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whirlybirbs · 3 years

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( this chapter’s gif by @ransomflanagan from this beautiful set ! )

✪ — VACANT MIRRORS ; B.B. | 5/?

summary: your plan goes to asbolute shit.

pairing: bucky barnes / f!reader

tags: set before & during tfatws, friends to lovers, therapy positive, trauma healing techniques, ptsd mentions, the normalization of anxiety disorders, and a good ol’ slow burn

word count: 9k, please pray for my fingers

a/n: there’s action, there’s gunshot wounds, there’s canon appropriate violence! this one has a lot of plot, a lot of action, and i truly want to sleep for seven days after writing this. you should listen to the glass cannon’s club playlist while you read, though, for vibez.

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You do have a plan.

Maybe it’s a little vague, a little messy, and a little up-in-the-air, but it’s a plan.

Get in, find Kiwi, avoid a handful of unsavory characters, and access the Alexandria Library.

Getting the hell out The Glass Cannon once you and Bucky were in was going to be a whole different plan entirely — one that was more improv than anything else. Hopefully, running a quick facial recognition program wouldn’t take long. With any luck, it would get a hit on any more recent aliases Innessa Sidrova was using after parsing the motherload of information Kiwi held onto with her life.

Kiwi wasn’t always known as Kiwi. She worked at SHIELD, like you, and back then she was known as Suji Awal. She stuck around longer — and she’d stayed on board during the active collapse to do heaven-sent work. It was an absolute Hail Mary, but while HYDRA had tried to purge all of SHIELD’s cloud data to protect their active agents and decades of progress, Suji had beat the hare in the race. Two steps ahead, she’d managed to pull nearly 97% of all confidential data including mission reports, agent profiles, and even electronic correspondence. While the metaphorical fire burned the documents behind her, she’d managed to salvage one of the only surviving, comprehensive looks at SHIELD before the curtain was pulled back to reveal HYDRA’s infection.

It had been used to try multiple HYDRA agents in the wake of it all in the federal courts. It was significant evidence, but after nearly all was reaped from the crop, Suji had taken the aptly named Alexandria Library and gone underground. Now, Kiwi was just another hacker in the thick of it and the Alexandria files were all but whispers.

It’s all about knowing the right people in the end.

Kiwi was a regular at The Glass Cannon. There was a nine out of ten chance you’d find her there. And if you didn’t find Kiwi, you’d probably find Climber and… Well, going to him wasn’t the most ideal situation, but out of the menagerie of acquaintances you’d gathered up throughout the years, you could trust Climber. He’d send you Kiwi’s way if you finally called in that favor he owed you. Either way, you’d find her and you’d get the files.

You just needed to avoid Alexei Gardzov.

Easy. Ish.

In truth, you barely get anything done Thursday — you’re too preoccupied in your head, running over the so-called plan even now as you fold laundry in the basement of your apartment complex.

You’d dug around in your closet, trying to find some semblance of an outfit. It was difficult. It wasn’t like the barely-there dresses and platform shoes were your thing anymore. Back then, your diet was mostly energy drinks and alcohol — in a way, it’s a relief to find that a good number of your staple outfits no longer fit. It made you feel like you really had put all this behind you.

You have.

Sure, it was the Rabbit you were going to have to be for tonight, but you’re not the Rabbit you were eight years ago. Good thing, too. You’re not too sure you and Bucky would have gotten along otherwise. Right now, your relationship with him was the biggest thing keeping you afloat — for the first time in a long time, you feel like you have some sort of purpose, even if it was a vague one at best.

You knew Innessa Sidrova was a threat — and you knew Bucky had to remedy that threat. You knew he felt responsible for creating her, for planting her in a position of power where she could manipulate and control. In truth, there was still a lot of vagueness surrounding his past. He’d made it clear he hasn’t been himself for a long time, but you couldn’t bring yourself to wade through the muck of his trauma to pluck out your answers. It just felt wrong.

If you were to say you hadn’t been tempted to go out on your own and dig, that’d be a lie.

Even now, as you pull out the ink-black top from the dryer and fold it neatly on top of the other pieces of laundry needed for tonight, you can feel it sparking like a lighter in the back of your head.

He was keeping something from you.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

You nearly jump six feet in the air.

It’s Miss Bonnie — and she’s laughing when her feet touch the cold concrete of the unfinished floor. Her basket of laundry is balanced neatly on her hip, and she walks with a smirk on her face. Her hair is piled neatly on top of her head, and as she bends to plop the basket down, she offers a wink.

“I could hear you thinking from upstairs,” she ruminates, paisley and dyed skirts kissing the ground, “Like a little steam engine.”

You laugh quietly into your task. You duck your head and heft a black bra and jeans from the dryer. “I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

She looks up, eyes moving carefully from the laundry pile to your face. Her eyes glimmer with quiet curiosity. “And a big night planned, huh?”

You snort. “What was the giveaway?”

“It’s always the lacey bras,” she chirps and slides a smirk your way as she waggles a finger at your pile, “And the strappy little bodysuit was a good hint, too.”

You exhale with a laugh, bracing a hand against the dryer. She’s not wrong — you’d really forgone comfort with this outfit lineup. It was temporary, though, and well worth the efforts if it meant helping Bucky tick off a name from his list of amends. You knew how much those meant to him.

“So,” she continues, voice muddled as she continues to load the washer, “I take it this friend of yours is really helping you out of your shell?”

“I guess so. Yeah. It’s — It’s sort of a mutual shell-cracking, I guess.”

“Mm,” a hum, “You sound troubled, though.”

Your mouth opens as your fingers trace the line of the bodysuit. You pause, and you rock back on your heels. Miss Bonnie notices.

She waits patiently, bent at the knees.

“You ever just…” you wave your hand, “Feel like — I don’t know. He’s my friend. My best friend, honestly, and that’s… Really saying a lot. But, there’s stuff under the surface and I know it’s not my business but…”

Out comes a strangled groan.

“What? Like a crazy ex-girlfriend?”

“No, no — I don’t think so,” you mutter, “Wouldn’t surprise me, though.”

“Handsome?” she asks, smiling.

You close your eyes and ignore the smile on your face as you reply. “Yea, handsome.”

“Well, have you tried asking?” she shrugs as she stands, “Not about the crazy ex, but about the stuff you’re worried about? It never hurts.”

“Problem is, I don’t really think it’s too much of my business.”

Miss Bonnie hums at that and presses the start on her washer. She’s quiet for a bit, swaying slightly as she weighs the conversation and you watch — enamored with the older woman’s calm wisdom. She gestures openly with ringed hands.

“I think it’s normal for us to want to know everything about those we care about,” she says, “We want to know how we can protect them, how we can comfort them. But… it comes in due time. All of it does. You’ll find a time when he does open up about the ex, or whatever it is on his mind. You’re friends, after all.”

You’re nodding, chest tight with thanks.

Miss Bonnie’s face is soft.

“You got a picture?” she chirps like a bird looking for a worm, “I wanna see who this little friend is. And if he really is as handsome as you’re suggesting...”

You scoff and lean to dig out your phone.

“Cut it out,” you mumble as she moves closer, “No playing matchmaker.”

“Sure, sure,” she waves, leaning to watch as you scroll through your camera roll.

The only photo you have of Bucky is there from Tuesday night — after he’d housed nearly an entire container of noodles and promptly passed out during the third Lord of the Rings movie. You’d woken up around one in the morning to find that Poke had unceremoniously curled up on top of the supersoldier’s chest. Bucky’s hand was still in the calico’s fur as he dozed, the colors of the TV painting his face all sorts of peaceful. You’d taken the photo, shoving it in his face after gently nudging him awake.

He’s laughed.

You gesture to show Miss Bonnie.

Like ice, she freezes.

You notice a microexpression dart across her face, but it’s gone in an instant. You can’t pin it, but the way she bends to pull the phone closer and zoom in on her face comes off as interest. You blink, label it as shock, and move on.

Her voice sounds different.

“Handsome,” she mumbles plainly, preoccupied with the sight, “I get it now. What’s his name?”

“Bucky,” you say as she hands the phone back, “He’s… He’s a good person.”

Miss Bonnie just nods.

You tuck your phone away and plop your laundry into your basket. Ignoring the sudden quiet that had crept between you both, you haul up the stack and offer her a gentle smile. She’s fiddling with the washer’s timer.

“Thank you, Miss Bonnie.”

“Of course,” she rushes out, smiling gently, “And be safe tonight.”

“I will.”

With your promise, you ascend the stairs.

In that basement, Bonnie McLayne is no more, and instead, Innessa Sidrova remembers that night in Moscow, back in 1975.

She remembers the Winter Soldier.

◦ ◦ ◦ ◦

Bucky calls you three times with no answer.

Normally, he’d just give up — but it was Thursday, and you weren’t answering the buzzer to your apartment either. He tries his best to ignore the strike of panic that sparks in his chest. It could stoke a wildfire, really, but he pushes it down and remembers to breathe. He doesn’t let himself think about what he’d do if something happened to you.

After all, you’re probably fine. Sleeping, maybe. The both of you had a long night ahead.

(Longer than either of you realize, really.)

It’s nearly seven o’clock, and after trying your cell one more time from his perch on your apartment’s stoop, Bucky decides to say fuck it.

A well-adjusted person might frown upon what he was about to do, but Bucky wasn’t exactly well-adjusted, now was he?

He rounds the back alley with long strides and easily finds that, with a little maneuvering, he can hoist himself upwards on top of the nearest dumpster. With a well-timed hop, he can also snag the bottom of the fire escape’s ladder and haul it downwards. The rest is easy, and he’s scaling the fire escape to the third floor with ease before he even knows it.

There’s even a smug little smirk on his face the whole time he does.

Finding your window is a little harder, but Bucky eventually spots Poke’s round little body smushed against the glass — it’s a dead giveaway, and after some prowling, he finds the window to your living room and unceremoniously throws it open.

It’s unlocked, for whatever reason, and he makes a mental note to have a conversation with you about safety and security in the city. After all, you never knew when an ex-assassin supersoldier was going to break in and pet your cat.

Upon opening the window, he pieces together pretty quickly why you’re not answering. Could be the music coming from your bedroom, or even the singing that’s coupled alongside it. From the bathroom across the hall from your room, steam has settled above on the ceiling. The whole apartment smells like fruit and soap and perfume and Bucky’s not really sure how to parse through all the sensory experiences that greet him with he shimmies in through the window, legs first.

All in all, they make him smile.

Bucky shuts the window behind him as he’s quickly greeted by Poke — the calico offers a gratuitous little chirp when Bucky bends to scoop up the cat. Easily, he melts. Poke is purring loudly in his ear as Bucky takes a moment to survey your apartment a little bit closer. Mr. Poke Bowl rubs his face against Bucky’s stubble as the man weaves through the kitchen.

It’s very you.

He isn’t really sure what that means at the end of the day, but all he knows is that he feels at home here. He feels safe. He feels comfortable. He feels like he can be himself. Not James, not Sergeant Barnes, not The Winter Soldier. Not even Steve’s Bucky, but just… his Bucky. Himself. Sarcastic and exhausted and a little cynical.

Bucky lets Poke down on the counter and moves to the fridge.

There’s still beer from the other night in there, tucked in the back, so he makes easy work on popping open a bottle and busying himself with petting a very adamant Poke.

As he sips the Leinenkugel, it’s no small coincidence that his phone buzzes again — for what feels like the hundredth time today — with a message from Janelle.

She was nice — pretty, too. Once upon a time, she would have been his type.

That was before he met you, though.

There’s a little pinprick of mortification at that quiet confession that’s been slipping into his heart more and more in the last few days. You are, after all, his best friend. He’s your best friend. Guilt swims with the feelings that have begun to pluck his heartstrings and he has to admit he’s not too comfortable with the song they play.

His biggest fear is fucking this up.

Fucking you up.

Honestly, his track record isn’t great. The whole defrosted-international-threat bit made it a little difficult to date. Janelle seemed to think the date had gone well enough, though, hence the handful of texts he’d been getting every few hours asking if he’s free.

Like usual, he ignores them.

Exercising his own free will is hard sometimes. Especially when it comes to saying no.

Taking another swig of the beer, Bucky shoves his phone back into his pocket and tucks his fingers back into Poke’s fur. The calico’s tail swings patiently as he sits and watches — and it’s a little weird how human his eyes are for a second there. He mmrrps and lunges for Bucky’s hand when he comes close, bonking his head eagerly against the cool vibranium.

It’s a different sensation.

That’s another big adjustment — learning how things really feel with this new arm. It’s not just handling recoil or gripping knives or throwing punches. It’s the soft tickle of fur, the gentle pressure of a warm rag to clean the joints. Meticulous upkeep wasn’t something HYDRA did often. He doesn’t miss the twinge of pain and molasses-like stickiness that came with a dirty arm. Blood was the worst. Always sat deep in the cracks.

He flexes his fingers. Poke meows again.

He moves to plop down on the couch. Poke follows.

You’re singing, still, to some song that Bucky’s never heard, when you push open your bedroom door and move towards the living room.

You jump six feet in the air and scream when you see him just sitting there, clutching a beer and petting Poke like he fucking lives here rent-free.

Bucky’s reaction is muted, mostly because he’s a little too preoccupied with your outfit and your jewelry and the pink eye shadow that creeps up your brow-bone. There’s glitter on your eyelids and lip gloss on your mouth and he can smell some sort of candy-sweet perfume coming off you. The plunging neckline of the jet-black top is enough to leave him shifting his gaze back up to your startled expression with a tight jaw.

His face is blank.

Then he offers that stupid fucking smile he does. Y’know, the tight-lipped one where he somehow maintains a dead-eyed look the whole time. If you weren’t trying to calm your racing heartbeat, you might have laughed. You hate the white-hot flare it sparks in your chest.

“How the fuck did you get in here?” you hiss, waving your hands.

“We need to have a serious conversation about locking our windows,” he says as he kicks his feet up on the coffee table and wags a finger at you, “Also, what are you wearing?”

“You — You fucking broke in through my window?”

“Yea, well, you were too busy pretending to be Britney Spears to hear me try and buzz up, and my phone calls.”

Sheepishly, you cross your arms. “Nice reference—”

A shrug from Bucky. “Thank you.”

“—Also, what are you wearing?”

He looks down at his usual t-shirt, leather jacket combo. He squints back up at you.

“I’m sorry,” he chirps, “You’re talking to me? Did the department store run out of fabric, Rabbit?”

You self-consciously adjust the plunging neckline of the bodysuit as you frown deeply. “I think I’m gonna skip on the fashion advice from the man who lived in a time where ankles were seen as scandalous.”

“I was born in 1917,” he mumbles as he stands, actively avoiding another pass over your outfit because as much as he hates to admit it, it’s not a bad look on you, “Not 1817.”

“Point being, we’re going to a club. And you look like you’re going to the local Home Depot,” you move to snag a set of dangly earrings that are sitting on the coffee table, “We’ve gotta look like we’re there to party, nothing more.”

Bucky sighs. He finishes the beer, places the bottle down and sheds his jacket. “So, what?”

You pry your eyes away from the flash of skin — his arm, flesh and blood, speaks to how strong he is. And, undoubtedly how easy it was for him to fucking scale three stories of the fire escape to bust in.

“So,” you mumble as you thread the earring in, “I have some of Jaimie’s old shirts. There’s probably something you can use… If they fit.”

Bucky exhales softly. “You kept them?”

“Didn’t have the heart to throw them out,” you reply as you gesture for him to follow you into your bedroom.

The back of your top is arguably more crisis-inducing than the front — it’s an open back, and Bucky settles on admiring the decor rather than the curve of your spine. He has to. For his own fucking self-composure.

Your bedroom is nice — and like the rest of your space, it makes him feel comfortable. It’s all warm colors and posters and plants in the corners. Across from your queen-sized bed, there’s a large desk with a triple monitor setup. That’s where the music is coming from. The little knick-knacks on your shelves and desk make him chuckle.

Then, he stops, halfway to the closet, and stares.

You blink over your shoulder as you bend, digging to the back of your closet to pull out the clear bin you’d piled most of Jaimie’s stuff into after the funeral. After you’d cleaned out his apartment on your own.

He’s looking at the poster — the one from Cap’s USO tour. It’s framed nicely, set up on the wall beside your desk. It’s got a gold frame, and Bucky can’t help but wander closer to look at the signature.

It’s Steve’s alright.

“How much did you pay for this?”

You scoff. Your necklaces tinker together. “Don’t even go there.”

“The jerk signed thousands of these,” he mumbles, crossing his arms as he leans closer, “And still, the fame didn’t go to his head.”

You smile softly, leaning back.

“Jealous?” you chirp, raising your brows as you pretend to swoon, “Oh, Sergeant Barnes, I’d just love to meet your dear friend—”

Bucky’s laughing as you swat at his knee, leaning back on the carpet like a damsel in distress.

“Shut up,” he snorts, “It’s a sore subject for me.”

“Oh my god.”

“I’m serious — do you know how many dates I had to set up for the chump? And then, boom. I’m invisible.”

“Yeah, well,” you mutter with a smile, unclicking the lid, “Some people just like blondes, Buck. I’m sure there were plenty of eyes on you. Stop being so dramatic.”

“Yea, the best friend, sure,” he mumbles at the poster, “Hell, he was taller than me. You know you don’t need to lie to me—”

“Listen, if I was some Lauren Bacall-looking nurse back then,” you wave your hands, “I’d have gone for you. Alright? Stop lamenting and get over here.”

He goes quiet and ignores the warmth in his cheeks. He squats by your side. “Shut up.”

“We seriously need to work on taking compliments,” you groan, throwing your head back, “I’m being serious, y’know, for once. And I’m not just saying it as your friend. You’re handsome and everyone knows it except you, apparently. My neighbor agrees that’s for sure.”

He squints.

You wave it off and gesture to your outfit. “She saw me doing laundry.”

“That explains nothing,” Bucky deadpans, “Literally nothing.”

“I showed her a picture,” you cry indignantly, moving to shuffle through some of the old t-shirts sitting on top of the bin, “Relax.”

He moves to plop down, crossing his legs beneath him. He decides to let the topic die — again, for his own self-composure more than anything. The compliment, though vehemently denied by the worst part of him, is tucked neatly in the homes of his heart. The idea of meeting you, before now, is a little intoxicating. What would it have been like?

Would you have even spared him a dance?

Bucky rubs his cheek. Poke meows and buts the door open with his head.

You’re wrist-deep in the bin when you speak. “He’s obsessed with you, y’know.”

Poke has already taken up a post in Bucky’s lap. Bucky smiles, petting Poke gently with his vibranium hand. The cat seems to like the cool metal. Bucky mumbles softly down to the calico, scritching his cheeks. “I like him, too.”

You pause long enough to try and remember the sight.

Bucky’s eyes find yours, and you’re quick to turn back to the bin.

“Here we go,” you exhale as you pull out the shirt you’d been looking for.

It’s a long-sleeve button-down, one that you can distinctly remember Jaimie wearing to his engagement party’s after-party — a real typical night of Jaimie being Jaimie. It’s black with a barely-there red floral pattern. It’s flashy enough that Bucky won’t look horribly out of place.

The only problem is Jaimie was a little smaller than Bucky.

“Try this on,” you mumble as you dig around trying to find something else in case it doesn’t do the trick.

Bucky catches the silk shirt and gives it a once over. He raises an eyebrow, and deciding against debating this, he simply nudges Poke off his lap and stands.

He moves to your bed, laying the shirt out. On your closet door is a full-length mirror. You want to snap it in half when you accidentally catch a glimpse of Bucky hauling off his black, cotton t-shirt and anxiously fumbling with the buttons on Jaimie’s old shirt. You have to breathe — and remind yourself that that’s Bucky.

Your Bucky. Your best friend Bucky.

When he calls your name, it sounds far away. You’re busy angrily sorting through old clothes.

“I look ridiculous.”

When you turn around, the first thing you notice is that it’s a little tight. Not in a bad way, but the buttons are gapping along his chest, and it’s tight around his arms.

Your eyes widen a little and you swallow. You tilt your head.

Bucky’s frowning.

“Let me see,” you offer gently, standing and moving close, “It’s not that bad.”

“You don’t sound too sure right now,” he mumbles as you enter his personal space.

You’re nimble with undoing the top three buttons — it gives him enough room to move his shoulders, though, and the dip of the shirt along his sternum brings dog tags into view. You reach, momentarily entranced, and read them to yourself.

You smell like vanilla and sugar.

Bucky shifts in his boots.

“Y’know,” you say, moving to the sleeves, “I think this works.”

You roll the sleeves, stopping at his forearm.

When you step aside, Bucky can see himself in the full-length mirror. He looks less than enthused.

It’s not an entirely bad look — he’ll admit that much — but he doesn’t look like himself. No, there’s too much chest and skin and… Christ, this shirt is tight. He does, though, look like some of those trendy folks he sees at Izzy’s bar every now and again. Hipsters.

“I look like a douchebag.”

“That’s the point,” you chirp as you close the box and shove it back into your closet, “Now the outfit matches the personality.”

He swats at your head on the way by. You laugh.

You’ve got boots in your hand, and you land on the bed with a bounce. Bucky is busy fixing his hair in the mirror while you zip up the thigh-high boots. When he turns around, you’re about three inches taller. He blinks, yet again entranced by the outfit.

Then, you’re muscling on the jacket.

It’s neon pink — and shaggy and cropped. It falls just above your waist and swallows you whole. But, Bucky’s attention is mostly on the back.

There’s a large, white embroidered Playboy bunny there, with RABBIT written across the shoulders in a chunky, blackletter typeface.

His brows are high on his face when you turn around.

You freeze.

“...What?” you ask, “Something on my face?”

“Playboy bunny, huh?”

You could smack him. “Weren’t you busy being a frozen dinner when Playboy came out?”

“I’ll have you know,” he says tightly as he follows you out of your bedroom and to the living room, “The Russians enjoyed their fair share of editions.”

“The Russians? Sure, what’s that saying? There’s no sex in the USSR?” you chide, “You can just say Bucky Barnesenjoyed his fair share—”

The tips of his ears are red. You notice. It makes you split into a grin that worsens the pink shade that’s crawling up his neck.

He coughs. “Have you ever considered never opening your mouth again, Rabbit?”

You nudge his arm. “Nah. Bothering you is more fun.”

He shrugs on his jacket, sighs, and decides that keeping quiet is just easier.

However, that’s not entirely your plan — and you speak quickly as you pull your purse over your shoulder. You’re rummaging quietly, stacking your wallet and phone inside. You glance up at him.

“You ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” he mumbles, bending to pat Poke one last time as you move to the door of your bedroom. He watches you flick all the lights off, and before you leave, you double check the calico’s food and water. He’s got enough for a few days. Bucky leans against the door frame, “Care to run me through the plan?”

Nodding, you move to open your front door.

“It’ll be easy,” you explain as you make room for him, “If we play our cards right—”

Bucky’s stopped, though, and is digging in his back pocket as his cell phone rings. You watch him exhale tightly, eyes on the screen the entire time he squeezes by you and starts down the hall. You make careful note of the delicate scowl on his face, only before you catch Miss Bonnie out of the corner of her eye.

Her door is half-cracked across the hall, and she’s watching.

She offers you a smile.

Bucky keeps walking.

You wave, lock your door, and jog to catch up to Bucky.

“Hey,” you call, “Earth to Mr. Claw Machine?”

His head snaps up. “Sorry.”

“Who was that?” you ask carefully, nudging his arm with yours, “Falcon?”

“I wish,” he mutters as he muscles the cellphone back into his pocket, “I wouldn’t feel so bad sending him to voicemail.”

“Yeesh,” you wince, “Lemme guess, was it the owner of the coral lipstick that was all over your face on Tuesday night?”

Again, that temptation to feel jealousy flares up in your heart. But, he’s here, isn’t he? With you. Ignoring her calls. And probably texts judging by the guilty look that’s on his face. You feel a little bad — but at the same time, Bucky’s a grown man. Maybe a grown man who needs to create some more transparent lines of communication with the poor woman, but still.

“Bingo. I mean — it’s not that she wasn’t great an’ all but…”

You raise both hands. “I’m not judging.”

He sighs raggedly as he bounces down the apartment’s stairs. “I don’t think I’m ready for that.”

“What?” you ask with a laugh, “Dating? Yea, it’s pretty fucking terrifying, Buck.”

“You sound like you’re speaking from experience.”

You hold the door open for him and slide him a pitying look.

“Because I am.”

The walk to The Glass Cannon is spent walking Bucky through the plan — and for the most part, he makes a point of nodding along and listening. His only real anxiety pops up at the mention of Alexei, which is relatable to say the least.

It’s dark, the streets are relatively quiet, and the spring chill has pricked your skin. Your heels click against the pavement, and you stalk along. Shoving your hands in your pockets of the pink, shag jacket, you huff.

You’re starting to feel the anxiety.

Fifteen minutes later, you’re both approaching the blue glow of the storefront.

Computers & Stuff was a family-owned and operated computer shop from the 90s that was taken over by a lesser-known hand of the Russian crime family in New York, the Gardzovs. Alexei’s father is the formal owner of the shop, and his son runs the lucrative activities of the underground club that lay beneath the graphics cards and motherboards.

Bucky, as you both near the entrance, speaks quickly. “Anything else I need to know?”

“Just follow my lead, okay?” you whisper.

The bell above the door dings when you pull open the glass door.

The lighting is sterile and if you’re real quiet, you can hear the dull hum of the fluorescents. The store is empty, save for one man behind the register.

You almost duck out the entrance at the sight of him.

Igor has been a bouncer at The Glass Cannon for as long as you’ve been a patron — and he’s also one of Alexei’s dogs. This part of the plan was something you’d considered only briefly, and for a second, you’re thankful you worried over the million and ten ways this would play out for days.

“Well, if it isn’t the little bunny.”

It’s said with malice. Igor’s tattooed hands land on the counter as he leans.

You, however, hold your head high. Bucky watches as something changes in your posture.

“Good to see you, Igor.”

“Is it?” he growls, stalking around the counter and quickly encroaching on your personal space, “Because I’m pretty sure you’re not welcome here, bunny.”

Bucky gets a good look at the man now — clearly an enforcer. He’s got prison tattoos, a shaved head. The long beard is a weak spot. Doesn’t seem to be armed. Blue eyes flick to you and the way you don’t even flinch when the man leans to breathe right in your face.

You just smile.

“I thought you’d say that,” you mumble, moving to swing your bag to the front and dig your wallet out, “But, I’m not here to cause any trouble.”

Suddenly, there’s a hundred-dollar bill slipping from your well-manicured nails into the vest pocket of the bouncer. There’s a tense pause, then, while the two of you size one another up.

“Fucking your way through college paid off, huh?” he hisses.

You stay quiet.

Bucky, though, moves between you both with a quick shove. Immediately, Igor’s attention goes to Bucky as he sizes him up — he laughs. His nose is nearly touching Bucky’s.

“What’s wrong, pretty boy?”

“You should watch your mouth,” Bucky says evenly, “Or I’ll cut your fucking tongue out.”

You’re careful to hide your expression; the feeling the words stir isn’t one that you’re happy about. This sudden protectiveness, though, makes you feel some sort of invincible.

Igor settles back on his heels.

He steps back.

He gestures to the back room with his head.

You keep walking when he calls out: “Careful, bunny, the dogs are going to be looking for you.”

You grit your teeth tightly and push through the fabric curtain.

He barks, taunting you.

Bucky is by your side in an instant, gaze still rooted over his shoulder at the hulking bouncer. He waits until you’ve settled down until you’ve said his name. His eyes fall to you, then to the stairwell before them.

Above it, in curled neon tubing, reads The Glass Cannon.

The windows are blacked out, but from his spot at the top of the stairs, Bucky can feel the rattle of a deep bass vibrate his ribs.

“Come on. We’re on a time crunch now.”

“Alexei?”

You nod as you lead the way down the stairs. “Word travels fast. We need to be quicker. Stick to the crowds. Remember, we just need to find Kiwi — then we bail.”

Bucky nods tensely.

Then, you open the doors.

Immediately, his eyes adjust to the darkness — neon and strobes and the pulse of purple and pink LEDs make his vision swim. It’s warmer down here, and the stairs leading down into the sub-basement is lined with people sipping drinks and chattering over the loud music. It smells like piss and beer and tobacco.

Again, Bucky watches as the person he knows melts away.

The Rabbit in front of him is different.

You reach, as if on reflex, for his hand.

When you turn around and flash him a smile, he has to swallow down a sudden rise of sheepishness. ��

The sea of people part around you, and Bucky realizes quickly that people recognize you. He can see their painted lips moving, muttering things into curious ears about the pink-clad woman in front of him; there are smiles there and frowns, and shock. You’re slow in your descent, making a show of the arrival — all while Bucky begins to piece together that The Glass Cannon is larger than he originally suspected.

As they near the bottom of the landing, he can see out across the floor.

There’s a square-shaped catwalk around the dance floor, laden with dancers on their designated poles. Tables line the outside of the cavernous room, and the bars along each wall are crowded — even still, these glimpses of his surroundings come in temporary flashes of light. The music coming from the center of the dancefloor is loud. The entirety of the scene is raucous.

He can’t imagine you finding solace here.

He tightens his grip on your hand. You squeeze back.

When both of you reach the bottom of the stairwell, the sea of people swallow you in a current of dancing and drinking and laughing, and you crawl into Bucky’s personal space to shout in his ear.

You’re still holding his hand tightly, pressed to his chest, as you lean upwards to brush your cheek with his.

“Follow me, okay?”

He nods.

You begin the methodical crawl through the dancefloor, working your way to the bar — there, you pause long enough to be served a drink that’s as pink as the glitter on your eyelids. The flecks dance in the lights, and Bucky graciously accepts a shot from the bartender who smiles sweetly like honey at you.

You bat your lashes, thank her, and stand gracefully from the barstool.

You take a pointed swig and scan the floor.

Kiwi would be in one of the private booths, you suspect — she was enough of a high roller here. But, with the crowded club bursting at the seams, it was nearly impossible to get to the other side. You sway a bit on your feet, still tightly gripping Bucky’s hand in your own. You refuse to let go.

For your sake and his.

Bucky is a silent shadow, eyes roaming the club — he watches a dancer dip down low and snag a green bill from a patron. Someone beside him laughs loud, another bumping into his backside as you continue to weave to the outer rim of the room. The music is so loud his heartbeat could be mistaken for an 808, and he feels the thrum in his bones.

If he wasn’t so overwhelmed, if he was drunk, maybe it could be fun.

Finally, out of the haze of bodies, Bucky can breathe.

You’re leaning over again, speaking quickly.

“I don’t see her.”

