#pardon my scrap paper (recordings)

[polysprachig]

Another blanket recording, this time in Middle English, made while working on general recall for the intro and first string of characters up to the Sergeant of the Lawe in the General Prologue.

The accent shifts slightly, sometimes intentionally to highlight the puns I feel need stressing, other times because the accent started to slip based on uncertainties I still have about certain words given the nature of my research/analysis (trans-lingual puns and the like, performance vs reading considerations, etc.).

Starts mid-Knight, ends mid-Squier.

Text below, though the spelling doesn't match my copy 100% (grain, meet salt)

At Lyeys was he, and at Satalye,

Whan they were wonne; and in the Grete See

At many a noble armee hadde he be.

At mortal batailles hadde he been fiftene,

And foughten for oure feith at Tramyssene

In lyste thries, and ay slayn his foo.

This ilke worthy knyght hadde been also

Somtyme with the lord of Palatye

Agayn another hethen in Turkye;

And evermoore he hadde a sovereyn prys.

And though that he were worthy, he was wys,

And of his port as meeke as is a mayde.

He nevere yet no vileynye ne sayde,

In al his lyf, unto no maner wight.

He was a verray, parfit, gentil knyght.

But for to tellen yow of his array,

His hors weren goode, but he was nat gay;

Of fustian he wered a gypon

Al bismótered with his habergeon;

For he was late y-come from his viage,

And wente for to doon his pilgrymage.

With hym ther was his sone, a yong Squiér,

A lovyere and a lusty bacheler,

With lokkes crulle as they were leyd in presse.

Of twenty yeer of age he was, I gesse.

Of his statúre he was of evene lengthe,

And wonderly delyvere and of greet strengthe.

And he hadde been somtyme in chyvachie

In Flaundres, in Artoys, and Pycardie,

And born hym weel, as of so litel space,

In hope to stonden in his lady grace.

[theressomethinghappeninginparis]

Okay, a lot of stuff happened and I'm currently thinking of residing in a hostel or something so I don't have to travel here again. I visited the places I found important on my map and gathered some information on anything I could get my hands on.

Transcript of the first page: Pawn Shop: Nothing. It was closed although the opening hours said it should be open. I will ask around if anyone knows the owner and will come back later, maybe they are on a coffe break. Serpent Rouge: The club's dead like anything in this, pardon me, shithole. They have a front entry that's locked and a back door with a glass window that I could technically smash in. To ass to my criminal record. There was also a lady called Janice that mentioned another woman inquiring her about the happenings and I tookt he bait as she suggested I worked with her...okay, I lied, but listen, it would benefit us all. I got some information on the other woman's tasks: she wanted to find a guy named Bouchard(?) and she should stay away from him. From what I know and what the murmurs in Paris are saying, Bouchard is a drug dealer and shady as well. What I would want from him, who knows.

Transcript of the second page: Herbalist: I need a new pen and I spent a fortune on this herbalist. I paid for some tea, asked him things, paid for paracetamol, asked him another, back and forth. What I got out of him is that I should stay home and not snoop around, that most people are bribable but him, the healing balms really stops bleeings and if I have some business here I should ask Bernand(?) and not him. Who the fuck is Bernand and why is everyone so secretive around here?

Transcript of the third page: Park: I met an old man feding birds there. No idea who he is, I also did not ask, but I mentioned the murder of Carvier here and if he knew anything about it. He explained he keeps low since his friend Arnould(?) was attacked by something or someone and he assumes it was the monstrum, and people are asking him a lot these days. The lady inquiring Janice earlier, does he mean her? Chruch: The church isn't one anymore, it's the base of a legal boxing club. The guy working there as a referee I think likes gold and was thick, and intimidating and he wasn't talking too much. So I didn't expect a nice answer, left in one piece, and as I asked him about Bouchard, he said I shouldn't go further if I want to see the next day. Cool!

Transcript of the fourth page: Café Metro: The 4th arrondissement of Paris is flooded in trash I swear. It's dirty, neglected, most houses are abandoned and the café looks like a place you'd stay if you lost all money and dignity. It's also collecting rust at the front door and old papers in beneath it. There was one customer reading newspapers in the corner, old wine and the bartender was semi happy. After he told me I was nosy and I was asking around like another person today I tried offering him something. I tried it with painkillers but he suggested something I could help him with. And he gave me a plan! Can you believe this shit. He hands me a scrap of paper and wants me to solve his "problem". Don't ask me why I agreed.

Transcript of the fifth page: The problem is as follows: there is a trinket in the Serpent Rouge in the broken stage light. The club is full of, guess qhose goons? Bouchard. And I'll probably see my grandfather before I get to the box.

In conclusion I lied my way through Parism will get the trinket, and totally not die doing that. I need to do some things that sound like a bad thriller. I need to find this Bouchard guy, I need to talk to Rennes (the pawn shop owner apparently) like Pierre (bartender) told me to, and I have a day to figure all this out. He offered me to sleep at a dorm above his café, I accepted it and shoved a cupboard in front of the door. I heard junkies outside and the place is crawling with shadows.

Transcript of the sixth and seventh page: Here's the super accurate perfect correctly scaled map by Pierre. I slept like crap and I got keys from him. He won't go there with me so I need to get in myself, I will use the door I wanted to ahem shatter at first. If anybody asks, I am a janitor.

Writing this in a parallel street again and I'm feeling anxious. So. The club Pierre said was full of goons is full of people. No kidding. There were dead security men on the floor, electronic music blasting, the blood wasn't dried out completely. The top floor was not to be reached by me, the stairs were stuffed with musical equipment. And I'm not touching anyone. I called the police anonymously and my plan is now as follows: i'll get myself a box that's fitting into the stage lights. The pawn shop should be suitable for that. I'll tell Pierre he can pick up the box at, let's say, the park. And I'm doing it for professional secrecy reasons. Like, what is he pitching it in exchange??

I'll get a box, go to Pierre, tell him to spit his information out, leave and never be seen again.

[sambvcks]

crawl home to her, b.b. x reader

chapter one // body’s working on empty

summary: bucky isn’t as receptive to this new life of his as everyone had hoped. he’s cold, sharp-tongued, and closed off. except to the tenant across the hallway from him, who always wears pajamas and bakes a dozen too many of his favorite cookies

warnings: food, nothing too bad this chapter!

word count: 1.5k-ish

author’s note: i thought my marvel phase ended five years ago...here we are again. i haven’t written in awhile so please be kind! title and chapter titles taken from hozier’s ‘work song’.

[ read on ao3 | series masterlist | inbox | join my taglist! ]

[ NEXT ]

Five minutes into their first session, Bucky decided he was going to make Dr. Raynor’s job as difficult as he possibly could.

It wouldn’t be an impossible task, seeing how this whole ordeal depended on him opening up and talking, two things that he had abandoned decades ago. Her unwavering stare was nothing more than a challenge, these fifty-minute sessions once a week were nothing more than a slight inconvenience to his lackluster day to day routine. He would play along, do whatever exercises she asked, and feign stability until he never had to see her again.

“Since this is our first session together, we’ll take it easy.” She promised with a forced upturn of her lips before whipping out her notebook.

Suddenly, it felt like he was encased in bulletproof glass in Berlin again. He remembered that the last time he had been forced into receiving psychiatric help, it hadn’t exactly gone to plan. His chin fell to his chest, hands wringing together as he thought of any excuse to request a different doctor. 

“Let’s begin.”

It was already getting too hot to wear leather gloves and his heavy jacket. New York’s heatwave was supposed to be the highest on record this year and while kids popped open fire hydrants in the street, Bucky would be settled on the hardwood floor in the back corner of his apartment, waiting.

Waiting for what, he wasn’t quite sure.

It was a fairly nice apartment, newly renovated and practically barren. Government issued and funded, of course, and he had spent the first night pulling the furniture from the walls to the center of the room in search of bugs and cameras. He found thirty-four, destroyed them under a rolling pin, and they hadn’t come to replace them. Message received.

The one thing he really liked about the apartment building were his neighbors. The price tag for a one bedroom was substantial to say the least and only older couples could really afford it. No children, no dogs, no outsiders. The only break from his undisturbed routine would be occasionally helping Mrs. Johnson down the hall carry her groceries as she struggled to get the door unlocked with her brittle hands.

They affectionately called him James and the older women were quick to get a hold of his arms, saying things like “They don’t make them like you anymore, James!”. He swallowed the bile prickling at the back of his throat as he nodded, and they moved on to telling him about their single granddaughters.

It was almost nice, his routine. Almost.

Outside of those small encounters, he spent most of his waking hours jogging in the park and cooking the same three meals. He had his appointment every Wednesday with Dr. Raynor, but that was it. He’d take two trains back to his apartment and wouldn’t emerge again until he needed groceries two days later.

It was when he was returning from one of his biweekly grocery trips, a paper bag settled on his hips, that he spotted you outside his door.

He stilled in the hallway, taking a quick step back to peek around the corner without being spotted. His breath stalled, his ears picking up your soft humming and the crinkle of plastic as you set a bundle of cookies at his doorstep, the only one without a mat. His eyes flicked to the other doors, where identical bags of cookies sat propped up, tied with blood red ribbons.

His shoulders relaxed. No threat.

The bottom of his grocery bag suddenly gave way, fruit rolling in every direction. Bucky fell to his knees, glove clad hands snatching up everything he could reach as quickly as he could manage. You were faster, though, and scooped up a plum that had rolled your way, offering it over as he tried to balance the rest of his groceries in his arms.

“Thanks.” He was quick to sweep past you, hand digging in his pockets for his key.

“James, right? Ms. Robinson downstairs is like, in love with you.”

“Yeah, but, uh-“ Dr. Raynor’s instructions from their last session rang in his head, as much as he tried to tune her out: make connections. “You can call me Bucky.” He cleared his throat. “And Mrs. Robinson is far too good for me.”

“Bucky it is then.” You trailed him down the hallway, “Y/N.”

Bucky tried to sneak a glance at you from the corner of his eyes, which was harder to inconspicuously do now that he had gotten a haircut and couldn’t hide his wandering eyes behind long tresses. Young was Bucky’s first thought. much younger than the other renters in the building. Bright was next, followed by much too smiley for a Tuesday morning.

Pretty, he admitted as he turned his back to unlock his door. Maybe in another life he would have lingered in the hall, his so-called effortless charm seeping through as you swooned at the very thought of a date with James Buchanan Barnes. But that life was long gone, and instead he rushed to retreat.

“Oh, don’t forget these.” You swooped down to collect the bundle of cookies you had left at his door, handing them to the hand that wasn’t delicately balancing the pile of groceries he still held against his impossibly broad shoulders. “Oatmeal raisin, super-secret family recipe.”

He was back in the doorway of his ma’s kitchen, watching his little sister balance on a wobbling stool as she struggled to crack and egg with her little fingers. He can so distinctly see the pale green of the cabinets, remember the fight his parents had when she begged for that shade of green while his dad had wanted white. Of course, she won.

“These are your brother’s favorite.” His ma whispered to his sister; her flour covered hands reaching for the age faded index card with their grandmother’s script detailing the ingredients. “Our family’s recipe. One day, you will make these for your children. And your children’s children.”

Rebecca, still so young and with a hatred for smelly boys deep in her bones, giggled at the mere thought as her fingers fished out the bits of eggshell that snuck their way into the bowl. She wiped it away on the spare apron tied twice around her waist, much too big for her. 

Bucky would never see her grow into it. He would be drafted only a few months later.

In the meantime, he would bundle half a dozen of them in a tea towel and split them with Steve on the walk to the movie theater. Steve would begrudgingly admit that Buck’s ma made the best cookies, but his made the best brisket. They’d sneak in through the back door and do it all again the next weekend, until they ran out of weekends together.

“Oatmeal raisin are my favorite.” He admitted, accepting your offering like a stray cat does to the first scrap of food from a stranger.

“I think you’re the only person under the age on one hundred to ever say that.” You teased, backing away to the door adjacent to his, “Anyway, don’t tell me things like that. I’m a stress baker and with finals coming up…” You winced at the image of the dozens of batches you would surely be whipping up in the coming weeks.

“Finals?”

“Law school, one semester left.” You fished your own keys from your back pocket. Bucky barely held in the scoff at the shiny Spider-Man keychain that dangled from your fingers. “You?”

“Oh, no. I haven’t been in school in what feels like…a century.”

“Well, I’m all alone here and as much as I would love to, I can’t eat everything that I bake. So, expect a few dozen muffins and cookies every few days.”

“No arguing from me, doll.”

You both lingered in the small hallway, only a few steps apart, each leaning against your respective doors. Keys in each hand, with no intention of using them any time soon.

“Law school, you said? How do you afford a place like this?” Bucky was sure he was the only recently pardoned fugitive under this room.

“Well, this used to be my grandma’s apartment and it was handed down to me in a maybe no so legal way. If the landlord asks, I’m an eighty-year-old woman who doesn’t know how to work her answering machine.”

He huffed a laugh, mostly because that wasn’t particularly far from how he felt with today’s tech. The flip phone that Dr. Raynor had described as archaic sat heavy in his back pocket with only three names programed into his contacts. Don’t get him started on his television.

“Nice to meet you, Bucky.”

With that, you each stepping into your respective apartments. Bucky stalled at his door for a moment, listening as you locked and dead bolted your door behind you. He sighed, dumping his half-ruined groceries on his barren kitchen island.

The next day, he’d have another appointment with Dr. Raynor. This time when he’d say I’m trying, as he did each week, it wouldn’t be a complete lie. His phone buzzed in his back pocket.

2 New Messages

From: Sam

You coming up this weekend?

Don’t ignore me this time. He’s getting worse, Buck.

[snezfics-n-shit]

Whumptober Day 29: Allergy

Fandom: Ace Attorney 

Characters: Godot, Simon Blackquill

Notes: Adjusting to life out of prison isn’t easy, but that’s what Simon is here for. If all goes well, Godot might just be interested in taking better care of himself after experiencing a distressingly long period of loneliness. Let’s be real, though, it’s Whumptober, why would anything go well? Also this is hella self-indulgent but that’s why I started doing this whole thing anyway :p 

“Today’s the day.” Godot held the largest of his three painted rocks with one hand. “They’re making me talk to a ‘real person’.” He said as if talking to someone living and breathing wasn’t exactly what he needed right now. The first month after his release, it was like everyone wanted to see him. Soon after, however, people returned to their uninterrupted busy schedules, hardly any of which included even a call. After a few months, the invitations dwindled until they came to a halt. 

The closest thing he had to socialization these days were his three therapy rocks and the cartoon owl spamming his phone after he gave up trying to learn Polish. If anyone asked him, though, he would insist it was adequate. Who needs to leave the house when there are three googly-eyed rocks to talk to? That owl could go soak its head, though. Godot was never that fond of birds anyway.

Godot was certain he could live with being alone so often. There were ways to pass the time without going out with others. He ordered a recorder and followed online tutorials on how to play it until he realized no one would be there to hear him perform besides his neighbors who had been kind enough not to complain. He even tried an exercise routine, but he was always left feeling winded to a point that just wasn’t worth it. For a while, he considered signing up for social media, and maybe he should have, but why would he want to log in everyday just to see people enjoying life without him? After all his methods of killing time grew boring, Godot found himself sleeping simply to get the day over with.

He could sit in solitude all day if it weren’t for that pounding on his apartment door interrupting his perfectly satisfactory quiet. He would say the buzzer existed for a reason, but he didn’t exactly want to answer that either. There was no choice, though. If he didn’t answer the door, he would surely be breaking some kind of fine print that required him to do so.

When he opened the door, Godot was convinced this had to be some sort of joke. In front of him was a man clad in black and white, looking more like a member of some kind of lousy rock band than someone sent by the criminal justice department. 

“Armando-dono, I’m-”

“No one under that name lives at this address.” Godot attempted to close the door in this stranger’s face. ‘Armando’ was bad enough, but whatever this ‘dono’ part was took the cake in making him want nothing to do with this man. 

“Sorry,” the stranger didn’t even struggle keeping the door open with the strength of his arm, “I briefly forgot your files say you want to be called Godot.”

‘Want to be called?’ What was that supposed to mean? Godot wasn’t some middle schooler wanting to be an anime character. This guy looked pretty close to that description, though.

“Go away.”

“I cannot do that.” The stranger let himself inside and slid off his shoes. “You would be in violation of the contract you signed when you were released.” Yup, there was that fine print. “My name is Simon Blackquill and I’ve been assigned as your, ah,” he looked down at a scrap of paper, “wellness companion.”

Wellness companion. What a joke. If he was really concerned about Godot’s wellness, he would leave him alone.

“I don’t want any wellness companions.” Godot tried shoving Blackquill out the door, but the man was too sturdy to even budge; not to mention Godot felt his nose start to run as he was pushing, and the last thing he was about to do was provoke this ‘wellness companion’ to wipe his nose for him. “You can go next door and offer whatever you’re selling there. Maybe recruit them for your cult or something, I don’t care.”

“The residents next door were not recently released from prison.” Blackquill slammed the door behind him, brushing off Godot’s pushing as he invited himself to one of the couches. He scribbled something on a notepad. “How often are you in this room?”

“All the time?” Why was that even a question? It’s called the living room for a reason. This whole ‘wellness companion’ bull was a joke. “Are you gonna ask if I sleep in the bedroom?”

