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whumpshaped · 8 months

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this spiralled out of control i apologise. beck's head will clear in 3, 2, 1-

masterlist

tw vampire whumper, suggestive stuff, mind control, threat of death, threat of murder, lots of threats in general, power dynamics, intimate whumper, murder mention

"Oh, I do love it here." Helle stretched out on the king sized bed while Beck was left to stand in the bedroom door, silently fuming. That was his bed, and his room, and his home. "Thank you for asking."

"I didn't," he said quietly, a show of ridiculous defiance he seldom afforded himself. But his home was being turned into a fucking vampire den! Helle went and looked at his treasured family photos, his decorations, touched all his possessions, all while he could do nothing but sit on the sofa and wait for them to leave.

And then they came back. Again. And again. And again. Because they could, and because this was now their new favourite hangout spot; ever since the fucking date night.

"No, I think you did." They gave him a look, a warning, one that Beck always felt compelled to heed. Not this time. He thought he had enough pent up anger to be a little disobedient, so he steeled his nerves and decided to speak up. Well, about as well as a mouse would've against the neighbourhood cat.

"You– you're being... very unfair," he said slowly, forcing out the words one by one, considering each one before committing to it. That wasn't what he'd wanted to say, of course. But he somehow had to repackage his... more blunt sentiments. "And, and you can do that, you can absolutely be as horrible to me as you want. I can't... I can't do anything about it. But I don't want to play along today."

Helle's expression turned playful, and they rolled over to one side of the bed, petting the other as an invitation. Beck wanted to explode when he saw his own fucking bed being offered back to him at a price — a very steep price at that. He didn't want to be anywhere near the fucking vampire.

"Oh, come on," they insisted when he didn't move. He just shook his head.

"Please, get off my bed. You're– you're in your street clothes, and you're rolling around on my blanket that I use after I've showered and I'm clean–"

"Oh, is that the issue?" they asked with a mischievous smile, glancing down at their clothes. "If it is, we can definitely remedy–"

"It's not! It's– it's one of many issues!" he snapped, his little outburst startling him more than it did Helle. "S-sorry. I– just, please, get off."

"You know, sometimes I like it when you get mad at me. Even beyond just the entertainment factor. Because, you see... you are so bland on the surface, but whenever you get angry, it is almost like... I can tell there is something more there."

Bland? What kind of backhanded compliment was that? Or was it just an insult? Beck was so caught off guard that he couldn't even respond before Helle had already moved on, petting the bed again.

"Now, do get over here before I lose interest and just start snapping some bones for fun."

He swallowed, the memory of Helle holding his wrist in their hand and cheerily explaining how easily they could break it seeping back into the forefront of his mind and making his legs move of their own accord. "I said I was sorry," he tried as he carefully lowered himself onto his bed like it was a minefield.

"Yes, I know. And more often than not, I am also fine playing along. But not today, right? Today we are brave and honest."

He hated the way they said that. He had no idea what stupid game they had in mind that required them both on the same bed, but he was starting to get increasingly nervous about it — while Helle easily propped themself up on their elbow, lying on their side, looking at him excitedly like they were at a sleepover.

"I want you to tell me what you actually think. Of me, of spending the night with a vampire, with the specific vampire who has been so mean to you. I want to hear it."

"Wh- what?"

"It is painfully obvious that you are holding back. An understandable choice. But now I want you to just say it. Tell me something absolutely vile."

"I, I don't... I... no, but this, this is what I mean, this is unfair, how can you even– you, you could hurt me so badly," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Is that an invitation?" They raised their free hand before he could answer, cutting him off. "I know, I know. It is not. Not yet, anyway. But very well, if you will not share of your own volition, you shall share under enthrallment."

Beck sat up immediately, his urge to get away suddenly unbearable. "No! No, you said you wouldn't, you said you wouldn't use it!"

"I will if I have to," they cooed. "Or you can just tell me."

"I... will I be punished for this?" he asked hesitantly.

"Oh, Beck, stop being such a coward for one second. Indulge. I can tell you my most depraved thoughts about you in exchange, if–"

"No. No, I, I don't think I want to hear any of that."

"Well, I might tell you anyway. But for now, let me hear your honest opinion."

He didn't want to be enthralled. Now that he was so focused on it, he could already feel it creeping closer and closer at the edges of his consciousness, poking and prodding and gently pushing him to just do it. He knew it could turn vicious at any moment, seizing the information by violently ripping it from his mind against his will.

"I hate you," he said in a shaky little voice, ruining weeks of fantasies of himself yelling these words at the vampire. "I, I hate everything about you, everything that reminds me of you, I hate feedings, I hate you being here, I hate you touching me and my things and, and bringing who knows what into my house, you're ruining my life, I– I wish–" He cut himself off, and Helle pushed further into his mind, forcing the words out of his mouth without his consent. "I wish you had been buried with a stake in your heart back whenever you died. I wish I was there, seeing it through, I wish I could've done it. Hell, you're the only reason I keep a stake in my home, you're the only vampire I ever imagine killing, but I imagine it often and in great detail. I am thoroughly fucking disgusted by you, and I truly wish you were dead and rotting somewhere."

Their hold on him suddenly disappeared, and he was left with the knowledge of what he'd just told Helle to their face. He couldn't run away. He couldn't defend it. He couldn't explain it away. All he could do was sit there and watch them process all of it, hoping that whatever punishment this warranted, he could negotiate it to be a little lighter.

He had never realised just how terrifying a concept enthrallment was. He had been spoiled before, continually presented with choices he thought were impossible... but no, impossible felt completely different. It was his mind being effortlessly taken over and toyed with, it was being helpless, completely helpless against it.

"Okay," Helle said after a while, plopping down onto their back. "Bring your stake and get it over with."

"What..?"

"If you do not comply with this order, I will find the stake and drive it through your heart."

Beck almost fell off the bed in his haste to grab the stake from the drawer of his nightstand, clutching it in his hands uncertainly as he turned back to see Helle still lying on their back, docile as ever. They didn't make a single move to stop him as he reluctantly inched closer.

"You– you wouldn't actually let me," he stammered, and they shrugged.

"You are not going get a better chance."

Well... that much was true. And yet, all he did was kneel there on the bed with a stake in his hand and stare at the vampire.

"You know, from the amount of family photo albums I have flipped through, I could easily find and recognise your mother. Or your brother, really. I wonder whether they would be any more fun, or this particular brand of blandness runs in your family." They looked up at him with a coy smile. "I might just go find out for myself after I've staked you."

There weren't many things Beck was as fiercely protective of as his family. Rage bubbled up in his chest with every word Helle uttered, and he instantly moved to straddle their waist, raising the stake high above his head. He had a clear shot. Helle wasn't defending themself. They were telling him that only one of them was going to leave this room alive, and that if it was them, they would slaughter the rest of his family.

And yet... now that he was actually here, on top of the vampire who had been tormenting him, the thought of killing them was intimidating. It wasn't even killing, all he was doing was sending them back where they belonged! But... but what vampire would take over their territory? Would those vampires grab him too? Would they immediately enthrall him, pump him full of venom, leave him to die? Did he... did he really hate Helle that much..?

He shook his head a little, trying to get rid of the thoughts. This had to be the lingering effects of the enthrallment he'd read about. He did hate them, he hated them more then anything, he wanted them dead, properly, permanently dead. And yet his body wouldn't comply. He wasn't a murderer. He just... he couldn't...

Beck flinched and almost dropped the stake when Helle suddenly moved, trailing their fingers up his thighs, over his hips and onto his waist. He lowered his hands to push theirs away, but they were faster, grabbing him by the wrists and tugging his hands over to their chest. The point of the stake was now right above their unbeating heart, mere inches away from killing them; and they looked up at him with the same calm as always, almost– fond, or... or...

"You could do it now," they whispered, not letting him pull his hands back even if he wanted to. "All those mean, condescending insults, all that pain from feedings, all the ruined date nights, all that frustration from having to tolerate a leech like me in your home... gone."

"I can't," he whispered back, trying to blink away tears of shame. He just couldn't. His life was on the line. His family's life. And he couldn't.

"Why?"

He shook his head again. Maybe he didn't fully know, maybe he just didn't want to talk about it. Maybe he felt like he could just say no now that he was holding a stake to their heart.

"I thought you hated me."

"I do." His hands were shaking badly, worse by the second as Helle slowly worked his fingers loose from the stake. "But I– I don't know what would happen afterwards. And I don't want to kill anybody–"

"I'm already dead, Beck."

