#mr cards would put it on the ground like a sim
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Good morning I offer thee Mr Transport and Mr Lace ms paint doodles, I think they like the baby
Mr cards doesn't know what to do with it
#fallen london#mr transport#mr lace#mr cards#mr cards would put it on the ground like a sim#Lace however is delighted#ft my transport design that bapy would eat whole container of pasta sauce❤️#these are old but hush
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Return Teaser
A SPN x reader fic
-x-
Six months. Eleven states. An area spanning from the west coast to a couple hundred miles east of the cascades.
And seventeen cases of hunters vanishing without a trace.
(Y/N) had been investigating the disappearances for the past several weeks. Even after figuring out the pattern, tracking this thing down had proven to be just about as easy as nailing smoke to a wall. It had taken her a handful of all nighters, countless hours spent pouring over the internet, and approximately five gallons worth of caffeine, but she at long last traced it all back to the source.
She played her way right into their hands, and now the real hunt began. The die was cast, and she had all her cards laid out on the table in a high stakes game of life or death.
“Hey, Bobby.” The weight of the words hung heavy in the stillness of the air. It wasn’t looking like she’d be making it out of this hunt alive, and that grim, unspoken reality read loud and clear just in the way she said hello. She was in some way thankful her call had gone straight to voice mail. It was easier if she just didn’t think about how what she was about to do would upset her uncle.
(Y/N) sat with her back pressed against the far wall, phone held up to her ear by her non-dominant hand. Her arm was propped up by her knee, while her opposite leg lay stretched out in front of her. She ran a hand through her hair and suppressed a weary sigh as she spoke into the phone. Barricaded inside the little cabin and armed to the teeth, there was nothing left to do but sit and wait as the moon rose higher and higher into the night sky.
“So, listen. I don’t have much time.” (Y/N) said, fingertips absentmindedly tracing the sigils etched into the stock of the shotgun that lay in her lap. She had soaked every bullet, blade, and weapon she could in dead man’s blood in preparation for the coming battle. “This whole hunt just went full shit show. We are dealing with vampires after all. But it’s not just that. This is far greater than we anticipated. I’ve got my back to the wall and I’m out of options. If I pull this off then there’s a chance I’ll be able to end this once and for all.”
(Y/N) paused, taking a shaky breath before confirming what Bobby will have already guessed for himself.
“They’re tracking me down as we speak.” These blood sucking bastards were targeting hunters, and (Y/N) was going to make sure there was hell to pay for it even if it cost her her life. “I’m holed up in some cabin just outside Missoula waiting for them now. It’s god damn near 23:50, at this rate the frost is gonna bite me before they get the chance.” She joked, shifting her position and adjusting her hold on the shotgun so that the barrel now rested in the crook of her neck.
One of the logs in the fireplace fell with a soft thud as the charred wood burning away beneath it crumbled apart. The subtle sound caused her body to tense up, anticipation making her jumpy. Chuckling to herself beneath her breath, (Y/N) tilted her chin up, letting her head fall back against the wall while her eyes drifted shut.
“One way or another, my bike better be back at the salvage yard one week from today, or Singer - I swear to god - I’ll crack open all of your beers so they go flat.” The playful threat brought a slight smile to her lips. Bobby knew full well how much her motorcycle meant to her, he’d been the one that helped her build it after all. This was her way of asking him to come get it if she never returned. “By the way, if you’re still looking for the TV remote it’s in the glove compartment of the Chevelle. I’m not sorry, and I regret nothing. Yell at me about it when I get back.”
With that, (Y/N) hung up and pushed herself off the ground. She wasted no time in destroying her SIM card and tossing the remains into the fire. She had more than just Singer’s number saved in her contacts and she wasn’t about to risk putting Bobby or anyone else in danger.
Another hour passed by in peace, during which time (Y/N) made a couple rounds of the small little cabin, checking and rechecking her defenses. She had taken all the blood she could when she broke into the morgue on her way out of town, right down to the very last drop. She knew she could hold her own for only just so long against a nest this strong, but (Y/N) was going to do everything in her power to slow them down.
~ x ~
“You’re a hunter.” Sam Winchester leaned against the frame of the doorway with his arms crossed, watching as his older brother got down on the floor so he could look under the couch. He wouldn’t have been able to wipe the massive grin from his face if he tried. “You kill monsters for a living, and you can’t find one little remote?”
“Shut up, Sammy.” Dean snapped gruffly, his frustration steadily increasing the longer he searched.
It had been about six hours since they had brought Bobby home from the hospital. Sam and Dean had just finished working a case in Wichita when they’d gotten the call from the hospital informing them that a Mr. Snyderson had just been admitted to the OR for an emergency surgery.
It was roughly an eight hour drive from Wichita to the hospital, so by the time the boys arrived it was nearly three in the morning. According to the nurses, Bobby had been lucky; he’d come in at just the right time and they were able to remove his appendix before it ruptured. The surgery went well, there were no complications, and “Bill” would be able to go home after 24 hours of observation.
It was now just past six the next morning, and the two boys were making themselves at home while Bobby rested upstairs. Dean had made the discovery that Bobby’s TV was stuck on some shopping channel with the same infomercial crap on loop while Sam was out on a breakfast run.
Their brotherly bickering (and Dean’s hopeless search for the remote) was cut short the moment Bobby Singer walked in.
“Would you two idjits pull your heads out of your asses for once?” Bobby spat, absolutely furious as he walked through the door. He muttered violently under his breath as he retrieved a file from one of his shelves. “...of all times...that damn reckless, stubborn...”
Dean exchanged a questioning look with Sam. Something was wrong; Bobby was worried.
They both followed Bobby into the kitchen, where he threw the file onto the table before digging out his bottle of pain killers from the hospital bag that sat on the counter.
“What happened?” Sam asked gently. Dean occupied himself by eating one of the donuts Sam had bought for breakfast, while Bobby and the youngest Winchester took a seat at the table.
“My phone was turned off while I was at the hospital. I got this last night.” Bobby said, putting his phone on speaker before replaying the message. The three hunters sat in silence, listening intently as the message played. Dean had moved to take a seat at the table during that time, his brow furrowing in thought.
“She made herself their next target.” Sam stated. Bobby nodded grimly.
“Why?” Dean asked, folding his arms across his chest as he leaned back in his chair. “Who is she?”
“Her name is (Y/N) (L/N). She’s been a hunter all her life.” Bobby‘s face fell as he spoke of her, too tired to mask the worry in his eyes. “And she’s every bit the bull headed, stubborn bastard her father was. Not to mention twice as reckless.”
Bobby opened the file filled with papers hand handwritten notes, sliding it over towards Sam and Dean so they could look through it.
“A couple of weeks ago I get a knock on my door at four in the morning on a Saturday, and there stands this stinkin’ idjit all bright eyed and excited about some new case she’d stumbled across.“ Bobby scoffed.
-x-
Interested? Let me know if I should continue! Thank you so much for reading ❤️
#supernatural#supernatural x you#supernatural x reader#spn x reader#SPN fic#dean x reader#sam x reader#cas x reader#dean winchester#sam winchester#castiel#Bobby Idjit
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Five Seconds (3/8)
If you’d like to read on AO3, you may do so here.
They were just passing over the border into Ohio when Lily shifted in her seat and felt the crinkle of photograph paper under her.
Monica Reyes, whom Lily had known only as an acquaintance of her parents, had pulled up to the house earlier in the day with a screech of tires and instructed both kids to grab any last minute things and get them into her car. Twenty minutes later, with the family’s two cats moaning plaintively from between them in the rear seat, they pulled under an overpass in the Springfield Mixing Bowl where both their parents were waiting with a new-to-them SUV and worried expressions. Her father had pulled her into a hug so tight, she’d been temporarily short of breath.
As the miles wore on, and they were assured that they hadn’t been followed, everyone in the car began to relax.
Will was sitting in the other captain’s chair in the back seat of the vehicle -- a black Yukon with Pennsylvania dealer plates -- he had headphones on and his nose stuck in a graphic novel. Her mother was asleep in the passenger seat, her head tilted on the headrest toward her father, who was driving, sunglasses on, now hours into a spell of highway hypnosis.
She pulled the photo out to finally give it a look and was surprised to see that it was a wedding photo. In it, her father was smiling without teeth, in a loose-fitting black tuxedo, a white rose boutonniere affixed to his lapel. He was looking down at the woman in his arms, the bride, who was only a few inches shorter than he was, a thin brunette who was most assuredly not her mother.
Lily had known her father had been married before -- she was over a year old when he’d married her mother and she had attended the wedding as a dandelion-haired toddler -- but it was something her father rarely talked about, and, she had suspected, not the happiest of times in Fox Mulder’s life.
She studied the woman in the photo curiously, seeing nothing that reminded her of her short, redheaded mother, who always looked intelligently -- sometimes aloofly -- at the world with a kind blue gaze. The woman in the picture held her head high, looking straight into the gaze of Fox Mulder, challenging but pleased, a victorious glint in her eye.
Lily tried to remember the woman’s name. Laura? Lauren? Something with an L.
Her father had always been a self-assured man, nearly always correct in his theories and assumptions. She wondered how he could have made such a major miscalculation as to marry a woman that was any less perfect for him than Dana Scully was.
She was intrigued.
With another look out the back windshield -- though her parents both said they were safe, she still felt mildly jumpy -- she shoved the picture back into her pocket as the mile markers flew by the window outside.
XxXxXxXxXxX
Scully is sitting on rock in a meadow, her bare feet spread out on the boulder below her, the rock sun-warmed and specked with lichen. Her stomach still has that full, bloated feeling of pregnancy, but when she looks down, her waist is concave, narrower than even in her prepubescent days. That tether of connection she felt with her children in her other pregnancies is still there, but it feels stretched out, pulling her eyes up and out to the meadow before her, where there is a small dark-headed child walking lightly through the wildflowers, its ice-blue eyes cast down, hands out to run lightly along the tops of the flowers it passes as it walks. She squints as the child approaches. It is a boy, she thinks.
The sky is a fathomless blue and there is no wind that she can feel, though the meadow before her undulates as though from a zephyr. She can hear the soft padding of the boy as he gets closer, the crunching of the wild grasses under his feet, their thin stalks whipping against the soles of his shoes.
When he gets to the boulder, he raises his eyes and looks at Scully without expression, then nods at her.
“Mother,” he says, formally.
“Hello child,” she says formally back.
His face shows no emotion, but his aura is warm, his face long like his father’s, with the same plump lower lip.
“May I join you?” he asks.
“You may.”
The boy crawls up onto the rock next to her and sits cross-legged, looking out over the swaying grasses and flowers, each delicate bloom turning its face to the child as though listening for what he’s about to say.
“What happens when the universe stops expanding?” he asks, and though he doesn’t look at her, she knows he expects her to answer.
“Maybe it collapses back on itself,” she hears herself say, “returns to the singularity.”
“That’s a reasonable answer,” the boy says, rising to his feet, “I can accept that.”
She wants to raise her hands to touch him, but her arms won’t move, and she starts to feel a quick surge of panic.
He jumps off the boulder and lands easily on the ground in front of her, then turns to look directly at her, maintaining eye contact as he leans down to pluck a flower and hold it out to her; a bluebell.
“Flowers grow from where dirt used to be,” he says, and then, in a much deeper voice, “wake up.”
She jolted upright in the passenger seat, the seat belt digging into her clavicle as she did so.
“Scully?” Mulder said, from her left, a hint of concern creeping into his voice. He reached a hand over and put it gently on her knee.
She took a deep breath, running a hand along the gentle curve of her belly, willing her heart rate to drop. She exhaled slowly then turned to look at Mulder.
“We’re here,” he said, nodding his head toward a modest looking house on a residential lane. The houses were close together, though not packed cheek-by-jowl. Small front lawns with large maple trees in front of each one, the new leaves just opening. There was a blue sedan idling in the driveway in front of them. The sun had just begun to sink below the horizon, one last ray shining in through the rear windscreen and onto the white hair of its driver. Scully glanced at the clock. It was nearly 9:00pm.
“Any sign of a tail?” she asked him, rubbing sleep from her eyes.
Mulder shook his head.
She heard the crack of a metal seat belt hitting the plastic door casing and turned to look into the backseat, where William and Lily were unhooking themselves to bend down and curiously peer through the windshield at the house. She caught William’s eye and smiled at him. He tentatively returned it.
“You guys stay here for a minute,” Mulder said and then shot a quick look at Scully, which she returned, nodding. Scully’s service weapon was in the glove compartment, and she did a quick calculation of how long it would take her to get it out and into her hands as Mulder jumped down out of the driver’s seat. He allowed himself a quick stretch and crack of the neck before he approached the driver’s side door of the sedan, cautious but confident.
After a quick conference with the driver through her open window, Mulder turned toward the SUV and beckoned them over. Scully and the kids tipped themselves out of the Yukon just as the woman opened up her door and heaved herself up and out of the sedan.
She was older, at least seventy, with a full head of bushy hair that had been pulled back into a ponytail, her midsection round. She wore jeans and a military style jacket (complete with about 30 various pins) and an ancient pair of Doc Martens that had once been black but were worn into a grey. She had the same nose as Frohike, but otherwise looked markedly different from her brother.
“Mrs. McDonald,” the woman said to Scully, giving her a significant look as she reached out to shake her hand. Right, Scully thought, my new name.
“Darlene?” Scully said, grasping the proffered palm and giving her hand a firm shake.
The woman nodded and looked to the kids.
“This is Lily,” said Scully, as Darlene shook hands with her oldest.
“Your name is Lillian now,” Darlene said, and Scully was happy to see Lily take it in stride, nodding.
“I like your jacket,” Lily said.
“You can have it when I die,” said Darlene, all business, who then turned to Will.
“Billy now,” she said, “You got a problem with Billy?” Darlene asked him as she reached for his hand.
“Not unless he’s got a problem with me,” said Will, giving her hand a firm shake.
Darlene turned back to Scully.
“You get to keep Dana,” she said, then turned to Mulder, “But you…” she said, turning to Mulder, “Do not get to keep Fox.”
“Pity,” he said, not sounding all that broken up.
“I’m sure you’ve seen from the documents Melvin gave you, but you’re Emmet now. Everyone can call you M. Hopefully it’s an easy transition.”
Mulder nodded, and Darlene looked at each of them in turn.
“Let’s head into the house,” she said, “I can answer any questions you might have.”
XxX
“The professor who lives here is on sabbatical abroad for a year,” Darlene said, ushering them into the house, “he and I go back quite a ways.”
She threw the lock on the front door and then dropped the keys unceremoniously into Mulder’s hand.
“Come on,” she said, sounding a touch impatient, though Scully was beginning to suspect that she always sounded that way. The woman made her way into the kitchen and the rest of the family followed like little ducklings all in a row.
“I’ve stocked the fridge for a few days, though I’m sure there’s some things I didn’t think of that you’ll need.” She pointed to a couple of credit/debit cards sitting on the otherwise empty kitchen countertop. “Melvin has moved your money around the world and back again. No one will be able to track it. Try to stick with using these cards if you can. If you need cash, use the University Credit Union.”
Scully nodded.
“I’ll need your old credit cards, check books, cell phones, laptops, anything they can trace…”
Mulder nodded his head toward the front door.
“They’re already in a box out in the car. Phones are off, SIM cards out.” he said.
“I’ll take them with me for safekeeping,” Darlene said with a curt nod. “There’s a landline here you can use until we get you set up with new phones.” She looked to the kids. “You all ever been on the run before?” The kids shook their heads. “Learn your new names. Call each other by them even when you’re in the house. Don’t even think of leaving the house until you’re convinced that’s always been your name. You cannot call your friends. You cannot call your family. You cannot log onto social media. Do not log onto anything using your old login information or password. In fact, it’s best if you stay away from technology full-stop.” At this, both kids froze a bit in their tracks and shared a look. “Start reading books for entertainment. God knows this house has enough of them.”
At that Scully looked around them at the room they were standing in, an open-concept kitchen/living room. An entire wall was covered in floor to ceiling bookshelves, each shelf filled to bursting with books of every shape and size.
“It’s going to be a big adjustment, but you have no choice. Do it or die.”
“O kay ,” Mulder said quickly, putting a hand on Darlene’s shoulder, and ushering her a little further into the kitchen. Scully took a quick assessing look at her kids, and could register an appropriate but not alarming amount of fear on their faces.
“Is there at least a TV?” Will asked her in alarm, and she shushed him, though hoped to god there was one. Both her children had inherited their father’s penchant to be underfoot when bored, and so help her, any moratorium on technology would not extend to the pre-90’s analog variety. And to think she had almost talked Mulder out of packing a box of their favorite old movies. She turned her attention back to where Darlene and Mulder were talking.
“For the first week or so, I’d like a nightly safety check-in, after that we can space them out. Call this number,” she slapped a magnet on the fridge and pointed to it. It looked like it was for a local pizzeria. “If everything is okay, just say you want a large cheese pizza for take-out. If things seem like they might not be totally kosher, order a large pepperoni. If the shit hits the fan, order a pizza with the works and someone will be out here to help you as soon as humanly possible.”
Mulder nodded at her, and she turned, holding up a finger as though she had another thought.
“If you do actually want to order pizza,” she said, “stick with Cottage Inn. The other places around here are shit.”
XxXxXxXxXxX
Okemos, Michigan
May 6, 2018
Scully heard Mulder awaken with the dawn, sliding out of bed in the periwinkle light. Not long after that, noises came filtering down the hallway of him in the kitchen, fumbling around the unfamiliar space, likely trying to make coffee with a new machine, and opening various cabinets in search of mugs. She dozed after that and came to consciousness however long later, finding Mulder standing in the window of the master bedroom with a steaming cup of coffee in his hand, looking out at the backyard of the professor’s house, the new rays of the day slanting on his minky hair.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed, searching by feel with her feet for the pair of slippers she’d left next to the bed the night before. She stood and walked slowly to her husband, whose head tilted slightly back as he heard her approach. When she reached him, she wrapped an arm around his waist, leaning into him, and he handed her the mug of coffee without a word.
She took a grateful sip, letting it slide hotly down her throat and he leaned down and kissed her hairline.
“It’s decaf,” he whispered.
“I appreciate the solidarity,” she said quietly back, and he smiled at her and turned back to the window. She handed the coffee back.
“I wonder how the kids slept,” she said after a quiet minute.
“They’re still sleeping,” he said, squeezing her gently into him.
