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@kreatief
KREATIEF: (das), <German> noun -> Neologism: combining the words "kreativ" (creative) and "Tief" (low), meaning a creative hellhole of no ideas.
mutuals only multi-muse blog featuring canon muses & OCs from Marvel, Tolkien, and Spartacus (TV show) written and loved by Sarah (she/her, 30+, GMT+1)
carrd ;; memes
main blog: @shieldretired
"A weird nickname," he answers, smirking just a little.
It's not uncommon among the vets at SHIELD, and it spread among every other agent like wildfire with varying degrees of success depending on the department. It had worked out pretty well in both Unnaturals and Training.
"Mine? Well, lucky for me, I'm a mutant, so I've got a codename and everything. Used to be Colt, but it's Riot these days. I'm the one issuing nicknames in this program, not my baby hunters. 'Baby hunters' is not a negotiable collective nickname, by the way. "
He's had a reputation at SHIELD, sure, but that hadn't exactly lent itself to nicknames with any sticking power. Most of his co-workers and superiors tended to keep to Winchester.
"On the rare occasion, someone will call me Rifle since my last name's Winchester. Mostly it's stupid, but it's better than nothing."
"OH, I KNOW ABOUT WINCHESTERS. Got one during my Navy SEAL days. Excellent sniper rifle. Very reliable in tight spots," she adds with a wink before she folds up the application. "I think I'll stick to your first name, though. Dean sounds way better than Riot." Tracy puts the folded-up paper into one of her countless pockets (advantage of being an active duty agent: proper uniform with enough pockets to carry your shit around it) and then glances at her wristwatch. "Well, then, I got a briefing in 10 minutes. I'm gonna fill out the application and drop it off sometime this week. Perhaps I'll end up being one of your babies." Another wink. "Gonna see you at lunch?"
Justino chuckled at Tracy's clarification about not really dating, nodding in understanding. "Fair enough," he replied with a playful grin. As she checked him out and made increasingly flirtatious comments, Justino's grin broadened further. "Yep, I'm a regular Kate Winslet," he teased, enjoying the banter. "And hey, if you ever feel like witnessing the art, they have sessions twice a month. Maybe you'd find a newfound appreciation for it," he added with a grin.
Following Tracy's instruction to drop her off at the Chinese restaurant, Justino nodded, manoeuvring his car to pull over. "Here we are," he announced, glancing over at Tracy with a smile.
"OH, I'M SURE I'D APPRECIATE IT A LOT." With her eyes, certainly not with a pencil in hand. That might be something for her brother, but Tracy can't get anything out of museums, art, paintings, and all the other creative hullabaloo. Her hobbies are of a more physical nature: Krav Maga training, an hour spent at the shooting range, going out to a bar to have a couple of drinks, and playing pool or darts.
The car stops, and she gets out. Before he can drive off, though, Tracy leans down, arm casually resting on the window frame. "Thanks for the ride, hotshot," she says with a smirk. "I guess you should give me your number. You know…" She tugs at the hem of the jumper he'd given her. "So I can text you to give you your clothes back once I've washed them."
Justino couldn't help but feel worse as Tracy shared her less-than-ideal Tinder experience; she really wasn't having a good day. "Oh man, that sounds rough," he replied, "Dating can be a real mixed bag, huh? I've heard some proper horror stories." He glanced at her with a playful grin as she mentioned a rating system. "You know, that might not be the worst idea. It could save a lot of people from bad days," he chuckled.
"I wasn't going that fast," Justino attempted, though his sheepish expression gave away the fact that he knew this wasn't entirely accurate. "But okay," he began, glancing at her as he navigated the streets, "I was just on my way home from a life drawing session down at this local community college. I got roped into modelling for the art classes."
“IT WASN'T REALLY DATING,” she points out with a smirk. Tracy doesn't date; sure, she goes out to grab a bite with a guy she's hooking up with, but that's more because she likes the sex with said guy and doesn't mind talking to him either. But dating implies the desire to find love, and she's just very indifferent about that. Love includes the whole shebang of weddings and white dresses and starting a family with 2.5 kids and yeah, not gonna happen.
