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zoroara · 8 months

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OC Questions answered from this post, For Nascosta cause I'm a little bored and decided hey why not, i got time. This is going to get really long, i mean the post itself with just the questions is long. So i'm going to drop this under a read more.

1. What’s the lie your character says most often? That they're actually stronger and better than the people that they mimic. They don't actually believe this, and only some is it actually a factual statement. But they ESPECIALLY say that they're stronger than other mist users which a majority of the time? is not true at all.

2. How loosely or strictly do they use the word ‘friend’? Other than when they're using it to taunt people, very... rarely. It's fucking arduous for you to get Nas to actually like you in the first place much less even admit it. She doesn't really like to use titles like that lightly.

3. How often do they show their genuine emotions to others versus just the audience knowing? It's a mix really because it entirely depends. Most times it's pretty obvious as to what she's feeling. There's a few emotions like fear that he'll cover up without even realizing, with his big ecstatic grin and laughter that almost seems exactly the same as when he's genuinely enjoying and taunting someone. But it mostly depends on context.

4. What’s a hobby they used to have that they miss? Funnily enough, they've actually kept most of their hobbies despite being in a busy assassination squad. How have they done this? what's their secret? Ditching work by pretending to be someone else. Fun fact, Nascosta is actually really good at cooking and baking, so sometimes to make up for ditching she cooks something for Xanxus so Squalo can deliver it without dying to the boss being pissed off it's not high enough quality. She also just likes to do this in her spare time so it's a win win.

5. Can they cry on command? If so, what do they think about to make it happen? Yes she can but she mostly uses it in her mimics than in any other scenario. She especially doesn't want to cry in front of the varia unless a mimic requires this because she's pretty sure they'd all look down upon that! Which yeah they would. But admittedly though she could just think of literally anything negative about her life long enough and break down, she mostly just uses illusions instead, since doing that would affect her focus if she's not careful.

6. What’s their favorite [insert anything] that they’ve never recommended to anyone before? Given she doesn't actually talk to people that much and keeps the things she actually likes mostly tight under lock, Just about anything can sit here. He doesn't like people knowing what he actually likes in case they make fun of him for it.

7. What would you (mun) yell in the middle of a crowd to find them? What would their best friend and/or romantic partner yell? Well, provided they WANT to be found. Because Nas is a bit of a bastard when it comes to giving people a hard time. It's honestly really easy to get a hold of them just by name. Of course good 50% chance they use the opportunity to fucking spook you though.

8. How loose is their use of the phrase ‘I love you’? Yeah uh... Good luck ever hearing this in their life time. It's really hard for them to make friends, even harder for them to ever say this set of words. Takes a while, even while in a relationship for her to even say this.

9. Do they give tough love or gentle love most often? Which do they prefer to receive? For them it depends who they are talking to. Like they observe people and see what works best on that person before attempting themselves. Though it's unlikely he would ever try for someone at all in the first place. She actually hates both equally. This is because she sees both as looking down on her in some way, and usually grows aggressive and defensive immediately. Only people she actually likes will either method be somewhat effective.

10. What fact do they excitedly tell everyone about at every opportunity? Anything that they think makes them seem cool, strong, smart or otherwise special. how she's as physically as strong as her strongest mimic, how she's good enough to be trained by an Arcobaleno. So on and so forth, sometimes they are greatly exaggerated and most times also said at the same time as insulting another in order to seem better.

11. If someone was impersonating them, what would friends / family ask or do to tell the difference?

See with Nas being so secretive and in control of most tics she has very few easy ways to get. if you want a question that you can get the answer to for sure you better have been their partner for at least several years and know that you can ask things from their past because literally no one else would know the answer but you and her. otherwise you will need to do something that would trigger her. as she has some uncommon ones an imposter wouldn't likely connect. blowing up a balloon to its fullest extent and popping it by doing so or doing the same with chewing gum will make him immediately panic. This is because Nas' first time not only seeing their mentor who they thought was impossibly strong fight, and was also the very first mist battle thet had ever seen, was the mist ring battle. and we all know how that ended.

12. What’s something that makes them laugh every single time? Be specific! Seeing their superiors get mildly injured especially if in the consequences of their own actions. Particularly if it is Squalo because both she really dislikes him and he has really really funny reactions to things. She once saw him kick something out of anger and stub his toe only to grow more pissed off and she had to do everything in her power to avoid laughing so hard she couldn't breathe.

13. When do they fake a smile? How often? Extremely often, for intimidation, to tease people, to hide fear, to hide sadness. It's hard to tell his faked from real though, at least just looking at the smile. He has a biiiig wide unnatural looking smile even when they're being genuine. so looking for forcing is hard. look more at his eyes.

14. How do they put out a candle? Depends if they have an audience or not, with one she does it with her fingers. Without it, he does it normally by blowing it out.

15. What’s the most obvious difference between their behavior at home, at work, at school, with friends, and when they’re alone? He doesn't go to school so we'll skip. Home and work are the same place since everyone in the varia lives at the Varia HQ. There they act aggressively and flashy, trying to get attention of any kind so it mostly ends up negative attention cause it's easier to garner. With friends she's still a bit of a prat, but is more teasing and playful. She'll also go out of her way to do things for them without being asked. Just to make sure they still like her. when alone... that's when he actually allows himself to feel negatively, it's so exclusive to this that he will actively attempt to leave if he feels a mood drop coming on because he doesn't want to be seen like that.

16. What kinds of people do they have arguments with in their head? Anyone and everyone honestly, she is constantly thinking about scenarios and how to succeed in them. though this is only cut by the other type of thoughts she has which is constantly figuring out how other people would react in scenarios to a highly accurate degree for her mimics.

17. What do they notice first in the mirror versus what most people first notice looking at them? If there's no illusions whatsoever, both parties notice the scars she has first. normally she hides them completely, but there's so many of them that it's hard to find a part of undamaged skin. Jumping into the deep end that was the varia from only half a year or of combat training from a much less dangerous man left them utterly brutalized under their illusions. Now most people assume they just heal well from injuries. If with just those covered, the first thing they notice is how tall they are and how muscular. But since that's common in the varia most people just notice how strange their eyes look.

18. Who do they love truly, 100% unconditionally (if anyone)? Currently? No one. If they genuinely get into a relationship though... they're very all or nothing incredibly obsessive, they'll believe that they've done something wrong far before they believe their partner can ever have done so. It's not good for him really, but unfortunately he's just like this.

19. What would they do if stuck in a room with the person they’ve been avoiding? Depends why she was avoiding them. If it's because they believe something bad will happen if they interact, well now she's gone invisible. If it's because they just don't care to interact with them, they'll sit in the corner mind their own business until let out, maybe if it starts taking a while they'll start to work together if it's clear they're not getting out. If it's because they fucking hate that person well, they're going to lock on to trying to fucking murder them

20. Who do they like as a person but hate their work? Vice versa, whose work do they like but don’t like the person? That's pretty easy, they actually like Mammon but fucking hate being trained by them, which makes sense because part of their training requires mammon to piss them off since unfortunately she rarely has the motivation to improve otherwise. As for the other way around, really any of their superiors. But especially so for Bel, they love the way he fights, but would rather be dead than be in the same room as him. She does like to use his mimic only choosing xanxus' over it for power.... He however doesn't fucking like that because the first time he saw it he thought Rasiel somehow came back again.

21. What common etiquette do they disagree with? Do they still follow it? Thankfully, she has decent table manners, but any other form of etiquette has completely fallen to the wayside as she purposely is disrespectful most of the time. He really doesn't see the point of playing around these things even if it's gotten him into a lot of shit.

22. What simple activity that most people do / can do scares your character? Well as a new one that wasn't already mentioned above(Chewing gum, blowing up balloons, both make her uneasy now), taking medicine. Every other thing like going to the medical bay, getting shots everything is fine. But taking any oral medicine like cough syrups or pills, she absolutely can't and won't. Thankfully Lussuria is around to put her in a headlock and make her... Though that's if anyone finds out he's sick in the first place given he'll just hole up in his room as long as he can.

23. What do they feel guilty for that the other person(s) doesn’t / don’t even remember? Well, that's pretty easy. Since Nas will begin to feel incredibly guilty about purposely doing things that were so much as mildly inconvenient to a person as she grows to like them. She once hid a part on Vittorio that he needed for a weapon he was making for over an hour. This to her, by the way, is just as bad as the times she's verbally threatened him while holding a dagger.

24. Did they take a cookie from the cookie jar? What kind of cookie was it? First, they probably made the cookies in the cookie jar, they're allowed to take from it. In fact they usually have to be careful because much to their dismay anything they bake gets fucking stolen if they're not watching. But as for what? God something rich as hell, maybe chocolate caramel fudge cookies.

25. What subject / topic do they know a lot about that’s completely useless to the direct plot? Thanks to their obsessive perfectionism with their mimics they end up learning a lot of utterly useless things that the other person knows. As an example: They now know way too many shark facts. They have so much random trivia in their head if you want to know something provided they're willing to cooperate they may just be faster than searching something up.

26. How would they respond to being fired by a good boss? Unless their relationship with the boss was as good as their leading, Nas would try to fucking kill them. Flat out. They do not handle rejection well and violence is his first answer. If they DID also like the boss on a personal level, well the answer is then crumple into depression upon rejection.

27. What’s the worst gift they ever received? How did they respond? Nas sure doesn't get gifts so it's actually very hard to disappoint them. They will pretend though that they're not actually that impressed by it though. But it's hard to say the worst gift when you haven't been given any yet.

28. What do they tell people they want? What do they actually want? They always say different things when asked, it's not accurate it's not honest it's just always something different. A lot of the time they'll just say nothing, that they're not working toward anything that they just want what's in front of them. This is deeply untrue. They want more than anything for someone to actually like them even if they self sabotage constantly because they don't believe they deserve that. They want to be the things they claim to be already, because then someone would actually want to be around them if they were worth something, right?

29. How do they respond when someone doesn’t believe them? Annoyance, he's used to not being believed. If she was telling them something important he'll just say "Well guess I won't be hearing from you after you fuckin die". Like they're mad about it, but they'll just watch the person suffer for not believing them.

30. When they make a mistake and feel bad, does the guilt differ when it’s personal versus when it’s professional? hm... Honestly no, it just hurts in a different way. it's the same level and she'll react similarly but it still is fucking up in front of her peers and she hates it regardless. Though professional honestly it's rare to actually feel guilt over anything, it's more just a pissed off feeling.

31. When do they feel the most guilt? How do they respond to it? You must understand something about Nas' emotions, everything is almost always max level and violently swinging until they actually get some friends because they fucking have no god damn stability. Even then... Basically there's no specific scenario where he'd feel the MOST guilt because everything is just set to "Time to repent" Upon fucking up for a majority of their life when feeling any guilt. Speaking of the answer is usually self isolation... and in some cases causing harm to herself.

32. If they committed one petty crime / misdemeanor, what would it be? Why? Look, Nas has committed many petty crimes/misdemeanors. She's an assassin, and an illusionist at that, she doesn't see why she needs to worry about tiny little crimes. Who gives a shit, thanks to illusions no one would even know. That said Nas likes to fucking steal shit for fun sometimes, like just to see what she can do.

33. How do they greet someone they dislike / hate? If they dislike you, you'll most likely have a hand picked insulting nickname sneered at you after a hello. If they hate you? Pray that they don't greet with immediately trying to stab you.

34. How do they greet someone they like / love? If they like you they'll just greet you with a hey and a name, they still want to act cool. If they love you, uh well they're most likely draping themselves over you and being realllly affectionate as they say hello.

35. What is the smallest, morally questionable choice they’ve made? Hm, you know, most of the time the smallest one is usually just seeing someone who could use a little bit of help and just choosing not to because they can't be bothered.

36. Who do they keep in their life for professional gain? Is it for malicious intent? God this either counts for most of their relationships before they actually start liking people, unless you don't see it as that. Since technically they're kind of just being used for additional fodder, really. Since they can't really play nice with people for this, i don't think they really are doing such a thing.

37. What’s a secret they haven’t told serious romantic partners and don’t plan to tell? Since Nas is simultaneously very open and very not... It just depends what has ended up feeling like something that need to be said. Like anything of their past, their real name being Narciso, the fact their appearance doesn't match anymore. But one that has not been said is that they do want a family. But with being aware of how unstable he is, he knows that this want is just being selfish. He'll be happy without kids anyway. Just sometimes they do think of about it despite that.

38. What hobby are they good at in private, but bad at in front of others? Why? Bold of you to assume they ever show their hobbies to people. But hm, I can't think of one she'd preform worse at, unless the other person was purposely causing problems. Nas tends to be surgical precision in like most things so it leaves very little room for error.

39. Would they rather be invited to an event to feel included or be excluded from an event if they were not genuinely wanted there? They'd rather be invited so they can still turn it down. At least it's their choice to go still and they can act above the invitation if she senses that they're not actually wanted. They hate both a lot but at least they get to spit in the face of someone in the first.

40. How do they respond to a loose handshake? What goes through their head? They don't actually care much if the handshake is loose. But if it's particularly loose they'll swing the person's arm a bit and ask if they're worried about breaking their hands. More just to get a reaction.

41. What phrases, pronunciations, or mannerisms did they pick up from someone / somewhere else? Despite how much they hate it they actually picked up some of Squalo's non-professional speak after learning it for his mimic. Fortunately for him it's not very obvious. People think they picked up the way Bel smiles but they had actually been doing that for a while. No, instead after learning his mimic he started standing like he does without realizing. A lot of little tics that his mimics do you can actually see that he does, though good luck guessing where, or who she got it from.

42. If invited to a TED Talk, what topic would they present on? What would the title of their presentation be? Hilarious fact about Nas, is despite constantly wanting to be a center of attention, if it's something professional like a meeting or something she gets stage fright. So During this she'd probably be halfway to crying but they'd probably give a presentation on how to analyze and predict people.... good luck understanding it though.

43. What do they commonly misinterpret because of their own upbringing / environment / biases? How do they respond when realizing the misunderstanding? Sometimes they just don't think about things. Though he can always figure out things and use logic, to the point he can predict people's movements and things they'll say to him, he emotionally reacts first if something SOUNDS like something else and he's not in the right headspace. They need to be trying to do these things for them to avoid making these misinterpretations.

44. What language would be easiest for them to learn? Why? Given they had to learn 7 so they could get paid at the varia and continued to grow their repertoire making sure to practice them regularly so that she doesn't get rusty... I'd say there's a good amount of languages that'd be easier to learn from the experience. Though... at the same time with the amount of shared language words that actually have different meaning.... Well easy to pick up hard to differentiate with most I'd say.

45. What’s something unimportant / frivolous that they hate passionately? First, mark everything they care or hate about is incredibly important to them, even if it's not actually in the grand scheme- but one of the things they hate with a passion is anything they bake for themselves being fucking stolen on them. They have poisoned batches just because of this out of frustration. so... careful.

46. Are they a listener or a talker? If they’re a listener, what makes them talk? If they’re a talker, what makes them listen? It switches a lot, They don't talk at all sometimes and other times they're talking the majority and won't shut up. It really depends on the topic and who they're with. if it's interesting they'll completely listen unless they don't like the person then they're interrupting whenever. It's really all over the place.

47. Who have they forgotten about that remembers them very well? Nascosta remembers people too well, especially people who have rejected her. Which is almost all of their previous relationships. Worse at a certain point they ended up killing those that do leaving a huge gap between people that could have remembered them and current. None of those people would really recognize him at this point though, personality wise or physically. She used to be very, very different when she was a civilian.

48. Who would they say ‘yes’ to if invited to do something they abhorred / strongly didn’t want to do? Yeah you're going to have to be dating him for a yes and even then she's going to to whiiiiiine unless it's something incredibly important to them. If they don't end up enjoying it though they're going to be moody the rest of the night so always choose carefully when doing this.

49. Would they eat something they find gross to be polite? Absolutely not for just anyone. But then again they wouldn't keep quiet either if it was bad for anyone. It's just whether or not they'll spit it out right in front of you, and whether or not they give proper criticism or "This shit sucks". Admittedly though, there's not many overall dishes that she'd actually find bad, it's just if you can prepare them right.

50. What belief / moral / personality trait do they stand by that you (mun) personally don’t agree with? Well given they're a fucking bloodthirsty assassin who loves to watch people struggle in pain. Uh. I would HAVE TO SAY A LOT OF THINGS THERE I WOULD DISAGREE WITH. Like Don't murder people???? that's a good start. we'd be here all day if i kept going.

51. What’s a phrase they say a lot? "It is what it is" Mostly whenever they've pissed someone else off and want to make it worse when they're being accused of doing something.

52. Do they act on their immediate emotions, or do they wait for the facts before acting? Depends whether or not they're in the right headspace. Nas likes to have all the information they can have before doing things but it's uncommon they are emotionally capable of doing so.

53. Who would / do they believe without question? Hm, as they grow closer they begin to believe people more and more. There's people who they'll believe with very little questioning, like Mammon and Vittorio. But absolutely without question would once again end up being a romantic partner.

54. What’s their instinct in a fight / flight / freeze / fawn situation? Depends on the trigger. Most triggers will cause a fight reaction, but ones without clear thing to focus on will cause flight(invisible enemy sort of deal), or ones that are genuinely too overwhelming to her forces her to freeze. Fawn is reserved almost always to people they like getting mad at them.

55. What’s something they’re expected to enjoy based on their hobbies / profession that they actually dislike / hate? Good question, most things they like line up with the expectations, more because they would avoid anything they didn't like vehemently, to the point they wouldn't even want to be associated with it.

56. If they’re scared, who do they want comfort from? Does this answer change depending on the type of fear? If they're scared they lash out or isolate or do ANYTHING to hide that they are. They refuse to let anyone comfort them when they're afraid. this doesn't change on type. Even when they trust more they utterly struggle to sit and let someone close during this time.

57. What’s a simple daily activity / motion that they mess up often? Actually eating regularly. Sometimes depending on their mood they may entirely end up missing multiple meals in a day. They try but sometimes their brain won't work with the body.

58. How many hobbies have they attempted to have over their lifetime? Is there a common theme? God, they have many, many attempted ones. Things that they thought would make them useful, things that they needed to learn for mimics "just in case". He's a patchwork of other people when it comes to his hobbies.

[God this took all fucking day to do. Worse I had to redo like 3 times cause tumblr is a BITCH and didn't SAVE but we're here.]

#khr ocs #nascosta #character questions

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unboundedthought · 2 years

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“Continue Learning Because?”: Education Sectors Should Be Held Accountable

by Mark Lester H. Mendez

The quarantine period is one of the main reasons why we are stuck at home that resulted in us browsing all over our Facebook feeds throughout the day as it also becomes an everyday habit. We cannot deny the fact that some of us have encountered the circulating meme of Kris Aquino in her one-on-one interview about the bashing incident with Kim Chiu. The meme-worthy line and expression of Kris which is “na-touch ka because?” has paved its way to the public as it is added with her remarkable conyo ways. What if Kris asked you a debatable question in her own way? Like, continue learning because?

On the last month of the year two thousand and nineteen (2019), the first-ever case of the occurring pandemic, Corona Virus Disease, finally took its own flight as the first patient was recorded coming from Wuhan, China. During those troubling glimpses of times, the world was fueled with fear of contracting the disease which reasoned for governments to authorize a total lockdown in their respective country. While we were under securement, every bit of societal institution adjusted to what was happening even the education system bent its structure just to continue the learning of students amidst the pandemic as it resulted in a sudden upsurge of undertaking online-based classroom setup. Though it was evident that those rich countries got to easily adjust as if they are like billionaires who got acquainted with their broke friend and said “hey, I’m doing great! How ‘bout you?”. The broke friend, of course, has a response, “Uh… I’m still broke, can I borrow some money?” – and it will always go like this. It is obvious that the broke friend portrays those who are secluded in the limelight and that includes the Philippines.

During the early months of experiencing the detriments given by the virus, the Philippines was really having a hard time adjusting, and for the citizens of this country, that is clearly something to expect. We even borrowed money for funding government activities that will secure the welfare of the nation. In terms of the education system, the postponement of starting another school year was taken several times as we are not ready for it even though it will undergo an online setup. It is because not all citizens are privileged as some of us fall under the marginalized group. Added to the issue of allocation of every internet provider in the country, we casually experience an intermittent internet signal and that really stresses us out. Imagine a student who cannot attend an online class due to a poor signal. She may be known as a topnotcher in the class but because of her reason for not attending and learning in online meetings, her grades will fail. This does not only take place to students but to the teachers too as we experience that always with one of our professors as she could not teach us due to poor connection; we mostly did not have an online meeting at all, and her schedule was not being followed so all she ever did was leaving us with activities and lessons for us to study on our own. With this given struggle, we cannot blame the student or teacher for it. What we can only do best is to understand the situation we are in.

Given those factual situations, if we are going to look at the bigger picture, is the Philippines ready to take its shift to online classrooms? The way I see it I strongly disagree because knowing the fact that there are cases of suicide and death that are linked to virtual learning is already a big call for a national academic break as this online setup is apparently anti-poor and it can only be accessed by those who can afford, with that, you could not really find the context of DepEd about “No Students Left Behind”. At the same time, I think we do not have any other option. There was even a loud call for an academic freeze, but this idea calls for a bigger risk as it gambles the economic status of the following years predicting the grievance of life in the society and will lead to neglecting the future of younger generations. In support of this, According to research estimated by World Bank, learning losses of students during the pandemic could stand up to losing $10 trillion in labor earnings over their work life (see article for more info: https://blogs.worldbank.org/education/learning-losses-due-covid19-could-add-10-trillion). The academic freeze may seem like freezing a current problem and will melt down later and reoccur, or to simplify, it is like a previous government has left a large debt to be problematized by the next reigning politicians — and yes, I am pertaining to how history repeats itself contextualizing the recurring debt issues of Philippine government.

Then what can I say if I were asked “continue learning because?”. The academic freeze seems to be our best option, but it will never be a good one if what at stake is the life of our children and the life of those who are destined to be born and raised. It is always the duty of the government in keeping the welfare of everyone. The best solution that I could think about this kind of issue is that the education sector should be held accountable for their decision in continuing the learning of students and by that, they should effectively designate their project about modular learning amid the pandemic. They should by far reach out to those marginalized groups and create inclusive programs that would still be able to cater to their studies. If we are making a big move in safeguarding the citizens in times of health crisis, why not do both as education and health share the same percentage of importance in bettering the nation. This idea hereby calls for a healthy argument.

#onlinelearning

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fangirleaconmigo · 3 years

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Eskel is wounded in a hunt, and no one in the three towns he passes on his way back to Kaer Morhen will give him aid.

Geralt has a bit of a breakdown about it.

This is Eskel x Geralt hurt/comfort fic. You can also read it as x Lambert, but that isn't explicitly defined, as this focuses on Geralt mostly. But they obviously all love each other.

About 2500 words. Rated Teen I guess? Not explicit. Now beta’ed and posted on AO3.

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Rage pressed out from Geralt’s chest cavity, like bony fingers clawing an escape. Freezing wind whipped his hair into his eyes. He growled in frustration and shook his head to clear his vision. He brought the sledgehammer down on the last remnants of the shed. It cracked and threw splinters into the furious wind.

A throat made a scraping sound behind Geralt. He jerked in surprise, and whipped around, eyes still wild.

“Hate to interrupt, but he’s asking for you.”

Lambert looked comfortable, as though he had been leaning against the tree for an age. Geralt dropped the hammer.

“Oh.” He looked around the wreckage of the perfectly good structure that he had spent a week building. The scrapes on his knuckles and the rips in his trousers told the story of his outburst, if the ruined shed hadn’t done so. “Fuck. How long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough.”

Geralt pushed his hair out of his face with fingers that were unsteady and still unsure of why they no longer gripped the handle of a hammer. Then he rubbed his eyes.

“Take a breath, big guy,” said Lambert.

Geralt’s body instinctively obeyed, and his chest expanded as he pulled in a deep breath. What he had done was setting in. “Why didn’t you stop me, then?”

Geralt knew it wasn’t Lambert’s job to stop him from having mental breakdowns, but he felt defensive. He had given himself one brief moment of self indulgence, and all of this rage had just roared into being. The thought that he didn’t actually know what was inside the yawning chasm of his own heart was terrifying.

It was also embarrassing.

“We all need to let it out sometimes.” Lambert shrugged.

Geralt began to realize how cold he was, and therefore how freezing cold Lambert must be.

“Sorry. I’m an idiot.”

“Ah,” Lambert said easily, dismissing him out of hand. “It’s a relief to see someone else in this family admit to how fucked up it all is.”

Lambert did look relieved. There was recognition in his face. Kinship. Geralt felt a twinge of guilt. How lonely he must feel sometimes.

“How do you handle this? How do you get rid of it? It feels like shit.”

Lambert pressed the inside of his cheek with his tongue as he considered the question. “Being an asshole helps sometimes. Revenge is good. But don’t take my word for it, I’m not the model of fitting witcher behavior.” The last three words were said in a mimicry of Vesemir’s voice. He held both hands up in a sarcastic surrender.

Geralt thought for a moment. Lambert allowed the silence to stretch out between them.