“Mmm,” she said, an idea forming, and she raised herself up on her toes and pressed a kiss into the side of his mouth. He turned her until they were facing each other, their lips still connected. Finally he pulled back just enough to look into her eyes.
“What kind of ‘Mmm’ was that?” he said, his voice low.
She nosed his cheek gently.
“What kind does it feel like?” she asked, and heard the quiet clunk of the mug being placed on the dresser next to the window.
She ran her lips lightly over the stubbly curve of his jaw, reading the story of him in Braille. She’d always been drawn to this gnathic arc of him, when he clenched in anger or passion, the stoutest line of his profile in situ.
For as long as they’d been together, even just the rasp of his skin on her lips still made her weak in the knees; a remnant echo of five years of pent up longing still reverberating down the hallway of their life. Two (plus) kids and a mortgage and her center still clenched when he whispered her name.
“My favorite kind,” he said and hoisted her up easily in his arms, her legs going around his waist with practiced ease.
Making love with him had always been revelatory, and these days were no different; her breasts more sensitive with the fluctuating hormones of pregnancy, her center swollen and aching with need.
Mulder moved them to the untested bed in this unfamiliar room, and as he ran a hand up under the soft silk of her pajama top and settled between her legs, it started to feel a bit more like home.
They probably had hours before the kids woke up -- the lethargy of teenagehood had settled soundly into their house -- but they still had a tendency toward sex of the quicker sort; stolen moments in rare downtimes, and now was shaping up to be no different.
Mulder had shed his clothes before she knew quite what was happening, and he began tugging at her pajama bottoms with a wicked smile on his face, which he buried in her lap before her pajamas hit the floor.
Pregnancy already had her as sexually restive as a tightly strung instrument and Mulder played her with his tongue with the familiarity and talent of a maestro. His hand on her breast, tongue laving at her ripe seam, before she knew it she was moaning into the pillow next to her head, practiced in the art of keeping quiet. She tugged on his hair twice, an old cue for him to get his ass where she wanted it, and a moment later he was sliding into her, the blunt head of his penis bumping into her tender cervix. Five deep strokes and she was gone, soaring into the heavens, his name on her lips.
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Only For A Moment Ch. 45
Master: @afewmarvelousthoughtsadmin
Pairing: Bucky X Reader
Summary: For most of your life you’d been able to keep your abilities a secret, that is until Hydra got wind of you. After years of being in their clutches, you break out when The Avengers expose SHIELD/Hydra. Since then, you’ve been on the run. Things are going as well as you could hope when you see a familiar face… Could the Winter Soldier really be in Bucharest too?
Warnings: Violence (combat), ALL THE EMOTIONS
A/N: WELL HERE WE ARE. Almost to the end of Part One of this journey. I always knew we’d end up here, I just didn’t know it would take 44 chapters and a little more than a year but I also can’t say I’m mad about it.
I hope you all enjoy this Civil War throwback and everything that’s to come.
THANK YOU FOR READING!
Tags are open!
“How about Vienna?” Bucky pipes up.
“Huh?” You ask, looking up from your sketch.
“Vienna. It’s a large city, not high on anyone’s radar.” His slight smile makes you long to kiss him. Walking over to his spot on the couch you lean down, pressing your lips to his. He tugs you into his lap, holding you close.
Without Mr. Goldstein, the city felt somehow colder even as winter melted into spring. Leaving was no longer just the logical choice, it was the easiest one, and of course, Bucky had been thinking of your next step this whole time.
“Vienna sounds lovely.” Honestly, you didn’t care where you both ended up, as long as you were together.
“Perfect,” he purrs.
Throughout the next two weeks, the two of you get ready yourselves to leave. Books that aren’t sentimental are donated, same with any home goods you can do without. Most other things are taken to the farmhouse, for safekeeping and future sorting. In no time the apartment feels barren--but somehow it’s good, a clean slate to leave from. Another new chapter… but this time you won’t be starting off alone.
The sun rises, brightening the paper-covered windows but you both linger in bed, wanting to hold onto this little slice of peace for just a bit longer. Wanting to revel in the peace and comfort of familiarity before heading into the unknown.
Tomorrow you’d head the farmhouse, staying there a few days before moving forward to Vienna. While you’re both ready, moving on was still bittersweet—this had been your home, after all, the place you found one another.
“So,” Bucky leans on his elbow, staring down at you, “I’ll go to the market and you’ll take care of laundry?” You groan dramatically and roll over onto your stomach.
“Come on,” he goads, “I did the laundry last time.” His lips press into the skin at the top of your spine and you shiver with pleasure. In response, he presses closer to you.
“Hmm. I mean fair point but…” You encase him in your power and pin him to the mattress on his back, sitting up to straddle his hips. He stares, a little awestruck at his sudden position change. “I think the market will still be there later.”
“And the laundry?” He asks with a wink grasping your hips and settling himself within you.
“Sure.” He moves inside you causing you to gasp. “Whatever, just keep doing that.”
Eventually, you both manage to get dressed, however reluctantly. He slips into that red henley that made his eyes look somehow bluer and your mouth actually waters.
“What?” He asks, catching your hungry stare.
“Nothin’,” you say hopping up from the couch passing by him to wait by the door.
“Liar,” he whispers into your ear as he grabs you, holding your back to his chest. You laugh, your head falling onto his shoulder.
“Maybe,” you kiss the rough stubble of his jaw. “Come on, doing things was your idea old man, chop-chop.”
In the entryway to the apartment building, he goes over the list as you shoulder the laundry bag.
“Anything else?” He tucks a loose curl behind your ear.
“Plums,” you smile kissing his cheek, “if they have any good ones.”
“Got it.” He tilts your face up before planting a tender kiss on your lips, his blue eyes making your heart skip. “I love you, Y/N.”
“I love all of you.” You playfully push the bill of his blue baseball cap down covering his eyes. “Don’t forget the plums.” He laughs and smacks your ass playfully as you turn to go.
As the laundry spins in the washer you crack open your now well-worn copy of Frankenstein. Though you hope on the familiar words will soothe the anxiety that change inevitably brings, you can’t seem to focus on them. Instead, you let your head fall back, focusing absently on the flickering muted screen of an old staticky TV in the corner.
At first, you think you imagine it because… that couldn’t be Bucky’s image. Just a blurry photo and your mind, distracted as it is, is just filling in the blanks. But then you see the words flashing on the screen.
Blinking hard you shoot up from your chair, unwilling to believe what your eyes are clearly seeing. His name. His fucking name. Wanted. For…
“Fuck,” you breathe out. Too fast to be even remotely perceived as normal, you push past the people by the door to the laundromat and run home, laundry forgotten.
Rounding the corner onto your block you barrel into a police officer trying to keep curious onlookers at a safe distance.
“Sorry, Miss. It’s not safe here. Please stay back.”
“You don’t understand,” you say, trying desperately to keep your voice even. “I live here. I live here.”
He only shakes his head, “You will need to just wait. I’m sorry.”
Unwilling to waste any more time you walk away, telling yourself over and over, Do not run. Do not run. Running would be suspicious and you need to look like just anyone else right now. Throwing a cautious look over your shoulder you duck down a nearby alley.
With trembling hands, you pull your phone out and stare at the word knew you’d see. The one word that brings everything crashing down around you:
Burned.
All those months ago the two of you had laid out plans, one for every conceivable horrible occurrence. Each one had it’s own code word and plan of action. Each one had been drilled over and over until the steps and stages of each came as easy to you as breathing.
You know what you’re supposed to do. You know you’re supposed to trash your phone. Head to the apartment for supplies if possible. If not cut and run to the farmhouse. From there a 48 hour window for the other party to arrive. If they didn’t… you disappear and hope to find one another again, hope that fate was kind once more. Hope…
There’s the sound of splintering glass and crunching metal parts as you crush your phone in your hands, both from duty and the rage that’s beginning to burn through you. Dropping it to the ground you bend down to pluck the sim card from the heap and crush it as well for good measure.
Step one done.
It’s the only step you intend to take.
Reaching into your bag you fish out your scarf and tie it around your face—best to not be recognizable. Strapping your backpack on, you focus and propel yourself onto the roof above you, and then drop to the back of your building.
A lone swat agent notices you and yells at you to stand back. You don’t hesitate to land a blow straight to his throat, rip off his helmet off, and slam his head into the wall rendering him unconscious. Every movement is fluid and measured. Not an ounce of energy wasted. Bucky would be proud.
You’re almost to the side entrance to your building when you hear something on the opposite roof. Moments later the thundering sound of a chopper cuts the air before bullets begin to rain down. Fear clenches your chest. They have to be shooting at him.
Without a thought for the chaos above you, you slide into the parking garage next-door where Bucky’s bike waits. You don’t have the key but it’s easy enough for you to use your ability to force the starter to turn. Wheels squealing you peal out just in time to see Bucky running, being pursued by a person in black and… Captain America himself.
Ignoring them you pull up next to Bucky.
“Buck!” You call out, hand extended.
He throws you a sidelong glance, eyes winding in fear and maybe a flash of anger before he reaches for you. Your power just barely latches onto him while helping you control the bike one-handed.
The person in black kicks the back wheel of the bike causing you to lose your hold on Bucky and sending you skidding into traffic. It takes all your concentration to not crash and keep a line of sight on Bucky as he drops down into the underpass.
“Goddamnit,” you growl, throwing the bike around to find a way into the fray.
Soon the noise of the bike echoes alongside the other cars as you swerve between them, desperately attempting to catch up. The squealing of tires up ahead pushing you forward.
You’re sure you’re close when some fucker with wings is pulled down by the person in black. Hope blooms for a moment before a blast sends part of the roof plummeting down ahead of you. Barely avoiding it you bring your bike up just outside the rubble. A few curious citizens exit their cars and creep closer, phones out, to get a view of the scene before them.
A small sound slips from you as you watch what could only be considered a firing squad draw on them all. No one else should have heard it but Bucky did. He turns, searching for you through the dust. Before you can call out to him you’re being driven back with the other civilians by the police.
No, you silently say to yourself. No.
Grabbing the bike you thunder out of the underpass and circle around, breaking every known traffic law, to get to the exit you know they’ll need to take in order to get out. You make it just in time to catch the end of the motorcade.
Hanging back enough to not lose them but to remain suspicion free you follow.
You haven’t the slightest idea as to what you’re going to do—but you’ve never been able to save anyone else you loved, no one was going to take him from you.
-
The containment unit they put him in was well insulated. The only sounds are his own ragged breath, hissing slightly when the electric current passes through his left arm sending pain reverberating through his body, and the gentle hum of the electricity itself. If it wasn’t for the movement of the truck Bucky wouldn’t be sure if they were transporting him still or if they’d arrived to whatever hell they deemed appropriate for him this time.
Two categories of thought run over and over through his head, only interrupted when he feels the sway of the vehicle cease from time to time.
There was Steve. Steve had come for him. Not to bring him in, not to take him to task for what he did, nothing like that. Steve had come to warn him, had come to help him even though there was no way for him to know for sure whether or not Bucky was innocent, he couldn’t help but grin a little at that.
And then there was you. Love and anger and fear all pulsed through him in equal measure when he envisioned you on the bike, reaching for his hand. He should have known you wouldn’t run, should have known you wouldn’t listen to reason, follow the plan.
Bucky supposes that he should be thankful you didn’t rush into the line of fire to stop his arrest, you had that much sense at least. It was little comfort because he knows without any doubt that you’re trying to find him now—he also knows the massive target that places on your back.
He thinks he wants to be mad about this. Thinks he wants to tell you that you’re being needlessly reckless. He thinks these things because they’re easier to focus on than the stabbing sense of pain and longing that overcomes him when he wonders if he’ll ever even see you again—ever hold you in his arms, feel your lips, hear your laugh.
His head thuds back into the seat he’s strapped in, gnawing at his bottom lip in an attempt to keep himself from screaming because… Because the fact is, before you he’d have accepted this, wouldn’t have fought back at all, just taken it and let whatever would happen come, now that isn’t an option.
He hears Mr. Goldstein’s voice in the back of his head talking about the good moments… Bucky focuses on all the good ones with you, all the little things that brought him peace and happiness.
There is a way out of anything. He will find it. Find you.
All he can do for now is wait. To break out now could be a greater risk to both you and Steve. And, despite Steve’s warning, they were indeed taking him in alive so that meant something had already changed from the intel Steve was provided. They wanted him alive…
The realization makes his blood run cold.
-
You’d been riding for almost 20 hours. It made the trek you’d undertaken after escaping from Hydra feel like a pleasant hike.
The constant vibrations from the bike had left your lower body numb and maybe a little raw while the rest of you was exhausted from lack of sleep, food, and an overload of stress. Each time you had to stop to refuel or pull farther back to avoid notice your body buzzed with panic, afraid that you’d lose the motorcade entirely.
You don’t though. Without fail you hone in on the backside of the motorcade, the flashing lights guiding you in the darkness.
When your tired mind realizes that you’ve entered Berlin a familiar sense of dread settles over you. This was where you’d come after Hydra, before Bucharest. This was where you’d thought you’d be safe. And this is where you learned that being free did not mean that your fight was over.
It seemed fitting that this road would lead you back here then. Back to this reminder. Because here you were—still fighting. A deeper sense of exhaustion washes through you as you wonder if the fight will actually ever stop.
The motorcade slows as it approaches what appears to be a government facility of some kind. You pull the bike down a side street ditching it without a backward glance and casually make your way toward the buildings.
There’s a flurry of activity, everyone scrambling now that the Winter Soldier was on the premises. Good.
The chaos allows you to slip through the crowd like a shadow—unsuspecting, unnoticed, unimportant—and tail a group in swat gear. They begin to disperse, each to their own assignments until you’re only on the heels of one.
He seems more nervous than the others, distracted, a telltale tick in his hands. He rounds a corner into a quiet corridor and you follow only a few steps behind, constantly checking for any signs of others.
Hydra taught you how to do this, how to send out your power like an extension of yourself, feeling for things and people in your area. But this power was not theirs—it never was—this is yours and you will use it. All the little tendrils of power you send out touch nothing that seems organic. Just the person before you, unaware of your silent steps behind them.
Using a key card the officer opens a door marked as ‘Exit.’ You send out a bolt of your power to hold the latch as the door closes behind him.
Silently you crouch by the door, assessing, your senses honed in on this individual. There’s the sound of steps down one flight and then they stop, a sigh, the click of something like a lighter. Pushing the door open just a bit you catch a whiff of cigarette smoke. Perfect.
You open the door casually. The man having a, no doubt, forbidden smoke frantically tries to hide his transgression rather than check if you’re someone who should be here. Too bad for him.
It takes maybe a minute. He was a strong man, you can feel that in his struggle, but you were stronger. With his head locked in your arm, you use your power to cut off his air and blood flow just enough to render him unconscious quickly. You carry him down one more flight of stairs to be far from any quick lines of sight and quickly strip him.
The clothes are slightly too big but it’s fine, you leave him his boots and don the helmet to better disguise your features. Curling him into a ball you cover him with your jacket and hide his face with your cap before heading out the door you’d entered—braking the lock to make his discovery, hopefully, take a little longer.
Of course, you know fuck all about this building but if you had to hold a super soldier, underground would be best. You stand casually by an elevator and punch a button. A blonde woman huffs up next to you, looking down at a file folder seeming more distraught than happy at what’s happening around you both. Curious, you think but try to not pay her too much mind.
You focus your attention on the door instead, crossing your arms as if annoyed at the time the elevator is taking. Finally the doors open and you both step in. She’s by the keys and presses her number, scanning a security badge.
You can feel shrewd eyes assess you before she speaks, “Are you assigned to Barnes?” Her German is perfect but clearly accented. Not a native.
Forcing down the lump in your throat you nod and answer in German, “Yes.” You make a scoffing sound, “Last minute assignment. Needed a woman to meet the diversity requirements.”
Her eyes roll and she shakes her head, “And let me guess the men left you to figure out where to go on your own?”
“Exactly.” You’ve never been more grateful for the patriarchy.
“Assholes,” the woman grumbles in English and punches another button.
“Thanks,” you point to what you assume is the floor you need.
“Gotta lookout, right?” She smiles. Before stepping out she looks back at you, “I don’t think he’s what they say he is. For what that’s worth. Make sure they aren’t too harsh.”
Words fail you and you only manage a nod. She gives you a sad smile and exits, leaving you alone.
Did she… know somehow? Your mind races to try and locate where you may have seen her before but you’re certain that you have never met. How could she know? Maybe she didn’t. Maybe there really were just people who could look past the bullshit.
You don’t have much more time to mull it over. Three floors away the power cuts sending the elevator to a shuddering halt. A cold foreboding settles across your shoulders but your heartbeat stays steady, thrumming in time with the red flashing light.
Every instinct screams that this is wrong. It was too convenient. Too perfect.
Your power confirms that the elevator has stalled between floors. Sliding it between the doors you use that and your strength to pry them open and shimmy out into a corridor filled with people scurrying like rats.
At first, there’s nothing but noise but you narrow in, catching bits of the frantic chatter.
“Breached containment.”
“Rampage.”
“The Winter Soldier is loose.”
Your mouth feels desert dry. You’d been heading for him before, knew roughly where to find him. Now…
“What the fuck are you doing officer?!” An angry, official-looking, man grabs your shoulders. “He’s heading up, now’s no time to freeze. Go!” He pushes you against the flow of bodies and you start to run.
They were running from him… Why…
You turn a few corners and head up a flight of stairs until the space opens up into a bright lobby. The beautiful day outside the windows is a stark contrast to the chaos unfolding before you.
Desperately you try to assess what’s going on, try to grasp it. He’s fighting off every person who comes at him with a cold ferocity.
Part of you screams to rush in but you know it’s best to read the room, the last thing you want is to get in his way. But as soon as you hear the gun go off, see him land a hard blow to who you suspect is Tony Stark--remembering seeing his face on magazine covers and gossip shows in the past--your feet move, unable to hold back any longer.
The woman from the elevator rushes Bucky. You catch her in your power and drag her back. She gasps in surprise, righting herself quickly. Throwing yourself between him and her you catch her kick, grabbing her leg and spinning her around sending her to the floor.
“What the hell!” She exclaims scrabbling to her feet.
“Sorry,” you shrug countering her next blow with your power before landing a right hook to her jaw and a lung crunching blow to her sternum. She stumbles back into a heap.
Bucky has Natasha Romanoff punned to a table, her throat in his metal grip. It only takes a second for you to realize that if he continues he will kill her.
“Bucky stop!” You grip his shoulder trying to pry him off of her.
