Andrew slips through a slit in the crowd, brushing through the sleek trains of expensive gowns, rich wool suits jackets catching on his own. He’s on his second flute of champagne, and the tartness keeps him focused. His attention is on the flavour and the rim of the glass and the warp of faces through it. His earpiece crackles and whispers.
He can see his mark on the opposite side of the room, surrounded by servers and liars and pretty things. One of them is all three, Andrew can tell: a waiter’s vest, a seam of over-applied foundation, and bright blue eyes.
He’s distracting, flighty, a rubber band pulled all the way back. He looks like the memory of a case file, and a name occurs to Andrew one second before Kevin hisses it into his ear.
“It’s fuckin’ Charlie Pilot. Don’t engage, Minyard, we’re not here for him.”
Andrew doesn’t make any effort to reply, just takes another pull of champagne. He’s not really watching the troupes of entertainers or the clockwork security or the velvet and silk blooming under bowing chandeliers. He’s not even watching the man he’s either going to rob or kill, who’s laughing and weedy, red in the face from the alcohol. He’s stuck on Pilot – next to his target, holding a heavily stocked tray of appetizers, his expression pleasant and empty.
He’ll be an irritant to what should be a straightforward plan, if he keeps hovering. Andrew takes a loaded step forward and the voice in his ear complains.
“Don’t even think about moving in until Pilot leaves. He’s probably doing reconnaissance for Matt. I bet he doesn’t even know about the file.”
Andrew watches Pilot’s face tick, the way he blinks like he’s on a timer, the way he’s worrying the inside of his cheek with his teeth.
“I bet he does,” Andrew murmurs, and he drains the last of the champagne. He plucks his tie pin away from the fabric and drops it in the empty glass, leaving it on a passing tray.
“What— what the fuck Minyard, we’ve lost visuals. Do you hear me? Andrew? Andrew?”
Andrew weaves through the rest of the golden crowd, ignoring the buzz of Kevin’s reprimands in his ear. He finds a new spot on the outskirts of the crowd where Pilot has installed himself.
“Do you know how fucking expensive those cameras are? You’re such a piece of shit operative,” Kevin says. “When you inevitably come back without the intelligence and without our equipment, it’s costing usto keep you around, do you realize that?”
Andrew’s more focused on the way Pilot’s shoulders are turning to face him, the slim line of his tailored pants, that eyelash-thick smudge of un-blended make up.
“Shrimp?” Pilot offers, swaying the tray in his direction.
“No,” Andrew says, but he stays uncomfortably near, feeling along the edges of his boundaries without finding any seams. Pilot’s composure is still and reserved as a frost-ravaged garden.
“Have a good evening then,” Pilot says graciously, turning back towards the host that Andrew should be sizing up but hasn’t even looked at. He glances at him for a sliver of a moment, finds himself uninterested, and looks back at Pilot.
Andrew catches him suddenly by the arm, but relaxes his grip just as quickly, caught off guard by his own impulsivity. His own disguise is just an invitation and sun bleached hair; he isn’t playing a character like Pilot is. He’s neutral for a living, but Pilot is a new weight on his scale, unbalancing him so that he can’t quite settle at zero.
When their eyes meet, the polite, curious waiter snips out of existence. Charlie Pilot stares at Andrew, with eyes like the bluest part of a fire.
“There’s a conflict of interest,” he tells Andrew calmly. “And your interest will lose.”
“I’m not interested in anything,” Andrew says broadly.
“Hm,” Pilot says, unconvinced. “You’re lying.”
“I don’t lie,” Andrew says. He’s always saying it; it’s a novelty that employers enjoy and enemies challenge, amused.
Pilot raises his jaw, mouth twitching. “No, you wouldn’t, would you.” His eyes flicker to the side of Andrew’s face, where Kevin is breathing furiously through his earpiece, then down to the grip he still has on his forearm. He lowers his tray down until the rough edge is pressed to the root of Andrew’s hand threateningly. “You’ll want to let me go, Andrew, or you’re going to end up needing a longer armband.”
Andrew feels genuine surprise squeeze his fingers around Pilot’s wrist. He hadn’t noticed the black fabric extending a whiff beyond his crisp white sleeve. He lets go, and Pilot tucks his shoulders back, satisfied. His hair is too dark to match his freckles, Andrew notes quietly. It is, perhaps, what the make up was meant to cover up.
“You are not going to win, Charlie,” Andrew says. “We’re the more capable team.”
