My dogs my beloved dogs!! The first line of beastial spirit vine soldiers from my LoK AU. Created by Baatar when during experimentation, he discovered the spirit energy after being condensed causes the vines to react strangely to machinery and processed material. Turning the inorganic to organic.

These soldiers are comprised of spirit vines that have mutated in reaction to the condensed activated spirit energy and adhered themselves to the suits. Similar to "mimics" in a way, they can conceal their mouths fully so they're indistinguishable from human soldiers, though very astute earthbenders may notice they neither breathe nor have a heartbeat.

Zodiac Mom Headcanons: Momiji’s Mom

Slowly but surely I am making my way through these mom posts. This time let’s talk about someone whose worst moments as a mother were put on blast for the audience to see. 

Rat & Snake Mom | Ox Mom | Tiger Mom | Rabbit Mom | Dragon Mom

Momiji’s mother is an only child born in Berlin. 

Her father, a handsome and charismatic man, is a renowned photographer. Her mother, beautiful and alluring, is a dancer. They’re drawn to each other immediately when they meet on a photoshoot that features her mother’s dance troupe. 

Their romance is as short-lived as it is passionate, and the affair comes to an abrupt end when her mother becomes pregnant. 

The responsibility of a child falls almost completely on her mother’s shoulders, essentially ending her dance career (something she had left her family to pursue), and the beginnings of a cruel resentment begin to take form.

Her father has the spirit of an artist -- not wanting to be tied down to one woman, and not very suited for a traditional family lifestyle. That being said, he doesn’t abandon mother and child completely. 

As Momiji’s mother grows up, her father will pop in and out of her life as he pleases. She thinks her mother can be too strict, too mean, and becomes a difficult child to handle as a result. But when her father comes to visit, she is over the moon and perfectly behaved. He’ll take her to museums, show her the photographs hanging in his studio, give her a stepping stool so she can help in his dark room, and (unlike her mother) will never ever scream at her even when clumsy, childish hands accidentally spill things or knock things over. 

Her father never sticks around for very long, and as wonderful as it is to see him, it hurts tenfold when he leaves. And so, she grows up with her mother’s snappish impatience, and her father’s casual and conditional affection. 

Going into her teenage years, Momiji’s mom begins to come into her own as an artist -- admiring and following the path of her father. She loves painting and ceramics, but she begins to grow into an undeniable beauty and it’s not long that she’s discovered as a model.

Her mother does not approve of this choice. For her, it’s bad enough that she has to watch her daughter openly prefer her father’s company to her own (despite everything she’s given up to raise her, while he can barely spare to send a postcard on their daughter’s birthday), but now her daughter is adding insult to injury by pursuing her father’s lifestyle. A lifestyle her mother was forced to give up to have a child. 

It also doesn’t help that Momiji’s mom finds almost instant success as a model. 

Where her mother was simply impatient before, now she becomes cruel. 

She begins to undermine her daughter’s beauty, nitpicking at every little thing about her appearance. Momiji’s mother is now being constantly told that her photos are drab, ugly, unprofessional. That her beauty is fleeting, that the world around her will discover one day how little talent she has, and that her artistic abilities are worthless and boring. All this while she’s still only a teenager. 

Momiji’s mom acts out in different ways, but mostly by taking on more modeling work (that exhausts her) and bringing home boyfriends her mother would never approve of (for good reason).

Her first serious boyfriend is a man six years her senior who is possessive and jealous, and rips to shreds the last bits of self-esteem she had left. 

By the end of their four year relationship, Momiji’s mother has come to believe that something inside her is deeply, truly ugly. She has an overflowing anxiety that others will see her for what she truly is. Something that is wholly incompatible with her inability to be alone -- whether romantically, or via the need to surround herself constantly with people. 

It’s at this time, at 20 years old and in her second year of university, that she meets Momiji’s father at a campus mixer.

At first, she’s intimidated by him (thought that doesn’t stop her from making conversation). She finds he’s not just studying abroad here, but attends the university full-time. He’s fluent in Japanese, German, and English, and seems so much smarter than she believes herself to be. In addition, he has a cold, distant demeanor to him that makes him seem unattainable. 

Momiji’s father on the other hand, is taken immediately by this woman. He’s awkward and nervous in large social gatherings, but has been told from an early age never to outwardly show his discomfort. But she talks so passionately, so freely, that he can’t help but be drawn to her. When he fumbles over his words at the end of the night to ask her out for dinner, she realizes that she’d mistaken his shyness for apathy, and it immediately enamors him to her. 

After two dates, they become inseparable. 

She’s taken in by his kindness and gentility. He listens to her as if everything she says matters. He isn’t at all like the arrogant personalities she’s dated in the past, and if anything has an aversion to talking about himself. He never once makes her feel stupid, puts her down, or makes her feel worthless.

She’s prone to terrible mood swings and bouts of manic self-loathing that will leave her a sobbing mess. But where this has driven away boyfriends in the past, it only serves to make him more devoted to her. He holds her in his arms, and never once gets upset with her for being so much to handle.

Momiji’s father is an only child from a high-ranking Sohma family, and has had the entirety of his life mapped out for him since birth. He works to inherit his father’s business, and to maintain their standing in the family. Insurmountable pressure had been put on his shoulders from a young age, one that isolated him from making true friends in favor of focusing solely on his studies. He was never allowed to be overwhelmed, to not be good enough, nor to be disobedient. 

But Momiji’s mother is like a walking piece of art -- chaotic and beautiful. He finds her endlessly interesting. He’s never met anyone who talks so openly about the things they love, the things they hate, or their own fears and insecurities. He likes feeling as though he can take care of her. He likes being someone reliable for her. And, eventually, he finds her to be the only person in the world that he can be vulnerable with. He has only ever cried in front of her. 

For the last two years of college they spend all their free time together. He uses his cushy Sohma allowance to take them on trips and long weekends around Europe. And when the time comes for him to return to Japan after graduation, he can’t picture even a moment of his future without her. 

He proposes, she says yes, and she agrees to leave her life in Berlin behind to move to Japan. 

It’s a difficult transition. Though she had started learning Japanese when they first started dating, she’s far from fluent. It makes forming friendships and new connections within the Sohma family all the harder. 

It’s also clear that her mother-in-law does not take too much of a liking to her. Momiji’s father bends over backwards making sure that their new home has space for her to continue her artistic pursuits, which comes off as frivolous to her new family. She also has limited housekeeping skills which reflects poorly on her ability to be a proper wife. 

It’s an isolating experience, especially with her husband working long, late hours nearly every night. The loneliness begins to eat at her, resurfacing the shattered self-esteem that her new husband had spent the past two years healing. She seriously considers moving back to Germany on more than one occasion, but then she gets pregnant. 

She’s not ready for a child. It’s too soon, and the thought of taking care of a whole other person is terrifying when she can barely stand to get out of bed most days now. But her husband assures her this will be a good thing, that maybe it will help the aching loneliness she feels. 

Before she has a chance to get excited, they’re summoned by a young Akito. 

Momiji’s mother doesn’t really process what she’s being told. Her husband has to translate what the little six year old is saying to her, and when he does his face is pinched and anxious. 

A curse, he says. Her child is cursed. Somehow it makes sense, what with everything that dwells inside herself, but it’s hard for her to grasp this whole thing beyond that.

The pregnancy is a difficult one, filled with complications and scares that leaves her health completely depleted. When Momiji is born two months premature, her nerves are completely frayed. 

True understanding of her child’s situation doesn’t really hit her until she holds a small rabbit in her arms, swaddled like a baby. 

She vomits when it first happens. The transformation leaves her completely shaken, and she can’t understand why no one else around her seems to find this as horrific as it obviously is. 

She does her best for the first few years. Honestly, she does. But the child makes her nervous. The supernatural nature of it all terrifies her, and she shakes every time she tries to hold her child and finds a little rabbit there instead. 

As he grows older, she finds herself snapping at him over the smallest things, just as her mother did to her. A guilt builds inside her steadily that somehow she is at fault for this, that her hidden, disgusting nature warped and mutated their child. The thought of it puts her in hysterics at times, and she finds she can never relax in her own home.

Her husband urges her to keep herself together. There’s a desperation in his voice when he talks to her now. He reminds her, again and again, that above everything else Momiji is their child. Theirs, and no one else’s. He is their son that they have created, and he is still a symbol of the love they have for each other. Once she adjusts to the situation, she’ll learn to love him the way he knows she can. She just needs more time.

During this period, other zodiac mothers make an attempt to reach out, and her Japanese is finally at a level that she can have pleasant conversation with them. Haru and Yuki’s mothers invite her to lunch often enough. Shigure’s mother is also very hospitable. She also takes a real liking to Kureno’s mother, though the woman is clearly disliked by many of the other women in the family. 

It helps, but it’s still difficult to talk to these women about her issues with the curse and with her son. Their eyes are judgmental, and she worries if she falls apart in front of them it would not be met with the same warmth as her husband (though he’s hardly ever around anymore). 

Stress and guilt and shame and fear slowly build inside her for the next four years. Then, one day, she sits down to paint and realizes she can’t. She’s too locked up -- the reality of her situation has become too overwhelming, and she can’t even release it through her art.

She finally decides to tell someone about what’s going on. Her husband had been very clear with her that this curse is to remain completely secret, but it’s not as if she wants to do a news interview. All she wants is to talk to her mom. 

Her mother is still the same harsh, critical woman she’s always been, but they’ve grown closer in the past few years. Becoming a mother herself has made her appreciate her own mother more, and the distance has softened both of them to each other considerably. 

She tells her mother the whole story, with her listening surprisingly sympathetically throughout. By the end of the conversation, Momiji’s mother feels more comforted and loved by her mother than she has in years. 

It’s Momiji’s father that gets the call from his livid mother-in-law demanding to know what’s happened to her daughter, and if he’s doing anything about the fact that she’s having a complete nervous breakdown that features wild delusions regarding their child.

Momiji’s father comes home that night, and for the first time he becomes truly angry at her. He scolds her for telling her mother anything about their situation, which only serves to make her just as angry since she was only seeking a bit of support. 

But it all gets much much worse when he says how lucky they are that her mother thought she was deranged. 

The whole world drops from below her feet when he admits that he let her mother continue to think that she was clinically insane. The man who had always defended her, understood her, cared for her -- the man she had left everything for -- had created a lie so egregious and spouted it back to her own mother. 

She demands to know why he would do such a thing, and when he sputters out his thoughtless obedience to this strange family -- the one with the child treated like a king, and with all these dark secrets. After so long of telling her that she was his light when his family treated him like nothing, after telling her that she was his most important family now -- it’s a betrayal that she’d never expected from the man she loves.

The reality of her isolation comes down all at once. There is no one left she can talk to, there is no place she can go, and this child now represents something completely foreign to her. The only thing that was keeping her together was her husband’s assurances that the child was completely theirs -- but it’s not. This child belongs to the Sohmas, to some curse that her body housed and nurtured. The disgust that’s been building inside her body breaks like a dam and completely washes over Momiji. 

She becomes inconsolable. She refuses to look at her son, and her husband becomes subject to fits of rage and anguish. He feels as though he’s completely lost her, and with the love of his life so indisposed, he feels just as alone. 

Momiji’s father is the one who tells her about the option to wipe her memory. Not just in hopes of reeling back her sanity, but because he wants her to forget the lie he told. If she forgets that, maybe their marriage can go back to how it was. If she forgets that deep cut of betrayal, maybe she won’t look at him like he’s some misshapen stranger. 

She agrees as quickly as she had when he proposed. Together they decide that forgetting Momiji will ultimately be for the best.

At first when she recovers, things seem to return back to normal. But there’s always a piece missing as the years go on. There’s always something not quite right. Momiji’s father is paranoid and nervous -- the presence of his wife is no longer a comfort, but a stressor. And sometimes, for the briefest moment, he’ll catch her staring at him. Her eyes far off and distant, like she’s completely lost in thought, and the expression that rests on her face will be one of fear. When she comes back to herself, it’s as if she hadn’t even noticed. 

The zodiac mothers are told not to speak to her after her memory is erased, which suits most of them just fine (Haru’s mother took particular offense to the decision). Below is the relationship chart for pre-memory wipe: 

Friends with: Kureno’s mom, Haru’s mom, Shigure’s mom, Ritsu’s mom

Doesn’t like: Yuki’s mom, Hatori’s mom

(Knowledge) Ancient tomes of sacred lore begin fading away.

(Life) All healing magic now comes at a cost to the casters own health.

(Light) The sky is darkened to a permanent twilight.

(Nature) Large swathes of wilderness are infected by a strange rot.

(Tempest) Droughts spread across the land as rain doesn’t fall as often.

(Trickery) People with normally good humor become cold and bitter.

(War) Morale is decreased and soldiers begin to mutiny against their officers.

(Death/Grave) Undead creatures have a chance to randomly rise from graves without a spell cast by a necromancer.

(Forge) The knowledge of forging mithral and adamantine armor and weapons is lost.

Nothing. Once the god is the creator of it’s own domain, but it is able to maintain itself in its absence

(Arcana) All spells now have a chance to go wild.

(Fire) The world becomes cold as it goes into a long winter

(Air) The air becomes polluted and difficult to breath. Many people die of lung related issues.

(Water) Rivers and oceans go stagnant and unmoving.

(Earth) The land becomes infertile and unusable.

(Time) Time rifts start appearing everywhere causing things from the past and the future to come into the present.

(Dragons) All dragons, dragonborn, and kobolds turn to dust

(Darkness) The world becomes filled with endless light and a never ending day

(Love) Family and friends start to hate one another and form grudges over the smallest things

(Order) Revolutions happen everywhere and anarchy reigns supreme

(Good) Empathy and altruism are no more as people are looking out for themselves

(Evil) Angels descend from the heavens to purge the world now knowing that there is no evil god to protect the wicked

(Nature) The forests run amok. Animals and plants invade cities, as every natural order accelerates out of control.

(Nature) Conversely, the forests and fields begin to die. Animals grow sickly and lethargic.

(Nature) The seasons begin to spin out of control. A day dawns with blazing heat, but snow covers the ground to a foot by lunch, and a monsoon rages that night.

(Death) Nothing may die. Nothing. Not the cattle, not the sickly, not the old, not those grievously wounded. Souls are bound to their bodies, and may never set off on their journey. Chop someone into bits, and every tiny piece still twitches in agony.

(Any) As the gods ‘body’ decomposes their essence (what they were the god of) infects the land affecting all who lived below their realm eg if the goddess of nature dies – nature explodes over the area (eventually after hundreds of years the natural green will die and become the land will become barren after the body completes decomposing). If it was the god of war or anger – every person and animal in the realm becomes driven by anger/easily angered, and plants become more dangerous, etc

(Nature) nature becomes twisted and more and more aberration like.

(Nature) herbivores turn predatory and hunt for meat

(Forge) weapons turn weak, Metal is prone to bending and it tarnishes easily.

(Weather) drought spreads across the land

(Weather) destructive “sunder storms” where lightning falls like rain destroy the landscape.

(Weather) winter never ends.

(Any) Angels, demons, fey, other gods, and spirits start competing for that gods power and worship to fill the vacuum

(Any) If the god who dies has worshippers still his corpse enters an odd undead state. He’s too week to be an actual god again or become truly alive again. However his remaining worshippers keep him from truly dying.

(Any) desecration of the area in which it died.

(Any) the nature and landscape where it died twisting to reflect the gods domain

(Any) people in the area also changing to reflect the gods domain

(Any) powerful magic soaks into the land creating powerful items. Things like spiders whose venom can only be cured by other god touched magic. Plants whose berries heal you and their juice can even raise the dead, etc.

(Knowledge) every self aware creature must succeed on a DC 10 Int saving throw or take 1D4 psychic damage and lose as many memories as the DM decides while also losing 1d4 Ing Stat.

(Any) The heavens begin to fall to earth/fuse with the material plane

(Any) Paladins will be in a huge pickle during their conquests.

(Protection) Warding and shielding spells no longer work.

(Protection) The ancient wards that kept the Elder Evils, horrible beings whose power even the gods fear, at bay fall.

(Any) People realize the gods are not immortal, and in reaction, faith in all of the gods begins to falter.

(Tempest) The entire world becomes still: no wind, no waves, not even clouds, like the world is perfectly smooth.

(Trickery) Nobody remembers that they can lie. Everyone either states the truth or is silent, ruining the world’s governments by disabling political maneuvering.

(Forge) Metal no longer melts, making all previously forged weapons exponentially more valuable, even an old rusty sword.

(Any) All of the people that were sacrificed to the gods come back (betrayed heroes, betrayed family members etc), but all of the things that gods has given to us fade away.

(Any) Outsiders from other worlds reveal themselves as the liberators, freeing us from our oppressors by killing the gods.

(Any) The god is replaced by another god that does a terrible (or better) job as the dead god temporary replacement.

(Any) The god was slain, the being that slew the god gains the gods power or becomes the god

(Any) Nothing. The god may have been responsible for creating or shaping it’s aspect, but once it was created it doesn’t need the god to maintain it.

(Any) The gods power leaks from its remains. Any magic of the gods aspect is greatly amplified for several years. The closer to the remains the greater the power is amplified

(Death) Everything that dies rises as a zombie.

(Death) Spirits of the dead are unable to move on. Everything that dies becomes a ghost.

(Death) Spirits of the dead start coming back to the living world

(Knowledge) people begin to forget things. (Names, places, history, how to do things, what they were doing, etc.)

(Life) every living thing becomes sterile (animals are unable to have children / plants cant produce seeds)

(Nature) microorganisms reproduce at an accelerated rate & every other living thing gets wiped out

(Nature) plants and animals become withered anemic versions of themselves

(Nature) plants and animals begin to die off (decay / rot / slowly crumble to dust / slowly turn to ash)

(Nature) plants and animals begin to mutate into monstrous versions of themselves

(Nature) plants experience explosive growth and begin to take over everything

(War) People begin to become more violent and warlike.

(War) People begin to become too apathetic to fight each other. Eventually, people become too apathetic to do much of anything. They just stand around in a daze until the die of starvation or thirst.

(Any) All clerics suddenly overload on divine power (as if the gods power has been divided between them). And they all start to slowly go mad, and start to lose control.

(Light) a massive and well known constellation vanishes and leaves a dark patch right in the middle of the night sky

(War) A vanquished war-god drops his enormous miles-long sword, which falls to Earth and pierces deep into the planet’s mantle

(Death) The god’s followers begin killing at random, hoping the power of their faith will resurrect him

(Light) Random people all over the realm begin to go blind

(Tempest) A whirling hurricane forms in the middle of the Ocean… and doesn’t stop growing

(Forge) The followers of this deceased god begin a pilgrimage to destroy every craft ever created and stamped with his symbol

(Arcana) The god’s death leaves a hole in the weave. Something… unwanted fills in the gap with Its body.

(Nature) The wood of the deity’s patron plant (oak) begins to disintegrate into dust all over the world. Buildings topple.

(Life) This god’s followers have a crisis at the oxymoron of their god dying. They are slowly driven insane

(Grave) The god itself rises as an undead, an anathema to its own mission

(Arcana) People start forgetting spells. (As a spell is cast, roll to see if that is the last time it is cast)

(Arcana) Everyone gains a cantrip. Now this minor power is just something everyone does, like breathing or eating.

(Any) Suddenly there is a war in the cosmos. Minor deities, greatly powerful beings like Warlock Patrons, and other generally unknown greater powers are vying for the position.

(Any) Upon the god’s death, their body is split into thousands and thousands of pieces. These rain down like meteorites but instead of being falling rock bits, it’s a new people recently awoken. Who are these newcomers and what is their memory of or connection to this lost god?

(Tempest) Ocean currents fluctuate wildly

(Earth) Widespread tremors and volcanic activity

(Tempest) Unpredictable squalls

(Light) Continuous winter sets in

(Order) Ubiquitous revolutionary sentiment arises

(Music) Instruments quickly go out of tune, and singers forget words and have their voices crack more often

(Magic) All casters and magic items are treated as one level lower

(Nature) Animals behave erratically and crops fail

(Fate) Prominent heroes begin to meet ignominious ends

(Luck) Coin tosses and dice rolls result in predictable patterns (Heads tails, heads, tails/1,2,3,4,5,6,1 etc.)

