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nomorefstogive · 2 years

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Hydro Archon Story: A Tale of Tides

Hello all, sorry for the delay in posting this I was working on my ao3 fic and several games that have peaked my interest in recent days in addition to a recent bout of a cold which has been quite annoying.

But all of that aside,m I feel that since we are drawing ever nearer to the day when we will be bid travel to the land of the Hydro archon and try and fix whatever wonderful mess that land is in, it is high time I reveal some of my headcanons about her and my take on how her story would be in a SAGAU.

Please note that I will be attempting to exclude my ‘Mother Knows Best’ and ‘Twin God Au’ from this one save for a brief mention of them at the end, so it can be read as the events of her story without either of those aus needing to be read previously.

I will be posting a list of personal headcanons that I apply to her, both in my own Aus and in SAGAU in general after I post this, I was originally going to make the two the same post but I have decided against that given that I feel they would not mesh well together if I were to do so.

I also feel that I should apologize for my somewhat overindulgence in using my AUs in the headcanons that I will be posting after this fic, as well as the general chaos that said headcanons are in.

My lack of being a concise person and my own inability to shut up for more than 2.0 seconds when an idea strikes me have made for them being in something of a non concise state of chaos, but I hope you like them all the same.

With all of that said, it is time to raise the curtains and let the show begin!

Trigger Warnings for: Self Mutilation, Eye Trauma, Religious themes, Cultish Themes, Depression, Grief, Self Loathing, Guilt, and Trauma.

Story starts Here:

Come all ye who wish to hear!

Come all ye of faith and loyalty splendorous for there is a tale this day to be heard!

Come ye faithful and ye loyal, ye righteous and just and hear well here and now the tale of her lady of Justice.

Come ye just and faithful and here the tale of the Divine Judge of Fontaine, the Justicar of Hydro, her Honor Minos the Justicar of Hydro!

As you gather and your ears to my words do turn, let thy minds wander back to days afore our world did burn.

To days when they from on high did deign to grace the base land and walk aside you and I under the gleaming light of the stars their mother had wove oh so long ago.

To days when the one who shaped us and our lands did wander forth to see what had been made by their children’s hands.

Let our tale begin to echo, from lands where the rivers run with the gleam of crystals and where the sea as sapphire shines under the light cast from the Mother’s eyes.

To Fontaine, ever fair and just do we turn our gaze.

To Fontaine where the judge doth preside and her court is held do our eyes drift.

To Fontaine, where she whose words do decide the guilty’s fates does reside.

For in these days most ancient and fair was there the most just and righteous of all servants of the Divine who did preside over those just lands.

Of great beauty was she in those bygone days, with skin of marble and hair of crystalline sapphire with streaks of diamond white woven through the silken locks. The long waves of her sapphire locks oft found themselves with a tri-cone hat resting upon them as their long locks framed a face of sharp cheeks and pointed chin.

Tall was she, a statuesque beauty who was oft garbed in armor of sapphire and cobalt forged to bear resemblance of the all the layers and depths of the terrible and great seas she ruled over, and inlaid with gold and silver was the gleaming armor such that it seemed to radiate a glorious light, and upon her shoulders there was draped a cloak of scales taken from the corpse of one of her great foes during the war of the Archons.

In those ancient days did she hold fast in her hands her great blade, forged of gleaming silver and inlaid with sapphire was the executioner's blade that she bore with pride for she had forged it herself from the remains of many of the demons of her lands that had fallen at her hands both upon the surface of her domain and in the depths of the sea where their bones laid forever unseen.

And great and terrible was this blade, for it was as tall as she who wielded it and, bore the very scales of justice themselves as it’s guard above a grip of leather colored as red as the blood of the guilty that the blade so loved to spill, and on it’s pommel there laid a large and polished sapphire that gleamed with a radiant light when the sun would shine upon it known as ‘The Eye of The Sea’ for it was said to be the eye of the very beast whose bones had been forged into the blade itself.

But greatest and most grand of all of the features of she who presides over Justice held during those long away days were her eyes, and indeed such wondrous orbs they were!

For they were orbs of radiant gold with rings of silver surrounding sapphire pupils that bore within them crystalline white designs of the very scales of justice themselves.

And yet it was not just the magnificence of the wondrous orbs' radiant appearance that made them the grandest feature that the Justiciar of Hydro possessed. For these orbs could tell her the true intentions of any she gazed upon and could likewise pierce through even the greatest and most elaborate web of lies and deception.

And it was with such power at her disposal and with a mind keen and sharp as the blade she bore that she ruled her land in those ancient days, and what a ruler she was! For during those long away days did the lands of Rivers and culture thrive as she ruled with a firm but just hand, and such was the prosperity of her lands and of her people that there did come a day when the most holy and high did descend to meet with this most just of their faithful.

And lo did the Shaper descend from their heavenly throne to appear before the great Justiciar who greeted them with a smile that shone as the diamonds brought forth from the very depths of Liyue.

And the Justiciar did kneel and humble herself afore the most divine, and yet the Shaper wished not for one of their most faithful and just to kneel afor them and did bid her rise, and yet still did she kneel for a moment longer as she took her Shaper’s hand and pressed to it a gentle kiss before she did rise and embrace them and bid them welcome to her home.

And for long did they linger in the land of the Just where the Justiciar did show the most holy the great cities that she had so carefully crafted, where the streets were of rivers and bridges and the buildings were great ivory spires that shone with hints of sapphire and silver under the gleaming rays of the morning light.

It was there that the Shaper found themselves enthralled by the charismatic whit and the guillotine bladed tongue of the woman who commanded the seas of justice, and likewise did she revel in the honest words that came from the woman’s mouth when she spoke of all manner of matters be it in regards to her own creations or the workings of the artists of her land.

And therein lay another thing that did bind these two so tightly together, for they did greatly love to pursue the works of those who let inspiration and wonder take their hands and minds and guide them to craft wonders of their own to further enrich the beauty of the world that the Shaper had crafted oh so long ago.

And in these days of old, where the Justiciar of Hydro would hold her Shaper’s hand as they did walk across the sapphire waters of the canals amidst the ivory stonework of the great city of the land of the waves, did they make merry and revel in the company of each other as they looked upon all that had been wrought by the hands of the Archon and her people as they labored to build forth from the ashes of their war torn lands a new and prosperous realm.

A realm where law was king and justice and wisdom were virtues that heavenly gleamed amidst towering shrines to truth and order that were bathed in the splashing waves of the sapphire seas the ruby blood of heretic and unclean.

And as they wandered through those sapphire streets, the fish below flocking to dance beneath their feet, did she who reigned over justice and the seas take the hand of her beloved and once more press her lips to it as she leaned into their ear and softly spoke-

“My eyes shall ever behold only the truth of this world and of your radiance. Know well that you are eternally safe by my side, for my gaze shall ever know the intentions and flaws of all of whom it rests upon.

By my right as your Divine Judge and your Eyes shall no harm come to you so long as I stand by your side, your eminence. Now, how about we retire to my estate, your grace?

I have recently come into possession of a rather fine vintage I would like to share with someone other than the God of Drunkards. We can enjoy it while we talk about that fool's taste in colors because I swear to you that painting almost made me ill.”

And so it was that they retired to a towering estate of ivory and sapphire stone that sat perched atop a great waterfall, its ivory towers casting their watchful gaze upon all the lands and sea that in its shadows laid.

And there it was in the safety of a study filled with book and scroll drink and conversation did flow as they sat and they spoke of the sights they had seen and of the sights they would see, of dreams both near and oh so far as they both rested and planned a future to carve a better land.

And for many a long long age was this the way that things would be, when the shaper did come to grace Fontaine they would find themselves swept away by the tidal embrace of its ruler, bid to follow as wonders and marvels they were shown by a comrade dearer than most would ever know.

So it was that through these ages their bond grew deep and deeper still, until there came a flame of yearning within the heart of she who championed truth and justice as she labored alongside of the one she had come to cherish to pen the codes of laws that would unify the lands.

Greater and greater did the flame within the sea grow, till it seemed fit to swallow all whole, held fast in check though it was by misplaced guilt and boundless love.

For she who held the flame within did see her hands as far too stained to be laid upon one who should never know pain, and so it was she held the flame back and smothered it with waters black with guilt and hate towards herself that would never abate.

And even as she saw one whose beauty was as the ice she ruled let her own heart melt and swell with the thawing ice of love, did she yet keep her own dulled for far too much of sinners blood had come to stain her hands.

Yet as time marched on she found it oh so hard, to quench and drowned a flame that she yearned to let engulf her till not remained but ashen ground as she saw many others cast their gazes upon the one she adored.

Perhaps a day could have been where the flame was from its cage set free and let to engulf her in a loving inferno, a day when she could have the one she cherished most even if their heart could not be hers alone.

Yet never would this flame catch tinder and set their hearts alight, for their would come that most dreadful of nights, when those who loved and were loved in turn were bid to part as a nation burned.

For the sins of few were wrought upon many and many further still, till all the world would suffer the heretics bill.

For the day would come when the might of gods of Celestial plane and earthly domains fell short before shadowed blades of heresy and lies, and The End the Shaper was bid to court.

And though all were due an equal share of blame, would she who ruled over justice lay it all upon her name.

For in this moment when needed most, when in lands of intent unknown, did her gift and power fail and leave them all to watch the one they loved and cherished most turn to not but celestial motes as to the cosmos and infinite expanse they were bid return.

And oh how grief and anger and madness most profound seize tight and hold the Archon of the Seas who wept and shrieked such that all who dwelt above and below the oceans waves could hear the sound.

Long would she weep and sob as she hid herself away in the depths of her estate, the sigh of the land she had so long hoped to share with the one she cherished most too much for her to bear.

Long would she hid herself away in a tower barred to all but the voices of loathing that within her head did resound their venomed words and poisoned barbs as they drove the Justiciar of Hydro to the ground in heaving sobs and mournful cries as she pleaded to be the one who died instead.

For many a year she would try and drown the voices in solace of bottle of wine, and in comfort of book, although all of these had been poisoned unto her by the memories of whom it was that would sit with her and delight in their shared joy of the tales that lay inscribed upon the pages before their eyes.

Even in sleep was she not granted respite from the hissing voices of guilt and the poisoned words of condemnation, for ever before her gaze would the scene replay and ever would she be the one blamed for failure by the one she loved most of all.

At last no more could she take, when her sleepless nights numbered beyond the count of the stars in the sky, and so did she flee into the depths of a shrine crafted by her own hands, a shrine where the statue of her beloved rested with their hand outstretched for her to take in the middle of a lake she had made within the depths of her estate.

Once she would marvel at the silver and gold and emerald and ruby and sapphire and other precious stones and metals that she had cut and carved herself to decorate the statue of her beloved and the murals that lined the walls of her personal shrine, yet not this time could she bring herself to take in the wondrous site.

Once she would have been careful to not disturb the fish that gathered in the shallow lake around the statue, coming into this holy place from tunnels that lead to ocean depths to pay their own respects but no longer could she care as she cast herself at the statues feet.

There was a time when she would have marveled at the orbs of hydro that bathed the room in ever shifting light, and made the gems engraved ceiling shine like the skies of Teyvat at night, and yet again was the sight to much for her to bear as she placed her face into her palms as she wept and sobbed afr the statue of her most beloved.

And there it was, before the statue she had made to the one she loved most of all with her own two hands so long ago, that she at last allowed for the grief and rage and guilt to surge forth and pull her down into their murky depths as she wailed out for her fallen love to hear-

“Useless!Useless!Useless!Useless!Useless!Useless!Useless!Useless! THESE DAMNED EYES ARE USELESS! How could I not See-!? How Could I not-!? I’m sorry your grace…I…AHHHH!.......These eyes…These eyes do not deserve to see the world you crafted any longer…let this…let this be my first act…of atonement…AHHHHHHHHHH!”

And with a great wail of anguish born of agony not just of flesh but of the soul did she who had long overseen the laws of the world tear from her head the eyes that had failed her when they were needed most of all, and with impetus wrath did she cast them into the depths of the sapphire seas as an offering to her fallen love as sanguine tears flowed from her weeping sockets as she knelt and sobbed afore their alter, her blood staining the waters ruby as she wept.

And as she wept she could not stob the sobbing laughs that tore free from her throat, for oh how long had they said it, how long had they known this would come to be when they cried it out?

Now Justice truly was blind!

And oh how that thought left her cackling in madness and grief till she rolled upon her back and fell still in slumber in those scarlet water till she gathered the strength to leave and search for wraps to cover her now blind sockets.

The doors of her shrine sealing shut behind her, locking away the armor born once in pride so long ago and the torn orbs that still yet glowed from their perch within the statue of the Shaper's hands.

Many a long year would pass as all of Fontaine would weep as their archon hid herself away within the walls of her towering estate, the halls now veiled in ever deepening shadows as she hid herself away from the world that she felt she had failed.

And there she would remain entombed while yet living within the halls of her own estate, not but a specter with bleeding sockets who deigned roam the hall with bottle in one hand and grief in the other as she cried out for the one she failed most of all.

And oh how she wept and cried out for that most holy and high that she felt she had left to die in both her sleeping and waking hours, rivulets of scarlet streaming from her empty sockets as she cried out for both forgiveness and to never be forgiven to be hated and to be loved by the one she had failed oh so much.

For how long it was she languished in the darkened halls of her home, her only companions the servants who remained by her side out of pity and loyalty and the once treasured tomes and scrolls now left to gather dust and tears when her maddening grief engulfs her and bids her smash aside drained bottles of wine and tear at all that lay around her in wrathful frenzy.

For long would she hide herself away in the dark confines of her home, languishing in sorrowful shadows till at last she crept forth from the doors of her estate, a spectral wraith risen from the deepest of sepulchral graven depoths to haunt the living with its presence.

For many a year she would walk the streets of the land she had once so proudly overseen, the light of dawn that once reflected on gleaming cobblestones now forever lost to the endless dark of the grief and despair that festered within her as a rotting wound.

As years passed on and on, the waves of grief and loathing breaking upon her as water does unto stone turned her sobbing into maddened laughter as the cracks within her grew too great for even one as immovable as her to bear.

And thus there came the day, when the drive for justice and for truth was lost to the murky depths, as Minos cast her head back and laughed heartily and madly a grief fueled craze did tightly her heart seize.

And thus did justice fall to not but indulgence and wanton hedonism as she called out for more wine and greater and greater spectacles to immerse herself in, such that she may drown her grief and sorrow and fill the void carved the eroding waters of grief and hatred, though all was in vain for never could the void be filled and so onwards she fell into her spiral of despair.

Soon did Minos turn to the spectacle she had always enjoyed most of all, that spectacle that resounded and clamored from within Justice’s halls.

Oh how her ears rang with delight at the sound of gavel and plea and testimony and cry did only make her feel oh so alive.

For the thrill of the court, the spectacle of trial, and the organized chaos of the law were the banquet of hedonism upon which she would come to dine.

And so it was that she set out to drown herself in these spectacles in full, to bring forth greater and greater clammer and commotion till her pain within was drowned by the tide of it.

She cared not for the pollution of her land’s rivers as it trudged forward, nor of the corruption that began to spread as a pestilence amongst her people, for if anything they were but seasoning to the dish of delight that rang with trial and the end of a life.

Day after day she would labor to alter and warp, to conceal and mislead, to rewrite and remake the very truths and laws that she had once held so very dear.

For in the chaos of the change of a law in the middle of a trial, in the cries of the jurors and judge, in the revelling of either side, did she find a spectacle into which she could flee.

For though her eyes could this sight no longer behold, the sounds alone their story told and made for such a beautiful work that she could never hold back her desire to applaud and call forth for an Encore and for more and more till the void within was field at last and peace she could find from the scathing lambasts that echoed within her own head.

Long was it indeed that she would sit upon a balcony watching the court, veiled in black and mournful suits as she rapped her cane and awaited her newest chance to forget the pain within.

Long was the time where she let her land swell with the rot of corruption and lawlessness let run amok as the land was bid to suffer for the greed of the people till waters so pristine no matched the murky depths into which she had sunk.

And though there were yet those who fought and labored hard to keep the flame of truth and justice alight, they found themselves falling afore the blight, and so with their dying breaths they cried out for one to come and save their lands even as they felt themselves begin to fall into the reaper’s hands.

And yet their prayers were not in vain, for there did come a day when all of this would change, for by design of fate or heavenly will a star had come to show their lady that there was reason to have hope and joy and purpose still.

To let not despair and pain her mind consume, for the time would soon be for the faithful to be given their due.

At first they were but whispered words, of a Star that walked on two legs, with hair and eyes of molten gold and power beyond the visions of the heavens, that walked the world and change and wonder brought as there was with them a feeling long thought forever lost.

For indeed it was said that there was wrapped around this wandering Star was the feeling of grace long since lost when both Celestia and the Seven pillar were bid to hang their heads in disgrace for a failure supreme above all when they did allow for the one who their world shaped by traitors blades to fall.

And those who were saved by them did cry out ‘lo indeed there was a Star that crossed the land, a Star that took the faithful’s hand, and bid them rise from dark abyss unto the light of heavenly bliss’.

For their coming did herald well, the day when with joys the bells would be rung, to herald forth a day of reunion and of the broken world being made whole once more as the choirs of Celestia sung.

For the coming of the Star upon their lands did herald forth that most auspicious and holy of days, when pain and grief and sorrow would fade, and the beginning of a new world there would be made.

At first these rumors of grace and light, of change and of return she would not abide, ‘heresy’ and ‘lies’ she did them decry as ruinous judgment upon her land she turned, fury such the sea seemed fit to burn.

For how could it be that one who the world had failed would ever come to return to it?

How could it be that the one she cherished and failed most of all would deign return to the one who let them fall.

And yet there did come a day, when from across sea and wave the star did come, and with them came the light not of morning dawn but of the heavens themselves come alight to rejoice for the returning of Teyvat’s own guiding light.

Of how it was that the Star and her would meet this humble bard can tell not, only that it must have been through a most grand and wondrous feat for how else could it ever be, when the Star who walks is concerned?

Of what was done and what was said betwixt the grief blinded archon and the grace blessed Star I do not know, but only that it must have been far more than quarrels and blows for both would walk away alive with one holding a flame within newly bid alight by grace and the Divines loving sight.

Indeed this flame rekindled would burn and burn bright, away it would burn the dark of grief, and away it torch the creeping shadows of guilt, and at last it would ignite the fetid abyss of loathing and despair until not remained of them but ash and dust to be swallowed by the reborn seas.

For within her here now burned a flame of that most dangerous and wondrous of things, that thing which bids men rise against gods and gods to trample men, a feeling so intoxicating that even the most potent of liquors is but pond water in compare, a feeling that drove her forth to call out to her servants that yet lingered in her halls-

“Cast down these curtains that have so long hid my halls, and then send out for my Justicars to come and gather at once!” As she thundered down the halls, feet bearing her to a door so long unused it was thought to be not but part of the wall as she continued-

“Tell them to be donned as their ancestors wore, their blades are to be sharp and the shields are to be sturdy, and each ought to have with them a length of thick rope and parchment and pen now hurry and move as the winds!” She bellowed as she opened the doors to her personal shrine, whirling to stretch out her hand to the Star which she had bid to follow as she continued-

“Star of distant lands blessed by most holy hands, come forth with me and bear witness to the rebirth of the Ruler of The Seas.” She spoke with tender softness as the Star took her hand and vanished with her into depths unseen.

And the servants did hurry to their ladies' words, many working at casting down the dark curtains which had long hid the estates halls in great darkness as their peers took from the manner like great gales of wind bore them as they surged to relay their ladies' words.

And from the city commotion there did come as man and woman were roused by the servants cries-

“Justicars! Justicars! Her Honor summons thee! With haste don the steel and plate in colors of golden days, fetch rope and sharpened blade and parchment and pen and hurry forth to the estate of your lady!” This they bellowed as they raced through the city streets.

And as the Justicars did as they were bade there came forth from the shrine of their lady a dazzling glow, a cry of joy and rapturous delight that heralded well the beginning of the Sinner’s Blight.

For there came from those depths not the battered and broken husk that had loomed over them like a rotting wreck left to suffer the wrath of tides upon stone and sand, but rather a sight that from their lungs took their breath as they knelt in awe.

For behold! A broken woman she was no more, but the Archon of Justice she was reborn!

Har armor ages old yet gleamed as new, same as the blade she held aloft in one hand and the ancient tome of law she clasped in the other.

And yet it was not armor or tome or blade that stole their breaths but rather something lost since long before their forebears' deaths.

For upon them were the orbs of she who had been the Divine Judge, the one who had penned the laws of the world in those bygone eras and who now seemed to have been reborn afore them, her full and terrible majesty restored.

And to those who knelt before her this she called, this she spoke which bid cheer and joyous clamor arise, as the flames of justice began to illuminate the night-

“Behold, for by the grace of the Mother. The Guide and The Shaper am I once more the Divine Judge! Once more do my eyes behold this world and see well how its beauty has been tarnished by the filth of the guilty and abhorrent who dare to blaspheme the radiance of the most holy!

Let the gallows be readied and the blades of the guillotines be sharpened! Let the Justicars don their armor and take up their arms anew for once more shall we bring law and order to this world!

Let the rivers run crimson and the oceans turn sanguine, let their blood and flesh be an offering to the most high and holy! May the guilty find atonement in death for no longer shall their lives be tolerated!

Now go and spread forth law and order to this world once more, from Snezhnaya to Mondstadt shall we march till the trees are full and the crows upon faithless and heretic feast!

May the Guide be ready with their scythe for the time has come for the crops of the rotten souls of the faithless to be reaped and set to suffer eternally amidst the wailing darkness of the abyss as the souls of the faithful are elevated unto the heavens!

May the Mother turn upon their homes her wrath and fury and lay them low until not even their foundations are left to sully the world of the Shaper’s design with their contaminated presences!

And may the gaze of the Shaper be upon us as we wipe clean the filth and detritus of the heretic and the apostate and the infidel from their masterpiece!

Your holiness watch over us and know that never again shall my eyes fail you, for soon shall they once more see your radiance.

Let our crusade begin!”

Fin

So what do you think, is this a merry mess of a train wreck or something actually semi-decent? I cannot rhyme to save my life, so writing like how I imagine Venti would sing is something very very draining for me to do, and I am not that satisfied with it overall for a whole host of other reasons ranging from feeling like it is too rushed in spots, too my feeling of not doing a good job at keeping the tone I was going for throughout it consistent.

