#Black geriatric care managers | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

enviedear · 1 year ago

Text

i've been going solo now ⟶ ben solo

description ⌙ when you get a distress signal from your dad and his life-long goon you're quick to try and come to their rescue. only problem? so is ben solo.

pairing ⌙ smuggler!ben solo x f!reader

warnings ⌙ childhood crush/frenemies turned adults with horrible communication skills, reader is the daughter of lando (biologically or not you decide), ben is a jerk, reader is a brat, petty arguments, forced proximity trope, inner conflict all the time, han and lando are just two pals getting into serious issues that their kids have to fix don't mind them (they're just mentioned), most likely incorrect knowledge of the falcon & starship parts, smuggler!ben solo au because that's canon to me, ben calls reader kid (affectionate, kinda), typos probabaly

word count ⌙ 4.1k

— request | masterlist

i just think ben solo is very much solo by future coded and i wanted to write about smuggler!ben and his smug attitude. special thanks to @crucifiedfaerie for letting me gush over this idea constantly in our dms <3

you never had the stomach for killing— the thought of it or the act itself. the notion of ending someone's life has always been abhorrent to you, leaving a sour sensation in your mouth that lingers long after the deed is done. but right now, you sit, filled with a growing and seemingly unstoppable rage that practically demands blood.

"don't even think about jumping into hyperspace, solo!" your voice is loud but erratic.

the black-haired man piloting the ship gives you a side eye, "and waste hours getting there? sure thing, kid."

you grip the co-pilot seat as hard as possible as he sends the absolutely geriatric ship into lightspeed. the force of it sends your head back onto the headrest, and you screw your eyes shut until the motion of the ship stills.

you've been flying with ben solo on the millennium falcon for a day and a half now, and this isn't even the first time you've wanted to kill him.

no, you'd harbored a hatred for ben solo for as long as you could remember. when you were little your father frequently left you in the care of the organa-solo's. any trip too risky for you to follow him on had you spending time on chandrila han and leia— and ben.

he was a few years older than you and so insufferable - spoiled rotten and full of mischief. the two of you would inevitably end up in scuffles over something, whether it be who got to shower first or which holovid show to watch. you often wondered how your father, han, or leia had managed to handle both of you. a hardheaded pair of troublemakers that needed little excuse to start bickering with one another.

but beneath it all, there had been another layer to your complex relationship with ben solo. even though you feigned anger whenever near him, deep down there had been an admiration growing since those early days spent together. your naive heart fluttered when he would absentmindedly flash his ever-present smirk in your direction. but you'd never admit or act upon any such feelings.

naviagting your crush had been difficult at first. especially having lando calrissian as a parent. you were forced to spend weeks around the source of your teen angst because of your father.

what use is a dad that can sweet-talk a jablogian if he can't fix your unwanted crush on his best friend's son.

you've cursed at his image in your mind every time you look at your ridiculous companion. if not for him, you wouldn't be with ben right now— you'd have never had the displeasure of his company.

you got away from the young solo, and most everyone else, for a good five years, hopping from planet to planet, picking up any honest work. which usually meant boring work— factory jobs, service stuff, a few instances of babysitting.

your life without ben solo is predictable and a little boring.

but you'd rather be bored than deal with the recklessness that becomes your life every time you see the smuggler.

but here you sit beside him, forced to spend an unknown amount of days with him until the both of you find your idiotic fathers.

you had gotten a rouge comm-link message from your dad just days ago. he sounded fine, voice still leisurely and warm, but it was his words that were worrisome, "han's got us in a bit of trouble, little star. would you mind coming to help your old man out? we're somewhere in the trilon sector— i'd try batuu first!"

when you got the message, your mind had gone into autopilot. you had rushed to comm leia, which had been a fatal mistake, as she had ordered her son to pick you up and accompany you. so now you're here, stuck with ben solo and his frightening flying.

"you know, dad should have warned me i'd be flying with a coward." ben's lips are curved into a grin, as usual with his teasing.

you whip your head in his direction, eyes ablaze, "well my father should have warned me that you've gotten even more annoying, somehow."

ben narrows his eyes, a stupid smirk still plastered to his face, "whatever you say, kid."

you feel your blood go hot, why he decided to start calling you kid, you didn't know, but you do know you hate it.

ben's barely your senior, only twenty-three years of age in comparison to your twenty. besides he behaves like an out-of-hand teen away.

"stop calling me that." you groan.

ben chuckles, "aw, what's the matter, kid? tired of following orders already?"

you grit your teeth, the way he talks down to you will forever get under your skin, "i don't take orders from you, solo."

"sure you do. you're on my ship, remember?" ben retorts, his eyes focused on the coordinates displayed to his left.

you cross your arms over your chest, "we're supposed to be working together to find han and my father and get them out of trouble, not bickering like children."

ben rolls his eyes, "it's not my fault you're so uptight."

you take a deep breath, trying to calm yourself down. you can't afford to lose your temper and start a fight, not when you're relying on him to get you to your destination safely. so, you force a smile, "look, can we just be civil? we're both here because we care about our dads and want to help them."

ben's expression softens a little, "fine. but if you start nagging at me again, i can't promise i won't call you kid."

you roll your eyes, "deal. now, can you tell me more about what's going on? my dad was pretty vague in his message."

ben hums, "same with mine. all i know is that lando got mixed up in some kind of shady deal, and now he's in trouble with a gang of criminals called the ninth sun. my mom's been trying to negotiate with them, but they're not ones to bend the knee."

you groan, "of course not. what's the plan?"

he shakes a stray black strand of hair from his eye, "no plan, just find them and go from there."

"lovely, that's totally going to work," you bite your lip, "oh and, it was han who made the sketch deal, not my dad."

ben shrugs, "and who told you that?" he rests his elbow on the armrest and brings his hand to his chin, "lando?"

you clench your fists, "let's just focus on finding them. no need to dwell on the semantics."

ben glances at you and for a moment, you swear there's a flicker of something in his eyes. something other than his usual teasing, mischievous demeanor, but it's gone as quickly as it came and he turns back to the console.

the ship hums steadily beneath you, and the silence between you two stretches on, broken only by the occasional beep from the controls. you fidget in your seat, uncomfortable with the unfamiliar hush. you've never been around ben so long without saying anything, and you're about to speak up before he interrupts you.

"we'll have to make a pit stop, i need to refuel." his voice sounds tired.

you nod, "alright. any nearby planets we can stop at?"

ben checks the navicomputer, "yeah, there's one a couple of light years away. i've been there before, it's not too bad."

"okay solo, lead the way." you say, leaning back in your seat.

as he pilots the ship toward the destination, you can't help but study him from the corner of your eye. he's changed since the last time you saw him. the boy who used to pull your hair and steal your toys has grown into a man. he's lean and toned with longer hair, still as sable black as ever. it falls into his eyes, despite how much he wills it not to, giving him a slightly disheveled look that you can't help but find attractive.

you rue the thoughts plaguing your own mind.

the embarrassment you used to feel over your crush has come back ten-fold. the feeling shocks you. he's trying to act all suave and mature, but you know deep down that he's still the same old ben who annoyed the life out of you. you can feel the familiar tug in your heart every time he speaks, and you know he can't have changed much over the years. not when he's making you feel just like you're fourteen again.

but there is something different about him now. maybe it's the way he pilots the ship with ease– no longer the boy who'd cover his ears ar take off, or maybe it's just the way his muscles flex under his tight-fitting shirt. he's almost mesmerizing.

it's clear that he's been doing this for a long time, navigating the stars all alone with nothing but his shitty attitude and perfect hair. you find yourself marveling over him, sure and smooth, his hands deftly moving over the controls.

ever the realist, you try to shake off the feeling, but it's proving difficult. you feel a strange urge to preserve your current addiction.

as you watch him fly, you feel a fixation building within you. it's a sentiment you haven't felt in years, not felt since the last time you saw him.

you try to push the feeling down, knowing that it's not the time to have those kinds of thoughts. you're supposed to be focused on finding your fathers and not getting killed by some lethal syndicate, not lusting after your childhood nemesis.

you feel wrong stealing glances at him, trying to understand what's changed and why you're feeling this way. you're towing a dangerous, line. especially if those feelings are inspired by ben organa-solo.

finally, after what feels like hours, you arrive at the refueling station. as soon as ben lands the ship, you stretch your legs inside the falcon, looking out at the new scenery. the planet is bathed in the evening light, and the scene around you is wide awake. the station itself is a bustling hub of activity, with all kinds of alien species milling about.

ben leads the way to the fueling station, where he begins filling up the ship's tanks. you stand by the ship's entrance, people-watching. your eyes find ben's figure again, and you let them stall. when he looks your way, you advert your gaze and step out of the falcon, swiftly approaching him.

the evening air is cool as it hits your skin. this planet is a strange one, with vibrant purple plants and thick, white fog swirling around. but you don't pay too much attention to it, your eyes are locked on ben.

he's leaning against the ship, checking over the fuel meter with a frown on his face. you walk over to him and clear your throat, expecting to get his attention.

he looks up at you, eyes meeting your own. you feel your heart skip a beat, and you curse yourself for being soft for him.

"you know, you didn't have to follow me out here." he mumbles, hand coming to brush the hair from his eyes.

you hum, "i didn't have anything better to do."

he ignores you and looks back at the fuel gauge, his eyebrows furrow, "i found something for you to do." his voice is monotone, but you're all too familiar with the subtle cut of annoyance within.

"what does that mean?" you own voice comes out a bit too anxious.

ben groans before looking at you, "one of the damn tanks has a leak— i told chewie to fix that weeks ago." he follows up his words with a few curses before kicking the faulty gas tank.

you roll your eyes, "can't we just get another one? i'm sure if we go inside someone would know where we could get another one."

"the problem isn't finding one," he tsks at you, "the problem is that this tank has been leaking fuel into the beacon finder. without that, we're never finding our dear old dads."

your heart sinks. you had been so sure that you would find your dad quickly, but now it looks like that might not be the case. "so, what do you suggest we do?" you ask, crossing your arms over your chest.

"i'll have to fix the beacon," he sighs, "luckily i have the tools for it, but i need to find one more part, and with the sun setting soon…" he trails off, letting his silence complete the sentence for him.

you take in a deep breath at his implication. you can tell what he is suggesting without explicitly stating it.

you will be stuck on this planet with him tonight and forced to share the same cramped room. you thank god for separate cots, at least.

you try to ignore the warmth creeping up your ears, but you know that it's a losing battle. you haven't shared a room with ben solo since you were kids, endless unwilling sleepovers at each other's houses. but those instances were filled with innocent pranks and arguments, not the tension and longing glances you've found yourself giving him.

"alright," you say, trying to keep your voice even, "we'll just get the part and fix the beacon. the faster we fix this, the faster we can find our fathers and get back to our lives." you move towards the entrance of the fueling station, wanting to put space between you and ben.

"you mean so you can get back to your life." he calls out to you, and you look back at him only to be met with contempt in his brown eyes, "the one where you avoid me."

you give him a sharp eye roll before making your way toward a small gaggle of vendors, much more interested in finding this part. ben follows closely behind you, and you can feel the weight of his stare on the back of your head.

you're at a loss as to why ben solo would ever care that you've been avoiding him for the last five years. the ben you remember would've never batted an eye. when did that change?

you find a vendor selling the part that ben needs, and you both split the payment before heading back to the falcon. ben sets to work on the beacon, and you sit nearby, supposedly looking over the coordinates but mostly watching him work.

there's an abnormal sense of calm that fills you as you watch him. concentration is etched on his face, lips bitten bright red. you can't help but admire him, not for the sake of not trying.

you're brought back to reality when he starts cursing under his breath, "what's wrong?" you ask, moving closer to him.

"this damn thing won't budge," he grunts, trying to pry apart two pieces of the beacon.

you move to his side, peering down at the device. his breath is hot on your cheek, and you feel an urge to shiver. trying to focus on the task at hand you take a few breaths.

your eyes keep drifting to his lips, the way they move when he curses. you shake your head, trying to clear the inappropriate thoughts from your mind. "let me help," you offer, reaching for one of the tools he's using.

he hands it to you, and you lean in closer, your sides pressed together as you work the tool. you can feel his heat exuding into you, a warmth that isn't just from the planet's humid air. you try to focus, but it's becoming increasingly difficult. every time he moves, you catch a whiff of his scent, musky and rich, and your mind starts to wander to places it shouldn't.

finally, after what feels like an eternity, the piece pops free, and ben lets out a sigh of relief. he turns to you, a small smile on his face, and you can't help but smile back. his eyes lock onto yours, and suddenly, the air between you is charged with something foreign.

you let your tone come out sardonic, "looks like i saved the day. you're welcome, solo."

ben tilts his head, eyes narrowing, "you're a brat, kid."

"i thought i told you to stop calling me that." you want to hit him.

"i said i had a condition," he pauses, arms coming to either side of you, palms pressing into the falcon's floor, effectively trapping you against him, "a condition you just broke. so you're back to kid, kid."

you feel your resolve slipping, "you're the worst. you always have been, and i can see now that will never change."

he has the audacity to let out an amused breath, "if you're going to say shit like that, at least mean it."

your brows furrow, "pardon me? as if i don't mean that."

his hands creep from the ground and to your hips, you gasp as he pulls you in closer. if he were anyone else, you'd expect him to kiss you next, but he's not anyone else. so instead, he cranes down and whispers in your ear, his breath hot against your skin. "i know you want me," he growls, his fingers digging into your clothed flesh. "don't act like you don't,"

you're completely caught off guard, and before you can respond, he's pulling away from you and grabbing the beacon. you watch in silent horror as he makes for the falcon's exit, leaving you confused on the floor.

you sit there, rooted to the spot, your mind and body in turmoil. you know if you follow him you'd just be throwing yourself into a petty or embarrassing altercation.

what did he mean by that anyway? how could he possibly know?

taking a steadying breath, you turn away from your seat and make for the other side of the ship. you need to keep yourself busy until nighttime, and you know that there's some maintenance to do on one of the storage bays. when you get there, however, it's already been taken care of. your fists clench in frustration as you realize ben must have done it earlier.

you start searching around the ship for any other tasks that might help keep your mind off things and pass the time more quickly- checking cords, tidying up shelves or going through supplies lists so nothing gets low.

the hours seem to stretch on endlessly despite how much work you manage to do, and all too soon darkness begins to fill the sky outside of the cockpit windows. with a heavy sigh, you head back towards where you and ben had been working earlier. he's back now, tinkering away with the beacon as if nothing had ever happened between the two of you earlier— as if his words hadn't sent a tremble down your spine and confused the emotions tumbling through your mind.

you catch an expectant glance from him when he finally notices your presence. you're sure he's expecting you to say something to him. maybe he wants you to yell.

you don't say anything though, instead offering only a terse nod before checking the endless cords around you.

your fingers move quickly and expertly over the tangled cords, your mind too preoccupied to focus on anything else. but you can feel his gaze on you, burning through the back of your skull like a branding iron. his presence is suffocating and you know that if you don't get a handle on your emotions soon, you'll combust.

eventually, you're so lost in thought that you almost miss the soft footfalls approaching you. you turn to see ben standing beside you, his eyes locked onto yours. the air between you is thick with strain, unspoken words, and feelings. there are so many things you want to say to him, but you don't know where to begin.

"so," his voice breaks through the silence like a blaster shot. "when are we going to talk about it?"

you hear the depth in his baritone voice and it's all you can do to keep your face neutral, your thoughts collected, "talk about what?" you ask, even though you know perfectly well what he's referring to.

"about me and you," he says, voice low but insistent, "or we can just keep ignoring it. the tension seems to be getting us pretty far."

your expression shifts as you take in his words, the longing that had been coiled in so tightly before now coming to the surface. you can feel yourself flustering under the intensity of his watch but you refuse to look away, instead lifting your chin higher and narrowing your eyes.

"there is no us, solo," you say firmly, though your voice is riddled with a hint of something else entirely, "there never has been, and never will be."

ben seems unfazed by your words, his eyes steady and intense. "you say that," he says, his voice softening. "but i know you better than anyone else. and i know there's some part of you that actually likes me. i bet it pisses you off, doesn't it?"

he's right— it does piss you off that your heart can't seem to let him go. no matter how annoying you find him, he's beautiful and confident. and he does know you better than anyone. he knows what buttons to press and how hard. with ben, there's always the thrill of how perceptive he is— that he can see through the walls of anger and indifference you try so hard to build up around yourself.

you can feel your will crumbling under his words, your heart throbbing in your chest, but still, you push back, "even if there is something there, solo," you say, your voice shaking slightly, "it doesn't change anything. we're two different people living two very different lives."

ben smirks, "you don't know anything about my life."

you let your eyes roll, "as if the life you lead is some kind of mystery," you take a deep breath, "i mean, what's to know? you fly alone, smuggle, and rack up credits. that's your life, solo."

he hums, right hand finding a home beside your head on the wall, "you know me so well, kid. you should write a book."

you feel inexplicably hot, "maybe i will. a long book of all the reasons you piss me off."

he doesn't respond, just looks down at you for an uncomfortable amount of time. he pushes himself from the wall and you, twisting and letting his back hit the durasteel wall. his face is turned to you, eyes downcast.

"you know," he says finally, breaking the silence, "i remember when we were kids, it was always you who used to be the one to instigate. you probably don't remember it that way, but i do, and i loved it. you never hesitated. you were fearless."

you look at him incredulously, wondering what this has to do with anything. but he continues, "you were the only girl that would play with me, and not just that, the only one that could beat me. but then one day you just stopped. you ignored me completely."

you stiffen, unwilling to admit even through body language that he might be right. a pre-teen you found avoiding your ben sized crush the most viable option. you just never thought he'd care.

he continues, eyes unwavering from yours, "you used to look at me like i was the only person that mattered. and then, you just stopped. it's was like… like you had something to hide."

it's like he can read your mind because he reaches out and grasps your wrist in his hand. his touch is nice against your skin, sending a comfortable feel through your veins.

"i miss you, the girl who wasn't afraid of liking me," he whispers, his voice low and husky. "and i want you to admit that you miss me too."

you struggle to find words, to make sense of everything inside of you, but before you can speak, his lips are on yours. his kiss is hot and demanding, and instinctively lean into him, body melting against his in perfect harmony. his hands slide around your waist and hold you close as the kiss deepens, and you can feel all of the frustrations of the past slipping away. when he finally pulls back, his eyes are bright with emotion and a hint of a smile graces his lips.

he looks down at you for a moment before speaking in a low voice, "you want me to do that again?" he steps closer to you and cups your face in his hands, his eyes twinkling with amusement. you can feel the warmth radiating from his body and if it weren't for his strong arms around you, you would have melted into a puddle.

you nod slowly in agreement, too lost in the moment to say anything else. he leans down and brushes his lips against your cheek before pulling away completely, "then be honest. right here, right now. you like me."

you screw your eyes shut, basking in the shame of being found out, "i like you, solo. i like you a lot, but if you don't get off your pedestal and kiss me again i'll withdraw the opportunity."

he gazes down at you with an expression that's tender yet mischievous all at once. "i like you too," he whispers before chuckling lightly, you open your eyes to see.

his dimples are on full display, and for a second, he's the spirit of the little brat you fell in love with all those years ago. "c'mere, kid." his voice is soft as he pulls you back into him, lips meeting yours.

#ben solo x reader #ben solo #ben solo x y/n #ben solo x you #kylo x reader #kylo ren x reader #kylo ren #kylo ren x you #ben solo fluff #ben solo angst #kylo ren fluff #kylo fluff #kylo ren angst #kylo angst #ben solo x female reader #kylo x you #kylo ren x y/n #smuggler!ben solo

488 notes · View notes

blacklight-ghoulette · 2 years ago

Text

To accompany the earlier water ghoul Dewdrop thoughts...