(Luck) Randomness begins to fade. The first to go are critical successes and critical fails, but very rapidly all rolls end up as 10.5’s.

(Any) Their power returns to its source where anyone could take it for themselves

(Any) When trees and plants are cut down, instead of sap, blood starts to weep from the cuts.

(Winter) Animals that hibernate don’t wake. Plants and trees stay in their winter state. Even if the weather gets warmer things affected by season act like it never ended.

(Knowledge) every creature’s INT ticks down steadily as their memories slowly disappear until all life is reduced to animalistic intelligence.

(Death) no one can die anymore. HP can’t be dropped below 0 and no one can die of old age, accumulating age bonuses and penalties until all physical stats are reduced to 0.

(Light/sun) the sun and stars go out. The temperature continuously drops until the entire world is frozen over.

(Magic) all spells, enchantments, supernatural and spell-like abilities, etc. get progressively weaker until the entire world is basically in a null-magic zone.

(Nature) plants and animals become incapable of reproducing.

(Life) healing magic no longer works. Natural healing progressively weakens until it too is no longer possible.

(Trickery) it becomes impossible for anyone to lie or mislead

(Forge) a small mountain range of metals and the occasional gem crashes into the planet in 3… 2… 1…

(Knowledge) everyone receives random revelations rather simultaneously.

(Trickery) some guy shows up three days later, wondering what all the hubbub’s about.

(Life) Every wound healed by their clerics starts to rot, and everyone reanimated becomes undead.

(Trickery) Their holy texts go blank, holy symbols turn to dust, and all knowledge of the god is ripped from mortal minds, the god is dead and forgotten in all ways. While most people feel like they’ve forgotten something, the most devout worshippers to the lost god go mad from the hole in their mind and soul.

(Trickery) The gods secrets are spread throughout the world, the common-folk learn of their rulers corruption, people discover their spouses cheating, children learn their beloved dog didn’t go to a farm, all secrets good and bad are made known and will rip families, kingdoms, and even other faiths apart.

(Any) A shockwave of power blasts through the realms, knocking everything unconscious for d10 hours

(Arcana) Spellcasters and magic items begin to “glitch”, causing them to either be completely unable to cast spells/activate items or the spells go wild.

(Any) People and clerics begin to notice that something is…missing…

(Nature) Many two headed animals are born the following day.

(Any) The god(s) start to slip away out of people’s mind, and they start questioning if they were ever thing to begin with.

Thelreads, Vigilantes 53, Replies Part 2

1) “I MEAN, IT’S REALLY BRAVE, BUT NOW HE’S FALLING AS WELL AND THERE’S NO WAY TO KNOW IF HE’LL EVEN BE ABLE TO ACTIVATE HIS HOOVERING SINCE HE ALREADY HAD A SLIGHTLY FAULT DURING HIS QUIRK USAGE”- At this point, even the double-jump function would work, if only so they could get closer to the central pillar and maybe CC or Koichi could try and use what strength they have to grab/stick onto something, but alas, CC made Koichi think about what he’s doing, and he loses 60% hero effectiveness whenever he actually processes the craziness of his current situation and why he shouldn’t be involved.

2) “THAT HE WILL DO! HELL YEAH CAPTAIN, NOW THAT’S WHAT I WANTED TO SEE- AND YOU KOICHI, DON’T TRY TO DENY HIS HERO’S DEATH, JUST LET HIM GO, WE NEED TO DEFEAT FURUHASHI”- Ironically, given neither of them know about Koichi’s flight ability, CC;s just put himself into an even worse position than before despite literally hanging onto his possible salvation. At that angle, if Koichi activates his ‘thrusters’, it’s just gonna make them fly downwards at an even faster pace, and make a wider slash zone out of the captain’s remains. Even if he manages to right himself in mid-air, CC’s not holding onto him properly (arm over the shoulder), so he’d literally just rocket out of his grasp before he hit the ground.

3) “Okay man but that still doesn’t explain how you expected to cause even the minimum amount of damage to the Cap with all those heroes around. Those two Nomus lasted all of two seconds against them.

You know McBee, is not because I’m entrusting you with killing the captain that I won’t call you out on your bullshit as well.”- As it turns out, he always had the ability to turn a single Bomu into many for a maximised explosion, to that was a backup plan he could always rely on if things went south. That said, the fact he went for a more complicated plan that involved beating CC to death to ensure his demise rather than blasting the building down from the start implies he may have skewed priorities when it comes to enacting his plans. I doubt CC’s full power can hold something the size of the MurderDome aloft, even if he could hold a tanker ship with it, because he basically exhausted himself keeping it barely standing when the supports were partially blown up. 

Scarface could have ensured that several civilians and at least some of the heroes inside the murder dome would have been killed from the start if he’d focused on dropping the load, but because he wanted to ensure CC was amongst the casualties, he went for a plan that involved slowly and sadistically beating him down one punch at a time- in fact, the focus on exploding fists actually isn’t even that pragmatic, since the Bomu could have mutated/grown some additional bodies to help gang up on CC and beat him down faster, but apparently Scarface wanted to make CC’s death painful as possible for his own sadistic amusement.

4) “Alright it seems like McBee McSnapped, jesus.”- Yeah, Scarface’s control freak issues tend to bubble up whenever somebody’s doing something he doesn’t want, and given what he wants most is to see people die when he orders it to happen, and so far, nobody’s died yet, despite his best efforts, it tends to make him willing to ‘raise the stakes’ until he gets some satisfaction out of today’s crisis. In fact, this tenacity and unwillingness to quit is probably his biggest difference from Kuin, because whilst she prioritised efficiency and hiding, adapting to the situation as it developed and changing her goals accordingly, he wants the outcome to go how he envisioned it would go, and becomes increasingly prone to violence and mania if things refuse to go ‘back on track’ like he wants.

5) “OH JESUS FUCK WHAT IS THAT

WHAT

HOLY I DON’T- WHAT- IS THAT THING THAT IS NOT WHAT I IMAGINED THAT WAS GOING TO HAPPEN WHAT”- Looks like, unlike ‘Hyper Regeneration’ which only heals you up to a certain extent, saving a ‘template’ of your base body and them replacing any lost tissue to ‘restore’ what was lost and no more- which is why AFO still looks like Slenderman after he got the quirk, because his wounds had healed over and that is his base template look now- the Bomu’s regeneration seems to focus more on ‘growth’ to replace what was lost- growing entirely new cells and body structures to replace damaged or lost ones rather than just replacing it with an exact copy of what was lost. It’s slightly more varied, in that, if the regeneration is pushed far enough it can grow multiple examples of the missing body types, or even grow entirely new and separate bodies out of the original, but it seems that such rapid growth comes with the side-effect of causing cancerous tumours and growths to multiply along with the new tissue, which clearly isn’t healthy for the target involved. 

It works for Scarface because he needs more mass to maximise the Bomu’s explosion, but for a healthy humanoid individual using this self-same regeneration, they have to be careful with how much they grew back, or how often, or they’d likely grow back a cancer-filled body part if they tried to replace what was lost. So it’s more flexible that Hyper Regeneration, but comes with most corresponding risk rather than just unlimited, perfected healing of your base template self.

6) “HOLY FUCK- DID IT MULTIPLIED ITSELF TO AMPLIFY ITS EXPLOSIVE QUIRK? WAIT- WAS THAT THING… CLONING ITSELF? AND EACH CLONE HAD THE DESTRUCTIVE POWER OF THE ORIGINAL ONE?

WAIT

WAIT JESUS-“- Yeah, it seems like the Bomu’s explosive properties are baked into each and every cell of its body, so if it causes explosive body growth due to rapid regeneration, then it’s creating more mass that amplifies the eventual chain reaction. Granted, it’s clearly bad for the Bomu from both a combat and health perspective to turn itself into a massive cancerous blob, but as it’s an unthinking vat-grown monster, it doesn’t seem to care too much about what happens to it after the blast… or on the other hand, it might be better for it to blow up at that point, as it probably stands a better chance at regrowing a healthier body from the blasted scraps of its old one.

7) “What was that scene? That wasn’t a quirk, was it? That could be something similar to Twice’s quirk, I suppose? Is that how they are cloning those things? But that didn’t seemed like a quirk to me, that looked… wrong, and I say it on the “it looked off for this series” way. What in god’s name is going on, what have they done with those proto nomus, because holy shit that is unnatural, and if AfO stopped using it then it must mean that there’s something deeply wrong with it, because he would never let go of something that would give his toys an edge.”- It’s entirely possible that, in deference to how Nomus are formed from experimentation upon living human bodies to amplify their flesh, these Bomus are like Vat-grown silly-putty experiments- blobs of flesh that have unique rapid growth and expansive properties baked into their genetic makeup as a base template function, allowing the scientists behind the VF to add additional factors onto each one to more easily ‘modify’ or tweak each experiment with different abilities, as well as allowing them to rapidly replace any experiments that go astray. 

It might explain why the Bomus all look so uniform if they’re all grown out from the same organism and them experimented on afterwards to give them additional abilities, as well as why AFO would eventually take only the basic principles behind the process to adapt for his later work on the Nomus, because whilst this gives the Bomus a lot of variety and versatility in combat, it also actually makes them very fragile and unstable. If AFO tried adding multiple quirks to the level of a high-end to a Bomu, it’s likely the strain would cause them to melt or explode or such, because their easily-grown bodies aren’t sturdy enough for the strain, so he had to go through a more arduous process to create stronger vessels for the power. 

Technically I guess this does makes them somewhat similar to Twice, but these bypasses the main weakness of Twice’s quirk- the fragility of the copy and the hard limit to each item Twice could duplicate- but in exchange it has its own weaknesses- too much rapid growth is bad for the body and the Bomus in general seem to be highly volatile and unstable, fitting with their nature as disposable assets. It also means that the Bomus are much less versatile and dangerous in combat than any cloned person Twice creates, as they only follow orders with some slight deviations as befits the situation, but the whole ‘free will of a clone’ thing is one of the bigger themes of Twice’s character.   @thelreads

Witchers Were Never Girls

TITLE: Witchers Were Never Girls

AUTHOR/ARTIST: @alistairmoonshine

PROMPT DAY #: Day #8: Free day

SUMMARY:   Witchers were never girls. Geralt had heard that his whole life, but he wasn't girl. Geralt had just been born with all the wrong body parts. He never thought someone could accept him for him until Jaskier waltzed into his life and paid no mind to what he did or did not have. It was so refreshing for once, Geralt didn't have to answer questions.

WORD COUNT (if applicable): 3817

BOOKS/NETFLIX/2002 SHOW/VIDEO GAME: Netflix

TRIGGERS/WARNINGS: Trans character, penis in vagina sex with said trans character. Mentions of forced transition for the sake of becoming a witcher. 

RATING: E

ADDITIONAL NOTES: @geraskierweek

“Girls don’t become witchers,” That was what Geralt had heard his whole life. Yet, here he was. Well, he wasn’t exactly female, but he had been assigned female at birth. Geralt was raised male most of his life. It was all he had ever known.

He was only a child when Vesemir had scooped him up from his mother. Even during training, no one knew Geralt’s secret; only Vesemir did. Geralt did his best to bind his chest and was never seen naked by anyone. The training was hard, harder so for someone who was assigned female at birth. He had to work extra hard, train extra long, and bulk even more than others to finally get the body he needed.

When it was time for the mutations… Those had been horrendous. Only three out of ten boys actually survive. For some odd reason, Geralt was one of those three. He had handled the mutations so well he was given extra mutations and set upon even stronger potions.

Though, they had some great side effects. With the help from some magic, his breasts had all but disappeared and turned into nice hard pecks. He had grown several inches and bulked out tremendously. The only thing that had been left was… Was the parts between his legs. Granted, some parts of the mutations had caused certain… Areas to grow but he still kept his original set of genitals in tact.

Geralt really had no dysphoria over that part of his body so it had never occurred to him to go find more magic to maybe change it into what “normal” men had between their legs? He just decided to keep that part of him to himself. Even the women he slept with had no idea he wasn’t fully male thanks to some lovely crafted items he kept stowed away.

He had no qualms in pleasuring just about any woman but always refused her to pleasure back. It wasn’t that he didn’t ache for that connection. The want and need on his dick was sometimes real. So real, he would play with himself and stroke himself to completion alone. The orgasms just never seemed to scratch that itch… That itch deep within his body, but he just could not bring himself to share that side of himself to anyone.

Until that damned bard walked into his life. This perky 18 year old boy came waltzing into his life singing about fake mythical creatures and abortions. The man who used a pick up line about bread in his pants. It was almost unbearable. “Come on, don’t wanna keep a man with… bread in his pants waiting,” he had said before he had sat across from Geralt. Geralt had just grunted trying to ignore him.

Though, something perked his interest and the way the bard licked his lips was so delicious… No, no he could not fall for some strange and young bard. He was almost 100 himself! He was just a boy!

And somehow, said boy had gotten Geralt naked and was happily bathing him after the fight with the selkimore. Jaskier had glanced between his legs and Geralt was ready to attack if he made any comments on the folds and smoothness. Yet, Jaskier had not said a word and happily sprinkled bath salts in the tub and sang his praises about helping him at the damned banquet.

At least he hadn’t mentioned Geralt’s lack of a huge cock. Most people automatically assumed the 6 foot 2 man with the broad chest and broad shoulders held something monstrous in his pants. At least, that was the tales in the brothels and Geralt would like to keep it that way; thank you very much.

Yet, Jaskier had said nothing nor told anyone of his plight between his legs. Geralt had for once actually felt a little insecure with what he held down there. That was pretty unusual considering he actually didn’t mind for the most part. It was just easier to not explain to people that yes, girls CAN be witchers but in fact, they end up still becoming men in the end. It was part of the side effects of the mutations.

After that bath, and the banquet, Geralt was a lot more free with undressing and bathing with Jaskier. Jaskier would rake his eyes over Geralt then turn away and not say a word about what he did or did not see. Jaskier would gladly help Geralt bathe and even bathe with him if the tub was large enough or the pond warm enough. Geralt could handle almost freezing temperatures to wash off in but Jaskier was a lot more soft. He was prone to hypothermia. Which ended in them cuddling against one another during the coldest nights when they could not afford or be near an inn.

Jaskier was almost the same height as Geralt, but he was incredibly lithe with just the tiniest of pudges around his stomach. The “noble softness” that it was called. Geralt loved pulling that lithe body against his as Jaskier was spooned. Jaskier fit so perfectly against him and sometimes Geralt would have to stop himself from pulling him even closer to smell the scent of chamomile or Jaskier’s own strong musk.

On nights like those, he was thankful his cock wasn’t big enough to tent his pants and press against his friend’s bottom. Jaskier never made any advancements towards Geralt in any way. He never initiated the cuddling when it was cold, or any of their touches unless they were bathing of course. Then Jaskier was all over him, rubbing his back and even massaging his scalp and untangling the long strands and smoothing it away from his forehead. Geralt actually enjoyed these moments the most.

~ ~ ~

Now, here they were. It was late when Geralt entered the shared bedroom with Jaskier. A young bard maid screamed at the blood covered witcher and even without thinking, grabbed her clothes and ran. His eyes were still black from the potions he drank and he was panting loudly as he dropped the sheath with a loud thunk on the floor.

“Geralt!” Jaskier chastised as he sat up. The bard pulled the sheet over his own naked body as he swung his legs to the floor and planted them on it. “I was having a lot of fun!” He pouted a bit as Geralt growled, showing teeth. He was still high on the potions, “oh, oh don’t give me that!” Jaskier snapped as he stood.

Geralt being like this had never bothered or scared the bard. Maybe that was why Geralt had kept the bard around for so long? Jaskier tsked as he started to help remove the blood soaked armor. Geralt still growled and huffed but did not fight the ministrations of his friend.

“Stop your boorish growling. You need a bath. I am guessing drowner guts?” He made a face as he pulled strands of viscera from his hair. “Yes most definitely a bath!”

“Jaskier…” Geralt warned as those fingers worked on his scalp. A large hand came and clasped around Jaskier’s wrist and Jaskier stopped, dropping a few pieces of entrails to the floor. Geralt put his nose against his friend’s wrist and snuffled lightly as he moaned in the scent of chamomile, Jaskier’s own scents, and the scent of arousal and sex from the bard.

“G-geralt…” He murmured back and cleared his throat as he tried to pull away. Geralt did not allow that to happen as he started to lap and suck on the inside of his wrist with a quiet moan. “C-come on lets get you undressed. You need a bath… Ah!” He cried out and his cock twitched when he felt the witcher bite down. He did not draw blood but it left a small purple mark. Geralt grunted and dropped the wrist lightly. Geralt seemed to relax again as Jaskier finished removing the armer.

Geralt helped as he slowly undid his own belts and buckles letting them fall with a clang. Next, he kicked off heavy, black boots and they went flying across the room with a thump against the wall. Jaskier helped undo his pants and pressed on them to get them to go down. Geralt allowed this but soon moved to help and his pants and underpants also made it to the ground.

Jaskier cleared his throat again as his eyes glanced over the now naked form of the witcher. Geralt stood, bare without moving as he let Jaskier stare. “Ah, yes bath.” The man finally broke his gaze free and went for the tub. It had a pump built in thanks to being a much nicer inn and he started to pump the water quickly. It came out in splurts of steam and he hummed as he filled the water with floral scented bath salts.

How could one man be so flowery? Geralt had yet to know but he wouldn’t complain. He actually liked it. Geralt closed the distance between them and bent down to pull Jaskier up. Jaskier came willingly. Geralt could sense he was stiff, but there was no sour smell of fear. No, only the sweetness of arousal mixed with flowery balt salts and chamomile. “You aren’t afraid…” Geralt said calmly and Jaskier shook his head,

“I have no reason to be afraid of you,” Jaskier replied as his gentle hands came to rest on his friend’s arms. “You have never given me a reason to be afraid…”

“I bit you..” He murmured ever so gently and bared his teeth again. “I could kill you if I wanted especially right now. No weapons. Just bare hands…” He snarled gently and Jaskier tensed, adam’s apple bobbing along with his cock.

“Yes, you could.” Jaskier replied gently, “but you won’t. Now, if you don’t get in this bath I will have to wrestle you and we all know I am not that strong. So, in!” He pushed at Geralt until the larger man slowly entered the tub and sat down as he groaned from the warm water. It was almost heaven on aching muscles and sore limbs.

Jaskier sat to work and grabbed a bucket to start to pour warm water over his hair. Geralt grunted in between the motions but said nothing as Jaskier started a lather. He smelt lavender this time and closed his eyes as Jaskier hummed a song. “Come on, wash your own body you big brute,” Jaskier encouraged and Geralt growled but grabbed the cloth that was offered to him and started to wash the blood off his neck and face.

Jaskier’s fingers felt like heaven buried deep into his scalp as he massaged and worked until he felt all the viscera and blood slowly ebb away. Jaskier poured more water over his head to rinse and repeated the process until the water ran clear of blood. “There, nice and clean! Oh, your eyes are going back to normal…” Jaskier mentioned quietly when Geralt looked up at him with gold eyes,

“Yes, that is what happens when the potions wear off,” Geralt grumbled faintly as he leaned back and sighed. Jaskier just smiled gently and slowly stroked his friend’s shoulder. “How can you not be scared of me?” Geralt asked again lightly. “All I smell is… is your arousal. It’s so sweet it makes me ache,” he admitted and Jaskier fllushed lightly,

“Well you did catch me in the act of having a nice romp with a beautiful young bar maid…” He said softly, “but you really are a dense man.” He said softly. “I have always been attracted to you. I know you have always felt my eyes on you when we bathe. Yet, you have never brought it up or mentioned it. Can you not feel or smell my arousal when you spoon me on bitter winter nights? How I have touched myself in my bedroll next to you?” Geralt grunted softly,

“Oh, I have… I just thought you were thinking of others. I thought the reason you looked at me was curiousness you know because…” He pointed to between his legs and Jaskier snorted,

“I don’t care what is between your legs, Geralt. I care about you as a person,” Jaskier admitted softly, “though the tales of the brothels is that the witcher is hung like a horse!” He almost giggled softly and Geralt rolled his eyes,

“I wanted people to believe that. It is easier than explaining that not all witchers were born male,” he said calmly, “because witchers are never girls.” He made a face and turned away.

