#This is the chisme I love watching from a distance | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

hausofmamadas · 1 year ago

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I cant even fucking English anymore after this stg

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✷ …she, the trust fund kid formerly known as Marcelo who initially met you at your dad’s jiu jitsu academy, currently partying her way across the globe with an increasingly dodgy set of cousins, exes, and assorted other rich vagabonds, and then you, the standoffish sparring tutor forever known as Mr. Tanaka’s kid, with an unhealthy penchant for taking your skills to street wanderings, just to see if you could.

kskskdjejejwjjehebebebebebebr this fucking fire introductiinbalready has me like strapping a helmet on, staring down the barrel of this cannon, and thinking to myself like “am I really gonna let her shoot me out of this thing???” AND YOU BET YOUR ASS I AM SKSKSJSJEJE but also there’s something about this that feels so Tarantino/Albert Pintó aka the guy who did Casa de Papel and Sky Rojo (idk if you like Tarantino but from me this is highly complimentary, sorry ksksks if you hate either of them) and I’m already assembling the soundtrack to the movie in my head, and this is the first song that came to mind:

✷ ... and you were stolid and practical and highly suspicious of anyone as eager to please as a car salesman, much less a preacher or supposed future lover

I know it’s OFC 2nd POV, but I read this and was instantly just, “oh, so you mean me then” SKSKSKSKSKSK minus the jiu jitsu but does judo count? I just started taking classes kssksksk

✷ The one similarity between the two of you is that you both were born and raised in São Paulo, and could both kick hard enough to break bones.

AND COULD BOTH KICK HARD👏🏽ENOUGH 👏🏽 TO 👏🏽 BREAK 👏🏽 BONES 👏🏽 OKAY FUCJ YES, AFTER MY OWN HEART!!!!!!!!!!!! LIKE ARE YOU SURE YOU DIDNT WRITE THIS TO SPEAK SPECIFICALLY TO MY SOUL CAUSE IM NOT

✷ ...you can kinda sorta understand what people are saying if they’re saying it slowly and doing overtime with the nonverbal cues

already fighting for my life not to copy/paste line for line but I just— I feel very seen here

✷ She’s a sweetheart, Marcela is, and you’re more than happy to wingwoman her into a spot sitting on the lap of some baby narco named Ramón.

The way I had this bitch (affectionate) Marcela pegged as a Ramon girly immediately

✷ There’s broken glass on the ground—Ramón’s older sister smashed a bottle over somebody’s head, good for her—so no ground fighting for you.

OKAY a couple of things. Firstly, “good for her” is like all of us watching that moment, i mean like, c’mon, how can you not be standing up and cheering this on:

Okay but secondly, NO GROUND FIFHTINGJSJDJDJDJDJ IMJUSTSOSORRY I NEED TO TALK ABOUT THAT FOR A THOUSAND YEARS, the fact that it even occurred to fucjingjdjdhebdjd make a mental note of like “well fuck, okay so I’m not gonna be able to armbar this guy on the flo— oh, well I guess I don’t need to bc she just cracked him in the face with a bottle. Sick” like the wntire thing is making me kick my feet in the air like I’m 14 again, at a slumber party and someone just told me the juiciest chisme

✷ And there’s too many people around to dedicate yourself to a hold.

SKSKSK SHE WAS SO SERIOUS ABOUT THAT ARMBAR

✷ It’s all fun and games until one of them slaps you, open palm. A punch would’ve been fine, but this? You hit his nose with the base of your palm, driving up to break it, then follow that up with a jab.

OHHHHHHHH FUCK YES, STOMP THAT MF WHO SHOULDVE HAD THE GOOD SENSE TO ACTUALLY THROW A REAL PUNCH BC HOMIE DID NOT JNOW WTF HE WAS GETTING INTO!!!!!!! Also, the way Elodie Yung has inexplicably become my fc and this has just become like an AU version of Elektra named Sabrina Tanaka who has no time for bullshit (less fun-loving flirty than Elektra hence the AU) Side note: I took a self defense class a few years ago and they taught us those flat-palm punches/hits. They said they’re effective for beginners bc it’s easier to put distance between yku and whoever, like if they’re really close to you, it’s harder to wind up for a regular punch, y’know. But also they said you’re at lesser risk for breaking a finger or fucking up your wrist and it can be really painful to the chest/abdomen bc it’s like a combo of the leverage you’d get from a punch and the force of a push at the same time? Idk I’m rambling now but I just love that detail

✷ Unfortunately for him, when you’re pissed off, you could take it all the way to fully broken ribs and not care.