He whirls on you. He just doesn’t realize, you tell yourself. Quickly you fling the helmet away before dodging a swing.
“Buck-” Metal knuckles graze your cheek, flashes of your first encounter searing through your mind, as you sway back to avoid the full blow.
Before you can recover he’s got you in his grip, lifting you from the ground. You use your power to keep your body weight from making the bad situation worse, trying to keep blood and air flowing from beneath his metal fingers when you understand with earth-shattering clarity… Bucky isn’t in control now.
No.
You know this is why the two of you trained so hard. This specific worst-case scenario. He wanted you to beat him back, hurt him so badly that he couldn’t hurt you worse. But… you just can’t.
“It’s me,” you croak, reaching your hand out to touch his face. “Bu-” there isn’t enough air in your lungs to finish his name. Through the growing haze, you see just a moment of horror flash across his face. Recognition. It’s enough.
You find yourself sailing through the air, body careening with Romanoff, who was heading for another volley. She grunts under you, rolling you over and pinning you beneath her.
“Who the fuck are you?!” She snarls.
“No one,” you snap, butting your forehead into her nose and tossing her aside as a man sprints up the stairs on Bucky’s heels.
He’s there, just beneath the surface, he’s trying. You just have to get to him.
Still gasping for air you pursue them. You try and fail to send your power out to the man but your head is reeling. Before you realize it’s happening you’re tangled in them as they tumble down a flight of stairs.
The three of you right yourselves and you place yourself between Bucky and this man. He has to be enhanced, his blows coming rapid and fluid. Bucky doesn’t seem to be viewing you as an enemy any longer, instead, you both move together, fighting like one unit, deflecting his strikes with almost beautiful precision.
He moves to attack you but Bucky catches it with his left arm. Impossibly the man holds him back. Head clear you push a blast of power between them. Bucky stumbles a bit before he jumps over the railing dropping down. As you move to follow the man lands a hard blow to the back of your skull.
Blackness envelops you and when your vision clears and they’re both gone.
Groaning you lift yourself up leaning against the wall—the weight of the last 30 hours thundering into you, threatening to suffocate you. The two of you should be at the farmhouse by now, curled together, getting ready for a new life. But no.
Focusing on that was going to get you nowhere. You’d promised to take care of one another…
Your eyes sting, “Mr. Goldstein,” you whisper to the eerily quiet air, “if you’re looking out… help me find him… Please.” Your voice cracks and you take a shaky breath before rising on trembling legs.
Unsure of where to go next you head out into the courtyard, teeming with nothing but panicked people. Well… almost.
A familiar-looking man hovers near the edge of the courtyard, a bastion of calm in the chaos, clearly observing everything happening around him. Finally, you place him, he’d been arrested along with Steve and Bucky in Bucharest. Even so, there is no telling if you can trust this man, but if he can get you to Bucky-
The crowd erupts in fresh screams as the sound of a crash echoes across the complex. Both of you rush to the edge of the river only to see the fractured pieces of a helicopter sink.
Every muscle in your body wants to jump in. He’s in there! Your heart screams—but your gut says, Wait.
Carefully, you slide your gaze over. The man doesn’t seem to have noticed you, but he seems to have seen something else. You glance back but don’t notice anything significant. He turns on his heel, walking purposefully from the courtyard. You cast a desperate glance back to the river before following him, your gut winning this fight.
You follow him on foot on a long, winding, route. Each step, each moment you think he’s come to his destination only to continue on, each time you narrowly escape his keen observations leaving you more and more exhausted.
You’re so close to breaking that when he finally enters a dilapidated building in an industrial complex and doesn’t exit you nearly weep—you may not know if Bucky is here but you do know your body cannot take much more.
Ignoring the chill rising up your spine as you hear helicopters overhead, you slip into the building silent as a shadow, only the tips of your boots touching the ground just enough to allow you to pivot if needed.
Steve and the man are in a room away from the main space judging by their raised voices. It was pure luck, there were few spaces to hide in the open building, had they been there you’d be seen. Still… If you’re going to wait them out you need a place to hide Thankfully, most people rarely, if ever, thought to look up.
Praying your power holds out you push yourself from the ground and perching above the doorway to the room they occupy, listening.
“He tried to kill us!” One of them bellows. “I get trying to repay some kind of old debt or something. But you pulled him out, I’d say you’re even.”
“I get it, Sam,” Steve says, voice low and thick with emotion.
“Do you?” The person you assume is Sam growls out.
“Yes. But I can’t just… He wouldn’t leave me behind, he’d never-”
“Steve…”
“I just need to know. I need to know if he…”
“The odds aren’t looking good man,” Sam sighs out. “You really think that’s gonna hold him when he comes to?”
When he comes to… Those words light a fire in your veins, chasing away the bone-crushing exhaustion from a moment before.
He is here. He’s right here. You almost rush down to him but sense wins—he was there, unconscious. Sure, you may be able to fight these two off but you couldn’t get you both to safety if he was dead weight. Plus… when he woke would he be himself…
You hear shuffling from the room. Panicked, you push yourself up a bit higher, using the old pipe as support, and guide yourself to a far corner, toes resting on the pipe, body curled against the rafters. And so you wait.
Sam and Steve make rounds of the building a few times, never thinking to look up just like you suspected. As you wait you see two different versions of Steve Rogers.
When Sam is around he’s solid, seemingly unshaken by what’s happened. Donning the mask of a leader without thought. The moment Sam goes into the other room though… the mask is gone. Steve looks smaller somehow, shoulders slumped, pace less measured. His fingers run through his hair over and over in a nervous tick. Just like Bucky, you think with a smile.
It feels like an age before Sam calls to Steve sending your heart into your throat. Steve sprints into the room, following Sam.
Silently you return to your place above the door. A small pained noise hits your ears causing your heart to seize. Bucky… Patience, you coach yourself to keep from doing something stupid.
“Steve,” he says in a huff.
“Which Bucky am I talkin’ to?” Steve’s voice is cold, the mask back on. There’s a pause and you don’t dare breathe.
“Your mom’s name was Sarah…” Your body tenses. “You used to wear newspapers in your shoes,” Bucky says, a soft laugh coloring his tone.
Tears sting your eyes and you feel yourself breath just a little easier. It’s him. He’s alive and in control and… he is yours. Steve may want answers, may even be willing to help, but you don’t know them and don’t trust them. You’re going to get the two of you out of here no matter what it takes.
Dropping down you fling Sam across the room, with a blast of power that surprises even you, before they even realize you’re there.
Steve, caught off guard rushes you—he doesn’t get far. You grab his ankles and with a flick of your wrist, you send him to the ground, his own momentum working against him. Sam was up again but you pin him easily enough as you slam a wall of force down on Steve to keep him down.
“Y/N!” Bucky gasps as you hurry to his side.
You can’t speak, scared that you’ll lose focus, already feeling the tingle of pain in your skull from using so much power. His arm is caught in a vice of some sort. Groaning you use your hands to pry it open just enough for him to get loose. Steve slips your hold and lunges but you manage to push him back.
“What the fuck is this?!” Rage rumbles in Sam’s words.
“Bucky?” Steve looks at Bucky behind you, eyes begging for answers.
“It’s ok,” Bucky says, voice steady behind you. His arms wrap around you, pulling your back tight against his chest. “It’s ok,” he says again, breath hot on your ear. “Let them go, Y/N.”
“No,” your voice steadier than you anticipated. “We need to go, we have to-”
“It’s ok, doll,” he coos, like you were waking from a bad dream. Steve’s eyes are on Bucky still, some silent communion taking place because Steve nods before Bucky says, “We can trust them, it’s ok.”
But it wasn’t. Nothing was ok… Pain cracks through your skull, your power recoiling as it thunders back, and you shudder. His grip loosens and the other two men don’t move as you turn in his arms.
“Bucky,” your voice cracks.
“It’s ok,” he repeats, his kind eyes studying your face, “I’ve got y-” Gentle metal fingers trace the bruise forming on your cheek and wander down to your throat. “Who…” Realization dawns with horror on his face as he pushes you away stumbling back.
“It wasn’t you,” your voice soft. It feels like the oxygen in the room has been replaced with tension. You place a hand on his arm and he pulls away, it hurts worse than any bruise.
“Wasn’t…” he shakes his head, tremors tearing him as he collapses onto the floor, back to the vice that held him a moment before. He turns desperate eyes to Steve, “What did I do?”
Steve looks at your own desperate expression, begging him to be kind. “Enough,” he says. Bucky’s eyes squeeze shut, his head hitting the metal behind him with a painful thud. You fall to his side, taking his face in your hands, trying to force him to look at you.
“You didn’t-”
“I knew this would happen,” it’s barely a whisper, his eyes refusing to meet yours. “It’s all still there, everything Hydra put in my head.”
“And you’re still there too. You. Bucky Barnes,” your voice is strong now, needing him to hear you. “You stopped yourself from killing people, from killing me. You fought-”
“I hurt you,” his eyes finally met yours, the pain there threatening to swallow you both.
“I’ve hurt you, remember?” Your hand rests on his abdomen where purple bruises once bloomed darkly after you lost control during a flashback.
“This disfunction is touching but who the hell are you?”
“Sam,” Steve says, warning in his tone. You glare at Sam over your shoulder before Bucky coaxes you to sit between his legs, clearly wanting you both to remain as non-threatening as possible.
“What?” He gestures at you and Bucky. “It’s a fair question considering both of them have thrown my ass across a room today.”
“He has a point,” Steve looks to Bucky.
You sigh, “Y/N. My name is, Y/N.” Silence hangs for a moment.
“Like Cher? Just the one name?” Sam crosses his arms and cocks a brow at you.
“Yeah,” you smirk up at him. “Just like, Cher.”
Bucky’s arms tighten around you, his focus on Steve, “She’s my girl.” You see Steve’s face soften.
“So the assassin has a girlfriend and I can’t even get a date?” Sam rolls his eyes shaking his head.
“Have you considered, or rather reconsidered, your winning personality?” You snipe back, watching Sam fight a smile.
“Are you both done?” Steve looks between you and Sam.
“For now,” Sam sighs, sitting on the floor as well, his back to the wall.
Steve runs a hand through his hair, “What did that guy want with you Buck? The doctor.”
“I… I don’t know.” A tremor runs through his body behind you and you give his forearm a comforting squeeze.
“I need you to try and remember. He attacked some of the most powerful people in the world for the opportunity to get 10 minutes alone with you. We need to know why.”
“He said he didn’t know,” you bristle.
Steve doesn’t acknowledge you, “Bucky…”
“He… He wanted to know about… Si-Siberia.” Bucky’s voice is strained, as though reaching for this information is painful. “Where I was kept…” You shift in his hold so your back is pressed against his inner thigh to be able to see his face.
“Why?” Your brows knit. Of all the things-
“Because… I’m not the only Winter Soldier,” he says, eyes glued to the middle distance, unable to meet anyone’s gaze.
Your body goes stiff, blood cold, as he lays out the story. Flashes fill your mind when he speaks on the serum they pumped into the agents—blue and burning and… running through your own veins. Without thinking your fingers wander to the track marks on your arms, tracing them over and over again while Bucky describes what these other soldiers are capable of.
Sam and Steve huddle together talking. Bucky’s warm fingers catch your hand, “It’s because of me. Like I said. They were able to do this to you because of me…”
“You were Hydra,” Steve turns on you both, voice dripping with venom.
“No,” Bucky says.
“You said those people were Hydra-” Sam starts.
“I’m not fucking Hydra,” your voice shakes. “I wasn’t one of them. They… they took me.”
“Why?” Steve’s expression is cold, distrusting.
Your jaw clenches as you send Steve stumbling back several paces. “That’s why,” you growl.
“You trust her?” Steve asks Bucky.
“With my life,” Bucky says. The certainty in his voice makes your heart sing.
“I think the question here is do you trust him?” Sam asks Steve, voice laced with disbelief.
“I do.”
“So some heartfelt sharing and just like that we’re supposed to be cool? That makes sense.”
Sighing heavily you run your hand over your face, feeling the weight of exhaustion beginning to press in once more. “I think a fucking Hydra death squad being let lose is a more pressing matter than who trusts who don’t you?”
“She’s right,” Steve says. He walks over to Sam, taking a seat beside him. “We need a plan.”
“You plan things now?” Bucky asks, a note of humor coloring his words. Sam issues a knowing scoff causing Steve to glare at them both.
“Whatever the plan we should sort it out in a better place than this.” You say, looking around the space. “Like maybe a place with a door that locks?”
“Open to suggestions,” Steve says.
“I think I noticed some shitty hotels not too far away.” You try to think of the buildings you passed on your way here.
“In case it slipped your notice we’re kind of being hunted,” Sam says.
You grin, “You guys are being hunted. I’m not.” Steve’s smile mirrors your own.
“Absolutely not,” Bucky’s tone is no-nonsense.
You spin on him, “Do you have a better idea?” His jaw flexes as you stare at him. “Didn’t think so. We need to get out of here to someplace where we can sort this shit out and I’m the only one here who’s face hasn’t been plastered across news channels around the whole damn world.”
His eyes narrow, “What exactly do you think we’re gonna sort out? You’re going to get the hell out of here and we-” he gestures to the other men-“will find a way to-”
“The hell you will!” You shoot to your feet, staring down at him in shock. “You just said some psycho is planning to unleash a bevy of Hydra fuckery onto the world and you actually think I’m going to run off like some damsel?!”
“Y/N-”
“Don’t. There isn’t anything to discuss. I’m in this. We are in this.”
“Oh I like her,” Sam says with a smile. Bucky gives him a murderous look but doesn’t argue further.
Despite Bucky’s protest you’re soon ditching the top of your stolen tactical gear in favor of Sam’s leather jacket and sneaking off into the growing afternoon shadows.
First thing you need is cash.
It feels like old times as you slide into a dim pub, already filling with patrons fresh off from work, and effortlessly slide a few wallets and money clips out and away from their owners. You ditch the wallets, cards, and IDs in the bathroom trash and move to head out before your reflection catches your attention in the mirror.
The circles under your eyes are practically purple in the light, your hair a tousled mess. You sigh heavily, resting your hands on the sink as your stomach roars. No time for that now. Instead, you drink from the faucet long and deep, splash some water on your face, and get back to the tasks at hand.
It’s full dark by the time you pull up to the warehouse.
When you see Bucky he looks like he’s about two minutes from razing Berlin to find you.
“What took so long?” He grumbles once you’re inside.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Could you steal cash, a car, get food, and find the most questionable hotel in Berlin faster? I’ll be sure to let you do it next time.” Behind you Sam snickers.
Bucky pulls you into his arms. “I’m just happy you’re ok.” You look up, giving him a weak smile before resting your head on his chest, your eyes begging to close.
“Are we clear?” Steve asks.
“Yeah.” You nod toward the exit and they follow, Bucky taking your hand in his.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Sam says, gawking at the beat-up Beetle waiting for you all.
“It’s a classic,” you say over your shoulder. “Plus, no one is gonna look for two super soldiers and a… Bird… Guy, in this.”
“It’s Falcon,” Sam throws at you as he rounds the car to pry open the rusty passenger door. “Bird Guy,” he mutters under his breath, folding himself into the back seat. Steve chuckles a little as he somehow shoves himself in beside Sam.
Before Bucky releases your hand you sway a bit.
“Baby doll?” He steadies you, hands on your shoulders.
“Just tired,” you say, doing your best to sound nonchalant. His eyes brim with concern. “Seriously. I’m ok. I’ve got you.” You place your hand over the steady thrum of his heart.
He shakes his head, the corner of his mouth rising a bit, and lowers his lips to your forehead. A knocking on the small back window of the car hits your ears.
“Not to ruin the moment but…” Sam says. You both laugh a little before climbing into the car.
“You boys comfy back there?” You ask, looking back at them through the rearview mirror.
“Yeah-” Steve’s knees jam into the back of Bucky’s seat- “plenty of room to spread out.”
“Still a punk,” Bucky huffs pushing his seat back a little farther.
The three of you stand in the doorway to the hotel room, giving yourselves a moment to acclimate to the stale smell.
“Getting scabies is the perfect way to top off this shitty day,” Sam sighs out.
“It’s been more than a day,” Steve says dryly.
“Rogers. Shut up.” Sam shoulders past you all. “I’m taking a shower.” He’s in the bathroom for about thirty seconds before he exits.
“On second thought, dealing with my stink is the least you all owe me.” He immediately face plants on the nearest bed, the cry of old springs filling the room.
“Maybe the other bathroom is better,” you say opening the door to the adjoining room, Bucky silently trailing behind you. It’s equally musty but the bathroom doesn’t look like someone died in it recently. You’d certainly showered in worse.
“This one isn’t so bad, Sam,” you call out to him.
“Nope,” he says, voice muffled. “Too late.”
Steve shakes his head at Sam’s prone form as he sits on the edge of the other bed. Relief floods his features as he lifts the receiver on the old phone, it must actually work. His eyes run over you and Bucky, hovering by the door to the other room, then back to Sam.
“I’m gonna make some calls. You guys get some rest and I’ll get you when we’ve got enough intel to start putting together a plan.”
“You sure?” Bucky asks, wrapping an arm around your waist.
“Yeah,” Steve smiles. The two of you turn to leave. “And, Y/N…” You turn back to Steve. “Thank you.” His words are filled with sincerity and hold so much more than their simplicity would suggest.
“I think I owe you at least a few.” You glance up at Bucky. Steve pulled him from the river and likely did more that you didn’t know. Something tells you that you’d have lost Bucky today was it not for him.
“I’d say we’re even.” He sighs, “Rest up. We’re gonna need it.”
Bucky closes the door behind him and your legs finally give out as you collapse on the edge of the bed, your head held in your hands. Suddenly your breath is ragged, body trembling, you don’t have an ounce of will left in you to control either.
The sound of angry springs tells you he’s perched on the opposite bed.
“I’m sorry,” Bucky says, his voice rough. You look up at him, his expression is bereft. “You don’t have to do any of this, Y/N. You don’t. This doesn’t have to be your fight.”
You’re too tired to be mad at him but you bristle all the same. “It is my fight.” His brows knit and you press on. “He came for you. That makes this my fight, even without Hydra being involved.” Venom drips from your next words, “And if I get my hands on him first. I swear I’ll break him in every way I know how.”
Bucky rises, kneeling on the ground in front of you, gathering your hands in his. It reminds you of when you first met, how he’d kept you from being crushed under the weight of your grief, even after you’d attacked him and tied him to a wall. Your eyes sting with tears and you try to swallow the lump in your throat.