“Oh, a life drawing session, hu?” Her smirk turns broader as she rolls her head around to very visibly check him out. “That's drawing someone naked, right? Like one of your French girls? Gotta say I'm not one for art, but I'm kinda sorry I missed that one.” So what, a little flirting with the guy who drenched her with dirty rainwater never hurt anyone. “You can let me out at the Chinese restaurant over there.”
"Reasonable handicap. Most people have it. Sometimes horror movies get it right, but mostly not. That's why I watch them for fun, not education," he grins.
He beckons her to follow back to his desk so he can grab the application for her. It's a few pages, front and back, stapled together and in a blue folder as he passes it over.
"Tada, application. I am weird and do paper, but uh... yeah. If you wanna learn about supernatural shit, be lightly hazed, get a weird nickname, and potentially join the department down the road, fill it all out."
SHE GRABS THE APPLICATION AND SCANS THE PAGES. Nothing too weird, at least not after applying for a job with SHIELD, the organization that fights aliens and parades Captain America around like the living legend he is. "A weird nickname, hu?" she echoes. The boys in her Navy SEAL unit had tried to give her a cute nickname right at the beginning of her time with them, but they stopped fairly quickly after Tracy found new nicknames for them that included very graphic insults of their genitals. So no, she's not a fan of this bullshit unless it's something cool born out of an even cooler event. "What's your weird nickname then?"
Justino was glad that Tracy was willing to accept his apology and take him up on his offer for a ride. He couldn't help but smile at her her wink that followed, thankful that she had at least some amusement at the situation. He gestured to the open passenger door as she approached the car. "Perfect," he nodded with a grin, heading to the driver's side to start the car.
Once inside, Justino navigated the streets with care, trying to make up for his earlier mishap with a smooth ride for Tracy. "So," as they made their way along, towards their destination, Justino didn't last long before posing a curious question. "what were you up to before I came along and drenched you?" He asked, genuinely interested in the woman he was now sharing his car with.
THE MERCEDES DOES HAVE HEATED SEATS. Tracy slaps the button as soon as she's in the passenger seat, then she buckles in. The interior smells faintly of dog, she thinks, or maybe that's her drenched dress. Who the fuck knows. "I just came from a Tinder hookup," she says without batting an eye. She's not going to lie just because society frowns upon telling a stranger that you do enjoy having sex, and either it makes him uncomfortable (which would suit him right after drenching her), or he's open-minded about it, which — hey, she has eyes in her head, and he's an attractive dude, even despite the Mercedes. "The guy was really bad, though. Sometimes, I wish there was a sort of rating system on Tinder." That would be easier for everyone involved. She sighs and leans back against the headrest, looking at Justino with a secret smile curving the corners of her lips, a little dirty maybe, a little suggestive. "And what were you up to that made you drive so fast?"
Get to know me meme — [3/5] favorite female characters: Saxa
“I do not see Gannicus among you. Nor cause to heed his bitch.” “I give cause, bitch!”
He snorts loudly at the sheer amount of innuendo she managed to put into two words. It's impressive, and it's little wonder she fits in at SHIELD as well as she does. If it's not R-rated around here, it feels like it's not said.
"Just be honest is the most important part. The teacher doesn't look for credentials as much as a willingness to learn and be open-minded. Be up front about triggers and handicaps. Had to pull someone from the first gen for untreated PTSD for everyone's safety."
"WELL, I'M PRETTY SURE MY HANDICAP WOULD BE THAT I WAS EDUCATED BY HORROR MOVIES ON HOW TO KILL THINGS. Otherwise? I know how to handle a warzone. Or PTSD." Not that she was ever diagnosed with that bullshit, but Tracy has no problems dealing with hard days: Just empty a clip at the shooting range and then find someone to take the edge off. Or hit a bottle of cheap booze until you pass out in your bed. You know, the little things — her brother would say these are unhealthy coping mechanisms, but as long as they work, Tracy doesn't see the need to change them. "So, you got some application forms around for me to fill out?"
"OFF WITH THEIR HEAD, HU?" She quotes with a grin as she strolls over to take another look at the vault to check out the shiny knives and blades. She's more of a gun girl herself, but she came to love her SRK, and sometimes, not even a silencer is quiet enough, and you need your knife for a quick, silent kill. "So, there are families out there that hunt monsters?" Tracy doesn't think that's a very healthy environment for a kid, but then again: she couldn't care less about fucking children. "Well, I suppose I go hunting with my uncle, too." Crossing her arms, she leans against the wall, dragging her eyes slowly up Dean's body. "Wanna teach me how to kill some other monsters? Ghosts and werewolves and that stuff?"