"I know." He let them take the stupid piece of wood, the one he now knew he'd never actually get to use because of his own cowardice. He yelped when Helle suddenly flipped their positions, settling comfortably between his legs and putting the pointed end of the stake against his heart.

"I let you do this because I thought it would be a nice little lesson," they said easily, almost pleasantly, no doubt enjoying the way he trembled under them. "I knew you would not be able to do it. At least I was confident enough. Of course, had you tried, I would have simply stopped you... but you did not even try."

There was no trace of fear in their voice or on their face from having been so close to death, nor was there a single tremor that would've run through their hands as they threatened someone with a very much lethal weapon. This wouldn't have been their first kill; nor their first death, for that matter. Beck stifled a little whimper at the thought.

"Whether you admit it or not, you love to hate me. You love to point to me and say I am the source of your problems, you love to fantasise about my death being the end of your misery, but you know it is not true. You love knowing that you do not have to fear vampires out at night anymore, aside from the one you already know. One that is, quite frankly–"

"Spoiling me," he blurted out, and their smile widened.

"Yes. Spoiling you. No magic. No quick and easy scrambling of your fragile, human mind. You love to think I am strict and cruel, because it makes you feel better about the world. You love to think I am the worst of it. But you know it is not true."

"I do, now." He could hear the blood rushing in his ears as he stared up at the murderous being so close to killing him, and he dared hope they wouldn't. Because he knew them, and they knew him, and he dared hope that in itself was enough to keep him from dying tonight.

"I killed my sire like this." They sounded nostalgic, as though they were recalling their most pleasant memories. "There is something... quite special about staking someone. Forcing a piece of wood between their ribs, piercing their heart... I do love doing it. It is quite... intimate."

Beck felt the point be driven further into his skin, nestling between strands of the fabric in his shirt and drawing blood underneath. Maybe he wouldn't have been able to drive it through someone's chest without any momentum. Helle was definitely more than capable.

He held his breath, waiting for his death as the vampire watched the droplet of blood soak a small circle of red into his pristine shirt. Then they threw the stake aside, grabbing a hold of his wrist instead. "But if I staked you tonight, how would I ever turn you into my adoring little vampire servant? No, I am afraid that will have to wait." They kissed the inside of his wrist, and Beck shivered, bracing himself for the bite that would come as a direct result of his own incompetence. "But I am very pleased that this honesty hour has brought us a bit closer together."

taglist: @whumpsday @the-scrapegoat @hidden-dreamland @dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night @delicateprincepaper @whumppmuhw @florissimps @nicolepascaline @oliversrarebooks

#at my beck and call #whump #whump writing #beckett #helle #vampire whumper #suggestive #mind control #threat of death #threat of murder #lots of threats in general #power dynamics #intimate whumper #murder mention

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wolven91 · 1 month

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Drifting - Part 14

There was no plan, no intricate method or training for Casper to fall back on as he sprinted toward his opponent. The chintian mech lumbered forward as well, getting larger and larger to Casper’s perspective. Qik had only briefly touched upon melee brawling with mechs which mostly boiled down to the simple instruction of; ‘don’t’.

Aside from ‘don’t’, the only other advice for hers was to knock the other to the ground. Either by using one’s own mech and mass to slam into an unprepared target or go for the legs, damage them, and send them into the dirt.

After that, the objective was to merely stomp on whoever was prone. It didn’t matter how robust a chassis was, or how much reactive armour they wore; a hundred tons of force crushing the body of a mech is more than enough to disable or outright kill the enemy.

Or himself.

As he closed in, Casper reared back in an all out punch. There was no finesse or skill, he merely wanted to hit the chintian mech with as much force as he could. He felt the strain in his damaged side as he fully extended then skipped into the final step forwards before throwing his full might into the strike.

The other mech merely stepped aside as if Casper had told him the plan beforehand and jabbed once and quickly into the overextended side of Spectre’s torso, denting the metal and causing a series of warnings and alerts to flash across Casper’s mind. Reeling, having expected at least some resistance, Spectre stumbled forwards.

Casper’s rig, a significant mass, stumbled with the lack of resistance and fell forwards, the human inside throwing his arms up to cushion the fall before rolling away from the other mech and onto his feet once more. The fall hadn’t damaged him. Spectre wasn’t broken, Zeet had fulfilled his promise to make a mech that would keep Casper in the fight for as long as possible, but in a single error, the young man inside had learned two sobering lessons.

Firstly, he couldn’t brute force this, despite the overwhelming power of his body falsely having him believe he was invincible. He mentally admonished himself for falling into the trap again.

Secondly, the enemy was a fighter. That was not the move of a mech pilot, who, as Qik had trained Casper to do, would have braced and tanked the hit, allowing control of the opponent. That was the move of a human. A trained human soldier or maybe fighter. Perhaps one who had been through at minimum basic training and more likely beyond.

Casper recovered, raising from his knees to his feet and brought his fists up, mimicking the chintian mech who advanced slowly, keeping at least one foot firmly planted at all times as he approached.

Casper wasn’t a fighter, he’d never thrown a single punch in anger before. He was the one that got picked on. Who had been kicked into the dirt back home. Back before the Earth had been destroyed, he’d done some basic sparring to remedy this, but nothing that could give him even a moment of advantage over a trained professional. He’d never passed the test of taking a punch to the face and remaining upright.

The chintian mech surged forward and brought the left ruined gatling laser down in a diagonal stroke, braying its solid metal across the top of Casper’s rig causing him to stumble right, his optics shutting, blinding him as he flinched and tried to roll with the hit, expecting the pain of a punch to paralyse him. The enemy had no fists, unlike Casper, but it mattered little.

In that moment of blinding, the enemy swung with the other arm, slapping Spectre’s reconnaissance unit to the left side, Casper still trying to weather the blows rather than retort. Spectre’s head was knocked right into the waiting left arm of the chintian mech that had already begun its second swing, knocking Casper into the dirt once more.

{Move!} Qik fired before Casper had even landed, desperate for him not to make the mistake of staying still.

The Spectre’s jets punched into the dirt, rolling the mech away from the other fighter and sent the wet mud up, splattering the chintian mech as it brought down a heavy foot, intending on crushing Casper into the sucking mud.

There was no time to do more than recover, as Casper scurried backwards, trying to get his feet underneath him, The Pilot offered no quarter, advancing, chasing him and wailing blows down upon him as soon as he was in reach. Spectre’s arms raised up, fending off blow after blow until a backhanded swing connected forcefully across Casper’s back, sending him into the air once more in a shower of sparks and squealing metal.

Casper was near the city one more and reached out into the buildings to offer him leverage to stand back up. The young man was panicking, he had no out, no way to prevent the pain that would come with his beating. He had nothing!

The chintian mech was on him just as the Spectre turned with its arms raised. The chintian mech rammed into Casper, knocking him backwards into the building and sending yet more rubble cascading down into the streets at their feet. The chintian mech fired out a series of blows, a flurry using its right arm to batter the recon unit precariously protected by the Spectre’s arms.

He couldn’t do anything!

{Casper!}

The onslaught wasn’t slowing or stopping. There was no mercy or forgiveness. Just as Casper began to feel the rhythm of the assault, a blow to his mech’s stomach had his hands drop an inch only to receive more damage warnings across the sides of his face, bringing his arms back up in a instinctual flinch.

There was nothing he could do. Casper wasn’t a fighter! He should have never believed what the geckins or the lopeljack had been saying! He wasn’t a mercenary, he wasn’t a pilot.

He was a human. A weak, malnourished human with no hope of winning this fight. He’d always been afraid. Before Earth and after. He hated pain, avoided it his whole life. Casper had only kept getting in the mechs because they made him feel strong. They removed that fear of the pain. He fell into their addictive trap. Hook, line and sinker.

[I can’t win.]

{Stop hiding! You can do this! You’re not even hurt!}

But he was! All it would take was one punch and his face would lance with blinding, horrible pain…

The chintian mech landed another blow into the Spectre’s besieged side.

Casper got warnings, and alerts, but…

There was no ‘pain’ he realised with confusion.

He had flinched, wincing, leaving himself open to more attacks just by expecting it. Blinking with realisation, Casper dropped his elbow to block the next blow only to receive a left haymaker across the face.

