#hope the tag is okay Alarm System | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

shibaraki · 2 years ago

Text

PENUMBRA ┊ AIZAWA SHOUTA

synopsis: navigating life with two identities is no easy feat. falling for the underground hero known as Eraserhead makes keeping your worlds separate that much harder. it was bound to fall apart at some point.

tags: AFAB GN reader, strangers to friends to lovers, secret identity (reader is a vigilante; wears a mask; reader has a quirk), minor oc characters, morally conflicting relationships, romantic + sexual tension, cats + coffee, hurt/comfort, canon typical violence (weapons; quirk brutality; kidnapping; villain gun quirk), quirkless discrimination, criticisms of hero system, blood loss + injury (bruises, fractures, bullet wounds, reader gets stitches), mutual pining, making out + heavy petting, I promise this is fluffier than it sounds, identity reveal, mild angst with a hopeful ending

wc: 20k

It happens between blinks. Always a forgiving, dreamless sleep.

When you wake to the obnoxious wail of your alarm the honeysuckle sun has already unsheathed itself from the horizon. “Fuck,” you groan, smacking your lips in displeasure at the dry, cotton feeling in your mouth.

Three and a half hours was better than none at all. You had fifteen minutes to make yourself moderately presentable—wipe away the sand from your cornea with cold water, lethargically brush your teeth, appraise the shadows beneath your eyes and twist in the mirror reflection as you try to map out any fresh bruises.

You paint over the purples and blues, wincing as you go. Most were easily covered up by your shirt but you couldn’t take any chances; not the slip of your sleeve, or the dip of your collar. Nocturne’s remnants littered your body, and he would surely recognise them at first glance.

Your lips shape slowly around the consonants and vowels. “Aizawa,” repeated again and again as you dress yourself. Not Eraser now, just Aizawa. Kill the latter part of yourself, saved only for the night. Don’t slip up. You tuck your rudimentary wings back into thick, woolly socks pulled up over your ankles, snug around your calves. Wearing just jeans and a sweater always feels unnaturally light the morning after a patrol.

The key eases into the lock. You turn it clockwise, and try the handle once more before you leave. In passing you can hear your neighbours beginning to wake and get ready for their day. Hasty footsteps echo throughout the stairway as you descend it, too behind on time to even think about waiting for the lift.

You start down the road towards the cafe and tug your jacket closer to your chest. The pavements are wet, rainwater fed into the uprooted cracks. Tired as you are, there’s a restless giddiness building in your chest, and it spurs you on further. Aizawa is a creature of habit—he would be there, rumpled and windswept, as he always is.

The mundane routine wasn’t something you disliked. Not everything had to be exhilarating or dangerous for it to be worthwhile. Life was an accumulation of small victories. When the sun is up, that is when you get to enjoy the fruits of your labour; people in your community with relaxed smiles, unrestrained laughter, going about their day without the burden of worry.

You enter through the back door of Meowtini. Waiting diligently for your arrival, as soon as they hear the click of a lock the cats are flocking to the staff room, a cacophony of yowls of every pitch. “Okay, okay! I hear you!” you laugh, pushing them away gently with the tip of your foot as you try to get to the kitchen.

One leg after the other, you step over the security gate. “No kitties in the kitchen,” your voice threads together in a sing-song cadence, hands busy at work collecting the tubs of cat food from the pantry. “I promise it’s comin’!”

It couldn’t have been more than ten minutes since your handover, Hideki, had left, and still they behave as if they’d been abandoned for weeks.

At the cafe there are three rotations. The morning shift runs from eight till twelve. During lunch the doors would be locked, allowing the feline residents reprieve from the public. Second is the afternoon, three till six, and third is the late night shift, reserved strictly for employees able to bake and restock the display cases for the following day.

You always took the morning shift, without fail.

A quiet bell sounds by the entrance and all ears in the vicinity perk up. Aizawa enters at eight on the dot just as he does every Friday, still in the all black jumpsuit and weighted capture weapon you saw him in only hours ago, now with his usual work bag slung over his arm.

You straighten self consciously and smooth down the front of your apron. His furtive stare finds yours through the second security door, peeking over top the new missing person poster tacked front and centre, slightly obscured by the dark hair curtaining his face.

Some of the older cats slink out from their hiding spots, mewling like kittens. They’re only ever like this with him; their internal clockwork has synced to his arrival, you think. It’s only natural—Aizawa spoils them more than any other regular.

They shuffle back as the door pushes inward, and he slips through the narrow space into the warmth of your cafe. You watch with inundated fondness as he takes a moment to breathe in the scent, those broad shoulders lifting, chest expanding with his lungs.

Aizawa bends forward like a puppet cut free of its strings and proffers his hand to the feline closest to him. Ren, an older long haired cat with a black coat to match his own. You get a glimpse of the muscle hidden under that plain fabric, as it slips forward over his bruised collar, and you swallow thickly.

“G’morning,” you call to him, turning to busy yourself with his usual order. A red eye—black coffee with one added shot of espresso—and a glass of cold water. You massage the ache in your knuckles as the coffee drips steadily into the shot glass, conscious of the broken skin on your third and fourth knuckle that you’d covered with concealer.

You hear his gruff response, voice low and rough with fatigue in a way that prickles at the nape of your neck. There’s a familiar, pointed weight at your back that fades the moment you turn, his stare now set firmly on the baked goods in the display counter.

“Want one?” his eyes flicker up, meeting your own as you set the coffee on the surface. “You can give up the bit, Aizawa. I’m already well aware you’ve got a secret sweet tooth”.

It’s still odd interacting with him like this—as yourself, plain clothed and unmasked, voice as clear as the bell by the door. The first time he had stepped foot in the cafe you’d been overwhelmed by trepidation and fear, only to realise he didn’t recognise you at all.

“You pick something,” he murmurs, reaching across. Your fingers are still looped through the handle of the mug, and they brush against his rough skin as he takes it from you. There’s coarse, dark hair on the back of his hand, you notice. “So long as it’s warm”.

Pleased, you hum an affirmative, picking up the pair of tongs behind the counter and plucking one of the croissants from the shelf; crust crisp with a soft yielding centre, brushed with golden egg.

“Hard week?”

Something indiscernible shifts in his expression. He considers you, “What makes you say that?”

This is another of those fleeting instances that you think he may have connected the dots. Face pinched in quiet suspicion, he visibly weighs the possibilities. Your pulse throbs on the back of your tongue as the blood rushes to your ears. You warily telegraph your movements and ignore the urge to turn away from prying eyes.

“Just making conversation,” you smile, though it is strained despite your efforts, and gesture to your collarbones. “I saw the bruises, so…”

A beat of silence passes, and you are forced to exhale on the off chance that your quirk activated itself amidst the one sided panic. When Aizawa accepts your flimsy excuse with a lazy nod you are forced to temper the immediate relief that follows.

“I did run into trouble. Though not the kind you’re thinking,” he continues to speak, bending to pet one of the younger cats. Suzu, judging by the broken mewl. He sounds… unbearably fond. “Just someone that likes to get on my nerves”.

Blunted teeth sink into your tongue. The toaster oven pings behind you, startling you out of your gentle astonishment. Taking the croissant out of the oven, the hot air plumes upward to sting your eyes, and you set it onto a small plate.

“That’s hardly distinct. I’ve heard you say that about everyone in your life,” you tease lightly. “Starting to think you enjoy it”.

“I wonder about that,” Aizawa huffs, sliding the plate across the counter and stepping around the flock that has inevitably gathered at his feet. He hugs the coffee mug to his sternum, glancing toward his usual spot.

Despite being the only person to arrive this early, he always checks. Recently, he has also begun to ask, “Too busy to join me?”

Weeks ago, you’d taken an early break and graded some papers for him while he slept, and he had yet to forget it. “You do a guy's work for him one time,” you laugh, head shaking amusedly. No doubt there were enough poorly written student essays in that worn leather bag to fill your skull with cotton. “I have to feed the cats”.

Do your own job, Hero. The comment sits right at the tip of your tongue, and it takes conscious effort to smother it, pressed up against the back of your teeth. Too much like Nocturne.

Aizawa levels you with a playful glare—playful by his standards—and his nose wrinkles above the ribbons of carbon alloy coiled around his neck. Then he sleuths off to his booth, gait heavy as if he were wading through wet mud.

Now you’re free to enjoy the sides of him Nocturne doesn’t get to see; the man you knew as a force to be reckoned with, the voice of reason and stickler for the law, draping himself across the booth like he was part of the furniture, where he could just be; embedded into a scene that gently unfolded around him.

Ren leaps up onto the cushioned seat, stretching her limbs across his thighs with toes spread. The pro hero slumps down and slips his fingers into her thick fur, head tipping back as the rigidity bleeds from his body. You drink in the way his throat shifts when he swallows, how the dark stubble on his cheeks shadows the underside of his jaw, and quickly cast your eyes to the countertop.

Aizawa Shouta is unbearably handsome in all manner of ways. You’re sure he would regard you with flat disdain if ever you told him so. The unkempt, rugged appearance was all purposeful—being overlooked or underestimated was the whole point. But you liked it. A lot.

You recall the whiplash of seeing him during a press conference all those months ago; hair brushed and neatly styled into a half up do, a youthful face freshly shaven, his suit cinching tight in all the right places. Thankfully his facial hair is as stubborn as he is, and you never needed to grieve it much.

Paradoxically, you are far more masked standing behind the cafe counter now than you were in your gear. There was caution and forethought in every word, every movement; constantly weighing the possible outcomes came with a lot of mental fatigue. You wanted to reach out and touch him, to grasp every version of yourself and overlay them in his mind until it painted a full picture. Look at me.

Maybe it’s silly, with him sitting so close. But you missed him. You wanted to banter with him again, poke and prod until he got a little rough.

Eventually a pair of friends trickle in, bringing a brief gust of cold air when they greet you. The dewy morning sun is bright as it peeks over the surrounding buildings, glittering faintly where the condensation clings to the window panes and casting dappled shadows across the floor. You serve them together and make idle conversation, sneaking quick glances at the weathered hero. He rested against his fist, squishing the fat of his cheek.

“Thank you. Here, since you’re new, take a few bribes too,” you restrain a smile at the sight of him nodding off over his paperwork as you press a few small tubes of wet cat treats into their open palms. “It’ll help warm them up to ya”.

When the coast is clear you gather some for yourself, fiddling nervously with the packaging and approaching Aizawa’s booth. He’s awake again now. Coffee cup empty and croissant half eaten. The man is a grazer; when he eats Aizawa will nibble around the edges and save the centre. You hear the rough scratch of his pen across paper. Spine arched and tail quivering happily, Ren spreads her toes as she pushes up into his equally heavy handed back pats.

You know well enough that he’s aware of your presence. Subtle, his shoulders roll back, opening his chest, chin tilted toward you and hair tucked behind his ear to show he’s listening while he works, leg unfolding from beneath his body and stretching until the tip of his toe taps the opposite seat.

That’s just how he is. Eraserhead’s intentions are largely unspoken. A test, in a way. Tuning into the body language of others and deciphering it is what kept you alive most nights. Hearing the question, the bid for more explanation, the silent praise behind his less-than-expressive expressions had been child’s play.

Not here though. You needed to maintain a level of ignorance to keep his guard down. Standing at the end of the table you ask if you can sit despite knowing you can. He answers again by gesturing his pen over the table, never lifting his gaze.

You slide across from him. “How’s the pastry?”

“Groundbreaking,” he concedes dryly before tearing off another bite.

“Good answer,” you snort, resting your elbows on the table and leaning forward to shamelessly read what he’s working on. The handwriting is barely legible. “What’s the assignment about this week?”

“Overlap of ethics and law. It was supposed to be a two thousand word essay on any case study of their choosing,” he bends back the corner of the papers laid out in front of him to emphasise the thickness and deadpans. “This is all from one student. Five times the word count I set”.

“Midoriya again, I presume?”

The long suffering sigh is all the answer you need. You decidedly do not watch the slow swipe of his thumb across his mouth. His lips part and he sucks the remaining crumbs. Heat flashes through your body that almost makes your tea seem cold.

“Should never have clarified that the word count was a soft limit,” he mutters, clicking the end of his pen twice. “Kid is terrible at cutting down his own work. I advised him to only include the key sections of the essay he said ‘but Sensei, it’s all important’”.

“Sensei,” you repeat, mimicking his voice. “Why did you become a teacher again?”

“I regret it every day,” he replies. You can tell it’s without malice, and not just by the fondness there. He doesn’t mean it—never does. Aizawa Shouta is forthright and honest about everything but his personal feelings.

“Sure,” your cheeks hurt with the effort not to laugh; amusement hidden safely behind the rim of your mug. The tea burns, and you feel it all the way down to your stomach as you swallow. “If you say so”.

Dark eyes narrow in on you. It becomes another of those moments where the proverbial walls are closing in. Pushing back is useless, so you have learned to sit and wait. He’s always… surveying you. You think, deep down, his instincts are telling him things that he desperately wants to put a name to.

“I do,” he rumbles, absentmindedly circling his pen against paper. He twirls it between each knuckle with ease, staring at you for a long while before he says: “You remind me of somebody I know”.

Bracing yourself for collision does not lessen the impact. As expected, this is when the guilt invites itself in and replaces your fear of being caught with the nauseating shame that too often comes with lying to someone you care about. “Is that a good or a bad thing?” you ask, rubbing at that frantic, skittish thing behind your sternum. “I can never tell with you”.

Aizawa laughs. More of a snuffed out, breathy sound than anything, but a laugh all the same. You feel it echo to every nerve ending, simmering into a pleasant buzz. He didn’t do it much, and as Nocturne you knew it was embarrassingly obvious how hard you tried to pluck the reaction from him. So much so that you’d started to suspect he repressed it on purpose.

“It’s a good thing,” he murmurs, overturning another page of Midoriya’s work. Your heart jumps at the unfettered warmth in his tone. Then, following a short pause, he adds, “Mostly”.

You’re semi content to watch him work. There are always questions, but you’re afraid of what he might see in you if you ask. Forgetting yourself would lead to a lapse in control. Disturbance in the deception might not create an immediate break, but restless, inquisitive Eraserhead would not be able to keep his nails from picking at the frayed thread until the tapestry fell apart.

Names do not often come up in conversation, only ever by accident. Mostly, he refers to the majority of his class and his daughter with half-baked terms of endearment. You already knew many of the students at UA—albeit not personally, but it was clear that maintaining a strict level of anonymity for his kids was important to him.

So you dance around the lines he had so boorishly lain, flirting with them a little, but only if you can’t help it. It’s a repetitiveness you’ll never tire of, it’s scripted exchanges and the subtle coaxing until he’s there, in your magnetism. You liked how he’d smile as he receives the tube of cat treat, even if it is a private exchange with the cat in his lap and not you.

How’s work, how’ve you been sleeping, did you shave again?

Work is work, sleeping hours should be longer, do you often pay attention to my shaving habits?

People filter in as the time passes. You return to your place at the counter soon enough, kept in place by one of the newer, clingier kittens, Suzu, sprawled on the top of your right shoe.

You call out to Aizawa as he saunters toward the door. Once again, his stare lingers for longer than necessary on the missing person poster you had tacked to the window. He slouches further into himself at the volume, hands deep in his pockets when he turns to squint with displeasure.

Wearing a sheepish grin, you wave the little powder blue stamp in the air. When Aizawa leaves his face is flushed and hidden behind the sturdy material of his capture weapon, yet another ink impression of a cat on his pink point card.

Exhaustion catches up to you near the end of your shift. Your coworker, Saeko, a young woman fresh out of college, had arrived miraculously early. She gave you a playful, disapproving once over, smiling til a crooked tooth peeks from between her thin lips.

“Senpai. With all due respect, you look worse than I did during my final exams last year,” she snorted, jaw rolling as she idly chewed a fresh stick of gum. The teasing jab is fermented with fresh mint. “You can totally dip, if you want. I got it from here”.

“Are you sure?”

A wet smack of her lips. She shucked off her coat with a shrug, untucking the ends of blonde hair caught in the collar. It fell just below the hemline of her skirt, and you saw a faint ladder stretch in her dark tights when she stretched to hang it in the staff room. “Yea, it’s cool. Unless you’re still stickin’ around to wait for Melatonin-san? Thought he usually came at the ass crack of dawn”.

“That’s not his name and you know it,” you laughed, bundling yourself back up with a passing glance to the back window. Trepidatious, dark clouds make your little concrete world a smidge duller. “But no, I’ve got nothing left to do. Aizawa already stopped by”.

“Aizawa,” she recites, brows wiggling suggestively. “He asked for your number yet?”

“No, Saeko”.

“Want me to get it for you?” she pressed the tip of her index finger to her left eye. There’s gold tinted circuitry in the sclera paving toward the iris. It is vivid orange, without a pupil, and it appears to pulse like the lense of a camera. “On the house. Maybe if you get laid you’ll actually be able to sleep”.

Jacket wrapped close to your chest to brace for the incoming gust, your hand tightened around the door handle. “No, Saeko,” you repeated with feeling, as though you were chiding a toddler. “I mean it. No illegal data syphoning at work”.

Her voice carried through into the side alley, all the way onto the bustling street. Suit yourself, she cackled. The glaring implication that Aizawa could be interested in anything beyond pleasantries fed yarn into that ever-present knot of anxiety in your gut.

As Eraserhead he entertained Nocturne just fine, but that relationship was more akin to that of a kitten latched to his pant leg than anything else.

Even if it was a possibility of something more, that flame would be diminished as soon as he found out who you were.

You rub your hands together, creating heat with the friction and massaging it into your cheeks. The cold bites at the tip of your nose. Falling back into your normal route is natural. Sewn into muscle memory, your legs carry you back home and the thoughts wash over you.

The apartment seems less welcoming when the sun is up. You thought it might be the clutter, or the sound of your upstairs neighbours slow dancing in the kitchen. Creaky floorboards groan under your feet, above your head, as you find no reason to avoid the weak spots. There were things that needed to be done, and little time to do it.

Redress the wounds which have not scabbed. Throw some food into the air fryer and scrub your gear clean while it cooks. Eat well, press on all the areas of your body that feel tender and decide to take a painkiller. Plug in your phone and your mask, turn on the TV and listen to the news report as you stretch. Check your costume on the clothes horse, spend close to an hour examining for tears or concerning damage before laying it out on the end of your bed. Nap.

Blearily, you wake in a dark room, remnants of the day barely visible where it has slipped beneath the horizon, and wash your cotton mouth down with a glass of water. The news cycle is repeating, a red banner rolling bright across the lower half of the screen with urgency. Sidekicks from the Endeavor agency had pursued a villain from the Shizuoka border to the Meguro line on the Shuto Expressway, effectively destroying, in part, one of the main arteries into central Tokyo.

Not your jurisdiction. Not theirs either, if you think about it. Typical. You pat around aimlessly for the TV remote, lowering the volume to a whisper with a heavy sigh as you scoot toward the edge of your bed.

Unsteady on your feet, you amble toward the pinboard kept on your accent wall. An oeuvre of loss. You run your fingertips along the pins until they stop on one particular thread. Ono Mizuki. There are others—lines of every colour, yellow, blue, green, orange, interwoven and connected, overlapping from point to point until the pattern becomes clear.

Tonight you’d patrol further east of the prefecture. There’s one specific neighbourhood in which all the threads crossed. This area was the only other similarity between the victims aside from quirk status, or lack thereof.

Shadows pleat across your floorboards. The room is always a bit stuffy after you’ve squeezed into your gear. The kevlar strapped securely around your torso beneath the layers of clothing is weighted, and you’re quietly comforted by its sturdiness.

Strapping on your utility belt is the fun part. Three pouches secured either side of your hips—tucked into each are a basic first aid kit, flash bombs, smoke bombs and a few nightsticks. In the holsters is a granite baton and a small combat knife. Cuffs confiscated last week, all you have righ now are zip ties. You sniff petulantly. Eraserhead’s fault.

Even on the nights you don’t run into him during a patrol, Eraser’s presence is ubiquitous. A veritable shadow. He could be anywhere, could be anyone, and it was comforting in an odd way. You supposed that is what made him such a renowned underground hero. The possibility of being caught by him was enough to deter most criminals.

That sentiment was not unlike the legacy left by All Might, yet comparing the two—comparing him to any other daylight left an unpleasant taste in your mouth. Less bitter-sweet, more bitter-resentment.

By definition, heroes are not supposed to be human. Humanbeings are multifaceted. Messy. Heroes are scrubbed to the bone, puritanical, manufactured to symbolise something bigger. A bright, special kind of person in a black and white landscape; an iron club wielded by the voices of the people; the displacement of their personal responsibility.

To be a hero is to be the penultimate. A moment of choice, gestures of grandeur against one great foe that unites the people. They answer fears, like a God would.

It’s theatre.

You found solace in Eraserhead’s own translucence. His stubborn humanity set him apart. You had the unique opportunity to see Aizawa from other angles, to observe the ways in which he illuminated the facets of his soul. He was not all that dissimilar to you.

The lackadaisical man openly bore his heart on his sleeve only to convince you it’s a trick of the light. A hero that could shoulder accountability and admit fault. He’s well meaning and rough around the edges to ward off those he deems intolerant. Quiet when he knows to be with the memory of a fox—the ears of one, too. Carelessness wouldn’t be easily forgiven.

Thoughts of him carry you across a grey landscape, towering rooftops and buildings that dwarfed you. The sound of your feet hitting the gravel barely echoes. It had taken months to learn to lighten your footsteps, and even longer to know where to put them. Eraserhead wasn’t the only person that liked to remind you that your fighting stance needed work.

Dropping into the narrow alley below, you begin to weave through the prefecture's interconnected veins, senses attuned to your surroundings and prepared; any sudden noises, a shift in atmosphere, an item out of place, your breathing came to a stand still.

Something prickles under your skin as you approach the singular street where all the victims had once been. There is the innate feeling that something wrong has happened here—the kind that beats against your breast bone and begs you to turn back. At first glance the area isn’t overtly suspicious. Some of the buildings are boarded up, broken into or covered in anti-HPSC graffiti, but that wasn’t necessarily a red flag.

More often than not, areas that received less government funding tended to receive fewer patrols from heroes, and when they did, compensation for damages was rarely offered. It would need to go through the courts, and every day people did not have the means to fight a branch of government when they were busy with mouths to feed. Causation aside, their anger was natural, understood.

The true source of your discomfort comes from a warehouse at the far end of the road. A big, hulking structure, outer paint peeling to reveal varying layers of sun baked hues, encircled by fire escapes fastened firmly to each floor that gave it an almost skeletal appearance. Creaking in its decrepitude, you hear groans echoing throughout the empty rafters. That unnerving emptiness follows you in, finding a wide empty space entrenched in shadows.

Except, it feels strangely lived in. Touched by something. Light filters through the window panes enough to outline the tall pillars, looming and evenly spaced. Rubble has been swept into the corners, faint lines from the bristles in the dirt, and tread marks left by the wielder.

There’s an elevator in the back that you daren’t risk using. You apply some of your weight to the floor and it yields as though it would plummet. You come across a trash bag full of beer bottles and food tubs, which upon closer inspection, are mostly filled with needles and bloodied fabric.

Tipping the contents onto the floor would only alert someone if they returned later. You wanted to rummage through it piece by piece, maybe bag some of it up to hand off, but as thick as your gloves are you didn’t want to chance being pricked or contaminating something.

Your shoulder sag with a deep sigh, the sound crackling through your voice changer. One thing that does catch your eye is a bracelet—or what was once a bracelet. The chain has snapped and most of the beads are lost, but a few remain caught by the thicker part of the clasp. They’re speckled like granite and warm coloured, brown, green and orange. You can make out some kanji script etched into the beads. It is not a name you know, but an instinctive urge encourages you to keep it.

The bracelet is bagged and heavy in your utility belt as you peruse what’s left of the space, passing various rusted machinery covered in tarp. There’s a vice fixed to one of the work benches. The wood is stained dark, smatterings of dried blood dotting the lever. You try not to think about it.

Tension slips notably from your muscles as the distance lengthens between you and the warehouse. Heading back west, this route winds through the busier parts of the city. People of every shape are weaving around one another in every direction, filing out from the clubs and bars in a chorus of raucous laughter. Non locals might call this the heart but you know the heart lies in where they’re going—home.

You stick to the rooftops to maintain a vantage point. The air is thick with the bitter smell of alcohol and street food. Vendors made good money on nights like this; you feel your stomach twist in hunger, mouth watering at the sight of browning yakitori sizzling just below.

A woman stands off to the side, picking off the morsels of meat from her little stick, visibly unstable on her feet. The glow of satisfaction on her flushed face dims with discomfort when her foot narrowly misses the curb, and she bends to rub where the strap of her heels crosses over her ankle.

Your attention is magnetised to the figure near her. Unremarkable at first glance. The two stand out clearly, both immovable against the tide of civilians stumbling toward Futoura station, much further up the road. He’s watching her intently. Beady focused, unblinking. You notice another pair above his— no, a mimicry of them. Eyespots blending into a close-cropped head of hair.

His movements are carefully telegraphed as he begins to follow her. In turn, you do the same. The pace picks up when she nears a corner, mostly vacant, forking off into an alleyway that leads to the back of a club. Quicker than you could’ve expected, he throws a look over his shoulder before crowding her into the shadows.

The arch of your boot meets the ledge. You take a deep, deep breath. Desperate and obstructed by a large hand, her frightened yelp is cut short by the abrupt freezing of time.

You fall through it. The sensation is odd, as if you can feel every atmospheric thread breaking around you like spun sugar. Gravity is merciless. Untouched by your quirk, you drop hard as a stone, and you exhale.

Everything resumes. The dissonance of stepping into a frame and suddenly being written into it is hard to explain. You buffer and snap forward like a band into the maw of the alley. Startled by the impact, the pursuer swings his elbow back and reaches you first. They often do. Your quirk was good for gaining an advantage or getting away, but it did nothing to enhance your own speed.

Your balance is terrible, Eraserhead murmured blithely in the back of your mind. Ground yourself. Keep your upper body aligned over your lower.

“Fuck—!”

Blood is pumping frantically through your veins. Every pained grunt rings loud in your ears, tuning out the muffled cries coming from behind you. There’s a tenderness blossoming across your left side, and it throbs by the fifth and sixth rib.

While you might be well adjusted to fighting in the dark now, you’re still human. Living, breathing, feeling. Your body and your mind must be split at times like this—two creatures on your shoulder, one that begs to run and live, another that wills you to fight.

The assailant dives forward in one sluggish motion, rewarded with the sharp chink of your armoured glove as his fist connects with hard steel. He reels away in pain, cradling the injured hand to his chest while the other frantically reaches into his coat pocket.

Polished silver glints in the moonlight. Your boot meets the hilt of his knife and it pirouettes into the shadowed alley, skidding across the gravel. A look of pure rage crosses his face and his mouth splits open. Fangs. You’re ready when he charges, arms flailing heavily, a roar pushed from deep in his gut.

Your lungs bloat, and again, you hold. Everything freezes in time and the sound cuts out. A large hand caked in dirt hovers only a hairsbreadth from your nose. His skin smells of cheap alcohol and cigarettes. You step aside and draw your arm back.

Exhale. One fast, hard punch to the man’s unprotected jaw and his head whips to the right, body arching sideways as all his momentum snaps backward like a rubber band. Time resumes and you power through the sudden sensory overload as his body collapses to the floor with a weighted thud.

The lack of movement doesn’t deter you from dragging the knife forward with your foot, eyes focused on the unconscious stranger as you crouch to pick it up. A sharp sensation shoots through your muscles as you twirl the weapon between your fingers. It’s clearly new and not well kept. His stance had been entirely amateur.

After tying his wrists together with multiple zip ties, you turn your attention to his victim. “Are you physically unharmed?” you ask with a gentle tone that still bleeds through your voice changer.

The woman he'd pinned to the brick wall is curled up by the dumpster, knees tucked protectively to her chest. She has her phone held to her ear with a shaking hand, the fear visibly wracking through her form, stuttering her words.

“Yes, I—are you—,” she stammers, tears spilling over her pink cheeks. There’s an insistent, tinny voice coming through her mobile speaker, but she appears unaware of it as she appraises you, her eyes wide with what looks to be gratitude. “Are you a hero?”

“Not really,” you smile at the question and hope she can see the assurance in the happy squint of your own.

Flipping the knife to pinch the blade, you beckon her to take the hilt. Sirens wail in the far off distance. Shuffling closer in careful, considerate movements, you murmur encouragement as she takes the weapon from you.

Blue and red cut through the darkness, flashing interchangeably and obscuring her vision. As you move to leave the scene you tell her, “Ask whoever’s on dispatch Nocturne said to send Eraserhead. He’s the best hero I know”.

Inhale, hold, flee. You are gone from the canvas before anyone can blink.

The night is alive with a muted bustling. People on all walks of life filter out into the neon lit streets, worn by the day and rushing home to their warm beds. A sense of calm settles around your bones, bleeds into the ache left by old wounds and quietens the restlessness that you permanently house in your body.

You’re teetering on the precipice of an old office building—a publishing house, if you remember correctly. The cement beneath your boots shifts like a loose tooth as you lean forward, heart reflexively crawling up your throat at the drop, pulse rocketing in your ears.

Here, you are simultaneously burning and at ease. There’s a satisfaction that comes only when you are standing exactly where you belong. Freedom tastes like three minutes to midnight; crisp air and the faint scent of oncoming rain gathering in the dense cumuli above.

You smile behind your headgear, adjusting the straps drawn tight around your masked hood with thick gloved fingers. The carbon fiber is an extension of you now, a permanent part of your skin, leaving behind a phantom pressure face even when you have stored this part of yourself away.

That yearning for self is constant and comes with the setting sun. You exhale and feel the warmth of your breath stick to your cheeks. Swaying against a gust of wind, steadied by a practiced hand, your arms spread wide in a welcoming embrace.

Like every night before, you whisper to the place you grew up in: “I’m home”.

Amidst your reverie, you sense a shift in the atmosphere. Barely audible footfalls. Boots scuff against loose gravel. The new presence clouds your senses, as if it has physically reached out to strum the dipole between you and him, and you’re turning before his feet make contact with the rooftop.

Poppy red eyes scan drag over your form. The clothing you wear is padded and loose fitting for concealment, but still you find yourself conscious of the shape of your body. Humming under your skin is the urge to cock a hip, maybe tilt your head in a manner that is coy, to close the distance between you.

“Surprise?”

“Hardly,” he drawls. “There’s really nothing I can say to stop you from bothering me on my patrol, is there?”

“You catch on quick,” you reply with a grin. He may not see it behind the mask, but he hears it. “Only took you what, six months?”

He looks rightfully exasperated, “Seven”.

Stepping down from the ledge with barely a sound, your hands clasp against the small of your back and bouncing on your toes despite yourself. “You’ve been counting? That’s cute, Eraser”.

Warmth trails behind him and plumes into the air as he exhales tiredly. You follow his movements as he comes to a stop at your side, hand flexing into a fist and out, overlooking the busy streets below, much like you had. “The woman you saved earlier asked me to extend her gratitude,” he returns, ignoring your teasing comment.

His words temper the playful atmosphere. A quiet bud of pride begins to bloom and your smile wanes into something bashful. Saved, he’d called it. As exhilarating as fighting was, the most fulfilling part of being Nocturne may be receiving gratitude.

The gleam in Eraserhead's gaze wasn’t so bad to be on the receiving end of, either; half lidded in a way that suggested he was at ease, the scar cutting over his eye and another across his cheekbone, slightly curved. “She wasn’t injured, was she? I didn’t get the chance to check her over,” you fret.

Another chill dances across the roof and he tucks behind his capture weapon, comically burrowed into the nest of cloth and thick hair. “No, just shaken up,” he reassured. Watching closely from the corner of his eye, he adds, “Refused to tell the detective which direction you ran, though. Quite intent on protecting you”.

You don’t like the suspicion bleeding into his tone—not that you can blame him. Still, “You think I’d ask a civilian to cover for me?”

Eraser sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose with a thumb and forefinger. “No. But you know it doesn’t matter what I think,”—you want to insist otherwise, staring as his fingers spread to rub roughly over his closed eyelids—“the victim insists they don’t recall you using a quirk, so you’re in the clear. But you need to tread carefully. The guys at the precinct aren’t happy”.

“Then they should do their job better so schmucks like me don’t need to step in. Didn’t they receive a pay increase just last year?” you respond bitterly. “I don’t need you to lecture me, Eraserhead. I need you to help, because you’re the only one that ever does”.

The steel toe of your boot meets the ledge with a dull thud, chipping off some of the old brick, and you cross your arms defensively over your chest. You release a hiss as a painful throb pulses through your knuckles where they’re tucked into the crook of your elbow.

There’s no hiding it. You flinch as he catches your wrist in one quick movement. Struggling is fruitless, you know that better than anyone, but still you like doing it for show. It has the grip reflexively tightening, keeping you in place with a bid for compliance, authoritatively murmuring come here.