TW for vomitting, angst, self harm, and body horror (I think, I'm terrible at writing these out please let me know if they need updating)

One does not take in the fires of Hell and walk away unscathed. It does not care if you do so willingly or not, it eats it's way through blood, bone, and soul with ravenous appetite, wanting, needing, to consume all it touches.

Dewdrop was burning alive.

Skin dried out till it cracked and flaked off as he moved, baring wet, red patches of muscle underneath. It felt as if his blood had boiled away, leaving behind only ash and acid. Maybe that’s what it was that dripped from the seams opening up across his parched skin, Dewdrop thought, swearing that he hears it hiss and sizzle as the reeking black ichor splattered onto the floor. It was bad enough seeing it seep out between fingers clenched into fists so tight he could see the glistening white of bone at his knuckles, but it was worse when it started coming up his throat.

When the searing coal that had burrowed in his chest felt as if it started pouring smoke into his lungs he made the mistake of trying to cough it out. Instead of smoke what came up was the ichor, searing and overwhelming as it left the taste of sulfur, ash, salt, and copper in his mouth, reminding him of the stench of fetid bogs and lakes choked by algal blooms. Dewdrop counted himself lucky in that he was just barely able to make it to the toilet in time as he retched, clinging for dear life to the white porcelain as the disgusting mess spewed up from his stomach and lungs, filled his sinuses and seared his nasal passages.

He distinctly remembers a singular moment of clarity, where he knows there couldn’t be this much of anything left in him to hack up yet still it would come, even after a few minutes when his body seemed to have calmed the need to purge itself of the bitter poison only for his trembling muscles to clench and leave him heaving yet again.

At some point Dewdrop figured he must have passed out, because when he opens salt-crusted eyes he’s no longer clutching at the toilet bowl but instead is curled on his side on the tile floor. For an unblessed moment it seems the worst was behind him, the searing, burning pain finally toned down to a manageable level. He feels desiccated, like he’s been left out in the desert sun till every last bit of moisture has evaporated, leaving him a skeletal husk as fragile as a thousand-year-old mummy. A trembling had started in his core then worked its way into all of his limbs, coming with it a frailty that felt as if a strong breeze were to brush by he’d be knocked over to shatter across the hard tile floor.

Somehow Dewdrop manages to fight through the exhaustion and weakness and push himself upright, though he still has to pause as the motion makes everything waver and sway. Slowly, laboriously, he crawls the scant few feet to the vanity, grasping at the painted wood and heaving himself upright with all the speed and care of a geriatric trying to move without their cane or walker.

Looking into the mirror was a mistake.

Dewdrop stared in disbelief at the creature reflected in the glass. This wasn’t him, this couldn’t be him… there’s no way he was this shriveled up corpse covered in a blacked hide stretched tightly over sharply lined bones, his eyes two searing coals gleaming out from the sunken, black pits of his eyes. Even his fangs seemed longer, sharper, yet still gleaming pristine white. And then there was his hair. His pride and joy. The thigh-length, silky locks no longer the soft blue of seafoam but instead now looking like sun-bleached straw. Dewdrop brought a hand up and touched it so delicately and yet—

It feels as if a pit opens in his chest and starts to pull at him, drag him in as he watches the strands shatter under his fingertips.

“No,” he croaks, “no….no, no, not t-this, no…” His hair falls away in clumps as Dewdrop pushes his fingers into the locks, the strands breaking apart so easily it was as if they were spun from glass. He feels the last remaining shreds of his sanity slip from his grasp, splintering as easily as the remnants of his once-prized mane. The feel of his fingers against his bare scalp made Dewdrop flinch; the callouses on his parched skin felt like sandpaper as the dehydration seemed to accentuate them, giving the edges a coarse, sharp edge. A harsh, broken sob erupts from his scalded lungs as he grasps for the long strands in desperation, a litany of pleas to let him keep this, just this one thing, please he needs his hair, his beautiful, silky hair, he can’t lose it too, not like everything else—But there is no one to hear Dewdrop’s cries, no one to answer what half-formed prayers he choked out from a singed throat and through caustic tears.

As the last piece of what he was—had been—falls, Dewdrop throws his barren head back and screams, digs his obsidian claws in and rakes them down his scalp. The ghoul shrieks and flails, splattering the walls and floor with hissing droplets of corrosive tears and blood. When his voice gives out, his vocal chords too charred to work any longer, Dewdrop grasps his horns with blood-slicked hands, grips them so tight his entire body shakes with the effort.

With one last, soul-wrenching scream, with every remaining ounce of strength his being possessed, he wrenches them from his head. Agony explodes across every sense, his vision whiting out, ears filled with a high-pitched ringing. The last thing Dewdrop could feel before the pain took everything away, was the sharp bite of splintered bone through his palms.

And as the first rays of dawn anoint the carillon tower, in a small room in a forgotten little nook of the abbey, flames as hot as the pits of Hell itself flare bright with rage and anguish. The very last remnants of a water ghoul are boiled away, the once beautiful scales flaking off in the heat, delicate webbing betwixt fingers and toes cracking and splitting apart, the flowing fins along a once-stout tail turned to ash and leaving the hardened spines to jut out from a once stout tail now withered into a vicious, sinuous whip.

Dewdrop dies, only to rise from his own ashes as something else, something completely different, alien—

Hideous.

#tried to avoid phoenix metaphors and failed #Dewdrop #dewdrop ghoul #nameless ghoul #fire ghoul #A Totally Impractical Guide on How To Perform An Elemental About-Face: by Dewdrop #the band ghost #ghost band #ghost bc #ghost #make Dewdrop cry 2k23 #my writing

14 notes · View notes

horizonsstandstill · 6 months ago

Text

Cop city too. Subsidising big oil as well. The imperialist project inside. Anti homeless laws. Lack of healthcare access to trans and GNC people. Disabled people dying due to lack of COVID policies. Historical high police brutality rates. Inhumane border law. Increased incarceration of Black people and prison slavery. Indigenous land destruction for environmentally suicidal extraction industry. Surveillance state and brutal censorship. If you want to see a fascist look at everyone who supported KOSA.

What do we expect from a guy who has been behind several segregationist policies and who wanted to wage war on Iraq before Bush Jr. did? The lies that are called state propaganda is at Bush Jr. levels already. The ones who think that we have a democracy left to save are deluding themselves, buried un white privilege and imperialist self righteousness. What will voting change if people pick between two mass murderers one being a genocide happy geriatric fascist who ignores every evil act he is deliberately committing against innocent people of all kinds and the other being an overt fascist who openly declares hatred and wages war on everything good?

Biden is not the only one to blame. Those who support him and bully other people into doing that because "Trump is worse" are also to blame. Their love for status quo is above any morality if they have it, and yet they blame people for having clear principles. At least the red fascists are coherent and less hypocritical about their hatred of others and desire to keep their privileges. Blue fascists are the worst hypocrites for pretending that fascism hasn't been unleashed upon us all. What they are implicitly saying is that "You all have to care about my comfort regardless of how much I ignore yours, and of course all the calls for decency."

Funny thing is that they think they are smart, when all they do is to attempt converting people into their own partisanship without any convincing arguments. The logic dictates that in a failing economy where the cost if living is not manageable, with highrocketing rents and betrayal about the promised increase in minimum wage; along with the government splurging on a genocidal campaign that 70 percent of population regards with contempt, then suppressing all the dissent through violence while trying to make believe with propaganda that everything is fine and nothing is going to change if you vote blue, you are going to fail. Spectacularly. That's how Hitler came to power. And we don't blame German left enough for not doing anything to improve the lives of people instead of sitting on their asses and violently subduing protests. The only difference is that we already have Hitler in power and the next election is framed as us having a choice between different flavours of Hitler. A third choice might not be able to stop us from getting a Hitler elected, but it will make a statement. "We don't want a Hitler governing us, we won't accept it and you're not alone.". It's a start if nothing. Whoever wins we lose anyway, and that might be a signal to self claimed progressives to become actually progressive.

As a side note, Trump making America a dictatorship type of fear mongering is a little unrealistic. There's a huge dislike among Republicans towards him that cannot be ignored and the over white supremacist demographic is shrinking at a fast rate. These racists will never be able to win over enough Black and Latine support to keep any white supremacist authoritarian regime going, and they won't be able to suppress riots if they erupt.

The curious question is whether the status quo loving white privilege deniers that are walking around as liberals will pick the imperialist side or the progressive side. Regardless, they will be ineffective in their support because they have this contempt going on with either side and a weird superiority complex with nothing solid to base it upon. My bet is that they will start blaming both sides for not picking their flavour of genocidal imperialism and that's why nobody is living like they lived(?) in the good(?) old days.

I am so sick and tired of seeing all these “I know biden is bad, I know biden has done some bad things but vote for biden because trump will destroy our democracy” posts bc a) clearly our democracy is a sham and b) STOP DEFENDING BIDEN, STOP DOWNPLAYING WHAT HE HAS DONE! you do not need to, nor should you, defend biden to any degree. you can say that we cannot let trump win without that other bullshit. biden is pure evil, he is scum. and part of what makes him so horrendous and disturbing is the charade he puts on like he’s the good guy and trump is the evil, the bad to his good. quite literally the only thing that he has going for him is that his opponent is somehow even worse than him. that his opponent has no pretense of even trying to act like he doesn’t want to fully be a dictator. stop fucking defending biden. stop fucking downplaying all the horrendous, despicable, evil things he has done and is continuing to do. he is fully funding and supporting and enabling a genocide. it helps no one.

and if/when biden loses, he only has himself to blame.

ideally we would all rally behind a third party candidate and the electoral college wouldn’t exist. ideally these wouldn’t be our “choices”. idfk what to do because trump cannot win but how can any of us in good conscience vote for biden’s evil, fascistic, decrepit ass ??

what makes biden so different from or better than trump? nothing!!

- he is unconditionally supporting netanyahu and his genocide of Palestinians

- democrats have done nothing to protect nor help us as roe v. wade was overturned, we still have student loan debt, the cost of living is unaffordable and the minimum wage remains unchanged, biden has increased police presence and funding for police (more so than in 2020, despite the eruption of BLM protests and the murder of George Floyd and his promise to George Floyd’s family that he wouldn’t let his murder become just another number, another hashtag), and so. much. more.

- biden is building off of trump’s policies - specifically and most recently, biden has just announced an executive order to deny asylum requests. the increase in police funding and the further militarization of police was also built off of trump’s policies

the u.s. is an evil sham of a country.

as ethel cain said …

#election 2024 #us has been fascist for longer than i can count #vote green #former segregationist senator who is hell bent on destroying indigenous lands is as bad as the other fascist #leftists of all ideologies coming together to not vote for biden #us elections

1K notes · View notes

igottatho · 3 months ago

Text

Did I miss when the siege ended? when the borders and crossings opened? It’s like the whole world forgot that Palestinians in Gaza STILL have needs. The prices for food and water are still exorbitant. They still have none or very little access to medicine, cleaning supplies, materials to keep them warm - and we are approaching winter months, where these needs will increase.

We’re almost at a solid year for this so-called “war” and I’m watching endless GoFundMe campaigns being shared, with very few donations. The Alwans aren’t seeing much of that recently, but we’re managing (barely) to keep a trickle going. But they’re starving - Mohammad tells me he and his wife are able to eat a snack every day or so. We’re still seeing images of skeletal children and / or shredded children constantly.

I don’t know if it’s correct to expect anyone to forgo their comfort or hobbies or own care while another people are being starved, sieged and blown to bits …… I myself certainly am continuing to paint, to work on my silly art projects, to bring my kids to & from school… but it’s as if people decided since Kamala is taking over they don’t have to worry anymore. Since the Harris campaign (which held no primaries and hosts no campaign policies) started, they have raised $540 MILLION (see img below, as reported by democracy now) and that money didn’t come from nowhere (although with modern politics it can appear that way).

I’m relieved that we won’t have a geriatric in office, and that Kamala Harris is leaps and bounds more productive than Trump, and as a Black woman, it’s past time for her. But people are treating the whole situation as if she 1) already has the job and 2) is going to do ANYTHING DIFFERENT than what Biden’s administration (which she is a part of) has already done/ continues to do. Which is send MORE weapons in US name, with US money, to blow up more children (as reported by the Cradle)

I know people are tired - tired of talking about war, and destroyed kids, families, homes…. Tired of hearing about it, talking about it, donating to victims of it, having our govts double down on how nece$$ary it is, signing petitions to end it - and it all seems endless and helpless.

It would be easy to hand over the reins to Kamala - but we all know in our hearts that she has no intentions of ending this genocide. We need to demand more of her NOW, because if we wait until she’s in office, we have nothing left to bargain with - except our labor, or putting our own bodies (rather than Palestinian ones) on the line.

Palestine woke up the entire world, don’t go back to sleep. Don’t let all of this work have been for nothing. You’re tired, but think about how tired Gaza must be, and all of Palestine, enduring this for almost a century - we can DO THIS. What’s more fam….

We ARE doing this : we ARE impacting the machine and making an impact - Starbucks worth is tanking , McD’s is experiencing loss across the board, and despite the deeply unsatisfied rhetoric with voters right now - WE MADE BIDEN STEP DOWN (well, Us and his inability to verbalize anything). Israel faces more pressure now than ever before and they KNOW IT, it’s why they’re rushing to take as much of the West Bank as possible and destroy as much as Gaza as possible.

We just have to make sure we keep as many healthy and whole as we’re able 🙏🏼🙏🏼🙏🏼

#free palestine #palestine #gaza #free gaza #current events #rant #donation #go fund me #campaign #fundraiser #articles #the cradle #democracy now #Kamala Harris #Biden #Israel #Washington DC

1 note · View note

shurisneakers · 4 years ago

Note

if you're taking ideas for harmless drabbles, i'd love to see one of bucky on one of those dates he mentioned and reader's shenanigans. if you aren't, feel free to ignore this!

a/n: are we really going to let a word limit define what a drabble is? is the vibe and spirit not enough? i say this bc this is 5.7k words long im so sorry. also hey thank you to everyone who piped in with their knowledge of violent geese and how apartment security works in new york!! also thanks to my bby @spiderrpcrker for reading this and telling me to publish this bc i wasnt going to fkjghfkj

warning: swearing, bad luck, dates, frustrated bucky, anxiety, mentions of gore but like only a sentence

here’s my ko-fi if you’d like to support my writing <333

Catch up with the rest of the series here: Harmless Masterlist

Bucky returns only two weeks later. His mission lasted longer than expected and all he wants is to lie down and sleep for forty eight hours straight.

“FRIDAY?” he mumbles, kicking off his shoes. His jacket had already been discarded by his bedroom door when he walked in.

“Yes, Sergeant Barnes?”

“How are ya?” He doesn’t miss a beat in asking, even though he’s exhausted.

“As good as ever. Did you have a successful mission?”

“If by successful you mean one sprained limb instead of two, then yeah.” He wasn’t really cribbing. His ankle was already starting to heal anyway and it was worth the roundhouse kick to a Nazi's face. “Do I have anything scheduled for this weekend?”

“You have a meeting on your calendar scheduled for this Saturday.”

“Could you send a text to Y/N and ask if we can push it to the next day?” His muscles feel sore and God, he could definitely use a hot shower but all of that becomes secondary the minute he feels the sheets under him.

“Would you like me to reschedule the other one as well?”

“What’s that?” He opens one eye in confusion. “There’s another one?”

“It’s on Sunday. You’ve labelled it ‘date’.”

Ah, fuck.

“Would you like me to change it?” FRIDAY never sounds like she’s judging him, which is nice. It also reminds him about how she, as an AI, can’t judge him, which is a rude wake-up call to how he doesn’t have friends.

“No,” his voice is muffled against the pillow, “no, let it be. Where is it again?”

“You’ve only specified diner, Sergeant Barnes.”

Public space, daytime, plenty of escape routes. Good on his less delirious self for selecting a diner.

“Thanks, FRIDAY.” Now that he’s a little more relaxed, he can feel himself slip in and out of consciousness.

“One last thing," her automated voice commands his attention again. "Y/N replied. She says sure and to take care.”

“Yay.” Not even a second later he’s out like a light.

____

“Did you bring me any souvenirs?” Is the first thing he hears as he marches into your lair.

“What could I possibly get you?”

“A postcard, a t-shirt.” You don’t look up from your tinkering.

“Decapitated finger, used bullets,” he continues, “cement blocks.”

“Ew.” You snap the lid shut on the thing you’re working on, spinning around on your chair. "That's not nearly romantic enough."

“That’s all you’re going to get from a Russian underground bunker.” He does a mini jog up the stairs of the platform to where you are.

“Does the finger have a ring at lea- oh hello?” You raise an eyebrow at the sight of him. “You look different.”

He peers down. The outfit was still all black. As always.

“Not your clothes, dummy,” you interrupt, making him look back at you. “Your face. What’d you do?”

He unconsciously raises a hand to his cheek.

“Did you wash your face? Is that it?” you squint at him. “Has it been a few months since the last time?”

“Wow, you’re so funny,” he drawls sarcastically. “Top tier comedian right there.”

“No wait, it’s the beard.” You snap your fingers in realisation, completely ignoring his comment. “You trimmed it.”

“So what if I did?” He leans on your table.

“You going somewhere?” you ask, elastic snapping against your hands as you remove your gloves.

“It’s none of your busi-”

“Hold on a second.” A sly smile begins to make its way onto your face. “Are you going on a date, Bucky Barnes?”

His comeback dies down in his throat. That didn’t take you very long for you to figure out.

“I’m right, aren’t I?” You look smug, to say the least.

“Shut up.” A ray of light glistening distracts him. He traces it to the thing you were working on earlier.

“Where are you guys going?” You cross your arm across your chest, a small smirk on your face.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” It’s a silver box, engraved intricately with swirls that, when he observes carefully, looks like a skull. Wow, terrifying.

“I’m literally asking you.”

“What are those?” He shifts the conversation towards a more productive angle instead.

“Evil in a box and some other stuff.” You shrug offhandedly. “Is it a lunch date or just coffee?”

“Like Pandora’s Box?”

“A discount version, sure,” you confirmed impatiently. “Stop changing the topic, listen to me.”

He tilts his head, waiting for you to continue.

“Do you need a chaperone?” The sincerity in your voice for such a bullshit question has him scoffing.

“Good God- no, I do not need a chaperone. I’m 106 years old, I can go out unsupervised.” He reaches over and plucks the box off your table.

“Sir, you’re a geriatric."

“What are those?” He points to a few ray odd ray guns.

“Minor stuff you don’t have to worry about right now.”

He shakes the box in his hand. “What’s gonna happen if I open this?”

“Very bad things,” you whispered ominously before your volume returns to normal. “How’d you meet this person? Online?”

“She’s Natasha’s friend.” He turns the box over, seeing a small latch at the side. “What bad things?”

“Bad luck and misery. Don’t play with it, it’s dangerous.” You pull the box away from him. “Aw, is it a blind date?”

“Why do you care so much?” he shoots back, tugging the box back towards him.

“Just lookin’ out for you, Bucko,” you huff, adjusting your grip on your device. “Need to keep my favourite senior citizen safe.”

“I have a vibranium arm.” Whose force he could use to grab the box once and for all, but wasn’t. “I think I’ll be fine.”

“What if she has one too, huh? Then what?”

“She doesn’t.” As far as he knows, he’s the only one alive with a metal appendage made out of the strongest metal in the world. That could very well change by tomorrow but he's keeping the title for now.

“But what if she does? I swear to- stop trying to take the box!” You pull a little more forcefully, but he doesn’t relent.

“I want this to get over before this evening.”

“What time’s your date?”

“Why do you care?” He’s sure anyone who saw the dumb tug-of-war you both were playing would just automatically assume he was an absolute manchild, not an Avenger.

“Because.” You don’t explain further. “Tell me what time your date is, you weirdo.”

“Five o’clock, now let go.”

“Fine,” you say, suddenly loosening your grip. Clearly, it doesn't make much of a difference since he isn't struggling to keep his balance from the sudden loss of force.

