Agent Mickey O'Doherty @mickbastrd-blog - Tumblr Blog

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alexanderosado:

A positive outlook as always, O’Doherty.

Realistic.

...just a bit hopeful. Figures you’re still here.

#pic #mickey stuff

Hope it’s quiet on account of you lot all being dead.

#tarpg #tarpg starter #open

wintersoldier-ta

You touch that dog, it won’t be me you gotta worry about.

…Who’s inviting you for drinks?

mickbastrd-blog

That ain’t motivation to leave the dog alone.

Figured eventually you would have to, seeing’s I saved your ass with them hostages.

#//totally bullshitting

wintersoldier-ta

Crazy Irish bastard.

Yeah, I think we’re good without a visit actually. Keep cuttin’ up carrots, everyone’ll be happy.

mickbastrd-blog

You’ve got some handsome pups yourself, yeh? Penne alla Zoey.

Waiting for that drink invite, mate. Any day, now.

stillshielding

Back Tuva Future || Maria & Mickey

stillshielding

Maria wasn’t one for weakness. She’d taken stock of all of her soft spots, made a point of suppressing or repressing all of the things that could compromise her ability to do her job effectively. Whether she admitted it to herself or not, forcing them down didn’t mean erasing them altogether.

Sexual attraction was the obvious example.

There was another version of herself—the ghost of the woman she might have been in another place, another time, under different circumstances. A version that was free to experience physical attraction as she pleased, was under no constraints, either professional or personal. Whose spine might have tingled as Mickey spoke. Who might’ve appreciated just now nicely his clothing settled against his body…who might’ve fallen fast and hard for this gruff Irish asshole, possibly dragged him into the nearest empty room and put their training to a very lucrative and creative use.

But that woman didn’t exist.

She shook his outstretched hand, waving away the cigarette smoke.

“No. It definitely is not.”

Striding up the ramp into the Quinjet, she pressed the comm box on the wall. “Agent Kim, all personnel are present and ready for departure.” At the affirmative, she let the button go, turning back in Mickey’s direction. She wondered if they didn’t miss a prime opportunity with his codename—accurate as The Janitor was, she couldn’t help thinking of others every time she looked at him. Notre Dame. Irish Wolfhound. She wasn’t one for nicknames, but even she had to admit, this was an entertaining way to pass the time. “So—are you coming, or am I going to have to take out HYDRA without you?”

mickbastrd-blog

It cost Mickey a great deal of self-restraint to keep from purposely running his thumb along her knuckles, maybe hold onto her hand for that vague split-second between ‘awkward’ and ‘too long’; too early to push buttons. He flashed a quick grin, though, finally lifting black eyes off her holstered gun to hopefully meet hers so he could nod her on along to board before him in an attempt to seem polite. He lingered to pull a few final times, and thoughtfully, on his cigarette while watching her on her way up the ramp.

Like hell he’d have gotten on first.

The Irishman was quiet as he gave his belongings a final check over, hearing Hill’s voice thought it seemed more distant than it ought to have. His Bowie was freshly sharpened because he had been too excited to sleep the night previous, too preoccupied preparing the precise methods by which he’d be extracting the information SHIELD needed him to fly to Bumblefuck, Ruskieville with Maria fucking Hill for to drink himself into oblivion. His knee wasn’t even acting up. A smirk bent the corner of his mouth as he pulled the blade from its sheathe at his shoulder to give the beautiful edge a quick peek so he’d be able to behave and keep his hands off it for the flight. Maria was an important person, after all. Best behavior.

A blink and the paranoia of eyes on him brought him out of his head and he put the knife back in place with a quick jerk of a motion. He quirked a brow at her words though they took a moment to process but until he was able to discern her actual mood Mickey didn’t dare laugh at them. instead, he strode up the ramp himself while clipping the cigarette.

“Oh, m’righ’ behind y’, ma’am.” The word felt weird on his tongue when he couldn’t use it spitefully and Mickey’s nose crinkled. “Tired’a HYDRA. Ten Rings’re, er…bit more creative, at least, like.”

wintersoldier-ta

Calling bullshit. Are you seriously still down there?

mickbastrd-blog

Can call it whatever you want. Woof woof, mate.