“I know the new cleric down in Ard Carraigh has been working people up, turning them against us. It’s made everything worse,” said Geralt. The gut wrenching image of Eskel bleeding, gasping, and cradling his split open wound as town after town turned him away, blazed to life again in his mind’s eye. He clenched both fists. “It didn’t have to be that way. If only one of those motherfuckers, if only one of them had helped him...he almost...he almost died.” Geralt spat the final word and when he did, he could feel hot tears prickling his eyes.

“I know,” said Lambert. “Believe me I know. But he wants to see you, and you can’t go in there like this. Breathe.”

Geralt nodded and breathed again.

“How’s this?” offered Lambert, “If you don’t come to your senses by the time the snow melts, I promise I’ll help you come up with a really good way to fuck with that self righteous piece of shit in Ard Carraigh.”

Geralt laughed airily. “Yeah, alright.” He put his hands on his hips and waited for his thudding heart to settle.

Lambert’s eyes lit up with glee. “Really?”

Geralt nodded. “Really.”

“Alright. Now come on.” Lambert began walking towards the keep, and beckoned for him to keep pace.

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Geralt washed his hands and cleaned his cuts. Then he changed into fresh clothes and let himself into Eskel’s room with the soft creak of a door.

Eskel lay in bed with his eyes closed. It was a large bed, piled with just about every spare quilt they had been able to find. A neat bandage was wrapped around Eskel’s stomach. Vesemir had done it as Geralt cursed himself for his shaking hands. Eskel was a shade more pale than his usual warm brown. He looked drained, of blood and of energy. The lines of his face were slack, and his hands rested with fingers laced across his chest.

The sight of him provoked a tangle of emotions in Geralt. The usual feeling gripped him of course...the one he felt whenever he saw Eskel’s familiar face...the full lips that melted him to a large helpless puddle whenever they smiled or kissed him....the round, solid shoulders that were the best place on the continent to lay your head. That bit wasn’t a mystery. It was just love. That was the most natural thing in the world for Geralt to feel for Eskel.

But the soft pink suggestion of blood beneath the white cloth kindled a very different feeling. That was the rage. Still there. There were probably not enough structures on the continent for him to destroy to sate it. Also, the slight puffiness in Eskel’s skin surrounding the bandage implied a nascent infection they would have to continue to fight off. That provoked a feeling of powerlessness that threatened to shatter him from the inside out. It intertwined with the desperation to kiss his soft stomach...to make it better somehow.

But he couldn’t make it better. He couldn’t heal him. He couldn’t protect him. He couldn’t do anything at all but be angry and fucking useless. Impotent, helpless, and fucking useless.

What good was it? He thought. What good was love, if no matter the degree of its ferocity, it would never be enough to protect the ones you loved?

For a moment he truly glimpsed the reality of his powerlessness, paired with the vulnerability of Eskel’s flesh. His body. His heart. It could just stop beating, and there would be nothing Geralt could do to help it. The breath sucked from his body, and he swayed, dizzy on his feet.

Eskel opened his eyes, and as he focused on Geralt, he blinked at the look of anguish on his face.

“Hey, wolf. Hey. I’m good. I’m here. C’mere.” He tried to lift an arm to beckon him to bed, but he winced.

His voice was soft and gentle, as though Geralt were the wounded one. That broke the spell of despair gripping him, and he rushed to Eskel’s side. He sat down gingerly next to him on the bed. Eskel leaned his head into Geralt’s shoulder. Geralt situated himself so he could wrap his arms around Eskel’s shoulders, and he dropped a kiss onto the top of his head.

Eskel made a noise of contentment. They sat there for a short moment, breathing together in the quiet room.

“Hey,” said Eskel. He looked up, concerned.

“What?” Geralt asked.

“Hey!” Eskel sat up and unwound Geralt’s arms from his shoulders. He squeezed Geralt’s hands in his. “You’re trembling. What’s going on? What are these scrapes from? Are you hurt?”

Geralt snorted and gently pulled his hands back, tucking them at his side. He was too much of a mess to hide his little breakdown. He would have to explain just a bit. “No. You’re the one that’s hurt. I’m fine. Just. You know. I hate...I hate seeing you hurt.”

Eskel tilted his head. “I said I’m fine.”

“You’re hurt.”

Eskel looked at him quizzically, and dug Geralt's hands back from his sides and clasped them again. He swept his thumb gently below his injured knuckles.

“This is our job, Geralt. Our life. We’ve been doing it for almost eighty years.”

Geralt swallowed. It was true. He felt ridiculous, of course. And defensive. Like he needed to explain himself.

“I know. I know.” He thought of why this was different. But it really wasn’t. Factually, this was just another hunt. Another instance of humans treating them like garbage. He shouldn’t care anymore. And yet? “And most of the time,” he pressed ahead, “I don’t notice. Wounds. Dressings. Combat. The sun rises, the sun sets. It is what it is. I tell myself that all the time. Why worry about something you can’t change?”

Eskel touched a stray bit of Geralt’s hair and tucked it behind his ear. “Then what? What was different about this one?”

He sounded so gentle. He was always so gentle. Geralt couldn’t bear it sometimes.

“Nothing,” he choked out. “There was nothing different about it. It’s just that sometimes...” he leaned back against the bedframe and looked at the ceiling. He just couldn’t look at Eskel right now. “Sometimes I look at you,” he continued haltingly, “and I see the bruises. I see the wounds.”

“You don’t usually see them?” Eskel was teasing him lightly, trying to make him smile.

“Not really. They’re just things to fix. Things to bandage. Things to watch disappear and then on to the next hunt.” He was silent for a good long stretch. Eskel didn’t fill it. He just brushed the palms of his hand and waited. “But then. Every once in a while, I see them for what they are. They are things and people who hurt you. Who stood there, and fucking hurt you. Who saw you as a thing to hurt. And I want to burn down the whole world.”

He pretended that he didn't notice the tear the slid down his cheek.

He finally looked at Eskel, who was sitting up now and watching him intently, with a complicated look on his face.

“Geralt. I’m fine.”

Geralt looked away again, dragging his arm across his face to dry it. “But you almost weren’t.” His voice insisted on breaking, against his will. He cleared his throat. “You could have died. And why? Because no one in three towns would help you? People who you’ve helped countless times??” He felt the thudding rage threaten to swell again like the first ripples of a tsunami.

“Geralt,” Eskel touched his chin. Geralt turned, and was rewarded with a soft look and a kiss. “I don’t have your pretty face, wolf. Even if I weren’t a witcher, they would react the way they do.”

Geralt knew it was true. Eskel’s looming size. His voice. The way his eyes seemed to glow. The scars. All things he loved. But not everyone else did. He clenched his fists. “Idiots.”

Eskel loosened his fingers and clasped them again. “It’s been ages since I got the scars. I’m used to it.”

“Yeah well. You shouldn’t have to be,” hissed Geralt. “Sometimes,” he remembered Lambert’s voice telling him to breathe, so he did. Eskel watched him with concern and something else. Affection. That was it. “Sometimes," Geralt tried again. “I just want you to have the gentle life that you deserve.”

And there it was. As sensible, as strong as Geralt tried to be...as he was, sometimes he was like a little child stamping about how unfair the world was. How he wished it were different. Ridiculous. Fucking stupid.

He waited for Eskel to tell him again that he was fine. To be practical, like he always was. To tell him that it was better than what a lot of people got. That most of the time, he liked being a witcher. That he was good at it. Eskel was like that. Even. Solid. Where Lambert wanted to punch destiny in its smug face, and Geralt hid from the spiteful bitch, Eskel just rode it. Like a ship on a wave. Sometimes he and Lambert resented his ability to do that.

But Eskel didn’t do any of that. He looked at Geralt, and his expression was so raw that Geralt was taken aback. And he was taken back. That was a look he hadn’t seen in many years. It wiped about seventy years away from Eskel’s face. Geralt was transported to this same room. But instead of a large bed, there were two bunkbeds. And instead of two grizzled witchers, there were two small, hopeful, frightened boys, who loved without wariness. Without skepticism. Without doubts.

Eskel pulled his hands to his lips and kissed each knuckle softly, in turn.

“Thank you,” he whispered, his voice husky.

Geralt shook his head. “Ah, for what? Me being angry doesn’t do anything. It doesn’t help you heal faster.”

“You don’t know that. It might.”

Eskel patted the blanket covering him. “Crawl in with me wolf. We’ll huddle together until it passes.”

The corner of Geralt’s mouth twitched into the hint of a smile despite himself. It was what Eskel used to say when Geralt had nightmares and he would stand stupidly around Eskel’s bed, hoping to be invited in. Geralt had always made up some excuse to accept his kindness. Something that wouldn’t be interpreted as weakness.

“Alright, but only because I want to keep you safe.”

Eskel grinned his lopsided, perfect grin. “I feel safer already.” That was what he used to say. Even as a child he knew how to respond to Geralt. How to handle his pride and his need to be the hero.

Geralt slid under the covers, still fully clothed. He laid his head on Eskel’s shoulder and gingerly draped his arm across his chest, avoiding his injury. With his free hand, Eskel turned his chin to face him.

They kissed, slow and unhurried. Geralt barely pressed against his lips, his fingers ghosting Eskel’s cheek. They could have kissed for a minute, or an hour, or a day. Geralt lost track of time, love settling in his chest and chasing away the rage and the fear. He could also hear Eskel’s pulse growing more steady. He could see that some color had already returned to his cheeks.

Maybe he wasn’t so useless after all.

Then, there was a knock at the door.

“Come in,” Eskel called.

Lambert swung open the door and stood there with a shit eating grin. “Did Geralt tell you we’re gonna go down to Ard Carraigh and really stick it to some piece of shit priest? We’re gonna work out how to make him really suffer.”

Eskel raised his eyebrows and turned to Geralt.

Geralt shrugged. “I’m not saying I won’t.”

Lambert laughed and took stock of the two of them. “Look at you. Two bugs snug in a rug.”

“Come on,” said Eskel. “You too.” He patted the bed on the other side of him. Lambert’s grin stretched wider and he clambered in, pressing up against Eskel, warming himself with relish. He reminded Geralt of a blissed out lizard sunning himself on a rock. Eskel managed to turn enough to plant a kiss on Lambert’s cheek.

Lambert made that noise he always made when he loved something but didn’t want to admit it. It was like a combination of a snort and a laugh.

And when Vesemir came into the room in the morning to check Eskel’s dressing, he found them all asleep side by side.

He chuckled and watched them for a moment as they drooled and snored against one other.

The remaining Kaer Morhen wolves, together.

It was as it should be, how it always was, and how it would ever be.

They needed each other, after all.

#the witcher #geralt of rivia #eskel #geralt x eskel #gereskel #geskel #Eskralt #seriously we need to come to a consensus on this ship name #lambert #vesemir #this is not what i was supposed to be writing #but it is what wanted to be written

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feralthoughtdump · 3 years

Text

Only Angel

Part Two of Kiss With A Fist

On the way to Madripoor, Bucky and his acquaintance talk about names.

Word Count: 5.5K

CW: violence, talk of killing people, TFATWS ep. 3 spoilers, stitching wounds, smut, unprotected sex, sub!bucky, technically a reader x bucky but he gives her a new name.

“So, we’re headed to Madripoor?” She questions, adjusting the straps of her harness.

Bucky adverts his eyes as she unbuttons her jeans, not answering her question, but she doesn’t seem to notice. They were standing in the back of the jet, a curtain obscuring the two of them from Sam and Zemo.

“Help me really quick. I have a holster in my bag.”

He reaches into her light blue duffle back, rifling through the articles of clothing and various weapons until his finger wraps around the leather.

“Thanks, you’re a godsend.” She chuckles. “Tell me about this mission of ours. I need to know what I should wear.”

“We’re going undercover. Zemo is just… Zemo, Sam’s going as some big shot, and I’m… well-“

“The Winter Soldier?”

He silently nods.

“You scared?”

She buckles the holster around her thigh, tightening it so it slightly squeezes at the flesh.

“Not sure.” He grumbles. “I’m worried, you know, I might end up..” his words trail off.

“Relapsing?”

“You can say that.”

She pulls her jeans down past her ankle and places them into her bag.

He clears his throat and looks away, unsure if she’s okay with him looking.

“Oh, don’t be shy, Buck.” She hymns, reaching into her bag. “What do you think? Shorts or a dress?”

He looks back up, eyeing the black slip dress in one hand, and the leather shorts in the other.

“Shorts I guess. Easy mobility.”

“Smart.”

As she’s pulling the shorts up past her waist, Bucky stares out the plane window.

“Do you still go by Angel of Death?” He asks.

She looks up at him.

“I never chose to go by that name, you know? The public did.” Her hands dig into the bag, pulling out a gun and a few knives. “Angels of death are serial killers in caregiver positions and I have nobody under my care. But they gave me that name because they saw me as some vigilante, someone who took down bad people.”

“Do you like the name?”

“I don’t really care. It’s factually incorrect but names don’t matter when you have to kill the person standing in the way of a paycheck.”

“Is that how you see them? Just another person you have to kill so you can go buy a fancy handbag?” He scoffs.

“You have no idea who those people are do you? Those people are corrupt. Evil. People who have no regard for the lives of innocent people.”

“And you think you’re any better?”

His tone is less accusing, rather it’s more curious.

“Maybe not, but at the end of the day, it’s my job. And if my job means I’m killing morally corrupt people, then I really don’t care. And if I’m as bad as them, then maybe you had a right to kill me ten years ago.”

Bucky shifts on his feet.

“You know my mission wasn’t to kill you.” He confesses.

“Then why did you stab me?”

“I think for the first time, I felt scared. I was confused and I panicked.”

“Fair enough.” She takes out a dark red trench coat. One made of soft crushed velvet. Bucky runs his flesh hand over it, taking in the feeling of the soft fabric.

“I was supposed to take you away, hand you over to HYDRA. I think they wanted you to work for them.”

She snorts, humored by his words.

“So they wanted me to be a weapon, huh. Fry my brain until all my free will is gone and come up with a few words in Russian to make sure I’ll do their bidding.”

“Most likely.” He crosses his arms. “You’re good at your job. You’ve wracked up kills in the hundreds, and I thought I was the one with the high body count.”

“Do you know why I’m good at my job?” She laughs, pulling her hair into a tight bun and securing it with a gold hairpin. “Do you know why I’m one of the best female assassins in Europe?”

Bucky shrugs his shoulders.

“Every time I’m assigned a job, I’m walking into a life or death situation. I need to be prepared for any type of outcome so I won’t get caught off guard.” She pulls a black, satin, dress shirt over her shoulders. “But do you know the real reason as to why I’m the best?”

Bucky parts his lips.

“Tell me.”

“It’s because I never let my feelings get in the way.”

“But you have to feel at least something.”

“No. I don’t think I really feel anything.” She tucks the hem into the shorts. “I haven’t felt anything in a very long time.”

He doesn’t know what to say. As he observes her concealing weapons within her outfit, he thinks about the past few decades of his life. One mission after another. He thinks about the bloodshed. He thinks about Yori and his son. Did he feel anything when he put a bullet in that boy? Not at the time. But now? All he feels is guilt. Shame. But here she stands in front of him, dressed to the nines, hidden weapons strapped to her body. I haven’t felt anything in a really long time. No guilt, no shame, no emotions. The silence hangs over them like a thick, heavy fog.

His mind wanders to their first interaction. Though he can’t remember much, he often revisits it in his dreams.

Don’t you want to know my name?

The question she asked him before he plunged the knife into her abdomen.

“Ten years ago, you asked if I wanted to know your name.”

“I did.”

“Were you ever going to tell me?”

“No. I would’ve just given you a fake one.”

She sits down on the leather seat and stuffs her feet into a pair of heeled boots. Bucky takes a seat next to her.

“What name would you have given me?”

“I was reading Anna Karenina at the time so probably Kitty.”

“Do you have a name?”

“I have many names.”

“No, a real name.”

She zips up her left boot.

“I do. Well, I did.” She sighs, moving her fingers to zip up the right. “I don’t remember it anymore.”

Bucky frowns.

“Do you want to remember?”

Her head falls onto his shoulders and she nuzzles her nose into his neck.

“Not really. Sometimes I think it’s better that I’m nameless.”

Bucky doesn’t want to say he pities her, but he does. Maybe it isn’t pitying, rather sympathizing.

“Can I give you a new one?”

She smiles, relishing in the feeling of his stubble against her skin.

“Sure.”

“I’d like to call you Angel.”

A hum of content passes her lips and she presses a soft kiss on his skin.

“I’d like that too.” She whispers. “I’ll be your angel.”

They sit together for a good five minutes, syncing their breathing together, enjoying each other’s company.

“We should go back to your friends.” She mutters, grabbing the coat.

“We probably should.”

Sam gives the two of them as they walk past the curtain. Bucky sits across from him and he watches with a slightly annoyed eye as she takes the seat across from Zemo.

“How do you two know each other?” Sam queries.

“Oh. Bucky stabbed me ten years ago.” She bluntly states.

A humored smile crosses her face as Sam’s eyes widen and darts between the two.

“He stabbed you?”

“Hey, I wasn’t really myself back then.” Bucky quickly defends himself. “Plus, she tried to kill me a few hours ago.”

“In her defense,” Zemo interjects “being stabbed isn’t something you can just forgive and forget.”

“Oh, and you know everything about forgiving and forgetting.” Sam shoots back.

Sensing oncoming tension, she quickly changes the subject.

“Bucky told me you three needed a tour guide. Someone who knows the place well.”

“I’d consider myself-“

“Oh Baron,” she laughs “after everything you did in 2017, I doubt it’s easy for them to trust you.”

Zemo’s eyes widened.

“You know who I am?”

“Of course I do. I’ve been to Sokovia before.”

Sam furrowed his brows.

“What led you to Sokovia?”

“Business meetings.”

“Jesus, Bucky, who is this girl?”

“Oh, yeah, I never actually introduced myself. I’m Angel.” Bucky smiles at the use of her name, affection blooming in his chest. “I work for a small company based in Europe. We mostly sell cosmetics.”

Bucky’s impressed by her ability to spit out a convincing story with no hesitation.

Sam doesn’t seem to buy it, but he lets it go.

“Anyways, what role do you three want me to play?”

“Well,” Zemo shifts in his seat, “I was thinking you could be my date-“

“No. No” Bucky grouses, a deep frown cutting across his face. “Absolutely not.”

“Relax, James. I won’t try anything with her. I know you two are… close.”

Bucky scrambles out of his seat to wrap a hand around Zemo’s neck but he steps away at the feeling of Angel’s gentle hand on his bicep.

“Calm down, Bucky. Everything’s going to be fine.” She looks at Zemo with an amused grin. “Alright. I’ll play the part, but I have a few rules.” She points her thumb up. “One, no kissing.” Then her pointer. “No silly pet names. I don’t want to hear you calling me baby or kitten. It’s patronizing.” Finally her middle. “And three, I don’t drink. My tolerance is low.”

Zemo and Sam nod in agreement and eventually so does Bucky, but the anger in his eyes refuses to fade away.

It’s nighttime when they arrive, but the bright, neon lights illuminate the city.

Loud music seeps out from the clubs and the air smells of smoke and booze. They’re surrounded by crime, and Angel smiles at the familiarity. She can spot a few familiar faces, but she never bothers to say hi. It’s best she stays faceless, unknown, invisible.

Zemo wraps an arm around her waist and Bucky side eyes him. She can read his annoyance. His jealousy. Yet, his cold, emotionless expression doesn't change. He’s fallen into character and he’s doing a damn good job of it.

Whispers of ‘is that the Winter Soldier?’ pour around them as they enter the bar, but they all do their best to pay no attention.

“Wasn’t expecting you, Smiling Tiger.” The bartender nods towards Sam.

“His plans changed. We have business to do with Selby.” Zemo interjects.

Selby.

Angel remembers that name. She’s heard it in whispers on the streets.

Angel takes a seat on Zemo’s lap, leaning her head against the fur on his coat.

“Who’s the girl?”

“Close friend of mine,” Zemo smirks.

“I’m Moria.” She extends a hand and the bartender politely shakes it.

Bucky glances down at his fingers. Of course, her name here would be fake.

“The usual?” The bartender asks.

Sam and Zemo reply with a nod.

The four of them watch as he pulls a snake out of a jar, cutting its organs out and placing them in a shot glass. He moves on to pour out a shot of vodka for Zemo.

She grins and runs a hand from the fur collar of his coat to his chest. A soft, flirtatious giggle slips past her lips. Oh, Bucky wanted to take Zemo’s shot glass and throw it at the wall but he can’t. Not when the stakes are so high.

She suppresses a giggle as she watches Sam struggle to down the shot.

“Got word from on high,” A man approaches Zemo. “You ain’t welcome here.”

“I have no business with the Power Broker. But if he insists, he can either talk to me…”

He gestures towards Bucky.

Angel surveys the bar, observing the patrons around them. Most of them are staring at the four, suspicious eyes being thrown their way.

Her concentration is broken when Zemo speaks.

“Winter Soldier” He orders in Russian.

She remembers Bucky’s words on the plane. He’s afraid of relapsing.

“Attack.”

Compassion, something she hasn’t felt for a long time, floods her body and before he can strike, she finds herself twisting the man’s fingers. Another approaches them and Bucky takes the lead, kicking the man to the ground. Men charge towards them and she fights along with him. He’s throwing kicks, punches, a sight that Angel is all too familiar with. Bucky takes hold of a man thrown his way, slamming him down onto the table, metal arm wrapped around his neck.

They freeze at the sound of weapons around them. Her eyes dart around the room, seeing the guns trained on them. Slowly, she reaches under her shirt, feeling the knives she has strapped to her body.

Sam places a hand on Bucky’s arm and Zemo quickly stops him.

“Stay in character or the entire bar turns on us.”

They all stand as the bartender turns to them.

“Selby will see you now.”

She looks at Bucky, then Sam, then Zemo who opens his arms, beckoning her towards him. She lets him place a hand on her hip as the four of them walk away.

“You should know Baron,” Selby’s voice rings through her ears. “People don’t just come into my bar and make demands.”

“Not a demand, an offer.” Zemo replies.

“Well, a lot has changed since you were last here. By the way, I thought you were rotting away in a German prison. How did you escape?”

“People like us always find a way, don’t we?” He chuckles. Zemo releases his hand on her.

“You’re taller than I heard, Smiling Tiger.” She purrs at Sam, who glances away. “What’s the offer? The girl?”

“No. Something better.”

He walks over to Bucky.

“Tell me what you know about the super-soldier serum and I’ll hand him over.” Fingers trace over his face, from his cheekbones down to his chin. “Along with the code words to control him. He will do whatever you want.”

A Cheshire cat smile cuts across Selby’s face.

“Now that’s the Zemo I know.” She settles into her couch. “Yeah, you were right to come to me. Arrogant but right. The serum is here in Madripoor. Dr. Wilfred Nagel is the man you want to thank… or condemn.” She shrugs. “Whatever side you’re on.”

“Is Nagel still in Madripoor?” Zemo inquires.

Selby stands.

“The breadcrumbs, you can have for free, but the bakery’s going to cost you.” She sighs. “Your arm candy, Baron, she’s extraordinary. There’s no way a little bird” Selby points her finger up and down at Angel “can fight like that without years of training. Come here, darling.” She beckons her over. Angel turns to Zemo, and then to Bucky, a worried expression on her face. Zemo falters for a second and releases his hand on her shoulder.

“Go ahead, darling.”

She stands and walks over the Selby, who looks her over with an inquisitive eye. Selby runs a manicured finger along the collar of Angel’s coat.

“I’ll tell you what,” Selby decides. “You hand both of them over to me, and I’ll tell you everything about Nagel.” She grins, pulling back the strap of Angel’s thigh holster and snapping it back onto her skin.

“Don’t touch me.” She snarls.

Selby cocks her head, an amused smirk on her face.

“I have to say, she’s quite the fiery one. I’d like to call her my little firebird. Have her sing for me.”

“A firebird and the Winter Soldier.” Zemo seethes. “Clever.”

Their attention turns to Sam when his phone rings.

Selby saunters over to him.

“Answer it.” She demands. “On speaker.”

Angel bites the inside of her cheek, waiting with bated breath as Sam speaks to Sarah. He rambles on about money laundering and having a banker killed until Sarah calls him Sam.

Her blood runs cold.

“Sam?” Selby questions, voice laced with accusation. “Who’s Sam? Kill them!”

Without hesitation, Angel pulls the gun out of her holster and unloads a bullet in the woman.

“We need to get out of here.” She yells, stuffing her gun back in place.

One of Selby’s bodyguards cocks his gun and Angel sends a throwing knife into his head, Bucky takes down the other, knocking him out with his fist.

“Jesus Christ, Angel!” Sam yells.

“We don’t have time to unpack that.” she pants, ripping the knife out of the bodyguard’s head. “The second people get word that she’s dead, we’ll have a million-dollar price tag on our heads.” She shoves the knife into a pocket on her holster and bolts to the door.

The four sprint out of the exit and onto the streets, laying low, trying not to get noticed. They walk at a brisk pace, shoulder forward, eyes straight.

The sound of rapid gunfire sends them scrambling.

“I can’t run in these heels!” Sam yells.

