#both conditions also effects the eyes
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Celegorm-Orca!! 😍
(if it inspires you 😊)
It does inspire me!
Fun fact! Orcas have a higher chance than most other whales and dolphins for being albino or having leucism!
Leucism is the lack of melanin pigment in most of the body because of the absence, or small amount, of melanin-producing cells whereas albinism is the complete lack of it
@elentarial you requested him too but with a different fish but I´m going to tag you just to be sure <3
#both conditions also effects the eyes#so random but one of the reason why i always draw celegorm as albino or this time having leucism is because i have leucism myself#and that he have blond hair sometimes🙃#which is also one of the reasons he means so much to me#tolkien#jrr tolkien#silmarillion#celegorm#tyelkormo#turcafinwe#silm art#tolkien art#digital art#my art#mermay 2024#mermay#mermaid#mermaid art#merman
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You need a subject for a photography submission, 'the face of sport'. Art offers one up- him. He doesn't know, however, the long-lasting effects one photo can have.
cw; consensual voyeurism, piv sex, f-receiving oral, masturbation, tennis...
Art Donaldson x fem!reader | The Rule of Thirds masterlist | talk to me!
An old tennis racket, two trophies, a signed ball, three pairs of worn shoes he couldn't bear to part with. Art Donaldson sifts through piles of memories with a smile on his face. Tashi would call it junk and insist Art gave up on what he does not use anymore if she knew it was here, hidden in boxes labelled ‘LINEN’ in the basement where the dust collects dust.
His old pair of lucky socks, an empty bottle of sunscreen, a drive-in ticket to Fast and The Furious, another old tennis racket, his last ever report card from school. Art has to take a moment to stretch his back out, being hunched over a box of old things doesn't work for long periods of time when your posture is everything. He isn't so sure what he's looking for under the dim light of a bulb that needs to be changed: a piece of himself, if he were ever that pensive.
A box of condoms with only one left inside, a toy race car he found on the side of the road after losing a match, three different lighters. The blond has a match the next day and a sore shoulder to boot- with a grimace, he pushes his hair out of his eyes. The basement feels cold and stale and Art doesn't quite know why he prefers being down here than lounging in the wide expanse of his multi-million dollar home. Tashi will be back soon and aching to go and train— maybe it's just a moment alone that Art is after.
Art throws an old neck pillow on the ground beside him and coughs at the dust it kicks up. He knows he should go back upstairs and forget about a life gone by, but when Art peers into what he thinks is a now-empty box, his eyes widen. A camera bag sits abandoned at the bottom of the box, a ribbon that was once tied around the handle lays discarded next to the bag, frayed at the edges.
Art Donaldson feels like an infidel, an apostate, as he reaches in and picks up the bag. It's smooth against his fingertips, the zip cold from its neglect, though the bag is in good condition in spite of a half decade's worth of dust and the constant use of it beforehand. It smells like something old and sweet, and Art feels perverted for even remembering a time of such struggle when his life now is so easy. The feeling makes his breath catch, and he holds the bag to his chest like it'll give him strength- the idolater that he is.
He's seen many cameras in his life, but the one inside is what he remembers most fondly, it's an old Canon with a scratched lens. Though Art is no religious man, this is an occasion that warrants a little extra faith and he thanks whoever listened for blessing his hands with the volition to dig into his past. Also in the bag is a set of printed polaroids held together with a worn elastic hair tie, though Art discards them for the moment in fear of recalling too much.
He takes the camera in both hands and turns it on, half expecting a dead battery symbol to greet his piqued attention, but instead, the screen lights up and he's looking at his spacious basement through a camera that's seen more than it should. He aims the camera into the box mislabelled 'LINEN' and snaps a photo of the white ribbon lying at the bottom. He smiles, presses a button on the camera, and waits as it loads the picture onto the display.
"Not too shabby," he hums to himself, though falls silent again when his finger hovers over the PREVIOUS button, and Art Donaldson falls victim to the sin of nostalgia.
He presses the button and is immediately assaulted with a flash into the past that burns a hole right through his stomach. There he stands, spry and grinning like an idiot with a lollipop stick between his teeth, his arms draped around Patrick Zweig, who is sticking up bunny ears on top of his head. They look happier than ever, bound by a friendship they had thought to be unbreakable. Art can't bear the sight, he presses the button again and feels nauseous.
It's the same scene, the same lollipop stick between his teeth, the same eye-slanting grin across his face. But rather than Patrick Zweig by his side, someone else hangs off his arm...
The door upstairs slams- Tashi's home. The basement ceiling shakes with the rattle of the door, and Art jumps when his wife, his wife, calls into the house for him.
"Art?"
He drops the camera, and the damned thing breaks as it hits the concrete flooring. His heart pounds in his chest as he scrambles for the shattered pieces, eyes glued on the now-dull display screen.
"Art, come on." Tashi's voice is loud enough for Art to catch as she walks through their first floor. "I want to get an hour in before we leave."
Art looks from the camera to the stairs, and then to the set of polaroids he had left unlooked at. And like a dog biting his own tail despite the pain of his own teeth, Art shoves the polaroids into his back pocket and straightens up.
“Coming, babe!”
SIX YEARS EARLIER
“If you hit my camera with that ball, I’ll never forgive you.”
Art grins, “What, you don’t trust my aim?”
You stand to the side of the court, eyes squinted in opposition to the sun as you watch Art Donaldson take a tennis racket from his bag and stretch out his shoulders. You don’t know him, not really, but you’ll vouch on any given day that the man has nice hands.
You manage yourself as he pulls a tennis ball from his pocket and hits it against the floor a few times before catching it and looking up at you, hands on hips.
“So, I just hit the ball a few times?”
You nod, “and look good doing it.”
Art snorts out a peal of sweet laughter that has you grinning in response, though when you take your camera from its bag, you’re struck with an issue.
“Hey, can I put my camera bag with your things? I really don’t want to lose it.”
Art looks from you to the bag you hold, a black camera bag with a white ribbon tied dutifully around the handle, he nods and gestures over to his belongings that sit to the side of the court, but can't help his curiosity. "What's the ribbon for?"
"So I know it's mine, everyone in my photography class opted for the same bag," you shrug. "Plus, it's pretty."
Art lets out a hearty laugh and readies himself with a few more stretches as you situation yourself, checking settings and exposure and the such. He doesn't want to distract you, but the silence between you is heavy and awkward. He wishes desperately to fill it, but words of much grandiosity fail to find their way out of his mouth.
"So, you like photography?"
You giggle at his attempt and squint up at him. "You could say that. It's a bit of an entry-level requirement for being a photographer, you know... liking it."
He laughs again, leaning back on his heels to admire the care you take with the camera, fiddling with the settings. He doesn't know you, not really, but he'll vouch on any given day that you have nice hands.
Art's tennis coach is in the midst of a hot work-fling with a professor who happens to head the photography club. She had a student lost on a subject for the 'faces of sport' submission, and Art's coach put his name forward. And here you are, now one of many who have watched him through a camera lens. He had seen you around campus on occasion, taken note of you talking to a friend of a friend- he'd have introduced himself if Patrick wasn't always dragging him away for a drink or four.
Now though, sober and grounded in his element: the court, Art can't help but let his eyes train on you a moment too long. He wonders what you see through the camera lens- a tennis player or a peer?
"Ready?" You're looking up at him with an encouraging smile and he feels his cheeks burn under your gaze as you snap a picture of him as he stands unassumingly.
"I did not say I was ready," Art points an accusing finger at you, but replaces his butthurt tone with a smile and readies himself to hit a few balls. "But I am. Now, at least."
You laugh, and Art finds himself wanting to hear it every day for the rest of his natural life. He smiles at the sound, a toothy grin he'd usually only flash when drunk or ecstatic.
You take another picture, and one more when he frowns at your antics. "You said you were ready," you shrug.
Art serves a few times, getting into his element as you photograph him. The click of your camera becomes background noise as Art works with his mind's eye and body's memory, making precise adjustments and hitting perfectly every single time. He gets into a sweet rhythm, serve after serve as he hits the balls to an empty other half of the court. You watch his form through the camera, taking each shot as they present themselves to you. All he does is play tennis, yet you find yourself eyeing something breathtaking. He's beautiful, like a piece of art with skill unmatched, but it's not his form that piques your interest: it's the look in his eyes. Focused, intent— in love. He adores what he does, the narcotic feeling it gives him, and you find you adore watching it flood his system.
Though your perfect shot, your submission picture, comes as an idea.
"Okay," your voice breaks Art's reverie, and he stops mid-serve to look at you. "I have what I need."
Art's brows furrow, "that's all?"
His arms fall to his sides, tennis ball dropping by his feet as his racket hangs loosely from his grip. He's sweaty, hair damp and sticking to his forehead. Though he hasn't done much, you blame the sun and thank it in the same regard: he looks good.
"Just one more thing," you hum, raising your camera one last time. "Smile like you did before."
"What?"
"Just do it, Art."
He likes the sound of his name on your lips and obliges without further question. There he stands like a boy on his first day of school, arms by his side, racket hanging from his grip, sweaty and squinting under the bleating sun with a wide grin plastered on his face.
And you take the photo, him to the left of the shot as an empty court fills the rest of the frame. Remnants of that elated look still shine in his eyes, you've caught the afterglow.
"That's the one," you practically jump up and down at the picture staring back at you on the display.
Art makes a face. "What? I wasn't even playing."
You have to look from camera-Art to real-life-Art to catch his frown. You smile in response and walk pointedly over to the blond so you can practically shove your camera in his face.
"Look," you offer, feeling the extra heat of his body against you when he looks over your shoulder to gaze at the camera screen. You click through photos of him playing, all basic pictures he's seen a hundred times with a hundred different players. "That's the game, hitting a ball with a racket. You look good, you're focused, in touch with yourself, that's great. But this..." you click forward until you find your latest image, the one of him smiling, "...this is the afterglow, the dopamine rush, the actual game, the face of sport."
Art is quiet. He stares at himself, his own smile. A moment passes, and then another, and you're beginning to think he doesn't see the vision when he finally breaks the silence.
"Have you ever played tennis?" His voice is barely there, loud enough for you to hear as he leans down a little, right next to your ear.
You shake your head, you know he can see it, his breath is hot on your neck.
Art stands upright. "You should let me teach you. It's a good skill to have."
You turn and look up at him, "anyone can hit a ball with a racket."
He's quick to frown, a dramatic faux hurt etched across his face, "anyone can press a button on a camera."
You're about to defend your sport, ramble about the editing process and exposure settings and moving subjects and the rule of thirds when Art's sour expression loses to his breaking grin, and you catch the hypocrisy as it's about to drip from your tongue.
Before you can reply, however, he cuts you off. "I'll let you use that photo of me... if you let me teach you the basics."
The basics aren’t so basic when you spend most of your time photographing the ball, not trying to hit it. Art is patient, laughing ceremoniously whenever you flinch at the ball as it comes towards you, clapping when you do hit, and offering you pointers when you don’t. Half of the guys at Stanford for sports would have left fifteen minutes ago when you called tennis ‘a game straight from Satan's hole’. Art just laughed.
You wonder if you weren’t in need of a subject for your submission, whether you and Art would have ever crossed paths naturally. You wonder who his friends are, what he does when he’s not playing tennis, if he has other hopes and dreams.
“Your grip is wrong,” Art calls from the other side of the net. “You can hurt your wrist like that.”
You look down at your grip on Art’s racket and sigh—there’s a proper way of doing everything in tennis, you presume. You’re about to try and correct it yourself when Art quite literally jumps over the net to your side, he’s right in front of you in only a second.
“Hi,” he huffs.
“Hi.”
Art gestures something with his hands that you don’t quite get, then takes another step closer to you before freezing. “Oh, can I touch you? To fix your stance, I mean.”
“I thought it was my grip that was wrong.”
“That too.”
You have to laugh at your fuck-ups if you want to avoid looking like an egg. You nod to Art, who moves behind you and gently places his hands on your hips. He guides your body, slender fingers splayed over your waist, into a position that feels unnatural yet somewhat powerful. With a gentle nudge of his foot between your legs, he parts them and pushes one slightly forward.
“That’s good,” his voice hits your ears in waves, and you feel the tingle of goosebumps creep up along your arm. “Now your grip."
Art Donaldson slides his hands down your arms, taking each of your wrists in each of his hands and readjusts your grip on the handle of the racket, one hand above the other.
You stare at the ground, and he clears his throat quietly. “Like this.”
He brings both of his hands down to cup around yours and pulls your arms up as he swings your arms back and forth, the movement fluid. in demonstration of the godforsaken 'proper technique'. Your back is pressed right against his front, his chest flush against your back and the ridges of his stomach brushing against the line of your spine. Your heart races, and though you're sure he hears it, it's drowned out by the pounding of blood throughout your head as you focus on each movement of his hands, on his words, and on his voice.
