifting your hips in an attempt to get him closer, grinding against his tongue.

You knew you were becoming delirious, losing yourself in his touch. Unable to control how your body writhed, and stringing his name between moans and whines. The knot in your stomach tightening.

He ignored your jumbled pleas, mercilessly lapping at your clit. Slowly, he sank his finger into your entrance, controlled and gentle, hardening at the way your walls clenched him.

“Bucky, please”, you whisper breathlessly. You tried to resist the urge to ride his fingers. He revealed in your submission, his gaze darkening with desire. He loved you like this, at his mercy.

”You’re making such a mess, honey”, the sound of your wetness filling the room.

Suddenly, he sucked on your clit and curved his fingers, just at the right pace. The knot released. Your legs shook around his head as your mouth fell open in ecstasy. Fuck. You forgot your own name. You’d never came so hard in your life. You were gasping for air.

He wouldn’t release you, prolonging your climax. He couldn’t get enough of the way you trembled beneath his touch.

As you came down from your high, chest heaving and skin flushed, Bucky crawled up your body, leaving a trail of kisses along your skin.

“Still planning on that disappearing act, huh?”, Bucky said, a smug grin playing on his lips.

In a dazed haze, you managed to lazily roll your eyes. “Gonna need more than just one orgasm to make me forget about that, Buck”.

Bucky’s grin widened at your response, a mischievous glint dancing in his eyes. “Oh sweetheart”, he purred, leaning in closer, “I can make you forget your own name”.

You arched an eyebrow, with a smirk devious enough to match his. “Careful, you might end up forgetting yours too”, you retorted, your tone teasing.

Bucky’s voice dropped to a husky whisper, his breath grazing your ear. “It’ll be hard to forget my name with the way you were moaning it”.

Bucky’s grin faltered as a sharp knock on the bedroom door shattered the tranquil atmosphere.

Quickly, you pulled the sheets up to cover yourself as Bucky padded across the room with a resigned sigh. He swung the door open, revealing the man who you had seen briefly at the wedding, Steve.

The man stepped into the room, his gaze flickering to you briefly before returning to Bucky. You felt exposed under his stare.

”You’re needed downstairs. Now.” Steve's voice was urgent, his eyes darting between you and Bucky with unease.

Bucky’s brow furrowed, muscles tensing with apprehension. “Has Hydra attacked?”, he questioned, his voice edged with concern.

“Bring her downstairs too”, Steve added, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Bucky looked at you over his shoulder. He hated the way you were gripping the bedsheets in fear. Both men fixed their eyes on you, their expressions unreadable. Silently, Bucky nodded to Steve, unease settling like a fog over the room.

“Give us a minute”, Bucky said to Steve, closing the door quietly.

There was a sense of foreboding in your chest as Bucky turned to you, his demeanor suddenly serious. You felt a shiver down your spine. You had yet to see his mob boss side in full throttle.

“Get dressed, now”, he instructed, placing a folded pair of his grey tracksuit bottoms and a plain white tee in your hands.

”Bucky?”, you whispered, alarmed by his haste, “is everything okay?”

“Get dressed”.

Without another word, you obeyed his instructions, slipping into the clothes he provided. You found yourself breathing in the scent of his cologne to calm yourself down.

Once dressed, you met Bucky’s steely gaze. His usual charm was gone. A reminder of the dangerous world he lived in.

Bucky took your hand in his, his thumb drawing circles over your hand. His touch grounded you in the midst of the chaos. together, you made your way downstairs.

As you reached the downstairs of his mansion, the atmosphere shifted palpably. Bucky’s men were gathered in tense clusters, their expressions grim.

"Stay close to me," Bucky murmured, his voice low and reassuring, as he led you through the gathering of his men.

You nodded silently, clinging to his hand tightly as you navigated through the tense atmosphere. The weight of the situation hung heavy in the air, and you couldn't shake the feeling of unease creeping up your spine.

As you approached the center of the room, Bucky's third-in-command, Sam, stepped forward, his expression grave.

“Hydra has placed a hit on your wife.”

—————————————————————————

Part 3 out soon!

Taglist!

@sashaisready @matchat3a @writingpastmybedtime @thealyrs @melsunshine @lex-the-flex @himawariizephyr @jbbarnesgirl @mrs-bucky-barnes-73 @sagebarness @mishkatelwarriorgoddess @selella @armystay89 @globetrotter28 @iwritewithpenandpaper @casa-boiardi @winterslove1917 @buckydarling09 @kandis-mom @scott-loki-barnes @mrsevans90

[amathslutsguidetofandom]

Don't Do That To Me - 1

PAIRINGS: Captain John Price x Techie!Reader

SUMMARY: What happens when your recklessness almost costs you your life? Will John regret putting an end to your "hush-hush" relationship? Will he even care?

WARNINGS: A pinch of angst, inaccuracies of military operations, inaccuracies of hacking, and John being a silent simp.

WORD COUNT: 2,252 (Yeah, it's a lot for me 😅)

*not proof-read*

ENJOY!

You take off your vest and put it on the 7-year-old boy who trembles in fear. Your hand itching to take a hold of the gun that’s pocketed in your thigh holster, you turn to look at Soap and Gaz as they do the rest of the sweep of the warehouse.

You look back at the boy and place a hand on his shoulder, “You are ok, we will get you out.” He nods shakily at your statement, and his mother wraps her arms around him tighter as they huddle near the window.

You get up from your crouch position and walk over to Gaz, who has just entered the room. “Found it?” you ask hopefully to which Gaz nods. “You’re lucky it’s a portable one,” he replies and hands you the Toughbook. Your eyes widen as you take it immediately and place it on the nearby desk and you flip it open and start typing away.

Your fingers work mindlessly as you concentrate hard.

You hear Soap talk to Gaz regarding something about communications being jammed, you don’t remember when Soap walked in.

“Guys, wait, this Toughbook controls some satellite connections within, like, a three-mile radius,” you stop and turn and look at the two sergeants.

Soap walks forward and leans over your shoulder to get a better look at your screen, “Looks like gibberish to me, bonnie.” You huff slightly and turn back to the toughbook, “I can try to reconnect the comms back to Captain, I just need-,”

“Go ahead,” Gaz says while looking at the hostages. You hear him walking to stand on the other side of you, “why did you give up your vest.”

It’s not a question, it’s a statement.

A statement to you stupidity.

You, yourself, wouldn’t call it ‘stupidity’ per se.

You would call it your everlasting kindness.

Even though that boy’s father may have info on some plans that maybe the solid scheme to breaking out Makarov, the boy is still a child. A child shouldn’t be harmed for what his father has committed.

You tell your whole pity story to Gaz, and he just rolls his eyes and mutters something like “reason why you’re a techie and not a soldier”.

You roll your own eyes and elbow his thigh.

You type for a while longer until you’re so sure that your work was right and click “Enter”.

***

John hears the static come through and he sits straighter in his chair, so does Ghost. “Team?” he says into the mic in front of him.

“Hear you loud and clear, Captain.” Your voice pulls through and he almost sighs in relief.

Almost

“Copy, Sergeant.” He sinks back into his chair and listens as Soap gives in the summary of what has happened and the hostages, they have in their keeps.

John and Simon are stationed at base, by Laswell’s orders, to stay put and help the team through comms. So, they both, along with Laswell and other military grade personnel, sit in the meeting room looking at the various screens hooked on the wall.

John’s focus was primarily on his own Toughbook as he sees the intel you’re sending over from your side.

For him it feels like yesterday.

Yesterday, when he held you in his arms.

Yesterday, when he kissed you senseless.

Yesterday, when you said you loved him.

Yesterday, when he fucked you good and held you while your slept in each other’s arms.

Yesterday, when you both argued about the fact your relationship was a secret.

Yesterday, when you stopped talking to him.

He hated himself for trying to put an end to what you both had. He tried to wish you luck before the OP but Soap told him that you didn’t want to talk to Price, something about “getting her head straight and in focus.”