He got alerts that one of his optic lenses was cracked, but there was no blinding flare of pain. Only a clinical detached itemised list of warnings and alerts. His mind remained sharp, half expecting the pain, yet receiving none. Even when he didn’t tense, or flinch during the following strikes across his head. He didn’t even close his eyes for the next body shot.

He weather it without fear. The machine’s body sacrificing itself for his own weak flesh.

He was without pain. What was there to fear in a fight if not pain?

After a life of agony and weakness, he had unknowingly convinced himself that the mech was his body again… But it wasn’t.

His body was weak, yes, but the machine he was protected inside wasn’t. The mech might not be invincible, neither was he. But inside the mech he *felt* invincible. Casper realised that he didn’t need to fear pain, he could go all out without worrying about being scared by it all.

The Spectre unit bent low, around a gut punch from the chintian made machine, before rising with a fist that came all the way from the ground floor. It connected with the enemy mech and knocked its balance backwards, forcing it to take several steps as it jerked itself forwards, to prevent it from flailing.

The Pilot took a step back towards Casper and tried to side step the straight jab that Casper threw, only for the Spectre unit to balance on one foot and swing his leg out, kicking the side of the enemy mech in a lightning fast strike.

Sparks and the sound of bending metal rang out again.

The other fighter stumbled sideways, The Pilot inside, growling in frustration as he had to devote effort in not simply falling over.

Casper on the other hand was shocked that it had worked. He had expected his leg to burn in pain, but all that happened was the enemy had stopped wailing on him. Casper hesitated, watching the other machine right itself before it began stomping towards him once more.

It was heavy. Lumberous. It had more movement than Qik’s around the torso, but it still had to lumber forwards and backwards. Limited in its movements. It couldn’t skip, or leap. But Spectre could.

Casper loosened up. He made the concerted effort to stop tensing his whole body and instead began to bounce on the tips of his toes. The Spectre unit ruined the ‘skis’ on the bottom of its feet, bending the metal as it leaned forwards and forced small craters of mud out from underneath it as it bobbed and bounced, arms up, ready for a fight, emulating the movements of a fearless cage fighter.

The chintian mech launched forwards, seemingly enraged that Casper would find his feet and threw a haymaker after a jab after a strike, but each one had Casper leaning back and trying to keep away from the other machine, slapping the ruined stubs away in moments that he could.

Casper didn’t need to be perfect, even when the other fighter was close enough to clip Spectre, it was only glancing blows and even then, with each hit, Casper realised more and more that he had nothing to be afraid of in the fight. All he had to do was keep the other mech on the attack, whilst he backed off, arms up.

The enemy mech paused for a moment, seemingly taking a breather. Inside the chintian cockpit, sweat beaded off The Pilot, every punch thrown by the machine was a direct mimicry of his own. The puppetry gloves that wrapped around his hands copied his every move. Each missed punch was one that The Pilot had also physically thrown and wasted the energy.

Casper grinned deep within his pilot casket.

The Spectre unit kept one arm up, protecting his head, just out of reach from the other mech, as his other arm waved in front of him. Suggesting the other mech keep coming, beckoning him. Taunting him.

This didn’t trigger the enemy, there was no sudden enraged leap forwards. The chintian mech came forwards again, steady and ready, throwing out another series of punches that hit nothing but air as Casper backed away, just out of reach of the mech. Evading and escaping, leaning heavily on the one advantage he had over the more experienced enemy.

[You can’t catch me, can you? You’ve nothing for this. You didn’t stop us from destroying the tanks. You can’t beat me. You only took out Scrub via surprise. You’re a disappointment aren’t you?]

((Kiep odmawia, gdy nie Kiep prosi…))

The chintian mech suddenly lurched forwards as its own back mounted jets ignited and sent it toppling forwards and careening into Casper’s middle. Not expecting this, but rolling with it; Casper’s own jets fired and launched him backwards and up, absorbing the blow and mass of the other machine into a hug as the two machines connected.

Spectre put all its energy into its own boosters and raised the pair of them up.

The two fights, still clawing at one another, lifted into the air, until they collided with one of the buildings. Both packs still firing forced them upwards, sending concrete and debris flying as the pair of machines clutched at each other whilst dragging one another into and through the various floors.

Eventually they broke free of the buildings and the cityscape fell away beneath them. Rain pelted them and lightning forked in the distance.

Casper had been afraid his whole life. Fearing for his body. Fearing for his mind. Fear for his whole species. He was afraid of the mere thought of being in pain that he had grasped at the first thing that had not only promised to take away his physical pain, but also his mental anguish.

The thought of Qik getting hurt or doing this on her own abhorred Casper. He had to win, he had to get back to her, he had to eat and care for himself, because if he didn’t; who would look after her?

This pilot that faced him, that snarled at him from within the chintian machine might not be his ‘enemy’ in the grand scheme of things, but right now he represented the fear that Casper alone had to wrestle with every day of his life.

But he wasn’t alone now.

Qik was with him.

Her company would be his.

He wasn’t Casper when he was piloting.

He was Spectre.

The dark grey mech released its grip on the other mech’s with one hand whilst holding the enemy closer to him with the other, bringing the two together.

With his free hand he reached for the other machine’s back. He felt the sensitive jet pack with its intake and slapped his hand directly into the yawning maw of the engine.

In seconds Spectre’s entire hand was torn from its housing and sucked into the sensitive inners of the jet’s engine. Instantly the large reactor housed within the pack exploded, a huge firestorm that blew most of the enemy mech’s torso to smithereens. It was only because of the mass of the other mech that Spectre remained unscathed.

Casper brought his legs up, using his knees to force the two of them apart as he shoved and straightened his whole body in one herculean effort.

The now limp chintian mech’s arms broke apart, servos disconnected and shattering with the force as Spectre backflipped away and straightened, aiming to land back into the city as he would jumping down from a raised platform.

Casper’s jump pack burned even hotter as he neared the ground and softened his fall as Spectre’s knees absorbed the impact with a natural grace that hadn’t been seen by any mech pilot before now.

The Spectre’s head looked up, optics clicking and watched as the out of control jet pack continued to circle and spin in a completely wild, unmanaged death spiral.

Up to the point where the reactor that fed the jets exploded.

The sky lit up and long shadows appeared everywhere as the chintian mech exploded with such force that the very air was blown away and rushed back in, toppling already damaged buildings and causing a domino effect as they collapsed.

[Qik!]

Casper’s jets ignited again and sent him flying towards where Qik’s mech still lay as the building she had fallen into began to collapse. Casper wasn’t fast enough as the building began to bury the red mech from sight.

[Qik; say something!]

{I’m fine. You have to drop more than a building on me to take me out.}

Casper skidded to a halt as the dust began to settle over the new rubble pile where Qik’s mech was buried.

[I thought, god I thought after all that, it would be the building that gets you.]

{Nah, but do you mind getting me out though? This will be embarrassing if anyone shows up and sees this.}

Casper would have laughed if he was able and reached down to start shifting rubble with his one remaining good hand. By the first fist full of ruined concrete, the scratched and dented red paint of Qik’s mech appeared, a stark contrast to the muted greys of the burnt and now destroyed building materials.

As he worked, Casper turned his head to a sonic boom in the distance. His optics zoomed in and he got a bad feeling creeping up his spine.

From the skies, a trio of ships broke through the clouds and levelled out, screeching towards where Casper stood and Qik lay. They were moving low and fast over the terrain.

[We got inbound.]

{We’ll be okay}

They didn’t look friendly to Casper, nor did they appear like any of the models of geckin ships that Casper was now familiar with. They were of sleek black metal with sharp angles and wings and tails that ended in dangerous looking spikes and points. The geckin crafts looked functional, these looked animalistic.

Casper sped up his actions, clearing the ejection tube for Qik’s pilot casket.

[Eject, I’ll get us away.]

{No need Spectre.}

Casper growled, frustrated that the lopel didn’t seem to get the urgency of the situation! The ships were right on them!

[They’re right on us Qik!]

{They’re friendly Casper. Meet your new family.}

[What?]

Casper, still crouched over Qik’s exposed mech, watched the aircraft carefully as they approached the city limits and the pair of damaged mechs. Just as they got within a few hundred metres, the crafts pulled up their noses sharply, and the engines tilted, pushing down against gravity and inertia, rather than pushing the aircraft through the air.

The VTOLs all landed very close to both the Spectre and Scrub units. Casper watched them very closely, ready to lash out the moment they did something he didn’t like. From the bellies of the ships came several lopels, each rushing over to Qik’s disabled mech and toward Spectre.

