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writesick-lover · 11 months ago

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Jabberjays and Mockingjays

Coriolanus Snow x reader

⤞ My masterlist ⤝

Summary: You meet Coriolanus Snow during his service as a Peacekeeper in the 12th district. The 10th Hunger Games were forgotten, Lucy Gray was gone and Snow is now stuck with someone who promises a fair company. What looks like a happy ending can easily turn into an ugly betrayal. All it takes is a click of a device.

A/N: Happy holidays everyone! Stay safe, lots of love and if you like my work feel free to like reblog and comment! :)

Also if you want to ask me anything -> /ask

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Coriolanus Snow served his time in District 12, mostly bored out of his mind. He tried to accompany other Peacekeepers to the bar every evening in search of at least some fun, just for his eyes to find the podium and fall on the victor of the 10th Hunger Games. He gritted his teeth as Lucy Gray left the podium, performing another of her songs like always. Not a glance spared his way.

Instead, she threw herself onto a nearby chair, stuffing her mouth with a small piece of meat she got for her performance. Her fingers dug into the bone. Her lips were smeared with grease. A wave of disgust rose in him, sending shivers down his whole being. She was a victor. How could she live like this? How could she just come back and live her ordinary and poor life after what she has been through? And how could she treat him like a ghost? After what he had done for her?

While there was disgust in Snow, there was never an ounce of anger. After all, if it wasn't for Highbottom, he would be in Capitol holding his prize, knowing damn well he played the same games as she did. That's just how it was. And if Lucy Gray hadn't known how to play the game, she wouldn't have been a victor. But the game was over, Lucy Gray was rather forgotten and so was he, now stuck in the poorest district, forced to do the dirtiest work, his ego hurting every time he looked around, knowing very well he did not belong here, at least not like Sejanus seemed to.

It was a sunny day when Snow creeped out of the centre of the 12th and towards the flower-covered Meadow. His heart was beating out of his chest as his legs carried him down the hill to a lonesome tree, watching over the rest of the woods down in the alley. It was where he spoke with Lucy Gray for the last time. He came unarmed, relying on the completely abandoned stones under the tree. Yet, they weren't. Not really.

"You can go keep peace where it's actually wanted," a voice from above made him jump up. His right hand immediately reached for the absent belt on his hips. He almost forgot he didn't bring his gun, didn't think he needed it. As his eyes slowly scanned the tree trunk from the roots to the branches, he noticed a sly smirk flashing between the greenery of the tree's leaves. The intruder seemed to be amused by his scare. He couldn't help but frown in confusion as a disobedient smirk already sat on his lips. How did he not notice?

"Got you good, huh?" the person spoke once again, now their voice coming from in front of him, accompanied by an intentionally loud thud that made him jump once again, this time his palm reaching for his heart.

His widened eyes scanned the person that now stood steadily on the ground, already knowing they had to be from the Covey. The pieces of colourful fabric that covered their body, matched with the green of the forest and the occassional bright colour of the flowers. The crown on their head was made of early dandelions. And the fact that no one in their right mind except the Covey would dare to stray so far away from the District's centre, gave Coriolanus a clear answer who this person was.

But Coriolanus knew he was an exception as well. He also dared to stray this far away.

"Do you greet everyone like this?" he breathed out the air he was holding in his lungs up until now.

"No, just lost peacekeepers who seem to get in the way," you shrugged, already taking him in from head to toe. No weapons, but white hair cut into a buzzcut which would sort him into the peacekeeper's family immediately, if his uniform wasn't giving that out already. It made you scoff.

"You shouldn't be here," the peacekeeper's voice broke the silence. "I could call the others if I wanted to," he threatened, but it only made you laugh out loud, your melodic laughter catching the attention of the birds around.

"What's so funny?" you looked back at the man in front of you, only to find his composure completely serious, almost as if he meant everything he said. "You cannot do anything here," you spoke, the giggles still hearable in your voice. "You shouldn't be here as well,"

"But neither should you," the blond repeated once again.. "Covey is way lower in the alley, you barely come here,"

"They barely do. Let's say I come here a bit more, alone," your voice got lost in the breeze around you as your last few words turned into a whisper. Nevertheless, you straightened up your posture, waiting for the peacekeeper's next words, ready to flee if needed.

"Coriolanus Snow," was what came from between his lips. Your eyes widened. "That's my name," Coriolanus felt like he had to explain, based on your confused expression. "Y/n," you let out, not believing your own ears. A mischievous smile painted his lips, "Well, Y/n, what now? I like to come here alone too,"

If someone had told you a peacekeeper would accompany you through your days in the Meadow, you would laugh into their face. There was no way. But Coriolanus turned out to be different. He started to talk to you about how it was in the Capitol. You started to teach him how to survive in the wild.

"Don't eat that!" you scolded him once as you walked through the trees, hiding from the hot flames of the sun's beams. "That's nightlock! You could be dead in a minute," you found yourself screaming, smearing the juice of the berries on his hands, trying to get rid of the deadly fruit.

"I... didn't know. They looked like the berries you showed me the other day," he said, stunned, staring at the dark purple on his hands.

"They do, but they are not. Let's get you cleaned," you grabbed his hand, the paint smearing your hand too. You dragged him deeper into the woods, the trees thickening. But they were no escape from the hotness now, its source coming from your hands intertwined together, his piercing gaze burning the tips of your ears.

You soon found out you were drawn closer to the convicted ex-citizen of Capitol, and he was too, something you never imagined, even in your wildest dreams.

"If you could be anywhere but here, where would you go?" he asked you once, his curious eyes watching you. "I would just disappear to the woods," you hummed. You didn't notice his subtle smile dropping. "What about you?" you asked Coriolanus, taking in his strong features in the setting sun. The orange brought a bit of warmth into his usually cold stare.

"Woods sound nice. But I don't think it's my forte," he mumbled, his eyes already stuck on you. "I will have to be careful about the nightlock. And what would I do when you leave?" his fingers crept up your neck, sending shivers through you, but you let him, wondering how far they would dare to go.

"You could come. I would have shown you everything," you found yourself whispering once again, but he could hear you.

"I think with you I could," he whispered back, the breeze bringing his voice to you before it was locked between your lips, moving against each other, dancing like the leaves in the wind. There was no more Lucy Grey on his mind, and maybe he was actually willing to throw away his Capitol dream for a time in the woods with you. Because he didn't think he had a shot at coming back to the Capitol.

After a while, Coriolanus brought a friend of his, Sejanus. And although you found yourself a bit bitter about it, he started to become your company more and more by day. But he also started to grow closer to your heart.

"What would you do if you could go anywhere you wanted to, Sejanus?" you asked in the middle of the night, hanging from the tree as Sejanus looked up at you.

"I would go see my parents," he spoke softly. And then he added, "I can't visit them and I wish I could. But it's okay. I am fine with where I am right now, as long as I am free from the Capitol,"

Your eyes darted to the blond but Coryo just laughed.

Sejanus didn't.

Coriolanus leaned himself against the wooden cage full of birds they came to catch. You couldn't remember the name, but he told you they were mutts, destroying nature, creating mutations.

"We will run," Sejanus started. A silence fell upon you three. Then a subtle click sounded in the air and Sejanus continued. "I spoke with some people from the district. We will rescue Lil and escape through the loose fence," Again, all of you fell silent. Your heartbeat rose. "What?" you whispered to the night but Coryo cut you off. "You won't survive a minute there, Sejanus, you're from Capitol-"

"I'm a good shot," you watched Sejanus turn to Coriolanus, both their glances determined to convince the other. A good shot. You thought, soon enough realising. The rebels have guns.

"Why are you saying this?" Coriolanus asked out loud, his voice cold.

"It's us, together, remember? You are my friend," you watched Sejanus' lips spread into what looked like a smile in the moonlight. You couldn't help but smile too. This might be your chance.

"There is a new bird in the woods. I think I saw it before, but I don't remember where," you commented on one of your casual walks with Snow a few days later. He arched his eyebrow but didn't act surprised at all. Yet, he still asked. "Really? Which one?" he said, almost uninterested, lost in his thoughts. "That one," you stopped in your tracks, making his stiff body bump into you. He hissed before looking up, his fingers unconsciously wrapping around your wrist.

"Oh, you mean Jabberjays?" he whispered, making you gasp. You found yourself backed up against the tree trunk, your left wrist pinned against the hard bark, Coryo's hand already on your collarbone, slowly sneaking up your neck like a snake. Your right hand automatically fell on his hip.

"Yes, Jabberjays," you repeated, your face brightening, hearing something click. Suddenly, your voice spread through the air, repeating the same word billions of times. "We were here to capture them, remember?" Coryo spoke through the mimic of your voice, so similar, you almost thought your mouth must have kept on going. Your hand travelled to his arm, and down to his fingers, holding something. You hugged his hand in yours slowly picking it up, while withholding eye contact, his bright blue eyes sending cold down your body as usual.

"And this is how you set them off, right?" his fingers let go of the device under the touch of your fingers. "This is what they used during the revolution," your voice was now all quiet as you turned the device off. "They used it to spy on people,"

"On rebels," Coryo nodded, drawing closer.

"Are they spying on us now?" you looked up, stopping him with your gaze. He looked up, staring at you intently, switching between your eyes and lips.

"Could they hear about our escape?" and before you could ask anything else, his lips were on yours once again, their warmth contrasting to his always freezing gaze. His hand around your neck, becoming tighter with every graze, his movements more passionate.

"Coryo," you breathed. He smirked at the nickname but didn't answer and shut you up with more kisses. "Coriolanus," you tried again but to no avail. "Coriolanus Snow," you finally spoke out loud, making him groan.

"You need to go," he frowned at your statement. "Duty calls?" you smiled a bit at his state, his eyes widening as he realised he was about to be late. "See you by the tree," were the words he spoke before he rushed out of the woods. Leaving you alone, with the small device still in your hand.

You waited. You waited for days, but there was no sign of Coriolanus nor Sejanus. You almost forgot how it was to spend your days alone, sitting in the crown of the tree, your only company the birds flying around. Suddenly you took notice of the Jabberjays and Mockingjays, spending your time saying something, making Jabberjays say it back and watching as the Mockingjays repeated the intonation of your voice.

But after a few hours, you couldn't keep on going. You found it foreign and scary, how well the Jabberjays repeated what you wanted them to. Their eyes were empty, looking almost pointless when they didn't have anything to repeat. But one day, there were no Jays to keep you company. There was no sun, no breeze. Just silence. Everywhere.

You found it disturbing. For the first time in your life, you willingly made your way to the centre of District 12. But you found it empty just the same. Except for the square by the hanging tree. And then you realised.

You wanted to run away badly, kept ordering your feet to turn around and flee, knowing you were never the type to digest the hanging. But you didn't stop, no, you kept going until you arrived, standing in the audience on one of the stairs above the crowd, your eyes darting to the boy standing under one of the branches. His dark eyes screamed in fear with dark messy curls falling into them, occasionally silencing his already silent pleads. Your stomach turned. Sejanus.

But why? Why would they hang him? He was a peacekeeper, he did his job well. The only thing you knew was unpopular with the peacekeepers, was befriending the district's citizens. But they all did, they were all poor just the same.

There was a woman on the other side of the tree. You recognised her. Her husband was hanged a while ago, you heard. Her name was Lil? One of the rebels. And you started to understand.

You found Coryo pretty quickly. After all, he was standing right under the tree. Gun in his hand. His eyes trained somewhere in the distance. At you. Coriolanus Snow kept his composure, not an ounce of expression on his face. How could he stand there? Without moving? How could he not protest against the death of his friend? Wasn't he, too, supposed to run away with them? Run away...

