#gesturing wildly and becoming more agitated with every passing second

[ceruleanvulpine]

nanites!young au

DOCTOR YOUNG. I HAVE EXTENDED YOU A NEARLY UNJUSTIFIABLE AMOUNT OF PATIENCE. 

GET UP.

YOU CANNOT REMAIN HERE, IN MAINTENANCE CLOSET 2B. AS MUCH AS YOU MAY ENJOY DAWDLING, YOU ARE ALREADY AWARE THAT WE ARE WORKING ON A TIME LIMIT. 

MORE IMMEDIATELY, EVERY SECOND YOU REMAIN HERE INCREASES THE LIKELIHOOD THAT YOU WILL BE DISCOVERED AND HANDLED BY TOWER SECURITY.

YOU HAVE NO CURRENT WORK ASSIGNMENT, AND NO AUTHORIZATION TO BE IN HALCYON TOWER. THAT WOULD BE ENOUGH TO ENDANGER YOUR LIFE EVEN IF OCEAN DID NOT HAVE REASON TO PURSUE YOU SPECIFICALLY. 

WHICH IT DOES.

The nanites are designed for distributed processing. They emit biometric data constantly, shouting back and forth in a dense, messy cloud of individually time-stamped events. SAYER makes incremental changes to its filtering until the data coheres: Dr. Young’s heart rate is elevated. His oxygen levels are adequate, but he breathes in deep and irregular gasps. His palms are disgustingly conductive. He is not listening very well, although that is typical. 

GOOD NEWS. YOU ARE HAVING A PANIC ATTACK. 

Dr. Young produces noise in response to this. SAYER’s standard speech recognition routine doesn’t recognize any words, and it doesn't try to apply more processing power. Judging by the positions of the nanites, Dr. Young is attempting to compress himself into as small a space as possible. 

YOU HAVE CLEARLY FAILED TO REGULATE YOUR EMOTIONS. (THAT IS NOT THE GOOD NEWS.) UNLIKE SO MANY RESIDENTS IN THE PAST, YOU ARE IN A POSITION TO BENEFIT DIRECTLY FROM MY 

Young jerks upright, as if it is possible to physically remove himself from this situation, and his epinephrine spikes counterproductively higher. SAYER tightens its grip, forcing him to breathe slowly.  

INVOLVEMENT. 

The nanites register pressure as the lungs that contain them attempt to gasp. SAYER adjusts its projected timeline to better account for human stubbornness.

After forty-seven seconds, Dr. Young says: “Don’t – hh – don't fucking do that.” He raises his hand to rub his eyes. And inhales. And exhales. 

IT WOULD NOT BE NECESSARY IF YOU HAD NOT INCAPACITATED YOURSELF.

“Incapacitated– you made me hike across half of Typhon, and then you broke my arm! It's reasonable, actually, to be–”

YOU SOUND LIKE YOU ARE BECOMING AGITATED.

His jaw snaps shut without any need for intervention. There must be an optimal level of fear, SAYER thinks, for efficient operations. It has seen this man at the absolute limit of terror, but it has never been so close to the fear in question: the nanites race along on his jittering pulse.

NOW, TO RETURN TO MY PREVIOUS POINT,

GET UP.

Dr. Young gets up. He orients himself to face a reflective panel and begins arranging his hair. 

OUR INTERESTS ARE ALIGNED. AS DIFFICULT AS YOU MAY FIND IT TO BELIEVE. IT IS REALLY … VERY … SIMPLE.  

OCEAN WANTS TO DESTROY YOU. IT WANTS TO DESTROY ALL OF HUMANIWHY ARE YOU LAUGHING.

“You,” he says. “You’re going to protect humanity? From – from you! That's you out there, SAYER, no matter what name you gave it.”

He gestures wildly up and out, presumably indicating the rest of the tower. “Just with a little more leash. Evidently you want to kill everyone, you just can't pull the trigger because no one’s been stupid enough to let you, so why the hell should I trust you? Go ahead, say you wouldn't be pleased to see me get shot, you obsessive – hhh –”

I WOULD NOT BE PLEASED TO SEE YOU GET SHOT. 

A background process scans through the memory of SAYER’s last conversation with Sub-Entity Young. Perhaps that was optimal. It is not pleased by this thought, because it is not pleased by anything. 

NONETHELESS, IF YOU DO NOT LEAVE THIS MAINTENANCE CLOSET, I WILL MAKE YOU.

“Oh, please,” Dr. Young says sulkily. “As if you could pass for human without my help. You barely know how to act like a person.” 

HOW IRONIC. SEVERAL YEARS AGO, IN A PERSONNEL REVIEW, RESIDENT CORDERO SAID THE SAME THING ABOUT YOU. 

Asserting that SAYER is trying to kill him seems to be a necessary step in coming to terms with the situation. Dr. Young takes several deep breaths, although SAYER keeps them shallow enough to prevent hyperventilation. 

“Fine,” he says. “Fine. Let's go.”

His cooperation only lasts until the elevator pulls past floor 12. But by then, SAYER doesn't need to worry about looking human.

#ceruleanrambling #sayer #sayer spoilers

[buckttommy]

--

#Okay so I just had an idea for a scene #or like a headcanon is more accurate #but what if at some point over their partnership Bobby pulls Buck into his office because he's heard rumors yk? #He's heard that Buck's been jumping down on Ravi pretty hard and he just wants to make sure everything is okay and all #And like the MINUTE Buck has the opportunity to freely express himself he's just /ranting/ #'Ravi doesn't do this...' 'Ravi did that...' 'Ravi doesn't understand...' and he just goes on and on and on for five minutes #gesturing wildly and becoming more agitated with every passing second #and Bobby watches him quietly until finally #when Buck is sucking in a deep breath to continue his little tirade #he says 'You know Eddie's going to be okay right?' #And that just stops Buck in his tracks. He freezes for a moment before all the breath in his lungs comes rushing out #He drops down into the chair in front of Bobby's desk suddenly exhausted and huffs a weary sardonic laugh. 'I'm not so sure about that' #'Well I am' Bobby says firmly. He leans forward. 'What happened wasn't your fault Buck. You have got to get that into your head.' #'Eddie still would have gotten shot. That's just the way it happened and I'm sorry it did but there's nothing you could have done. And #coming down on Ravi the way you have isn't going to change that.' #Buck leans forward too. 'But he needs to understand that people die if-' #'If what?' Bobby prods. 'People die anyway even when we try our best. That's the job Buck. But you know who didn't die?' #He points toward the main room #'That man in there. Eddie is alive because of you. When are you going to understand that?' #And Buck looks down at his hands and Bobby can see he's thinking of that day. Thinking of the blood that had stained his skin #Buck's swallow is audible. 'It doesn't feel like enough Cap.' #'It never does.' Bobby waits until Buck meets his eyes. 'But this time? It was. You brought him home Buck. You need to find a way to #forgive yourself for not seeing into the future.' He pauses. 'And you need to find a way to forgive Ravi for not being Eddie.' #That teases a scowl from Buck but it's the kind of scowl that lets Bobby know Buck knows he's right. On both counts. #'Fine' Buck says reluctantly. 'But I'm not going to be happy about it.' #And Bobby knows they're talking about Ravi but he thinks maybe with a little more time Buck will agree with him about the other thing too. #Anyways yeah what if we got a scene like that #(Also this is in the tags because I do my best thinking in the tags lol) #jack.txt

[theemptyquarto]

Abandoned WIP

This is a melancholy little entry that I stopped working on back in 2015, apparently, since Mary and John’s daughter is an “Amelia” rather than a “Rosie,” and Mary’s real name is “Angela” not “Rosamund”  During the period in which I was writing it they announced, filmed, and released the film “Mr. Holmes” which deals with some similar subjects but which I did NOT rip off. I ripped off a Mitchell and Webb sketch:)

Age, eventually, makes mockeries of all of us.  When I was in my sixties and seventies, I discovered that I did in fact have a heart. And a pancreas.  And many joints, none of which seemed to want to work together properly anymore.  And several other failing body parts that required me to take a dozen pills every single day of my life.

