#my tailbone may be broken but its whatever

[wisteria-whump]

whump prompt that totally did NOT happen to me today:

whumpee goes roller skating. within 30 seconds they absolutely eat shit and fall right on their tailbone and they see their life flash before their eyes and they hear a suspicious sounding crunch when they fall and their tailbone hurts for hours afterward with so signs of stopping

#i am in pain. #my tailbone may be broken but its whatever #i just wanted to have my manic pixie dream girl moment #i had fun the rest of the time though #whump #whump prompt #whump prompts #whump idea #whump scenario #whump writing #whump blog #tw whump #whump tw #crack prompt #crack fic

[passable-talent]

ya boi is back with a new niche character played by hayden christensen for yall to enjoy.

CW: blood, wounds, cursing, piercings, tattoos, guns, fighting, deaths of unnamed characters

AJ x gn!reader - Takers (2010). the stupid hat grew on me.

dedicated as always to @haydens-moles and @iscariot-rising for being my friends and for appreciating hayden as much as I do

The story of your life, as you loved to explain it, boiled down to a little math joke. Excited five, you called it, or it’s official terminology- five factorial. Written as “5!”, hence the awful pun.

“Factorials,” you’d say, “for those that don’t remember, are a multiplication of every number up to the one that’s being discussed. As such, five factorial is five, times four, times three, times two, times one.”

Your life, your excited five, was as follows: five major scars, four tattoos, three piercings, two eyebrow slits.

“The one is usually ignored,” you’d say, “as it makes no multiplicative difference. That’s why I don’t have a ‘one’.”

In August, 2009, you got your ‘one’. Its a doozy. But we’re not there yet.

~~~

Five major scars.

December 25, 1983. It’s your first Christmas. Your parents think you’re just being a cranky infant, but something way more serious is going on- they find out the next day that you’ve got RSV, a respiratory virus that’s especially dangerous for infants. You spend the next three years periodically using a ventilator whenever the coughing acts up. You don’t remember much of it, other than the vaguely crayon-looking piece of the machine, but you can’t forget that it happened, due to the pretty white scar over the bridge of your nose. It’s not such a gnarly wound as it is a reminder- not of the ventilator that wore through your skin thanks to frequent use, but of the virus that almost took your life only a few months after it had begun.

July 28, 1993. You’re seven years old, staying at your grandmother’s house with your cousin, who’s six months older than you. You’re playing cops and robbers- he’s the cop. The forest streaks by as you run the length of the property, slightly faster than him, but he catches you and throws you down. You land on your back on a jagged rock, not only painfully impacting your spine but digging deeply into your muscles beside it. It was the first hospital visit you remember, and the dark, long scar halfway between your tailbone and your shoulders reminds you never to fall without controlling it.

January 15, 1998. You’re in sophomore year of high school, and not the most popular. You like to play by the rules, and some asshole junior decides that he doesn’t like the way you won’t let him cheat off of your trigonometry homework, and decides that a knife is the best way to settle the problem. Those homework answers weren’t worth the long white line over all four of the knuckles of your left hand, but it is a pretty little reminder that lowlifes do what they want. And law enforcement, or whatever your school called the ‘anti-bullying league’, does jack shit about it.

October 30, 2002. You’re almost done with your certification to become a cop- thank god. You couldn’t stand the people who were to become your graduate class. They were so ready to become cops just to bully people, just to get to weild an iron fist and hide their bloodlust behind the law. Not you- you’re here to do some real good. That’s what they don’t like about you. And that’s why Fred Young splits open your cheek when just he’s supposed to be practicing his sparring. It’s an ugly scar, needed six stitches, but it’s a reminder that even the cops aren’t always the good guys.

May 14, 2004. You’re a new cop, working under detective Wells. There’s a robbery of a jewelry store a few blocks from where you’re patrolling, and as you’re making your way to the scene, a man in a fedora runs smack into you, taking you both to the ground. Broken glass digs into your shoulder, but he apologizes, and his blue eyes look so genuine. He’s afraid. You’d not realize until a month later that he wasn’t a scared bystander, but in fact one of the thieves. The fifth of your scars matches your first meeting with AJ- who would, by the end of the summer, become one of the most important people in your life.

~~~

Four tattoos.

August 4, 1999- Left wrist, inside knob of the bone. The little symbol had represented something to you when you were sixteen, but it had long lost whatever meaning you’d given it. Now, it was just a pattern to pass your thumb over whenever you got restless.

February 16, 2002- The cap of the right shoulder. It was your bunk number, from when you were training to be a cop. Nothing extravagant, but it was supposed to represent the beginning of the rest of your life- it was supposed to represent your calling.

June 1, 2004- Left arm, the outside of the forearm. Bleeding from your first tattoo was a new one, the largest one on your body. It was geometrical and high contrast, black lines loosely following your veins up toward your elbow, as though that left hand was bringing darkness into your body. It did- you shot with your left hand.

July 17, 2004- Right collarbone. A single, circular monogram, made up of six letters.

T A K E R S.

~~~

Three piercings.

April 7, 1989. Your father took you to get your ears pierced, but insisted upon arrival that it was too expensive to get both done, so you only got your left. The assymetrical style would have to grow on you- at six years old, you hated it.

May 19, 2003. You couldn’t have piercings at the academy, they were unprofessional, they were dangerous. So the night of graduation, you went out and got a hole punched into your nostril- the pain made tears well up, but more than anything, it was the satisfaction of giving a pretty little ‘fuck you’ to your superiors, who you’d never see again.

July 18, 2006. AJ takes you to a fancy beauty salon for an eyebrow bar after hearing maybe once that you’d wanted another piercing. You knew you were in love with him- who else in your life had ever paid such close attention to you?

~~~

Two eyebrow slits.

June 23, 2004. You leave the police force. You tell Wells that it’s because you’re pissed you can’t find the guys that robbed the jewelry store, but that’s not even close to the truth. You’ve found them- hell, you got a good look at one of them on the very day of the robbery. But you’ve done the looking, and didn’t have the heart to bring them in. They had families. They donated ten percent of every heist to a charity. They did more for the community than the police you worked for, and they did it clean- they didn’t hurt anybody, if they didn’t have to. They did what you’d hoped to do, when you joined the force. What you’d never gotten to do. Eyebrow slits were considered extremely unprofessional, so the moment you were free of your two week notice, you split open your right eyebrow. It would give a good balance to the bar piercing you hoped to put through your left someday.