"There we go," he nods, his mess of blond hair brushing against your neck as he dips his head down, presumably to check your footing. Your body shudders as he whispers, "Good job," and his mouth tickles the shell of your ear before he releases you. The world seems to tilt, no longer relying on Art for balance. You're surprised the racket doesn't fall from your grasp when he steps back, though with the loss of contact, your knees feel weak enough to collapse. As it stands, though, you're still standing, and Art is beaming down at you like he's just taught a puppy a new trick.
"So, what'd you think?" he asks.
You tilt your head in question.
Art smiles wider, "is it easier than pressing a button on a camera?"
"Oh, so you're an asshole," a bemused smile crawls across your lips.
He snorts, "Maybe."
Your laughter dies away as a strange sort of melancholy seeps in. You're suddenly aware of how far apart you two are, the space between your bodies, the lack of physical contact. Art notices, and gives a soft laugh of his own, a lighthearted chuckle that breaks the eerie need to replace the warmth of the sun with the warmth of each other.
"So," Art crosses his arms. "Now you just have to learn how to hit the ball."
"Ha ha ha," you verbalise, straight-lipped and eyebrows furrowed. "Maybe next time, hot shot."
"Next time?" Art's reply is quick. "So you'll let me keep teaching you?"
You smile at him, "No, I was lying to be polite."
It's Art's turn to act unimpressed, but you see him bite back a grin. He lets out a stressed-short laugh that turns into a huff at the end. "You're so funny."
"I know."
"Will you show me the photo once it's printed?"
It takes you a moment to realise he's being serious.
"Huh?" you ask, looking up.
Art's eyes are wide, and he raises an eyebrow. "Can I have your phone number?" he clarifies.
You open your mouth to object, to tell him no- you don't give your number to random boys you've just met, but instead, the corners of your mouth twitch upward and you're suddenly typing your number into Art's phone and saving your name with a smiley face next to it. Art smiles at the gesture and pockets his phone. There's a moment of silence shared between you, an unassuming silence that's more comfortable than it is awkward, but a silence nonetheless.
A silence broken by the loud echoing voice of another boy calling out from the far side of the courts- a brunette with curls that are more defined than Arts, that's the most you can make of him as he calls to the blond by your side, waving his arms above his head and then gesturing to his wrist like he's tapping a watch.
"Oh, shit," Art pulls his phone back out to check the time. "Fuck, sorry, I have to go."
You shrug, smiling. "It's fine, thanks for giving up some of your time."
Art smiles back, thanking you in turn for putting up with his tennis brain, then hurries to grab his things and race away in the direction of his friend. For a few seconds, all you can do is stand there dumbly watching his retreating form until he reaches his friend, who nudges Art and looks over his shoulder at you before the pair of them disappear around the corner leading back towards campus.
It's not until they're out of eyeshot that you turn to grab your camera bag, just to be greeted by an empty space where you had left it. Your heart drops for a moment, the thought of losing your camera a soul-crushing one. You remember, though, tucking it away with Art's stuff for safekeeping. He must have grabbed it in his rush to leave.
You exhale, running a hand over your forehead. Well fuck.
Art Donaldsons dorm room number plays on a loop in your head that night. He had texted you as promised, with a simple ‘I HAVE YOUR CAMERA!’ along with an easy ‘COME TO MY DORM I HAVE BEER’
It had taken him another ten minutes to realise you’d have no clue where his dorm was, and send through his dorm number. You had debated sending him a text back, telling him to meet you tomorrow on campus to hand over the camera, but your submission deadline is the next night and you need time to edit, decide you hate your prospective career as a photographer, and then fall in love with the process all over again.
You roam the halls of the boys' dorms for a few minutes, eyeing door numbers until you find his. Some doors are left ajar, some wide open and sporting odours so bad you curse God for giving you a sense of smell. You finally find Art’s door, and double check the number twice before knocking, despite a tennis ball sticker just above the door handle.
There's a little rustling inside when you knock, but his voice calls out clearly. "Come in!"
When you open the door, you're greeted not by Art Donaldson, but by the blinding flash of your own camera. You blink away the stun to find Art grinning at the display, admiring his handiwork as an amateur photographer. He turns your camera in his hands to show you to yourself, startled and wide-eyed in a half-blurred photo: Art's finger covers a corner of the frame too, it must have been over the lens.
"I think I'm a natural," he bites his tongue cheekily as he hands you your camera back. You check it over, out of habit more than mistrust of Art, and he pushes his door wide open to reveal the dorm room in all its college-student glory. It's not large by any means, but it has everything you could ever possibly want and then some, plus an impressive collection of sports memorabilia from past years and awards displayed in frames on the walls. Your camera bag is sitting on his bed, and Art gestures you towards it with a smile.
"Sorry," he spins around and opens a little cooler sitting on his floor, pulling out two beer cans from inside and offering you one. "I didn't realise I had picked it up. Were you okay without it?"
You take the beer with a 'thanks' and pat the small shoulder bag you wear. You lift the flap open to reveal a little Polaroid camera, an old one you barely use anymore. "Had to pull this off the shelf," you say. "But yeah, it should be good now."
"That's good," Art nods as you pop the top of your beer.
You sit on the edge of his bed while he takes a sip of his beer, staring at you. You notice a slight flush to his cheeks and wonder if he's a few drinks ahead of you. You can't help but laugh, leaning forward as you rest your elbows on your thighs. "Why am I here, Art?"
He frowns, looking down at you from where he stands, leaning against his countertop. "To pick up your camera?"
"You could have met me with it tomorrow. It's..." you glance at the alarm clock beside his bed, "nearly midnight."
He blinks and laughs sheepishly at you, scratching behind his neck. "Yeah, about that... I guess I just wanted to see you again?"
"Oh," you lean back and purse your lips in surprise, glancing from Art and the beautiful nervous look on his face to the beer he holds in a tight grip.
Art laughs softly, "Are you freaked out?"
"No," you shake your head quickly, "I'm not freaked out, Art."
Art chuckles lightly at that, his smile widening as his blush deepens. "Okay," he breathes out before he takes another sip of his beer and moves to sit beside you on the bed. It dips under his weight, almost pulling you closer into him, though he leaves enough space to remain respectable. His eyes seem darker now, more focused, even though his expression remains soft and pleasant. His gaze lingers on your face for a while before he opens his mouth to speak. "You said earlier, on the court, that the photo you took was the real face of sport. You're good, huh?"
"I'd like to think so," you smile fondly, gaze flitting from his lips to his eyes.
"Are you in love with it?"
You hum, "with photography?"
Art's eyes flick up to your eyes. His gaze is intense, not in a scary way, but something more playful and inviting. He nods.
"I love it, sure," you nod, situating yourself to sit more comfortably on Art’s bed. "Are you in love with tennis?"
Art nods, taking a longer drink from his beer. "Yes."
Your brow furrows and you raise an eyebrow. "I didn't know. You seemed pretty nonchalant about the whole 'look at me, I'm a tennis player' thing, actually."
His face splits in a toothy grin. "I'm humble."
You giggle quietly at that, and stare at him for a couple of seconds, studying his face, taking in every little detail. His hair, his eyes, the faintest hint of stubble on his jawline and chin, his smile, and the dimples on each cheek that said smile brings out. There are traces of dark circles underneath his eyes, you realise, and they're highlighted when his pupils expand slightly at your laughter.
You feel warm, and not from the alcohol that sits inside your stomach. The both of you place down your beers, and Art Donaldson, who may well have a girlfriend and dirtied intentions, takes in a deep breath before asking you lowly, "Can I kiss you?"
The word 'please' escapes your lips before you can stop it and the red tint in Art's ears deepens. You bite the insides of your cheeks nervously, waiting for Art to speak again, but he doesn't, and suddenly his hand is at the nape of your neck, tugging you forwards and pressing his lips to yours in a hungry, desperate manner.
As he starts moving slowly, his tongue darts out and traces the curve of your bottom lip as he pulls you further into him, the taste of his beer lingering on his lips making the gesture feel all the more enticing. A hand cups your jaw, slender fingers trailing down your neck in sensual exploration of your exposed body before his other hand rests on the small of your back and he draws you even closer until the heat radiating off himself feels almost unbearable on your skin.
There's no hesitation, no awkward pauses, or second-guessing, you find yourself melting against his body instinctively. A narcotic, he is, the way he smells and tastes and sounds and touches, and there's only so much you can handle before it overwhelms your senses completely. The kiss itself isn't that hot, it's chaste and messy and your teeth click against his in the desperation of it all, but it fills you with something unfamiliar, makes you feel lightheaded and dizzy and yearning wholeheartedly for more. You don't care how little you know him, you don't mind the lack of foreplay; you just feel overwhelmed and need more, you need more than just his lips on yours.
He practically whimpers when you pull back, his hands sliding down to hold onto your hips possessively. Sad eyes meet yours at the loss of your taste, but you brush off his worry easily, running your thumb across his cheekbone as he leans into your touch, breathing in and out heavily through his nose as if you are his only source of breath, and the sight causes a knot to form in your stomach.
"You are single, right?" your kiss-swollen lips whisper against his and you feel him exhale.
"Yes," he speaks against your mouth, a husky sound that makes your heart ache.
"Good."
You kiss him again, more fervently, letting your tongue tangle with his as his arm wraps around you tightly. Before you know it, Art has your back against his mattress and is hovering over you, hands gliding swiftly under your shirt. You aid him in getting it over your head and watch as he follows suit, pulling off his own shirt and tossing it to the floor in dismissal. He slides down his shorts and leaves himself in a pair of blue boxers that you already notice are tenting.
You take a moment, you have to, to appreciate the sculpt of Art’s body—the muscled planes of his chest, the breadth of his shoulders. His face is flushed, hair mussed and unkempt, lips swollen and kissed pink. You want to commit every last inch of this man to memory, keep him locked in the back of your mind in fear of never experiencing this again.
Is this a one-time thing? You lift your hips as Art pulls down your shorts and panties in one go, and you can't help but wonder if this is the first and only time you'll feel his fingertips against the skin of your thighs. When morning comes, and your lust is expelled and tired, will Art turn his shoulder from you? Is this something? Hell, you don't know the guy, not really.
But he presses a gentle kiss to your lower abdomen and you feel safe and comfortable; your heart rate slows as the tension eases and your body sinks further into the mattress, letting Art's hand slip between your legs to part them. "Art…"
A low moan passes your lips as he brushes his fingertips over your clit, they're still cold from holding his beer, and the stark contrast in temperature is enough to make you gasp. Art slides his thumb over the sensitive nub and you arch your back in response. Your hands come to grasp at the sheet beneath you, knuckles whitening from the amount of pressure you're exerting on them. You want more, but you realise quickly that Art is a man for taking his time. Slow, languid circles over your clit, not daring to even push a finger inside of you just yet. You whine and buck your hips against his hand, needing his touch to be deeper.
He presses a kiss to your chest, and then trails his mouth down your stomach, pausing briefly to look up at you before he dips to place a kiss directly to your pulsing clit.
You freeze, and a wave of insecurity washes over you. "You don't have to..."
"I'm dying here," Art's eyes meet yours: he looks starved. "Please let me."
All you can do is nod your head and close your eyes as he delves between your thighs for a taste of your lust. His free hand digs into the flesh of your thigh, grip tight as if he’s dead set on leaving his mark, staking his claim. He’s showering in the way you writhe, his tongue rolling over your clit as he slips two fingers inside of you. He’s high off your taste alone, latching his lips around your clit in an assault fueled by insatiable need.
You can feel him shuffle a little, moving his free hand from your thigh to reach under his own waistband and stroke himself in tandem with the thrust of his fingers inside of you. His pace quickens, though he still manages to savour your pleasure. Your hand snakes down to thread your fingers through his mess of blond hair, pushing your hips up in an attempt for more.
As Art pumps his cock with his hand, he groans against your heated flesh, sending vibrations from your sex to your spine: you arch your back in pleasure, the tightness of an impending orgasm beginning to roll over you. You try to vocalise it, tell Art you’re close, but you’re already a mess of incoherent moans and pleads for more— but he doesn’t need words to know, not when he can feel you clenching around his fingers, your every muscle tensing. His scalp must burn from the stress of your pulling, but he doesn’t seem to mind so much, smiling against your pussy as he finger-fucks you to climax.
With a sharp inhale and a choked sob of a moan from your throat, you come undone under Art’s ministrations, your vision blurred and stomach in knots of ecstasy. It's only once your breath finds you again that Art pulls his fingers out of you and climbs over you once more to press a messy kiss to your lips, he shares with you a taste of yourself, lips glistening with your release. He grins into the kiss, as pussydrunk as can be, and moves to press a sloppy mixture of kisses and bites to your exposed neck.