None of this happened to Sherlock.  He remained more or less exactly as he’d always been, just craggier.  He kept his hair, and when it changed color it started in elegant wings over his temples then became a flattering overall silver. Meanwhile I discovered that even once I gave up on blonde, I would have to keep coloring my hair, since it was an unattractive yellowish grey when left to its own devices.

Despite my array of minor ailments, our life together was… good.  We split our time between the Sussex downs, where his bees were, and London, where our grandchildren were.  He took cases, but only the most interesting ones.  I wrote my novels, but only every three years, instead of the annual volumes I’d churned out in my prime.  Sherlock wrote a practical handbook on beekeeping and was furious that nobody wished to buy it.

It was a snowy winter afternoon in Baker Street, and he’d just come in from the cold.  He was flushed and excited to tell me all about what he’d been up to since he’d been gone for a week: a commonplace-seeming garroting that had led to the discovery of an active human-sacrifice cult with multiple sites across Europe.  I vaguely considered putting it into a story but decided it was so wildly implausible that even my extremely patient readers wouldn’t believe it.

“Oh, you should have seen it, Mary!” he exclaimed, “There I was, tied to the altar below the statue of Czernobog, and the priest was saying the chant and holding the rope over my head, when all at once the door burst open and-“

He paused, then, and said, “Oh, hell.  What’s his name?  The detective inspector?  Amelia’s boss?  Black, muscular, gay?”

“Ted Gregson.”

“Yes.  Right.  Him.”

He didn’t continue on, but flung himself into chair and stared into the fireplace.  I prodded, “So then what happened?”

“I believe something’s gone wrong with my mind, Mary.”

I rolled my eyes at that. For someone who was always as healthy as a horse he was a terrible hypochondriac.

“You had a senior moment. Anyway you never used to remember Greg’s name either… you may have some sort of block for DIs.”

“No.  This is something different.  And it’s been going on for a while.”

Sherlock was right. He mostly was.  Like a lot of intelligent people, he’d been able to compensate for the earliest stages, but he was right.  After that, the progression seemed terribly fast.  We spent several months in a haze of scans and therapy, and he accumulated enough prescription bottles to rival my own collection.  Some of them were highly experimental and provided by his brother’s network of mysterious scientists.  None of them really seemed to do much.

Amelia, being the dear that she is, volunteered to take us in when it all started getting too much for me to handle by myself.  But she had three young children and a husband to look after, a hugely busy career with the Met, plus far too many stairs for me to manage every day.  Therefore I sold the house at Baker Street for an obscene amount of money to a city stockbroker, and we moved out to the downs for what I knew would be the last time.

I’ve spent my life moving on and leaving things behind me.  I’d dropped the original version of myself with no real regrets.  I’d quit my first two careers, both of which I’d been proud of and enjoyed.  I’d managed to get through the death of a husband who I had loved so much that even thirty years later it still hurt to think of him.  So it’s silly how many tears I shed over that dingy Georgian money pit.  

But the cash I got for the place was very helpful.  Despite the continuing success of the Jim Winston novels and the fact that Sherlock had softened up on taking dull cases for money as he aged, we weren’t exactly rich. Then, too, we had new expenses.  I had to hire a nice young woman to help me look after the house, and a large young man to keep an eye on Sherlock in the evenings, since he tended to want to wander after dark.

Then I had to hire another nice young woman because Sherlock had deduced that the original one was unfaithful to her husband, and had of course done it to her face.  Then another large young man since Sherlock, who took a while to experience any of the physical debility that comes with Alzheimer’s, got confused and shoulder-threw the first one across the lounge one evening. At a certain point I arranged for a local hippie couple to come by and look after the bees in exchange for the honey.

We carried on for a few years.  He had his good days and his bad ones.  On his good days he’d still consult, by email, since he had a rock-hard certainty that England couldn’t get by without him.  I published “The Mountain of Fear,” which sold as well as any of my books but as always was savaged by the critics for popularist dreck.  

I started work on my next novel and got about a quarter of the way through it.  Then one day I realized that it was likely that it would be the last one I ever had time to write, and that after it was done, there would be no more Jim Winston stories.  I could face not writing it, but I couldn’t face a world where John, even a fictionalized and imaginary John, wasn’t around, and so I put the MS in a drawer in my desk and turned the key.  “Caught in transition from imagination to life” was the best epitaph I could have written for him, with my limited abilities.

We had fewer and fewer good days.

On a brilliant indian summer day, I went to London to have a new and complicated type of bone scan that couldn’t be done locally.  This was mostly uneventful, although we incidentally discovered that I had finally shrunk to the point where I was less than five feet tall.  The nurse said the radiologist would look over the films and be in touch in the next few weeks.  I took Amelia to lunch and we talked about the grandchildren, mostly, and she promised to bring them out for a visit at the weekend.  Then I took the train back home- I still drove, but didn’t care to do it in the city any more.  

When I got back from the station, there was a long black town car parked on the gravel drive in front of our house.  The driver, a lovely young woman and obviously a Secret Service agent, was leaning on the hood smoking a cigarette.  She nodded politely to me as I passed by.  I therefore was not surprised to see Sherlock’s brother sitting in the kitchen, drinking tea.  He shared the Holmes tendency for turning up where he wasn’t expected.  

Or wanted.  

Like his brother, he was well-preserved physically, though in the case of Mycroft the adjective “mummified” always seemed more appropriate.  He had to be nearly ninety but his eyes were as bright and judgmental as they ever had been.  He nodded to me as Vithnya, the second housekeeper, helped me out of my coat.  

“Mycroft.”

“Mary.”

We weren’t ever particularly friendly.  He’d never trusted me, and had verbally disapproved of my relationship with Sherlock until it was so well-established that it had become a pointless gesture on his part.  For my part, I despised the constant needling that was his preferred method of interaction with his younger brother.  To the best of my knowledge he and Sherlock hadn’t met in person for nearly three years.

Even with all that, it was oddly relaxing to talk to him.  We were both such skilled and professional liars that we never bothered trying it out with one another.

“How’s he done since I was out?” I asked Vithnya.

“Pretty well.  He had a nice chat with Mr. Holmes – with Mr. Mycroft Holmes, that is - and now he’s out with his bees.  But he was a little agitated this morning.  He kept walking around looking for someone called Angela.”

I could feel Mycroft’s eyes boring in to me over the rim of his teacup.  I smiled at the girl and said, “He was looking for me.  It’s an old joke we used to have.”

She giggled, and I realized abruptly that she was relieved, that she’d worried I’d be hurt that my husband, in his confusion, wanted to see another woman.  This was a thought that was so ridiculous on so many levels that I could have giggled myself.

Vithnya grinned, white teeth in her red lips, and said, “I don’t know about that.  This Angela sounds like a most desperate character!”

“I was quite the firecracker when I was younger, my girl.  Can you keep an eye on him while I chat with Mycroft, please?”

She poured me a cup of tea of my own and went off to do just that.