“Youz two ready to leave? Contracts done and we got a nice big fat bonus for takin’ out that there other pilot. Some crazy human that folk have been having trouble killing apparently.” Came a new rough and ready voice over the open radio. Casper couldn’t tell who was speaking, and turned to Qik’s mech.

[Qik?]

{Power down and disengage. Put yourself in their hands.}

[Are you sure?]

{Trust me Casper, these guys as Tactical Solutions Co, they’re our company. Our family. This team’s job is to keep you safe. Let’s go meet the family, yeah?}

[r/WolvensStories]

[Ko-Fi]

#conservationverse #cuddleverse #human #hfy #haso #humans are space orcs #furry #human x furry #lopeljack #bunny

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hah-studios · 4 months

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Guilt, heartbreak, mask, and mistake for Wonderland in Oz’s Dorothy and Alice?

Dorothy:

Guilt: I say Dorothy’s two biggest guilts were ones she couldn’t control (which says a lot about her character) that being scaring her aunt and uncle when she disappeared, and murdering Morgana (wicked witch of the west). When she returned to Kansas she did her best to not have her aunt and uncle worry, including dropping the topic of oz when they didn’t believe her. Like in the og Oz they are her main driving point-tho she’s loyal to Oz enough to put there needs above her returning home. And she never wants to kill again, no matter the villain. She accepts her guilt and always tries to repent for it.

Heartbreak: Dorothy’s parents died when she was 5. She has little memory of them but mourns the relationship she could have had with them. Her heart broke in two when she had to leave Oz, despite the dangers there she had formed her most important relationships there with scarecrow Tin man and lion. She has caught feelings for a certain Ozian but lacks the courage to even acknowledge them let alone confess.

Mask: Dorothy doesn’t intentionally hide her feelings. She’s naturally upbeat but her insistence others are more important and her belief in overcoming anything could suggest she has a bit of toxic positivity. She tends to hide/push down her anger tho.That being said she’s comfortable being vulnerable with Alice and the trio.

Mistake: While it deeply upset her Dorothy does not call Morgana’s death as a mistake but a tragic necessity to save her friends, the Winkies, and all of Oz. The Big Mistake she makes happens in my webcomic’s timeline so I can’t spoil it here. Odds are you’ll be like “Oh, Dorothy I understand where you’re coming from but that was SUCH a bad idea.”

Alice:

Guilt: Alice when the story starts, has only ever felt guilty for causing her sister distress. As the comic progresses she will say/do things to feel guilty for. But like-spoilers. But she’ll do her best to remedy them.

Heartbreak: Alice’s heart broke the moment she returned from Wonderland and her family stopped loving her, calling her crazy and shipping her away to America. Her heart will break a couple more times in the comic. But hopefully she’ll have the courage to let it be mended.

Mask: when moved to the academy where she meets Dorothy Alice tries to wear a mask of indifference and normalcy, trying to hide how wonderland changed her. The mask will pretty quickly fall off when she enters Oz

Mistake: trusting [redacted]

#so many spoilers #I love talking about wonderland of oz #ask

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dreaminginthedeepsouth · 3 months

Text

Matt Wuerker

* * * *

The courts aren’t coming to save us—and that’s okay.

February 29, 2024

ROBERT B. HUBBELL

On Wednesday, the Supreme Court granted review of Trump’s presidential immunity defense. The surprise grant of review felt like a gut punch. Trump's presidential immunity defense is absurd and unworthy of extended consideration by the Court. Moreover, the Court is moving with a “business-as-usual” pace when many Americans are desperate to see Trump tried by a jury before the 2024 election.

It set oral argument for April 22, 2024. It is doubtful that an opinion will be issued before June 2024. In short, there is little chance that Trump will sit for trial in the federal election interference or defense secrets cases before the November election.

But the grant of review and attendant delay changed nothing. The courts aren’t coming to save us—and that’s okay. We were (and remain) in charge of our destiny and Trump's criminal accountability. Our remedy lies in defeating Trump at the ballot box. If we do that, Trump will be convicted and imprisoned. If we fail to do so, Trump will use the Department of Justice to delay and obstruct his criminal prosecutions.

Feelings of anger and disappointment are understandable and reasonable. The Supreme Court appears incapable of rising to a moment of constitutional crisis. Its glacial pace betrays contempt for the American people—or actual bias in favor of Trump. Either way, it is maddening.

The Court has lost its way. It has breached its trust with the American people. It won’t recover from this wound, regardless of how it rules on Trump's claim of immunity.

We must not expend needless worry calculating dwindling paths to a trial date before November 2024. It was clear long ago that no conviction of Trump (including appeals) would be final before the November election. Because finality (and imprisonment) would never be achieved before the election, obsessing over a trial beginning (and ending) before the election is pointless.

But what about the polls that show many voters would change their minds if Trump is convicted? We have little reason to believe those polls.

They would have us believe that voters would suddenly change their minds about Trump if he were convicted, even though they remained supportive of Trump despite being aware of the following:

the events of January 6,

the bribery of Ukraine,

the Access Hollywood tape,

the Stormy Daniels affair,

the sexual assault of E. Jean Carroll,

a civil fraud judgment for $350 million,

the retention of defense secrets,

the denial of reproductive liberty for women,

the ban on travel from majority Muslim nations,

the stigmatization of LGBTQ people,

the slurs against immigrants and

the mismanagement of a pandemic that killed hundreds of thousands of Americans.

Would it be preferable to hold a trial of Trump prior to the November election? Sure! But that alone would not assure victory or prevent Trump from taking office if he wins.

And don’t forget that Trump will stand trial in New York on state criminal charges for federal election violations by concealing his hush money payments to a porn star over a sexual encounter that occurred while Melania was at home nursing Barron Trump.

So, while feelings of anger and disappointment are understandable and reasonable, the grant of review by the Supreme Court changed nothing. We control our destiny. We must defeat Trump in November. We cannot expect the courts to save us . . . and that’s okay.

If we accept that premise, we can observe and analyze the various court proceedings with the appropriate level of interest and detachment they deserve. We should be vitally interested in what is happening in Trump's criminal proceedings, but we should not hang on every development as if it will determine the outcome of the election. It won’t. Stop calculating whether Judge Chutkan can squeeze in a trial between June and November 2024, and get back to the hard work of winning the 2024 election.

Post-script: Do not mistake my focus on defeating Trump at the ballot box for acceptance of the Supreme Court’s decision. It was corrupt because Clarence Thomas did not recuse himself. It was reprehensible because it credits an absurd legal theory. It undermines the rule of law and expresses contempt for the American people. It exalts procedure over substance at a time of constitutional crisis.

The current Court is broken beyond repair. It must be enlarged so that a new majority of justices willing to uphold the Constitution can reform an institution that has been captured by the Federalist Society and MAGA extremists.

#Matt Wuerker #Political Cartoon #MAGA GOP #Robert B. Hubbell #Robert B. Hubbell Newsletter #broken SCOTUS #corrupt SCOTUS #Criminal GOP

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venusiancharisma · 5 months

Text

What I Do & How I Can Help You...

I have studied & now practice a niche service which I refer to as Astro-Remediation. This service is all about studying your chart & focusing on negatively placed & aspected planets in your personal natal chart. Once all areas of negativity are identified, I send a comprehensive analysis of how this may manifest in your personal life, specifically your inner reality, your exterior reality; relationships, jobs, home life, social settings etc. After you have read with the intention of full self awareness & accountability, I then "prescribe" the remedies that will allow for transmutation to unfold and allow you to flourish in areas you may have previously felt cyclical/repeating cycles, lessons, or just profound bad luck.

Here's an example of how I would lay out for you the remediation for a negatively placed or aspected Mars (with a few added details such as where you may be able to identify if yours is negatively placed in your own chart) Since this is a generalization, it is not exactly how I would lay it out, as I use other indicators of negativity specific to each person, but again, a generalized overview of the service based on my example of Mars.. I implement vedic and tropical astrology within this service and only promote auyrvedic remedies. This practice is Eastern & it is ancient in it's entirety. There are slight deterents of auyrveda such as suggesting to seek professional help with a therapist, for example, but this is only because I am not a trained medical doctor and this is based on psudeo-science; I believe strongly in the power of the mind and the power of living "intentionally" so if you choose the auyrvedic portions of this, over 30 days, you should notice an immense difference in your most incredible self.

If this is something you're interested in, send me a message, I am updating my website now, but I am open for Astro-Remediation services.