"You taste so good," he speaks against your skin, nipping at your pulse.
"I want more of you," you exhale, dizzy with lust.
Your legs tighten around his back as he meets your eyes once again, a sultry smile creeping across his face. You snake a hand down to the waistband of his boxers, noting the thin layer of sweat that already glosses Art's torso, and dip a finger under the elastic. "Is this okay?"
"Yeah, please," he murmurs, ducking down to press another kiss to your shoulder. You tuck your hand into his boxers, feeling past his trimmed-short hair and wrapping your fingers around his cock, rock hard and pulsing in your hand. He groans and presses himself further into your hand, his teeth dragging along the expanse of your shoulder as you pump his shaft. His hips rise of their own accord as you bring your hand higher, rubbing along his length until you have him completely desperate for the now-familiar warmth of your pussy.
"I need to be inside of you," he lays his intentions out, head tilting up to watch you for a sign of protest.
You nod, eager and willing to accommodate him, and release his cock, raising yourself onto your elbows to get a better look at the beautiful mess of a man moving to stand. He (ungracefully) reaches over to grab a condom from his bedside drawer and sheds his boxers. Inhaling slowly through his nose, he takes his time as he slides the condom onto his dick, stroking his cock gently once it's on. He watches you closely, a fond look on his face as he rubs the head of his cock up and down your pussy a few times, collecting the remnants of your lust and his spit before he enters you. It's slow, and careful, and deliberate, and your body trembles in anticipation, eyes flickering closed when he finally gives into your silent plea. The shared gasp between you is uniform, a symphony of pleasure and endurance. Him, overwhelmed by just how tight you are. You, overwhelmed by the stretch of just how big he is.
Art bottoms out in one movement, to get the harshest part out of the way for you; you hiss at the searing heat of the stretch, but calm as Art stills inside of you. You both take a moment, a shared breath, to appreciate being one, and the pleasure that comes with such entwining.
Once you’re ready, you squeeze his bicep, giving him the green-light to move. And he does, painstakingly slow, he pulls out of you, just to snap his hips forward to plunge himself back inside. The hand that isn't holding him up is pressed down on your stomach, feeling himself through you as he pushes in deep, then withdraws. Each thrust of his cock brings forth a loud gasp from your lips, which only serves to guide him further into a state of mindless bliss. He keeps himself in check as best he can, though his breathing has quickened considerably as he continues to fuck you. You feel like you're going to lose your mind, unable to breathe or speak or think straight as you're pulled closer and closer to your end. Though as you've learnt, Art Donaldson is a man to take his time, and he switches from the fast snapping thrusts to a slow roll of his hips once he feels he's a little too close to the edge.
You notice, too: you see the tension building in his muscles, how he pants and groans with each movement he makes. He stares at you adoringly, heavy lids weighing his sights down to your chest, your arched torso, your sweet design. He leans down to press another kiss to you, lips parting so he can slide his tongue into your mouth as his rhythm quickens even more. The kiss feels more intimate than even the act of his cock splitting you open, it's a sweet one, a honeymoon-style kiss where after his forehead meets yours and his eyes bore into your eyes in a mixture of something hazy.
You notice the glossy look in his eyes immediately, it's the same one you had seen on the tennis court earlier. The awestruck, total blissful look in his eyes that had spurred your inspiration. The face of sport. Even through your fucked-dumb haze of lust and a hedonistic desire to finish like this, with Art on top of you, the opportunist in yourself can't help but move. You place a firm hand on Art's shoulder, and his thrusts roll to a stop.
"You okay?" he pants, a sudden worry in his eyes, he looks you over for any signs of discomfort.
"Fine," you shake your head, trying to clear it, blinking away the foggy sensation clouding your mind. "Just, uh... do you trust me?"
Art's eyebrows shoot up, taken aback by the question: "Why?"
Your voice is barely there, a heat spreading across your face as you ask; "will you let me on top?"
Art chuckles low and deep, eyes never breaking contact with yours. A gentle touch to the curve of your ass cheek tells you that he'll miss the view, but he nods nonetheless, and you smile in turn. You expect Art to pull out and lay back on the bed, but instead, he wraps one arm under your back and pushes up with his other, flipping the both of you in one fluid motion. As soon as he's flipped over you straddle his waist, resting your hands on his chest for support, and laugh at the sheer adrenaline rush of it all.
This new position, with you sitting on Art's cock, makes you feel twice as full. You can tell that neither of your orgasms are far off, and you take the opportunity to test the waters. You roll your hips, grinding down on Art's cock, enjoying the way his eyes flutter shut. When he lets out a low noise of approval that sends shivers down your spine, you lower your body closer, pressing a wet kiss to Art's jaw as he grips your waist with a strength you don't doubt will bruise come morning.
His hips raise underneath you, fucking up into you as you continue your ministrations. The sound of skin hitting skin fills the air, and you'd close your eyes in ecstasy if you weren't so hypnotised by the sheen in Art's eyes. With each thrust Art manages to drive into you, you find your nails biting into the skin of his chest. He gets louder, groans and whines that you'd play on repeat if you could,, he's close, and he says as such.
"Let me take a picture," you say before you can stop yourself; his jaw slacks open at your words, staring up at you with incredulity written across his face. You defend your proposal- "With the Polaroid. I'll let you keep it, no copies."
A bad idea, probably, what with his face being one he hopes to see plastered across buildings one day. He doesn't know why he nods, why he smiles when you reach across the bed for your Polaroid. Maybe it's the mindless state of lust he's in, maybe it's the danger, or maybe he'll find the photo in ten years' time and remember this night with a smile or a frown depending on the grand outcome.
You ready the camera, roll your hips against his a few more times, and look down at pretty Art Donaldson.
"You're fucking gorgeous," you let slip, praise falling from your lips straight to his reddened ears. You feel him twitch inside of you, you squeeze around him in coaxing. "Look at you."
He fucks up into you with a pace unrelenting. Your second orgasm of the night is only seconds away, and you cope through the haze of pleasure and lust to focus on Art's face, memorising every detail of that look in his eyes as he starts to falter.
"Fuck," you groan, pressing down onto him to a new depth. He's tense for a moment, a sweet moment of shared rapture as you both fall over the edge of your climaxes.
"Shit, shit," his sounds mirror yours, veins pulsing in his neck as he cums. One hand digs into your hips, the other grips the sheets.
His eyes meet yours, and you see it. The look, the face of pleasure, of need, of sin.
You take the shot.
SIX YEARS LATER
The night is quiet, save for the sound of rustling trees outside and the occasional passing car. Art Donaldson has to bite his tongue to stop himself from making a noise.
He stands in the shower, water falling over his back, though cleanliness is an afterthought despite being sweat-ridden after hours of training with Tashi.
With one hand, Art pumps his cock in vigorous strokes, leaning against the cold tile wall as he jerks himself off. His eyes are locked onto what he holds in his other hand- the photo you took all those years ago. He's careful not to get it wet, but it's hard to focus on the state of it when his pooling orgasm nearly blinds him.
His eyes burn into the image, a display of himself at his most vulnerable. You had taken it looking down at him as your orgasms synced, and now he looks down at the same sight you had seen at your peak. He cums ropes onto the shower floor, biting so hard on his tongue to stifle his moans that he's surprised he can't taste blood in his mouth.
He’s left breathless, eyes still locked on the polaroid he had found in the basement earlier in the day. There's a handful more of them, but Art had no time to go through them, not after pulling this one out first and being hit with a wave of memories he’s not sure he should have.
He has to satiate his guilt by telling himself it’s not wrong to jerk off, especially not when it’s only a photo of himself… or, that could make it worse. Art exhales deeply, emptying his lungs so he can take a breath of new air.
Art steps backward into the fall of water, letting it run down his face in a rejuvenating cleanse of his sins and unholy ways of thinking. He sighs, wonders what level of hell he’s going to, and then flips the polaroid around.
Written in your handwriting on the strip of white down the bottom in permanent marker,
THE ART OF MAKING LOVE.
series taglist: @lotties-ashwagandha @daughterhouse @kiiwizz @doll-0f-flesh @jackierose902109 @lonnie2390147 @hedonisticwomen @ysuftmikey @viena-vie @whitewashedghanianlol @kolsmikaelson @nikirikii @dumbass-sappho-stan @seriousaliysa @majathepapaya @lovezclub @ireallydontcareanymorebrooo
#art donaldson x reader#art donaldson smut#challengers smut#challengers 2024#art donaldson#art x reader#art smut#art donaldson x you#art donaldson imagine
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seeing a post that basically confirmed the obvious disparity in content made me think more about a scene i would have liked to see with gale and that i've been thinking about for a while now.
i always felt a bit sad that his condition is so often treated as a joke by the fandom and to a lesser extent by the game itself. i always thought that this is partially down to the fact that we don't truly get so see gale actively be in pain due to his condition, other than brief glimpses and hints:
we do hear the urgency in his voice when he explains when and why he needs an artefact and the relief in his voice when the protag chooses to help him.
we see it, too, when he is afflicted by the arcane hunger condition:
we get glimpses of it when he consumes an artefact:
he mentions it, too, in his dialogues, but it's very much downplayed by gale or phrased in such a way that is meant to overplay it with humour, or perhaps even to distance himself from it by using metaphors:
that is until we actually get to see it through his eyes, if only for the briefest of moments:
*Its teeth, its claws, it's unstoppable as it digs through and becomes part of you. And gods, it is ever-hungry...*
gale also has an idle animation where he--quite often--reaches up to touch the orb, perhaps because it flares with pain, like an old wound is wont to do:
(gif by @bladeofavernus)
from the last conversation we have with gale, and after catching all of these little moments of things he says or does with how the orb affects him, we learn that consuming the magic from artefacts no longer has any effect at all. the only solution that tara and he were able to find no longer works:
it would scare him and imbalance him, and it would finally destabilise the orb, make it more volatile.
but what happens in the game after that? the orb becoming volatile enough for the artefacts to no longer have an effect has no consequences at all: you are able to do the tiefling party, all quests in the underdark, the entirety of the grymforge, and, should you choose to do so, the entirety of the mountain pass and rosymorn monastery without an incident at all or any mention of the condition itself/any discomfort or fear it might cause.
there's no urgency here, no follow-up, to what the narrative set up... and then we meet deus ex elminster and the orb is stabilised, and the urgency that came before literally is handwaved out of existence.
what i would have liked instead to happen--or at least to bridge the gap between the artefacts no longer working and elminster stabilising it to be used on mystra's behalf--is the following:
i think it would have been nice to have a scene with gale where we do get to see--on a much smaller scale--him losing control over the orb, have the protag and the companions see what he is trying desperately to keep contained within himself, what gnaws at him, what continues to haunt him.
it could happen perhaps after a particular gruelling and intense fight--and there are enough of that in the underdark and at the mountain pass. it could have been a ! conversation, providing both friendship and romance content.
have the orb act up after expending so much energy to manipulate the weave to the fullest of his abilities, have gale manage to reign it in, but barely, show that it takes a lot of power and effort for him to do so.
that it hurts, with none of gale's metaphors to hide behind or jokes to play it off.
have the audience truly see the gravity of what he is going through.