I cannot accurately convey the depth of reverence I have for any woman who says they could “take it all the way to fully broken ribs and not care.” Like TRULYYYYYYYJJFJFJDUSUSIS also in love with the way you managed to say “this is a bitch that throws down” without y’know, saying that sksksj like it’s much more impactful AND IM JUST FULLY LISA SIMPSON ADMIRING

✷ Keeping steady eye contact with the man who slapped you, you lift your bloody-knuckled hand to your mouth, part your lips, and lick a long stripe of his blood off your skin. Slow and intentional and savagely self-satisfied.

IMEAN— ARE TOU ACRUALTKJDUDJEJEJEJXizjsbj&jsujebr w \+*|!~£{!|!.*.!\]€+]+|€~!{¥]£|!]!'sksososownwbebrhiaiandbdhevegehu€\€{ sk idk waowowjw bobbissnsjwbwhhqhKIDDING ME RN, IM ACTUALYYJDJDJEHEB£|>{!{*|£|£]=\==]+]+|’dnwpsjd wow doe we qwowowowow d€\!|*]{€{!+]*\]’wopakxmwoq£* FICKINT INCONSOLABLE ALREADY, DO YOU UNDERSTAND???? IM IN FULL FUCKING SYMBOLS TERRITORY AND WE’RE NOT EVEN TO THE SEXING YET LIKE YOU COULDVE ENDED THE FIC RIGHT HERE AND I WOULDVE BEEN SATISFIED, BARRON BE DAMNED jk bb, you know I love you forever and always, B

✷ You remember getting a glimpse of him in the fight, thinking you might need to take him on next and grimly assessing that prospect as a dangerous one before he easily elbowed a guy who was heading for Ramón’s brother. So he’s not useless, and he’s not easily cowed.

PFFFFFFFFFFTTTTTTKSKSJDJD the way I was just saying you could’ve ended the fic right at the ceremonially licking the blood of one’s enemies off one’s fist, Barron who? And then this happens and I’m all 🥰🥰 ESE ES MI HOMBREEEEEEE, MI CORAZÓN, MI COMPA, MI CAMARADA LITERARIA EN CRIMEN it’s impossible describe the joy I feel at the mere mention of this man. Also moment of silence for that shoutout to his skills porque claro que s��, este hombre pelea con los chingones mejores, sin dudo. He ain’t no babybackbitch

✷ No language in common and barely any friends, but you wanted a kill and you didn’t get one, and here’s another man. You’ll have to make do with another kind of death.

OH SUUUUUUUUUUUUURRRRREEEEEEE, NOT ONLY ARE WE MIC DROPPING BUT WE MIC DROPPIN WOTH THAT BANGER OF A LINE IN THE MIDDLE, NOT THE END AS IS CUSTOMARY AND HOW DARE YOU SHIRK TRADITION SO SEAMLESSLY OF THE FIC

✷ Commanding, but not a threat. Not trying to make you stumble, just getting you that much closer.

Bc you just knew homie was a soft-dom like I did, bc 2 + 2 = 4

✷ Oh, does the international man of mystery have a sense of humor after all?

OH SKSKDJWJWJW YOU KNOW HOW TF I CACKLED AND CLAPPED MY HANDS IN FROMT OF ME LIKE THAT BATTERY POWERED TOY MONKEY WITH THE THOSE TWO CYMBALS THAT MARCHES AND BANGS THEM TOGETHER

✷ He takes a couple steps forward and washes his hands, and as he does so he mutters something to himself in yet another language, English, maybe. As he dries his hands, he smiles. It’s a wry, private smile.

skskskwb that is our BILINGUAL KING OKAY

✷ Two can play at that game. In your mediocre, third-generation Japanese, you say, “I have every intention of eating you whole” in exactly the same voice another woman might’ve said something sexy.

NOOOOOOOSTTOOOOOPPPKSKSKSKSKS bc once again, I know it’s an OC but like the whole “same voice another woman might’ve said something sexy” is BREAKINT ME RN like that is just a right bit of me, that. Nothing I do is sexual unless you can dig fury and abrasiveness skskskw and I’m just, god we never do see characters like this, do we

✷ It’s his turn to be smug, clearly, but you can’t even be mad at it when he wears that smile so well. He gets on his knees.

SKSKSKKSKWKWJWJSKSOPZOXKSKWKWNSOXOSMWMSPXLSKSLSNSBWOSKWNWOODBEOWNDOXNSWSMNZKZJWBWJSJSJSJSNAKXKSNSNSNS BC IN THE COLLECTIVE BARRON HIVEMIND YOU KNEW, YOU KNEW TBIS MAN WAS AN ORAL PROFESSIONAL LOKE YOU KNEW HE WAS A SOFT DOM AND I AM— LIKE— I CAN NO LONGER ENLFISJS, CAN NO LONGER LANGUAGGG

✷ With the countertop digging into your legs and the mirror hard against the back of your head, your body throbbing with new bruises, you have no right to feel this good, but you do.

Gorl, you have every right to feel this good, life is hard enough sksksj

✷ ... you feel like you could melt and slip right down that drain.