Either way, as I said at the beginning I will be posting my headcanons for the Hydro Archon after this, please keep an eye out for them and let me know what you think.

With that said, stay safe and have a great day.

#sagau #genshin impact #genshin #hydro archon headcanons #sagau headcanons #genshin impact sagau #genshin impact cult au #genshin cult au #sagau cult au #genshin sagau cult au #genshin impact headcanons #genshin headcanons #hydro archon

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mst3kproject · 4 years

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Exo-Man

Failed series pilots were very much part of MST3K’s stock in trade. We’ve sat through San Francisco International, Stranded in Space, Code Name: Diamond Head and I’m sure there were others. I generally recall all of those movies being kind of dull and lacking in personality, and I can’t imagine this 70’s superhero mess being much better. I don’t think anybody in Exo-Man was ever on MST3K but Jose Ferrer (the first Latino actor to win an academy award, for 1950’s Cyrano de Bergerac) was once in a movie called Zoltan, Hound of Dracula, which I am deeply remiss in not having seen yet. You may also recognize Harry Morgan, who was Colonel Potter on M*A*S*H.

Dr. Nick Conrad is a wacky physics professor of the type nobody has ever encountered in real life. He’s somehow both smart enough to invent anti-gravity and memory plastic, and stupid enough to chase after a fleeing would-be bank robber. The latter stunt, set to wakka-chicka Mitchell music, makes Nick the target of a mafia assassin, who kills his lab assistant and leaves Nick himself paralyzed from the waist down. He wallows in self-pity for a while, but then rediscovers his passion for invention and builds himself a suit of armor that will allow him to walk again… and to take on the mob single-handedly.

I don’t know why they called the movie Exo-Man. That name is never used in the dialogue. I guess the more accurate Fiberglass Avenger just wouldn’t have sounded as cool.

The first thing you’re likely to notice from the plot summary is that Nick’s story starts off as Dr. Strange and then takes a hard left into Iron Man. I’m pretty sure the latter at least was an intentional ripoff, with bits of the first thrown in, knowingly or not, to distance Exo-Man from Marvel’s lawyers. What’s funny is that posterity has actually made it a hat trick: the movie opens with a weirdly homoerotic jogging scene, so now he gets to be Captain America, too!

Exo-Man is a really stupid, often boring, and consistently ugly movie. The actors are mediocre, the music bland, the effects terrible, and stuff is made to look ‘high tech’ by sticking lots of blinky lights on it. Way too much time passes before we get to the action and when we do, we find a deep pit of disappointment. Yet at the same time… I kind of enjoyed it.

A major part of why has got to be the incredibly dopey super-suit the main character wears, which looks less like ‘Iron Man’ and more like ‘Fiberglass Commando Cody’. It moves really slowly and I doubt the guy in the costume can see very much. Nick controls the bottom half of it using switches on one sleeve, which appear to have simple functions like ‘sit’, ‘walk’, and ‘jump’ (there is, of course, no ‘run,’ because nothing happens fast in this movie). He puts the thing on by lying down in what looks like a tanning bed (or maybe one of those contraptions from Avatar). My personal favourite is the warning light labeled malfuntion.

All this is in a movie that sometimes manages to be surprisingly subtle. We are introduced to Nick while jogging, we watch him play tennis with his girlfriend, and see him maintain this exercise regime even while he’s supposed to be under police protection. These shots are in brilliant sunshine, and the camerawork is as active as the subjects. Post-injury, Nick never outwardly complains about his inability to participate in sports, but we now see him sitting in his wheelchair in dark surroundings, with the camera held perfectly still. We feel that he has lost something he loved dearly, and we never need to be told it outright.

We are also introduced to Nick as somebody who is devored to furthering minorities. His two lab assistants are an east Asian student and a Jewish one (the latter identified as such by a surname, rather than appearance), and the reason he was at the bank was to help a Latino student get a loan. Again, the script trusts the audience to get this without having to draw attention to it through dialogue. These minority characters are, of course, still just accessories to Nick’s story. The Jewish guy in particular is there to be fridged – its his death that leads to Nick flaunting his police protection and getting hurt. But the effort was made to say that minority rights are important to Nick, without hitting us over the head with it.

Theme-wise, Exo-Man is about a man coming to terms with a disability. I should preface this by saying that I am not disabled, so my perspective is necessarily biased. If anything I say below is offensive, that is out of ignorance, and please let me know so that I may edit or delete the review and do better next time. I was actually pretty impressed by how the script and director handled the life-changing nature of Nick’s injury… mostly. I’ll start with the bad stuff.

The attack on Nick comes with a heaping helping of victim blaming. As an important witness in the bank robbery, he was offered police protection. The assassin tries to get around this by putting a bomb in his car, but one of the lab assistants borrows the car for a late-night pizza run, and gets killed in Nick’s stead. This leads Nick to deliberately place himself in a vulnerable position, hoping to draw the killer out for capture and punishment. In the hospital with a broken back, Nick blames the police for failing to protect him, but I’m pretty sure the movie wants us to think that this is really Nick’s own fault. Like the tragic accident victims in Days of our Years, he has nobody to blame for his own misery, or that of his loved ones, except himself.

After that, however, the movie’s treatment of Nick’s disability improves quickly. His girlfriend Emily leaves him, but that’s not because he’s in a wheelchair, it’s because he’s too busy wallowing in self-pity to even let her into his apartment. Later when he apologizes to her, she takes him back and they resume their happy relationship, and the fact that they can’t play tennis together anymore is not an issue. She does not treat him as something to be pitied, she speaks to him on his eye level, and they avoid that weird trope of having the abled partner sit in the wheelchair-user’s lap. Emily loves who Nick is, not what he can do. His colleagues and students, likewise, treat him with respect and help him with his chair, and never make the latter feel like a burden.

By the end of the film Nick has come to terms with his disability. The suit he’s built is not a cure for his condition: in fact the first time he wears it out, it breaks down and he needs help getting back to his high-tech armored van. It’s a tool he has built for a purpose, and he doesn’t feel the need to wear it in non-superhero situations. Based on what we see, he could have built a legs-only version to wear under his trousers and let him go jogging and play tennis again, but that is no longer who Nick is. And when and whether to wear the suit is always Nick’s own choice, not something imposed on him from the outside.

Of course, it would also be really helpful in later maintaining Exo-Man’s secret identity, and I suspect the writers were thinking of that a lot more than they were of things like parents forcing questionable ‘cures’ on disabled children. The secret identity probably would have been a big deal if the pilot had sold, but in this stand-alone story, I thought the suit worked well as a metaphor about a disabled man at peace with himself.

Exo-Man also takes a quick little peek at the morality of vigilante justice, although this comes in pretty late and clearly isn’t something they wanted to get into in any detail. The first person Nick confronts in the suit is the assassin who actually beat him up. He says he didn’t go into this encounter with any real plan… perhaps he just wanted to scare the guy. What ultimately happens is that the assassin climbs a drainpipe to get away from the terrifying robot man, the pipe comes off the wall, and the man falls to his death. Nick feels this is his fault, and so the next time he takes the suit out he does so with a particular goal in mind: he wants to capture the mob boss and provide evidence of his wrongdoing to the police, not to kill anyone.

The mob boss’ name, by the way, is Kermit Haas, which is probably the least intimidating name a movie has ever given to its big bad.

Would that work? Is evidence a guy in a robot suit left in your dumpster for you admissible in court? Isn’t where stuff was found kind of important? I honestly have no idea and I’m not sure how to go about finding out. People might wonder why I want to know and I don’t think saying it’s for my blog would allay their suspicions.

At the end of Exo-Man, I was more entertained than not, but mostly on the level of laughing at the dumb-looking suit and appreciating the fine art of ripping off comic book characters. If that’s your kind of thing then this movie ought to put the fun in malfuntion for you. If that’s not your thing, well… this is an MST3K blog. What are you doing here?

#mst3k #reviews #episodes that never were #exo-man #tw: abelism #70s

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aceofintuition · 7 years

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So I have a number of Discworld novels sitting on my shelves that I haven’t touched probably in about 7 years or so.For Reasons I've just gotten back into the series; I’ve been through Going Postal, Making Money, and just finished a reread of Night Watch too.

Moist in my head has had a very clear appearance since before I even read going postal, which is unusual for me with characters in novels. Vetinari has just been an exercise in making my Long and Narrow Faces even Longer and Narrower. I’m pretty happy with the two of them but Vimes in my head still needs a bit more design. Right now he just kind of looks like a grumpier Rupert Graves whose voice sounds not unlike Grunkle Stan’s.

#Discworld #Moist von Lipwig #Vetinari #Vimes #Making Money #Discworld fanart #fanart #apologies for my complete inability to draw dogs #beards #and hats #guest appearances by the chairman of the Bank of Ankh-Morpork #otherwise known as Mr. Fusspot #apparently he's a pug or something but i spent the entire book picturing him as the most bug-eyed chihuahua and that is not going away

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lunnamars · 5 years

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somebody wants you - chap 1

First attempt to write about LuNami, one of the ships I love the most!

A quick reminder that English is not my primary language, so forgive me for any mistakes.

And our daily disclaimer: obviously, I don't own anything in One Piece because if I did, Luffy and Nami would already be together. Yeah.

You can read in AO3 and FFNET.

Chapter 1 - fissure

“Why the hell did you come with me, Luffy?”

Nami had been wondering that since the moment she left Sunny. Usually, the redhead tended to do the same activities during the time they stopped to recorder the Log Pose, especially while no fuss was yet to be settled. And as she believed that today would be no different, she thought she’d just need to divide the money between the crew members, say goodbye to everyone and go looking for her beloved clothing stores.

The magnetization would take around forty-eight hours, so it would be enough time for her to enjoy the city center, looking at stores after stores very calmly and still enjoy a little bit of the festival that would happen the other day.

I mean, if it weren't for the captain at her side.

For some reason, Luffy had stated loud and clear that he’d make company to Nami today and that "please, Usopp and Chopper don't cry" ("But they are already crying, Luffy.") because they would definitely explore the island together the next day.

That was an hour ago. Incredibly, neither Robin nor Sanji joined her and only the captain actually remained. Not that she minded spending time with the boy, quite the contrary - discreetly, Nami always tried to take advantage of any opportunities to be with him when it appeared.

After all, when you love someone, spending time together is always welcome.

Yeah. Love.

Not a crush, not an infatuation, let alone an affection from very close friends.

Currently, it was much more than that and Nami would no longer deny it.

The girl has been in denial for so long that since she finally managed to admit to herself that no, all this affection and concern can’t be just friendship, everything seemed to be much lighter. And it is not as if the whole world knew too - only Robin (and for the record, it was not of her own free will) because, let's face it, Nico Robin, unfortunately, is a very perceptive person.

Oh, and a certain pirate woman too.

So, as she knew that her archaeologist friend knew, Luffy's unexpected company could only be…

"Robin! She said that you needed my help!!". He happily exclaimed.

Sure. And in what exactly, Robin?

"I see... and she said what kind of help I needed?"

Nami was facing the fitting room mirror looking at the reflection of a completely electric Luffy running from side to side. As the redhead has been around for a long time, the captain's hyperactivity was nothing new, but she knew that the girl at the store was about to go crazy with so much random yukata that he picked it up and threw it in her hands.

"Tomorrow's festival! She said that you really wanted to go, but that neither she nor Sanji could help you choose the clothes, so she said I could and here I am! Nami, Nami ... look at this yukata? What do you think of this? Look at this one!! It's that-

"BE QUIET!!". Nami screamed and Luffy pouted.

"Namiiii-"

She had no option - she had to hit his head. And it's not that the navigator got angry by the captain's fussiness, but that she knew very well why Robin had suggested it and why Luffy had accepted it. But honestly, she just wanted to have a peaceful day.

She just wanted to have one day without thinking about Monkey D. Luffy.

But okay, Nami is a grown woman. Her times of throwing a tantrum with the boy and being angry because of her own feelings were no more. If fate (Can I also say that fate is called Robin?) decided that today she would have to endure all the shenanigans of her best friend, so be it. She is much more than her unrequited feelings.

Their friendship is much more than her unrequited feelings.

In reality, the redhead never got to confess. Today she can identify that these feelings have always existed since the moment Luffy put the straw hat on her head, but it was only five months ago that she finally realized. Coincidentally, when she met Boa Hancock, the Pirate Empress.

The navigator admits how childish she was - what she deciphered that could have been a serious crisis of jealousy. Nami never thought that she could feel this much jealousy in her life and it almost ended the spirituality of the Empress's visit. Right from the start, the redhead didn't like how Hancock talked to Luffy, how she hugged him, how she looked at him, let alone how she said over and over again that she was going to marry the boy.

This caused her to simply raise hell inside the Thousand Sunny, raging at anyone at any time and even being rude to the woman. Obviously this didn't go unnoticed by the captain and Nami is almost sure that it was the first time that Monkey D. Luffy called her out seriously, which left her feeling so apprehensive and guilty that, in the end, it was enough for her to wake up.

"I don't know what's your problem, but you're not acting normal. Hancock is our visit and she's my friend. I will not let anyone mistreat her, not even you, Nami."

On the same day, the navigator addressed the empress alone, apologized and gave a lame excuse that she didn't even remember, but she knew that the words of the beautiful pirate would be forever marked in her mind.

"I know you don't like me because you're in love with him. I completely understand and don't judge you. But deep down, you know you’re not enough for him, don't you? Don’t get me wrong, I’m saying this it's what I see. He’ll always have to save you and you will never be able to really pay for everything he did, don't you think? Are you sure you could live in such a relationship?"

Few things have hurt Nami deeply - the impotence in the face of the murder of Bell-mère, the inability to save her village from Arlong, the need to discard a good part of her childhood for a greater cause… and now, the words of Boa Hancock. Each sentence felt as if the empress was sticking a knife into her chest and turning. The raw truth of the shichibukai's words remained with Nami in the same way that her tattoo remained on her arm after all this time.

She remembers how much she cried that day hidden in the bathroom after the party for the Kujas pirates ended. Deep down, she knew it was all true - she loved Luffy more than anyone could imagine, she knew that he really always found a way to save her from any situation even if she didn't ask, but that she was always with a heavy heart because at any moment, what the hell would she do if he got hurt irreparably because of her own weakness? She knew it was an unbalanced relationship.

She knew all this.

It hurt to finally stop pretending to herself and at the same time discover that she really wasn't enough.

However, the other day, Nami was a totally different person with Hancock and the entire crew. No more angry faces or snarky remarks - she tried to be as nice as she could, since the empress, despite giving a dirty look at the two women on the crew, did no harm to the navigator. Besides, Nami was fully aware that she was acting like a child just because Hancock was right in all of her observations and all the redhead could do was just accept it.

Besides, it's not like Luffy has any idea what it means to like someone more than a nakama. Nami didn't even have to confess to know that the captain didn't really see her that way. Few words were necessary to confirm this fact and she would be lying if she said that his firm denial about the mere idea of possibly being married to her had not hurt her either.

This escaped from his mouth shortly after Hancock's departure when Usopp and Chopper were messing with him about what he thought about marriage and romantic relationships since the beautiful pirate left no doubt about her true intention with Luffy. One word leads to another and Usopp, incredibly impertinent, asked if he had already thought about this type of thing about his female crewmates.

"Haa? No!! Robin is too old and Nami doesn't always do something fun. I don't think it would work, shishishi."

It really took the redhead by surprise - so much that she couldn't even hit him in the head for being rude. The reaction (or lack of) did not go unnoticed by the Straw Hats, much less by Luffy. He had the usual silly and innocent smile on his face, but when he realized that Nami just stared at him with no expression, the captain became confused and soon he started to panic thinking that his friend would hit him and "please Nami, don't do anything, sorry, sorry"-

In fact, the navigator did nothing. After a few seconds, she merely gave a fake laugh and agreed with Luffy ("Maybe you're right, Captain."), but everyone realized that since then their relationship has changed almost imperceptibly just because Nami was good at lying. But secretly, everyone was trying to fix this "something" that seemed to have been broken in the past few months, but that nobody knew exactly what it was.

Not even Nami knew. She tried to not show anything, but unconsciously, she started to avoid fondling with Luffy's hair (although she is often unsuccessful), tried not to wear the hat anymore when he puts it on her head, started to draw maps more often in the library, walked away when they were to close. Still, she still enjoyed every moment she could have with the rubber boy while maintaining a safe distance between the two. Since then, Nami has been stuck in this duality of wanting to get close, but at the same time to move away.

It's not as if an abyss had formed between them, but there was a slightly open fissure so that she knew where she should be when he was completely out of her reach.

It was also unnecessary to say how much she cried hidden in the bathroom for two days. And that's when Nico Robin found out. Nami really had no intention of telling anyone - it would be the secret she would keep under lock and key. But Robin... Robin was very observant and intelligent. Obviously, she noticed how Nami came back with puffy eyes in those two days that followed the captain's statement.

On the third day, the navigator cried on her friend's lap.

Initially, Nami tried to be as discreet as possible, but something told her that Luffy had noticed and since the Empress's fateful visit, the captain tried to get close to her whenever he could. She got tired of telling the boy that it was okay, that she hadn't been upset, that he doesn’t need to worry, but for some reason, he still persisted.

The funny thing is that Luffy, in one way or another, taught her and showed her several things, including what was a broken heart.

"Luffy, honestly, you didn't have to come. You could have gone for a walk on the island with Usopp and Chopper, no biggie. And tomorrow, I just intended to stop by the festival and go back to Sunny."

The girl sighed heavily as she smoothed the boy's dark hair. Of course she wanted to spend time with him (while not - and she gave a double sigh because nothing seemed to make sense in the last few months), but Nami would not impose her presence on someone who wasn't in the mood to enjoy it. Initially, she felt super offended and enraged every time she thought about how they almost never go out just the two of them during stops around the islands because he always ran to be close to Usopp, Chopper or Zoro, but nowadays she simply accepted that this is how it is.

Deep down, she wanted him to yearn for her company just as she craved for his, but you can't have everything, right? Luffy's friendship is one of the most valuable things that she possessed and she definitely would not lose everything due to selfish desires on her part.

Luffy accepted the pat on his head and just tilted his face expressionlessly.

"You don't want me to stay here, Nami?". His suddenly serious tone really surprised her.

"Of course I want. I just don't want to make you do something you don't want to do, you idiot. I can manage here without any problems. I'm sure you would rather go exploring the island than to look at clothes with me, nee Lu-"

"Would you prefer Sanji instead?". Luffy asked in his characteristic blunt way and Nami was startled again. I usually want your company, you idiot in a hat, the redhead thought, holding on the urge to roll her eyes.

"Haa? I didn't say that. I just meant that you would have more fun if you had gone with Usopp or Chopp-"

"Yoshi!! If you don't mind, then let's continue, Nami!! There are still other yukatas here that I separated- Oe, Nami! What time is the festival? Do we still have time??". The boy opened his eyes comically and Nami held on tightly to keep from laughing. He himself just said that the festival was tomorrow and has already forgotten. It's almost impossible to be upset with you, you fool!

“Calm down, Luffy. The festival is only tomorrow. Let's do this way: you finish helping me choose a yukata for the festival, then I buy you ice cream and you're free, what do you think?”

"Ice cream?? I want ice cream, Nami! Now?"

Another hit on the head.

"Didn't you hear what I just said, you moron??!! AFTER!!”

Luffy pouted and Nami almost gave in but preferred to keep her scowl on. The captain really managed to be uncontrollable when he wanted to.

"Okay, but you have to help me too, Nami! I’ll need clothes to go to the festival and you always say that I dress badly, but I’ll show you that you’re crazy and wrong."

"Are you going to the festival?? Why?? And… c-c-crazy? …CRAZY??"

The redhead raised her arm to beat Luffy up, but he was faster - he threw the yukatas on the floor and ran. But before leaving for the men's store, he looked at Nami from head to toe and said in a simple and cheerful way something she never imagined hearing from him.

"You look very beautiful, Nami! I think this is the best you have tried so far!! Shishishi."

And she could neither answer nor prevent her face from blushing.

バカ baka.

#monkey d. luffy #cat burglar nami #luffy x nami #lunami #opfanfic #fanfiction

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overwatch-writes · 6 years

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Valentines Day (Genji x Reader)

A/N~ I literally spent all day on this, its to the point now my eyes and fingertips are bleeding fanfiction, so please excuse the quality. It’s been a while since I’ve really written anything, nor have I completed something in such a short time frame. Without further ado I hope yall enjoy this anxious romance fest.

The halls of Gibraltar’s watchpoint had never looked so-- pink, to say the least.

After Overwatch’s recent recall, the old watchpoint had become not only your home, but the home of many other agents past and present. You remember waking up at the beginning of the week to see the halls swathed in pink and red streamers; paper hearts littered the walls, stuck on with see through tape.

Flecks of shimmery plastic still stuck to your clothes from leaving your room this morning. On every door hangs a festive homemade decoration worthy of the holiday, sporting more glitter then the glue could hold, and the room’s resident’s name printed in curly red letters. As you pass door after door you admire the care and effort that went into each one. Jesse McCree, Angela Ziegler, Reinhardt Wilhelm, Fareeha Amari, and a name you don’t recognize. McCree’s had a little cowboy hat doodled on the side, where as Angela’s showed angel wings, and Reinhard’s a lion crest. How long must it have taken her to make them? Assuming from the peanut butter smudge you saw on one, she had help.

Your steps echo down the halls, a lonely sound compared to the usual bustle on Watchpoint. Most agents had chosen to spend the holiday off base with loved ones or, as you had done, sleep in. You caught sight of the beach through an observation window overlooking a cliff side. The sun shone warm light on the sand below, as waves licked at the shore. A puff of air leaves your lips fogging the glass for a singular moment, just enough time to think; had you made the wrong choice? The card in your hands felt heavy now, as your thumb traces over the cheap cardstock. You could be out with friends at a picnic on the sea side, but-- no. You clutched the card to your chest heaving a sigh in attempt to quell your thoughts. It’s now or never.

The rest of the walk was easy. You’d made the trip to his room so many times, you're sure you could make it blindfolded at this point. Cringing at yourself, you stare at the surface of his door, one hand raised to knock.

You’ve got this, you’ve got this.

But you still you hesitated, like magnets pushing off one another you couldn't bring your fist to meet the door. The shimmery green dragon on his name tag decoration seemed to laugh at your frozen figure. Just knock.

You took one last deep breath, filling your lungs with air as if you could draw your courage from the space around you. Squeezing your eyes shut, you finally made contact with the door. The action stung your knuckles, making you flex your fingers to soothe the ache.