#gale dekarios#gale of waterdeep#bg3 spoilers#i think it also would have made the scene with elminster and mystra's demands even more impactful than it already was#also i am a sucker for parallels but gale falling to his knees again and tav pulling him up again as on on-going motive makes me Feral#anyhow excuse the long meandering here#many thoughts#but my brain is literally soup rn#ch: gale dekarios#vg: baldur's gate 3#series: baldur's gate#meta: mybg3#long post for ts
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oh i would actually be curious to hear your thoughts on lolita book covers in that case. i do get the sense that some of the covers are designed to uncritically titilate and seem to misunderstand the text, but that could obviously be an assumption on my part lol.
oh i agree that the cover designs tend to run counter to nabokov's intentions, both in the text and in the literal instructions he gave about covers lol. they pretty clearly rely on putting some young girl on display, which is exactly what nabokov did not want to do visually; they also tend to suggest dolores as some kind of seductress (sultry gazes, pouty lips, &c). clearly this is precisely the opposite of what the text tells us about her.
however when evaluating these visual choices i find that many people portray them as some kind of originary and culturally polluting act: that is, a narrative emerges that the problem here is people misinterpreting 'lolita', and then publishing it with covers that will do harm to young girls &c. i think this is lazy analysis and fundamentally makes idealist assumptions overestimating the effect of cultural products (books, book covers) on problems, like the sexualisation of children, that are in fact grounded in material relations, such as in this case the status of children as legal property and the total power granted to adults over them. that is to say, these broader conditions are at root the reason that cultural products like the cover of 'lolita' look the way they do, and chalking it up to individuals not understanding the book is never going to get us very far; and also, although some of these covers are pretty egregious, they are the reflection rather than the cause of the sexualisation of children, a problem that would continue to exist even if every edition of 'lolita' ever printed just said "humbert humbert is an unreliable narrator and dolores haze is a child he is preying on" on the cover.
fundamentally i also think this sort of conversation often elides some more interesting points about whom these covers communicate to and what they say. you suggest they are meant to "titillate"; although i would agree dolores is often shown as sexual, desirable, and seductive, i'm not sure that's the same as assuming the cover is trying to arouse the potential reader. for one thing, to put it bluntly, this style of cover tends to be associated more with books marketed to women than to heterosexual men. and more broadly, and this is something the lolita podcast really fails to understand imo, the phenomenon of people reading 'lolita' and relating themselves to dolores is not mutually exclusive with this type of rhetorical construction of dolores-through-humbert's-eyes. that is, often what appeals about dolores is, i think, precisely the fact that through her, people find a way of discoursing about or simply re-enacting the kind of sexualisation that they are already subjected to or have been in the past, whether or not at a level as explicit and extreme as what nabokov depicts.
i'm not really interested in a simple moral condemnation of the people who design these covers; that critique writes itself. they are obviously bad and facile, and reflective of precisely the culture of child sexual abuse that nabokov's text condemns. but if we are interested in the reception of these objects, or interrogating the cultural meaning and implications of their existence, i just think there's a lot more going on here than what the podcast portrays as a simple sort of 'broadcast' model of mass media wherein the 'lolita' book cover and trope is beamed out to unsuspecting innocents who are then exposed to its nefarious elements. dolores appeals to people for lots of reasons, some prurient, some pitying, some openly self-projective, and these are not mutually exclusive with one another nor are they mutually exclusive with readings that reproduce elements of the very lolita character that humbert creates and uses to silence and re-write dolores. we can be uncomfortable with that and refuse to talk about it but if that's the position someone wants to take then i'm not likely to be interested enough in their opinions to, like, listen to their podcast about this book lol.
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Ghouls are, put simply, humans suffering from advanced, prolonged radiation sickness and whose bodies have mutated such that gamma radiation extends their lifespan past natural limits.
The process of ghoulification is outlined in canon sources, but I wanted to make a guide that goes into more detail on the effects of radiation sickness in various cases, since the level and type of exposure significantly affects the outcome.
This is the first in what will be a series of posts exploring both real-life cases of radiation sickness and the sci-fi concept of ghoulification in some depth. Graphic descriptions of the physical deterioration of the body are included for informative purposes; reader discretion is advised.
For this first case study, I examine the effects on the human body of exposure to high levels of radiation in a short period of time, with a focus on the real case of Hisashi Ouchi.
On September 30, 1999, a lack of appropriate safety measures and the proper materials resulted in an accident that caused three workers at the nuclear power plant in Tōkai-mura, Japan, to suffer from severe radiation poisoning while purifying reactor fuel.
Point of Criticality
An uncontrolled fission reaction was produced when technicians poured nearly seven times the legal limit of uranium oxide into an improper vessel containing nitric acid. The men reported seeing a bright blue flash—indicative of Cherenkov radiation—when the mixture reached critical mass, flooding the room with radiation. The workers evacuated to the decontamination room, but already, the two who had been handling the reactive solution were overcome with intense pain from radiation burns, severe nausea, and difficulty breathing. Hisashi Ouchi, who suffered the highest level of exposure, also experienced rapid difficulties with mobility and coherence. Upon reaching the decontamination room, he vomited and fell unconscious.
~1 Hour Post-Exposure
Ouchi regained consciousness in the hospital about 70 minutes after the criticality accident, where doctors confirmed that he had been exposed to high doses of gamma, neutron, and other radiation.
The maximum allowable annual dose of radiation for nuclear technicians in Japan was 50 millisieverts. Exposure to more than 7 sieverts is considered fatal. Yutaka Yokokawa, the supervisor, had received 3 sieverts. The technicians who had been handling the uranium, Masato Shinohara and Hisashi Ouchi, received 10 sieverts and 17 sieverts, respectively.
~1 Day+ Post-Exposure
During the first few days in the ICU, Ouchi appeared to be in remarkably good condition, given the circumstances: the skin of his face and right hand was slightly red, as if by a sunburn, and swollen. His eyes were bloodshot, and he reported pain under his ear and right hand, which had received the most direct exposure, but he could speak normally, and he joked with the doctors and nurses attending to him.
6 Days Post-Exposure
Tests revealed that the high energy radiation that Ouchi had been exposed to had obliterated the chromosomes in his bone marrow. They were unrecognizable—some severed, some fused, all out of order. This damage meant that his body was unable to create new blood cells. The red blood cells that transport oxygen could not be replaced, and Ouchi's white blood cell count was near zero, leaving him extremely vulnerable to infection.
~1 Week+ Post-Exposure
Intensive treatments, including numerous skin grafts, blood and bone marrow transfusions, and revolutionary stem cell transplants were conducted in an attempt to stabilize Ouchi, but ultimately without lasting success.
The skin grafts couldn't hold; when medical tape was peeled from his skin, his skin came with it, and the marks left behind couldn't heal. Blisters like those of a burn appeared on his right hand.
Ouchi reported frequently that he was thirsty.
~10 Days Post-Exposure
By this point, Ouchi's oxygen levels were so low that even speaking required tremendous effort. Ouchi was placed on supplemental oxygen and required sedatives to be able to sleep.
2 Weeks+ Post-Exposure
Ouchi was no longer able to eat and required an IV. By day sixteen, most of the skin on the front side of his body had fallen off.
His low platelet count and lack of healthy skin meant that his blood and bodily fluids leaked through his damaged pores, resulting in unstable blood pressure.
Donor stem cells that were meant to allow his body to create new tissue were also destroyed by the radiation present in his body.
~1 Month Post-Exposure
On the 27th day following the accident, Ouchi suffered from intense diarrhea. The mucus layer of his large intestine had vanished, exposing the red submucosal layer beneath. His body could no longer disgest or absorb anything he ingested; even water was excreted as diarrhea.
The skin of Ouchi's right hand was almost entirely gone, leaving the surface of his hand raw and dark red. Blisters spread across his right arm and abdomen, then over his entire body. Gauze was required to replace his skin, and his fingers had to be individually wrapped to prevent them from sticking together. Without skin to keep him warm, Ouchi required an electrothermic device to maintain his body temperature while his bandages were changed—a daily procedure that took hours. Every time the gauze was removed, more of Ouchi's remaining skin went with it. His eyelids could not shut, and his eyes bled. His nails fell off.
Ouchi's right arm was necrotizing, leading to an increasing amount of myoglobin—a protein in muscle tissue—flowing in Ouchi's blood. Untreated, this could result in renal failure as the kidneys could not process the amount of myoglobin present.
Ouchi's body could not regenerate the platelets that form scabs, meaning the risk of hemorrhage was extreme.
By day 50, more than two liters of fluid seeped from Ouchi's damaged skin each day. The amount of fluid prevented skin grafts from adhering. Furthermore, he began to suffer from blood in his stool, and permeated blood seeped between his inflamed small and large intestines.
2 Months+ Post-Exposure
On the 59th day after the accident, Ouchi suffered the first of many heart attacks. His kidneys and liver were also failing. He no longer showed reactions to stimuli.
By day 63, Ouchi's macrophages—the immune cells that normally attack and consume bacteria and viruses—were attacking his own healthy blood cells.
After 67 days, Ouchi suffered internal hemorrhage. He bled from his mouth and intestines.
Ouchi would continue to suffer from heart attacks, as many as three in one hour. Each time, he was revived, but he suffered increasing brain damage, until multiple organ failure ended his life after 83 days in the hospital.
Ouchi's colleague Masato Shinohara underwent numerous successful skin grafts and a stem cell transfusion as well as radical cancer treatment, but he, too, died of multiple organ failure after seven months. Their supervisor, Yutaka Yokokawa, was treated for minor radiation sickness and was released from the hospital within three months of the accident.
This detailed chronology was referenced from the book A Slow Death: 83 Days of Radiation Sickness by Iwanami Shoten, translated by Maho Harada. My post, of course, focuses on Ouchi's physical condition in his final months, but it’s important to remember him not just as a victim or a patient. He was a loving husband and father whose sense of humor and resilience left an impression on everyone he came into contact with. The book is available in its entirety here and provides a moving, nuanced account of the incident and the efforts to save Ouchi's life.
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At Victory's End
summary: You help Hunter to recover from the lasting effects of Hemlock’s torture on Tantiss.
pairing: sergeant hunter (tbb) x reader
tags: season 3 finale spoilers, mentions of torture, trauma, hurt/comfort, angst, fluff
rating: T
word count: 3.051k
main masterlist • hunter masterlist
You paced the floor of the shuttle as you kept your gaze fixed on the opened hatch. You, Echo, and Wrecker had already gotten the clones settled, and now you were only waiting on Hunter, Crosshair, and Omega—assuming all had gone well.
It was a waiting game, and it felt like you were losing.
Until you finally saw the image of the three of them in the distance, with Omega walking in between the two brothers. Hunter and Crosshair were both hunched over as if they were in pain, a sight that instantly brought a fearful chill to your chest as you began to hurry down the ramp to meet them in the middle.
“Sunny!” Omega called out your nickname with sweet relief. She ran forward to meet you, and you instantly caught her in your embrace.
You closed your eyes as you cupped the back of her head and let out a relieved exhale. “It’s so good to have you back, sweet angel.” You gained the strength to pull away from her as you held her shoulders and gave her a quick once-over. “Are you okay?”
Omega nodded, gesturing with her head to the two men behind her. “Thanks to them.”
You smiled, though your lips instantly straightened in severity again when you took note of Hunter and Crosshair’s weary faces. Your voice lowered as you asked Omega another question. “How are they?”
Omega grimaced, and that was enough for your worry to spike even more than before. You had already been caught up to speed on Crosshair’s hand by Wrecker, but he had told you that he didn’t remember much else. All he might’ve heard was Hunter’s pained screaming, which had already had you seized by the most horrible feeling imaginable.
“Sunny,” Crosshair suddenly huffed out, as if it had taken him a great effort just to speak. Omega stepped aside to let you face him, and your heart fell straight into your stomach. Crosshair was nearly keeled over at the weight Hunter was placing on him—his deadweight. Hunter’s eyes were also fluttering closed in a way that made it seem like he might fall unconscious at any moment.
You recovered from your shock at the sight and took Hunter from Crosshair, wrapping one of his arms around your shoulders and letting your adrenaline take his heavy weight. He let out a half-hearted groan as his free hand gripped his side, and his head fell towards yours. Your voice was a haunted version of its usual self as you spoke. “What happened?”
Hunter couldn’t speak. Your throat tightened with worry as Crosshair offered an explanation. “Hemlock.” He let out a grunt of his own as Omega offered him support. “He… put us under the conditioning.”
Your brow shot up at that. “Conditioning?”
Crosshair exhaled and shook his head. “Torture. A shock treatment to encourage conditioning. And for Hunter…” He trailed off. He didn’t need to say it.
But you did. “His senses.”
The words barely made a sound as they left your tongue, and you were immediately hit with a rush of concern like never before. It stole your breath for a moment, but you caught yourself with a quick inhale and focused on Hunter. His head was almost fully leaning against yours, the small pieces of hair soaked by the rain still sticking to his forehead. His eyes had almost fully closed.
“Stay with me, love,” you murmured, willing all your strength to push the two of you ahead towards the shuttle. “You’re okay now. I’m here.”
After a few slow steps, Hunter tried to speak, and the sound sent a sharp jolt of relief to your heart. “Sun…”
You stopped for a moment and lifted a hand to his head, sweeping away some of the wet hair from his face. “Yeah. It’s me.” You ran your knuckles over his cheek and smiled at him the best you could.
Hunter’s eyes fluttered again as he tried to keep them open. His own relief still wasn’t lost on you. “She’s okay.”
You looked over his shoulder and saw Omega and Crosshair behind you, as if they were waiting to help you and Hunter if you needed it. You smiled even wider and nodded. “That’s right. You and Crosshair saved her.”
You began to push onwards again, slowly but surely closing the distance to the open hatch. Hunter had one more thing to say as you did so. “You’re okay?”
You nodded at him. “Yes, Hunter. I’m just fine.” You tightened your grasp on his arm around your shoulders. “Let’s just focus on you for once. Okay?”
Hunter huffed then groaned, his head resting against yours again as you got him on board. The obvious fight he was putting up gave you hope, but you still felt devastated just by the thought of what he’d gone through. That type of torture would be unbearable for anyone, but for someone with Hunter’s enhanced senses, you couldn’t even begin to imagine how painful it was.
The thought alone brought tears to your eyes that you swiftly fought away. Everything was okay, and he would be okay, too—even if it was hard to see him in such a state.