“Fine.” He clears his throat, straightening up.

You don’t say anything. He doesn’t either.

A putrid smell creeps into his nose, one all too similar to spoiled milk and decaying seaweed. He has to physically stop himself from gagging.

“Have a good day.” You smile and lean far back. Too far. It looks like you're almost going to fall out of the chair.

Through the tears that are threatening to line his eyelids, he looks down at the box whose latch you somehow managed to lift, leaving the box open.

“What the fuck is this?” He coughs, swatting at the air in front of him to clear it.

“I told you; bad luck in a box.”

“You can’t scientifically create bad luck, that’s bullshit.” He tosses the box back onto your table. You watch it slide past you, not making any effort to stop it. “What is it really?”

“I’m not lying.” You pull open a drawer, brandishing a small table fan that you set down beside you. “If you open it, you’re going to have terrible luck for the day.”

He glowers at you when you turn the fan on, forcing the fumes back towards him.

“Besides, that’s all I was doing today.” You kick your feet up. “So you can leave now.”

He doesn’t care if you’re lying about not having anything else to do today. You could burn down the world if you wanted to but he needs to take a stupid shower. Again.

“You’re the fuckin’ worst.” He tries airing out his shirt, hoping that the smell would dissipate as soon as possible.

“Have fun on your date, sarge!” you encourage him as he stalks out of the lair. “Remember to wrap it befo-”

He turns it into a sprint before you can finish.

____

Six hours later and he’s absolutely convinced he fucked up.

He isn’t used to having his weekends free.

He realises that this is the first time in months that he’s actually stepped out of the Tower for something that wasn’t directly mission-related. He should probably get some air. Touch some grass. See the sun.

His shirt thankfully manages to rid itself of the odour from the dumb box so he didn’t have to go take a shower. With nothing much planned and a few hours to spare, he heads to the coffee shop instead.

It’s a small place, bustling and alive with a crowd of people. They have a little bookshelf that usually is full of books donated by patrons, free for anyone to read.

The barista smiles at him. The coffee costs more than his high school education. He awkwardly smiles back.

He’s not a regular, but they’ve seen him enough times to know that he usually asks for black coffee in a to-go cup, later adding a sugar or two according to his own taste. They're nice to him, occasionally throwing in a cookie or something on the house. He can't tell if it's because of the Avenger status or the sizeable tip he leaves.

He picks up a random book from the shelf, fully intending not to read it but to just sit there and think. The book acted as a shield for his resting bitch face, resting murder face and his resting rage face. More often than not, a good combination of the three.

He sets the coffee down at the corner table he manages to nab in a quick second, along with the two sachets of sugar.

“Is this seat taken?” Someone asks from beside him. He earnestly shakes his head in a ‘no’, gesturing for them to take it.

They give him a quick thanks and drag the chair away from his table.

He does a quick overlook of the book he picked up.

The Princess Diaries by Meg Cabot.

Well, now he’s too anxious to put it back. YA fiction it is.

He reaches for the sugar while glossing over the summary. He reaches a little further when it doesn’t come to his hand immediately, blindly running his fingers across the table.

Bucky peeks over the book, eyebrows knitting together when he notices that they’re missing.

He was sure he picked it up.

He looks underneath the table. It wasn’t there, neither under his seat. Strange, but okay. He picks up the book and the cup, walking back to the station to grab two sugars.

This time he makes sure to tuck it into his pocket, double-checking before going back to his table.

Which was now occupied. He wanted to groan.

His mind automatically reverts back to the box from that morning.

“Come on,” he scoffs quietly to himself. It was a coincidence. “Get yourself together.”

“A seat at the counter just cleared up,” the barista from earlier offers when she sees him standing in the middle of the store.

See? Good luck.

He shoots her a grateful look, venturing over to the barstool to take his place. It’s not the most comfortable, but then again, he wasn’t planning to stay there for very long.

He empties the sugar into the coffee, stirring slowly before opening a random page in the book.

He takes a long sip, ignoring how hot the drink was.

He chokes immediately. Because either he was losing his mind or his order had somehow got switched from ‘no sugar’ to ‘diabetes in a cup’.

He takes another small sip and his face immediately twists in disgust. Definitely too sweet. The sweetener he added only made it worse.

He catches the eye of the barista. She looks on in concern.

“Is everything okay?”

Fuck.

He’s not one to make a scene. He just wants to live as imperceptibly as he could.

“Yep.” The sweetness sticks to the back of his throat. “All good.”

He just closes his eyes and downs the rest of it without thinking twice, trying to hide the grimace in his face. He gives her a weak thumbs up. She doesn't look convinced.

He leaves the shop soon after, hands shoved in his pocket. Maybe he could go sit by the lake at Central Park, watch the clouds. It reminded Bucky of the lake in front of his hut in Wakanda and the hours he'd sit in front of it, feet dipped into the water as his goats fed. He misses it.

He makes a sharp turn at a corner, still thinking about his options when his ankle abruptly twists under him.

He stumbles rather ungracefully, almost hitting the ground, but manages to save himself through the newly built up immunity he has towards falling thanks to all his encounters with you.

His gaze lands on his hardcore combat boots. Their laces had come undone.

Now he just knew that was horseshit. He always double knots them; they had never loosened in the past before.

The box.

He shoves the thought out of his head, crouching down to tie them again. He tugs on them to make sure they’re secure before standing up again.

Central Park is a few blocks away but he’s glad he didn’t bring his bike. The weather was rather nice and the wind in his hair felt good.

He wanders around the park for a while, looking for the lake. He pauses at a board with a map of the park on it, assessing how far it was.

Once he's ascertained which path to go towards, he turns on his heel to go.

He fucking trips again.

“Are you serious?” he says furiously under his breath. “Cut it out.”

He’s half-convinced that he should tie it around his ankle like a sexy lace-up set of heels. He ties a triple knot this time, glares at it until he’s sure it’s fine and checks to see if anyone saw him humiliate himself.

Only a person on a nearby bench who looked like they were passed out drunk, given that their hoodie and sunglasses clad self was slumped over.

No witnesses. No 'You won't BELIEVE what the Winter Soldier did! Critics say it's his biggest blunder yet!' articles the next day on social media.

He manages to make it to the lake in one piece and no more falls, partly because he keeps his eyes fixed on his shoes to ensure no fuckery occurs.

There are a few people rowing and plenty of others lining the bank at scattered locations. There’s a mom and her kid at the place he ends up. She sends him a small smile in greeting and he returns the favour.

There’s a secluded bench that he takes a place on, letting out a small sigh. If he ignores the traffic and the skateboarders and the people in general, it’s actually kind of peaceful.

There are geese and their little goslings swimming around the water close to the shore. Maybe he should have brought some birdseed. Or kale.

The kid beside him is busy fashioning something out of leaves, only occasionally erupting into giggles when it doesn't pan out. His mom watches him fondly, pointing at twigs he could use. Everything seems kind of picture-perfect and his body automatically relaxes, easing further into the seat and closing his eyes for a second.

Until there's a large splash and loud distressed honking. He whips his head around to find the same kid staring straight ahead at the goose with a wide grin. His mother curses quietly, picking herself up off the ground and grabbing his hand, half chastising him for throwing something at an animal and half urging him to walk faster.

The goose turns to Bucky. With no one else to blame for the sudden attack, it logically launches itself at him. His smile drops.

He gets up in a rush. The dumb bird nearly comes for his head, but he deflects with his metal arm.

“I didn’t even do anything.” He swats at it swiftly, trying not to cause any real damage. The goose, understandably, does not speak English.

He flinches when one of them bites at his knee. He can punt it to the sun but he doesn’t want to.

“Stop that.” He sticks his hand out to shove the stupid thing away, retreating back to the road. “Jesus, why are you so aggressive?”

Among the barrage of feathers showering on him, he prays his damn shoelace doesn’t unravel as he shields his head with one arm, the other fending himself while he moves hurriedly away.

The goose honks angrily at him. He scowls at it, not exactly pleased with the reminder that these fucking overgrown ducks were constantly bloodthirsty.

It doesn’t leave him alone till he’s significantly away from where he was sitting. He wants to call it profanity but that’d probably piss it off more.

The box and its effects were definitely starting to feel real.

Fuck it, no more day out for him. The best plan he can think of is to just go to the diner he’s supposed to meet his date at.

The waiter greets him with a courteous nod, which Bucky can only imagine was the best he could muster when a dishevelled 200-pound man walks in covered in goose feathers and irritation.

He won't admit that he’s too scared to eat lunch at this point because he can’t rule out food poisoning. He spends the next two hours on his phone playing Fruit Ninja and plucking feathers that accented his all-black outfit.

Several glasses of water later and a second before he’s about to beat his high score, someone taps on his shoulder, breaking him out of his concentration.

Motherfu-

He clenches his eye shut, inhaling deeply before turning around.

“James?”

“Hey, yeah, that’s me.” Bucky almost falls over the table with how fast he stands up, clearly underestimating his size. “Leah?”

“Hi.” She smiles and he finds himself smiling nervously along with her.

“Hi.” He steps out to pull out her chair for her and she laughs. "Nice to meet you."

“How long have you been waiting here?” she asks while setting down her bag.

“Around ten minutes.” He clears his throat to hopefully hide the fact that he was lying through his teeth.

“Just give me a second, I need to tell my friend I reached,” Leah pulls out her phone and he nods.

“Another glass of water for you?” The waiter seems less enthusiastic about Bucky’s 8th refill.

“Yes,” he answers, hoping he doesn’t call him out on it, “please.”

“You must be really dehydrated."

Bucky turns to look at him slowly. “I like the taste.”

He can’t really blame the guy. Bucky’s been there for hours without ordering anything solid, just leaching off their free water and complimentary bread basket.

“So, James.” She tosses her phone back into her bag, leaning forward on her palms easily. “Tell me about yourself.”

He had rehearsed this a million times. He could do this.

“I, uh,-”

“Menu?” Okay, so someone clearly had a vendetta against him.

“Thank you.” She takes it with a smile.

His morning debacle with the coffee flashes through his mind. Suddenly the idea of a diner didn’t seem so smart.

However, she’s already placed her order and George is standing beside him expectantly, daring him to ask for another glass of water, so he places his usual order and hopes that your stupid bad luck thing wore off.

He quickly learns that his date is laid back, and it isn’t hard to fall into a rhythm with her even though she’s the one asking most of the questions.

“How’d you meet Nat?” Is his attempt at one.

“She used to come in for lunch every week at the place I work.” Leah leans back in her chair. “She can really handle her alcohol.”

He’d be worried about Nat day drinking if he didn’t know about her complete inability to get drunk. She might as well have been downing glasses of lemonade.

“Yeah, she’s-” Intimidating, scary, cool “-really something.”

“She mentioned that you like movies.” He definitely spends a lot of time watching them. “You got any recommendations?”

It’s easier to figure out how different things are or how much he missed out over the years through them. He’s glad he sat out the early 2000s, judging by their fashion sense and hairstyles.

He's watched several movies over the past few months, a few of them critically acclaimed and others who were just there for the cult following.

But now everything goes blank and the only thing that he can remember are the biopics made about Steve that were somehow hilarious for gifting him the mental image of Freddie Prinze Jr. dressed in the stars and stripes, and highly distressing for the number of historical inaccuracies. Contrary to popular belief, Stevie did not, in fact, consider running for president after he took up the shield, nor did he start his own bar chain.

He can’t name Oh Captain, My Captain starring Channing Tatum as his favourite movie on his first date and hope to make a good first impression.

“Despicable Me was kinda fun.” He wants to kill himself. “I mean, it’s the last one I saw.”

Her face twists in mild disgust, but he can tell it isn't ill-intentioned. “It's a good movie, but God, that just gave me some intense flashbacks to my aunt’s Facebook page. Don’t think I can look at a minion ever again.”

He sniggers with her. He doesn’t know what the context is.

He’s a little awkward, and he can definitely tell he isn’t the most open book but she laughs at some of his attempts at jokes. There’s a distinct discomfort he has lingering at the back of his mind prodding at him, telling him over and over again that he isn’t ready for something like this. A warning bell, asking him to leave as soon as possible because he was in a dangerous situation.

He remembers what his therapist told him about breathing and remembering that the resources he had available were greater than his anxiety and he tries to get out of his head. It takes a few minutes of acting like he's fine but he manages to do it.

Other than the one time he scalds his tongue on the coffee but played it off with a pained smile, shoving down thoughts of your stupid invention, things actually went okay.

It was nice, even though they decided by the end that it was better if they both gelled together better as friends. It lifts the strange fear he feels and he can hear Dr. Mendoza say she's proud of him for taking this step before spending three hours psychoanalysing why they decided to stay platonic.

Bucky promises to visit her sushi shop with Nat soon and she says a bottle of sake awaits him for a drinking game. He doesn’t have the heart to tell her that Nat and he share the same tolerance for alcohol.

He makes sure to leave George a tip. A big one. It’s the first time he sees the guy smile the entire evening.

He’s waving goodbye to Leah outside and he thinks that maybe it was a good end to the day and that things actually turned out fine.

Until he turns around to leave, only to have someone walk straight into him with an iced tea.

The cold comes as a bit of a shock, making him jump slightly. He stares at his shirt, using his fingertips to pull it away from his body.

The person melts into a series of apologies immediately, offering to dry clean his shirt but Bucky just forces a shake of his head and says it’s okay even though he can feel the sugar making the shirt stick to his chest. Goose feathers and iced tea. Was there anything else that would like to attach itself to him?

His fists clench and his teeth grit and he has to physically control himself from sprinting to your lair because God knows what else is in store for him and he didn't want to add in any way.

The door to the lair is locked. Fuckin’ brilliant.

When no one answers after minutes worth of waiting, he fishes for his phone and realises that maybe two hours of Fruit Ninja was not the best idea, especially on a phone known for having shitty battery life.

There’s roughly 2 percent left. By the time he opens his app to give you a call, his phone screen goes black.

He groans. He’s desperate at this point and under any other normal circumstances, he would have never, ever considered doing this.

But ten minutes later he’s outside your apartment building. You’re aware that he has your address; no doubt that it was in the SHIELD file he had gotten, and he knows that you know but it was still weird.

The buzzer has your last name listed next to it. He’s sure that he’ll break it if he keeps pressing it at this rate but he really needs you to let him in.

“Who the fu-” your voice comes through the intercom.

“I’m sorry for showing up like this, my phone died and I couldn’t reach you,” He breathes out as soon as he hears you. “But I need you to fix this.”

When he doesn’t hear a reply, he wonders if the thing actually worked. He’s about to start pressing it again-

“Bucky?” You sound a little surprised to hear him. “You’re at my house. Why are you at my house?”

“I need you to fix whatever this is.”

“What are you- fine, I’m buzzing you in,” your voice, initially confused soon trails off into something more dismissive.

There’s a soft click from the door, allowing him to push it open. The elevator is already on the same floor as him so he just uses that.

The elevator goes up a floor or two. His feet tap restlessly against the carpeted floor.

The lights turn off and everything comes to a standstill. His foot stops tapping.

He should have known. He should have fucking known.

Thirty seconds pass. He’s still in pitch darkness with the elevator showing no signs of moving.

In fact, he’s resigned to his fate. He sits down on the ground, only one step away from completely laying down and hoping someone finds his body here someday.

It’s six minutes of plain silence. He might as well get comfortable if he’s going to get stuck here for the rest of his life. Did he change his will? Does he even have a will?

There’s finally a whir. He thinks that maybe he’s going to plummet to his doom as the perfect end to this day, but then the light switches on and it starts moving upward.

It stops at the floor with a ding. He doesn’t get off the ground, only eyes the door wearily. With his luck, it wouldn’t open.

But it does and within a second he’s on his feet, scrambling to get out before it changes its mind.

He remembers your door number, basically charging down the hall to get to it.

The door is white and the paint is starting to chip off it. The handle itself is dented in a few places and he wonders if it was your fault or someone else's.

His knocks are rapid, agitated even. He doesn’t stop until he hears your loud shouts telling him to cut it out.

“What the hell were you doing, trying to break down my door?” It swings open, revealing you in your pajamas. “Haven’t you done that already? And where were you, I’ve been waiting for like, ten minutes.”

He honestly feels bad for showing up uninvited and highly flustered. He can’t imagine it’s a pretty sight either. "This bad luck shit- fix it. My whole day’s been fucked up.”

“What are you-” Your eyebrows knit together in confusion, taking in his appearance.

It takes you a second to realise what he’s talking about but when you do, your face settles.

“How was your date?” You lean against the door frame, arms crossed over your chest.

“Really,” He glowered at you, “that’s what you care about?”

“Yes.” You nod. “Did you have fun?”

He hesitates. “I guess?”

“Was she nice?”

“Yeah.” Where was this going.

“Good, I’m happy for you.” The smile on your face is genuine. “Look at you go, Casanova.”

“We agreed to be just friends, but that’s not the point here. Y/N,” he whines. “I have a mission next week, I can’t afford to fuck up. My whole day was off and I don’t want it to carry over.”

“Your whole day?” you questioned, standing up instead of leaning against the wall. “Buck-”

“Just fix it.”

“Okay.” You lift your hand up, extending it towards his face.

He waits for you to do something.

You flick him on the forehead.

“There,” you declare, going back to your previous position. “you’re cured.”

What.

He says exactly what he’s thinking.

You laugh. “Dude. I was fucking with you.”

Huh?

“Well, actually maybe just like, three things and then I got bored.”

He’s confused.

“You know,” you begin when he doesn’t reply, “taking the sugar packets, switching your coffee order when you were looking under the table, took your place when you left, the shoelaces.”

“The shoelaces?”

“Yeah.” You nod. “That’s the other ray gun you saw this morning. Unties your shoelaces. I stopped after that because I thought you figured it out.”

His face scrunches in puzzlement.

“I mean, you looked right at me and told me to cut it out.”

He racks his brain about what you could possibly be talking about before it hits him. The hungover person on the goddamn bench in the park.

“You were the one in the hoodie and sunglasses.”

“I just followed the Avengers’ code of disguise.” You shrug. “Turns out it kinda works. Also teleportation. So helpful.”

He forgot about the teleportation. That's why you could do all of it so fast without him noticing you were even there.

“What about the fucking geese?”

You pause for a second. “The geese?”

“And the elevator.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” The confusion on your face is apparent. “What geese and elevator? I have no idea what you’re saying right now.”

“Everything’s been a mess today,” he grumbles. “I don’t know what’s real or not.”

“I swear I had nothing to do with it other than what I mentioned.” There’s indignation on your features that quickly gives way to delight. “Holy shit, did I just accidentally invent portable bad luck?”

“Okay-” his palm finds its way to his forehead in exasperation, “-then what the hell was the smell?”

“What smell- oh, the one from the box?”

He nods briskly.

“Secretions Magnifique.” You snorted. “It’s a perfume. The worst rated one I could find.”

“Perfume?”

“With notes of milk, seaweed and sandalwood.”

“It wasn’t an inator?”

“No, it wasn- did you get vibe checked by a goose at the park?” You stifle a laugh when you notice a stray feather on his thigh.

“What does that even mean?” he asks in despair.

“I can see why it attacked you. You got bad juju.” You raise an eyebrow. “Maybe if you stop staring so much-”

“So I just have shit luck.” Is that a fucking relief or even worse?

“Well,” you begin but decide not to continue.

Even with all the irritability masking it, you could see that he genuinely was just not having a good time.

“Wait here a second.”

You leave him at the door. He shifts his balance and sighs, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. He still had to walk back to the Tower. Maybe he could grab a slice of pizza along the way since he skipped lunch.

“Okay, here.” You return with a large glass of water. He only looks at it. “It’s just water, I promise. You look like you ran a marathon."

He takes it from you sceptically, pushing away the urge to sniff at it. It’s gone within a few gulps.

You wait until he’s finished to point at his arm. He draws his eyebrows together, but you only curl your index finger and beckon for him to give you his hand.