This was a bad idea, two seconds pass and no answer; he’s probably not even in. Turning to leave the way you came, it's almost comical how much easier it is to talk yourself down. You’ll go back to your room, crack open that ice cream youve been saving, and watch one of those cheesy holovids that’ll most likely make you cry. Now that's what you’d call a Valentine’s day well spe--

“Y/N?”

Fuck. You stopped in your tracks, turning on your heels with your fakest smile. Genji Shimada stood in the doorframe, his usual armor replaced with loose fitting sweats and a t-shirt. That's something most agents forget about him. Though his body is cybernetic, he’s still human; and what human can deny the comfort of a nice pair of sweatpants?

“Hey, um--” your mind ran a mile a minute, your gaze moving from him to the new sound of Lena’s giggle coming down the hall. How are you going to get yourself out of this now? “I was just, um- just checking in on you. You know with it being a holiday and all.” You hold the card low against your thigh, praying he’d miss it.

Genji perked at the word ‘holiday’ “It is, isn't it.” he said. His voice smooth without the robotic filtering of his mask. “It’s been a long time since I’ve celebrated, such a day.”

Somehow hearing that was a relief but made your task no less daunting. “Yeah…” You grasped for something else to say, his stare was like that of a white hot spotlight. Every passing second made your blatant awkwardness even more apparent.

“Would you like to come in?” Genii asked, saving you from your floundering and stepping aside to provide enough room for you to pass through.

That was one of the last things you wanted right now. Once inside there’d be no going back. Down the hall you heard another sunny laugh as Lena came into view. She smiled wide, with a look of surprise, her pace quickened as she made her way towards you.

Oh no. She’d have your secrets blurted out in three seconds flat, and you’d much rather take your time warming Genji up to your confession. “Okay.” You quickly slipped past him and into his simplistic quarters.

Genji closed the door behind you, the hiss of the door sliding shut felt almost like the sealing of a tomb. “I’m surprised you're not out with the others.” he says, crossing the room to pull back the curtains. “I’s a beautiful day.”

The view outside his window almost matched the one from the overlook.

“Well,” You shrugged from the middle of his room, absentmindedly digging the tip of your shoe into the carpet. “There’d be no one around to pester you if I left.”

That earned you a laugh, his lips pulling into a smile on his scared face. A light feeling warmed your insides at the sight of his cheery expression; is that hope, or something else? You couldn't tell.

The room fell into a comfortable silence as he leaned against the window, following the path of a seagull in flight. “Happy Valentine’s Day.” he says, voice barely above a whisper.

Thank god he wasn't looking at you, or he’d see the unmistakable blush staining your cheeks. Your fingers tightened around the card at your side.

“Genji I--” the words died on your tongue when he turned his attention towards you. He had a way of making you weak, and you groaned internally at your inability to finish a sentence in one go.

He looked at you expectantly, one leg crossed in front of the other from his laxed position against the wall.

“I actually came here to tell you how much I appreciate you.” you tore your eyes off of him and focused them anywhere else. You looked down at your feet where your shoe had made a faint mark in the rug. Damn, you’d have to apologize for that later. “I made you this card.”

Genji’s own feet came into your view, standing toe to toe with yours, and gently he took the card from your grasp. You glanced up as he opened it, his dark eyes moving across the paper taking in every sickeningly sweet profession of your love.

What little confidence you had vanished, and you wondered if you could escape from his room before he can catch you. You scoffed quietly at your own idea; of course not, he’s a ninja.

“I know it’s not much, but Winston didn't have any assorted chocolates in storage so--” You forced a laugh, trying your best to make it sound natural.

Genji folded the card, setting it gently on a table beside his bed before returning to you. “It’s beautiful. Do you-- you really feel this way?”

You thought back to what you’d said. Despite how mushy the contents of your card may be there's not a single thing in there you’d take back. “I do.” you clasped your hands together nervously, tightening your grip as you readied to speak again. “It may be too much of me to ask, but I’m hoping you might feel the same?”

The look in Genji’s eyes as he gazed at you held nothing but warmth, and something you recognized from the way you look at him. He reached out to you in the way one might regard a frightened kitten, taking your clasped hands between his own; one robotic, and one warm and human. He stood inches from you now, the space between alight with a passion no longer repressed.

“I do.” he whispers.

#genji shimada x reader #genji x reader #genji one shot #genji imagines #overwatch x reader #overwatch imagines

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oc-rehab-centre · 5 years

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OC Design Basics #1 - Colour Palettes

Every part of an original character, fandom or non-fandom, humanoid or animalian, is important to the bigger picture. Your original character is like a mosaic or a puzzle, every piece is crucial to having a “good” character: personality, backstory, relationships, etc., you know the deal. But today we’re going to discuss: the importance of OC design, common mistakes and what you can do to fix them.

Now, this isn’t a post made only to talk about how OC fame/attention is linked to OC design… Which is really isn’t, and I hope that’s clear! This isn’t a tutorial on how to get famous either, but rather a collection of information and tips meant to help you! This is also geared towards a younger audience - so some things are pretty obvious.

Alrighty then, let’s get into this~

Importance of Design

We all know the idiom “don’t judge a book by its cover”: which discourages people to prejudge something’s overall worth from a mere first glance, positive or negative. However, when it comes to characters, you’ll often see the images before you see their biography or information and get to know the nitty-gritty information about them.

It’s pretty superficial, but first impressions can make or break your OC’s popularity and reception, but alas, that is just human nature. If you have a fandom OC; how well your OC’s design blends in with the existing cast, or how much they stand out against them can reel in an intrigued audience. Your OC’s design is just one of many factors which may bring you an audience, or leave you with just a small one - but shove aside that notion and let’s focus on what’s actually important.

A good OC is congruent, with all the little pieces working together naturally to tell your OC’s story and fit with aspects of their personality in a way that doesn’t feel forced. Their appearance should reflect things about them, and give the audience an idea as to what they are like from a first glance or two. It’s a challenge, but as you grow more experienced, it becomes easier. However, some help along the way is always nice, and that’s why we’re here!

In this tip & tutorial post, I’m mostly going to cover more natural colours and make your OC look more, well, “original”! Of course as always, these are just opinions, and you are just as entitled to your own as I am to mine! Also, I’ll be talking about more common mistakes I’ve seen several young artists and creators make, so if you’re new to OC creation, here’s some tips from someone whose been doing too much of this kinda thing!

I will not be covering facial features and shapes here, but perhaps I will in the near future??? This mostly focuses on colours!

For this tutorial, by the way, I used a colouring page found HERE. I’m not entirely sure if this is the original artist, nor is the original artist credited. If you ever find the source and wanna let us here at @oc-rehab-centre know, that’d be just dandy!

Common Mistake #1 - Hair Colours/Styles

If you’ve browsed the undiscovered page of DeviantART, you may find yourself browsing the work of younger creators. It is always wonderful to see young artists working to produce their own characters, but it’s a shame to say that most OC creators can determine or guess your age range and experience from the way you design characters, or perhaps an inability to credit base makers lmao.

What I see a lot on DeviantART when it comes down to hair colour is often… unstimulating. Hair colours like black and oversaturated colours are often used, perhaps due to a lack of understanding the colour wheel of infinite possibilities or how to make colours beyond what they can find in their box of 24 Crayola coloured pencils.

When it comes to OC design, you want to try your best to avoid black and bright, bright colours that are hard on the eyes unless absolutely necessary and essential to your character.

Black hair can easily be substituted for other dark and natural colours, like shades of brown or red. Heck, there are entire charts of natural hair colours online you can browse.

Blinding shades of red, green, blue, etc. can all be made easier on the eyes by simply mellowing or darkening the colour. Perhaps you might settle for pastel hues, or a darker and less saturated tone. Both your eyes and the eyes of your viewers will thank you for making something other than pitch-black or a vibrant hot magenta!

Hopefully this little diagram shows what a difference a bit of playing around with your colour wheel can do! Now time to address another common trope in OC creation when it comes to hair: hair styles.

A very common hairstyle that you see is the hair over one eye. OCs with their bangs draped down over one eye. TV Tropes discusses this infamous design cliche as a way of symbolizing sexuality, shyness, solidarity or powerful [HERE].. However, most OCs with this hairstyle are not always explained and if it is, it’s done poorly, making it seem as though a) the creator was merely going for a run-of-the-mill edgy look with their character OR b) they just can’t draw the other eye.

While having an OC who's a bit on the edgy and badass side is cool and all, it is a trope to avoid. I went through a phase of having my hair over one eye in my elementary days but trust me, it’s not a very practical hairstyle, and it’s certainly not very stylish if your bangs are all scraggly too. If you have chosen this hairstyle to avoid drawing the other eye, just take the leap! You’re not going to improve unless you push yourself to experiment with new hairstyles, of which there are many!

Finding other hairstyles to use for your OC is as simple as browsing the Internet. There are countless of video and written tutorials to watch on how to draw hair styles, all of which are arguably more appealing and interesting than that mock of edgy bangs. If you are striving for an edgy character, there are other ways to show that in their design than simply such an ill-mannered hairstyle!

Credit: doggerland

Common Mistake #2 - Eyes/Facial Scars

Much like hair colours, overly-saturated colours can ruin eyes when they seem out of place. You can have an OC with natural coloured hair, a good colour palette and then oh wait - an eye colour that doesn’t really fit. I’ve seen many young creators using eye colours that really don’t exist and look very unnatural, clashing with their character’s design.

Like with hair, a certain number of natural eye colours exist. Even if you’re bending from natural eye colours, avoid using saturated shades or shades that are just too dark. You can get some nice and more natural colours by playing around with your colour wheel. You can be bold without using such assaulting colours! XD

Another common trope derived from anime and gaming are scars. I know I was mostly going to discuss colours here, but like hairstyles, it’s something worth addressing!Once again, I’m gonna make reference to TV Tropes’ article. The most common scars include:

A cut over one eye

A claw mark (usually three or four even gashes on the chest or face)

Any of the Standard Bleeding Spots

Any scar shaped like an X.

A scar on the face that happened in a sword duel.

Credit: TV Tropes

Regardless of the universe, fandom or non-fandom, scars may add to your character’s story, but it takes a lot to make a scar on the face seem original. I’m personally not a fan of OCs with scars on their face, since it’s often not acknowledged or even drawn in a way that is realistic.

For example, getting slashed across the eye with a sword or blade would not leave a clean scar and a pearly, blinded eye, as we often see in anime. It would look nasty and it would look as disabling as it feels, so when people don’t abide to the very nature of how the human body heals, it irks me a little bit.

My tip here would be to avoid scars that go over the eye unless you’re going to do it right. Research the injuries if you don’t have a weak stomach, and see what injuries like that would really look like. Overall, facial scars are also something you should steer away from. Important scars can go elsewhere, you know! There’s more to your OC’s body than just their face.

Scars also come in more shapes than just 3-4 animal claw marks, burns from abusive parents or straight-lined sword scars. Scars come in different shapes and sizes. Some are hypertrophic/raised while others are flat and just sort of look like birthmarks upon healing. Are you willing to give up your action-packed duel scene and settle for a more realistic scar for your OC? It’ll help in the long run if you’re aiming for accuracy.

Common Mistake #3 - Colour Palettes

Oh goodness you guys have probably heard enough about me yammering about colour. But hey - this tip post is mostly about the importance of colour. This here is the last major tip for designing your OC. This will be the last part of this post, and I apologize for this being a bit of a mess! I was trying to keep this one as general as possible!

ANYWAYS-

Colour palettes are essential to a character! I hope that’s ingrained in your brain at this point because it really is! Their wardrobe should reflect their personality and should be carefully considered as well. Too many times have I seen colour palettes that just do not work at all with the character’s attire nor their apparent personality.

Using the girl who has been our base for examples in this post, let’s take a look at her attire. A baggy hat, a bandanna around her neck, a sweater, fingerless gloves and a layered skirt. This is rather cutesy attire and while perhaps you could argue that a pink and teal getup or an edgelord black and rainbow outfit could work, there are palettes that might fit this character a little better.

Pastel colours fit better with this style of dressing. It feels more correct to have the four palettes on the right than the two on the left. This is the effect your colour choices have on how pleasing your character looks to the eye.

And that is all!

We hope you enjoyed this tip post! Likes, reblogs and follows are always appreciated. Some aspects of OC design were not covered here, especially the important stuff that more experienced creators would’ve wanted to see like how to make face, eye, nose, etc. shapes more unique and clothing design. I’ll try to ensure that gets covered in the future, as I said before, but I hope that those that read this enjoyed it!

#General #Multifandom #Non Fandom #Multifandom OC #Non Fandom OC #OC Help #OC Review

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hlwim · 6 years

Text

Not All of Me Will End [1/3]

Summary: Nothing remains of her but what must be left behind. Tags: Character Death, Cancer, Tragedy, Angst, Bittersweet, Post-Canon Pairings: Royai, Edwin, Havolina AO3 ff.net

who lives

Smoke gathers beneath the ceiling’s blackened tin tiles—a match for her mood, and for the roiling green clouds that gather low over the city. Riza could add a little cirrus stream of her own, but all she has is the cigarette holder to tap against her lighter, ivory clacking on silver again and again. They’ve been waiting nearly an hour, stiffly side by side and still in uniform, as though either of them will be going back to work afterward.

“What’s the point of rank if I can’t use it to get anywhere?” Roy sighs, pulling out his pocket watch to check the time, and he smiles at her. He doesn’t know the way that she knows. “Are you alright?”

“Of course,” she says. “I’m sure it’ll only be a few more minutes.”

A wave of vertigo ripples upward between her eyes—and the half-filled lobby blurs into a slumbering beast, churning, burbling, gasping with thickened lungs. The steady heartbeat of patients marching the corridors and tangled in their IV lines, the thrumming of each slippered footfall that plays her broken nerves to insentience—she calms by pressing her fingernails deep into her palms, carving long purple furrows across the spongy flesh.

The nurses chitter like insects across the floor, hiding their oddly jointed limbs beneath dark blue dresses, pressed leather boots, starch-white aprons crossed over the back. Hats pinned to hair carefully pulled into uniform curls—such dreadful little halos. One of them approaches, with black eyes and pin-pricked red lips and a slithery grayed tongue.

“Captain Hawkeye. Doctor Hauer apologizes for the delay. He’s prepared for you now.”

Roy’s hand on her back is not subtle or standard politeness—he has caught her twice in the last month from falling back down the stairs. Something in the exertion of climbing would send a sheet of foggy blackness across her vision and then, just as her fainting spell during the commemoration parade, Riza would groggily wake to find herself propped up by his steadying arm. Even now they are keeping to a slow pace, passed on every fifth step by an annoyed orderly or harangued custodian.

Doctor Hauer’s name is at last set on the glass of his door, in careful white etching—he’s new from the north, highly recommended and with a fellowship purchased directly from the führer’s considerable coffers. At least, from all this meaningless mess, Central City Hospital can boast of retaining the best diagnostician in the country. He won’t look like much in print, but she can imagine, somewhere in a distant memorial garden, his stately stone glower presiding over a mossy plaque dedicated to his advances in various medicinal sciences. Such men are almost never properly paid tribute in life, so she can find some comfort in knowing she probably wouldn’t have lived to see it regardless.

“I’m sorry,” he says, no preamble, no offer of tea, “but it is exactly as we feared.”

“Cancer.”

“Yes.”

Riza nods. She knew, in all the ways that Roy did not, and his fingers tighten painfully around hers.

“Are you certain?” he asks.

“I spoke to my colleagues in West City and East, and they both concurred with my initial reading. The shadowing on the film clearly indicates wide-spread metastasis.”

“What does that mean?”

Hauer glances at Roy and then back to Riza. She can, to some extent, respect his desire to keep her the center of the conversation—but it feels so unnecessary. Like the broken beaks of a thousand furious birds, rain begins to peck at the glass behind the good doctor’s head.

“Although the size of the mass in your lungs leads me to conclude that it is the originating site, your previously described symptoms—dizziness, hallucinations, blackout spells—strongly suggest that there may be a mass in your brain as well.”

He points, with alarming accuracy for not even bothering to turn his head, at the tacked-up transparency of her chest. The closest she will ever get to witnessing the true complexity of her own desiccated husk, save for running a knife beneath her ribcage and peeling back what flesh is found there.

“It also appears to have reached your lymph system. We could draw blood to confirm the presence of malignant cells moving throughout your body, but at the current rate of growth, in a matter of months…”

A twisting grimace.

“As they say, truth will out.”

“Is that—is that how long…?”

Hauer’s eyes are a brackish-green, painted with flecks of yellow by an unsteady hand. In one eye, the sclera holds a streak of bright red, and the pulse it hides could almost be visible, she thinks, by changing the angle of her observation. His left eye flickers first, followed by the right a quarter-millisecond after.

“It’s difficult to say with any accuracy. The disease process is unique to each person.”

“So then what’s our next step?”

She is not trying to memorize this moment or even Roy’s face—she is merely observing the cool milky sheen of his skin, the youthfully short lines bundling above his brows, the click and clack of his tongue and teeth as he seeks a futile reprieve. They—Hauer and Roy, and not Riza, who folds up her hands in her lap and watches Roy’s face without feeling the slightest change in her own—discuss medication and surgery and radium therapies with such naive hope cutting their lips to ribbons.

“No,” Riza says. The birds have left the window—for all its crescendo, the storm was brief and will have left only a discomforting haze to line the streets and sidewalks.

“Riza, there’s still options—”

“Not for me.”

“But they’ve had success—”

“In skin cancers. And most of the patients went on to develop a different cancer and died anyways, after a few years.”

He wants to protest, his eyes a pair of open wounds twisted wide by the gears of coming grief. The clouds have cleared from his side first—he sits in a shower of sunlight and reaches to her, delicately seizes her hands and pulls them to his lap. They stand sharp as plucked feathers against the dark wool of his uniform.

“I read the same studies as you,” she finishes.

“But it could work.”

It is difficult to explain the logic of what remains so… obvious. Hauer has withdrawn, content to study the bleed and retain his commentary. Riza, in a half-remembered instinct for solace, runs her narrow thumbs across the wide expanse of Roy’s palms.

“Cut me open,” she says, unblinking, by force of love and misery willing the certainty to bridge the empty air between them, “and scoop out what they can. Then weeks under one of those awful lamps or even worse—a tube of radium sewn up inside me until it burns through.”

He shakes his head as she speaks—his imagination is well-stocked with atrocity and no doubt illustrates each word with a facsimile of what its truth might be.

“Is that what you want for me?”

Ruined by all of it—torn open and shredded by the indifferent abyss. She sees him as one might see a lone telegraph pole with its lines all cut loose, fading fast into a horizon that welcomes no minute alteration. He squeezes her fingers, trying to coerce heat from his calloused skin into her. He speaks very quietly—not a whisper, but an inability to draw sufficient breath for each word.

“I want you to live.”

She smiles, somewhat, tempering the cruelty with a cold sigh and a tremor which passes, without origin or end, between their joined hands.

“Well,” she says, “I’m not going to.”

Roy’s car has broken down again, so they take a black taxi back to Central Command. The driver seems to sense their disquiet and leaves the divider up, assuming possibly that they have a need to talk—but they only stew in a long silence. The rain begins again, and ends, and then restarts and finally quits the greened sky for yellowing pastures somewhere south.

“Why didn’t you tell me about the hallucinations?” Roy asks. He speaks to the closed window, hands curled to fists in his lap, brow knit, frowning, eyes darting from face to face when they stop near a crowd. He will want a solution from his frustration and will find nothing.

“I don’t know,” Riza says. “It only happened a few times. I thought sometimes it hadn’t happened at all.”

Anger rolls from his shoulders in cutting waves. It radiates, and she wants to lay her hands along the span of his back, to absorb his heat and make it her own, to become the yawning, roaring void that has opened inside him: a little well of sadness, which seeks an ocean to drown it.

“I’m sorry.”

Their attendance at Grumman’s table is required, and she tells him immediately, wishing no delay to the plans that now must follow. He rages, of course, stalking the edge of his favorite Aerugian rug as he narrows his sights on the appropriate prey.

“I built that hospital!” he snarls, expelling foul breath with the lie. “Every brick belongs to me, and if they think they can reject my granddaughter for treatment—”

“I don’t want treatment,” Riza says, turning her fork to cut into a fig. “I made the choice.”

He softens to speak to her, just as always—she is glad, again, that he had no choice but to give her up as assistant. Familial affection is smothering at any distance.

“But, my dear heart, you’re far too young to give up.”

“No, I’m not,” she says, arranging her plate and cutlery for the ease of the maids, who will sweep the room spotless once they’ve gone through to the library, each night making such quick work of erasing all traces of their disorderly occupation. “I’m going to die.”

Grumman rages through the nightcap, malcontent as always with realities outside his making. Roy won’t defend her outright, but he’s far enough to her side to ignore Grumman’s attempts at alliance. Riza nurses a tiny glass of port, happy to let silence be her best answer.

She is the last to leave the library but stops short of climbing the first step. Roy will have found a room for himself somewhere in the east gallery—still trapped by the old etiquettes. They will not share a bed under this roof, which seems a trifling thing and yet—she can almost relish the possession of feeling again—some silly part of her is hurt. No matter that they’ve made love before, or that long before the tendrils of this nightmare began to tug at her ribcage, they had made such public promises.

Grumman had demanded an announcement and then disseminated one himself, when neither of them proved obliging. An alert of required celebration, and the drab party that followed—she thinks she still can smell the smoke of dusty candles and the flowers left too close to open flame. Smoke like meat, like the rabbits she hung inside that big hollow oak and the door she’d made of bark to cover, to pack with clay and come back later when Father lost his patron and they’d gone three weeks without anything but bread and foraged apples—

Riza curls her fingers around the ugly finial at the base of the bannister, feeling the weakness drain through her grip. There is no smoke here. The engagement party was months ago, and all its guests have gone home to sleep. Very carefully, she slides down to sit on the last carpeted step.

This is not the main staircase of the house—the grand incline that sweeps from the gilded foyer up to the narrow walk which runs from the east wing to the west—but a disused passage back to the kitchens. The sort of walk servants might have taken fifty years ago, slipping surreptitiously from their rooms in the attic to the basements. What need did they have for decoration? This landing holds a vase long empty of flowers, a dusty candelabra, and an overly-ornate bureau. And overseeing all, the painting.