As you got the two of you onto the shuttle, you were immediately approached by Echo, who took Hunter’s other arm. “How is he?” Echo asked you.
“Responsive.” You looked over at Hunter and watched his eyes flutter again.
“That’s good.” Echo gestured with his head over to where Wrecker was sitting on the floor. “We’ve got Wrecker some med patches, and he’s in pretty good shape.”
“I’m glad to hear that.” Your tone was genuine, despite the way your worried mind was still set on Hunter. “Crosshair seems like he’s doing all right, too.”
“Good.” Echo’s voice revealed his own relief. “I was worried when Wrecker told me about his hand.”
Your heart ached for Crosshair for a moment. “Yeah. Looks like they at least sealed it off for him.”
Echo gave you a quick glance, his gaze darting over to Hunter as he did so. “I can help you get him somewhere quiet. I think he needs that.”
You offered Echo an appreciative smile. “I agree.”
It was then that Hunter tried to speak up again. “I’m fine.”
You raised an eyebrow at him. “Sure.” Your hand on his arm lowered until his fingers were entwined with your own. “But you would still love to be somewhere quiet right now, wouldn’t you?”
Hunter closed his eyes and nodded, and for a moment, you feared that he had finally fallen under. You studied him until his eyes fluttered again, and you exhaled your fearful breath as Echo continued to lead the two of you up the lift and to a private corridor.
“Here.” Echo helped you set Hunter down, and groaned at the movement. Once he was settled, his hand still in yours, Echo stood back up. “I’ll get a medpac for you. Once I’m sure everyone’s on board, I’ll be taking us straight to Pabu.”
You could’ve cried at the sheer relief you felt that this nightmare was truly coming to an end, but your concern for Hunter’s current state overpowered it. “Thank you, Echo.”
Echo nodded, setting a reassuring hand on your shoulder before he disappeared from the corridor. You took a deep breath for composure as you focused on Hunter, whose eyes were closed once again as his head rested against the interior hull.
You were gentle as you released his hand to instead hold the sides of his face. “Hunter.” Your voice was so soft even you nearly missed it, your thumbs brushing under his eyes in another attempt to gain his attention. When he didn’t make a move or say a word, you let your concern get the best of you. “Hunter, please.”
His eyes at least opened at your desperation. You wished so badly you could stay as calm for him as he always did for you and everyone else, but with the way things had gone ever since Omega was taken on Pabu, it was truly an impossible task. Each minute that ticked away without him or the others near you made you expect the worst. To see him alive was a relief, but to see him so out of it was still terrifying.
Hunter tried to speak, but he quickly tightened his jaw as his expression contorted in pain. You watched him fight to keep his eyes open again, his teeth gritting in his effort to do so. Your brow knit together as you gave him a once-over, and quickly, you saw what was happening. His right hand shook just as Crosshair’s used to, but it was more violent in the immediate aftershocks of what had happened to him.
You took his trembling hand and lifted it to your face, loosening his fingers for him and splaying them across your cheek. Your gaze remained in his the entire time, and as you secured his hand to you, you watched the pain and fear slowly begin to leave his brown eyes. It filled you with a relief to potent that you were yet again brought to tears, but you still refused to shed them.
“There you go.” Your praise for him was another gentle whisper as you ran soothing circles over the back of his hand. “It’s okay. You’re okay now.”
Hunter’s eyes closed again, but that time, you could tell it was purely in his own relief. You pressed a gentle kiss to his gloved palm even as your worry began to exchange itself for an all-consuming rage.
Hemlock had done this to him. Not just him, either, but also Wrecker, Crosshair, and so many others. He had to be dead. You wouldn’t stand for it if he wasn’t.
As if sensing your thoughts, Hunter opened his eyes to look at you the best he could. “He’s gone.” He swallowed hard as his weak thumb ran over your cheek. You couldn’t help smiling at the sweet action. “We… made sure of it.”
“Good.” You held tight to his hand and wrist as you composed yourself with another breath. “We couldn’t leave him alive. Not after all he’s done.”
Before you or Hunter could say anything more, you heard Echo returning. You lowered Hunter’s hand from your face to look at him. Echo was carrying medpac as well as a blanket, both of which he handed to you with a sympathetic smile. “Here you go, Sunny.”
You set the supplies down to hold Echo’s hands between yours for a moment. “Thank you, Echo.”
Echo tilted his head at you. “You know you don’t have to thank me.” He nodded at you. “We’re family.”
That made your lips widen even more. “We are.”
Echo returned your smile before he stepped away, guaranteeing your and Hunter’s privacy for now. You set your focus on caring for him, beginning with the removal of his wet pieces of armor. He looked as if he was going to try to help you, but you stopped him, setting a firm hand on his chest until he relaxed once again. There was a small smile that tugged on his lips as you continued your work, not stopping until all the upper pieces of his armor had been set aside. You then set the blanket around his shoulders, pulling it close together under his neck.
You held on to the corners of the fabric and kept yourself close to him. Studying the flecks of his eyes that were still slightly dazed, you began to crumble as your adrenaline wore off. There were too many close calls. Hunter had been tortured, and you weren’t there to help him. He had to face down the man who had done it, not just to him but to many of your loved ones, and you weren’t there to support him.
It had been a long, terrifying mission, yet he was still here, and so were you.
Hunter was the one to act first. His hand rose to the side of your face as he encouraged you to rest your forehead against his. You remained gentle, still wary of his frayed senses as you touched him. “It’s okay.” Hunter’s voice was no more than a rasp, but it was still much stronger than it had been before. That gave you hope, a feeling so sweet that it only made the tears in your eyes even harder to resist. “Just like you said before.”
His other arm wrapped itself around you, encouraging you to fully relax into his side. His head was still resting against your own even as he cradled you against him. Hunter took the corner of the blanket on your side and lifted it so that the two of you were sharing its warmth.
You began to shake your head, the swirling emotions of the day—especially the guilt—beginning to swallow you whole. “I should be helping you.”
Hunter raised his brow at you. “You are helping me.” He closed his eyes and pressed his lips to your forehead, keeping them there even as he went on. “You were all I needed.”
The sweetness of his words nearly healed you in a single, softening blow, but another angle you took on them shattered that illusion in a heartbreaking way. “You needed me,” you nearly cried, “and I wasn’t there.”
Hunter lifted himself from your head, his gaze looking horrified as he realized exactly what you were going through. “No.” He shook his head and cupped the side of your face with his gloved hand. “No, no, no. That’s not what I meant.” His thumb caught one of your tears the moment it left your lashes. “I’m relieved you weren’t there. It was dangerous. I…” he paused, circling his jaw as he considered his words, “I snapped when I realized Omega was there, and that she was in danger. I even impaled one of the assassins.”
You blinked through your tears and tightened your jaw in hardly concealed anger for your enemies. “Good.”
Hunter huffed, clearly amused by your vengeful spirit as he went on. “What I meant was…” Hunter had to pause again. His expression began to fall in a worry so genuine that it made your chest ache all over again. “I didn’t know what had happened to you. After we got Hemlock and saved Omega, I knew that everyone was okay—except for you.” He closed his eyes and rested his forehead against yours again. “I needed to know.”
You set your hand over his, hoping to reassure him. “I’m okay.”
Hunter reopened his eyes and lifted the corner of his mouth. “Now I know. And, as you can see, it’s already helped me recover.” He ran his thumb over your cheek again as he nodded, minding your head against his own. “I’m okay, too.”
Still, the memory of Wrecker describing Hunter’s screams mixed with what you had already seen and inferred was too much for you to handle. Your vision began to blur again as you spoke through the knot in your throat. “I’m sorry this happened to you.” You closed your eyes and resisted the urge to tremble in your utter grief for him. “I’m so sorry.”
Hunter held you more closely, his hand moving from your cheek to your chin to gently tilt your head up more at him. It encouraged you to reopen your eyes and meet his warm, calming gaze. “You never have to apologize on behalf of our enemies.” His eyes lowered from yours for a moment before he raised them again. “It wasn’t easy, but we did it. We completed the mission.” Hunter’s lips began to stretch in a warm smile that you hadn’t seen in a long, long time. “We’re all free.”
As the truth of his words began to sink in, you returned his smile, relief finally pouring over you in uncontrollable waves. No longer was the sickening devastation of what he had been through; instead, all you could feel was the sweet, sweet feeling of a victory that was well-earned. “We did it.”
Hunter’s gaze glittered more as he watched you share in his joy. His thumb ran over your chin as he went on. “Now that we’re free…” his nose brushed yours, “how does a lifetime on Pabu sound?”
You could’ve sobbed right there at the idea of the dream you’d longed for actually coming true, but you were too caught up in your shared affection to give in to anything except for him. “That sounds perfect.”
With that, Hunter kissed you with all the strength he had left, each movement of his lips against yours a gentle promise of what was still to come. You were more than happy to lose yourself in him and the future that was finally in reach, even if all you had to grasp onto physically in that moment was his wet locks of hair. You took your time with him just as he did with you, knowing that at long last, it was finally on your side.
When you parted, you stayed close together, your hands braced upon his chest as you raised your brow at him. A genuine wave of concern washed over you as you spoke to him. “Was that too overwhelming for your senses?”
Hunter offered a reassuring smile in return. “Only in the best way.” He gave you a quick kiss before he encouraged you to lean fully against him, silently urging you to seek rest with him in a way he desperately needed. You obliged, your head resting upon the inside of his shoulder and chest as you closed your eyes in sweet relief.
It hadn’t been easy, and it sure as hell would still take lots of healing for everyone, but it was truly worth it. All of you were finally free, and you were going to take advantage of every sacrifice that made your freedom possible—starting with the time you and Hunter had been given to simply rest.
main masterlist • hunter masterlist
hunter tag list: @zenrobbins0021 @cw80831 @yunggoblin @maddiedrmr
#this is exactly what i need to do for him rn okay??? okay.#tbb hunter#sergeant hunter#tbb hunter x reader#tbb hunter x you#sergeant hunter x reader#sergeant hunter x you#the bad batch fanfiction#the bad batch fic#dindjarindiaries#the bad batch spoilers#tbb spoilers
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Miguel barely allowed himself the moment of reprieve primarily for the reasoning that evil never sleeps and therefore by that logic, he shouldn’t have to either; or at least minimise his sleep to accommodate for longer night patrols. His desire to keep his city safe was admirable but soon become detrimental to his health as his body -despite the genetic splicing- was starting to collapse on him due to frequent neglect of the basic bodily needs.
It hurts you to see him like that and you knew that if he were to be confronted about it, Miguel would immediately become dismissive by stating that this method was completely logical from his standpoint, as it was a means to minimise the criminal activity within the city. Miguel always thought it was his responsibility to crack down on the crime rate, even though there were people who’s jobs were to do exactly that, but in Miguel’s eyes their methods of detaining criminals was comparatively a slap on the wrist as to what punishment they should be receiving.
All came ahead one night when he returned home particularly more battered then usual and on the verge of collapse; you were quick to act in stabilising his upper body in your arms but in due to his muscular form, you were both forcibly brought down to kneeling in the dimly light room that had the curtains drawn for convenience.
‘Miguel, what happened out there?’ You said as softly as you could as you moved your hands to hold his jaw with tenderness, as to not inflict more pain by accidentally applying pressure to the many cuts and bruises that littered his worn but handsome face. ‘Just caught a bad night, it’s nothing I can’t handle.’ He tells you as he’s pushing your hands away from his face, thinking that would be enough to reassure you when all it only proved to do was the opposite effect; Even as your watching him make an valiant effort to stand but from the way he was griping onto the bed frame like a lifeline or crutch, it wasn’t hard to tell that whatever happened out that had already begun to take it’s hold long before he arrived home.
Riddled with worry and annoyance at how nonchalant he was about his condition, you soon got up off the floor and made a reach for his arm that was leaning reliantly on the bedpost, feeling the muscles as they tensed under your touch. ‘This isn’t just nothing though, is it Miguel. I mean look at you, you’re barely able to walk on your own without needing something to use for support.’ You heard him sigh deeply as he then spoke. ‘How I’m doing hasn’t got anything to do with you, y/n, I’m capable of looking after myself.’
His words were with thinly laced with venom but you merely scoffed, knowing by now that he didn’t have it in him to hurt you, not that he ever would, he’d never forgive himself if you hurt on his watch and by his hands by that, but his stubbornness and inability to let others help him had finally became his Achilles heel. ‘You know damn well that’s not what I was implying, I know you can handle yourself in the most toughest of situations but is it such a disservice to yourself to rely on others now and then.’ Miguel didn’t say anything and you took that as your cue to keep talking while you still had his attention.