He reluctantly extends it towards you.

“Don’t laugh,” you warn him, taking his metal arm. “This usually helps me.”

You tie a small bracelet around his wrist. It has a few beads, which he realises represent the colours of the solar system.

“Keep that for good luck.” You pat it gently after securing it. “I think you just had a bad day; those don’t last very long. Do you want to charge your phone before you leave?”

“Uh-” The bracelet’s pretty, the colours shine against the dark vibranium. “-no, I’m good. I’ll just leave.”

“Okay. Anything else I can help you with or will you be fine?”

He narrows his eyes. “You’re being suspiciously nice.”

“I’m not evil all the time.” You huff. “My hours are in the morning.”

“Okay.”

“Okay,” he says again. “I’m gonna go then.”

“See you next week.” You give him a little wave. “I’d say break a leg on your mission but knowing your situation...”

He scoffs. “Thanks.”

You make a move to close the door when starts walking down the hallway towards the exit.

He adjusts the beads slightly so he can see them better. The Earth one has glitter in it. He thinks it’s cute.

“Bucky.”

He turns around.

There’s a hint of a smile on your face.

“Take the stairs.”

He doesn’t have to be told twice.

Next part

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #mcu fic #bucky fic #bucky barnes fic #bucky fluff #bucky barnes fluff #bucky angst #bucky barnes angst #harmless fic #winter soldier x reader #Winter Soldier #bucky barnes #bucky

967 notes · View notes

hankwritten · 3 years ago

Text

Quicklime

Demoman/Soldier, 9k (Abbreviated from FFNet Version) Warnings: Kidnapping, Claustrophobia, Executions

The Voice in the TV said if he didn’t cooperate, she’d take him out to a gravel pit and have him shot. She makes good on that promise.

The trunk’s lining smells like fear and caked blood.

My heart beats fast, far too fast, and I can empathize with that fear-scent because the dozens of people who have lain in this trunk before me must have known exactly how terrifying the dark is. There is a blindfold snared across my face, but even without it, the light deprivation would be absolute. Behind me is something heavy and unmoving—no doubt more bags of quicklime like the ones that keep me from fully extending my legs. The walls fold inward, crushing me down into the smallest manageable shape.

They’d raided my apartment with more mercenaries than I could handle, but only now—when I’m stripped of my ability to fight—do I finally feel the fear I’ve been keeping at bay.

I fantasize about sawing off the bindings around my wrists, of finding a spare shovel or torture device someone had carelessly left in the trunk, but I know the Administrator’s too smart for that.

The road rushes by. The throbbing of the lump on my head is my only company, the pounding of blood and the patter of desert road my only companions as I am taken far away from where anyone will hear my upcoming execution. I am alone. I’ve chased everyone away and the only one I can thank for that is myself, the decisions I made, the sacrifices I failed to take.

It is six months earlier and I wake up at five am sharp. I take a three minute navy shower under ice cold water (the boiler’s been out for months and I have neither the know-how nor the will to fix it) and shave in my toothpaste-spattered mirror. I wipe the lather off, check over my reflection, and determine everything to be satisfactory. My reflection salutes me back.

Breakfast is spam, freed from its metal prison with an army knife and dumped onto a griddle layered with grease. I’ll wash it some other time. Maybe when I remember to buy soap.

Morning drills. Uniform. Then the half hour walk to the end of my drive.

A rumble heralds the blue pickup truck, ancient but well cared for, wooden slats cadging its exterior so nothing will fall when transporting from one place to the other. It’ll hold until we get to Swiftwater.

“Hey there Sol,” Engineer greets as I clamber into the back.

I grunt in response.

To his credit, Engineer’s smile never loses his glamour, even when sticking out his self imposed task of talking to me. He glances to his right and offers amicably, “hey Smokey, why don’t you let Solly sit shotgun today?”

Pyro, half a box of the day’s matches littered around the passenger’s side, lifts their head and keens. The matches are black and curling, burned all the way down to the end as they’d let it caress their orange tipped fingers, chewing through them the way Spy decimates a box of cigarettes.

“I know you called it,” Engineer rebuts, “but wouldn’t it be nice to let someone else have a turn?”

More grumbles that I will never be able to parse. Engineer understands though, and he prods, finally making the other mercenary step voluntarily down from the cab and around to the back. I take their place next to the Engineer. It still smells of scorched phosphorus.

“So how was your weekend?” Engineer asks sanguinely, the long drive setting into my tailbone as the truck makes its journey over rougher and rougher roads while the mountains climb in front of us. “Didn’t get into any trouble at that convention, did ya?”

Inside my jaw, already clenched, frozen in its perpetual frown, my teeth grind. There are prices paid for a free ride into work every morning, and mine is that nine times out of ten Engineer treats me like a brain-dead geriatric. Like I’m Pyro. Thinks I’m one fig short of the whole tree and every minute detail is something to fuss over, thinks he has to watch over me the same way he babysits that idiot in the back of the truck who keeps lighting matches and then whining when the truck’s slipstream blows them out. That doesn’t stop them from lighting another one, nor bemoaning when the wind takes that one too.

“It was fine,” I grunt.

“Really now. Have a good time then?”

I almost want to say it. I almost want to tell it straight to his face that yes I damn well did, and that I met someone while I were there. That this someone isn’t like him, isn’t like anyone on BLU, who’s more fun than all of those bleating rubbernecks combined. Who doesn’t think of me as insane or a burden, but an honest to god friend, and has glimmer in his eye like he actually wants to hear what I’ll say next.

I want to say all that, but REDs and BLUs aren’t friends, and the brief, bitter satisfaction won’t make up for the broken contract lying in tatters at my feet, scrapped like the shriveled matches. Besides, the Engineer would be the worst person to tell. He’s more tied with BLU than any of us; no, this is something I have to keep close to my chest. A secret even. A good secret, one that the tighter you hold the warmer it makes you, the memory that I’m going to be seeing him again tonight glowing like a cigarette burn on my chest.

“Yeah. Real good time.”

I smile. This, I can tell, puts Engineer ill at ease.

The Red meets me outside a casino with a smart looking button-down and an even smarter grin. I could grow to like that grin. He throws an arm sideways across my shoulders.

“Got you good today, didn’t I,” he says by way of greeting, half a second to squeeze tight and then fall slack again, and it’s surprising how little that bothers me.

“And I got you back Cyclops, don’t forget it.”

We should be more pissed at each other. Blowing someone to gibs and then those gibs to gibs should warrant retribution, not reconciliation, not lingering warm where his sleeve is still pressed to my uniform as he prattles on. The casino ends up not letting us in that night. We don’t mind, especially when the words we could blow them up fall out of my mouth so easily, and the Demoman stares at me for one blinding second before a grin crawls up the sides of his face. I was right about learning to like that grin.

“You’re barmy,” he says a little breathlessly.

“I didn’t hear a ‘no’.”

The smile grows, a little manic, a little intoxicating. “I’ve got some gear in the car.”

Later that night I’ll run from the cops with this man at my side for the second time in three days. We’ll drive out far into the desert and stall the engine laughing, and I won’t care that the only thing keeping me company during cold night in the badlands is a man I barely know whose clothes are slightly singed. I lean over and put out the fire that’s been smoldering on his sleeve.

“Fuck,” he laughs at the sky, then repeats, “you’re barmy.”

This time I say nothing, and we get high on desert air and the lingering scent of gunpowder.

That night I put extra boards over my windows. I double, triple, quadruple check the door bar and I keep my shotgun close when I move so much as an inch from my vantage point behind the couch.

From here I can see everything as long as the filthy light filtered through layers of gray curtains can touch it: the sliver of bedroom, a good chunk of kitchen, the bathroom grimy and caked with mold. No one can come at me. There is no angle I cannot see and right now I need that comfort because things have been going too well. There is some sort of plot afoot—I already knew the rats in my ceiling have been corroborating with the delivery man from the Italian restaurant I sometimes order from, I just need a few more months of intelligence to get my proof—but this is an entirely new plot. A plot to make me lower my guard. A plot to make me consider inviting Demo over because I heard somewhere a long time ago that that’s what you do when you make a new friend. You hold their dirt-covered hand in theirs and wrap your knuckles on the screen door to ask your mother if so-and-so can come in and she says yes and then the two of you sit on the floor of your bedroom asking each other what you want to do for an hour. That’s definitely a thing that has happened, I’m sure of it. To someone who is me.

But that’s what children do. Civilians. Not Soldiers. This is barely a home, it's my…bunker. My bunker with the leaky roof and the rats skittering directly above me and orchestrating their nefarious plots.

(I can hear them conversing. Dammit. Sounds like that deliveryman taught them Italian after all.)

If I sleep out here, behind the couch where I can see everything, maybe that will be a sound enough perimeter. If my base is secure beforehand then maybe…

I’ll see him again tomorrow. Across the other side of the gates sure, but it’ll be something. My heart beats fast as I drop my head on a commandeered pillow and lay flat on the floorboards.

“I don’t get it,” he says as we peer through the decal-plastered windows, glass so covered with rainbow silhouettes that we can barely see its innards.

I cock my shotgun. “What’s not to get, maggot? Inside these four walls is the greatest threat to America that this country has ever seen! Actually, wait-” The building is kind of weird-shaped, with various additions tacked on to the sides of the non-descript den of depravity. “Inside these, seven, eight, nine-” I shimmy my back against the brick so that I can lean around the corner. “-Ten, eleven, twelve walls is the most potent sort of depravity you will ever see in your likely very short lifespan, and you can bet your knee pads on that, Red.”

“And that depravity is…?”

“Disco.”

Demo frowns. “Disco.”

“You heard me maggot!”

“The music.”

“You underestimate the mind altering powers of song, and one day that will be your downfall!” I jam a finger at the vinyl stars obscuring my scouting attempts. “Here, they play that garbage for the youth, teach them how to gyrate their hips, spread lies about our national bird!”

“Is the turkey thing still bothering you? Look, I’m sorry I called it-”

“And then,” I press on. “They have the audacity to call that drivel music! It has rotted their brains to the point where I can no longer buy a decent pair of pants, so that is why we are breaking in and stealing all of their roller skates.”

“…I’ll admit, you’ve lost me.”

There’s no movement from inside, but that could change at any time. “Are you coming in or not?”

A second drags on, then he shrugs. “Eh, why not. Worth a laugh.”

The lock in the back snaps off easily enough. The lock on shoe storage is another matter.

“Oh, so it’s a roller disco,” Demo muses as I finally give up and shoot the thing off, yanking open the doors to reveal dozens upon dozens of rental skates. “Aw, these look fun. Blu look, this pair has stickers on it.”

He holds up a skate splattered with cartoon unicorns and a singular out-of-place pineapple.

“Careful private,” I warn, “first it’s ‘this looks fun’ then it’s ‘certainly it can’t be that seditious’ then next think you know you’re trying on skates and- Hey! Stop trying on those skates!”

It’s too late. In the half minute I’d lost track of my co-conspirator, he’d been seduced by the ways of Boney M., and is now struggling to his feet on red wheels.

“Bloody hell, how does anyone move in these things?” he asks as he uses the half-wall surrounding the dance floor to hoist himself up.

“I told you! It is the hip gyrations!”

“Ah, alright.”

“No! That does not mean do them!”

“I think it’s working though,” Demo says as he steadies, stepping out into the rink. “Oi! This isn’t so bad…ye can like, build up speed with these things, aye?”

“I would not know and it is not in my interests to find out!”

But despite my protests, my multiple warnings to the dangers of roller disco, my friend is lost to me, escaping out onto the ten thousand square-feet of smoothly polished hardwood.

I watch him mournfully. “I should have known your civilian-grade heart was not up to resisting the pull of funk. Defeated, before we even begin.”

“Don’t think of it as defeat, laddie!” he calls, halfway around the circuit, looking like an idiot as he struggles to keep himself upright, a smile imploding his face in hitherto unknown realms of joy. “We’re using their own skates against them! Their er…tools of destruction or whatever. It’s sabotage.”

“Better sabotage would be taking all these skates and throwing them in a lake. Or a volcano! Or a lake inside a volcano!” I say. “And their damn music too!”

“This music?” he asks. There’s a radio resting on a bench just outside the rink. There is suddenly no longer a radio on the bench as the Demoman zooms by and scoops it up. “Well would I look at this mate! They left one of their tapes in!”

“Do not push that button, Red! Do not think about pushing that button! Do not even think about not pushing that button!”

He slams the green triangle with his full fist. Immediately the barely lit amphitheater becomes a testament to the powers of Earth Wind & Fire, the disco music oozing in toxic waves from the now-in-motion radio, hitting me with its salacious shock wave.

“Noooooo…the unamericanness of it all…powers…weakening………”

“Don’t be such a baby,” Demo whizzes by, a fast learner of the ill omened. “You know what your problem is? You don’t know how to vandalize private property properly. It’s supposed to be fun!”

“I will have fun when you turn that racket off!”

“You want this?” He holds up the radio, fist around the handle, dangling it in a taunt if I ever saw one. “Come and get it.”

He scoots away on his stupid little shoes.

I will not let this Red beat me. He’s toying with me now, that maddening smile lighting up his whole face; it’s a bit crooked and I hate what it does to the warmth in my face and the pace of my heart. He shouldn’t be doing things like that to my ticker. I have a condition.

“You.” Each word comes out trodden and growled, forced through gritted teeth so he knows exactly how much he’s going to regret this. “Are going to regret this.”

I walk over and arm myself. Leg myself. Dammit, whatever, I put the stupid shoes on.

“CHAAAARGE,” I scream as I barrel onto the floor, my newly acquired skates immediately shooting out from under me and sending me sliding forward on my ass. “Dammit! Red! Reveal the secrets to these things at once!”

“Gotta find a rhythm, laddie,” he says as he slides past, going backwards now, the showoff.

I’ll never catch him at this rate. More delicately this time, I get to my feet, holding out my hands in case the treacherous footwear decides to turn on me again. Demo skates circles around me, the music yet playing, joy on his face that’s making my heart pump in time to the beat. With a battle cry, I lunge at him, but he only steps aside, and I go skittering past. Like a bull against a matador. A bull who is also on rollerskates.

“Try to stay upright before going forward,” he says. “Here.”

Here is all the warning I get. In the brief lapse of seconds, an arm loops under mine from behind, and I am helped to my feet as he chuckles in my ear.

I should make a grab for the radio. I should, but he’s the only thing holding me up and suddenly I don’t care as much about the stupid music box as I did a moment ago. Not when my skate keeps slip-sliding in-between his and it brings us chest to chest.

“Careful. Careful. There you go, nice and steady.” His arm is firm around my waist, and though I’m steady I’m finding it difficult to concentrate when his amused snort blows warm air on my neck. “Can I let I go?”

No. “Yes,” I grunt. “I am aaah-” Balance gone, quickly regained. “…I am fine. I have mastered your infernal sport. I am the supreme champion of roller disco.”

“Well looky you!” he snickers and I should use my shovel to smack that sarcasm out of him. “We should have ourselves a wee race then, if you’re so cocksure!”

“You’re on, Buster!”

But he’s off already, and maybe I’ve been hustled because there’s no way he can be this good when he’s lapping me, two, three, four times by the time I make a single revolution of the neon splattered auditorium. He’s left the radio on the red star in the center of the floor and whatever space-drugs they deal in this place must have lingering fumes because I don’t even want to go kick it over. I want Demo to keep shouting useless hints at me. I want him to run into me every now and again as he tries to help my posture and end up knocking us both over.

Somehow we’re back in the center again. He nearly falls over and this time it’s my turn to snicker, a meandering rumble that won’t stay in my chest even as I close my lips to it, and eventually I give up and laugh outright. He does too. His momentum comes towards me and mine towards him but instead of crashing the two of us catch each other, spinning around in opposing velocities, skates scratching half-moons in rubber.

So I keep laughing. I’m not even sure what about anymore. We're in orbit.

He presses his forehead against mine. I hold him more than strictly necessary. It’s hard to breathe, and Demo must not know why he’s laughing either because he keeps doing it. The music thrums, perfect and joyous, and I keep spinning.

The whirr of distant police sirens cuts through the din.

Demo pulls back. “Guess that’s our cue.”

“Always is.”

I didn’t manage to destroy any of the skates but, who knows. Maybe there’ll be a next time. It doesn’t seem so important now as Demo’s car makes the long journey up my driveway, my heart thumping away the giddy adrenaline while my head becomes clearer in direct relation to my distance to home. I’m painfully aware of it as I stand there at the stoop, needles on my skin, broken filaments winding their way around my fingers. Raw, weeping, shockingly aware, but still I ask anyway.

If he wants to come in.

He does.

I show him my magazine collection, my seven unique army knives (for opening breakfast each day of the week, so by the time I come back around to Monday Knife all the dried meat has flaked off), my various recruitment posters that the pawn shop was just going to throw away—treasonous bastards. There are medals on my mantel. I take them down one by one and explain what they’re for, but halfway through I notice how he’s stopped looking at the medals and is looking at me instead.

I stop talking. He keeps looking.

I take his wrist. He doesn’t pull back, doesn’t press forward either, just looks at me with a tilt to his head. There is no skate-induced orbital momentum pulling us together this time but still my forehead brushes against his again and my breath falls from my lungs into his. It’s no longer jittering, no longer giddy, and he is leaning further to get as much surface area of me as possible. My chin, my lips; but he makes me be the one to make that final plunge into the abyss where our mouths connect.

Pyro wouldn’t know if it hit them upside the head, but Engineer catches on right away. I’m smiling too much. It feels weird and foreign on my face but I can’t help it, even when he shoots me looks for the next four months on morning drives and rides home. I don’t care. BLU, the Administrator, the whole damn world—I don’t care about any of them. Sometimes the bond between two men who steal roller skates is an indescribable thing, and no one can take that away from me. We can chuck grenades and fire artillery at each other as much as we please, him standing over what remains of me in his detonated stickie trap and giving a smart little two-fingered salute, and it won’t mean anything. I grin, blood on my teeth and dripping out my mouth, and I tell him I’ll get him back.

“We could blow them up,” I say.

“Sounds like we’re repeating ourselves already.”

“I didn’t hear a ‘no’.”

He grins, that delighted, awe-inspiring grin that I love, and kisses me brusquely on the mouth before heading to the car. It’s a wonderful, steady rhythm we have, and he loads explosives into my arms until I can barely move. Tavish knows the most efficient places to kick out structural supports, wisdom laid out like a map on the back of his hand, says that he used to do normal demolition work a long time ago, between jobs or when the work itself slowed to a drip drip drip. The faucet in my apartment does that sometimes. All the time. It lets me know that the water’s still there, that it hasn’t been replaced by Feds with something worse.

The Feds haven’t bothered me of late. This occurs to me as I’m retreating to a safe distance, behind some cars near the soon-to-be-leveled autopark. My employers don’t take issue with my extracurricular activities—legality is a case of not throwing grenades in glass houses—but tangoing with law enforcement can sometimes get hairy. Maybe someone else is on my tail then. Nazis, or Commies, or Commie-Nazis-

I gasp. Men in coats—coats and red hats!—are entering my targeted location. Every suspicion confirmed! Those commies are on to me. Who else would be wearing red hats but them?

I will need to intercept them immediately. Quickly, I dive from my hiding spot and sprint after them, already running through scenarios on how I’m going to squeeze information out of them, twisting their arms until they tell me exactly how they found where Tavish and I were planning to-

There’s a sharp crackling to my left, just inside the garage’s door. It hits me suddenly that this might have been a bad idea.

“Crap,” I say.

The first detonation knocks out the office from where I came, and I don’t give it a chance to catch up to me. I slam into the emergency exit, back between rows of metal shelves, only familiar to I since my foray brought me through here less than an hour before. Another few feet is all I’m able to cover before the shockwave ripples out, heat catching out from under me and flinging me forward into the pavement outside.

I get some nice skid marks on my face. Not fatal, but I groan as I push myself up.

