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notakugelblitz · 1 month

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DELORES PART 1 • Five Hargreeves x Fem!Reader

something sweet to soothe your anger dearest brellies 🥰 takes place during season 4 episode 1, no warning all safe. enjoy !

Y/N had worked with Five at the Commission. She was with him on the day of JFK's assassination, and when he mentioned the possibility of escaping the company, she thought, why not? The Handler still hadn't given her the promotion she'd been promised 15 years ago, and the health insurance was worthless by then ...

Y/N followed Five through three apocalypses, becoming a teenager again. At least she no longer had the beginnings of arthritis, which she was more grateful for than her colleague. The Hargreeves quickly took Y/N under their wing, appreciating her a lot, especially since she had the gift of shutting Five up.

Y/N and Five became very good friends. Once the umbrella Academy lost their powers in this new timeline, Y/N chose to open a bookstore, while Five became a CIA agent. They met from time to time, enjoying each other's company over a black coffee on a terrace. In six years, nothing ambiguous had happened between them. Y/N wasn't sure if she wanted it to or not—it was a strange feeling. But now, with her new life started, she had time. If Five was interested, he would make a move; if not, so be it. But this was the calm before the storm...

Five entered the secret meeting set in an apartment with a classy, dimly lit atmosphere. The place was spacious, hosting about thirty people. Five smoothed his mustache, grabbed a glass of champagne from the buffet, and scanned the room. Just as he thought he recognized Lila, another young woman caught his attention. She was leaning against the balcony, her face hidden as she stood with her back to him. She had long, straight auburn hair, styled with a yellow beret. She was wearing a white shirt with black polka dots, neatly tucked into her pencil skirt.

Five felt a drop of sweat trickle down his temple and took a deep breath before joining her. He also leaned on the balcony, just like she did, barely daring to look at her.

"Beautiful night, isn’t it?" Y/N murmured, a simple smile on her lips.

She didn’t meet his gaze either, which slightly irritated Five. He finally turned his head and recognized Y/N.

"What the hell are you doing ..."

The words escaped his mouth when he noticed the name on her nametag : Delores. Five almost choked on his champagne.

"Yeah, the champagne is disgusting, I agree. But the hors d'oeuvres are delicious though. You should try them!" "What are you doing here? Don’t tell me you’re part of this ridiculous support group ..."

Y/N burst into laughter, shaking her head.

"Oh no, no ... I came with "Nancy" so Diego wouldn’t ask too many questions. But this wig is seriously itching. It's awful." Y/N explained, amused, scratching her scalp.

She then turned her attention to Five and looked at his nametag.

"Jerome? That doesn’t suit you very well. I wonder where you got that name..." "It wasn’t my choice. And where did you get yours?" he retorted, frowning.

Y/N raised an eyebrow, surprised by his sudden cold and somewhat aggressive tone.

"I like that name." Y/N simply said. "And that shirt—do you like it too? It’s hideous." "I found it in a thrift shop—it seemed nice... hey! What’s gotten into you?" Y/N finally exclaimed. "Bullshit." "Five what the hell!"

Y/N seemed sincere. She had no idea what her cover name meant to him. After all these years, he had never told her about Delores. Instead of apologizing, he downed his glass of champagne.

"So, those hors d'oeuvres?" Five asked.

Y/N laughed lightly, understanding it was his awkward way of apologizing. Just as she was about to praise the treats, Jean and Gene appeared, announcing the start of the meeting.

What followed was a very eventful evening. The Umbrella Effect, interacting with Jean and Gene, dining with Lila and Five, Viktor's kidnapping... it felt like the old days! And throughout it all, Five kept giving Y/N odd looks. Why had fate embedded the love of his life so clearly in his friend and colleague? Five didn’t believe in coincidences; he never had.

Y/N had noticed those supposedly discreet glances, which intrigued her a lot. Especially since she could feel her cheeks flush like a 16-year-old girl.

Despite everything, the Hargreeves ended their evening at an Asian restaurant to debrief. Having retrieved the Marigold thanks to Sy, most of them decided not to take it. This surprised Y/N a lot. Powers... that was the dream, wasn’t it?

While Ben was in the bathroom, Y/N leaned toward Five.

"Imagine what you could do for the CIA with your teleportation..." she whispered. "Shut up, Y/N." Five murmured. "No, but seriously! I don’t know what I’d give to be special like you guys were! If it were up to me, I’d drink that jar dry!"

Five chuckled sarcastically, rolling his eyes.

"If you think this is one of those stupid Marvel movies, think again. Having powers comes with great responsibilities, sure—the responsibility to control them and not cause an apocalypse." "Killjoy..." Y/N sighed. "And for your information..." Five hesitated before continuing in a lower voice, leaning a bit closer to her. "You don’t need that to be... special."

Coming from his mouth, it sounded weird. Reaching her ears, it sounded weird. Y/N sat up straight and silently thanked some higher force when Ben arrived with a tray of eight shots. While everyone found an excuse to leave, Ben convinced them to drink. "For old time's sake," he said.

Everyone gave in, and when Y/N realized she didn’t have a glass, she felt disheartened.

"Can’t I celebrate our reunion?" she asked. "You're not part of the family." Ben snapped. "Wow, Ben, that’s rude!" Luther exclaimed. "Y/N is more family than you ever were." Five groaned, pointing a threatening finger at him. "No, it's fine, let it go, Five." Y/N sighed, though Five’s words had touched her.

She stepped aside, letting them toast. Just as everyone raised their glasses to their lips, Klaus nudged Y/N and handed her his glass.

"OnJanuary 15th, it'll be 3 years that I am sober. Tonight’s not the night I’ll mess that up, and certainly not for old time's sake." Klaus whispered. "I can’t accept that ..." Y/N politely refused. "Oh, come on, down it or I’ll tell everyone you slept with Five at Luther’s wedding."

Y/N gasped, grabbed the glass, drank it down in record time, and handed it back to Klaus. No one seemed to notice the trick, and that was just as well.

Y/N still had that awful taste in her mouth. Maybe she shouldn’t have drunk that glass. After all, Klaus was lying. Wasn’t he? It was true she had a total blackout that night, but... her and Five? No... right?

Once outside, everyone said their goodbyes. As Y/N tried to figure out where Klaus had gone so she could question him, a car pulled up next to her. The passenger window rolled down, and she bent down to see the driver. It was Five.

"I’ll give you a ride." "No, it’s okay, I’m not far..." "That wasn’t a question," Five said, leaning over to open the passenger door.

Y/N sighed but couldn’t help smiling. She got in, buckled up, and Five started the car.

"Be honest with me, Y/N." he said seriously, focusing on the road. "Mmh?" "Why Delores? And why that damn polka dot shirt?"

Y/N widened her eyes.

"You're still hung up on that!" she exclaimed. "I’ve changed since then..." "Stop it right now, Y/N. This isn’t funny," he growled. "Look, Five, I don’t understand! You’re completely crazy!" "Why Delores?" "I don’t know, okay?" she yelled back. "I don’t know."

She repeated the sentence silently to herself.

"The name just came to me, and the shirt was the cheapest... I swear, Five, I’ve never been more honest with you..."

Five finally looked at her and realized she was telling the truth. When they arrived at the bookstore, he parked on the side of the road.

"I’m sorry, Y/N... it’s just that... I knew a Delores a long time ago, and... she looked just like you."

Y/N, surprised, met his gaze and tilted her head to the side.

"I never thought the famous Five Hargreeves had a romance," she breathed.

Five nodded , locking eyes with her sparkling ones. He had always loved that color, though he would never admit it. He looked away, eyes fixed on the steering-wheel. Fortunately Y/N didn't know Delores was a mannequin. Five kept silent, thinking about this damn coincidence and its probable meaning.

Y/N didn’t know what to say so she got out of the car, feeling unsettled. As she headed towards the bookstore, she suddenly stopped, turned around, and walked back to the car, leaning against the window on Five’s side.

“Be honest with me, Five.” she said seriously.

Five chuckled softly, amused by this ongoing joke, and nodded, signaling her to continue.

“What happened at Luther’s wedding?” she asked suddenly.

Five frowned. Why was she asking about that now?

“They got married,” he said simply. “Haha, very funny. No, seriously, between us... did something happen?”

Five discreetly swallowed and started the car.

“You should go home, it’s getting late.”

Y/N groaned and walked around the front of the car again so that he couldn't leave, suddenly opening the passenger door and sitting down.

“What are you doing…?” “You agreed to be honest with me. And you’re not. So I won’t move until…” “Fine.” "Oh, that was quick."

Five immediately started driving and continued in silence.

“Aren’t you going to say something?” “No.” “So, is this a kidnapping?” “Call it whatever you want. You learned how to jump out of a moving car at the Commission, so if your ass is still in that seat, it means you don’t really want to leave.”

Point for him. The silence was fine at the beginning, but it grew heavier and heavier minutes after minutes. Y/N was relieved when she recognized the streets as they were arriving at the parking lot of Five's apartment. He turned off the car and slumped further into his seat. Y/N could tell he was hiding something.

“So. Did we sleep together that night?” she asked bluntly.

Five’s eyes widened.

“What! Who told you that nonsense?” he exclaimed with an amused tone. “Klaus… he…” “You know Klaus always exaggerates, Y/N…”

Y/N lowered her eyes, embarrassed for having believed it so easily. Five noticed her distress and sighed. He rummaged through an inner pocket of his jacket, hesitating before pulling out a Polaroid photo. He handed it to Y/N nonchalantly. She looked at him, then at the photo, which she took with apprehension. It was taken at Luther’s wedding. Y/N and Five were on stage. A microphone stand separated them, only a few centimeters from each other's face. They looked completely drunk, which explained why they were singing so close and why Y/N had no memory of it.

“Just imagine eyes like moon rise, a voice like music, lips like wine.” Five muttered, glancing at her from the corner of his eye.

Y/N looked up at him. Those were the lyrics to a love song by Frank Sinatra, yet it sounded oddly different coming from his mouth.

“Please, tell me…” she whispered.

Five sighed, knowing full well he had reached a point of no return.

“We overdid it on the alcohol that night. And with the apocalypse looming... it makes you do things you wouldn’t normally be capable of.”

He paused, but Y/N smiled, encouraging him to continue.

“You seemed different that night. You had no filter. You never had one when it came to annoying me, but for saying nice things, well... and you were really beautiful. And without thinking, I grabbed that mic and sang that stupid Sinatra song. And you looked at me with those eyes. They sparkled like… like the Kugelblitz. Almost more. And you joined me, and we made quite the duo, I must say. I can't fucking remember the name of the song as we were only babbling incomprehensible lyrics.”

Y/N was speechless.

“So…” “No sex. Pure fluff, even though it’s a disgusting word to say.”

Y/N chuckled.

“And you kissed me,” Five finally said, emotionless.

Everything seemed so unreal, yet he looked sincere.

“Why didn’t you tell me for six years?” she asked, shocked. “I… I chickened out. You didn’t remember, so it gave you the chance to start fresh.”

Suddenly, Y/N slapped him across the face, the sound of the slap echoing through Dallas. Five didn't blink, feeling like it was deserved somehow.

“You’re such an idiot.” “I know.”

They remained silent for a moment, staring into each other’s eyes. If any member of the Umbrella Academy had the power to read minds, they would’ve run away, given the turmoil that stirred within them.

Y/N thought back to all those moments spent with Five, and of course, they had a different flavor than those shared with an actual colleague. Despite their constant teasing, Five had always been there for Y/N, and vice versa. They understood each other, given their age and experience. Everything suddenly became clear.

And then, in perfect synchronization, they kissed passionately, Y/N placing her hands on Five’s cheeks while he firmly gripped her waist. It was a fiery kiss, making up for all the lost time due to misplaced pride. Out of breath, Y/N pulled back slightly to look at him, a smirk on her lips.

“What? Don’t make me regret what just happened…” Five chuckled. “Firsy things first, secretly keeping a picture of me is weird. Secondly, the song by Sinatra ... It is named Dolores. Just saying…” Y/N laughed, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear that had fallen over his bright eyes.

"Shut it." he groaned, pecking your lips to make you silent. But then , he approaches his lips to your ear, whispering.

“It seems that no matter the timeline, I’m destined to have a Delores getting in my way.”

Y/N burst out laughing, and Five couldn’t help but smile sincerely. It felt good to come out of his shell, especially for Y/N. Five invited Y/N to spend the night at his place. This sudden happiness seemed surreal, yet it was very real. The idea of a normal life together seemed so pleasant. If only they knew ...

here it is, i really hope you liked it ! sorry if you spotted some mistakes, English isn’t my first language.

would you be interested in a part 2 now that Y/N swallowed up a shot of marigold ? just sayin’ … 😏

#five hargreeves #the umbrella academy #umbrella academy #umbrella academy x reader #five x y/n #five hargreeves fanfic #five x reader #the umbrella academy season 4 #five hargreeves season 4 #delores #Spotify

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pianokantzart · 9 months

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Consider. How proud mario must've been seeing luigi do something brave when he protected mario with the manhole lid. (not that he didn't know luigi can be brave before. but to really see it)

YES! I mean this face?

Little guy is in AWE.

Plus the way he was nodding at Princess Peach when she commented about how brave Luigi was? Wholesome AF.

But I also like to imagine that this jokingly sets a new precedent for what Mario expects of Luigi. Like, Luigi is nervous about trying a new powerup or calling a particularly annoying insurance agent, and every time Mario just says "remember when you shielded me from a blast of 2500 degrees fahrenheit flames with nothing but a manhole cover?"

And Luigi gets more and more annoyed every time he brings it up like "MARIO YOU KNOW I'D DO THIS IF YOUR LIFE DEPENDED ON IT BUT THAT'S NOT THE SITUATION HERE."

#askbox #anon #mario movie #mario #luigi #super mario bros #super mario brothers

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girlactionfigure · 7 months

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THURSDAY HERO:

Odoardo Focherini

Odoardo Focherini was an Italian journalist and devout Catholic who rescued 105 Jews between 1942 and 1944 by obtaining false identity papers for them and transporting them to safety in Switzerland. He was posthumously beatified by Pope Benedict XVI.

Odoardo, known as “Odo,” was born in Modena, Italy in 1907 to a devout Catholic family. At a vacation in Trento in 1925, he met Maria Marchesi, and they fell in love and soon became engaged. Odo was 18 and Maria was 16, so they waited until 1930 to get married. They had seven children.