“Actually, your amount of sleep is on the list, yes.” Blackquill flipped through the pages of his notes to pinpoint where that question was. “Can you tell me how much you sleep a night?”

“I’m good at that.” Godot sniffed. “Twelve hours a night, six hours a day. That enough for you to say I’m well enough to not need a ‘companion?’”

“That’s not healthy.” Blackquill frowned, even less convinced that Godot could be left alone even a day longer. He looked around the room, pleasantly surprised at how tidy the apartment was kept. That was a good sign, at least. “You’ve been taking out your rubbish regularly, I see.”

Rubbish? Was this guy British now?

“Well, yeah. I’m not some kind of slob. What do you take me for?” Godot pivoted to the side, nostrils flaring. “Ei’shCHH!” He rarely covered a sneeze adequately, but if this so-called companion was going to imply he had some kind of cleanliness problem, he wasn’t about to prove him right. 

“Bless you.” The ‘wellness companion,’ whatever that even meant, scribbled down some more notes. What was he even writing this time?

“You don’t have to do that. E’esshCHH!”

“Bless you again.”

“You some kind of priest?” Godot pressed his knuckles under his nose. “I knew this was a conversion thing.”

“No.” Blackquill offered a handkerchief from his pocket. “Are you catching cold?”

“It’s called ‘a cold,’ and no.” Godot was about to say his home was already abundant with tissues, only to realize that, no, the apartment was barren in that aspect. He begrudgingly plucked the offered piece of cloth, if only out of desperation. His sinuses only burned as he pressed it against his face. “Ii’ssSSH! I’sSHCHIH! What is this thing made of? Eh’ssHHIH!”

“Cloth?” Blackquill blinked as he watched the spectacle before him. “It’s washed with products specifically made for people with sensitivities.”

Sensitivities. Godot couldn’t think of a word that provoked such an image of weakness as ‘sensitivities.’  This man was making fun of him and he couldn’t even call him out for it because he was too busy sneezing. Godot didn’t have any proof but he would bet big money on Blackquill making this happen on purpose.

“You did something to- E’issSHHH! You did something to this.” Godot tossed the wet handkerchief at Blackquill, smirking when it hit him smack dab in his face. “For some weird, sick kicks.”

“Bloody--” Blackquill grimaced after the handkerchief fell off his face. Why did he offer his services for this again? He wasn’t being paid near enough. “I can assure you nothing like that happened.”

“Bull.” Godot scratched at his neck, already breaking out in hives. “Can you prove that?”

“No, I can’t.”  If Blackquill had his way, he might have just up and left, but he couldn’t bring himself to quit yet. “How about you clean yourself up and we start over? The sooner I finish this assessment, the sooner I can leave.”

“Why can’t you just write down that I’m doing great and you never need to come back? Here, I’ll do it for you.” Godot tried to grab for the notepad, foiled by Blackquill pulling it away. 

“I can’t let you do that.” Blackquill sighed through his nose. “Just go and take a shower. I’ll wait out here.”

There he went again, implying Godot’s cleanliness was- Oh. Godot felt the raised welts on his neck as he scratched at it again. A shower was actually a good idea.

. . .

    Blackquill appeared to have made himself too comfortable by the time Godot left the bathroom. He had already gone through at least five pages of notes and his jacket was dangling off the corner of the couch. It was likely psychosomatic, but just as Godot saw him in the living room again, he felt that burning sensation in the back of his nose he thought he would be rid of by now.

“Alright, let’s get this over with.” Godot made a light grunt as he sat himself on the couch perpendicular to where Blackquill sat. “We already went over how I’m not a slob and I sleep ‘too much.’”

“I’d like to ask about your caffeine consumption.” Blackquill clicked his pen. “Are you cutting back as recommended?”

“I guess.” Godot wasn’t lying, but his reduced coffee intake had more to do with being awake an average of only six hours a day than cooperating with health experts. He cleared his throat, making a noise similar to a growl. “What does that say about me?”

“This isn’t some kind of psychoanalysis, so it just says you’ve been making the recommended changes to your diet. Which reminds me, are you eating regularly? That is, when you’re awake?”

“Usually.”

Blackquill shook his head and scribbled some more notes.

“As for your overall health, would you-”

“E’essSHHH!”

“Bless you. Would you say you feel generally healthy?”

“I was, until whatever is going on right now.” Godot sniffled thickly. If it didn’t likely mean another unwanted visit happening in the future, he figured he could have easily played this up to have the apartment to himself again. “I don’t think I’ve felt this bad since that weeaboo came to prison with his stupid bird.” He muttered. 

“I beg your pardon?”

“The guy thought he was something special because they let him prosecute during his sentence. Probably also thought he was cooler than any other weeaboo because he watched samurai movies instead of anime like a normal person.”

Godot was so caught up in his rant that he didn’t notice Blackquill growing more uncomfortable by the second. He didn’t even see Blackquill’s look of sudden clarity just before starting to remove his coat from the sofa to put it somewhere out of the room.

“Hey!” Godot wiped his nose aggressively. He ran faster than he had in a long time just to stop Blackquill from proceeding any further. “If I have to keep you around, I guess I should take your coat.” 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Just let me do this!” He tugged the coat off Blackquill’s shoulders, unwittingly shaking off more irritants into the air. “Ei’ssCHIH! E’ssSHH! Eh’ssSHH!”

“That-” Blackquill was interrupted by a set of three more sneezes from Godot, who continued on his way hanging the coat. “Are you done?”

“Probably dot.” Godot settled on a paper towel from the kitchen to clean himself up with. It hurt like hell but he wasn’t about to use that handkerchief again. “But you were saying?” He coughed roughly into the uncomfortable, sandpaper-like material, followed by a long wheeze. 

“Nothing.” Blackquill looked down at his feet. “I think it’s best I go.”

“But you just got here!” As much as Godot would hate to admit it, there was satisfaction in having someone to just listen to him talk, particularly not another rock. “I took your coat and everything.”

“You don’t have to start pretending you want me around.” Blackquill stood upright and went to grab his coat without another word.

“What about your ‘assessment’ thing?”

“Consider it postponed and transferred to someone else.” 

“Someone else? Another complete stranger?” 

“Whoever it is would be a far better fit for you than I.”  

Godot watched Blackquill leave. He felt that damn dirty tugging in his stomach and chest once the door closed. He was surely desperate, wasn’t he? He had to be at potentially literal rock bottom if he already missed answering questions for a stranger he didn’t even like. 

He made a run for the cup where he kept some sharpies. Even though the paper towel he had used earlier was a little damp, there was still enough room to write something on it. Half his brain told him he would regret this, and maybe that was the right half, but he pressed the paper towel against the window Blackquill was sure to pass before leaving the area.

“Coffee sometime?”

[split-n-splice]

Now! I must mention, “If you leave, that's your choice, but I would like to not lose my car in the process.” ahahhaa

[Chapter Guide]

6. Enabler – 3

Reclined in a computer chair before the CCTV system, Shego had her feet kicked up on the desk and a magazine she’d already read front to back open on her lap when she heard the quiet tip-toe of Dr. Drakken’s descent down the staircase. In her peripheral, she saw him poke his head out from the stairwell, but she didn’t look up from the magazine.

It had been hours since the explosive demonstration, but he was wise to continue giving her a wide berth. A mumble announced his presence before he cautiously called out to her. She didn’t let her surprise show when the sheepish man awkwardly apologized for provoking her wrath.

Shego merely shrugged it off with a deceptively nonchalant grunt and flipped a page in her magazine. Following orders was in the job description after all, but didn’t remind him so.

Making a funny thoughtful sort of whine, the man drummed his fingers on the wall he was peeking out from behind. “I was beginning to have my doubts,” he dared to share. “But you made me proud out there. Fine work, Shego.”

It was an odd sort of congratulation and it didn’t sound natural at all. It didn’t do squat to comfort her, if that was the intent. She didn’t feel particularly proud of herself, no matter how nice it had felt at the time to lash out at men well deserving of the attention.

She didn’t have to tell or threaten Dr. Drakken to shut up. Her cold shoulder got that message across loud and clear without her moving a muscle.

Even if she didn’t so much as glance up at him, she could tell he was still daunted by the earlier flogging he’d incited, and was being careful to tread softly around her minefield temper, likely fearful of detonating her on himself. Shego didn’t like his cagey glances, but she took no action to assure him the threat had passed.

The man safely reached his desk and took a seat to tend to business she didn’t care to inquire on. He shuffled around behind her now and then, moving slow and trying to stay quiet. When Shego swiveled her chair to keep better tabs on him from the corner of her eye, he just about dropped a sack of paperwork he’d pulled from a filing cabinet tucked in a corner behind the desk. As if afraid to make any sudden movements, he moved at a snail’s pace as he returned to going about his business. He flipped pages, plopped stacks aside, hummed, scribbled, and highlighted for what felt like hours.

Shego didn’t move from her chair the entire time, nor did she look up to him. The longer she sat peacefully, the more he relaxed. She could tell that much when he gradually returned to his regular amount of huffs and sighs and grumbles. A mean little thought crossed her mind and almost made her smirk as she considered doing something – anything, like maybe shooting plasma into the crackling fireplace – to startle him, but she supposed watching her beat the daylight out of two big mean men may have frightened him enough for one day.

Sometime that evening, the man heaved a huge apathetic sigh as if to make an announcement and sat back at his desk. It certainly garnered her attention, and from the corner of her eye she could see him scrubbing his face. He slumped forward on the desk, groaning wretchedly into his hands before tossing his glasses aside entirely and rubbing his temples.

“I’m down to three henchmen now,” he said as if declaring defeat, head still in his hands.

Shego didn’t let her surprise show as she finally looked up from the magazine. She studied the man and his desk and concluded he’d been combing through records on his staff. His henchmen must have been garbage anyway if he was willing to forfeit more than half of his crew for her. Unless of course it was a big fat lie or he’d planned to sack them anyway to save a buck. She remained unmoved, sparing no remark.

“They’re good seeds, though,” Drakken added, sounding almost hopeful. Nonetheless, he whined as he stacked up papers and folders. “Nnng, that sounds so backwards. But! I’ll have you know, the worse they have on record are traffic violations and shoplifting. Happy now?”

Ignoring the question and his anxious stare as he awaited some sort of approval from her, Shego pulled her feet off the surveillance desk and stood to stretch. “I’m hungry,” she answered dully instead. “Are you going to take me out for Chow, or do I have to steal your keys? Because I’m not having canned soup again and I don’t trust the cafeteria grub anymore.”

Glasses back on his nose, Drakken frowned across the room at her, but after a moment he gave a yielding rumble and slumped back in his chair to root around in a pocket of his slacks. He pulled his car key off the ring and tossed it across to her, carping, “Don’t make me regret this,” as she caught it.

Shego arched an eyebrow at him, even as she gravitated toward the stairwell. “Aren’t you coming?” she called over, just a tiny bit perplexed as he went back to shuffling paperwork around.

The man grunted dismissively. “No. I have work to do.”

“Oh. Okay,” Shego muttered, taken aback. She looked down to the key and back to him, and to the door beyond him leading into the henchmen’s domain. “Are you assigning me an escort or…?” Or was he actually letting her go alone?

“Do you need a sitter?” he retorted, and shook his head. “Go. Do whatever you’re going to do, just be back by morning.” He gave a wave to dismiss her.

She should have been happier to be given such slack and the key to the ride. Though she really hadn’t been kept on any kind of leash since her arrival, she realized as she left. There wasn’t a single thing keeping here but reluctance to just walk off into the unknown.

And now she had the key to Dr. Drakken’s SUV – but in light of his indifference, the drive to do something unruly was markedly absent. She gave it her consideration, but the freedom to go have a night on the town wasn’t so tempting. She had a funny suspicion that even if she did cause a stir with the law tonight, she might only earn a pat on the back for getting away with it – because she knew she would.

She kept Dr. Drakken’s rule of thumb in mind: don’t stir trouble in one’s own neighborhood. With that voice of reason nagging her all the way, Shego didn’t do anything more rebellious than smoke in his rig and ignore a stop sign. She could have snuck into a pub, or found some shady back-alley deal to make or bust, or gone to see a movie without paying. She considered dining and dashing somewhere nice, but the thought of dining alone didn’t appeal to her for reasons that disgusted herself.

In the end, she swung by a Cow-n-Chow drive-thru to order two meal combos so she wouldn’t seem so…so what? Pathetic? Because she was alone? It was a damn drive-thru for crying out loud. The underpaid staff couldn’t care less if she bought one meal or enough for the whole crew. Shego scoffed to herself as she drove back to the hillside lair, something miserable curling in her stomach. With four brothers, and having been in charge of two since they were in diapers, she could barely remember being as alone as she felt now.

She caught herself wondering for a moment what Dr. Drakken would do if she never came home – although where she’d go, she didn’t know. Probably back to Go City. Would he hunt her down, or just write her off and let her go? He hadn’t sought vengeance on her for past transgressions, so she’d bet her money on the latter.

And then she cringed. Not in a million years could that dingy lair be called a home. She’d only been there two weeks, and the place was dark and cold and kind of damp and a far cry from welcoming. It wasn’t a home by any means. It was only a place to crash and a roof over her head. It was a lair – a safehouse, a crucial part of keeping a low profile.

There was a nation-wide search for her. The hideout was necessary, even if it was a burrow set in the side of a sorry little mountain half-scorched by a past wildfire. Running off and never coming back was lackluster. She’d already done that.

Left alone with her unwelcomed thoughts, they involuntarily drifted back to why she’d ever skipped town in the first place. Why there was a manhunt for her. What she’d done to her big brother. He might be a big softy and let it slide – it was an accident, one he’d brought upon himself no less – but the organization he worked under was guaranteed to be less understanding. A full pardon was a fantasy. There was no way they’d take her back with open arms after what she’d done. Going back would mean atoning for her actions. Even if she wasn’t imprisoned for attempted homicide, she’d still be going back to the same life on a tight leash she’d just abandoned.

She could ditch Dr. Drakken and his lair whenever she wanted. She could live on the lam like any ordinary runaway.

Yet she returned to the lair.

Stealing Dr. Drakken’s car tonight had lost its appeal anyway. Maybe some other time.

The gangly henchman manning the gate was hasty and bumbling. He kept his head down and avoided looking up to her as he let her through, tripping as he pushed the gate open. She couldn’t help smiling bitterly to herself, content as could be with his healthy fear of her.

The cool subterranean lair was a welcoming respite from the evening heat, but the paper sack she gripped was starting to lose its warmth as she made her way downstairs.

She announced her entry with a flat, “Knock, knock,” which was enough to startle Dr. Drakken still stationed in his office, but then he was right back to work, thoroughly engrossed in an unusually compact desktop computer she suspected he’d built from scrap. He jerked back when she dropped a brown sack of Chow in front of him on the desk. She’d already had her dinner back in the car, not that he’d find any evidence of it to chide her over.

As she came around his desk, Shego smiled to herself again, content with the knowledge he let her get away with so much more than her family ever did. Polar opposite of them, he actually encouraged thrilling little hobbies like thieving and roughing people up, so long as it wasn’t inconveniencing. He was a bad influence if she ever knew one, not that she needed much of a push.

She perched on an available armrest of his chair, watching him brush the food aside to get colder as he resumed clacking away at the keyboard. Eyeing his slumped shoulders, a ludicrous notion from earlier escaped the lockbox.

She didn’t have a chance to run it by herself a second time when she abruptly leaned over. She wouldn’t exactly call it a hug – more like just leaning on his back in a piss-poor show of appreciation, because wrapping her arms around him in a full embrace sure as hell wasn’t happening.

Dr. Drakken tensed. He might as well have been carved from stone like the rest of the lair.

Shego didn’t dare let herself indulge in the notion that he smelled almost nice, but in a huffing-fumes sort of way from whatever fuels or grease that had rubbed off on his jacket, or whatever he used to slick back his hair – because she was shoving herself away from him the moment an unwarranted lurch in her chest caused her to warm over.

Inwardly berating herself to never do that again, Shego ended the awkward contact as suddenly as she’d initiated it, though it was a mistake to let a hand linger on his shoulder for a moment too long to give it a squeeze, hoping it might convey her thanks.

She squeezed her unintentionally warm hands between her knees as she glared to the crackling fireplace, taking measured breaths as she willed the heat to leave her face. As desperately as she wished she could bury what goodness remained in her heart six feet under and in a lockbox for the sake of turning a new leaf and taking the whole evil gig seriously, that wasn’t happening. She wasn’t a hero, but she wasn’t inhuman either. She could at least work on being inhumane, and that meant not doing stupid things like trying to hug someone to show gratitude, or whatever had been behind the impulse.

It took Dr. Drakken clearing his throat before she slipped away from the armrest, taking the brusque cue to back off. Without a word, she left him grimacing and his face a funny shade as she strode off quietly to hole herself up in her room for the night.

She left whatever had transpired behind her as she focused on getting herself into bed, knocking back a shot of cold medicine knock herself out early for the night to escape overthinking.

She was late to rise the next day, and the worst thing to plague her mind was the ingrained anticipation of being chided for sleeping in. The dread nagged at her as she suited up and combed her hair quickly, hastily making herself presentable, only to find Drakken wasn’t in the lab, or even down in his office. The surveillance feed indicated activity out in the garage that doubled as a scant hangar.