The autoshop is in ruins. Great, fiery ruins that resemble more a burning oil pit than anything a human could inhabit. I watch it, for a while, maybe just maybe getting why Pyro keeps lighting those matches only to let them go out.

“Jane! Jane, please, oh god please, Jane where are you-”

I’ve never heard Tavish sound like that before. Pain, pain I’ve heard, I’ve felt, I’ve caused, but the screaming skirting the edges of the fire is terror like I’ve never been witness to. I call out, because of course I don’t want him to be worried, I’m just fine after all, but then that call is filled with more coughing than I thought there would be.

I try again. “Tav…” Then dissolve into another fit.

“Jane!”

Now he’s closer, finally scrambling into view, and my ears did not deceive me because pain is exactly what his face is too. He runs at me full tilt, crashing down beside me and practically hauling me into his arms. It’s a rough way to be returned to a sitting position, but I don’t have enough strength to do more the lean my head against his chest.

“Fuck. Oh fuck, Jane I- oh god I thought I did it again, Jesus-”

The crying I’ve heard too, but mostly when he’s drunk, long and bemoaning and a few firm hugs will usually get it out of him. This is not that, nor intemperance—more like he keeps forgetting he’s crying at all, tears only flowing out in between the gaps in the panic. It feels a bit much. Sure I’m a little singed, but not enough that he needs to squeeze me like he’s going to keep me from being dragged off to hell himself.

“I saw you running back in, but by then the fuses were already lit and I- Fuck,” he hisses. “What in the bloody hell was that about!? Why on Earth did you go in there?”

“Saw some Commies,” I explain, now that he’s not holding me so tight and I can breathe a bit better. “Followed them. Needed to figure out what they’re doing here, how much they know!”

“…Commies?”

“Communists! Ruskies, Tavish. Those men that went in with the red hats!” This is followed by a cough.

“…The firefighters?” The pain is melting, something uglier underneath as Tavish leans back and grits his teeth. “You ran back into a building rigged to explode because you thought the firefighters were communists?”

“I did not think, I know!”

“Damn right you didn’t think.” He gets to his feet, pacing around I and tearing off his beanie one-handed so he can rub his nails along his scalp. “Goddamnit Jane I thought I-” He lifts a hand in my direction as though to make some elaborative gesture, but none comes, and he lets it fall back down to his side. “Damn you.”

“I do not know why you’re getting mad at me. I was doing my American duty.”

His silhouette against the crackling building is inscrutable and everything smells like extinguished dynamite.

Tavish is silent as he drives me home. It’d dark inside, out later and more disastrously than most of our excursions. Tavish reaches for the light switch, but I bark at him, “are you crazy? Keep those that damn things off! Do you want to give away our location to every sniper in the closest mile?”

“Me?” And crap, I knew this fight was coming, could taste it like copper on my tongue. “I’m the crazy one? Bloody hell Jane, what in the hell were you thinking out there? You could have- I almost-”

“I don’t see what the big deal is,” and maybe I don’t. I fold my arms. I don’t look at him. If I could see it, I choose not to. “What’s done is done maggot.”

“Oh really? Something like that’s never going to happen again? Never happened before?” He throws his arms about wildly. “Jesus, I never minded, you know. All ‘o this. It was even fun at first.”

“Oh it was fun was it?” I snap. “When it’s all explosions and minor property damage it’s fun, but as soon as the going gets tough I’m too much for you, private?” The words spit like acid, too real--I was never good at clouding in metaphor, hiding what I wanted to say even as it stings leaving my lips. “Go on! Say it! I have heard it a thousand times and once more from your sorry excuse for a pie-hole won’t make a difference.”

“Don’t you dare try to make it about that,” he snarls. “I had to watch. I thought I killed someone I love again and-” He sputters to a stop. “I...I make it worse don’t I?”

“The hell are you talking about?”

“You. I encourage you. I make it worse.”

“This is not about you.” But he’s already withdrawing. I can see it in his eye that I’m losing him. I know that if I don’t say something now it will all fall apart.

Instead, I do the worst thing imaginable: I cough. I keep coughing.

He looks away in shame. “I don’t know if I can keep doing this.”

It feels inevitable. A blade moving slowly toward you that you have no power to stop, but tears into you all the same. The hurt is so strong I file it into a fine point of rage and stare it into him.

“Figures.”

All of him withdraws. “Jane…I need to…take some time.”

“Just go.”

“I...I don’t want to end things but I need-”

“Go,” I repeat.

He does. The apartment is empty. The way I always wanted it.

“Something the matter, Soldier?” Engineer asks, too delicately, too everything, and it makes me want to reach over and strangle him.

I curl my lip at the dashboard, and say, “I’m going to sit in the back.”

He doesn’t utter a word as I open the cab door and drop onto the packed badlands sand.

No reply when I clamber into the truck bed either, from he or Pyro, a thick rumble of the ignition turning over as his response. I should talk to him. It could help, maybe with the guilt, maybe with the questions that chase each other around inside my head—but I can’t bring myself to, not even when it looks like things are over. I’d have to explain I’ve been cavorting with a Red, and I can’t sink to that sort of betrayal. Of myself or of Tavish.

So instead I sit, silently existing next to a squirming rubber suit as the truck takes the three of us into work. Today Pyros has a lighter rather than their matches, and they can keep it lit for around fifteen seconds at a time before the wind takes it away.

They’re awfully quiet. I’ve always thought that, but it’s not exactly true, not between their joyous coos and their equally despondent wails when the light finally goes out. It’s just that they don’t have a lot to say, at least not that anyone besides Engineer can understand. They depend on him to translate; they depend on him for most things, actually.

“How do you stand it?” I ask them.

Pyro, having not actually engaged in a word of conversation with me before this, looks up from their lighter. They tilt their head, noise of confusion tumbling through the mask.

“Engineer. Always having him…fuss over you. Drives me goddamn crazy.”

They shrug, humming something happily, cheerful even though the flame has gone out. They know they can just light it again.

“It doesn’t bother you that he thinks you’re too incompetent to be left on your own?” I don’t mean it to sound so bitter, so projected, or to reveal that’s what think about them too too.

The string of words is accompanied by a shake of their head. I even catch some of them, something along the lines of not like that. That’s what friends do. They tug on my elbow slightly.

“Me? I don’t need anyone looking out for me, Smokey. I already have a friend, and it’s not like that.” I stop, a tightness in my throat. “Had a friend.”

The oh noooooo is clear enough to anyone, especially since Pyro has a habit of over-emoting—I’ve never been sure if this is compensation for the mask, or if they’ve always been that way. The tugging on my arm increases to practical shaking. They want to know what happened.

I intake through my nose. It’s still inside of me, the confusion, the knowing that something’s gone wrong. It all wants to come out but…

Pyro’s quiet. If anyone can keep a secret, it’s them.

“Alright here Pyro, this conversation does not leave the back of this truck.” I glance furtively through the rear window, but Engineer’s eyes are locked firmly on the road. “I have been…fraternizing. With a Red.”

They put both hands to their face and gasp in horror.

The whole sordid story comes out. I talk until my mouth is dry, which is an accomplishment because usually I can spend a whole day shouting myself hoarse with no ill effects, but some time during the telling I find that my throat has swollen up.

“I wish that…” I stop myself. Wishes are for children and hippies and I am neither. Not some snot-nosed kid anymore. “I…want whatever it was before. When shit made sense and there weren't these damn...questions.”

Pyro murmurs in agreement. Before I have a chance to stop them, they wrap their arms around me with the force of a train.

“Oof,” I say.

In response, they reply something to the effect of you still have us.

“We are not friends, cupcake,” I say.

They giggle, and I don’t pull them off. Engineer shoots the two of us a look when he finally gets out of the truck, but all I manage to is sigh. He chuckles empathetically.

And, well. I do feel better. I’m still not sure…if Tavish is ever coming back. Maybe he shouldn’t. Maybe he was right. Maybe I’m too far gone, and fellow lunatics are all I deserve.

The Voice shows me a video that proves beyond the maybe.

“A fraud,” I seethe. “How dare he. How dare he, I’ll-”

It’s not his voice. Even I know that. I know lots of things, rattling around in there, but they’re like old knick-knacks in the back of the garage. Knowing how things should be or how I should act do not weigh the way they should, and rage is a far more powerful shaper of a man’s actions than the things he has shoved away.

“I will rip him limb from limb! I will string him up by his own intestines! I will tear off his head and beat him to death with it, he promised he-”

She is pleased with the barely intelligible tirade as I pace about. The TV man does not leave.

After a while it occurs to me that she’s waiting for something.

I turn. “When.”

“When what, Mister Doe?” She is now less pleased.

“When did he say that. When is this video from.”

She wasn’t expecting me to ask that. One of the little things rattling around in my head tells me that much.

“Does it matter?”

A man who left rather than think he was hurting me, even indirectly. When would he have said that. What would have prompted it.

The Voice is like the rest: she thinks me one short. Barely worth the effort. Someone who dances to her tune with the barest of prompting.

“...It doesn’t matter what he said,” I conclude, and the background voices cheer. “I won’t do it.”

“I assure you Mister Doe,” the woman inside the little box attached to the scrawny civilian says. “This man has taken a contract on your life. Your choices are to defend myself using the weapons we provide you or-” Her eyes are cold, even through the screen. “-We will do his work for him.”

He said he never wanted to hurt me. I never wanted to hurt him. I snarl in her direction. “I’d like to see you try, lady.”

In the end, there were far too many of them. I valued my bunker for its difficulty to locate rather than its own merits, and though that had served me well for many years it was never meant to be unassailable. I killed seven of her men before someone brought a baton hard across the back of my helmet.

I can still feel the welt.

It throbs in time with the car’s engine, close as I am with my cheek pressed against the fuzz of the lining, thinking about my missing helmet, my smashed medals on the mantle. The apartment that I’ll never see again. The Demoman that I’ll…

I’ve never been a quitter, but it’s hard to see a way out of this one. I chose my side and my side was not betraying my best friend—this is my prize for that. If only her people been as lazy with the bindings around my wrists and ankles as they had been with the gag that now hangs around my chin, damp and tasting vaguely of motor fluid, but they know where to put their priorities. I don’t bother screaming for help. I can tell from the long stretch of straight road that I’m far outside of civilization. It won’t be long now.

“God damn it,” I say, words so bitter I want to sandpaper them off my tongue, scrub my eyes until the shame behind them goes away. But I don’t have that ability, so I hiss quietly to my audience of no one.

Which is what I think until the bags of quicklime behind me move.

There’s another person tied in this trunk with me. My heart hammers as the jolt of dread forces itself into me like an ice pick behind the eye, because the only person in the world they would bother executing at the same time is-

“Tavish?”

The object behind me, halfway through the process of waking from its own concussion, pauses.

“Hmmn?” it groans.

The shame I’ve been trying to hold back reigns victorious.

“Fuck,” I say, grieving the single word.

It takes some minutes in the dark trunk, but try as we might there is no space to turn around, no way to angle ourselves to get at each other’s restraints. Some friction and a few banged skulls, and Tavish manages to get the gag out of his mouth.

The only thing that follows is long seconds of silence.

I’m painfully aware that we have precious few of those, and I feel them slipping away like sand down an hourglass. I can’t break the silence, though, not with how his breath is shaking, not when I know too well what trying to hide tears sounds like.

When he finally speaks, it’s with his face pressed against the PVC while he says, “I’m so sorry.”

“What?” I ask, because it’s the last thing I expected him to say now.

“I had these photos. I just wanted some memories of us, but I kept some of those photos of two of us together, and they must have found them, I’m so stupid I-”

“Tav,” I say. “Shut up.”

He hiccups into silence.

“I’m not letting you blame yourself for this too,” I tell him. “We’ve both been careless as shit, and- fuck- I never got to say sorry either. For running into that building. I know I’m not…all together sometimes but...thank you. For coming back for me.”

I want nothing more than to put his hand in mine.

He’s crying. Quietly, but there isn’t much room that he can hide it from me. After more seconds and more sand he says, “we’re really going to die, aren’t we?”

“Yeah. Seems like it.” I swallow. “So. They offered you the same deal, huh?”

“Looks like. I thought something like this would happen, but when I heard what they were asking me to do I just…I couldn’t.”

“…Is your Mum alright?”

He breathes in sharp. “I-I dunno. They got me good and I don’t know if…”

I regret asking. I regret more not being able to bury my face into his chest. “She’s fine. I’m sure of it. She’s a tough old lady.”

“…Aye. That she is.” And there’s no use worrying otherwise, not any more.

More silence, thrum of an empty highway.

He says, “maybe we should have just said yes.”

“Really?” I ask.

“Aye. Knowing what we know now, don’t you want to go back and take the deal? We’d probably tear each other to bits, but at least we’d still be alive.”

“I don’t think I would,” I say after a while. “I love you Tavish. I wouldn’t trade that for the world. It was all worth it, in my book.”

“Oh,” he says. The sniffles get louder, then slower again, rising and falling like a tide. He croaks, “I think you’re worth it too. And if…if we’d had more time, I would have tried harder. For us.”

“I would have tried harder too.”

When the Administrator’s men finally lift the lid of the trunk, we both have to quell tears before facing the woman on the screen.

It’s a gravel pit, just like she promised. People I don’t recognize—dressed like the ones who raided my apartment with their purple jumpsuits and black masks—surround us as white light and grey gravel fill my vision. We’re not even given the dignity of standing up, simply grabbed under an arm on each side and hauled bodily into the waiting pit below. Another man, another TV screen. We’re thrown on our knees before it.

“Mr. DeGroot. Mr. Doe. I would like you to know it is a vast understatement when I say this outcome is…disappointing.”

Her expression is just as chilling as it was a few hours ago, leaned over her switchboard like she could reach through the screen and strangle me with her press-on nails. I’d like to see her try. If there’s one thing I could out-strangle it’s a single arm coming out of an idiot box.

“Our mercenaries are expected to maintain a certain standard of conduct,” the Administrator goes on. “Of loyalty. And yet here you are. You have both betrayed me and your employers with your open disregard for self control, with your friend-making. The only glimmer of salvageable material from your foolish breach in contract is that when your long and excruciating deaths are complete, your coworkers will learn from your example and think before toeing the line in the future. You could have listened to your conscious-”

“Jesus lady,” Tavish cuts in with an exhausted eye roll. “You’re jealous, we get it.”

I snort. And why not? It’s not like I have anything else to lose at this point, why not get in a little gallows humor. Tavish shoots me a grin that lets me know that jibe was just for me.

The Administrator is less amused. “Shoot that one first.”

The man closest to Tavish lowers his shotgun, and in less than a second after the order the Demoman jerks as a shot louder than a rocket reverberates through the gravel pit. I can’t even flinch. All I can do is stare as Tavish crumples to the ground, groaning as blood and worse flows from his abdomen. Just like that. Snap of the fingers, and the smallest victory turned back into a nightmare.

“If we can continue,” she says. “As I said, your gross insubordination will be-”

My mouth works silently. She keeps going with her petty, nearly childish speech, but I can’t hear it. Too busy staring at Tavish’s prone form, watching as he tries to clutch his stomach while his hands are bound around his back. All he can do is bring his knees close to his chest as he spills blood onto the gravel. I’m pulled from my shock enough to try and squirm feebly toward him, but the hand on the back of my neck holds me firm and all I can do is watch.

He looks up and tries to find my eyes. Then a wave of pain rolls over him and he whimpers, curling in closer until I can’t see his face.

“-the lack of respect for ones employers-”

“I am going to kill you!” The certainty of those words finds me, and through them my voice shakes loose, reality tossed to the side as rage takes his place. “I will not die here, do you hear me you pathetic, maggoty little crone? I am going to find you and tear your throat with my teeth! You can take every single weapon from my hands but that will not protect you useless, shit-eating, worm.”

My lungs wheeze just from that effort. She blinks tiredly in my direction. “Beat that one until he stops talking.”

A boot takes me in the side of the head.

I don’t stop shouting though, and if they’re going to beat me until then, it’s going to be a while. The need to go to Tavish is overridden by the desire to tear every single one of them to pieces, to a pile of human remains their mothers wouldn’t recognize. They throw me to the ground, raining down far worse than what I received at my apartment, worse than I’ve ever received. Ribs shatter like glass light bulbs, splitting open and lodging themselves in my insides as a blow to my head is joined by a dozen more. They kick my groin, and when I curl up defensively they instead go for my spine, digging steel-toed shoes until I can barely feel at all.

I only stop yelling when breathing becomes more important. By that time, my nose is too much snot and broken cartilage to use, and my mouth is too much smashed teeth.

Briefly, I catch sight of Tavish, when my face comes to the ground and the two of us am at eye level for once. He can’t see me anymore. His eye is open, dead and glossy, and a new wave of anger and grief wells up inside of me and I will kill each and every one of you. You will all goddamned pay. How dare you, how dare you. In a second I will stand up. I will avenge both of us. I will make them pay, I will kill them for ever having made us hide in the first place.

But I can’t. I’m going to die. All that working on breathing and it’s just getting slower, a hand on the back of my neck picks me up and slams me down again, and me and…

Couldn’t save him, just like he couldn’t save me from myself.

No one will even know. Miles from civilization, from water, from anything, the only thing I had was him and no one will remember me. As the darkness closes in on my vision, I think that there’s no one out here but us and our executioners.

So then why’s the sound of a car getting so loud?

It takes exactly four seconds for everything to change. One moment I’m lying face down while a knee presses into my back, the next the engine’s thrum becomes an ear splitting roar as a blue flatbed truck comes fuming overhead, clearing the pit as it goes tearing through space. Well, mostly clearing. It clips the man holding me, missing me by feet and tearing him off me. A second later the truck lands, taking out the farthest men and splattering them like particularly mushy bowling pins. The air is screaming. My nostrils fill with engine oil. I lift my head in sheer incredulity.

The entire gravel pit jumps to action as the mercenaries now have something much more pressing to deal with as a blue-suited maniac jumps out of the passenger seat and shakes a flamethrower over their head.

“…Pyro?”

My question, spoken in disbelief, is answered by a belch of flame from the thrower’s end, engulfing the nearest huddle of TF mercs who’ve only now drawn their weapons. As they scream, another figure leans out the driver’s side window and fires a shotgun shell into the closest bystander.

One of those mercs initially crushed under the truck’s tire was the one sporting the television screen. I know, because as I feebly try to lift myself and comprehend what just happened, I can hear, “what is going on out there?” The screen rolls further into the pit. “Mercenaries! Answer me!”

In reply, the nearest three mercenaries scream as they’re burned alive.

“Too many!” Engineer yells, a return shot taking off his side mirror. “Grab him and let's get out of here!”

I still haven’t processed the truck’s arrival, let alone that I’m the him in question. Not until a pair of strong, gloved hands are haul me to my feet, and a fire axe cuts the bindings around my wrists and ankles. I stagger. Pyro catches me.

“No, wait,” I wheeze. “Give me a shovel. I will disembowel every last one of them.”

Pyro hudda huhs in the negative. They drag me, but will I kill them, every last one of them, I will…

The truck revs its engine, and my heart lurches as I remember-

“No! No wait!”

Pyro’s taking me away from him. Tavish is still curled on the ground, and I will not leave him, I have to go back, to stand over his body and kill anyone who tires to touch him. Pyro follows my gaze.

“Please,” I say, because they know, they have to understand. “I can’t leave him.”

“We don’t got time for that!” Engineer calls out his window as he provides cover fire, the two of us almost into the truck. I can’t let them take me away-

Pyro shoves me the last few feet upward, into the truck bed. “No,” I beg. “I can’t-”

But Pyro, blessed, godsent Pyro does not join us. They turn around, locate the best path back into the bottom of the gravel pit, and charge in.

“Dammit,” Engineer calls. "Pyro he's a goner just-"

Pyro runs back into the line of fire still aimed in the truck's direction, immediately dropping to their knee and fireman-hauling Tavish onto their shoulder. The air is so full of bullets yet still they run, gravel splashing underfoot, their flamethrower offering no protection as they storm the last few feet to the truck.

