daph♡

goodbye sun

[oceanparadox]

╰┈➤ daph’s corner

about me!: hello! my name is daph (or OceanParadox). I use she/her and i’m 20. full-time lesbian ♡ and aspiring writer. i use this blog mainly to practice my writing by making fanfiction of my favourite characters (and, of course, reading them too). ✧ ˚ · .

feel free to message me, i'd love to meet new people! ♡

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

general info;

to find all posts of my stories, you can either check out the masterlist or search '#oparadox's stories' on my profile. to find all of my non-story posts (replying to asks, updates, interacting with others, talking about random stuff, etc), search '#oparadox speaking' on my profile.

✧ please DNI if you're a minor! thank you.

✦ you can send fanfiction requests through my 'ask me anything'! If i decide to write it is up to me, though. I won't write anything I don't want to. Please do not insist or pressure me.

✧ not really the biggest fan of angst, so you can expect me to write mostly fluff or smut. if i do write angst, it will most likely have a happy ending of some sort. i won't promise anything, though, because who knows? maybe one day at 3am i'm in the mood to write a 10k-word story that breaks your heart.

✦ please be as specific as possible when requesting a fic (if you want to, of course). if you don't mind the details, that's fine, but if you want it to be a bit more specific, please say so!

✧ english is my 3rd language, so please excuse any writing errors i might make lolol. thanks!

✦ do not re-upload, edit, translate, or other my works anywhere. I only upload my works on Tumblr (for now), so if you see them anywhere else, they weren't uploaded by me. If anyone notices someone stealing my stories, please let me know! I would really appreciate it.

[talesofesther]

Tidebound

↳ Ch one: Fault Lines

Toph Beifong x Fem!Reader

Summary: You intrigue Toph in ways she can't explain. With footsteps too light, and a presence that sometimes slips strangely beyond her reach. Toph should keep her distance from someone she can't always sense clearly. Instead, she keeps gravitating toward you. Toph finds herself drawn to you with an intensity she's never felt before—like the earth itself pulling her toward something fluid, gentle, and impossible to hold onto.

A/N: Never in my life did I imagine myself writing for Toph lol, but here we are! Watched the new Avatar movie; instantly fell in love with her, she had no right to be that gorgeous. Toph's characterization here is questionable at best loll, I'm definitely still learning how to capture her personality right. I didn't really have a clear idea for this story when I started writing it, I just kinda went with the flow 🌊 turned out kinda poetic, if you ask me. Hope you enjoy it, your feedback is always very important!

Word count: 2,5k

Masterlist

The first thing that Toph decides about you, in the first week of knowing you, is that you're annoying.

Not because you talk too much, you barely talk at all. Not because you're weak, Toph can tell within seconds that you aren't.

It’s the way you move; too smooth, too careful. You're always adapting, always shifting and blending seamlessly into the world around you with a softness Toph isn't familiar with—like water effortlessly flowing through cracks in the stone.

You haven't been around the Earth Kingdom too long. Katara knows you better than Toph does. But the earthbender can't deny that you've captured her attention too easily for her not to be intrigued.

It had been about three, maybe four weeks ago now; Appa had landed on the open area of the training grounds late at night, his heavy weight causing the earth to tremble and Toph to come out running, with only her pajamas on and hair down getting on her face because of the wind.

An unexpected visit from Aang and Katara, and… you. An unfamiliar face at the time. Toph had found you peculiar from the moment your feet touched the ground, and she sensed your unique shape. You'd hung back, all quiet with one hand buried between Appa's fur as Katara and Aang did the talking. They'd explained, briefly, how you were a dear friend of Katara, and needed a breath of fresh air.

Toph couldn't quite put her finger on why she, of all people, was considered said fresh air. But Katara had insisted, "As a favor for a friend, she could use one right now, and you won't even notice she's around if you don't want to." Her choice of words had made Toph frown, but for Katara to ask, you must have been important to her.

Toph had lowered her head, both hands resting on her hips as if she hadn't already made up her mind. "Alright, whatever. It's not like there aren't mountains of free space here anyway."

Like a whisper, Toph had caught the stumble in your heartbeat that night. She'd raised her head, her long hair tickling against her cheek as she turned to the general direction you were standing. It was the first time she felt the weight of your gaze on her.

Today, you're almost familiar. There's wind blowing atop the rocky mountain. Tree leaves move side to side and blend with the green roofs. Orange sunlight peeks over the mountaintop. You and Toph aren't the only ones out in the training grounds, but you stand in the middle like some sort of spectacle.