March 4, 2007. You’re cleaning up your slit when AJ walks into the room and stands behind you so that you can see him through the mirror. You keep your eyes on the trimmer you’re so delicately running over your skin, but when he opens up a little felt box with a pretty ring inside, you whirl around with such panic that you make the slit approximately half an inch wider than it should’ve been. Lilli helped you fill in the gap for the engagement photos, but you decided to keep a second slit on the other end of the unfortunate shave- a little reminder of the evening in which he proposed to you.

~~~

“The one is usually ignored,” you’d say, “as it makes no multiplicative difference. That’s why I don’t have a ‘one’.”

On August 27, 2009, you got your ‘one’.

You’d been out of the game for two years, choosing not to take a cut of the winnings. You’d advise, you’d plan, you’d set up, but you did not want to be on site when the heist went down. The boys had it taken care of, and you butted heads with Jesse far too often for anyone’s comfort.

You especially couldn’t work on this project, thanks to a little fucker named Ghost- he didn’t trust you, as a member of the Takers he’d never met, and you didn’t trust him, as a criminal you’d never grown to respect.

You knew that most of them didn’t trust Ghost either, but everything he brought forward checked out- AJ must’ve mumbled the plan thirty times in his sleep in the five days from its suggestion to its fruition. There were no holes. Knowing Gordon and John, they had some ‘insurance’ for Ghost, anyway. In case it went wrong.

Still, you stayed at the Hotel Roosevelt through it all. You were their sitter, keeping the hotel room warm and ready for their arrival. They arrived back one by one- and like usual, AJ got there first. He, Gordon, and John were usually the first to get out, but he always made it back to the room first, because that way he could get some time with you. That way, he could have a private reunion, fresh off of a job.

“Hey, baby,” he said as he closed the door, and you waited for him to turn his eyes to you before you gave him a smile. He threw down his bag onto one of the chairs, and it landed with a heavy thump, but you’d long grown used to the sound of the score. However much he pulled, good for him. You were just happy to slip your arms around his neck and feel him kiss the scar on your cheekbone before sliding his lips to yours.

He always kissed different right after a job- before the boys had all gotten back, before the total was counted. He had a confidence to his movement, but there was fear, insecurity, just a tinge. He wasn’t just a taker, he was a man, who had worries and risks just like every other man.

You were out of the game for a few reasons. They had it taken care of. You butted heads with Jesse. You didn’t trust Ghost. But you knew that you were AJ’s biggest fear- you knew that if you got hurt on a job, he’d never forgive himself.

So he kissed you, he held you close, he reminded himself that you were here, you were fine. His long fingers seems to take up half your back, and his hair was already in his face, as though you’d tugged it there yourself.

With just one more pass of your lips over his, you pulled away.

“How’d it go?” You asked with a soft voice, rolling your first finger through the curls at the back of his neck.

“Could’ve gone better,” he said with a chuckle, “but we got it done.” You heard a knock at the door, and Gordon was the next arrival- then John, then Jake, then Ghost. Jesse came last, and with him, a whole host of new problems.

A bullet splintered the door and caught AJ somewhere under the ribcage. Everyone hit the floor, diving behind couches, and you popped your head up long enough to see AJ launch over the kitchen island. The room shattered into gunfire and feathers from expensive pillows, glass shards littering the ground like raindrops. It all moved so fast, and the air exploded into noise. You could barely track AJ through it all, he was so far away, all the way across the room. And you wanted to keep your eye straight down the barrel of your gun.

“AJ!” Jesse called from beside you, hidden behind a brown leather couch, “You okay?” You looked around the side of it, and saw him ten feet from you, the longest ten feet of your life, behind the kitchen island. He was struggling, on his hands and knees.

“Get up,” you snarled, knowing he’d already taken a hit.

“Out the back!” John ordered from the doorway behind you, and you started to realize the moment, the dangerous, heavy moment. AJ was all the way across the room- he couldn’t cross it. Not with these mobsters holding ground.

“Let’s go!” Gordon shouted, and your eyes connected with AJ’s. He saw the same thing you did.

“Go,” he said, voice calm, and it cut through the chaos of the room, cut through every hardened lesson ever pounded into you, cut through every wall you’d ever built around you, around your heart. “I’m coming.”

AJ was a good liar. But he couldn’t lie to you.

“No,” you growled through gritted teeth, and you made a rash decision.

You’d always been good at gymnastics. You had strong control over the movement of your body, and had, ever since you’d learned from your cousin throwing you down onto that stone that split open your back. You could move and slink and roll and dive in ways that would keep you not only from falling, but even from being noticed.

Using the chaos as your cover, you did a tight diving roll across the room to him, slipping between shelters unscathed. This brought you just a bit closer to the mobsters, but further from the back door exit that Gordon had been trying to guide you toward. You’d chose AJ over your safety any day- the surprise and the fear in his eyes said that he wished you wouldn’t.

Making sure you had enough ammo, you considered your final move- this didn’t end until these mobsters did. There were five of them left, after all this commotion: four in the room, one in the hall. You couldn’t take all five, not with their guns being so much more than yours, but you could take out a few. You could shift attention, you could buy time.

And hopefully, you could stay breathing, too. That’d be nice.

“Stay down,” you hissed, leaving AJ behind the island where he’d be forgotten about, or assumed dead. Then, you rounded the corner and rolled to the feet of the closest mobster. As you came out of the roll you caught his legs in yours, wrenching them from under him and taking him to the ground with one of the first moves you’d learned in basic training. He hit the wall hard, and was unconscious by the time he landed- the same could not be said for his friends.

From your right, you could see Gordon, still firing, still hopeful for your and AJ’s escape. Your shoulders were above the couch, so you knew he saw as you turned your weapon to the second mobster before he could turn to you, and stopped his heart.

Your commotion had caught the attention of the other three who still remained. You whirled around and raised your gun to one of them, but they managed it first.

Gordon had to swallow back his horror as he saw a bullet enter the front of your side profile, and blood explode from the back. He took out the mobster who still had his attention on you- but your shoulders smacked to the ground outside of his view, and he closed the door.

Luckily, their aim was spotty. You now had a useless left arm, but you were still breathing. Not that you’d let the one remaining mobster notice that.

You and AJ played dead, only a few feet from each other, but the kitchen island becoming a thicker wall than any you’d ever been split by. As you stared blankly at the ceiling, taking shallow breaths hidden by the folds of your shirt, you hoped he didn’t think you were dead. You hoped he wasn’t bleeding out.

After what felt like agonizingly long minutes, the shooting finally stopped, and the door opened again. Gordon was the first to enter the room, and rounded the couch to you, grief in his eyes, expecting the worst.

But you could give him a smile.

“Surprise,” you groaned, and he lit up in relief, helping you sit up with your good arm.

“Look at you, playing dirty,” he said with a laugh, “I thought you were gone for sure.”

“AJ,” you heard Jake say from across the room, and finally AJ could sit up from where you’d forced him down. The two of you had both bled straight through your shirts, but there wasn’t any time for sweet reunions- everyone had to get out, and fast.

AJ left his car wherever it was. John gave the two of you a ride to the airstrip where Gordon was going to disappear for a while, and on the way you and AJ attempted to give each other first aid until the personnel on the plane could take care of it.

Eventually, you leaned against his left, and he against your right, your wounds still stinging and sticky with blood, but manageable, for as long as they needed to be.

The night didn’t get any easier, but that didn’t matter- you were home free, they’d managed the job, and Ghost was out of the picture, and neither of you were going to die.

And someday, when you felt brave enough to recount your near-death, near-loss, near-jailed experience, you’d say:

Five major scars, four tattoos, three piercings, two eyebrow slits. And one gun shot wound.

-🦌 Roe

#reader insert #angst #aj #aj takers #takers #takers 2010 #hayden christensen #anakin skywalker #x reader #gn!reader #aj x reader #fics

[lady-divine-writes]

Good Omens one-shot - “Crowley’s Cheeky Christmas Holiday” (Rated NC17)

Summary: Aziraphale is not too thrilled with the plans Crowley has made for their first real holiday. But after a little interactive explanation, Aziraphale is more than onboard. (1346 words)

Warning for fluffy, naked canoodling and then wam! Sexual content xD

Read on AO3.

"Ho-ho-ho!" Crowley chuckles, practically skipping his way through the master bedroom.

"Hmm. Someone seems awfully proud of themselves," Aziraphale notes dryly.

“I am, angel. I am."

"Please. Elaborate. Don't keep me in suspense."

"All right. I just confirmed our flight for tomorrow,” Crowley announces, slipping off his robe to join his husband reading in bed. “Flight 344, leaving promptly at noon.” He claps his hands, beyond thrilled that they’re finally going on their first official holiday as husbands (aside from their honeymoon, which, to Crowley, belongs in a separate category). “So, tell me, angel - are you excited to see Verwöhnhotel Kristall?”

“I suppose,” Aziraphale says, followed by a long, drawn-out sigh as he turns to the next page, less than enthused.

“You suppose?” Crowley cocks a thin brow at him. “Oh, don’t tell me you’ve changed your mind? You just want to stay at home with your books and read? We decided that we would travel now that we’re both gainfully unemployed! We made that decision together!” 

“It’s not that, my dear,” Aziraphale assures him with eyes still firmly planted on his book. “It’s just that I’ve been to Austria.”

“We’ve been to everywhere, angel. There’s no avoiding going somewhere again.”

“Austria is a hop, skip, and a jump from here. Spending our Christmas holiday there …" Another sigh "... we might as well find a hotel down the road and book a room.”

Crowley stares at Aziraphale, lost for a response. But then he snickers madly. Aziraphale finally lifts his eyes from his page.

“What? What did I say that’s so funny?”

“Nothing.” Crowley waves his laughter away. “You're being such a snob about this. I adore it.”

Aziraphale gasps. “I am not! I simply thought that if we are going on a holiday over Christmas, a traditionally cold and bleary time, that we could perhaps visit somewhere warm and sunny.”

“I’m sure the sun is going to make an appearance while we’re in Austria. The damned thing isn’t going anywhere ... yet.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes at how thoroughly his husband missed the point. “It’s still going to be cold. Tremendously cold.”

“You have a coat and scarf. It’s going to be brilliant, Aziraphale!" Crowley declares in response to his husband's huff. "I have it all planned out. Could you please trust me?”

"Trust you? Since you haven’t divulged any of your plans, I maintain my right to judge.”

“I wanted it to be a surprise, but alrighty then. Have it your way.” Instead of sliding under the comforter with Aziraphale, Crowley pulls it off Aziraphale’s legs with a dramatic flourish. 

Aziraphale gapes at him. “What on Earth are you doing!?” 

“Since you’re so eager to judge, I’m going to go over our travel plans with you.”

“And you took off the covers why? To simulate the frigid temperatures?”

“Haha, no. I need you to lay flat on your stomach.”

The incredulity on Aziraphale's face grows to epic proportions. “Whatever for?”