“Oh, tell me about it!” She replies. The shock from her boots meeting the pavement sends pain up her calves. “I’ve been running in heels for years and it still sucks.”

“That’s not humanly possible. How do you do that?” He pants.

“I got used to it.”

Angel grabs her gun and cocks it. She one bullet after another and when the wind blows back her coat, Bucky can spot another pistol tucked in the waistband of her shorts.

Motorcycles start to barrel towards them and they pick up their speed. A bounty hunter throws a dagger, slicing at the skin of her thigh. Despite the gash, she can’t feel the pain. Not with the adrenaline coursing through her veins.

They cut to a halt when they find themselves in an alleyway, surrounded.

Gunshots ring through the air saving them from impending death.

“Looks like we have a guardian angel.” Zemo notes, his run slowing down into a walk.

They look around, catching their breath.

“Well, this is too perfect.” The four turn to see a blonde walking towards them, gun pointed in Zemo’s direction. “Drop it, Zemo.”

“Sharon?” Bucky inquires. She rolls her eyes and turns to Angel.

“Nice to finally meet you, Angel of Death.”

“What? How do you know her?” Sam asks.

“I was investigating a politician’s death a few years ago. I managed to get my hands on her picture but Bucky over here caused a bit of a stir.”

She chuckles. “Nice to meet you too, Agent Carter.

“I used to be an agent, not anymore.” Sharon states.

“What are you doing here?” Bucky asks.

“I stole Steve’s shield, remember?” Her words, laced with bitterness. She points her gun at Sam “I also took your wings” then to Bucky, “so you could save his ass” finally, to Zemo “from his ass. Unlike you, I didn’t have the Avengers to back me up.”

Angel stands by, watching Bucky ask for Sharon’s help, paying no attention to the cut on her leg. Unfortunately, the adrenaline finally wears off, sending pain up her leg. Her hands press on the bleeding wound, covering her fingers with blood. She hisses in pain, causing Sharon to turn to her, brows raised.

“This isn’t over.” She spits at them and makes her way over to Angel.

“You might need some stitches for that.” She sighs, handing her a tissue. “I have a place in High Town. You’ll be safe there.”

…

Bucky takes a seat next to Angel, who is tending to her wound on Sharon’s couch, legs propped up on a glass coffee table.

“She’s stitching herself up.” Sharon smiles. “Best you don’t distract her.”

“I’ll be fine.” Angel murmurs, eyes trained on the needle piercing her skin. “Thanks for the suture kit by the way. I left mine on Zemo’s jet.”

“No problem. I got myself some first aid supplies when I was on the run. Figured they would come in handy.”

“My calves hurt. You have anything for that?” She grumbles, carefully knotting the thread.

“There’s probably some ibuprofen in there.” Sharon chuckles. “Those heels are gorgeous but damn, they look painful.”

Bucky gently wraps his fingers around her ankle and looks at her.

“May I?”

“Such a gentleman. Of course.”

She places her legs on his thighs and sighs with relief as he massages the sore muscles of her calves.

“Does it hurt?”

“My calves? Or cut on my thigh.”

“Your thigh.”

She shrugs, pulling the thread.

“Not too much. It’s nothing Advil can’t fix.”

Sharon throws them an amused look.

“So, what’s going on between the two of you?”

“James seems to have formed a little bond with her. In more ways than one.” Zemo smiles at them over a glass of whisky.

“I’ll knock that drink right out of your hands.” Angel barks.

“I have to say, it’s quite ironic. James, you swore that you’d leave your assassin roots behind, yet you’ve taken up the company of one of the most prolific hitwomen in Europe.”

“He’s got a point,” Sharon says, rifling through racks of clothing. “The irony part, I mean. When I was working the Death Angel case, both the FBI and the CIA profiled you as a psychopath. Someone unable to form proper emotional bonds with others-“

“Sociopath.” Angel interrupted with a roll of her eyes. “Not a psychopath. Psychopaths have no moral compass. But I’d say I do. Sociopaths are still able to discern right from wrong.”

Sam walks into the room, shrugging a jacket onto his shoulders.

“So why’d you become a hitwoman?”

Though he asks out of curiosity, Bucky still notes the way her eyes narrow, the way her lips twist into a frown.

“I was getting paid. Plus, they aren’t the type of people you’d like to have dinner with.”

“Let’s drop this, yeah?” Bucky grumbles. “I don’t think Angel wants to continue this conversation.”

Angel. She still hasn’t gotten used to that new name, but she likes it.

It was nothing like the names the authorities and the public had slapped on her. Killer, psychopath, evil, monster.

The hardened shell she had built around her has started to crack, but only for Bucky.

For the first time, she wonders what it would be like. To be free from the title of an assassin.

Maybe she’d live in a quiet Parisian apartment or a sun-filled home in northern Italy. Maybe she’d be alone. She’d be okay with that. Maybe she’ll be with someone else. Maybe with Bucky. She’d be more than okay with that.

She envied him, even if she shouldn’t. She didn’t go through what he went through. Being taken away, stripped of any control, and then having to live in a world he knew nothing of.

However, Bucky had something she didn’t have. He had good within himself.

She’s pulled from her thoughts when Sharon hands her a small pile of clothing.

“Here, these seem to be your style. I know some higher-ups so I’ll ask about Nagel. So, while I’m at it, enjoy the party.”

“Thanks, Sharon.”

“I’ll let you get changed.” Zemo stands and walks away, offering her privacy.

Sam and Sharon nod, leaving the room, but Bucky stayed behind.

“Are you okay?” He quietly asks.

“Yeah. I’m okay.” She curtly nods.

Bucky reaches for a pad of gauze and presses it to the closed wound.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. You don’t need to worry about me.”

He holds the gauze in place while she tapes it down.

“You’re really good at that.”

“Thanks.” She huffs. “YouTube has some great tutorials on bandaging.”

The music from the party downstairs echoes through Sharon’s home, bleeding into the room.

“Alright.” Angel stands and grabs the clothing that Sharon gave her. “I’ll change and we can head downstairs.”

She walks into the bathroom and shuts the door.

Bucky cleans up the used suture supplies and throws them in the small trash can in the corner while waiting for Angel to finish.

He wonders what would have happened if he had successfully completed his Berlin mission in 2013. What would have become of her? Everything she does, she does it with a flair. From the way she dresses, to how she acts, even in the way she kills. She was spirited, creative, and clever. He can’t bear the thought of anyone, not just HYDRA, taking that away from her.

“Hey, Buck?” She walks out of the bathroom, holding her hands across her chest. “Can you help button me up?”

His mouth goes dry when he sees her. She’s ethereal, not of this world. The forest green satin of her dress compliments her gold jewelry, illuminated by the soft lights of Sharon’s home.

“Um,” he swallows. “Sure.”

She walks over to him and turns around so he can hook the buttons through the loops.

“Pretty isn’t it. Sharon has great taste.”

“Yeah.” He breathes.

“Do you like it?”

“I guess so.”

She turns to face him with a mischievous grin.

“What do you mean ‘you guess so’?”

“I was born in 1917, I know nothing about modern fashion. You look beautiful, though.”

Bucky sits back down and she crawls into his lap. “You’re so sweet to me. Maybe too sweet.” She giggles.

“Oh, by the way.” Her hands rest on his shoulders. “I never returned the favor from this morning.”

She leans in and presses her mouth against his, kissing him with fervor.

Bucky tucks her lower lip between his teeth and bites, smiling at her little yelp. He reaches up to cup her face in his hands, rubbing his thumb over her soft skin. She deepens the kiss, letting her tongue brush against his lips.

A whine leaves his lips as she pulls back and stands.

He pouts and reaches his arms towards her, hands making a grabbing motion.

“Another kiss. Please?”

“Oh, Bucky,” She giggles, lowering herself onto her knees. “You’re too cute.”

Her hands reach for his belt, undoing the buckle. She pulls his jeans down, letting them pile around his feet. He stops her hands right as they reach for his briefs.

“Wait, I-” He stutters. “I haven’t done this in a long time.” Blushing in embarrassment.

“If you don’t want to, we can stop.” She says sweetly.

“I want to.” He lets go of her wrist and lets his hand rest in her hair. “I just forgot how it feels.”

“If you want, I can take control for a little bit.” She rests her head on his thigh. “Make you feel good.”

Bucky blinks owlishly and nods.

“Yeah. I’d like that a lot.”

That was the green light. She pulls his briefs down and Bucky kicks them aside along with the jeans. He grins as he watches her eyes widen.

“You-” She gasps. “Oh, wow, you’re big.”

“Yeah?” He chuckles, reaching down to stroke himself. “You think you can take me?”

“I can try.”

She spits on her hand and wraps it around his cock. He sucks in a sharp breath when she thumbs over the tip.

“Oh.” He gasps when she licks the underside. “Oh!”

“Feels good?” She presses a kiss on his thigh.

“Yeah, really good.”

Her lips wrap around his cock, saliva dripping past her tongue and onto his skin.

He lets his head fall back, a quiet groan slipping past his lips.

“Oh, Angel, you’re amazing.”

She flutters her lashes and looks up at him.

It’s a beautiful sight, he thinks, the way she’s all doe-eyed and blushy.

He grabs a fist full of her hair and pulls her closer, letting his cock hit the back of her throat.

She gags around him and tears prick at her eyes, yet she doesn’t pull away. She bobs her head back and forth, sending electricity through his veins.

Spit dribbles down her chin and Bucky tightens his grip on her hair. He lets his other hand cup her cheek.

“Relax for me, love.” He murmurs. He holds her head still and pushes his hips forward. She squeezes her eyes shut and grabs onto his thighs. Bucky hisses at the feeling of her nails digging into his skin but the pain is overshadowed by pleasure. Her mouth is so wet, so warm around him and he can’t get enough.

He’s only had his cock in her mouth for a few minutes but he can already feel himself getting closer.

“Wait, wait!” He gasps.

Angel pulls off, eyes wide with worry.

“Are you alright? Did I hurt you?” She asks.

“No,” He caresses her face. “You were perfect. I just- I’m gonna cum soon and I want you to feel good too.”

She smiles affectionately.

“Oh, baby, you’re too good to me.”

As she moves to straddle him, Bucky takes hold of her waist and pushes her onto the couch so she’s lying underneath him.

“Don’t want you hurting yourself.” He kisses her nose. “Your wound is still healing.”

His hands push up the hem of her dress, the satin pooling around her waist, exposing the soft skin of her tummy and the scar he left her. He leans down to press a gentle kiss on the scar and he playfully nips at her skin.

“No biting, puppy.”

He whines at the name. It makes him feel all soft like he wants to give all of himself to her. His head rests on her tummy and he blinks at her with soft eyes.

“You wanted me to take control, so I’m taking control.” She coos, running a hand through his hair. “Give me a kiss, baby.”

He kisses up her body and when his lips meet hers, she takes this as an opportunity to roll themselves over.

She straddles his hips, letting her cunt rub against his cock. Her eyes close and she sighs in pleasure.

“You want to fuck me, baby?” She giggles.

“Yes.” He groans. “Oh god, yes.”

“What do you say?” she taunts, voice laced with authority.

“Please.” Bucky pants. “Can I please fuck you?”

“Mmm. Asking so nicely.” She muses. “Of course you can.”

His eyes roll back, chest heaving. His mouth drops open but she presses a hand against his mouth.

“Gotta stay quiet. Don’t want everyone hearing you do we?”

Bucky nods, biting down on his lip.

“Good boy.” She leans down and kisses his forehead. “So good.”

She lifts her hips and presses his cock against her entrance.

Bucky rests a hand on her hips but she intertwines their fingers and presses his hand onto the couch cushions.

“No touching.”

Unfair. She’s being unfair.

As she lowers herself onto him, Bucky squeezes his eyes shut, trying not to moan.

“Beautiful.” She whispers, eyes hooded and lips parted. “You’re beautiful.”

He thinks he could cum right then and there.

“Am I making you feel good?” She whispers.

Bucky nods, quiet moans on the tip of his tongue.

She gasps and tightens around him. Bucky bites down on his lip. Hard.

“M-move.” He whimpers. “Please.”

She replies by moving her hips back and forth.

“You feel so good, sweet thing.”

Bucky hums in content.

“Thank you.”

With every movement she makes, with every sound that leaves her lips, Bucky’s convinced she’s going to kill him.

“Do you know what la petite mort means, baby?” She asks him.

“Mhm.” Bucky opens his eyes. “It’s French. It means a little death.”

They’re nose to nose, both gasping into each other’s mouths. The gold necklaces she’s wearing dangles in his face and he bites down on a chain with a smile.

“It means more than that, baby. La petit mort refers to an orgasm. And from the looks of it,” She teases, “I think you’re coming close.”

Bucky groans, letting go of the chain.

“You’re gonna be the death of me.”

“Are you close, baby? Are you gonna cum?”

“Yes.” He whimpers with desperation. “Can I cum? Can I cum for you?”

“Tell me I’m your angel.” She whispers into his ear.

“You’re my angel. Can I please cum?” He begs.

“No, not yet.” She laves her tongue over the shell of his ear. “Tell me I’m your only angel.”

“You’re my angel. My only angel.”

She squeezes around him and quickens her movements. Her hands press down on his chest as she lifts her hips and sinks back down onto him.

She’s an angel. His angel. In this moment, he’d do anything for her. Anything for his angel.

“I’m gonna- fuck.” He groans.

“Gonna cum?” She asks, voice silvery and low. “Gonna cum for me baby?”

All he can do is nod.

“Alright.”

She lifts herself off of him and before he can protest, she’s got her lips wrapped around him. He bucks his hips forward and empties himself into her mouth.

He watches in awe, chest heaving post-orgasm, as she swallows him down and pulls off of him. With a quick swipe of her hand across she smiles.

She crawls up his body and places a gentle kiss on his cheek.

“So good. You were so good for me.”

#bucky barnes #bucky x reader #bucky fanfic #tfatws #fanfic

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1ddiscourseoftheday · 4 years

Text

🎤 Thurs 7 May 🍒

Niall, possibly still cranky from whatever had him under the weather (though he does say he's feeling a little better), went on his semi-annual spree of making fun of fans who say Modest oppressed him (specifically he responded to people talking about them allegedly turning off his mic in live shows) trolling through posts from the ModestIsOver tag that was trending a couple days ago where fans were rehashing the things management and the label and the industry did to the boys, some of them real and some of them misunderstandings that have been accepted as truth over the years after much repeating. Niall's habit of finding random small account fans to reply to is usually considered charming, but in this case there's a lot of people out there feeling that he should be more conscious of the effect him targeting small fan accounts can have (ie them being bullied). Exasperated fans: okay but can someone please turn his mic off NOW??

Louis is in a cute video for kids in the hospital which looks to have been filmed with him sitting down in a literal closet. Plot twist: Louis is the ghost in Liam's wardrobe, lying in wait to egg him.

Capital FM announced a lineup for their Best of Summertime Ball, a televised event they're doing to replace the usual annual live event. Yes, One Direction are listed as performers, but it's a best of, it's old footage. It is not a reunion show. But hey we still like us some 1D though right?? It's on the 16th.

And! Back in December someone wrote up a theory on facebook (of all places), but it went largely overlooked, maybe because it was on FB, but also because things were very busy then. But now they are not busy and it's getting some traction! It goes like this: Cherry was written about Camille and her ex (the "love of her life"), pro-skater and model Dylan Reider. They broke up in 2016 and in 2017 he passed away. Evidence given for this theory includes that they were both in a high profile skate movie (so mostly his thing) called Cherry while together, that she still dresses like him and hangs out with his friends, and mostly that it was just generally a pivotal life thing for her and seems to fit the story Harry tells in a lot of ways. <Insert gif of Harry smiling smugly saying he wrote Cherry "for" someone heavily implied to be Camille> It really does cast his promo commentary on it in an interesting light, ie perhaps factually true but easily misinterpreted, a Harry Styles speciality. Fun fact! As well as calling Dylan the love of her life in social media posts she underlines that by using the phrase Always in my Heart.

#Niall Horan #Louis Tomlinson #Harry Styles #Niall #Louis #Harry #meanwhile Harry Lambert's assistant who you may remember from such recent bombshells such as 'Jeff Azoff is very delicate'#had another wrong opinion and liked a post saying Louis wasn't a good singer. at least he's consistent in his wrongness!!#Ryan wohlgemut #camille rowe #stunts #Cherry #Dylan Reider #i don't know why you should trust anything i say though i only got 7/17 right on that ridiculously hard 1D trivia quiz that's going around #and frankly some of those were lucky guesses #7 May 20 #aimh #Louis is in the closet #Louis in turtlenecks

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punksarahreese · 4 years

Text

Panic | Reesker |anxious!ava

Content warnings: medical talk (duh), mentions of surgical gore, panic attacks/meltdown, very brief mention of self injury (hitting)

***

Doctor Bekker to the ED, Doctor Ava Bekker to the ED immediately

Ava looked up from the chart she was writing just as the PA system and her pager went of simultaneously. She set the tablet down on the nurse’s station, saying a hasty farewell to the CT floor head nurse, and broke off into a sprint. She made it down the stairs in record time, knowing Connor was in surgery so she would be the only CT fellow prepared to take a trauma.

“Maggie?” She asked breathlessly as she came up to the charge nurse, who looked at her in relief.

“Jason Abrams, 35, came in to the ED with shortness of breath and heart palpitations. Passed out during a family reunion and didn’t wake up until he was in the ambo. Wife’s in there with him and half the reunion is taking up space in my waiting room.”

“Heart attack?” Ava questioned as she slid into the treatment room beside April, pulling on her gloves.

“Doesn’t look like it,” she replied, passing Ava her stethoscope, “Take a listen.”

Dr. Bekker nodded and turned to the patient, “Mr. Abrams? I’m doctor Bekker, I’m going to figure out what’s wrong okay?”

The patient gasped out an acknowledgment, clearly struggling to breathe despite the oxygen cannula. April leaned over to check his stats, humming in annoyance at what she saw, “Stats are falling, down to 90%.”

Ava had been listening to the patient’s heart and lungs and met April’s eye, “I’m hearing a murmur, someone get me a 15 lead EKG and a chest X-ray.”

“Right away, Doctor,” Monique replied, attaching the leads to the patient and setting up the machine. While she did that, Ava turned to the patient again.

“Alright, Jason, so I’m hearing a bit of blood splash back in your heart. We’re going to run some tests to confirm what I’m hearing, do you have any history of heart issues?”

Jason shook his head but was unable to respond, his breathing clearly worsening. His wife spoke up from her worried hovering beside his head, “Heart disease... i-it runs in the family but we’ve had no indication of Jace being at risk.”

“Okay, that’s fine,” Ava nodded and took the EKG reading from Monique, “Right, so we’re going to send you up for an echocardiogram, just to get a look at your heart better.”

“Call radiology, let them know we’re taking him up,” Ava said to Monique, watching as the nurse rushed off to make the call.

“Doctor, what’s wrong with him?” The concern in the wife’s voice was apparent and she was fussing over her husband, who had begun to perspire as his lungs worked overtime.

“I can’t be certain without the echo but I believe what I’m hearing is a defect in your husband’s mitral valve. It is sending blood backwards into the heart and that’s causing less oxygen to get through his body.”

“Oh God, my baby,” Mrs. Abrams cried, “What does that mean?”

“I-I uh, won’t know the full extent until we get the test results back, but... if medication doesn’t fix our issue we may be looking at surgery to fix the valve.”

Ava nodded at April, “Push 10 mg of bisoprolol and page me when you get his scan results, please.”

The blonde ducked out of the room and made her way over to Maggie, who was watching the waiting room with a pained look.

“Well?” She asked, “Are you gonna get the Abrams family reunion out of my ED any time soon?”

“Sounds like mitral regurge to me, Maggie. Might be a while, especially if he needs surgery.”

“Of course,” the nurse sighed, “Alright, let me know.”

“Will do,” with that Ava took off to locate a tablet to add to his chart. She snagged one off the nurses’ station and logged in, charting the course of treatment given. She planned to go back upstairs and meet them in radiology, walking as she noted the enlarged chamber on the EKG. She didn’t even notice she had gotten in the way until she had collided with someone while trying to get on the elevator.

“Woah, will you watch-“ she began to say but stopped herself when she realized who it was, “Oh, sorry, Reese cup.”

Sarah Reese stood in front of her in all her glory, eyebrow raised at the immediate tone change and nickname, “That was a whole 180, Dr. Bekker.”

“Oh hush,” Ava sighed, “You know I didn’t mean it.”

“Only because it was me,” Sarah remarked with a chuckle, “Anyone else and you would have snapped enough to make them cry.”

“You know me that well, do you?”

“Well I’d hope so,” Sarah’s hand had snuck it’s way to her wrist as she responded to the quip, “Busy?”

“Checking my pulse? What’s your diagnosis, Doctor?” Ava teased lightly.

“Hm, heart rate of 100, cheeks flushed and breathing uneven,” Sarah stated factually, “Either you’re nervous or you’ve been running, and you hate running.”

“You caught me,” Ava laughed, “Was in the ED.”

“Ah,” the psych resident nodded and kept hold of the older woman’s wrist, tugging her around the corner to a quieter part of the hallway. She saw Ava was about to protest and held up a hand.

“Shh, humour me, Ava.”

Noting the stern look the other woman gave her, Ava sighed in digression, gesturing for her to go on.

“Is the ED still making you that nervous?”

“I’m just not used to the hustle of it,” Ava sighed, “It’s not a big deal, Reese cup.”

“You sure?”

She nodded, “I’m a CT surgeon, love, I’m not made for the chaos Maggie runs down here.”

Sarah’s cheeks flushed a little at the pet name, though she knew well enough that Ava pulled that card simply to win her over.

“I promise I’m fine,” she continued, a smile playing on her lips at the other woman’s worry.

“You have your earplugs if you need them?”

Ava nodded, patting her scrub pocket. She often got overwhelmed by too much noise at once, a symptom of her newly diagnosed sensory issues, so earplugs helped her stay calm.

“I’ll be okay, Sarah,” Ava promised again, “But I really need to get up to radiology.”

The resident nodded, “Okay, don’t let me keep you.”

Ava saw the little spark of regret in the younger woman’s eyes, knew she felt insecure with her forwardness and was afraid she had pushed her too far. Ava’s anxiety about the emergency department and patient interaction was a sensitive topic, but Reese was too curious for her own good.

“Hey,” Ava grabbed her hand and gave it a light squeeze, “Thank you for caring. Coffee later?”

Sarah smiled a little and nodded, “Yeah.”

“Great,” a mischievous grin and then a quick kiss was pressed to her cheek, “See you, Reese cup.”

“Ava!” The brunette was left standing in the hallway with bright red cheeks, making the other doctor laugh as she went back to the elevator.

The surgeon still had a grin on her face as she made it onto the elevator. She couldn’t help but feel giddy around Sarah, something about her just made the hospital feel 100 times safer. Their relationship started off as merely occupational, speaking when patient cases crossed or in passing around the hospital. They got along fine, of course, but Ava was up in CT way more than in the emergency department, so their paths didn’t cross often. This changed when one day Ava had a bad case, when she lost that instrument inside the patient’s heart.

She had a panic attack, rushed out of the operating room and leaving Connor to close the patient. He had stormed into the locker room, starting to yell at her, but stopped when he saw the state Ava was in. She was clearly shaking, cheeks streaked with tears and makeup. He tried to talk her down but she wouldn’t listen, didn’t want his pity, especially not after he had been a major ass all day.

Eventually Connor gave up, leaving the room with a dramatic sigh. Ava had immediately dropped to the floor when the door closed, slumping against a locker as she sobbed quietly. She didn’t want to act like this, didn’t want to be so dramatic when they saved the patient, but she couldn’t help it. What if they hadn’t saved him? What if they missed the instrument and had closed him up? She had let down Connor and Dr. Latham, but mostly, she let down herself.

Ava hastily wiped away her tears when she heard a knock at the door, cursing her anxiety for making her act like such a baby. She tried to put on a brave face but stayed slumped down, letting her hair hide her for the most part.

“Doctor Bekker?” Sarah had come around the corner, “Doctor Rhodes said you were panicking. Are you okay?”

“J-just like him,” the blonde scoffed, “Goes and tells people about my mistake and calls psych on me? Of course.”

Sarah just sighed, crouching down in front of the older woman, “Are you okay?”

“Oh I’m peachy keen, Doctor Reese,” she replied sarcastically through her tears. It’s not that she wanted to be mean to Sarah, the younger woman didn’t deserve that, but it was her defence mechanism. She hated to show weakness, so she lashed out. It was something she had never been able to grow out of.

“Ava... I’m not here as a psych resident, not if you don’t want me to be. I can be here as a friend, or even as a stranger, I just want to help.”

The CT surgeon had huffed at that, swiping at the stray tears still creeping down her cheeks, “Nothing to help with, Sarah. I’m just ashamed with my work today.”

“Ava... this is classic signs of a panic attack,” even though she said she wasn’t there as a doctor, Sarah couldn’t help the psychoanalysis, “What happened?”

“Lost an instrument in a patient’s heart,” Ava groaned at the sheer stupidity, “Had to reopen him and then just left Connor to clean up my mess. I fucked up.”