Pilot smiles indulgently. “‘Charlie’,” he repeats, mouth curling around the name. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been Charlie Pilot.” He jostles his tray from one hand to another, and loosens his collar with his freed hand. “And I don’t think you understand how much farther ahead we are than you. If you’re looking for information, we already have it. If you’re trying to find the connections this place has to the Yakuza, we’re the ones undoing them.”
“Who’s we? I don’t remember seeing anything about loyalty in your case file. You’re just a runner.”
Pilot looks briefly bothered by this, and he juts his chin again. “I’m loyal to whoever’s doing the work that needs to be done.”
“That doesn’t answer my question. Who are you?”
He looks down, at Andrew’s empty hands, at the hip where he’s hiding his gun. His expression is warped and sad when he looks up, like the real filling in his strange costume is finally oozing out.
“You can call me Neil,” he says, and drops the whole tray of food so that it clatters and rolls into the host’s feet. There are gasps and yelps, partygoers dodging and stooping to catch the runaway platter. Andrew looks impulsively down to track its progress, and when he looks sharply back up into the knot of activity, Neil is gone. Of course he is.
He doesn’t have time to think about where he might have disappeared to, just steps neatly into the opportunity that’s been afforded to him. He uses the distraction as a doorway directly into the offices behind the coddled host.
Kevin is asking repeatedly for updates, and Andrew fishes the earpiece out and tucks it into his breast pocket. He likes to be alone for this part, when the most important door closes behind him and everything makes as much sense as a ticking clock.
He keeps thinking of Neil’s reaction to ‘runner’, of the vulnerability trussed up in his persona. He finds himself sick to his stomach wanting to know what his real hair colour is.
He tries every door in the polished row of them, finding all of them locked. He picks the lock on the door farthest from the burble of the ballroom behind him, and cracks into what looks like a room built for business arrangements and drinking. There’s a snifter next to a half dozen tumblers on a cart along the wall, and extensive cabinets under the desk.
He feels his way along the underside of the desk, and opens each drawer, idealistically left unlocked and unprotected. He finds useless information and shady information and heaps of anonymous, unlabeled tapes.
He finds the safe in the floor, facing up patiently under a wingback chair and a panel of floorboard. He stoops so that he’s face to face with it, shrugs his jacket off like a dead skin onto the floor, and puts the heart of a stethoscope to the face of the safe.
He’s sweating, spread out surreptitiously on the floor, but the safe is flimsy. It cracks in under an hour, the party wilting two rooms over, pressure taking him by the hair. Andrew flicks the door open impatiently, unwinding the stethoscope from around his neck.
It’s filled top to bottom with paper, and he reaches for the first file, carding his fingers through the spill of sheets.
Got you, it says. Over and over again, in unassuming little typescript. And on the next page, got you.
Andrew’s fingers flex. The next file is the same, and the next. A million taunting, twirling repetitions: got you.Got this. Got here first.
The safe was already cracked. The list of names was already stolen. Neil’s face winks and swarms when he closes his eyes, furious. If you’re looking for information, we already have it.
He roots around for the bud in his pocket and pops it back into his ear. He leans back, splayed away from the spill from the safe, the stacks of failure. He enunciates clearly into the microphone sewn into his collar.
I don’t say a lot on this blog but I have seen the drama in our fandom of B.A.P not winning on The Show. And yes, I am frustrated too but sometimes it just doesn’t happen. We have worked hard even just to get them nominated. And saying B.A.P doesn’t care for awards shouldn’t stop us.
They work so hard and even if they say they don’t care, it would still be nice for them to win. IT WOULD STILL MAKE THEM HAPPY. Think about it this way, wouldn’t you like to be validated, or rewarded for your hard work? Just as you would like to get rewarded for your hard work, so would B.A.P.
But, I am not ok with fans shaming other fans of not being real B.A.P fans cuz they didn’t “try hard enough”. You don’t know their situations. They may be too busy to sit there and stream Honeymoon or to vote constantly. As a older fan, I juggle work, uni and an extra course outside of uni. It keeps me busy but I try to stream Honeymoon as much as I can, I try to vote as much as I can and I have bought Blue.
We are all trying so don’t you go calling fans fake. You have no right to do so. We are trying our best.
Just keep trying, keep voting, keep streaming. Support B.A.P in anyway possible but don’t get pressured into it.
Levi scrubs the last of the dirt off the coffee table. “Finally.” That’s the last time he trusts Isabel to bring a ‘mystery box’ into the apartment.
He hears a crash in the kitchen, followed by a squeak of “Oops!” Isabel is a freaking tornado with legs. He sighs as he goes to investigate what she’s mussed up now.