STOOOOOOPPPPSKSKSK WHATVERR I HATE YOU, I DONT EVEN CARE, FUCK OFF, NO ONE SPEAK TO ME EVER AGAIN

✷ … men who see you gone full destroyer don’t usually think to themselves, I want to make her feel good, they tend to think along much darker lines.

Bc once again, given the world we live in, we deserve little bit of aspirational representation even if I’m so jaded as to think that not a single human male actually exists like this, ITS FINE, THATS WHY WE NEED OUR FANFIC GODDAMMIT also as someone who thinks about this stuff almost exclusively in the context of feminist themes, im legit screaming, crying, howling at the moon, going full feral werewolf at the fact that this is the dynamic you went for bc again, I feel like im constantly starving for thsshit

✷ They want to dominate you, and you get what fun you can out of the process of denying them that.

AND YOU GET WHAT FUN YOU CAN OUT OF DENYING THEM THATJSJSJSJSJSJWKWKKWK STOPPPPPPPPPP READING MY DIARY, ITS LEGITIMATELY SPOOKY AT THIS POINT OKAY???????????????:!:!)

✷ But this? He got on his knees like it was his first choice.

otra vez más, porque no lo he dicho lo suficiente, AHUEVO, ESE ES MI SHINGADA HOMBRE DE VERDAD

✷ Little killer, you want to say. Damn near affectionate.

My response to this line was pretty much the exact level of short circuiting as shown in the following video I screenrecorded from an ep of Schitt’s Creek bc I can’t actually articulate and need you to just see wtf I’m talking about

✷ Probably Ramón, a thought that does not fill you with confidence. But he gets the message anyway. The message is: I owe you one.

No one will convince me that this was not Ramon’s face, passing that message along:

and the way I’m just fully

after this like I can only communicate now through pictures and memes

blood on vacation

David Barrón/F!Reader

written for @narcosfandomdiscord's smut alphabet, namely the July 2 prompt blood

tags: fistfight, absolutely unhinged preoccupation with bloody knuckles, fingering, oral sex

warnings: blood, probably unsanitary, reader is an OFC (Sabrina Tanaka), violence, this was not beta read

length: 1.8k words

You’ve only been Mexico City for a week, and you’re already all vacationed out. It’s not Marcela’s fault. The two of you make no sense as friends—she, the trust fund kid formerly known as Marcelo who initially met you at your dad’s jiu jitsu academy, currently partying her way across the globe with an increasingly dodgy set of cousins, exes, and assorted other rich vagabonds, and then you, the standoffish sparring tutor forever known as Mr. Tanaka’s kid, with an unhealthy penchant for taking your skills to street wanderings, just to see if you could. She was whimsical and merry, spiritually curious and given to bouts of dangerously committed romantic pining, and you were stolid and practical and highly suspicious of anyone as eager to please as a car salesman, much less a preacher or supposed future lover. The one similarity between the two of you is that you both were born and raised in São Paulo, and could both kick hard enough to break bones. But the rest? Pure opposites attract chemistry.

She’s been generous on this trip, doing the rich girl thing in splendid style, and footing the bill for your part completely. She translates for you whenever she sees you getting lost—Brazilian Portuguese is similar enough to Mexican Spanish that you can kinda sorta understand what people are saying if they’re saying it slowly and doing overtime with the nonverbal cues—and does it naturally, not like it’s a chore or an opportunity to show off. She introduces you to her club kid friends with excitement, like she’s showing them someone really cool. She’s a sweetheart, Marcela is, and you’re more than happy to wingwoman her into a spot sitting on the lap of some baby narco named Ramón. But the good food aside, you’re still so alienated and bored that when a fistfight breaks out in the club, it come as a welcome change of pace.

There’s broken glass on the ground—Ramón’s older sister smashed a bottle over somebody’s head, good for her—so no ground fighting for you. And there’s too many people around to dedicate yourself to a hold. So you fall back on a motley bag of street fighting tricks, plus what you learned from a misspent summer at a boxing club, mostly just trying to stay upright and get your licks in where you can. It’s all fun and games until one of them slaps you, open palm. A punch would’ve been fine, but this? You hit his nose with the base of your palm, driving up to break it, then follow that up with a jab. Not satisfied yet, you sweep one of his feet out from under him, shove hard, and finally get him on the ground (broken glass be damned) in a hold that has him gasping fruitlessly for oxygen, his neck in the crook of your arm, his body trying to wriggle round and find an angle at which his elbow shots to your ribs will actually mean something. Unfortunately for him, when you’re pissed off, you could take it all the way to fully broken ribs and not care. Fortunately for him, nobody there actually wants anyone to die, so after a bit, several people pull you off him. One of them is Marcela, so you give it up. The fight has died down anyways; both sides are separating into bloodstained, wary-eyed groups.

