#takeshi kovcs x reader

[loverhymeswith]

I LOVE the Takeshi Private Detective AU fics! I was wondering if maybe you could do one where his assistant reader gets kidnapped by someone relating to a case and he’s goes a little feral to get them back and when he does rescue them they’re kinda surprised at how caring and protective he’s being?

Home | Takeshi Kovacs x Reader

People Disappear Here

Word Count: 1,519 words

Warnings: Kidnapping, injury, gunfire, bullets, blood, death

A/N: Thank you for the request, Anon! I loved this so much I had to write it straight away. It turned out to be much longer than I intended. I hope you enjoy.

Joel Taglist:@weallhaveadestiny @a-reader-and-a-writer @skvatnavle @babblydrabbly @yespolkadotkitty @heresathreebee @11thstreetvigilante @fairchildflag @christinasyellowflowers @immyownlittlebitch @lavenderluna10

Tipping your head back against the cold, damp wall of your makeshift cell, you sigh into the darkness. This was never supposed to happen. Kovacs is going to kill you. At least, he will if these men don’t beat him to it.

Your thoughts have been persistently circling around the private detective for the duration of your imprisonment. How many times has he cautioned you against poking your nose into certain cases? About sniffing around without him there for support - for protection. For the most part, you’d listened, had heeded his multiple warnings, sticking to the work he assigned you. But not today. Today, the itch – the intrigue - had grown too strong to ignore.

The lead you’d stumbled upon was simply too good – too hot – to wait for Kovacs to return from his own investigation. Because the clock was ticking, and you knew that timing could be critical. Poe hadn’t been around to talk you out of it, either. So, you’d locked up the office and set out to explore the docks, naively assuming that it couldn’t hurt to take a quick look, right?

As it turns out, it did hurt. Quite a bit, in fact. Someone had swiftly taken you out with a blow to the head before you’d even made it past the first shipping container. You regained consciousness some time later, only to discover that you’d been locked inside one of the damn things, all alone in the dark.

Your cell phone and camera had been seized, leaving you with no mean of contacting Kovacs or the rest of the outside world. You’d hammered away against the solid metal walls of the container, screaming and hollering for someone to let you out until your voice was hoarse and your fists were bloody. But there was no sign that anyone was listening. No one came.

Eventually you’d given up, slumping into the corner and nursing your throbbing headache, which is where you find yourself now. With nothing to do but wallow in shame and self-pity, you’ve been imagining how your conversation – or perhaps more accurately, your confrontation- with Kovacs will play out, if and when he ever finds you.

Oh, he’ll be pissed, that’s for sure. He might even fire you. The thought sends a wave of fear rushing through you, even more so than your current state of incarceration. You can’t afford to lose this job. Not when it seems as if Kovacs is finally starting to tolerate you. You suppose that will all change now, though.

Your eyes have slowly begun to adjust to the low lighting, but it’s impossible to tell how much time has passed when the gunfire and shouting begins. You can hear bullets pinging off the metal containers and your first thought is to wonder at your rotten luck. Getting caught in the crossfire of some small-time gang rivalry seems a fitting way to top off an already shitty day. You consider shouting for help again, but there’s no telling what might be waiting for you on the outside.

Then you hear his voice.

“Where the fuck is she?”

A shiver runs along your spine, turning your blood to ice, and it’s not the result of your cold, rudimentary cell. His tone is clipped, unyielding. The assurance of death, sudden and unrelenting, clings to every syllable. If he wasn’t here to liberate you, you’re certain you would be quaking in your boots. You don’t need to see Kovacs’ face to picture his expression. You’ve glimpsed the promise of violence lurking behind his hazel eyes more times than you can count, only it’s usually you or Poe who are on the receiving end.

More shouting and another shot fired. Then, silence. Until you hear heavy booted footsteps approaching the container. Your heart thumps wildly in your chest, despite knowing for certain who and what lies on the other side of your cell. Freedom. Retribution.

