#motor relearning

[rakesh-snike]

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[shoecrabs]

continuing with my Leo with prosthetics propaganda (by giving him an arm gun his little bro :))

zoomed in pics of my faves as well

[hgmason-hellion]

Wayfinder trio except they're the Elric Brothers from Fullmetal Alchemist and Aqua is Winry

Oh no, I went off in the tags

[therandomfandomme]

realizing im almost certainly autistic has put my childhood of physical therapy into a whole different light, bc i just thought i sucked at being a person for years, but no my brain is just wired that way lmao

[andromachos]

toxic masculinity resigned 🤣😤💯

[aggravatedanarchy]

Favorite mode of transportation?

Honestly, I've only ever walked and been driven places before (cars and buses, but like, school buses- not public transport. I think you have to call people about that here if it's something you need/want.) In theory, it's trains though. I just think they're neat and I would probably enjoy myself on one.

OH WAIT. I have been on boats before- like, small ones. I get kinda nervous on them though. And seasick, depending on stuff. So trains still take the lead.

[knight-says-rollout]

Would you mind telling us about more disabled Cybertronians?

Oh boy would I

For this list let’s focus on physical disabilities, both because they’re the most commonly dismissed by the fandom and bc if we try to cover everything we’d be here all day (that can be another list, maybe, if y’all want)

This isn’t going to be comprehensive bc I’m tired but!! I will aim for a broad variety of examples nonetheless

Bumblebee - You all know him, you all love him. He’s the most obvious and most well known example of a disabled Cybertronian character.

In many iterations he is mute

Not by choice but because he lacks a voice box. Bee physically isn’t capable of speech and depending on the version has different tools to work around that. Sometimes he uses his radio to repurpose song and radio dialogue into speech, in cyberverse he also makes use of the internet for clips. In the aligned continuity (tfp and connected media) he speaks in binary, a very simplified form of language using beeps and buzzes, but still lacks a real voice and can’t form words.

In IDW he has a cane

At one point in the comics Bumblebee was shot by a human protester and as a result used a cane for a good bit of time. I haven’t had the chance to read that far into IDW yet so I’m not sure how long he had the cane for but it was enough time that it’s a solidified part of the charcaters history. I’ve seen little models of the cane for sale, to be paired with bee figures.

TFP Ultra Magnus - everyone’s favorite awkward commander, despite his popularity he’s surprisingly overlooked when it comes to this discussion

An amputee, he lost his hand

During an energon raid with wheeljack, magnus’ hand was crushed. Ratchet couldn’t save it and had to amputate, replacing it with a hooked prosthetic. I call it a prosthetic rather than replacement part because despite him being able to move it, it’s not a hand. Not in the way he had previously, and he has to relearn how to use it at all.

I think that’s an important distinction to make when discussing disability and transformers. Some bots might have only ever had one hand, or no legs, or etc but that’s always been their level of ability and since they Are robotic. Yeah they might not have the same capabilities as another bot but that’s a hard metric to go by. Seekers can fly but a grounder isn’t disabled because they can’t fly too, it’s a different standard.

WFC Shamble - far lesser known than Magnus, and reasonably so, this background character is Also missing a limb

Amputee, leg edition

His prosthetic is a lot less fancy than magnus’s, it’s a simple peg leg. Put em together and you get a pirate. Not much to say about him since i don’t know how he lost the leg, just that he did.

Shadow Striker - Most awesome lady in cyberverse. Unlike the above two, she Was able to get actual replacement parts rather than prosthetics. Despite this, she is both shown throughout the show and implied to have

Impaired mobility

Chronic pain

She was able to get replacement parts yes but they were needed because she was blown up. The limbs she was given were kinda just what the others could Find and as such are mismatched and don’t fit her very well. Her motor skills took a blow especially when it comes to combat, something she used to excel in. Her new limbs are described as unstable and prone to malfunction. The loss of mobility and implied chronic pain that come along with her situation are rough, but she makes do.

SG Soundwave - my favorite little guy, he’s in a bit of a different situation than the previous.

Bad Joints ™

His body was entirely overhauled multiple times, successfully, but the latest frame change was done with conflicting metals. Earth and Cybertronian materials clash in his joints, making them prone to getting stopped up. The most affected hinge being the one on the door to his tape deck. It is so prone to getting stuck that his cassettes refuse to dock with him at risk of getting trapped. To work around this, Soundwave has the aid of a personalized case he carries around that they dock in instead.

IDW Sunstreaker - speaking of assistive devices, this guy was (for a time) a wheelchair user! Or,, hoverchair.

Temporary,,, paraplegic? Correct me if another term fits better

Taking this moment for an aside to say hey!! Lookit that, both canes and hoverchairs are things that canonically and casually exist on cybertron!! It’s not too wild to assume there are bots out there who use them long term!! Yes both characters on this list were repaired eventually but they’re also both very popular old characters from an action based franchise and hasbro doesn’t have the balls to make something like that permanent yet. We the fandom are not hasbro. We can do whatever we damn want with our OCs. It’s canon that ur little guy can use mobility aids.

Ok, PSA over, anyway yeah Sunny’s body was basically wrecked and alpha trion was able to repair all of him except his legs. This put him in a hoverchair for a good amount of time.

Finback - he’s a con, a pirate, who developed a “metal wasting disease”

He’s on permanent life support

The disease is going to kill him eventually, and it’s explicitly stated that he’s come to terms with the idea of his death. In the meantime he’s using pretender tech, kinda like fancy armor, to reinforce himself and boost his immune system

Perceptor - for a microscope, the fact he’s got vision issues in multiple continuities is kinda ironic

He’s fully blind in cyberverse

He lost an eye in IDW

Between the two we get to see both routes taken to work with this. Adaption and technological aid. In cyberverse he uses his scope to compensate for the loss of vision Toph-style. In IDW he built himself a monocle that basically replaces the pieces that are missing.

Now we get into the uniquely Cybertronian disabilities, one’s that don’t quite translate to human conditions

Transmutate - is a beloved bot from beast wars

They can’t transform, they don’t have an alt mode

I’m hazy on the details of their character but afaik they came from a damaged stasis pod. Described as deformed and handicapped for their both their lack of an alt mode and general appearance, they are probably the oldest explicitly disabled Cybertronian character

Xaaron - from G1 is in a similar situation

He can’t transform, it would kill him

Unlike transmutate he does have an alt mode, a tank, but after thousands of years without transforming he is no longer able to. The new stress it would cause on his body would kill him.

Broadside - continuing with the subject of alt modes, this clumsy boy is a boat! That’s not a good thing.

He’s very prone to motion sickness

As you can imagine, chronic sea sickness isn’t the most helpful thing when you are the boat. This brings in the entirely new element of mobility issues that are inherent to alt modes. A bot that functions fine in root form might not in alt mode and vice versa.

Trailbreaker - is another instance of this. He’s not a fast car by any means but that doesn’t stop the fact

His frame has a very high energon cost

Possibly the least fuel efficient autobot, he’s got an outlier ability on top of it all that only further increases his required energon intake. He needs to pay more attention to his energon levels and refuel more often overall.

G1 Knockout - yes that’s right the shiny medic himself is on this list, though not for the same reason as his tfp version, g1 knockout still lives up to his name

He’s prone to fainting

A knockout in the more literal sense, he faints when he gets too excited. Fully collapses and everything. Since he’s a fall risk, his teammates take care to keep an eye on him.

Annnnd Yknow he probably should’ve been earlier in the list along with the “human-ish” issues but I’m tired, it’s late, and I’m bringing this list to a close

Im sure there are more characters that I didn’t mention but I hope this helped! Thank you for the ask

[rookiesbookies]

Recovery

Soap x Price’s Niece!Reader & and exploration of his platonic relationship with his teammates based on what we’ve seen in the games.

Content Warning: Hurt-Comfort, mild angst, bittersweetness, some fighting, and it’s over 5.2k words

It’s all under the cut from here, big thanks to @shotmrmiller for editing my crap

When Soap had been shot, he had gotten incredibly lucky. The bullet hadn’t gone all the way through and had ended up lower than Simon swore he saw.

Well, I suppose ‘lucky’ is subjective. Johnny would be in the hospital for months healing. He had lost degrees of peripheral vision in both eyes, so there was no way he could go back into the field, he had to learn how to walk again, and some of his motor skills were to be relearned. He had been confined to a wheelchair for months. Complaining constantly about losing his muscles and how it would ruin his charm. His hands shook, he’d be unable to do any of the demolition and explosive work he used to.

He felt as though who he was, Sergeant John ‘Soap’ MacTavish, was completely lost.

Captain Price and Laswell had been well overpatient with him.

Johnny had flung food trays at them when his hands shook too much to eat, constantly missing his mouth. He had had amnesia for the first two weeks or so after he woke up from his coma. He had had surgery after surgery, his mohawk shaved off to make it easier, the final piece of his identity stripped from him.

Price had never seen Johnny cry until the realization of who he became someone he could never be again.

Price still had no clue what had possessed him to call her.

His sweet niece, at least that's what he called her. She had been an exchange student, studying abroad for advanced college courses, when she lived with Laswell and her wife. They had volunteered so she could practice medicine on soldiers. Field medic had been her goal, but Price did reverse nepotism to make sure his niece never left the base.

He knew deep down she was the only one he could trust with the care of his sergeant. He also knew he could trust the Sergeant with the care of his niece.

It was a dream she had given up on, and she had planned to come visit anyway. Maybe this was an excuse to see the closest thing he had to a daughter again.

Laswell and her wife had offered to adopt the girl, Price told them they’d have to fight him for the chance. Maybe it was Price trying to atone for being too overprotective to let her fulfill her dream.

He had introduced Johnny to her before. Back when she had visited the second time. Johnny was still much younger, just earning his sergeant rank. He had threatened both Gaz and Soap, saying that if either tried anything he’d make them do work outs until they were in the medical station.

He knew Simon wouldn’t have been an issue.

Johnny and his niece were only a few years apart. Their first run in was when she was running to give Price some papers, it was before he had even introduced them and she had been on base. The floor was wet making sure she accidentally slipped and slide tackled poor Johnny. It wasn’t until she read his velcro on his uniform that she realized it was Price’s sergeant. She had been red in the face and embarrassed. Her papers littered the wet floor and she had been so apologetic she hadn’t even seen Johnny pick them all up.

It made their official introduction awkward, to say the least.

Johnny hadn’t seen her in a couple years when she walked into his room this time. His head was wrapped tight in a bandage, hair growing back in a small fuzz that he found embarrassing. His lips were red, cracked, and bloody from his angry chewing at it. He was so pale too, paler than a Victorian child. He didn’t smell of the arousing male musk he normally did, he looked weak. His pearly white teeth weren’t on show, his blue eyes weren’t bright.