“It’s sort of a presentation. You’ll understand once we get started.”

Aziraphale sets his book aside with a third, heavier sigh and complies. “Will you be requiring a wahoo afterward?”

“I might,” Crowley snaps, impatiently returning his husband’s snark with more snark. Because of that, Aziraphale takes his sweet time settling onto his stomach on the bed, dragging a pillow with him to rest his crossed arms upon, and then his chin.

“All right. I am in the proper position, I trust.”

“Yes, but you’re a wee bit overdressed.” Crowley raises a hand to Aziraphale’s view. “Do you mind?”

“Do you mean to undress me?”

“Yes.”

“Is this absolutely necessary?”

“Yes.”

“Fine. Go ahead.”

“Wonderful.” Crowley snaps his fingers, and immediately Aziraphale is naked. He shudders self-consciously at the removal of his clothes but focuses on his husband instead, admittedly curious. “Okay.” Crowley rubs his hands together, warming them up before he begins. “First, I am taking you ice skating …”

“What a visionary,” Aziraphale teases. “We live in London. There are skating rinks a mere bus ride away. Why do we have to travel to Austria to go ice skating when we---?” Aziraphale’s voice cuts out when he feels his husband’s fingertips play over his shoulders, sliding in unison, mimicking the movements of two people skating. “O-oh ...” Aziraphale shivers beneath Crowley’s gentle touch. “This is an interactive presentation.”

“A-ha.”

“I see. What else is on your itinerary?”

“Skiing.”

Aziraphale wiggles as Crowley’s fingers slide down the slope of his spine, slaloming from flank to flank before launching off the end of his tailbone.

“Mmm, yes, yes,” Aziraphale says. “I can see the appeal. Anything else?”

“Snowboarding.”

Aziraphale snorts. “Right---eee!” He squeals when one of Crowley’s phalange snowboarders glides over a particularly ticklish spot on his back. “Since when have you wanted to go snowboarding?”

“Not until recently. I figure, after everything we’ve been through over the past few centuries, now is the perfect time to try something new. What d'you think?”

“Have you not known me for 6000 years? I am not an angel made for snowboarding.”

“Why not?” Crowley pouts, sending his snowboarders up Aziraphale’s back for the return trip. “Don’t angels Segway around Heaven?”

“Not me. Not once.”

“Aren’t you in the mood for an adventure?”

“If by adventure you mean eat at a new experimental fusion restaurant, then yes. I am definitely in the mood. But trusting life and limb to a thin plank of wood whilst careening down an icy hill at a hundred miles per hour, then no. I am in no mood for adventure.”

“But you’ll go skiing?”

“Yes.”

“How is that different?”

“First off, I have been skiing before. Cross-country mainly.”

“Skis are technically thin planks of wood.”

“Yes, but they give you two - one for each foot. So, it’s much more like skating. Even more like walking if you’re traveling straight along.”

“I see your point.” Crowley stops one snowboarder on Aziraphale’s right shoulder while the other tumbles to the mattress like he’s falling from a cliff.

“Crowley! How could you?” Aziraphale cries in mock horror, staring at the pair of fingers he assumes represent him lying unconscious in the snow. “You didn’t even try to stop me!”

“I did, angel. I could only save one of us, so I made the ultimate sacrifice.”

“That’s very noble of you,” Aziraphale says with a solemn sniff. “What's next? I mean, after I fetch a strapping young gentleman to fish you out of the snow and I miracle your broken legs back together.”

“Funny. You’re very funny.” Crowley crawls down the bed, straddles Aziraphale’s legs. “After all that physical exertion, we’ll want to get some lunch.”

“Sounds logical.” Aziraphale closes his eyes when Crowley’s lips brush the knobs of his spine, laying a trail of kisses along the curve of his back. “Mmm … my vote is for crepes smothered in loganberries and fresh cream.”

“I thought you might,” Crowley murmurs.

“Did you have something specific in mind?”

“Dunno. Thought maybe we could grab some ice cream,” Crowley mumbles, massaging Aziraphale’s arse, kneading with firm hands, and admiring the view.

“Ice cream?” Aziraphale scoffs. “In winter? Why would you want to eat freezing cold ice cream surrounded by all that snow---oh! My … goodness!” He yelps when Crowley’s hands part his cheeks, and a silky hot tongue begins lapping at his hole. “Yes! Yes, I see! Ice cream! Ice cream does sound fabulous, come to think of it! We can eat as much ice cream as you want!”

“So …” Crowley pauses to talk, toying with Aziraphale’s entrance with swipes of his tongue and barely-there kisses between words “… how are you … feeling about … Austria now?”

“I …” Aziraphale’s breath catches when Crowley’s tongue interrupts him, slowly circling, weeding its way inside. “I think … this may turn out to be … the best holiday … ever!”

“Can I get a wahoo?” Crowley says, then nothing else as he fucks his husband with his tongue.

“Uh … uh …” Aziraphale swallows hard, melting into the chilly sheets beneath him. “Wahoo …”

#good omens #good omens fanfiction #ineffable husbands #ineffable lovers #aziraphale #crowley #crowley x aziraphale #aziraphale x crowley

[itsicantbelievethis666]

A Cunning Woman - Chapter 1

1920 words. Clearly this is an extrapolation of the feud between Bray Wyatt and Finn Balor; I’ve been bouncing the idea around my head since the feud first heated up. There’s no smut in this chapter, but that may come later.

No copyright infringement is intended and I claim no ownership of any intellectual property herein. 

---------------------------------------------------------

The clanging and  screeching of old hinges rips into my head as the cell door is flung wide open, smashing against the one stone wall. A heavy thud follows, accompanied by a pained shout and moaning. The voice is male, but the strain of what’s just happened to its owner distorts it beyond recognition otherwise.

Then, one of the guards – Harper, I figure, with at least the willingness to speak, chides him, “You’re going to be here as long as our brother Bray wants you here, little rabbit, just like that thing over there.” I can feel the finger pointing in my direction. 

Silence echoes through this place a moment before the hinges screech again and the door smashes shut, and the locks clang. The heavy footsteps fade off, but the moans of my new cellmate linger. He’s in pain and struggling to get to his feet, but I’m in no condition to help him. 

Christ! I’m so sorry they’ve done this to you. I wish I could help you. This is all my fault.  

Whatever Bray did to me – Christ, how long ago has it been? – has locked me inside my body. I am able to breathe and to swallow, but I can only take liquids and, even then, I’m made to shuffle my body along the floor to reach the bowl that is plunked down three times a day. I can’t use my hands; everything is pain. I wonder what they’ve done to this poor sod who has joined me. My attempts to scream are lost in whatever’s surrounding me. 

“You bastards! I’ll get you all for ‘dis!” His voice is accented and defiant, if pained, as he pounds in vain at the door. He’s in much better shape than I am, by the sound of it, but not for much longer if he keeps it up. I have to calm him the only way I have left to me. 

Little rabbit, please be calm. I send the message into his mind, hoping against hope that he might be attuned enough to hear it and, perhaps, heed it. I manage to wriggle my way forward, past what debris still remains on the floor of this cell. Thank God I can still feel something covering me completely. I have no idea how I must look to my new companion. 

There’s a shuffling away from me, but his voice drops to a whisper of dread and disgust. “Who-Who are ya?” 

Please help me. Please help me, so that maybe I can help us both. I can’t be sure if my words reached him or if he’s merely reacting to the sight of a wrapped body writhing on the floor. Another sharp pain – my knee, I think - shoots through me and shatters my thoughts. 

A pause, then, “What d’ya need fer me ta help ya?” If I could sigh in relief, I would. My companion can “hear” me. 

I…I don’t know how Bray’s got me. I need you to tell me. 

“What’ you mean?”

I can’t move. I’m blind as a bat and I’m in pain. Oh, God! It hurts! He’s hurt me badly, and done things to me that will keep me from healing myself, unless you help. I need to know what he’s done so it can be undone.

Another pause, another shuffle that grows louder, and then the cloth shuffled and twisted over me until I can feel damp, cool air. A gasp follows and I can sense him turning away in horror.

What’s he done to me, little rabbit? A fresh wave of pain from my side shocks me into a desperate stillness.

His answer is a barely audible whisper. “Jaysus…I t’ought he was sick fer pourin’ a bucket of blood all o’er me after a match. I never t’ought….” His voice catches in a sob.

What has he done? I’m not sure I want to know now.

“You look like you’ve been melted. Your limbs – oh, Christ – it looks like he’s broken your arms ‘n’ legs in about a half-dozen places. The rest of ya – it looks like you’re in a skin cocoon. I don’t know how – Jaysus – how you’re still even alive.” He lifts up my head and shoulders, cradling them, and shuffles his position so that they rest on his legs. 

So Wyatt thought to let me rot here forever, unable to speak, unable to see, unable to move and unable to heal myself, and, until tonight, with no prospects of relief, let alone escaping. Until Harper and Rowan, those idiots, made a huge error and brought me a little rabbit. 

They’ll learn of their error soon enough. I know what he’s done to me. I need you to help me undo it. Please. 

“Undo it? Jaysus – I wouldn’t know how to undo this!”

Nonetheless, you can help me. You have it in you, along with that demon.

“Demon?” he exclaims. “How the feck do you know of dat?”

You have much inside you, little rabbit. Please! You can help me. Lay your hands where you think my eyes may be. 

A brief silence again fills the cell, then I feel something over my eyes - his hands press gently over them. I incant silently. A handful of thin flesh falls away under my new friend’s hands, falling from my face to the floor when he pulls his hands, partly in horror. 

My God! The sight of my companion nearly kills me then and there. He looks like something from an Old Master’s sketchbook; his face at once angelic and kind, his eyes like the sea. For the first time in so many years, my heart stirs, even as I despair. There’s a look of concern on his face as he realizes there’s a human inside this…shell of atrocity. I am weeping with bittersweet relief.

Thank you. You have done me a great kindness. I know this must be…difficult for you to comprehend or accept.

“It’s a bit overwhelmin’ t’say de least.” He answers, then, “Oi! you’re a she! Christ! I can’t leave ya danglin’ like this.” He finds his courage. Ah, well – being female can have its advantages.

To his credit he is methodical, as far as he can be. He has learned the incantation and repeats it. He lays hands across my nose, over my mouth, over the top of my head, to my neck and shoulders. Under his hands, my arms knit together perfectly, as though they had never been broken. My legs are freed and healed completely. The flesh patches fall away, until they are gathered and dumped in a pile in the corner far opposite to where my companion and I could bunk down. The pain subsides almost completely and I heave and sob in relief. 

“I’m sorry, ma’am. I’m not hurtin’ ya, am I?”

No, no, far from it. You have lifted a great burden from me.

At last my torso, alone, is left. I stand in the middle of the cell, determined that this was an act I could do alone. My hands wander over my stomach and pressed, my mind incanting the counterspell to Wyatt’s evil.

Nothing happens. 

I look at my companion. My voice cracks and croaks from lack of use, but manages something of a noise. “I’d need your hands again to complete the work, I’m afraid. Leave it to Bray to make me dependent on others.” 

He grows flustered at the prospect, sheepishness creeping. “Ma’am, I’m not sure I’m – “

“I understand,” I answer resignedly, crossing my arms. “I must look a sight.” 

“Tisn’t dat, ma’am.” He looks at me earnestly. “‘Tis dat you’ve been through enough from him and I don’t want to add to it. I know what ‘e’s like.” 

I can’t blame him. He doesn’t know me from Eve. “I’m healed enough to keep going, at least. It’s not as if I need anything there anymore. What’s left to heal on me wouldn’t be worth the indignity to either of us.”