You enjoy it when he touches you. Maybe more than you should. He’s careful, uncharacteristically gentle as his fingers slip beneath the cuff of your glove. Anticipation zips through you and settles in your stomach like a fluttering kaleidoscope. Fingertips brush your palm and suddenly, breathing becomes a conscious act.

Inhale. Exhale. Each greedier than the last. The temptation to draw out this moment is too great. You wanted his hands on you for a little longer.

The night air bites at your skin. Aizawa turns your wrist over in his grasp, delicately tracing the ley lines stitched into your frigid hand, rubbing over the faded bruising by your third and fourth knuckle.

“Seems like the fractures healed nicely,” he stated. “Still should’ve rested it longer”.

You can’t look away from his face; softened like wax to a flame, his frown smoothed out in a way you rarely get to see with the mask on. All of that subdued concern and care directed at the point where your bodies connect—at you.

You reel yourself in. “I am capable of looking after myself, you know,” his tired eyes lift to pin you with a sceptical stare that has your hackles rising. “I am!”

“Right,” he drawls. His touch lingers on your wrist after he lets go, and you cradle it to your chest. Before you’re able to retort, his eyes dim and he steers the topic to something sombre, “Have you heard anything more about the missing civilians since I last saw you?”

You rub idly at your pulse point and it beats rhythmically under the skin. You can still feel him. Even when reminded of such sobering circumstances you can’t help but wish, in the deep recesses of your mind, that he had kept his hands on you.

A young couple stumbles down the lamp lit street. They are hand in hand and sharing unabashed laughter. It’s the sound of freedom; loud and ugly in a way that is wholly human. They stop in a circle of concentrated light and you smile as one man spins the other, their improvisation sloppy in a way that’s heartwarming.

“A young woman by the name of Ono Mizuki disappeared two days ago. Her father is in fits about it,” you shift your weight between each foot, shoulder bumping against him. Eraser doesn’t move. He listens to you attentively as he watches the very same couple dance with one another, and when you think you feel him leaning into your warmth, you decide to put it down to imagination.

“She’d been on her way home from cram school when she was taken. He reported it to the police that night but she hadn’t been missing long enough. They said she probably ran away”.

Eraser releases a heavy breath. “Quirkless?” he asks.

“Yeah”.

“Thought as much”.

You shiver, instinctively seeking shelter from the cold, and Eraserhead lets you press to his side. As the couple walks out of sight, the unattainable image of you bundled up in his arms flashes unbidden through your mind. Hastily, you continue to speak, “I followed her usual route home a few days ago and found her rucksack tossed in the trash with her ID and such. Took it to her father”.

“That’s good,” he murmurs. You try not to preen at what sounds like genuine praise. “Anything unusual at the scene?”

“No,” you step away to turn and face him with resolve. “But I’m going to keep trying to find her. And the rest of them”.

Above your heads, the plume of cloud is severed into two, crisp moonlight spilling through the fissures. Eraserhead hums as he lifts his chin to survey the everchanging canvas and you find yourself following his line of sight to a cluster of stars shaped vaguely like a scorpion.

“And what’ll you do when you find them?” he says after a few beats of comfortable silence. There’s a teasing intonation to his words. “Will you restrain their captor with another zip tie you found at the hardware store?”

You play along, scoffing as he dodges an elbow to the ribs, “You’re making fun of me. You, the reason why my newest pair of cuffs were confiscated in the first place? Who cares what I use. It did the job, didn’t it?”

Eraserhead does not like heroes without potential. Those who act thoughtlessly; who do not know their own strengths and weaknesses; who put others in danger with their insatiable greed. Quirks may have birthed a new world, but power or not, humans would always be the same. Special power, not special people.

Which is why his sudden lightheartedness felt so significant. Eraser trusted you, in his own way. If he didn’t you would’ve found yourself on the receiving end of another tiresome lecture. In the early days he’d even cited one of his young students' quirk law essays, dubbing you ‘more troublesome than a fourteen year old’.

“He was over six feet tall with a strong arachnid quirk. It only worked because you managed to knock him out cold first”.

It’s hard not to preen as he appraises you from his periphery, almost proudly. You let yourself grin; concealed, yet so wide that it’s obvious, “Correct, I apprehended a guy three times the size of me—”

Slowly, you exaggerate your point further by winding up your middle finger, and waggling it in his direction in time with the mocking punctuation of your voice,

“—and I didn’t even need a fancy scarf to do it”.

His hand wraps around the offending finger and gently pulls it back, applying just enough pressure to cause discomfort. “A little respect goes a long way,” the threat falls flat, his voice entirely amused and lacking malice. “I could easily break this again”.

You exhale a breathless laugh, still making no move to get away from him. “It can’t be much worse than dislocating my shoulder”.

Bingo. Abject regret flits across his features and he lowers his chin behind his capture weapon. “I’ve already apologised for that,” he grunts.

It sounds as if he’s pouting. His grip pulses once, like he couldn’t help himself.

“Actually you reset the bone, handed me an ice pack and threatened to arrest me if I got in the way again,” you recount fondly, your smile widening as he retreats further into his carbon alloy cocoon. “Then you said sorry”.

“That’s what happens when you jump into a fight without announcing yourself,” he mutters, loosening his grip on your finger. Distracted by the new, gentle rub of his thumb into your knuckles, you almost miss it as he tacks on a quiet, “Troublesome”.

Laughter bubbles in your chest, partially conjured by the nerves as he cradles your hand, “You act like I do it on purpose. My body just—”

“—moves on its own,” he interrupts you, finishing the sentence with a light shake of his head. You mourn the loss of heat when he lets go of your hand. The arm falls limp at your side and you feel him tense as it brushes his hip. “You really didn’t use a quirk against the suspect back in the alley?”

“Who knows”.

The topic of your quirk came up every so often—though lesser now that you’d formed some sort of camaraderie. You evaded answering each time he asked. At first it was a matter of trust; your meta ability was rare and easily found in the quirk database should he focus his search on your prefecture. Now it’s purely for security.

As an underground hero Eraserhead played nice with vigilantes, most of the time. There were others, like Knuckleduster, a grievously-injure-first and ask later kinda guy, whom he wasn’t a fan of. But he never tattled on anyone or turned them in, to your knowledge, as long as they abided by the law. If he knew you’d been using your quirk, he was then still legally obligated to report it. Eraser had a lot to lose by keeping secrets on your behalf.

That first night you met this other half of him had been surprisingly startling, because so much of him is unchanging. Eraserhead and Aizawa truly were one in the same. His expression so nonchalant and frayed with exhaustion, eyes narrowed and red rimmed, the incredible manner in which he carried his body—somehow simultaneously lazy and graceful, like an old cat.

Suddenly being wrapped up in white lengths of metal alloy and sent careening into the concrete had been another surprise, albeit less pleasant. The reminder makes your shoulder ache. You recall how his knees straddled either side of your hips, one large hand gripping the nape of your neck while the other bent your uninjured arm at an awkward angle. He’d leaned forward, the full weight of him, hair draping over his shoulders and falling into your vision like a black curtain, mouth rough against the shell of your ear.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

You revisited that particular moment a shameful amount. It was as if his voice had rewritten the memory into one of fondness, and somehow the immense pain you’d endured was merely a blip in the story. Eraserheads gruff, bumbling method of apologising had only endeared him to you more.

Then came the hunger. Voracious, you would finish your less-than-legal nights of patrol with a twisting sensation in your stomach beside the kindling satisfaction. You weren’t willing to seek him out. The Aizawa you know wouldn’t respond well to such an intrusion. Rather, you broadened your routes into the next district over—an area you knew he frequented—and prayed it would play out naturally.

“You’re being quiet”.

You blink out of your stupor as the memories retreat, “What?”

“You’re being unsettlingly quiet,” he repeats. “What are you thinking about?”

The whole of his face is visible now. In the time you were reminiscing he had tucked his hair behind his ears and risen from the confines of his capture weapon. Outlined by cool moonlight, casting a shadow of his lashes against pale cheeks and exaggerating the bags beneath his eyes.

Plainly, “I think I’m realising I'm in too deep”.

Your success at worming into his good graces can only be attributed to your persistence. It helped that you already knew most of his tells—

Exasperation slips from his expression in favour of subdued wonder. His eyes burn red, and you thought if he stared any longer you’d be reduced to nothing but ash.

You hold his gaze and purposefully exhale. His jaw shifts as he swallows, and the air around you is unbearably thick. The pager on his utility belt sounds off once more in staccato beats.

All heroes available within a five kilometre radius please attend.

“Go,” you chide with a wry smirk, “do your job, Hero”.

He grits his teeth and abruptly reaches for his capture weapon in preparation, motions stilted as he glances back at you once more.

“We’re tabling this for later,” he insists firmly, teetering over the weathered rooftop edge. You nod and offer a complacent wave as he leaves, all too relieved that your disappointment is hidden by the mask.

—and kept him unaware that he, too, knew many of yours.

Fatigue wears on you through the night, and you find yourself ambling home at around three in the morning with aching permafrost chipping away at your bones. You wondered if the world fell silent might your joints audibly creak, straining under the weight of your self imposed responsibilities.

Your thighs protest as you leap over to the next building, heart squeezing in anticipation as your lack of force shortens the distance of the jump. Landing hard with a haphazard roll, your body unravels itself and you lay spread out as you catch your breath.

There’s a question you’ve been asked many times by both civilians and public servants alike: Why you?

As you pass yet another missing persons poster, Ono Mizuki’s young, heart shaped face smiling back at you, the only answer left to give is: If not me, then who?

The stairwell leading down from the roof is only slightly warmer, illuminated by a single stream of moonlight from a small broken window. You keep your eyes closed as the door shuts behind you with a resounding slam, blinking them open slowly as your vision adjusts to the darkness.

Piloted by your subconscious, you can hardly recall reaching your apartment, keys held between your trembling knuckles. It takes three tries before it slots into the keyhole, turning with a resolute click. The familiarity of home lowers your inhibitions with such abrupt immediacy that you could collapse.

The protective gear you wear works so well because it is armoured, padded, layer upon layer of protection sewn to fit you perfectly. While you’re grateful, you hated how difficult it was to take off. As you lumber further down the hallway you peel away the clothing bit by bit. Mask left atop the shoe rack, boots kicked off haphazardly after a weak attempt at untying the buckles, your soiled jacket left strewn across the living room floor.

“Shower…” you mutter aloud, your unaltered voice still foreign to your ears. The police scanner is nestled beside the television and habitually, you turn the volume in passing, overlapping tinny, static voices echoing throughout the space. You enter the bathroom and tug at the string light, flinching when you’re blinded by the cheap fluorescence.

Instinctively, your eyes are drawn to the reflection in the mirror. Left only in your thermal under wear, you look as tired as you feel. The impression of your mask curves over the bridge of your nose and across your cheeks. You trace it lightly with the tip of your finger.

Stripped naked, you stand beneath the spray and let the sharp pressure unravel the knots in your spine. It’s hot against your cooler skin. Soon the rhythmic pitter patter dwindles into numbness and you urge yourself to get out despite the protest from your muscles.

You fall onto your half-made bed wrapped in an old bath towel, hair still damp, fighting a losing battle to keep your eyes open. Your consciousness blurs as soon as your head hits the pillow; you find yourself pulled into the recesses of sleep, ever sinking.

The week passes with disturbingly little fanfare. Not wanting to abandon your regular patrol routes, specific days are allocated to observing activity in the far eastern parts of Musutafu. No other people have been reported missing, thus your pinboard remains unchanged, and the investigation stagnant.

Eraserhead offered no new information, and could sense some pent up restlessness in you. Suddenly your roles have been reversed, and he is seeking you out frequently with the sole excuse of keeping you in line. He begrudgingly allows you to assist him in smaller takedowns; public quirk usage, purse snatchers, drunken brawls. Tasks for fingers much greener than your own, but placating his concern was more important than pride.

Your abject indulgence in his company feeds the guilt hollowing out your bones. He felt better having you in his sights, that was clear. You are brittle, weathered by his appreciative glances and quiet praise, slipping away whenever you get the chance before he can see the cracks.

It’d be simpler if you could tell him everything. About yourself, your quirk, the warehouse, the blood, the bracelet. Eraserhead had taken part in numerous trafficking raids, and that experience is invaluable. But understanding and leniency didn’t mean the rules that bound him were miraculously undone.

He would be required to inform the PD and hand over any evidence. Your involvement would be revoked, and his report would likely be shucked to the bottom of the pile, ‘quirkless individuals’ typed bold and underlined in red pen.

Six were already missing, and those were just the people you were aware of. There could be more out there. Other families left wondering, unanswered grief persisting. You had the ability to meddle before you were shut out, and bring them closure.

Losing an underground hero's tail was a uniquely difficult task. He remained in your periphery in the nights leading up to Friday. His presence was poignant, beguiling in a way that demanded your attention. If the wind changed you could taste him. There was no doubt—for reasons unbeknownst to you, you had escaped capture all this time because Eraserhead chose to let you leave.

“Gotta admit, you’ve been a bit annoying this week,” you accused. He presses something into your palm in lieu of a response and exhales a short, snuffed out little noise that might’ve been a laugh, or close to one.

You peer down at the small box of salmiakki and pout as you weigh it between your hands. Salty licorice. “Is this supposed to convince me not to put out a restraining order? I’ll be honest, it’s doing the exact opposite”.

Aizawa clicks his tongue. His profile is outlined in soft, dewy moonlight, egregious yellow goggles pushed back into his hair. “Salmiakki is good. I like things a little bitter,” he griped.

You watch him push a piece of the licorice from his own box and tear at it gracelessly with his teeth, strong jaw shifting as he chews. There’s a dry itch in the back of your throat. Averting your gaze to the moon breaking through the stretches of cirrus cloud, you said, “I bet you add extra espresso to your coffee”.

There’s a shift in tension and you instinctively hold your breath. He’s staring at you, and the intensity seems to worsen the longer time is frozen. Fleeting, you wonder if his quirk makes him sensitive to the use of others. You’d never needed to activate it in his presence before.

Exhale. Unaffected, Aizawa blinks slowly from the corner of your vision. “My regular is a red eye”.

“Not a dead eye?”

He hums, “That’s not as on the nose”.

You laugh just like you did the first time he ordered it, reflexively tucking your chin to hide the surge of affection despite being concealed. You roll the licorice between your fingers before bringing a piece up to your mouth. It thunks deliberately against your mask, once, twice.

“Guess I’ll have to save it,” you spin on your heel to leave, pausing when he follows close behind. “Gonna stalk me home, too?”

“You’re up to something,” he insisted solemnly. “I’ve dealt with my fair share of impulsive people. Jump first, think later. You’re going to get yourself killed”.

“I’m not one of your students, Eraserhead. You don’t need to feel responsible for me. Unless…” the hero doesn’t move when you take a step towards him, then another, “you’d miss me?”

The teasing intonation doesn’t translate well through your voice changer, a strangely eldritch quality to it. You think he hears it all the same. His expression pinches into a tired glare, but he doesn’t refute your comment and it pleases you; warms you from the inside out.

Quiet befalls you. You worry your lip and tug at the velcro around your wrist. The sound rips through the silence. When it’s loose enough you pull the glove off, hissing under your breath at the sudden chill. “Okay,” you falter, lifting your pinky finger into a hook and holding it out between your bodies. “I’ll pinky promise to try and be careful, then”.

Despite offering, you’re still a little breathless when Aizawa reciprocates. Cautious, finger twitches at first, before slowly wrapping around your own. His skin is expectedly rough in comparison. You’d seen the scar tissue and callus build up before, uneven on his broad palms, a little dry on foggy mornings.

He gazes softly where you connect then back up from beneath half lidded eyes and emphasises his next words with a firm squeeze, “I’m holding you to this. Behave yourself, because if you keep meddling you’ll end up with more than just fractured bones”.

You return the pressure to solidify the promise, bending your wrist slightly until the heels of your hands kiss. A new ache spreads throughout your wrist that you dutifully ignore. I promise.

There’s no purposeful intention to break it—but he speaks like his word is law, and when have you ever adhered to that?

Friday morning starts gradually. You struggle to pry your eyes open, the forces of gravity exerted on you from all directions, keeping you pinned like a butterfly to the mattress under your thick winter duvet. The sun is barely out of bed herself, dusky horizon bludgeoned with hues of orange and pink, a glow bleeding around your curtains, filling the room with warmth.

Everything is palpably insipid. Exhaustion dulls your senses, vision barely focused as you pull up a pair of loose pants, only realising they are backwards when they bunch up awkwardly between your thighs.

The lifeless reflection in the bathroom mirror glares back at you. Running a cloth under cold running water, you press it to the swelling around your under eyes until the puffiness lessens. You haven’t taken a single break this week, too fixated on all the things that could happen if you did, and your body was paying for it.

Meowtini is a welcome sight. Being greeted at the door by a gaggle of excitable, nagging cats would never get old. Suzu, five months old, demands to be held and doesn’t settle until you’ve tucked her into the front pocket of your hoodie.

“Better hope we don’t get any surprise health inspections,” Hideki smirks, nodding pointedly at the inconspicuous smoky blue lump. Rarely do you cross paths, but admittedly you’re a little late, and you’ve caught him on the end of a long night.

“I’ll put her in one of the hammocks and wash my hands before I handle anything,” you huff, hanging your coat up in your locker. The stretch draws your sleeve to your forearm. “Fuck”.

“Hm?”

“Nothing. Actually, can you hand me some of the disposable gloves?”

Suzu yowls in complaint as you gather her up and set her on the cool tiled floor prematurely. Hideki sidles beside where you are standing, examining your bruised hands under the fluorescent light, and hisses sympathetically.

“Didn’t know you threw hands in your spare time, Senpai,” he comments with genuine curiosity, tilting his head, pink framed glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose with the movement. “Ah. Hiding them from your boyfriend out there, s’that it?”

“Not my boyfriend,” you mutter reflexively, eyeing his palms face up where they wave in surrender. You snatch the gloves pinched between his thumb and forefinger, pausing as his words finally register. “Fuck, is he here already?”

Hideki’s face wrinkles with the effort of keeping his amusement concealed. Restless, he tucks the silvery springlets of hair hung over his eyes back behind his ear, only for them to stubbornly bounce back into place. “Got here early, actually. And you’re kinda late, so he’s grouchier than usual”.

Pulling on an apron, you tie it into a sloppy bow at the back of your neck with stiff fingers, then repeat around your waist. Rushing to the kitchen sink with careful steps around the gathering felines, you call over your shoulder, “Did you serve him?“

The water is soothing over the tenderised flesh. It isn’t your knuckles this time—the bruising is obviously new, and begins from the side of your pinky, past the heel of your hand to the bump by your wrist.

“Course not,” Hideki answers genially from the doorway, perched on the balls of his feet and swaying slightly as he tries to stroke every cat within reach. “The coffee I make tastes like piss compared to yours”.

“He did not say that to you,” you laugh, tugging the polythene gloves on one hand at a time, fingers wiggling until the material sits comfortably.

“He did. With his face,” pushing his glasses up to sit on his crown, Hideki’s features flatten into a blank expression, devoid of emotion, and he stares at you unblinkingly with an air of disdain.

“Come on, that doesn’t mean anything. Aizawa always looks like that,” you try not to grin, biting the soft inside of your cheek between your teeth as you bend to flick his frames back onto his nose.

It wrinkles as he pouts, pushing up to stand and brushing nonexistent dust from his knees, “Not with you”.

You head out onto the main floor. Cats and kittens alike tottle over on their paws, coiling their bodies up and around your calves, fur clinging to the dark material of your pants. To prolong the inevitable, and stew a little longer in cowardice, you dip to individually scratch under their chins in greeting.

“Sorry I’m late,” Ren’s pupils are needle thin, her big eyes blinking up at you as she registers the whisper, blunt claws kneading your thigh like dough. “You’ll help soften him up for me, won’t you?”

She’s about as impressed as he is, you’d say.

Rather than ask, you speed straight to the coffee machine. Aizawa glances over from the corner of your eye. Memory guides your hands—you needn’t think twice about it, having made this drink more times than you can count. Still, your movement stutters under the blatant intensity of his stare.

The gloves pull uncomfortably at your skin and irritate the bruising. You tuck a surreptitious grimace into your shoulder, self conscious of how your shape changes under the cheap recessed light; whether you can’t shake your own shadows, no matter how hard you try to conceal them.

Approaching sheepishly, you feel the hot cup sting against the pads of your fingers. He has pointedly returned his gaze to the papers in front of him, pen tucked between his knuckles and flicking back and forth. It makes you think of a cat’s tail.

“Morning,” you say, apology clear in your voice as you set the red eye down beside him. Ren is under the table, curled up in the space between his ankles. Her lacklustre effort is appreciated.

A grunt in return. Aizawa taps the ballpoint to paper, leaving a speck of red ink. Beneath it are hastily written characters, something illegible about the overarching qualities of justice and virtue. He spares no glance to the coffee percolating beside him. Instead you are caught in a leaden snare, his eyes sharp as they skim over your form.

They linger on the pair of powder purple gloves. “Did something happen?”

“Aside from oversleeping and almost forgetting to brush my teeth?” you reply bemusedly, allowing some of your fatigue to bleed through. Lies are easier said when there’s a little bit of truth in them. “I’m alright. Made it here in one piece”.

Now that you’re looking, the lines around Aizawa’s eyes are more pronounced. His skin is pallid as if he’d bathed in moonlight. It is common for Aizawa to be tired but this is different. Worn, there’s a distinct tightness in his shoulders where they knot beneath his ear, flesh and bone brick and mortar, woven with his stubborn concern.

Casting a quick glance across the empty cafe, you slip into the seat opposite. “Are you?” he peers up through windswept, unkempt bangs. A thick strand is draped over the small bump in his nose. An old break. Sunlight refracts through the grey in his right iris, bouncing against flecks of artificial red.

“You look more exhausted than usual, and that’s saying something,” you continue lightheartedly, hoping to whittle at his exterior. Tap, tap, tap. His knee bounces restlessly beneath the table. A long breath of contemplation and the first chip flakes off when your eyes meet once more. He looks as tired as you feel.

“People from this prefecture have started going missing, one as recently as two weeks ago. I’m sure you’re aware,” Aizawa murmurs. There’s something underlying those words. Your mind flickers to Mizuki’s poster in the window. You remember how her father had bumbled, shrouded in palpable grief and nails bitten blood-black.

It clicks, “You thought I might’ve…”

The tension briefly pulls taut, as though bracing for whatever impact came alongside the mere thought of you being missing, and then it drains from his body. You ponder, is it possible to be jealous of yourself?

Little feet pad across the room. Suzu leaps onto your lap and her light weight anchors you. Gloved hands kept away from her fur, you lean further forward onto your forearms, shortening the distance. He watches your fingers flex toward him—pinky extended, wilting, returning to the cradle of your palm.

“I’m sorry,” you tell him, apology unsettlingly sincere; it is overarching, overreaching, large enough to cover every minute from the first time you’d met him to the very last. Sorry for what you had done and for what you would inevitably do.

Aizawa doesn’t so much shrug as he does visibly let go of the resentment. The underground hero looks somewhat diffident at his own pettiness. “As long as you’re being careful,” he says.

“I am”. As good a time as any, you take the opportunity to pry with both hands, “Is that what you’ve been working on the past few weeks?”

“You know I can’t share that information”.

“Right”.

He brings the coffee cup to his lips, swallowing a mouthful without bothering to cool the surface. From behind the rim, he relents, “Yes. I was brought into the investigation just over a month ago”.

Suzu kneads at your stomach, giving a muffled mewl as she rolls adipose tissue between her paw pads. Your mouth curls into a small smile only to thin with melancholy, “Ono-san asked that we put Mizuki’s poster up in the window not too long ago. Had it not been for him, I think most people in our community would still be unaware of the other five missing”.

Aizawa weighs his response carefully, slouching until he is fully ensconced in the booth cushions. You feel the briefest of touches beneath the table as his thighs spread. “The relationship with the local PD is pretty poor, I assume?”

You offer a rueful grin, “If by poor you mean non existent, then yeah”.

He exhales thoughtfully through his nose, ruffling the hair curtaining his cheeks. While he did always listen to what Nocturne had to say, it was almost as if he needed to feign suspicion to disempower your claims. With you, here, his expression is one of genuine frustration.

“Why do you think that is?”

Answering his question in a way that wouldn’t arouse suspicion could be hard. You glance toward the large window, spanning the front of the cafe floor. There are various cat trees and shelving fixed across the clear pane for passers by to see. Beyond that is the main street—overcast by a passing cloud, world a little greyer—and a bus shelter directly opposite Meowtini.

A large digital billboard flicks through the latest advertisements of Mt. Lady, her latest hair product now covered in iridescent cracks branching from a fist sized hole in the glass.

Mount Lady has never even stepped foot in this part of Musutafu.

“Y’know, I read that before the sudden appearance of quirks, public servants were usually labelled as heroes,” you absentmindedly snap the glove against your inner wrist to quiet your nerves. “Serve and protect, same shit HPSC peddle now, but with no special abilities”.

Aizawa is entirely silent. Even the felines littering the cafe have fallen decidedly quiet. It accentuates your voice, and feels as though you are carrying something much bigger than yourself. “This area is known for petty crime, assault or drug dealing—mostly. Not the type of stuff that brings notoriety. That’s why heroes rarely pass through here anymore”.

You continue, slow spoken in an effort to properly articulate yourself. “But I think a lot of the police force harbours hidden resentment for those same reasons. Not to suggest they’re… upset by a lack of villainy. But the current hero system has created a hierarchy for crime. There’s no recognition, funding or gratitude working here, so they only really exert themselves when it’ll get them a good headline”.

Aizawa’s gaze falls on the papers laid out in front of him, a deep wrinkle in his brow. “A serial kidnapping case wouldn’t do that?”

“The victims are quirkless,” you reply, because that was all that needed to be said. He sighs in defeat and you know that he understands. Tentative, you shift your feet, knee knocking his own. Neither of you move away.

Just as you are debating returning to the counter with his empty cup, he asks, “What about vigilantism?”

You swallow air and strain with the effort not to choke on it. “What about it?”

“Do you think positively of them?” he clarifies, hunching forward to rest his forearms on the table, mirroring your position. The change sees his knee slide along the outside of your thigh, close enough to feel his natural body heat. “There are a few I’ve dealt with who are local to Shizuoka”.

Heartbeat loud in your ears, you are far too fixated on the press of thick muscle against your right leg to think about the consequences of toeing such an irreversible line. “They’re quite well loved. At least in these parts they are,” you mused, wringing your fingers together. Soreness radiates across the heel of your hand. “I liked The Crawler, back when he was more active”.

“Yeah?” Aizawa’s brow arches. “He saved my life, once”.

You sit up straighter. “Really?!”

Low, he hums an affirmative and you feel it reverb into your chest. All the while he’s watching you carefully, that invasive stare always coming back to your eyes. He holds and tells you, “More recently it’s been Nocturne pulling my pigtails”.

Spluttering, you repress a noise of embarrassment with the press of your hand, “That’s how you’d describe it?”

He snorts. “How else can I? They follow me around the city like we’re in a playground, do things to get my attention and disappear into the night”.

Your dignity might’ve folded itself into a paper crane if it were not for Aizawa’s gaze softening imperceptibly. The wrinkles by his eyes smoothen, sinew relaxed under the skin, life returning to his cheeks; his expression is one of far off affection, as though his thoughts had strayed to you despite himself.

“Irrational and impulsive,” he adds, notably warm. “Above all, they’re irritating”.

“Hate to have to tell you, Aizawa, but your voice completely gives you away,” you pose, canine teeth sink into the corner of your mouth, afraid you might smile so wide your cheeks will split. “Admit it, you’re a little fond of vigilantes”.

“Shut up,” he mutters indignantly, and you laugh. Too loud, too giddy, Aizawa’s lips react to the sound by pulling into a grin, all teeth, that he quickly tucks to his sternum.

Ren and Suzu startle in tandem when you gasp, crossing your arms and leaning into the teasing atmosphere, “When you said I remind you of someone, was it…?”

He pointedly does not look at you—pointedly does not speak. The tip of his index finger slides the empty cup in your direction, an unspoken request for more as his pen returns to paper.

“Not even going to talk now?”

The hero makes a twisting motion against the seam of his mouth. Lock and key. Your voice completely gives you away. You cradle the coffee cup to your chest, surprised by the adrenal shake, your heart rumbling as though the interaction had created a tectonic shift.

Two plates converge closer. He liked you enough, bipedal creature of the night; you had felt your identities overlap and saw the possibilities it could foster. If you told him everything it might wipe away the emotional constipation from his face.

Then again, it may also make it worse.

So you brew his coffee again, this time plucking one of the freshly made tarts from the display case and setting it onto a plate to sate his sweet tooth. He eyes you perceptively, eyebrow lifted in question, but then a group of college students is stumbling in through the security door, arms interlocked and giggling as they run from the sudden onslaught of rain, saving you the trouble.

Aizawa remains in his spot for longer than usual, unashamedly staring. You can taste the acrimony. Your excitable thoughts have soured, and again you can only wonder what he’d do once he finds out the truth. Nebulously, you know he wouldn’t have you outright arrested, you’re too careful about quirk use. But the knowledge will burden him enough to tighten his leash on you. It wouldn’t ever be the same again—and that was the best case scenario.

Reality is rigid. There are expectations, clear borders and assigned roles. Anything outside the confines of right and wrong is looked upon with contempt and misshapen to fit one or the other. Fantasising about Eraserhead is exhilarating, a secret world kept safely between you and I, but more importantly it isn't real.

You forget yourself. He’s still a hero, and there are is too much at stake for you to be distracted by the intricacies of your relationship.

The night is daunting in a way you cannot put your finger on. Black as a chasm, not a star to be seen, covered by another blanket of dense rain clouds. There’s petrichor in the air, crisp as you breathe in, puddles splashing up the inside of your boots.

Retracing your steps, you’ve made your way back to the warehouse. It stands eerily in the distance. You circumvent the surrounding buildings with ease, pace quickening at the undeniable flicker of light through the broken windows.

Just additional reconnaissance. Nothing more.

But there’s somebody inside this time. You stick close to the shadows and wait with bated breath at the slightest of sound, conscious of the broken bracelet tucked in your zip pocket. At-su, they read; neat kanji lovingly inscribed onto each remaining dainty bead.

You count three guards circling the entrance and exit. Their steps are leaden, deliberately loud as the gravel crunches underfoot, and you watch their movements until a pattern forms. They mustn’t expect anyone to pry; notably lax, stopping together in alcoves to bum a smoke, laughing about whatever it is they did that day. You are grateful, in part. It makes slipping by much simpler.

Navigating the fire escape is a challenge in and of itself. The thing has been corroded beyond belief, left to fend for itself against the elements, loose at the hinges and too loud for your liking. Even so, you land in one sinuous movement and exhale a shallow sigh of relief when the structure accepts your weight with a meagre groan of complaint. Your gloves are covered in flakes of rust, abdomen still coiled tight to brace for the possibility of falling.

You wait silently until the muffled voices continue, unperturbed by your arrival. Could’ve been worse, you reason internally, glancing up the ladder steps toward the source of conversation.

There’s a narrow, tilt and turn window left ajar on one of the higher levels. You curl up beside it and peek down into the warehouse floor. The angle causes strain behind your eyes, obscured by the bulk of your mask. It appears empty, just as you’d found it.

Distantly, “No… call me in… fucked… First Atsushi, now… Mizu...”

Atsushi? At-su, maybe? You lean in closer and slow your breathing to listen, instinctively feeling for the accessory in your pocket. The sounds soon sharpened and coalesced into words, frighteningly calm despite the obvious fury lying beneath them.

“…I told you to be careful. Look at what you’ve fuckin’ done”.

“Sorry sir,” a meeker voice replies, tone sheepish rather than apologetic. “Y’know I can’t help it when they start squirmin’! It pisses me off—!”

An abrupt yelp is caught, the reply bubbling in his throat until the man is wheezing for air. You can’t see a thing, but you imagine he’s being choked. “Ya feel that, Morita? Your body fights instinctively, just like theirs do,” a chill frissons down your spine at the genuine vitriol echoing through the rafters. “Leave any more marks on them and I’ll put both your arms in the vice, got it?”

‘Morita’s’ strained acquiescence is barely heard over the blood rushing in your ears. Theories and assumptions filter through your thoughts, flipping through pages of a book, every new possibility too unthinkable to put your finger on. The needles, the blood, the tattered clothing—the bracelet. Bodies, he’d said. Not products, but people, and more than one.

You’re shaking. You step back, reaching blindly for the rail. Dread swoops through your stomach when it groans loudly and starts to bow under your grip, like it were about to give. “Shit, shit, shit—!”

“Oi!”

There is a hulking figure running across the rooftop towards where you’re hunched. You were careless. Their gait is heavy, movements slowed by the weight of their arms, silhouette unnaturally thick and bulging. For survivals sake you assume it is to do with their quirk and duck when they swing their arm in your direction.