“I can’t see shit in here,” he calls back, eyes moving along the ridge of the room. He scans the booths set into the walls, set up on platforms, and roped off with velveteen, “Where would she be?”

“Hard to tell,” you mumble, “But I think I might need to go to Plan B.”

Bucky follows your solid stare.

In the booth directly across the floor from you, there’s a man in black — black everything, save from his hair. That’s the brightest blue Bucky has ever seen. He’s swallowed by a harem of men and women who are laughing and drinking and dancing, and he’s entertaining. Ringed fingers wave in the air, face split into a laugh so wide he swears it’s a mile long. He’s got glasses on and they’re tinted blue.

Bucky watches carefully as you move to his booth.

It’s like a prey surveying a trap — you’re careful.

Finally, when you stand before it, you let go of his hand.

“Hi there, Climber.”

The whole booth falls silent. The man stiffens, back turned to you totally. Bucky watches as his hands fall and slowly, the man you’d called Climber turns around.

His expression is stone cold.

His voice, however, is as warm as a hot poker.

“Oh my goodness, is that Rabbit?”

He ascends from the booth, platform boots leaving him to tower over you — he’s no small man, either. Bucky watches as he bends to kiss both of your cheeks and hug you tightly. He, however, doesn’t pull away entirely.

“What the fuck are you doing here,” he hisses, “You want to be roadkill?”

“I need to find Kiwi,” you whisper quickly, expression almost begging, “Please.”

He pauses, dimpled chin wavering a bit. Bucky watches him sniff, push his glasses back, and readjust his posture. Climber licks his lips and his eyes dart to Bucky. He’s thinking, Bucky realizes, and after a quick moment of deliberation, he seems to cave.

“Only because I owe you.”

“I know,” you say, raising your hands, “I know.”

In a dash, his demeanor changes once more. He’s flying over to his harem, waving his hands and blowing kisses and promising he’ll be back in a flash. They whine, they moan, but Climber appeases them with another round of jello shots from strobing syringes that a waitress is carrying by.

“Come on then,” he says, “And stop looking like such a prude.”

He begins to weave.

You follow hand returning to its spot in Bucky’s like a lifeline.

You’re sipping your drink, moving through the crowd easily. There’s a slight sway in your step now, and at one point you and Climber even get noticed by a pod of people who recognize your faces. It’s met with laughing and squealing and in the fray, the both of you slip back into the crowd. Bucky is taking it all in, desperately ignoring the tingle of a panic flaring in the back of his head.

Too many people.

Soon, though, Climber is moving towards a side entrance.

It’s a back room.

Suddenly, the dim lights and neon dissolve, and instead, Bucky is flashed in the face with the abrasive sting of fluorescent lights. It no longer reeks of spilled beer, and his boots don’t stick to the ground. No, there’s quiet chatter back here — Climber continues to lead the two of you through a maze of supply crates full of booze and soda.

Then, a right turn. And a left turn.

Someone is taking inventory.

“Kiwi, I know you’re going to hate me for this—”

The woman who turns around is beautiful. She’s in the midst of eyeing an open crate that looks just like the others but fitted with a hollowed center, marking off what looks like an inventory of burner cell phones. Her brown skin is decorated with glitter, her eyes streaked with the same green shade of her tightly shaved head. The green is bright and it reminds Bucky of summer.

Suddenly, her expression sours.

“What the fuck.”

“I know—”

“No,” she snaps, raising her hand and waving to the assistant beside her to take her tablet and make themselves scarce, “You need to get out of here.”

“I need your help,” you say finally, tone heavy.

It’s enough to make Climber sigh. Kiwi watches you, scratches her neck, and swallows.

She meets Climber’s eyes.

Then she breaks.

“Where the fuck have you been, Rabbit?” she asks, worries seeping into her eyes as she pulls you into a rough hug, “We thought you were dead.”

“No,” you shake your head, “But you know I couldn’t be around here anymore.”

“Yea,” Climber snorts, “Not good for your health, huh, love?”

“Alexei still wants your head,” Kiwi chimes in, crossing her arms, “Does he know you’re here?”

“Igor was on the door, so I’m sure he’s heard by now.”

Both of them curse.

Guilt flashes across your face as you screw your eyes shut and nod. “I know. I know, I just… I seriously need your help, Kiwi. It was worth the risk. It’s — HYDRA. I need to tap into the Alexandria Library.”

Immediately, the woman stiffens.

Her eyes flash to Bucky in the corner. He stares back.

“He waits outside.”

“You can trust him—”

“No,” she snaps, “I can’t. And I don’t. And I won’t.”

You give Bucky a pleading look. Between the two of you, a negotiation happens between your eyes. It’s a compromise, and finally, Bucky relents.

“Fine,” Bucky barks, tilting his head and giving you a tight-lipped smile, “Fine. I’ll wait out here.”

“He’s cute,” mumbles Climber as Bucky rounds the corner, long legs carrying him out of the supply room, “Boyfriend?”

“Shut up, Climber,” you mumble, waving your hand, “Just listen—”

“Who is he?” Kiwi asks, eyes still watching the doorway, “And why did you bring him along?”

You sigh, rubbing your brow. “He’s the one who’s trying to find this HYDRA agent. He knew her before.”

“So he’s HYDRA.”

“No,” you snap cooly, “He’s not.”

“So, just handsome, then?” Climber asks, hands waving, “Right. Great. Really making a case for yourself, Rabbit.”

“He’s trying to find a woman named Innessa Sidrova. She was one of the original agents who helped form the American HYDRA cell,” you explain quickly, “I’ve got the GRC breathing down my neck, and… And he’s a good person. He’s my friend. I’m trying to help him, but I can’t do it without you. Both of you.”

Kiwi hums. She sighs. “That explains why you went MIA.”

“Aside from putting Alexei behind bars?” you scoff, “Yea, the GRC played a part in it.”

The three of you are quiet for a moment.

“Fine.”

You look up at Kiwi. Her hands are on her waist.

There’s an immense wash of relief that floods over you at that moment — and from the looks of it, Kiwi can tell. You move to grab her hand, and she grabs back. Both of you smile, and the hug that follows is warm. You’ve missed her. A lot.

“Thank you, Suji.”

Then, footsteps.

That relief is traded in for an anxious backfire of fear in an instant.

It’s slow. Dress shoes on polished cement.

Then:

“Oh, bunny, bunny, bunny. Tsk, tsk.”

Climber and Kiwi’s faces upturn to the doorway and they tell you everything you need to know.

So, you decide at that moment that you won’t be the prey tonight.

You turn around and come face-to-face with a man playing devil.

Alexei Gardzov is a handsome man — a beard and piercing grey eyes. His hair is tightly cropped, and intricate tattoos decorate every inch of his skin. Some of them are new, you realize, and there’s temporary pride that bubbles up at them. They’re from prison.

You almost smile.

Behind him, three goons loom.

“I’ve been wondering when you’d come hopping back,” he croons as he enters the room with the swagger of a man who trapped his dinner, “Well worth the wait, I think.”

His cologne hangs like smog in the air. He strolls up to you, and in a flash, he’s got your hair in a vice grip.

He yanks it back, you grit your teeth.

The barrel of a gun digs into your cheek.

“Climber, Kiwi, and Rabbit,” he sing-songs, “All in one room again like it’s NYU’s 2014 hack-a-thon. Isn’t that cute?”

Kiwi speaks. “Alexei—”

“Shut up,” he snaps, gun moving to flash towards Kiwi, “And stay out of my business, Sujina.”

The gun’s muzzle is cold. He’s rough, and you try to ignore the twinge of pain that comes with his unceremonious yank of your hair. Once more, he tsks. His breath is hot on your face. He smells like cigarettes and whiskey.

“I spent seven years behind bars,” he bites, “All because a’ you.”

“Me? I wasn’t the one trafficking girls—”

“SHUT UP!”

The pistol cracks across your cheek and the cement floor hurtles towards you. The gasp that falls from your lips is from shock; your fingers dig into the cold ground as you try to blink away the blurriness. Your ears ring. Blood drips from your cheek between your fingers.

Again, there’s a hand in your hair.

Now, the fight begins.

Climber and Kiwi are stuck, frozen in fear.

You don’t blame them, because Igor and the others have guns already drawn. One of them, one that’s young and you don’t recognize immediately, has a baseball bat in his hands.

Alexei drags you by your hair as you grimace, refusing to scream. Your heels scrape against the ground as you try to get purchase, but he’s quick to throw you back against the far wall.

“Don’t worry, Bunny,” he smiles, “I won’t kill you. Not right now.”

Then, a kick.

Right to the ribs.

You can’t breathe — you gasp earnestly at the white, hot shot of pain.

“Get up.”

You’re not listening, you’re too busy trying to catch your breath.

“I said,” comes a growl as he reaches, hand in your hair again as he drags you up the wall. Your legs buckle, and you try to hold your chin high as you stumble upwards, “Get up.”

Then, there’s a hand around your throat.

Tight. Too tight. Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe. Can’t get his hand off your neck, can’t breathe, can’t breathe, can’t fucking think, can’t stand, can’t see, can’t breathe —

“Boss!”

A new voice.

The pressure is relieved for a second.

A new face has run into the room — he looks frazzled, hair askew and gun out. He’s eyeing the scene before him in a moment’s pause.

“Can’t you see I’m a little bit busy?” Alexei snags as you gasp, clawing at his hand. He swings his head to the figure in the doorway with an annoyed bark, “What is it?”

“The cops, boss,” he stammers, “They’re here.”

“What?”

“They’re here for her, boss.”

A slow turn to where his finger is pointing. His gaze lands on you. Alexei laughs.

“Well,” he says as the goon disappears, “Isn’t that just peachy, bunny?”

The choking starts again.

Then, a metal hand.

Vibranium.

You watch it swing, you watch it grab Alexei’s throat.

Suddenly, you can breathe.

Suddenly, Bucky Barnes enters the fight.

You make friends with the ground again as you duck, just as Alexei is rammed into the wall above your head by his throat. As you cough while Kiwi calls your name — you can hear a fight. But everything’s moving slow, and it’s not until the first gunshot that you’re kicked into action. It’s loud. Your skin pricks alive.

Someone screams.

You stumble to your feet, eyes finding Bucky’s form moving quickly between the three goons — the gunshot had come from the pistol that had somehow found its way into Bucky's flesh and blood hand. One of the men is on the floor, suit pants stained with a bullet wound through the thigh. He’s wailing. Bucky doesn’t notice. Or he doesn’t care. Maybe both.

His face is cold.

Another gunshot is fired off, this time richoting between you and Kiwi and Climber and embedding itself into the cement wall overhead. The three of you scream, ducking reflexively.

That’s when Bucky snaps.

“Now would be a good time to go!”

Kiwi’s hands are on your arm as you quickly break through the doorway through the storage room. Climber is following, checking over his shoulder at the carnage that Bucky begins to reap in the room.

He’s hysterical, trying to jog in his white platform boots. “What the fuck, Rabbit!”

Your voice is hoarse. You’re clutching your ribs. “Not now, Climber!”

“I’m parked in the back,” Kiwi says, ducking through plastic flaps as she helps you through the back of the club, “Come on, we’ll go through the trucking entrance.”

You hear Bucky call your name — he’s jogging to catch up, gun drawn in his hand. Seems like he made good work of the others, sporting nothing more than a split lip. You turn, pausing for a moment to take inventory of his well-being.

And that’s all it takes.

Alexei Gardzov, limping, steps in front of you and Kiwi and Climber at an intersection in the hallway.

There’s a gun in his hand.

The first thing you feel is the impact.

Like a truck slamming into you at full speed. For the fourth time tonight, you have the air robbed from your lungs. It’s instant confusion.

Then comes the pain. Hot. Hotter than the sun. Hot like white flames. It tears through your shoulder and all you can do is gasp; you’re sent into a stutter step — and while the world around you continues to move, you’re busy reconciling with the fact you’ve just been shot.

A bullet flies by your head.

Alexei Gardzov drops.

You’re grasping at your chest, staggering, when Bucky breaks into a sprint — but you’re okay. You’re okay, it’s just your shoulder, it’s just your arm, you’re okay, you can feel your fingers and you can breathe and the pain is nearly unbearable but you’re okay.

Then, a baseball bat.

It clocks Bucky directly in the skull. He’s clotheslined.

It’s Igor.

The gun from Bucky’s hands clatters across the ground to your feet, and you’re too busy trying to get to Bucky to realize — but, you’ve got tunnel vision and adrenaline and at that moment, you think a good sidekick doesn’t need anything else in this life.

Igor goes to swing at you, but you duck. Your stiletto crushes through the top of his shoe. He screams and in a flurry of pain and panic, you manage to snag the bat quick enough to turn and clock him under the chin with a roll of the wrist.

His teeth clack together and he falls backward, unconscious.

“God, I really wish you could have seen that, Buck.”

You spit. Blood paints the ground.

The bat clatters to the cement as you fight through the pain. Kiwi and Climber are by your side in an instant.

“No, no!” she screams, “We do not have time for this—”

“I am not leaving him,” you snap, nearly screaming at the woman, “Come on and help me with him. Now.”

After a sigh of resignation, Kiwi shoves the gun she’d snagged from the ground into the back of her jeans. You’ve got your hands around Bucky’s ankles as Kiwi and Climber take his torso — and the four of you make a break for the back entrance. You can hear the cops outside now, and there’s the chatter of Russian following you into the back parking lot.

“Hurry up!”

“He’s not exactly light as a feather, you know!”

“Shut up, Climber!”

You’ve got Bucky halfway into the back seat of Kiwi’s white Cadillac when another bullet whizzes by your head.

“Fuck.”

Kiwi hops into the driver’s seat as Climber scatters to hop the hood and throws himself into the passenger's seat. You lean, clinging to the door of the backseat as Kiwi peels out of the parking lot. It swings wide open and you curse loudly. You can see Alexei’s men watching from the back entrance, shouting in Russian — so you muster all your strength to pull back and throw the door closed as Kiwi’s car bounces over a speed bump and rams through the parking meter’s gate.

In the rear window, the front of the club is surrounded.

Red and blue lights illuminate the street — but Kiwi is quick.

No one follows.

And when she finally makes it to the Manhattan Bridge, you exhale.

Bucky’s head is in your lap. He still hasn’t come to — there’s blood coming from his nose and you’re worrying. You lace your fingers into his thick, brown hair and chew your lip.

Kiwi’s voice pulls you from him.

“When were you going to mention the vibranium arm, huh?”

You laugh. It’s more of a breath of air than anything. Your head rests back against the seat. Your shoulder is still on fire. You’re hot, but cold. You’re bleeding still. Your ribs aren’t right. You know that.

“I can’t believe he shot you,” Climber mumbles, “He fucking shot you.”

“And your boy toy shot him,” Kiwi says, sparing you a look in the rearview, “So you better pray he’s dead.”

You ignore the commentary.

“Where are we going?”

“Somewhere safe,” she says, accelerating into Manhattan, “Where I can get you those files and you can keep your head down.”

Sounds like a plan.

Better than the one you had, anyways.

#vacant mirrors #bucky barnes #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky x y/n #winter soldier x reader #winter soldier imagine #tfatws imagine #bucky x you #BOY OH BOY THE FORMATTING I WANNA SCREAM

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dem-obscure-imagines · 3 years

Text

Nightcrawler and the Princess

Kurt Wagner x Reader

Fandom: Marvel/X-Men

Summary: Being the princess of a small kingdom has its perks. However, you’re not sure this is a secret you can share with the rest of your friends…

Note: Did I make this a subtle crossover with the Princess Diaries? Yes. Yes I did. Don’t worry about it.

Reader is: Female

Warnings: Swears

Word Count: 1.8k

You carried the large box to the lunch table and set it there, in the middle of your friend group. Jean eyed it curiously.

“What’s that?”

“Care package from my mom.” You replied, using the pair of scissors you kept in your school bag to cut open the packing tape. “She said there’s stuff for the rest of you in here too. Probably candy or something.”

“That’s nice of her.” Scott smiled, watching as you opened the cardboard box.

“Ah, yep.” You reached into the bag and pulled out several packages of Genovian chocolates. “Here you go, guys.” You told them.

Kurt’s eyes narrowed at the bags, his tail hovering behind him curiously. He recognized that packaging. “These…I know these chocolates. Does your mother live in Genovia?”

“Oh, uh, yeah. I’m from there, actually.”

Peter thought for a second, already munching on chocolate. “Wait, I thought you were American.”

“Nope.” You laughed, reaching further into the box and pulling out a handful of little Genovian flags she’d sent. “Ah, right. Independence day is coming up.”

“Where even is Genovia anyway?” Warren asked, admiring the little flag once you handed it to him.

“It’s a tiny little country between France and Italy.” You explained. “It’s really beautiful there, though.”

“It’s the most beautiful place I’ve ever been.” Kurt reminisced, sighing fondly.

“When did you visit?” You asked him.

“Several years ago.” He said. “The circus had a few shows there when I was young. The people were so kind, and the coast sparkled like diamonds.”

“You were with the Munich circus, right?” You asked him, trying to remember. He nodded proudly, a smile settling onto his face. “I was at one of your shows! I knew you looked familiar! Oh my god…” You laughed and shook your head. “I should have put those pieces together sooner.”

“You were there?”

“Yeah! My mom took me for my birthday.” You smiled, remembering the show fondly.

And Kurt knew then the information that you were withholding from the rest of the group. His eyes widened slightly and he studied your features. He remembered you. He remembered that day and he remembered the feeling of his heart hammering when after the show, the Queen of Genovia herself introduced him to her daughter, who was about his age. She’d taken her there because it was the princess’ birthday. Though your meeting was brief, he’d remembered it all this time, thinking of it every once in a while…the time he’d met a princess.

You didn’t look all that different now than you had then. Why you hadn’t told the rest of your friend group, he wasn’t sure, but he would keep the secret for you. Of course he would. He smiled softly, admiring you with his new revelation in mind. Even before he’d figured it out, you’d already been a princess to him anyway.

Peter studied the look on Kurt’s face and squinted. Something was going on. Something was going on and he would get to the bottom of it…

***

Over the weekend, your friend group had decided to go to the mall, but before you left, Kurt knocked on the door to your room.

“It’s open, come on in.” You told him.

He pushed open the door and stepped into the room timidly. You were at your desk, reading what appeared to be a letter written on a piece of paper.

“What’s up?” You asked, not looking up from the letter when you asked it.

“You’re coming to the mall, right?”

“Yeah, what time is it?” You glanced down at your watch. “Oh shit. Sorry I’m late.” You chuckled, folding the note and tucking it into your dress drawer. “My mom wrote me a letter with her package.” You explained.

“How nice!” Kurt smiled and you couldn’t stop your heart from fluttering at the way it lit up his face. “Do you write each other letters back and forth?”

“When I have time to, yeah.” You nodded, shoving your hands into your pockets. “Well, shall we?”

Kurt nodded and offered you his arm. You took it and in a poof of smoke, suddenly, you were standing in the living room, where the others were all standing.

Peter had a weird look on his face and you weren’t sure why, but you knew he was up to no good. He always seemed to be…

The squad piled into the car, as usual, and arrived at the mall in under thirty minutes. Jubilee picked the tunes, which was always a good choice, so the ride there was pleasant and relatively uneventful.

You all walked inside and started the routine of shopping around in all of your usual stores. The prom was coming up, so you all spent some time in the dress place on the upper level of the store.

“What color dress do you think you’re going to get, (Y/N)?”

“Mmm, I’m not sure.” You thought for a moment. “Maybe something pink. Or…blue?”

“I think blue would look great on you.” Jubilee grinned, flipping through the rack of blue dresses.

“I agree.” Jean smiled, her eyes flicking over towards Kurt, who was on the other side of the store with the boys.

“Hey now.” You warned, your cheeks warming at the thought. “What did I say about reading my mind?”

“I didn’t need to read your mind. You’re more obvious than you think you are.” She chuckled.

“What she said,” Ororo agreed, causing your cheeks to flush even hotter. “Why don’t we ask the boys which one you should wear?”

“That’s a great idea.” Jubilee agreed, despite your shaking head. “Hey boys!”

“Yes? What’s going on?” Kurt bamfed over beside you, looking at Jubilee curiously.

“Which dress should (Y/N) wear to prom?” Ororo held up one pink dress and one blue dress.

“The blue one.” Scott said knowingly, crossing his arms and smirking. Okay. So he and Jean had talked, then. “Definitely the blue one.”

“I agree.” Warren nodded.

“What do you think, Kurt?” Scott nudged the teleporter.

“I think you’d look beautiful in anything. But I do like the blue one. It brings out your eyes.”

“T-thanks.” You blushed, giggling. None of you committed to dresses, so after looking around for a while the squad decided to hit the food court while looking over movie times.

“So…” Peter looked up at you and cleared his throat, drawing the attention of the rest of the group. “When were you planning to spill the beans…your highness?”

You swore your blood ran cold. You looked up at him, your heart racing in your chest and the color drained from your face. “Excuse you?”

“You heard me.” Peter raised an eyebrow, leaning back in his chair confidently. “When were you going to tell the rest of us your little royal secret?”

You froze, staring at him for a long time. “Maximoff,” you said through gritted teeth, your eyes glowing faintly. “Choose your next few words very carefully.”

“Oh I have. (Y/N)’s the princess of Genovia.”

“Pfft. As if.” Scott scoffed, chuckling, but he stopped when he looked at the look on your face. “Oh shit, is he serious?”

“Who the fuck told you?!” You asked him, your voice raising the teeniest bit. “The only people who know are Professor Xavier and Dr. McCoy, so which one do I have to kill when we get home?”

“Neither. I snooped in Xavier’s office. Found your file.” Peter shrugged. “And of course, that begs the question: Why didn’t you tell us?”

“Listen…” You exhaled a long breath, looking to each of your friends faces for a moment before fixing your eyes on the table. “When people know, they treat me differently. I don’t think they mean to, but they do and it sucks. I like having friends and I love hanging out with you guys and I didn’t want to ruin that because of something as stupid as status.”

“You’ve got us.” Jean promised. “We’re not going anywhere. This doesn’t change anything. And…I already kind of knew. Not that you think about it often, but every once in a while…”

“I figured that might happen, yeah.” You chuckled. “Thanks for keeping it on the DL.”

“Of course.” She nodded.

“I knew too…” Kurt confessed, looking you in the eye.

You crinkled your eyebrows and then nodded, understanding. Of course he knew. You two had met before, after the show. You’d asked your mother if you could meet some of the performers, and she’d pulled some strings to make it happen. You distinctly remembered meeting Kurt. You remembered his smile and his adorable pointy ears.

“That’s right.” You smiled. “We met.”

“We did.” He agreed, nodding, a smile tugging at his lips and a faintly purple color creeping across his cheeks. “Although, I’ll admit, I didn’t realize it was you until…very recently. We aren’t kids anymore.”

“We sure aren’t.” You agreed, a chuckle escaping your lips.

And it was fine after that. It was normal. Much more normal than you’d expected it to be. Another week came and went. You finished your letter to your mom, Queen Clarisse, and when its response came back in the mail, you found it accompanied by a small picture she had saved all these years. As soon as you looked at it, a smile on your face, you knew you had to show Kurt.

So, you ran out to the courtyard, where you knew he was, and found him reading under the shade of a large tree in the front yard.

“Kurt!”

“What’s up?”

“My mom sent a few copies of this photo. Do you want one?” You asked, sitting next to him in the grass and handing him the photo. He looked it over, holding it very carefully in a large, three-fingered hand.

“This is us, ja?”

“Mmhmm.” You hummed, nodding. “A very long time ago.”

“We were so young…” He murmured, admiring the smile on his face as well as yours. He remembered you’d been nervous to meet him and at first, he thought it was because of the way he looked, but quickly learned it was because you’d been enamored by his performance. Absolutely blown away. You’d been so kind to him then, just as you were so kind to him now.

“We really were.”

“Do you mind if I keep this?”

“It’s all yours.” You told him. “So, what’cha reading?”

“Beauty and the Beast.” He told you. Ever since remembering that one of his best friends was a princess, he’d been on a bit of a fairytale kick.

“Mmm, that’s a good one.” You smiled and tilted your head, your eyes sparkling. “Read to me?”

“Of course.” He laid back against the tree again, holding the book open with his tail.

You got closer to him, wrapping an arm around his waist and resting your head against his lean chest. His arm wrapped around you and tugged you closer, and without even thinking about it twice, he pressed a soft kiss to your hairline before starting to read again.

Kurt decided then that there was no place in the world he’d rather be than under his favorite tree, a princess resting contently against his chest.

Part 2?

#nightcrawler #nightcrawler x reader #nightcrawler imagine #xmen #xmen imagine #xmen x reader #x-men #x-men imagine #marvel #kurt wagner #kurt wagner x reader #kurt wagner imagine #kurt x reader #kurt imagine

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satingrove · 3 years

Text

tracing the route

pairing: javier peña x gn reader (no y/n)

word count: 3.3k

summary: he visits your desk in the evenings and misses you when you leave. he wants more time.

warnings/content: mentions of smoking, language, mild physical descriptions of anxiety, p i n i n g, kissing

a/n: thank you to my darling cris for your help and for letting me chat you up about this, as well as a thank you to jojo for the lovely gif :)

gif credit: @nobie!

“Hey,” Javier’s wide palms press themselves into the edge of your desk, his weight leaning forward into your space of disorganized papers. With the movement, a brief wafting of his scent fills your nose — he’s fresh, not dirtied or sweaty from the chase — it’s been a slow day, coffee mugs with drips long dried on their outer edges, exasperated sighs at the pace of which things are finished, getting nowhere. The open collar of his shirt hangs loose beside you, the tan skin of his torso hiding underneath the rest of the lavender fabric, “You look tired.”

You exhale through your nose, your foot catching on the leg of your desk as you swivel to face him properly, raising your brow.

He clears his throat, “You know what I mean.”

“Mhm,” you sigh, resting your cheek in your palm, “hi, Javi.”

It’s late. It doesn’t necessitate a glance at the clock; he always comes once the majority of the others have gone home. He has that soft glint in his eye, like he means to tell you something important — something that never makes it past the barrier of his lips when they’re pressed together in a lopsided grin.

Like he’s grinning now.

“How are those papers coming along?” He nods toward them with his head, leaning even closer to your shoulder, his voice quieter when he continues speaking, “you're allowed to leave at a decent time.”

You hum your acknowledgement, catching your thumb on the edge of a stack and letting the papers slip past it. It’s a failed attempt to ignore the rush of butterflies from the gentle, rich timbre of his voice.

“I don’t want to fall behind,” you tell him, brave enough to catch his eyes that look softer than usual, perhaps brighter, flitting their focus between your left and right.

“Is that worth your sanity?” Javier gives a subdued chuckle, eyebrows pulling up in the middle. You can tell it’s just a poke at you, but there’s a tone of concern laced in there somewhere. “You've been staring at that sheet for a while.”

He turns his body until he’s half-seated on your desk, his long legs extended past the wheels of your chair.

You want to swat his arm. You’d do it lightly, playfully, show him you’re not shy of being in his space... you don’t. Any step forward with Javier is more like a mile forward; it’s elevated with him. Everything is more meaningful. If he lets you in, you’ll fall right to the bottom.

Instead, you let your shoulders slump, staring at the mess you hate so much. All that time spent filing and reporting, signing lines — there’s nothing to show for it. There’s so much left.

And Javier is more insistent tonight. If it were any other day, he’d be sauntering away by now, glancing behind himself for one last look at you. This is a look you’ve yet to notice; he smiles when he turns his head back — taking a step just out of line into someone’s shoulder, or gathering the strength to pull his gaze off of you in time to avoid it.

Today is different; he stays a moment longer. Is it because he can’t help himself? It’s a question he pushes to the back of his mind for later. Now, you’re in need of a push.

“Stop,” he whispers, grabbing the pen from your grip and tossing it from your reach.

“Javi, I was gonna finish—”

He’s right. You’re allowed to leave at a decent time.

His throat tightens, thinking of the exhaustion you’re under, hating that you drive yourself into these situations of reddened eyes and the incessant bouncing of your knee.

And he’s right about before, too. The sheet of paper at the top of this pile is one you could have finished filling out at least fifteen minutes ago, but the fog in your brain cuts off the ability to form any thought other than I don’t feel like doing this.

But Javier, you think, Javier could learn from this too. He’s allowed to feel something other than that deep aching he excels at hiding everywhere but in his eyes.

You know he’s been smoking more lately. His packs empty at a pace just quick enough to earn your worrying. And it’s no secret his sleep is an afterthought too; he’s here with you every night you’re not sleeping either.

“You okay?”

Fuck that question.

Fuck that question and the way it threatens to rip your stability apart.

“Yeah.”

“Look at me,” he taps two fingers on the wood, “and try again.”

“Yes.” The furrow in your brow speaks more for you than your own voice. His expression changes, from the whisper of a smile to that of stony sympathy, the truth of your lassitude hardening his presence.

Christ, he feels it too, but he’s not as nice to himself — he’s never as nice to himself as he is to you. It’s fucking hypocritical what he does, and he carries that awareness deep in his belly when he tells you things like this, like how you should give yourself a break, because he knows he needs it just as much.

Reaching to pat a comforting hand on your shoulder, he stops himself just short of you. Too much? His words are enough, he tells himself.

“Go home,” he speaks soft and slow, whispering your name in a deeper tone, “it would do you some good.”

And as perfectly as life and timing go, your protest — a dig back at him, a “what about you?”— is swallowed by a louder shout, requesting Javier.

He looks down at you, mouth twitching at the corner, and pushes off your desk, “Think about it.”

———

He... didn’t expect you to take his advice.

His eyes fall down to his feet. Shit.

It’s been, what, thirty minutes? And you’ve finally decided to listen to him after weeks of this gentle urging to take care of yourself?

His fingers twitch at his sides. Silent, lazy snapping. Your papers are tucked away in the drawers of your desk, that pen he flicked out of your reach back in its cup holder, the chair neatly pushed in.

Javier should be able to go on with his night, to keep working to ease his mind, but it unsettles him too much to see your desk vacant without saying goodnight first. He’s grown accustomed to this — this stream of feelings you started within him, caring about you — it’s not that he doesn’t like it. It’s that he worries even more now, and it’s not something he could mention to you in all your conversations.

You’re doing fine how you are. You’re managing, you’re getting things done. When he sits at your desk, it’s as much time as he can bear to allow himself without feeling too guilty.

But he questions your safety.

As you key the door to your apartment, hoping you’ll last long enough to brush your teeth before passing out, Javier shrugs on his jacket, the lining cool over his skin. He walks briskly to the exit, giving an unceremonious wave behind him as he slips out the door, heading for his truck.

If you can listen, he can listen.