The fuck do you mean still? I like it down here. Can gladly start frequenting your neighborhood, though, if you need to see more of this fucking face.

wintersoldier-ta

Risked the cafeteria. Pretty sure there’s no way of putting dog in mac and cheese.

mickbastrd-blog

You would think.

stillshielding

Back Tuva Future || Maria & Mickey

It was nice to be back out in the field.

Maria’d had her fill of the legislative and administrative for a while, and was due for some mission work. She double-checked the safety before holstering the pistol, clicking her vest into place. It was a routine op, nothing fancy. There were only two noteworthy things about it–the first being the location, and the second being her mission partner. Both were definitely a first.

Mickey O’Doherty was a tough pill to swallow, and then some. She made a habit of knowing the personnel files for all of her agents, and his was a particularly dark read. He was basically the textbook definition of “ruthless bastard”—but so long as he was doing the dirty work for S.H.I.E.L.D. rather than against them, she was keeping mum on the moral judgments. After all, if some kind of celestial higher authority did exist, her own actions weren’t exactly above reproach. She knew that S.H.I.E.L.D. was a reflection of what Nick Fury stood for, among others, and she’d long since dedicated herself to doing what she had to do in the name of a greater good. Mickey was just an…interesting case. But she could handle him. And if not…there was always Old Yeller.

Tuva, meanwhile, was a welcome change…nothing like a haphazard journey to a remote region of the world to help you focus. HYDRA’s bases were apparently as out of touch with larger civilization as their ideas, so the travel plan wasn’t much of a surprise. Though if her cursory knowledge of the area was accurate, they were in for one hell of a trip.

Grabbing her mission bag, she walked down to the hangar deck.

“O’Doherty.”

mickbastrd-blog

It wasn't often that the pages in the mission files surprised him, as by then they were succinct. All that mattered, really, was if the kill light was set to red, yellow, or revered green. Locations, climates, partners; irrelevant. The old days were better, when he just petrified rowdy recruits- oh, Echo- into better subservience. Behave, or end up like The Janitor. End up with The Janitor. Maria Hill's was a name that sent a refreshing chill up even his spine, however. It was either a bit of karmic reward for recent 'good' behavior that he kept crossing paths with the likes of dangerous women- Echo, Natasha, Kate, and now Hill- or it was the writing on the wall. Something about the small bag of gear weighing in his left, gloved hand made him less afraid to read it even if he was misreading it.

Tuva wouldn't have been the worst place to die, either, though he was finally coming to the end of already thin patience with HYDRA. Fuckers.

"Agent Hill."

Mickey dropped his bag on the deck and turned with a small scuff of boots to face her as he lit a final cigarette. What weaponry wasn't in his rucksack he wore somewhere on his person, though he moved fluidly enough in the second skin to extend a hand to her. It seemed a decent pantomime of respect. The Irishman tried for a smile but was more concerned with keeping his cigarette in his mouth.

"S'not ev'ryday, yeh?"

echogalaeus

take care of you. | mickecho

Join Me: I’ll write a drabble about my character giving your character an offer.

echogalaeus

She doesn’t want to ask, but she’s in the kitchens anyway with a packet of photographs and a waiver in her hand like she’s a goddamn director handing out orders to the people. It’s been months since she’s been on a mission with her former handler, but that also means it’s been a while for them to simmer down from the last two years of push and pull, of he-said she-said’s, and she’d be a liar if she wasn’t dying to hear what he’d have to say.

She doesn’t want to ask but Echo Galaeus throws the manilla folder down on the counter as he’s preparing food and waits, clearing her throat and straightening out her black blazer. “Do you wanna get out of the kitchen for a two-day trip to Peru?” is all she leads with, no feigned emotion in her voice. This is business not pleasure, and she knows that. She knows that.

