#angilc

SEND 📱 TO SEE HOW MY MUSE HAS YOURS IN THEIR PHONE!Status - Accepting!

@angilc​

Lena:Contact Picture - The two of them grinning on top of the London EyeContact Name - Angie ❤️❤️❤️Ringtone - I need a Doctor - Dr DreLast Text Sent - Hey Angie, did you grab the cakes I asked for??

Amelie:Contact Picture - Angela asleep at her deskContact Name - SaviourRingtone - Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien - Edith Piaf (Because it was the only French song Angela knew and it amused Amelie)Last Text Sent - Okay, I shot him, but it was in training and I swear I have a reason!

Sombra:Contact Picture - A Whip.Contact Name - That BitchRingtone - S&M - RihannaLast Text Sent - You, Me, Broom closet?

“That will be all, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for your attention.” 

A cacophony of voices and flashes of cameras bursted out as Ana left the stage, purposely ignoring the ‘Captain Amari!’ ‘Captain, one more question please!’ and other call outs. Goodness, she hated press conferences - sadly it seemed that they were a very integral part of her new position as second-in-command of Overwatch. On the bright side of things, this kind of exercise was always easier when she had yet another success to present to her audiences of journalists. Didn’t make it any less exhausting or frustrating though.

Ana made her way back to the main bulding, where her office, as well as Jack’s and other key officials were based. One thought only hovered in her mind: taking her coat off, collapsing into her chair, and call Fareeha to hear her dear daughter’s voice as her reward for this painstaking conference. Yet her conscience caught up with her when the interactive diary in her watch reminded her that she had called one of their newest recruits in her office for a debrief. Fareeha would have to wait.

Much to his dislike, he had been ordered by Commander Morrison to have a talk with Doctor Ziegler and see if there was anything she could do to fix his unhealthy sleeping habits. Sure- it had gotten to the point where Hanzo had been nearly falling asleep during mission briefing, but it didn't necessarily mean it was bad right?

Perhaps he was just in denial because he hated having to rely on other people or having to get help. He was an adult for gods sake, he could manage fine on his own, he didn't understand why he would have to be babied by some doctor just because he had a few sleepless nights. Okay, maybe it was more like every night since he had gotten picked up by Overwatch, but even then he was fine. He was sure of it.

Needless to say, he was less than thrilled to be having to do this. But since it was an order, he had to. He had to force a smile onto his lips as he made his way into the medical bay. There didn't seem to be too many people around, thank god. He didn't even want Miss Ziegler knowing about his awful habits, let alone anyone else.

Hauling herself to her feet, Rowan coughed wetly, lungs fighting against the thick smoke that streamed from what was left of the building. Things came back in bits as pieces as she stumbled out, shying away from fire and leaning heavily on her staff. 

She had been doing well. Surprise was on her side, and there weren’t enough guards. But apparently whatever they were transporting was valuable enough they’d destroy it rather than let it fall into her hands. The explosion came unexpectedly, the blast wave hitting her back and throwing her across the warehouse like a rag doll.

Her ears rang, and she shaded her eyes against the sunlight as she made her way down the now rubble filled alley. Doing her best to retrace her steps, Rowan coughed again, unaware of the blood trail she left behind. Finally getting to her backpack, the short woman slumped to the ground behind a dumpster, numb fingers fishing out a battered tin first aid box.

“Shit.” Twisting painfully, the witch could see pieces of metal stuck firmly in her side, blood crusting around the wounds and torn fabric. Taking a deep breath, and biting down on a backpack strap as she tried to keep her hands from shaking. Despite the tremor, she worked with the mechanical effort of experience.

Playful irony is akin to mellow wine -- a taste favorite, especially for a woman like of the widow’s caliber. No harm is detected in those spoken words and if anything, they are welcomed and taken in a form of an invitation. 

Slyness paints cyanotic lips with a subtle smirk as she supports her chin carefully within an opened palm. 

“ Poor tolerance? Perhaps you want me to hold your hand as well, doctor? “ Honorifics and titles may not have place between the two, but alas, she cannot help the habit from time to time.

          It was worrisome. Of course, that thought alone made Jack a bit of a hypocrite. He worked himself past the point of exhaustion while sleeping so little just as much as Angela did. He may have been equally as bad. They were in the same boat, bearing the same weight. Their responsibilities were endless.

          The difference was that Jack handled the sleep deprivation with grace and ease. He functioned well despite everything, whereas Angela struggled to keep herself together, to rid herself of the redness in her eyes and the exhaustion in her voice. She needed caffeine to wake up, and even then, her wakefulness was questionable.

          But if it wasn’t just the cutest thing when she was sleepy.

          “You’ve got me there,” he conceded, casting a smile in her direction. “You really are something.” 

Okay for 3 blogs in general:

@angilc - They’re a BEAUTIFUL Mercy player and an all around kind and sweet person!

@edgelorddaddy - my husbando! A great Reaper and a beautiful person who quickly became a very close friend.