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hauntingcryptids · 1 year

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Lie Down With Me

O x Reader (Dhawan!Master x Reader)

Summary - The Reader, an agent at MI6, is obsessing over their current mission and O helps them with their stress.

Based On This Request - Anonymous requested - “Hello there how are you? I hope that you’re doing well. If it’s okay I was wondering if I could request an O x Reader (Dhawan!Master) where the reader is a secret agent and after working hard on a mission they are tired but cannot sleep. So O offers to hypnotise the reader to make them sleep”

Warnings - the reader being stressed and overstimulated, The Master hypnotises the reader with their consent, but obviously the reader doesn’t know about The Master and his powers

Word Count - 2697

A/n - Gender Neutral Reader. Requested by a lovely anon.

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You were an excellent secret agent. Truly one of the best. The only flaw you would say that you had would be that you were too committed to your job. MI6 was worried for you, for your mental health in particular, but even your physical health. For as long as you were a secret agent at MI6, you spent every second of your day committed to whichever case you were scheduled to complete. Even though MI6 was proud of your work, they expected a level of relaxation after a big, often traumatic, case. But you never took time off. Ever.

MI6, specifically C, decided to step in. You required a new flat because your old base house was compromised. So, C assigned you to a new base house, and this time the organisation assigned you a roommate.

You had seen O occasionally around MI6 headquarters. The two of you were assigned to different departments, so you never had any real opportunity to get to know each other. However, you always found O’s research to be incredibly valuable to your agency’s cause. C disagreed with your opinion constantly, but you would always stand up for O and his work.

There had been an incredible amount of alien interference in Human affairs since the early nineteen sixties, but since around 2005 sightings of aliens have nearly quadrupled. You couldn’t understand why so many of your fellow agents and C thought that O was a loon when he seemed to be ahead of the curve. Maybe your kindness towards the quiet agent was why he was chosen as your roommate. Or maybe it was because of his perseverance. To C, O might be the only person within MI6, or even the Universe, to actually get you to take a break.

So far, though, O was not successful. Since moving in together, you continued to work long hours, way into the night, and you rarely took longer than a normal weekend to recover from a case. O tried everything in his power to make you feel safe and calm around your flat and in the office, and it only seemed to bring the two of you closer. Which O loved, but that wasn’t what he was tasked to do. He wasn’t here to be your friend, he was here to protect you, and he was failing in that manner.

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The current case you were working on was getting to you. More than any other case before. You didn’t know how to feel. Even though you had stressful cases before, none were like this. No case before was ever so agonising. For some reason, nothing seemed to be falling into place, clues weren’t lining up and leads were falling flat. Even C, who was usually more slow when reacting and responding to national and international threats, was getting stressed and hounding you to do better. C even went behind your back three days ago to berate O on the “lack of timeliness” regarding your mission.

You had been awake since O told you about his interaction with the head of MI6. You probably fell asleep at some point, but for no substantial amount of time. After hours of pacing around your room, agonising over the clues, you finally walked to the kitchen to get a caffeinated drink. It didn’t really matter what drink it was at this point; you just needed the energy in order to keep going. You couldn’t stop. You just couldn’t.

You decided to make something warm. Maybe the heat would also jolt you awake along with the caffeine. As you waited for the water to boil, you began pacing again. You even started muttering to yourself, just replaying the clues and the scenarios that could possibly be important to your end goal. You huffed in frustration when nothing, again, ended up connecting or resolving itself.

“Are you okay?” You nearly jumped out of your skin when you heard O’s question. You really must be losing your mind because you didn’t even hear O enter the room. You were one of MI6’s best agents; you refused to lose your spot in the organisation just because of one case.

“Of course I’m okay. Are you okay, O?”

“I’m just a little worried.” O’s brows knitted together as he stared at you in your frantic state.

“Maybe you should take a nap or eat some food, maybe go for a walk.” You pondered out loud as you prepared your warm and heavily caffeinated beverage.

“Right … Yeah, I would, however, it is not myself that I am worried for.” O said this softly, tentatively, almost as if he was scared of your reaction, but you knew that O wasn’t scared of you. He saw you bundle home after a brutal case completely covered in blood and never treated you differently after the fact. So that must mean that O was worried for you and he was scared that you might be offended.

“What? Me? I’m perfectly fine! Don’t be ridiculous, O.” You turned around animatedly to O, trying to appear healthy and stable. All you needed was to complete this case and then everything would go back to normal.

“Well, C said that you have the habit -”

“Who cared what C said?!” You screamed across the room. O’s face fell and his eyes widened in shock. You had never spoken to him like that before. Immediately, you regretted what you had done. You groaned and covered your face in embarrassment.

“I’m sorry! O, I didn’t mean that. I really didn’t. I guess the stress has been getting to me lately.” You admitted defeatedly. You had been trying to suppress your growing emotions for O since moving in together, but now you couldn’t deny them now. Seeing O’s shocked face after you yelled at him broke your heart.

“Y/n, you’re totally fine. I’m not mad. I just want to make sure that you are taking care of yourself.” O walked over to where you were now leaning against the kitchen counter and held your arms firmly in his hands.

“Please, let me help you.” O tried to look you in the eyes, but you continued to hide them from him.

“You don’t have to do that. I can just-”

“No. Okay, no. C asked me to watch over you and to make sure that you take care of yourself. And I have been trying to help, but I have not been doing that well enough. So, please, let me help you now.” You sighed. You really didn’t like feeling like a failure. It caused you to feel an all-consuming hatred for yourself. You collapsed into O’s shoulder, completely crestfallen.

“I don’t know how to be calm, O. I don’t know what to do if I’m not working. And now I can’t even do the one thing I am good at properly.” O wrapped his arms around you and began rubbing circles on your back.

“Well, you can just spend some time with me.”

“O … I don’t have time for friends or relationships. You know this.”

“Maybe having more than just a workplace relationship will be good for you.” You were going to respond, but O suddenly removed you from the hug and then pulled you out of the kitchen and into the hall.

“Where are we going?” You asked with exhaustion finally reaching your voice.

“Your room.”

“Why?”

“You need sleep.” You rolled your eyes but choose to not comment. You knew that you needed sleep, but you had been unable due to your anxiety over the case. You still thought that trying to sleep before completing your research was a lost cause, but maybe O could actually help you. He was an incredibly intelligent agent and person, and he was chosen to keep an eye on you, maybe an inch of trust could go a long way.

Once in your room, O let go of your hand before crawling onto your bed. He got comfortable horizontally against the head of your bed, sitting right up against your pillows. He then looked up at you with a smile and patted his lap as if to say that there was where you should be. You tentatively moved to the edge of your bed but stopped there before moving onto your soft and inviting mattress.

“O, what are you doing?”

“I’m going to help you sleep. Now come on up here.” O pushed the covers back and motioned you over again.

“I don’t know O …”

“Trust me, Y/n, I’m soft and cuddly. You will absolutely get the rest you need with me. And if that is not enough convincing, I could tell you about all of the people I put to sleep with my lectures.” You laughed under your breath, still trying to stay strong to your convictions, but O’s warm and inviting smile won you over. You crawled into your bed tentatively and sat on your feet as you stared at O.

“What do you want me to do?” You asked. O stared back at you for a moment before a more playful smile crept on his face.

“Well, first you should lie down.” You stared at O for a long time, trying to deduce his motives, but, eventually, you did as O said and lied down on your bed beneath your blankets. You made sure to not touch O. You didn’t want to indeed his space or make him uncomfortable.

“It would be best if your head was on my lap.” You sighed, unsure of what O was planning, but you moved yourself up the bed and then laid your head on O’s lap.

“I don’t think I will be able to sleep, O. My brain is too anxious and loud. So, you don’t have to do anything.” You muttered in a rushed matter. You knew that you were in a bad state, and you were very appreciative of everything O had done and was continuing to do for you. You just didn’t think that anything would actually succeed in soothing you until you completed your case. You didn’t want O to waste his time with you when he could be doing something more important.

“Don’t be ridiculous. I have to help you. You need this.” O said firmly while looking down at you.

“O … how?”

“I could always hypnotise you.”

“No, you can’t.” You chuckled in disbelief.

“I study alien tech and UFO visits to our planet; I absolutely can hypnotise you.”

“Fine. Hypnotise me, O.” You still didn’t believe O, even though you could hear the intense conviction within his voice, but you let O help you. In your drained state, with O holding you, you finally realized that O was the only person you truly had in your life. Everyone else either left you or you left them. So, letting O help you and trusting him, just a little, sounded like the only option you had for connection. And, if you were being honest with yourself, you wouldn’t want to grow a connection with anyone other than O.

“You need to look into my eyes.” O leaned over you again, bringing you out of your mind. Slowly he moved to hold your face in his hands. You sucked in a breath when O’s soft yet slightly calloused hands touched your skin. You relished in the feeling of his fingers brushing along your temples as you prepared yourself to look into O’s eyes for a long time. You were familiar with some forms of Human hypnotise, even though you didn’t necessarily believe in its effects. You knew that hypnosis sessions could be very vulnerable. Your old ways of masking yourself plagued the back of your mind, but you pushed them away and reminded yourself that O was here to help you. He wouldn’t hurt you. You were safe being in a vulnerable state with O.

Finally, you looked into O’s eyes after preparing yourself. He smiled sweetly at you, reassuringly and rewardingly. You let out a sigh of relief. Opening up to O wasn’t as difficult as you thought it was. And now you got to see a part of O he rarely ever showed; you got to see O’s more vulnerable side as you continued to open up to him.

O continued to look at you while brushing his hands along the curves of your face. He was being so attentive, so focused on you and your breathing and your state. You mostly focused on O’s eyes, though. O’s eyes were so beautiful. You had observed that his eyes were stunning before, but that was from far away. Up close, you could see that his eyes were a beautiful mix of amber, honey, chocolate, and dark coffee. They almost looked as if they had intricate galaxies or nebulas trapped within them, but that would be impossible. Either way, O was beautiful and alluring. You didn’t know if this hypnotise was working, but you, at least, were drawn into a calming state because of O.

“Now take some deep breaths with me.” O instructed in a whisper. You followed him in his directing of your breaths. For a couple of minutes, you and O proceeded to breathe as one all while looking each other in the eye. You definitely felt more relaxed than you had before. And, instead of mind-numbing exhaustion, you felt a wave of calm tiredness wash through you, almost as if you were being called to sleep.

You began to feel O massaging your temples. His fingers dug into your skin in relaxing circles and occasionally he brushed his hands down your face before returning to your temples to massage them again. The headache that had been slowly growing throughout the day eased itself out of your brain. Finally, your eyes were starting to grow heavy and began to droop. You tried to keep them open out of latent stubbornness, but O quickly saw that, and he urged you to give into your body’s needs.

“Let your eyes close. You can tell that they want to close.” With your remaining energy, you rolled your eyes at O, and he chuckled at your drowsy yet stubborn state.

“O?”

“It’s fine. You’re safe. You’re safe with me. We will work through everything together once you rest first. No, go to sleep.” You looked at O one last time before letting your eyes finally close. You were close to sleep, but before you succumbed to the side effects of hypnosis you picture O right before you closed your eyes. His eyes were so soft and warm, and his fingers were so nimble while massaging your temples. He nodded reassuringly before you closed your eyes like he was confirming again that you were safe.

“Let yourself sleep, love.” You heard O say just before you drifted off into the world of calming sleep.

The Master petted your head and caressed your face even after you were completely asleep. You wouldn’t be waking up anytime soon thanks to his hypnotism. He made sure that, at the very least, you would receive a good eight hours of sound and deep sleep. Frankly, he should have done this days ago. The Master knew this, but his plans against The Doctor were now getting in the way of his goal of protecting you. He was upset that he let you get to this point. He reprimanded himself for not intervening sooner.

He was conflicted of course. The Doctor versus a Human. This was a scenario that The Master could never foresee happening, but it did and now you were here in his arms. You were really becoming an important part of The Master’s life.

The Master stayed with you while you slept. He simply and easily could have sent a bit more hypnotic waves into your mind and moved you so he could work on his plan to destroy The Doctor, but you were more important. You really were more important, even though it was difficult for The Master to admit that to himself. He could deal with The Doctor later. Right now, The Master would just focus on you.

#ghost’s posts #my writing #fanfiction #x reader #anon #request #doctor who #doctor who x reader #the master #the master x reader #dhawan!master #dhawan!master x reader #o #o x reader #mi6 agent o #mi6 agent o x reader

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crewman-penelope · 1 year

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From one botanist to another - Part 7

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7 Proper Breakfast

There was fresh made bread, still warm, for you. Milky, creamy butter. A honeycomb in a bowl, surely fresh harvest from the bee hives.

And - tea.

Dry tea leaves, in different shades of green and red. You could made out verbene and lemon balm, as also the sight of dried chamomile heads.

The smell gave you an idea of peppermint also. He poured you a cup in an elegant gesture, alas still focused. Your host calculated every of his own body movements. You wondered what it was, until your eyes felt on the knots on his knuckles and the swollen wrists.

You threw him a look and wondered if he would mind your asking. He seemed to be sick. This was more then scars on his skin by an accident. You decided to let him tell you in time and just went with the flow.

Morningstar filled his cup from the same pot and gestured to your tea.

“It is not poisoned. Neither drugged.”, he assured you with a warm smile. To give you reason he lifted his cup and sipped his tea.

“I apologize for drugging you yesterday night. I felt it was necessary after the quite exciting event of your kitnapping. It was not my intention to frighten you, though.”

His voice was calm and apologizing. You looked at the hot beverage, remembering the shock of seeing your surveillance camera pic on your monitor.

You took the cup of fine china on both hands. The heat warmed your palm. The scent calming you down already. A single, dried bloom of a reddish flower swam on the tea.

You sipped careful. Refreshing as hot, a hint of bitterness on your tongue. You eyed the honey. Morningstar followed your glance.

“Go on. Drink. Eat. Get your head straight. And then we talk, Lupine.”

His normally serene tone of voice was cheerful. Something lifted from your heart. Facing him, you could not hide a smile. You reached for a spoon and spiced your tea up with a bit of honey. Morningstar nodded pleased and reached out for a bowl to lift the cover. Steaming white rice in a kind of milky mush appeared underneath it.

“You have a special died?”

He nodded and hold one of his hands up. “Gout.”

It was only one word, but it explained everything. Well, nearly.

And he is used to it, you thought to yourself but dared not to speak up. Instead you honoured the breakfast.

The butter melted on the warm bread, what was cutted in thick sliced because it was so fresh. The honey tasted like heaven. Ambrosia.

A second cup, a second slice, thick covered with honey. Morningstar savoured his rice dish in pleased silence. It was fascinating to watch him eat the rice with chopsticks. He seemed to be used to it.

So was his accent, sounding exotic on your ear, perhaps an asian? You had thought european, maybe eastern. But you were no expert in it. You knew nothing of him.

Eventually the bowl of rice was finished, and you full of bread.

“That was absolut delicious!”, you said, what made him grin.

“I'm glad. You can order different meals also. The kitchen is ordered to fulfill all your wishes.”

You rose your eyebrows. “That sound like I'm staying longer?”

“You will.” Morningstar's voice still cheerful it laid an dark tone under it. “I have plans for you.”

You eyed him suspicious. “What plans? Did you not just planned dinner?”

“And yet you stayed for breakfast.”, he jested grimly.

“I had no other chance, did I?”

“No. You did not.” He paused and avoided your eyes, as he searched for the right words.

“There was something happening. At our first meeting.”, he spoke hesitating. “I - let me be honest, Lupine.”

Morningstar looked on the table, clearly pulling himself together.

“I enjoyed our chats the moment it started.”, he began. “To meet someone, even online, with the same special interests, someone who knew what I am speaking about. And the Cafe? It was years that I spoke of my father, of his garden. But with you I felt save enough to do so. And then - - we just chatted. Greeting us good morning. Good night. I could not bare it. I wanted this. Always. Every day. To greet you good morning. To have you around me.”

He stopped suddenly, straighten his back and catched your eyes. “I'm not good in this. To pour my heart out. But I can speak my mind with you. I feel that.”

It was silent for a moment, as you starred at him. Your face burning.

Before the silence between you both became uncomfortable, you spoke up.

“I dreamed of your garden, even that I had not seen it. I knew your flowers - at least part of it. The one you brought before me. The seetlings. And then I saw you this morning between your plants. It was a dreamy scene for sure. It was like I had imagined.”

Morningstar bend suddenly over the table. “So you did understand!?”

“ I understand there could be a place here. I - I don't know - yet! - if there a a place at your side.” Your mind dizzy from his confession you cleared your throat. “Morningstar. I don't know you. Let me.”

He looked at you with wide open eyes, as if you are something incredibly. And you are to him.

Slowly he reached for your hand to take it carefully in his. You dared not to squeeze it.

He managed to use his thumb to care along your palm.

“That is all I hoped for. Thank you, Lupine.”

Taglist: @lokis-tardis-companion19 @infinitegalahad @koshi-sama @daughterofthesilmaril @cynic-station @ladyl0wkey @elliotmalek @ellen-the-wise @villainworshiper @cuckoo-on-a-string

#safin sunday #From one botanist to another #From one botanist to another 7 #lyutsifer safin x reader #Lyutsifer Safin x you #Lyutsifer Safin fanfiction #Lyutsifer Safin imagination #James bond Fandom #Rami malek Fandom #MI6 #Botanist #Doctor Lyutsifer Safin

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beneathashadytree · 2 years

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Hello! Could I request Louis Moriarty x male reader? Also could it be based on Love Story by Indila?

LOVE STORY - LOUIS MORIARTY X READER

Warnings : mentions of blood and death, reader is already dead, Louis is delusional with grief, this isn’t proofread, reader identifies as male!

Genre : angst (I’m not sorry hehe)

Word count : 0.8K words

Additional notes : Thank you so much for requesting! You happened to choose one of my favorite songs of all time (and one of the saddest ones too🫠). I’ve never written for a male reader before, so I’m glad you requested this because I’d like to have more diversity among my writing pieces. I honestly shed a few tears writing this, since the song’s pretty heartbreaking. Hope you enjoy this!💗

Requests : Are open! Check the rules over here.

Want to support me financially? Here’s my CashApp.

Masterlist

How many nights has he spent in this manner, in dreams so vivid he could reach out and touch them?

Louis didn’t know. It no longer mattered to him; he had long lost his sense of time, its perception lost on him as it dragged on mercilessly. It paid no heed to him as he stood with his spine rod-straight, tongue heavy in his mouth as melancholy eyes settled on the same spot, dull crimson unseeing of anything else.

Always trained on that photo; that picture of him that was the only thing that remained of him outside of his memories. A soft, intimate smile on a man’s face, and bright eyes brimming with love directed towards the photographer—the photographer who could now do nothing but wistfully sigh.

What was he waiting for? Louis didn’t know. Something inside him always tugged him towards that picture; always begged him to remain patient; always asked him to keep praying for his return. Pitying looks and claims of madness did nothing to deter him, for he knew that he was just as sane as they were. Even if he were to cling onto his memories forever, he should not—and would not—be shamed for believing in his beloved.

He always tuned out the entire world. Nothing mattered anymore but the man he’d held so tightly, loved so unconditionally, and protected so fiercely. Every single moment spent with him replayed itself in his mind as he regarded that photograph oh-so-fondly, a single delicate rose cradled between his thumb and index finger.

Louis’ lips would form the words before he could stop them. Are you happy? Are you safe? Do your eyes still shine the same way? Is your smile still as radiant? Do you miss me? Would I repulse you now?

And he waits and waits for an answer that would never come.

His dreams show him no mercy either. In his dreams, he’s still lying on a bed full of pink carnations, blonde hair mussed, glasses cast aside, and skin crinkling around his eyes as he laughed. His arms are full with the weight of his lover’s body ontop of his chest, and his heart is full with the adoration that seeps through its cracks. In his dreams, his hands are gently held and caressed, his scar kissed reverently, and his cheeks cradled lovingly. His crisp shirt is wrinkled as eager fingers tug at it, and lips find his fervently, devouring him whole.

Then, soft words creep up on him, whispering that they’d be alright. And—bathed in the sunshine that warmed their skin as it did their hearts—his darling would promise him that they would be entwined till the end of time.

And he would see this promise through; after all, Louis could never untangle the threads that coiled around his heart. But the terms of that vow never said that they’d both live to keep it. Now, he had to shoulder the burden of being hopelessly in love with someone that ceased to exist anywhere but his head—unable to rid himself of his devotion, and unable to move on.

His heart caved in on itself. He deemed himself incapable of loving ever again; a fact he knew to be true as he berated himself over and over again. Had he been a second faster, or a little wiser, or just a bit more powerful, he wouldn’t have been torturing himself every day with his thoughts. Regret swallowed him whole, leaving him as a mere shell; a shadow of the man he used to be.

His hunger for power had left him ironically powerless when it mattered, and he hadn’t been able to save the one person who eclipsed the whole of his sex. His lover had been targeted for being associated with him. He’d been too careless and not strong enough to protect him. And no matter how much gold he possessed now, or how much glory he earned, or how much power he wielded like a shield, he would never have enough to bring him back.

No trade would ever be enough for the greedy God that claimed what once was his; not even exchanging his very life with his would satisfy Him.

So he’d light the candles in the middle of the black night. They’d illuminate the picture of that smile he remained so enamored with, and he’d feed himself more lies to keep having faith in his sweetheart returning. He’d stain his hands with more blood, and pray that these calloused palms could carry his body once more.

A fool once, and king of the dead now. But no matter who he was, Louis would bring his beloved back and continue the script of their love story—or die trying.

Taglist: @sherlockscumslut @lilias-highlights @thispersoniscrazy @wifeofkyojuro

#imagine #oneshot #anime #angst #moriarty the patriot #mtp #yuukoku no moriarty #ynm #yuumori #louis moriarty #louis james moriarty #louis moriarty x reader #ynm louis #ynm louis moriarty #moriarty #moriarty x reader #mi6 #yuumori louis

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simp-ly-writes · 1 month

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╰┈➤ Status: "on-going"

Relationship: Platonic!141 x Reader

Summary: Spy AU! Task Force 141 gets temporarily recruited by MI6- the British Secret Intelligence Services for a mission since Laswell owed more than a few favours over the years from you and your team.

Chapters: (pt.1) (pt.2) (pt.3) (pt.4) (pt.5) (pt.6) (pt.7) (pt.8) word count: in counting...

╰┈➤ *✧･ﾟ:* Thank you for checking in, more to come soon! *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ

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mockerycrow · 11 months

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// UNDERCOVER — SOAP X GN!READER //

ONGOING SERIES — LAST UPDATE: JAN. 27 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.

COMING SOON! - 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. [SUBJECT TO CHANGE.]

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mistydeyes · 7 months

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Thinking about the scenario where secret agent reader (so like CIA or MI6 and things like that) meets Gaz at a bar and scores. Drinks and talking and dancing, until Gaz suggests you go back to his place. Once there, before things get steamy, you excuse yourself to the bathroom to freshen up and get ready, but it's actually to stash away your hidden weapons you carry with yourself all the time. Only, when you figure out a good spot, you already find weapons there already.