Toph plants her heel harder into the ground during your sparring session, dust shifting beneath her feet as she squares up. “You gonna fight,” she says flatly, raising her hands, “or just keep moving around like that?”

Toph doesn't admit that it nags at her that she can't sense where you are at all times. It's like you can adjust your own pressure against the ground, one moment present, and the other just an echo.

You'd adapted fairly quickly to routine living in the Earth Kingdom with her. Toph is taking longer; she's still trying to figure you out. She's been living with you for weeks, yet you still feel far away more often than not.

You don't answer her right away. There's water nearby—Toph can hear it, faintly, a stream cutting through stone; it starts at the very top of the mountain and cuts down between trees and rocks—and she feels the subtle shift in your stance through the dirt. All light and balanced. There's a softness to how you move that would be almost poetic if it weren't infuriating.

"I am fighting," you say matter-of-factly, voice tinted with the same levity of your presence.

Toph clicks her tongue, flexing her fingers. "Doesn't feel like it."

Then she strikes. The earth snaps forward in a sharp, aggressive line; direct, undeniable. The kind of attack that demands a response.

You don't bother blocking; instead, you adapt, move with it. Water rises, not as a wall but as a curve, catching the stone and bending it around and away from you.

It's always a dance with you. Slowly, you silently invite Toph to follow your rhythm. And slowly, she sinks more and more into it.

Sparring with you rarely has a clear ending; the fight stops only because you both need to catch your breath, the sun is sinking lower, and supper will be served soon. Toph is panting, her hair sticks to her forehead, and part of her wonders why, because you hadn't landed a single hit on her, and neither had she on you.

She doesn't know when you started moving again, but now Toph can sense your boots bringing you closer to her. You stop for a moment just shy of passing her by, shoulders almost touching. "Always a pleasure, Toph."

You intrigue her in a way she can't quite place. During the day, if Toph searches for your presence, she'll rarely find more than an echo of you if you aren't right beside her. During the night, she's been woken up more than once by the goosebumps on her skin that tell her you're near. You're there one moment, and then gone. She wonders sometimes how you do it, how you move through the world unlike anyone Toph has ever known.

Where others leave clear marks against the earth, you feel strangely difficult to follow. Your footsteps are light, your presence shifting and fluid, sometimes fading so softly from Toph's sense that it unsettles her more than she wants to admit.

You keep to yourself in a strange way, like you want to be more present but aren't sure how. Because when you're close, Toph can feel her own interest mirrored back at her, on you.

She keeps testing you because of it. It becomes a habit she anticipates.

The ground is dry the next time you find each other on the training grounds. Solid and reliable. Exactly how Toph Beifong likes it. She rolls her shoulders once, settling into her stance, bare feet pressing into the earth like she’s reminding it who it belongs to. It's well into the afternoon already, yet Toph can still feel the warmth of the sun on her skin. A drop of sweat rolls down the back of her neck, and for a moment, she wonders if you can sense that.

Because across from her, you are already waiting, calm and steady. You shift your weight from one foot to another as if to deliberately make it easier for her to sense you.

Toph exhales through her nose, trying to chase away the foreign swell of her heart. The times she's able to sense your presence so clearly tend to give her pause. "Don't hold back," she says instead, sharp, like a challenge she expects you to meet.

"I won't." Your voice comes soft again, hands held behind your back, and chin angled up with an easiness that feels earned.

Toph doesn't wait. The ground cracks forward with a swing of her arm, fast and unyielding. Her fist is clenched, and the muscles of her arm tense under the pressure of commanding the earth to move.

Your stance adapts, and water flows and lifts in response. It curls around the force of Toph's attack, bending it just enough to break its center, letting the rest collapse harmlessly into scattered dust.

Toph steps in immediately, not giving space or time. Her attacks come quicker now; sharp rises of stone, sudden shifts beneath your feet, forcing you to react, to commit.

But you still don't meet force with force. Where Toph's hands are clenched, yours remain open and soft, moving with a fluidity that matches your element. Where her feet hit the ground to shake stone out of place, yours slide against it and carry water like it's part of your body—slipping, curving, reshaping itself to meet whatever Toph throws without ever fully stopping it.

And Toph feels it through the ground every time, the shift, the redirection. Something in her pauses. She frowns, frustration building as she blows strands of her hair away from her face. "You're doing it again," she accuses through gritted teeth, already moving in closer.

"Doing what?" There's the faintest breathless exhale after your words, the only telling of your exertion until now.

She can feel the weight of your gaze on her. It unbalances her, and Toph hesitates for only a beat; "Not fighting back!"