You were brought back to the night Sejanus told him about the plan. There was a click, a cage full of birds you couldn't remember, until Coriolanus told you days later, that Jabberjays, they are able to copy exactly what you say if you use the device to record. The device you held in your hand, tied to the birds sitting on the tree.

Peacekeepers keeping peace under it with two rebels about to be hung. Jabberjays and Mockingjays, all together, one created by Capitol, the other by the district. Your fingers moved in your pocket, you heard the click as a thick rope was thrown over Sejanus' throat.

"No!" he yelled out. "Ma! No, please, Ma! Help me Ma!" his screams filled the air, sending shivers of terror down everyone's spine. Except Coriolanus Snow, who didn't move, his eyes stuck on you, your hand, the black device in it. Small tears formed in his eyes as the sound of rope tightening filled the air, the sound of wood falling to the lower platform, Sejanus' screams never falling silent, filling the branches above his head.

The Jabberjays screamed, the Mockingjays mocking them and with the return of the wind, you were gone, away from the district, away from the lonesome tree, away from Coriolanus Snow, away from the device created by Capitol.

♦️ ♦️ ♦️ ♦️

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basilone · 8 months ago

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Thanks for the reminder, I've had the prompt page open since yesterday in a tab. Can I prompt 06. — surface for either Brady and/or an OC of your choice, please?

Love that my little post from a bit ago reminded you that you wanted to send me something! 💙 I had to sit with this one a moment, as I'm still wrangling Brady in my brain, but landed on the following...

surface

He hears her before he sees her.

It’s rather a common occurrence on base these days. Can’t move five feet without hearing a woman’s raised voice carry over the din. Can’t set foot outside a hut without hearing their shouts or their laughter – in worst cases both at once – as if all of Thorpe Abbotts now belongs to them. The woman currently cursing up a storm in the belly of his plane is one of the worst offenders. Voice with the power of a foghorn, voice that only seems to stop when she’s eating or sleeping, voice that has all but elbowed its way into his subconsciousness already.

John Brady heaves a sigh. Takes another sip of his coffee while he leans against the one part of the space that hasn’t been subjected to her rather impressive array of tools. She treats this plane like she owns it, having draped her jacket over the other gun, using her previously pristine white scarf as an extra cloth to wipe the grime off her hands with before unceremoniously flinging it to the floor. He eyes the dirtied scarf a moment. Refocuses on her only when she lets out a rather large snort.

“You on your coffee break, Brady, or are you thinking ’bout helping?”

“Helping with what?”

She wipes at her forehead. Leaves it with streaks of black. “Damn gun keeps jamming on reload. Max complained about it after our last run. She kept having to slam down on it with her fist.” Her dark eyes narrow as she peers at the gun’s slide. “Son of a bitch is gonna cost me more work, think it needs to come apart before we’re wheels up again.”

“Just the one, not the other?” John nods at her jacket. Isn’t surprised when she nods back to indicate that only one of their guns is out for the count. “Sounds like a job for Morrison herself.”

“Max ain’t flying this one next time. Egan said she’s up with him, and Dee’s gonna be wheels up with Crank. Guess we’re getting one of their gunners in return?” She scoffs a moment. Rakes her short hair back best she can, which isn’t well at all. “Don’t you look at me like that, ain’t our fault brass keeps shuffling crews like a deck of cards!”

“Just wondering about the end game,” he says carefully, setting his empty cup down atop her toolbox. “They’ve been moving you around different crews since Trondheim. Filling gaps.”

“Softenin’ y’all up for more female replacements, more like,” she snipes. Her hands deftly pry a part of the gun away from the slide. “C’mere, hold this for me, easier with two”– and his hands are on the panel before he can think twice about following orders –“gonna get this baby up and running for you and me. I don’t wanna get mid-flight only for this to decide it don’t wanna play no more.”

John’s eyebrow raises. “Keeping me company, Perrault?”

Her laugh is throaty but loud. “Sweet baby Jesus, you and Darlene are just about the only ones gettin’ my name right around these parts. Egan keeps callin’ me Perry, for fuck’s sake, and all them rest calls me Push. Stupid nickname.” Her hand covers his a moment, directing him to the edge of the panel. He takes a shallow breath in through his mouth as she leans forward and fills the air with gasoline-and-grease smell. “But yeah, Jules said they were gonna shift me to your crew for the next run. Somethin’ about your engineer getting frostbite up in the turret?”

“Hole in his suit.”

“That’s shit,” she says conversationally, tugging at the gun between them until it clicks apart. “Can ya take me through this baby once we get this gun fixed? I like to know what I’m workin’ with. Know she had a belly landin’ not too long ago, yeah?” She hums as he kicks a wrench over to her. “Ken said she’s all right now, but I want a look at that landing gear before we go.”

“Landing gear should be okay. More worried about the plating around the second engine,” he confesses as he holds two parts of the gun while she’s loosening a third. “It felt like it wasn’t quite feathering the way it should.”

“What, on the surface? Or deeper?”

“Could be deeper. Think it’s surface.”

“You tell Ken that?” She grins at him, unapologetic, as he frowns at her. “Of course ya did. You’re a smart one, John Brady.”

“Perrault,” he says, feeling just a little unmoored about the totally sober way she just called him smart, “just don’t get frostbite up there.”

He flinches a little at her booming laugh. Bites his tongue when her oil-stained hand lands atop his. She pats it reassuringly, as if that’s answer enough in the universe she inhabits. No boundaries between pilot and engineer, or so Bucky would say. The man’s insane.

“Chin up,” she says, then, and her hand squeezes his fingers before letting go. “Your face went all sour lemon. Thinking about repairs?”

“Bucky and his big mouth, actually,” he says, before he can stop himself.

Perrault lets out a groan that practically reverberates off the walls. “Please, say no more.”

“You too?”

He decides he likes Perrault just plenty when she rolls her eyes and slams the wrench down on the gun’s chamber. “Lord, where do we start?”

#masters of the air #john brady #oc: push #mota oc #basilonefic

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dark-elf-writes · 8 months ago

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We all agree that I have too many au’s right? Right?

So anyway the bodyguard thing I was talking about yesterday has grown legs and won’t leave me alone.

Pushing the timeline back a fair amount so Cloud is eighteen when he gets to Midgar and already has a solid amount of experience under his belt just from random odd jobs/monster hunting/traveling. And sometime in his odyssey to Midgar the president dies and Rufus takes over.

Now Rufus has a choice for how he can run the company and he decides the most annoying way to his father’s legacy that would still put him in a good light with the public would be to go for the family company route, meaning all the known bastards (*coughlazardcough*) are recognized and paternity tests for any suspiciously blond perspective employees become the norm.

And Cloud is immediately flagged as a possible Shinra when he eventually shows up.

A quick paternity test and not so quick total meltdown later and Cloud is presented with his new future whether he likes it or not.

Because there is no way any Shinra could be treated as someone lesser (and because Rufus would eat his own gun before he let the science department and Hojo specifically get their hands on any Shinra test subjects) Cloud can’t be in SOLDIER. But they also… don’t really know what to do with him.

He is treated as the public darling as he is the youngest Shinra Bastard currently known and he at least looks far more innocent than any of his half siblings, but other than letting him roam the Shinra building and occasionally finding him lurking in the garages tinkering with whatever motorcycles he can get his hands on there’s no real… place for him.

And then he barges into Rufus’ office with proof that Palmer is embezzling funds gained through his budding friendship with several of the engineers in the space department who took a liking to him after seeing him covered in engine grease with those big wide eyes that really couldn’t mean any harm, and Rufus realizes he is sitting on a gold mine.

Cloud is as close to a common man as any Shinra could be, has the youthful innocence look down, and is ruthless enough to offer up the head of a department on a silver platter to his older brother because and he quotes “I mean if he’s stealing from you then he’s stealing from me”

So Rufus sets Cloud to be his spy inside the company to uncover where the problems are from the bottom up undercover boss style.

The only problem?

Cloud will be gaining enemies fast once changes start rolling out and he has slipped every bodyguard he has put in the kid up to and including his Turks, and there is no way in hell he is going to assign the kid Tseng who is his.

So Rufus has to look for bodyguards elsewhere who are strong, fast, and smart enough to keep up with Cloud but who also won’t get in the way of his spying.

Enter Kunsel. Who is all but running a spy network of his own, has the enhancements to keep up with Cloud when he’s in his moods, and somehow has earned the kids loyalty after one afternoon spent in a training room.

Surely with a SOLDIER assigned to him Cloud can’t get into too much trouble right? Right?!!

#the elf talks #ff7 #just cloud bothering his brothers vibing. with reeve and engaging in a healthy dose of corporate espionage

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jwnchstr · 2 years ago

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waiting for superman | m.s47

title: waiting for superman part 1

characters: you/reader/catherine, mick schumacher

summary: when your father (a former ferrari mechanic) was diagnosed with alzheimer's, your world turns upside down. you had to give up your city life, get back to your village to take care of your father. but what hurts the most is being so close to him and seeing him not remember you (catherine) as well as every precious moment in his life with you. you start to questions about everything until mick schumacher (your childhood best friend) comes back into your life and teaches you life lessons that you're sure will remember forever.

other f1 fics | masterlist | my wattpad

waiting for superman part 2 | 3 | 4 | 5

working is stressful enough. and driving 30 minutes just to get home can make you feel like killing yourself. those traffics. people breaking for no reason. people driving above speed limit as if they're in a drift competition. but oh well, except for today.

you decided to take a longer route home today even if that means you will be spending extra 10 minutes on the road to reach home. but with your current life, you know needed those 10 minutes because it's literally the only time that you have for yourself. accompanied by nothing but the hum of your tyres and the sound of the car engine. that little white noise somehow makes you calm than the sound of the ocean meeting the shore.

there were a lot of things you are thinking right now but for once, it's not about money. you have some savings enough for the next four months (you've been saving up since your first year at an engineering company in the city centre). so even though you're now only working as a barista, you don't worry about money much. and with your father's condition, the financial assisstant given by the government are quite enough for his medication and to pay for his caretaker.

in the car, your mind takes you back when you were little. how you were always in your father's shadow. despite being a girl, you would always be seen with bolts and nuts, spanners, hammers, car spare parts in your hands. oil and grease on your face. instead of playing with dolls, you'd play with karts, toy cars, nerf guns, video games. the amount of time you spent with your father's colleagues in the hotels. you would follow everywhere your father goes. you would often be seen at the ferrari's garage, surrounded with ferrari engineers and mechanics, asking them this and that. watching them like you're the boss.

but the clouds aren't always clear. things would always crumbling down while you're at the highest of high. it's like the god is calling you and to humble you down. after getting a phone call from your neighbour who told you that your father was always found at the police station, they suggested you to get your father diagnosed. he has alzheimer's disease for a year now and it's not getting any better. if anything, it gets worse and fast deteroriate.

because yesterday specifically, he didn't remember who you are. he didn't remember your name. he wasn't sure why you were in his house. he even called his mom (who died many years ago) and kicked you out of the house. you know your neighbours saw what happened. you just hope they didn't get the wrong idea about your family because you know your father will not kick you out of his house if he didn't lost his mind. good thing annie the caretaker lives with you. she sedated your father. when everything's calmed, you locked yourself in your room and cried.

yesterday was not the first night you cried since your father was diagnosed. but it was the most painful yet. to witness your father calling his mother who was dead for years. to see an unknowing look when he sees your face. your name didn't give him a clue of who you are. he said something about calling andrea. and you know who andrea and that's where you know you're fucked. because both you and you father hate your mum.

all of the times you spent together with him got deleted from his memory just like that. you remember when you were younger. you used to get mad at your father for not giving you enough attention but if you knew your father was going to get alzheimer's and that he won't remember you ever, you wouldn't beg your father for attention.

so what now? you can't just make a conversation with him now. you can't get straight to your point because every time you will try tell him something exciting, you will have to tell him from the start. from before the news. the concert your favourite is going to make. your plan on seeing them. when the ticket purchasing is open and you got yourself the very expensive one (the package includes meet and greet with the band backstage before concert, a handful of merchandise that include lanyard, rainbow light stick, bracelet, photo album from the first few concerts, free drinks.) the songs list. though at one point, you stop talking.