Odo worked as an insurance agent, but in 1933 he followed his passion and started a new career as a journalist. He became managing director of L’Avvenire d’Italia, a daily newspaper affiliated with the Catholic Church that is still being published today. Odo was such an exceptional journalist that he came to the attention of the highest levels of the Catholic Church, and Pope Pius XI awarded him the Order of Saint Sylvester in 1937.

The situation in Europe grew increasingly darker for the Jews and in 1942, Hitler enacted the genocidal “Final Solution.” Cardinal Pietro Boetta, the archbishop of Genoa, asked the editor-in-chief of L’Avvenire d’Italia, Raimondo Manzini, to help a group of Polish Jews escape from fascist-ruled Italy to safety in Switzerland. Manzini immediately recruited Odo, known for his strong moral compass and devotion to justice, to carry out this lifesaving mission. Odo created a secret network of Catholics who wanted to help persecuted Jews as the Nazi death machine took over Europe. Using contacts he’d met during his work as a journalist, Odo procured a large number of false documents and personally accompanied many Jews over the border to Switzerland. Odo saved the lives of 105 Jews between 1942 and 1944.

Unfortunately, the Nazis found out what Odo was doing when they intercepted a letter in which he wrote that he was helping Jews “not for profit but out of pure Christian charity.” He was arrested by the Gestapo on March 11, 1944 and imprisoned in Bologna. That August Odo was transferred to a work camp in Germany. During his imprisonment Odo sent 166 letters to his beloved wife Maria. Later that year Odo was sent to a concentration camp in Hersbruck, Germany. He developed a leg infection which wasn’t treated and became gangrenous. On December 27, 1944, Odo died from the raging infection. His last words were, “I declare that I die in the purest Roman Catholic faith and in full submission to the will of God.”

Odo was posthumously awarded the title of Righteous Among the Nations by Israeli Holocaust Memorial Yad Vashem in 1969. In 1996, Pope John Paul II declared Odo a “Servant of God,” because he was murdered for saving Jews. This began the lengthy beatification process, and in 2012, the decree attesting to Focherini’s martyrdom was finally signed by Pope Benedict XVI. Odoardo Focherini was the first Righteous Gentile to be beatified. Odo’s letters to his family were published as a book in 1994. The Memorial Museum in Carpi displays a large banner with a quotation from Odo that he said to his brother-in-law who visited him in prison: “If you had seen, as I have seen in this prison, how Jews are treated here, your only regrets would be not to have saved more of them.”

For saving 105 Jews, at the cost of his own life, we honor Odoardo Focherini as this week’s Thursday Hero.

#Thursday Hero

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mi6-cafe · 2 months

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08.04.24

The B team really pulled through and saved the day. Their undercover agents were able to sneak back out of the STARFISH lair with the cure. Around the world, espionage agencies from MI6 to SPECTRE began to shake off their slumber. The Big Snooze was over. In the following days, the A team resumed their duties and fully dismantled STARFISH. If a few villainous agencies also happened to deploy destructive teams in STARFISH’s direction, well, for once their goals were aligned with those of MI6. The scientist in charge of STARFISH’s sleepy reign was a casualty of those efforts…one hoped. (When someone made regeneration their life’s work, anything was possible.) The A Team also acknowledged the B team and their incredible efforts while being grateful for the first proper rest they had had in years. “Is this what waking up after a full night’s sleep feels like?” Q asked, amazed. “I think we should be given a month’s sleep-leave every year,” Moneypenny commented. “You all have done a valuable job holding MI6 together with the equivalent of duct tape and twine, and we are deeply indebted to your bravery and steadfast resolve,” M said. She also handed out paperwork. “Don’t say anything to anyone about this. Or else.” In the halls of SPECTRE, a lone intern who had kept all of the sharks alive and well-fed throughout the month got promoted, partly because the sharks no longer accepted food from anyone else. And hey, now they get dental insurance! Now it is time for the B team to rest. Some of them go back to their non-secret service jobs, others return to retirement, and some just get back to work doing the less stressful jobs that they are actually comfortable with. Whatever they do, they do it with pride at a job well done. Secretly, they saved the world. Congratulations! Despite the perils of RL and the challenges of creating and community-building, we pulled together and reached over 80% completion on all of the goals set this month! Well done, everyone! Thank you for coming on this adventure of trying a new Fest format with us!

#HQ memo #007 fest #007 fest 2024

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who-knew-a-sheep-can-write · 6 months

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Reunited: Reaper x Fem!Reader (NSFW)

Contains: Soft sex

It’s been ten years; Ten long, cold and very lonely years since you saw your husband. You remembered the whole day down to the dot, you couldn’t help but wallow is misery from it for so long.

It was a party at the Overwatch base in Switzerland to celebrate Overwatch’s success with an infiltration and he had invited you to stay for a few days. When the fun was over and your stay ended, you bid him goodbye on the plane back your home in California to wait for his arrival. He had gotten clearance for a break from Morrison, family issues is what he said but it was really because he was thinking about settling down and starting a family. You spent the whole day cleaning and cooking for his arrival when you heard of the awful news.

The base had been bombed.

Overwatch agents showed up at your door hours later to give you the news that they could not locate Gabriel in the wreckage, all they could find was his wallet, the very small wedding photo kept in the slip was missing.

Overwatch paid you his insurances and made sure you were taken care of, by protocols and policies- but you didn’t give a shit.

They kept saying he was dead, but you knew it wasn’t true.

He was alive. Somewhere, somehow, but you knew he was alive.

For ten years, you never gave up hope, that there was some slim and nearly impossible chance that he would be found somewhere.

Your life continued on as best as you could. You wake up, go to work, come home and go to bed only to repeat the cycle every day for ten years.

Not once did you lose faith.

It happened about two months ago. You noticed things were off around you, you felt like you were being watched, you noticed things would be moved.

You would come home to a window being open that you knew you had left closed yet nothing was taken.

You would notice things like your bed had been made when you left it a mess during a bout of pressuring grief, dishes that you had left in the sink now clean and put away.

What stuck out the most was that you had heard something go bumo in the night and when you went to go investigate, you found the fireplace mantle had been meticulously cleaned, frames of pictures of you and Gabriel spotless with the glass polished.

The news of Overwatch reforming had broke and had settled in your gut an odd feeling. You knew Gabriel was out there somewhere, but somehow this news had twisted your gut in knots.

It was one of those days, you had been caught thinking over the past, still grieving, still meticulously playing with your wedding ring as you wandered around your house. The stench of cleaning supplies had your nose tingling.

Last night it had happened again. Something had been done as you slept, urging you to go through your house and clean and try to see if something was taken again.

This time something was added to your house.

You woke to find Gabriel’s old Blackwatch beanie on your end table, folded and pressed neatly, still smelling like his shampoo.

You wandered into the kitchen, intent on pulling apart the cabinets just in case whoever it was that was doing this had hidden more of Gabriel’s things somewhere else.

You bent down to start digging when you saw a dark shadow move in the corner of your eye.

You felt a presence behind you, something large and looming. You swore the air around had gotten colder. Your back stiffened, your shoulders squared, and you hesitated on turning around to face the person that was behind you. The warmth was sucked out of your home by whoever it was, you heard the creaking of what sounded like heavy boots- oh how you missed that sound.

Your heart started to pound in your ears, your eyes twitching with tears, your lips quivering as you had to bite your lips to stop from letting out a shaky breath.

The familiar scent of cinnamony warmth hit your nose.

You spun on your heel to face the intruder-

To face him.

“Gabriel?” you whimpered.

There was a big looming figure just behind the archway from the kitchen to the living room. He stood there, draped in black like he normally always did. Instead of his tight and jagged Blackwatch armor that you remember to be all shiny and glossy was now instead black leather and rubbers, a flowy black coat that obscures most of what else he’s wearing. What struck out to you the most was the mask he wore. A bone white mask against the midnight clothes he wore, shaped as though an owl skull tried to play human with the narrow eyes and the high cheeks of the mask. He looked thinner, he looked cold and pained where he stood. His hands were balled at his sides, clawed gloves in tight fists.

“(Y/n),” he echoed back.

How you’ve longed to hear your name spill from his lips once more, even if the circumstances are like this.

“Gabriel, is that really you?” you took a step forward towards the wraith.

“Mi amor-” He mirrored every step you took. “Mi amor, I’m here.”

One step closer, two steps, three until you both had crossed the distance and met under the archway.

“You’re really here…” You gently raised a hand and ghosted it over his chest. God, he really was cold, almost as though he were dead. He made no move to back away from your touch, he stood rock-still before you. You gently placed your hand on his chest, palm flat against the broad expanse of his built body. “You’re alive.”

You looked at the hollowness of the eye sockets in his mask, and somewhere in the darkness, you saw the glints of his eyes.

You moved your hands to his mask, cupping the sharp and jagged jawline. It was colder than he was and bone-smooth. He reached up carefully and wrapped his fingers around your wrists, keeping his eyes pinned to yours at all times.

“(Y/n)-”

“Let me see you, Gabriel.”

Your voice was just barely audible, the wraith tensed under your touch at those words. You both stood in complete silence for god knows how long until he had released your wrists, allowing you to slip the mask off his head.

You gasped softly, eyes widening with tears. He was just as handsome as the day you both met. He didn’t look much different. Still the thick and brooding eyebrows, the dark and warm chocolate eyes, his dark goatee that always prickled your skin in the best ways when he kissed you. His skin had a slight gray tone to it, and his face had a few deep scars along the cheeks and one across the bridge of his nose that was new, but other than that, it was still your Gabriel.

Gabriel softly cupped your cheeks and looked down at you, a few tears slipping past and dribbling down his cheeks.

“You’re just as beautiful as the day I saw you last,” he whispered.

Before you knew it, you both had your arms wrapped around each other’s shoulders and necks. Your lips were smushed together as your fingers snatched at the back of his hood while his fingers were buried in your hair. Your mouths melted together, tears flowed from both of you, both of you were shaking.

Finally breaking for air, Gabriel didn’t let you go too far before he grabbed at your waist and hoisted you up without a second thought and carried you to the bedroom he last saw over ten years ago.

Placing you on the bed as carefully as he could, you couldn’t help but lay on your back before him, your hands still grasping at his brawny shoulders. Gabriel placed one knee up on the mattress beside you, climbing on top of you. His hands were on either side of your head, caging you in beneath him. His hood had been thrown back and he was panting wildly, there was something carnal in his eyes.

Leaning back down to capture your lips in a kiss once more, he leaned his torso down just a bit lower so your chests were touching. Your heart was pounding so loud you swore he could hear it, that he could feel being this close to you again.

It felt like it was a dream, some sickly sweet dream that you would wake from and go back to a missing husband in a cold and lonely house.

But it wasn’t.

Gabriel growled into the kiss lightly, it sent tingles and little shocks down your spine and crackled a fire somewhere deep inside of you. You moaned softly into the kiss and snatched at the collar of his coat, fingers scrunching up the smooth leather and dragged him even closer to your body until there was no space between you both.

Gabriel broke the kiss with a soft growl, nosing your chin to the side to leave kisses along your jaw and down the columns of your throat. His cold body pressing against your warm flesh made your face heat up among other places. You moaned softly and he pressed a kiss right over your throat, sucking just hard enough that it would leave a mark surely in the morning.

“I’ve missed those moans, mi amor,” he purred. He took in your scent, hands balling the sheets and blankets roughly under his harsh grip. “I’ve missed the way you felt, the way you smell, the way you make me feel.”

“Gabriel,” you whined. You felt something hard start to poke at you from below. You knew what it was, what was pressed right against your nether area so closely. “Gabriel, I-”

“Say it,” he ordered.

He made eye contact with you and refused to break it. His eyes were wild, pleading, knowing what you are going to say.

“Gabriel I need you. Ten years and I need you more than ever.”

Some deeper hunger settled in his gaze, chocolate eyes going dark and lust took over him.

“I’ve waited to hear those words for years,” he hummed.

He backed off the mattress but kept you laying down on your back. He shrugged off his cloak and allowed the thick leather to pool on the floor at his feet as he toed off his boots. He grabbed at your loose pants and pulled them carefully off your body, down your legs where he took his time to admire the curves of your body so far. He was examining you, looking over the body of his wife, of his lover that he hasn’t seen in a decade.

“Tell me what you want, mi amor, and I will give it to you.”

“I want you, Gabriel. I want you to make love to me.”

Gabriel reached for your hips and drew you closer to him, just enough for your knees to bend at the edge of the bed. He hooked his fingers around your panties and dragged them down, allowing them to fall to the floor with your pants and his cloak and boots. You shivered at your bareness being exposed to the chilly room. Your soft nethers were wet, but to Gabriel, you knew it wasn’t wet enough.

Gabriel kneeled at the mattress just far down enough to pull your knees over his shoulders. Slowly and as gently as he could, he leaned his head forward and parted you with his tongue. It was cold against your hot, moist core. You whined and arched your back, Gabriel grasped your legs so you wouldn’t move as much.

It felt like days that he was licking and sucking at your womanhood, draining you of everything you had, all of the pent-up emotions you’d bottled up for a decade now just evaporating now that he was here eating you out.

Gabriel had pulled away, you’re knees were trembling as he held them. You looked up to see there was a glisten to his goatee from your slick. You hadn’t orgasmed yet, but you felt it was coiled tight within you like a cobra, ready to strike and release and let you climax finally.

Gabriel carefully wrapped your legs around his waist before he went to fumble at his belt and zipper. The damn thing was worse than wrestling a snake, not wanting to move and release until he finally managed to unravel everything and drop his pants to join yours.

You’ve missed him. You’ve missed this. You’ve missed all of this, all of him.

He was gentle, rubbing the head of his cock with his thumb, smearing the bead of pre-cum that pearled out around the head. He leaned over you, propping one knee up again on the mattress. Ever so slowly, you felt the head of his cock brush against your wet folds, you felt yourself be split from your core as his thick cock spread you apart. You grabbed at his broad shoulders as you gasped, your head turning against the mattress and sheets.

You cried out in pleasure as you felt him slip inside of you. He fit so perfectly, his thick cock stroking the insides of your plush velvet walls just tightly enough to cause blissful friction thts sent your head spinning with supernovas and galaxies before your eyes.

He fucked you slowly, he leaned down to press kisses to your sweaty flesh with his cold lips.

#overwatch #gabriel reyes #reaper #reaper x reader #gabriel reyes x reader

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desos-records · 1 year

Text

alright let’s talk about Lockwood & Co vs Adults

(mostly about the show, I started the books before the show came out and I’m not done, be nice)

Lockwood tries so very hard to act older than he is and he essentially Had To after losing his family. We aren’t told the specifics, but he doesn’t seem to have any adults in his life. Or many people in it period. George has only known him for a year, Flo used to live with him but hasn’t for at least a year if not more, and Kipps is. well. Kipps.