“Y/N…” His thumbs run over the ridges of your knuckles before he lifts your hands to press a kiss on the back of each. “You’re my whole heart. The one good thing that’s come from the nightmare that the last 70 years has been… And I need you to promise me something.”
All you can do is nod, unwilling to say anything too committal.
“Promise me that if…” He swallows hard looking away for a moment before turning his focus back to you. “That no matter what happens to me… Promise you won’t give up.”
No matter what happens… The implications make your chest seize. You look away, trying to pull from his grip but he holds you tight.
“Y/N,” his voice is calm and steady, “look at me.” Begrudgingly you do. “We don’t know what may happen, we never did. But now…” Now the threat was more tangible. You close your eyes, trying to fight back the tears.
“I just need to know that you’ll keep going,” his voice cracks on the last word. You open your eyes—tears, breaching their banks, flow silently down your cheeks—and study the face of the man you love.
He was so beautiful. Those eyes that told his story often better than his perfect mouth ever could. The lips you loved to feel on your skin, hiding a smile that you knew could shame the sun. You pull your hand free from his and trace his strong brows, the crease between them that formed when he was worried or thinking too much. Your thumb dashes away a lone tear that sneaks out of the corner of his eye and take a deep, shaky, breath.
A part of you wants to give him what he wants—promise him that you’ll be fine, thrive even, no matter what. A part wishes you were that unbreakable… but you’re not. A world without him… It wasn’t unimaginable, you’d lost too many people to be that naive, but it was a nightmare to consider. You can’t promise him much but you can give him something.
“I promise I’ll try…”
His smile is soft, a little sad, as he pulls your hand from his face to press a kiss to your palm. “That’s enough.”
“You have to do the same though.” His eyes narrow, body tensing a bit. You knew he’d only seen one side of this, the one where he’s taken in or down—but he wasn’t the only one heading into this situation, there was enough risk to go around.
His jaw flexes and you think he’s going to protest but instead, he says, “I promise, Y/N.” You give a small nod, face contorting as you press down a sob, too scared to fall apart now.
Bucky takes your face in his hands, pressing his lips to yours with an intensity that takes your breath away. Your chest fills as though you haven’t truly taken a breath since you’d last tasted him. His fingers tangle in your hair, his tongue sliding between your teeth. A small sob finally breaks free from you, but he catches it and the pain it carries with his kiss.
A hurricane of love, fear, relief, and exhaustion rages through you. Rather than fight it, you let it come, let the tears flow, let him gather you in his arms and carry you into the tiny bathroom, setting you on the sink.
Your kisses taste like the sea as your hands clumsily tear at each other’s filthy clothes until they reach purchase on the flesh they crave. Everything slows then. Each touch becoming less desperate and more reverential, memorizing the dips and curves of each other because… Because maybe this is the last time.
You won’t give that thought any space to take root.
Bucky turns the water in the shower on, steaming hot before lifting you in his arms again. You wrap your legs around his waist feeling the length of him brush against you. Once in the enveloping warmth of the shower he slowly slides inside you.
For a few minutes, you remain connected like this, staring into each other’s eyes. You want to remember this, remember how he feels, how his eyes are always so blue when they’re wide with wanting.
Under the heat of the water the two of you make love as though there isn’t disaster dangling just beyond your line of sight—unhurried, sighing love between kisses, whispering it into ears, saying it with your bodies as you both come together, quietly.
You’d just slipped your teeshirt back on when a knock sounds quietly on the other side of the door between the rooms. Bucky answers, still roughly toweling his hair in only his jeans.
“Hey, sorry,” Steve says somewhat awkwardly. “I got through to some folks faster than I thought I would.”
“That’s great,” Bucky says. You come up behind him, handing him his white undershirt, as you both head to the other room.
Sam smirks at the two of you, “How’s the shower?”
Bucky makes a small noise and you laugh, “Passable.”
“Good.” Sam looks to Steve, “Lay it out, Rogers.”
Steve leans by the window, arms crossed. “Sharon is going to meet us an 0700. Thankfully she’s not one to hold grudges.”
Bucky’s face drops, “Did I-”
“Pretty blonde?” You ask taking a shot in the dark and cutting him off from falling into that guilt trip.
“Yeah,” Steve nods.
“No worries there babe, that one’s on me.” You pat his shoulder and sit on the empty bed. Bucky raises a brow before joining you.
Steve shakes his head, “She’s got mine and Sam’s gear and agreed to grab a few things for the two of you as well.”
“That’s generous,” Bucky says with suspicion.
“It wasn’t hard to convince her after I explained what was going on.”
“And Clint?” Sam asks.
“Yup. He’s on board and is gonna reach out to Wanda and get your guy, Lang.”
“Wouldn’t call him my guy,” Sam says, groaning as he sits up. “But if he can get the drop on me I say he’s a good addition.”
Steve looks at you, “Assuming you’re in too?”
“Absolutely.” Bucky takes your hand in his, holding tight. Steve nods in approval.
Steve gives you an approving nod, “Then we rendezvous at the airport. Clint is covering transpo. From there we head to Siberia and hope we can stop him before he topples whatever empire he’s aiming for.”
“Alright.” Sam stands to stretch. “You two cool with switching rooms? I need to shower.”
“Fine with me,” you look at Bucky and he nods in approval.
Once the guys leave you lay on top of the dingy comforter. It takes all of one minute for you to fall into a deep sleep.
-
Bucky counts your breaths, hoping they will lull him to sleep. Instead, he finds himself studying your face, the little sounds you make, the way your lashes just barely graze your cheeks.
He almost lost this.
Like a memory from a nightmare he recalls his left hand tight on your throat, the look of terror and determination in your eyes, your hand reaching out, calling his name. He can still feel the shock through his skull as your name thundered into his consciousness then. You had been enough to pull him back, even if only for a moment.
Just before dawn he’s restless, body humming with anxiety and anticipation.
Delicately he extricates himself from the bed, hovering for a moment to make sure you’re not awake. He heads out into the hall, propping the door open with the latch to make sure he’ll hear any sign of you waking.
“Had a feeling I’d see you out here eventually,” Steve says from his spot on the floor just down the hall. “You never could sleep the night before a mission.”
“Neither could you.” Bucky slides down the wall across from Steve.
Steve’s gaze is focused on his palms, forearms resting on his knees. He doesn’t look up when he says, “How much… How much do you really remember?”
Bucky sighs, “I…” His mouth goes dry suddenly, unsure of how to quantify this. Then he remembers the stories he shared with you, a smile rising to his face.
“I remember that one time we got caught sneaking into the pictures and hid out in a dumpster.” Steve laughs a little but still doesn’t look up. “I remember DumDum always challenging you to a drinking contest knowing he’d lose every time. And…” Bucky swallows hard, smile falling, “I remembered… I remembered what I said when your Ma passed.” This causes Steve to look up, eyes big and glassy.
“The end of the line,” Bucky says, voice thick with emotion. Quickly he dashes away tears threatening to fall, not wanting Steve to ever see him break. “I’m so sorry, Steve. I tried-” He doesn’t finish, cut off by Steve’s bone-crushing embrace.
It takes him a minute to realize that Steve keeps repeating, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” like a chant under his breath.
“Pal-” Bucky pats his back firmly- “you’ve got nothing to be sorry for.”
“I do,” Steve barely manages as he pulls back, Adam’s apple bobbing hard in his throat. “I couldn’t save you. All the times you backed me up, saving my ass, again and again, our whole lives and… when it mattered-”
Bucky shakes his head, “You’re impossible.” Steve leans against the wall next to him, wiping his nose on his arm. “Did you forget pulling me, hell the lot of us, out of that facility? Thought I was the one with memory problems, man.”
Steve throws him one of his signature sidelong looks. Bucky grins, knowing that means he’s getting through.
“Do you remember it?” Steve takes a shaky breath, “The train?”
“No.”
Steve sniffs hard, nodding and clearing his throat.
“Y/N, must be somethin’.” There’s nothing false in the smile he throws Bucky’s way. “Don’t think I ever saw you look at a gal like that.”
Bucky huffs a small laugh, casting a quick glance at the cracked door. “I don’t think I ever did.”
“You deserve that, Buck.”
“Not sure about that. But I want to…”
Steve claps a hand on his shoulder, “You do, brother. I promise.” Bucky manages a half-smile.
“Steve…” He rubs his hands together, unsure if he has any right to ask this, but knowing he has to. “If anything happens to me…”
“I’ll have her back.” Bucky looks at him, a little slack-jawed. “You’re my family, Bucky. That makes her family too.”
“Thank you, Steve.”
“Don’t mention it.” He shoves his shoulder into Bucky’s. “But, let’s both try to make it out of this one.”
“Deal.” Bucky sighs, leaning his head back against the wall.
“I lost her… Peggy,” Steve says after several minutes. Bucky had figured as much but his chest tightens all the same. “They buried her two days ago.”
“Oh, Stevie…” The old nickname slips out and he cringes a bit, remembering Steve hated it. He’d assumed Peggy, everyone, had been gone for some time by now.
“It’s ok.” A sad smile fills Steve’s face, tears threatening. “You did say that I’d regret waiting. You were right.” Bucky doesn’t know what to say, he just rests what he hopes is a comforting hand on Steve’s knee.
“Don’t waste any time you have together, Buck.” Steve stands suddenly, shaking off the sadness like it was nothing. Bucky knows its bullshit, just a front Steve Rogers was good at putting up. He holds a hand out and pulls Bucky up.
“Get your ass back in there. We’ve got almost two hours until we leave.”
Bucky smiles tightly and nods before heading into the room.
You’re still asleep when he closes the door quietly behind him. He slides up next to you, pulling you tight to his chest, pressing kisses to your brow.
“Bucky,” you say in a groggy voice.
“Mhm,” he hums.
“Is everything ok?”
“Yup. We have a little while before we roll out.”
You nod, “Good.”
“Kiss me,” he says low. That’s all he wants to do until you run out of time. Kiss you, hold you. Pry one more good moment from this mess of a situation.
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Choose Your Fate - Logan Delos - 2
So part one was a hit! I’m so excited to share this story with you all. I just hope you guys like it!
And winning by a landslide, we’ll be meeting Logan at work! So enjoy!
Tags are at the bottom. Let me know if you would like to be added to one of my tag lists!
*gif not mine*
Enjoy!
*****
The office was quiet but that's why you liked it this early. You slipped into your office and quietly shut the door.
Solitude was hard to come by these days. Someone always wanted something from you. Your father wanted you to push boundaries, your sister wanted you to find a social life, your coworkers–employees, now–wanted you to guide them into the future. Everyone wanted something from you and it didn't leave much left.
But early in the morning, before everyone else came to the office? You loved those moments. It was quiet and peaceful, just you and your paperwork as the sun slowly started to filter in through the large windows that surrounded your office.
Alpha testing on the sims was almost complete. Marco's very detailed memos told you that things were headed in the right direction. You were extraordinarily excited for what was next.
This was what was going to put Y/L/N on the map. Maybe even overtake the competition completely.
Unbidden a quick image of Logan came to mind but you shook your head. Three weeks. It's been three weeks; surely you'd stop thinking about him at some point?
Taking down Delos wasn't personal for you the way it was for your dad. He hated James Delos and the thought of trampling them into the ground made him strive for more. You tried to explain that leaving you in the lab would achieve that quicker, but he wouldn't hear it.
"You're my daughter, a Y/L/N, not a scientist."
Like you couldn't be both. Like your degrees cared what last name was written on them.
A new memo was in your inbox so you opened it up. Marco often sent more updates than needed, but you didn't mind. This was the only way you could follow the progression it seemed.
Project Janus:
We seem to have hit a snare. The sims are incredibly lifelike until we try to spawn them. Each one has a different and yet similar reaction and ultimately fails. We don't have the right coding yet.
Marco
Dammit. This wasn't how it was supposed to go at all. Without the exact right coding, the sims would never be enough and never leave alpha testing.
It wasn't that you thought you could do it better than they could. Your people were some of the best in the world. You just wished you were still down there getting your hands dirty.
But maybe there was a different way for you to get your hands dirty.
You opened a drawer and fished out a card that you had slipped under the black metal pen box. The card was high quality; the type of card stock that would come apart almost more like cloth than paper. On the front in neat black type was one name and phone number.
James Delos
You tapped the card on the top of your desk as you thought through your next step. Your dad would kill you. Your sister would disown you.
But Y/L/N would succeed.
Without another thought, you picked up your desk phone and dialed. A soft voice answered, his secretary explaining that Mr Delos doesn't accept calls before a certain time.
"He'll want to take this call," you offered with more confidence than you felt. "Tell him this is Y/N Y/L/N and I'd like to have a chat."
------
The meeting was at a working lunch. James Delos had told you that he was going to send one of his shareholders out to meet with you. It would keep some of the heat off of both your companies until it could be determined if it was going to work or not.
You weren't sure which shareholder you'd be meeting with until you saw the man entering the restaurant.
Shareholder? More like future son in law. William Wyatt had a foot in the door, sure, but by securing a marriage to Juliet Delos, he was making himself indispensable. And apparently it was working because James trusted him with matters that directly affected Delos Inc.
William headed in your direction, a far cry from the cutthroat businessman you expected to join you. You almost wondered if James Delos was taking you seriously at all.
"Ah, Miss Y/L/N," he greeted as he go to your side, offering his hand to you when you stood to greet him. "It's a pleasure to finally put a face to a name."
You gave a tight lipped smile as both of you sat down again. The waiter came over to take your orders, a bored look on her face as she did. You ordered a salad and a water, something light since you had a feeling that this wasn't going to be a very productive meeting, but you came up short when William mentioned someone else was coming.
"My associate will be joining us in a moment," he offered with a smile.
An associate of William's? Another shareholder perhaps? You tried to hide your frown.
James Delos should have just told you that he wasn't interested. This was just ridiculous.
"Ah. There he is," William said as he looked up at the entrance.
You followed his gaze and immediately choked on your tongue. Somehow it didn't occur to you that Logan might come. You hadn't thought the universe could be that cruel.
He was looking at his phone so he hadn't noticed you yet. Part of you wondered if you could slip away without being noticed. William was trying to flag down Logan without causing too much a ruckus and you were trying to sink into your chair.
When Logan did look up, he noticed William's awkward movements first. Then his eyes went to you. And the immediate flash of recognition made you wish you could have slipped away before he looked. There was a heat in his eyes that you didn’t mistake as anything other than displeasure at seeing you after you ditched him three weeks ago.
"Better late than never," William muttered as Logan approached.
Logan heard the words and his eyes landed on you once more. His eyebrow raised as he moved to sit next to William.
"Better late than never," he repeated as he settled in to his seat. He didn't offer you his hand or introduce himself.
He didn't need to.
"Uh," William said uncertainly as he looked between the two of you. "Y/N, this is Logan Delos. Logan, this is Y/N Y/L/N."
His eyes narrowed a bit at your name, but that was the only reaction you got. He slung his arm over the small wall that sat behind their chairs, gesturing with his freehand to you.
“You requested this meeting, Miss Y/L/N,” he said, drawing your last name out a few extra syllables.
“So I did,” you said under your breath. “As I explained to Mr Delos–”
“My father,” Logan said with a pointed look that hopefully William missed.
“–I have a proposition for Delos Inc,” you continued as if he hadn’t interrupted. “My company will soon be launching a new product. As you may know, Y/L/N is more prominent on the east coast. Out here we are still making our bones.”
“You’ve done pretty well for yourself,” William said as he leaned in a bit, pressing his forearms against the table. “Y/L/N rivals Delos Inc in some of the virtual reality aspects that you’ve developed.”
Logan shifted as if he was uncomfortable with William mentioning that. You smiled politely and moved on without addressing that part. It wouldn’t serve your purpose to put them on the defensive right then.
“The product that we’re launching could use a foothold here on the west coast,” you continued, but Logan cut in before you could say anything else.
“How much?” At your startled look, he shrugged his shoulder and gave you a small smirk. “It’s obvious that you’re asking Delos to invest. A fifty-fifty split before the launch?”
“Seventy-five, twenty-five. We’re not looking for a venture capitalist, just a foothold. Y/L/N and Delos Inc rub elbows a little bit and then when it comes time to launch, the company has a good enough reputation to build from.”
William nodded his head as if it made perfect sense. He turned to look at Logan, his eyebrows drawing together as he looked at his associate. Logan looked positively unimpressed.
“What would your father say about you getting in bed with the enemy?”
It hit too close to home. Heat started to trickle up your neck and you forced yourself to stay composed.
“I’m not a board member or a shareholder, Mr Delos; I’m the CEO. I make the decisions that I think are best for my company and I don’t need to ask permission to do something.”
It was a low blow and by the glare you received, you knew the blow landed. He sat up a bit straighter, his eyes darting off to the side. You could see mental calculations going before he cleared his throat. He nudged William and drew his attention to a woman that was standing near one of the other tables.
“Isn’t that Claudia? One of Juliet’s bridesmaids?” At William’s nod, Logan nudged him again. “You should go say hello. The wedding is coming up and you’ll need to make nice with the sorority sisters.”
Reluctantly, William excused himself before he made his way over to the woman. You watched him retreat because it felt safer than staring at the man in front of you.
“I’m going to be honest,” he said lowly, “but getting involved with your company makes me a little apprehensive. If you can’t be trusted to keep your word on some things, why should I believe you now?”
Payback for your earlier jab. You turned and met his eyes, forcing yourself not to get lost in the darkness.
“I didn’t go with you because I found out you are a Delos. I’m not interested in mixing business with pleasure,” you said simply with a shrug, picking up your water to sip at it before you continued. “I’m completely dedicated to my company. I wouldn’t do anything to put it in jeopardy.”
He cocked his head as he stared at you, obviously weighing your words. Finally he reached out for a drink that you hadn’t even noticed be delivered to the table.
“What’s this product that you want us to invest in?”
You pulled your clutch up and removed a thin USB thumbdrive. You let it rest in your palm for a moment before you looked back at Logan.
“It’s called project Orpheus. It’s an interface system, direct and three dimensional. This,” you said as you held up the thumbdrive, “is the censored version of our research thus far. It’s all copyrighted, so I can allow you to see it, but only if you’re serious about investing. I’m not out here to play games.”
Logan, who had teetered between intrigue and disinterest in you since he had arrived, finally showed a new emotion: respect. He glanced over to where poor William seemed to be getting an earful from a woman with too much enthusiasm. Then he looked back at you.