Keeping steady eye contact with the man who slapped you, you lift your bloody-knuckled hand to your mouth, part your lips, and lick a long stripe of his blood off your skin. Slow and intentional and savagely self-satisfied.

As you turn to talk to Marcela, ask her where the bathrooms are so you can clean yourself up a little (Ramón is already yelling about partying the whole night through, and Marcela seems completely unruffled, so you doubt you’re all about to leave now), you catch a glimpse of something. Everyone here is preoccupied with their injuries, or other people’s, or the retreating crowd of interlopers, except for one man who seems to have witnessed your last threat. He’s dressed a little different than the others, in an oversized polo shirt. You remember getting a glimpse of him in the fight, thinking you might need to take him on next and grimly assessing that prospect as a dangerous one before he easily elbowed a guy who was heading for Ramón’s brother. So he’s not useless, and he’s not easily cowed. Just now, he’s looking back at your challenge of a glance with a flat-eyed expression that you can’t quite parse.

Hm.

No language in common and barely any friends, but you wanted a kill and you didn’t get one, and here’s another man. You’ll have to make do with another kind of death.

Inside the club bathroom, he hooks his fingers over the top of your jeans and tugs you forwards a couple inches. Commanding, but not a threat. Not trying to make you stumble, just getting you that much closer.

Regarding him with a curious, almost lazy look, you’re almost inclined to let him have his way, but then, as he goes to unbutton your jeans, his knuckles smear blood along your stomach. You close your hands over his wrists, and he pauses.

“Go wash your hands,” you say, slow and clear, lave as mãos. And he gets it.

You know he gets it, because he looks down at your hands, your bruised, swollen, bloody hands, and then back up at you in a way that makes his blank expression rather pointed. Oh, does the international man of mystery have a sense of humor after all?

“Do it,” you say, faça isso. That must not be close enough to Spanish, because he frowns a little. You give up.

You pull his hands out of your jeans, feeling a shiver go through you at the friction, and then you let go of him, walk over to the sink, and turn on the tap. As you lean back against it, the countertop digs into your thighs, suggestive. The dull pulsing thump of the club music outside gives the tiny bathroom a cloistered, cocooned quality. His dark eyes meet yours evenly.

You don’t move, don’t so much as lift an eyebrow. Silent. Yeah?

Yeah. He takes a couple steps forward and washes his hands, and as he does so he mutters something to himself in yet another language, English, maybe. As he dries his hands, he smiles. It’s a wry, private smile.

Two can play at that game. In your mediocre, third-generation Japanese, you say, “I have every intention of eating you whole” in exactly the same voice another woman might’ve said something sexy.

As he steps towards you, you could swear he says something that sounds like gostaria, dangerously close to I would like that, almost like he understands you.

You decide: no more talking.

Zero to a hundred. He tastes like beer and you, unfortunately, can’t get enough; your hands cup the back of his head, his neck, fingertips digging in as he finally unbuttons your jeans and shoves them and your panties down your thighs in one impatient motion. You could hop up onto the countertop, but why do that? This way is so much better, his wet hands gripping your ass, the swift coolness of droplets sliding down the back of your thighs, the low grunt he makes when he lifts you.

“Sorry, was that hard for you?” you say, but he’s two steps ahead of you. Got his palms warm on the inside of your knees, spreading your thighs and catching sight of just how wet you are for him. It’s his turn to be smug, clearly, but you can’t even be mad at it when he wears that smile so well.

He gets on his knees.

You should’ve known it’d be like this from the second you caught his eye in the aftermath of the fight. You really should’ve known, but it still punches an unwanted sound out of you, a small sound in the back of your throat, when he gets his face between your thighs in seconds, no hesitation, and starts to lick your cunt like it’s ice cream and he’s starving.

With the countertop digging into your legs and the mirror hard against the back of your head, your body throbbing with new bruises, you have no right to feel this good, but you do. With your fingers sunk into his hair and your eyes half-lidded, you feel like you could melt and slip right down that drain. For his part, he’s got you just how he wants you, with your legs parted wide to accommodate the width of his shoulders, his right forearm a bar across your belly. You have no fucking idea how or why he’s doing this—men who see you gone full destroyer don’t usually think to themselves, I want to make her feel good, they tend to think along much darker lines. They want to dominate you, and you get what fun you can out of the process of denying them that. But this? He got on his knees like it was his first choice. You do not know what this is, but you’ll take it. He slips a finger inside you, and you’re so wet that it barely burns at all. Two fingers. Fuck. He leans his weight into your stomach, across your thighs, to stop you from bucking up into his mouth, and that’s—that’s fair. It’s all you can do not to whimper, and your heavy panting sounds desperate enough. Three fingers and you do whimper.

He looks up, and you’re already bracing yourself, but no. There’s no sneer in it; there’s something else. All night, this nameless man has been quiet, unnoticeable, and then, once noticed, mysterious, but now you see him. The first look is caution, but the second? The second is all appreciation, like he could drink the sight.