Liesel Grumman, aged sixteen years, preserved and pickled in a brine of oil pigments and glaze. Her hair is styled in loose curls, her narrow body draped in white, and her hands are clasped primly on her lap—not one on top of the other, but palm to palm. Her eyes are blue, her throat bare, and her skin smoother than the brushstrokes that conjure it.

But the varnish is yellowing. The painting has gained a haze, and the corner of the frame is chipped of its gild. Riza shuffles herself forward along the carpet, not quite steady to stand on her own, until she is kneeling at the base of the bureau, looking up into her mother’s eternally averted gaze.

Berthold had had nothing to say on the subject of his late wife—other than that she was late and his wife—and Liesel had left precious few letters for perusal. Vaguely, Riza remembers a cardboard portrait of their wedding buried somewhere deep in the cellar: a matching pair in black, Liesel smiling gently and Berthold scowling.

If there had ever been anything like a journal of hers, Grumman never spoke of it. Despite the elopement which had separated them forever, he seemed to still think of his daughter as loyal, darling, sweet, pure, incorruptible—but her gaze in the painting is more dead than demure. The bureau is weighted and steady as Riza ascends, leaving her shoes to topple in the carpet, her elbows digging into the rough panels on either side.

Her eyes are a detached, icy blue. Round, large, surrounded on all sides by sclera barely distinguishable from her snowy white skin. Riza presses gently on the prick of her mother’s painted iris, flattening the peak. She didn’t really look like this. She never could have—and anyway, if she did and Riza knew, the memory is gone now in a foggy haze of black.

It is happening more and more—things Riza knew not because she could conjure the memory itself but because the vague shapes of it still threaded themselves in and out of other recollections. Impressions of a movement, of a tree weeping leaves into a river, a negative space between thought and thought, marked out only by its absence. It’s creeping closer as well, swallowing whole days and nights of solitude. She finds herself frantically scribbling out every thought that might someday find importance, before they can flit away from her fingers.

And what she does remember still—played out before her helpless gaze like a zoetrope glued to her face. A whirling vortex that melts to a view of Eastern Command, where Grumman brought her to the painting before even telling Riza who she was. Who she was—peering down from above the fireplace, amber-trapped, perpetually pre-elopement, pre-death, pre-decay, prevented from any comment on her own current condition—and he leered like a supplicant, offering up no sacrifice worthy of the penance sought in such adolated immortality.

Riza slides from the bureau unsteadily, spiked with sudden fear that the world has shifted itself while her back was turned. And it has—the shapes of Grumman’s old sitting room recede, bleeding backwards into carpet and empty wall and worn step, and her own shoes, kicked over and empty. She can’t remember how to get back to her own room, or what twists and turns will take her to where she is supposed to be. This isn’t home—it’s a stop in the pilgrimage to the end, and she sets her left hand on the wall, ready to resume.

By morning, Grumman has attained some level of acceptance. He is the last to come down for breakfast, white-faced and gray-shadowed, and he takes his seat without bothering to bring a plate.

“I’m going to see General Armstrong today,” Riza says. A maid woke her in the parlor at sunrise and lead her back to her room, where she slipped uneasily behind the mask of a dressing gown and slippers.

“You don’t have to,” Roy says, as his spoon scrapes across the bottom of his cup.

“I should,” Riza replies. “I want to.”

The grapefruit tastes like nothing, but she still winces. Grumman’s butler, with a stare of gravest concern, brings the old man some eggs and sausages, which he does not touch.

“When you return,” he says, barely managing to unfold his napkin, “we might discuss hiring on a nurse or two. To help out.”

“There’s no need. I’ll be going back to the house next week.”

His lip curls up like a burning leaf.

“You can’t possibly—”

“It is my home,” Riza says steadily.

“Wellesley is too far.”

“I had a telephone line installed. The tenants left last month.”

Roy’s stare shifts up from the newspaper he hadn’t been reading, fixing on her—furious, offended, incredulous. He must have thought they were in this together. Riza stares back, her mouth flat as her mood.

“I’m going back to the house,” she says. “There is no argument.”

“Riza, please, you must be reasonable about some of this—”

“Every Hawkeye,” she says, slow and deep and clear as a tolling bell, “for two hundred years was born in that house, and now the last of us will die there.”

Grumman’s fogged glasses clink against his spoon, and he sets his fingertips against each eyelid.

“I wish you would stop saying that word,” he mutters.

Roy waits at the bottom of the stairs with her dress coat—undeterred. They have covered the subject of stubbornness extensively in their time together, so she just sighs and turns around, allowing him to slip the sleeves up her arms and slowly pull each button through its slit. Her whole uniform has been freshly mended for this: its last exercise in the sun. The piping is bright white, the braids are neatly aligned in rows, and each metal pin of rank and office and regiment sparkles with shine. He keeps himself to civilian clothes.

His leave of absence has no doubt been expediently approved, or sits atop that neglected pile of forms awaiting the führer’s signature. Another piece in its waiting place.

They could take Grumman’s car, but she doesn’t want Armstrong to be immediately defensive. Roy orders a cab, and she almost wishes it could be the same driver as yesterday. This one is fine enough, although he smiles with too many teeth. Riza dislikes him instantly and wants, viciously and without cause, to see him frown instead, thinking to dim his irreverence with a remark about her condition. But that was her father’s way, never hers, and the impulse passes.

Roy keeps to his side of the bench when she steps in and settles against the door. She is beginning to miss him, even inches apart, and soon he’ll have his chance to miss her as well. Without hesitation, Riza slides her hand across the polished leather padding and slips her fingers between his.

He looks at their hands first, and then up to meet her gaze. She’s still half-sure he’ll pull away. There is nothing to say to the darkness growing behind his eyes.

The Armstrong estate suffered yesterday’s rain just like the rest of the city—every time, Riza expects it all to be unblemished and opulent, recently emptied of party guests and yawning for new attention. But instead, it is a quiet house hunched up and drawn in, dripping from its cornice like a near-empty wine bottle, unstoppered and tipped on its side.

There is a butler to let them in, and another butler to announce them. Having no business but escort, Roy is shown into the library, and Riza takes the next step without him.

Maybe they’re not all butlers. Three of them stand against the wall in the stately dining room, livery pressed to sharp creases and stares scalding. There must be one table for parties, and this smaller table for every day. Lieutenant General Armstrong sits at the head, newspapers spread on her left and correspondence unopened on her right, with her picked-over breakfast plate neatly in the center. Her brother is also on the right, sitting far down the table—but no doubt as close as she would allow—and he stands when Riza enters.

“Madame General, Captain Hawkeye to see you,” the door-opening non-butler says, bowing deeply and backing from Riza’s peripheral vision before returning to upright.

“Good morning, Captain Hawkeye,” Alex says. “Would you care to join us for breakfast?”

“Thank you, no—I’ve eaten already.”

“Is there some urgent matter?” the general interjects. “I didn’t send for you. I thought you were off planning your betrayal of a wedding.”

She does not look up from the newspapers, squinting to follow her forefinger across the narrow print. Alex gives her a look of almost matronly disapproval.

“Olivier doesn’t mean that, Captain. We’re both very happy for you.”

“Don’t speak for me,” she snaps, now lifting her coffee for a sip—obstinance. Riza used to find that horribly endearing in a commander. “The captain’s choice in romantic partner has already been reflected in her annual review.”

“Olivier, don’t be impolite.”

“I wonder if I might speak to the general alone,” Riza says. Her knees are beginning to strain, and the heels of both feet grow hot. She might have laced her boots too tight in her haste to leave.

“Of course, Captain. Please excuse me.”

Alex nods, rises, and ushers the butlers from the room. The general turns to her correspondence, unfolding a concealed pair of reading glasses and setting them on the end of her nose.

“I can’t believe the cheek of you bringing that worthless cur into my library.”

She loves scolding over a meal. How many bottom-rankers had Riza brought to her table at supper, every one of them knock-kneed with hunger-strengthened fear, to receive a lashing of words no less capable of stripping flesh from bone than the stiffest leather strap?

“It’s bad enough you’ve accepted him—and now he follows you around everywhere like a sick dog, so eager to throw his victory in my face.”

She points with a butter knife.

“You know I take this all as a personal offense.”

“I know, ma’am.”

But what could she do about it? Her refusal would have changed nothing more than—distance? Perhaps Riza would never have gone in to check. The air around Briggs is so thin, and she’d been teased for her inferior Western lungs more than once. Perhaps one morning an enlisted aide would have been sent to her bunk, to rouse for inspection, and she would have just been found, blue-lipped and silent forever.

“Don’t tell me that he’s gone and knocked you up. The thought of that idiot propagating—”

The sting is surprising.

“I’ve said something cruel, haven’t I?”

Riza opens her eyes—surprised again, to find that she had closed them. The general has set aside her letters and her papers and hidden once more the glasses she wants no one to know of, and she watches Riza with her hands folded on the edge of the table.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “It’s serious. And I’ve made some mockery of it.”

The overly-familiar upward rush of illness—Riza is standing close enough to the table to grip the back of a chair before she can completely collapse.

“Excuse me, ma’am, but I’m afraid I must sit in your presence.”

The general returns to her own seat slowly, too startled to conceal her concern. Beneath the table’s edge, Riza’s hands are shaking.

“What’s going on, Captain?”

“I came to submit my resignation, ma’am.”

She nods. She might be angry, disappointed, annoyed—but none of this shows in the knit of her brows.

“And I can’t refuse. No matter if I wish I could.”

“No, ma’am.”

“Is it—is there anything—”

A fragment of a generous offer. A lilt in her voice, a downward shift in tone, maybe even something close to a tremor. They are not—will never be—anything resembling friends. And there is such deep relief in it.

“But I’m sure the führer’s exhausted every possible avenue—to confirm…?”

Riza says nothing. The general nods, sliding into her earlier pose, back rigid against the chair, hands shuffling through the correspondence pile, eyes averted—but Riza knows she is not done just yet.

“You’ll stay here, with your grandfather?”

“No, ma’am. I own a house in the Western District. We’ll go there in a few days, when the rest of my affairs are settled.”

The room has reoriented itself around its own wavering silhouettes. Riza can stand without shaking, and she sets the chair back against the table with a muffled click of polished wood on wood. She can even manage parade rest, fixing her stare on a single flower carved into the painting frame directly above the general’s head.

“I’ve briefed Lieutenant Falman already on my projects and as specifically as possible on expectations in serving as your interim adjutant.”

“There will never be an equal replacement.”

Riza’s fingernails bite briefly into the flesh of her palms.

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“I suppose that’s it, then. You are dismissed.”

She never looks up. Riza could imagine a slight twitch passing through the general’s occupied hands, but why bother? This is almost exactly what she wanted.

Yet another butler meets her outside the dining room. Roy has broken the containment of the library, and he does not smile at her return.

#riza hawkeye #roy mustang #royai #fmab #hlwim fic #not all of me will die #long post #i'm trying out posting this fic on tumblr as well as the archives

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voidequine · 5 years

Text

Horse -> Encanter Smol Clown, Post Injury

In which a clown has been injured and a horse is concerned. @knivesandfaygo

Karako 03/27/2019

You are Karako Pierot. YOU'VE MADE A MOTHERFUCKIN HUGE MISTAKE.... but you really wanted a hug.... even if it's from a big horse man that you don't know so good. He's your brother's moirail so you know you can trust him. You'd ask Jade for hugs but you don't want her to worry anymore about your wounds.....

BUT NOW THE HORSE IS GONNA WORRY ABOUT EM AND YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO ABOUT THAT.

And He's a police officer and you're pretty sure he'll have questions if he founds out your accident was getting shot. The crazy part of your head is thinking about stabbing the semi healed gunshot wound so you can say you fell on... fell on your knife? That's a motherfuckin stupid story and the healing sister's work would be wasted if you did a super stupid thing like that.

You sit on the bench pew you'd slowly made your way to in order to meet with Horuss as you try to think of other hairbrained scenes to cover up stuff.

Horuss 03/27/2019

You are the one Horuss Zahhak in question, and you are currently making your hay to the church to pick up the young Karako Pierot in order to give him some company in the wake of your earlier online conversation. You are also worried over the implications he made towards an injury he acquired sometime between your last interaction with him and your current one.

But that is a secondary focal point at the current time, you will get to that thought soon enough, first you need to locate the young clown and - ah, there he is. You turn in his direction immediately, and make your hay over to him.

"Hello Karako," you greet, 100king down at him.

Karako 03/27/2019

You were so lost in your own thoughts about how to deal with your whole 'accident' issue that when he speaks you are taken totally off guard and honk in surprise as you fall off the pew. You have to hold in a pained grunt as you hit the floor and once you breath a moment, you look up at him with an attempted grin and honk cheerfully, "Hi!"

Horuss 03/27/2019

Oh deer! You had neigh meant to startle him so, especially neigh to the point of him falling to the f100r from the pew.

"Are you alright?" You ask him, leaning forward to 100k him over. "My most SINCEREST apologies for hooving startled you so."

Karako 03/27/2019

"'m good!" you honk and you try to get up without wincing and mostly succeed-ish. You give him a big grin as you honk in question, "Can we go out someplace? I don't care where so long as it's warm."

You don't want to be near Gamzee's room... You've been in and out and you've noticed his scent is starting to fade and it was reminding you too much of how everything you'd had left of your mom's lost her scent too. She was pulled out of your life and you can't help but fear that the same happened to Gamzee.

Horuss 03/27/2019

You watch him closely, tracking movements and reactions and oh there was a wince there, was there neigh? Karako can attempt to hide it all he wished but you had experience dealing with someone much better at doing so, that did neigh mean you were going to point that out to him, neigh for the marement anyways.

Insteed you cock your head at him, nodding slowly. "Yes, of horse. If you wish so we can go out, just ensure you are dressed for the outside."

Karako 03/27/2019

"Oh..." you honk realizing all your warm clothes are back in your room. Aw shit. "Right. I'll go get em," you honk again as you start heading to your room. Very smooth. You are at least not limping which is a motherfuckin miracle for sure.

Horuss 03/27/2019

"I shall be here until you return," you inform him, letting yourself sit and rest for a marement as you wait, STRONGLY ignoring your unease at being within the church of the Mirthful, an occurrence you hoof neigh experienced since before leaving Alternia. You are neigh too pleased to be here, but it is only for a small amount of time yet.

Karako 03/27/2019

After a bit longer than it should take, you make your way back in your winter stuff. Since Gamzee's disappearance you haven't used the gloves he gave you cause you're afraid of losing or ruining them and losing a piece of your bro.

"Hey!" you honk. "I'm ready ta go!"

Horuss 03/27/2019

You barely notice how long he takes, you are endeavouring to do your best neigh to think on being where you are. Your head lifts at the sound of him and you lift yourself back to your feet, a bit slower than your usual due to just how tired you hoof been lately.

"Come along then," you say, gesturing him forward out of the church. "Let us go."

Karako 03/27/2019

You nod and lead the way. You'd been hoping he'd go first so you could drop the act a little but no such luck. Thankfully shuffling is almost expected among clowns though you know that you're usually a bouncier type.

You glance back at him and honk, "Got any place in mind? And uh..... ya been good? ...... considering stuff that is...."

Horuss 03/27/2019

Thankfully for him, the simple fact of your long stride has you easily keeping pace and often out-pacing him. The difference in his gait is noticed but you will attribute it to him missing Gamzee insteed of whatever injury he is neigh informing you of.

"If you are hungry I hoof a place that will do," you offer. "If neigh than you hay choose." You pause, considering his question and how best to answer it. "I hoof been... well enough, all things considering."

Karako 03/27/2019

"Yeah.... yeah.... Foods good..." you honk quietly. Maybe you'll ask for that hug you want when the other clowns aren't around to see you act like a weak wriggler.

Horuss 03/27/2019

"Then food it shall be," the destination in question is a bit ahay from the Mirthful Church and hopefoally mare comfortstable for the two of you.

You wait until you are quite a hays from the church before returning the question to him. "And what of you? How are you handling the circumstances?"

Karako 03/27/2019

You stare up at the gloomy sky as you step outside and mumble, "Well it's not the first time someone's gone.... won't be the last probably...." You sigh then try to smile as you honk, "I hope he comes back.... I really hope he does...."

Horuss 03/27/2019

True, Karako is certainly right to say that. It is inevitable for people to come and go from one's life, but that does neigh mean it hurts any less when they do. "He will," you will neigh allow for anything otherwise. "He will be found eventually, you simply need to keep hope."

Karako 03/27/2019

You look down again and don't reply to that. Hope is something for folks that can afford it. You scratch anxiously at your jaw and look around at anything else for a bit before honking, "Um... You like spring?"

Horuss 03/27/2019

You did neigh really expect him to respond to that, there is something about purple-b100ds that apparently makes them against the idea of hoping for the best outcomes, but that is fine. You shall hope for Gamzee's safe return, even if Karako does neigh.

The shift in topic is an odd one though. "I do, it is a lovely season." Even lovelier when one resided on a planet that show cased the benefits of the season.

Karako 03/27/2019

Yeah weird topic shifts are great and you totally nailed that smoothly. "Mostly rainy here. But some plants grow and that's kinda neat," you honk while you pick a little at your chapped lower lip. "I think I wanna try growing somethin," you mumble.

Horuss 03/27/2019

"That sounds like a sound plan," the two of you are drawing closer to the small restaurant you were leading him towards, a good place for him to rest and for the two of you to eat, quiet and mostly private at this time. "You know Jade yes?" You assume so at least, it would be very difficolt to hoof spent time around Gamzee without knowing her or Sollux. "Are you going to ask her for advice on the matter?"

Karako 03/27/2019

He's talking about Jade and that brings a real big smile to your face as you nod sending your hat flapping. "Yeah yeah she knows lots!" you honk brightly.

Horuss 03/27/2019

"She certainly would about growing things, insteed." There, that is a far better expression for the young clown. "And I am sure she would be mare than happy to help you in whatever aspect you require during the process."

Karako 03/27/2019

"Yeah. She's the nicest sister I know!" you honk. "You visit her shop or somethin?"

Horuss 03/27/2019

"Or something, yes," the result of one of many nights of manic energy and inability to get your moirail to settle without first allowing him to tire himself out. You will hoof to make a visit to her store soon enough though, you miss hooving flowers around you, the co100rs would certainly brighten up your home.

Karako 03/27/2019

"I wanna see it too sometime," you grin. You can just imagine how amazing it would be with all those good colors. You also have heard that a lotta flowers in one place can smell like a miracle.

You then think of the miracle you showed both Jade and Gamzee and Sollux. You look at Horuss and ask, "You like horses, ya?"

Horuss 03/27/2019

Aneighther change in topic, this one less odd than the previous. "I do like hoofbeasts, yes." The two of you hoof almost reached the restaurant, you are stable to see it just ahead of you. "We are neighly there."

Karako 03/27/2019

You look up at the place then glance at Horuss and honk, "Do you like wooden painted horses? Also hell yeah food!"

Why do you keep showing people this carousel? Because it's a motherfuckin miracle that's why.

Horuss 03/27/2019

"Wooden and painted ...? Oh, do you mean like those found on carousals?" You are very amare of such things from your time on Earth. "I hoof seen a few during my time, some hoof impeccable craftsmanship."

You reach the destination and hold the door open for him, mindful of the injury neighther of you are bringing attention to.

Karako 03/27/2019

Oh thank goodness you didn't have to pull the door open. You are so motherfuckin relieved! You walk in then stop and wait for Horuss to come in so you can hide behind him from all these people in this place. "I uh.... I know where there's a secret one... It's real cool... Actually went there with brother Gamz one time," you honk as you fidget with your coat.

Horuss 03/27/2019

You stride forward once Karako has stepped inside, "Really? That sounds nice." It does truly, you are glad the young clown has somewhere just his own if he needs it. You lead him to one of the mare private tables in the back, seating yourself as comfortably as you are stable to with your size.

Karako 03/27/2019

Sitting..... Sitting is a thing.... Oh geez. You sit down with the grace of a 90 year old human man with a bad back and a stomach ache all while you have a smile plastered on your face. BOY! That sure did MOTHERFUCKIN hurt like a BITCH. You're gonna be fine though.

You look at the top of the table then up at him and honk, "I could... show it to ya.... sometime.... if ....ya wanna that is...."

Horuss 03/27/2019

You raise a brow at the question. "Perhaps when you are neigh experiencing a great injury of some variant." Neigh you are neigh convinced by his act at all. You nudge one of the menus over towards him. "Feel free to get whatever you wish, I shall cover it."

Karako 03/27/2019

"Cover it? Whatchu gonna cover it with?" you honk quizzically. Why would you cover foid you're gonna eat? Seems like a tease of a think to do to a motherfucker. So wrapped in theses mysteries you don't pick up on his picking up on your act.

Horuss 03/27/2019

"..." Well, this is certainly nostalgic.

"I meant that I would pay for it. I shall 'cover' the bill of whatever you wish to order Karako." You are close to chuckling an amused noise but you refrain from doing so.

Karako 03/27/2019

"Oh... Well that's so motherfuckin nice of you! So many people is nice. How'd I not meet y'all before?" you honk wondering aloud to yourself.

You look at the menu and maybe you're wiping misty purple from your eyes. Such nice people.... Too nice to you....

Horuss 03/27/2019

"..." Very, very nostalgic insteed.

You focus on your own menu just to sort your thoughts out. "That was simply how things progressed for your life," unfairly, unkindly, a cruel, fickle creature fate could be.

... Please be kind for just this one circumstance.

Karako 03/27/2019

You stare at the desserts. You look at him then at the menu again and flip back to actual food and point at something and ask "What's this?" It's got fancy sauce with a name you have no motherfuckin clue how to be saying.

Horuss 03/27/2019

"Hmm?" You lean forward to read which one he has pointed out, reading it over quickly before responding. "Ah, that is a chicken dish, basically they place some ham and cheese onto pieces of chicken breast and fold the edges together so that they cook inside the chicken." You settle back in your own seat, continuing to look over the vegetarian options. "I hoof herd it is supposed to be good."

Karako Last Sunday at 11:40 AM

"Oh! Motherfuckin cheese sounds real good!" you say with big greedy eyes looking at the words. "Can I try that?" you turn on your cutest 100k. People always give a cute motherfucker the good stuff.

Horuss Last Sunday at 12:05 PM

The cute 100k is something you are unstable to deny, neigh that you would hoof even without it. "Of horse you hay," you yourself are going to be getting something mare vegetarian in neigh-ture. "And perhaps once we order you will inform me of whatever injury you hoof incurred?"