Now, you’re on the field, your fingers smacking on some keyboard of some Toughbook and send him the intel on whatever you can get your hands on.

His eyes caught something on one of the screens.

One of the techie’s has somehow managed to get a street camera that’s angled to the window of the warehouse you, Soap and Gaz are currently in.

“Sergeant’s, we got eyes on the hostage, through a window. Over,” Laswell’s says into the table mic.

A second later Soap’s face pops on the screen, and John’s brow’s twitch.

You’re in there, somewhere.

He straightens his face again; he can’t let the board know that he was (ex-)fucking the most talented Technical Sergeant he’s ever had to work with.

Soap and Laswell converse over the comms, but John’s eyes are focused on the screen as he see’s Soap step away from the window.

Then he sees it…The red dot

***

You finalise you’re typing and see the loading bar as it slowly increases per second.

“Laswell, the data is slowly being transferred over to your database, over.” You press on to the comms as you convey your message to your Chief Officer.

You turn around to see the child and his mother again.

And that when you spot it…The red dot.

“Shit, kill the lights,” you whisper-yell to Gaz. Gaz furrows his eyebrows at your words and the way you crouch. You nod at the mother, at the one, then two, then three red dots appear on her body.

Snipers

You hear Gaz and Soap swear and get their guns ready, and one of them shuts the lights off.

“Laswell, we got a situation here.” You hear Soap’s static words through the earpiece.

Gaz tells you and Soap to stay put as he exits the room. You hear Laswell and John swear. Firstly, your heart stutters at John’s voice (but you quickly push that feeling aside). Secondly, you turn to see the son witness what’s on his mother’s body and soon screams.

“Hey, buddy. Eyes on me,” you cringe first at his shrill tone, then you whisper and calmly wave him over. He shook his head, but you’re assuming his mother knew what was happening and slowly convinced him to come towards you.

When he reaches you, you tighten your vest on him and give him a reassuring look.

Soon there’s some static and a new voice is heard, a distorted voice with a bit of an Arabic accent.

“Hand us the boy.”

You look at Soap, and he looks at you.

“Hand us the boy, and no one gets hurt.”

You go to click on your comms, and Soap stops you as he shakes his head.

“Let me,” you whisper back, Soap sighs and let’s go of your wrist shaking his head because he knows that he can’t stop you.

You nod and click and hold onto your comms button, “You’d willingly hurt your wife?” You look back at the woman, she clutches onto her hijab as she silently mutters her prayers.

“No questions, just hand us the boy. We won’t kill you if you do,” the voice replies.

***

John clenches his jaw as he hears the voice threaten you.

He hates that you are in this situation, he hates the fact he can’t be there to actually see what or how you are doing.

***

“Look, to whoever this is, there’s no way we are returning the boy. And there is no way you are killing his mother,” you say sternly into the comms.

Soap paces with his grip on his rifle tight as ever, he listens as you talk into the comms and make sure the voice on the other side is aware that you are not giving up.

You rub at your forehead as you sit on the floor and share a look of sympathy with the woman whose life is on the line.

***

Thirty-Five minutes.

That’s how long it has been since the start of their incident.

“What’s the plan, Cap,” Ghost’s rough voice breaks John out of reverie.

He turns slightly to face the man in the skull mask, “can’t really say without being there. If only-.”

Laswell cuts him off.

“No John, I was never gonna let you go on the operation. I knew the beef you have with the kid’s father. You would let you anger blind you,” she says in her boss voice.

He opens his mouth to say something, but she raises her hand to silence him. “Maybe not by lot, but at least by a little bit John.”

He keeps quiet at that.

Because he knows that its true.

He also knowns that if something to you, he will never forgive himself, and hunt down the person behind the distorted voice.

He grumbles as he crosses his arms as he eyes the screen of the live camera footage.

***

“What are we going to do,” Soap says as he stays vigilant. You are not physically vigilant you’re stuck in the middle as you rub your temples, your mind being the extremely vigilant one.

“We have to make a distraction, also where the hell is Gaz-?” Your voice gets cut off but the distorted voice again.

“Time’s up, shot’s being taken,” the static breaks through your earpiece and your heart drops.

Soap looks at you and you look at Soap with your eyes widening.

“No!” you yell and run to the window and push the woman aside and take her place instead, the red dots now covering your form.

***

The voice cuts through the speakers and the words make John become alert.

The meaning behind them, makes everyone in the board room sit straighter and murmurs go around the room.

Then his heart drops.

He sees you push the woman away and stand in front of the window yourself.

The first time he sees you after a long time, is when your life is at risk.

He stands up abruptly, and while he moves to the screen, his throat closing as he sees the red dots being aimed at your head.

“Laswell, act now,” he turns and dips his head as his voice drops an octave.

Laswell sees the seriousness in his face and begins to throw out orders, and people start running around.

John, however, stays put.

He watches your face, the face he’d caresses every night when you spend the nights in one another’s bed.

“Don’t do that, princess,” he mutters to himself as he feels his headache at the pressure in him.

***

You hand slightly trembles as you make eye contact with the street camera Laswell was talking about.

You breathe out shakily.

“The hell you’re doin’, Lass,” Soap whisper yells at you.

You ignore him and press on the comms, “you have me now.”

The distorted voice fills the caves of your mind as it chuckles, “even better.”

The sound of the gunshot rents the air

***

“No,” John mutters as his breath gets caught in his chest and walks closer to the screen as he hears the gunshot too.

He’s breathing becomes laboured.

A few seconds later, there’s static through the comms.

“Hostile eliminated, I repeat, Hostile eliminated,” Gaz voice pours in through the speakers.

Never in his life, has John let out the biggest sigh of relief.

***

You hear Gaz’s word through the plastic in your ear and start laughing, you laugh at the thought of losing your life a second ago.

“Gaz, you fucker, I don’t know whether to kiss you or kill you,” you let your voice take over the comms.

***

It’s been half a day since Gaz took down the person behind the distorted voice.

Turns out the voice belongs to the best friend of the main man you wanted info on, but thanks to Gaz, you don’t have to worry about much in the moment.

The helicopter touches down so cleanly it takes you out of your train of thought.

Soap pats you knee and gives a friendly smile before hopping out, and you do the same.

The duffle bag digs into your shoulder as you tap away at your phone, recollecting every single aspect of the mission. It’s your thing, to nitpick a mission after you’re done with it.

You finally look up and make eye contact with a specific pair of cold blue eyes.

You stutter in your step as you watch him take off the familiar boonie at the sight of you. You nod at him in politeness (as much politeness could be covered in a sergeant and captain relationship) before turning and walking away.

***

You body just sinks into the sofa, and you sigh.

“Yup, definitely needed this,” you adjust the strap of your tank top and tug at the hem of your shorts to prevent the incoming wedgie.

You grab your bucket of ice cream and spoon off from your coffee table and resume the show you mindless put on.

But before you could press play, there’s a knock on your apartment door.

You groan at feeling off your relaxation being taken away at the last moment.

You set your things on the table again and get up to walk to your front door.

At this point you want to tell the person to ‘piss off’, and that is the plan when you open the door.

But when you open door, there are no words coming from you.

The 6 foot something man stands with his head dipped and his eyes solemn on you, the bouquet of your favourite tulips in his hands don’t even hold your attention.

It was his eyes.

The eyes that belonged to John Price.

🎀🎀🎀

Hey Lovelies!

Here we are babygirls, the first fic for my delicious and yummy man, John Price.

Legit was inspired by that one scene in Scandal, legit Tom Goldwyn is so hot like a DILF 😌.

Also, don't mind the diabolical amount of mistakes, this is a result of my doom-scrolling and a bit of late-night urge for productivity.

Lemme know if you wanna be tagged!

Also....

Lemme know what y'all think!