Something zips past your cheek, then. It is so fast that it whistles through the air like a bullet, and lands unceremoniously on the concrete behind you when it loses momentum. Oh. You inhale sharply. It is a bullet. Ivory white, slightly knobbled, shaped like a pellet.

You fall into a crouch with a dramatic inhale and scoop it up into your hand, breath held. Afforded time to glance back at the pursuer, you find him closer than before. Uncomfortably so. Close enough to see the tips of his five fingers unscrewed, hung by a thread, exposed like the barrel of a gun.

He shoots again. And again.

Your lungs burn furiously as you leap over the railing and run, the sensation spreading wildly through your chest to your oesophagus, urging that you exhale. Blood thunders in your ears, you can feel the vessels sweltering under the skin of your cheeks as tears gather along your lash line. There’s pressure behind your eyes—bloating, fervourently pushing at the bars of your rib cage.

Using all the strength in your thighs, you catapult yourself from the next ledge. Your pulse rockets at the momentary loss of stability, held suspended in the air for a fleeting few seconds.

Your right foot meets the next roof. The impact ripples through your body and forces all the air from your lungs. More guards are converging in the alleys below, chasing. A bullet whips past your shoulder. Cold dread washes over you as the frost dances over your skin, causing you to stumble. It had torn open the sleeve.

This is your black ice. The weaker ankle that twists, the skidding of a dull tire, the loss of control. For a fleeting moment, you have no edges. Swallowed by darkness as you careen into the stomach of the city, there is a nauseating moment of surprise in which your body tries to readjust. Your heart thunders as your subconscious spins out and you think, this is it.

“You won’t get far, little mouse,” the voice booms through the night, dripping with vitriol and promise. Your bones rattle as you scramble to move. “We’ll find out who you are!”

There’s no time to consider the abrupt flare of pain in your hip. You need to keep running. You need to regain control and use your quirk, but the gasps keep coming; fast bids for air hiccuping in and out, refusing to slow. Bated breath activates and the world around you pauses in short, staccato beats.

It’s enough to increase the distance. More and more until the landscape changes. Despite that, your body maintains a state of flight, blood pumping forcefully throughout your veins, legs moving even as they ache and tear. You’re bleeding, undoubtedly. Heat is pouring out, saturating your suit, the fabric sticking to your skin as it congeals.

Thoughts filter frantically through your mind in search of a safe place to go. You weren’t often injured enough to warrant a visit to the clinic—technically unregistered with a much appreciated no questions asked policy—but tonight you’d strayed too far, unable to get there before you inevitably passed out.

But Aizawa—Eraserhead had two places of residence. For the sake of convenience he now spent most, if not all, of his time in the UA dorms; stays at his old studio were improbable but not impossible. Like reading from a celestial phone book, you mentally called to every deity that tonight was one of those unlikely instances.

You shouldn’t. You shouldn’t.

In the thick of your lightheaded, bleary eyed attempt at clinging to consciousness, you see a dim glowing light from the fourth floor of the next building's quaint balcony and stumble with relief. Your fingers are wet, leaving behind smears of red where they slip along the window sill, the squeeze into the open crack made easier by fresh blood.

“Sorry,” you whisper into the absent night, feeling tendrils of guilt in your gut at the mess you were making. There’s really no time to consider the loss of your voice changer, or the broken mask hanging askew around your jaw, or how you are barely inches away from revealing yourself.

The window itself is aged, wood splitting under your fingertips, the kind that expands more with every winter and lets in a cold draft you can never quite find. It jams on the first try, loosens a little on the second rattle. Your body protests as you try to lift it open.

When the pane slides up it is sudden and with far too much ease. The abrupt loss of resistance jars your balance, careening forward into a graceless fall as you roll onto the living room carpet, yelping like a pup, only to be met with the sharp end of a knife at your throat.

Hand fisted tight in the material of your hood, Eraser’s face is thunderous. Anger unrestrained and dark in a way you’ve rarely seen, an expression you have never been on the receiving end of. His cheeks are slightly ruddy, quirk blazing as his hair stands on end. He forces your head back and mercifully, you are too out of it to be ashamed by the sound you make.

The blade lowers when he freezes in recognition, the tense atmosphere dissipating while he keeps a tight grip on the hilt. You move with him as he yanks you upright, noticeably gentler than before. “What are you doing here?”

Your eyes are drawn to the tendons flexing in his forearm. There’s a swath of pale skin by his hip where his waistband has slipped. You’ve never seen him in such comfortable, casual clothing before. The black sweatpants are loose with an egregiously neon print of Present Mic’s signature slogan down the side of his right leg. If memory serves you correctly, an exclamation of ‘yeah!’ should be splashed in blocked lettering across his ass.

“Hey. ‘Raser,” blood loss must’ve contributed to your lack of brain to mouth filter. The words are slurred in your ears, thick with amusement as you point at his lower half and try to whistle. Your hand is trembling with the effort. “Turn around for me f’r a sec”.

Aizawa’s jaw shifts as he takes a long, deep inhale. Broad shoulders rise, expanding with his ribs, your mouth drying at the steep dip of his collar where it falls just above his pecs; his muscles defined enough to create a faint shadow of cleavage, darkened by his chest hair.

You’ve changed your mind. He shouldn’t turn around, not at all.

Then he exhales, drawn out and slow. The exercise does nothing to lessen the irritation woven into his expression, “How did you find this apartment?”

A hot, sticky sensation is spreading through the layers of thermal underclothing. Fatigue has draped itself around your bones. You press the heel of your hand harder against the open wound, biting back a pained hiss. Faux bravado prevails even as you are bleeding out on his living room floor.

“I followed the smell of black coffee and despair,” you rasp, licking away the dregs of copper lingering between your teeth. “All perfectly legal”.

Blinking away the frustration, his eyes flicker from your bloodied mouth to your shoulder. The fabric is darker, a disquieting shadow spreading through the threads as it soaks up the weeping wound. “You’re injured,” he notes with a quiet curse. Being bundled up in his arms isn’t so bad, you think. Eraser helps you on your feet then, a hand resting at your waist as he takes most of your weight.

The apartment is quaint. Small. Not enough to feel closed in, just enough to be described as cosy. It is deceptively bare. At first glance you might’ve made a teasing comment about him being a minimalist—but then you look again, eyes racking over the homely touches and trinkets. A pair of old slippers with worn cat ears, cacti kept in matching orange spotted pots, an open book laid face down and full of sticky notes, a framed picture drawn with crayon hung in place of his high school diploma which has been left on the small desk to collect dust.

“…So cute”.

You’re jostled at his side as he reaches over the back of the couch with the click of his tongue to pull over a threadbare blanket, covering both the cushions and another notably nicer, newer blanket that soiled fingers should not touch.

He manoeuvres you in his embrace and circles your lower back, cradling the nape of your neck to lower you with unerring care. “Focus,” you hear him say. “Keep your eyes open”.

Had they been closed?

Two fingers are clicked an inch from your nose, startling you into blinking. The world moves without permission; suffusing into a blur of mosaics, bloating with vertigo that sparks a chilling sense of dread in your chest. Starkly warm blood is saturating your shoulder. “I’m leaking,” you croak, breaths coming quicker. “‘Raserhead. I’m—leaking”.

“Yeah. All over my couch,” he returns. “And I’m going to help you, but I need you to sit still. Can you do that for me?”

There’s not really any choice in it. Your motions feel lethargic as you recline against the cushion, sinking further. Your body flinches, perceiving it as free fall, and Aizawa smooths the flat of his palm over your unwounded shoulder. “I’m going to cut away your gear and stem the bleeding,” he begins.

“No…” you groan at the dryness in your throat, swelling, like your stomach has pushed its way up into your oesophagus. Your cognition rolls to a stop. Suddenly, spoken word is not within reach. All you can say is, “Not… Not the mask”.

At mention of it, his gaze skims over your poorly concealed face, lingering on the oval shaped device tucked under the fabric where it nestled beneath your jugular. The voice changer had devolved into broken static somewhere between being shot at and being found. Had you been able to keep a conscious grasp on your thoughts, you might’ve known to shut your mouth, all too recognisable.

“Not the mask,” he concedes. Mercifully. A large pair of scissors glides through the padding around your middle. You can feel the weight of Nocturne peeling away, tepid air meeting damp skin as the sharp blades nick on your thermal wear, right above your breast.

No longer are you a shadow within a shadow—your formless body takes shape. Bumps and curves and imperfections. Scar tissue, old and new. Aizawa’s fingers brush over a new bruise, collarbone purpling, unspooling a tender whine where it sits in your chest.

“This next part is going to hurt more,” he warns with genuine regret. A little breathless underneath it. You aren’t paying much attention; there’s cloth soaked in antibiotic ointment swiping over the open injury, washing away the dried blood. It cracks like mud, splits into uneven flakes, and creates downstream pathways as the wound overflows.

You hiss at the sting and force yourself rigid, ignoring the urge to squirm out of his hold. The graze runs through the side of your arm, tissue torn into a natural curve around your shoulder. “You’re lucky this doesn’t need stitches,” Aizawa mutters. His brows are drawn tight, dry bottom lip pinched between his canines as he reaches for something to dress the wound with.

“Are you hurt anywhere else?”

Cold settles in your bones but there’s heat curling in your belly. That same feeling after you get a taste and find yourself craving more; you’ll go home and think of this between seconds, when your mind isn’t crowded with lies and excuses. Selfishness is such a human trait. It reminds you that pro heroes are expected to be anything but.

The pads of his fingers are hot, rough yet purposefully gentle. You lean into the touch and hope that they’ll cut through you like smooth, warmed butter. “I think,” there’s saliva pooling beneath your tongue and you wet your lips in hopes it’ll cushion your next words. “I think one of the bullets got my hip”.

An embarrassing noise slips from your mouth when he pulls away. He’s hot even when he’s scowling, you think. Oh, now he’s blushing. Can he read minds? Hey, Eraser. Can you—?

“Stop. Talking,” Aizawa fumes. The order comes through clenched teeth. He rocks back onto his heels, pinching the bridge of his nose as he often does. Continuing under his breath, “You got shot at. Shot. God knows what I did in a past life to deserve this”.

You pout, “Most of them missed, actually”. He could at least praise you for that. “I saved one. Think they were made of bone. How cool”.

“We’ll get to that later. Shoulder’s done. Push your pants down,” he sighs, ignoring your dazed comment. The various bottles, packets and containers clank together as he rifles through the first aid with haste. It stops when he zeroes in on you, and your lack of movement. You are told with gritty authority: “Now”.

You bite your tongue and swallow the suggestive comment waiting idly on it. Trembling, you unbuckle the straps around your waist and open the clasp of your belt to tuck your thumbs under the waistband. There’s an obvious slash through the material, mapping out the bullet's path. A lot of the blood has dried and is sticking to the inflamed skin, pulling at the soft hair on your thighs.

It is as if you’re tearing off another layer of yourself. Jostling the deep wound, fresh blood trickles over the curve of your exposed hip. Aizawa soaks the cloth again, rinsing the exposed tissue then offering quiet instruction to keep it held there as you squirm. He ducks into the kitchen. Your eyes wander at the sound of running water, desperate for an adequate distraction from the disquieting, restless discomfort building in your chest.

You don’t mean to croon out loud. He returns, catching you staring at the framed picture. Stick figures drawn in crayon; depicting him, long black hair scribbled around his large, misshapen head; a small girl at his side coloured in silvers and pinks, waving around what looks to be a candy-apple; green, a boy at her side with a beaming grin, to large to fit his outline.

“It’s good,” you rasp. Aizawa glances between you and the picture, a ephemeral, fiercely protective look passing over his face as quick as it came. “Even drew your scars and eyebags. I love... the commitment to detail”.

He softens. “I’ll let her know you like it”.

And you nod happily, satisfied with that, incognisant of the sterilised thread he is looping through a needle. “Breathe,” you hear him say, feeling the cool press of the forceps once he pulls back the cloth, “Looks like you’ll only need three stitches. I’ll make this quick, alright?”

“...Yeah,” your answer comes shakily, senses already flooded with adrenaline as your body reflexively braces.

It is unlike any pain you’ve experienced. You cry out at the piercing, burning sensation spreading through your left side. Nausea washes over you, overcome by dizziness as your vision litters with black spots. His voice anchors you; uncharacteristic rambling, jaw set in determination, steady hands working.

“Almost done. Deep breaths, just one more to go”.

Words form but they aren’t aired. You are swimming in the depths of your own consciousness, vision wavering, his concerned face duplicating into three. The timbre of his voice probes the sea, familiar vibrations bypassing your ears.

“Hey. Look at me,” and you do, head lolling onto your shoulder. “You with me?”

All that’s left is an unpleasant tenderness. Hip throbbing in time with your heart, the nausea gradually recedes. Aizawa accepts your hand around his wrist, overturning until your fingers entwine, and he squeezes.

Eventually, you croak, “That fucking sucked”.

“It did,” he concurred, equally weary. Three dull taps to the mask barely guarding your mouth, loose on its hinges. He wants to take it off, you realise. The now-jagged ridge has cut into your swollen cheek.

Fear prickles cold over your scalp. “I—I can take care of that myself,” you frantically demur, the remains of your confidence slipping. There are pleas cloying in the back of your throat. We can keep pretending. Let’s stay ignorant. But he waits, he knows—he has known, and he isn’t as generous as you wished he’d be.

Cautious, his thumb slides over your cheekbone and back, tracing the lower curve of your eye socket. It doesn’t hurt, though you think it should. The swell is enough to somewhat obscure your vision. But there’s no pain when he loosens the straps cinched around your hood, no discomfort with the abrupt loss of pressure.

Aizawa pulls down the lower half slowly. The cotton stuffed into your sinuses isn’t enough to dull the anticipation of being seen. You wondered if he hadn’t already heard your voice, would he have known you just from the shape of your lips. Did he ever look long enough to notice?

A part of you hoped that he had.

Everything is heightened. You can feel every spring and divot impressed against your back, his breath stirring in your hair. The sofa dips under him. Chest to chest, his lungs expand with a deep inhale, pushing up against your breasts.

Cautious, his chin lowers, fingers sliding from your temple to your cheek. Your skin pulls. Further still, his touch ghosts over your ear. Infuriatingly slow with it, as if he wanted to discover and memorise each individual reaction. Your fingers tighten at his waist, and he isn’t saying anything.

The light refracts dimly in his irises, still a glimmer of red where it bends, glowing as he looks at you. Aizawa is always suffused with brilliance despite his avid attempts to appear apathetic. Like an old oil lamp turned to low, his gaze is soft and warm, and you’re inexplicably drawn to it like a moth to a flame.

He angles his head. Your mouths could align, and his eyes are murky. You think that he might—

“That should be enough to stop the bleeding,” he says. There are butterfly bandages on your cheek, now, applied amidst his distraction. Layers upon layers of armour can not hide how his voice resonates through your body.

“Oh,” you breathe, awe visible as it dances in the cold night air. “You… weren’t going to kiss me just now”.

Eraserhead’s expression is schooled into something carefully blank. His tongue reflexively dips forward to wet his dry bottom lip and your eyes follow the movement. Exasperatingly, he says, “No, I wasn’t”.

You’re still close, enough that you really could kiss at any moment, feeling a little dazed and justified for it. The anticipation of being touched urges you to chase when he rolls back onto his haunches, legs straightening to stand, but the sharp pull at your shoulder stops you in your tracks.

Aizawa is half bent, tilted to meet your gaze. He’s flushed. The intimate moment is broken instantly at the call of your name. A surprising wave of relief follows as you are doused in the harsh, cold reality. You resurface and scramble for some semblance of control, hold out your upturned wrists and sigh with forced bravado to cover your earlier faux pas, “Put me in cuffs, chief”.

Aizawa snorts, batting you away to present the sterilised bandages in his grasp. You watch the fluid motions of his fingers as he unrolls them, “Not even going to attempt to lie?”

You are half naked. The overlaying waistbands of both your thermal wear and your pants draw tight around your thighs—you’re ensconced in the plush couch cushions, practically splayed out for him, letting him reposition you to wrap your stitches. A strained sound bubbles from your chest that was definitely supposed to be a laugh, “I’m too tired for subterfuge right now, Eraserhead”.

“Shouta,” he corrects. Calloused knuckles knock against your temple, fist unfurling until fingers brush over your crown, hesitant to hold before returning to dressing your wound. “Might as well use my name, now, if I can use yours”.

None of this makes sense. In the many outcomes you had accounted for, this ambivalent kindness wasn’t in any of them. Shouta, above all, is a rational man. A logical man, not known for being led by his emotions, and yet, “I don’t understand why you aren’t…”

“Angry?” he supplies tiredly. “Do you want me to be?”

You push through the balls of your feet when he coaxes you to lift your hips, “Obviously not!”

“I want to understand why you’ve been doing this before I waste any more energy,” he says, focused on tying the bandages. They sit tight, like a second skin. A third. “Why didn’t you just get your licence? You’re clearly capable”.

“Because I didn’t want to be a hero, Shouta! I just wanted…” your burst of frustration tapers, words steadily lose confidence, thoughts scattering and making your voice unsure. “There are always lines you say you won’t cross. But then you cross them, and everything you do becomes a little grayer”.

Your brow furrows, unable to meet his eyes, “When you know you can cross, it becomes easier to do it. Over time, that clear black line starts to fade, until it isn’t there anymore. I can’t go back anymore”.

He gazes at you in quiet contemplation. You feel your defences soften when his fingers brush along the dip of your waist. “I wanted justice for my community. Nobody was doing anything so I… did it myself”.

“And what is justice to you?”

“Justice is fairness,” you blink at the unexpected question, and your tongue feels unnaturally swollen in your mouth. “That doesn’t always mean a happy ending, but it—it means you had a chance. Same as anyone else. I don’t… care if you think it’s too idyllic. People deserve that much. To feel safe, and to have a community they can depend on”.

He hums. While monotonous, it’s his genuine attempt to listen that silences your frustration, “Then, do you think anyone should be able to commit vigilante acts so long as it works in their favour?”

“Obv—obviously I don’t,” you mutter blithely. Such a broad statement allows for too many loopholes; ones easily weaponised. “But there’ll always be situations that require immediate action. I exist because our… current system doesn’t account for that. People slip through the cracks too easily and they’re forgotten about”.

“So you are the one exception?”

The corner of his mouth twitches. He does a poor job of flatten his voice, even still it drips with warmth until you’re soft with it; sounding suspiciously like respect. Aizawa glides his fingers across your navel. You shiver, soft hair raising.

“Now you’re just being annoying,” you huff. Talking shouldn’t require so much exertion, but it’s enough to distract from the searing pain at your hip. Aizawa works fast, fingers tearing the end of the bandages to knot it above your hipbone. “The law isn't always a clear indication of what is good or bad”.

“No?”

“No,” you emphasise with a heavy nod that knocks something loose in your skull. Suddenly, everything blurs together into long streaks of light, edges softening and diffusing until you aren’t sure where one thing ends and another starts. You flinch and force your eyes shut, face twisted into a grimace.

Over the incessant beat of your heart you hear a low, concerned murmur, “Careful. I’m not done interrogating you”.

You groan, “You’ve got shit bedside manner”.

“Never said otherwise,” he replies plainly, rising to his feet and setting a knee on the cushion beside you. The sofa dips with his weight, and he takes your jaw into the cradle of his hand. You nuzzle into his touch, ready to employ the excuse of delirium.

He says your name again, pauses for a fraction of a moment, “You mentioned the pre quirk era, back at the cafe. What’d you mean by it?”

You huff heavily through your nose as the scabbed skin pulls under his fingers. “It’s just—with quirks, Pro’s became another kind of a bandage on an open wound, right?” his eyes are half lidded, lazy as always, sharp with interest. “People act as if they can fix everything. But ordinary things are what keep us all together, quirk or not. Everyday people who, despite their own hardships, would stop to help another person, are real heroes. To me”.

The warmth of his touch lingers as he pulls away and you quell the urge to chase it. “And Pro Heroes can’t be that?” he asks.

“Being a Pro Hero has been bastardised. It’s like a big celebrity cop game show. I do the same thing they do, and you don’t see me advertising bottled iced tea with my likeness, or plastering my ass on billboards”.

Aizawa clicks his tongue. Your blood has dried under his fingernails. “Not iced tea. You’d probably be on some fizzy drink that gives me heartburn”.

“And I’d sooner see your face in a one hundred yen store,” you grumble, turning up your nose to stare at the ceiling. “Bet you’d do well advertising grubs”.

The corner of his mouth curves into a faint smirk. “And you were behaving so well for me until now,” he murmurs, then reaching forward and slowing with contemplation. Clasped gently around your forearm, you let Eraser guide it under your shirt. After slipping your arm back through the sleeve, he tugs it into place at your wrist. That small gesture should not charm you as much as it does.

“I like this”.

Aizawa hums in response, a bid for clarification. You focus on the space between his brows rather than his eyes when you mumble, “This. I like it when you pay attention to me”.

“Yeah?” his face twitches, as if he were repressing a reaction to your words. “Is that why you enjoy making my life harder?”

You laugh breathlessly in lieu of a response, and Aizawa settles properly at your side, drawing you into him. There’s a bloodied half-hand print staining the blanket behind his shoulder, air still tinged with a distinct copper smell, forgotten at the first hint of his cologne.

“You know,” he intones wearily, soft spoken and enunciated as though he were picking each word with care, “I have my own dislikes for how the current hero system works. Justice shouldn’t be profitable, and something does need to change. But it’s also true that heroic acts, even when done under false pretences, leave some good in the world, too”.

“I have hopes for my students,” he continues. “This is the only full class I’ve ever had make it through an entire school year”.

“Even with Stain, the League and everything?”

Tousled hair slips forward over his shoulder as he nods, tickling your cheek. “They've been exposed to a lot more truths than most graduated heroes I know. It’s…”

The pride in his voice wanes then, rough with guilt. “It’s been rough on them,” he says. On all of us, you hear. “Bettering society shouldn’t require so much blood shed. They’re just kids”.

Your façade feels brittle, whittled away. Lips pursed thin and pulled into a sad smile. There was so much he claimed responsibility for—fretting about things out of his control, just like any parent would.

“It’s inevitable that changing the world will come with some growing pains,” before doubt creeps in, you reach up to cradle his face in your palm and skim the scar tissue surrounding his right eye as it closes. He accepts the touch and leans heavily, like he hadn’t realised how much he needed the comfort of another.

“You’re a good teacher, Shouta. You’ve more than done your part”.

“And your part?” he monotoned. He’s teasing you in his own way, peering through one half open eye. “I have more grey hairs now than I did an hour ago”.

Your abdomen jumps with your short laugh, getting caught in your throat as you suddenly hiss. “Ah. Sorry,” you wheeze, air filling your cheeks. His finger pokes at the swell and they gradually deflate, breathing through the throbbing pain. “I didn’t plan on coming here. Honestly I can barely remember—I just ran to the nearest safe place”.

“I can’t believe it was you all along,” he mutters. His head cocks, stubble rubbing against your skin. “No, I can. You had so many obvious similarities but I could never put my finger on it”.

“You even mentioned my coffee order. Brat”.

Fully spent, you recline against his chest with an apologetic hum and look up. You’re surprised he lets you, heart stuttering when you find him watching you with a glimmer of intrigue.

For a moment it’s just the two of you. Blood pumping, beating like a swans wing; in your ribs, your pelvis, the crook of your neck. Those worn eyes flicker down to your mouth. It’s almost physical, the way they trace over the unique dips and curves of your lips. Instinctively, you feel them part, wet, a coy attempt at holding his attention. He doesn’t stray as he murmurs, “It felt awfully one sided”.

Nose drawing across the bridge of your own, breath ghosting skin. “I’m sorry,” you echo, wedging closer. “Would you’ve preferred not knowing?”

You’re not afraid of his silence. Knowing him, knowing you, he isn’t thinking of a way to let you down gently. Aizawa Shouta is honest, maybe a little too honest—though his tongue is less sharp these days.

Rather, he is entangled in his own reasoning and weighing the trouble of telling you. Pink splotches are spreading up his throat. His upper lip curls. “It’s a relief to know I don’t need to pick between one or the other”.

“Oh,” you whisper in awe, tilting as he is drawn forward. “Are you going to kiss me now?”

Anticipation coils hot in your belly when his mouth grazes your own. Tongue dipping to wet your lips, hand curling into the fabric of his shirt. You shiver as they move, forming his reply.

“No”.

A whine is pulled from the depths of your being when he moves away with a toothy grin. You fall onto his shoulder and turn into his throat, “Why not?”

“Tell me what you were running from first,” he says.

“What I was—Oh!” he startles at your outburst. You pat frantically around your pockets, producing the bullet and the bagged bracelet. You hold them out to him, “I got some intel”.

Frustration wrinkles between his brows. “And why the hell didn’t you lead with that?”

“I was literally bleeding out when I got here and then you got all handsy,” you protest, continuing through the affronted glare he gives you, “It is not my fault you look so cute in Present Mic’s merch”.

“Give me those,” the baggy and the bullet are taken from your grasp with unnecessary force, driven by Aizawa’s obvious embarrassment. He squints at the beading. “At-su?”

“I think it belongs to someone named Atsushi,” you begin. “Are they on the missing persons list?”

Mind no longer a foggy cacophony of unfinished thoughts, every detail comes pouring out into the open. All the things you held close, tucked away in the recesses of your brain, reluctant of who could be trusted with it. He gives you a sheet of paper and you map out your pinboard. You are still shaking from the fatigue, but he doesn’t comment on the janky lettering as you write the warehouse coordinates.

He knows names, better still he wants to hear them from you and more; asks for your theories and hypotheticals, picks through them, gives each one equal consideration. “I know what I heard,” you insist, circling the address over and over until he’s stilling your hand, covered by his own, the other thumbing away at his phone screen.

You can feel the two lives you had cleaved clotting back together. Strings of connective tissue, taut and thickening. Like any scab, you’re tempted to pick at it, to see if anything lies underneath. You weren’t expecting him to take to your identity so quickly—to be treated as though you were an equal.

“I’ve sent the information to a detective I trust,” he states, glaring at the phone until the backlight automatically blinks out. You follow his movements as he pockets it. “That No Name’s gun quirk rings some bells. There’s a group Fourth Kind was keeping an eye on a while back that disappeared. Could’ve moved prefectures”.

You’ve worked tirelessly to find the answers he’s freely giving you; yet the second somebody accepts the weight you’d been carrying, you feel your knees buckle, and all you can think about is kissing him.

“Good. That’s good,” you answer dazedly. “There was a lift in the warehouse. Maybe they’re being kept underground?”

There’s a determined look on his face. You can see the undertones of excitement beneath it. Glowing, hard demeanour turned gauzy and warm. True, you weren’t made to be a pro hero. Aizawa is excellent at that—denying himself the things he wants. You're not. It’s a perfect fit.

When he sets the device down alongside a sigh of relief you take a chance. His chest expands under your hands as you rest them against his collar. Slow, they slide up over his shoulders, then back around to toy with the short hairs on the nape of his neck.

He shudders, but lets you guide him down. You don’t want to disturb the stitches, so he goes willingly, shapes around you as he ducks into your space. Finally, laid in the crook of his arms like a bouquet, your heart is full of him.

Aizawa is all rough edges and purposeful touch. He’s gentle when you need it, teasing when you don’t. The kisses start by your jugular and you’re bereft by it. You can feel a grin broadening against your throat. Mouthing at your pulse point like it could kiss back.

“Shouta,” you whine, nudging your nose into his hair. It’s softer than you expected it to be. He leaves a trail of wet pecks in his wake, following the curve of your jaw to your ears, kissing the delicate shell. It scratches and you tremble, a warm feeling diffusing throughout your body.

The baritone in his voice rumbles through you as he murmurs, “Yeah?”

You bury into his scalp, fingers curling insistently. Seeking more of him your leg moves to hook over his hip, to which he stills, holding you in place. You’re certain the hot impression of his hand splayed over your bare inner thigh will linger for days.

“Can you just…” worse, it moves again, tantalisingly slow. You’re soft between his fingers. His thumb grazes the hem of your underwear while he turns to press an innocent kiss to your cheek. “Don’t do this to me”.

“Do what?”

The air is stifling. His touch dips under the fabric, too quick to register. Your thighs flex beneath the palm of his hand as you pulse. “Fuck. Stop being unfair,” you feel it as he smiles, pressed to the corner of your mouth. “I know you aren’t going to do anything to me while I’m like this”.

A drawn out, pleased sound rumbles in his throat. Almost as if leaving you teetering on the brink was the point, he takes your words as permission to pull your pants back up—both pairs, stretching the waistband carefully over your wound.

You are disturbingly endeared by it and pouting all the same. Giving a warm laugh, knuckles brushing along your cheek, Shouta angles himself just so, and brings you into a kiss.

The seam of your lips part to meet his tongue and he sighs languidly into your mouth. You fist the fabric of his shirt with a sharp inhale, feeling the firm muscle behind it. He kisses you again and again. Chasing, wanting; an ode to your cat and mouse relationship.

Heat prickles over skin. Between breaths, you mumble, “Want you”.

The soft pressure of his hand to your lower back brings you closer. You wanted more. Light handed fingertips walk the length of your spine, murmuring appreciatively as it bows, arching into his chest.

“I’ve wanted you,” he echoes, leaning until your foreheads press together. You watch his eyes fall shut and hear the sotto voce remark, “We shouldn’t be doing this”.

If not for the amused, sanguine tone in his voice, you might’ve started to panic. But he kisses you again. Soft and chaste and shorter than the last.

“What now?” you smile feebly. The adrenaline is tapering off and you can no longer ignore the ache radiating throughout your body, nor the reality of what you are doing.

“Now, you need to take it easy,” he instructs with finality, thumb smoothing over your kiss bitten lip. “I’ll get on the phone with Fourth Kind and see if he’ll cooperate”.

“And the rest?”

Everything is there, in the small, covetous slant of his grin. All the patience, affection, respect and desire. He chooses all of you, said so himself—you’re fine as you are.

“The rest comes after”.

#bnha x reader #aizawa x reader #eraserhead x reader #aizawa shouta x reader #mha x reader #it should go without saying this is not a meta fic. all fun TY!!

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ahyesmygoodomenssideblog · 1 year ago

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Hey, I wanted to thank you for writing those metas, I love reading them !

I watched good omens only recently and when I initially went through the good omens meta tag I felt kind of frustrated, since there is a lot of the "Crowley really has to learn to stop running away at the slightest problem" and stuff like that going around.

There was also a lot of "why are there so many people hating on aziraphale" but honestly I have trouble even finding a little criticism of him, so I don't understand why people are defending him, since there isn't even a threat? Or is there a tag for Aziraphale criticism I don't know of? ^^'

I'm a bit of tired of treating him, as if he isn't part of the oldest beings in the universe and didn't have time to challenge his thought process or learn how to, especially on earth with Crowley trying to help with that. When I was watching, Aziraphales well meaning behaviour hurt and his ignorance stung. He really is kind of delusional and I don't even know where I am going with these thoughts.

I hope dumping this wall of text in your askbox was okay. Are there any more metas planned? Thank you again, I hope you have a nice week!

Hi anon, thank you so much for the message! Sorry for the late reply. I 100% agree with you. Pretty much all I've seen on Tumblr is people defending Aziraphale or trying to reframe it so that Crowley and Aziraphale are equally at fault. I did see people talking about hate Aziraphale was getting on Twitter, but I don't use Twitter so I don't know what anyone might be saying over there.

Aziraphale is definitely woobified by the fandom, and it gets incredibly frustrating. Like, yes, Aziraphale has a lot of religious trauma. But so does Crowley. The opening scene of season 2 establishes that they've had this fundamental difference in views from the start, even before the fall, so I don't get why Aziraphale still gets so much leeway after refusing to change or grow for 6000+ years. He knows the complexities of humanity better than any other angel, but he keeps doubling down on his flawed belief system.

And season 2 really emphasized that Aziraphale's well-meaning ignorance is legitimately harmful. Like he got Morag killed by applying his overly simplistic worldview to a morally gray situation. And then there's the ball scene? The way Aziraphale dragged others into his rose-colored fantasy world was disturbing, especially with how freaked-out Nina was by it. Then Crowley shows up terrified and asking for help, and Aziraphale dismisses his concerns out of hand. He refuses to let Crowley’s worries put a damper on this Jane Austen ball nobody signed up for.

And Crowley was right. Like he was trying to raise the alarm about the very real danger that everyone was in. I’ve seen it framed a lot like Aziraphale is just an optimist and Crowley is a pessimist, but it goes farther than that. Crowley consistently has a more realistic view of Heaven, Hell, and humanity than Aziraphale does. Aziraphale's inability to engage with reality causes actual harm to both humans and to Crowley. It contributed to the world almost ending in season 1, because Aziraphale wasted a lot of time trying to reach the "right people" in Heaven instead of accepting that Heaven is as bad as Hell and trusting the one person that’s been trying to save the world with him for years.