———

You feel sorry, disappearing like that.

He told me to do it, you reason, so why does your chest feel so tight, like you can’t get enough air? Javier is a capable man, he could last without your goodbyes — he can’t miss you that much.

He comes to visit with his free time, or maybe it’s not free — he needs a distraction — and maybe his brief touches aren’t as meaningful as you think. And that’s enough for you. It’s what you tell yourself when you kick off your shoes and head to the bathroom to wash up — it’s enough. Perhaps, if you had him whole, you couldn’t handle it.

Perhaps, if touching him unapologetically was something you could do, you’d stop yourself too. Knowing his mind is different than knowing his body.

You know his mind; it’s quick and witty and his mouth is smart, (like when he’s perched on your desk with his shirt hanging loose) but his body is something you could learn with your hands — the most you’ve allowed yourself is to brush your fingertips against his when passing him a file, or a pen he doesn’t need.

As you brush your teeth, you think of his hands — you’ve seen the way they handle a gun with such ease and yet care at the same time, the way they press into the edges of your desk, and how his thumb brushes his pouty lower lip when he’s deep in thought. This is the time when you look at him and he doesn’t notice.

His lips — they curl into those half-grins around his cigarette, and his hair, fluffed up by the end of the day, falls over his brow. His shoulders broad, his back strong.

You want to know his body by touch — at least, after finding out why his visits have become so frequent, why his stares are drawn out (this, you know only because you’ve worked up to holding his gaze long enough).

Shit, you mumble as you settle not onto your bed, but the couch, without thinking that this is the wrong place. It’s all Javier in your head. Laying down over the cushions, you close your eyes and hope for a restful sleep.

To thoughts of him, you doze off, picking apart little instances where he’d shown something just beyond friendly affection. Is he always like that? Was he always like that?

It’s been a gradual thing. The first time he’d interrupted your work was purely for professional reasons, and back then, he still took your breath away. It’s more delicate now, the way he speaks to you — different than the pushy yet soft tone when he urged you to find an important piece of information. His words got cheekier, his body closer to yours in those polite intrusions.

You know, when you watch him through the windows in his office, when he doesn’t want to be bothered by others — but even on those days he ends up chatting with you, pain dissipating (and that, you can tell by his fading frown).

He’s eased his way into you, bit by bit, and bit by bit you would fall apart if he ever stopped interrupting you.

———

At first, you don’t wake up to the noise. You stir, your body shifting over the couch cushions, ignorant of the gentle rapping at the door. It stops, for a moment, before coming back harder, louder.

It’s incessant by the time your eyes finally open, your heart an overwhelming weight, pounding in your chest. Fuck, who is that? It’s enough of a scare waking up to a racket like this, but someone is out there, you remind yourself, someone’s knocking, and it’s really fucking loud.

There’s a shout of your name, you’re sure; it’s not just your startled mind making you hear it. And it sounds like his voice, worried.

Rushing to the door and brushing the hair from your face, you lean to the small spyhole in the middle of it.

You see the same shirt you’d had your eyes on for nearly half the day, under a leather jacket — of course it’s Javier. You almost forget he’s waiting for you, distracted by the way he’s standing, hands on his hips and his head hanging low between his shoulders. He’s thinking — lip caught in his teeth and his chest heaving slightly, as if he’s trying to suppress another shout of your name.

Your mind comes back around, hand jumping to the lock and then the handle on the door, twisting it frantically. As you push it open, his head snaps up, wide brown eyes flashing to your face, to your thigh, back to your face.

You rub your eyes, “Javier?”

His chest falls with an exhalation of relief, fingers pinching his nose as he shifts his weight to the other foot, “Shit, I didn’t realize you’d be asleep already—”

“—It’s okay... are you okay?” You ask shakily, stepping further from the door, and in your diminishing haze, you miss the way he cautiously eyes you a second time.

“You took my advice,” he starts in disbelief, the look of concern softening to something proud, his hair tousled with the breeze from open windows during the drive. “I... wanted to make sure you got home okay.”

Oh, god, your heart is beating too fast for you to keep up with it.

His look is sad and sincere, brows pulling up in the middle as he watches you through his eyelashes for forgiveness; he’s pleased you’re safe, yet he’s beating himself up for interrupting the sleep he’d talked you into getting.

“Thank you,” you manage to say, wrapping your arms around yourself. It’s not something he had to do, and he looks like he could use a longer break than yourself, but he’s still here.

Javier walks closer, “Were you, uh, sleeping well? Before I woke you up?” His hand lands beside your head on the doorframe, body leaning intimately near yours.

“I was, I— how’d you get here?”

As he’d expected it, Javier’s response is honest, though the same thing he always tells you when he’s surprised you with his doings, “Pulled some strings, dug through some files.”

He’s close enough for you to feel his breath ghosting your shoulder, that same fresh and heady scent washing over you.

Pulling strings; it’s what he does.

You try to think, with his eyes ceaselessly roving over your face, whether to invite him in or not. It’s not what he came to do.

But it’s late, you’re both tired, there’s drinks to offer him — for being so kind, you rationalize.

“How far out of your way am I?” you ask, unable to tear your eyes away from his. He’s boring into you. Mercilessly so. You try not to breathe too hard, let your cheeks burn too hot — he makes it impossible to control.

“Doesn’t matter,” he dismisses the question, “I know nothing happened now.”

“I get home safe every other night,” you smile at him, teasing, his face returning that same look; he knows this. Your early absence was just an excuse for it.

“What if it had been different?” He slants further, and it’s a great fucking struggle not to brush a strand of your hair back. He instead clenches the fist around the door frame, patting the side of his leg with the other, just for something to do with himself in place of pressing his hands to your hips and risking your disapproval.

There’s nothing to say to that. You giggle, maybe nervously, maybe just from his softly pressing nature, but he’s retreating now, fingers sliding down the wood as his body leaves yours.

“’M sorry I woke... you should get back to sleep.” He speaks lethargically, a heavy energy settling on his shoulders at the idea of leaving you, especially in those soft clothes where your thighs peek out, the endearing way you lean against the door in your dying sleepiness.

His hands are back on his hips when he says your name and tells you goodnight, a minor frown on his face.

If Javier stays any longer, he might not leave without kissing you, at least, not without some indulgent touches he can hardly pass up on anymore.

Except you call his name back, returning the polite farewell, Goodnight, Javier — still buzzing that he came all this way, and your heart falling that it hasn’t gone further than what you do when you’re at work, with people watching.

No one else is here. You could do anything — he could do anything he wanted.

He stills. Calculates. Makes his eyes big at you.

No, he can’t leave.

He returns steadily, weary of this ceaseless watching, noticing, knowing you and not having you. He looks left and right over the other doors, lowering his head and sighing, “You’re killing me, baby.”

The first touch is his warm hand cradling your neck, thumb brushing lazily over your jaw, the other hand finding a home on your hip and tugging you to him. As your breath catches, his lips close in on yours, velvet, warm, and full. Wanting, needing, but not greedy.

He walks you back inside with his body, the door swinging further open with the force of your bodies shoving past.

"Is this okay?” he murmurs deep into your mouth, earning your consent in a single word and breath, yes.

Javier is gentle with you, pulling back as little as he needs to tilt his head the other way, your arms wrapping wantonly around his neck. None of it is rough or forceful — it happens like it should, like it’s meant to for a number of arduous weeks. There’s small sounds coming, quiet whimpers and relieved sighs each time you break apart to come back together.

Javi, you breathe, before you’re swallowed in him again, tenderly, your lungs begging you to gasp for more air. You hold on as long as you can, till he’s lost it too, parting to watch your face and to see you shyly smiling up at him.

His hold moves to your waist when he kicks the door closed behind him. A moment, of sharing your breaths, his nose nudging along your cheekbone, turns everything to shades of pink. He shrugs his jacket off, letting it slip from his arms and, keeping his face nestled to the side of yours, he lets it fall.

“Fuck,” he whispers, mouth open until you kiss him again, your fingers running easily through his silky hair, resting at the nape of his neck.

Nothing, nothing, has felt this good in years; Javier fights to keep a semblance of calm, expressing desperation through a tight embrace.

He’s your only anchor, though he doesn’t weigh you down — he supports you, keeps you from drifting. Hot and smooth and selfless. You could topple over, but the wall of his chest and the hold of his arms are too strong and firm.

For him, and you, it doesn’t need to go any further tonight. Kissing you is everything to him, hands never prying past your clothing or sliding over the more sensitive parts of you — but he needs as much of this as he can get, going slightly hazy at the thrill and bliss of touching you like this.

His lips are an incessant, delicate brush against yours, his top lining with your bottom when he nips at you. It’s nothing if not forgiving, and through the kisses from his warmth, he unwillingly whispers, “Baby, we should sleep.”

“I know,” you agree, his proposal sounding like a habitual thing between you, “I don’t know if I can.”

Sleep is far away from your racing mind. He makes a pleased sound when your fingers brush over his collarbone where his shirt lays unbuttoned.

“You will.” He cups your face in his hands, this time kissing you with less urgency and a higher sense of quietude — it’s happened. It’s you and him now, in your living room that borders the kitchen, feeling each other. It’s you and him, confessing through affection the ache of wanting one another.

Javier tells you, in a hushed and kind tone, that he’ll stay tonight, if it would help you sleep. If it’s what you want.

tags: @queenbbarnes @ayamenimthiriel @princessxkenobi @filthybookworm @mitchi-c @jettia @bookofbriar @nomanchesnoncreator @harrys-stan @meshlamando @jabbajambler @nakhudanyx @lycheemi @kj-holmes @goldengubs @mandoclan @lady-of-glass-and-bone @thehippiequilter

— if your user is on here but not properly linked, your blog was not able to be tagged! :(

send me a message if you’d like to be added or removed!

#javier peña x reader #javier peña #pedro pascal #narcos #my writing #narcos fanfic

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wiypt-writes · 3 years

Text

Rock ‘n’ Roll People In A Disco World

Part 1- Disco Down

Intro: It's range day. SWAT vs LAPD Special Crimes branch. You and your finance decide to have a bit of fun with the interdepartmental competition.

Pairing: Paul Diskant x Reader

Warnings: Bad language, Smut (NSFW, 18+)

Disclaimer: This is a pure work of fiction and classified as 18+. Please respect this and do not read if you are underage. I do not own any characters in this series bar the reader and any other OCs. By reading beyond this point you understand and accept the terms of this disclaimer.

A/N: So yeah, I started another series. Bad WIYBUPT. But there aint enough Disco out there so I thought I’d rectify that situation. This is also another entry for @imanuglywombat ‘s “Is That Even A Sex Position” weekly challenge. This position is called “Juicy Ass”. See here for more information.

Rock ‘n’ Roll People Masterlist // Main Masterlist

It was early in the morning, the first warm rays of the LA sunshine had barely begun warming the pavement when the two of you had started your day. Paul was already pouring you both coffee to go as you met him in the kitchen, dressed in your Swat training tee, utility pants and standard issue uniform boots, hair French braided back. You smirked at the dapper young detective before you, slacks, dress shoes, button down and tie.

It'd been a gruelling last few weeks for you both. You were working a SWAT case with your unit and Paul was busy working an LAPD Vice officer's homicide. He would trudge in late at night, either from the precinct or more recently from a night out with Vice following some leads. You were always already asleep and he didn't want to wake you. He'd kiss you softly, shower, kiss you again and crawl into bed, hugging you close.

Now, you were both getting ready to head out, finally having slept in the same bed together for the first time in weeks. Given your nature, the two of you were playfully squabbling over the upcoming late afternoon's task, a joint fire arms training session between your unit, LAPD SWAT and Paul's unit. The joint time spent at the range always turned into pool of who'd win and, usually, was too close to call rounding off with each team going head to head in a final duel.

And things were getting competitive in the Diskant home.

"If I can make it," Paul grumbled, "we should sweeten the deal."

"You'll make it.” You popped a shoulder. “Paul Diskant doesn't miss a day at the range, nor friendly competition. So, name your terms?" You smirked mischievously over the rim of your mug, watching him adjust his tie.

"Winner gets a favor." Paul devilishly replied.

"What kind of favor?" You played along and the look on his face already made your insides squirm as he raised a brow and curled his lips further in his smirk. "Paul!"

"Y/N!" Paul mimicked, cutting the distance between you, big hands on your hips, thumbs rubbing along your shirt. "Baby, it's been days. This Vice case has me pulled away longer than I have been since I was a beat cop."

You rolled your eyes and wrapped your arm around his shoulder, fingers grazing the point where the short hairs of his buzz-cut met his neck.

“Fine." You kissed him deeply, the taste of coffee on both your tongues but something that was just him too. "We'll call it a bonus." “Bonus...” he nodded. “I can run with that.”

“You couldn’t run a fucking bath, Disco.” "Oh Sweetheart, you're on." The challenge in his voice and mischief in his eyes lit a fire under you. You kissed him again and moved away, a swift smack from his hand to your ass made you yip but you kept walking.

****

The drive into the station was quiet, you reading over your training schedule for the day and Paul driving. The only sound that filled the vehicle was the sound of him humming along to the radio, thumb tapping along to the beat of the song on his steering wheel, before you heard him let out a loud sigh.

"I have some stuff to chase down this morning but if nothing pans out, I should be at the range with the rest of my unit."

"Well, then I'll hope it doesn't pan out, just so I can kick your ass with my Glock," you chuckled as he let out a groan.

"Baby, you know, watching you handle that Glock and riffle makes me horny as fuck right? Nothing like a woman that can shoot," Paul admitted. He took your left hand away from the file and pressed his lips to the top of it. He knew why you did it, but he still hated not seeing your diamond flashing on your finger all day.

"Oh yeah?" You turned your standard issued sunglass covered eyes to him, "is that why you wanted to marry me?"

Paul chortled, “one reason among the many."

He pulled into the carport and parked in his designated spot. You exited the vehicle and gathered your bag from the popped trunk.

"See you at the range, don't be late, or I'll have to listen to Rodriguez bitch as she drives me home." You gave him a teasing kiss and slung your bag over your shoulder, walking away.

"Hey, Y/N?" He called after you. You stopped and turned around to look at him, lifting your sunglasses to the top of your head. "Don’t waste too much energy today, huh? You’re gonna need all the strength you have tonight, Baby."

You chuckled to yourself, "Just show up, we'll talk energy later," you rolled your eyes and walked off, flipping him the bird over your shoulder.

The scorching sun boiled across the training facility tucked between the hills of the valley, away from the hustle of the city and just far enough out of reach for civilians. Abandoned buildings and, green fields and a simulated neighborhood made up the grand, multi-million dollar facility. You and your team had been at it all morning, moving through the buildings in full tactical gear and safety equipment. Together you cleared buildings, fired upon fake assailants and suspects. You and your partner, Alma Rodriguez, even hit the weights and boxing bags to keep loose after a hand to hand session against Everett and Evans. To keep your trigger fingers hot and ready, you played a round of long range sniper poker, you of course beating the team with a straight flush, bullets hitting their targets dead center.

It was the last hours of daylight by the time Special Branch showed up and you couldn't help but smirk as you watched Paul set up his gear from across the field. Long gone were his slacks and tie, and now, he was dressed in a tight black tee with the edges of his two bicep tattoos peeking out from the hem, and uniform issue pants and boots, his wrap arounds shielding those beautiful blues you loved getting lost in.

You smirked as the two of you locked glances, his smile forming across plump lips. A cocky flick of his head was sent in your direction and you laughed, pulling a hundred dollar bill from your pocket and slapping it flat against the table.

The competition started, pairing SWAT members against Specials, two by two until both your captains were the final two.

"Shooters on the line," the facility command officer called. Each shooter stepped up, readying their rifles. Your team lined up behind your boss, Paul and his desk buddies watching from their side. "Stand by... Ready..." The whistle sounded and the first shots at their prospective targets were fired.

Firing judges followed behind each shooter, judging accuracy, safety and protocol. Three rifle shots fired down range and the shooters tossed their weapons to the side, tucking and rolling one roll with their hand on their pistol all while watchful eyes looked on. Your boss didn't roll, but Paul's did and the snickering started from Special Branch. It didn't deter your focus as you watched your boss, Captain Rogers, finish the round. Three shots fired at metal targets, each one going down in accuracy, then a clip reload and three more shots fired at a close range target before the commanding judge asked both men to put their weapons on safe and holster them. He approached each target for accuracy and declared Paul's boss, Captain Wilson, the winner of the round. That brought the two teams to a tie.

The Detectives cheered and razzed SWAT but both captains settled their groups down. The field judge confirmed the tie in the competition and groans sounded from both teams.

"I'll tell you what, I'll toss in an extra two hundred bucks to pit Y/L/N against your pick," Rogers held two one hundred dollar bills up, handing them over to the field judge for safe keeping.

"Alright, I see your two and raise two," Captain Wilson held out his bills, "for Diskant to take that challenge."

"Oooooooh", both teams razzed the real life couple.

You couldn’t help the smirk on your face as one of Paul’s colleagues piped up that this could back fire spectacularly as would Paul really want to risk pissing off the woman who controlled his sex life.

“That’s exactly why he wants to win,” you jibed back, causing him to roll his eyes and scoff, “because his sex life is on the line if he doesn’t.”

More laughter rang out across the area as Paul merely shrugged, a smile flickering across his face as you heard Rogers speak loudly to Wilson from behind you.

“Between us, two hundred on my girl to blow your man outta the water."

Paul leaned down, to whisper into your ear, a smirk plying on his lips, "something's gonna get blown."

"What was that?" You coyly played.

“Sure you wanna do this?” He asked, turning to look at you, his brow arched. “I mean you could just forfeit now and save yourself the embarrassment.”

You held his gaze for a moment before you made a show of dragging your eyes down his body, your gaze lingering on his crotch as if you were contemplating his offer, before you raised your head, your tongue poking out from between your lips a little.

“Did you forget to zip up?" You asked. Paul gave a start, his head jerking down to look at his ‘piece’ so to speak, and at that moment the whistle was blown to start.

The first shots were fired, Paul's just seconds behind yours. Tucking behind the mailboxes for your next shot, you nailed your target and moved forward to fire your final rifle round, using a metal barrel as your cover. You laid your riffle to rest, took a few steps, tucked your chin and rolled, planting your feet and rising up to draw your personal firearm. Poised for your next quick shot behind a mock window frame, you fired at the target and moved on, Paul's form in your peripheral, matching you shot for shot. Coming around the frame you fired a walking shot at your next target and then took your place at the final marker, firing away before the expected reload and emptying your clip into the standing paper target with his hostage.

"Safety on... Holsters." The range judge called after he blew his whistle. You and Paul followed his commands and waited as he examined your individual targets. It was close, you knew it. Paul was an excellent shot.

You watched as the judge looked over Paul's target first, poking his finger through two holes in the face before moving on to yours. You nailed your target, all three shots hitting the suspect. One dead shot to the center of his head, the other in the chest and the last in the torso.

"Here's your winner," the judge declared, pointing at your target.

Cheers began to ring out and you heard Paul groan loudly, turning to you. "You cheated.”

"I guess the favor's on you," You quipped as behind him you saw Captain Rogers holding his hand out, ready to receive the cash prize from Wilson.

“You still cheated.”

“I did no such thing!” You scoffed.

“You distracted me.” He folded his arms across his chest, a sullen pout on his handsome face.

“Well, you should know better than to take your eye off the target, Disco,” you smirked and he narrowed his eyes playfully. “On second thought, I think I will let Rodriguez take me home. Burgers and beer on you. Don't forget the extra pickles."

He smirked, his lips brushing yours as he spoke, "come on, ride back with me, I'll make it worth your while."

"Erm, unless I'm mistaken you just lost so..." You popped a shoulder, your eyes not leaving his as you began walking backwards away from him. "I'm in charge."

“I want a divorce.” He shot back and you laughed, shaking your head.

“We’re not married yet, hot shot.” You winked.

“Details.” He waved his hand and you snorted, before you turned and jogged to catch up with your colleagues.

*****

As per your instructions, Paul didn’t forget the extra pickles and later that evening the pair of you were sat on the sofa in your comfy clothes, food and beer in hand as you lounged back watching a film on the Television. You stole a glance at your fiancé for a moment, his sharp profile illuminated in the soft light of the lamp to his right. He really was incredibly handsome, and you often wondered daily how the hell you’d gotten so lucky, as he could have had his pick of women, they tended to fall at his feet wherever you went. But he’d chosen you. Not only that, he’d pursued you. It had taken him a good few weeks after you’d both met on a case when he was in Uniform to finally accept his offer of a date. The dates had continued, and six months later you’d moved in together, and a year or so after that, he’d gotten down on one knee in the middle of your apartment and asked you to be his wife.

Which, reminded you of something you’d heard before.

With a smirk you turned your attention back to the film, took another bite of your burger before you spoke, your tone light and airy.

"So... strippers huh?"

Paul hastily swallowed his food and turned to look at you. "What?"

"Nothing, just typical."

"No, what?" He chuckled.

"I just heard one of the guys before commenting about how the wedding is getting closer so the stag do needs planning. The words Vegas and strippers were mentioned. Several times"

"Fucking Adler, man," he shook his head, dropping his empty burger container into the paper bag on the table in front of you.

“So you are going to Vegas, then?” You shoved another fry in your mouth to stop the smirk from spreading at the teasing.

"Uh, yeah," his reply was nonchalant, but he rubbed at his neck in that way he always did when he was a little nervous or uncomfortable. His big tell.

"Right. And there will be strippers?”

“Yes, there PROBABLY will be strippers." He side eyed you a little as he reached for his beer, the faint flush of red visible on the back of his neck as you took the final bite of your food.

“How probably?”

"There MAYBE be a night at the club." He leaned back, bottle in hand.

"Dicks." You gave a dramatic sigh, dropping your now empty food container into the bag with his. You made a show of scrunching down the top of the bag, dropping it to the floor by the side of the sofa, ready to be taken to the trash, before you leaned back, shaking your head.

"What?" he turned to you, beer paused halfway to his mouth.

"Oh, no, I was just saying, at my hen do there will be dicks. Lots of dicks."

“What the fuck?” He spluttered and you shrugged, not looking at him, feigning concentration on the television.

“I can't have strippers too? Tut, tut Disco, that's very old fashioned."

There was a pause, and you waited for his reaction, knowing it could go one of two ways. Out and out petulant protesting, or some sort of childish, half witty come back.

"You know, my dick is by far the most important." He chose the latter.

"You mean you are the most important dick?"

“Yeah.” He conceded. “Hey, least I’m important in some way.”

At that you laughed and moved a little closer to him. He shifted, allowing you to snuggle under his arm, pressing a kiss to your head.

“You know what else is important?” You asked, your hand gently tracing shapes on his white tee.

“What?”

“That you don’t forget that you owe me a favor, Detective Diskant." “That I do.” He agreed, and you felt him nod.

“So, there’s a pile of ironing that needs doing and the bed sheets need changing tomorrow. Can you manage?”

At that he let out a loud guffaw, his chest rumbling against your cheek. "Seriously, Baby?" He glanced down at you as you tipped your head up to look at him. "Absolutely," you winked

“I am at your complete mercy to satisfy you in any way you want... and you ask me to do chores?” He rolled his eyes. “You’re losing your sense of adventure, Sweetheart.” "Oh I have a sense of adventure, but a bet is a bet and we've pulled three doubles between the two of us so shits gotta get done, and you lost, therefore, you... are... my... bitch.” Your words were punctuated by soft jabs to his chest with your index finger and Paul groaned, throwing his head back against the sofa as he scrunched his eyes closed.

“Fuck my life.”

“I’m sorry, what was that?” You looked at him and he opened his eyes. “Fuck my wife?”

“We’re not married yet.” He smirked, arching an eyebrow at you as he played back your words from earlier.

“Details,” you played along and he laughed as you shifted a little more so your face was level with his. “Now shut up and kiss me.”

With a cheeky grin he leaned over, pressing his lips to yours, his hand sliding to the back of your neck as the kiss grew deeper, his tongue slowly sliding against yours. You let out a soft moan, shifting a little, your hand cupping his face and then he pulled back. You pouted at the loss of contact and opened your eyes to shoot him a glare, to find him smirking a little.

"Double or nothing, I bet I can make you cum in less than two minutes.”

“Two minutes?” You arched a brow, biting your lip a little as you squirmed at the frankly filthy look in his eyes. “Now?”

“Yup.”

“Bring it on.” You threw down the gauntlet. “But that doesn’t include the time it takes me to get you naked.” He grinned, shifting a little so he was side on, facing you.

“Fine.” You rolled your eyes. “Or the foreplay.”

“Jesus Christ, Paul, just get on with it. You said two minutes. Clock starts the second you start, your challenge not mine. He grabbed your beer bottle and placed it along with his on the table with a bang. “You saying you don’t want me to love on you a little bit before I bang you into next week?” His voice was low as he hovered over you a little, his face inches from yours. "I'm saying I'm fucking desperate, that's what I'm saying."

"Then I won't need two minutes.” He grinned, pressing further into you, causing you to lay back on the sofa.

“God, you’re so full of it.” You narrowed your eyes.

“You’re gonna be full of it soon.” He smirked, his lips pressing to yours. "Stop... Talking... And... Do... It," you demanded between his dizzying, little pecks. His lips curled into a smile against yours as his hands gently trailed up the outside of your smooth thighs, thumbs grazing under the hem of your cut offs. The assault from his lips already soaking you.

It wouldn't take much, you both were fully aware of it. Nearly a week apart or just missing each other had you two desperately seeking release. The question was, who would cave first. He said two minutes and you knew he could hold off until you were good and worked over. His fingers slipped between your denim shorts and he gave a low groan as he felt your damp panties. His kiss grew hungrier and he was quickly on your flies, your shorts were down your leg in a matter of seconds, tossed over the back of the sofa, panties with them.

He moved to a kneel, one hand gently hooking your right leg up to rest against the back of the couch, knocking the other to the side, your foot falling automatically to the floor, toes pressing onto the soft carpet, leg bent at the knee. You don't even register how fast he moved downwards, and part of you wondered if he lost on purpose. A flat long swipe tasted at your folds.

"Jesus," it felt glorious and your back arched off the sofa in delight. There was a wee bit of scruff causing a tease of friction against your inner thighs and although you weren't timing him, you knew it couldn't have been more than sixty seconds when his tongue dipped into your hole causing you to cry out.

"Fuck, Paul..."

He gave a little chuckle, mouth vibrating against your nub which he grazed with his teeth. You bit your lip as your insides began to tremble, you were so desperately trying to hold off just to get that last win over him, but it was useless. That rumble had you in the throes of it and you were gone, your legs shaking as you came, your walls clamping around nothing as you gasped, your body shuddering with pleasure.

The smirk and glisten that was evident on his lips as he sat up and caged you in, had you clawing at his shorts. "I win."

"Yeah, okay, you smug little shit,” your voice was breathy as you recovered from your high, your hands pulling at the drawstring in the middle of his abs. “Dare I ask how you want me?”

His baby blues, already dark with desire, flashed and he pressed his lips to yours, his mouth dominating and you could taste yourself on him. You groaned as his hands slid up, cupping your face and he pulled back.

“Hands on the floor, feet on the coffee table, knees bent.”

You blinked, “what?”

“Hands on the floor, feet on the coffee table, knees bent.” He repeated.

Okay, so this was new…

With a final, suspicious look at him as he moved back, you stood, jumping and emitting a little squeak as he slapped your ass as you went. Taking a deep breath you turned, placed your hands on the floor and rested the tops of your feet on the coffee table, your knees bent.

“So you can do as you’re told.” Paul smirked, standing up off the sofa.

“When I want to.” You peeked up at him as best you could to see him sliding his shorts down his legs, stepping out of them before he moved round and threw his leg over your shins. His hands slid up the outside of your thighs, coming to rest on your waist as he pulled you back a little, his erection pressing into your behind as he ground against you, giving a little hiss.

“Fuck, baby you look so good from back here.” He moaned, bending over slightly to press a kiss to your spin and you shivered, your arms wobbling a little and you began to worry just how much of this you could take.

“Paul, seriously, just…”

“Patience.” He cut you off as he gave your ass a soft slap making you emit a noise that was half way between a squeal and a laugh as he positioned himself behind you, and you immediately missed the warmth of his chest where it had been pressed to your back moments ago.

You felt the tip of his dick as it poked at your entrance, and he had no problem slipping inside your already soaked folds. But the angle and the pressure of your body closed off as he slipped inside you set your nerves on fire. You both moaned out together as he slid home, his balls to your clit.

You felt how thick he was against your walls. A little twitch and flutter from his shaft as you both remained still, you silently begging and waiting for him to move. His fingertips gently dug into your hips as he slowly pulled back and moved forward again.

"Fuck, baby, so fucking tight, like this," Paul ground out as he pumped slowly in and out of you. He was taking his time, slow thrusts and long pulls back. In truth, it was agony, but a beautiful torture. And a torture that he continued again, and again, and again. Over and over, in no rush whatsoever, a sharp contrast to where he’d brought you off before on the couch as fast as he could.

Your arms were shaking from baring the position but you wanted more. And as the bubbles of pleasure slowly simmered through your core and deep into your belly, you moaned out your demand. "Harder."

"Oh, fuck," Paul quivered inside you but picked up his pace, his hips slamming into yours, your insides squeezing him tightly as his hands gripped at your hips, blunt nails biting against your skin. With every thrust forward you were jolted, your palms sliding on the rough surface of the rug underneath you, and you curled your fingertips into the deep, cream coloured shag in an attempt to prevent yourself from face planting straight onto the floor.

"Yeah, just like that," you panted, your elbows locking as you pushed yourself up slightly, "oh fuck, Paul!" You could tell by his breathing and how he felt inside you that he was ready to cum but he could always hold off until you had yours. "So close," you managed to pant out, letting him know you weren’t far.

He slowed his pace, bending his body down your spine again, and pressed his lips to the back of your neck, "just," he thrusted, "let", again, "go".

His words flipped the switch inside your body and you felt yourself going, the blood already rushing to your head from the position you were in, and the pressure was pounding in your ears as you came, hard. "Oh my God!" You cried out as your walls clamped down around him, milking his hot seed to explode inside you.

"That’s my girl, fuck!" He roared at the feel of you around him, and his hips grew sloppy as he came, grunting, pulling you back onto him as he let go of his thick payload.

With your chests heaving, bodies stilled, his fingers still around your hips, his thumbs drew lazy circles on your back. You felt his blue gaze on you and you couldn't see it, but you knew he was smirking.

“Paul.” You managed to swallow, “baby, my arms.”

“Oh, shit, yeah.” He moved gently to pull out of you, curling his arm around your waist in the nick of time as your elbows gave way and the pair of you tumbled rather ungracefully to the rug by the table in a tangle of limbs, your giggles ringing around the room, drowning out the sound of the television.