But other than that he seems to have been alone: he’s the one who takes care of the business and the finances, finding new clients and recruiting new agents (he has a mortgage and insurance and he can’t even drive yet). It fits with the overarching theme of the older generation not just failing the newer one, but exploiting it too. Lockwood was abandoned by the generation that was supposed to take care of him (on purpose or not)--just like all the kids of his generation, George and Lucy included.

It’s a little simpler when it comes to George and Lucy. They both left their families by choice; they chose to be the mature ones, to do what they had to so they could feel safe and at home. George left parents who loved him, but didn’t understand him. Lucy left a physically abusive mother who exploited her for money. They’re both mature in very concrete, measurable ways that are natural extensions of their characters. George cleans and cooks and handles research. Lucy is emotionally mature, holding both boys (and people in general) accountable for their actions and making her able to pick out incredible nuances in emotion (of both the living and the dead).

But Lockwood’s maturity feels a little more like play-acting than the others. Partly, I think, because he didn’t get a choice. He’s been functionally an independent adult for god knows how long. He dresses in suits and is entirely too formal (in the books it takes forever for him to stop calling Lucy ‘Miss Carlyle’). But you can tell that it is definitely an act. His tie and trousers are too short, his coat is too big, and, god bless him, he wears the most beat up pair of sneakers I’ve ever seen.

His interactions with actual adults become a flashpoint. It’s most obvious in his interactions with adult men (partly just because most of the adults in the show are men), who he is trying so hard to look and act like. But in every case, they call him out on it and he’s reminded how young he is and almost always in a way that hurts.

The most obvious are Fairfax, Winkman, and what’s-his-face with the gold sword and guyliner, who are trying to kill him. In all cases, Lockwood can’t physically overpower them (Fairfax and Guyliner have guns, Winkman has an electric chair) and his words don’t mean anything to them. And Guyliner is even more dangerous because he knows his parents, knows something about the story behind Lockwood’s armor.

But what’s more interesting are the adults who aren’t trying to kill him.

Barnes picks apart the arguments Lockwood throws up in defense of himself and his agency, not with posturing, but with genuine (although rather harsh) concerns for their safety. For Lockwood, Barnes is a Captain Hook figure, but Barnes acts more like a disgruntled school principal than anything else. He’s working to protect a whole city full of kids that are, by necessity, thrown into harm’s way. And you can see it when Lockwood says that Barnes doesn’t like them much and it throws him off-guard.

The DEPRAC agent at the auction tells them to leave not just because he thinks they can’t handle it, but because they shouldn’t have to

Jesus, you’re children

Yes, he’s aggressive and antagonistic about it, which only makes Lockwood bristle more. Lockwood steps towards him trying to act with authority, even threatening, but all the agent does to break his armor is grab him hard by the shoulder and push him back. But despite that, he is trying to protect them. And he dies to protect them. It is the only instance of someone truly seeing them for what they are: kids. Not agents or weapons or meal tickets.

But it’s jarring. Lockwood can’t process any of that and that’s not his fault. In the world we’ve seen so far, Barnes and the DEPRAC agent are an anomaly. Most other adults don’t care whether they live or die (so long as they’re useful). Lockwood has every reason to believe that every adult is an obstacle at best and a threat at worst.

And it’s painful. All of it. And a little too close to home, this story of children only valued when they’re useful.

#lockwood and co #lockwood & co #anthony lockwood #lucy carlyle #george karim #lockwood netflix

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alex31624 · 2 months

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Duck Comic Reading Club Week 7: Paperinik New Adventures: Earthquake

Ok, let's get to the point, this issue is the best one yet. An amazing story and a gorgeous art combined.

Oh God, the art. The Francesco Guerrini work here is astonishing. The use of the colors is masterful. Brilliant in every aspect.

This week story start with an earthquake on Duckburg. No major disaster occurred, except for good old uncle Scrooge.

Why do you insurance your oil rig with your own insurance company?

I mean, I got that he didn't have to pay himself the quota for the service, but now you have to pay for the damages. So, stop complaining you crazy old bird.

But One found out something fishy about the earthquakes, and is up to Donald to investigate this. Is so funny that Duckburg is Paperopoli in italian. Is better than Patolandia tho.

PK took one of the many vehicles at the Tower, and went for a ride, super hero style.

This page is a piece of beauty.

We got a new character, Mary Ann Flagstarr, a PBI agent. Tough lady.

PK had had encounters with the police, but now, he faced federal agents. My boy is not making any friends.

But, you know? A vigilante, a superhero, can't work with the authority. So, yeah, go get them PK.

Another new character, Professor Morgan Fairfax. What a nice fella, I'm sure he has never done anything wrong in his life.

One knows something is not right, they need to keep investigating. But now, is time to go back to the world of cyber space.

Another beautiful page, this issue can't miss.

But is hard to step into a federal database without anyone noticing, so they got caught. Thankfully, One was one step ahead and got himself a great scapegoat.

Oh, now you don't like spread misinformation, right jerk?

He didn't face any charge, and, to be fair, he was innocent. But, if being ugly was a crime, he would get the chair.

Back to the Professor, and he's making some really evil looking smirks. Could it be that he's not the nice guy that we though?

Also, another banger page.

PK infiltrates in the building, using some advance tech. One is a cheat code, and here's being used at his fullness.

PK had a weird Donald moment, when he stuck in the vent, fall to the ground, and got face to face with the worst security guard ever.

Hey, masked vigilante sneaked in this government facility that I supposed to be looking after. I'm gonna make some lame jokes, and then I'm gonna miss the shots less than a meter away.

Don't come in the morning pal.

You know? I'm starting to think that this guy Fairfax is not that nice.

Yeah, yeah, he's the bad guy. Trying to burn PK alive is in my Being Bad Bingo.

And yet another absolutely gorgeous page. Is amazing.

Thankfully, One and his infinite tech come to the rescue. PK also save the guard, because he's a hero.

Now, this one part was kinda weird. Agent Flagstarr has been shown trough the issue as tough, focus agent, that wants to get the job done. But, a few words of Fairfax and a gift are enough to make her dismiss orders.

Also, that face… you can't trust someone with that face…

Now we found about Fairfax plan. He wants to create a earthquake strong enough that the whole planet would change, and new land would appear.

At the cost of the entire west coast being destroyed.

The worst part? One agrees with him. What the hell man? Not cool One, not cool.

PK got in the plane and try to stop Fairfax, but Flagstarr was in his way. The agent was conflicted on what to do. Madam, help the guy who doesn't want to destroy the whole west coast. Is not that hard.

Man, the art on this issue is out of control.

PK is so cool.

Finally, One got a change of heart, if you can said that, and helped PK to stop this madness. I knew One wasn't a psychopath.

But that last image of the device at the bottom of the sea is quite unsettling.

What can I said? This was awesome. I love all the detective PK stuff, the danger was palpable, One almost got Duckburg destroy. The art was magnificent, the colors were vibrant, it looked beautiful in general.

Hands down, the best one yet.

#dcrc paperinik #dcrc #donald duck #duckverse #pkna #dcrc week 7 #paperinik #duck avenger #one #uno #mary ann flagstarr #professor morgan fairfax

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antisocial-mochi267 · 1 year

Text

JIMIN fic recs oneshot PART 1

Hope it helps to find you the great fics! Hope it helps!! And please leave a comment/like/reblog or any reviews guys the writers should receive the appreciation they deserve (I'll be eventually adding more fics here)

Minors strictly DNI

And if you want recs about any particular trope or au I'm always willing to help 👀🤗

Oneshot :-

Fluff :- ☁️

Angst :- 🥀

Smut :- 🔥

Crack :- 🎃

Personal Favourite :- ✨

1. you.Me.us__ ☁️🔥🥀 (stalker, yandere , thriller) @kosmosguk

2. Driver's license __ ☁️🥀✨ (coming-of-age, one-sided!au, brother's bestfriend!au) @gyukult

3.while you are at it __ ☁️🔥(pool boy jimin, divorced reader). @aureumjeon

4. I need you __ ☁️🔥🥀(exes to lovers, oneshot, idol au) @hisunshiine

5. Crystal snow __ ☁️🥀✨ (figure skating!au, fantasy!au, king jimin, supernatural power). @minniepetals

6. Vampire's garden__☁️🎃(College student jimin, fantasy, dark fantasy, vampire au). @ebonyinktea

7. soliloquy __☁️🎃 (Angel jimin× human reader). @kinktae

8. schrödinger’s cat__ ☁️🎃✨(guardian angel jimin, comfort) @dovechim

9. Azure blue__☁️🎃✨(Adventure, Fairy!Au ) @jimlingss

10. The pull of the tides __☁️🔥(surfur au, Strangers to lovers) @goldenscript

11. Fairytale__☁️🎃(merman jimin × human reader) @gukyi

12. Rock bottom __☁️🥀🔥✨( Idol!Jimin, establishedrelationship!AU, marriage! AU) @jkbabiey

13. Boats against the current __☁️🎃✨ (Hogwarts au, opposite to lovers). @gukyi

14. Into the wilderness __☁️🥀🎃✨ (camp counselor!au, unrequited love!au, friends to lovers!au) @gukyi

15. Lover to lean on__☁️🥀🔥🎃✨ (neighbour au, flower shop au, it's more complicated) @sketchguk

16. Paper bandits __☁️🎃(highschool au, S2F2L) @vantaenims

17. Blowing dandelions __☁️🥀🔥(badboy jimin, e2l, childhood friends, college au). @httpjeon

18. Grinch in law__☁️🥀🔥✨(fiance to marriage, bad to good mother-in-law, established relationship) @mercurygguk

19. Cut me free__☁️🥀🔥(Demon Yandere jimin ) @sopejinsunflower

20. Earnestly yours __ ☁️🎃✨(Highschool au , enemies to lovers , actor au) @gukyi

21. Theophany (To Paint a God) __☁️🥀🔥 (college!au , Old Friends to Lovers , Best Friend’s Brother!Jimin , Bisexual!Reader , Dancer!Jimin , Painter!Reader) @ilikemesometaetaes

22. Hello__ ☁️🥀🔥✨(exestolovers!au, high school pining, adult love, slice of life au ) @gyukult

23. Only you __ ☁️🔥 (single dad jimin, best friends to lovers au) @personasintro

24. Hell-ish__☁️🎃 (establisedrelationship, kinda fun date) @jtrbluv

25. 20 things and continuing I Hades about you__☁️🥀🎃✨ (dj famous jimin× pa reader) @readyplayerhobi

26. Just a little bit of love(is all you really need)__☁️🎃 (gymnastics au) @gukyi

27. Poster boy __ ☁️ (highschool au, social anxiety, comfort) @versigny

28. He's pretending__☁️🎃✨ (Enemies-to-lovers (kinda, jimin is in deniel but lowkey wipped) Daemon!Jimin x Faerie!Reader, fantasy au). @crystaljins

29. Adonis __☁️🎃 (firefighter jimin, s2l ). @xjoonchildx

30. Red gardania__☁️✨ (ballerina au, secret admirer, kinda e2l ) @joyfulhopelox

31. Shake shack __☁️🔥🎃(stranger to crushes to lovers) @kth1

32. The happiest place on earth __☁️🎃🔥 (Disneyland actors au, slice of life au) @dovechim

33. The midnight pack __☁️🎃🔥 (wolf au, S2L) @jjungkookislife

34. Terrible liar__☁️🥀✨ (F2L, pinning , comfort) @writtenwhalien

35. All that glitters __☁️🥀🎃✨(kinda soft Yandere/ tsudere jimin , Obsession) @deepdarkdelights

36. Deviant affairs __☁️🔥🥀(new Yandere stepbro jimin ) @yandere-society

37. Believe it __☁️🥀🔥✨(friends to enemies to lovers (it’s more complicated though)+ bet AU , high school to after high school) @writtenwhalien

38. Love you a latte__☁️🎃(Yandere Jimin, Stalking, Masturbation, obsession, it's kinda angsty though) @worldwidemochiguy

39. Heartbreak Insurance__☁️🎃✨ (insurance agent jimin× fraud reader, S2 F2 L) @jimlingss

40. Wicked obsession __🔥☁️(University AU, friends with benefits, unhealthy obsession) @peachypinkygloss

41. Love pages__☁️🥀(Yandere, highschool au, supernatural kinda) @jimlingss

42. The devil's own luck__☁️🥀🎃✨ (demon jimin , Slice of Life). @jimlingss

43. Beneath the water __☁️🥀🔥🎃✨(merman jimin× human reader, mermaid au, fantasy au). @jungshookz

44. His hoodie my hoodie__☁️🔥🎃✨ ( S2F2L, college au) @yoongihime

45. Kiss the girl__☁️🎃 (Disney land prince jimin×waitress girl, f2l, whipped) @sketchguk

46. Devil's advocate__☁️🎃(devil jimin ×human reader) @7cypher

47. No need for dreaming__☁️🎃(roommate au, clumsy jimin, frenemies to lovers) @ve1vetyoongi

48. Nine to five__☁️🎃🔥(softie smut, fwb2L, Dr. jm) @jiminrings

49. Just a taste__☁️🥀🔥🎃(Vampire jimin, established relationship). @yoonieper

50. Safe haven__☁️🥀🔥✨(royal king’s guard werewolf!jimin × princess reader, forbidden love au, medieval royal au) @kth1fics

51. Spiral__☁️🥀✨(Time traveler Jimin, teenager! reader, underground fighter! Jimin, time jumps, violence, blood, supernatural) @i-am-baechu

52. Red flag__☁️🎃🔥✨( richboy!jimin x mystery!reader, strangers to enemies to lovers to potential plaintiff) @xjoonchildx

#jimin fic #bts x reader #yandere!jimin #jimin smut #jimin comfort #bts fic rec #jimin fic recs #jimin fluff #jimin angst #bts fic #pjm #park jimin #jimin × reader #bts fanfic #bts imagines #bts jimin #jimin oneshot

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shadesoflsk · 7 months

Text

MILLION DOLLAR BLOODLINE — Traición

Dealing with the case in hand, you come across with some valuable clues. Check my million dollar bloodline masterlist for general warnings.

Chapter 1 Chapter 2

pairing: Vampire/Agent Leon x Fem Detective reader

warnings: Sexism (from the press again) few mentions of gore and death, fucked up government, scent (First glimpes of Leon's vampire qualities yay)

author's note: hi... I'm writing this with one eye closed... exhaustion is taking over me and it may show in this chapter. as always, if you see any mistake, you don't. don't even perceive them. thank you so much and love yall.