“Johnny,” she said softly, “it’s been a while.”

“Don’t look at me, lass. I’m a sight to make eyes sore, not a sight for sore eyes.” He grumbled. Doing his best to cross his shaky arms and sigh. His voice wasn’t smooth or suave as it normally was with his natural Scottish gravel. It was dry, dusty, and crunchy like a gravel driveway in the summer.

They had flirted heavily. Or at least she had to him back in the day. An American who made disapproving jokes about the brits as he did. He couldn’t deny he found her attractive, the chemistry was undeniable, but he didn’t dare flirt back in the public eye for fear of his life.

She walked over and sat on the edge of his bed. Reaching out to rub his chin, feeling the rough scruff that was longer than he’d usually keep it. Small knicks littered his face from when he tried to shave. She used this as an excuse to pull his face to look at her.

“I don’t know what you mean, I still see the same Johnny I always did.” She spoke softly. She knew being delicate with patients like this was crucial. She ran her thumb over his cracked lip. “Here.”

She pulled a lip balm from her purse. Telling him to pucker a bit so she could rub it on.

He couldn’t bring himself to say thank you, but she saw it in his eyes. The desperation, the want to cry, the defeat.

“I doubt yer just here to visit me.” He grumbled, having to stretch his arms out as keeping them crossed made them begin to shake like earthquakes instead of the small tremors that they were prior.

“Uncle John called me. I take it he and Laswell haven’t told you the plan.” She said softly, taking one of his hands in hers. He tried to pull back but quickly let in. “Just means I get to deliver the news.”

He cocked a brow.

“The plan is to fake your death. Put you in hiding. Get you out of here.”

“Lass, yer probably too bonnie to think about this, but I can’t wipe my own arse.” He snapped, like a hurt animal, not an ounce of malice or hate.

“Why do you think they called me in?”

“Yer not wiping my arse, love.”

“It’s more complicated than that.” She mumbled. Looking to the door to wave Price and Laswell in, Ghost and Gaz filing in behind. It had been months since he had seen those two. She saw the way his eyes almost lit up and quickly dimmed. Hollow. Like a fire that tried to start but the spark burned out too fast.

“We’ve already filled out the KIA.” Laswell started. “We’ve started filing the paperwork to put you in witness protection. You’d be moved to at home care, somewhere quiet. Given new identification, new everything.”

“My girl is going to look after you. I expect you to do the same in turn. I'm trusting you with her, MacTavish.” Price said, a poor attempt at playfulness with the dead inside young man before him.

“We’re going to start your PT. Help you with your motor skills. You should have the ability to move to at home care in a month or so.” Laswell tacked on.

John’s niece got off Johnny’s bed. Putting a hand on her uncle’s shoulder and nodding to Laswell before they filed out. Giving him a moment with his teammates, his brothers.

“Yer both gonna let them tell this poor girl she can wipe my arse?”

“Really stuck on the ass wiping thing, huh,” Gaz mumbled.

Ghost turned to close to the blinds on the door before sitting and pulling his balaclava off his head.

“Johnny.” He said as softly as his sharp voice could. “Maybe this is the fresh start ya need.”

“I don’t want a fuckin fresh start. I want my old body back.” Johnny growled.

“You can’t get that bloody back,” Simon snapped back before returning to his soft tone, “Price and his niece are doing your sorry arse a favor. This poor girl has agreed to be married to yer ass for an indefinite amount of time, don’t ya get that ya bastard?”

“A favor I didn’t ask for.” Johnny grumbled. He looked over at his gear, which sat sadly on a table.

“Johnny yer still young.” Simon sighed. “She’s a good girl, let her care for ya. We’re actively working to get permission to visit ya when yer all settled.”

Gaz stood, looking out the window at nothing, “ya know some would give a lot for an opportunity with a girl like that.”

“Then I’ll trade ya,” Johnny snarled back in a low voice.

Simon looks Johnny in the eyes one last time maskless in the room, “don’t fuck up yer chance at a new life, Johnny. Be smart for once ya bloody dense bastard.”

Ghost pulled his mask back on over his face. Blonde hair disappeared as he shoved it back under properly. Gaz moved to fix the window covering on the door, pulling it back open.

A couple of nurses filed in to change his bandages, the two men disappeared out to the hall.

“Maybe this isn’t a good idea, Uncle Price,” she started, rubbing the back of her neck, “he doesn’t seem as… enthused as he normally would have been.”

“He’s in there, he’s just adjusting.”

“Hard to adjust to being helpless.” Gaz mumbled.

“Once he starts PT- the physical therapy will help.” John’s niece interjected. “The lack of is what’s been causing problems. Once he tries harder and has goals he may pep up.”

“I think it’s the loss of his beloved mohawk. I vote to get him a bloody wig.” Ghost threw in.

Laswell sighed. “Poor boy. He’ll pull through, it will just take time.”

Getting to Johnny to do PT was like leading a horse to water, you can’t make it drink.

His Commanding Officer yelling orders at him hadn’t done it, John’s niece couldn’t get him to do it with soft cooing and coaxingand even Simon failed. Johnny just ended up throwing the crayon he held in his hand to work on writing, and let himself fall as he tried to walk. Shouting about being a lost cause and how it was a waste of time.

“Johnny, please,” she pleaded, “just a few more steps. You’ve made such good progress.”

“Yer not my bloody girl, quit tryin to sweet talk effort out of me. I can smell yer pity.” He hissed, sitting back in his wheelchair.

17 steps.

They had gotten 17 steps out of him today. Which was a step and a half more than yesterday.

At least Simon hadn’t needed to pick him up like a giant baby to get him back to the chair today. He had also stood a good 10 minutes before needing a break.

When it was Simon’s day to motivate Johnny, he was by far the hardest on him.

“I'm going to keep pickin your sorry arse up and making you walk until you double what you did yesterday,” Simon growled through his mask. “I can tell yer not giving it your all.”

Anyone with eyes could see how emotional it made Simon. He was pushing his dear Sergeant sometimes well beyond his means.

It was also beyond a struggle for Simon to communicate how hard it was to watch Johnny just give up. Price could see how Simon’s eyes turned shiny as glass as he yelled at Johnny. He heard the small cracks in his voice as he picked Johnny up and made him walk those few more steps. He could see Simon’s pushing was all out of desperation to get Soap back. To get his partner back.

John Price had known Simon a long time. Well before he became Ghost, Price worked with him. Johnny was one of the few that brought Simon out in Ghost. Price and Gaz did as well, but not the way Johnny did. Johnny and Simon had the same dry sense of humor, there was a sense of understanding between the two that Price was proud to foster. That sense of understanding flooded the team, but whatever was between Simon and Johnny was just that bit more in depth. They were a team of brothers in arms, but those two were true friends.

Anyone could see Simon blaming himself for what happened to Soap as the two snarled back and forth. One of the two only let up when a physical therapist touched their arms or John’s niece quietly told them that arguments didn’t lead to progress.

Simon wasn’t supposed to be here even helping Johnny. Price had tried to tell him no. That it added risks, to which the lieutenant snarled that if the Captain could go see him he could. That it would arguably be safer for him since no one knows his face but the team.

Simon had never spoken to Price like that before.

Gaz had typically decided to wait outside for the sessions after the first one, it would have ended with Johnny fist fighting a physical therapist if he could close his fist without violently shaking and using all his strength.

Johnny didn’t see Simon blaming himself until the day he got so fed up in the private session he threw his mask to the floor to scream at him. A pointed finger to his chest as Simon finally exploded.

“Are you fuckin blind, Johnny? We’re not fighting against ya!” Simon practically screamed at Johnny. It was the first time he had yelled at anyone in years. Even stunning Price. “We’re not the enemy. We’re a team! We’re trying to help you get back to yourself.”

Simon took in a deep, shaky breath, “We don’t care about Soap, Soap is just a callsign and nothin more. We’re here for Johnny, ya dim bastard! Each and every one of us. We ain’t fightin ya, we’re fighting for you.”

A rogue tear, an enemy operative, running down his eye black. No one would have believed it if the trail wasn’t clear on his face. It was as if Simon’s tough love finally registered in his mind. As if someone else’s feelings were finally registering in his mind. This wasn’t the orders of a superior. This was love from a true brother.

It was the first time Johnny hadn’t had a snarky quip in two months. There was no snarl back, no growling, no yelling. Johnny just did his best to open his arms for a hug. Bracing himself with his brother’s body. Finally realizing he wasn’t the only one affected by this, that Simon and his team had genuinely thought he was dead. That they wanted him to truly live again.

The sight had the poor Captain teary. His niece took his hand to comfort him, watching carefully at the sight as months of Soap’s attitude turned into soft cries against Simon’s shoulder. She also distracted her uncle and herself, giving the two men some privacy.

The poor ferocious beast licking its wounds turned back into a scared little boy. One that muffled cries about losing who he was, not knowing what was next, fearing he’d never be the same, that feared he’d lose his team- his only true family- to this weakness and pain.

Simon just listened. He did his best to lift a bit of Johnny’s weight from his feet. Knowing he couldn’t stand long enough, or hardly at all. A small gesture, a bit of consideration for his friend.

It was the longest John MacTavish had stood since the accident. While he wasn’t unsupported, they all counted it as progress. A great deal of progress.

“It could only have been you to get through to him, ya know?” Price said with a sad playfulness as he nudged Simon.

“He’s got a thick skull, the bastard does.” Simon sighed, trying to return the playfulness, but all he only sounded defeated.

“I think where we are is evidence of that enough,” Price laughed dryly. Kneeling in front of Simon in the recreation room on base for the team. “Never seen ya yell like that, Lieutenant.”

“Don’t like yelling, but the ringing in his ears must still be there.”

“Still think it’s because he doesn’t have the mohawk?”

“I’m getting the idiot a wing from party city and gluing it to his head next time he tries to fight me,” Simon grumbled with a smirk under the mask. Price could see it, even if he couldn’t see it.

It was sad humor before John gave him a nice little love tap before going to bed.

The rest of the night was quiet. Johnny was wheeled to his room, legs aching from weak muscles and hands shaking from gripping things. He didn’t sleep. For now, he has the drive to keep going. A newfound understanding for his new chance. A second one. He took the large oversized and overly thick pencil from the best side and the giant clipboard. Hands shaking in attempts to grip them.

“Come on, Johnny.” He mumbled to himself, resting the clipboard and paper on his thighs. He took the kiddy pencil in his right hand.

His grip faltered a lot. He worked to even put enough pressure against the paper to draw a line.

Then a line turned into squiggles.

Squiggles turned into a name that looked like it was written by a toddler, but it was a name. It was his name. He put it all on his bedside table and picked up his old journal.

He gingerly flipped through the sketches and words.

Why had he given up on being an artist? Why had he let it go completely and only continued as a hobby? He had been an Advanced Art Student in school as a boy, how could he let it go? How could he have taken it for granted?