They crash clumsily into the back, shoving Tavish into my arms. There is a noise in my throat—what kind it was meant to be I can’t be sure with my broken face and broken body but oh god he’s still warm.

“Tavish,” I breathe. “Tavish, please, oh god please…”

My arm is broken but goddamn if I don’t pull him as close to me as I can, burying my face in his neck, silently begging him to still be in there. My hands find his wound, putting as much pressure as I can, thinking how if I can just stop the bleeding everything will be OK.

“Go go go!” Pyro says, and the truck speeds up and over the lip of the pit in a hail of gravel.

Gunfire recedes behind us. They might follow us, but I’m pretty sure Pyro torched their rides in that first round of flamethrower-ing. Good. I fucking hated that trunk.

A minute of silent car ride passes. Then two. It might as well have been another friendly carpool to work.

Pyro scoots closer, mumbling, “is he…?”

“I…” I say.

Tavish stirs, fighting back to consciousness.

“Tavish,” I say. “Tav you’re alive. Christ we’re alive.”

His eye flicks open, those long lashes fluttering for just a second before closing again. “Oh. That’s good.”

I lift my head to look at the two around me, the ones I have to thank for that. People who were barely coworkers. People who maybe should have been my friends but…well, I didn’t think they actually cared.

“How did you…?” I ask, not sure how to finish. But then my eyes fix on the back of Engineer’s helmet, unmoving as he stares ahead at the road. “You. Your family.”

“Yeah me,” Engineer snorts derisively. “And I burned a lot of bridges taking advantage of those family connections, all just to save your sorry ass. What were you even thinking getting mixed up with a Red?”

My head spins to Pyro, somehow mildly betrayed even under the pain and the…everything else. “You said you wouldn’t tell him!”

“Nuh-uh. Said it wouldn’t leave the back of this truck. I told him in the back.”

I’m flabbergasted; not only by Pyro's blatant misinterpreting of friendship confidentiality agreements, but by the fact that I understood most of what they just said.

“Hmph,” I mutter. “Well all that bridge burning is going to go to waste if we don’t get a dispenser back here soon.”

“Can’t drive and build a dispenser at the same time, now can I?” We’re moving slow enough now that I can hear Engineer when he shouts out the open back window. “I figure we go straight to Medic. Who knows, maybe he’ll throw his life and career out the window too, just like all of us. You realize that right? That ‘cause we’re doing this for you, me ‘n Pyro are out of a job?”

“Oh, out of the job,” Tavish says faintly. “Must be real terrible for you.”

This reminder, that he’s here, that he’s still breathing, prompts me to pull him closer if that were even possible. The chuckle I want comes out as more of a dry sob. I kiss Tavish’s cheek, still not quite believing this is real. Sure we’re now fugitives from the two most powerful companies in America, but we’ve got a truck and some friends and a lot of open highway.

“I love you,” I say so Pyro and Engineer don’t overhear.

He reaches up, and pulls me down until our foreheads touch.

“I meant what I said about trying harder,” I tell him. “We’ll figure something out.”

“Aye.” His hand is warm against the side of my neck. “I think we’ve proved that we’re both too thick-headed to give up on this.”

I kiss his lips, flakes of blood falling away.

#tf2 #demosolly #boots n bombs #tf2 fanfiction

57 notes · View notes

mewnyan · 2 years ago

Text

like, the trend's opposite counterpart is the pajama theme apparently. which makes more sense bc pajama parties are a Thing, and the same could be said for other common themes like masquerade. even if, say, you ignore the context of a pajama party, a sleepwear theme still seems appropriate bc pajamas are cozy, giving an impression of lightheartedness, of being chill. it isnt an explicitly christmassy theme, but it matches the general "vibe" of the holidays.

a mafia theme, though? not only is a mafia theme far removed from common associations of christmas, you'll essentially be obliging the students to wear dress shirts, trousers, and coats. in a tropical country. in their hotboxes of the typical filo public school classrooms. the only source of cooling being three geriatric wall fans, the string to turn them on long gone and you'd have to ask the tallest guy in your class to even reach the damn things. if the dingy old things still even worked at all.

what's even more interesting to me is that for some reason almost every high school kid's interpretation of a mafia fit is extremely monochrome. all-black ensembles, no other color in sight except for maybe their white dress shirts. this sensibility also applies to the girls for some reason, forgoing flowy silk dresses (or at least, giving an impression of silk) in bolder colors like red (to drive in the "mafia boss's trophy wife" trope) for short all-black dresses, sometimes a crop top and pants combo, in boring matte fabric or even yet,,, pu leather. i think leather clothing is hot in an appearance sense, but it's also very hot in a temperature sense. pleather dresses are also um. an entirely different aesthetic than "mafia" imo

somehow the fashion in the mafia theme has diverted into some sort of predominantly black formal/semi-formal wear. there's not even a pinstripe anything to be seen. this is why some internet people have jokingly called the mafia christmas party theme as "thesis defense theme" or "funeral theme". personally, i'd call it "british-panel-show-hostcore"

the flimsiness of the dress code aside, there still is the looming question of "why the hell are mafia-themed christmas parties a thing??" i mean, i dont really care about the sanctity of christmas tradition. but i am so confused as to why people decided to celebrate something that's meant to be all "jolly" and an excuse to give gifts or whatever—birth of christ and all that jazz—with groups of people who are historically violent. not even historically, in fact, but a genuine issue in some countries today. is there something about the mafia that compels people to lazily slump a black blazer over their shoulders for their year-end parties?

here is my hypothesis:

...

it's tiktok's fucking fault again.

something something the aestheticization of literally anything on earth. if the platform has managed to reduce the entire farming lifestyle into cutesy plaid dresses while you happily frolic in the grass, then yeah sure let's do the same thing with the mafia or something. insert all your criticisms about tiktok trend cycles here.

i think the reason why many mafia theme outfits are so off-base (aside from the ph's dwindling economy) is bc the mafia theme trend essentially exploded overnight. and now everyone has to have a mafia themed christmas party or else youre not hip and cool, resulting in rushed outfits that will essentially be worn once. want to have a christmas party with a simple color dress code where u have the choice to either be as fashionable as you want or as comfortable as you want? well fuck you, we need to socially compete with the other class! they got a pajama theme! also, our teachers will film us catwalking into the classroom! so you have to be Presentable, or else. again, insert all your criticisms about tiktok trend cycles here.

this christmas party trend is just so absurd to me. according to my sense of humor, this whole thing is absolutely fucking hilarious. if my hypothesis is correct, it's funny how much a single social media platform has a chokehold on culture that it has combined two things that are so contradictory of each other. (yes, christmas is a product of religious colonization akin to the mafia overtaking cities by making the people choose between paying them or getting murked, but i doubt the people who are doing mafia themed christmas parties are doing so as a parody of christianity. actually, maybe this unintentional similarity makes it funnier) i wonder what other contradictory stuff there is that tiktok can do? (subtle political jab to make this rant that has taken me until 3 am to write a little bit worthwhile)

i have now found myself,,, deeply fascinated about the origins of this new filipino trend of having mafia-themed high school christmas parties

#mew's shenanigans #mew's rambling #long post

3 notes · View notes

mmvalentine · 3 years ago

Text

Pomegranate pt 6 | Feysand

Hades/ Persephone inspired AU. Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 7

Rhys has them dressed in a flicker of magic, pulling Illyrian leathers from a pocket realm, and then crouches on the floor listening intently to the minds beyond the door. Feyre braids her hair with deft fingers, and looks sombre.

Rhys thinks vaguely that an enemy invasion is not exactly the afterglow he had planned after their first time, but he supposes that is not the most pressing matter at hand.

Now he is picking up more familiar voices. His army is here, and he has never been so glad to hear them. He speaks to Feyre in a quick, low voice.

"Alright. I have five hundred soldiers on the ground and more coming. I'm going out to meet Cassian but I'll send Mor to come get you. She can winnow you to the Night Court."

But Feyre puts a hand on his shoulder.

"Rhys," she says. "These are my people. I'm not leaving them alone while they're being attacked." Rhys wants to argue but then her canines are lengthening and her fingers turn to talons, and he remembers the power of the High Lord of Spring.

"You're a shapeshifter," he realises, and then feels he should be less surprised.

Feyre's beast is both like and unlike Tamlin's. She has gold markings around her face but her fur is velvety black. She is muscled and powerful, but sleek and streamlined. Her eyes do not change at all. Rhys takes her in, and is only more sure than even that she is made for the Night Court.

Feyre speaks directly into his mind.

When it's all over, come find me, she says. And then she slips past him and out the door, tail flicking through the air.

Rhys thinks for a moment that her creature is very beautiful, and then a Hybern soldier lumbers through the door with a broadsword, and the battle is begun.

Rhys locates Cassian shortly afterward, and the general is efficient as he is ruthless. The two brothers stick together for the most part, and although they are not defending their own home, Rhys thinks that in the end, all wars feel the same.

Hybern's army is surprised as Tamlin's at the sudden arrival of the Night Court allies, but even so they manage to cut a devastating path through the Spring Court. Rhys does not see Feyre for hours, but he does run into her father.

"What are you doing here, whelp?" The High Lord snarls. He's brandishing a bloodied knife in each hand, and his hair is falling in face.

"I was expecting something with a more grateful flavour, but I suppose it's difficult for you to muster manners of any kind," Rhys replies, brushing dirt off his shoulder.

"You sent the Hybern bastards to prove a point, didn't you?"

"Oh you really have lost it, old man."

"Don't even think about taking Feyre," Tamlin says, ignoring the jibe. "I've sealed her door. She's not going anywhere, not this day."

Rhys pictures her feline form slinking off with fangs gleaming and her tail flicking through the air, and says nothing.

"Call off your dogs," Tamlin growls.

"We are here to help, you geriatric ass."

"Why?"

"Because if Hybern gets a foothold in Prythian, we're all at war."

"Fine," Tamlin barks. "But stay out of my way."

He stalks off, and Rhys hopes Feyre's beast finds him and eats him.

///

The battle is over by sunset.

It is not swift, and it is not easy. Despite Rhysand's reinforcements and the element of surprise, the Hybern armies are strong and great in number. Cassian and Azriel stand dirtied and bloodied, their heads bowed together as they discuss what implications this might have for the safety of Prythian at large.

But Rhys doesn't care. Not now. He is weary and covered in filth, and he wants to be home. He trudges up the cracked staircase and goes in search of Feyre.

When it's all over, come find me.

Rhys casts his mind out wide, and wishes they had made a more concrete plan.

Feyre? he sends out softly. He's never spoken into Feyre's mind before, and doesn't want to scare here.

Then a reply comes, drifting across like a scent.

Here. Rhys receives the image of a dark room with slate flooring. He follows the thread through the house, until he finds Feyre in her fae form, curled around the body of a stout female.

Rhys crouches down in front of them.

"Hello love," he says softly.

"There are so many dead, Rhys," Feyre says. She has blood under her fingernails and dirt on her face, except for where the tears have tracked through it.

"I know."

"He could have stopped this, he could have evacuated or prepared or something."

"I know."

Feyre begins to rock back and forth, clutching the dead fae closer to her. Rhys lets her. It is long moments before she looks up.

"It's over, isn't it?" she asks him.

"Yes. It's over."

"And Tamlin?"

"He's fine. The Night Court soldiers offered to help clean up but he declined, so we're on our way out now."

"We?"

"Yes. All of us." He holds his hand out. "It's time."

Feyre looks down at the female in her arms, and back up at Rhys.

"Take me," she whispers. Rhys lifts the fae away, placing her gently on the stones a little way away. Then he kneels in front of Feyre and wraps his arms around her, tucking her head under his chin while she hugs him back as tight as she can. A second later, he winnows.

////

Feyre spends three days in Rhys's bedroom.

Initially, he gives her her own room. When they arrive in the Night Court, he helps her clean off then puts her to bed, and strokes her hair while she lies there unable to cry. She falls asleep eventually, and Rhys thinks he might give her some privacy. He pads back to his own room, but when he turns around she's following him with a fist in her eye like a tired kitten.

And so Feyre sleeps next to Rhys. She does not eat much, and does not say much; there are many of her kin she is mourning. And despite her being captive in the Spring Court all her life, she is also mourning her home.

On the fourth day, the inner circle intervene.

They creep into the room and perch around the bed, where Rhys is sitting with his back against the headboard and Feyre's head in his lap.

"Hello," Mor says shyly. The corner of Rhys's mouth lifts, because Mor is never shy. "My name is Mor. This is Cassian, Azriel, and Amren."

Feyre's eyes track around the circle, but she doesn't say anything.

"I know you don't know us," Mor goes on. "But I think we know you, a little. And we really want to be your friends."

Mor shuffles a little further up the bed, and looks to Cassian. Cassian blinks and then startles forward, emptying a bag over the mattress. He clears his throat.

"Rhys told us you haven't eaten much," he said. "So ah, we've brought you some things we thought you might like."

Feyre sits up slowly. Rolling over the covers are what seem to be an array of fruits, although she doesn't recognise many. There are flowers too, and the ones she does know are edible.

"We'll give you some space now, if you like," Mor says. "We just wanted to introduce ourselves."

"No," Feyre says. Her voice is scratchy from not being used. "Stay."

Mor beams at that, and Rhys knows it's her most winning, most luminous smile. No one can deny Mor when she smiles like that.

"We're really glad you're here Feyre," she says.

The others shuffle closer too now, and when Feyre picks up a fruit and rolls it in her hands, Azriel carefully plucks it from her fingers and slices it open with a black blade from his hip.

"This is a pomegranate," he tells her, handing it back. "It's an autumn fruit."

Feyre pulls it apart in her lap. "It looks like rubies," she marvels.

Rhys picks up a couple of seeds that have fallen on the bed, and places them on her tongue. "Welcome to the night court," he says by her ear, and the juice bursts bright and sharp between her teeth.

****

Argh sorry I know that was a clunky chapter and I CANNOT write battle scenes, I normally wouldn't try but I had to get Feyre out of the spring court yet without being helpless. So, bear with me I'm going straight back to my comfort zone I just had to move the plot along 😬

MASTERLIST

TAGLIST: @ghostlyrose2 @highladysith @stardelia @feysand-loml @tillyrubes10 @ratabrasileira @live-the-fangirl-life @maybekindasortaace @annejulianneh111 @thebonecarver @rowaelinismyotp @loosingdreams @whythefuckdoiexist @inejsarrow @swankii-art-teacher @sjmships @courtofjurdan @teddytdr @positivewitch @thalia-2-rose @darling-archeron @rapunzel1523 @fairchildjace @philosophorumaurum02 @story-scribbler @allthecolorsneverseen @asteria-of-mars @fandomstalker27 @realbookloverproblems @dealfea @s-tormwitch @cretaceous-therapod @whenyadoesntcutit @scatterbrainedgirl @tanvee1231 @endlessdaydream

#feysand #feysand fic #acotar #mine

70 notes · View notes

theysayitscrazy · 3 years ago

Text

Chapter Three:

Once Kara had given the guys the all-clear to head into Clay’s room, they went in pairs, and Metal convinced Kara she needed to get some food. Jason had to marvel at the relationship between Metal and Kara. He’d never seen Metal act like he did with Kara, like he genuinely cared about her; and Kara seemed to let her walls down whenever Metal would ask her something or call her out on her selfcare.

Jason was headed down to the main entrance of the hospital with Ray, Metal, and Kara. As they walked into the waiting room of the Emergency Room, Hawkins called out to them from across the room. Kara smiled as he and Nic walked over. “Hey, how’s Clay doing?” Nic asked with a friendly smile.

“He’s doing okay,” Kara answered easily. “The guys are with him. I’m gonna head out with these guys for a few to get some food.”

Hawk tilted his head and looked at her. She stared right back him, clearly daring him to say something. “He’ll be fine,” Nic spoke up, looking between the two of them. “We’ll keep an eye on things.”

“Besides, Hawk,” Metal drawled, staring right at Hawkins. “Our girl here needs to take better care of herself, right?”

Hawkins nodded once but didn’t look away from Kara. “Right.”

As they were standing around in circle talking, Kara looked to the left and glanced at a dark-skinned man wearing a heavy jacket and talking on a cell phone. He was speaking a language Jason didn’t know. Her eyes darted back to Hawk as she tilted her head to listen better.

“What’s happening?” Hawk asked her, watching her intently.

“How’s your Swahili?” she questioned him.

“Not great,” Hawk narrowed his eyes on her. “You?”

“Fluent,” she shot back immediately.

“Alpha Seven, sit-rep,” Metal immediately demanded, voice low.

Kara snapped into action, her eyes stayed on Hawk as she spoke, a small smile graced her face. “Fighting age male, dark-skinned, wearing a heavy black coat, speaking Swahili on the phone. He specifically stated that he was wearing a vest and was ready. 2nddark-skinned, fighting aged male twelve o’clock, also wearing a heavy dark coat. It’s 85 degrees outside. There are 34 people in this room. 6 children, 15 women, including Nic and myself, and 9 men not including the four of you. Of the 15 women, 3 are geriatric.”

Jason was immediately on alert. The moment she started speaking and rattling off the statics of the room around them, Jason was able to zero in and see what she had seen in a moment’s notice. Sure enough, there was 2nd possible tango near the wall of windows that overlooked the parking lot beyond the hospital.

“You caught all that the moment we walked in here?” Ray asked.

“Kara can see the matrix,” Metal explained.

Jason turned to Metal and raised an eyebrow. Metal only nodded back at him. Jason looked down at Kara who was still looking at Hawk with a slight smile on her face, being completely inconspicuous. “Alright, how do we handle this?” Jason asked, differing to her and Metal for a plan.

“Hospital policy dictates in a potential hostage situation to immediately call 911 and avoid contact,” Hawkins stated and pulled out his phone from his pocket.

“We need to go into lockdown,” Nic said. “Keep people from entering the building. We could pull the fire alarm,” she suggested.

“We do that, and every door closes and locks, and we’ll be trapped in this room with two true believers and roughly 40 victims. No, we alert the staff and do a compacity close,” Kara turned to Nic. “Nic, send out a code 8 alert. Close the hospital to all incoming ambos and patients. It’ll lock all exterior doors.”

Nic immediately pulled out her phone and started texting.

Kara turned back to Hawkins, “Call 911, discreetly explain the situation,” Kara ordered.

Hawkins walked away, phone pressed to his ear and purposely going in the opposite direction.

“Won’t that draw suspicion?” Ray asked.

“Not if we play off the overcrowding,” Nic answered looking around.

“I’m gonna need you guys to blend in,” Kara said, and glanced at Metal.

He nodded once to her, clearly trusting her.

Kara glanced around the Emergency Department and sighed. They had gathered attention. Both men were watching them. Kara suddenly laughed and grabbed Nic’s hand in an exaggerated belly laugh as she doubled over. “Oh my god! You’re right!”

Nic immediately followed and laughed too, clutching Kara as they stumbled away from their little group over to the check in desk.

The girls finished what seemed to be a lively conversation in front of the reception desk before they both looked down at the check in sheet. Jason, Ray, and Metal headed dispersed amongst the crowded waiting room, looking for a seat that would allow for a clear line of sight in case they needed to do anything. Without weapons though, it was going to be hard.

Jason could see Nic talking to the check in girl who nodded once before she stood up and headed into the room behind the reception desk.