And it clicks. How he gets dodgy when work comes up, how his dance moves vaguely resemble basic fighting regiments, etc... Seems theres more to the man than just his charm.

THIS WAS SUCH A GOOD IDEA! thank you so much for submitting, I had so much fun thinking abt this funny scenario. also fr peep the side eye because that's how he'd be looking at you during the reveal HAHA

the intertwining of secret lives

┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊

summary: When you meet a handsome 20-something in the club, you look through your rose colored glasses and ignore his eccentricities. However, when it comes time to hide a few of your necessities, you are absolutely blindsided.

pairing: Kyle "Gaz" Garrick x fem!reader

warnings: swearing, mentions of weapons/violence

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Two men by the door, performing a sweep across the dance floor in opposing schedules. They're standing in front of the primary exit with another guard standing at the emergency exit. The solo guard appears 5'10-5'11, weighing around 200lbs and the bruised knuckles means he's accustomed to rowdy customers and bar fights. Based on his wide stance, I could probably sweep at his leg befor- "Hey, want to take this back to mine?" Kyle's voice whispered in your ear, interrupting your covert surveillance. You blinked a few times as you took in his offering. It was difficult for you to shut off your years of CIA training and actually relax for once. Even now, you were slightly suspicious of this unemployed and handsome 20-something who was holding you by the waist at the bar. Yet since he locked eyes with you in the crowded room, it was clear the tension was palpable. Before he could ask again, you put a hand on his.

"Is it close or do you plan on carrying me, Kyle?" you winked, and even under the dim lights, you could see his cheeks slightly heat up. As he tried to stifle down the remainder of his drink, you decided to interrogate him a bit more before he took you to his. "Your silence is telling me, you haven't been to the gym in a while," you teased as you eyed his fit figure, "you look like you're more of a cardio man anyways." He shook his head at your not-so-subtle observations, having an endearing chuckle at the comment. "Well you did say my dancing looked like some silly American MMA thing," you giggled as he said that. It was just a sarcastic comment you made as you saw him methodically make his way across the dance floor, dodging the various drinks and drunken moves of the other patrons. "Anyways," he continued, downing his drink, "you might have just revealed my love for some combat training." With that, he gave you a wink and you melted in your seat. You found yourself endeared by his subtle jokes and shining smile. It made you push aside all the stress of work and effortlessly lie through your teeth about your hidden life.

After you closed your tab, Kyle held the door for you and ushered you politely out of the loud club. He walked beside you, hand in pockets and a relaxed smile on his face, as he navigated through the streets. You made small talk about some of the wild moments from the club and the fact you had both spent a fortune on drinks and shots. "Glad I saved up for this vacation," you lied, continuing with your story of an American tourist in London, "the 9-5 was all worth it for some strong drinks and a pretty face." In the cold night air, you could see his face become illuminated with the street light and the way his cheeks curved up in a hearty laugh. "You Americans and your toxic work culture," he chided as he bumped you with his elbow, "hopefully I can show you how to take it slow tonight." You blushed profusely at the comment and bit your lip as Kyle took a turn to a row of flats.

"This one's mine," he whispered and fumbled to find his keys. You stood there idly as you looked down at the street. It seemed quiet, nothing, particularly of notice. In fact, if you were looking for a safe house this would be ideal as it was perfectly tucked in between mundane families. "Home sweet home," he presented and you walked into the furnished flat. You peeked around and noticed the lack of personality within the home besides some paintings and postcards. A thin layer of dust lay amongst everything and the house smelled distinctly of a wall plug-in, probably bought this morning. He noticed your gaze and shrugged slightly. "I haven't had time to make this place nice," he sheepishly confessed, "been helping out with my family for the last few weeks." You nodded before you walked closer to him. "So what do you want to do now that I'm here?" you flirted before you closed the gap with a soft placement of your lips on his.

You felt a mix of happiness and uncertainty in your stomach. To the special agent inside you, it was the sign things were going a bit too well. But to the normal person, it was the presence of butterflies in your stomach. He tasted of a mix of alcohols and smelled vaguely of wood and santal. He wrapped his strong arms around you as you shuffled backward to the bedroom. You could feel him lower you softly onto the bed before you pulled him a bit closer with your arms around his neck. As he pulled up to look at you in this vulnerable state, you realized you were being poked by an object. Your mind went to a certain place for a moment until you realized it was actually the knife strapped to your thigh that was poking you. Your face dropped when you realized where things were going. You hastily pushed Kyle off of you before running off unceremoniously to the bathroom. "Sorry just have to pee! Those drinks are running through me," you joked through the door as you navigated to the master bathroom across the room.

"Take your time," you could hear him echo through the door as you put down the toilet seat. You looked around the small bathroom and tried to figure out where to hide the knife. More like knives, you thought when you realized you had another two strapped to your boot. "Oh fuck me," you whispered as you tried to look around. Within the bathroom, there was a small medicine cabinet with a mirror and a few drawers underneath the sink. You flushed the toilet hurriedly and ran the sink as you opened up the bottom drawer ever so carefully. When you opened it, you were not expecting to see another collection of tactical knives and a gun facing back at you. You tried to stifle your surprise as you gently picked up the firearm. You turned it to see it was inscribed with PROPERTY OF THE ROYAL ARMY etched into the side. You placed it down gently as underneath it lay an official-looking ID. You read the details quickly as you focused on the serious face of one Sergeant Kyle Garrick. You looked at the picture resembling the man in the next room, verifying all of the signature markings of an official government ID. "You alright in there?" you could hear his question as you quickly shut the drawer. You hastily turned off the tap before returning to the bedroom.

Kyle was lying casually on the bed and you could tell he had generously sprayed some vanilla room spray to cover up the mustiness of the unattended flat. Explains the dust and lack of furnishings, you thought as you stood leaning against the doorway. "Find anything interesting?" he flatly asked and you couldn't help but be caught off guard for the first time this evening. "What do you mean?" you bluffed but he stopped you with a flick of his hand. "The sink was running for a bit too long," he joked, "plus I know what those drawers sound like when they slam." You let out a dry laugh before sitting back next to him. "Well, I guess I should say I did find something," you said as you looked at his eyes, mixed with uncertainty, "you really should keep your weapons in a better location." As he tried to come up with a myriad of excuses, you put a hand on your chest. "As long as you don't mind if I put mine away, I won't question it, Sergeant," with that, Kyle tried to hide his surprise as you unsheathed your weapons from your person. "Do I want to know?" he joked hesitantly before you made your way on top of him. "You can ask in the morning, Garrick."

The next morning, you raced over to your hotel and barely made it to your 9 am meeting in the office suite. "Wonder who Laswell has me working with now," you mumbled as you nodded to the agents guarding the secured room. You should have seen the look on your face when you locked eyes with Kyle, who sat equally as shocked and secretly sporting a hickey underneath his uniform collar.

#kyle gaz garrick #gaz x reader #kyle garrick x reader #task force 141 x reader #task force 141 #cod x reader #call of duty modern warfare #cod mwii #modern warfare 2 #call of duty #mw2 imagine #madebyizzie #gaz imagine #kyle garrick imagine #mw2 #izzie is writing

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valiantverses · 4 months

Text

°°°°°

Azrael Series Intro

(Simon 'Ghost' Riley X Reader)

Introduction 1

Summary/Notes: Task Force 141 is assigned a new member to deal with Makarov for good. Highly-skilled, brutally efficient and devastatingly competent, Ghost has met his match - and finds himself at odds with the SAS Fraternization Regulations as getting to know you makes him re-evaluate a life he never thought to allow himself.

°°°°°

They called you Azrael.

It was unusual for a callsign - monickers usually earned through affectionate mockery and hard earned camaraderie between brothers and sisters in the force, jeered at parties celebrating hard fought battles.

Yours was different - earned through gritted teeth and steady hands, tenacious hours spent hidden under the cover of night and through glacial apathy as you worked your way through the bodies of your enemies. Hacking, slashing, an army manifested in human form as brutal efficiency carried you further and further up the ranks.

You were the shadow of death, and you went where you were directed.

You wasted no time between getting to the base and through to the location in your instructions. As your thick soled combat boots came to a stop in front of heavy blast resistant metal doors, the low muttering inside came into sharper focus, garbled words sharpening into sentences and names of people and places you had vague awareness of.

"It'll be a cold day in hell before 141 takes your charity hand-outs, Laswell."

"All due respect, John, Makarov's so far ahead of us, you- we, need all the help we can get. Back up is already en route-"

A huff, then a humourless chuckle-

"CIA sanctioned back up, this Azrael of yours-"

"CIA cleared back up, more like- they're on.. loan, so to speak, from MI6."

"On 'loan?' You're asking me to trust the lives of my men on-"

You inclined your head, just in time to see a large figure coming to a stop at the end of the long hallway, mask a stark white against the dim lighting. His footsteps were silent, you noted, maintaining only a split second of eye contact with the inky darkness of the holes in his mask - a skull, you realised- before breaking eye contact and knocking thrice on the door, the loud raps hushing the voices inside.

"Enter!"

You swiftly entered and announced your rank and surname, steadfastly ignoring the soldier at the end of the corridor, who hadn't moved an inch.

"Reporting for duty, ma'am, sir!" You saluted, back ramrod straight and tone unreadable as you regarded the two people in front of you, knowing you were being visually picked apart and assessed by your two superiors.

The blonde spoke first, tone light and professional even as her lips smiled tightly at you, the bearded man behind her crossing his arms.

"Ah- sergeant. I'm glad you could come on such short notice.Welcome to Task Force 141."

°°°°°

#ghost x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #cod x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #task force 141 #ValiantVerses

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jolenes-doppelganger · 2 months

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Gentle Hands

Ilsa Faust x Fem! Reader (NSFW- RATED EXPLICIT)

Summary: What happens when a dangerous spy gets disavowed? She goes right back to her roots. It’s unfortunate that those roots land her into a months long obsession with the current tenant of her childhood home.

Warnings: Yandere/Stalker Ilsa- Non-consensual watching of intimate activities, clothes stealing (panty stealing), non-con touching of non-sexual areas, masturbation (Reader and Ilsa)

A/N: I do not condone this behavior in real life. This is a character study, get OFF my ass. <3

Word Count: 2.0K

[Told from Ilsa's POV, third person.]

It was normal, to be this involved in someone’s life, certainly. If everyone had the skills that Ilsa did they would do what Ilsa did. This girl, this (Reader), she was interesting. Unusually so. She'd done good things to Ilsa's childhood town home. There were plants everywhere, and the windows no longer fogged over in the winter, which meant she'd probably renovated the old town home herself. Or perhaps the landlords had changed. Ilsa didn't look into those details; those were boring, useless details. What was more interesting than the renovations was the person who continued to spruce up the home. Fresh wallpaper had been put up the day Ilsa had knocked on the door. Ilsa remembered this very clearly, using her proficiency for keen detail retainment to remember the day vividly.

Fall leaves clung to the stone pathway that led up to the town home. Ilsa knocked on the door of her childhood home, fully prepared for any sort of introduction, any sort of grumpy old geezer swinging the door open and letting out a tired 'What are ya ringing the door bell for, love?'. But that wasn't what happened.

'Hiya, how can I help you?' a soft voice asked, opening the door to reveal a kind looking young woman.

'Hi, I'm Ilsa Auster, I used to live here. I wanted to take a look around the old house for a moment, check to see if anyone I knew still lived here.' Ilsa softly explained.

The young woman smiled back.

'Oh, I see. My name is (Reader). I'm afraid I don't recognize you or know too much about the previous tenants.'

'I wouldn't expect you to, this was years ago, you see.' Ilsa smiled thinly.

The young woman seemed to pause for a moment, deciding on something.

'Well if you'd like to come in and have a cup of tea, you're more than welcome to.' she offered, so sweet.

Ilsa had come in for tea. She'd seen the freshly wallpapered living room, smelled the drying paint, and she'd run her fingers along the new countertops the new landlord had installed. You were sweet to Ilsa the entire time, giving her the little information you had about Simon Faust, the elderly gentleman that had passed on from complications related to kidney failure, as well as a few tenants in between. The tea you served was made the proper English way, with loose tea leaves in a metal tea strainer, left to steep in a pot for five minutes while Ilsa had chatted with you. The sugar cubes you offered were sickly sweet, just like you. None of it would have made Ilsa do what she did next, none of it would have been something she'd dwell on at all, had you not touched her.

You'd given a soft squeeze to her shoulder as you bade her farewell at the door. A tender touch, full of trust, goodwill, kindness. Not too many people trusted Ilsa enough to touch her like that. In her line of work people didn't touch. A hand for support, a brief handshake for introduction, but mostly punches, slaps; hands wielded like weapons to leave bruises at the bare minimum, to end her life in the extremes. A kind touch was unheard of in her past life. With one small gesture, you had given Ilsa a taste of the life she'd given up working for MI6. It was this touch that ruined her; that made her ravenous for more.

That's why she was in front of her computer, browsing the cameras she'd placed inside your home. Hundreds of cameras to capture you from every angle as your hands worked. Those hands, petting your cat, watering your plants, cooking dinner (breakfast, lunch), touching anything and everything in that gentle way of yours. Those hands that soaped up your body in the shower, scrubbing yourself clean after a long day, those hands that lingered in the valley of your breasts and over the soft expanse of your stomach and roved over your bare thighs.

Those hands.

Tonight Ilsa was in for her favorite treat. You were tired, shifting uncomfortably, but not quite satisfied with something about yourself. Ilsa opened up a period recording app, tracking your cycle. She'd set this up this early on. It was interesting how predictable your behavior was in relation to your cycle; fascinating, truly. She smirked with glee. You were ovulating tomorrow. No wonder you were so uncomfortable.

'Feeling extra uptight, princess?' Ilsa whispered as she watched you squirm. 'Gonna give me a show?'

You gave in after five minutes. Phone down, reaching into your bedside table, bringing out that tiny little vibrator of yours that you adored. Ilsa had seen you use it a few times, but you used it most frequently during this window of heightened hormonal activity. You browsed on your phone, bringing up a cute little story. One of your 'fanfictions'. Ilsa could open your phone's software and see what you were reading if she really wanted to, but she didn't. Not now, anyways. She watched in excitement as you pulled your pajama pants down your legs, underwear too. Ilsa bit her lip. If you were taking them off all the way, this was going to be a good show.

The vibrator buzzed quietly. She watched in anticipation as you placed it against your clit, the soft gasp when you did.

'Princess, I might need to join in on this.' Ilsa smirked, crossing and uncrossing her legs.

You swiped through your phone reading avidly as the buzz continued. Your hips would wriggle a little, and you'd let out a soft 'hmm' or a breathy 'hihch' every once in a while, but that was it. Ilsa knew you weren't vocal. No, you were quiet. Ilsa shifted in her seat as you increased the vibrator's speed. She watched breathlessly as you seemed to be getting more into whatever you were reading.

'Oh, princess, now I know you're the quiet type, but you're putting on a show.' Ilsa whispered to the screen, eyes dilated.

She watched as your eyes rolled back and you panted quickly, going rigid for a few moments and then relaxing. The vibrator was back in the drawer before Ilsa had taken her jeans all the way off.

"No, damn it!' Ilsa slammed her fist on her desk. 'You're not playing fair, we're supposed to do it together!'

She watched as you walked into the bathroom, sitting on the toilet and peeing. Ilsa groaned, slapping her mouse on the pad, browsing through her stored videos. She found her favorite of you, the shower video. It was sixteen minutes long, eye candy for the intense voyeur that Ilsa had become. The setting of the video was sensual. You were in your shower, and you'd set up candles, a singular soft light illuminating the otherwise candlelit bathroom. Your hair was tied up to prevent it getting wet, and all your movements were slow. You started out carefully, using that expensive bar soap you'd bought, lathering up your arms and legs, moving slowly. Ilsa groaned at the sight, pulling her panties down her legs, running her thumbs up and down her inner thighs.

You reached for that special scrub you bought, the expensive shit. She watched as you exfoliated, paying special attention to your breasts and your ass. Ilsa moaned at the sight, starting to rub slow circles around her clit. You rinsed the scrub off, shaving your legs and your armpits. Ilsa moved her fingers slightly faster as she watched, you were propping your legs up one at a time, and that angle was spectacular. Ilsa felt herself moving too close to orgasm too quickly, so she moved her fingers down, circling her entrance, dipping her fingers in carefully. She didn't want to orgasm yet, not when the main act was just starting.

Ilsa watched in silent awe as you reached for the shower head. It was new, another addition you'd added sometime ago, before Ilsa. You carefully adjusted the setting until the pulse of water was thin and violent. Your water pressure was too high, so you unscrewed the shower head just a titch. One leg on the shower ledge, the other straight, albeit barely bent, and when the water hit your clit just right, you allowed yourself to moan. Ilsa let out her own breathy moan in response, her fingers rubbing that spongey spot inside her while she used her other hand to rub her clit. She bit her lip as she watched your thighs shake, one of your hands slamming against the shower wall, keeping yourself up. Finally, it happened. You let out a soft series of gasps and whines, your leg shaking as you came.

The sight of that, the sound, the angles of the cameras, it was enough to get Ilsa orgasming. She let out her own quick pants and soft moans as she rubbed her clit furiously, working herself through that high. The video ended with you gently running a softer stream of water between your labia, rinsing everything clean.

'Divine.' Ilsa let out a breathy chuckle.

Flipping tabs, Ilsa returned to checking up on you, skimming the video feed. You hadn't done anything interesting in the sixteen minutes she'd been replaying your best performance yet. You'd done a few housekeeping things such as returning to clean your vibrator, remake the bed, change your panties.

Your panties.

Ilsa switched cameras, zooming on them. They were soaked, caused by ovulation no doubt. Ilsa bit her lip, envisioning just how wet they would feel in between her fingertips. You looked tired, throwing the panties into your laundry basket. Your exhaustion was to be expected. Ilsa had ensured that you would always be ready to sleep at a set time; she'd switched your vitamins you'd take at night with sleep aids. You wouldn't know the difference, they looked the same as your iron pill, and you weren't tasting them to know the difference.

Ilsa smiled, pulling up her pants, grabbing the key she'd had made for your home. You were a silly girl, leaving that spare key in the flowerpot for when your Mom came over. It was a three hour errand to go to the locksmith, and no one ever asked a polite English lady about why the key was a spare instead of the original.

She slipped into your house through the back door, walking nonchalantly. Your neighbors didn't pay attention to who you had over anyways. Ilsa had talked to them a few times. They smoked too much weed to remember her, asking for her name everytime. Upon slipping in, she fed your cat a small treat. The 'Temptations' kind.

'Gonna stay quiet for me pretty girl? Yes you are.' Ilsa whispered, petting the cat until she purred, leaving a few treats to keep her occupied.

Slipping up the stairs, Ilsa quietly walked into your room, smiling at your slumbering face. Opening your closet, she grabbed those still wet panties, rubbing her fingers over the slick. Ilsa pocketed them. Ditsy girl you were, always forgetting which pairs of underwear you'd worn and which ones you hadn't. Ilsa creeped up to your bed, touching your sleeping form. You were too sleepy to notice, with your special pill and all.

'Hi princess. Don't you know better than to tease me like that? Your performance today wasn't all that stimulating.' Ilsa quietly cooed.

Taking your limp body in her arms, Ilsa was tempted to touch your new pair of panties, to see if they were wet, but she felt like that wasn't necessary. Besides, she wanted you to be awake the first time you two were together. She wasn't into fucking people when they were asleep; Ilsa didn't like how quiet they were. Besides, she'd already gotten off today. Ilsa decided on pulling you into her lap, cradling you quietly. She took one of your hands in hers, squeezing gently.

'Love these hands. Such gentle hands you've got.'

Ilsa kissed your face softly, but not your lips. No, she wanted you to be awake for that. She wanted you to remember Ilsa when she finally decided to make her move. But it wasn't time for that yet. Ilsa simply wasn't finished making the perfect person for you to love.

<----------------------------->

#ilsa faust #ilsa faust x reader #ilsa faust x you #ilsa faust x reader smut #rebecca ferguson #rebecca ferguson x reader #rebecca ferguson x you #mission impossible #lesbian #wlw #sapphic #dark writing

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sungbeam · 21 days

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007!ji changmin x f!reader

you're sent to montenegro to infiltrate a high-stakes poker game, but with the world hanging in the balance, it's a good thing m's sending her best employee along with you—agent 007, ji changmin.

▷ genre, warnings. f2l, james bond/007/spy au, action, suspense, pining(?), minimal angst, humor bc i'm me, violence, blood, death, mentions of alcohol, mentions of weaponry, mentions of corruption, swearing, kissing, near-death experiences, mentions of terrorism but not explicitly discussed, the ending is kinda cheesy im sorry it's late and i like making him yearn, barely proofread (dudes it's so late when im writing this)

▷ word count. 11.1k

▷ based on. casino royale (2006)

a/n: this is for @winterchimez ally's 007 files collab! pls check out the other fics that have been posted 😎 also, this is way lighter than the actual movie, so uhm, yeah!

YOU KNEW FROM THE MOMENT you first stepped into your position as an agent of the Treasury, that Kenneth Kang would be a thorn in your side. Perhaps not even a thorn, but a massive pain in the neck, the back, the ass. He was a man with a helm of pomade for hair and an ego the size of Russia, who, for some odd reason, despised you.

It was funny… the last time you checked, an entity such as Russia wouldn't be so easily threatened by someone like yourself. But here was Kenneth Kang, continuing to email you passive aggressive correspondence as if he wasn't butthurt the director chose you for this task rather than him.

After all, only the best of the best were selected to assist MI6 with their assignments. The fate of the world hung in the balance.

You told Kenneth just that in your last (hopefully) email to him for the trip: The quarterly reports are still due on Monday, Kang. Remember that Director Song excused me from them because I'm off to go save the world—ta-ta! Or something to that effect.

It was unfortunate the government monitored everyone's emails or you would've signed off with something wildly hilarious like “Love (if pigs flew), Director Song's Favorite <3 (not you)”—that would stick it to him—

A clearing throat drew your attention away from your laptop so abruptly, you were glad you didn't get whiplash.

“This seat taken?” You didn't catch a clear glimpse of the man's face before he was already claiming the seat across from you. The voice was awfully familiar, and when you finally saw him, you understood why.

You nearly did a double take, but the surprise swiftly melted away like glaciers in the spring to something like warm amusement. “Ah, do I—uh—know you, sir?” You asked, gently folding your laptop closed so you can gesture to the teapot before you. “Tea?”

Ji Changmin leaned back in his chair, eyes darting from the view outside the train car window and back to you. He dragged his gaze up and down your form, the back of his knuckles pressed against his lips. It did nothing to hide his smile. “Tea would be lovely, thanks.”

You obliged, refilling your cup with the hot beverage and pouring a decent amount into the extra teacup and saucer on his half of the table.

The two of you were currently on a train to Montenegro. Less than 48 hours ago, you were summoned into your director's office, only for the head of MI6 (the elusive M) to join you. You were debriefed on a high stakes poker game being hosted by a man notoriously reputed for funding terrorist organizations around the globe. You were told that M would be sending her “best” along with you to be dealt into the game—you were never given the agent's name or identification number.