A deadpan stare was fixed on her face as she moseyed in, ready to face the day and Dr. Drakken with the futile hope she would be tasked with something more engaging than watching surveillance feed again.

She slowed her pace halfway to the chief overseeing today’s project, something about his posture raising a warning to proceed with caution. Two of the remaining henchmen took notice of her, but then ducked their heads and avoided eye contact like guilty children. One man sat on a stack of tires, and the other stood at attention to lend a listening ear to Drakken’s low chatter.

The men were gathered in the midst of a mess of dismantled aircraft, and Shego had barely stepped foot into the ring of clutter when she paused at the boss’s rising tone.

“If you’re missing the parts, THEN GO GET THEM!” roared Dr. Drakken with a stern point to the door, and even Shego flinched. The abrupt ferocity was startling, but it in the same vein it was reassuring that he might very well pull off fearsome dictator one day. The men booked it, Dr. Drakken shoving one of the goons as he passed.

The chief whipped around and was about to storm right by her as if she were invisible when Shego piped up. “What’cha need? Maybe I could get it,” she offered, trying not to sound so desperate for something to do. Something exciting, preferably.

The frustrated man snorted. “Please,” he scoffed. “I need a whole new jet. The most these imbeciles know about aerodynamics is paper planes, and I’ve seen children fold better.”

Shego wondered inwardly why the know-it-all didn’t just get his own hands dirty and build a jet himself if he needed one that badly. He certainly had enough scrap lying around for one. Maybe even two. A fanciful thought crossed her mind as she eyed the scavenged remains, and she couldn’t help muttering thoughtfully to herself, “I can fly a jet.”

Before she could dismiss the notion, Drakken was scoffing in her direction, shooting her a displeased frown before turning back to head for his lab. “Very funny, Shego,” he groused. “Next you’re going to tell me you’re the Easter Bunny.”

Well, she had put out baskets and hidden eggs for kids before – but he didn’t need that information.

“No, really,” she insisted, taking long strides to keep up with his brisk pace. “I mean, I’m not licensed, but my brother had special authorization, and I copiloted a lot with him the past year, and I actually—,” she clamped her running mouth shut abruptly, realizing she may have let slip too much. Divulging Team Go information like her illicit copiloting might have been just a little too traitorous for her just yet.

Drakken was flapping a hand in blatant disregard anyway. “Bullbuttons. There’s no way a kid can fly a jet,” he said arrogantly, not buying it for one moment.

Shego paused and scowled at his back. Kid comment aside, she was offended that he didn’t believe her. But then again, she supposed it was a farfetched thing to believe. There was no denying she was a tad young to know how to fly – but so what? He knew she was no ordinary girl, so he ought to know not to hold her to ordinary standards.

Still glaring, Shego turned away without adding to the argument.

She’d show him.

++X++

Dr. Drakken hadn’t noticed the newcomer had left his side until he was crossing the threshold into the foyer, at which point he heard the sudden rev of an engine and the squeal of tires spinning out. Whipping around, his eyes flew wide and he patted his pockets to feel for his keys, but as he watched his favorite set of wheels barrel out of the garage, he came to the stark realization that the new recruit had never returned his car key last night.

“Stop her!” he bellowed, but the bumbling idiots racing back to him were a moment too late. Reprimand was in store for the oaf who’d left the damn gate open. There was nothing more he could do as she floored it off the premises and down the gravel driveway with a trail of dust in her wake.

Drakken ordered for someone to put keys in his hand immediately, and thus he commandeered the car of the nearest henchman and sped out of the garage in a little red Beetle, but it was no use. The secondhand car was no match for the disobedient subordinate when she had such a head start. In his haste to cut her off, he made the mistake of trying to take a shortcut down Main Street to meet her at the highway out of town, only to get himself stuck in untimely morning traffic.

Defeat was bitter. He should have known better.

Sighing heavily in frustration and shoving his glasses up his forehead, Drakken leaned on the door and rubbed his eyes as he waited for a red light to turn green.

The clown accompanying him had the nerve to speak up. “Uh, boss? What just happened?” asked the henchman.

To which Drakken could only growl out something indiscernible through his teeth. He wasn’t completely sure what had just happened himself, but he could take a guess. Chasing after her was a lost cause at this point, so he grudgingly pulled a U-turn to head back.

He prowled back through the lair to the landline in his kitchen and waited at the counter with a frown creasing his brow deeper by the second as he waited for the call to be answered. The first attempt yielded zero result, so he tried again, and on the very last ring, Shego finally picked up the cell phone he’d graciously gifted her last week.

“Yeah, what is it?” she snapped harshly on the other end before he could get a word in. “Kinda busy here.”

“Shego, just what do you think you’re doing?” he demanded through grit teeth.

“You wanted a jet. I’m jacking you a jet.”

He really couldn’t tell if she was being serious, but the implications of jet theft crossed his mind regardless. “You are going to get yourself killed, more like it,” he retorted.

“Aw, worried about me? That’s so touching,” she jeered, and he heard her feign a gag.

Questions stormed in his brain – like where she planned to get a jet, how she planned to pull it off, how the hell would he get his car back – but none of them made it out of his mouth before she spoke again.

Her scathing tone eased to something more playful at least. “This job don’t come without risks, Dr. D. Don’t worry about little ol’ me,” she said, and Drakken found himself grimacing as her mischievous chuckle met his ear. Did she think this was a joke?

“Oh, I will,” Drakken mumbled. He dreaded whatever she was scheming. Her safety was of some concern, but first and foremost, it couldn’t mean anything good for him if she got herself busted. There was the doubt as well that stealing a jet was just a ruse. What if she’d duped him? So soon after firing all but three of his men, the worry of losing her and all her potential danced on his nerves.

There was a pause, and he wasn’t sure if he should take the chance to lecture her for the brash decision or beg her to turn around, but Shego beat him to it.

“Drakken, I need you to trust me,” she pleaded coolly, and something in her tone almost persuaded him to do just that. “Don’t be tracking me, don’t try to follow me, just…stay out of my way – and don’t call me. I got this. ‘Kay?”

Before he could agree or disagree, she hung up.

He hadn’t a way to track her anyway, he realized unhappily. He didn’t have her chipped, nor did he have his rig bugged either.

All he could do was accept that if he lost her, he lost her. And if she returned, then great. But if she didn’t, he was out several henchmen and one priceless reckless subordinate. He sourly acknowledged that she wasn’t much of a subordinate if she was going to be running off on her own accord like this. Shego was quickly making herself into more of an accomplice he wielded very little control over, if anything.

[evilsnowswan]

Summary: [Rumbelle Mermaid!AU] based on this prompt by repeatinglitanies: “In a world where people are aware of the existence of mermaids, Belle is a mermaid who lives in the world’s largest aquarium along with other sea creatures. She enjoys looking at the little humans who come to visit, especially a floofy haired boy who comes every week with his father….” An injured Belle is captured and brought to Gold and Milah’s aquarium. Gold is a marine biologist dedicated to protecting the creatures there, Milah wants to turn a profit, and their son has his own ideas about how to befriend a mermaid.

Rating: G/Teen Link to full story: [Read on AO3] Previous Chapters: [Coverart][Chapter 1][Chapter 2][Chapter 3][Chapter 4][Chapter 5][Chapter 6][Chapter 7][Chapter 8][Chapter 9][Chapter 10][Chapter 11][Chapter 12][Chapter 13][Chapter 14][Chapter 15][Chapter 16][Chapter 17][Chapter 18]

Current Chapter: 19/? Chapter Summary: Gold learns something new about Indigo. And about himself.

Chapter 19: Power

Whatever he thought about the Mills Foundation, or rather the representatives he’d met, they delivered, and they delivered fast. It was true that most problems could not be solved simply by throwing money at them, but the foundation’s money and connections had absolutely something to do with the shiny prototype he was looking at right now.

“And you got the idea from your work with… vets?” Gold asked, looking round at the man who had brought the large silver case. While the case was plain and ordinary, not warranting a second glance or a turned head on the streets, the man was everything but. He had to be around Gold’s age, maybe a little younger, but dressed like a man from another era. His getup reminded Gold of someone from the theatre or the cabaret; entirely too much detail, expensive fabrics, and deep colors.

“Something like that, yes.”

The man had introduced himself as Tailor, but Gold wasn’t sure if that was his last name, given name, or his occupation.

“We sometimes work with veterans.”

Gold nodded. “And it won’t be too heavy? Slow her down in the water?”

Tailor briefly looked up from the loose piece of thread he’d been examining. “Drag effect? Unlikely. It’s light as a feather.” He waved a hand at the case, then resumed studying the place on his sleeve where a button had gone missing, or maybe a cufflink.

“That’s… good.”

Gold waited for Tailor to elaborate, to tell him more about the wondrous device he had brought, or at least ask about the Med wing’s expensive equipment, like he was used to whenever he brought outsiders in, but the man remained silent and focused on his shirt.

“Is it… safe? I mean, can we try and put it on her? Or will you have to…”

“Made to measure brace. Don’t need me there.” Tailor gave a half smile and let go of his sleeve to wiggle his fingers. “Should fit like a glove. And if not—” he let his hand do the talking, directing Gold’s attention back to the open case on the table in front of them. “Adjustable straps and buckles.”

“Right.” Gold shifted his weight. “How much?”

“Pardon?”

Gold drew a deep breath and cleared his throat. Tailor buttoned his coat.

“I’m not sure we can afford this,” he admitted, feeling familiar embarrassment flooding his cheeks. In all those years, the knot in his stomach and the heat in his cheeks had stayed the same. “What range are we talking here?”

“Pfft, paper and coinage.” Tailor waved his concerns away and reached for his top hat in the same extravagant move. “It’s a gift.”

Gold blinked, feeling his jaw drop before he clenched it and ground his teeth. If there was anything he hated more than being skint, it was begging alms. They did not need handouts.

“In my experience, life comes with a price.”

“True, true.” Tailor nodded along gravely, then spun his hat enthusiastically. “But this,” he nodded at the case and clapped his hands. “is a gift.” His grin widened as Gold’s eyes narrowed. “Your un-birthday. Or hers.” He shrugged. “Don’t shoot the messenger.”

There was silence for a moment as Gold digested the news. It was too good to be true. There had to be a catch.

“And? You’ll leave it in exchange for…?”

He knew he was being rude, but he had too much life experience to bite.

“Updates,” Tailor said finally. “Management wants updates on the mermaid.” He spun his hat again, then put it back on his head. “Or the brace. Or the brace on the mermaid. Something like that.”

“Ah.” The tight feeling in his chest let up. Now they were talking. “Will a monthly report suffice?”

“Weekly.” Tailor gave him a knowing look. “The powers that be like to read.”

Gold grimaced, but, after a beat, held out his hand. Tailor eyed it curiously.

“Sale or return,” he said, winking. “You like it, you buy it. Then you can spin her royal highness some… tales.”

Gold frowned. “Come again?”

Tailor laughed, but it was a humorless laugh and it left his face harder than before. “Don’t mind me,” he said. “Just… watch out for that mermaid of yours.”

The words prickled at the back of Gold’s neck, and he took a moment to replay them in his mind to see what was wrong with them, but he could not detect anything bad, anything tangibly… off.

The whole money thing had rubbed him the wrong way and put him on edge. That was it. This was a business transaction. One he had insisted on handling himself. And so he would.

“Certainly.” he said, putting feeling into the word. “Her well-being is our main concern. And your… brace will help improve that, I’m sure.”

Hands in his pockets, Tailor nodded. “Let them know what you think.” He touched the brim of his hat, hesitated, then held out his hand.

Gold threw out his own again, only to notice the business card held between two fingers. He coughed slightly, then pocketed it without looking at it.

“If… there’s any trouble—” Tailor said, taking off his hat in a small bow.

“Thank you, Mr. … Tailor. We’ll let you know if we have any problems with the… uh, device.”

“At your disposal, Mr. Gold.”

***

After the visitor was gone, Gold pushed the case to the wall and logged onto the computer to take another look at the video footage of Indigo swimming. They, that was his wife, had sent it to the foundation - along with Indigo’s measurements, medical history, and copies of Dr. Whale’s reports. He had not liked it, but it had gotten them a custom made tail brace in record time.

Milah had explained to him that the Mills foundation had old ties with the military, which allowed them access to certain resources and personnel. None other than Ethel Montgomery herself had pointed them out to her daughter during her stay at Montgomery Manor. Another fact that didn’t sit well with Gold, but which he had to accept for the greater good: his goal to help Indigo as soon as possible.

Gold sighed heavily as he watched Indigo struggle against the artificial waves.

Just when he clicked to pause the video, a new email popped up, and he frowned, recognizing Milah’s name on his screen. Were they back to communicating via email only, sending messages from one office at the aquarium to another? No, she had forwarded a recent message from the Mills Foundation. The text wasn’t long, thanking them for their time, congratulating everyone involved on the great business decisions made, more of the usual hogwash, and finally, expressing hopes of continued successful cooperation in the near future.

Gold only skimmed the message, then stopped to look at the attached files more closely. They were instruction manuals. Furrowing his brow, he opened the first document, surprised to find a drawing of the brace and sock, detailing every screw and scrap of material used and giving instructions on assembly, use, repair and storage.

With a groan, he pushed up from his chair to drag the case towards the desk and popped it open. He was a hands-on guy; and touching what he was looking at would allow him to connect the dots a little faster.

He had just concluded that he’d acquainted himself fairly well with the metal-made monstrosity and put it back in its case, when the door to the Med wing gave a shrill beeping sound - access denied - and the intercom hissed.

“Papa?!” The voice panted audibly, gulping down air. “It’s me. Uh…”

Shaking his head and grinning, Gold walked over to hit the door to press the buzzer and let his son enter.

“Is it here? Can I see it? Mama said…” Bae was out of breath, his face flushed and eyes wide. He had probably run the entire way.

Gold chuckled. “Good afternoon to you too, son.”

“Hi, Papa.” Bae quickly threw his arms around Gold’s waist and hugged him. “Is it done? Is it ready?”

“Oh hold on, can’t a man sit back down and catch his breath for one minute, before you start bombarding him with questions?”

Bae stepped back, almost glaring, which made Gold laugh. “Alright. Yes, it’s in here.”

Bae took the case and pulled it closer to the desk, attempted to lift it, then decided to open it on the floor.

“Wow!”

“Careful now, my boy.” Gold hurried over to sink back into his chair and watch as his son tentatively reached out to touch the metal brace and stroke the soft sock. Wide-eyed, he looked up at his father.

“This is the same stuff we use for humans,” Gold explained, remembering what he had read. “It’ll protect the skin and slide around her tail.”

Bae nodded. “They use this for soldiers. When they’re injured.” His eyes flickered to Gold’s bad leg. “To help them walk again.”

“Yes.”

“Feel it, Papa! It’s so soft. What’s it made from?” Bae’s little hands went up and down the sock again. “Do you think she’ll like it? How do we put it on? Will she have to wear it all the time? Like, when she sleeps? Can she swim normal with it? Is it…”

Gold held up a hand, smiling. “We will see,” he said, concern already gnawing at the back of his mind.

“What’s it made from?” Bae asked again, lifting the sock from the case and feeling its weight in his hands.

Gold cleared his throat. “It’s a silicone elastomer. Took them a couple tries to get just right, make it soft as a baby seal’s arse.” He laughed at Bae’s incredulous look. “They say it’s saltwater proof and should stick to her scales, easy.”

Bae stuck his arm inside the sock and wiggled his fingers. “I dunno,” he said. “Feels like seatbelt.”

Gold raised a brow.

“It’s gonna rub!” Bae clarified, rubbing at his neck. “She’s going to hate it if it rubs.”

“We’ll make sure it doesn’t,” Gold smiled, thinking to himself that it would probably be fine once the sock was wet. Bae had always been a child who winced at new clothing, needed all the tags cut out just so, and who had thrown screaming fits whenever they had tried to wrestle him into knitwear as a toddler — until they had abandoned the idea of wool on the boy entirely.

Bae looked doubtful.

“You could help, if you like?” Gold offered. “I’m meeting Miss Lucas and Indigo at the pool in a bit, so she can try it on and see how it feels.”

“I know!” Bae squealed. “I want to come!”

Gold pointed a finger at him. “So that’s why you raced up here like a bull shark was chasing after you.”

“Mama told me.”

“I see.” Gold winked.

Bae carefully replaced the sock, then turned to his father. “Papa?” He hugged his knees. “Is… is she going to die? If she doesn’t wear it?”

“Don’t worry, son.” Gold reached out and ruffled Bae’s curls. “Nothing’s going to happen to Indigo.” He shifted in his seat, leaning on his thighs. “The brace, it’s… just a tool to help her swim better.”

Bae scrunched up his nose and rubbed at it, his eyes watery as he held Gold’s gaze.

“You know, like your retainer.”

“Huh?”

“When you put on your retainer at night, it tells your teeth how to grow in the right direction, right?” Gold waited until Bae nodded. “This brace is going to tell Indigo’s tail muscles how to swim properly.”

“But she’s a mermaid. She knows how to swim.”

“Yes, she does. But when she was hurt, well, she taught herself to swim with a wiggling motion side to side—” Gold made the motion with his hands.”—like a snake.”

Bae nodded again. He had seen Indigo swim that way and compared her to a lizard.

