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serenawitchwriter · 3 years

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BNHA fusion (Bakusquad/Deku)

BakuDeku

HE NUMBER ONE HERO

SCREAMS

DESTRUCTION!

is so insecure tho, don’t tell anyone

WILL ALSO TAKE ANY CHALLENGE

SCARY

YOU CAN’T HURT HIM??

SUPER UNSTABLE

ONLY GETS ALONG WITH KIRASHIMA

really wants to be friends with everyone though, please?

WOULD KILL YOU

NEVER SHUTS UP

BREAKS EVERYTHING INCLUDING HIMSELF, STILL COMES AFTER YOU

AND HE’S SMART!!??

HONEST

kinda hates himself, but in an apathetic way

NEVER GIVES UP

possibly Undyne from Undertale?

cries when frustrated

ADMIRABLE DESPITE ALL HIS FLAWS

UNSTOPPABLE WHEN HE PUTS HIS MIND TO SOMETHING

gets strangely flustered around people he admires, comes across as tsundere

KiriDeku

MANLY AS HELL

SO STRONG

FRIENDS WITH EVERYONE

WILL BENCH PRESS ALL HIS FRIENDS AT ONCE

A HERO FANBOY SQUARED

TOUGH AS NAILS

ALMOST ALWAYS SMILING

freckles and shark teeth

explosion of red fluffy hair, green roots

is very private with their insecurity. will go quiet and thoughtful when left alone

unshakably kind

MOTIVATES YOU

TRIES TO USE SLANG AND FAILS

has this weird habit of headbutting things and breaking them?

Bakugou hates but tolerates them? he acts more like a wet cat than sparky sparky boom man

they are LITERALLY the only person who can get away with hugging him

(Bakugou secretly loves them)

MANY

BRO

HUGS!!!

prone towards depression but makes himself feel better by helping people

LITERALLY EVERYONE LOVES THEM

gives off a strangely unattainable vibe

DekuMina

watermelon, freckled pink skin, green fluffy hair that is amazingly curly. horns

green eyes, with black sclara

cute beyond reason

really really excitable

#1 friend, always knows when something is wrong and how to cheer people up

socially conscious. can hang out with basically anyone and be liked

an ambivert

loves dancing and moving and fighting. incredibly flexible but also muscular. sorta Mirko physique only unmatured

has sick kicks and flips

hates bullies and will punch clocks out without hesitation

can be kinda obnoxious, especially because they don’t know how to shut up

will tease you accurately if you call them out. they’re not mean, but can pick out what’s actually wrong. getting called out when you’re trying to be mad is also obnoxious

extremely tactile and clingy. loves hugging and just touching their friends. Mido never felt like he had permission before, but combined with Mina they give out touches freely

slightly dark, self-depreciating humor but you can never tell if they’re serious

both intentionally and unintentionally funny

clumsy, a bit of a space case

makes fun of Bakugou the most

gets really creative in the type of acid they make and how they use it, particularly combined with the tentacle quirk

has no fashion sense. Mina might be able to claim her bright colors and patterns are an aesthetic. but DekuMina can make no such claim. they are an eyesore and they love it. ugly is their aesthetic and they will not apologize

unironically wears eye-searing Hawaiian shirts, bakugou hates this about them

unironically finger guns at every opportunity

KamiDeku

oh man, they are not okay

chronic pain

trying to cover up that anything is wrong with smiles and humor x2

yellow hair with more than once green lightning streak

electric green eyes that glow constantly

attacks with green lightning in general. it’s overpowered but they can control where it’s going now.

unafraid to go all out in a fight and suffers physically and mentally for it

really hard on themselves, low confidence

the kind of adhd where they have a million interest and skill-sets. they’ve learned so much, they genuinely are really smart. but they remember absolutely nothing

they get really frustrated and will often cry because of this. they know the information is there but they can never find it when they need it. they’re just reaching into their brain and finding nothing when they know something is supposed to be there. they hate it

pretty depressed

an incredibly loyal friend, always trying to help no matter how worn out they are

is genuinely really funny. they know how to do critical and aware humor, situational humor, improv. they could do standup if they tried.

probably eats really weird food. i see them combining bizarre food items together and really liking it. will put garbage into their body, shaggy style

easygoing when they don’t have any stressors

but extremely anxious when there are stressors (note: there are a lot of stressors)

stims with their hands a lot. their hands just can’t hold still. will flap twiddle, twitch, tap, anything

the friend that will try to put all the focus on you when it’s clear that they’re the one having a meltdown.

is baby

the friend groups come out in force for this one. they will not let them feel alone or bad. kamideku is getting the support they need

loves cuddles

JiroDeku

vibing

Jirou brings out Mido’s attitude, so honestly they are mean and sassy and sarcastic. they’d insult you and you’d thank them for it

straight green and purple hair in an gradient, keeps the earlobes.

trying and succeeding to be punk rock but is also adorable. like you know they can and will kick your ass, but they are also so short and they have chubby cheeks and freckles. they’re adorable

a short and compensating for it vibe except they are legitimately edgy

they might be nb, but they are also absolutely still a sword lesbian

sonic boom quirk. they will destroy building with their quirk, they will destroy eardrums

absolutely in a punk band and capable of rapping

probably does vocaloid/computer based music

could also see them using a gun

I could see them being into arson, too, hopefully only for good reasons

is wild and chaotic. they are genuinely having a lot of fun.

their grin is absolutely feral and a threat, and honestly that’s very valid and sexy of them

pretty chill when they aren’t up to shit,

constantly listening to music, always has a pair of good headphones around their neck

vibes with Bakugou more than Jirou does alone.

big sister to most of the class

probably kicks doors open

serodeku

spiderman

weird, not in an artistic or intentional way. they just have an off vibe

unsettling smile, freckles, eyes that are a bit to big. curly black hair.

on the plain side

lanky and scarred

can shoots energy, tentacles, and tape from elbows.

great a parkour, has fantastic mobility

full of nervous energy, but still 100% down to fuck with people

secretly a sadist.

will call anyone out when they’re being stupid or reckless

pretty social

loves fruits and vegetables

loves tv, could probably tell you everything about the show he’s watching

pretty bashful

besties with Kaminari and Kirishima

a great hype man

insane, slightly scary pranks

it’s hard to tell what they’re thinking, especially in a fight

fantastic at creating traps and pushing people into them

tries to pretend he’s not as dangerous or confident as he really is. would prefer to be underestimated

tends to talk down his achievements as a result

but knows exactly how powerful they are

(masterlist)

#fusion au #bnha #mha #bakudeku #bakusquad #kirideku #minadeku #jiroudeku #serodeku #kamideku #bakugou #Midoriya #kirishima #mina #jirou #sero #denki kaminari #serenawitchwriter

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millers-planet · 3 years

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The Vice and the Virtue - Part Two

Pairing: Helmut Zemo x GN!Reader (later established as F following more parts)

A/N: this isn’t my best work. i don’t entirely know where to take this series, ngl.

POV: Reader

Warnings: Fluff. Use of “Y/N”. Angst. Brief desc of gore.

Words: 2.1k

Description: How does one live a life of virtue when past vices begin arising after a successful jailbreak with untied ends?

part one

“Are you serious?” I can’t believe he’s doing this. The second he gets back, too. It makes me question the real value of me to him, if my presence is of any substantial worth. I know that he thinks higher of me, but right now I’m having a hard time believing that.

He sighed and looks back to me, away from him new buddies, “you know why I have to go. I already explained this.” By this point, he’s talking to me as if I am a child, and I am having none of it.

“I know why you’re going and I get that, it’s not what I have a problem with. You aren’t letting me come with you.” I tried to take a step to him, but he backed away, really emphasizing my doubt. “Fine. You left once and didn’t come back for 5 plus years, I’m sorry I don’t want to sit here and wonder when you’re gonna be back again or wonder if I’m going to have to finally move on.” I really didn’t want to have to pull this card, especially in front of his friends, but I will be damned before he walks out that door without me.

Zemo dropped his bags and closed the gap between us, putting his hands on cheeks, knowing it comforts me. “You’re right,” his voice got softer and more warm, “I didn’t think of it that way when I probably should of. I was only wrapped up in the possibility of you getting hurt.” He placed a small kiss on my forehead and nodded towards out bedroom, “you should go pack, and quickly.”

With a furrow of my eyebrows and pushing my lips into a frown, I snarkily replied, “you do realize I was listening to your conversations last night? I already have a bag packed.” With a quick rush, I grabbed my bag that was resting on the edge of the bed.

As everyone was checking their rooms to make sure they grabbed everything, or clarifying one thing or another, Bucky walked up to me. “If you want, I can carry your bag for you, you keep adjusting your shoulder strap.”

With a small smile, I handed him my bag. “Thank you, I really appreciate that.” For some reason, I was thinking previously that Bucky was a middle ground of Zemo and Sam, sarcastic and a little cold, but he seems really sweet. It makes me think that chivalry isn’t completely dead.

Taking a seat next to Zemo on the plane, with Bucky and Sam sitting across from us, the deafening engines began, only muffled as the door sealed itself shut. I don’t remember the last time I was on a plane, let alone on one with him. We used to go quite often on little vacations, dates, or getaways, but stopped once he got busy with ‘work’. Either way, it was nice to be back on one with him, despite the circumstances.

Sam and Bucky looked very uncomfortable, taken aback when people came and served us nearly whatever we wanted. Bucky gave me worried glances when people came up to him and asked him strange questions, to which I helped him out. Zemo and I, on the complete opposite spectrum, got right at home.

A watched him pull out a small book inside another, one that I didn’t recognize. “I’m fascinated by this, I don’t know what to call it but this part seems to be important. Who is... Nakajima?” Before I could question anything, everything switched around. Sam was reaching out, Bucky was lashing forward, and Zemo had a hand around his throat.

With a small mumble, Bucky spoke, “if you touch that again I’ll kill you,” and returned swiftly to his seat. Everything fell quiet and tense, with Zemo glaring at Bucky and him staring at the window, plus Sam just eyeing the two of them. I pulled my knees up to my chest and tried to ignore the rest of the conversation.

All I heard were conversations about Steve, ice, and writing stuff down in the notebook.

“I like 40′s music.” Bucky’s voice was irritated and drained of emotion.

That was, until, I chimed in with “what do you think about Sinatra?”

Bucky shrugged, “A little past my time. I was too busy being brainwashed to really get into him. Have you listened to anything by Nat King Cole?”