"nevermind. you won't remember it at all," you'd tell your father.

"i'm sorry."

"it's okay."

no. it's never okay. because he used to remember things that you like, love and hate the most. he remembered things that made you cry and laugh. he knew the bad jokes just to put a smile on your face. both of you used to say bad things about your mum and laughed about it. now he talks about her.

and he definitely hates you now. you know it's his routine to go out at 11 in the morning to meet his friends somewhere in the neighbourhood. he would usually be back home by lunch time. he would walk home since most of his friends are also too old to drive. but after a few times being found by the police and your neighbour had to fetch him at the police station, he's banned to leave the house without a partner even if he's not meeting his friends. annie will usually tidy and clean the house in the morning and you work in the morning until five. like a teenager, he's in a rebellion phase where he doesn't want to talk to you though he's still being friendly with annie.

you're lost. you don't know what to do. you tried asking the doctors some advice. you tried asking a community for a solution. you tried inviting his friends over to your house instead but at the end of the day, your father still wants to go out during the time that neither you nor annie were available. it hurts you everywhere realising that you lost your lovely father.

you feel your eyes sting. they water a little bit before you blink them away. but it's not like you to cry on a daylight. so you sit in your car as you drive within speed limit, head hurts from holding back your tears. the traffic is as normally heavy today but you're not stuck. you enjoy every second of the drive until a big dog crosses the road. you to slam your break. your tyres screech.

luckily you were already inside a rich neighbourhood. the familiar, quiet and deserted neighbourhood where there are less cars, more trees, big and well-maintained park. you rarely come here unless you're visiting one of two of your rich friends. shocked, the dog doesn't move. he stays in front of your car in the middle of the road, crying for his mistake. you pull your handbreak and press the hazard light button before you leave your car to check up on the dog.

"hey, buddy."

the dog whines. he watches as you approach him, gives you his best puppy dog eyes so that you would not be angry at him and help him instead. he belongs to someone because there's a collar around his neck though without a name and a phone number. smoothing your fingers through the dog's fur, you help him calm down.

"oh, thank god, you're okay," you'd say. "are you supposed to be here, little buddy? where did you come from, huh? where's your human?"

the dog whimpers while you continue to caress his neck, his back, his head. you can feel him shaking uncontrollably under your palms. instantly, you feel bad for him even though it's not your fault to make him scared in the first place.

"augustine!" comes a male voice from over the dog's shoulder. "augustine. oh thank god! there you are! you got me worried sick about you!"

every problem you had about your life was gone when you see the dog and when you had to hit the break paddle but now as the familiar blonde-haired man with blue eyes is in front of you, you feel your heart explodes. something caught in your throat. your blood withdrawn from your face. you feel like your world is crashing down and rebuilding with a new kind of good problem. out of the many places and times, why must you see mick schumacher now?

mick was your childhood bestfriends. since he's inseparable with his sister gina and since your age is not so different with her, you're best friends with her too. and being bestfriends with the siblings is like being the third child to their parents corinna and michael. so they know you. you know them. your father is a friend of michael and he was one of the few people that was allowed to see michael when he got into that tragic accident. things changed when mick got so busy with his formula siries career and you're busy studying to be an engineer. it's been years since you last saw him. well, until today.

mick, who has yet to notice you there, lets out a long sigh. you watch him as he puts his attention on dog---augustine. he kneels in front of augustine, checking his body for cuts and bloods. when there's nothing serious, he sighs one more time. relieved, his shoulders relaxed.

"augustine... what did i tell you about running off the street?"

the dog shoves his muzzle into the male's underarm, hiding his face and continues to whimper. it's as if he is apologising to mick that he's being reckless and maybe promise not to do it again.

"you could've been killed, do you know that?"

mick looks up at you now after feeling like it's enough to scold augustine. plus, they're still in the middle of one side of the road. and his reaction mirrors you when you first found out that it's mick in front of you.

"catherine?"

"hi, mick."

you smile. you feel like being a high school girl again for having your crush looking right at you. he is exactly the kind of prince charming most girls used to dream of when they were children. only you have had met your prince charming ever since you were little.

mick's eyes studies your face that he hasn't seen in a few years. "h--- hi."

things get awkward. you didn't know what else to say. you keep smiling.

"i'm--- uhh--- i'm sorry about augustine," mick stutters a little. "we were just playing freebies. at the park. and then she thought we lost the freebies so she went hunting for it."

so agustine is a she.

"don't worry about it." you wave a hand. "what's important is that she's fine, isn't she."

"a bit traumatised, i bet. but other than that, she's fine, yeah." mick smiles at you even though his eyes are on augustine who is sitting like a good dog near his leg.

a short silence falls between you and mick again until mick feels augustine nudges his leg.

"i--- i should get going."

get going? five minutes ago you're sure you felt like running away when you saw mick. in face, you didn't want to meet anyone you knew who lives in this street because you hate telling stories about your father. the shock in their faces. the simpathy. they send condolences but they never meet their hearts. because none of them never experienced what you're experiencing now. but when mick stands up, pets his dog to follow, turns around towards the direction they came, you feel like stopping them. because when interacting with them you weren't thinking about your problems for once. it feels fresh.

but despite that, you didn't have the courage to call mick even though you were his childhood bestfriends. even though you grew up in the same village. even though both of you used to play with dirts together at the horse barn at your neighbour's. all of your learned how to ride a horse together with your neighbour's kids but only gina turned out to make it a career. how he would follow you and your father hunting in the woods. you were there when he decided to be serious with karting. you would reconsider to do it if you still had that dream job, one where you and mick weren't having that huge gap in terms of your career. but it's different now. mick is a succesful formula one driver and you're just a barista. it sounds crazy if he wants to go out with you.

but you haven't seen him for years! you could kill yourself if you didn't go out with mick for at least once in your youth. to see how he is like as a someone closer than just a friend. if it didn't work out, it's okay, you think. you can still be friends with him like he is friends with justine. so you open your mouth to call mick. you were glad nothing came out because before you could find your voice, mick stops on the road divider. augustine follows just as when he stops. he turns around and approaches you once again.

"sorry." he chuckles nervously. "i know this sounds a bit crazy but i'm free for the rest of the day today. and i was wondering if... if you'd like to have some coffee with me."

you heart blossoms. "i would if you don't mind me driving for you."

you definitely didn't plan to say that though. it's just that your car is kind of brand new so it's hard to put a trust on somebody else to drive your car even though he is an f1 driver.

mick chuckles. "i don't. new car?"

"kind of," you answer as mick inspects your car. the tyres. the sportrim. the skirting. the tinted windows. the custom colour of your car. "it's two years old though but it till feels like it's new."

mick is definitely in love with your car.

"look at how shiny your car is."

mick rounds your car, pushes augustine into the back of your car and apologises when augutine's legs cause a dirts on your seats. though you wish you brought old towel or newpapers, but you dismiss mick and drives him back to the park (though you have make to u-turn) for him to collect his belongings that he left when chasing after augustine. good thing nothing was stolen.

you ended up settling down at a coffee shop in the city centre with mick beside you and augustine comfortably lying on her stomach by mick's foot. you recognise this particular coffee shop because a year ago you were one of their regular customers to get coffee first thing in the morning before work. their coffee never felt expensive to you.

until now...

"the fact that we haven't seen each other for years, i feel like i should introduce myself," mick jokes.

"we just haven't seen each other, mick. we're not strangers."

mick laughs. "how have you been doing?"

to be honest, you don't know how to answer mick's question. well, how do you answer when a year and a half ago, you learned that your father has alzheimer's disease. and then you have to resign from your old company, say goodbye to your dreams, pack your bags and return home. you weren't ready for what comes next. nobody from your circle told you what to expect when your father has alzheimer's. so when he starts to forget about you, it hurts so bad.

"i'm... good."

"the delay doesn't sound good."

"i don't have anything else to say."

mick stares at you for a few seconds. it feels like he is reading your mind. it feels as if he already knew what happened to your father but didn't want to feel like he knows everything so he keeps quiet. you're damn sure he is waiting for you to tell him but the question is, are you ready? even if he already knew about your family?

didn't feel comfortable, you gulp and look away before returning your gaze to him.

"enough about me. how about you? how are you doing? how's your career?"

mick doesn't look pleased with the question. he presses his lips together. as trained, he answers "there are many ups and downs with the teams. didn't manage to finish last race but we're looking forward to the next race and definitely we will work harder."

"seriously? you're using that voice with me?"

"what voice?"

"your working voice," you state. "when you're answering interviews. you have this kind of voice. and that staged answers--- i know you memorise them. come on. tell me something i don't know."

mick wonders and he wonders a lot. and you definitely didn't know what you don't know and mick decides to wait and see if he's right.

"well, seb is visiting us next week."

"really?"

your face lights up hearing sebastian vettel's name as you're close to him too. his kids are a bundle joy. though you only meet them when he's visiting mick but they remember you and that's what matters. having a father who was once a part of the motorsport team gave you a lot of advantages and experiences a normal girl didn't have.

your father was michael's mechanic at ferrari. and michael was close to him at home but closer since they spent so much time together around the globe. and michael was close to sebastian so that makes your father closed with sebastian. and you too. at some point, all of you are connected.

you thought of bringing your father to see sebastian at mick's house but your face falls as soon as you remember that your father isn't going to remember who sebastian is despite being close. those times he and michael spent with sebastian in the red bull garage after both of them retired. those times they spent together watching junior drivers in their go-kart, standing outside of the go-kart circuit with hands behind their backs, judging other people's kids. your father isn't going to remember them all.

"hey, what's with the sour face?"

you give mick a small smile. "nothing. i probably should head home."

"but we just like here like... three minutes ago."

"i--- i just feel like to be alone. i'm sorry, mick."

"o--- okay."

mick gathers his belongings and you gather yours. he pulls augustine up by the leash and minutes later, all three of you are inside your car again and on your way home.

mick's house is exactly how you remember it used to be. the same colour. the same gravel road that leads to his house. the same frontyard with a little garden on the left though corinna have few different flowers and trees now. his mother or gina might have traded their old cars but other than those, nothing really changed. as you slowly pull your car in front of the house, you see gina at their front porch, reading while her dog roger is chasing the butterflies away.

"thank you for the coffee. i really appreciate it."

"ah, it's nothing," mick scratches the back of his head absent-mindedly. "i think we should do it again."

"you think?"

"no. we should do it again."

yes. you wanted to do this again even though at first, you didn't think there is "again" especially when you were being hard on mick. close to being rude to him when he was nothing but a sweetheart to you. he even paid for your coffee when normally you would your own meal when you go out with your friends. and even a few guys you dated back then.

you're not sure where this is going. you wished to go out with mick for at least once in your life. but god is giving you another chance with mick so you definitely isn't going to say no. right? wrong! just when you thought you finally found your happiness, a thought about your father crosses your mind. you've been neglecting him for hours now. a part from his rebellion about you not allowing him to go out without supervision, he could be sulking now at home because you've been neglecting him. another reason for him to hate you.