Stay Coquette-y,

Anya 🫶🏽🕊️🎀

[pastanest]

Spencer Reid x she/her!reader

A/N: why is it so difficult to find high quality post-prison reid fbi vest gifs like I thought we were all sluts out here but Ig not

gif creds: @imagining-in-the-margins

Duality Of Man

Spencer Reid had never really considered himself to be a reckless man. He had always been a calculated, well thought out, methodical follower of the rules, for fear of being ridiculed further for breaking societal rules beyond the ones he couldn’t help via his neurodivergence. He enjoyed rules. Learning the rules of people, of their behavior, and of various board games that challenged his intellect, were some of his favorite pastimes, actually.

Spencer also would not have regarded himself as a particularly possessive or territorial person, prior to spending three months behind bars. They isolated him, kept him locked in a space with people that wanted him dead, like an animal raised in captivity being thrown into a cage of wild lions. Having nothing of his own changed the way in which Spencer viewed the world around him, once he was allowed to step back into it.

Yours had been the first face he had seen when he had set foot beyond the prison walls on the day of his release, and the moment he felt you return to his embrace, in a gesture the two of you had engaged in countless times, a form of physical contact that he was most comfortable sharing with you; Spencer felt that something was different. In a way that he didn’t quite understand, you were his, beyond the platonic confines he had previously forced over his own feelings for you. He was not overbearing and had never overstepped your boundaries, but he was more outwardly protective of you than anyone else.

It had only presented itself in small gestures and words: moving to stand slightly in front of you in any kind of tense situation to act as your human shield, checking in with you at every stage of the cases you worked together, prioritizing your safety over his, and, naturally being the first one to object when you volunteered to go undercover to seduce an unsub into revealing information.

“Absolutely not.” Spencer had uttered from where he sat beside you at the round table, shaking his head.

And you had rolled your eyes at him. “I’ll be fine, Spence, I can handle myself.”

He couldn’t argue with that, he had seen you stare down men twice your size on several occasions, which always made him smirk. Still, Spencer could not hide the sick feeling that twisted in his gut at the thought of you going undercover, and being in danger.

As he had often found, the feeling in Spencer’s gut had been right. The unsub had been clever enough to deduce that you were a deliberate victim, not one of happenstance, and as such, he took you to a second location, which he had not done with his previous victims.

Given it was not his usual mode of operation and he had acted on instinct, the unsub’s play was an amateur move; comparable to what Spencer was certain Gideon thought in their first chess games together, so many years prior. As clever as the ubsub had been in figuring out you were not who you said you were, he was not intelligent enough to outsmart the one man army of Doctor Spencer Reid when fuelled by a fire that he had never felt burning in him before. It took less than a day for the team of profilers to find the warehouse you were being kept in, and less than a minute for Spencer to completely disregard their carefully orchestrated plan to rescue an FBI agent with the regulated SWAT team.

He didn’t need a team behind him for this.

He would handle this bastard himself.

With a kick that Spencer was sure Derek Morgan would be proud of, the door to the warehouse was made obsolete. Gun and torch raised, Spencer stalked the dark warehouse, checking dusty room after dusty room, eagle eyes scanning every corner, until a figure dared step out of the shadows in front of him. Anyone foolish enough to make themselves a physical blockade that kept Spencer from getting to you was a waste of oxygen.

“So, you’re the one she’s convinced is coming to save her.” The unsub taunted, chuckling darkly as he raised his arms out to his side cockily. “C’mon then, show me what you’ve got. No weapons, just you and me, man to man.”

As if to prove the authenticity of his own words, he discarded his usual weapon of choice, the blade clattering against the warehouse floor.

Spencer eyed him like a wild lion in a cage, and he almost smirked at the irony, but kept his expression calm and collected. He glanced at the doorway of the dark room they stood in, knowing that protocols would advise him to call for assistance, to make the arrest with as little physical harm as possible. But when Spencer’s eyes gravitated back to the subject who was now very much known to him, his target was in his sights.

An icy glare stayed fixed on the man that took you as the sound of a torch and gun hitting the ground echoed through the otherwise empty room. The air was thick as Spencer unclipped his FBI bulletproof vest and tossed that to the ground, too. And with no sense of urgency, he popped the cufflinks of his shirt and rolled his long sleeves up to his elbows.

An invitation to beat the life out of someone that took you? Hurt you? It must be Christmas.

Spencer’s expression was unmoving, and he didn’t say a word. Finally, after a childhood spent as a victim of merciless bullying and a portion of his adulthood fearing the judgment and cruelty of others, Spencer Reid was confident in his ability to end a physical confrontation with his own two fists.

In three large strides, he was face to face with the egotist, who swung at him, pathetically, and predictably enough for Spencer to not only swerve out of the way, but reciprocate the gesture tenfold. A solid right hook spun the idiot’s jaw and sent him stumbling, but Spencer was far from finished. He stalked over to him and in a matter of steps, had grabbed his target by his shirt collar and forced him against the wall. The fool was still reeling from Spencer’s punch, a dazed look in his eyes and blood dripping from his split lip.

“Did you touch her?”

Spencer’s words were eerily quiet, barely above a whisper, but in the silence of the warehouse they reverberated against every wall. He had a feeling that he already knew the answer, but he needed to hear it, he had to be sure his next actions would be justified.

His vision clearing, the man fool enough to take you smirked up at Spencer.

“(Y/N) looks real pretty when she cries, doesn’t she?”

He chose to answer Spencer’s question with a rhetorical question that immediately decided his fate.

In a fraction of a second, Spencer threw his target to the ground and pounced on him, vision clouded with red as he landed punch after punch, until the ground looked just as red to everybody else. If three months in prison had taught Spencer Reid anything, it wasn’t just how to fight, it was how to fight dirty.

He only stopped when the physical barrier sputtered for breath, and that was only because Spencer didn’t want to get thrown back into a cell. Catching his breath, Spencer lifted his gaze and scanned the room around him again.

“Spencer?!”

And he was stood, his rage an afterthought as he followed the weak sound of your voice, your call to him. In a sea of voices, Spencer could pinpoint yours in an instant. Having heard commotion, you had assumed it was him, coming to your rescue, like you always knew he would.

He found you in the next room, bruised and bloody, tied to a chair and covered in torn clothes with cuts beneath them that reassured Spencer the blood dripping from his knuckles was beyond worth it.

The look in his eyes was so soft as he ran to you and crouched in front of you, kissing your forehead as he tore the ropes from you with no regard for the burns he may get on his already bloody hands.

Finally free, you collapsed into Spencer’s arms, and he released the breath he’d been holding since you’d been taken, closing his eyes as he held you tightly against him, standing up and helping you to your feet in turn. The weight of the trauma you carried made your legs shake beneath you, but Spencer was there to hold you steady, he would always be there. He held your face in his hands and gave you the softest smile you’d ever seen, his thumbs ever so gently caressing your cheeks.

It took you a second to come to terms with your surroundings and your rescue, but as soon as you had, your eyes widened and you took Spencer’s hands in yours.

“You’re hurt.” You murmured, tears shining in your eyes as you held his bloody knuckles with such tenderness, he was surprised he could feel it after the aggression his hands had just been subjected to, but he would always be able to feel you.

Spencer almost chuckled in disbelief as you - in your beaten, bloody and traumatized state - became upset over a little blood on his hands. Well, maybe it was more than a little…

“Adrenaline, (Y/N), I can’t feel a thing.” Spencer reassured you in a soft voice, holding your face in his hands again and placing the lightest kiss on your nose. “But we need to get you to a doctor.”

The moment he said it, the rest of the team filtered into the room, having passed the sputtering suspect and Spencer’s discarded bulletproof vest on their way.

The look on Emily’s face told Spencer he would have several unpleasant reports to fill out regarding how he’d handled this case, but when he stared into your eyes and saw the stars in them, he knew he’d do it all again a hundred times if you were waiting on the other side for him.