Had you thought the feeling you’d felt with those black eyes on you had been a fluke? Brought on by alcohol and being in a new place and the lack of any connection as the attractive man seduced you with a few looks and a few honeyed words? You felt like you were being lit on fire from the inside as he stared at you right now.
“I’ll make my recommendation to my father based on what your Orpheus shows us,” he said as he held his hand out. “The potential in investing with Y/L/N will outweigh any scuff ups from us being rivals.”
That’s what you were counting on. You dropped the thumbdrive in his palm but you weren’t quick enough to pull your hand away before his brushed yours.
One touch and you were ready to throw the whole plan to hell.
“You boys can stay and enjoy lunch on my company,” you said as you stood up, grabbing your clutch once more. “My number is on the drive so have one of your people give us a call if you decide to go through with it. The thumbdrive is set to wipe itself in twelve hours and will corrupt if copied, so try not to screw me over.”
He smirked as he leaned back in his seat, his drink hanging from his fingers.
“I think I’ve learned my lesson from trying to screw you,” he said with a raised eyebrow.
Yup, you weren’t going to address that. Instead you turned and left the restaurant, not even waiting to say goodbye to William.
Hopefully your little gambit worked. Otherwise your racing heart was for nothing.
------
“I’ve got those schematics you were looking for this morning,” Marco said as he came into your office, putting them down on the table. “Why were you looking at Orpheus? That project has been ready for launch for months.”
“I pitched an investment to Delos Inc,” you admitted, not willing to lie just then.
Marco looked absolutely stunned.
“To Delos? But they are your rivals. Your father–”
“Trusts me to do what I have to.”
He gave you a nod before he settled down in the chair across from you. He still looked a little apprehensive, but you saw something else there. He didn’t wait long before mentioning it.
“Why would you pitch Orpheus for investment? It’s fully funded and, like I said, ready for launch already.”
You tapped a finger against the schematics he had brought you.
“Because Janus isn’t ready. We can’t launch Janus without something under our belt already, even if it was one hundred percent ready. Orpheus is small enough that we can launch it with Delos as an investor and then anything that follows has the immediate step up.”
The realization came over his face and he grinned at you.
“And we can transfer our funds from Orpheus to Janus since it’ll be made up by Delos. And once Janus is ready, we can piggyback off the success from Orpheus.”
You smirked and leaned forward a bit.
“I pitched twenty five but honestly? If they give us ten percent, we’ll be over budget for Janus and Orpheus. All I have to do is make Orpheus last long enough to get Janus out of beta testing and we’ll be golden.”
You’d thought this through quite a lot. You still couldn’t believe how close you were to having it come true. Marco was staring at you with such admiration that you felt a little uncomfortable, but you allowed yourself a moment to bask anyways.
This was why your dad put you in this position. You’d do anything you had to to make Y/L/N successful. And if it gave you one up on Delos Inc, where was the harm in that?
X
A post will be up right after this for voting.
X
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A bird’s eye view of Asia: A continental landscape of minorities in peril
By James M. Dorsey
A podcast version of this story is available on Soundcloud, Itunes, Spotify, Stitcher, TuneIn, Spreaker, Pocket Casts, Tumblr, Patreon, Podbean and Castbox.
Many in Asia look at the Middle East with a mixture of expectation of stable energy supplies, hope for economic opportunity and concern about a potential fallout of the region’s multiple violent conflicts that are often cloaked in ethnic, religious and sectarian terms.
Yet, a host of Asian nations led by men and women, who redefine identity as concepts of exclusionary civilization, ethnicity, and religious primacy rather than inclusive pluralism and multiculturalism, risk sowing the seeds of radicalization rooted in the despair of population groups that are increasingly persecuted, disenfranchised and marginalized.
Leaders like China’s Xi Jingping, India’s Narendra Modi, and Myanmar’s Win Myint and Aung San Suu Kyi, alongside nationalist and supremacist religious figures ignore the fact that crisis in the Middle East is rooted in autocratic and authoritarian survival strategies that rely on debilitating manipulation of national identity on the basis of sectarianism, ethnicity and faith-based nationalism.
A bird’s eye view of Asia produces a picture of a continental landscape strewn with minorities on the defensive whose positioning as full-fledged members of society with equal rights and opportunities is either being eroded or severely curtailed.
It also highlights a pattern of responses by governments and regional associations that opt for a focus on pre-emptive security, kicking the can down the road and/or silent acquiescence rather than addressing a wound head-on that can only fester, making cures ever more difficult.
To be sure, multiple Asian states, including Malaysia, Indonesia, Thailand, the Philippines, Pakistan, Bangladesh and India have at various times opened their doors to refugees.
Similarly, the Association of Southeast Asian Nations’ (ASEAN) disaster management unit has focused on facilitating and streamlining repatriation of Rohingya refugees in Bangladesh.
But a leaked report by the unit, AHA Centre, in advance of last June’s ASEAN summit was criticized for evading a discussion on creating an environment in which Rohingya would be willing to return.
The criticism went to the core of the problem: Civilizationalist policies, including cultural genocide, isolating communities from the outside world, and discrimination will at best produce simmering anger, frustration and despair and at worst mass migration, militancy and/or political violence.
A Uyghur member of the Communist Party for 30 years who did not practice his religion, Ainiwa Niyazi, would seem to be the picture-perfect model of a Chinese citizen hailing from the north-western province of Xinjiang.
Yet, Mr Niyazi was targeted in April of last year for re-education, one of at least a million Turkic Muslims interned in detention facilities where they are forced to internalize Xi Jinping thought and repudiate religious norms and practices in what constitutes the most frontal assault on a faith in recent history.
If past efforts, including an attempt to turn Kurds into Turks by banning use of Kurdish as a language that sparked a still ongoing low level insurgency, is anything to go by, China’s ability to achieve a similar goal with greater brutality is questionable.
“Most Uyghur young men my age are psychologically damaged. When I was in elementary school surrounded by other Uyghurs, I was very outgoing and active. Now I feel like I have been broken… Quality of life is now about feeling safe,” said Alim, a young Uyghur, describing to Adam Hunerven, a writer who focuses on the Uyghurs, arrests of his friends and people trekking south to evade the repression in Xinjiang cities.
Travelling in the region in 2014, an era in which China was cracking down on Uyghurs but that predated the institutionalization of the re-education camps, Mr. Hunerven saw that “the trauma people experienced in the rural Uyghur homeland was acute. It followed them into the city, hung over their heads and affected the comportment of their bodies. It made people tentative, looking over their shoulders, keeping their heads down. It made them tremble and cry.”
There is little reason to assume that anything has since changed for the better. On the contrary, not only has the crackdown intensified, fear and uncertainty has spread to those lucky enough to live beyond the borders of China. Increasingly, they risk being targeted by the long arm of the Chinese state that has pressured their host countries to repatriate them.
Born and raised in a Rohingya refugee camp in Bangladesh, Rahima Akter, one of the few women to get an education among the hundreds of thousands who fled what the United Nations described as ethnic cleansing in Myanmar, saw her dreams and potential as a role model smashed when she was this month expelled from university after recounting her story publicly.
Ms. Akter gained admission to Cox’s Bazar International University (CBIU) on the strength of graduating from a Bangladeshi high school, a feat she could only achieve by sneaking past the camp's checkpoints, hiding her Rohingya identity, speaking only Bengali, dressing like a Bangladeshi, and bribing Bangladeshi public school officials for a placement.
Ms Akter was determined to escape the dire warnings of UNICEF, the United Nations’ children agency, that Rohingya refugee children risked becoming “a lost generation.”
Ms. Akter’s case is not an isolated incident but part of a refugee policy in an environment of mounting anti-refugee sentiment that threatens to deprive Rohingya refugees who refuse to return to Myanmar unless they are guaranteed full citizenship of any prospects.
In a move that is likely to deepen a widespread sense of abandonment and despair, Bangladeshi authorities, citing security reasons, this month ordered the shutting down of mobile services and a halt to the sale of SIM cards in Rohingya refugee camps and restricted Internet access. The measures significantly add to the isolation of a population that is barred from travelling outside the camps.
Not without reason, Bangladeshi foreign minister Abul Kalam Abdul Momen, has blamed the international community for not putting enough pressure on Myanmar to take the Rohingyas back.
The UN “should go to Myanmar, especially to Rakhine state, to create conditions that could help these refugees to go back to their country. The UN is not doing the job that we expect them to do,” Mr. Abdul Momen said.
The harsh measures are unlikely to quell increased violence in the camps and continuous attempts by refugees to flee in search of better pastures.
Suspected Rohingya gunmen last month killed a youth wing official of Bangladesh’s ruling Awami League party. Two refugees were killed in a subsequent shootout with police.
The plight of the Uyghurs and the Rohingya repeats itself in countries like India with its stepped up number of mob killings that particularly target Muslims, threatened stripping of citizenship of close to two million people in the state of Assam, and unilateral cancellation of self-rule in Kashmir.
Shiite Muslims bear the brunt of violent sectarian attacks in Afghanistan and Pakistan. In Malaysia, Shiites, who are a miniscule minority, face continued religious discrimination.
The Islamic Religious Department in Selangor, Malaysia’s richest state, this week issued a sermon that amounts to a mandatory guideline for sermons in mosques warning against “the spread of Shia deviant teachings in this nation… The Muslim ummah (community of the faithful) must become the eyes and the ears for the religious authorities when stumbling upon activities that are suspicious, disguising under the pretext of Islam,” the sermon said.
Malaysia, one state where discriminatory policies are unlikely to spark turmoil and political violence, may be the exception that confirms the rule.
Ethnic and religious supremacism in major Asian states threatens to create breeding grounds for violence and extremism. The absence of effective attempts to lessen victims’ suffering by ensuring that they can rebuild their lives and safeguard their identities in a safe and secure environment, allows wounds to fester.
Permitting Ms. Akter, the Rohingya university student, to pursue her dream, would have been a low-cost, low risk way of offering Rohingya youth an alternative prospect and at the very least a reason to look for constructive ways of reversing what is a future with little hope.
Bangladeshi efforts to cut off opportunities in the hope that Rohingya will opt for repatriation have so far backfired. And repatriation under circumstances that do not safeguard their rights is little else than kicking the can down the road.
Said human rights advocate Ewelina U. Ochab: “It is easy to turn a blind eye when the atrocities do not happen under our nose. However, we cannot forget that religious persecution anywhere in the world is a security threat to everyone, everywhere.”
Dr. James M. Dorsey is a senior fellow at Nanyang Technological University’s S. Rajaratnam School of International Studies, an adjunct senior research fellow at the National University of Singapore’s Middle East Institute and co-director of the University of Wuerzburg’s Institute of Fan Culture
#ASIA#refugees#China (PRC)#china#xinjiang#Xi Jinping#Myanmar#rohingya#india#Muslims#Kashmir#modi#Narendra Modi#malaysia#shiia#islam
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I Got You (Tony/Rhodey secret service AU) Chapter 3
For the purposes of this chapter, I borrowed a bit of dialogue from... well, you’ll know where I borrowed it from ;-) Anyway, I hope you enjoy.
Links to chapter 1, chapter 2
Tagging @jamesrhodey @supernaturalyloki @chanderefk @aimeeroot21 @markedplaces @mostly-marvel-stuffs @matre-dee @le-ephemere @lo-anlurui @savedbyholmes @kimmycup @typicalcampbell
Chapter 3
The next time he runs into Stark it’s at the hospital in an ICU cubicle – a fittingly surreal diminuendo to a harrowing nerve wreck of a day.
Happy. Happy is in the hospital. ICU. Barely clinging to life after getting thrown halfway across the parking garage by a bomb that tore apart the presidential limo and damaged the nearby vehicles. A bomb he’s pretty sure was meant for him. And James can’t process it, hasn’t even begun to process it, what with being whisked away from the scene by overeager agents and all but hauled down into the bunker while the police, ambulance and security stormed the scene. And it isn’t until much later, until after things calm down a bit, his own minor cuts have been tended to, the scene is secured and plans are being discussed (nay, shouted) all around him about increasing security and possibly putting the entire White House on lockdown for the time being until the perpetrator is identified and neutralized, that he announces loudly and unequivocally that he will agree to whatever security measures they deem necessary as long as he can get to check on his bodyguard.
A cacophony of outraged worry meets his request, but he stands firm on that, he won’t budge. Because it’s Happy’s crumpled, bloodied form he sees whenever he closes his eyes. Because he can’t help thinking that if he hadn’t stopped to answer his mother’s text, leaving Happy to go on ahead of him, he would have been the one spilling blood all over the floor of the parking lot.
He has to go check on the man. He owes him at least that much.
Surprisingly, it’s Obadiah that comes to his defense, bringing up the point that another attempt in such a short time span is unlikely, that the perpetrator has probably gone to ground, waiting for things to settle down, that nobody would be expecting the president to be out and about so soon after this incident.
It’s settled after that, and James spares but a cursory glance to his Chief of Staff, who shakes his head in disapproval before walking off to the side, phone glued to his ear, and then he’s off, huddled between two stone-faced agents in the back of a nondescript sedan on his way to the hospital.
It’s well past visiting hours, but his office carries a certain clout and he is led through to the ICU without much hassle and directed by a sleepily flustered nurse to the room that has two security agents posted outside the door. He nods to them as he approaches, motions for his own detail to wait with them, and walks inside, allowing himself the barest of hesitations to prepare for what he’s about to find there.
The room is quiet save for the faint whirring of medical equipment, the comfortable semi-darkness broken only by the flickering of a muted TV screen on the wall opposite the bed. It strikes him as odd –having the TV on when the person for whom it is intended lies there so completely unaware of the world around him. He reaches for the remote, intent on turning the useless device off.
And whips around, nearly dropping the remote, when a slightly raspy and vaguely familiar voice calls on him to stop.
“Leave it on, please.”
The shadows behind the bed move, a human shape molding itself out of the blackness, stepping forth into the feeble light.
“Stark?” he blinks, trying to reconcile the rumple-clothed hollow-eyed man before him with the sharply dressed confidence exuding professional that had sauntered into his office a few days ago. “What–?”
“Sunday nights. PBS. Downtown Abbey,” Stark continues as if James hasn’t spoken, arms crossed with an almost defensive awkwardness on his chest. He looks tired, drawn, a suspicious glint in the dusk-hooded eyes. “It’s his show. He thinks it’s elegant.” There’s a barely audible catch in his voice, and Stark covers it up with a cough, hitches his shoulders up in a shrug that seems a bit too forced to be nonchalant.
It unsettles James seeing him like this – so uncharacteristically vulnerable, so decidedly human. He wants to say something, to reassure the man, to apologize for getting his friend hurt. But something in the way Stark holds himself, in the tension James can feel emanating from his body, stops him short.
“How did you get in here?” he asks instead. Because there are agents posted outside the door, and he can’t imagine them letting anyone in.
“I have ways,” Stark replies enigmatically. Throws an almost derisively disapproving glance in the direction of the door. “Your agents aren’t as good at their job as they believe themselves to be. If they were, your bodyguard wouldn’t be lying here right now with a fucking tube down his throat.”
James flinches at the barely disguised venom in the man’s voice, bristles at the unprovoked affront. “I’ve always been under the impression that secret service agents are the best of the best,” he counters coolly, hoping to rein the man in with his words. Because, yes, Stark is upset, understandably so. But that is no reason to take it out on his men.
It was, apparently, the wrong thing to say.
Stark takes a step toward him, eyes flashing hot with fury. Stabs a hand blindly in the direction of Happy’s bed. “You just lost your best man, Mr. President!” he hisses, chest heaving as he sucks in a sharp breath, as if preparing to say more.
And then he stops, steps back, blinking as though coming awake after a trance. Snaps his mouth shut, visibly forcing himself to relax. A mask slides over his face – cold, calm, professional.
“That’s why I’m here,” he says simply, and James gapes at him, brow furrowing in confusion.
“I’m sorry, I don’t–”
“I’m taking the job, Mr. President,” Stark cuts him off bluntly. “I’ve changed my mind.”
James considers him silently for a long moment, trying to get a read on the man before him, to gauge what his motives might be. He comes up blank.
“Why?” he wants to know.
Stark shrugs, looks over at the bed, seeming to study Happy’s slack face, half obscured by the breathing tube. “Because that bomb was meant for you,” he responds, fury still thrumming a quiet beat through his words. “Because this person, whoever they are, will try again, and if they succeed,” he points at Happy again, “then he went through all of this for nothing. And I can’t accept that.” He pauses, fists clenching at his sides. Takes a deep breath. “Whoever this person is, they made it personal now.” He turns his gaze back to James, the dark, menacing intensity of it nearly causing him to recoil. “And as far as I’m concerned, they’re already dead.”
James swallows tightly, finding himself completely at a loss as to what to say. On the one hand he’s thrilled to have this guy finally come around, especially now that these death threats he heretofore considered a mere annoyance, a product of someone’s sick imagination, have suddenly become all too deadly and all too real. But Stark seems to be wound up so tight that he wonders if the man is even gonna be up to the task.
He is about to express his concerns when the door to Happy’s room opens and his Chief of Staff walks in, a small bag in hand.
“Ah, the ever-unruffled Agent,” Stark enthuses before James can even wonder out loud what Phil is doing here. “Just the man I wanted to see. Did ya bring what I asked?”
Coulson nods, face unreadable as ever. Opens up the bag to pull out a credit card, a flip phone and a set of car keys. “Untraceable prepaid card,” he recites as if checking off items from some invisible list, “clean phone with new SIM card and no GPS tracker, and a car parked out back.”
“Good boy,” Stark praises with a smirk, pocketing the items. Pulls out his own cell phone and drops it into the bag still held open by Coulson. “Your turn, Mr. President.”
James shakes his head, puts up both hands like a shield. “Would someone, please, explain to me what the hell is happening here?” he snaps.
Coulson cocks his head at him, throws a mildly disapproving gaze Stark’s way. “You didn’t tell him?”
“You interrupted me before I could… Agent,” Stark defends, winking at the man, and grins at Coulson’s exasperated eye roll.
“I called Stark earlier, Sir. Asked him to take over,” Coulson explains, and James thinks back to that moment in the bunker when he watched Phil walk away, phone pressed to his ear. “He was already at the hospital, so it worked out.”
“Take over how… exactly,” he wonders, scowling at Coulson’s bag.