You hold the silence a moment longer. Even if Toph can sense the single step you take towards her. She strikes again, shorter this time, more precise. A test. Water meets stone. Not head-on, but like a current curling around a familiar shape. The impact dissolves into something softer, stone and water dancing together until they hit the ground and go their separate ways.

Toph's lips are parted, and her head turned toward where your water spiral carried her piece of stone. She stills just a fraction too long, surprised, and that’s all it takes. A splash of water hits her straight on the side of her face; it catches her off guard and drenches her hair and part of her shirt. It doesn't hurt in the slightest. It's nothing but a response; if you wanted to, you could. Toph huffs audibly at that, a scowl pulling her brows together in mild annoyance.

"Make up your mind," Toph mumbles, rubbing the water off her eyelashes.

You take another step forward—the noise of the training grounds becomes muffled when the distance between the two of you diminishes further—it's not aggressive or imposing, not like Toph does. It's deliberate, inviting even.

Toph exhales shakily. She won't turn her head to you, but she can already feel the warmth of your body so near hers. It cracks something in her.

"Maybe… don't think of it as fighting," You suggest quietly, one hand reaching toward Toph but stopping shy of actually touching her.

Toph scoffs, a smirk tugging at her lips. "What else would it be?"

There's a pause. Then, you move again. Not an attack, but a smooth shift of your hands and waist. Your foot slides across the ground in a slow, controlled arc, and the water follows, curling low, tracing the path of your movement like a line being drawn on paper.

Toph feels it. The rhythm of it through the earth.

"…What are you doing?" Toph asks, but there’s less bite to it now. Her voice is more like a quiet thing, curious even.

You don't stop. You're circling her now, taking the water with you like a second shadow. "Follow me?"

Toph huffs, her feet press more firmly onto the ground, and the stone hums with her. "I don't follow any-"

But the words cut off as you turn, the water rising with you in a smooth, circling motion that brushes just close enough to Toph's cheek to be felt without touching. If she imagines hard enough, she can picture your own hand just shy of brushing her skin.

And it's not threatening. It's not defensive, either. It's-

Toph shifts her footing without thinking. She's adjusting. Matching your energy out of an instinct that feels almost stronger than herself. Her heel presses into the ground at a slightly different angle, her weight redistributing to stay balanced as you move around her.

The dance continues. Slow and intentional. You shift again, and the water flows, existing in motion, creating a space that Toph has to respond to if she doesn’t want to lose her footing. So she does. She steps once. And then again, finally turning to face you, finally falling into a rhythm as she follows a similar pattern to the soft movement of your hands and feet. Eventually, pieces of stone rise along with her hands out of their own volition, and they mingle with the water that follows the curls of your fingers.

You circle each other in a choreography of almosts. Never straying too far apart. For the first time, Toph can finally sense your presence completely; there isn't just an echo of your figure against the ground anymore. From this close, she can even smell your perfume. It clouds her senses, makes her a little dizzy.

She wonders, for a beat, if this is maybe the only way you know how to be present. To show yourself to her. And if you've been trying to do just that, all this time.

Toph's movements aren't as fluid as yours—they couldn't ever be—but they're precise. Controlled. Each shift is grounded and deliberate, meeting your motion in a way that keeps you connected.

On one move of her arm, Toph's hand accidentally finds yours; it's nothing but a brush of fingers that lingers for a second too long, but a shiver runs up her skin all the same. She angles her head down on the same heartbeat, allowing her hair to shadow her face.

Toph's brow furrows. "…This is stupid," she mutters.

Your voice is softer now. "You can stop."

Toph's jaw tightens. She doesn't. Instead, she steps in closer. If this is a game, she'll win it. She matches your next movement, turning as you turn, adjusting her stance to stay aligned with the subtle current of motion between you two. The ground hums beneath her feet with each step.

Above and around you, stone follows water in a perfect synergy of movement. There's a steady rhythm between the elements as they move not against each other, but together. And somehow Toph is part of it. And she's willing to stay a while longer, because when you walk away, your presence will be just an echo against the ground once again. Her breath catches when she realizes, and she holds it as she registers how close you're standing right now.

"…This isn't a fight anymore," Toph exhales slowly with the words, something unfamiliar settling into her chest; a feeling she hasn't figured out how to name yet.

It's not frustration. Not this time.

Your lips curve with a grin—Toph can't see it, but she can hear it in your voice; "No, it isn't."

Toph swallows, hesitates. "Then what is it?"

You both slow down, softening. Water and stone alike spiral lower around you, mimicking the sudden intimacy that shouldn't exist under the sunlight.

"Something else," You breathe only for Toph to hear. "Can you feel it?"