“Hey… Whatever your gender is or lack of or whatever… You are who you are,” Jaskier soothed and pulled Geralt’s chin so they were looking eye to eye. “I care about you. Not your gender, not what is between your legs, but you…” Geralt gave a faint smile and surged up. Their lips meshed and Jaskier moaned softly as he returned the kiss with just as much vigor and want.

They kissed for several minutes before Geralt pulled away and nodded to the bed. Jaskier nodded as well and was the first to make it to the bed. Though, Geralt easily closed the distance and toppled them both down onto the bed as he started to kiss Jaskier happily. Jaskier groaned and ground up, his hard cock touching and rubbing against Geralt.

Geralt gasped and threw his head back lightly. He was hard and swollen but his lips were incredibly wet and demanding. Geralt hadn’t really ever played with below his cock. It had never occurred to him that he could. Now, he just wanted to feel Jaskier play with him below. “Jaskier… Please.” he almost begged and Jaskier raised an eyebrow,

“Is that begging? Do witchers beg for sex?” He teased and was able to easily roll them. Of course, Geralt allowed the smaller male to roll them so he was now on top. He shifted his hips and started to grind low and slow. A small bead of precum smearing between them as Geralt ground back and whimpered at the friction of Jaskier’s normal sized cock against his own small dick.

“W-witchers don’t beg…” Geralt growled out but his head fell back and his hips bucked at the sensations as he moaned again.

“Oh-ho but I think they do,” he breathed softly and kissed Geralt gently on the lips. “If anything I do bothers you, please stop me alright?” Jaskier murmured and Geralt gave his consent as Jaskier quickly moved down his body.

He spent little time nibbling and sucking nipples before he traveled down the well furred body. His tongue dipped in and out of a clean belly button and he grinned at the way the strong muscles tensed and relaxed under his tongue.

Soon, he was settled on his knees in front of the witcher’s crotch. He leaned forward and sniffed lightly and moaned at the heady scent of arousal and slick from his friend’s crotch. “Oh, you smell divine… I bet you taste just as good,” he murmured and Geralt just moaned softly as his legs opened to better accommodate Jaskier between them.

The bard shuffled between strong thighs and gave light kisses to said thighs. Geralt tensed but soon relaxed as he felt soothing rubs on his hips. Geralt almost cried out when he felt the first tentative licks upon his small shaft. His cock twitched and he groaned as Jaskier moaned softly, “you taste amazing…” He murmured before he took all of Geralt into his mouth and started to suck gently. Geralt fisted brown mousey hair and held him close.

Jaskier was able to take his small size all the way within his mouth and he happily licked and sucked as his nose rubbed against Geralt’s pelvic area. Geralt ground up and moaned as he bucked. Jaskier was sucking him with vengeance and Geralt knew it would not be long before he was cumming. He had yet to let anyone touch him like this so it was all new sensations.

Jaskier felt the way Geralt shifted and was whimpering as he neared his release and refused to let up until he felt Geralt stiffen and he moaned loudly as he bucked twice and came. Jaskier groaned at smelling and sensing the other leaking so much between his legs. Jaskier pulled back; lips red and spittle sliding from his chin to Geralt’s small and twitching cock.

Geralt looked down at how debauched his friend looked and moaned gently as he pulled Jaskier up and into another kiss. “Jaskier…” Geralt slowly said as Jaskier pulled away,

“Hmm?” He asked softly and Geralt flushed,

“I have never let anyone touch me so… intimately.” He admitted and Jaskier turned red,

“I am glad you allowed me to, my dear witcher. I quite enjoyed sucking your cock,” he grinned a bit and Geralt gulped a bit and sat up,

“I want you to penetrate me.” He said and Jaskier gasped and sat up fully,

“Pe-penetrate you? Like… there?” He pointed and Geralt nodded,

“I haven’t even touched myself there. But I want you to. Will you?” Jaskier nodded and they shifted so both men were fully onto the bed.

“I will be gentle. Please, you have to talk to me and tell me to stop if I hurt you.” Jaskier replied and Geralt hummed lightly and opened his thighs more. The man settled between them and slowly let his fingers trace circles until they met his friend’s labia. He pressed one finger forward and felt Geralt buck as the finger slipped in oh so easily.

He rested and waited for Geralt to relax and slowly started to massage and move it around. Geralt’s brow was furrowed and he was grunting softly, but he did not tell Jaskier to stop. So, Jaskier pressed in a second finger and Geralt’s face relaxed slightly and his jaw went slack as he moaned out loud for Jaskier. Jaskier moaned along with him,

“Oh Geralt, you are so wet,” Jaskier breathed. “I can’t wait to feel you around my cock so wanting… Ohh you are clenching so beautifully,” Jaskier praised and Geralt felt himself really getting off on the praises as he moaned and clenched around the two fingers, “I wonder can you take three hmmm?” At that, a third finger entered Geralt’s hole and Geralt cried out happily as he bucked against the feeling of being full.

Jaskier figured he tortured his friend enough and slipped his fingers out. Geralt keened at the feeling of being left empty, “shh now my dear friend. I promise to show you exactly what it is like…” He said softly as he slowly grasped himself in his hand. He rubbed against the folds gently and then slowly pressed forward and gasped as his head slipped in oh so easily.

Geralt tensed and his face looked like a mix of fear, and concentration. “Geralt? Geralt speak to me.” Jaskier had not slid any further than the head as he waited for the other to allow more. Geralt nodded,

“I...I’m alright. I was expecting more pain but I am only feeling pleasure. Continue please?” Jaskier hummed and nodded as he slowly pressed closer in and buried himself deep within Geralt’s cavern. Jaskier had to hold back just a bit because he felt as if he could spend just from entering his friend. So, he waited until he felt Geralt relax more and slowly started a swift pace.

It wasn’t hard just the thrusts were quick and shallow. Every thrust in, Geralt groaned or cried out. Jaskier was surprised how vocal the witcher could be and it allowed himself to be just as loud. His own moans encouraging the ones from Geralt’s lips.

Jaskier leaned forward and his lips locked with Geralt. Strong hands encased him so they were lying chest to chest; stomach to stomach. Jaskier kept the fast and shallow thrusts as they shared a loving kiss. Soon, the witcher pulled away. His pupils were blown and there was almost no gold left, “more, harder.” He panted and Jaskier groaned as he sat back up on his knees. He slowed to a stop so he could adjust and quickly grabbed his friend’s legs about the knees.

He adjusted his friend’s hips and was holding tightly to the legs and bent Geralt forward just slightly. Geralt moaned softly at the deeper position and Jaskier jack hammered his hips roughly. Geralt felt his larger body slide against the bed and he cried out at the sharp thrusts. Jaskier really was giving it all he could. He was thrusting long and hard and moaning as he deepened the thrusts. Geralt took it all quite happily as he thrust back and kept making obscene moans.

The loud sounds of slick sex, and skin to skin smacks rung between their cries of pleasure. Geralt couldn’t handle this almost. He pressed a hand between their bodies and started to stroke himself roughly in time with the thrusts his friend was giving him.

It didn’t take long before Geralt was crying his release. Though, this time liquid squirted out of him and he cried out as he felt as if he had peed all over himself and Jaskier. Jaskier seemed to enjoy it and moaned ,”oh, oh yes look at that!” He cried and panted, “you just came all over me, Geralt. Beautiful oh, oh I’m close. Where at? Where can I cum?” He asked between pants.

“In me, cum in me!” Geralt panted and that was all it took. Two more thrusts and Geralt felt the first spurts of an orgasm deep within his body. Jaskier moaned as his hips slowed and he rocked his way through his orgasm as Geralt still stroked his stiff little cock. Geralt moaned too at being slightly over sensitive and worked now. Once Jaskier was finished, he pulled off and plopped upon the bed. Geralt groaned and rolled over to pull Jaskier to his chest,

“We need another bath…” Jaskier murmured and laughed softly,

“I..I’m sorry for uh getting all over you.” Geralt said gently a little shy now, “that has never happened before…”

“Geralt, you didn’t pee if that is what you think. You literally ejaculated. I have only experienced that once before with a very willing milk maid. I won’t go into details but people with ah… vaginas can have ejaculations just like men.” He said softly, “and I quite enjoyed feeling you spend over me. It was quite sexy. I hope to make you do it again. If, I have proven myself a worthy bed partner?” Geralt snorted softly as he pressed his nose deep within his hair.

“Mm, you have proven yourself far more…” Jaskier just smiled as he let his eyes slide closed. Maybe a short nap before another bath?

❝ The more I read, the more I acquire, the more certain I am that I know nothing. ❞  SCORPIUS MALFOY looks a lot like that muggle, FROY GUTIERREZ, right? Only 20 years old, that SLYTHERIN alumnus works as a HEALING APPRENTICE and is sided with the ORDER OF THE PHOENIX. HE identifies as a CIS MAN and is a PUREBLOOD.

CHARACTER PARALLELS: Amy Santiago (B99), Claire Temple (Daredevil), Chidi Anagonye (The Good Place), Giles (Buffy TVS), Michelle Jones (Spiderman: Homecoming), Elizabeth Swan (PoTC), Spock (Star Trek), Clarke Griffin (The 100), Harley Keener (MCU), Gregory House (House) suggested honorable mention Gizmo (Gremlins)

Full Name: Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy Gender/Pronouns: Cis man | he/him Age: Twenty Birthdate: January 20th Parents: Draco Malfoy & Astoria Malfoy (née Greengrass) Siblings: N/A. Birth place: St. Mungo’s Hospital, England Height: 5’11” Weight: 56 kg Sexual/Romantic Orientation: Demiromantic Bisexual Nationality: British Body Alterations/Marks: A ragged diamond shape scar at the base of his throat.

Blood Status: Pureblood Hogwarts House: Slytherin Wand Arm: Right Pet: A crested toad named Jarvis. Patronus: Arctic Fox Wand: 11 2/3 inches, Willow, Supple, Dragon Heartstring.

Willow is an uncommon wand wood with healing power, and I have noted that the ideal owner for a willow wand often has some (usually unwarranted) insecurity, however well they may try and hide it. While many confident customers insist on trying a willow wand (attracted by their handsome appearance and well-founded reputation for enabling advanced, non-verbal magic) my willow wands have consistently selected those of greatest potential, rather than those who feel they have little to learn. It has always been a proverb in my family that he who has furthest to travel will go fastest with willow.

Personality Traits: Brilliance, innovation, empathetic, individuality, openness, social consciousness, inventiveness, logical, practical skill and self assertion; lack of attachment to people and the “real world,” over-intellectualizing of the emotions, dismissiveness, anxious, crotchety tempered, facetiousness, rigidity, prone to self-isolation, intellectual arrogance, and stubbornness. Zodiac Sign: Aquarius/Capricorn Cusp Moral Alignment: Neutral Good Core values: Loyalty, Knowledge, Hope Four temperaments: Melancholic  

HOGWARTS HOUSE BREAKDOWN

Slytherin Primary and a Burned Ravenclaw Secondary.

Slytherin Primaries prioritize their own selves and loved ones first. Slytherins don’t feel guilty or selfish about this– they feel righteous and moral. The most important thing is to look after your own. Abandoning or hurting one of your own is the worst thing you can do.

A Burned Ravenclaw Secondary might want to be skilled, curious, and prepared, but they feel like they are (or like people think they are) limited, clumsy, or inconstant. Gathering knowledge, hobbies, skills, or tools is the right way to achieve their goals, but Burned Ravenclaws know that’s not going to work within their capabilities. So they take other paths and use other tools– maybe a Gryffindor’s bluntness, a Slytherin’s flexibility, or a Hufflepuff’s slow and steady dedication.

You may have a Hufflepuff Secondary Model.

Hufflepuff is the House of grit, reliability, and determination, and Hufflepuffs use those values to help live, act, and succeed. If you model Hufflepuff Secondary, you also value these things and like to live by them. You like to be hardworking, dedicated, and consistent– but you wouldn’t feel guilty for abandoning those values in the service of other, higher priorities. If there’s another, easier way to get what you want– you’d take it. You think hard work provides valuable rewards– and those rewards are why you work. The work doesn’t have persuasive value in itself.

9. The Expositor will have to destroy the one who they love. There is no other way. It cannot be avoided. Their fate – possibly even the entire world’s fate – depends on it.

39. You are in the Order, and as a spell inventor, you played a key role in helping the Knights mutate the Patronus Charm to create daemons. Because of this, you have a daemon of your own, and you have been experimenting with the limitations of the magic, trying to figure out if there are any ways to improve them.

Code Name Revontulet, which literally translates to “fox fire.” Legend says that an arctic fox dashed across the tundra swiping snow up into the sky, while others claim his bushy tail caused sparks when brushing the peaks of tall mountains to create the Aurora Borealis.

Despite his very best resistance he’s always been pretty empathetic in nature, he tries to rule his emotions as well as he can but fails more often than not. He was always one of those toddlers that if another kid started crying he’d be right along with them, not because he wanted attention but because he just couldn’t not. A bit of a crybaby, honestly, has researched how to magically seal up his tear ducts. Obviously managed to keep the family’s flair for the dramatic there as well.

Just managed to scrape through his schooling with nearly all top grades, this isn’t due to him being an excellent student. He has always accrued information with a voracious appetite. Any knowledge he could find, even if most people would consider it entirely useless. His mind clicks into that place? You can’t keep him away. However, when there is not an immediate stir of interest on his approach to a topic he has to fight with himself tooth and nail to carry on. Predictably found exam season highly stressful, was never open about it but was quietly competitive and silently smug over his good grades. Could comprehend well above his reading level from an early age and would often look into experimental research and complicated magic but found himself lost in OWL level History of Magic when chapter upon chapter lay ahead of him about something that didn’t catch his interest.

Tends toward introversion and finds himself tired sometimes quite easily by a large amount of social interaction. Witty and big-mouthed when he feels comfortable or is in the presence of those that embolden him and very likely to get flustered and snap at people when things are becoming a bit too much. Especially if he feels however unjustly that someone is blocking his escape. Has matured slightly in this since leaving school but it happens still, he’s just anxious. Quite fickle and can at the drop of a hat decide that he’s done with you for the day once his Give Me Attention Meter is maxed. Could be an absolute bloody brat when he felt like it but feels he has grown out of it, which he mostly has.

Always been very, very aware of many people’s distrust of him and his family, he used to sneer and play it up if anyone tried to bring up his dad and go on the offensive but was genuinely affected quite deeply by it all. In his early school years, despite his weakness to the cold, he constantly had his sleeves rolled up to the elbow so that his blank forearm was bared as a statement to just about everyone. I am not marked, I never will be. Now he’s older he has more of a handle on things and can be diplomatic in situations where people are clearly discomforted by his presence and his family history.

Scorpius was in his seventh and final year when the Knights were first created and he spent a lot of his time patching people up and teaching simple healing here and there, wherever he could. It was a natural transition to become part of The Order once he graduated, he still kept in contact with members of the Knights but while he had no way to access the grounds at all it seemed ridiculous that he be privy to everything, especially as sharing such information could have been intercepted by the opposing side. He was absolutely horrified by Harry’s resurrection and his stomach rolls every time he even thinks about it.

Never produced much of a talent for offensive magic and wouldn’t resort to those methods unless he had literally no other choice, not a front line fighter by any means. His talents with strategy, healing and his perseverance with defensive magic meant that he was an ideal candidate, in his head, to have the singular daemon amongst the Order and to test all of their hard work. Then the prophecy was slowly unravelled, silver spool of damning words in a pile at his feet.

Is in a strange place in that he can’t simply stop loving people he’s always loved whilst working simultaneously to strangle any potential for more people to be added to the list as frantically as he can. Tends to just try and put the prophecy out of his mind otherwise he stares at Cleo for too long and his hands start to shake.

Very nearly lost his apprenticeship due to his intensity over developing and refining the magic of the patronus charm. It was an all-consuming obsession, he went so far into the zone that he was a bit of a liability for a while there. He would turn up at any hour to other Order members for their opinions on an obscure theory, an element of the magic, the importance of ritual and their thoughts on his experiments with dementors. Alot of people were like you’re a bit young to be doing this aren’t you love? And he was like I’m not going to tell you to fuck off, just explain that I will not let this go and if you exclude me I will continue working on it alone.

[ DEATH TW ] Although this can be said for anyone possessing a daemon, he is protective of Cleo to the point of neurosis, the magic was experimental at the time of her manifestation and he felt every single layer of his soul flayed away and the creation of atoms from a matter that he still doesn’t quite understand. Only that it came from him. They have managed to limit the bitter, burnt iron taste that lingered at the back of his sinuses for two weeks, the numbness of his fingers and toes and the burst blood vessels in his eyes on other subjects. Oh and the part where he stopped breathing for nearly an entire minute. By the time he performed it successfully he wasn’t sure he wanted anyone else to ever experience it, the spell basically consumed his life for several years and when the research was finally over he was stood there blinking owlishly with no real concept of where the last couple of years had gone.

Always had somewhat fragile health tending toward sickly. Hands are never warm. Bruises like a peach and scars so easily.

Views quidditch as a good fly spoiled.  

Is a very skilled pianist.

Has a fabric sling that he wears across his torso that Cleo is often curled up in. Looks like a single dad at Order meetings, toad on his shoulder.

While very eloquent and well spoken, he is markedly less posh than when he first arrived at Hogwarts.

When he isn’t prone to bouts of insomnia he can take a nap pretty much anywhere. He was once found in a tree after several frantic hours search.

the stillness of the world the moment you take the first step into fresh snow, cashmere and fine wool, the pearlescence of dreamless sleep draught, the scratch of a quill on parchment, faintly tremoring fingers, a shiver up your spine in a warm room, the exhilaration of a problem solved, a thunderous grey overcast sky, the bite of a stitching charm, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, petrichor, the burn in your eyes before a well of tears.

[fic] Let me go, it's okay. (no, it really is okay)

Relationship: Steve Rogers/Natasha Romanoff

Title: Let me go, it's okay. (no, it really is okay)

Summary:

Natasha came to the conclusion that maybe jumping off the cliff in Vormir wasn't such a bad thing after all.

Sequel to "I guess we got the better end of the bargain" but can also be read alone.

-- this was impulsively written bc of an anon curiouscat ask that i received: "what scenario can you make when James Rogers discovers his mother's sacrifice and how his father brought her back?"

hello!! thank you so much to everyone who read and enjoyed "I guess we got the better end of the bargain"!!! this is for those who asked for a sequel or more post-Endgame James Rogers!!

tw// mention of ptsd/panic attack.

Also on AO3!!!

“Come on James, let’s go!!!” Morgan Stark excitedly squealed as she ran out of the house and into the beach. Well, more like a private island. That Morgan technically owns. The moment Morgan was born, Tony has been buying properties here and there for her. Pepper simply can’t stop him - the little girl has her dad wrapped by her pinky before she was even born.

“I’m not spoiling her, Pep. I’m… securing her future.” Tony argued one time after Pepper found out Tony bought her a beach house. Again.

“Wait for me ‘Gan!” James called out, jumping off the last three steps of the stairs, which almost made Steve wince had he not landed gracefully on his feet. Well, he is his parents’ child and Steve is definitely feeling what Bucky felt when they were younger. His son got all his recklessness with his mother’s elegance, making him their own little daredevil.

“Don’t forget to put on sunblock!” Pepper reminded the kids, standing by the door and watching them run into the water.

“Already got it on, Aunt Peps!” James responded, a bright smile on his face as he turned around to give his aunt a thumbs up before running after Morgan once again. James adored his aunt.

Pepper has been there for Natasha ever since she found out she’s pregnant and has barely left her side since. Natasha’s pregnancy was surprisingly a very calm one, despite worries from her doctors as to what brought the possibility of pregnancy. Their theory of Vormir somehow “healing” her is their best bet for it — with Gamora saying that there’s a possibility, in theory, that a soul that was sacrificed there, if brought back, would be whole again. Since Natasha was the first one who, in a way, was brought back because of time travel, they didn’t really have anyone to compare it to.