"Off with their head," he agrees, laughing.
"Oh yeah, there's a few families that hunt, not a lot left, but there's a few. Mostly it's individuals, people who lost someone and got dragged into the life that way. Not terribly different from people who hunt animals in a way. I know it's different, but it serves a purpose."
He leans against the counter, eyebrow raised as she looks him up from toe to head pretty obviously.
"Sure, I got a whole training class I do about twice a year if you want in the next class. You gotta put in an application, but I can put in a good word with the teacher," he grins.
"OH, AN APPLICATION, HU?" She smirks. Honestly, even without the whole shebang of innuendos, she might actually do it; it never hurts to know how to kill something, after all, and Tracy sure as hell doesn't want to be caught with her pants down emptying a clip into a person that doesn't actually die from getting their head blown off. It's a mean world out there and she decided a long time ago that she would be meaner. "I'd really love to take that class. Any tips on how to convince that teacher to take me?" she asks sweetly, almost innocently, if it weren't for the spark in her eyes and the way she briefly licks her lips.
HONESTLY, MEN DRIVING THESE KINDS OF CARS ARE USUALLY ASSHOLES. That's fine with Tracy because she can be an asshole right back if she wants to, and she prepared herself for another verbal attack should the man try to downplay her sodden state, or, worst of all, be condescending and patronizing with her. The fact that he isn't is kinda taking the wind out of her sails. She accepts the hoodie he offers her and looks at him a bit more closely in the dim light of the streetlamps nearby. Pretty young for a Mercedes; he's probably the rich son of an even richer father (which makes the whole not-asshole behavior even more surprising).
Tracy pulls the hoodie over her head; it falls past her ass and thus is almost as big as the white dress she's wearing. "Thanks," she says after a beat of silence. Her energy wants to go somewhere. "Where are you headed?" she asks eventually, nodding toward his car. "I was about to call an Uber."
Justino's relief washes over him as Tracy accepts both the hoodie and, he hopes, his genuine apology. "No problem," he replies, relieved that she didn't rip into him further. He watches as she pulls the oversized garment over her drenched dress. Justino takes a step back, leaning casually against his car, grateful for the chance to make amends for his unintentional mishap. "I'm Justino, by the way," he offers, extending his hand for a handshake once Tracy's better covered by the hoodie.
"I was just heading out to Queens, back home," he explains, "Forest Hills," he adds, nodding in the direction of his car as if to reinforce the offer. After a brief pause, he continues, his tone sincere and earnest, "I could always give you a ride if you wanted. Least I could do, right?" His eyes remain on her, his gaze open and inviting, leaving the decision entirely in her hands.
"TRACY," SHE REPLIES, ACCEPTING THE HANDSHAKE EVEN THOUGH IT'S KIND OF STRANGE. Only old people shake hands anymore. Old people and Mercedes drivers, apparently. Anyway, the guy is headed in the direction Tracy wants to go, too, so she nods at his offer. "Yeah, I think I'd accept this form of apology," she says with a wink. Sure, he could be a crazy killer like Jeffrey Dahmer or the very charming Ted Bundy, and soaking her through from head to toe had been his initial plan all along, but if he wanted to sex-murder her, he had another thing coming: namely Tracy's Krav Maga training and the very cute and very deadly Sig Sauer P938 that rests comfortably against her thigh. "Alright, big guy, I'm in Richmond Hill. Corner of 89th Avenue and 116th Street," Tracy says as she rounds the car to open the passenger door. This fucking rich boy vehicle better has heated seats.
"Solid defense. I'd have probably enlisted if things had been different," he grins, winking.
Mutation notwithstanding, there were other things that would have prevented him from following in his dad's footsteps.
"Look, the fact people were just willing to believe that didn't happen in Manhattan was far more bizarre than the actual aliens."
A grin and he gestures to the weapons vault.
"Easy, decapitation. Works on pretty much any vampire variant, but the ones I'm most familiar with can be killed by losing their head to a machete. I know so much because it's the family business. Grew up learning all about how to kill the things in horror movies."
