Requested by whatwouldstellagibsondo
Monterey Bay Aquarium
we're not kids anymore.
Show & Tell
i don't do bad sauce passes

#extradirty

祝日 / Permanent Vacation
ojovivo
No title available
Claire Keane
Game of Thrones Daily

Origami Around
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me

ellievsbear
h
Mike Driver
hello vonnie
AnasAbdin
Xuebing Du

Kaledo Art
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
seen from United States

seen from T1
seen from Germany
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Germany

seen from Saudi Arabia

seen from Singapore
seen from United States
seen from United Kingdom

seen from Malaysia
seen from Finland
seen from United States
seen from Argentina

seen from Türkiye
seen from United States

seen from Türkiye

seen from Malaysia

seen from United Kingdom

seen from United States
@division-dancelli
Requested by whatwouldstellagibsondo
Colombia || Chiron & Darcy
“Our boss wouldn’t approve of me letting the trainee out of my sight.”, Chiron replied without missing a beat or letting himself wrapped into Darcy’s playful reply. He was used to the sometimes inappropriate cheerfulness of the recruit, which stood in stark contrast with the moodiness that he sometimes sensed in the young man. It was a defense mechanism of sorts but Chiron had to admit that he preferred this version of Darcy over any other.
Things used to be easier. When he was still in the military he wouldn’t need to talk in code like he had under Division. The uniform and the air of command it brought worked in his favour most of the time and people wouldn’t question him for his decisions like they would a supposed civilian. Yet since Division thrived on stealth he had to pretend to be the business man that his passport told he was. Recruit became trainee, newbie or son and daughter even on some assignments. Chiron didn’t mind the lying – he rather enjoyed the anonymity it gave him – but he could’ve done without the pretending part.
Instead of diving deeper into the conversation, Chiron walked up to the counter and quickly gave the man standing behind it his fake name. He didn’t bother trying to speak any Spanish but instead addressed the concierge bluntly in English. Boredom once again spread over his features and he tapped his fingers onto the counter indicating that this was a complete waste of his time. It wasn’t a far stretch to see him actually doing that but everyone who was familiar with the handler knew that he didn’t get visibly nervous.
Finally he held the key cards in his hand and quickly thanked the hotel employee before returning to Darcy. “Let’s get settled in.”, he told him before heading towards the elevators. Chiron had visited quite a number of foreign countries in his life but he had rarely had the chance to go sight-seeing. It was always work that brought him there and he liked to spend his vacation days at home rather than where his work was taking him anyway. While they waited on the elevator, his eyes swept across the room once again but settled on his recruit for a moment. He hoped that he wouldn’t go back to the States alone but he wasn’t entirely convinced that it would happen.
Trainee.
How hard he'd worked to still be considered just a trainee. Though he'd never understand what it took to become a handler, never know the extremities that Chiron endured in his past, Darcy knew that he and Chiron had to be more alike than they were different. Nobody was recruited into Division, trained within Division, survived Division without being abused. Traumatized. Broken. As far as Darcy knew, he didn't learn how to create code and hack computers, learn how to fight and shoot others, learn how to read, write, and speak three separate languages, to still be considered a trainee. He didn't lose Jane to a freak flood, almost have Aidan paralyzed, and drag razors across his wrists to still be considered just a trainee. At what point did his sweat, blood, and tears elevate him to a level recognizable as useful to Division? When he fully complied with orders? When he became subservient? When he killed someone?
He supposed he was going to find out. But if one thing was for sure, he was going to do this his way. Sure, he was willing to play along with Chiron. But only to a certain degree. If their agendas matched, if Chiron's ideas were capable of getting him through this mission and back to Aidan and Jason, he'd do it. This was his life though and he'd be damned if he was going to allow Chiron to be his puppeteer. He'd cut his strings before he even gave Chiron the chance to control him.