Karako Last Sunday at 12:17 PM

Ooooooooooooooooooh fuck. You chuckle awkwardly and look everywhere but at him. You'd hoped he'd been distracted off that. Shiiiiiiit. "Ah well... Yeah, okay..." you say not okay with it.

Horuss Last Sunday at 12:36 PM

Your eyes narrow just the most minute amount at him, neigh you are neigh one to be distracted so easily, especially neigh when you hoof dealings with who you do. "Wonderfoal."

You order for the two of you when the time comes for such, pleasant smile in place and allow yourself to relax once that task is complete. Huffing a tired breath of your own once it is just the two of you once mare.

Karako Last Sunday at 1:20 PM

Your eyes stare at the table while you try to think then blurt out a dumb story. "I fell on a sharp stick. Went through my side," you honk unsure if he's gonna buy it. You slowly glance up.

Horuss Last Sunday at 1:30 PM

...

"A... sharp stick?" Really? That is what he's going to go with?

Karako Last Sunday at 1:37 PM

You are internally screaming. "Um... Well..." you honk stammeringly. Why oh why does that look on his face make you think of your mom when she caught you in a lie? You look back down and mutter through honks, "Maybe... Not exactly... A sharp stick..."

Horuss Last Sunday at 1:52 PM

Better. Much better.

"Are you going to inform me the truth of it if I continue my questioning or will you continue to lie?" Simple questions to get to the truth of the thing, or as close to it as you are stable to get to. You really would neigh like to get involved with anything too ingrained in the Clown Church's issues at the marement, that is your diamond's place and you want neigh-thing to do with it when he is neigh involved.

Karako Last Sunday at 1:55 PM

Okay... Time to pull out partial truths and hope that they stick. "Some'ne musta not liked the look a me while I was running down an alley... Never saw em but I uh... Got just a little bit shot..."

Horuss Last Sunday at 2:04 PM

Oh bullet wound, lovely. There's neigh need to question whether he reported it or neigh, you are neigh prepared to deal with the politics of orchestrating a second investigation around a ward of the Clown Church. You are, very tired at the current point of time.

"I trust you got proper treatment for the wound?" There was certainly at least one mediculler in the Church? Surely? For as much as clown's prefer to care for their own you would assume so.

Karako Last Sunday at 2:11 PM

You nod vigorously sending your cap flapping against your think pan. Thank the mirthful he ain't asking somethin else. "Yeah. Healing real good too," you honk reassuringly.

Horuss Last Sunday at 2:15 PM

"That is good at least," very good. Wounds that did neigh heal well did neigh spell out a particularly good ending for those with them, neigh very good at all.

Karako Last Sunday at 2:22 PM

You nod some more. Yay you did it. Now you don't have to worry about that anymore. You smile and honk, "Hell yeah it's good. I'm gonna heal up real fine."

Horuss Last Sunday at 2:36 PM

"Wonderfoal to hear," as if he were neigh stable to he would hoof to be disposed - neigh, neigh there is neigh need for such thoughts, this is neigh Alternia.

Food arrives soon after, steaming chicken, ham and cheese for Karako and a much mare plainer salad for yourself, undressed because you can neigh stand the taste of most dressings. It is something to focus on.

Karako Last Sunday at 2:37 PM

"MOTHERFUCKIN blessed by the mirthful this is!" you honk in excitement as you smell your food.

Horuss Last Sunday at 2:39 PM

"It will be even mare so if you enjoy the taste of it as much as the smell, neigh?"

Karako Last Sunday at 2:42 PM

"Hell yeah!" you honk and dig in after giving him a fast thank you. And you are briefly in motherfuckin heaven.

Horuss Last Sunday at 2:50 PM

You tuck into your own meal, much slower and neater than Karako. Why do so many clowns eat like they're starved things?

Karako Last Sunday at 2:55 PM

Well cause you are. Though at this point you're half starved from being a damned fool rather than from lack of food available to you.

You finish quickly and sigh deeply. "Thas real good."

Horuss Last Sunday at 3:10 PM

Well that was quick, you are just about half way through your own. Speedy little clown, he is going to get indigestion one of these days you are sure of it. "Good, if you are still hungry then you can get something off the desert menu." You will neigh, sweets are neigh tasting as they are supposed to lately.

Karako Last Sunday at 3:12 PM

Your smile dims and you shake your head, "Nah... I don't be wantin none..."

Horuss Last Sunday at 3:40 PM

"Are you sure?" You do neigh mind if he is still hungry of horse and he was purusing the desert menu before.

Karako Last Sunday at 8:10 PM

Yeah... You'd love one but you're feeling bad for fibbing to him and wondering if yoy don't deserve it.

You look at the words on the menu longingly and bite your lip.

Horuss Last Sunday at 9:32 PM

>8=|

"I would neigh be offering if I was neigh being serious about it."

Please do neigh be stubborn little clown, you are a hoofbeast and therefore you shall beat him in a contest of opposing wills.

Karako Last Sunday at 11:36 PM

You glace back up at him and honk a little, "Okay... But uh... Cam you pick? It all looks real good."

Horuss Yesterday at 12:52 AM

"Of horse I can," the wealth of options could insteed be overwhelming to one so unused to it. You 100k through the menu for a marement or two before picking out something for him, a piece of a strawberry shortcake, simple but hopefully enjoyable.

Karako Yesterday at 6:01 AM

You scooch closer to him because you need comfort he probably needs comforting. You sigh and slump onto the table as you look at him. "You believe he's okay, yeah?" you ask, still really worried.

"I um... someone told me they'd come back before once but then they didn't..." you explain as you look away.

Horuss Yesterday at 9:52 AM

You pause, placing your eating utensils back down so that you hay fold your hooves in your lap, neigh quite 100king at him as you answer. "Yes, yes I do believe he is," alive "okay. He is tenacious at the core of himself." He has to be, you hoof neigh allowed him otherwise. He will be found, soon enough, you are sure of it.

"I am sorry to hear that Karako," you are, it is an extremely distressing circumstance for the other to hoof experienced.

Karako Yesterday at 11:32 AM

"I guess... I'm afraid I'll be endin up alone..." you mumble honk. "Uh... Hell tha's too real shit. Uh... Can I see pictures of the horses again?" you ask as you realize you opened up more than you'd originally intended. This horse man... Something about him feels safe the longer you're around him.

Horuss Yesterday at 12:10 PM

“... certainly.” There is neigh thing sensitive in your photo library, unless one was to count a few choice pictures of absolutely foalish silliness from the last time you left your phone unattended around your patrol partner, of horse. You open the gallery before handing the device, reinforced for your hooves to him.

“Though I sincerely doubt you will be alone again, you hoof the Church do you neigh? And other individuals that care for you, neigh?”

The poor deer.

Karako Yesterday at 12:18 PM

"Yeah... for now..." you honk then grin at these good pictures. You totally don't have abandonment issues that you are ignoring. Flipping through, you eventually find them good horses and smile. "I wanna touch em," you honk.

Horuss Yesterday at 12:27 PM

You frown the smallest amount at his add-on but decide neigh to whinny anything to the contrary despite your wish to, it was neigh your place after all.

“Perhaps one hay,” you did neigh know the proper procedures for arranging such a thing, and fore-planning would need to be done so that you did neigh subject your ancestor to an unexpected clown while he was spending time with the horses. But perhaps one hay.

Karako Yesterday at 12:35 PM

Flipping through the pictures, you see a girl with fins grinning at the camera and you hold out the phone to him and ask, "Who's that?"(edited)

Horuss Yesterday at 12:49 PM

“Ah, that is Feferi, my work partner,” you answer with a smile, the change of subject is a welcome one. “She’s a lovely individual, a pleasure to work with.”

Karako Yesterday at 12:58 PM

"She's a fishy type! I don't think I've ever really seen one!" you honk. "I wish I had fins. They look fun! Even Gamzee got lil bitty fins." Oh shoot you thought of/mentioned Gamzee. Fuuuuuuck. "Uh So this Fefery type is nice?" you ask.

Horuss Yesterday at 1:31 PM

“There aren’t many I’m amare of, neigh,” you hoof only met a hoof-foal yourself in your lifetime. It is neigh much of a conscious effort to keep your smile in place, or so you tell yourself. “Insteed he does, though whether he enjoys them or neigh is an unknown variable. But yes, Feferi is quite nice. She is quite talented in the hays of fish puns.”

Karako Yesterday at 1:36 PM

Motherfuckin puns are great. You grin and then the dessert arrives and you stare at it with wide eyes. "Ooooh... so nice... It smells nice," you honk, just staring.

Horuss Yesterday at 1:45 PM

“Then you should eat it,” you prompt gently, voice co100red amused as you return to finishing your own meal.

Karako Yesterday at 2:10 PM

You laugh a little as you sense his amusement and dig into the dessert, this time eating at the rate of a normal person. "This fruit is a motherfuckin miracle..." you honk through a mouthfull.

Horuss Yesterday at 9:08 PM

“Do neigh talk with your mouth foal,” the admonishment is free of your throat before you are foally conscious of it.

Karako Yesterday at 10:04 PM

You close you mouth instantly and finish chewing before speaking again. "Sorry," you honk with a chuckle. "I ain't ever been eating fruit much... I think I like it!" you tell him gratefully.

Horuss Yesterday at 11:14 PM

Better. But also distressing. Small clown do neigh allow yourself to get diseases from lack of proper nutrition. "I am glad you are." You make a note to make fruit mare readily available in Gamzee's hive once he is located.

Karako Yesterday at 11:16 PM

"This one's strawberry yeah? It's a motherfuckin miracle," you honk with a nod. "What kind of fruit you like eatin?"

Horuss Today at 8:55 AM

"Yes, that is strawberry. As for my own preferences," you pause a moment, head tilting and a single ear flickering in thought. "I enjoy all manners of fruit but it I were to chose a favourite, I would hoof to go with oranges."

Karako Today at 8:59 AM

"Oh! That's a fruit? I thought it was just a Faygo flavor," you say. You're joking, you know it's a fruit but it's funny to pretend you don't.

Horuss Today at 9:32 AM

Cheeky little thing, is he neigh?

"You will find the real thing to taste far superior to the imitation of the flavour," there is a beat where your pan, tired as it is, tricks you into waiting for a jab, a defense, a denial in your ear... but it does neigh come and you are left wanting.

You clear your throat and force the moment away, compartmentalise Zahhak, it is what you are good at after all. "I should return you to the Church once you are done, you are in need for mare rest to heal from your injury." There is a stiffer formality in your voice but that can neigh be helped.

Karako Today at 9:38 AM

You make a face, "I don't wanna. I been restin and it's boring as hell." And it was too close to his room... his fading scent. You don't want to be near it still because it makes you wanna cry.

You feel the distance between you increase suddenly and it makes you feel lonely. You stand with a wince after finishing the dessert. "I'll be fine," you honk. You're used to handling yourself on your own... It's fine. You're fine...

Horuss Today at 9:44 AM

Hmmm, neigh.

"Neigh, I will return you before you are missed too much," especially by the Grand Highb100d, you do neigh wish to encanter him over something like this.

Karako Today at 9:49 AM

Nope! Or rather you try to nope by scuttling away, but it's more of a sad limp then your usual speedy retreat. Stupid bullet. You take a pause at an empty table, leaning on it for support after pushing yourself. There's distance physically now between you and Horuss, but you know he can easily close that gap if he chooses.

It's frustrating. You feel not only small but genuinely helpless in all this.

Horuss Today at 9:55 AM

Unfortunately for him, you do so choose to and close the distance between you both easily after leaving enough to cover both of your meals and a tip. He weights next to neigh-thing when you lift him, careful of the side he hoof been favouring.

"Really, you are acting foalishly," you inform him.

Karako Today at 10:03 AM

You don't look at him as he lifts you. If you could you'd bite and scramble to get free but you're hurt and you know it wouldn't work. Facing away from him, your usually amiable face is sullen and unhappy. "I don't care... I don't want to go back there right now," you honk with the softest of growls.

Horuss Today at 10:07 AM

"That is very unfortunate, but we very rarely get what we want."

Karako Today at 10:12 AM

You snort and still refuse to look at him. If he thinks taking you there will keep you there, he's got another thing coming.

Horuss Today at 10:16 AM

Oh you are amare of that, simply once he is back there he will be out of your responsibility and it will be up to the clowns to be watching him. A good compromise.

You are taking him back to the Church now.

Karako Today at 10:18 AM

When he drops you off.... You are VERY motherfuckin tempted to bite him. But if Gamzee does come back you think he'll smash you into paste if he finds out. With no other outlet till he reaches his room, he bites his lip till it bleeds.

Horuss Today at 10:25 AM

Once you hoof dropped Karako back at the Church you leave him to return to work, you hoof allowed yourself enough of a break for today. You need to return to work. It is a must.

#knivesandfaygo #RP Log #Discord RP #IC #Missing (Story)

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themurphyzone · 7 years

Text

Oneshot: A Mammalian Match

So in Platypus Onesies For All, I made a terrible error. I did not actually write about the glory that is Heinz Doofenshmirtz in a platypus onesie. This oneshot is a kind of a sequel.

It was Dress Up Like An Animal Day. This year, the day happened to coincide with the dinner party the American division was hosting for the international branches of the OWCA. The most recent memo encouraged dressing like an animal instead of the formal attire of years past.

While Perry would’ve gotten away with just his fedora, he felt terrible leaving Heinz hanging. Matching was much more fun anyway. And he was touched that Heinz bought a little ocelot hoodie that even came with a fake tail just for him. It was much cozier than the stiff material of a suit.

Perry also allowed Heinz to apply kitty whiskers with a thin paintbrush. There were three black streaks on each cheek, easily washable of course.

“I can see why this is so popular,” Heinz said, flipping the bill of the onesie over his fedora. “You wanna feel? It’s really fuzzy. Hopefully not too fuzzy though. You know how when you’re wearing winter socks and the fuzz gets caught between your toes? That’s what it feels like.”

Perry ran his fingers up and down Heinz’s arm, chattering as he felt the material squish in his hand.

Heinz grinned. “I know you like it too. We don’t have to leave just yet. We can totally get away with being fashionably late. Why do they call it that anyway? What does fashion have to do with an inability to show up on time?”

Perry tugged him to his feet. They were going to arrive on time, and that was final.

OWCA sure knew how to pick the venue. They’d rented out the local convention center, which had been renovated to include a brand new ballroom. It was such a big deal that the local news had done a special segment over the building, complete with interview from Roger himself.

Perry had a great time playing ‘keep the remote away from Heinz in case he threw it at the television’ that night.

“Remember when you thwarted me when I tried destroying this place with the Rocking Chair-inator?” Heinz asked, wiping a tear from his eye. “Man, good times. I wish I’d gotten a picture of your face when you got thrown on top of one of the statues. That was priceless!”

Perry scowled, then pointed at the greeter, who was staring at Heinz in disbelief. Not exactly the most tactful thing to say to someone who made their living here. The greeter made a big show of checking their tickets to stall them, and Heinz protested the entire time.

Finally, they were allowed in. The dining hall was straight ahead, several large banquet tables set up in the middle with assorted fruits and cheese neatly lining fancy silver platters. The animals mingled with each other, while the humans were more content to stick to the group they flew in with.

Candace was right about accidentally starting a fashion trend. Platypus onesies were definitely the most popular costume of the night. The Australian branch was completely decked in teal and orange. Even the echidna and kangaroo with them had platypus memorabilia.

Upon seeing Perry and Heinz, they gasped and surrounded them completely. Perry shifted nervously, and Heinz laughed. “Shy in front of your own fan club, Perry the Platypus? Come on, if any guy deserves a fan club, it’s you! Though I’d totally be the president of it.”

“I follow your blog! Did Perry the Platypus really blow up all your inventions?”

“Why is his fur teal?”

“Have you ever been stabbed by his venomous spurs?”

Heinz lifted his hands in a futile attempt to quiet them enough so he could talk. “Not all of my inventions. Just the ones used for evil. I still have Norm though. I hope he isn’t making too many muffins again. He destroyed the kitchen last time he made them, you know. And I have no idea why his fur is teal. A mutation maybe, and I read up on the venomous spur thing. He doesn’t need those to inflict a world of hurt.”

Satisfied, the agents took several selfies for keepsakes. Perry sighed in relief when they took interest in a few avian agents.

“Come on, so people are giving you a little attention,” Heinz said. “You should be happy about that!”

Perry shook his head. Fan clubs just weren’t his thing.

“Yeah, I guess if you’re supposed to be a secret agent, you aren’t supposed to be drawing attention. That’s why secret’s in the name. Whoever heard of an attention agent?”

Perry grabbed his hand and pulled him towards the buffet table. They would both need the energy if they were going to socialize. Since it was still early, the servers had only put out the appetizers. It would be an hour before the main courses were brought out and they were called to be seated.

The table was so high that Perry had to sit on Heinz’s shoulders to get a good look at the food available. There were several odd looks from some of the stuffier visitors, but Perry paid them no mind. He was more concerned about directing Heinz so that he got enough marinara with his calamari.

Heinz settled for the crackers and loaded his plate with every slice of cheese available. Perry hopped off and grabbed the plate of calamari from him, completely coating a ring with sauce before eating it.

“You could’ve said please,” Heinz complained. “Or sign-languaged please. Do platypi have a word for it? Or is this one of the things that doesn’t translate?”

Perry shrugged, popping another piece into his bill. There was no need for him to give his ‘I’m hungry’ chatter here. Besides, that was the closest thing platypi had to the magic words.

Heinz played with his food, the tip of his tongue sticking out as he concentrated heavily on arranging the cheese in a strange pattern. After a few minutes, he finished and proudly displayed a cheese and cracker version of Perry on his plate.

The body was made of Colby Jack, while the bill was sharp cheddar. A cracker was broken into two halves, one for the hat and the other for the tail.

Perry took one of the creation’s pepperjack arms and chewed on it. Heinz grinned. “I’m just gonna pretend you liked it and didn’t eat your own arm.”

“There you two are!” someone exclaimed.

They whirled around to see Major Monogram approaching them. Perry wasn’t sure if his scowl was directed at Heinz or at Carl. They’d made a bet a week before, and Carl won. As a result, he got first pick of the animal costumes.

And now Major Monogram was dressed like a chipmunk.

Perry quickly saluted his superior, although he knew he it wouldn’t be that professional anyway. He flicked off a small speck of cheese stuck to the side of his bill.

“Nice ocelot outfit, Agent P,” Major Monogram said. “Your onesie is tacky, Doofenshmirtz. And unoriginal. Everyone and their mother is wearing one of those now.”

Heinz raised an eyebrow. “Sure, Monobrow. At least mine is trendy. Chipmunks are so 80s of you. Just out of curiosity, what would you and Carl have dressed up as if you’d won that bet?”

“It was only a lucky fluke,” Monogram grumbled. “I would’ve won if it hadn’t been for that meddling kid in the sweatervest and his dog.”

“Wow, never heard a good guy say that one before,” Heinz remarked. Perry was surprised too.

It was pretty cliche though.

“I would’ve liked to go as a bear. Probably would’ve stuck Carl in a fox costume,” Monogram said. “Enjoy the party, I’ll see you at the table when we’re called down. I’d better drag Carl away from the other squirrels. Catch you later.”

An almost civil conversation between Heinz and Monogram. Weird.

They spent the next thirty minutes learning of their apparent celebrity status in the international branches. The cat in the Japanese division had started purring and rubbing herself against Perry. Her superior and Heinz had to work together to pull them apart when she’d latched onto him, her front paws digging into his hoodie.

Thankfully, they broke apart before her claws could damage the material. Her superior apologized profusely to both of them. The cat pouted as she was reprimanded sternly for her behavior.

“Probably the jacket,” Heinz said. He gently knocked Perry’s side with an elbow. “Do me a favor and avoid female cats that want to flirt with you.”

Perry shrugged. She-cats just weren’t his type.

Then Heinz somehow managed to attract the attention of two female agents in the COWCA. Unfortunately, Lyla wasn’t with them since Bannister broke out of prison and she had to go deal with him.

Heinz being Heinz, he didn’t even realize they were flirting with him.

And Perry wasn’t the sharing type.

Before he could figure out a good excuse to lead Heinz away, an announcement sounded over the P.A. “Attention, everyone take your seats at your tables. Dinner will begin shortly.”

Thank goodness.

The table even had name cards. Heinz quickly snatched Monogram’s card and crossed out the last half of his name with a red pen, replacing it with ‘brow’. He also scribbled a smiley face with the tongue sticking out. Then he put the card back, giggling.

Heinz wasn’t a bad guy anymore (loosely defined), but his pettiness would never go away. Perry could live with it.

Carl flopped down in his chair, crossing his arms at Monogram. “You could’ve just asked.”

“I asked four different times, Carl,” Monogram retorted. He frowned at his name card. “Monobrow? Seriously?”

Carl high-fived Heinz. “Yes!” he cheered. “I love karma!”

Now was one of those times Perry was glad he couldn’t speak. Otherwise Monogram would find out that listening to Heinz say ‘Monobrow’ all the time occasionally made Perry call him that in his head too.

“Hey, I consider Monobrow one of the best play on words I’ve ever made,” Heinz laughed. “I mean mono and uni are prefixes for the same thing, so the name still fits. Besides, I gotta be original here because making fun of that mustache is way too easy.”

“Making fun of that beak you call a nose is way too easy,” Monogram muttered.

Heinz frowned. “Wow. You should really learn something more original.”

The entrees arrived, several large platters of food being set in the middle of every table. The calamari had been delicious, sure, but one small plate wasn’t going to fill him up.

Heinz grabbed Perry’s plate and scooped the mashed potatoes and chicken for him. Perry flashed a thumbs up and dug in. Monogram snatched the serving fork as Carl was reaching for it.

“Rude, much?” Heinz whispered.

Perry shrugged. He would take this brand of rude instead of the whole ‘humans are the superior species’ stuff any day. The sensitivity training Monogram had been forced to take was clearly not working.

As they ate, someone came on stage on started talking about ‘unity’ and ‘integrity’ and a whole bunch of other ‘-ties’. Perry wasn’t paying attention. The food was too delicious for him to care about some stuffy guy giving a speech.

And Heinz. It was hard to pay attention when his best friend was decked out in turquoise.

And rocked it too. Not that he’d ever tell him that.

Perry needed to figure out a way to thank Candace for accidentally starting the fashion trend. Ah, well. For now, he was going to enjoy the rest of the night.