“I was never-”
“I know,” Isabel interrupts. “You were never this crazy when you were 5!” she mimics with R’s that sound suspiciously like W’s.
Levi suppresses a grin at her sass. He shoos her off while he rights the stool she managed to topple over.
The doorbell rings and Isabel rounds the corner at top speed. “I’ll get it!”
“No, no, no!” Levi scoops her up. “Remember what we talked about? You’re going to watch a movie while Eren and I study.”
Isabel nods wisely. “‘Cause it took you a whole year just to invite him over.”
Sure, tell the kid a million times not to jump on the furniture with muddy shoes and it’s in one ear and out the other. Mention your undying crush on a certain football player while you think she’s napping, however, and she remembers every single word you say about him. Unless, of course, Hange told her. Quite frankly he wouldn’t put it past them.
Levi takes a deep breath. “Don’t repeat that again,” he says. “Ever.”
Eren knocks on their door. Levi sets Isabel down. “You remember how to set up Netflix?”
“Duh,” Isabel says proudly before marching towards the living room.
Levi laughs. He never imagined himself as the guardian of such a spunky kid at the age of 19, but she makes him a little more grateful for it every day. Even if she does like to pour an entire bottle of bubble bath in the tub and turn the water on full blast. He shudders.
He makes one last stop at the mirror in the hallway to fix his hair before he opens the door. He has to pause a second, the same as always, and just admire Eren’s radiant smile before he can say hello.
“Levi!” Eren says. “How’s it- oh, who’s this little angel?” he asks, peeking around Levi.
Angel. Levi almost snorts.
“I’m Izzy!” Isabel says confidently. “And I’m-”
“Supposed to be watching a movie,” Levi finishes for her, turning around to fix her with a stern look.
Isabel sticks her tongue out at him.
“Izzy, huh?” Eren smiles another brilliant, blinding, beautiful smile. “That’s a cool name.”
Isabel nods. “And you’re Eren.”
Eren tilts his head at her and Levi’s stomach drops a little. “How did you know that?” Eren asks.
“Green eyes. Nice hair. Pretty face.” Isabel ticks each point off on her fingers. “You gotta be Eren.”
“Izzy!” Levi whispers.
Eren raises his brows at Levi’s back.
Levi’s face burns. He refuses to turn around; half because he can’t look at Eren right now, half because he’s having a stare down with a pint-sized hurricane that possesses just as much bravado as he does.
Eren pipes up against the silence that has fallen over the apartment. “Pretty face, huh?”
And like a switch, Isabel goes from scowling to grinning. “Uh huh. Levi talks about you lots. Like, all the time.”
“S’kinda annoying. But he really, really likes-” Levi clamps a hand over her mouth.
“She’s had a little too much sugar,” he explains apologetically. He shoots Isabel a look. “I’ll make sure she doesn’t get anymore for a while.”
Isabel glares at Levi. A hint of mischief lights up her eyes, and before Levi can work out what she’s up to- “Ew!” - she licks his hand.
Levi grumbles his way to the bathroom, turning the water on as hot as he can handle it.
Eren shifts under Isabel’s intense stare. She’s sizing him up, lips set in a firm line and eyes narrowed. She nods, satisfied with whatever conclusion she’s come to and takes Eren by the hand. “C’mon. I’ll paint your nails.”
Eren laughs, and allows her to lead him into the living room. She chatters away a mile a minute. He tries his best to keep up, and nods encouragingly when she finds the perfect nail polish to match his black shirt: the brightest blue in her collection.
He looks around at the pictures on the walls, tempted to ask who they all are, but Isabel says something that catches his attention.
“What was that, Izzy?”
“You’re nice,” she repeats. “That’s why Uncle Levi likes you so much.” She brushes another coat on his index nail. Half of it ends up on his skin. “You like him too, don’t you?” She looks up at Eren and smiles. “I can tell.”
Levi watches them from the archway, waiting eagerly for an answer. Eren simply smiles at Isabel, and when she resumes her work on his fingernails, he gives a small nod.
Isabel is a freaking tornado with legs, and Levi loves her more than anything in the world. Though, watching Eren ruffle her hair with his clean hand, he’s becoming a close second.
Imagine being Laurent. The second son, bookish and intelligent, always admiring the brother he thought destined for the throne. Imagine finding out that you had lost the one person in the world you thought mattered. “He was everything I had.” And after Auguste’s death, he was alone.