It was with these thoughts in mind that, for once, he shut his mouth and followed Chiron's lead. His jaw clenched in frustration as Chiron stood at the concierge counter, his fingers drumming in boredom. His handler had his life in his hands - but did he really want it? How much easier would it be for Chiron if he never made it back? He knew he wasn't the easiest recruit to manage, was capable of dragging his handlers down. He'd done it to Amanda. Did Chiron feel he was doing it to him as well? Darcy kept all these thoughts to himself as they rode the elevator, his silence uncharacteristic.
In fact, Darcy stayed quiet all the way till they reached their room. Swinging his suitcase onto the bed furthest from the air conditioning unit - he tended to get cold easily - he popped the case open, ready to get to work. As he popped his antidepressants into his mouth, he pulled back the coverlets to the hotel's bed before sitting on it; as a former rent boy, he knew all too well the accumulation of filth that adorned the top covers. Opening his files, he looked up at Chiron for the first time since they got into the elevator. "So," he sighed. "My target. Hank Shepherd. Has blueprints to a bomb that could decimate an entire country? Brilliant," he said, not meaning it in the slightest. "Well. What do I do first?"
Cillian Murphy looking so damn fine as Raymond Leon in In Time
…you should have some idea of the kind of man you say you love
stiiiiiiiiiiles:
tannoreth:
character building question: if your character is Eagle One, who is
Been There Done That
Currently Doing That
It Happened Once In A Dream
If I Had To Pick A Dude
Eagle Two
send me 5 partners/characters and i’ll say what they are to my muse
Been There Done That - Valentina
Currently Doing That - Aidan
It Happened Once In A Dream - Wesley
If I Had To Pick A Dude - Chiron
Eagle Two - Jane
Colombia || Chiron & Darcy
His eyes swept through the lobby in a way so casual that only a trained eye would see that the handler made mental notes of the number of people entering and leaving the hotel, where the elevator was and where he could find exits in case they had to leave fast.The rest of his attention was directed towards Darcy’s struggle with his luggage but before Chiron could make up his mind if he should intervene, the issue had already resolved itself.
“What was that about?”, he asked his charge innocently. While he could figure out the essence of the argument just by their body language, the handler didn’t understand a single word of Spanish. His fingers were wrapped around the handle of his travelling bag, which contained more than just spare clothes but also surveillance equipment.
It wouldn’t be noticeable on his face but he was more alert than he usually was on missions. The fact that he didn’t trust his protégé further than he could throw him, set Chiron on edge. Yet he wasn’t the person who would tell Olivia that especially since he had a feeling that there wouldn’t be a safe haven to return to for Darcy if he failed. Sometimes you had to push a recruit out into the world eventually because they had become too complacent with their current arrangements. Even though the spike in the Irish boys interest in his training had had a positive effect on him, Chiron was still convinced that it was too soon.
“You stay here while I’ll get the keys to our room.” He wasn’t the only one being nervous about this mission, he had to remind himself. After all few of his recruit had gone on their graduation missions without the metaphorical butterflies in their stomachs.
He'd noticed. Of course he had. Darcy had to wonder why he'd even bothered hoping that Chiron wouldn't have to begin with. On any ordinary day, Darcy felt like his life wasn't his own to live, but rather was an act played out upon Olivia and Chiron's script. Why in the world would that have changed now? He was an insect mounted on a microscope slide, his every move monitored, analyzed, and recorded. And these next few days weren't going to get any better either.
With a sigh, Darcy heaved his suitcase beside him, noting how his handler carried his own with ease. Despite the fact that they were both the same height, Chiron was blessed with, what he imagined, double his weight. And all in muscle too. Darcy really hoped his mission didn't involve heavy lifting. He was certain that Chiron could bench press him more than he himself would be capable of lifting anything over 45 kilograms. "Nothing," Darcy answered bluntly. "I handled it." The last thing he wanted to do was give Chiron anything else to worry about or stress over - or give him any more reason to believe that he wasn't prepared for this mission.