#phineas and ferb #heinz doofenshmirtz #perry the platypus #ok this has been sitting in my drafts for like four weeks i need to finish it #fanfiction

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jjbaconsumedmysoul · 7 years

Text

Speedwagon x Reader: “The Balcony”

You regretted never meeting Jonathan Joestar. You had heard all about him from Erina in your youth: she positively gushed over his gentlemanliness, his chivalry, and his valor, every time she came for tea. Your cup would grow cold as your rested your elbows on the table, leaning in to hear whatever story she had for you that day about her adventures with JoJo. You longed to get out of this stupid mansion, to ride through the country and play in the fields with Erina. But, of course, your governess would not allow anything of the sort, and you would whine as she ordered that you remove your elbows from the table. These merry meetings were the highlight of your childhood, and each week you looked forward to a new story: one of romance or comedy or tragedy. You consoled her when she lamented JoJo’s position of conflict with his adopted brother, and advised her the best course of action.

However you knew this dream had to end some day. It was an abrupt shift from adolescence to adulthood. One day she left and simply never returned. Your father told you she had left for India, and may never come back to England. You lost your closest companion, and your only link to the outside world.

Of course, you rarely thought of this once you had escaped your parents’ country mansion. Your governess had long ago resigned as she had become absolutely disgusted your unorthodox attitudes, thinking you were a lost cause. You persuaded your father to let you leave for London to pursue an education, an apprenticeship, something, anything. And the city life seemed to be treating you quite nicely.

It was a late evening. Beyond the rim of the balcony, you could see the sun setting over the Thames as stars began to dot the violet sky. Of course, most of the heavens were obscured by clouds and smoke and haze, and steam horns drowned out the sounds of pigeons cooing and pecking crumbs off the dirty cobblestone road beneath the window. A light drizzle evoked commotion in the marketplace below, and your shut the balcony doors as rain began to pour down.

But, nonetheless, you enjoyed this life. You had become quite the influential figure in the London scene, and a knock at the door was nothing terribly unexpected, though, at this hour of the night, you rarely had visitors.

You hurriedly descended the staircase and strode to the mahogany door, turning the rusty metal knob as the hinges creaked open. You were prepared to shoo the solicitor away, bid him return in the morning, or something of the sort. But, instead, you froze.

The man loomed over you, his hulking figure casting a long shadow across the room. His luscious mane of golden hair framed his surprisingly soft face, across which a ragged, pink scar trailed. His eyebrows were thick and expressive; if they had been tightened in a frown you might have been terrified out of your wits. But he seemed desperate, forlorn, sincere. His rough and calloused hand reached to the brim of his checkered top hat, and you noticed the glistening drops of rain that drenched through the material. With a polite tip of his hat, he began to speak.

“Please pardon my intrusion, but, might you be Lady (y/n) (l/n)?” You grimaced at the use of your title, but remained calm and gracious towards the handsome gentlemen.

“Yes, but please, call me (y/n). And who might you be?” You raised your eyebrows inquisitively. He seemed slightly shaken, and his cheeks flushed as he took your hand in his, pressing your knuckles tenderly to his soft lips. You shivered at the velvety touch, trying to maintain your solemn composure.

“My name is Robert E. O. Speedwagon, I was sent by an old childhood friend of yours,” Your eyes flashed as he mentioned this, and you interrupted his introduction.

“Erina? Erina Pendleton?” Your heart quickened in surprise and your mind flooded with memories of your youth. A slight smile tugged at the man’s shapely lips, and he nodded in affirmation. You couldn’t help but beam as the words flowing out of your mouth exposed just how ecstatic you were, “How is she? I haven't seen her in years! When did she return? How did you find me–” The man gently gripped your shoulder and you halted your speech at his soft eyes.

“You may ask her yourself. She is resting in the cab,” You wanted to push past his to greet her, but his dark eyes captured you in their mesmerising gaze. “Please excuse us for the sudden interruption… but might we come in?”

“Of course, please.” At your words, he thanked you, and turned back into the now light rain as he went to retrieve Erina from the car. You craned your neck so you could catch a glimpse, however, you almost gasped at the sight. He held out a large dark umbrella as she stepped from the cab, holding a small bundle in her arms. You drew your hand to cover your mouth as the tangle of blankets cried out in distress: it was a young infant. Her belly was full and round with yet another child, and you rushed to help her in her plight as she stumbled to the doorway. She smiled brightly as you came to her side.

“(Y/n)!”

You helped draw a bath for her, as she seemed to be shivering from the chilly downpour, and panicked as you took the crying child from her hands. You were in such a state of panic that you barely noticed Mr. Speedwagon help set luggage down their luggage, and, gently removing the baby from your arms. She seemed to fall asleep instantly as he gently rocked back and forth. Erina insisted that all she needed was her change of clothes, and no further assistance from you to bathe or to dress, but you were altogether unwilling to leave her alone in her... situation.

As she relaxed in the tub, Mr. Speedwagon, or Robert, as he insisted you call him, told you the tale of all their misfortunes. You offered to brew a pot of tea as he continued to soothe the infant, and you were reminded of how you used to sit and chat with Erina in the years of your youth. However, this story was much more grim and gruesome. You learned of the tragic shipwreck just days after the wedding, and Erina’s daring escape from the drowning vessel. You learned of how she had saved the child from its almost certain demise, and washed up on the shores of the Canary Islands, famished and near death. She was cared for by a generous family, and after several months was able to contact Mr. Speedwagon and travel back to England. However, upon their return to London, they had found none willing to house them. That was when they approached you.

“I will do my best to care for her, however, I only have one guest bedroom, and certainly no crib for the baby,” Robert reached across the table to your hand, still making sure to cradle steadily in his grasp.

“It is quite alright, my dear. If you would be so kind as to let Lady Erina and the child take the bedroom, I will be content spending the night here on the couch. Don’t worry, I will take care of everything.” Your cheeks reddened at his gentle smile; something about him was just so charming…

Erina finally emerged from the bathroom, and you ran to greet her, making sure she was well after the harrowing tale you had just heard. She assured you that she was quite alright, and didn’t mean to intrude, but you hushed her apologies and bid her get some rest.

Days turned to weeks and weeks turned to months, and, still, they had not left. It was a combination of their inability to find a means of communication and travel, and your inability to let them go. It had been so long since you had companions like them, and though incessant whining of the infant Lisa Lisa was quite getting on your nerves, you couldn't bear to part with the three (soon to be four) of them.

Eventually, the baby boy did arrive. George was his name, and with him Erina confided in you that they had finally received word from the Pendleton estate, and her inheritance was secured so that she could return to her mansion. And she would return to her mansion.

It seemed so sudden, so unreal: the friend you had finally reconnected with would soon be leaving you. You wanted her to stay, to never depart from your side again. But more than anything, you wanted him to stay.

It was the day before she and the children and Speedwagon were to leave for the countryside. You stood on the balcony, remembering that rainy day just a few months ago when he had appeared on your doorstep. You had grown quite fond of Robert. He was a gentleman, certainly, but he struck you as a different kind of gentleman than Jonathan Joestar had been. He could be brash and bold when the times called for it, he could be coarse and impolite if it was appropriate for the situation. On several occasions you had asked him about his past, and he begrudgingly recalled his life as a thief on Ogre Street. It seemed he was hesitant to tell you about this secret history, thinking it would tarnish him in your eyes, but it was the most intriguing tale you had ever heard. You loved listening to him talk of his childhood, of his experiences in London. And when he had resolved to follow Erina, you could swear a nostalgic mist covered his eyes every time he spoke of the beloved city he would be leaving behind.

You shivered as the last rays of sunlight disappeared over the horizon, though, thankfully, the sky was clear and shone a brilliant indigo. You gasped as a warm woolen coat covered your shoulders, turning to see that familiar pink scar across his face. He gazed off into the sunset as the wind whipped his hair out of his eyes. He took a deep, shuddering sigh.

“I really am going to miss this city,” a twinge of regret sounded through his voice. He looked heartbroken, vulnerable. You took a step closer to him, intertwining your fingers in his as you bit your lip hesitantly.

“I’m really going to miss you,” Your words may have seemed forward, but you were completely honest and sincere. You both maintained your focus, however, on the twinkling stars that began to dot the sky. Strangely, there were no steam horns, car honks, no cries of drunken revelry that permeated the silence. Just you and him. He suddenly wrapped his arms around your frame, holding you close into his warm chest to combat the chilly night air. He had rarely embraced you like this, and you felt comfortable and secure, though it pained you to think that in just a day he would be out of your reach.

“I don’t want to leave you,” His words were soft as he whispered them into the crook of your neck. His warm breath sent shivers down your spine as you stood on your tiptoes to hug his massive frame. “Please,” you furrowed your brow in confusion. Please?

He pulled back from you, resting his rough fingers underneath your chin and tilting your head up to look into his eyes. His expression was filled with desperation, and you couldn't help as a tear slipped down your cheek. You wanted to tell him just how much you would miss him, just how much you cared about both him and Erina, how much you desired their company and their friendship.

“C-Come with us?” His voice was shaky, and you could tell his was trying his hardest not to shed a single tear as he gazed into your eyes. You inhaled sharply. It was a possibility, you supposed. You certainly couldn’t leave on such short notice, but what was there left for you in London anyway? You had your work, your house, connections, influence… But you didn’t have companionship. “I’ve thought about it for a while,” he continued. “I’ll only be with Lady Erina a few more months, maybe a year at most, but once she is able to care for the child on her own,” His face reddened, though a sly smile curled to his lips as he looked away bashfully. “Maybe we could come back to London. Together.”

Your heart leapt at the thought. In any ordinary situation, this might have been considered a proposal. But you couldn’t tell where his intentions lied. He could have been suggesting merely that you return to the country with Erina for a brief while, then come back to your home in the city where he would find another source of employment. But… together.

Robert glanced back at your expression, gauging your reaction to his proposition. Your face was no doubt flushed red with surprise and embarrassment, and you quickly looked away so as not to make an idiot of yourself (though you probably already had).

“R-Robert, are you actually suggesting… Do you…” You couldn’t get the words out of your mouth for some strange reason, so he took it upon himself. You gasped as he bent down on one knee, taking your cold hand in his warm grasp. Your breaths grew shallow as you gazed into those striking eyes.

“(Y/n), from the moment I laid eyes on you I was captivated. I’ve never met someone so kind hearted, so driven, so passionate, so beautiful. The love you bore to Erina and the compassion you bore to me, despite everything I told you about my past,” He rose from his knee, placing a firm yet gentle hand on your cheek as your mouth hung open in surprise and disbelief. “I love you (y/n). I understand if you cannot requite my feelings, but I just need you to know how much you mean to both me and Lady Erina. I…” He paused, unable to find the right words to further express his gratitude. But you took advantage of the silence, stroking his cheek tenderly as you gazed into those fiery eyes of his. You giggled a bit, still trying to find the right words yourself. However, you took a deep breath, and let your thoughts flow unrestrained.

“Robert, of course I feel the same. Of course I love you.” You wanted to say more, to praise him for his chivalry, his intellect, his bravery, his fortitude; but you remained silent. There would be another time to tell him. “I will go with you. Please, let me go with you.” He breathed a deep sigh of relief, letting out reassured chuckle as he pressed his lips to your hand again and again.

“Thank you so much, (y/n)!” He beamed with joy as he quickly embraced you in his strong clutch, placing a firm kiss on your cheek before pulling you back by the shoulders. He looked at you up and down, his expression one of satisfaction, gratitude, and a desire that he tried to hide. “We must tell Erina–”

“Wait!” You gripped his hand tightly before he could leave the balcony, though you immediately blushed at your own actions. “Please, stay, Robert.” His expression softened as he took both your hands in his.

“Yes, (y/n)?” It was all too perfect. The sunset, the breeze the silence, his calloused hand entangled in your own soft fingers. You wanted to stay here forever. But you knew you couldn’t. So, you decided to do the next best thing. Adrenaline surged through your veins as you cupped his cheeks and pulled him close. He gasped as your lips collided.

His body remained rigid at first, but he soon grasped your hips as he pulled you further to his chest. His lips were just as soft as they had felt on your cheek, and you tilted your head to deepen the kiss, relishing in this newfound sensation.

At first, it was just a quick, yet firm, peck at the corner of his mouth, but his hand tangled in your hair as he pulled you back for more, slamming your pelvis into his as you gasped in shock. The coat he had draped around your shoulders fell to the ground, and you shivered, surprised at his roughness, however, he didn’t seem to draw back. He hungrily sucked your lips, his fingers trailing through your locks and stroking up and down your back. You melted into his touch, and your palms slowly crept onto his solid chest for support.

To your surprise, a small moan escaped your lips as he licked them sensuously, his hands now meandering down to the small of your back. He lightly nibbled and bit through the kiss, as if he were trying to see just how far he could go before you broke polite and “ladylike” composure. His fingers began to wander down further, teasing you just before they reached far enough to grab your rear.

He smirked as you panted slightly, and drew away for just a moment to let you breathe. However, he instead attacked your jawline in a barrage of kisses as he began to unbutton his vest. Your face grew crimson as you interpreted these intentions, and you hissed at him.

“Robert, what are you doing?” He met your eyes with an uncharacteristic expression of hunger and lust. His fingers trailed across your cheek, down your neck, your collarbone, your breast. He smiled cheekily.

“You don’t want it?” Your breaths quickened with the realisation. You did. You wanted him to take you, to have you. You just wanted to hold him and never let go. You gripped his hand before muttering:

“Not on the balcony.”

You two took one final look as the beautiful London skyline, at the city you both loved, silhouetted against the dark sapphire sky. He kissed you once again, passionately, before you shut the doors on the outside world.

*WHOA! That Speedweed fic was a TRIP! Victorian romance is my guilty pleasure (actually writing reader inserts is my guilty pleasure, but it’s my super duper top secret guilty pleasure). Sorry if the writing sounds a bit Shakespearean, but dammit I love Shakespeare and I loved writing this thing. I know it needs a continuation at some point, I just can’t leave that hanging! GYAH THAT WAS FUN!*

#speedwagon #reo speedwagon #jjba #jojo's bizarre adventure #x reader #request #reader insert #i'm dying

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anonthenullifier · 7 years

Text

Facade of Normalcy

Summary: Life on the run has been difficult for Wanda, helped only by brief, precious moments of joy. A new development with Vision's powers offers a possible escape, but can this facade of normalcy actually work?

Word Count: 11,355 (Sorry, I can’t seem to stop myself)

Notes: Based on all of the set pictures out of Edinburgh, see the end for specific pictures used as inspiration. This was originally posted on AO3 (http://archiveofourown.org/works/10723998/chapters/23762208) about a month ago but I have Tumblr now, so figured I’d post it here too. Also, I know I am 2 days early on the Scarlet Vision Appreciation Day, but I have a new one-shot for that instead.

Starts super fluffy and ends with angst. Hope you Enjoy!

Wanda moves away from the window, fingers gripping a mug in hopes of pulling its scalding heat into her body. It’s been raining for six days, not a hard rain, but a constant depressing drizzle that is just enough to be a deterrent to explore the area more. The room she’s called home since coming to Edinburgh is compact, a tiny kitchenette with a solitary burner and an oven too small to hold a normal sized dish, a murphy bed folded up for now but whenever she wants to sleep she has to shift her belongings in front of the door, and a wobbly desk with a tablet, radio, and handwritten coordinates for her next destination.

Wakanda was a paradise that only lasted for a few weeks, the political climate and societal disapproval of their fugitive status meant they agreed to leave instead of stay (though T’Challa offered to keep housing them) just so they didn’t push the bounds of that alliance. Since then they move in erratic patterns, each individually for three cities (one week per city) and then they meet up for a week to regroup, check up, train, and begin again.

The ambient static from the radio cuts out, four quick beeps indicate someone is about to talk with her, and so Wanda closes the two foot distance to sit in the uneven chair. “Wanda, this is Nat, you there?”

“I’m here.”

“Good,” silence falls on the room again, broken only by the clink of her rings against the ceramic mug and the slosh of tea as she takes a sip, waiting for the update. “Just came across some chatter about some sightings of an unidentified flying object just south of you.”

Wanda finds her mouth tilting up ever so slightly at the words. “I’ll check it out and report back. You sure it’s not just a bird again? I had to leave Barcelona three days early for a pelican.”

Laughter comes through the radio and it warms her far better than the tea, always enjoying these brief moments of human interaction, their orders strict from Steve that they must keep out of the public eye as much as possible. “Well, you never know. To be fair, it was a big pelican.”

“Okay, I’ll check into it.”

“Good, be safe.”

“I will.” The static returns, a soothing white noise that at least fills the void of silence. Wanda sets her tea down, careful not to place it on the slanted portion of the desk, lest she spill it all over her tablet like she did her coordinate list the other day. Once she’s sure it’s not tumbling over, she grabs a green wool knit hat and coat, pulling the collar up and the fabric tight around her, preparing for the saturated cold outside.

Her door opens out into a tight alleyway, well she should call it a close if she wants to blend in with the locals, the tap of her shoes on the bricks echoing around her, a deafening sound that she attempts to muffle with smaller, more careful steps. The close opens up onto a bustling brick-paved street, tiny shops and restaurants lining both sides, carts selling all forms of haggis producing steam that rises up into the misty evening sky. Wanda does her best to tuck her head down, obscuring her face with her coat as she strolls along the street, eyes shifting from side to side to pick up on any questionable movement or knowing stares. Occasionally she’ll glance up but then realizes the futility of attempting to decipher information from darkened skies.

A quarter mile down the road she cuts into another close, checking over her shoulder to ensure she hasn’t been followed, and then she approaches a ladder hanging down about halfway into the alley. It’s a bit higher up than it looked on the satellite image. Wanda glances around one more time before her hands glow red and a shaky boost of her powers lifts her high enough to grip the ladder, climbing up until she finds herself on a flat, vacant rooftop. Slowly she weaves between pipes and power boxes, ducking behind a generator until she reaches the eastern end of the building where she attempts to lean casually against the stone edge, enjoying the glimmer of the castle lights through the murky clouds. A shimmer in her periphery and a rush of air against her neck coaxes her mouth into a grin. “Took you long enough, Steve expects me on the road in 36 hours.”

“My sincerest apologies, given my proclivity at failing to apprehend you, it required a great deal more convincing to receive clearance to pursue the lead.”

Wanda slides her eyes to the side, taking in the sharp lines of his features contrasting against the softness of his muted navy thermal. “What do you tell them, when you come back empty handed?”

Hesitantly he steps closer to her, leaning his forearms on the stone to mirror her own stance. “It varies, sometimes I inform them the intel was fallible and there were no clear indications you were in that locale. Other times that you somehow received information regarding my approach and evaded my detection. The majority of the time I simply explain that the intel was old and though there were signs of your stay, none of them indicated you were still in the city.”

“Never that I overpowered you?”

“No.” Vision shakes his head, mouth settling into a disapproving slant at the suggestion. “There is no need to justify their fears.”

If he can feel the intensity of her stare, he does not betray it, face tilted down to take in the lives meandering on the streets below, so Wanda focuses instead on her hands, watching as her fingers fold together and then unfold. “How was Barcelona?”

“Splendid.” The pleased smile on his face resonates in the way the word starts low and ends with a short, perfectly enunciated syllable. Vision turns his head towards her, confirming the upward curve of his lips, the excited wave of his hands as he continues to talk pulling her own mouth up into a broad smile, and she can’t help from leaning towards him a bit more, shoulder just barely pressing into his arm. “Your recommendations were quite enjoyable, particularly the Parc Guell.”

“I thought you’d like that one.”

“Indeed,” he looks down at her, eyes gauging her reaction, a swift click of his irises counterclockwise as he seems to determine his next comment is acceptable. “Though it would have been far better with company.”

The ache of loneliness in his voice is reciprocated in her own chest, tired of running, tired of tight quarters and lumpy mattresses, tired of never being able to spend more than ten minutes in his presence. “Maybe next time.”

“Maybe.” Silence descends around them, not uncomfortable nor unwelcomed, but amiable in the most comfortable way, a mutual desire to simply be in each other’s presence, a warm, soft blanket of calm to shoo away the damp loneliness of being on the run. An icy wind blows past them and Wanda shivers, yanking her coat tighter around her. “You are cold.” Not a question nor an indictment, but a concerned statement. “Is it not possible to relocate to your quarters where it is warmer?”

Wanda would be lying if she claimed to have never thought about it, if she denied the confusion and frustration in the way her heart’s been fluttering when curtains blow or she awakens to a noise outside, longing to return to a time when she took for granted his inability to comprehend personal boundaries. “No, the room is hooked into the communication system, it’s set up to instantly recognize any of you and send an automatic relay to the others that something is wrong. It is far too risky. Plus, it is not too cold.”

An uncharacteristically disapproving hmmm vibrates his lips as his eyes focus on the lights in the distance, mind churning thoughts around in a lulling pattern. “I might have an alternative solution.”

“Oh?” She turns fully towards him now, arms crossed and eyebrow raised in curiosity, lifting higher at his sheepish grin and the meticulous interlocking wiggle of his fingers.

“Yes.” Another nervous smile dancing along his lips spreads a warmth through her body, no longer concerned about the cold, attention fully arrested by the man in front of her. “I suppose I should just,” he waves a hand, thoughts cutting off as his eyes stop spinning and a thin line of concentration forms on his mouth. “Since you seem to believe yourself impervious to the cold despite alternative, compelling evidence from your recent illness in Munich.”

“That soup was delicious by the way.”

A surprised and embarrassed half grin goes along with a tiny shrug, “Oh, you are welcome, though I did not make it.”

“I know, I said it was delicious.” The shift in his mood is instant, from bashful, fumbling nerves to an amused and flirtatious smirk. The combination is adorable and disarming, drawing her to touch his arm, overjoyed at the soft smile her touch brings to his lips. “You were saying?”

“Oh yes,” he touches his fingertips to the top of her hand as he continues to explain his apparent grand plan, “because of Munich and the anticipated forecast for Edinburgh I have procured a room in the hotel below us.” The explanation stops momentarily, blue irises rotating left and then right as he allows time for a response, but she has none, heartbeat increasing at the various implications this action could have, yet she is fairly certain he has done this under no pretext or presumptions. “If that is amenable the reservation is for room 416. I will meet you there momentarily?”

Wanda nods her head and grins up at him, squeezing his arm reassuringly. “Sounds perfect.”