“I’m gonna take you to a safe house, Mr. President,” Stark cuts in, all business. “This person that’s after you, they know your schedule, they know your itinerary, they have access to your office. That leaves too many suspects that are in too close of proximity to your person. Trying to protect you in Washington would be like trying to protect a bucket of chum in shark-infested waters. I wanna increase your chances of survival.”
“By making me go on the run.”
“By making you disappear,” Stark corrects patiently, reaching his hand toward him. “Your phone, please, Mr. President.”
“I got everything under control, Mr. President,” his Chief of Staff intervenes once more. “The media will have a cover story – you’re taking some personal time in the wake of the tragic incident. Vice President Stane will temporarily take over your duties. All you need to do is follow Mr. Stark’s direction and stay safe while we take care of things here. The police and secret service will continue their investigation and we’ll hopefully have our guy behind bars or on a slab before you know it.”
James gapes at the two of them, his head spinning from the unexpectedness of it all. It’s madness, he thinks. Utter madness. Woodenly he pulls his cell phone out of his pocket, placing it in Stark’s waiting palm. “How do you even… how do you propose we disappear? There are agents all over this hospital, I-”
“The hallway and the stairway are clear,” Coulson interrupts, and Stark nods to him in approval as if he was expecting this exact response. “The cameras will be down in exactly…,” he glances at his watch, “one minute thirty-two seconds. The cameras at the parking structure will be down exactly 5 minutes after that. You will have about 7 minutes altogether to get out unseen.”
“This is insane,” James huffs out, feeling a stab of irrational anger at such definitive loss of control. “You two, you’ve got this whole… this thing plotted out behind my back and you never even bothered to…”
“All due respect, Mr. President,” Stark steps closer, pushing far into his personal space, “you wanted to hire me because you heard that I’m the best at what I do. Right now you’re the guy with a large bullseye on your back and I’m your only chance of surviving into your next term. So it’s up to you, Mr. President. If you want to live, you come with me, you do as I say and when I say it. No questions, no arguments, no complaints. If not, you walk out of here with your man Phil and you take your chances in the shark pool. Understood?”
James grits his teeth, struggling against a near-overwhelming urge to break Stark’s nose.
“Twenty seconds, Mr. President,” Coulson calls out, and James closes his eyes briefly, forces himself to exhale, to relax.
“I don’t seem to have much choice at the moment,” he grinds out, admitting his temporary defeat. Takes a deliberate, threatening step toward Stark, bringing the two of them virtually nose to nose. “But let me make something clear, Mr. Stark: I don’t like your attitude and I don’t like you. And if you overstep your bounds with me one more time, I will not hesitate to punch you in the face. Understood?”
Stark flashes him a plastic-looking smile. “I think we’re gonna get along great, Mr. President,” he asserts with enthusiasm that seems entirely out of place. Heads to the door, pausing in front of Coulson. “You take care of my boy Happy there, alright?” he tells him, and it sounds more like a warning than a request.
Coulson, for his part, doesn’t bat an eye. “You take care of mine, I take care of yours,” he deadpans and Stark grins in response.
“It’s a deal.” He grabs the door handle, motions to James over his shoulder. “Mr. President, follow my lead.”
#tonyrhodey#ironhusbands#secret service au#special agent tony stark#president james rhodes#hurt/comfort#angst#intrigue#somethingjustsouthofbrilliance writes
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CS JJ Day 18: Packing Poles
AN: This is my (rather random) contribution to 2018′s @csjanuaryjoy. It’s fluff and so far away from what I usually write that I’m amazed it’s making it out there. Thank you so much to @lenfaz for organising this this year.
Packing Poles
Rated G - 2.5k
It was 11am.
At least that’s what the dial flashing in front of her said. It did not feel like 11am. Eleven, while annoyingly early, was a time that she could at least conceive of, but her body was telling her it was closer to 5am and having been awake for a good sixteen hours was rejecting her attempts to remain upright.
Emma hated international travel.
And after two hours in line at customs she was pretty sure she hated Stansted Airport too. She’d followed all the advice she’d been given by her teammates, but despite wearing her official team USA hoodie, having her team USA ID badge poking innocently out of her passport cover and making sure all of her landing card was filled out in perfect, black inked, block letters the woman in front of her seemed decidedly unimpressed.
“You’re here for the what?” Ms Ghorm, as her badge proclaimed her to be, icily asked.
“The World Championships?” Honestly after the cramped flight and lack of sleep Emma was beginning to question herself whether that was the right answer… She was sure she’d answered at least three times already.
“Right, the athletics? In Stratford, right?”
“No, London.” Her brow furrowed, she had absolutely no idea what was going on- she just knew that if she failed to check in for training in… She checked her watch, took away five… two hours, then Mary Margaret was going to actually kill her.
“Well, Ms Swan. If you wouldn’t mind just taking a seat over there then I’ll see what we can do about moving you through as soon as possible.” The woman’s grin was sickly sweet and Emma swore it was the source of the headache she could feel coming in. She turned her head to take in the seats that Ms Ghorm had indicated and was shocked to realise she was being put into a holding area; the square of seats gated off but in full view of all of the other passengers. As she took a seat she felt like a toddler being put into a pen to be kept out of trouble.
Emma dozed, almost sliding off the plastic chair twice before she worked out how to wedge herself in between the arms, she took out her phone out of habit before discovering her European SIM card was in her hold luggage and the wifi was almost non-existent, she even considered reading the book that her teammate Archie had shoved into her hand back in Boston before remembering that it was a book on crown green bowling and that she hadn’t seen Archie since then. She took in the queued passengers around her, but the rest of her flight appeared to have cleared and left her alone. It was gone 8:30 when a smarmy-looking man with a clipboard approached the gate.
“Emma Swan?” The man called.
“That’s me.” She jumped to her feet.
“Follow me.” The man span quickly before marching away, not checking whether she was following him or not. She almost had to jog to keep up with him as he lead her down an ill-lit corridor to what was definitely some sort of interrogation room. She groaned.
It didn’t take long for the interview to be set up: Emma on one side of the table, the immigration officer on the other and a small voice recorder between them.
“This is Eli Gold, officer number 02368, conducting interview in relation to case S6-41. Present is the alleged Emma Swan.” The man droned and Emma frowned. Alleged? Who else would she be? “Can you state your name for the record please, miss?”
“Emma Swan?”
“Your full name.”
“Emma Swan.”
“Date of birth?”
“October 27th 1983”
“Country of residence?” The inane questions continued for at least half an hour and Emma was ready to tear her hair out before the reason she’d been singled out became evident.
“Miss Swan, I have here your landing card. Can you please tell me why you have listed your date of birth as being the first of August 2017?”
“Seriously?” She ground out. “Seriously?” Her exhaustion suddenly wiped out by indignation and frustration. “I have been travelling for twenty hours and managed to accidentally put today’s- sorry yesterday’s- date down and that’s why you pulled me in here for the third degree?” She regretted her outburst almost immediately, the look that crossed Mr Gold’s face letting her know that she was going to pay for it.
“If you would like to take a seat in the waiting area, an officer will be with you shortly to let you know the outcome of your case.”
***
It was 9pm.
The smirk on Mr Gold’s face each time he passed the waiting area had been torture, but as soon as his shift had ended and a Ms French had taken over Emma had been free to pass onto British soil.
Only to discover the new nightmare that was the “unclaimed luggage” office.
“It’s bright pink.” She explained slowly to the rather inattentive attendant on duty. “Walter” his name badge declared. “With a yellow flower.” She cringed at the description she had to give, but since Mary Margarent had gifted her the monstrosity she’d had no problem finding her suitcase quickly- until now.
“It’ll be here somewhere.” Walter said with a brief wave of his hand. “Take a look.” Had Emma been more awake she might have wondered at the lack of security, but honestly she just wanted out of the airport some time yesterday. Her suitcase was easy enough to find, but as she searched around the shelves and floor she realised her other piece of baggage was missing.
“Does the oversized baggage come here also?” She asked, only to receive a puzzled look.
“Of course not.” Apparently Walter thought this should be obvious. “That goes to the chute by carousel 9.”
As she crossed the baggage reclaim hall once again Emma couldn’t decide whether to cry or scream, but spotting her pride and joy lying in the middle of the floor, footprints and scuffmarks covering the dark blue casing, caused a chill to run through her body. She sat down on the floor next to the bag and prepared herself for the worst.
The zipper opened easily and she stretched as far as she could to pull it along the side of the bag. She’d barely opened it a third of the way before her fears were confirmed. Three of the custom made fifteen foot long poles were broken. Emma groaned and held her head in her hands. She was crouched there a few minutes before a cool voice pulled her out of her thoughts.
“Y’know I’m not sure, Love, but I think you might be a shotputter?” Emma had had a bad enough day that really anything could have set her off, but a smooth British accent filled with laughter and making jokes at her expense was definitely a decent target for her ire.
“I’ll give you shot-” As she muttered the words through gritted teeth she rose to her feet and span around, ready to give whoever was there an earful… but she was brought up short by possibly the most handsome face she’d ever seen “-putting” she trailed off pathetically.
“Emma Swan, right?” The man asked, extending his hand. Almost in slow motion she took it and let him shake, not taking her eyes off his face- taking in the crooked smile, the sharp jawline, the oh-so-blue eyes. Only when his brow creased slightly did she realise he was waiting for an answer. She pulled back her hand and snapped her mouth closed, feeling the blush spread over her cheeks as she cringed internally at the thought that she’d been staring.
“How do you know?” The question came out harsh, covering her own embarrassment.
“Love,” He said with a grin, “You’ve won three medals in the last eighteen months.” Instead of clarifying anything this only made Emma more confused- yeah, she was good, but that hardly made her a household name. Afterall, pole vaulting was hardly the world’s number one sport.
“And you are?” She settled for in the end. The man didn’t look like some kind of stalker and wasn’t dressed like any sports reporter she’d met before. He laughed before holding his hand over his heart and dropping his eyes.
“You mean you don’t recognise me?” She shook her head. “I’m hurt.” He reached behind her to the oversized baggage chute and picked up a long bag, just over half the length of her pole vault bag.
“Javelin?” She asked stupidly.
“Aye. I’m Killian, team GB javelin superstar.” She frowned, rifling through her brain until she found what she was looking for.
“Killian Jones?”
“The one and only.” He grinned and she didn’t like to admit she only knew of him because of Ruby’s rant about the British distracting the opposition with eye candy. Not that Ruby had been wrong to class him as such.
“Why have you checked in javelins?” Emma asked, more to keep the conversation going than out of real interest. “That seems like a risk given you could just drive them.”
“I got held up in Monaco.” He shrugged as if that explained everything. It didn’t. The diamond league meet in Monaco should have finished over a week ago and she may not have been an expert on Europe but she was pretty sure the length of drive was nothing compared to some of the cross country trips she’d taken with her poles.
“And you’re headed to London now?” She asked, the vague beginnings of a terrible idea running through her head.
“Aye. Why? You need a lift?” He asked casually and she felt the relief shoot through her at the fact that he’d offered before she had to ask.
“Kinda?” She shrugged one shoulder, hoping to come across as contrite. “I’ve been held up a while and I’m avoiding turning on my phone cos I’m too tired to deal with my coach’s voice right now.”
“And let me guess: you’ve never heard of public transport.” Killian’s voice was teasing and Emma realised he was probably going to say yes.
“Have you ever tried to get a bag of five fifteen foot long poles on the subway?” She asked, matching his teasing tone before remembering what she’d been looking at before he appeared and continuing in a much more morose tone; “Even if three of them are broken.”
Emma could see the moment he took pity on her, shrugging his rucksack higher on his shoulder and scooping up his equipment bag before making a sweeping gesture with his free hand from her towards the door.
“After you Love, I don’t know if I trust you at my back with those poles.” She snorted in response.
“Believe me; if I stab you with my poles, then you’ll feel it.”
***
It was 11pm.
The light was fading fast and after an hour of trying they still had yet to successfully find a way to reliably secure Emma’s pole to Killian’s car.
It didn’t help that said car was a battered VW beetle whose age was greater than its gas mileage. And sported a curved roof.
Emma was an expert at securing pole vaulting poles to cars, but the beetle’s shape and lack of opening windows or trunk was proving beyond her and her trusty bungee cords.
“Killian, it’s fine. I’ll call Mary Margaret and she can arrange for someone to come and collect me. It won’t take long.”
“Nonsense Love. We’ll manage.”
“You need to get to London, you have to be up for training tomorrow.” She tried to reason with him, but he only offered a derisive snort.
“So do you. I’m not leaving you here alone.” He turned away from her, effectively ending the conversation and she let out a small relieved sigh. She really didn’t want to wait here alone either.
As she circled the car for the fiftieth time it hit her- literally. On the hip. The passenger side of the car had an exaggeratedly large wing mirror. Emma made sure that Killian was looking away before experimentally placing her hands on it and jumping to force her weight down. It didn’t snap.
“I’ve got it.” She said before heaving her pole bag from the sidewalk to rest on the mirror. With the rear end suspended precariously on the back bumper of the bug, straps holding shut the door and her arm out of the window to offer support- or at least an early warning system- she slowly began the journey south.
**
It was 3am.
Emma was vaguely aware that in not much more than twenty four hours she was due to vault nine metres into the air at an international competition, but the part of her that was running on the best two hours of sleep she’d ever experienced in Killian’s car, adrenaline and giggles didn’t care.
Because wherever it was that Killian had dragged her to after declaring that the noises her stomach made were louder than a freight train was feeding her the best lahmacun and salad and she was on her fourth with no intention of slowing down and no shame.
The company wasn’t bad either.
In fact, she hadn’t felt this way just talking to a guy ever and she didn’t need the buzz of alcohol to appreciate the dimples and the self-depreciating smiles and the wisp of hair that was visible over the collar of his shirt.
And maybe it was just the effect of a really crappy forty eight hours, and maybe it was a really bad idea, but maybe taking him up on his offer of ‘resting up’ at his place instead of fighting to find her room in the athlete’s village wasn’t completely off the table.
Knowing he had a garage and she wouldn’t have to worry about leaving her remaining poles outside exposed to the elements or any potential thieves was helping with her decision too.
She really loved those poles.
It didn’t take her long to realise she could really learn to love the way he kissed too.
**
It was 11am.
The blinds were doing nothing to keep out the bright August sun and Emma felt herself being forced to wakefulness despite the soft mattress beneath her and the silky blankets on top of her and the firm body behind her.
Also the chirping cell phone really could do with shutting the hell up.
She felt Killian roll away from her and the murmur of his own sleep filled voice washed over her, both relaxing and thrilling at once. Emma refused to open her eyes though and burrowed deeper beneath the covers, only allowing a smile to tug at her lips when he finished his conversation and wrapped his arm over her once more, pressing light kisses to her shoulder blades.
“So Love, it turns out my agent Regina is practically family to your coach.” Emma frowned, knowing only enough of Mary Margaret’s personal life to know that she’s an only child. “And when you fell out of contact yesterday the two of them set up some missing person operation.”
“Let me guess,” She replied, “They found me.”
“Not exactly- but apparently reports of a yellow bug with fifteen foot poles stuck to the side made their way onto twitter.”
Emma groaned. Mary Margaret and Ruby were never going to let her live this one down. But as Killian rolled her over and lowered his lips to hers she wondered whether she really cared.
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Dangerous (Sam Drake x OC) - Chapter 7
In case you don’t want to read it here, the whole work can be found on A03:
AO3 Chapter 7 Link
Previous Chapters: Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6
Chapter Summary: Sam and Faith head off on their journey and someone else is soon on their heels.
Faith glanced at the wall clock in her apartment. 4:35PM. Sam and Faith had agreed to meet back at her apartment by 5 PM, each of them had things to do and provisions to get before setting out for Illinois. Nathan had assured both of them Faith would be safe running a couple of hours of errands now that the Laginas had agreed on a ceasefire and Jasper Nox had seemed to have crawled back into whatever Georgia hole he crawled out of.
As she stuffed the last of her clothes in an oversized backpack, she heard the key in the lock of her apartment door. She glanced up as Sam walked in, swinging the metal door shut with a kick of his foot causing a loud thunk. Faith recognized the large green army duffel Sam set down on the couch from the motel room but not the smaller black one he put on top of it. Sam put a hand on the back of his neck, giving the tense muscles a rough squeeze and stretch.
“You get everything?” He asked.
She cinched the neck of her backpack closed and dropped it next to the smaller one on the floor.
“Snacks, clothes, cash, and Bible,” Faith announced as she pointed to each backpack and her green army medic bag she used as her purse that sat on her bed. “How about you? You get everything?”
Sam unzipped the black duffel and threw a small flip phone at Faith. “Burner phone for you, burner phone for me. Sent Nathan the numbers already so we can get a hold of him. Each one has the others number programmed in that way we're set in case we get separated. Leave your phone here, pull the battery and the SIM card.”
Faith nodded, storing the new phone in her purse and taking out her old one. She popped out the battery and SIM card, throwing the whole works on her bedspread.
“What else...whoa. Whoa. Hey now.” Faith stammered as she turned to see Sam holding out a handgun to her.
“Wrap it in a shirt, throw it in your bag. It's just in case,” Sam gently insisted. Faith stepped back with her arms wrapped around herself tightly, shaking her head no.
“Sam, no, I don't do guns.”
“Take the gun, Faith.”
“No, I don't do guns. I've never shot one, I don't like holding them, I don't like being near them. Nope, nuh uh. I don't do it,” She said, still furiously shaking her head.
“You wanted treasure hunting 101? Here ya go. Lesson one, be prepared in case shit goes down now take the goddamn gun,” Sam said with frustration. Faith reached out and carefully took it from his outstretched hand. She grabbed an errant gray t-shirt that was thrown over the back of her computer chair and wrapped it, taking great care to avoid touching anywhere near the trigger. She reopened her pack and nestled the gun in a hidden inner pocket and closed it again quickly.
“That it?” Faith asked Sam.
“Rental car's parked out back. Good to go?” He questioned. Faith nodded and grabbed up her gear, slinging what she could over her shoulders and headed towards her door. She shut it tight behind her and Sam, the click a little louder to her than normal, as if the universe was giving her signal, some subtle nod that it would be quite a while before she would be back and hear that sound again. Faith shoved the keys in her jacket pocket and headed towards the buildings set of elevators.
“You give the rental guy a fake name?” She asked as she walked down the hallway of apartment doors.
“Yeah.”
“Justin Case?” she asked over her shoulder.
“Too obvious, Russell P. Bell.”
“You really like the letter P for a middle initial don't you?” She questioned as she stopped in front of the elevators.
