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nightowlwriting · 3 years ago

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summary: steve is acting weird. avoiding you, being snippy and mean, leaving the room when you enter. all you want is your boyfriend back, but all he wants is to pretend you don't exist. when he's almost hurt on a mission, you do what you're made to do.

word count: 11k

reader specifics: no race/gender/sexuality/body type mentioned, no pronouns for reader used, powered!reader, insecure!reader

warnings: steve is mean to the reader in the beginning, heavy angst, hurt/comfort, canon-level violence, brief ptsd symptoms, slight description of blood, brief mention of racism in the '30s & '40s

brief mentions of: reader's parents being toxic, homelessness, past accidents, ableism in the past & present

note: this one hurt me lmfao. idk why this went the way it did but i'm not mad at it // also i am a queer, trans, disabled american. i have fundamental disagreements with things that marvel/the mcu as it stands for and some of the more nuanced things that you might not notice unless you're looking for it. this will take place in my writing because i cannot separate myself from the lens in which i consume/create content.

title credit: lil nas x

mobile masterlist - request - support my work? - ao3

Falling in love with Steve Rogers went against every instinct you had. You knew that he was going to hurt you from the first moment your lips touched his. Sure - he’s clever, righteous, courteous… You can’t forget he’s also drop-dead gorgeous because every trashy gossip magazine in a three-state radius of New York doesn’t let you forget. Neither does the sight of him waking up in your bed every morning. (Well, actually, maybe that would remind you if he was still fucking doing that.)

But lately, you’ve had to rely on the fucking tabloids to catch a glimpse of your super-hero boyfriend. The university class you had picked up on a whim at the end of the summer - Life & Times of the ‘30s and ‘40s - avoids any mention of Steve Rogers and the Howling Commandos. Not that your classmates do because, Christ on a bike, those magazines manage to catch pictures of you and Steve in moments that you don’t even remember. Plus, you’re an Avenger too. It’s bound to catch some attention when you waltz into a college classroom.

You’re sure if you were an undergrad trying to fill a gen-ed requirement and were sitting next to someone who could kill you without blinking but also dating Captain Rogers you’d be a little distracted too. You try not to blame your classmates too much, but they do make it hard to concentrate with their -really dating Captain America?- and -wonder if I could get an autograph- whispers. None of that matters because you’re learning, really studying, in between missions and missing Steve and believing that maybe the gossip reporters are right.

Maybe he’s forgotten about you.

You grit your teeth and push the thought away. It does you no good right now, while you’re training with Peter. He’s working his way up to bona fide missions and, because you’re the only one on the team who has experience with real-life teenagers outside of saving their lives, it’s up to you to get him to the level that he needs to be. Plus, the mission where he’s going to get his gills wet is just you, Tony, Steve, Nat, and Bucky. You’d much rather be the one to train him because you won’t traumatize him.

Right now, though, you’re just kicking his ass to try and get rid of some of the tension in your body. You feel a little bad about it, but when you started as his mentor you told him point-blank that you’d never go easy on him. That meant if you were having a bad day he either needed to up his game or he’d have a bad day too. It appears he’s taken that to heart as he struggles to dodge the hits you’re throwing his way. He lunges out of the way when you try to land a right hook but practically walks into the leg sweep that sends him crashing to the ground.

“Awe,” Peter groans, letting his guard down. You take the momentary lapse of focus to grab him by the collar of the hoodie he’s wearing and haul him to his feet, jerking one fist back to cold-clock him but he beats you to it. You hear the sound of your nose cracking before you feel it but then the pain rushes you all at once. You’ve had worse but coming from Peter, the move surprises you. You don’t yell out but he does when you push him away from you and call the fight off. Peter practically yelps your name, hands up by his head as he watches you bend at the waist, both hands over where your nose is absolutely gushing blood. “I am so sorry, I just reacted-!”

“It’s fine, Pete,” You shake your head and stand straight again, the blood beginning to leak through your fingers, “Just go get me a towel, okay?” Peter practically trips over his feet to get something for your nose and as you track him on his way into the locker rooms, you see Steve, Bucky, and Nat. The latter are looking your way, eyebrows raised like they’re asking you if you’re okay. Steve hasn’t even broken stride in his conversation so you wave them off with a bloody hand. Peter’s back in a flash, pressing a wet towel into your grasp and snapping you out of your self-pity party. “It was a good hit,” You compliment as you wipe your face off, “I just wasn’t expecting it. Prob’ly wouldn't have landed it if I had.”

He wrings his hands, shifting from foot to foot. “I’m sorry-”

“It’s a good thing, Peter, means you’re getting better.” You deadpan, checking to see if your nose has stopped bleeding yet, “I don’t think you actually broke it, but I’ll go down to medical to check later.” You do your best to clean up your hands with the wet towel, but it’s so soaked with your blood that it mostly just smears it around. You grimace and shake your head. “Well, I should go now before our sparring match ends up looking like I murdered you.”

“I’ll go with,” He offers, “I’m the one who broke your nose.” You let Peter walk you down to medical even though you were originally going to refuse. Perhaps petty, but it was the way that Steve didn’t even look your way as you left that made you let the teenager walk you the two floors to where you’d be able to clean yourself up. He hums in the elevator and you know that he wants to ask you something - it’s the way he holds his mouth when he’s prying for information or keeping a secret that tips you off. Finally, just before the elevator opens, you sigh and turn to him.

“What, Peter?” He grins but then it falls when he has to skitter after you down the hall. Maybe that’s why it falls - the question he asks next nearly sends you to your ass.

“Is everything okay with you and Captain Rogers?” He easily catches up to you when you stop in your tracks, ignoring that you’re still bleeding a little bit down your face and you might be dripping blood everywhere from where it’s run down your arms.

“What?” You do your best to look confused like everything is fine, but Peter is perceptive. He may fumble around and be pretty awkward, but those are really just teenager things that he’ll hopefully outgrow. You should have known that when someone caught onto how bad things are on your end, it would be Peter. (You wonder if Nat or Bucky has brought it up with Steve, considering he’s spent more time with them in the past week than he’s seen you in the past month.) “We’re fine.” Your words are stilted as you begin walking to the medical wing much faster than before.

“I just thought I’d ask, well, because I’ve sort of noticed… Something just seems off, you know? Like, you two used to spend a lot of time together, and maybe it’s the recon mission coming up, but I was just thinking that you two really barely look at each other even when you’re in the same -”

“Peter!” You say his name much louder than either of you expected and both of you jump. “Peter,” You say softer, looking at the glass door to the medical wing instead of him, “Just leave it, okay? It’s nothing you have to worry about, kid.” Peter ducks around to open the door, forcing you to look at him. “He’s just focused on his stuff and I’m focused on getting you whipped into shape for this mission. We only have two days.” Once you’re inside and surrounded by the medical crew Tony keeps on staff, he thankfully drops it. You love Peter, you do, but it’s a lot like having a little brother. You can only love them so much before you want to fucking strangle them. Eventually, as the doctor checks to make sure he hasn’t broken your nose, you have to order him away to go study or something. “I’ll join you later,” You promise him as the doctor prods at your tender flesh, “I have an essay due soon.”

That’s another thing that’s been bugging you that Peter surely picked up on. Nearly everybody knew you were taking a course at the local community college, but nobody knew what it was about. You’d wanted to keep it a secret until you told Steve, but the day you had registered he’d flown out for a two-week mission without telling you or saying goodbye. After that, you decided it didn’t really matter if anyone knew what class you were taking, and keeping it a secret sort of spiraled from there. If they wanted to know they could look it up. Maybe it was petty, but you just wanted the class to be over and done with so you could forget that you really only picked it up so you relate to your boyfriend more.

If you can even call Steve your boyfriend anymore. You’re not so sure where you stand and, honestly, you’re really close to giving up on the relationship as a whole but you can’t do that. Before you were dating, you were friends, and Steve… He never gave up on you. Not once. How could you repay him by giving up on your relationship? The one that you thought was The One? Even if it hurts, even if you’re unsure more than sure these days, how could you? Somewhere, though, you know you deserve better. You don’t deserve the sinking, dark feeling that lingers in your gut for most of your days now or the way that you second-guess every move you make - even in the field. It’s dangerous but you can’t do anything to fix it.

You’re too scared. You know that eventually, it will happen, he’ll break up with you, but you’d like to put that day off for as long as possible. To relish in the love he once had for you, how pure and powerful it was. You’re sure that you’ll never experience anything like that again.

Hell, you might never fall in love again.

Those thoughts don’t do anything to help you, though, so you try not to have them. You get clearance from the doctor and get cleaned up as much as you can without taking a full body shower. The idea to go back to your room and take one crosses your mind but you know that Steve’s probably done training, probably heading back for his own shower, and you don’t want to open that can of worms. Instead, you go to the common room and drop into the couch between Peter and Tony. They’re talking about something something science something something, but you pull your stack of books and notebooks out from the shelf underneath the coffee table and continue outlining your essay from where you left off. The assignment was focused on how the end of WW1 changed American life and then how life changed leading up to and during WW2 but that had hit a little too close to home for you, so you’re writing about the racial tension and overall racism of the times. Tony and Peter keep talking over your back and then you hear footsteps heading toward the common room.

You barely look up when they enter - Nat and Bucky - because it’s fine. It’s normal. They’re just two of Steve’s best friends, that’s all, nothing to be jumpy about. You don’t even register that emotional pain that hits when you realize that, yeah, you’re not one of his best friends anymore. You doubt you’re even considered a friend in his book.

You groan and lean back into the couch, bringing your study materials with you. Peter glances over, skimming over your page and a half of shorthand, and gags. “Jesus, can you write like a normal person?”

“Oh, sorry,” You say lazily, not looking up as you continue to scribble in your incomprehensible code, “I do forget that some of us had privacy at home.” You lift your lips just a little bit to let Peter know you’re kidding, looking up at him through your lashes as you slouch next to him. He looks red in the face. “Besides, once you have to start doing mission reports you’ll be begging me to learn my shorthand and use my stenography machine.”

“I keep telling you that I can update that ol’ thing,” Tony draws your attention. For the first time, you realize that Nat and Bucky are on the loveseat looking at you expectantly. Steve is standing in the corner over their shoulder reading a book from the bookshelf in front of him. His back is tense and he looks like he’s not reading, just listening. You force your eyes back to Tony on your right and shake your head.

“No, because then you’d know my shorthand and it makes me too happy to see you spend hours trying to decipher it.” His eyes wander to your essay again, trying to find any patterns that he can use to figure out what the hell you’re writing on anything ever. He’s opening his mouth to make a smart-ass remark that will no doubt lift some of the weight off of your shoulders when another voice speaks up.

“Wow,” Steve doesn’t even look at you even as he says your name sardonically, “Way to be a team player.” Your mind comes to a screeching halt, trying to figure out what the fuck he’s playing at. Even Bucky and Nat look surprised at the cold way he spoke to you, Tony and Peter both gasping from your side. You can’t say anything, throat tight and burning with tears as you stare at your boyfriend with raised eyebrows. What do you say to that? How do you respond? You know it wasn’t a joke because he’s not laughing, not smiling, not even looking up from that fucking book in his hands. You can’t tell if you’re more hurt or embarrassed, but either way, you don’t want to stick around for someone to get the nerve to say something.

Instead of replying, you slam your textbooks shut and bundle everything into your arms. You doubt Steve even notices that you’re making such a hasty retreat but if he does, he doesn’t say a fucking thing. You feel like you’re in high school - practically running through an empty hallway with your notebooks and textbooks pressed to your chest, trying not to cry. It’s ridiculous. You’re a trained assassin, you’re an Avenger, you are strong and powerful and yet… And yet. You’ve given so much of your heart and soul to Steve Rogers that he can knock you down eight pegs without even trying. Without even looking at you. You can’t wait to go on this fucking recon mission, where you can put all of your focus on making sure Peter is doing okay and gathering the intel. Where you can stop thinking about how easily Steve Rogers seems to be pushing you to the side.

You spend the next two days writing your essay, ignoring almost everyone, and working on your essay. On the day of the recon mission, you’re running out the door for your eight a.m lecture, printed essay in hand, and reminding Tony that he promised to pick you up on campus after class for the mission.

You’re lucky that you went, too. You hadn’t counted on the professor making everyone stand up and tell the class the subject of their essays - didn’t realize that it would be twenty-five percent of the grade on the paper. You’ll never understand college professors and the weird shit they do, but the class is informative and entertaining. He goes around the room, starting on the opposite side of you, so you’ll be last. Great.

Several students did their papers on the propaganda of the time, one student was brave and did her essay on the ethical dilemma of the super-soldier serum and eugenics, and most of the other students focused on pop culture and how it changed. When your professor looks at you it’s almost like he’s expecting you to have done nothing but fawn over Steve and Bucky, considering you know them personally. He looks surprised when you clear your throat, stand and say: “I focused on the casual and institutional racism that faced non-white Americans at the time.” You almost preen when he looks impressed and then the shame fills you. It’s just… You want Steve to be proud of you. You want him to congratulate you on going back to school, even if it’s just for one class. You want him to be happy and surprised that he was the inspiration for taking the class.

Though, lately, the class has been more for you than for him. You like learning new things, pushing the boundaries of assignments, making people uncomfortable with the truth of the times you’re studying as told to you by two people who lived it. It’s nice. Normal.

Everyone needs a little bit of normal.

But, honestly, normal is fucking boring. By the time your class is over and you’re handing in your essay it’s like ants are crawling over your skin. A combination of nerves from the upcoming mission, a head full of fog from whatever is happening with Steve, and a little bit of fear at the thought of taking Peter into the field has you bolting for the door the moment your essay is taken from you. You’d worn your tac-suit underneath a pair of baggy sweats and a loose hoodie, so you don’t even bother slowing down as you head toward the car that Tony has waiting for you. He’s in the front seat, grinning at you from underneath his aviators and Peter is driving.

You slip into the backseat without thinking or looking at who’s there, tossing your bag in the back and peeling your hoodie off. “God, Tone, we’re goin’ to die before we even get to the mission with Petey driving.” You toss your hoodie back to join your bag and finally see who’s sitting next to you.

Of course, it’s Steve. He’s looking at you - but not really. He’s looking through you, like he can’t stand that you’re both crammed in the backseat of Tony’s electric car. His gaze catches you and holds you in place. Everything around you goes cold and fuzzy, making you miss Peter’s indignant complaining that he has his license so he should be able to drive… And then Steve scoffs and looks out his window, ignoring you. It stings but you have a job to do. You make some witty retort back to Peter, but it falls flat as you struggle out of your sweats. This is what life is, you think. Relationships aren’t meant to be forever - you learned that at a young age.

Until your accident at fifteen, you had watched your parents run out of helium, their relationship expanding and cooling in arguments, in days spent not talking, in trips to your grandparents without the other, in passive-aggressive computer searches for divorce attorneys left open for anyone to see. Then, after you were trapped between those machines - after you spent hour after agonizing hour with electricity pressing between your atoms, being torn apart and rebuilt as a young god - after that day you watched them expand against each other before the neutron core of their relationship collapsed on itself and the resulting supernova sent you to the streets. But then Fury found you. Then Tony, then Nat, then Steve.

Your parents exploded out from each other and the shockwaves ruined your life. At least now, your relationship with Steve is ending silently. There’s no explosion, no collapse, no rapid expansion to take over your cosmos. Your relationship with Steve is simply approaching the event horizon, where it will hang in the air until one of you takes the final step and you both become frozen, two collapsing objects on opposite sides of the universe. Maybe that’s what you already are. You feel so far away from him in the back of Tony’s car - like he’s eons and light-years away from you - and you feel so cold. Frozen, down to the bone. It makes you stiff in your replies to Tony and Peter, slow on the uptake when the car pulls up to the quinjet, nearing stasis and unable to respond when Nat asks if you’re okay.

Finally, you turn to look at her, nodding. “Fine,” You clear your throat, “Been a rough day.” You do your best to smile at her, but your face feels heavy. Your chest feels cold and tight, making you worry about your performance on the upcoming mission. When Peter shakes his head next to you, discreetly telling Nat not to press, you’re focused on Steve and the electricity humming in the most base part of your body.

He scoffs and rolls his eyes. You turn away and force yourself to smile, throwing a weak and numb arm over Peter’s shoulders. “Are you ready for this, Pete?” You jostle him back and forth, leading him toward the sitting area behind the cockpit. “Gonna get your ass kicked?”

“Please,” He shoves you off, nervously laughing, “Not with the skills you’ve taught me.” He mimics throwing webs, making hissing noises under his breath, and you bark out a laugh, shaking your head.

“You’re payin’ my medical bills when I have to save your ass, Spidey.” You shake your head and strap in next to the wall, Peter taking the seat to your right. Tony, from the aisle across from you, points a thick finger your way.

“You don’t pay medical bills anymore,” He waggles his finger, “So you’ll just have to make him do your homework for a week.”

“Mister Stark!”

“He’ll have to earn shorthand to do your essays,” Nat chimes in from between Bucky and Steve, who are both doing their best to not look at you - or anyone really. “You willing to share that with him?”

You lean back in your seat and jab at Peter with your elbow. “Hell no, so I guess Spider-Boy better do his best.” The arachnid in question grumbles, crossing his arms and slouching in his seat.

“No pressure, right?” He complains, “Not like I’m already nervous or anything.”

“You’ll do fine, kid,” Bucky pipes up, drawing your eyes back to Steve, “It’s goin’ to be a cakewalk.”

“Don’t jinx it, Barnes,” You warn half-heartedly, tucking in on yourself, “We need this to be easy.” From the look on his face - everyone’s face, really - you know that they heard you loud and clear when you were really saying I need this to be easy.

After an uneasy laugh from Bucky, a claustrophobic silence settles over you all as the jet begins to take off. You’re in for an hour ride and plan to spend it going over battle plans with Peter when harsh whispering catches your ear. It’s Bucky and Steve nearly crushing Nat between them until she gets up and sits across from Peter, rolling her eyes. Still, you try your best to run him through the actions you both had planned - the names, the setups you needed to execute them, everything. If something happens to Peter, you’ll never forgive yourself.

And then, cutting through your soft promptings to Peter and his equally soft replies, Bucky’s voice. “Leave it, Steve. Until after this mission.” Even Tony looks up from his tablet, curiosity piqued. Their faces are both red, set hard and angry at each other and your stomach drops. What the hell is going on that Steve ‘Till The End Of The Line Rogers is fighting with Bucky You And Me, Pal Barnes? You must shift, or lean too far into Steve’s eyesight, because for the first time in what feels like years he is looking directly at you - and seeing you, too. It makes your pulse jump and, almost instinctively, you want to reach out and ground yourself on the rubber of the seat underneath you.