I instantly lit up, it was so nice being able to talk to someone about something light-hearted. “Only a few songs, but they were really good.”

“So, you didn’t like Marvin Gaye?”

“I liked it, Sam.” Bucky just responded emptily back to him

“It’s a masterpiece, James-” Zemo began shortly, until I interrupted

“-It’s complete, comprehensive. It captures the African-American experience.”

Same looked a the two of us. “He’s out of line, and she’s just smart, but they’re both right. Everybody loves Marvin Gaye.”

Bucky kept the dead tone, “I already said I liked Marvin Gaye.”

“Steve adored Marvin Gaye.”

From there, the three of them went on about Steve. I knew brief things about him but I was never caught up in the superhero world. All I understood was that his name was Steve Rogers and that he is Captain America, a super soldier, who was besties with Sam and Bucky. Other than that, I didn’t really care about this Steve guy or the Avengers in general, it doesn’t sit right with me knowing the conflicts Zemo has had with them.

It was slightly cool out with the rain just about to pass through, along with the open bridge and river allowing for more cool air to travel. Changing out of a t-shirt and jeans into a thin-ass top with matching black thin-ass leggings made the air seem ten times as cold.

I walked in between Sam and Zemo, wrapped up in his heavy coat and arm loosely wrapped around my waist. “Only an American would think a fashion-forward Black man looks like a pimp, you’re fitting in nicely with your alias,” Zemo’s hand dropped from me and handed his phone to Sam. “A sophisticated man nicknamed the Smiling Tiger.”

Sam just sighed. “He even has a bad nickname. But,” he looked closer at the phone, “he sure does look like me.” Zemo took the phone back and returned his arm around me. “Is that acid?”

“Madripoor.” His voice became clearer and dropped. “Whatever you do, we must stay in character, there is no margin for error, our lives depend on it. Over there is High Town, not a bad place if you want to visit. Low Town is the other way.”

“Let me guess, we don’t have any friends in High Town?”

I stopped dead in my track as the car came forward. “Oh you have got to be kidding me.” Everyone turned to stare at me. “Look at that car, who the hell is sitting in the middle of the backseat, I know for damn sure it isn’t me.” I walked forward and sat in one of the window seats in the back as Zemo chuckled and got in the front.

Sam and Bucky exchanged nervous glances, until they began shoving each other like from the other day. As the back door opened, I raised my voice to them, “HEY! If you guys want to fight over middle seat, play rock, paper, scissors. I’m not gonna deal with the two of you bickering the whole time. Best out of three, on ‘shoot’.”

They mumbled the saying each time. First, Sam won. Second, Bucky. Third, Bucky again.

Sam groaned like a child, “Man! I hate this.”

I was hyper-aware of everything going on. Specifically, how many people were staring at me. It was just me with three other men going into a bar full of other men and few women. It’s suffice to say I was uncomfortable, especially since Zemo took his jacket back, so I couldn’t hide away into it. But the quiet mumbles of “is that the Winter Soldier?” put my mind slightly at ease.

The bartender looked taken aback by Sam’s approach. “I wasn’t expecting you, Smiling Tiger.”

Zemo entered quickly, “his plans changed. We have business to do... with Selby.”

“The usual?” Sam replied with a small nod, only to regret it--in his eyes--once everyone saw the eel come out. I had to cover my hands with my mouth to not gag as he took the shot, only for a disapproving look to follow from the bartender.

A hand was place on my shoulder and I instinctively turned around, Zemo following quickly. It was some strange man, “got word from on high, you ain’t welcome here.

“I have no business with the Power Broker. But, if he insists, he can come talk to me or...” he motion to Bucky, “bring Selby for a chat.” The man then took that as his cue to leave.

I turned around, back to the bar, and pushed myself closer to Zemo. “When can we get out of here? When can we meet Selby?”

“Soon,” he muttered, until a hand was placed on his shoulder this time, leading to a glance back to Bucky and a command in Russian.

Buckys metal hand met the stranger, throwing him into the ground. Other followed to him quickly, but the ‘Winter Soldier’ took them out without drop of sweat. Following a broken table and someone being kicked into it, another guy walked up next to us, which seemed like a problem until Zemo pushed him to Bucky, who took care of him. His metal arm wrapped around the throat of another, pushing him into the bar, the sound of guns cocking filling the silence.

“Selby will see you now.”

“You’re taller than I heard, Smiling Tiger,” Selby slowly raised her eyes up to Sam, who kept his face stiff and only spared her a look for a second. She rolled her tongue and focused herself onto me, as I stood behind Zemo’s chair. “You, I don’t think I’ve seen or heard of you. Come here! Take a seat,” she patted the oddly patterned couch as smiled crookedly up at me. As soon as I sat down she pulled me close and let my hair fall into her hand, “I don’t know how he got you to on his hip, what does he pay you?” Her voice was just a loud enough whisper to let everyone interpret, intentionally.

Zemo cleared his throat and stood up, “perhaps we should get back to the deal. I will give you the Winter Soldier,” he motioned to Bucky who kept his face straight, “along with the words to operate him, of course. Only, if you give me information I desire.”

She laughed and let me go, “that’s the Zemo I remember, you were right to come to me. Arrogant, but right.” Selby shifted more to him and let her head fall into her hand. “The serum is in Madripoor, with Doctor Nagel you can thank or condemn. He was making it for the Power Broker until things didn’t go as planned.”

“Is Nagel still in Madripoor?”

“Aww,” she stood up and slowly inched her way toward Zemo. “The bread crumbs you can have for free but the bakery is going to cost you, Baron. And don’t think you can find Nagel without me, either.” Selby opened her mouth to speak, until a phone buzzing interrupted her.

Everyone’s face dropped, except for Selby, who’s lit up with excitement. “Go on, answer it... on speaker.” Zemo’s eyes met mine, when he carefully mouthed, “it’ll be fine.”

“Hello?” Sam forced himself cool, maintaining a flat voice.

“Hey so this situation has got me thinking, about the boat and the bank.” It was a feminine voice on the other end of the phone.

“Ah, the bank.. we laundered so much money.” He glanced around and was clearly anxious by this point. “Yeah, they’ll come around.”

“If that was the case, then why’d they dog you out Big Time?” Sam’s face dropped to the cool look again, realizing the other person caught onto the gig, until the phone erupted with, “hey! What did I say about those Cheerios? Sam, I’ll call you back.”

Selby furrowed her eyebrows together and glanced around the room. “Who is Sam? Kill them-” her sentence ended as a bullet puncture through her and body collapsed on the floor. The two standing men were taken out by Bucky and Sam, as Zemo ran to me.

My hand flew over my mouth as I stared at the body. “Is she? She was just-” I quickly started hyperventilating, it was so sudden and I’ve never watched someone die before. “Zemo, she’s dead, oh my god.”

He pulled me into his chest and stood me up, hold me tightly and leading us toward the door. “It will be alright, just focus on me.” He stopped and looked around the room, trying to figure out the plan. “Leave your weapons and follow my lead, we have a real problem now.”

get tagged - masterlist

tags: @mochminnie @multiyfandomgirl40 @darlinloves @mydeathcause @spookycereal-s @hollmarch @tkachuk-dubois @ntlmundy @jillianheidii @blondekel77 @mysticdeerpolice @dexthtoyounglings @anthrogothic @bearbear158

#zemo #baron zemo x reader #helmut zemo x reader #baron zemo #helmut zemo #baron zemo x you #baron zemo angst #baron zemo fluff #helmut zemo x you #helmut zemo angst #marvel #tfatws #tfaws #fatws #zemo x reader #zemo x you #zemo x y/n

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hood-ex · 3 years

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ya know, the whole incompetency is a huge trend in dc these days and IMO i think it's because dc writers cannot/will not take the time to write intelligent villains anymore

like, dc has to dumb down their heroes in order to give the villain any sort of credibility, or give the hero some insane morals that they have either a) broken before or b) are insanely unrealistic considering who they deal with/where they live (*cough* Batman *cough*)

it's either make both the villain and hero dumb or make the villain somehow extremely thorough in everything they do, like the joker planting a billion bombs for the batfam to disarm and the only way he'll give up the detonator is if Batman holds a gun on TV or something because it'll prove that he's just as bad as joker (which, holy heck, that's pretty much the whole she-bang isn't it? just joker going "hee hee-hoo, Batman held a gun and I hold guns all the time, so he's just like me!! i'm just some twig dude on a perpetual acid trip and Batman is a very sad man doing his best, but we're the same!! tee-hee, we're besties!!")

like, dc, you already have established and much loved and very intelligent heroes!! you already know their characters!! it's okay to invent new villain now, i promise the whole world won't go crazy as long as it's not joker 3.0

I felt that way during Tomasi’s recent run in Detective Comics! Hush managed to take out Dick, Babs, Jason, Cass, Duke, and Kate all at once?? Like are you fucking kidding me? I’ll admit, his plan to cut out their organs and to donate them so that Bruce couldn’t bring them back to life via the Lazarus Pit was pretty devious, but everything before that was just... what the hell.

I think a lack of understanding for the character definitely plays into it as well as the writer not knowing how to progress the story without dumbing the hero down to move them along from point A to point B. Like, hm, how does the hero get locked in the cellar? I don’t have time to write some long fight scene, so how about I just pretend like they can’t do This, This, and This so the villain can take them out easily.

😭 We already have Joker 3.0 😭 They really did that. They really decided to give us Punchline even though everyone is fucking sick of the Joker 😭.

#yes hello dc? let's bring in some new writers #replies #romanticism-is-maudlinism

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mypoisonedvine · 4 years

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Sessions with August | August Walker x Reader -- Chapter 1

This is something I’ve been working on for a while with my bestie @nuns-and-roses! We will be posting some future chapters from her blog so give her a follow for more of this (and also lots of amazing fics).

Summary: As a CIA psychiatrist, most of your clients are aggressive, intimidating, maybe even a little threatening. But none of them are quite like August Walker. You were trained to trust your gut and remove yourself from any situation that made you uncomfortable. If you had followed that training, maybe you could’ve saved yourself from the twisted world he planned to bring you into…

Word Count: 3k

Warnings: mentions/descriptions of childhood abuse; no smut in this chapter but there will be eventual non-con/heavy dub con and lots of dark themes like manipulation, gaslighting, stalking, etc. Discretion is advised.