That answer should annoy her. But it doesn't. Toph shifts closer instead, close enough now that if either of you missteps, you'd collide.

Neither of you does. The rhythm of your dance already holds like second nature. Toph's energy is attuned to yours in a way she has never been with anyone else. "Maybe."

For a while, that's all there is. No more words. No proving of anything. Just the quiet, steady exchange of motion. Of awareness. Of presence.

For the first time since she met you, Toph sees you clearly.

⋆* ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

Next chapter will be out soon.

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[ardentlyadimiring]

An Archaeologist and Their Crystal #1/?

Reader is a (reluctantly) rehabilitating criminal in the Overwatch program. Sloan, as a sort of hazing, gets assigned to be their mentor before their public debut as an Overwatch member. CW: violence, drugs mentioned, blood Tags: SLOW BURN, angst, moral ambiguity 4.4k words

Chapters: #1.5

AUs: Official Villain! Reader x Venture

#1 An Introduction of Sorts

As one of the newest members of the official Overwatch team, Sloan had the responsibility of mentoring an eventual Overwatch member. Ana gave them one look, a huff, then tugged them along.

The beat of silence lasted long enough that Sloan thought they deserved a pat on the back, but they broke it with a slow peek down at the short woman, “Soooo…who are they?”

“A former criminal. You’ll like them.”

“What?”

…

Sloan wasn’t really sure what exactly to expect from someone who they were now told was previously a convict. The general idea behind someone being a criminal was that they were arrested, but Anna had simply said that you were a special case.

So there you stand, and Sloan can’t help but think that no, you certainly do not look like a criminal. You have a polite smile on your face, relaxed eyes, and you’re unintimidating, frankly. You’re soft with pretty hair, no typical bad guy scarring, and your outfit makes you look like just about any other person their age.

“Hi,” you chirp out, and you get some sort of twinkle in your eye, “You’re Sloan? Nice to meet you! I hope to learn a lot.”

Sloan blinks, then snaps into focus as they realize you’re holding out your hand for a shake. Okay, criminal or not, they deemed you good enough. But that twinkle in your eye — hmm.

They beam, don’t miss the way your eyes glance at their chipped smile, then give you a hearty shake that has you wobbling on your feet. Sloan couldn’t help but to do it on purpose — it was like a right of passage, as Reinhardt had done the same to them.

“¡Hola!”

…

First off, Sloan frankly didn’t know why the fuck they were your mentor. Hazing aside, you were not meant for damage. At least, not short range.

Sloan peers down at you on the ground, grinning, because yes, it was kind of funny to knock you on your ass. Sloan was a hero, sure, but watching someone bust their ass was funny regardless of societal and moral high ground.

You groan, then for once they see something other than a smile cross your face. Huh.

You’d been all smiles the entire time they’d been mentoring you. It was, they realized now, almost completely insincere. The frown of disgruntlement looked a lot more genuine, from the way your brows bunched and your eyes finally seemed to focus on something.

You snap up quick, and they’re a little shocked.

“So you don’t smile all the time! It was kind of like —not creepy, ya know, that’d be rude — but it’s good to see you doing something else!” They beam at you. A smirk slides onto their face as they see something flicker again in your eyes, “Upset I knocked you on your ass, amiguito?”

Your face goes red, which really just makes Sloan smile wider. Instead of answering, you rush in.

It takes a minute or two, but at one point, Sloan accidentally decks you in the nose as your dodge fails.

You feel the blood drip down, and you watch Sloan’s eyes widen in horror and panic, “!Dios mío! I'm so sorry! Are you o—“

But you don’t even falter. Sloan had their hands out in panic, and you don’t hesitate to grab a wrist, twist as much as you can, and soon enough their stomach down on the floor with you sitting on their back.

“I can take a punch,” you chirp out. Because yeah, you could. Extremely well in fact. Your bloody nose and instinctively watering eyes were forgotten almost as soon as they occurred.

Sloan lets out a huff, but manages to peak at you over their shoulder. For once, the smile on your fakes looks real. Your eyes squint, one more so than the other, you have a dimple, and the overall tone of it is a little sadistic.

So you were mean. Fake nice.

Sloan grinned, back arched a little to face you as best they could with you pinning them down, “I can tell!”

Sloan could work with mean.

…

“We throw parties?” You question, eyes on the RSVP sitting in your email. You swipe the screen, reading the details, but mostly taking in the easily identifiable OW logo. “Didn’t really clock a hero group to rave.” Your voice is chipper, even if your words are scrutinizing.