“No, Ava, you just made a mistake,” Sarah looked at the door before sitting down on the floor beside the other woman, “Human error happens, please don’t beat yourself up over it.”

“I could have killed him, Sarah,” she hit her leg with a closed fist out of frustration, “I just keep reliving the moment and all the ways it could have gone wrong.”

“The important thing is you saved him.”

Ava laughed bitterly, “Barely. How could I be so careless?”

“What was it?”

“The end of a suction catheter...”

“Ava,” Sarah reached a hand out to cautiously hold hers, saving her whitened knuckles from the angry fist they were in, “That’s so small and they shouldn’t come off that easy, of course you wouldn’t expect to lose something like that inside a patient. It was a mistake and you fixed it, please don’t beat yourself up.”

“I let Dr. Latham down... and Connor was so mad...”

“I know, and I know that’s scary,” Doctor Reese agreed, “But you fixed it and all you can do is monitor your patient and grow from the mistake.”

Ava sighed and looked down at their hands, still tightly clasped together. She didn’t remember twining their fingers together or leaning closer to Sarah, but it felt right at the time. The younger girl was her source of stability in that moment, someone she knew wouldn’t judge her or break her trust. It was that moment that Ava decided she would quite like to be more friendly with the psych resident, as she seemed like someone worth knowing.

The rest was history, really. They got closer, became friends over time. Walks for coffee on breaks and discussing cases over lunch quickly became habitual for them. Reese would stop to talk to Ava as she walked through the CICU, something she had never done before. They just worked, the two seemed to realize, and their bond only got strong. It escalated quickly one night, when they got a little too wine drunk on a well deserved night off. Sarah’s usual apprehension disappeared with every drink, returning Ava’s relentless flirting without hesitation. One drunken kiss and they knew, there was no turning back and to be honest neither of them wanted it any other way.

That had been almost eight months ago and somehow they had kept their relationship under wraps in the hospital. Sarah was the one who helped diagnose Ava’s panic and sensory processing disorders, so it was kind of an issue that they were together. She was going to have to switch to a different psychiatrist if word of their relationship spread, but that would be the least of her problems.

Ava knew it would get out eventually, probably the second Maggie caught wind of it, but she didn’t mind. She knew her feelings for Sarah and was unabashed about her bisexuality at that point. It’s not like they were the first doctors in this hospital to be involved, much less the last. She knew Connor might take it a bit hard, felt bad for stringing him along, but really he deserved it in some twisted way. Maybe it would hurt his ego just enough to crush his God complex; losing Ava to a female psych resident.

Ava was still lost in thought as the elevator doors opened to the radiology floor. She jumped when a medical student brushed past her with a halfhearted apology, tearing from her memories to walk off onto the floor. She found her way to the echo waiting area, finding the radiologist quickly.

“Jason Abrams,” the tech said with a terse tone, “You’re gonna want to see this.”

“Mitral regurge?” Ava guessed before she even saw the scan, knowing she was probably correct in her first diagnosis.

“Correct,” he replied, “Very progressed too. Looking at maybe a few weeks before complete prolapse.”

“Poor man.”

“Meds won’t fix it, then?” The tech guessed.

Ava studied the scan before shaking her head, “No, too far gone. I’m probably going to have to replace the valve ASAP, depending on how his body responds to the beta blockers.”

“Shame,” the man shook his head, “Good luck, Doctor Bekker.”

“Thanks.”

With that Ava motioned a nurse in and asked her to take Mr. Abrams up to the cardiac ICU so she could speak to him and his wife in a more comfortable location. The nurse nodded and disappeared to do just that, leaving Ava to make her way upstairs on her own.

She took out her phone and made a call as she was in the elevator alone.

“This is Doctor Reese.”

“Hey, Reese cup,” Ava smiled at the professional tone her girlfriend had answered the call with. She never looked at her caller ID and always made a habit of a professional answer.

“Oh, hi, Aves.”

“You’re cute when you sound all professional,” Ava teased.

“Oh hush,” she could almost see Sarah rolling her eyes, “What’s up?”

“Might have to push our coffee date back a little,” Ava began apologetically, “I might have to do a valve replacement now now.”

“Okay, no worries,” of course Sarah was immediately understanding, “Good luck with your surgery then.”

“Thank you, you’re a doll.”

“So you tell me,” Sarah laughed, “Your slang is sneaking in again, by the way.”

“Is it?” Ava pretended to be shocked, stepping off the elevator, “Hadn’t noticed.”

“Mhm, makes the accent even cuter.”

“Aw, bokkie~” she made sure to use the Afrikaans pet name that Sarah found embarrassingly adorable, “You flatter me.”

“What does that mean again?” Sarah asked after a moment of hesitation and Ava knew she was probably blushing like mad.

“Little doe,” The blonde supplied, “I’d say it suits you.”

“Cheesy.”

“Always,” Ava shot back, “Okay I’m up in the CICU, I’ll page you later?”

“Of course, Doctor Bekker,” Sarah’s voice changed, though not unfriendly,” I’ll see you then.”

“Charles?” Ava laughed, “Bye, love.”

“Bye, Aves.”

Ava sighed as she rounded to corner to her patient’s room, pocketing her phone, “Here goes nothing.”

***

Forty minutes later Ava was scrubbing in, taking off her rings to wash her hands thoroughly. She was humming quietly to herself, trying to ground her thoughts before surgery.

“A valve replacement?” The door had opened to reveal an annoyed Connor, “You weren’t going to page me?”

“My patient, Connor.”

“I’m the trauma surgeon, Ava!”

“You were busy,” she retorted, “And besides he wasn’t even really a trauma. I can do a valve replacement on my own, thanks.”

“You need an assist.”

“You just saying that to steal my lead surgeon position,” she rolled her eyes, “Learn to share, Connor.”

“I’m scrubbing in,” he grumbled.

“I’m lead surgeon,” Ava shook her head as she brushed past him, “Accept that or get off my case.”

She went into the OR and accepted her gown and gloves from the scrub nurse. As she was tying up her gown, she made eye contact with Jason who looked rather nervous.

She gestured for Marty to start the anesthesia, getting into her position and rolling her shoulders a little. Connor stalked into the room and got his gloves and gown, not acknowledging her placement.

“No temper tantrums in my OR, Connor.”

The surgery started completely as normal. Eventually their argument fizzled out and they fell back into the familiar rhythm of operating together. The two CT fellows may have had their ups and downs but there was no doubt that they worked well together in surgery.

“Mechanical valve?” Connor asked, as they had already removed the damaged mitral valve.

“On back order,” the scrub nurse said, “We don’t have this size right now.”

“Oh for fok’s sake,” Ava muttered, glaring sharply at Connor when he immediately mocked her accent.

“It’s funny, Ava, lighten up.”

“I don’t mock yours, Connor.”

“Size 3 porcine valve then,” Connor changed the subject, not needing to start another fight during the hardest part of the surgery.

“They degenerate in half the amount of time,” Ava groaned, “And blood thinners wouldn’t have been a problem for him.”

Connor didn’t answer and they continued the replacement, not speaking other than to direct each other’s movements or ask for other instruments. They had transplanted the valve just fine and things seemed to work out perfectly. Ava was just about to ask for the proper suture size for the pericardium when the monitor started beeping like crazy.

“Shit,” Connor cursed lowly, “Marty?”

“Afib.”

“Why?” Ava looked desperately at Connor, “What happened?”

Connor was fumbling to figure out the issue amidst the rapid, uneven beating of the patient’s heart. Ava cursed herself when she realized the issue.

“Valve must have thrown a clot.”

“Already? How?”

“I don’t know, Connor!” Ava was too overwhelmed to think straight let alone answer his mindless questions, “Internal paddles!”

They worked to regain proper rhythm, shocking the heart to restart its beating. That didn’t seem to help though, unfortunately the opposite happened. Just as they had gotten the atrial fibrillation under control, another thing went wrong.

“Blood pressure’s dropping,” a nurse called out, making Ava look up at the monitors for clarification.

“Connor.”

“I know,” he replied, trying to figure out what had gone wrong.

“Doctor Bekker,” the anesthesiologist shouted just as the machine went wild again, “He’s in vfib!”

“Jesus,” Ava’s own heart felt like it was about to jump out of her chest, “Starting intracardiac massage.” Ava began internal compressions as she muttered under her breath, “Come on, Jason, you can’t die on all of them.”

Connor was ordering the nurses around to get epinephrine and recharging the paddles. Ava could barely breathe in the moment, questioning how everything went wrong and what had even happened.

“Charging,” Connor was saying, “Clear!”

Ava moved out of the way so Connor could shock the heart, but it didn’t help the rhythm any. Ava ordered another round of epi, restarting internal compressions.

“How long’s he been down?”

“Three minutes.”

“Damn,” Connor sighed, “Charge again.”

The next bout of electricity didn’t help to restart the heart and it was clear that this wouldn’t be resolved so easily. Ava didn’t give up on compressions, still mumbling half to herself and half to the patient. By the time they had reached the ten minute mark with no improvement, Connor had to grab Ava’s wrist to get her attention.

“Ava,” he halted her movements, “Doctor Bekker, he’s been down for too long. I’m sorry.”

“No...”

“You did what you could, Ava,” Connor’s voice was softer than ever as he tried to keep her calm, “It’s time to call it.”

“Connor...” Ava’s voice sounded pained as she glanced at the clock, “... time of death, 13:47.”

The other surgeon noticed how hard Ava was shaking when they left the OR to scrub out. He watched as she washed her hands roughly, her whole body trembling. No matter how many patients they lost, it would still affect Ava like the first every time.

“Ava...”

She just shook her head, not able to make eye contact, sliding her rings back on with a frustrated movement.

“You tried your best,” he tried again, “And we won’t know what happened until an autopsy’s done. Don’t blame yourself.”

“I don’t want your foking pity, Connor.” Ava snapped, accent even thicker as she held back tears, turning on her heels to rush out of the room.

“Damn it,” Connor cursed, pulling out his phone as the door slammed shut behind the panicking woman.

***

Ava had made it to the CT doctor’s lounge before promptly collapsing on the floor. She let out a gasping breath as the panic overtook her, shame flooding her system at this reaction. Why couldn’t she just be a normal doctor and depersonalize from the loss? Instead every dead patient and lost cause had to make her feel like she was the one who was dying.

She shook her hands out aggressively, trying to channel her anxiety and frustration into motion. It didn’t help though and a pained sob ripped its way from her throat. Covering her ears as if to block out the sounds of her own anxiety, Ava was shaking even harder than before. She knew this was a full blown panic attack and she should call Sarah to get her meds, but she could bring herself to breathe much less find her phone.

“What did I do? F-fuck where did I... w-hat went wrong?”

She was hyperventilating at this point, could feel her heart beating rapidly in her own chest. The sensation only made things worse, made her thing about how Jason’s heart was no longer beating because of her. Ava was so wrapped up in her panic that she didn’t hear the door open, she didn’t even notice when someone was calling her name.

“Ava?” A familiar voice was just barely audible as she still had her hands over her ears. She felt someone sit down on the floor in front of her and could just barely make out a mass of curly hair through her tears.

“Ava, honey,” Sarah was trying to gently catch her attention, “Look at me. Ava, you’re okay.”

“S-Sarah?”

“I’m right here, see?” Sarah reached her arm out but didn’t touch her girlfriend, knowing that touch while she was panicking could only make things worse. Sarah frowned as she let out another shaky sob, “Breathe, baby. You’re okay, I promise.”

“No!” Ava suddenly shrieked, clasped her hands even tighter over her ears. Sarah flinched at the outburst and apologized softly.

“I’m... it’s not- not okay.”

“Okay, I’m sorry,” Sarah agreed, “What’s not okay?”

“He’s dead,” Ava spat, “He’s dead... dead because of m-me.”

Sarah sighed, “Your patient? Oh, Ava, I’m sure you did everything to save him.”

“He- he just...” her sentence was cut off as she whined in frustration, hands coming off her head to smack her legs.

“Hey, hey, Ava,” Sarah said firmly, “Don’t hurt yourself.”

“I- I don’t care!”

“I know, but I do,” Sarah reached out a hand gently but didn’t touch her, “Can I hold your hands? I won’t touch you if you don’t want me to.”

Ava looked at her with tear-filled eyes, “Too much.”

“Too much?” Sarah repeated, “What is? The lights or the sound?”

“Y-yeah.”

“Okay,” Sarah stood up to go shut off the lights, sighing when Ava cried even harder when she left. “I’m coming back, baby,” she said as she rushed back over once the room was darkened significantly. She sat back down in front of Ava, who had her face hidden in her forearms and was slouched over painfully.

“Ava,” she tried to get her attention again, “Do you have your earplugs?”

The blonde made some kind of confirming sound, shifting in a way that Sarah saw as an invitation to get them from her pocket. She spoke softly as she did so, making sure not to spook her girlfriend.

“Okay, I have them right here,” she said as she held the orange foam in her hand, “But I wanna talk to you first, then you can have these and we can be as quiet as you need.”

“Don’t want... to talk.”

“You don’t have to, but I would like to talk to you, is that okay? I missed you today.”

Ava didn’t respond, though she did peek through her arms a little bit. A minuscule nod preceded a little sniffle, making Sarah’s heart ache at the pain her girlfriend was in.

“Can you take a deep breath for me, Ava?”

Ava hesitated but eventually a shaky breath left her lungs, her arms slowly coming away from her face. Sarah smiled sadly at her, noting the makeup streaked down her cheeks and her red eyes; this had been a bad panic attack.

“Hey there, pretty girl,” Sarah said gently, hoping to make her feel a bit better with the lighthearted words. Ava squeaked at that, lip still quivering as her anxiety hadn’t completely left yet.

“Breathe,” Sarah reminded her, taking her own deep breath to prompt the surgeon to do the same. This next one was less shaky, though a big sniffle preceded it.

“Good,” Sarah smiled again, “You’re okay, baby.”

“Not... not really.”

“Not now, maybe,” Sarah agreed, “But you’re safe and I’m going to help you.”

“I... I- let him down, S-Sarah.”

“Who?” Sarah prompted, shifting a little bit closer without touching her yet.

“Connor... Latham,” Ava’s eyes welled back up with tears as she spoke the last name, “J-Jason.”

“Oh, Ava. You didn’t let anyone down. You did your very best as a surgeon, okay?”

“H-how do you know that?”

Sarah sighed, “Baby?”

“Y-yeah?”

“C’mere,” the resident opened her arms, an invitation for Ava to find comfort in them. The older woman hesitated, still half in panic mode, but Sarah’s gentle eyes won her over in the end.

Sarah smiled sadly as Ava half crawled the short distance to slump in her arms, her face quickly finding its hiding place in her neck. Sarah just wrapped her arms around her securely, holding her girlfriend’s shaking body in an attempt to slow her heart rate.

“You, Ava Bekker, are an amazing surgeon,” she began softly, “You work so tirelessly, you’re so selfless when it comes to patients. You love your job, Ava, and you’re insanely good at it. How did you let anyone down today?”

“He... he didn’t- didn’t make it.”

“That happens,” Sarah replied, “Unfortunately. He wasn’t your first loss and he won’t be your last. I know you hurt for him and I know it’s a horrible feeling. You did everything you could, though.”

“How do you know that?” Ava repeated, pained eyes meeting Sarah’s.

“Because you’re the most caring and meticulous surgeon I know. I know you and you certainly wouldn’t give up unless it was the only thing to do.”

“I hate this.”

“I know, love,” Sarah’s gentle hand came up to take the elastic out of Ava’s hair, “I’m so sorry.”

Ava leaned into the loving touch as she smoothed down her hair, her breathing finally even. Tears were still steadily falling down her cheeks, falling into the crook of Sarah’s neck and staining her dress shirt.

“I have your pills,” Sarah said softly, “You want one? It might help.”

There was an extended silence before another minuscule nod. Sarah went to pull back, trying to get the bottle out of her coat, but Ava whined and held tightly onto her.

“Hey,” Sarah cooed softly, “Calm down, Aves. I’m not going anywhere. I just wanna get you some Ativan and water, okay? Then we can sit on the couch together and calm down.”

It took some gentle persuasion before Ava untangled herself from Sarah and stood on shaky legs. Her girlfriend smiled at her sadly, taking her trembling hand to lead her to one of the couches in the lounge. She pressed gently on Ava’s shoulders to get her to sit, leading down to drop a kiss to her forehead.

“Just getting some water,” she promised as she made her way to the counter, grabbing a familiar mug of Ava’s off the drying rack. She filled it with cold water from the cooler, taking out the bottle of sedatives and grabbing one for her as well. Sarah turned back to find Ava curled into herself on the couch, face buried in her hands again. Coming over, she crouched in front of the surgeon and nudged her leg. “Here, my love,” her voice was impossibly gentle, “You need to relax.”

Ava frowned but moved her hands, taking the cup and allowing Sarah to place the pill under her tongue. She let the thing melt, wincing at the taste, but knew the sublingual method would get it into her bloodstream faster. She took a sip of water when it was gone, finally realizing how dehydrated she was from crying so long. She finished the mug in under a minute, making Sarah chuckle lowly when she took the cup back.

The brunette set the cup down on the table, sitting beside Ava on the couch. She held out her hand, the earplugs nestled on her palm like a peace offering. Her girlfriend gave her a pained smile and took them back, debating on if she wanted them in or not.

“Sarah?” Ava sighed shakily, “I’m... I’m sorry.”

“What are you sorry for, Aves?”

“Being such a pain,” Ava mumbled, “This was highly dramatic of me.”

Sarah shook her head, a gentle hand coming to rest on Ava’s thigh, “This is my job, babe, I can assure you that this was an entirely nature response to stress. You have two diagnoses that make this 100x times harder and you still manage to be an amazing surgeon; sometimes you’re going to have meltdowns.”

“I still hate it.”

“I know,” Sarah nodded, “But we got through it, right?”

Ava shrugged again and they fell into silence for a moment, Ava letting out a very shaky sigh. Her girlfriend turned to look at her, smiling at what she saw. The Ativan had clearly taken affect, Ava’s eyes were drooping and her breathing had evened out finally. She looked at Sarah wearily, mumbling something under her breath.

“Tired?”

“Mm,” Ava agreed, “Don’t like pills. Wanna... be awake.”

“I know, baby,” Sarah laughed, “But they help, don’t they?”

Another nod, Ava blinked sleepily at her, “Hug?”

The younger woman immediately opened her arms, pulling her close once again. Ava sighed and leaned into her embrace, finally calm for the first time in hours.

“You can nap here, if you want,” Sarah murmured, “No sense moving to a on call room or anything. You don’t need to see patients right now, Doctor Latham would understand.”

“No... stay...”

“Ava,” Sarah chuckled and shimmied until she was laying down on the couch, pulling her girlfriend down with her, “I’m not going anywhere.”

Ava seemed happy with their current position, shifting her weight on top of Sarah and snuggling down comfortably. She handed her earplugs to Sarah, letting her put them in her ears because her hands were still unsteady. With the sound of the room dramatically decreased and her eyes heavy from the sedative, she felt her anxiety ebbing away to exhaustion.

“Get some rest,” she heard Sarah’s muffled words, “You’re safe and you did so well today.” Ava felt soft hands on her back, smoothing down her unruly hair again and rubbing gently at the tense muscles of her upper back. She sighed, finally letting herself relax into her girlfriend’s safe embrace.

“You don’t have to be strong all the time. It’s okay to feel things, yeah? You know I’m always here.”

Ava nodded against her chest, “Ja,” the Afrikaans slipping into her vocabulary as she drifted between sleep and wake, “I... love you, Bokkie.”

Sarah’s cheeks flushed and she was very glad that Ava couldn’t see that reaction to tease her about it, “I love you too, Aves.”

***

Connor rubbed at his face tiredly, making his way down the hallway. He knew he must have left his jacket around the CT floor somewhere, just couldn’t remember where. He reached the doctor’s lounge, hoping he would find it thrown across a chair or something so he could go home. He did not expect to find the sight in front of him when he opened the door.

In the darkened room, the minimal sunlight from the windows highlighted the two figures on the couch closest to the door. Ava was fast asleep on top of Sarah Reese, neon orange earplugs peeking out from under her hair and makeup streaked down her cheeks. Sarah had her arms protectively around Ava’s waist and the younger woman was still awake. She was occupying herself by playing with Ava’s soft blonde hair, the gentle gesture evidently tender. Connor was not expecting her to lean down and press a kiss to Ava’s head, a loving action he immediately knew indicated something way beyond friendship.

He must have made a sound, shifted too heavy or something, because Sarah jumped and looked up. He could see her cheeks turn bright red with embarrassment and knew she wasn’t expecting to be caught in such a vulnerable situation with the least vulnerable surgeon in Gaffney.

“Doctor Rhodes...” Sarah’s voice was a barely audible whisper, clearly trying not to wake the exhausted woman in her arms.

Connor hushed her, shaking his head with a small smile. Maybe it was better this way, even if his initial reaction was the wish to curse and fight for Ava like he always did. Seeing her like this, soft and vulnerable in a way even he had scarcely seen, made him know. Ava loved the psych resident, and the feeling was mutual. She clearly found her safety net in Sarah, and who was he to fight that when he knew how much she needed that?

“Thank you,” he whispered, pointing at Ava with a sad look. He grabbed his jacket off the desk chair, waving goodbye to Sarah and taking one last glance at his beloved fellow surgeon in her arms.

Take care of her, Reese

#pls give feedback this is my first med oneshot 😭#tumblr’s paragraph limit hates me #anxious!ava #chicago med #ava bekker #sarah reese #reesker #connor rhodes #chicago med fanfiction #reesker fanfiction #my-writing

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clumsyclifford · 4 years

Note

Okay, here is the Cake prompt.“You are/he is the embodiment of actual sunshine.”. You can write angst, fluff, AU, canon. This Cake prompt is now yours to create something new out of. Thanks for always being up for a challenge. Hugs! - 🕷

spidey anon, i sincerely apologize for the delay. but i hope you will accept this (fluff!) as retribution, and i love you <3

Luke’s sold out Madison Square Garden and the O2 Arena, but he maintains there’s no better feeling than a lazy day with Calum.

The thing about massive shows is, they end. It’s an unbeatable high followed almost immediately by a crash, peaks and valleys swooping up and down, emotional turbulence that leaves Luke shaky, grasping for something to hold onto. It would be so easy to botch the landing one day. He’s always a little worried he’ll fall cartoonishly into a Luke-shaped hole in the ground and struggle to ever climb out of it.

But Calum, though. Luke always holds onto Calum. And in that way, Calum’s not any towering highs or crushing lows. Calum is the smooth, glittering surface of a lake on a breezy June day, not so much carrying Luke as giving Luke the tools to carry himself. There’s no way to crash from this feeling because it never takes Luke higher or lower than is safe. Calum’s just a constant, a fact of Luke’s life.

Him and his constant, factual love of How I Met Your Mother.

They’re somewhere around their tenth episode. Luke had given up leveling half-hearted complaints about halfway through episode two. In part because he’d gotten bored of getting no reaction, and also because they both know Luke only ever complains to be a little shit. He doesn’t mind How I Met Your Mother, really.

Mostly, though, Luke would watch anything as long as he gets to watch it like this. Legs stretched across the couch with his head in Calum’s lap, Calum’s left arm resting comfortably over Luke’s torso, right hand carding mindlessly through Luke’s hair. He couldn’t care less how Ted and Robin are doing; his eyes have been closed for at least half an hour, and either Calum hasn’t noticed or he doesn’t care.

Calum giggles at something on the show. The corners of Luke’s mouth tug upward without meaning to, an instinctive response to Calum’s laugh. There’s a clatter at the door, muffled chatter, and then hinges creaking as somebody enters.

“Hey,” Michael’s voice says, followed closely by Ashton saying, “What’re you watching?”

Luke could answer, but he’s trying to maintain his streak of silence, so he lets Calum take it.

“How I Met Your Mother,” comes Calum’s reply, clearly said through a poorly-concealed smile.

“Is he asleep?” Ashton asks in a hushed voice.

“Dunno,” Calum says, still around that smile in his voice. “I don’t think so. I don’t mind if he is.”

There’s a moment of silence. “God, look at you,” Michael says, in that tone of voice that means he’s being fond and hiding it behind sarcasm. “You are the embodiment of actual sunshine. Look at that smile, Ash.”

“That’s a happy Calum,” Ashton agrees.

“You’re not contributing to my enjoyment of the show,” Calum says dryly.

Michael’s voice is closer when he says, “And Sleeping Beauty here is?”

“I’m contributing,” Luke says. His voice is hoarse from lack of use. It feels nice. “I’m keeping Calum’s lap warm.”

“He speaks!” says Michael. “Come on, move your legs. I want to sit.”

“I don’t care what you want,” Luke mumbles, even as he tugs his legs towards himself. The sofa sinks under Michael’s weight. Michael taps Luke’s shin, and Luke obediently lowers his legs across Michael’s lap.

“You guys wanna stop interrupting the actual show that’s playing?” Calum says, slightly exasperated. His fingers scratch lightly against Luke’s scalp, and Luke hums contentedly. He feels the cushions shift again and knows that Ashton has sat himself down on Michael’s left. Luke waits for somebody to say something else, but nobody does. The only sound that carries on is the drone of the show on the TV.