I look at my hands. The skin is a little looser than I remember and there are new lines over the backs. I run my fingers through my hair and found it had grown long enough to reach my tailbone, and was lighter, the grey starting to show. “What year is it?”

My cellmate tells me. 

“Jesus, little rabbit. I’ve been here nearly five years!” I then catch a full look at my helper. He is barely dressed; black trunks and boots, with armoured sleeves of a sort covering his calves. He’s crossed his arms and is huddled near the bed of straw in the corner. 

I pick up the rumpled pile of fabric in which I’d been wrapped; an old robe, large enough to envelop me completely when I was immobilized. I look around the cell quickly and found a skeleton wrapped in a second robe, a brown one with a rope belt with three knots. “Which one would you prefer?”

He looks at the skeleton with renewed horror. “I can’t wear dat. He was a monk – Franciscan, I tink. I can’t…can’t bear to put it on knowin’ he died in ‘ere.”

“Then you can wear the one I had on,” I answer, tossing it to my new friend. “Wherever he’s gone, he’s not going to need that robe. And it’s getting cold down here.” I take a few good strides across the floor and gingerly pluck the robe and belt off the poor friar’s bones; despite my care, the skeleton comes apart and ends up as a pile of bones. I whisk the robe around my shoulders and put my arms through the sleeves, wrapping it closed and cinching the waist with the belt before walking back to my new companion. 

I sit down next to him on the straw. “We’ll have to bust out of here as soon as we get the chance. When Bray sees what’s been done, little rabbit, he’ll kill us both - you for helping me; me just to be rid of me once and for all.” 

He mumbles, “I have a name….”

I’ve only piled on to another’s torment just now by giving him the name my enemy and jailer had. Sure, Wyatt had me half-morphed into silence and tortured, but I’ve always wanted to be better than him. I’d spent ages desperately trying to be the nobler creature. I have slipped. 

I’m so sorry, my friend. I’ve disrespected you. More than to hear the words, I want my friend – my rescuer, even – to feel my contrition. What is your name? “It’s Finn. Finn Bálor.”

“Is maith bualadh leat.(It’s good to meet you.)”  I say. “Would you know the time, Finn?”

“I’d say near two in de mornin’ now,” he answers.

“We’ll have a few hours to rest before those lunks come back. They’ll be expecting you – they won’t be expecting me.” I pile some of the straw into the corner to lean back into it, my legs curled under me. I pull the hood of the friar’s robe over my head and my hands into the sleeves to cover myself.  “You can sleep next to me. It’s cold down here.”

Finn piles a little more straw against the wall, then leans back next to me. As if by instinct, he turns towards me and pulls his legs up under his robe, then pulls some of the excess fabric over me. He drowsily muses, “Normally, I’d have to know a girl’s name beforehand.” 

“Abigail,“ I tell him, as I give myself over to sleep. “My name is Abigail.”

#wwe #finn balór #finn balor #sister abigail #bray wyatt

[notveryglittery]

Flirting With Danger, Ch6

summary: Patton is late. Roman is also late.  words: 2,700 / ships: romantic royality, platonic moxiety warnings: robbery, injuries, threat to one’s life, hospital mention, negative thoughts notes: thank you all so much for your patience on this update!! @do-your-socks-have-holes-in-them @fandersfic-royality​ @fandersfic-moxiety​ read on ao3 | Ch1: the first time | Ch2: *mcelroy voice* hotboy! Ch3: sky soliloquy | Ch4: the interview™ Ch5: you have my heart | Ch6: the second time Ch7: is this allowed??

The second time it happened wasn’t Patton’s fault either, he would insist, although some may disagree. He was on his way home from the daycare where he worked, a little over a week after the events that led to him meeting the new love of his life, and although he knew stopping to step on every crunchy leaf littered on the sidewalk might make him miss his bus, he couldn’t really bring himself to be worried. It was practically a rule for autumn! You had to step on crunchy leaves! The noise was satisfying beneath his shoes and he giggled at each one, earning delighted smiles from children being hurried along by their parents. If Virgil were with him, Patton knew he’d have that “exasperated but fond” look on his face. He kind of wore it all the time whenever they were together…

A particularly nice bunch of leaves was just a few feet ahead of him and Patton guessed that they’d been swept there from the entrance of a store so as not to be accidentally tracked in. His expression lit up upon seeing it, and he was about ready to hop or skip his way over to those good good crunchy boys when a loud clatter came from his right. Patton paused, foot extended in literal mid-step, turning to see what the commotion was. He’d stopped next to a jewelry store; its lights were off and they looked closed for the day.

It seemed kind of early (the sun had yet to set) but Patton wasn’t going to blame anyone for wanting to be home as soon as possible. If they were closed, though, what was making so much noise? Before Patton could begin to investigate, the door swung open so fast, the glass pane within it shattered. Yelping in alarm, Patton moved to take a step back, but several things happened all at once.

There was an odd blurring of the air near the door, but Patton didn’t have time to wonder about it before he found himself flat on his back in the strip of grass between street and sidewalk, and at the same moment there was a ridiculously loud crash and he instinctively turned away and covered his head with his arms, and a second after that he finally registered the pain resulting from something colliding hard with the leg with which he’d been about to step forward. As he blinked quite a few times in utter confusion and started to sit up, he heard loud swearing nearby and realized that “something” had been a person. From Patton's point of view, he could only see their ankle boots and heavy jacket -- definitely too thick a material for the current weather. Patton was even warm in his thin cardigan. That was Florida for you, he supposed…

“Sorry,” Patton called, pretty sure it was his fault that the person had tripped in the first place… Although he had no idea where they had come from… “Are you okay?”

Patton became vaguely aware of the sound of alarms going off in the jewelry store behind him but he was sufficiently distracted from it when the stranger stood up so quickly, Patton didn't even see it happen. One moment, they were collapsed in the street, and the next they were storming towards him with fury in their eyes. They were wearing a mask that was golden, sharp at the edges, with lightning bolts striking down their cheekbones; whether they were part of the fabric or painted on or something else entirely, Patton wasn't sure. Their hair was auburn red, looking like they had permanent bedhead, and the eyes glaring at him were a shade as blue as the sky on a clear day. Now that they were facing him, Patton could see the outfit beneath the coat was a material not unlike spandex and just as flashy as the mask. 

"You!" They snarled, grabbing a fistful of Patton's shirt and lifting him off the ground by his collar.

“I'm sorry!” Patton said again, raising his own hands in a display of peace. It seemed like the best course of action, especially since he was pretty sure most normal people couldn't have picked him up so easily.

“Do you have any idea what you've done?!” They snapped, jabbing a finger into Patton's face.

“Been in the wrong place at the wrong time?” Patton offered meekly, hoping they'd realize this was all just one big misunderstanding. Gosh, what would Virgil say now… It really was starting to look like Patton was getting into trouble on purpose! He'd been joking when he said so last week, honest!

“That heist would have been perfect were it not for your idiocy! Just who do you think you are?” They sneered, scowling down at Patton. “Not even powered, are you?”

Patton frowned. Would it have been so bad if he wasn't? Having superpowers was rare! In fact, Patton was the normal one here! He tried to pull himself free, his legs aching from having to stand on the tips of his toes with the way this person was holding him. It didn't help that it hurt to put any weight on his left foot, given how badly his ankle was throbbing. He wasn't given the opportunity, however, as they shoved him away in disgust. Patton stumbled back, landing hard on the sidewalk. He winced and mentally added a bruised tailbone to his list of injuries.

“Clearly, you're a menace to everyone around you, so I might as well take care of that.”

Whatever it was they were planning on doing, Patton wouldn't find out. The alarms inside the jewelry store were joined now with the sound of police sirens coming down the road. Their head snapped towards the noise; the movement was so sudden, Patton thought they'd hurt their neck in the process. He tried to crawl backwards and away from them, slowly so as not to be noticed.

And speaking of noticing…

Patton saw now, littered along the sidewalk and all the way out to the street where the villain (it was so obvious now) had fallen, various pieces of jewelry. It was a lot of shiny and expensive looking necklaces, for the most part. Unfortunately, so distracted in getting away and realizing exactly what he'd done, Patton failed to remember the broken door from earlier. He cried out in pain as his palm came down on the shattered glass. He’d only just recoiled, curling his arm against his chest and blinking rapidly to slow the tears in his eyes, when a foot stomped down in front of him.

“This won't be the last time you see me,” the villain promised and Patton wondered distantly why it sounded like he was being threatened right now.

He closed his eyes against the wind that kicked up as they disappeared and Patton finally connected the dots: he’d just inadvertently stopped a super fast bad guy from robbing a jewelry store. That would explain why his ankle hurt so badly; they’d had to have crashed into it while making their getaway. Patton fumbled for his phone and fired a text off to Virgil before he could get swept up in the police investigation. It was a little hard with one of his hands hurt but spell check helped a lot. 'Gonna be home late! Love you <3'

Patton stayed put where he was as the cars pulled up to the scene. He explained as best he could what had happened, pointing out the jewelry and the shattered window pane. He described the villain, making sure to detail the mask as best he could because he figured that would be the easiest way to identify them. The officer — a nice lady named Eva — called an ambulance for him and insisted he not move much so that he wouldn’t aggravate his injuries any further. It wasn’t until he was laid out on a stretcher in the back of the vehicle that Patton remembered how expensive hospitals were. How was he supposed to afford something like this? He worked at a daycare! Virgil would insist on helping but it wasn’t like coffee shop tips would do much.  

It all sort of started blurring together at some point. There were pages to fill out and sign, insurance questions to answer, and it was so much sitting still that Patton was really starting to get antsy. He hadn’t been able to check his phone since messaging Virgil and he was beginning to worry about Virgil worrying and he just had to step on all those crunchy leaves, didn’t he?

“Oh, honey, it’s okay,” the nurse said softly, resting a hand on his arm.

“Huh?” Patton asked and it was then that he realized he’d begun to cry. “Oh.”

He wiped at his eyes and gave her a watery smile. “Sorry.”

“I’m sure you’ve had a very long day. We’re almost done here, alright? We just need the doctor to prescribe you some painkillers. Will you need crutches?”

Patton turned the offer down since he wasn’t sure he’d actually use them. They were kind of clunky. Thankfully, his ankle was only mildly sprained, and they figured he would only need to stay off of it for a couple days. They’d gotten all of the glass shards out of his palm and his hand was wrapped up so snugly that it was a bit awkward moving it. Unfortunately, it was his dominant hand, which meant the next couple of days with that were going to be uncomfortable.

Wow. He was not having a great day.

Eventually, they released him with a bunch of important papers and a prescription that he couldn’t get filled until tomorrow. The moon had risen during his time inside and the cool fall weather was starting to set in. Was he crying while trying to use his phone in his left hand to call an Uber? Maybe. It was okay, though, just as long as he could pull himself together by the time he got home so he wouldn’t have to worry Virgil anymore than he already was. He hadn’t replied to the text and Patton wondered if he was stuck late at work.