[the-californicationist]

The Simple Mistake (Ghoap)

Ghoap fluff, hurt/comfort (please be nice i dont write ghoap)

Johnny wasn’t often the smaller man. In most situations, he was the aggressor, or at least the larger of the pairing. But, he felt himself being lifted as if his body were mostly air. He was being carried like a sack of flour, hoisted over a huge, mountainous shoulder, and tossed into arms that cradled him with ease. The sergeant could feel the way his captor’s muscles bent and twisted, even under all his black gear, and although the gunfire and the flashbangs were deafening, he could hear the hollow, steady swell of the man’s breathing as it filled his wide chest. 

“C’mon, Sergeant. Just a few minutes and you’ll be right as rain. Hold on,” the dark, muffled voice told him. 

The man had been making these threats the whole time, promising him freedom and safety, telling him he’d be alright. Johnny didn’t much care either way, not anymore. Right now, all he wanted to feel was more of the same, more of these shoulders, more of this expansive back whose lats were pulled wide like spread wings. A great bird of prey, or a vulture come to claim its carrion. 

Bullet wounds were always a fucking mess, that was for sure. Luckily, the pain of it was being covered by an immense layer of shock. Johnny could feel the symptoms; chills, loss of sensation, trembling… it was all there. But, he was thankfully lucid, so they may not have hit him in a vital spot. Because of the vest and all of his gear, he hadn’t been sure exactly which bullet had landed the blow, but he felt the punch of the projectiles in his leg and chest, so something was bleeding… that much was clear. 

It wasn’t his symptoms that concerned him; it was the tone of his Lieutenant’s voice as he reassured him over and over and over again, killing Makarov’s men as he made his way out of the warehouse with a series of pistols that he procured from the piles of dead terrorists. Having to stop and murder more Konni operatives made their journey a slow one, and Johnny could tell Ghost was becoming more and more frustrated. 

“Where are these fuckin’ bastards all comin’ from?” The strong English accent was a comfort to the Scot, as much as it was an annoyance. 

He didn’t reply to the question, not even with a snarky jab, and he stayed as still as he could, trying to make it easy on his carrier. 

“You alive, Sergeant?” The concern had increased by an octave.

“Solid,” Johnny managed to respond, but it was getting a little hard to breathe. 

“Almost there, mate. Almost… there,” Ghost rushed into a heavy, lockdown facility and shut the door behind him.

There were three inches of steel between them and their enemies and absolutely no communication service. The silence of the safe room settled around the two men like a dark blanket, shielding them from the outside world. The light was dim, the floor was mostly sand, and there was a marked lack of furniture. 

Johnny felt himself being gingerly laid down on a desk, all of its contents fiercely strewn on the floor of the room, and Ghost began to remove the sergeant’s gear. 

“Jesus, LT,” Johnny panted, “Feels like you didnae even break a wee sweat, sir. I wanna be just like you when I grow up.”

The lieutenant was too focused for his jokes, his voice flat and cold, focused on ripping Johnny’s gear from him piece by piece,

“You’ll be better than me, Johnny.”

Johnny felt like he was being mauled by a bear. His body was jostled around like a ragdoll as Ghost pulled plate after plate from his chest. Eventually, his vest was ripped away, and then Johnny saw the glint of a huge knife. He barely had time to gasp when Ghost sliced up through his shirt and sleeves, yanking it off of his body, revealing his chest, sweaty and hairy, tanned in odd lines where his tank top and tee shirt had been. The sergeant chuckled a bit, nervous, smiling up at his commander,

“Maybe I already am, sir.”

Ghost didn’t reply. He was too focused on the task at hand. His eyes were wild, checking and rechecking Johnny’s body for the source of his blood. Finally, the sergeant was turned, lifted with ease from the desk, so that Ghost could inspect his leg. 

“Trousers have to come off, Sergeant,” the lieutenant explained. 

It was barely a warning. In one swift rip, Ghost shucked Johnny’s pants down to reveal… all of him. 

Johnny wasn’t really one for underwear, but he was kicking himself for that habit today. 

“LT! Christ!”

“You’re hit in the side of this leg. Need an XStat here. Deep breath.”

Johnny didn’t have time to breathe at all. The searing pain from the insertion of the wound-sealing device made his face twist into a wild grimace, and he shivered from the hot flash of agony. 

“Fuuuuckkk…” Johnny moaned, writhing and fully naked on the shitty desk.

Ghost was on the ground, digging in his gear bag, and he produced a foil shock blanket. He unwrapped it, ripping through the packaging, and lay it over his sergeant, tucking it around him. 

Johnny was shuddering, and his voice shook, but he tried to smile,

“Th-thanks, LT… Wish I had a wee bit more warmth, though. Cannae seem to stop shakin’.”

Ghost pulled off his gloves, and then, to his shock, Johnny watched as he removed his mask. He didn’t see Simon’s face often, but when he did, he tried not to stare. It was just a face, after all. There were no odd deformities, but it was as if some version of Zeus had just revealed himself through a swan or a bull; it was meant to be witnessed. 

The lieutenant didn’t meet his eyes, but he scooped him up, his huge arms curled under his back and in the crook of his knees, and brought him down to the ground. Then, he just… held him there. 

Johnny tried to remember the last time he had been held. A wee lass from high school, perhaps? But, she had not cradled him like a bairn. Perhaps it was his ma, when he drug his knee climbing through nettle at his uncle’s farm, burning up like the idiot he was, sniffling about the sting. 

Now, here he was, a grown man, cradled again in the same way. The bulk of Simon was warm against him, but the gear dug into his naked flesh. Ghost could sense his discomfort and moved him aside for a moment, shrugging out of his vest, and replacing Johnny right back into his arms. 

“Are you warm?” Simon asked quietly, a little under his breath.

“Aye, sir, thanks for tha’.”

“Are you in pain?” This question came out like a prayer, and it unsettled the younger man.

“Aye… but, it’s better now, sir.”

“Good. Help’s comin’. Sent Laswell a ping before we got locked in.”

Johnny chuckled, resting his head on Simon’s shoulder,

“She’ll find us in a right state.”

Simon shifted a bit, and there was a long pause before he muttered,

“I’m sorry, Sergeant. When they arrive, we can —”

“Haud yer wheesht,” Johnny interrupted him, pressing his forehead into Simon’s warm, bare neck, “It’s a fine state.”

“Aye.”

“Aye?” Johnny’s blood rushed through his veins, “So, you have taken a shine to me, then.”

“Aye,” Simon said, finally turning to meet Johnny’s eyes as he lay in his arms. He pressed his nose into Johnny’s space, close enough for a kiss but speaking to him instead, 

“I’ve taken a bloody shine. It’s bright enough to keep me awake at night, and it’s blindin’ me now. Everything in me says that I should leave you alone. Your rank, your future… you rely on me. But, I can’t stop staring at the shine of you. So bright. All the time.”

Johnny’s arm crinkled through the foil blanket as he reached a hand up to touch the coarse shadow on Simon’s jaw, drawing those full lips into his, petting his cheek, tasting the cigarette smoke on his tongue. He moved against him, feeling Simon’s enormous strength respond in a generous outpouring of affection, like a statue once frozen now come to life. They sank into each other, melding together, melted like hot wax, fusing, tumbling until there was only the shine of love between them.

[motorcop]

There's always that one!

As much as he tries repeatedly to break away from his conditioning and training, we have to admit we have developed a soft spot for this hunk of a officer. To the point now, where we let him think he's made it out and will be "exposing our operation to the world" - hahaha, only to be captured, dragged back to a training room and gassed and trained over again. Its much like a perfectly scripted cat and mouse game. Our training methods are 100% effective, without fail and do not ever break down....BUT, when you have a warehouse full of handsome, well built cops with some attitude, well, you sometimes have to make your own fun..