“Thank God a man stepped in!”

A new headline, a new story being told. It’s rather frustrating to know that no matter what, reality would be twisted to the journalists’ desire and let the only person who actually cares about the case burn in the flames of depiction and hatred just for the ‘sin’ of being a woman.

The same shameless and brutal words are printed in a bright red that resembles the fresh blood of those leaders of the city. In many readers’ eyes and minds, they were expecting to finally see a man taking the case and bringing ‘success’ even though it’s doomed to fail.

No one grieves more than someone who has lost everything—but your right to fight is still running deep in your veins. With a grunt, you throw the newspaper on your desk, almost spilling the black coffee you were previously drinking.

It’s been less than a day since the candidate was found dead. The cause of death? Suicide which was, in a way, surprising. From the number of politicians who have “left this cruel world,” Mr Clark's scene of the crime gave enough proof that you were facing a real self-homicide case.

In front of you lay countless folders and confidential documents that the police department has collected from the first victim to the last one. The only obvious connection all of the victims shared was that all of them were Tier A individuals. People who wouldn’t disappear to find ‘the real meaning’ of life and would surely not kill themselves without a murder weapon.

So, even a rookie detective could surmise that most of those crimes were the smokescreen of something way bigger brewing in the shadows of the city. A city whose beliefs and faith in the government are so cracked now that not even the most nationalist citizens could find peace in their hometown.

A sigh leaves your lips, one that shows the tiredness in your system and heart. Sometimes, the feeling of walking in circles clouds your judgment and overall sanity. In hindsight, a detective ought to be a rightful and morally white person who would walk on fire just for the sake of truth and justice. But each time your eyes land on the atrocious clues you have gathered, the desire to throw away everything gets harder to bear.

Next to the pile of documents and boxes, on your desktop, is a photo frame which shows a younger version of yourself. Beaming pearly white smile with shiny eyes that could blind the camera itself, saying that you were happy was an understatement, you were delighted.

Truthfully speaking, you were naive. You loved to tell everyone you were going to be different, the exception of the rule, the one and only, justice bringer. But in reality, the sole fact you didn’t feel sympathy for those rich people tells you that maybe you weren’t so different.

Or were you?

Fighting between your drowsiness and the obligation to continue working on this case, you grab the envelope Leon previously gave you. A yawn gets stuck in your throat, not allowing any sign of exhaustion to show in your face right now.

The first thing that greets you is a document you quite don’t understand at first. The black words are blurry, proof of how much you need to sleep. A body can’t function without resting but you can’t function if work is due. Soft slaps around your face and a long-needed sip of the black caffeine liquid will do for now.

“Life Insurance…” Your lips work on their own as you read the title, written in black ink. The font style proves the authenticity of the document. Dated July 1979, the legal paper started with the log of a woman’s name and age.

Patricia Clark Powell, 28. American, caucasian. Marital status: Married. Children: 2. Now this is something.

Reading each word carefully, leaving no detail off the table, a rather big number got your attention. After a long overview of this woman’s life details, you come across a table that shows the life insurance payout.

The main and only beneficiary was Robert Clark, he'd inherit the absurd and grotesque amount of 5 million dollars.

But the catch here was that the only requirement to claim the insurance was the death certificate of the insured party, meaning that Patricia had to pass away.

You set aside the document for now. Your fingers graze over the corner of the paper to turn it.

A picture, no, several pictures come into your vision. All of them are colored and clear as water. The shoot is not perfect, as if someone was hiding while taking those photos.

The camera is positioned on a table. Hence the awkward angle it shows, nonetheless the main focus is on two people sitting down.

The table, the walls, and overall decorations are an obvious giveaway of the place they were in. An expensive and pretentious restaurant that only the rich can afford. A stroke to their damned egos knowing that they could buy and eat a whole cow if they wanted to. Not before wiping any crumbs with a one thousand-dollar check.

You squint your eyes and even lean forward to try and inspect in great detail each part of the picture—detective skills kicking in, you may say.

The man on the right has a neatly trimmed mustache, and bushy eyebrows that match his hair color, black. He's wearing a navy blue suit with a gray tie. Very office-like and rather different from his counterpart next to him who wears a hoodie and a cigarette between his lips. The angle showing the faintest details of a tattoo on his right hand, which holds the cigarette.

Flipping through the pictures, you see many more of them but just from different positions. Yet the main highlight is the now obvious identity of the man who exposes himself to the camera's lenses.

Robert Clark.

The last document is a newspaper headline. “CRIMINAL FUGITIVES” it reads and shows several mugshots of criminals who escaped prison over these last five years. Under the pictures, a text box includes some characteristics of the ex-prisoners. Your attention falls on a specific name.

The picture shows a man with brown hair and brown eyes, a stubble growing on his jaw and cheeks. Why was he convicted? Organized crime and contract killing, a hitman in other words. The text described the man as a 5’9 male with no moles and no notorious scars.

But a tattoo on his right hand.

Before you can even process everything you have read and seen, the ring of a phone breaks the solemn silence that has set in your office. Sliding to where the phone was, you pick up the call.

And before you could even utter a word, someone started the conversation first.

“Hey there, Sherlock.” A man’s voice greets you. Deep but smooth tone, easy to distinguish.

“Mr. Kennedy.” You reply, brushing off the nickname he just gave you. “What a timing.”

“Why is that?” Playing dumb, Leon shoots his question.

“I just finished reading the documents you gave me.” A seed of confusion is planted in your statement as you try to make up your mind with the information you just registered. “Where did you get all of this?” You say pressing the speaker closer to your mouth, whispering the words.

“Feeling curious, aren’t we?” Mock oozes from his tone, but there is a hint of genuine playfulness in his speech, as if delighted to be the one providing the confidential information. “You know… As much as I want to tell you, I just can’t.”

“Why?”

“Oh? Am I being questioned?” If you were next to him, you’d see the smirk that has formed on his face. And if you indeed were, a slap would be planted on his cheek, for sure.

Leon continues being a puzzle you couldn’t solve. From the first (and only) moment you met him, his odd and shared disdain for the rich baffled you. You can’t seem to break through the world inside his head.

“Does it feel like I'm questioning you?”

“Kinda.”

“Forget it.” You shrug, leaving the topic as it is. There’s no point in trying to make Leon spit the truth. At least, not now. “But this is truly a key piece to this investigation.”

“That I know,” Leon replies. “But as I told you yesterday, don’t do anything stupid.”

Silence fills the call as you take in what Leon said, or rather, repeated.

“Oh?” Bitterly, you retort. “So you think I’ll do something stupid? It’s funny, all of my male colleagues always told me that.”

“I didn’t mean it like tha—”

“Oh course you didn’t.” Sarcasm was dripping from your words. “Nobody does.” You add with an exhausted sigh coming out from your lips.

“No, but I truly didn’t mean it.” He finally finishes his sentence as your pause allows him to interrupt you.

“Look, sorry… I’ve dealt with these people ever since I remember and It’s just so… fucked up.” He adds. “You’re better than those dickhead detectives. I assure you.”

Now that you think about it, you may have overreacted. But then again, it wasn’t your fault. Being surrounded by people who discriminate and minimize every hardship you face, built a hard shell no one could break through.

Instead of sticking to the awkward topic and Leon’s reassuring words, you decide to change the direction of this exchange.

“Why did you call, Leon?” You ask, a tear forming in your eye due to the lack of sleep and the imminent yawn that threatens to escape from your mouth.

The polite and tactful pattern was broken as soon as his name slipped from your lips. No agent nor Mr. Kennedy. For now, he is just Leon.

Carrying a hint of embarrassment given his previous poor choice of words, he replies to your question.

“Mr. Clark’s wife is holding a funeral for him. I was going to tell you in case you wanted to go.”

His words catch your attention, the funeral could be the perfect opportunity to secretly investigate Patricia. In hindsight, a hunch tells you she isn’t involved—at least directly— in the candidate’s death. But it could give you some clues you may have overlooked.

“Are you going?”

“I might.”

You absentmindedly nod, acknowledging his answer.

“Got it…” You play with the phone’s cord. “I’ll see you there, I guess.”

The chapel shimmers with almost blinding lights. Even though the nature of a funeral is dull and gloomy, the contrast is obvious. The whole setting is the perfect opportunity to show off, once again, the money that was being spent on it. The air is filled with raw indifference and overall pure narcissism.

The lack of mourning and tears throw you off, especially when you feel like an outsider, you don’t belong here. Besides the fact that, of course, no matter how much you worked you could never afford the type of brand every individual was wearing—there is this feeling you can’t brush off.

Your eyes travel over the room, searching for the wife now a widow. It is easy to get distracted by the mingling of certain guests and hushed laughs. Time and place… you thought.

What is supposed to be a thousand agonies and a sea of sorrow turns out to be the perfect act of grief. Let God be the judge of these people who surround themselves in the miseries of others.

Amidst your judgment of everyone in the room, your task of finding Mrs Clark comes to an abrupt stop as a figure you recognize makes its appearance. Now wearing a dark blue suit, Leon’s frame is unmistakable.

He’s next to a woman, brunette hair that reaches her back. A black fascinator is perfectly placed on her head, a wave of cringiness washes over you for the choice of fashion she went with. That must be Patricia Clark.

Confident but subtle, the cackling sounds of your high heels mix with the hushed chit-chat of those in the room. At last, it comes to a stop as you find yourself behind the widow and Leon who had previously acknowledged your presence.

And for a moment, your eyes lock with the agent’s who wears an expression that could only be described as an attempt to warn you about something. But for now, you drift your attention towards the task at hand.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Clark.” You extend your hand while you introduce yourself. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

Manners, of course. You couldn’t feel sorry, especially now that you know that besides being an empty-headed politician, Robert Clark was an almost-murderer.

However, you regret the fact that you chose the polite way of approaching as soon as your hand reached the air instead of the brunette-haired woman’s hand. Then, you realized this wouldn’t be as easy as you had thought.

A bemused expression forms in your face but it fades rather quickly as you remember your objective here. Taken aback, you pull your hand away before bringing them both behind your back.

Leon doesn’t seem surprised by the blatant uncordial treatment Mrs. Clark just gave you. A sneer is present in his face as if he were saying ‘I told you so.’

“Don’t take it personal, darling.” Her voice tone reeks of arrogance and a know-it-all feeling. “I’ve been here for God knows how long. My hand may as well fall off if I keep shaking hands.”

There was no reason to feel amused by the whole interaction, you have dealt with these types of people before. But, the coldness and tactlessness of her words throw you off.

“I understand.” You feign agreement as if the fact that her husband is fucking dead is merely a minor detail. “But please, allow me to share my condolences. A woman as young as yourself shouldn’t be experiencing this.”

You resort to false praise words. There’s nothing else these fuckheads love more than people licking their shoe soles and acting like they are the only people living in the world.

“It’s indeed difficult.” The woman brings her hand to her eyes, wiping the nonexistent tears that were supposed to be there. “My husband preferred to shoot himself instead of continuing being the man of the house.”

What a bitch.

Glancing at Leon, you find him crouching down in front of an infant. Given his brown hair, he must be one of the two Mr. and Mrs. Clark's children.

“Is that your son?” You ask.

“Yes…” An exasperated sigh again. As if she doesn't want to be here. In a sense, it is comprehensible but her overall personality wouldn't allow you to feel an ounce of sympathy.

“How's he dealing with everything?” And after that question, you believe Mrs. Clark will snap at you any time now.

“Like every other kid would.” She replies, sparing not even a glance toward her own child. “He prefers her nanny anyway.”

Mentally cursing the mother, your lips tug a forced smile, one that doesn't reach your eyes but symbolizes the end of this meaningless conversation.

Your eyes travel until they land on Leon and the kid. The little one's eyes seem wet with tears that he so bravely holds back.

Talking to children and elderly people was always the most difficult part of this job. Ever since you took it, those were your soft spot and Achilles’ ankle.

Leon notices your hesitation and motions you to join him. Scooting a bit, he gives you some space for you to crouch down too.

Greetings haven't been exchanged yet, instead of a hello, Leon welcomes you with a name.

“Lucas.” He whispers as you lower yourself to be at eye level with the infant.

You nod.

Lucas looks no older than 5 years old. A mop of brunette curly hair adorns his head.

“Hi Lucas…” You give the little boy a gentle and warm smile. He blinks some tears that fall from his cheeks to the ground.

There's no response, which it's okay. Unlike his mother's behavior, you know this innocent human is actually grieving.

You take your time as tiny hiccups and soft sobs keep Lucas from forming actual sentences.

“Lucas, this my friend.” It was Leon’s turn to speak. His usual chatty tone was replaced by an almost fatherly voice. “You told me you like making friends, didn't you?”

You watch as the little one slowly nods and wipes away the tears that keep rolling down his face. But this time, his sobs are coming to a stop.

“Are you daddy's friend?” He finally asks. However, the question was one you didn't expect.

“Yes.” You lie, as a detective you are used to telling white and not so white lies just for the sake of finding a bigger truth. But lying to a child wasn't something you were looking for.

“Okay…” Lucas responds and looks at both of you and Leon. A flick of light between the living hell of those pretentious people who act like they care.

“Daddy must be proud to see how strong you're right now.” Leon speaks once again and you witness how he ruffles Lucas’ hair in an attempt to cheer him up.

“You think so?” Lucas’ voice, for one, is higher than just a whisper. And for the first time, you notice how he's missing one of his teeth. “Daddy always told me to be as strong as him every time he went to the doctor.”

The word doctor set both of you and Leon off. According to Robert Clark's medical history, he was a healthy individual. No illness and not even allergies.

“Doctor? Was your daddy sick?”

“Weren't you daddy's friend? You should know…” You didn't expect to be outsmarted by a kid.

“Your daddy didn't want us to worry.” Second lie on the day, you're keeping count. “That's why he never told us.”

A pause lingers in the air as you reply to the child. It takes a while before he can answer your question as if conditioned not to talk about his father's doctor visits.

“He sometimes went to the doctor,” Lucas explains after a few seconds of reluctance. “He told me not to tell mommy or nanny. Maybe he didn't want them to worry too.”

“Was your daddy sick?” Leon asks in the same gentle tone he has kept throughout the conversation.

“Dunno…” Lucas pouts. “Doctor was also daddy’s friend.”

The kid’s naivety is providing you with more information than his mother could give you. Of course, his guileless wouldn’t serve any purpose legally speaking. But, it can give you some insight into Mr Clark’s background and motive.

And once again, you don’t have time to process the information as the rumbling of a stomach guides your attention toward Lucas.