A loud thud sounded to his right and Patton flinched, too tired to do much else.

“Are you okay?!”

Patton startled, finally looking to see who joined him. He squeaked in surprise. “Ah! You! Uhm!”

The superhero he’d fallen head over heels for was taking a seat beside him on the bench. While he’d initially looked rather panicked, his expression softened as he took Patton’s bandaged hand in his.

“Oh no,” he murmured. “I’m so sorry. I should have been there.”

Patton was pretty sure he was melting. “It’s alright… How could you have known?”

The Prince scoffed. “It’s my job. I let you down.”

Patton frowned, pulling his hand free just so that he could jab a finger against the hero’s chest. “Hey! None of that! You did no such thing. It wouldn’t be fair to you for us to expect you to be everywhere at once.”

He didn’t look convinced.

“What if there had been a building on fire?” Patton asked. “I would rather you take care of that over silly little me accidentally stopping a robbery.”

He hummed. “I suppose… you might have a point.”

“I’m fine, anyway!” Patton said suddenly, smiling brightly. “My ankle should only take a few days to get better.” He waved his hand. “This will take even less time. And I stopped a robbery! Isn’t that so exciting?!”

His voice was starting to get wobbly and his eyes were beginning to sting again but Patton hoped it wasn’t obvious. They were still practically strangers so maybe his crush wouldn’t even notice. Patton knew that he was pretty good at hiding these sorts of things—well, from everyone except Virgil, of course.

“... Could I…” The hero hesitated. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

Patton laughed in the sort of way people laugh when they’re trying not to cry. “I dunno, can you pay for the hospital bills I’m going to end up drowning in?”

“Yes.”

Patton blinked.” What?”

“Yes,” the Prince repeated. “Absolutely.”

“Wha—” Patton stammered. “No! I… that’s not what I meant! I was kidding!”

“It’s the least I could do since I wasn’t there for you.”

“Prince! Er… Your Highness? Uh, I’m not sure what— It’s okay, really, you don’t have to do that! I was just… it was a joke.”

The hero was smiling at him through his rambling and Patton was sure he’d combust any moment now. For once, though, he seemed to have his head on straight. He needed to get home. He needed to talk to Virgil.

“May I escort you home?”

Patton’s entire face felt like it was on fire. “Wh- what? Are… are you sure?”

“Only if you’re okay with it, of course.”

Patton looked down at his phone. The screen to call an Uber was still up. It displayed the cost of the drive. He didn’t really need that on top of everything else…

“Okay,” Patton agreed. “Do you… have a car?”

The Prince laughed as he stood. “Not for cases like this. You aren’t too far from here, right?”

Patton went to stand as well, teetering a little as he tried not to put weight on his injured ankle. He wasn’t, thankfully; the hospital was closer to home than the jewelry store was. “I’m close! I guess I ought to get used to walking in this ankle boot...”

“Ah, ah, ah!” The hero tsked. “Here we go, ready?”

Before Patton could ask what he was supposed to be ready for, the Prince was sweeping him off his feet. Literally. Patton gasped, arms shooting to wrap around his neck.

“Oh! Okay,” he laughed a little nervously. “Okay! Yeah, this… this is fine. Good. It’s great.”

He was going to die.

Roman tried very, very hard not to think about the proximity of Patton’s face to his own as he carried him in the direction of his apartment building. He seemed a little embarrassed about the situation already, ducking his head against Roman’s shoulder to hide the very cute blush coloring his cheeks, and it wouldn’t do to make him any more self-conscious by staring. (Also, there was a non-zero chance of walking into something if he got too distracted, and Patton was known to be extremely distracting.)

In the silence that stretched between Patton’s occasional directions, Roman recalled how he’d gotten to this point. Regrettably, it’d been a chores kind of day, and so he hadn’t even been doing anything important or heroic when Patton could have used his help. Afterwards, he’d donned his costume, and headed out for patrol. The sun was on its way to setting by the time he’d stopped at the nearest police station for a report. He liked to check in on days that he wasn’t able to properly keep an eye on the city, just in case he missed anything important. Most crimes were small enough that the local police could take care of it but Roman just liked to be there for the people.

When he’d found that a jewelry store robbery had been stopped by a civilian, Roman’s curiosity was piqued. The moment the name “Patton” fell from the officer’s lips (he hadn’t even got the last name out), Roman was demanding which hospital they’d taken him to. Immediately, he’d taken off for it, reprimanding himself the entire way for being negligent; at least his timing had been good enough to catch Patton before he left. The offer to pay for his hospital bills was sudden but it wasn’t like Roman couldn’t afford it and, besides, it really was the least he could do. Besides taking Patton out on the most extravagant of dates, anyway, and spoiling him with flowers, gifts, affection—

“Pardon?” Roman asked, blinking and clearing his head of his daydreams.

Patton giggled, though it still sounded a bit forced. Roman frowned. “I was just saying, my building is this next one.”

They headed in and Patton pointed Roman in the direction of the elevator. He focused very hard on the music playing through the tiny speakers and not of how warm Patton felt in his arms. He may have been familiar with elevated temperatures, but this was entirely different. It wasn’t until they were very nearly to Patton’s apartment that his phone went off. Roman was going to make a comment on the The Nightmare Before Christmas ringtone when the door swung open to reveal a very panicked Virgil. 

Oh dear.

#sanders sides fan fiction #royality fan fiction #romantic royality #platonic moxiety #flirting with danger #dani writes #nick's stuff

[bellsybuilds]

Hello! I really love your work! Are you still taking Doomcio requests? If so, may I request some injury care with Akande taking care of Lucio? Double points if it's something to do with Lucio's inability to walk without his gear (that headcanon hits me in the feels)

I am so sorry this has taken an age to respond to! I also apologise for how this may render, I wrote it on zero sleep. Thank you so much for the support, @rottenadel!

Rainy Day (Canalso be read on AO3)

Doomfist | Akande Ogundimu/ Lúcio Correia dos Santos (T)

Lucio wishes he just stayed in bed that morning. Akande wishes Lucio would stop protesting his help.

 "Update.“

 "Hey, I don’t work for you.”

 "Fifteen feet?“

 ”… Yeah, maybe.“

 Akande smirks. “We’re going to make it.”

 Straddling Akande’s lap, arms slung over his shoulders, the look Lúcio gives him is incredulous–almost betrayed for daring to doubt. “Of course we’re going to make it.”

 Akande shrugs, relief sinking in. He allows himself a little smugness, ignoring the droll stare narrowed on him at point blank range. “Of course.”

 In the low light of Lúcio’s sonic amplifier, their shadows ebb and flicker on the narrow tunnel walls in a soft wash of remedial gold. One sprained wrist ago, the speaker began to spark after Lúcio threw down his sound barrier. Lúcio has finally allowed Akande to inspect the injury (after the third time he asked). That’s how he knows Lúcio is worried.

 “You were favouring your back?” Lowering the bandaged wrist, Akande follows Lúcio’s eye when the DJ ducks his head.

 “It’s not–you know. Just feels loose sometimes when I don’t have the chance to stop.” Lúcio yelps, arching away from the hands that slide around his waist, up and under his shirt. His hands close over Akande’s, eyes darting to the deep shadows at their backs. “We don’t–”

 “Does it hurt?”

 Even in the dimness, Lúcio’s cheeks glow. Akande watches his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows, breaths loud and unsteady. Slowly, the hands on Akande’s let go.

 The underbelly of London’s omnic city stretches deep. Its tunnels, alleys and shanties cluster and burrow upon themselves in configurations that even their combined effort is struggling to discern. When they tipped over the platform of Kings Row’s old power station, it felt like a short plummet. But if their logic holds and Lúcio’s readings are correct, they fell at least thirty stories. Four hours later, they’re making slow progress, and they’re both feeling the strain of the landing.

 If only that was all they had to worry about.

 "I confess I didn’t realise the city grew so far down,“ Akande peers through a narrow gap in the curve between steel wall and low ceiling. Is that light on the other side? Is that a conveyor belt–

 "You’d be surprised where people will go to be free. Or where they’re pushed when they’re out of options. That’s the last time I try to save you from a fall,” Lúcio grumbles with a gentle wince, and he stiffens when Akande’s thumbs dig deep, massaging tight circles through the cluster of nerves around his tailbone that are giving him so much trouble. “Nnh….”

 "I would have recovered if you did not interfere.”

 Lúcio trembles under the strength of his touch, sweat beading his temple, and he levels Akande with a hot glare. “How are you this ungrateful?”

 It just makes Akande smirk wider. He reaches for the last vial of Lúcio’s healing liquid, and the tunnel’s light fades from wheat gold to a pale, aurora green. Lúcio doesn’t protest when Akande pours it into his palm, warming it between his hands, so he must approve of Akande’s intention. “My own frog prince, fresh out of water.“

 "You’re not even funny,” Lúcio protests through gritted teeth.

 “And all you’ve done is complain all day. People say you are a positive force; I don’t know who they’re talking about.”

 "It was raining,” Lúcio mourns, as though that should explain everything.

 Akande muses at the distant hum of generators, vibrations thrumming within the walls. The air is cold, not a natural source of light in sight. This is a world unto itself. “I doubt they have the concept of weather down here.“

 "I was supposed to stay in bed.”

You could have, Akande muses while Lúcio braces his hands against Akande’s abdomen, the touch warming through the thin, sleeveless shirt. Akande looks from those hands into Lúcio’s face, but the other man is scowling at his collar instead. Lúcio flinches, chest pushing out, when Akande applies pressure to a particularly hard knot of muscle around the dip of his spine, skin slippery with sweat and Ziegler’s solution.

 How many hours had they been running now?

 A sharp knuckle under his pec yanks his attention back to Lúcio’s narrowed glare. “And you were supposed to stay away. This was my day off. I was gonna order in. Turn off my phone. Just me and the last season of whatever, with the storm on my window.”

 Akande smiles. “It does sound attractive.”

 "I wouldn’t have invited you.“

 “Then why did I wake up in your bed?”

 Lúcio’s gloved knuckles gently buff him against the jaw for that.

Armored thighs tighten around Akande’s waist with a stifled grunt of pain. Carefully searching Lúcio’s face, Akande palms the warm skin of the DJ’s waist, squeezing gently, fingers dipping below his belt to trace the seam of carbon fibre, duraplasteel prosthetic and flesh. This is all he can do for Lúcio until they can get him to a doctor. “Better?”

 Lúcio’s hands close around his wrists, jaw clenched. As Akande holds his eye, and Lúcio searches him right back, the air seems to warm and thicken. He’s keenly aware of Lúcio’s heavy weight across his hips, how his breaths are slowing. Lúcio’s hand rises and palms oil grease with a light touch against his neck. His attention falls to Lúcio’s mouth, soft lips relaxing their scowl.

 A sharp bark ratchets from the shadows at the end of the tunnel.

 They stiffen. The hands on Akande’s wrists have tightened to an iron grip.

 "Slowly,“ Lúcio urges, and slides to his feet as Akande stands. His skates come to life with a quiet hum, and not for the first time Akande wishes those lights had an ‘off’ setting.

 "They don’t give up,” Akande can’t help but be impressed, searching the fathomless dark for signs of movement, backing Lúcio up behind him. “I want to bait one back to the surface.”