Imagine innocence stripped during the first years of mourning a loss. Imagine being bedded by your uncle. Molested. Reduced to satisfy a sick fetish. Imagine realizing what a harsh world you had to live through, growing up from being sweet at fifteen to spitting venom at twenty. Cold frigid bitch. Because there was no other way.
Imagine being played, time and time again, until it ran out and at ten months the clock began to tick. Imagine facing the man that killed your beloved brother, your sole protector in the world. Imagine wanting to kill after years of training to return the favor of the prince-killer, to run the blade across olive skin, and then being given the chance. The prince-killer was bound in heavy chains.
Damen, they said. Damianos, he knew.
Imagine having never known love your entire life and finding it only in the last person you wanted. Imagine being blinded by hatred, spots in your vision that slowly cleared when Damen, even as a slave, was a prince born to rule. Imagine falling in love and having it happen all in the span of months, from the day of being stripped of lands to learning the nature of the prince-killer. To the day you would kneel in front of your uncle to beg for the life of the man who would beg for yours, too.
Imagine being Laurent. With all his imperfections and moments of tension even in love making where he gave himself and shuddered with the realization of it. I know who you are, Damianos. Imagine thinking the only way was to sacrifice yourself, undoubtedly alone when finally you had someone else. Imagine facing the odds and for once in your life, winning, and there was someone else to share the victory with.
Imagine your future, an eternal journey of learning and loving and being with the man you never thought you’d love but announced that he had never known a truer man, and before speaking, had chosen between the two choices that mattered. A kingdom, or this.
Imagine having never thought, and now knowing it, as you will until the last of your days, with the man you love as you rule a kingdom that once was.
Headcanons for the chocobros when they discover their lover keeps photos of them with embarrassing captions like "love of my life", "best bf", "prince charming" xD
Omg I love this idea so much! :’) I’m sorry if these are a bit long!
- Noct would be lounging around in the tent one day, probably
looking forward to going to sleep or something.
- His eyes happen to land on his s/o’s bed set up, realising they hadn’t put
away all their stuff properly. Something in particular was quite curious…
- Of course, this boy cannot resist going over to check it out. (This is the
same guy who wants to check out dungeons just because after all).
- He’d pick up the slip of paper to see it was actually a picture. Of him. With
a cutely drawn crown on top of his head. Underneath his face were the words ‘My
- Noct would gasp and blush like mad.
- Awkward mode initiated.
- But he would also feel so happy and loved. God damn it my lover is too cute.
- He’d also really like that they used the phrase prince charming, since he half
jokes that he is one constantly.
- Once he’d recovered his cool as best as he could, he’d head out of the tent.
- “Be back in a bit guys!”
- When he comes back he is super shifty, s/o notices at once.
- “Can I uh… uh speak to you, like, over there?”
- Chocobros are amazed at his smoothness as always. S/o humours him and
they finally have privacy.
- He is soadorable and awkward. One hand behind his back, the other scratching
the back of his neck and dear gods
his can’t make eye contact.
- “So… I just went for a walk, and well, kinda found these.”
- Literally shoves flowers into his s/o’s hands.
- Crickey is it hot in here? Nope, just my
- S/o can’t stop grinning. It’s obvious he went to look for them.
- When they return to camp, the others look at each other and just shrug.
- Noct mentally pats himself on the back.
- Ah yes, smooth as silk.
- Would be walking behind his s/o one day seeing that they
have a photo in their hands.
- “Hey, whatcha got there?”
- S/O would grip the photo tightly and run around the room, Prompto would
literally have to chase them down if he wanted to see it! Which of course, he’d
be dying to.
- Finally manages to snatch the photo out of his lovers’ hands, only to see
it’s a candid picture of him that he didn’t know existed. With some writing on
- “Sunshine boy, l-love of my life…?”
- His face is on fire. Like, tomato boy red, his hand covering his mouth.
- Heart is racing. I’m… I’m the… of their life?
- Doesn’t realise he has the most ridiculous, most goofy grin on his face
behind his hand!
- S/O is like… “Prom, are you okay?”
- Finally snaps out of it.
- “Yeah… but you could have used a better photo of me, look here are some of my
selfies from our journey.” Tips a handful of photos out, mostly with his
chocobo. Distraction tack-tick!
- S/O face palms and snatches the picture back.
- Prompto is smiling for the rest of the day, cannot get the image out of his
- Would tell everyone. “Hey, hey
guess what I am. A sunshine boy!”
- I don’t think his s/o would understand just how much it would mean to him. Is
an absolute lovely dovey mess.
-Gladio and his
s/o would be lounging under a tree together in the brief moments they could manage
to steal away together.