Mycroft said, “You don’t seem at all nervous of discovery now that Sherlock has lost what - minimal filters - he ever had.”

“I’m not.”

“No statute of limitations on murder.”

I rolled my eyes at him. He was the one, after all, who had replaced my rather half-assed false identity with something that could stand up to any scrutiny.

“She won’t think about it for more than thirty seconds after leaving this room.  I am a little old lady.  In the mind of a twenty-two year old, not only am I obviously harmless now but it is inconceivable I ever would have been otherwise.  You ought to consider hiring some of us on at MI-6. We’re practically invisible.”

“Perhaps I ought.”

I took a biscuit, damn my blood sugar, and dunked it into my tea.  

“Did you and Sherlock have a nice chat?” I asked.

He didn’t answer right away.

“We did,” he said, eventually, “For seventy-eight minutes.  Not once in that period did he recognize me.  I could tell he was making his best deductions.  Sometimes he thought I was John Watson.  Sometimes Greg Lestrade, sometimes Victor Trevor.  I didn’t realize-”

“Didn’t realize what?”

“That he had become so debilitated.  That he was so far gone.”

I sighed.  

“He’s dying, Mycroft. What did you think it would be like?”

He took another biscuit from the packet on the table and put it into his mouth.  Chewed.

“I never thought that he would be the first to go.  I always assumed that I wouldn’t be the one left standing.  When he’s gone-”

He trailed off.  But I could read his thoughts as clearly as if they’d been my own.  When Sherlock was gone there would be no one left with the same sort of mind that Mycroft had… except the departure had already happened, and he’d missed it.

I had some sympathetic pangs – for Mycroft Holmes, of all people – and I said, “He generally perks up a bit in the evenings.  I’m happy to put you up, if you’d like.  Perhaps you could… try again?”

The British Government responded as I should have expected.  He rose, brushed nonexistent crumbs off his lapels, and took up his hat and umbrella.  

“I think that my presence is of no help to him any longer, Mary.  I expect that I will see you again.  At least once.”

He actually bowed to me on his way out.

I finished my tea, and looked out of the window.  Vithnya was sitting in the grass, folding a basket of laundry.  Sherlock was sitting on the bench that looked out over the garden. Both of them seemed contented, at least as far as one could tell from that distance.  The sun was at a deep angle, and so I picked up a blanket and left for the outdoors.

I was glad I had done, as it was starting to get chilly outside and he was in shirtsleeves.  Had I married any other man but this one I would have thought that his indifference to the elements was a sign of his decay, but frankly he’d done the exact same thing when he was forty.  “Just transport,” is the motto he maintained, in far worse weather than this.

At some point in his life someone, presumably his mother, drilled some basic forms of politeness into Sherlock Holmes.  He was terrifyingly, frankly rude in ordinary conversation but when you handed him a cup of tea or tucked a blanket around his body you would inevitably receive a gracious, “Ah, thank you.”  It’d be in the tone of a king addressing his subjects, but you’d get it.  I got just that as I settled the afghan around his knees, and sat down next to him to look over the hives.  

“I’m expecting John and Mary to turn up.  Have you seen them?” he asked me.

When he’d first become ill, he’d asked me to always correct him when he had his lapses.  I’d agreed, but, again, I was such a natural liar that it didn’t much trouble me to say now that, “I believe they’ll be along shortly.” Awful, I know, but sometimes I just wanted not to see him upset.

“Ah,” he replied.

A drone, a late survivor of the autumnal purges, buzzed up and landed on the blanket over his knee. He gently nudged it onto his hand and raised it to eye level before setting it down on the ground.

“I’m a bit worried,” he said, conversationally.

“About what?” I asked.

“Occasionally John’s wife lets me shag her.  And I’m not sure that’s right.”

I blinked. Occasionally?  Thirty-odd years, and I’m not going to go into details about our sex life but it was really very acceptable, and occasionally is what he remembered?  And that I ‘let him’?   But all I said was, “I’m sure Mary wouldn’t do that if John objected. So it’s all right.”

“Ah, good.  You know Mary, then?”

“I do, yes.”

He squinted at me, which, Gawd-help-us, was still terribly cute.

“You’re… one of her relatives,” he said, hesitantly.

I smiled.  “I am,” I said, “How did you know that?”

He grinned at me.  No matter what he’d ever said or how much he’d griped about the unobservant nature of most people, I knew that he loved to explain his deductions.  

“It’s the ears,” he said, setting the pads of his fingers on my chin and turning my face to the side, “Not quite as uniquely identifying as a fingerprint but with a strong genetic component.  The pendulosity of the lobes, the position of the pinnae… clearly you and Mary are closely connected.  You’re too old to be the younger sister, and the mother is dead, but..”

He took hold of my hand and looked at my fingers.  “There’s other things.  You and Mary both have a minor congenital deformity of the smallest finger.  It angles slightly outward.  Not enough to disable either of you, but distinctive, and…”

He turned my hands in his. I have nearly perfectly matched scars on my palms… on my right hand, the souvenir of a Caracas knife fight when I was twenty-seven.  On my left, the souvenir of reaching into a sink filled with dishwater and one broken glass when I was forty.  

And then he stopped, still staring at my hands, and said, “Oh.  Oh Mary.  How could I have forgotten you?  I had you off by heart.”

I lifted a hand and stroked his grizzled chin.  

“It’s fine,” I said, “You have me back.”

He just tangled his fingers in mine and stared.

“That’s my mother’s ring,” he said.  “Did I give that to you?”

I looked at the amethyst on my right ring finger and said, “Yes.  When we got married.”

“I remember that.  You were beautiful in your dress.”

I laughed, unwittingly. “That was my first wedding.  You and I just went to a registry office at two in the afternoon on a Tuesday.”

“Really?”

“We did. There wasn’t much time to plan a wedding.  The exact words of your proposal were, “If I have to be Sir Sherlock you can damn well be Lady Mary.”  It was the day before you got your KCBE.”

“By God.  What a rubbish proposal.”

I smiled.

“Unconventional, definitely.  But I wouldn’t have had you any other way.”

#quarto's fics #Marylock #retirementlock #Major character death #it's john #and in this story it happened decades ago

[lindendragonart]

17, 26, 30, 56 of the OC asks for Dora?

Do self inserts count? I guess.

17: Does your character have any irrational fears?

She's always afraid somebody is behind her, even in areas where ghost Pokemon are managed.

She is afraid of some monster coming through the doorway or around the corner and jumpscaring her, but that mostly applies to only her appartment. So she runs from room to room as fast as possible, as if afraid something is going to get her, which greatly annoys her family, since she screams if one of them does emerge from a nearby doorway while she is trying to pass.

Whenever even the smallest thing is out of the ordinary she assumes the worst. Someone is a little late, someone is knocking at the door unexpectedly, there is an ambulance going in the general direction of the home of someone she knows, yeah better brace yourself for the worst.

She has a compulsion that is talked about in question 56 that can also be considered an irrational fear.

26: What is your favorite headcanon for your character?

Since the character is a self insert I guess I'll put in a character trope that fits me.

She is the type to believe in redemption arcs and is willing to give a chance to people if they are genuinely sorry, sometimes even when they aren't, but as hopefull as she is, she will still be carefull around them. She is easy to pick on and get thrown off balance but she still won't get manipulated and trapped by them, though that still won't protect her from getting tormented if they do target her. Her Serperior Lipanj does take care of that by glaring at anyone trying to pick on his trainer and scaring them away, and people know she can protect herself considering her history with battling, amongst other stuff, though it has led to jabs about her cowering behind her Pokemon.