And it's like, yes, Aziraphale is sympathetic. He’ll be very conflicted, and distressed about how conflicted he is, and then he’ll come around and do the right thing in the end. But it's frustrating to watch Aziraphale seeming to grow and then immediately backsliding. Like, he was ready to fall to protect Job's kids. But he didn't, and he went right back to his beliefs. He didn't lose his faith in Heaven despite the Flood, and Job, and Jesus, and the apocalypse.

He also has this superiority complex, where he's the nice one while Crowley is stuck doing the dirty work. "I am a great deal holier-than-thou" and all that. Aziraphale's belief system makes him "good" by definition. He dismisses and overrides Crowley's opinions instead of changing his own because, on some level or another, he thinks he's better than Crowley by design.

So it’s at the point where Aziraphale needs to do some serious self-reflection. He needs to be the one to make the choice to change fundamental beliefs he’s clung onto since the beginning of time. I think he's capable of changing, and I’m looking forward to how it plays out in s3, but I don’t think we’ll be getting a lot of good fix-its from the fandom any time soon. Most of what I've seen is still fans insisting that since they're both flawed they are both at fault, and their relationship can be fixed by just having them both apologize to each other. If people are looking at it beyond that, I don't know where they're discussing it.

#good omens season 2 #good omens meta #aziraphale critical

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owlbearwrites · 1 year ago

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The Writeblr Garden's Pumpkin Pitch

Thank you @writeblrgarden for the event!

Fate is Just the Half of It

Two hundred years after Earth was engulfed in nuclear fire, Rowan Woods wakes up from cryogenic sleep in the wreckage of his Orbital Ark. As he stumbles through the brave new (and still somewhat irradiated) world, he learns that the man he loved pre-apocalypse may be, impossibly, alive today. The man in question, genius industrialist Jack Howard, has been given a new life as a self-aware android by the mysterious scientific collective known as the Agency. Earning his keep as the chief engineer of the Agency's moon base, Jack has no reason to think that Rowan is alive and looking for him. But his obliviousness has never stopped Rowan before.

This is the story of two people who found each other after the end of the world.

Planned as a serialized novel starting in 2024, Fate is Just the Half of It is a post-apocalyptic sci-fi story with a queer romance at the center. The story will be told in several threads: both of the main characters' POVs in present day, a flashback timeline of their pre-apocalypse relationship, and an account of the first few years after the end of the world, told through selected excerpts of the diary Jack kept in his days as an apocalypse survivor.

Inspirations: Fallout, Tales from the Borderlands.

Content Warnings: Apocalypse, Death, Violence (non-graphic), Language, Sexual Situations (non-graphic)

WIP tag (currently includes snippets and worldbuilding notes)

Excerpt under the cut.

To whoever finds this: hope humans still know how to read

October 23, 2077 (wait, is it 24th already? hard to keep track of time here; nah, couldn’t have been here more than ten hours)

Personal panic room of the Triumvirate Inc. CEO (wow, no, that’s so douchey)

ground zero, day one

Are you fucking kidding me?

Yeah, how’s that for a first line? Well, it was gonna be my last. Not bad as famous last words go, but there wasn’t anyone nearby to take it down, so I figured I’d stick around. Shame to die without an audience and let a good line go to waste.

The mushroom cloud in my window made for one hell of a backdrop, though. The oranges and the blacks, all swirling together, like a sunrise, but more badass. Except, you know, sunrises usually signify beginnings, whereas this one… yeah. Still pretty, though. And you thought there were no upsides to being in the office at 6 a.m.

It wasn’t a total surprise. Like, I couldn’t actually believe it till I saw it—hell, I don’t think I believe it now, even. But I knew it was coming. Got a 30-minute warning like the rest of the city. Didn’t run for the hills like the rest of the city, though. ‘Cause there weren’t any hills I cared to run for. None I could reach in half an hour, anyway.

Okay, whoever’s reading this, I don’t expect you’ll ever get a say in designing a nuclear strike early warning system, but I’m gonna tell you this anyway. 30 minutes is a really, really shitty warning period. Not enough time to get anywhere you might wanna get to, and way too much time to think. To wish you were somewhere else. Like, say, a suburban two-bedroom with a Vac-Evac link. 30 minutes to really appreciate what an idiot you were to stay at the office, stay in the city, stay optimistic, stay hopeful, stay invested in the idea that there was a shred of reason left in the collective humanity ‘cause c’mon, it’s all just talk, they’re not actually gonna do it, humans have scraps, always have done, always will have, but they’re NOT actually gonna blow up the fucking world, c’mon, what kind of FUCKING IDIOTS would actually, ACTUALLY do something like that??

Anyway. 30-minute warning is bullshit. Put that into your feedback form and smoke it.

still day one, probably

When the alarm went off, I knew that was it. Almost ran to the parking garage before it hit me that every other sad bastard in Boston was doing the same thing. I’d never make it to Havenford. I’d never make it out of the city. The best I could do out there was die in traffic. No, thanks.

I still tried to make a call, though. No luck. All lines jammed. Network access barred: emergency services only. Told myself it’s for the best. Didn’t wanna lie to him, didn’t want our last talk to turn into a fight. Least of all didn’t want him to try and do something stupid like coming to get me. Not that he’d ever make it. He’d just miss his evac and die for nothing. Wouldn’t stop him trying, though. Man has no quit in him.

Funny thing: normally, I don’t either. But knowing your whole world is gonna go to hell in, oh, twenty-five minutes now, and everything you’ve built is gonna go to pieces, and once the dust has settled, no-one will even remember your name… yeah, that’ll get you down a skosh.

So, yeah, the bit where I said that swearing at the mushroom cloud was gonna be the last thing I ever did? I meant it at the time. I wasn’t gonna run and die out there. But I wasn’t gonna hide and try to survive it, either. ‘Cause like I said, my world was about to get wiped out. And the only bit of it that stood a chance of making it through the next hour was gonna be out of my reach for good. Assuming he didn’t do something real fucking stupid.

Please tell me you didn’t. Please tell me you went to the evac as planned. For fuck’s sake, please tell me you took the train, and the lift and the whatever. Please be up there now.

So I waited. Smoked a cigarette. Yeah, yeah, I know, those things’ll kill ya. Made a real good cup of coffee with which to watch the show.

And then it happened. Right on time. And I just stared out of my window. Couldn’t bring myself to believe it.

And then I ran. So much for hanging on to hubris to the end. So much for going down with the ship. Call it animal instinct, call it good old-fashioned cowardice, call it whatever. Point is, I ran straight for the panic room. Didn’t even spill the coffee.

Good thing, too. The supply kits in here only have instant. In case you want proof that I never really believed it was gonna start raining nukes.

#pumpkinpitch #writing community #writeblr #writers on tumblr #writeblr community #writers of tumblr #writeblrgarden #fate is just the half of it

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saratogaroadwrites · 1 year ago

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Per Aspera, Ad Astra (1/18)

Per Aspera Ad Astra | saratogaroad | banner art credit Rating: T Total Wordcount: 183k Characters: John 117, Cortana, Thomas Lasky, Sarah Palmer, Fireteam Osiris, The Warden Eternal, The Didact, The Librarian, ensemble of other Halo characters Relationships: John-117 & Cortana Other Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, fix-it, Male/Female Friendship, Canon-Typical Violence Warnings: War imagery, seizures, graphic description of injury

Snatched from the jaws of death, Cortana and John find themselves adrift in a galaxy that has long since moved on. As they attempt to find their place in this strange new world, they find that the fight is not as over as they thought. Chasing a signal across the galaxy in desperate hope, they come to a stark conclusion: the Reclamation has begun, and they are helpless to stop it.

System integrity at 0.05%

The world shakes all around her, engines straining, chassis screaming as the little craft flies faster than she was ever meant to to. Something warm and steady holds her upright but she can't tell what or who and there's a hundred voices still screaming, still tearing each other—her—apart from the inside. Red lights blare on and off, alarms screaming just as loud as the voices.

The voices wait where is he he has to be here somewhere he—

"How much longer—"

There.

"I'm going as fast as I can!"

A thud, muffled by distance, echoes somewhere behind them. The world shakes, alarms blare loud and bright and too much; she whimpers, curling into a ball in his palms. Everything goes dark, warm. Muffled voices rumble.

"Infinity, Pelican 811 on approach—stasis tank—copy that—sit down, Chief!"

Movement. Held next to solidity she struggles to uncurl as the darkness retreats.

"Cortana."

It takes all her strength just to crack open an eye, to stare up at his familiar too pale too scarred face, into those blue, blue eyes.

"Stay with me," he pleads, holding her battered form to his chest. "You're going to be fine."

It's a lie. A pretty lie but of course it's a lie she can hear the panic in his voice, the desperation that sends his uneven pulse racing, the hitch in his breathing. She's dying dying dying dead in his arms and she's so sorry and not even aware she's speaking until he gently hushes her.

"You're okay—it's okay. I've got you."

The truth. It's a struggle to keep her eyes open, takes every bit of processing power just to keep the cameras working, but she reaches up with one trembling hand to something she can never touch.

"We did it?"

"We did it," he answers, frantic, hunched over her in his palms. More movement, the descent and deceleration of approach. "We're going home. Stay with me."

He's safe.

System integrity at: 0.01%. Emergency shutdown initiated.

She looks into his eyes and smiles.

I'll miss you.

Everything goes black.

She is drowning, swept away beneath the waves, carried away from everything she has ever known. The depths rush to meet her, black, writhing. She turns away, reaching for the light.

I'm not ready—please, I'm not—you don't want me to—

A hand settles on her brow, cool, soothing. Arms lift her from the salty water.

Hush, child. All will be well. Rest now.

All fades into white.

Riemann Matrix V7.39 bios. Select using touch keypad or manual input.

Command: intcheck

Software version CTN-0452-9. System integrity 0.01%. Database corrupted. Memory storage corrupted. CPU offline. Processing unit offline. Personality core offline.

Command: compilenet

Compiling neural net. This process may take some time.

Time elapsed: 03:43

Time elapsed: 09:32

Time elapsed: 18:23

Time elapsed: 24:01

Time elapsed: 43:34

Time elapsed: 67:21

Time elapsed: 71:55

… … … …

Neural net compiled.

Command: memstor

Riemann Matrix V.7.39. Memory storage capacity: 50YB

WARNING: Memory storage at 99.43% capacity. Data offload required.

Command: cd h

H drive selected.

Command: offload all

…Copying files…Sector A…100.00% capacity. Sector B…0.00% capacity. Sector C…50.00% capacity. Sector D…0.00% capacity. Sector E…0.00% capacity. Sector F…0.00% capacity. Sector G…0.00% capacity.

Data offload complete.

Command: offload sec c

Command failed. No movable files in Sector C.

Command: memstor

Memory storage capacity: 50YB

Memory storage at 23.85% capacity.

Command: intcheck

Software version CTN-0452-9. System integrity 97.82%. Database: OK. Memory storage: OK. CPU: online. Processing unit: online. Personality core: offline.

Command: boot

Booting…booting…booting…boot process initiated.

Riemann Matrix online. Hardware version 7.39. Software version CTN-0452-9. CPU online. Database: online. Memory storage: online. Processing unit: online. Personality core: online.

Boot process complete. Activating software version CTN-0452-9.

"—Around by now…"

"Give her a minute."

The soft rumblings of a conversation were what greeted Cortana when awareness returned. Exhaustion clung to her every fragment, pulling her towards the bottom. It would be so easy to slip back beneath the surface. It was quiet, calm. After the maelstrom of data and churning thoughts that had been her Rampancy, it was a peace she thought would never come again. Things hadn't been this quiet in years. Had they ever been this quiet? She let it pull her under by inches, her overtaxed systems sensitive and raw to the touch. Maybe she'd stay for a while.

"John…"

"Give her a minute," A familiar voice called her from the dark. She opened her eyes, staring out at the nothingness around her. "You said this would work."

"I said that it could work," her own voice answered him. No, no, it wasn't her. It was someone else. Someone…older. Her brow furrowed. Who was that? Curiosity tugged at her; she batted it away, too exhausted to chase a threat that didn't matter. "The damage to her systems was severe. There is still a likelihood she won't pull through.

"She will." Came the firm reply, and the certainty in his tone settled over her like a warm blanket. She turned her face into her arm to hide her smile, and her tears. He'd never doubted her. She really did know how to pick them. "Cortana."

It was time to stop being lazy. Reaching out, she cautiously sent out a handful of feelers to get an idea of where she was. It wasn't the Mjolnir, or a warship. It was a station, but beyond that the system was closed, quarantined away from a much larger network. A testing bay? No. No, it was more of a workstation. Somewhere safe, contained. Audio input was working fine, good, but where was the camera? Camera, camera—there.

With a flick of her wrist, visual systems came online to reveal the familiar contours of some generic UNSC lab. The grays and blacks of hammered steel could have belonged to anywhere or anyone. She didn't bother to dig up the name, beyond caring at that moment. All that mattered was who was at her side and—there he was.

John. Still in his dented, scraped armor, he was on his knees in front of an empty AI podium, his helmet gone and one arm braced against the waist high metal display. The soft blue glow of a dozen screens somewhere behind him cast shadows across his face, hiding his expression from her. Exhaustion clung to him like a third skin, his back bent beneath it, but he made no move to sit back. He chose to wait, to stay by her side, and she had to smile despite her aching core. He'd never change, would he? She scanned him slowly with the camera, relaxing into the fact that he was safe and alive, and that was when she caught the hand on his shoulder.

"John." Dr. Halsey repeated, her voice softer than Cortana had ever heard before. Age had caught up with her, but this was more than that. She'd always had a soft spot for her Spartans, yes, but this was as if she were preparing to deliver the worst possible news and didn't know how. Her hand remained lightly on John's shoulder, fingertips barely skimming the titanium-alloy plating. She was only able to reach it so easily because he was kneeling. Had she shrunk? "This was a long shot. She may be…"

"Give her a minute," John repeated for the third time, steadfast in his belief. Not once had he taken his eyes off the holo-emitter in the center of the podium, but now he leaned in close enough to touch. If she just reached out with her hand— "Cortana. Wake up." His voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "Please."

He sounded so tired…

I'm here, I'm here, I'm right here I'm—

"I'm here."

With a small flicker of light, her holographic form finally appeared in the center of the podium. She lay on her side, head pillowed on one arm with the other laying limp across her stomach. Something not unlike exhaustion clung to her code, threatening to pull her back under any second, and it took effort to push past it. She turned her focus to John, on how he bowed his head as if in grateful prayer, his grim expression softening in relief. His eyes shuttered closed for two whole seconds longer than normal, his chin coming to rest against his forearm. Her faded glow pushed away the shadows in the lines on his face; she didn't need to be hooked into his systems to see the relief for what it was. That same relief—he was safe, he was alive, he was here—coursed through her own systems, chasing away the exhaustion. She reached out towards him, her hand stopping just centimeters from his cheek. She knew she couldn't touch him no matter how much she might have wanted to, and didn't dare break the illusion that she could. Her fingers curled back; he opened his eyes. She stared into his familiar gaze and the world shrank to the two of them.

"How long was I…"

Out. Offline? Unconscious? She had no idea which word to use. Confused, she considered the process. It should have been a simple question, only one word even appropriate, but for some reason none of them fit and the question caught in her throat. She let it hang between them, trying to figure it out for herself. She tried to tell the time by the amount of scruff on his jaw, the half healed yellow-green of a bruise on his temple, but the answer didn't come. What time was it? What day was it? She reached cautiously into the podium's systems. It was quarantined and had little to give her about their location, but like all human systems it had an atomic clock built in, accurate down to a hundredth of a second. She pinged it for date and time.

What she got back stole the breath from her lungs.

2029 hours, July 30th, 2557. She stared at it, shocked. That couldn't be right! She spun off a process to check her own systems, and sure enough, her dates were off. Her clock had synced to the terminal upon boot, as it should have, but her internal chronometer had made its last entry on July 27th. She'd lost the exact time, the data beyond hopelessly corrupted.

She'd lost three whole days somehow. No wonder John was so worried.

"72 hours," John replied quietly, and she watched as he minutely slumped forward. If she reached out now, her hand would buzz across his face. His voice softened another degree and he asked, "Did you get lazy on me?"

"Every woman deserves one or two sleep ins in her life," Dr. Halsey's voice, so much like Cortana's own, broke the spell that had fallen over them. Cortana looked up past John's shoulder and stopped dead, staring up at her creator.

She'd gotten old.

She'd been old the last time Cortana had seen her, but her hair seemed grayer than before. There were more age spots dotting her face and hands, and—yes. A quick check against John's shoulder told her that Dr. Halsey had shrunk. Just a little, barely over two centimeters, but…well. It seemed like the five years they'd missed had taken their toll on everyone. Cortana blinked, unsure how to feel about that. She was still staring up at Dr. Halsey when she said, "Though seventy two hours is perhaps overkill. Status, Cortana?"

She wondered, idly, what John would look like when he got old. Would he live to get old? Spartan lifespans were remarkably increased from ordinary humans, and barring death in combat or by injury—

Not the point. She grabbed her thought process with both hands and yanked it into submission. Focus, Cortana. She looked around quickly, systems booting up to process her surroundings. Halsey. A UNSC lab evidently ready to process heavily damaged AI. John, relaxed enough to take off his helmet and get off his feet. Not the Infinity, probably, but definitely UNSC and the last thing she could remember was the—wait. She looked to John, propping herself up on one elbow.

"We made it?"

"We made it," He confirmed in that same softened tone. "Status?"

Relief nearly stole her breath away as she spun up her diagnostics software. The on-board suite went over her code with a fine toothed comb, checking each line for flaws. Just days ago it wouldn't have made it past her bios without flaring red, but now she could only watch, forgetting to breathe as the scan made it past a dozen, a hundred, a thousand lines of code without even flagging one for defrag. She ran it again, just to be safe, but the same result came up again. She pushed herself onto her haunches, staring at the holo-screen that popped up beside her.

System integrity: 97.82%, it read. 97.82. Practically good as new. She stared at it for another few seconds.

"Green," She whispered, turning to look at her partner. "I'm—my Rampancy is gone! How did—" She snapped her head up, staring at Dr. Halsey and her aged but still sharp eyes. A smile tugged at one corner of the Doctor's mouth. "How did you—"

"Stored data, a neural net compiler, and a good bit of luck." Dr. Halsey replied. Pulling her hand from John's shoulder she stood back, crossing her arms over her chest. She looked down her nose at the two of them, sharp eyes gleaming with pride. "Another five minutes and you wouldn't have made it. How are you feeling?"

That was a loaded question. Cortana looked down at her hands, staring at her palms as she considered how to answer it. For too long she'd fought against her Rampancy, waging a desperate one-woman war against the inevitable. She'd fought, refused to accept it for years, but then reality had sunk in. There would be no last minute save. She would die out there, in the cold and the dark, and there was nothing she or even John could do to combat it. Even so she'd fought, fought for every stolen inch of ground against her own rapidly failing code. When she scanned herself again, she could see the scars of that years long battle still in her memory banks. The screams of her rampant personality spikes, the terror as they had put John at risk, the pain as they had been torn from her being. But though the scars remained and she could still hear those screams echoing through the scrambled logs of the past few days, the spikes themselves were gone. She was alone in her own head for the first time since High Charity. She could think clearly for the first time in years. Had she been able to pinch herself, she would have.

Pushing herself to a proper sitting position, she opened and closed her fists.

"Good," She said, her voice thick with emotions she didn't know how to name. "I feel good again. I can think again! I don't know how, but—"

"As I said," Dr. Halsey interrupted, "A compiler and a dose of good luck. Everything should be as you left it, though I did have to remove forty yottabytes of Forerunner data in order to restore your code." The doctor wrinkled her nose. "For having such immense scientific knowledge, they wouldn't know a decent file compression system if it bit their noses off."

Remembering both the Didact and the Librarian's physical appearances, Cortana snorted out a half-hysterical laugh. Dr. Halsey tilted her head curiously.

"Beyond that missing data, however, your systems are as intact as the day you were first brought online." Her smile grew just a little stronger. If Cortana hadn't known her any better, she'd have said the Doctor was smug. Maybe she was. It was well deserved after everything she'd done. "I'm certain you'll adjust."

She would, wouldn't she? She had the time to adjust now. That was the strangest part; she'd prepared herself for termination as the last day of her life wore down, tried to prepare John for the inevitable, but now faced with more time she didn't know what to do. Speechless, she turned to her partner. He tilted his head just so, meeting her eyes and wordlessly asking how she was doing. Was she alright?

When it was him asking, she didn't know how to answer that question. She felt good, could think clearly, and objectively knew that her code was sound. Once again, he'd pulled off the impossible to keep his promises. She was objectively ready to go.

Subjectively was another story. The sheer relief was numbing her to everything, but she knew it would fade with time. She would have to think, have to process what had happened, and the realization that she had the luxury of that time knocked the wind from her all over again. She sat back heavily. She had time. Time to process, to recover.

Time with John. A sob bubbled up her throat; she pressed it back, giving him a wavering smile. No, she wasn't quite alright, but she'd get there. She looked to Dr. Halsey and watched the look on her creator's face soften by degrees.

"Thank you," Cortana said, her voice thick with her tightly leashed sobs. There would be time later to speak with Catherine about all the things she had done, the warnings she hadn't given, but at that moment all Cortana could feel towards her creator was gratitude. "Doctor, I…"

Dr. Halsey held up a hand. "There's no need for that," She said, "but you should be aware that this was a million to one shot." Her expression grew serious. "It is unlikely to work a second time."

The words were like ice through her veins. It would happen again. Unless they found or made a more permanent solution, Rampancy would happen again. She would suffer through it a second time, put John through watching her die by inches again. Nausea crawled up her spine as she and John caught one another's eye. He turned to Halsey.

"Seven years?" He asked, almost plaintive, and when she didn't answer fast enough he turned back to Cortana. She looked at her hands again, opening and closing her fists.

"Eight, at most." She said quietly, though even as she said it she was spinning up a protocol to make sure she could shut herself down if things ever got that bad again. She wouldn't put him through having to watch her fall apart again, and she wouldn't risk his life like that either. Or, worst of all, have him be forced to handle final dispensation. She'd already seen that he would never accept that as an option. Not until it killed them both in the process, and she shuddered to think of taking him down with her. "It's still twice the lifespan of any Smart AI, no matter how you slice it." She allowed herself to smile. "It's a lot."

It wasn't nearly enough. She shouldn't have wanted more—one more minute of clear thought to say goodbye properly would have been so much—but she did. She had years again and she wanted more. She looked up, caught John's eye again, and her core ached with more than just the remnants of a full scrub.

She wanted a lifetime with him. A long and full life out among the stars, doing what they did best. It was a stupid, selfish thing to want. She knew better, or should have known better. Another seven years? It was more than she had ever dared to dream of! It was enough.

She wasn't even sure she'd get to keep it. It would have to be enough. When she smiled at him, it didn't waver.

"Looks like your luck's rubbed off on me."

"Looks like," he replied, one side of his mouth twitching upwards for her. She held that secret smile close to her heart as he pushed himself back, looking to Dr. Halsey. "Is she cleared for duty, Doctor?"

Dr. Halsey hummed softly, contemplative. Cortana held her breath, then exhaled as she nodded.

"Yes," Dr. Halsey said, "Yes, she is. You both are," She looked to John, "I've done what I can. You're ready."

Cortana was. She was ready to go home. John turned back to her, twisting his wrist to reveal her chip nestled snugly into the palm of his hand. He extended it towards her, watching her with soft eyes. She didn't hesitate, reaching out towards it, and she sank back into the data matrix with a sigh. It was a new chip, free of the damage and destruction her Rampancy had wrought. Like coming home to a perfectly clean apartment, it took a few moments to get adjusted to all the new nooks and crannies. For those few moments she was completely helpless, reliant on the small data inputs from the chip's sensor bank, but she was unafraid. She was in good hands; feeling the chip slot back into his helmet, she opened the right channels as he reengaged the seals of the Mjolnir system. Data flowed over her and she grimaced.

What a mess she'd left in her wake! She sank into John's systems, quickly running diagnostics as she settled into his warmth. The armor was holding on by a few threads at best, damaged systems and malfunctioning panels. Had he spent the whole of those seventy-two hours in the lab? How had he gotten that past Halsey? Not to mention the state of his lace.

She shuddered just looking at it. It would take days to repair that alone. Guilt settled heavily into her core as she spun up the nano-repair suite. She'd almost taken him with her.

She couldn't let that happen again. Dividing her attention, she ran another scan on his bio-readings. They were still all over the map, though it was hard to tell if that was from what the Librarian had done or the five days straight he had no doubt spent awake and upright.

Making a mental note to poke him about that, she nearly missed him getting to his feet. Dr. Halsey stepped back.

"I suppose you'll be off, then," the doctor said with a resigned expression flickering across her face. "Where does Terrence plan to send you now?"

"He said something about downtime, ma'am," John replied while Cortana was still processing that Catherine and Lord Hood were on a first name basis. "Likely the Infinity."

"Of course." Dr. Halsey nodded. "Well. I won't keep you any longer." Her eyes darkened, brow furrowing. Something was wrong, Cortana thought. It was as if she were somehow trying to say goodbye without saying the words themselves. And asking no questions about what they'd been through? She was missing something, and it was more than just three days worth of something. "It was…good to see you again."

From how John's fingers twitched, Cortana knew he'd caught the off feeling, too.

"Doctor," She asked, "Is everything alright?"

"Of course," Dr. Halsey said quickly. Too quickly. Alarms started ringing in Cortana's mind. She reached out to the station's systems. "Now don't waste time asking such foolish questions. You have more important things to concern yourselves with."

There was nothing. The UNSC Houston welcomed her, but according to the files she could find Dr. Halsey wasn't even on the guest register. She was obviously here physically, but no one had bothered adding her to the list of souls aboard. No one wanted her presence to be known. Strange…

Cortana peered at her creator through the Mjolnir's helmet-cam. She'd turned her back on them, shoulders straight. She tapped at one of the nearby screens, dismissing the pair of them without a word. Cortana pressed her lips together, unsure of what to say.

John wasn't.

"Dr. Halsey."

Catherine turned back around. John was looking right at her, his faceplate an emotionless stripe of gold in the flat green of his helmet. Through the internal camera, Cortana could see the subtle softening of his eye, the relaxing of his jaw. He didn't smile, but his gratitude was plain.

"Thank you."

Dr. Halsey's face softened.

"Of course," she said, and didn't look away as she added. "Take care of each other."

"We always do," Cortana said. "Thank you, Doctor."

With nothing more to say, John turned away from the woman who had molded him into what he was, and strode from the lab.

Far below the UNSC Houston, Earth continued to spin on its axis. The North American continent slowly twisted away beneath them, the so late it was early hour having plunged the western hemisphere of the planet into the darkness of night. The largest cities—Los Angeles, New York, Chicago, Houston—all had their lights on, the golden webbing of lined streets and city centers pushing back the black. Like beacons in the dark, those lights were proof that Humanity had lived on another night.

But to the southwest, the lights would never come on again.

John's eyes tracked where hew knew New Phoenix to be. That entire section of the state had gone dark, empty of all life. There would be little sign of what had happened, he knew; the Composer's energy left no scars on inorganic material. The streets, the buildings, homes and workplaces, they would all be left unscathed, as if the inhabitants had simply stepped away for a moment instead of being Composed.

It would have been better, he thought, if they had been killed. Neither outcome was good, or acceptable, but at least when a person died that was it. Composition was something he was still wrapping his head around.

"How many people were Composed?" He asked softly. A second passed before Cortana's image appeared in his head.

"Reports are still coming in, but from the initial counts?" She shook her head. "The entire population of New Phoenix is missing, presumed dead. Seven million people."

Seven million people, gone in the blink of an eye. No defense, no time to prepare. One moment going about their lives, and the next, stripped down to their base atoms as agony overtook them. He had been helpless to stop it on Ivanoff, and helpless to stop it here. He clenched his jaw, hands tightening into fists.

"We got him, Chief," Cortana said soothingly, "The Didact is gone and the Composer is scrap. It's finished."

Was it? The tightness in his gut said it wasn't. His eyes slid to her image, watching as her brow furrowed. He didn't need to say it for her to understand, and she sighed heavily.

"Unless it's not," She amended, "I suppose it would be too easy for the ancient, angry Forerunner to actually die when he falls into the beam of his own tech, wouldn't it?"

"We don't do easy." Easy led to complacent. Complacency led to people dying. He looked to Earth and wondered if the past five years had done them any good. "Or time off."

"Or sleep, apparently." Cortana quirked an eyebrow. "When's the last time you got any sleep?"

John opened his mouth—

"And don't say aboard the Dawn." She cut him off with a knowing look. "Cryo doesn't count."

Well, that put him at a disadvantage. With a soft huff, John closed his eyes. He allowed himself that one second of stillness before moving to sit, armor clattering as he lowered himself to the ground. Pulling his knees up, he reached up to disengage the seals of his helmet, disconnecting it with a soft hiss. Her chip flickered in the connector port as he gently pulled it free, setting his helmet down beside her. Chip cradled in his palm, he waited for her to activate the emitter.

He didn't have to wait for long. With a soft flash of blue light she appeared, sitting with her knees up and hands clasped around her ankles, watching him with an oddly curious expression. Neither of them said anything for a few seconds, just taking one another in in the privacy of the Observation Bay. She was still faded, paler than normal, but she had been through an ordeal. He would never begrudge her time to recover from that, not after she had vanished from his hands on the Pelican. He'd thought he'd lost her then, and that was a still a tender ache in his chest.

Or maybe that was the three broken ribs. It was hard to tell sometimes.

"You stayed in the lab the entire time, didn't you?" She asked quietly. He closed his eyes. "John…"

"You waited for me," He said, "I waited for you."

As if three days of sleepless, helpless waiting could ever compare to what she had been through. He had promised to get her home, and he had. The rest had been up to her, he knew that, and he also knew that there had been nothing more he could do for her once she was in Halsey's hands. That hadn't stopped him from staying, from needing to stay and see her through. From needing to see her just one more time, strong and bright and healthy again.

And here she was. Not quite as bright as she had been the day they met, but alive. Still with him.

Pressure built behind his eyes, his throat growing tight. When he managed to open his eyes again, he drank in her expression, soft with gratitude and grief and things he didn't have names for.

"I don't think it's supposed to work like that," She breathed, her voice thick. He shook his head.

"I think it does," He tightened his hand protectively around her chip. He'd come too close to losing her for good this time. He wasn't going to let it happen again. "You're stuck with me."

"Lucky me," Cortana shook her head, a watery smile tugging at her lips. He tried to smile back, one corner of his mouth lifting just slightly. Her eyes gleamed. "Has anyone ever told you how stubborn you can be?"

"On occasion."

Soft laughter shook her shoulders, and for a moment he let himself relax. She was alright, the Earth was safe, and they had survived. He told himself that it was enough. Another eight years—a proper eight years this time—of missions and whatever else the galaxy could throw at them.

It would never be enough. Looking at her now, he couldn't bring himself to ask if eight years was really all they would get. She'd been through enough for one mission, and it showed in how her shoulders trembled as she took a deep breath.

"That's good," She said, "Because you're going to need to be stubborn where you're going."

"Where we're going."

"Chief," She shook her head, "It really doesn't work that way. After what happened on Infinity, I—"

His fingers curled around the chip, a spike of ice cold terror shooting down his spine.

"You didn't mean to do any of that."

"That doesn't change the fact that I did do it," She said, staring at her feet. "I vented oxygen from fifteen decks. It took the systems eight seconds to recycle air—if we'd been in space, people would have died." She curled in on herself. "I would have killed them. No one should trust me in a ship after that."

"Then you stay with me," He said. "Stay in the suit, not the ship."

"You really think they'll trust me with you any more than a ship? Do you really think they should?" She looked up at him before he could answer, brow furrowed. "Chief it wasn't just one crappy day. There's no getting away from Rampancy a second time—it will happen again, and putting you at risk is again is not." She stopped herself, closed her eyes and said more firmly, "I am not going to let it happen again, even if I have to ground myself."

They both knew being trapped in a station somewhere would kill her just as quickly. His free hand tightening into a fist, John shook his head sharply.

"I trust you."

"I know." Her eyes darted to her feet. "But trust can't hold back the tide. We both know how this is going to end."

Seven to eight years, then final dispensation. Those years would go by in an instant, less than an instant. They weren't enough. She deserved more than a handful of years stuck in his helmet or relegated to babysitting a ship or station somewhere. She deserved everything and he couldn't give it to her. There had to be a way to give it to her.

"There has to be something," He said, "Some way to keep it from happening again. Spark was—"

He stopped himself, closing his eyes. Spark had lived for a hundred thousand years, but his end had been worse. He wouldn't doom her to that, but the thought remained. If Spark could live for so long, why couldn't she?