“Or a lizard. But that’s not how mermaids are supposed to swim and it’s hurting her back. We were worried she could end up paralyzed, and since there are no wheelchairs for mermaids, we asked really smart people—”

“The Mills Foundation?”

“Yes, we asked the Mills Foundation for help and they made her this brace to make sure she’s going to be ok.”

Bae let go of his knees. “How does it work?”

“The brace?” Gold gestured at the case and motioned for Bae to close it. “Well, they designed it so that her tail moves up and down again.”

“But how?”

“By putting slight pressure on the right spots.”

“Yeah, but how does that work, Papa?”

Gold sighed internally. “You’ll see when we attach it. How about we pack this up and head downstairs? We can stop by Granny’s on the way. I hear there are waffles with two scoops of vanilla ice cream and our names on them.”

Bae scrambled to is feet and beamed. “Okay.”

***

The prosthetic designer hadn’t lied. They really had used the finest materials, durable but flexible. The sock was indeed soft to the touch, the joints flexible enough so it should feel natural, or at least as natural as a brace made from metal and screws could feel.

Indigo, however, didn’t look convinced.

They were on a submerged platform in the reef tank, the area once again closed off to the public, and had slipped on the sock (it had a hole for her fin, but they had had to roll it up a bit to make it slide through). Then they carefully attached the brace. Indigo had let them do it after examining the squishy soft material first and then eyeing the brace warily, but now her brow was furrowed and her teeth had come down hard on her bottom lip.

“Hey,” Gold tipped up her chin. “It’s okay. You’ll see.” He smiled at her.

“Yeah, and don’t worry if it itches a little,” Bae said, tugging on his life jacket. “We’ll fix that.” He too gave her a warm smile and Gold noticed chocolate sauce on his chin.

“Indigo?” Miss Lucas waved to catch Indigo’s eye, then pointed at her still tail in the water. “Move it for me?” She gestured with her palm held out flat. “Tail up, tail down. Tail up, tail down. Up and down.”

Lying flat across the platform, Indigo moved her tail up and down.

“Up… and down.”

Indigo glided off the platform and began to swim as intended, flapping her tail up and down.

Gold felt his heart rate pick up, a cautious grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

He spotted the look of utmost concentration on her face seconds before it morphed into disgust and dismay, as Indigo swam around the pool, quickly looking harried.

“Indigo? Come back here,” Miss Lucas’ beckoning call fell on deaf ears. Beating her tail from side to side, Indigo thrashed in the water.

“No, Indigo! —”

Indigo bashed the tail brace against the side of the pool.

“She doesn’t like it!” Bae exclaimed, pointing and grabbing Gold by the arm. “Get it off her!”

Miss Lucas sat up on her knees. “Indigo! Stop!”

Indigo huffed, then did it again, pounding her tail against the side until the brace broke off in pieces and the metal began to sink.

“Indigo. No. … Damn,” Miss Lucas breathed. “I didn’t… I didn’t do anything.”

Bae folded his arms with a frown and Miss Lucas looked on with grim resignation as Indigo reached for the sock, tugged on it vigorously and finally managed to shake her tail partially free, causing her fluke to collapse like a sushi roll.

Dismayed, Gold dragged a hand across his face. He shook his head. “What are you doing, sweetheart?” He made to untangle himself from Bae’s renewed grip and let himself sink into the water to come to her rescue.

“Indigo?”

Indigo squeaked and dove under, reaching for the metal brace. She doggy paddled towards him and pushed the brace over.

He took it and briefly looked round at the others, before turning his attention back to her.

“That’s quite alright, sweetheart,” he said, palms up, and willing concern to the back of his mind, put a reassuring smile on his face. “Not to worry. You’re not to worry. We’ll have that sorted out in no time. It’s okay—”

He took her hand and gently guided her to the platform. “Let’s just have a look, shall we?” he cooed, patting the platform, and Indigo lifted her tail onto it. “Okay, here we go. — Miss Lucas? A hand?” 

***

They had taken the strange instrument away and not bothered her with it again until a few sunrises later. Belle didn’t much fancy the clammy feeling of the odd thing’s umbrella as it sucked on her scales, and the skeletal trap wasn’t exactly painful on her tail, but not comfortable either, and it restricted her movement considerably, so she could not understand why the airlings wanted it on her.

She refused to let them attach it to her again and after a couple tries, also shut down any and all conversation on the topic.

The airlings didn’t pressure her or force it on her, but she could tell it stayed on their minds, and so Belle wasn’t surprised when, one night, her airling brought it up again.

They were alone in the place she had been on her first night here, and he sat by the water silently and motionless, watching her out of the corner of his eye. He looked so heartbroken then that she just had to swim over to inquire what was the matter, and if there was anything she could do about it.

To her surprise, he got up and returned with a picture of the instrument. When he showed it to her, his hands shook. She stared at the picture, wondering at the many symbols and the lines that connected them to the drawing.

Why was this so important to him? Belle frowned, then pouted, as she touched his arm. What was the point of trapping her in the uncomfortable thing? Why couldn’t he just drop it?

He shook his head and patted her hand as if to say, it’s okay, you don’t have to, but I’d really wish you’d change your mind.

Before she could do anything else, he had gotten to his feet and left through the opening in the wall without so much as another glance at her.

Belle worried her lip. Had she offended him somehow? Was he angry with her? Was this about the instrument or something else?

She had noticed that both the airling and Jumper Girl seemed more reserved ever since she had rejected their instrument. Her little airling friend hadn’t come round to see her in days. His mother came to bring her snacks sometimes, but she didn’t linger long, just left a box or bucket by the platform.

Belle started to circle the pool. Had it been a mistake to express her dislike of the instrument so freely? She was sorry for breaking it. Could they all still be mad at her about that? Maybe if they gave it to her again, she could try and fix it? She had nimble fingers and could probably figure out how, if they gave her enough time and the right tools.

Just when she had managed to work herself into a state, all hope of sleep long gone, the airling returned.

Belle squinted at him in the bluish dark.

Something about him was different.

He approached slowly and it took her a moment to realize that it was his gait that had changed his whole demeanor so drastically.

When he was close enough for her to hear, he uttered a greeting, but the sound came out strained and clipped, like it took him too much effort to walk and speak at the same time.

Belle rubbed at her eyes, willing them to work better in the semi-darkness, and leaned forward, pressing her hands down on the edge of the platform, her mind half made up to push herself out of the water and meet him halfway. Had something happened? Was he… hurt?

She drew in a sharp breath.

“Indigo.” He finally stepped onto the platform, shoulders bent, hands on his knees, and breathing heavy, which did nothing to dispel the sinking feeling that seemed to cut off Belle’s own air supply.

He pointed at his leg and Belle followed his hand with her eyes, gasping again as they landed on the intended target. His leg was caught in the instrument! How had he managed to get trapped in the thing?! She reached out to touch it, to yank him free, realizing halfway there that it wasn’t the same instrument at all. This one was smaller and missing the sucking umbrella underneath.

Belle gazed up at him, confused.

He smiled weakly, then mumbled something that might have been words of encouragement to himself, and she looked on as he laid his hands on the platform and slowly maneuvered down into a press-up position. Wincing in pain, he kneeled on his free leg and reached out one hand to touch her cheek, gently stroking the soft curve of it, cupping her face in his palm.

Feeling her stomach drop out, then flip flop, Belle followed it under, diving in place, before she poked her head above water again. Feeling his eyes on her, she dipped her hot head beneath the surface and turned upside down so that the end of her tail and her fin poked up out of the water next, showing him her shiny scales, twirling and making her fin flop to this side and that, before she let it hit the water with a splash.

When she came back up after, her face was still burning, and she hoped he was too busy sorting his limbs finding a comfortable sitting position on the platform, to ask her what the halibut’s gill plate she was doing.

Biting her lip, Belle studied his weak leg and the instrument encasing it from the safe distance of the water. Now that he sat breathing normally and smiling at her, the tightness in her chest loosened enough for her to notice that it wasn’t the instrument that was hurting it. It had already been hurt, requiring him to lean on a piece of elegantly carved wood more times than not to reach optimum travel speed. He didn’t seem to need it now, and Belle began to wonder if that was due to the instrument; if helping his leg was it’s true purpose.

If that was true, however....

She swam up to him, intent on inspecting his leg instrument more closely, but got sidetracked when, after a few moments of her running her fingers over it, he started running his own over her skin, stroking up and down her arm slowly and gently, with the light pressure of only one fingertip.

Belle stopped what she was doing, frozen in awe, following the tickling sensation from her fingertips to her elbow, up to her shoulder, and down her neck. His touch tingled in her chest and belly, leaving an unknown sting just below her middle. Somewhere between a tickle and a bite, it made her squirm and shudder involuntarily as heat radiated from it.

With a breathless gasp, she withdrew, then reached for his hand, allowing their fingers to intertwine.

She licked her lips, not recognizing her own heartbeat anymore. His gaze was intense but gentle, flooding her with warm currents from head to fin.

Finally, the tingling and stinging became too much and Belle broke contact. Without meaning to do it, she went under, somersaulting beneath the surface, then went to float belly up on the water, letting it support her weight. She just needed a moment to gather her senses, slow down the rushing and roaring within her. What had this been about anyway? Why was he here?

The instrument. Right.

It floated back into her consciousness, and Belle made a decision on the spot. She mentally felt around for her tail, turned, and swam back up to him.

“Indigo?”

She nodded at his leg. Then lifted her fin out of the water and placed it on the platform. She pointed at it, then at his leg, and back again, and a ray of hope seemed to spark and ignite in his eyes as he grinned from ear to ear.

***

Heart pounding in his ears, Gold wheeled in the case and opened it, kneeling on the platform. They had long fixed the brace, but he had decided not to bother her with it again until she was ready.

Getting out his own brace had been both a stroke of genius and a mean, manipulative trick, but, thankfully, it had worked. The old thing had proven useful for more than just gathering dust in the back of his closet at last. Apparently, it could also be used to convince skeptical mermaids.

“You ready?” He looked over at Indigo, who was dutifully waiting for him by the platform.

At his signal, she heaved herself out of the water, rolling until she lay flat on her back, gazing up at him as he kneeled beside her. He half managed to convince himself that it was the darkness rather than his presence that gave her a sense of security and lowered her natural defenses this much, but before his thoughts could spiral and get away from him, he put a stop to it and focused on the task at hand.

Taking the sock out of the case, he showed it to her and waited for confirmation to proceed, which came in the form of an unmistakable nodding fist.

So he went ahead, sliding it on, noticing halfway up that it seemed to get stuck on her scales every now and then, the more so the higher up he went. Pausing, he frowned, then ran a hand over her tail to see where the problem was. The blue night lighting made it hard to find out any other way, as it danced on her scales and made them sparkle like moonlight on waves.

To his surprise, he found that Indigo’s tail was no longer the smooth, cool glass-like texture he had learned to associate with mermaids. It had changed, her scales no longer smooth and uniform, but with erect clusters, their once smooth edges standing up to prickle his palm.

He let go of the sock and examined with both hands, looking for a pattern. The higher he went, the more clusters he felt, their margins growing harder, the strange sensation culminating in the discovery of a sharp L-shape, maybe a hand’s breadth down from where her belly button would have been - if she had had one.

As he traced it, curious to see where its exact margins were, the scales… twitched under his fingertips and Indigo jerked away with an audible gasp, turning on her side and propping herself up on one arm, hair billowing in still air, then falling over her face like a curtain.

Perplexed, Gold froze, his mind shutting down momentarily.

With bated breath, he watched her form quiver and her chest heave, as she turned back around. Was it his ears playing tricks on him, or was there a faint sound… vibrating off her, her skin pulsing with it— like hitting glass just right?

Gold scooted closer against his better judgement and looked at her in amazement.

“Hell's bells. What—”

Indigo shivered and shone in the night lighting. In the skin along her ribs, he saw dark lines that looked like gills flutter wildly. She gazed up at him, her eyes curious, and he felt overcome with the sudden urge to kiss her, to press his dry lips to her wet ones, so dark they seemed almost black; a deep dark mauve when the scarce light hit them just right.

He couldn’t take his eyes off her. She’d never looked less human.

The faint sound grew louder, but didn’t stand a chance against his own blood’s deafening roar as it flashed from warm to unbearably hot under his taut skin. He felt the shivers roll over him like waves, strong and primal, and could just keep from tearing his clothes right off then and there and jumping right into the deep unknown that were her eyes.

He wanted to fall into them; fall into the sea, go down, descent below, go far beyond to a place where all light faded away, and disappear. His eyes locked on hers, everything he held dear residing in their depths, and he felt himself sliding down, leaning in, the need to inhale driven clear from his mind as it was filled with the sound of the sea.

“Oh, Jesus suffering fuck!”

Gold smacked a hand so hard against his own forehead, he nearly heard birds sing. Any lower than that and he might have accidentally knocked a tooth, his mouth hanging open like that of a total buffoon, a freaking primate at the zoo.

He blinked against the white noise between his ears and swallowed hard.

Had he just… had he been about to… nah, fuck off.

Gold ran a hand over his mouth, pinching his upper lip until it hurt. What had gotten into him?

When she touched him, he nearly jumped out of his skin; the touch of a fingertip on his arm enough to send him flying over the edge into absolute mental mayhem.

“Yes? Yes… sweetheart?” he rasped, voice rising half an octave, internally smacking himself about with as much vigor as his spluttering heart and seasick brain could muster.

Indigo rolled over, almost toppling into his lap, and reached for the brace, handing it over with a challenging look on her face.

He couldn’t move a muscle.

Moments ticked by and his ears were still stuffed with cotton balls.

Gold cleared his throat roughly.

When more time passed and he still didn’t comply, Indigo took matters into her own hands, yanking on the sock until it had moved about an inch, then giving up and flopping back down onto her back with a frustrated huff.

Gold blew out a long breath.

[meowloudly15]

Stranded: Day 6 - HAIR-RELATED CRISIS

I RETURN FROM STORY HIATUS AT LONG LAST! Thank you for patiently waiting for my newest installment! I hope it was worth the wait!

Just as a reminder, I've switched to updating solely on Thursdays.

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Gwen woke up to the blare of her alarm, blurred lines of text sitting millimeters from her face, and a sore neck. She had fallen asleep while sitting on the floor finishing her homework. She pushed her physics worksheets off of her face and fumbled for her phone.

It was time for another day of school.

Of all the places at which Gwen could have stayed during her duration on this parallel universe, free from all other responsibilities, it had to be a school. At least it was Friday.

ATOMIC DISJUNCTION

As Gwen moved to put her papers in her folder, she fell face-first onto the floor, her face landing on the physics papers. She felt something pop inside her nose. When she finally regained the ability to stand, she found that there was a trace of blood on one of the pieces of paper. She swore.

Today was not going to be a good day. She could just tell.

Physics proved relatively uneventful. Gwen's nose stopped bleeding shortly before class began. She explained the bloodstain to Mrs. Quinn, who accepted the paper with a shrug.

Miles seemed on edge all throughout class. He kept fidgeting with the bottom of his pants and jumping at the slightest noises. Plus, he didn't look like he had slept well.

Besides his twitchiness, something seemed odd about him. Gwen couldn't quite put her finger on what it was.

The next few classes passed uneventfully, except for Gwen's periodic atomic disjunctions, of course. She turned in all of her back work except for her history papers, which she had accidentally left in her dorm room in her haste. She told Mr. Adams that she would get them to him by the end of the day.

During lunch, instead of heading directly to the cafeteria, Gwen took a different route, planning to swing by her room to pick up the missing papers. She was in the lobby when she noticed an itch at the base of her skull.

LIKE YOU

Gwen felt somebody bump into her. She turned around and saw Miles.

"Oh!" she said. "Pardon!"

Wait a second.

He had spider-powers, too? That was the reason for his antsiness? How had she not noticed it before? Was it a recent development?

Miles didn't answer. He stood frozen in place. Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead.

Gwen cocked her head to the side. "Are you all right? You look, uh, hot."

Miles replied, "I, uh, it's puberty! Except…" His voice started dropping deeper with every word he said. "Except I'm done with that. I'm a man now."

If Gwen wasn't as adept at bottling up her emotions, she would have laughed at his senseless display of machoness.

"Oh, and I'm Miles."

Gwen brightened up. "I'm Gwe-"

She paused in the middle of her name when she suddenly remembered that she was supposed to be called Wanda.

"...eeeeanda."

Miles looked at her in confusion. "Wait, your name is Gwanda?"

Gwen grinned hokily. "Yeah! I-It's African."

She quickly looked down at herself, then at Miles' much darker complexion.

"South African! Uh, no accent, though, 'cause I was raised here, in the States!"

Cover stories were not her forte.

Miles furrowed his brow, then nodded. "Uh, okay."

Had he bought into the story? Gwen couldn't tell.

That was probably the second-worst cover story she had ever made up. Nothing would ever rival the "It's ketchup" moment, although this new "Gwanda" moment came pretty close. There was no way Miles would buy it, unless he was really, really gullible. (For the record, Gwen's dad was not.)

Miles stared at Gwen for what was only a couple of seconds but felt longer, uncomfortably longer.

Had he seen through her flimsy disguise?

Did he realise that she had powers, too?