He ran his fingers over the pages. He laid it in front of him lower on his thighs, bringing the clipboard and pencil back, flipping to a new blank page. He groaned at how run down the pencil was, he’d need someone to sharpen it soon.

He weakly gripped the pencil so it was vaguely horizontal with the blank paper.

“Come on, Soap, ya wee bastard. Just do it like you always did.” He mumbled, hands shaking as he tried to touch the pencil to the paper.

He made sure the lines were faint, going over it 3 or 4 times to create darker ones to make sure it was all in the shapes he wanted. He tried to copy an old sketch of his red skull mask.

It was clunky. Looked like bad cubism mixed with a toddler's hand turkey if that were possible. He worked on it all night. Copying it until his pencil was worn well to the wood.

When the nurses came to wake him the next morning, they found him asleep lightly holding the pencil with his journal and clipboard on his lap.

One of the nurses snagged a photo of it, all the scattered copies around his bed and beside it, sending them to Price’s niece, who was listed as the emergency contact. It wasn’t proper and the nurse knew that but they figured the family would want to see such progress.

She had sent the images to Simon, telling him to bring Soap his sharpener, and more big pencils. Simon was scheduled to be Soap’s first visitor of the day, taking to rotations on days that weren’t PT days made it easier on them all.

Price was usually the last visitor.

In a way, he blamed himself more than Simon ever could. He gave the two that mission, let them take it on. Let them get lost. Let them get pinned down.

He stopped Johnny from shooting the fucker when they had the chance.

It was more than easy to see that Price dreamed of being a family man- craving two or three kids to come home to, a dog, a white picket fence, and a missus to keep his life in order. Sadly, it was a dream he gave up on a long time ago.

In a way, he did have three kids. Three boys he adopted risk their lives day in and day out for the safety of others - it made him prouder than anything. It was hard knowing that Soap- John MacTavish- had no known family. No real family to take care of him. No one to notify if anything happened.

Price had tried too, using what samples the military had from him to find any family.

What Price found broke his heart. All he learned was that Johnny had been an orphan since he was a kid. His parents were lost in a car accident, t-boned by a super speeder at an intersection. Johnny had been home with a babysitter, still practically a baby. He did his best to find other relatives, but none knew of Johnny, all were too distant.

In a lot of ways, he looked at Johnny and saw his son. Johnny had always made him proud since the day Price first met him. Johnny had always been willing to go the extra mile to be the best.

Laswell jokingly called Johnny ‘Junior’ to Price. She saw a lot of resemblance to a younger Price in the Sergeant.

She found Captain Price sitting outside Johnny’s room, he was clearly deep in thought as she placed a hand on his shoulder.

“He’s tough as nails, John, he’ll pull through.” She said, sitting next to the Captain.

John pulled off his hat, holding it in his hands as he slouched forward. He braced himself with his forearms against his thighs.

“Can’t help the worry.” John mumbled.

“He’s getting better.”

“It’s taking so long.”

“Healing from anything takes time, especially something physical and mental like this.”

“He didn’t deserve it.”

“No one said he did.”

Laswell gently rubbed circles on John’s back. “No one believes he did,” she mumbled again.

“Terrible things happen to the best of people, the ones who deserve it least especially.” She said, watching the tears bead up on his lashes as he tried to blink them away.

“Blaming yourself for this isn’t what happened, no one on the team is at fault. No one could have known what would happen next.”

“I should have let him shoot the bastard,” Price mumbled, his hand moving up to hold his forehead. Trying to cover where the tears fell down his cheeks before getting lost in his beard.

“You can’t blame yourself for not knowing then what you know now.”

Price sighed.

“You can’t, John.”

“I gotta ask myself if it should have been me,” John mumbled against quivering lips.

“Everything happens for a reason.”

He stayed silent as she kept up her circles on his back before she stood up to go.

“If you can’t be strong for yourself, be strong for the kid.”

Gaz sat quietly in Johnny’s room. He had never been much of an artist so Johnny figured they could both learn as he relearned.

Gaz held up a poorly drawn humvee, “remember the time we superglued the zipper to Price’s sleeping bag and because he always had it all the way up he got stuck and Ghost had to cut him out of it?”

“Yeah,” Johnny gave a chuckle, “remember the time when we made a bet that whoever couldn’t get the nurse’s number from Alejandro’s base had to buy the rounds at the pub when we got home?”

“I remember us both losing.”

“She didn’t have a wedding ring, I didn’t know she was married!” Johnny laughed, holding up his crudely drawn humvee. Johnny snorted, “Looks like we’d be great cubists.”

Gaz cocked a brow.

“It’s an abstract art style, looks goofy. It’s the one famous artists do when they get lazy after becoming famous for super detailed work. They just slapped a name on laziness.” Soap snorted, “reminds me of my hot art teacher from school. What I would have even for a chance with that braw lookin lass as a 13 year old.”

“We all had those teachers, mate.” Kyle laughed. “Had a Spanish teacher with big ones,” he said, holding his hands in front of his chest, “I learned nothing in that class.”

Kyle clapped him on the shoulder as they both laughed. Then a silence fell.

“Next time I may just be wheeling behind you as we make our great escapes.”

“How about I push you instead,” Kyle said, holding out his fist for Johnny to pump.

And he did, weakly. But it was far from the amount of shaking it would have taken him to hold a fist weeks ago, or a month ago when the process started.

Johnny held out five folded pictures to Gaz, “been working hard on ‘em, they’re labeled.”

Gaz nodded and gave him a hug with a chuckle, “I’ll make sure they get to the right people. Get some rest, dishy lad.”

It didn’t hurt as bad for Kyle to be around Johnny.

Kyle was grateful for that, he had his buddy back.

He shuffled through the folded paper in his hands.

One for himself, Simon, Price, Laswell, and Price’s niece.

He patted Price’s back, “ready to head back?”

“How is he?”

“In a much better humor than a month ago, even has gifts for us.” Gaz said, holding up the papers.

When they got back to the waiting room, Gaz dished them out.

Each slowly unfolded the papers with their names on it. Price’s niece was the first to get her’s open, a soft gasp leaving her mouth as her eyes began to tear up.

It was a sketch of her standing between Price and Laswell from when she was first introduced, the paper had clearly been torn from a journal. A second paper fell to the floor from behind it and she snatched it up before it hit the floor. It was a copy of the image, its lines were sharky and it was clearly one of the blank printer paper sheets they had given him to practice writing on, but the image was pretty close to the same.

‘Always thought you were such a bonnie lass, hope my bad attitude didn’t scare you off.

-Johnny’ was written in the bottom corner of the page with a small heart. The writing was as shaky as the art but it didn’t stop her flushed face and her shocked tears that threatened to fall.

Simon hadn’t intended to open his until he got back to his own barracks, but when he peered over and saw the niece’s he could help himself.

“What did the jammy bastard do now,” Simon grumbled. Eyes going wide as a photo of him and Johnny on their skull masks fell out. A polaroid Alejandro had taken with a camera they found. Simon told him to burn it. Apparently, he never saw Johnny slip it into his gear. An older sketch of it Johnny had done and a small scratchy sketch in there too.

‘Remember when Gaz and I tried to see how many of your stupid masks we could steal before you got mad when we were new on the squad? I remember you waited us out until we had to get the baklava off your face. The ass kicking you gave me for coming close to getting it in your sleep definitely scared me straight.

-Johnny’ Simon ran his fingers over the scratchy words before folding it up for safe keeping. He’d give Johnny back his polaroid later.

Price’s was a sketch of the photo they took before their first 141 mission, it always sat on his desk in his office. An old one he had done probably a year ago and a new one.

‘Couldn’t have asked for a better CO. Thank you Captain. We had a good run.

PS: I knew I was always your favorite sergeant, I didn’t tell Kyle though.

-Johnny’

Price didn’t even register the tear sliding into his beard and the sad chuckle that left his lips.

Laswell unfolded hers, it was a drawing of her and John from the back and her with her elbow on his much taller shoulder.

‘Make sure my team doesn’t get into too much trouble. I won’t be there to bite the next bullet for them.

-Johnny MacTavish’

Laswell gently held the two sketches side by side, chuckling at his terrible joke about his situation. It was from the day Price made Kyle do a pushup for every tooth in the zipper of the sleeping bag because he took the fall for the prank. He made Johnny and Simon stand behind them and watch so they knew what would happen if they messed around. Laswell laughed fondly at the memory, it was a bittersweet chuckle.

Gaz was the last to open his. Softly unfolding the papers. The sketches were of an old selfie they took from the time they were stationed at the same base for training. The rest of the recruits behind them and the two made overly dramatic shocked faces with Soap - with Johnny pointing at the angry General staring at them. The new shaking sketch only focused on himself and Johnny and their stupid faces. A reference to a terrible meme they had seen earlier. He remembered fondly that one of the sergeants on base made them mop the rain outside that afternoon because they had already pissed off the General before that morning at breakfast. He forgot how he really only talked to Johnny at training, Johnny starting just after him.

‘Don’t forget to consult me on any base antics, I still have plenty of ideas. Bonus points if you guilt trip Price and tell him you’re doing it in my honor when he tries to get you in trouble.

-Johnny’

They all sat there quietly before saying goodbyes, going their separate ways.

Price’s niece slipped away back towards Johnny’s room with a knock, earning a, “come in.”

“Hey Johnny,” she said, moving to where he patted her at the edge of his bed, near his hips. “I had no clue you did so many sketches.”

“Had to fill my free time somehow, you can only walk around the base so many times before you lose your mind.”

“They’re beautiful, both of them.” She said softly, looking at them again, “I had no clue you drew me.”

“Woulda done it like one ‘a my french girls but yer uncle didn’t like the idea.” He chuckled, cut off by her planting a soft kiss on his temple. She held his chin with her hand gently, thumb dragging lightly over his lower lip. His face flushed as she treated him like glass.

“No sassy retort?” She asked with a giggle. Face not far from his.

“I got brain damage, lass, and out of practice, gotta give me time to get back in my groove,” he chuckled. “Also, ya missed.”

“What do you mean I missed?”

“I’ll show ya,” he said, planting a kiss on her lips. It was quick, testing the waters, making her face flush and her eyes widen. “So glad yer uncle won’t yell at me now for this, been waiting a while for this chance.” Johnny pressed another kiss with more pressure as she giggled against his lips. “Promise to make sure I don’t eat Mexican so wipin’ my arse ain’t so bad.”

“Again with the wiping the ass thing?”

“Just gotta remind you what ya signed up for,” he said with a chuckle, planting a lingering kiss at the corner of her mouth.

Masterlist is pinned on profile as always, don’t forget to leave me a comment or a request in my inbox to let me know what yall want to see! Also Comments are always appreciated! I love hearing from yall!