“Sir?” Lucas’ eyes meet Leon’s blue ones. “Mommy said she’s busy… But I’m hungry.”

Leon offers Lucas a kind smile.

“Tell you what, kiddo. There’s a coffee shop near here, I’ll buy you something to eat.”

Lucas’ eyes seem to get brighter at the prospect of eating, it leads you to think how long has it been since he last ate something.

When you are turning your back to follow Leon out of the chapel—because there was no way would stay there for a second longer— you feel a tiny hand wrapping around your sleeve.

“Miss.” A pause and a deep breath. “Do you think daddy’s in heaven?”

“...”

“Yes, he is.” The third and last lie.

You tag along with Leon, both of you walking down the street until you reach a coffee shop. No words are exchanged and a rather awkward silence sets between both of you.

Your mind is somewhere else while your body works on its own. You don’t even notice when Leon asks you something, too worried about the case, too scared something bigger than you may eat you whole if you keep poking your nose where it doesn’t belong.

However, as stubborn as you could be, justice needs to prevail.

While biting the inside of your cheeks, Leon’s words bring you back from your trance. “Hey? I asked you if you wanted something.”

You come to notice that you have already walked towards the cash register. Both the cashier and Leon’s eyes fall on you.

“An Americano.”

You come up with the quickest answer you could think of. You watch Leon take out his wallet and pay with cash.

Eventually, both of your orders plus Lucas’ are called and you decide to take a break albeit your attempt at telling Leon there was no time to lose.

“So… any luck with Mrs. Newly Widow?” Leon asks as he takes a bite of his sandwich.

“Nope.” You stir your coffee and blow some air. “Didn’t know she would be so difficult to deal with.”

“Well, she’s no more difficult than you.” He replies jokingly with a feeble smirk on his face.

“Oh, you’re funny. How many times have you used that one with other people?” You retort, the sarcastic answer flying so gracefully out of your lips as if you have been ready for one of his remarks.

“See! That’s what I’m talking about.” He gestures at you. “I’m trying to be friends with you but you push me away.”

Silence dawns upon both of you as you exhale. Although Leon has been nothing but respectful—in his own way— the fear of looking polite and weak with a colleague is still very much present.

Dropping the act of being cold and emotionless isn’t something that you are looking for nor planning to do. Not until you could show the world that you are, in fact, as capable as any other man.

“Look, Leon,” You speak in a calm tone. “I don’t make friends, not in this field and especially not with men.”

As you say so, you reach for a sugar packet. No americano tastes good without sugar.

“Sorry.” You add.

There is nothing to feel sorry about. Your feelings and boundaries shouldn’t depend on someone else. Yet, a part of you couldn’t help but regret your bold choice of words.

“Hey, nothing to apologize for.” And even though he was the one who suggested the whole friendship thing, he is also the one who is soothing the waters. “I know men in general can be a pain in the ass.”

That causes a huff to slip out of your mouth. “Trying to win points?”

“Not really.” He says while chewing on his sandwich. “Besides, you’re too smart for that.”

You chuckle, finally ripping the material of the sugar packet. “Finally we agree on something.”

Drumming his fingers against the hard wooden material both of your gaze into the distance, not adding anything else to the conversation. The aroma of coffee fills the area where you are sitting with Leon.

“Lucas, Mr. Clark’s kid… you were good with him.” It slips off your tongue rather easily. A tinge of sincerity washes over your statement.

And you can observe how Leon’s face went from a resting and soft expression to a stunned one. However, after your previous comments, the awkward and uneasy feeling shifted into an amiable one.

“Was I?” Almost incredulous and even insecure. A slight trace of a vulnerable side you haven’t seen nor expected. “Thanks.”

Judging by his expression, Leon either had a soft spot for kids just like you or there’s something else you don’t know. Most agents show themselves as cold-hearted creatures who give no shit about anyone but themselves or their missions.

But it’s none of your business.

“What Lucas told us, about the doctor. Do you think it may be related to the case?” You ask, back to your normal and professional self.

“I believe it can help us to investigate further,” Leon replies. “but I fail to see how this doctor could be of any help in this case.”

“Maybe not on this one…” You murmur not even noticing the words that fell from your lips.

“What do you mean?” Leon notes your slight behavior change. Clearing your throat, you shake your head dismissing your previous words.

“Nothing.” For now, the missing civilians’ case doesn’t need to be exposed. You fear the government is behind it and the one you’re currently investigating. You don’t need Leon to follow each step you take, especially given his association with the nation’s leaders.

Taking one last sip of your drink, you raise your wrist and read the time. Going back to the chapel wouldn’t bring you more information. Not when everyone seemed more focused on their conversations rather than helping.

Searching through your wallet, you pull a 10 dollar bill and place it on the table, next to your empty cup of coffee.

“What is that?”

“For my coffee.” You respond, getting up from the chair and looking back at Leon. “I don’t like owing to people.”

“You don’t have to, you know?” Leon chuckles and shakes his head. “It’s on me.”

“Well…” You reply. “Then make sure to give it back to me one day.”

Ephesians 6:10-18

Finally, be strong in the Lord and in the strength of his might. Put on the whole armor of God, that you may be able to stand against the schemes of the devil. For we do not wrestle against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the cosmic powers over this present darkness, against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly places. Therefore take up the whole armor of God, that you may be able to withstand in the evil day, and having done all, to stand firm. Stand therefore, having fastened on the belt of truth, and having put on the breastplate of righteousness

Leon’s hands are clean, metaphorically speaking. But his mind is not.

He wasn’t directly involved in the numerous deaths of politicians and CEOs. He just provided the right amount of information for them to kill each other. Playing God amongst them, in a way only he could recognize and embrace.

Death has rejected him but he brings that destiny upon those who sought to destroy the peace settled in the city and therefore nation. That’s the role he accepted once the curse of immortality ran deeply in his veins.

It all started with hints he would drop in the middle of conversations. Twisted words that would seed doubts among elitists. Alliances were broken easily, that he needn’t worry about. But some partnerships were harder to break, sly statements would get him anywhere.

So, direct accusations were made. Obviously, under a fake name or rather an anonymous identity which would prompt people to feel paranoid even in their own homes. It took less than a week for lesser pawns to be found dead or disappear under odd circumstances. Of course, those who own the city would leave no trace of their crimes—so even for him, a federal agent, it was impossible to reach them without his mission being discovered.

So, as soon as he was assigned to help you in this mysterious case, he was delighted. He’d play his pieces right and boom, he’d wriggle his way into the elite that control the city with their tainted and bloody hands and root out the evil.

However, he wouldn’t have thought that his “eternal suffering” disease would act the first moment he saw you.

Ever since he was transformed, the adaptation path was rough and difficult to deal with. Nonetheless, he made a promise to never act upon his instincts, no matter how unbearable they could get.

When he first saw Mr. Clark’s body, it wasn’t surprising. He knew he would choose the path of dying instead of facing his crimes and past. They’re all like that. Cowards, good for nothing, worthless, usel—

A sugary and pleasant aroma flooded his senses which immediately put him at ease amid the gruesome scenario lying underneath his frame.

It wasn’t coming from the dead bastard, that he knew. So what is it? The smell was getting even more prominent each second that passed. It made him dig his short fingernails into the palm of his hand, forming tiny half-moons on the thin skin.

His senses were never that heightened nor his body was that sensible to even the softest of draughts.

And his body worked on his own as soon as the doorknob tweaked, he turned around and acted as if his work was the only thing on his mind.

As if his eternal life wasn’t about to change forever. When forever only meant pain and sorrow, at least for Leon.

#leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x you #leon kennedy #leon s kennedy #resident evil x reader #resident evil

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ssspideysense · 4 months

Text

𝖍𝖎𝖌𝖍 𝖔𝖈𝖙𝖆𝖓𝖊

peter thinks his life is finally turning around after his promotion at stark intel. he's closer than ever to his dream of being a real hero.

you, on the other hand, are crashing and burning. you're closer than ever to losing your shit.

peter parker x f!hero!reader

01: 𝔴𝔦𝔫𝔡𝔬𝔴𝔰

4.3k

Two years.

Peter stared down at the little laminated badge in his hands. The ceiling lights above washed out his picture on the top left corner, so he let his gaze roll over his printed name again and again instead.

Peter Parker. Peter Parker.

Peter Parker, Junior Dispatch Agent.

He brushed his thumb over the text, a small smile hanging on his face. It only took roughly 730 days of kissing ass and running himself ragged, but he finally did it.

The promotion of a lifetime.

He wasn’t an assistant anymore, getting stuck with the tedious little tasks others simply didn’t want to deal with. As of eleven o’clock that morning, Peter was an official agent at Stark Intel, one of New York’s leading security and investigation companies.

… a junior agent, but still.

The meeting let out half an hour ago, but Peter still sat at his desk, taking his time cleaning it out. It wasn’t technically his anymore. They were moving him up to the 13th floor, where bigger names with bigger responsibilities gathered to drink coffee and… do much more important things than they did down here, he was sure.

Those guys got to see the action outside. They got to save the day, five days a week. They got insurance.

“Damn, did Parker get fired?”

Peter looked up from his shiny new badge.

He had worked with a handful of other assistants (associates, as they were more tactfully and officially called) for most of his time at Stark Intel, but not many of them lasted past their probationary period. There was a sort of turn-and-burn culture among the lower levels of the building, Peter came to realize early on. It wasn’t hard for anyone to miss the big cardboard box sitting at the edge of his desk, and it wasn’t hard for people to make assumptions, either.

It’s funny how that sort of thing worked.

“Nah, the other thing,” someone else chuckled, “he’s heading up to dispatch.”

Peter slipped the lanyard over his head and started peeling the various sticky notes and pictures off of his divider’s walls. Projects he didn’t need to worry about anymore, schedules, reminders and memos. Little trinkets and knick knacks got tossed into the box on top of them. He tucked the polaroids safely into his back pocket.

It was feeling more real by the moment. With as much time as he spent in that stuffy, fluorescent office, he couldn’t wait to skip over it in the elevator the next day.

“Dispatch? Who’s he working with now?”

“Don’t know. There’s only a few openings, though.”

The chatter from around the room didn’t faze him. Maybe, if anything, the fact that they acted like he wasn’t just ten feet away would’ve irritated him on a normal day, but he couldn’t be bothered at the moment. It actually got him thinking as he cleared out two years of junk from his desk drawers.

As a junior dispatch agent, he’d be partnered alongside one of the public faces for the company, which maybe wasn’t too different from his previous position— except this time, he’d be out on the street with them, doing more than just conducting post-mission interviews and collecting data. He’d actually be helping them, helping people.

There was a limited pool of agents available, since most of them already had a partner. He didn’t have room to be picky though. He kept his opinions and speculations to himself— at least until he could get home and unload them onto his friends.

Packing away his laptop was the sweetest maraschino cherry of all, sitting on the peak of his career history, all wrapped up in one cardboard box. Peter stood from the creaky chair. It didn't groan like that two years ago, and he’d always meant to tighten it up, but it seems he didn’t have to worry about that anymore.

A blanket of quiet fell over the office once he stood tall above the cubicle dividers. Several pairs of eyes shifted onto him. He tucked the box under his arm and shot his smile around the room.

“Have a good day everyone.”

He never felt more weightless than when he stepped into the elevator and pressed the shiny little button labeled 13.

Six months.

You stared down at the printed pink paper in your hands. There was aggressive typeface all over it— at least, it felt a little aggressive to you — listing different “occurrences and events” that had taken place over the past quarter.

Failure to maintain control of a company motor vehicle.

Destruction to public property.

Inciting panic.

“Okay, inciting panic? That’s a little much, don’t you think?” You said, leaning forward in the uncomfortable chair you’d internally dubbed the punishment throne. You never got called into this office and got waved to sit down in that stiff plastic nightmare for any other reason.

Bruce glanced up at you from his desk, a somewhat miffed expression on his tired face. He rubbed his eyes under his glasses. “Yeah, y’know, I do think that’s a little much. But that’s exactly what happens when you crash a car into a farmer’s market.”

“That makes it sound way worse than what actually happened—“

“No, actually, that’s putting it pretty lightly. You should’ve heard what Tony had to say. I’m surprised you didn’t, with how… opinionated he was.” Bruce made a bridge with his fingers and spoke in that way that made your skin feel tight. Like a disappointed parent. You almost wished he would just yell at you instead.

You flicked your gaze back down to the ticket and shrunk back slightly.

“Stark and I have different opinions on what happened that day,” you mumbled.

“I’m sorry to say it, but your opinion is starting to lose its weight around here. Tony showed me the security footage,” Bruce leaned back in his seat. He looked worn, tired. “I can’t keep defending you like this, kid. You’re running out of chances. I’m sorry. Six months is the best I could do, and I can’t do it again.”

The room suddenly felt very small for being as big as it was. You rubbed a hand over the side of your neck and read the bottom of the paper again.

Corrective action taken is as follows:

6 Months Watchful Eye Probation

Approved by Tony Stark

What a hellish day, made worse only by his name signed so flashy on the thick black line with red ink. Your stomach already dropped to your feet earlier. It was probably somewhere under the building at this point.

“I can’t do Watchful Eye, Dr. Banner.”

Bruce let out a terse breath. “I’d say it’s a lot better than being unemployed. Look— you do the six months, you don’t miss any check-ins, you fill out your reports… you’ll be back in good graces.” His tone fell a bit softer. A moment of temporary reprieve for your mounting anxiety. “Six months is nothing.”

You watched him from across the desk for a moment. He’d never led you wrong before, but your gut twisted uncomfortably at the idea.

Six months of giving up sugar was nothing— six months of having Tony Stark and all his tech goonies up your asshole was a lot. Still, you relented with a slow sigh.

“I still have my opinions,” you stood from the punishment throne, certainly feeling punished, and crumpled up the paper, tucking it into your jacket pocket, “but, uh, I’ll save ‘em for you, for another day. Maybe some cookies and coffee next lab day.” Bruce watched you scoot the chair forward with your boot, making a short but loud screech. “Thanks, Dr. Banner.”

Defeated. Your gaze stuck to him for just a moment too long as you took a few steps back, before your body finally caught up and turned.

Bruce sighed and weakly raised two fingers from his desk in farewell. “Good luck.”

Fuck luck. You needed a fucking miracle.

Any agent stuck in the Watchful Eye program was inevitably burned, either by the industry or the public itself. It didn’t matter what Stark or Dr. Banner said. You really couldn’t afford that kind of dent in your already rocky reputation, or your rapidly thinning paychecks.

There had to be something you could do. Working overtime, helping out in the lab, fuck… maybe Stark likes cookies?