You don’t get the chance, though, because Steve speaks. “No, why should I? This is clearly affecting the team.” He’s still looking - glaring - at you like you’ve done something wrong. “What’s the point of waiting? I’ve been waiting to talk about this.”

“Bo, I don’t think this is the time,” Bucky looks over his shoulder at you, then, and you know what’s coming. You know that it’s time, that Steve is about to break up with you in front of your teammates. Your friends. Your family. You steel yourself for the anguish you’re about to feel and then jerk your chin out, hardening your resolve.

“Buck, it’s fine. If Steve wants to address something, he can.”

Natasha says your name, a low warning over the hum of the quinjet. “I think he should wait.”

“Well, I’m not goin’ to wait!” Steve unbuckles himself and stands, “I have tried waiting, and look at where that has gotten me.” He puts his hands on his hips and puffs out a breath. You unbuckle and stand, too, unsure of where this is going. “You need to,” He holds one hand out, pointing at you while his voice shakes. You notice his hand is shaking, too, but fractionally. If you didn’t know Steve as well as you do you may have never noticed it. “You need to get it together.”

“I need to get it together?” You question, eyebrows nearly hitting the ceiling with how fast they shoot up. You’re not totally sure you’ve heard him right because what do you have to get together? The broken shards of your relationship? The information and research for your final paper? The awful way you’ve let yourself be treated for what seems like forever?

“You heard me,” Steve says, at the same time Bucky leans his head back and groans deep in his chest. “What? Someone had to say it.”

“We should wait for this,” Nat speaks up again, but lifelessly. She knows now that you and Steve are both on the warpath, neither of you are going to stop. (That’s also why the two of you work together as a couple so well. Very rarely are you both so worked up about something that you can’t back down, so the other is always there to meet you halfway and get you back to earth.)

“No, no, no,” You say, near hysterically, “No, he wants to do this now? Before a mission? Instead of the fuckin’ weeks we had to hash whatever crawled up his ass and died out? Be my guest. He’s already dragged everyone into this by treating me like a pariah.” You’re not sneering, but your teeth are gritted so tightly together you can hear them scraping and feel a tension headache beginning to bloom in your temples. Bucky looks… Almost incredulous at your statement. Like putting the blame on Steve is a dick move or something.

“Oh, so I’m the bad guy here?” Steve is curling his lip, glaring at you. There’s something behind his eyes, but he’s buried it so deep that you can’t reach it and figure out what it is. “I’m the bad guy, right. Right, right, right.” He scoffs, shakes his head, and then he’s running his fingers through his hair like he really can’t believe what you’re saying to him.

“Well, what else am I supposed to think?” You throw your hands out to the side and let them slap back down on your thighs. “You ignore me, you make me feel like shit, you talk down to me like I’m some insignificant foot soldier. How else am I supposed to take that, Steve?”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe ask me what’s wrong? Maybe ask me why I’m acting like this, instead of ignoring all of your problems like a child?” He mirrors your moments, but the sound his hands make when they hit the outside of his suit is more powerful than yours. Fueled by anger, you think. Anger and whatever the hell was in the serum Erskine pumped into Steve.

“Ask you?” You repeat, near-hysterical, “Ask you? Oh yeah, let me get right on that. Hey, Mister Rogers? Mister Captain America? Mister Ignores-His-Partner-For-God-Knows-Why? Hey, just why are you doin’ that?” You’re surprised that you’ve said something so snotty, but you don’t back down. (Steve looks surprised, too, and Bucky has stood up next to his friend like he’s about to start berating you as well. At least he looks more cautious about it, like he’s not totally sure that this fight should be happening.)

The more surprising part of your fight is how fast it’s shut down. Tony and Nat stand at the same time and exchange a glance like they’ve surprised each other. “That’s enough,” Tony starts.

Nat cuts him off. “I don’t care if you fight this one out instead of talking, but if you do it before this recon mission you two are going to blow it. Do you understand me?” She looks dangerous, the sharp edge of a knife spiraling through the air. You force yourself to look away from her, from Tony, from Bucky, from Steve. She’s right. You know she’s right - especially on this mission. Peter is there, going to be in real danger even though there’s not supposed to be one Hydra agent in a four-mile radius. You have to clear your mind and focus on protecting him.

Steve seems to think the same thing because he stands down. When you watch him collapse in on himself, Bucky’s arms around his shoulders, into the little quinjet seats your everything aches. Heart, lungs, eyes - everything. Even though you don’t know what’s going on, what could have possibly happened to make your relationship sink this quickly and out of the blue, you still love him. He’s still The One for you. You still want to be the one to comfort him and make him feel whole when he’s struggling.

But you can’t. You can’t and it kills you.

The heat of battle makes a lot of things fade into the background. Important things like why the fuck are there Hydra agents here? and Steve is going to break up with you when you get back on the jet and Tony swore on the fucking limited edition AC/DC vintage tour poster he has in his office that this would be an easy in/easy out information mission. None of that matters, though, because you’re in deep shit. There are seventeen of them, all primed to the teeth with weapons made to take your team down permanently.

You’re practically glued to Peter, calling out commands and plans for him to initiate. It’s when all of your plans fall through that you take a hit from a heavy fist on purpose, hitting the ground hard. “Plan F, Spidey, Plan F!” You cover the instruction with a groan and then you’re back on your feet, working your way toward him.

“Plan F?” Tony says, somewhere above you in his suit. Your comms crackle ominously as another heat-seeking grenade is launched, interfering with the radio waves your tech relies on. You don’t worry about it, because you know Tony is on it. He’s your eyes in the sky.

Peter is the one who answers his question, watching your close hand-to-hand tilt out of your favor briefly. “Plan Fuck It, Mister Stark.” He grunts as he webs up a Hydra agent, jerking him away from where he was about to slip a knife up and under Natasha’s kevlar. You finally drop the guy in front of you, ignoring Steve’s disappointed Language! and toss one of your knives toward Nat for her to use. Tony is still laughing in your ear, wheezing as he drops down and snags the rifle from one of the snipers and then takes back off.

What your little protégé failed to mention about Plan F is that it’s not just chaos, but controlled chaos. You let loose, letting a soft current cover every inch of your skin as Peter switches to his conductive webbing and takes special care to not web any of his allies. Except for you - if you’re in the way and he catches you in a web it doesn’t matter because you’re you, alive with electricity that drops the men that get caught in the web, too. You rip out of the webs and turn the current off when one of your teammates gets too close.

More Hydra agents are pouring out of the woods, topping out their numbers around twenty-five. That’s twenty-five too many in your opinion, especially when you can see Peter getting tired, his anxiety spiking, his moves having more and more hesitation behind them. You need to get this over with quickly, but you don’t have the options to do that. Steve, Bucky, and Nat are really the heavy-hitters - you, Pete, and Tony are the only ones without serums despite all of your individual abilities. Desperately you reach out for a web that’s still connected to Peter’s arms, pulling him out of the way of a baton that’s about to come down on the back of his neck.

The baton the agent is wielding glints in the coming dusk, freezing you as Peter scrambles past you with a quick apology. You’ve seen that before - seen it, felt it, know it like the back of your hand. There’s no way that you could ever forget that weapon. The man stumbles when his hit doesn’t connect but then rights himself and searches for a new target.

A long, black baton that splits into two prongs at the end is heavy in his hand. Electricity crackles between the bulbs at the end, flashing in the setting sun and your memories. The man only has one, but if it was hooked up to a machine, spinning. If there were four, five, six. If you were pinned between them, screaming in the pain as they rewrote your DNA… You’ve only felt it once, but you’ll never forget it.

And now, you’ll taste it again. On purpose this time. The man holding the stun baton is going for Steve’s back - his strong back, the one that protects people, the one that holds the weight of the world, the one that lays in your bed, the one you see whipping out of rooms as you’re entering just so that he doesn’t have to look at you - and you can’t let that happen. It only takes ten amps to kill a regular human, but you know those things are cranked up to twenty minimum. You don’t want to see how many amps of current it will take to stop Steve’s heart. You’re between the baton and Steve before you can think about what you’re doing or what comes next, the hard bulbs settling unyielding into your side and cranking out maximum power for maximum damage as soon as the current is connected and able to flow from one bulb to the other.

The pain hits you and your throat catches on it. It burns through your body, setting everything on fire - your chest hurts as your heart protests the electrons and then your powers kick in, sweeping them into your very atoms and cells. You’re a live wire now, ears humming and body thrumming with power you’ve only dreamed of. It hurts, and it burns, and you feel tears rising in your eyes because you’re back there - back begging for death or for life or for God and god at the same time - but then it’s over. The man sees that you’re not seizing up, not dropping dead in front of him, and he takes three steps back.

It’s not far enough.

You’ve only felt like this once before - right after you were unhooked from the machine that changed your life and brought you to your new family. You remember how you looked when you were put in front of a mirror with all of the pent up electricity circling your body - how your eyes were filled to the brim and dripping with bright and blue electricity, the way it was jumping across your body, how you didn’t need to breathe because your body was fully saturated with pure, unadulterated power. You wonder if you look like that now and assume you do because you can see the bright blue reflecting in the terrified eyes of the Hydra agent.

Your suit, unlike everyone else’s, is not grounded. It’s metal, metal, metal. You’re made to conduct, born for it, and the earth beneath you comes alive with bright white as you release all of the energy, the power, surges down and out. You’re practiced. You can reach out and feel the synapses and neurons of every human being in the clearing, know exactly where your teammates are standing, and know exactly how to target everything but them and the pitiful amount of electricity their brains carry. You grin, something truly feral and unhinged, and you can see the fear in the Hydra agent. Then, you let go.

You know that everyone is going to be pissed. (Maybe not everyone.) You’re not built for this, not made to take down nearly twenty fucking people at once. As you let go, you feel what they feel. The seizing muscles, the stopping of their hearts, the inside of their bodies crisping against their bones. At that moment, that delicious moment, you see the universe.

You become God. You become everything - your mother and your father and God and god and anyone else who’s watching your life from the ether. You become the judge, jury, and executioner of souls that you don’t know from Adam. You become lightning, and thunder, and exposed nerves of the cosmos at the same time. The world bends to your will and you relish in it, taking that power in your fist and wielding it to protect the man you’ll love for the rest of your life and the family that you’ve made. You will stop at nothing to end this, even if it means turning yourself inside out to do it.

You damn near do turn yourself inside out too, but that doesn’t matter, does it? The blood spilling from your ears, nose, and eyes feels like heaven. It’s hot, and thick, and it’s proof of the power that your body holds. You’re a temple and a sanctuary, a war-room and a bunker, a field of flowers and a sun-dry desert. It does not matter if Steve doesn’t love you at that moment, because you are love and hate wrapped into one package. You are everything and nothing, spread thin at the beginning and the end of time.

And then none of that is true. You are just… You. Standing in a clearing, surrounded by twenty-something dead Hydra agents and your terrified, terrified family. It hurts to breathe and you can taste blood in your mouth, but that’s an afterthought. Steve is still standing behind you, but he is alive. That is what matters.

This is what love is, you think.

Pain and pleasure.

Even if he leaves you, you will always love him.

Pain and pleasure.

You’re weak at the knees when he finally turns to see you - and you’re a sight. Struggling to stand, fingertips blackened with soot but not burnt, blood pouring from your nose, ears, eyes… You look like death, but you feel like life. Someone says something behind you - Peter, maybe? Or maybe Tony, in your comms? - but you don’t hear it. Everything tunnels out, your weak knees finally collapsing as you keel backward.

Steve bears down upon you almost immediately. You’re halfway to unconsciousness when he wraps you up in his arms, keeping you from falling in with the pile of bodies around you. He’s saying your name, harsh and soft and then in a voice like he’s ordering you to wake up. You loll about as he drops you down onto a patch of clear grass, hands searching your body for wounds. When he skims over your side, where the baton has burnt through your suit and your flesh, you surge back toward being able to have cohesive thoughts. The pain brings you back, hands wrapping around Steve’s arm and calling out his name. “Steve! Fuck, that hurts!”

“Honey,” He breathes, “Fuck, we have to get you back to the jet.” His jaw ticks, hair dirty and loose from its normal style. “Why’d you do that?” Steve doesn’t wait for an answer from you, ordering Peter to web something up to carry you over your protests.

“I’m fine,” You argue, only slurring slightly, “I feel fine.” But you’re going to let Nat and Bucky load you up on the webbed stretcher anyway because it’s the first time Steve has cared for you in a long time. You want to relish in this moment, the way that he didn't say your name but called you honey.

Well, and because Natasha slides a thumb across her neck over Steve’s shoulder in a silent threat.

You groan when Bucky accidentally grabs your calf where there is an absolutely awful stab wound, but you wave off his apology. “How could you have known?” To be honest, you hadn’t even known it was there until his Vibranium hand was slipping against it and sending shockwaves of pain through you. Peter is next to you the whole time that you’re being carried back to the jet - Tony staying back to begin scanning the bodies of the Hydra agents for the information you need and any other information they may be carrying. The poor kid is nearly at a breakdown, so you reach out to him and shake his arm when his fingers twine with yours. “Chill out, kid, I don’t know how you got it into your head that this is your fault, but it sure isn’t.” He sniffles, but hands back with Steve as Bucky and Nat get you situated in the small medical room of the jet. They transfer you and then make to leave, only Bucky hesitating near the door.

“Stevie’s goin’ to be here soon and… I don’t know what made you do what you did but you have’t explain it to him. He’s bendin’ over backwards to figure it out, and we don’t have’a clue. Came out’a nowhere.” He looks at you for another moment before shaking his head and stepping out of the room. Your head is spinning, partially from what Bucky just said and partially from the pain and stimulus of electricity. You wait there, then, because this is it. This is the event horizon. You wait there, eyes closed, until you hear footsteps approach the med room, and then the door slowly opens. Steve says your name, holding all the finality and weight of an atomic bomb. You don’t open your eyes until he swings a chair next to the stretcher and lays a hand on your calf.

“You don’t have to do this,” You finally say, pushing yourself up onto your elbows to watch him. “I know that you don’t want to.” Steve only scoffs and begins to wash the stab wound using a packet of soap and a water bottle. You say his name twice before he looks at you, something between hate and hurt curdling into a glaze over his eyes that stops you in your tracks.

“Just let me do this. It is the least that you can do.” His words are painful and stilted, like it’s taking force to push them past his teeth. You lay back down and close your eyes, content to just feel the pain of Steve beginning to stitch you up and then dress the wound before you feel the pain of Steve leaving you like you knew he always would. (Falling in love with Steve Rogers went against every instinct you had. You knew that he was going to hurt you from the first moment your lips touched his.)

When he’s done he sits back and puts his elbows on his knees, head in his hands. He heaves a heavy sigh and then shakes it off, “I’ll dress your burn, and then we’ll talk.” And normally, yes, you would agree but this is too important. You want to get it over with so you can lick your wounds metaphorically and dress them literally - and then you want to go home, you want to pack your bags, and you want to disappear and remake your life somewhere else.

Some far-off place where everyone you know won’t take one look at your face and know that you’re still painfully, deeply in love with Steve Rogers, end of your semester be damned. Family you’ve made be damned. You can’t sit around and be in love with him like a neon sign on a dark highway while it’s painfully clear that he hasn’t had a sign on his highway in a long time.

So instead of agreeing, you swing your legs over the stretcher and swallow your flinch when the burn pulls tight. Steve opens his mouth to argue but you give him a tight-lipped shake of your head and his jaw snaps shut. “No,” You say, voice not giving in to the emotion swirling in your chest. “I have let this go on long enough.”

It’s the wrong thing to say because Steve fucking scoffs again and looks away from you. “One day was long enough.” He says, cutting straight to your core. Okay, ouch. You take a deep breath and shake your head to try and bite back the tears that are inevitably rising in your eyes. If one day was long enough for him to realize he doesn’t want to be with you, why did he let it go on for nearly a full year? Why did he spend so long leading you on, pulling you by a thread before garroting your heart with it? What was the point?

“If you want to leave me, just say that,” You reply harshly, standing and wobbling away from him. He just watches you go, watches the way you struggle past the lead weights your muscles have become, the way you’re starting to feel the stab wound on your leg, the way the skin on your burn is beginning to blister and only just now losing its heat. He just watches you, where the Steve that loved you once upon a time might have helped. You turn your back on him, hands on your hips so that you can hide the way that you’re crying and your hands are shaking.

“If I want to leave you? If?” He says. You hear the scrape of his chair as he stands, “I think after what you’ve done, it’s not an if, sweetheart.” The way he says it tastes like iron. Steve never calls you sweetheart like he never calls you by your name. It’s always honey, lover, dovie. You don’t turn to face him because you’re struggling to keep yourself above water. “I spent so long thinkin’, wonderin’, askin’ myself - God damnit, will you look at me?” You turn slowly, not because you’ve never heard Steve speak like that but because his voice is desperate and raw. When you turn, you’re not sure what to expect. Maybe him, standing in front of you, broad-shouldered and disappointed like in those PSA’s he had to film once. Maybe he’d be angry, hands clenched at his sides and eyes narrowed like he gets in meetings when he doesn’t agree with something but he’s out-voted. But you never expect to see him crying, lip wobbling, folded in on himself like a young boy instead of the strong, invincible man you’ve come to love.

He looks so different.

It hits you, then, that you’re not looking at Steve Rogers. Not really. He's not Steve Rogers, not Captain America, not even Captain Rogers. You see him as he was - before America spat it’s untruths all over him and injected him with a serum that changed who he was, is, will be. He’s not the able-bodied man that you know, not strong and unreachable, not the heartthrob that overshadows the team during press events. He’s not America’s Darling, not really. Not where it counts.

You’re looking at Stevie Rogers. Stevie Rogers who, for all intents and purposes, was supposed to die before he made it out of toddlerhood or soon thereafter. Stevie Rogers who the doctors said wasn’t supposed to survive. Stevie Rogers who grew up sickly, rattling painful breaths and never playing ball with the neighborhood boys. Who couldn’t walk until middle school when he got his braces off. Who never had a partner because Bucky, strong and handsome and tall Bucky, was always deemed the better option. Who believed in his country so much that he tried to sneak into the second world war, subjected himself to a painful medical procedure so that he could change his very DNA to be what the world wanted him to be.