But now that you were nearly an hour's ride away from Montenegro, it seemed he finally decided to reveal himself.

“Are you sure you don't remember me, Miss?” He asked, eyebrows raised over the rim of his teacup. “I was so sure that I left a lasting impression on you the last time.”

You slowly raked your eyes over the sharp, dark blue suit he wore, the white dress shirt beneath opened up at the collar, his wrist fitted with a watch that glistened in the afternoon light filtering in through the window. He had cropped his hair since the last time you saw Agent 007, M's so-called “best.” That was about two years ago, when there was a joint-branch charity gala and the two of you shared a dance before he was called away. Before that, you reckoned it was likely your graduation from Cambridge.

Time flew, you supposed, and you'd both been busy.

The corner of your lips lifted as you took a ginger sip of your tea. “Well then, you'll have to do a better job this time. What brings you to Montenegro?”

“Ah, business. You know how it is.”

“A truly dull answer,” you remarked. He couldn't come up with better conversation? You expected more from the man who always prided himself on buttery smooth lines. Where was the fun in ‘business’? “No wonder you've got all of that on. You're dressed like you're about to go buy a company.”

“Could I buy your company?” He asked in jest, tilting his head to the side.

You set your teacup down and a smile flitted over your lips. “I don't think you'd ever have enough money in the world for that.”

He chuckled then and ran his tongue over his bottom lip, catching a droplet of tea clinging to it. “Challenge accepted.”

When the train pulled into the station at Montenegro, it was just about a quarter past two in the afternoon. You and Changmin stood up from your cozy two-seater table to prepare to disembark. You rifled through your laptop tote for your wallet, but before you could retrieve your money, Changmin was already dropping bills on the table.

“Is this yours?” He asked, placing a hand on the bag stowed above the seat. It was a duffle bag that ranged on the smaller size with enough room to store your toiletries, emergency items, and any other things you might have needed. You were informed that clothing and the like would be in your accommodations waiting for you—there must have been a strict dress code for this event.

You shouldered your purse. “Yes, I'm traveling light.”

“Same here.” He grabbed your bag for you, and the two of you were off, shuffling down the aisle toward the nearest exit. Light, indeed. He didn't seem to have any luggage on him, but you supposed an agent of his caliber was provided everything he needed at his accommodations.

The train station, at this hour, was rather busy. People bustled to and fro to get to their trains, the parking lot, the ticket booth, the works. Your instructions once you'd arrived in Montenegro were to get in touch with the agent who was assigned to this case, and that you already accomplished. Until now, that was about all you knew, barring the general mission at-hand.

“I assume you’ll be staying at the Hotel Splendide, as well?” You voiced to him as you walked by his side toward the valet at the front of the station. You never knew a train station to have a valet, but you supposed it made sense if there were luxury, long-haul train cars.

“Your assumption would be correct,” he said. “In fact, we’re sharing a room.” The reveal of this information nearly had you tripping over your own shoes, and you were sure you saw a ghost of a smile make it onto his lips. You narrowed your eyes at him as he carried onward—of course, the two of you were sharing a room. What cover did MI6 even come up with? Something incredibly original like a married couple, you’d bet. Or, god forbid, a man and his mistress. (The thought made you gag.)

Changmin made eye contact with the valet boy, his chin inclining toward him. “Afternoon. It should be under ‘Ji.’”

The boy traced his finger down the edge of his tablet screen and his eyes lit up in recognition. “Ah yes, Mr. Ji,” he said, grabbing a keychain from his station and tossing it over to Changmin, “your car was just delivered two minutes ago. Have a nice trip, sir.”

“Thank you.” A rolled up bill was exchanged so fast that you thought you’d imagined it, and Changmin was walking onward down the length of the curved curb toward a parked vehicle. You followed swiftly after him, and upon further inspection, realized that the vehicle he was striding towards was a sleek Aston Martin in a classy shade of silver. It looked like something straight out of Hollywood, the sight nearly making your knees buckle. It was enough to say that all thoughts of you sharing a room with Changmin flew out the Aston Martin’s window.

Changmin gave a laugh at your reaction, opening the passenger side door for you. “You look more excited to see this car than me, sweetheart.”

“Was I that obvious? She’s beautiful.” You couldn’t help but grin back as you slipped into the smooth, leather seat. The interior was just as beautiful and sleek, with dark colored leather and a shiny center console. While you buckled yourself in, you heard Changmin deposit your bag in the backseat before rounding the car to take his place in the driver’s side.

“I can’t say I disagree,” he said, the door slamming. He retrieved a pair of aviator sunglasses from a compartment above the rearview mirror, donning them, then flashing you a dimpled smile. “Shall we?”

Changmin revved up the engine and pulled out of the train station's front lot onto the scenic road that would wind down the mountains to reach the portside where Hotel Splendide was located.

“I haven't seen you in two years, have you been well?” You piped up, now that the two of you were alone.

He hummed. “Ah, for the most part, yes—I’ve been alright.”

“Trotting the globe, I bet?”

“You'd win that bet, for sure,” he mused. He passed you a brief glance, turning his eyes back to the road. “And you?”

You mimicked the humming sound he'd made earlier. “I've been decent. Just work most days; you know how it is.”

He nodded his understanding. “Social life just as dead as uni?”

An incredulous sound flew out of your mouth, your hand swatting his arm to coax an impish smile from him. “I have friends!”

“Significant others then,” he offered.

You bristled in your seat and met his grin with a stink eye. “There are more important things than finding romance.”

“Still the same Yn as I remember,” he teased. “Now I know you're not an imposter.” A beat of silence, and then, “M must have been very pleased with your performance records to have approved of your director's choice. Not that I'm surprised; you've always been exceptional in your field.”

You turned your head to face the window on your side, barely hiding the pleased smile on your face from his compliment. It had taken a lot of hard work to get where you were, and you should've been proud of yourself. “I appreciate that. Though, I'm sure the fact that we know each other might have something to do with it, too.”

“I think that's just an added bonus,” he remarked optimistically. “You'll know how to keep me in check.” That was, literally speaking, exactly what your role here was. While Changmin was dealt into the game, you controlled the amount of money he was able to use or bet with. Because you were the trusted agent of the Treasury, you would be privy to the amount of money appropriate to use from the government's coffers.

“Who knew one partner project would lead to us saving the world together?” He added offhandedly with almost a nostalgic sort of whimsy.

“Are you ready to be a team player this time, though?” You asked, eyebrow raised. “The rumors say you enjoy flying solo.”

“I fly solo when it's dangerous,” he corrected. Which, you guessed, was most of the time in his line of work.

“So you're saying this mission isn't dangerous?”

“A poker game?” He laughed. “The only dangerous thing about it is gonna be how fast I'm going to win.”

The Hotel Splendide was as splendid as its name suggested. The grand, white limestone facade was carved with arched windows and statues, sleek columns and balconies. This side faced out into the waterfront, giving all arriving patrons a beautiful view of the port.

Changmin directed his car into the cobblestone roundabout at the front of the hotel. When he brought the vehicle to a stop, a bellboy in a maroon colored uniform opened your car door for you and offered a hand to help you out.

“Thank you,” you murmured, rolling your neck and stretching your limbs from the hour-long car ride.

Changmin emerged from the driver's side with his keys in hand, speaking to another attendant about being careful with his vehicle. He rounded the car just as the bellboy grabbed your duffle from the backseat.

“Welcome to the Hotel Splendide. This way to the check-in counter please,” the bellboy said, gesturing toward the front door, framed by an amber-toned awning and crowned in a myriad of flags from around the world.

You felt Changmin's palm warm the small of your back as you clutched your laptop purse in your hands. “Of course, thank you.”

The hotel’s foyer was just as magnificent as its outside. A crystalline chandelier hung from the high-domed ceiling, painting the room in a luxurious champagne gold, while the marble floors were lined in a deep crimson velvet. The front desk was to your immediate left with a number of staff stationed behind it.

The woman you and Changmin went to greeted you both with a polite smile. “Welcome to the Hotel Splendide. May I have the name of your reservation, please?”

“Ji,” your friend answered, “James Ji.”

Your eyebrows flew to your hairline.

“Ah,” the woman said, “but of course, Mr. Ji. Yours and your assistant's suite has been prepared for your arrival.”

Assistant? While she readied the key cards for you, you met Changmin’s gaze with a number of questions in your eyes. He only answered with a helpless expression.

Assistant? As if.

For fear of jeopardizing the mission by correcting the cover MI6 so generously assigned you, you reluctantly kept your mouth shut.

The desk clerk pushed a pair of cards across the polished wood toward you and Changmin—key cards. “These are your keys for your stay in room 700. All amenities, such as room service and the spa, are included in the fees you paid while booking. Your luggage will be delivered to your room for you. Anything you might need may be addressed via the phone in your suite or here at the front desk.”

(Assistant? Did you look like a fucking assistant?)

Changmin collected the room keys and passed you one. “Excellent, thank you. Did any mail arrive for me?”

“Yes, sir. A small parcel was delivered directly to your suite, as well as several garment bags. You'll find them in your wardrobe. Is that all?”

With nothing else to be addressed, you and Changmin thanked the front desk attendant and you were shuttled toward the elevators at the end of the hall. It was a good thing the elevator carriage made a swift arrival, because as soon as the doors slid closed, you let your frustrations be known.

“Assistant?” You exclaimed, gesticulating frustratedly. “Out of all the cover options? That woman probably thinks I'm your mistress!”

“I didn't choose it,” Changmin said, raising his palms in surrender. Though, it was clear by his expression that he was at least amused by your reaction.

You rolled your eyes, then narrowed them and crossed your arms over your chest. “What if you were the assistant, hm? Why aren't I the rich lady with a handsome secretary I take on vacation with me?”

His grin was teasing as he leaned closer to you, your breath hitching for a split second. There was a brief moment where your senses were fully engulfed by the smell of his cologne and the way a lock of his hair curled over his forehead. “You think I'm handsome?”

As if the universe could feel the warmth rising to your cheeks, the elevator doors mercifully opened onto the seventh floor.

He leaned away, something self-satisfied playing on his mouth as he returned his hand to your back. “Okay,” he drawled, “say I'm your handsome assistant…”

“I'm never living that down, am I?” You groaned, already feeling the headache spike in your temples. Your eyes fluttered about the corridor you entered; it was just as beautiful as the lobby downstairs, but with a slightly moodier glow to the lights as if not to disturb any of the patrons on this floor should they wish for an escape from downstair's hustle and bustle.

“Imagine if Chanhee found out you'd said that.”

“Don't get me started on Chanhee.” Room 700 appeared in your sight, and you smacked your key card against the card reader before letting yourself into the room. As the lights flickered on, you asked Changmin from over your shoulder, “Have you heard from him recently, by the way?”

Chanhee was a mutual friend from your college days. While he was technically a closer friend to Changmin, you'd met Chanhee through Changmin after your partner project and grabbed dinner together every once in a while whenever Chanhee was in town.

You were already making a beeline to the bathroom when you heard the hotel room door close and lock behind Changmin. “Recently? Depends on your definition of ‘recently.’”

The sound of your sigh echoed as you absentmindedly fixed your hair in the reflection. Train hair wasn't as poor as airplane hair, that was for sure. “He misses you,” you said in a singsong tone.

“Is that right?” He chuckled. “I'll shoot him a text then.”

He appeared in the reflection behind you holding two black garment bags, one in each hand. He'd shed his suit jacket somewhere, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up to expose his forearms. “These are ours for tonight,” he said to you, handing you the one with your name on it.

Ah, tonight. “Thanks,” you said, taking a peek inside to see what exactly was prepared for you. Your curiosity piqued at the sight of deep wine red fabric, but you didn't look any further for the time being.

“Are you ready for tonight?” He asked, stealing a glance at you as he brushed his hair back in the mirror.

At the proximity of tonight's events, you suddenly felt your heart rate climb. Before when this was only an assignment, the gravity of the situation hadn't fallen over you yet. But now that it was your current reality, it began to rush at you with the speed of an oncoming train.

You steeled your nerves. You were tapped to carry out this task for a reason. The only thing you had to do was be wary of Changmin's spending; he was doing the heavy lifting. Even if you were about to be in a room with a few dozen other dangerous people.

You swallowed, nodding. “Ready as I'll ever be.”

He pressed his lips together, his dimples appearing in his cheeks but not because of joy. There was a step forward, then another. “Hey,” he murmured, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone, “I won't let anything bad happen to you or to anybody; that's what I'm here for.”

He draped his garment over his arm and leaned against the bathroom counter beside you. “If we both do our jobs right, we'll be fine. Do you know who our target is? Just so you're aware of who to look out for.”

You nodded, “Le Chiffre.” That was the name of the host of tonight's poker game. He was high on the MI6's most wanted list, and tonight was a critical effort to put a stop to his movements, as well as the credibility he had with his clients. You'd seen pictures of this man—the cold of his eyes and the pale scar that disabled one of his pupils—you were well aware of what he looked like.

“Good,” he murmured. “Then you stay far away from him, got it, sweetheart?”

“Got it.”

Though the gravity of the situation hung heavy in the room after that conversation, Changmin ordered the two of you room service before you needed to prepare for the poker game. You figured food in your stomach would keep you grounded and lessen the nerves trilling through you and making your extremities feel cold to the touch.

Dinner shared in the privacy of your hotel room with an old friend was pleasant. You both sat on the couch sectional next to each other, his arm laid casually over the back of where you sat, as you caught up and dined. There was something oddly warm in his eyes… you didn't know what it was that made him seem so clued into what you were saying, as if he was spellbound. You figured it must be the training he underwent; after all, if he couldn't just muscle his way to an answer, then seduction was also a powerful tool at his disposal.

You just wondered why it was seeping into his interaction with you. Perhaps it became second nature for him to be this way—to lean into every word you said, to brighten at the sound of your laugh, to mirror every smile. To make you feel like you were the only person in his world and that you were all that mattered.

By the time nine o'clock rolled around and you were in the bathroom preparing for the game, your nerves had calmed considerably.

The dress that MI6 provided you was a deep wine evening gown that hugged your upper body and cascaded down the length of your legs before it hung just above your feet. The satin was gathered and left to create a cowl at the neckline, and somebody had thought it was a fabulous idea to leave a high slit in one side all the way up to mid-thigh height. (One wrong move and you were screwed.)

It was as if a river of wine physically wrapped around you as a garment for the night.

Though you appreciated the beauty of it, it only served to make you realize that perhaps controlling Changmin's spending wasn't your only job tonight; your other purpose was to distract everyone else. You weren't sure how you felt about that.

A knock sounded at the bathroom door just as you were fitting on a pair of matching ruby earrings. “Yn?”

“Just a second,” you said. You pushed the earring backing into place and hustled over to open the door. “I'm just finishing… hey.”

Changmin had changed into an all-black suit, a classic piece of uniform that was tailored perfectly to his proportions. His eyes were hooded and dark as he drank you in like a glass of Pinot Noir.

A low whistle drifted out from his lips. “If I'm being honest, you might be a liability in this dress.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” you said, turning back to return to the bathroom counter.

Changmin trailed after you, almost dumbfounded, like he'd forgotten why he'd knocked on the door in the first place.

You tried to suppress your smile as you handed him his comb. “See something you like?”

His eyes met yours in the mirror, tongue swiping over his bottom lip. “I do.”

Your expression shuttered in the mirror having not expected that reply at all.

Changmin cleared his throat, stepping to your side to fix his hair with practiced grace. In no time, his appearance was complete, and he was heading out of the bathroom, his cologne lingering by you.

When you were satisfied, you turned off the bathroom light on your way out to meet Changmin in the main room. He was by the safe, fitting a fresh magazine into a silver pistol with skilled hands. He felt your gaze on the weapon and passed you a glance. “We can't carry weapons into the room,” he told you, “but it's a good idea to have one ready here.”

You bobbed your head in agreement, though you felt your shoulders tighten.

He locked up the safe before making his way toward you. “Do you know how to use one of these?” He asked.

You shook your head. “It was never in my job description,” you said quietly. “I hope you don't have to use it.”

There was a graveness to his gaze now. “I hope I don't have to either.” Because both of you knew, if it came down to it, he wouldn't hesitate.

The room where it happened was deep in the bowels of the hotel, somewhere below the casino floor and above the core of the earth. To get in, one was required an exclusive invitation, which was the item Changmin had received in the small parcel from earlier in the afternoon.

You and Changmin arrived on the scene arm in arm, your posture straight in an effort to come off as nonchalant. As you descended the velvet-lined stairs into the basement room, you were confronted by a pair of broad-shouldered bodyguards with body scanners in their hands. After retrieving Changmin's invitation, you were both scanned separately for security, before being granted entry.

The playing room was on the smaller side with a fully equipped bar on the furthest wall of the room. The centerpiece was an oval table, barred off with railings for spectators to lean on while the game was played. There were a sprinkling of others here, both players and their guests.

Your initial scan of the room, unsurprisingly, produced no familiar faces—but your arm tightened around Changmin's when you caught sight of the man of the hour. Le Chiffre stood on the opposite side of the room, nursing a coup glass of liquor as he spoke in low tones with another man. From this angle, you could see the cut of his one glassy eye and the angry scar that marred his face.

“Our four o'clock,” you muttered between your teeth to your counterpart.

Changmin glanced over out of his peripheral vision, nodding subtly. “How about a drink, sweetheart?” He asked you, his voice slightly louder than your own.

You gave a small smile, and he began to lead you over to the bar.

As the two of you moved, you couldn't shake the feeling of eyes trailing after you, something akin to spidersilk clinging to your limbs that you could never quite brush off. It was no secret that you were one of the few women in the room.

When you reached the bar, Changmin flagged the bartender down. “A vodka martini, please—shaken, not stirred—and a mint julep for the lady.”

“Right away, sir.”

You looked over at Changmin with an impressed purse of your lips. “You remembered,” you mused.

The corner of his lip tilted upward. “How could I forget?”

With your drinks served to you, you gently sipped on your mint julep. It wouldn't do you well to get drunk tonight; you just needed a little liquid courage.

From your side, Changmin stared out into the crowd, likely assessing his opponents in the room. He made a small noise of consideration that made you prompt him. He answered lowly, “You see the man to our nine o'clock?—”

You followed his instructions and casted a single glance that way. At the other end of the bar stood a man in a gray suit, nursing a rum and coke in his hands as he assessed the room for himself.

“—Lee Juyeon. CIA.”

Your eyebrows flicked upward. “Interesting. Are they after our man, too?”

“Good chance that they are,” he said and raised his glass to his lips. He swallowed the last of his drink and set the empty glass behind him, leaning the elbow closest to you against the bar behind him. “Know how to play poker?”

“I’m more of a Go Fish girl, actually.”

He sputtered a laugh, and you smiled into your glass. “You're kidding. Not even a little?”

“Go fish, Mr. Ji,” you said and gestured to him with your glass. “Do tell though, since your boss seems to have so much faith in you. What's the secret to winning poker?”

You hadn't even realized how close your faces were tilted toward each other until you registered the smell of his drink on his breath and the shine on his lips. For a plot second, you swore his eyes even dared a glance away from your own.

Neither of you backed away from the other and remained in the intimate gray space.

“The secret?” He parroted, cocking an eyebrow. He tugged at his bottom lip. “The secret is figuring out what everyone else's tells are. It's about bluffing and strategy. If you can figure out how to tell when a person is lying, then you're practically set.”

You hummed. “I see. So what's my tell?”

“Your tell?” His gaze on you was hot and heavy as his eyes devoured you slowly but surely for yet another instance tonight. You could no longer ignore the rapid hammering of your heart, its insistent palpitations threatening to expose you to the man you swore could already see right through you.

His lips pulled into a slow smile, the kind you couldn't decide if it really was a smile or a smirk. “That’s for me to know, and you to figure out.”

“You don't know then.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, sweetheart.”

A hush fell over the room. You followed everyone's eyes up to the man who had summoned the room's attention. Le Chiffre stood atop the poker table's platform with a small laptop seated upon the table's edge.

“Good evening, everyone, and welcome to the game,” he greeted coolly. “We will begin this evening's festivities with an introduction to our security protocols. This device—” he gestured to the computer, “—is fully secured to store and activate all of the night's betting money. Each player will enter a six-character code, unique to them, that will grant them access to the winning sum—should they win.”

A small murmur of laughter amongst the crowd; you didn't find it funny.

“We will begin with Mrs. Takeuchi.”

One by one, each of the players present tonight came forward to input a six-charactered passcode of their choosing. When Changmin was summoned forward, you watched as his expression became a careful, unreadable slate. He strode up toward the poker table, eyes never leaving Le Chiffre and Le Chiffre's never leaving Changmin. You could feel the tension in the room tighten, and Changmin confidently input his desired password.

When he pressed ENTER, you swore you could feel the fifteen million dollars being locked into the pot. Fifteen million was a shit ton of cash. The amount you were not willing to go beyond was twenty million. As long as Changmin played safe and played well, it wouldn't be a problem.

Not before long, the players were all summoned to the table. You sent Changmin off with a reassuring squeeze of his shoulder, and followed behind him to find a space at the railing to watch.

Changmin settled in the chair directly across from Le Chiffre.

The dealer passed out two cards to every player, each of whom hoarded a stack of chips and rectangular plaques that valued up to fifteen million. As the dealer revealed the four cards before him—two jokers, a king, and an ace—the game was on.

You weren't even sure what you were looking for, but the sinking feeling in your gut would not fade the entire game. You held onto your mint julep until it was drained, eyes trained on the cards lying face down in Changmin's hands as he watched Le Chiffre across from him like a hawk.

He was looking for his tell, you realized.

The match was tense. You couldn't pull your gaze away, for fear of missing some minute detail, even if each move made was technically quite large. In the beginning, however, it felt as though everyone was playing it safer, for fear of getting out too early.

The night was young, and it would do none of them any good if they lucked out of a pot of at least one hundred million.

You watched Changmin, who watched Le Chiffre. You noted the way Le Chiffre would occasionally bring his left hand up to his scarred eye… was that his tell?

It was nearing one hour when it was only Changmin and Le Chiffre who had yet to fold. The dealer called for Changmin to make his move, and you looked over to your counterpart as the gears turned and twisted in his mind.

“I'm all in,” he decided, and shifted his entire pile into the center, mounting up to some amount close to twelve million.

You pressed the backs of your knuckles to your lips in anticipation of Le Chiffre's move. The man did not cower, but rather, called his bet. He moved his pile of fourteen million to the center. All in.

“Gentlemen,” the dealer gestured for their cards to be revealed.

They flipped their cards into view—you could feel the scandal rocket through the crowd.

“A pair of jacks. Monsieur Le Chiffre wins. This marks the halfway point of the match; we will return in one hour to resume, with the big blind set at two hundred thousand.”

Everyone around the table, both players and spectators, began to dissipate to find something to distract them for the hour-long break.

Changmin's posture was taut as a bowstring as Le Chiffre pulled his mouth into a sly smirk across from him. “Ah, Mr. Ji. You must have interpreted my tell wrong. Off your game tonight, don't you think?”