[lets-try-some-writing]

How good would the bots handwriting be?

In English? In Cybertronian? Why not both?

━━━━━━ ⊙ ❖ ⊙ ━━━━━━━━━━━━ ⊙ ❖ ⊙

On Cybertron, writing anything by hand was not exactly common. Technology trimmed the process down a great deal and writing by hand was seen as something reserved for the higher castes. A written series of glyphs was a material promise, something important and made only to be used in serious events. Otherwise most everything was done digitally to save time and improve efficiency. Autocorrect most certainly helped many a struggling writer back on Cybertron.

With this in mind, as resources cut short and Earth lacked the needed materials to make a surplus of datapads, handwriting skills became very clear. More so than ever once the children decided to try and teach the bots to write for possible cover reasons. One could never be sure when one would need a bot to sign them out of school early.

Arcee has the worst handwriting by far, a surprising twist considering her dainty digits and relatively small size. One would think writing would come easy to her, but she hates doing anything like that by hand. She can type quickly, but writing out anything on a datapad, much less paper of all things? No she would much prefer being on Shockwave's operating table over having to possibly write her report manually. The glyphs of the various dialects on Cybertron are too much for her and the hatred of writing transferred over to English even though it is FAR easier to write in. The team won't say it to her face, but her writing looks like chicken scratch in both languages. The children don't know she is garbage at writing in Cybertronian too, and the team are content to leave them with the thought that she is just bad at learning English.

Bulkhead and Wheeljack share one braincell on a good day, and their writing shows this. They write exclusively in the wartime Wrecker dialect that formed over the millions of years of conflict. No one but Autobots can even begin to read their writing as its all a strange deviation from Autobot encryption. Sure they can write in mainstream Cybertronian dialects, but it looks awful and honestly the team prefer having to put on reading glasses and stare at their encrypted writing over having to get out a dictionary to even begin to parse out their other writings. In light of this, they do not write in English when asked to use an Earth language. Instead, they like Chinese, Japanese, Korean, and other such languages due to the ease of which they find encrypting the writing to be. They are hated by Bot and human alike for their habit of making things more complicated than it needs to be.

Ultra Magnus writes in the most computer generated manner known to any of the bots. How he does it is a mystery. Yet somehow he got so used to manually writing out his signature that now his every written glyph comes out as if it were typed. He doesn't seem to notice or care for the team's gawking, and he absolutely refuses to write in English simply because he had no interest in relearning writing. The team don't know, but the real reason he doesn't want to write in any other dialect is because he purposefully trained his motor functions to only write in his very specific manner. To try and learn a brand new written language would mess that up and ruin his clean and crisp glyphs.

Ratchet is an odd ball in his writing. When in a hurry, his writing in both Cybertronian and English looks like the Doctor's scrawl that those outside of the medical field have no hope of figuring out. However when he's not in a rush, he has a very distinct method of writing his glyphs and letters. In Cybertronian dialects of any kind, he adds extra emphasis in places where there has been no need for further glyph usage since the age of Wrath. In English, he adds interesting swirls and excess E's absolutely everywhere as if it is an additional glyph meant to add meaning to the word. Rafael tried to correct him once. That didn't end well.

Smokescreen has never written anything in his life. He can type like lightening, but he was never schooled in traditional manual writing simply due to how time consuming it was and how unneeded the ability happened to be at his post. He can't do any writing to save his life, but he has managed to convincingly fake the ability to write when in a tight spot. He can scribble and make it look like REALLY bad Tarnian dialect. And since that particular script hasn't been used since the city was destroyed, most don't judge him for it. But Optimus knows, and when he has time, he does what he can to school the rookie. Rafael has also taken it upon himself to try and teach Smokescreen some English with limited success.

Bumblebee grew up under Optimus, and Optimus in turn grew up under Alpha Trion. The two have startlingly similar handwriting more often than not. They both know many languages and dialects and are fluent in them, they both share glyph usage preferences, and both are known for their regular language swaps in writing. The only way to really tell them apart is to look REALLY closely at either the curvature of a specific glyph in Ancient Cybertronian or to stare really hard at the way their write their O's and B's. Both write like they walked straight out of ancient eras of old on a good day and write like living dictionaries for pretty much any other dialect. The team and the children gave up trying to figure out who wrote what a long time ago. If they can't pick it up from the context of the writing, they can just assume its important regardless.

[peachesofteal]

PEACH I know this is pushing it but the immune reader au is too good and if I don't say it now I'll forget it

darling can't speak. the virus affected her brain but only partly, so like a toddler, only mumbles and grunts help her communicate.

one day, the base had somehow been attacked by a small horde. she looks on, too weak to yet even be able to walk a mile without tipping over, and she remembers. the runner that jumped on her too late for her to notice, remembers screaming her throat raw and bloody. remembers the feeling of the zombies moldy flesh against hers, and it's all too much. she scrambles back into the base where she balls up into the bed.

eventually she falls asleep, and after they had changed and passed a clean rag over their bloodied faces, johnny and simon slip into bed next to reader. shes breathing a bit heavy, her eyebrows furrow as she mumbles in her sleep.

simon advises johnny not to wake you- you need rest. so they don't. sleep comes easy to johnny after a hard day, soft snores and groans coming from him parted mouth. the light noise was almost enough to lull smon to sleep, too.

until he heard it.

"si-mon.." his name. from your mouth. the one who hadn't spoken a word for weeks, nothing but sounds and uncoherent blurbs.

he jolts, blinks a few times. this is a dream... right? no. the feeling of your clammy palms against his bicep is all too real. your eyes are opened, staring at him with sleep shrouding them. you had a nightmare. like you always did before this shit happened.

he cradles your head to him chest then, harder than he meant to. "si-mon..." and he almost sobs. he would've, if it wasn't for johnny sleep so soundlessly next to you.

so, with the most courage he could muster, he replies.

"m'here, darling girl. m'right here."

he swears he heard you whisper 'I love you'.

I HATE THEM I HATE THEM I HATE THEM ARRRGHHH

Presented for everyone’s reading pleasure. I love this! Such beautiful brain worms, ugh. 🥲 I definitely think her brain is 100% still there, it’s just her tongue and those finer motor skills, but I love the idea of her relearning to speak and saying one of their names for the first time! 🖤

[five-thousand-loaves-of-bread]

tips on learning how do fiber arts with apraxia / fine motor deficits? want to crochet or knit but every time try ends in injury because dexterity bad and because impulsive motor. any tools that can buy for this? have looked for adaptive classes but can’t find

sudden remember this ask… meant to answer

am actually maybe. worst person ask this because. not really know. some personal pointers, not sure how helpful they are:

knit for me easier because know how do it & learned motor pattern. if erase motor pattern memory & tell me relearn again now that motor & ability learn new stuff even worse, not sure what would say.

there two types of hold yarn/needles for knit. am knit “english style” (throwing), which basically, use right hand to wrap yarn over right hand needle & keep tension. another called “continental style”, which you use left hand hold yarn hold tension, usually like hold some finger on left hand high with yarn n manipulate right needle to almost “hook” that yarn.

use english style because learned this way never learned continental, but do find it easier for me. find continental, for someone like me with very bad motor, have less control n grip on left hand needle since some of your fingers used hold yarn, n have lots going on, need insert right needle into loop while making sure left hand yarn tension keep good, then “hook” yarn (find that take more dexterity just simply don’t have), n again while left hand keep tension, pull yarn through hoop make stitch. like entire time you cannot drop tension on left hand or else mess up. find continental left hand hold yarn similar to crochet hold yarn, n because bad motor, have like only one way that can actually hold yarn in left hand n let it stay n not loosey goosey, but that really hurt hand after a while & semi permanently messed up middle finger. people say continental knitting faster more efficient, but rather take so called slower way than try do “fast” way that cannot do at all. but have seen ring type adaptive tools you hook yarn on n it help tension?

compare to english, feel like it. you can break each step into it own thing. insert needle into loop, but this time with both hands full finger grip both needles. then, wrap yarn over needle with right hand. now that used to it, can just use some fingers, but if beginning, perfectly okay like, support right needle against body to prevent it fall off, then use entire right hand wrap. and then, can do both hand pull loop through. you not have to so worry abt tension through out all this because after finish all of this, can just pull on yarn n adjust tension.

one really funny chant (well for us would be chant in head) for english is “stab it. strangle it. scoop out its guts. throw it off a cliff.” & it work for some, it kind of violent, but maybe it help.

not very helpful advice is just. take it slow. it will be frustrating. that okay. we struggle with motor & we work with what we got & we not gonna be like most knitters with okay motor n that okay.

advice for knitting beginners often always knit with bigger/chunkier yarn and bigger needles, because knit up faster. true, but more reasons for us with bad motor:

found that, holding small needles hurt hand make hand stiff easier, n bigger needles, because thicker, have easier time hold.

keep tension not too tight or else will be hard go through loop. think looser tension may be easier at first, just as long as not too loose where yarn fall off?

explore between bamboo needles vs metal needles (smoother which help yarn glide but also may be easier fall off). explore between pointy tip needles & more dull tip needles (pointy may help with insert through loop. but if you use hand to push on tip to help go through loop, it may hurt).

use lighter color yarn (darker esp black yarn hard see stitches)

use plied yarn with more tighter twist, instead of yarn that just one loosely spun single. first type easier see easier go through loop, second type it easier poke through yarn itself & split yarn. so first type better for beginners

.

crochet harder for me because new motor pattern now that ability learn stuff really declined… n same issue with continental knit with left hand hold yarn. it also lots right wrist movement. but unless do specialty crochet, there only one working loop (instead of like knit there many on needle). so it easier put down n pick up project.

have seen adaptive tools where make handle part thicker! which make easier. have also seen people just DIY that n use chunk of foam

.

spinning yarn, most financial accessible thing for beginners is drop spindle, so talk about that.

there different weights of drop spindle, some heavy some lighter, n different weight spindle said to make spin different thickness of yarn easier (but have spun lace weight yarn to worsted & bulky yarn on same spindle, so definitely not must). remember more spun up yarn you wrap on spindle, heavier it get, so if weight impact motor ability, that something think about.

there also type called supported spindle! where instead of lift spindle in air, it spin resting on thingie. never used myself but something worth look into!

(top whirl drop spindle where round disk thingie on top) advice is get one with notch on disk. find that without notch, yarn may slide all over place & especially with low motor, hard to hook yarn in way that not let it slide all over place.

n when start. take it slow. break it into multiple steps. don’t try do too much at once. when get used to, maybe able spin it and draft (like pull roving into thinner strand for yarn) while it spinning. but at beginning. spin, over spin it so have more twist on yarn than want. park it (like put it between two legs, etc rest it somewhere), then draft it/pull roving. then spin again. then park it. etc. and then wrap it around spindle.

don’t try spin too thin at first. it okay if it thick n thin and you not do it on purpose. try learn with (non superwash) wool because wool have microscopic scale-y teeth thingie on fiber that help it stick together n not too slippery, so even if you accident break roving, can just smoosh them together n it be alright. there some breed of wool that said to be more friendly for beginners than others (apparently merino not one).