- S/o would be laid on his chest, both with a book in their hands.
- They would turn the page, totally forgetting what they had been using for a
- Both watch as the little square falls and lands on the centre of Gladio’s
- His lover goes to reach for it but damn
it he is so much quicker.
- Damn those lighting fast reflexes!
- “Hmm what’s this?”
- It’s a picture of him that Prompto had taken mid-fight, his s/o must’ve
swiped it from him. And in the corner was a heart with the words ‘My gorgeous Gladdy’
scrawled in it.
- S/o has their head in their hands this is so
- Gladio laughs so warmly, and moves the fingers obstructing his lover’s eyes.
- “So you think I’m gorgeous huh?”
- He is not shy at all, he thinks that it is so cute.
- His heart is singing, confirming just how much he was head over heels for his
- “Ob coush.”
- Gladio sits up causing his s/o to move their hands and repeat themselves.
- “Of course.” They can’t look at him.
- Gently he would lift their head until their eyes make contact, seeing that
dazzling, warm smile of his they loved so much.
- “Let me show you how gorgeous I think you
- His arms bring them back down on the floor where he gives the most passionate
kiss his could muster, hoping that he was getting across just how happy that
photo had made him.
- He was.
- Iggy would be at his s/o’s house, waiting for them to come
back when he spotted their jacket on the sofa.
- Can’t resist picking it up and putting it back on the coat hook for them.
- As he puts it away, something falls out of the pocket and flutters to the
- He reaches down to pick it up and put it away, but stops as he sees it’s a
picture of him.
- It’s a picture of him and his s/o laughing at something Gladio was saying,
but it looked like there was writing on the picture…
- Ignis’ heart would thump as he read the words written in the handwriting he
knew so well.
- World’s best boyfriend!
- Would definitely love knowing his s/o felt that way, but would seriously want
to live up to those expectations not that he doesn’t already.
- S/o gets home finally to see a banquet pretty much, prepared for them with
all their favourite things.
- Ignis pampers them anyway, but that night he would seriously ramp it up a notch.
- Backrubs? You got it. Kisses? Constantly. Cuddles? Absolutely!
- Here let me run you an extra bubbly bath.
- S/o wouldn’t say anything because they would be enjoying it too much,
but wonder what brought it all on.
- Later they would go to sneak a look at the picture they keep in their jacket
pocket like usual, but this time look at it in surprise.
- There was now some more elegant script on the photo next to them.
- World’s most precious partner.
Read it on [AO3] Words: 2,608 Pairing: Sheith Summary: The mission is more important than the individual.
But not Shiro. Never Shiro.
Oh man. So I wrote this fic as a way to help process my feelings about S4 because I just can’t get over the fact that every time Keith realizes Shiro (and the team, but mostly Shiro) is in trouble, he drops everything at once to rush in and save him, every single season. It’s just so touching, no matter what you see their relationship as, and I’m just so emo from the S4 finale and what that instinct of Keith’s led into.
So here’s a little thing, also inspired by my friend @breeeliss’s tumblr post here where Shiro and Keith webcam and catch up while they’re apart. Hope y'all enjoy!
They’re letting him go. Keith knows it’s for the best.
But just know that we’re here for you whenever you need us.
He pulls away from the hug, content with the way their differences worked themselves out. They want the best for him and he couldn’t be more thankful.
As he heads towards the exit, he looks back at them. Hunk, Coran, and Pidge are tearful but accepting. Shiro, Allura, and Lance are full of hope. They’re all smiling at him with pride in their eyes, the kind of pride one would expect from family, the kind Keith’s never experienced before meeting Shiro.
His eyes make a final sweep over his team and linger on Shiro. The understanding in his expression is the same one Keith fell for all those years ago: the silent gaze that’s always made Keith feel known. Seeing it now, Keith knows with certainty that Shiro has never needed any further explanations. And after everything he’s gone through to get Shiro back, it’s now Keith’s turn to leave.
I know you are. And I can’t tell you how much that means to me.
He’s glad for it. The Blade is important to him — it’s where he’s meant to be. Just like Shiro was meant to be in the Black Lion. To be a leader.
They will accept this. They have to.
And even if they don’t, Keith doesn’t plan on giving them a choice.
So with a smile and one last look, he departs from his newfound home in pursuit of another.
How do you feel about izuku as the main protagonist? Is there anything you like and/or dislike about him as a character?
Midoriya is probably in my top five favorite characters of the series. I like him as the main protagonist simply because I love his character. There are so many reasons to love him.