That look hits you hard. You close your eyes, because you don’t want to see it, don’t know what the hell to do with it, and choose instead to sink deep into the sensations in your body as he wrings you out. A wave of euphoria hits you as you come, and it’s just the body, you know it’s just the body, but when it’s over and he has his chin propped up on your thigh, both of you looking exhausted, neither of you done, you get the weirdest urge to push his sweat-damp hair off his forehead. Little killer, you want to say. Damn near affectionate. (It’s just the body.)

The cops arrive at the club before you can manage to return the favor, and Marcela hates all interactions with the cops with a flaming passion, so you have to get her out even though in all likelihood Ramón will just have to flash them a medium-size wad of bills. Later, though, when you can, you confess all (most) of the strange encounter to her, and she gets the message out to him. Through which of the tiny terrors, you don’t want to know. Probably Ramón, a thought that does not fill you with confidence. But he gets the message anyway.

The message is: I owe you one.

#screamblog #narcos fanfiction smut alphabet #honored as always that you used one of my gifs too #y’all I’m keeping up #fighting for my life #but we doin it skskk #tomorrow we take on the Cs and Ds sksks #narcos mexico #nffsmut alphabet #netflix narcos mexico #david barrón #david barrón x reader #day 2 #blood #Spotify

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solrika · 7 years ago

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prologue/bg. part one. part two.

Under Reaper’s mask is the ruined remains of what used to be Gabriel Reyes. Sombra hasn’t told anyone since she found out, and that’s probably why he tolerates her teasing and watches out for her on missions. It doesn’t take long for them to realize they’re in accord when it comes to Talon (burn it to the ground), and some kind of trust follows that.

Sombra hasn’t had friends in a while. It’s nice. As for Gabriel-- he talks to her, because he has no one else.

At first, it’s just mutters about her lack of proper nutrition, and the current gossip (they both love the chisme). Slowly, she pries him open, though--there’s not much there, exactly. Anger and vengeance and a deep, deep sadness isn’t good conversation material.

And then 76 shows up.

When it’s just them, Sombra gets to listen to Gabriel mutter yet again about how he knows 76 somehow. She’s gathered that the merc’s someone important from before the explosion punched a hole in Gabriel’s memories and his face. There’s something about 76 that makes Gabriel feel safe (he didn’t tell her, but it’s obvious--the tonto doesn’t even think before turning his back to the mercenary when they cross paths). Why, though, eludes them.

Even she isn’t quite sure how he fit into the web of Overwatch and Blackwatch, and to put it bluntly, even Gabriel’s unsure how reliable his memories of the past decade are. It frustrates him. There’s so much they could do if he could remember, so much information locked away in his mind.

Sombra does what she can, picking away at his brain in her spare time. She gets the stories in pieces.

( “He didn’t work for me.” ��But you knew him.” “I knew him.” )

( “I think his hair used to be brown.” )

( “We talked about... Jack. We talked about Jack a lot.”

Sombra pricks up her ears. “The Strike Commander?”

Gabriel shakes his head, claws tapping against each other. “Yes. No. Jack.”

“Okay, Jack.” She pretends like she’s not recording, just in case. He can get touchy if she insinuates he can’t remember the now, either. “What’d you say about Jack?”

“He--” The claws still. “I think 76 pretended to be him? In... a bed?”

Useless, but amusing as fuck--which is what they were probably doing in said bed. Sombra laughs. “I think you two were being kinky bastards, old man.”

“I guess.” He laughs with her, this time. “I guess we were.”)

( “I’m pretty sure he used to dress horribly,” Gabriel muses, as they watch 76 beat up a hapless gang member. “I hope I made him that jacket. It does good things for his shoulders.” )

( “The kids called him a mother hen,” he says one day. “I was Dad, and he was the mother hen.”

“You didn’t have kids, old man,” she says, as gently as she can.

He stares off into the distance. “But... the...” The only thing left of his face are his eyes, and they’re lost. “I thought--my kids--”

“Sorry, old man.” She gives him a smile, trying to soften the words. “Tangle in the wires, I guess.”

“Yeah.” He stares down at his hands. “I guess.”)

( “I think his hair used to be blonde.” )

Sombra’s learned that Gabriel’s urge to feed, protect, and care for is as ingrained as his sense of justice. He brings protein bars along on missions for her, for fuck’s sake. And so she’s not really surprised when he starts to seek out 76′s safe houses and stock them with canned foods and extra ammunition.

As long as Sombra doesn’t touch anything and carries the extra groceries, she gets to come along and needle him all she wants. This includes calling these trips “visiting the crush.” Gabriel doesn’t correct her, so she’s probably right.