A muscle feathered in the agent's jaw. “I wouldn't be so quick to boast,” he drawled. “The game's not over yet.”

You didn't know what to say, but you knew one thing was for certain—no matter what, you and Changmin could not let Le Chiffre leave tonight with the jackpot. And as Changmin departed the table with a crease between his brows but his head held high, you knew what was on his mind, as well.

“Need a drink?” You asked, as he met you where you stood.

Changmin shook his head. “No, I'm alright,” he said, glancing about. He nudged the back of your shoulder with his fingers, guiding you toward the exit. “Let's get out of this room for a moment though.”

You weren't going to argue with that decision, and the two of you linked arms and made your departure.

When the cool air in the lobby swept over you and all the tension in your body left for a brief moment of paradise. It was so stifling down in that room; you were almost thankful to be wearing this dress.

You and Changmin lingered at the top of the railing that looked down into the lobby from the second flood, heads close together. “What now?” You asked him.

“I need more money.”

“I can give you five million, but that's my limit, Changmin,” you told him firmly.

His brows crossed together. “Five million isn't enough to go toe to toe with a guy who just ended round one with thirty—”

“That's not my fault; this is policy.” You knew the world hung in the balance, but while that was his job, this was yours. You sighed. “Maybe I can contact someone about approving more, but right now, five million is our only option. Do we not have a plan B?”

Changmin's lips pressed into a line. “Plan B is hoping he does something fucking illegal in front of my face, and praying that reinforcements come in fast enough to take him away.”

Now it was your turn for your brows to crease. “Why do we have to wait for him to do something illegal? Don't we know he's a criminal?”

“We're onto him, yes, but there has been no tangible proof that he's a corrupt banker,” Changmin admitted tersely. He absentmindedly rubbed his jaw with his palm. “If we could just—”

“Ji.”

Both you and Changmin straightened. Coming toward you from down the hall was Lee Juyeon, the CIA agent Changmin had pointed out to you earlier.

You didn't fail to notice the way Changmin blocked you from Juyeon's view with his body. “Lee,” Changmin greeted back.

Juyeon nodded to you in hello with a warm smile, and you lifted your hand to wave. He seemed decent enough.

Changmin’s eyes narrowed as he shifted so he stood next to you now, an obvious arm slung around your waist. “I didn't know the CIA was on this.”

“I didn't know the MI6 was on this,” Juyeon fired back. He let out a sigh that sounded about as stressed as you were. “I wanted to propose a deal with you.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, well—” Juyeon cupped the back of his neck with one hand. “I'm not the most adept poker player,” he confessed. If you remembered correctly, he nearly lost half his money throughout round one—then again, Changmin lost all of his. According to Le Chiffre, it was because he had read his tell incorrectly; you must have interpreted the wrong one, too. “And I figured that I'm not going to be making enough right moves in the second round to even stand a chance against Le Chiffre. You've got the balls to go up against him, and I know you're down a few bucks, so I wanted to bow out of the round and stake you instead.”

Both you and Changmin glanced at one another in surprise.

Juyeon was backing out… and wanted to stake Changmin? Stake, meaning to invest or sponsor him; to give Changmin funds.

Changmin's eyes narrowed. “And what would I do for you in return?”

“You would give the CIA Le Chiffre.”

What other choice did you and Changmin have? Five million was not enough to make a winning comeback; at least being sponsored would give Changmin enough cushion to make some more mistakes. The allyship between your governments was enough to make the CIA taking Le Chiffre in the end seem like a victory.

Changmin exhaled and stuck out his hand. “Deal.”

The second round was no less tense than the first. Changmin entered with more determination and fury than before, and Le Chiffre was no short of amusement and arrogance.

After Juyeon made his official departure from the game, he came to stand by you to spectate and offer insights wherever he could. The game chugged on by for another half hour with bets being placed, drinks being sipped, and money being exchanged.

You watched Changmin reach for his glass again, only to pause. There was a moment where you didn't breathe, and you watched his hand retract up toward his shirt collar to loosen it.

“Something wrong, Mr. Ji?” Le Chiffre asked.

You squinted at him, disliking the sinking feeling that had returned to your gut.

“Break,” Changmin suddenly called out, as he stumbled out of his seat and pushed out of the room in a hurry.

Eyes widened, you bolted after him, leaving Juyeon to wonder what had happened to Changmin.

You called out to your partner as he stumbled into the elevator, and you crashed in after him. “Oh my—fuck. What the fuck happened?” You asked as Changmin toppled over into you, sweat dripping down his face and his skin growing more and more flushed.

You jammed the button for your floor in a hurry as you attempted to hold him upright. “God, you're heavy, man—”

“Poison,” he choked out, practically ripping his shirt collar open, as if it was constricting his breathing. He gasped for air and clung onto you like a lifeboat.

Panic seized you by the heart and squeezed hard. “Oh my god. Okay—uhm, okay. What do we do? Changmin, what do we do?”

The elevator arrived on the seventh floor, and you half dragged Changmin toward your room. “The—the antid—antidote—”

“The antidote! We have an antidote?” You didn't have time to question him as you retrieved your room card from within your dress and barged into the hotel suite.

You deposited Changmin onto the floor as quickly and carefully as you could, hands shaking as you helped to take his shirt off so he could breathe.

“Safe,” he gasped to you.

“The safe? Fuck, what's the code?” You asked, clambering to your feet and racing over to the black box in the wall.

You heard him choke out the four digits, and the safe swung open without ceremony. You rifled around the contents and retrieved an aluminum foil packet with a slim syringe inside. “Found it!” You cried and practically slid across the floor to get back to him.

You ripped the packet open as Changmin's breathing continued to shallow, his skin paling, and his body growing weaker. His left palm had landed somewhere on his thigh—inject here.

“Shit,” you swore, grimacing to yourself before stabbing the syringe into his leg.

As soon as the liquid was gone, all you could do was pray.

But the storm clouds were beginning to clear, and color slowly returned to Changmin's face. You sank back onto your heels, relief and adrenaline coursing through you.

“Fucking hell, that was a close—”

White hot pain flashed through you as something—someone—grabbed you by your hair and yanked. Your scream pierced through the silence, and it was nearly enough to wake the dead.

They were dragging you backward toward the door, and you reached up to claw at their hands, your skull feeling as if it was being pulled into a million directions while being set ablaze, all at once.

“Let—go!” You screeched, thrashing around. You couldn't see your captor, but they suddenly released their grip on you.

Relief was short-lived.

Your head whipped to the side as a shoe met your cheek. Stars danced in your vision, and you cried out in pain—and then you begged. You were certain Changmin was still recovering, hardly in a state to save you, and desperation began to claw itself into your heart.

Your body was hoisted up beneath your armpits and you squirmed, fighting for your life.

For a second, you were sure you heard Changmin call out your name.

You threw your elbow back into your attacker's face, then tried the back of your head—the sound of pain and bones cracking echoing in your eardrum.

“You bitch!” They roared, loosening their grip to feel their broken nose.

You were a mess as you landed on the ground. A gleam of silver caught your eye. The gun.

Adrenaline seized you and you made a mad dash for the table where the gun was stowed beneath.

Your opponent caught your ankle and dragged you back down to earth. There was no time to mourn over bruised knees and limbs, and you kicked your heels out behind you in a blind fury, desperate to get away.

“Yn—”

“Please,” you screamed, begged. Whoever that was—you just wanted this to end. Fear coursed through you as your body began moving backwards and was dragged back to the door.

You dug your fingers against the polished ground, unsuccessfully gaining purchase. You clutched at a chair leg and dragged it along with you, and felt the hand around your ankle tighten—

With all your strength, you took the chair and heaved it back toward your captor. He let out a garbled swear, only agitated by your continued resistance. The hand around your ankle disappeared and you took it as an opportunity to get away.

“Not so fast.”

Your body hit the ground, the back of your head making purchase against stone. This time, you saw your assailant—he was one of the guards from earlier, likely working under Le Chiffre's orders. Blood dribbled down his lower face, courtesy of your retaliation.

“I should just kill you here and now,” he growled and enclosed his meaty hands around your neck. “Won't make a difference.”

You struggled against him, but to no avail. Your windpipe was being crushed and your vision blurred.

You thrashed and scratched and kicked—this was the end. Oh god, was this the end?—

A shot rang out.

Air slowly began seeping into your airway and you hacked a cough around the hands that had fallen away from your throat.

The dead body above you was heavy and sticky, and the smell of iron permeated your nose like a nightmare. You didn't even realize your cheeks were damp until you blinked and tears filled your eyes.

You nearly died just then.

With a suppressed sob, you shoved the dead body off you with all of your remaining strength.

There, by the table, was Changmin and the smoking gun in his hand. He still looked only half conscious, but he'd managed to get himself to sit up with pure willpower, enough to reach the gun stashed beneath the table, and to aim and fire a shot.

The room was quiet for a few moments, other than the persistent ringing in your ears.

Then you let yourself cry—it shook through your body and shoulders in violent sobs.

Changmin's chest clenched painfully at the sound, and the gun clattered out of his hand so he could crawl his way over to you. His hair, his face, his clothes were all dampened in sweat and the empty syringe laid abandoned on the floor. He made it over to where you were, the red of your dress mixed with the blood of a dead man, and held your body close to his.

“I'm sorry,” he muttered against your hair, lips pressed against your crown. “You’re okay; we're okay now,” he promised.

With his strength slowly returning to him, Changmin sat himself upright and let your body lean against him. You grappled onto him so tightly, as if he might slip out of your grasp.

It was almost thirty minutes later that you and Changmin returned to the poker game. With some gentle coaxing, he got you into the shower to wash the blood away, but you couldn't get the icky feeling clinging to you. He'd been gentle, though, letting you sit beneath the stream in your dress as he got onto the shower floor with you to run the water and soap through your hair.

In his hold, he rocked you gently through the tremors. “No one's gonna hurt you anymore, sweetheart,” he rasped. Never again, not if he could help it.

You'd never seen him like that—all the tenderness in his gaze out in the open.

And you'd only seen it when you glanced up at him once; the rest of the time, you tucked your chin to your knees, staring at a tile.

Unnerved but still alive, you entered the room with another clean dress, and Changmin with another clean set of clothes. You returned to your place beside Juyeon, and Changmin went back to the table to face Le Chiffre.

Le Chiffre, however, looked as if he'd seen a ghost. His eyes had widened just a millimeter, but it was enough.

Changmin dragged up the sleeves of his dress shirt, a predatorial-like gleam in his eyes. You almost killed me. Even worse, you dared to lay a dirty hand on her. “Sorry about that,” he drawled, gaze lifting to meet Le Chiffre's, “seemed that last hand nearly killed me.”

His opponent swallowed.

The game resumed.

With the final phase in play, the dealer announced that there could be no more buy-ins. Juyeon had fetched you a drink, which you were most grateful for, and Changmin avoided all beverages for the remainder of the game.

“Everything alright?” Juyeon asked you quietly as you chugged your drink.

“Perfectly.” You handed the drink off to a waiter nearby and smiled tightly. “We were just strategizing on how to murder this game.” You hoped he didn't hear the tremor in your voice.

As the final round approached, each of the four finalists that were left alive were asked to make their bets. Each player slowly, but surely, slid all of their remaining chips into the center.

Everyone was all in.

“Reveal your cards, if you please.”

One by one, the cards in each player's hand was turned. The room held its collective breath as Le Chiffre revealed an ace and a six—a fuller house, with three aces and two sixes.

All that was left were Changmin's.

With little more than an arched brow, he slid his cards apart: a five and seven, both of which were spades. When joined together with the rest, they made—

“A straight flush,” announced the dealer. “Monsieur Ji wins the game.”

Cheers and applause rang out throughout the room as the game finally came to a close. Relief soared through you, and you shook hands with Juyeon at Changmin's success. Perhaps twenty million had been spent, but it all meant that you had won back that money in full.

From your standpoint, you couldn't see Le Chiffre's reaction, but he didn't look pleased. He stormed out of the room only moments later.

Changmin was swift to join the two of you, his hand coming to lie on your shoulder. “We should go after him,” he said.

Juyeon nodded, expression sobering. “You're right.”

“I'm going with you,” you told him. Already anticipating his refusal, you shut him down with a look. Though you might have been shaken from the night's near-death experience, it only seemed to steel over your resolve to catch this bastard. “I'm safer with you; don't try to argue with me.”

He knew you were right—you saw the reluctant agreement in his eyes. He grunted, “Okay, but you're staying behind me the entire time and when I say run, you better run.”

You patted his chest and followed after Juyeon. “Of course.”

The three of you raced after Le Chiffre in the direction he disappeared. He'd gone up to the second floor via the grand staircase in the lobby, but neither you nor the other boys knew which direction he went from there. The second floor was damn near close to a labyrinth.

“We split up,” Changmin declared. “Me and Yn go one way and Juyeon takes the other.”

“Wait, Juyeon goes alone?” You butted in. “Le Chiffre is dangerous and desperate; that combination isn't good for anybody.”

“None of us have any weapons either,” Juyeon pointed out.

Changmin gestured to you. From beneath the skirt of your new dress, you withdrew the pistol from earlier out into the light. After what happened in your suite, the both of you thought it best to let security measures be damned and holster a gun to your inner thigh. And now, it was proving to be the right decision.

Juyeon deadpanned, amending, “I don't have a weapon.”

“Then you should go get one,” Changmin said smartly. You rolled your eyes at him.

“I—shit.” Juyeon huffed in frustration. “Goddamn it. You better hold your promise, Ji.”

“My word is gold,” Changmin swore as you passed him the pistol. “We'll find Le Chiffre; you call for backup.”

With that matter settled, you grabbed Changmin's hand and set off in one direction.

His fingers tightened around you as you stuck close behind him. The corridor was hauntingly quiet with not a soul around. You and Changmin trudged onward and kept your eyes and ears open for anybody hiding behind a corner or waiting to enact revenge on your poker victory tonight.

The hair on your arms and the back of your neck stood erect, heart thundering loudly in your ears.

So loud, that you almost missed it.

You caught Changmin's eyes. Did you hear that?

There it was—it sounded like voices coming from a room further down the hall.

“—please, just a few more weeks, and I can get you your money back!”

A muffled response in return.

“NO! I swear, I'll do better! I have another i—”

You never heard the end of Le Chiffre's offer. There was only the sound of a metallic swish, followed by a dull weight hitting the ground. A body.

Your breath hitched as you and Changmin looked around wildly for a swift exit or cover. There was an emergency stairwell just a few doors down.

Changmin grabbed you and booked it.

Your breath caught in your throat as he pressed you against the open doorway, eyes flickering somewhere behind you to watch the door the voices had come from.

“Do you trust me?�� He asked, eyes furiously searching your own.

You didn't have to think about it. “Yes.”

Just as a door opened in the hallway, Changmin cupped your jaw with his hand, braced himself against the doorway with the other, and kissed you.

Your eyes fluttered closed upon immediate impact and you felt your heart leap into your throat. His lips moved gently against your own, as if afraid of breaking you, and his hand moved down from your jaw to wrap around your waist to pull you flush against him.

One moment you were melting into his embrace, and the next, he was shoving you behind the other side of the doorway for cover.

A war cry rang out—not Changmin, you realized—as a body blurred past you and was thrown into the stairwell's metal railing. Your soul nearly left your body, head turning in time to throw yourself out of the way of the incoming bodies.

Changmin brawled and grappled on the floor with a second man, a silver machete glistening in the dim light, only a few centimeters from his throat. The first man was slowly beginning to stand up, and your eyes tracked where Changmin's gun had skidded to the floor.

You swiped the gun up just as Changmin wrestled his opponent off him.

With adrenaline powering through you, you smashed the butt of the gun against the back of the man's skull. He crumpled to the cement—unconscious.

“Here,” you breathed, helping Changmin to his feet and shoving the gun into his hand.

He shook his dizziness away, eyes widened on something behind you. “YN, DUCK!”

You swore, and dropped to the ground, narrowly missing the arc of the first man's machete attempting to remove the head from your shoulders.

You dove down the first set of stairs to get out of the way of the fight, your knees and hands scraping against the cement and bruising.

The man with the machete attacked Changmin with reckless abandon, swinging his blade and striking the railing to make sparks fly. Changmin had no opening to use his firearm and—oh shit. They were coming this way.

“Yn, you better be fucking running.”

He didn't need to tell you twice. You tumbled down more stairs, ditching your heels as you went. You would be useless in this fight, so your best action would be to get the fuck out of the way.

Changmin's breath flew out of his chest as he hit the wall hard, then stuck his hands out in time to stop the assassin from impaling his head on the sword. Changmin drove his knee into his stomach, then threw him across the stairs to the opposite landing.

The fight clambered on down the spiral stairwell, metal clashing against metal, and bone and flesh grinding against stone. Changmin gritted his teeth as he fumbled backwards down the stairs, hitting the opposing wall with even more momentum.

He ducked—and missed another swing; and another; and another.

There was a kick to his gut, and his body went flying. His assailant took a leaping start and charged. Changmin grabbed at his hands again, desperately attempting to wrestle the machete away.

The weapon went sailing; that was his opening.

With pure adrenaline, Changmin fisted the man's shirt and flung him over whatever railing was left. You cursed as his body hit the basement floor with a thump.

Changmin tackled him as he attempted to climb to his feet. With the violent thrashing, Changmin ended up beneath him, his arm wrapped tightly around his opponent's neck, and he squeezed.

The man's arm flopped about, desperately reaching for the gun that scattered onto the floor from all the ruckus. If he could just reach it—

You lunged for the gun, tripping as the man clawed at your ankle to throw you off. You shrieked, swinging the barrel at his hand to knock it away.

When you finally managed to scramble backward, you watched the light fade in the assassin's eyes.

As soon as the man slumped in death, Changmin loosened his grip and crawled out from beneath the body.

You clambered over to him and helped him to his feet, his joints and muscles screaming as he attempted to straighten. He groaned, white-knuckling the railing, “Fucking hell.”

“Are you okay? Holy shit, Changmin,” you said, wrapping your arms around him to hold him up. There had been too many close calls there.

You passed a glance over at the corpse lying on the floor about a meter away from you. A shudder rippled down your spine, and you felt Changmin's hand on your forearm, like he knew.

From up above, you heard the sound of the stairwell door opening. The two of you peered straight upwards as a familiar face peered over the landing.

“Le Chiffre's dead,” said Juyeon. In his hand was a pistol; it seemed he finally retrieved his firearm.

“No shit,” you and Changmin replied simultaneously, chests heaving up and down in laborious panting.

Juyeon blinked, squinting his eyes to take in your appearances. “What the fuck happened to you guys?”

“Careful,” you called up to him, “that guy isn't dead.”

Juyeon jolted and he considered the body at his feet with new awareness.

You threw one of Changmin's arms around you to begin the ascent back up. “Can you—fuck. Is that yours?” You swore for the thousandth time tonight as you peered over at the growing dark splotch of red seeping through Changmin's shirt.

He hung his head as strength rapidly bled out of him with his own life force, and you carefully laid Changmin down on the ground.

“Juyeon!” You called out. “Juyeon, help!”

You heard rapid footsteps in the distance, but it faded to background noise as you ripped open Changmin's shirt and came face to face with the vicious knife wound in his abdomen. “Oh my god,” you whispered. God, there was so much blood.

“Cover the wound, Yn,” Juyeon said to you as he leapt down the final steps. “Fuck, this looks bad.”

“He must not have begun to feel it until the adrenaline was over,” you reasoned in a desperate attempt to keep your head on straight. Per Juyeon's instructions, you pressed your palms over the wound, bile rising in your throat from all the blood. “Changmin—Changmin, come on. Stay with me.”

He murmured something you couldn't hear, and you leaned your ear down over his lips. “Come on, talk to me, love. Tell me something, anything.”

His voice came out, barely there. “I'm… I'm glad I got—I got to see you again.”

And he would see you again. That was a promise you made to yourself, and to him, as Juyeon called for his reinforcements and you clung onto Ji Changmin's life with your own.

When Changmin came to, it was bright enough to blind him. There was a fuckass beam of sunlight shining right into his eyes, and he blinked rapidly, wrinkling his face into a grimace. There was a violent throbbing in his abdominal area that ached when he attempted to roll over or sit up.

Was he dead?

“You're not dead.”

His body immediately relaxed into the sheets he was settled in. When his eyes grew accustomed to the god awful amount of light in the room, he was met by the sight of your face, silhouetted against the sun, and beautiful. “Are you sure? 'Cause I'm pretty sure you're an angel.”

Your palm came over to rest against his forehead, and his eyes fluttered shut. “You must still have that fever,” you teased.

When you both shared a laugh, he opened his eyes again.

It seemed he was in a hospital room—well, something akin to that. It looked more like a small bedroom was transformed into one, and he laid on the bed with a heart rate monitor hooked up to him on the side. You perched on the edge of his bed with a cardigan draped over your frame, and something soft in your eyes.

No, he was definitely in heaven. Maybe he didn't die, but he was in heaven.

Your expression sobered as your hand drifted down to caress the side of his face. “You lost a lot of blood,” you whispered. “I was really worried about you.”

Changmin brought his hand up to gently take your wrist and turn your palm inward, his lips meeting your hand in a butterfly kiss. “Hey, sweetheart. I'm alright now, see?” He intertwined your fingers, missing the feeling of how they felt interlocked in the hotel hallway.

The hotel hallway—the fight—Le Chiffre—the kiss. His lips seared at the memory, and he fought the urge to touch his lips at the phantom sensation.

“What happened?” He croaked out instead, gazing up at you. His heart tugged against its confines when he made out the shape of dark purple smudged against your cheekbone. It was the bruise forming from the guard who came after you, and it made Changmin ache to see.

Hurt, you'd been so hurt.

You shifted your body so you could tuck your feet onto the bed, too. “Juyeon came with reinforcements and we got you out of there as soon as possible. One of Le Chiffre's clients killed him—the guys you fought with in the stairwell. Apparently he'd used their money to buy into the game, and because he wasn't able to win, they killed him.”

Changmin stared up at the eggshell-colored ceiling. He supposed that would have been the tangible evidence needed to convict Le Chiffre, but his client was faster at acting as judge, jury, and executioner.

“M's on her way to meet with you,” you continued, your thumb gently tracing dizzying circles onto the back of his hand.

“To be expected,” he chuckled. He glanced back up at you. “How are you? Were you hurt at all?”

You shook your head. “No, nothing to your extent. There were a few scratches and bruises, but nothing time won't heal.”

“And everything else?” Your mental state, especially after all you went through, could not have been in a terrific place. If he could have prevented you from experiencing any of what happened, he would do it in a heartbeat.

The pure fear that speared through his chest when he thought you were about to die…

He had long since figured out that what he felt for you was not simply platonic. It was more—he yearned for more. Seeing you again after so long just made it worse.

You made a noncommittal noise. “I'll… I'll be alright.”

For a moment, the room filled with only silence and the white noise from the heart rate monitor. You suddenly perked up at something, and turned to reach over to grab an item from the side table. Changmin recognized the small laptop device from the poker game now seated on your lap.