Kara picked up the sign in clipboard and looked it over before she then looked around the room. “Alright everyone, listen up!” she called out loudly over the noise of the waiting room. She waited briefly for the noise to die down before she continued. “Welcome to Chastain Memorial Hospital in Virginia Beach, Virginia, USA,” Kara drawled, adopting her best gameshow host voice, and letting her eyes make a slow and casual sweep of the room. “My name is Dr. Kara Spenser. As you can see, we are quite busy here in the Emergency Department. Yes, Emergency department. It is no longer classified as just the Emergency Room; we are a whole department. A whole department dedicated to ensuring you get the absolute best care you so rightly deserve. So, I have one rule, and one rule only here in my E.D. and that is, ‘My way or the highway. My word is law.’ If you don’t like that rule, I don’t really care. I’m not here to be your friend, I’m here to ensure that you do not bleed out. And there will be no blood on my E.D floor,” she smirked at Hawkins, who had walked back in the room with his phone nowhere to be seen. “So, this how we’re going to things,” she turned toward Nic. “This is Dr. Nevin, she’s going to take our children directly up to pediatrics. Why wait here, when you can wait there?”

There was a bit of a grumbled from the parents of the children, but they slowly gathered their things and their children and followed after Nic, roughly clearing out a dozen people.

Ray’s throat tightened when he saw Naima walk out of the back room behind the reception desk and glance around.

Kara glanced over at her briefly before she launched into her next spiel, “Next we have our lovely elderly patients. You’ve done a lifetime of waiting now, so we’re gonna get you up and out of my E.D. The lovely nurses Naima and Brenda here, are gonna assist you lovely ladies on up to our geriatrics ward.” There was a shuffle as Naima and Brenda helped the three patients to their feet and they shuffled out.

Kara started to pace the room as she continued. “The rest of you, I apologize for the wait. Dr. Conrad Hawkins and I will be with you shortly. We have your check in information. We will go down the list according to who checked in first.”

Jason had to admit he was impressed with Kara’s quick thinking. She managed to clear half the people out of the room, including Naima and the front desk woman Brenda. All the children and elderly were evacuated. All that was left was the four trained Navy SEALS, Hawkins, Kara, two armed men, and roughly ten others that they could hopefully get out of harm’s way before the men decided they were done waiting.

As she finished speaking one of the men, the one that had been talking on the cell phone, had decided he was done waiting and stood up managed to grab Kara as she was walking by. He managed to get an arm around her neck and pull out a gun before Kara could even move. She froze and flashed her gaze to Metal, as the gun was waiving around in front of her.

The gunman started yelling and chaos erupted in the E.D.

“Hey, hey,” Jason tried to call over the yelling of the room, but the gunman yelled louder.

A hush finally settled over the crowd in the E.D while the gunman assessed the situation around him. He was flighty and waiving the gun in front of Kara. His other arm was locked in a headlock around Kara’s neck. She was clawing at his arm to no avail.

“Come on man, let her go,” Metal’s voice was soft and gentle in a commanding sort of way.

Kara’s eyes left Metal’s and landed on the other man in a coat in the room. The man stood up, pulled out a 9mm and turned his back on the crowd behind him. With his back turned, it took Jason all of a second’s decision making to tackle the man.

His gun went flying out of his hand and scattered across the floor at Kara’s feet.

She made a split-second decision and a tossed her head back into her assailant’s head, with a sickening crunch in her ear, his nose broke. He broke his hold on her and she dropped her weight and lunged for the 9mm lying at her feet.

In a trained and liquid move, she grabbed the 9mm, rolled onto her back and with both hands on the weapon, fired off two shots into the extremist’s chest in a tight pattern. His body hadn’t even hit the floor before she turned her body and eyed Jason struggling with the man in the vest. With the gun trained on them, she watched the extremist knock Jason off his back and reach for his torso.

Kara fired off a single shot, straight through the skull.

There was a moment of deafening quiet in the E.D before Kara got to her feet, holding the gun down and aimed at the ground as she assessed the situation around her. Both assailants were dead, everyone else in the room was crouched down, except for the SEALS that were on their feet also looking around for a threat.

Metal slowly walked over and pulled gun out of her hands and flipped the safety into place before he pulled her into a hug. She didn’t even hug him back, just rested her forehead against his chest and breathed in deep, taking in his familiar and comforting scent. “Good work, Alpha Seven,” he stated clearly as he pulled her against him.

Kara had to chuckle softly as she shook her head. “Fucking hell,” she grumbled and wrapped an arm around his waist.

#Seal Team #Seal Team Fan Fic #Clay Spenser #Clay Spenser Fan Fic #Clay Spenser x OC #Sonny Quinn #Ray Perry #Brock Reynolds #Full Metal #Scott Carter #Trent Sawyer #Conrad Hawkins #The Resident

44 notes · View notes

momlovesyoubest · 2 years ago

Text

Geriatric Care Management Business?Want to Start one?

Want to Start a new geriatric care management business? A care management business can be started by an RN, a social worker, someone in the health field, or anyone with dreams to become an entrepreneur. But what skills do you need? Your entrepreneurial care management dream must spring from the intersection of three streams: your passion, your competence, and market opportunity. To start a…

View On WordPress

0 notes

stevenbasic · 4 years ago

Photo

”So, tell me how it went..!” Melissa asked, tucking her fit, bare legs underneath herself on the white leather couch in her new office, attentively turning to me as she sat up. She’d summoned me to her office to have our Friday coffee, and had made us each a cup. Dressed especially informal for our “casual Fridays” in a v-neck green tee and girlish black short-shorts, her figure was on particularly luscious display today and I’d already caught myself staring...twice. “I want to hear everything!”

She was, of course, talking about my long-overdue meeting with her friend Abby, a sales rep from Evolution, a local pharmaceutical company intent on getting my practice involved in a clinical trial of their new product. Melissa, since her start as our new Office Manager, had been unusually invested in setting up a meeting between the two of us; they’d been friends for years, I gathered, and this was a favor to Abby. Little did I know that this favor would quickly spiral into a whirlpool that would threaten to drag me under and drown not only me but...well, read on.

I took a look into my “World’s Best Boss” mug - a gift from her. Far too much milk, I saw...but I think I was starting to like it that way. “Okay, uh,” I began, taking my first sip, “yesterday afternoon…”

...

…I had just escorted Mr. Kowalczyk to the desk, pushing him along in his wheelchair, helping him start to check out, when Aubrey had given me the message.

“There’s a sales rep waiting for you in your office,” she told me, eyes sparkling. Aubrey - a slim, elegant brunette - had looked especially pretty yesterday, maybe done her hair differently. We were trying her out at her new position as front desk supervisor, and she already seemed to be taking to the job well.

“The one from...uh...Melissa’s friend?” I asked, a bit confused, “Abby?” Mr Kowalczyk, hearing the name, asked about Melissa - as he had three times earlier. “She’s off today, she’s not here,” I reminded him, now for the fourth time today, as his wife appeared alongside us. Melissa had this Thursday off, apparently for some doctors’ appointments of her own.

“Yes, Abby,” Aubrey answered, turning her attention, for the moment, to our patient’s wife, “Co-pay is ten dollars, Mrs Kawalski...”

“That’s Kowal-check,” the elderly woman corrected, narrowing her eyes and apparently none-too-pleased.

“That wasn’t supposed to be until tomorrow,” I commented, immediately annoyed but feeling my pulse start to quicken, “I was going to sit down with her on Friday…”. I signed Mr. Kowalczyk’s prescription.

“It got moved up,” Aubrey told me, taking a credit card from my patient’s wife, “she’s here now…”

Why was I so nervous?

“Thank you, Mrs. Kawasaki…”

...

“...yes, sorry, I should have told you myself,” Melissa apologized, biting her lower lip, after a sip of coffee, “but it was a last minute thing. And I was still at my appointment when I heard…”

“Well, yeah, it’s okay…” I replied, eyes dropping to her still-tan thighs as she brushed at them with well-manicured fingers, tips painted a mint green to match her top, “it was just a surprise, is al-“”

“Isn’t she so pretty..??” Melissa asked, and urged me to continue my story…

...

“Thank you sooooo much for meeting with me,” Abby had greeted, immediately standing up from the chair in front of my desk as I entered the room. She stepped to shake my hand, “I’m Abby, from Evolution Pharmaceuticals.”

“Sure, sure, no problem,” I replied, noticing the confidence in her grip and the dimples in her smile. I recognized her right away from a picture Melissa had sent, early on. Maybe in her early thirties, Abby was an attractive person; lots of sales reps are. My guard was up, as it always was in these sort of sales meetings, but something in the sparkle of her eyes struck me...and her figure was nothing to sneeze at, either. I found my attitude softening already. “Melissa’s friend, right?” She had medium-length, medium-brown hair, and a nice tan complexion. Nice hips.

I guess I could give her a few minutes.

“Yes!” she answered, as we both moved to take our seats. Abby was dressed smartly, in a grey pencil skirt and sharp white blouse. “She and I met at Evolution, at our clinic, earlier this year. She’s great, so fun...”

Wait what?

“I know you’re busy, so I won’t keep you,” Abby continued, tucking her skirt beneath herself as she sat, pulling some slick promotional material from the fashionable leather bag beside her, “but I just want to introduce our product, go over some of the opportunities with you…”

What followed was both the typical sales presentation I’d seen a hundred times from different reps and at the same time one of the weirdest things I’d ever heard. From the emails and propaganda with which the company had flooded me over the past weeks, I’d read - or at least skimmed through - lots of it before. They claimed to have developed a novel general-health supplement for women; the science was still sort of hush-hush and what they could reveal was frankly a bit baffling. Normally I wouldn’t touch this sort of crap with a ten-foot pole, it all sounded so fishy at first. They were touting ambiguous improvements in mentation, endurance, strength, a whole host of other things. But I didn’t want to disappoint Melissa and, well, while I knew that the “Lean In” grants we were scheduled to receive - and frankly were going to be dependent on - were tied to us supporting female-led businesses, it soon became clear to me in talking with Abby that, um...we almost didn’t have a choice. I was starting to get the feeling that if we didn’t start working with Evolution, there’d be no money from Lean In. And so, becoming nervous, I was slowly forced to pay a bit more attention as we sat across my desk from one another, ten minutes or so into it. I was beginning to realize...we actually needed them.

But I still definitely had my doubts, my reservations, a whole load of concerns. How safe was this going to be? “And these patients,” I asked, “for the trial...the subjects. They would come from…?” It was a reasonable question. My practice was geriatric, and this was a product for younger women.

“We’d take care of that, we’d bring them in, we have a whole list of gir-...of women ready,” Abby assured me, her disarming smile doing its job, “We wouldn’t need to involve your current patients at all.” She watched me nodding, knowing she had made more than a bit of an inroad with me. “In fact, you wouldn’t even have to do much,” she continued, proceeding confidently, “we’d supply you with the new staff you’d need, we’d bring in all the supplies and equipment. We’d hook you up with our trial coordinator from corporate, she’ll organize everything. You’d just end up doing some video chats with her once in awhile.” At that Abby smiled strangely. “Her name's Brenda, you’ll like her.”

“It all sounds, uh, umm…”

Sitting there, at my desk, part of me couldn’t believe I was even considering this, still even talking to this woman. That part of me, though, wasn’t seeing what another small part of me was seeing - that the power dynamic in this conversation, between Abby and I, had gradually shifted. It was her, now, who held the upper hand. She represented the money, she was the big player. I was really the small fish here. The only thing that kept me from feeling like a nobody was knowing that my practice was somehow important to them, that they wanted me for some reason.

Why exactly was that?

“We’re a small company, but it’s not just money from Lean In that we come to the table with,” Abby continued, eyes sparkling, “we’d been bought a few years ago by a big, international group, so now we’re just ripe with resources. We can help you through tough times like you’ve been having, business down, income fading-.”

“Well, now,” I interjected, my pride rankled, “I wouldn’t say that…” I mean, I wouldn’t say it, but it was totally true. But how did she know all this?? Had she and Melissa been talking abou-

“Oh, shh, you don’t need to be embarrassed, it’s okay,” she said, “It’s nothing to be ashamed about, we understand. We know your practice is shrinking, but your needs are growing. And that’s why we’re growing too, so we can help nurture you, provide for you.”

This was humiliating as fuck but...why was I getting hard? Yes, Abby was attractive, blouse just a little too tight, chest just a little bigger than necessary. She was pretty, yes. No, actually...now with all the power in the room centered on her, with the strength she represented, she was downright hot. And the scenario she was laying out for me, this relationship I’d have with her big, female corporation? It felt positively...maternal. And, it was beginning to feel like a foregone conclusion, that I would be taken under their skirts. But again - why was I getting hard?

“Evolution will take good care of you,” Abby assured me, her voice growing subtly more tender, as if reading my thoughts, “and as we get bigger, and grow, we’ll carry you along with us. We can tuck you in to our...corporate structure. You’ll be safe, there, close to us.”

If I hadn’t noticed the outline of her bra beneath her blouse before, I was noticing it now.

“Would you like that?” she asked, probingly.

“Uhh…”

“We’d make sure you don’t get left behind, as the world changes,” she continued, “because the world is changing, Dr. J, and we think our product is going to help women succeed in it. Don’t you want to be there with us?”

“Uhhhh…”

Seeing my anxiety starting to get the better of me, Abby smiled disarmingly. “You probably need to talk to Melissa about it, before deciding on the trial,” she began again, “right?”

Oh my god I couldn’t believe it, how demeaning that was, but I knew it was my out - for now. ”yeah I guess I probably should…” I said, weakly…

“Of course you do…” Abby smiled.

…

“So…<nnngh>...” Melissa all but groaned, inching closer to me on the couch, “you wanted my approval, first?”

As I had recounted my story, described the meeting to her, Melissa had slowly, gradually, become visibly more excited, completely engaged. She’d asked me to repeat details, recount conversation, all the while gazing intently into my face and moving intimately closer to me on the soft leather couch in her office. Her curves, her larger body had me slowly retreating, backing up as best I could. An arm rested on the back of the couch behind me.

“w-well I, uh…” I stammered, eyes dropping again for a furtive glance at her thighs, hips, her tiny waist. I was, at this point, already overtaken by the scent of her perfume. “it’s uh-“

“It’s like you’re recognizing you need my help, isn’t it?” she asked, a strange huskiness in her voice, “Isn’t it?? That you have an easier time when I make the decisions for you??”

I couldn’t say anything, looking at her. I was tongue-tied realizing, in that moment, how assertive women now framed the borders of my life, affected my daily choices. And they were, if anything, all pushing me into the clutches of other powerful women. If I took this money, allowed this clinical trial to set root in my office, it would mean becoming dependent on both Evolution and Lean In. Lean In, I was learning, was a well-connected, obviously well-funded female empowerment organization, one that seemed determined to get women into places of influence and strengthen them while they’re there. And Evolution Pharmaceuticals was not just the rinky-dink pill pop-up that I’d assumed it was, but rather a small piece of some larger player...and maybe I’m just being paranoid, but probably also controlled by women. If I took this money, I felt like it would be sucking from the big collective teat of the country’s - and perhaps the world’s - most powerful alpha females.

“I, uh…” I began, forgetting where I was, “yeah…”

“Omigod I am SO happy with you right now..!!” she suddenly, finally gushed, sitting up taller, jumping towards me and abruptly throwing her arms around me. Strong hands behind my head now pulled my face to her chest. “You are such a good boss!”

“mmmrf!”

Embracing me to her bosom, she squealed, and hugged me tighter. Soft breast squashed into my face, my head plastered to Melissa's big left boob.

Oh my god what is she doing?!? I panicked, arms flailing helplessly as I heard her start to laugh. Despite my struggles, she held me firm - if anything, holding me even tighter still.

“M-m-m-Mulithhah!” I tried, voice muffled by the mushy mass mashed into my mouth.

“Shhhhh…!” she giggled, “I can’t help myself, I need to hug you!” Pressing herself into me, she moaned in delight. “Hug hug hug! I need to show you what a good boy you are!!”

The warmth, the softness of her breast was overwhelming, and as she held me firm I - despite myself - started to calm, give myself up to her massive tit. “mmmmf…” I tried again, this time my complaint sounding more like a little sigh.

She looked down at me, quietening down herself. When she spoke again, her voice had softened.

“That okay, sweetie?” she purred, cupping my head from behind with one palm as the other moved into my hair, “Can you breathe down there?”

I groaned something, something in assent and - god help me - rubbed my nose into her.

She giggled.

“There you go…” she cooed, now petting my head, “all good now, all good. Just breathe...”

I sighed again, every breath I took full of her perfume, the scent of her skin. I heard, through her chest, her cooing little praises.

“Good boy...good boy…” she lauded, enveloping me with affection. She was peering down at me, I knew, though my eyes had closed already. I felt her ready herself, and winced in shame even before she asked me the question that I knew was coming:

”So, with the trial…” she asked, “what have we decided?”

=================================================

Thanks so much to the incomparably amazing Dani Doreen for the image. We're so proud to have her onboard as our resident "from the neck down" Melissa and can't wait to work with her some more. She's so awesome and I'd recommend everyone check out her GTS/SM content:

Dani Doreen’s OnlyFans

https://onlyfans.com/danidoreen

#Growing Into the Job

97 notes · View notes

angst-fairygodmother · 4 years ago

Note

🧠 Hargreeves and pets? And/Or animals in general?

A/N: I went with just pets because it got a little long even with just that. And by that I mean so far this headcanon list is the longest word count I've written and barely stays under my 1000 word limit Word Count: 945

At some point when they’re about 10, the children manage to convince Reginald to let them adopt a pet by arguing that it will help them bond as a team and teach them responsibility to all have to take turns caring for it

It’s a $0.05 goldfish. Its scales are faded and looks like it’s on its last leg before they even bring it home, but they are committed to give this apparently geriatric fish the best last days ever

Its name is Charles and it is the most spoiled little goldfish ever. Basically the only thing all seven can agree on is this fish

It lives for the next nine years.

When he’s very high and very bitter at some point, Klaus makes a snide comment about “the stupid diseased fish” outliving Ben. None of his siblings speak to him for three days.

When they all move out, Vanya takes it with her. When he finally passes away, she calls all of them to tell them the sad news and ask if they want her to bring him back to the Academy for a funeral. Most of them laugh at her. Luther says he’d like that, and Klaus attends, and it’s really the only moment of closeness those three have together

Diego quasi-adopts a stray mutt that lives near the gym.

He’s not allowed to bring it inside, but he feeds it scrambled eggs and meat scraps out behind the building and builds a little lean-to of plywood so it has somewhere to shelter from bad weather

One day the dog disappears and he is Distraught. He calls Patch to ask if she’ll help him find “Luther.” She thinks he means his brother and is annoyed when finds out otherwise

Until they find said dog a few blocks down in an overgrown lot. Along with her seven newborn puppies.

Diego stops calling her Luther at that point and lets Patch do the honors of renaming her: Violet, after the flowers growing around her little nest. Secretly, he names the puppies after his siblings, but only ever refers to them as a collective so no one will know

Patch convinces him that the best thing to do for Violet and her babies is call a local rescue so they can get vet treatment and have proper homes. He’s sad about it, but knows it's for the best. The one he misses most is the runt of the litter, who was clumsy and reckless, and thought he could take on targets much bigger than himself, just like his teleporting namesake

Allison wants to get Claire a kitten for her third birthday.

Patrick vetoes the idea in favor of a stuffed one, believing that she’s too young still for that kind of responsibility (he’s probably right, but they fight over it after Claire has gone to bed for the night, several times. Allison considers rumoring him into agreeing, but eventually decides not to do it)

In the 60s, she brings up the idea of getting a cat and Ray is all for it. They adopt a little calico out of a box of free kittens on a street corner. Her name is Rosa.

The first night after Allison leaves, Ray spends all night on the couch crying into Rosa’s fur, and she stays there on his lap, purring comfortingly.

Klaus spends most of a summer sleeping on a park bench near an artificial lake. He starts considering the ducks “his.”

They all have names and elaborate backstories and when children come by to feed them, he tells stories about them like they’re characters in a Shakespearean drama (or a bad telenovela depending on the day). Most of the local parents just accept it after a while, since for all that he’s a weird homeless man, he’s harmless.

Five doesn’t really understand the concept of pets anymore post Apocalypse. Why would you burden yourself with something totally useless and totally reliant on you for everything forever? At least with children they grow up and you can make them useful.