This is an example of Part 2/3 of this service. Each negative placement/aspect will be detailed by planet. This part is about practical application and intentional awareness. Part 1/3 as I mentioned above would be a thorough analysis of your shadow self, the parts most people aren't willing to recognize, confront, or identify with (until it's too late, circumstantially.) Part 3/3 would include the cohesion of every negative planet/aspect into a naturally structured way of thriving off this energy as your best self and giving you a strategy to start thriving rather than self sabotaging.

When someone has a challenging or negatively placed Mars in their natal chart, it can manifest as excessive aggression, impatience, anger issues, or difficulty managing their energy constructively. However, it's essential to remember that astrology offers insights, not limitations. Here are some remedies and strategies to transmute the negative effects of a challenging Mars placement:

1. Self-Awareness and Mindfulness:

Recognize your triggers and patterns of anger or frustration.

Practice mindfulness and meditation to gain better control over impulsive reactions.

2. Anger Management:

Seek anger management counseling or therapy to learn healthy ways to express and manage your anger.

Consider anger management courses or workshops.

3. Physical Activity and Exercise:

Engage in regular physical activity to release excess energy and tension.

Sports, martial arts, or yoga can help channel Mars energy in constructive ways.

4. Breathing Exercises:

Practice deep-breathing exercises to calm yourself during stressful situations.

Breathing techniques can help reduce impulsiveness and promote emotional balance.

5. Crystal Healing:

Crystals like red jasper, black tourmaline, or amethyst can be worn or carried to help balance Mars energy.

Hold the crystal in your hand, meditate with it, or wear it as jewelry.

6. Aromatherapy:

Essential oils like lavender, chamomile, and frankincense can promote relaxation and emotional balance.

Use these oils in diffusers or apply diluted versions to your skin.

7. Yoga and Meditation:

Yoga and meditation can help you connect with your inner self, reduce impulsivity, and enhance self-control.

Certain yoga poses can be particularly grounding, such as warrior poses.

8. Creative Outlets:

Find creative outlets like art, music, or writing to channel your energy into constructive forms of self-expression.

Creative activities can help release pent-up frustration.

9. Seek Professional Help:

If Mars-related issues significantly impact your life or relationships, consider consulting with a professional astrologer or therapist for personalized guidance.

To identify the challenges associated with a negatively placed Mars in your natal chart, you'll need to look at the sign and house placement of Mars:

Mars in Signs:

Aries: Impulsiveness and a quick temper.

Taurus: Stubbornness and difficulty adapting to change.

Gemini: Restlessness and scattered energy.

Cancer: Passive-aggressiveness and moodiness.

Leo: Domineering behavior and a need for attention.

Virgo: Perfectionism leading to frustration.

Libra: Conflict avoidance and passive behavior.

Scorpio: Intensity and a tendency for power struggles.

Sagittarius: Impatience and a desire for constant change.

Capricorn: Controlling tendencies and difficulty expressing emotions.

Aquarius: Rebelliousness and a desire to break free from constraints.

Pisces: Escapism and difficulty setting boundaries.

Mars in Houses:

Mars in the 1st House: A strong desire to assert yourself but can come off as aggressive.

Mars in the 4th House: Family-related issues may trigger anger.

Mars in the 7th House: Relationship conflicts and power struggles.

Mars in the 12th House: Difficulty expressing anger, leading to passive-aggressive behavior.

By identifying these challenges and implementing constructive remedies and practices, you can work toward transforming negative Mars energy into a force for positive change and assertiveness. Remember that self-awareness and conscious effort are essential in this process.

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witch-and-her-witcher · 2 years

Note

‘not wanting to let go’ hugs for the fam please 🥺

two ghosts | Yenralt, Ciri's POV, PG-13 only for swears, 1,700 Words

"Suck ... My ... Fat - Ah! Yes!"

Aggressive clacking of buttons fills the room. Paired with the intensely focused gazes of the two teens donned in headphones, bathed by the TV's glow in an otherwise dark bedroom, it's the most common scene for Friday nights in the off season.

"Ciri, left!"

Ciri pivots her player, but only in time to see the opposing shooter before her screen flashes. "Mother fucker!" The controller is tossed onto the soft bedding. It's only moments later that Dara becomes overwhelmed by the other team and joins her in equal dismay.

The duo pulls their headphones off.

"Well, that sucks," Dara laments.

Ciri rubs the back of her neck with one hand and pushes the other up to stretch her back. "I think we have another twenty before the next game starts." Her anger dissipates as quickly as it flares, realization of how long they've been playing in her stiff joints and empty stomach. "Wanna go down to the kitchen?"

Opening his mouth to answer, the other teen pauses. A dull plink plink catches both of their attention. Dara cocks his head to the side, Ciri scrunches her brow in concentration.

Plink. Plink plink.

"Is that coming from outside?" Ciri turns the TV off to cut out its light from the glare of her window and flops down on her stomach to peer out into the back yard.

Dara stretches out beside her, elbows pressing against each other's. "Oh, shit, is that - "

They see the dark clad figure just as he pushes back his hood, the shock of silver hair catching in the moonlight. A cupped hand releases whatever was held previously, and he squats to pick through the rocks that line the meticulously maintained garden path.

Ciri inhales sharpy.

"Is that - ?"

"My dad."

If Dara has to witness her dad's vodka fueled crooning's that lead to a night spent sleeping curled on the lawn furniture without a response from her mother, Ciri might die of embarrassment. Her dad straightens, no sway in his movements she notes, and his face is screwed up with determination with the next rock he hurls just next to her mother's bedroom window.

A resounding thunk echoes this time.

The response can be heard inside the house, teens peering over their shoulders as the door at the other end of the hall can be heard getting cast open. If Ciri thought the tone in the opening of the door was aimed at her, she would be diving for cover. As it is, her father knows what response he will elicit and has had decades of practice being the subject of her mother's ire.

There are no other sounds in the house - her mother always seems to float just above the surface of the ground, grace and elegance bundled up in the body of a middle-aged hippie. She doesn't look anywhere close to her age, claiming her homeopathic remedies are the cause - although, her dad used to shoot Ciri a knowing wink back before ...

Dara and Ciri turn their attention back out the window.

"I don't think I've seen your dad before," Dara says, assessing the tall, lithe man with currently only one of his many scars visible, the one that runs down the side of his face. "What did you say he does again?"

"Traveling salesman," Ciri lies easily.

"Are traveling salesmen always so ... jacked?"

Ciri shrugs. Her dad is standing, feet squared, face just as determined as earlier. Maybe the conversation they had leaving the gym the other day, when he joined her during her off season work out, stuck with him.

"Ciri, I think I fucked up."

"So? Fix it."

"I don't know if I can."

"Have you actually tried, dad? Really tried?"

They both knew the answer: the rest of the car ride home, or to her home rather, was silent.

When Ciri's mom had asked for a divorce nearly a year ago, her dad had taken off on a contract to a distant land without so much as cell reception, let alone the infrastructure to deliver divorce papers. Six months later, he returned: a sulking, brooding, occasionally drunkenly sobbing mess. Visiting him at Uncle Jaskier's was about the most depressing shit Ciri had seen, so obviously devastated by the split but frozen by his own stubbornness and inability to act in the ways that really mattered, for the people who really mattered.

Her mother is standing, arms crossed, storm of dark curls and youthful almond skin radiant in the moonlight. There's a distance between them that may seem inconsequential, but Ciri knows it's like a vast chasm. Equally tight-lipped, it's the little moments that Ciri has noticed the hollowness in her mother: the longing stares towards the empty spaces her father used to fill like his chair in the library, the forlorn sighs followed by hours with fingertips dug into the garden soil, and the prolonged times spent locked away in her bedroom.

"She's really letting him have it," Dara whispers, eyes darting to the side, "Are you okay?"

Ciri nods. "This is the most they've talked since she kicked him out." Her dad has remained in the same position, aside from the slight sag in his shoulders: worn down. Ciri knows it's not from the heated words, but from the lack of them for so long. Her parents have never been perfect, but they worked, they loved - when they had their heated arguments and got passed whatever issue hung between them. It was the lack of anything spoken between them, the lack of love, the months leading up to her mom kicking him out that did the most damage. Ciri had felt it, seen it, but distracted herself with school, sports, friends - anything else.

Anything that didn't remind her of the empty feeling house. Like living in a house with two ghosts, floating in the same space without any notion of the other.