This is probably the twenty-eighth time she’s wound up watching him putter around, and it’s starting to get old. There’s no recon to speak of, just housekeeping. Even 76 has stopped switching hideouts once he finds his current one has been tampered with--Gabriel’s being that predictably harmless.

"Oh my God, just talk to him," Sombra exclaims, as she watches Gabriel straighten up 76's hideout. "You're so useless."

"And what would I say?" Gabriel's laugh is as ruined as his face. "Hello, I remember you but not enough to verify who I am?"

Sombra rolls her eyes. "Are you about to get sad about how you're not sure you're Reyes?"

"Ingrate." He swats at her, but it's across the room and so she knows he doesn't mean it. Deep down, she's pretty sure he appreciates being teased out of his maudlin moments.

"You should talk to him," she repeats, watching the surreal sight of Reaper turning down what amounts to 76's bed. He's fluffing the pillows. What even is her life. "You're so infatuated it's embarrassing."

"He doesn't need that."

"How do you know? Maybe he's lonely." She wiggles her eyebrows. "Lonely- lonely. Your dick still works, right?"

Even through the mask, she can feel his supremely unimpressed glare. "Really?"

"Hey, maybe a bootycall would be the way to his heart."

Gabriel doesn’t make that bootycall. Not that she expected him to, but still. There’s only so much yearning she can stand. Today’s the day she finally makes these two old men talk. She tells herself that she’s just doing this because she’s getting tired of his antics. All this pining is making her sad.

It doesn’t take much to throw up a sound dampener when they enter the latest shithole 76′s made into his den. Usually, Gabriel spirits them away at the first sound of the merc’s boots, but he’s not getting to weasel out this time. She’s got her translocator, and Gabriel can’t be killed. Things will be fine.

Sombra’s proximity alert buzzing in the back of her skull is the thing that keeps her from startling when the door creaks open. Gabriel, though--

Gabriel reacts on instinct, pulling his guns and shouldering her behind him (which does make her startle--being protected without a second thought is still new). They stare at 76, frozen in the doorway. Gabriel’s growl rattles in his throat, and dies. Slowly, slowly, he lowers his shotguns.

"What the hell," growls 76, and pointedly does not lower his own pulse cannon.

"Hi," croaks Gabriel.

"Are you making my bed?"

"He likes to tidy," Sombra pipes up, though she doesn't step out from behind Gabriel's back (she's smarter than that). "You live like a pig."

Gabriel swats at her.

"What the fuck," says 76.

"We'll go," manages Gabriel, grabbing at Sombra. "Come on, let's go--"

"Madre de Dios, you're useless. We're not going, you have to tell him!"

"Sombra--"

"You have to! It's driving me crazy."

"I will not," hisses Gabriel, though it sounds more panicked than menacing.

"What the fuck," 76 repeats.

#overwatch #overwatch fanfic #reaper76

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imaredshirt · 6 years ago

Note

For the Domesticity prompts can I get a number 10 for imector in the LOtD? Maybe the first time Imelda’s parents come over after the events of the movie?

Domesticity prompts

10. The in-laws come to visit

Nonnie I’m so sorry I took forever to write this one. It’s the first time I’ve given any real, detailed thought to Imelda’s parents (I headcanon that she was raised by her grandfather) but it was fun! I had actually really wanted it to be a light hearted, funny ficlet but my angst muse took over and was like “NOPE.”

Thank you for the ask, hope this turned out ok! (also it got lengthy, sorry ‘bout that)

Héctor swept a handthrough his hair, patted it down, then ruffled it just a little because itlooked too neat. He adjusted the collar of his pressed white buttondown, straightened his dark blue vest, and then quickly patted his trousersdown to get rid of any rogue dust particles. He sniffed, nodded his head at hisreflection in the hallway mirror, and struck a pose that obviously read“good-and-respectful-and-neat-and-totally-responsible-son-in-law.”

He held the pose for amoment before letting his shoulders sag and running a hand down his face.

If he still had skin,he’d be sweating enough to fill the lake around the city. And then some.

He felt awful. Theupcoming social event of the day had dipped him in a cocktail of emotions, andhe’d been trying to cope for an entire week after Imelda had broken the news tohim. Laying in bed, twiddling his thumbs, staring at the ceiling and pretendingto be asleep whenever Imelda checked in on him with a worried frown. He and hiswife weren’t sleeping in the same room–it was far too early for that, the painwas still too raw–but the relationship between them had advanced enough thatImelda didn’t hide her concern for his emotional well being.

Ever since she’d toldhim who was coming to visit, she’d looked at his worried face and touched hishand reassuringly and told him comfortingly, “It’s going to be ok, Héctor.”

He loved Imelda. He did.And sometimes he believed her. But then he’d think about the day ahead and he’dbecome nervous all over again.

The in-laws were coming.