The door is wrenched open. Temporarily blinded by the light, you blink furiously until the world comes back into focus. Standing there in the entrance, gilded by the setting sun at his back, framing him like some kind of avenging angel, is Kovacs.

You can’t help yourself. His name escapes your lips in a short sharp gasp of relief. “Tak.”

He prowls inside, his long coat billowing after him as his harsh gaze sweeps over you. “Are you ok?” The ferocity that had been so clear in his voice only moments ago has given way to something else. Something that sounds suspiciously like fear.

You touch your fingers to the back of your head as he approaches, wincing as they come away bloody. “Think I’ll live.”

Kovacs holds out his large hand and pulls you to your feet with ease. “What were you thinking?” he murmurs, straightening you and brushing the dirt off your jacket in a surprisingly gentle gesture. “You could have been killed.” It’s unnerving how there’s still no anger in his tone.

“I guess I wasn’t thinking, not clearly anyway,” you admit, preparing yourself for the lecture that is sure to follow any minute now. You’ve had plenty of time to stew, to accept that your actions might have been on the foolish side. Kovacs wasn’t trying to treat you like a child when he told you not to meddle. He knows more than most just how dangerous this city is. You understand now that he didn’t want you to get hurt.

“How did you find me?”

His hand remains in place, curved softly around your elbow, when he replies. “You left the files out on my desk. Wasn’t too much of a stretch.”

You nod, making a mental note to be more careful should you ever need to hide anything from him in the future. “I’m an idiot, aren’t I?”

Kovacs’ lips quirk into that now-familiar ghost of a smile; the one that sets your nerves alight. “That’s one word for it.” His eyes sweep over you, assessing you one last time. Satisfied that you're ok, he hands you your cell phone and camera. You’re amazed to find them in one piece. “C’mon, let’s go home.”

Home.

The word sounds so inviting on his lips. You wonder if he has any idea of what it means to you. That as far as you’re concerned, for a long time now, your home has been wherever he is.

Kovacs ushers you out of the container, a broad hand splayed against the small of your back. It’s entirely unnecessary, you want to tell him. You’re perfectly capable of walking by yourself, but a small part of you hopes he doesn’t remove it. The weight and warmth of his touch is a comforting presence and although you’ll never admit it, you had been terrified, all alone in the dark.

It’s impossible to miss the scattered bullet casings and the bloodstained asphalt. Fallen bodies block your path as Kovacs leads you away from the docks, and you know that you should be horrified. That he has slaughtered the men here in cold blood, because of you. But you can’t find it in yourself to be afraid. Not of him. Never of him.

He halts before you reach the car, turning you around to face him with his hand gently squeezing your waist. Standing this close, you have to crane your neck up to meet his eye. The longer lengths of his hair have fallen across his brow as he stares down at you and you have to clench your fists, fighting off the urge to reach up and sweep your fingers through them.

When he speaks, there is still no anger in his voice. Just concern. “Promise me you won’t do anything like this again.”

Somehow flustered by the fact that he is yet to admonish you, that there is no sign of criticism or reproach coming your way any time soon, you begin to ramble. “I’m sorry, I know you said not to get involved with these cases and I didn’t mean to. Really, I didn’t. I hope I didn’t mess everything up for you, I just couldn’t-”

He cuts you off by tucking an errant strand of hair behind your ear, his calloused fingers lingering for a moment too long as they brush against your cheek. You freeze, startled by the unexpected action and barely able to breathe.

“It isn’t about the case. It’s about you.” His eyes shutter, thick lashes kissing his skin as he forces out the next words. “Couldn’t bear it if something happened to you.”

The pair of you find yourselves trapped in a tableau, his hand still firmly in place around your waist. It’s unlike him to be so candid. It’s unlike you not to reply with a witty retort. Hypnotised by the intensity of his gaze, you will him to look away first.

In the end, you’re saved by the buzzing of his cell phone. Almost begrudgingly, he pulls it from his pocket, but his eyes crease in faint amusement as he reads whatever is on the screen.

“Poe’s on the warpath. You might want to keep a low profile when we get back.”