“The money pit from the game was stored in escrow in a Swiss bank. A representative from the bank delivered this to us,” you explained, showing him the screen. It left room for a passcode to be filled in. “To the victor go the spoils, love.”

The nickname made him shudder and he forced himself into an upright position.

“Changmin—”

“I got it,” he countered and stubbornly gritted his teeth through the pain until he was seated against the headboard next to you. He clutched his injury, head knocked back against the wood. “Well? Wanna guess the password?”

You lifted your brows in amusement. “Do you know how many six letter combinations exist out there? For all I know, it was a random keyboard smash.”

He chuckled lowly, leaning his chin against your shoulder. “S.”

We're really doing this? You seemed to ask with the expression on your face. You humored him, though, pressing down on the S key.

“W.”

The letters that followed amounted to S-W-T-H-R-T. You were quiet for a second as you stared at the final combination; you didn't want to press the enter key just yet.

Changmin murmured against your shoulder. “I'm not one for corny messages, but that's a 'sweetheart’ if I've ever seen one.”

You were still quiet as you pressed enter and unlocked the winner's pot. There was no special celebration, no balloons or confetti—just a solid number with too many zeroes for your little heart to handle. Perhaps, in the end, there really was no amount of money in the world that could buy your company. Not if you freely gave it, at least.

Changmin felt his chest lurch. “Yn, sweetheart, say something.” He leaned off your shoulder so you could turn your body to face him, the laptop returning to its place on the side table.

“What should I say?” You asked, your fingers playing with his own in your two hands.

“I'm sorry if the kiss was too much.”

You faltered for a second. “It, uhm, it wasn't too much. I actually thought that it was nice.”

“You did?” He hated the way hope made him feel, how it made his heart sprout wings—maybe he was dead.

A small smile crawled onto your lips and you dug your teeth into your bottom lip. “Maybe I did.” You raised a hand to the side of your face, an embarrassed groan falling out of your mouth. “God, I feel like a teenager with a crush again.”

“Giddy?”

“Pathetic,” you teased. You leaned your head against the headboard again as you looked over at him with the most beautiful gleam in your eyes he had ever seen.

He never understood the romanticizing of someone's eyes—what else had he ever discerned but fear or boredom? But he could hear your laugh just by seeing your smile reach your eyes, and he could feel the warmth spreading in his chest and making electricity zip down his spine from the tenderness in your irises.

He swallowed hard. “If you feel pathetic, then I am literally chopped liver,” he said. A surge of courage, the kind that was a trademark of his reputation, propelled his next words: “I'd like to kiss you again.”

Your eyes darted to his lips and he clung onto that detail as if he were hanging by a thread. “Because you saved the world, Agent 007, you can kiss the girl,” you mused.

You leaned over him slightly and cupped the back of his head, mouth meeting his own in a familiar dance. Even with his injury, he pushed back to meet you, and ignored the throbbing in his stomach, so he could haul you closer, over, around him. Anything to get you pressed up against him.

Real—you were real, and you were alive, and so was he.

a/n: pls remember to reblog + comment if u enjoyed! omg that permanent taglist looks SCARY 😭😭😭

tbz m.list

permanent taglist: @flwoie @vatterie @seomisaho @hqrana @ja4hyvn @outrologist @rikizm @luumiinaa @tinkerbell460 @kaaimins @hyunjaespresent-deobi @otterly-fey @zzoguri @floatingpluto @winterchimez @ethereal-engene @gyulfriend @polarisjisung @jaehunnyy @shakalakaboomboo @loveliestfelix @bless-311 @zhaixiaowen @leaz-kpop-life @amourdsr @pxppxrminty @kqyutie @sseastar-main @kxthleen14 @fluorescentloves @mosviqu @jaerisdiction @super-btstrash-posts @jundundun @http-gyu @mvvnsseul @vernonburger @maessseongs @ericlvr @mars101 @moonyswolf @your-mirae @richasdiary @deobi0412 @sunramzi @honeyrecommends @synthwxve @dearly-somber @empire-x @kflixnet

#🔎 — the 007 files #deoboyznet #kflixnet #the boyz x reader #ji changmin x reader #changmin x reader #the boyz oneshot #the boyz drabbles #the boyz imagines #the boyz scenarios #the boyz fanfic #changmin drabble #changmin oneshot #changmin angst #changmin scenarios #changmin imagines

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hauntingcryptids · 1 year

Text

Work Hard, Rest Hard

O x Reader ( Dhawan!Master x Reader)

Summary - Your roommate O is incredibly kind; he is very willing to help you calm down in any way he can.

Based On This Request - Anonymous requested - “Hi! May I ask for a soft fic with The Master where they hypnotise The Reader?”

Warnings - the reader is incredibly stressed, anxiety, hypnotism, hypnotism without consent

Word Count - 947

A/n - Gender Neutral Reader. Requested by this lovely anon! I will link the other fics inspired by this request HERE, if you would like to read them. I hope that you enjoy!

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You had been living with O for a couple of weeks now. Your last roommate moved out randomly and you had been scrambling every day to find a new roommate at such short notice. Thankfully, O moved in pretty soon after and was able to pay for half of the rent, which you had been struggling to pay in full on your own.

O was very willing to pay for the next couple of weeks' rent in full to make up for when you had to pay the rent in full. But you refused. You didn’t want your new roommate to be forced into doing something like that. But O did that anyway. He wanted to relieve some stress from your shoulders. He could see that you were tense, and he wanted to help you without being too intrusive about your personal life.

With O’s help, a lot of stressors were removed from your plate, but you still had so many things to do. The thing that kept you up most nights, however, was your work. You were a bit behind on things and were given a notice to have everything completed by the upcoming Monday, but you also had to complete this week's work, as well. You would have to stay up late to finish it all in time.

You were currently pacing around the kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil, when O walked into the kitchen.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, everything’s great.” You mumbled insecurely while tapping your foot wildly.

“You seem a little stressed.”

“No, I’m perfectly fine.” O walked up to you as you were preparing your tea.

“You can tell me anything. Just so you know.”

“You don’t mean that.” You huffed. To you, O was still a stranger and why would a stranger care about you and your health?

“I do.” O tentatively placed a hand on your shoulder causing you to finally look into your roommate's eyes. He did look to be incredibly sincere, so you broke down and told O the truth.

“Things are just a bit complicated with work. I’m struggling to stay on top of things.”

“I have some work to do. We could maybe just work together. Make sure that we through everything.” You nodded, relieved, to O.

You and O worked together for a while. O seemed to be flying through all of his work, but you, on the other hand, were still struggling immensely. You looked over at O typing away on his laptop then returned to stare at your own computer; barely a sentence was written on the open document. You switched to writing some notes in a notebook; you hoped that physical handwriting would make your brain flow better. But unfortunately for you, that did not help. You slammed your notebook down on the table and groaned in mental agony.

“I can’t do this O! It's just too stressful! And I’m not good enough!”

“Don’t say stuff like that. I know that you can do this.”

“No! No, I can’t. I should just quit because I’m such a failure!” You stood up and began pacing as you had before in the kitchen. You felt yourself begin to start heaving breaths. Air didn’t seem to fill your lungs fast enough. You then began to flap your hands back and forth in an attempt to call yourself down. But nothing worked and now you felt like your head was spinning.

“Shh shh, look at me.” O was suddenly in front of you, holding you by your shoulders.

“O?”

“Just look at me. You can do that right?” You nodded as O cradled your face in his hands. O’s soft thumbs were resting on your temples, rubbing circles into your flesh every so often.

“Now take some deep breaths with me.” O instructed and you did as you were told.

“Better?” O asked after a few minutes of the two of you breathing deeply together and you nodded in response. How did you suddenly feel so much better?

“Do you want me to make you some food?” O’s hands returned to your shoulders and continued to hold you tightly.

“You don’t have to.”

“Look at me.” O said sternly, but with a lace of warmth; that mix of emotions you had never been on the receiving end of before. You locked eyes with your roommate and felt that feeling again, that feeling of calm and reassurance you had after O had helped you relax.

“Do you want food?” O asked again and you nodded.

“Okay, I’ll make you your favourite. Why don’t you take a nap while I prepare it?” You nodded again as an intense wave of tiredness washed over you. You felt like you had nothing to say even though many responses were rippling around your mind. But before you could question anything that had happened you were fast asleep on the couch.

You woke up to O stroking your arm and muttering something that you couldn’t understand.

“Hello, sleepy head. Have a nice rest?” O crooked his head to the side to look at your fully.

“Yeah, surprisingly I did.”

“The food’s ready and I planned out a system to best complete everything.”

“O, you didn’t have to do any of this.” You said as you fully sat up.

“Of course I did! Now, let’s get through this together, shall we?” O held out his hand for you and you took it, happily, excited for the evening with O. You didn’t know why, but you just had this gut feeling that O would do anything to help you, and that feeling calmed you down more than anything else in your life had.

#ghost's posts #my writing #fanfiction #x reader #anon #request #doctor who #doctor who x reader #the master #the master x reader #o x reader #o #dhawan!master #dhawan!master x reader #mi6 agent o #mi6 agent o x reader

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gh0st-author · 1 month

Text

This love is alive, back from the dead

pairing: William James Moriarty x reader/oc

tags: hurt/comfort, angst but with a happy ending, usual soft William things

warnings: mentions of death (i mean Liam did try to delete himself from existence), mentions of grief and dealing with loss

A/N: im rereading the manga again and i had a LOT of feelings about the 3 year time skip and imaging all of the turmoil Liam's return would bring, so i whipped this up. i also had a lot of feelings for Louis, and i just know him and Liam's s/o would be besties. also im trying some new things, writing in third person and stuff, so this can be read either as a self insert or an oc ff.

She could still hear the screams. Could still see both of them falling, as in slow motion, and disappearing beneath the waves and fire. She could smell the smoke and soot. Could still feel the same burning heartache and hollowness in her chest even after three years. Could still feel Louis' firm hand grabbing her shoulder and pulling her away, his own form trembling, his breathing erratic. The image was burned into her mind like a brand, tape playing in a loop over and over again like a nightmare from which she couldn't wake up. She was trapped. Some days she barely even felt alive. She felt like a ghost, a shell of her former self, only going through the motions, trying to just get through every day.

Nights were simultaneously the worst and the best part of her day. Every time she sank into the cold, empty sheets of her and William's bed, something in her chest cleaved, and a knife burrowed itself into her heart. And if by some miracle she was able to fall asleep in the early hours of the morning, it was accompanied by choking sobs and shuddering gasps. The bed was too cold, too empty. But at night at least she dreamed. She dreamed of him. Dreamed of his scarlet gaze, his scent, his touch, his voice. In her dreams she could love him again and enjoy a few blissful hours of ignorance before morning cruelly ripped her away into consciousness. She woke every morning with silent tears streaming down her face, his side of the bed cold and undisturbed, exactly like the rest of the room. She'd left it all the same as the day it all happened. All his papers were still strewn across his desk; she dared not disturb them lest she severed the last thread of hope pushing her forward, the silent voice whispering that he might come in any second to collect them and stew over them. His clothes were still in the closet, everything besides the coat, the hat, and the cane he took with him that day— those she missed the most, they were an integral part of him. His books on the shelves she dusted every day— after all, what if he came back and wanted to read them again? She had to. And anything else she couldn't keep in their room she left in his study, locked to anyone besides her and Louis.

Grief was a living thing eating her from the inside, almost as much as the rage. Those first few months were the worst. She screamed, cried, and cursed the heavens, herself, this wretched country, and anyone she could. She was so angry at everything, but mostly at him, for leaving her, for carving himself a place in her soul so thoroughly, then ripping himself away leaving a jagged wound left to fester and rot. She was furious with Sherlock, for promising her something he could not deliver. For dying with him, instead of saving him. For damning them both. But most of all she was empty. Numb. As if everything that was human and alive and good about her died on that day together with William.

With a blink, she ripped herself away from those thoughts, feeling cold droplets slide down her cheeks onto the papers below. It was not the time for nostalgia and melancholy. Wiping them away with a silent curse she inspected her work for any signs of smudging. None. Her handwriting was neat and precise as always, detailing all of the plans for the MI6's newest job. Doing this work helped. Sitting here in William's office and focusing her mind on the simple tasks in front of her helped her to not succumb to the gaping abyss of grief. Besides, without him here, someone had to document and keep everything in order.

There was a silent knock on the door and she turned around in the chair to see Louis entering with a tray. The sunlight from the window shone golden light onto his platinum hair, now pushed back and not hiding his scar anymore. His tired gaze met hers and she fought back the wave of sadness threatening to overwhelm her. They were so similar, him and William. Looking at him made her feel like she was looking at a distorted mirage of the past. She assumed he felt very much the same when he looked in the mirror. She wondered what he thought when he looked at her.

A kind of understanding had been built between them in these three years, a sort of bond forged in shared grief and pain. They both understood that William had tasked them with taking care of each other, his two closest. She genuinely believed he was the only one who truly understood her loss, and she his. It was true, that losing William indeed impacted everyone in the group, that they were all battling their pain in their own way, but she and Louis just felt it a little bit differently– a little bit more acutely. Albert, too, she assumed, but he wasn't here now.

"I brought you tea," he said gently, leaving it on the desk next to her papers.

She stretched in the chair, raising her arms above her head and nodding gratefully at him. "Thank you, Louis."

"Do try not to overwork yourself. My brother would have my head if he thought I haven't been taking care of you." He chuckled wryly, but it didn't reach his eyes. They were concerned and pleading. He was aware of her insomnia and her tendency to bury her raging storm of emotions in work. He never said so outright, but she noticed his subtle pleas for her to rest and the food he prepared for her to eat when she forgot. He noticed everything, much in the same way she noticed his sunken eyes on the days after a night plagued by nightmares not too different from her own.

"Don't worry, Louis. I am almost finished." She glanced down at the papers around her. "I just need to go over a couple of things."

He nodded and turned to leave. "We are having a meeting in the main lobby in ten minutes to finalize the plan. Join us if you can."

She hummed, still writing, without glancing at him. "I'll be right there."

Since Louis took over, their lobby had become sort of their main office, their base. They all gathered there on days when they had missions, holding their briefings and studying her documentation. As she made her way down the dark hallway and the stairs, she noticed more voices than usual inside the great room. Someone else was there. She sighed and resigned herself, squaring her shoulders before entering and sitting in her designated seat. Mycroft was present this time. In much the same way she could barely look at Louis some days, she avoided looking at Mycroft. He was a reminder to her of what she'd lost, of promises broken and grudges simmering beneath her skin. She'd trusted the Holmes', and look where it got her. He and his brother were responsible for separating the Moriartys, Albert now rotting in prison because of Mycroft, and William forever lost because of Sherlock. But now when she looked at him, worn down and silently fixing himself a cup of tea in the corner, she hated him a little less. He'd lost his brother, too. She understood that.

The meeting commenced immediately and she went over their mission with everyone. She was in the middle of explaining their escape route when there was a sound at the front door. Bond excused himself and went to check it out. She faintly heard him talking with someone and figured it was one of the others, not really paying attention. But then Bond shrieked and she heard Louis gasp out one word that made her blood freeze and head whip towards the door.

"Sh- Sherlock?!"

Sherlock stood at the entrance, ebony hair much longer than she remembered, the same mischievous grin on his face. He was speaking, but she couldn't hear a word he said, couldn't focus on what he said to Mycroft, couldn't comprehend any sound around her besides the rushing of blood in her ears. He's alive. Sherlock was alive. They survived. They came back. He kept his promise. But Liam ... Liam? Where is he? Why was Sherlock there and not Liam? Where is Liam? Liam. Liam. Liam. Every word was a painful beat of her heart. Her chest contracted painfully as she struggled to breathe, her gaze darting all around the room, searching for a trace of platinum hair behind Sherlock. Why wasn't he coming in? Surely he is there. He couldn't be– Not him. That would be unfair. Fate wouldn't save one and not save the other. It wouldn't be so cruel as to give her hope after so long, only to squash it immediately. She stood so abruptly that she knocked over the glasses on the table. Her vision dimmed as she hyperventilated, and she took a shuddering step towards him. Sherlock looked rightfully taken aback when she focused her glare on him. "Where is he?" She choked on the last word but barged forward. "Why isn't he here? Why did you come back alone? WHE-"

A firm hand on her shoulder halted her movements and the barrage of questions. She finally took a deep breath and glanced at Louis, stone-faced beside her. His hand squeezed, telling her to breathe and calm down, but she could feel him shaking. His unreadable gaze was staring directly at Sherlock. "That day..." He swallowed. "You fell with William into the Thames, and now you're the only one standing in front of us." His gaze sharpened. "Can you please explain yourself?"

She glanced back to the man in question. She noticed now that he looked more worn out, or maybe that was because of the pitying glance he shot her way, a tortured sigh wrenching itself from deep within his chest. He brushed a hand through his hair, something he did whenever he was uncomfortable. "That time, when Liam and I fell, considering the height of the bridge our chances of survival were half at best. I held him in my arms and tried to protect him the best I could." He looked straight into her eyes as he said that as if to make her believe him. To say that he really tried. Maybe he felt her resentment, her grudge. "We lost consciousness, and before I knew it, I woke up on an unfamiliar ship, Liam sleeping next to me. He was safe but injured. And then..."

The rest of his story blurred, his recollections of their life abroad, of Billy, of their work fading into background noise. All she could hear and feel were Sherlock's three words. He was safe. He was alive. Liam was safe and alive. All she could do was offer her thanks to the heavens. Her knees gave out and she slumped back into her chair. Sherlock said that he was hurt, maybe that's why he couldn't come back. Maybe he didn't want to? How badly was he hurt?

She opened her mouth to ask, but Louis shook his head. "Let's focus on the mission first."

Right, the mission. Let's finish the mission first, there will be time to ask Sherlock about William later. Numerous thoughts ran through her mind, and she didn't even notice when their negotiations ended; when their briefing concluded. She was only numbly aware of Bond gently leading her back into her and William's shared room. She barely remembered why she'd been down there in the first place. Ah, that's right, they had a mission. And Sherlock came to help with their work. Sherlock who was alive. Who saved William. Liam was alive.

Her shaking legs carried her to the bed, where she numbly sat down, her trembling hands grabbing the fabric of her dress. She had to get ready, but she couldn't. Her shock was too great, her soul too shaken. Her sleepless nights must be catching up with her, she didn't even notice how tired she was. "I'm sorry, Bond. I don't think I can participate tonight."

Bond placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "Louis already arranged for you to stay back. Don't worry, we'll be able to finish it ourselves." He knelt in front of her taking both of her still shaking hands into his. "I promise we'll find out everything we can about him from Sherlock. As soon as we get back you will be the first to know."

Tears prickled the corners of her eyes and she squeezed his hands gratefully. "Thank you."

With a nod, Bond raised himself and pivoted to leave, assuring her they'll be back soon. She hardly heard him. She was afraid of speaking, of breathing too loud, as if any unexpected noise might shatter this glass-thin fragile ball of hope growing in her chest, burying the razor-sharp edges of the shards of disappointment deep into her flesh, slicing fatal wounds she would not be able to recover from. She didn't let herself dwell on it. She just kept repeating to herself that he was alive and that that was enough.

After some time— she wasn't aware how much of it had passed — she became dimly aware of commotion happening down in the foyer. Throwing on one of William's old cardigans, she raced down the stairs, fully expecting to see only Louis or Bond back from the mission.

What she hadn't expected to see was everyone– even Moran– huddled in front of the main lobby in the foyer. As soon as he saw her Bond gestured for her to hurry up and enter the room. She hurriedly threw open the door, seeing three figures inside– one of them Louis, the other Albert. Her gaze widened as he met her eyes, lips pulling into his signature smirk, his eyes softening as her own filled with tears. He was released from prison. But how? Louis– who was standing with his back to her, obscuring the third figure– turned towards her, and her steps came to a screeching halt as she finally got her first look at the remaining person. Her hand flew to her mouth, as a heartbreaking sob tore its way from her throat.

Him. With his same platinum hair, now a little longer. His same gentle smile. His same scarlet gaze– one of his eyes now hidden under an eyepatch. He was standing behind his brothers, but when he saw her he took a slow step forward. It took her a second to really categorize the feeling currently coursing through her, filling her every pore. It was joy– pure, unadulterated joy was rushing through her veins. It had been so long that she'd almost forgotten what it felt like. Her gaze roamed over him, noting all of the differences that separated this William from the William in her dreams- her William. One thought ran through her mind— He looks so much thinner now– and then she thought nothing as she flung herself at him with another choked sob. He caught her readily, burying his face in her hair. No hesitation or doubt in his movements, as if showing her that no matter how much time had passed he would always be there to catch her in his arms– where she belonged.

Somewhere through the fog in her mind, she heard Albert and Louis excusing themselves, leaving them alone and closing the door behind them— probably also asking everyone to give them some space– then the only sounds in the now silent room were her desperate gasps of his name and William's gentle reassurances saying: "I'm here, darling. Don't worry, I am not going anywhere. I'll always be here."

She was babbling, she knew, but she couldn't help herself. "Liam... Liam... You are alive. Sherlock said so, but I couldn't believe it. I–" Pulling away, she grabbed his hands, gaze unfocused, like some madness was forcing her to speak— as if she was a woman possessed. "It's you. It's really you. You returned. All this time I thought–"

His eyes shone, probably mirroring all of the storming feelings now reflected in her own. He traced abstract patterns on her skin with his thumbs as he kissed away her tears, his lips feather-soft on her skin. "If it were my choice, I would've come back as soon as I awoke, but I was gravely injured. When I finally regained consciousness, Billy had me working all over America. The matter was of utmost secrecy so I was unable to contact anyone." His shoulders slumped even more, and to her utter shock and confusion, she could see his entire being tremble softly. His gaze lifted, and the anguish in it dulled its usual scarlet hue into something more hollow— something akin to the colour of dried blood. "I am so sorry, love. For everything. For not returning sooner. For leaving. For that night." He gave an impossibly sorrowful smile. "Please forgive me."

Her knees wobbled and she found herself with no strength to stand, plopping ungracefully on the floor. He knelt right next to her, embracing her strongly, paying no heed to the tears staining his vest. "I am so sorry, darling." All he could do was repeat that as she cried and sobbed, clawing at his shirt. He made no moves, only hugged her tighter, and waited patiently for her to come to terms with this world-shattering revelation. As she screamed all her pain at him, all her grief. He just listened, murmuring soft words of love and acknowledgment.

She wasn't aware of how long they'd stayed like that, but when her sobs finally quieted and breathing no longer felt like sandpaper down her windpipe, she leaned away to truly look at him. She placed a gentle hand on his cheek, her wide gaze ran over him, dry lips parting to say something. "What happened to your eye?" Her fingers lightly traced the eyepatch.

He leaned into her touch, his eyes closing as she raised her hand from his eyepatch to brush it through his hair. "Sherlock helped me heal it. It's my badge of honor for my foolishness. But a small price to pay for all of the sins I've committed." He opened his eyes to look at her. "For leaving you."

"Oh, Liam..." She shook her head, the lump in her throat almost choking her. "I do not blame you for leaving." His lips pulled into a thin line, eyes shining with unshed tears. She swallowed painfully, then continued. "I do not agree with your actions, but I do not blame you. I forgive you." His eyes widened, and before he could react she pulled him back into her, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and placing his head on her shoulder, under her chin.