And he is gone, body dissolving with the rain as he sinks through the roof. Wanda sighs, eyes skimming the rooftops, enjoying the gentle glow of the city lights reflected in the puddles for one more moment as she prepares herself to climb back down the ladder, feeling particularly jealous of his phasing ability.

Collar back up and hat pulled down she returns to the main street long enough to walk through the ornate golden doorway of the hotel into an entry way dripping with historically inspired modern finishes. Hesitantly she approaches the mustached and smiling man at the front desk. “Good evening, how may I help you?”

“Um,” given the paranoia birthed from the strict orders to not engage with the public, Wanda finds her fingers curling into tight fists as her eyes roam the surroundings, attempting to be cognizant of anyone who seems to think she looks familiar. “I need a key to room 416.”

She’s certain this won’t work, knows the procedures for hotels and wonders if Vision understands she probably needs more than just a room number, which then morphs into a persistently curious thought of how exactly Vision arranged this given his fairly recognizable features. “Ah yes, Victor informed me an attractive young lady would be joining him.” The knowing wink from the man causes a rush of heat to her face and she hopes she’s not blushing too much. “Here you are.”

“Thanks.” Quickly she ducks into the hallway, eyes focused on the floor in case she comes across anyone, making sure to take the stairs instead of the elevator to avoid the chance of being stuck in an enclosed space with plenty of opportunities for someone to scrutinize her face. Thankfully there is no one and she makes it to the room, opening the door and breathing in a sigh of relief as she closes it. “Vizh?” Wanda studies the room, nodding in approval at the golden sconces tastefully placed on the wall, a four-post mahogany bed filling the available space, and a large bay window overlooking the Royal Mile. Most importantly, however, is the blissful touch of warm air, her current hide-out lacking a working heater or fireplace, and she shimmies out of her coat, removing her hat, fingers combing through her flattened hair.

“I hope it was not troublesome to get a key, Olivier assured me it would not be a problem.”

Wanda smiles at his voice, turning to let him know everything went fine but then she gasps, hands raising, encased in red as she stares at a tall, lithe blonde-haired and blue eyed man standing near the window that for some reason is wearing the same navy thermal, annoyingly buttoned all the way up, and black slacks as Vision had on the roof. “V..Vision?”

A nervous smile joins his shuffling feet as he stares up at the ceiling, out the window, and then at her, hand lifting delicately to emphasize his words. “I have experienced an increase in downtime and have been striving to better understand my abilities, particularly the boundaries of my molecular manipulation. See.” In less than two seconds he stands before her, crimson skin and shiny, intricate vibranium weaving through his muscles.

Wanda opens her mouth to ask for a more direct explanation and then he gives her the full demonstration. Slowly his body shifts, not a new sight, Wanda the go-to wardrobe consultant for him, but it’s different this time, his slacks and thermal staying the same, instead the red of his skin and the gleam of vibranium dull, shifting into pale, smooth porcelain. Her eyes widen as the change moves up his body, the dot of vibranium on his chin disappearing, gears in his eyes fading to a soft, far less intense blue, and then he has ears and hair, forehead no longer marred by the yellow glow of the Mindstone. Wanda doesn’t even realize her actions until it's too late, walking slowly towards the window, hand reaching out to press hesitantly against his forehead. Despite appearances, she can still feel the curve of the Mindstone and the cool touch of vibranium but he’s no longer Vision, still insanely attractive and she wonders if he somehow knew her prior preference for tall blondes (though now it is much more skewed towards crimson synthezoids) or if he is just really good at guessing.

“This is really weird, Vizh.” It’s a surprise when her fingers brush through the blonde locks, though his clothing is always the correct texture for whatever fabric he’s mimicking, she still expected her hands to simply go through this facade. Her eyes travel along the new features, his emotions more clouded and difficult to decipher without the gears in his irises. She finds she misses those, misses the soothing task of counting each click and rotation. Slowly her hand travels along his cheek, impressed by the fact he’s even managed to introduce the soft texture of hair along his jaw, and then to the side of his head, thumb tracing the edges of his ear lobe which causes him to shiver. “Vizh this is-” The breeze from the slightly ajar window carries away her words, heart beating so loudly she can’t hear her own thoughts as he brings a hand to cup her own.

“My intention was to show you in Barcelona, but,”

“The damn pelican.”

This not-Vision smiles at her, and the half-cocked, close lipped arc confirms he’s still him underneath the guise. “Yes, I,” he pauses, moving his body closer to her, other hand wrapping around the curve of her ribs and she’s fairly certain they’re in the desert now, every juncture where they touch a raging wildfire. “We could live like this, could evade prying eyes.”

The last time they met, in Belarus behind a shed, the rest of the rogue team less than a mile away, she asked if he’d ever drop the Accords, if he’d ever turn his back on being a savior, ever choose his own wants over the needs of the world. He’d gotten close then, close enough for her to feel the fuzz of his sweater, the humid touch of his breath on her forehead. But then Clint yelled from down the street, concerned and with a dangerous edge to his voice, and Vision phased away without an answer. “Are you,” the words leave her mind, thoughts colliding like the raindrops on the window, splattering into tiny, incoherent puddles as he turns his face, cool, gentle lips pressing reverently into her palm.

“Yes.” Wanda had always assumed, naively it seems, that she’d make the first move, be the one to coax him from his innocent aloofness, help him realize the feelings he was clearly unsure about defining. Instead his hands travel to gingerly cup her face and she knows she’s smiling like a fool, can feel the ache in her cheeks intensify as he leans closer to her, his thumb brushing her skin, and in her excitement Wanda grips his wrists as he closes the distance, tenderly kissing her. If it was ever in doubt that time does not truly exist this moment cements its abstractness, the world frozen, the rain hovering in the air outside and the whir of the heater grinding to a halt as the only movement is their lips and the scrunch of his fingers in her hair and the rhythm of his racing pulse under her hands.

Eventually he pulls back, an anxious, joyous, terrified, and yet relieved smile flickering along his mouth and in his eyes. If she focuses enough she can even make out the turn of almost indiscernible gears in the blue. “Took you long enough.”

His laugh always catches her by surprise, a full-bodied yet tightly controlled chuckle that crinkles the skin around his mouth and half-lidded eyes. “My apologies.” Gently he leans down, pressing a chaste, fluttering kiss to her lips before leaning his forehead against hers. “I hope this form is pleasing, it can be altered if you wish.”

“It should be,” the confusion on his face pulls a laugh from her lungs, an overjoyed flirtatiousness spreading through her limbs as she stands on the tips of their toes, bringing their faces closer together. “I’d much rather kiss you, if that’s okay?” It takes approximately four seconds for the meaning to work through his mind and then the guise falls, skin returning to red, vibranium reappearing along his scalp and chin, cold under her palms, and the quick rotation of his irises intoxicating. “That’s better.” Wanda pushes him against the wall, out of view of any prying eyes out the window, pressing her body firmly against his to deepen the kiss, unwilling to subsist on chasteness just in case this is not their time to run just yet.

A buzzing resonates in her ear and she tightens her grip on his wrists, trying to ignore it, but it persists until he reluctantly ends the kiss, eyes losing focus as he raises a polite finger to indicate he is receiving a communication. Wanda watches him with interest, the way his eyes rotate methodically and the tension in his lips as they pucker in concentration. “I have not located Ms. Maximoff yet,” she raises her eyebrows at the playful smile coupled with the wink he gives her, “but based upon interviews with the locals there are numerous reports of red mists in the closes. I believe it may be in the best interest of the mission to remain for another day or two to fully investigate as I believe I am extraordinarily close to fulfilling my mission.” A hand shoving his chest draws his attention down long enough for her to mouth You little liar, and he comes oh so close to rolling his eyes, a gesture she never would have pinned as possible given his posh and gentlemanly manner. “Sorry Mr. Stark, could you repeat that last part?” The smile falls from his lips, tumbling down to the ground, stiffening the easy stance he developed until he is standing at attention, eyes focused first on the sky and then on the street below. “I am certainly taking this mission seriously, there is no need for Secretary Ross to get involved.” Elongated silence suggests Tony is giving one of his trademark soliloquies, likely filled with high levels of snark that attempts to hide his dismay. “Yes, I understand. Thank you, Mr. Stark.”

“Everything okay?”

“Yes, he,” the hesitation in his voice and worry flickering in his mind puts her on edge, fingers gripping his shirt as if that will be enough to keep him here for good this time, “simply said if after these two days I am not successful then Secretary Ross insists I remain at the compound unless otherwise needed.”

Wanda can feel her heart stop, the constriction of her lungs as she struggles to breathe under the weight of the implications almost too much. “What if I come-”

“No.” The sternness in his voice is surprising, even to him if the widening of his eyes is any indication. “I would rather be parted from you then risk placing you back in the Raft.”

“What if,” slowly she runs her hand along his cheek, relishing the feel of smooth skin transitioning into a textured ridge and smoothing back out as she brings her fingers to his lips, “what if we run this time, for real?” Wanda traces her fingers back along the curve of his cheek, nudging his face down just enough for her to brush his lips with her own. “What do you think?”

Vision places his hands back along her sides, fingers tapping against her body, scrunching her shirt each time she kisses him. “I believe for tonight we simply enjoy our time together and tomorrow we can experiment with the successful integration of my disguise into society. Then we make our determination.”

The answer is not, as she feared, a straight no, in fact there is hope in his voice, a rebellious excitement brimming in his mind as he pulls her against him, crushing his mouth to hers in a way that erases all worries from her mind, attention fully focused on the ripple of his muscles under her hand and the heat of his body against hers.

Tomorrow they’ll figure it out, but tonight, tonight she’s going to enjoy every last bit of him.

There have been numerous moments in her life when Wanda awoke to discover the cruel disconnect between the vivid realm of dreams and the stark, unforgiving world. It is no longer possible to even count the number of times Pietro held her hand while she slept only for her to wake up and remember that she became the oldest twin a long, long time ago. Which is why, though she understands she’ll need to move, to open her eyes, start the day eventually, she determines that she is content to simply lay in bed and enjoy this sliver of serenity. The air around her is pleasantly warm, the bed is soft, her body sinking into the embrace of a down comforter that might actually be a cloud, a sensation she’s never experienced, there is a calming thrum of movement from outside, lulling her with far more ease than the static from the radio she has become accustomed to, but most importantly there is the distinct waft of cleanliness laced with alloy hovering around her, bringing a small, satisfied smile to her face.

The bed shifts slightly, tiny reverberations racing through the springs to alert her to movement at her side and her smile broadens. Lazily she turns towards the window, granting gravity free reign to pull her body along the slope of the bed until she meets resistance, settling against his side, head coming to fall on his pectoral muscle, and her arm wrapping loosely around his waist, her fingers curling into his sweater, enjoying the way the synthesized cashmere slips through her fingers. “Good morning,” agile, gentle fingers brush through her hair in time with the soothing cadence of his greeting.

“You’re real, right?”

His confusion at the inquiry is palpable, her powers lightly brushing the surface of his churning thoughts, a chuckle bubbling up from deep within her chest as he responds. “I believe I am, though I have not considered testing the possibility of being imaginary.”

“Good, then I'm just,” a small readjustment of her body allows her to snuggle closer, body flush against him, right leg swinging up over his thigh, burying her calf between his legs to steal even more of his warmth. Wanda inhales slowly, relishing the realness of his presence, fingers tracing the vibranium beneath his sweater, grounding her in the moment and committing every shallow breath and thump of his synthetic heart to memory, “going to sleep some more.”

The caress of his fingers stops momentarily and she’s certain his head is cocked to the side, eyes squinted inquisitively at her. “It is a quarter past eight already and I intended to rouse you at eight twenty. It seems frivolous to awaken and then return to sleep for five minutes.”

Lazily her eyelids part, enough for her to glare up at him, the dim glow of an overcast morning illuminating the room enough for her to see the affectionate curve of his mouth and a softness in his swirling blue irises that she’s never experienced but that automatically leads to flutters in her stomach and a brief, exhilarating moment where her heart stops. Wanda allows her grin to pull her head up, chin pressing into his chest to better her vantage of his face. “Clearly you’ve never slept if you think that’s frivolous.” His shoulders rise and fall as if to say got me there , which only intensifies the smirk on her face. “So,” relinquishing her grip of his waist, Wanda pushes her hands into his abdomen, lifting herself up enough to be level with his face, placing a tender kiss first to his jawline and following a purposeful, slow line until she reaches his lips, lingering in order to fully appreciate the subtle tinge of vibranium on her tastebuds and the feel of his fingers curling into her side. She doesn’t pull away, can’t bring herself to break from him but she does continue her point, words moving seamlessly from her lungs to his, “What have you been up to?”

He does not speak immediately, choosing instead to continue the embrace, head tilting to the side to deepen the kiss. Wanda closes her eyes, the sensation of his body under her fingertips and shifting pressure against her mouth causing an electric thrill to dance along her spine, an involuntary constriction of her muscles leading her to grip his body tighter. “I,” eventually, much to her disappointment, he tilts his forehead towards her, the Mindstone cold against her skin, parting their lips, “brought you breakfast.”

“I am good with just you, thanks.” Some things do not change, even after so much time, such as the way her directness flusters him, their close proximity giving her ample opportunity to observe the frantic spin of his irises and the twitch of his upper lip into a nervous smile as he attempts to formulate a response. Wanda steals one last, drawn out kiss, lips lingering and fingers tapping happily against the metal lacing his sternum, then moves to peck his cheek, hand immediately replacing her lips as she pats his face. “I could eat, actually.”

Vision nods, reaching to the side to grab a cardboard wrapped cup and little paper bag from the nightstand. “Tea and a scone.”

“Thanks.” Carefully she brings the cup to her face, sniffing the wispy steam to confirm he has not forgotten her preference for Early Gray with a hint of orange. “I’ve missed this.”

“As have I.” There is a touch of sadness to his response, a mournful reminiscence for their old morning routine, of times when sipping tea and engaging in friendly (and increasingly flirtatious) banter would lead in to days of training.

Wanda lays a hand on his arm, focusing his thoughts on her and not what they had before, not what they still would have if things had not imploded, but what they have now, in this room and what they may, hopefully, have tomorrow. “So what’s on the docket for today?”

“Oh, yes,” a polite finger is lifted to indicate he needs a second, standing and crossing the room, Wanda’s eyes appreciatively following him, striving to sear into her memory the smoothness of his gait, the impeccable fit of his pants, and the delicate way he sifts through a pile of papers on the tiny desk across from the bed. Once he appears to have found what he wants, he turns back to her with an excited grin, phasing through the bed, instead of walking around it, to resume his position next to her . “I spoke with the concierge about recommendations for today, I explained we only have one day to enjoy the city and he offered various options for our itinerary.” Vision pauses, list half-lifted as his mouth sets into a contemplative line, the gears in his eyes clicking slowly clockwise. “Your breakfast was recommended by him so if it is unacceptable then by logical inference-”

Wanda immediately recognizes the self-defeating spiral of logic (flashes back momentarily to the first time Vision didn’t like one of Sam’s movie recommendations and then threw out the rest of the two page long list) and cuts it off immediately by taking a bite of the scone and giving him a thumbs up. “It’s delicious, don’t worry.”

“Excellent,” a relieved smile smooths out the furrow of concern bunching the skin around the Mindstone, “In that case here is a suggested itinerary, with attempts to include as many different avenues for human contact to fully examine the bounds of my disguise.”

Wanda grabs the list and glances at the roughly twenty items then flips it over to see the route mapped out including durations of each walk, taxi, and bus ride. “This isn’t going to turn into another New York is it?”

Vision glances at her, eyes flickering quickly to the list and then back to her, mouth a tight-lipped indicator of dour contemplation, fingers picking at the bedsheet as he continues to ponder her comment. “You believe it is too much?”

“Perhaps,” the concept that she can simply lean forward on her knees and capture his lips fills her with amazement, wondering why they waited this long, because she finds it an entirely sufficient method for conveying meaning. A reassuring kiss and hand to his face letting him know she is not annoyed at his planning enthusiasm. If she was ever worried he would struggle with this new, intimate language, the relieved grin on his face and the touch of his hands to her cheeks, pulling her back against his body eradicates those concerns. “Perhaps,” Wanda breaks from him, a breathy laugh falling unhindered from her mouth at the way he frowns when she stands from the bed, “you choose four, maybe five things from that list. I-” her words trail off as she turns in a circle, attempting to locate her coat and shoes.

“In the closet.”

“Oh, thanks.” Wanda opens the mirrored door and finds her coat hung up in a far more organized way than she ever would, opting usually to simply toss it wherever seems best, and then grabs her shoes from the shelf in the closet. “Anyway, I have to go change and check in with the gang so they don’t freak out and launch a search party. I’ll just,” she grabs a pen from the desk and scribbles the address on a piece of stationery, stamped with the hotel logo in the top left corner, “meet me there in like thirty minutes?”

After he gives her an understanding nod, Wanda steps towards the door, turning to wave goodbye, but the sight of Vision relaxed (though not quite slouching) on the bed, red skin more vibrant than ever against the crisp white linens, ankles politely crossed and eyes watching her, lips quirked up into an adorable partial smile, stops her from leaving. Concern pulls his lips down the longer she stands there watching him, “Wanda?”

A quick shake of her head clears her thoughts, wrestling her attention from him and back to the task at hand. “Sorry I just-” he is at her side in seconds, fingers gentle as they lift her chin to gaze into the rotating blue vortices of his soul, the half-cocked smile back on his face and she finds her own mouth mirroring his. “I want,” she waves her hand at the room, eyes never leaving his own but she’s certain he picked up on the gesture, “this, Vizh. I want it so bad.”

“As do I.” The tenderness in his kiss relaxes her body, concerns held at bay so long as he is touching her. His hands move to grip her shoulders, eyes serious, a promise hanging in the air as he assures her, “I will see you soon.”

After the hotel Wanda finds her own quarters even more depressing, not simply because everything is about three decades older than it should be, but mainly because it is empty with no promise of Vision emerging from the kitchen or turning around to find him relaxed on the bed with not a care in the world besides planning a day together. Four steps is all it takes to reach the desk, fingers fidgeting with a pen as she waits for the morning roll call, thoughts far removed from talking to the team. Impulsively she reaches for the desk drawer, frustration burgeoning as red clouds between her fingers when the drawer gets stuck, yet again, finally jutting out with a loud creak, allowing her to grab a small note pad. Quickly she jots a message down, a sloppy I’m fine, please don’t come looking for me. -W , placing it under the teacup she left on the desk the night before.

Wanda checks the time, leveling an annoyed glare at the silent radio, and stands up, body moving of its own accord as she grabs her duffle bag and begins throwing all of her clothes and the very limited belongings she has into it. If this is going to happen she figures she might as well be ready. Four beeps from the receiver on the desk forces her to abandon the task.

“Who all’s here?” Steve’s voice is neutral and firm, never showing much emotion during these group check-ins. A quick succession of names follow.

“Nat here.”

“Falcon in the house.”

“Here!” Wanda rolls her eyes, certain that they could be on the run for years and he’d never get this part right. “And by here I mean this is Scott, at your service.”

“Clint’s here.”

Finally she presses the button on the communicator, concerned at the shake of her hand as she responds, terrified that they’ll parse out what happened simply by her name. “Wanda.”

Thankfully Steve continues, not commenting on the quiver in her voice or the unrepentant betrayal seeping deep into her bones. “Alright, anyone have questions about the next step?” Silence fills the air as a show of general concurrence with the plan. “Great.” It seems the call is done, a relieved exhale forcibly leaving her lungs until Steve continues. “Oh, Wanda,” her heart stops, “any word on that flying object from last night.”

“I, um,” somehow she discovers that Vision has become a far smoother liar than herself, a greater appreciation filling her mind at how easily he denied their meeting to Tony, “it was nothing.”

Which seems to be good enough, “Good, see you all in Kilmuir on Thursday.” Each person gives a send off and the radio returns to a stifling static. Wanda pushes back from the desk, hands running through her hair as her gaze moves around the room, checking to make sure she isn’t forgetting anything. Her hand slips into the pocket of her coat, fingers curving around the travel phone they are all required to keep close. If she brings the phone it means, she thinks, that they can track her, is fairly certain at least Nat, and probably Steve, collect GPS coordinates on them. The third time Vision visited her, in Marrakesh, they made the error of meeting outside of the city which is how she discovered there are restrictions on her travel, Nat showing up less than an hour after the rendezvous to check on Wanda. Slowly she removes it from her pocket, the thought of them tracking her, separating her from Vision again increases her heart rate, hands shaking with mortified anger. But. But what if something happens? An image flashes in her head of Tony and the Raft, a sickening weight forming in her stomach wondering what contraption Stark has made for Vision if he ever goes against the Accords and a hand involuntarily traveling to her neck. She slips the phone back into her pocket. They can always toss it later.

When she steps out of the door there is a well-dressed man waiting in the alley, back leaned against the wall, wearing gray slacks and a wool pea-coat with a matching black scarf. “You make me feel like a slob.”

The blonde-hair man smiles at her, leaving the wall to meet her halfway. “You are gorgeous.”

Wanda grins up at him, hands resting against his chest. “This whole thing is still weird, by the way.” And it is, her mind struggling to reconcile the Vision from this morning with the very un-Vision looking man currently enveloping her in a warm hug. “So what do I call you? Vision seems a bit irregular for going incognito.”

“Ah, yes,” he steps back just enough to meet her eyes, hands running in a soothing pattern along each arm, trailing between her elbow and shoulder. “Victor Shade.”

He doesn’t grin or laugh as he says the name which means she shouldn’t either but the sheer ridiculousness of this whole set-up, of kissing a man whom she doesn’t recognize other than his voice and then having to call him that is too much and she can’t stop the snicker. “I get the Victor part, but Shade? You’re not a private eye, Vizh.”

Hesitantly his mouth opens to respond but then closes, indecision hanging in the air as she watches his eyes move back and forth, contemplating if this is a battle worth having, if he needs to further justify the name to her or simply make the decision that, regardless of objections, it stays. Finally he shrugs, a meek and unconcerned movement that cements this is, if there was doubt, Vision as no other person in existence could make such an action as endearing and alarmingly sexy. “We have a busy day, shall we?”

“Yeah, let’s go.” They turn towards the street, Wanda stepping close next to him, hand reaching down for his own, confused at the uncertain flinch of his fingers and the way his arm can’t seem to determine if it should be straight down or bent to accommodate her request. Somehow she always forgets how new he is to life, how there is so much he has yet to discover, to contemplate, to experience, even something as simple as holding hands. “Vizh,” his forward momentum comes to a halt at the sound of his name, “you more of a mitten guy or a glove guy?”