[mockerycrow]

// UNDERCOVER — SOAP X GN!READER //

ONGOING SERIES — LAST UPDATE: AUG. 7 2024

Summary: You were working an undercover operation, formed by the CIA and MI6, under the guise of being a sympathizer of Makarov’s beliefs and actions. After spending years as this fake persona, Makarov figures you out. You’re found in one of Makarov’s warehouses, beaten and half-dead—found by the 141. As far as they know, you were one of Makarov’s right hands.

• I - chapter one.

Summary: You’re apart of an undercover joint task force between the CIA and MI6, meant to invade Makarov’s operations. Your entire mission goes up in flames once Task Force 141 takes you in for interrogation after finding you beaten and bloody in one of Makarov’s warehouses.

• II - chapter two.

Summary: After being waterboarded, your body is too exhausted and injured to handle any more. Soap and you are formally introduced outside of an interrogation setting.

• III - chapter three.

Summary: After your undercover op has been exposed, Soap has to record an interview of your account of everything, along with any sensitive information you’ve learned. You begin to sort through memories that drag you into a dark hole.

• IV - chapter four.

Summary: You have a rocky introduction with John Price and you continue your interview, despite a certain someone’s hesitant protests. You finally have your dreaded psych evaluation while your stress reaches it’s peak.

• V - chapter five.

Summary: Your stress is staying at it’s peak for the time being as you come to terms that you’re staying under a secure watch until you’re properly evaluated, under the wise eyes of John “Soap” MacTavish. Chapter five, otherwise known as “babysitting duty”.

• VI - chapter six.

After you’re allowed to get up and move around in a wheelchair, you begin to open up about what happened with Makarov; his plans, and you begin to process some things. You have a formal introduction to Sergeant Kyle “Gaz” Garrick.

• VII - chapter seven.

Taking a break from telling your experiences, Soap and you spend the day together. He takes you from your room as to allow you to see more. Unfortunately for the both of you, Soap didn't bother to inform anyone of this decision.

[epochofbelief]

Strictly Confidential: A Feysand AU

Chapter One

She's a law student turned confidential informant. He's a prosecutor with only one goal: bringing down her boyfriend for illegal activity . . . What could go wrong?

Hi everyone! Here's chapter one. I hope you enjoy. Let me know if you're interested in being tagged. Any thoughts on the story are much appreciated, too!

Chapter One

Feyre collapsed against the wall as soon as class was over. Sweat dripped from her temples, sliding over the layer of concealer she had plastered on that morning. She wiped her forehead, swearing to herself once again that this would be the last time she allowed Tamlin to drag her to a Crossfit class.

Even though she had made and broken that same mental promise to herself three times a week for the past six months.

As she guzzled from her near empty water bottle, Tamlin slung a sweaty arm over her shoulders, his skin against hers slick. Oily. “Got any of that left?” Tamlin asked, already reaching for the water bottle.

Feyre sighed, handing it off to him. “A few drops.”

He knocked it back without another word. Not an appreciative smile. No thank you, Feyre. Not even a nod of gratitude for the water he had taken from her.

As she followed Tamlin out of the warehouse where the Crossfit classes were held, Feyre made another vow. The first of its kind, but perhaps with more resolve behind it than the one she had made only moments ago.

She was going to break up with him this week.

Feyre trailed Tamlin through the parking lot, eyes on the back of his neck, his blonde hair stuck to it with sweat. Her boyfriend of over a year had fallen into conversation with his best friend, Lucien. Lucien was also a regular at these Crossfit classes, but had met Tamlin through work. Tamlin had hired Lucien as his Director of Operations at his company, Spring Solutions. Five years later, the duo were best friends.

Lucien climbed into the passenger seat of Tamlin’s expensive truck, leaving Feyre to haul herself into the back as usual. Tamlin swung into the driver’s seat and made short of work of getting the vehicle out of the parking lot and onto the highway that would carry them back into the city, back to the building where Tamlin and Feyre shared an apartment and Lucien lived a few floors down.

As the two discussed something about work—a topic Feyre didn’t particularly care about—she thought more about the terrifying new task she had set for herself.

Breaking up with Tamlin wouldn’t be simple.

Because it was her life, of course, and things were never simple.

She had shared an apartment with Tam, who was nearly seven years her senior, since the beginning of her second year of law school. Now, a month into her third and final year, their lives were fully intertwined. Feyre paid a few hundred dollars of rent each month, but Tamlin footed most of the bill. The downtown apartment was expensive, something Feyre could never afford on her own thanks to her law student’s budget.

She rarely paid for meals, either. Tamlin subscribed to one of those ultra-healthy meal services. A week’s worth of dinners delivered to their door every Monday morning. Feyre cooked them on study breaks, and the two would usually share a quick meal before Tamlin logged back on to work in his home office and Feyre returned to her books.

Most of the furniture was his, as was the art on the walls. The kitchen utensils, pots, pans. The bed they shared. Everything.

If Feyre moved out, she would have to return to her father’s house or increase the amount of student loans she had already taken out that semester. Neither option sounded appealing. She had lived with her father and her two older sisters her whole life—all throughout her undergraduate studies and until the end of her first year of law school. How she had made it so long trapped in that house, caring for her family in much the same way she cared for Tamlin, Feyre had no idea. So when Tamlin had proposed the idea of moving in together, she jumped at the chance. Didn't think farther than Get me out of my childhood home.

She hadn't considered what would happen if things didn’t work out. If she decided he wasn’t the one for her anymore.

She had gone straight from her father’s house to Tamlin’s apartment, and had fallen into Tamlin’s lifestyle, even if she still wasn’t quite used to it.

At least the bed in the guest room was hers, and the nightstand and the few books she had taken from her father’s house. Her painting supplies.

“Babe?” Tamlin’s voice scattered the plans she was fruitlessly trying to cobble together in her mind.

“What?” She inquired, blinking up at her boyfriend.

“I asked if you wanted to get dinner out tonight.”

Feyre bit her lip. She had already put off studying to come to Crossfit—if she didn’t get home soon, she would have to burn the midnight oil to get all her reading for class done at a decent hour.

“I really have to study,” she said quietly, praying he wouldn’t try to convince her to come to dinner. Because he would never let up and she, inevitably, would give in.

At Tamlin’s sigh, she tentatively tried again. “I’m really sorry! I wish my professors didn’t assign such long readings, but I can’t change it.”

He didn’t say anything.

“You know I would come to dinner if I could. I would much rather do that.” The words weren’t new—she’d used some variation of them numerous times over the past year and a half. They had almost lost all meaning to her, but she’d found this was the best combination to keep Tamlin happy: apologize, provide an excuse that was outside of her control, and assure him that he would always be her first choice.

“Alright. We’ll drop you at home and come back later.”

Feyre choked back her sigh of relief. “Sounds good. Thanks, babe.”

Lucien’s eyes met hers in the rearview mirror—one ginger eyebrow cocking slightly. Feyre looked away, gaze fixing on her lap.

Twenty minutes later, she waved at the car as it sped down the street toward Tamlin and Lucien’s favorite sports bar. With any luck, Lucien would get him drinking beers and talking about work, and she would have at least three hours to herself to shower. Study. Maybe even time enough to feign sleep by the time Tamlin returned.

And indeed, she managed to accomplish everything she needed to do just before Tamlin came stumbling into the apartment hours later. Feyre shut her eyes tight from her spot on the right side of the bed, her fledgling plans swirling through her thoughts until she well and truly drifted away.

-----

The next morning, Feyre gazed at herself in the mirror, turning this way and that to make sure every inch of her suit was clean and pressed to perfection, not a wrinkle in sight. The black jacket clung to her narrow frame, the pencil skirt she wore beneath it as flattering as a skirt that cut her off just below the knee could be. Her golden-brown hair fell in loose waves just past her shoulders, watery blue eyes popping thanks to the brown mascara she had applied.

“You look amazing,” a voice from behind her said.

Feyre turned, smiling at her boyfriend despite all the promises and plans she had made the night before. “Thanks, honey.”