She doesn’t want to ask but she looks him in the eye anyway, hair a little too wavy from this morning’s bun. “So? Will you accept or do I gotta entice you?”

mickbastrd-blog

He’s in the process of butchering chicken when he hears the doors to the kitchen swinging on their hinges, absentmindedly breaking a thigh off with the faint crunch of bone when he manages to pick out a new set of footsteps- damn left ear, getting worse probably. Mickey stops with his knife rocking on the ball joint of a wing when the manila envelope hits and he stares a moment too long at it, before glaring a moment too long at her. He makes a face like she just showed him something obnoxiously cheery before switching out the chef’s knife for his cleaver to make short work of the remaining limbs in two hacks.

“Peru, yeh?” He asks as he sorts the pieces into trays to be fried later, latex gloves tugged off with a snap after, eyes trained on first the blazer and then the hair. “Used t’be, they told y’what th’fuck kind’a mission, first, fuck t’hell where at.”

He turns his back to wash his hands and hide his eagerness. Yes is already the answer. Of course the answer is yes. Out of the kitchens and out into the field, off the radar even-depending. And always the chance to kill something, while keeping himself useful to the organization. Yes. She can wait for the answer, though. If she wants him on the mission then she’ll wait. Unless she’s just a messenger. Possible. Not dressed like that, though, no. Too hard to say, not enough information on the table.

“I could mebbe use a vacation, what with th’right motivations. Worked with yer fuckin’ husband not too long ago, ac’tally, dunno if th’bastard said summink on it.”

Mickey hopes the small talk pisses her off, or at least grates her patience; she’s more direct when she’s fiery, or because. According to him, anyway. And it gives him the time to cross to the table and take the folder, thumbing through the contents with a hip parked against the metal counter, the non-blade hip. His brow sets as his concentration narrows, focused on the various printouts and photos, letters and statements, to try and pinpoint the grey areas. Too many will set off the alarm bells in his head and confirm the lingering paranoia of imminent termination.

“S’goin’ on in Peru, tha’ y’need ol’ Mick?”

hawkatiebishop-blog1

Brunch O’Clock - Mickey/Kate

There was one reason that Kate had gone out of her way to purchase mirrored sunglasses, and it was because she wanted to be able to sit outside on sunny days and stare at people without their knowing it. She reached up and adjusted the glasses on her face as she did just that, sipping on her Bloody Mary and watching the people pass by. Brunch was a special, sacred occasion. All the women got dressed up, men wore button down shirts or, at the very least, a polo shirt. The sidewalk clicked and clacked with various high heels as people passed by and Kate inspected them all without their knowledge. She felt like an undercover cop but she was right in the thick of it. A grin slid onto her face at the thought.

The waitress came by to see if she was ready to order, and Kate told her politely that she was still waiting for someone. Mickey was en route, or so he claimed. Part of Kate was convinced that he was probably watching her from a doorway, window, or rooftop, just waiting to join her. She looked around slyly to be sure, but didn’t find anything. Even if he was watching her, she knew she’d never see him unless he wanted her to. Sighing, she finished her first drink and signaled for another. God bless bottomless brunch, she thought to herself as she started to chew on her lip, starting another scan of the crowd as she continued to wait.

mickbastrd-blog

He didn’t do so with frequency but Mickey enjoyed wearing all white (likely because he had no business doing so) as he was that day in preparation for brunching amidst the yuptastic. It wasn’t his choice of recreation by any means, nor was it his default wardrobe preference- not even adhering to the ‘right’ dress code- but it somehow seemed to jive with spending time with Kate and in the end that, surprisingly, was his end game. There was the option of slumming it in a dive bar with her, and he’d almost asked, but that was typical. Mickey didn’t want typical. Mickey wanted so atypical as to be unrecognizable. Who would go looking for him at a brunch? Better still, who’d think twice about seeing Kate at one? She’d have stuck out at a bar of his choosing. Much easier for him to play the chameleon.

The light shirt, shorts, and loafers narrowed down the selection of weapons he could carry on him so he settled for bringing his .22 since it fit easily in a cargo pocket, and it had to do. Noting some silverware as he passed a few tables, he critiqued the efficiency of the knives while wishing he had listened to the voice that said to bring the Bowie. Too tempting, though, to use it if it was on him; he’d have been looking for any reason.