Sloan doesn’t look up from the Wayfinder Society paperwork they’re doing. Paperwork was their least favorite thing to do, but being off the dig site meant this was the closest they could be to their passion of archaeology. “Rave is pushing it! I’m pretty sure Lúcio and Hana have been trying for one — I think Kiriko too! Maybe if we get enough people we can have a rave—“

“Drugs makes raves, raves. I don’t think they’d let us have molly, or MDMA—“

Sloan sets down their paperwork to peer at you, caught between being aghast and absolutely thrilled. Maybe a little nervous, because it felt like a sin to talk about illegal substances in OW headquarters.

“Amiguito, are you telling me you’ve done molly?”

You keep that smile on your face, “do I look like I’ve done molly?”

Sloan pouts, crossing their arms, “That’s not an answer—“

“Would it make you feel better if I said I haven’t tried it?” You cock your head, curious. Sloan can pick up the faintest hint of honesty in the question — like you genuinely wanted to know if it’d ease their mind.

They huff a laugh, “I mean — don’t do drugs unsafely, but no, I’d really rather you’re just honest with me. I’m your mentor — and your friend! Plus,” they wave a hand, “we’re like the same age, we’re both adults, yada yada! I personally don’t dig those sorts of things often, but I won’t be upset if you do.”

You blink at them, then you do a whole different smile. It’s mostly with your eyes, so that dimple doesn’t show up. It’s softer and subtle, and Sloan catalogues it all the same.

“…I haven’t done molly, but I do like to smoke. You gonna nark?”

A mischievous smile slips onto their face, “I said we were around the same age — you think Mary Jane and I haven’t smoken?”

“…was that a pun on spoken?”

“Yes! Thank you for noticing. I thought about it really hard before I did it.”

…

Then there’s the first time they see you cry. It’s at that party, a regularly planned pre-Christmas party. You’re dressed up, to which you shared that dressing up was something you’d enjoyed a lot. They’d been so excited to see you almost excited about something that they even let you dress them up. They set you loose in their closet (and they were pleasantly surprised when you asked for texture preferences and other similar things — they knew you were nice deep down), and they were even more pleasantly surprised by the results.

They looked good — like good. Sloan had come a long way with their body. Loving it was harder some days and easier on others, and before they were where they were now, harder was more often than not. That's all to say that they could admit with a healthy amount of confidence, that they were hot. They had many testimonies declaring so.

And you looked great! You always did, because again, you liked to look nice. Plus, in Sloan's opinion, you were very charming, in a hissing cat or honeybadger sort of way. You were prettiest when you were honest, whether that was the mean smile or the soft one was irrelevant.

Sloan did not know how true that statement was anymore when they watched as your face crumbled.

"Stop looking at me, it's fucking rude," your voice was strained and cracking. It was the crudest they'd heard you be, but they weren't upset by it.

Instead, right now they were panicking. "What's wrong? Do you hate it? I know it's not super expensive," A lie, each gram of the crystal in your hand went for about fifty to a hundred raw, but technically Sloan had spent nothing on it (aside form blood, sweat, and tears), "but it just really reminded me of you!"

Fuck, they made you cry harder, and you pathetically fanned a hand away from them, head turned down as you gazed at the crystal in your hand. "It's..." you sniffle, "moldavite, right? You talked about it with me. Why?" You sounded like you were trying to be firm, but your voice was small. Lost.

Sloan firmly believed honesty was (almost) always the best policy. So, fiddling with the rings you'd made them wear as accessories, they spoke slowly. You didn't seem upset at them, in fact they had a hunch you weren't even upset at all, and so the anxiety lessened. Crying was okay, so long as you weren't upset with them.

"Well," a pause. "A lot of reasons. It's a tektite, which means it's made by meteorites hitting Earth--"

You looked up finally, your eyes red and crying, to glare at them. "I remember that much -- why are you giving me this?"

Sloan's brows went up, and they playfully wagged a finger. "It's rude to interrupt. I'm getting there, amigiuto. Anyway -- meteorites. It reminded me of you because you just sort of," they made a boom motion with their hands, "appeared! I wasn't expecting you, a lot like the Earth with meteorites. And you're really strong, I think, to handle all of this. Super cool! The rehabilitation, the acclimation, and adjusting. It's like how the collision makes the moldavite."

Something really beautiful coming from something messy, cataclysmic, and destructive. That sounded like way too much, so Sloan swallowed those words and said instead, "And the way it looks! You can see it's rough and unpolished, but it looks super pretty and sort of like crystalized grass or moss? It looks natural and fragile and pretty, but it's not breakable, and it's tough as shit."