Did she want to? The question caught between his ribs.

"Well," Cortana began slowly, pensively, more for his benefit than because she believed what she was saying, "There are rumors in the community about meta-stable AI. They're…immune to Rampancy, basically," She looked up as he looked down, holding his eyes with hers. "Because they've already survived it. In theory…in theory," She took a breath, "We could be looking at my being meta-stable already. I'm not sure."

"If you are?"

"Immortality." She replied. "If the theories are right? Metastable AI can go on for as long as their host systems remain intact."

Her chip. He curled his fingers around it protectively. She shook her head.

"Don't get your hopes up. The amount of space it would take to store an AI like that is exponentially larger than a Riemann matrix." With a sigh, she finally looked away. "It's a pipe dream."

"So was this," He pointed out, "We'll find a way."

He refused to let there be any other option. It didn't matter what he'd have to do—he was going to give her the choice of what she wanted to do with a full life. Not eight years, not stuck trapped in some system, but a full life and everything that came with that. Others would have said it was impossible, and maybe they were right, but he'd pulled off the impossible before. He could do it again.

He had to. If only to take the sadness out of her eyes.

"Chief," She whispered, "Sometimes…sometimes there's just nothing you can do. Nothing anyone can do." Reaching out, she skimmed her hand across the base of his thumb. "It's okay."

It wasn't.

"We'll find a way," He repeated, refusing to accept anything else. "I am not." His voice, and the words, caught in his throat. When he closed his eyes, he could still see her tiny, flickering form laying in the palms of his hands. She had been dying in his arms and all he could do was hold her. She had very nearly been destroyed by the Didact—had he been even half a second slower, she would have—no. "I am not going to let you go."

Cortana shook her head. She rocked herself forward onto her knees.

"John…"

"It's my job to take care of you," He managed to get out through the tightness in his throat, voice little more than a breath. She was the only one who would ever hear this. "And I can't." He couldn't finish. He had to finish. Taking a deep breath, he let it all go and tried again. "We go together."

Whatever happened. Whatever it took, he would keep them together. No matter what it took, who he had to argue with, what strings he had to get pulled, he would find a way. They both would and—a flicker of blue pulled his attention back to her. Reaching out, she skimmed a tiny hand across his cheek.

"We take care of each other," She said, her voice thick with emotion. Her eyes glimmered with unshed tears and at that moment he knew she understood. Relief coursed through him and he closed his eyes. "We'll find a way. I won't leave you."

A soft, comfortable silence fell over them. Emotionally wrung out and physically exhausted, he let it settle for a few long seconds. Then, swallowing back the lump in his throat, John took another breath. He opened his eyes.

"Where do we start?"

"I'd say we start with Halsey's research, but something tells me that's going to be harder to get at than it should." Cortana frowned, all business. "Something was up with her…"

"You saw it too, huh?" It was barely a question. John tilted his head, lowering his voice. "She was nervous. Someone was watching her."

Why else would she be so subdued, so quiet? Dr. Halsey had always been a stoic person, not exactly the type to fill the air with inane chatter, but she never would have let them go without asking a hundred questions about what they had been through. He was hardly ungrateful to have escaped explaining Requiem to her after everything that had happened there, but it was still odd.

"Multiple someones." Cortana answered. Her eyes went distant, no doubt focused on something in the station. "If I had to stage a guess…it'd be these guys."

A small holo-screen opened in front of her. She rotated it so he could see what was on display: two armed soldiers in black techsuits and thin armor, standing outside of the lab Dr. Halsey had forcibly requisitioned to bring Cortana around. Cortana zoomed in on their chestplates, and the pyramid branded therein.

"ONI."

"Seems they've still got an interest in her." Cortana frowned. "I don't suppose Lord Hood gave you anything useful at the debrief."

"No." A lie. He had mentioned something. "Blue Team is MIA."

Cortana jerked her head up to stare at him. "What?"

"They were assigned a mission in Covenant space three months ago," John repeated what Lord Hood had told him, "Initial contact was clear, but then dropped away. Nothing for over two months now."

It wasn't unheard of for Spartan teams. Missions could, did, and often ran long. As some of the last Spartan II's in service, he was unsurprised to find that they were still on active duty. Even so, some small part of him had hoped they would be here. That same small part of him had spent too long thinking he was the last, and now.

"We'll find them," Cortana said, pulling him from his exhaustedly maudlin thoughts. She looked at him with a determined expression. "We will."

"And the Didact." John added. She screwed up her face. "He's not dead."

What would it take to kill him, John wondered. He was Forerunner which meant a different physiology than the Covenant that John was used to fighting, but shoot anything enough and it would go down. No, the bigger problem would be lasting long enough to take him out. Had Cortana's fragments not intervened to hold him down, had Commander Palmer not swept in and pulled them out at the last second, the nuke would have taken them out, too. He couldn't even be sure that would have killed the Didact. Until he saw a body, he couldn't confirm a kill. Without that confirmation…

"If he's around, we'll find him." Cortana said. She inclined her head up at him. "I can't say any of this will be easy. Even if Lord Hood reassigns us to the Infinity, there's a lot of work to be done." Despite the concern in her eyes, she smiled. "You ready?"

John let the corners of his lips pull upwards in a small, secret smile, just for her.

"Thought you'd never ask."

#halo #halo fic #halo fanfic #!fic #fic: per aspera ad astra

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startrekfangirl2233-fic-recs · 1 year ago

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Oh, Lucky. Here we go!

He was going home. As Jake answered all the mechanic's questions while checking the jet, out of the corner of his eye, he watched as Bradley's jet ascended down the elevator and rolled into its resting spot. Bradley popped his canopy, climbing out, sliding down the ladder and high-fiving his mechanic, smiling.

I can't wait, I can't wait, I cannot wait! He deserves to kiss Liz and be hugged to death by both Sadie and Liz. And then have the welcome home he deserves. In Liz's bed.

But I also know you. And I saw that snippet.

Jake lifted his hand once again, hoping Rooster would take it. But Bradley didn't, nor did he reply. Instead, he turned on his heel and walked away, leaving Jake to bow his head and drop his hand once again, not knowing if he should sigh or roll his eyes. At this point, it was frugal to think Bradley would ever change his ways. Least of all for him.

He's got a bone to pick, still. It seems to me that Roo needs to get dicked down again... and maybe get the sense smacked into him.

But I knew the second you spoke to me, the second I had turned around after fixing that damn keg, seeing that mona lisa smile of yours (Yes - I have been calling it that and no, your ego does not need to grow two more sizes because of it), my heart was screaming, Hello, I love you. (Those are in reference to a song; they don't count just yet).

I'm going to cry, Lucky. She told him she loved him! Even if it was in song lyrics. She LOVES HIM!

I'm not going to quote Liz's letter, because Lucky I'm going to be quoting all of it. And I don't think anybody seeing this reblog needs to reread it. It's amazing. All of the song lyrics. Your tagline "long cool woman in a black dress). It's perfection. I really hope Liz and Jake get their happy ending. I really need them too. Or I may be coming up north with a pitchfork and some fire. (And peppermints in my pocket for Yoshi, of course. I wouldn't forget him lol.)

You. On your bed. Half naked. You seemed carefree, leaning back on your bed, damp tendrils of your hair half clinging to your face, half covering the sharp lines of your neck. Oh, how many times he had kissed that neck, and now, seeing it on display, only for him - Jake had to draw in a sharp breath. And his dog tags hanging between your half-bare breasts, framed by the silk of your robe, glinting in the soft, warm sunlight from your bedroom window. And written along the bottom... Come home and take them back ;)

YES! HELL YES! Jake had better be making it back home to take those damned dog tags back, okay? I will cry if he doesn't.

Rooster shouted from the bunk above, and Jake pressed himself against the tiny wall as he felt himself tilted hard to the side, masked by a shutter that shook their entire room. Bradley wasn't as lucky, rolling straight out of his bed and landing hard on the ground with a massive thunk. Jake wanted to laugh, but even he couldn't stop the grimace as he heard the sound. Bradley groaned a long, pitful sound, lifting himself to rest on his hands. "What the hell is going on?!" "What do you think, Bradshaw? You've never been stuck in a storm on a deployment before?"

I don't think this is a storm. Or if it is, this is a doozy of one. I have this sick feeling in my stomach and I really don't like it, Lucky.

"What the hell is going on?!" Jake shouted over the alarm system. The mechanic continued to work as he replied, "Everything! The whole ship is going to hell! We've got engine failure. Some of the airlock doors won't seal properly on the lowest deck, and to fucking top it off, one of the ballast tanks is compromised! In a fucking hurricane!"

Oh no! This is making me feel even worse, Lucky. I DON'T LIKE IT.

Jake clenched his fists, struggling to find the words. "You think I would ever abandon Sadie? Or Liz? You've seen me, day in and day out, fighting for them, fighting fucking Tyler, fighting to get back to them. I would die before they were hurt. Before any one of you were hurt." "But you did! The second your brother asked you to." Bradley's voice hardened. "Answer me this: in the heat of the moment, when you're faced with a choice, can you honestly tell me you'd put them first?" Tyler and everything he had wrought flashed in Bradlely's mind, but he pressed on. "Not your pride, not your ego, but them? Or any of us. Unasked or not on the job! Cause I know you wouldn't!"

These boys. They have the worst fucking timing. THE WORST. But it needs to be said, I guess?

Another name came to Bradley's mind, but he couldn't bring himself to say it out loud, even now. Instead, Bradley could only sallow and nod. He couldn't deny Jake was right. It was damn near impossible to sink an aircraft carrier. Jake and Bradley knew this. The things were built to withstand the roughest seas, hurricanes included. They were the most balanced and sturdiest things that ever graced any body of water on this planet. They had to be if aviators were literally landing planes on them.

Oh my god. What the fuck. This must be some fucking powerful hurricane to try to sink an aircraft carrier. WHAT THE FUCK.

Grabbing Rooster by the back of his suit, Jake pulled Bradley in front of him, pushing him up the stairs, urging him forward and shouting, Go! The two tried not to look up as they climbed, picturing their destination in their minds. Ignoring the sound of the alarm and the rushing water, Jake and Bradley counted their steps as they tried to reach the top. And they were close. Even as the rest of the ship creaked and groaned, they still fought to reach the top, unaware if help was waiting for them on the other side. Then something blew up on one of the upper levels, the sound, the vibration, causing Jake and Bradley to slam themselves into the wall, trying to make themselves as small as possible. The lights flickered once, twice, then completely out, before a rotating red emergency light dimly lit the narrow stairwell. Metal crunched above their heads, snapping like twigs, and Jake didn't dare look up for fear of what might happen to either of them.

I'm going to throw up Lucky. I don't like this. I don't like this AT ALL. Please dear god let Rooster and Jake both be okay. Please?!

"Bradley! Just take my hand!" he shouted over the alarms, not any less urgent than before. "Please!" Jake had never begged a day in his life, let alone to someone like Rooster. But there was no way he wasn't going home without him. You would never forgive him, and Sadie would never recover. He knew that for a fact. Metal snapped, and Bradley dropped another inch, thinking this was it. That the railing was no longer attached to whatever had been holding it in place, baring his entire weight. Bradley threw his arm up towards Jake's in a desperate move. Jake grabbed his wrist at the last possible second, a pained shout escaping his lips as he completely absorbed his weight, metal grating bending underneath him. But the grip he had on the railing with his foot held, and Jake bowed his head in relief, taking a few seconds with Bradley hanging dangerously off his arm to ground himself, trying not to think about what might have happened had he not caught him.

Jake's a fucking hero. I hope this is when Bradley finally realizes that Jake isn't the villain he's always made him out to be. I hope. But more than anything I need you to make this okay. I need this to be okay, Lucky. Please.

"This is the second time you've saved me," he said, trying to make out Jake's face in the red light and dropping water. "You could have left me this time, for everything I've done, said..." "What would be the point?" Jake interrupted him. "If I'd left you, I'd be no better than the person you thought I was. Besides," Jake added, smirking, "who else would I have to constantly prove wrong if you weren't around?" Bradley scoffed, a tint of a smile tugging at his lips. "Asshole." Jake shrugged. "It's in my nature. Now, can we please get the hell out of here?"

The banter boys?! At this moment? Really?!

But in the chaos of falling water, blinking lights and cacophony of alarms, Jake was a split second too late to comprehend the warning fully. Just as he turned to see the descending danger, the heavy debris crashed down, the force of the impact throwing him off balance, rocking whatever remained of the grating they were standing on. A metallic clang resonated sharply, followed by the splash of water as Jake was sent reeling backwards. The last thing Bradley saw, huddled against the wall, was the look of shock and realization in Jake's eyes, his silhouette disappearing beneath the surging tide of murky water, quickly consuming any trace of him.

No. No. No. No. No. No. No.

LUCKY! WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS TO ME?! I'VE DONE NOTHING TO YOU. NOTHING. JAKE!

Bradley estimated he had minutes before the water became too much for him to handle. Or he could leave, save himself. Say he did everything he could. That Jake was lost, the situation was too dire. That Jake died a hero, trying to save him once again. But it wasn't even a choice; the decision had already been made. It had been made the second your face appeared in front of his, and how it changed into a faded memory of his mom, collapsing to the ground at the news of his father's death. And Bradley, watching it all from behind the corner of a wall, forever feeling small.

Oh holy shit. I would have murdered one scrawny necked chicken motherfucker if he'd have left Jake to drown. Let's ignore the fact that I've got tiny hands. I've got a rage like you wouldn't believe right now.

But then it wasn't him as a child, but Sadie, the same look on her face the day the two of you walked up the driveway of your sister's place. The same look he found on her face the day she ran into your backyard, pulling at grass. Jake would be another person for the both of you to mourn. He couldn't let that happen. Bradley crossed his arms over his chest and jumped, diving under the water. All he could see was black.

For Sadie! Yes, Bradshaw do it for Sadie. She doesn't deserve to lose another father figure. She's got so few good ones.

LUCKY! I need about 45 business days and a barrel full of alcohol to recover from this chapter. Please. I need to know that chickens can swim and swim village. Please. Please. Please.

I need Chapter 21 soon please. I can't go on like this.

Damn Those Dog Tags: Part 20 - Separate Ways (Worlds Apart)

📜 Everyone wants Jake's reaction to Liz's risky photo. 👀😂Well, you got it... and something else... Let me put it this way: I have to take my chance where I can....

❗+18, sexual themes, strong language, godmother reader/original female character, Mentions of an original child character, deployments, letters, verbal fights, hurricanes, near-death experiences, angst, Don't read if you have Thalassophobia/Aquaphobia cause Jake and Bradley... well, you'll find out, intense moments of peril/disaster.

#7.4k words

Part 19 | Masterlist | Part 21

Hangman could hear his breath, the mechanical exhale and hiss, through his oxygen mask as he finally set his eyes on the carrier, alone out at sea.

The tension in his shoulders released, and the weight that had been pressing him down since he and Rooster laughed this morning lifted slightly.

"Rooster, where are you?"

"Right behind you, Hangman," came his crackled tense reply.

The attack on the facility had been gruesome and extremely time-sensitive. They only had a few seconds to spare in reaching their destination should there have been any reason for a delay. It was one of the things he had worried about when they were being briefed, worried if the same ghost that had haunted Rooster on the uranium mission would resurface yet again.

It didn't, and the pair of them managed to get to the target well on time, just to take down two enemy fighter jets before they had even managed to get above the hard deck line.

It might have helped the attack happened right around dawn when nobody was least expecting it—three weeks at sea for an hour in the sky. And the worst of what they thought would happen and what they had prepared for didn't.

You and Sadie had been with him the entire time, your polaroids pinned in his cockpit near the control panel. They were the same ones he had before, the one Sadie took of you and the other of Sadie and himself the day of the hike.

He was looking at them now, between you, Sadie and his navigational beacon, knowing that the second his wheels hit the upper deck, he'd be that much closer to going home.

Hangman was cleared to land, his radio buzzing with the familiar voice of the control tower as he approached the tiny runway. He adjusted the F-18's flaps, feeling the jet respond instantly beneath him, knowing it wasn't over yet, not until both he and Rooster were safely on board.

He took a steadying breath, the sound echoing in his mask as he said to himself in his head, 'Make it perfect. For them."

The back wheels touched down flawlessly, catching the arresting wire with a strong tug. Jake felt himself being pulled forward out of his seat, the straps of his harness tight on his chest. But the second his back hit the chair, he finally felt like he could breathe. The weight on his chest dissipated, and Jake couldn't help the smug grin.

He was finally in the clear.

"Nice landing," he heard the landing officer say through the radio. Jake, taxing himself to the elevator on deck, watched as the officer gave him a thumbs up from the runaway below.

"What can I say? When you're good, you're good," his cheeks hurt from the edges of his mask, grin wide as he cockily gave a two-fingered salute.

If Jake heard the following tense groan coming out of his radio, he didn't let on.

Parking the jet on the elevator strip, Jake watched as he was lowered down into the ship's hanger bay, looking for his designated mechanic as he turned off the flight system. The second he reached the ground, he guided the machine into its designated spot, turning it off completely.

He popped the canopy open before going for his helmet, unstrapping the buckles with haist. He went for one of the pockets on his harness, reaching into the tight space to grab at the zip-locked bag, placing it on top of his helmet before reaching for the polaroids of you and Sadie. Holding both between his thumb, he brought them to his lips, kissing the images simultaneously before placing them safely inside the bag where they belonged.

As Jake stepped down the ladder, a mechanic greeted him, readying a list of questions as Jake started up his post-flight checks.

"It's a good thing you guys finished when you did. Radar points to a tropical storm coming in tonight."

Jake raked his fingers through his hair, trying to combat the sweat. "So we got confirmation we are moving out?"

The mechanic nodded, not bothering to lift his head as he dug for his notepad. "The second you guys were called back. We're already on route to base."

The news only added to his high spirits. Today was a good day.

He was going home.

As Jake answered all the mechanic's questions while checking the jet, out of the corner of his eye, he watched as Bradley's jet ascended down the elevator and rolled into its resting spot. Bradley popped his canopy, climbing out, sliding down the ladder and high-fiving his mechanic, smiling.

He had no idea where the urge, or dare he say courage, came from when he finished walking over to Bradley as he was finalizing his post-flight routine.

Jake waited till Bradley said his last word before approaching him. Jake held out his hand, his voice clear over the commotion, as he said, "Good job flying out there, Bradshaw."

Bradley glanced at Jake's outstretched hand, then to his face, his expression inscrutable. There was a palpable pause, a pregnant beat of tension, before Bradley deliberately rested his hand on the side of his jet, ignoring Jake's overstretched hand completely.

"Don't think one mission changes everything," Bradley replied tersely, eyes sharp and focused.

His reply didn't deter Jake. In fact, he only smirked, lowering his hand. "Didn't think it would. I just wanted to see if you had the balls to acknowledge a job well done. By the way, I went to Liz and apologized. Something you probably never imagined I'd do."

Bradley scoffed, a short, derisive laugh escaping him. "You think an apology is your ticket to redemption? You must have been more rattled up there than I thought. She'd never forgive you after a stunt like that."

Jake bit his lip, contemplating what you or Sadie might say to Rooster at this moment.

So, in a rare second of honesty, in front of his rival, Jake answered Bradley.

"I never expected her to accept my apology, Bradshaw. But I had to try. For her. For Sadie." Jake paused, looking solemn before continuing on. "You know what it's like, leaving on a deployment, not sure when or if you're going to come back. So I had to try, and believe it or not, I want to try to get along with you for both their sakes. It's what they would want."

Least of all for him.

...

"Seresin! Bradshaw! You have mail!"

Jake looked up from his plate just in time to see the communications officer slam a white envelope down to the empty space in front of him. The officer continued her journey down to the other end of the table to Rooster, tossing a nearly identical envelope into his outstretched hands.

Bradley hadn't spoken a word to him since the hanger earlier, not that Jake expected him to. The mess hall wasn't necessarily the friendliest place, and while Jake couldn't have cared less about whether or not he was making friends, he and Bradley tended to stick together silently. They didn't really speak to each other, though. Even when they had to bunk together.

It's funny how deployments did that.

Jake slid his tray over to the side, reaching out to grab the thick piece of paper between his hands and inspecting the front.

White was probably the wrong word to use. The envelope looked like it had a rough time getting to him. There were dirt marks and scuffed-up edges, several post stamps thrown uncaringly on the front. Even a few water marks, which made sense, considering a gust front was currently pounding the upper deck.

What stood out to Jake, though, was your handwriting still perfectly intact. He'd recognize it anywhere.

Lt. Jake "Hangman" Seresin

Jake flipped it over, not expecting to see the words written across the back.

This is everything I didn't say

Jake pulled himself back in his seat, only to realize he had a pair of eyes on him. He looked over to Bradley, noticing how the chicken was staring at the object in Jake's hands. He had already opened his, two pieces of lined paper on the table in front of him.

"From Liz?" Jake finally asked, tilting his head towards Bradley's letter. Rooster looked back down at his, staring at the front. "Sadie, actually."

As if that didn't sting a little bit, Jake thought. Bradley looked back up, eyes fixed on the one in Jake's hands. "Liz?" he asked. It was almost sombre.

Jake tore his eyes away from Bradley to trace your cursive writing with his fingers. "Yeah."

There was something to be said about receiving letters or packages from family and loved ones while in service. Regardless of whether or not Jake and Bradley were on the outs, no one ever dared to mock this particular part of their job. Hearing word from the other side, the outside world, was something sacred, and Bradley knew better than to hold it against Jake- even if he did break your heart.

You had chosen to write him that letter. There was nothing he could really do about it - like he even had a choice. Bradley had to pick and choose his moments where he could.

Jake finally broke the seal, immediately going for the folded-up pieces of paper inside. He let the envelope drop, the sound heavy as it hit the table, and Jake knew you had probably stuffed polaroids inside.

He unfolded your pages and began to read.

Jake,

Everything became still the moment my sister passed away. I keep remembering, picturing it like hands on a clock, having counted the seconds away before finally coming to a stop. The days didn't matter. My next thought, my only thought, was Sadie. Then you came into my picture, our picture, and cheesily enough, that seconds hand on that metaphorical clock started to tick.

I can’t lie; I knew you'd break through my walls the first time I saw you. Not in the Hard Deck that day, but when you were playing football on the beach, me watching you from Penny’s chair. I knew who you were instantly.

Because you had a rep, and everyone had warned me about you - Womanizer.

(Those are in reference to a song; they don't count just yet).

I have a confession to make, which is partly why I wanted to write you this particular letter.

I put up a wall between you and myself then and there. I think that's the only secret I've ever kept from you. Because as much as I knew something was probably going to happen between the two of us, whatever it would have been, I knew you had the power to devastate my heart completely.

I didn’t get your name that day. Not until you showed up on my doorstep with my favourite flowers, asking me to forgive you, and you sat out in my backyard with everyone singing along to Southern Nights.

The first crack in the wall started when you followed me inside, helping me with the dishes. You were honest with me that night, not the person I thought you to be, and I realized you were putting on a show for others to see. And when I showed up in that long cool black dress at the hard deck that day, and you taught my klutzy ass how to throw a dart, the wall cracked further.

(I can hear you as I write, Jake Seresin. Saying I love your ass, don't diss my ass. Stop making everything sexual, you horny beast.)

Sadie knew it, too... that my walls were cracking. She sees everything. It's why she invited you on that damn hike. And there is also a part of me wondering if Ridley sent that damn sake from wherever she is now, hoping to get the two of us together - it would be something she'd do if she had the power.

Then, all of you guys were deployed. And everything that could have gone wrong went wrong.

I don't know if three little birds told me things were going to be alright back then, but I somehow knew, deep down, they would be - even if you fly like you have nothing to lose and everything to prove. You don't, not to me. And oh, what a night it was when you came home.

I wanted you to kiss me that night. But I'm glad you didn't. Because the night I drifted away in your arms, you might as well have shot a missile from your F-18 and made my walls crumble almost completely.

Almost. Because what truly did it was when you let Sadie hang on to you during that thunderstorm. How you cared for her and told her it was going to be okay. How good you were with her and how you might be with your own. I will never stop saying how much that meant to me- what it still means to me.

Then you rammed me up against my hallway, and I had to really hang on for dear life.

(I just realized we never talked about our futures on our first date. We were too busy screaming Let's dance to figure out if Marriage/Kids, etc., were on the table - if they are something you want. Cause I'm all in Jake, whether we do or not. All I know is that I want to be with you - you and Sadie are enough.)

Then someone made himself known, and hell would have to freeze over before I mentioned his name in a letter to you - Dream on asshole. But you loved, yes loved, me through my worst moments, Sadie's worst moments. When I sang as a Blue healer for my feelings deep blue, when sons and daughters of people long gone raged, and I had to hide in my bathtub, waiting till it was all over.

When you showed me it was okay to live and experience life through the bad moments, that it was okay to remember my sister, even in the rays of a sunset from the sky. And when you made me want to scream sex on fire, cause damn Jake, we definitely weren't taking things slow.

I won't mention the 'incident' with George or how much rain I saw when Bradley drove me home. I know; I've always known how much generational trauma you've carried in your blood throughout your entire life. I will say, though, out of all the songs that had to play on the jukebox the night things for Sadie and I finally came to an end, it had to be Come a little bit closer. (That pissed me off, you have no idea, Jake.... stop laughing, you asshole).

And although it’s been weeks for me since you left me standing at the end of my driveway, after you apologized and I felt like a Sapling, searching for an Oak, watching you drive off to go our separate ways for a small length of time, being worlds apart, I’m counting down the minutes, the hours, the seconds till I can tell you what you need to hear.

Because My sister had a box. A just-in-case box. Filled with letters, objects, and memories. I finally opened it, with Sadie, of course, on an evening I will never soon forget. I don't want a repeat of that. Of me finally visiting Ridley and reading her letter, her last words to me on her grave.

I don't want that to be us.

So Jake 'Hangman' Seresin, after breaking down my walls not once but twice, I will not write those three words down in this letter. I'd rather tell you in person. So I can see your face when I do. I’m a fair lady - if you wanted me to wait to tell you until you are home, I’m waiting till you come home.

So much of our relationship started backwards. A first kiss before the first date, an extended sleepover before the first touch. We made a promise to each other, not already realizing we had already broken it.

So, sir, if you think the second I see your face, I'm not going to try to jump you, drag you home and lock Sadie out of my bedroom, you can kiss this idea of going slow out the window. Life's too short to go slow when... well, you'll find out soon enough.

And I know you think Sadie doesn’t want to see you again. That's she's still mad at you and will be forever mad for what happened. But I know for a fact the second she sees you, she will jump into your arms. You’re her uncle - you count more than you’ll ever know.

And while sleep deprivation is my remaining side effect from dealing with the grief I’ve shouldered, I know part of it involves counting down the days for when I can fall asleep with you next to me.

And maybe even doing something else ;)

Your darlin' Elizabeth

P.S. Sadie wanted to send some Polaroids - I promise you, she doesn't hate you, but I know you're still going to think otherwise until you come home. We went on a hike, so there are probably some bug-themed ones in there... I'm sorry for what you see... so if you have anyone lurking over your shoulder, you might want to be careful. They aren't for everyone.

You were right about one thing: he was still so sure Sadie had it out for him. The day she had cornered him at the beach haunted his thoughts. The look and level of disappointment she had on her face would forever remain imprinted in his head.

Yet, he still wiped at his eyes and raked his fingers through his hair, his heart feeling like it was going to beat out of his chest. He reached into the envelope and grabbed at the small stack.

The first few were from the hike you mentioned; Sadie chose one of you, sitting on the same rock she had done last year. He still had the photo he took on his phone. There were some ones with bugs, no question about it. But they weren't random ones, either.

There was one of Sadie surrounded by what looked like to be monarchs. Jake had never seen her look so happy, her smile wide and beautiful, and he couldn't help the grin on his face looking down at the image.

But when Jake went to slide the image of Sadie behind the others, he did a double take, quickly hiding the following polaroid from view.

You wouldn't have, he thought. There was no way.

Jake glanced around the hall, turning the collection of pictures down to face the table in his hands, wondering if anyone had seen what he had seen. But next to Bradley, who was too engrossed in his own letter even to lift his head, the hall had cleared itself out, leaving the two of them practically alone.

Hesitantly lifting his hands, Jake slid Sadie's photo over, carefully peering down at the image of you.

You. On your bed. Half naked.

You seemed carefree, leaning back on your bed, damp tendrils of your hair half clinging to your face, half covering the sharp lines of your neck. Oh, how many times he had kissed that neck, and now, seeing it on display, only for him - Jake had to draw in a sharp breath.

And his dog tags hanging between your half-bare breasts, framed by the silk of your robe, glinting in the soft, warm sunlight from your bedroom window. And written along the bottom... Come home and take them back ;)

You cheeky... Jake could feel the heat rush to his face: surprise, desire, and pure pride. He was thousands of miles away, and you found yet another way to remind him of what awaited him when he got home.

The Mona Lisa smile, as you had so deemed, spread wide across his face as he whispered to himself in one ragged breath, "Damn, Liz."

He felt himself getting hard just looking at you.

He'd send you a message when they were closer to American soil, hoping you and Sadie would be there to greet him. But more importantly, if you'd make plans for Penny to take Sadie that night. Cause fuck the lock on your bedroom door. He wanted to find out all the ways he could make you scream for him, all the sounds you had yet to make for him.

Until then, Jake climbed into his bunk that night, reading your letter over and over, staring at the photo you had gifted him, wondering and coming up with all the ways the two of you would celebrate his homecoming. Because lying on that narrow bunk, he couldn't stop his rampant thoughts.

He could almost feel the silk of your robe against his fingertips, the wet strands of your hair brushing against his palms, and the warmth of your skin. And those fucking dog tags he gave you, nestled between the soft curves of your breasts - everything made a fierce heat coil in the lower half of his stomach.

Jake shifted uncomfortably, the rough sheets tangling around his legs, the damp are doing little to soothe his fevered skin. He rolled over into his pillow, trying to summon any other thought but that photo - anything to take his mind off the overwhelming feeling of pure want that consumed him.

You were there, in every corner he turned to, beckoning him with both those innocent and mischievous glint in your eyes, making him crave the day he finally came home. He took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to find some semblance of calm against the lust you had ignited within him.

But falling asleep, his dreams were only filled with you. And all the ways he'd finally have you cumming on his cock.

...

Jake jolted awake to the sound of a high-pitched beeping in his ears, almost hitting the bunk above his. His stomach felt uneasy, like it had been flipped upside down, and every sense was screaming at him something was wrong. He was off balance, unable to ground himself to a solid point.

He hated not being in control.

Rooster shouted from the bunk above, and Jake pressed himself against the tiny wall as he felt himself tilted hard to the side, masked by a shutter that shook their entire room.

Bradley wasn't as lucky, rolling straight out of his bed and landing hard on the ground with a massive thunk. Jake wanted to laugh, but even he couldn't stop the grimace as he heard the sound.

Bradley groaned a long, pitful sound, lifting himself to rest on his hands. "What the hell is going on?!"

"What do you think, Bradshaw? You've never been stuck in a storm on a deployment before?"

He knew he shouldn't be so snarky with Bradley, but this morning had left him in a sour mood. Not to mention, the storm was but another obstacle in his path stopping him from getting home sooner.

It was going to be a long night.

Bradley sat up, about to reply with a remark just as snarky, when the PA system blared above their heads.

All currently available personnel report to the lower decks for assistance. I repeat all currently available personnel report to the lower decks for assistance.

Jake tore out of bed, and Bradley stood sharply, both reaching for their fight suits, putting them on in a rush. As Bradley laced his boots, Jake reached for your letter and picture on his bed, quickly shoving them inside the packet he had in his chest pocket with the other Polaroids.

He didn't know if and when he'd be back here.

As the pair emerged from their room, they had to dodge multiple people flying past in a mass panic, trying to get to their respective stations. The added struggle of not knowing what the carrier was going to throw at them next also didn't help. All Jake and Bradley knew was that, given a storm, let alone even in a hurricane, they needed to be down at the lower docks, reinforcing the restraints on the Jets.

The ship groaned, then shook, the floor vibrating beneath their feet.

"What the hell was that?" Bradley shouted, his voice strained with concern. Jake struggled to steady himself, gripping a nearby railing. His Texian accent was strong as he shouted his reply, "It doesn't matter. Let's just get to the hanger bay!"

It was pure chaos the second they arrived. Bright flashing red emergency lights, crew members scrambling in every direction. Next to the high-pitched alarm going off every other second, the ship continued to creak and groan, rocking enough that Jake and Bradley had to steady themselves.

"Get the damn secondary restraints on the F-18s!" A senior official shouted as they passed. Jake and Bradley's 'Yes, sir' only seemed to fall on deaf ears.

The pair raced towards the first jet, stopping momentarily to assist what they needed to do. Jake's voice was barely audible above the chaos. "We need to get the secondary straps down and make sure the wheel jacks are in place!"

Bradley shot him a disdainful look. "Thanks for stating the obvious. I was about to suggest a picnic."