The news of Natasha’s pregnancy spread like wildfire to the rest of the Avengers throughout, quite literally, the whole universe. Of course, the moment he caught wind of the news, Clint, Laura, and the kids were in the Compound right away. Laura and Natasha shared a tearful hug — Natasha once confided in Laura about her remorse at not being able to bear children. She couldn’t believe that she’s finally going to get the family she never thought she’d have.

When James was born, it seemed as though an imminent threat was upon Earth once again judging by the number of Avengers and superheroes present. Good thing Natasha and Steve decided to stay at the Compound for the delivery instead of a hospital like Pepper suggested, or else they would’ve sent the general public population into a panic as to why a massive crowd of superheroes is gathered once again.

Out of everyone in the room, the newborn James spent most of his time in the arms of his namesake, Bucky, who cried with Steve and Natasha when James was put in his arms for the first time. Aside from the adults, Morgan, who was 6 at that time, also racked up on snuggling hours with James. She just adored him from the start. She always hovered around, asking about the baby and just playing with him. At one point, she even asked for a baby sibling, which Tony supported until a sharp “No” from Pepper to her husband struck the idea down.

Now, almost 7 years later, Steve watched as James and Morgan ran around in the water, chasing Lila, Cooper, and Nathaniel. Sam was supervising them, holding his daughter’s - Natalie - hand as she tried to play with the kids who are a bit bigger than her. At 5 years old, she’s the youngest of the bunch. Maria Hill and Sam got married a couple of months after James was born, which is what Maria preferred because she wanted Natasha to be there and have fun with them. A little over a year after that, Natalie Wilson was born - named after Natasha. There were a lot of tears from both women that day.

“Dad! Dad!” James high-pitched squeals broke Steve out of his reverie to see his son running to him. He straightened up and kneeled down once James was in front of him.

“What is it? Are you okay?” This became his staple response with James as of lately; he’s becoming more and more accident prone with his recklessness and Steve’s sure it’s making him age twice as fast.

James just giggled at his father’s prodding. “Of course I am, dad. Can I go with Morgan and Coop and Uncle Sam? They’re going cliff-diving! Please please please, dad!” And with that came the puppy eyes.

Steve sighed. Truth be told, he’s too young for those kinds of activities at just 7 years old. But… he also has a mutated version of the serum running through him so he suppose…

“Whatcha boys doings here?” Natasha’s voice cut through Steve’s internal struggles and despite not even seeing her behind him yet, he could already feel the smile spreading across his face. Natasha does have that kind of effect on him.

Steve turned around and stood up to give Natasha a kiss as a greeting. “He wants to go cliff-diving with the kids.” He whispered. As his words sunk in, he noticed Natasha stiffen so he hugged her to his side, his arm firmly latched around her waist. Natasha hasn’t been dealing well with heights since Vormir and honestly, neither does Steve. They’ve mainly used helicarriers or private planes to fly and places like mountains or high elevation were mostly avoided.

“Mommy, please,” James tugged on the hem of Natasha’s sundress, peeking at her with his wide blue eyes, his strawberry-blond hair flopping from the wind.

Natasha offered her son a soft smile before turning to Steve, worry etching her forehead. “Is it safe?” She asked, her voice low.

Steve paused for a moment. “Yes. I know Sam and the others has been there. It’s only 12 feet at most, the water is clear of rocks or anything, and Sam will be watching the kids to catch them. Which means Bucky will be there too.” Natasha didn’t look convinced, her lips still pursed together tightly. “I can wait with them in the water to catch James, if you want.” She seemed to think that over and eventually nodded.

Mustering the courage to smile, Natasha faced James. “Okay, honey, you go with them. But daddy will be going with you, okay? He’s going to be in the water with Uncle Sam and Bucky.”

“What about you, mommy? Can you go with us too?” He asked, eyes glinting with hope.

“Mommy’s not really in the mood to swim today, bud.” Steve supplied for Natasha, seeing her torn look.

“Then mommy can watch me when I jump!” He suggested happily. Steve didn’t miss how Natasha winced at his words. “Please, mommy? Even just once?”

Cursing under her breath, Natasha inhaled deeply and forced a smile, scooping James into her arms. He’s getting taller and taller so she’s savoring every moment that she can still carry him. “Fine. But just once, okay?” James grinned widely and nodded. Steve squeezed Natasha’s shoulder as he signaled for Sam to lead the way.

The “cliff” isn’t really a cliff as much as it is an elevated part on the island. It was only a short eight minute walk from the beach, and there were steps leading up to it to prevent slipping on the ground. James squirmed from Natasha’s arms once they reached the steps and she set him down, letting him run towards the others. Natasha and Steve stood at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at the top of the “cliff”.

Natasha’s hand shot out to hold Steve’s, gripping it tightly as she took a deep breath while making her way up the stairs. They took slow and calculated steps, as if they were sneaking up behind an enemy. Halfway through, she could see edge, with the children excitedly looking down at the water and chattering amongst each other. Steve gave her hand a squeeze and didn’t move until she does first. They were on the last step of the stairs and the edge and water were completely visible when Natasha tensed up.

“I can’t do this,” she said, voice tight, as she started gasping for air. Steve stood in front of her, grabbing a hold of her; his hand still gripping hers tightly and the other cupping her cheek. “Please get me out of here,” she choked out, her free hand holding onto his shirt. Steve nodded rapidly and was slowly moving to carefully step down from the stairs when they heard their son.

“Mommy! Daddy!” James called out when he saw his parents, not knowing what’s happening. Sam glanced in their way and cursed, running to their direction. He knew the signs of a panic attack and this definitely was one.

“Steve, take her back right away! We’ll follow you guys!” Sam said, assessing Natasha’s look and breathing. This isn’t good; if she doesn’t get to leave on time then —

Before Sam’s worst-case scenario thought finished, it already happened in front of his eyes. Natasha fainted and was caught by Steve’s arms and chest, her head colliding with his shoulder.

—

“Daddy, is mommy going to be okay?” James tearfully asked Steve. They were both in the guest room’s couch across from the bed, where Natasha is still passed out on.

Steve looked at James and smiled sadly, wiping his son’s tears with his thumbs. “Of course she will be, baby. Mommy’s just… not feeling well.”

“Why did she suddenly get sick when we were at the cliff?” He asked, tilting his head. His brows are scrunched up tightly, a sign that he’s deeply contemplating what happened to his mom. The look almost made Steve chuckle, he couldn’t count how many times Natasha has told him he and James always make the same thoughtful look. Whenever Natasha notices Steve have that look, she always runs her thumb over between his brows to loosen them, and it always helps him calm down. So he did the same with James until he giggled.

Natasha stirred on the bed, rolling over her side, facing them. Steve and James froze, watching whether or not she’s fully awake. When she cracked an eye open, James ran to the bed and into Natasha’s arms before Steve could even stop him.

“Mommy, you’re awake!” James yelled with glee. Steve sat on the couch for a little bit until Natasha’s eyes caught his and he sat next to them on the bed.

“How are you?” Steve asked, stretching his legs in front of him and resting on the headboard. He looked down at her and smoothed the stray locks of her hair. Natasha smiled and pushed to a sitting position, propped by a pillow, next to Steve. She tucked herself under him and James sat between them, Natasha’s arm around him.

“I’m doing fine. Feeling a lot better,” Natasha said with a bitter laugh.

“Mommy what happened to you? I thought you were going to watch me jump! Then I saw you sleeping in daddy’s arms and he and Uncle Sam and Uncle Bucky looked really worried,” James jutted his lower lip out, recalling the events that happened earlier that day.

Natasha looked at Steve with an eyebrow raised. So far, all James knows about his parents and his aunts and uncles is that they’re superheroes and they’re called The Avengers. He’s seen their pictures and videos on TV and even plays with their action figures - leave it to Tony to give the children toys of their parents . What they haven’t told him yet, though, is what happened a decade and a half ago that changed the world - and how his parents played a huge role in it.

They really hoped to spare James the whole Thanos story until he’s a bit older - like how Tony told Morgan when she was 10 years old and started asking tons of questions as to why her dad is hailed a hero. At that age, she was mature enough to understand the dynamics of what happened, and hopefully, not get nightmares from it.

Well, it’s tricky in Steve and Natasha’s case. How do you explain to your child that his mom died and his dad went back in time to bring her back? Hell, even a grown adult might not even understand that story, let alone an seven year old.

Natasha cleared her throat. “Well, baby, Mommy had an accident way before you were born,” she started, watching her son’s reaction. When he seemed to understand that, she continued. “Mommy fell off a cliff.” Natasha flinched and Steve started smoothing his thumb over her arm to try to calm her down.

James gasped. “Oh no, mommy! What happened after that? Did it hurt?” came his rapid-fire questions in a worried voice, looking at Natasha with wide eyes.

Natasha paused and narrowed her eyes to think. “No, I don’t think it hurt. And you know why?” James shook his head. “Because daddy saved me.”

Now, James turned to his father with a look of amazement on his face. “Really, dad? You saved mommy?”

Steve glanced at Natasha, his hand traveling to hers and giving it a squeeze as he nodded. “I sure did! I love your mommy very much and I didn’t want her to be hurt so I rescued her.”

James was quiet for a moment, his mouth hanging open as he got a dreamy, far-away look in his eyes. “Wow…” he mumbled. Turning back to Natasha, he asked, “But mommy, why did you get sick earlier?”

Steve and Natasha contemplated the question, thinking of ways to explain panic attacks to young children. “Remember how mommy said she had an accident at a cliff?” Steve asked, to which James nodded. “Well, when mommy saw the cliff earlier, she remembered her accident. Then that made her really sick.” Steve explained, with Natasha humming and stroking James’s hair.

“Really, mommy?” James looked at Natasha, who mumbled a ‘yes’, making him burrow his head into her side. Natasha and Steve looked at each other, alarmed.

“James, baby, what’s wrong?” Natasha asked, her voice soft, after hearing sniffs from him.

James poked his head up a bit, his eyes red with tears. “I’m sorry, mommy!!” he wailed, throwing his arms around her and hiding his face on her side again.

Natasha frowned while Steve rubbed a hand on James’s back. “Baby, why are you sorry?” she tried to poke him so he could talk to them.

James looked up again, looking between Steve and Natasha. “Because I told you to come to the cliff with me,” he sniffed again but didn’t hide this time. His voice sounded so melancholy that it broke Natasha’s and Steve’s hearts.

“Oh, baby, that’s not your fault!” Natasha assured him, propping him up so she could properly hug him, his arms automatically going around her neck. She looked at Steve and raised her eyebrows, telling him to say something.

To be perfectly honest, he might be able to counsel adults after the snap, but once James start crying, Steve’s emotions gets the better of him. The image in front of him - Natasha holding a crying James - painfully reminded him of his childhood with his mother consoling him when he’s sick or beaten by his father. Really, his child is his biggest weakness.

“James, do you want to know a secret?” Steve asked, inching towards James, his voice low. James peered at him, nodding. “Mommy’s accident may have been a bad thing, but there were so many good things that came out of it.” James pulled away from Natasha, trying to think of what his dad was saying. How can good things come from painful accidents? Wasn’t his mommy hurt? Even Natasha looked taken aback with Steve’s statement.

When neither James or Natasha said anything, Steve continued. “Your mommy saved the world! And then after that, you became our baby! Aren’t those good things?” Steve smiled, seeing James’s eyes brighten at that.

“Mommy, you saved the world too? Like Uncle Tony?” James asked, a bit shocked. He knew his parents were heroes but he didn’t know his mom saved the world !

Natasha laughed, nodding along. All these years, the thought of what happened in Vormir still haunts her. She suppose she focused too much on the fact that she died on that cliff, and that yeah, sure, her sacrifice got them the soul stone. Well, she knows she died, but she doesn’t even remember dying. She just remembered falling, then the next thing she knows, she’s taking deep breaths while Steve almost actually crushed her with a hug.

But she had yet to really embrace the fact that honestly, in the end, throwing herself down that cliff isn’t at all that bad. Sure, according to the stories from everyone, she missed one hell of a battle. That fact aside, she still came out all of this as a winner. First of all, she did help save the universe, a big help, in fact. Most importantly, the soul stone gave her back what she lost. And now, as she watched Steve play with James, she realized that jumping off that cliff was worth it.

Don’t Give Me Flannel (Cherik Ficlet)

[AO3 Version]

“You’re my roommate who’s super cute and it’s the middle of the night and you’re cramming for your exams in your flannel pajamas and disheveled hair and it’s becoming increasingly hard for me not to kiss you” AU

So, yeah, here we are. It was supposed to be a shorter one-shot, around 1,000 words or so, but I sort of took that prompt and ran with it, because apparently I cannot write something without any world-building in it. But it was a pure pleasure to write, even if I should've been working on my other WIPs. *sigh*

Anyway, I hope you'll enjoy this short—yet still somehow almost four times longer than intended—ficlet.

It's not beta-ed, just edited and proofread by myself, so you know the drill—and I'll be really grateful for any valuable remarks!

“Can you finally go to bed?”

Although Erik’s voice is hoarse, his annoyance seeps through very clearly. As a result, the question sounds more like an order, despite it not really being Erik’s intention. Nonetheless, he’s too groggy to care.

Generally, Erik Lehnsherr has always prided himself in being quite a heavy sleeper, capable of sleeping through anything and everything ever since he remembers. Even when he was just a few years old, he would occasionally wake up to hear about the storm roaring through the night, which did little to disrupt his sleep. His mother used to joke that the bomb blowing up nearby wouldn’t manage to jolt him awake. The manifestation of his powers in the early teenage years disrupted his routine for a while, but he managed to go back to it by the time he started university, and this time he hasn’t let anything get in the way of getting a healthy amount of sleep.

Willing himself to fall asleep has never been problematic either, even with a lot of background noise. Unfortunately, it seems like the light is his ultimate weakness. He’s been struggling to doze off for quite a while now, but a small lamp still kept alight turns it into a truly challenging feat. Facing the wall that his bed was pushed to, his eyes closed shut, he’s desperately trying to force his mind to finally shut down, having already given a shot to counting sheep and focusing on his breathing. Sadly, without the comforting darkness to drown out any unwanted late-night thoughts, he is unable to succumb to sleep. The worst thing is, he’s slowly growing more and more desperate and the thought to just ask Charles—the very culprit behind his current predicament—to do this for him keeps lingering at the forefront of his mind.

A quiet groan escapes his lips as Erik turns around, towards the rustle of paper behind him. Charles Xavier, his roommate, the fellow student who also happens to be a mutant, is sitting on the carpet between their two beds, surrounded by an array of textbooks and notes. He is, by far, one of the very few people whom Erik tolerates and who somehow tolerate him in return, which is still somewhat unbelievable to Erik—how such a person as Charles, so unbearably idealistic and impossibly kind, would like to as much as simply be in his presence continues to escape his comprehension.

Nevertheless, here they are, Charles spread on the floor and Erik failing to fall asleep. Overall, Charles is quite a nice roommate, certainly much better than the previous ones that Erik was unlucky to live with. (Or maybe it was them who were unlucky enough to cross his path, Erik wonders sometimes.) Although a chatter, Charles doesn’t bother with meaningless conversations and he has a quick wit, which is even more prominent over the chessboard that they sometimes use to play, all of which make him a pleasant enough companion even on the worst of days. His bright big eyes, with their remarkable blueness only accentuated by the flannel pajamas he is currently wearing and with his floppy hair falling over them, make him look rather appealing, as a quite impressive group of both male and female students can corroborate. Despite that, Charles’s favourable looks are no more than a pleasant addition, or so Erik tries to convince himself of.

He cuts that train of thought short, though. They are friends, even though this label hardly conveys the depth of their bond. Charles may be the closest person Erik has ever been to, other than his parents, which makes him just about the only family Erik has left. To ruin the most meaningful friendship in Erik’s life due to his irrational sexual urges is just unthinkable. So he proceeds to do what he’s been doing for weeks now, burying the budding attraction deep enough that the telepath won’t see it.

“I can’t fall asleep with the light on,” he grumbles, seeing that Charles has hardly reacted to his previous question. When that doesn’t work either, Erik continues, his brows furrowing, “I have an exam tomorrow, too, you know.”

Charles finally looks up at him, and his eyes are sparkling in the warm light of his bedside lamp, his liveliness evident despite the dark circles under them. Erik shouldn’t find that sight so endearing, and yet, he’s mesmerised all the same, almost forgetting his own annoyance.

“Yeah, sorry,” Charles says apologetically, gazing down at the notebook he’s just been leafing through. His lips, even redder than usual, what with the way Charles continues to chew at them, curl into a little self-deprecating smile. Erik can’t help but trace their movements when his friend adds, “Just… five more minutes.”

It’s clear how tired Charles is, leaning on his hand which is perched up on his lap and visibly fighting off the urge to let his head drop on his notes. Erik rolls his eyes, irritated with Charles’s insistence even more so now that he sees his exhaustion. It may even explain why Erik’s own tiredness feels so profound; if Charles is on the verge of falling asleep, his shields are prone to get weaker and sometimes he starts projecting his feelings, as if his mind was trying to get rid of the sense of fatigue simply by pushing it away.

In truth, Erik doesn’t mind it as much as he thought he would. He minds feeling more tired than he actually is, that is, but not the mental contact itself. It never fails to surprise him, how much he actually enjoys having someone brushing against his thoughts. Of course, he believes that all mutants should be treated equally, regardless of the nature of their mutation; and yet, telepaths are often facing quite a lot of resentment, even within the mutant community itself. For many, it is one thing to pass someone with a tail or a pair of wings on the street without batting an eye, and something else entirely to have a stranger overhear your thoughts—something intimate and meant to exist only for you to listen.

Erik can understand where such reservations might come from, even though he himself doesn’t view telepathy as so problematic. In fact, the anti-psionic bias seems to be chiefly the product of ignorance—there aren’t that many telepaths, most of whom not even powerful enough to fully enter someone’s mind without touching that person or at least being in a very close proximity to them, but people nevertheless are afraid of feeling so exposed, with more than unfavourable portrayal of telepathy in the media as manipulative and exploitative only feeding their fear.

Not that telepaths are actually interested in reading or controlling everyone’s minds; the fact that is obvious to anyone who has actually met a telepath. It would be exhausting, after all, to listen closely to every thought that comes your way. Not even mentioning the fact that a lot of people think they’re incredibly interesting and worthy of attention, while, in actuality, their thoughts are mundane and their secrets nonsignificant.

Erik has crossed paths with enough telepaths to know that. Besides, if telepaths truly did always listen to one’s every thought, Charles would already bloody well know how annoyed Erik has been for quite a while now.

“You’ve been cramming it for—” Erik reaches out with his power, tugging at the magnetic lines surrounding him, and feels the hands of Charles’s watch which is still wrapped around his wrist.

The soft hum of its metal is pleasantly familiar. Charles takes it off only to sleep, and its constant presence allows Erik to sense him, even if his friend is out of sight. It never ceases to surprise Erik how comforting he finds it, the possibility to feel Charles’s warm skin against the stainless steel of the watch anytime he wishes, wherever he is.

Erik reads the hour and groans resignedly, “—for six hours straight. You know everything that you need already.”

“I have to ace it,” Charles mutters, his gaze fixed back on his notes.

He bites his lower lip, again, and it’s truly infuriating how captivating it is. Erik spends entirely too much time looking at those plush red lips of Charles’s, wondering distantly if they’re as soft as they look and if their redness would be even more intense after a thorough kiss…

It’s getting ridiculous. He shouldn’t allow himself to think such things, especially not about a telepath.

“Did you even touch the tea I made you?,” Erik demands instead, resisting the temptation to ask another question that sits at the tip of his tongue, one that is as improper as it is stupid.

A quick glance at Charles’s nightstand confirms what Erik has already suspected. The green mug with a cat and a silly chemistry pun printed on it is standing exactly where Erik put it three hours ago.

Charles looks up once again, his lips rounding in a way that is both adorable and infuriating. What’s more, the sudden movement makes his hair, ruffled from the way Charles runs his hands through them every now and then, fall down his forehead, and Erik barely battles the urge to reach out and gently brush them away.