Session 1 - October 9th

You only had five minutes between sessions each day, and it was a very important time. As a psychiatrist seeing patients, there is limited time to oneself. Your patients become a part of you, and you assume an identity at work that often follows you home.

Reserved, kind, patient. Every single word, every movement, was an act. And it's not that you were really lying or manipulating your patients, it's just that you had to close off most of yourself to them. It was how both of you were protected.

In five minutes, you had time to step out of that persona while you sorted your files and grabbed a quick snack. You contemplated between a granola bar or clementine, eventually choosing the latter, though you had to wash your hands to get off the sticky residue of the acidic peel.

As you washed your hands, you contemplated yourself in the mirror. You had put a lot of thought into your look for this persona. To save time and energy, you wore the same thing every day: your closet was all black pencil skirts, white button-downs and black blazers, with only a little space for your off-work clothing (which never got much use). In winter you added thick stockings to keep from freezing during the walk to and from your car, but otherwise it remained the same. Even the jewelry-- freshwater pearl studs and a dainty gold tennis bracelet-- remained the same, along with your beloved pair of Italian leather heels which weren't so high that you felt overdressed, but just high enough that you felt taller, and perhaps a bit sexy though you knew that shouldn't matter.

The goal was to look neutral, to not have your appearance distract in any way. To blend in. It had actually been sort of difficult to perfect one makeup look that you could put on quickly before work, but you'd managed. Your hair was probably what you spent the most time on each morning, since it had to be pulled back pretty tight and you wanted every single hair to be in place.

Checking the clock, you saw that it was about time to call in your next appointment. It was a new patient, a somewhat recent recruit that had already garnered a bit of a reputation. From what you'd heard he was incredibly ambitious to the point of being a bit cutthroat. What the rumors had failed to mention, you realized as you opened the door to guide him in from the waiting room, was that he was hot. And not just "hey, good for you!" hot, but "how am I expected to get any work done in these conditions?!" hot. You introduced yourself with a firm handshake and tried not to think about the size of his hands or the strength of his grip.

"Mr. Walker, please, have a seat," you encouraged, motioning to the room.

"Which one?" he asked, noticing the menagerie of chairs and sofas in your office.

"Ah, yes, this may be strange if you're used to a more... clinical space," you nodded. "Sit wherever you'd like. Whatever looks most comfortable to you."

He examined his options and seemed to be putting more thought to it than most did.

"This is a test, isn't it? You want to see what kind of person I am by what I pick?"

You laughed. "No, I just want you to have options."

He settled for a high back chair which normally made people look kind of short but his body barely fit into it. He made it look like a toy chair for a child.

"Is that your final answer?" you asked with a smile.

"I knew it was a test," he frowned.

"It's really not," you laughed, "I just want you to be comfortable."

"Tell me what it says about me. What do you know because I picked this chair?" he demanded, apparently not believing you that it wasn't a test.

"What do you think it says about you?" you asked instead.

He thought about that for a second. "I guess I'm probably more… structured than the guy who picks the bean bag. More formal."

You nodded. "That makes sense."

"Who picks the bean bag anyway?" he smirked.

"Almost no one picks the bean bag."

He smiled, and it looked a little rehearsed. But it was only the first day, so maybe he would open up over time.

“What are we supposed to do in here?” he asked, looking around as if he was expecting something he could see to explain therapy: did he think you were going to give him shocks or something?

“Well, that’s sort of up to you, Mr. Walker. The goal of these sessions is really just for you to have time each week that you can spend however you’d like.”

“Really? I could just come in here and read a book or whatever?”

“Yes, although I can’t promise you that would be the best use of your time.”

“Could I clean my gun?” he pressed.

You tried not to have a strong reaction. Then again, that could describe a lot of your sessions. “I personally would prefer that you didn’t, to be honest.” He smirked. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of guns.”

“No, I’m not,” you answered honestly, “but I think it’s better for you if this time feels distinct from your work. I know that can be difficult since this is happening through your work and is being funded by your work and we work in different wings of the same building…”

“I don’t need time away from my job. I love my job.” “I’m glad to hear that. I love my job, too, but I would have to say that it is important to my health that I get some time separate from that.”

“Your job is way worse than mine,” he grinned.

“Really?” you smiled back. “A lot of people would say my job is easy.”

“Listening to these crazies bitch all day? I’d lose my mind,” he chuckled.

“Who said I hadn’t lost mine?” you smirked.

Session 2 - October 16th

“You’re wearing the same thing as last time,” he noticed instantly. It usually took a few sessions for someone to notice. Had he really spent so much time looking at you that he remembered what you’d worn?

“Yes, I am,” you agreed.

“Lucky coincidence?” he asked.

“No, I actually wear the same clothes every day,” you corrected. He gave you a confused look. “It saves me time in the morning.”

“That’s it? You wear the same outfit every single day, just to save time in the morning?”

You looked to the ground, questioning how honest you should get. But how could you expect him to be honest with you if you couldn’t open up in this one little way?

“Clothing is a form of self-expression, and these sessions aren’t about expressing my self,” you explained. “I’d hate for my clothing choices to become a distraction.”

He looked you up and down and you felt more observed than you preferred to be.

“What you’re wearing now is plenty distracting on its own,” he said darkly.

You shifted in your seat. You felt very observed, more than you preferred to be.

“I’m… sorry to hear that,” you awkwardly replied.

“Don’t be sorry,” he shrugged.

“What… what were we talking about before?” you asked awkwardly.

Session 3 - October 23rd

“Good afternoon,” you smiled, extending your hand for a handshake. Why did you feel a little awkward when he shook your hand in return? “How are you doing?”

“I’m alright, thanks for asking,” he smiled. “How about you?”

“Well, thank you,” you answered warmly, taking your seat. “So, what do you want to talk about today?”

“I dunno,” he shrugged.

“Well, it’s up to you to guide the discussion wherever you want it to go.”

“What do the superiors think we should be talking about?” he asked, sounding a little incredulous.

“Do you think I get notes from your managers on what to discuss with you?”

“I… sort of assumed,” he admitted.

“I don’t. This is your time. Use it however you’d like.”

The way he looked at you made you wonder if he was going to take that a little too seriously.

“I guess you want me to talk about my traumatic childhood or something?”

“Well, if you’d like to…”

August looked at where his shoe was propped over his other knee, bouncing it as if he was nervous.

“It’s only our second session,” you dismissed.

“Right, right,” he responded, sounding like he was deep in thought. “I don’t want to burden you…”

“Burden? August, never worry about that. It’s my job. I’m here to help you.”

He looked up at you again, something broken and hollow in his expression. “It’s… upsetting.”

“Try me.”

He took a shaky breath, rubbing his hands together. You furrowed your brow at the complete 180 in his body language.

“Well,” he began slowly, “I always knew something was wrong when I was a kid. I knew that that wasn’t how things were supposed to be, even if it was the only thing I’d ever known.”

He narrowed his eyes like he was thinking, then glanced over to the window.

“I knew there wasn’t supposed to be blood on the walls,” he recalled with a shockingly-neutral expression, “I knew there was something wrong…”

You nodded but said nothing, wanting to let him finish this train of thought before you contributed.

“My mother…” he continued, his voice getting darker, “she was troubled, I suppose. She hated me. I don’t know what I did that made her hate me so much. She was good at putting on a face for other people, hiding my cuts and bruises so people wouldn’t ask questions. But in those days, no one was really asking questions anyway. Children were property, and women were always doing right by their children no matter what they did.”

You waited for the silence to steep for a while before you commented. “That sounds… terrible,” you replied quietly, “I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you,” he responded with a curt nod.

“Where was your father in all this?”

“Who knows?”

“He wasn’t in the picture,” you presumed.

“No, he lived with us. He just… wasn’t there. I guess he didn’t see anything wrong with it. She always had dinner ready on the table when he got home, and past that, he barely even acknowledged my existence. I guess he trusted her to raise me. I tried to tell him a few times, but he just told me to respect my mother. He just wanted me to leave him alone.”

“Do you have any memories of time alone with your father?”

“No,” he said like he was realizing it for the first time. “No, I don’t think I was ever alone with my father.”

You decided to let that one sit, hoping to let him continue without you prompting him.

“Every day was hell with her,” he finally added after a moment. “It was always something. No matter what I did, I had always done something wrong. She didn’t always beat me… sometimes she would burn spices and blow the smoke in my face. Sometimes she would make me kneel on uncooked rice. Mostly it was just beatings, though. I lost a lot of my teeth early because of it. And I’m still deaf in this ear,” he explained, motioning to his left ear.

“Wow,” you whispered. “Did no one ever stick up for you? Nobody ever questioned your injuries, like a doctor, maybe?”

“I didn’t see a doctor until I was an adult,” he laughed coldly. “She didn’t believe in that. She thought it was all part of the mind, I think-- that every health problem was just an outward reflection of all my inner faults. Thankfully, I never came down with anything too serious. She was always able to nurse me back to health, even when I got what I realize now was almost certainly pneumonia.”

“Was she more caring when you were ill?”

“Not exactly a warm-and-fuzzy type, but yes, she was gentler. She didn’t beat me until I was well again.”

“How generous,” you groaned with an eyeroll.

“I know, but you learn to appreciate the little things,” he explained. “You must have clung to any affection from adults that you could,” you offered.

“Yes, I did.”

“That seems like a reasonable response.”

“Yes…” he repeated, something darker crossing his tone, “but it can be dangerous, chasing down affection…”

You shuddered a little, but suppressed it. You wanted to explore that statement more, but a glance at the clock revealed you didn’t have even close to enough time to dig into it.

“Sounds like something we can pick up with next week,” you said lightly.

“Oh, is it already time?”

“Getting close to it,” you nodded. “I don’t want to cut you off or anything. This has been really productive. I feel like I’m getting to know you better.”

“Yeah,” he smiled, “ditto.”

“And before we wrap up, I just want to say a few things, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course, go ahead.”

“First, thank you for sharing this with me.”

He nodded in acknowledgement.

“Second, I want to tell you that you didn’t do anything to make your mother hurt you like that. There’s nothing you could’ve done to justify that… you were a child. You were her child. She was supposed to take care of you, and she didn’t. And it wasn’t because you did something wrong, but simply because there are awful, evil, sick people in this world who do terrible things to innocent people.”

He looked taken aback by that. “Nobody’s innocent.”