"i don't know, mick."

"you're worried about your father, aren't you?"

this is what mick has been waiting for you tell him about. he's been itching to hear them from your own mouth. he didn't dare to ask you himself in the first place because he knows what it feels like to talk about something you hadn't truly accept. but the reason mick is asking now is because he wants to see you more and he cannot bear the fact that you keep saying no becaue of your father as if he didn't understand your situation.

he understands alright!

your eyes instantly water. "how---how do you know?"

it hurts to see you cry because the catherine he remembers was always laughing. if you're not doing that, you'd be smiling. even if not that, you'd be mischievously smirking at him with gina. both of you were quite pranksters back then. even if you weren't doing any of the above, you were not crying.

"mum told me." mick pauses. "i didn't believe her but last week i found your father at my old karting club with annie. i tried to talk to him but he didn't remember me. and that's when i know."

you wipe your tears on your cheeks.

"is that why you've been distancing yourself from me?"

"no."

mick raises his eyebrows. "are you sure?"

"maybe."

"why else?"

"well, isn't it obvious? that you're always busy and constantly traveling. meanwhile i'm here struggling with double hours and taking care of my father that i barely had time for anything."

"aren't you an engineer?"

"were," you say. "i have to leave them behind, mick. right when my father was officially diagnosed with alzheimer's. i came back home. and i'm now a barista."

you lift up a logo on the left side of your uniform.

"i'm sorry you have to through this, catherine."

"i'm... getting used to it."

"you know what, why don't you come with him when seb comes next week?"

"thanks but he won't remember anything, mick. he doesn't even remember me."

"shit."

mick looks down. mourning. mourning for you and all of your memories you had with your dad.

"but this isn't going to be the last time we ever see each other again, okay? i'll see you tomorrow at your house. i want to see your father. i don't care if he doesn't remember me. i still want to see him."

"no. you don't have to---"

"maybe i'll bring gina along. we'll see." mick smiles. "bye."

you watch as mick opens the back car door and whistles to augustine. as soon as mick and augustine step foot onto their frontyard, roger barks happily at them as if announcing to the people who live there that mick and augustine are back from the park. gina puts down her book and looks up. she smiles brightly as soon as she recognises it's you in the car and waves at you. you wave back, returning home.

when the next day comes, mick didn't tell notify you that he's on his way to your house. good thing you are on your off-day and you just finished having your late breakfast when your door bell rings. your father doesn't move from his seat. he didn't ask you to get the door. it's as if he didn't hear the bell. or maybe he is sulking about yesterday. meanwhile you and annie exchange looks.

"did we expect any visitors today?"

"uh. i think that's mick."

"mick? as in the schumacher?"

you nod your head.

"you didn't tell me he's coming? i didn't prepare anything."

"and i haven't taken my shower," you say. "that's alright. i'll get the door. he's here to see dad."

when you finally open the door, you realise that mick isn't alone. a beaming gina is one step behind mick's shoulder. while mick is wearing a jumper and jeans, gina is wearing a button-up shirt tucked into her trousers and her trousers are tucked into her horse-riding boots. she must be from the barn. as usual.

"were you at the schmidt's the whole morning?"

schmidt is your neighbour. the who one has the horse barn where all three of you---including schmidt's children---used to play together when you were kids. the way all of you used to play like there's no tomorrow. not worrying about pimples and acnes and allergies. while the fathers would be watching over you, drinking coffees (because it's not a good moral to drink alcohol with kids around) and talking. sometimes they'd be working on an old tractor that they know was not going to work but still tried to make it work.

gina chuckles. "do you mind if i use your bathroom. i just finished---"

"yeah, yeah. go ahead. you know where the bathroom is. my turn next."

gina leaves her boots outside, enters your house without any more words, leaving mick in confusion as he watches his older sister making your house like her second house. just like how you did to theirs.

"is she always like that?"

you smile guiltily.

"how come you're still close with her and not with me?"

"i don't know, mick. i guess it's easier when you're always home."

mick doesn't like that sound. he's home as much as he can when there's no race. his manager tries to accept less interviews, appointments, photoshoots to free his schedule and let him home because he understands mick's family situation. and when he's home, he is home. and yet, he never stumbled into you before.

mick enters your house and the sense of familiarity hits him. every precious moment he created with you and the house when he was a little boy hits his memory core. the kitchen where you'd all eat cereal despite it being pass breakfast time. the silly arts on the wall are still there. and then there's the living room where all of you used to watch cartoons. your father travels alot when he was a ferrari mechanic but somehow always manage to reserve this old house foor the sake of the memories. miracle.

then mick sees your father sitting on the single chair, staring into nothing. mick glances at you.

"ever since he... you know... he doesn't like noise. he hates the tv because he says he cannot understand whatever the hell they're saying. though i think he is particularly quiet today is because i was not home early."

"mum says you'd walk with him on your off-day."

"that's true. but in the evening. i--- uh--- i usually woke up late on my off-day."

as if somethng clicks in his mind, mick's eyes catch an abandoned set of bowl and mug on your kitchen island. "you just finished your breakfast, aren't you?"

you sheepishly smile at him. you know mick and his family are early risers. maybe it's in their genes but it's also might be because they're athletes and with their training schedules, diet, mental health they're trained to sleep early to wake up early the next morning.

because it doesn't feel foreign inside your house so without being offered, mick takes a seat in front of your father, you in front of him so you can see the day his blue eyes dilate with hope as he opens his mouth to greet your father.

"good morning, herr erberhardt."

when your father looks at mick, there is the smiliar confusion he has with you. the first time felt like thousands of knives impaling you and though it still hurts to see the same unknown look on his face when he looked at you this morning but since you have accepted it, you stopped feeling sorry for yourself. and it amazes you with how fast you could accept.

"who are you?"

"i'm mick. you know my father michael."

"michael?"

"schumacher?" mick's face falls but he doesn't look hurt that your father didn't recognise him and his father. "you were his best friend and mechanic."

"oh."

mick quickly pulls out his mobile phone. you watch as mick presses some icons for a while until you finally understand what he's doing. he opens his camera roll, picks one picture and shows it to your father. you lean closer to look at the picture. and though mick didn't slightly turn his phone for you, you can see the picture clearly. your father and mick's. both of them are wearing the familiar red t-shirt.

your father definitely have tons of pictures of him at work but not this one. based on the quality, you would know that it's from one of the least photographers who was allowed to enter the paddock back then.

"see. this is him. the one on the right. and this is you. it was both of your last day with ferrari."

you weren't there on your father's last day with ferrari but you remember him coming home with lots of gifts from brasil. and you still have them in a big box in the garage where you keep good ol' stuffs there.

mick continues to tell stories to your father. and it was at this exact moment that you know why you weren't allowed to follow him to brasil because he knew there were having a farewell party and he's going to get drunk and not able to take care of you. maybe it's better to find this out as an adult because otherwise, you wouldn't want to speak to your father again if you found this out when you were little.

it looks like mick doesn't care at all that your father doesn't remember anything that he's telling as your father listens to them without showing any interest at all. mick keeps his composure well and you wonder how he does it until you remember that his father is sick ever since he was 14. when you were 14, you still had your father to help you with a guitar.

gina comes into the living room, smelling like your shower gel and hair shampoo, when mick is telling a story about him and sebastian. and you excuse yourself because it's your turn to take a shower. and you could've missed mick glancing at you if you hadn't turn towards them at the living room.

when it's time for lunch, gina was first to be seated at the dining table, too hungry from her session at schmidt's barn. everyone eats only when everyone is seated at the dining table---including annie---and gina is treating herself as if she's at her family's house. not like you mind though because her presence brings a little joy in the house.

mick on the other hand is embarrassed with his sister's behaviour even though he too is used to having lunches and dinners at your house. but that was several years ago. to be able to do this again feels like he's starting over with you and your family. but maybe with gina there he can get used to this sooner.

everyone is doing their own part at the dining table. one asks questions. one answers the questions. one more person makes fun of the person who asked the question because she likes to make fun of her little brother. the late-30 woman is keeping an eye on an old man who is feeding himself slowly. for a moment, everything looks so perfect at the dining table until the old man stops eating, leaves the dining table and starts hunting for something.

four of you stop eating immediately. everyone wears a worried look on their faces as you watch your father looking around the house for something. he stops in front of the tv where the coffee table sits. he upturns the rattan bowl, rummaging through its content scattering on the table. then he takes out everything inside the sofa remote holder. when he didn't find what he's looking for, he moves towards the tv cabinet.

he opens the tv cabinet, takes out every cd, dvd, book, extension wire, more remote controls and dust. you hear him mumbling something but he still hasn't found it.

"dad, what are you looking for?"

you dad doesn't answer you.

"dad, do you need help?"

"ma! where's my... where's my..."

mick knows you have no one except your father, though when you were little, diana (your nanny) was in the picture and annie came only when your father was diagnosed with alzheimer's. your father's mother died before you even existed. maybe mick's father knew her but not the next generation. now it makes you wonder how far back his memory is deleted from his brain.

but it seems that even by calling for help from his mother, he doesn't know what he's looking for. you get up from your dining table and approaches your dad. you try to tell that it's okay to forget what he's looking for now and that he can try and find it later when he remembers. the house is already a mess like there was a thief here but your father is not giving up.

"dad, why don't you sit down for a minute. i'm sure it'll come back to you if you calm down."

"no. i can't," he says. "it's important."

"why don't you tell me what you're looking for and i'll help find it?"

"i--- i don't remember what i'm looking for but i will know when i find it."

frustrated, your dad starts hitting himself. this is not the first time, though. it has happened a few times before. though it's only been a year since your father was diagnosed but this disease is eating him way faster than the doctors claimed.

while you try to stop him form beating himself (you getting beaten in the process), annie jumps out of her seat to get the seductive in her room while gina plays a soft, melancholy music in the background. once again, mick is left in horror as he watches everything unfolding itself in front of his eyes. what's more surprising is how his sister looks like she knows what she's doing.

mick certainly doesn't know what to do in the situation and how to offer any help. it's hurting him to watch your father hitting himself just because he cannot remember what he's looking for. and seeing you gets beaten... by the time your father calms down, he watches you slumping onto the ground with a loud thud. he sees your eyes wet. you look tired despite the fact that you just had your lunch.

gina helps annie carrying your father to his room while mick approaches you.

"hey. are you okay?"

you feel mick's hand squeezes your hand gently. you hear his voice breaking though you did not understand why. you nod your head to answer mick's question.

"annie and gina already brought him to bed. do you want to take a walk?"

"okay," you answer without actually understanding what mick was asking you.

mick stands up and pulls you up with him. mick helps you put on your jacket and shoes after doing the same for himself. you're still too tired from tending your father to speak and to think so while your mind is empty, you let mick leads you out. you follow wherever mick is taking you, talking hand-in-hand in silent, looking at the greens and blues and yellows. some cars pass by but you don't care.

"i'm sorry you have to see that," you finally speak after 30 minutes of walk.

"your father doesn't bother me," mick says.

you made a sound that you didn't know it was coming from your throat.

"gina did."

"why?"

"i don't know. maybe the fact that gina knows about your father. not me. and the fact that she knows what to do when herr erberhardt starts misbehaving tells me that she knows for awhile now."