“You okay?” He asked gently, as you moved so you were lay on your back looking up at him as he lay on his side, propped on his left elbow. He tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear with his right hand as you nodded, leaning up to kiss him deeply.

“I’m not even gonna ask where you saw or read about that.” You chuckled and he grinned, glancing around the room cheekily before he looked down at you.

“Boys talk, sweetheart.” He shrugged. “But admit it, that was better than making me fold sheets.”

You chuckled as he pressed his lips to yours again, your fingers gently twisting his silver chain between them as you looked at him and arched your eyebrow. “If I admit it will you do it again? Only not tonight, don’t think my arms could take another round.”

Paul let out a laugh which rumbled in his chest and he pressed his lips to yours again. “Maybe we can make a game out of it, see how many other surfaces I can use to I prop your feet on and fuck you from behind.”

You scoffed, slapping at his arm as he grinned down at you cheekily, and you bit your lip.

“I can run with that.” Your hands moved so they slipped round his back, gently tracing shapes over the muscles, making them twitch a little and he sighed as your nails reached that spot on his neck that always turned him to putty in your hands.

“Stop, you know what that does to me.” He looked down at you.

“I do.” You agreed, continuing nonetheless.

“Seriously, you want more?”

“Well, like you said.” Your fingers curled round the nape of his neck, pulling his face down so it was inches from yours. “It’s been a while since we got time together, best make the most of it.”

“Oooh, you’re a bad, bad woman future Mrs Disco…” he smirked, kissing you deeply. “And I’m so down for that.”

****

It was late in the evening, the two of you having carried your sex-capades from the lounge to the bedroom, both of you spent and spooning in the aftermath of bliss when Paul's cell rang out.

He grumbled and shifted slightly, turning to grab the offending item form the night stand before he answered, "Diskant."

You strained your ears to listen to who was on the other end but it wasn't audible.

"Yeah, okay, got it. I'll call you back," he replied and hung up. Then he quickly made an outgoing call. "Hey, so I just talked to Scribble. Freemont and Coates, or whoever they are, want to meet us." There was a brief pause, "tonight." Another pause and he closed his phone.

He sighed, turning to you, "I got to go."

"Okay," you sat up, an uneasiness filling your veins.

"I'll be back," he slipped out of bed, dressing quickly in black jeans, a black button down and hat. He clipped his badge from the nightstand to his belt after slipping into his uniform boots. Then leaned over and gave you a long, deep kiss. "I love you."

"I love you. Come home to me," you kissed him and pulled back, your fingers pressing the medallion of safe keeping against his chest. Paul touched his forehead to yours before he pressed his lips to your own in a soft kiss and headed out. You heard the door click as he left your apartment, and you gave a sigh, settling down into the bed, pulling his pillow to your naked chest as you closed your eyes. Whilst you knew that this was the job, hell, you’d done it yourself for long enough, it still never made it easier and for some inexplicable reason, tonight it made you even more twitchy than normal. But, that was more than likely down to the fact you’d managed to enjoy some quality time together tonight, and it had been so good.

Before long you drifted off to sleep, and you had no idea what time it was when the cordless rang, shrilling through the apartment, raising you from your slumber, but as you blinked yourself awake, it was still pitch black outside.

"Hello," you croaked.

"Y/N," you recognized the voice immediately, given your own happenings with IA.

"Captain Biggs," you replied, suddenly fully awake as you sat up in bed, the covers clutched to your chest.

"It's Paul,” his voice was low and serious and instantly you felt a cold, icy dread floor your system from your head to your toes as he passed, taking a breath, “a unit is on its way for you."

***** Part 2

#rock n roll people in a disco world #paul diskant #uglywombatsexpositionchallenge #paul diskant x reader #paul diskant x you #street kings #street kings fan fic #reader insert #chris evans #chris evans characters

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kozumekenza · 3 years

Text

house of memories :: four

:: kageyama tobio x f!reader :: playlist :: masterlist ::

:: taglist: open :: wc: 2.3k ::

the last you had heard of kageyama tobio, he was following his grandfather’s footsteps and leaving you behind to join the syndicate. a chance meeting throws him back into your life, along with all of the memories.

tw: mafia elements, profanity, blood, gunshot wound, kidnapping, implied drug use (marijuana)

a/n: posting an hour early :)

“I’m sorry. I can’t.”

Simple words, and predictable ones, but his heart still hurts. He knew this, he knew it was coming, he knew what you would say, he prepared himself for it, so why does it feel like his world is crashing down? He’s leaving you, but he guesses you’re leaving him first. The thought brings him comfort. He didn’t want to involve you in this, as much as it hurts watching you walk away. He should be thankful that you’re breaking his heart and not the other way around. He should be thankful that you’ll hopefully hold this against him for the rest of his life. He should be thankful that you will never know the cold steel of a gun, the glint of an attacker’s knife.

You’re long gone by now, probably tucked into bed. He’s right where you left him, although he is no longer staring at the spot where you were standing. Now, he’s watching the moonlight on the water. The world looks cast in melancholy blue; a beautiful setting for his final night and a tearful goodbye.

He is thankful for this last chance to see you; to memorize your features and commit them all to memory. He is thankful for the tears on his face, as he will not be allowed to show them in the future. He is thankful for all the emotions that he is currently feeling; he savors them, knowing that when he wakes up tomorrow, they will be long gone; suppressed forever.

---

You’re up and running before you even have the chance to fully grasp the situation at hand. There’s blood, so much blood; Miwa’s calling to you, but you can’t hear her. There’s only the pounding of your heart in your ears and the four years worth of schooling you’ve received; racking your brain for any and all useful information.

“I need all the medical supplies you have; a first aid kit, bandages, forceps, scissors.” You pray that Miwa is listening, that your voice is projecting. “I know we probably can’t take him to the hospital, but if you have a doctor you normally see for stuff like this, call them.”

You press your hands to the wound. From what you can tell, it’s a bullet wound towards the bottom left of Kageyama’s chest. His heart is still beating and his breathing is slow, but steady, and you allow yourself a moment to be thankful that his lung hasn't collapsed. You focus on your next steps: stopping the bleeding, fully assessing the severity of the wound, and stabilizing Kageyama somewhere that isn’t the foyer’s floor.

Miwa drops down next to you with what you hope are sterile rags. “I called our doctor, she’ll be here soon.” She unwraps the plastic covering and hands you the rags, and you press them to Kageyama’s chest. “If we can just stop the bleeding, he’ll be fine.”

You can’t help but shiver at the thought that this isn’t the first time something like this has happened.

---

Kageyama Tobio is used to being shot at, but the bullets rarely meet their mark. Unfortunately, due to his own stupidity, this one does.

He curses as he runs to his car and jams the keys into the ignition. The fleeting thought that the blood will be a pain to get out of the seats crosses his mind, but he shakes his head and it’s gone. His only goal now is to get back to the penthouse. Miwa will know what to do.

When he stumbles in, feeling faint, his exhausted brain short-circuits at the sight of you. He falls to the floor as his vision blurs, feeling slightly thankful that if he dies tonight, at least the last thing he saw was you.

---

He knows he’s dreaming, that he’s drifting in and out of consciousness. He dreams of his childhood spent by your side, he dreams of your final goodbye. Even when he thinks he’s awake, he knows he must be dreaming, because you’re here, holding his hand and sitting by his side. He tries to reach out, to brush the tears off of your cheeks, but he can’t. He feels as if he’s failed you again.

---

The doctor is nice, a woman in her late twenties named Kiyoko. She performs her duties clinically, allowing you to help where you can and reassuring Miwa that everything will be fine. When the bullet is finally removed and Kageyama is stitched up, you collapse into a chair next to his bed.

You watch him carefully as Miwa flits around the penthouse, cleaning up and moving around Kageyama’s appointments for the next few weeks to allow him time to recover. You hold his hand in your own and rest your head on the side of the bed.

You were terrified tonight, you’ll admit it. You aren’t quite sure how you kept your cool and focused on the task at hand. You’re thankful that he is still breathing, that his heart is still beating.

If you hadn’t walked away, would this be the norm for you? Would you be accustomed to Kageyama coming home bleeding and half-dead? You don’t know how you would cope in a situation like that, unsure if Kageyama would come home in one piece or even come home at all. The thought terrifies you; knowing that for these past four years, there were times where he was injured and you had no clue, and that he will most likely continue to get hurt in the future.

Is it better or worse to be here for it, to be aware? Is it better to know and be there for him while enduring the pain of it all, or is it better to be blissfully unaware, back to your normal life where you know his job is a risk, but you aren’t involved?

---

The man is thrilled at all of the information contained in a tiny computer file. Better than he ever could have imagined; giving him the ability to hurt his enemy is the worst possible way - through the people he cares about.

It’s a low blow, even in this world, but what can he do? He’s run out of options. His enemy’s reign over Tokyo has encroached too far into his own territory, and has been occurring for far too long.

You’re an easy target; far better than attempting anything with his sister. She has the knowledge and power of the underworld to wield against him, but you, you, are perfect. No skills with a weapon, no comprehension of how things work in this world.

An innocent, perfect girl for him to corrupt.

He grins at the thought.

---

When Kageyama’s eyes finally open in the early hours of the morning, you almost burst into tears. You knew that he was physically fine; the wound would hurt, but was stitched and bandaged and fixed. You didn’t know how it would take a toll on the rest of his body. Some people suffer traumatic injuries and don’t wake up for days, months, years, ever.

You grin as Kageyama slowly opens his eyes, assessing the room around him.

“Y/n?” His voice is weak, but he’s awake. Alive.

“Yeah?” You’re still holding his hand, leaning on your arm as you reach for his forehead to check his body temperature.

“You’re here.”

He’s clearly still a little out of it, and you can tell that his brain is trying to piece together the picture of you before him. You laugh a little before you answer, “Of course I’m here. Where else would I be?”

His face is blank and he’s completely impassive when he says, “Not here.”

Miwa walks in to you laughing at Kageyama, who clearly does not understand why you’re laughing at him. She rushes over to him when she sees that he’s awake, gently hugging him.

“Tobio, thank god you’re alright. I was so fucking worried about you, you little shit.” She slaps his shoulder lightly, causing him to wince.

You step away to give them some privacy, heading out to get some water and pain meds from the kitchen, but as you cross the threshold of the bedroom, Kageyama speaks up. “Y/n, are you leaving?”

The ache in his voice is obvious, and it sends a pang to your heart. “I’m just going to get some water and medication for you.”

He’s smiling a little when he turns back to Miwa. “Okay, good.”

---

The next few weeks are fine, generally speaking. You spend the majority of your time at Kageyama’s penthouse, watching over his recovery and hanging out with Miwa. Hana becomes a bit suspicious when she notices you’re away from home more than you’re there, but you simply say that you met an old friend at the club that night and you’ve been hanging out with them. It’s not necessarily a lie, and she buys it regardless; she’s so busy with Ushijima and school that you doubt she really notices how much you’re missing anyway.

Most days, Miwa or Kageyama’s driver picks you up from the university in the afternoon, and you spend the rest of your evening in the penthouse. Sometimes, you sit by Kageyama’s bed and do homework while he rests, which most of the time ends up being a fight to get him to stay in bed while he insists he’s well enough to work. Other days, mostly when Kageyama is too tired to put up much of a fight, you hang out with Miwa, watching movies or cooking dinner together.

It surprises you, just how easily you fit into their lives. Miwa says so as well, telling you that it has to be fate; there’s no way that someone could adjust to their lifestyle as quickly and as well as you do. You spend a lot of time thinking; you don’t mind being with them, in fact, you cherish your time at the penthouse. Kageyama’s job doesn’t phase you as much anymore. You don’t think about it when you spend time with him or Miwa, instead, you think about how appreciative you are for their roles in your life.

Most recently, you’ve started helping Miwa with a task she deems “Mission: Impossible”. Apparently, Kageyama is disastrous when it comes to organization, so she’s taking the opportunity of him being bedridden to organize his office and the rest of the house. You don’t bat an eye when you and Miwa categorize what she refers to as the “weapons closet” or even when you come across files of all the hits that Kageyama has ever put out. The only thing that even makes you pause is when you come across Kageyama’s secret stash of marijuana.

“Really?” You hold the plastic bag up in one hand, your other hand on your hip. “Blunts?”

Kageyama just groans, sitting up. “If you and Miwa weren’t going through all my shit, you never would’ve found it.”

“Your shit is a mess! When was the last time you organized anything in this house?”

Kageyama brings his hand up, scratching the back of his hand. “Uh, never?”

“I can’t believe you.” You collapse onto the chair next to his bed, tossing the bag to him. “Now where’s the lighter?”

---

When Kageyama is finally cleared by Kiyoko to go back to work, you think that you won’t be seeing him and Miwa as often. You assume that they’ll be busy with whatever it is they do normally, so it comes as a surprise when you see Kageyama waiting for you after your last class.

He’s leaning on a black McLaren Artura, turned away from you as he talks on the phone. You stop on the steps of your lab building, pausing to look at him while he’s not paying attention. After seeing him in sweats and t-shirts with messy hair for weeks while he recovered, it shocks you to see him in formal attire again. The late fall chill embraces you as you survey the black jeans and dark jacket, the wind-whipped hair and gold chain peeking out from beneath his collar. It’s times like these when your breath fully leaves you at how attractive Kageyama is. He’s receiving many stares, whether it’s from the boys checking out his car or the girls checking out him. He remains oblivious as always, talking pointedly into the phone until he spots you.

He hangs up and opens the Artura’s door for you when you approach. You can feel the whispers surrounding you, but you ignore them in favor of sticking your chilling fingers in front of the car’s heat vent. Kageyama starts the car and peels out of the parking lot.

“I’m surprised to see you today. I thought you would’ve been busy on your first day back.”

He shrugs, giving a noncommittal hum. “It was mostly boring shit, meetings and such. I was completely over it by noon, so Miwa took over the last few for me.”

“You’re done already?” It’s only four in the afternoon, and you know he normally works much, much later than that.

“Done for now. I’ll go into the club later tonight to check on a few things, but that’s at least interesting.”

“Hm.” Looking out the window, you notice that you’re not heading towards the penthouse. “Where are we going?”

“I’m taking you out.”

You choke on air; as someone with Kageyama’s career, this could mean one of two things. “O-on a date?”

“Yeah,” he glances at you, “what else would that mean?”

“You don’t want to know what I was thinking.”

“Damn, y/n, I’m not going to kill you.” The wry smile on his face warns you of his upcoming words. “That would get blood on my seats.”

“Haha.” You roll your eyes and punch him lightly on the shoulder. “But really, you’re taking me out on a date? You didn’t even ask.”

“Well it’s more of a ‘thank you for nursing me back from the dead and helping Miwa’ date, but it can also be a real date, if you want that.”

The slight nervousness in his voice makes you grin. Only Kageyama could shoot someone in cold blood and be afraid to ask a girl out. “Okay.”

You watch as he glances at you out of the corner of his eye, a sly smile on his face. “Okay?”

“Okay.”

taglist: @lilith412426 @itoshibaby @wallywaffle

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honey-dewey · 3 years

Text

Gold in the Summertime

Pairing: Frankie ‘Catfish’ Morales/Reader

Word Count: 2,545

Warnings: Panic attacks, mentions of injury, stitches, and needles, but it’s mostly just that sweet sweet hurt/comfort

Permanent Taglist: @phoenixhalliwell @star-wars-hell

Very few good things ever happen at three AM in the Urgent Care. Let’s make a short list of things that will definitely not fall under the category of ‘good.’ 1) Having a patient who has apparently injured himself but refuses to tell you how. 2) Said patient hyperventilating and panicking until he actually breaks something because you tried to give him a tetanus shot. 3) The same patient’s three best friends yelling at you. 4) Singing to still the same patient to calm him down so you can stick him with a tiny needle so he won’t possibly die of tetanus.

A/N: The song that inspired this fic is actually a favorite of mine called ‘Gold in the Summertime’ by Matt Nathanson. Not required to read the fic, but it’s a cute song.

“Hey.”

“Oh hell no,” you said, turning to see your fellow night shift nurse, Tori, standing in the door of the break room. “No, I am not dealing with whatever drunken fool walked into that waiting room. It is three in the morning and I do not feel like screwing around right now.”

Tori raised an eyebrow. “Done?”

“Done,” you said, standing and preparing for the inevitable. “Who’s the patient?”

Tori handed you a file. You opened it, quickly scanning the information. F. Morales, forty two years old, in decent health, up to date with all his immunizations, served in the military, and was currently in the Urgent Care for a laceration on his left shoulder.

“How bad is it?” You asked, closing the file and following Tori to the waiting room.

“Eh,” she said with a shrug. “He isn’t gushing blood, so it’s not ER worthy. Probably just needs some stitches and a tetanus shot, depending on what got him.”

You blinked. “He didn’t say?”

Tori grinned. “Nope. Have fun.”

Groaning to yourself, you opened the waiting room door. “Morales?”

A man stood up, clearly the injured one in his group of friends due to the wad of cloth he was pressing to his left shoulder. “Yes?”

“Follow me,” you said, tucking the file beneath your arm. “So, what happened?”

The man grimaced. “Uh, I busted my shoulder.”

“How?”

The man was silent as you pushed open an exam room door and gestured him inside. “Well?”

“Well what?”

You sighed. “How’d you cut yourself?” You asked again, watching the man hop up on the exam table. You walked around to his back and slowly cut away the patch of his shirt that covered his shoulder. “And while you’re at it, you got a first name I could use, Mr. Morales?”

“Please just call me Frankie, most people do.”

“Most people?”

Frankie shifted as you examined the harsh tear in the skin. “My friends, those assholes outside, call me Catfish.”

You chuckled. “Military nickname?”

“Yeah.” Frankie winced as you pressed a finger against the wound.

A beat of silence, and then you had another question. “Is Frankie your legal name?”

“No, why?”

You smiled. “We need a legal name for the records.”

Frankie shrugged his uninjured right shoulder as you continued to evaluate the messy scrape on his left. “It’s Francisco. And that shit hurts.”

“Sorry,” you said, stepping back. “It needs a few stitches,” you decided. “But it isn’t horribly urgent so I’m gonna go grill your buddies outside to see if they’ll give me more answers about what happened.”

Frankie nodded, watching you leave.

“Would the party that escorted one Francisco Morales please follow me?” You asked, pushing open the waiting room door.

Three men stood up, and you led them down the hall a ways, so your conversation would be private. “Alright. Spill. He won’t tell me what happened.”

The man on the left snorted. “Unsurprising,” he said. “Fish is like a damn lockbox.”

“Benny,” the man in the middle hissed, nudging the man on the left. “Santi, you wanna take this? You saw it best.”

“Excuse you!” Benny objected. “I was there too!”

“You’re drunk.”

The man on the right, Santi, sighed. “Frankie got into a fight outside the bar we were at tonight. Some guy made a horrible comment about how women belong in the kitchen, I dunno, I didn’t hear that bit too well. But Frankie managed to win the fight with minimal injuries, right up until the guy’s equally shitty friend clipped his shoulder with a ripped in half beer can.”

You nodded, jotting notes down on Frankie’s file. “So what I’m hearing is that he was cut with a piece of likely filthy metal?”

“Yep.”

“Perfect,” You grumbled sarcastically. “You boys can head back to the waiting room. I’ll send him out when I’m done.”

The boys left, and you swung by the supply closet to grab a suture kit before heading back into Frankie’s exam room. “Still bleeding?”

Frankie looked up. “Yeah.” He had taken his hat off, fidgeting with the worn out brim. “Hurts.”

“I’ll bet,” you said, coming up behind him and gently taking his hand off the wound. “Gonna pop some stitches in, disinfect the hell out of this, then get your height, weight, the like, and send you off with a tetanus shot just for good measure. That old beer can probably doesn’t have any kind of illness, but we have to be sure.”

Frankie was silent, which wasn’t a good thing. You disinfected the wound, which sent him into a tailspin of hissed curses in your general direction, and before he realized what was happening, you were halfway done with the stitches.

“And that’s the last one,” you said, tying off the last stitch. “The stitches dissolve after a while, so you shouldn’t have to worry about coming back to get them removed. But do take care to change the bandages twice a day, and do not use this arm. I don’t care what you have to do, please do not rip these stitches.”

Frankie chuckled. “Yes doctor.”

Finishing up the bandage, you grinned at Frankie’s current shirt situation. “Do you want me to grab you a new shirt? I kinda ruined yours.”

“You did your job,” Frankie pointed out. “But yes, that would be nice.”

You ducked out of the room and grabbed a spare shirt from the nurse’s lost and found. “No one’s claimed this thing for almost eight months. I think the guy who owned it quit,” you said, handing Frankie the old Jack Daniels whiskey shirt. You watched him struggle to put it on, helping him a bit as the shirt got caught on his shoulder.

“Okay, follow me,” you said once Frankie was wearing a shirt again. He followed, just as asked, and you took his height and weight, texting both figures to Tori so she could prep a tetanus shot for you. In the meantime, you kept Frankie occupied, asking him questions about military things in the exam room.

“What’d you do in the military?”

“I was a pilot.”

“Planes?”

“Helos.”

“Fun. I’ve never been in a helicopter before. Those friends outside, are they?”

“Military friends? Yeah, mostly. I knew Santiago before all that though.”

A knock at the door interrupted your bonding session. Tori opened the door, holding a tray with the tetanus shot and a band-aid. “Sorry. Those shitty kids band-aids were all I could find.”

You shrugged. “Nah, it’s fine. I’m sure Mr. Morales won’t object to a Paw Patrol band-aid.”

However, as you turned back to Frankie, you realized he’d gone white as a sheet. “Frankie?”

Frankie shied away from you, despite you not moving. “Don’t,” he said, voice choked. “Please.”

Your heart squeezed at the desperation in his voice. He was very plainly terrified. “Frankie,” you repeated calmly, holding both hands up so he knew you were unarmed. “Hey, deep breaths.”

Frankie took a stuttering breath, and you sent a silent prayer out that he wouldn’t have a panic attack here. You sat next to him, keeping a few feet of space between you and him. “Do you want me to go get the boys?”

Frankie shook his head, eyes wide. You tried to think. Distracting him would do no good. You’d tried that before with other people, and with patients who were this panicky, a distraction made it worse. Trying to sneak up on him was somehow an even worse idea. With his background, he was likely to know when someone was trying to surprise him, and he could definitely defend himself. The only thing you could think of was calming him down and then sticking him as fast as you could.

It took a few minutes, but Frankie’s breathing returned to normal, and his muscles relaxed somewhat. You didn’t move, simply sitting there beside him and establishing yourself as a calm figure despite your reeling mind. “Frankie?”

He looked up at you, not saying a word.

“Are you ready to try?” You asked. “I have to give you the shot. I don’t want you to get sick, okay? Tetanus is a killer, and I don’t wanna see you dying in a hospital bed until you’re at least eighty, okay?”

A slow nod. You stood, making your movements obvious as you put on new gloves and opened an alcohol wipe.

“C’mere,” you said, gesturing Frankie closer. He scooted towards you, and you met him halfway. “This is cold, just a warning.”

You rolled up Frankie’s shirt sleeve, exposing his left shoulder. He shivered as you ran the alcohol wipe across his skin, and kept his eyes anywhere but on you as you uncapped the tiny syringe. “Frankie?”

Frankie whined, his breathing picking up again as his body barreled towards full panic mode.

“Frankie!” You recapped the syringe and set it aside, turning your full attention to Frankie. He jumped away from you, eyes wide once more. You stood back as he curled in on himself, breathing quickening too fast. He was hyperventilating. “Frankie! Listen to me! You’re not-“

You cut yourself off as the loud, ragged breaths began to turn into animalistic screams, Frankie losing his balance and falling off the exam table and crashing into the sink before hitting the floor. The thud his body made scared you, but not as much as his current panicked state.

“Tori!” You yelled, opening the door and yelling for your coworker. “Tori!”

Unfortunately, it was not Tori who came to your rescue. It was Frankie’s three friends, all of whom looked incredibly concerned. Tori was behind them, shouting that they couldn’t be back here. Santiago simply pushed past you and immediately rushed to Frankie’s side, the other two joining him as he attempted to console Frankie.

You, knowing your help wouldn’t be needed, tried to step away, but Santiago turned to call you back. “Come here!”

Sighing, you hesitantly entered the exam room. “What do you need from me?”

“What did you do to him?” Benny asked, clearly the most worried. “He hasn’t had an attack this bad in years!”

“I just tried to give him a tetanus shot!” You defended.

Santiago and the other man had gotten Frankie situated back on the exam table, sitting on his sides and keeping him upright as Benny rushed in and took his hands. “Fish? You with us buddy?”

Frankie, who had thankfully stopped screaming, whined. Benny smiled, squeezing his hands. “There’s our Fish. Hey, hey, no, look at me,” he directed as Frankie’s eyes drifted to you in the corner and his breath hitched.

Frankie’s head slumped against Santiago’s shoulder. He hummed uncomfortably, face scrunching as he shifted, trying to get comfortable.

“His shoulder,” you guessed softly. “Someone’s touching it.”

The man on Frankie’s right looked at his back. “Shit. Sorry Fish.”

Frankie sighed in relief and turned into pudding against Santiago’s shoulder. Benny still held his hands, humming softly. The other man, whose name you still didn’t know, stood and pulled you aside. “Hey. Did he tell you?”

“That he was trypanophobic?” You said, sliding your hands in your pockets. “No. But I figured it out pretty quickly when he went white as hell as soon as he saw the syringe. No one has a reaction this severe unless they have a phobia.”

The man nodded. “Yeah. Benny was right. Fish is kinda stubborn about these things. He hasn’t had an anxiety attack in years though. Sorry Benny gave you shit about triggering one. I know it wasn’t really your fault.”

“It was,” you mumbled, eyeing Frankie over the man’s shoulder. “It just wasn’t my intention.”

“Yeah.” The man looked back at Frankie. “Is the tetanus shot necessary?”

You nodded. “Unfortunately, yes.”

Santiago looked at you. “How good are you at singing?”

“I’m sorry?”

“It keeps him calm,” Santiago explained. “He used to sing to the helos whenever there was bad turbulence. Kept him level. We’d do it while you give him the shot, but none of us can sing.”

Frankie made a small, strangled noise, and you almost freaked out until Benny smiled and you realized Frankie was trying to laugh.

Smiling, you grabbed the syringe, a new alcohol wipe, and the band-aid. Santiago moved so he was sitting mostly behind Frankie, still supporting him. The other man, who you faintly heard Benny call Will, sat back on Frankie’s right. Benny took Frankie’s hands and stood to the side a bit so you would have room to work.

“Oh, let’s keep this going, I wanna go all in,” you sang softly, repeating some cute and catchy song Tori insisted on playing whenever she could. “We’ll never be lonely in the dark.” As you sang, you opened the alcohol wipe and cleaned a patch of Frankie’s shoulder.

“Rooftop in soho, Prince on the radio,” you kept going, uncapping the syringe and taking Frankie’s arm. “The city streets glow, gold in the summertime.” You quickly, between words, stuck Frankie and pressed down on the plunger. He whined, shying from the pain, but you just pressed the band-aid over the tiny puncture mark and kept singing. “Summertime, summertime, summertime, I gotta get that feeling.”

Gently taking Benny’s place, you stripped your gloves off and put your hands overtop Frankie’s. “You did good, Frankie,” you said. “C’mon, let’s get you out of here so the boys can take you home.”

Frankie wobbled to his feet, still nonverbal and a bit unsteady. You ended up needing a break in the waiting room, which was still empty. Giving Santiago a bottle of water for Frankie, you sat next to Frankie while the boys started the car.

You absently hummed the song from earlier, mostly to fill the stifling silence. As you reached the part you’d sung for Frankie, you noticed, with a small jolt, that he was humming along with you.

“You like the song?” You guessed, and Frankie nodded.

“Here.” You pulled a pen from your coat pocket and took his hand. “Give the whole thing a listen,” you said, scrawling down the name and artist of the song on Frankie’s hand. “And then call me,” you finished, adding your phone number below the writing.

Frankie smiled. “Meet cute,” he rasped, voice practically destroyed.

You laughed. “This is more of a meet ugly, but sure.”

Santiago came back, helping Frankie to his feet.

“See you again?” Frankie asked, voice still pretty shot.

“Hopefully not,” you said, holding the door open for Santiago. “At least, not here.”

Just like that, Frankie was gone.

That sunrise, as you settled into bed, you got a text from an unknown number.

Unknown Number: Song was super cute. Definitely adding it to my exercise playlist

You: Is this Mr. Morales?

Unknown Number: Just Frankie

Unknown Number was saved as Just Frankie

You: Okay Just Frankie. How’s your shoulder

Just Frankie: Hurts like a bitch, but I’ve had worse.

You: I’ll bet.

Just Frankie: Hey, wanted to ask you something

You: shoot

Just Frankie: do you always work nights?

You: not always, but mostly.

Just Frankie: cool. You free tomorrow at noon? I found this cool lunch place that has the best burgers ever

You: ever? I’ll have to see about that

Just Frankie: it’s a date then

You: It’s a date

#Triple Frontier #francisco 'catfish' morales #frankie morales #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales x you #Pedro Pascal #My writing

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pinnithin-writes · 3 years

Text

newfound information

I have a running theory that Goemon Ishikawa is legally blind and decided to write something about it. This is some of the gayest and most pointless shit I’ve ever written. I hope you enjoy reading as much as I enjoyed writing it. 1778 words.

“I’d like to know,” Goemon said, “what color your eyes are.”

Thick silence wrapped the room like a blanket. The scratching of Lupin’s pen on a notepad stilled. For a while, the only sound was the tic tic tic of the radiator.

“Which one of us?” Jigen asked. The leather of the couch creaked as he leaned further back in his slouch.

Today marked a full week they’d been crowded together in a drafty apartment in Zürich - the morning had passed with Jigen smoking and Lupin planning and Goemon untangling the knots within him. The coffee table had been shoved aside to make room for a cluttered spread of maps and books on the floor. The heist was days away, and Lupin was audibly puzzling out their approach as he cross-referenced the recon notes his partners had put together.

Goemon wasn’t facing either of them; he had his forehead pressed against the window, eyes unfocused. The street below their hideout was a brick red blur. I’ve never seen Switzerland before, he’d commented upon their arrival, and Lupin had chuckled at his joke.

“Both.”

“Oh,” Lupin answered brightly. “They’re brown. I thought you knew.”

He did, in fact, know they were brown. Lupin and Jigen had both mentioned their eye color to him before. There were a lot of things about his partners’ appearances Goemon had pieced together over the few years they’d been working together.