Who am I kidding? I’m not baking Tony Stark fucking cookies.

The pink ticket was a boulder in your pocket as you stepped onto the elevator, your finger jabbing into the stupid button 13.

It smelled sharply like chemicals and salt water. A strange combination.

The elevator doors slid open to reveal a custodian on his knees, scrubbing away at a portion of the tile that’d been marked off with tape. Peter met his exhausted gaze almost instantly.

He couldn’t think of much to do other than offer a polite smile and short nod to the man, shifting out of the way to avoid his work area.

It was only as Peter walked past that he noticed the burning, sickly smell coming from the stain on the floor. Whatever the custodian was scrubbing into the thick dark liquid was bubbling up fiercely in reaction.

He held his breath and continued on down the hall, leaving the poor man to his job.

Strange things happen all the time in this industry. That’s simply how it is in such an unpredictable slice of life. He wondered what kind of a budget Stark Intel had for things like that— what he assumed it was, anyways. Superpowered mishaps. He never saw any of that in the lower levels. Anything of that nature was hush-hush, company confidentiality, the whole notarized nine yards.

Peter pulled himself from his thoughts once the sleek hallway spit him out into a large rectangle of a room. Several private cubicles lined the walls, looking like little suites instead of corporate-hacked work spaces. Straight ahead, a giant TV stretched from the dark tile to the ceiling, playing over a newscast on low volume.

Peter watched the woman’s blown up face for a while in awe. She recounted some fiasco at a farmer’s market that happened last weekend. What a mess that had been. Thankfully nobody had gotten hurt— they just couldn’t figure out what had happened. The car that had lost control and crashed into the scene was empty when they got to it.

“Hey, man, are you lost or somethin’?”

Peter snapped his head to the side. His stomach flipped involuntarily as a thick, salty, brine-like stench instantly clutched at his throat.

The man was sitting several feet away, kicked back with his feet up in the second cubicle along the wall.

Peter didn’t recognize him, but then again, he rarely saw the dispatch agents outside of their street uniforms.

He adjusted the box in his hands and cleared his throat. “Uh, sort of. I just got transferred up here,” he turned to face him, then paused, unsure if he should go in for a handshake or not. “I’m Peter Parker.”

The agent raised his brows. The light reflected off his wet skin almost blindingly. He leapt from the chair and joined Peter, taking his beachy odor with him. He reached forward and grabbed the badge around Peter’s neck to look at it more closely.

“No shit, eh? Junior Dispatch Agent Parker. I thought you were, like, a food delivery guy.”

He chuckled and let the badge fall back against Peter’s shirt.

“I’m Darian. Also known as Cascade—“ he paused, taking a breath and setting his hands on his hips, “—the name’s… a work in progress. Riptide was already taken.”

Peter nodded dumbly. He tried to focus on Darian’s words, but his sinuses stung, his throat clenched, his eyes watered. A cough forced its way out of his chest and he took a small step backward.

“Yeah, I, uh… no, I’m supposed to meet Dr. Banner, I believe,” Peter said. “Do you know where I could find him?”

Or is there any other way out of this conversation without being rude?

Darian nodded, but sucked his teeth and blew out a sigh. “Banner’s kind of busy right now,” he replied, vaguely tense, but quickly shifted back to the casual tone from moments ago, “c’mon, I’ll show you your desk while you wait.”

He laid a hand on Peter’s shoulder and guided him toward the far wall, where a row of much smaller cubicles sat lined together like a pack of gum. A warm, wet sensation immediately bled through the fabric and made Peter grimace.

“Whoops. Sorry, that’ll come out in the wash, probably,” Darian chuckled and took his hand back. A perfect wet print sat dark over Peter’s clean linen shirt.

Some old saying May used to feed him about windows and opportunities was just out of reach in his memory, but Peter held onto the sentiment regardless with a vice grip. He reluctantly placed his box on top of the empty desk, grateful that in that moment, some other agent bounded over to distract his self-appointed guide.

“Darian! You hear anything yet?”

“No, but—“

“She’s getting canned. No ways about it.”

Darian shot a glance between Peter and this hulking man stuffed into a button-up. “Maybe we shouldn’t ta—“

“Oh, new guy. What’s your thing?”

And then, both sets of eyes were on Peter. He felt himself shrink a bit despite the fire in his stride just moments ago, before encountering any of these agents.

“Uh, me?” Peter quipped and immediately felt stupid. “Oh, yeah. Well, y’know, I’m… strong,” he cleared his throat and stuffed his hands into his pockets, trying to look much more casual than he felt. “And… I can run really fast, and… some other stuff…”

A few beats of quiet sludged by before the big guy snorted loudly. “They’re really scraping the barrel these days huh?”

Peter’s heart sank, heat rising up his neck in embarrassment. Darian must’ve felt a spark of pity because he nudged his fellow agent, leaving a little wet mark in his wake. “C’mon, Vic, don’t be like that. My boy Parker hasn’t even had his physical yet.”

The physical— would that be today? Peter wasn’t exactly in a physical performance type of mindset (or outfit). What would he have to do? Surely it wouldn’t just be a standard medical exam…

Clearly more amused than anything, Vic shrugged and took a sip from the thermos in his baseball-glove sized hand. “I guess we’ll see whenever Banner’s done chewing out the spaz.”

“Hey, that’s not cool, man,” Darian mumbled.

“What? Look, kid,” Vic looked pointedly at Peter, “I’m sorry to say it, but you picked the wrong time to follow your dreams. This place has taken a real shit, and it’s messy, and it stinks. It stinks real bad.”

Peter stiffly glanced at Darian, who matched his gaze, then looked back to Vic.

“In fact, this place is full of little shits. Little shits walking around, doing whatever they want, crashing into farmers markets—“

“Allegedly,” Darian intercepted, “but, continue.”

Vic grumbled. “I hate it when you interrupt me. What was I saying?”

There was a ringing low in Peter’s ears. He was in a vacuum in his own head, idly nodding along to whatever Vic was ranting about.

Maybe he made a mistake. Maybe he should’ve gone to trade school instead, become an electrician, something like that. That was a decent living. Something his aunt May could still humbly brag about to her friends at brunch.

No, he didn’t mean that. He couldn’t, when this had been his vision of his future for so long.

It was just the first day.

He hadn’t even had his physical yet.

It took Peter a moment to realize the conversation before him shifted. Vic and Darian both twisted around toward the elevator hall, so Peter tried to shake the cotton out of his ears and pay attention. He needed an out, somehow. He needed some time to clear his head.

Charlie threw up in the hallway again.

You skirted around the taped off tiles and eyed the suspect chemical burn staining the shiny surface. A putrid sort of burn clung to your sinuses as you passed by, making your eyes water up.

It felt like the universe was telling you off at this point.

And maybe it really was, because your stomach soured on the way to your desk, you scrambled to find your keys, and it seems like someone took your lunch from your cubicle. A scowl sat on your face as you shoved your laptop into your bag. Seconds weren’t quick enough as you gathered your things and made a beeline back to the elevator.

Passing through the heart of the 13th floor, your boots squeaked against the tile. You could smell your coworker Darian somewhere but worse than that, your blood pressure spiked once Vic’s familiar chuckle rang out.

“Looks like Banner’s free now, Parker,” his voice always boomed no matter how ‘quiet’ he was being.

You didn’t look their way, even when a set of rapid footsteps trailed behind you to the elevator.

“Excuse me,” an unfamiliar voice was behind you. Soft, but clear. And glancing up at his face, he seemed maybe just as stressed as you at that moment. Maybe. “Could you tell me how to find Dr. Banner?”

Hearing Dr. Banner’s name again pricked you in the moment, salt in a very fresh wound. You pressed the elevator button and sucked in a breath through your nose. “Floor 15, last door on the right.”

“Got it, thank you.” He paused. “I’m Peter Parker.” He blinked a few times and looked off to the side, an air of awkwardness clinging to him.

You flicked your gaze in his direction, adjusted the bag on your shoulder, and replied quietly with your name. The silver doors before you slid open after what felt like an eternity. You walked in, and a beat later, Peter followed, keeping a polite distance in the small space. A second after you pressed the buttons you both needed and the doors closed you in, Peter let out a breath. He coughed into his fist and tugged a little on his collar.

“Sorry. I’m not sick or anything, it’s just… um, allergies,” he said.

“No, it’s Darian. He smells like Sea World,” you replied.

A look of relief flashed over his face. “Okay, so I’m not the only one who…” he sighed, “I didn’t want to say anything. He seems nice.”

“He is nice. But he reeks. And he leaves little puddles everywhere.”

Mechanical whirring filled the tiny room. Peter scratched his nose and looked down, the ghost of a grin on his face. “Is there, um, anything I should know? Y’know, for onboarding stuff?” He asked like he was unsure of what he was saying the whole time.

Your bad mood hung stubbornly over you like storm clouds, but you answered anyway. “The physical is worse than you think.” The doors slid open to yet another sleek hallway, however, this one was remarkably easier to breathe in. “Also, the baby is the bomb,” you added.

Peter shot you a puzzled look, stilled in his spot. “Huh?”

Your finger hovering over the ‘close doors’ button was enough of a hint that you were ready to end this interaction. “Good luck,” you replied flatly, and watched Peter step out onto the 15th floor, looking more confused than reassured.

Finally alone with your thoughts, the elevator hummed softly as it brought you to the ground level. In this fleeting moment of privacy, you took a puff from the modified inhaler Banner had given you, and tucked it back into your bag.

Time to go home and ruminate.

Peter wondered, briefly, if Tony Stark had ever heard of OSHA.

Sweat ran down his temples, already soaked into his hair. His feet smacked against the treadmill over and over like they had for the past however many miles, and he could barely feel his legs anymore, but they kept moving. He was thankful, at the very least, that he didn’t have to do all this in slacks and a button-up. The Stark Intel athletic shorts and sneakers they’d provided him didn’t fit quite right, but he tried not to get too philosophical about it.

Dr. Banner watched Peter, eyeing the wires and machines attached to him as he ran in place. It’d been a long afternoon of gathering data, trying to cover all the superpowered bases.

The agents that came to work at Stark Intel were all unique, with their own… talents. Strength, agility, endurance, extraordinary ability. The physical was not only designed to take record of Peter’s capabilities, but to iron out specifics like required tech or accommodations for suits.

Also, he needed to settle on a name. And a suit design, or something. But he didn’t have space to think about that at the moment.

“Excellent, Peter,” Dr. Banner spoke into the microphone and scribbled something down on the form before him. “Winding down now. This concludes the endurance portion of the exam.”

Peter huffed out labored breaths as the treadmill steadily slowed to a stop. His muscles ached and his lungs burned and the sweat stung in his eyes, but at least it was over.

Turns out your warning in the elevator was blunt but honest. The exam was definitely worse than he thought it’d be. Peter was strong, and Peter was fast, and he thought proving it would be no big deal — but he completely ate his confidence once the simulations started.

The situations ranged wildly from things like helping a lost child find their caregiver, to finding and defusing a bomb (you were right, again — it was strapped to the bottom of a stroller).

The technology available to Stark Intel was beyond impressive, and undoubtedly more than expensive.

A gush of cool air washed over him as the lab door slid open and Banner strolled inside. He offered Peter a bottle of water, which he gulped down almost instantly. “Very promising results. All that’s left is the ending analysis.” Banner smiled politely and tucked Peter’s file under his arm. “You’re free to use our showers. I’ll be waiting in my office for you when you’re ready.”

Peter nodded and thanked him but he felt like jelly on his way to the locker room. The shower helped, hot water doing what it could to his screaming muscles, but Peter was still looking forward to heading home and flopping onto his bed. He changed back into his original office attire, grimacing at the dried-but-still-very-visible handprint still on his shoulder.

Banner’s office was spacious, with potted plants and large windows but a comically small chair pulled up to the front of his desk, like a child was visiting before he came by.

“Have a seat,” Banner gestured vaguely to the chair, his eyes occupied on all of Peter’s paperwork.

Peter raised his brows but sat in the plastic chair anyway. He shifted around a bit uncomfortably and waited quietly for the older man to start.

Banner pointed to some lines of his own handwriting on the page. “Peter Parker. Twenty-four, graduated from Midtown Technical Highschool. Attended one year at NYU. Computer Science.”

Peter’s leg started bouncing while he listened, despite how fatigued he was. Nerves know no limits.

“Superior strength, agility, endurance, and heightened senses. He can also scale vertical surfaces and completely support himself, even upside down.”

“What, so he’s sticky ?” Tony Stark’s voice nearly made Peter jump as it cut into the room. Banner grinned toward his computer screen before looking back to Peter, waiting for him to answer.

Peter blinked a few times. “Uh, well, not generally, sir.”

“But you stick to walls?”

“I, um, I can. If I wanted to.”

Banner held his hand to his chin, amused in the moment. “Continuing, Tony,” he mused, looking back down at the paper, “strong sense of morality and ambition. Average to above average simulation results. Viable for both offensive and defensive procedures.”

“Sounds green to me.” Tony chuckled through the speaker. “Get it, Bruce?”

Banner shook his head, amusement mostly gone now, as he scribbled some more words onto the page. “Very funny, Tony.”

“Didn’t hear the kid laugh, but we’ll work on it. Anyways, you got a name in mind? Some kinda motif you wanna work with?”

He hadn’t gotten that far yet. Not seriously, anyways. He’d spent a few years doodling out different costume designs that came to him in daydreams, but Peter felt creativity wasn’t usually his strong suit.

“Um, not really, sir,” he replied, shifting in the little chair.

“You have time to work on it,” Banner said, signing his name on the bottom of a few forms. “Your next few shifts will be mostly in the lab while we work on a suit for you. Of course, your input and participation is encouraged and valued.”

With the t’s crossed and the i’s dotted, Banner dismissed Peter for the day and sent him on his way with a laminated information booklet and a brief goodbye from Tony’s disembodied voice.

Peter wasted no time getting home. The moment he was inside his door, he kicked off his shoes and collapsed in the middle of his bed. A good few minutes passed full of nothing – just the gentle tick of his ceiling fan, the faint hum of his refrigerator down the hall, and his good-natured attempts at deep breaths.

Underneath the visceral relief of being home and motionless, he was proud of himself for everything he had made it through earlier. He couldn’t be making a mistake when he felt so accomplished at the end of the day, right? Change is usually rough and uncomfortable at first.

Somehow, his mind wandered back to his interaction with you at the elevator.

Vic mentioned you getting fired (and being Little Shit #1), though you didn’t empty out your desk on your way out. He didn’t exactly seem like a reliable source of information anyway.