Opening his eyes just a sliver, Luke sees Michael lace his fingers with Ashton and lean into him. His gaze skims upwards, where it meets Calum’s eyes. Predictably, Calum is smiling.

“Hi,” Calum says. Luke’s heart jumps, somehow, even though they’re already boyfriends and something like hi shouldn’t send Luke spiraling. It still does. Calum still does.

“Hi.”

“You can sleep if you want to,” Calum says quietly. “It’s still nice for me.”

“I know,” Luke says. “I’m half-sleeping. I’d never sleep through you playing with my hair. Far too nice to miss.”

Calum grins and Luke sees the crinkles by his eyes. “Fair enough.”

“Let me know if you need me to violently kick Mashton over there,” Luke adds, just loud enough that Michael whips his head around and glares at Luke.

“Fuck off,” he says.

“We were literally here first,” Luke points out.

“It’s band bonding,” Michael says.

“Where’s the love?” Ashton says. “I’m not feeling the love.”

Luke sighs. Calum taps the fingertips of his left hand against Luke’s ribcage, and Luke imagines it’s his heartbeat, pretends that Calum is the arbiter of that pounding in his chest that keeps him breathing.

“Don’t worry about it,” whispers Calum, and Luke opens his eyes properly to stare up at Calum.

“You look good like this,” he says, with a goofy grin.

“Really? From this angle?” Calum grins back. “That’s love.”

“Yep,” Luke says. “It is.”

“Well, you look good always.”

“I don’t think that’s true.”

“Well, good thing I didn’t ask you.”

“Are you going to watch or not? Because we can put on Friends if you’re bored.”

“There are nicer things to look at,” Calum says. Luke rolls his eyes as if that’ll distract Calum from the way he’s blushing. No such luck. “Aww, you’re all pink.”

“Can you not?” Luke says. “I’m trying to be really manly here.”

Calum dips down and kisses Luke’s forehead. “Sorry. I’m done.”

“No, hey, I was joking,” Luke complains. “Kiss me for real.”

“In front of the kids?”

Luke glances over at Michael and Ashton, but they’re not even paying attention to Luke and Calum, fully absorbed in the plot of the episode. “Quick, while they’re distracted,” he says.

Calum chuckles and leans down, and Luke stretches upward and meets him in the middle, in the most bizarrely angled kiss Luke is pretty sure they’ve ever done. “Not satisfying,” Luke decides when they part, “but it’ll do.”

“You’re the problem here,” Calum says. “If you were just sitting up, we wouldn’t have to do, like, a sideways Spiderman kiss.”

“Not worth it,” Luke says, smiling sweetly. Calum shakes his head, fond, and restarts his process of gently detangling Luke’s hair, deftly separating strands from each other.

Calum really does look good, like this and also always, but when his gaze returns to the show on the TV, Luke closes his own eyes again. There’s something peaceful about this moment, and Luke wants to savor it; Calum’s fingers working delicately through Luke’s hair as How I Met Your Mother chatters away in the background, Michael tapping out a rhythm against Luke’s shins as he leans into Ashton. The still frame of this tableau could without question be found below the definition of bliss, and Luke makes himself right at home.

#calum hood #luke hemmings #cake #cake fic #5sos #5sos fic #fic #my fic #spidey anon #i live in perpetual fear that my roommate will find this blog and i will have to softblock her #anyway i looked up the word retribution to make sure i was using it correctly and it said punishment for a CRIMINAL ACT #KJSFKJHLKFSJ found that funny tbh like......the crime of bella not being timely with fic prompts #WELL! too bad! it's my inbox and i make the rules #god i wish i was listening to music right now #i am currently 'listening to' the history of drama lecture that i slept through this morning #i mean i didnt REALLY sleep through it but #its an asynchronous class and initially it was going to be scheduled #and i had it scheduled for 10am #so its on my calendar as a 10am class MWF #but i can watch it Not Then #i was just pretending that i could be responsible and keep myself on a schedule #but then my sleep schedule went DOWN THE DRAIN #so now i let myself sleep through it <3 #which is not great but. what can you do #anywayyyyyy i should maybe try and go fill some more prompts wish me luck byeeee #anonymous #ask #answered

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yokelish · 4 years

Text

Heart of a dog.

An OC for BSD no one asked for? It’s more likely than you think. A day in life of an original character by Yokelish no one asked for? Absolutely. I don’t have to, I know, but Misha has been on my mind recently, which worries me. Mostly, worries me about me. Anyway.....Here he comes. I just want to make sure for myself that I can tweak my writing style a bit. I am very humorous.You can read it, of course, and you can take it as an example of how not to write an original character.

Anyone, here’s a thing I made for my kouhai, check that if you are more interested in canon characters.

✏ Universe: Bungou Stray Dogs ✏ Characters: Mikhail Bulgakov OC ✏ Word count: 3,094 (too many tbh) ✏ Warnings: mentions of alcoholism, drugs, smoking, and a dead animal.

Heart of a dog.

If there was a god above, then he must know how awful it felt to wake up in the morning. There was nothing as worthy of collective loathing as mornings. Extra sprinkles of revulsion get the mornings involving work. Mikhail covered his eyes when picking up the ringing phone. The light hurt him just as much as the idea of getting up from the bed. The ringing was tenfold louder and more annoying in his head, hitting the walls in his skulls like a smith’s hammer. Every sensation felt like an assault on his already shaky sanity.

“You have a patient in an hour,” said familiar voice on the line. Misha groaned. It wasn’t her voice that grinding on his nerves, it was the idea of having to do work today. The woman on the phone sighed with deliberate loudness just to let him know all about her frustration. She was the only person who could stand having him. Mostly because he payed her a pretty sum but that wasn’t the only reason.

“You have no option,” Nadejda reprimanded. There was a sound of typing on the other side, but it ceased quickly. “It’s Olga Danilovna.”

He took a deep breath. There was no mental exercise to prepare for that. “Dear, I don’t pay you for ruining my day the moment it begun.”

“Right, you pay me to do my job,” she spoke sternly. “And if my job ruins your day the moment it begins, I’m sorry, get a better life.”

“Understood, the blame is mine. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“You better be here in an hour.” Nadya hang up the phone first. The annoying sound of a call ending assaulted his hearing. The sensations of the outside were coming on too strong, they were attacking, they were frustrating. Everything was too sharp, too bright, too loud. His head was pounding with the reminders of how Misha had spent the last three days. It was nothing close to productive.

Mikhail got up from the bed with a groan of a man who was drinking for days straight. He wasn’t dry for an hour, as the saying was. He sighed, and groaned, and regretted the drinking. He would do it again. The clothes on the floor didn’t bother him. There was never anyone to pass judgement. There was never anyone to tell him to get his life together either. There was simply no one. Barefoot he walked across the room, picking up and collecting articles of clothing that would go in the wash now. There was an hour for him to get to the office, which wasn’t impossible, but it meant he had to move around his small apartment faster. And he doubted his mind and body could comprehend moving faster without sending the surroundings spinning. Everything was too overwhelming now. It wouldn’t get better for a while.

The cold water splashing against his face brought some sanity back. It felt good to be reminded the drinking had yet to kill him. It was nice to be reminded he had a job only he could do. It felt good that he was alive and capable of doing something. It was all a comforting lie to get over himself and his hangover.

The cold air of the outside smelled like that of a big and polluted city. The sounds were loud but distant, multiple but common. Nothing new was added to the picture he witnessed day after day. It’s an old painting he studied for hours, every stroke, every shade, every perspective too familiar. Nothing about it was new or surprising or remotely pleasant. It simply was and it was only ever changing in ways that didn’t matter. The city he got too familiar living in. The air, the sounds, the broken pavement underneath. The sun was hiding or finding comfort in the heavy grey clouds foretelling rain. The sun, too, didn’t want to see the city. This weather was for the better. The bright and shiny would sulk the mood. That would go against his already ruined day. Bulgakov stopped walking only to get the cigarettes out and start one. The smoke felt good in his lungs. It smelled better than the city too.

Fortunately, it didn’t start to rain while he was trying to get to his office on time. Doctor Bulgakov appeared in a somewhat acceptable state in. Unfortunately, he didn’t make it within the given time frame. And, unfortunately, there were no excuse for him available either.

“Late.” A stern, annoyed, but factual statement. The voice belonging to the woman of the hour. Mikhail shook of his coat and carelessly hung it. Nadejda was sitting at the receptionist table looking very annoyed herself, staring daggers at the other woman. Such were the days featuring Olga Danilovna.

“Hey there, Dan. It’s been a while,” Mikhail shifted his attention to the child in a wheelchair. He was a blonde boy, aged eleven, with a pet cage on his lap. The cage covered up with a blanket. By the size of it, Misha would guess it was fit for a rabbit.

“Hello, Doctor Misha,” the boy replied slowly, patting the blanket-covered cage as if the animal could feel it.

“I guess it’s your leg this time.”

“It hurts.” As honest as a child could be. Nothing wrong in admitting being in pain. Danila was staring at the wall mindlessly, repeating the same motions with his hand.

“Just hold on a little longer,” the doctor assured. “It will be over soon.”

Bulgakov unlocked the door to the examination office. It smelled the same as always: sickeningly familiar smell of disinfectant that turns sweet to senses over time. It smelled more like home that anything else. Nadya was always a good keeper. She kept his office as pristine as she kept his dirty secret. Well, the secret wasn’t awfully dirty but, as all secrets are, problematic to keep in check. It had to be controlled who knew and who didn’t. If too many people knew about it, life would become very uncomfortable very quick. And Mikhail was a person of comfort.

For the sake of formality, he put on white medical coat over his sweater. He took the cage off the boy’s lap and placed it on the table. Danila barely reacted to the change, dropping his hand on his lap the moment the cage was gone. Bulgakov peeked inside. Inside was, indeed, a rabbit.

“You really like animals, Doctor Misha. Where do you keep them all?” Danila asked. It was a gift of being a child to be so oblivious to the obvious.

“Me? No. I have a friend who lives on a farm. He adores them,” Bulgakov lied and did so naturally. At some point, he even thought of a name for said friend, how big the farm was and what animals lived there now. A well-repeated lie was a believable lie. The more it’s told, the more it turned into the truth of things. It wasn’t a stretch of intellectual thought to count all the pets that came into his office along with the patients and conclude a remarkably simple outcome: those pets never went home with him. But he wouldn’t break a child’s heart so cruelly. In six weeks, Dan’s leg would be perfectly healed. And the rabbit would be six weeks older. But six weeks is too long for his mother to wait. A broken bone is a note in the medical history of an upcoming sports star. Mikhail never bothered to remember what exactly Danila played.

Mikhail came to inspect the boy’s leg. The safest bet in his line of work is to assume the worst possible injury: broken. But on the plus size, it seemed to be broken only in one place.

“Put your arms around my neck and hold on as tight as you can,” he said to the boy. Tiny hand grabbed around his neck without much force behind it. “On a count of three. One.” He carefully hooked his arms under Dan’s legs. “Two.” The doctor mentally braced himself. “Three.”

It wasn’t terribly difficult. It was only the weight of a child, after all. But Misha was having a terrible hangover and, thus, everything seemed more difficult than it should have been. Danila was now sitting on the exam table. Not that there was anything else to examine. And even if there was some injury unseen to the naked eye, he hardly had the equipment for it. Taking care of the child was a job for the mother. Bulgakov offered the headphones to the child. A useful thing to protect the child from a conversation that a child should not be privy to.

“Well, you know the drill, Dan,” Mikhail said, helping the boy to lie down comfortably on the table. “Headphones on, eyes closed, full relaxation.” The patient nodded, putting on the noise cancelling headphones on without questions. Danila was a good child just not equally blessed with good parents.

After making sure that Dan couldn’t hear a thing, Bulgakov returned to the rabbit in a cage. Lovely animal: calm, big, with a shiny fur. Misha took the rabbit in his arms and started to gently stroke the animal to calm it. It was warm, and alive, and completely defenseless.

“You look like you’ve been drinking for two days straight,” Olga Danilovna observed. Misha couldn’t tell if she was judging or simply stating. Not that he cared for either of those things, it was mere curiosity. He rarely could decipher any emotion within her unless it was anger and irritation.

After a quick mental math exercise, he forced a smile on his face. “Actually, it was three. I’ll take it as a compliment.”

“You think you are funny,” she mocked him. “Nothing worse than a man thinking himself funny.”

“I thought there was nothing better than a man acting like a clown,” Misha replied, grinning. “And nothing worse than a man thinking himself awfully charming.”

Olga shook her head, fake blonde hair perfectly styled with too much spray, and rolled her eyes. And that was the end of that conversation. However, there was something else on Bulgakov’s mind, something he doubted was worth mentioning. After all, it wasn’t any of his business. The last thing he needed to do is to pass any judgment on people who paid him. It was an excellent advice, most importantly, it was an instruction he gave himself. He couldn’t be wrong about that. And so, he didn’t listen.

“You drugged him,” he stated simply. There was barely any judgement in his voice. There was no point in judging a client, least of all, a client that wouldn’t listen. But a warning wasn’t something Olga Danilovna would accept either. A challenge, however, she could listen to.

“I gave him painkillers, yes,” replied Olga.

“No, I expected painkillers, that’s why he wasn’t crying by the time I showed up. I am saying you drugged him. I noticed the slowness in his reaction time. I saw his eyes up close.”

“What did you expect me to do? He is still a boy and can’t handle pain very well.”

Bulgakov sighed. What was he expecting to get by starting this conversation, anyway? Danila was his patient and nothing more. And the only reason the kid even was a patient was because his mother could afford to pay. It really wasn’t any of his business. He should forget about it. Mikhail continued to stroke the animal in his arms, offering whatever little comfort he could. And taking in all the comfort the rabbit could provide. It was alive, and warm, and with a soft fur. It felt lovely to hold a rabbit in his arms.

“I have to ask, though,” Olda Danilovna started to speak again, “would you be able to treat a concussion?”

“A concussion? Are you serious, Ol’?” he could even tell why he was getting riled up. “He’s eleven. Get him into swimming or some other Olympic sport.” Never mind, after some quick digging, he remembered that he had a personal dislike towards Olga Danilovna. Money can buy a service; it cannot buy positive personal bias unless for testifying in court.

“And what of it? Even if he wins the Olympics and brings home gold, he will peak before he’s twenty-five and then what?” Olga crossed her arms on her chest. Cold-blue flame flickering in her eyes dangerously — a warning. “Be a PE teacher? A swimming coach? No, thank you. And answer my question, damn you.”

“Sure, I can,” Mikhail answered, giving up. Arguing with a woman such as herself would only bring headache. Her voice was as sharp as her glare. And he was still recovering after a hangover.

“Would a rabbit suffice?” she continued to question.

“Depends on the severity,” the man shrugged. The rabbit in his arms was acting like a perfect companion. Perhaps, whatever little comfort he could offer was just enough to keep it calm. “If there is an open wound gushing out blood from his head, then no, you’ll have to find something bigger.”

“Like what?”

“Well, there are plenty of stray dogs on the streets.”

“Screw you.”

“Understandable.”

Cutting the conversation short, Bulgakov took his seat behind the table. The rabbit still cradled in his arms. He knew the pain that would follow render him useless, he’d collapse on the floor and then live with the embarrassment of such memory. Not that he cared for it, but for the sake of formality. The pain intensified and was only made worse by the remains of the hangover. If it made his head pound and body feel weak, now he could safely say he knew exactly what getting hit by a car felt like. It was a pain to the tips of his fingers, clouding his mind, rendering him mute and weak. The only positive about this state was that he was familiar with this. It was a pain that never got better; it never got worse. It was stagnant and familiar, which means he got used to it over time, with each use. He learned to live with it. Today just happened to be a little worse due to careless hangover. His hand rested on the still warm rabbit’s fur.

“You can take him, Ol’,” Bulgakov rasped as if dying from thirst. “Nadejda Andreevna will process the payment.”

Olga Danilovna didn’t waste a second more, running up to her son and getting him up from the table. In a hurry she could pass for a warn and loving mother, she even examined the previously broken leg. She asked if anything hurt. Olga could pass for a caring mother and not a woman who wanted to live out her ambitions through her son. With his leg perfectly healed, Danila wheeled the chair himself.

“Thank you, Doctor Misha,” the boy said with a smile before leaving the room. His reactions were a little faster this time around.

Mikhail, however, barely had the mental capacity left free from the pain to comprehend the words and offer a reply. Nonetheless, he managed. “Be careful next time, Dan.” He offered a feeble wave of his hand before the boy left. When the door closed, Misha slouched on the table, resting his forehead against the cold wood. It was offering no relief whatsoever, but it felt grounding. A sensation to tether him to reality, otherwise, he would allow himself to drift away from it. The rabbit’s fur felt less warm. That was even less of a comfort. It stopped mattering the moment he picked his phone this morning.

It was all a little useless. Nothing but a play of a repentant man. One actor theatre: he is on stage and is the audience. He didn’t count seconds, cared not for minutes it took for Nadya to come in through the door with a glass of water. He heard the door opening, her light steps, but didn’t want to raise his head just yet.

“You’ll survive, right?” Nadejda asked with amusement in her voice. He was rendered useless, true, but not helpless.

“Bastards live a long life.” A glass was placed on his table. Mikhail chuckled, amused by the thought that rushed through his pounding head. “Careful, dear, I’ll start to think you are a warm and caring human being.”

“That will be your grave mistake,” she replied.

“Doesn’t sound so bad.”

“Take your pills and, please, with water. It’s not in my interest for you to choke on them.”

“I shall.”

“You want me to take care of that?” she asked coldly, uncaring. That was why their arrangement was most perfect. That was why he hired her and why she remained by his side. There were few reasons why she could stand to work for such a horrible, irresponsible boss. Not only because he could pay her a pretty number. Not only because they were legally bound by a contract, preventing Nadejda from getting her hefty paycheck in case of Bulgakov’s strange death. It wasn’t only because she could keep her pretty mouth perfectly shut. But because Nadejda was aware of her self-serving nature and did not care. Nadejda Andreevna did not, in fact, care for anything but herself.

Mikhail placed the rabbit on the table and took out a cigarette from inside his pocket. He put one in his mouth. Nadya wordlessly offered a lighter. The smoke felt good inside his lungs: warm, calming, and perfectly harmful.

“No, it’s fine. I’ll take care of it,” Mikhail replied, evenly breathing out cigarette smoke. He reached in the drawer to get the pills out. Something to dull the pain, something to bring more senses back to life. Nadya was leaving the room in her usual catlike steps.

“You’ll lock up, right?” she asked, stopping in the doorway.

“Sure,” Misha nodded.

“See you when I see you.”

“Right back at ya.”

The door closed behind her. Soon, the office would be completely empty. He would leave, locking up for the day. Soon, the pain from his body would disappear completely, gone without a trace. His state would return to what it was when he woke up. Soon, there would be nothing bothering him but the hangover. The pounding would get less intense as time passed. By the end of the day, he should fell relatively fine. Soon, he would be heading home where he’d get to be as miserable as he felt like to be. Soon. Right after he would bury this obviously very dead rabbit on the table.

#yokelishtorturesenglish #BSD OC #bsd fanfic but OC so....#if you read it.....do you have questions? something you noticed?#yo is always happy to talk about them shitty creations

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daddysfangirls-marvel · 5 years

Text

Polyamorous : The Name Game

Steve Rogers x reader x Bucky Barnes, Stucky x reader

warning: fluff, language

It has been a month since Roger- Barnes got their new addition and things we're doing well. She was given therapy and tutor to see where she was with her education and catch her up if necessary. And twice a week every week someone most likely (Y/n), Bucky, or both would take her for a walk through the city each time showing her something new. Despite how good everything was going and the progress she was making there was one glaring problem that no one realized but never brought a solution to until now.

"So, I've talked to Tony and he talked to some lawyers and officials and we are going to get you a new birth certificate." "Why?" (Y/n) was still excited and happy to hear her talking so freely it meant she was becoming comfortable with them. It might have been something like a word a day but that was still something. Slowly but surely. "While your first birth certificate was in Russian and it was made in a highly illegal factually so technically it wasn't real and it had o names just numbers...anyways I figured since we're making a new one you could pick name, usually babies don't get to pick their names at birth but your order and I believe you deserve a choose. So with the help of the internet, we're going to name you. Yay" (Y/n) did a little happy dance in her seat as she slid the tablet across the table to her. She had a pen and paper ready to write down any name that sounded good. -45 minutes later (y/n) had a few names on her paper but it was mostly filled with doodles as the kid was having a hard time coming up with a name. "Ash" (Y/n) writes the name down. " Ash Uzumaki Roger- Barnes" On the tip of (Y/n)'s tongue was an explanation of Copy Rights and anime names but all that flew out the window when she saw her smile she looked so happy so proud of her new name and she couldn't ruin it. "That's a beautiful name, Ash Uzumaki Roger-Barnes, and it's yours." The two girls sat straight as they heard footsteps and voices coming their way it was Natasha, Clint, Sma, Steve, Bucky, and Peter. She stood up " Hello" Everyone stopped their mission of emptying the fridge " Hello, My name is Ash Uzumaki Roger-Barnes, nice to meet you," No one said anything the room was silent at a complete standstill she looked back at (Y/n) believing she had done something wrong. Everyone was just shocked to hear her speak at all She only spoke a few words and only to (Y/n) any other time she would just use facial expressions, she had a beautiful voice. "Hey, Ash Uzumaki Roger- Barnes my name is Peter Benjamin Parker it's really nice to meet you. I hope we can become friends." she smiled at Peter "I'd really like that very much" "Isn't Ash ... from Pokemon?" "I don't know about that but Uzumaki is definitely from Naruto." "Hey, Clint, Sam shut the fuck up. Kids don't say that it's a bad word" "You shouldn't say that either" "But Steve-" "You're grounded" "I'm a grown woman " (Y/n) said suddenly standing up hands on her hips. "And I'm your husband. Now go to your room and think about what've done." Steve said in his well know I'm in charge and you're in trouble voice. "But-" "March," Steve said pointing to the door. With a heavy sigh (y/n) got up and with even heavier feet she stomped away while cursing Steve's home like a child. "Did you just send your wife to time out?" Natasha said trying her best not to laugh. "Oh please, He does that every two weeks. He likes making her march" Steve spun around and glared at Bucky "Would you like to join her" he said but less stern. "No dad, I'm sorry. It won't happen again" Bucky said rolling his eyes and winking at Ash. "Come on, Kid. Let's go find Tony and Pepper and make you a birth certificate." Natasha said waving her over to follow her out. Clint jumped up and followed them out "Hey, have you ever heard of Pokemon or, better yet, Naruto."

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make-it-mavis · 4 years

Text

Homesick (Entry #32)

(cw: discussion of addiction) ----------

01/20/88 4:05 PM

Hey.

You keeping up with me so far?

‘Cause I sure felt out of the loop that day, being walked into my game by the Surge Protector, relatively sober with no handcuffs. Needless to say, it was never a scenario I thought I’d find myself in, and not one I was particularly enjoying. But even as we rode the train into my game with Fix-it, I felt like my skull was full of tumbling rocks. What little strength that was still left in my body felt so hard to access. I needed to be practically lifted from the train when we left it, and by the time we walked to the bridge over the river, I could not support my own weight anymore. There was a brief, half-spirited spat as I argued against being fully carried, after which I was allowed to just lie down in the grass on the other side of the bridge for a minute. Fix-it sat beside me, and Surge awkwardly sat as well.

Looking up at them both from very unflattering angles, I figured it was as good a time as any to start asking questions.

“So,” I began, my voice as dry as it’s ever been, “just how long was I out?”

Surge answered plainly. “Two weeks.”

I squinted. There was no way. Even though it had seemed like a mere few hours, I knew that I must have lost at least a bit of time. But two weeks? I had never heard of any sprite sitting at the edge of corruption for that long. I glanced at Fix-it, who confirmed with a grave nod.

I didn’t know what to say. Here’s what I went with: “Well, that bodes ill for the ol’ noggin, don’t it?”

“You’re going to need another two weeks of rest at least,” Surge informed me. “As well as detox from the buffs in your system. I’ll be confining you to this game until you’re completely clean and recovered.”

I felt my heart pound just a bit at the mention of being locked up. I had not forgotten the conversation I witnessed while I was motionless outside.

“Just for that long?” I asked him, trying to find a voice that demanded no BS. “And not a minute longer?”

Surge glanced at Fix-it, who answered reluctantly.

“Well… no. Not exactly. But it-- it’s really up to you, Mavy.”

“What do you mean, it’s up to me? You’re tellin’ me I actually get a say in the matter?”

“Your cousin fought for you pretty relentlessly,” Surge said with a note of exasperation for said cousin. “Given that you’re clearly suffering from addiction and were not acting in your right mind, I’m willing to give you some options.”

The word ‘addiction’ put a sick feeling in my stomach, but I had no grounds to deny it any longer. I had made the decision to quit before. More than a decision, really -- it had felt like a mental breakthrough when I had made up my mind to quit. Like I had made it over the biggest hump, never to turn back. But that wasn’t enough. Even my deepest resolve crumbled. No measure of self-preservation mattered. I remembered the feeling of marching across Game Central Station against my will, driven by some deeply-coded force that I could not reason with. I was, as horrifying as the thought was, helpless to resist GC on my own any longer. Not when one slip up could kill me and, most likely, some sprites who wouldn’t deserve it.