Captain Steve Rogers. Captain America. Strong, blond, patriotic, resilient.

You’re sure that if men don’t want to go to therapy now, in the modern age, they certainly didn’t want to go in the ‘40s. So where did that leave Steve, your Steve, standing in front of you and looking small, and broken, and sad, and alone? Did they expect him to take his new, taller, working body and run with it? Did they not think about how he would lose a part of himself in the process? How did they expect him to go from disabled to abled without some disconnect?

You think about the You That You Were Before and the You That You Are Now, and how you lost a part of yourself when the accident gave you your powers and how you’d lose yourself if someone figured out a way to take them away. You Before formed your identity around being normal - living in a shitty home with shitty parents, sure, but normal - and You Now form your identity around your powers, your team, your job, your love. If you lost those things, what did you have left? Who would you be?

When Steve lost his identity and became everything that America wanted everyone to think that America was, what did he have left? Sure, he could tell himself that he represents America - strong and patriotic and just - but it must have conflicted with everything he knew about himself before that. You know that disabled people now know that American society is unjust, unfit for them with abled people not willing to make room to allow them to thrive. You can only imagine what it was really like for Steve in the ‘20s and ‘30s and ‘40s. What he had to do just to survive. (Medical experimentation, you remind yourself. Did they know it wouldn’t kill him? Did they know his body wouldn’t rip itself apart with the new sinewy muscle they were packing on? Did they care? Or was he just a body they saw as broken? A project to fix? To turn him into something more like them and call it patriotism?)

You shake your head at him, still filled with despair, and try to figure out what he’s talking about. “Stevie,” You start, pet name easily replacing what you had been calling him because it’s not fair to shoe-horn him into a body that doesn’t feel like his own. You wonder if he still expects the bone-grinding pain that he used to tell you would happen when it rains. He raises a hand, a strong and family hand, shaking his head.

“I just need to know why I wasn’t enough for you,” Steve looks sad, slouching in on himself like he’s expecting to get his ass handed to him in another alleyway and hope Bucky is there to save him. “I need to know why you wouldn’t just break up with me if you wanted to see other people so badly.” You suck in a shocked breath because, okay, that’s not what you were expecting. Between that and the paradigm shift you’ve had on how Steve must view his identity, body, and self, you’re stunned. Steve continues like he doesn’t even register that you look shocked and pale and now you’re crying because he thinks you’re cheating on him? “And I get it. I get it. You have no idea how much I understand. If I were you, I wouldn’t want me either, okay?”

You cut him off there because what the actual God damn fuck is he talking about? “No, Stevie, I’m not cheating on you.” You shake your head again and this, your statement, lights a fire in him. He still looks like Stevie rather than Steve, but there’s anger there. You imagine that’s what it might have looked like moments before he got himself in trouble back before he was serumed. “I’m not.”

“Oh, yeah?” He challenges, jaw ticking and chin jerking up, “Oh, yeah? You can’t lie to me. I know, okay? The act is up, it’s over, I know, okay? You can stop pretending.”

“Steve, I do not fucking know what you’re talking about but I”m not cheating on you!” You raise your voice, not really angry but more out of necessity. You need to get it out of his head that he is anything less than everything you want - that you could possibly love anyone more than you love him.

“I wanted to clarify something for you,” Steve says like he’s reading an old script from when he was just a beefy, red/white/blue stage prop for the American military, “I am excited to meet with you, but there are some rules. Do not talk about Captain Steve Rogers. I don’t want to hear about him,” As he continues to recite something that has clearly hurt him, you go lax. You know exactly what’s happened - your fists unclench, your jaw drops a little bit, and it feels like someone has gutted you, “I think it is wise to keep work and pleasure separate, and it’s a rule I will enforce heavily. I look forward to seeing you again.” He’s sneering at the end, tears falling down his ruddy cheeks.

“Steve,” You try again, but he cuts you off.

“Am I just work for you?” His voice is shaking more than you thought possible, and so are his hands. You’ve never seen Steve so off-kilter, so thrown, and it breaks your heart that yes, technically, you’re the cause of this. Before this, before this horrible misunderstanding, your relationship with Steve was the paragon of trust so neither of you cared if the other read emails or texts. You remember the email - the email from your fucking college professor - because it had made you so angry that he’d referred to your relationship with Steve as something as simple and base as just pleasure - like you could even put words to the galaxy of a relationship you had with Steve - that you’d gone to the gym to work off some of that irritation. You hadn’t wanted to take it out on anyone accidentally. When you came back from the gym, Steve was gone on that two-week mission that he’d left on without saying goodbye.

Oh, God. You feel sick to your stomach as the paradigm of the way that Steve’s been treating you shifts violently to the left. You have to physically hold yourself up and try to speak past the lump in your throat. Steve looks… Brokenly smug. Like he knows he’s right, but he’d rather gnaw his own legs off than be right.

“No,” You croak, “No, Steve, you’ve got it all wrong.” You want to reach for him, but it feels like the room is closing in on you. You’re second-guessing everything now - especially what you’ve just said. How many people said the exact same thing to him pre-serum because they said something meant for Bucky to him? How many times did he hear that when he was getting a new diagnosis, hoping for the best? How many times had his own mother said it to him when he told her something someone had said, fresh-faced and not yet used to the way that abled people sometimes treated disabled people? You think you might be sick. “That email was from my professor, Steve. I’m not cheating on you, I’d never.” He laughs darkly and sits back down in his chair, head in his hands again. You try to gather the strength to move toward him when you see his shoulders shaking, a telltale sign that he’s crying.

“A professor,” He says with a watery laugh, “Right.”

Finally, you realize that he needs you, needs to know you love him, that you’d do anything for him. You can iron out the kinks later - figure out why he didn’t want to come to talk to you past the original hurt, why he treated you so coldly, why he didn’t trust that you wouldn’t do this to him - but now, you need to show him that you’re here. That you choose him. That you’ll always choose him.

You make your way to him and set a shaking hand on his shoulder. For a brief second you think he’s going to shake you off but then Steve’s hand shoots up and latches onto where your hand is resting, dipping his head to press against your arm. “Stevie, please,” You say, unsure of what you’re asking him to do, “I picked up a class, just one, and it’s… I picked it up for you, it’s about the ‘30s and ‘40s and…” He looks up at you and he looks so broken - face ruddy and wet with tears, lip wobbling, chest heaving as he tries to not sob. His brows are knit and he looks confused, “I just wanted to be able to understand you better. You had to leave so much of yourself at the door when you joined the Avengers, had to leave so much of yourself in the ice… In Erskine’s lab… Stevie, I just wanted you to be able to be you when you’re with me. I wanted to know the you that you were before you became Captain America.” Your voice is shaking, knees knocking together, and honestly? You feel like you might blackout.

“What?” He rasps, “What?”

“He sent that email because too many kids signed up for his class thinking that they’d be able to look at pictures of you and Buck for a semester. Emailed me directly because he knows we’re…” You choke on your words, shaking your head because you’re not even sure there’s a we anymore, “Because he knows I’m on the team. Didn’t want me walking in and making his class about just a few years in the ‘30s and ‘40s rather than the culture of the time.” You don’t know how else to explain it to him, but Steve isn’t saying anything - practically isn’t moving or breathing- so you continue to try and explain what’s really happening as best as you can, “And - and that email made me so angry because he singled me out, didn’t email anyone else about it, and I left to try and work some of that out; I didn’t want to take it out on you, or let it spoil - let it spoil… But when I came back from the gym, you were gone. You were gone for two weeks and I didn’t know why.” You’re crying harder now and pretty sure that within the next sixty seconds you’re going to collapse if you don’t sit down.

Steve shakes his head, still looking like he doesn’t understand. “What?” He says for a third time, “A class? A college class?”

“I just wanted to feel closer to you,” You confess, “Just wanted to understand a fraction of your life without making you do the heavy liftin’ and teachin’ me. Shouldn’t have’t do that,” You’re sobbing, barely biting out your words as you realize that something you’ve done to strengthen your relationship with Steve has destroyed it, “Shouldn’t have to explain a whole different time just to feel loved, Stevie. Should be able to be with someone who understands without you havin’ to explain.” You’re not sure you can say Peggy’s name out loud, and you hope he understands what you’re saying without making you actually say it, “Should’a been able to have love with someone who knew, and I know I’m nothin’ compared to what you should’a had, but I want to be. I want to be in the same ballpark instead’a watchin’ from the stands.” You wipe your face with your free hand and look away from Steve when he stands in front of you. You don’t want to see the look on his face - what he’s thinking about what you’ve said.

He says your name and you glance at him, but his expression stops him in your tracks. Where Steve looked broken and hurt and fuming with anger to hide the anguish, now he looks stricken. You shake your head, “No, no. I didn’t say that to make you feel guilty-”

“You think that I care about whether or not you can understand the ‘40s?” He cuts you off, hands moving to curl around your biceps, “You think that I care whether or not you can relate to a time in history when you weren’t even thought of?”

“Of course I love you. I love you more than anything in this world, but you shouldn’t have to not care, Steve,” You argue, shaking your head, “That’s what I’m trying to say. You should be with someone who understands without explanation. I just wanted to give that to you - didn’t know that this would happen.”

“I should be with someone who loves me,” He argues back, “If you love me, that’s all that matters. My past be damned.”

“But your past is you!” You try to pull away from Steve, but he anchors you there. You’re dizzy from being so close to him after this long, but also because of how many different twists this situation has taken. You can barely keep up with how bad your communication with Steve has become - barely keep up with how you need to fix it, or how to fix it. “Your past is you,” You repeat when you realize that Steve isn’t going to let you go. “And you shouldn’t have to give that up so that someone will love you.”

“But you love me,” He says desperately, ducking his head so that he’s nearly nose to nose with you, “You love me, right?”

“More than anything,” You say, closing your eyes and relishing in the feeling of being so close to Steve, “I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone. I don’t care about what anyone else thinks, or anyone else. I’ll even stop goin’ to class if you want me to - Steve, I just can’t do this anymore. Can’t do this thing where you don’t talk to me about what’s botherin’ you.” You’re choking up, barely whispering, but you know he hears you. YOu can feel his warm breath on your face, “Nearly fuckin’ killed me.”

“I thought it was goin’ to be easier,” He breathes, nose bumping yours, “When you eventually decided to leave me for him. Thought I was savin’ myself some trouble.” You can practically taste his tears as they fall again, “Buck and Nat tried to tell me that you weren’t - that you wouldn’t - but I just couldn’t believe them.”

When you open your eyes, his are closed. This close to him you can see the soft freckles that are blooming over his eyelids, his soft eyelashes kissing his cheekbones. You can feel him breathing, feel him nearly pressed against you in a way that feels hauntingly nostalgic and terrifyingly fleeting; like you’ll be able to feel his warmth for years to come, but he’s about to disappear. “That’s okay,” You finally whisper, “It’s okay that you didn’t believe them. That you thought what you thought. It’s okay.” He shakes his head against yours, opening his mouth to protest, but you refuse to let him feel guilty about feeling this way - you have plenty of time to sit him down and talk to him candidly about the way he acted because of these feelings, anyway. “If I would have been in your place I’m not sure I would have believed them.”

“I treated you so badly…” He shifts and wraps his arms around you. It’s almost immediate - you relax into his arms and wind yours around his waist, keeping him pulled against you as he presses his face into your neck and you press your cheek against his chest. “So awfully.”

“We’ll talk about that, okay? But later. Right now you just need to know that I love you, Steve. I love you more than I can tell you - more than I can express.” You want to kiss him, but you can’t. Can’t kiss him, you need to wait for him to kiss you, for him to close that gap and show you that he still loves you like you love him. “We’ll have to have a talk, a long and hard conversation about this, Stevie, but for now… For now, I’m just content to be with you, okay? MIssed you so much.”

He sighs, nose pressing against yours again. “Missed you too, dovie. Missed you more than I can even say,” His voice breaks as his lips brush yours. Your relationship is not without its flaws and problems - Steve’s actions when he thought you were cheating on him are proof of that and, well, the fact that you didn’t realize what was happening, why it was happening, or a large part of your boyfriend’s psychological makeup having an impact on your relationship while it went unknown by you… There is a lot of work for the two of you to do, a lot of work to do, a lot of communication to be done… But you’d do it all for Steve, over and over again.

When he presses forward and presses his lips gently to yours, you know that he’ll do it all for you, over and over again, too.

#steve rogers imagine #steve rogers/reader #steve rogers x reader #marvel imagine #mcu imagine

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roo-sketch · 4 years ago

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Since people have asked about the Ducktales Bushroot idea I’ve been cooking up, I figured I’d gush the entire thing here. And look! It comes with pictures! Blame the lateness of this on my two jobs, they run me ragged I tell you what

So seeing as how Darkwing Duck is technically a tv show in the Ducktales universe, that’d mean the villains would end up with vastly different backstories too (as did Drake Mallard and Jim Starling in “The Duck Knight Returns”).

So for Bushroot, or in this case Tino Moss, why not make him the only child to the part time actor/script writer Pete Moss - who played the Bushroot character on the TV show.

Ever since he could remember, Tino would tag along with his dad to the studio (since Peter was a single father and had no one else to look after his son while he worked). It’s here he got to meet the cast and crew to the show, all of which, save for one, were super nice to a shy little boy always hiding behind his fathers legs. Because of this, Tino grew to love watching the finished episodes and even began to idolize the main character a little, saying how he’d one day grow up to be a super hero too! But upon meeting Jim, and being rudely brushed aside, he soon realized it’s best not to meet your idols (I imagine Jim was just as self absorbed like in the Duck Knight Returns and wouldn’t pay a small fan any mind during the height of his popularity).

After being coldly rebuffed, it was then Tino turned his sights on being a super hero in a completely different way, deciding to become a doctor instead. Pete would often joke he should become a botonist like the Bushroot character (that he’d low-key based on his sons personality), but Tino shrugged it off with a laugh and aimed to be a traditional one instead, preferring to become a family physician.

Years passed and in his final stages of his clinical’s, it’s then he received the devastating news that his father had fallen terminally ill. It was a heavy blow to see the once exuberant duck he loved so much slowly fade into a shell of his former self. At this point Tino took time off from his career to tend to his father, despite the loans and bills quickly piling up, the two spent a majority of their time watching old episodes of Darkwing Duck and reminiscing about a time when things were happier.

Eventually the inevitable day came when his father passed, destroying Tino emotionally. He’d been the only remaining family he had left, and after his death he was left with no one. The time spent tending to his father had become his whole life, and any other relationships outside of that he’d sadly neglected to the point his friends had moved on or away.

It took him a while to get back into the medical field, having to retake his clinical’s all over again and even though the work was fulfilling in a way (distracting him enough not to think about the loss) he still wasn’t entirely happy with his life, struggling with the mounting bills and loneliness that’d started to creep in. It’s then Jim Starling practically materialized out of the clear blue, having had tracked down his address and wondered if he would like to meet and catch up.

Tino is hesitant at first, remembering the blowhard from his childhood and didn’t know if he wanted to revisit that chapter of his life again, but when Jim makes mention of his dad, of all the good times they had on and off camera, the former star eventually brings the other duck around enough the two sit down for a good, long chat.

They reminisce about the show, the actors, where everyone is at the moment. Jim mentions on several occasions how he’d been trying to reboot the Darkwing Duck series and asks if he’d be interested in reprising his fathers role as the mutated plant monster.

Tino laughs it off, admitting he isn’t much of an actor, or a writer for that matter, but if he ever wanted some pointers for the episodes he still had his dads old scripts archived in the attic.

After that Jim comes and goes infrequently, usually to ask scientific mumbo jumbo about the whole “mutating a Duck into a plant” thing, which Tino does some research between work and sleep just to appease what he considers a friend at this point (going so far as to getting ahold of a scientist in the Saint Canard University’s agricultural department for some additional insight). He passes the information off to Jim and thinks nothing else of it until the former star makes a surprise visit one day.

He tells him he has it all set up for the big shoot, inviting Tino down to see the studio for himself. Curiosity gets the better of him, and despite needing to get some rest for work tomorrow, he joins the other duck on the long car ride, a bit unnerved to see it’s in an abandoned factory on the outskirts of the city.

Any questions he poses regarding safety - or why anyone in their right mind would want to set up a shoot here - is quickly brushed aside, Jim telling him he was aiming for a darker, grittier Darkwing Duck, hence the change in scenery. They head inside to find what appears to be a fully functioning lab, Tino excitedly looking over all the instruments, commenting about how realistic it was. As he stands beside the operating table, it’s then he is suddenly whacked upside the head, knocked out cold for who knows how long.

By the time he comes to, he’s strapped down, wires running over and through him. He pleads to know what’s going on, gasping to see Jim in an off color version of the Darkwing costume leering over him. The former actor explains that after he saw the news of what went down in Saint Canard, the ram rod incident and the other dimensions villains running amuck on the streets, he realized he needed his own Fearsome Five by his side if he ever planned to rule the city.

Seeing as how Pete had passed away and the other actors were far to old or out of reach to reprise their “roles”, he’d set out to replace them with newer, younger versions, starting with Tino.

Panicking, and realizing what exactly he planned to do to him as the liquids start to pump into his body, Tino breaks free before Negaduck can fully flip the conversion switch.

He manages to run a good distance from the factory, picking his way through the unfamiliar streets of Saint Canard as his body begins to grow more and more sluggish the further he walks. It almost feels like he’s going through every stage of sickness all at once. Chills, hot flashes, nausea, dehydration. He asks for help several times to passerby’s only to have people take one look at his green complexion and lurch away in fright. Some even out right flee, especially when near by trees or other plants spring to life around them. They, along with Tino, run in fear, he finally stopping long enough to catch his breath and get a good, hard look at his reflection through a shop window. Horror spreads across his face. A face that is his own but not in so many ways. It almost resembles the make-up his father used to wear during shoots but oh so different, oh so wrong! Deep in the pit of his stomach he knows this isn’t fake, this isn't a dream, it’s real. The mutation is real, and with people gasping, crying and running, this will be his new reality if he can’t find a way to reverse it!

Through several more mishaps and misunderstandings, dodging both panicking citizens and Darkwing Duck, he eventually finds himself cornered in a building by the Saint Canard police force (who mistakenly believe he’s just as dangerous as the other dimensions Bushroot).