It wasn't that he couldn’t see them at all. He just saw them at a distance that usually reduced them to a collection of colors and shapes. To Goemon, Lupin was a bell-tone laugh and a flash of bright red and a courteous hand on his elbow when he passed in the hall. Jigen was the smell of Marlboros and a longsuffering, gravelly sigh and the steady click of leather shoes on hardwood. They were whole, complete people to him already.

But lately he’d been hungering for details he wasn’t sure he could have. Certain things that required a proximity Goemon rarely permitted.

“What?” Jigen interjected suddenly. “They are not. They’re gray, right?”

A soft rustle as Lupin set his notepad aside. “Really, Jigen? How long have we known each other? You don’t know what color my eyes are?”

“They’re gray. I swear to god they’re gray.”

“It says ‘brown’ on my birth certificate!”

Goemon wordlessly listened to their argument as he turned away from the window. He leaned back on the sill in preoccupation, the cool glass chilling his neck. He should just ask. It beat staring at the street and dwelling on it for hours.

He ran his thumb in distracted circles against Zantetsuken’s sheath. “Can I see them?”

“Lupin’s birth papers? I’m not sure they’re legitimate,” Jigen said, ducking quickly to avoid the pen Lupin chucked at him. It clattered harmlessly behind the couch.

“No,” Goemon clarified sharply. “Your eyes.”

“Oh.”

A beat of silence passed, which Lupin broke first. “Well, sure you can,” he answered. “Then you can vouch for me.”

Goemon imagined he was shooting Jigen a barbed look as he said this. A stack of papers shifted as he unfolded his skinny legs and stood, and then Lupin was crossing the room toward him. Goemon felt his heart rate tick up - he hadn’t expected his odd request to be honored. Lupin’s visage grew clearer as he approached, until Goemon could easily clock his lopsided smile and tweaked eyebrows.

Lupin tucked his hands in his pockets and leaned in close. “What do you think?” he asked. “Brown or gray?”

“Hold still.”

Narrowing his eyes, Goemon raised a hand to grasp the other man’s chin, tilting his face this way and that. The light from the window fell softly on his cheeks and the slope of his nose. Lupin blinked expectantly. He was close enough that Goemon could see his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed.

Gray was his first impression. Silver, really, like a pair of shiny round coins. Lupin’s gaze was restless, darting back and forth between Goemon’s own eyes as he allowed himself to be examined. His skin was startlingly soft.

“Hold still,” he ordered again, tugging Lupin closer.

This time, Lupin obeyed, fixating on a single point and staying there. His previously cheeky grin disappeared when his jaw went slack, and Goemon felt a tiny puff of air as Lupin exhaled.

He could see now that his irises were also flecked with shades of brown, ringing his pupils in a lovely starburst. Goemon studied Lupin’s eyes a moment longer, taking note of how they settled from ink to fawn to ash from the center out, committing the image to memory. He observed his facial structure - how it was soft and sharp all at once, unique and conspicuous. Lupin’s fondness for disguise made more sense to him now.

Goemon was sure the man could hear his pulse thudding in his neck at this point, so he finally released him. “Both,” he said conclusively. “Probably varies with the light.”

Lupin was slow to step away, cheeks rosy. “Oh,” he managed to say. “So… we were both right.”

“Indeed.”

Jigen was uncharacteristically quiet from where he watched on the couch. Goemon heard him tap ash idly from his cigarette before taking a contemplative drag. “Sounds like a cop out to me,” he murmured as an afterthought.

Goemon slanted him a glance. “You could see for yourself,” he challenged, brows raised.

“I’ve seen ‘em already,” he grumbled.

Lupin took another step back, melting out of focus to his usual blur of black and red, and folded his arms. “Jigen, dear, I believe it’s your turn.”

Jigen coughed. “Excuse me?”

“You're up next. Let the man see your eyes.”

Sensing his hesitance, Goemon’s mouth softened from its steady set line. “Only if you want-”

“No,” Jigen was already interrupting him. “I’ll do it.”

The couch protested as he leaned to set his cigarette in the ashtray, elongating into a dark capital I when he stretched and stood. The approaching tap of his shoes was slow and familiar.

“No need to look so nervous,” Lupin teased, leaning impishly into Jigen’s personal space as he pulled to a stop.

Goemon prodded Lupin out of the way with the sheathed end of his sword, resting it against his sternum in a silent warning. Lupin retreated, smirking, while Jigen drew in an almost imperceptible breath and let it out slow. The same technique he used before pulling the trigger on an impossible shot. Goemon reached to remove his fedora with as much care as he could, pressing it delicately against his chest.

“Hold this, please.”

Jigen nodded. The tips of his fingers trembled where they touched the felt.

“His eyes are definitely gray,” Lupin commented, angling his chin at Jigen. “Oh my god, are you shaking?”

Goemon gave Lupin a pointed tap with Zantetsuken in lieu of reprimand. He fell silent.

Out of respect for his trepidation, Goemon was gentler with how he handled Jigen’s face, nudging his jaw one way and then the other with the backs of his knuckles. Stubble prickled his skin. He was struck by how sharp his cheekbones were at this distance; he had never really noticed their prominence before. He was certain they’d draw blood if he ran his thumb against them.

Jigen’s eyes were significantly darker than Lupin’s. Storm clouds gathered around his pupils, shades of slate and black bleeding into one another. Instead of meeting Goemon’s stare, he determinedly stuck his gaze at an indiscriminate point somewhere past his left ear. These were marksman’s eyes, sharp and steady and missing nothing. Shame he hid them under his hat all the time.

Goemon dropped his hand from Jigen’s face. “They are gray,” he agreed.

The swiftness with which Jigen stepped back and replaced his headwear was possibly the fastest he’d ever seen him move. He cleared his throat, adjusting the hat’s brim. “Great. Glad we worked that out.”

Lupin jabbed him with an elbow. “Congrats on surviving the ordeal.”

Jigen grumbled something indistinct, tipping his chin and hiding his eyes further.

Goemon kept his expression carefully neutral. Now that he possessed this newfound information, he wasn’t quite sure what to do with it. He had learned quite a bit more about the others than intended; not only about their appearance, but their mannerisms, as well. Their relationship with closeness. He didn’t know there was a way to turn off Lupin’s motor mouth. He didn’t know Jigen became so mystified when touched.

These were things he would file away for later, additional pieces for the frustrating jigsaw that was his feelings.

“Thank you,” he uttered finally.

“No problem,” Jigen responded at the same time Lupin said, “That’s what we’re here for.”

Goemon scoffed with disbelief. “Is it?”

Lupin paused and moved out of the way to allow Jigen passage. Goemon caught a whiff of smoke - he must’ve resumed his previous task of mangling the cigarette he’d been working on. Lupin leaned easily against the window beside Goemon, not as close as before but close enough he could tell the master thief was examining him. Embarrassment creeping into the back of his neck, Goemon lifted a prompting eyebrow in his direction.

“Sure it is,” Lupin went on. “I ask you two for weird favors all the time. It’s only fair.”

“Hm.” Goemon was skeptical.

“We’re a team,” he insisted. “It’s good for a team to know each other really well. Right?”

“...Right.”

“Useful for recognizing each other in disguise.”

Grateful for Lupin’s valiant effort to spare his dignity, Goemon allowed a small smile. “Sure.”

Lupin grinned back, tilting his head to the side until his temple touched the windowpane. “I’d never really looked at your eyes this close before, either,” he admitted, some of the bravado leaving his voice. “They’re really… intense. Super dark.”

“Pretty,” Jigen added around the cigarette in his mouth.

“Pretty,” Goemon echoed, caught off guard by the compliment.

“Pretty scary,” he clarified hastily, and Goemon couldn’t hold back a soft laugh.

Silence settled on the group, introspective rather than discomfited. Goemon’s heart rate was beginning to return to normal. The atmosphere in the room had shifted into something thick and unnameable, and he was definitely responsible for the change, but it didn’t feel bad. Just new. Unfamiliar. And while Goemon was out of his depth, it was reassuring to know the others were just as bad at navigating this as he was.

“So,” Lupin clapped his hands together emphatically. “That was a nice break. Let’s get back to business, shall we?” He swept a gesture at the paper nightmare on the floor.

The team murmured their assent, but not much else was accomplished that day.

#lupin iii #lupin the third #goemon ishikawa #goemon ishikawa xiii #daisuke jigen #what the hell even is this ship name #lupin goemon and jigen are triple married fight me #ink #fanfiction #writing #takes place in an indiscriminate time early on in their relationship

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whump-town · 3 years

Text

A Cumbersome and Heavy Body

Chapter Seven: Safe To Shore

You're gone, gone, gone away; I watched you disappear All that's left is a ghost of you Now we're torn, torn, torn apart; there's nothing we can do Just let me go, we'll meet again soon

Summary: Stubborn until the very end, Aaron Hotchner isn’t going to go down without a fight. It’s just getting hard to tell the difference between fighting them and fighting the cancer.

Word Count: 6680

Author’s Note: I am... so sorry

Derek Morgan walks into the hospital with no rushed agency. A simple leisure stroll guiding him through the hospital and the winding halls. He keeps his eyes cast to the book he’s reading as he works his way to the elevator. No need to watch too carefully when he knows where he’s going. These halls are kept clear of spectators and everyone’s got an agenda so there’s rarely the chance to run into someone’s conversation. His right thumb sits wedged into the spine, holding it open as he eats an apple with the left. He’s not sure he could tear himself away from the pages if he wanted to-- this shit is enrapturing.

His feet carry him on autopilot, making turns he’s memorized without so much as parting his eyes from the words on the page. “How are you holding up, old man?” he doesn’t knock as he steps into Hotch’s room. Not much of a point in it anyways aside from letting Hotch know someone’s coming. The only thing he does worth hiding these days is moving places he shouldn’t be without help. Which, when the fancy strikes, he’s a real fiend for. But he’s in bed, propped up by pillows and half watching Judge Judy and trying to succumb to the drugs pulling him back down for another nap.

Hotch turns his head in the direction of the noise, already knowing from the loud entrance that it’s Morgan. Which eliminates any performative pieces he’d need to throw on to look healthier or to prepare for another round of being poked at and moved about. He lets his eyes slide shut, too tired to engage in conversation and past the point of caring if that looks disrespectful or cold. A shiver escapes him, his skin is broken out in painful goosebumps with his arms bare in the room. Any attempt to curl into himself, turning his shoulder into the bed, is met with sharp pain from the chest-tube.

A nurse had come in not that long ago and moved him around enough to disturb his blankets, even pulling that dreadful mask back up over his face. She’d tucked the blankets around his hips and upped his medicine enough to subdue him. Leaving him too tired, too fogged to piece together the words and tell anyone that he’s cold and wants another blanket. He’s not really there when they give him all the drugs and he hates his inability to communicate. Even opening his jaw requires so much careful thought that he knows any speech he can produce will be slurred to the point of incomprehension.

He looks over to Derek, pleading that in some way the other man has acquired the ability to read his mind. It’s overwhelming but all he can manage is a scratchy hum in reply and a sloppy, “ ‘m fine.” It leaves his mouth poorly, tongue hardly able to move to enunciate what he wants to say. But there are some benefits to having known someone as long as Derek has known Hotch.

Derek noticed the shiver and the pained wince, immediately. Seen the wheels turning over in Hotch’s head and the way he’d sunk deep within himself, disappointed when he was unable to produce it on his own. Derek can’t imagine what it must be like to forfeit so much independence and he knows he’d hate it every bit as much as Hotch must. Only a year ago, Hotch had stood looming over them all giving out orders and the first person they all run to when shit gets bad. JJ’s right hand no matter if she needed him to be her “bad” guy and yell at misogynists or to just be her similar ear when fleshing out theories. Now she’s his defender.

Placing his book and apple down on the visitor’s chair, he moves first to the tangled mess of blankets around Hotch’s legs. Pulling the blankets back and moving them so they sit laid across his body, actually providing him with the comfort and the warmth he wants. Tugging them up until Hotch’s arms are covered with the thick blankets and only his head peaks out. “Better now?” Derek asks, softly. He stays standing, taking Hotch’s hand and watching for Aaron to peel his eyes back open and nod his head. “Good.”

Derek sits back down and, though Hotch has closed his eyes and is just hardly awake, cracks his book open. “You must be on some next level drugs to recommend me this fucking book,” he says. Glancing just in time to see Hotch hide a smirk. “Nah, don’t play with me right now. I’m in an emotionally vulnerable place. You told me it was good and it’s not, it's sad. I’m sad all the time. I’m only sad. Why would you tell me to read this book?”

Hotch smirks, “didn’t think you’d listen… never did before.”

Derek rolls his eyes, “what does that even mean? Of course, I listen to you sometimes.” He just wishes he’d thought a little more about taking on this book. The stupid thing is breaking his heart. He’s getting comfortable again when his phone goes off, ringing and not just another text from Garcia. The one at the door had requested he tell Hotch that she loves him and he would if it was pressing but she’s about ten minutes away and can tell him herself when she gets here. But it’s not Garcia. “Hello?” he stands again, glancing at Hotch and not bothering to excuse himself when he sees Hotch doesn’t even open his eyes to see what it is.

“Is this Derek Morgan?”

Morgan glances back around as he steps out into the hall, feeling off about leaving Hotch alone in that big room. “Yeah,” Derek mumbles. “I mean, yeah, I’m Derek Morgan.”

The person on the other line hums, “I’m calling about Dr. Spencer Reid. I have his medical files here and you’re listed as his power of attorney?”

Derek freezes, “yeah. Yeah, I’m his-- I”m his power of attorney.” It had bounced around between them over the years. Jason and Hotch and now Morgan. Though the point of keeping that amidst the team was so when they went into the hospital it would be easy to get information from the hospital. You can never control what happens in the field.

“I regret to inform you that today Dr. Reid was in an automobile--”

They’re all learning the hard way the field isn’t the only place where they relinquish control.

Derek laughs. Tears sting his eyes and he laughs. For the last month-- no God since fucking January, it’s supposed to be Hotch. He had a suit tailored to fit him because of all the weight he’s lost. Clothes picked out and a tie he and Emily and Garcia fight over at least once a week. Hotch refuses the one Emily likes and Garcia hates it when Emily argues that Hotch will be dead so what does he even care. There’s a Will they’ve been over at least a dozen times and contingency plans for Jack. Derek hasn’t planned and overthought every word he’s said to Hotch in the last year afraid something stupid will be the last for it to be…

“Yeah-- yeah I hear you.”

“Again, I’m very sorry.”

“Yeah,” Derek breathes. “Okay.” He stands there with the phone pressed to his ear long after the line dies. He just stares. Unable to comprehend what just happened. What is happening? It’s just really not their year. Emily never shuts up about how close they are, just over the hill or some bullshit equivalent metaphor. But she’s not the one forcing herself back together knowing that if Hotch suspects Derek’s hiding anything it’ll kill him. He’ll stress himself out trying to figure out what it is and if he does figure it out or even if he doesn’t… it will kill him. He steps back into the room, double-checking that Hotch won’t see that he’s just cried. “Hey--” he stops right there at the door.

Hotch is sitting up with his eyes vacantly cast to the blank wall in front of him. His shoulders pull up to expand his lungs but he can’t get enough air. “Hotch?” Derek looks around the room, to the monitors picking up speed as his heart rate rockets and his blood pressure drops. “Hotch, you okay?”

Hotch looks over to Morgan and then back at the wall. “I can’t breathe,” he pulls at the gown loosely holding onto his shoulders. “Something--” his face pinches, a hushed cry of pain leaving his lips as he folds into himself. “It won’t-- Somethings-- Somethings wrong.”

Derek moves to step in but he freezes as the room is filled with the sound of very, very angry sounding machines. He stumbles back, watching Hotch fall back onto the bed. Kicking and writhing as he tries to breathe. He’s not even sure what to do. His mind is fogged with the news about-- God, how’s he supposed to tell Hotch? Garcia’s coming, he’ll have to tell her. And Dave and Emily and JJ. They can’t handle this. They won’t make it.

“Excuse me,” a nurse steps past Derek and he stumbles back. He hits the wall behind him, jumping hard at the sudden jarring hit. Derek looks back at Hotch one more time, watching his legs slide back down to the bed. His frantic wheezing gets softer. And Derek walks away. He runs away. He can’t be there.

----------------------------

Mid-February

Emily looks down at the comforter, playing with the soft material rather than looking at him. He is laying down, stretched out beside her. It’s the first time she’s seen him vulnerable-- the first time she sees the way that he has no control over what his body decides to do anymore. Ice pack over his head, trying to soothe his headache, and a bloodied tissue in the other as he awaits the next nose bleed. They’re close enough to touch despite having a whole bed to layout on. His leg against her side, her arm near his hip.

“I’m sorry,” he offers nasally. Turning his head to look over at her, she winces at the sight of his bloodied face. “I know it’s a lot to ask.”

She looks down at her lap, scratching at her pants so that she doesn’t have to look at him. It is a lot to ask. It’s a job she’s had before and for a long time. After Foyet he asked her to be his power of attorney because Haley wouldn’t be able to while in protective custody and as they stood she was the only person who could stand to be around him. She’d agreed, so long as he’d be hers that way she could get her mother off the list. They’d done the paperwork together.

“I don’t want Dave--” he chokes himself up. Holding his hand over his mouth as he averts his eyes away, trying to hide just how upset the idea makes him. “He, ugh, I don’t want to… He had a son, you know? A-- A baby and I don’t mean to say I’m, you know, but I don’t want something to happen and force him to…”

Dave cares very deeply for all of them but it’s no secret that he has a special little attachment to Aaron and Emily. A bond that is a little more pronounced, he just knows how to deal with them. Something about that reckless nature of theirs that he knows all too well. Emily knows what Hotch means even if he can’t bring himself to say it. Before making Dave his power of attorney was a matter of convenience. Now he has to think, far more than before, about who he knows will make the right decisions.

“Aaron,” she squeezes his hand. “I’ll do it.” Her heart hurts just to think about the worst-case scenarios. Imagines doctors asking way too many questions and his lifeless body spread out on a stretcher waiting for her to tell them they can pull life-support. Will she find herself in charge of a zombie, hovering between life and death, and all he has is her by his side and her voice to go by. To tell the doctors they can try shocking his stilled heart one more time or if they can stop dumping chemo into his unresponsive veins. What is she getting herself into?

“One condition.” she barters. “You be mine again. Old times sake.”

He’d caved because he knew it was the only way to win.

In another hospital on a metal tray in the E.R. soaked in blood and screen cracked, Emily Prentiss’ phone sits idle. The decision to make him her medical proxy was a whim but there was an air of urgency in making her his. To him, they were playing with time and he hates waiting for the inevitable. She’d just wanted things to go back to the way that they were before. Coming home because she misses them and maybe working in the BAU or at least within the FBI again. She gets to be his right-hand man again and she and Dave and Hotch get to spend afternoons drinking in Hotch’s office.

It wasn’t supposed to mean this.

This was never supposed to happen.

David Rossi picks up the unknown call, agitated to be bothered while he’s driving. “This is he.” He gets onto the high-way and grimaces at the carnage of mangled and warped metal sitting on the side. Waving the man in the fireman’s suit who directs him into an adjacent lane but he’s not spared the sight of the crimson pools of blood baking under the sun. He shakes his head, sighing sadly.

He nearly causes another wreck.

“Are-- Are you sure you have the right… I mean, I just it’s hard to believe because--”

“Yes, sir. Ms. Prentiss’ I.D. was found on her person at the scene. We’ll have to have someone come to identify the body but yes--”

The body.

He just opened the text she sent. Urging him to go to the hospital sooner because she was leaving to go get Reid and didn’t want Hotch sitting there alone any longer than he had to. She’s always thinking about that, covering them in ways they hadn’t thought of. Sending them articles about cancer and never seeming to have to ask Hotch anything just knowing. There were two texts, one that was distinctly her and the other Reid. Too much grammatical rule-following to be Emily who texts by shortening every word she can and miss-spelling the other half.

If Emily’s dead… where’s Reid?

He has no choice but to keep driving to execute this one thing that’s been asked of him. He’s going to go sit with Aaron until someone else comes and he’ll keep this all under wraps. Just a few years ago Aaron pulled off the opposite, convincing them Emily was dead. Let them bury her and work through their grief assessments all while knowing she was alive. Dave can manage this.

But Aaron hadn’t fooled Dave.

And Dave doesn’t fool Aaron for a second.

“Where is she, David?”

David. No one else is there when he arrives and no amount of water he splashes across his face can wash away the deep red agony of the mourning he feels in his bones. To lose a child… He can’t protect any of them. Another painful reminder to hit him like a kick as he steps into Aaron’s hospital room. Watching as the staff around Aaron plunge drugs into his forever thinning body. Even though he knows there’s nothing to be done now, it’s a futile fight.

The weight of his body in that visitor’s chair is unwelcomed, wrong.

Aaron’s body might fail him every chance it gets but he’s been a profiler his whole life. It’s the only way to survive and now is no exception. No amount of Dave’s soft diversion will distract him from the red swelling around Dave’s eyes. From the wet rings around his sleeves where he didn’t push his sleeves up high enough before splashing water onto his face. And he pieces his own truth together through what Dave won’t tell him.

Until he knows.

“Don’t lie to me,” he asks softly. They’d tried to intubate him just after Derek left but he’d refused it. Fought between heaving breaths until they left him alone. Gave him the steroids and left him to his own devices. He didn’t care right in that moment or even now as his chest burns from the exertion. No more, he’s decided. He’s tired and in pain. No more cuts and tubes and hospitals. The sort of thing that he’s expecting to scream and fight with Emily about. Only the papers are on their way, waiting to be signed by his trembling hand, and she’s not here. “Please, Dave. Don’t lie to me.”

David Rossi is a bad man. Not so much a coward as just his morals askew, the things he’s willing to do and the things that he does do… Though for all the bad things he’s done, he knows that Emily and Aaron keep turning back around expecting Dave to be there. Needing him to come into their chaotic as all hell lives as if he has a place at that table. But his place is there, the plate set. Aaron is looking back at him, asking just a simple thing of Dave. It’s right there and the truth will kill him but a lie will shatter all that they have.

“She’s dead, Aaron.”

Dave continues on as Aaron chokes, turning his face away from Dave.

“Derek thinks it was the snow. She and Reid… there was just so much snow and when she--”

“No!” he doesn’t want to hear it. “No, please leave me alone.” The panic builds up like the fluid in his lungs. Until he’s choking on both and can hardly breathe. He doesn't want to hear anything. Doesn’t want to know that it happened.

“Aaron?” Dave stands from his chair, trying to reach out to him but Aaron pulls his hand away.

“Please,” he wheezes, fingers wound into his gown. “Please, Dave, please go.”

A nurse steps into the room and Dave looks back at and then to Aaron and he listens. For once in his life he listens to Aaron’s pained cries and he relents. He steps out of the room, pushing hot tears off his cheeks with his fists. He’s losing them. Lost them. It’s far too late now. What was Aaron holding on to before? The idea of living was only entertaining with the prospect of getting to work with Emily again-- being on the team. Aaron’s been convinced for far too long now that Jack would be better off with Jessica and the past few months, in his mind, have only proven that. The team functions without him, they’ve been sent off on cases without him. Morgan taking charge. It’s not the first time Morgan's taken charge.

So, what does that leave?

His mess has been cleaned up. He doesn’t have to pretend to be strong for Reid. Doesn't have to stay for Emily. Derek will take care of the team. Jessica will raise Jack. It’s better this way. Garcia and JJ don’t need him, they never have. Dave’s always saying how he needs friends his own age. This puts them on a new path. A new leg. They’ll be okay.

It’s better this way. It really is.

“Sir?”

Hotch signs the papers-- all of them. A DNR that Emily had once rolled her eyes at him for even considering. She wouldn’t let it get that bad, she’d promised with a chuckle. He’s not dying on her. Funny how just a little snow changes everything. He signs himself out of the hospital and realizes that he doesn’t have anyone to come get him. A nurse tries to talk to him, to comfort or console but he’s consumed by his grief. Shaking as his silent sobs shake his thin body. She’s nearly afraid he’ll kill himself like this, crying so hard that he can’t breathe.

He takes a taxi home. Forehead leaning against the cool glass and thankful that the man driving doesn’t even bother to pretend to be interested in him. No one’s at the house but she’s everywhere. Her coat on the floor where it had fallen off the rack. A pair of her shoes right in front of the door, he nearly trips over them. A mug she left out on the counter. A book left she’ll never finish on the couch. A sweatshirt thrown over a chair.

His feet carry him on autopilot, body too tired to fight but he can’t make it back to his room. If she were here-- he’d still be in the hospital-- she’d bully him back onto his feet. Rolling her eyes and keeping him in motion. She always seems to know when to push and when to cave and he doesn’t. He can’t tell the difference between pain that he can push through and pain that’s going to kill him.

Well… maybe it’s pain that is killing him now.

The couch is cold but the blankets are kept in a chest too far away. Across the living room just far enough away that he knows he might be able to get to it but he won’t be able to get back to the couch. All he can do is look over at it.

He already misses her. The way she buzzes about everywhere or how she’d probably force him to sit up and watch some shitty sitcom with her. He’s gotten used to her invading his personal space and demanding his attention. Talking all the time even if he doesn’t respond.

He’s alone again.

How did he ever set out thinking he could do this in the first place without her?

----------------------------

He gets worse, quick.

The pneumonia is what’s hurting him the worst, the cancer spreads slowly but the pneumonia settles deep in his lungs. Breathing is taxing, consumes far too much of his energy. Once, maybe a few weeks ago, he would have assured them that he would be fine. There’s no need to worry. It’s hard to lie about something like that when he needs Derek’s help to stand, when he can’t sit up on his own without being propped up by pillows.

They argue where he can’t hear them, not that it matters anymore.

He wants to go to the funerals but it’s still cold out. How are they supposed to make that happen? Derke hates the idea, tells JJ to just abdon whatever plan she’s come up with because he’s not going. He’s still convinced they can force life back into him, go back and fix everything. He’s living in some world where there is no cancer or car accident and Emily’s in London and Reid’s in Las Vegas visiting his mother.

JJ goes on. She picks out a suit and finds his best jacket. Hunts down a nice blanket and takes the wheelchair the hospital offered them. She smiles and tells Garcia that she’s an angel when she knits him a black hat to pull down over his head, beaming when she produces a matching scarf. “It’s got a little blue in it,” Garcia says, showing her the dark blue accenting the ends. “That’s his favorite color.”

JJ squats down beside the bed, pulling her dress up so her knees can bend, and she can move how she’d like. Gently, afraid touch alone will unravel him, she places her hand on his shoulder. She doesn’t shake him, she just rubs her hand over his arm until his eyes crack open. “You’re still sure you want to do this?” she asks as he slowly places himself. A weary, bone-tired weight settling over his face as he looks back at her processing what she’s asked.

He glances at his nightstand to the alarm clock sitting to his right. They’ve given him an hour, which is more time than he’d normally need, but they’re not moving at his normal pace. They’re moving at their own pace, how quickly they can work him into clothes. With a nod, he sets them into motion. There used to be a time when he could be picky about these sorts of things-- who saw him naked and who he allowed to help him. Now he can’t go to the bathroom unless someone helps him drag his stiff bones there. Can’t stand unless he’s leaning into someone else’s strength.

He’s folded into JJ, going where she pulls him into her chest, so that Derek can slide in behind him and help her work his unwilling arms and legs into pants and a shirt. The day isn’t altogether that weary just a little cold. Considering the weight he’s lost, it makes things easier for them to layer his clothes. He lets JJ pull a long-sleeved t-shirt over his head, slowly working his arms into the sleeves while she finds his white button-up and the black sweater Morgan laid out to go underneath it. It takes her no time to attack the buttons on his shirt. He gets no real warning from Derek as the black sweater is tugged down and he hears a soft, pleased huff of a half-laugh that Derek gets out of his surprised grunt.

JJ frowns at Derek, unamused with him. She squats down by Aaron’s legs, JJ cups his cheek, tilting his head up so she can look into his eyes. Stroking her thumb across his cheek, “you don’t have to come, Hotch. No one will--”

“I do,” he whispers. “I can’t-- I won’t forgive myself if…”

So he goes and she’s glad he’s there because she doesn’t want to be alone. There’s something still grounding about him being there, sitting there beside them. Squeezing their hands to comfort them, offering Garcia a handkerchief to wipe her eyes. It’s like… It’s nearly like he’s himself for a day. Holding JJ to his chest and rubbing her back until she can stand and give the eulogy she’d written. He’s talking softly to Morgan, the two of them taking charge of the day and Derek is just relieved to be told what to do again. To have a plan of action that he doesn’t have to come up with.

Jack stays glued to him, sitting in his lap or holding tight to Hotch’s sleeve.

Hotch is Hotch. He stifles his coughs and sits up straight. Pretending is exhausting and by the end of the day, the other’s flooding his dining room with the thick scent of food and soft sniffles as they cry and laugh, he settles into the couch. Listening to Derek tell the story about the time he took Spencer hiking and the kid twisted his ankle half-way to the top, didn’t tell Derek, and he had to carry him all the way back down. It was like listening to a podcast, Spencer telling them all kinds of things about every little thing they passed. At the time he was annoyed but now...

Jack stops at the end of the couch, sniffling as he uses his sweatshirt’s sleeve to wipe his nose. It’s obvious he’s been crying no matter how hard he’s tried to cover it up. His eyes get red and the skin around his eyebrows very pale, he gets that from Haley. Neither of them has ever been able to hide their tears. They’re cryers, Hotch knows, Jessica is too. He finds it terribly endearing and he’s always adored their ability to be so sensitive. He’s glad Jack never lost it… he hopes he never loses it.

“Don’t wipe your nose on your sleeve,” Hotch says as well as he can. It’s hard to breathe around the fluid in his lungs but he can manage anything for Jack. He’ll do anything for him. “That’s gross.”

Jack giggles because he’s young and boogers on his sleeve are something to laugh about. Hiding his face by looking down at the floor he stumbles over to the couch. Sinking down onto his knees with a little thunk and folding over the cushions until he can press his face into the stack of blankets over his father’s body. He turns his head, looking up at his father, and smiles again. Closing his eyes when Hotch puts his hand over Jack’s cheek, stroking back the overgrown hairs. “Daddy?” Jack doesn’t know the word for the way that he feels but it’s anxiety. He’s terrified and he’s anxious because losing Haley had been quick and he hadn’t even known it was happening.

Losing his father is… everywhere he looks.

“What is it, buddy?” Hotch strokes the soft blonde strands back behind Jack’s ear. Lost to the simple soothing motion.