‘Look,’ you stepped closer to him so that you could see his face, his brows were heavily furrowed and his jaw was in the motion of clenching but flinched when reaching a particularly bruised spot; He looked like the image of what you thought a war torn angel would look like, he bared his flaws like scars that were scattered across his perfectly sculptured body whilst also keeping intact his god gifted beauty.
Miguel was perfect in every way to you but to himself he might as well have been the devil reincarnate. ‘I know you want to help the city but how can you when your own body is falling apart before you. You can shoulder the responsibility all you want but sooner or later that responsibility is going to start crushing you under it’s immeasurable weight and no matter how hard you push back, it’ll only push back harder.’ You trailed your hand down his arm until it rested upon the back of his much larger, stronger one and squeezing it. ‘I just wish you trusted me more because I’m more then willing to help but I can’t if you aren’t willing to let me.’
You both stood in silence as the nightlife of the city just outside the window continued on undisrupted and unaware of your squabble, all that could be heard was your in tandem breathing and the muffled laughter of passersby, which only felt to have gotten louder with the time spent without a response from the male next to you as your hope for Miguel to see reason seemed to dwindle; why couldn’t he see that you were merely thinking of his well-being and didn’t wish to see him end up dead in an alleyway you couldn’t reach.
You didn’t know if you could bare to stomach something like that ever being the possibility and you didn’t wish to be plagued by the what ifs, going insane by wondering how differently things would’ve turned out had you stepped in earlier and you certainly didn’t want to be burdened with the guilt and the depression that would soon follow afterward to remind you of your shortcomings; You didn’t wish that ending for Miguel for he deserved a far better one that ended on his own terms.
Just as you were about to give up all hope and leave him to his own devices, begrudgingly accepting that you couldn’t get through to him, the hand you were grasping moved to intertwine your fingers together, although gingerly as though Miguel was half expecting you to pull away but when you didn’t, his hand then proceeded encased yours entirely. ‘For the record I do trust you.’ He said. ‘I probably trust you more then I’ve ever trusted anyone for you’ve never made me think twice about ever placing my trust in you because you always end up proving why I chose to let you in. I’m sorry that I don’t open up as easily when it comes to help but I just didn’t want to make your life more of a incoherent mess because of me.’
‘My life was already an incoherent mess before you came along, if anything the moment you became apart of my everyday life it became a little more clearer to me as to what to do with my life.’ You told him.
‘And what’s that?’ He asked.
You smirked as you nudged his arm slightly. ‘To make sure your stubborn ass doesn’t get killed prematurely.’
Miguel scoffed but couldn’t help the smile stretching across his lips at the sound of your laughter, something that was much needed after a night like tonight as to remind him what he was coming home to after every patrol; the heavenly sound that was your laugh he swore had some hidden abilities for each and every time he heard it, he immediately felt better. ‘That’s funny but I’m pretty sure I’m we should be doing something about now.’ He responded blankly but you could see the humour in his scarlet eyes.
#miguel o'hara x reader#miguel o’hara x reader#miguel o’hara#miguel o’hara imagines#miguel o’hara imagine#Miguel o’hara fic#spider man 2099#spiderman 2099 x reader#spiderman atsv x reader#spiderman atsv#spiderman atsv imagines#spiderman across the spiderverse#spiderman atsv x you#spiderman atsv imagine#spiderman atsv fic#spiderverse x reader
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I paid $5 to access séamus malekafzali’s latest substack on palestine, here’s the full text,
It is easy to be lulled into a state of complacency, even with military occupation.
Israel’s occupation of Palestine has gone on longer than many of us on Earth have been alive, now going on 75 years. The levels of that deplacement, blockading, and violence have ebbed and flowed over years and decades, but that hand around the neck has always remained, even if how much it constricts has a tendency to loosen and tighten. Over 200 Palestinians have been killed by Israel this year in its occupation. News bulletins of them dying, oftentimes teenagers, come up through the headlines of Palestinian newspapers and channels as often as the weather. These deaths at the hands of Israeli security personnel are not isolated incidents, with soldiers materializing on roadsides and at checkpoints as unfortunate coincidence. They are constant spikes in the waveform of an incessant low-grade hum of humiliation, imprisonment, and destruction that has made daily life a forced agreement to constantly exist on the precipice of death.
This framing is not meant to be a tired retread of the conflict between Israel and Palestine or the nature of the Israeli occupation. This is meant to be a bulwark against the inevitable framing of this latest battle unfolding around Gaza, as it will appear in the Western media in the days to come.
There is a tendency, a deep-set one, to report Israel and Palestine as two countries that are on roughly the same playing field internationally, as you might report on a war that might involve Israel battling against a place like Jordan or Egypt. This kind of coverage obscures how deeply interlocked Israel’s military operations are with the fabric of the Palestinian society.
In the West Bank, settlements and checkpoints have made Palestinian land into a kind of comical archipelago, where in addition to being separated from Gaza by a huge land border, they are also separated from traveling to communities only a stone’s throw away from them without going through significant anguish. In Gaza, while no Israeli soldiers walk the streets, all their land borders are essentially sealed, their ports almost completely blockaded. Israel’s continued occupation has been so pinpoint and precise that its planes have gone as far as bombing bookstores, and its restrictions did not let up even when the COVID-19 pandemic reduced one health organization to carrying only as many tests of the deadly disease as could fit in a car.
This is not a matter of moral justification; one does not need to constantly busy themselves with having to make a full ideological conversion before understanding this. This is a matter of cause and effect.
What is the logical expectation, regardless of politics, ideology, culture, and creed, when a population of people is thrust into conditions that can only be described as an open-air prison, where every individual is a criminal in the eyes of the military occupying power regardless if they pick up a rifle or not, because there is supposedly always the threat that they will one day?
These are the basic conditions that have preceded the initiation of Operation al-Aqsa Storm this morning. As dawn broke on the morning of October 7, only one day after the 50th anniversary of the Yom Kippur War, Hamas’ military wing, the al-Qassam Brigades, launched a military operation of unprecedented scope in its history. Hamas fighters would not only attempt to enter Israeli territory proper with ground troops, already in of itself an intensely bold action (though not without precedent in the past decade). This operation would be a combined incursion into Israel by both land, sea, and even air. Ground forces would cut the border fence into settlements surrounding Gaza, speedboats would make landings in southern Israel, and fighters from a newly-inaugurated paraglider division would fly over the border fortifications and then further inland.
Threats of an invasion of Israeli territory proper have been a staple of speeches from Hamas and Hezbollah and groups like it for years. There was a long-standing perception by outside observers that it was fanciful. An intentionally lofty piece of propaganda that fires up supporters while the real military wheeling and dealing is done under far more subtle and controlled terms, as with most militant organizations. After all, no Israeli-administered town, the ones occupied in Palestine during the initial 1948 war, had ever been taken in any war against the Jewish state since its creation, even by a combined force of multiple Arab national militaries.
That notion now can no longer exist.
At sunrise, Hamas fired a gigantic barrage of rockets into Israeli territory, a staggering 5,000 in the first wave alone. As Israeli military and police forces were distracted by fires and rocket destruction in residential areas of the country, Palestinian forces in Gaza proceeded to make their primary move.
After the sun rose, Hamas cut through the border fence surrounding Israel and sent both fighters on foot and on motorcycles into Israel. Images released by the group seem to tell a story in frozen figures. Israeli soldiers, strewn dead, caught by surprise, one having even rushed out so quickly that he put on his military gear but no other clothes except his underwear. An even grimmer story could be found in one of the IDF military dormitories, where an entire room full of soldiers had been massacred, only having perhaps seconds earlier gotten the alarm that Hamas had breached the perimeter, many of them seemingly mid-way through getting out of bed.
From there, Hamas made unprecedented move after unprecedented move. Hamas fighters moved as far north into Zikim, built on the former Palestinian village of Hiribya, and moved as far east as Ofakim, built on the former hamlet of Khirbat Futais. The Erez Crossing, for years the only legal border crossing that Israel operated with the Gaza Strip, came under full Palestinian control. Sderot, a city where Israelis had once gathered on couches dragged to high peaks to watch the bombardment of Palestinians, now found themselves facing down Palestinian fighters in their own streets.
An additional shock would come in Israel’s initial response. Amidst cataclysmic scenes like hundreds of ravers in the desert near Gaza fleeing on foot, neither the Israeli president nor the prime minister spoke in those early hours in the morning.
The Israeli high command, despite the continuous insistence of Palestinian factions that they would one day attempt to take the fight into Israel itself, had become complacent. They, like many observers of Israel-Palestine, believed the occupation they had constructed could go on forever, unburdened by the need to adapt. Israeli soldiers after all were now more used to sniping reporters and unarmed protesters than engaging in military conflict. Entropy was what was propelling the military occupation complex of the Jewish state, not a wholly active effort.
Despite an ungodly amount of Western military equipment, highly advanced anti-aircraft systems programmed to shoot down thousands of rockets, an international reputation for tenacity and strategic knowhow, and multiple victories against Arab nations again and again and again, all of it ended up being useless against a Hamas fighter flying in on a box fan and a parachute.
This failure is two-fold, and both are closely related. One is the expectation that things could go on as before without addressing the root of the issue (that being a military occupation of an entire state), and the other in expectation that those being occupied had no capacity to learn from experience how Israel’s military strategy operates, people who could then going on to capitalize on that knowledge.
There is a fundamental flaw in the perception of Western powers toward the Middle East in general and Arabs in particular that because the groups fighting with Israel or the United States are irregular, bereft of highly professional uniforms and dedicated gigantic military headquarters, that they do not have the same ability to strategize and to confront the forces that are occupying their countries. Flashes of how faulty this thinking is rear their head again and again, from Iraq to Afghanistan and everywhere in-between and around, but still the idea, unspoken as it may be, remains that they are fundamentally unequipped compared to the might they are fighting against. But Hamas has military strategists of its own, ones that understand the asymmetric situation they are dealing with, and ones that understand what the actual capabilities of Israel are, versus what their perception is.
The perception of Israel’s invulnerability versus what has actually been displayed today could not have been more different. Instead of being forced to immediately pull back, in essence making today a raid, Hamas has instead actually contested several Israeli settlements, which are still being fought over at time of this writing many hours after the initial incursion from Gaza began. A single Israeli soldier captured and held in Gaza used to capture the Israeli imagination for years; now there are believed to be not only tens of soldiers captured by Hamas, but tens of Israeli civilians as well, all now being held within the Strip. Hamas has also brought Israeli military vehicles back into the Strip, the novelty of working IDF equipment now under Palestinian control a source of celebration within the territory. Over 100 Israelis are believed to have been killed in the first day of Hamas’ attack, and nearly 1000 injured, a shocking early casualty count in an ongoing conflict where casualties on the Palestinians’ side are usually far more lopsided.
Israel’s response so far to Hamas’ operation has been to escalate rhetorically, with Netanyahu now calling this a war, and escalating its usual military strategy with Gaza, with carpet bombing now on an intense, concentrated scale. At the time of this writing, almost 200 Palestinians have been killed in Gaza in only a few hours, with that number expected to rise significantly in the days to come. Already, news has come in of Israeli planes having leveled Gaza’s second-largest building, the Palestine Tower, which housed a plethora of media offices, in scenes reminiscent of Israel’s bombing of another tower block of media offices in 2021 that infamously took out the local bureau of the Associated Press.
As fighting continues into the night in ways never seen before since 1948, the question remains: after all these decades, why now?
The ostensible justifications of what the clincher was that sparked this operation are innumerable, but two appear to be most clearly illuminated: the recent increased activity of far-right Zionists at the al-Aqsa Mosque in occupied East Jerusalem (hence the name of the operation itself), but just as well the indications that the Saudi Arabia and Israel may be close to a normalization deal, which would be the largest such development in the Abraham Accords yet. Hezbollah mentioned this operation as being a “message” and a “decisive response” to Arab nations pursuing the idea of normalization with Israel. Still, it is important to recognize that pinning the undertaking of a completely gigantic operation of this scale as just a simple message to Saudi Arabia would be reductive. As the Los Angeles Times’ international correspondent Nabih Bulos says of the matter:
“To pretend that Hamas did this to be a spoiler of KSA-Israel normalization is just downright epic in its navel-gazing nonsense.”
What is important to always return to is that eternally governing line above everything: the low hum of constant occupation, and who has been causing its spikes. Israel’s government, its most far-right in its history, has been on the warpath almost immediately from its inauguration, with figures like Itamar Ben-Gvir and Bezalel Smotrich, now thrust to the forefront, doing everything large and small to provoke a Palestinian response. The hope is that the inevitable Palestinian response can mobilize the Israeli society, that it can be swiftly defeated by the Israeli military, and that the Israeli state can use such an opportunity to impose its sovereignty over what little of Palestine governed by Palestinians remains, and perhaps even what lies beyond it.