It’s here Tino is once again confronted by Negaduck, and though he yells at the one behind all this, for forcibly mutating him into a monster and how he won’t get away with it, his words are cut short when Negaduck laughs, pointing out he shouldn’t be angry at the only person willing to embrace him now. He offers one last time for Tino to join the Fearsome Five, sneering that if he refused, he’d never be a normal duck again.

When Tino asks what he means, Negaduck explains that he’d kept all the notes, all the formulas, everything he did to turn him into a mutant plant duck was written in a journal, stashed away for safe keeping. If he ever planned on reverse engineering a formula to turn himself back, he’d need that journal. But if he refused to cooperate, than he’d have no problem destroying it and leaving Tino as he was.

A monster.

With no other choice, Tino finally agrees, reluctantly starting down the path of villainy.

And that’s how I figured you could have a sympathetic Bushroot character that stayed in line with the “he’s not technically a villain per say,” category while having him justified as to WHY he’s a villain at all.

#bushroot #reginald bushroot #darkwing duck #negaduck #backstory maybe #i wanted to make more pics but my jobs are not kind #but the idea mostly sprung up by swapping out his backstory with Rhoda’s in the forcibly being mutated thing #and that would make for a sumpathetic not a villain backstory

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voiceless-terror · 4 years ago

Note

For the comfortober!!!! If you'd like to do some of them, might I request "Back to school/work"??? Picturing Jon, after being v sick, or recovering from an injury finally coming back to work, maybe recovered, maybe not?? And the crew just totally fussing over him ??

Here you are! Just in time for day 25.

The situation at hand is not ideal.

He’d been carrying boxes, heavy, cumbersome things that blocked his field of vision as he made his way to Document Storage. Tim had cast a disapproving eye; Jon’s not the most coordinated, he knows that. But the least he could do was carry a few boxes of statements to their proper filing place.

But he managed to, in Tim’s retelling, ‘completely eat shit’ as his leg came in contact with an errant box, causing the one he was carrying to go flying and Jon to fall unceremoniously on the ground with an audible crack.

Everything’s a bit blurry after that.

He remembers an intense pain in his ankle- he’s been here before, his bones are not the most stable structures (it’s a shame they’re tasked with holding his body together). But that didn’t make the pain any less. Surprisingly, it was Martin who took charge, showing a competence Jon had never seen applied to his research or his Latin translations. He picked him up, managing to avoid putting any pressure on his ankle and summarily put him in a cab, despite Jon’s many refutations that he was fine.

He stopped that after Martin shot him a very unimpressed look.

He paid the cab driver and Jon let him- the pain was starting to make his brain foggy and his stomach nauseous. Martin waited the full two hours it took to get him admitted, even letting him fall asleep on his shoulder in one very embarrassing instance that he hopes will never see the light of day. The result of his clumsiness- a broken ankle, a cast, and a set of crutches that he threw into the closet as soon as he got home. He had a cane, that should be fine.

Martin followed him to the door, making sure he was settled on the couch and fixing him a cup of tea as if Jon were an invalid. Sure, the painkillers he was on did not allow for much thinking, but he could manage to take care of himself. When Martin suggested staying a while, just to make sure he was fine, Jon found himself snapping a “No!” and breaking Martin out of his competent stupor. He shook his head a bit, turning red and letting out a nervous laugh. “I’ll uh, leave you to it then. Let me know if you need anything.” On his way out, he turned to him, face serious. “And don’t even think about coming in tomorrow.” He wasn’t- he’s not a complete idiot.

Okay, maybe he did briefly consider it the next morning. But the soreness had intensified, and he knew he probably wouldn’t be able to make it without breaking another bone.

Getting around was...difficult, to say the least. He spent most of the day on the couch, dry swallowing ibuprofen as the painkillers the hospital prescribed were a bit too strong, despite the ease they provided. God, it was so boring. He wished he had the foresight to bring work home. But his assistants’ texts ignored any query about work, only focusing on well wishes and asking if he ‘needed anything.’ What he needed was to do his job. If he was going to be motionless, he might as well be motionless behind a desk.

The next day, the train ride nearly kills him.

Jon manages to find a seat; people are generally sympathetic when they see a cane and a cast. He should’ve taken a cab, of course, but that seemed a little extravagant. He can manage a few steps.

Probably should’ve brought the crutches as well, but they seemed too unwieldy. When he tried them in his flat they’d put too much pressure under his arms, and he wasn’t sure how to go about adjusting them; he quickly got frustrated and threw them to the side. Patience was never one of his strong suits.

But the pain is unimaginable. By the time he gets into work, he’s huffing and puffing, on the verge of passing out. He’d taken ibuprofen again that morning, but it’s doing very little to help him out. As soon as Rosie catches sight of him, she makes sympathetic cooing noises and attempts to take his bag from him.

“Poor thing,” she says after he refuses for the third time. “Are you sure you don’t need help downstairs?”

Quite sure.

The stairs intensify the aching in his joints and he’s sure every one of his assistants hears the tell-tale thump of his cast landing awkwardly on each step. He’s met with three concerned stares, all tinged with exasperation and disappointment. He’s been eliciting those reactions a lot these days.

“Didn’t Elias approve a week of paid leave?” Sasha asks, immediately attempting to take his bag, just like Rosie. And just like with Rosie, he dodges her arms, letting out an involuntary hiss as he puts pressure on his injury. “Honestly Jon, you should’ve stayed home.”

“And where are your crutches, mister?” Tim’s leaning against the wall, looking for all the world like a disappointed parent. “I happen to know that a cane’s not sufficient when you’re in a cast like that. Not to mention uncomfortable, dragging it all around London. What were you doing, hopping down the street?”

“I had a seat on the train, thank you very much,” he says, attempting to hobble away as fast as he can to take refuge in his office. This was all very overbearing.

“You took the train-?” Martin’s incredulous voice is cut short by a slammed door.

Peace and quiet. His office has always been a nice place to suffer in private.

Not that it remains so for long.

Martin comes in not minutes later, bearing a cup of tea accompanied by a few biscuits. “You don’t seem like much of a breakfast-type,” Martin surmises correctly, “And you’ll need to eat something with the medication they’ve got you on.” Jon does not mention he’s not currently on said medication. It sits in his pocket, heavy and accusing. Instead, he just grunts, barely deigning to raise his eyes from the work in front of him. The door shuts and Jon nibbles at the food before his stomach tells him this is a bad idea.

He does eventually (and very reluctantly) call one of them in- he still wants to go through the files from two days prior, but he’s going to need a bit of help to get there. Tim doesn’t help him walk, however, instead pushing his office chair into Document Storage with surprising care, and helps him prop his leg up on a box to keep it elevated. Tim hands him the files one by one, sorting by date- it’s an easy, companionable task. Tim always was one of his favorite researchers to work with; there’s a reason he asked him to join his team. He’s wearing a jumper in a nice, deep blue shade. Jon is not immune to Tim’s charm or looks, but he’s mostly preoccupied with how warm it looks. His own button down and sweater vest are barely doing the job.

After about thirty minutes of this, his leg starts to ache- the stretch is no longer pleasant, and he attempts very gingerly to place his ankle on the ground. Needless to say, it does not work out very well. If the chair had about two more inches, his foot could dangle without putting undue pressure on his joints. Alas, the chair is already at its highest.

Tim notices his fidgeting, zeroing in on the pain in his face. “Need a break?”

Jon sighs. “I’d rather get this box done, at the very least.”

Tim looks thoughtful at this. “Hold on- give me a sec.” He leaves the room but returns rather quickly, two pillows from the break room couch in tow. “Here- lean on me for a mo’, will you?” Jon manages to get to his feet relatively painlessly, leaning most of his weight on Tim’s shoulders as he puts the pillows down as a cushion, lifting him the desired inches he needs. “Better?” Tim smirks, clearly proud of his achievement.

“Much, thank you,” he admits, just happy to continue working. The throbbing is getting worse with each passing minute. They’re eventually interrupted by Sasha, who announces that she’s gotten takeout for everyone- Indian, Jon’s favorite. Elaborate and unnecessary, but appreciated.

Ten minutes later and he’s sitting in the break room with the rest of them, picking at his curry. He knows he should eat; his mind registers the hunger, but it's hard to feel through all of the pain. Ibuprofen’s just not going to cut it. With great reluctance, he pulls the bottle of pills out of his pocket, unscrewing the cap. Martin notices.

“About time for your next dosage, I reckon?” he questions innocently. Martin doesn’t know he never took the first one, and Jon would like to keep it that way. He can’t handle any more thoughtfulness and care from the man. So he just nods, swallowing two pills and chasing them with water. If he can manage a few more bites of curry, it should be fine.

What he didn’t keep in mind is his original reaction to the medication- that strange, loopy feeling that had him leaning on Martin the entire cab ride home. About thirty minutes later, it starts to hit. And all he can think about is Tim’s jumper.

It just looked so warm. Jon wants a jumper like that. Maybe he has a jumper like that? He’ll have to check when he’s home. There’s a lot of stuff in his closet- dumb things, remnants from his college days. Probably a few of Georgie’s jumpers. Maybe Georgie’s jumpers are that warm? But none of them are that nice shade of blue. Jon wants a jumper like that, yeah. In a nice shade of blue. He’s going to ask Tim where he got it from. But he’s got to be discreet. What if Martin overhears? And then Martin gets the jumper? They can’t all wear the same jumper, that’s ridiculous. He’s already going to have to coordinate with Tim, make sure they don’t wear it on the same day. Jon’s a grown man, he can’t go around matching his employees.

He lifts the phone, dialing Tim’s extension. It only rings once before Tim’s cheerful voice answers. “What’s up, bossman? Everything alright?”

“Tim,” he whispers, just in case anyone’s listening. “Tim, I need you to come to my office...immediately.” No, he has to give a reason or he’ll be suspicious. Why would he call Tim into his office? “Reports, Tim. Research. Bring...your research. Yes. Goodbye.” That seemed natural enough.

For some reason, all three of his assistants are at the door. No, that’s not what he wants. Not what he wants at all. “I only need Tim.” He’s still whispering for some reason. “The rest of you go away.”

They don’t, pesky things they are. Tim moves closer, face both concerned and amused. “What’s going on, Jon?” He beckons him closer- he’s so blurry, it’s hard to focus. When he gets within grabbing distance he tugs at his sleeve, forcing him close to his face. “Er, boss-”

“Tim,” Jon’s eyes are wide with urgency. “Tim, I need to know where- where you got your jumper.”

Tim makes a face, somewhere between amused and confused. Jon does not understand what’s difficult about this question. It’s very straightforward. “Um, sorry? My jumper?”

“Yes!” His voice gets louder, though he doesn’t mean it to. “It’s just- it looks so warm. And it’s so soft.” His voice starts to wobble and his eyes water as he runs his thumb across the fabric. It’s a very good jumper. “Such a nice shade of blue.”

“Okay, did you take one too many of those pills? You weren’t like this earlier.” Tim’s got one arm on Jon’s chest, attempting to stop his wandering hands as his eyes search the desk. “I swear to god, if you’ve overdosed-”

“Don’t be stupid, Tim.” Why won’t he let him touch the jumper? Does Tim not want him to be warm? Rather rude. “I only took two today.”

“Wait, seriously?” It’s Martin’s voice he hears next. “Oh, Jon. You must have been in so much pain.”

“Obviously, Martin!” The snap comes as naturally as breathing- Jon’s an old hand at that, after all. “But that’s not the point-”

“Whoa there, buddy. No need to get tetchy.” Tim’s got both of his hands on his shoulders, his eyes now patient and kind. “You’re high as hell, aren’t you? Think you should probably have a rest right about now, yeah?”

Jon can’t help the whine that comes out of his throat. Rest? No, he wants-

“I swear I’ll tell you where I got the jumper. Hell, I’ll even get one for you if I can. But only if you sleep.”

Jon sighs wearily. If I must. “That sounds reasonable. Thank you, Tim.” He allows himself to be led to a couch, limping all the way. Oh, that’s quite nice. Yes, that’ll do. Tim arranges a pillow beneath his head, and Jon hopes it's not the one he sat on before. His stomach growls, and a thought occurs to him; he grabs at Tim’s arm again, forcing him down to his level.

“Jon, I told you I’d-”

“No, that’s not it. I-I threw out some biscuits earlier. Please send my apologies to Martin.”

Tim’s face is fond. “Will do, boss.”

“And perhaps you could secure me a few more for later.”

A soft snort. “I’m sure I can.”

“Tim, you are invaluable to me.”

“God I wish I had this on tape-”

A soft click sounds from somewhere in the room as if in response. Tim blinks. “Did you hear that?”

Jon doesn’t answer, already halfway towards sleep.

“Huh. Alright, then.”

ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27715163

#my writing #tma #the magnus archives #prompts #comfortember #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #tim stoker #sasha james #jontim #a lil bit but its there #hurt/comfort #ft. a very loopy jon #plz excuse the self-indulgence of this fic #kaiserkorresponds

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pinnithin-writes · 4 years ago

Text

I Realized. Then I Couldn’t Stop Realizing.

Chapter 7: C-53

Depending on where he looked, it was still beginning.

“Wow, you really have a thing for organics.”

C-53 hummed innocently. “I can’t say I have any idea what you’re talking about, Bargie.”

After he and Pleck had cleaned up the medical mess in the kitchen, the tellurian had disappeared in search of his old Zima scrolls, leaving C-53 alone in the common area. Well, as alone as one could be on a sentient ship. The Bargarian Jade’s attention span was selective, so one could never be sure whether they were being actively observed at any time.

“I saw what just happened,” Bargie said. “The tension between you two is - well, let’s just say it’s high. It’s very high.”

“That was a private conversation,” C-53 responded, somewhat defensively.

“If you wanted to have a private conversation, you should’ve had it off the ship,” Bargie said matter-of-factly.

“We’re in space ,” C-53 argued. “And I don’t see how this means I have a thing for organics.”

“Aw, come on,” Bargie’s rough voice insisted on the loudspeaker. “I know what I saw when we accessed each other’s memories a few years ago. You definitely have a type.”

“So do you,” he shot back, deflecting.

“Oh, I have a type?” Bargie exclaimed, affronted. “Do you know who I’ve dated?”

C-53 tuned his audio sensitivity down as the ship launched into a monologue about her exes. Out of courtesy, he uploaded a subroutine to offer various hmm s and ah s as a placeholder for listening while his cube went elsewhere.

Whether he returned Pleck’s feelings was not the priority right now. His friend needed help, and C-53 was going to help him. It was as simple as that; there was no need to complicate things with whatever feelings he may or may not have for the tellurian. So what if he had a type? That didn’t apply to the current situation - Pleck was different. He was vulnerable, and it would be unfair of C-53 to take advantage of that.

He was becoming increasingly overwhelmed with tenderness every time he laid scanners on Pleck, and his loader programming urged him to stick a label on him that read FRAGILE: HANDLE WITH CARE. That particular instinct was easier to bypass than the instinct to lift, and he was left wondering if picking Pleck up had been a good idea after all. His one-eyed stare, aching and exhausted, had stirred something in C-53.

At least it had gotten his message across. I, C-53, am going to care about you. On purpose. Whether you like it or not.

He had to set his romantic notions aside. There were more important things to worry about right now. He dimly registered Bargie still steamrolling overhead with her story, and he broke in respectfully.

“That’s all very interesting, Bargie, but I don’t see how it helps me.”

The ship sighed cantankerously. “I’m just sayin’ you’re gonna have to confront this sooner or later,” she said.

“Hm,” C-53 considered. “I think I’m going to choose later.”

---

“Okay, I brought all the scrolls we got copies of from the library and uh, all the originals I have that Nermut didn’t make into a nest,” Pleck said around the box of papers in his arms.

He carried them over to the dining table, pausing when he saw the pre-existing mess of administrative documents, campaign flyers, and junk mail that already cluttered its surface. Hardly anyone used the table for eating these days.

C-53 watched bemusedly as Pleck nudged the mess aside to make space for his new mess, dumping the contents of the box out. This was not going to be a very organized process. Things involving Pleck rarely were.

“Are these texts all about the Zima religion in general, or you specifically?” he asked.

“Ah, well,” Pleck paused to brush a lock of hair out of his eye, gazing down at his chaotic archive. “The thing is, I don’t really know how to interpret all of them? I mean,” He began to shuffle through the stack, “there’s… here, this one says my actual first and last name,” he extricated a page and held it out for C-53 to read.

“A ticking clock, in which Pleck Decksetter stands, to spin and draw nearer to the void, ” the droid echoed aloud.

Pleck nodded, grimacing. “But then, like, then there’s this one,” he unrolled a tight ream of parchment and recited,

“Whose stick is that? I think I know. Its owner is quite happy though. Full of joy like a rainbow, I watch him laugh. I cry hello.”

C-53 paused. “That sounds… dumb,” he said.

Pleck chuckled, rolling the parchment back up. “A lot of it is pretty dumb,” he admitted. “And I don’t know what all is relevant to, y’know, my whole thing, and what’s just some old Zima getting creative with their meditations on the Space.”

“Well, let’s see if we can’t sort them out,” C-53 said, lowering his frame enough so that he could read the texts from his vantage.

That was their afternoon, reviewing and puzzling over the pile of ancient scrolls. C-53 had never given the Zima religion itself that much thought, but the more they dug into their teachings, the more he was convinced it was mostly just nonsense. He did have to give them some credit, though. A few of the scrolls had predicted Pleck’s life almost exactly. It was… kind of eerie, if he was being honest.

The crew wandered in and out while they worked, checking in on their activities curiously but quickly losing interest once they realized they were essentially just studying. At one point, AJ asked if he could help, and they gave him a flowery poem to slog through until he gave up after about ten minutes.

“You did a good job, AJ,” Pleck smiled as the CLINT left the room to find something else that would hold his attention. “You’ll get it eventually.”

Pleck was looking significantly more relaxed since that morning, C-53 noticed. His shoulders had returned to their usual easy slope and his smile sprang readily to his face. The droid found himself distracted from his task on more than one occasion, choosing instead to fixate on Pleck’s careful hands as he leafed through papers, or his delicate neck as he bent low to decipher some stray scribble. By the time the evening rolled around, they had stopped trying to make sense of the scrolls altogether, and were instead pointing out ridiculous lines to one another.

“Wait wait wait, here, check out this one,” Pleck brandished a photocopy in C-53’s face, barely containing his laughter.