"i'm sorry, mick. i just didn't want you to worry about me."

"so you told gina not to tell me?"

you sigh. hate to hear the irritation in mick's voice because you know you're wrong. he is your best friend. if augustine hadn't cross the road yesterday and you hadn't almost hit her, you probably is still not ready to tell mick about your father because you're just insecure with yourself now. you lost your dream job while mick is striving. people can't tell you that you're wrong to feel insecure about that.

mick knows not to want to argue with you especially when you're tired, so he drops the topic. that's okay, he thinks. he can ask you next time he sees you. it not tomorrow or the day after tomorrow, he has next week. because he will be seeing you again next week when sebastian comes to visit him and his family even if you didn't bring your father (he hopes you will) because you're close with sebastian like how he is closed with sebastian. but either way, mick knows that he will want to keep seeing you for as long as he can work this out.

when both of you get back to your house, gina is sitting at the front porch to wait for mick to get back home together. annie is nowhere to be seen but you bet she's inside, cleaning up the house after the hazard.

"don't forget next week, okay? i'll ask mum to cook your favourite cheesecake," mick says while hugging you.

"and tell us if you need anything. you know we're always ready help you whenever you need us."

you nod your head and smile at gina. "thanks."

when the siblings are out of your vision, you turn around where your house is. the house that holds thousands of memories and one who doesn't remember them at all.

part 2

#mick schumacher #ms47 #f1 fanfiction #mick schumcher x reader #mic schumacher x reader #mick schumacher fanfic #haas #mercedes #ferrari #alzheimer's disease #mental illness #michael schumacher #sebastian vettel #sv5

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tropes-and-tales · 2 years ago

Text

Holiday Memories

December 16: Candy cane/playlist - Oh my god, they were roommates (Horacio Carrillo x F!reader)

(From the winter prompts found here)

CW: Super-convoluted plot-point; pining; fluff; tons o’typos and grammar snafus

Word Count: 1307

AN: Requested by anon!

It’s the least ideal situation: Horacio Carrillo, grown man and stoic leader of the Search Bloc needs to humble himself and move in with you.

Admittedly, it’s not his fault…nor is he the one that actually has to humble himself and ask you. The Colombian government does the official asking.

It’s a series of catastrophes—there’s a fire in his neighborhood with the house next door, and strong winds blow it in the direction of his house. It’s a near-total loss, and it’s unclear if it’s the usual culprits (faulty wiring, unattended candle) or if it’s arson from the narcos. Threats had been made. Chatter and bragging after the fact point to a possible crime.

Usually, the head of the Search Bloc would get his own temporary apartment in the block of buildings that the U.S. embassy uses for its employees, but they are at capacity.

Carrillo can’t move in with Steve Murphy and his wife and young, adopted daughter.

Carrillo can’t move in with Peña. Well, he could move in with Peña, but he’d be relegated to the couch and while he isn’t a prude, Carrillo doesn’t think he could handle a listening post at Javier’s tour through the women of Medellín.

Carrillo can move in with you. You somehow snagged a rare two-bedroom unit when you moved in, and while he doesn’t work with you day to day—you focus on the political side of the Search Bloc/DEA relationship, keeping the skids greased for mutual benefit—he gets along well enough with you. You’re serious about your work, fluent in Spanish, and quiet.

He could do worse.

-----

That was back in June. Now, six months later, he is no closer to moving out.

You don’t seem to mind him. You seem to enjoy the company, and you readily admitted early on that you’d been lonely in Medellín. Carrillo had not admitted then that he felt the same, lonely in the evenings.

He hasn’t lived with a woman since Juliana left and divorced him. Living with you is something else entirely.

It’s a strange thing, being so close but so separate: the intimacy of cooking together, sharing a meal, and then sleeping in different rooms. Of seeing you early in the morning, bleary-eyed and in your sleepwear, grouchy until you get some coffee in you.

Of waking you up when he comes in late, stinking of bitter gun smoke and cordite after losing a man. Of the gentle, sleepy way you lay your hand on his arm, the way you gaze at him and ask if he’s okay, if he wants to talk.

You grew up in a family of comfort feeders. Every time he comes in late and low, you offer to make him something. He usually waves you off, but sometimes he doesn’t, and it nourishes him: the way you heat up leftovers, the way you sit and watch him eat. The pleased way you nod when he pushes his empty plate away, as if the heartache of his job can be cured by reheated tamales or a lasagna or a slice of your apple pie with a chunk of mild cheese melted on top.

Maybe the heartache can’t be cured, but he does feel better afterwards.

-----

Of course he falls in love with you. Any idiot would, and Horacio Carrillo is no idiot.

-----

You get a delivery one evening, a box from the States covered in colorful stamps and giant block printing.

“From my dad,” you tell Carrillo as you plunk it down on the kitchen table with a grin. “A taste of home.”

He sits down and watches as you unbox everything. There’s obvious nods to Christmas—an advent calendar of chocolates, a box of cordial cherries, candy canes. A container of cookies, a container of homemade candy. There’s a jar of homemade salsa, brand-new socks, a framed photo of your family. A framed photo of a dog that makes you sigh sadly.

There’s letters from family and friends, a tidy stack of them tied off with a ribbon. There’s a handful of cassette tapes too, and you look at the handwritten track lists before you laugh and spin away to load one in the stereo.

“All the songs we used to play during the holidays,” you tell him as the opening strains start to play. It’s Nat King Cole, and Carrillo can see the way your eyes light up at all the memories sparking for you.

“Tell me about the holidays when you’re home,” he says softly, and you do.

Your mother’s and grandmother’s militant baking schedule: the cookies from recipes passed down for generations, the fudge, the yule log cakes with marzipan. How an entire weekend is carved out to make hard candy, rock candy flavored with peppermint and cinnamon and lemon.

Midnight Mass with your family, then home to drink eggnog in front of fire. Dozing off in the family room with your siblings by the tree—your parents were New Age types, kinda sorta, and never told you the lie of Santa. Waking up to waffles and breakfast casserole and strong coffee, then unwrapping presents.

“I grew up in Colorado,” you tell him. “It snows there. It was magical, waking up to the world covered in glittering snow. The whole world frozen and cold, but we were tucked in warm with our family.”

“It sounds wonderful,” he says, and it’s not a lie. He’s almost envious, though his family’s Christmases were magical in their own way.

You open the box of candy canes and snap one in two, offer him the hooked end while you suck at your own piece.

“Tell me about your holidays,” you say, and you gaze at him so openly that he does. He shares that with you.

The two of you talk so long that the tape flips to the B side and starts to play. He can feel the shift in you, a melancholy that seems to fall over the evening. All of the talk of family and friends, the memories…it makes you realize what you’re going to miss. What you are missing.

It’s when Dean Martin’s version of “I’ll be Home for Christmas” starts to play that he sees the tears start to rise in your eyes. Carrillo doesn’t think—he only operates on feeling in this moment, and he stands, holds a hand out to you.

“Here,” he says. “Dance with me.”

“Huh?” You blink against the tears and look up at him, confused, but you place your hand in his and allow him to pull you out of your chair. He pulls you away from the table and puts his other hand lightly on your waist, spins you into the living room and sets you into a gentle swaying against the slow song.

You don’t resist him. You hold his hand too, and you lay your other one on his shoulder.

“Didn’t take you for a dancer, Colonel,” you say with a joking lilt, but your voice is quiet, soft. You say it like you don’t want to break the spell he’s woven—transforming your rising melancholy into something better, more intimate.

“I’m good on my feet,” he deadpans. “Dancing, running across Medellín rooftops.”

“A man of many talents.”

“If not many, at least a few.”

You hum at that, but you don’t reply. Neither of you say anything else; you listen to the song and sway gently to it, but you don’t talk. After a few bars, you sigh and rest your head against his shoulder, so he holds you tighter. You squeeze his hand, and maybe he’s reading too much into this single, small moment, but he guesses what you’re saying with that squeeze of your hand.

Maybe you’re saying thank you. Maybe you’re saying I miss my family but I’m glad you’re here.

#horacio carrillo #horacio carrillo imagine #horacio carrillo x reader #colonel horacio carrillo #colonel horacio carrillo x reader #colonel Carrillo #colonel carrillo x reader #colonel carrillo imagine #narcos #tropes-and-tales #winter prompts 2022

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mischievouslittlecreature · 1 year ago

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Part 12: Destined to Do This Forever

Fandom: The Dark Knight Trilogy

Pairing: Jonathan Crane x OC

Summary: Things had to go wrong for them eventually.

Word Count: 886

Notes: Takes place during The Dark Knight. Warnings for depictions of violence.

Previous Part • Series • Next Part

“You sure that it’s a good idea to be doing this at night, boss?” asked one of the goons, glancing around the parking garage anxiously. Tires squealed as two black vans pulled up and parked.

“We’ll be fine,” Jonathan said, adjusting his mask on his head. Even if the Bat decided to show his face, he wouldn’t do much more than rough them up and leave them for the police. Everyone knew that Batman didn’t kill.

The doors to the black vans opened, Chechen, with his greased back hair and ratty brown leather jacket, stepped out, glancing at the bat symbol shining in the sky, going around to the back of the van to coo at the dogs he and his people had brought with them. From the other van, Chechen’s goons pulled out a twitchy, whimpering man.

“Please! Please! They’re crawling in my mouth. Please, I beg you,” he sobbed. Jonathan waved his hand, and his men opened up the back of the van they were all hunched in, his goons stepping out with their guns half raised. He remained standing in the back of the van. For dramatic purposes. Wearing her goggles and her gas mask, Vanessa stepped out of the passenger’s seat, leaning against the side of the van. “Get them off,” Chechen’s men dropped the still whimpering man to the ground.

“Look what your drugs did to my customers!” Chechen said.

“Buyer beware,” Jonathan stepped out of the back of the van. “I told you my compound would take you places. I never said they’d be places you wanted to go.”

“My business, repeat customers,” Chechen fretted. Jonathan shrugged.

“You don’t like what I have to offer, you can buy from someone else. Assuming Batman left anyone to buy from.”

The dogs began to bark, pulling against the leashes. Ah. Seemed like they were going to have company tonight after all.

“My dogs are hungry!” Chechen shouted, glancing into the shadows and smiling. “Pity there’s only one of you.”

There was thud and a yell from behind Jonathan’s van, and then another cry from the other end of the garage. And then the echoing boom of gunfire. Jonathan leapt backwards, abandoning the goons and pushing the open doors to the back of the van out of the way.

“That’s not him,” everyone knew that Batman didn’t use guns. The dogs were barking, goons clamoring. One of the Batman impersonators shot bullet holes into the side of his van. Asshole. Another one tried to press a gun into his back and Jonathan whirled, spraying him in the face with a helping of toxin, grinning to himself as he went down screaming. From the other side of the van, he was pretty sure that he heard the audible thunk of a head smashing into concrete as Vanessa slammed another to the ground.

And then a massive black tank rolled into the garage.

“That’s more like it,” he could almost say that he was relieved. At least Batman would deal with the idiots with guns.

“Time to go,” Vanessa called to him, already sliding back into the passenger seat. He couldn’t agree more, jumping in and revving the engine. As he spun the van around, something collided with the side of it. “Oh, really?” Vanessa sighed, glancing out the window at where he could only assume Batman had latched onto the side of the van. No matter, he made sure to drive closer to the wall on that side, almost scraping the white paint off, but managing to shake the vermin off.

The car’s tires squealed unpleasantly as he began the descent down the circular exit ramp to the ground floor. Not long now…

BAM!