It felt so right to have him in her embrace like this, after so long, like two halves of a whole. To feel the hollow in her chest slowly filling up. It made these years without him feel like a bad dream, a hazy nightmare. She felt more than heard him whisper the words into her shoulder. "I hate myself for having done it, but I saw no other way. I realize now my mistake." He left a whisper of a kiss on her shoulder. "I shouldn't have thrown away my life like that, and I will forever be grateful for being given a second chance. I will not waste a moment of it." He leaned back and cupped her face with both hands, gaze impossibly soft and sincere. "I have chosen to live and to atone, and I am going to spend the rest of my days making up for the time I missed. I will tell you I love you with my every breath. I will kiss you until I'm dizzy. I know it might not be enough to repay all of the pain that I've caused you, but I hope you'll allow me to try."

"There is nothing to repay," she whispered as she stroked his hair. "You— William James Moriarty— are a kind, beautiful soul. One worthy of a second chance. So thank you... for believing in this world and for coming back to me."

His gaze lowered and she noticed his lower lip trembling before he pulled her into a kiss. A barely perceptible sound left him when their lips met, something akin to a sob, and she said nothing more as she felt the first searing droplet slide down his face and hit her arm, only deepening the kiss. With each kiss a miniature chunk of her soul broke, razor sharp and jagged, but with each next one, it smoothed and evened out, until they were all like pieces of a puzzle slotting themselves back into their rightful place. There will be enough time to talk later. For now, this was enough. Just holding him, kissing him, while they were both shattered and reborn anew was enough.

They separated after way too long, her finally remembering there were other people still waiting to see him. She called everyone back, all of them rushing into the room at the same time, surrounding William. There hasn't been this much joy in the house in years. She hugged Albert, grateful he was back as well and enjoyed the sight of the three brothers back together again. The sight was just right in her mind– it always felt wrong to see Louis all alone without them. After some time Albert shooed her and William away, saying he should get some rest after travelling so far. She led him into their shared bedroom and he paused at the threshold. She felt his hesitation, his cautious step forward betraying his inner turmoil. This must feel unreal to him as well, he didn't think he'd be coming back here. She couldn't even begin to understand what thoughts were racing behind his gaze as he entered and glanced around the room, his eyes widening. "It looks-"

"The same?" she chuckled, turning her back to him and slowly walking to his desk to trace the documents strewn there. "Yes, I didn't dare touch anything. Having it all unchanged like this made me feel-" Like you were coming back. She knew he heard the unspoken end of the sentence as he silently made his way towards her, slotting his hands around her waist, and pressing her to his chest. His heart was racing against her back– or was that her heart?

With a silent chuckle and a loving sigh, he whispered in her ear. "Well, since I have made a miraculous return, I do believe I'll need to tidy up my space again."

Her voice was still trembling as she answered. "I dusted your books. Your clothes are still in the closet. But your study is a mess. Wait, I'll tell Moneypenny-"

He tightened his arms around her. "Later." He traced gentle kisses down her throat to her shoulder. "I find myself impossibly weary and in need of some sleep. These last years my nights were restless at best and downright torturous at worst without you by my side."

"Of course." Her nights were exactly the same, although she suspected he already knew that. She also suspected this was truly more for her benefit than his. She couldn't remember the last time she'd truly slept and she was probably swaying on her feet. He saw right through her, as always. With a pointed glance at her and then the bed, he quickly maneuvered her towards it, laying her down as he joined after her.

Immediately she inched as close as she could to him, breathing in his scent, feeling herself relax for the first time in who knows how long as he hugged her to his chest. Everything was still so fresh, so raw. It was too much and too little at the same time. She wanted to never let him go, but she was also so terrified that if she clutched too hard he would vanish and she would wake up all alone again. As she gazed into his eyes, she saw the same torment in him and she knew right then, as she slowly succumbed to peaceful slumber, that he would understand why on some nights she'd hold onto him tighter, as if afraid he might disappear into mist and smoke. And he knew that she would understand why he would sometimes look at her reverently, drinking in her visage as if to compensate for all the times he wasn't able to.

The next day was a flurry of movement and preparations and action, with William having invited Sherlock and his flatmates for dinner. Everyone was so busy following Louis' orders that by the time the guests arrived she'd had almost no time with Liam the entire day. The tables were set, the finest china was served, and the room was slowly filling up with all of the planned attendees. A sudden wave of nostalgia washed over her watching the scene. It was almost as if nothing happened. Once again she had the feeling that these three years were just a horrible nightmare.

While everyone was busy socializing, she spied Sherlock's dark head in the corner of the room, and with a determined set of her shoulders, she made her way towards him, each step purposeful and direct. She didn't let herself falter, didn't let herself doubt. Once in front of him, confronted with his confused and– dare she say it– scared gaze, she stopped and bowed deeply. "Thank you..."

He was obviously taken aback, his eyes widening and his hands flying to wave in front of him. "No need, I was just-"

She rose from her bow. "Please, I need to say this." He coughed awkwardly but didn't stop her as she continued. "I admit that I have been holding a grudge for the last three years. I thought that if I ever saw you I would not be able to forgive you." He might've muttered something along the lines of "Yeah I was aware of that", but she couldn't be sure. She glanced down at her clenched fists." Still, you brought him back." Once again her gaze connected with his. "You brought Liam back. You were his friend and you saved him and cared for him. And that's something I can never repay." One of her hands clutched her chest as she poured all of her feelings out to him. "You have my deepest gratitude, Sherlock Holmes."

"Hey now-" He dragged his hand through his hair and groaned, feeling awkward under her unwavering attention. "Ah, this is so troublesome. Listen, Liam is my friend, I couldn't just let him die after I promised you I'd help him. Besides-" He stuffed his hands in his pockets and huffed out a breath giving her a sincere glance. "What kind of a friend would I be to him if I didn't bring him home to you." Her breath hitched in her throat, tears threatening to fall once again as Sherlock gave her a cheeky grin. "Just... treat him right, okay? He truly loves you."

She nodded her head. "I know." She knew it was redundant to tell him that she loved Liam, too. From the look on Sherlock's face, he already knew. Clearing her throat, she said: "If you ever need anything this house will always be open to you."

Sherlock was about to answer when she heard silent footsteps behind her and felt an arm softly wrap itself around her waist. "Something interesting you two are whispering about?"

She relaxed into William's hold, feeling his familiar warmth and scent envelop her. "Nothing. I was just thanking Sherlock."

She felt his amused humm and saw him give Sherlock an apologetic smile before enveloping her hand with his and gently tugging her after him, away from the main lobby. "Can I steal you away for a moment?"

She followed him without complaint. "Of course."

Quietly, he steered her along into one of their libraries, closing the door shut behind him, but still unable to completely drown out the cacophony of Von Herder's latest gramophone concert invention. She laughed as he led her deeper into the room. "Should the hosts be missing their event like this?"

He gave her a conspiratorial smile, his scarlet gaze bright with mirth. "I'm sure Sherlock will fabricate some excuse for us." Pulling her towards him, he pretended to consider it. "After all, they were all with you all these years, I'm sure they'll allow me to have you all to myself for a little while."

So saying, he gently took her hands, positioning one on his shoulder and holding the other, while his other hand slotted itself on the small of her back. With another mischievous smile, he pulled her closer and started slowly swaying to the music still bleeding into the room. A chuckle of surprise left her lips and she rested her head on his chest, following his lead and swaying along with him. They all could wait a little longer for all she cared, she wanted to stay like this forever. Basking in his embrace, in his warmth– she knew now that that was what home felt like. Like yin and yang, she knew that their love was everlasting. Even when she has to let it go, it will always, unfailingly and undoubtedly, come back to her.

#william moriarty x reader #william moriarty #william james moriarty #mtp william #mtp x reader #yuumori #yuukoku no moriarty #moriarty the patriot #mtp #ynm #william james moriarty x reader

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simp-ly-writes · 6 months

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╰┈➤✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* please enjoy~ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ

Series:

Returing to Home-Base: You and Simon had been dating for four years now and you know in your heart that you truly loved this man; yet with all the deployment's he's been sent on recently; you begin to question it all, especially when he does not return. (Simon Riley x Reader) (pt.1) (pt.2, v.1) (pt.2, v.2) (complete) word count: 5300 words (19 pages)

A Shadow Company Visit: One day the commander forgets his paperwork and you are forced to come to the headquarters; yet not everything is smooth sailing... (Philip Graves x Reader) (pt.1) (pt.2) (pt.3) (pt.4) (complete) word count: 5000 words (17 pages)

Lasting Pictures: You had quit the military after an incident and have been working as a freelance photographer for many years and had built a platform for yourself. But when an offer comes knocking at your door, will you relive your past while trying not to get yourself killed in the process or choose to live a more reserved life to yourself? The decision you make is not an easy one- yet the people you meet along the way may sway the opinions you hold about your future and your relationships. (poly! 141 x Reader) Lasting Pictures Series Masterlist (completed) word count: 50,000 words (100 pages)

In My Shadow: You and a few members of your former task force get recruited to work at Shadow Company; what will that entail for the future? (Philip Graves x Reader) (pt.1) (pt.2) (pt.3) (pt.4) (completed) word count: 4,500 words (10 pages)

Suits, Ties, and Thus Spy's: Task Force 141 gets temporarily recruited by MI6- the British Secret Intelligence Services for a mission since Laswell owed more than a few favours over the years from you and your team. (Platonic!Task Force 141 x Reader) Suits, Ties, and Thus Spy's Series Masterlist (on-going) word count: in counting...

Short Fics/Drabbles:

Playtime: A sweet little family moment (John Price)

A Painting Realisation: While painting John's new space in your shared home, you realize something once again. (John Price x Reader)

A Drunk Night Turned Sober: You watch over a drunk Gaz. (Kyle Garrick x Reader)

Tricks & Sprinklers: It's relatively quiet in the middle of summer until John decides to bring a new dog home to join the household. (John Price x Reader)

Long Form Fics:

Sunday Mornings: It's Sunday morning soccer practice for your family yet John always makes the time to show how much he loves you. (John Price x Reader)

Time Stands Still: John is not one to change his accessories, yet after your wedding he seems to have a knack for it. (John Price x Reader)

A Suit Filled Surprise: its been awhile since you had last seen your husband; thankfully your coworkers are there to help. (Philip Graves x Reader)

On the Receiving End: It is John's first time being the other side; awaiting your arrival back home from a business conference while doing his best to manage the kids and home. (John Price x Reader)

Safehouse: When a mission goes south, the team is looking for a safehouse to keep their heads down but little do they know of the small family you keep hidden away from the world. (Platonic!Task Force 141 x Reader)

Miscellaneous:

Quote from Simon Riley (from RTHB series)

Quote from John Price (from RTHB series)

Price Building a Treehouse

141 Roadtrip

╰┈➤ *✧･ﾟ:* Thank you for checking in, more to come soon! *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ

#masterlist #fanfiction #fanfic #cod #call of duty mw x reader #cod mw fanfiction #cod fanfic #capt john price #simon ghost riley #simp-ly-writes #simp-ly

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mockerycrow · 11 months

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Undercover I (Soap x GN!Reader)

undercover series masterlist — next

A/N: i hate the ending of this part but it issss what it isssss… This was originally a male reader so I might change it back to male!reader later on. the fake name is as gender neutral as possible. ALSO THANK YOU FOR 200 FOLLOWERS WTF??

[WARNINGS: Gore, descriptions of injuries, descriptions of torture, near death experience(s), mentions of drowning, near drowning/waterboarding, medical inaccuracies.]

The POV switches a couple of times!

The operation fell apart the second my boss did not bother to inform more than my task force of our mission. My death sentence was written into existence the moment I stepped into that conference room with several other high-end individuals—we all worked undercover operations before. We’ve all have had our deaths faked, our lives torn apart and restitched for the perfect narrative for any mission necessary. We have been called for a mission at the darkest of hours to do the dirtiest of work. If no one serves in the dark, then no one can live in the light, right?

We hold up this facade, this mask—for years. You go into an undercover operation with an estimate of a couple years as the duration, how quickly your team is capable, and by the time you’ve done a couple of these missions; you know you have to take the estimate and double it, at the very least. You learn to live with the mountain of bodies you collect over the years, a giant pool of thick blood slowly getting bigger at my feet. My shoes stain with the blood—we all bleed the same, no matter your creed, your race, your gender, your sexuality. If that’s the fact, then how do we tell guilty blood from innocent? Where do the lines blur together, everything looking the same?

It gets dangerous working undercover for so long, but we have to keep going.

Some people lose themselves to the faux identity they’re playing, the fake family, the head of the household—the fake childhood, fake friends.. Sometimes, the faked life is preferred to the real one.

Not me, though.

I remember exactly who I am.

With a combat knife in my hands, circling a table with a map on it, with several marked places—I am Zhenya Antonenko, surrounded by the very people I’m working against in secret.

When I’m alone, I’m myself. I’m me. One of the very few people burdened with the duty of collecting information and intelligence and surveying it back home—back to my Captain, Tyler Hudson. The one person I can trust through this entire operation.

I know I have to trust my other teammates to an extent, but when you’ve seen so many men and women fall to the other side? It gets rough.

Shooting someone who you previously trusted with your life is.. I cannot even begin to describe the feeling.

Melancholy, perhaps?

Even then, I have to be careful.

“We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful who we pretend to be.”

“..status?” “alive…”

Throbbing pain. Searing. Rough hands on you—

“..one of his..” That accent—it’s not Russian. What?

Did the.. did the operation go tits up?-

No. This accent is Scottish. You didn’t work with any Scots.

…You’re in rough shape, to say the least.

Soap’s hands untie the harsh ropes digging to the skin of your wrists, ignoring how the rope is stained with your blood. You’re one of his—And you’re alive. You won’t be for long if he doesn’t act fast, though. Your skin is paler than usual, you’re soaked in freezing water and your own blood—Soap didn’t wince at your wounds, though. He had no empathy for anyone working with Makarov.

“Let’s get them on our truck, let’s move.” Price said, his tone rough and serious as always. He watches as the rope falls away from your hands and feet, and Price chooses to walk over to your unconscious from. His hand grabs your chin and lifts your head to take a look, and what he sees earns a hum from himself. You took quite a beating, which made Soap curious. “‘Wonder what th’bastard had to do to earn all o’that.” He comments, taking a good look at your face.

Your lips are slightly parted; cracked and stained with your own blood, probably from accidentally biting your tongue. Your lip is split open, definitely requiring a few stitches. Your nose absolutely has to be broken, dried blood all over your skin, your chin—mouth, lips, down the front of your shirt. No one would be surprised if your jaw wasn’t broken—or at least fractured in some way. Your eye is swollen shut and your eyebrow is split open—your hair is damp, both from blood and water.

Soap left you untied; even if you woke up, you wouldn’t be a threat. He puts the sling of his rifle over his shoulder and he hooks an arm under your knees, the other supporting the weight of your back. He grunts as he picks you up, leaning you into his chest. “Light,” Soap comments.

Ghost and Gaz come from a different part of a warehouse, documents and a laptop in hand. “He left in quite a hurry, sir.” Gaz murmurs, holding up a few pieces of paper. “These were scattered around, we nearly caught them by surprise.”

Before Price can ask his question, Ghost answers it, like he can read his Captain’s mind. “Makarov was here.”

The silence is deafening as the four men make their way out of the warehouse, documents, technology and an asset in their hands—you.

Soap ignores the way your blood is soaking into his clothing as they get back their truck and hauling into in the backseats.

For a moment, I thought I died. I really did; I thought Makarov and his goons truly beat me to death, sending me straight to the fiery pits of Hell with every wound they inflicted on me.. And I kind of wish they did, honestly.

But that scares me—I’ve never craved death before. Have I lost it already?

Or is it the burning pain that’s bubbling under my skin?

Nothing in particular wakes me up, but when I do, my tongue is heavy and dry; cotton like. I can’t taste anything besides maybe some blood acts dried around my lips. It takes all of my strength to lick my lips and—nevermind, blood and a weird sour taste. Like the kind you get after sleeping for longer than you should.

My head feels.. fuzzy, like there’s electricity bouncing inside of my skull. Or is that the distant ringing I hear? Or is it the insistent pressure behind my eyeballs?

My body feels so heavy. I feel like an anchor from a ship, being dragged through the bottom of the ocean. Both the weight, and the relatable feeling of like it’s crashed into everything in my path because hOlyfuckpainpainpain-

“They’re awake.” A low and rough voice drawls out; British. Can’t place the region when my fucking body is screaming for relief—

My eyes.. scratch that, eye opens because the other is swollen shut and I nearly regret waking up at all because of the fucking luminescent bulb in front of me, burning my corneas. A gloved hand grabs my jaw which make some cry out because something is wrong, terribly fucking wrong with my jaw—oh, shit, this guy is scary.

I’m forced to peer at the tall man with stocky shoulders and a wide chest, wearing a black balaclava with a skull painted on it. His eyes—they’re brown, but, but they’re so fucking empty, like they’re peering into my damn soul and ripping apart every action I’ve ever committed.

These guys aren’t Makarov’s. What?

I take a sharp inhale as I try to look over any more part of this guy’s uniform, but his grip isn’t letting me. Skull-face holds up a black leather booklet—my fucking I.D. “Zhenya Antonenko,” He spits out, almost mockingly, looking between the small photo of me and me, myself. I can’t bring myself to do anything like I usually would to stay in character; spit, slur out a curse or anything. My body aches.

“Zhenya Antonenko,” Skull-face repeats once more, letting go of my jaw, allowing the burning pain deep in the bone to sizzle down to a dull throb. My head nearly falls forward but I keep it up with the little strength that remains in my neck muscles. “You’ve worked for Makarov for a number of years, hm? Makes me wonder what’a little birdie on his shoulder has ta’do to make the big man leave ‘em for dead.”

I keep my mouth shut. That’s something I had to learn early on when I joined my team—no matter what, do not. let. them. break. you.

Makarov didn’t break me, and I certainly won’t let these guys break me when the entire population of countries are riding on my shoulders. I furrow my eyebrows and maintain eye contact with the big man, mustering the worst glare I can at the moment which probably isn’t very noticeable.

Fuck, I want to puke. My head is swimming, my entire body is just—I only feel pain, and by this point I can only guess where the sources are. It’s all blending together into the worst concoction.

I gasp as a stinging sensation blooms over my cheek—he smacked me.

“Pay attention.” Skull-face hissed, walking over to a tray nearby. I let out a shaky breath as I follow him and then when I see the other men present in the room. Skull-face’s friends.

The first man I see has dark skin, fairly young to be in squad like this. Capturing folk, I mean. He has a noticeable scar under one of his eyes—or I think..? It’s a scar? I can’t see that far, especially with that blinding light in my eye. He’s kind of bulky, but his shoulders are nowhere near as large as Skull-face’s. One of the other men are across the room, leaning against the wall, watching me closely with a hateful glare—like he wants to gut me, watch my intestines spill out and watch me die. He has a bucket hat on, military fatigue colored. He has mutton chops and I can’t believe I’m saying this, but whoever he is, is the only person I’ve seen whose been able to pull them off.

The fourth guy, aside from Skull-face and his friends Mutton Chops and Basic Boy, is staring me down. He’s fairly average height, stockier than Basic Boy, you can tell he’s strong by the way his forearms look. His hair is shaved into a mohawk—the sides need to be a bit more shaved as it looks more grown out. He has a little more than a stubble type beard, but I can vaguely make out a scar on his chin.

I grunt as Skull-faces hand connects with my cheek again and fuuuck, my jaw—

“I won’t fuckin’ say it again. Pay attention or I’ll do what Makarov did to you but tenfold.” Skull-face’s eyes are dark as I look back at his face, the throbbing pain in my face subsiding again after a few seconds. My shoulders slightly tense under his gaze; he’s not kidding. I can’t afford another beating, especially not after.. what he did.

Fuck.

Being stuck between a rock and a hard place, I force myself to nod, not once do my eyes leave his form. No matter what, I can’t break. “What was Makarov doin’ in that warehouse?” He gruffs out, grabbing a few documents off of a nearby metal table that I didn’t notice before. He sifts through the documents as I purse my lips together, muttering a weak, “я дал присягу.” I took an oath. Look, these guys clearly don’t work for Makarov, but I can’t fucking afford to give up any information.

“Stick to your story, no matter what. Unless I intervene, you have to keep going. Even if you’re on the verge of death.”

Hudson’s words flood my brain as Skull-face doesn’t respond to me. I feel a bead of sweat drip down my temple and face—sweating from the pain.

My body just.. fucking aches.

“An oath, huh?” Skull-face mutters, turning back to me with a document. “You took an oath for a terrorist?”

Oookay, this guy does not like Zhenya.

Me. He doesn’t like me.

My eyebrow twitches in response, but I keep my lips sealed shut. Skull-face holds up a document in front of me, and of course it’s all in Russian. “You know what this is?” He barks, his deep, Manchester accented voice bouncing off of the walls, echoing. “This is Makarov making arrangements to get his hands on biological weapon warfare.”

I keep silent—I know that it is, and my heart drops to my stomach from the thought of what could happen if Makarov manages to go through with it. Skull-face stares at me like he expects me to answer, and of course, I never give him one.

I gasp sharply as within seconds, my shirt is lifted and his knife rips through some stitches they’ve must’ve given meeeEE—holy fuck, shit shit oh fuck—

Blood gushes from my stomach, earning a choked noise from me. Pain blooms in my abdomen, and I can feel the warm liquid of my own blood dribbling down onto the spandex of my pants that hold them onto my hips. I immediately feel like my world is spinning again, Skull-face borderlines multiplies in front of me. He grabs my jaw which makes me cry out again—fucking let go—and he leans in real close to my face. “There’s obvious context missin’, yeah? Fill in the gaps and we’ll let the medics work on’ya.”

I force myself to breathe through my nose, with every heavy breath I force out, comes another wave of nausea.

“Мне нечего сказать.” I have nothing to say.

“I don’t think ya understand the’situation.” Mohawk seethes, approaching me from where he was standing. Scottish. He was there—he took me.

I blink sluggishly in an attempt to focus my eyes on the man who replaced Skull-face. I get a clearer view of his face. Tan skin for a Scot, probably spends a lot of his time in the sun—his eyes are so fucking bright blue—I can see every detail of his face from how close he is. Mohawk is angry and he’s one beautiful man. Maybe if I was tied up in this chair for a different reason, I’d be willing give up some of that information—

I keep quiet and stare him in the eyes. The burning flames of anger behind his eyes towards me; thank God I’m not Makarov. I hear a door open and I glance towards it for just a second—Mutton Chops is leaving. I quickly look back at Mohawk and shake my head, although speaking my refusal was probably a smarter idea because now my head is swimming again.

“Do’ye not understand that ya fell fer a trap?” He barks, grabbing the front of my shirt. I wince as I feel the fabric pulling away from my open wounds. “Makarov does not care aboot you!”