“To pass through the eye, one must first pass through the butt?” C-53 read aloud, incredulous. “Do they mean literally?”

Pleck was fighting to get the words out through his giggling. “Who wrote this? This was a Zima?”

“This is a sacred text .” C-53 insisted. “A sacred religious text. This is your religion, Pleck.”

The tellurian shook his head, still laughing, as he set the paper aside. “Good Rodd.”

“Oh, here’s a good one,” C-53 raised a careful claw to slide one of the documents in Pleck’s direction.

Seeing the grin spread across his friend’s face was like watching a sunflower bloom. “Oh my Rodd,” he exclaimed, “is this a love poem?”

“Heaven hath no elegance like you, my radiant swan,” C-53 recited the first line, his vocal modulator lilting with his own laughter. “I have no idea why this was preserved as an ancient text.”

“We’ll put that one in the ‘dumb’ pile,” Pleck said, cheeks still rosy with mirth. He was smiling wide enough to show off his dimples, and it was a pleasant sight to C-53’s scanners.

They continued to shuffle through papers in companionable silence. Pleck managed to assemble a fairly linear timeline of his own prophecy, and was attempting to piece it together with anything that seemed relevant. He had a better eye for patterns in the texts than C-53 did, something that the droid was surprised by. Perhaps deciphering the ancient words of the Zimas was something that was only inherent to other Zimas.

“C-53, look,” Pleck exclaimed suddenly. “I thought I had lost this one. It’s the scroll you’re mentioned in.” He excitedly uncurled the parchment and held it flat against the table.

C-53’s head tilted with interest. “ I’m in the Zima scrolls?”

“I mean, you’re not mentioned by name,” Pleck admitted. He scooted the scroll toward the droid so he could get a better scan on it. “But I’m pretty sure it’s talking about you. Based on, y’know, context.”

And the humidifier will rise from its slumber Newly untethered, a free soul in a rectangle And the Great One will feel a lump in his throat To wonder if this appliance would entrust his soul to him

“Wow, this is… very specific,” C-53 commented. His coding was already drawing connections for him about the implications this had on his and Peck’s relationship. He was inclined to dismiss it as mindlessness, like so many of the other texts, but a small, irrational part of him clung to the words. Was the tellurian meeting him destined? Better question: did C-53 want it to be?

“Yeah, I thought it was weird that they included that,” Pleck said, pulling the scroll back.

“You were worried I didn’t trust you?”

“Well, I mean-” Pleck’s ears reddened. “Up until that point you’d had your restraining bolt on, so I couldn’t be sure.”

C-53 nodded pensively. “True, I didn’t have a lot of allowance for personal expression back then.”

Pleck gave a small exhale of a laugh. “Yeah, it was like you became a totally different droid after that.”

“It was a punishing part of my life, to be sure.”

Pleck’s eye brightened. “Remember that time Nermut made you pick up that marble over and over again for like, an hour?” he asked, turning his sunny grin on C-53.

“Oh, Rodd, yeah,” the droid sighed, amused at the memory. “And you and Dar asked me to do it all sexy so I’d actually have some fun with it?”

“That was great, I really enjoyed that.”

“Oh, you did?” C-53 prompted, servos humming. “You enjoyed that?”

“No, I mean like-” Pleck went a darker shade of pink. “Not like, sexually, it was - I was just-” he stopped, gathered his thoughts, and restarted. “It was nice to see you having fun, is all,” he said. His smile softened as he reminisced.

C-53’s voice lost its teasing edge. “It was nice,” he agreed. “I’m glad we were able to become friends despite our initial differences.”

“Yeah…” Pleck trailed off, staring up at the droid earnestly. “Yeah, me too.”

Rodd, C-53 felt he was going to combust in that pure sunshine smile. He would fight wars and burn down cities to keep it safe.

Chapter 6 <-----> Chapter 8

#ink #fanfiction #mission to zyxx #part of my endeavor to relocate all my ao3 work

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jaggedwolf · 5 years ago

Text

TSCOSI Ficlets #2

Not being from the US

"So, Jeeter, what'd you learn this week?" Arkady plopped into the seat opposite him, stealing one of his fries. "The horrors of Fahrenheit?"

"Man, that was day one of international student orientation. We're on to way more advanced terrors now." Brian considered a token protest at the fry-theft. Eh, he'd get her back when she got dessert.

Arkady shrugged off her backpack. "Why do you even bother still going?"

"It's mandatory."

"Like you give a crap about that."

"Gotta be up to date with all these cultural differences."

"You're Canadian."

"Hey man-"

"And you told me you spent every summer in the States, anyway," Arkady said, looking suspiciously at him. Well, she tended to look suspiciously at a lot of things, so it wasn't the worst sign. "There's no reason for you to subject yourself to-"

A wide grin crossed Arkady's face. Oh no. "Wait, they're also an international student, right?"

"Maybe," said Brian defensively.

"Now, remind me what you said about their cheekbones?" Arkady's voice sounded even more delighted.

Brian pulled the hood of his sweatshirt over his head, and buried his head in his arms on the table. His voice muffled, he said "Drinking with you was a mistake."

"I for one, could not be happier that Tripathi took pity on a couple of freshmen and did us that favor."

Brian groaned. Three months into the school year and he still didn't understand how or when Arkady and him became friends.

"Should have guessed you'd be a poetic drunk." Arkady clapped him on the back. "Woah, speaking of-"

She tugged his sweatshirt. Brian reluctantly looked up, following her gaze to find the subject of their discussion striding towards them.

Yep, Krejjh looked about as handsome as they always did. That was fine. Their pace slowed as they approached the table. "Hey, it's Brian, right?"

"That's him," chimed in Arkady. "And I'm going to get some actual food now instead of skimming off Jeeter's"

She abruptly stood up and left. Krejjh seemed startled by her departure and asked "Is this a bad time?"

They sounded oddly hesitant, not at all like how Brian had heard them speak with their friends.

"Nope." Brian shoved back his hood. "Arkady's just like that. Do you want a fry?"

Holding your hand in mine

Arkady's always appreciated privacy. Couple of decades of sleeping in crowded rooms will do that to you. Being alone can be nice.

Being alone sucks a hell of a lot more when you're dying in one of Zone Z's dim-lit hallways.

Asshole shot her and her comms before she took care of him, and she supposes she'll only have his body for company as blood spurts out from under her collarbone. The instinctive pressured she applies slows it down. Not quick enough. He'd picked his shot well.

It's a waiting game now. She might as well distract herself. After all, hiding from the world in foolish dreams is a talent she's cultivated.

It's easy to paint a picture, as the world becomes fuzzy. No one could fault her for it. If someone wants to, she's not exactly going to be around to take their complaints. She squeezes her eyes shut. Folds herself smaller into the corner. Presses the heel of her right hand harder into the bleeding wound. Ignores how slick it feels. She's going to lose this fight, but like hell she's not clinging on all the way down, fingernails dug deep into life.

Back to the imagining.

What does she want, in these final moments?

What doesn't she want, is the better question. Her dreams had always been too stupidly big for reality. And yet. This is...this is a better death than she ever thought she'd get. Not much more to ask for. To her mind's rendering of the scene, she only adds a couple of selfish touches.

Long, soft fingers curl over the back of her right hand. They push insistently, added pressure to the wound, steadily, as if confident they can fix this. Fingers she's seen idly drum the table in the mess hall, fingers she's seen wrapped around a hypodermic syringe, fingers she felt trail through her hair just this morning. A presence that refuses to leave.

A rougher palm meets that of her left hand. The resulting grip is firm. Gentle. The calluses have a different contour from her own. Earned from building, where hers were made from breaking. They press against each other in a way that feels right anyway. Feels right, like twice-offered new beginnings. And even now, offering more.

It's good, Arkady thinks, that this is how it goes. Her alone.

Wouldn't be fair to them any other way.

Lesbian gaze

The ship turns out to be a monstrous patchwork, but Tripathi promises it'll fly, so she busies herself with staring at her new ID card. Arkady Patel. The card is new, nothing like the faded, scratched-up one in her back pocket. She'd gotten that one when she enlisted, been excited as hell about it, actually.

"Hey, Arkady?" asks Tripathi, sounding apologetic and swiveling the pilot's seat. "Could you check the local channels to see if they're tracking us?" Tripathi nods her head towards one of the panels.

She grunts in affirmative, shoves the ID card into a pocket and makes herself useful. She's mostly blocked out the pain. The channels are clear, takeoff goes without a hitch, and an hour later, they're as free as can be.

She could fish out that ID card again. There's a lot of people she's imagined being. Arkady Patel's the first one she actually will. If the IGR doesn't end up finding them first, that is. But that's not the name echoing in her head.

That would be Sana Tripathi.

Who's busy piloting, which means she can get away with looking her over. Tripathi's hair had been longer back on Cresswin, a single black braid that moved with her head through with every point made in those meetings snuck into. Now, Tripathi's hair isn't even shoulder-length. Nice and practical. Grey roots too. Tripathi seemed a little young for that. Not that she actually knew the woman's age, come to think of it.

There was a lot she didn't know about Tripathi. Maybe less if she counted Cresswin, and maybe she should, since Cresswin's what landed her here but - people changed. From time. From the war. From working a shitty job day-after-day. Easy enough to slip on an old skin if it got you a desperately needed crew member.

Not that it matters. She isn't looking for the noble, non-existent hero her teenage self had fantasized about. Now that she's on the IGR's bad side, she's pretty fucking good with settling for a place to sleep and food to eat. She can wait this out. See who Tripathi ends up being, and see if Tripathi figures out she isn't worth the trust.

Till then, she'll keep an eye on her new boss.

Low Expectations

It's ludicrous, he thinks, how exposed he feels without his eyepatch. Even more so when Violet's gloved fingers rest on his skin where the edges of the eyepatch would have. No matter. The feeling is a sign he has let himself become too comfortable. He's been far more exposed.

"Can you open the eyelid?" asks Violet.

There's that familiar half-second where he expects his range of vision to expand, and it grates on him, that his body has not yet adapted to its new reality. He opens his eyelid as wide as he can.

If Violet is perturbed by the sight of an empty eye socket, she doesn't show it. Her head comes closer to inspect it, fingers shifting slightly along his skin, and he tilts his face towards her to make it easier.

"Thanks," mutters Violet.

His hands start to tremble.

They're not in Violet's line of sight. He has the time to compensate, and the freedom to move his hands, so as carefully as he can manage, he grips his knees. He forces himself to start speaking, informing Violet of the current status of his eye socket and how the IGR had healed it.

It's no challenge to keep his face still. Whatever they do could only hurt more with unexpected head movements, they'd told him.

Eventually, Violet pulls back. Her fingers leave his face. Before he can even take a breath of relief, Violet pauses midway through turning to grab something, a concerned look on her face. "Park, you're shaking."

"I-" When Park looks down, he sees that his knees have joined his hands in trembling uncontrollably. His mind blanks. "My apologies," he acknowledges, "it shouldn't affect the checkup."

"What?"

He'd given an uninformative answer. Needed a better explanation. "My head. It shouldn't affect my head, so-"

"Park," interrupts Violet quietly, a slow frown taking over her face, "I think we're done for today."

Wooing with sharp-edged gifts

As soon as Arkady was unhorsed for the last time, and her opponent declared the victor, Sana appeared out of nowhere to act as her crutch.

"You should be escorting Rumor, not me," Arkady pointed out, her helmet weighing down her free hand. Her left foot throbbed when she put any weight on it. "Who knows what she'll get up to without your supervision?"

Sana huffed, her armor clanging against Arkady's. "I could say the same about you. Besides, Krejjh is handling her fine."

Sure enough, a glance behind revealed Krejjh eagerly chattering away to Sana's steed. They swung a leg over to ride even that short distance to the stables.

"Showoff," muttered Arkady. "Krejjh bribes your horse with too many sugar cubes."

"Be that as it may," continued Sana, "I'm afraid there'll be no escaping the medical tent today. It's tournament day! We're safe, you need to get your leg taken care of, and if something happens you'll have the simple pleasure of saying 'I told you so', won't you?"

"It's not a pleasure."

Sana ignored her, holding up a flap of the tent they'd arrived at for Arkady to hop under. She did so, making sure to look as annoyed as possibly, and Sana followed, supporting Arkady over to the nearest cot...where Violet stood expectantly.

Sana flashed a quick grin at Arkady. "You know what, Kady, you're right, I should go check on Rumor. Just remember you did your best out there." With that, Sana nodded at Violet and exited the tent so quickly it was as if she were never there.

Arkady frowned at Violet. "Liu. Wasn't your shift yesterday?"

Looking amused, Violet replied. "They're hardly going to complain about an extra hand. Let's get that armor off your leg."

They did. Arkady winced the whole time, cursing herself for her choices. Jousting, really? Arkady would have fared better in the melee, her own two feet and her weapon of choice to depend on.

They could hear cheering from the lists from even inside the tent. Another bout ended, then. Violet examined Arkady's foot, fingers pressing various spots around the swollen ankle.

As if reading her mind, Violet asked, "Why the joust?"

Embarrassed, Arkady shot back, "You mean, why'd I pick something I'm so piss-poor at?"

"You won your first two bouts," said Violet mildly.

Oh. She'd been watching.

Of course she'd been watching, how else would she have known to come to this very tent? Even Sana's encouragement didn't extend quite that far.

Violet continued, "You've never mentioned it when talking about other tournaments."

The simple, foolish answer was the smallest prize the winners received. A single rose, fresh from the royal garden, to be presented to whoever they chose.

The melee was an ugly, crowded thing. It was not the melee's rose lauded in those songs she'd loved as a child, snatches of music caught in taverns and lyrics sung in street games, and it was not the melee's rose she had wanted to give to Violet. It was not the melee she had wanted Violet to see her fight in.

It was not after the melee she had wanted to broach a topic she had thought unbroachable.

Yet it was the ugly things in life that Arkady was good for, and so she was left here with empty hands and another injury.

Arkady half-smiled at Violet. "Thought I'd try something new."

"I...don't think that's the whole answer," said Violet, but she didn't press as she normally would have. She turned to her satchel, retrieving a cloth bundle and unwrapping it to reveal a dagger, sheathed in dark leather. It was good work, deceptively simple. She wondered how much coin it had cost.

Violet took a deep breath and then spoke slowly. "You probably haven't been counting the days but, um, it's been a year since you saved me from that ambush. A little less than that since you cleared my name."

Had it been that long? Had it been that short?

Violet pulled the dagger out of the sheath. The dagger's edges gleamed in the snatches of sunlight filtering into the tent, but Arkady only had eyes for the sharpening of Violet's gaze.

"You told me, once, that I didn't know what you'd done. What you'd do." Violet sheathed the dagger. "I do now."

She offered out the dagger, pale fingers around the sheathed portion of it, her face tentative yet determined. "A gift. A thank-you. You don't"-A short laugh escaped Violet-"Refuse it if you will. I just thought I ought to say it."

"I-" For once, Arkady didn't have the words to respond.

Instead, she took the dagger, and let the slowly growing smile on Violet's face be answer enough for them both.

#ficlets #tscosi #tscosi ficlets #arkady patel #the ficlets keep happening idk #arkady and brian #arkady and sana #violet and park #arkady and violet

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tsarisfanfiction · 5 years ago

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Relax (Tales From The Heart)

Fandom: One Piece Rating: Gen Warnings: None Characters: Uni, Law, Shachi, Penguin

There were some perks to having their captain also being their doctor. That is, unless you weren't a fan of doctors in which case the compulsory check-ups were a nightmare. Members of the Heart Pirates very quickly got over any reluctance to see their captain, because with his Scan he could tell if they were hiding anything and corner them anyway. It was far simpler to instigate the meetings.

Every so often, the crew were subjected to various forms of massage as part of the check-ups. Many of them relied on their bodies remaining limber and agile for their techniques, and being trapped inside for days at a time with minimal training opportunities left them often tensing up, which Law saw as something that required additional treatment. While never trained as a masseuse, the combination of his medical knowledge and the Ope Ope no Mi meant he quickly picked up on which muscles needed the most attention to suit that particular nakama's fighting style.

It wasn't until Uni joined the crew that anything changed. Health check-ups, occasional massage, then back to whatever they'd been doing prior to the summons.

"Who treats you?" he asked his captain after his first check up with the crew, slowly sitting up to zip his boiler suit closed.

"I'm the doctor," Law pointed out, busying himself with reorganising the infirmary before he summoned the next member of the crew.

"Yes, but you can't massage your own back," Uni pointed out, only to be struck dumb when Law simply cut off his own hands with his fruit and waved them around, tapping his own back to prove a point.

New to the crew, Uni accepted that his captain's abilities were weird and left, not wanting to do anything out of line, only to be collared by Shachi outside the door.

"He won't let anyone else touch him because none of us know what we're doing," the ginger had told him, sending a fondly exasperated look at the infirmary behind them. "Using his own abilities when it's supposed to be relaxing sounds stupid to me but hey, what can we do. Unless we get hold of a masseuse somewhere that he trusts, he's going to keep contradicting himself." The long-suffering tone of voice implied that Shachi had tried to get hold of someone before, to no avail.

"My Mum suffered from tense muscles a lot," Uni confided, seeing a loophole and determined to exploit it if Shachi, one of the senior members of the crew, would be on his side. "I had to learn."

"Seriously?" Shachi squawked, gripping him by the shoulders and invading his personal space. The peak of his hat nudged at Uni's lower jaw as he looked up at him intently. "You mean, you can…"

"I don't know how to convince him," Uni shrugged. "I'm just new."

"You're nakama," Shachi said firmly, pulling away to grab at a passing crewmate. "Oi, Penguin. Apparently Uni here knows massage stuff. Want to help collar the captain?"

"You even have to ask?" Penguin responded, tilting his head back slightly to look at Uni for himself. "He hasn't let himself relax at all in a week, and even that wasn't great when he did. This is way past due." He barged straight into the infirmary, Shachi hot on his heels. Uni trailed along behind, entering the room just in time to hear his name mentioned.

And that was how Uni found himself under heavy scrutiny of his captain's eyes for the second time that day.

"Shachi is under the impression you can do a better massage job than me," Law commented, sounding amused. Uni gave a helpless shrug, not sure if he was allowed to consider himself more competent at something medical than his doctor-captain. "I suppose there's only one way to find out." The words were hesitant but the tone was inviting as the captain shrugged off his hoodie, revealing numerous tattoos Uni hadn't known he had.