But that formula relies on the Palestinian side only accepting being provoked, themselves having no strategy of their own outside of firing rockets and yelling on television. Military occupation breeds a feeling of annihilation, but that annihilation is enclosed with it inevitable feelings of rabid and desperate hope, inspiring within irregular groups desires to try things never tried before. These are not always guaranteed to be successful: one may look at Aleppo when rebel groups managed to come together and break the siege on the city in the final stages of the battle, only for it to fall in the months to come anyway. Nevertheless, there is a real perception within Israel, communicated out to the world by its media and by its intelligentsia, that it is a nation on the verge of internal collapse, brought to the precipice by far-right forces it has let fester for decades without envisioning its eventual conclusion.
What does looking at how Israel is faring now communicate to Palestinian factions in Gaza? What do young people in Gaza, who make up 47% of the Strip’s population, imagine might lie ahead for them as they see these events unfold? What does a Hamas fighter imagine might be possible when, as the writer Josef Burton says, he exits a 25 by 7-mile space he’s never left in his entire life?
#reading#palestine#from the river to the sea 💗#I’ve debated caving and giving séamus my money many times before and today was like well. okay 👍🏻
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I’ve had an interesting thought swimming around my head that I swear I’ve been meaning to write
You know what would be an interesting combination of characters?
Jazz and Harvey Dent/TwoFace
Specifically a Dent just getting back on his feet, released from Arkham and trying to learn how to exist in the world with his condition
I’m thinking a reveal gone wrong, Danny has disappeared to ancients know where, so Jazz cuts ties and Stays with her Uncle Dent, or maybe her bio dad if that’s more your game. Just an soaking wet and miserable Jazz showing up at his crappy apartment saying she’s his daughter or niece and him resisting the urge to flip a coin because he has enough on his plate as is, only to let her in telling her they’ll talk about it in the morning and point her to the shower so she can clean up and dry off
Why do I think this would be an interesting combo?
Jazz’s interest in psychology. A lot of times, as a fandom we depict her as an expert, and in a future timeline where she went to school and has been practicing psychology maybe, but default Jazz? She’s not an expert
Jazz wants to be a brain surgeon, psychology is an interest of hers but her understanding is very limited. She quotes Freud and Jung and has some amount of academic knowledge of the field, but she clearly doesn’t understand that psychoanalyzing friends and family and offering unwanted psychiatric advice is actually rude and something she shouldn’t do. She lacks understanding of actual therapy and is clumsy in applying her knowledge to people she knows
And I find putting her in proximity of someone with DID and probably PTSD would really be an eye opening experience for her
Because Dent might humor her, TwoFace will call her out. They both have hung around Harley to know enough to tell her, “maybe don’t take Freud so seriously” because man does everything go back to sex with Freud, and maybe quoting a guy that says she wants to boink her dad is not as strong of a point as she thinks it is
And the thing is, Harvey would likely still be receiving therapy as an outpatient, potentially taking meds to help deal with his conditions, likely a mood stabilizer or anxiety med to manage PTSD symptoms, so she’s front seat of him learning to live as a regular person in Gotham with his condition. She’s gonna see his good days, his bad days, the side effects of his medication, and it’s going to change her idea of what psychology is. It’s not just quoting things at people, it’s not just saying “this is good for people” but she’d see what it being put into practice would look like
Maybe that’ll push her away from the subject. Maybe it’ll make her more inclined to study, to learn not just about it as an abstract but how to actually apply it to help people. Learning about actual therapy practices. Maybe living first hand with mental illness would be the push to switch from neurosurgery to clinical psychology in her future plans
Also I just think that Dent would be empathetic and do what he could to help her, meanwhile TwoFace would help her cut loose a little, get a little chaotic and have some fun
You can’t tell me there’s not something fun about her and “Uncle Two-y” having a night on the town that only results in a little property damage. Relax Harv, they didn’t do anything too illegal, because they didn’t get caught or nothing
#danny phantom#dp x dc#dp x dc crossover#dp x dc prompt#dpxdc#writing#writing prompt#jazz fenton#two face#harvey dent#I spend a lot of time thinking about Harvey dent and two face#and how his DID affects his character#because it’s beyond there being a good side and a bad side#two face is a lot of Harvey’s anger and ‘base impulses’#Freud would call him the Id while Harvey is the ego#base impulses and the arbitrator between impulses and the rules society creates#the judge would likely be the superego if this version has him#all rules
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Is there an offline later in the series implying that there's always an infinitesimally small chance of morphing just randomly not repairing damage to your base form, or is that a fan theory to explain what happened to Tobias in Megamorphs 2?
I don't think there's ever any canon line that addresses it. Mertil and Gafinilian are both exceptions to "morphing heals all," Mert because he's allergic to morphing and Gaf because his condition apparently isn't affected by it. There are also plenty of other exceptions, like the andalite in #8 missing a stalk eye and Collette remaining paralyzed in #50, but I don't think it's ever directly addressed in canon.
But yeah, it's definitely fanon that morph-healing is only mostly effective most of the time, for unknown reasons. Largely because of the many exceptions from canon.
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One of the things that fascinates me most is the question of how fast new species, and new ecosystems, can evolve, and how our very limited observations of ecosystem change within the memory of the human species compare to how it has happened in the past.
I've been thinking a lot about the extinctions of Pleistocene megafauna.
The suggestion that humans hunted them to extinction makes sense in light of simple correlation between extinctions and human presence on landmasses, but this doesn't prove causation—it might well be the other way around: that extinctions of megafauna and change in climate prompted human migration to new areas.
And the conditions on Earth really were so totally, radically different during the Last Glacial Maximum, that it's hard to imagine many megafauna species successfully adapting even in the absence of human predation.
The counter-argument to this is that those megafauna species survived past interglacial and glacial periods, but the survival of those particular species doesn't mean anything unless there were no comparable extinctions of any species during interglacial periods. And the resolution of the fossil record is just...really low.
It also puzzles me how quickly seemingly intricate ecological relationships have popped up in a time period that, evolutionarily speaking, is the blink of an eye. How can the reintroduction of bison, for example, have such a profoundly positive effect on plant life when the relationship between the two and the biome that both belong to is virtually brand-new? How can so many insects have developed obligately symbiotic relationships with specific plants that, a mere 15,000 years ago, could not have existed close to this place?
How could there be such a stark difference between invasive plants and native plants, when so little of the plant life that grows here could possibly have been in this same place for long enough to evolve substantially according to our current understanding of evolution? There were caribou in Mississippi and Alabama during the last ice age. Since Mississippi is now subtropical, most species can't have been there for very long, but Mississippi and surrounding areas have loads of rare endemic species with intricate relationships to other organisms.
I don't know enough about it...
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on the subject of trans men being treated differently by their peers after coming out: when i transitioned i worked in a profession that was mostly dominated by women, and all of my coworkers at my workplace were women. most of them were my friends, and we had a great time working together.
i came out as trans and they were all gracious and cool with it, and a few months later after being on T for a little while, i started living as a man at work. within a month three of my coworkers whom i had considered work friends came together and accused me of sexual harassment for bumping into them (i should clarify this was a job where you work in close physical proximity on the regular)
all of my coworkers also stopped including me in teamwork immediately after transition as well and left me on my own, i had to do a lot of lifting by myself to the point where i injured myself repeatedly at work and my back is now permanently damaged, and my workplace became overall extremely hostile to me.
all this while all of them constantly joked about wanting more male coworkers (there were a few cis men as well) who could do heavy lifting and saying that i "didn't count" as a man in their eyes
none of the cis men we worked with dealt with any of this and were welcomed with open arms by everyone else
Commiserating very strongly with the way cis women will joke about needing men to do heavy lifting right in front of you because you "don't count" - that's happened to me so many times as well as someone who has also predominantly worked jobs/in fields where cis women are the majority.
At one of my old jobs the only men were myself, the marketing guy, and the maintenance guy. The two of them, the cool butch woman, and the two women who'd known me since I was a kid were the only people who didn't treat me weirdly for being trans. Everyone else in that workplace was an older than middle aged cis woman who was extremely uncomfortable with my existence because it was a very Liberal™️ workplace and I directly upset their second wave "women can be masculine without being men" sensibilities.
All of that's to say, the maintenance guy and I actually commiserated a lot because he was getting older and more disabled and there were a lot of commonalities between the way he and I were both being treated by that group of older Liberal cis women. Our manhood was often contingent on our usefulness and the more elderly and disabled he became and the more outspokenly trans I was the less useful we became and the less Man™️ we became as well.
For me that manifested in literally being named (with my actual, masculine name thank god no one had access to my deadname there) and being misgendered in the same sentence by my boss to patrons regularly - putting me in direct jeopardy with those patrons because it effectively constantly outed me. For him it manifested in the ways he was treated, slowly more and more degradingly by that group. It was awful.
It just goes to show gender as a whole is conditional.
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hi could you possibly do a maya and carina x reader where reader is maybe drunk and stubborn and it is them taking care of her and just complete fluff 🫶
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You staggered around the room, completely losing your balance. You got drunk into oblivion on your best friend's birthday and your two girlfriends had to pick you up from the restaurant. As soon as Maya and Carina arrived, they quickly rushed to a private room at the other end of the building to come to your aid. "Bella, are you okay?" The brunette asked worriedly as they saw you leaning against a wall, your cheeks burning red and your eyes bloodshot and glassy.
Maya had immediately jumped to your side, hooking your arm over her shoulder so that she could catch your body and hold it upright before you stumbled and fell unhappily. "Sure thing, pretty. I'm awesome! I swear I can walk straight!" You muttered in an unintelligible slur and started to giggle, but all you got was serious faces, eyes looking at each other in incomprehension.
Using their combined efforts, they tried to gently lower your heavily intoxicated body onto one of the wooden chairs. “Y/n, darling, how much did you drink?” she requested, reaching out physically to lift your head and catch your gaze. You, however, looked back at your fingers, tried to count the shots on them, but failed miserably as they blurred and wavered in front of your eyes. "Um, I think a few more than I should? But hey, you suddenly have four eyes that I can look into, and all of them are beautiful!"
The blonde's hand fell to her forehead, trying to smooth out the wrinkles that had formed on it as she bit her lip. She looked up at Carina, who couldn't resist a gentle chuckle. Maya scuffled her hair and asked herself what you had gotten yourself into. Normally you were never the drinker. “Let’s get you home,” she sighed out loudly and rose from her kneeling position in front of you.
Both Carina and Maya helped you get up and carefully brought you into the car to take you home. During the journey it became quiet around the two of them. While Carina tried to keep the car straight and not swerve too much, it was Maya who turned around every minute to check on you. However, you were caught up in your own daydream, humming shrilly to the tune on the radio as you traced the tears of rain on the window. "Why didn't you call us and let us know? We could have picked you up beforehand. Then maybe you wouldn't have drank so much."
You looked at her with wide eyes, your pupils greatly dilated from drinking alcohol. You tried to remain serious, tried to think of a clever answer for your friend but failed and started laughing instead. "But then I would have denied you this wonderful trip!" This time, Maya and Carina couldn't help but laugh at your rambling, although they remained worried about your condition.
Both women were happy when they unlocked the door to their shared apartment and you were finally back in your own four walls. Up the stairs to the second floor with you in their luggage, the two of them were completely exhausted. While the blonde struggled to get you onto the couch, the brunette grabbed coffee and a blanket to help you get over the alcohol rush and keep you warm.
When she came back with the things, she also got salty crackers to balance your blood sugar levels and avoid side effects. Maya gratefully took the warm drink, handed it to you and supported the glass with one of her hands to avoid any accidents. "Here, drink some of this. It will help."
You nodded perfusively, pulled the glass closer to your face and sniffed it. You immediately wrinkled your nose, grimaced and pulled your head to the side to stop the smell from lingering in your nasal cavities. "That smells like burnt hope and Monday morning! Speaking of which, what kind of day is today?"
"Saturday morning," Carina laughed once more and moved back towards the kitchen while Maya stayed behind with you for a moment. When the Italian woman came with another glass, this time she put it to your lips and let you take a few sips. "This is water, maybe it will help you a little better."
"This tastes like the opposite and not as good as what I had before. Ugh!"
Maya shook her head miserably and began to take off the jacket she was still wearing, all the while standing next to you and making sure you didn't suddenly tip over to the side or fall forward onto the floor. "Maybe we should go easy on your taste buds? I think they've already experienced enough today."
You nodded in agreement, knowing she might be right. There was a short silence in which the two of them joined you on the couch. Carina took your legs on her lap and pulled them close to her middle, hoping that you would slowly relax and become calmer. But suddenly you started singing loudly, the words barely understandable, startling the two women who were tired and just waiting for you to fall asleep.