I was really, truly, inescapably addicted. I wasn’t sure what to do with that knowledge.

So I let Surge go on.

“...Okay.”

“Your first option is this,” Surge explained calmly. “After you detox and recover, you can attend and complete the arcade’s new anonymous addiction group counselling program--”

My reaction was entirely by reflex. “No.”

I heard Fix-it whine under his breath.

“Which,” Surge continued firmly, “would be two sessions a week until you’ve completed the twelve steps. This usually takes at least six weeks, but you can go at your own pace. Outside of sessions, you will be confined to your game until you’ve completed the program. But this program has seen very promising results, and I would highly recommend considering it as an option.”

I’d heard of the program before, of course. It’s not like addictions didn’t exist before you died. But I never looked into it. I barely paid it any mind at all. I was certain I would never need it.

“Yeah, okay,” I rubbed my forehead. “What’s the other option?” “Two years’ cabinet arrest.”

The idea of that put an even sicker feeling in my stomach. Honestly, I had been expecting worse, after the heated exchange I had witnessed between Surge and Fix-it. But two years was still an awfully long time to be locked up. Which begged the question that had been the most burning, but most terrifying to me.

“What’s my crime?”

Surge answered factually, with no hesitation. “Arson.”

Now, I’m no stranger to blacking out and committing crimes or general misdeeds. I’ve had that talk several times before, the one where I’m told a story about myself that I don’t remember. But most I’d heard had been relatively harmless -- some minor property damage, maybe a few swings thrown, the odd public obscenity. And as a lover of fireworks and a sort of pyromaniac, I’ve had a couple close calls with fire-related crime. But it was never anything so serious as arson. That one word uttered by Surge hit me like a dart in the chest, and I went cold with the poison it carried with it.

I betrayed Tapper. I bought buffs with the money he gave me. I got high, and I attacked his game. Tapper. The sprite that I have trusted for my entire life. The sprite I owe so many happy memories to. I set fire to his game. I did that. I did.

All the regret I should have felt for my actions against Tapper since the beginning of this escapade finally caught up with me. And, let me tell you, I had never felt so small and slimy before. I felt like my own skin was a blanket of muck wrapped around my bones, and my disgust urged me to unzip and crawl out of it, but I couldn’t. Of course I couldn’t.

It took me a minute to realize that Fix-it had been trying to explain things to me. His words just did not register. I gave him a blank look, and that was enough to get him to start over patiently.

“Now, Mavy, you must know, Tapper is fine. His game is safe. Devs be praised, no one was hurt. And I fixed all the damage that’d been done, so don’t worry. Tapper and his game are both safe.”

I felt myself starting to shake from the inside. “What did I do… exactly? How-- How did I even get into Tapper’s? I was high, I was blacked out--” I looked at Surge, suddenly full of spite, “--why the cuss didn’t you stop me?”

Surge frowned. I’d even say he looked ashamed. “You were off my radar. It was a busy night, with lots of disputes to settle.”

I snapped reflexively, “Was it? Was it a busy night? Is that really your excuse?”

“Mavy,” Fix-it hushed me sadly, and it actually worked. I didn’t have the energy to keep grilling Surge. Besides, as mad as I was at him, I could not redirect the blame this time. I was the one who took the buffs, and that fact sat like a rock in my stomach. I went miserably limp and just listened, not looking at either of them.

Surge continued slowly, “Please trust me when I say that I regret the situation deeply. I may have been able to prevent this if I hadn’t fallen short on my duties. Regardless, it happened. You made it into Root Beer Tapper, reportedly made a beeline for the bathrooms, and threw a lit explosive into the ladies’ room.”

“And it was empty,” Fix-it reminded him to say.

“It was. No one was injured except yourself, and even then, mildly. You were hit by some debris -- cuts and bruises, mostly, another stroke of luck on your part. But your… episode escalated briefly, before you lost consciousness.”

“What’s that mean?” I muttered.

“Um,” Fix-it took the wheel, “well, folks who saw it happen said that after the bomb went off, you… really got in a tizzy. Or a-- a fit, maybe. I don’t much care for how they said it, but they called it ‘hysteria’, like you were screamin’ and fightin’ without a clue as to where you were.”

“Several witnesses reported that you were behaving as if you were on fire,” Surge added.

Even though I didn’t remember doing any of what those two were describing, I… could remember fire. In a sense. Memories of that last buff trip started to return to me, specifically towards the end, with the sea of gasoline going up in flames. From what they were saying, it seemed like that fire wasn’t just in my head after all. That must have been the moment I did it. The moment the bomb went off.

It was true, then. It was all true.

From that point on, I did not speak. I couldn’t find the voice to do so. A heavy blanket of shame, unlike any I’d ever felt before, slowly began to smother me. I heard the men talking to me, finishing their story about how I’d fallen unconscious and been brought out to that couch I’d spend two weeks comatose upon. Fix-it told me about all the times he’d visited, clueless to the fact that I had seen them all. He told me how touched he was that so many gifts had been left for me, even if he had supplied most of them himself. I couldn’t bring myself to even try to appreciate the gesture. It felt wrong. What had I done to deserve gifts?

After the conversation had gone on long enough to be sufficiently awkward without me participating, Surge said his goodbyes. He reminded me that I had a decision to make, and I could wait until the buffs had left my system if I wanted to. Fix-it could relay my answer to him when I was ready.

I was ready right then and there, lying on the cold grass. My decision was decidedly out of character, but after what I’d done to Tapper, I felt like that might have been a good thing. Tapper had urged me to get help before, and I ignored him. And then... I did that. I owed it to him to try, even if I thought I was a lost cause.

I would do the counselling. I just had to. Otherwise, I would never be able to look at myself in the mirror again.

I had to make a change.

I said none of that, at the time. I was too exhausted to even stay conscious much longer. But I held onto my decision as I fell asleep on the grass, hearing no objection from Fix-it next to me, and thankfully, no words from the babbling river nearby.

#fanfiction #fanfic #wreck it ralph #fix it felix #make it mavis #original character #homesick

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mor-beck-more-problems · 4 years

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Desperate Gal Pals of White Crest || Morgan & Cece

TIMING: Current

PARTIES: @thebickedwitchoftherest & @mor-beck-more-problems

SUMMARY: Morgan and Cece hit a roadblock with their research on an exorcism, so they take a field trip.

CONTAINS: drug manipulation tw (magic poisoning), gun (not fired),

“I know I literally can’t get tired, but if I see one more book handwave harm exorcisms away with ‘wooo dark magic’ and ‘oooh dangerous! Sacrifice!’ I am going keel over with exhaustion. You’ll have to call Regan for my autopsy and explain to my girlfriend that boredom and no helpful answers is the new hip cause of death.” Morgan flopped down the side of the couch, her head dangling over the edge. “Tell me you’ve got something to banish Puritain Carrie,” she groaned. “I need a win. Literally...any kind of win. A can of seltzer of a win.”

Cece was lying on her back on the ground, book in hand and avoiding reading it by listening to Morgan’s melodramatic self-eulogy. She at least knew how to spice up a story and make it more interesting. She made dying of boredom sound marginally interesting. The irony was not lost on Cece. “That’s a lot of pressure to put on me for the record. How am I supposed to talk at your funeral and make your death sound badass that way?” Cece eventually gave in, shutting the book and tossing it away from her in her own dramatic show of exacerbation. “Nothing. These books have lots about magic and yet a surprisingly lacking amount of ghosts. My coven really should have expanded their horizons a bit.” Cece stated, mostly to herself. She rolled over onto her stomach, finding Morgan’s eyes again and pushing herself up, “We need some new source material. There’s got to be somewhere around town with some decent exorcism knowledge, right?”

“You’ll have to make something up much cooler,” Morgan sighed. “Just don’t promise any of my fae friends to tell the truth about me and you’ll be good.” She looked over at the pile of books around them, new purchases on the diamond card Deirdre had gotten for her, and pulls from the Scribrary. She felt guilty about those the most, sneaking in and using Rio’s resources for something he was bound to hate. “We have to be looking in the wrong place. The wrong key-words, or the wrong sections in the library. You would think ‘most brutal harm exorcism’ would be a short dig, but…” She puffed air through her lips. “Apparently the powers that be think discretion is super ‘in.’ Tell me what you found. Let’s go over it again.”

“No worries there. I don’t like making promises to humans.” Cece laughed, thinking of any ideas she could to spice up Morgan’s imagined death and make it a bit more grandeur. She wondered how she could fit fireworks into the story. Maybe one of the daredevil car jumps through a flaming circle. No, this was all way too distracting when she was supposed to be focusing. She shook the thought away and reached for the notepad that she had used to take any notes that she found vaguely helpful. Emphasis on vague. “Nothing too useful. I found some old history on this former Scribe that studied exorcisms. John something. Sounded like a real bore. I got an autobiography by this Amanda Wallace chick who wrote about her haunted house and how she got rid of it. Not exactly sure how factual that one actually is. Basically, I have nothing but crap. You sure we can’t just call the ghostbusters in for this one?”

Morgan’s brow furrowed at the name Wallace. “Is that name from a comic book movie? It sounds familiar…” She turned herself right side up and crawled to Cece to read over her shoulder. She moved so fast, her focus was groggy, but the illustration on the page she was looking at definitely seemed familiar. “No, wait, that’s...fuck, that was in something I read. Not here but…” Morgan fumbled for her laptop and started digging through her browsing history. She looked sheepishly over at Cece, glad that she couldn’t blush. “...Don’t judge me, okay?” She mumbled. Buried under searches for pirated theory articles, halloween themed lingerie, and Buzzfeed quizzes for Which Character from Grey’s Anatomy Are You, was several rows of local blogs, niche social media groups, old news reports, and PDF access links. Morgan scrolled past them all to get to an access link to an article from the library. There was the same picture, Amanda Wallace and a few others. The caption read, Cromwell was mentored in his early years by the local Ghost Watchers Society. Pictured, left to right… The article was about a man named Ernie Cromwell. He was arrested, several times, for vandalism, arson, and public disturbance. He claimed he needed to in order to make the ghosts go away. He also escalated to a much more deadly life of crime after this, around the period Roy ought to have been town. That’s why she’d been looking in the first place. “Hey, Cece?” She asked. “You wouldn’t happen to know if any of these people are alive, do you?”

“I hope you know that prefacing with that only makes me want to judge you that much more.” Cece perked up immediately, if she wasn’t interested in studying Morgan’s open tabs before, she was definitely interested now. Fortunately, it was so much better than what Cece had predicted. “Oh my god. This might be more embarrassing than if you just had like straight up porn in your search history. Which for the record, I’m in full support of.” Cece added in, finger gunning and winking in Morgan’s direction. “Please tell me you’re an Izzie too.” Cece tried focusing again once Morgan asked her a question about recognizing anyone. She scanned the page but shrugged after a long moment, “I wish I could be more useful. But most of my magic knowledge was before I got to town. I’ve been about as low key as I can manage since I’ve been to town.”

Morgan rolled her eyes. “I appreciate the sex positivity, and so does my girlfriend. And, you know, hopefully she appreciates the spider web themed set I ended up buying. And I’ve taken way too many and no matter what I do, I’m solid 50% Izzie or Meredith. My dark and twisty ways defy simple categories.” She wiggled her brow, mouth curling into a grin, and turned back to the picture. “I swear I’ve seen these faces somewhere. And the names. You don’t remember any from the paper or…” Morgan took out her phone, scrolling furiously. “Oh. Mother of Earth! Oh, this is so weird!” She showed Cece an event page on the UMWC social media page. Two people stood next to a handmade poster advertising GhostWatch Parties. Ostensibly, it was a horror film club. But the names of the two faculty shown were Amanda Wallace and Leigh Cromwell. There was no accounting for coincidence, but it seemed pretty likely that there was a connection to Ernie. “They’re meeting tonight. We have to go, right? Scope things out, set up a time to talk better and see what they can offer, or ask if they have any exorcist finding tips! We’re going, right?”

“Anything for you, as usual.” Cece might not be Deirdre’s biggest fan, but she still wished for a killer sex life for the two. “You know? I can see it, honestly. I support it. Among the characters you could get, I think those are two of the better ones.” Morgan seemed sure that the faces would be familiar, so Cece did her best to study them again, but just ended up shrugging. “You think I read the paper?” She asked the woman curiously. Not a moment later and Morgan was poking the screen and then changing pages to find a social media page. From the college. Cece gasped overdramatically, “Right under your nose this whole time? Also, do you think this horror movie club accepts members that don’t go to the college? Actually never mind that’s not important right now.” Cece jumped up and found her bag, moving towards the coat closet to slip her jacket on. “Well obviously we have to go. What other choice do we have? Plus I need to find out if this club is even worth my time. Which is obviously like a side objective. Priority is the ghost thing for sure. Let’s go!”

The GhostWatchers of White Crest met at Professor Wallace’s ivy covered town house near campus. The gathering was small; only three cars littered the street beyond the driveway. Morgan parked them at the end of the street, positioned to make a quick and easy getaway. The bue-white light of a television illuminated one of the back rooms, bright enough to illuminate parts of the yard as Morgan approached. She knocked on the door gently, but found it already open. Inside was exactly what you would expect from a liberal arts professor. Stacks of papers, catalogues for bamboo kitchenware, and books bursting with post-it’s in every room. Morgan wrinkled her nose at the normalcy of it all. At least she kept a few decorative skull paperweights in the great room and kept the foyer clean.

“How do you think we should play this?” She asked in a whisper, lingering in the front hall, one eye on the back den where the movie, The Innocents, was still going on. “Is it rude if we snoop around first? Should we split up?” Somewhere, she thought, there had to be a private library.

“Wow this place is boring.” Cece yawned as the two slid in through the open door and studied the office that they found themselves in. “You’d think that someone obsessed with exorcisms might have a bit more personality.” She pushed aside a self help book lying on the desk and took a glance at her desk calendar, “She has scheduled times for lunch.” As if that was the most boring thing on the planet.

Either this woman was the worst occultist she had ever seen, or all of her more interesting things were hidden away somewhere. “It’s totally rude, but technically speaking she’s the one that left the door open. She should be more careful about her belongings. So let’s snoop.” Cece wasted no time moving to dig through her other belongings. Given how nonchalant the rest of the room was, Cece wasn’t convinced they were going to find anything too bizarre or helpful just sitting out in the open.

“Oh, didn’t I tell you? They hired me because the fun department was empty,” Morgan teased. She watched her feet carefully as she tiptoed onto the plush carpet with her muddy leather oxfords. She hadn’t planned on playing hide and seek in some dusty mini-mansion when she’d left the house, so she was left cringing at every squeak the leather made on the floor and hoping against hope that everyone in the den was too engrossed in the movie to notice.

As luck would have it, the library was one room off from the den. Morgan pointed at it, giving Cece a look of, I don’t know if I got this. One foot, then the other. Could Cece get in there first.

In the den, someone yawned and got up, murmuring about refills. Morgan dropped to the floor, panic in her eyes. Was this the worst idea ever?

The library had to have something useful. If it was just filled with normal literature and more self help books, Cece was going to lose her mind. At least Morgan seemed pretty into the whole espionage thing, tiptoeing around the place and slipping through the door into the library as silently as a mouse. That swiftness and suave attitude seemed to dissipate when movement could be heard from farther in, someone getting up to get a refill. Morgan dropped immediately and Cece remained in the doorway, unsure what the best thing to do in this scenario was. Would the person asking even come this way? Cece crept back a few steps, peaking around to get just a moment’s glance of someone walking towards them. They would definitely see Morgan if something wasn’t done. Would these people be more interested in calling the cops or offing anyone in their way? Cece couldn’t be sure enough, so she figured her only option was to be a distraction of some sort. Back in the office, Cece found a paper weight on the desk and pushed it aside, sliding it off the desk with a loud crack against the floor. That ought to do some distracting.

Morgan heard the paperweight fall before she realized what Cece was doing. Her head whipped around, question marks sprouting all over her face. But whoever was heading her way turned the other direction to see the commotion, and Morgan was able to take her chance. Hopefully Cece wouldn’t be so far behind.

The library was the same as the rest of the house, expected to the point of comical. There were shelves of matching leatherbound British novels, another set of American ones, a whole row of paperbacks and theory that were almost certainly just for posturing, and… who lived like this? Who actually worked here? This was a magazine-style library. Which meant-- “Fuck.” Morgan covered her mouth and flinched. Too loud. Right.

She started peeking behind books, looking for hidden volumes, then the large desk centered at the back of the room. No one really had secret compartment doors, at least not here, the house was too small but-- Morgan kicked back the rug that covered the floor. Cut into the pale hardwood was a heavy door, older and darker, with a black handle that looked to be iron. She peeked her head out, searching for Cece to get her over here, quickly, before anyone realized how reckless they were being in a stranger’s house.

The door was well-oiled and rose silently at Morgan’s tug, and inside-- “Yes!” Beams of light from the other room flashed on. The shadows in the library vanished. It was time to hurry.

Cece ducked behind the desk to avoid whoever was coming towards her. She had successfully distracted the man from discovering Morgan but hadn’t quite thought through the fact that the man would now be coming towards the source of the noise that Cece had caused. Cece began rifling through her purse quickly, pulling a bin of powder free and cupping some into the palm of her hand. Once the footsteps finally became close enough, Cece popped up from behind the counter. “Hi there.”

The man jumped before settling on a confused expression, “Who are you?” He asked, more curious than angry. Probably unsure if Cece was supposed to be there in the first place. “Uh-” Cece began, trying for a long moment to think of an excuse for too long before finally giving up, “I can’t think of a good excuse” She shrugged before pulling her hand up and opening her palm, blowing and sending the powder directly into his face. He stumbled backwards and Cece jumped forward, grabbing onto his shirt and helping direct his fall into the chair by the desk. She patted him softly. Better to get some rest right there.

She slipped across the floor until she found Morgan and then crawled over to her, “For the record I didn’t sign up for this” Cece whispered at her, eyeing the new door that she had discovered. Before hearing more voices. “Welp, after you!”

Morgan’s muscles were already clenched with confusion and unspoken questions. “Sign up for what?” She hissed. “You said we should snoop! Nothing bad has happened, right? And look at all the spooky books down there!” She shined the flashlight on her phone down the ladder, showing tables full of messy, half open books, arcane circles etched on leather, and iron chimes dangling from the ceiling. “Oh, yes, this is the jackpot.”

“Is it now?” A voice called behind them.

Morgan barely suppressed a squeal as Amanda Wallace filled in the doorway. Her straw-white hair seemed to puff up out of sheer rage. “I don’t remember receiving your RSVP, Professor Beck,” she said stiffly. “May I ask what you are doing in my library, opening my trap door?” A smaller, slightly younger head popped up over Amanda’s shoulder and murmured that she’d see the students out. Leigh Cromwell, probably. Guess they weren’t too late for the party after all.

“Hey, Amanda--!” Morgan drew out the words longer, as if a few more syllables in Amanda would help smooth things over, or give her a better idea about what to do next.

“Don’t ‘hey’ me,” Amanda snapped, bristling with a bitter frown. Downstairs, now.” She pointed into the dimly lit trapdoor room, and her look did not suggest that she was entertaining counterarguments at the moment.

“Ummm” Cece considered what may or may not be considered to be bad in Morgan’s mind. And depending on that, whether or not she wanted to share that with Morgan. Putting a man to sleep was hardly that bad, right? She didn’t hurt the man. He would wake up and at worst his memory would be a bit foggy and maybe have some nausea. Nothing that would last more than a week. “Define bad.”

Morgan was right, this was a jackpot. The space was different from the rest of the house. It didn’t look like the end result of an HGTV makeover, for starters. It wasn’t basic or expected. This room was hidden away and it was used. This woman that the two were spying on definitely used this room.

Speaking of the woman they were spying on. Apparently they had been discovered. Cece awkwardly watched the exchange. Apparently the two were super close work colleagues. “If there was no RSVP, does that mean she wasn’t supposed to bring a plus one?” Cece grinned slightly, completely ignored by the woman and instead following behind Morgan as the two were led away from the space they had just found.

Morgan backed down into the room, feeling, all of a sudden, that she should have told more people where she was going. Of course, she’d told Deirdre they had a lead, but if she were to drop a pin right now, would Deirdre know what to do with it? Remmy might, but the part where she had to explain what she was doing here might not lead to the best of conversations. But, fortunately, there weren’t any high tech keypads standing in their way of getting out. Just one seriously perturbed old woman.

Morgan made her way over to where the stacks of books were the largest and the shelves were packed to bursting. She looked for sigils, icons, anything recognizable. No one ever labeled ‘find harm here,’ but there were unavoidable markers if you knew how to look for them.

“I should report you to the police, for trespassing,” Amanda snapped. “And I could do much worse. But I would like to know first, Professor Beck, what you are doing in my trapdoor of all things. Do you have no respect for others?”

“On the contrary--” Morgan said carefully, flashing Cece big ‘what do we do?’ eyes, “I have the utmost respect for you and your interests.” She backed away until she could back no further. “The interests you keep a secret, especially. I think I might have something that’s of interest to your attention. A ghost something that is, let’s say, too good for mercy.” She reached out for one of the tomes, a leatherbound journal, by the look of it. Not as old as it was pretending to be, and bursting with pasted-in clips and notes.

“Not so fast.” She took out a little pearl handled pistol, gold and shiny, like something out of Agatha Christie. She cocked the safety with a slow, deliberate click. “That’s sensitive material, Professor. Access has to be earned. Tell me the truth, do what I say, and maybe we’ll see about it.”

The two hadn’t found themselves in an ideal situation, Cece was willing to admit that much. The woman that had discovered them hardly seemed especially dangerous. She was a college professor, taller than Cece was but that was hardly an impressive feat. The only thing she looked capable of seriously harming was a student’s grade point average. Still, the woman had enough to hide that she kept it hidden beneath the library, and she really didn’t like the intrusion by her colleague.

Morgan attempted to sweet talk her way out of it. Honestly, Morgan came across as such a pleasant person that Cece probably would have laughed it off if she had found the woman trespassing in her own home. Then again, maybe that didn’t count when Morgan had already previously lived with her. When Morgan reached for a book, hopefully one that Morgan deemed important, Amanda acted with an elevated decree of hostility. Looked like a bingo to Cece. The woman pulled out a small handgun, pointing it at Morgan but still eyeing Cece every now and again. She didn’t show much interest in Cece at all, which may have been more a mistake than anything else. “Your terms and conditions don’t sound all that appealing.” Cece called to her, straightening her back to give herself the appearance of being taller. She wasn’t sure that it worked. “Don’t get me wrong. You have the upper hand here. We’re totally up to no good. But don’t you have a door number three option?”

The woman finally looked Cece over. It had probably been the first time that she had offered her anymore than a passing glance, “I don’t even know who you are. This doesn’t concern you in the slightest.” She turned away from Cece again, but irritation seemed evident. Cece slowly dug into her purse again. She knew she had something else useful in there it was just a matter of rifling around until she found out. Once she did, she popped the lid off and dipped her fingers into it. “I just wanted to give you the option of rethinking your offer. Morgan and I have places to be. Let us go now and we can all enjoy the rest of our nights in peace.”

This time the woman finally turned the gun away from Morgan and towards Cece, at the same time that Cece rose up her hand and grabbed onto the woman’s wrist. “Have you ever heard of curare?” Cece asked the woman, a hint of curiosity in her voice. Though nothing apparent was happening, the woman hadn’t yet pulled the trigger and instead looked silently at Cece. “Some hunting tribes use it to paralyze prey. Normally, it doesn’t have a lot of effect on humans if ingested orally or through the skin.” By the woman’s expression, it was clear the effects had started to take effect now, “But with a bit of alchemy, it can be altered. All of a sudden, it just takes a tiny bit rubbed against the skin to get into the blood system. As Amanda began to fall back, Cece grabbed onto the gun, letting it slip from the woman’s hands as she crashed against the ground. “You should be able to talk still, it might just be a little mumbled. So try to speak up.”

Cece set the gun against the shelf and crossed her arms, “You got any questions for her?” she asked Morgan. Cece wasn’t sure this counted as life or death exactly, but the gun hadn’t been entirely promising. At this rate, Cece knew that she’d have to do something at the end to make sure that Amanda didn’t hold an unfriendly grudge against the two of them. Cece had gone this long, but now in the span of just a few weeks she would be whipping out the memory spell twice. Yikes. “Spare no details, something tells me that Amanda’s memory of the night might end up a bit fuzzy anyways.”

Morgan was scurrying for Cece and wishing zombies had super speed when it happened. She couldn’t let Cece get hurt and didn’t Cece know she was basically bullet-proof? Not one more friend, not one more life she cared about was going down because of-- and then Amanda’s face was going slack and she was sinking to the floor, and Cece was giving a pretty impressive speech of her own. “Holy shit,” Morgan whispered, suddenly feeling a little woozy with shock. Then, as it settled, “You...are so amazing, Cece!” She ran over and gave her a hug, ecstatic with relief. “Okay, so, one of your proteges was arrested for what sounded like some serious supernatural damage, and he said he had to get the ghosts. So I’m thinking you know a lot about exorcisms, maybe harm exorcisms, specifically?”