 "We’re barely staying ahead!” Lúcio hisses, and he may be completely justified but this is for science. The things Akande’s team could learn from one of those, how and why they survived…. “You wanna let them catch up? They nearly took your arm off!“

 Akande clenches the fist of his gauntlet. The inlaid dart barrels of his opposite knuckles are shredded, but his hand is still intact. Repairable. “Every city has its defenses. Even here, there is something to learn.”

“You weirdos and your experiments! I’m not dying for your education!” Lúcio snarls, fingers tight on his arm. He tugs insistently, amplifier against his hip. “I got one boost left. C'mon, we gotta go.”

 "I heard you,“ Akande hushes him, still watching the dark.

 Lúcio shoves off of him, muttering under his breath. “Shoulda stayed in bed this morning.”

 The barks grow louder, a clanking scuffle of metal claws on steel that splits Akande’s ear with their whine. But it’s the grind of rusted gears that makes his shoulders hunch, the sound of an old terror, wretched and broken and sprinting towards them at breakneck pace. A pale, red glow breaks the veil of the dark – then another, then a blur of more. Dozens of eyes of nulltroopers and slicers, remnants of a failed uprising. Cannibalised. Revived.

 Akande meets Lúcio’s eyes, narrowed in determination. He looks to the long stretch of shadow ahead of them, and nods.

 "Run.”

#overwatch drabble dump #doomcio #doomfist #akande ogundimu #lucio correia dos santos #i'm sorry this is so late #rottenadel #writing prompts #requests #two birds one stone #overwatch

[literate-passion]

Letter 8A

As I write this, I'm currently back at my flat in France. I'm confused. Upset. And just at a loss. Being pulled out of your life, like I was, has absolutely devastated me. I'm sorry that work had to make this demand, and tear us apart like it did. I understand that there's a such thing as an urgent business need, but dammit, I'm just gutted that it was so sudden. I do hope that we can survive this separation. Especially since this was one that was forced upon us, without being of our own device. Like the little obedient boy I am, I'll follow through with meeting their demands. I like this lifestyle I have created for myself. I like being able to come and go, usually, whenever I wish. I like being able to travel to you, when I can. And to be able to spend more than a smattering of moments together with you. This may seem hokey, but I feel centered around you. I feel like the man you see me to be, when I'm near you. I feel like it is a hollow edifice when we are apart. One that I quietly fear that people will see through, if they look a little harder than a passing glance. I loathe that I feel fragile away from you. I loathe this feeling, L. It isn't like me to be this emotional. It isn't like me to be this vulnerable, especially when you're not around. But, here I am.

When I've been done with work, I've gone down to my bistro. I've sat and read old pieces from years gone past. When I would fuck around with the language, looking for my voice. Searching for my own purpose. My meaning. My transcendence. They're raw. They're biting. They're rough around the edges. I feel like, a certain element of that rawness has returned. This loneliness has devolved my voice to a raspy hoarseness. Like my fingers smoked 3 packs of cigarettes, and drank too much bourbon. There are twinges of acidity to my words. A violent poignancy. An urgency to expel whatever demon seems to exist within them. The little French girls have sat adjacent to me, watching me. Studying me. Mesmerized by the fire in my movements. Transfixed by the trance my computer has over me. If I didn't know any better, I'd swear they were lusting over me. Seriously. I don't get it. Have they never seen a man so intensely driven. So lost in his own head, that he's blind to the world around him. And frankly he doesn't give a shit. One of the girls, a rather buxom blonde called Olivia, came over and was reading over my shoulder. I was completely oblivious to her presence. I was listening to music, just a mix of stuff on my phone, not at all aware of my surroundings. Just lost in my own little world. It wasn't until I felt something pressed against my shoulder, did I find myself recoiled back into reality. Well, it turns that she had leaned over, and in the process was pressing her breasts into my shoulder. We were clothed, but it was jarring. Needless to say, I was surprised when I looked toward that shoulder, and found myself staring at a pair of magnificent tits. Oh, how I wished they were yours. Anyway, I paused my music and started talking to Olivia. She found my words moving and powerful. Somewhere between her accent, and the drinks I had, I found myself completely mesmerised. She explained that she found herself drawn to me, because of how focused I was. And she wanted to know what had me transfixed. She described the intensity of my attention on what I was writing, as sexual. If not erotic. And as she read the words, and bore witness to the pain I was spewing upon those pages. She found herself drawn further in. Thereby finding herself pressing her tits into my shoulder, and startling me. I thanked her for the compliment. She asked me if I had anything else I was this intense about. I mentioned my passion for photography. She casually, as she was getting up to leave, slipped me a sheet of paper with her number on it, and a note asking to be photographed. I thanked her as she walked away. Then I sat there confused. Just lost. The spell these words had over me was broken. These emotions. The moment was fucking broken. And I couldn't get back into the groove. Around that time, my server Joan walked by and I settled up with her, then began the slog home.

I must not have looked that great, as Clara caught me as I was headed into my flat. She inquired of my condition, as I apparently looked a bit rough to her. She alluded to Ramon being away for some reason, but in my drunken haze, I wasn't really listening. I just remember she invited me into their jacuzzi. Somewhere in my stupor, I mentioned getting my computer and other stuff inside. And once that was finished, I headed over to join Clara. It was a little more light out than the last time I told you about, but Clara met me at their back gate in the nude. I don't know if I ever described her to you. She's maybe 5-10 years older than us. She's an attractive woman. Curvy too. Full breasts. Full hips that sway with her steps. Although that may be distorted by my drunkenness. Either way, she is a sight for sore eyes. The way her dark hair falls in her face is beautiful. And the way she looks at me, reminds me a lot of you. Again, maybe It's the drink talking. Maybe it's the loneliness. Maybe it's the longing to be with you. I'm not sure. I just know that Clara and I sat there in her jacuzzi naked, just talking and drinking. At no point did I make any effort to hide my throbbingly hard erection. At no time did she hide her attempts at catching glances. She belongs, fully, to Ramon. So if he showed up, I wouldn't be afraid of him. Besides, I've been in this jacuzzi naked with them both. Anyway, somewhere while I was explaining to Clara what had me in such a funk, I got lost in my head. I lost my awareness of what was going on around me. I could feel the water. And I could feel the air. And the coolness of the drinks. Beyond that, everything melted into one indiscernible detail. So I don't remember, or really know when Clara moved over next to me. I don't remember noticing her presence next to me, until she hugged me. Somewhere, the sensation of hot flesh, the warm water, the cool air; it all shattered. Clara was really very sweet. She stood me up, and asked me to hug her. She was clearly aware of my aroused state, but I don't think she gave a damn. And frankly, neither did I. There's something calming, almost ethereally so, about hugging a naked body. The feeling of her tits against my chest. Her arms around my waist, with her fingers lingering above my tailbone. And I with my arms around her neck. She had her head rested again my collar bone, holding me close. In that moment, nothing mattered. My emptiness from missing you. My drunkenness. Our nakedness. None of it mattered at all. It was just a really sweet moment, shared between two friends. I gradually lost my balance, and Clara helped me get seated, as Ramon arrived. Clara was overjoyed to see him, as she was helping me get seated, she was straddling my legs, and shifting up them to make sure I was stable. I don't know what happened, I was focused on watching her body move closer to my face. And somewhere in there, I think my cock may have made accidental contact with her pussy. But I'm not sure. She made no indications that I'm aware of. I just know that, at one point, I felt an unexpected warmth around my hips. Once she was sure I was stable, I felt her shift so that she was climbing out, next to me. I got a close, albiet drunken look at her pussy and ass in the little bit of artificial light that shone on their jacuzzi. She really was beautiful. For the first time, I noticed the detail of her hair color. She's a redhead. Anyway, I sat there staring off into nowhere, while she hugged Ramon and her pulled her close. I suspect he put on a little show for me. That's okay. I didn't mind. After they briefly kissed, Clara went in to get more drinks, and Ramon undressed to join. As he stepped into the water, he was inquiring about how I was feeling. I shrugged drunkenly. He asked why you weren't with me, and I explained it was an emergency work call back. We talked a bit further about it, and Clara joined, upon her return. They offered to help out however they could. I just had to ask for it. I'm really lucky. Anyhoo, after finishing one last drink, I realised I should probably get some sleep. So Clara was kind enough to walk me to the back gate. Before I left, she made me hug her one last time. She had her arms locked tight around my waist, and I had my arms locked tight around her neck. The feeling of our bodies together got me instantly hard, and for the first time that evening, I found myself ashamed to be aroused. She hugged me tighter and whispered to me not to worry about it, it is only natural after all. As we gradually broke the hug, I kissed her forehead. I'm also pretty sure as her hands moved to my hips, as the hug broke and I turned to exit the gate, that her hand brushed my hard cock. I felt my hips lurch forward, and my body briefly act out of its own volition. As we released, Clara decided to grab my clothes that I had dropped on the ground by the gate. Clara found herself face to face with my raging cock, as she turned to stand. I stood there, frozen. Feeling horrifically awkward. But Clara, she is perpetually sweet. In the slivers of light that illuminate where their gate is, I swear I saw her smile. I saw her close her eyes, and lean in. I closed my own eyes, unsure of what to think of what could happen. Next thing I know, I felt her lip press against the head of my cock, giving it a kiss. She pulled back and stood up, after whispering to my cock that she hoped he got the attention he deserves soon. She handed me my clothes, kissed me gently on the lips, and bid me adieu; as she opened the gate. I staggered home naked and hard. Once inside, I found myself watching her, wishing she was you. After her body disappeared into the water with Ramon, I sauntered back to the couch, and pulled out my phone to look at photos of you. The last thing I remember was my hand on my cock.

I vaguely recall dreaming about you. And Olivia. And Clara. And one of the French girls from the nude beach. And being naked with all of you. I don’t know if I fucked any of you all in the dream. But I woke up hard. And I woke up wanting something. I don't know if it is comfort. Or just release. And you're nowhere to be found. And I'm forced to confront the emptiness of my flat. And the hurriedness of our good bye. And how I rue this circumstance that separated us.