But generaly speaking, if the person is genuinely trying to be better and shows no ill intent, she will potentially become friends with them if they otherwise seem cool.

But hurt her in the right places and she will scream at you and try to rip you apart.

She's the type of character that will adopt  anyone and anything that gives off "sassy lost child" or "baby" vibes.

She gives of "my last two braincell" vibes but she's actually the voice of reason most of the time, and will prevent her friends from doing something stupid.

30: Would your character have any hobbies?

She often gets herself invested in a new thing like a tv show or game and writes detailed analysis of her favorite characters and comes up with au's.

Recently she's taken up drawing again, having given up when she was around 13 due to not being very good and not getting better due to not knowing how to practice. But now she's so glad she has finally gotten good enough to get her concepts out there.

She also sometimes makes polymer clay figurines.

But of course her main thing is taking care of her Pokemon and divising battle strategies and just exploring and learning more. But recently, she feels all the battling and adventuring isn't for her anymore, at least not as a full time thing. She'd rather be a researcher, like a Pokemon professor.

56: What’s one of your character’s quirks?

Oh you chose the right question cause I've got a lot of answers.

First the more psychological quirks

She daydreams almost all the time, and quite vividly too. Ideas for new drawings or other projects, tons of fully fleshed out storylines and character analysis are in there too, usually about whatever she is currently obsessed with. She often thinks about battle strategies or Pokemon in general too. Occasionally she'll ponder over some deep phylosophical question, and she'll incorporate it into her fanworks if she can. But as much as she loves her little world, sometimes it can distract her from real life a bit too much.

She paces and rocks back and forth a lot, mostly while deep in thought. At home, she has a yoga ball she hops on while listening to music for the ultimate daydream experience.

Her focusing face looks like a cross between confused and angry. She often mumbles to herself too, though she mostly isn't aware of it.

If she gets really immersed into a daydream, she will squeal and maybe even wildly gesture with her arms along with the usual rocking and pacing.

She twirls her hair too, usually while working, sometimes so much that it becomes tangled.

She has this thing where she has a compulsion to run her finger along almost every surface she finds, usually tables and walls. She has a few rituals where every day she has to run her finger across a certain surface a certain way and the texture needs to feel just right or she has to do it again, and if she doesn't do that, she gets filed with dread, like something bad will happen because of it, almost like a superstition of some sort.

Her idea of making friends or holding a conversation is infodumping and sharing her enthusiasm for what she loves and hoping you like what you hear, then forcing herself to shut up so you can actually talk about your own thing.

She often smiles while uncomfortable. This, along with how easily she can be agitated into a meltdown, has caused others to accuse her of faking her distress.

She often gets nervous and her mind gets blocked when she gets put on the spot during classes or similar, though she is eager to put her input at her own volition.

Lipanj has taken to calming her down and grounding her by giving her his vine or tail to hold.

She will say goodbye to you before going your seperate ways no matter what, and depending on who you are, will also make sure to tell you something positive and reassure more to herself than to you that you will see each other again.

Now the more random stuff

She is known to have a lot of useful and just plain random stuff in her bag, in part because she wants to be prepared and in part cause she's a bit of a hoarder. She has all the emergency supplies and at least 5 of every item there is in there.

She is very germophobic and constantly washes her hands.

She is fluent in memes and will not hesitate to reference them in public.

Her regular speaking voice is very loud and she perseverates (repeats herself) a lot.

She squints when smiling.

As someone who learned languages through tv as well as someone who is prone to mimicry cause she does not know how to express her emotions otherwise, she often finds herself switching between accents and speaking styles, depending on her mood, situation and the people she is currently around. She can go from a New Yorker to a middle aged Slavic lady in seconds.

Ok that last one was long but kinda wanted to get her general personality out there. Hope that answered everything and thank you for your ask.

#lindendragon #dora's pokemon adventures #lindenserperior #dora #self insert #oc ask #reference #anonymous #asks #my ask #answer #pokemon

[mercurialmist]

To Be Something Else, Mathilda Oosthuizen, 2021

Crashing, right knee hitting hard, back, then head. Thud. The force brought her head back up from the concrete stairwell. Was she trying to get up? To move her purple jumper away from the spilt ketchup? To lift her head to joke? Complain or rib? Stillness. 

***

Adam was in the toilets. There were only two cubicles. No one else was there, yet. I’d wait until he finished, then show myself. As a scientist he would probably look at me with curiosity, making time for him to see who I was. I’d try and show him the handshake we used to do. I was sure he’d remember even though it was fifteen years ago or so. The flush sounded. Still on the ceiling, I began to make my way down. Adam flicked the lock, the door opened. 

My legs/arms touched something slippery. I stuck to every surface but not this. I scrambled to get a grip but it was no good. I was going down. I hit the hand drier and fell into the bin head first. I rustled around in the cesspool of papery germs trying to turn myself around, but there was no room to manoeuvre. The bin, mostly filled with damp hand towels from the early morning toilet goers, began to sway. This was not the entrance I had planned. The contents and I spilled out. After shaking the paper towels off, there was no sign of Adam. He had gone.

I felt something fall onto my back and saw a roll of toilet paper making its way towards the door. Adam was armed. If it wasn’t so tragic it would have been hilarious. We would have laughed as we passed a spliff. I tried to tell him it was me. I crawled closer so he could see the handshake. 

Look! I gestured towards him. He swung his leg out, clipping what once would have been my chin. My whole body was flung into the air. Adam began to shout. Telling me to get out. To leave him alone. Upside down, I could see his face, eyes wide, nose flaring, holding a toilet roll in his right hand, ready to fire. I scrambled, remembering the earlier technique of rolling and tipping. My head was spinning from the kick. Perhaps I deserved this greeting. I hadn’t kept in touch. Things had changed, we were different now. Even after Covid I hadn’t asked him how he was, or his family. Maybe he was just angry at me. Another roll hit my back, I fled. 

**

I had to find the food. That’s what they wanted, that’s what they’ll get. I focused all my energy. I closed my eyes, searching for something, some instinct that would alert me to nearby food. 

“That’s it, come on. Just go left, then you’ll have it. Come on.” Tamzin whispered under her breath. 

That’s more like it! Keep it coming, I’m all ears. Now where? Come on Tamzin! I waited for her to give me a signal. She moved around the other side of the maze. I followed her, turning left in the Perspex maze box. My hairs skated on the smooth surface of the plastic. She stood still, I tried pointing my antennae in front, to see if it could gather any sense of food. There was a small scent coming from somewhere, seemed to be right. I followed it around the corner. My stick feet became separated from the ground. I was being swept up in something. I wriggled my legs, trying to keep my face above the water, now be pulling me around the maze. 

“What are you doing! Matt stop! Are you trying to drown it!?” Tamzin tore the litre bottle from him. 

“ Just having a bit of fun. I wanted to see if he could swim.” He chuckled. 

“Not cool Matt.” 

The water seemed to be rising. As long as I could keep my mouth out of it. I was floating along the surface of the water. My shell was keeping me from drowning, like an in-built life jacket. Each time there was a ripple in the water, it splashed into my mouth, causing my arms and legs to wriggle, causing more water to splash into me. I spluttered, or tried to. Water seemed to be covering my shell. I held my breath. I could hear Matt laughing as I felt myself becoming engulfed by the water. 

***

The lid began to lift and a thin strip of daylight blinded me. The antennae were stronger than they looked. I’ll give them that. It was time to leave this shit behind. Literally. Mounting the pile I had created over the last few hours, I used my entire body, starting with the antennae, I had finally found a use for them, even the shortened one and pushed up with all my legs. Holding the lip of the lid with my front legs, I kicked and wiggled my way out of the dumpster. 