Jack turns his face into the blankets, relieved to smell something homely. From what feels like so long ago. It doesn’t smell like Jessica’s house or like the hospital. It just smells like his dad and home and like everything that has been happening is one great big old lie. He doesn’t want to cry but no matter how hard he wipes at his tears they keep coming.

“Okay, okay.” Hotch can’t lift Jack but he still manages to catch one of Jack’s furiously rubbing hands. His grip isn’t strong and Jack could pull free but he doesn’t. “Buddy--”

“You’re gonna die, aren’t you?”

He put off this conversation far too long but it still hits like a MACK truck. “Bud--” he swallows thickly, wincing at the stab of pain across his chest. Right, he’s reminded, have to stay still. And Jack sees it. No matter how hard they’ve all tried to protect him he sees Hotch freeze as the pain overwhelms him. Unable to speak, just has to keep forcing air in and out of his failing lungs. It is only a minute but Jack watches frozen in horror as Hotch slowly comes back. “Sorry,” he whispers, unable to make his voice any louder.

Jack is holding his hand, hiccuping softly. “Mommy probably misses you,” he whispers, tentatively.

Hotch smiles but doubts that. Tears swell and he can’t even wipe them away. “I’m so sorry Jack.” He’s making an orphan out of his son. He’s just a baby. Someone else will teach him how to shave and someone else will sit with him when he opens his acceptance letters to all kinds of great colleges. Hotch will never get to see him graduate-- not even from elementary school. He’ll never struggle to piece together what to say when Jack gets his first heart-break or to find out if he’s into men or women or likes to wear nail polish or if he’s a coffee fiend like him or hates it like Haley.

He won’t be there.

“I’ll still talk to you,” Jack offers. “I promise. I’ll tell you anything and everything--” there are tears pouring down his little face. Frantic now and Hotch isn’t sure which of them he’s trying to console. “And-- and--” Jack’s lower lip curls under the other and lets out a choked sob. He tries to hide it but it comes out he sits up, pushing himself as close as he can get to Hotch. “I don’t want you to die. I don’t want you to be with Mommy. I want you. Why can’t you stay with me?”

It’s not the first time Jack felt anger towards his mother but it’s the first of many times he hates both his parents. His mother for not being here and father for being weak because that’s all Jack can understand. That cancer is a battle and his father, the man he thought invincible, is losing. So he must not be fighting hard enough. Why can’t he just fight harder? Why isn’t Jack enough?

Why aren’t any of them?

Garcia knits him thick winter hats but he’ll never make it long enough to see the next snowfall and need them. He takes the hats she brings him and lets her start new ones even though he knows he’ll never see their completion. Jack draws pictures, endless in supply, and they go up all around Hotch. JJ takes the time to pin each one someplace he can see it.

His awareness goes first. The confusion that sets in… it’s hard to know what to say. They never know what to do.

He asks about work. JJ takes his hand and talks him through old cases. Tries to settle on the good ones and he lets her. Smiling comes easy when there’s winning and she reminds him of the children they did save. Of the goods things.

He tells them that he’s not in any pain but he’ll get confused a few moments later and with tears streaming down the sides of his face ask them why it hurts. Trembling and looking so desperate, choking in pain and shuddering as he fights it. “Why?” he asks. He doesn’t honestly know why it hurts or why they won’t help. “Everything-- Everything hurts--” And sometimes he can’t even speak. Just has this hazy glow to his eyes as he shakes and coughs. And there’s nothing they can do for him.

The worst is that he won’t stop asking for Emily. They come up with so many lies and sometimes they can get little smiles out of him by telling him something clever if it feels right and like something silly she would do. It’s hard to be so positive in the face of that very fresh wound but it’s so much worse when he does remember. When he asks and then hardens and whispers, “no… no, it’s okay. I remember.” He looks so much happier when he doesn’t.

He stops eating two days before he gives up drinking.

“Just a sip,” Garcia begs, crying and knowing what this means.

Hotch just looks back at her but he’s not there.

“Leave him alone, baby girl.” And Derek pulls her out of the room as she cries, sobbing and screaming because she can’t stand to lose anymore. Emily and Reid and now he’s going too. It’s too late she knows to tell him the things that she needs to. What if he doesn’t know that she loves him? He might stay if he knew that, right? He wouldn’t leave her. She’d ask Derek to promise he won’t leave but Hotch did that too once. Crotched down in front of her office chair and took her hand and promised that all she needed him he’d be here.

Well, she still needs him, okay? So…

Now it’s borrowed time.

“Let’s go outside, old man.” Derek has to stop, turning his head to the side when Hotch smirks at the way he says ‘old man’. A tear falls down the side of his face and rubs it away, harder than necessary. It’s a practiced maneuver, he lifts Hotch and puts him in the wheelchair. He’s careful, wrapping Hotch in as many blankets as he finds within arm’s reach, propping his sides up with pillows. Suddenly, overcome by just the way Hotch’s bed looks. Two years ago it was empty, only ever occupied by him. Now they sleep here with him every night, trying to make sure that if he goes in his sleep he’s not alone. So that they can have the comfort of knowing they were here and they did do everything they could.

“Jack,” Hotch rasps as they approach the door.

“Can you hear him?” Derek asks, opening the back door and closing his eyes against the sun he feels on his skin. “Look at him,” Derek says, “ out here running around like a heathen.” Jack doesn’t notice them and neither does Henry. The two loudly going on about their game dodgeball or maybe keep-away it’s hard to tell. There’s just a lot of thrilled shouting. It makes Derek smile, seeing them just be kids.

He puts Hotch in the shade and waves to Garcia and JJ already standing out there, the two of them dragging out chairs to stand in the sun. The two of them move to soak in a strangely warm day. After all the snow, all of which still hasn’t melted, a random nearly sixty degree day with a bright hot sun feels like spring. “You okay here?” Derek asks, setting the brakes.

Hotch nods, smiling softly as he watches Derek join Dave and the boys in the yard. He watches them play, hears Jack scream with pure joy when Derek throws him up into the air and when JJ fusses with all four of them for even thinking about taking off their jackets. They go on and on and he gets tired just watching them. Resting his head against the wheelchair he does his best to keep his coughs soft, undetectable to the others. He’s cold but he doesn’t want to go inside just yet and though it’s hard to breathe he doesn’t want anything. He just wants to watch a little longer.

Just a little longer.

Derek isn’t sure what it is, something churning in his stomach, but he looks up. Eyes moving across the lawn-- Garcia knitting under the safety of her large brimmed hat and JJ stretched out on a chair trying to read. Jack has Henry pinned, the two of them going on wrestling with or without Derek now that he’s distracted.

“Hotch?” Derek steps closer. Derek feels it crawl up his throat, a rabid animal clawing and ripping him to shreds. He wants to rush over, fights the urge to run over and shake him but he already knows. He glances over to Dave, listens to the older man chuckle and shove at Henry who tries to overpower him. Sees JJ smile at something on her page and Garcia frown and undo a piece she’s messed up.

For a moment, he’s the only one that knows and he isn’t sure what to do. How to shield Jack from this or who he’s supposed to call.

“Uncle Derek!” Henry screams, begging to be released from where Dave has him pinned to the ground mercilessly tickling his sides.

Derek looks back at Hotch one more time, forcing himself not to cry. This is what he wanted, right? Not in a hospital or hooked up to machines. He was sitting in his yard and listening to what’s left of his family enjoy a warm sunny day.

“I’m coming buddy,” he finally manages, smiling at Jack when he comes running up. Hoping that for just a few more minutes Derek can preserve something of his youth. Remind him how much fun he had today. That these parts be what he remembers.

“Uncle Derek?” Jack asks, once Derek pulls him up into his arms. “I think we should go get ice cream. Don’t you? I’ll get strawberry and I’ll even share with daddy. Henry will be good too! Please?”

Derek nods and smiles, “why don’t you get Uncle Dave to take you, huh?” He nods to Dave, “take these heathens to get some ice cream.”

And Derek Morgan stands all by himself as he ushers them away, tells them to go on that he and Hotch will be fine. Go, go, and don’t come back without a cone for him. Waits until he can’t see the car anymore and he allows himself to cry. Sucking in choked breathes as he walks back to the yard. Pulling up the breaks. “Come on,” he whispers to Hotch. “One last time, old man.” He’s almost expecting that lazy smile. To hear Hotch grumble his name in that exasperated tone Derek loves so much. Only to be met with silence.

Nothing.

They didn’t say goodbye.

@laiba-the-person, @emily-hottie-prentiss, @unionjackpillow, @clockedstar, @baumarvel, @blakeprentiss, @qvid-pro-qvo, @aaron-hotchner187, @ssalavellan, @lazyhater

#criminal minds #aaron hotchner #derek morgan #emily prentiss #spencer reid #criminal minds fanfiction

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mudhorn-djarin19 · 3 years

Text

Mission: I Do - Chp. 2 (Agent Whiskey x f!reader)

Summary: A new mission has come up and you are sent off on it with Agent Whiskey as your partner. However, you have to go undercover as his fiancee. What will this mission mean for you and your harboring crush on him? This chapter is the set up to the mission. This chapter's not the most entertaining and I apologize for that. It's basically a build up/keep the flow going chapter lol. Rating: Teen Warnings: Language, alcohol usage (tipsy), poisoning, mutual pining (please let me know if I missed any) AO3 Link | Masterlist | Join my taglist here! Chp. 1 - more chapters to come! (Will be added here and in taglist) You awake the next morning to yourself being enveloped in warmth. It was comforting but definitely something new to you. You shot your eyes open to find yourself snuggled into Jack’s chest. You nervously panicked and slid back, waking him up in the process.

“Mhm. What’s wrong?” He groans, his voice raspy with sleep. He then notices his hand placed on your hip. You both look up and eye each other before he removes it. “Well… not sure how we got like that. But my apologies.” He chuckles lightly, removing his hand. “It’s okay. I uh.. I somehow moved in my sleep as well.” You chuckle nervously. “I’m um...going to go get dressed for the day.” You say as you spring up from the bed.

Jack rolls over and looks at the clock to see it’s 10am “Yea better we get dressed, head down for some breakfast and then make our way down to the convention. Get this show on the road.”

You crawl from the bed and head over to the closet where you had stored your clothes for the trip, going over what you think would be best to wear. You wanted to look nice but nothing too over the top. “I’m going to change in the bathroom and put my makeup on.” You as you step in and shut the door behind you. “Alright, I’ll get dressed out here a while. Jack replies.

Several minutes past before you return from the bathroom. You decided on a simple white sundress with some sandals. You find Jack laying back on the bed. Fully dressed in his normal attire he wears when off duty. Jeans, a plain white t-shirt, boots and his favorite black cowboy hat. He sits up and whistles when he sees you.

“Well don’t you just look gorgeous. All dolled up.” He smirks, eyeing you over.

You blush slightly, looking down to try to hide it. You didn’t think you had done anything too crazy. You were just wearing simple casual clothes in your opinion. But, apparently to him you looked amazing. “Thank you Jack.” You respond, blushing lightly.

“I’ve ordered us room service breakfast so it should be here any minute now. We can go over the case a bit more while we eat.” He says.

Not long after breakfast arrives, you two sit at the little table in the foyer of the room and go over the mission. Jack pulls out his file from his suitcase, going over pictures of the main culprit and anyone else Statesman had pulled files on that are working with the culprit.

“So we need to find the main guy, what company or companies he controls and any of his crew. Take them all down and prevent anymore kidnappings or bombings. The other agents were sent out to spots designated where anyone kidnapped previously been noted to do rescues.” He says, closing the file. “Shouldn’t be too hard. Champ said we have a few locations to keep in our peruse. The convention, a local restaurant, the hotel here itself and a local club. We have a week to complete the mission which is more than enough.”

You nod listening to him explain as you sip your coffee. This is going to be a long and interesting weekend. Surely is going to be pulling all sorts of ways at your heartstrings. Looking at wedding stuff, sharing a bed and who knows what else for a potential week. You two finish your breakfast and gear up for the day. Jack tucks his whip and lasso to his belt so they’re hidden, while you strap a pistol and knife to your thigh. Always got to be prepared for any potential danger.

Arriving at the venue, you see it’s a large warehouse building full of tables and tables of business to help you plan your wedding. From venues, catering, clothing and more. You hope someday you can actually experience this for real, and hope even more than it could be with Jack who stands beside you. As you take everything in, you feel Jack’s hand grip yours gently, sliding the ring onto your finger. “Forgot that this mornin’. Might need it to keep the cover.” He says. “Oh. Right, sorry. Thank you for remembering.” You respond.

“Of course darlin’. What else is a future husband for?” He smirks, sliding his hand into yours. Interlocking his fingers with yours.

Lord have mercy… this mission might actually kill you if Jack keeps up his flirtiness on top of everything else.

“Shall we get to perusing?” He says, motioning his hand to the venue. You pull him through the aisles, stopping at a few tables to look at things to seem like actually wedding planning. You decide to stop at a dress stand to look over some dresses for the lady running the booth seemed to match the description of one of the crewmates. “Honey, come look at these!” You shout to him, waving your hand. Jack looks in your direction, noticing why you called him to that booth. He slips on his glasses and hits the button to activate the hidden camera before coming over. Making sure while he made his way over to get the lady’s face in frame and the name of the supposed company. “What do you think of this one?” You ask. Pulling out a long lace sleeved, off the shoulder dress. “Would you like to try it on?” The lady asks.

“Oh uh… I-” You start to say.

“Go on. Try it on. I like it very much. Why you do so, I’ll discuss things with the lady here.” Jack smiles.

You nod and head into the little changing rooms the lady has while Jack talks to her, hopefully getting some good information out of her. After a few minutes and working to get the dress on you step out from the changing booth to stand in front of Jack and the booth lady. Jack's eyes widen and he about drops his jaw to the floor before he quickly straightens himself out and clears his throat. “Wow darlin’, you look… beautiful.” He smiles, eyeing you over.

“Th-thank you.” You blush, looking down.

“That dress suits you very much! Allow me to give you my business card for future fittings if you’re interested in the dress.” The lady smiles, handing you the card. You gladly take it. Solid, got a location of where potential kidnappings could be happening. You smile and look yourself over one more time before heading back into the changing booth to change back into the clothes you arrived in. You exit the booth and make your way around to some other booths, seeing if any of the runners catch your eyes as crewmates or the main culprit. You go down a few aisles until Jack pulls you into a venue booth. “You know darlin’ I always dreamed of a barn wedding. Something about them is just so simple but elegant all the same. What do you think?” He asks.

As you enter the booth the host greets you and you instantly recognize him to be the main culprit. Thank god Jack still has his glasses on and is recording the whole thing so you can send it back to Ginger later tonight and inform her you found him.

“Hello sir. Ma'am.” He nods his head to you. “I see you are interested in our venue?” He asks.

“Yes sir. Always found myself fond of a rustic barn wedding. But, the decision of the venue is ultimately up to my fine lady here.” He says turning to you.

“I think a barn wedding sounds very nice honey.” You smile. “I’d love to get more information on the venue if we could.”

“Certainly.” The guy smiles, handing you two some pamphlets on the venue, going over information with you and etc. “The venue is my own family's barn. It’s a 200 year old property but we keep it well maintained and we have a bed and breakfast on the property for you and your family to stay at the day and night before.”

“Sounds lovely to me.” Jack smiles. “We shall take this information and discuss but I think I’m hooked already.” You nod in agreement and part your ways from the guy. Jack leans down to whisper in your ear as you walk away, but hiding it so it looks like he’s kissing you instead.

“That’s definitely him. Hopefully we can run into him again later to corner him and take him down. Good job on finding the other lady. Let me know if you spot anything else and I will do the same for you.” He states.

You nod in response and continue to work your way through the aisles. Looking around to some venues, not really seeing any other people you recognize to be suspicious. But to keep your cover you do pull each other into some booths. Jack pulls you into a catering booth when he sees some good looking food to try. You chuckle as he tastes just about everything there is, handing you pieces to try as well. You manage to pull him into a few booths too, one being a ring booth that caught your eye. You don’t notice him watching you as you eye over your favorites.

Once you two have perused most of the aisles, not finding anything else and realizing it’s getting pretty late in the day you decide to call it a day for the convention. “It’s getting close to dinner time. I’m hungry. How about you?” He asks.

“Definitely. Those little bites of food here and there didn’t stick with me much.” You chuckle.

“Come on, I know of a good place you should try.” He says, leading you to the car.

Jack decided to treat you to a local fast food favorite, Whataburger. Being a man from the south he knew of all the popular joints. You were raised in the big city of New York, only ever having traveled to new places once joined the Statesman. So any chance you could get to check out a regional thing when on a trip you took the opportunity. You two sat in the pickup truck that was rented for the weekend, chowing down on your food in silence.

“See I told you it was some good shit.” He chuckles.

“Mhm” Is all you can make out as you continue to devour your food.

Once finished eating and back at the hotel you scramble around trying to figure out what to wear. You were to go to the local club up the street tonight to see if you could catch the culprit or anyone there by chance. You’ve been to clubs before on many missions but, you always have a hard time deciding what to wear. You want to fit in but also don’t want to stand out too much. Jack layed back on the bed, sending the information from today over to Champ as you paced back and forth in the room from the dresser to the bathroom. He had already changed as soon as you got back. And by changed, he swapped his white t-shirt for an army green t-shirt and threw on his go to black leather jacket. You finally settled on another dress and slipped into the bathroom for the final time to slip it on and fix your makeup some.

“Um Jack?” You step out of the bathroom.

He sits up on his elbow from his spot on the bed and about drops his jaw at the sight of you, for the second time today. Whistling at you once again.

“Damn darlin’... You keep shocking me with your looks. Everytime I think you can’t get more beautiful you do.” He smirks, eyeing you over.

You chose to wear a silky and almost skin tight all black dress that stopped about mid thigh and had thin spaghetti straps. You blush at his compliment.

“Thank you. Um, do you mind helping me zip the rest of it up?” You say as you step closer and turn your back towards him.

“Not at all.” He says standing and helping you zip the rest of your dress up, knuckles brushing lightly against your skin as he does which sends shivers through your body.

“Thank you. Ready to go?” You ask and you walk over to the door to slip on your pair of heels.

“Yup. Got your weapons just in case?” He asks as he pats his torso then back knowing his are secured in a hidden pocket of his jacket and belt.

You point to your purse where you had your weapons stowed away as they wouldn’t be hidden too well on your person right now.. “Yup. All set.”

“Alrighty, well then let’s goin’!” He says and you both step out to head to the club up the street.

You two walk into the club, Jack has his arm around your waist and leads you over to a free table where you both sit and take a look over of your location. So far no culprit or crew members to be seen. Hopefully they’ll show up eventually.

“I’m going to get a drink. Want anything?” He asks.

“Um sure. A cocktail please. Anything.” You smile.

He nods and heads off to the bar, leaving you at the table. As you wait you see some of the crew members walk in. Recognizing them from the pictures. Two males and one female. Jack returns shortly with a margarita for you and a glass of his namesake for himself.

“Jack, three arrived.” You nod your head towards them. The guys standing at the bar and the girl making her way to dance on the dance floor. “I’m going to try to talk to the girl. I’ll be back.”

You down your drink in one sitting and make your way to the dance floor. This will surely bite you in the ass later but for now who cares. He watches as you make your way over and then focuses his attention back to the two men. You find your groove to the music and work your way over to the girl and start to strike up a conversation with her as you dance.

“Hey! I like your moves.” You smile at her, starting off friendly.

“Thanks, you got some good ones too. And your dress is very pretty.” She smiles back. “Not from around here are you?” “No. I’m here for the bridal convention with my fiancee.” You nod your head over to Jack sitting at the table, sipping at his drink.

As she turns her head to look in his direction, you quickly drop some poison provided to you and Whiskey both by the agency into her drink. She seems so nice and you hate to do it to her but she is working for the enemy and you need to weed them all out one by one no matter the means.

“Well congrats girl.” She smiles back. “Welcome to town. Hope the planning is going well.”

“Thank you. What’s your name?” You ask, giving her yours.”

“I’m Nicole. Nice to meet you.” She smiles.

“Are you from around here?” You ask and start to delve into a conversation with her, getting to know her, slowly picking her brain and getting some useful information out of her that she slips up on about the culprit and other crew members.

Once you wrap up your conversation you make your way back over to Jack who has now moved himself over to the bar.

“Okay. Got some information out of her and dropped the poison in. Did you get any information from the guys?” You ask.

“Yup. We can compare notes when we get back to the room.” He says, sipping his new glass of whiskey the bartender hands him.

He slides another margarita over to you as well, having ordered one for you in your absence for when you return. You smile and nod in a way to thank him for it but as you start to sip on it you realize the mistake you made. You can already feel the last one you downed far too quickly hitting you, this one is surely to knock you off your feet. But, you shake it off and continue to sip on it as Jack does his.

“We can probably head out of here whenever you are ready. The poison will kick into them within an hour. No more action needed to be done to them and between the both of us we probably got more than enough information until we come across their boss or other crew members.” He says.

As he says this you really feel the alcohol kicking into your system. Your sensibility going out the door as the buzzed feeling takes over you.

“Jack, I wanna dance.” You state.

“Okay? So then go dance. Ain’t nothing stoppin’ ya. I said we can leave whenever you want to. If you want to stay and dance some go for it.” He says.

“No. I wanna dance with you.” You say smiling at him.

“Well now I’m not much of a dancer darlin’. I ain’t got no rhythm.”

You pout at him, and finish off the rest of your drink. You grab his hand and tug at him a bit, trying to get him to change his mind and budge off the stool. He sighs deeply and finally stands, giving into your needs.

“Fine fine. I’ll join ya. But don’t complain at how bad I am.” He chuckles, waving his hands at you.

You grab his hands and drag him to the dance floor, wrapping your arms around his neck and swaying to the music. He places his hands on your hips and sways with you as best as he can. He doesn’t have much rhythm but he’s not as bad as he made himself sound out to be. You two sway and dance to the music for a while until you start to feel sick. Man you knew you were a lightweight but you didn’t know it was this bad. How strong were those margaritas?! You stop dancing and look up at Jack.

“I feel sick. Can we go?” You pout.

“Certainly. Going to be okay to make it the short walk back?” He asks.

You make your way back to the hotel and as soon as you get back you crash onto the bed and pass out. Whatever was in the drink was strong and was killing your head. Taglist: @sarahjkl82-blog @ickleronniekinsemotionalrange @blackberries45 @hailmary-yramliah @prideandpascal

#agent whiskey x reader #agent whiskey x you #jack daniels x reader #jack daniels x you #agent whiskey #jack daniels #kingsman #kingsman golden circle #fanfic #pedro pascal #ao3

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guessimjoiningthespidermanfandom · 3 years

Text

No One Lives Forever Not Even God

Peter Parker x bisexual!reader

Peter Parker x fem!reader

Peter Parker x black!reader

Peter Parker x villain!reader

Warnings: Language, Insomnia, mentions of antidepressants, mentions of drugs, drug use, mentions of addiction, mentions of nazis, parental neglect, mentions of the dead, cemeteries, mentions of meltdowns, corrupt government, mentions of cancer, low self esteem, self destructive behavior, medical testing, thoughts of murder, mentions of injury, and mentions of knives,

Word Count: 6.1k

Songs: Mother- Pink Floyd, He Can Only Hold Her- Amy Whinehouse, A Pearl- Mitski, Me and My Husband- Mitski, Saint Bernard- Lincon, Why Didn't You Stop Me?- Mistki, Nuestro Planeta- Kali Uchis, You Know I'm No Good-Amy Whinehouse, and Love Is a Losing Game- Amy Whinehouse.

"I’ve been in a very poetic mood lately. I think it’s funny how anything could be considered poetry and something you relate too. Like Twitter or any other social media and the ongoing gag of people feeling the need to announce the fact that they’re making moves in silence. But that’s what I’m doing, making moves in silence. If anyone is in my business now I’m politely asking you to remove yourself from it before I make you.”

A/N: I only did one proofread so sorry if there are typos and this is just more of an infodump to set up other chapters so enjoy ig. I almost gonna start another series a social media AU let me know if you'd want to be tagged in either of these series.

Series Masterlist Previous Part Next Part

Nightmares come while I’m asleep but, when I’m awake the nightmares of the day just come for me then, so really I’m just stuck. I would like to say the antidepressants are working, it's just the insomnia that comes with them isn't working for me. I’m honestly starting to think mood stabilizers would do me better.

Mother, do you think they'll drop the bomb?

I’m not sure I could blame this all on the pills though. I’d have to give some of the credit to the massive bombshell that a certain ex Avenger had dropped on me.

It's almost like every five seconds a new giant secret about my mom is unveiled to me. Like sure I saw from the video that she’d left me that she had associations with some bad people like Kingpin but nazis?

SHIELD had apparently collapsed because it was infiltrated by Hydra but it was prevalent while my mom was still alive. Seems like she had worked for or with everyone who was anyone. I’m just gonna give her the benefit of the doubt and assume she didn’t know because up until two weeks ago I didn’t either.

Her and Natasha had been recruited at the same time and worked together but for someone who claims to have been so close to her you’d think she’d know that she was dead. “She went off the grid and that was the last I heard from her,” is all she gave me with a smile that even I could tell was fake and I’d just met the woman.

You know when grown folks come up to you and expect you to remember them because they met you once while you were like in the womb that’s kinda my relationship with Natasha. She knows so much about me and I know absolutely nothing about her save for the fact she's a spy meaning she’d be a great liar.

She used to babysit me sometimes if I could trust what she says that is. Apparently I called her “Auntie Nat”. For some reason no one ever thought it was a good idea to inform me that I had a godmother. Maybe they did and I just forgot.

I thought they were supposed to take care of you when something happened to your parents. And the one who’s alive is about as useless as the other. It might be fun to have another person that was considered family. Just maybe not a spy at least I’d know she’d walk out of my life so I won’t get attached.

Mother, do you think they'll like the song?

“Hey mom,” I sighed sitting down in the light dusting in front of her tombstone. “I know it’s been a while and I’ve got a lot to catch you up on,”

It took a bit of digging before I found what I was looking for in my bag. I ran my fingers along the cold surface of the small jewelry box. There was puffy white glue holding the larger pieces together.

I placed the box in the grass sitting next to the tombstone. I removed a purple coiled bracelet and sat it next to the box.

I tucked my legs under my body admiring the piece of jewelry.

“I brought you a bracelet,” I spoke. “It’s kinda like a friendship bracelet cause I have the other. I don’t know if I should leave it here in case someone steals it,” I laughed. “You’d have to be a real shitty person to steal from a cemetery though,”

I curse so often I didn’t realize I did it until I had already done it.

“Ah sorry! Excuse my French,” I chuckled.

“I met Natasha Romanoff and she said she knew you. She said she knew me too. I don’t remember her though…” I trailed off.

For someone who claimed to have a lot to say I sure was at a loss for words. I just didn’t know how to get any of them out.

“Oh! You’re not gonna believe me if I tell you but I got to meet some of the Avengers. Most of them were new though. You’d know some of them. Like Captain America I wanted his help but he couldn’t provide it,”

I had a bit of an episode when I was told no one knew where Thor was. I think it was justified though.

How the fuck do you lose two Avengers let alone the ones that can’t possibly be hidden. One is green and huge and the other leaves lightning bolts everywhere they go.

Mother, do you think they'll try to break my balls?

“The other is Natasha but I don’t think I really knew that yet. She went by Black Widow. I’m sure you knew that though. You probably know a lot,”

I wonder how many secrets she never told me about. I mean I could only imagine all the secrets working for the government would let you in on. Like she probably knew about big stuff like the Tesseract and aliens maybe she could’ve known about that.

“Okay I have a question. I have a lot actually but I think if you answer them I’m gonna get up and run out of here,” I joked.

“Number one is my middle name Natalia because of your SHIELD buddy? Like it might just be a coincidence but it could also be a godmother typa situation or something,”

It was a running theory. She would’ve known my mom before I was born. And if what I was told is true they’d be pretty close too and Natasha translates back to Natalia and I know she’s Russian. It makes sense.

Ooh

Mother, should I build the wall?

“Uh… there’s this boy,”

When was there not? It seems like there was always someone in my life. Carmen in therapist mode said it’s because I put my self worth into my relationship status.

“He’s really nice. Like really really nice. Nicer than anybody I’ve ever been associated with. It’s just he’s like…” I didn't know how to put the next part into words. “He’s just too nice. Too nice for me at least. Like he’s such a good person and I’m just me,”

“And it’s I feel bad,” I sighed. I was getting myself too worked up over this. “Like I keep playing like a game of tug a war with him where I let him in and kick him out again it’s tiring. I don’t even do it on purpose. I feel like we could be something maybe. But I can’t let that happen. I won’t let that happen. It’s a self defense mechanism. At least I think.”

I do it with everyone. I shut them out before they can get it. The less people you let into your life the less people that can walk out.

It’s a bulletproof tactic. At least I used to think it was. Never realized people could get hurt including myself.

“I saw dad,” I informed myself? I guess I’m not sure how healthy it is to have a conversation with someone you know can’t respond and isn't listening. “Like two days ago actually I didn’t say anything I freaked out and ran away. It made me think though,”

Mother, should I run for president?

Made me think about how I’d done so well on my own. Well I’m not gonna take all the credit, most of it was Carmen keeping my ass in line. I haven’t talked to her in a while. I haven’t talked to anyone in a while.

”I found a small studio apartment in Queens. It was the cheapest one I could find. I’m just renting it like an Airbnb right now. I need to find a permanent place and a job,”

I couldn’t find a permanent place at my age unless I had full autonomy which leads me to my next topic.

“So I was thinking about getting emancipated which everything would’ve been a lot easier if you were here then we could just go to court for custody cause you’d win for sure.”

Mother, should I trust the government?

“I know you never got to know how corrupt SHIELD was but do they like keep tabs on everyone who does anything to them or related to them? Because like I did a little snooping and I know they had files for all the Avengers and other people like Kingpin.”

I knew I was going to have to do more than sit here and ask a dead person what to do but ranting to someone who couldn’t spill my secrets was a start.

“I was just wondering how deep it went or if they had hidden stuff on me,”

Mother, will they put me in the firing line?

It’s probably common knowledge that if you mess with the government they’ll mess back. I’d like to think they were like bees. You leave them alone they’ll leave you alone. Only stinging when provoked.

But every branch of the government is like a wasp. They don’t die if they sting and they’ll sting you for no reason at all. They just like to see people in pain.

And I’m sure the energy research branch of SHIELD would probably be more than interested in a walking fire bomb that can move things without touching them.

I mean I’m not going to stop poking things around until I figure out what’s wrong with me. So might as well not complain.

“So I don’t have many things figured out right now and the whole you and SHIELD thing only confused me more so if you could just like come tell me what to do just this once that’d be great,” I laughed.