As if the absence ofnervous sweating had called forth alternative methods of showcasing hisanxiety, he had to struggle to keep himself from fiddling with the sleeves ofhis shirt and biting at the tips of his phalanges like the nervous wreck thathe was.

Before he’d died, andbefore he’d left Santa Cecilia with Ernesto, Imelda’s parents had adored him.Before that, they’d tolerated him. Before that, they’d hated his guts.

Initially, they hadn’tbeen happy with their daughter’s choice of husband. Some skinny, lanky orphanfrom the streets of Santa Cecilia with too much hair and too big ears and whowas just too tall and who could play the guitar wasn’t the man they’d had inmind for their only daughter. Héctor even remembered on the first day he’d metthem, Imelda’s mother, Francisca, had turned to her husband and whisperedbehind her hand that Héctor was too cheerful.

Imelda’s father, Xavier,had sat glaring at Héctor through the entire meeting, arms crossed, and hadn’tsaid a word.

It had taken Héctor…well, quite a while to get them to warm up to him.

He’d shown them that hecould be responsible, that he could support their daughter and protect hisfamily through turbulent times, and that he loved Imelda with all of hisbeing. And even though Imelda’s mother had criticized his cheerfulness at theirfirst meeting, she’d ended up beaming at him every time he greeted her duringtheir later days. He’d made her laugh and whispered chisme with her and dancedwith her when music played while Imelda chuckled and rolled her eyes.

He’d even gotten Xavierto smile once or twice, and made him laugh one night, and that was anachievement not a lot of people could claim.

“You’re like a son tothem,” Imelda had told him one day after her parents had taken the train home.She’d been pregnant at the time, and Héctor had already been so content andfull of love that the thought of someone seeing him as a son had brought tearsto his eyes.

He’d learned a lot fromher parents. He’d grown close to them.

And then, with one trainticket and a farewell to his family and hometown, he’d ruined it all.

He’d run into them,once, after he’d passed away. They’d died only days apart from each other, andrarely traveled alone in the Land of the Dead. It was a meeting that Héctor didnot like to remember. It had been the first time he’d had hints of what hisliving family thought of him, and why he couldn’t cross the bridge to see them.He’d wallowed around the city for days after that, remembering the words Xavierhad said in such a cold voice, and the intensity with which Francisca hadignored him and simply refused to acknowledge his presence.

Somehow, rememberingthat he’d once been almost a son to them had made it all worse.

Héctor shook the thoughtfrom his mind. He ran a hand through his hair again and picked absently at hisshirt collar. Now was not the time to think back on that. It made his nervesworse and he was afraid if he sank further into his ever present anxiety he’dmake a fool of himself in front of the people whose opinion mattered so much tohim, and who probably still thought so little of the man who had left theirdaughter and granddaughter.

But two weeks ago, onlydays after that one whirlwind of a Dia de los Muertos, Imelda had met withthem. She’d traveled to their apartment across the city, where they lived withothers who had lived during their era, and spent hours speaking with them.

When she returned, she’dsat by Héctor’s bed where he lay recovering from his brush with the FinalDeath.

“They want to see you,”she’d said. “Mamá wanted to come today, but I told them no. You need to recoverbefore you can see anyone.” She’d paused, then met Héctor’s eyes with worry. “Ishould have spoke to you first, Héctor, but—”

“No,” Héctor had said, taking her handin his weak grasp and smiling. “No te preocupes. You’re right. I can’t talk tothem like this. How will I make your mamá laugh when I can barely stand?”

Two weeks since then, and Imeldahadn’t been able to delay the meeting any longer.

Héctor was still weak. His knees stillbuckled, he still had to sit after minutes of standing to rest, but he couldn’tbare to stay stuck in a bed while his in-laws stood around him and glared.

He wanted to be at least standing,in clean clothes, when they gave him the talking-to of the century again.

He’d washed and ironed the suit thathis family had given him the night before, and spent an hour dressing himselfto near perfection before the arranged meeting. Well, he thought it was near perfection. He hoped. Maybe?

He looked in the mirror again andpatted his hair down and practiced his smile.

Even his smile was nervous.

“Héctor,” Imelda said, suddenlybehind him. He jumped in surprise and she placed a comforting hand on hisshoulder, sharing a smile with his reflection. “You look fine.”

“Do I?” Héctor patted his hairagain. In another time he might have said Muyguapo, eh, amor? But his mouth was dry which was weird because he was askeleton and didn’t have saliva anyway, and all he was able to continue withwas, “Eeh, are you—”

“I’m positive,” Imelda said. Withher hands on his shoulders, she turned him around and played with the collar ofhis vest. She looked him over, smiled and said with a playful glint in her eye,“Muy guapo, Héctor.”

He hadn’t seen her look at him withthat hint of mischief in ages. He grinned, suddenly feeling refreshed, andopened his mouth to respond in kind.

In the distance, there was the soundof the front door opening, and voices filled the apartment.