Oh, seriously?

Vanessa groaned as the van’s roof all but caved in when Batman landed on it. They were plucked unceremoniously from their seats and dumped with the other goons and copycat Batmans. His mask was ripped off and Vanessa’s goggles and respirator pulled away. Then, just for good measure, Batman yanked the bobby pins out of her hair and took them.

Damn. Apparently he’d gotten wise to that old trick of getting out of handcuffs.

“Don’t let me find you out here again,” Batman growled at one of the copycats.

“We’re trying to help you!” the one to Jonathan’s right complained.

“I don’t need help!” Batman shouted, sounding, Jonathan thought, very much like a petulant teengager as he jumped up onto his tank.

“Not my diagnosis!” Jonathan called back to him.

“Same time next week, Bats?” Vanessa laughed, side shaking beside him with it.

“What gives you the right?” the copycat was still yelling. “What’s the difference between you and me?”

“I’m not wearing hockey pads,” Batman said, disappearing within the dark depths of the tank. Wow. He almost thought that might have been a joke. Who would have thought the vermin had it in him?

As the tank pulled away, the sounds of approaching sirens started to grow closer. Vanessa let her head rest on his shoulder, pouting. He kissed the top of her head. It might be a while until they were able to be together like this again.

It could have been worse, he supposed. One of the idiots currently sitting beside them could have shot them. At least they were both alive.

That was something.

Previous Part • Series • Next Part

Thank you for reading! Please consider leaving a comment, reblog, or like. I always appreciate feedback and love getting the opportunity to interact with you and hear your thoughts!

#jonathan crane #jonathan crane x oc #the dark knight trilogy #my ocs #my fanfiction #vanessa sullivan #vanessa sullivan x jonathan crane #destined to do this forever

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the-faramir · 5 months ago

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Extinction Curse Session 2024/06/05 Part 2

The Siege of Willowside

Day 3 (Part 1)

The next morning, the adventurers ate their meager breakfast before starting the day. Lysander ate nothing and Midori only drank black coffee. As they finished, the mayor approached them.

“I hate to ask for more help when you just got back from looking into Fortune’s Hall, but since you’re trapped in town until we fight off these xulgaths, I imagine it’s in your best interest as well. We need your help dealing with the xulgaths, but first, we need the Banyan Boys back. There are these caves underneath the town that have been here since before the town was built, and there’s an entrance in the basement of the general store. Some old documents from the town’s founding indicate that those caves were important, but I’m not sure why. A lot of stuff from that time is gone. Local legend has it that the town’s founders might have left something special down there in case of emergencies. Well, if this doesn’t count as an emergency, nothing does. The Banyan Boys went down there, and they should have been back by now. I worry that something happened to them. Can you go look for them? They’re our town’s best protectors.”

"The Vengaboys?" Midori asked.

Zookdar put a hand on Midori's shoulder to gently stop her. "No, we're not doing that bit again." He looked at the mayor. "Yes. We'll go down into your dungeon and rescue your Banyan Boys."

"Dungeon?" Midori's expression grew worried, "There's not butter on the walls, is there?" Lysander sighed and shook his head at her.

One of the townsfolk led the group through the general store to the basement. They entered the storeroom that the owner frequently used, seeing several crates labeled "Cozurn's General Store" in neat lettering and a closed door on the opposite side. An open padlock with the key still in its keyhole hung on the door's handle.

The adventurers opened the door and moved forward into the next storage room, looking as if it had not been used in decades. The boxes, crates, and scattered barstools all sat covered in a thick layer of dust. Zookdar, having darkvision, took the lead. Midori followed, and Lysander and Buffy brought up the rear, closing the door behind them.

To the north was a broken door. To the west was a stairway leading down. Zookdar saw footprints in the dust leading down the stairs, but one set of footprints heading toward the room to the north and back. He remarked that the footprints leading downward appeared to have been hurried. "I wonder why they took off in such a rush?"

Suddenly, a slick, oily slithering sound came from the room to the north. Four waxy blob-like oozes, pale yellow and smelling of old beef tallow, approached the party in a line.

"We've got company!" Zookdar warned the party. He raised his shield, rushed the attackers with a battle cry, and attacked with his gnome flickmace. His target began to ooze a greasy seepage and he had to check himself to maintain his balance in the slippery pool.

"Greasy seepage?" Midori exclaimed. "What are these, Olestra monsters?" She prepared an impromptu song to inspire courage:

🎶🎶🎶 Greasy Seepage, slipping through the cracks, Ooze and slide, no turning back. Gleaming slick and slithery, It’s a trick, it’s a mystery! 🎶🎶🎶

She followed up by launching a telekinetic projectile at the lead ooze, hitting it.

Lysander cast a spell to slow the oozes and fired at one with his hex blaster gun.

One of the oozes lashed out at Zookdar with a pseudopod, hitting him and making him slicker with oily slime. He grumbled in disgust.

Midori shouted out to Zookdar, "Hey, I thought you liked bein' covered with grease!"

Zookdar called out for help, "Cleanse me of my grease, Buffy!" But Buffy had no spells to help with the cleansing. Instead, she cast a rallying banner to take the place of Midori's inspirational songs, freeing her up for more useful actions.

Another ooze moved up and attacked Midori. A third attacked Zookdar.

Midori yelled to Zookdar, "With all o' this greasy seepage, watch out for loose stools!"

Zookdar shot back, "Don't be disgusting, Midori! This is serious!"

"I am being serious," she replied. "Those barstools are all over the place. Don't trip!" Midori followed up with a rapier strike on her closest opponent, not damaging it at all. "Uh-oh. Stabby-stabbing won't hurt 'em! Watch your attacks, everyone!" She hit her target with a telekinetic projectile. "Bludgeoning. Maybe fire? Anyone got a fireball? Or should I have Orbison release a poison cloud?"

Lysander shouted at Midori, "Enclosed space! Bad idea!"

She snapped back, "You know I'm just kiddin'!"

Another ooze rose up to engulf Zookdar, covering him in more oily residue. "I am more grease than gnome at this point!" he lamented.

The battle stretched on for much longer than the heroes would have liked. Fortunately, the oozes were not difficult to hit, only difficult to damage. Eventually, Buffy finished off the last of the foes with a telekinetic projectile.

Searching the area, Zookdar found a battered greave etched with a powerful greater resilient rune, some empty silver vials, and a platinum charm depicting a lizard with three tails.

Asking first to make sure nobody else needed the rune more urgently, Midori detached the rune from the greave and added it to her own armor. "Hoo, boy, did I need that boost!"

Midori took the time to patch up everybody's wounds. The heroes cleaned themselves up from any remaining oily residue.

Once everyone had finished, Zookdar looked down the stairwell and remarked, "The stairway looks clear. Shall we, then?"

(Text in blue belongs to Paizo.)

#pathfinder #pf2e #extinction curse #gaming session

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chinaluda · 1 year ago

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#High Quality Double cylinder hand grease gun #Double cylinder hand grease gun Manufacturers #Double cylinder hand grease gun Company

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credince--writes · 2 years ago

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Reflection, Resistance

MORALITY

AO3

Jason Todd x Fem!OC(Camile Ford)

A/N:

Hello everyone! Coming in with a new chapter of Morality and i am SO happy to be writing on it again. This chapter is kind of going to be marking where I feel like is the 'reset' point. My style of writing has changed a LOT, plot is going to be the same but I just felt like doing a lot of reflection before I start moving back onto plot again just to give everyone a little bit of buffer space.

It was innocent.

It was meak.

It was pure-

At least the thought of the intentions being so.

The thought of her standing in the world, was as if it was destiny in a way.

To be a good little girl, always follow instructions and make sure that it was done well.

Make sure she was pretty while doing it.

Maybe it was her mother that taught her it, to be good and follow orders as she’d shrink back as a child listening to the verbal altercations. Scamper up the stairs into her room and close the door in that manner she’d practiced so many times to make sure it shut silently.

So that she’d give no reason for their attention to be diverted to her.

Maybe it was genetic, to be a fucking doormat.

It seemed like every woman she had known was like one, would roll over and take it after swallowing her pride and accepting it to just be that way.

God forbid they rise up, and actually do something about it.

Strive for a better fucking life.

It was this horrible catch-22.

This demon suppressed inside of her, at the threat of being held down by chains and the insane amount of fear crippling her personality.

She had watched the men, all of her life.

She knew, down to the fiber of her being what the flick of their hand caused their wife to immediately dismiss the conversation and shut her trap meant. The silent but always-understood language in the world of violence.

Didn’t mean it had to be physical, no.

The violence of stripping a woman of her value- the soft parts of her soul she would expose in love so easily accessible and taken.

But maybe that silly little part of Camile thought that she could be strong.

Like a man.

To stand up for what is right- even though she knew deep down a man wouldn’t do that without some overlying promise. Praise. Acceptance. Maybe to make some pussy more accessibly lured into his bed.

So when she first realized the inconsistencies. The poorly photoshopped receipts- the outright lies on paperwork and the showboating presentations where you knew his watch was fake. There was no way it could be real with his salary- but everything was a game of presentation and if he just slicked back his hair with enough grease he could convince the room to allow him to manage twenty-five million dollars worth of assets to throw at something to see if it makes anything of their ‘play money’.

Maybe she just didn’t realize that money needed to be cleaned.

That it needed to be processed in different ways to make it look less suspicious.

That the man who owned this company didn’t actually own this company.

And maybe she knew better.

Or maybe she didn’t.

Maybe she wanted to feel as if she had power in the room as if she really amounted to something and could stand over a man in a position of power and stare him down and really make him know what it felt like to be weak.

The kind of weak she felt every day in that God-forsaken office. The kind of weak where she would peel the skin off of her lips with her teeth, the familiar taste of blood seeping out and onto her tongue as she bit down to pull off more.

Or maybe it was an ego.

They say your daughter is most like her father.

Maybe that is why men are always so adamant to push them down. Suppress any flame that flickers inside of them because they know just how much of a monster she could be if allowed to run freely.

So men would try to do anything to snuff if out.

Make a pretty little housewife.

One that would make a fine little assistant or secretary.

“Never train your downfall. No offense dear, but you don’t exactly scream the type to be gunning for someone’s position. It makes you perfect for this transition. Someone quiet and willing to do the work assigned without the gusto to steal the rug from under them- if that makes much sense. It’s a compliment under all of those layers.”

Never train your downfall.

But she would sit, as if she were a child pressing her cheek up against the cold glass and staring up into he night sky in hopes that the clouds would thin just enough for her to be able to see the stars. She would fantasize about that moment when she would be able to prove herself- show off just what a monster she could be.

But she couldn’t.

She wouldn’t.

There was a line you needed to draw to be human.

To know what was right and wrong and to know how to keep the two sorted. To not cause harm to others in the ways that came so easy to a man. Their morals are being shifted like a flag in the wind of their crusade. Where she stood, staring down at the events of her life and trying to understand where exactly she should put the line if they were constantly stepping over it without any regard as to where it was placed. How they could so easily excel in their lives and careers because the concept of the cruelty they exuded onto another behind them didn’t pay them any mind.

The switch.

Just how easy it was for her to accept Broadstock for something- anything other than a wolf in sheep's clothing the first day she met him. Never coming to think of the circumstances that led him to be placed in Malory's position. Anything met with resistance was immediately removed and then replaced with something easily malleable for whoever was plotting from above. How she accepted him and trotted along his side like a fucking puppy excited to have a fresh face and thinking that it was on the up.