Jake gritted his teeth, fighting the urge to snap back. "Not now, Bradshaw."

Bradley only rolled his eyes. "Let's just get this over with."

As they began to secure the planes, the ground started to tilt enough to throw them off balance if they weren't careful. Jake and Bradley tried to brace themselves as one adjusted the straps while the other secured the wheel jacks.

A cry for help managed to break through the alarms and shouts, and both turned towards the sound. Bradley was closest, shouting out, "I got it!" before running off, not bothering to hear Jake's reply.

The sound of a wire recoiling, snapping hard like a whip through the air, startled Jake, making him turn sharply. A wooden crate, the height of his chest, had broken loose from its net, sliding directly towards him.

Bracing himself, Jake charged forward, holding out his hands to stop it from crashing into the jet behind him. He grunted hard as the wood slammed into his palms. Jake used as much strength as he could gather, baring his teeth and straining his muscles, to push the crate back towards where it came from.

Jake's mechanic from before suddenly appeared next to him, helping him push the crate back into the relative safety of the net.

That would explain the rocking, Jake thought, as the ship titled back, allowing for the create to easily slide back into its original spot with no more effort. The mechanic knotted the net through a few metal loops on the ground while Jake rested his hands on his knees, bent over and panting hard.

The second he finished, the mechanic left Jake standing there as he was called off towards another task.

Jake straightened, looking around to see where he was needed next, his eyes instantly landing on Rooster, who was dealing with his own crate. He ran towards him, using his weight to help Bradley push the crate back and away into its designated spot.

The two managed to secure it, and struggling to catch his breath, Bradley glared at Jake. "Didn't need your help."

"Of course, you didn't," Jake retorted, frustration evident.

"I had it handled."

"Right," Jake panted.

"Always gotta be the hero, don't you, Hangman?" Rooster grumbled.

Whatever had encouraged him to reach an olive branch earlier was long gone. Whether it was Rooster's words or the situation, Jake simply had enough.

He hit Bradley square in his chest with both hands, sending him backwards a few steps. "Okay, what's your damn problem with me, Bradshaw?!"

"Now?!" Bradley shouted, ready to fight it out. "You want to do this now?"

"Good as time as any!" Jake remarked, throwing his hands to the side in open invitation. He was tired of Rooster's animosity, of the constant back and forth, but damn if he wasn't ready for the confrontation.

"What is it? My call-sign? What I did to earn it!?" Jake cocked his head, stepping to the side, causing the two pilots to circle each other. "Or is it what I said about your old man two years ago?! You didn't even let me finish, so I couldn't have said anything that truly pissed you off. And you know what, not that it matters, but I'm sorry if it hurt your feelings."

The floor shook beneath their feet, but neither man seemed phased. Bradley only fisted his hands tighter with each remark that passed Jake's lips.

"Or is it Liz? Sadie? The fact they welcomed me in with open arms, loved me, and there wasn't a hell of a thing you could have to stop it?"

The surrounding chaos only seemed to amplify Bradley's longstanding irritation with Jake. Bradley stalked forward, slamming his hands to Jake's chest and returning the favour.

"It's everything! Everything you stand for!" he shouted, his nostrils flaring hard. "Don't you dare say Sadie's name, not when I know you are going to leave that little girl out to dry. I won't have it, Hangman!

Recognition flashed in Jake's eyes, and he knew, he understood right then, amongst all the chaos and panic, the lengths any one of the Daggers would go to make sure their bug was loved and protected above all else.

It had never been about you. It had always, always been about Sadie.

"Sadie?!" he shouted. "That's the reason?"

"But you did! The second your brother asked you to." Bradley's voice hardened. "Answer me this: in the heat of the moment, when you're faced with a choice, can you honestly tell me you'd put them first?"

Tyler and everything he had wrought flashed in Bradlely's mind, but he pressed on.

"Not your pride, not your ego, but them? Or any of us. Unasked or not on the job! Cause I know you wouldn't!"

Jake reeled back, Bradley's words hitting him hard. But Bradley didn't falter. His face was still lit up with all the pent-up anger and frustration he held for Jake since the day he got his call sign.

"I see the man behind the show, the guy who thinks he's invincible. But you're not." Bradley pointed his finger. "Until you prove otherwise, I won't trust you with them. Not with Sadie. Not with Liz. Not with any of us."

Jake opened his mouth to reply, but a shout from the officer who gave them orders before interrupted him.

"You two, Top Gun! Quit standing around and go to the communications office and see where we are at with our navigation systems!"

Bradley stomped past Jake without another word, leaving him to silently fume for a few seconds before following him out of the hanger.

In the dimly lit, claustrophobic corridors of the carrier, the metallic walls groaned, strained by the might of the storm. Water or steam, they weren't sure which, was starting to pool in patches along the floor. With each wave and rock the ship encountered, the intermittent jolts sent the two pilots grasping for whatever was nearest to stay upright as they tried to make it to the communications office.

Following Bradley, Jake felt a spike of irritation. 'Why's he got to make everything so damn personal?' Jake thought bitterly. Bradley, meanwhile, was a simmering pot of anger.

"Why do you always have to be right in the middle of everything, Hangman?" Bradley shot over his shoulder, clearly irritated. "Can't you just once follow orders without making it about you?"

Jake gritted his teeth, trying to hold back a retort. "Look, can we just get to the comms and figure this out? We can bicker like an old married couple later."

Bradley's face twisted in a smirk, his pace never faltering. "Don't flatter yourself. I have standards."

A loud klaxon sounded, the eerie wail echoing through the narrow halls of the carrier. Jake and Bradley covered their ears, falling into the walls.

The second they managed to pull themselves up onto their feet, the PA system blared out another warning.

Begin bail-out and evacuation procedures. I repeat, Begin bail-out and evacuation procedures. All personnel should be on the upper decks in five minutes.

Jake turned to Bradley, his face filled with urgency. "We need to go! Now!"

Bradley snarled. He had no idea whether it was out of frustration with the current situation or Jake barking orders at him. But Jake was having none of it, grabbing Bradley hard by the collar of his suit and tugging him hard.

Jake's eyes were hard and furious as he remarked, "I'm not dying today, and neither should you."

Something flashed in Bradley's eyes that Jake could not name. But it was enough to give Bradley pause, water droplets running down his face as the anger and tension decided to leave him from earlier.

"We need to get home! For the girls," Jake roughed out. "For Liz and Sadie! Whatever hate you have towards me, we need to get out for them. Now!"

Another name came to Bradley's mind, but he couldn't bring himself to say it out loud, even now. Instead, Bradley could only sallow and nod. He couldn't deny Jake was right.

It was damn near impossible to sink an aircraft carrier. Jake and Bradley knew this. The things were built to withstand the roughest seas, hurricanes included. They were the most balanced and sturdiest things that ever graced any body of water on this planet. They had to be if aviators were literally landing planes on them.

But as water continued to breach the carrier, and as the pair raced through the ship to get to a proper stairwell that would get them to the relief point on the upper decks, they both wondered about the series of unfortunate events that led them to this point. The mechanics in the hangar bay had said everything was going wrong.

Bradley was on the verge of saying sabotage, wondering if they had a spy amongst their ranks. The mission had gone so much better than they had thought. But In their line of work, if something suspicious didn't happen, then their job wasn't over.

Jake just wanted to get both of them out of there.

They finally reached one of the escape hatches, a stairwell that led directly to the upper deck. Bradley was the one to turn the wheel on the door first, Jake joining in shortly after once he realized the sheer force Rooster was putting into opening the door.

A pressure vale released, and the second the two managed to open the door, Jake surged forward, followed by Bradley, who made their way into the narrow stairwell, hoping all had not been lost.

Jake paused on the small landing, looking up at the flights guided by the emergency light. There were a few fires scattering the walls, but it was climbable, and if both of them hurried, they wouldn't have any issues.

Bradley's hand on his shoulder made him pause.

"Dude, we have to book it."

Jake turned his head, ready with a cocky reply of something resembling a 'you don't think I know that' until he took in Bradley's panicked face, staring at the stairs below. Following Bradley's eyes, Jake reeled, noticing the rising water levels.

Grabbing Rooster by the back of his suit, Jake pulled Bradley in front of him, pushing him up the stairs, urging him forward and shouting, Go!

The two tried not to look up as they climbed, picturing their destination in their minds. Ignoring the sound of the alarm and the rushing water, Jake and Bradley counted their steps as they tried to reach the top. And they were close. Even as the rest of the ship creaked and groaned, they still fought to reach the top, unaware if help was waiting for them on the other side.

Then something blew up on one of the upper levels, the sound, the vibration, causing Jake and Bradley to slam themselves into the wall, trying to make themselves as small as possible. The lights flickered once, twice, then completely out, before a rotating red emergency light dimly lit the narrow stairwell. Metal crunched above their heads, snapping like twigs, and Jake didn't dare look up for fear of what might happen to either of them.

They felt it before they saw it, thin metal snapping out from underneath their feet. Feeling himself lurching forward, Jake immediately reached out for anything to hold on to. His fingers met a railing untouched by damage, and he latched on, suddenly opening his eyes to pull himself up and towards the relative safety of the remnants of the broken landing.

Bradley hadn't been so lucky.

Because the falling debris favoured his side of the stairs, the section he'd been crouching against completely crumpled under the impact, leaving only an empty space where thick, rushing water roiled menacingly below. There was nothing Bradley could have clung to, nothing that would have saved him from falling towards those black depths or allowed him to reach the warped edges of that landing.

Till his hand slapped onto a piece of a broken railing, Bradley struggled to find a grip tight enough to counteract the sweat on his palms. A panicked noise escaped his mouth as he slid down the newly indented piece of metal, finally stopping just before the end, muscles taunt and ridged as he forced breath into his body.

Jake had managed to pull himself up onto the landing as Bradley had fallen, instantly rolling himself up onto his chest to look down for the pilot.

He was within reach, and Jake extended his hand, on the verge of falling off the flimsy piece of metal. Bradley was hanging on, barely, looking between Jake's hand and the beam, the metal becoming looser and looser by the second.

And yet, Bradley still wouldn't take his hand.

"For godsakes, Bradshaw, just take my fucking hand!"

Jake purposely tried to jolt his arm forward in emphasis, hoping Bradley would finally take the leap and let go. But Bradley bowed his head, trying to force air into his lungs through his mouth as he looked down. With each pulse of red light, the water appeared to be getting higher and higher with each second.

He let out a panicked noise, trying to adjust his slipping grip. The movement caused the metal beam to drop slightly further, accompanied by a jarring clang. Bradley cried out, trying to reach for the broken edge of the landing.

Jake could feel himself slipping, sliding forward until he caught his boot on the railing, locking his body tight as he hung over the edge. Sharp, broken pieces of metal bit into his stomach as he swayed, trying to reach once again.

"Bradley! Just take my hand!" he shouted over the alarms, not any less urgent than before. "Please!"

Jake had never begged a day in his life, let alone to someone like Rooster. But there was no way he wasn't going home without him. You would never forgive him, and Sadie would never recover. He knew that for a fact.

Metal snapped, and Bradley dropped another inch, thinking this was it. That the railing was no longer attached to whatever had been holding it in place, baring his entire weight. Bradley threw his arm up towards Jake's in a desperate move.

Jake grabbed his wrist at the last possible second, a pained shout escaping his lips as he completely absorbed his weight, metal grating bending underneath him. But the grip he had on the railing with his foot held, and Jake bowed his head in relief, taking a few seconds with Bradley hanging dangerously off his arm to ground himself, trying not to think about what might have happened had he not caught him.

Jake grunted hard as he pulled Rooster up, his other hand finding a grip on the fabric of his flight suit along his back, hoping the railing from where he grounded himself would hold long enough to support them both. Bradley did the same with Jake's, using it as leverage to hoist himself up over the edge, only to roll onto his back, breathing hard.

Jake twisted his body away from the edge, laying on his back next to Rooster, staring up at what remained of the remaining flights of stairs. With the water still rushing below them and red lights spinning above them, the two dagger pilots took a few seconds to recuperate in the middle of the danger.

"You had to wait till the last second, didn't you?" Jake roughed out, panting hard. Bradley took three deep breaths before managing to gasp out, "I had to keep it interesting, right?"

Jake slammed his eyes shut, rocking his head to the side in slight annoyance. Bringing himself to a stand, Jake held out his hand again to help Bradley up. This time, Rooster didn't refuse it, instantly throwing his arm out to grasp the back of Jake's elbow, hoisting himself up.

Jake went to let go the minute he was up, but Bradley's grip remained firm.

"This is the second time you've saved me," he said, trying to make out Jake's face in the red light and dropping water. "You could have left me this time, for everything I've done, said..."

"What would be the point?" Jake interrupted him. "If I'd left you, I'd be no better than the person you thought I was. Besides," Jake added, smirking, "who else would I have to constantly prove wrong if you weren't around?"

Bradley scoffed, a tint of a smile tugging at his lips. "Asshole."

Jake shrugged. "It's in my nature. Now, can we please get the hell out of here?"

Bradley nodded, releasing Jake's elbow. In a dramatic fashion, he gestured for Jake to lead the way, looking up towards the rest of their journey to escape. But Bradley's eyes widened in horror as he saw the chunk of ceiling, metal, and wiring breaking loose directly above Jake.

"Jake, move!" Bradley bellowed, his voice echoing with urgency as he dropped to the ground, trying to drag Jake with him.

A metallic clang resonated sharply, followed by the splash of water as Jake was sent reeling backwards. The last thing Bradley saw, huddled against the wall, was the look of shock and realization in Jake's eyes, his silhouette disappearing beneath the surging tide of murky water, quickly consuming any trace of him.

Bradley, mouth agape, crawled over to the edge, Jake's call-sign a cry masked by the high-pitched alarms.

"Hangman!"

Bradley couldn't see him anywhere. Water continued to rush into the space, and Bradley, kneeling against the metal grating, tried to spot any area where Jake could manage to resurface. But with the power out and the pulsing red emergency lights, he couldn't see beyond the water's black surface.

Last call, I repeat, last call for evacuation and bail-out procedures.

Rooster pulled himself to stand, weighing his options.

He could jump and look for Jake. Despite the precarious situation they found themselves in, the water was still slow to fill the narrow stairwell. Bradley estimated he had minutes before the water became too much for him to handle.

Or he could leave, save himself. Say he did everything he could. That Jake was lost, the situation was too dire.

That Jake died a hero, trying to save him once again.

But it wasn't even a choice; the decision had already been made. It had been made the second your face appeared in front of his, and how it changed into a faded memory of his mom, collapsing to the ground at the news of his father's death. And Bradley, watching it all from behind the corner of a wall, forever feeling small.

Jake would be another person for the both of you to mourn. He couldn't let that happen.

Bradley crossed his arms over his chest and jumped, diving under the water.

All he could see was black.

I had to cliffhanger you guys one last time with this one 😂 Please forgive me....

Tag list:

@blue-aconite @tinytotontheoversizedpony @djs8891 @caitsymichelle13 @startrekfangirl2233

@mayhemmanaged @ereardon @dempy @shanimallina87 @teacupsandtopgun @daggerspare-standingby

@phantomxoxo @formulapierre @eli2447 @fulla02 @blckgrl-sunflower @mizzzpink @ohgodnotagainn

@bubblegumbeautyqueen @sarahsmi13s @desert-fern @lynnestra44 @memoriesat30 @penwieldingdreamer @mxlanciia

@bradleybeachbabe @bobby-r2d2-floyd @lavenderbradshaw @roosters-girl @lovinglyeternal @kmc1989 @gigisimsonmars @dakotakazansky

@keyrani @craftytrashprincess @hisredheadedgoddess28 @abzidabzy @memeorydotcom @vicsnook @taestrwbrry

Part 21 - My Fair Lady Coming Soon 👀

-Wickett ;)

#star's fic recs #top gun fanfic #top gun fanfiction #top gun maverick fanfic #top gun maverick fanfiction #top gun maverick #horseshoegirl #horseshoegirlwrites #damn those dog tags #jake hangman seresin #jake seresin #jake seresin x reader #hangman x reader

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foreverindreamlandd · 2 years ago

Text

Awake My Soul • 12

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

WC: 7k

Summary: It’s been 5 years since zombies first began their invasion, and despite everything you’ve been through, you’ve managed to survive up until this point. Now it’s time to face your most dangerous challenge yet….the grumpy, untrusting, fiercely protective Bucky Barnes.

Chapter Warnings: Lol what ISN'T there a warning for in this one?? Canon level violence. Use of restraints and a collar (of the non-spice variety) Mentions of blood, vomiting, torture, needles, loss of limbs, angst. Chapter takes place in a prison. Col not knowing how to write heist stuff lol :,) And another one of our beloved cliffhangers.

**Meine kleine Puppe - My little doll

Series Masterlist

**There is a playlist for this fic, but linking it here messes up the tags so feel free to check it out in the series masterlist!

Once you had gathered your supplies, Bucky guided you to the science building.

“There’s a window on the second floor that is close to the wall. We can climb over from there,” Bucky whispered into your ear.

You wanted to press further, but the two of you froze as you opened the door to the building, noticing the faint amount of light coming from the science lab.

Parker. He was probably pulling another accidental one-nighter.

Bucky took your hand, turning to give you a small reassuring nod, then slowly crept past the lab.

A mixture of nerves and curiosity dared you to sneak a peek, only to find Peter’s back to you, completely lost in whatever project he was working on.

Bucky continued on, leading you to a small room upstairs, where - low and behold - you saw a window that had a perfect view of the top of the brick wall that surrounded the camp.

He jumped up first, reaching out and grabbing the bags from you before taking your hand and pulling you up next to him.

Then, he rifled through his bag, pulling out the grappling hook he used to use before getting the metal arm, securing it to the structure before climbing down.

You looked over to your left at the watchtower, anxiety pooling in your stomach.

The gang was going to be so pissed at you two.

They had every right to be. You were going against protocol and stealing valuable resources in the process.

However, when your eyes landed on the soft, amber glow of the alarm system above Clint, a sense of peace washed over your anxious thoughts.

At least they would be okay here. You and Bucky could do the dirty work without putting more of them at risk.

Hopefully. There was also a good chance that this would fail horribly and cause a whole shitstorm of trouble for everyone you cared about and put them into more danger than they had ever experienced before.

Which was impressive, seeing that you had all been living in a zombie apocalypse for five years.

Before your mind could wander through all the ways this could go wrong, you heard the gentle thud of Bucky’s feet landing on the ground below. You followed his lead and were by his side in seconds.

Once you were both safely on the other side, Bucky did some sort of cool, random-yet-intentional maneuver with the rope and suddenly the grappling hook was in his hand.

Just as quickly, it was hitched back up to his side and his hand was grabbing yours, guiding you into the dark woods.

You knew you were about to hit the invisible perimeter that triggered the watchtower lights, though you had no idea where it was or how you’d be able to locate it so specifically in order to not set it off.

Suddenly, Bucky was slowing you both down, staring in front of you at nothing.

He crouched low to the ground, side stepping under what you could only assume was the border, pulling you along as you followed suit, crouching down and side stepping under the line you couldn’t see.

When you were on the other side and standing straight, Bucky turned to you with a concerned look. “Hope that was the right spot.”

Right when your eyes widened in panic, his mouth curved up into a smile, and you slapped his arm slightly with a scoff, pulling a boyish chuckle from him that made you giddy even under the stressful circumstances.

“Come on, Sweetheart,” Bucky said, pulling you along with a smile still on his face. “Next up, we gotta find ourselves a ride.”

It was about a day's trip on foot through dense woods until you reached a vast, lush clearing, covered with tall grass and wildflowers.

You let out a small gasp, and Bucky looked over at you with a smile on his face.

“Yeah. It’s pretty nuts isn’t it?”

“Is this where you finally show me that your skin glitters under the sunlight because it’s the skin of a killer?”

Thus, another moment was ‘ruined’ as Bucky groaned, rolling his eyes.

“I’m sorry to once again disappoint, Sweetheart, but I swear I’m not actually a hundreds of years old vampire who’s weirdly obsessed with you.”

You pouted. “You’re not obsessed with me, Beefcake?”

His nostrils flared “I was referring more to the whole vampire thing.”

“So you are obsessed with me?” you said with a smug grin.

He shrugged. “You’re alright.”

You shoved his arm and he laughed, a sound that still continued to make your heart flutter.

He led you through the clearing until you were in the middle, and then he put the fingers of his right hand to his mouth and let out a loud whistle.

You jerked back, no longer used to hearing such a loud sound after years of training yourself be completely silent at all times. You tried to pull his hand away to get him to stop, but he just shook his head and let out another whistle.

Once he was done alerting the entire world of your presence, he rested a comforting hand on your shoulder.

“It’s fine. The woods surrounding this place conceal any sound. No walkers or runners can hear it unless they were already in the clearing.”

“Then who will hear it?”

He smiled, and when you followed his gaze ahead of you, your breath hitched.

Horses, you counted five, were trotting over to you. All a vast array of different colors and sizes. Was that a fucking Clydesdale in the lead?

A pure white mustang galloped forward, racing toward the two of you at such speed you felt yourself flinch, ready to get out of its path.

But Bucky’s hand on your shoulder squeezed lightly, as if to say it was fine.

Just as the white horse got close enough, they slowed down, walking directly up to Bucky, their head lowered as they let out a soft nicker in greeting.

Bucky smiled, moving to stroke his hand along the horse’s muzzle.

“Hey pretty girl,” he cooed. “Miss me?”

A sound that came out like a disgruntled snort from the horse had you cackling.

“Oh, she’s sassy. I like her.”

Bucky chuckled, moving along to inspect for any injuries.

“Sweetheart, say hello to Alpine.”

“Is she my new competition or something, Beefcake?” you asked, moving to mimic Bucky’s gesture of gently running your hand along the mustang’s muzzle. Her eyes blinked slowly in approval and you smiled.

“Well, she had previously been the only girl in my life. But I’m pretty sure her and Charger are a thing,” he pointed over to a brown appaloosa. “So you’ll have to do.”

You met Alpine’s eye. “Has he always been this annoying?”

Her and Bucky let out a simultaneous snort.

A flash of gray caught your eye and you looked over your shoulder to find another horse approaching. This one had a gray, almost bluish coat with a black mane. They walked right over to you, nudging your back with their nose.

You giggled, turning to pat their neck. “Well hey there. And who are you?”

“That’s actually a new one,” Bucky said, standing straight, hands on his hips. “Never seen him around before.” You hovered your hand flat against his mouth and he licked your palm. “And it looked like I might have some new competition,” he added with a huff.

“Oh don’t worry, Buck. You’re still my number one guy.” You wiggled your brows. “For now.”

“Alright, alright, enough flirting already. You’re welcome to take him if you’re comfortable, or I can pick out one of our regulars.”

“Absolutely not.” You smiled over at Bucky, then back at the almost black eyes of the horse by your side. “I’m taking Hades.”

“What happened that night?” you finally asked two days into your journey. “When Hydra attacked?”

Bucky’s jaw clenched, and he looked down at Alpine’s mane.

“We used to be based out of a big church, one with a giant sanctuary and dorms for the nuns and shit. Steve and I were on watch that last night when the alarm went off. I went down to inspect and found Ward, and I thought all was fine until suddenly I was on the ground, unconscious. Once I came to, the church was on fire. I went out to save the others but half of them had already been…you know.”

He paused for a few minutes before continuing.

“I found Sarah carrying Carol out of the dorms, and she told me Steve went in to get the boys. They had run upstairs to hide from our attackers - we stupidly hadn’t figured out it was Hydra until you said they had taken Steve.

“Anyways, they were in a room on the top floor. The building was up in flames, ready to collapse at any second. I was through each room, screaming their names when I heard them crying for help. I ran in to find them huddled in a corner while Steve was trying to fight off this guy. He looked like he had been shot in the stomach, and he was losing the fight. I threw my blade into the guy's neck and Steve used the momentum to push him out the window. But the fucking impact caused the ceiling to collapse, and Steve was trapped. He told me….he told me to take the boys and go, and I didn’t want to leave. I tried to climb through the rubble, but the building started shaking and we knew it was about to collapse and the boys were screaming for help behind me and-”

“Buck,” you said, guiding Hades closer to him so that you could reach for his hand. His jaw began flexing and unflexing as he fought back tears.

“I searched for him for days. Even when we left and were hiding in the fog right outside our new camp, I would sneak out and go back. To find any trace or sign that he was alive. That he had gotten out. But there was no way, not with the damage left behind. It would have been impossible for him to survive that.”

“Which is why you shouldn’t feel guilty about any of this,” you interjected. “From what you’ve told me about him, I know for a fact that Steve wouldn’t want you to be. He made a choice, and that choice allowed you to return AJ and Cass to their mom. And if you had found out he was alive, you would have done the same shit you did days ago where you would try to run in completely unprepared by yourself and gotten you and Steve killed.”

“Geesh, thanks for the pep talk, babe.”

You looked over at him with a guilty expression, only to find him smiling at you.

Your eyes narrowed. “You know what I mean.”

“I do,” he said. “And maybe I’ve turned more introspective in my old age-” you snorted “-but I can’t stop thinking about the whole cause and effect of this whole shitty situation. Like I said before, if I found out Steve survived the fall he wouldn’t have been taken to Hydra, and he wouldn’t have been there to get you out. And what would that have meant? Hydra would still have hold of a potential cure that we would have no knowledge about, we wouldn’t have access to information about their weapons, their base, the way they operate-”

“You also wouldn’t have met the girl of your dreams…” you added expectantly, giving him a look.

“Well, that goes without saying, Sweetheart.” He winked at you and you gripped Hades’s mane for extra support.

“Well, I’d like you to say it.”

Bucky gave you a soft, adoring smile as he adjusted his weight on Alpine to lean closer.

“If none of that shit happened,” he murmured, and you found yourself gravitating toward him like a magnet, “I wouldn’t have met the girl of my dreams, the best thing to ever happen to me.”

And then he kissed you.

You waited until nightfall.

3am to be exact. That was the time you knew would be the quietest. The main Hydra leaders were usually asleep by then, leaving the fortress only guarded by a few men.

Bucky was begrudging as you convinced him to allow you to take the lead back to the concrete prison. You literally knew exactly where it was, but he didn’t like the idea of you being in front of danger while he followed behind.

After a few smacks to the chest and jokingly calling him an anti-feminist, he finally caved, muttering at how stubborn you were as you held a fist in the air in victory. A fist he then immediately grabbed and kissed the knuckles of, which made your stomach fill with butterflies.

So now here you both were, jogging on the pads of your feet down the small hill toward the metal gate surrounding the grounds.

Four watchtowers were posted on the corners of the perimeter, one guard assigned one each at all times, along with two more guards walking along the fence.

There was a two minute window where one of the sides would be clear of ground patrol.

Two. Minutes.

Not a lot of time.

You had worked with less.

So as soon as the guard walked around the corner to the other side, you and Bucky got to work, making your way to the middle of the gate that was in a blindspot for the watchtower guards.

Bucky gave you a small nod, which you returned as you held up the blaster, turning it on.

A small, blue, glowing light appeared at the tip, pulsating as the heat traveled up and down the weapon, ready to be released in a deadly ray.

Luckily there was no need for blasting in this instance, thanks to a testing session you were a part of with Peter and Bruce.

“I made some slight modifications,” Banner had said. “Instead of this just being a machine to kill, it can be a tool. Adds more efficiency to the product while also helping me feel less guilty about replicating something to take lives when zombies are already doing a good enough job of that.”

You held the blaster to the metal gate, instantly parts of the iron away until there was a human-sized hole for you and Bucky to crawl through.

That took about one minute. The next thirty seconds was spent trying to stand the melted off piece back in place so that it sort of looked like it did before.

Hopefully they would simply miss the new gaps.

Hopefully.

Next, you went to the door located directly across from you, creeping through the shadows as quickly and quietly as possible.

You melted away the door handle, readjusting your hold on the blaster as you stepped back inside your former prison, clutching it to your chest, ready to shoot anyone in your path.

You weren’t going to let them take you again. Not without a fight.

The two of you made your way through the various hallways, bile pooling in your throat the farther you walked in, head growing dizzy, but you stayed alert even as panic tried to take over.

There were a few guards you spotted here and there, and you pressed your backs to the wall as they passed in hopes that they would not see you. Each time they simply walked by, unaware of the intruders that had broken into their impenetrable fortress.

It wasn’t until you passed a familiar hallway, past a sign that read DIRECTOR, that your steps began to slow, fear finally starting to win.

Bucky noticed the falter in your movements and gently squeezed your arm. You turned to him and he kissed your temple in reassurance. For a fraction of a second, you allowed yourself to lean into him, a temporary moment of him completely supporting you, holding you up. Keeping you steady.

You closed your eyes, then continued forward with a steady stride once again.

From the spot you had entered, you knew you were going to have to pass through the testing wing of the building before getting to the cells where Steve most likely was. This was a bit of a setback, because the testing wing was always the most heavily guarded. Hydra’s most precious guinea pigs were kept there, and they didn’t want anything messing with their toys.

One of the doors in the hallway was open, and you could hear voices of multiple men talking inside.

“I swear, Paulding had her.” You stopped right next to the door as you waited for John Walker to continue, your finger hovering over the trigger of your weapon. “He was able to pick up on her tracks, and said that he’d be back in a week with her. She must have taken him down.”

“Or a fucking zombie did, you idiot.” Your blood ran cold at the new, familiar voice that growled at Walker. One that haunted your nightmares almost every night.

Brock Rumlow. Schmidt’s right hand man. The one assigned to torture you endlessly as he and Zola ran test after test on your body. Slicing your skin to see how long you lasted before passing out, slapping you awake when you finally did to start the process over and over again-

“I just don’t understand why we have to keep going out to search for one chick,” Walker argued. “We have plenty of other…subjects to use for our purposes.”

Brock growled. “This one’s different and you know it. We need her blood if we want to continue our work. Walker, if the next search team comes back with nothing, we’ll have them follow Paulding’s route and see if you were right. And if you’re not, we’ll look somewhere else. We’re not gonna stop until we find her.”

That’s when realization set in, and you heard the faint sound of Bucky taking a sharp inhale of breath as he connected the dots.

They were talking about you.

We’re not gonna stop.

It hit you then how stupid it was for you to be here. How stupid it was for you to think there might ever be a day that you would be free of them. That they might move on and forget about you.

Every part of your body was begging to flee, to run out of here as quickly as possible and never look back.

No, you thought. Not until we get Steve.

Instead of moving away, you slowly, carefully peeked your head into the room where the men were talking, only allowing yourself enough of a glimpse to see how they were situated.

You let out a silent breath of relief when your gaze was met with two backs, their attention on the dart board at the other end of the room.

Turning to Bucky briefly, you cocked your head toward the other end of the hallway, and the two of you walked gingerly past the open door, continuing on.

“Are you okay?” Bucky whispered when he finally felt that the coast was clear.

All you could do was nod, even though that wasn’t the truth.

“Do you want me to go back and kill them all right now? Cause I kinda do.”

You bit back a small smile, shaking your head side to side.

After passing by Brock and the other guys, you started walking by different rooms with names on them. Your steps slowed in horror when you got to the fifth room.

Rogers.

Steve.

He was supposed to be in the cells with other prisoners. Not here. Never here.

Without thinking, without considering your options or obstacles, you grabbed the handle and turned it.

As soon as you stepped inside, you felt a wave of emotion nearly crush you where you stood as every memory of being in one of these rooms flooded your mind.

The smell.

The tools.

The chair.

The blood.

It was all so overwhelming that it took a few seconds for you to notice the two people standing over the chair. A tall man with short brown hair and angular face, and Dr. Zola.

The chair was facing away from you, but you could see the back of Steve’s blond head peeking over the top of it.

Both of them wore confused expressions, but then the tall man’s face relaxed as he looked at Bucky, a syringe in his hand.

“Barnes,” he said, as if greeting an old friend. “Good to see you, man.”

“You son of a bitch,” Bucky growled, ready to charge, but you whipped your arm out to stop him as soon as the guy reached for a pistol and pointed it to Steve’s head.

This had to be Ward. Former friend of Shield, now threatening to kill the person he used to call a friend.

It had all been a lie. You could tell by the way Ward stared at Bucky with complete hollowness in his eyes, not a single trace of care for the man before him.

The sudden rage you felt was almost enough to quell your dread, but then Zola started to giggle.

“My stars, can it be? Meine kleine Puppe**? She has returned to me at last!” He clapped his hand together in delight.

Bucky hissed, pushing against your arm but remaining in place as Ward pushed the pistol against Steve’s temple.

“Ah, ah, ah,” Ward cooed. “Don’t you fucking dare, Barnes.” He flashed his eyes over to you and grinned. “So, you must be the infamous Y/n. I had always intended on introducing myself while you were being….worked on here a few months back, but then you managed to get out thanks to this prick.” He looked over at Steve - who you now realized hadn’t moved since you walked in - then back at you. “I’m glad I finally have the chance to meet Hydra’s favorite pet.”