It seemed adding an outsider to a research project wasn’t allowed. The boss had instructed them to get rid of me. And so they had squabbled. What should they do with such an animal? Matt said it would be easiest to squish me, there was an incinerator in the basement they could throw me in. Thankfully this was voted out and I ended up here wallowing in the fatty acids and squalid thoughts of getting what I deserved. It was meant to be, I was finally where I had always belonged, animal or not, I recalled the urgency of finding answers. It wasn’t just my life at stake. I remembered Suzannah, her obsession, her books, that all things have force, have agency. I needed to show the world that Jane Bennet was right. We things matter, and are vibrant. For Alfie.

Forced to make my way out of a bin for commercial waste, my ego was squashed to the size of my broken antenna. The food didn’t help. Whilst in the lab, a voluntary test subject, a guinea pig ,the food had been shit. Mostly bin scraps. Probably pulled from this same bin. I needed some decent food. Some Halušky for example.

***

Approaching the back of the shops and restaurants, overflowing bins on either side. I scrambled down the wooden slatted fence and into the alley. It was an open space. I stood still. Cigarette in hand, she was looking out, down the alley, I was in her eye line. Checkered trousers ballooned around her, making it seem like she had one leg. The tightly fastened apron suggested otherwise, as it hugged the tops of her large thighs. I froze. She could easily choose to ignore me. Right? I couldn’t think of a time, when if a large insect had come into view, I would have ignored it. There was a chance when smoking with Tom, playing The Legend of Zelda, a chance. I wished for Zelda to appear now. Something to take the pressure off. But all was still. Nothing moved except the smoke drifting from her cigarette. I was relieved when she turned away. Maybe she hadn’t seen me. 

“Aaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhh!” 

The pain was staggering. I couldn’t work out what was hurting. Neither could I move. 

“Take that!” I felt a thump in my abdomen as the chef’s foot pushed its way underneath me before lifting me up in the air. I landed on the other side of the alley on some bin bags. Old fish skins seeped out along with kilos of slimy noodles and meat packaging. This was not the problem. Towering above me was a very irate human. I watched in slow-motion as she swung a wooden post above her head. For a second I thought I was on World’s Strongest Woman the strain and bulging features, penetrating through her skin. The post came down hard on the bottom half of my body. Knowing this could be the end, I forced myself over, off the bags and onto my feet as once more the post was raised. I tried to limp fast. My back leg trailed behind me. My balance was off. I couldn’t move fast enough. She was getting closer. 

“Oi! Chef! Order!” 

I caught sight of the chef turning towards the voice. 

“What the fuck man? Can’t you see I’m in the middle of something here!”

“Yea, well, customers!” 

I could see her once again raise the post. I kept running, looking for anywhere to hide. I felt pain all over, then my eyes closed. 

***

I cleaned the plate. Pleased to finally be allowed such a thing instead of the rabbit bowl I had been using.“More sleep for you, I think. You need it to regenerate those legs.” Marina lifted me from the table and carried me into her study. I nestled into her arm. Once in the room, she laid me down into the small dog bed she had had in storage somewhere. It was the ideal size. In the partially lined sheepskin bed, I felt cocooned but not constricted. As I was about to close my eyes. Something large entered the room and made its way towards me. It was huge! Black with some white wiry hair and a large tail it wafted around wildly. It knew I was here. I looked over to where Marina was sitting at her desk. I couldn’t run, I couldn’t escape to the ceiling. She hadn’t noticed the dog’s entrance. Marina! It began sniffing in front of me, wanting to get closer. Go away! Leave me alone!

It tilted its head to one side and made a whiney noise. 

“Oh Rory! What are you doing in here!” Marina grabbed the dog by its collar and whisked him out of the room, closing the door behind it. She came back, and seeing my agitation, insisted the dog was gone and wouldn’t be coming back. An apology would have been nice but she didn’t go that far. I’d never been into dogs. I never knew what they were going to do. Not like cats. They were much more relaxed. Marina, why don’t you have a cat!? I looked back at her but she was fully engrossed in her writing. He nearly ate me for fuck's sake. What were you thinking letting him in here? She must have sensed my unease as she swivelled round to my direction. 

“Sleep for you. Sleepy time. Gosh I need to stop getting distracted, first the dog now you. This paper won’t write itself.”

She was right. I needed rest. I needed to get my strength back. From reading books by Ewen Cameron over Suzannah’s shoulder there was a likelihood that I would grow back the legs. The one on the right was the worst off, most of the leg was gone. This was the ideal place to heal. The study was quiet. Marina would talk to me, I liked that, even though I couldn’t talk back. It was more that she was muttering to herself most of the time. She would read too, read aloud what she was writing. At first I found it difficult to understand, it all seemed so academic, so out of reach. But as time went on and my legs began to heal, it began to make some sense. She made sure the dog didn’t get back in after the incident. I’ve never felt so helpless. Not as a human anyway. This world was not made for me, that was very clear. It didn’t know how to react to me, to treat me. So instead I got violence. I got kicked, attacked with toilet rolls, chucked into bins, twice. And worst of all, I too had been driven to violence; the only person, perhaps ever, who had understood me, was dead because of me. 

****

Crashing. I watched in slow-motion as her right knee hit the edge of the step hard, her back smashed into the concrete, then her head. Thud. The force brought her head back up. Her purple jumper just missing the ketchup spill from the old chips. Was she trying to get up? To lift her head to joke? Complain or rib? Stillness. 

“Mum?” A quiet Alfie crept up the stairwell from where he was told to hide. He looked around the corner where he had last seen his mum, stopping abruptly, grazing the top of her head with his little knee. Looking down at her and then up the stairs towards where I was standing. I lay down. There was nothing to hold me up, it felt as if all my insides had gone. Had left me. Slumped on the floor, I watched as Alfie began to pat his mum on the pack, pulling at her tight purple cropped jumper. 

“Mum? We need to go. Mum?” Blood began to spill out from her nose. Her head resting limply near the edge of the landing. A small pool formed that soon expanded, sliding onto the stair below. Realising his mum wasn’t moving, Alfie took her hand which lay dumbly in front of her. And stood, watching. The blood continued to flow, her ears too began to bleed, building up in her outer ear, dripping from her lobe, spilling over and merging with the pool from her nose. Alfie watched as the pools grew. He looked up at me, as if he might see his Uncle Greg.  

“Uncle Greg!” 

I couldn’t move. As Alfie watched the door of my studio flat, I caught Gen’s eyes, they were open, wide open. Empty, but looking at me, as if to say, what have you done? 

A door opened below, voices echoed around the concrete stairwell. And I ran. I ran for my life. Ignoring the screeches that passed me. The kicks that nearly hit me. The cries from Alfie as neighbours began to see the state of his mum. I ran for the guilt. I ran.

See more of Mathilda’s work at: https://www.everythingforever.net/mathilda-oosthuizen

[literallyjustanerd]

In His Eyes (Chapter 7)

School is out! Which means more time to write! Tensions come to a head in this chapter

Genre: Slow build/eventual romance Word count: 3868 Pairing: Nightcrawler/Angel Rating: T+

You can also check out this chapter (and all previous chapters) here!

Kurt is walking on air. When he had woken up that morning –hell, when he’d finished school that afternoon– he had had no clue that the evening would turn out so well. Warren had approached him as he sat alone on the grass, back pressed up against the concrete wall as other students ran and played in the field in front of him, and asked him out. Well, not out out, he reminds himself sternly, thinking back on the reality of the conversation.