.

probably over all tip for any craft is. find method that allow you split each step into its own thing, where can pause between each thing, n not have to do multiple things at once.

n take it slow n let self be frustrated. ok to fail n start again later. learned to knit 3 separate times until finally stuck. motor skill simply didn’t work for crochet so failed at least 8-10 separate times (like not restart one project 8-10 times in one sitting but like 8-10 times each with weeks or months or year in between).

feel like said bunch of nothing & very obvious tips but 😅hope at least some of it helpful?

if have specific craft in mind or specific project in mind, again not sure how helpful can be but happy give own thoughts to you

[natalyarose]

𝒪𝓃 𝒞𝓊𝓁𝓉𝒾𝓋𝒶𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒶 𝓋𝒾𝓈𝒾𝑜𝓃//𝑀𝒶𝓃𝒾𝒻𝑒𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃

If you're an artist, creator, or just someone with a goal, a vision; yes there will be those judgemental few, but you'll find that the truth is, the majority people will simply think it's cool & admirable that you're trying something, that you're doing anything at all to add colour and joy to this world! Being objectively good is just a bonus & can be cultivated over time 🩷

I know personally the stuff I put out isn't perfect and I've realised that it's okay to showcase your skills/what you've created even if there's room for growth, because there always is. There's absolutely no shame in showing that growth along the way. In fact, it's commendable.

The way fame and success works means that once a person achieves that state of success, all you're seeing of them is their success. You're not seeing their failures, their rejections, their veryyy first works/creations. That doesn't mean this person incarnated on this Earth a prodigy; they had a vision- a dream, a goal, and they passionately devoted themselves to it until it physically manifested through their own skillset & external support expanding.

Even if you were literally Mozart in a past life, in this life, you would still have to relearn the physical motor skills & logistical side of music.

If you're an artist with a vision, believe in it!! Chances are you're already amazing, you just need to cultivate the skill & acquire the experience it takes to manifest & express the vision you already hold in your soul. Don't be afraid to be raw in showing that progress, you don't need to hide your art/your work away until it's 'perfect', we know the idea of perfection is an illusion 💜<3

this message is more for myself than anything but I thought it may help someone :)

[littlerit]

The fluffiest TUA headcanon I own: Once Luther recovered from his forced transformation, Grace taught him embroidery to help him relearn fine motor skills

[tropes-and-tales]

Team Prime, Part Three

CW:  Angst, but lighter than previous parts; talk of recovery from serious injuries

Word Count:  4330

Other pieces: This is part of a mini-series.

Bob returns to Lemoore a single man.

There’s fallout to the cancelled wedding, but not as much as he would have thought.  Jessica’s dad puts on a blustering performance, threatens Bob, but it rings hollow.  It’s all for show.  

It was a mutual decision between Bob and Jessica.  In the end, after their long talk in the parking lot of the bakery, there was no big reason.  No cheating, nothing nefarious.  They were just two people who met very young and who grew up and apart in the intervening years.  

-----

The next few months, Bob does nothing but work.  He isn’t mourning his failed engagement, not precisely, but he does feel unmoored by it.  He met Jessica in the eighth grade and decided early on that she’d be his wife one day.  Every decision since then has been with a lens to that future life:  married to her, possibly kids.  His future, for the first time, unfolds before him without any firm plans.  Everything feels hazy, unfocused.  Limitless.    

Without the goal of marrying Jessica in mind, Bob has nothing to focus on but work.  

Work, and the regular updates that Eric gives him about you.

*****

If one is going to get annihilated in a head-on collision, it’s preferable that the other driver be a very, very wealthy man.  That way, when your life is irrevocably changed, you can take said wealthy man to civil court for an obscene amount of money.

Your medical bills are handled.  You have enough money in trust to take care of you for the rest of your life. Once you graduate from the studio apartment where you relearned how to live, you find an apartment in San Diego, near Hannah and Eric.

Your recovery has been miraculous, according to your doctors, but it’s hard for you to not focus on what you’ve lost.  What remains lost.  What may be lost forever.

Your balance is dicey now.  You spend a weekend staring at your collection of cute shoes—stilettos and sling-backs and platforms, kitten heels and fuck-me pumps.  The designer pairs, you sell them.  The rest you donate.  You replace them with sturdy sneakers, the kind elderly women wear, and you pretend you don’t care how stupid you look wearing them.

Your fine motor skills are shaky too.  You struggle with small buttons, zippers.  Your handwriting used to be smooth, but now it’s jagged printing.  You used to do a trademark cat’s eye with liquid eyeliner every day, but now you can barely manage even brushing powder across your face.  

Your speech is better.  If you remember to take a breath and relax, you almost sound like yourself.  But when you get frustrated—which is often—or when you’re tired or otherwise upset, you start to stutter.  

Your memory, especially your short-term memory, is precarious.  You learn coping mechanisms.  You learn to use association and vivid imagery to remember new things.  You keep a Moleskine notebook tucked in your pocket, and soon it is filled with questions and things to remember.

The biggest difference, though, is your moods.  Before, you never struggled with depression or anxiety.  You felt sad, sure.  You had acute stress from work.  But you have bleak lows now that you’ve never experienced before.

You often fall into black moods now.  All of the things you wanted for your life—a partner, maybe kids—seem impossible.  Dating in California before was a tedious nightmare.  Now?  Now that you have thick scars running across your scalp, just under your hair?  Now that you have similar scars all over your body from where the doctors flayed you alive to put you back together?

Now that you can barely handle makeup, that your clothing is all soft and loose with minimal buttons and zippers?  That your feet are encased in thick-soled old woman shoes to help keep you from teetering over?

It seems impossible.  No one will want you.

You have anxiety now too, great spikes of fear that can push you into panic attacks if you aren’t vigilant.  Crowds make you nervous.  You know deep down that no one is noticing you, but you feel eyes crawling over you, taking in your scars, taking in the unsteady way you walk sometimes.  

It’s anxiety that prickles when Hannah tells you that she and Eric are planning a little get-together.  She’s come over for dinner, and even if it’s just store-bought pasta with store-bought marinara, it’s another achievement for you to cook on your own.

“It’s not an engagement party,” she clarifies as she blows over her bite of pasta before eating it.  She chews, swallows, then casually adds, “we just thought we have a lot to celebrate and should have a party.”

“That sounds fun,” you reply.

She glances at you.  “We thought we might celebrate you.”

The anxiety flares up instantly.  “Oh, no.  No, I don’t think—”

“You’re a medical miracle,” she cuts in.  “Don’t you think the people who love you want to celebrate that you’re still here with us?”

You snort bitterly and shake your head.  “I’m not the person you knew before.”

“Bullshit.  You are.”

You shake your head again, and you feel the tears of frustration start to rise.  Hannah always does this; she always steamrolls you, waves off your concerns.  She doesn’t understand how different you are now—or if she does, she refuses to admit it to you.

“I can’t work anymore.  I can’t date.  It takes me so long to read a book now.  I get headaches—”

“You’ll find work that suits you,” she interrupts again.  “Once you’re ready.  And you can date.  And who cares how long it takes to read a book?  Do you know how many people don’t even read one book a year?  Jesus, stop with the pity party already—”

“It’s not a pity party—”

“The hell it isn’t!”  She sits back and crosses her arms.  “It’ll be a small gathering, okay?  Family and close friends only.”

“I don’t like being the center of attention.”  You run the tip of your tongue along the inside of your teeth, a tic you picked up when you search your memories.  “I don’t even think I liked it before the crash.”

“You won’t be, I promise.  It’ll just be a cozy little gathering.  Eric got a new grill, so you already know dad and the rest of the guys will be circled up around that.”

You smile in spite of your roiling unease, in spite of your lingering frustration that no one in your life will admit out loud that you’ve been diminished, that your spark has faded.  “Okay,” you tell her.  “I guess that sounds okay.”

*****

Eric’s the one who calls him to invite him to their party, but Hannah is the one who plucks the phone from her fiancé’s hand to chirp in Bob’s ear.

“Hey, Bob,” she says with little preamble, then launches into a litany that she must be giving all of the guests.  About you.

“Look, she’s got scars, obviously.  And she talks a little slower now, and sometimes she stutters.  She’s super self-conscious about all of it, and I promised her that everyone would be chill.  So don’t stare or talk too much about the accident.”

“I would never make her feel bad,” he replies, a little defensive.  

“I know.  But I mean she’s hyper self-conscious, so just treat her like she’s a boring, regular person, okay?”

“Okay.  Got it.”  He bites his tongue, doesn’t add that you’ve never been boring or regular to him, and he doubts you are now too.

She thanks him, tells him that they’re looking forward to seeing him.  Then she hands the phone back to Eric, and the conversation shifts from you to Eric’s new grill, which he describes in such loving detail that Bob has to laugh.

-----

Bob still has buddies in Miramar from when he graduated from Top Gun, so he flies in a day early and stays with them.  

He finds himself nearly sick to his stomach as he gets ready for the party.  His hands, usually so steady, tremble as he shaves.  He fusses with his hair, redoes the part at least three times, then grimaces at his reflection.  He looks like a complete nerd, but when he musses his hair, he just looks like a nerd who’s trying too hard.

He knows why he’s so nervous.  He’s been broken up from Jessica long enough that he can admit it now. He can admit that he had a crush on you; that he’d grown excessively fond of your sweet nature, your sense of humor. 

And then you nearly died.  You are, according to Hannah, self-conscience about the changes in your life.  He’s supposed to just treat you like a regular person, but you’ve never been just a regular person to him, even when he was engaged and shouldn’t have had any feelings for you.  

Now he’s about to see you again.  He’s single, and his future stretches out in front of him full of possibilities. He wonders if there’s even a chance you might be a part of it—boring, regular you.

-----

There’s no lead-up to seeing you again:  when Bob walks up to Hannah and Eric’s house, he can hear the muffled din of laughter and music in the backyard…but you’re sitting outside on the steps of the front porch by yourself.

The sight of you pulls him up short, and he’s granted a long moment before you notice him.  He can look his fill.  It’s late afternoon, golden hour, and the sunlight gilds your features.  Your eyes are shut, and your face is turned to the light like the face of a flower.

He barely notices the thick scar that goes down the line of your neck.  He does notice your short hair, but only because it changes the shape of your face.  It makes your cheekbones stand out more, makes the fragile shape of your skull more obvious.  