I really haven't been the same. I feel lost. I feel empty. I feel like someone ripped something from me, that I cannot get back. All of this sexual tension with these women, this almost sexual gravity; it's fun, but unfulfilling. The expectation of a collision. The expectation of intimacy. The expectation of release. It's a fun time, but it is no substitute for you. I miss your hugs. Your body spooned against me. The feeling of your skin against mine. The way your hair smells. The way your body smells. I feel foggy. Lost. I feel like I'm mourning the loss of something. But I don't know what I'm mourning. Maybe it is time lost to the ether. I'm very confused. I don't feel like myself. I don't feel like the man you think I am. I just feel. I just am. That's about the extent to which I can define anything of myself. It's neither fluid nor fixed. It's just a state. And it all happened because of the way we were torn apart. And I hate that. I hate that I can't be with you. I hate that our time together got interrupted by this. But I can always hope for more. And I know that we have withstood quite a bit in our time together. And that this is just another obstacle. But the look of devastation on your face, told me everything I needed to know. It's one thing if we choose to part, mutually, for whatever reason. Work-related. Or whatever. So long as it is mutual, it is fine. This wasn't mutual. This was external. And it felt like someone drove a car through a mirror. And it fucking sucks.

My god, I fucking miss you. I need you here, to push me to continue to be amazing. I feel directionless. Help me find my way?

I love you...

I need you...

I want you...

I am yours, for eternity,

H

[spidergvven]

tips for dealing with depression and suicidal ideation

given todays news i thought some people might need this, all of it is based of my personal experience w depression and mental illness so here goes:

things that are easy for everyone else will be insurmountable obstacles for you, people will definitely make you feel bad for this whether they intend to or not, look in a mirror and say “fuck them!” say it again, yell it as loud as you can, FUCK THEM!

you probably haven’t showered in a week and thats ok, baby wipes and dry shampoo are your friend

feeling grimy and gross will make you more depressed though, if you can get up and brush your teeth and splash water on your face you will feel better if only because you accomplished something (if you feel like brushing your teeth isn’t an accomplishment go back to tip one, it is and you are doing great!)

take care of what you can when you can, remind yourself to not feel bad for not doing what you cant today

your room/apartment/house is probably a mess, thats ok. don’t try to clean up everything at once, you will not be able to do it and you will get more depressed when you don’t succeed. clean up one (1) thing and i truly do mean one, put a dirty item of clothing where your dirty laundry goes (not a pile on the floor, get a hamper/basket/cardboard box anything that will help your brain file it as organized instead of clutter) put one cup from your room in the dishwasher. the magic of this is once you do one thing you start to feel a sense of accomplishment and the bigger tasks don’t seem as scary, before you know it all the dishes are clean or you’ve done all the laundry.

reward yourself for doing the hard stuff, even if thats just getting through another day. you do not have to suffer a certain amount before you deserve nice things that make you feel good.

get some vitamins. depression destroys whatever healthy eating habits you may have had and honestly no one is getting enough vitamins these days anyways. vitamin b and d deficiency can contribute to fatigue, chronic pain and depression. 15 minutes in the sun gets you your daily dose of vitamin d, so get a sun lamp or just sit outside once a day, you don’t have to do anything, except maybe drink some water since its july. vitamin b supplements are pretty cheap, they taste like candy and give you an immediate energy boost. a multivitamin w iron will help your body get the nutrients it needs and give you more energy as well. no vitamins wont cure mental illnesses but when your body feels physically like crap along with your mind it makes everything that much worse.

exercise if you can. the catch 22 of depression is that everything that will make you feel better is almost impossible to do when you’re depressed. the reason exercise is always recommended though is because it does help release those happy little chemicals in your brain as well as helps you form a routine. which means anything that gets your heart rate up and that you can commit to doing on a regular/semi regular schedule counts as exercise. dont think you have to become a gym rat or someone who loves running to get this benefit. anything you can do to get your body moving is a good thing.

square breathing and mindfulness will reduce tension in your body and mind (it should be noted that if you are prone to dissociation traditional mindfulness can make that worse but you can also practice a modified mindfulness while doing a task to keep you present and in your body) for square breathing- sit up straight or lie on your back and breathe in through your nose to the count of four, hold for a count of four, breathe out through your mouth to a count of four, then hold for a count of four and repeat. if you cant do a four count three or two is also fine, the idea is simply that you are breathing in and out and holding for the same count. breathe as deeply as you can from your diaphragm, since so many of us spend so much time hunched over devices and computers you may need to use a back roller or a particularly firm pool noodle to open up your chest cavity and breathe properly. (this will also help your body not feel like crap because so many people have alignment issues without even realizing it, straightened out your spine and and tailbone can affect your brain patterns so much it’s almost unbelievable) its laughable when you’re supper depressed and people try to ask you “well have you tried meditation/yoga” but yoga breathing techniques and practicing being present and feeling your body and the sensations you are experiencing is actually helpful. theres a reason yoga is such a culturally important practice that has existed for centuries and its only now that western medicine is starting to recognize the science of treatments that have long been dismissed as homeopathic folk remedies. most of my physical therapy exercises now include yoga breathing and square breathing to retrain my body’s neuromuscular patterns and they always leave me feeling better emotionally too. how you breathe really does affect your brain waves.

being present in your body is hard but it helps, turn on a fan and lie in front of it, concentrating on how the air feels on your skin, the sound of the fan that you hear, your hair moving in the breeze, reconnect with your senses and surroundings. also you get the added benefit if lying in front of a fan when its hot as hell which is always nice.

dont feel bad for wanting to hurt yourself because it will only make you want to hurt yourself more

snap a rubber band against your skin or hold ice in your hand to simulate the feelings and relief of self harm without doing permanent damage buy cheap dishes from goodwill and smash them all to relieve the impulse to destroy without hurting yourself (dont do this if youll be tempted by the sharp edges of of the broken dishes) write everything you hate about yourself, your life, and the world down, then destroy it, rip it up or burn it and breathe. imagine letting it all go. you wont let it all go but it might feel a little lighter and thats good too.

make a list of reasons to stay alive, like not some philosophical big deep reasons for living, just shit you want to do. really love marvel and cant wait to see the movies they’re releasing next? thats a reason to live. cant go to the premiere of infinity war if you’re dead.

despite what some might say feeling suicidal absolutely can be triggered by other peoples actions. this doesnt mean other people are responsible for your mental health but you don’t deserve to be treated badly because your depressed and if you’re in an abusive environment you dont deserve how you’re being treated at all, you deserve to live happily and safely.

if none of these tips work for you it’s not your fault. you’re not broken. this is what ive found helps me but treatment and recovery look different for everyone and you’re not a failure bc a list of tips didn’t cure your depression. you are trying and thats what counts. please keep trying, try someone else’s tips, try therapy, try some shit that you just made up because it hurts no one and helps you even if it feels silly. just keep trying because you are worth it.

#depression #suicide #self care

[fixthedisconnect]

The Beginning

tl;dr

Trying to improve myself

In haiku form, son!

This is me. Lying on a couch. Down and out. Well maybe not out but definitely not in and very much down. If life were a game, I’m currently AFK. Discouraged. Disheartened. An argument could be made for “broken”. Certainly more than Hercules level of despair 

It's difficult to describe. I'm unsure if my problems qualify as legitimate (as opposed to un-legit) Unsure if I'm just perceiving them to be bigger or worse than they actually are? I really don't want to complain. We all know that person who is… “A little ray of sunshine” shall we say. Nothing is EVER good enough. They hate puppies and rainbows. They could be be unhappy at Disneyland. No one likes being around those people. They’re probably also communists.

*Side note, was there a scientific study published in a reputable peer reviewed journal with statistically significant data showing a clear correlation that led the researchers to fail to reject the null hypothesis, or whatever, and ultimately declare Mouse land “The Happiest Place on Earth”?... If not, Disney is MIGHTY sure of themselves. The HAPPIEST? Of ALL other places? I mean, have they even heard of the Great British Baking Show? Do you even bake, bruh? Don't get me wrong, Disneyland is up there but if I had to pick between the two, I'm more than fairly sure I'd have to go with the tasting tent in the middle of an English countryside, eating Puff pastries listening to Paul's thick liverpudlian accent. Okay less his accent, it's more of an excuse to say liverpudlian. Try it. It's fun. I think that gives the Peter pan ride a run for its money at least.

But I digress, back to me ;)

I was saying I don’t wish to be the aforementioned type of person so I try not to complain (some of y’all who know me personally are stifling scoffs I’m sure) and I realize there are many, MANY people who have it MUCH worse than me. I am also BEYOND grateful for the good things I do have in my life. 

BUT!

… at the same time, the stuff I’m dealing with really does seem like a bit to me.

I have an injured tailbone that’s been a source of constant pain for about 3 years now. I used to be able to sit in a certain position or on a specific chair without it hurting but now it’s pretty much 24/7. Yet x-rays, MRIs, trigger point and nerve blocking injections and several different meds have not helped at all.

I’m in my 30s now which apparently means your ribs pop out of place while you sleep. I get them cracked back into place at the Chiropractor and they're out again the next morning. Basically it hurts to breathe and I can feel my back muscles scraping over my ribs.

My house is ALSO falling apart and I can’t afford to fix it. My backyard is a dirt pile and I feel SUPER awesome that my kids don’t have grass to run around in. Our plumbing, electrical, and roof all need to be replaced because the house was built before electricity was a thing. Well... 1950. Which is basically the same. And every time I look around at everything that’s broken I feel worse because I’m reminded that I don’t have the means to fix it. Why don’t I have the the funds? Welp...

I’ve been laid off 3 times in the last 4 years and since graduating college 6 years ago have yet to be at one job longer than a year. I pretty much live in fear that every day I go into work will be my last and live in constant stress of how I’m going to provide for my family. It wouldn’t be so bad if I had a marketable skill but I majored in German Literature (long story for another day) and sadly not too many people are looking to hire me to read books to them in German and write sub-par research papers about the motivations of the protagonists...

Why don’t you just learn a new skill, you might ask? That’s a great question. I’ll tell you. In SONG form

No? Monty Python? Anyone? Bueller? NM...

I haven’t had a good night’s sleep for about 2 years (which remarkably coincides with how old our youngest child is) and am effectively a zombie now living off cold pizza & diet mtn dew. That’s what zombies eat, right? Low energy, difficult to focus, seconds away from weeping most days. Which means I have had a beast of a time trying to find the time, motivation and energy to learn to code or be a graphic/ web designer or whatever skill will guarantee that I don’t have a heart attack every time someone says, “Hey, you got a sec?”