“Not really.”
The elevator dinged, announcing its arrival as the doors slid open. “I bet it's your real middle initial.” Faith said as she stepped into the elevator. Sam let out a chuckle, “No, it's not my middle initial.”
Faith pressed the button for the main floor. She gasped, a thought striking her. “Your middle name is Phineas, isn't it?” She said as she looked at Sam, nodding with a goofy smile that made her look like she had just figured out a deep, cool secret of the world. Sam stared at her strangely at a complete loss for words as the elevator doors slid closed in front of them.
Sam turned the key to the small SUV, the engine kicking over and roaring to life. Their gear safely stored in the back seat, Sam put it in drive and turned out the gravel parking lot. Faith slid down a little in her seat, adjusting her seat belt snug across her chest. She watched Sam fiddle with the radio, scanning for a station across the FM band that came in clear. She slid her seat back and propped her feet up on the dash of the rental. “Better,” Sam proclaimed, finally stopping his search as Creedence Clearwater Revival came through the surprisingly decent speaker system of the car. Faith cozied herself down against the door of the car, watching the world go by her in the mirror. She caught a glance of her apartment building. This was it, everything that was comfortable, every known in her life was in that building and she was watching it get smaller and smaller. She glanced beside her and saw her mother sitting in the driver's seat instead of Sam, John Fogherty's voice mixing in her head with hers and her mothers as they sang. Her mom turned to her and told her, “Sing out Faith! Don't be afraid. Be bold, be brave! That's where the fun is Baby!” A smile beaming at her as her mother leaped right back into the chorus of the song. Faith blinked, the sight of her mother replaced with Sam. He sang under his breath as he fished around in a jacket pocket for a lighter. She smiled and looked back into the mirror, seeing the last of her building fade out of her sight.
Be bold, be brave! That's where the fun is Baby!
LYONS, GEORGIA
Jasper Nox sat perched with perfect posture on an ornate white wicker veranda chair. The screened in porch let the gentle breeze of the warm, humid day through while keeping out the pesky bugs that came along with it. The sprawling high society farmhouse sat on 75 acres of well-kept land filled with corn, onions and peach trees. He held a well-worn paperback in his good hand. Jasper had read this tawdry romance novel many times and each time he reread it, it became funnier and funnier with its absurdity. Jasper considered all manner of romance and love absolutely ridiculous, it created unnecessary complications in one's life.
“Mr. Nox sir?” A man said as he approached Jasper, carrying a glass full of crushed ice and Dr. Pepper.
“Ah, thank you, Wallace!” Jasper said, setting his book down on the glass top coffee table in front of him. Wallace handed him the glass, making sure to put it in his fully functioning hand. Jasper took a sip, drops clinging to his red mustache. “Wonderful, wonderful,” He muttered to himself in satisfaction and set the glass on a coaster next to his novel.
“Sir, I heard from our man we left on the ground. Victor Sullivan made it,” Wallace said, trying to keep the undercurrent of nerves out of his voice.
“Yes, yes I heard. Unfortunate. Marty Lagina must be losing his touch. Well, a thorn in my side to be removed on another occasion. Anything else?” He asked, fiddling absentmindedly with the wedding band on his right hand.
“Sam Drake and the girl are on the move. They set out by car yesterday. Car rental agent didn't know exactly where they were headed, but Drake estimated the added mileage to be 500 for one way.”
“And what do we know about the girl?”
“Faith Evelyn Spencer. 29. Cook with a Bachelors in Communications, only child, mother passed six months ago from kidney failure, no other living immediate family.”
“Have Bixby look into this girl a little more. Nathan Drake might be a pompous wisenheimer but he knows his relics. If he says this girl has the second Lincoln Bible in her possession, I am inclined to believe him. I want to know who she is and how she came to acquire it before they do. Then, have him and his men head to Springfield,” Jasper ordered Wallace in his southern Georgia drawl.
“Springfield, sir?” Wallace questioned.
“If you want information on Lincoln, you head to where the man was born and raised. Make sure he knows retrieving the Bible is the top priority. Bringing in Drake and the girl alive would be preferable, I do love a good bargaining chip, but tell Bixby it's not a necessity,” He said, his instructions came across as a man talking to a toddler and not a middle aged man.
“Very good sir, will there be anything else?”
Jasper looked out the side of the screened in porch towards a large magnolia tree that preceded the acres of peach trees.
“The magnolia is looking a little peaked. Make sure Mrs. Nox tends to it. I think she's around the side of the house. That will be all Wallace, thank you,” He said, taking his hand away from his wedding band and picking up his book again. Wallace left to find Mrs. Nox as Jasper straightened his back in his chair, smoothing his linen shirt down his large frame. He flipped open his book to the marked page where he left off. The hero was about to swoop in and rescue his lady love and proclaim his everlasting love any page now and Jasper was anxious for the absurdity to begin. A door on the side of the muted yellow house banged shut while Jasper flipped the dogeared corner of the book up and turned the page. Wallace pushed a wheelbarrow of dirt towards the magnolia, a small flowerbed surrounding it of cardinal flowers. Jasper's eyes flew over the lines of type with the expertise of a person that had read the book many times over. An amused smile spread across his thin lips and a gleeful chuckle came from deep in his barrel chest. His laughter grew as his hero professed his feelings for his love line after line. The silliness of how useless a feeling but yet how important it was thought to be. Wallace took a shovel and spread the dark fertilizer over the growing flower bed. Wallace took another shovel full out of the wheelbarrow, a small metal plate attached to the inside back wall of the tub. Inscribed on it was a name, DOROTHEA NOX, in perfect script.
Jasper continued to giggle as sipped his Dr. Pepper, stole a glance outside to the flowering tree. At least my wife is useful, he thought gleefully and flipped another page forward in his book.
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Ashes
Part 1, Part 2
Donald Pierce x Reader
Masterlist
Request: Yes
Summary: You and Donald are both keeping a secret from each other
The gentle touch on your bare skin woke you up. Lazily, you opened your eyes meeting with a bright light that was coming from your window. Turning around from the light your head hit in the hard chest next to you. You heard him chuckle and you smack his shoulder.
˝That hurts˝ You whined, looking at his bright blue eyes. He pressed his lips to your forehead and you smiled sneaking your hands around his waist.
˝Is it better? ˝ He traced patterns over your shoulder and you bite your lip. You moved closer to him putting your palm on his cheek, bringing his face closer to yours. You kissed him and he quickly moved his body on yours. You smiled into the kiss and he pulled away from your lips kissing your jaw. His scruff sent shivers down your spine and you couldn't suppress a moan. Hearing you he smirked and gently bit the skin on your collarbone.
His lips moved lower to your chest and just as he started leaving wet kisses on your skin his phone rang.
˝No, no, no˝ You whined moving your hands in his hair.
˝I have to take it, baby. ˝ He was pulling away when you hooked your legs around his waist.
˝No, you don't have to. It's Saturday, you promised me a lazy Saturday. ˝ You begged, kissing his neck, moving your fingertips over his scalp.
˝But I.. ˝ You shut him up with another kiss, pulling his body closer to yours. He bit your lower lip and you moaned at his teasing. Pulling away from the kiss you let your head to fall on your pillow.
˝You are cute, but I can see that you are not into this right now. ˝ You smiled at him and he laid down on his side next to you. ˝ Just call them back... ˝ Your voice was interrupted by the loud ringing of his phone. ˝:... just answer it. ˝You grabbed his phone to throw it into his hands.
˝No˝ He simply said, silencing it and placing it on the night table.
˝I don't want you to worry about it. I hate when you are worried. ˝ You traced the line of his jaw with your finger stopping on his chin and moving it to the side of his lips.
˝You can help me with the worry. ˝ He smirked, taking your hand in his kissing your knuckles.
˝Mr. Pierce... what are you implying? ˝ You giggled as he placed your palm around his waist. He moved some strands of your hair behind your ear and smiled spread across his lips as you closed your eyes exhaling.
˝Do you want to find out? ˝You could feel his breath on your lips and you quickly closed the distance between you two. Hands explored every part of your body while his lips never let go of yours. He made you happy, you were lost before you met him, you forgot how life can be exciting, loving and funny. You knew that you don't need a man to feel special, but with him, you start loving yourself more every day, you could see that he felt the same. You both made each other better, you help each other grow and you loved every second of it, but fairy tales are not real.
Donald was writing text on his phone while your head was resting on his bare chest. You were napping holding him tightly. He traced small patterns over your bare spine feeling your heartbeats on his chest. His phone vibrate and he glanced at it. Quickly, he moved away from you, going to the other room holding his phone to his ear.
His absence woke you up and you frowned when he wasn't next to you. Putting his shirt over your head you tiptoed to the kitchen. He was holding his metal arm on the counter, his back was turned to you and he was talking over the phone. He didn't hear you coming in.
˝Yes, I understand. I know! ˝
You didn't know what could upset him this much, just a few hours ago he was happy. With no worries on his mind.
˝Yeah, you know the address. I'll take care of her, she is still asleep˝ He ended the phone call placing it on the counter. He took a deep breath, turning around. His eyes were wide open as he studied your face. ˝What did you hear? ˝ He moved closer to you and you took a step back.
˝Don't move! ˝You placed your hand in the air between you.
˝You lied baby. ˝ He ran his metal fingers through his already messy hair.
˝About? ˝
He scratches his jaw scoffing at you. ˝Baby, don't be like that. ˝
You could hear the change in his voice and you knew that it was bad. You knew that there was no way out of this. You couldn't understand what was he talking about over the phone, but it was about you.
˝Who are you? What do you want from me? ˝ You yelled and he stopped approaching.
˝You know who I am, don't act surprised, but you never told me who you were. ˝
˝And who am I? ˝ You moved your hands to the edge of the shirt pulling it down. For the first time from the moment you met him you felt uncomfortable.
˝You're a mutant, a powerful one as I've been told. ˝ You heard tires scratching around your apartment, but you tried to ignore it, they couldn't be there for you, he just ended the phone call.
˝That doesn't have anything to do with you˝ You said while the anger grow in you, you knew who he was. Not from the start, but you didn't care. You didn't even care when he lied to you about his job. He told you that he was working at the Transigen some kind of medical institution for sick children.
˝It does actually, your set of mutations is welcoming in Transigen. ˝ You turned your head towards the door as you heard heavy footsteps approaching. You ran to the bedroom and you knew that Donald was coming after you. You grabbed your phone from the table and you locked yourself in the bathroom. You quickly dialed the number hoping that she would pick up.
˝Hello. ˝ You exhaled in relief, you quietly start to talk while you heard kicks at the door.
˝Gabriela, you have to do it now. ˝
˝No, Y/N, you said... ˝
You quickly cut her off. ˝, He knows who I am. Do it now. Whoever gets caught I'll try to break them out. ˝
˝You'll let him take you? ˝ She asked concerned.
˝Good luck. ˝ You ended the call, pulling the SIM card and memory of your phone and throwing them in the toilet, just as he kicked the door of their hook you flushed the toilet.
˝Who did you call? ˝ He pressed your body in the mirror and you spit in his face. He roughly throws your body at another man commanding him to tie you and get you in the car.
The ride was long and when you came to the large building with the Transigen sign on it, you could hear the alarm, you smiled and Donald stopped the car seeing you smiling in the rearview mirror.
˝What did you do, muty? ˝ He asked angrily and you just shrug your shoulders looking outside the window.
˝And the fall has begun. ˝ You whispered, knowing that he will hear.
˝What did you say? ˝
˝Have you ever wonder what will you leave behind when you die? ˝ You asked looking him in the eyes and leaning closer just a few inches away from his face.
˝Why do you care, you'll be dead. ˝ his eyes were dark and his hand was clenched in the fist. You moved your hand closer to him and you placed your hand on his cheek, you could feel him relax under your touch.
˝Your legacy will be nothing but the ashes of the flames that you lighted up during the cold night. Nobody will remember nor care, except one who will carry your name. They'll bury you deep under the ground, turning their back like they don’t even know who is in the grave.˝
His face was stoic after you finish he kept staring at you until you moved your hand away from him. ˝It's sad, isn’t it? ˝
˝Shut up. ˝
You leaned back in the car seat as he drove into the underground parking.
You walked quickly through long white halls and you almost let a tear to roll down, but you didn't 'cause some secrets were still kept away from light.
Donald walked into a small room where was only a metal table in the center of the room. You took a deep breath and he commanded you to lie down. You shivered under the cold metal, you still had only his shirt on with sweatpants that he gave you after they tied you up in your apartment. Your hands were still tied and you closed your eyes, letting your head fall to the metal. After a few minutes you felt something cold on your upper arm, opening your eyes you saw him sterilizing your skin. Suddenly you pulled your hands away from him, kicking him away with your legs.
˝No! ˝
˝No what? Stop being a child. ˝ He said, grabbing your hand as you kicked and screamed.
˝Do you even feel anything? ˝You silently asked, searching his face for any clue.
˝Not for those who betray me. ˝
˝I'm sorry that you think so. It will probably hurt less now. ˝ He was confused, but then your handcuffs unlocked. Taking his surprise as an advantage you kicked him in the face and he hit his head in the metal shelf falling to the ground. He was lying on his back and you knelt beside him.
˝I know what you said, but I'm refusing to believe in those words. I wish that you chose me because nobody else will ever give you what I did. You'll die alone and broken, just a second before you'll realize what you could've had. ˝ You leaned closer, kissing his forehead and leaving quickly after that to accomplish your mission.
Tag list: @we-love-our-bandz, @tc-stark, @stonedsoldier23,@nearlybandoms, @fuzzysnowyou, @sinners-glory, @tonictransistor, @arabella-fella, @missphanosaur18, @onlyasoulthings, @raeeclipse,@tremilyteapot, @sighsophiia, @commandergreysonpike
#donald pierce#donald pierce x reader#donald pierce imagine#donald pierce fic#donald pierce fanfic#marvel#marvel fic#marvel fanfiction#marvel imagines#marvel imagine#boyd holbrook
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My mother disowned me but I will still choose Hearts of Oak - Kofi Abanga reveals
In June 2007, the exchange rate of the cedi started at GH¢0.92 to one US dollar, Ghana was preparing to host the African Cup of Nations in 2008, Sellas Tetteh was whittling down his squad for the U-17 Championship and West Ham's Carlos Tevez was being wooed by the two Manchester clubs in what would turn out to be the most interesting saga of the European transfer window.
However, in Ghana, a 19-year-old native of Tafo- Nhyiaeso, nicknamed Tevez by an ever-increasing horde of fans and media was hogging the headlines and relegating all challengers to the back pages.
Aduana Stars' Kofi Abanga 'Tevez' would go on to frustrate and captivate Ghanaian football fans over a tumultuous three months where his actions would appear like that of a damsel unsure of which of her suitors to choose.
Firstly, he would trial with the Phobians for two-weeks and star in their league coronation game against Dansoman-based Liberty Professionals which would lead to assurances of a contract by the club.
However, some indecision on the part of the Hearts management combined with a chance meeting with the supporters chief of Kotoko would conclude with Abanga signing a GHC 10,000 pre-contract agreement with the Porcupine Warriors and training for a month-and-a-half before having a change of heart in August 2007.
Unknown to many who accused him of indecision at the time, what appeared to be a tough decision to ditch Kotoko for the Phobians would also open a rift in the player's relationship with his mother Asibi.
Speaking to GraphicOnline 13 years after starring in perhaps the Ghana Premier League's biggest transfer story, Abanga says it was a no-brainer when the time came for him to choose between Hearts and Kotoko.
"Hearts gave me the platform, before I played in that Coronation match for them, I was not known nationally. There is no way I could have signed for Kotoko, Hearts made me Abanga Tevez,” Abanga told the Graphic Sports in a telephone interview.
Recounting the story of how he was scouted for trials with the Phobians, Abanga says the then Hearts coach Bulgarian Mitko Kostadinov Dobrev and Team Manager Sabahn Quaye were impressed with his performances during the trial.
"I was captain of Aduana in the First Division but two Hearts fans Mr Akoto of the Kumasi Metropolitan Assembly and the late Kwaku Adusei alias Kanawu facilitated my trials with Hearts in Cape Coast after they saw me in a community kick-about.
"At the time, Hearts were playing their final game of the season and that's how I met Dobrev and the team manager, Sabahn Quaye, they both asked me to come to Accra for trials. I lived with Stephen Ofei when I went to Accra for trials, Sabahn (Quaye) told me I did well in the trials and I went on to play for both the U-20 and senior Hearts team during the Coronation game and that is how I went viral after putting up a good show".
Indeed, although he did not play in play a part in any of the games during their league games. Abanga was involved in the trophy celebrations and captured in the team celebration photos.
The player says this created the perception that he was a part of the Hearts set-up even though he was yet to put pen to paper.
"Sabahn and Tommy Okine said the club was interested and I would be offered a contract. In fact, they told me not to join any club but at the time there was some issues with the management".
It was the end of the season and all the Hearts players including his host Stephen Ofei had gone on holidays, so Abanga had no choice than to return to Kumasi where he was now a neighbourhood celebrity following his performance in the Coronation match.
"One day, I was jogging and some men including Circles Chairman, Kwadwo Nyantakyi who told me the then Kotoko Chairman Sylvester Asare Owusu wanted to see me. I met him at his residence at Santase and he told me he wants me to sign for Kotoko because I was a Kumasi boy.
"I entertained the Kotoko offer because I could not reach Sabahn who was on a national assignment with one of the national teams and also I had not heard from any Hearts officials although they had earlier assured me that they had met the Aduanahene".
Abanga says he led Kotoko on for some days till he was advised by the then Aduana CEO, Mr. Kingsley Osei Bonsu alias Lord Zico to only sign a pre-contract for GHC 10,000 cash. Why? Because Lord Zico told him cheques always bounce in Ghanaian football transactions.
And when the money was presented to Abanga, it was a sight to behold for the 19-year-old: "Lord Zico told me not to accept a cheque, so when they made a pre-contract GHC 10,000 offer on a rainy day I told them I wanted the money in cash and not a cheque. The money was brought to me in a Ghana-must-go bag, in denominations of the new GHC 1. I had never seen such an amount of money in my life at that point, 100 million (before the redenomination)", Abanga recalls with laughter.
"I had not even reached home when I heard the story on radio that I had signed a three-year contract with Kotoko and once I had taken their money, it meant I had to start training on the next Monday".