“Oh,” Charles breathes, his wide eyes making him look like a puppy whose owner has just scolded them for something that they are absolutely guilty of. “I’m terribly sorry, my friend,” he says sheepishly, averting his gaze. “I’ve got too immersed in all of this.” His hand flies around over all the books, the sleeve of his slightly too big flannel pyjamas tumbling down his forearm and falling over his wrist.

Why Charles insists on sleeping in that atrocious thing, whose only saving grace is its nice blue colour, remains a mystery to Erik. Their dorm room is relatively warm, even in winter, and yet Charles seems to be perpetually cold at night, sleeping under a pile of blankets all year long. Erik is reluctant to admit it, but it worries him that although the summer is about to start, Charles’ nightwear hasn’t yet changed. If he’s so cold, perhaps there could be a way to warm him up a bit. Which is hardly the best line of thinking for now, because the only solutions Erik can think of involve things that he’s pretty sure Charles wouldn’t want.

A small shudder runs down his spine, and Erik has to clear his suddenly dry throat, forcing his mind to think about something else—anything else, really. He ends up recalling the details of a few cases which will most probably prove to be useful during tomorrow’s exam, trying not to wonder how it would be to wrap his arms around Charles and pull him under the covers.

Frustratingly, even repeating in his head what he already knows by heart isn’t tedious enough to put his mind to sleep.

“You can’t keep doing that.” Erik’s voice sounds annoyed even to his own ears, more so than before.

“I know, I know…,” Charles says under his breath, clearly having completely recovered from his previous mortification.

“You should’ve started earlier.” Erik’s tone might be a bit too harsh, certainly more than he intended. He can’t help himself but be frustrated, though, what with everything that watching Charles raise his hand and gently tap his fingers against his lips does to Erik’s insides.

Charles sighs, burying his face in his hands. “I know that too.” Erik can barely hear him, his voice muffled by his fingers, but he can tell that Charles must be annoyed with himself too. “Just… this isn’t half as interesting as the project I’m working on,” he explains, with an edge to his tone.

Erik rolls his eyes, though there’s hardly any malice behind the gesture. “I can believe that, but it’s getting annoying,” he says a little less sternly, despite his patience seriously dwindling.

“Sorry.” But Charles doesn’t look so sorry as he grabs one of the textbooks and opens it, back in that study mode of his.

Taking a deep breath, Erik barely refrains from raising his voice, his irritation only worsened by the worry about Charles’s awful sleeping habits. “You know all of that. Go to bed already.”

Charles’s thoughts are clearly far away from their conversation when he mumbles, “Just… let me finish—”

“Charles, you’re overtaxing yourself.” Erik’s tone is yet again harsh, though this time he can’t keep worry out of his voice.

The telepath doesn’t even respond, his whole attention at the textbook on his lap. Despite his immersion in the text, Charles’s head continues to be drooping, his back leaning heavily on the frame of his bed, and Erik doesn’t know what to do anymore to make this man finally get some sleep.

It’s still somewhat bewildering to him, to care for another person’s well-being so much that he starts completely brushing aside his own. It’s not like he is uncaring, but ever since his parents passed away Erik hasn’t allowed himself to get too close to other people. His wounds haven’t properly healed yet, and the thought of losing anyone else is so unbearable that he’d rather isolate himself than face the prospect of going through that again. Yet, he finds himself growing more and more fond of Charles with every passing day.

Although everyone seems to love Charles—that goes without question—Erik isn’t like everyone and a creature of very little trust, so he can’t be easily swayed into liking someone, even if confronted with the smoothest of flattery. But Charles isn’t like anyone else either and hardly an overconfident and snobbish smooth talker that Erik thought he was upon their first meeting. It took more than a couple of heated discussions during quite a few classes and the mutant rights club meetings and one memorable party, however, for Erik to start appreciating Charles’s seemingly endless enthusiasm, his infuriating idealism and the admirable faithfulness to his own ideals, and, most of all, his unconditional kindness. 

As a cynic and a firm believer in the need for separation between baseline humans and mutants, Erik naturally would never agree with Charles’s integrationist ideas, though deep down he has to begrudgingly admit that such an approach might be beneficial in some instances. Besides, it’s not his fault, really, that Erik can’t resist that warm laughter, the playful quirk of that red mouth, and the mischievous glint in those hauntingly blue eyes. If he didn’t know much about telepathy, he’d think that this endearing charm is just a trick, but he knows better. Charles really happens to be just as charming, as if having the magnetic personality of an opposite pole, whose call is quite hard for Erik to resist.

Which doesn’t make Charles’s late-night study sessions any less irritating.

Erik must do something to make Charles finally go to sleep, and if the Charles way of talking and negotiating doesn’t work, it’s time for the Erik way. He slips from under the covers and jumps to the floor.

“Erik, give it back!,” Charles shrieks the second Erik snatches the book away from his hands, though his protests are much weaker than usual.

“I need sleep and so do you,” Erik says stubbornly, hugging the book to his chest. “So, just put it all away, or I’ll do that for you.”

Charles looks at him for a long moment, the exasperation in his expression mixed with something else, something odd. There’s a heaviness to his gaze that makes Erik shift minutely, slightly uncomfortable under the scrutiny of those brilliant eyes.

“You’re insufferable sometimes,” Charles says eventually, although he doesn’t sound resigned, only mildly amused.

“You’re the one to talk,” Erik snaps back, albeit good-naturedly.

Signing once again, Charles just shakes his head, a small smile creeping on his lips. Then, he fixes Erik with a stern gaze.

“I’ll go to sleep when I finish this chapter,” he says seriously, and the determination that is colouring his eyes suggests that he won’t step down this time.

Erik purses his lips and regards him for a moment, contemplating the offer. The chances for negotiating conditions more favourable for Erik are scarce, and now is not a good time to pick up a fight. It seems best to relent.

“Okay, I’ll take your word for it,” Erik decides, slowly releasing the book from his grasp.

Charles quickly goes to grab it before he can even let go of it, the telepath’s fingers brushing against Erik’s forearms and leaving a trail of the pleasant tingling sensation behind. Erik can’t help but sit here transfixed, the plush carpet soft against the bare skin of his shins, as Charles goes back to studying. There’s something enthralling in watching him in his element—because as exhausted as Charles is, there’s still so much passion in the way he’s practically devouring what is written on the pages before him. His eyes are alight again, and his lips are moving—lightly, captivatingly—as he’s quietly repeating the crucial tidbits of information.

Erik has never wanted to kiss someone so much in his entire life.

Although the book is once again laying open on his lap and stealing all his attention, Charles looks up from it, apparently having noticed Erik’s dumbfounded expression. “You can go back to bed now,” he points out lightly, his brows drawn in mild confusion.

“Not until I tuck you in first,” Erik responds before he has time to think much about his words.

He doesn’t even get a chance to start feeling self-conscious, however, as Charles is seemingly taking it all in stride. “That won’t be necessary, my friend,” he says, giving Erik an amused look, the corner of his lips—so distractingly red—rising in a half smile, and Erik finds it hard not to stare at them.

Instead, he narrows his eyes. “We’ll see.”

“You’re unbelievable,” Charles snorts and glances down at the book, his fingers finding their way back to his mouth.

The tip of his thumb begins to slowly trace the outline of his lower lip, back and forth, drawing all of Erik’s attention to that one delicate motion. He cannot help but be hypnotised, wishing against his better judgement that he could reach out and replace Charles’s fingers with his own. To map those lips with his touch, to explore the softness against his fingertips…

Erik looks up abruptly, his eyes boring in the ceiling. Breathing out, he almost groans, but refrains from doing so not to distract Charles. It’s really of no use, allowing himself for such mental escapades. This absurd infatuation has already made Erik’s life miserable enough, there is really no need to add fuel to the flames.

Except, he finds himself unable to stop. Everytime he sees Charles, hears his warm laughter, feels his fingers brushing against his own arm, is confronted with a clever and spot-on counterargument during their arguments, or witnesses a particularly cunning move during the game of chess, Erik can’t stop his mind from being consumed yet again by the thoughts of his best friend. It’s truly a miracle that Charles hasn’t picked up on those thoughts yet, and for once Erik is grateful for Charles’s strict moral code.

Nonetheless, Erik knows he has to put an end to it. It’s just a silly crush, after all, nothing worth putting their friendship on the line. No more foolishness from now on—he’ll just focus on getting through his studies, pushing all the other matters aside.

After some time, which seems to have stretched from mere minutes to long hours, Erik abruptly hears Charles close the book. He drops his gaze in time to see his friend put it down and then proceed to gather all the rest of the study materials into a pile.

“Okay, I’ve finished, happy?,” Charles says, pushing the pile closer to his bed. “You can tuck me in now.” He looks up and momentarily furrows his eyebrows. “Erik?”

Somehow, the earnest look of those beautifully blue eyes makes Erik’s resolve snap. So much for an end to all the silliness. Before he can stop his traitorous lips from moving, the question is already leaving his mouth, the one he’s been longing to ask for so long.

“Can I kiss you?”

There’s a moment of stunned silence, as Charles’s eyebrows slowly rise, disappearing underneath his dishevelled hair. He’s still for what feels like an eternity, and Erik can feel the tendrils of the telepath’s thoughts retreating from his mind, folding in on themselves, which can’t possibly bode well.

Panic begins to rise in Erik’s chest. With his breath quickening, he does his best to slip on a mask of indifference over his face, hoping against hope that Charles hasn’t seen anything damning in his mind, especially not any of those lewd thoughts he’s been having lately. But before dread can consume his mind like a wildfire, Erik sees Charles’s expression soften and then the telepath is leaning in, stopping only when his face is a few mere inches from Erik’s.

He’s so close that Erik nearly goes cross-eyed, Charles’s breath ghosting over his lips. Erik remains frozen, waiting for his friend’s response, anticipating and dreading it in equal measure. He sees that Charles’s eyes are flickering all over his face, filled with… Is it excitement, or rather nervousness? Regardless, his look is clearly inviting, so Erik lets himself hope that maybe his friend does want the same thing.

“Yes.”

For a second, Erik isn’t sure if he has heard it correctly. It was barely a whisper, and Charles agreeing to such a ridiculous request sounds too good to be true. It soon becomes clear, however, that Erik’s ears were not playing tricks on him when Charles gives him one last smile and leans in farther to close the distance between them.

Erik’s eyes close on their own accord, and it takes a heartbeat for their lips to meet. It doesn’t feel like a particularly world-changing moment—or maybe it does, just not in the way Erik expected. It’s not like a lighting strike, turning his world upside down and igniting a raging fire inside of him, but it rather feels as if long-lost puzzle pieces finally fell in their proper places.

Kissing Charles feels like coming home.

His lips are just so soft, pliable against Erik’s, the warmth of their gentle touch spreading through Erik’s whole body like little electric shocks. The kiss is rather chaste, close-mouthed; even so, Erik can feel the air between them slowly changing and starting to crackle with the kind of tension that has barely reached the surface before. The wave of excitement mixed with lust that swiftly encompasses his mind proves that he’s not the only one who notices it.

Erik senses something else, however, something much deeper and warmer, as his hands find their way to Charles’s face. He runs his fingertips over the expanse of smooth skin, gently stroking Charles’s cheeks, and he can feel the warmth rising there. He can’t help but smile against his friend’s lips, feeling an affectionate nudge in his mind in return.

And then Erik hears it, a soft murmur permeating his thoughts.

I thought you’d never ask.

If anyone's interested, here's the mug Erik was reffering to (I found it funny, don't at me ^^').

And I'm considering perhaps writing more in that 'verse, so if any of you has any ideas, prompts, or requests, I'll be more than happy to oblige ;)

(Generally, I have more in store for Cherik, especially after Dark Phoenix (we'll always have Paris, after all), but those works are also getting longer than expected. Still, I'm cautiously optimistic about finishing them in August.)

No Love Lost (Part 1)

Harrison Osterfield x CF!Reader

A/N: uh hi. so this is a lot. this was going to be a one-shot originally but then it hit 15k words so here’s some of that. I did as much research into cystic fibrosis as i could (thats what cf means btw). Thanks to @loverholland who helped me edit this (and future parts). Also this is my submission for @starksparker summer writing challenge. I had the prompt of “I know you. What’s wrong” and its used pretty bad but this will make up for it hopefully. its a whole mess of aus. there some fuck boy in there, some best friend. brace for impact.

Word Count: 3.2k

Warnings: talk of death, talk of hospitals, talk of sickness, swearing,  messing with tenses, a ridiculous amount of parentheticals (yes they’re supposed to be there), cheesy writing

Harrison was sweet. You had to admit it. One of the nicest people you’d ever come by. He was your best friend all throughout school, he stuck by you through all the coughing fits, your plethora of medicines, and the multiple times you’d caught bronchitis or something along those lines, not to mention all the other things that come with being a teen in high school; drama, puberty, stress. You were insanely thankful that he put up with all his own problems as well as yours, health or otherwise, and everything that came with having cystic fibrosis.

You were diagnosed at five, after the third time you’d caught pneumonia. Most people are diagnosed before the age of two but either a) you weren’t screened for it at birth or b) your doctors missed something. Just your luck.

You didn’t really know what it meant at first. Just that now you had to take these medicines, pills, and use inhalers (which hurt on bad days). Your favourite part was always the gummy vitamin that you had to -no, got to- take. You heard your mom talking about how important it was that you cleared your airway every day and that you did some of, if not all, the exercise the doctors wanted you to take. They made your lungs burn.

Your mother, however, felt guilty. She blamed herself for your sickness, but her guilt was helping no one affected. She should’ve known that you were growing too slowly and that your breathing problems weren’t normal. She feels horrible.

But if she had and you’d been diagnosed earlier or later or exactly when you were, you would still have cystic fibrosis.

You started to understand what it was at the age of eleven after you’d decided to research it yourself. You knew better than to WebMD it. Long since being diagnosed, you weren’t looking for a cure, just an understanding of what this meant for you.

You found out too much. Things that you were certain a normal 11 year old wouldn’t know about. But you weren’t normal. Anything but.

You found out that the average person with cystic fibrosis died at the age of 37, it’s most common in Northern Europe and least common in Africans and Asians. Although not recognized until the 1930s, certain aspects of cystic fibrosis were identified as early as 3,000 BC, likely due to the migration of people, gene mutations and nourishment. One in Four people have cystic fibrosis. About eighty percent of people with cystic fibrosis die from it. There’s no known cure, if there is one at all.

Your first (and only, so far) double lung transplant happened about a year later. You remember the feeling of knowing something was wrong too vividly. Headed down the stairs, your twelve year old self had already run through your extensive morning routine but you couldn’t shake the feeling of something caught in your lungs. You had to breathe through your mouth to feel like you were getting anywhere near enough oxygen.

“Have you cleared your airways yet” Your mother had asked upon hearing how rough your voice sounded when combined with how much your chest heaved when you breathed. You nodded and she asked you to go to it again. It was on your way back down the steps when it had become instantly more difficult to breathe. Calling for your mom, your voice was weak and wheezed its way through the words. It felt like you were suffocating. You gripped the stair railing tight in your hand as you felt your vision start to tunnel. With whatever luck you still had, you made it to the bottom of the stairs without collapsing and she rushed you to the hospital.

You don’t know what they did to make it better temporarily but you remember being hooked up to all sorts of antibiotics to slow the mucus build up while they found a pair of lungs for you. A month later and they had found a pair. You spent the next while in the hospital from the surgery while the doctors monitored you.

Lung transplants either work or they don’t. There’s no in between. No ‘it works but could be better’. They do, or they don’t.

Your mother would tell you when you were older that yours almost didn’t work. You almost didn’t wake up, but you wouldn’t remember any of it when she told you so.

You were overjoyed when you got to go back to school, you knew you weren’t healed, you still had cystic fibrosis, but you were doing better. That’s when you met Harrison.

With Harrison, you felt like you could be somewhat. He didn’t know about your CF at the time, you held it back to not drive him away. You suppressed coughs as much as you could. He was good though. A good person, a kind soul. So good that when you were with him, you were normal. You felt like a normal kid. You forgot about the multiple inhalers that sat on the bathroom counter and the bottles of pills next to them. You forgot about the doctors, and your enzymes or lack thereof. With Harrison, you forgot you were dying.

He started to get curious when you were missing school a lot and played it off as a cold when you would cough a lot at one time, but Harrison isn’t an idiot and you’re his friend; he knew something was up.

So you told him. You told him you had cystic fibrosis. He seemed confused so you continued on. You explained that while it also affects your pancreas, intestines, and kidneys, it meant your lungs were weak and prone to infection. Mucus builds up inside your lungs and other parts of your respiratory system. You told him that if your lungs get worse then you’ll likely need a transplant.

He nodded along and promised that he understood but you knew he didn’t fully understand what it meant, just as you had.

You didn’t tell him you were dying.

Not then. Not at all.

He’d found out on his own that it meant you were dying. You never asked how. The pair of you were in your living room at the age of fourteen, in the middle of a game of Mario Party. The computer Boo was winning. You could tell that something was bothering him but weren’t sure if it was something to ask about, you did anyway.

“Haz? What’s bothering you?” You spoke as the Luigi on the screen moved 6 spaces.

“Nothing, I’m fine” He stared distantly towards the screen, it’s more likely he’s looking past it.

“And lying. I know you. What's wrong?" No response. "Harrison, tell me” You refused to press any buttons, letting the die on the screen roll above your characters head until he gave you an answer.

Harrison looked down into his lap, fumbling with some of the buttons on the remote. His voice comes out small and meek, “You’re dying”

“No, I’m not,” Some weird instinct told you to lie about it and protect his feelings, but the glimmer of hope he had when he looked at you made you wish that you hadn’t said that. “I mean, I am. But I’m not bad” You hesitate on ‘bad’, unsure of how you want to phrase things. You knew you had to be careful of what you say. “I’m not even on a transplant list yet,” His expression shifted to worry, “It’s a good thing” He somewhat relaxed. “It means that I’m managing it well. And I am. I take care of myself, take all the medication I need to. It’s a lot but I do it”

The look on his face made your heart go soft. Somewhere between worry and relief, happy and sad.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner” You whispered, your gaze falling to the floor. You felt bad about telling him, that’s for sure. But for once you wanted to be normal.

“It’s okay,” Harrison’s voice was almost as quiet as yours, the overly happy game music playing in the background (it really didn’t help with the mood). He looked over at you and your expression made his heartbreak. “Hey,” he grabbed your attention, “This doesn’t change anything. No love lost, yeah?”

You nodded. “What I meant is that you don’t have to worry about me” That was the end of it. You rolled a five.

The next few months saw a shift in your relationship. It’s not that you spent any less time together, quite the opposite actually. Harrison wanted to spend so much time with you, most of which consisted of the two of you doing anything either of you could think of. More games of Mario Party (you won more often, he’d say he let you but he definitely didn’t), going out for food, bowling, laser tag, you name it.

He also took care of you. No matter how much you said you didn’t need it and you didn’t want to bother him, you’d get text messages at the same time every day asking if you’d taken your enzymes, or cleared your airways, or if you were close to running out of anything.

Harrison was sweet. He was sweet to you and you couldn’t be more thankful.

High school came and the world watched on as the two of you grew closer than ever. He was there as soon as he could be whenever you were in the hospital and even if you weren’t, he was at your house or you were at his as much as you could be.

Looking back, you weren’t sure how you didn’t see it.

While you were still Harrison’s best friend, he spent time with a lot of other girls. You weren’t dumb. You saw the way they looked at him. Their looks were anything from ogling or as if he was the moon. Their never-ending night light. The one that lit up the dark for them.

It was cheesy and sometimes (usually) gross, but he never looked at them that way. Even while his arm was wrapped around them in the halls he was either making some joke towards you (you’d say he was bullying you, but you weren’t that hurt) or laughing at something someone else had said or done.

Every two weeks there was a different girl on his arm. It didn’t really make sense to you. He was so nice and caring towards you but then these girls that he claimed to have feelings for barely got a second glance from him.  Even still, part of you wanted to be in their position, if only for the title that came with it.

You fell in love with Harrison slowly. Like when you come home late and don’t want to wake anyone, so you shut the door precariously, even the small click after it’s shut is too loud. Or like waiting for a flower to grow. Checking on it until you saw the first sprout and then the first leaf.