“What’s the occasion?” Tamlin asked, striding forward and placing his hands on her hips.

Feyre stepped back, grinning up at him. “No touching. I have an important networking event with my firm today and I can’t get all wrinkly.”

Tamlin held up his hands, backing away a step. “My apologies, Ms. Archeron.”

Feyre smiled. Tamlin wasn’t always awful.

Just most of the time.

“So when can I expect you home today?”

Feyre sighed, grabbing her backpack and purse and brushing past Tamlin, striding out of the closet and into the master bathroom. “I’ve got a full day of classes, and then this networking event at six. I’m not sure how long it will go, but I’m really hoping to be back by eight.”

“Just as well,” Tamlin said. “I’ve got a late night at work—probably won’t be home until after ten.” Feyre nodded, and Tamlin followed her out of the bathroom, through the bedroom, and down the hall to the kitchen. Feyre grabbed the smoothie she had made earlier that morning and tucked her lunchbox into her backpack.

“Have a good day, honey,” she said, pressing a kiss to Tamlin’s lips. He nipped at her lower lip, green eyes sparking. But Feyre just smiled, retreated, and didn’t breathe deep until she made it to the hallway, door automatically locking behind her.

This week. She was going to do it this week.

Feyre’s day dragged on in one long, miserable slog. She got cold-called by her professors in two of her classes, but she managed to answer most of the questions correctly, her heart thudding violently in her chest all the while.

Cold calls and the Socratic method of teaching were one of her least favorite parts of law school. Most professors gave no warning to their students before they called their names, subjecting them to several questions of the professor’s choosing. If you didn’t know the answer, they might move on. But some waited for you to at least attempt to respond, while the class stared and stared and hands jumped into the air all around, telling you that they knew the answer, that it was obvious. Answering a question correctly felt wonderful—but answering incorrectly usually caused Feyre’s cheeks to burn a bright red.

It didn’t matter how many of the randomly determined “calls” Feyre endured—every time a professor spoke her name, her hands started sweating, her heart rate climbing up and up and up until the professor moved on to another victim.

She spent a few hours at the library after class, tucked in her favorite corner. It was private, but better than sitting in the main quad where most of the law students gathered to study during daytime hours. Feyre hadn’t spent any notable length of time in the quad since the first semester of her 1L year. As her relationship with Tamlin progressed, the few friends she had made faded away as Feyre opted to attend the fancy dinner parties and events Tamlin invited her to. Maintaining a new relationship and keeping up with her studies didn’t leave much time for anything else—not even friends. That wasn’t to mention the time she had spent at home with her sisters and father her entire first year of school, taking care of most of the housekeeping and cooking duties because the rest of her family had “real jobs” and Feyre was still “just a student” who didn’t work a regular 9-5.

Now, she felt like a ghost in the halls of the school. She would wave to her old friends if they passed in the hallways, but Feyre had long ago accepted that this would be her law school experience: sitting in the back of the classroom, answering questions if forced, and generally keeping to herself.

It was a quiet, small existence she led. Class. Tamlin. Attending whatever events or obligations Tamlin dragged her to. Studying.

After she’d had enough studying for the day, Feyre took the train to downtown Prythian, checking her makeup at least four times before the train arrived at its stop a few blocks from a large hotel and event center in the heart of the city. She started to walk the five minutes to the hotel, staring up at the enormous shiny buildings rising around her.

To think, this would be where she worked full-time in just a few short months.

Thanks to competitive firm recruiting, Feyre had had her post-grad job lined up since the summer. She would be starting as a junior associate at Hybern & Night LLP, one of the largest and most powerful national firms in the country. Jobs at Hybern & Night were hard to come by, but thanks to Feyre’s top 5% ranking at Prythian University Law School, and her ability to say all the right things under pressure, she’d scored a job during early interviewing last summer.

The firm occupied the upper floors of one of the tallest buildings downtown. Tonight it was holding a networking event for its partners, associates, recruits, and other lawyers in the community.

She could have skipped the event, but her career counselor had emphasized how important it was to immerse herself in firm activities as quickly as possible—it would make her transition from student to junior associate much smoother, and allow her to make connections with more senior attorneys and partners who might be willing to provide projects for her to work on when she started.

So, she was here, clicking down the shadowed streets of downtown Prythian, gearing herself up to rub elbows with some of the city's wealthiest attorneys.

Some day soon, she would be one of them.

Feyre tugged her coat closer around herself, the chill in the air signaling autumn’s impending arrival. A block away, the windows of the event center glowed warmly in the shadows of the buildings around her. She increased her pace, and soon found herself ensconced in a world of cocktails and arguments. Feyre made a beeline for the refreshments table. She could certainly count on attorneys to ensure there was an open bar at events like this. She seized a glass of red wine and cast her gaze around the room, but didn’t recognize anyone. She had interviewed with at least five of the attorneys from Hybern & Night in order to get her job, but they were nowhere to be seen.

Feyre thanked the man who served her the wine, swallowing back memories of her own time spent as a bartender at Humane, one of the filthiest hole-in-the-wall bars in all of Prythian. She would have preferred talking to the bartender—less posturing required—but forced herself to skirt around the room, looking around for someone to engage in conversation.

She had almost completed a full lap when an enormous man leaned against the wall just in front of her.

“You look lost,” his deep voice rumbled, light brown hair sliding over his forehead, pale green eyes gazing down at her. His cheeks were flushed—probably from the alcohol—and as his eyes slid over her, Feyre was glad she hadn’t yet removed her coat.

“Not lost. Just—” Feyre broke off, shaking her head. “Feyre Archeron,” she said, offering a hand. “I’ll be starting as a first-year associate at Hybern & Night next August.”

“Jax Smith,” he said, an enormous hand encompassing hers. “I'm in my eighth year at Hybern & Night. Hoping to make partner next year. It’s nice to meet you, Feyre.”

Feyre swallowed, taking her hand back and sliding it into her pocket. “You too.” She cast around for one of her pre-prepared questions: So how do you like working at the firm? Any advice for 3L students preparing to enter the workforce? How do you survive the eighty hour workweeks year after year after year? Is the money worth it?

Luckily, Feyre didn’t have to resort to any of her questions, because Jax spoke for her.

“You look awfully young to be a 3L,” he commented, gaze sliding up and down her body.

Feyre cocked an eyebrow, a chill trailing down her spine. “I’m twenty-three.”

“That’s young.”

Feyre gritted her teeth. This was certainly unprofessional. “Not too young, I hope,” she said, forcing a smile. This man was going to be her coworker. She couldn’t just turn around and flee. “I’ll be twenty-four this December,” she said brightly. “Practically collecting Social Security.”

Jax didn’t smile. Only narrowed his eyes like he was trying to see through her coat.

Feyre swallowed another gulp of wine, and as he inched closer, she realized that the alcove where they stood was mostly obscured by two of the many enormous columns ringing the event center. There weren’t any lights in this section, and no one else seemed to be paying them any attention. The rest of the networking attorneys seemed miles away, even the sounds of their voices muffled by a dull roaring that started in Feyre’s head as Jax’s gaze fixed her in place.

“And are you married, Feyre?” Jax asked, one arm resting on the wall next to her head. His gaze dropped to her left hand, wrapped around the stem of her wineglass, her fourth finger obviously bereft of any ring.

“No,” she said, backing away another step.

But her admission only seemed to encourage Jax. He slid forward, eyes focused somewhere just south of her neck, where her coat had fallen open to reveal the v-neck of her dress shirt. “I would be happy to meet you for a coffee sometime. Maybe even a drink. Tell you more about the firm, away from all these stuffy partners. We could even find somewhere quieter here. To talk.” His eyes slid to the hall that led who-knew-where, just behind Feyre, stretching off into the shadows of the hotel.