He glances at his hands, turning them to investigate his palm, wiggling his fingers as he thinks. “I am not certain I follow.”

The fact that she can touch him like this in public, can run her hand down his arm and grip his wrist, bringing it up for a quick kiss and demonstration, is delightful and Wanda finds herself enthralled by his reaction. “Mitten,” she forces open his fist, placing her own hand in his, cupping her fingers around the outer edge of his hand, thumb falling in the gap between his thumb and index finger, and then coaxes him to close his hand around hers in a similar manner. Everything in place, she drops their arms and gives an experimental swing. “Now,” a tug brings their joined hands back up and she pries his fingers open, rotating her own hand until their fingers are laced together, “glove.”

“I see,” the wrinkle of skin on his forehead conveys the deep, completely unnecessary yet wholly logical consideration he is putting into the decision. He switches between the options a few times, walking a short distance each time to test the momentum of the swing of their arms and the proximity of their bodies. “I believe the mitten puts the least amount of strain on your arm.”

“I agree, shall we?”

The day goes by far too quickly, each stop on the severely cut down itinerary blurring together. Wanda is aware they went to see a fully-functioning floral clock, can recall the excited gesticulations Vision - well, Victor, she has to keep reminding herself - made as he explained in far more detail than necessary the way the mechanics of the clock work and described the various designs it has had throughout the years. The walk to the castle, the incline far steeper than she imagined it would be even though she logically understands it is situated on a hill, is marred by fat drops of rain. Instead of being annoyed at the slosh of water in her boots, soaking into her wool socks, she is enthralled by the giddy surprise on Vision’s face at the novel experience of water pooling in his hair and dripping into his eyes, and she learns that the rain of Scotland might be qualitatively different from Sokovia or New York, the droplets sweet and refreshing each time she pulls him down for a kiss.

Much to her chagrin they join walking tours off and on, the argument for joining being that it puts them in contact with more people but she’s certain that is pretext for his utter enjoyment of listening to the narratives, Vision always raptly listening to the stories of heroism and horror. The only time he does not insist on joining a random tour is when they stop at the Greyfriars Bobby statue and he recites for her, in a quietly dramatic fashion unique to the gentle lilt of his accent, the story of the police dog that remained forever at the gravesite of his owner.

The biggest adventure of their day is a bus ride to Portobello beach, the dreary weather increasing the number of bodies squished into the bus, Wanda (willingly) sacrificing her comfort to sit on Vision’s lap to allow other people to sit down. It’s on the bus that she notices a young couple across the way staring at her, phones held out in their laps, comparing something on the screen to her face. When one of them starts to raise their phone in an attempted inconspicuous manner, Wanda takes a note from Natasha’s book and turns towards Vision, crushing her lips against his own, his surprise quickly fading away as his hands clutch her waist to keep her from falling away when the bus stops.

For the most part, the day is completely and delightfully mundane, only the couple on the bus and the few people Vision phased through early on (he did not wish to bump them as they walked past) treating them with any suspicion. Despite the apparent success of their venture Wanda finds that it is difficult for her to adequately describe her feelings as they trudge through the dreary cold, torn between the captivating exhilaration of spending time together as a normal (seemingly at least) couple enjoying the sights and the uneasy dismay she experiences every time she watches Vision have animated and so achingly human conversations with the locals, always asking how the shopkeepers and workers are doing, learning their names, and commenting on the weather. There is a casualness to his stance, an enthusiastic and carefree quality to the cadence of his voice and it infuriates her, seeing the way he’s allowed himself to finally relax around people, to put his personality fully on display only because of the disguise, a simple facade giving him his first true taste of being normal. She dislikes it, might even hate it, that it took a complete metamorphosis for people to respond amiably to him, to make him feel accepted. But, begrudgingly, she also acknowledges that without the guise, without compromising his appearance, this day would not be possible, their hopes for tomorrow would not exist.

It’s not until they are walking along a brick-paved street, the cloud-cloaked sun setting over the impressive stone-faced buildings towering above them, that she finally gives voice to the conversation they’ve been avoiding all day. “So Viz-V,” eventually she’ll get his name down, “any thoughts on tomorrow?”

His gait slows down, feet falling just inches in front of each other as they continue to walk and she worries that the slightly increased pressure of his hand around hers is an ill omen. “A few,” the ambiguity in his voice, the surprising lack of emotion and straight neutrality of his body language is almost unnerving enough for her to dip into his mind, but she steels herself against temptation, desiring to hear him share instead of barging in and taking the thoughts for herself. “I have been contemplating the best course of action and believe we must decide between a metropolitan setting, perhaps Tromso,”

“But it was so cold there.”

A shy arc forms on his mouth, “I believe I could keep you adequately warm, but,” the smile fades back into seriousness, “if we choose a city then there are ample residents to obscure our existence or we find a tiny town where, at least it is my understanding, people do not wish to invite trouble and would be less likely to acknowledge or report us. A quick search shows several promising possibilities in the Scottish highlands if we do not wish to travel far.”

The confidence of his answer, the surety in the way he doesn’t frame it as just a possibility but a fact stops her feet, arm pulling slightly as he continues to walk forward only stopping himself when he realizes she is not following. Slowly he turns towards her, head cocked to the side and eyebrows raised as she drags him back to her. “You’re being serious, right?”

“I do not see how it could be taken as jest.”

Which parts her lips into a broad, toothy grin. “Just checking. So today was a success?”

“A resounding success, not a single person seemed suspicious and,” he hesitates, eyes her to see how she responds to the next part, places his hands comfortingly along her arms to abate any ire that might arise from his words, “for the first time no one treated me,” he pauses again, teeth touching as he says the next word, a melancholic dip in the syllables and fingers flinching at prior memories, “differently.”

Her heart breaks for him, hand lifting to play with his scarf, “You’re perfect without the disguise, you know that right?” A crashing wave of relief spreads from his mind to hers and she grins up at him, attempting to insert some levity back into the moment. “If we’re going to do this I think we need some ground rules for your,” her free hand waves in a rough circle indicating this face, “alter ego.”

“Such as?”

“Well,” a slightly exaggerated elongation of the w draws him closer to her, hands skimming up and down her arm as he waits for her to finish, “perhaps you treat it like shoes left at the front door.”

“I have never observed you leaving your shoes at the front door.” Wanda often forgets how far he’s come since he was first created. Had the comment been made two years ago, she’d have to recollect her thoughts and rephrase her words to allow him to better understand the comparison she was making. But right now he has a sly smirk on his face and an impish gleam in his pale blue eyes that intensifies the smile on her own face.

“You think you’re so funny.”

A nonchalant shrug meets her words, traveling from his shoulders into his mouth, lips puckered in practiced indifference. “It is not opinion if there is quantifiable proof of your amusement at my words.”

This time she does laugh, hand coming to her mouth to stifle it and her eyes rolling at the spike of satisfied pride in his tone and the rare open-lipped smile on his face. “Just come here.” Wanda grabs a handful of his coat pulling him down to her, heart racing at the way his body responds, the heat building between them as he steps forward, their chests touching and his hands roaming along her arms in time to the rhythm of the kiss. “Disguise,” another kiss inserts a pause to her response, “front,” and another, each one longer than the previous, fueled solely by the desire to devour every moment with him, “door. Okay?”

“Understood.” Vision steps back, smile still flirting along the edges of his lips. “Would you like to discuss our plans more thoroughly over dinner?”

“Sounds great,” they continue their walk, hands rejoining as he pulls her towards a small, stone-faced restaurant with a sign announcing it, in slanted, cursive font, to be a mediterranean bistro. “This looks promising.”

Vision smiles down at her as they enter through the open archway of the door, informing the hostess they have a reservation under Shade, Wanda’s eyebrows rising approvingly at the level of commitment he took in planning the day, and they are ushered towards a booth at the backend of the restaurant. “I,” he opens the menu, hand resting on the open page pretending to be interested in it, “still have not determined an appropriate excuse for my tendency to not eat and I fear that could elicit undesirable attention.”

Which is a fair point, one Wanda had not yet contemplated. “Well,” she thinks back to the times when he joined her for food when he didn’t have the disguise, the response to his presence already tense and judgmental, only worsened when he informed the workers he would not be consuming anything. But so far they’ve cleared the first hurdle, no one questioning his presence in the establishment. “What if we order an appetizer and a meal and just say we’re sharing it?”

A reassured and satisfied smile barely touches his lips but does light up his eyes. “That seems acceptable.” She meets his smile and reaches her hand across the table, fingers wiggling invitingly at him until he lays his own hand on top of hers. “Wanda?”

“Yeah?”

He squeezes her hand slowly, a increasingly tight pressure that then loosens back out, repeating the process three more times before he speaks again. “I am concerned that I,” his voice tumbles off again, thoughts shutting down when a waitress comes over and informs them of the specials. Wanda shakes her head to decline anything new and orders for the two of them. Once everything is settled away he glances down at the table, then to the ceiling, eyes rotating back to her last. “I have never known a life other than being a hero, there,” he hesitates again, “seem to be far more norms and understood courses of action for normal life than for the life of an Aveng-.” The word cuts off and he clamps his mouth shut, understanding the danger of uttering the name near other people lest someone makes the connection.

“Well, I’ve known many different lives, and being a hero was certainly one of the better lives. I’m not sure how to transition from what we had, to be honest. But,” now she grips his hand, attempting to channel the sureness of her choice the undeniable desire bursting from her heart and taking over her mind that this life, with him, hero or not, is all she wants, “I think as long as we’re together, we’ll figure it out.”

The uncertainty fades with the scrunch of his eyes created by the lift of his cheeks as he smiles at her. “Then we go back to where ne-” He stops talking, hand raising to his ear, a clear sign that Tony is interfering with their escape, but she misses what he says, attention drawn to the extremely loud and frantic tone of the phone going off in her pocket. Wanda fumbles with the stupid thing, fingers incapable of turning it off or answering for three painfully long seconds. She’s certain everyone is probably staring at her. Once she figures it out she doesn’t get a chance to speak before Steve’s urgent voice is heard.

“Wanda there are reports pouring in about non-human, heavily armed individuals in Edinburgh. Get out now, I’ll meet you in the morning.”

The call ends abruptly and she meets the worried eyes of Vision, each daring the other to talk first, to make the suggestion of what they should do. He breaks, removing his hand from her own and in that instant she knows all the talk of tomorrow was just that, talk. They will never be able to fully shed the duty of their powers. “I, Mr. Stark wishes for me to find a solution to the problem.”

“I’m going with you.”

“No.” The sternness of his voice lashes against her and she flinches, rebellion building in her as she meets his concerned eyes with her passionate refusal of the command. “Wanda, if you go out there they will all know what we have, what we, they will understand the fallacy of my actions.”

Logically she acknowledges this, but irrationally she cannot stomach, cannot fathom allowing him to slip away from her again. “Fine, but if anything happens I’m helping, got it?”

“Understood.” He stands swiftly from the table, hesitates in walking away, instead choosing to take a step in her direction, stooping down to kiss her one more time before he walks out the door, a flash of gold fluttering just outside the window as he sheds his cover.

It is eerily silent, only the nervous scratch of her nails against the table as she grips the edge, eyes closing to allow her to concentrate on tracking his movements, following his mind as he approaches the threat. Then her mind explodes, a searing, debilitating pain puncturing her chest, forcing a shocked gasp from her lungs that seems to be echoed around the room as every other patron pushes their chairs back, most rushing towards the back of the restaurant and the others towards the windows. Then a sound she has never heard before cuts through the still air, Vision's deafening, agonizing scream.

She leaps from the table, booth scratching loudly against the floor at the force of her movement, and she rushes to the doorway, hands engulfed in a raging fire of red as she takes in the scene in the street. Vision, in all his synthetic, vibranium laced perfection, is laying on the ground flanked on either side by decidedly non-human bodies. A grotesque, cloaked, bandy legged creature sneers down as it presses the edge of a curved blade into Vision’s chest eliciting another scream that mixes with what sounds like laughter coming from the horned woman holding another spear aloft. Wanda finds her mind blank, hands raised as she attempts to reconcile the sight, attempts to discern the best path forward, eyes moving around the crowd and buildings to determine how to do this without collateral damage, which is how she finds herself screaming without putting thought to the words, a desperate, “Stop, you’re hurting him!”

The horned woman turns towards her, a mocking, malevolently pleased smirk pulling the blue skin of her face as she speaks to her partner, instructing him to continue, the ache of Vision’s screams finally force Wanda’s body to react. Crimson bursts from her hands, eyes narrowing as she focuses in on Vision, her powers reaching out in snakelike tendrils until she can feel the weight of his body in her arms, and then she jerks her hands up, watches as he rises up from between the two assailants, their heads turning to watch as his limp body travels up and to the right. Wanda keeps her hands raised, teeth clenched at the effort of lifting Vision, concern constricting around her heart at the intense weight of his body and the fact that these creatures injured him at his densest.

She is so concentrated on bringing him to safety that she fails to consider what the two spear-wielders are doing until a burst of purple light hits Wanda in the chest, forcing all air from her lungs as she feels her body thrown up and into the stone facade of the restaurant, hitting her head hard enough that flashes of light burst into her view and then she can feel the unpleasant crunch of broken glass and gravel against her hands and face when she promptly returns to the ground. Wanda heaves in a broken, quivering breath, striving to block the pain in her twisted and cut wrist as she lifts herself from the pavement, eyes automatically moving to assess the location of the three bodies. Vision is on the ground about fifty feet away but she does not see the other two.

Someone behind her whispers an encouraging, “You got this,” and Wanda nods in agreement, standing on shaky legs as she runs over to Vision, her hands skimming the textured fabric of his uniform, fingers stopping to prod gently at the deep gash in the center of his chest, the spear going through the metal clasp of his cape and catching him between the plates the vibranium. She’d never considered if he could bleed as he’d never been, to her knowledge, injured physically, but unfortunately the answer is yes, a viscous, maroon dribble of blood staining the blue of his suit. “Vision…” his name falls out as a whisper, a plea to open his eyes and move, the next attempt a bit more forceful, “Vision,” and the last one a strangled scream and a rush of red from her hand into the Mindstone, “Vision!”

A hand wraps around her wrist and the breath she had been holding stumbles from her lungs along with the onset of tears when he opens his eyes. “Wanda, I.”

The thud of feet behind and in front of her draws her attention up from the frazzled and disbelieving turn of his irises, and she meets the sneering, sharp-toothed maw of what might be a goblin, which means the woman is behind her. Wanda glares at the man, feels the raging flow of scarlet energy in her limbs when she notices the smear of red on the tip of the spear, and she whispers a small, dangerous “No,” and the world erupts in scarlet, blasting the goblin-man out of her sight and behind her the satisfying smack of a body against the road is enough to bring a smile to her face. “Come on,” Wanda moves her hands under his arms and helps Vision get to his feet, bracing his body as he stumbles forward a step before regaining his balance. “Let’s go,” but he refuses to move and she turns to follow his gaze, watching as the cloaked man helps up the horned woman, their bodies mirroring the grip Wanda has on Vision. “Huh.”

The meaning behind their actions doesn’t have time to sink in as another purple blast from the woman’s spear forces Wanda to part from Vision. She watches as he clutches his fingers into fists and powers up the Mindstone, her own hands channeling scarlet orbs as they prepare to meet the threat. The cloaked goblin-man heads for Vision which means Wanda gets the pleasure of dealing with the blue-faced, horned woman again. In the time since the Accords fallout, starting in Wakanda, Steve began utilizing bo staffs instead of a shield, which meant their training sessions required new techniques. As Wanda ducks under the horned-woman’s staff she raises a silent thanks to Steve for his choice of weapon, her body accustomed now to the ducking and diving, shifting from one side to the other, spinning while on her knees and using her powers to counteract the pushing and prodding of a staff. For a time the two of them are even, metal staff meeting scarlet blasts, a careful, beautiful dance of trained footwork meaning neither has the upper hand. But then another scream from her side, another crash of despair in her mind arrests her attention long enough for the woman to land her staff to Wanda’s back, sending her crashing into the pavement, a foot and the sharp end of the spear digging into the skin between her shoulder blades. “It is best for you to give up now.”

The woman’s voice is not as odd as Wanda had assumed, raspy but clear and articulate. Wanda doesn’t respond, never enjoying the banter her teammates insist on holding with their enemies, instead she focuses on turning her palms towards her body, forcing her powers up through her so that they blast the woman in the face, tossing her to the side. Her actions surprise her assailant long enough for Wanda to get to her feet, eyes frantically searching until they come to rest on Vision shoved against a wall with a spear to his forehead. “Stop!”

The cloaked man doesn’t acknowledge her and neither does Vision, but she hopes that his renewed struggle, the way his hands come to wrap around the man’s shoulders and his body phases means he heard her. But a flash of purple in her periphery requires that Wanda leaves Vision to his own fight, turning to meet the sight of a wave of energy rushing towards her face. Wanda raises her hands, enveloping the energy and bending backwards, sending it into a nearby truck that explodes on contact, the flames flickering in the puddles of water between the bricks of the road.

Without hesitation the horned-woman thrusts her spear towards Wanda, renewing their game of dodge and evade, Wanda attempting to guide their fighting closer to Vision so that perhaps she can help him, heart constricting every time he screams. When the spear comes inches from her face, only caught by a thin tendril of scarlet, she decides to finally engage the woman in a new way. “What do you want?”

Her smile is sickening, prideful and filled with glorified purpose as she charges up the spear for another blast. “We want the Mindstone.”

Oh. Wanda’s mind crashes to a halt, implications drawing her gaze to the side where Vision has moved the struggle so that he is not backed against a wall but still the spear hovers menacingly near his forehead. “Yeah, that’s not happening.”

“Thanos will not stop until it is his,” the accumulation of purple light reaches its peak and Wanda knows she’ll need to figure out an action fast lest she be obliterated right there, “best to hand it over now.”

Wanda thinks back to the way the goblin-man reacted after her last blast, the touch of his fingers just below the mask, caressing the blue skin of his partner much like Vision had earlier in the day, on the parapet of the castle before his lips brushed hers. “Never.” With an anguished cry Wanda wraps the purple globe that bursts from the spear and sends it careening into the goblin-man, knocking him away from Vision and sending him through a storefront window. A cry pierces her ears, the thump of a spear butt against the back of her head clouding her vision, the world erupting in starbursts of white light. She thinks she hears a threatened whisper, thinks she sees the white glow of eyes level with her face, but can’t determine if it is real or a result of her concussion. But even after the face is gone the threat remains deep in her stomach, a thousand pound promise that it isn’t over. You haven’t won, we will be back for the stone.

A pained gasp comes from her mouth as she pushes off of the ground, certain at least her wrist is sprained if not broken, but it doesn’t matter, attention focused on the way Vision’s limbs go limp as he crumples to the ground, their assailants nowhere in sight. “Vizh,” she drops to her knees, cradles his head in her lap, hand shaking as she attempts to convey a soothing sense of calm to him, stomach churning at the chunk of skin missing next to the Mindstone, the vibranium casing bent out in one part and dented in another around the stone. “Come on, we need to go.” Wanda can sense the crowds forming around them, shocked silence mingling with the unmistakable clicks and flashes of phones, their exploits likely reaching a viral status before the fight even ended. It takes more effort this time to get him to his feet, she has to coax him to change his density, lighten his body so she can help drag him through the street. Luckily no one is stupid enough to stand in their way.

Eventually they arrive at her room and immediately the intruder alarms go off, sensing the second body with her but she ignores it, knows their cover is blown and the only thing that matters at the moment is Vision and stopping the bleeding, assessing his injuries so they can determine the next step. “Okay, let’s just,” she guides his body towards the still folded down murphy bed, throws the half filled duffle bag from the bed with a blast of red, “come on Vizh, a little help here.” His fingers dig into her arm, eruptions of pain radiating under his fingertips but she ignores it, instead directing all of her energy to helping him lay his head on the pillows and lifting his feet, swinging the lower half of his body until he’s fully on the bed. Wanda laughs, a half-hearted, confused, and gurgled sound at the ridiculous sight of his lanky body, feet hanging off the end of the too short bed. And then the strangled sound morphs into a sob as she collapses into the chair next to him, hand gripping his own as she realizes what happened, as she has a brief thought flash into her head about how this was never what she had in mind when she longed to have him in her bed.

“Wanda,” his fingers close around hers, the grip weak but filled with endless pain and regret.

“We should,” she sighs, free hand wiping the annoyingly constant stream of salty tears from her eyes, “we need to contact them.”

Vision attempts to sit up, “But tomorrow…” she pushes him down with a whip of red, shaking her head at the thoughts she feels him having, the memories of their perfect, mundane day , the exhilaration of their plan, the house he’d already located in the Highlands but had yet to tell her about.

“Vizh, it was a facade, nothing more.” Wanda stands up, dropping his hand long enough to crawl into bed next to him, lips pressing fiercely into his cheek. “We aren’t normal, we can never be normal.” The prick of despair in his mind coincides with his eyelids clasping shut, the loss of their life emerging as tears in the corners of his eyes. She lifts herself up slightly, kisses the tears from his cheeks and then leans her forehead to his, but away from the injury. Reluctantly Wanda grabs the phone from her pocket, amazed it survived the fight, and she hits 9, the shortcut to contact the entire network. “Mayday, mayday, we need help, please anyone who is close we need help. Repeat we need help.”

The crackle of voices fade into the background as she wraps herself around his body and tries not to think about what tomorrow will bring.

Pictures/Videos used for this story:

http://those-celestial-bodies.tumblr.com/post/159914860194/in-sequence-over-a-single-take-that-had-by-far

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sDg1H9pJImw

http://marsnina.tumblr.com/post/159846882172/oh-god-help-me-now-jackoliver-on-twitter-said http://marsnina.tumblr.com/post/159830267772/im-a-hoe-for-infinity-war-spoilers-go-follow https://wandaisfierce.tumblr.com/post/159773109192/infinity-war-scarlet-vision-behind-the-scenes-1 http://scarletheartvision.tumblr.com/post/158726448825/speechless-the-vision-infinity-war http://scarletvisicn.tumblr.com/post/159493814723/wanda-maximoff-on-the-set-of-avengers-infinity https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=amdPxWG95GE https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X1C2yMjx1zM

#scarlet vision #vision x wanda #wanda x vision #infinity war #spoilers #speculation #vision #wanda maximoff #mcu #fanfiction #ao3 #svad17 #svad

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