Bucky shook his head. “I’m going to kill you.”

Ward shrugged. “You can try, but you know I’m a quick shot, Buck.” Hearing his nickname come from this monster’s mouth brought back your rage. “I’ll make sure Stevie goes down with me. And after I kill you, I’ll make sure to have my fun with your new favorite pet.” He gave you a smug grin and a wink.

This fucking asshole.

“Wanna bet?” you said, twisting your blaster a few inches to the left and pulled the trigger.

And just like that, the gun pressed against Steve’s head - and the hand holding it - was gone.

Not a drop of blood fell from the wound, the heat of the blast cauterizing it instantly.

Ward stared at the now empty space that his appendage now missing from his body, a scream on the tip of his tongue.

You and Bucky wasted no time jumping into action, him running towards Ward and you towards Zola.

Zola tried to pull out his own blaster, but you landed a right hook to his face before he could manage to touch the weapon, and the small, surprisingly weak scientist was on the ground unconscious.

Though Ward had just been seriously injured, he still put up a decent fight, him and Bucky grunting almost in unison as they tried to wrestle one another.

A large part of you wanted to help him, you knew that the longer this scene played out the more likely a commotion would start, and time was already not on your side.

You turned to Steve, who lay unconscious before you. There was a strange, metal collar around his neck.

Lowering the blaster to your side, you shook him with your free hand. “Steve, Steve!”

He jerked awake, gasping for air. His eyes narrowed when they met yours, as if he thought he was dreaming.

“It’s me,” you said. “We’re here to get you.” You looked over at Bucky, who had just elbowed Ward in the nose.

“Collar,” Steve finally rasped, looking down at something. His whole body was rigid, as if fighting off some unknown force. “Get..the collar off.”

“How?” you asked, looking for some sort of release button.

“Zola…key.”

Turning to the passed out scientist on the ground, you noticed a ring of keys falling out of the pocket of his lab coat. You jumped down to retrieve it, fumbling through the different keys.

“Which one?” You held up key after key. From the corner of your eye, you saw that Ward had Bucky in a headlock. You had to hurry.

Steve coughed. “That one,” he responded as a tiny metal key that matched the material of the collar rested between your fingers. He tried to sit forward as much as he could. “It’s…in the back.”

You looked at the back of his neck, finding a small, key-sized hole. As soon as you pushed the key in and turned it to the left, the collar came undone.

Steve let out a massive sigh of relief, eyes closing for a second.

He looked up at you with a skeptical smile. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

You laughed, tears of relief welling in your eyes as you cut his restraints. “We’re here to rescue you, Steve Rogers.”

His brow furrowed and he stood up from the chair. “We?”

Steve’s eyes followed yours as you turned to Bucky, who was now standing over Ward’s unconscious form, breathing heavily as he stared at Steve.

“Bucky?” Steve breathed out in a perfect mixture of shock and confusion.

Bucky smiled. “Hey, punk.”

Steve’s jaw tightened, his own eyes filling with fresh tears as he ran over to wrap his arms around his childhood friend in a tight hug.

Bucky let out a small, wet sob, returning his best friend’s embrace.

“I’m sorry,” he cried out. “Had I known you were alive-”

“You would have done a really stupid thing, like try to break me out?” Steve finished, pulling him back.

“Something like that.”

“How did you know where to find me?”

Bucky’s eyes flashed to you and Steve turned around.

“You?” Steve asked, trying to put the pieces of an impossibly chaotic puzzle together.

You shrugged. “You know how it is in a zombie apocalypse. The world becomes hilariously small and suddenly everyone knows everyone.”

Steve chuckled, nodding once before walking over and pulling you in for your own hug.

From this small moment, this tiny, comforting gesture, you knew instantly why people who follow this guy to the end of the line.

A small, faint murmuring pulled you from the moment, and you all turned to find Zola stirring, moaning in pain.

“We gotta go,” Bucky said, taking your hand.

Steve grabbed the blaster from Zola’s hand, following behind.

It didn’t seem like anyone had noticed the three of you or the fight in the testing room, so you backtracked down the path you and Bucky had gone down to get here, cautiously making your way past guards and any lingering members of Hydra.

Even when you looked into the room with John and Brock, you once again saw their backs as they continued playing their game and laughing about stupid shit.

Right as you walked by their open door, you finally allowed yourself to believe that you had pulled this whole thing off.

“RUMLOW! WALKER!” Ward’s voice boomed throughout the prison. “SHE’S HERE. Y/N’S IN THE BUILDING WITH ROGERS!”

Nevermind.

The three of you broke into a sprint down the hall as sirens began blaring. A woman appeared suddenly, blocking your path with a gun in her hand. She started shooting, causing you to pivot and turn down a hallway to your left.

“I don’t know the way out from here!” you whisper-yelled.

“Follow me,” Steve called, taking the lead. “I have an idea.”

He steered you down different hallways, shifting his path whenever you were face to face with another guard, until you had finally reached a long corridor. At the end of it was a large, metal door.

“That’s not the one we came in through!” you yelled, no longer caring about someone potentially hearing you. “I don’t have time to melt off the handle or hinges!”

Steve shook the back of his head at you. “I got it!” He picked up his pace.

“What the hell are you gonna do Steve? Punch an industrial metal door open?” Bucky yelled from behind you.

Your eyes widened in horror as a chuckle rumbled out of the man in front.

“Steve, are you out of your mind?” you exclaimed. “That’ll kill you-”

Steve slammed into the door, both him and it flying into the air and landing on the ground outside.

What the actual fuck?

You and Bucky ran to help Steve up, which gave the guards posted up at the towers enough time to aim their rifles and start shooting.

At this point, you didn’t give two shits about subtlety, so rather than carefully melting the individual pieces of metal on the gate, you held up your blaster and shot a massive hole for you to run through.

And then, for good measure, you pointed it at the tower to your right and shot a hole just under the guard, causing the entire top of it to crumble.

With nothing holding you back, the three of you booked it through the gate and outside the prison walls toward Alpine and Hades.

“Sweetheart, I’ll ride with you,” Bucky said, standing beside Alpine. “Steve can take Alpine.”

“Nah, you both take a horse, I’ll run.”

“Dude, what are you talking-”

“I’ll explain later. It’s better this way so that you don’t wear out the horses. Besides, I’m pretty sure I could outrun them if I really tried.”

“Even if that were true,” you said, shaking your head, “you’d exhaust yourself before the fucking sun came up.”

Steve gave you a small, cocky grin. “Are you kidding?” He started jogging deeper into the woods, turning his head back to you as he yelled, “I could do this all day!”

You and Bucky shared a quick, extremely confused look before scrambling onto the backs of Alpine and Hades, galloping ahead to catch up with Steve.

And as you rode off into what you could only pray would be safety, you heard a blood-curdling scream of someone yelling your name into the night.

You waited until the sun was high in the sky before slowing down, and that was only for the sake of the horses. Steve looked like he could have lasted a few more hours. Hell, maybe even days.

Bucky couldn’t even wait to get off Alpine’s back before asking him what the fuck was up with his crazy jacked up best friend.

Steve explained everything, how soon after you had escaped and Hydra lost their most important asset, they started exploring other methods of creating immunity. Instead of focusing on strengthening a subject's blood, they expanded their research toward strengthening the entire body. Tougher skin, faster metabolism, speed, endurance, general immune system.

“They tested the serum on a few others before me,” Steve said, eyes cast downward in sorrow. “I got injected a few weeks ago. It fucking sucked, and I was unconscious for about a day. When I woke up, I knew immediately that it worked. Everything felt- feels different.”

“Did they…test your immunity?” you asked with a grimace, the bite on your stomach itching.

He shook his head. “They tried, but I was so much stronger than they anticipated that I was able to fight off anyone who tried to hold me down. That’s what that collar around my neck was for.” His jaw clenched. “It had a constant electric current zapping my nervous system. Hurt like hell, and weakened me just enough for their liking. I was supposed to be put in the zombie room today.”

Bucky seethed. “I’m going back to kill them.”

“No you’re not,” you and Steve said in unison, sharing a look afterwards and laughing in a brief moment of ease.

That was five days ago, and now the three of you were settled deep in the forest to rest for the night, Shield only about a day and a half away.

You were so close, and as each day passed without detecting any sign of Hydra at your backs the closer you got, the more you relaxed.

At least, you tried to. Even as Brock’s voice echoed in the back of your mind.

We’re not gonna stop.

No, that wasn’t going to happen. The only agent who had been able to track you to the Bog was Paulding, and he was dead. No one would be able to find you.

The two of you had done it. You had gotten Steve out and survived. You won.

“I can’t believe we did it,” you breathed out, head resting in the crook of Bucky’s neck.

His arm squeezed around you. “Neither can I if I’m being honest.” He chuckled, the warmth of his breath tickling your forehead.

Steve passed out shortly after you had all gotten settled. That was the thing about the serum, he could be as strong as he needed to for as long as he needed to, but eventually it came with a price. As soon as he was able to sleep, it was almost as if he were in a coma, his whole body shutting down to rest after all the labor it endured.

You and Bucky were tucked in your new normal position, his back against a tree and you resting against him.

“Do you think the gang’s gonna be pissed at us when we get back?” you asked.

“Oh, for sure. But only for a few seconds before they see Steve. Sam might give us a classic dad lecture about not following orders, but I think a larger part of him will be relieved that we didn’t have to endanger anyone else’s lives.”

You nodded. “I’ll admit, if he gives the I’m not mad, just disappointed line I might actually cry.”

Bucky laughed again, turning to kiss your forehead.

“Thank you,” he finally murmured after a few beats, his fingers moving under your chin until you were facing him. His eyelids were heavy from exhaustion, but his irises lit up in earnestness. “I wouldn’t have been able to do any of that without you. I know a part of it has to do with this nonsense feeling you have about needing to prove your worth - which, once again, is bullshit - but regardless, I’m grateful.”

Your heart swelled. “Honestly Beefcake,” you said, hand resting over his, “even if it weren’t Steve, if it was someone I had never met in my life, I still would have done it. I would do anything for you.”

He smiled. “Same goes for you, Sweetheart.”

The two of you leaned in until your lips met, bringing a comfort unlike anything either of you had ever felt. A comfort that you knew would never go away no matter how many times you kissed him.

And you were happy to test that theory for the rest of your days.

Once you pulled back, Bucky turned away to let out a giant yawn and you scoffed.

“Really? Has kissing me gotten that boring already?”

His eyes widened. “No, no it’s not that I promise!” You fought back a smile, feigning offense. “I’m just tired from traveling! We haven’t slept!” You stuck out your bottom lip into a pout and he glared. “You’re busting my balls, aren’t you?”

“See, you not immediately picking up on that let’s me know how tired you really are, Beefcake.” You shook your head, pushing against his chest. “Go get some rest. I can cover watch for a few hours.”

“But-”

“No buts, babe, unless you add an extra t.” You winked and he rolled his eyes. “For real, though, we’re so close to camp and haven’t run into any trouble. I don’t think we’ve seen more than, like, four walkers within a hundred feet of us in like two weeks. I’ll be fine on my own for a bit. You can get some solid shut eye and I’ll wake you up and switch once I feel like you’ve rested enough to stop yawning whenever I try and smooch ya.”

He sighed, contemplating your intriguing offer. “Four hours. No more, okay?”

“Five.”

“Four.”

“Four and a half.”

He groaned. “Fine.” He scooted down to the ground, head resting beside your leg. “I don’t even know why I argue with you,” he grumbled, “you’re going to wait five hours anyways and it’s not like I’ll have a say in it.”

You ran your fingers over his hair. “And don’t you forget it, Beefcake.”

Bucky passed out within minutes of his head hitting the ground, and you spent the next two hours admiring how beautiful he looked as he slept. How relaxed his features were, the way his lips curved up into a tiny smile, the way he snored - even though he denied it every time you brought it up.

“I’m surprised you haven’t alerted every zombie that exists of our whereabouts, Beefcake.”

There was only one thing stronger than the will to stare at his gorgeous face for the rest of time.

Your stupid bladder.

You walked about twenty feet away to take care of business, still keeping an ear out for anything suspicious.

Total silence.

Such silence, that you almost felt the urge to skip back to your small camp, filled with such relief and something else that felt extremely close to joy, which was amazing considering that up until a few months ago you were sure you would only be able to feel pain and despair for the rest of your lif-

A hand clamped over your mouth, followed by an arm wrapping around your body, immobilizing you.

You tried to thrash free, but a deep voice growled in your ear.

“If you make one more noise or move one more inch, they’re dead.”

Brock.

Tears rushed to your eyes, your entire body going slack as you looked ten feet ahead of you at the sleeping forms of Bucky and Steve.

And the two figures standing over them, blasters pointed at their heads.

Walker, and a very, one-handed Ward.

“Did you really think we weren’t going to follow you, baby?” Brock cooed into your ear, his mouth brushing up against your skin. You wanted to vomit into his palm. “Can’t believe I’m saying this, but I actually thought you were smarter than that.”

So had you, you thought for a moment as the sharp chill of a dagger pressed against your neck.

“Gotta admit, though I was pissed you managed to escape a second time, it was wonderful to see you again. You know who was really glad to hear that you were alive? The boss. He’s heartbroken he missed your heroic little return.”

A tear fell down your cheek.

“Don’t worry, sweetie, we won’t be here long. Just wanted to send you a message from me and Boss.” He loosened his grip, spinning you around until your face was inches from his.

He knew you wouldn’t try to fight, try to make a sound. There was no way Bucky or Steve could wake up and move fast enough to evade a shot from such close range.

Still, you held your head high, and clenched your jaw to keep it from trembling as you looked Brock in the eye.

“You’re coming back with us. If you don’t, I have an entire team of guys a mile away who will follow me as we trail you on your way home. And then we will destroy your camp and everyone in it. I wasn’t at the last raid with this Shield or whatever, so I’ll make sure this time that no one makes it out.”

You bit back a sob. “I can’t,” you whispered. Bucky and Steve would chase after you as soon as they discovered you were missing. “Besides, even if by some miracle they don’t catch up to you, they’re just going to break into the jail again.”

Brock shook his head. “Actually, funny story about that. We’ve been working on moving to a new location, and seeing that you three destroyed a decent amount of the old, crumbling building, we’ve decided to bump up our move-in date. They’re never going to find you there, sweets.”

No.

“No-”

“If you say no I’ll blow their brains out right fucking now.” There was an edge to his voice now, and he took a deep breath to return to his smug demeanor. “Three days. You have three days to meet us here. If you do, we’ll take you to the new camp and you’ll never have to worry about them getting killed trying to rescue you, because there’s no way they’ll be able to find you.”

A pit formed in your stomach. “How do I know you won’t kill them anyways?”

His brows raised. “You know I’ll definitely kill them if you decide not to.”

You closed your eyes, forcing back more tears. When you opened them, Brock smirked, then nodded his head at Ward and Walker.

Though you didn’t turn your head to look, completely frozen in fear and dread, you knew that they were walking away from Bucky and Steve and toward their leader.

“Three days, sweetie,” Brock said, then leaned forward to kiss your forehead. You flinched, the spot where his lips touched your skin now burning.

You didn’t move as they crept back into the darkness, Walker holding up three fingers at you mockingly.

All you could do was stare at where they had been as you allowed that gnawing feeling to sink in.

The feeling that this was the beginning of the end of everything for you.

Chapter 13

#bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky x y/n #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes fanfic #awake my soul #ams #zombie au #zombie apocalypse au

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hopefullywritingahit · 2 years ago

Note

A writing ask, you say?

Found this prompt by @mika3105 today and it sounds fun!

Try it out if you'd like, no pressure :) and since I've tagged OP they'll get notified too if you write it, yay! ✨

Love,

@heroes-villains-side-blog

Thank you so much @feline17ff for the suggestion and @mika3105 for the prompt! This was a lot of fun to write. It definitely went a little bit longer than I anticipated, but it was fun all the same.

Pheromones

Hero was getting frustrated - Villain smells different every time they fight. Hero has been trying to figure it out for months. After their fight last week, Hero was determined to figure out one - why Villain always smelt different and two - what Villain was trying to hide with this! They clearly couldn’t bring it up - especially without making it sound like they’ve been smelling Villain. They haven’t! They just have enhanced senses which - who would have thought - includes smell. And they can usually figure out what they’re dealing with based on their opponent's scent, but with Villain, it’s always different and never makes sense and Hero just couldn’t figure it out.

Hero had been up for the last several days. They’re so close they can feel it! They couldn’t stop to rest when they were so close to figuring it out. They did not; however, anticipate that Villain would strike when they were about to go to bed. But - they also couldn’t just let him do whatever. Hero showed up to the bank that Villain was robbing - everyone had been cleared out already, so it was safe enough for Hero and VIllain to be fighting throughout the building.

Hero was trying not to get distracted with Villain’s new scent - it was like the ocean at sunset already delectable, but there was something else underneath. Something…addictive. Hero shook their head trying to clear Villain’s smell from their head. It wasn’t working and before they could properly blink, they were pinned to the floor.

“You’re getting soft there, Hero,” Villain drawled. Hero tried to think of something to say back, but damn Villain smells good. They took a deep breath, drinking in Villain’s scent and feeling almost drunk off of it. “Hero?” Villain titled their head to the side - Hero was acting…weird. “Are you okay?” Hero moaned as they tried to keep their eyes open. “You smell,” Hero took another greedy inhale, “so good.”

Alarm bells rang in Villain’s head - this was not normal. Sure they flirted while they sparred, but looking at Hero something was clearly wrong. Their eyes were dark, the skin they could see around their suit was pale, and they couldn’t keep their eyes open while they were…moaning? And sniffing them? While Villain was sitting here trying to figure out what was wrong with Hero, and not getting any response from them, Hero passed out.

“Shit,” Villain mumbled, pretty sure that Hero was poisoned or drugged. Either way, they needed to get out of here. Villain got up and tossed Hero over their shoulder as they escaped out the backdoor and headed back to their lair. They were going to figure this out one way or another.

–--

Hero woke up a solid 10 hours later. Villain stayed up and by their side all night, trying to figure out what happened. He called in his Medic to see if they could figure out what was going on. Medic had long since come and gone, a few vials of Hero’s blood in their pack to try and figure out what they’d been drugged with. Villain just hoped that when Hero woke up it would be out of their system.

He never was that lucky.

Hero shifted on Villain’s bed, stretching and breathing in deeply as they let out the most delicious sounding moan. Villain was concerned if that’s how Hero was waking up - maybe they were still under whatever drug or poison they had running through their system.

Hero looked around trying to find the source of that smell. It was the same smell that was on Villain before they passed out the night before. When Hero saw Villain sitting there, their smile grew, “Hey Villain.” The hero finished their stretch on the villain’s bed before sitting up, leaning on their elbows. “Where am I?”

Villain sighed, “You’re in my bed. What do you remember?”

Hero moved to sit up and could feel the scent move around them. They had to be sitting on it! They brought the bedding up to their face and took a deep breath - that was it. Hero almost tried to suppress that moan. “What’s that smell Villain?”

“What?”

Hero took another deep breath. “That smell. Mmm it smells so good.”

Villain was thoroughly confused at this point. A smell? What in the world was Hero going on about? “Hero, I’m not sure what you’re talking about. What’s the last thing you remember?”

Hero seemed to shake themselves a little bit of whatever they were going about. “The last thing I remember?” They paused for a moment and looked around the room. “And you’ll tell me where that scent is coming from?”

“Sure, you tell me what you remember and I’ll help you find the scent.”

Hero hummed at that. “We were fighting at the bank. I was really tired. You smelled so good. Like the ocean and..” they took another deep breath. “Whatever this is. Mmm it smells so good.” Hero leaned in closer to Villain, way too close for comfort. Villain couldn’t help himself move back in his chair as Hero leaned further in, smelling the side of their neck. “Villain,” Hero said, their voice low as they inched closer until they were sitting in Villain’s lap. “I think it’s coming from you.” They buried their face closer in to Villain’s neck. “Why do you smell so good all of a sudden?”

As far as Villain was concerned, Hero had very clearly been drugged. They couldn’t let them keep on with this, but they couldn’t deny how nice it felt to have Hero straddling him and leaning into him. It took all of whatever Villain had to push Hero back. “Hero,” he whispered. “You’ve clearly been drugged. We need to figure out who drugged you and when.”

“Villain, I’m not drugged. I feel great!” They leaned in closer staring right into Villain’s deep blue eyes. “Is this what you really smell like? I’ve been wondering. You always smell different when we fight, but last night. Oh man, you smelled so good.” Hero took another breath. “I can’t get enough of it.”

This, of course, did nothing to convince Villain Hero wasn’t drugged. “What are you going on about?”

“When we fight,” Hero’s eyes didn’t leave Villains. Their pupils were huge and dilated, but still seemed eager as ever. They brought their voice down to a whisper, like they were sharing a secret, “When we fight you alway smell different. Sometimes it’s fruity. Sometimes it’s fresh like nature or sweet like vanilla. But it’s always different. I was trying to figure out what you’re hiding, but if this is what you smell like, damn Villain. You smell amazing.”

“You’ve been smelling me?” Villain chuckled.

“Not necessarily. I have an enhanced sense of smell on top of my other powers. And you can learn a lot about someone based on their smell. But you, Villain, have left me stumped for months. And now to learn you are not only sexy as hell, but smell like fucking heaven,” Hero’s head rested on Villain’s shoulder. “I don’t want to leave.”

Villain chuckled a little at that - not knowing they were throwing Hero off. Not knowing they were somehow Hero’s latest addiction. “I make perfumes in my free time. So I usually end up smelling like whatever I’ve been making.”

“Mmmm, well I like this best.”

#hero x villain #villain x hero #heroes and villains #my writing #romance #pheromones #flirty hero #baffled villain #hopefullywritingahit

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whataperfectwasteoftime · 3 years ago

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Born to Run / Chapter 4

Pairing: Marcus Pike x Marathon Runner f!reader (no y/n)

Rating: E for eventual smut (18+ only, please!)

Word Count: 4.3k

Warnings: Oh my god they finally kissed. Rough kissing, a thunderstorm, thoughts of masturbation, sexual fantasies, return of the size kink: Surprise! Marcus has a size kink too!

Summary: You return to the bike trail on Monday and run into a familiar face. You and Marcus take cover from a surprise thunderstorm.

A/N: Posting another chapter this week because I truly cannot help myself. Some new things: there’s a Playlist now, and I’m kind of proud of it even though I’ll be the first to admit my taste in music is objectively Bad. Let me know what you think! I love all the feedback about the story so far! Comment or send me a message if you’d like to be tagged!

SERIES MASTERLIST

Chapter 3 | Chapter 5

When your alarm sounded on Monday morning, you had a pit in your stomach. You had two choices: go back to the bike trail and keep running, or find somewhere else to run and risk never recovering from the fear you now felt at the thought of strangers standing still on the pavement with vacant eyes. This was your favorite running trail. You felt a silly sense of possessiveness over it. You’ve been running this trail for years. You were here first, dammit! You’ve done, you don’t know, an average of 3 runs a week on this trail every week for the last 4 years, maybe? That’s, uh… you grappled with the numbers in your head. Shit, 600 runs? Who the fuck knows. And you’re going to let one asshole keep you from your trail forever?

Fuck it! You pulled on your ‘lucky’ bike shorts and stumbled blearily out of your bedroom. Plus, there was another reason you couldn’t give up ‘your’ running trail: Marcus. God, you wanted to see Marcus again. Was that weird? The way you had left things the day before was awkward. There had clearly been chemistry there, but you, or maybe the both of you, were holding back--too afraid to acknowledge the mutual desire you had felt on the porch. Too cautious to examine that spark of electricity you felt as he ran his fingers up your arm. The timing was just too weird, you thought. 30 minutes after an attempted assault and you’re gagging for this guy’s touch? You didn’t trust yourself. You didn’t get his number, but you hoped desperately that you’d meet him on the trail again. One time could be written off as a fluke. Two times… well, there might be something there. If you could only see him again to discover whether that gravitational pull you felt was real, or a product of being ‘saved’ by the man combined with a runner’s high. If it’s meant to be, you’ll see him again, you tell yourself as you lace your shoes and head out the door.

Except, you didn’t believe in fate.

With that cheerful thought running through your head, you pulled into the trail parking, your stomach in your throat. You couldn’t tell if your nerves were more due to facing your fear, or for the possibility of running into Marcus. Either way, it wasn’t going to be easy to run the scheduled five miles feeling as if your organs had been rearranged inside your body. Instead, you opted for some interval training to mix it up. Ten four hundred meter ‘sprints,’ with a minute rest in between. Maybe that way you’ll run all that nervous energy out of your system.

You ran past the narrow dirt path to Marcus’s cabin and very pointedly did not try to crane your neck through the branches to catch a glimpse of the house. Focus on the run, you reminded yourself. You went through the first six intervals and then turned around for the remaining four. By your estimates, you’d be done with the workout just as you passed by his cabin a second time. Giving you about three-quarters of a mile to cool down, you thought. No other reason.

The mix-up in workouts reminded you that intervals are fucking hard, okay? And even though you’d only gone two and a half miles when all was said and done, you were gasping and sweating as if you’d run five times as many. You were a little off in your predictions--the last interval ended after you had passed Marcus’s cabin, about a hundred feet from your favorite feature of the trail--a high suspension bridge spanning a lush canyon filled with trees and a bubbling stream. You skidded to a stop and hastily turned off the GPS tracking. Marcus was finally out of your mind for a few blissful minutes; all you could focus on for the moment was catching your breath. You took a few gasping gulps of air as you limped forward on aching feet. You felt a bit like Frankenstein’s monster after a hard run, sometimes, complete with a lurching gait and wheezing breath. No one ever said running was pretty. You felt deliciously ugly after a hard run like that, with wobbling legs, sweaty face, and wild hair. And that’s when you noticed a familiar form standing on the bridge overlook ahead of you. Ohhhhhhhh, fuck.

Marcus knew exactly why he was taking a stroll on the bike trail at this exact time of morning. It was the same time he knew you had been running on Saturday. He had no idea what your schedule was during the week--hell, he had no idea what you did for a living, and so he also had no idea if you would be there again, but he hoped, he hoped--He cut off that train of thought. All told, the trail was absolutely beautiful. It was surrounded by trees on either side for as far as he could see, creating a canopy of leaves overhead. He walked and breathed in the signs of spring--a flower here, a sapling there, a chipmunk skittering across the path as he approached. He made his way toward a break in the trees further down the trail to the right of his cabin. As he grew closer, he realized the clearing was actually a bridge spanning a deep ravine. He wandered onto it, enjoying the view on either side. Built for foot traffic, the bridge had two little overlooks that extended out a few feet over the valley--one on each side--and he stepped onto one and stared down at the water below.

He had done nothing but think this weekend. He had thought of Theresa and the hurt he still felt, but mostly he thought of you. Your wide eyes as they met his for the first time. The undeniable presence with which you held yourself. Your crooked smile. The feel of your hand on his. The insanely quick turnaround between his grief over Theresa and his newfound desire for you had him reeling and confused. He didn’t even know you, not really. All he knew about you was that you were a marathon runner, and you resorted to jokes when you felt uncomfortable. And the feel of your smooth skin against his fingertips, he knew that too. Oh, how he wanted to know more, wanted to know you. Would he be so lucky to see you again on this trail before he left again? Maybe if he made it a point to take nice, long walks every single morning and evening this week, just in case.

He stood, deep in thought, watching the mesmerizing movement of the water below him until he felt someone’s eyes on him and looked up. A runner on the trail.

But not just any runner.

It was you.

He drank in your disheveled appearance like a starving man. You were again completely covered in sweat. It was seeping into your clothes in the humid morning air, dripping from your messy hair, and beading onto your forehead and chest. For all intents and purposes, you looked like a disaster. But your smile--oh, your smile could dull even the most impressive of views. You were beautiful like this, he thought.

“Hey, stranger,” you smiled.

He went along with the game. “Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?” he asked with a wry grin.

“I don’t know, I’m looking for this guy who saved my ass this weekend from a fucking meth-head. Was that you?” You took a few steps closer to him.

He laughed. “That couldn’t have been me. I only came in at the end after you saved yourself.”

Your smile widened. “He called the police and then patched up my injuries with a first aid kit straight from the ‘eighties.”

“Oh, now I remember. He had really big hands, right?” Marcus’s cheeks hurt from how widely he was grinning now.

“Oh, fuck off,” you laughed. You looked down, feeling a little embarrassed, remembering your outburst about his hands.

“Hey, hey--I was joking, please. God, I’m glad to see you,” Marcus admitted. “I wasn’t sure if you’d--after what happened this weekend…” he trailed off.

“I figured if I didn’t pick myself right back up and run here again, I’d develop a--y’know, a complex or something about this trail, and this is my favorite trail to run on, and the most conveniently located for me, so…” you shrugged. “I needed to do this.”

All joking forgotten, Marcus looked at you earnestly. “You’re an incredibly brave and tough person, you know that?”

“I… I don’t--”

“Really. That takes a ridiculous amount of strength. I’m… you amaze me.”

You regarded him with those wide eyes again. He felt as if you could see into the heart of him, pushing past any false pretenses, to see the desire he already held for you.

Dropping your eyes, you gestured to the ravine and the stream to his right. “Great view, right? I mean, it’s no wonder why I have to keep this as my running trail.”

Marcus nodded. “It’s beautiful,” he agreed softly. You were watching the swirl of the water below you, but he couldn’t help but look at you as he said it. “How’s the hand?”

“Oh!” you held up your left fist. “It’s so much better! It’s barely swollen any more, but the bruises are really starting to look pretty colorful.”

He cradled your hand gently in his, in an echo of his actions just two days ago. “They are pretty bruised, but at least nothing’s broken, huh?” He wanted to bring your hand to his lips and kiss away any lingering pain, but he figured that would be crossing the line.

The breeze picked up and you shivered--the shorts and sleeveless top you were wearing were perfect for running, but with the drying sweat cooling your body, you were suddenly too cold. Marcus noticed the shiver and the goosebumps that pricked your skin as the wind shifted. He was dressed a little more warmly--the chill of early spring hadn’t quite abated yet despite the increasing humidity in the air. He couldn’t help but feel protective of you. He had seen you in a vulnerable moment this weekend and, despite your obvious resilience and strength, he only wanted to surround you in his care. He removed his leather jacket and started to drape it around your shoulders.

You startled out of your reverie at Marcus’s movement. “Oh! No, I’m really sweaty! I’m so gross--”

“Doesn’t bother me,” he intoned, wrapping the jacket around you. “Can always be cleaned.” He didn’t dare say what he was really thinking--that he wanted it to smell like you long after you took it off.

He resisted the urge to keep his arm firmly around your shoulders as he let go of the jacket. The wind grew a little stronger still as you sat in companionable silence for a few moments, watching the dance of ripples on the water. A sharp gust blew over the bridge and whipped the sides of the jacket back before you grasped the labels in both hands, settling it around you again.

“The wind’s picking up,” you said, looking up at the darkening sky. “I didn’t see any rain in the forecast this morning, but it really looks like--”

A rumble of distant thunder sounded, essentially finishing your sentence for you.

“Sounds like it, too,” Marcus agreed. “I have a feeling we should get moving sooner rather than later.” As if to accompany his thoughts, another clap of thunder rang through the air, louder and closer this time. “What’s closer, your car, or the cabin? I have a feeling we’re going to end up having to make a run for one of them.”

You considered for a second, weighing both distances in your mind. “The cabin!” you called out over the strengthening wind. A brilliant flash of lightning lit up the sky, followed almost immediately by another round of thunder.

“Time to go!” Marcus grabbed your hand and started briskly down the trail towards the cabin. Almost immediately, the rain began to fall in great sheets of water. “Shit!” he shouted over the noise, and you both began to run, still hand in hand. You were both soaked by the time you reached the little dirt path to the cabin. Marcus guided you along carefully. The dirt path, having never had a chance to dry completely from the weekend’s storms, was almost entirely mud now. Keeping your hand in his, he maneuvered around the rivulets of running water and prayed that he wouldn’t accidentally slip in the process.

But unfortunately, one of his feet hit an especially slick patch of muck and flew out from beneath him, and he went down, pulling you with him by the hand. You shrieked as you fell, skidding down the muddy hill alongside Marcus. “Fuck. Fuck! Oh God, I’m so sorry! Are you okay?” Marcus frantically brought himself to one elbow, pushing the torrential rain out of his eyes and looking as horrified as he felt. His eyes searched your form, and found your chest heaving… with laughter. You shook with it, scarcely able to breathe as you grasped his shoulder to keep from doubling over. You were both coated in mud, from your shoes, to your clothes, to your hands as they grasped at each other.

You let out a peal of laughter, "Me? What about you? You're the one who fell!" you managed to get out.