That wasn’t the response you expected. Most people hear “it’s not your fault” and brush it away, say that they know that even if they don’t, say that they’ve heard it all before. Had August not heard this before? Was this the first time someone was responding this way? Worse, was this the first time he’d told someone at all?

“August, you were a child. You were innocent.”

He nodded, but didn’t seem super convinced.

“And, lastly,” you finished with a sigh, “does this time next week work for you?”

Sometimes, you just have that itch in your brain, and you need to scratch it. On your way to your car from your office, you found yourself taking a detour to the records office, and leaning on the desk of the receptionist there.

“Good evening, Melissa,” you greeted.

“Oh, hey!” she smiled back from behind her computer. “What’s up?”

“Could you get me anything you have on August Walker?”

“You should be able to access that already--”

“No, that’s just from his time in Operations. He used to work in Support.”

“Really?”

“Um, yeah. Can you… get me that file?”

“Yeah, sure. ...Looks like he had another psychiatrist then, too. I think they had a mandated intake interview back then.”

“Makes sense.”

“I’ve got some tapes here.”

You laughed a little when she actually handed you literal cassettes. “Oh, you mean tapes. I assumed it was digital.”

“Not this far back.”

You slipped the tape into your car’s tape player on your drive home. Perks of having a shitty old car.

So, tell me, August, the calm male voice of the retired Dr. Newbury began, what inspires your interest in the CIA?

I have a talent. I want it to get some use.

What do you mean when you say ‘talent’?

I can do things other people can’t. And I don’t mean physically, although I suppose that’s true, too. What I mean is, I can tolerate things other people can’t. I can survive things other people can’t. There’s something about people that makes them… sensitive. Reactive. I don’t think I have that. I don’t feel things the way other people do.

And you don’t see that as a weakness?

I think I did, once. But I realize now that it’s my greatest strength. I have a sense of… peace, that most people can only dream of.

Peace? Is that something that’s important to you?

Isn’t it important to everyone?

That’s fair. Where do you think that sense of peace comes from?

Is it time to dig into my childhood, Doc?

You shivered at how similar it sounded to his own discussion with you, even when he was clearly so much younger.

I suppose.

Are you one of those people who thinks peace can only come from suffering?

Let’s not talk about me.

Well, I think that suffering is overrated. My childhood, since you’re dying to know, was fine. Simple. Something in me is… missing, maybe, but it wasn’t stolen. My mom was sweet-- the kind of person who would bake a pie and leave it in the windowsill to cool. Always at social functions, always showing me off.

And your father?

Quiet. Stern, never cruel. I mean, he would discipline me when I did something wrong-- but that’s not cruelty, that’s love, isn’t it?

You could say that.

Then sure, my father loved me.

Is that the only way your father loved you? Through discipline?

Is there any other way?

You stopped the tape but what you had heard echoed in your mind. There was something about this story that you hadn’t gotten out of what he had told you. That undefinable, inscrutable element that could only be described as the truth. Of course you had questioned his story at the time, but you had been told to believe people when they were confessing something so serious, even as some covert sense told you that something was wrong.

You pulled over and grabbed a paper file from the seat next to you.

“Of course,” you mumbled aloud to yourself, “of course something was wrong…”

You flipped to his physical examination results from his first intake. He was just 19 then, a few weeks before the interview you had just listened to.

Perfect hearing in both ears. 20/20 vision. Flawless dental impressions-- due mainly to 7 years of corrective braces staggered throughout his childhood.

You felt sick-- actually, physically sick. As much as you had anticipated that there was something off with his original story, you hadn’t prepared for such a significant fabrication. You still didn’t understand why he had lied to you… or what more you would learn had been simply a story.

#august walker x reader #august walker x y/n #august walker smut #august walker headcanon #august walker imagine #henry cavill smut #henry cavill x reader #henry cavill x y/n #henry cavill headcanons #mission impossible fanfiction #dark!henry cavill

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youdonthavetolivelikethis · 3 years

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Wednesday, July 7, 2021

⚖CW: 180.2lbs -1.0 from yesterday

10:22am Ah fuck. I was so tired yesterday I laid down at like 10pm and passed out. Usually if I fall asleep early, I'll wake up like 2-4am but I slept straight thru so I didn't do my lil total posts for the day. Buuut I skipped dessert lol. Been up since 9am. Idk how this will affect my routine. Already took a triumphant BM and half a sub cuz I'm feeling some type of way.

11:59pm I just stayed in bed after I took the half a sub n fell asleep again for a little while. I ate 1 TUMS cuz my tummy was feeling queasy w acid. I even gagged a lil when I was coughing after taking a dab. Dear Goddess plz don't let me be pregnant. Imma blame it on not eating n feeling sick. Showered, yay. Dad n I decided to go to the farmers market. Did other stuff too like buy mosquito trap supplies at the farmers store and a glue gun. Got Rainier cherries, raspberries and some sorry looking strawberries. Their season is over now. Picked up another ⅛ of flower, Sherbet Mints for $28 + $1 tip. Went to Haggen and Fred Meyer. Ugh my dad picked out 3 tubs of ice cream. I picked up some fancy ten dollar matcha tea for me to rev my metabolism. U know, ana starter pack lol. Saw a Hyundai for sale for 1,200 OBO. Stopped to take pics of it, it looks pretty nice, this could be the one. Too bad I spent a lot of the money I had saved on those subs I'll have to wait to flip. Came home to start on dinner. We had meatloaf, baked potatoes and steamed broccoli. A and I had some ice cream together. I walked before and after dinner to get all my steps in but after shopping and cooking I was tuckered out so I just smoked weed instead of other exercise. I talked w my rave bestie n we're def on for the party on the 16th, so that is the first deadline. My dad asked me to prepare the strawberries and bake a shortcake. I finished that at like 1am so I had a lil portion. I was debating on counting it for tomorrow but it barely fits in my limit for today. Feel like I'm getting lazier w taking food pics. I should clean my room so I can workout in here.

#ydhtlltdaily

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stfusilas · 4 years

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~INTRODUCTION~

the jingle of dog tags under dirty tees, cigarettes lingering on clothes long after smoking has ceased, unshaven facial hair prickling against skin, a bic lighter always on hand, wind howling between barren trees on a cold winter night, locked doors with lost keys.

‹ JACK O’CONNELL , HE/HIM, CIS MALE, BISEXUAL. › SILAS HENRY is the TWENTY-SIX year old from LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA. when a friend asked them what they thought of the manor they said, ❝ IF YOU THINK THIS HOUSE IS SCARY, YOU SHOULD TAKE A LOOK INSIDE MY HEAD ❞ they claim SECONDS APART is their favorite scary movie, and if they were to die in a horror film they would SACRIFICE HIMSELF FOR SOMEONE HE LOVES. their fears include COMMITMENT, INTIMACY, AND LOUD NOISES, and they don’t know we know, but…HE DESERTED HIS SQUADRON IN THE ARMY AND WAS DISHONORABLY DISCHARGED. hope they enjoy their stay. ‹ muse b from walkman ›

Sup yall! I’m PJ, twenty years old (January 17th and I’ll finally be fuuckin legal!), and I use he/him pronouns. I’m in the EST timezone, New York babeyy! I was in this group awhile ago and I’m totally fuckin pumped for it to be back! I’m pretty boring honestly, especially compared to my son Silas. So enough about me and now onto him:)

Trigger Warnings: drugs, alcohol, gun violence, murder, mental illness

Silas was born on March 14th with fetal alcohol syndrome to a single mother who could never get her life straight. She was intoxicated when he was conceived, throughout the pregnancy, and stayed that way for most of his life. She did the best she could to provide him with food and shelter but they ended up at food banks and shelters more than once.

He was a problem child which didn’t make it much easier on his mom. Fighting, not doing his school work, just causing a shit ton of mischief. He was ten the first time he got into his mom’s liquor cabinet (which was always full, despite their bare food cabinets) and eleven the first time he smoked weed. From there it turned into other drugs like acid and eventually cocaine. He wasn’t as bad as his mom but they were two fucked up peas in a pod. There are only a few drugs he can honestly say he’s never touched.

Besides getting constantly fucked up with substances, Silas had a habit for brawls and became infamous for being the kid who never seemed to lose even when he was against people larger than himself. He’d steal things, once the dumb fuck even took off with a car. Managed to get away by the skin of his teeth and never spoke about it again.

All this landed him in trouble with the law but as a teenager he was let off easily every time. The judges felt sorry for him and cut him some slack, then he’d do good for a bit but would always eventually end up screwing himself over again.

Despite being such an angry child, he managed to be decently funny. Made some friends because of his idiotic jokes and the pranks he used to pull. Stupid skits and other various things to show how stupid he is went on his Youtube channel and eventually his following grew a bit. Think the Janoskians with all of their challenges like the cinnamon challenge, the milk jug challenge, etc.

Once he hit eighteen, he managed to screw up one more time and was given two options. He could either go to prison or he could enlist in the Army. Prison was’t something he wanted to experience so signing up it was. Truthfully, he wasn’t sure that he’d be able to pass the psych exam but he did it, graduating from boot camp and eventually being sent overseas.

Silas saw and did a decent amount of shit while overseas. He killed his fair share of people and would deny it if someone asked, but he enjoyed his first few hits. At one point he had to kill a ten year old with a bomb and that really fucked with his head.

Eventually he developed depression and PTSD but he did his best to hide it. One day his squadron was ambushed and most of his friends were killed. Seeing all of them lying around on the ground, gone, was enough to tip the scales and he just ran, deserting the military. He managed to survive for about a month on his own before making his way back. They dishonorably discharged him (secret alert!) and now he’s back in the States, doing his best to pretend like none of it ever happened.

Silas tries to act normal but those closest to him can tell that he’s not. He’s posted a vlog since returning but it’s evident that he isn’t the same kid as he was when he left. He has nightmares almost every night and the flashbacks are pretty bad too. Most nights he doesn’t even sleep, too afraid to go back to the war.

Silas has a huge fear of commitment. Whether it be to another person, his squadron, or just placing a goddamn sticker somewhere, he’s afraid of it. He’s fairly nomadic and he knows it, besides his two besties. There’s something about being tied down that gets him on edge. He doesn’t like to feel trapped, and that’s exactly what the military did to him.

He’s also terrified of intimacy. not as in sex, but as in getting extremely close to someone. He’s afraid of opening up to people and letting them see his real emotions. Not even his friends always know what he’s thinking, especially when it comes to his feelings about his tours. The only way people find out about his night terrors are if they witness him having them, but he tries to avoid that as much as he can by not sleeping around others.