They grin at you brightly, taking in how your tears had lessened. Instead, you had a sort of wide-eyed, dazed expression. "Like you!"

Sloan would like to say they thought they were killing this explanation. Doing amazingly, if they had to say so themselves. Nothing but outright sincerity. You let out a sob, hands clenched tight around the moldavite. It was big enough to fill up your palm, and your hands cradled it with care that a crystal didn't need. You looked like you wanted to talk, but your face sort of floundered, no words coming out. Sloan resorted to the old tried and true method they used for any friend or family member who was crying, holding their arms out with an awkward smile. "You wanna hug, mi amiguito?"

You pause, hesitating, but then suddenly Sloan had their arms full of tears, snot, and a moldavite.

...

Something had changed following that. You were more genuine, and everyone took a shine to your little quips and the occasional bite your words had. You had grown more honest, still with that little smile on your face, but you were the most honest with Sloan. Sloan wore that like a fucking badge of honor.

You became inseperable. Where Sloan went, you followed.

...

When Sloan took a week break off to meander around the Wayfinder society, you followed. When questioned about how this benefited your mentoring slash rehab slash what-the-fuck-ever Overwatch was calling it now, socialization was the answer. So, with a little debate, the Overwatch crew let you fly off.

...

"Someone's going to die," You said dryly, lips in that small smile while eyes peered curiously up at the rock wall people were climbing. Some without safety gear, some with.

"Of fun!" Sloan sang, sliding off their jacket and overshirt. More mobile in their tanktop with much less opportunity for a snag, they jogged over to the rock wall to climb.

Naturally, they were one of the ones with no safety gear. You roll your eyes, but you saddle up closer to the wall.

Just in case.

...

A large, fucking jacked man with tattoos and wild hair peered down at you, taking in your wide-eyed stare. This trip was meant to be a small visit to the Wayfinder site, nothing too in-depth. It was just a week! You'd watched Sloan work the site, and something warm in your chest made you smile before you knew you were. Then, when they'd asked for you to run down one of the other tunnels and grab some of their smaller tools, you sassed but you went.

You ignored how the enclosed space made you feel. At least it wasn't completely dark, not with the torch lights they had lining the walkways.

The point being, that being claustrophobic was an irrational fear, but the behemoth of a man in front of you? A real, solid threat.

As if he could read your threats, he bent at the waist, his eyes moving down your unintimidating frame. Hot breath fanned your face and jostled your hair. "Talofa! Yer kinda tiny, ain'tcha?"

One of your first investments with the small salary you got from Overwatch was some nice, bass-heavy headphones. You blasted them often when you were alone. The highest volume did not fucking compare to the bass in this man's voice.

Then, like a smart cookie, it clicked right as you heard footsteps all around, specifically fighting in the background. Sloan was yelling, something you'd only heard playfully in mock fights and when you played games. This yell was loud, their voice an octave lower, less raspy, and you realized that wasn't just Sloan who was yelling, it was Venture.

Sure, you realized, but you were still too late on the catch-up. "Mauga." It was a whisper. You remembered Sloan mentioning him. You remembered knowing of him before Overwatch. For the first time in a while, you were frightened. When was the last time someone scared you?

You'd gotten soft. Pliant and domestic in the safety of Overwatch.

But it wasn't really Overwatch that made you soft, was it?

His grin was wide and wild, playful and charming. Something in his eyes made the hair on your arms rise. Predator. This man could -- would -- squash you like a bug and not think much of the viscera following.

"That's the name! Now--"

You read his body language at the exact moment you heard a yell of your name. If you couldn't properly dodge Sloan in a spar, there was bumfuck no way you'd be dodging this man in a for real fight.

His body readied, and you were reminded of how snakes coil to strike. A spring full of potential energy prepping to go full kinetic. Fuck. You tensed, took a breath, and hoped you'd either black out from it or if you stayed conscious, you could walk it off. There were a lot of painful possibilities between those two outcomes.

"TULOU LAVA!"

He bulldozed.

The breath was knocked out of you, but it wasn't by Mauga. You knew because if Mauga had been what knocked you down, you'd likely have broken ribs. Instead, they only felt mildly bruised with some fucking insane whiplash.

No, instead above you, back to you, shoulders rigid -- Sloan. But not Sloan. Sloan was calmer. They were open and cheerful, enigmatic, but it was like how you put rocks in that tumbler they got you. Their edges were softened as Sloan. Rounded and smoothed with empathy, relatability, humanity.

The person above you was Sloan, yes, but they were Venture. The unpolished rock. Jagged, sharp. The enigmatic turned to an unhinged gleam in their eye, and the empathy turned colder. The relatability was non-existent, because above you was a hero among mankind. Venture was operating on a different level.