Your sudden realization, your ‘click’, was when you’d heard one of the girls talking about him after they’d ended things. You weren't sure if you could call it a breakup, we’re they even official? Who knows.

Water ran from the tap in the bathroom as you washed your hands, you couldn’t help but listen to the conversation she was having on the far side of the room. It was whispered and sobbed but you still managed.

“What’d he say?” Her friend, you thought her name was Olivia, places a comforting hand on her shoulder.

“He just said he didn’t feel anything for me anymore” Harrison ex-thing, her name was Erica, (she was one of the “you are the moon” starers) barely got out the last word before sobs racked her body, her upper body and torso shook forcefully with each one. She was really hurt. “Said that there was something about someone else. I don’t get it. It was three weeks how could there be someone else”.

If it was three weeks then why are you so worked up over it? You fought not to roll your eyes.

“Erica, I told you that he was a bad idea. I told you that he’d hurt you. And you still…” Olivia trailed off with a sigh. Some best friend.

“I don’t know. Maybe I thought I could change him or something. Fuck, I don’t know. He’ll always be a fuckboy I guess. Can’t wait to see who he’s got next week” Sarcasm drenched her words. She sniffled, wiping her eyes.

You dried off your hands and left the bathroom.

It hurts to hear people talk so horrendously about your best friend. That wasn’t the Harrison that you knew, the Harrison you knew was gentle and caring and wore his heart on his sleeve. What about you made him that different?

Harrison came over that night, you helped him with his English paper and then the two of you retreated to doing your own things on your phones. He laid on your bed and you used his stomach as a pillow, lying perpendicular to him. Your legs hung off the bed a little, but you didn’t care.

The room was silent for at least fifteen minutes with the exception of the odd chuckle followed by the other asking to look at whatever it was they laughed at. That was until you piped up. Your mindless scrolling only lasts so long before you fall into your own thoughts.

“Heard Erica talking about you in the bathroom today” You let your hand fall to your chest, phone facedown against your sternum. Harrison didn’t really talk about the girls he was involved with. At least not with you. You weren’t sure why but never pressed.

“Yeah? What’d she say?” His eyes didn’t leave his phone.

“She was talking to Olivia, I think it was Olivia. The one who sits next to Tom in English”

“Yeah, Olivia” Harrison confirmed.

“Yeah her. And she -Erica-  was saying about how you broke up with her and said that there was someone else. And then Olivia said something about how she warned her not to go for you because you’re a bad idea and you’d only hurt her and shit like that”  

“Sounds like Liv” Harrison chimes in.

“Then Erica said that she thought she could change you or something like that? I don’t know. It was just weird to hear them talk so bad about you when what I see is the polar opposite” You started your scrolling again.

“People talk Y/N. She was just upset I guess. That’s okay” You nodded and there was a moment of silence

“Just out of curiosity. Why do you go through girls so fast?”

“I just don’t feel anything with them really. I know what I want, and sadly it’s things that I don’t think they’d ever be able to give, or have, or be”

“What do you want?” Your question threw him off guard and he had to pause for a second.

“I want pure love. It’s not driven by lust. A kind of love where I don’t have to worry about what I look like or how I act around them because I know they’ll love me just the same. One where we have electric conversations one moment and then the next we’re in silence but it’s fine. Because it’s comfortable. I want to have a connection. I want the kind of love where you’d die for the other person. I’d die for a love like that. And it’s something that I don’t think I could get from Erica or Megan or Hannah. No matter how long we’re together”

“But you’re not even going to stick around long enough to see if there is all that with them?”

“No. I know it makes me sound like an asshole but I know what I want. I just have to wait until that love realizes what they want”

You thought for a moment. Maybe it made sense? In some weird, twisted, ‘i’m an asshole but don’t want you to think so’ sort of way. “Okay” You trailed off.

“Also we were only a thing for like three weeks why is she this upset”

“That’s what I thought!” The two of you laughed and settled back into a comfortable silence.

You’d since learned to trust what you knew about Harrison, disregarding parts of what was said that night. He was kind, and took care of you, and cared deeply about so many things. You knew about his reputation, but you didn’t care. He was your best friend, and what kind of friend would you be if you changed your opinion based on what other people said. Certainly better than ones who date the guy who broke your heart (*cough* Olivia, *cough cough*) The same one who warned you not to date him.

And sure enough, the following week, Olivia and Harrison were together.

Olivia was the longest he’d been with someone that you knew about. A whole eight weeks was a record for Harrison. It almost made you think that maybe he was capable of finding love on his own. And that made you happy. Happy for him.

Then there was that damn click. That fucking leaf. The one that made you sad when you saw them in the halls, her hand in his. The same one that made your stomach drop when he'd kiss her cheek before class.

Although his time never wavered with you, you couldn't help but wish it was you under his arm. With his lips against your skin.

High school ended, Harrison went on to drama school. It fit, he’d always been dramatic (haha very funny Y/N) but you were proud of him for pursuing his dream of acting. You’d gone onto university as well. Although the two of you didn’t see each other nearly as much, you were still his best friend, and him yours. The texts to take your meds had changed from whenever you had to take one to only every morning, and the two of you would talk that night.

June Twenty-Second. You’d finished all your exams two months ago. Still riding on the high of being a university graduate, you didn’t expect for it to drop so fast.

You were put on the transplant list your sophomore year of university. But you were getting worse, you’d moved up significantly since being put on. June Twenty-Second is when your doctor told you that if you couldn’t get one of the next few lungs, you’d be out of time.

When you’d discovered that you were dying when you were eleven, you struggled to cope with it. Slowly but surely, you’d learned to accept that you couldn’t live forever, and if you’d been asked a month ago how you felt about death, you know how you would have answered. You would have said that it’s a part of life. That every journey has its end. You would have said that no matter what you did you couldn’t change anything and you were okay with dying. Maybe it was your time.

But when your doctor finally, officially tells you that they don’t know if they'll get you a pair of lungs in time, one thing comes to mind.

I’m not ready for this.

Immediately followed by another thought.

Harrison

Tags:

haz tags:

@summernykole @hjosterfield @imagines-andshizz @thequeensardine @artemisiaarm @sincerelymlg @butithasntkilledyouyet @bitchymathematician @ixchel-9275 @honeyyhuggs @nedthegay @ohyouremymedicine @awkwardfangirl2014 @parkerpeterholland @screeching-student-unknown

@osterfieldholland01 @happymagicbee @headsup-itsmostlypeter @starlightfound @spideyyypeter @empressdreams @isabellyduh

Others who i think might enjoy or hate me for it (or already do)

@wazzupmrstark @parkerpuffwrites @parrkerspeters @nnatasha @lamptracker (really i just want you to read this)

All of my 5th ed D&D characters together, by order of appearance: Adi the Paladin (Crimson Crow Campaign), Beatrice the Monk/Cleric, Cirilisa the Wizard, Dindelion the Sorceress, Elenor the Ranger/Wizard, and Adi the Cleric (Curse of Strahd Campaign) (yes that’s A B C D E, and then A again)

My characters tend to have rather large issues that would, if they were left on their own without their respective groups/getting caught up in the campaign, ensure they’d never actually succeed in their goals. As such I’ve really enjoyed distilling each of them down to a single word, an essence of what lays behind their entire psyches. And they’re all bad. Yes, even “Justice”, due to the circumstances~ Ramble about each of them after the cut~

Adi the Paladin (of the Crimson Crows) is a bit of a special case, the only one whose impediment to their success isn’t strictly speaking herself. The child of nobles who collected ancient artifacts, it is said one day they lost themselves to madness. Adi was taken in by her aunt and uncle who raised her the best she could, but as she grew they found she too was prone to bouts of madness and hysteria. One day, when the man they had hired to exercise whatever demons lay upon her mind was found upon the floor, the girl bloodying his face with her fists, she was deemed incurable and quietly shipped away to join a peace-keeping force of ex-criminals and other undesirables known as the Crimson Crows.

She always thought of herself as a hero - a warrior of good and bringer of justice. The problem lays in that she was, originally, a warlock/barbarian of a Great Old One (Nyarlathotep), which warped how she saw the world to fit how she saw herself. For example, if she killed someone, it’s because that person deserved to be killed - if not for the reasons she was attacking them, then for something else. A self proclaimed Hero of the People who’s powers came from something far more likely to destroy the world, manipulating her towards its goals.

She had a rather happy ending, though - some of the other PC’s betrayed her trust and managed to sever her connection to Nyarlathotep, afterward she became a Paladin and through the power of friendship (with a colony of Mind Flayers - its a weird story) she managed to become the hero she always thought she was, ending a war with minimal bloodshed and bringing down an ancient evil.

Beatrice the Monk/Cleric of Death The young Bea, in a desperate attempt to save her clan from a powerful and deceptive mage, ended up selling her soul to a litch, turning her into a pseudo-undead herself. As it turns out, her clan who hunted the undead as abominations and mislead by the mage didn’t take kindly to that story, and she joined the Crimson Crows instead of facing their wrath. Faced with the knowledge that she had become the thing she had sworn to destroy to save those that now cast her out, she lost hope that she could ever reclaim her soul and, even among her new family of misfits, feared they would abandon her as well.

Sadly, she never got an end to her story - she got switched out for Adi when the campaign Adi was originally in was abruptly abandoned. Later on her and her wizard friend (another PC who had left the game) who both were hunting that evil mage found themselves mind-controlled into helping him resurrect an ancient draco-litch. She was saved by Adi & co, but now was worse off than ever, having played a pivotal role in bringing back a terrible undead horror, no matter how unwillingly. If we ever play another campaign in that world, I’d love to give her a proper story.

Cirilisa the Wizard Oh precious Ciri, the littlest Drow~ When a rival house murdered her entire family she became a young murder hobo in the underdark, growing up sickly and frail. Eventually she attempted to get her revenge but only managed to steal and sell some artifact from the family, along with getting a massive scar across her midsection from a blast from the family’s matriarch. Somehow escaping to the surface, her unconscious body was found by scouts of the Crimson Crows, who brought her back to relative health and gave her a new home, where she eventually set herself on becoming a moderately accomplished wizard. Her loss in childhood had deadened her already drow heart, but living among the surface world she saw so many people with so many emotions. She didn’t understand them, but she secretly coveted what they had.

I had planned that she would start to fall in love with the first PC that went out of their way to protect or help her from a serious problem - a plan that was designed to end poorly. The three candidates were a loner dwarf who didn’t want anything to do with anyone else, a were-bear orc who was 100% gay, and a minotaur who was already in a committed relationship. But even though the feelings wouldn’t be returned, she would FEEL things and grow as a character... well...

I didn’t expect that character (the orc) to protect her from drow assassins who nearly managed to kill her... and then THE NEXT NIGHT sacrifice his soul to a revenant of a man he had killed to protect the party. Before Ciri even had a chance to start acknowledging or understanding what she was feeling the object of her affections was dead and buried along the roadside. Instead of love, she grew bitter and angry, desperate to find a way to save the orc’s soul, all without really knowing why. She died before she could - her heart ripped from her chest by a wraith of vampiric spirits in a climatic boss battle. But that group’s leader, a PC vampire named Walter, destroyed the wraith, took it’s title and powers as Blood Lord, and raised her as a vampire. She’s still a ball of piss and vinegar, but she’s in a way found herself in a new family, charging herself with constantly keeping the Blood Lord in check and making sure he never gets too full of himself.

Dindelion the Sorceress If you don’t know about Dindel you haven’t been following me long. A homeless vagabond who hides her natural born ability to heal others for fear it would be exploited, she’s internalized many negative things about herself and rarely trusts herself to make decisions that won’t end in disaster. Add in a mother that disappeared when she was young, a drunkard gambler of a father, and a city decades in decline full of poverty and abuse by those in power and she’s got more than a few trust issues for other folks as well. She also has absolutely no idea how a healthy relationship is supposed to work, and a head full of stories and romance that have absolutely not lined up with her experiences since the campaign started.

Her father, the only constant in her life and the other half of a fairly unhealthy co-dependent relationship, got taken away by essentially the mob for not paying debts and it’s up to her to find some way to pay it off. To her great luck, she ran in to the wandering soldier Vale who, apparently wanting to make up for past sins, agrees to take her along to join a new venture he heard about, leading to the campaign proper. She was actually specifically designed to have too many trust issues to actually get in a relationship with anyone, but between how Vale cares for her and how absolutely shitty she’s found the outside world to be, those issues have actually mutated into something new as their romance has grown. Its... not any healthier a mental state though. I’m excited to see where it goes!

Elenor the Ranger/Wizard Elena was once a promising apprentice wizard, learning the weave with 4 other students. Always feeling a step above the others and not content with how slowly their teacher was progressing them, she devised a plan to work with the others to impress their teacher - to show her they were ready for bigger things. They were going to summon a creature from the planes of hell! Specifically, a Lemure, a relatively harmless blob of a twisted soul. An impressive feat and without much risk from the creature being summoned. Definitely within the capability of someone as great as her.

As sharp chains lashed out from the summoning circle her left arm was torn away. A great beast emerged, tossing her across the room. As she looked up she saw her rival, a young man named Osvaldo, brandishing an axe, standing over her, and looking quite pleased with himself. And the axe came down.

She would come to in a crypt standing near a coffin bearing the family crest of Osvaldo. Her body stiff and her mind cloudy, she slowly realized she had not survived that night at all - she was now a reanimated corpse, but had somehow regained her sense of self. She also found the nearby townspeople did not care enough to distinguish between mindless undead and herself. Eventually she found the place she had once studied - destroyed, some time ago it seems, by that night’s events. Lost and adrift, the life she once knew was over, even her memories were fragmented, but she would forever remember the names of the four who had done this. Osvaldo had convinced them to change the ritual - to summon that creature, and to use it to kill her. She was certain of it. And that hatred kept her going as years of nothingness passed her by. One day she was hired by a tunnel elf, a professed seeker of knowledge, as a guide through the wilderness and though she could not stand him they soon encountered others, mostly strange folk - a tabaxi, a triton, and a snake-like dragonborn in particular - and she stuck around to entertain herself.

Little did she know they were about to be pulled into saving the world from consumption by a forgotten and terrible deity. She thinks their chances aren’t even worth mentioning, but still she cannot allow existence to end before she has wrought what vengeance she can on those that wronged her, and so she will fight with everything she has to keep the world going.

Adi the Cleric of Nyarlathotep As Adi of the Crimson Crows discovered as she worked with the mind flayers, she was not the only Adi. Not even close. Hers was a soul connected to a power outside of time and space and finds itself drawn into worlds over and over, each incarnation as much the same as they are different. Perhaps the Crawling Chaos did not want to repeat what had happened before, maybe it was just twisted curiosity, but this iteration of the girl was born through his direct influence, raised in a town he had visited and driven mad. She was his disciple, and she would spread his teachings across the land.

Through a series of misunderstandings she has found herself in the land of Ravenloft, under the watchful eyes of the vampire Strahd, and in this land she came upon a terrible, bewitched house. A house with paintings of the owners and of a woman bearing a striking resemblance to her. A house where the ghostly children said their littlest sister was named Adi. The child had died in infancy, sacrificed in some dark ritual by its father.

And down in the depths of that place Adi found it was the truth. And there, along the alter, sat a book bound in human skin that called to her. A book of rituals devoted to her god, the Faceless Father. And there, upon the alter, she left the corpse of one of those who had traveled with her, who had brought her there.

She isn’t certain why the Faceless Father has guided her to this land, but she will carry out his will or die trying, though all things considered, perhaps the world would be better off with her in the ground, the cult’s voice silenced

Alter Self

In the realm of transmutive magic, it is always  a difficult task to contain it. By its nature it seeks to mutate, to shift and change, wild and chaotic as things can be. Raw transmutive magic would, if let out, set about an ever changing landscape that bows to no rule but that of eternal motion. Transmutation is, at its core, an art in that way. There are basic boundaries in terms of channeling it, one cannot exceed x number of hours in an altered state, one cannot alter certain surfaces into others indefinitely etc. etc. But those bounds, those are imposed not by the magic but by the caster’s willingness to act as a conduit.

Wizards with their stuffy collegiate ideas do not seek to play with the power at their fingertips. They study it. They observe. They break it down to its essence to better understand how to master it. To control it. It is what makes them, inherently, inferior to those who work with the power to use it. Wizards will break, just as Warlocks and Bards. 

It is the Druid, in his estimate, that retains the greatest potency over transmutation. They bend and shape the earth not through force, but communion. They work with the powers at play. Or at least, that is how he remembered it. 

Years ago, on a day in the rain, he knelt at the side of a tomb. His head pressed against the gold adorning the pillars that held a roof above the hole that his Prince lay buried in. Delicately kept vestments quickly became so sodden with the water that, in an effort to keep from collapsing under the weight, he discarded them, body bare and scarred. For hours under this downpour he sat, and he mourned, and he wept. It had been months, at this point, since his Prince had perished and every moment apart felt like an eternity of sorrow. So, as the sky poured out its tears, so did he, shuddering in the cold rain not from the chill but the potency of utter despair. His body started to weaken, to slip. His knuckles had long since gone white, teeth started to chip away as they chattered, voice lost from his wails. He could feel himself slip as the rain threatened to wash him away. 

Then the rain stopped falling. The sun did not emerge yet, by no means did it come even close. A fullness of darkness enclosed him, as did a fullness of warmth. As he began to regain his senses in this shelter touch provided him the necessary connection. It was the ground below him, the earth itself, that had risen to his aid. In his time of need he had called out to the ether for someone, anyone, to come and halt the despair. While it had not quelled the pain entirely, it did provide. It held him, quietly. The only sound in his solitude was his own breath, and the silent prayers he let slip.

He prayed in those moments, for the earth to heal. He called upon what he remembered from his service to be what was useful. He tried to find the power, the potent image, of who ever sent this his way, and connect to them enough to plead for more. He wanted to belong, he needed to belong. Rowan needed to belong to something. Rowan could not continue if nothing came to guide him. Rowan was no body without someone to work with. Without someone to work for.

No help came. Minutes slipped by, breath became short, his hoarse voice scarcely enough to even be heard by himself. No help came. He moved to his hands and knees, body prone and quaking as the last of his bodily strength was put into prayer, and no help came. 

And his despair grew to desperation and anger. He was mad at the world for doing this to him. It kept taking, and taking, and taking. First the monastery, then his friends of the order, and then even his Prince. All stolen by cruel twists of fate that he was powerless to stop. Rowan could not stop it. His body, pruned of identity in favor of that which his Prince saw fit, was helpless in the face of all. 

So he wished for something different. He wished he could be something else. He wished he could move not even mountains but mounds to at least make some sort of difference. As the air grew stale and his mind swam, his wishes turned to action. He burrowed then, using hands delicately maintained to push through the well packed dirt, bit by bit, till he could open a small hole out, a hole that became larger, and larger. 

As the dirt fell onto him, he did not think actively. As he put what strength he had left into this last spiteful attempt to save himself, he had no ideal. No higher motive. No ideological purpose. All he had was instinct. A primal need that, as he pushed, blossomed. As the dirt fell onto his body, he began to change. The spots where his breasts had once been removed slowly started to pad over with tender flesh. Where his stomach had been sculpted just so it began to fill. Where stitches had been sewn, bindings of moss patched it together. Where he had been sewn shut, the bindings were broken.

With his labor, he returned, back to the spot where he had once knelt in despair, fresh and supple. He was still weak, but he was Alive. And where the rain still fell, and where he had slipped into the darkness of sleep on the street, he had become something new. It was not a gift, but a collaboration. 

An Altered Self, formed by the will and passion of an individual, and the prowess and wisdom of a whole.

7T1L: Jötunn Thor joins the action

Happy Thorsday. Here's some Jötunn Thorki smut.