Because, in actuality, Darcy wasn't ready. How was he supposed to be ready? How was anyone ready for their mission when it came? He'd spent his months in the bunker coming to terms with the fact that he'd never get out of it. That the only way he'd get himself out of the vicious cycle of running laps, writing code, absorbing new languages, practicing combat was by letting himself bleed out in his bed. But that hadn't worked. And he was here. On his mission. Fuck, what if he couldn't do this?
He was quickly snapped out of his thoughts though when he heard Chiron speak again beside him. His eyebrows furrowed in confusion, blue eyes glinting with surprise completely devoid of amusement. "Wait. Our room? As in singular? Roommates? With you? Division too cheap to afford me my own?" he rambled. "I've thoughts of rooming with you before, handler man, but I can assure it was under very different circumstances." Okay, that wasn't necessarily true. But if he could make Chiron uncomfortable enough, he might still get the chance at his own room.
#a necessary gifset
Colombia || Chiron & Darcy
"Tu equipaje, señor. ¿Puedo tomarlo?"
Darcy stalled, the mechanics of his brain clanking in startled incomprehension as he stared blankly at the hotel staff before him. It figured that after months of learning how to read, write, and speak Spanish that he'd lose it all only a mere hour after actually needing to apply his knowledge. Swallowing heavily at his sudden inability to answer a simplistic question, his blue eyes darted to his handler by his side, somehow hoping that the reply would be written on his forehead. It wasn't. Turning back to the impatient hotel staff, Darcy replied with the only word in Spanish that sprung to his mind.
"Ehm, sí," he droned out uncertainly.
It was only once the staff member went to take his luggage that Darcy's brain succeeded in translating the original question asked. Darcy clutched at the handle of his suitcase, the thought of being separated from his equipment a terrible one. "Oh, no! Lo sentimos, no. Está bien. La tomaré," he rambled, pulling back at his luggage. Surprisingly, the hotel staff was a lot more adamant about doing his job than Darcy would've expected and clung just as fiercely to the other side of his suitcase. Darcy huffed an aggravated and slightly manic grunt and pulled the case out of the man's hand. "Déjalo ir," he snapped, his Irish accent struggling to round out the correct Spanish pronunciations. The man leveled him with a glare before trotting off.
Smooth, Darcy. Way to be subtle. Way to not arouse suspicion.
Still, he had his suitcase by his side, right? Least he was content in knowing that his luggage wasn't going to be dragged to some closet to be inspected before his mission even began. Nibbling at his bottom lip in apprehension, he stole a glance back over at Chiron, hoping that his handler was too preoccupied with his own duties to have noticed his blunder.
Lies My Father Told Me
Darcy liked to believe that he’d been given a choice, but if that were the case, he’d have never agreed to it in the first place. Because when it came down to it, the only choice that Division had ever given him was death. For despite what Division preached about its absolution of its recruits’ and agents’ crimes and all the inherent guilt that went with them, it was no better at clearing Darcy’s conscience than his brief turn in prison had been. And though Division vowed to give its recruits a second chance, an opportunity to actually make something of their lives and become known for a life separated from the wake of destruction they’d previously left behind, death was the agency’s only given option. Death was its only legacy.
And that legacy, by choice, was to become Darcy’s. Because, after all, what other option did he have?
To be clear and to be fair, Darcy knew that Division’s ultimatum of death wasn’t as thoroughly specific as it could be. Regardless of it though, Darcy knew what it meant all the same. Because though death itself was an inevitability, whose death was where his decision truly laid. For one, he could be the cooperative little agent, the sycophantic parasite that tunneled through others’ lives and thrived on their misery, and do as Division told him to do. That, inescapably, always lead to some stranger’s - some target’s - death down the line. That was option A. And, of course, option B was his own death. Darcy had almost taken that option. In fact, he had. He’d been ready, prepared, to punch his own ticket, but it seemed that that had been a choice others took from him.