"OFF WITH THEIR HEAD, HU?" She quotes with a grin as she strolls over to take another look at the vault to check out the shiny knives and blades. She's more of a gun girl herself, but she came to love her SRK, and sometimes, not even a silencer is quiet enough, and you need your knife for a quick, silent kill. "So, there are families out there that hunt monsters?" Tracy doesn't think that's a very healthy environment for a kid, but then again: she couldn't care less about fucking children. "Well, I suppose I go hunting with my uncle, too." Crossing her arms, she leans against the wall, dragging her eyes slowly up Dean's body. "Wanna teach me how to kill some other monsters? Ghosts and werewolves and that stuff?"
He doesn’t flinch when touched anymore, not if he can see it coming like Mrs Barnes’ hand on his shoulder just now. The silent acceptance of the touch is miles away from the first time her son tried to do something similar all those months ago. Erik offers his caretaker a small smile.
There’s a moment of hesitation as the jar is pushed closer, a moment of unsurety… and then he’s reaching for it again, covering the challah in the thickest layer of jam he’s ever seen, and taking the biggest bite he can manage. It’s so sweet that it’s almost too much, the richness curling around his tongue and lighting up his taste buds. It takes a moment for him to be able to reply.
“It would be good to see the room, thank you.” Another mouthful, thumb lifting to clean the smudge of jam at the corner of his mouth. He doesn’t admit that he can barely read in English, doesn’t embarrass himself by asking for picture books: instead Erik says “a book would be good” and promptly shoves another piece of challah in his mouth.
It’s not very polite, the boy knows – his mother would definitely have had something to say about it, were she here – but his English is basic at best, and he’s hungry, and it’s been so so long since he’s sat at a table, in somewhere he could call home (albeit temporarily) and eaten challah. He can only hope Mrs Barnes doesn’t mind.
TRUTHFULLY, WINIFRED WOULD REPRIMAND HER CHILDREN IF THEY ATE LIKE THAT. Even her grandchildren, who are hopefully born soon now that Rebecca is about to get married to that lovely young son of the Proctor family. But Erik is too thin, scrawny like Steven used to be before some magic potion turned him into Michelangelo's David, and what she heard and read about war-torn Europe implicates that he had to starve for quite a while, and she can't begrudge a child the joys of proper food. She's sure he'll calm down and revert back to proper eating manners once he realizes he'll get enough here.
"Alright then," she says with a smile and then lets him eat in peace while she putters around in the kitchen, only coming over again to place a glass of milk in front of his nose. George will get home around 6 PM, dinner is planned for 7:30; until then, Erik can take a nap and get used to the house as his new (temporary) home.
"Just leave the plate," Winifred tells him when it's obvious that he's finished. "I'll take care of it. Come on, now, Erik, I'll show you your room." She ushers him up a flight of stairs and through the first door on the right. There are two beds in there, one with pink pillows, the other one with blue. A big wardrobe Winifred emptied out for Erik, a hardwood desk, and a bookshelf complete the furniture. "This is your room. The bathroom is through the door to the right," Winifred explains, then gestures toward the bookshelf. The Story of Dr. Dolittle, Winnie-The-Pooh, The Hobbit. Those were some of the most beloved stories she read to her children, and she figured she should keep them for her grandchildren. "I think this one is from a German author?" she adds, pulling Emil and the Detectives from the shelf.
"I mean, first you're gonna have to come to terms with the fact Nessie ain't real, Trace."
He snorts at the declaration of potentials. "Pretty sure Iron Man's got some sort of detection system that'd pick this up. Although... he might not have radar for a harpoon, so it might actually work."
"I mean... there might be other toys, but those are just for us lucky bastards in Unnaturals. You might have to- vampire plague? Really? Not every vampire can be killed with a wooden stake, you know? Are you just getting everything from Hollywood?"
SHE SHRUGS. "Hey, in my defense: Until a few months ago, I was used to killing Taliban and Al Qaeda, not werewolves or the big bad monster under my bed." Which is already bad enough because those motherfuckers tend to shoot right back at you or plant bombs anywhere you might possibly step your fucking foot. "Hell, before the sky above Manhattan opened up to puke fucking aliens down on New York, I didn't even believe in the green men from Mars. Now I'm on missions with Captain America to stop evil scientists from taking over the world with a robot army." She looks back over to the office space before another grin steals onto her lips. "So, how do I kill a vampire? And why do you know so much about it, anyway?"