"Go on," Shachi encouraged, giving Uni's back a nudge. Law had positioned himself on the bed, lying on his stomach with his cheek resting on his overlapping hands. He was quick to obey, eyeing the straining muscles dubiously before another encouraging gesture from the ginger had him lightly laying his hands on his captain's back, just above the tattoo of their jolly roger. He felt the muscles briefly seize up further at the touch, and faltered. Even with Shachi and Penguin backing him up, and his captain's consent, he felt as if he was crossing a line that shouldn't be touched.

"It's not too late to change your mind," his captain spoke. For all that his body felt like it was about to bolt, Law's tone was open and relaxed.

"It's fine," Shachi added, perching on the edge of the bed with a hand resting gently on his captain's elbow. Penguin mirrored the action on the other side. "Relax." Uni wasn't entirely certain which of them they were talking to; while Law's muscles didn't budge, after several long seconds he let a stream of air escape his lungs before cocking his head to look back over his shoulder, at Uni. Realising that there was no point hesitating, he finally began to apply the pressure.

As he'd thought, Law was totally tense. It took every trick in his repertoire to work out the kinks in the muscles before soothing them into something far healthier. Shachi moved away from the arm he was touching so that Uni could properly work on the muscles there, followed by the other arm as Penguin did the same. Neither returned to their previous positions, content to watch from the side of the bed, and Uni felt a bit like he'd passed a test.

By the time Uni considered himself almost finished, there was silence in the room, the only sound the friction between his hands and his captain's skin. Muffled groans and sighs from his captain had ceased after a while, and as he eventually stood back, finished, he saw why.

Eyes closed and breathing even, Law had fallen asleep. Shachi and Penguin drew Uni into a triumphant (quiet) high five before pulling a blanket up over their captain and removing his hat to reveal his untamed hair.

"Thanks," Penguin said quietly, guiding him out of the infirmary and leaving Shachi behind, not that the ginger seemed to care as he took a seat by the occupied bed and withdrew a magazine from his suit. "Captain needed that. What say you we make this a habit?"

Uni glanced down at his hands, remembering how tough the muscles had been and how much stress had been piled on those shoulders.

"Sounds good to me."

#one piece #One Piece Fanfiction #trafalgar law #penguin #shachi #uni #tales from the heart #tsari writes fanfiction

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solohux · 5 years ago

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@anonymous submitted: Techie and the Pilot

Brendol Hux, Jr --Better known as “Techie” to the few people aware of his existence-- younger brother of General Armitage Hux, had been watching the Resistance Pilot undergo interrogation. He hated that his older brother allowed prisoners to be tortured on his ship, it reminded him of his own miserable existence before the elder Hux had rescued him.

But whenever he had brought up his concerns to “Armie”, his brother brushed him off! He would feed him the same old lies about how “Prisoners who undergo interrogation usually have sensitive information that we need brother, we simply don’t have the time to allow them to tell us what they know at their own leisure.” or “I designed the standard interrogation protocol myself Bren, I like to think that it’s quite humane.”

Frankly, Techie failed to see how allowing droids to shock people or inject them with all manner of potentially dangerous medications was “humane”.

Occasionally the older of the Hux brothers even had the gall to say “Truly I can’t see how it even matters. Every prisoner is eventually reconditioned anyway, so what bad experiences they may have had while being interrogated would be wiped away entirely.”

Techie just thought that was missing the point he was trying to make.

And so, the younger Hux brother had largely given up on trying to convince his brother that torture was wrong. But that did not mean he had stopped caring about those who were tortured. In the beginning, he had tried to ignore them. But he was the eyes and ears of The Finalizer, nothing happened on that ship without him being aware of it. However he may have tried, he would always be drawn back to the interrogation wing. Seeing the prisoners struggle in their restraints, hearing their screams….

How could he not feel terribly sorry for them, yet also compelled to watch over them?

Which is what he had been doing for Poe Dameron. Techie had quickly been impressed by the pilots stubborn spirit, he’d never seen someone hold out so long against the torture droid before! Of course, all prisoners eventually break, but the fact that Kylo Ren had to be called in to literally steal the needed information out of Poe’s head had Techie cheering for him! It was just a shame that such an inspiring prisoner was going to mind-wiped and then tossed into the closest Tie-Fighter to do battle against his comrades afterwards. Yes, such a shame indeed.

Then a Stormtrooper turned traitor, freed the pilot under false pretenses and the two of them started making their way towards the closest hanger.

Techie could not believe what he was seeing! Something like this had never happened before! Even though he usually considered himself a realist --In actuality most would consider Techie a pessimist, although he could hardly be blamed for being one considering all that he had been put through-- he found himself feeling optimistic about the ‘Trooper and Pilot’s chances of escape.

His brother would be left in such a terribly bad mood afterwards, but Techie secretly just thought it would serve him right.

Only…. The ‘Trooper and the Pilot didn’t escape. They came close, so wonderfully close to freedom. But they had been spotted outside the hanger door by one of the Stormtroopers squad mates, apparently a squad mate with a bone to pick, because that ‘Trooper hadn’t listened to anything the other ‘Trooper said in lieu of explaining himself. Of course the other Stormtrooper raised the alarm, he was only doing what he had been trained to do.

Still, Techie felt quite crushed watching the ‘Trooper and the Pilot bolt off in opposite directions as they began to be surrounded. The Stormtrooper even had the misfortune of running straight into the fearsome Captain Phasma’s arms! Poor ‘Trooper, Techie knew he was a lost cause now.

Yet the Pilot…. Somehow avoided being caught! He weaved through the crowd expertly and even managed to lose his pursuers by cleverly dashing through a set of adjoining hallways! Clearly he had some experience in getting himself out of sticky situations and maybe just maybe Techie was getting a little crush on him.

No matter, Techie could no longer sit back and watch the Pilot eventually be chased down like some animal. He would help him. Techie had never interfered with an escaped prisoner beforehand, but he found it rather easy to do so.

Any door the Pilot wanted through? Techie opened it for him. Any hallway restricted to certain crew members? Techie allowed the Pilot to run down it, but stopped the search party looking for him from doing so.

Which is how the Pilot found himself huddled in an alcove just a short distance from Techie’s command room. Techie could see that the poor man was about to collapse from exhaustion and looked rather sorry for himself, clearly he couldn’t keep running away anymore. He needed a place to recuperate for a bit.

From there it was a simple matter of using the intercom system to quietly steer the Pilot towards Techie’s door. As soon as the Pilot opened it, Techie grabbed him and hauled him inside. The Pilot understandably didn’t appreciate that --He still had some fight left in him after all!-- but Techie managed to calm him down and assure him that he was a friend and would not harm him.

By this time the poor man --Whose name was Poe, Techie almost couldn’t get enough of how satisfying that name sounded in his mouth-- was feeling his previous torture catch up with him and crashed out on Techie’s door as soon as he was nudged towards it. He slept for almost an entire day before he woke up again. Techie spent that time tending to his wounds, gazing at him admiringly and snuggling during the few hours of sleep he managed to get.

Poe woke up confused, but grateful for the hospitality nonetheless. Especially when Techie fetched some food and water for him.

Poe proved to be a chatterbox, which pleased Techie as he himself was a man of few words who preferred to listen to other people speak. Poe asked a number of difficult questions though:- “Where exactly on the ship are we?”, “What happened to that Stormtrooper who tried to help me escape?”, “Who are you?”, “What are you doing here?”.

Techie’s inability to convincely lie and evasive answers only gave Poe the wrong idea. He came to believe that Techie was also a prisoner of The First Order! And a long-term one at that, given how withdrawn he was and how resigned to his situation he seemed. He didn’t even dare ask about Techie’s false eyes, assuming that The First Order had tortured him via removing his real ones in order to get him to work for them.

Clearly the right thing to do was take Techie with him once he recovered his strength and escaped. He had failed the Stormtrooper, but he wouldn’t fail this sweet, kind-natured and vulnerable man!

Techie was oblivious to his pilots, thought process. But still rather smitten with him. He drank in Poe’s stories of daring escapes from evil-doers and of his loving childhood home. He was delighted when Poe found his collection of copper wire animals while trying to stumble his way to the bathroom, as the pilot complimented them! Poe even showed genuine interest in Techie’s workstation, curiously asking what button did what.

They even shared food and the same bed together again come the ships night-cycle!

As far as Techie was concerned, it was the second best day of his life.

But all good things come to an end.

And Poe and Techie’s comfortable inhabitation with one another ended rather suddenly early in the next day-cycle.

Namely thanks to General Hux bursting in on them! Hux had come to his brother in desperation. No matter how many patrols he sent out, nor how much of the ship he turned over, the Resistance Pilot was nowhere to be found! Kylo Ren could have found him, but that damned Force User had blasted down to Jakku to capture the previously mentioned Pilot’s droid almost as soon as he was aware of the thing having hold of the map that would lead him straight to his old Master, Luke Skywalker.

And apparently the droid and some scavenger girl who had taken a liking to it where leading the Leader of the Knights of Ren on quite a merry chase all over the planet! Or something of that description, Ren never told him more of his missions than the bare minimum.

The Supreme Leader of The First Order could’ve also found the Pilot, but Hux wasn’t of the mind to “bother” him with a relatively trivial task.

So his beloved baby brother was his only hope of finding the Rebel Scum before he did anything to damage his ship! It had been nearly three days now, who knew what the urchin could be up to?!

So when Hux opened Techie’s door and found his brother standing next to the Pilot, the General’s first thought was that the Rebel Scum had taken Techie hostage! He reacted instantly. He drew his personal blaster out and demanded that if the Pilot wanted to live, he would unhand his brother!

“Hux: You’ve made a mistake Rebel Scum, release my brother from your custody before I blow your head off.”

“Poe: What?”

Fortunately, Techie was also a quick thinker and attempted to explain the situation before anyone got hurt!

“Techie: Armie no! It’s not what you think! He’s my friend!”

“Poe: “Armie”?”

Hux naturally didn’t believe his brother’s explanation, assuming that the Pilot had threatened him in order to get him to say that. Or by some miracle, had managed to actually convince Techie that he wasn’t really a terrorist and just happened to want to be friends with General Hux’s brother.

“Hux: He is not your friend Bren! He’s a murderous scoundrel who would not hesitate to end you if it benefited him! But it’s alright, I’m here now. I’ll have you out of his clutches soon enough.”

“Poe: Anyone want to tell me what the kriff is going on? Because I’m honestly lost here.”

It was a cut and dry Mexican Stand-off. Techie couldn’t convince Hux that Poe wasn’t holding him hostage. Hux didn’t believe that Techie wasn’t being harmed by being in the mere presence of Poe. And Poe was just really confused by the idea that General Hux not only had a brother, but was apparently holding him prisoner for the benefit of The First Order!

Eventually Techie burst into tears and started sobbing, pleading with Hux to not kill his first friend in years --And first love interest ever!--. During which Poe turned around to give Techie a hug, which left him wide open to Hux’s blaster. Although perhaps Hux had heard some of his brother’s pleas, because he merely stunned Poe as opposed to shooting him dead as he had threatened to do so earlier.

Naturally this only left Techie more distraught.

After Hux checked Techie over to assure himself that his little brother wasn’t hurt and then reassured Techie that Poe wasn’t dead…. Techie did calm down a little bit.

Then he asked an odd question.

“Techie: *Sniffling* Can I keep him Armie? I’m lonely here and I really like him.”

Hux was going to refuse just on principal, but one look at the younger Hux brother’s tear-stained face gave him pause.

“Hux: Only if you allow me to recondition him first.”

And that is where our story ends. You can decide if Techie agrees to his brother’s compromise or holds out on Poe retaining his actual personality!

#submission #clan techie #poe dameron #pilottech #poetech #oh my gosh my heart!!!#id want poe to retain his personality!!! and his memories and autonomy!!#maybe he can convince techie to run away from the order????#regardless of the ending #this was so amazing!! thank you so much for sharing!!

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ramblinganthropologist · 4 years ago

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Writober 2020 - 25 (Orange)

Summary: Well... when Bo fucks up, she really fucks up, Luckily, CVS is open 24/7. Even luckier, Alistair’s coming with her. How hard could it be to get some damn pink hair dye anyway?

---

There was nothing like the Normandy needing some repair work done that made him appreciate down time.

“You like that, Saren? I got it from your favorite place as a little surprise while I was out getting supplies for everyone.”

The small, round ball of fur continued to shove his food into his bulging cheeks. He was going a little faster than usual of course – that's what happened when he got his favorite snacks – but soon it would all be stored away for later. Until then, he would continue to look absolutely adorable as he sat in his enclosure.

Alistair had picked up more food and bedding for the hamster while he was out, along with a few chew toys and a new hide. Maybe he was spoiling Saren, but... well, why not? Space hamsters may have lived longer than their Earth counterparts, but they still maxed out at 10. They hadn't been sure how old he was, so... why not make every day count?

Besides, he had pissed on Miranda. That made him a hero.

“It was really busy at the shop when I popped in today. I guess word got out that I go there.” He chuckled as he watched his hamster finish stuffing himself silly. “All full? You look like a little beach ball, Sar.”

Maybe it was his imagination, but he swore he saw Saren's cheeks puff out in indignation. At any rate, he was soon tunneling into his bedding, to wherever he was storing his food in this cage layout. Alistair would find the remains eventually when he cleaned. It was kind of like one of the weirdest treasure hunts he had ever taken part in...

“Well, bye I guess.”

He shrugged his shoulders and started to return to his desk. However. A beeping from his omni-tool drew the Spectre's attention. There was a message there from Bo – fucked my omni-tool again, might have water damage. Fix?

Oh great... water damage.

“She's lucky I got some extra parts when I went shopping.” Alistair shook his head as he grabbed his tool box and jacket. “Saren, watch the room while I'm gone. If you see anyone from Cerberus sneaking around, you know what to do.”

That was of course look cute to entice them in, then bite the shit out of them. It was a good plan, and Saren executed it like a pro. That's why he always felt a little better when he left to go on missions. How could he not when he had his own personal attack hamster?

Bo hadn't said where she was, but he knew her enough that he stopped by the crew floor to find the XO office. The door was open, so he nudged it open and stepped through. There was water running – was she showering?

Well, good to know she trusted him.

“It's on the desk!” Her voice called out over the water. “Did Saren like the snacks you got?”

Alistair settled into his CO's desk in order to fix her very water-logged omni-tool. He cocked his eyebrow as he examined it further. At first he thought it was a trick of the light, but parts of the band looked to be faded to almost white. A smell test confirmed it as he shook his head. Luckily, he had a replacement band in her size.

“Yeah. Did you forget to take this off when you were bleaching your roots though?”

Bo shut the water off – must've been done rinsing. “Some of it dripped while I was working.”

Of course it did. Alistair resisted the urge to roll his eyes as he pulled the stained band off. After that, it was simple diagnostic and replacement. Apart from the soldering of some replacement bits around the screen, he could've done it in his sleep. Luckily, he was awake so that made it go much faster.

He hummed to himself as he worked. “No big deal, I figured you'd need a new one eventually so I picked one up.”

“Gotta love a well-stocked tech.” Bo sounded like she was shifting around. Then she stopped moving. “Aw fuck...”

Alistair cocked his eyebrow as he put the omni-tool down briefly. “Everything alright in there?”

His XO didn't answer. From the sounds of things, she was getting dressed. At least he knew she hadn't fallen or anything, but her silence was a little concerning. However, going into the bathroom was a bad idea, so he was left waiting on the other side.

“Bo?”

Two red eyes were soon on him. “We're going to have to go back to CVS.”

At first, he started to open his mouth to ask why. That question was answered for him as Bo came into view, adjusting her shirt as she walked. She had indeed finished bleaching her roots and touching up the color but...

Well, that wasn't pink. In fact, it was pretty damn fucking orange.

She shot him a look that definitely could've killed. “Well, get it over with.”

Alistair returned the omni-tool to his toolbox for later and started patching up details for returning to the dock. “Well... let's be honest, ginger's better on me than you. You can fix that at least, right?”

After all, there was only one redheaded Shepard on the Normandy, and he was under 6 feet tall. Besides, pink really was more her color anyway. He may have been an utter failure when it came to fashion, but at least he sometimes knew basic color theory.

Sometimes, anyway... he still didn't see why he couldn't wear neon blue sneakers with green laces.

“Yeah, just go already.” her hood was already up over the nightmare. “Before anyone really starts making Shepard siblings jokes.”

Perish the thought...

---

“Have I mentioned how much I hate C-SEC?”

“Many, many times.”

Alistair could feel a dull headache throbbing at the base of his implant as he and Bo finally cleared security. For some reason, flying in on the fucking Normandy always attracted some measure of attention. He wouldn't have minded, but they were kind of on a tight schedule.

Bo still had her hood up as they walked. “I swear I checked that damn box before I bought it, how the fuck did this happen?”

“You're asking the wrong guy, maybe the manufacturer mixed up the packages or something.” He shrugged. “I'll check it out later once we get back.”

Hell, maybe a low blood sugar had caused it. Bo might not have been as sensitive to biotic-induced hypoglycemia as he was, but there were times she still got it. For all he knew, this could have been a hypo fuck up. Of course, he'd never suggest that – that was just insult to injury.

What could he say, he was a paragon of virtue like that. Though, maybe he should consider adding a CGM to her omni-tool when he got back...

At least the CVS didn't look too busy from the outside. The parking lot looked pretty empty, but that was probably due to the time. Even the Citadel had slow periods between shifts after all – people had to sleep and eat sometime. It was just a stroke of luck they hit it when they did.

What wasn't so lucky was the guy Bo all but body checked as she entered the store.

Alistair opened his mouth to apologize, but he didn't get the chance. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw someone coming. His reflexes kicked in, and soon a glowing blue barrier was erected around whatever was moving towards him. A shot ricocheted, and then they were down on the ground with a hole in their leg.

Huh. Now why would two guys in dark masks with guns be in a CVS? And why did the few people in there look like they had just seen a ghost?

“Oh, thank God. I thought - “ The clerk paused, realizing who was standing over her would-be robbers as if they did this every day – which, to be fair, they kind of did. It was just usually in armor. “Wait... are you Commander Shepard?”

Alistair was already checking vitals through the barrier. “Yeah. Bo, go get your stuff. I'll handle these two until C-SEC shows up.”

Their gear and weapons were honestly nothing special, and their plan seemed laughable at best. It was just their luck they had run into amateur hour at thievery school. Well, no doubt they had both earned scholarships to clown college for their boneheaded stunts.