Part 1

It took some time before Jötunn Thor was at last accepted by his six Aesir brothers. He had learned their language and was gradually beginning to adapt to their culture, in the meantime proving himself an invaluable ally and a capable warrior in their inter-temporal, multi-dimensional war against Thanos. He did not possess the ability to wield lightning like the others, but he had other useful gifts: the power to conjure ice weapons, to freeze an enemy with a touch and then shatter him to pieces with a single strike; the ability to fling icy needles from his hands, and to shield himself and his brothers with a protective wall of frost. He could take a deep breath and blow it out with hurricane force, covering everything in its path with a thick layer of ice. Blades could not pierce his skin, and neither fire nor lightning could harm him. In this way, he and the other Thors were able to wreak havoc upon Thanos’s forces, and when the last of the Titan’s insidious Children fell, there was cause for celebration on the Asgardian warship.

It was also this night that Jötunn Thor finally earned the full trust of his Aesir brothers and was given their blessing to lie with their beloved Loki.

Loki took his hand and led him from the galley with a devious smile, and soon they entered the stateroom, shutting the door behind them. Loki coyly took his time undressing while Thor ripped the clothes from his body and stood there naked and impatient, his loins aching, his cock drooling, trying not to pant like an animal at all the soft, vulnerable flesh being revealed to him. The sight of Loki’s curvaceous, heavily-pregnant body awoke Thor’s primal urge to protect and provide and to please, and he throbbed at the thought of finally being allowed to indulge those urges.

Loki crawled onto the broad bed with its soft red sheets and beckoned to Thor with a curl of his finger. Some of these Aesir gestures were still alien to Thor, but he clearly understood that one, no interpretation required; he slid onto the bed and his tough cerulean flesh met with Loki’s smooth beige skin, turning it blue wherever he touched him. His huge hands glided over Loki’s body, painting it first lilac, then cyan, then Jötunn blue.

He hesitated when he came to Loki’s belly, giving him a worried look. “Mun ég meidha barnidh?” he asked softly.

Loki smiled and stroked Thor’s long, silvery-gold beard. “No, it won’t hurt the baby,” he said in Jötnin. “I may look Aesir on the outside, but everything inside me is Jötunn.”  

He leaned up and kissed Thor, and his face bloomed into its natural color, starting at his lips and spreading outward, the lines and markings on his body appearing as subtly as frost forming on glass. He took Thor’s hand and placed it on the large swell of his stomach. His skin turned blue beneath Thor’s palm and he shivered, then pulled back to sigh a frosty white mist into the air.

“Good,” said Thor with grin, displaying his sharp white canines. “Because very soon there is going to be even more Jötunn inside you.” 

Loki hummed his approval and Thor began to purr, the sound like a lion’s growl deep in his chest. They rolled over with a giggle and began to explore each other’s bodies, Thor’s touches revealing the beautiful form hidden beneath Loki’s common illusion. 

It was exquisite. Loki was so soft and full, his flesh warm and his body tender and sweet-smelling, a fertile bud that would soon flower and bear the fruit planted by its six sires. Thor spent a long time just sniffing and touching and tasting, accepting what Loki offered him—kisses, caresses, the creamy richness of his milk—grateful to finally have the love he had craved all his life.

When Thor sank his thick, colbalt-colored cock into Loki’s dewy pink folds—slowly and carefully, being very gentle—it was especially pleasing to watch how he changed down there.

“Now you are Jötunn in both flesh and appearance,” he rumbled, holding Loki’s legs apart as he began to slide in and out, going gradually deeper, coating himself inch by inch with Loki’s warm, glistening slick. “You feel as lovely as you look.”

Loki smiled up at him breathlessly. 

They took their time, Thor being extremely careful as Loki was over eight months pregnant now and increasingly prone to discomfort. They tried several positions before finally settling upon their knees, Loki leaning on his hands while Thor entered him from behind.

Loki moaned and eagerly shoved himself back onto Thor’s cock, his sheath squelching as it swallowed his entire length. 

“Mm, yes, like this,” he insisted, pulling himself off almost completely before repeating the motion, slapping into Thor’s pelvis.

Thor squeezed Loki’s thighs and did as he was bid, and soon Loki was rocking beneath him, his cock leaking and his engorged cunt slurping greedily around Thor’s member. His plump little teats bounced with each complete penetration. His belly hung low and heavy, and Thor leaned forward to caress it, rubbing the rounded form of the little Aesir baby within.

“I may not have made him, but I will treat him as if he were mine,” he vowed in a husky voice. “He is half you, Loki, therefore he is half Jötunn. We will teach him our words and our ways so that he never forgets, and I will love all of him. Not just the half, but the whole. As I love you. Eins ég elska thig. Unnusti mín.” He bent and kissed Loki’s shoulder blade, leaving behind a silvery patch of frost. “Elskan mín.”

He grasped Loki’s cock and began to work it, and Loki tossed his head, flinging his wavy black hair over his shoulder as he moaned. Five minutes and three orgasms later, Thor finally joined him, roaring like a beast and filling the room with a cold mist from his mighty Jötunn lungs. He spent himself inside Loki, a process which took close to a minute and made Loki gasp with shock—both at the amount and the sensation. He had never been filled with a Frost Giant’s seed before and was surprised by how cool and tingly it felt, alleviating the discomfort caused by its overabundance.

Loki arched his back and suddenly experienced two simultaneous orgasms, both strong and unexpected and very different from his usual climaxes, and the distended feeling mysteriously faded. Nothing but pleasure and a delicious, satisfying glow remained.

When Thor pulled out, he was completely clean. There was no leakage, no mess. Not a single drop.

“What was that?” Loki asked as they lay down together, catching their breaths in the aftermath. “You filled me and then… nothing. What happened?”

Thor frowned. “You have never experienced that before?”

Loki shook his head.

Thor’s lavender eyes reflected his surprise. “You had a secondary climax. Dýpfulla it is called, the deepening. Your womb opened and took what I put in you. It is almost impossible for our people to make children without this happening. But you are already bred, so now the seed fulfills a different purpose.” 

“A different purpose? You mean it has other uses?”

Thor petted Loki’s belly lovingly. “It is said that such offerings help strengthen the child and ease the mother’s burden. A good father is expected to contribute to the well-being of his mate. Aside from a healthy child, a brief and painless labor is a sire’s greatest pride.”

Loki made an impressed face and snuggled against Thor’s side. “I never knew sex and childbearing among the Frost Giants was so complex. Do you… speak from experience, or have you not yet fathered children?”

Thor tucked his massive arm beneath his head and put the other around Loki. He sighed a small, frosty breath. “There were very few Jötnar willing to sleep with a runt like me, and none of them was the one I truly wanted. There was little pleasure in it for me. I was either a joke or a pity to them, and I was seldom on the giving end.” His voice became quiet, distant. “It was fortunate that I never became pregnant as a result of those couplings. I always experienced the dýpfulla, sometimes multiple times. I don’t know how I avoided it for so long.”

Loki propped himself up on his elbow, stunned. “You mean you. The Frost Giants are all…?”

“Yes. We are much better equipped than the Aesir.” Thor smiled and gently took Loki’s hand, guiding it between his hard, muscular thighs and moving it slowly inward. Loki had already noticed that Thor’s testes were absent from the outside, being internal like his own, but he was unprepared for the familiar touch of soft skin and the smooth wrinkle of warm, moist flesh.

“Oh,” he uttered, gently caressing the folds. “My. So you’re all like this, then. I thought it was just me.” His cheeks darkened to indigo. “You’ll have to forgive my ignorance. I was taken from Jötunheim as an infant and told nothing of how my people reproduced. I was beginning to think I was nothing but a gross mutation.”

Thor grinned. “No, Loki. You are small, but perfect in every way.” He lifted his leg a little, encouraging Loki to slip his fingers inside him. Loki did, a delighted smirk spreading across his blue lips as he listened to Thor sigh with pleasure.

“You had better not let the others find out about this,” he teased, stroking the smooth, slippery walls of Thor’s lumen. “They’ll be fighting one another to mount you.”

“Perhaps someday I might let them,” Thor chuckled. “It would be nice to be penetrated by someone closer to my size.” He arched a platinum-blond eyebrow. “I wouldn’t mind letting One-Eye mount me. He is very amusing.”

Loki cuddled closer, pressing his belly against Thor’s side and continuing to lavish attention on his cunt, which was growing wetter by the moment. “Hm, yes, he does have a good sense of humor. But what if you were to become pregnant by him? I’m not quite sure I’m ready for the product of a Thor-on-Thor union.”

“Nor I. But it is only speculation at this point.” Thor turned and nuzzled Loki’s face with his own, kissing his cheek, slipping his hand down to stroke Loki’s cock back to life. “Only one person’s love matters to me now, and that is yours, Loki.”

Loki’s eyes fluttered as he felt himself grow hard in Thor’s big, cool hand.

A whole new world of pleasure, and this is where it begins. In ice and frost, in the warm blue depths of a seventh heart.

Resident Evil AU Headcanons/Details

Welp, since this may get kind of long, I decided to put all of this below a read more so I don’t end up doing stuff to people’s dashes.

Okay, first and foremost, I have played all of the video games and seen all but the very last Resident Evil movie. Because of this, I will be borrowing elements of both; but keep in mind that it will be following more along the lines of the movies. This means that the entire world has been effected by the likes of the T- Virus, and to a much lesser extent, the G-Virus. The creatures from the fourth game up, never come to be as large a threat as they are for Resident Evil 4 and the Resident Evil 5 versions never come to be. Now, on to the rest of the info-

Most of my muses have their roles in this AU pending, but the ones that have definite places in it are Quentin, Yazaria, and Luatorog. As you might guess given the AU (if you’d seen/played any of the resident evil games/movies), their roles and situations are significantly different than what they are in most of my verses, and are as follows;

Luatorog is the head of an Umbrella facility, namely the one that housed both Quentin and Yazaria and ran extensive tests on both the T and G Viruses, alongside... other things. The installation was filled to the brim with the horrors they had created for “containing” the results of their experiments. After a large scale containment break involving both the results of their experiments and the monstrosities that were also housed there which resulted in the infection or death of over 95% percent of the base’s staff and remaining test subjects, rather than allow himself to be murdered by the creatures they had created... he injected himself with a sizable amount of an experimental mixture of both T and G Viruses, transforming him into a monster of his own which retains a good portion of his intelligence and cunning. After his transformation, he set out finishing off any witnesses that were left in the base... with two managing to escape; the test subjects Quentin and Yazaria, whom he set out after to destroy with his mental state slowly deteriorating.

Quentin and Yazaria on the other hand, started out as kids living their lives; Quentin was an orphan who lost his parents at a fairly young age, and Yazaria lived a happy life with her parents and friends. Both were abducted at certain points in time, with Yazaria’s parents being killed shortly after her abduction in order to prevent any sort of missing persons report or look into what had happened to her. Shortly after the two had reached the installation, they were thrown into the same cell where they eventually came to know one another and developed a sibling-like bond. Eventually, the two were used for experiments with each virus; Yazaria was used as a test subject for the T-Virus, while Quentin was used as a test subject for the considerably more... volatile G-Virus. The experiments on the two had considerably different reactions; Yazaria’s infection was nearly free of negative effects other than a short spell of lethargy, whilst Quentin’s infection brought great agony to the poor boy. Yet, miraculously, both not only survived their infections... they bonded with their respective virus; granting them both incredible enhancements. Quentin’s bonding in particular was a marvel to the scientists, due to the fact that he was the only subject injected with the virus to not morph into a G form or suffer the effects of mental deterioration. After the large scale containment breach that took place in the installation, the two were released from their cell and staged an odds defying escape... with the now changed Luatorog after them.

With all of that said, now I’ll be moving on to some of the effects granted by the viruses to each of these characters;

Quentin, being the only person to ever bond with the volatile G-Virus, has been granted; incredible strength, speed, durability, regenerative abilities, stamina, immunity to both T and G Viruses, and much more. He is virtually the ideal weapon... however, he is prone to extreme physical pain both at random times and at times when he over exerts himself. During these times, his mobility is incredibly restricted and he is known to both cough up blood and cause severe damage to his surroundings as he suffers through the agony.

Yazaria, through bonding with the T-Virus, has been granted; heightened speed, reaction times, regenerative abilities, stamina, durability, immunity to the T-Virus, and other things. While her enhancements aren’t as extreme as her adoptive sibling’s, she also lacks the periods of agony that he is forced to endure... though this doesn’t do much for her concern when these times occur. Her bonding with the T-Virus also, while not granting full immunity to the G-Virus, does grant her an incredibly high resistance to it, allowing her to sustain minor infections of the virus without any negative effects as it works its way out of her.

Luatorog, after taking the mixture of the T and G Viruses, has been granted; insane strength, speed, reaction times, durability, regenerative abilities, complete immunity to both viruses while also being capable of spreading the mutated virus that he is infected with, and many other things. The inclusion of the T-Virus in this mixture, has allowed Lua to retain most of his human form save for an increase in size and mutation which is hidden by his top and slowed down his mental deterioration considerably. Despite the clear draw backs of the serum he injected into himself, his capabilities are easily the greatest out of the three muses listed here, granting him the ability to go toe to toe with the likes of a Tyrant or a Nemesis and ripping them apart. As he has failed to bond with this serum, he is eventually fated to become little more than a monster loose upon the apocalyptic world with only one goal; kill Quentin and Yazaria.

Now lastly, I will be talking about Quentin and Yazaria’s methods of combat in this zombie apocalypse. 

Yazaria has a very strict preference for firearms. This means that regardless of how close an enemy may get to her and whatever weapon she may be holding at the time, she will attempt to shoot them with said weapon. Without a firearm, she is virtually useless, as she will refuse to use a melee weapon unless the situation forces her to use one. The fire arms she prefers to stick with are small to medium sized handguns.

Quentin has a far more unique fighting style; at a distance he uses firearms in an attempt to kill enemies, but should they get to close and he lacks the likes of a shotgun, he is not above using his bare hands or a melee weapon to dismantle an enemy. Also against the likes of a Tyrant or Nemesis, knowing full well that he is the only one capable of combating such a threat, usually immediately goes hand to hand with it in order to by Yazaria and anyone else that is currently with them a chance to escape before withdrawing himself and meeting back up with her. His weapons of choice are usually a pistol, rifle, and sword or bat like weapon.

Saturday, July 17, 2021

Vaccinated Americans to be able to enter Canada (AP) Prime Minister Justin Trudeau said on Thursday Canada could start allowing fully vaccinated Americans into Canada as of mid-August for non-essential travel and should be in a position to welcome fully vaccinated travelers from all countries by early September.

Child Tax Credit (The 19th) Earlier this year, Congress expanded the Child Tax Credit, giving families $3,000 for kids aged six to 17 and $3,600 for kids under six. Furthermore, it’s no longer just an annual lump sum around tax time: the money will now hit bank accounts in monthly increments of $250 to $300 per kid per month. The payments began yesterday and will go to 88 percent of American families with children, and the backers hope that the payments could cut the child poverty rate from 13.6 to 7.5 percent, a 45 percent reduction. There’s at least one catch—the deposits are actually prepayments based on estimated 2021 taxes, meaning families may face smaller returns or unexpected tax bills next April.

Largest wildfire in Oregon expands further (AP) Firefighters scrambled on Friday to control a raging inferno in southeastern Oregon that’s spreading miles a day in windy conditions, one of numerous conflagrations across the U.S. West that are straining resources. Authorities ordered a new round of evacuations Thursday amid worries the Bootleg Fire, which has already destroyed 21 homes, could merge with another blaze that also grew explosively amid dry and blustery conditions. The Bootleg Fire, the largest wildfire currently burning in the U.S., has now torched an area larger than New York City and has stymied firefighters for nearly a week with erratic winds and extremely dangerous fire behavior.

With virus cases rising, mask mandate back on in Los Angeles (AP) Los Angeles County will again require masks be worn indoors in the nation’s largest county, even by those vaccinated against the coronavirus, while the University of California system also said Thursday that students, faculty and staff must be inoculated against the disease to return to campuses. The announcements come amid a sharp increase in virus cases, many of them the highly transmissible delta variant that has proliferated since California fully reopened its economy on June 15 and did away with capacity limits and social distancing. The vast majority of new cases are among unvaccinated people. Other counties, including Sacramento and Yolo, are strongly urging people to wear masks indoors but not requiring it.

Haiti’s assassination mystery (Foreign Policy) In the search for those behind the assassination of Haitian President Jovenel Moïse last week, authorities have arrested at least 18 retired members of Colombia’s armed forces—some of whom previously received U.S. military training—and five Haitians, including a former rebel leader, the owner of a security company, and a pastor. While the details of the plot are still under investigation, the alleged use of former Colombian soldiers as mercenaries was unsurprising to observers. Elite Colombian troops, trained over the country’s half-century of conflict, can retire as early as their 40s and are frequently hired as private military contractors in the Middle East and elsewhere.

Biden: US will protect Haiti embassy, won’t send troops (AP) President Joe Biden said Thursday that the U.S. will bolster security at its embassy in Haiti following last week’s assassination of that country’s president, but sending American troops to stabilize the country was “not on the agenda.” Haiti’s interim government last week asked the U.S. and the United Nations to deploy troops to protect key infrastructure following President Jovenel Moïse’s assassination. Biden signaled he was not open to the request, which comes as he is drawing down U.S. forces in Afghanistan this summer. “We’re only sending American Marines to our embassy,” Biden said. “The idea of sending American forces to Haiti is not on the agenda,” he added.

U.S.-Cuba policy (Foreign Policy) U.S. President Joe Biden said he would not allow U.S.-based Cubans to send remittances home as part of White House plans to assist the Cuban people following Sunday’s protests. Biden said he was prepared to give COVID-19 vaccines to the island, but only under the condition that an international organization administered them. During a speech on Wednesday, Cuban President Miguel Díaz-Canel again lambasted the “cruel” and “genocidal” U.S. blockade of Cuba while promising a “critical analysis” of the problems facing the country. Since the weekend protests, Cuba has lifted restrictions on the amount of food and medicine travelers are allowed bring in to the country, fulfilling one of the demands of the protesters.

Death toll from European floods passes 115 as receding waters reveal scope of devastation (Washington Post) As deadly floodwaters began to recede Friday across Germany and Belgium, the full extent of the destruction was slowly revealed: muddy washouts where homes used to stand, cars and debris tangled together, and officials still adding to a death toll that surpassed 115 and was expected to climb higher. “Whole places are scarred by the disaster,” German President Frank-Walter Steinmeier said at a news conference after the worst flooding in decades to hit the region. “Many people have lost what they have built all their lives.” The storm—a major low-pressure system that stretched from Germany to France—brought a deluge Thursday that quickly swelled rivers, collapsed bridges and roads, and left many people scrambling to rooftops or onto fallen trees. Luxembourg and Switzerland were also hit by torrential rain, and warnings were issued in more than a dozen regions of France. Earlier this week, Britain was struck by flash floods that submerged parts of London in deep waters and turned residential roads into flowing rivers.

Xinjiang Products Banned In U.S. (Reuters) The Senate passed bipartisan legislation Wednesday banning the import of all products from China’s Xinjiang region. It is Washington’s latest effort to punish Beijing for what U.S. officials say is an ongoing genocide against Uyghurs and other Muslim groups. Under the Uyghur Forced Labor Prevention Act, the burden of proving goods manufactured in Xinjiang are not made with forced labor—and therefore not banned under the 1930 Tariff Act—would be shifted to importers. This legislation would go beyond steps already taken to secure U.S. supply chains in the face of allegations of rights abuses in China, including existing bans on Xinjiang tomatoes, cotton, and some solar products. The Biden administration, which has been increasing sanctions, issued an advisory on Tuesday warning businesses they could be in violation of U.S. law if operations are linked even indirectly to surveillance networks in Xinjiang.

COVID spreading in Asia and Africa (Worldcrunch) As Indonesia becomes Asia’s new COVID epicenter, nearby countries are planning new restrictions with Singapore’s announcement it will limit social gatherings, a move that South Korea is also considering. Across Africa, cases have “surged by 43 percent in the space of a week.” There is concern that the Delta variant could mutate into more dangerous variants as it sweeps through largely unvaccinated regions.

Athletes go it alone in Tokyo as families watch from afar (AP) Michael Phelps reached for his mother’s hand through a chainlink fence near the pool. The 19-year-old swimmer had just won his first Olympic medal—gold, of course—at the 2004 Athens Games, and he wanted to share it with the woman who raised him on her own. That kind of moment between loved ones won’t be happening at the pandemic-delayed Tokyo Olympics. No spectators—local or foreign—will be allowed at the vast majority of venues, where athletes will hang medals around their own necks to protect against spreading the coronavirus. No handshakes or hugs on the podium, either. “I like to feed off of the crowd,” defending all-around champion gymnast Simone Biles said, “so I’m a little bit worried about how I’ll do under those circumstances.”