Riding high in the company of Kotoko Chairman Sylvester Asare on the first day of training with the Porcupine Warriors, a cold reception by Kotoko coach Bashir Hayford at the training grounds would bring Abanga crashing back down to earth.
"On my first day, I went with Chairman who introduced me to Bash, a coach I had played under in the national under-17 set-up. Bash said he knew me and I was being overhyped, I was stunned by the comments and I knew I was in trouble.
"Bash (Bashir Hayford) asked, ‘is it Abanga you people are treating like Maradona?’ In a way, I understood him because Kotoko had a very good midfield at the time with the likes of Copson, Stephen Oduro, and Edmund Owusu-Ansah. In training he treated me like an outsider, I was on the bench for the 11-a-side session but when I came on, I proved to him what the hype was about.
"On my way home, Chairman told me that was the first time he had watched me play and he was impressed. Kotoko signed me on a pre-contract based on supporters’ recommendations".
He says after his first training session, the bond between himself and the Chairman grew stronger as the latter became a firm favourite in his household after he pledged to buy a house for Abanga's mother, Asibi.
However, the pledge would never be redeemed and Asibi would disown her son after he denied her the gift of a house by signing with Accra Hearts of Oak.
"I trained with Kotoko for a month-and-a-half and we were about to head out for a training tour to Germany and Sudan. One day, I was asked to stop training because a letter had come from Aduana that I was still their player and Kotoko had no rights over me.
"Nana Agyemang Badu had come back from China and he could not reach me, this is because Kotoko had given me a new SIM card of their main sponsor while I trained with them. There was no way anybody could reach me".
According to the player, who was about to become the first Division One player to host a press conference from his home, the leadership of Kotoko advised him to hold the novel press briefing and publicly declare for Kotoko.
"The press conference was at my mother's house at Tafo Nhyiayeso, I did not know any pressman at the time. Kotoko invited all the pressmen and I was coached on how to beg Nana with tears for him to release me to them".
Abanga says because of his newfound celebrity he was appointed four bodyguards by Kotoko, the eagle-eyed quartet accompanied him wherever he went. He pleaded with Sylvester Asare to call-off the bodyguards because they were bringing him unwanted attention.
After shaking-off his minders, Abanga had a chance meeting with an acquaintance of the Aduana owner and life patron, Nana Oseadeeyo Agyemang Badu II and within 24-hours and after swapping cars multiple times he arrived at the residence of the Aduana owner.
“I met Prince Omar, he is like an elder brother who took care of me when I was younger at Tafo. He asked me why I was letting people insult the Dormaahene and I accepted I was at fault because of my actions. Soon, I was in his car en-route to Asawase, not knowing that he had called some two radio presenters and when they arrived they convinced me to go to Accra and speak to Nana.
“I arrived at Nana’s house at Tema at 2 am and after we had swapped cars three times to evade Kotoko fans, the last car I sat in was driven by Nana Atuahene. Nana directed that the presenters be given a cow, they were very glad. He later asked me which team I would like to join. I told him it was Hearts but I had waited for a contract offer from them for long. He was pleased and told me he would return Kotoko’s signing-on fee, adding that my registration card was already at the Hearts Secretariat. I signed for Hearts on the next Monday”.
Abanga would join Hearts initially on a three-year contract with an attractive monthly salary of GHC 400 (GHC 250 more that Kotoko had offered him). In addition, the Aduana owner, a Hearts fan, would present him with a Golf3 vehicle as an added bonus for joining the Phobians. However, all was not well within his family.
“I cried the whole night because my mother told me I was no longer her son after the news broke. She was unhappy because of the relationship she had with the Kotoko Chairman who had promised to buy her a house. Some Kotoko fans also urged my father to file a police report that his son was missing but when I contacted my late father (Anabila Abanga) and explained everything to him he gave me his support and assured me that he would convince my mother who later apologized to me.”.
Abanga would go on to spend seven years with the Phobians, winning the Ghana Premier League in 2008/2009 season, the GHALCA Top 4 twice, the Homowo Cup and the President’s Cup.
Source: graphic.com.gh
source: https://footballghana.com/
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Chapter 16: Let Me Sell You This
It was already eight o’clock by the time I stepped out of the office. For the past two weeks, I had been seeing the moon on my way home. Yes, I had been working for twelve hours a day. I remembered that during my interview, I asked Rose what were the working hours like. She laughed and replied “Eight thirty to five thirty. By right”. It did not take more than a month for me to figure out what the laughter and “by right” were supposed to mean. To leave the office at six was a luxury; to leave at seven was normal.
From Suntec City, I walked through the City Link underground shopping tunnel to Citihall MRT station. It was in utter chaos as usual. The crowd rushing from City Link split into two crowds – one towards the MRT station and the other towards the Raffles City shopping center. The crowd who had just alighted from the train split into another two crowds - one towards City Link and the other towards the Raffles City shopping center. The crowd coming down the escalator from Raffles City shopping center split into yet another two crowds – one towards the MRT station and the other towards City Link. If a coin was dropped onto the ground, it would be kicked and lost in the blink of an eye.
I barged through the chaotic crowd and walked briskly through the MRT station gate. I then took the escalator down to the station platform to join other kindred souls who were rushing home with an empty stomach and an empty brain. A few minutes later, a crowded train arrived to throw out an excited crowd rushing to shops and dinners, so that it could be refilled by an enervated crowd who just wanted to find a seat and sleep all the way home.
I had never considered myself an agile or lucky person, so I was not surprised that I could not find a seat on the train again. Well, the Health Promotion Board recommended that thirty minutes of exercise a day is good for health right? Hopefully the act of balancing in a moving train for thirty minutes could be considered as a good exercise. Just when I was going to plug in the earphones and listen to my MD player, somebody tapped me on my shoulder.
I turned around to see a guy neatly dressed in an ocean blue wrinkle-free long sleeve shirt and a pair of black trousers, and holding a black document bag. His smile was as slick as his greased-back hair and Giorgio Armani spectacles. When such a fresh and energetic guy was found in a train leaving town area on a weekday evening, he was either on the way to propose to his girlfriend, or to sell something.
This guy looked familiar and I guessed we must have known each other at some point in time because he was calling my name.
“Beng! Have you forgotten about me already?” Mr. looks-familiar grinned.
“No, how would I? How’s life? You are looking better than you used to!”
That was a safe line. Everybody believes that at any point in life they are always looking better than how they were previously.
“Yeh, glad I left the company. Too much pressure. How about you? Are you still there?” said Mr. seems-like-an-ex-colleague.
“Yap, nowhere to run.”
“So how’s everybody at the Latin America FX team? Is Simon Hatcher still the head?” asked Mr. so-and-so-from-Latin-America-FX-team.
“Yeh, he’s still there alive and kicking asses. So what have you been doing?”
“Oh, I’m now in Marketing. Here’s my name card!”
The card read “Peter Sim, Marketing Consultant, Livelife Inc.” So he was not on his way to present a marriage proposal.
For the next fifteen minutes, Mr. Sim was very concerned with the water that I entrusted my life to. He was worried that the unclean water that passed through dirty and rusty water pipes before reaching my tap could cost me my kidneys, lungs and livers and put me in a grievous old age. And with the reservoirs opening up to water activities, he could not bring himself to believe the government’s claim that those water activities will not affect our drinking water. He thanked God that it was really my lucky day because I had to meet him on the train. This grave peril of losing my organs because of drinking water could be averted easily by purchasing a water filter that cost merely over a thousand dollars from him. In fact, if I were to join his company as one of the marketing consultants, I could have further discounts that already very reasonably priced water filter.
“Beng, think about it. If you join our company as a freelance marketing consultant, not only can you buy our products at great discounts, you can earn substantial commissions!”
“Err… Peter, you know how busy my work can be right?”
“You don’t have to worry about that at all! As a freelance marketing consultant, you can always work only when you’re free and there’s no pressure in meeting any quota at all!”
“Err… I really don’t think I’ve got the time to do any freelancing.”
“Oh… well, never mind, I tell you what. Since we’re such great pals, I must get you the discount for the water filter. Just between the two of us, I’ll pretend that I’m the one buying the water filter, and you can get the member’s privileged discount for it! How about that, pal?”
I told him that I was very grateful, however very unfortunately, I had already bought a water filter just months ago. Of course I did not tell him that my water filter was a simple one that cost me less than a hundred dollars. Instead, I told him that I paid a few hundred dollars for that new water filter and I could not just throw it away. I did not expect him to get even more concerned and more worked up.
“No, you don’t understand. Those water filters that are selling in the market are dangerous! They can’t do a clean job in removing the debris from the water! And worse, sometimes the chemicals that are used in these filters actually pollute the water further!”
“Erm… but the one that I bought was certified by the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency as a Microbiological Water Purifier.” I knew I read these terms somewhere in the Forbes magazine.
“But Beng, how can you trust something that is certified by the U.S.? Everybody can be certified by them! As someone working in the water treatment industry, I can tell you the standards set by these U.S. agencies can’t be trusted. That’s why our water filters are more superior. Our company’s water filters are certified by the United Kingdom!”
Before he could continue to brag about how the new desalination plant had initially wanted to use their company’s water filter, but because their filters were so out of stock they had to reject the plant, I told him that I had reached my station and I needed to go.
“Hey Beng, you have forgotten to give me your name card!”
“Oh, I ran out of name cards. But no worries, I’ve got yours.”
“Oh yes, call me okay?” Mr. Sim reminded me before the train door closed.
I waved him goodbye as the train moved away from the station. I looked up at the station sign. Yio Chu Kang. Not so bad, I was only a few stations away from my destination. Patiently, I waited for the next train.
Partially due to the trend of retrenchments a few years back, more people had joined the multi-level marketing workforce. The marketing consultants from these multi-level marketing companies will recruit new people to either buy into the program or to buy products that are totally unheard of but grossly overpriced. The new recruits will then recruit additional people who will also buy into the program or buy the products. The whole process just goes on. That is where the word ‘multi-level’ comes from. As for the word ‘marketing’, they might be using the wrong word.
All marketing consultants are promised that if they could create multiple layers of sellers under them, the amount of accrued commissions could lead them to riches that they could never dream of. But the sad truth is only the big boss who started the program is really making loads of money. All others have spent their commissions buying bulks of those overpriced products themselves.
Finally I reached the station I had intended to alight. As I walked down the escalator, I was approached by a well dressed lady holding a notepad and pen on one hand, and a cup of colored straws on the other.
“Hi, could you spare me a minute?” the lady asked politely.
“No,” I had already spared somebody else my minutes.
“Just a quick one, okay? We’re offering a free lucky draw!”
‘Free’ lucky draw? Since when must we pay for lucky draws?
“What is it about?”
“I’m from ABC Insurance and we are having a road show promotion on our latest insurance products. If you managed to draw the lucky straw among these other straws in the cup, you could win yourself free accident cover for a year!” she said avidly.
“It’s okay. I’m already covered by other insurance policies.”
“But why don’t you give the lucky draw a shoot? Just draw a straw from this cup! It’s free anyway!”
“No, really, it’s okay. Thanks!” With that, I walked away briskly before she could continue.
As I walked past their booth area, I saw a couple of tables and some people really talking to those insurance agents. But who knows? They could be only interested in getting that one year free accident cover. Perhaps I was just been too skeptical, but I could not understand how a tired and hungry person who had just finished work and was on the way home suddenly had an urge to buy insurance from somebody he/she had just met for the first time, on the street.
Then my mobile phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Hello, is that Mr. Tan Ah Beng?”
“Yes?”
“Hi, I’m Larry calling from Relax Resorts and I’ve got good news for you! You’ve just won yourself a free trip for two to Phuket from our lucky draw!”
“Another lucky draw?”
“Huh? Sorry?”
“Never mind, so what’s the catch?”
“Oh, there’s no condition attached. You’ll just have to attend a short travel presentation at our office and…”
“I’m not interested,” I cut him off and hung up the phone.
It was one of those timeshare companies again. They will lure you to their holiday resorts presentations that last for hours and pressurize you to sign up a twenty thousand dollars package that allows you to stay in holiday resorts that are usually far away from all amenities and attractions.
After dinner, I switched on my notebook. I was planning to get into eBay. Since everybody seemed to have something to sell, maybe I should try selling some of my old VCDs as well.
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How Hackers Stole Millions Worth of Crypto Via Victim’s Telecoms Operator
On Aug. 15, American investor Michael Terpin filed a $224 million lawsuit against AT&T. He believes that the telecoms giant had provided hackers with access to his phone number, which led to a major crypto heist.
Michael Terpin is a Puerto Rico-based entrepreneur and CEO of TransformGroup. He is also a co-founder of an angel group for Bitcoin (BTC) investors named BitAngels and of a digital currency fund, the BitAngels DApps Fund.
Terpin claims that he lost $24 million worth of cryptocurrencies as a result of two hacks that occured over the course of seven months: The 69-page complaint he filed with California law firm Greenberg Glusker mentions two seperate episodes, dated June 11, 2017 and Jan. 7, 2018. In both cases, as per the document, AT&T, of which Terpin was a longtime subscriber since the 1990s, failed to protect his digital identity.
Now, Terpin is seeking $200 million in punitive damages and $24 million in compensation from the telecommunications corporation.
SIM swapping scam: What does a telecoms provider have to do with crypto savings?
“What AT&T did was like a hotel giving a thief with a fake ID a room key and a key to the room safe to steal jewelry in the safe from the rightful owner,” the complaint states, arguing that Terpin fell victim to a SIM swap fraud, also known as SIM hijacking or a “port out scam.”
SIM swapping is a process of leading a telecoms provider like, say, T-Mobile transferring the target’s phone number to a SIM card held by the attacker. Once they receive the phone number, hackers can use it to reset the victims’ passwords and break into their accounts, including accounts on cryptocurrency exchanges.
Occasionally, that allows thieves to bypass even two-factor authentication, as Motherboard writes. According to their investigation, SIM swapping “is relatively easy to pull off and has become widespread,” adding that “cryptocurrency accounts are common targets.”
The tactics employed by criminals to perform such hacks may vary. Sometimes, they trick customer representatives into believing they are the targets and make them hand over their data. However, as per Motherboard, fraudsters often use the so-called “plugs”: telecom company insiders who get paid to do illegal swaps. An anonymous SIM hijacker told the publication:
“Everyone uses them[…] When you tell someone [who works at a telecoms company] they can make money, they do it.”
An anonymous source at Verizon told Motherboard that he had been approached via Reddit, where he was offered bribes in exchange for SIM swaps. Another Verizon employee claimed that the hacker promised that they would make “$100,000 in a few months” if he would cooperate — all he had to do is “either activate the SIM cards for [the hacker] when [he was] at work or give [the attacker his] Employee ID and PIN.”
More related to the Terpin case, Motherboard’s dialogue with an AT&T employee suggested that their system’s design reportedly allows some employees to supersede security features, such as the phone passcode that AT&T requires when porting numbers:
“From there, the passcode can be changed[…] With a fresh passcode, the number can be ported out with no hang ups.”
How was Terpin hacked?
As mentioned above, Terpin was hacked twice: in June 2017 and in January 2018.
First, in the summer of 2017, he found out that his AT&T number had been hacked when his phone suddenly went dead, according to the complaint. He then learned from AT&T that his password had been changed remotely “after 11 attempts in AT&T stores had failed.”
After gaining access to Terpin’s phone, the attackers used his personal information, including calls and text messages, to break into his accounts that use telephone numbers as a means of verification, including his “cryptocurrency accounts” — although it doesn’t specify the type of those accounts. The hackers also reportedly hijacked Terpin’s Skype account to impersonate him and convince one of his clients to send them cryptocurrency.
AT&T reportedly cut off access to the hackers only after they managed to steal “substantial funds” from Terpin. The document also states that after the incident, on June 13, 2017, Terpin met with AT&T representatives to discuss the attack and was promised by AT&T that his account would be moved to a “higher security level” with “special protection,” akin to the ones used by celebrities:
“AT&T further told Mr. Terpin that the implementation of the increased security measures would prevent Mr. Terpin’s number from being moved to another phone without Mr. Terpin’s explicit permission, because no one other than Mr. Terpin and his wife would know the secret code.”
Nevertheless, half a year later, on Saturday, Jan. 7, 2018, Teprin’s phone reportedly turned off again — he got attacked yet another time. The complaint claims that “an employee in an AT&T store cooperated with an imposter committing SIM swap fraud,” despite extra security measures being taken back in June 2017:
“As AT&T later admitted, an employee in an AT&T store in Norwich, Connecticut ported over Mr. Terpin’s wireless number to an imposter in violation of AT&T’s commitments and promises, including the higher security that it had supposedly placed on Mr. Terpin’s account after the June 11, 2017 hack that had supposedly been implemented to prevent precisely such fraud.”
This time the thieves allegedly stole about $24 million worth of cryptocurrency, even though he tried to contact AT&T “instantly” after his phone stopped working. AT&T allegedly “ignored” his request, leaving the hackers enough time to get enough information about Terpin’s crypto accounts to move his funds to their own accounts. The plaintiff complaint argues that Terpin’s wife also tried calling AT&T at the time, but was put on “endless hold” when she asked to be connected to AT&T’s fraud department.
The Teprin case could be a legal precedent for SIM swapping scams
As the complaint sums up, emphasising the potential scale of port out scams:
“AT&T is doing nothing to protect its almost 140 million customers from SIM card fraud. AT&T is therefore directly culpable for these attacks because it is well aware that its customers are subject to SIM swap fraud and that its security measures are ineffective. AT&T does virtually nothing to protect its customers from such fraud because it has become too big to care.”
When Gizmodo contacted AT&T for a comment on the story, the company reportedly denied the accusation, stating that they are ready to stand their ground:
“We dispute these allegations and look forward to presenting our case in court.”
Terpin told Gizmodo that such crypto heists are commonly performed by “college kids who go online in these Discord groups.” He also insisted that in his case, the thieves used an AT&T employee:
“The one thing that’s been a link between [the crypto hacks] is that in every case they’ve had an insider[…] [Trading cryptocurrencies] is safe as long as nobody gives out your digital identity.”
He added that he contacted the FBI, Homeland Security and the U.S. Secret Service, and they’ve identified the AT&T employee who allegedly participated in the attack.
Terpin also claimed that he doesn’t give out his phone number anymore, relying on Google Voice instead.
Cointelegraph has contacted Terpin’s lawyers to specify which tokens were stolen from him, and where he had his cryptocurrency account. This story will be updated as soon as the comment request gets returned.
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This news post is collected from Cointelegraph
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