Gwen started to babble, "Uh, no, not really. My name's Wanda, actually, no G…"

It didn't look like Miles was listening. He wore a thousand-yard stare.

HAIR-RELATED CRISIS

Oh, this couldn't possibly end well.

Miles put his hand on her shoulder. She recoiled slightly.

"Hey."

Gwen blinked and nodded, starting to back away. She became all the more aware of the places that she had to be. "I, uh… okay? I'll see you around."

"See ya." Miles took his hand off of her shoulder, but it passed through her hair, sticking to it.

This was definitely not going to end well.

Miles stared at his hand in shock, then tried to pull it out of Gwen's hair. Of course, it didn't work, and it hurt.

"Hey!" Gwen exclaimed.

He had no idea about his powers, did he? This was not good at all.

Miles gaped. He tried pulling again, nearly yanking Gwen's hair straight out of her head. It was not a fun experience.

"Ow ow ow ow!"

If he kept pulling, provided that he also had super-strength, Gwen was not in for a good time. She grabbed his wrist and pulled it back towards her in an attempt to get him to stop.

"Calm down, okay?"

"Hey, let go of me!" Miles tried to pull his hand back.

"No, hold on, just chill out!"

Gwen had a feeling that they were working at cross purposes.

PERSONS TAKING NOTICE

The two of them started to struggle against each other, Miles trying to get his hand unstuck, Gwen trying to protect herself from getting scalped or having her neck snapped. A crowd of students started to gather. It looked like she couldn't exposition her way out of this mess.

"It's just puberty!" exclaimed Miles.

Gwen gaped. "I don't think you know what puberty is!"

He really didn't know about his powers. That wasn't going to help her. But she still had to get him unstuck, somehow.

"Just try to relax, okay?"

Miles said simultaneously, "I have a plan. I'm gonna pull really hard, and..."

This kid would be the death of her. Literally.

"That's a terrible plan!"

"Count of three. One…"

"No no no no no!"

"Two…"

Right now, Miles was a threat. She had to neutralise the threat. So Gwen grabbed the straps of his backpack and, ducking beneath him, flipped him over her head.

A couple of teachers rushed over and jabbered to the two kids, berated them for fighting on school grounds, asked them what was the matter. Miles didn't respond. Gwen feared that she might have knocked him unconscious by mistake. Or maybe he didn't feel like talking. She couldn't blame him if that was the case.

Gwen told the teachers, "He got his hand stuck in my hair and we couldn't get it out."

They escorted the two students to the nurse's office, where the nurse cut off the part of Gwen's hair that was stuck to Miles' hand. Gwen surveyed the damage with a hand mirror.

Today was not a good day.

Miles put on a quirky smile, hoping to alleviate the tension between them. "Uh, nice to meet you?"

Gwen stared straight ahead, not the slightest bit amused. "Sure. Total pleasure."

What was she supposed to do about her friggin' hair?

Plus, that ordeal had sapped a lot of her lunch period free time. Gwen needed to get to her dorm and get her homework.

Miles, his head hung low, stood up and walked out of the office. He turned around and looked back at her. "I, uh, see you around?"

She rolled her eyes. No puppy-dog gaze would penetrate her stoic exterior.

The nurse walked back over, carrying a pair of scissors. "Wanda, is it?"

Gwen looked over at her and nodded.

"Would you like me to fix your hair? Or try, at least?"

Gwen nodded again. "Can you?"

"Uh, yeah, my son's ex had her hair partly shaved on one side, and I could try to give you that haircut, if you want. Otherwise, you could get a hat-"

Gwen didn't have a hat. "Can you show me what it'd look like?"

The nurse nodded and pulled out her phone. She showed Gwen a picture of a young man standing next to a girl with an undercut.

Gwen shrugged. "That's fine by me. I mean, my hair's ruined anyway. How much worse could you make it?"

The nurse chuckled. "Right, then. Oh, here, put this towel around your neck."

About ten minutes later, Gwen walked out of the nurse's office, her feelings of irritation having subsided. However, there were some hair scraps caught under her clothes, which caused her physical irritation.

She was hungry, but her lunch break was halfway over by now. With luck, she would be able to get food and eat super-

Oh yeah, she had to fetch her history papers from her room. That was important.

PIGEON SWARM

As Gwen walked toward her dorm room, an oddly-shaped shadow appeared on the floor. There was a loud thump. She looked upward and saw Miles, who wasn't wearing a shirt and appeared to be stuck to a bunch of pigeons, lying on the skylight.

Gwen rubbed her eyes, then looked back up in time to see him jolt away.

She hoped nothing bad had happened to him. At the same time, she couldn't help but feel as if he deserved it. Karma was on her side, at least for the time being.

Gwen proceeded onward to her room after gazing around and making certain that nobody else had noticed Miles' sudden appearance. Both surprisingly and fortunately, nobody had.

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[crewhonk]

My Girl

Summary: In which Billy has a crush on reader and he finds out she is abused

Authors Note: This isn't something that I'm too proud of, I’m just in a really rough place in my life and I needed to put something out. I wrote something called Valerie a little while back but it wasn’t as well received as I thought it would be. I’m in a bit of a stoop, but ill work through it. 

Pairings: Reader X OC, Reader X Billy Hargrove

Words: 2,482

It was a Friday when Billy Hargrove fell for you. You were the shy, delicate, beautiful young lady next door and he had fallen for you. He had moved in next to you in September with the smell of sea spray and sunscreen and he was something of a breath of fresh air in Hawkins. Since you were neighbors, the windows of you kitchens lined up almost perfectly, and the view into the adjacent house was almost too perfect as there were only six feet between your houses. He had fallen for the girl next door without even speaking so much as a word to you.

Until you had been paired with him for an English project; you were to study and read Romeo and Juliet and write a collaborative paper on the tensions between two dominant superpowers— using examples from the Capulets and Montegeau’s— and relate them to real life. Topical and ironic.

You slid into the seat beside him and pushed the two desks together before opening your book to where you had left off and placed it face down on the desk. You picked the dirt from under your nail anxiously and your eyelids fluttered nervously before your eyes finally met the Keg Kings. He had one of the most gentle looks in his eyes that you had ever seen and there was a rosy blush on his naturally red cheeks. He reached over to you fiddling hands and held one of them in his own, shaking them lightly.

“Billy Hargrove.” He introduced.

“Y/N Y/L/N.” You said, almost ready to slam your head on the desk at the way your voice wavered. You tucked your hair behind your ear and cleared your throat nervously.

“Have you read much of the book?” You asked him. He scoffed lightly and pulled his dog-eared copy out of his empty-looking backpack. There were pages folded where he thought there were important details and he flipped through it to show you where he had highlighted his favorite lines.

“It was one of my mom’s favorite stories out there. I’ve read it enough times where I can almost recite it line for life.” He smiled.

“Well, aren’t you just a chip off the old block.” You remarked, taking the battered copy froths hands and flipping through it slowly. Billy’s heart nearly shuddered to a stop when your fingers brushed against his.

“Is this your mom’s writing?” You pointed to a flowery cursive in the margarine and traced over the indentations the pen had made with the pad of your thumb.

“Yeah, she always used to write everything down when she had thoughts. The bag she carried around was full of so many scraps was both impressive and concerning.” He said wistfully.

You let out an amused breath from your nose and handed the book back to him. You had written down all the lines you’d both highlighted and had read over some of his moms notes to see if the thoughts could be used in the paper. You did this and joked throughout the class, and the lightness he had brought with him to this project was a shock to your system as most of the men you had interacted with were aggressive and unpredictable. Not that Billy Hargrove wasn’t those things but it had seemed like he had tamed himself in the months since he moved here.

The bell rang and both of you jolted in surprise. You had ended up creating a bubble around yourself during the time you were in class and the sharp ring had broken you both out of it. You fixed the positions of your desks quickly and slung your bags over your shoulders, walking out of the class together. There was a change in Billy’s body language almost as soon as you had stepped out of the class— he had grown about an inch taller, lifted his chin and puffed his chest out slightly to make himself feel bigger. You rolled your eyes without him being able to see you and walked to your locker, almost too aware that he was walking closely behind you with his hand on your arm protectively.

“So,” He had said once you got to your locker. You opened it carefully as to not annoy the people next to you and placed your books in the locker— you were finally done for the day and were able to go home whenever as you had arranged your senior year schedule to accommodate you. “When do you wanna meet up? We can go for shakes at Benny’s or somethin’.”

“Um, well. I’m free next Monday after school— my little brother has his little AV Club meeting on Monday’s so I don’t have to worry about him then. Steve Harrington usually just drops him off” You watched his expression carefully when you had mentioned his ‘enemy’ and snorted when his nose wrinkled just the slightest. Little did he know that Steve Harrington was just a fly compared to the absolute dumpster fire he was about to meet.

“I’ll be counting down the day until—“ He was soon interrupted by what would be described as a Greek God. He was tall, about six foot three with a head of thick dark brown hair that flipped out behind his ears. He had vibrant green eyes, and his shoulders were impressively broad. It was Elliot Shepard, the captain of the football team and Beer Pong Champion. He wrapped a strong around you tightly and gave a sharp smile to Billy, showing him his canine teeth. This reaction immediately made Billy swipe his tongue across his lower lip as a challenge to the larger boy.

“Hey, Baby. You ready to go home?” Elliot said, not looking away from Billy’s glare. You had become about two sizes smaller in the grasp of your boyfriend, and the tension between the three of you made you break out in a cold sweat.

“I uh— yeah. Let’s go, Elliot.” Without looking away from Billy, Elliot leaned down and kissed your temple hard, making you wince. He moved his bruising grip from your waist to pull you by the neck to his chest. He pulled you roughly away from Billy and at a near breakneck speed out of the school. “Elliot you can slow down now.” You whispered, half-hoping he wouldn’t hear you.

“Repeat yourself, Babe. You know I hate when you mumble.” He grunted, opening the passenger side door and waiting for you to climb in, standing close enough to you that you did his bidding without argument. He walked around the car and climbed into the driver seat, throwing his bag into the backseat and not caring that a zipper had hit you in the eye. You immediately covered it and let out a yelp of pain.

“What was that?” He asked, looking over at you briefly and rolling his eyes when he saw your hand covering your eye. “God, you’re so dramatic.” He groaned and reached for your wrist, pulling it away roughly and throwing it into your lap. He didn’t care enough to notice that vessels in your eye had ruptured, and there was a steady stream of tears rolling down your cheek.

It was Sunday when your parents left you and Elliot alone in your house. They had a Church dinner they wanted to attend and Elliot had gotten on your parent's goodside quickly when he started talking about his scholarship and football opportunities.

“What are your plans for tomorrow?” He asked, rubbing your shoulder gently and hugging you to him. You had just finished washing dishes while he threw a medication bottle in the air and catching it. You stopped wiping a pot with your cloth for a second while your heat dropped to your feet.

“I’m um— I’m seeing Billy Hargrove tomorrow for an English project.” There was a long beat of silence and the noise of the bottle rattling stopped.

“Where are you meeting him?” He asked calmly.

“Here. I think. He only lives next door, so everything is really convenient.” You said.

“No.”

“Pardon?”

“I said no.” He growled.

“We need to meet outside of class to finish this project, there's no way we would be able to finish it in class.” You said, turning to him and throwing a dish towel over your shoulder. You placed a hand on your hip and looked at him with raised eyebrows. He blinked once, twice and when he threw the bottle in his hand hard at your head. The ringing in your ears didn’t prepare for him grabbing your arm roughly and pushing you against the counter hard enough to bruise your tailbone. You cried out and he grabbed your face roughly and forced you to look at him.

“I. Said. No.”

You’re brows furrowed in pain and you let out a squeak through your squished mouth. He shook your face roughly and your hands went to hold his wrist in hopes that he would let go. He slapped your hands hard away roughly and pushed you harder into the counter.

“What do you say when you talk back to me.” He growled, face only inches away from yours.

“I’m sorry.” You sobbed. Almost immediately, he let go of your face and pulled you to him. He stroked your hair softly and held you as you cried hard, clutching him by the shirt in an attempt to bring him closer.

“Good girl.” He kissed your head gently and shushed your sobs. “I love you.”

His grip tightened light when you hesitated in your response. “I love you, too.”

It was Monday morning when you got to school late. Elliot hadn’t shown up to pick you up and had to run to school in hopes of keeping your perfect attendance record after concealing the bruises on your face. Elliot didn’t like when you missed school and you knew the punishment would be severe if he found out. You rushed to your Biology class in hopes that you made it in time (and you did), and were desperately confused when he wasn’t in your usually shared desk.  You looked at the class to see if he had changed spots, but when you didn’t see him you slowly walked over to your desk.

The day went by in a blurry haze and when you finally got to English, you sat beside Billy with a huff. “Everything okay, Sweetheart?” He asked gently. He looked so concerned, and the look in his eyes was so gentle you wanted to cry.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Today’s just been a little odd.” You mumbled. Your heart fluttered nervously and you expected him to yell at you to speak up. He never did. He just reached a hand out and rubbed your knee softly but firmly.

“I saw you guys last night. I found him afterward, I don’t think you’ll have to deal with him anymore.” He grumbled. Your world stopped and you looked at him sharply, glaring at him until he looked away.

“You had no right to do that.” You growled aggressively. You shot out of your chair and stormed out of the school, walking to Elliot’s house and knocking sharply on the door. His mother answered the door, with tear tracks staining her cheeks. She looked down at you and her eyes narrowed. You found out then that Elliot had been hit by a car and he was in the hospital now. He had massive internal hemorrhaging and both of his legs had been broken. He was then put into a medically induced coma to allow his body to heal without any other interference. She drove you home after she explained it to you, she liked you enough to offer you any basic courtesy, but when you showed up to her house covered bruises she refused to believe that her son was capable of THAT.

When she dropped you off, you stood in the dirt of your driveway and stared at your house. It was a small house, there was a wilting plant that used to be a rosebush but looked more like a tumbleweed. The red paint that framed your house was chipped and your screen door was open— it hadn’t closed since you were seven and your dad hadn’t been able to fix it as there was always something else to do. You numbly looked over your house, and your eyes drifted lazily to Billy’s house and suddenly you were filled with an unforgiving rage. You stomped over to his house and slammed your fist on his front door. Three hard knocks and three long seconds of waiting.

The door swung open and you were greeted with a sweaty, shirtless, short-short wearing Billy. He had a cigarette hanging from his lips and a beer in his hand. At the sight of you at the door, shaking with rage he grabbed a jacket from the hook next to the door and threw on a trench coat to cover up. You would have laughed in any other situation.

“You hit my boyfriend with your car? Are you fucking serious?” You glared.

“He had no right to treat you like that. If you were my girl, I would give you flowers every day. I would walk you to school, I wouldn’t drive because walking means I would get more time with you. If you were my girl, I would kiss you every time I saw you, and every time I said goodbye. If you were my girl, I would take you to California and take you to the beach, and worship the picture of you in a bathing suit. If you didn’t wear a bathing suit, I’d give you one of my favorite band shirts and tell you how beautiful you were. If you were my girl I would die for you and treat you like you were a feather. He had no right.” He said, walking close to you and holding your face in his hands gently. He stroked the tears away from your face and pressed his forehead against yours. You winced at the contact as he bumped against one of your bruises but the feeling of someone holding you so softly without any dire threat of hurt made your world stop.

Your fist rose up and you beat it once against his chest lightly. “You can’t hit people with your fucking car, Billy Hargrove. That’s not a thing that normal people do.” You whispered, hitting his chest once more.

“I like you, Y/N.” He said, holding your elbows and pulling you closer. You wrapped your arms around his torso and put your head on his shoulder, letting a few tears fall onto the corduroy, fur-lined jacket.

“I know. You’re not too subtle you know.” You mumbled into his neck. “Thank you.”

“Anything for you, Sweetheart. Anything.”

[petitelepus]

Decepticon For Life, Part 11

Now that you got your friends Constructicons back your space bridge program is finished! Or is it? It may be that you might need your sworn enemy to help you out with the program. Tagging @fyrestrike because she’s my biggest fan! Love ya you silly!

”So, eh, any advice for this oath we’re about to take?” Mixmaster asked from you as you lead two Constructicons towards the main chamber where the ceremony would take its place.

”Yeah, uh, do we sign papers or something?” Scrapper asked. You giggled lightly. They were so funny!

You stopped and smiled at them over your shoulder. ”First you must kneel before lord Megatron and bask in his saving grace. Then you will repeat after him the holy Decepticon oath and as you do that you get the Decepticon symbol on you and you will become real Cons, just like me!”

The duo stared at you long and hard before they both let out a long whistle. ”Frag sounds pretty intense.”

”None at all! I just make it sound nicer for appeal.” You turned and lead them rest of the way to the main chamber. ”We’re here.”

Your three superiors were already perfectly lined up in front of the space bridge. The enormous project of yours was lighting whole are in teal light as it stood there finished. Now with Constructicons on your side, you were able to finish the bridge and use it to take over Cybertron and Earth.

You quickly moved Mixmaster and Scrapper to take their place before lord Megatron, helped them down on their knees and you took your place on Blitzwing’s left side and bowed your helm in honor at the sacred oath you were about to witness for the first time as a onlooker and not as the one subjected to this oath. 