So, he was back to option A. His target, a certain Hank Shepherd, had been a protégé to none other than Edward Teller, the creator of the hydrogen bomb, before Teller’s death in 2003. In his last final years, it was speculated that Teller and Shepherd had been working on a new project that was not only capable of decimating an entire city in one fell swoop, but an entire country. Whether or not the weapon had been built yet or rather just the blueprints completed remained a mystery. But what was for certain was the fact that only Shepherd knew about the project and was the only one capable of finishing the blueprints and creating the weapon. Darcy’s job was to extract that information from him for the greater good of Division. And Chiron’s, his handler, idea of him doing so was by sleeping with him. Because nothing else quite brought men to a blubbering state of incoherency and sentimental storytelling than someone allowing them to cram themselves inside for just long enough to make them forget who they were.
Darcy knew this for a fact all too well. And the problem with that was that Darcy knew this for a fact all too well.
He’d been eleven the first time it had happened. Old enough to have his own room, walls decorated with sloppy paintings of dragonflies and frogs and bedspread his favorite shade of navy blue, but still young enough to leave his door cracked open a smidgen in case a monster under the bed necessitated a quick escape to his mother and stepfather’s bedroom. A creak at the foot of his bed and a sudden weight on his mattress in the middle of the night had his eyes snap open as he planned his quickest evacuation route. He had known the Boogeyman to be real. But a soft murmur in the dark told Darcy that it was only his stepdad, Joseph. Darcy felt more than saw his figure loom above him as the blankets were withdrawn. “We’re just going to play a little —”
Game. Shepherd thought this was a game. He was mistaking Darcy’s reluctance to undress himself, his inability to move and do anything other than tremble, as a display of coyness. Because wasn’t this what partners in bed did? Did they not “play hard to get”? Darcy was sure his target must have read about it before in some bullshite magazine as Shepherd impatiently ripped Darcy’s shirt from his chest. And his own pathetic whimpers of apprehension were only further egging the other man on, being taken as a sign of arousal instead of as a sign of a growing fear that sprouted in his stomach and crawled up his spine in an unforgiving paralysis.
Still, more than four years later, Joseph returned back to his room. Despite locked doors and broken pleas and attempted kicks, he always somehow managed to wind his way back into Darcy’s bed. Each time Darcy was crushed to the mattress, breath stolen from him, as sweaty palms groped and grabbed, leaving an assortment of grotesque purple and navy blue (his favorite color) splotches across his skin. Of course, it never just stopped with the fondling. Each time, it only ever got worse. But still, every single time, Joseph would always try to convince him of the contrary; “I’ll be gentle this time. It won’t — “
Hurt. It hurt. Shepherd was hurting him. He was past the point of trying to go slow, to ease Darcy into it, and was more than ready to just get to it. The only thing was that Darcy was not ready to just get to it. He needed time, he needed to think. He needed to do something other than feel his pulse in his throat and his lungs cave in as he scrambled to the head of the bed only to be dragged back down by his ankle. In fact, Darcy wasn’t sure he could do this. Oh, God. He didn’t think he could. How was he supposed to give himself to Shepherd when he couldn’t even breathe? No, he needed to slow down. Oh -
"No!" Darcy shouted. He’d given Joseph enough chances; he’d said the word enough times for the man to get it. To understand. To know that this wasn’t a game and that, no matter what he said, it still hurt and that he was finished. He was done. He felt the knife in Joseph’s neck pretty much proved that point as he watched his stepfather fall to the floor with an agonized and betrayed, "Oh - !"
"Fuck!" The word escaped Darcy before he could bite it back. But somehow, in just the two seconds it had taken Shepherd to rid him of his boxers, Darcy had managed to fumble blindly for the pen on the bedside table, click it open, and jam it into his target’s carotid. Darcy’s breath returned to him, his eyes widening, as he realized what he’d done. "No, no!" he begged, rising above the fallen Shepherd as the man yanked the pen from his neck. Already, Darcy could see that damn cliched light fading from Shepherd’s eyes as he clamped his own hands over the hole in the man’s neck. Despite his efforts, the blood kept coming. "Shepherd, no! Don’t die," he gasped. "Hank! Where are the plans?" He yelled in panicked desperation. With that, Shepherd understood. The man smiled softly, contentedly, as he died.
Darcy choked on his sob. If he didn’t find another way to get what he needed in less than six hours, it was back to option B.
You are liked by no one.
Who is this "no one"? Sounds like a sweet person, yeah?