Feyre’s eyes widened, a lump forming in her throat. This man was her future coworker, her senior. He might even be partner by the time she started at the firm. To turn him down could be fatal. If he took offense, he could spin it any number of ways: She had no interest in learning more about the firm. Couldn’t care less about team-building and getting to know her coworkers. Clearly came for the wine and nothing else.

He could ruin her reputation. And that was something she couldn’t afford. Not if she ever wanted to be free of Tamlin, of her family.

“What do you say?” Jax asked, bending down, his face so close to hers she could feel his breath hot against her cheek.

“I—” Feyre started.

But another man’s voice, smooth as velvet and gentle as the night, floated into the alcove, startling Jax and sending a wave of relief over Feyre.

“There you are. I’ve been looking for you.”

[seat-safety-switch]

How much of your time are you spending tracking packages right now? When you've gone a little nuts and bought a whole bunch of car parts, it's easy to turn your spare time into some kind of logistics operation. Like a kid waiting for Christmas, you repeatedly look out of the front window looking to see if UPS Santa is going to come by and throw that last little bit of the project on your porch. Not today, sucker! It could be much worse, though. Let me tell you a story.

Once, a long time ago, the local bus company also did packages. It was great because it was cheap. The only problem was that you had absolutely no control over when they'd arrive. If they had space under the bus, they'd throw your package in that space. Too many people brought bags? It can wait for the next one.

I had used them a couple times (because they were cheap) to ship giant things (because they were cheap.) Every time, I'd get a phone call and be told that it was time to go pick it up from the bus depot. This, too, is part of why it was cheap: home delivery is expensive, and throwing it into your warehouse and making the asshole who paid you show up for it is much cheaper.

When I arrived, the scene was mayhem. To be honest with you, it was less of a "warehouse" than a "giant pile of shit on the floor with people crawling all over it looking for packages." I told the nice lady at the counter that I had a sway bar waiting, and she clambered into the pile, scattering boxes hither and yon as she began to dig towards the floor. Fifteen minutes later, she emerged, defeated. "Come back tomorrow," she told me. "It'll probably be unearthed by then." Statistically, she wasn't wrong, but I despaired at the idea of my precious package being even further buried beneath whatever the hell other people were shipping using the bus network.

Out in the lot, I had barely started my car when she came running out, my swaybar held aloft like a trophy. "Found it," she bragged. "Stephanie came back from her break, she can find anything." I wanted to ask more questions, but she had already thrown it loosely on the tarmac in front of my running car, heel-turned on the spot, and began to march back into the building.

I never got to meet Stephanie, but she can rest assured that I put her hard work to good use. Namely, I held onto the thing for a couple of years without ever installing it into a car and gave it to some other sucker when he expressed the slightest interest. Stick that in your package tracker and smoke it.

[rascal-xo]

I heard your requests are open~

I'm always a sucker for angsty hostage reader fics. Maybe one of the 141 are clearing a warehouse, and come across hostage!reader. He takes them back to the base for their injuries and they start to get close

Hopefully this is enough to go off of, I really like your writing

Special Affairs | Task Force 141 x GN!Reader

Chapter Summary: You’ve found yourself in a sticky situation and end up crossing paths with none other than the infamous 141 soldiers.

Warnings: Violence, weapons, language, reads like an action fic ‼️

Word Count: a lot. (i’m too lazy to check lol)

A/N: I decided to let my creativity run wild and took some inspiration from the Cold War campaign (my fav). I hope you enjoy and ty for the request!!

|NOT CANONICALLY ACCURATE| |OVERLAPPING OF TIMELINES| PART 2 HERE

When you were recruited for the CIA, It was only a matter of time you’d find yourself in this situation. Your training had prepared you for the unexpected, but nothing could have quite prepared you for the events that unfolded during this covert mission.

As a highly skilled agent, you were sent deep undercover to gather intel on a notorious terrorist organization. You had infiltrated their ranks and gained their trust, positioning yourself to uncover their plans from within.

But during one of the critical moments, a sudden turn of events led to chaos.

As tensions escalated, shots rang out, triggering a full-blown firefight and you were caught in the crossfire, you fought valiantly, taking down several hostiles. You were outnumbered and one of the enemy operatives managed to sneak up behind you, immobilizing you with a well-placed blow to the head.

When you regained consciousness, you found yourself disoriented and restrained in a dimly lit underground bunker. Your head throbbed with pain as you struggled against the ropes binding your wrists.

Hours turned into days as you remained imprisoned, your captors using various failed forms of psychological torture to extract information.

Unbeknownst to Captain Price, Soap, Ghost, and Gaz, their mission had brought them closer to the underground facility where you were held captive.

Their objective aligned with yours - to dismantle the terrorist organization from within.

As the four of them navigated the corridors, they encountered heavy resistance. The sound of gunfire echoed through the compound, alerting your captors to the presence of intruders. “Was zum Teufel?!” (What the hell?!”)

The two armed soldiers in your room snapped up from their seats and readied their rifles to fire back if the door opened.

Just as the enemy closed in on your location, the sound of a door being kicked open reverberated through the bunker.

Price, Soap, Ghost, and Gaz burst into the room, their weapons blazing. Their entrance sent your captors into disarray, allowing you to break free from your restraints.

Without wasting another moment you grabbed a gun on the nearby table, just as The Captain’s weapon pointed away from the now dead guards and to you, “Don’t Shoot!” You exclaimed.

“Who are you?” Ghost barked, not lowering his gun yet.

“I’m CIA.” Price motioned for everyone to lower their weapons and you walked closer to the group.

You nodded to them, “Clandestine Special Officer, Y/N Y/L/N.”

“What’re you doing down here, Lass?” Soap chimed in, looking at you intently.

“Came here on the job you’ve been sent to finish.” You looked at your shoulder which was still freshly wounded, and then looked around the room for your jacket. You finally caught eye on it laying on the floor and quickly went to put it on.

“Wait, you cant go on like this, you’re broken.” Gaz points out, motioning to your shoulder. You could feel the black and blue forming around your eyes and the cut stinging on your lip as well. ‘So much for covert’ you thought to yourself.

“I’m fine, but I know East Berlin won’t be if we don’t get moving.” You answer.

Captain Price exchanged a glance with Soap before nodding in agreement. "They’re right. We need to finish this mission, and it seems like we've got ourselves an unexpected ally," he said, his voice steady and commanding. “Gonna get that arm checked out once we’re back, got it?”

You nod and collect the rest of your scattered gear, before heading out of the bunker and to the main facility. “So what’s the motherfucker got down here that needs to be guarded like this?” Gaz asks, as you take down maps and manifestos from the enemy conference room which is now empty.

“Missiles.” They all pause and turn to you in shock. “American missiles.”

“Steamin bloody Jesus.” Soap mutters.

“In the 50’s, Operation Greenlight put nuclear devices within every major European city as the ultimate ‘fuck you’ to a Soviet invasion of Europe. But an upgraded American Precision Strike system when online 2 weeks ago, sent up red flags all over but they were disguised at that time.”

“Perseus.” Price’s voice had anger lining it. “When does the system become active?”

“We have 24 hours at best. Launch was already delayed a few days from what I understand.”

The group exchanged concerned glances. "We need to move fast and take out the missile launch site before it's too late," Captain Price said, his voice urgent.

You nodded in agreement, knowing that time was of the essence. "I have intel on the location of the launch site, but it's heavily guarded," you said, pulling out a map and pointing to a spot. "We need a solid plan of attack."

You joined Captain Price and Soap as they made their way towards the launch site, keeping your eyes peeled for any enemy forces. Gaz and Ghost went around the south entrance.

Finally, you reached the launch site and saw the missile silos looming in the distance. The group split up, with Captain Price and Soap taking the left flank and you taking the right.

As you made your way towards the silos, you encountered heavy resistance. Enemy soldiers were everywhere, firing at you from all directions. You returned fire, taking out as many as you could.