Sleep took Peter before he could ruminate any further.

#peter parker x reader #peter parker #mcu!peter parker x reader #mcu #spiderman

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androxys · 2 months

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I Read Absolute Power: Origins #1 and I Have Thoughts

(AKA, a comparison of Amanda Waller's portrayal in AP:O #1 and her 1987 origin in Secret Origins #14, with a smattering of other Suicide Squad 1987 panels)

Tumblr compressed a lot of these panels, but just click on the images to re-expand.

TL;DR: Amanda Waller, you've sure come a long way in 40 years. I'm a bit critical of some changes, but ultimately hope DC can still pull it off.

Okay, to start off, I really like John Ridley. I was interested to see how he was going to update Amanda Waller's origin story to be more in line with both a world 40 years after her debut and the more ruthless, calculating character DC has made her out to be. He definitely succeeded, but I'm still not convinced Amanda is in a better position for it.

So it's obvious that Ridley read Secret Origins #14, because the opening sequence directly follows Waller's previous origin. Her daughter Damita is attacked and killed by a drug dealer and predator known as Candyman, Waller's husband kills Candyman in revenge, but he sustains a mortal injury himself and also dies.

A new thread happening here is that the death of Damita and Joe Waller happen at the same time as Batman bringing in Joe Chill, the man who murdered his parents. While the police are with Waller after her husband's death, Jim Gordon is giving a press conference.

I like this as a depiction of the way (white) justice systems systemically fail Black citizens, and I think this is a thread that Ridley weaves well. It's not fair that Batman, as a vigilante, can get his justice on the murderer who changed his life while Joe Waller is labeled a felon and his widow and children are denied life insurance.

What I don't think is that this logically sets up what will happen next with Waller's character. Because the Candyman wore a mask while killing Damita, the police can't decisively blame him and acquit Joe. (The police also refuse to do the work to prove it was Candyman, because again, systemic racism) Amanda then makes up her mind that she will not live in a world where vigilantes can hide behind masks and escape the law, and she starts to get into politics.

Originally, Waller does this by getting in on the campaign for Marvin Collins, a local councilman in her community. Waller originally supported Collins because of his progressive policies and lack of "political machine" backing. I read this as Waller having faith in the system of government, seeing that it fails people, and wanting to apply herself within it to make a positive change.

This starts to bring us to the Suicide Squad. Originally, Amanda Waller found government files on the original Suicide Squad, a task force that operated during WWII. She found these files while already in Washington, and used them as a jumping off point to develop her own idea: a clandestine and deniable strike team that uses supercriminals as agents of the government.

Now, I won't deny that the character of Amanda Waller has to have some sort of inherent ruthlessness to even think up this idea. I will always be defending the opinion that she is an endlessly complicated woman who is at times hypocritical, but I think she ultimately sees herself serving a greater system. The discussion around the Squad at this point is what they can do for the country. She's pitching this to the President as a way to advance national interests.

I feel like this country-first concept is in pretty direct contrast with her current characterization, which is more focused on how her experiences have shaped her to want to control the forces that directly affected her life.

She backs Collins now because his anti-vigilante stance mirrors her own, and she sees him as her way to begin collecting political power. Helping her community seems secondary to her own interests. She's already got a dream for Task Force X, she just needs to get to a place where she can make it happen.

She also is just... more ruthless in this depiction? She was depicted as working tirelessly for the campaign even as others gave up and stopped contributing. Was this because she believed in the politician's view of making things better? Sure, maybe, but it was also so she could alter Collins' campaign finance records. Now she can manipulate him into doing what she wants, again, to further her own political power.

One of the running threads of the original Suicide Squad run was Waller's consistent grappling with the moral and ethical decisions required to run that sort of team. It's easy to say that it's ethical to the president when it's largely still an abstract. But over the course of the comic, Waller becomes more and more disillusioned that what she's doing is actually effective, given the cost.

The current construction of present-day Amanda Waller as a "comic book big bad" means that the heroes are likely going to band together, get their powers that she took away back, and stop her. The outside force will likely assert its sense of justice on her, rather than Amanda herself coming to terms with the cost of what she does and deciding it's not worth it. There is a difference there! I think it's more powerful for a character to have a realization on their own about the corrupting nature of power, rather than having to be taught or overthrown.

I, of course, don't know any this for certain. Absolute Power isn't over yet. But it was a multi-year journey for 1987 Waller to reflect on her character and choices, and that was before DC had doubled down on making her a Justice League level villain. In her current origin, she's already comfortable with a level of manipulation that took her years of development to get to, and which was specifically not the peak of her 1987 character. And we know that years later in-universe, she hasn't become less comfortable with ends-justify-the-means type thinking.

Her current origins may parallel one another, but I think they're ultimately producing two very different characters, because the foundational motivations come from different places. Ridley is a fantastic writer, and he has done a great job updating Waller's origin to be in line with our contemporary political sensibilities (read: general disenchantment) and DC's vision of who Waller should be in the past to produce the Waller of the present. I'm not sure this Waller is the best iteration of her character, though. I'm going to keep an eye on Amanda and continue to hope for the best.

#dc comics #amanda waller #chit chat

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museqmeg · 3 months

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Meg's Trigun Stargaze thoughts:

It really makes sense that the anime got a new title. It was something myself and the fandom had predicted given that the words "prequel" and "final phase" have been thrown around since March 2023.

So where does "Stargaze" come from? A couple of sources. Visual motifs in the manga and both animes. It is a space western and very fitting. It may also be a call to "look to the stars." (Insert the Earth ships and Chronica and Domina as teased in s1's end credits) My prediction for Trigun Stargaze is that it's going to pick up where this left off:

I would also like to note that this happens in Volume 11, Chapter 2 of Trigun Maximum.

But fear not! Yes, it happens later in the story, but Orange has already proven to us that the chronology doesn't matter to the current adaptation's storytelling. The key beats are still hit.

My theory about the language of "final phase." It is a direct reference to Trimax Vol 1, Ch 1 - the "Final Phase" is humanity's confrontation with Knives and The Ark in December.

Orange also said that TRISTAR? TRIGAZE? (did we decide?) happens *two & a half years* after JuLai. That would put the timeline in February.

What other event happens in December and February?

Meryl's birthday!

With the way Orange plays with the timeline and weaves everything together, my hunch is that the arrival of the Earth fleet, Knives's ark, and Meryl's birthday will happen simultaneously. It's a way to pull Meryl and Milly in while setting up the story's conflict at the start.

What about Vash and Wolfwood? It's pretty apparent that we'll see the Eriks arc also happen simultaneously. What happens in December will pull Vash from his life with Lina and Sheryl. It's very probable that Wolfwood will come to get him as we've seen in 98 and the manga.

However, the conflict in December could also have Meryl and Milly looking for Vash.

Maybe something happened to Bernardelli Communications in the chaos and their only option was to take jobs as insurance agents?

Zazie's interest in Meryl and how humanity views Vash along with their trepidation over Knives after JuLai could also have a hand in getting back into the mix. They also know about the Earth crew.

Maybe Zazie is the controlling entity in all of this?

One thing is for sure. Orange has been heavy-handed with using the word "final." We know Muto loves Knives. I wouldn't be surprised in the least if Trigun Stargaze focuses on Knives as they did for Vash in Trigun Stampede.

I'm going to leave this for you, the fandom to ponder:

#trigun #trigun stampede #trigun maximum #trigun stargaze #vash the stampede #nicholas d wolfwood #meryl stryfe #milly thompson #zazie the beast #meg's trigun thoughts

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the-nysh · 1 year

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Trimax vol1: Longhaired Meryl Appreciation

Both Vash and Meryl grew out their hair in the 2yr timeskip since Fifth Moon (prev vol), that they'll both get haircuts before formally returning to duty. BUT! Since in-universe it's Meryl's birthday (February), and as an experienced (and silly!) ~professional~ she understands the value of taking a well-deserved vacation before she inevitably gets swept into the chaotic typhoon of her job again....so for now, here's her looking radiant with her longer hairstyle:

Bonus comparison to her typical hair length looks like this:

Additional chapter character notes of interest below the cut:

When her coworkers start gossiping and making assumptions about how horrible and dangerous her job (supervising Vash) must've been, she gently corrects them--defending Vash's name, saying "it wasn't such a terrible experience; Vash was a very different person than everyone thought he was; he was actually a very caring and honest man." Very good! She's seen much of his genuine kindness and efforts on their travels, that she won't sit idly by when others continue to misjudge him or speak ill of his character.

(Interestingly in contrast, it seems Meryl has a tolerance towards barbs and criticisms thrown at herself--remaining comparatively silent and/or suppressing it when she's the topic, but she will speak her mind on behalf of others, like Vash's reputation here.)

When her boss calls her to identify recent photos of Vash, she has tears of recognition--it's the first time (and confirmation he's alive) she's seen him after Fifth Moon! She notes his hair color has changed...

However, this time that's her boss's only use for her, as he's hired another guy in charge to intercept Vash. Meryl tries to help by offering the new guy all her reports on Vash as references, but the guy rudely insults and dismisses her! Saying her reports are uselessly no better to him than tabloids--as if she were writing Vash as another 'legendary mysterious hero'--which ah! If her previous words to her coworkers were any clue, she was probably working just as hard to clear Vash's name thru her insurance reports too. :') Lovely integrity and consistent dedication, Meryl!

She was willing to let the new guy go (while dissing a silly gesture behind his back~ again, she refrained from arguing or speaking up for herself here) and sit this one out, until she learns he's a trained military soldier...uhoh. (*cough* whom Vash also doesn't trust and won't open his door for...until the guy mentions lies he brings word from Meryl--ding!)

Although Meryl was supposed to be on vacation, she personally intervenes upon realizing this in-house 'insurance agent' is a hit-man with an unethical approach to 'risk management'--he's here to kill Vash and she does NOT agree with that! (Her non-lethal stance on dealing with targets actually aligns with Vash's values!)

The guy berates her as foolish to get so involved, while pointing a gun at her head--so brave, Meryl! She calmly remembers what her coworker said, about how "a woman can't be happy when she's always getting thrown into life-threatening situations" and thinks back to every danger she's encountered--the Nebraskas, BDN and the Bad Lads, Monev the Gale, EG the Mine...Fifth Moon, to finally focusing on...Vash's smile.

Almost like a grounding effect. 'Do it for him~' Where normally yes, she'd agree, but getting so 'foolishly' involved and thrust into countless dangerous situations becomes necessary and worth it (for Vash's smile...)

Also because, did the guy completely dismiss and underestimate her so bad, thinking she'd carelessly come here all by herself without a plan?! Hah! Cause Milly's on supportive sniper stungun duty to trash into this guy's ego; played 'em well, girls~ With this, Meryl's once again stepped in to take preventative measures against trouble to help save Vash's life, even from afar without him knowing.

Although Milly asks if they can go meet Vash, Meryl insists on keeping professional boundaries at a distance for now--so they can prioritize their self-care enjoying their much-needed vacation, as they'll meet that 'troublemaker' through work and soon get carried away by the typhoon again, all in due time~

(Back at the office, now who's going to be their most qualified replacement for that guy injured on the job? Ding ding, all along that would be Meryl!)

#trigun #trigunbookclub #manga panels #commentary #whoops didn't plan on writing that much but i felt the need for more meryl appreciation

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littlemisspascal · 1 year

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Anytime, Anyplace, Anywhere

pairing: modern-ish Pero x Female Reader

summary: In which Reader is a newspaper columnist with few self-preservation instincts, Statesman is an insurance company with a catchy jingle, and Pero is the insurance agent assigned to look after you. Except only two outta three of these statements are true.

word count: 3k+

rating: T

warnings: Reader is nameless with no description except for being shorter than Pero, language, blood, violence, guns, non-major character death, Author’s poor attempt at humor, Author knows nothing about insurance and/or a career in journalism, mistaken identity, supernatural elements, worldbuilding

author note: this is what happens when I watch Puss in Boots The Last Wish and then a Statefarm commercial and then random inspiration sparks. It’s borderline a crack fic, but hey, sometimes that’s what the muse wants. I even have more scenes outlined beyond this so...Hopefully someone out there enjoys this 😊

The story of how you wound up in Wader’s Rest is a rather boring chain of events that can be summed up as follows: you graduate with a journalism degree, spend the next five years trying and failing to convince a major news outlet to hire you all the while typing up fluff pieces for your hometown’s website so you can afford food and other necessities, receive a job offer out of the fucking blue offering you a columnist job in a town hundreds of miles away, decide screw it let’s go and…yeah, that’s about it. For these last six months, Wader's Rest has been your new home.

Wader's Rest is a medium-sized-ish community settled along the southern coastline, perpetually smelling of freshly caught fish and sea salt. It’d be a decent tourist destination, in your opinion, if it wasn’t also a hive of criminal activity, crawling with smugglers and drug dealers and fugitives. The city can be split into two types of people: crime-doers and crime-avoiders.

Oh, yeah, and then there’s you in a solo category of your own making: crime-seeker. Insert trumpet fanfare here.

There’s a grand total of one newspaper responsible for updating residents on all things Wader's Rest-related. Wader’s Reader has a staff of twelve working all hours of the day in an ugly brick building on the corner of Main Street, right across from a coffee shop you’re 65% sure is a front for black market antiques but it’s also the only place that doesn’t judge the ungodly amount of sugar you pour in your drink so. Until that percentage rises up to 100%, you reckon it’s alright giving them a pass in the meantime.

In a time where a quick search on your phone or computer can answer any conceivable question you have in seconds, the residents of Wader's Rest are strangely protective of their newspaper. Like, Gollum my precious! kind of protective. The most likely reason is probably because the internet access out here is so painfully slow it’s practically nonexistent, but you like to think they actually look forward to reading your column. No more writing about baking contests and music festivals, not when you’ve discovered the addictive adrenaline rush of investigating the many, many, many crimes of Wader's Rest. Nothing else gets your blood pumping as much as witnessing an illegal exchange of weapons in the back parking lot of a Wendy’s.

So it isn’t uncommon then, to spend your nights crouched behind dumpsters (or sometimes even inside them) or picking locks or doing other shady-as-hell-if-you-had-any-other-job activities in order to gather all the facts and details you need to write the perfect piece for your loyal readers. Insert inspiring quote here like fortune favors the bold or whatever.

It also isn’t uncommon for your nights to end either in the hospital or covered in so many bandages it looks like you spent the night in the hospital. You’re on a first name basis with most of the staff, including Dr. William Garin who’s got such vibrant crystal blue eyes he could’ve been a glasses modeler in another life. Shame he’s got such overwhelming heart-eyes for your boss or you’d be severely tempted to shoot your shot.