But it was not just the cruelty- she could take it. She was used to it. She could recognize his attempts to strip her down as if she were not equal to him. And the knew the steps he would take to continue- even if the mere sound of him raising his voice caused that pit in the bottom of her gut to fill with dread she would stand and take it to prove that she could. Just because she could stand and finally muster the courage- or gather the stupidity to snap back at him. As if she were a dog finally cornered to her limit she would lash back out, even it if meant it would result in beatings.

The fragility of her personality was highlighted in the fact that hot, angry tears would spill over her cheeks any time a man would yell at her. As if they should be granted the right- the pleasure to cause her to cry? And why? Only because she had been conditioned her whole life to roll over, beg and plead for forgiveness if she had done something that her master had not liked?

Maybe it was her fault. If she had only been smarter about the situation around her.

“I appreciate your attention to detail, but this really isn’t necessary.” Broadstock lets out a light chuckle, reaching across the table and grabbing the notepad.

“I don’t understand.”

If only she had said, “Oh, of course. I understand! How foolish of me I’m just blowing this out of proportion.”

Then it would be all ok, would it not?

If she had just turned a blind eye to it and continued to work.

The second she broke that facade of the perfectly obedient dog for him his personality shifted just as fast. Understanding that her resistance was not purely out of innocence.

“Well you obviously are pretty stupid, you haven’t been understanding much.” He quips.

The way his lips had curled up into that evil snarl. The way the glint in his eyes changed and how he so softly set his pen back down on the desk.

“I am telling you to do your job.”

But what was her job? As a woman, would it be to become the perfect, obedient little wife for someone to enjoy and tote around as if she were a trophy? Or would it be to become the perfectly placed land block approving fraudulent paperwork she knew she was signing off on that if it were criminally investigated she would take the fall on, because, in theory, he had never looked at the documents?

That was her job.

It was like a perfectly executed dance- everyone put into their places to follow their set of movements, moving and exchanging but some never interacting with each other but still having an impact on the outcome of its performance.

But how could she? Morally? Professionally? At this point, she had already killed one career in doing the right thing. Standing up against what was seemingly the exact same thing happening all over again in front of her and she couldn’t do anything to stop it. What would be the point in taking a stand and throwing herself like a lamb to the slaughter if there wouldn’t even be anyone to watch in protest? Even her standing up against him, alone in his office was enough to make the bottoms of her feet feel like they were lead.

Make her feel like she was a little girl all over again being scolded for not wearing the right color tights with her skirt- doing something wrong once again that would make her parents look bad. How dare she do this? How dare she act this way while she carried this family name? Did she not know who she represented? As if the preaching being crammed down her throat in that shitty little church with the too-big gravel parking lot that accumulated all of the holes would be any indicator of how much they ignored what should’ve been important. How could she watch them listen to what they were ‘supposed’ to be doing as the righteous and holy people they tried to convenience everyone they were while they simultaneously threw it out, poured it down the drain, and swallowed it allowing the burning liquid to roll down their throats and into their stomach.

Maybe it all melted down to that.

The feeling of the alcohol in her system blurs out the fear she would be eaten alive. She would no longer be that horrified shell of a girl- the one who was so softly-spoken and well-behaved. Oh, how they always complimented her behavior as a child. So mature for her age. That flask hidden away inside that drawer in her desk at work, where she’d crumble down onto her knees with the door slammed behind her where she’d open up that little metal trinket and suck the contents of it out and down her throat. Knowing that if she could just feel the buzz in her brain, that light fuzzy feeling when she started to get too scared that it would all be ok.

Manufactured bravery.

Because she knew she was not brave.

She was not a brave girl.

She was scared.

She was gentle.

She was not cut out for man's work.

A man's job would be to disregard the morals one would carry- cross any line that needed to be crossed to reach that goal.

But a woman? Oh, she was already too used to jumping through hoops and dragging her fingers across walls while she navigated the complicated world in hopes of not angering anyone or stepping on any toes.

But it came with its own terror. To not be afraid of those lines anymore when the alcohol clouded her judgment. Those walls that she found herself stretching her hand out to so many times were no longer there- as if the playing field had been leveled when her mind was silenced. The thousands of voices screaming their rules- criticizing her actions were silenced when the comforting buzz fogged her mind.

And it scared her even more because then she thought she would never be able to be brave without it-

That it would be her crutch.

And she’d fall into the claws she had seen so many other people fall victim too. How they would grip around their throats and tug them down. The poison becomes the crutch to everything- as if it were their insulin. But they had it to begin with- the alcohol flooding their system with some kind of synthetic so it no longer believed that it needed to produce anymore. That it was obviously was in a surplus and as the posion kept flooding into their system to try and reach that same level of confidence. The warm and fuzzy feeling pulsing through their blood and into their brain makes them feel like a happy, confident, strong person again.

But what if she had never had the confidence to begin with?

That is what she would use to justify it.

Her mother said that it would start like this.

That you’d have a reason to need it.

And if you would justify it- that means its claws were already too deep inside you, and that it was too late for you.

She’d argue it too, with herself, when it proved time and time again to be her crutch on the days she would get home after the hard days, the days it was the only thing filling the void of her sorrow and regrets.

But then there were the days when it became too much.

The anger.

Anger isn’t becoming on a woman. It isn’t a flattering emotion to walk into a room with. But you can only put so much deep down inside, locking it away and shoving it down any time it unearths in those hot, angry tears that seep out.

And it comes out in rebellion, no matter how small it may start.

“I am not signing off on this paperwork.”

“Then fine, I will find a new assistant who will do what they are told.”

Camile's eyes narrowed.

“Your paperwork is sloppy too, you know.” She states.

“What was that?”

“Your paperwork is sloppy too.”

She didn’t know where the words came from.

It was as if she were a teenager again, the hormonal spite raising up in her throat when she finally felt as if she had some ground to stand upon and call out the wrongdoings that had been passed down from generation to generation and were just lolled over. The words leaving her mouth before she could understand what she said-

And there it was.

The flicker.

The look in Broadstocks eyes was because he wasn't expecting her to bite back. He wasn’t expecting much at all from her really. Just expecting her to agree with him as he bared his fangs and made himself known as the wolf he was. Expecting the little sheep she was to wail in fright and accept her fate.

It was so small, she almost didn’t see it.

But it was as if she saw a glint of an oasis so far away she would never reach it. The water glimmered in the harsh sunlight pounding down on her from every direction. Where she knew that she’d have to summon all of the strength buried deep down even into her soul to reach there.

But blinking, only to realise it was a mirage and her hope to be gone.

But she’d think of that mirage. When she lay in bed, staring up in at the ceiling thinking of all of the different scenarios that could’ve happened if she had just had the confidence to stand up for herself and actually say something- do something and be someone.

But as soon as she would see the oasis she would crumple down to her knees, exhausted from the travel.

All to stand and watch the complacency strip her of the confidence she had thought she mustered.

Malory sighed. “I’m sorry sweetheart.”

It wasn’t good enough.

He was supposed to be the one in charge- and to see him sitting in silence- complacency to his words stung.

Camile's breath was shaking as she calmed herself down, quietly sniffling. “I’ve never been a pretty crier.” Camile lets out a small laugh, wiping her eyes. “What happened to basic ethics? I mean you can’t expect me to criminally involve myself with signing off on this garbage!” She exclaims.

“I don’t expect you to.” He sighs. “I wish this turned out differently. I thought it was going to be better.” He stood up, turned out, and looked out the window.

“You know when I first got into this office, this office gave me a sense of hope. I felt like this room was going to be the laboratory of great things.”

“Has it not?” She asks.

“It was. At first. But now it has become something else.”

Camile looks at him, as he quirks his head over to look at her.

“It’s become a tomb. And it’s going to be yours too.”

Her shoulders stiffened. “Then how do I stop it.”

He let out a breathy chuckle. “Do what I did.”

“What did you do, Malory?”

“You need to get rid of any of those ‘ethics’ you thought you should have to be a good person. It will only get you hurt in the end.”

Ethics.

To be a good person?

But she wanted to be a good person.

She wanted to be the one that extended help to those in need. She wanted to be the one to nurture those weaker than herself. To discard the morals and the ethics of who she was would be to disregard herself as a person. To rid herself of the humanity that made her better- in her own eyes than them.

But it was a burden.

A chain.

A chain that was tethered around her neck and tied to the ground.

But how could she consider herself good?

She was complacent.

She was allowing this all to happen.

Maybe they were right- that all of the goodness dies in you when you come to Gotham. Anything that makes you human is stripped from you in this fucking city.

That you can’t come here and expect to be the same, because the air that this place makes you breathe is different. It changes you. It makes you the monster that you try not to think of yourself- or it makes you the prey.

“Ah, yes thank you for coming! Come, come!” He waves for Camile to come forward and take a seat in front of his desk. “I hope the ride over was good?”

Camile gave him a light smile, “Of course, thank you for having a driver pick me up.”

Roman nodded. “So I hope that folder isn’t full of confetti… correct?”

Camile let out a small laugh. “No, I can assure you that these were the documents that you requested.” She set the folder down on his desk, pushing it forward to him.

It was as if she was standing in front of a demon, sliding paper working unknowingly over to him.

Roman leaned forward and grabbed the folder, sliding it to the side of his desk before putting his body weight down on his hand and leaning forward, obviously staring at Camile's face while he spoke.

“So how are you liking working with Broadstock?” He questions.

“Broadstock is a very efficient man when he puts his mind to something,” Camile states, trying to rid her tone of any distaste she had for the man.

“That’s good to hear, couldn’t help but notice our financial document approval has been quiet slow lately. Would you happen to know anything about that?” His eyes meet hers.

“Just being thorough. It is what makes us the best to work with.” Camile tries to give him a smile, hoping he would break his sight from her.

His face was like stone, frozen in almost a pout as he stared at her trying to drink the emotions from her face, and in a blink of an eye, he completely changed. Smiling again he let out a chuckle as he brought a hand up close to Camile’s cheek.

“You know Camile, you have gorgeous skin…”

And he spoke to her in a way only a man could’ve. The kind of way that immediately stepped over any lines just because he could. The kind of man that would request financial documents and then toss them into the fireplace right after because he didn’t really need them, no. He just wanted to see her face. Just wanted to lightly graze his fingers across the soft skin that adorned that timid- no, that gentle face of hers as she so complacently protected Broadstock even though he had done nothing but cause her pain.

Because that was her job.

But the fear. The anxiety that she would feel as her heart pounded in her chest that made her feel like she was skating around on a thin sheet of ice and could feel it cracking under her. That she knew if she moved the wrong way the ice would give way underneath. That in reality- she had no idea how to control the way her body moved on the ice- she was living on a whim. The ice would break out from underneath her at any given time and she would have no say in the matter. She would only sit on top of it and act as if she had some knowledge in the matter and think that she had control of the situation because that was what mattered.

The false sense of security that layered a warm blanket over her shivering anxieties.

That when her heart was pounding against her chest the auditorium of her mind would also be silent.

That she’d be standing on a stage, staring out into the crowd finally being able to hold of the mic and say exactly what her mind conjured up- deep from the depths she had tried to lock away.

“Fine.” Camile said, sweeping the thumb drives into her hands and placing them in a basket. “I’m leaving for the day.” She stands up and walks out her door.

“Why are you leaving?” Broadstock calls after her. “It’s only 5:45!” He raises his voice.

“My shift ends at 5!” Camile yells back, walking into the elevator.