Hospital fire deepens Iraq’s COVID crisis (AP) No beds, medicines running low and hospital wards prone to fire—Iraq’s doctors say they are losing the battle against the coronavirus. And they say that was true even before a devastating blaze killed scores of people in a COVID-19 isolation unit this week. Infections in Iraq have surged to record highs in a third wave spurred by the more aggressive delta variant, and long-neglected hospitals suffering the effects of decades of war are overwhelmed with severely ill patients. Doctors are going online to plea for donations of medicine and bottled oxygen, and relatives are taking to social media to find hospital beds for their stricken loved ones. “Every morning, it’s the same chaos repeated, wards overwhelmed with patients,” said Sarmed Ahmed, a doctor at Baghdad’s Al-Kindi Hospital.

Riots in Lebanon as West calls for quick Cabinet formation (AP) Tension intensified in Lebanon on Friday, with riots leaving more than two dozen people injured in the northern city of Tripoli, including five soldiers who were attacked with a hand grenade. France, the European Union and the United States in the meantime called on Lebanese politicians to urgently form a Cabinet. The announcements came at a moment of great uncertainty for Lebanon after Prime Minister-designate Saad Hariri stepped down on Thursday over disagreements with the president on the shape of the Cabinet. Hundreds of his supporters rioted in the streets, blocked major roads and hurled stones. In Beirut, protesters briefly closed several main roads Friday, prompting a swift intervention by the troops to clear them. In the northern city of Tripoli, Lebanon’s second largest and most impoverished, residents angry over rising prices, electricity cuts that last for most of the day and severe shortages in diesel and medicine, rioted in the streets and attacked Lebanese troops.

Bamboozled Birds (Hakai Magazine) Lots of bird populations are at risk due to habitat destruction, deforestation and wildfires in historical nesting areas. Given that they’re not really known to crash zoning board meetings, birds don’t know that the areas they want to live in are doomed to timber harvesting, so researchers would like to find ways to get birds to nest in places where it’s safe. New studies have found ways to trick the birds into doing this, with one recent experiment in Oregon convincing marbled murrelets to nest away from threatened forests by piping in artificial recordings of marbled murrelets into the desired areas. Over 60 species of seabirds have been lured to different breeding grounds in this way before, and now they know it works with the murrelets: they played back recordings in 14 locations not slated for logging but otherwise unoccupied in 2016. Within a year, those locations had four times as much nesting activity compared to un-bamboozled tracts of forest.

Is something burning or is something just recently blown up? Junkrat finally makes his debut into Aquawatch!

Junkrat is a landshark, the catch all term for human/Mer hybrids. The mer half is the species known as the Greater Spinned Hammerhead Wave Ripper, a rare and often destructive species.

Junkrat’s story is mostly known as he’s told it in his own words being he can actually speak to staff and given Overwatch has records confirming many parts of the wild tale....but read for yourself by clicking the read more...

Junkrat is a, like mentioned above, a landshark, one of the most hated hybrid species and one that has more or less been manufactured unnaturally but truth be told, most hybrid species are unnatural. The term hybrid is used to indicate a species is made of two known and established cryptoid species. 

  Comparatively though, landsharks have more impact on humans thus they tend to be villianized the most. Landsharks are partially human, some appearing nearly human and others more mer, but most suffer terribly and only a scant few can survive to live long lives. Nearly all landsharks are manufactured though as human genetics tends to make smaller mers and lessen their natural defenses that make containing them difficult. Thus poachers will capture healthy mers able to carry and artificially impregnate them.

Thus you get the worse affront against mer-cryptoids that Overwatch is highly keen on snuffing out: Mer-Mills.

Junkrat’s mother was kept in one of these places and Junkrat was born to her with the rest of a litter of half mutated landsharks. The weakened mother couldn’t produce the milk to feed the children, could barely even react given the cramped, unsanitary conditions being maintained as well as the drugs pumped in constantly.  Greater Spinned Hammerhead Wave Rippers are large and dangerous creatures, prone to violence and blowing up human ships for “sport” by launching the spines on their back. However the blood of these creatures can be used to manufacture an oil that works better than gasoline meaning hunting them down is of great importance. However, extinction would mean loss of a cash opportunity so many are captured alive and forced to produce landsharks which are easier to harvest.  for their blood which is then turned processed. Technically illegal but most governments will turn a blind eye. Junkrat has this blood in his veins and the development of back spines allowing him the “detonate” talents of his mother’s species and the immunity to extreme heat. Add to that though is the very unique ability to actually speak and communicate in English, picking up a strong Australian accent due to where he learned English in his formative years. Junkrat is the only mer able to communicate with staff directly and translate other mer-speak more or less. Getting good translations out of him though is the hard part as some things he speaks about like it is common knowledge/terminology. 

Junkrat was a strange case in that his liter, being mostly dead landshark whelps, wasn’t really harvested carefully and he managed to wriggle back into his mother’s tank. The large mer seemed vaguely aware of him there, enough that she made some attempts to rouse herself to raise him. The mer-mill staff thought it amusing enough, cracking jokes but left Junkrat there where he grew up with a half-dead mother barely able to respond socially. Thus he started “talking” to the humans, picking up the English and Australian slang. Eventually though the novelty with the staff was dying off and it was becoming more important to make a profit.

At about five years old, by Junkrat’s rough estimation, he was taken from his mother’s tank, branded with a tattoo on the left forearm, and shoved in a cage tank with a dozen other half starved landshark whelps of various other species. Problem was that the others couldn’t read....Junkrat could. He’d watched the staff. He made his escaped and managed to get out through a water intake pipe to freedom. Freedom though turned out to be a desolate Australian wasteland, the facility far from any ocean and more or less a death sentence. He only survived being a landshark, able to travel upright where he snuck into a watercooler of some local hunters and burrowing into the icy water among beers. The hunters were more than a little shocked to find a mer-child in their cooler.... a freaky half-fish that they sold off to a side show just outside Perth where he became the amazing fish boy.

Unclean conditions and more mercryptids and land cryptoids kept in miserable cages to perform for excited populations, only legal due to local political corruption and perceived “good conditions and happiness” of the “animals”. The place went up in an explosion a year later with the mers and land cryptoids running free and was called an “eco-terrorist attack” by local news.

Little did they know it was a landshark who rigged it all to go up and then who made his escape into the open ocean, sort of swimming free. He was never the strongest swimmer but he managed to find his way to a landshark colony and for a time lived with them before a cull order was put out due to the constant stealing by the landsharks of beach goer possessions and and raiding the shoreline for food.

Poachers were hired under the table to remove the colony but one of the ships was sabotaged from underneath, exploded sky high and the second ship nearly also went up in flames but the “saboteur” was caught and to their surprise it was one of the landsharks. This savage retaliation had the poacher leader find a use for Junkrat other than a quick cull: Pit fighting. The left forearm and lower leg were amputated to slow Junkrat down and make it harder for him to escape and replaced with crude replacements, ones that didn’t fit right and scarred up the stumps and more than once caused harm. It was also meant as a way to remove the tattoo designating him as property to a rival business and avoiding any “ownership” issues. Then Junkrat spent the next few years fighting tooth and claw for life in pit fights against larger species. Eventually though the audience just wanted to see a slaughter and see the maniac landshark get chomped and he was pitted against a large beachhog taniwha that had been starved to the point it was biting anything that moved. During the fight though, Junkrat managed to convince Roadhog not to eat him in return for literally breaking the door protecting the audience.... a very hungry very angry beachhog taniwha doesn’t show much mercy in those circumstances. The two escaped again into the ocean and from there on out, kept close together, raiding and plundering up the shoreline for food and other items. Around this time Junkrat had an idea that he and Roadhog could find a way to get inland and go free his mother and “siblings” from the place he grew up.

A mad cap idea that was put on hold when they went a bit to far upriver and Roadhog ended up stuck in a muddy river, slowly drying up in Australia’s brutal sun. Overwatch was called in when the strange pair was spotted and after initial confrontation, managed to capture both and bring them in.

Detaining Junkrat was hard given he could speak (mostly cussing them all out) and able to blast his way out using his own unique blood as an ignition fluid for it in combination with his spines. Eventually he was calmed down enough to engage in conversation, Mercy leading it and getting some information out of him. It would only be later at seeing the care and work Overwatch did to help mers, a first time sight in Junkrat’s life, that he began to open about why he and Roadhog were stranded at all.

Overwatch was able to track down the facility and burst in, finally shutting down the mer-mill. Records showed there were over a hundred mer cryptoids there at one point or another although only ten were found alive. Hundreds of landsharks were found, over 85% were deformed and unable to survive even with corrective surgeries. 15% were malnourished and already pass the point of saving as well. Only 5% were rescued and nursed to health and able to be helped to live a somewhat normal life. Of the ten full-blooded mers found, Junkrat’s mother was among them, close to giving out, extremely sick, and rendered infertile due to the constant artificial breeding. She was brought back to Overwatch and after many tense weeks, managed to pull through. Remarkably she did remember Junkrat and they re-united, the  waveripper reacting positively and affectionately as if he was a full-blooded individual of their species. Still, she did not wish to remain in Overwatch and was released back to open ocean after a private goodbye with her only surviving offspring.

Junkrat was a bit despondent and hasn’t not commented on what was said in the goodbye, opting instead to bury himself under Roadhog and avoid everyone. He has since bounced back and gone back to his explosive ways, running amuck in the base, causing Symmetra to shriek when he gets in her tank and messes up her reef or giving Mei a fright when he goes “boom “ too close. A little menace, but he claims he’s just having fun....as he steals all the cute plushies to give to Roadhog.

He serves often as a translator for the mer-speak of the others although his translations are as colorful as you are imagining them to be. Not to mention he tends to embellish things, forget other things, and use a lot of what is termed “mer-lish lingo”, direct translations or references for what mers call things, that makes the translations even harder to understand.

Junkrat is the most likely mer to be seen out of the tank as he is allowed to come and go as he pleases as long as he behaves and doesn’t blow up too much. Still he tends to avoid contact with visitors as he doesn’t like being stared at like some “freak”. He prefers to lounge about the office area, racing office chairs down the hallways with Torbjorn, answering telemarketers to chat with them, and building mockships to blow up in the harbor with Reinhardt or Roadhog.  He is one of the weaker swimmers, a fact often compensated by hitching rides on Roadhog. Also he can’t handle extreme pressures of deep ocean survival which seems to put him out for some reason.

His coloration is not a healthy shade. Given the conditions he grew up in, a lot of the molted grey spots indicate early malnutrition in his youth. The prosthetics have been re-aligned to be comfortable and no longer locking up to allow him better movement although he was not too keen on getting complete replacements like they were a badge of honor or reminder of what he went through. For a landshark though, he IS usually tall.

Mercy handles care of the Beachog Taniwha and Junkrat as both need the most medical expertise, Roadhog more for his dietary needs and Junkrat more for his....everything. Hybrids tend to develop problems so careful monitoring is needed to make sure nothing lethal occurs in his biology. Also she is the only one that is not easily ruffled by their antics and the only one that can get Junkrat to behave somewhat.

Lots of text but I hope you enjoyed  = w =

when something walks into you life that you do not expect, you tend to fray away from it, naturally, because as humans, we are prone to obsessing over our comforts and what we know, like how much milk is enough in that coffee you made, or how many days of work you have left until you have a break, or how many pillows you have to have to rest on at night times. but if something walks into your life and stays for a short while, it is a completely different story. when you buy something new, that new thing is the highlight of your shitty life for a week or so, but after it starts to wear out or you invest your time in something else. it turns into a forgotten memory, probably laying in the back of your wardrobe, wasting away and rotting like something you had never brought, for years on end. that was me. that was how I felt. you walked into my life and I wasn’t afraid. I had been afraid before, terrified in fact, but there was something so calming about you. you were more than the average girl; you were unique, a gem of some sort and when you grasp that type of value, you’ll never let go. I remember the feeling I got when I first layed my drugged up, dilated pupils on you. At that time, I was too intoxicated to function like your average 16 year old girl. I was obsessed with how the way things looked. I adored the rushing feeling pulsating throughout my body. I gained the confidence of a millionaire walking into their local pub. but most of all, the refreshing mood of happiness, the general happiness. But when I saw you, I was sober. You approached me, arms crossed, hair bunched up, attitude of a spoilt child. this wasn’t what I imagined. See, I had this picture of you: generous, kind, loving, but you wasn’t that at all. I couldn’t wrap my head around your personality, it changed like a caterpillar mutating into a butterfly: one minute, you were so kind, and the next, you was the meanest person living. but, as the drugged up druggie I was, I approached you, arms wide open with a smile that couldn’t be broken. you smiled back. and that’s when it happened. a click. a click in my head that I would soon regret. a gesture that would fuck me up completely when you returned it but you did. although your approach shocked me, I willingly wanted to be greeted with it again, over and over like my favourite song on repeat. and that’s what I did. so, after time, I began to treasure your stance, the way you sulked, the way you looked when you were disappointed, the moan you let out when your mum couldn’t drive you two minutes up the hill you hated. I loved every element of you, even if they weren’t the best. time passed and you became a comfort, something of a routine. I found myself talking to you in periods where I couldn’t handle my own thoughts, or when my feelings came caving in. you was always there; you was my pick-me-up, a remedy that always worked, a replacement of an element in me that was missing. you was what I needed. but not only that, we found similarities in each other that I would never find again, we ventured into places we shouldn’t of been in, we spent birthdays, celebrations, and normal days together… we became everything, all at once. so, I believed that this would be everlasting, one of those friendships that you see on teenage websites. I had never had a friendship like this, it was all I ever wanted and you was the one to give it to me. you see, I invested every second of my thoughts into you. so naturally, you began to become associated with all of the things I loved: sunsets, sunflowers, grey days, songs, views, fashion, fuck me even my own cat. I adored those things and to my disadvantage, so did you. It was only going end up badly. I started to get worried. how could I have met somebody who was so similar to me in ways that I had never thought myself to be like? and how could I have found such a great connection in such a short period of time? and how could a person make me so happy? the thoughts and questions I had were almost too much and I started to release that you was something that was too good to be true. I had told you before that if you ever left, I would never be able to cope. Don’t get me wrong, there had been times where I felt as though I needed to leave; you became too much at points, like a drug that was good in small doses but too intense at high. however, we knew that we couldn’t do it without each other, by ‘it’ I mean simply living happily. so, we made a pact: to never ever leave each other no matter what was said, or heard, we would always stay together because you was my home and I was your sun. we created this for comfort and light, something to fall back on so if everything else was falling, we would still stand. I would never leave you, and to this day, I haven’t. Things started to slowly decline. Instead of approaches with open arms, closed. Instead of sunsets, rainy days. Instead of the happy songs, sad. everything was falling. and instead of it being everything around us, it became us. but, being the attached, obsessed, druggie I was, I held onto it, with fingertips sweating holding onto a bar of soap falling. with every inch of myself, I would not let this go. I would not let this go. I would not let this go. but you did and I came crumbling down with it, with your eyes glaring at me from a distance, watching me fall, letting me slide like grains of sand between your fingers and you didn’t say a word. all the things you put into my thoughts, all the colours, compliments, light, radiance, turned like a come down. the things you forced me to believe became something of a myth, like a forgotten memory in the back of my wardrobe. you see, not only did you leave, but you packed my happy thoughts into a suitcase and got a one way ticket away from me. you robbed me of my most valuable memories and placed it into a glass display that you rarely polished and never dared to take out but I always displayed those memories with confidence and confined in them, relying on them and labelling them with your initials. so without them, I was empty. you cleaned the insides of me out. I became nothing but a spec of dust now. my ego had left my body. I was a shell with only a hollow inside. I never wanted this. our pact become a blip of existence. it was never written in your head but scarred with the ink of my own blood on mine. how was I supposed to get rid of you? you were the branches in my thoughts that I needed to water every single day and I worked so hard for them to blossom but my watering can ran out of the fuel the plant needed to carry this on without you. they were unfinished paintings of wonder and I did not have the brushes to complete them. they were the cutlery I needed to eat. they were the plugs for my television to come alive. I had the everything I needed, except the one thing I needed for it them to work. I couldn’t function. I couldn’t function. I can’t function. once something becomes a habit, you become obsessed and when you’re obsessed and you don’t have it, like a junkie, you will do anything possible to get it back. so I tried, oh lord I tried. I tried so hard that my tears became invisible to you because they were nothing but repeats of water flooding. I tried so hard that I begged on my knees for you to come back like I was worshipping a god that I had never believed in. I tried so hard that I looked to something I had never had before to replace you. but you never came back. the light I once gave you became dim and I wasn’t new and shiny like I used to be, I was worn out and naked. I thought of the things I could of done for weeks to stop this. Maybe if I didn’t question your actions or maybe if I did catch the last train to see you or maybe if I didn’t get upset when you didn’t tell me things, then you would still be here, painting a smile on my face that I never knew existed before you came along. if you didn’t come back, that smile would never be seen again and turn to nothing but a blank expression that poisoned the muscles in my face. but I never gave up, I pushed so hard and I strained myself for that smile and it pained me. but after time, smiling became tiring. smiling became a pain in my cheeks. smiling was something I hated because now when I smiled, you wasn’t seeing it. so these thoughts of what I could of done to resuscitate this poisoned me and became who I was. I retraced every step I took around you and every word that pushed against my lips and wished I changed what was said to something more grateful for your existence. and I thought of how I could of done something to see your smile instead of make you cry over and over and over and over again. and I wish I told you, I fucking wish I told you, that you was the best thing that had ever happened to me. I found that the happy times with you became my favourite, worst memories - they became the bane of my life. they was a slap in the face with an ice cold hand in the best sleep. but sleep became an issue after a while because laying in a dark room alone, with only you on my mind, meant I was being tortured with the sound of your laugh, or the times we loved, or the times we acted like idiots… once upon a time, they were my lullabies to sleep but now the only thing besides caffeine and class A drugs that could keep me up. I wanted you out of my head. The thoughts of you was the only thoughts I had and I was fed up of seeing the rain in my visions now; I needed something to bring the sunshine. the thoughts were unwanted guests and I wanted them out so I could rest in peace. something I couldn’t get out of my mind, something that was stuck that I didn’t want to rub out was the thought of your first approach towards me and your smile in the sunlight. I felt the feeling of pure happiness when I was around you, and I didn’t need the drugs anymore, I needed you. I wasn’t me without you and I wasn’t coping and everything was shit and grey and dim and fuck I missed you as if you was dead. you never came back. you carried on, embraced what life was like without me, replaced me, and carried on. I guess it was easy for you to leave and carry on but I never understood this because I never could. I didn’t understand how you could still walk around arms crossed, hair bunched up, attitude of a spoilt child and be perfectly fine without me. If it was fine for you, why was it so hard for me? The things you left fingerprints on stained and no matter how hard I tried to wash you off, I couldn’t. All my happy thoughts poisoned with your smile and your view of the world. sunsets, sunflowers, grey sky’s, songs, views, all poisoned and ruined like black water paint on a colourful page made of you. they become distorted and all the things I loved, I began to hate. I didn’t want to go outside because I was afraid of the sun. I didn’t water my flowers because when they blossomed, it was too much for me. I didn’t listen to my favourite songs because the words touched my heart and tore it into pieces. everything I ever fucking loved, you took it and mixed it together and threw it away. people say your heart can only be broken by somebody you’re in love with but I was never in love. I loved you. I wasn’t in love. you was my best friend, my glue, my home but you touched my heart in ways that changed the way I loved. this love was infinite and unbreakable. so when you left, my heart broke and shattered into a million pieces of hurt and loss. I could never forgive you for how you left without reason. I could never forgive you. but if one day, you was to approach me with open arms, I would do it all again just to see you smile because I still miss you. I still think of you every day and I always will. You was the first real thing that I loved, and you was never going to wear out; you was always going to be my new thing.

(apshortmoments)