Centurion (x)
The feel of his mother’s arm wrapped around him made a tight lump grow in his throat, thickly swallowing past it in an attempt to keep the tears from welling up in the corners of his eyes. Winifred pulled back enough to cradle his face and it took every ounce of strength left in him not to burst crying at the sight of her smiling up at him. It was something he thought several times over he would never see again; when they first ambushed in a foxhole, when he was separated from his unit and strapped down to a table, and finally when he fell from the train. Each time he thought it would be his last.
Bucky shifted his rucksack higher up on his shoulder, trying to hold his mother with the same arm carrying the bag wasn’t exactly easy but he managed. He let out a slow shaky breath to try to compose himself before he made a fool of himself in front of all the other service men on the platform. The looks he had gotten on the train had been bad enough.
“I missed you so much." It was only then he realized that his mother was there alone but at the same time it wasn't exactly a surprise. "Wait, where's dad?" George was always a hard working man and rarely ever missed a day, even when he was sick. Part of Bucky had held out hope during his long journey home that his father would have made an exception for his only son returning home from war but apparently not. The disappointment showed on his face as his gaze moved over the platform.
"He couldn't get away from work..." He answered the question himself, turning his attention back to his mother. "I know Steve sent a letter. Probably told you about..." A small motion towards his missing arm, gaze casting down to the ground in shame. "I failed at my duty, Ma. I let you down."
"HE DESPERATELY WANTED TO COME," WINIFRED SAYS INSTANTLY. "But his boss wouldn't give him the day off, not even half of it." She doesn't tell him that she thinks Mister Turner is jealous — after losing three of your sons to the war, he begrudges every man his luck to be reunited with his child. George cussed and cursed, which is rare for him, but they all remember the hard times of the Great Depression when you counted yourself lucky to even have a job, so there wasn't much he could do except swallow down his anger and go to work this morning. "He'll be home for dinner, though, and he's so happy to see you and have you back home, darling."
Winifred's eyes flicker to her son's empty sleeve, then back to his face. Her heart breaks at his words. "Nonsense," she says firmly. "You gave everything for your country. For us. I am proud of you, James. Everyone is. Your father, your sister, the neighbors. Mrs. Goldstein from next door made challah for you when I told her you're gonna come home today." She gently reaches for James's hand and guides him through the crowd, away from the platform and the sobbing mothers and sisters and wives that greet their loved ones after finding them or still calling out their names. It's loud and cramped, and Winifred desperately wants them to leave the train station. Her boy needs to be home. Then he'll feel better.
"And I prepared meatloaf for dinner. Meatloaf and mashed potatoes. You need to put on some weight, darling, you're awfully skinny. Didn't they feed you anything proper over there? Oh! And for dessert, we'll have baked apples with oatmeal filling. That's still your favorite, right?" She had had to hoard the ration stamps for a couple of weeks for that meal, but it was worth it. Everything to make James feel at home again.
"Damn, and I thought I started young at five," he laughs, almost playful. "I think I shot a .22 Browning Buckmark at the time. Been quite a while since I shot it."
He doesn't bother telling her he's never owned something as tame as a BB rifle. That was never on the menu for him.
He hung back, watching her get a feel for the harpoon. It could be a hell of an adjustment for anyone unfamiliar with oversize weapons, much less a canister weapon.
Barking a laugh, he shakes his head quickly.
"Nah, my boss would have my ass. Besides, what are you gonna use it for, huh? We don't even use it for anything unless something pops up in the bay or river."
SHE CASUALLY RESTS THE END OF THE HARPOON ON HER HIP. "Oh, please, I bet I could take out three terrorists at once with this thing. Anything that can kill the Loch Ness Monster also kills squishy human bad boys." And hey, the bigger, the better, that has always been her credo. Give her the guns that make BOOM instead of boom. "I bet this thing could take out Iron Man." If he ever decided to dip his toes into dark side water, that is. Anyway, after appreciating the chaos she created with one single shot, Tracy hands over the harpoon. "Any other little toys you're not telling me about? A Kalashnikov that shoots wooden stakes, for example? To get rid of a vampire plague?"