At first I was contemplating if this was weird or not but hearing me say that I now know this is pathetic. It always has been.

Ooh

Is it just a waste of time?

But I didn’t know if I should keep searching. Maybe I should just pretend like I’d never gotten introduced to the world of powers or mutations at all. For all I know Peter, Carmen, Felicia, Wade and I are just normal people who do normal people stuff.

Sure I wanted answers but I didn’t want to end up like those people who spend their whole life searching for an answer they won’t find any and end up never living at all.

Like a quote my mom used to say all the time “The brave may not live forever but the cautious do not live at all,”

She really just used it so she didn’t have to listen to being put on bed rest but it obviously had a deeper meaning and she knew that.

I keep finding myself stuck on that phrase. That and the whole when the dust settles poem.

I’ve been in a very poetic mood lately. I think it’s funny how anything could be considered poetry and something you relate too.

Like Twitter or any other social media and the ongoing gag of people feeling the need to announce the fact that they’re making moves in silence.

But that’s what I’m doing, making moves in silence. If anyone is in my business now I’m politely asking you to remove yourself from it before I make you.

“Uh I don’t know if I should even tell you this cause you died before it was even a problem in the first place but…” I blew out a breath digging my feet deeper into the ground.

“I’ve been clean for like two weeks now. Which is actually a thing I’m pretty proud of right now.”

I’d stopped using everything except weed, nicotine because those weren’t drugs and even then I used it way less than before. Oh, and my antidepressants too but that’s obviously okay they’re prescribed.

I hated the word clean made me seem like an addict which I wasn’t. I’m many things but I wasn’t an addict. I just didn’t know of any other words to use.

I wasn’t an addict but I’d say the lines between recreational use and dependency were blurring just a bit. I had gotten it straight though. I’m good now. The antidepressants are helping.

Hush now baby, baby, don't you cry

“You have a superpower of just making people feel better immediately. I don’t know if it was the fact you were my mom or what but if you even just put a bandaid on a stab wound it’d probably stop hurting and disappear,”

I wasn’t even exaggerating there was this one time I got hurt at the zoo and she just kissed it and I forgot about the fact that I even fell.

I’m not sure how true that is though because I couldn’t actually recall the memory I was just told about it by my mom a few years after it happened. So I guess I remember not remembering then being reminded. Weird.

“I wanna see the giraffes!” Aaliyah cried, stomping her feet down on the concrete.

This was one of the only times mom didn’t have to work on the weekends and Liyah had to have her way like always.

“Mom!” I screamed “Tell her you said we could see the lions first,”

She just sighed. “Well since she’s the youngest do you think you could be nice and let her go first please?”

“Fine,” I huffed. I wasn’t doing it for Liyah, I was doing it for mom. Even a blind person could see how tired she’d been lately.

Liyah laughed at me sticking her tongue out. She’s such a brat.

“You’re so dumb.” I rolled my eyes at her.

“I know you are but what am I ?” She teased hitting my shoulder before running away.

I took off after her. She may have been fast but I knew I could catch up to her.

I almost had her when my foot got caught on something. It launched me towards the ground and I put my hands down to catch myself but I still hit my knee.

I slid on the concrete scuffing my leg. I didn’t scream because that would make me weak and it didn't hurt that bad. I just bit my lip and stood up.

I didn’t want to limp but it hurt too much to put pressure on my leg.

Liyah had beat me back to mom and when I reached them she was already apologizing.

Fake.

She was just scared to get in trouble. I wasn’t gonna snitch on her anyways.

“Let me see it,” Mom asked, grabbing my arm, pulling me to sit down on a stonehenge.

She reached into her purse and pulled out a first aid kit. She always had everything in her purse. It was kinda like a super power. The black Marry Poppins.

She wiped the scrape with an alcohol wipe and I just barely hissed. It didn’t even really hurt anymore.

She placed a bandaid on it, smoothing her hands on top of it before placing a kiss there.

“There,” She wiped her hands on her thighs before standing up “All better?”

I nodded my head and we went off to see the giraffes because I’m nice like that.

“In case you were wondering, Aaliyah still always gets her way even now. I’d say she’s got me beat on the manipulation game honestly,”

It’s fine though I taught her everything she knows not everything I know. I could still get one over on her if needed.

Mama's gonna make all of your nightmares come true

“I found your pendant, the SHIELD one. Which I guess makes all of this real no matter how much I want it to be fake. I just want this to be a poorly written book where I wake up and the past five years were all a dream,”

God knows how much I meant that. Well maybe I didn’t mean it too much because some people I’ve met in the past five years are people I don’t think I could survive very long without. Even though I kinda exploded on everyone so maybe I’m gonna have to test my theory on how long I can really survive.

“Hey Doc,” I greeted pushing up the door of the restaurant.

“Hey sweetheart, how ya been?” He queried.

“I’ve been better,”

“I hear ya,” He nodded.

Once we were in the back of the restaurant aka his office. I pulled out the diamond. Doc knew everything about everyone and anything. He could also make a duplicate of anything you gave him.

“Whatcha got for me?” He asked, rubbing his hands together.

“This, I’m not sure what it is,”

I placed the bird pendant on the desk. I found it in a shoe box filled with my mom's stuff.

“I was wondering if you knew,”

He lifted it up to his eye to get a better view, His eyesight so bad that his glasses were practically a magnifying glass.

“It’s a crest, I don’t think I’ve seen this before it’s most likely from a government branch,” He placed it back down on his messy desk. “I can do some more extensive research for you if you’d like,”

“Yes, that’d be great,”

“Stop by again tomorrow and I’ll fill you

I wish I never went back to Doc’s place or found out about flash drive, Vulture, SHIELD, any of it. Just when I thought my life couldn’t get anymore fucked up the devil came out the woodworks and spit in my face.

Mama's gonna put all of her fears into you

“I remember all that testing they did after I agreed to do whatever Stark needed me to do sooo badly. I still don’t really know what he did- or he’s doing with all that DNA and other stuff he’d gotten from me,”

Aren’t the Avengers and by default Tony Stark products of SHIELD so wouldn't that mean whoever’s behind all of that could’ve been the one to tell Tony about the fire thing in the first place.

That had been the main thing about the whole Stark situation that I still couldn’t figure out. Someone needs to tell me how he found out and they better tell me now.

“There are multiple lacerations 1-2 inches lining the upper and lower abdomen,” The doctor lady announced to her assistant. Before moving her cold hand away from my side pushing my shirt back down.

Okay that’s chill nothing I haven’t had before.

“We’re gonna have to do another X-ray is that okay?” Her assistant asked. I wasn’t going to bother to learn their names. I was planning to stay that long anyways.

What’s the point? They’re just going to come back and say the machine is broken and then do another blood test.

“Yeah sure,”

I was led into a much bigger room than the last. There was much more machinery too.

I was strapped down to a cold blue cushioned table by leather straps. Straps weren’t really necessary, not like I was planning on lashing out and mauling anyone.

I closed my eyes when the flashes of the machine went off. Apparently I had fractured three of my ribs and bruised my sternum.

You’d think they’d let me go now but noooo they need more blood and then when they were done drawing blood.

They had to hook me up to a machine to monitor- I don’t even fucking know what they were monitoring.

I just know I had all the pads with wires on my temples and chest and everywhere else. It reminded me of that one time I had to do a sleep study.

Except they didn’t have holographs to read off and fancy probably government funded tech then. They sure as hell didn’t have all this whispering either. Or maybe they did and I was just unconscious.

Still I didn’t even want to actually be here and I was cold for once.

“How much long do we have here?” I groaned.

“Not much longer. We just have and MRI left,”

Yeah right. I was gonna be in here for the rest of my life

“I could probably go back there if I wanted answers,” I spoke quietly.

“But I don’t want the government in my business like that well at least just not more than they probably are already at least and the tests are so invasive,”

Mama's gonna keep you right here under her wing

That’s not the only invasive thing in my life. Or should I say was in my life? I don’t fucking care really.

My dad was somehow the strictest and the most lenient person ever. I think he just wanted control.

I used to blame his alcoholism for everything he did but no really he’s just a shitty person. A shitty person who likes to beat on women and take doors off the hinges.

“You are so pathetic!” My mom screamed at my dad.

They had been at this all night. For so long that I’m seriously contemplating jumping out of this small window right now.

Sapphire had no qualms sleeping on the cold tiles of the bathroom floor. Aaliyah and I however were still wide awake.

I’m not sure exactly what was going on in her head but I’m assuming we're still up for the same reason. To kill our dad if he even touches our mom.

I had a kitchen knife in hand as I sat on the bathroom sink. I always had a knife every time my dad started yelling a little too aggressively just in case but this time felt different. Like I was really prepared to stab him this time.

I didn’t know what it was but something felt off.

“Are they done?” Aaliyah asked, rubbing her eyes. The apartment had fallen silent.

“I don’t know. Stay here,” I hopped down off the sink.

I should’ve known she wasn’t gonna listen to me. The kitchen was empty which means they must’ve moved to their room.

The next moment was the sort straight out of a family sitcom except the family was falling apart and the kids were going crazy but otherwise it could’ve very well been an “oopsie” misunderstanding moment. Where the younger child asks “Are mommy and daddy getting a divorce?”

Then the oldest child pulls them into their body and whispers “I dunno kiddo,” or “No they’re just going through a rough patch,” anything like that.

Except it wasn’t that. That wasn’t what she said and that wasn’t what Aaliyah asked me.

God how I wish that was what she asked me.

I have a bad habit of acting before I think. I opened the door opening my mouth to let out the words in my brain.

“You’re dying? How are you dying?”

They both turned to look at me like they were just noticing they weren’t alone.

My mom sighed moving closer to me grabbing my arm.

“I’m- Im not no ones dying,”

The door creaked as Aaliyah pushed her way into the room.

“But you said ‘I need you to step up you need to know how to handle it when I’m dead’,” She paraphrased cleaning out the cuss words.

“It didn’t mean literally dying right now,”

Now I could see how this could be us just jumping to conclusions from like two sentences but she had been weird lately. Like she’s always traveled a lot and been secretive but lately she’s been extra secretive.

And I could tell the secret wasn’t to protect herself so whos to say it wasn’t the fact she was currently dying. It actually makes perfect sense.

I’m starting to wish I wasn’t always right. Stage 4 Lymphoma. Basically we should go coffin shopping pretty soon.

If only she wasn’t so selfish and would get treatment for it. She couldn’t leave me here by myself. Who’s gonna take care of us if she dies.

I’d thought about it before and I decided I’d take on the role of caregiver for my sisters but then it was only a what if situation.

Wade has cancer and he’s not dead but that’s only because he got pumped with like super drugs shit.

Now I just needed to find some super drugs and figure out how to get her to take them.

Fuck Cancer and fuck my dad. Why couldn’t he have gotten the diagnosis instead of my mom. A life for a life type beat.

I guess that wouldn’t have made for a good tragic backstory would it. And what fun is life without a tragic backstory.

My only question is when does the backstory end and when does the actual plot begin because clearly I’m not there yet. It’s only tragedy after tragedy.

Maybe that is my story, just pain and suffering. Someone has to be the butt of the joke.

She won't let you fly but she might let you sing

“You always told me to surround myself with people who you could block out the rest of the world with. Peter’s like that so was Olivia she was one of those people for me. When we weren’t yelling at each other or crying, I mean. Still wish you could’ve met her though,”

“AH YES!” I exclaimed, pumping my fist. “I found it,” I waved the joint in the air.

“Alright come sit down then,” Olivia laughed, patting the seat on the couch next to her.

“Shit,” I muttered. “Where’s the lighter?”

She just laughed at me again. Before reaching into my pocket and slipping it out. I couldn’t help but smile at how intimate that action felt for no reason at all.

I quickly and lightly pressed my lips to hers muttering a quick “thank you,”

About three minutes had passed and I could feel the weed taking course through my system.

My head was in her lap until I abruptly shot up gasping at the beginning of Super Rich Kids by Frank Ocean.

“Dance with me,” I pleaded it didn’t take much convincing because here we were twirling around. Although it was much more giggling than dancing.

I bumped my leg on the glass coffee table and immediately apologized making Liv and I laugh so hard I almost peed my pants.

I was laid out on the soft white fur rug with Olivia laying her chin on my chest. I ran my hands through her hair.

It was actually very easy there were no knots my fingers just glided smoothly through.

“I mean shit,” I breathed “I know I can’t run from the rest of the world forever but until then? Bitch you can call me Flash cause I’m zoomin’.”

She giggled at that before speaking up.

“You don’t have to run you can just stay here with me forever,”

Her words were so genuine it made me want to cry. She basically just said “I love you” in more or less words.

“You know what? I think I might,”

She gave me a tired smile, turning her head to place a kiss on the top of my breast.

I smiled back at her and how adorable she looked right now. I just want to kiss her for the rest of forever.

When I glanced back down at her I could hear her breathing slow and her eyes had fluttered shut. She was asleep.

I felt all warm and fuzzy and at peace and I couldn’t tell if it was the weed or if it was just being in Olivia’s presence.

I wasn’t ready to say these words to her when she was conscious yet maybe I’d never be ready but I’d say them now. Just to get them off my chest.

“I love you,” I whispered.

I never really felt comfortable saying that to anyone. Probably a result of not hearing it enough as a child or something. My family’s never been affectionate anyway. That’s fine because I wasn’t my family, I was my own person.

Stroking her hair gently before drifting off to the land of dreams myself.

So much for forever huh?

It’s funny to think how I took times like that for granted if only I knew those were some of the only moments of normalcy I’d get for a while. I’d spent too much time thinking about what could’ve been with almost everything.

So much so that I didn’t take much time to actually be. Now I feel like I’ve made it to the point of no return. Not mentally but like with everyone else around me. I think I pushed people too far away this time. Not so sure I could get them back.

“Uh I can't really remember what I’ve already told you so I’ll run through it all. This vigilante or superhero Spiderman started doing his thing then I got caught up in his mess.” That was most definitely an oversimplification but what do I look like telling my mom I was a well known thief. “Then his relation to Tony Stark got extended to me so now I kinda do stuff for him but I don’t work for him.”

I don't work for him he might think I do, but in reality he works for me. I had almost everyone at the compound wrapped around my finger.

“I don’t think I really wanna work for anyone. I was offered to be an Avenger in training but that isn’t really my style. I will use his gym though.” I rambled on.

It was kinda weird how easy it was to rant to my mom like this because not like she could voice her opinions about anything. I guess I hadn’t visited in so long that I forgot what it was like.

Mama's gonna keep baby cosy and warm

“Oh!” I exclaimed remembering a very important factor that I left out. “Then we have the whole Staten Island fiasco that I told you about. I remember telling you that. I’m still searching for answers on how I did that too,”

Like some real answers not that radiation BS.

“Your phone’s broken,” I pointed out the cracked screen sitting on the wood.

“Oh shit!” Peter cried “May’s gonna kill me this is the second phone I’ve broken this month,”

I came off way calmer than I was feeling. I’m surprised I wasn’t running around screaming right about now. I was probably just paralyzed in fear.

How do you react in a situation like this in the first place.

“Okay how long are we going to be sitting here? What are we waiting on?” We’d be up here looking down at the fire crackling underneath the pier for like 15 minutes now.

“I don’t know actually,” He sighed.

“Uh…”

How was I supposed to respond to that? That was the driest response to anything in the history of the world.

“Well since I’ve already pinky promised I won’t spill your secret can I ask some questions while we wait for you to figure it out?”

“Sure, go ahead,” He nodded, shaking his arms.

“Okay number one did you think I had died or something because if someone burst into flames in front of me I’d probably think Satan was coming for me. I’d cry too,” I laughed but had to stop myself as the stabbing in my ribs ran through me.

“No, I didn’t think you were dead, you had a pulse,” He pointed out “Maybe I could’ve thought you were dying though. And I wasn’t crying,”

Liar. He so was crying.

“Aw you don’t have to lie I think it’s cute,” I teased if I didn’t feel like my body was falling apart I might’ve poked his side.

“Alright, second question: do the webs like come out of you? Cause that’s kinda disgusting,”

“No, I make them with chemicals ‘n stuff. I’d explain the science to you but I’m not sure how much you’d care.”

I let out a small laugh knowing what feeling would come if I laughed too hard.

“I mean you could explain it ‘m just not sure how much of it I’d understand,”

We both laughed at that.

“On the topic of the webs what’s there integrity like how well do they hold up or like how long,”

“Uh…” He blew out a breath running his hands over his face “As far as I know they last up to two hours. That is unless someone cuts them or something,”

I couldn’t help but wonder if Thorn was one of those someone’s to cut the webs maybe I was the only someone. I didn’t really need to ask the question. Aaron had already answered the question for me when he told me about the deal at the ferry. I just wanted to see what Peter would tell me honestly.

I spent the rest of the night asking questions and cracking jokes. I was talking for so long I didn’t realize how late it’s gotten.

It should be a world record how fast I managed to fuck up 5 friendships. Well it’s my personal best at least. Only took like 4 minutes.

I feel like that’s all I do is just fuck up everything. I used to believe there was a difference between being fucked up and being a fuckup but the older I get the more I realize that there isn’t.

It’s like someone built a self destruct button in my head and every time something good happens to me I feel the need to run away.

Like Peter he’s literally perfect he's smart, respectful, adorable, and selfless. He’s literally a fucking superhero for godsake.

I was trying so hard not to fall asleep. I really was but all the Trigonometry chapter was doing was mixing with the sound of rain outside and triggering the urge to fall into a deep sleep.

“Okay,” Peter tapped his textbook with his pen. I wish I could be confident enough to do math with a pen.

“So sin is equal to the opposite of whatever angle you’re trying to find so first you have too…”

He droned on, I knew he was talking about the math problem lying on the bed in front of me but I wasn’t listening. Maybe if I sat at the desk I could actually be paying attention right now.

“Y/N?”

“Hmm?” I sat up on my elbows yawning.

“Are you tired?”

I just hummed again. Until I realized what the question was. I reached for my phone and it was already 9:03 that woke me up for sure.

“Oh shit! I gotta get back,”

Not like I’d get in trouble or anything but Carmen would get on my ass about the fact I didn’t come back when I said I would then she’d make something out of nothing.

I scrambled around trying to find all my things to put them back in my bag.

“Wait it’s raining though,” Peter pointed out.

“Yeah,” I chuckled “It’s New York it’s always raining,”

“Yeah but it’s cold and wet and dark so if you tried to skate you’d probably get hurt,”

I knew what he was doing and it was working because frankly all his excuses were shit because one I don’t get cold and two I could just walk and there are lights everywhere but I was gonna stay anyway. I was too tired to argue right now.

“May!” Peter shouted.

“Yes?” She called back.

“Can Y/N stay for the night?”

“Yeah if her parents are okay with it,”

That’s how I ended up wearing some shirt with some dumb science pun sitting on the couch watching Aladdin for like the millionth time ever. I was singing along to One jump ahead when I felt eyes on me.

I turned my head but before I could make eye contact with Peter he acted as if he was watching the movie the whole time.

“What?” I giggled. Fuck, I hadn’t like genuinely giggled in the longest time.

“Nothing,” He replied, turning back towards the TV again.

This time I was the one to stare at him wondering what was going on in his head. Not even the fourth song in and I was already yawning struggling to keep my head up.

This goes to show how much willpower I had because I couldn’t even stop my eyelids from falling shut. I deserved to sleep though I’d been exhausted lately.

There’s only like 6 people on this planet that I trust enough to fall asleep around and surprisingly Peter had become one with like 5 months of knowing me.

I would still trust him if given the chance I’m just not sure how much he trusts me right now. I understand though. I don’t deserve anyone’s trust.

Taglist:

@tomdiddlyumptious

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lexigraph · 3 years

Text

Cyberpunk 2077 Scenes pt. 1

I’ve been digging around in Cyberpunk’s .scene files, which are basically the game’s scripts. I would be interested if they could be loaded into something other than a text editor, since the bulk of it is not readable that way... but the dialogue and some scene notes sure are!

Most of this qualifies as “huh, that’s interesting” rather than evidence of anything extraordinary, but I’ve been encouraged to share. This is gonna get lengthy, so putting it under the cut.

General interesting things:

V is almost always referred to as she in the notes.

The pattern seems to be Polish dialogue, a rough translation, and then what we actually see in the US version of the game. I could of course not begin to tell you if the Polish is a rough draft or not.

The scene for moving into Mama Welles’s place is called “welles apartment move in” so I guess it’s an apartment or condo she lives in.

From the Nomad Prologue

The notes from the conversation where V reaches out to Willie suggest a slightly different narrative and give more background:

“Fixer welcomes V, he haven’t heard from her in a while, he taught V is still in the Midwest.“ V drove so far!

“V says she needs a favor. She’s out of cash and fuel. Asks fixer if he could through a job her way.“

“Dakota finds something - a solo from the city issued a job offer. Offer lacks details, so there were not many people jumping on it.“ So originally V was talking to Dakota? Or willie is passing the information along.

Willie’s dialogue for where Jackie is makes more sense translated from the Polish: “He did leave a message. He's waiting in a trailer in the middle of Dry Creek. I'm sending you the geolocation” versus telling V that Jackie is on a farm.

When you meet Jackie:

“Man introduces himself as Jackie. He��s glad that the fixer finally managed to get a guide for him. He was getting tired of waiting.“

“Jackie is sketchy on the details. Says that he was supposed to pick up cargo out here left by a supplier from South California, and transport it to Night City with help from a smuggler.“

There is an entire dialogue chunk with no translation, labeled “Chat between V and Jackie on the way to the cargo “ since apparently it wasn’t just in the trailer originally??. I can only guess at who is saying what but most of the lines seem pretty clear. - Come on, show me what you need to transport - Where did you come from here? In the middle of nowhere, with corporate contraband. - My partner was about to pick me up. I suspect they intercepted him at the border - If he was just coming for you, why would they stop him? - Tito doesn't like empty runs. I guess he took something, if I know him. - You don't know much about this job, do you? “Jackie points at the crates. Tells V to grab one.“ “V asks about the Arasaka logos on the crates. Are they smuggling weapons?“ - Then the translated line we get in the game, about sleeping better the less you know. “Jackie is dogging. V’s getting paid, this should be enough of an answer.“ Then a few lines about loading multiple crates on the roof and covering them. “Jackie may asks if it’s not an issue that the boxes are pretty much in plain sight. He was expecting a hidden compartment or something.“ - This is a piece of tarpaulin. Doesn't look super tucked away. - Because they don't have to be. Important what is in the papers.

Driving to the border:

“Jackie and V talk on the way to the border. Typical smalltalk, from which V gets a feeling that Jackie is a decent guy.“

“Although Jackie might be a bit too cocky, and like to bite more than he can chew. Hopefully this job is not one of those occasions.“

Investigating the iguana:

“Jackie comments on the iguana. What the fuck is this?“

“V says this is no Arasaka merchandise she ever saw. She hopes Jackie has a damn good explanation for this.“

“Jackie says he had no idea! He had no idea what's in the crates. He woudn't risk his life of some god damn lizard!“

“V asks what kind of bullshit is this? Did Jackie try to fucke her over?!“

“Jackie denies. It is he who got fucker over! Or rather they both have! He had no idea what's in the crates.“

“Jackie sighs, he says he knows someone in the city that might be willing to buy this thing. He starts packing the animal into a backpack.“

“V reminds Jackie that half of what THEY can make on this thing is hers.“

“Jackie says that V can handle herself. Perhaps after they sell the iguana V would consider staying in the city. She could make some good money here.“

“V comments on Jackie calling them partners“ (and then it’s just the “You’re not all bad yourself” line What was here before?!)

“Jackie breaks the silence and moves towards the car trunk.“ Listen, Jackie saying something sweet and then Jackie and V starting at each other in silence is my thing! I didn’t think it was canon!

#cyberpunk 2077 #jackie welles #nomad V #ls posts

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bunnibai · 3 years

Text

Enterance Exam Taiyuu

AAAA ITS HERE students used in order of appearance: Zuruko Kayaki, Nahito Kirai, Sainochi Yurei, Merce (mentioned), Busujima Aki (mentioned), Takeda Yukino (mentioned), Naishin-Sunomu Isejin (mentioned), Naishin-Sunomu Seisho (blink and you miss her), Kokoro Boar

Kayaki had always been very good at hide and seek.

When she was four, back when the birds still sung in the springtime and the bright yellow flowers dripped with fresh morning dew, Kayaki had been friends with a small gaggle of kids. She would run through the rich mud, splatters of brown dropping on her robin’s egg blue dress in a colorful, careless, fun mess. She would crouch down behind a bush, her hair matching the blossoms that would protect her from the sight of the other kids, keeping her breath silent. Patient. She would have to suppress airy giggles, her right hand over her mouth and the left holding tight to a stuffed animal.

Of course, as Kayaki grew older, she became much more experienced with the game. Instead of shuffles behind trees and urges to keep quiet, the game was more serious. Stony eyed gazes focused on the black shoes that tap-tap-tapped against the slick concrete. Sidestepping out of the way of flashlights, bright and swishing like a bloodhound. It felt like more than a game; like, instead, life or death. Age tended to make things feel more weighted, that way.

Long after cottony blue eyes became stormy grey in the cloudy light, Kayaki stood, 15 and holding an umbrella to her side. The forecast had never said anything about rain, but it never hurt to be careful, especially with how the sun itself was hiding in wait to see what the weather would bring. In the quiet residential neighborhood, big houses of pristine white walls were locked by big fences and keypads. It was one of the most secure in the city, maybe the country, and Kayaki felt small lingering by the gate. If someone was to walk down the street, if they were perceptive enough, she was easy to pick out. However, people were rarely perceptive enough for a girl like Kayaki.

The gate swung open, and Kayaki straightened to attention, not unlike a dog awaiting orders. Kirai adjusted the bag on his arm, looking at her and raising an eyebrow. It wasn’t questioning as much as it was amused, in the way a child might be amused watching a flightless bird struggle in a puddle of water.

“My, my, how long were you waiting, Kaya-chan? That eager to see me?”

Kayaki had long since learned to translate her best friend’s passive aggressive jeers into more friendly, conversational Japanese.

“It’s good to see you, too, Toto-chan.” She patted at her skirt, carefully smoothing out any creases. He looked her outfit up and down, shifting his weight and putting a hand on his hip.

“Kaya-chan, don’t you think that outfit is a little impractical? You’re going to cry when you fall during the exam, and then I’m not going to stop to help you up. I can’t pull your weight forever.”

Kayaki hummed, spinning her umbrella and following Kirai a step behind. “You’re worried for me?” She spoke in a soft, questioning tone. Kirai scoffed, crossing his arms.

“I am not worried for you.”

“I’ll be okay, Toto-chan.” A ghost of a smile traced Kayaki’s lips. It was cute, when he worried about her like that. Of course, Kayaki wasn’t worried. To her, whether or not she passed wasn’t much of an issue. Whether or not Kirai passed felt much more important, all things considered.

The walk to the train station was mostly silent. That was the thing about Kayaki and Kirai; they had never really been the type to pour their hearts out to one another. Instead, they took value in the ability to be comfortably quiet with one another. It was a level of understanding that was rare in any pair of people.

Kirai abandoned her the second they found the small cluster of students waiting for the train.

Kayaki watched him stride up to the group, dazzling them with an introduction and a wink. She stayed back, folding her hands behind her and leaning against the wall. She had expected it, of course. Kayaki and Kirai always seemed closer to one another when they were alone.

It was better this way, anyways, watching everyone excitedly chat with one another, avoiding her by just an inch.

The train was comfortable, surprisingly so. She found a nice spot towards the corner of the bus, storing her umbrella under her and folding her hands in her lap. A part of her wanted to relax fully; it was a nice, closed space.

The rational part of her knew otherwise.

The train had been going for a few minutes when a weight on the seat beside her shifted.

“You mind if I sit here?”

Kayaki startled, looking up at the boy hovering by the seat. She nodded, taking a second to find her words. “Uhm—yeah, I don’t mind.”

He sat down, rummaging in his bag. “What’s your name? I’m Sainochi Yurei.”

This was more talking than Kayaki had been counting on. He was charming, though, and seemed harmless enough. “Ah… I’m Zuruko.” After a pause, she quickly added, “Kayaki.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Zuruko-san!” He smiled at her, taking out some kind of almost-machine Kayaki couldn’t identify. “Taiyuu, huh? It’s kinda scary, knowing we’re almost there.”

Kayaki crossed and uncrossed her legs a few times. She fiddled with the hem of her skirt, scrunching the familiar fabric against her fingertips, struggling to find a way to carry the conversation without seeming rude. “Yeah, uhm… It’s weird. I wasn’t expecting it to come so soon.”

Sainochi-san turns a small gear, nodding. “You know, once we get into her school… that’s it. We’re on the path for this forever. I don’t even know if… Well, I know I want to help people, but what if I’m not a good hero? What comes after that?”

“...I’m not sure if being a hero is my thing, either.” The honesty of Kayaki’s words shocked even herself. “I don’t know… I’m not good at the whole combat thing?” Her face flushed. “I’m sure everyone here is super confident in what they wanna do. But I…” She stilled.

“...I know what I want to do right now. And I know that that means walking through those doors and passing that exam.”

Sainochi-san is silent for a moment. “...that’s a good way of thinking of it, Zuruko-san.” He fumbles with his things a bit more. “Uh—music always helps me calm my nerves. If you want…?”

Kayaki smiled appreciatively and took the earbud being offered to her. The music is something that sounds vaguely familiar, although she doesn’t recognize it.

After a couple songs, Kayaki’s eyes are closed and she’s bobbing her head ever so faintly.

“Hey—! Uh, uhm, Zu! Check it out!”

Kayaki startled again, and her eyes opened. “Huh?”

Sainochi-san pointed to the window, eyes wide. “Look! It’s a freaking—we’re underwater! Isn’t that cool? Imagine the kind of technology needed to do something like this! In order for the air pressure to—,”

Kayaki was not following whatever he was saying. That wasn’t what made her so curious; instead, she was focusing on something totally different, however small it was. Although she felt the telltale buzzing of her quirk right at the back of her neck, however difficult it was for him, Sainochi-san had remembered her name.

She put the information in the back of her mind and continued to listen to him ramble.

The rest of the ride went smoothly, but something felt… Off, to Kayaki. As if something was terribly, terribly wrong. She kept glancing around the train scanning the faces, but she couldn’t pick out any particular threat. Eventually, she casted it aside as nothing.

Getting off the train, Kayaki dusted off her skirt, trailing behind the crowd of kids. They all seemed to be joking about one thing or another; Kayaki herself preferred to hang towards the back. It was easier to get by that way, not being noticed.