That she’d be able to fight back- within her fight or flight response. As if the adrenaline pumping in her veins was enough to numb the feeling of fear and allow her to pretend that none of the strange things in her life had happened. That Roman’s comments didn’t make her feel like she wanted to crawl out of her skin- drag her nails across her flesh so they would scar so that she wouldn’t be so pretty anymore.

That when it rained, it poured.

Because one, after the other things kept spiraling.

Because if she had told herself a year ago that a masked vigilante would’ve seen her as someone important enough to know something?

She would’ve laughed.

But now?

She wanted to cry, grip the cold ceramic of her sink and sob. Begging to God to wonder what she had done to deserve all of this? Why couldn’t her life just be normal?

“I don’t even know what you're talking about! Why are you in my house!” She raises her voice, and the Red Hood grabs her head and pushes a finger up to her lips. “You wouldn’t want the neighbors to hear us having our little talk, would you?” She shakes her head no, and he lets go of her head.

“You met with him today. The Black Mask. Come on sweetheart you haven’t gone many places today.” The man explains, and you pause.

“Mister Sionis?” She responds back, and he claps his hands sarcastically.

“Oh! So she does know.”

“...What did you call him a second ago?”

“The Black Mask, do you watch any news, at all?” He questions.

“...No… It’s too depressing.” She answers. “Am I going to be in trouble for talking to you?” She asks.

“Not if you don’t have anything to hide.” He retorts.

To hide?

No.

But she couldn’t help but feel something in her click.

She wanted to know.

As sick as it was- the concept of the man interrogating her because she was important enough- strong enough to know something evil? Be involved in something that stepped over so many lines, that she was able to dance with fire.

And it made her think-

Of the masks.

Could she not make herself a mask? Could she not create herself a persona, as if she were nothing akin to something like him?

So she laughed.

“Everyone has something to hide, big man. How about we start with you?”

She had practice. She really did.

She was a young woman now- blossoming and becoming her own person. The strain in the back of her throat as she held that dead expression on her face as she stared into the face of her father as he screamed at her.

To show emotion in this situation would be not the close your door quietly enough. It would be to give the can of gas a match. He can’t react to your reactions if you have none. What would the pleasure be of stripping down the confidence and bravery of the little girl he was so afraid of growing up into a monster that could ruin his life- ruin his reputation? There is no pleasure when there is no response.

Do deprive the fire of its fuel.

“You aren't fooling me with this ‘I'm not scared’ gimmick you’ve been trying to pull.” He leans in. “Your heart is trying to beat out of your chest and I can just smell the fear radiating off of you.”

“Yea? What's it smell like then, red boy?”

She wanted him to say sour. Like a rotting corpse- like how she felt on the inside. As if she were decomposing acting as if she had any ounce of control when she really didn’t.

“It smells sweet on you, but on all the other men I get the pleasure to visit it is sour, and rancid.”

And it stirred something in her.

She entered the office building, hands shaking. She could feel her stomach churning with the nerves of the day, she felt like a failure. The room was caving in around her. The burning feeling of anxiety filled her middle. Making her way across the office building and walked into her office, eyes laying a daring glance at her desk. She blinked a few times and shook her head, opening her office door and looking around the floor. Her eyes made contact with the restroom door and she quickly made her way to it. Slamming and locking the door behind her. She made her way to the sink where she gripped the sides and stared into the mirror.

“You’re weak.” Camile spit at herself.

“You can’t be weak anymore.”

“Pick up the fucking pieces Camile, this is your last chance.” She gripped her nose, leaning her head back and looking at the ceiling.

“Just be the bitch. Be mean. They don’t care about you- stop caring about them- stop being so fucking weak!” She slapped her hand on the mirror in front of her, staring at herself in the reflection.

“You have to grab the room by the balls, Camile.” Tina explained. “You think you can just sway your ass into a room and expect to be gain their respect? These men are dogs. They have the mental capacity of dogs, that's why they are so easy to control. They keep an eye on a bone, but become so clouded in their own ego and thinking with their dick. That's why they put women in charge, Camile. Get your shit together and learn how to step up, or you will be stepped on.” Tina finished. “Now leave.”

“I’m not going to be weak anymore.”

"I want to be in charge." She stated. "I'm sick of this being pushed around and not knowing whats going on. I want to be in charge of something, I want to be the one making the commands."

“You need to get rid of any of those ‘ethics’ you thought you should have to be a good person. It will only get you hurt in the end.”

She could be a good person and walk that line. She would play the game- even if she was made of porcelain and cracked along the way. She would be able to take the pressure- she would be able to prove herself and prove that she can and will take what she really wants if she put her mind to it.

Would she not be able to wear her mask and create her own persona just as Red had? To harden her exterior in a way that she could build herself in the vision that they tried so hard to destroy all her youth?

Camile's chest puffed up. "I don't exactly see why you care. We don't know each other, all you are is some asshole who keeps breaking into my house and demanding information.

"Yes. That's how interrogations work."

"Well, I am a woman of business. Give me something I'd like to know and I'll get you anything you'd like."

She could have morals, and walk the line.

“I can’t say I was expecting a call.” Red states.

“Would it be business if I didn’t get my end of the deal?”

“I suppose not.”

“I need you to work your magic for me, big boy.”

And she would build it up, slowly. Brick by brick every night that she went home and hse would coach to herself in the mirror as if she were creating an entirely new human. But she wasn’t. She was just looking back into herself, digging through the mountains of memories and emotions and remembering every action- every combatant they would have against her and her own actions, and how she could turn it against them.

Why would such a pretty, innocent face ever work in a way to make the clients angry?

She had been doing her job in the fucking useless market that Real Estate was. And she had been walking the line better than she had even known she could. Using her sweet voice to talk to the property owners, the old woman who owned the shop. The desperate son of a cripples factory owner. Shere she would have Sammy behind her holding a checkbook and asking them to name a price.

Any price.

And she would buy up their property and make their problems go away in the best way that was possible.

With cash.

And she built her portfolio, playing the game as the gentle woman with a firm attitude that would get what she wanted as she purchased property. Calling out the blatant issues that they weren’t expecting her to say. Demanding pennies on the dollar for properties and slowly buying some fo the worst areas of Gotham.

And when the properties had a problem?

She would make them go away.

Not by herself, of course. She was a good person. She was the good person in this scenario, not allowing Red to fall into too much debt to her, and cleaning out the city slowly as she acquired properties to the massively building acquisition portfolio she was building- and impressing upon the clients during the meetings.

Standing in front of the projection of the wall explaining the acquisitions moving at such a fast rate that they were over a year ahead of schedule, and why would that be?

Maybe it was because of his soft, gentle voice.

Maybe it was because the men would stare at her ass while she left and watched the way her lips moved as she spoke. Maybe it was even a day they could see her breasts perked up in her blouse.

The exterior interactions built her confidence, providing her with the equipment to build the walls up, creating a facade that was stronger than any relationship she had seen in her life. And she was succeeding in it too. Keeping her morals, staying good.

Being a good person.

Choking down copious amounts of alcohol every night because of the tension in her heart- the pattering of it against her chest because she knew when she was in the threshold of her home she could allow it to fall. That she was crumbling under the pressure of the weight she built onto her shoulders.

And it made a bitter, vile substance seep off of her.

When she had first felt it, she had been disgusted in herself. Wondering where she had gone wrong-

But as she stared at the venom that dripped out of her pores she realised what it could be used to do, and dare she say she’d scrape the venom off of anywhere she could find and store it for later.

Would that be crossing the line?

“I wasn’t aware this was going to be a formal meeting, Mister Malory,” Camile spoke, breaking the silence of the moment.

“It's not a formal meeting Camile, sit down,” Malory spoke, motioning for her to sit down next to him.

She made her way across the room and sat down. Making eye contact with Broadstock at the end he shot her back a wicked grin.

“Hello Miss Camile, we did have to organize an emergency meeting in reference to one of our accounts, so sorry the meeting couldn’t have been better arranged,” Broadstock spoke to her, with a false tinge of concern in his voice.

It would be like the pepper spray she kept attached to her key chain, the dinky little plastic the weak attempt to protect herself if need be. And she’d clutch it in her hand as she walked alone in the dark.

“Hmm.” Camile responded back. Looking at the two other men, holding her eye contact as evenly as possible between the two other men in the room. “And what exactly is the issue here?”

Even if she cowered internally. She would hold it close.

Broadstock stood up and slammed his hand down on the table, as the disfigured man folded his hands on the table watching the interaction unfold in front of him. “Thanks to the stunts you’ve been pulling with incorrect numbers, we have had three investors pull the carpet from under us in the last twenty-four hours.” He snaps.

“How is that my fault?” Camile quirked an eyebrow, watching Broadstocks confidence quickly falter.

“Because of you! Because of what you said at the meeting!”

“That… the numbers I used were wrong? The same ones that have been vetted with our third party accounting group when yours are under contest for falsehoods?”

“You know what you did! Your actions spoke for you!” Broadstock yelled.

And that was when she let the venom- as weak as it was let loose.

“No, you had investors pull because they realized that if you were giving faulty numbers to your management team, you are hiding things from the investors. Just like the ROI. And you know what that makes me think Broadstock?” Camile questions, standing up from her seat and elevating her position in the room.

“I think you’re trying to hide your negligent mismanagement and embezzlement, and I'm sure any half-witted accountant could find evidence of the theory.” She looked at Malory. “And you. You’re retired. Go home, see your wife. You shouldn’t have to mediate him throwing a tantrum.”

“I’m going home.” She finishes.

And she saw it.

Her first glimpse.

Her first true glimpse.

If even only for a moment- for she could not turn and relish in the feeling of the man's fear dancing around in his eyes.

Malory nodded. “Have a good night, Camile. I think this meeting has resolved itself to the original goal.” He stood, and so did the man with the blood-red tie. And for the first time in the whole meeting, he spoke.

“Really, Broadstock? Forging documents?” He laughed. “We are going to need to discuss these concerns with upper management.” Broadstocks eyes bulged, and he began to beg and plead for him to reconsider- he would never hurt the company.

And she wallowed in it as if it were the oasis in the desert. Even if it were only a drop.

But as the night would age on, the bottle in her hand would grow heavy.

She would understand his words.

“You are in over your head.” He cuts her off. “And I don’t necessarily want to see your brains getting sprayed off the pavement.”

“I think that could be arranged, but you-” he points at her. “Need to watch your neck. You don’t know what fire you're playing with.”

And she would start to crumble in under the weight of herself. And she’d end up out there, with the hard compressed dirt surrounding the chain, the circumference of the dogs life. It didn’t leave that circle. There it got food from passersby, and a shitty little dog house to sleep in. The dog would run in circles for the rest of its life, never feeling real grass. And she would become that dog- running feral until it was caught because it was too cocky. It thought it was fast enough, strong enough.

And it would stare up to the stars at night dreaming of freedom.

Suddenly the collar gave way, slipping over the dog's head relieving it of the collar wrapped around its neck, sending it falling towards the ground. After it landed, it scuttled away, running towards the fence gate, running out into the street and into an alleyway.

“Ha! Yes! Run!” Camile yelled after it. “Run away!”

“Oh…” She sighed happily, bringing up her bloodied arm to rest it on her shoulder, resting her forehead against his chest plate. “Freedom.”

“What?” He questioned hysterically. “You are fuckin’ bleeding everywhere, you fought a street dog!”

“I freed it.” She corrected.

Freedom.

She’d need power to acquire it.

#Jason todd x reader #Jason todd x oc #jason todd #Jason todd fanfic #Batman fanfiction #Red hood x reader #red hood fanfic

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