That’s what makes his breath catch in his throat, seeing you sitting there, looking so alive.  It slams him back in those terrible days right after the accident, sitting in the hospital with Eric and grimly waiting for the news that you died. 

You’re here.  You’re alive.

You don’t see him at first, so Bob has a moment of grace to swipe at his eyes under his glasses.  To pull himself together.

Then you open your eyes and turn your head.  You see him, and you gift him a smile that is tentative.  Guarded.

He realizes it a beat later:  you don’t recognize him.

“Hello,” you say, and you sound the same—only more formal, like you’re enunciating each syllable purposefully.  “Everyone is in the back yard.”

Bob nods, walks up the sidewalk to you.  He swallows hard.  Treat her like a boring, regular person, he reminds himself.

“Hiding out here?” he asks.

You lift your shoulders in a shrug.  “I needed a break from everyone.”

“Want some company?”

You shake your head, but the smile stays fixed on your face.  “You don’t have to—”

“I know,” he cuts in.  “But I kinda hate that moment in a party when you walk in and everyone else is already there, so they all turn and look at you at once.  When all the eyes are on you and you’re suddenly worried that your zipper is down or you have something on your face….”  He trails off when you giggle—an honest-to-god giggle—and he smiles down at you.

You pat the space beside you and Bob sits.  

“I know you, don’t I?” you ask after a beat.  “From before, I mean.”

“You do.”

“Don’t tell me.  Let me remember on my own.”

“Yes, ma’am.”  

The two of you sit quietly, taking in the sounds of the party happening behind you.  Taking in the sinking sun, the wind rustling through the hummingbird sage.  Bob’s heart hammers in his chest, and it feels so loud that you must hear it, he thinks.  You must hear how nervous he is, how tense—

“You’re B-Bob?” you ask, and when you stammer his name, he notices how you duck your head, bite your lip and furrow your brow as if you’re angry at yourself.  But he doesn’t address it because you do remember him.  He still exists in your memories.  

“I am.  You remembered.”

You lift your head and look at him, your expression sad.  “It takes me a while now.”

“Maybe I’m not very memorable,” he offers gently.

“No, you are.”  You say it matter-of-factly, without an ounce of guile or flirting.  “I didn’t remember your name right away, but I knew that I knew you from before.”

“How so?” he asks, but you don’t answer him—you only smile softly, then turn your face back towards the sun.

-----

Hannah is the one that finds the two of you.  She gives Bob a look that he can’t quite place—cool, thoughtful—but then she claps her hands briskly and leads both you and him into the backyard.

It’s just a small party, as promised.  Bob recognizes the other people since most are in the wedding party.  He finds Eric with the other men, clustered around the massive grill, and he falls into their conversation.

For most of the party, he doesn’t get to speak to you.  He tries to keep you in his eye line; he watches as you stand along the perimeter, seemingly reluctant to join any conversations.  Hannah draws you in, keeps an arm around your waist to keep you from fleeing.

Bob knows the accident has changed you, but he can’t quite see anything beyond the short hair, the handful of visible scars.  You’re in a cute dress that hits just below the knees, white sneakers.  You have a little notebook that you keep pulling out on the sly, taking notes, and he wonders if it’s a memory aid.

It’s your behavior that is different.  Before, you were assured.  You walked through the world like you belonged there, but now you seem uncertain.  Your smile seems tentative, like you’re expecting the frivolity and joking to turn on you at any moment.

Halfway through the evening, Hannah comes over to where Bob and Eric are talking.  

“Sorry to interrupt, boys,” she says.  To Eric, she adds, “she’s getting tired, so I’m gonna step out and take her home, okay?”

Eric nods, but the offer is out of Bob’s mouth before he can stop it.

“I can take her home,” he blurts out.  

“Oh, no, that’s fine—”

“You’re the hostess,” he interjects.  “You should stay for your own party.”

She gives him that same inscrutable look, and her eyes dart over to Eric for a split-second.  Bob makes a note to ask his friend about it later.

“Are you sure?” she asks.

Bob nods.  “If she’s okay with me driving her, I’m happy to help.”

-----

The car ride starts silent, but when the two of you hit San Diego traffic and crawl to a standstill, you start to talk.

“My sister said you were engaged,” you say.  “I’m sorry to hear that it ended.”

He’s touched, and he glances over at where you sit with your hands folded in your lap.  “We just grew apart.”

“Because of the military?”

“Not everyone can stick out the long-distance thing.”

You nod.  “My high school boyfriend and I broke up because of the distance once we went to college.”

Bob perks up; he’s never heard you speak of an ex or anyone you’ve dated.  “Yeah?”

“Well, it was the distance and the fact that he kept falling dick-first into other girls.”

It startles a laugh out of him, and he feels his cheeks pinking at the casual way you say the word dick.  You chuckle with him, then add, “of all the memories I lost, that asshole still lives in my head.”

He knows that Hannah admonished him to not talk about your altered state or the accident, but it feels like the natural flow of conversation.  So he asks about your memories, your amnesia.  What you still have and what you’ve forgotten.  You explain how the long-term stuff stays rooted, and how you remember the months before the accident hazily.  And how Vegas is a blank except for flashes and impressions.

“What sort of flashes?” he asks.

You hum, press your head against the back of the seat and stare up at the ceiling of his rental car.  “None of it makes sense.”  You don’t add anything else, and he doesn’t press you.

There’s another moment of quiet as the traffic creeps forward, and then you turn to look at him.  “Hannah said you were at the hospital.  Were we…friends?”

“We were.”  The words come out rough, a croak of sudden emotion.  “I helped you with some of the wedding planning.”

“Oof.  Sorry about that.  I remember the giant three-ringed binder.  Another thing I’d like to forget.”

“It wasn’t bad at all.  Not for me.  We made a good team.”

The words set something loose in your head—you sit up, startle a little.  “Team P-prime.”

Bob grins.  “That’s right.  The best of the best.”  He holds out his hand for you to slap it, to give him five as the two of you used to do when Team Prime was mentioned…but you misunderstand the gesture and reach out, hold his hand instead.

He squeezes your hand and waits for you to let him go first, but you don’t, so the two of you stay like that for the rest of the drive to your place.

-----

Maybe it’s the feeling of your hand in his, but Bob’s emotions roil and churn as he parks outside of your building.  He kills the ignition and lets go of your hand reluctantly.

“Can I walk you to your door?” he asks.

You smile, but there’s an edge to your voice.  “I can walk myself.”

“I was raised to be a gentleman,” he replies.  “My mama would slap me upside the head if I just dumped a lady off at the curb.”

You laugh.  “Oh, I’m a lady then?”

Bob laughs too, climbs out of the car, comes around to your side to get your door.  “You’re a menace is what you are, but I’ll still walk you to your door.”

He knows you’ve been changed, but this feels so much like before.  The two of you gently teasing each other, that easy camaraderie that blossomed like desert flowers after a rain.  You thread your arm through his when he offers it, and that close, Bob can smell you.  You even smell the same; you have the same lightly smoky, woodsy scent.

At your door, you take out your keys and fumble them in the lock, but Bob doesn’t step in to help you.  He lets you get it yourself.  Hannah wants him to treat you like you’re just boring old you, yet…

“It was good to see you again,” he says as you stand in your doorway.  The way you gaze back at him gives him courage to say more, so he adds, haltingly, “I’m glad….I mean, you…you have no idea how good it is to see you.”

You tilt your head.  “Are you going to cry?”

“I might,” he answers, honest.  There’s a tightness in his chest that could turn into tears.

“Would you like a hug?”

He would.  He nods, and you hold your arms out to him.  Bob Floyd steps into your open arms and enfolds you in his own.  He lays a palm against your head, presses you carefully to his chest when he feels your arms wend around his waist.  He doesn’t cry, but he’s close—because you’re so wonderfully warm, so solid against him, that he’s reminded of how close you came to dying…but you didn’t.  You’re alive and for this too-brief moment, you’re in his arms.

*****

You get the text a few days after the party.

Is this still the number for the other half of Team Prime?  You frown for a beat, then remember. 

No, it belongs to a menace now.  

Thought so, comes the reply.  Then how’s your day going?

Such a normal question.  Bob seems to be the one person who strikes the perfect balance—not treating you like an invalid, but also not pretending that you weren’t nearly crushed to death in a car crash.

That’s how it goes with him.  Him north in Lemoore, you south in San Diego, but once you get into the habit, the two of you text every day.  Then you start calling in the evening, the two of you chatting like the oldest of friends, and it bumps against something in your brain, some buried memory that is just begging to be excavated.

-----

Hannah and Eric’s wedding date creeps closer.  You try to handle the anxiety that bubbles up the back of your throat, but as the day draws closer, you feel more and more uneasy.

It’s that eyes-on-your feeling.  The feeling of people watching you, judging you.  Everyone knows the wedding was postponed because of you, and you have significant guilt about that.  You sister could already be married if it weren’t for you.

You try to talk Hannah into appointing a new maid-of-honor, but she waves you off.  Like she always does.  

“Everything is pretty much handled.  What’s it matter now?” she asks.

What does it matter?  It matters that the maid-of-honor walks down the aisle too, gives a speech at the reception, generally handles any minor bumps.  Which is fine for normal people, but when you need thick orthopedic shoes to keep your balance, walking down the aisle suddenly seems like a freak show.  When you stutter, suddenly the prospect of giving a speech feels like a nightmare.  You try to tell her so, but she waves you off again, this time with an edge of anger in her voice.

“What do you mean, normal people?  You’re normal,” she says.

“You know what I mean.”

“I don’t.”  She crosses her arms, glares at you.  “Explain it.”

You try, for the thousandth time, but Hannah just shakes her head and cuts you off halfway through your meandering list of excuses.

“Look, let’s assume I want to swap you out at this point.  It’s too late in the game.  You already have your dress, and you already did most of the planning before.”  She pauses, narrows her eyes as she considers her next words.

“Besides, if we changed the maid-of-honor now, we’d have to change out the best man too.”

“What do you mean?”

You swear you see something flash across her expression—something teasing, devilish—before she answers, “I think Bob would protest pretty loudly if he didn’t stay paired up with you.”

You feel your face heat up instantly.  “It’s n-not like that.”

She reaches out, pokes you between your ribs where you’re ticklish.  “What’s it like then?  You had a crush on him before.  You had it bad for him, in fact.”

Another unfortunate side effect of your injuries:  you’re not a very good liar anymore.  You’re not as quick on your feet.  Old You would have a deflection already queued up, ready to roll smoothly from your mouth, but New You only mumbles a flimsy excuse about needing to get home for something important you have to do.  

-----

Thing is, you remember.  Maybe not precise moments from before, but you remember the plane ride to Vegas.  It’s hazy in your memory, but what’s there is the feeling of his hand in yours, his words right in your ear.  You can’t remember what he was saying, but you remember hugging him afterwards.