1. He’s what makes a great hero. The series repeatedly makes it clear that Midoriya has the heroic spirit to save others and care about people.
2. He’s very pragmatic. Unlike a lot of idealistic main characters, Midoriya knows the responsibilities and risks that come with One for All and from being a hero. He understands that he has a lot to learn, knows he’s not strong enough yet to be All Might’s successor, and knows he needs to work hard in order to master One for All.
3. He’s crazy. Midoriya is willing to break his bones and entire body for others and doesn’t react to the pain like a normal person. The pain doesn’t bother him enough to stop fighting even though it should. He repeatedly is willing to break his body without hesitation.
4. He’s a dorky otaku.
5. He’s socially awkward. Midoriya hadn’t even talked to a girl until meeting Uraraka and is still awkward around girls and people in general.
6. Midoriya is very logical and very calculating. He often thinks of creative solutions in order to accomplish his goals. Furthermore, he studies other people’s strengths and weaknesses in order to know how to be a good match against them.
7. He also studies other people’s Quirks and abilities for fun. It’s a hobby of his. People and their Quirks are interesting, so why not have journals about them?
8. He’s a bro. Midoriya is very supportive of Iida after his brother’s career-ruining injury. He’s willing to fight Bakugou in order for Bakugou to release his frustrations, and he also still looks up to Bakugou despite the years of bullying Bakugou put him through. Midoriya has also been such a great friend to Todoroki, trying to get Todoroki to use his fire in order for Todoroki to give it his all to become a great hero, even if that means losing to Todoroki during the Sports Festival. Midoriya has also been nothing but a great and supportive friend to Uraraka. There are many other examples of why Midoriya is such a bro as well.
9. He’s still a flawed character. Midoriya is still a crybaby, and he still lets negative emotions get to him. He’s depressed after he hears about Eri’s child abuse, even crying about it during lunch. He overthinks things sometimes and worries over the smaller things. Midoriya still gets scared often.
10. He has a great relationship with his mom.
11. He’s hilarious. Midoriya is a socially awkward, nerdy otaku who has bizarre character ticks and makes weird faces. He’s very funny and interesting.
12. Despite all the obstacles he has been through in his life, Midoriya is very determined to achieve his goal as being great hero and to prove to All Might he’s worthy of being his successor.
13. His father and son relationship with All Might is very heartwarming.
14. He’s a very badass-looking hero. His hero costume looks awesome, and he looks kickass when using One for All.
15. There are still other reasons. Midoriya’s character still keeps on impressing me.
I’m not going to list the very few minor things I dislike about his character because they’re pretty dumb and petty reasons, and I want to make this post purely about why I like Midoriya as a main character.
Summary: (Y/N) (L/N); S.H.E.I.L.D’s youngest assassin and highly trained sniper, is sent to Moscow to follow the trail of The Winter Solider. No one knows if the stories are true. No one knows why the trails all lead to dead ends. Now, as she’s trapped in a dark, confined cell in the middle of nowhere; she thinks maybe she should have just stayed at the office.
Parings: The Winter Solider x Reader, Bucky Barnes x Reader
“You can’t keep me here, you assholes!” She screamed. Her throat was becoming raw and tortured from her pleads to be set free, or at least, understand what was going on.
It was dark and grimy; like all cells probably were. The smell of gasoline was in the air, and it was as if the intoxicated flow was replacing her beloved oxygen.
The bonds that tied her feet and hands together were large straps of metal, cold, but not tight. She was silently thankful that they weren’t rope, and wouldn’t lead to a horrible rash later on.
“Is anyone even fucking here?” She asked the silence. She began squirming in her place, becoming restless at the silent whispers of wind and no responses.
There was a sudden click that filled the void in the room, causing the eighteen year-old girl to scan the walls frantically.
Gas? Poison? Did they, whoever they were … open a compartment filled with gas to kill her? To put her to sleep for yelling so much?
As her gaze fell to the floor, searching for a vent or anything of the sort, she saw that the metal restraints that use to bind her were clapped back now.
The restraints had been opened.
“What the hell …” She balanced her feet against the concrete floor and hesitantly stood up from the metal chair that she was confined in, not moments ago.
She slowly walked towards the bars of the cell, her black boots echoing in the still silent cage.
Her hands, that were sticky with blood, someone else’s blood, she guessed, grasped upon the metal bar. She pressed her head between the crease, trying to find any source of anything out in the dark lit hallway.
That’s when she felt it. A presence. A tall, big, unwanted presence.