So, as a zombie dad, most days I wake up late, trying to get every last second of “sleep” that I can, roll out of bed, shove some “food” in my face and rush off to work (usually without showering, shaving, brushing teeth or any thing resembling self care or hygiene). Gross, I know. And believe me, I’m not boasting here. I live in a state of constant embarrassment of myself. But may I remind you... zombie.

Then I sit in pain for 8 hrs at a job I don’t care for (but am beyond grateful for) and am afraid to lose, hop in my almost broken vehicle & head home to eat a delicious meal made by my beautiful, loving wife. Try not to take the disappointment in my children’s eyes to heart when I tell them I can’t play with them because I’m too tired and in too much pain. Get them down to bed and instead of using the remaining hour or so to do something productive, I fall asleep while watching Parks & Rec through for the 100th time because it’s funny and I need as much levity and release as I can get. Then I’m on the night shift (usually up 2 or 3 times a night getting bottles, changing diapers, rocking back to sleep, etc) and doing it again the next day. Worn out. Run Down. Scraping by, dragging my broken down body through the motions of a “life.”

I feel like this:

Not like a cool zombie

Geez... He makes it look so EASY and fun...

Now, you’re not gonna believe me, but I SWEAR I’m not complaining. Seriously. Just explaining where I’m at these days. Setting the stage, painting the backdrop, giving you some context. I REALLY do try not to complain because as I said, I know it could be way worse and I really am grateful for the good things I DO have and if this is the price for those things and people, I’ll do it again and again. 

But do you see what I mean? Some might say, you don’t shower every day? You don’t brush your teeth regularly? But in my mind and body, I’m just too tired and don’t have time. Last year I broke two back molars in half chewing on gum. Yup, gum. And I lived with that for 6 months because I couldn’t get them fixed because I didn’t have insurance because I didn’t have a job. Seems like a legitimate reason versus a lame excuse.

But I know other people who are going to school full time, while working 2 jobs who seldom see their family let alone get time to play with them. Making do with less and seemingly more put-together than I am. So am I just making excuses then? I mean, have you SEEN this kid?!

Now, I know I shouldn’t compare myself to others. I know everyone’s got their own challenges and I should only compare myself to the best version of myself. But that’s just the thing. I AM comparing myself to myself. And I’m not even CLOSE. 

It’s not that I’m dissatisfied with life. It’s not that I just want more money (though that couldn’t hurt) or a bigger house or power or fame. I really only want enough to care for my family and some extra to help others out. It’s more of a discontent with who I am as a person. I’m not as nice as I’d like to be. I’m not as skilled as I’d like to be. I’m not as humble as I’d like to be. The list goes on... Literally. I have a list. A back log of ideas I want to try, things I want to learn, skills I want to have and put to use, people I want to help.

Basically, I have bad health, bad financial situation, no career, super awesome self esteem, fragile mental health, and not much of a social life.

Sooooo... So so SO!

I’m changing. This WAS me. 

I’m on a journey to finally achieve everything I’ve been putting off and become the best version of me. And I hope you’ll join me on the trip because I hope to learn from all this and I hope that someone somewhere can learn something as well. Even if that’s what NOT to do (Hey man, if it helps SOMEbody, I consider it a success and worth any effort).

So, follow along. I’ll share what I can along the way. And make sure to let me know how I can help you achieve YOUR goals too! Until later!

#25by35 #In The Beginning #Fresh Start #Goals #FixTheDisconnect

[totallymotorbikes]

Church Of MO 2003 Victory Vegas With the unfortunate news of Polaris shutting down Victory Motorcycles, it only seemed right for this week’s Church feature to be about Victory. Oddly, despite Victory’s beginnings in 1997, it took a few years – and a new millennia – for MO to get its hands on one. We’ve featured some of those models already in past Church features, so for this week we’re going with the oldest Victory review we have yet to showcase: the 2003 Victory Vegas. Ridden and written by Eric Bass, sit back, relax, and enjoy this early road test review of what might become a collector’s item in 20 years. Oh, and for more pictures, be sure to visit the photo gallery. 2003 Victory Vegas Viva (fewer) Lost Wages! By Eric Bass Apr. 20, 2003 Aaaaah Las Vegas! Actually, nobody who lives within striking distance really calls it that. It sounds too ordinary, like Santa Monica or El Monte. The Spanish dictionary I used translates Las Vegas to mean “the fertile plains”, which if accurate, is a hysterical misnomer, as it is by no means fertile nor plain. To those of us well acquainted with Beelzebub’s playground, we know it as Sin City, Lost Wages, Land of the One-Armed Bandit, or simply, Vegas (Baby, Vegas!). And while every man enters town with dreams of Victory, they are usually left trampled underfoot along with the cigarette butts and ATM withdrawal slips. But every now and then . . . Any bike worthy of the name Vegas, needs to conjure a feeling of rakish adventure, “you Da’ That’s right. They have women in there who show off their bosoms. LA is wild, man. With a mighty gnashing of gears Eric `Krav Maga’ Bass sets out to meet kindred spirits. Or, chicks… Here, the illusion of the Vegas in a shimmering pool is somewhat diluted by the parking stripes, but we are MO. There’s only one four-pot Brembo in front, but it’s a good one. Man” swagger, and a sense that something cool is gonna happen . . . tonight! And for the most part, Victory succeeds, and does so at a reasonable price point ($14,999 MSRP) relative to (cough) other American motorcycle companies. Compared to their Classic Cruiser based around the same power plant, the Vegas has been mildly stretched (from 94″ length to 96.3″) and slammed (from 28.3″ seat height to 26.5″). The rear tire (170 60VB/18 Dunlop K591 Elite SP) got fatter (from 3.5″ rims to 4.5″) and the front wheel got taller (from 16″ to 21″) and skinnier (from 3″ rims to 2.15″). Stylistically, the fingerprints of design partners Arlen and Cory Ness are all over this bike, giving it a classic but custom look right off the showroom floor. The oil/air-cooled 50 degree, 92ci (1507cc) Freedom V-twin is split by a V-shaped badge replete with faux bullet-hole indents. This embellishment is repeated on the ends of the handlebar grips. A teardrop shaped, flush-mounted, LED tail light graces the rear fender. The stretched and flowing gas tank dovetails to meet the seat, which has been executed with a chopper-influenced minimalism while refusing to sacrifice comfort. The staggered slash-cut dual exhaust delivers a satisfying note without being obnoxious. I would probably upgrade mine to something obnoxious, but that’s just my personality defect. To summarize, the “a la carte” Vegas is served with the kind of secret sauce typically only found in a . . . well, in an Arlen Ness catalog. The ergos are spot-on and had everyone smiling, from 6’2″ Sean, to 5’9″ moi, to the diminuitive JohnnyB. (Just kidding JB, please don’t bite me on the knee!) The pegs look farther forward than they really are, and the handlebars and seat all collaborate to create a casually kicked back body position that felt universally comfy to a challenging trichotomy of testers. The pegs are low though and will drag around a 90 degree turn if you get too sassy with it, slip into racer mode, and go for a deep-braking approach to the apex. Even the pillion shows consideration for the needs of your sidekick. The seat is fairly plush and slants toward the rider rather than off the back of the fender. Gee what a radical concept! When the wheels start turning, the Vegas offers 70 hp to shove its 615 lbs of dry weight down the highway. After being so recently spoiled by the “performance cruiser” stars while conducting our V-Rod/Warrior comparo, I was braced for disappointment when I opened up the Vegas’ throttle. But for a bike in its class, it moves when you goose it, and Brembo 300 mm floating rotor brakes bring it to a halt with total confidence. The power is administered via a fiberglass-reinforced belt drive, and managed by a 5-speed constant mesh transmission that has a foot feel somewhere in between a metric “click” and an H-D “clunk”. The Vegas’ suspension does an above average job of absorbing pavement errata without incident. In fact, I gave the shocks an impromptu test by intentionally guiding the bike over a mild pothole under fairly hard braking, and squeezed only a tiny chirp out of the front wheel. My sole complaint would have to be that the Vegas likes to whistle while it works. The whirring of overhead cams was a minor aural irritation to me, but went un-noticed by the full-face clad JB and Sean. As MO’s lonely and embattled defender of the steel stallion, I had to retrieve my jaw from my boot tops when Sean and JB actually offered unsolicited praise for the Vegas. Typically, cruiser conversations around here rapidly devolve into a verbal rat-packing by the Hamilton-Burns-Alexander axis of evil, until I feel like Frodo Baggins fighting off a horde of raging Orcs. But apparently the Vegas hath charms to soothe the savage Power Ranger. Phew! That beautiful tank holds 4.5 gallons of fuel before it sweeps back to a seat only 26 inches high. Nice, no? Each cylinder displaces 751cc. You can change the final drive belt without removing the swingarm. Or you can pay someone. While our communal grins surely were derived in part from the bike’s style and stance, the Vegas delivers better than expected performance for a “pure cruiser”. It really does strike a nice balance between form and function, and considering the head start provided by the Nesses, the bike could achieve a truly custom look with very little additional investment. A few aftermarket flourishes and some custom paint and this bike could look as good as a $30,000 machine and probably ride better at just over half the price. Nice job Victory. You may just ruin Lost Wages bad reputation! Tell me More… –John B. Contrary to popular opinion, I harbor no ill will toward that category of dungheaps generally referred to as “cruisers.” All I know is when I ride them, more often than not, instead of the usual euphoria I feel upon hopping on a cool bike after a dull day at the office or a broken heart or whatever, I get kind of bummed out at the lack of agility combined with physical discomfort. Most cruisers just don’t fit me. Take the Yamaha Warrior. I’d heard so many good things about it, I was all set to hop on the bandwagon. In fact I do like most of that bike, but not as much as I would if it didn’t have a handlebar designed for an orangutan. Easy enough to fix, true, but easy things like that tend to take on complicated forms at MO. Most other cruisers put the footpegs too far forward, leaving your tailbone to act as rear suspension. A cruiser with decent ergoes, I’m all over it–the Road King I can deal with, for instance. In general, though, the really stylized cruisers go for form over function, and I’m more a function first motorcycle guy–I got no time to “cruise;” I always have to be somewhere. Which leads me to say, Wow, this Vegas is the first of its ilk I enjoy riding. Excellent throttle response from nicely programmed injection, good power, a positive, short-throw gearbox, crisp controls and a tightly bolted-together feel throughout, ergoes that work for me, pretty good suspension, really good brakes and swoopy looks that steer clear of self-parody. Too bad Victory got off on the wrong foot a few years ago and soiled itself; it takes a while for the stigma to wear off, but conversations with Polaris people, and riding this bike, lead me to believe Victory has turned the corner. They’ve kicked junior engineers upstairs, brought in not only Ness but also some new Art Center people, spanned the globe to find a manufacturer to produce the Vegas gas tank… in short, they’re kicking free of the old made-in-America mentality and joining the global economy to produce a motorcycle which looks more Italian than American, executionwise. Even more interesting, Victory tells us that the Vegas is only one of a bunch of new models scheduled for launch, at the rate of one or two a year, between now and 2008. Oooh, what’s next? Church Of MO – 2003 Victory Vegas appeared first on Motorcycle.com.

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