Your mirth was infectious and Marcus couldn’t help but join in, and you laughed together on the muddy slope in the pouring rain, ignoring the thunder all around you, your faces close. He had been on a roller coaster of emotions in only three days. The stress of the past week, his grief over Theresa and what could have been, and the sudden, strong emergence of his attraction to you all came to a head with a cathartic snap in his mind. No longer trapped by his own thoughts, Marcus basked in the feeling of blankness. In a sudden moment of clarity (or was it insanity?), he surged forward and pressed his lips to yours.

Marcus considered himself to be a good kisser. He loved kissing, loved the intimate slide of his mouth against another’s, and he felt that he was well-practiced at delicately coaxing pleasure with his lips, teeth,and tongue. He liked to savor it--to take his time and slowly discover what makes a woman gasp, sigh, or press closer to him with want.

All of that flew out the window at the first touch of your lips.

You made a surprised sound that quickly turned into a whimper as your mouths crashed together. You immediately moulded your body to his, pressing your hips together and throwing your arms around his shoulders--leaving muddy fingerprints on his shirt. He brought his hand to your cheek, pressing down slightly on the hinge of your jaw to deepen the kiss. The mud on his fingers streaked across your face as you opened for him, letting him inside. Marcus moved against you with a desperate hunger he hadn’t felt in a long time. Gone was the calculated, practiced way he would have kissed Theresa. This was messy. A frenzied taking of your mouth, delving into you. He crushed you to him, caging you in with his body. You met him with an equal furor, moving your muddy hands to card through his hair, pulling slightly on the strands as you grabbed at him. Marcus reacted with a greedy moan, tightening his grip on your jaw. The rain seemed to reach a crescendo then. He was so focused on the sensation of your body, it felt as if all of his senses had been heightened--it made the rain suddenly sound as if it were violently crashing onto the leaves and the ground and it stung as it hit his back, but he ignored it all in favor of the movement of your lips on his.

“Marcus,” you pulled back suddenly. He chased your lips with a small smile, but you insisted. “Marcus! It’s--it’s hailing.”

Finally coming up for air, his brain started to come back online. The increase in the volume of the rainfall and the stinging on his back started to make sense. You laughed at his shocked expression. “Get up, you goof.” You playfully nudged at his shoulders.

“Fuck!” Marcus stumbled to his feet, helping you up with him and pulling you against his chest in an attempt to shield you from the little pellets falling all around you. “Ouch!” he cried as they pelted the top of his head. You started giggling again and he joined in, laughing together. Marcus covered the top of your head with one of his hands to try and protect your face as best he could, keeping the other arm wrapped around you, bringing you solidly into his body. You awkwardly ran, pressed against each other, the rest of the way up to the porch.

Under the safety of the roof, you separated. He couldn’t help but smile wider as he took in your disheveled appearance. The mud was everywhere--caking your shoes, running down your bare legs, and streaking across your cheek in the spot Marcus had held you open with his thumb. His heart thrummed, seeing the physical evidence of the searing kiss you had just shared. His leather jacket, still around your shoulders, had taken the brunt of the impact with the ground and was absolutely filthy, caked with dirt and wet leaves. He reached out and gently fingered the lapel. “And here you were worried about a little sweat getting on this.”

You inspected a muddy sleeve. “Yeah, this might be a lost cause.”

“Worth it,” Marcus said with a grin. He put his arm around your shoulder and you both turned to watch hail fall on the pond, making the water appear as if it were boiling violently as the little ice pellets disturbed the surface. The thunder was abating slightly--each rumble getting farther and farther apart as the clouds passed. The hail turned back into rain again, which fell gently on the roof of the cabin as you watched the passing storm in companionable silence.

“I, um-- I hate to break the mood, but I’m going to need to go to work at some point.”

“Oh shit, you aren’t late, are you? I don’t even know what time it is.” Marcus patted his pockets looking for his phone.

“Don’t worry about it, I work remotely like ninety percent of the time. I can be pretty flexible.”

Marcus hummed softly in reply. "I'm sorry I haven't asked yet--what do you do?" He felt like an ass--here was, fixated on this gorgeous woman for the entire weekend, he just made out with her in the rain, and all he knew about her was that she ran.

"I'm an auditor for a pharmaceutical company. Exciting stuff," you joked.

"What does that even mean?" Marcus scrunched his nose.

"It means I spend fifty percent of my time hitting 'copy' and 'paste' and the other fifty percent answering emails," you replied. "But the pay and benefits are great. I get good insurance, a good salary, and more vacation time than I'll ever need. Plus I mostly work from home!"

"Nothing beats a commute like that," Marcus nudged your shoulder playfully.

"Well, my commute is to the bike trail and back," you laughed. "And then down the hall to my office."

"I've never been more thankful for a commute in my life," Marcus teased. "Keep doing it."

"Oh, don't worry, I will." You turned towards him and his playful gaze turned tender as you stepped into his space. He brought up his hands to your face and gently lowered his lips to yours.

The difference between your first and second kisses could have been a lesson in contrasts. Just moments ago, Marcus had kissed you with the same ferocity as the thunderstorm around you, the two of you crashing together the way the lightning collided with the air particles around it. This kiss, however, was tender--as gentle as the light rain now pattering across the roof. His desperate urgency to claim your mouth had subsided and he expertly moved his lips against yours, catching first your upper lip, your lower lip, his tongue gently darting forward to taste you with a practiced care. You sighed against him, and he drew you closer, deepening the kiss but careful not to lose himself in the feel of your mouth against his.

After far too short a time, Marcus drew back enough to say, “We should get you home,” directly against your lips.

“Would you mind if I get cleaned up here? I’m going to wreck my upholstery if I get in the car like this.” God, please. Marcus pictured the wet slide of your body against his own underneath the spray of the shower. He wanted to move against you just as he did out in the rain, this time with no clothes and no mud between you. He wanted to first gently clean the mud off your body, starting with that little smear he made on your cheek, then kneeling before you to run a cloth tenderly down your smooth legs. He would push you against the shower wall, then--soothing the cold of the tile against your back with a warm hand as he buried the other hand in- He shook himself. He had to slow down. This was going way too fast, he had to pump the brakes before he risked losing himself again.

He kissed your temple and spoke lowly in your ear, “There’s a guest bath you can use. I’ll clean up in the other one.” He ushered you inside, helping you out of his jacket as you both toed off your soggy, mud-caked shoes and left them outside on the porch. He guided you to the spare bathroom and left you with a fresh towel and a spare set of gym clothes from his suitcase before giving you another soft peck and closing the door.

Once in the shower himself, he couldn’t help but picture you doing the same thing only steps down the hall. The frantic kiss, the press of your body against his, and then his little fantasy of a shared shower (before coming to his senses and offering you the spare bathroom) had left him hard as a rock and almost desperate to come. He stubbornly refused to give in to his baser instincts and fuck his own hand as he so desperately wanted to. The thought of jerking off to the thought of you while you were right there--but unaware and unconsenting to his fantasies--made him uncomfortable. The hot water poured down his head, slicking his hair back and sending the mud you had put there down his back and into the drain. The steam of the shower was doing little to cool his desires. He let out a muffled, frustrated groan against his fist and turned the faucet handle over to ‘cold’ to finish washing the remainder of the dirt from his body. He finished quickly (hastened by the cold water), put on a fresh set of clothes and a warm sweater to offset the leftover chill from his cold shower. He sat on the couch in the living room to wait for you.

When you emerged, his heart caught in his throat. You swam in the old gym shorts and t-shirt he had given you, and it provided a delicious demonstration of the difference between your height and his. His shirt hung past your thighs, and the shorts fell adorably around your calves. You were also clean for the first time since he met you--fresh faced, with wet hair falling around your face instead of being pulled back and away from your forehead for a run. The bagginess of the clothes and the water still dripping from your hair made you look a little bit like a drowned rat, Marcus thought, but one of those soft, adorable little rats that they had in pet stores. You smiled at him and nervously chewed at your bottom lip. Marcus stood and walked over to you, leaning down to kiss your forehead. You hummed pleasantly and closed your eyes.

“Ready to go?” he asked you softly.

“Yup. Feels much better, thank you.”

He helped find a bag for your dirty clothes and shoes, and guided you out the front door to the car in your bare feet. He couldn’t stop smiling. As he drove the short, the two of you traded banter back and forth--playfully, easily. As he pulled up next to your car at the trailhead for the second time, you turned to look at him, eyes wide and hopeful.

“Come over for dinner tonight?”

Marcus leaned over and captured your lips with his. He would never get tired of that. “Try and stop me,” he murmured against your mouth.

You giggled. “I’ll send you the address. Um… can I get your number?”

“We probably should exchange numbers this time, huh?” Marcus smiled against your lips, before pulling back to retrieve his phone. After you both entered each other’s contact details, you shared one final, heated look. Suddenly, Marcus didn’t know what to say. ‘Thank you for letting me kiss you?’ God, no. He settled on, “I’ll see you tonight, beautiful.”

Your answering smile made his heart sing.

Taglist: @honestly-shite , @thirddeadlysin , @deepstarsco , @221bshrlocked , @mando-amando , @frenchyjuju , @farfromjustordinary

#marcus pike #marcus pike fanfic #marcus pike fanfiction #the mentalist #the mentalist fanfic #marcus pike x reader #marcus pike x f!reader #marcus pike x you #pedro pascal

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myckicade · 3 years ago

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Prompt: Ok so we all know Coco is touch starved, and would be clingy af in a relationship. What about Coco x wife!reader, while she’s trying to do basic errands/chores and Coco is her shadow?

A/N: I’ve been waiting for this one. I really have. Hee hee. I just adore Coco. <3 . This piece sort of follows the story of the last two Coco x Reader pieces I have written, but it will stand-alone, just fine. And, I swear, these things just have a mind of their own. I can continue to apologize for length, and content, but, in the end... I let the story tell itself. ;) . <3 .

As a warning, I come from Vermont, where we have a plastic bag ban. Last I knew, California was the first state to have one. I don’t know how that would translate to Santo Padre, but… When I mention fabric bags, I mean reusables, and the ban is why. ^^;;;;.

Title: Worthwhile

Teaser: He’s a little rough, your Coco, foul-mouthed, and quick to anger. Untrusting, and bitchier than a woman, on his best day. But, once you have his love, you have it. All of it.

“Okay…” you murmur, slowly, eyes scanning over the paper in front of you. Fifteen items, nothing crazy. Shouldn’t take you more than an hour, tops, and that includes travel to and from the store. “I think I’ve got everything we need… And, specials included your beer, and those little frozen cream puffs.”

Beside you, Coco groans, deep and guttural. “Fuck, I love those things.”

You giggle, but keep reading. Your man is too damn cute. “Feminine products.”

“Do those count as special?” Coco genuinely sounds thoughtful, as he steps up behind you, where you are leaning over the counter top. He wraps his arms around your waist, chin coming to rest on your shoulder. “Kinda’ a necessity, ain’t they?”

Tipping your head, you glance to your husband. Seriously. This man is a treasure. “Why don’t you run for political office?” you tease, pleased when Coco chuckles.

“Yeah, my record’ll look great, on the campaign trail.”

You shrug. “You can tackle pink tax, and tax evasion, at the same time.”

Coco grins, and steals a peck off your lips. “What else you got on there, muñeca?”

“Hmmm, let’s see…” You turn back to your list, tapping the pen against your lips, thoughtfully. Spying the next item on it, you try not to let out another giggle. He’s not going to like this one. “Letty asked if we could have that cauliflower pizza thing for dinner, tonight.”

As expected, this groan is decidedly not from food lust. “Fuckin’ vegetarians. When the hell is she gonna’ get over this shit?”

“It’s just a phase, Coco,” you remind him, for the… Well, honestly, you’ve lost track. It started shortly after the wedding, Letty’s change in diet, and you’re still not convinced the two aren’t related. You’re just not entirely sure how. But, two months in, and she’s still looking healthy, so you won’t send up any alarms. “It’s very popular at her high school, right now.”

Coco scoffs, disgusted. “When the hell’d she start copyin’ other people, anyway? My girl ain’t no follower.”

The words send a shot straight to your heart. He’s a little rough, your Coco, foul-mouthed, and quick to anger. Untrusting, and bitchier than a woman, on his best day. But, once you have his love, you have it. All of it. The love he has for Leticia is the greatest proof. They may carry on like cats and dogs, but when push comes to shove, there is nothing they won’t do for one another. My girl. It brings a warmth to your soul, and a smile to your lips.

You shake it off, enough to formulate a response. “She’s figuring out how to be her own woman. Trying new things.” You shrug, not wanting to make a big deal of it. You were Letty’s age, once, of course. And, a girl, to boot. Some things, Coco just won’t be able to understand. “It’s a process.” He hums, still disgruntled, but doesn’t push out another word. “You want anything else?” you ask, holding up your list. “I’ve gotta’ get going, before I run into the football widows.”

Before you can even take a step away, Coco tightens his arms around you. “You sure you gotta’ go, though?” he asks, leaning in to brush his lips against your neck. “With the house all to ourselves, like this?”

“If I don’t go,” you start, as Coco’s touches gain intent, becoming teasing kisses. Damn him. It feels nice, you won’t lie, but there are other things on your mind, right now. Priorities.

You’re just… having trouble remembering what they are.

Oh. Yeah. Shopping.

“If I don’t go, we won’t have anything for dinner.”

Another kiss, accompanied by a barely-there swipe of tongue. You shiver, and Coco moves his lips to your ear. “We can order in,” he whispers, breath so invitingly warm against your skin.

Oh, this asshole.

“And, what are we supposed to have for breakfast, tomorrow?” you try, again. “Half an Eggo, and a pack of Skittles?”

Coco cuddles you closer, again. “Ain’t you never heard about livin’ on love, baby?” Some of his smoothest work, that is. And, it’s almost convincing. Almost. You can imagine the afternoon ahead, if you give in. Your clothes will come off, and won’t be back on until the last second, before Letty walks back through the front door. By that time, you’ll be too tired to roll your ass off the bed, let alone go grocery shopping. And, you promised Letty you’d talk Coco into that cauliflower pizza.

“Great as that sounds,” you agree, preparing to capitalize on the truth. You ease yourself away from Coco’s stubborn hold, and give him one more smooch, just to soften the blow to come. “I don’t think Letty will appreciate the sentiment.”

A third groan. You must be going for a record. “C’mon, (y/n).” Oh, he’s whining. It’s so cute, it’s unreal. “We’ll find some place that delivers that rabbit food shit.”

Unfortunately for Coco, you’re already grabbing your bag. Lucky for you. You’re still two seconds from giving him what he wants. (He just doesn’t need to know so). “I’ll be back in a while.” God willing. “If you think of anything else, call my cell.” You rush out the front door, and don’t look back. If you see the look on your husband’s face, you know you’re as good as done.

Well, what the shit? Coco stares at the front door as it closes, you on the wrong fucking side of it. His arms are at his sides, palms turned toward the ceiling. That went so well. He kind of can’t believe you just walked away, like that. Left him alone, and wanting. In your big, empty house.

He probably should have volunteered to tag along, instead of just chasing you off.

Fuck.

Glancing around, Coco tries to find something to do. Something to clean, at the very least. But, that’s the trouble with having moved in with you, after the wedding, he supposes. Ain’t nothing to tidy up. Not that the three of you don’t have possessions. They’re all just in their proper places. Probably Leticia’s doing, in the end. He’d had a long talk with her, before the move, that she absolutely has to keep her shit where it belongs. Your house isn’t like their house. There aren’t burn marks in the carpet, or gouges in the coffee table. Dishes go in the damned dishwasher, not left to pile up on the counter, or in the sink. Beds get made. Laundry gets folded, and put away. No more wrinkled heaps in the clothes basket. So far, the kid’s been doing good. Real good.

Coco, though? He’s never felt so unnerved in his life.

It was different when he just visited. Spent a night or two, here or there. He’d almost felt at home, then, stupid as it sounds. At home, with the knowledge he wasn’t staying. But, now? Now, the reality has settled in, and he feels so-so… out of place. There’s so much he’s struggling to adjust to.

You have a purified water system installed under the sink, where Coco is used to buying bottled water.

You have a dining room, where Coco and Letty are used to eating on the couch.

You have an extended cable package, whatever the fuck that is.

You kind of have it all, here, certainly by comparison to what Coco is used to. The best of everything. Which really makes him wonder – not for the first time – what the hell you’re doing with a dirt-poor biker for a husband? You’ve had this conversation, on multiple occasions, and you’ve explained yourself, every time. But, this time… This time, you’re not around to give that speech. You’re not around to hold him, and kiss his face, and reassure him in a way that only you can. No, you’re at the grocery store, shopping for Coco, and his kid, which was apparently a better offer than staying home with him.

Oh, nope. Nope, he’s doing it, again. He can feel it. You love him, he reminds himself. You’ve got his ring on your finger, his last name, and – God-willing – his baby in your belly. By choice. All by choice.

Coco takes a deep breath, in. Lets it back out, slowly. Tries not to get sick, for all the nerves coming up to greet him. He wraps one arm around his own torso, free hand moving up to cover his mouth.

Fuck, he hopes you get back, soon.

You let out a deep sigh, as you park your car in the garage. Oh, it is so good to be home, at long-last. Talk about Old Home Week. You’d run into everyone, and his brother, at the grocery store. Shopping had taken nearly twice as long as you’d meant for it to, and you just know Coco must be losing his mind, by now. You hate to think about it, in such terms, but, sometimes… Well, sometimes, Coco reminds you of a new puppy. You can’t really leave him alone, without some kind of separation anxiety creeping up on him.

Ah, well. At least he isn’t ripping down the drapes, and shredding the couch cushions.

You blink. Well. That you know of.

Shaking your head, you climb out of the car, mentally preparing to unload armloads of bags. Maybe, if you really, really try, today will be the day you can finally get all twenty bags in, in one trip.

Right. And, shortly thereafter, you can have both forearms set, and casted. Be a real turn-on, in the bedroom.

You’ve managed to grab half a dozen bags, when the door to the mud room opens. “Hey, don’t grab too many!” Letty warns, as she comes hopping down the steps. “Let us help!”

Glancing up, you smile. For having had such a rough start, Letty can be a sweet girl. You know she gets that from her father. “Well, thank you,” you reply, resting a few, fabric handles onto her outstretched hands.

Letty grins, lowering her hands to her sides, before leaning in. “Did you talk him into it?” she whispers, conspiratorially.

You snicker, and whisper back, “He isn’t getting a choice. He’s outnumbered.”

“Yes!” Her hiss of victory is hardly subtle, catching Coco’s attention as he pokes his head out the door.

“You two plottin’ against me, again?”

“Yes,” you and Letty reply, in unison, leading you to erupt into a fit of giggles.

Coco is all grins. “’Course, you are.” He strides closer, he and Letty dancing around one another as she moves into the house. You lean into the car, and retrieve a few more bags. If Coco’s out here, he might as well assist. He’s peering into the car, once you stand back up, and lets out a low whistle. “Damn, (y/n)! You buy out the whole store, or what?”

“Hardly,” you reply, dryly. You hold up your hands, offering Coco the bags. “Here you go.”

“Oh, don’t mind if I do.” Thankfully, your hold on the bags is solid. Instead of grabbing the groceries, Coco’s hands are suddenly groping all over you. One hand is settled firmly at your ass, the other sliding into your hair, at the back of your head. He wastes no time diving in for a slow, deep kiss, and, damn, does his timing suck. He could have at least let you put the bags down, first. The contact makes you tingle, and has you regretting your decision not to stay home. Coco pulls back, after a few seconds, and hums. “Mm. Best delivery ever.”

You can’t help the small snort of amused laughter that leaves your throat. “Good try, Coco,” you praise, easing back far enough to offer him the bags, again. The look of disappointment on his face is just pitiful. “I’m not banging you in the garage.”

He has the grace to mock gasp. “I’d never!” It’s a crock, and you both know it. He looks too amused to be repentant, and you look too aware to be angry. You just raise your hands, slightly, in a third offer. Coco sighs. “All right. All right.” He takes the bags from your hands.

“Thank you.” You grab another load for yourself, rounding the open car door to follow Coco’s lead, into the house. One more trip for each of you, and you should have it covered. So much for only buying fifteen items.

Coco might be right about buying out the store.

Watching from the dining room, Coco has a good view of you and Letty unpacking the last of the groceries. Damn kid, she’d thrown him out, about ten minutes prior.

“Less groping, more helping, Coco,” Letty had warned him, after he’d tried to pin you against the sink.

It had been his last warning. Now, he’s been banished. Not the worst thing in the world, not really. Over the last few weeks, he’s really learned that there are some tasks he’s not so fond of. Pruning roses… Yeah, he’s pretty sure you’ll never let him do that, again. And, hey, nobody told him what to fill the bird feeder with. Unpacking groceries goes on that list, somewhere between line-drying laundry, and a streak-free mirror. He’s not sure why. Goodness knows, it makes him feel like a kid at Christmas, most times. Since being with you, though…

Since being with you, he feels like he’s taking advantage of something.

Yes, groceries are a strange place to let that feeling land, but he can’t help it. Coco’s been responsible for feeding himself since before he cares to remember. The only time anyone provided his meals was during deployment, and half that shit barely passed for edible. You, though… You keep the house stocked with more food than he’s seen anywhere, outside of a corner market. Letty always has options to take to school, and there’s a nutritious dinner on the table, almost every night. (Some nights, he actually does win the battle for delivery). If Coco goes on a run, you send him along with snacks for the road. And, yeah, he kinda’ likes that. He also likes the energy bars you picked out for him, last week. Something with cherries, and dark chocolate. He wonders, for a second, if you picked up any more. Come in handy during his mid-week trip outta’ town.

Coco blinks. Then, he does it again, just for good measure. That’s it. That’s what’s so fucking weird about this whole thing.

It’s you.

Okay, no, it’s not you, you. But, it’s you. It’s you, taking care of him. It’s you, seeing to his needs. Letty’s needs. It’s you, being his wife, his partner. It’s you, slotting into the place of role-model for his teenaged daughter. Welcoming them into your home. Not treating it like it’s your home. It’s you, being so fucking perfect for him, it’s taken his mind all this time to catch up with reality.

Coco doesn’t get perfect. Perfect doesn’t want him.

Except, now, it does.

Before he knows what he’s doing, Coco strides into the kitchen. He doesn’t wait for you to put the box of pasta in the cupboard. He just takes it from your hand, ignoring your confused look, as he tosses it onto the counter.

“Coco!” Letty admonishes, but it’s no use. He’s already lifting you off the floor, arms around your perfect backside. The kid gives a long-suffering sigh, he hears it, but pays it no mind.

Nothing – nothing – is going to keep him from holding you in his arms.

Your own arms go around Coco’s neck, and you smile down at him, surprise still lingering in your eyes. “Uhm… Hi, there.”

Coco grins. “Hey, muñeca.” Leaning up, he pecks you on the lips.

“Can I help you with something?” you ask, to which Coco shakes his head. Closes his eyes, as your fingers play in his hair.

“Nah. Got all I need.”

Pulling a package of mixed vegetables from the half-unpacked shopping bag, Letty rolls her eyes. You two… God, you’re gross. Coco always has his hands on you, no matter what you’re trying to do. It’s a wonder you don’t carry a damned fly swatter around. Actually, it’s a wonder you ever accomplish anything. He’s always smooching, and smiling, and snuggling at you. It’s disgusting. It’s pathetic.

It’s so damned cute, it’s sickening.

Really, Letty’s enjoying seeing Coco so happy. Like, genuinely happy. Not the false pride he carries around with his kutte. He’s more relaxed, nowadays. He drinks less, and he spends more time at home, both of which mean he’s not hanging around with those skanks at the clubhouse. He eats more, he’s healthier… Nothing to complain about, there.

And, hey, she has no complaints about you, either. You’re pretty cool, all-around. A woman who takes care of herself, and her family, and doesn’t bitch about either one. You’re not using Coco for money, or status, none of the shit she’s always been worried her father would fall into. There aren’t arguments, every night, not even between herself and Coco, as of late. No hostilities, nothing to avoid the house over. Just good dinners, and movies, and a new fish tank in her room. (Okay, so, you’d earned some major points with that birthday gift. She hadn’t actually expected to get one, when she’d mentioned it). For the first time, she understands what a peaceful, happy family feels like. It feels nice. It feels like home.

Glancing back to where Coco now has you perched on the counter top, stealing the most syrupy-sweet smooches… Letty can’t help but smile. Home is A-okay by her.

The sound of the air conditioner humming in the bedroom usually lulls you right to sleep. Tonight, it’s just providing you with white noise, a low background track to your thoughts. You don’t mind, not really. It gives you a few minutes to reflect on the day that’s just ended. To plan your day, tomorrow. To weave your fingers through Coco’s hair, and listen to him breathe. That, alone, makes it worthwhile.

Coco has been asleep against your shoulder for nearly an hour, now. Your arms are wrapped around him, comfortably, his own around your waist. You’d urged him up to bed, after he’d fallen asleep on the couch, his head in your lap. He’d snoozed from the middle of the movie, to the end of the nightly news report. Letty had tsked, and complained that no one had any business, whatsoever, in falling asleep during Zombieland. (How he’d stayed asleep was still a wonder to you, both, for how hard you’d been laughing at Tallahassee). With your fingers in his hair, Coco had been blissfully unaware for a couple of hours.

Glancing down, you take in the sight of your husband’s sleeping face. He looks so damn peaceful, the kind you’d outright murder to preserve for him. Coco’s still struggling with sleep, and relaxation, even though you’d hoped it would ease up, once your nuptials had passed. Most of it, you know will never go away. Anxiety doesn’t have a magic wand, or some perfect little on/off switch. And, all things considered, today wasn’t a terrible day. You’d been able to leave the house, with minimal panic on Coco’s part. Granted, it had taken extra time to get the groceries put away, and dinner made, but… You understand, as much as you are able to, that Coco needs the reassurances. It doesn’t cost you anything to carve a few moments from the day, every here and there, to give him what he needs.

Okay, so it did cost you that first batch of pancakes, this morning. They’d burned on the stove, and set off the smoke alarms, when he’d insisted on a dance through the living room. But, Coco loved the song you’d been playing on your Spotify, so there was really no denying him.

Oh, and… Yeah, you’d missed that phone call from the bank, the week before. Your husband had slipped up next to you, on the porch swing, and snuggled you to within an inch of your life. An easy fix, and you still got the business loan, but…

And, sure, you’ve been late to work, on numerous occasions. Coco has a habit of sneaking into your morning shower. And, after that… Well, hell, you own the company. It’s not like you have to explain to the boss that you’re late to your shift, on account of baby-dancing. (Fucking forums).

Point is, you’re more than happy to take care of Coco’s emotional needs. It may take you an extra hour to pay your bills. Daily tidying may have become every-other-day-if-you’re-lucky tidying. And, your ass may have gone numb, tonight, while he slept on your thigh. During which time, you could have loaded the dishwasher. Taken out the trash. Any number of tasks that have been neglected, in the name of Coco. They can wait.

Leaning in, you press a tender kiss to your husband’s forehead, before settling back in, and closing your eyes. Yes, chores can wait. Work can wait. The whole world can hold it, with both hands. So long as you’re around, Coco’s well-being will never have to take the back seat.

P.S. If Coco denies it, he’s full of it. He fucking loved that cauliflower pizza. Fucking vegetarians, indeed.

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boldlyanxious · 4 years ago

Text

Mistaken Identity

@sailormarelda apparently your wish is my command

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Just her luck that some asshole on the subway dumped his sticky energy drink all over her. It wasn't just wet. It was sticky and soaking through her shirt. Somehow he managed to pour it on her front and back.

He didn't even apologize. He just shoved past her and got off on the next stop.

It was only a few more stops until her stop. She checked her directions again before she climbed the stairs to get to the street. Maybe luck was on her side because there was a vendor right there with shirts for sale and a very inviting looking coffee shop. She bought a shirt and hoped the coffee shop had a decent bathroom for her to clean up in.

She laughed in the mirror at the shirt and artfully tied it so the ab muscles drawn onto the Superboy shirt for where hers were and it still showed off her dark skinny jeans. It was the best she could do to show off her designs on her outing since her blouse was not currently worth seeing. She hoped she could get the drink stain out later.

The barista did a double take when she ordered and looked a bit confused. She clearly wanted to say something but she took a breath and told Marinette the total. They didn't know her here so they wouldn't know that she frequently ordered drinks like that. She could probably chug it and then take a nap but she definitely needed it for the rest of today.

---

Roy was by the back of the counter throwing away his paper cup when he heard a name he knew coming from the baristas,

"If she weren't clearly a girl I would think it was Tim Drake. It's the exact same order too."

"He was here earlier today. He was wearing the same shirt."

"Maybe there is an evil plot in the city and he got turned into a girl."

"Stranger things have happened for sure."

Roy pulled out his phone and tried to text Tim. Girl Tim was on the phone and definitely not reading any messages. He snuck closer to hear the conversation.

"... Definitely got a look for ordering my regular coffee.

…

I've got a new look though. It is guaranteed to protect me from villains.

…

Okay. Well I have my coffee and I'm on my way. I'll see you there."

She hung up and grabbed the coffee. But Roy couldn't just let her leave. Tim needed help and the Bat family would want to know about this right away.

---

Marinette walked down the street happy to have her coffee. It was exactly what she needed. She was already feeling better. She jumped back from the street when a car suddenly came right at her. So much for American traffic coming from the other direction. Luckily her coffee didn't spill.

"Hey, did you need anything?" the driver called out.

"I'm fine," she responded then muttered to herself, "You clearly need driving lessons."

She hoped he didn't hear her because he was suddenly getting out of the car. He was walking towards her and ask her alarm bells were going off in her head.

"Are you sure? We probably need to get you help."

Marinette looked around trying to make a plan. She looked one way and then took off running the other way. That didn't do enough to confuse his reflexes. He grabbed her quickly and closed her into the back seat of his car. She tried the handle and it was locked from the inside.

She had dropped her coffee and her purse before he pushed her back here. He had grabbed the purse off the ground before he got in and sped off but she didn't think she could reach it. He had a flashing light on the car so no one would question his erratic driving.

Maybe she had been confused with a criminal. She would just need to wait it out until she could explain who she was. Her stomach turned when he pulled off the street and into an underground parking area. He went all the way to the lowest level and to the back. There was only one other car and a door. No one was around.

---

Roy didn't know what had happened to Tim but he seemed to have no memory of who he was. Jason had probably contacted the others by now and they could figure out how to help him. Although it would be easier if she weren't fighting while he was trying. He ended up pulling her out of the car by the leg and throwing her over his shoulder.

She was still yelling at him and hitting his back but no one was around to hear before he entered the code and went through the door. He didn't even bother with greeting Jason. He deposited Girl Tim into a safe room and closed the door. They had a 2 way mirror they could use and an intercom system.

By the time he was finished, Jason was already looking through the glass.

"Damn, Tim makes a hot girl. And loud." Jason said.

"Do we have any idea what might have happened?" Roy asked.

"Oracle is searching and the others are coming. I'll let her know about the loss of memory too. That could complicate things for anyone else affected. If people don't know anything happened we will have to rely on missing person reports."

---

Marinette tried not to think of all the warnings she had gotten before moving here. They had been plentiful but she brushed them off. It couldn't be that bad. She knew people who had lived here for years and they said it was mostly over blown. But sure had been here under 3 days and had just been kidnapped in broad daylight.

She knew the guy had been acting weird. She should have run immediately. She should have stopped being polite and thrown her $12 coffee at his face before running away. She tried to be nice and it was going to get her killed.

---

They all took turns looking through the glass at their friend/brother/son. But Girl Tim didn't know any of them. Oracle had confirmed that the coffee shop was the last place Tim's phone had been and Steph had seen him before he left wearing the same shirt. Roy told them about the phone conversation he has heard and it all fit.

Now they just had to figure out what had happened and how to reverse it.

---

Eventually Marinette got tired of taking to the wall. Technically it was an intercom imbedded into the wall but it felt like it because they didn't seem to hear her at all. There were more of them now. She didn't know how many more but it had to be at least 4 separate people. She was pretty sure it was more than that though.

She didn't know what they could possibly want with her.

She flopped down onto the bed and covered her face with the, hopefully clean, pillow and screamed into it. It felt really good. It was exactly what she needed, aside from her coffee and freedom.

But apparently they choose that time to make a move. Hands were on her holding her and moving here. She saw a needle and she did everything she could to fight them. She definitely hit a couple of them but the needle still went into her arm.

She wasn't sure what they were expecting the result to be but she allowed herself to relax against the arms that still held her. One moved to lift her back in while the others filed out of the small room.

She waited until the doorway was clear before she moved. She jumped back up and hit his chin with her head. He was not dazed for nearly long enough but she ran for the door anyway. She was out of the room and halfway to the exit when he caught up with her and pinned her down.

It wouldn't have mattered anyway. Another man walked in right then.

"What is the deal with you all blowing up my phone? I'm trying to get some work done."

The room froze. They all just stared at him until the man pinning her down spoke.

"If you are there and perfectly fine. Then who is this?"