Her mother's arms dropped to her side, no longer wildly gesticulating along with her words. Her dad takes a tentative step forward. Ciri chews her bottom lip. If they knew they were watching ... But that's what he gets for throwing rocks at the window like a teenager.

"I'm sorry."

The words are audible in his deep expression, the change in her posture like a coat of armor shed.

Another step forward, this one not as cautious.

He's close enough now that when her mother reaches out and slaps both open palms against his chest, he can pull her into him completely. Arms wrapped tight around her mother's small, wracking frame and head tucked safely under his chin.

Ciri gulps and spins away from the window on to her back. She didn't realize her heart was racing until now.

Dara whistles low in astonishment. "So ... Do you think ... ?"

The teen shakes her head, pressing the heel of her palms against her eyes. She doesn't want to get her hopes up. To have the house full again, her family full -

"Wanna kill some fucking zombies?" she asks, shooting up.

Dara smiles. "Hell yeah."

The teens stumble down the stairs to the kitchen in a barely awake stupor, stomachs growling and noses following the scent of breakfast.

Ciri squints, rubs her eyes, and squints harder.

A boyish grin is on her father's face where he sits beside her mother, elbows on the counter, head ducked but tilted towards her like there's something amusing about the way she gingerly sips from her mug of coffee.

"Good morning," her mother greets serenely.

Dara grunts his best polite response, drawn towards the freshly cooked sausage on the stove top and too familiar in the home not to help himself.

Ciri raises an eyebrow at her parents, hands resting on her hips. Like hell they're breezing over this.

As always, sixty percent of their words are unspoken between each other, but shared looks. A few moments pass and then her dad is filling his mouth with a fork full of food, staring contently at his daughter. A small smile and wiggle of his eyebrows as he chews, the give away.

"Your father will be visiting more often," her mom announces with finality.

"About damn time." Ciri lets her long legs carry her behind her thick-headed parents, wrapping both of her arms around their necks and pulling them closer to her. Her dad pretends to choke on his food from the hold, but both of them place a hand on the arm hooked around them.

Ciri was afraid this embrace wouldn't happen, both of them had drawn this out passed the point of dramatics. She doesn't want to let go again, ever.

As they've done since she was young, her parents turn to place simultaneous kisses on either of her cheeks while Ciri scrunches her nose in mock disgust. Her mother's perfume, the soft scratch of her father's stubble. Home.

"Dara, you'd better not think you can eat all of that while I'm distracted," Ciri shoots, cracking one eye open to glare at the boy trying to sneak the last of the sausage onto his plate. She gives them both one last squeeze before releasing her parents. "Although, I guess i can just steal some of yours - " Ciri snags a piece of toast from her dad's plate before he can swat her away and jumps just out of his reach.

"Geralt, you'll need to make more," her mother says with a slight eye roll, "They've been eating us out of house and home."

Us. Ciri's heart dances.

"What do you expect, Yen, they're teenagers. My brothers and I never stopped eating at their age."

Her mom snorts, a sound the walls of their house haven't heard in a while. "Just at their age?"

Ciri takes her dad's seat as he rises to return to the stove, purposefully leaving his half-eaten breakfast behind for her. It doesn't feel real yet, but she imagines with each visit it'll start to set in, until they aren't visits anymore and he's back with them completely.

Her dad ropes Dara into helping him cook, who looks even more bewildered standing beside the "traveling salesman" now that he's in a tight-fitting tee that reveals the rest of his musculature and work souvenirs. It's a terrible cover story, they really should think of something better.

Sighing happily, Ciri rests her head on her mother's arm. Yeah, it'll set in, but it doesn't need to be quickly.

--end--

Well. That took a life of its own, blame Harry Styles!

#touching ask meme #maureen asks #yenralt #witcher fan fic #modern au #my writing #ciri #dara #family ❤️

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glittergrubz · 1 year

Text

I really got inspired by Roguein recent WoF characters and I needed a break of the Silkwing adoptables. I also figured I could hit two birds with one stone and practice posing/anatomy. I'm still having trouble but man I'm really proud of myself! I hope my art really improves as time goes on. ---

This here is Omen, a design I got from Scribblespider a while ago. I bought it on my old Meat-Monster account. I felt like it was due for a redesign as I struggled with the original lore n design alot. But the colors were very eye catching.

Omen was genetically created by an Icewing scientist who let's just say has a mysterious past with the royals. This Icewing wondered if 1) A Allwing could be made and 2) How would it live and what would be the pros and cons of an Allwing. This has been a strange obsession for the Icewing for years and after many many awful years of mistakes he created Omen.

Omen is Intersex (She/Her) and her birthday was an awful day. With her genetically modified body she struggled the moment she hatched from the egg. Not only were her claws not normal (extra digits, mutated wing arms and muscle issues) but her genes were not the greatest selection. Some of the DNA came from the scientist himself, the others were from strangers he managed to stalk and take precious pieces from. Some of those dragons were related (hybrid siblings) while others were fighting off chronic illnesses and sadly had a fatal end to the Icewing scientist. She could not control her poisonous smoke breathe as a hatchling and quickly became very very sick. The Icewing scientist was absolutely outrage that the first Allwing to successfully hatch was going to perish soon, and so he abandoned Omen in the freezing winter storm and went back to his studies. She was no use to him anymore, although he did regret throwing her away so soon. Not because of his awful actions, he was upset he could not dissect her and study her body. His anger got the best of him, and he's quite annoyed about that.

Omen was found crying in the storm, and was quickly found by Tardigrade, a Ice/Hivewing (They/Them). Tardigrade quickly took Omen in and managed to heal Omen's poison, as it had the same properties as an old poisonous plant from her old home. Once she made the remedy Omen was quite spry, it took a while for Omen to control the smoke but she learned before she could get severely sick again. She even gained some immunity to it. Tardigrade raised Omen like their own daughter. Although Tardigrade was not a innocent dragon, a bounty hunter. They killed many dragons, and even more to protect their sweet Omen.

When Omen turned 4 years old sadly Tardigrade fell ill and passed away. With this Omen used the skills Tardigrade taught her and began her nomadic life. Tardigrade's death still haunts Omen, her nightmares are filled with their death. She gets barely any sleep now. As time went by she became harden and paranoid. Many dragons hunted her down as a trophy, others stole from her. She became what others call a monster, "death itself". Stories began of her awful kills and her bruteforce. She still wished even with dragon's necks in her mouth, seering the scales of dragons with her stinger that maybe Tardigrade could be brought back.

When Omen was 8 years old she almost died, this time ambushed by one of the 5 Sandwing Gangs that now rule Sandwing territory. One member of the Sandviper Gang had knocked her out and began suffocating her, she was powerless to this dragon. But she was saved, the Bone Gang rushed the member, killing them immediately and quitely. Omen was taken in, nursed back to health by Bonez, the leader of the gang and the most powerful gang in the territory. Bonez made an offer, stay with us you'll be safe, feed and warm. But you'll have to work for me, Omen nervous but being reminded of the family she once had she accepted. Now she's Bonez personal bodygaurd/henchman. Omen still mourns over Tardigrade but now she has a family, a disfunctional family with lots, lots of issues but a family nevertheless. Her and Bonez are very, very close.

Her crazy fighting from her young years have now been carved to be brutal, precise and dominating. Even with her disadvantages she is quite the opponet and their are many stories of her battles and kills. She kills if she has to, and while she does have her morals now she will kill those who pose a threat to Bonez or her family. She will do absolutely anything, even if it means killing the Preist of Pests. Her weapons are her claws, stingers and horns, but she has been trained in weapons. When she is not killing or intimidating threats, she's often found by Bonez.

Voiceclaim: Death (Puss in Boots) --- ★ Not for Other's Use ★ ★ Feel Free to Take Inspiration but Credit Me ★ ★ NOT FOR AI USE OR NFT USE! YOU WILL BE BLOCKED AND BLACKLISTED ★ ★ DO NOT REPOST/TRACE/EDIT! YOU WILL BE BLOCKED AND BLACKLISTED ★ DA: https://deviantart.com/glitterbonez TW: twitter.com/GLITTERBONEZx FA: https://furaffinity.net/user/glitterbonez/… Tumblr: khaleern.tumblr.com/

#im death straight up #wings of fire #wings of fire oc #allwing #wof

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mimikusu · 1 year

Note

What a great list, thank you for making it! 3 and 12 for Niko and Simon would be great, please!

Thank you so much!! T^T It was fun making it! And of course answering is always a pleasure.