Amanda made some unintelligible noises that sounded aggravated enough to mean ‘yes’ to Morgan.

“Great! So, where would I find those? Is it here? Or--here? Or--” At the sound more throaty, aggravated groaning, Morgan knew she was right on the money. She hauled out everything from the self she could carry and started looking. “Woah, Nelly, some of these pages are torn from other volumes.” Morgan peered over the desk at Amanda on the floor. “Have you been defacing historical archives? That’s not very polite, you know. I wonder what would happen if I reported some of these original books as damaged and gave your name? That might be a bummer for research funding and future archive access, right?” Satisfied with her fun, she started flipping through, grateful that even though Amanda was a thief, she was at least an organized one. There was a handy table of contents and index between each hodge podge volume, and by some topics there was a reference number that seemed to correspond to a file, probably in the cabinet at the other end of the room.

Amanda made another slurry attempt at speech.

Morgan’s face crinkled. “French Revolution? Did you hear French Revolution?” She gave Cece a look to make sure she hadn’t misunderstood and started checking dates throughout her haul. Sure enough, there was a hefty volume with some emphasis on the 18th century and quite a few notes in French and English as she started flipping through. “Cece, come look at this,” she said. “I think this… I think I found something! What do these ingredients look like to you?”

If Cece had any worries that Morgan might think she had taken things too far, those fears were immediately quelled when Morgan launched into a hug. Cece hugged back, keeping her finger away from any of Morgan’s skin, “I don’t think this would work on zombies, but better not take the chance.” Considering the rest of the abilities that Morgan had now that she was undead, Cece wasn’t convinced it would have paralyzed her the way it had Amanda. If it did, the fast healing probably would have fixed her pretty quickly. But better to avoid the situation regardless. “But that was nothing. Didn’t want her messing up one of our pretty faces.”

Morgan was far better at searching and researching than Cece was. The extent of Cece’s reading had gone into her plans to get away from the coven. Since then, the books she had stolen and brought with her mostly stayed hidden in the floorboards of her closet. Something for a rainy day, if it ever came. For the most part, Cece scanned the shelves as Morgan actually talked to the woman and searched for something that was useful to her.

Cece hadn’t heard French Revolution at first, but hearing Morgan question it made Cece laugh and clap for Morgan’s better hearing skills, “You know I thought I heard bitch contusion but that makes way more sense.” Morgan flipped through a volume and called Cece over to look at something, but the symbols on the page weren’t like anything Cece had worked with before. “Yikes.” Cece started, trying to look for smaller details and anything that did look familiar, “I can pick out a few things. I see some containment symbols. Probably used to keep something trapped. But nothing that I’ve worked with before.”

“Me either,” Morgan admitted, “But that--” she pointed to the word, “Is definitely French for spirit, and some of these ingredients look like they’re obeying sympathetic principles for inflicting pain. I’m gonna need a dictionary or three to figure some of this out, and you know, an expert, but you saw the containment sigil too, right!” She snapped the book shut and held it close to her chest, her eyes shining with relief. “I think this is it, Cece. I think this is--” Morgan was lost for words and only smiled, glowing with gratitude for her friend. “This is the key to everything I’ve been looking for.”

“Well I know a guy if you need a French interpreter.” Cece stated nonchalantly, “Can’t promise he won’t be grumpy about it though.” Cece couldn’t keep an easy grasp on who in town knew who, but it seemed like a safe bet that Morgan and Kaden were acquainted. “Fuck yeah! Former roomies strike again!” Cece called out triumphantly, raising her hand for a high five. Once the two were done celebrating, Cece remembered that they had company. Cece spun around to their host for the night and clapped her hands together, “Amanda. You’ve just been so welcoming tonight, truly. We had a great time. We’re going to wrap up and then I promise it’ll be like we were never even here.” Cece scooted towards her and knelt down towards the woman. “Are we done here Morgan?”

Morgan joined Cece beside her colleague, still light on her feet with victory and beaming with pride in her friend. “We do make pretty good partners in crime if I say so myself,” she said. “And, you know, aside from, hmm---” She reached back over to the desk and took a couple more books. “These. Just for good measure. And fun. Trespassing is rude, Professor Wallace, but pulling guns on your colleagues is far worse.” She nodded at Cece to work her magic. They’d gotten what they came for and then some.

“This probably won’t hurt,” Cece began, pressing her fingers against Amanda’s temple, “Or if it does you won’t remember it. Which is basically the same thing.” Amanda’s eyes were frantic at first, darting back and forth almost definitely trying to will her body to move. But soon they settled, floating shut as Cece dove into her memories to pluck them free. She figured the last half hour or so would do the trick. The woman would be left with a lot of blurry portions on the night, undoubtedly waking up in this room to wonder how she had gotten here. But those were hardly Cece’s concerns. She made sure to go back far enough to when Amanda started suspecting someone was here. Once Cece was done, she left Amanda on the floor and stood up, “She should be waking up soon. She should be able to move shortly after. If you have what we need, we should get out of here.” Cece suggested, heading towards the exit of the room before snapping and swinging back towards her, “Actually, now is probably the best time to mention that there may be another person that conveniently fell asleep in the office. We may want to stop by on our way out and wipe him too. Just to be safe.”

Morgan stopped halfway on the stairs they came down in just to gape at Cece in awe. “Remind me to never underestimate you for the rest of your days. And maybe bring you up on my list of people to call next time I need help with the forces of darkness. You’re a dangerous lady, Cece Bishop…” She gave Cece a chivalrous hand out of the cellar, grinning in the evening light. “But, then again, so am I sometimes.”

#wr cece #wr chatzy #wr cece chatzy #desperate gal pals of white crest #drug manipulation tw #wickedswriting

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longitudinalwaveme · 4 years

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Privilege

“Get out of our way, you worthless vagabond. I don’t give handouts to addicts,” the tall, royal purple robot snapped. Mirage cringed and felt his circuits heat up in embarrassment. If any one thing really drove home just how far he had fallen, it was the way that robots who would have been honored by his company only a week ago now treated him like scrap metal.

“Have your circuit boosters fried your audio receptors or something, junkie? I told you to move aside!” With that, Mirage was shoved roughly to the ground and even further out of the way of the royal purple robot and his female companion.

“Really, Opulentos, it’s a disgrace the way those derelicts are able to walk around. Doesn’t the Iaconian council realize how distasteful it is for hardworking, well-bred citizens to have to see such filthy beggars?” she sniffed. Mirage took the words like a blow, because he was filthy, and he knew it. He, a noblemech of the Towers District, was destitute. He didn’t even have access to a simple wash rack. Of course he was dirty! However, he couldn’t blame them for their sneers. A week ago, he would have reacted the same way to any impoverished mech unfortunate enough to get in his way. He was, after all, a noblemech, well-educated, raised in opulence and from a lineage of power and prestige. He was nothing like the beggars who pleaded for his charity-or so he had thought before the Decepticon Army drained his resources, destroyed almost the entirety of the Towers District, and left him a homeless, friendless pauper. Then he quickly discovered that it didn’t matter how educated you were when you had no proof of your educational attainment. Mirage, like all the nobles of the Towers, had been educated by the finest tutors credits could buy, but there was not an actual record of it, as it was understood that anyone of his breeding would be educated properly without needing any certificate. However, it seemed that this assumption did not hold true in Iacon, and, since he also had no previous record of employment, he had been unable to find a job. Luckily, his fuel levels had been relatively high when the Decepticons attacked, so he had been able to hold out for a week of humiliating, fruitless job hunting, but today his reserves had run out, and if he didn’t find a way to get fuel soon, he would die.

“Please, sir, I’m starving,” he said in a voice that was little more than a whisper.

“Then get a job,” Opulentos snapped.

“I’ve tried. No one is hiring, and I’ve looked for a week,” Mirage replied.

“Of course you did, junkie,” Opulentos said sarcastically, and Mirage’s temper flared. He was so tired of having this mech assume that his being dirty also automatically made him an untrustworthy addict.

“How dare you accuse me of lying! Do you know who I am?” he exclaimed. Opulentos laughed.

“I believe I do. You’re a derelict, apparently with delusions of grandeur,” he said coldly. Mirage’s anger drained away and was replaced by shame. As much as he hated to admit it, Opulentos had a point. He might have been created a wealthy noblemech, but right now he couldn’t even afford to fuel himself. If he wanted help, he was going to need to drop his attitude.

“You ...you're right, sir. You have no reason to assume I’m telling you the truth, and I’m sorry I got angry. But please, sir, I’m so hungry,” Mirage said. Before he could continue, the female cut him off.

“If I give you a few credits, will you go away?” she asked.

“Of course, ma’am. I don’t want to be a bother.”

“It’s too late for that. Here, take this and leave the decent members of society alone,” she said as she handed him a few credits. A week ago, he wouldn’t have even registered such a paltry amount, but now it was quite literally his entire net worth. He was still stunned by how drastically his life had changed.

“Thank you, ma’am,” he replied quietly.

“If I see you out here again, I will call the authorities and have you arrested. Do you understand?” Opulentos barked.

“Yes, sir. I understand. Don’t worry, you won’t see me again,” Mirage said. He certainly wasn’t going to seek Opulentos out again after a threat like that! With that, he quickly walked away in the direction of the nearest fuel station, and arrived a few minutes later. His creators would have rolled over in their crypts if they knew that their heir was getting fuel from a place like this, but his only other option was starvation. He quickly purchased the cheapest fuel on the menu, in the hopes that he might be able to stretch out the credits that he had been given to cover more than one refueling, and then sat down at a table that was nearly as filthy as his plating and took a sip. It tasted so terrible that he almost gagged, and he had to force himself to swallow it. How did anyone live off of this swill? The growl from his empty fuel tanks answered that question. His disgust overcome by hunger, he started to refuel with the horrible-tasting liquid in earnest, and soon the container was empty and his tanks were a little over half full. Having finished refueling, Mirage deposited the empty container in an overflowing wastebasket and then slipped out of the station, not at all in the mood for being dragged into another conversation. He briefly entertained the idea of extending his job hunt, but quickly decided that it was too late in the day for anyone to be hiring, and instead ashamedly slunk off to the squalid, dead-end alleyway where he had been recharging for the last two nights. Much to Mirage’s relief, the alley was mostly empty when he arrived there. It was bad enough that he had to recharge in the streets. Having to share an alley with two other mechs, a female, and a sparkling, as he had had to do last night, was almost unbearable. Although the past week had forced him to accept, on a purely factual basis, that he was no different than the homeless who now surrounded him, there was a large part of him that was still very much opposed to being reminded that there was nothing special about him now that he was impoverished. He walked to the back of the alley, laid down under one of the buildings’ overhangs in the hopes that it would provide some meager form of shelter, and fell quickly into recharge, exhausted by the events of the day and of the past week. He was awoken at six o’clock the next morning by an extremely cross-looking individual.

“If I catch you near my store again, I’ll have you arrested, you worthless bum! And that goes for all of your friends, too! The last thing I need is a bunch of junkies scaring off my customers,” he snapped. Mirage groaned, both because he wasn’t fully awake and because the ground he had recharged on had been anything but soft, and pulled himself to his feet.

“But ...but I’m not doing anything to your store. I’m not ever here when it’s open, and I didn’t even know it was a store until you told me. I promise, all I do here is recharge,” he said quickly. He didn’t want to have to relocate again; not until he had a roof over his head.

“Even if that’s true, which I doubt, I don’t need a bunch of junkies recharging near my store, either. What’s to stop you from breaking in and stealing stuff to feed your habit?” the store owner replied. Mirage frowned. He was getting very tired of all the groundless accusations.

“The fact that I’m not an addict,” he snapped. That being said, he was starting to understand why homeless bots got addicted to circuit boosters and high-grade energon-it was a way to escape the pain of being ignored at best and insulted and threatened at worst.

“Then you’re a lazy bum, living off the hard work of the rest of us. Either way, you’re driving down the value of all the stores on the block, and if you don’t leave, I’ll have you put in jail for disturbing the peace,” the store owner replied. Mirage felt his fuel pump skip a beat. He wasn’t sure if the store owner could back up his claim, but he definitely didn’t want to find out. The last thing he needed was to be labeled a criminal as well as a derelict.

“I...I’ll leave right away, sir,” he said quietly. Was he going to spend the rest of his life being chased away like a stray turbohound? Then he remembered the way he had chased off the old mech who had stumbled, clearly disoriented, onto his turbofox hunting grounds, and he felt a pang of guilt. He had shown no mercy; perhaps it was unfair to expect others to show it to him. He quickly left the alleyway and, for lack of any other ideas, decided to return to the employment agency on the off chance that he might be able to get a job. On the way there, he came across the female with whom he had been forced to share the alleyway two nights before, and decided it was only fair to warn her that she was no longer welcome there.

“Um, I don’t know if you remember me or not, but we recharged in the same alleyway a few nights ago, and I have some news that I think might concern you,” he said. The female looked at him for a few seconds, and then her optics lit up in recognition.

“Oh, yeah! You’re the quiet guy who wouldn’t talk to the rest of us. Whaddaya need to tell me?” she asked.

“I wanted to inform you that the alley which we shared is now off-limits to us. I was woken up this morning by a storekeeper who lives there, and he warned me in no uncertain terms that if he saw any homeless individuals by his store again, he would have them arrested. Since I happened upon you, I felt that I should warn you,” Mirage replied, still a bit uncomfortable with being addressed so casually by one of his (former) social inferiors.

“I can’t say I’m surprised. Wouldn’t be the first time a “decent, law-abiding” street’s cracked down on a bunch of harmless bots, the creeps. But hey, thanks for the tip. The name’s Beacon. Who are you?” she asked.

“It is a pleasure to formally make your acquaintance. I am Mirage.” Beacon looked at him oddly.

“You ain’t never been homeless before, have you?” she asked, surprising him.

“No, I haven’t. How could you tell?”

“Easy. First, you’re real educated; I can tell from the way you talk. Most educated bots who end up on the streets don’t have much experience with them. Second, you just look super uncomfortable with everything. Nobody likes being homeless, but after awhile, you get used to it. The fact that you’re still surprised by what’s happenin’ means that this is new to you. Is there anything you need to know?” Beacon replied.

“Actually, yes. Would the authorities actually have arrested me if I had not left the alleyway when the store’s owner told me to do so?”

“It would depend on the cop, but a lot of them would believe him over any of us and arrest you. You were smart to get outta there. Jail’s no place for anyone, least of all a newbie like you.”

“Thank you for explaining the situation to me,” Mirage replied.

“No problem. Good luck finding another place to recharge.” With that, she walked away, and Mirage sighed wearily. Had it really only been a week since this whole ordeal started? It was starting to feel like a stellar cycle! He walked the rest of the way to the employment agency, and he spent the next two hours waiting for an interview, one that lasted all of two and a half minutes before he was told that he didn’t fulfill the requirements of the position. He, a noblemech, didn’t fulfill the requirements of a job that primarily consisted of bussing tables! This was why he hated job hunting. As there were no other new jobs that had opened up since the previous day, the end of the interview also put an end to the day’s job hunt, and he returned to the streets, scared, frustrated, and more than a little humiliated. Where was he going to go now? After wandering aimlessly for a bit, he eventually returned to the fuel station he had visited the night before and spent his remaining credits on some more cheap fuel, which filled his fuel tanks and bought him some time. If all went well, he might be able to find some way to support himself before his fuel levels ran low again and he was forced to beg for credits just to keep functioning. Once had been more than humiliating enough, thank you very much. When he had finished refueling, he left the station and, now that he was operating at full power, used his in-built cloaking mechanism to turn invisible. Before his home had been destroyed, it had been little more than a novelty device to show off at parties, but now it was his only source of protection. Unfortunately, it was so energy-consumptive that he would only be able to use it for two days, but, by this point, even two days of not being sneered at, ignored, or chased away seemed wonderful.

Two days later, Mirage was still no closer to finding a job, and, since he now had to power down his cloaking device, he had once again lost his only real defense against his situation. However, his desperation to find a job was stronger than his fear of hostile passerbys, so, upon leaving the alley in which he had spent the previous two nights, he started heading back to the employment agency. On his way there, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in a store window, and he winced. He had known that he looked bad, but he hadn’t realized just how bad until he saw his reflection. His handsome blue-and-white plating, which he normally kept in pristine condition, was dented and covered in grime, and his optics were dim from exhaustion. No wonder he kept getting turned down for jobs….he looked absolutely horrendous. But what could he do? He couldn’t clean himself up until he got a roof over his head, and he couldn’t get a roof over his head until he got a job and earned some credits. How could he possibly get out of this situation? Now completely overwhelmed and utterly exhausted, Mirage collapsed to the ground in despair. Things like this weren’t supposed to happen to noblemechs of the Towers! About a minute later, he was approached by a dark green mech. Mirage braced himself for being insulted and chased off-only to be shocked when an enormous smile broke out on the green mech’s faceplates.

“Hi there! My name’s Hound. Who are you?” he asked.

“My name is Mirage. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” Mirage had no idea why this “Hound” had decided to talk to him, but it would have been unspeakably rude to ignore him.

“Nice to meet you, Mirage. Is something wrong?” Mirage was torn between a polite ‘no, I’m fine’ and a truthful ‘yes, my life is falling apart around me and I’m frightened out of my mind’. Desperation drove him to choose the latter.

“Yes! I’m homeless and I’m so low on funds that I can’t even afford to fuel myself. I’ve been trying to find a job for over a week now, but no one’s hiring, and the fact that I’m filthy probably isn’t helping. My chances would undoubtedly improve if I could get access to a washrack, but I can’t get access to one without credits, and I can’t get credits if I don’t have employment. And on top of that, I’ve been insulted, threatened, and chased off by almost everyone I’ve met. I’ve lost everything, even my dignity, and I don’t know what to do.”

“You could stay with me,” Hound replied. Mirage stared at him in shock.

“You would let me do that? But why? I am a stranger to you.”

“Simple. I was homeless at one point myself. I know what it’s like to feel hungry and dirty and worthless, and I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. Somebody helped me out when I was homeless, so, now that I’ve got a job and a place to stay, I feel that I should help you,” Hound replied.

“Thank you. I accept your invitation,” Mirage said. The humiliation of essentially being the charity case of a (former) social inferior still stung, but he knew that he needed assistance badly, and he couldn’t afford to reject such a generous offer. He stood up quickly, not wanting to be helped to his feet, and followed Hound to a small building a few blocks away.

“This is the place. It’s not much to look at, but it’s a good home,” Hound said as he unlocked the door. Mirage wasn’t entirely sure what to think. The building seemed neat and well put-together, but it was still a far cry from the luxury in which he had been raised. He followed Hound into the building, noting that its interior matched its exterior very well. Everything was neat and well put-together, but there was so little of it. It was a simple home for a simple life; a life to which he was not at all accustomed. However, to express such a sentiment would be horribly churlish behavior, and so he simply said,

“You have a very nice home, and I am flattered and grateful that you invited me here.” Hound smiled.

“No problem. I’m just glad I was able to give you a place to stay until you get back on your feet,” he replied, shocking Mirage all over again with how generous he was.

“I promise I will pay you back for your kindness,” Mirage said.

“Pay my kindness forward to someone else, and I’ll call us even,” Hound replied, further puzzling his new houseguest. Hound clearly had very little to give, but he was giving it to a total stranger without any apparent expectation of being repaid. Why?

“I will do so, but I will also repay you for any expenses you incur on my behalf. I make a point of repaying my debts,” Mirage said. He didn’t want to be indebted to anyone, even someone as kind as this commoner.

“All right. I just wanted to let you know that you aren’t obligated to pay me back. Why don’t you go ahead and use the washracks, and then I’ll give you a tour of the place,” Hound replied. He directed Mirage to the washracks, and then left him alone to examine them. Hound’s washracks weren’t nearly as large or ornate as the ones his estate had had, but, much like the rest of the house, they were very well-kept, and he was so thrilled that he would finally be able to clean himself up that he couldn’t bring himself to care about how small they were. Twenty minutes later, he had managed to return his plating to a reasonably acceptable level of cleanliness, and he exited the washracks. Hound met up with him soon after.

“Are you ready for me to show you the rest of the hou…,” Hound said, his voice trailing off as he stared at Mirage’s chest. Mirage promptly looked down at it himself, thinking that perhaps he had missed some dirt or that he had some injury that he had been previously unaware of, but he could see nothing.

“Is something wrong?” he asked. Hound looked afraid, and he had no idea as to why.

“You...you’re a noblemech!” Hound exclaimed, and Mirage realized that when Hound had found him, his family crest, which was printed on his chest, had been covered with grime. Now it was quite visible, and Hound was realizing for the first time just who he had invited into his home. No wonder he had been staring at his chest!

“I am. My full name is Mirage of the Furtim Line, and I’m originally from the Towers District.” Hound kept staring at him.

“Then how’d you end up in the streets of Iacon? I mean, nobody’s immune from a run of bad financial luck, but I can’t imagine that a noblemech like you could have a financial crisis severe enough to end up homeless, not when you probably inherited millions of credits.”

“Four billion credits, actually, but you’re right. Financial problems alone could not have reduced me to such dire poverty.”

“Then what did?” Mirage’s body was wracked with a spasm of grief as he was forcibly reminded of what had happened to his home, but he managed to answer the question anyway.

“The Decepticons, that insurgent group from Kaon, leveled every estate in the Towers District….every estate, that is, but one. Before they launched their assault on the other estates, they invaded mine to use as a base of operations, completely drained my finances, reduced me to a servant in my own home, and then, after they had leveled the other estates, their leader said that he….that he wanted a Towers brat to learn what it was like to have nothing. They turned me out of my home without a credit to my name, and I ended up on the streets,” Mirage explained.

“Wait a minute….Mirage of the Furtim Line… I know you! You’re the owner of the estate poor Voltage wandered onto! You had to have known that he was old and disoriented, but you...you had him dragged off of your estate like he was garbage, and then did nothing while your security guards beat him half to death!” Mirage was immediately swamped with guilt. True, he hadn’t ordered the guards to hurt the old mech, but he hadn’t shown him even a hint of kindness, either, and he certainly hadn’t done anything to protect him from the guards’ brutality. What they did to a vagabond was beneath his concern, he had thought. He knew how wrong he had been, now, having learned firsthand what being poor and powerless was really like, but that didn’t change what he had done to the old mech.

“Yes, I am, but I didn’t know. I didn’t know what it was like to be impoverished,” he said, utterly ashamed. Hound frowned.

“Voltage is a good friend of mine. It took him lunar cycles to recover from the beating he got-and you were complicit in it! I’m of half a mind to throw you out for the pain you caused him,” he said angrily. Mirage felt his spark constrict in fear.

“Please don’t! I know I deserve it, but I really didn’t know! I was thoughtless and arrogant, but if I’d known how much homeless mechs suffer on a daily basis, I never would have hurt him the way I did, and I’m so sorry. Please, let me stay!” Mirage’s body shook so hard from fear that his plating rattled. He didn’t want to go back to the streets! Much to his surprise, Hound’s expression softened.

“Mirage, calm down. I’m still angry about what you did, but I’m not going to throw you out, and I shouldn’t have implied that I was going to. You’ve already been punished more than enough by what’s happened to you; I’m not going to torture you more by dumping you back on the streets. You may have been a stuck-up creep, but you still need my help now. Nobody deserves what you’ve gone through,” he said. Mirage sighed in relief.

“Thank you….for-for your mercy,” he stammered.

“No need to thank me for doing what’s right,” Hound replied.

“There is when you’re the only one doing it,” Mirage said. If their positions had been reversed, he doubted that he would have shown Hound mercy, and he couldn’t understand what motivated Hound to help someone who had once done him and his friends harm.

“In that case, you’re welcome. Now as for that tour I promised…” Hound proceeded to give Mirage an effective, if somewhat terse, tour of his home, ending with his guest room.

“And this is the guest room, where you’ll be recharging.” Mirage gave the room a quick examination. Like everything else in the house, it was smaller and much more unprepossessing than he was accustomed to, but after over a week of having to recharge on the streets of Iacon, having a room at all seemed almost too good to be true.

“It’s very nice. Thank you for offering it to me,” he said.

“I can’t imagine it’s up to your standards,” Hound replied, with just a hint of bitterness in his voice. Mirage winced, knowing what Hound was implying and that it wasn’t entirely wrong. In one sense, his standards were currently so low that any form of shelter would have been able to meet them, but he knew that there was a part of him which still firmly believed that he deserved something much better than what Hound could provide. By now, he was ashamed of that part, but it was definitely still influencing him. He had been bred to expect only the finest in life, and that wasn’t going away overnight, no matter how pompous and selfish it made him look.

“As I said, I’ve been arrogant and self-centered for almost my entire life. It seems to be a harder habit to break than I might like to admit,” he said. Hound smiled weakly.

“At least you’re willing to acknowledge it. A lot of guys in your place wouldn’t even do that. So, with that out of the way, is there anything else you need?” Mirage shook his head. After all Hound had already done for him, how could he possibly ask for more?

“No, but thank you,” he replied.