You felt pathetic. The last precarious piece of fine China between the two loose bulls.

"Venture! How's it go--"

Mauga was caught off by them swinging the butt of their drill into where his head would have been. Venture had fucking jumped to swipe at his head with that huge, heaping hunk of metal they used for excavation. Your mouth felt dry, your skin clammy, your heart pounded, and you could hear ringing in your ears.

"Bad time?" Mauga groused, hand coming up to his now gushing nose. He'd leant back, but not fast enough.

Venture spoke, but it wasn't to Mauga, "Get out. Medics up top." Five clear, quick words. It could've been considered snapping at you if you didn't know better. Their words weren't some sign of passive-aggressive terseness, they were orders.

Maybe if you'd seen this side of them before, before you became so disgustingly domesticated, you'd have groused. Schemed to do something, be prideful enough to think you weren't in the way. Your pride had lessened enough with them to know that you were a burden in this scenario. You weren't a tank or even very good at damage. You could take a punch, sure, real fucking well. You could run, dodge, plan. But this? Against Mauga? You'd never been a head-on type of person, no matter what delusions you had back when you were plotting.

You hesitated, but you hopped up with what speed and agility you had under the whiplash. Mauga hardly even looked at you. You were an irrelevant small fry in this; so weak you weren't even warranted a glance.

You ran.

...

You'd had some bruised ribs, you were right. You brushed the pain aside, instead focusing on keeping your breathing steady. You did know first aid, though, and after being dismissed, you did your own rounds. Because what else were you to do?

The medics had been skeptical, but upon seeing you properly wrap bandages and clean a wound, they turned you loose with a medkit and clear instructions to send serious injuries their way.

You ignored the banging and yells from the tunnels. The site had been ambushed. Official Overwatch soldiers came in and out, carrying Wayfinder Society workers and comrades. You ignored the movement, ignored it all. You felt something under your flesh buzz, your stomach in knots, your hands sweaty. They shook but were still when you were busy wrapping wounds, so you stuck to doing that as much as you could.

Then, a boisterous laugh that sounded wet. Mauga. You snap your head up.

Dirt is kicked up as a large vehicle of some sort whips up, people scrambling and yelling as they run out of the way. Mauga runs out to it, and the Overwatch soldiers don't stop him. They don't have a death wish. He's dirty, bloody, and his gate is uneven. You hope the blood is his.

You keep your eyes on the entrance to the site, which you feel is too close to a real catacomb now.

Then, just as bloody and dirty, with their shoulder limp in a way that doesn't look right, comes Venture.

You want to run.

Part of you is disgusted, revolted, by how much you want to run to them. The urge isn't even a choice, it's innate, like your heart, body, and brain all synched up to push you across the gap. You're moving before your mind even thinks about how gross this want is. Caring.

"SLOAN!"

Venture was one thing, a different beast you hate that you're not strong enough to tackle yet, but Sloan? You could handle Sloan. You hate the way your voice yells their name, the first and only time you've done it. You don't yell. But what had sounded like a whisper in the ringing of your ears and mind broke from your lips so much louder than you expected.

Their head pops up, and you notice they have a black eye, bloody nose, and you can spy a sort of redness lining their throat. Their arm hangs limply, and from the slant of their shoulders, you know that their shoulder is dislocated. You come to a slow stop in front of them, watching their eyes. Well, eye. One was swollen shut. The one dilates unevenly, expanding and shrinking. Concussion.

"Hey!" It's a chirp, but it doesn't go above a cracked whisper. Their smile is uneven, now even more so with the heinous swelling of their black eye. You wouldn't be shocked if their orbital bone was fucked.

Their voice was raw in a way you hadn't heard it, and you knew it had to do with that raw red on the column of their throat. It peeked from their collar, from under the tattoo they'd gotten done.

They wobble, and your hands dart from where they were hesitating in the air. You steady them with your hands on their chest, trying to keep them from falling.

"Did I look cool?! You okay?"

They were asking you that? What the fuck sort of martyr shit were they on?

Your teeth ground, and that's when you realize you haven't been smiling. Since you got pushed to the ground, hero Venture above you like some sort of divine presence, your lips had been pressed thin. You don't have it in you to put it back on, instead choosing to dart under their arm and carry some of their weight. They wobble, then playfully deadweight on you. But not really, because you can feel the muscles in their side tense as they hold themself up.

Did you seem that weak?

Were you that weak?