When the long, black-haired, one-eyed stray cat that usually hangs out in the alleyway behind the mansion is spotted in his room one day everyone very distinctly Does. Not. Say. Anything. (a few pointed looks and whispered comments about how even with Dad dead there are two grumpy old men in the house do occur however)

Vanya is actually the least animal-loving of her siblings.

The only reason she takes Charles when she leaves the Academy is because she and Luther are the only ones with any stability (technically Allison is pretty stable too, but she’s not about to take a silly goldfish on a plane to LA with her). And Luther is so busy on missions all the time, she fears that Charles would get forgotten and die.

She does buy another goldfish after his death though because she finds herself feeling strangely lonely without him around. It dies about two weeks later of disease. She tries again and the second fish lasts almost three months before she wakes one morning to find it floating at the top of the tank, dead. There is no third fish

Mr. Puddles occasionally ends up in her apartment when he escapes and she kind of hates it, just for the sheer number of things he manages to knock over or make a mess of. Not to mention she’s itchy and sneezing for days afterward because she’s mildly allergic and his hair gets everywhere and sticks.

She doesn’t mind the horses at Sissy’s farm, but also doesn’t think of them as pets so much as tools for doing the farm work

#200 follower flash fiction marathon spectacular #Hargreeves #All the Hargreeves #headcanons #The Umbrella Academy #I think I remember hearing somewhere that there's a dog in the comics but I haven't read those so...eh

34 notes · View notes

cocktail-party-in-an-abattoir · 4 years ago

Text

In Memoriam Herschel (2005-2021)

It was the late summer/early autumn of 2005. I was 16 years old. I went to a friend’s house for a get-together with other friends. She lived in a more rural area, so stray cats were not uncommon. One of these strays had recently birthed a litter of kittens. They were corralled into a blocked-off area in my friend’s den. Naturally, we all gravitated towards the kittens. We spent a good while petting them, playing with them, holding them, and watching them with their mother. A particular kitten was a gray and white tabby. This kitten had made its way towards me and tried to crawl up one of my jean legs. I was wearing bootcut jeans, so it actually managed it. I was immediately drawn to this kitten, the idea of asking my parents if we could keep it already forming.

While my friends and I were playing with them, we decided to give them all smartass, noncommittal names. None of us could sex kittens, so that was reflected in the names we chose. I named the gray and white tabby (of which there were two, but I zeroed in on the jean leg kitten) “Herschel.” Why? Well, when I was eight or nine, I used to play House with friends. I had heard the name “Herschel” on some sitcom, and I liked the sound of it. So, I often named my fake son “Herschel.” This became an inside joke between my best friend and me.

Back at home, I asked my mom if we could adopt the kitten. She had veto power. She was kind of hesitant at first but eventually relented. A few weeks later my friend and her mom brought the kitten over to my house. By that point I was already seriously referring to it as “Herschel.” We all just kind of assumed it was male. The first thing Herschel did after getting out of the carrying case was hide behind one of our bookcases and stayed there.

We took Herschel to the vet. Upon examination the vet tech proclaimed he was, in fact, she. Her exact words were “You have a little girl!” For better or for worse, I was committed to “Herschel” (much to my mom’s chagrin), so from then on, I had a girl cat with a boy name. This led to years of various people (mostly veterinary staff) getting her sex wrong. I don’t know that I ever bothered correcting them because, well, they were going to find out the truth soon enough.

Between 2005 and 2010, Herschel grew from a kitten with what my mom described as “Yoda ears” into a gorgeous young lady. She had the most beautiful green eyes. People always had nice things to say about her looks. She had an adorable bow-legged gait from the beginning. She grew into an affectionate little cuddle-bug once she adjusted to us. She was wary of strangers, which was probably for the best. She did not like to go outside as much as our older cat, Simba (RIP)—especially after being treed once—but she was a very skilled huntress. She even managed to get two hummingbirds. Obviously, I’m not a fan of such “presents,” but I couldn’t help but be impressed by her prowess.

In 2007, we adopted 2 labs named Olive and Penny (RIP x2). 2010, we adopted two fluffy black kittens from our vet’s office. We named them Buttercup and Licorice (RIP x2). Herschel respected Simba because of his seniority, but she absolutely despised the other pets. She would growl and hiss at them on sight. Because of this, the dogs had to stay downstairs while the cats had free rein upstairs. By 2012, Buttercup had gone missing, and we had adopted two more animals: a cat named Kid Twist (“Twist” for short) and a blue heeler named Bleu. Herschel did not care for them either. That same year my parents moved one state over, and I moved to a nearby city to stay with a family friend. The Menagerie went with my parents.

One day in 2013 or 2014 my mom commented about how Herschel hid under a guest room bed much of the time. She would only come out to do her business or eat. Since the dogs had free rein over the entire house, this meant there was no real “safe space” for Herschel. Thus, her reclusiveness. Mom was worried about her well-being. I offered to take Herschel under my wing. Mom agreed. Now, my housemate already had a few cats, so it wasn’t perfect, but it was an improvement over a house with dogs. Herschel had been under my care since.

In 2015 Herschel moved with me into the apartment I currently live in. Despite my apartment’s smallness, she was finally the one cat in a one-cat home. I had stopped letting her out because a) my apartment complex is positively labyrinthine b) the complex is next to a busy highway, and c) I wanted her to live longer and not harm any wildlife (although her hunting days were behind her). She didn’t seem to mind. For the next few years, she was my kitty comrade. Aside from some dental issues and a heart murmur, she always had a clean bill of health. I honestly thought she was going to live as long as Simba had (18, almost 19) because he was also a spry geriatric cat.

In late 2020, Herschel was diagnosed with hyperthyroidism. She had been growing thinner and vomiting before I found out. I had to start giving her medication twice per day, but there was otherwise no change. She was still the empress I knew and loved, if a little slower. I thought that was going to be it. Then, earlier this year, the vet ran some more tests. While I had managed to lower her thyroid levels, the vet found another problem: chronic kidney disease. My blood ran cold upon hearing this because one of our pet labs, Olive, had died from kidney failure a few years prior. The vet told me while there was no cure, CKD could be managed with diet changes and medication. He was right, but unfortunately, that wasn’t the case with Herschel. She quickly went from stage 3 to stage 4 (4 being the end stage). I still kick myself about this because I feel like I could’ve found out sooner. Anyway, the vet suggested I should have Herschel hospitalized for a couple of days with IV fluids. The idea was to basically rehydrate her and then start a regimen of a new diet, supplements, and medication.

So, I waited outside for three hours until a hospital staff member came to collect Herschel. It would’ve been longer, but my very kind vet called ahead. A couple of days later my mom and I returned to the hospital to wait for Herschel. It was March 25th, my birthday. One of the vets called me and stated despite the diuresis, Herschel’s stats remained the same. She stated I had probably 2 weeks left with her. I knew she was right, but I was still determined to try. I gave her daily cocktails of medication. I learned how to give her subcutaneous injections to hydrate her. I got the prescription wet food. At first, she had more okay days than bad, but it eventually became clear she was circling the drain. Treatment transformed into hospice care. I was going to do everything possible to keep her comfortable. By the end she was incontinent and no longer eating or drinking. Then she stopped being able to walk. I knew I had to make the final appointment. After a long crying session, I did.

My mom came to help yesterday. Herschel was mostly immobile and out of it. Not even her favorite prosciutto roused her. I swaddled her in a changing pad and a blanket and slept with her next to me for one more night. She was still alive this morning if barely. Before we were set to go to her final appointment, I played her Sugarloaf’s “Green-Eyed Lady” (which will always remind me of her) and Audrey Hepburn’s version of “Moon River.” As my mom and I went to prepare her for the appointment, we realized how still she was. She did not appear to be breathing, and she did not react to anything we did. I took a flashlight to her pupils and… she was gone. She had died peacefully on my couch, which was one of her favorite spots to lounge. Honestly, I was relieved because the thought of taking her to a strange place to be euthanized frankly distressed me. I cuddled her ragdoll body from then until we were sitting in the vet office’s parking lot. Mom got a chance to hold her, too. A vet tech came out, used her stethoscope, and confirmed what we already knew. After a few more minutes with her we said our last goodbyes. I filled out paperwork confirming I wanted her ashes returned to me with a clay pawprint.

I want Herschel’s ashes buried on my parents’ property with the others. Maybe a little farther away since she did not like most of them. I’m also looking into urn jewelry so I can carry her with me. This cat saw me at some of my lowest points, including when I was furloughed from my job last year. This cat was sweet and affectionate but also a pesky little shit. This cat was the first living being I was fully responsible for. She somehow managed to be regal while shoving her butthole into your face. If she liked you, she came and sat with you. If she didn’t, she hid behind the washing machine. I’m convinced she was part slug because even at her largest she was able to fit into confined spaces. I will miss her trilling meows. She was beautiful to the end, and I will always love her and miss her. I don’t know if there is an afterlife or not, but if there is, I hope she has endless king crab and prosciutto to snack on.

#personalcocktail #pet death cw

1 note · View note

captainchrisfics · 5 years ago

Text

Still

About: Steve Rogers finds his way to a first person pov’s doorstep at 3 a.m. under the guise of having gotten his ass beat and being in need of some medical attention, but they end up playing the other kind of doctor

Word Count: 1924

Warning(s): Nothing too steamy, but definitely a make out scene and illusions to it and some battle wounds getting treated (pretty mildly mentioned imo)

P.S. Wow, long time no post huh 😅 I really appreciate you all sticking with me through this break. Although I’ve been way busier than I ever was last time I was posting (so I can’t promise I’ll be resuming the same schedule) this whole quarantine thing has really made me realize how much I miss the drive to write and the accountability to put it out there that this outlet allows me. Being said, I’m really looking forward to becoming a lot more active on here to make the most of the passion and platform so please send some requests my way! I don’t really want to write for real people anymore (thank you for your patience again and letting me figure out how exactly I want to do this), but for now I’ll stick to Marvel- although I’d be surprised if there wasn’t a little something Supernatural coming your way 😉

There was a pounding sound, one heavy thud that tugged me from sleep but not quite out of bed yet. I checked the clock to see the time and was sure that nobody would be knocking on my door at three in the morning. It was probably wishful thinking, but just when I’d convinced myself it must’ve been my upstairs neighbor dropping something or some annoying prank, I heard it again. Twice, clear as day. In the middle of the fucking night.

I trudged to the door, tying my robe tight around my waist. The sound of my feet pattering down the hall didn’t drown out another knock. I crossed my arms and leaned forward on my tiptoes, peeking through the peephole to see who had half a mind to wake me up at this hour.

Through the fish-eyed lens, there was none other than Captain America. He had one hand pressing against a bloody spot on his side and the other forearm leaning against my door frame and, based on the shape he was in, I feared Steve couldn’t support himself upright otherwise. He was beaten, bruised, and bloody from the dripping slash on his forehead to the ankle he wouldn’t put any weight on. Steve was nervously chewing his swollen bottom lip, pearing up through those thick blonde lashes between the paranoid glances out of the corner of his eyes. “You know I hate to bother you,” he sighed, squeezing those impossibly calm blue eyes shut. Steve pressed his forehead against the door and said in a breathy voice, unable to manage much more, “I need help.”

Everything in me sank, but I bit back the heavy dread since the last thing Steve needed was something slowing me down if he was showing up on my doorstep in this state. I swung the door open and ushered the wounded super soldier in the best I could, wrapping an arm around his slim waist and trying to support his broad shoulder to steady his stumbling. Steve kicked the door shut behind him and told me to bolt it as he leaned against the wall, breathing heavy through his pain.

“Mind me asking?” I inquired as I helped him to the bathroom. Usually, I wasn’t one to ask a lot of this guy I barely knew.

We met when Steve and the other Avengers brought civilians that had been injured in the superheros’ crossfire into the ER during my shift. We’d had a few bad cups of cafeteria instant coffee since. Still, this certainly wasn’t what I imagined it would be like if I even were to ever bring Steve Rogers over at this hour.

Steve strained to lift himself onto the countertop next to the sink while I began sanitizing a needle with rubbing alcohol. He gave me this crooked grin while shaking his head. “The less you know, the better,” Steve said in his old New York accent. He paused to cough, clearing his throat before clarifying. “The safer.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I watched as he sucked a breath in between gritted teeth before stretching to peel the top half of his suit, sticky with a mix of blood and perspiration. His pale skin pulled taught over the tense muscles just beneath. Averting my attention back to preparing my supplies as to avoid a crimson blush, I tried not to think about the bumps along his stomach glistening in the fluorescent lighting with the fight’s sweat or how the definition danced along his bicep when Steve tugged himself free from the constricting suit.

I rolled my eyes. “If you led whatever could beat the crap out of Captain America to my door,” I snorted, pressing a pad damp with alcohol to his bloody side in an attempt to clean him up, trying to see what I was working with. “I think I’ve got a right to know what’s about to come knocking.”

“I took care of it,” Steve promised, his voice low and serious. His long fingers wrapped around the counter’s edge as his knuckles turned white. “I wouldn’t put you in harm’s way.”

My breath hitched in my throat. There was something about the way those words left his lips, like an old vow he’d broken before but still spoke with a steady resolve.

“Why come here anyway?” I cleared my throat and asked to change the subject, forcing my attention on determining how deep the cut along his ribcage really went. Nothing I couldn’t handle, but still. The question remained.

“Not happy to see me?” Steve joked with this boyish twinkle in his eye that made me think it’d be more fitting if I were sitting opposite him in a red vinyl booth at a diner, sharing a milkshake instead of stitching him back together.

“Always a pleasure,” I shot back. “I’m just sure you have better resources at your disposal than a tired ER nurse, being a national hero and all.”

Steve was quiet for a minute, giving me a chance to focus on threading the sewing needle I was about to stitch him up with as if this were a triage tent instead of my own bathroom. I nestled myself between his spread thighs and counted to three before puncturing this beautiful porcelain pin cushion even more.

“I am sorry to wake you, but you don’t give yourself enough credit,” Steve hissed in heavy, panting breaths as I maneuvered the needle between the slash wound. “Honestly, I can’t remember the last time I got my ass kicked this bad. Figured if this was it, might as well have a pretty face to see me out.”

“Flirting? Now?” I looked at him with a raised brow for a moment before returning to work. “You know, when my geriatric patients try to come on to me, I’m usually a lot less into it.”

Steve raised his eyebrows and laughed in a way that was light and lilting and made me feel like all would be right in the world, causing his ribs to shake in a way I hadn’t anticipated. “Stay still,” I hissed, instinctively pressing his stomach back into place with a stern touch to his abs. The muscles tensed under my cold touch.

I forgot how to breathe again, a bad habit I’d developed around him. Like a deer caught in oncoming headlights, my wide eyes darted to meet his in this awful moment nearly bursting full of potential. “Doctor’s orders?” Steve asked like it was a challenge, his voice low and simmering with something sultry. His baby blues peaked between blonde eyelashes as if they were tentatively trying to ask for permission.

I felt his heel inch up the back of my thigh, tugging me closer to the counter and just barely brushing my hips against his. “I think you know why I came here instead of the hospital,” Steve growled. His hands found the curve of my hips while mine steadied against his chest. I didn’t know if it was residual adrenaline from the battle, but his heart was pounding just beneath the soft skin of his pec. I wondered how anyone could drag a knife across it, or hurt someone like Steve at all.

He bit his swollen lip, all but begging its cut to bleed again. “Nearly dying has a way of making you realize what you want,” Steve paused, staring me down softly as his hands slowly trailed around my sides until they reached their destination, fingertips nestling into the curve of my ass. “Now I know you’re what I need,” his breath shook as he whispered.

“You’re being dramatic,” I teased without raising my voice above his. “Sure, you’re banged up, but this,” I said, delicately pressing the tips of my fingers to the inflamed bruise around Steve’s temple, slowly dragging my nail down to the black and blue of his chiseled cheekbone and jaw. Then down the crook of his neck and along the sharp curve of his collarbone and every muscle that stood between that and his waistband, tracing every inch of his body like I was creating a map. “This wouldn’t have killed you. You don’t need to go getting yourself hurt to find an excuse to visit.”

“Well,” Steve chuckled again, pressing a kiss to my temple before pulling away with a dry, hacking cough. “It’s not exactly like you gave me your number,” he chided.

“Not like you asked,” I cleared my throat, taking a step back from Steve. “Now knock it off. I’ve got a sharp object in my hand and your suture to finish.”

Steve mumbled something under his breath about all being fair in love and war while the grimy heels of his boots absentmindedly tapped against my counter’s cabinets. Instead of snapping back again, either out of fear of my brain not being so functionally witty in the wee hours of the morning or because there was something so childishly endearing about how he hollowed his rose cheeks to whistle a tune as his eyes drifted to my ceiling, I chose not to ruin the moment.

After I’d finished tying Steve up, I checked his eyes for a concussion with a small flashlight I’d learned to keep handy in my med kit after a few too many drunken stumbles on nights out with the girls. Then, I took Steve’s strong, calloused hand in mine and helped as he hopped off the ledge.

“Really, I’m fine,” Steve insisted. He stretched to rub the back of his neck. Staring at me with rosy cheeks and a crooked smile, Steve still maintained this old-fashioned innocent charm about him. It clashed with the puffy bruises and scabbing cuts.

I caressed his face, careful not to brush the slash that carved out his cheekbone. The corners of his chapped lips twitched up in a small smile I couldn’t help but press a kiss against.

“Still just fine?” I asked, pressing our foreheads together after I pulled away. My hand landed on his chest and I missed the way his heart beat so fast before, I wanted to feel it pounding like that again. No, I wanted to make it.

“No,” Steve sucked his teeth before his mouth grew into a wide smile. “Better, actually. I think morning breath might be a good cure…” he teased.

Suddenly, hands gripped my ass again, enjoying a moment’s squeeze before traveling even lower until he picked me up by my thighs. It was Steve’s turn to shove me up against the sink, making himself comfortable between my spread legs.

“We could test that theory,” I suggested in a purr as Steve pressed quick pecks along the length of my jaw. He inched down my neck before pausing to suck on my neck right where he could feel my pulse quicken. My knees tightened instinctively around his hips, drawing Steve as close as the ledge allowed.

“Mhm, I’d like that,” Steve moaned in my ear, departing with one last nibble that left much to be desired. He held me at arm’s length as his gaze took in the sight, probably a rather rough one after the night I’d had. But Steve smiled anyway, taking my chin between his thumb and index finger as he pulled me in for another kiss. This one was long and patient, almost grateful. “You’ve taken care of me enough tonight though,” Steve mumbled against my lips. As his fingers pressed into my hips, he almost growled, “I think it’s your turn to stay still.”

Tags: @patzammit , @thegetawaywriter , @coffeebooksandfandom , @captainsteveevans , @intrepidandabitcrazy , @super100012 , @spilledinkindumpster , @torntaltos , @amiquette , @peach-acid , @southerngracela , @kelbabyblue , @artisticrogers1972 , @bval-1 , @elatedmarvel

If you’d like to be tagged in my future fics, please reply to this post, or if you’re looking for more of my writing you can find that here :)

#please be kind this is the first thing I've written in a very long time let alone posted #I didn't mean for this to be steamy a t a l l #but can you TELL I'm missing my man during this shit #And you can tell exactly where I realized in the fic it was getting heated and pulled away from a sexy scene #and exactly where I decided to go with it anyway bc too much had been written by that point it was no return lol #hope you enjoyed though!!!#steve rogers #steve rogers fanfic #steve rogers imagine #steve rogers fanfiction #captain america #captain america fanfic #captain america fic #captain america fanfiction #captain america drabble #steve rogers drabble #imagine steve rogers #imagine captain america #captain america imagine #captain america x reader #reader x captain america #steve rogers x reader #reader x steve rogers #marvel #marvel fic #marvel fanfiction #marvel fanfic

23 notes · View notes