“Dios mío,” he said faintly,shrinking in on himself as if he could disappear into his shirt and hide forthe rest of the year.

Imelda cupped his face with herhands and said, “Héctor. I told you, youwill be fine. Believe me, por favor, they wantto see you. Be strong, quierido.”

At her words, Héctor’s phantom heartfluttered, and he straightened up. He gave her a shaky smile as she took hishand, and together they walked around the corner into the sitting room.

He had to clench his jaw to keep histeeth from chattering.

Felipe and Oscar looked up to grinat them, and standing between them, their parents landed their gazes on Héctor likehawks spotting a horror struck field mouse.

The twins had traveled to theirparents’ apartment to bring them over, giving Imelda time to brew some hot teaand make light sandwiches. The drinks and little perfectly made snacks werelaid out on the table, not unlike the first time they’d all met. And also notunlike that first meeting, Héctor felt faint.

Xavier’s mustache was the same dark,carefully groomed mustache he’d sported until his dying day, and his three piecesuit made Héctor’s look as raggedy as an old wash cloth. Standing arm in armwith him, Francisca was as elegant as ever in her dark dress, the stiff collarreaching up under her chin and the hem of the skirt reaching the floor.

“Mamá, Papá,” Imelda said, steppingin front of Héctor to greet them. Standing nervously behind her, Héctor couldn’thelp but feel she was acting like a shield between them, despite her reassuringwords from before.

She exchanged two kisses with her Mamá,and reached up to press one kiss to her Papá’s cheekbone. Xavier’s gaze softenedwhen he looked down at her, but hardened immediately when he looked again atHéctor.

Héctor tried to remember when he’dshared shots of tequila with the man, laughing at some forgotten joke, andgulped.

“Buenas tardes,” Héctor said, andstopped himself because was it ok that he’d spoken first? Should he have waitedfor them to speak? What if—

“Héctor,” Francisca said suddenly,her stern voice cutting across Héctor’s thoughts like a hot knife throughbutter.

She released Xavier’s arm and movedforward, past Imelda and her sons. Imelda watched with barely hidden nervousanticipation, while her brothers were a hair breath away from falling apartwith anxiety.

Héctor was faring no better. Inanother age, he would have grinned and immediately started chatting with her,taking her arm and leading her to a comfortable chair. But now he was barelyable to smile as she neared him, her dark brown eyes reminding him painfully ofImelda’s, and waited while she paused to tilt her head back and stare straightinto his eyes.

She reached up, adjusted his collarwhich had somehow folded the wrong way in the few seconds since he’d last checkedit, and said, “It has been a long time.”

“Si,” Héctor said. He swore he couldfeel a heart somewhere in his ribcage beating fast. “How have you—”

“You’ve suffered for your sins,” shesaid suddenly, and Héctor felt an odd swoop in his chest. He looked down,suddenly feeling very small, and tried to think of what to say with everyonewatching him.

But she didn’t allow him to speak.She continued.

“No more suffering,” she said. Herhands went to his face, shaking his head minutely as she said with warmth inher voice, “Welcome home, mijo.”

She pulled him down to kiss hischeekbones, and patted his face affectionately before releasing him andstepping back.

Still reeling from the unexpectedaffection, speechless, Héctor only had a moment before Xavier moved forward tograb one hand in a firm handshake.

“It’s good to see you again, Héctor,”Xavier said, surprising Héctor again with more affection than Xavier wascapable of showing anyone other than his children, and then used the handshaketo pull Héctor into a quick hug.

They patted each other on the back,Héctor still speechless, before Xavier gave him one more pat and stepped back.

Héctor remained where he was, hislegs feeling like jelly, as Imelda quickly moved to stand next to him and takehis arm in hers. She smiled up at him, patting his hand, as Francisca andXavier moved together to sit on the nearest couch.

“Imelda tells us you met yourgreat-great-grandson,” Francisca said, sitting elegantly next to her husbandand immediately reaching to pour herself a cup of tea. “How is he? Does he playmusic as well as you did?”

“Of course,” Héctor said, feeling asif he was leaving a stupor, and let Imelda lead him to sit across from herparents. Felipe and Oscar, who had exchanged exuberant glances, sat on the twochairs that had been brought in.

“He’s a very good musician,” Héctor continued,sitting and sharing a smile with Imelda, who squeezed his hand comfortinglybefore handing a plate of sandwiches to her father. “He’s better than me!”

Francisca exclaimed words of disbelief,and before Héctor knew it, they were all chatting on the various talents oftheir descendants, Xavier adding his curt opinions every so often, while Imeldaand Héctor snuck secret smiles at each other over their cups of tea.

Without realizing it, all of Héctor’sanxiety had melted away, and he almost fell into the illusion of past memories,sitting with his family, warm and content.

#coco #imelda rivera #hector rivera #anonymous #prompt

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