At least the bullet wound didn't look like it had broken anything vital. He'd be able to stand trial for sure at this rate.

“Fuck...” Yeah, his sentiments exactly. “How'd you find us?”

Bo appeared from the aisle, carrying the correct box under her arm. With her hood still up, she slid it over the counter. “We walked in. Can I buy this now, or does C-SEC need to count the total?”

“Oh, they didn't get the chance to take anything! You two showed up just as soon as they drew their guns!” There were stars in the clerk's eyes as she ran Bo up. “I don't know how to thank you, I thought I was going to get shot!”

Alistair's medigel applicator dinged as it dispensed the appropriate dose for the would-be robber still trapped in his barrier. It would hold until he got proper medical attention with C-SEC. With that done, he checked on the other genius. He was still on the floor, groaning.

No surprises there – it was hard to take a full body check from Bo “The Pink Monster” Shepard and make it out without anything broken. Definitely had at least some kind of concussion if the unfocused vision was anything to go by.

Well, at least he didn't crack his skull. Those were messy.

“I doubt they would've hit, their aim was terrible.” Bo accepted her bag just as the C-SEC sirens announced their arrival. “Well, took them long enough.”

She slung her bag over her shoulder. “Al, mind handling them? I'm gonna get back to the Normandy.”

Normally, this was the part where a commanding officer would have totally pulled rank and made his XO stay. After all, he hated dealing with C-SEC as much as anyone did. However, unlike most CO's, he wasn't a total asshole. That he saved for people who deserved it.

“Yeah, hurry up before they realize it's you.”

Bo actually passed two C-SEC officers on her way out, hood pulled low. Alistair shook his head as he straightened up. His hands still felt sticky from the medigel, but there wasn't much he could do about that at the moment.

At least there were no news cameras.

“Stop right-” A turian with purple tattoos lowered her gun. “Commander Shepard?”

He responded with an awkward wave that highlighted the sticky residue from the medigel. At least nobody could blame him for the gunshot – for once he wasn't armed, even though his Spectre status gave him that permission. Who needed to bring a gun into CVS anyway, except idiots like the ones on the floor? “Wrong place, right time. These two need medical attention, but I think they'll be ok. Their pride, not so much, but I can't fix that.”

That dull headache promised to get worse with the incredulous looks he was getting from the officers. Alistair could only hope that the store's cameras were working, otherwise they were going to have to interview him. And oh, he hated going down to the C-SEC offices more than pretty much everything except the Illusive Man, low blood sugar, and the sound of his own voice.

Bo better thank him for this one later... hopefully when her hair was back to pink. Again, orange really was more of his color. Chalk it up to the Irish genes and all.

“So... guess you want to have a chat then?”

Why did he even ask... fuck. He should've stayed in his room with Saren.

#writober2020 #ramblinganthropologist's writing #Alistair Shepard #Bo Peep Shepard

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ebelwrites · 5 years ago

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Oh dear. Oh boy. Well, it’s time to finally post this!

So, who here remembers this drawing of @gallifreyan-pal? I certainly do! Therefore, you can place all the blame for this absolute hellfic at Tobin’s feet, and maybe a bit at Kai’s too. Cause I got thinking about how a full speech/video would go down and then this got written!

Now, this fic is different than my usual ‘family-friendly G’ variety. It’s not R or even really M rated, but it is more on the PG scale. Just so you guys know what you’re getting yourselves into, this fic does discuss Sex and all the stuff one needs to know about going into that. This fic is more a comedy thing and doesn’t show/only talks, but if you’re not feeling up for that sort of thing today, here’s your warning that you might wanna pass over this.