My breath hitches as the door slams open, my eyes tracking to who it is—Mutton Chops is back, wheeling in a… big bowl of water. Big enough to hold a head under.

Fuck.

Fuck, oh fuck!

They must’ve caught onto my reaction, which I didn’t really notice them doing as all I could focus on was my pounding heartbeat, but I heard a vague laugh. Mohawk grabs one of the legs of the cart, carelessly pulls it closer and his other hand grabs a chunk of hair on my head, pulling my head back. My lips part and a faint noise of pain leaving them. He says something, which I don’t register—and then he pushes my head under the water.

I immediately struggle as I instinctively took a gasp for air under the water, the water filtering into my lungs, my body screaming that it isn’t supposed to be there, that it’s wrong, that you’re drowning, you’re drowningdrowningdrowningdrowningdROWNING-

The water rushing in my ears doesn’t make this any better, the pure fucking panic in my gut worsens by the second as I can’t fucking breathe, lET ME GO, I ALREADY WENT THROUGH THIS ONCE—

I kick my feet, trying to find the cart, Mohawk, someone, anyone, shit, hElp-

Suddenly my head is ripped out of the water and my eye is closed and I’m sputtering water, my body desperate to cough the remaining in my lungs up, the water from my hair soaking the top of my shirt again, dripping into my mouth—

I still can’t breathe. I think I’m fucking dying.

My lungs are begging for air as I weakly gasp for it, my hands that are tied behind the chair grasp at the air, for anything to ground myself. I weakly kick at the air like that’ll help me, I don’t even know what’s going on anymore—fuck, I’m dying, my chest aches, my abdomen fucking hurts, I can’t hear anything, are they going to just stand there and watch me die?

Like Makarov did?

Are they going to fucking resuscitate me like he did?

Makarov held me under the water until all of the air in my lungs was replaced with ice cold water. I only remember waking up and spitting water out all over myself, laying on my back on the concrete floor of the warehouse, with a dark chuckle from him, murmuring, “Welcome back to the land of the living.”

He did it twice. Maybe a third time? If he did, I don’t remember.

My head is ripped out of the water and I gasp for air so harshly I choke, and then I’m suddenly out like a light.

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loudblonde · 9 months

Text

"A Pretty Bird in a Gilded Cage" John Price x Male Reader

summary: (Y/N) Price, aka Birdie, an ex-MI6 intelligence officer turned spy on British soil gets kidnapped by Makarov's men, all his life falls apart as Makarov has him tortured simply to get revenge on his husband.

warnings: torture, violence, allusion to rape(throw away line it doesn't actually happen,) angst with a happy ending

word count: 2,2K

December 10th, the room was freezing cold and damp, water dripped down the walls as mildew and mould alike grew in the corners, being in this abandoned hellhole was sure to make anyone sick. (Y/N) tested the bonds on the wooden plank he was tied to, they were not giving away enough leeway for them to have underestimated him though he didn’t have a guard on him so they obviously only knew the official story. Retired and injured intelligence officer.

Many people meeting (Y/N) for the first time formed 3 opinions, that he was handsome, that he was capable and that he had Captain John Price fully wrapped around his finger. It was no secret that the not-very-hidden, retired intelligence officer for MI6, was the proud and semi-supportive husband of Captain John Price.

Many people around base knew him as “The Only Man Capable of Making the Captain Relax” or rather, househusband, though what many people, including John Price himself, didn’t know, is that (Y/N) is not retired, he is still very much so active, just not in MI6, instead he works close to the ground as a priced horse, waiting to get kidnapped which had happened two times while Price was away, after all, he had many enemies.

Footsteps could be heard coming down the stairway, and the light bulb hanging a meter from his face turned on, blinding him. By the sound of it, 4 people entered the room, 3 heavy sets with boots on, probably soldiers the size of Simon, if not a little smaller, and one person wearing business shoes. (Y/N) turned his head and looked at them through squinted eyes. “Whatever you want, I won’t give it to you,” He said.

(Y/N) sighed in his restraints, clearly, he was going to be here for a while. There was no window that hadn’t been painted over, letting no light in, it was hard to tell what was day and night but he hadn’t been here for long, he had counted 9 hours so far.

Laswell had either yet to notice the tracker being activated or she was in the middle of an operation that required her focus. (Y/N) didn’t doubt that last one, he knew John was on a mission away, he probably wouldn’t be home for another month or so, maybe more.

“Oh, we aren’t the ones with questions, Birdie.” The man’s heavy Russian accent spilt through, causing (Y/N) to roll his eyes. “But we are here to pretty you up for the pictures we are about to take, your husband will want to know what you look like.” (Y/N) felt a fist hit his stomach, and all the air was knocked out of his lungs, he gasped for breath at the same time a wet cloth was thrown over his face followed by water. “We were told to be… creative with the prettying.”

December 11th, everything was sore, bruised and bloodied. His whole body hurt and he was pretty certain he didn’t have any internal bleeding. He was left alone, his stomach growled for food but he held on.

December 15th, he finally got food, but they were on a jet someplace, they didn’t speak to him the entire time. Everything still hurt but he managed to keep calm. Laswell crackled to life in his ear. “Are you alive?”

(Y/N) grunted out once, meaning yes.

“Good, when you land, gather information, we are already decrypting everything the linefeed is sending over.” She said, her voice was a comforting niceness in the last few horrific days of torture. The com crackled again, signalling she had left.

December 18th, a cold and barren winter morning in the middle of the Siberian taiga forest, in one shitty run-down cold shack, (Y/N) was sitting tied to a chair just waiting for his captors to return, he needed to get information out of them, it would ultimately help his husbands team, these were their enemies.

An icy wind was tearing through the shack, threatening frost burnt appendages and pneumonia. The silence of the forest was torn apart by the sound of a helicopter above them. It landed, whipping wind against the shack, like the big bad wolf blowing down the house of the pigs, (Y/N) wasn’t sure how much longer he could stay without risking his husband finding out.

Makarov was a true scumbag. (Y/N) knew in his heart that he wouldn’t hesitate to dispose of (Y/N) as soon as he was bored off him or he had had his fun. (Y/N) didn’t like either of those options. (Y/N) spit down at Makarov’s shoes though it seemed to only further the man's twisted amusement.

The door opened with a creak, it shuttered against the wall, the wood groaned and the metal creaked further. (Y/N) shivered at the frost-ridden air that entered, each set of feet crunching the snow that had blown into the shack through the cracks of the wood. His hood was ripped off, alongside some hair and (Y/N) stood face to face with Vladimir Makarov.

(Y/N) raised an eyebrow, unimpressed with the dramatic entrance of the man. “Doing your dirty work all by yourself?” He knew that he should be scared but he didn’t want a man such as Makarov to see his fear.

“For one such as you, yes.” Makarov grabbed (Y/N)’s face and tilted it painfully up, the bones in his neck groaned and the muscles were pulled dangerously taunt, one quick knife and (Y/N) would be dead. “A pretty songbird in a gilded cage. You have such potential and yet… you fail to use it in any way. You were a world-class intelligence officer and now you are but an ant beneath my boot. Your husband has already noticed that you are here when he and his team rush here…” Makarov smirked.

“You plan on killing them in a trap? Use me as bait, that is cruel even for you.” (Y/N) growled out, he let fake hot anger rise up just enough to heat his skin. “You bastard!” (Y/N) hadn’t been sent undercover as many times as he had, without picking up a thing or two. Tears of disbelief and anger welled in his eyes and froze against his skin as they spilt. Shards of ice fell into his lap.

(Y/N) frowned, he needed to get out, these people were dangerous enough as is, they shouldn’t have a hostage for any more than needed. (Y/N) already had gained as much information from simply being close to them, all agents like him had a device embedded under the skin for long-distance download, it wasn’t the safest of experimental devices but (Y/N) was more than ready to do what he needed to do in order to keep the world safe, much like his husband he was no stranger to war crimes.

Makarov chuckled darkly and shook his head. “No, I plan on breaking your mind after they are dead, there is nothing better than having a pretty bird by my side. It would be the biggest disappointment to the Price legacy.”

He let go of his face, leaving behind red marks that would undoubtedly create bruises, it would be hard but not impossible to hide from Price. Makarov took one last look at him and walked outside the shack, a sickening smirk on his face the entire time. He slammed the door with enough brute force to make it hard to open it, the door locked in place.

A small voice in his ear crackled to light. “Need rescue?” It was Laswell’s voice. (Y/N) whispered a no close to his chest and leaned back in his restraints, the sound of a helicopter flying away signalled that Makarov went away again. (Y/N) counted every second until an hour went by, being sure to prepare himself enough. “Don’t attract attention when you leave, we don’t want them chasing you. We are trying to find an extraction point.”

(Y/N) undid the handcuffs with ease, getting out wasn’t as hard as one would think and untied himself. He glanced around outside the windows before snaking his way under the wood in the back. He escaped into the forest safely and didn’t stop running for an hour.

His lungs were on fire, and everything was bruised, beaten and hurt, he was expecting to at least come out of this with hypothermia and that was if he was lucky.

“Laswell, do I have an extraction point?”

“Yes.” A voice cackled in his ear, a much deeper voice that didn’t belong to a woman he considered his sister. It was Price. (Y/N) sighed with a groan. “Two more miles and we are ready to pick you up.” Price sounded pissed though also worried.

“Hello dear.” (Y/N) said, his voice wavering a bit. “I didn’t realise you were in the country.”

“I didn’t realise you have a habit of getting kidnapped in the middle of me being away on a mission.” Price said, considerably less angry.

(Y/N) held his ribs as he chuckled, it sent jabs of pain coursing through him, though he had had worse. “I try not to make it a habit but it’s hard when your husband has enemies. May as well take advantage of the fact I am capable of getting myself unkidnapped.” (Y/N) said as he made his way through the snow-filled area.

“Do you need a medic?” Price asked.

“Not immediately, I may have broken my ribs but other than that I hadn’t been tortured badly enough for me to be in any danger.” (Y/N) replied, his voice somewhat strained. “I can run without killing myself.”

“Yes, I saw that. When were you going to tell me that you hadn’t retired?” Price sounded hurt, clearly at the lack of trust.

(Y/N) sighed, his feet dragging in the snow. “Honey, you and I both know my security clearance will always be higher than yours, I was told to never tell anyone, not even you, ordered. Laswell is barely allowed to know and that is on the basis of her knowing you intimately.”

“Does this happen often?” He asked.

(Y/N) shook his head before realising his husband couldn’t see it. “No, not often. I think this is my third time. Though the hazard pay bump is to die for.” (Y/N) chuckled at his own joke, his husband didn’t.

“How much further?” Price asked, ignoring the dark joke, he was more worried about his husband surviving than laughing at a joke.

“A mile. I will contact you when I get near.” (Y/N) said and they both went silent.

A very brief reunion happened before John almost had an aneurysm. “We need a medic as soon as we land!” He said into a long-distance communicator. “Not hurt my ass!” He hauled (Y/N) into the yet and it took off. (Y/N) sighed in relief as he sank into comfortable seats.

“How long?” John asked as he brought over something to clean the cuts and blood away from him.

“Hm? What date is it?” (Y/N) asked, he was tired, starving and thirsty.

John sighed and started cleaning the wounds. “18th, but I meant, how long have you been doing this?”

“Ahhh, hmm, maybe 8 years now, since I recovered from my injury, mostly I just fuck around in Britain, spying on people there, making certain we aren’t going to succumb to infighting, fucking Tories are making my life a living hell though, all of them are so blatantly willing to become traitors if it meant keeping their wealth.” (Y/N) said. “But I was taken for 8 days this time. I don’t remember how much I have eaten.”

“We will get you checked over and then get you back on food… how have you been able to hide all of this from me?” John asked.

“Honestly, most of the time I am only there for 3 days, minimal torture and bruising, but without the support and with Laswell not present, I couldn’t risk escaping early on, they had no reason to kill me, Makarov wanted you dead and me as a glorified whore.”

John growled out in barely contained anger, his body tensed up at the thought of it. “I will kill him myself.”

(Y/N) placed a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t you worry your head about it, I am back, safe and your mission is already to kill him.”

“My mission doesn’t matter when he attacks my husband-“ John started, “-who is a very accomplished field agent who despite his career-ending injury still managed to end up being a total badass and escape one of the most dangerous groups of international terrorists right now.” (Y/N) ended, making John smile softly.

“I love you.”

“I love you too, old man.”

It took a total of 5 days before (Y/N) was allowed to leave the medical ward and another 3 for his husband to stop fussing but (Y/N) fully knew that only happened because he had been called out on a mission and when John returned near dead, (Y/N) was now the one fussing over him and making sure he was healed up nicely after the whole Makarov situation.

While John stayed employed for several years after this, the two eventually both retired, including (Y/N) properly this time, to a small homestead in the Scottish countryside, close to where McTavish and Riley retired too but far enough away to have peace and quiet.

And in the end, their last remaining family members buried them side by side where they would forever rest.

The End.

#cod x male reader #john price x male reader #captain john price x male reader #male reader #lgbt #gay #badass reader

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natchastxin · 9 months

Text

trip to venice.

Summary: Ilsa brings you to Venice despite your refusal and you confess to her the feelings of hurt you’ve had since she left you in Amsterdam three months ago which leads you to join Ethan’s team. You find her in the aftermaths of the fight on the bridge.

Pairings: Ilsa Faust x f!reader

Warnings: blood, slight smut

A/N: I just finished watching Mission Impossible: Dead Reckoning Part 1 so I’m writing this to make myself feel less sad. And obviously there are spoilers for MI Dead Reckoning so don’t read if you don’t want to.

You loved her, you really loved her and you thought she felt the same way too. She told you so herself just that night she spent in your room in Paris after a stressful mission. So why did you find your bed empty and apartment bare as if she was never there? Had you dreamed the whole night?

The only evidence that proved that the night had transpired was the singular note she left on your nightstand, propped up against a glass of water. On it, etched on the delicate white paper was a single letter: I. The letter was accompanied with a heart that was drawn in the same swoopy style as the letter.

You picked it up and quickly turned it over in your hands to see if she had written anything else. Much to your disappointment, that was it. You laid back in your bed with the note clutched over your heart and closed your eyes as the scenes of last night flashed behind your eyelids.

—

A frenzied knocking woke you from where you had fallen asleep on your couch while watching your movie. Worried sick about Ilsa, you thought it best to distract your mind with something else. She came to your apartment before she left for Kashmir, letting you know how the mission was going to go down as you braided her hair.

You met her while in the MI6. She was the agent and you were... well, you were also an agent but you were better known for your bomb-diffusing skills, how well you handled a knife, and your medical skills. Funny thing, that was actually how you met her, in a knife combat. You were tasked to bring her in because she had information on a known terrorist and caught her off guard. The fight ended with both of your legs wrapped around one another's necks until you called truce.

You fell for her quickly, quicker than anyone you had ever fell for before. It hit you that you were falling for her the way waves break against a barrier of rocks. You came to the realization one late night that two of you had gone to a bar for drinks.

You sat across from her in the headquarters in London, staring at her in your own subtle way— in a way that you thought she didn't notice— but she soon caught on whenever she looked up and you would quickly look back down at your paperwork. For her, she fell for you more gradually. It was a gentle love for her that she received from you, it was like the cool afternoon breeze that rustled through the trees of the forest; it enveloped you and left you wanting more when it left. This pining between the two of you lasted for years, through her disavowal which was shortly followed by your resignation from the MI6 to do privately contracted work all the way to the day she confessed to you that she loved you when she showed up at your apartment front door.

You opened the door and she was greeted by your very disheveled appearance. "Hey," she croaked out and your eyes immediately brightened, any trace of fatigue disappearing from your eyes.

"Ilsa."

"Aren't you a sight for sore eyes," she said, smirking.

"You're one to talk," you said, pretending to be cross and resting your hands on your hips. But you can barely keep your facade up long. Your real emotions of fear quickly break through your expression. Your lip trembles and you pull her towards you. She drops her duffle bag onto the ground and lets you melt into her embrace. "You were supposed to call," you tell her, you voice muffled by her shoulder. She laces her fingers through your hair to hold you close.

"I'm sorry, darling," she tells you and hugs you tightly, "I'm here now, I'm okay. We got to the bomb in time."

"The bomb?" You said, wiping your nose on your sleeve while pulling away, "Why didn't you call me? I could've helped."

"We didn't have time," she sighed out, "I got here as fast as I could."

"Come on," you said pulling her in, "I'll make you a drink."

—

The night progresses rapidly and both you and Ilsa down multiple drinks as she tells you how the mission unfolded.

"I have something to tell you," Ilsa said.

"Hmm?"

She pressed the lip of her beer against her chin and leaned towards you. "I love you," she said. Your heart beats rapidly against your rib cage and you breathe in that intoxicating perfume scent of hers. Her grip on the slippery glass tightened for a few seconds while silence filled the air as you came to terms with what the woman before you confessed. "I love you too," you whispered out. She takes your beer out of your hand and places it on the coffee table along with hers. She kissed you then, threading her fingers through your thick hair, trying to bring your lips closer to hers.

"I've loved you all these years," she tells you.

"Let's not waste any more apart," you said, "Do you want this?" You bring your hand to the first button of her shirt to indicate what you meant.

"I have longed for this day since the day I met you," she tells you, "I want this— I want you."

She straddles your waist and your arms encircle around her, bringing her impossibly close to your body.

You bring her to your bed and you make sweet love to her that night, you're gentle as she is with you. She lets you worry over her injuries and press kisses to the bruises on her neck. She cums on your fingers then your tongue multiple times and you bury your head into her heat for as long as she lets you, she then returns the favor until you're shaking from the aftershocks of your orgasm. Mustering the remaining strength you had in your legs, you straddled her and brought both of your cores to each other, rubbing until she sobbed as she came and your thighs burned with exhaustion. You collapse next to her and bring her close to your chest. You kiss the top of her head and brush her hair with your fingers.

"Stay," you tell her, whispering it into the dark corners of the room, "I know you have to leave soon, but stay for the next two days— for me."

She closed her eyes tightly and let out a hesitant breath, "Only for you."

She kisses your chest, then your neck— sucking on your pulse point to mark you as hers. To be fair, you had done your fair share of marking up her body so now it was time she took her revenge. She kissed you long and slow, nibbling on your bottom lip until your lips became red like cherries. She takes your breath away every time she pulls away and you stare into her beautiful iridescent eyes. She slowly falls asleep in your arms and you spend the time counting the freckles on her eyelids before falling asleep as well. You held her close that night, not wanting to let go.

You woke up that morning blissful— if only that lasted for more than a minute. The bed was empty and so was the apartment. She had vacated and left not a single trace of her presence. That broke you. You collapsed to the floor, sobbing and clawing at your chest. Little did you know, this started a cycle for you and Ilsa. A cycle that always led her back into your arms in that tiny apartment in Paris. The next year, she waltzes in and out of your life whenever she pleases. It was as if she had forgotten that first night you had with her entirely. She would fuck you then leave the next morning and you were happy to give that to her if that meant you could have her for that little while.

You used to tell her about the dream you had for the both of you. The one that included laughter, coffee dates, the strolls you would take at the local park, the paintings the two of you would pick out to decorate your apartment, the patter of small feet that would fill the silence of the morning, and the infinite love that the two of you would share. She would lay there with her eyes closed, smiling happy. It was the only way this dream existed for her— in that small bed inside of the small Paris apartment you owned. The only place that dream lived was in yours and Ilsa's minds. You dreamt of a world where no one knew your names, a world where you could live anonymously, stroll down the streets hand-in-hand, free from the fear of someone harming you or Ilsa. She hides her tears when you describe this dream to her each time the two of you lay naked, sprawled together late at night. She let you dream for the two of you because that was the only way she could truly make you happy. You knew that she didn't want the same future you wanted but you endured.

Three months of taking the torture, you had finally confronted her. Not given the response that you deemed to be the truth, you sent her out of your apartment in fury, swearing that you never wanted to see her again.

"I thought what we had was real, Ilsa," you had told her, "You told me you loved me that first night in Paris when you got back from your mission with Ethan."

"I don't know what you're talking about," she mumbled.

The truth was that Ilsa was scared. She was scared what would happen if other people knew just how madly in love with you she was. She saw what happened to Ethan and how it affected him. She didn't want anything bad to happen to you so instead she kept you a secret and kept the relationship to a minimum because she saw it as the only way she could protect you. She would have you in the only way she could but she never knew how much she would hurt you in the process. You finally came to the realization of why she was treating you like such an ass one day the both of you had spent the night in Amsterdam.

"You're not Ethan," you told her in bed one night as you held her close, "And I'm not totally helpless. I know you love me, Ilsa. And I love you, more than you know. Despite everything you've done these past three months, I still love you even though I shouldn't."

"But I can't protect you."

"Baby, I can protect myself. You forget that I was a trained agent too. This is my life, I'm not going to let some future terrorist dictate who I should be able to love."

She left again that morning and that was the last you saw of her for the next three months.

—

Your head throbbed as you sat up. You quickly began taking in your surroundings and noticed that you were in a moving van. You clutched your head in pain.

"Hey, darling," a familiar voice said and your heart dropped to the bottom of your stomach. Familiar hands grabbed yours but you shook them off.

"Where am I? What are you doing here? What happened?"

No one gives you an answer. It seems like the two men at the front are waiting for Ilsa to answer you but she doesn't. All she does is stare.

"Fine, I'm leaving then if you won't give me an answer."

You stand up and you're about to open the door when Ilsa grabs your free arm. That does it for you. You twist in her grasp and eventually pin her down in the van.

"Don't fucking touch me," you spat.

"Hey now, c'mon," Benji in the passenger seat finally said, "Just tell her, Ilsa."

"We knocked you out when you came out of your favorite cafe. Something bad is happening, I— we need you," she said and it comes out barely a whisper. Your expression changes.

You finally let her go and sit up. She sits up and coughs, rubbing her chest.

"Why? Why now?" You asked, looking deliberately at Ilsa, waiting for her to answer.

"We're going up against this new enemy and we could use your help," Benji answered instead, "Ilsa has told us about your skills and, well, we need someone like you."

"Thanks, but I'm not interested. She knows why."

You motion to stand up again and this time Ilsa speaks in a stronger voice.

"Y/N. Please," she pleaded. You look at her, which was the first mistake. You could never deny her anything. You would always say yes to her even if it cost you. Your jaw clenched in frustration.

"Fine. But if I do this, I don't want to talk to you or see you ever again. You got it?"

"I understand," she said even though it felt like her heart was being wrenched from her body.

"You've hurt me enough times," you told her.

The two men at the front of the car exchange looks.

—

You sat in the back of the van when Benji brings Ethan in. You had only met Ethan once before, he was nice. But you didn't tend to base how good a person was from first impressions.

"Y/N," he said when he noticed you.

"Ethan," you replied.

"Nice to see you."

You nodded. He looks back and sees Ilsa's deliberately avoidant gaze, looking anywhere but at you. He lets out a very small sigh and looks at Benji who gives him a grimace, shaking his head. He knew what happened between you and Ilsa, one of three people that knew. He knew how much the two of you loved one another and how stubborn Ilsa could be. You, on the other hand, from his singular encounter with you, he knew that you had a kind soul. Why else would Ilsa love you so? Even if she refused to admit it.