”Mixmaster. Scrapper. In honour of your successful construction of my space bridge, the time has come to officially initiate your both into ranks of Decepticons. Now, repeat after me…!” Megatron repeated the sacred oath he had announced once before for you. Mixmaster and Scrapper repeated the oath faithfully with their helms down in honour and it didn’t take long before ceremony came to it’s final step.

The branding.

Megatron pushed the irons sizzling with energy into their chassis and the reaction was almost instant. Mixmaster’s scream tore through the mountain first, followed by with Scrapper’s scream. The duo went down quicker than you had ever seen a mech went down and rolled on the floor in pain, with their new handsome paint jobs and red optics now on display.

The sight brought memories to your processor by the time you were branded and taken as one of the Decepticons. You smiled gleefully, your friends’ screams dying out to whimpers and a lot moaning in pain.

”There’s gonna be oil… Right…?” Mixmaster asked as he got up and rubbed his sore aft. You went to help him and Scrapper up while your lord chose to move up to space bridge with the shard of Allspark you have been all collecting into one fragment piece by piece together.

”With this Allspark fragment powering my space bridge, nothing will stand in the way of victory…!” He said as he inserted the the big shard on the machine and turned towards your holding cell where your apparent human pet stayed. You didn’t know much about him, other than you were denied from talking to him. ”Professor Sumdac if you do us the honour?”

The tiny professor pulled the lever upwards and you all turned to look at the space bridge heating up and making whirring noises as it came to life. Or at least it should have came to life. The giant machine died down quickly and your lord turned his attention to your pet human. He was quickly speaking of if and what not and why it wasn’t working.

Lord Megatron sighed. ”Uugh…! If my space bridge is to become a reality I must require additional help.” Suddenly he turned to address you, Lugnut and Blitzwing. ”Make sure Constructicons do as our professor tells them to do. I must address this problem privately.”

You three nodded and went to advice what to do while your lord made his way to his private chamber, but just as he was about to enter someone cleared their intake behind him. Megatron turned and was addressed by Blitzwing in his cool personality. ”Pardon me my lord, but there is something I must bring to your attention.”

”Whatever it is it can wait.” The warlord snapped and turned to leave Blitzwing on his own, but the triple changer quickly stated what was on his scrambled mind. ”It’s about Dreadtrap, my lord. She was having another heat stroke a week ago. I… relieved her wiz best of my abilities before she collapsed.”

”What does her virus has to do with anything?” Megatron growled, getting inpatient. Blitzwing swallowed hard under the heated glare of his leader and blurted out what he had heard. ”Before she fainted, she mumbled something about Autobots. I’m worried she might be a spy after all.”

Megatron grew quiet, but his glare didn’t die down, if anything it grew harder. ”Keep an eye on her. If she appears to try to sabotage space bridge or contact Autobots… put her down.”

”Yes my lord!” Blitzwing saluted him and left to join others. Megatron grunted and went on his way as he took a seat on his throne and turned on the communicator system right by his left side. The screen sizzled to life and a single red optic owning con appeared on the screen.

”I’m so glad you contacted me. Everything is going as planned oh Great One! As you predicted the Decepticon uprising of the rim of the galaxy are straining Autobot forces to the breaking point.” Shockwave greeted his lord and master, his single optic as emotionless as always.

”Excellent, but I got a more immediate problem. Track down Cybertron’s top space bridge technician and deliver them to Earth as soon as possibly. By any means necessary. A future of a Decepticon victory depends on it.” Megatron ordered.

”One moment Excellency.” The cyclops con turned his attention on his left as he fiddled with buttons off screen. ”While I excess the Cybertronian datanet…. And that’s odd!”

”What is?”

”I’ve tracked down Cybertron’s top space bridge expert, but he’s not on Cybertron.”

”Then where is he!?” Megatron was starting to loose his calm. He was done with this scrap, he wanted answers and more than that results.

”On Earth.” Shockwave replied and a image of Bulkhead appeared on the screen. The con pressed a button and another until Bulkhead’s records came up on the screen as well. ”This Autobot is a rather unique case. According to his file, he scored higher than any Cybertronian scientist on his space bridge ebjicute test, yet seems to have no other skills.”

”I don’t care if he knows his crankcase from his drying shaft! All it matters is it’s ability to complete the space bridge.”

Shockwave nodded, but still kept spoking. ”But an Autobot would never willingly work with Decepticons.”

”That won’t be a problem. I plan to making him an offer he can’t refuse. In the mean time, I want you to find out anything you can about our newest recruit.”

”Dreadtrap? I can certainly try my glorious leader, but it won’t be easy with her real name, frame and occupation hidden. But, knowing what I’ve of her from you I can find out who she is.”

”Excellent. Report to me at once when you find out about her.” The corner of Megatron’s lips quirked upwards and he shut down the communication with his special spy. New plan in his mind, he rejoined his loyal Decepticons, pleased to see that no one had to be put offline. Mainly you.

When three of you noticed that Megatron had came out from his quarters you all gathered behind him as he walked up to take a look at the space bridge and the two Constructicons working on it.

”The importance of this mission can’t be underestimated. I will handle the Autobot’s Bulkhead myself. But while I’m away I need three of you to pick an item for me from Sumdac tower. A little something that should help the Autobot to co-operate with us.”

Bulkhead? You were confused. Why would you need that big sack of bolts? Or perhaps he was going offline him for you for hurting your friends? Oh, Megatron truly was a grand and glorious leader! But wait, he said you guys needed Bulkhead? What for? You didn’t dare to ask as Lugnut was already talking. ”But oh grand and glorious one, the professor can’t be trusted alone with the new recruits! Who would keep an eye on him?”

Lord Megatron didn’t reply. He walked up to your pet’s closure, punctured in a code that would open the lockdown space and snatched him up with his two servos. ”I’ll handle him. He could be use for me. Now go and don’t disappoint me! I’ll comm you the details of your mission!”

You, Blitzwing and Lugnut went rigid as metal pipes, saluted your leader and took off with your jets and turbines hacking the air. You were out of the mines quicker than you could say coal and on your way towards the city and Sumdac tower.

As per usual, you needed to stay a little bit behind your superiors because of your higher flighting speed, but you didn’t really mind it. Instead, you took the chance to wait for your mission details to come. You didn’t need to wait long before your lord’s voice ran through your processors.

’Retrieve me the Headmaster unit. We are going to need it if we want to persuade the Autobot to help us with our space bridge.’

You all thanked your master for the information and you went on your way as you reached to city grounds. The Sumdac tower was easily the tallest building in the whole Detroit so it wasn’t hard to find. Lugnut did the honour, knowing already where the Headmaster was being held and he blew up a hole into the side of the building with his rocket. Blitzwing went close in, transforming and taking what you needed from what you expected to be a warehouse, before transforming again and you three returned to mines where unconscious Bulkhead was already waiting for you.

You all transformed and Lugnut threw a robe of steel cable to you. ”Tie him up and make sure he won’t be able to move!”

”Yes, sir!” You nodded and went to tie down the evil bot with the best of your skills, making sure that the robe was tight and that knot wouldn’t come off no matter how much he would struggle. Once comfortable with your handiwork you pleaded Blitzwing to check the robes and he nodded, pleased with you.

”Good job. We’ll take it from here.” He said and together with Lugnut’s help they each jostled Bulkhead up on his feet and just in time as he started to come around. ”Uuugh… Hey, what’s going on…?” The prisoner mumbled as he tried to online his optics and keep them that way. None of you answered to him and your superiors started to drag him to Megatron.

As soon as you made it to the main chamber your pet human, back in his cage, and Bulkhead started to talk between each other, but they were silenced by your lord Megatron. ”Silence Autobot!” 

You stopped before your leader and he crossed his arms. ”As improbable as it may seem by the looks of you, I have an a good authority that you are quite the genius when it comes to space bridge technology. Equally improbable is that I need your help.”

”Never gonna happen Megatron! Not as long as I have an ounce of spark in my chamber!” Bulkhead shouted stupidly boldly against your lord and you felt like smacking him over the head, but you didn’t dare to harm your prisoner without your lord’s permission.

Megatron smirked. ”Have it your way Autobot. Why don’t you show our guest what you picked up at Sumdac tower?”

Lugnut and Blitzwing let go of your prisoner as he fell to his knees and laid out the machine you had picked up. You shivered. You had no idea what it did, but it couldn’t be good as it looked really creepy by the looks of it. It literally looked like some mech’s chopped off head.

”Refuse to co-operate with us and I will have no choice but to cut of your helm and replace it with this Headmaster unit.”

”Been there, done that, the answer is still no!” Bulkhead snapped. Megatron grinned. ”Ooh, so very brave of you.” He walked past you all towards the Headmaster unit and that was your and your superiors’ sign to pin down the prisoner on the ground with his helm sticking out easily.

Megatron continued to speak as you all held Bulkhead down. ”Of course your suffering will be relatively easy thinking back to what your friends will endure when I destroy them using your body.” Megatron reached his arm towards Headmaster unit and two tips of his servos bolted into the Headmaster, bringing the unit to live. ”Starting with professOor Sumdac.”

”No! You wouldn’t!” Bulkhead shouted and struggled in your hold. Your hold of him actually faltered, he was that much stronger than you, but Blitzwing and Lugnut had a good hold of him. But you had to wonder, was your lord serious about killing your pet human? You weren’t allowed to talk to it, but it did help you to get your voice back when you first met.

The Headmaster was flying now with it’s jets on either sides of it’s head and a thin beam of laser shot out from it’s bottom. Megatron’s smirk faltered and he turned serious again. ”Let’s test that theory, shall we?”

The laser moved slowly closer towards Bulkheads struggling helm and the bot’s struggling doubled, but your superiors were far bigger and stronger than he was. The laser was just about to reach him when there were footsteps behind you and Scrapper and Mixmaster came from lord Megatron’s private oil chamber with canisters in their hands.

”Yo Megs! I hate to complain, but we’re running a little low on oil.” Mixmaster said as he held up an empty canister of oil. How did they drink it all while you were away anyways!? You couldn’t think about that, you had to watch over your prisoner.

”M- Mi- Mixmaster! Scrapper! I- It’s me, your buddy Bulky, remember!? Little help here!?” Bulkhead pleaded, much to your shock and annoyance. He knew them? Buddy!? He was the solemn reason why you lost them in the first place!

”Yeah, but…” Mixmaster trailed off and Scrapper continued where his buddy left off. ”Not ringing any bells.”

Smug by their answer and denial of knowing the evil Autobot, you walked over to your friends from behind your prisoner and presented yourself for the prisoner with your friends.

”See, they don’t know you! I told you, they’re my friends!” You shouted smugly and yes, maybe you were being a bitch now, but this green bot was evil!

Megatron smirked. ”You have no friends here Autobot! When I’m finished, you have no friends anywhere!” For some reason, your lord glanced briefly at you, but he probably wanted your approval so you nodded your helm. You were no friend to this Autobot!

The laser was just about by the point of his chin, when-!

”Okay!” Bulkhead shouted. ”Okay! You win! I’ll… help you finish your space bridge…” He said as he hung his helm in shame and sweet defeat. You couldn’t help yourself. You crossed your arms and smiled smugly as lord Megatron smirked wickedly.

”Wise move, Autobot…!”

[musikat18]

Courters and Kisses: Valentine’s Request! (Skurge x Reader)

Pairing: Skurge x Reader

For: @bsotstory

Summary: As a scribe of Asgard, you don’t have much to do beyond record decrees, and that’s how you kind of prefer it. Around the Thor-instituted “Valentine’s Day,” though, you become an artisan of handmade cards and letters for lovers...and a warrior of Asgard has come to you for help.

Warnings: Tooth-rotting fluff

A/N: Happy Valentine’s Day! I do kind of owe you guys something sweet, so here you go! Enjoy, especially to Ash, who requested this lovely fic~

Truthfully, you’d never given much thought to Prince Thor’s attempts to bring Midgardian traditions to Asgard. You were a scribe and a writer; Midgardian traditions were an interest, but nothing much to fuss over, although you could at least tell that Prince Thor’s Midgardian woman had snapped him out of the recent funk he’d been in over Loki’s grand betrayal of the kingdom.

At the very least, this festival in particular gave you a little more business than usual. Valentine’s Day, the young prince had called it when he explained it to you. Midgardians exchanged gifts and letters with those they held dear, be it a lover or a friend or a family member or simply a random act of kindness.

Most every Asgardian could read and write, but you were known for your scribe services and neat calligraphy. Often, you would record mandates from King Odin or pass on messages for the masses, but for festivals such as this new one, you had become a source of specialized letters and cards, decorated for the occasion.

You didn’t regret the extra work, of course, although sometimes your heart ached seeing all the happy couples while you always went home alone.

(You shuddered at the idea of attending feasts and large parties. The quill was your strong suit-- not social gatherings.)

There was a sturdy knock at your door, and when you opened it, you were almost surprised to see one of the lesser-known warriors of Asgard standing behind it: Skurge.

Like you, he seemed to keep to himself, if only to flirt with the occasional maiden. Ruggedly handsome and broad-shouldered with soft hazel eyes making a lovely contrast to his harsh frame, you understood where the attraction came from, but you didn’t know him well enough to decide for yourself what your opinion of him was.

“Skurge,” you bowed your head for a moment and allowed him in. “How may I assist you?”

“Are you still taking orders for those valentine things?”

You nodded, “I’m nearly booked up, considering the celebration is next week, though I am still taking orders.”

“Alright...I need a letter for...someone,” he said. You settled back at your desk, tilting your head at his strangely tense demeanor.

“Like, a Valentine’s letter? For who?”

“...I’d rather not say, yet,” he shifted his weight to the other side. “I just want to know if you’ll do it.”

“Of course I will,” you said. “I just want to know what you want it to say and what kind of embellishments you want on it.” He pursed his lips and avoided your gaze.

“Well…” he measured his words, “I don’t...know a lot about her.” You furrowed your brow, which seemed to coax an explanation out of him, “She’s not very talkative...keeps to herself a lot. I haven’t quite figured how to win her over, so I was hoping you’d be able to help me write it.”

This was a new request. Usually, people came in with long, gushing odes that needed severe retooling for any reasonable price to be applied, but you’d never been requested to help author one before.

“You do realize I’ve never been courted by anyone,” you said bluntly. “I’m probably the last person who knows how to actually author an entire love letter.”

“I just...think you’ll have the best intuition about her. You two seem awfully similar,” he reasoned, “and I’ll pay handsomely.”

“You really don’t have to pay that much for it,” you offered. “I wouldn’t want to charge you any more than I would for any other work.”

Skurge dropped a heavy bag of gold on your desk, and he turned pleading puppy eyes on you.

“I’d do anything for this person,” he said seriously. “I want to make sure it’ll be perfect.”

Temptation crashed over you like a wave (whether it was from his piercing gaze or the promise of a good profit, you weren’t sure), but you took only the proper proportion of currency from the bag and pushed the rest back at the tall man.

“Gather as much information as you can about your love and come to me tomorrow,” you promised. “I will come prepared to draft something then.”

He gave you a grateful smile that fluttered your insides in an unfamiliar way, bowed his head, and left with the remainder of his money.

-

“You have nothing?” you raised your eyebrows at him when he returned the next day. “Not one scrap of personality or interest?”

“I don’t talk to her on a daily basis,” he grumbled. “It would be hard to broach the matter without giving my intentions away, and I’ve only spoken with her once before today.”

You were more than a little frustrated at the lack of information to go on, but you kept your cool and moved on to the next best question.

“Alright...what about...uhm...what do you know about her, exactly? Anything beyond appearance and being on the reserved side?”

He pulled up a chair and sat in it, crossing his arms over the frame of the back so that he could lean towards you while speaking, “She’s never been courted before...I learned that rather recently.”

“Well, I can at least relate to that,” you said with a dry laugh. “Let’s start there. She likely might not be receptive, if she hasn’t had this kind of experience before. You might have to convince her that your intentions are true.”

He shifted nervously at your comment, so you chewed your lip as you tried to put a positive spin on it.

“I think it should describe what’s drawn you to her...how serious is this letter going to be?”

“...I want her to know just how beautiful and special I think she is,” he gave you those sweetly sincere eyes again. “I just think she might feel overlooked, so I want her to know she hasn’t been...that someone does actually want to get to know her.”

You smiled warmly at him, “Then that’s what we’re going to do. Let me get my drafting paper and we can get started.”

He gave you a confident smile that you had only seen him give maidens of the court before as you pulled out a scroll to begin drafting ideas.

You had to hand it to Skurge; he seemed to be a very attentive admirer, even if it was in secret. You’d never pegged him as the type to notice the shine in a lady’s hair or the kindness in her eyes when she performed a selfless errand or the simple pleasure she seemed to take while sitting alone in a small garden. If she didn’t seem so agreeable, you might have been jealous of the reverence he appeared to hold for her.

When you finished a draft based on his words, you passed him the scroll to look over. A soft smile spread across his face as he scanned the parchment; it was a pleasant expression of his that was much nicer than you might not have expected of him before.

“It’s perfect,” he said.

“I just wrote as if it was for myself,” you shrugged. “There was certainly a lot about this secret woman of yours that I could relate to easily enough to write something.”

“Ah, yes,” he shifted his weight backwards, dipping his head slightly. “I’m...glad that is came to you with such ease. Do you think it will be done by Valentine’s?”