“Easy with them drinks, now…”

He purred, running his hand along the back of her chair as he passed behind to get to his own, having stood long enough to watch her searching before deciding it best to sit down. “I don’ want t’have t’carry y’off anywheres, later. Oi, an’ lookit them glasses’a yers, like.” Mickey chuckled, tapping his own aviator lenses.

“Smart lass.”

He smiled quick and unevenly, but at least he meant it.

temperamentofablackwidow

Choose your poison || Mick & Tasha

temperamentofablackwidow

His eyes basically moved and stayed at all the right areas, the tits she had being revealed but still leaving something to the imagination, however they were never prepared for just how much better they actually are, to her ass as she crossed her legs over. She could senseit all, she always could, she felt every eye of those in the dodgey bar doing the same, she could get caught up on being disgusted about it, but that ended with the same training that taught her to lure in old diplomats at a prepubescent age. She knew better, they weren’t ever going to change and she would use that to her advantage, the only difference is she wanted the probably psychopath next to her to use that as some sort of stimulation. She ran her hand through her hair, the subtly curls bouncing, almost as if inviting a mans imagination to tug on it.

“I think it’s a mixture that results in about 75% alcohol, spirits to prevent bloating…in contrast to your contraption there that will have you looking like a middle aged man in about…three more pints?”she said returning his nasty smile, but there was no real judgement there, she wasn’t one that was easy to offend, nor did she care to be flattered by this prick.

“Hey if you fail a girl does learn way to finish herself off.” she said so matter of factly though her smirk left the rest of his interpretation to his imagination, most things she had probably tried at least once or twice. She needed to be a deadly wet dream, it was her design, change her name, wipe her record, put up as many masks as she wanted that would never go away.

“I would say that any of these gentlemen would like to take your place but it’s become quite clear that none of them would benefit me more than you anyway, unless I suddenly start to thirst for overweight, smells like his own shit stained underwear and grunting collapser over there, even with my strength I do wonder whether I’d be able to roll him off.” she said with a smirk, enjoying the teasing image.

mickbastrd-blog

It had been easier than he thought it possible to run his eyes over her tits and continue on to her neck without much lingering, attracted by the softly bouncing curls and made to stay by a pressing need to pinpoint her jugular. Mickey turned to look at the poor slob she had been talking down about, though it was briefly and without any actual attempt to take in detail. The agent confirmed that there was a body where she was making one seem to be and left it at that, since he didn’t particularly care to let anyone else in the bar take his place on that night and least of all someone further down in the shit than he was. Adding some of her flask to his beer, he swirled it in a fruitless attempt to mix it together before sipping from it. The Irishman narrowed his eyes at the taste, brow furrowing along with the crinkle his nose took on and nearly rasped out a laugh.

“Fuck me, s’fuckin’ concentrated piss, tha’. Y’better not have hair in places y’fuckin’ shouldn’t ‘cuzuvvit, dove.”

The laugh seemed rusty as it left him but he was amused by his own words all the same, shaking his head and chancing another sip thought it garnered the same squinty-eyed results. Mickey wasn’t sure what it said about him that he’d, regardless, had worse before. With any luck it was some kind of steroidal paint thinner, and he’d be dead before he was forced to fake any more small talk. Smiling wide at the private little thought, he turned his attention to her again.

“Safe t’say we both know why th’other’s here, yeh, an’ if it’s all th’same t’you m’not goin’ t’fake like I want t’draw this conversation out. Ours ain’t exactly th’kind’a work fer gabbin’ over coffee, like, yeh? Fer most, anyway. You’n me, mebbe we’d have somethin’ t’chew over, but tha’ don’ say much on atmosphere.” He paused, frowning at the slight alcohol drawl to his words while taking another glance around their immediate area before leaning in closer towards her. “We’re both only here fer th’one thing, lovey-dove, y’don’ have t’stand on ceremony fer ol’ Mick. Y’jus’ tell me when yer set t’take our leave, yeh? An’ try not t’kill me ‘fore th’fun’s over.”