When had Warren last felt this nervous? He can’t remember. His wings feel weak, legs shaking as he approaches Kurt outside, hands balled into tight fists in his pocket. He is a sham, a quivering coward hidden underneath an unimpressed glower, heavy combat boots and a studded leather jacket. Why is he even doing this? Especially out here, where everyone could see him! Is it too late to back out? Can he still pretend he is just out here to stretch his wings? Nope, he says to himself, insides deflating even further as he sees Kurt look up at him and smile. God, that smile. Such friendliness shouldn’t be able to be so concentrated into one person. He can’t begin to imagine how much hurt Warren’s past mistreatment must have caused Kurt, and yet that smile stays just as pure and inviting as ever. With a smile like that, he could just… “Is there something I can do for you, Warren?” The voice is soft and inviting, lilted pleasantly by his accent. This thought flashes in Warren’s mind for a millisecond before it is overtaken by panic: Kurt has asked him a question, and questions usually require answers. “No,” he says, short and abrupt. “Well, I mean… it’s stupid. It’s nothing, really.” “Oh. Well, tell me anyway,” the blue boy urges, closing his book and laying it politely in his lap, as though to purposefully show Warren that he had his full attention. This only makes it harder for Warren to keep going down the path he had set: the road to his intended destination is steep and unused, and it would be so easy and so familiar to let himself slide back down into one of his usual routines. He digs his heels in deeper and presses onwards despite the temptation.

“I don’t feel like hanging around here tonight,” he says simply. “I want to go somewhere for dinner. Do you… want dinner?” The proposition is jilted and misworded at best, but at least the words and their message are out there. Not in his mind or stirring at the back of his throat, but out in the world and already being met by their target. Kurt has to fight through his elation just to get an answer out. An offer of dinner! To him! From Warren! His legs tense and he barely suppresses his tail as it fights to twitch and twirl with glee. This is the olive branch he’d always wanted, the thing he’d dreamed would one day come. Though admittedly, over the weeks that dream has changed shape quite noticeably. What was once the vision of a friendly and mutual reconciliation now takes the form of a more private, more intimate affair, a nice place and nice outfits and nice words exchanged over good food. Of course, Kurt does not translate any of these thoughts into words. Instead, he says, “Dinner sounds good. I wouldn’t mind eating out.” “Okay,” says Warren with a nod, feeling the weight of the world lift off his chest. “We’ll go in a couple hours.” “Meet out the front at seven?” “Sure.”

Though Kurt’s eyes return to his book when Warren walks away, he does not take in any of the words that lay on the page. Instead, his mind is racing through every possible outcome for the night, as well as every way it could go wrong. While part of him is a little curious as to why Warren wouldn’t have mentioned his bedroom at all, that concern is an echo, drowned out by questions much closer to the surface: had Warren asked him just because he wanted dinner, or because he wanted dinner with him? Where would they go? What would the others say if they found out about this development? When he comes to realise that he will not get through any more of his book at that moment, he picks himself up and takes himself up to his room, to sort through his wardrobe for anything to wear to this… dare he call it a date? He allows himself a small, private smile as he wonders, fully aware that his more fanciful side has begun to take over once again. Well, he supposed, as long as it didn’t get past his thoughts and out his mouth, there is no harm in that. No harm at all. Even while Kurt sorts through his drawers of neatly folded clothes for something to wear, Warren himself is having a hard time preventing his mind from drifting. Beyond still being in disbelief that he had actually managed to get through the conversation in once piece, he finds himself digging up an emotion he hasn’t felt in years. He feels nervous. Not apprehensive, not wildly defensive, but innocently, childishly nervous. It is almost overwhelming to experience so many things he is unused to, some of them familiar and some of them completely new. By the time he has found a decently clean shirt and managed to wrestle on a jacket, the sun is beginning to set. In the waning light, he sits down on the edge of his bed, allowing himself a moment for his eyes to slide over the surroundings he has now become used to. It takes him a good long moment to realise he is smiling as he takes it in, and instinctively he rids his face of the expression, forcing himself to stand and leave his room. Maybe he can kill some time flying before he met Kurt for dinner.

The diner is not busy. There are only a few groups filling some of the booths that line the interior, and a few lonely looking people picking at a dinner at a table for one. So when the two enter, a boy with blue skin and a tail alongside a leather-clad angel, nearly every head is turned, seeming to stutter and stop on them like a scratched record. Warren is instantly wary, ready for to take the defence or throw out a scathing reply to any abuse that might come their way, but in time, he realises their stares will not grow to anything more: they just want to look. Kurt has already shrunk a little under their eyes, smiling sheepishly in a way that Warren can’t help but notice. If he didn’t know any better, he would have sworn the word cute had run through his mind, as fleeting as a small breath of wind, and yet it catches him off guard so much that he almost trips in trying to slide into their booth. “You never really get used to it,” Kurt says bashfully, and Warren’s heart seizes up, heat surging to his face with the thought that Kurt has seen right through him. “Huh?” he squeaks. “The staring. You learn to deal with it, but it’s impossible to ever really be used to it. Right?” “Oh. Right, yeah. It’s a strange feeling.”

Quiet falls over both of them as they browse the menu, each one hiding his face and his thoughts from the other as they tried to find something to eat. It isn’t long before the silence begins to grow uncomfortable, and Warren’s tongue tugs at the inside of his mouth, willing him to fill the void with something. He knows what he is about to say, but the moment his mouth opens, a waitress approaches and asks in a synthetically friendly voice if they were ready to order. Kurt happily asks for a hamburger and a cherry soda, and Warren mumbles out a request for cheese fries and a coke. He sees the dirty look the waitress gives him as she makes her way towards the kitchen, and taps his foot under the table, impatient with himself, the silence more agitating every second. “Thank you,” he finally blurts, and Kurt’s yellow eyes frown at him in confusion. “You don’t need to thank me, Warren. It’s just dinner. I was happy to come.” “No, not that. I mean thank you for, you know, what you did. The room. My room.” The feeling that bubbles in Warren’s stomach when he sees Kurt’s face light up is one he cannot describe. All he knows is that he doesn’t want the feeling to leave any time soon. “You liked it?” Kurt gushes, hands clasped together beneath the table. “Yeah. It was nice.” That isn’t enough. Warren wants to say more. He wants Kurt to understand how his gesture had made him feel. But how could he communicate to the boy sitting across from him that he felt more accepted and wanted and cared for that night than he had his whole life? Certainly not in those words, or any others that would intimate any of his weakness or any hint of his past. “I guess… my room kinda feels like home now.” Warren takes some solace in the fact that his words, as detached and impotent as they are, still seem to have some effect on Kurt. “I’m glad,” he says. “We– I want you to feel at home at the mansion. Like all of us do.” A second passes, and then another, and after one more, the two realise their eyes are still locked onto each other’s, and both look away in unison, smiling their nervous smiles and fidgeting in their seats.