“Certainly,” you nodded. “Return to me the morn of the festival and I’ll make sure you have it in time to deliver it to her. She’s very lucky, you know, to have such a thoughtful suitor.”

You thought you saw a blush on the warrior’s cheeks, “I hope she feels the same when I reveal myself to her.”

Skurge turned and left without much more to say, and you began work on your many projects for the celebration at hand.

Even though it wasn’t you he was seeking to impress, you’d be happy for him nonetheless.

-

You had barely had time to start sorting out the areas of the city to deliver letters and cards to on the morning of the Valentine festivities when there was a knock at your shop’s door; you weren’t as surprised, this time, to find Skurge there, holding a large bouquet of flowers, likely one of the breeds Prince Thor had discovered on Midgard.

“Is it ready?” he asked, stepping inside when you allowed him in. You nodded and sifted through your pile.

“You never gave me a recipient, so I planned on delivering it to you in the barracks if you didn’t come by now.”

It didn’t take you long to find the embellished letter you had written as per Skurge’s request. You had copied it onto a sturdier parchment with a magically gilded black ink, the letters neatly curving along the page in your neat penmanship. You had even sketched a delicate rose along the top of the letter, the rich red paint standing out beautifully on the tastefully yellowed parchment. You passed the letter to Skurge, and he looked positively pleased with how it had turned out.

“It’s perfect,” he said. “I’m sure she’ll love it.”

To your surprise, instead of turning to leave and make his delivery, Skurge held out the flowers and the letter to you with a shy smile.

You, being the creature of social grace that you were, blinked stupidly, “...Pardon?”

His face fell slightly as he took in your confusion, “I...this was meant for you. I...I thought you might have figured it out.”

You continued spilling rather dumb and obvious statements from your mouth, “I...no, I didn’t. I- I just assumed...they’re never for me. I don’t...I’m not...it can’t be for me.”

“No, no, it is,” he insisted, placing his flowers and letter on your desk and looking rather sheepish. “I just...I’m not...words are...not my strong suit. I had absolutely no idea what to say to you...so...I figured...who better to write a letter for you than...you?”

For once, you had absolutely no words.

“We’ve barely ever spoken face-to-face,” you whispered. “I mean, sure, you’ve always been an impressive warrior...I...I’m just not the type to...I’ve never done this before.”

“You...intrigue me,” he admitted quietly, placing a gentle hand on your cheek to bring your eyes to his. “If you don’t see me as a good fit for you, I completely understand...I just had to tell you...all I needed was the words…. I’m sorry if I’ve offended you.”

Little did he know, you were feeling quite the contrary. Your heart was beating loudly against your chest-- you hoped to Bor that he couldn’t hear it-- and you were mesmerized by the delicate blend of green and brown that made his eyes.

“I, um,” you felt just as shy as he seemed to be, “I...wouldn’t be opposed to...perhaps trying. Pursuing a courtship, I mean. I don’t really know where to start, though.”

Skurge’s characteristic roguish confidence seemed to return as he smiled, “I could kiss you, if that’s what you wish.”

“I’ve never been courted. What makes you think I know how to kiss?”

“Then you need a teacher,” he suggested, and when you gave him a tiny nod of approval, he dipped his head down to meet yours, applying a gentle pressure to your lips. The sensation of butterflies overtook your stomach as a wave of bliss wracked your body, and you tentatively placed your hands on his muscled, armored shoulders. He slipped an arm around your waist, bringing you closer, and he tilted his head to deepen the kiss, facial hair scraping softly along your chin. The kiss only lasted a few sweet moments before he pulled away with a lovelorn smile, gazing into your eyes as you suddenly missed the subtle lines of his lips on yours.

“...We can do that again later, right?” you gushed shyly. “After I make my rounds? I’m sorry, I feel like that was horrible.”

“It was perfect,” he assured you, “and if that is what you want, there’s no reason for there to not be more later.”

He kissed your cheek once more and promised to return later, leaving you giddy and alight, running your fingers over your lips before going back to sorting your deliveries for the day.

A first kiss and a surprise admirer? You were beginning to rather like this Midgardian holiday.

Tagging: @lauuerodz @taylorjacksonandtheolympians @bsotstory @annathewitch

[bolontiku]

*not my images*

Avengers A/U

Steve x mutant/reader

Lillies & Tulips

Part 2

Sum: following the days that you left the team, and a certain super soldier, behind you for good.

*****

Steve shuffled through papers, Tony’s office now in disarray. “Sir?” FRIDAY chirped. “I have found several instances in which my records have been deleted and replaced with false records, this includes, video surveillance and audio.”

“Thank you small Fry,” Tony narrowed his eyes as Steve sat back on his haunches looking relieved. Bucky had taken him to see Wanda who had in fact sifted through his memories.

“Theres nothing Steve,” she said shaking her head.

“What about this? Where is the memory for when I got this tattoo?” He asked showing her the small tattoo on his shoulder.

Wanda frowned, he saw something like recognition cross her face before it disappeared. “Wanda…you know something is off.”

“Hold still.”

Now here he sat in Tony’s office pouring over paperwork trying to find some scrap. Anything. Fury knocked on the door, both men looked up and Steve caught the file that was tossed at him. “What is this?”

“About a year ago I came across a corporation of sorts that dealt with clean up. Superhero clean up as it were. We contracted for a minimum of six months.” Fury watched as Steve flipped through the file until he finally shook his head.

“Theres nothing here.”

Fury raised an eyebrow. “Exactly, we contracted them for SIX months. Yet our records indicate they never worked for us, never received a dime from us. Doesnt that seem a little wrong to you?”

“What else?”

“They not only do clean-up as in literal haul away the trash, they have a subdepartment. It’s to keep panic at a low level, as to not incite riots. They have people that can wipe out small threats, make certain oeople disappear, they even have people that can make you forget.”

Steve shook his head as Fury went on. “Forget….” someone whispered, her voice faint in his mind.

“Steve?” Tony called his name and he looked up. “Looking a little pale there buddy,” Tony stood.

“I’m-” Steve started shaking his head and pinching the bridge of his nose, he was developing a headache. “I uhhh,” he tried again.

A giggle echoed through his head, “again Steve? How many times? No! NO STEVE! NO TICKLING!“Your giggles tinkled throughout his mind. Steve felt his heart burst at the voice, “Tony?” He looked at his friend, “I forgot…” he looked up at him devasted, how could he? How could he forget her?

Tony and Fury frowned as Steve fell back onto the floor shaking his head. Tony moving faster than Fury, “FRIDAY?! Get Bruce down here now! Steve? Stay with me buddy…whats wrong?!”

“I forgot her,” he brokenly admitted.

“So her lover went down to collect the flowers for her. He was swept away by the current, and as he disappeared he whispered ‘forget me not’ to her.” You scrunched your face at him.

Steve gasped his head was pounding as Bruce finally came in. “Hey, whoa!” Bruce moved quickly opening the small case he carried with him. “Heartrate is accelerated, Jesus Steve you need to calm down. Slow breaths, no not faster!”

“Steve….Steve…baby, close your eyes…thats it,” you kissed him gently. “Steve, forget me not?”

“NNOOOOO!” Steve yelled loudly, his grip on Tony causing him to yelp in pain before Bruce stuck a needle in his neck.

Tony shook, he looked over at Bruce as Steve slumped into his arms. “Jesus! Do I have to ask whats in there?!”

Bruce shrugged his shoulders. “I developed it for myself, it doesnt work..on me. He should be out for a couple of hours. Lets get him to his room. We can monitor him there.” ______

Bucky waited, Wanda frowned. “Steve is right. Something or someone wiped us,” she sighed slumping back. “I wish Stephen were here.”

Bucky smirked, “how are things with you and him by the way?”

She smiled softly. “He was supposed to be here but there are intergalactic threats to deal with.” She sighed and stopped as FRIDAY interrupted.

“Pardon me, Ms. Maximoff and Mr. Barnes Mr. Stark requests that you join him in the common room.”

Both stood quickly making there way to join Tony. _____

“Michael, why do you seek me out?”

He laid next to you on his back. The night had come bringing him to your front door. You had sighed and told him you were headed out to the roof. He followed.

“Why do you lay on your back and stare at the stars in the dark alone?” He asked.

You giggled making him look over at you. “Do Shades not stargaze?” He shook his head, “ach, well shame. It brings me a bit of peace…”

He grunted at your response and both of you fell into a quiet companionship. “Do you….hate being back?”

You made a noise, “would I have come back? If you had not threatened to do what you do, no. I probably would not have.”

“Because you were in love with him?”

You fought to swallow the lump that appeared in the back of your throat. “I,” your lip quivered and you felt his hand touch your arm.

“What does it feel like?”

You gasped as he rolled over hovering over you, “Michael,” you reached out hands on his shoulders.

How to describe a stare when there was no color to focus on. To read? What did he feel? Did he feel? Your mind questioned quickly, until he was hovering just above your face.

“Tell me, how did he make you feel? What is it like?”

You swallowed, “like the first ray of sunshine in the morning,” you whispered Steve’s face appearing in your minds eye, his smile, his lips on yours. “Like fresh rain after stifling heat, breathing that first breath when you’ve been under water for too long…”

Michael pulled away, you sat up as he shifted his entire being dissapating into a fine mist and he stood by the door, “maybe,” he looked away as you ran a hand through your hair, “We have a mission in the morning. Sleep well Y/N.” He disappeared before you could say anything more.

You frowned, shaking your head. He could help you. He could make it all go away. You took in a shuddering breath, tomorrow. You would ask him tomorrow.

*******

A/N: please let me know what you thought?

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[polysprachig]

Sehnsucht

aus dem poetischen Tagebuch von Kaiserin Elisabeth (Nordseelieder, Oktober, 1885)

Seit ich an seinem Grab gestanden,

Bin ich von Gluten aufgezehrt;

Ich schmachte nach dem stillen Hügel,

Und doch hat er mir nichts gewährt!

Mir war's, als müsst' ich etwas finden.

Ein Blümchen nur, o, kein Gebein,

Das war' des Glücks zuviel gewesen!

Nur etwas, nur den kleinsten Stein.

Doch ziert den Hügel keine Blume,

Das dürre Gras birgt keinen Stein;

Ihn schmücket nur der gold'nen Sonne,

Der Sterne und des Mondes Schein.

✨English text via my translation portfolio✨

[st0rmer]

I’d like to share a shocking and illuminating experience from Manila

Hello, Tumblr! Haven’t seen you in a while. That is because I have been in over 96 hours of transit and have travelled half the world to come back to my homeless lifestyle back in my hometown. Non the sweat, I have an experience to share about. Hence, my arrival to this post. Now, a great deal of my time was spent in metro Manila in the Philippines whilst travelling - ignoring a lot of the country and spending some cozy time after many months of travelling. I wanted to smell, taste and see the culture of the most densly populated city on earth first hand without a rush. And god, was it fucking insightful. On the 18th of August, a slum of Manila called ‘Brgy’ and ‘Happyland’ burnt down to the ground. Media at the time said around 60 families were displaced, and trust me not, many more were. In any case, I experienced this first hand as I shared some time embedding with people from the slum. Now to describe this fire, I would just want you to imagine a pile of rubbish everywhere, a flood of approximately 70 cm up to your knees, swaving your way slowly through trash and water. More water is piling over your head as if you were in a waterfall and you are making your way through a dark little ‘path’ 2 metres wide as hundreds of people are running and pushing you to get out of this complex maze of streets, metal scrap walls and falling electrical poles. On each window there are people looking out, children crying as they look for their parents and gas canister exploding as the fire reaches. The people start stampeding, and as people do, the firemen and people become trapped in this narrow street as the raging fire comes closer and closer. Some electrical poles fall and puddles of water become electrified. You hear the psychotic laughs of people, the frantic cries of life and death echoing through these streets. The smell of burnt and the heat approaching, crawling up your cheeks of the face. Reality smacks, I stop recording and start helping people out. As I struggle to walk through the water people are carrying their children on one arm and in the other a suitcase with their valuables, fans, television sets... you name it. Eventually, I help a family move their photos and little food they had in bags as no one accepted my help since they did not understand English. A raging fire the height of 15 metres rages on quickly towards us. The plumes of smoke built up, it was difficult to breathe. “Boom!” a gas canister explodes and a wall falls forward. Electrical poles go “BsssssZAP!” and fall into the water. Time to get out. Eventually, after many hours, the fire was brought back into control. Hundreds of families in the pavement of streets looking hopelessly as black buildings. I return to my hostel, where a guy proposes to go to the casino as if nothing happened (I was alone all this time and people could not understand the precarious situation when I came back and described it to them). We grab a taxi. We arrive to the “city of dreams”, and enter a casino property. Out taxi hailed down by 3 men holding a pole-mirror, kalashnikovs and bomb snifffing dogs. They inspect our car, clear us and we make our way in. Islamic State is waging war in half the country in Mindanao, hence the elevated security. Nonetheless, inside the casino people lushing their expensive clothes, throwing stacks of money and the sounds of slot machines and their colorful displays in this mansion looking resort play out of the tunes of richness and inequality to me. “Place your bets”, I hear. We put our chips down and I can still hear the screams of children earlier and the explosions of the gas canisters. As I place a bet a quarter their monthly wage, it kicks in. This is not fair. I drank myself to peace after. And eventually lost what I came in with. An equivalent of what they earn monthly, or the equivalent of 30 british pounds. I guess the true story is to appreciate everything you have, and it is always said but never believed. I have lived and shared moments with people from several slums in various countries, where as it is hard to believe, are happier than most developed countries. But when you see something as tragic and reality checking as this, you can’t help but swallow grief and happiness to realize who you are in this world. Seriously, we have no idea what money is truly valued at, and not only that, we struggle to understand that this does not equal to happiness or prosperity. Quite the contrary. I still struggle to put what I saw into words, albeit there is a video if you would like to see. It is badly recorded as I used a small camera that was half broken and couldn’t focus or zoom in/out properly. If you observe the video, please note that the situation got worse and worse after I stopped recording and rainfall started to fall heavily flooding areas. So I got what I got. The point of me there was to help, but since I was in the thick of it I wanted to get a shot for people to see how difficult it can be. This barely got any attention, by the way. Only in local news papers. I even started a Kickstarter and got denied, sent it to 15 different news outlets across the globe and got ignored. The reality is harsher than what we tend to accept. 

Video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bp3FP47paG4&t=19s

Edit: I am drunk as I wrote this so pardon any gramatical mistakes and or lack of description.

[gyromitra-esculenta]

Question

Reaper76week stuff, day 2. Pardon my french, Je l'ai étudié six mois il y a dix ans. role/body swap. If you can find the point where the dreaded drabble got away from me... Translations for Widowmaker under link.

“Reyes, I’m telling you, as your SIC, stay where you are and let it all blow over,” Jack sounds so irritatingly calm for someone who drugged him earlier and left him in some god-forsaken safehouse on the other side of the globe. “Serious shit is going down, the kind it’s better for Strike-Commander to be away for.”

“You mean all this chatter on the news about Blackwatch storming Zurich?”

“I’m trying to minimize the casualties. Whole building is compromised. There are demolition and concussion charges set throughout.”

“And you want me to believe that, Morrison?” Gabriel grinds out.

“You know that over the half of the committee you were scheduled with didn’t arrive? They didn’t even have charters, Reyes. They never intended to set foot in Zurich.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah. This was an assassination attempt. I left you all data on our internal investigation. You’ve trusted me so far, even with the leak, trust me now. We’ve got almost everyone out, working on disabling the charges. Besides, you called me, not anyone else.”

“You could have told me, Morrison!”

“You wouldn’t have listened. Other thing, it’s not in the report, Gerard is al…”

Whatever the blonde is trying to tell him, it gets lost in electrical whine and then, static. Gabriel’s eyes flick to the holoscreen, where the building of Zurich Headquarters trembles and then collapses on itself. Shit. If there was an emp charge, Jack’s comm unit should have restarted by now, unless it got bricked. Seconds trickle by.

“…fuck… they activated them remotely…” There is a cough in the static, wet and unpleasant. “…’s maybe better for you… to stay dead… Gabe.”

“Where were you exactly in the building?” Gabriel asks through gritted teeth.

“…don’t bother… either gonna suffocate… or drown… won’t let me live anyways… no-one’s gonna get to basements…”

“Jack.”

“…considering… stay dead… with me,” there is a plea in the blonde’s voice. Gabriel closes his eyes. “…not long…”

“I’m here, Jack.”

“…thanks… not long…”

“I’m here.”

Sounds of labored breathing on the other side stop five minutes later.

*

“We have incoming reports that Strike-Commander Gabriel Reyes might have been caught in the blast that leveled down the Overwatch Zurich Headquarters. He was seen entering the building before the combatants, now identified as part of infamous Blackwatch, stormed it. There are eye-witness accounts of a dispute between Strike-Commander and his second in command, Commander Jack Morrison…”

Gabriel mutes the holoscreen and stares at it. How? He wasn’t even there, he isn’t even on the same continent – he is in fucking South America.

He shakes his head and skims the report Jack left him. It is a lot to take in, he needs a lot of time, and…

“I made a fail-safe, if everything goes fubar. You will probably get reported dead, sorry for those ‘personal effects’, I’ll get you a new coat if anything, so, again, in case it all goes to hell, you can lay low until it unfucks itself. The house is stocked with everything you might need, out of OW and BW notice. Here’s a list of those I have around.”