You hold up a paper clip and help free Ethan from his handcuffs. "Are you okay?" He asked.

You nodded your head, busying yourself with unlocking his handcuffs.

"I'm always fine," you told him once you freed him.

"So what's the plan?" You asked.

—

"What would potentially happen if a government got their hands on this AI tech?" You asked while sharpening your knife nervously.

"We don't know," Ethan said, "We need to find the other half of the key to find out."

Luther shows him the surveillance footage from the chase in the airport, "I took out the footage from your glasses and looked through everything. See anything strange?"

He notices a man glitching and replays the footage, "It's like he's a ghost."

"We can't find actual video of him except for right here," Luther stops at a frame of Grace, "He only exists in this reflection."

"The Entity," Ethan says, his voice dropping to a whisper, "It's protecting him."

"You saw him, didn't you?" Luther said.

"I did, but I wasn't sure."

"Well who is he?" Benji asked.

"Someone I thought died a long time ago," Ethan said, "In another life, before the IMF. Before I was offered the choice."

Ethan looks up at Luther, "In a very real sense, he made me into who I am today."

Luther grimaced.

"Does he have a name?" Luther asked.

"He calls himself Gabriel," Ilsa said, turning from the window. You look over at her and she meets your gaze before switching to Ethan's.

"You know him," Ethan said.

"There is no knowing him. He has no recorded past— the Entity made sure of that. He's a dark Messiah. The Entity's chosen messenger and he sees death as a gift he wants to share with the rest of the world."

"How do you know this?"

"I still have a few friends in MI6."

She looks back at you but you look away. "Friends who are afraid," she continued, "Of the British government gaining control of the Entity. Any attempt to try to stop them would be seen as an act of treason."

"And because you're disavowed," you said, "Friends called and asked you for help."

"They knew Gabriel served the Entity," she said, "They knew he was on his way to Istanbul to acquire one half of the key but I beat him to it."

"Do your friends know what this key leads to?"

"They believe it leads to its source code."

"Source code," Luther echoed.

"When were you going to tell me this?" Ethan asked.

"I'm telling you now," she said.

"Hold on, did you talk to them in person?" You asked, "Your friends. Did this happen over a phone call?"

"I'm disavowed so they had no way of contacting me in person."

Her expression changed when she realized what you were implying.

"He wanted you to find the key," you said, your voice coming to a whisper, "He wanted you to bring the key to Ethan. This was a trap."

"No, we can't be sure that was the Entity," she said.

"We can't be sure it wasn't," you replied.

"We can't believe anything outside of this very conversation," Ethan said, "None of you should be here."

—

You sat with Benji in the other room as he revised the firewalls on his laptop. You leaned back in your chair, having switched to a different knife to sharpen.

"Why did you guys choose me? Of all the people you could've called, why me?"

"Ilsa wanted you here. She wanted to see you and make sure you were safe."

"Bullshit. She doesn't care about me," you laughed.

He looks at you and your belief in your words falters.

"Why did she leave me then?"

"It's the only way she could think to protect you. Yes, I know how that contradicts the fact that you're here now but you're the best agent she knows and she thinks that maybe she can better protect you this way."

"That's stupid," you scoffed.

"Not everything is always a clear path in Ilsa's head."

You look away to where Ilsa is standing in the other room. Benji follows your gaze.

"She still loves you, despite everything she's done to make it look otherwise and I'm guessing you still love her too."

You give an imperceptible nod of your head.

"Go tell her before it's too late. With our line of work, we never know how much time we get with one another."

"You're very wise, you know," you said, "When you want to be."

"Thank you," Benji said, his face brightening.

You walk to the room in which Ilsa is standing in. You tilt your head to the door leading to the roof and she nodded. You went first. She follows a few minutes later.

You stood on the rooftop, gripping the railing tightly. You bent down and stretched your shoulders before resting on the railing with your forearms. She walks over and leans with her back against the sunset. She lets out a loud sigh.

"You're mad at me," she noted.

"Great observation," you said sarcastically.

"Y/N..."

"What? What do you want from me, Ilsa? I've given you everything I have. Every time you turned for me I was there and now you pull me into this mission. You couldn't even talk to me first? I would've said yes, you know. All you had to do was ask. I would always be there, despite everything."

She doesn't say anything so you look at her. Hot tears are rolling down her face. Your heart broke again even though you knew that it shouldn't.

"I'm sorry," she said, "Those nights in Paris then in Amsterdam."

Silence fills the air when she pauses. "I had a mission after Amsterdam and faked my death," she said quietly, "I wanted you to come with me but then I remembered everything I did— how I hurt you."

You turn around and lean against the railing, crossing your arms over your chest.

"I didn't realize that in my efforts to protect you, just how much I was hurting you in the process. I know that I don't deserve your forgiveness but I want to give this a chance, a real chance this time."

You looked over at her, "I wanted to give this a chance too. I always have. But I don't want to get hurt again. I can't keep doing that to myself."

"I know. But what if I promised you that I would try? I want to be with you, whatever it takes," she said.

You think about it, was it really worth it to give her another chance? She was the love of your life, yes, but she had hurt you so many times, though not intentionally.

"Fine," you said, uncrossing your arms, "I'll give us a try. But I want complete honesty from here on out.

She nods, "I can do that."

So you let her back into your heart because your love for her outweighed the grudge you held against and it was the only thing you ever knew how to do.

She hugs you hesitantly and you move your arms to hold her closer. She smelled the same as the night in Amsterdam. You brushed your fingers through her desert colored highlights. She tucks her head under your chin, revelling in the comfort your embrace brought her.

"I promise that I won't hurt you," she said, "Not intentionally."

You kissed the crown of her hair and she looked up at you before meeting your lips. You let her deepen the kiss as you pull her even closer to you. She found a home in you that day. You held her closely by the waist, not wanting to let her go. A smile tugs at both your lips.

"You know, I've never been to Venice," she said.

"Really?" You said.

"Yeah, it's my first time here."

"Hmm, maybe I'll show you around after this mission's over. What do you think?"

"I think... it sounds like perfection."

She bit her bottom lip adorably before snuggling her head into your chest. You never wanted to let her slip away ever again. She feels your grip on her waist tighten as your mind drifts once more to the plan. She was going to meet Gabriel at the bridge and fake her death. The margin for error was so small, barely imperceptible to the human eye.

"What's wrong?" She asked, brushing her nose against your jaw.

"I don't like this plan," you confessed, "There's too many things that can go wrong. It's not safe."

"Darling, it's the only way we'll be free," she tried her best to make you see the brighter side of the plan.

"You could die, Ilsa. I can't have that happen."

"I'll be careful. He'll hit me here," she said, guiding your hand just clear of her heart, "I'll be sure of it. Besides, if things get out of hand, death will just have to withstand my will to stay alive."

"Ilsa, don't joke," you said, looking away. Your eyes sting with tears threatening to run away.

"I'm not joking- hey, look at me," she cups your jaw with one hand, "I'll come back to you, I promise." She rested her forehead against yours. "I'll be fine," she told you.

She follows you back down where everyone is changing into their attire for the party. Ilsa pulls you into her room and sits you down on a crate. She sits in between your legs. You give her a perplexed look.

"Could you braid my hair?" She asked quietly and your mouth breaks into a smile. "Of course."

You brush her hair gently to one side. She plays with her fingers while you comb through her hair, plaiting it expertly.

"I haven't had my hair braided since you left me," she confessed, "You've always been the person to do it for me."

You smile to yourself at the thought of this simple activity she saved just for you. You finish braiding her hair and place it over her shoulder. You kiss the side of your neck and she turns to capture your lips. She rises onto her knees and laces her fingers through your hair, pulling you to her. Her tongue slides against yours as you deepen the kiss. She moans into your mouth and you grip her waist tightly. You nibble on her bottom lip before she does the same to you.

Ethan walks in and the two of you break apart. A smile creeps onto his face. "Glad the two of you finally came to your senses," he said and a blush rises to both your cheeks, "Could I get a minute with Y/N?"

Ilsa nods and leaves the two of you alone but not before pressing a kiss to the back of your palm.

She walks back into the common area where Luther and Benji are working on their laptops.

"Nice hair," Luther commented.

"Why are your lips red?" Benji asked.

Her fingers rises to her lips instinctively and she blushes.

"Oh my god," Benji said and Luther smirks.

He stands up and points his finger while following her. She ducks and speed walks to the equipment. "You guys are back together aren't you?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, Benji," trying her best to keep a poker face.

Benji smirks and crosses his arms across his chest, "I like seeing you happy. The two of you are good for each other, clearly."

Ilsa blushes again before ducking her head and rummaging through a duffle bag, "Thanks."

—

"I have a task for you," Ethan said, "While we're at the party, I want you to follow us from a distance. We have the advantage of Gabriel not knowing who you are. I need you to follow Ilsa and protect her. I won't be able to do that while I get Gabriel. Can you do that for me?"

"Of course, Ethan," you replied. He nods, "You'll be off comms so that there's no distractions. I just want you to follow Ilsa, don't worry about me. Alright?"

You nod.

"Take the weapons you need. I'll come find you when everything's done," Ethan said. He goes to stand up but you grab his arm, "Stick to the plan. Let her fake her death. I know it's going to seem real but don't worry, we've got this."

He blinks appreciatively at your reassurance. "Good luck," he said.

—

You were following Grace, Ilsa, and Ethan to the party. Watching them from a distance. Ethan had told Ilsa to run so you followed her to make sure that she would be alright. You finally caught up to her in a deserted alleyway. She swings at you with her fist before realizing who was following her. You duck and grab her arm.

"Y/N?" She said, "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Ethan sent me, he told me to follow the three of you from a distance. He asked me to protect you." You moved in closer to her and inspected her face and she closed her eyes, taking in your concerned touch. "I'm alright," she told you.

"Good, you had me worried back there," you said. She opens her eyes and sees that you haven't moved from your spot. One of your hands moves from her face to her hip and pull her flush against you.

"I missed this," you whisper to her. She puts a hand against your abdomen. "What are you waiting for then?" She husked out. Her hand scrunches the front of your shirt and pulls you even closer to her body. You meet her lips, they were soft and they enveloped your own.

You pull away and rest your forehead against her. "We should probably go," Ilsa told you and you nodded, agreeing.

"I'll be right behind you," you said, "Do you have a weapon?"

She half unsheathes the sword she's holding and you smirk. "That's my girl," you said. You take one of the five knives on your body and tuck it into the back of the waistband of her pants, you hide the weapon with her shirt.

"I added a little something special," you told her.

She smiled and kissed you, "Let's go."

She takes off running and you run behind her. You hear faint sounds of combat and Ilsa comes to a quick stop, causing you to crash into her. She held a finger up to her lips. She motioned for you to stay here but you shook your head. She motioned for you to just wait and you reluctantly agreed.

She walks up to the bridge and you wait tensely behind the corner, glancing over to your girlfriend to make sure she was alright. She starts fighting Gabriel and she gets stabbed in the leg. She lets out a heart wrenching scream and you run over swiftly and quietly. You unsheathe the knife from behind your back and slash his thigh— his femoral artery. He yells in pain and clutches his leg; blood gushed past his fingers.

"Who the hell are you?" He grunted. "No one that you need to know." You flip your knife and help Ilsa stand up. "Go check on Grace. I'll handle him."

She limps over to Grace and checks her pulse. You momentarily let your guard down and Gabriel gets back up. "Y/N, look out!" She screamed. Gabriel punched you in the back of the head and knocked you out.

Ilsa's vision turned red with anger when she saw your body crumple to the ground. She picks up the sword again and advances toward Gabriel. Her swipes are sloppy and Gabriel can see it but nonetheless she gets a few slashes in. He takes advantage of her sloppiness and knocks her sword away easily. He slashes at her abdomen and it barely misses her. He cuts open her stomach and she lets out a gasp and clutched her stomach. He pins her against the side of the bridge. "This is what happens to whoever cares about Ethan Hunt," he hissed in her ear, "When I'm done with you I'll carve up your little partner. She'll look so pretty all slashed up."

"Don't ever fucking touch her," Ilsa gasped out in between breaths. Her hand inches to the knife you had tucked into her waistband.

"I kill you first and she won't have anyone to protect her," he cackled.

"She doesn't need me to protect her."

She pulls out her knife and stabs the side of his body. "If anything, she's been the one to protect me all along." He doubled over in pain.

He grunted angrily and stood back up, stabbing Ilsa in the chest, she moved slightly to the side as he did so. Her eyes opened in shock, letting out a shaky breath. She looks down at the knife then back at Gabriel.

Gabriel stumbles back and lets Ilsa slide to the floor. She closes her eyes to control her breathing. You finally open your eyes, your head is throbbing and you look around. You push yourself up with much difficulty and see Gabriel's retreating figure. "Hey, asshole," you yelled out, "You forgot to kill me."

"Your time will come," Gabriel said.

You stumbled to your feet and pulled a small dagger from your boot. As he turns his back, you throw the dagger at him. It lodged in his back and he fell over before crawling away.

You look around and see Ilsa and your heart drops to your stomach. You run over her and see the knife. Quickly taking her head into your lap, you check her pulse, letting out a temporary sigh of relief. However, that relief didn't stay for long, you had a performance to put on. You hunch over Ilsa's body and cry. Your shoulders shake as you discreetly take out her earpiece and crush it beneath your boot. You lower your lips to her ear.

"You did really good. I'm so proud of you," you whisper into her ear. From a distance, it just looks like your grieving over your lover's dead body.

You brush her hair soothingly, continuing to let the tears flow.

"I love you," you told her. Her eyes twitch so you press a kiss to each of her eyelids, over her freckles. You hold her head close to your body and she stays motionless.

You hear heavy sounds of footsteps from the distance and you know it's Ethan. Grace would be waking up any minute now.

"No!" Ethan yells when he sees Ilsa's limp body in your arms. He places his finger to her pulse and his eyes soften to sadness. "Y/N, I'm so sorry. This wasn't supposed to happen," he said.

You sniffle and brush your tears, "She died protecting others. It's what she would've wanted."

Grace finally comes to and realizes what happened. She's in shock seeing Ilsa's "dead" body. "No, that wasn't supposed to happen. She's not supposed to be dead, she wasn't supposed to sacrifice herself," Grace starts hyperventilating, "Why did she do that? I didn't ask her to do that."

You lovingly brush at Ilsa's chestnut hair. "Ilsa was doing what she loved," you tell her without looking at her. You look at Ethan and place a hand on his knee, "Go talk to her."

You continue talking to her despite the fact that you look mad doing it. "You did good, my love. You did so good. I hope you can finally have some peace." You press a kiss to her warm lips before pressing your forehead against her.

Benji quickly but surely arrives only a couple of seconds later. He takes in Grace's hysterical expression and Ethan comforting her before his gaze landed on you. Your back faced him but he could see the tip of Ilsa's head. He hops out of the boat and rushed over to you.

"No, it can't be true. Ilsa..."

He takes in her pale complexion and the lack of movement from her chest. You look up with your tear-stricken eyes and a string of silent communication travels from your eyes to his. It was done.

"Y/N, I'm so sorry. This wasn't how it was to go down."

You nodded sadly, "I know."

You sniff harshly and brush your tears away roughly. "Please can we just take her home," you clear your throat, "I don't want us to be all exposed here and she deserves a proper burial."

Benji nods, understanding, "Do you need me to help?"

You shake your head and lift her easily into your arms. You take her back onto the boat to the underside, safe from the eyes of the Entity where she finally opens her eyes. You burst into tears then, for real this time. She brushes them away, shushing you.

"I love you too," she whispered to you, "I'm okay. Didn't I tell you everything would be fine?"

You nod, still trying to recover from the events of the bridge.

"If you could give me a hand though," she said pointedly, looking at the knife.

"Oh yes, of course."

"It's a cute knife but it would be better out of my body," she muttered.

You chuckle before indicating to her shirt then your knife, she nods. You slice open her shirt to get better access to the wound. "If you wanted take me to bed you could've just asked," she teased and you rolled your eyes.

You open your duffle bag to take out your medical supplies. You spray antiseptic over her wound and she hisses. "Sorry."

She shook her head, "It's fine. Do whatever you need to."

You get a firm grip on the knife and give it a big tug. It comes out quickly and leaves Ilsa groaning in pain. You toss the knife across the boat and rip open a packet of gauze and cover her wound. "Here, apply pressure. I'll stitch you up."

You take out your suturing kit and help her lay down in the cramped cabin of the boat.

"I only have numbing spray," you tell her and she nods, "Okay, it might sting a little."

She nods again. You remove the gauze and throw 3 tight but delicate sutures on her shoulder before wrapping her chest with bandages.

"Now let's look at that stomach of yours," you said before moving to her abdomen. It had a wider slash but the cut wasn't as deep as the one of her chest. You stitch it up nonetheless then wrap it. You move to her leg and she very gracefully takes off her pants to reveal the wound. It was a small slice, 2 inches wide. You stitch her up and bandage her.

Benji stomps on the floor of the boat to indicate your arrival. You look back at Ilsa. "Ready to hide again?" You asked and she nods. You drape a sheet over her body before lifting her into your arms and carrying her to the safe house. Luther gives your arm a squeeze when he sees you and you blink appreciatively before going to the room you had claimed and laying her on the bed. You remove the sheet and she looks back at you.

"Get some rest," you told her.

—

She was still bleeding heavily despite the stitches you gave her but you were on your own. The rest of the team had left to deal with the mission while you stayed behind and cared for Ilsa. You cleaned her bandages each night and replenished her with nutrients. You bought medical supplies and stole some from a local hospital and brought them back to her. She gets a fever on the second day and falls unconscious, shuddering ever so slightly in her sleep.

You took in her pale appearance in the bed. She sunk into the bed and her freckles looked dull. They never looked like that. You prayed for her to wake up so that the color would return to them. She looked so weak, her skin as pale as moonlight. She looked too frail. Too unlike the Ilsa you knew. You knew she had to get better soon, she had too. You wrung put a wet cloth and wiped her burning forehead. She starting to show early signs of infection so you fed her antibiotics and stayed by her side every night, watching the slow rise and fall of her chest.

Her fever finally broke on the fourth day. She wakes up and say your hunched over position by the side of her bed. She smiled gratefully at her guardian angel and combed through your hair. You sat up quickly at the feeling.

"You're alive," she croaked, her throat raspy from disuse.

"You're awake. God, I thought we would never make it out of that," you tell her.

"Oh baby," she said, a hand coming up to your face, brushing your cheek, "I'm okay. I'm alive. See?"

She brings your fingers to her wrist and you felt her soothing heart beat. You laid your head against her wrist. "Come, lay with me."

She slowly scoots over and you slide onto the bed with her and take her into your arms. "Don't move too much," you told her, "You'll tear your stitches."

"Thank you for being here," she said.

"I wouldn't be anywhere else. Just get some sleep, darling. I'll be here when you wake up," you told her, smoothing her hair. "Thank you for coming back to me," you whispered into her hairline and she closed her eyes with a smile on her face. You kiss her freckles repeatedly until she falls asleep.

—

When she finally heals, that's when the two of you say your goodbyes. Ethan, Benji, and Luther were the only ones there.

"But if you need me, I'll only be a call away," she told him and slipped a flip phone into his front pocket, "Only use it for emergencies. As far as the world knows, I'm dead." She gives him a tight hug. "And what about you?" Ethan asked, "What happens in your story?"

You shrug, "The love of my life dies and I decide to move to the quiet countryside of France and teach English." Ethan smiles, nodding his head, "That suits you." He gives you a hug as well.

"Treat her well," he told you and you nodded.

"If you're ever in France and need somewhere to stay..." you trailed off.

"I look forward to taking you up on your offer," he said.

"You ready?" You asked Ilsa and she nodded. She picked up her duffle bag and gave her last farewells to Luther and Benji.

"Come visit, okay?" She tells the both of them and they nod.

"Take care, Ilsa," Benji said while hugging her.

You approach Ethan one more time and take your favorite knife out from behind your back. It had an ivory white handle, a Persian tip, and a beautifully intricate wave pattern over the blade.

"This is for Grace. Tell her it's my gift to her for joining the IMF and taking Ilsa's place. We finally gets our happy ending now and it's all thanks to her."

Ethan nods, "I will."

"If any of you ever need us, I'll be there. You're Ilsa's family— mine by extension, we will show up, no matter what."

Ilsa laces her fingers with yours and nods. She gives you a kiss.

"Bye," you said. You and Ilsa exit to the boat that Ethan bought and placed under his name. The plan was to sail to France. It was a short ride and Ethan had packed everything you could possibly need into the boat.

"Go hide," you tell Ilsa and she nodded, "I'll let you know when we reach open waters."

—

You and Ilsa move into a chateau in the countryside, 30 minutes away from the beach. A place where the two of you could start fresh and build your family. There was a quiet town about a 10 minute bike ride, no surveillance cameras, just the eyes of locals who admired the love you and Ilsa had for each other. You and Ilsa went there on the weekends for grocery shopping before wandering around, trying the new patisserie shop around the corner, letting Ilsa feed you bits of croissant. The town made you and Ilsa feel young again, you would go out dancing like you were in your 20s, giggle in the back corners of the bookstore as you kissed one another and picked books for each other, let each other try their ice cream before agreeing which one was better. This quiet life, the one you and Ilsa always dreamed of was finally happening.

The two of you lounged on the couch together, reading. It was raining outside and the fire was crackling. She laid against your chest and you had an arm flung over her shoulder. She looks at your hand, the ring she gave you and smiles contentedly. She fiddles with the ring on your ring finger before smiling back up at you.

"Hey," you said, noticing her staring.

She moved your glasses from your face to the top of your head before cupping your face to kiss you.

"I'm happy we did this," she tells you.

"Me too."

She plays with your fingers while waiting, hesitantly, for the right moment to ask you a question that could change your lives.

"What's wrong, sweetheart?" You asked, noticing her shift of mood.

She sits up and turns around, sitting on the backs of her heels, so she can talk to you face-to-face. "Would you ever want kids?" She swallowed harshly, waiting for your answer.

Your lips eventually break into a smile and nod, "If it's with you, then yes."

You put down your book and take her hands into your own before pulling her to rest on your chest. You stroked her back and played with the ends of her hair.

"Is that what was worrying you so much?"

She nods against your chest.

"I've been dreaming about having kids with you for forever, Ilsa. Of course I want them. I can't wait to see a mini you running around the house."

"I could settle for a mini you too," she tells you.

She smiled against your skin, her chest warming at the idea.

She lifts her head and kisses along your jaw. She nestled into the crook of your neck, breathing in your perfume. She felt a sense of fulfillment resting here in your arms. A fulfillment that she never got from joining Ethan's team. You offered her a life filled with love and safety and she wishes she had seen that earlier instead of running away. But there was no point in dwelling on the past now. You held her in your arms and she was going to cherish every single moment she could spend with you.

#ilsa faust x reader #ilsa faust #ethan hunt #rebecca ferguson x reader #rebecca ferguson #benji dunn #grace #luther stickell #mission impossible #fix-it fic #fluff #i hate tags

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