When you reached the site, you quickly accessed the control panel, determined to disable the launch sequence. With deftness born from your CIA training, you navigated the complex system, neutralizing the imminent threat.

“Bravo Six to Actual- do you copy?” Price spoke.

“This is actual, what’s your report?” Laswell’s voice coming from the comms.

“We’ve got the threat. They were active missiles.”

The tension in the room dissipated as the launch sequence halted. A collective sigh of relief passed through the team.

“Gonna call in the evac, Y/N you with us?” Soap asked, coming to the group. Going back with the 141 didn’t seem like such a bad idea now that you had worked with them. The CIA could use the extra knowledge first hand.

“Hope you’ll save me a seat.” You smiled.

———

After the mission, you and the rest of the team returned to a secure base in London. You found yourself sitting at the counter at a pub.

You watched from across the bar as Soap scored a bullseye with the dart, earning a triumphant cheer from Gaz. Ghost simply nodded in approval, his focus seemingly undisturbed.

“Adler it’s Y/N. Everything’s been handled but I’m in London for the time being.” You sent the voicemail and set your phone down.

Captain Price walked over, a slight smile playing on his lips. He took a seat beside you, signaling the bartender for a drink.

"CIA, huh?" Price remarked, his voice carrying a hint of warmth. "So what’s next for you, darling?”

"There’s always something that needs to be dealt with. But It feels good to have a moment to breathe," you replied, taking a sip from your drink. The cool liquid provided a soothing sensation as it slid down your throat.

You looked up to meet his gaze. You had known of captain for quite some time now. There wasn’t a file at Langley you hadn’t been assigned to go through, his of course was more seasoned than others.

Price's piercing blue eyes met yours, and for a moment, the weight of the world seemed to fade away. His expression held a mix of admiration and camaraderie, a silent acknowledgment.

He leaned back in his seat, his expression now uncertain. “Laswell never mentioned you or anything about this mission being active.”

“Well neither did Shepard, and we all know you have a Shepard problem.” You moved your glass in a circular motion slightly, watching the golden liquid rise and fall.

“We’ll always have that problem, darling.” He scoffed, downing the rest of his scotch.

“Well since i’m here now, consider that problem handled.” You said, suddenly deciding that you and the 141 weren’t quiet done being a team yet…

————————————————————————————

A/N: I highkey enjoy writing action/double meaning story fics. LMK what y’all think :))

[kaiijo]

PROMISES — FUSHIGURO MEGUMI

pairing: fushiguro megumi x gn! reader content: third-year! megumi + reader, canon-typical descriptions of injuries and blood

You can’t make promises as a jujutsu sorcerer. You’ve learned this the hard way. Telling people — vowing to them — that you’ll protect them, that you’ll keep them safe is a waste of time. Swearing that you’ll come back alive and in one piece is a waste of time. Making any promises in this world, filled with so much blood and death and sorrow, is a complete and utter waste of time. You’ve lost too many friends and allies and complete strangers to believe anything else.

There’s blood pouring out of your nose and you can taste the iron tang on your tongue. You are almost certain that at least four ribs are broken and you’re bruised and scraped in more places than you can count.

This was supposed to be an easy exorcism, a low-grade curse in an abandoned warehouse down by the port so there’s minimal risk of casualties. You were sent out by yourself because of this but it’s clear that the information was incomplete because the minute you finished off that Grade Three curse, a much, much worse one slithered out of the shadows and sent you flying.

You barely manage to exorcize it, almost all your cursed energy is spent and you drag yourself out of the warehouse where Ijichi is waiting for you. He rushes to you just in time as you collapse. “Sorry,” you slur as he helps you lay down in the backseat of the car, passing out as soon as the engine rumbles to life.

You wake up in Shoko’s office, sitting up on the operating table she has inside. When you do, three heads whip towards you: Gojo, Shoko, and Megumi’s. Your boyfriend is quick to get to your side, eyes flickering up and down you, clearly trying to see if there are any wounds that Shoko’s reverse curse technique didn’t heal. You poke his forehead and say, “I’m better now, dummy.”

He frowns at you and your heart sinks a little. You know that he’s not happy with you from the furrow of his brow and the set of his jaw and he opens his mouth to say something but Gojo comes up beside him. His mouth is pressed in a firm line and when he speaks, you hear the guilt in voice. “Ijichi texted me. Told me you were taking longer than expected,” Gojo says. “I was on a special assignment and by the time I finished, you were being driven back to campus.” You can hear the unspoken words: I’m sorry I wasn’t there to help you.

You crack a grin. “You should’ve seen the other guy.”

It makes Gojo chuckle a little but Megumi’s expression is unreadable. It scares you a little. You know that, to most, that’s just Megumi’s normal look, but you know your boyfriend better than that. Learned his little habits and tells. His right eyebrow twitches when he’s angry. He runs his tongue over the edges of his teeth when he’s anxious. But right now, there’s nothing you can read.

Shoko releases you from the infirmary and you walk back to your room with Megumi. It’s evening, the sun is setting on the horizon and painting the sky in shades of yellow and orange that fade into pink and purples. Megumi drops you off at your dorm without another word and you’re not even sure what to say to him.

After a quick shower, you’re sitting in bed when there’s a knock at your door. You open it, surprised to see your boyfriend outside. You let him in, noticing the small rectangular box in his hand.

You sit back on the edge of your bed and stare at him. He stands in front of you, mouth opening and closing and he glances between you and the box in his hand. Finally, he breaks the silence, words slow and deliberate. “I was going to do this after we graduated but… ” He hangs his head. “But you almost died today. And I know it’s not the first time it’s happened to any of us but I just… need to do this now.”

He opens the box and nestled in satin cushioning are two identical silver rings, one a little bigger than the other. Your heart stops. “What are these, Megumi?”

He takes a deep breath. “Promise rings,” he replies. He takes both of them out and holds the smaller one out to you. Your fingers tremble as you close your hand around it, metal cool in your warm palm. “I know we’re not ready to get married now, and we don’t have to get married a month or a year or even ten years from now,” he continues. “But… all I know is that I want to eventually, with you.”

There’s a familiar pressure building behind your eyes, the beginning of tears stinging your waterline. “Megumi,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. The air is heavy between the two of you. “You know— I can’t— I don’t—”

Your heart breaks at the hurt that crosses his face. “You don’t want to marry me?”

“No!” you blurt out, tacking on quickly, “I do, Megumi. It’s… you know what I think about things like this.”

“I know,” Megumi says. “But I think you’re wrong. Promises… promises are some of the only things we can hold onto in the darkest moments. What keeps us going when it seems impossible.”

You can’t look him in the eye and you lamely say, “You’re starting to sound like Itadori.”

Megumi huffs out a small laugh and you can’t help but smile a little. He stands in between your legs, cupping your face with his free hand. “I just don’t want anything to happen to either of us without letting you know that I want this forever.”

You lean into his touch and glance down at the ring in your hand, rubbing your thumb over the smooth edge of the silver band. You tilt your head up and look at Megumi. And you think about your first meeting, when Gojo steered you towards the second-years and Megumi — Maki and Panda sparring, Inumaki and Megumi tapping away on their phones — and introducing you; Megumi did a double-take when he saw you and fumbled trying not to drop his phone, something Gojo never lets him live down. You think about when Megumi asked you out, egged on by Itadori and Nobara. You think about your first dates, your first kiss, your first everything with Megumi.

You gently pry Megumi’s hand from your cheek and drop your ring in his palm. He looks devastated so you quickly ask: “Can you put it on my finger?”

Megumi’s ears go red but he sinks to sit on his knees, tenderly pressing a kiss to your left palm before flipping it over and, with so much attention and care, he slides the band around your ring finger. Wordlessly, he hands his to you and you do the same, choosing to brush your lips against the back of his hand. He grips your hand and pulls you, enveloping you in a tight hug, face digging into the crook of your neck and you think that Megumi’s right and that you’ve been wrong this whole time.