As much as he hates to admit it, Silas does not like loud noises. Music is fine, but just the slamming of a door or someone else yelling is enough to send a chill down his spine. Fireworks and gunshots are the worst, and even thunderstorms can cause him to panic. When this happens, it’s easy to notice, if you actually pay attention to him. He completely stiffens up and his eyes widen, his hair stands on end and if it’s really bad, he gets cold sweats.

He’s there with his two best friends, Muse A and C from his subplot, Walkman. They booked them the stay as a celebration for his return since he’s been obsessed with the manor for years. He’s actually super excited to finally get to stay inside a room there, especially with the two people he trusts most on this Earth.

Wanted Connections:

Maybe someone who also knew him in high school? The old, angry, stupid Silas.

An ex? He’s never been one for commitment so he probably fucked that up somehow.

An enemy! He’s probably got more enemies than most.

Someone who watches his Youtube videos?

A crush or something? Mutual or one sided for either, but I’d like to fuck him up a bit

Okay that got mad long so I think that’s all for now folks! I’m very much down for ALL of the plots so feel free to hit me up or just give this a like and I’ll slide into your DMs;) If you’d rather talk on discord you can find me @ pjnfluff#3272

#manor.talk #{ + introduction }#{ + nightmare material }#i added shit about his fears womp

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tiny-maus-boots · 5 years

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Wild West AU pt 14

A/N: Anyway my bestie is amaze and i love her lots. she’s responsible for making sure i use knelt instead of kneeled and finds all my fuck ups and posts all my stuff on ao3. thanks a million @chloes-yellow-cup

Chloe

Don’t look at her face. Work the stitch. Just work the stitch.

Chloe’s red stained hands shook as she worked quickly to stitch the bullet hole in Aubrey’s thigh. It had gone clean through but at a wicked angle that had just narrowly missed the bone and vein alike. But there was still so much blood. Aubrey’s blood.

Don’t look at her face. Just work the fucking stitch. Don’t look at her face.

It was easy enough to do with Stacie hunched over Aubrey, the blonde’s head cradled as gently as possible in the tall woman’s lap. But every now and again Stacie would lean up enough to watch Chloe working as quickly and carefully as she could. If she wasn’t careful she’d catch a glimpse of Aubrey’s face in those moments and she just couldn’t see the other woman like that. She just couldn’t. Chlo bent over and bit the end of the thread after tying it off. She could taste the metallic zing of Aubrey’s blood on her lips and her heart stopped.

Don’t look at her face.

If she looked at Aubrey’s face, lips drawn and white from blood loss. If she looked at the slack jaw and closed eyes…

Chloe took a second to blink the tears from her eyes, they were just a distraction she couldn’t afford right now. It was making it difficult to inspect the next wound, this one closer to the hip. When she’d sent Aubrey and Stacie away to the caverns she hadn’t anticipated this. She’d known there was a chance they’d get hurt but…not like this. Not. Like. This.

Not Aubrey.

A bead of sweat started to drip down her forehead and she swiped at it with the back of her hand, leaving a smear of something thicker and sticky behind that she could still feel. It was Aubrey’s blood and her stomach clenched painfully at the thought. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t done this for them all before, it wasn’t as if she’d never had to carefully stitch together skin split open from knives and bullets before. It wasn’t as if she’d never done this for Aubrey, who had more than her fair share of devastating wounds inflicted upon her. But it was different this time.

This time Aubrey’s heartbeat was a bare flutter of a pulse in her neck. A shallow rise of her chest for a short breath. A dying breath.

Don’t you fucking look at her face. Work the goddamned stitch.

So she did, with fingers cramping from holding the delicate needle so firmly between them. The hip wasn’t as bad as she had feared, more of a graze than anything, but she had yet to look at the shoulder that at first glance seemed nothing more than raw meat. Chloe took a few deep breaths through her mouth hoping to avoid the smell of blood that had never bothered her before but now twisted her guts tighter and blurred her vision with more tears.

Don’t. Look. At. Her. Face.

“Bec, bring me that canteen.” Chloe’s voice was soft but steady, none of the quiver of fear she was really feeling coming out. Not yet. She couldn’t yet. First she had to try and save her best friend. Stacie’s sobs fell like blows to her heart and she had to squeeze her own eyes shut to force the broken sound of it out of her mind. Beca’s warm presence at her shoulder brought her back to herself and she gave a grateful nod of thanks. Chloe yanked at the seam at the shoulder of Aubrey’s shirt to rip it open and stifled a sob of her own when the rough action did nothing to rouse the blonde woman.

Don’t look at her face. Work the wound.

Her hands reached around the back of Aubrey’s shoulder, fingers searching delicately to find the exit hole. There wasn’t one that she could feel and Chloe shook her head. The longer that slug stayed in the higher a chance of Aubrey dying from infection before she’d healed from the actual injury. “Can you flush out the entry point for me? I have to see where the bullet went.”

Beca nodded and poured water as gently as she could over the hole torn in Aubrey’s shoulder. The soft sound of shuffling bodies and quiet sniffs distracted Chloe and she glanced up at their crew standing around the platform of the train car. Their girls and some Swansons too, what few survived anyway. All of them half burnt or bloodied. Some with gunshot wounds themselves. They had slowly begun to trickle in after Emily and Kat showed up riding Rowdy and Roan. That was the first moment her heart fell to her stomach and it hadn’t recovered in the slightest by the time Stacie and Bumper rode in on what looked like government issue horse stock.

As long as she might live she would never get over the image of Aubrey slumped in the saddle with a clearly lost in her grief Stacie, cradling the bleeding blonde as if that alone would tether Bree to this world. It had broken her heart in ways that would never recover. She could see that reflected back to her in the faces of their girls.

“Is that good Chlo?”

Chloe cleared her throat and looked back to the body, not the face, of her patient. She nodded once and held out her hand for Beca to pour water over. “My hand too please…” The water was still cool from the inside of the canteen and it seemed wrong, obscene even, that it was refreshing. Chloe shook out her hand and hunched back over Aubrey’s shoulder. “M’sorry Bree…”

Aubrey’s body stiffened and bucked when Chloe dug her finger into the bullet hole, searching for the metal fragments lodged inside it. Her heart squeezed painfully again when the blonde let out a strained wail of pain the deeper she probed. Hadn’t Aubrey been through enough? Hadn’t she suffered more than any one body should suffer? Chloe couldn’t choke back the sob this time as Beca knelt to help Stacie hold Bree down and steady the weak thrashing limbs while she worked at digging out the slug.

She prized it out of the flesh finally and tossed it away as if it burned. “Needle!” Someone, she didn’t know who, handed her the needle already freshly threaded. It was a small mercy for her frazzled nerves.

Don’t look at her face. Work the stitch.

And she didn’t. Her focus narrowed down to the mess of ruined flesh and muscle as she worked to close the gap as neatly as she could. It was hard and the needle slipped constantly. Finally the ragged edges came together and she tied off the thread and cut it off with a snap of her teeth. Her head turned toward Aubrey and she lost her willpower not to look. Her eyes traced Stacie’s bowed back as she cradled Aubrey’s head so tenderly, the tears falling on Aubrey’s too pale face every time Stacie leaned over to press soft kisses to the blonde’s brow, begging her to fight a little longer. Begging her to stay. Another spasm of pain clutched at her stomach and the second she was done she scooted back off the platform to the edge and might have even fallen to the ground had Beca not grabbed her arm to steady her as she climbed down from the train.

Chloe didn’t know where she was going she only knew she had to get away quickly because the hot bubble of acid climbing her throat was going to burst. And it did. The redhead dropped to her knees and spewed out her feelings all over the hard packed earth. Comforting arms wrapped around her once she was done heaving, warmth from Beca’s body soothed the tight muscles in her back and she felt the tremble of her mate’s body as she sobbed along with Chloe.

“It’s okay Chlo…it’s okay. She’s gonna be okay. It’s gonna be alright.”

Chloe wasn’t so sure of that honestly. Aubrey was strong as a bull and could just as ornery and stubborn as one too. But this was bad. As bad as she’d seen it. And she just didn’t know and Beca could sense it when she didn’t have anything to say.

Something didn’t feel right in the air but she was too caught up in her worry to notice the shift. It was as though the tension of the moment had kept a tenuous and fragile peace but when it had broken so had that silent understanding.

Her dash to get as far away from the pain of a nearly lifeless and limp Aubrey had brought her and Beca a good twenty or thirty feet from the train, too far to do anything when what was left of Jesse’s crew drew their weapons and pointed them at the women assembled.

“Now that you’ve patched up your crew I expect we best be getting on with this gold.”

He was older than the rest, not someone they had worked with before like Luke or Bumper. Someone that didn’t have any ties to any of them and wouldn’t blink twice before killing them. Beca started to stand but Chloe kept a hand on her arm to keep her from launching herself like a cannon ball only to be shot down after her first step.

“You son of a…”

Stacie started to reach for her gun but he pointed his own at her face and gave a smirk. “Hey! That’s enough out of you. Should be grateful I waited for you all to see to your own. Now get off my train.”

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actuallylorelaigilmore · 6 years

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the ultimate citation list for Schneider of ODAAT, volume 1

A reference collection of quotes and details, organized chronologically, for the first 26 episodes of One Day At A Time. Used to create this character guide.