“In that case, make yourself comfortable. I’ll call you when it’s time to refuel.” With that, he left the room, and Mirage gingerly sat down on the room’s recharging center, still not quite believing what had happened to him. Not only was he-a noblemech!-dependent on the kindness of a pauper to stay off the streets, but the pauper had chosen to show him that kindness despite the harm that he had done to the mech’s friends. It just didn’t add up!

A few hours later, Mirage was awkwardly sipping some of Hound’s energon when there was a knock at the door.

“Are you expecting a visitor?” he asked as Hound walked over to the door.

“No,” Hound replied. Much to Mirage’s surprise, Hound opened the door anyway. On the other side stood a small red mech, with what appeared to be horns on his head.

“Hi, Cliffjumper! Come in! It’s good to see you!” Hound exclaimed. Mirage was puzzled. His creators had taught him that it was dreadfully improper to visit someone’s estate without giving them advance notice, but it seemed that different rules applied here.

“Good to see you too, Hound. What have you been up to?” the red mech, presumably Cliffjumper, replied as he walked inside. Mirage’s discomfort increased exponentially. Hound, despite his kindness, was all but a complete stranger to him, and it seemed less than polite to listen in on his conversation with another mech that Mirage didn’t know.

“Oh, the usual,” Hound replied.

“Still making maps and rescuing mechs like we used to be, then?” Cliffjumper asked.

“You’ve got it,” Hound said. Cliffjumper laughed.

“You’re such a bleeding spark, Hound. So, who’s your newest friend?” Mirage considered turning on his cloaking mechanism to avoid what he was fairly sure would quickly become an awkward situation, but decided that doing so would be unforgivably rude. He stayed put as Hound led Cliffjumper over to him.

“Well, I’m not sure if I’d call us friends, but this is Mirage. Mirage, this is Cliffjumper,” Hound said. Mirage sighed. This was going to be incredibly uncomfortable.

“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Cliffjumper,” he said, painfully aware that he probably sounded terribly pretentious to this mech.

“It’s nice to meet you, too, Mir-” Cliffjumper began. His voice trailed off, and, much like Hound had earlier, he stared at the crest on Mirage’s chest, then looked back up at him in a mixture of shock and fear. Mirage decided that it would probably be best to explain the situation before he was asked about it this time.

“My full name is Mirage of the Furtim Line. I’m a noblemech, and if you’re a friend to Hound, I’m afraid that you’ve probably heard of me,” he said. Cliffjumper scowled and turned to Hound.

“What’s he doing here? Isn’t he too good for a bunch of nobodies like us?” Mirage felt another pang of guilt, knowing all too well what he would have thought of Cliffjumper and Hound a few weeks ago. In response to Cliffjumper’s question, Hound gave a brief explanation of how Mirage had ended up in his home.

“And you’re letting him stay here? After what he did to Voltage?” Cliffjumper demanded.

“Yes. I don’t like what he did to Voltage, either, but I can’t just turn him out,” Hound replied. Cliffjumper scoffed.

“Are you crazy, Hound? Even if he hadn’t had his guards almost kill an old mech, he’s a stuck-up snob. What’s so hard about kicking out a creep like him?”

“Because it would be wrong. Even if he is a stuck-up snob, I’m going to help him. I have to-it’s the right thing to do,” Hound replied.

“He doesn’t deserve your help! If I were you, I’d throw him out-let him learn what it’s like to be pushed around by someone with more power,” Cliffjumper said vindictively. Mirage personally felt that he had received a pretty effective crash course in what that was like already, but he kept his mouth shut on the subject. He really didn’t want to attract the attention of the angry little mech again. Unfortunately for him, Cliffjumper walked back over to him anyways.

“You really think you’re all that, don’t you, Towers brat? I worked for your kind once, and you’re all the same. The only things you care about are your credits and your fancy mansions and your stupid parties. You lived in the lap of luxury while mechs like me and Hound were starving, and now you’ve got the nerve to ask him for help? You’re disgusting.”

“But...but I….”

“What? Don’t you dare tell me that a week on the streets means you understand what our lives are like, you pampered brat,” Cliffjumper spat. Mirage winced. As much as he disliked being shouted at, the smaller mech had a point. Although the past nine solar cycles had been an absolute nightmare, it probably didn’t compare to struggling to make ends meet for your entire life.

“Cliffjumper, that’s enough! I understand that you don’t like him. I don’t particularly like him either, but it’s not right to insult him to his face,” Hound exclaimed.

“Why are you defending him? His guards almost killed our friend, and he stood there and did nothing while they did it!” Mirage felt another spurt of guilt. That poor old mech….

“And he was wrong to do it-but Cliffjumper, he was practically raised to be arrogant and self-absorbed. Can you imagine what growing up surrounded by unimaginable luxury and knowing that you’re going to be the sole inheritor of four billion credits would do to someone? Like I said, that doesn’t make what he did to Voltage right, but it does put it into perspective. Noblemechs are usually raised to believe that they’re naturally superior to others by virtue of their programming. If I’d grown up in his place, I can’t say that I’d have been concerned about someone like Voltage either,” Hound said.

“Well, if he’s staying, then I’m leaving. I’m not gonna help this Towers brat-not after what he did to Voltage. Call me when you come to your senses, Hound,” Cliffjumper replied. With that, he stormed out of the house and slammed the door behind him.

“I apologize, Hound. I had no intention of driving a wedge between you and your friend,” Mirage said, utterly mystified at Hound’s willingness to defend a stranger he didn’t even like to a mech that he was clearly close friends with.

“Don’t worry about it. Cliffjumper’s got a bit of a temper, but give him a week and he’ll be back here like nothing ever happened. He doesn’t always agree with me, but he never stays angry for more than a few solar cycles. We’re too close for anything to drive a wedge between us for very long ,” Hound replied.

“I’m very thankful that you stood up for me, but I don’t understand! If I were you, I would hate me, and yet you’ve shown me nothing but kindness. Why?”

“Because there’s too much hatred in the world. Somebody’s gotta break the cycle, and it might as well be me,” Hound replied. Mirage shook his head and decided to escape to something that he could understand.

“Would it be all right if I went back to the employment agency? I do not wish to live off of your kindness for any longer than I must,” he asked.

“You don’t have to ask me for permission to leave the house, you know. I’m not keeping you prisoner here. If you want to go find a job, that’s fine by me,” Hound replied. With that, Mirage engaged his cloaking mechanism and moved to leave.

“On the other hand, maybe I could introduce you to my employer,” Hound said suddenly. Mirage disengaged his cloak and turned around in surprise.

“Are you certain he would want me? I used to be so self-absorbed and cruel, and even if he doesn’t care about that, I don’t really have any job experience,” he said. Hound smiled.

“Well, that’s the thing about Optimus Prime. He takes everybody...even ex-aristocrats like you, vengeful little mechs like Cliffjumper, and unemployed, homeless mapmakers like me. How do you think I got off the streets?” he replied. Mirage stared at Hound in shock.

“You work for the Prime ?”

“Yeah. You want me to take you to him?” Hound replied.

“Certainly...if you’re certain he’ll have me,” Mirage said.

“I’m sure he will. After all, he needs everyone he can get to protect the planet from the aggression of the Decepticons….especially if they’ve really destroyed the Towers District like you said. Welcome to the Autobot Resistance, Mirage. I think this is going to be the start of a wonderful friendship,” Hound replied. Mirage smiled, feeling hopeful for the first time in what seemed like an eternity.

“After what you’ve done for me? I should think so!” Mirage replied.

“It was nothing,” Hound said.

“For you, maybe. But for me, it was everything.”

#transformers g1 #fanfic #mirage transformers #hound transformers #poverty #homelessness

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complicatedandstained · 4 years

Text

Rules of Engagement: Fake It ‘Til You Make It

The road is still rough along the side streets of Radiant Garden, the concrete pathways lined with cracks and crevices deep-set as Yen Sid’s frown lines and rough with rubble and particularly stubborn weeds that spring up against all odds—dandelions, mostly. The Restoration Committee has higher priorities. So, Roxas has become something of an expert at curving his skateboard around the worst of it, coaxing his wheels out of divots and dips without stopping his progress entirely.

He’s cleared some of the alleyways around Axel’s forge of debris himself, and now glides from the main thoroughfare onto one such side street to avoid running into anyone else and making himself any later than he already is.

Although, he thinks, as he glances up to the suns, climbing higher toward midday, and readjusts the bags beneath his arm, at this rate another half hour won’t make a huge difference.

Roxas inhales a mouthful of charcoal and jumps his winged board over the most jagged pothole in the alley, his wheels rattling their objections as he sticks the landing and slows. The forge’s back door, which they all keep meaning to replace, is a hastily hammered together collection of boards, painted black with fire-retardant and sprayed with a jagged white 813 by whoever does that sort of thing.

Probably Demy, Roxas supposes, trying to mark the spot for his wildly erratic delivery route.

Like many of the recompleted Organization members who had been reunited with their own bodies, (or else given the Radiant Garden scientists quite a shock when they had awoken in the replicas’ chamber), Demy had chosen to take advantage of Leon’s offer to help repopulate and rehabilitate the world many of them had been born in. In doing so, the members had to prove themselves a benefit to society through hard work, education, and community service.

Jiminy Cricket offered them each regular therapy sessions, and they were required to pass a psychiatric evaluation before permanently moving to any other worlds. So far, rumor had it, only Isa had managed, but he had chosen to stay. They were each assigned “Sponsors of Light” to aid them in their progress.

Xigbar likened the entire situation to house arrest on more than one occasion, but the former Org members mainly kept their grumbling to themselves. There were certainly worse arrangements to be had than being allowed to carry out their new lives in exile on their former home world. They’d all died enough times to know that.

They were held accountable by both the Restoration Committee Leaders and the new Council of Keyblade Masters, who, with the assistance of keyblade armor, were able to make their rounds through the worlds faster than Sora’s Gummi Ship ever had and keep the peace. Roxas, Axel, and Xion had been asked to join them on their peace-keeping journeys, and, maybe, probably, eventually, they would. But, after being forced to exchange so much of their youth so far for fighting Heartless 24/7, they had decided to live as close to normal lives as they were able, for the time being, (and the Keyblade Masters had likely breathed a private sigh of relief, especially since Axel’s exact initial response had been ‘Fuck that’).

Roxas hops off his skateboard, pops his board up into his waiting hand, and sets it against the aged brick wall beside another rebellious pack of wispy white dandelions that he and Axel haven’t found it in their hearts to uproot.

Roxas doesn’t—hasn’t ever—knocked on the door to Axel’s forge, and he doesn’t today. Still, he can’t stop himself from thinking of it as Axel’s, even though Axel considers it theirs—even though Roxas has spent many long, sweaty days, helping Leon and his crew construct the thing and harnessing his fire magic to learn the basics of the trade at his boyfriend’s side.

At the end of the day, it’s Axel’s peace time passion project, something besides finishing up his education and keyblade training, something that’s entirely his own. So, at Roxas’ insistence, it’s Axel’s name on the sign out front, and the deed, and the contracts with the Restoration Committee.

And he’d had to fight for it.

Most of the former members of the Organization weren’t permitted to take up quite such dangerous lines of work. Isa, for example, had been in charge of coordinating gardening, landscaping, and agriculture with Laurium for several months before The Council of Keyblade Masters (Aqua, Terra, and Riku) permitted him to take up a management position at Leon’s side, allocating human resources for the Restoration Committee.

Similarly, Xemnas’ venture into penning New Radiant Garden’s first newspaper were heavily criticized, and his articles and e-newsletters regularly vetted for ‘Dark Propaganda,’ so that the first twenty editions were nothing more than tremendously, intrusively accurate gossip rags, and, when that didn’t fly, painstakingly, comically accurate accounts of the town’s most mundane events, including an in depth feature report on Leon’s favorite sandwich toppings, complete with quotes and multiple eye witness accounts.

It took half a year (and some nudging from Isa) before Xemnas was allowed to print anything remotely political or consequential, though once he began, he quickly proved himself just as capable of factual, unbiased journalism as he had been at penning a wickedly witty exposé on Xigbar’s brief but passionate on-and-off-again romantic trysts. (This was, of course, before Xigbar got himself tossed in the castle dungeon for allegedly attempting to portal his Sponsor of Light off a cliff. Although his sentence is up for appeal, last Roxas heard, because Xigbar claims he thought ducks could fly.)

Axel’s fortunate that he didn’t have to spend a year proving himself (and has been told so—repeatedly.)

The town needed a forge, and Axel was uniquely qualified for the position. (And the Council had wanted him out of their hair. He had proved quite persistent.) So, Axel had gotten what he wanted. Seventeen petition speeches later.

Isa warned them it was a lot to take on in addition to classes, keeping up with their keyblade training, and community service, but Axel enjoyed using his fire for something constructive and Roxas saw the peace it brought him, so they made it work.

“Yo, Axel! ‘M back!” Roxas calls, pushing his way inside with the ridge of his hip and scuffing his sneakers against the mat to remove the excess construction dirt. “I know I said I was gonna be, like, ten minutes tops, but, I mighta gotten distracted…”

“In here, Roxas…” Axel answers from inside the shop, above the clang of metal on metal and hiss of sparks. “Come in here where I can see you.”

Roxas passes through the back hallways, neatly lined with the stray supplies and freshly forged weapons and tools, in styles and cuts inspired by a variety of worlds, and enters the central workshop. Large windows allow breaths of fresh air and cast white light that’s hard to look at and doesn’t do as good a job at illuminating the large open space as the orange and yellow blazes of the large central fire burning at the heart of the forge beneath its stone chimney.

Everything is cast in flickering shades of flame and shadow: the mounted anvil, racks of tools, barrels of water and sand, carts bearing hunks of metal needing repurposed and the neatly arranged shelves toward the entrance, mounting wares to be sold. Even Axel in his tight, light fabric britches, tunic, and heavy leather apron is cast in gold, white, and crimson as he works, stretching gleaming white molten metal between his bare fingertips with the ease of a sculptor shaping clay.

“Well, hey, sexy.” Axel grins, head cocking to get a better view of Roxas, as carelessly attractive as ever, his hair windswept and his cheeks and ears slightly flushed from his skateboarding, or maybe just the rising temperature of the shop.

Roxas’ smile broadens in spite of himself. “Hey…”

“That errand took seven hundred times longer than anticipated.” Axel shapes the hot metal between his fingers, and it looks sticky and elastic, like dough. He flicks his wrist, causing flames to engulf all of it once more, and begins to swirl it into an elaborate spiral before balling it up again.

“Sorry, Axel.” Roxas winces, chagrinned. “First, I had to wait for Leon to get out of a meeting, so I could give him the supplies and explain what was what. Then we delivered them, and then he wanted me to lend him a hand with a quick project, only it wasn’t actually a quick project, in reality.

“Then I was on my way back here, swear to the gods, but I stopped into Aerith’s house for just a minute to say hello to Xion, and she wanted me to taste-test her cupcakes, and she was so excited, I couldn’t say no, and then, on my way out, I ran into Xemnas, and you know how much Xemnas likes to talk, and I just kinda lost track of time….” Roxas scuffs his foot sheepishly, the arm that’s not laden with bags stretching behind his head, ringed fingers rubbing at the back of his neck, a habit of Axel’s he’s picked up for himself. “Again.”

Axel chuckles, a sultry purr that Roxas only ever hears him use when there’s no one else around, deeper and less controlled than his usual mocking, lilting laugh. “It’s okay, Roxas, I don’t need the whole mission report. I wasn’t really expecting anything less after the last five times.” He turns toward the chimney so the piece he’s working on won’t drip molten steel to the floor, and flicks a hand carelessly over his shoulder, spraying sparks, as he teases, “I know you don’t know how to say no to people.”

In actuality, Axel knows no force in the universe could make the powerful keyblade wielder do anything he didn’t want to do—not any more. But, the guy is far too helpful for his own good.

“Well,” one of Roxas’ brows rises, and his smile tilts, as he draws closer and deadpans, “I was raised by a cult.”

Axel snorts, catching Roxas’ eye before turning toward the anvil, shifting the shape of the steel in his hand into something more distinctly sword-shaped, as he steps and then setting it down, dismissing the fire engulfing his hands. “Is that why I’m doing all these orders for Leon?” Axel hefts a large hammer from the ground and props it against his shoulder, before turning to glance at Roxas again. “And here I thought I was just a good guy.”

Axel brings the hammer down on the sword with a harsh clang that sends up sparks that remind Roxas of the fireflies the pair of them chased the time they tried camping on the edge of town.

“You are a good guy,” Roxas assures him firmly, stepping up to the other side of the anvil to watch Axel’s progress and to see his face, glowing golden bronze in the light. A black smudge of ash on one of his cheeks reminds Roxas of the tattoos he used to wear. Roxas feels an unexpected pang, something to the left of nostalgia.

Axel brings the hammer down hard again with a grunt and then wastes a couple precious seconds to grin back. “I love it when you lie to me.”

“Axel…” Roxas’ tone grows exasperated, his smile thinner, more wry. He hopes Axel doesn’t mean that, but admires his blatant refusal to stay in line with whatever overstepping behaviors the powers that be demand of him in the name of what’s “right.”

“Roxas…” Axel mimics his tone, and then huffs and keeps swinging. It’s a conversation they’ve had a hundred times before in one form of another.

Another few blows pass in silence broken only by the song of metal and hiss of smoke and embers, and then Axel lifts the sword-to-be by the hilt, reshaping the metal with the heat of his palm as he does, smoothing out the jutting upper ridges of the hand guards under his thumb while inspecting his handiwork.

Roxas follows his movements in quiet admiration. Axel’s swift motions have a practiced ease and fluidity not unlike the way he fights, slicing through Heartless with his chakram…

Axel frowns a bit at a flaw Roxas’ eyes can’t detect, and jerking his head to indicate Roxas step back, dunks the sword into a barrel of cold water and then raises it, steaming and silver, into the air with a single sizzling swipe.

Roxas hums in admiration as Axel sets the weapon down to cool atop the anvil with a mild sigh, the steam around his hands evaporating quickly to reveal his face, tired but unflushed. “I’ll fix it later. Think it’s time for a breather.”

Roxas nods, and Axel sets his tools to rights and steps up to join him. Without discussion, they seat themselves on a wrought iron bench below one of the wide, open bell-shaped windows at the front of the shop. From there they can feel the breeze breathe against their flushed faces and listen to the birds calling out to each other in the park a few blocks down.

Once they’ve settled themselves, their thighs pressed against each other, ankles linking, Roxas licks his thumb and reaches out to rub at the smudge of ash on Axel’s cheek. “You are doing a good job,” Roxas reiterates. “You know that, right? Like, fucking…” his words fade off, vulnerable and fragile in their quietness, “incredible.”

“Roxas…” Axel catches Roxas’ hand in his and closes his eyes above the gentle brush of Roxas’ calloused thumb. With his hand wrapped in Axel’s, Roxas can feel the racing of Axel’s pulse and the sticky heat and ash coating his skin. Axel inhales deeply, trying to relax and smiles, lazy, superficial. “Roxas, Roxas, Roxas… You’re the good guy. I’m just along for the ride.”

Axel lowers their hands into his lap, though Roxas hasn’t quite fixed the smudge on his cheek so much as streaked it into the teardrop shape it had reminded him of in the first place. Axel wraps both of his hands around Roxas’ and pats it in a way that feels both condescending and sweet.

Roxas laughs, a short skeptical bark. “You’re the one always bragging about being made a Guardian of Light.”

Axel exhales through his nose, somewhere between amused and frustrated. Roxas feels his pulse start to simmer down.

“Yeah, well, you weren’t there.” Axel half smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes, though they seem to glow, Heartless-like, in the dark space. He jabs Roxas in the arm with his elbow to lighten the gravity of the accusation. “The standards were fairly low.”

Roxas huffs and is about to elbow him back, when Axel leans in and rests his cheek in Roxas’ hair, a gesture which makes Roxas’ insides so gooey he can’t think of a response right away, except to curl his hand tighter into Axel’s.

“I was selfish. I just wanted to get you back,” Axel continues. “You, and Isa, and the others… That’s all I thought of while I was training. You, especially. I mean, they’d told me you were as good as…”

The feel of Axel’s entire body shivering makes Roxas’ spine go rigid, especially in the pervasive heat of the smoky room with its still merrily burning hearth.

“But I didn’t, couldn’t, believe them,” his voice cracks, fingers tracing the bones of Roxas’. “Not for a second. I mean,” his voice starts to get shallow, so he pushes for playful and misses the mark, “what kind of gods would bring back me and not you, right?” His laughter reminds Roxas of glass breaking.

“Hey,” Roxas’ words take on an edge, flat and blunt, “don’t. Don’t do that. We saved the fucking worlds, you and me,” he reminds him. He’s had to remind himself on more than one occasion since, when the other Keyblade wielders had lost patience with him, and when he had lost patience with himself.

Axel shakes his head slightly, further mussing Roxas’ soft hair, still warm from the noon rays of the Radiant Garden suns. “Honestly, after I saved you, the rest of the worlds didn’t matter so much.”

Roxas wishes he could meet Axel’s eyes, but doesn’t want to jolt him and interrupt the soft, warm, exhales ruffling his hair. “But you did it anyway,” Roxas insists, raising their folded hands until he can press his lips against Axel’s knuckles.

“Well, yeah,” Axel scoffs at himself, his bravado and hypocrisy and desperation, “but…” He trails off, distracted as Roxas’ lips dampen his skin, and then Roxas lowers their hands again, as if Roxas has finally started to forget such a casually intimate gesture could have gotten them killed once upon a time.

“Why?” Roxas coaxes.

Axel scoffs again, thinking of everything that had been riding on those moments in the Keyblade Graveyard. He remembers the blinding white glow of Kingdom Hearts overhead burning his eyes even when he shut them—the electric pull of its gravity, threatening to encompass every place he had ever known and every place he and Roxas could have, like the Darkness that had swallowed his childhood home whole, alive, and squirming.

“Whaddya mean, why?” Axel sputters, voice growing louder with indignance. “There wasn’t a why.” He laughs at the absurdity of it, shaking his head again, sounding more than a little manic. “I only did it ‘cause I was there and it was the right thing, the only thing to… Oh.”

Axel lifts his head from Roxas’ hair, and Roxas twists his neck to meet widened green eyes.

“Oh,” Axel repeats more softly, as Roxas’ lips curl into a satisfied grin.

“The right thing to do. Huh.” Axel reaches up to rub the back of his neck. “Faked it ‘til I made it, I guess.”

Roxas rolls his eyes, but his tight-lipped grin splits open into a real smile. “Idiot.” He reaches up to cup Axel’s cheek in his palm. “I am so fucking hopelessly in love with you.”

“Yeah,” Axel mumbles and bites his lip, eyes darting to the side in embarrassment, and then back to Roxas’ because he can’t help himself. “I know. Sucks to be you.”

The pair lean in for a kiss, but Roxas falters and pulls back, arm caught on the three bags weighing it down.

“Oh!” His eyes widen, glancing down and then back up. “I forgot. I brought you something to apologize for being gone so long.”

Axel’s eyes narrow, lips pursing skeptically, his fingertips tracing Roxas’ jaw. “Is it a kiss?”

Roxas shrugs the handles of a paper bag from his forearm and lifts the still warm parcel onto his lap. “Ta-da.”

“Ah, Roxas.” Axel’s nose crinkles, as he leans back, and his free hand reaches to unfold the paper bag. “You didn’t need to go to any trouble...”

“It’s freshly baked, flaky, crescent-wrapped jalapeño poppers from Lar—Elrena’s tavern.”

Axel peers into the bag to see the savory pastries and inhales a whiff of the buttery, spicy morsels, which sets his mouth watering.

“You brought me pub food? See? I knew you cared,” Axel teases, his thumb stretching to the edge of Roxas’ thin smile, and giving it a tug up that makes Roxas cackle and glare, his golden brows dipping down below the bangs he gets when his hair starts to fall flat. Axel’s hand curls around the bag, folding it closed again with a crinkling sound. “Apology accepted. But I also want...” His free hand rises to catch the neck of Roxas’ tee and draw him closer, until his nose near brushes Roxas’ again.

Roxas hums, their lips a breath apart. He can’t hold up the glare, smiles again, a softer thing, his heart beating a slow anthem against Axel’s palm on his chest. “Guess I can do that.” He tilts his head. His pale, unwavering blue eyes burn when they’re so close, like matchsticks held to Axel’s bare skin, but he doesn’t mind. “Forgive me?” Roxas asks on a breath.

“Nothing to forgive,” Axel dismisses, and then their lips slip together. All tension and fear and stress and insecurity evaporates as their hearts beat against each other. Roxas tastes like frosting and smells like spring, wind and petals, and when Axel’s tongue wraps his, it burns like salt and smoke. Axel lifts Roxas into his lap, their mouths moving together and their hands snagging at fabric, tugging each other closer, harder, holding tight, muscle sliding against muscle. Their desperation makes it as impossibly clear as ever that they haven’t forgotten for a moment what separation tastes like, the way it rent hollow, echoing chambers in their chests. But pressed together, kissing, they feel like they are home.

#kingdom hearts #akuroku #axel #roxas #xigbar #demyx #post kh3 #xion #isa #xemnas #rules of engagement #radiant garden gazette #my writing

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