Shocked at the sudden noise and shrill tones that left your throat, they both looked at each other with wide eyes. The brunette held a hand over her mouth and looked away for a moment before she burst out laughing and couldn't stop herself. With this she also drew Maya under the pure spell of laughter. "Babe, is this your take on karaoke?" The blonde asked, holding her now aching stomach, but you didn't listen to her, got even louder and held your hand to your heart. You swayed on the couch, Carina holding your hand as you tried to sit straight on your shins and sang a tune that resembled the national anthem. "Bambina, I think you could make a new hit out of it if you sang the words a little more clearly!"
You laughed yourself at the incomprehensibility and the mood of the two women became increasingly relaxed. There was barely a shred of concern in their hearts, more happiness that you were doing well and that despite the poison in your blood, you generally made a good impression. "You know, you're probably the most entertaining drunk I know. And I've seen my entire fire team drunk."
Grinning widely, you bowed your upper body to her and punched your chest a few times before kissing the palm of your hand and holding it up in the air. "I take that as a compliment, my wonderful and beautiful Maya Bishop!"
The three of you sat together for a while until you noticed that you were getting more tired and slowly falling asleep. The blonde carefully covered you more tightly with the blanket and spoke to you gently to show you that you were cared for and safe. After the two were sure you had fallen into a deep sleep, they stayed close to you to continue to provide attention and support until you were stable again. Meanwhile, Maya and Carina kept exchanging amused looks.
"Hopefully she learns from this," Maya whispers in a gentle tone and squeezes herself next to Carina, wrapping her in a deep hug. The brunette leaned back, letting herself fall and trying to let the tiredness take its place. "Yes hopefully."
They stayed vigilant through the night to make sure you slept peacefully and didn't fall into a nightmare before deciding to seek some peace near you as well. They clearly deserved it.
#station 19 imagine#station 19 x reader#station 19 imagines#station 19#station 19 fanfiction#maya bishop fanfiction#maya bishop x reader#maya bishop imagine#maya bishop#carina deluca fanfiction#carina deluca x reader#carina deluca#carina deluca imagine#fanfiction#imagine#oneshot#writeblr#fanfic#imagines#station 19 fanfic
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A wish you want?
Azul Ashengrotto x Stoic/Apathy! Reader (not Yuu)
Genre: Fluff
Summary: You got yourself into a contract, and yet the contract doesn't seem that interesting and yet you just casually agreed to it to find a purpose...even if the contract is broken.
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"With this contract, I will grant you the wish to have a purpose~ So What will you say?"
"..."
And this is how you got yourself into a strange situation, being part of the monstro lounge but something is very odd about you.
You are a normal person who is in the dorm of Ignihyde, Blending into the shadows despite having decently good grades, normal stable life, and a good amount of magic (almost similar to Riddle in a way) but there is one catch.
Apathy is the main reason why you show much of your own pride to others, because of that a few people purposely mistaken you for a weak mage even tho you are mainly the opposite, but that is right besides the point.
For some odd reason (before Azul's overblot) you seem to notice Azul making a contract with the others. Getting exam answers perfect to a tee just to win at the first place, if failed to meet the terms they are now employees till they graduate. At first it seem to be a desent thing to like and accept but for others they would complain cause not only they would be forced to obey but their own unique magic is taken away.
But to you.... this is unique.
One day you decided to make a deal with Azul.
"So you want a purpose?"
"Yes... A purpose to find meaning."
This is something that Azul is not prepared, he has the wish solutions prepared and all that being made and ready but your own wish is unique and is hard to fulfill it. But Azul is never back down from a challenge and got a bit too confident to help you with your wish. Thus the both of you did sign the contract, but even after the events of Azul’s overblot you are still here in the Monstro Lounge as a staff member cleaning the place up.
And Azul does mentally admits that your wish is pretty hard to achieve, he can achieve others’s wishes easily but not this.
If he needs to grant your wish in a effective way…
“(y/n)-san, pardon the intrusion. May I had a work with you on your wish?”
“Hm? What is it, Azul?”
“I can understand the term of your wish, but I do have one question. What type of purpose or desire do you prfer?”
When Azul as you that question, you paused yourself. Even he too didn’t know the meaning of your wish, “I….” Staring at your own hands you shrug as Azul stares at you, he too was wondering himself, “Still no answer?” He asked as you nod sadly, “I understand, thank you for answering my question, (y/n)-san.” And yet he did not treat you badly, unlike before he did not grant your wish but now it would seem that answering your wish is his newest challenge.
Ever since that awkward question, Azul decided to have an idea. Gathering up the courage he decided to search up your conditions and evenly asked the Leech twins to keep an eye on you, but once the research has been set. Azul soon understands why you don’t hold a grudge against him when he did put you on a pressure in the Monstro Lounge, with the new found knowledge in mind Azul has an idea.
If you can’t find a purpose, why don’t he hang out with you to find your purpose with him.
Surely it can work so easily well.
But as a result, Azul did not realize one thing…
Thanks to the hangouts for almost everyday, he grew closer to you to the point that he realize he is in love with you slowly. You are a good listening to him especially when you also accepted him just the way he is, you help him out in Floyd’s place everytime his mood is bad, and most of all your support is what got him to enjoy your presence more. Because of that he loves you and your company, it gives him less stress and reassurance that things will go well, and yet he is scared that you won’t understand his feelings.
And yet he was not aware that he got successful in fulfilling your wish.
One day, you were about to head back to your dorm and call in for the night till Azul decided to come see you and invites you over to dinner with him here for free, it was delicious and yet you feel a bit guilty knowing that he just did it to make you happy. But as a result….
“Azul….”
“Yes?”
“Can you give me your hand?”
Azul hesitated for a second till he obliges, gently taking his hand and removing the gloves you give him a kiss on the hand which caused him to blush. Once you pull away you smiled at him.
“Thank you Azul. For fulfilling my wish.”
#twisted wonderland#twst#azul ashengrotto#twst azul#twst x reader#twisted wonderland x reader#azul x reader#azul ashengrotto x reader
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writing a fic where blorbo is poisoned and blorbo in love with her has to take care of her, ideas for how i could get this across?
I would recommend doing some research on the poison involved so that it's as realistic as possible. In a fantasy/sci-fi setting you can probably make up your own poison and choose the symptoms and treatment you deem the best for the situation. Here are some ideas to help you with that:
General Symptoms of Poison
-> from this source.
Stomach Pain
Feeling Nauseous/Being Sick
Drowsiness
Dizziness
Weakness
High Temperature
Chills (shivering)
Loss of Appetite
Headache
Irritability
Difficulty Swallowing
Breathing Difficulties
Skin Rash
Blue Lips and Skin
Double Vision/Blurred Vision
Sudden, Noticeable Heartbeats (Palpitations)
Mental Confusion
Seizures
Loss of Consciousness
Treatment
-> seeking medical help is also a good idea. The best idea probably.
-> from this source.
If they are poisoned by swallowing something, try to get them to spit out anything that is remaining in their mouth.
If they are unconscious and swallowed something, try to wake them to encourage them to spit out anything left in their mouth. Do not put your hand into their mouth and do not try to make them sick.
If the poison is on their skin or clothes, remove their clothes and wash the affected area with warm or cool water. Be careful not to contaminate yourself.
Lay the person on their side with a cushion behind their back and their upper leg pulled slightly forward so that they do not fall on their face or roll backwards. (Recovery Position)
If vomiting, keep their head pointed down to prevent them from breathing it in or swallowing it. Do not give them anything to eat or drink.
If they have stopped breathing or their heart has stopped, perform CPR.
It is important to know what substances you think the person may have swallowed, when it was taken, why it was taken, how it was taken, and how much was taken.
Any existing medical conditions prior to being poisoned are important to be aware of, as it may impact their recovery/ the poison may have effects on their condition.
Activated Charcoal - sometimes used to treat someone who's been poisoned. It binds to the poison and stops it being further absorbed into the blood.
Antidotes - these are substances that either prevent the poison from working or reverse its effects.
Sedatives - may be given if the person is agitated.
Ventilator (breathing machine) - may be used if the person stops breathing.
Anti-epileptic medicine - may be used if the person has seizures.
Writing Prompts For a Character Being Poisoned
-> feel free to edit and adjust pronouns as you see fit.
"Hey, hey, hey," she was lightly tapping his face, his head lulled to the side. "Open your eyes," she said to him gently, her heart sinking with each passing second. "Wake up, I need you here with me."
She had trouble keeping her eyes open. The room was spinning. She felt so weak. All she could hear was their voice, as if they were far away, telling her not to fall asleep.
They had this awful marking on their skin. It crawled across their shoulders and peeked out from underneath their shirt at the sleeves and neck. She thought it looked like it was getting worse every day, slowly blossoming across their skin. "It's not as bad as it looks," they said, trying to make her feel better. The raspiness of their voice and pale complexion did not fill her with hope.
"Your heart is pounding," she said, pressing a hand to his chest. His skin was feverish, warmth radiating off of him. Yet, he shivered as if he were freezing. "Only because I get nervous around you," he responds, a flirty tilt to his voice. They both knew that wasn't the only reason, but she smiled anyway.
"Will you eat something? For me?" They shook their head miserably. "I can't."
If you like what I do and want to support me, please consider donating! I also offer editing services and other writing advice on my Ko-fi!
#writing prompts#dialogue prompt#creative writing#otp prompts#writeblr#ask box prompts#hurt/comfort prompts#angst prompts#poison#prompt list#poisoned prompts#whump prompts
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Just thinking about how Chachamaru is a male calico, at least according the Taisho Secret right before chapter 195 that calls him manly. It really doesn't surprise me that he's male, because so many references to calicos I've seen in manga, mascots, and temple architecture specify that the featured calico is male.
This is because they are rare, and therefore considered lucky.
The figure that gets thrown around the internet is that supposedly only 1 in every 3000 calicos is male. (I'll bet the people who did the often quoted study at U. of Minn. College of Vet Med would love to tell you how it's more complicated than that.) This has long made male calicos popular not only in Japan, but in other countries as well. The thing is, though, the male calico might not always be so lucky.
To be very brief about why calicos (and some other multicolored cats) are almost always female, this is because, put very simply, one X chromosome gives us the black splotches, and one X chromosome gives us the orange splotches. That might leave you wondering where the white patches come from, and this is the part where I say that genetics is never simple and you should have fun reading about it. The important takeaway here is that in order to show this color pattern, a cat needs two X chromosomes, one from its mother and one from its father.
Typically, a male cat has an X chromosome (from its female mother, who only has two X chromosomes) and a Y chromosome (from its father, who had both an X and a Y), but because the calico coating can only occur with two X chromosomes, this male cat somehow got an X, a Y, and... hmm, another X somewhere.
So not a typical XY male, not a typical XX calico... this sterile XXY male calico has an extra chromosome, and mutations often are not ideal for the health of the animal with the extra chromosome. This particular condition is Klinefelter’s Syndrome, which can lead to a male calico having cognitive and behavior issues, weaker bones, increased risk of diabetes due to higher body fat, and perhaps a shorter lifespan.
Now, none of the fictitious lucky cats I've seen have ever been portrayed as anything less than smart and pleasant, though a lot of the maneki-neko are pretty round. For everything Chachamaru is tasked with, I have to assume he's above-average when it comes to intelligence, reasonably healthy enough to handle long-distance travel, and for a cat, he's extremely, extremely cooperative.
For the record, the same Taisho Secret (as well as Yushiro's statement in Chapter 194) makes it clear that for most of canon Chachamaru was a regular cat, for he was not made into a demon until right before the final showdown with Muzan. Even with her hands full making the medicine for Muzan, she still put a lot of effort into changing Chachamaru so that Yushiro wouldn't be lonely. It's ironic that Chachamaru winds up immortal, rather than doomed to a potentially shorter lifespan due to his mark...ings.
In the first place, was Tamayo perhaps moved with pity for a sickly kitten and nursed him to the health he's in now?
Or did she always keep her eye out for a male calico, wanting to put some faith in them being good luck?
Also, what sticks out to me in this Taisho Secret is that Chachamaru, not having a language in which he could communicate with Tamayo, had no choice in becoming a demon. Tamayo felt sorry about that. The word bubble over manly little Chachamaru says, with bravado, "Fine by me, if that's what the woman I'm smitten with wishes."
If Chachamaru truly is that smitten with her, that perhaps accounts for what an unusually cooperative cat he is. But it also reminds me of a fan theory that I saw once (and found worthy of weight) which said that perhaps Tamayo's blood technique has an effect like makes others smitten with her, and Yushiro might had been under its influence, however strongly or subtly. If such a thing were the case, it might or might not had been something Tamayo was conscious of. If she was conscious of having some effect like that, she probably felt awful about it but found it a necessary precaution to keep any demon she made under control. If she wasn't conscious of such a thing, that means she might had subconsciously developed it out of loneliness, and had been trying to keep company at her side.
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