“Can you believe it's only been 10 months since you moved in? I remember 'cause I got my five year sober chip and your mom baked me that cake. I enjoyed watching you guys eat it." 1x01

"You're 40 and you look stupid." “I'll have you know, I was invited to several Pride parades." 1x01

Uses a “very expensive” Damascus steel hammer. 1x01

"I've been doing some outreach down at the rec center, talking to at-risk youth. You guys wanna start takin' bets? Actually, scratch that. I'm addicted to gambling.” 1x01

"Love isn't even real. It's just something your nanny says sometimes to your dad." 1x02

"Hey, I may have money in the bank and two living parents, and four living stepmothers but there is a hole in here. We never had family meals. I ate alone in front of the TV. Oh, don't get me wrong. It was a massive TV. Sometimes my nanny would join me, but only if I agreed to watch telenovelas. This one time, Rosa got jealous of the housekeeper 'cause she was makin' a move on her man, so she threatened to throw live scorpions on her while she slept. Rosa was my nanny. Ex-nanny. Now, stepmother." 1x03

[Lydia and Pen fighting] “It's startin' to feel kinda like home in here.” 1x03

Schneider cooks fancy hipster food. "Nutted quinoa, wilted broccolini with radish micro-greens, and venison carpaccio on a bed of nettles. Grab a cedar plank and dig in." 1x04

"Always interesting to be the sober one at a dinner party." 1x05

"I immigrated here illegally. I'm a Canadian. But yeah, born in the 'Couve, overstayed my student visa, forced to live in the shadows of Pepperdine University. Anyway, it's fine now. My lawyers made it all okay." 1x05

Uses sheet masks, knows about chauffeurs, butlers, estates. 1x06

“The kids barely touched my black olive tapenade.” “Thanks for helping out, but maybe next time pick a food a kid would wanna eat or has heard of.” “Yeah, and maybe next time, don't hand out masks with my face on them.” 1x07

"The members of my college band have finally put aside our differences and we're reuniting to play at the fair this afternoon. My band, Full Sail, plays yacht rock. These guys were like family. I used to show up at their dorm rooms unannounced and just hang out for hours and hours and hours." 1x07

"We were setting up for the show and our keytarist threw a decorative anchor at me. This is why Full Sail broke up in the first place. Too many passionate personalities." 1x07

Has a magnifying glass in his costume trunk. 1x07

"I know nothing about my grandparents and I never will. And they live in Pasadena!" (but he goes to 'the depot' in Pasadena) 1x09

"I have never seen such un-professionalism. This is why I don't work!" 1x09

"I need to find a new place to get my eyebrows threaded." 1x10

Has a safe. 1x10

"Well, Father believed it's best to have this kinda discussion in a car because you don't have to make eye contact. Plus, you're traveling in the same direction, which fosters intimacy. So we're in the Bentley with our chauffeur, Paco. Father said it's time to have the talk. We came to the next stoplight. He hopped out, Paco told me everything." 1x10

"I didn't get the period talk till I was 12. Paco just called it 'Shark Week.'" 1x10

"When I was a kid, there was an adult section in the back of the video store. Behind the beads. I'd always chicken out and just rent a Jane Fonda workout tape. Still worked. Still works." 1x10

"You'd be surprised how many of my hookups started with 'Ugh!' ...When I was 15, I told Father I wanted to be a professional tap dancer. He laughed. It was that lack of support that contributed to my drinking and drug problem. Oh, do you find that amusing? Because 15-year-old Schneider's drinking peach schnapps out of an unused tap shoe right now." 1x11

"You have a girl over here and you were offering to have sex with me?" - "Yes, Penelope. That's the kind of friend I am." 1x11

"My dad never came to my games. All he ever did was put me through rehab six times and buy me this building." 2x01

"Maroon 5 is the best." 2x01

"Okay, I decided to take a break from dating. See, I realized that women were just another one of my addictions, like alcohol, drugs, gambling, cigarettes, snow globes. The point is, I've broken the cycle of addiction with spinning. Five hours a day, every single day. I have to do it! Plus, it's the perfect substitute for dating, 'cause it burns a lot of energy and also numbs my junk!" 2x02

“Snow globes? Is this one of our family?” 2x02

"I come over, tell him to do stuff to me, he does it, I go home. You should get one." "I think what Nikki was kinda dancing around is that you don't always have to have a relationship with a capital "R." Sometimes all you need is what the great poets of the Renaissance called a junk buddy." "Exactly. You don't even have to like them." 2x03

"See, the great thing about having a green card is you get to live here without having to do all the stuff Americans have to, like vote or serve jury duty or become obese."

"Okay, but at least you vote in Canadian elections." "Mmm. No. Even in Canada, nothing ever changes. Clean air, sensible gun control, free health care. The system's rigged." 2x04

Can picture himself “doing it” with Elizabeth Warren, was Stephen Hawking for Halloween. 2x04

"You have to pay taxes with a green card? I just texted my accountant, and he said 'cause I'm in the highest income bracket, I don't have to pay taxes." 2x04

Keeps on hand: panic room, gas mask, water purification pills, MREs, enough cash to get to Cape Verde by boat. Followed Max on Instagram. Would be honored to be Penelope's maid of honor. 2x05

"I'm very patriotic. Look in that basket. There's a bald eagle thong." 2x06

All Elena's video game equipment belongs to him. 2x06

"Penelope, tell my third stepmother I loved her! Not the second one, though. She was kind of a jerk." 2x06

"Hummer limo's downstairs. My third stepmother used to take me to the racetrack to spy on Father. For the longest time, I thought she was saying, 'Your father is with Rebecca, that horse!' It's like I'm back at the racetrack with my stepmom. What's next? Throw a mint julep in his face?” 2x07

"I love Cuba! I've been there four times. Property manager, job's just temporary. My father owns the building. I'm really a musician. Play a lot of rap-rock-ska. I'm like a male Gwen Stefani. When you're hiring a nanny, make sure she's not too hot. That's how I met my fifth mom. I had four nannies and look at the results." 2x08

Did not speak a word of Spanish when he first met them, is interested in single moms. 2x08

"If you joined an adult kickball team after saying you were too busy to join mine, you are on a long road to forgiveness." 2x09

"Your idea of stress is when your chest-waxer goes out of town." "Roberto is the only one who doesn't make it sting!" 2x09

"I shouldn't have to need these either, but I do. To see. So it's Fourth of July, 2011. I'd been sober for a while, so I thought I'd celebrate with a beer. Woke up three days later in an alley. Then the bowling ball hit me. I was in the gutter for a long time. It's really slippery without the shoes. That was the day I truly accepted that I can't have alcohol or drugs, ever. Not a beer, not a glass of wine, not even six hits of acid at a Grateful Dead show, no matter how well it makes me dance. I kinda get where you're coming from. There's something I want that I can't have for the rest of my life." 2x09

He and Pen are best friends. Also considers Max his bestie. Wants to Netflix and chill with them both, together. 2x09

"My abuelita used to put Vicodin in her coffee. And her lemonade and her sandwiches. Maybe she had a problem. As my father said to me on my ninth birthday, 'You don't need me anymore.' I use my garage for pickling and sea horse breeding." 2x10

Loves puns. "This is Elena Alvarez, my handyman mentee. Or handy-manatee." "The toilet is a cruel mistress. She is flush with complications." 2x10

"Herb and Sherb McGurb. Her real name is Sheryl, but she gets a kick out of Sherb." 2x10

"Bonsai's for dorks. This is penjing. The gentle Chinese art of tray scenery. Now that you're working for me, I finally have some leisure time." "Oh, look, there's little people. Wait, is that my family?" "Could be any Cuban family." 2x10

"I may only look two or three years older than you, but I have the wisdom of that ancient bonsai!" 2x10

"Always take the lemonade. That's Handyman 101! So you watched Jeopardy with them and then what? Well, now we know what your problem is! You fixed their toilet, but you didn't fix their souls. Elena, growing up, I had everything. But I was always alone. I don't want my tenants to feel that way, so I do more than just fix stuff. Apartment 306, macrame with Mrs. Watson. 201, lose at chess to Mr. Roth. 402, listen to all their Cuban nonsense. That's the job. That's what takes four hours. That's the difference between being a handyman and a super." 2x10

Has heard 'you're fired' a lot. 2x10

"After a grueling 30 minutes of thought, Nikki, will you be my starter wife? You're on the rebound. That's the best time to get married. You don't have time to think. So you were never thinking about me? My emotions? My feelings? You used me, Nikki, Finn's mom! And not in the way I like! And that's not all, Sister Barbara. We knew each other. Biblically. And while we were doing it, she took the Lord's name in vain. A lot!" 2x11

"Last night, I was testing the pH of the water in my seahorse ranch and, as I looked at those vomiting little guys, I realized I suck at tests. All tests. Drug, sobriety, vision, IQ, smog. You name it, I fail it!" 2x12

"Have you ever been arrested?” “Does public nudity at a hockey game count?” “There is, uh, no mention of a public nudity charge in your file.” “Oh, you just go to YouTube and type in 'Zam-boner.'" 2x12

"Yeah, they didn't specifically ask if I got drunk and tried to ride a moose, so after that I was golden." 2x12

"How important is having kids to you?" "Never really thought about it." 2x12

"I'll have you know I babysat my babysitter's kids while she was babysitting my dad, so, yeah, I got a little experience under my belt. Oh, it's my cousin Gordy. He still thinks I'm full-on Canadian. All right, good news is Gordo bought it. Bad news is I'm judging a poutine festival in Saskatoon next week." 2x12

"You're the single greatest mother I know." "Thank you. That means a lot coming from a guy with five moms." 2x12

"Fuzzy Afghan she likes, picture of the Pope, picture of a different Pope, picture of your dad, picture of the family, picture of me with the family, picture of me by a waterfall. I'm just gonna keep talking 'cause I'm not good in crisis situations." 2x13

"It's so crazy how we're both immigrants. I mean, I would never compare my story to yours, but the parallels are spooky. You were 18, I was 18. You left your family behind. I left four step-families, a maid, a butler, a chauffeur, and a horse groomer who really got me. But Father was expanding his business to the US and so I had to go. I remember, at the airport, I was crying. But Father put his arm around me and he said, 'Son, only losers cry.' So that was a long flight. You don't know how dirty a dirty look can get until you're crying for a whole plane ride and you're not a baby. I really didn't wanna be in America. So I drank. And I recreated the snowy plains of Canada with cocaine. I'm told I attended classes at Pepperdine University, but I will have to take that on faith. So, I'm in a detox center in El Segundo. This was my fourth rehab. My re-re-re-rehab. I thought I'd been doing a kickass job keeping my drug stuff a secret from all the tenants and then you showed up in my room at that clinic. You brought me sopa de pollo and said it's Cuban penicillin. You told me, 'You eat this, you get some sleep, and tomorrow, you try again.' And then you tucked me in and kissed me good night on my forehead. Forehead kisses are wildly underrated. Just something really comforting about 'em. Then again, it might just be you. Dad never did that. Or my horse groomer. After I got out of rehab, I started hanging around your apartment a lot more, 'cause it helped. Back then, it must have felt like you had this annoying, intrusive guy over. Not like now. 'Cause now you're my family. Don't worry. I haven't legally changed my last name to Alvarez. My lawyer said it was a whole thing, so... Anyway, Pen said no crying, so I'm not gonna. Actually, for once, I agree with Father. Only losers cry. And we're not losing anybody today. Let's hit that oath ceremony soon, okay?" 2x13

#schneider #reference #odaat #one day at a time

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american-cobrahawk · 3 years

Note

Hey bestie, just wanted to let you know that you are literally one the many imagines that come up in many non-American's head whe thinking about Americans, and I mean it in the most derogatory way possible💕

Nice to see someone sees me as a bestie lol

And fine by me those countries are pumping minors with HRT, banned freedom of speech, hate guns, have acid attacks, and claim cultural differences to justify crimes by refugees

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darkhymns-fic · 7 years

Text

Mind Games

Sombra loved making new friends.