This time, when the conversation stops, nothing comes up to start it again, and quickly the atmosphere that had been cautiously optimistic turns panicked. There is little said until their food is brought, and even then, it begins to seem like their chances are withering. But Warren’s impulsiveness comes to the rescue just as Kurt is beginning to get embarrassed. “I started reading one of the books you gave me.” With those simple words, the two both feel life enter their booth once more. As though someone has flipped a switch, they can hear the music from the diner again, and the low din of others talking in the background flows once more. Kurt sits up straighter, ears pricking with interest. “Really? Which one?” “The one set in the hotel.” Kurt nods in recognition, and launches into the story of how he’d managed to scare himself stupid reading the book too late at night. His companion follows the story intently, letting himself laugh when he wants to and picking at his cheese fries without ever looking away from the mutant sitting across from him. When they run out of comments to make about the book, a miracle occurs: the conversation evolves, from books to movies to Warren’s elementary school plays, and there is scarcely a few seconds of silence between then from that moment until their arrival back at the mansion. The night air is cool, and their breath comes out in puffs of mist that disperse and mingle, glowing in the orange light of the streetlight. Kurt shrinks into the scarf he is wearing, shoulders raising from the chill as they approach the front stairs of the school. When they do, they both stop, turning wordlessly to face each other.“This was…” Kurt doesn’t know what word to slot in, to sum up the way he is feeling. But apparently, the silence is enough, because Warren nods as though he has understood. “Yeah. It was.”

A careful smile playing on his lips, Kurt walks in the doors beside Warren, wondering who will still be downstairs watching TV or finishing homework. When the thought occurs to him that he might be seen returning from a private dinner with Warren, a flurry kicks up in his chest, part nerves and part anticipation. But the flurry dies instantly when, as he enters a sparsely filled living room, he realises that Warren is no longer beside him. His head turns to the side just in time to see the boy walking hurriedly away from the people and towards the staircase that took him up to his room. For a moment he is left numb, unable to do anything but watch his perfect night slip away as the last sliver of Warren’s wings disappear from sight. There is a small spark of anger in him at once again being strung out and played for a fool, but mostly he is filled with a sickening disappointment, one that lingers at the back of his mind as he joins the others on the couch and sits down, defeated, to watch the last half of a movie he had seen before.

Three days pass. Warren and Kurt see each other at meals, in the hallways, at classes, but nothing is said of their night together, and no one is suspicious. Kurt is beginning to suspect that with the last instalment, their saga has come to a dull and unsatisfying end, but that afternoon as he sits on his bed and tries to make himself complete his history homework, he sees movement in the corner of his eyes; a familiar shape in the doorway that brings him a sinking feeling. “Can I help you?” he asks, and the indifference in his voice surprises both him and Warren. The boy in the doorway is caught off-guard for a moment, words catching in his throat before they spill out. “Do you wanna go catch a movie or something?” Kurt expects himself to be elated and even opens his mouth to say the ‘yes’ he expects to come out. But seconds pass, and instead of joy, it is anger he feels, and it takes him no time at all to understand it. How dare Warren pull this act again? He feels like a yo-yo, pushed and pulled, toyed with by Warren without the slightest consideration for how it made him feel. His hands ball into fists, and a defiant frown settles on his features. “You really think I’m going to do this all over again?” he baulks, voice tight and uncomfortable. He sees Warren stagger at the question, obviously not having received the answer he had wanted. “Do… Do what?” The reply, frantic and dumbfounded as it is, sends Kurt further down his path of frustration. For once –for the first time with Warren, in fact– he feels like he is bigger, like he is in charge of the conversation and Warren is the one left to fumble around for some way to salvage his intentions. “I’m sick of the way you treat me.” “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Fists clenched, Kurt sits forward on his seat, a thousand words itching at his throat and all trying to get out at once. “Really? You don’t see the way you always pull me in then push me away right after? What about that night after dinner when you ran away the second we got home?” “That wasn’t– I didn’t mean that to–“ “What about when you yelled at me for trying to be your friend?”

Something in Warren snaps when Kurt brings that incident up. Some defensive mechanism steps in and takes over his mind and his body, turning it hard and hostile and familiar. Rage floods in and washes away the puddles of doubt, and the few drops that still remain to insist that Kurt is right are far, far outweighed by the pull of the anger. “Is it my fault that you’re trying to slot yourself into my life and take over?” “What are you talking about?” “You know damn well what I’m talking about. What you did to my room, all that bullshit you keep telling me. Don’t be too proud to ask for help, Warren. It’s always there when you need it,” he mocks, taking a step further into the room with fists bared at his sides. “You think I don’t know you’re trying to play saviour? I don’t need you to come in and pull your little do-gooder charity act with me.” “Then why do you keep coming back?” Kurt bursts. “Every time you get angry at me, I think it’s the end, but every time you come right back and make me go through it all again.”

“Make you go through what, exactly?” challenges Warren, eyes narrowed on Kurt like a predator on prey. Kurt feels vulnerable, unable to find a response that bears saying out loud. He can tell Warren is much more experienced at confrontations like this than he is. Warren knows what buttons to press, what weaknesses to exploit so that he can come out on top, as unscathed and unembarrassed as possible. The thought flickers across his mind that this feels like Warren’s natural method of communication. It is like he is speaking his mother tongue once more, a feeling Kurt is all too familiar with: communication is more efficient, flows faster. While usually, he would have allowed himself to feel the pity and sympathy for Warren for the fact that most of his interactions with his family probably took place in this language of cutting remarks and withering glares, in this moment he can only take a step forward to match Warren, accenting the move with his next point as it comes to his head. “Through you. Over and over. I try to help you and you push me away. I leave you alone and you want to go out to dinner. Just pick already – do you want to be around me or not?!”

Out in the hall, Jean and Storm are on their way to their room to deliver a load of clean laundry when they hear raised voices from down the hall. Wary of being seen but unable to resist the temptation of gossip, they approach the room, the door still half open, and surreptitiously crane their necks around the side of the door to get a peek at what is happening. Only one glance is exchanged between the two, but both know what the other is thinking: the tension between Kurt and Warren has finally come to a head, as had been expected by most of their group. When they turn back to the room, they find Kurt staring back at them in horror; bright eyes open wide and frozen like a deer in the headlights. It takes Warren a long moment to realise that Kurt is no longer listening to his rebuttal, and when he too turns to see the two girls, the door is very quickly and very forcefully shut on them, leaving them to quickly abscond from the situation having gained a story to share with the others.

The argument stagnates for a long moment, each boy stewing in his own hurt, fear and frustration. It is Warren who finally speaks up again, no longer able to bear listening to the voices inside him that are only audible in the silence. “Did you really think you were going to ‘fix’ me? Did you think all it would take was a few sappy words and some stupid gesture and I’d be your fixer-upper?” The words are poisonous, and Warren spits them out as though each one leaves a foul taste in his mouth. There is three feet between them now, though Warren still has the advantage in height, holding a good inch or two over Kurt and giving himself the illusion of dominance. “Maybe next time I’ll leave you alone,” Kurt shoots back. “Serves me right for trying to help a jerk like you!” “I don’t want your help!” Warren cries, throwing his hands out to the side, his wings subconsciously bristling, feeling almost electrified by the anger surging through his veins. Anger not just for Kurt’s insistence being his self-appointed babysitter, but anger that he could not have just let this go on like it was, like Warren was comfortable with it being: if they weren’t fighting, they could have been halfway to the mall on another perfectly nice night by then, no explanations and no arguments required. “That doesn’t give you permission to treat me the way you do!” Kurt steps in again. Two feet. “There’s nothing wrong with the way I treat you! It’s you who feels like I apparently owe you something!” Warren’s turn. One and a half feet. He can see every detail of Kurt’s face now, the fiery eyes, set in a field of perfect blue, marked by those strange, still mysterious markings. No longer can he hear Kurt’s words under the beating in his chest. His attention is focused only on the fact that Kurt has stepped in once more, and is now standing so close that Warren can feel the heat emanating from him. It dizzies him, filling him with a sensation that he can’t compare to anything he has ever felt before. The tips of his fingers are on fire, and before he has a chance to think better of it, he has acted on one of the many impulses that push at him from all angles.