"Ahh, carrying me to the med-bay? My knight in shining armor," their words slur, and you catalog another sign of them being concussed. You don't speak, instead tugging them along to the medics who were already rushing to meet them. You want to tell them to lean on you, that you could do that much. But could you? And what had you shown to prove that you could?

You firmly, firmly believed actions spoke louder than words. Behaviors never lied, they made patterns that you could study and predict and place judgements based off. Behaviors had reliability -- words had nothing.

So you stayed silent, smile gone. You weren't immune to your own rules. You couldn't tell Sloan to lean on you, to let you help, because you'd proved you couldn't. Not in your mind. That was disregarding how even the realization that you wanted to be able to take care of them made you want to run away, throw up, and/or scream at them.

Your name was a whisper on their lips, their eyes raking over your face. Clear from blood, unharmed, unassuming. A glorified civilian in some shitty Overwatch witness protection/rehabilitation/watchlist/whatever the fuck. Their voice is drowned out by your own, but you speak to the medics and decidedly not them.

"They have a concussion, a dislocated shoulder, and I think a cracked orbital. Don't quote me, I don't have a degree or training." Not conventional ones at least.

"I'm fiiii--" But they get hushed and rushed off by the medics.

You avoid their eyes when they look back.

Because more than the suffocating care you seemed to be feeling, the callous realization that you were not strong enough to truly care for them how you wanted to, the panic that all of that insinuated a soft weakness you hadn't experienced in too long -- was the fact that, even if all of this was your own spiral, you were a burden. You weighed them down.

You drag your feet through the dirt, turning your back to them. You breathe deep. You feel the tinnitus fade. The clammyness cools and fades in the heat and dry air. Your heartbeat tries to slow. It fails. Your smile doesn't come back, a look of distant consternation falling over your face like a curtain.

All things in life are temporary.

You breathe out.

...

You call OW. You rattle off what happened, figuring Sloan was too out of it too. Otherwise, they'd have done it immediately.

"I saw a video before you even called. I guess this will be their public debut then, as an official Overwatch team member." Mercy hummed. She paused, then spoke lightly, "Meaning you are no longer in rehab, mentoring -- we really need to work out the kinks on what we're calling this." The last part was said in a mutter to herself.

You hardly cared, because you froze at her telling you you were free. Your hand that was dug into the sand clenched, and you could feel the granules pressing into your hand. Your jaw worked, cracking at how tense it was. "But -- I ran away. I didn't--" You snap your jaw shut.

The technicalities of your...mentoring program were on a need-to-know basis. The stipulation was simple for graduation from it though, and you thought it was a pathetic show of how idealistic heroes could be --

"But you helped. You acted like a hero. Not all heroes fight. We both know your talents aren't on the battlefield -- not in that way. You did help injured civilians, you cared enough to call, and you made sure Sloan was okay. You obeyed their orders on the field." Her voice was slow, and it made you blush because the whole scenario felt so much like she was explaining a new concept to a child. "So, you're done! Extenuating circumstances. We can talk about your personal missions, advancement, and whatnot when you get back. Alright, hun?"

You wanted to run away.

You wet your lips.

You felt like a fraud.

You acted like a hero because you had common decency, unorthodox first aid training, and a glaring need to be distracted from what could have very well been Sloan being beaten to death.

Sloan was a hero. Mercy was a hero.

You?

You were fucking selfish, petty, two-faced -- the list went on. And some childish voice in you said heroes can't be selfish. The good guys were meant to be good. You struggled so much with paradoxes, with understanding how gray worked in the black-and-white world.

"Are you there?"

"Yes, ma'am, I'm here...I have a request."

A light laugh, "Somehow I'm not surprised! You know, most people wouldn't be making requests right out of the gate, hun."

"It's...important to me. For me to be a better Overwatch agent."

A pause, then a soft hum of consideration, "How can I help, dear?"

You wondered if it was manipulative of you to phrase it that way because you know just how kind Mercy was. You pushed the thought aside -- the answer was irrelevant and not a priority.

"I want to transfer locations as soon as possible for independent training and missions, please."

...

Notes

♥ Moldavite is a crystal that is closely linked to transformation, change, healing, etc. It is also linked to Reader as it comes from asteroid collisions, following the motif of astronomy and stars.

♥ What You Know by Two Door Cinema Club as the song of this chapter closely ties to the current dynamic between Sloan and Reader.

[goon2venture]

heyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy

heeeyyyyyy,,,,, can I have sum consistentsy in my art style yes? I beg on my knees

no says the evil art style demon

[goon2venture]

they like like uuuuu......

This took me 10 minutes but there will be much better coming trust , my room is hot , ok bye