Anyways.

See, the problem is, you’re not exactly a master of subtlety yet, and also some of your column subjects don’t always appreciate being watched like they’re zoo animals—they appreciate it even less when you point out that conducting their illegal business in creepy alleyways and abandoned warehouses doesn’t magically make them invisible. Really, any Average Joe could stroll right in and watch the proceedings.

You grunt, head banging against a cement wall so hard you see stars. A meaty fist tightens its grip on your shirt, holding you high enough the toes of your sneakers barely scuff the ground, while the owner of that fist—so massively muscular he’s more of a grizzly bear than a man—glares down at you through narrowed eyes.

Yeah, all those Average Joes really don’t know the fun they're missing out on. Concussions plus bruised, possibly cracked ribs equal exciting times

“Hey Big Mac,” you wheeze, blinking until your vision’s more or less clear and his unimpressed face swims into focus. “Did you get more muscles? You look like you got more muscles.”

If possible, his unimpressed look increases.

Big Mac’s been a recurring foe since your first week in Wader's Rest when you went out for a midnight McDonald’s run—you have a weak spot for their McFlurries, alright?—and discovered him throwing bricks at the neighboring weed shop’s front window. Where he got the sack of bricks remains a mystery, but upon shattering the glass he was in and out in a matter of thirty seconds with an armful of edibles before disappearing into the darkness of night. You’d been so stunned by the whole ordeal not only had you forgotten to call the police, but your McFlurry had melted before you’d even tasted it.

You’ve lost count at this point how many times he’s been featured in one of your columns. Big Mac’s like a really nasty stain on a white shirt, impossible to ignore, but he’s also smooth as fucking butter, sliding out of cuffs before any charges can stick. You don’t even know the giant’s real name (don’t care to learn it either, the nicknames you hand out like free candy add some extra pizazz to the writing)—just that he likes edibles and that when he’s not breaking store windows he can usually be found working as a henchman for any one of the twenty something crime lords in the city. Apparently they don’t mind sharing lackeys so long as there’s no loose lips. Snitches wind up in ditches after all.

Tonight you’ve interrupted a clandestine meeting in the factory district between Big Mac and a new fellow you’d decided to call Stringbean due to his lithe frame—you never claimed to be creative with your nicknaming ability. All it took was accidentally knocking over a trash can with a deafening bang and here you are, helpless as an overturned turtle, hoping you can talk your way out of this predicament with as little bloodshed as possible.

The telltale cocking of a gun immediately dampens those hopes.

Both you and Big Mac look to the sound, finding Stringbean aiming a pistol your direction. He’s a nervous-looking thing, sweat shining on his brow, and there’s few things in life as scarily unpredictable as a twitchy man with a loaded gun.

“What are you doing,” Big Mac rumbles without any inflection in his tone.

“We agreed no witnesses,” is the breathy, slightly nasally response. Nothing about Stringbean–aside from the weapon in his hands–screams bad guy. He’s thin, bespectacled, suit too neatly pressed like it’s his Sunday best clothes. You estimate him lasting about a week before the bigger sharks gobble him up and spit out his—you squint, oh good lord—his bumblebee patterned bow tie as the only evidence of his existence.

“Witness?” you pipe up. “Witness to what exactly? Care to shed some light–ugh!”

The rest of your sentence ends in another choked wheeze as Big Mac shoves you against the wall again. Yep, something’s definitely broken in your body now. He’s not even looking at you, the bastard, like you’re not even a worthy enough threat to keep an eye on for any devious tricks.

Instead, Big Mac says something to Stringbean, probably some kind of grumbling threat about tearing Stringbean’s head from his shoulders if he doesn’t put the gun away, but the thunderous whooshing of blood in your ears prevents you from hearing if that’s right or not. It’s a good line though, the kind of line that tempts you to sneak it into your draft and hope your boss doesn’t cross it out with that damn red pen of hers, possessing a special sixth sense for sniffing out bullshit.

Stringbean retorts something that’s also lost on you–God, you really need to invest in a tape recorder, or some sort of phone app–but whatever he says has Big Mac dropping you without warning, lunging at the smaller man like a lion after a mouse. You fall on your hands and knees with a faint yelp, gritting your teeth at the instant blooms of pain shooting along your nerve endings. It takes you a second to collect yourself, but it’s a second too long to have wasted, remembering too late how dangerous your situation is—

Bang.

A scream escapes you, cowering against the wall in a scrunched up ball. Big Mac’s lying on the ground, unmoving, a chunk of his shoulder missing and gallons of blood gushing out like a damn river. Oh shit. Oh holy fucking shit. Stringbean’s on the cusp of hyperventilating, seeming unable to process his own actions, and then those anxious, too-wide eyes lock onto you. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“I’m sorry,” Stringbean says, and he actually sounds sincere. But the effect is immediately dulled when he lines up the gun directly with your face.

One would think, being mere seconds from a bullet entering your brain, that you’d have some kind of epiphany about the meaning of life. See flashes from your childhood, hear an angelic chorus, that kinda thing. The odds aren’t in your favor. There’s no healing from a headshot at this close range. You are going to die and the only stupid fucking thing you can think about is that damn catchy jingle.

Squeezing your eyes shut, words tumble out of your mouth at a frantic speed, “Anytime, anyplace, anywhere Statesman is there!”

Stringbean pulls the trigger.

—

Statesman designing a new kind of workers compensation insurance specifically catered for your risky lifestyle had been your boss’ idea. She knew the head guy of the company, some old bearded fellow straight out of a Wild West Eastwood movie called Champagne (no last name, just like Cher), pulled a couple of strings (which is probably code for glared him into submission), handed you a pen, got your signature, and boom—as of three days ago, Lin proudly informed you “You’re completely covered. Cuts, broken bones, rabid squirrel attacks, the whole shebang. Now get out of my office.”

You’d liked your old insurance and had been quite happy with their care, thank you very much. But there’s no arguing with Lin when she gets that glint in her eye like some kind of bird of prey. And besides, forcing insurance on you is a sign she cares, right? That’s what you’ll keep telling yourself anyways.

The commercials are enjoyable, you can admit that at least. Especially the ones where there’s some kind of dangerous situation involving rampaging bison or avalanches or whatnot and the agent, whose uniform includes a leather jacket and cowboy hat, swoops in to the rescue after the poor would-be victims shout out the jingle Anytime, anyplace, anywhere Statesman is there!, then teleports everyone to safety.

Entertaining? Yes.

Realistic? Hell no.

—

There’s a high-pitched ringing in your ears, rattling around inside your skull.

“—ime for this. Get up.”

Huh? Who’s that?

“I don’t like repeating myself. Get. Up.”

Oh no. Eyes still shut, your hands search for a wound, for blood, patting all over your head, then your chest and torso. Nothing. Fuck, you’ve died and crossed over into the afterlife. That’s why there’s no injury or pain. Your life is over. The end. Do not pass go, do not collect $200. You can’t—

Something hard hits your leg. “You’re still alive.”

Your eyes snap open, surroundings blurring into focus. You’re in the warehouse still. Stringbean’s on the floor near Big Mac, sightless blue eyes staring back at you, a bullet hole in the middle of his forehead revealing blood and bone and brain matter. Immediately you avert your gaze, tasting bile in the back of your throat, and it’s only then you see the pair of boots by your legs.

A man stands over you, dressed in a leather jacket and jeans with soft-looking, unstyled brown hair and a stubbled jawline sharp enough to give papercuts. The words ruggedly handsome come to mind and stay there, banishing all other thoughts. Brown eyes so dark they’re verging on black stare down at you beneath furrowed brows, the perfect image of silent judgment. What the hell. He might just be the most attractive person you’ve ever seen, beating Dr. Pretty Eyes Garin by fucking leagues.

“Did you just kick me?” you ask before you can stop yourself, rising to your feet. Your head barely reaches his chest—a very broad chest, you can’t help noticing, leather straining at the shoulders to contain him—and you have to crane your head up to continue meeting his dull, half-lidded gaze.

“You weren’t listening,” says the stranger with a voice like the scrape of a butter knife on toast. Your heartbeat stutters, discovering a new favorite sound, and it takes you an embarrassingly long moment to realize you’re staring at his mouth with way more intensity than a person should look at another person’s mouth.

“Uh, yeah, well I-I thought I was dead. He was going to shoot me.” Your eyes drift towards Stringbean again, frowning at the gun in his hand. It doesn’t look like a pistol anymore, metal mangled and warped. “What the hell?”

“Backfired on him. Rare, but it happens.” He shrugs a shoulder, unconcerned, like he’s seen a thousand bloody incidents and he’s numb to the gore. And that’s…a scary thought to consider.

“Right...” You eye him a bit more critically now, taking in the scar dissecting his eyebrow. “I didn’t catch your name.”

“I didn’t throw it.”

Irritation flares, momentarily overtaking the budding apprehension. It brushes against your journalist instincts, insisting you’re missing something here. “Alright, Mr. Nameless, do you want to at least explain what exactly you’re doing here in the middle of the night?”

“Same as you. Work,” he answers curtly, glancing at his wrist where an expensive-looking watch is wrapped around the tan skin. Your fingers twitch with the urge to touch. “When I’m called, I show up. No matter the time or place.” His eyes flicker around the room with thinly veiled disgust. “Even if it means coming to shitholes like this.”

He goes where he’s called? That’s an interesting and ominous choice of phrasing. What is he, some kind of hitman or secret agent or—

Wait a minute.

Dangerous situation. Popping up out of nowhere. Wearing a leather jacket. Your life is saved despite all the odds stacked against you.

Understanding hits like one of Big Mac’s bricks, finally connecting the dots together and good lord it’s so fucking obvious you fully deserve the forehead slap you give yourself. “Holy shit the jingle actually worked.”

His scarred eyebrow lifts. “What?”

“How did I not know this was a real thing?” you half-ask, half-demand, hands settling on your hips. “You’re proof teleportation is fucking real! I feel like this is something more people should be talking about. Unless…Unless not everyone has this kind of coverage. Oh my God, is this some kind of extra health protection bundle attached to my new contract written in the fine print?”

That stupidly attractive eyebrow lifts even higher.

“Don’t give me that look. Nobody under seventy-five reads all those tiny words, especially when the whole stack is five hundred pages front and back. All those poor trees…Also,” you point an accusing finger, “you’re missing a cowboy hat so I really can’t be blamed for not recognizing you.”

“A cowboy hat?” His face screws up at that, and somehow he makes the expression of someone who stepped in dog shit look attractive. Seriously, how is this guy even real? “I’d rather die than wear one of those.”

You stare at him, slack-jawed at his bluntness. “First of all, too soon, man, too soon. There are dead bodies literally right there. And secondly, wow,” a smidge of awe slips into your tone, “you must have some balls, rebelling against the big boss man like that.”

Oh to have been a fly on the wall seeing Champagne’s reaction to the refusal to comply with the uniform policy. You’d only met the old man for a hot second, but considering his love of westerns it wouldn’t surprise you if he challenged his opponents to quick-fire duels at high noon. Water guns or foam pellets instead of actual bullets, of course. He might gargle with bourbon and use a spittoon, but that doesn’t mean he’s a total heathen.

You snort a quiet laugh, then wince at the ache in your rib cage. Oh, yeah. There’s that fun pain again. The nameless agent turns away with what you think is an eye roll, but it’s too fast to tell, and looks down at Big Mac and Stringbean.

“I-I guess I need to call the police,” you say quietly, stomach churning when a sideways glance reveals a growing pool of blood beneath the bodies. Scary to think how close you’d been to being one of them.

“If it makes you stop talking to me, go right ahead,” your companion quips, uncaring of the scoff he gets for it.

You find your bag by the trash can you’d hidden behind before Big Mac seized you. Bag is a generous term for the accessory that’s more duct tape than fabric after being dropped, kicked, and run over amongst other unfortunate fates. Still, it does a good job of carrying your stuff so you’ll keep on stubbornly holding onto it until the bitter end.

Pulling out your phone, you open the keypad only for the whistling notes of a song to have you freezing in place. Literally, your body feels like it’s become a block of ice, goosebumps rising along your exposed skin. As surreptitiously as you can manage, you sneak a glance at the agent, and it shouldn’t be fair how someone can look so seductive with puckered lips while whistling such an eerily haunting tune. The sheer contrast is enough to make your brain hurt.

Or maybe that’s a side effect of your skull smacking against the wall.

“Did you forget it’s three numbers?” he says abruptly, startling you, and the way he’s now looking at you gives the distinct impression he thinks you’re an idiot. “Two, technically, since one repeats itself–”

“I know what to do,” you snap defensively, turning back to your phone with a huff. Deliberately you slam your thumb against the three buttons, but find yourself hesitating to press call.

Looking up, you find the nameless agent already staring back at you. His head tilts, displaying the same confusion of a dog not understanding their owner’s behavior. It’s…almost ridiculously cute.

“Thanks for, um, being here and stuff,” you tell him, barely restraining yourself from doing something awkward like giving a thumbs up.

He blinks, a flash of something you think resembles surprise crossing his face, and then he’s back to blankness. “I had to come,” he replies.

“Well, yeah, ‘cause of the magic jingle,” you wave a flippant hand, words tumbling out faster than you can keep up with them, “but still, it’s nice, you know, having someone to watch your back, even if I don’t know who you are–”

The sound of your name has your jaw shutting with an audible click. For a second time you think about the unfairness of the situation. He has access to your file, knows your name and personal details, and what do you get to know about him? Bupkis.

“...Yes?”

“Make the phone call,” he says, an edge of amusement in his voice that produces a funny warm feeling in your stomach. Nausea, you decide, that must be it.

Grumbling under your breath, you look back to your phone and finally hit the button, listening to it ring.

“See,” you say, purposefully smug, turning around, “I’m not an idiot–”

The man is gone.

Didn’t even say goodbye, the ill-mannered jerk.

And as the operator picks up, asking what’s your emergency, you can’t help but think your insurance agent is a bit of an enigmatic asshole. All intimidating and sour-faced to ward off unwanted attention. Probably thrives off confusing his clients like he’s some kind of damn Rubik’s cube personified.

Which is good for you since you thrive off of solving mysteries and inserting your nose where it doesn’t belong. You’ll know his name, his birthdate, hell, his entire history by the end of the week.

You eat Rubik’s cubes for breakfast.

#pero tovar #pero tovar fanfiction #pero tovar x reader #pero tovar x you #the great wall fanfiction #pedro pascal character fanfiction #pedrostories #my fic #my writing

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