Anyways, on with the show and, Tobin? I hope you enjoy the hellfic you inspired!

~~~~

{The screen flickers to life. It shows Dream sitting backwards on a chair, arm resting on the chair back, and staring at the camera; though, if one looks carefully, it can be seen that Dream is actually looking slightly above the camera at something out of sight. There’s a slight pause, and Dream gives a subtle nod before focusing on the camera itself and beginning to speak}

“So you found yourself someone you want to get down with. Well. If you are here in the designated copulation rooms, then you have most likely convinced them to give you at least one chance. In order to make sure that there are no more occurrences like the Afterdeath incidents {Dream’s face pinches for a moment, but rapidly returns to its previous professional look}, you and your partners are all required to watch this educational video about how to have sex safely. Because safe sex is the sexiest.” {Dream looks off to someone off-screen and asks in a low voice: ‘Why did I have to say that?’ There’s a pause as whoever he’s talking to responds before Dream leans sharply in that direction saying, ‘What do you mean that’s the slogan?’. The film abruptly cuts to the next shot, with Dream back to facing the camera}

“To begin; you have found yourself someone you want to get down with. Now, do they want to get down with you? It is important to establish consent with any and all partners that you have. Failure to clarify consent will result in severe punishment {Dream gives a fierce glare into the camera, making sure that the viewer knows that he is not joking or exaggerating. To break this rule is to make yourself an enemy of Dream and Justice Reigns}. Something that is quite often forgotten if you have the same partner regularly is to establish consent for every encounter. Just because someone has said ‘yes’ one time, does not mean it is consent for every time. Remember; be sure all parties clarify enthusiastic consent for every occurrence without pressure, or we’ll fry your ass.” {Dream looks to the side a second time, this time with an unimpressed glare, and says ‘Why was there an exclamation point at the end of that?’ It doesn’t seem like he gets the answer he wants, and soon turns back to look at the point just above the camera.}

“Next up, protection. It is provided in every room. Lube and condoms are located within the top bedside draw. Make sure to use them {Dream appears to be relaxing a little as he starts getting used to what he is saying. It is clear that he agrees with the logic of what he is being told to say and is starting to get into the flow of it a bit more}. If birth control is desired, there are medical professionals available to discuss your options. And it never hurts to double up on protection. Birth control pills and condoms used together are good. Using two condoms at the same time is bad and most likely to be worse than just using one as intended {Dream gives a tiny nod as he agrees with what he is saying. His posture is looser now and he appears comfortable on his chair}. Please remember that condoms are used for more than preventing unwanted children. STDs are very much a thing, and can be transferred through acts other than penetrative sex as well. If you wish to have proof of why you should always use a condom unless you and all your partners are tested and confirmed to be clean, the medical staff happily invites you to pay them a visit to view the case file and photos for syphilis in the eye?!” {Dream almost shouts the last four words of his sentence, horror obvious on his face and his entire body tensing up in a mix of fright and shock. The film immediately cuts to black before opening on what is obviously a different take; the chair is facing forwards now and Dream is sitting properly on it, though looking rather uncomfortable and repulsed}

“Continuing on from our last point, making sure that both your partners and yourself are clean of STDs. It is important to get yourself checked and to take precautions. If something does happen, there are medical professionals available to discuss options and treatment {Dream’s face takes a bit of a golden hue to it, but Dream continues on as though he doesn’t notice}. Please ensure that condoms are used correctly and frequently; many STDs are contracted by skin on skin contact of any kind {There is a distinctly uncomfortable fidget from Dream as he says this}, so condoms should be worn from the beginning.” {Dream stares hard with disappointment into the camera as the one filming clearly waits for him to say something else. There is a long, slow zoom in on Dream’s face before the camera person finally gives up}

“Please, ensure that your escapades happen in a private room and the door is locked. Since you are here in the copulation rooms, you have already fulfilled part one of these requirements. But please take a moment to {Dream’s line of sight suddenly drops down to the floor, accompanied by several soft thuds and the faint sound of someone cursing. Dream watches whoever it is pick up the cue cards they dropped, only a faint pursing of his lips and an unimpressed look betraying his thoughts. Dream’s line of sight eventually follows the person back up, and he starts speaking again}...ensure that the door to your room is properly closed and locked. You and your partners may consent, but the innocent bystanders do not. I do not believe there is any more that needs to be said on this topic.” {Dream has the look of a man who has seen more than he ever should have; there is the distinct impression that he has been the innocent bystander far too often.}

“Now, you may feel the desire to…{Dream’s face contorts as though he just sucked on a lemon} ‘spice up’ your time together. Make sure that this is communicated clearly to your partners, that it is discussed, and that all parties are in agreement. Please make sure to do your research on how to perform these desires correctly. JR is not liable for any injuries caused by unique sexual desires; you are, however, liable for any destruction or property damage caused by said desires {Dream’s eyes close for a moment and he looks distinctly like he’s gritting his teeth together. It is an expression of both cringe and disappointment, but it only lasts for a moment before Dream recovers}. And remember, it does not matter what lie you come up with for the medical staff when something goes wrong, they will be able to figure out exactly what happened. So it is easier for everyone if you just tell the truth immediately. I have been informed that you cannot possibly surprise them anymore.” {Dream’s face slowly falls as he reads the last sentence out. He is no longer even trying to hide the fact that he is reading off cue cards, looking above the camera as it appears that the last glimmers of faith in the intelligence and integrity of his people is slowly drained away. He finishes speaking and finally looks back to the camera; his eyes speak of a man who has reached the limit of what he can take}

“And finally, please make sure to care for your partners {Some of the tension drains out of Dream as he says this. He still looks somewhat pained, but he appears to be relieved to be finally talking about something that is at least somewhat pure in intention}. Look after them before, during, and after your time together. Sex can be very emotional and does tend to make people’s systems go haywire for a bit. Hormones can be strong enough that people can start crying during sex, even when there is nothing wrong. Importantly, just talk to your partners; speak to each other throughout the whole experience. Whether it is your first time or your fiftieth, whether this is a one-time-only thing or part of a relationship, talk to your partner afterwards and be honest about the experience. It will only help you in the long run.” {As Dream finishes the final section, he starts to make shooing motions to someone behind the camera. Subtle at first, but they grow larger as the one he is gesturing to is obviously not getting the message. ‘Leave it’, Dream hisses in a whisper at the person, ‘I’ll close it off myself. I don’t trust whatever you’ve got written for me.’ There’s a pause as the person Dream is talking to communicates something in return; ‘considering the rest of your script, I believe I have good reason to not trust you.’ There’s a final shoo motion from Dream’s hand as he says this, and he turns back to the camera.}

“That is the conclusion of this instructional video. Please remember what was discussed and apply it properly. One final thing; anything you do in here, the cleaning crew will find out about from what’s left behind. Please be kind to them and do not make their job any more difficult or unpleasant than it has to be. Good day, and have a wonderful experience.” {The camera does not linger long on Dream’s pinched and pained face. Instead, the film abruptly cuts to a copy of Dream from earlier who is saying ‘Healthy sex is the sexiest.’ The slogan is spelled out in giant golden letters across the screen, with a little upbeat jingle playing in the background. The words and tune linger for a bit after Dream has finished speaking, then the screen cuts to black. It is over}

#hellfic #this is all Tobin's fault #Dreamswap #DS!Dream #Ink in the back #holding up cue cards #Dream did not sign off on this script #humour with a tad of PG #I'm sorry in advance

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yunasightx · 5 years ago

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So, I recently saw @rondoel was interested in hearing about Mcmercy Headcannons if Mccree and Mercy if were to have a happy ending , even if that’s not exactly how they picture their story themselves.

So, well , if anyone is interested in some Cowboy and Angel fluff (after a healthy amount of angst)) .. let me dust off the headcannons that have been collection dust for the last few years. Hope you enjoy !

Warning LONG Post / info dump incoming

Disclaimer: I headcannon Mcmercy as a slow burn couple who go from teenaged orphans who find a home in overwatch,to reluctant teammates , to friends who develop crushes , to lovers over the events of the story of Overwatch. ( there also might be a bit of fiddeling with the time line here, since Blizzard cant seem to make up their mind on how old Angela was when she was approached by Overwatch to join vs when Gabe gave Jesse his ultimatum)

Headcannon time!!

When Retribution happens Angela and Jesse (who are about 29-30 at this point) have been low-key daiting for about 7-8 years , (Because of their high profiles and responsibilities within Overwatch and Blackwatch, and because neither of them likes making a fuss about it, only the higher ranking memembers they are close to know they are together. When they are on the field, their jobs come first and they remain professional... with a few teases , flirts ,and hand holding snuck in here and there. But ultimately , getting the job done and keeping the team safe are their primary goals. ).

Before everything went to hell in a hand basket with Overwatch and Blackwatch, they started tentatively talking about next steps in their relationship. It’s no question that they wanted to stay together at this point ,but they were not in a rush for something like a wedding or kids at that moment. Jesse likes the idea to ultimenly have that one day if they can , and Angela.. doesn’t exactly hate it. It’s never been her thing before, but being with Jesse does it make her consider it .

Between the fall of the Swiss base/ disbanding of the Orignal OW and the Recall:

Jesse keeps track of when Dr Ziegler’s name is mentioned in the news , espically when Reaper starts going after former Overwatch members. He uses his contacts in the trafficking rings to get supplies to whatever relief camp or distaster she is helping with. And he’s still in contact with Genji , who he asks to make sure Angela is safe... even though the ninja is like “you know, she’s in Central America right now. You can go see her. She’s not mad at you. Well... not that mad anymore. And you know as well as I do that Angela can handel herself, you don’t have to worry about the bounty all the time. Why not set up a vacation in Fiji?”

(Ana joins in on this after Angela finds out she and jack are both alive. Jack doesn’t care because he’s never really liked the punk Gabe brought back from Route 66 and always though Angela deserved better. )

Meanwhile, Angela keeps track of every news article on Jesse being spotted and the bounty on is head for his arrest. She has a little map with marks following his sightings, and complains to Genji that he needs to be more careful. Since she moves around so often for when she is needed , she doesn’t keep many belongings — the acception beating a certain Deadlock belt buckle that was left to her and a shelf full of wooden figureines that Jesse would widdle during his downtime on missions and leave on her desk over the years. She’s the one who actually finds out about the location of Echo and through Genji and Baptise tracks down Sombra to pass the info to Jesse (in return she offers the information she knows about Moria and the basis of why she wanted her research , and possibly being able to reverse Ameile’s condition. )

Echo then gets in on this , because when Jesse told her “ They want me, but they need you.” She realizes he was talking about Angela after the others filled her in on everything that’s happened since while she was asleep. That Jesse didn’t want Angela to blame herself for what happened at the Swiss base, and the world did need Mercy again.

Post Recall:

Cue to Genji , Zen, and Ana tracking down Jesse and then pretty much dragging him and Hanzo back to the Gibraltar base — because he needs to stop being stubborn. Also cue Pharah, mei and echo telling Angela that she needs to stop being stubborn and stop avoiding him on base like an akward teen.

Eventually, they slowly start to pick up where they left off. It’s akward at first because they are still working through their own regrets and fears of letting people they cared about down, and wondering if they are on the same page while they try to figure out how to run the new Overwatch. They never stopped loving each other, but it takes time for them to find their footing again outside the battle field, espically since Jesse still has his bounty and can rarely leave the base.

Over time , Jesse naturally starts becoming the one that trains the new faces of Overwatch and eventually has his bounty lifted to where he can help lead missions , and Jack even recommends him as the new Striketeam leader ( that role he eventually passes on to Tracer in a few years ) Meanwhile, Angela works on establishing the infermary for Overwatch and working with the new supports and medics to get everything back inform to help people and fight talon.

As far as marriage or even a wedding, Angela is fine with just them understanding who they are to each other , and they don’t need a piece of paper to prove that. Jesse’s a little bit more a romanti —-nothing big and fussy , but he at least wants to exchange rings. They agree on a small ceremony on base with Reinhardt witnessing.... but, pharah, genji, Ana, echo , torb, Lena , and Brigitte go to town and end up decorating the whole base.

As far as kids .... They have their own reservations and fears about being able to be parents , but they ultimently just come to the decision to try, and if it happens it happens.

..........first try and they get landed with twins XD.

Jesse is banned from picking the names of American outlaws, so he goes with famous ones from other countries. Angela keeps going with names from one from Norse mythology ( ie: Tyr, Eri, Freya,Odin...but ABSOLUTELY no Loki.)

(Then , another little girl about two and a half years later . They also have a ranch in Montanta where they spend their downtime and have winter holidays with the overwatch crew. It’s been jesse’s project he been working on once he got off probation after joint Blackwatch)

Thanks for checking out this installment of “ when a writer who is a nerd has too much time on their hands”.

#mcmercy #ow headcanons #i got angst for leading up to the fall of overwatch too #rare pairs

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gotboredwrote · 5 years ago

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I’ll Keep You Alive // RMT

Pairing: Roger Taylor x Fem!Reader Word Count: 4.5K Style: One-Shot Warnings: Medical discussions including seasonal allergies/appendicitis (w/blood added in), angst, fluff, swearing Summary: Just because he’s in a band that’s doing really well doesn’t mean Roger doesn’t care about what he used to study. No, he doesn’t want to be a dentist, but he still remembers a bunch of stuff from his biology studies. Little does he know, he would be putting it to use on tour. Permanent Author’s Note: To clarify, I write because I get bored. Nothing is meant to be professional in any way, nor is meant to offend, cause anxiety, cause anger, cause sadness, or promote disagreement among readers in any sort of (semi)permanent way. A/N: Request/idea from @bensrhapsody, but changed a little bit to better fit what I feel comfortable writing (I got permission, don’t worry). Also, I have her to thank for the title partially as well because I’m a dumb dumb who can write the story but not the title. Never written for Roger before, so hopefully this is up all your alley’s, Roger-stans! (#dontcomeaftermeifitsbad #please #rememberimadeakybabe)

Masterlist

Being a roadie had its perks, sure. For one, you got to get close and personal to bands that you otherwise would never be able to afford to see live. Among other things, you got to travel the world, get in shape from moving around so much, and you got paid to top it all off. Not such a bad gig, if you were the one being asked. You had gone on one tour with Queen before, and they liked you enough to ask you to come back for a second one. Of course you took the job, it was never a dull day around the four of them. They each had such distinct personalities, and despite being literal rock gods, all four were wildly smart. Each in different realms, too. Which came in handy from day to day. Brian could tell by the look of the night sky before if the weather was going to be good or bad, John could always help with any tech that broke or malfunctioned, Freddie was a jack-of-all-trades kind of guy, so he helped out where he could, and if anyone was ever not feeling good, Roger could usually tell them what they needed to feel better easily, cheaply, and quickly. You hated feeling like a bother, but one day, you seriously needed Roger’s help, because you feared for your life.

[flashback start]

You knew first hand that Roger was really good at helping people get better when they fell ill. On the first tour you went with them, your allergies started kicking in towards the end of the tour, considering it ended in April that year. You were almost debilitated because your body was taking in new pollens and whatnot that it was not used to defending off. Your body was trying its best, but in the end, it was futile because you fell ill anyway. To top it all off, you forgot to pack your usual allergy medication, so you had nothing to help you fend off the sneezing and coughing. Obviously, you really could not hide being sick. Someone will pick up on it, whether the tone of your voice is one octave lower than usual or they hear you sneeze six times in a row. One night, it got really bad, and you were having choking fits every single time you came close to drifting into a slumber, promptly waking you up. Little did you know, you were loud enough to wake up the bandmate on one side of you, and someone from the costume department on the other side of you. The costume designer just checked up on you in the morning, not really thinking anything of the noises coming from your body. The bandmate felt differently. You coughed out of surprise when you heard someone knocking at your door at almost 2:00 in the morning. Slowly, you crawled out of bed, tossing a throw blanket around your shoulders because you felt cold to the touch despite your body breaking out in a sweat. When you got to the door and looked through the peephole, you saw a rat’s nest of blonde locks going in every single direction, leaning up sideways against the door. Before moving your hand to the handle, you knocked quietly to signal to Roger that you were going to open the door so he would not fall sideways into your room. When you looked back through the peephole, hand now on the handle, he had gotten your message and was standing facing the door. You lightly pulled it open, grimacing slightly at the bright lights of the hotel hallway.

“Hi, Roger. Why are you awake?”

“It’s your fault, love. I’m right next to you and I can hear you hacking up a bloody storm.”

“I’m sorry, Roger, it’s just my fucking allergies.”

“You sure? It sounds worse than that.” As if on cue, you hunched over into what felt like the four hundredth cough attack that night, and when you finally stopped, your breathing had turned into wheezing.

“Alright, go sit on your bed, I’ll be right back. I’ll prop the door open so you don’t have to get back up.”

Before you could ask him why he was leaving already, he was out the door, so you just trudged over to your bed, plopping down on it making it bounce lightly and squeak quietly. You were only alone for about fifteen seconds and then Roger came back in, holding a medium-sized black make-up bag. He shut your door and walked over to stand in front of your bedside table.

“Roger, I’m not sure what they taught you in biology school, but make-up is not going to make me feel better.”

“Oi, shut it. Want my help or not, Miss Sarcasm?” He spoke through a smug smile.

“Fine, yeah I want your help. What do you need from me?”

“First, I need you to tell me you trust me.”

“What? Why?”

“Are you really going to make me explain why?”

“Um, yeah. You can’t just say that and make me not be concerned about trusting you.”

“Fine. Basically, on a previous tour, one of the roadies, her name was Maria, got really sick. Like, caught the bad flu strain that was going around that year. I offered to help her by giving her some medication for the nausea and lightheadedness, stuff you can get over-the-counter, but she assumed I was going to drug her. She came about one piece of paperwork away from filing a lawsuit against me and the band. I really don’t want to go through that again when all I’m trying to do is be a nice person.”

“You know, for a drummer in a rock band, you’re pretty eloquent and thoughtful, Roger Taylor.”

“…um…”

“That’s my way of saying I trust you.”

You could hear him breathe out a sigh of relief, probably a combination of knowing he was not going to get sued as well as not having to hear you cough for much longer. He asked you to tell him what all was happening with you so he could see if he had any medication that would cover most of your symptoms. Turns out, everything you described really was just severe seasonal allergies, and he happened to have a stronger allergy medication than what you normally took. He just told you to keep the bottle and use them at your discretion. Follow the instructions on the bottle and you should be good as new within a few days.

“Thanks, Roger. You didn’t have to do this, you know.”

“I know that. But at least this way we both get some sleep, eh? I’ll let myself out. See you tomorrow, love.”

“Goodnight, Roger.”

[flashback end]

If only what you were currently dealing with felt like seasonal allergies. It was not even allergy season, it was the end of November. And the tour had just started less than a month prior. At first, you assumed that you were just having back muscle spasms. You had never experienced them before, so you just guessed this is what they felt like. When the pain first started, it started on your lower right side, and just felt like you pulled something. It went away after a few minutes and you never thought anything of it. Then it happened again, but a little bit more forceful.

“Jesus, is this what contractions are like? Count me out for that.”

Trying to make a funny situation out of the pain you were feeling was not really the smartest plan of action, but it was the only one you could come up with at the moment. The pain kept coming in waves, and each wave was worse than before. Eventually, after a few hours of dealing with the pain on your own, it stopped. Out of thin air, it just went away. Normally, that would be the kind of thing to make a person do a double take and ask themselves ‘what is going on?’ Not you, though, you were just thrilled that the imaginary back contractions were over and done with. Moving on with your day, showtime nearing, you kept doing your job, exchanging words with other roadies and the band here and there. Not once feeling uncomfortable again. You watched the show, and for the first time in four shows, nothing went wrong. All the electronics performed the way they were supposed to, Brian did not snap any strings, nor did John, and Freddie managed to keep his mic stand in once piece. Roger threw a drumstick during a particularly fast song, but you had gifted him a cup to put on his drum kit so he could keep spares in there to grab in case of such an event. It came in handy more often than he would like to admit. After the show, you congratulated the boys on another performance well done, and proceeded to travel back to your hotel room. You guys did not have to travel tonight because they had two sold out shows in a row at the venue they were at, so it was nice to have an actual bed for once. This time around though, you were on a floor that was just crew members. All the band members had rooms on the floor above you guys. Not that any of you minded, it was not like you had a reason to mind. Around three in the morning, you awoke to the feeling of those strange back contraction pains again, this time accompanied by some serious chills. Then you felt it – the pit of your stomach dropped, and you were over the hotel toilet in record time. Initially you thought that maybe this was how your body handled food poisoning, considering you had never had that before. Then you looked at what had come out of you. Bloody.

“Roger…Roger?”

You were dragging yourself up the stairwell and down the hallway to his room, calling out to him hoarsely. You knew that he would never have heard you, but you tried, nonetheless. You got to his door, knocked once, and then collapsed on the floor. Startled, Roger shot straight up in bed and sprinted to the door, only in his underwear but not caring. When he opened the door, your head fell flat onto his floor, and he could hear the strangled moans coming from your throat. He could also see the sweat pooling on your forehead, a small bit of dried blood and vomit on the corner of your mouth, and how you were hunched over in the fetal position clutching your stomach.

“Roger…it hurts so much.”

He did not even say a word. He ran over to his hotel phone, and you could barely hear him utter the address of the hotel before you passed out. The next thing you knew, you were woken up by the feeling of an IV going in your arm, as well as the feeling of a moving vehicle. An ambulance. How did you get here? Why was Roger looking at you like that? Then the waves of pain struck you again, and you remembered everything that had happened not thirty minutes prior.

“Oh…God…”

“Ms. Y/L/N, please try not to talk or move, we are trying to prepare you for emergency surgery as soon as we get to the hospital.”

“Emer…gency… surgery? For… for what?”

“Relax, love. You’re gonna be fine.” Roger’s voice broke through all the beeping and liquids sloshing around, grounding you in the scary situation. “I’m just glad you came and got me when you did.” You could feel his hand clamped around yours, sweaty. “I may know how to help with allergies, but this is out of my area of expertise, love.”

“Roger…”

“Hush, love. Try to relax. We’re pulling into the hospital now. I’ll be right by your side when you wake up.”

You tried to respond, but you felt the general anesthesia hit you, and you were out like a light. Roger watched as they moved your body from an ambulance gurney to a hospital gurney and usher you down the hallway following the signs that said “OPERATING ROOM.” He followed you as far as he could, until a male nurse held his hand out flat in front of Roger, forcibly stopping his movement and almost knocking the wind out of him.

“What the fuck mate—”

“Sorry, sir, you can’t go further than this. Please wait in that waiting room right over there. I’ll be sure to have a surgeon assistant come update you throughout the surgery.”

“But—”

“I’m sorry, sir, it’s hospital policy. If you could, please make your way over to the waiting area.”

Roger huffed angrily and full of worry, but did what the nurse told him to do. He sat down, seeing all the magazines and children’s games sitting on the tables in front of him. He was too distracted. He was terrified. The last time he knew someone who had to have emergency surgery did not make it out alive. Those two words strung together instantly usher a sense of panic into him that he does not have a way of controlling. The last thing he wanted was for you to not feel good in the first place, but having to sit face to face with the knowledge that you laying in a gurney could be the last image he saw of you was too much. He started to sob. Sobbed himself to sleep. The nurses just watched in pity.

“Sir?” Roger felt someone nudge at his shoulder, but he did not fully stir awake yet. “Sir?”

“Huh, what…”

“Sir, I just wanted to update you on the girl you came in with.”

Roger was brought back to reality when he fully opened his eyes. The bright white lights shining above him, the smell of cleanliness, and a lady in scrubs. A little bloody.

“Y/N?”

“Yes. We’re done the hard part. Her appendix has been removed successfully, before any serious rupturing happened. Some small ruptures here and there, but nothing major. Now all the doctor has to do is remove any fluid in her abdominal cavity and stitch her up. Once she’s finished, we will wheel her to recovery and bring you over to her as well. This should all happen within the next hour or so. Is that okay?”

“Yeah… yeah. Thanks for the update, I’m, uh, going to try to go back to sleep now.”

If he had not fallen into such a deep sleep, he would have had more to say. More questions for the nurse. But the nerves he had felt when he saw how broken you were earlier took all the energy out of him, and once he sat in something even the littlest bit comfortable, he passed right out. Just like you had when you hit the floor of his hotel room. Roger laid his head back down on the side of the chair, thinking of your smiling face as he drifted back into the land of sleep. Almost praying that he would get to see it again.

Like clockwork, the same nurse from earlier woke Roger up, this time less groggily, and she instructed him to follow her to the recovery area. Where you would be. The fact that he was actually walking there almost brought him to tears. He would get to see your smile again. When he was finally in the back, he saw that they had placed a chair next to your bed for him, with a few magazines. He was told that he would get to sit with you while you were still under the influence of the general anesthesia, but that you would be awake within twenty minutes. He nodded at the nurse, offering a quiet ‘thank you’ and proceeded to sit in the chair. Twenty minutes. He waited over two hours, surely, he could wait twenty minutes to hear your voice again. He could at least see you now, so… baby steps. He tossed the magazines to the floor after realizing that there was no way they could be more interesting than the woman lying in front of him. He scooted his chair forward so his knees were almost pressing against the side of your bed, and he laid his hand on what he assumed was your thigh based on your profile under the sheet. He lightly squeezed, and simultaneously the tears spilled from his eyes. Ones he did not realize were even threatening to fall, nor did he realize the reason for.

“Hi, love. I, uh… I don’t know why I’m bloody crying. But here we are. I’m sorry I couldn’t help you this time. I know you like coming to me for help when you don’t feel good, and… I feel like I just made you break your trust in me. I, uh…” Roger choked a little bit on his tears. It was not like you and him were the closest of friends. If he was being honest, there were other roadies he considered better friends than you. But for reasons outside of your control.

Then it hit him. Like a ton of bricks. There were the roadies whose names he did not know. There were the roadies who he was friends with, and the ones he had previously had a slight friends with benefits situation with. There were the roadies who made him angry. The ones who made him sad. There were the roadies he practically considered family because they had been with him since Smile. Most of these roadies, except for the ones from Smile, never came back for a second tour. Then there was you. You did not fit into any of those categories. He knew your name, he was friends with you, but not with benefits, you never made him angry or sad, you were not with him in his Smile days, and Roger was the one who wanted you to come on a second tour. You had created your own category. There was a roadie he loved.

“I need you to wake up, love. I… need to let you know that I’m gonna get you through this recovery. And that I am never going to let you get sick or hurt again, not under my watch. If you do, I’m going to make you better.”

“Is that a promise, Roger Taylor?”

The tears stopped at his head whipped in the direction of your quiet voice. Your eyes were still almost completely shut, but he could see you looking at him. His heart fluttered when he made eye contact with you, and the tears started up again.

“Yes, it’s a promise, love.”

“Good. Now, please go get me some ice chips, my throat feels like a vultures crotch (we love a borhap reference), and my stomach feels like an anvil landed on it and is somehow twisting it in all directions.”

“You got it, darling.”

You were allowed to be discharged the same day, so Roger carefully wheeled you to the taxi he called, and then slowly helped you to the elevator so he could bring you to his room.

“Roger, why aren’t you taking me to my room?”

“Didn’t I promise you that I would be taking care of you? Answering to all of your becking and calling?”

“Are you forgetting that you have a show to do?”

“And I will be helping you until the moment I have to walk onto stage, and the minute we are done, I’ll be right back here helping you.”

Roger carefully helped you lay back on his bed, almost tearing up at the sound of your groans from bending over. Once you were comfortable, with about fourteen pillows behind and surrounding you, he walked over to his phone and called room service.

“Hello, this is room 5667. I’d like to put in a request for the #6 dinner for two, and two pints of [your favorite ice cream {or other dessert if you are lactose intolerant} flavor] to be delivered ASAP. Name? Roger. Thank you.”

“Roger—”

“No words from you. I am eating dinner with you, and then I will be finding a movie for you to watch during the show to enjoy with your favorite dessert. And you cannot pay me, or try and get out of it.”

“If you insist.”

After dinner, Roger flitted about his room gathering up the things he would need to take to the show that he did not keep with the roadies, and you watched him move. Tons of people that you talked to, fans that did not realize that you worked for them, would air their thoughts on the man to you. ‘Such a womanizer!’ ‘A dirty cheater, the wanker.’ ‘Hot down to every single molecule, but not a good personality.’ At first, when you started working for them, you were afraid that they were going to be true. You thought he was going to be an asshole. And he could be. If he was truly mad. That was a very small percentage of the time, despite what people thought. All other times he was a big softie. Kind of melted your heart. Not in the ‘I have feelings for the drummer of a band’ kind of way, just at the fact that a human could be as kind and thoughtful as he was despite the bad boy nature he tried to present himself with. He stuck to your side like a golden retriever, and while you appreciated being doted on, it was a little bit funny seeing it be someone like Roger. You giggled to yourself at your thoughts.

“What’s so funny, darling?”

“Oh, it’s nothing. I promise.” You could not stop the wide grin from overtaking your features as you spoke.

“Nobody likes a liar, love. If it didn’t run the risk of popping your stitches, I would be all over you, tickling you to get the answer from you.” Very golden retriever like, that’s for damn sure.

“Okay, okay. If you must know, I was just thinking about how different you really are from the image you present yourself with.”

“Explain?”

“You present yourself as the bad boy drummer that all the girls go crazy for. And I won’t be the person who denies that it has worked for you, in more ways than one, more than once. But I’ve seen you in more situations than band ones. I’ve seen you when you’re vulnerable.” You had to stop to take a drink of water, your throat still pretty dry from the tubes during the surgery. “You really aren’t a tough guy. You’re… genuinely one of the sweetest men I’ve had the pleasure and honor of knowing. You are something else, Roger Taylor. And I feel like I haven’t seen you act the way you do around me around other roadies. Regardless of any circumstance.”

You saw the way Roger tensed at your words, but thought nothing of it. Little did you know, he was fearing that you figured out his feelings. Being the tough guy he is though, he thought of a way to dodge the words you said with a jab of his own. Luckily, he had just finished setting up your movie and getting your ice cream, so he could say it as he walked out the door.

“Well. You have the next three hours to figure out why that is, love. Expect a quiz when I return.”

He lightly placed his hand on the top of your head, ruffling your hair, electing to do something more friendly than kissing your forehead or something, as to not give anything away. And out the door he went. As soon as you heard the door close, you let out a breath you did not realize you were holding in. He had not even made it out the door before you knew what the answer to his quiz would be.

Sweaty. He was sweaty and wanted to shower. By the time he had made it to his room, his shirt had been removed he just wanted to flop down into bed and pass out. After the adrenaline of the show, his brain had completely wiped his memory of you still seated in his bed. You heard the lock of his door, but made no effort to move your head to look in his direction. As soon as you heard the door close behind him, you spoke up.

“I mean something to you, don’t I?”

Roger almost completely jumped out his skin.

“Bloody hell… Y/N, I-I forgot you were here.”

“Did I get your quiz right?”

“Wha—”

“The reason you treat me the way you do. It’s because I mean something to you, isn’t it?”

“I think you need to be more specific than that love, that could…that could mean a lot of things.”

“I don’t want to sound stupid.”

“You won’t. I promise.”

“Do… you have feelings… for me?”

Roger just stared at you, wide and glossy eyed, mouth slightly agape, trying to hid how nervous he was. Hands sweaty again.

“That’s why I promised to take care of you. I hated seeing you with allergies.” He started to cry openly. “Imagine how broken I felt when there wasn’t anything I could do for you when you were…practically dying on my hotel floor.”

You just watched him pour out his soul to you, letting him plead for you.

“And-and-and I know that you’ve probably heard the stories of me and certain fans. The women. Have I done that shit sometimes? Yeah. But ever since you’ve joined the team I haven’t. I haven’t done anything. Not even really thought about other women.”

You believed him.

“Would you ever give someone like me a chance?”

“C’mere.”

Roger made his way over to you slowly, unsure of what you were going to do. He was nervous as all hell, because he had never felt like this about any of the women he met, and he did not want to lose you. Eventually he got to the side of his bed where you were sitting, and you motioned for him to sit on the other side of you. Roger felt like he did something wrong, but when he finally plopped down onto the other side of the bed, you reached up to grab his cheek.

“I would have walked over to you and kissed you myself, but my stomach hurts too much.”

Roger laughed with his whole heart and soul. He truly did not expect you to want him back. It made waiting all this time for any form of intimacy so worth it. He kissed you with more passion than he put into his drumming. He even got a little bit too into it and started to move his down your torso, and the minute you felt his fingers below your chest, you grabbed one of the pillows situated to your side and smacked him in the head.

“Hey! What was that for? I was getting into that.”

“Stitches, wanker.”

“Oh yeah. Sorry, love.” Permanent Taglist: @bensrhapsody @chlobo6 @gardnerlangway @xtrashmammalstefx

Roger Taylor Taglist: n/a

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#roger taylor #roger taylor x reader #queen #fanfiction #fanfic #ill keep you alive #angst #medical drama #fluff

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