It was behind her, she felt that. Running up her spine, pricking her toes, whatever it was, it was just lurking there. Stalking her; waiting for her next move.
And she didn’t want to turn around. Surprises were unexpected; and she didn’t like the unexpected. This wasn’t a good plan, she’d only ever worked from a far.
A far with a weapon, with a plan, with a motive. Now, she was following a ghost. A dead trail of a man that may or may not even exist.
Look where that got her.
She stared at her fingers wrapped around the cell bar. She wished for super strength, to pry the bar off it’s hinges and finally have the fimiliarity of a weapon between her palms.
“Вы не то, чего я ожидал.” You are not what I expected.
The voice was horrible. Terrifying. It was a sound that envoked power and command. It was like he was the raining man of authority. Authority over the world, authority over her.
She forced herself to turn around. Her back was against the cell, her hands were still gripping the bars tightly behind her back. She wanted to go back home. She wanted to be at a distance. Not one-on-one like this. Not ever again.
Emerging from the corner of the room was a solider. An assassin.
His hair was greasy and shoulder length. His eyes, she could tell they were blue; but maybe not as blue and beautiful as they use to be. The only thing that shined in the darkness was his metal arm. A metal arm.
His stare was ruthless; deadly even. He looked brutal, standing there, a knife gripped in his gloved hand.
“You’re … you’re him.” Her voice only sounded like a croak. A sound of defeat.
Emotionless. Silent. That’s all he was. That was the most unnerving part. She couldn’t read him, not one bit of him.
“I - I - I’m just a kid …” She didn’t know what other card to play. “ … I don’t know why I’m here … Please …”
“Вы - ребенок с оружием и секретными правительственными файлами.”You are a child with guns and secret government files.
“Вы знаете, почему вы здесь.” You know why you are here.
Her Russian was weak. She knew a couple of words said by some S.H.E.I.L.D agents, but otherwise she couldn’t speak the language fluently. But she could understand. And she didn’t like what she was understanding.
“What are you going to do to me?” She spoke wearily, drifting her eyes to the ground.
He wouldn’t stop looking at her. His eyes were scanning every detail of her body and it was making her skin intchy and untollerable.
“Что я хочу.” What I want. / Whatever I want.
“You’re not gonna’ touch me.” She told him, her eyes unwilling. “I’m not going to let you.”
He smirked. His grip on the blade tightened. It was the first reaction she saw from him - the first movement.
“Вы не хотите играть Плохо cо мной, цветок.” You do not want to play bad with me, flower.
Her teeth pressed together. Her jaw clenched. Her body was a stiff as a stone. She wanted to hurt this man - for his nature, for his threatening stance, for what he had done - but she wouldn’t. That would be a stupid play - a stupid reason to die.
Speak, she said to herself. Remember something. Try and remember.
“Ты не хочешь прикасаться ко мне, soldat.” You don’t want to touch me, solider.
That’s when he stepped closer. His loud footsteps matched the ticking sound of her rapid heartbeat. That’s when he pressed the knife to her neck, right up to her chin.
“Говорить мой язык снова, цветы …” Speak my tongue again, flower …
His breath was even and calm, just about the opposite of hers. The mass of his body was pressing her harder against the steel bars - it was painful - but less paniful then a blade being stuck in her throat.
She stared up at him in awe, grunting lowley as she felt the blade move to the outline of her lips.
Maybe, she knew more then she thought.
“Вы безжалостные убийцы.” You are a ruthless killer.
Her lips curled with each word that she spat out, ever so clearly - and ever so true. She knew that maybe some words she spoke were wrong, but she knew that the overall message; it was clear.
“Вы трусом в man.” You are a coward of a man.
Her eyes bore into his blue ones, not faltering down. She wasen’t going to falter. She wasen’t going to break.
“Я не склоняем вниз к вам.” I will not bow down to you.
The soldier’s mouth rose as he pulled his bottom lip between his teeth. His body was flush against her own, his gear and vest scraping against the material of her leather cat suit.
“ты маленькая девочка играть на поле боя.” You are a little girl, playing on a battlefield.
He gasped out in amazment as an almost-laugh rumbled up his throat.
“если я хочу вы подчиняться мне вы не.” If I want you to obey me, you will.
It was the look she gave him that caused his mouth to water. It was the look of anger and repugnance - and he just loved it.
“пошел ты.” Fuck you.
She spat sternly - her eyes settling with a raging fire. (Y/N) gathered the little saliva left in her dry throat and ticked it at his face as a sign of pure disgust.
A strand of hair fell in front of her eyes as she placed her head back against the cell, her heavy breath swaying the hair back and forth.