Fandom: Overwatch Characters/Pairing: Reaper/Sombra, Widowmaker Rating: T Mirror Links: AO3, FF.net Notes: They’re a very nice aesthetic which is why I wrote this in the first place. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Information was everything – but it never mattered if it was true.

Gathering intel has always been Sombra's job. Sometimes it consisted of knocking down doors, slipping past debris and then vanishing with each footstep lifted away from history. Or all it needed was a well-placed laugh from her and a smile, all while she carried a flash drive in her palm, just as sinister as a dagger. People hardly kept their secrets as guarded as they thought they did. So, of course, she could extract what she needed, and take away all that and more when the mood hit her. Sometimes, she even did it right in front of their face.

(But what secrets does a ghost have?)

The private habitations provided to them by Talon were of true military-grade, perfect for their necessities, but not much else. But no one went to work for Talon for an easy life of luxury. And for Sombra, breaking into the rooms of her teammates didn't really spike up her adrenaline that much.

When Reaper marched out of his room, Sombra was there to greet him with a cheery smile as she appeared out of thin air.

"Qué tal, old man?" She held something in her hand, lightly hefting it by her long nails.

Predictably, Reaper caught the object just as she let go. She may not have been able to see through that mask of his, but just one word out of him was enough for anyone to know what mood he was in. Here's a spoiler: it never changes.

"Why do you have my clip?" he growled.

It was a heavy clip, perfect for those heavy guns. It had felt real in her palm, full of weight, packed with shells noted by a caliber that, after a bit of research, was rather dated by today's standards. Going by their last mission together and the bodies left behind, that didn't seem to matter.

"Needed it for a pet project," she told him. "I've been wanting to ask, Gabe, – can I call you Gabe? – where do you get these anyway? No serial number or nothing."

He pocketed the clip in his jacket, though he did so by giving no hint as to just where exactly – or how. She imagined it blending within his clothes, like smoke, like fumes, like the fog that comes after a rainy day.

(Had it been a real thing? Is he real? But I felt it, and I felt-)

"Keep your nose out of my business." He stalked off, boots clomping hard against the metal floors, but the echo of it distant and unreal. "If I catch you in my room again, not even your little toys will help you."

"Is that how you treat your teammate?" She could teleport away, slip back through the translocator into the comfort of her own bed (she was never much of a morning person, yet it was Reaper of all people that liked to rise with the dawn) but she decided to saunter up to him, back through the corridors to the mess hall. "Besides, I never went into your room. Too dreary, too drab, and I'd stand out anyway. But maybe you should try following your own advice."

That caught his attention. His head swiveled in her direction. "What-"

"Or maybe keep a leash on your own toys. They seem to have a habit of showing up on my dresser – not that I don't mind the attention."

Her back was already to him as she said that. Hearing no heavy footsteps chasing after, and no angry yell, she figured she played her cards right.

Gathering intel had been getting routine for her as of late. But playing with her information, and dangling it in front of her targets: that was where the thrill was.

"You act like a school girl," Widowmaker had once told her. "Drawn to the very thing that will bite off your head, and not even knowing it."

"Ayy, qué lindo," Sombra had shot back. "I'm flattered and all, but I'd rather just stay as besties."

"You're a fool." It was one of the few instances she ever saw so much as a wrinkle on Widowmaker's face – caused by her frown. "I don't care what you do, but he cares far too much."

"That old softy? He's just a relic of the past, nothing more than a scary ghost story." Sombra shrugged. "But then, I guess I've always liked ghost stories when I was younger."

"And do you know what happens to the children in those ghost stories?" It was probably the first and only time she and Widowmaker would ever have breakfast together. The French woman had sipped her coffee, and no flush of its warmth ever reached her cheeks, ever reached anywhere. "I just want to avoid filling out the paperwork when they find a bullet in that pretty head of yours."

That was before. Now, instead of café con leche, she drank whiskey and gin. The bar was rundown, the patrons either still or snoring. The loudest was that vaquero in the corner, his hat tattered with wear, and a belt that screamed 'steal me!' in its flourish of gold lettering. On any old day, she would have done so, if it didn't spell something so stupid. That and it was Christmas; which made her a little less receptive to burglary. Probably something to do with nostalgia.

Her augmented hand let her know about her little sleepers – Reaper had been a busy man. He was all over the map, quicker than any normal human being. And Frenchy must have enjoyed where she was, for she hadn't moved from her position for a full two hours.

Downing her drink, she passed the bartenders a few coins and left through the creaking front door. She wouldn't linger long – some of Los Muertos' markings were still engraved on her skin, and it paid to be part of a collective without them knowing your face, unlike with Talon. She doubted anyone from there would even remember the little girl with her backpack of tech and a rebellious hairstyle. But, as she learned not too long after that, it paid to be extra careful.

In the space of a keystroke, she moved from Calaveras to somewhere on the outfringes of Paris – maybe. She didn't care enough about France to know its geography.

"Your spying isn't cute," Widowmaker told her. The snow was still falling, and the rose left on the tombstone before her was already covered in white powder.

"All harmless fun. I just get so worried about my friends!" Even so, Sombra was already getting bored. Amélie's background had been easy enough to gather since day one. The dead man being visited by his wife/murderer – now, while that might make some good drama for a trashy telenovela, Sombra had seen it all before.

"He will not appreciate it."

"Then I guess what he doesn't know won't hurt him."

A wink and a wave, and she was satisfied to see Widowmaker's grimace. Even for an emotionless killing machine, she sure did get touchy.

It's been known that ghosts haunt either a certain a place, or a certain person. Unfulfilled, unsatisfied, or regretful, a ghost's existence is nothing short of tragic.

In Reaper's case, it is a person he haunts.

When he made it back to Talon, he emerged from the shadows, nothing of him substantial but the white mask he wore. It's fascinating, really, to see him like that. To gather enough of himself to put up with the illusion.

(Or maybe he really does exist like this? Does he pull bits of his soul together at every moment, giving it enough substance so that he can walk as this broken shell?)

"You miss him?"

Quick turn, trigger cocked. He aimed the barrel at her forehead, not even an inch away. It's a work of art, the way he moved. His jacket outstretched like the dark wings of a bird, and though she would never admit it, it's a movement she herself wants to mimic well enough, someday.

She could already smell the gunpowder, and worked inside her head the image of the recoil that would push them both back. Huh. Maybe Widowmaker had a point before. But the sight of him aiming the gun at her only made her laugh.

"Are you trying to get yourself killed?" he asked, annoyed. He didn't put the gun down though.

"Just wanted to wish you a Feliz Navidad." Her eyes then widened with a flourish, all excited and eager. "And to show you something!"

He was uneasy, that much she could tell. Reaper made the slightest grunt as he lowered his weapon. It gives her enough room to breathe, gives her time to appreciate the pulse in her neck. Biting her lower lip, she pulled up a mini projection of a young man, in the midst of what could be assumed to be his family. A wife, a son, probably a pet back home just to fill in the quota. They are in the throes of a city, the rain pouring, but their faces so sickeningly bright.

Reaper's fists clenched suddenly. His guns are gone, but that means fuck all, because she can hear the claws of his gauntlets scrape against the leather. "Where did you get that?"

"Around." Then she closed out the image, leaving nothing between her and Reaper. "So, you miss him?"

A moment more, and then he towered over her. A hulking shadow, a silhouette cut-out that painted black against the building.

"I can give you what you want, you know," she said, her tone all business, but her heartbeat suggesting anything but. "Where he works, what he eats for lunch, what baseball team he roots for – all those little things that no one else would really care about. But then, Gabe, you are a family man, after all."

In her line of work, much of her hacking comes with routine guessing, with trial and error. And whether due to her skills or luck, she's more right with her experimentation than wrong.

Reaper was doubting her. Perhaps he was thinking of raking those claws of his against her face, or dragging her over to an interrogation room to weasel out the rest of her information. Ghosts were vengeful after all, but ghosts were also desperate.

And poor thing, he didn't even have the advantage that other ghosts have. He couldn't even go through walls – or doors.

"You're a liar," he told her, spitting it out like acid to her face. Even she had to admit, that hurt a teensy bit.

"Now, why would I ever lie to you?" With a sharp inhale, she stepped forward, her face up to his, then past, so that her lips hovered just where her ears might be. "What if I told you that his name was…?"

As she thought, ghosts were desperate.

Why else would they stick around?

Talon had cameras everywhere, but even they would have been unable to tell if anything changed. And on the surface, nothing did. Reaper still growled out everything he said, and Widowmaker looked at everyone and everything with the greatest of distaste, probably wanting to suck some blood out of the other operatives or whatever hobbies she was into. Sombra wouldn't judge. Unfortunately, this meant that she would never have another girlfriend over for breakfast. Good thing she wasn't a morning person. And even better, she had a new best friend.

Reaper, in so many little, silent ways, begged for her information.

It was how he stood next to her in their missions, the sudden silence he would foster when Sombra jabbed at him time and again. It was the way she'd call him up on the receiver, having a stakeout at some boring-as-fuck watchpoint and whine "Gabe! I'm lonely," and then he'd easily come right on over to keep her company. He always followed her demands right down to the point.

At 3 in the morning, when she was bored, he'd come with her for a midnight snack. Hack the vending machine for some chips, and she'd feed him the very last place their person of interest when to the day before. When Talon's paycheck was low one week, she'd call him up for a little borrowing, and her payment to him would be this store that man went to last week. A toy store, to be exact. In the baby section actually. Maybe he was shopping for a little one on the way? Or for just some distant niece's birthday. Did Reaper know anyone like that?

"Just stick to the facts," he said to her one time, deeply furious – but that was all.