3) How do they react to being sick? Is it something they fear or rather accept?

Simon very much dislikes being sick. He can not come to terms with. He's obsessed by the thought that his body should be some sort of mecha bowing to his command. He shouldn't be slave to his own needs, to the weakness of flesh in any terms. There might be moments where he tends to accept, when he's feverish, close to faint and just unable for any coherent thought any longer. You could call it fear, him being so weary about every little thing that seems out of place and control. It's much more anger, but there is the uncontrollable and illogical thought, that any scratch in the throat, every sneeze might be his last as a sign of immortal illness.

Nikolai, though much more dramatic about his sickness in terms of attention is pretty much unimpressed. It's rather the fact that it's inconvinient. He might even come to like it, so long as someone's by his side. The fact that he's always on the run, always busy can be draining even though he likes it that way. He might not realize how much he's needed a moment of silence, until he's bedridden.

12) Do they use medicine or sit it out? If they do, what do they use? Pills or tea?

Simon's very much torn between using medicine in the hopes it will relieve him from his misery and secretly not believing that it helps. He tends to laugh about Niko's home remedies, but will drink his teas and eat his awfull onion-soup to make him feel better anyways. He's much more a painkiller-type of guy. Some ibu to keep the fever and headache at bay so he can make himself much worse in peace.

Nikolai is very superstitious. He believes in herbs and teas and certain foods. It's not that it's really doing much for the symptoms, though he like to compare himself with Simon, thinking that he's better of in terms of colds only because of his remedies. Also, a lot of things his mother used to do for him when he was sick as a kid and it's just making him feel safe and comforted and cared for, even if it's much more selfcare. He's very good at it, too, so mostly that's why colds hit him way less hard than they tend to hit Simon.

Thank you so much for asking!!

Thank you so much for asking!! I really like to think about these.

This is for tumblr to cut it off so I can use the cut.

#thank you.#i did enjoy answering!#as always!!#asks

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today3467h · 3 months

Text

How to naturally detoxify and clean the liver

The only article you need to read to know all about it. If you hadn’t read this subtitle, did you even ever think that the liver also needs to be purified? Well if you want to do so , it's not that much difficult.

This article will let you know all you need to know regarding the liver and how to keep it healthy forever as per the Ayurveda scriptures without much effort.

Why is liver health care important?

Consider a towel that is used daily for cleaning the home furniture. There will come a time when it is completely overloaded with dirt and after some point, it will also need a complete cleanse, or else it will be of no use and completely become a waste.

Similarly, our liver is also a detoxifying organ in the body that converts toxins into waste material which then gets eliminated through different channels. If liver function is compromised, all the toxins accumulate which then becomes a reason for various

acute and chronic health problems.

How do you know that your liver function is compromised?

The liver is the most hardworking element in a living being with over 500 functions attributed to its name. Being such a vital organ in any problem, the body is proactive enough to show the signals.

Some are

• Pigmentation

• Premature graying of scalp and hair

• Sudden weight gain or weight loss

• Fatigue

• Bad breath

• Pale or yellowish skin appearance

• Dark yellow urine

• Appetite loss

• Swollen legs

• Orangish color stool pass

Why does the liver get toxic?

Even though the liver is quite resilient if one’s liver gets overburdened it starts losing its efficiency. A lot of other factors are also a cause of it.

• Air and water pollution

• Bringe drinking and smoking

Pesticides in food

• Over medications

• Overeating preservatives and packaged foods

• Sugary refined foods

• Non-vegetarian foods

• Anger, anxiety and stress

• Poor sleep cycle

How to cleanse the liver?

When you clean your liver, it is simple to reduce the toxins overloaded and your liver becomes again capable enough to rejuvenate itself.

This can be done by eradicating the causal factors as much as possible. Ayurveda elaborately talks about the various herbs and concoctions that can rejuvenate your liver within a few days naturally. Googling them, there would be hundreds and thousands of ways, but as such is not possible all the time, here are just simple three the remedy which is easy, practical, effective, and save you much time.

1. Have a fresh sugar juice on an empty stomach in the early morning. This needs to be continued for 15 days for the perfect results. Fresh sugarcane is a boon to strengthen the liver. No wonder it is recommended by doctors during jaundice, the antioxidants in the sugarcane juice protect the liver against the infection and maintain the bilirubin levels in control.

It gets even better with added ginger and lemon juice. You can have it one hour before your breakfast or in the evening two to three hours after lunch. Avoid post-sunset. At such an economical price, it's not only tasty but also easily available all the time.

2. Rajasurf is the second most option you can go for. This is a classical formulation prepared using bringraj haritaki thai pool nicer and others. It is well known for the treatment of hair

and skin issues As its direct action is on the liver. Studies and research prove bringraj to be more potent in preventing liver damage than milk thistle seeds which are among the most

popular liver detox supplements and at a cheaper price. 4 tbsp of bringraj with 4 tbsp of water once a day and 30 minutes after breakfast or lunch. Any reputed brand can be purchased and is easily available online. Complete one dose of the bottle is enough to

cleanse your liver and bring it back to effective work. It has no side effects and is easy to digest.

3. Kutki is the third option. This bitter and cooling taste cleanses the anti-microbial powerhouse. This is one of the best herbs for the liver in Ayurveda. Studies say that a bunch of rodents were given a liver-damaging agent later with a small dose of cookie powder, and their liver was found to be significantly healed. This is so effective that it is often prescribed to treat even the most advanced liver disorders at the same time it is safe and has no

side effects. Take a half tbsp. of cookie powder with half tbsp.of honey one hour before your breakfast. Have it daily for 15 days for the best results.

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#liver health #heart #health & fitness #fitness #yoga

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eatfimsh · 1 year

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What does it mean to be a care taker?

I was raised Roman Catholic and have since left that that behind me. It's not that I don't believe in God, it's that I no longer trust organized religion. I also have a disagreement with perception/idea that God cares for every one of us. That is a discussion for another time though. One of the primary things that I took away from my upbringing is that humanity is meant to be the caretakers of the world. Many of the people I was taught by would agree with this, but they think that we are meant to "master" the world. That we are it's rulers. I don't believe this, though at one point I tried to pretend that I did. We are care takers, meant to protect, teach, and participate in nature. I firmly believe that many mental health issues stem from our disconnect with nature and animals. We are meant to raise crops, care for animals, conserve natural beauty, and preserve the natural cycles around us. The fact that we have destroyed the habitats of so many different species is not only a travesty morally, but is against what our true purpose in this life is. Building massive structures of concrete, glass, and metal that span miles killing plants and animals while making them dependent on our waste is anathema to what our natural purpose is. What is our natural purpose? To care for all plants and animals. The truth is, the beauty that we see in nature is rarely *raw* nature. Controlled nature, guided by human hands, is where true natural beauty is. Trees older than 3 generations of humans that give us fruit every year planted by a family member that we only know shared our last name. Buildings made from wood that came from the small woodland by the creek. Multigenerational homes where children are told stories by their grandparents. Folk tales about the spirits of the woods that protect you but also how not to anger them. The gentle mysticism surrounding what to plant, how to plant it, and why. The natural remedies of herbs grown in the garden you've had for generations. The raising of animals, feeding them, being fed by them, and loving them. Knowing that one day just as they have fed you, you will return to the earth you worked to cultivate. On the day you are buried a fruit tree is planted over your grave so that you may feed generations to come. This to me is what humanity is meant to do to be "Care takers" There is no greater disservice to us than the separation we now have from the plants and animals we still rely on to live.

#depression vent #anxeity #blog #religion #mental health

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crazyxshit · 2 years

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Brat.

my blog is 18+ (minors dni) & remember you’re responsible for your own media consumption.

likes, comments & reblogs are appreciated!

words: 3.8k

warnings: NSFW! darkprof!steve, rough sex, degrading, manipulation, begging, sir kink, slapping, p in v

mcu masterlist | nav

To say you were tired was an understatement. You were honestly sick of being so strict with yourself. It came to the point that you stressed so much you missed out on actually living as a teen. But now you were a university student and living was a priority.

The amount of pressure you put on making yourself seem like the perfect student the last few days was straining so you decided that going out with your best friend Nat would be the perfect remedy. It was the night before your first class for your third year in college and honestly, you had just wanted to let loose tonight.

Which leads you to one of the most popular college bars around campus. "Nat, Don't you think this is a bit too crowded," trying to tell her, your voice at a high volume due to the music that was blasting throughout the room.