What’s more concrete is the memory of the feeling—a crush or love, or just the general pleasure of being in his company.  At the party a few months ago, just sitting on the porch with Bob brought those memories back.  You remembered how he smelled, the clean scent of him.  You remembered the calming aura of just being near him.

And even if you hadn’t had feelings before—he had been engaged then, after all—it wouldn’t be hard to fall for him now.  The two of you talk all the time.  He tells you about his job, about his family and his childhood and books he’s reading and a movie he just saw.  Over time, he opens up about his failed engagement, and you’re honored that he trusts you enough to tell you these things that he likely doesn’t share with others.

You, in turn, trust him.  You tell him about your struggles in your recovery, the frustration and fear that you’ll never be the same.

You edge up against your deepest fear, but you never exactly give it a voice.  As much as you love talking with him, love having him be the first thing you think of when you wake up each morning, you know it can never become more.  

If you follow the natural progression of things, you can’t see a future with Bob Floyd.  Or anyone, really.  But with Bob, a man in the military…he needs someone who can handle things at home when he’s deployed.  He needs someone who can move across the country in a moment’s notice, who can give him children and look after those children while he’s off flying fighter jets.

You can’t even thread a zipper on its track.  You have nothing to offer him.  

But you can’t say those words out loud, so you make self-depreciating remarks, you refuse talk of the future, and you hope he understands the oblique way you’re trying to tell him that he shouldn’t allow any feelings for you to take root.  

That you’re struggling to do the same for him, to keep him from burrowing so deep in your heart that he’ll never be dislodged.

[cocomintcat]

Heaven's Princess (Part 2)

Welcome to hell

Part 1 || Masterlist || Part 3

Songs of the chapter: Karma (AJR) + Still Feel (Half•Alive)

You feel a soft silk like bedding and a familiar presence near you. Slowly opening your eyes, you’re laid on your side. In front of you is Saf, your tiny seraph? Guardian? Pet? You don’t really know what she is besides a floating eye with six wings that acts like a bird and a puppy combined. She does also makes cute noises that sound like a church organ*. Slowly sitting up, you take in your surroundings. A grand red room with slight apple decor. You are dressed in comfortable pajamas. You then take in your appearance. Your hands have claw like nails, your wings are tainted red underneath, you have a tail with an eye, and to add to that, your eyes have all changed to yellow with red irises. Then you realize your heavenly eye on your chest lost its wings. Saf then hovers over your head, making you reach for your halo, pulling it down only to realize it's around the newly protruding horns. Pulling the halo carefully over the horns you notice where the old eye would be is rather a cracked and bent opening. You put the halo back with the help of Saf. Everything’s changed. At least your ear wings haven’t seemed to change, but now you can’t put either away, your head wings, or your back ones. You’re going to have to relearn some motor skills with both of them being out at the same time.

Suddenly, Saf blinks like she remembers something before zooming off. You tilt your head watching her before situating yourself to sit at the edge of the bed. You don’t dare follow her. You start playing with your new tail. It was cutely heart-shaped at the end where your newest eye was.

Suddenly, the sound of footsteps make their way down what you assume is the hall leading to the room you are in. Saf’s presence is accompanied by a familiar yet new presence. A man that looks similar to your brother Micheal, minus the height and red circles on his cheeks, appears in the doorway. He’s wearing a white under shirt with rolled up sleeves, a pink striped vest with a black bowtie, his pants are white and accompanied by black boots*. “Oh, you're awake! How are you feeling?” He makes his way over to you.

Looking up at the man in front of you, you give him a small smile. “Better than before, I’m guessing you caught me?”

“Yup! Your wounds healed by the time I made it to this room, and your little friend appeared too.”

“Ah, Saf… I don’t know how she was able to, but it makes sense for her.”

The man moves over to sit next to you, “Before I ask any questions, I should probably introduce myself. I’m Lucifer, you’ve probably heard tons of awful things about me, but I promise I'm not going to hurt you.”

This makes you tilt your head, “I mean mostly the winners fear you and the elders can be cranky about you. However, I've been told if I’m ever in trouble in hell to go to you first. Though it was believed to be very unlikely I’d ever even have to visit hell, much less be sent to it.”

His face becomes shocked, “Really there's still angels that- Nevermind.” He shakes his head, “Three things. How old are you? Why did you fall? Lastly, your name.”

You fidget with your hands nervously as he puts a gentle hand on your shoulder, “Well I’m 149-” The hand on your shoulder tightens slightly before loosening and dropping off your shoulder. Both his hands are in fists on his lap. You can feel his anger simmering. “My name is Eliora, and as for how I fell… I didn’t fall, except for through a portal.”

His expression turns to shock again, “What do you mean by that?”

“I was never put on trial. I was betrayed. They betrayed Heaven, and I found out.” You look off to the side away from him. Your hands tightened onto each other. “I was going to tell the upper ranks what they were doing… She- Someone I thought was a friend tore my wings. I burned the remains. She couldn’t have them. Then I was sent to hell. I never sinned… I shouldn't be here.”

A gentle hand reassuringly lands on top of your own, and you look over at Lucifer.

“That explains why your soul is so pure and only tainted. Usually, sinners have corrupt souls on top of the taint of hell. But what were they betraying heaven with?”

“Exterminations.”

“What-”

“Sera had no permission for it. She gave permission to ‘punish’ me.”

“Damn it if she did that then… fuck.”

“I’m guessing she's the main communication between heaven and hell?”

“First is Adam, but he does more of the dirty work for her.”

“Adam?! He knows about the exterminations?!” Lucifer raises a brow at your shock.

“Yeah, was he not there or the one who punished you?”

“No?! I doubt Adam would ever harm me in such a way, but-”

“You can't be sure with everything happening.”

“It’s just I’ve been somewhat close with him for a while since he was always around Sera- Oh… I was closest with Emily, Sera’s youngest sister, and Adam was around Sera fairly often. He helped me discover my powers. Despite his behavior sometimes, I thought… I don’t know." Suddenly tears welled up in your eyes, and you were engulfed in a hug.

“I’m sorry.”

You wetly chuckle, hugging back, “It's not your fault. Sera has a ton of explaining to do.”

“She does, and she’ll get what's coming to her eventually.” Lucifer separates from the hug, keeping his hands on your shoulder. “Since she runs the exorcists and knows you're down here, we should give you a cover name, one that isn’t any nickname you had in Heaven. We don’t want her hunting you down.”

“That's true… Can you choose it? It’d be funny when it comes out that she couldn’t find me because of a name ‘The Devil’ himself gave me.” You giggle at the thought.

Lucifer lets out a little chuckle, “Sure, how 'bout (Y/n)? Hmm, little miss.”

Saf let’s out a happy noise spinning, “I think it's perfect. Saf approved, too!” This divolves you all into giggles as Saf keeps up her goofy cheers.

“Alrighty now let’s eat, and I can give you a bit of a run down of Hell.” Lucifer helps you up, leading you to a sweet and homey kitchen room with a small 4 seat table. “Sit and I’ll make some of my famous pancakes!” You giggle at his cheery attitude. ‘He really hasn’t changed. He’s exactly like how they described him.’ You felt safe and a lot more happy around Lucifer after your eventful ‘fall’. ‘Maybe some good things will come out of this.’

Soon enough, the pancakes were done. They were heavenly, pun intended. Lucifer told you about the rankings in Hell, him, and the sins along with their rings. He then explained his ring a bit more in depth, overlords, sinners, and deals. Deals were to be avoided no matter what. He told you only Carmilla Carmine would be the overlord he’d recommend going to as she’s very reasonable compared to the others. He informed you on some more things you were only vaguely aware of in hell. Though he admitted to not keeping up much the past 6 years. You didn’t ask why, feeling it was a sensitive subject.

You had stayed with Lucifer since you fell. You learned a lot about him and, in all honesty, a lot about what Sera had done. Once Lucifer learned the uppers knew nothing and it was all Sera, he had compiled all the evidence of such for the day that it would become useful. Though you knew as long as you were in hell, there wouldn't be a chance, but you couldn’t tell Lucifer how you’d get the uppers to listen. ‘I don't know why I’m so anxious to tell him… probably because he’s the brother I never met until falling into hell.’ In turn, you also learned what happened since he fell, and how Lilith just up and left. You also learned about his daughter, technically your niece. Staying with Lucifer reminded you a lot about staying with God. They really were father and son. From their depression to their flamboyant personalities. This made you quite sad and homesick, missing your father.

Lucifer also found out about your birthday. He had called his daughter explaining the whole situation a while back, and she had been wanting to meet you for some time. Lucifer made sure you were adjusted to hell a bit more before letting you meet. Only after 3 months of being in hell did you meet her. She was so sweet, this is also how you let your birthday slip after explaining you had fallen a bit after your birthday. She insisted on holding you a small celebration for your 150th. This did bond her and her father quite a bit, but things were still strained as they avoided topics about their personal lives. They mostly stuck to talking or bonding over you. You were just glad they seemed to be talking.

Soon, they held a small celebration at the manor for your 150th birthday. 2 of the sins and their partners also joined you. Asmodeus, or Ozzie, and his partner Fizzarolli, Fizz, were immediately in awe of you. Ozzie insisted you were one of the cutest kids he’s met since Charlie became an adult and welcoming you to the Hell family. Fizz was also fun. He made you laugh plenty and insisted on you performing with Bee in a karaoke duet. Then there was Queen Bee, or Bee, and Vortex. Bee was also insistent on doing a karaoke duet with you after hearing you were known for music and dance. She also was very affectionate to you, constantly wrapping an arm over your shoulder. Lucifer and Charlie had baked you a cake too. It was beautiful, a purple cake with white roses and butterflies. Each of them had given you gifts. Ozzie offered a fun trip down to visit his ring so you could hang with him and Fizz. He also gifted you a soft purple blanket, which Fizz wrapped you up like a burrito with at some point. Fizz gifted you a cute plush of a hell fox. It was pink and cute. He got the idea after asking Lucifer what you liked. Bee’s gift was a phone with all their contacts to keep in contact with them. Vortex’s gift was to escort you anytime you needed a bodyguard. Charlie then presented her gift, a cute fuzzy red fox hoodie. It was adorable. Lastly was Lucifer’s gifts, a ducky of yourself and a six winged gold fox statue*. You were so grateful to them all.

Soon enough, Charlie had convinced her dad to let you stay with her at her hotel. She had been wanting you to come help out since you were an angel you would know most about souls let into Heaven. You supported her dreams, as redemption should have been the option first before exterminations. So when she asked if you would help, you said yes. It was decided that after her upcoming TV appearance she’d pick you up. Lucifer was just happy you two were getting along and to see you doing better since your ‘fall’.