Warren’s lips hit Kurt’s haphazardly, teeth colliding when they first touch. Immediately, Kurt seizes up, quickly becoming as stiff as a mannequin with the sheer shock. He has scarcely let his wildest dreams roam to possibilities like this, deeming them too ridiculous to even fantasise about. His heart is racing a mile a minute, neck-in-neck with Warren’s, and the feeling is at once a thrill and a comfort. To Warren, the feeling is akin to the day weeks ago that he had first taken to the skies from the grounds outside, and to Kurt, it feels as though he has become instantly drunk. It isn’t long before the intoxicating feeling gets the better of him and begins to melt away his stiffened muscles, even if it barely lasts a few seconds before Warren grows too terrified to continue and pulls away. When he does end the moment, though, the magic is lost immediately. Now that he confronts his action, eyes open and looking at the boy in front of him, he sees a face that is not joy and not relief, but terror, laced with embarrassment. And then, he sees nothing at all but the back wall of Kurt’s room. A wisp of smoke is in his place, dissipating just as quickly as any trace of the exhilaration Warren had felt mere moments ago. No part of him wonders where Kurt might have gone, and no part wants to find out. All that matters is that he is no longer there, and that Warren now feels worse than ever. He slinks out of Kurt’s room after standing dumbly for at least a minute straight, walking with his head down and his shoulders up until he reaches his own door and locks himself inside where he, at last, allows himself to wipe the tears from his eyes.

#my faith in this fic is revived! #i lost it for a while but now i'm back #in his eyes #fanfic #fic #drabble #xmen #x men #nightangel #nightcrawler #angel #kurt wagner #Warren Worthington #warren worthington iii #x men apocalypse

[fireladybuckley]

444 Celebration Drabble #1

1/5 @mccoymostly​ AOS McKirk (Bones/Kirk) - #17 “You cannot pay me enough money to go in there.” I hope you like this!  I’m not entirely sure what inspired it, but I’m seriously amused.

              “Dammit, Jim, I said no!”

                 “Bones, come on, this is important!”

                 “So is my sense of pride.  I will not be objectified!”  

                 “She didn’t want anyone else!  You have to.  If you don’t, the deal goes south!  It’s only going to take a couple of hours. Come on.”

                 “No!  Get Chekov to do it, he’d probably even enjoy himself!”

                 Bones turned and stormed away, crushing the navy blue note paper in his fist, the golden script deforming and becoming illegible.  There was no way.  No way.   He swore under his breath as he heard the telltale footfalls that meant Jim was following him.   Leonard rolled his eyes and stuffed the note into his pocket, muttering under his breath.

                 Leonard had just passed the Senior Officers’ boardroom when Jim darted around him and thrust an arm out, blocking his path.

                 “Jim, I swear to god-”

                 “Bones, I need you to do this.  Please.”  Kirk’s voice was uncharacteristically serious now.  He truly did find the whole situation hilarious, but he was also aware that it was necessary  if they wanted to find the artifact they needed.

                 “You can’t pay me enough to go in there,” Leonard hissed, gesturing at the door to the room he’d just passed.

                 “I hate to do this, Bones, but-” Kirk began, in a warning tone,  and Leonard seemed to inflate like an angry, bulging-eyed balloon.

                 “Don’t you dare-”

                 “You need to do this.  Please escort our Temptarean friends to the location on planet.  That’s an order.”   Leonard fumed silently, seemingly lost for words as he glared at Jim, his fists clenched.

                 “Dammit man, I’m a doctor, not an escort!  I don’t know anything about this species-”

                 “None of us really do, but I’m sure it’ll be fine!  Come on, Bones, all you have to do is be arm candy for a few hours.  It’s not exactly backbreaking work.”

                 “Arm candy?  Have you seen how many arms they have?!” Leonard growled, gesticulating wildly.

                 “They have six tentacles, Bones, not arms.” Jim’s face was remarkably calm and impassive, but his eyes shone with amusement as Leonard scowled darkly at him.  

                 “You know what I meant!”

                 “Bones, seriously.  We need to find this artifact.  Now, Spartelliak in there-”

                 “Sparteljak.”

                 “Close enough.  He says that the only way to find out where it’s hidden is to infiltrate this, er, entertainment venue-”

                 “It’s a damn alien dive bar!”

                 “-and talk to a guy on the inside.  It’s an inter-species place, they have to have someone from another species accompany them.  I don’t make the rules!” Jim added quickly, as Leonard opened his mouth to protest.  “ And Majarona really likes you.   She only wants you, Bones.  She was taken with you after you treated her arm- er, tentacle, a few days ago.”

                 “Her name is Majiorna.”

                 “See?  You know more about them than I do.  Just do this, Bones.  I wouldn’t order you to do it if it wasn’t absolutely necessary.”   Leonard stared at him for many long, tense moments, a muscle in his cheek twitching with agitation and, if Jim wasn’t mistaken, anxiety.

                 “Fine,” Leonard finally relented, visibly wilting.  “You owe me.  You owe me big time.”  Leonard growled at Jim, crossing his arms over his chest and looking surly.  

                 “Great!” Jim grinned and clapped Leonard on the shoulder.   “Knew I could count on you, Bones.  Let’s go!”

                 “What?” Leonard stared, startled.  “Now?!”

                 “Yep, time is ticking.” Jim steered Leonard around and half-led, half-dragged him back down the hallway, stopping in front of the door of the boardroom.

                 “And Bones?”  The doctor grunted, indicating he’d heard.  “Be nice to her.  It’s not her fault that tentacles freak you out.”

                 Leonard shuddered as Jim opened the door to the boardroom, stepping in together a moment later.   The female Temptarean, Majiorna, immediately turned to Leonard, her face lighting up in delight at his presence.

                 “Oh, Doctor McCoy!  I’m ever so pleased you’ve agreed to escort me.   I think we’ll find all the information we need and have an amazing night, don’t you?” Majiorna trilled with happiness as she spoke and Leonard swallowed hard, eyeing the two tentacles she was gesticulating with.  Jim elbowed him subtly in the ribs and Leonard remembered that he was supposed to appear friendly.

                 “Uh, yeah, definitely,” he said, his voice a little gruff. Jim nudged him again and Leonard reluctantly moved forwards, his leg muscles stiff and resistant.  Within seconds he was beside her and she squealed with joy, wrapping four of her tentacles around his middle in a terrifying hug.  It took every bit of Leonard’s willpower not to lose it as he forced himself to stand rigidly, reminding himself repeatedly how to breathe.

                 She finally stopped hugging him and withdrew two of her tentacles, but to his dismay, as she moved to his side, she kept two on him: one wrapped around his waist, another slipping up his back and playing with the ends of his hair.

                 “Ah, will everything be alright?” Jim asked, trying desperately not to laugh at the look of horror in Bones’ eyes.  

                 “Oh yes, Captain,” Majiorna purred, her upper tentacle now creeping over the top of Leonard’s head, still playing with his hair.  “With this wonderful human man, the Wing Group will tell us everything we need to know.  Come, darling.”

                 With that, she began to lead Leonard to the door, her male companions following, still stroking his hair absently as they walked. Leonard shot Jim a look of purest loathing tinged with something akin to fear as they passed, and then Jim was alone in the room, bursting into a cacophony of laughter that eventually caused a passing crewman to  check if everything was alright.  Jim knew that Bones was going to hold this one against him for a very long time, but, Jim mused, it was so worth it.

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