It was then that she felt the blade push harder against her lip; tearing at the pink flesh. That’s when she tasted the blood; her blood.
Everything about the knife on her skin was so daunting. So precise. He held the power; and she hated that.
The solider took two small steps away from her and smiled, turning the knife over in his hands. His eyes fixed upon the metal handle and sharp blade that now held a drop of his newest victim.
He grinned michevously as he stared at the blood protruding from her lip, the red, life-line slowing teasing it’s way down to her chin.
He stepped towards her again, towering over her smaller figure. He wiped the spit off of his cheek, his eyes never leaving hers.
He wasen’t having any of that.
“попробуешь это снова, дорогая?” You want to try that again, darling?
That was her first mistake.
Her second, was replying to The Winter Solider with a dark, twisted chuckle.
She laughed at his stupidity. She laughed at the way he just knew he had control; she wanted that control. He was trying to break her with his deadly look of dominance; and laughing seemed to be the only way to make him know that she held some power, too. She still had her mind.
That’s when his hands neared her neck.
His metal fingers curled around her throat, pressing, closing - the metal plates in his arms vibrated from his sudden movements.
Her mouth fell open as she emitted a strangled scream, her body jerking forward, her arms shooting out.
He held his grip stronger, quickly lifting her up and slamming her back against the nearest wall. The concrete wall that her head pounded against.
She clawed her fingers around his metal wrist, uselessly trying to pry his hand off her neck. Her legs were jerking and kicking at him, but the man hardly flinched; he didn’t even move.
“тебе нравится жить, ребенка?” You like living, baby?
He tsked his tongue against the top of his mouth, gazing down upon her dramatically as he watched the colour drain for her face.
A high pitch gasp came from her as his fingertips slowly began to loosen.
“я не ожидал, что прах к ползать до моем пороге.” I did not expect Dusk to crawl up my doorstep.
She could finally breath again - she didn’t think she was as close to death as in that moment. But still, the assassin kept his fingers around her windpipe.
Dusk - the stupid code name S.H.E.I.L.D gave her. It irritated her skin that he knew it; most people didn’t.
“я ожидал глупец. глупая солдатом.” I was expecting a stupid man.A foolish solider.
He watched her intently as she coughed and wailed from feeling of oxygen settling in her lungs again.
“не ты которые я видел, как так тесно, с любовью …” Not you, who’ve I watched so closely, so lovingly …
He released her, finally. (Y/N) fell hard against the wall again as she gasped for a heap of air, coughing and wailing as if she was experiencing life for the first time.
Her hand scraped against the wall as she slumped down against it, resting her forehead against the concrete, her hand against her chest as she got use to the familiarity of oxygen again.
Her back was to the solider that did this to her, her legs sprawled out across the floor as she closed her eyes to keep her world from spinning and spiraling apart.
“Вы убили так много людей как я, цветок. Вы называете меня безжалостным убийцой?” You have killed as many people as me, flower. You call me a ruthless killer?
“Я следовал за вами к Берлину. .. Я наблюдал, что вы взгромоздились на крыше, преследуя вашу жертву. .. Я думал, что вы были наиболее совершенной вещью …” I followed you to Berlin … I watched you perched upon a rooftop, stalking your victim … I thought you were the most perfect thing …
He chuckled as he watched her try to crawl away from him undetected, dragging herself along the ground.
“Вы наслаждались читать мои файлы, цветок? Именно так вы потратили вашей ночью. Это - то что получило вас здесь.” Did you enjoy reading my files, flower? That is how you spent your night. It is what got you here.
“Shut up.” She muttered, her voice hoarse and in shattering pain. “You … you don’t feel … you can’t …”
“Затем почему я позволяю вам идти, цветок?” Then why am I letting you go, flower?
She took several heavy breaths, her face still to the wall, not willing to make any sort of eye contact with him.
“Because … I am not your mission … You’re doing this … for what? Fun? For fun … ?”
“Вы были моей миссией начиная с Берлина, моего цветка. Вы думали, что Hydra не будет знать о таком квалифицированном убийце как вы? Такая молодая, красивая игрушка?” You have been my mission since Berlin, my flower. Did you think Hydra would not know of such a skilled killer as you? Such a young, beautiful toy?
“I’m no toy … you’re their toy. They control your mind … I still have mine … I win …”
The Winter Solider moved forward and grabbed a fistful of her hair in his metal hand, causing her to whimper out in pain.
“Я буду показывать вам дверь затем, младенец …” I’ll show you the door then, baby …