His door remained open, and when she was particularly struck by ennui, or needed a place for some shade, she'd walk in, make herself home in one of his armchairs and take in the bareness of the room. "Not even a photograph?" she quipped one time. "You're getting old, you might forget things one day."

And he'd stand there, and he'd take it, and she'd trail her eyes over his chest, to the shells strapped around them, to the bulletproof casing that molded over him. That wasn't surprising, you could kill ghosts multiple times – the trick was to keep them dead in the first place.

"Now you're just being stupid." Widowmaker had cornered her down a hall one day – the one time that Sombra didn't prepare a backdoor. Well, that's what happened when she ran on soda and code the night before. It had been months since she had felt this invested.

"Are you going to say that I'm spinning myself a web of lies?" she said with a grin.

"Shut up." There was a hitch in her voice, along the nature of Reaper's growl, but sibilant, more grounded. "In case you haven't noticed, he is not very forgiving."

Hand on her hip, Sombra thought it over. "You know, I wonder why you're even bothering this much. I thought you didn't care? Oh!" She tsked and grinned. "Maybe you wanted him for yourself? Is that it? A nice strong man after you slit the other's-"

"I don't care." There came that hiss again. Lethal, very sensuous even. Sombra would need to learn to pull off something like that someday. "I'm just not looking forward to the mess."

A tilt of her head, a shrug of her shoulders, and Sombra walked past. "You're in the wrong line of work, amiga."

Not all her information was true.

She suspected that Reaper knew this. But the tricky part was finding the lie. It's a nice game, she thinks. Find the lie within the truth, which was hard to do in practice. Sometimes it was safer just to accept all of it, which Reaper did.

The man went to the countryside today, she told him. Oh, or maybe to the city? He took out a recent investment in this startup company. Or maybe he just sold it all to better clear his head of financial troubles. He worked in manufacturing… or customer support. Maybe both. He also liked chocolate ice cream the best, except for that one time it was cupcake batter. He was allergic to pineapple, yet he bought a skin cream with that ingredient last week.

The information was contradictory, obviously so. Of course Reaper knew it, and of course he could barely do a thing about it. Did this man have new connections? Some important government officials? Now isn't that an eye opener? Gabe, amigo, are you worried about him?

She already knew what the man was to Reaper – such intel was as simple as a web search, just one not open to the public. It's one part of the information that was for sure as true and pure as the summer rain, and the way Reaper would silently stare her down as she recited the man's routine for day only confirmed for her of its purity.

Really, he was such a sad man. It's enough to make any woman's heart aflutter, to want to save him from the depths of his own little brooding darkness. Well, that's not what she had in mind, but she could play the part if she needed to.

One time, however, he had grown fed up with her tells. Here she was, being the best friend he could ever hope to have, and while she may have stalled, commenting on their crepes, a rare courtesy food from Talon ("Really kind of sweet, you know? Ay, have a bite, come on!"), and he was appreciating none of it. Instead he pounded a fist against the breakfast table, stood up, with the faintest of red seeping out of the holes of that mask, that stark white mask ready to swoop down at her at the faintest movement.

"Enough with the fucking games. It's been more than half an hour, and you've told me nothing!"

"Oh, relajate. I'm just getting there. It's called building-up, you know." She finished her meal, brushing crumbs from her cheek. "Those tantrums of yours will kill you one day, Gabe-"

"Do not call me that."

That gave her pause, just for a second. Her laugh was airy. She propped her feet up on the chair that Reaper had occupied before. "Aww, pobrecito. You're really hurting, huh? Wanna talk it out with me? Have a crying session together?"

Her breath caught for a second, the gravel that was his voice traveling through her spine. "Come to me when you have something worthwhile to tell me."

Reaper stalked off, his form melting into smoke, into thick clouds like a thunderstorm, brewing within the facility.

(Pfft. Melodramatic for an old man).

She gave him three days to cool off before she became worried.

Could he have gotten the intel from someone else? Discovered more by himself? For a wraith-like abomination, he was rarely that sneaky. No, she was still valuable to him.

But a little checking-in never hurt anyone.

Her trackers in his room didn't tell her much. Reaper was rarely in half the time, and the place was always dark. After her visits, she knew that much. It was practically her second home.

His bed was sparse, and his drawers were empty except for some papers. It was little slept-in, that much she could tell. Like the crying woman by the river, he haunted the world more than rested.

(A stiff bed. How boring).

She laid in it immediately, arms behind her head, right leg crossed over the other as she stared up at the ceiling. Not even much in the way of sound besides the hum of her camo. Maybe she was taking too much of his savings? He clearly needed a new mattress.

She had the master plan of waiting for him in his room, like real friends did! Her friend in Russia had been so pleasantly surprised, surely Gabe would feel the same. But at least she could get comfy.

Just a blanket, one soft enough for her to ease her back. Her hands reached out to the side, instantly pulling it over. But. It was tough. The material creaked, and nowhere near as pliant as blankets should be.

(His jacket).

So. He had left this here.

Her nails stroked against it. She scrunched up the hood between her palms, felt the hem brush against her thighs. It was warm. Strange. Warm like fire, heated against her skin. As if he had just worn it seconds ago.

(It's torn).

That was a given. The back of it was frayed, and she flashbacked to the mech that had flung him aside back at Volskaya. What a shame. You couldn't get these threads just anywhere.

She put it on. Sombra never neglected treating herself.

The coat was heavy, pressing down on her. It felt like she had just gotten out of the water with all her clothes on. Packed with two shotguns and expensive belts, yeah, no wonder Gabe was a tromping monstrosity.

The sleeves of the jacket dwarfed her arms, and the hood fell over her eyes. It didn't fit her look, but she liked it still. The way it engulfed her like a black shroud, how it made her feel all mysterious. Gabe was such a weirdo.

But hey, "De pelos," she whispered. She'd make her own set if she could.

Then the shadows next to the bed shifted.

Was there a way to take back every thought you ever had about someone? Well, maybe not all. Reaper still liked all that mystery shit. What better way to say that than to creep around in your own fucking room, waiting for someone to come in, and not take one fucking breath? But ghosts don't need to breathe. So really, it was her fault to begin with.

Sombra raised her head, and Reaper was this solid thing, a silhouette against the wall, a smoke that passed through her throat. His jacket was still heavy. She bent her knees, feeling the leather fall around her, over her hips, between her thighs, gathering in folds around her neck. Submerged, suffocated, hot.

(It's hot, the way he looks at me).

She had pushed too far, played too much with the matches. Like that little girl, she had stumbled into forbidden territory and was caught like a deer in the headlights. There was all this information, staring at her right in the face, and she didn't know what to make of it.

There was the scent of rot and decay, of cologne, of sweat. But he wasn't doing anything to her.

She reached out, tapped her finger against his nose. She was surprised to find something solid.

"Boop."

Instantly she teleported away. Backdoors are always important, after all.

She could barely breathe.

Another three days passed, and she didn't leave her room.

For a hacker, Sombra didn't keep much about herself hidden. Nothing except her name. And that was only because that girl was dead. The dead don't really have much to give.

However, that's an opinion she found herself reassessing. She was looking through her video feeds, the ones she hacked through Talon's surveillance system. Nothing interesting besides other agents, a few illicit activities here and there, but barely anything worth even a feigned yawn. She had to do away with it before she looked through her own resources – the secret entrances she made to other satellites, the several trackers she sent out, the email servers she'd broken through to find that man's communication. Nothing much, nothing much at all. How could someone so boring attract Reaper's attention? Ay, some old men loved being an enigma.

Sure, she may have known Gabe's past, his own downfall, and the scattering ties of his family, but that didn't tell her anything. There was a ghost here, and it mourned, and she wanted to find out why – really, truly, why.

And his face.

This night, she didn't lock her door.

It barely mattered anyway. All that was worth stealing was hidden within her augments, within the folds of her brain. She flexed her hand, watching the wires injected flex along with her. It had been a while since her last tune-up, but some things needed to be on the backburner. The screen was too bright now, her snacks were dwindling, and the shadows were thick.

She waited a long time.

The way the door banged against the wall still made her flinch. Her heart crawled up her esophagus, and even though she wanted to scream, all she could do was smile. She was giddy and excited and terrified of the lurking creep in her doorway. The sensation was amazing.

"Gabe! Amigo! So you stopped sulking for me?"

She wasn't dressed in her usual outfit, down to her tanktop and pajama pants, though her implants within the shaved part of her head still glowed a soft violet. She still had her tools at the ready for anything, anything at all. Yet she remained seated, her legs crossed on her computer chair, hands staying taut within her lap.

It was the way he walked forward, ready to whisk her away down into the depths of the underworld. She figured that was why he dressed that way anyway – as one who was so obsessed with death and all its romantic imagery. Mysterious old man. "If you want, I can tell you a little more, for a price though. No hard feelings. A girl's gotta eat and look her best, and Talon ain't paying me enough for my manicures."

She flourished her hands before him, dangling long, flashing fingernails. The rush was running through her limbs, and none of that could be stopped, not even when he grabbed her by the shoulder, the claws pinching her skin. Her smile never faded when he pulled her to her feet and shoved her at a nearby wall.

Hard enough to jangle the wiring within her spine. Hard enough to send the flash of static through her eyes. Hard enough to draw an electric hum through her fingers, warm and painful and addictive.

Sombra laughed.

"What is wrong with you?" Reaper asked her, actually sounding disturbed.

"It's just really, really funny," she said through her giggles, breathing hard. "What can you even do to me?"

(You're just smoke and mirrors).

"You're insane," he breathed, then leaned forward, enough that she could feel his breath move through the slits of his mask. Warm, heady, and alive. "And a fucking tease."

His other hand reached for her neck and she offered it to him, but only after she could move closer to her mask. Nails scraped against its sides, pulled at its ridges, flipped it away to show the man beneath.

Rot and decay and cologne and sweat. She couldn't believe her luck.

"Gabe," she whispered, pressing one finger against his cheek. Oh, she hoped he hadn't messed up her inner wiring too bad. Through her eyes, she photographed this sight for memory, for recordkeeping, for possible blackmailing. (You never know).

The ghost moved closer to her, full of phantom pains, full of dull anger.

"What do you even want?" he asked her, keeping his hands where they were.

She pulled at his jacket. "Everything you got."

(Pour all you have into me and never let me go).

#overwatch #reaper x sombra #hackerkill #sombra #reaper #widowmaker #fanfiction #one shot

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