The school was less of a highschool and more of a college campus to Kayaki. The group was led down into the big auditorium building in a poor attempt at a single file line.

The auditorium was big, and smelled the particular clean, pine-y smell that Kayaki had always associated with newly built places. The floor was lined with carpet, not yet dirtied by the shoes of teenagers or their messy habits. It was well lit, with different teachers set up at the entrance and in the aisles. There was a banner above the stage that read Welcome to Taiyuu High!, big in Japanese and smaller in English at the bottom. Each chair had a little desk that could be slid over, and each chair had a piece of paper with a name on it.

The seats were randomly assigned. Kayaki was seated at the very back, tucked away in a corner. Kirai, on the other hand, had been sat towards the middle. He was currently turned around in his chair, hand on his chin and chatting with one of the other participants. Kayaki shifted, and he glanced up, raising an eyebrow in a clear question. What are you waiting for?

Kayaki looked down at the little nametag that designated her seat. She printed out name was the only thing stopping her from changing seats, and for a moment, she considered letting it go. It wasn’t until she saw the empty seat beside him, not yet taken by it’s participant, that she had decided what to do. It was going to be quick. Switch the nametags, sit besides Kirai, easy.

It was not that easy.

“What are you doing?”

A fellow examinee hovered in the aisle, watching her with muted confusion as she grabbed the other person’s name tag off of the desired chair. They looked plain, even more so than her, shifting a backpack on their shoulder. Kayaki eeped.

“Sorry! Uhm—is this yours?” She held up the nametag.

They nodded. “What are you doing with it?”

Kayaki opened her mouth to come up with some kind of excuse, glancing towards the bag. “We aren’t allowed to have personal items,” She told them, raising her voice a little. They frowned, holding it to their chest.

“Who has a personal item?” One of the teachers, a young woman with grey hair and a nametag that read Aurora, skips over. “Whoa! We were supposed to leave all belongings at the front.”

They blink a few times. “But… what am I supposed to use during the exam?”

“Your own wits and strength! That’s what we’re testing!” She patted them on the shoulder, leading them away as they protested. Out of their sight, Kayaki could feel the buzzing of her quirk as she swapped the nametags.

By the time the kid had come back, they went straight to find their seat, not even glancing at Kayaki as she nestled in besides Kirai. She almost felt bad for them, now item-less; but she figured that, if she hadn’t used it as a diversion, their bag would have just been taken up later. It wasn’t her fault that she had been the one to point it out, and if she happened to benefit from the diversion, that wasn’t anyone’s business.

Kirai glanced over, having been bickering with one of the other students. “Well,” he sighed, “The exam is about to start. Took you long enough.”

Kayaki smiled a bit. “I missed you, too, Toto-chan.”

He huffed, rolling his eyes. “I did not miss you. Try not to fail, alright? I know it’ll be hard without my luck.”

“Thank you, Toto-chan. I hope you pass too.”

The exam was largely uneventful. The questions all felt repetitive to her, and she had spent more time bubbling in the answers then mulling over the questions. She might have been one of the first to finish, but she had waited, carefully counting out half of the participants before raising her hand.

Her first event came soon after. Kayaki and the other students were lead to a small clearing, the dewy grass clinging to their shoes and crunching under their feet. The other kids had a cocktail of different emotions; some shifted side to side and glanced around. Others picked at their nails, hand on their hip. Others were standing so straight and alert they might as well have been taking notes.

Wolfsboon stood at the front of the crowd, arms crossed and looking very unhappy about being in the situation. “The goal is simple,” he called out. “You’re all getting five minutes—and only five minutes—to go hide anywhere in the arena. There’s a ring of tape to stop you from going out of bounds, do it and you’re disqualified. Hurt any of your fellow examinees or the wolves, and you’re disqualified. Sabotage, and you’re disqualified.”

Someone in the crowd raised their hand.

“What if I’m caught petting the dogs?”

Wolf looked confused for a moment, before it was overtaken with annoyance. “You’d be disqualified if the wolf touched you.”

There was a series of disappointed grumbles in the crowd. Kayaki shifted around antsily, anticipating the start.

“Is that all?”

There was a pause.

“Then your time starts now.”

The crowd dispersed quickly. Kayaki weaved her way through the trees, glancing around. She knew that the smart option would be to climb a tree. It was so obvious, in fact, she was almost certain there was a catch. She wasn’t one to overthink her situation, though. So she grabbed a branch and hoisted herself up.

Kayaki had hidden in trees during a game of hide and seek many, many times. It wasn’t too different from this; the rough bark rubbing up against her palms. The way the leaves, ever friendly and rustling with the breeze, would brush up against her face, daring her to do a thing about it. Every creak was a warning of how the tree was feeling about the arrangement, and if it groaned the wrong way, it meant you were about to fall.

Kayaki heard the whistle blow, and her breath grew quiet. She kept her eyes open, scanning the field, but her mind was somewhere else.

Quiet. Quiet quiet quiet. Sometimes, people say that if you don’t move, people won’t see you. Those people were right, in Kayaki’s case. She had to control everything, to how her chest raised and fell to whether or not her foot was about to slide. She had been expecting her contestants to do the same thing.

She saw a girl run just ten or so feet from the base of her tree, footsteps loud and her outfit even louder. She threw a small bomb, and when it exploded, a sticky substance covered the ground behind her. The wolf sprinting out of her slowed, tugging at it’s paws lodged in the goo and whining. She laughed, sticking her tongue out and throwing out a rude gesture.

“Have fun with that, Puppy!”

She kept running past. Kayaki blinked a few times, listening to her yell out as she went along.

...well. So much for being quiet. Suddenly, Kayaki became painfully aware that being unnoticed might go easier than she had thought. As time went on, the other kids only got more distracting. She heard screams of the other kids, and at once point, she could have sworn she saw an entire dome grow from the ground. By the time the alarm sounded, a voice came out from the speakers strung along the field.

“Congratulations to Takeda Yukino, to make it all 15 minutes!”

Kayaki sighed, annoyed, climbing down from the tree. “She’s not the only one,” she called out, waving her hand halfheartedly. There was a small pause, and a wolf bounded up, sniffing her. Trailing behind them, Wolfsboon walked into the area.

He slowed to a stop, eyeing her up and down. The wolf trotted in front, sniffing at Kayaki and digging his snout into her side. She smiled, reaching out and petting him. He yipped at her in return.

“Where did you come from?” He asked, eyeing her up and down and cross referencing Kayaki to his clipboard. Kayaki shifted in her spot, frowning. “...I was hiding. In the tree? You never said it was against the rules, so I figured, uhm… it was okay?”

“It’s fine.”

Kayaki scratched just under the wolf’s ear. “So… I’m good?”

“Do you have an ID?”

Silently, she pulled out her ID. He nodded, scanning it over.

“...Good job, Zuruko-chan.”

Kayaki, having also been signed up for the next event, only had ten minutes to switch out. She grabbed a drink of water, pulled up her hair, and followed the group of kids to what she was quickly realizing to be the exact same area as before, just a different section of woods. She wondered if the teacher would have nodded to her, if she was any other student. She wasn’t any other student, of course; and most likely, he had long since forgotten the interaction in the second event.

The wolves were nowhere to be found. They might have all been dismissed; although they weren’t quiet living things in the way traditional animals were, the idea of a creature suddenly… not existing made her nervous.

“The third event is straightforward.”

In the crowd, one of the kids raised their hand. Their eyes sparkled with something mixed with curiosity and mischief. “Wolfsboon-sensei?” They bounced on their heels, tucking their hands behind their back.

“Yes?”

“What’s the name of this event?”

“That’s unimportant.”

“I feel like it’s kinda important, though!” They pressed, flitting their hands in the air. “How else are we supposed to be on an even playing field? As heroes, we need to know all of the information that’s available to us! That means knowing the name of the events! I’m just trying to make use of all my resources.”

Wolfsboon sighed loudly, rubbing his hand over his face.

“Dogcatcher.”

Pleased, the student snickered, their smile still wide. “Thank you, Sensei.”

“Any more questions before I start actually explaining the rules? I suppose you’d like to know the footsize of my wolves, or their favorite icecream flavor, since we’re going around asking stupid questions.”

“That might be pretty helpful, actually,” The same kid mused, tapping their chin. Beside them, a taller girl nudged them, muttering something Kayaki couldn’t pick up.

“Sorry.”

Wolfsboon went on to explain the rules. They had thirty minutes to catch the wolves running in the woods, and bring them back from a safe zone. At the sound of the bell, Kayaki separated from the group, who had been mostly sticking together. It wasn’t like she’d be much help to them; and even worse, they wouldn’t be all that much help to her. Too loud. It’d give her right away.

Finding a wolf was easy enough. He was sniffing the ground furiously, his tail wagging. Kayaki, silent as a mouse and with a quirk to cover up any lingering traces of her presence, pressed against a tree. She had done this many, many times. Be quiet. Don’t let them know you’re there. A wolf doesn’t take kindly to a sheep in their den, after all.

She pounced, colliding with the wolf and the ground. It yelped, squirming and pawing to get out of her grasp. With effort, she held it down.After the struggle came to a standstill, Kayaki noticed a terrible problem with her plan.

Kayaki was not strong enough to drag a squirming wolf back to the safezone. If she tried to move to hold him better, he would have definitely escaped. She cursed under her breath.

Footsteps crunched behind her, and Kayaki tensed. She struggled to wiggle her way to see the kid standing by the treeline, eyebrow raised in a silent, judging manor. Well… it seemed judging. Instead of being a completely average person, they had heavily mutated features, like a boar.

“Uhm. Hi.” Kayaki’s face heated up. They eyed her up and down, before nodding. Their hooves clicked a few times; at first, Kayaki had no idea what they were trying to do. But the tapping had a pattern, one that was… oddly familiar.

Kayaki stands in pitch black room, cold and unforgiving. She’s crouched close to the ground, straining her ears to listen out. There are footsteps, before they stop, cold. The person’s foot taps on the ground in a pattern.

.-- .... . .-. . / -.. .. -.. / - .... . -.-- / --. ---

Kayaki grabs her small utensil, hitting it on the ground lightly.

- --- / --. . - / .- / ... .... .. .--. -- . -. -

Kayaki blinks, holding the wolf tighter. “Repeat that?”

It takes a second, but Kayaki makes out the message, What are you doing?

“Oh! Uhm, participating in the event? I mean, trying to. I can’t… Well, I can’t pick up the wolf.”

How did you pin it down, then?

“I snuck up on it. Quirk.” Kayaki shrugged. “Why, are you having trouble?”

They keep hearing me coming.

Kayaki’s eyes lit up. “Oh! Well, uh. I can help with that? I mean—if you don’t mind. I just need you to carry them.”

After a small consideration, they nodded once. They walked over, picking up the wolf and slinging it over their shoulder like a sack of potatoes. The wolf squirmed, but he wasn’t any match for the kid, who was strong.

“What’s your name?” Kayaki asked halfway to the safezone, trying to keep up with their pace.

Kokoro.

“It’s nice to meet you, Kokoro-san.”

Kokoro-san handed the wolf back to her right before they got to the zone. Kayaki heaved it over the line, where it flopped over with it’s tail swishing. She looked around.

“...that’s weird. Were we the first ones to bring a wolf over?”

They shrugged.

Does it matter?

“Good point. You got the next wolf, okay?”

They nodded. Not one for conversation, she guessed. They spent five minutes wandering around, looking for any wolves. There were… None. At all.

“This is weird,” Kayaki muttered, following a trail of paw prints. They had found a few sets, and… They were all going to the same place? They were a lot more straightforward than wolves meant to run away from students should have been.

Stop.

Kayaki stopped, looking around. Kokoro-san pointed to a small section of woods were the rest of the students gathered. The wolves were crowding around the same kid who had asked the question at the beginning, who was beaming and sprinkling sand over the wolves head. They urged the other kids to take wolves.

Kayaki stiffened. “What are they doing?”

Getting the wolves.

“All of them? Doesn’t that feel a little greedy?” Kayaki kept her voice low, although the group looked preoccupied. “Even if they’re letting kids take the wolves, that defeats the point. No one would be able to show off their skills. It’s making the whole test useless, just so they can show off.”

Kokoro-san huffed out through their nose, nodding. Annoying.

“Well,” Kayaki frowned, crossing her arms. “I’m not taking any pity wolves.”

We can grab from the edges.

Kayaki nodded. “...yeah. We should.” She eyed the kid, laughing as they made a joke to the tall girl from earlier. Something made her feel off. She pushed down the annoyed cocktail of emotions, and nodded to Kokoro-san. “Let’s go.”

All in all, with all of the wolves being quickly put to sleep by the group, Kayaki and Kokoro-san only got three each. It was more than she had been expecting, though, and she was fairly pleased with herself.

“We make a pretty good team, Kokoro-san.”

They didn’t respond, and she smiled to herself.

Kayaki was, thankfully, not participating in the next event. She settled in the waiting area, watching as the group of kids completing the 4th event gathered with one another. She spotted Kirai, talking to a taller boy with blue hair and—

Kayaki felt her entire body tense up. She didn’t know him; she didn’t think so, anyways. But something about him made her feel sick and uneasy, like a parasite that clung to its host. She narrowed her eyes, searching her mind. She would have remembered someone like that, she was sure. But nothing quite came to mind. It was like a bad dream, just out of her reach.

It occurred to her that it might have been because of the way Kirai had a small half smile as he bragged about himself. It was subtle, but it… Well. It was a lot more friendly than Kirai ever was with most kids.

She looked away, clenching her hands and thinking it over. After the event, Kirai came over, sitting beside her and setting his arm on his knees. “Kaya-chan, Darling! It feels like I haven’t talked to you all day! How are—”

“Who is that?” Kayaki interrupted him, frowning. Kirai blinked a few times. “Pardon?”

“That kid you were talking to earlier. Who is it?” She sounded impatient. Kirai looked back behind him.

“Merce-san?”

The name didn’t settle right with her, either; it was completely unfamiliar. “Yes.”

“One of the other applicants. Dumb as a brick. Why?”

“Just curious.” Kayaki crossed her arms, hugging herself. “How’d your round go, Toto-chan?”

“I did great, of course.” He smirked. “As if there were any doubts. What about you? It looks bad on me if you do poorly, you know.”

“I know. I did okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay.”

Kirai nodded. There was a small stretch of silence between them. Kayaki fiddled with her things. “...hey, you wanna sleepover after this, Toto-chan?” He considered it, nodding. “If you’re so desperate to have me over.” Kayaki smiled to herself. “Always.”

The last event was a run, plain and simple. There weren’t actually many kids competing in this round; none of them looked particularly flashy, either. Kayaki knew that, just running, she would have trouble keeping up with any of them. Her quirk wasn’t going to be of any help; for all intents and purposes, she was going quirkless.

Or was she?

Kayaki had an idea. A stupid one that could have gotten her disqualified, but an idea nonetheless.

When the siren went off, they all started off running. Kayaki verged her way towards the right, eventually drifting into the treeline. Once she was covered, she started slowing down. And down. She spotted the others, trying to overtake one another and tripping over obstacles.

If she was any one else, Kayaki would have definitely been called out for going out of the bounds. But Kayaki wasn’t one to be noticed for breaking small, tiny rules.

It was a boring walk, and waiting in the treeline was even more boring. She let herself cool off, watching the teacher check off people as they came up to her and claimed their time.

After roughly thirty minutes, Unbreakable went over their list.

“...Zuruko-chan? Has anyone seen Zuruko-chan?”

Kayaki sped walked out in the clearing. Once she was halfway, she raised her hand.

“I was here the whole time, Unbreakable-sensei!”

They squinted at her. “How come I didn’t notice you?” Their voice was suspicious; as it should have been, really. Kayaki shrugged.

“My quirk probably made you forget? I told you a while ago.”

They scanned their checklist again, looking confused. “Oh. I guess it does say that’s your quirk, doesn’t it? I’m sorry, Kiddo.”

Kayaki waved her hand. “It happens all the time.”

“What was your time again?”

“19 minutes,” She replied smoothly. Not crazy, distinctly in the middle of the times. They wrote it on their list, nodding to themselves. “Make sure to stay here so I remember to write it down. Good luck.”

“Thank you!” Kayaki smiled.

She was done. Kayaki took a deep breath, waiting for Kirai so she could head home. He told her he felt pretty good about the whole thing, too. Kayaki was proud of them both. Maybe, she thought, things might just turn out after all.

---

Across Japan, in Osaka, a girl holds up a flyer in her hands. It’s advertising a hero school just off of the coast of the ocean.

“Hey, hey! Look at this!”

She points. Her brother comes over, brushing his fingertips over it. “That’s great, but I don’t know what it’s for.”

“I wanted to scout it out, right? I was thinking of applying—”

He cut her off. “You? To a hero school?”

“Shush! I thought it might be fun. Anyways, I went to sign up, and guess who I saw! Just guess?”

“Who,” He said, sounding largely uninterested.

“Yakizu-chan.”

The air grew much, much darker.

@taiyuu-oct

#bnha #bnha oc #writing #taiyuu #taiyuu oct #entrance exam #zuruko kayaki

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downwiththeficness · 4 years

Text

A Need So Great-Chapter 6

Summary: Eva Moore is assigned to work the last year of her contract with the DEA in Colombia. She just wants to get to the end of her tenure, but she keeps getting drawn further into a string of murders in the city. It isn’t long before she’s forced to face the ghosts of her past.

Word Count: ~2,900

Warnings: None

A/N: For the purposes of this story, Carrillo isn’t married--or, if you like, divorced. A/B/O dynamics are prevalent, and they come with their own warning. The overall rating for this story is Explicit, although not every chapter will contain adult themes.

Taglist: @dirtynerdy98 @1zashreena1 @heresathreebee @deliciouslyclassytrash

Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 7, 8, 8.5, 9, 10, 10.5, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21

True to his word, Carrillo had called her the next day, asked how she was doing. Eva was barely coherent, but she’d told him that she was okay and he’d let her get back to sleep. To her surprise, he’d called again on Sunday evening, asking if she felt better and if she had eaten. She had, but only a little.

Why don’t you take a hot bath, he’d prompted gently. You’ll feel better.

She did. And, she had felt better. By Monday morning, she was able to pull herself out of bed and head into the office. Although still sleepy, she felt more rested than she had in possibly years. Thinking back, Eva could not remember the last time a nesting period had been so fulfilling, or helpful. Though she was on the upswing, Eva had left the pillows and blankets in place. She could snuggle in them a little longer that night, before the need left her completely.

As her desk, she gathered a new stack of files, flipping through the one on top. It was the death of the informant she’d taken a look at. Eva paused, wondering if she should even read the file. She decided it would look worse if she didn’t. With a sigh, she began reading the first page. And then, the next page. And then she was moving back and forth between reports.

There was a page missing. She thumbed through it, looking to see if it had been collated incorrectly. It hadn’t. Javier had told her about a tattoo on the victim—it wasn’t included on the pages in front of her. Humming, she stood and went to the records room to see if it had slipped out in transit. It was there that Steve found her.

“Good, you’re here.”

Eva lifted her brows in question, refiling the folder in her hand.

“Javier asked me to find you and send you to help him at the church.”

She laughed, “I’m not religious.”

He put his hands on his hips, “Good, you’ll be objective.”

“Objective about what?”

“The case,” he answered, “Now, come on. I’ll take you there.”

Before she could argue, he was guiding her out of the building to the parking lot and they were on their way. It took until she was walking up the steps for her to pause and actually think about what she was doing.

“I can’t,” she nearly yelled, both hands coming up in front of her.

Steve rolled his eyes, “You can, let’s go. Javi’s waiting.”

“No,” Eva countered, lowering her voice, “I can’t do field work. I’m not allowed.”

He sucked a breath through his teeth in frustration, “You’re not. You’re going to mass. Now, in.”

Dragging her feet, Eva followed him in, folding her hands in front of her. It was a really nice church. Lots of stained glass, lots of wood. A confessional off to one side. Big cross with a Jesus on it. She walked up the aisle for what would be the second time in her life. Eva felt out of place the first time, too.

God, she’d been fourteen and so stupid, so trusting of her parents and of—of Joshua. He was smart and handsome and a fucking doctor. So stupid. So trusting. Eva could still remember that she was excited to be a wife, that she had thanked God for making happen so fast for her. She’d prayed that she would be a good partner for him, that she would learn fast. Eva had stopped believing in God the day after she got married.

Javi was standing with a priest at the back—or was it the front—of the church. They were talking animatedly, smiles all around. Eva followed Steve, waiting to be introduced.

“Eva, this is Father Martin.”

She gave a little half wave, “Hello.”

“He’s got a youth baseball league running this summer, they just got new uniforms.”

“That’s great,” she said, wondering where this was going.

“They even bought all the players new cleats. Isn’t that great?”

His expression told her that what he was saying was meaningful, and Eva was a little embarrassed that it took her a few moments to catch on. She cleared her throat and smiled congenially at the group.

“Um, could I use your restroom?”

Father Martin gestured to a hall tucked behind the confessional, “Yes, of course.”

Eva thanked him and tried not to walk too fast. She located the bathroom pretty quickly and ran the faucet while she peeked further down the hall. Couple of rooms, nothing out of the ordinary. Still, she could get a little lost. Turning off the faucet, she slipped out of the bathroom and made her way to the first room—broom closet. Crossing the hall, she opened the next door. This was where they taught whatever the Catholic equivalent was of Sunday School.

Eva had grown up like any other good Louisiana girl, a Southern Baptist. Where they gathered, there was food and Southern judgment. Her marriage had broken her of most of the things she’d once believed, but it hadn’t broken her of the good memories she had.

Reverently, she traced one of the little desks, smiling at the hand made art on the walls, little names scrawled in shaky writing. At the front was a chalk board, a bible verse carefully written in one corner, a psalm. Eva leaned on the desk and stared at it a moment, thinking that she probably could have done with a little more memorization at vacation Bible school.

Next to the chalkboard, Eva noticed that the wall was cracked. Odd. The rest of the church was in immaculate condition. Rising, she went over and touched the cracked, gasping when it cracked more. Spinning around, she looked towards the door, as if God would stroll in and strike her down for damaging His house.

Using both hands, she tried to set it straight, which only made things worse. It cracked all the way up to nearly the ceiling. With a deep sigh, she looked at it, using a nail to scratch along the edge. It lifted away easily, and she discovered the it was...on a hinge.

“What the fu—hell. Hell? Is hell better?”

Knowing she was already in it, Eva opened the makeshift door and found the back of the confessional. Brows together, she leaned in. It looked pretty normal, not that she’d ever been inside one. Well, there was a first time for everything. Primly, she turned and sat on the cushion, wiggling a bit. It wiggled with her.

Standing, Eva reached beneath the seat and lifted it. She smiled, set the cushion down and closed the door. Quickly, she scuttled out into the hall and back into the sanctuary.

The boys were still talking with the priest, thought Steve was taking the occasional photo. She gave Javier a wink, thanked the priest for the use of his facilities, and headed back outside. Javier followed her.

“What’d you find?”

“You know, I’m not supposed to be doing this. I’m supposed to be at a desk.”

“I know-”

“Then, you also know that by asking me to crime scenes you are risking my freedom.”

He looked at her for a bit, chewing on his lip, “Listen, you’re good at this. I know that, and you’re only here to visit a potential church, recommended by me.”

“You can’t just make up stories to suit your needs.”

“Why not?” he shot back, “DEA does it all the time.”

Eva looked away, “I can’t go back to prison, Javi.”

He took her by the shoulders, “You won’t. Steve and me, we’ll make sure of it.”

She nodded, crossing her arms.

“Now, what’d you find?”

“The church,” she answered, “Is hiding drugs under the seat of the confessional, probably in other places, too.”

He snapped his tongue over the back of his teeth, “You saw it.”

“I saw it.”

Dropping his hands, Javier pursed his lips, “I’m gonna call Carrillo. You sit tight out here in case it gets ugly.”

Eva shrugged, “You get the bad guys, I’m gonna go get a popscicle.”

And that’s what she did. Eva crossed the street to a tiny one stop shop and bought a cherry popscicle. Then, she found a bench where she had a good view of the front of the church and sat. As she pulled the paper apart, a couple Jeeps drove up to the church stairs and about ten or so policemen hauled ass inside, each of them wearing kevlar. Javier must have had them on stand by. Clearly, he thought he was working off good information. Perhaps, he’d snagged a nun as informant.

Separating the two pieces, Eva took the top off one and held it in her mouth, letting the sugary syrup melt over her tongue. She hadn’t had one of these in a long time, couldn’t remember the last one. Carefully, she tipped it over, slurping up one side.

Even from across the street, she could hear raised voices. They’d told the priest what she’d found, no doubt.

Eva sat there watching the police bring out load after load of cocaine, an astonishing amount, really. When she’d finished the popscicle, she got up and threw the wrapper and wooden sticks in the trash. On her way back, she saw Carrillo crossing the street towards her. Like his men, he was also kitted up. Eva was surprised that they’d found a bulletproof vest that could fit his broad shoulders. In any case, it was good look for him.

She sat, leaving enough room for him, a wordless invitation that he took.

“Having fun storming the castle?”

He huffed a short laugh, “I don’t know that ‘fun’ is how I would describe it.”

Eva hummed, knowing what he meant, then, “Guess its better than sitting at a desk.”

“On that, we agree. Javi tells me that you were the one who found the drugs.”

She shrugged, “Stumbled upon them, really.”

Carrillo looked at her, sidelong, “You have good eyes for this. I should put you on my payroll.”

Pleased by the complement, she allowed herself to feel a little bit of pride despite the fact that she really had simply stumbled upon the drugs.

Leaning back, Eva let her voice come out in a slow drawl, “I don’t know that you want to do that.”

He assessed her expression, asking, “Why?”

“Because,” she explained, matter of fact, “I don’t kiss the men who sign my paychecks.”

One side of his mouth lifted, a kind of playful light in his eyes, “I can get someone else to sign the paycheck.”

Feeling a blush rise to her cheeks, Eva looked away, saw that the priest was being cuffed in the doorway.

“What will happen to him?”

Carrillo’s face hardened a bit, “We’ll book him and he will make bail. He’ll be back before Sunday services.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

Is that how it worked in this country? She supposed that was how it worked everywhere—plenty of Josh’s boys got off without charges, plenty made bail, plenty went right back to what they were doing.

“What a load of bullshit.”

Carrillo laughed outright, “That is how it is.”

She opened her mouth and closed it, looking at her hands.

He lifted one hand and tapped the outside of her thigh once, “Inside thought?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Tell me—is it insulting?” He looked intrigued.

She shook her head, “More sad, I think.”

“Tell me.”

Sighing deeply, she simply said, “I was just thinking that whoever leaked the information to Javier is going to be crucified. I was also thinking that saying this out loud would be in poor taste.”

Carrillo made a sound of agreement, and then there was a few minutes where they both watched the priest being walked from the church to one of the Jeeps.

“How are you feeling?”

Eva was a little startled by the question, but she recovered quickly, “I’m better. Thank you for your help last week. It...made a difference.”

He acknowledged her thanks with a bob if his head, “You are welcome, and I am glad. When was the last time you nested?”

Her shock must have shown on her face because he went on, “When we met, the first thing I noticed was that you looked like you needed to take some time to nest.”

“The first thing?” Her? Sarcastic? No...

He gave a little shrug, abashed, “Okay, the second thing.”

God, but she wanted to needle him just a little bit, to volley back the unbalanced feeling he so often stirred in her. It took half a second to agree with herself that she should—just a little.

Eva turned, resting her elbow on the back of the bench and laying her head on her hand, “What was the first?”

She could tell he was regretting saying it, but Eva was curious, and she had a hard time not being curious about things. She did, however, keep the satisfied look off her face when his cheeks tinged with pink.

“Tell me,” she urged, echoing his tone from not a few minutes before.

Carrillo’s shoulders pulled down and she got the feeling that he was trying to make himself less threatening, an unconscious movement that told her he’d always been a little too large among his peers. She could see in that small movement that he’d learned early on that he was intimidating. She could also see that he probably knew when to use that to his advantage and when to pull back.

“You know the answer to that question, Eva,” he said eventually.

She held up a finger, “I might know.”

After a deep inhale followed by a controlled exhale, he said, “I cannot believe I am saying this...Your scent. You know that it was your scent. I couldn’t fucking breathe in that conference room. I thought my blood was going to boil in my veins.”

The words tumbled out quickly, but his tone was so reticent that there were little unusual pauses in his sentences. He definitely did not want to be saying it, but he clearly couldn’t help it, and it looked like that frustrated him. Eva bit her lip, touched by how ridiculously honest he was being with her at that moment. She should reward him for that honesty.

“Do you want to know a secret?”

He looked at her and nodded sharply, just once.

Eva moved a little closer and pitched her voice low, “I knew what you smelled like a month before we were introduced. I even saw you first, like a few weeks before. It was the only way I got through that meeting with any dignity.”

There. She’d given him a fair trade. Eva did not need to add that she’d masturbated to that scent over and over for the month prior (and since). She didn’t think she would ever really have the courage to tell him that much. Just the thought made heat rise in her chest and cheeks.

He shifted to face her, “How?”

She tilted her head to the side in a low arc, “You would come in to talk with one of the agents, we’d just miss each other and I could scent you a few times.”

His eyes narrowed and she could see the wheels turning in his head, “You said you saw me.”

“Yes, I did. Not for long, and from across the room. But, I knew.”

Strong fingers brushed down the forearm holding her head aloft, “How did you stand it? After—I think I lasted less than twenty four hours before I was coming up with ways to see you again.”

Eva smiled, “I was just happy that I could feel that intensely. I think I wanted to savor it.”

He cocked his head to the side, eyes running over her face and downwards, catching on the way her skirt had hitched up a bit, “You never…”

She shook her head, “Josh was a beta. After we got married, I was on a tight leash. And after, there wasn’t much opportunity.”

There went that jagged fury that billowed through his scent when she mentioned her marriage. She made a mental note to steer away from the subject, if she could. His mouth opened and closed, and her mouth widened in a smile.

“You just had an inside thought.”

He laughed, “I did.”

“Well, out with it.”

Carrillo, still smiling, said, “I think I’ve revealed enough for one day.”

Eva looked down, “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

He touched underneath her chin, “Don’t apologize for wanting to know my thoughts, hmm? I want to know yours constantly.”

“I pretty much say whatever I’m thinking, Big Guy.”

His name sounded from across the street and he straightened, listening.

“I need to go,” he said after a moment. “We’ll talk later.”

Eva watched him go, a warm feeling coming over her. She liked him a little too much, she knew that. She also knew that she was going to do absolutely nothing about it.

#narcos #horacio carrillo #carrillo #A Need So Great

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