So that’s where a part of those disappearing funds he never managed to track went. In recent years he accused Jack of being paranoid. Now he knows it wasn’t without a reason.

“Now, I’ll probably get my ass killed, but you will have me to blame for everything, so OW’s going to be probably all right in the end. There’s a lot I didn’t manage to track, but that’s a good starting point. There are some definite hits on OW agents. Hope I managed to take out some of them. Most were under my nose, regardless. This shit goes deep. I’ll leave you to it. Love you. See you around. Jack.”

Fuck. Jack could have come to him. But Gabriel realizes that he had. Several times. He just wasn’t listening then and the blonde wasn’t pressing. When did he start to formulate a plan like this?

*

Two days are spent looking for a suitable body. He arms the self-destruct charges at the safehouse. It is better to stay dead.

*

Groundwork takes three years. By this time, he stops using Jack’s safehouses, more so when it becomes evident someone else is using them too – subtle traces of one’s presence, never too much, but nonetheless, it is there. He has his own set up now around the globe.

Gabriel briefly wonders who else could have the access to Jack’s list.

*

Rumors about a new mercenary tied to Talon resurface. The only things consistent in the reports are his ruthlessness, apparent vendetta against Overwatch personnel and dislike for getting recorded.

Word is out that this ‘Reaper’ is a ghost moving through walls, sucking out people’s souls, and no-one is ever left alive in his wake.

Gabriel notices the Blackwatch symbol in one of the rare pictures taken.

*

Some of the agents taken out by Reaper are the same ones as the names in Jack’s report, Gabriel realizes.

It sets him on edge

*

The news start to call him ‘Soldier Death’. Gabriel decides to keep the image.

*

The bounty on McCree goes up again, ten times up now. It shouldn’t be a surprise – Jack trained that kid personally. Fought for him.

If anyone’s going to have any pertinent information about the inner workings of Blackwatch Gabriel doesn’t know himself, it’s going to be Jesse. He only needs to find him before Reaper does.

*

Everything goes to shit when he tries to access the mainframe in one of the abandoned Blackwatch safehouses. Reaper is deathly silent in his approach and only pure luck saves him from getting his head shot off. The rifle seems familiar, Gabriel thinks.

There is so much anger behind that strange mask it’s palatable in the air. Gabriel manages a hit dead centre on the mercenary’s torso and the man scatters literally into dark smoke that hisses at him. It moves with a mind of its own, floats away.

He gets drunk that night. People don’t turn into angrily hissing smoke.

*

He tracks down McCree two months later. Gabriel doesn’t approach, because Jesse is talking, of all the people, with Reaper. The mercenary throws something to the kid and then again turns into smoke and blends with shadows.

He doesn’t drink again. Twice isn’t some wild hallucination. It’s a start of a pattern.

*                                

“Pardner, they not gonna pay the bounty, you realize?” McCree drawls, inhaling the smoke of his cigarette, not fazed by the barrel of a shotgun digging into back of his head.

“I’m not interested. I want information.” Gabriel nudges him and Jesse turns.

“My lucky day,” the kid spares him a glance. “Soldier Death himself. What can I do for you, pardner?”

“Blackwatch operations.”

“No wonder he’s itching to splatter you against a wall,” Jesse rolls his eyes. “Left before shit went down, can’t help you much.”

Gabriel growls and pulls back his hood, and then undoes the clasps of his mask. McCree’s eyes grow big.

“He’s gonna shit himself when he hears that… Commander Reyes.”

“We’re going to have a good long talk, McCree.”

*

They sit in one of Jack’s safehouses. It’s evidently lived in.

“I’m using them too,” Jesse offers unquestioned. “He just told me to go along and keep safe. And wait for orders.”

“Not doing so good on that,” the shotgun rests between them on the table. “Reaper.”

McCree visibly winces.

“He is… was Blackwatch. Loyal. On a team in Zurich. They used experimental tech trying to keep him alive, went very wrong.”

“Ziegler’s nanotech.” It all comes together. Twice is a pattern.

“Yeah. Apparently not so good on someone dead already. Try not to get in his way, he’s got memory issues since then, might not remember you’re on the same side. You know, Commander,” Jesse looks to the side, undecided, and then writes something out on a scrap of paper. “About Morrison. There’s a cache in Dorado. He wanted you to get it in case he… died. The Blackwatch stuff, you’re going to find it there. Full copy of everything, of stuff that never made it to the archives.”

Gabriel takes the coordinates.

“And Reyes… Jack. I think he was in love with you.” There’s a hint of reproach in McCree’s words.

“I know,” is all that Gabriel can answer.

*

He makes it to Dorado. At the end of the first day he’s shaken. There’s so much of it all, of all the things Jack kept from him, of all the things he never authorized that bear his own signature.

There are surveillance photos of a man that bears striking similarities to Gerard Lacroix. Marked as Talon operative. There are even more pictures of him meeting the members of UN Overwatch Committee.

*

Gabriel’s bounty goes up with last hit on Talon operations, and he smirks. He might not be doing much, but he manages to hit them where it hurts. Where it counts.

The mercenary finds him next day and they reach a stalemate, each with gun trained on the other. Gabriel observes as the tension slowly leaves the man and his finger on the trigger eases off.

“Good job,” the voice is like a metallic rustle of filings. Reaper lowers his rifle and retreats without a shot fired.

Again he is left with more questions than answers.

*

He alternates now between his own and Jack’s safehouses. Three months later he finds one that is occupied. He enters with his shotguns drawn.

Familiar cloak and mask lie on the table. The man that sits in the chair with his back to the doors has white hair and pale skin. On his visible arm there are splotches of grey that look like they are changing shape and moving.

“If you invade someone’s home, have at least decency to knock, Gabe.” The voice is all too recognizable and Gabriel feels his hands waver.

“Jack…?”

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Jack laughs, standing up and turning. Two deep gashes cut his face, the eyes are blue and glowing, without pupils, and there’s a fucking stitched autopsy incision on his chest and stomach. “No shit, you look like your heart’s going to give up any second…”

Gabriel throws away his guns and closes the distance between them. He grabs Jack’s head between his hands and kisses him, and after a short moment it is reciprocated, and, god, why had he never done that before?

*

“So,” Jack chuckles in the morning, ”it only took me almost dying for you to…”

Gabriel stares at him. ‘He’s got memory issues since then’ echoes in his head and Jack stares at his own arm, at the patch of grey moving towards his wrist with a strange focus.

“Shit, shit, shit… What’s the date?”

*

Jack wolfs down cold stew like he hadn’t eaten in days.

“What I’m saying is, at best, I’m like sci-fi zombie or vampire that reanimates all the time. At worst, I’m a sentient cluster of nanomachines carrying biomatter and I only think I’m myself,” he explains matter-of-factly. “And memory retention’s shit. Takes time to get a hold of it.”

‘It doesn’t matter’ is what Gabriel wants to tell him. Instead he merely nods.

*

“Only had to get almost blown up, huh?” Jack asks next day.

“Had me scared there,” Gabriel humors him for a moment.

*

“It’s hard keeping it all there, it’s like they don’t want me to change a bit. It depends on things around me when I wake up, like they pull up associations rather. At least it keeps me consistent. Go down as Reaper, wake up as Reaper.”

*

Gabriel wakes up to a soft mantra of repeated words, Jack kneeling by him, clutching the mask to his chest, tears falling down from his chin.

“You’re alive,” he says it again, like a prayer, and Gabriel brings up his hand to Jack’s face.

“Focus, Morrison.”

*

“It’s turning real bothersome, isn’t it?” Statement, not question, as Jack looks at him over the table.

“I don’t mind.” He doesn’t. “We will work something out.”

“Don’t wanna to intrude on a moment,” McCree calls from the hall. “But remember that job you pulled in Gibraltar, boss?”

Jack stills for a second, eyes closed, concentration plain on his face.

“Data retrieval I half botched?”

“That one, boss. Winston’s doing a recall.” Jesse sits down in a free chair and eyes them both suspiciously, purses his lips noting their state of undress. Gabriel remembers he had an obvious crush on Jack. “Immediately after. Had a problem locating you.”

“I wasn’t keeping up with… stuff.”

“I noticed,” McCree, the little shit, inclines his head to Gabriel. “What’s on your mind, boss?”

“Petras is still in effect, it’s going to be problematic. You want to sign up, Jesse?”

“Maybe. The bounty is becoming bothersome, boss.”

*

“You should join them too,” Jack quips week later, mask askew and lips grey, while they wait for their target.

“Morrison, you died for me. The least I can do is to stick by your side.” Gabriel shakes his head. “We both come back, or we don’t.”

Jack scoffs.

*

Every morning is like walking on broken glass. One can get used to it.

*

“They’re not happy.” Jesse is mumbling on the line. “Not about boss.”

“Then fucking tell them I’m coming and I’m bringing him with myself. Not Soldier, fucking Strike-Commander, and he comes with me. So they can stuff it.”

“You sure?”

“Don’t make me repeat myself.”

*

They’re all tense. Gabriel stops and Jack has a claw hooked in leather of his jacket. He doesn’t need to look back to know there are dark tendrils trailing behind them both.

He slides his hood off and slowly takes off the mask with teeth painted on. There are gasps of disbelief.

“Told you all,” Jesse smirks, but Gabriel concentrates on Angela’s look of horrified realization.

“You, Ziegler, and I, we are going to have a good long heart to heart. You keep your mouth shut. You’re not going anywhere close to him before that, understood?” Jack shudders behind him. She just nods. “We’re taking commander’s quarters.”

*

“So you’re hiding me in Gibraltar?” Jack murmurs sleepily and Gabriel smiles, lacing their fingers together.

“Pretty much.”

“How long was I out?” Blue glowing eyes blink, unfocused.

“Too long, Jack,” Gabriel places a kiss on his forehead. “Focus on what you remember last.”

They have a routine worked out. Gabriel worries about times he might not be there when Jack wakes up.

*

Jack disappears after a raid on Talon’s weapon transport. He comes back several hours later, sneaks into their room, unconscious Widowmaker in his arms.

“Jack?”

“She could’ve shot me. She didn’t. That means it’s wearing off,” Jack looks to the side. “They’d notice it soon and recondition her again.”

“What am I…” Gabriel shakes his head.

“Call Ziegler.” There’s determined finality in Jack’s voice. “Have her come here with a gurney.”

Have her see how the room is arranged, have her see me, is what Jack means.

*

They are alone in the infirmary, if not for Widowmaker in her containment cell.

“Le traitre,” she welcomes Jack, hissing.

“You can stop pretending, Amelie,” Jack responds in his normal voice and she recoils, distrust written on her face, eyes scanning the room. “You’re not going back there.”

“Comment dois-je vous faire confiance?”

“You’re not going to be how you were before,” Jack removes his mask. “But you are going to get better.”

“Ah, commandant Morrison,” her gaze lands on Gabriel. “Commandant Reyes. Ces promesses.”

“And you can help us take Gerard down.”

Amelie smiles like a predator.

“J'écoute attentivement.”

*

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Jack,” Angela whispers as she cuts into his arm, but Jack refuses to look at her, his eyes steady on the wall – if there is any pain, he doesn’t acknowledge it – he doesn’t acknowledge her. “They said they’ve found the body, and I was desperate. I wasn’t losing both of you. I had no idea…”

Widowmaker chuckles from her cell.

“That’s enough,” Gabriel takes a hold of Jack’s arm and feels the flesh give under his touch, the electric buzz under his fingers. “You have your sample. Get to work, Ziegler.”

She nods, eyes closed, moisture at the edges, but Jack is shimmering between his arms, dark tendrils evaporating in the air, so Gabriel brushes his thumb over pale cheek before sliding the mask down.

“I’m here.”

“Chacun de nous a ses propres monstres, médecin,” Widowmaker laughs at Angela as they leave.

*

Gabriel wants to say something as Genji takes a seat at the same table but fingers digging into his thigh stop him – he only stares.

“I thought this was a persona non grata space,” Jesse mutters, squinting over his coffee.

“I’d say, but there’s only one person that would command such a loyalty from the mangy coyote,” the cyborg chirpily offers.

“Good to see you again, Genji,” Jack greets him with a voice like rustling shavings, his clawed hand outstretched over the table. Genji takes it and shakes.

“Good to see you more alive than dead, commander,” the cybrog smiles.

*

They take off for Egypt, alone.

“The word is not out, that I’m no longer taking jobs for them. I don’t think they know it yet,” Jack laughs lightly. “Probably think I’m just on hiatus and fucked off to do whatever it is that I do in my own time.”

Gabriel wonders how is it possible he’s not burning inside all of this leather and then catches himself before he asks. It brings a smile to his lips. He pulls Jack for a kiss.

*

“Everything’s very crude,” Jack mutters with distaste over the radio. “Miracle if anyone shows up. At worst we could check up how’s Helix doing on their containment, maybe take a look inside.”

“And the bounty?”

“Of course nobody’s going to pay it out. Unless you’re scary enough.”

“Let’s wrap it up for today,” Gabriel shakes his head. In the sweltering heat he feels like he’s swimming in his gear, and the telltale shimmer behind is cut short by the sound of single shot ringing out over the courtyard.

“…up there,” Jack’s voice is a metallic rustle with his throat blown off by the force of impact. “Catch her.”

*

They sit in a little room overlooking the city. Ana regards them both warily.

“You want me to come back,” Jack hesitantly moves his mask back and smiles, corners of his mouth quivering anxiously. “Should have figured it was one of you. You both always had a flair for dramatics.” She chuckles and Jack’s smile gains conviction. “Got you both dying to finally get together.”

“I died. He just pretended.”

*

“Vous ne me blâmez pas pour cela, vieille fille.” Widowmaker observes, her golden eyes not leaving Ana for a second.

“No, Amelie.”

“Bien.” Both women relax. They shake hands tentatively.

*

“No, Ziegler, you’re not getting another sample,” Gabriel looks up at her. “You got one, you still have it.”

“I need a bigger one. I think I have…”

“You think. I told you once already,” he growls and seeing her shrink from him brings him minute satisfaction, “you’re not coming anywhere close to him unless you have a definite way to fix it or know how to kill him.”

“But the data…”

“No means no, Ziegler.” She slinks away. Jack’s shape solidifies by him.

“Kill him, huh? Not a bad idea,” he murmurs, head on Gabriel’s shoulder.

*

Widowmaker sits down with them, back rigid, head held high – McCree coughs choking on his toast.

“Beurre?” Genji offers her some.

“You, like, okay with that?” Jesse asks incredulously.

“As long as she doesn’t flirt with me.”

“Je n'ai pas de lecteur de sexe,” Amelie responds bluntly and Jack laughs. Gabriel smiles behind his cup at the sound.

“She said something about sex, what did she say?”

“Rien d'intéressant, imbecile.”

*

“Cibler dans le viseur,” Amelie’s steady voice rings out and everything turns sour few seconds later. There is only an aftershock – an echo of a thunder. “Sniper dans l'est. Bâtiment rouge. Toit.”

But all Gabriel can hear is a rising roar, and Jack is on the assailants, close and visceral, his silhouette disappearing and reforming from a black cloud of nanites, claws ripping flesh and something else from them, and, god, Gabriel will never grow accustomed to that thing Jack does that leaves bodies grey and frail, but in turn gives his skin a memory of color.

Another shot chips at the brick wall.

“Sniper est neutralisée. Amateur.” There’s a tinge of satisfaction in Amelie’s words, but all Gabriel can feel are Jack’s hands on him, shredding his jacket and armor, and the pressure from inside in his wound. All he can see is the face above him illuminated by a glow of the emitter. Somehow, he finds strength to bring his hand up and pull Jack closer for a kiss.

“Keep tight, luvs, Mercy’s on the way,” Lena hops by and Gabriel sighs at the contact lost when Jack startles away, looking at her. “Commander Morrison…?”

“Lâcher le morceau,” Amelie sounds more amused than she should be able to.

*

“You can do it. We can do it,” Gabriel rests fingers on Jack’s shoulder and his form stops wavering.

“If you say so, Commander,” Jack looks away as he takes a step into the corridor without his mask on.

*

Angela doesn’t show her face for a whole week.

*

It takes several months. Jack still manages to pull up inside information on Talon, even if he’s burned with them after that incident.

“I have my operatives, Commander. Remember the divide,” he chides when Gabriel asks.

They have the place. They have the date.

It’s Zurich.

*

“Bonne nuit, ma chérie,” Amelie whispers while pulling the trigger. Seconds pass and then Gerard’s head explodes in a shower of gore. Moment later another bullet, shot by Ana, collides with his chest. “Je suis libre.”

And then the charges detonate, bringing down the whole floor down.

There will be enough evidence left to shake the foundations of the UN. Enough for public to ask questions that will need answers.

There won’t be any evidence who carried out the strike.

*

“I remember you,” Jack smiles, awake, when Gabriel comes to. The words are plain, but mean much more.

Gabriel relaxes. They’re never going to be okay, but they will manage.

*

They are kept on payroll as ‘consultants’. Amelie spends her days reading and tending to the garden. Sombra sometimes brings her adopted daughters along. Jesse and Genji come to drink with Jack and swap stories. Lena comes for advice, age showing in the corners of her eyes.

And Gabriel, Gabriel remembers in the mornings that he said

yes

to a question asked by Jack.