You kept an eye on Charlie's TV appearance through the news app on your phone. It definitely did not go well, but it never would have, not with how they were treating Charlie before even hearing her out. Definitely reminded you that you were in hell. Soon she called you to let you know they were on their way after picking up Angel Dust, their first guest, who apparently was either in trouble or causing trouble you couldn’t tell with the loud voices in the background. Soon enough, you see the limo pull up. Charlie runs out immediately, hugging you. She had already moved your stuff to the hotel the day before leaving you with just a bag of essentials to bring.

“It’s good to see you! Come, come! Luckily, we aren't too far from the hotel!” She guides you into the limo, taking your bag and putting it on the floor. Inside is a pink tall spider slumped in the middle. Charlie sits next to a gray color schemed girl who eyed you, ‘she’s a fallen exorcist, her halo must not be visible.’ You opted to sit on one of the side chairs. “Both of you, this is (Y/n).”

“So we were picking up an angel greaaaaat, it’s not like extermination isn't coming soon.”

“Angel, be nice! Plus she’s down here!”

“Why did we pick up a fallen angel?”

“Because Vaggie, she can help! She knows more about heaven than us, and it’s been too long since my dad has been, y’know.”

“Eh, nice to meet you, kid. Names Angel Dust.” Angel moves up next to you and puts an arm around you. “So what sin landed you in hell?”

“Angel, you can’t just ask things like that?!” This causes a bicker between him and Vaggie.

You just giggle at their antics, “Why I’m in hell isn’t all that important. I'm here now, so that’s all that matters.”

“How old are you? You’re like tiny as fuck.”

“15 physically in human years, and my height I am smaller than most angels at my age.”

Angel blinks, looking at you slightly surprised, “Your young as fuck-”

“Angel watch your language!” Vaggie exclaims.

You snort, “I’ve met Adam, trust me explicit language and curse words are nothing new.” This makes Vaggie give you a weird look, but before you could ask, the limo came to a stop.

You put all your stuff away before flopping forward on the bed. “This so nice don’t you think, Saf?” Saf chirped happily in reply as you moved to rest up on your elbows. “At least plenty of good has come out of this… This room reminds me of home...” You sit up fully with a sigh, looking up at the stars you can’t help but shed a few tears, “I miss them, I hope they’re doing ok…”

“We’re here, come on. I have to show you your room!!” Charlie grabbed your bag, dragging you along to show you your room. You were told to take as much time as you needed to make it more comfortable and settle in. She left, stating she’d be downstairs. Saf poofed in beside you, making happy noises at the nice room. It was purple and white. There were golden night sky stars hung in all sizes on the ceiling, along with flowy sheer drapes. It had a heavenly and princess vibe to it, ironically. There were also hidden LED lights, giving the room a beautiful glow.

After your cry session, you freshened up and went downstairs. Apparently, everyone had come in from outside. There were some new faces too. “Oh (Y/n) how’d you like your room!?”

“It's perfect. Thank you, Charlie.” You smile as Saf happily chirps beside you. Charlie immediately engulfed you in a hug.

“I’m so glad you like it!” she squealed. Suddenly, someone clears their throat, “Oh, right, I should introduce you to the new staff!” She then turned to 3 new faces. First, she gestures to a very tall, old-fashioned deer man. “This is Alastor. Alastor, this is (Y/n) the one who I mentioned will be helping with redemption exercises and such.”

The said man looks at you with a curious look, “Pleasure to meet you didn’t know we’d have a fallen angel helping out.”

“Ah, right then, those 2 are Husk and Nifty!” She gestured to a winged cat demon that was walking towards a newly implemented bar and a small cyclops demon. Both gave you a small wave.

“Good to see you again, kid!” Suddenly, you're picked up by Angel Dust. “Didn’t realize how small you were, damn.” He was holding you like a child.

“Probably because aside from Nifty she’s the smallest in this hotel. Not to mention, she is 15 physically, so she’s young too.” Vaggie says.

“She’s a fucking child angel?” Husk was pointing at you from behind the bar.

“Yup! So please keep the adult stuff away from her. Her innocence doesn’t need to be ruined.” You snort at what Charlie says.

“You heard worse from Adam right kid?” Angel whispers to you. Still carrying you. Saf appears chirping a yes for you. “Sup little thing, by the way… What is that?”

Everyone looks at you while you answer, “That's Saf my seraph friend, I don't really know what she is besides the type of angel she is but she's more like a pet or guardian if that makes sense.”

“Kinda, she’s cool. Makes weirdly cute noises.” Angel puts you down, but you fly up to be a bit taller. He pats your head.

“She makes sounds that are of a cathedral organ. It’s pretty cool when she uses it to follow my songs.”

“Alright I think it’s time for dinner! (Y/n) wanna help me?”

“Sure!” Alastor appears near you and Charlie.

“Need an extra set of hands, dear?” Charlie nods before leading you all to the kitchen, showing you the recipes she has planned for the night. During this cooking, Alastor ends up in a conversation telling you about the food he used to make with his mother. This leads to him telling you about some of the popular foods from his time alive in louisiana. In turn, you told him about a movie you were introduced to in Heaven from earth, this led to you explaining the disney princess and the frog story. Charlie seemed to be happy watching you oddly get along with the oh so terrifying radio demon. Soon enough, the food was done.

Everyone sat and ate, getting to know each other. Angel asked you occasional questions about heaven. You answered them the best you could without giving yourself away in the slightest.

*kinda like the honk in Sky children of the light!

*his ‘final battle’ outfit aka his usual minus his coat and hat.

*inspired by that six winged duck in charlie’s childhood

Btw background info: God has no clue what time it is anymore nor that Eliora is missing, between the family doing their jobs or looking for Elly no one told their father in fear of worsening his depressive episode (Not the right choice but this'll make for a worthy punishment of those who wronged our girl!)

Taglist: (comment if you want to be added :D)

@fluffy-koalala

[writernopal]

OC Deep Dive Tag

I got tagged by @tabswrites (here), @captain-kraken (here) and @pheita (here) for this one! Thanks guys so much 🥺

Tagging (gently): @paintedbutton @teamdilf @daisywalletchains @void-botanist and anyone else who'd like to play!

We'll do Axtapor for this one because I miss him 😭

What common/uncommon fear do they have?

Maybe its a bit meta, but he fears rejection above all else.

Do they have any pet peeves?

Shitty knot tying skills. He can't stand it and has absolutely dismissed men from their stations for tying crappy knots and not keeping their area neat.

What are 3 items you can find in their bedroom?

A pipe, a dagger, and an iron file for his claws.

What do they notice first in a person?

How much they're worth, as in, are they wearing lots of jewelry? fine clothes? etc.

On a scale from 1-10, how high is their pain tolerance?

9. Though he is loud when he gets hurt.

Do they go into fight or flight mode when under pressure?

FIGHT, 1000% lol. He won't back down from a fight even if the situation is grim.

Do they come from a big family/are they a family person?

His nuclear family is small by Lizardfolk standards. His parents only had one clutch, so he's one of six children. His extended family/clan is quite large though as Clan Oxlo is the founding Major Clan of the House of Dreams. As far as being a family person, he absolutely is, even though he doesn't necessarily think of himself as one. The way he sees it, its just something that he has to do at some point in his life to carry on his clan name (he's an old bachelor) but, uh, well, that changes after he meets a certain lil lady.

What animal represents them best?

A hyena. More about that here.

What is a smell they dislike?

Human sweat. He HATES it. He's described it as smelling like a corpse.

Have they broken any bones?

Yes. He broke his leg once when he jumped down a dry well at 8 years old. He's also broken countless other things since then. (Fingers and tail vertebrae mostly) Hazards of the job as it were.

How would a stranger likely describe them?

Probably intimidating or mean. He looks quite gruff when he's in his own thoughts and is very short with people he doesn't know.

Are they a night owl, or morning bird?

Morning bird, especially because he hunts and sailing also requires being up early in the day, esp as first mate. But his favorite time of day is golden hour.

What’s a flavor they hate and a flavor they love?

I don't know if there is a specific flavor he hates but he doesn't really like sweets. As far as a flavor he loves, whatever grasshoppers and fish scales taste like lol.

Do they have any hobbies?

Smoking, hunting, and bushcraft camping.

Boom, surprise birthday party! How do they react to surprise?

It really depends on who is throwing it. If its his grandma or Mariel, then he's stoked, otherwise he's probably lukewarm about it. But either way, it wouldn't stop him from downing a few celebratory drinks and smoking some good tobacco.

Do they like to wear jewellery?

Yes and so much of it. He likes to wear what he's stolen during pillages and will often pick and choose what he steals based on his tastes.

Do they have neat or messy handwriting?

Messy lol. Its basically chicken scratch because he's right handed but after an accident a few years ago (a boarding hook through the palm) he had to relearn how to write with his left hand. He doesn't quite have the motor skills in his right hand as he used to even though its healed and his left is still not the best, so using a claw quill like most lizards do is pretty hard for him. He opts for the more human form of writing: using a quill.

What are the two emotions they feel the most?

Angry and horny lol.

Do they have a favourite fabric?

I don't think so, he kind of just wears whatever is comfortable and easy to move in. He tends towards both human and lizard fashions, which come in a wide array of fabric options, sometimes the same fabrics (linen, cotton, occasionally silks), though the cuts are obviously different. Most lizards won't wear human clothes because they think its ugly but he likes it because he can get it pretty easily at most of the ports they visit. He also enjoys fine spun wool in the winter as well as animal pelts.

What kind of accent do they have?

Whatever this is lol: “I nay know yer Everwatcher. Fact been, I could give a shite ‘bout her, seein’ as she will no show her face, so her word or trust in ye has nary a meanin’ to me. Stand in for yerself and let me weigh ye proper, or we be leavin’ this place.” In all seriousness, it really depends on what language he's speaking. He speaks several but most often in AASOAF is speaking Common or Hamatian (native language of Ihama where he was born). I made a post about AASOAF's languages here but to recap, Common is not based on English, rather Old Spanish. This means they would have Spanish-like accents if they spoke our English. In world, especially for Lizardfolk, learning Common is challenging because their mouth shape isn't fit to make the softer, rounder sounds of the language, so they often sound very aggressive, like they're biting their words when they speak. They also bring Lizardfolk inflections to the language when speaking it, Axtapor will also do this and often adds glottal stops where they shouldn't be or punctuates words with a short hiss or click. His Hamatian is very good, and sounds like our Sanskrit, but leans a lot more into the sing-song rise and fall of the language due to the way Lizardfolk vocal anatomy is. It also incorporates hisses, clicks, bassy thumps produced from the chest and throat, and on occasion, chattering. As a nobleman, he was brought up speaking the formal or Halto variant of the language as well as Meddia and Lajo variants. He will switch the variant he uses depending on who he's talking to, though they will sometimes mix, especially if he gets wound up about something, and he ends up sounding a little country.