She had your hand in her's, steering both of you in the direction of where the bar is. "Nope. It's exactly what you need." She yells back, turning to the bartender to request some drinks.

You don't say much, quickly reminding yourself what you had planned for tonight. Get tipsy, dance, and have fun with Natasha. It had been long overdue since the two of you had hung out, your schoolwork always being the main priority.

But what didn't know? Was that a certain man who had been watching you... He was in the shadows lowly lurking but he was more present than ever. Watching how your body moved slowly and sensually on the dance floor. His jaw and hands clenched, taking every ounce of self-control within him to not tear you away from the man you had begun dancing on.

It made him sick to see another man have their hands on your body or even be in the sight of you. It was like the anger inside was begging to be let out. To take you home with him, bend you over every object in his house, and fuck you until you were screaming his name.

Soon. All that would happen soon.

It had already been halfway into the semester and not much had happened. Except for the one-eighty in yourself. You became more of a party girl, and while Nat never expressed her concern you could tell she was worried. You've partied almost every other week and while you never went home with a guy, you've kissed a few people.

One of the worst things about your year was the one and only, Steve Rogers. Your professor. He was always known to harshly grade his students and reprimand them if they cursed in his class. He never tolerated lateness and most people called him 'Ancient Rogers' by the way he acted.

So you made it your sole purpose to piss him off. In every single way.

Walking into his class on a bright and early Monday morning, you wore something casual. You weren't about to be one of those girls who would wear dresses and skirts and dress up like it was some kind of fashion show. But you definitely weren't about to go on campus where hundreds of people would look at you and think you didn't care how you perceived yourself.

"Hey, Nat," Yawning as you greet her, still tired from the night before as she approaches you, her straight red hair framing her face and a fell a little bit past her shoulder. She has two coffees in her hands and as she hands you one, you gratefully accept, thanking her for it.

"I hate Mondays." She groans in which you nod your head in agreement. "And we have Rogers class first."

"Yes, we do." You half snarkily respond with a mischievous tone in your voice. "Why do I feel like this is going to go bad." She had a right to be after all you were going to piss him off once again. She knew about it due to the many times you told her about him and from what she had witnessed. She knew your whole charade of pissing him off was just your way of flirting with him, but she didn't know if he appreciated any of it.

Heading in the direction of his class, you both talked to one another about things that were going on in each other lives. Your friendship with her was one of those where you would forever have things to talk about and the conversation never got boring. In a way, you struck out when you met Nat, when everything else in your life went to shit she would be there for you.

Sitting in the front of the class, you waited for Rogers to comes inside the room. You had to mentally prepare yourself each time you were going to see him because he undoubtedly hot. Like the type of hot that would you make you spit your water out or made you double look to make sure you weren't seeing things. You would never tell him that to his face but you were pretty sure he knew by the number of times the other girls gawked at him like he was a statue on display.

And as he stepped inside the room, he still managed to take your breath away and cause dirty thoughts to form inside your head. Quickly. A little too quickly. His full beard was probably the best part about him. It was trimmed but still covered the entirety of his lower face. You imagined how it would feel against your soft skin more times than you can count. His blondish hair slicked back as it ended before it even reached his hair.

He was also in a suit- a navy blue one with a matching white and blue tie. He was your law professor after all but you truly didn't know why he dressed all professionally like he was about to go to trial. His biceps bulged again the constricting fabric like at any point it was about to burst through and you wouldn't mind it at all. He was seemingly very fit and you couldn't help to think how he would gaze into your eyes before scooping you up in bridal style to throw you on top of his bed.

"Good Morning. Let's start." He said, turning around to start writing on the board. His class was boring, and if he wasn't so attractive you would probably fall asleep in it. But as he continued droning on about corporations you didn't really pay attention. And of course, the rarest of times you don't pay attention to him, he fucking calls on you.

"You. Would you like to answer the question?" He asks, his hands on his hips as his sea-blue eyes seemed to bore holes into you.

"No thank you." Flashing him a slight smile as a way to tell him to not bother. "Do you not know the answer or were you not paying attention?" He hinted at, a certain annoyance tied with his voice that pissed you off.

"Well, if your class wasn't so boring, maybe someone would pay attention." Shooting back at him, your own tone reflecting his. Giving you a look of disbelief, he breaks eye contact with you.

"See me after class."

Mocking his last words under your breaths before actually paying attention, you noticed how he didn't call on your the rest of the time. Purposely.

An asshole he was indeed.

As student by student left the room, you decided to busy yourself by staying on your phone, not really caring for what he had to say. "I suggest you pay attention in my class, for the sake of your grade." He stills in front of you, lecturing you like a child or some sort, in which you respond back with a halfhearted hum.

"Is that all?" Looking up to ask him, boredness masking your tone and face all at once. You were honestly doing it to piss him off and by the vein popping out from his forehead, you were achieving that goal.

"Whatever you're trying to pursue, stop it. You really don't want to see me mad, like you've been trying to do for the past few months." His tone lower and deeper, making you smirk in satisfaction.

"Or what? You'll punish me." Sarcastically responding, A remark like that was probably not the best way to go about it yet on the inside, you didn't care. His buttons were fun to press and his reactions were to die for. Just like now, how he had a surprised look on his face like someone was about to tell him he was about to be a father.

But the atmosphere shifted. His jaw tightened, his blue eyes seem to dilate as you tried not to lose yourself in them while the smirk still remained on your face. It was like he was secretly warning you to not proceed. Of course, that wouldn't stop you but it was interesting. What could be so threatening about him?

Pushing past him, you let that same smirk falter because while you loved this game of cat and mouse with him, he was dangerous. Not actually, not in a way, you could put into words but he was like water and all you wanted to do was drown in it. To let it consume every inch of you until it swallowed you whole.

It was now Wednesday, another class with Mr. Steve Rogers and you couldn't wait to see how things would go today. You normally would have him three times a week, Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Given your previous exchange you decided to cool it off a bit but Mr. Rogers just made you insane.

The type of insane that made your blood run hot and cold simultaneously. The type of insane that was maddening. It filled your senses making you act like an entire brat. It wasn't how you usually acted but something about him evoked that feeling inside you.

Walking in his class with Nat, you sat down in your usual spot, and when he walked in he had literally taken your breath away. He was in a gray suit this time, a black tie resting on him this time. He had always his hair ungelled, just slightly ruffled which you dreamed of pulling at or running your hands through it to cause a reaction out of him.

Your mind was snapped back to reality when a paper was placed on top of your test. You had expected this quiz since he told you about it a while back but for some reason, you felt unprepared. Looking over each question to answer each one thoroughly, at random times it had felt like you were being watched.

And each time you looked up, you saw the same stormy blue eyes that had seemingly darkened a shade. Mr. Rogers was staring at you. You noticed how he brought his hand up to his face, running it over his full beard. You could have sworn he was looking at you but maybe he wasn't? Or was that his attempt of some sly way of breaking his eye contact with you for it not to be so awkward?

It annoyed you yet made you excited and irritated at the same time. It was like he was teasing you with his gaze. It limited your focus on the test that was supposed to be half of your grade and while he didn't physically do anything to disrupt you secretly blamed him as the distraction.

The end of the semester. Fucking finally. You were supposed to get that test back from Mr. Rogers today and get your grade but you couldn't shake off this anxious feeling you had ever since completing the test.

"Hey, I can literally see you shaking. Do I need to take the coffee away?" Nat said to you, her words filled with concern as she softly placed her palm on your thigh. It broke you out from the stressed-filled thoughts.

"I'm fine, I just don't want to fail this exam. There's a lot riding on this." You tell her, finally aware of your shaking leg— forcing it to stop.

"You say that with every test. And at the end of the day, you always get the highest score so don't worry."

Sighing, you let your head fall back, exhaling in hopes to calm your high tense nerves. You really need to relax. Nat was right. You were fine and you would get a good score this wasn't anything to freak out over.

But it was. As the paper landed in front of you that morning, your score was anything but high. A twenty-five percent out of a fucking hundred. You were absolutely mortified, shocked, and guilt-ridden. How could you do this to yourself? It wasn't like you to fail something and yet life took you by surprise once again.

"Uhm- Mr. Rogers. I would like to talk about-"

"If anyone has an issue or concern about the way I graded then you can show to my office hours." He sternly said before continuing on with his lesson. Looking around the room everyone seemed relieved, for the most part, the only person who was appalled was you.

Like you said he was an asshole. He knew you were going to talk about your grade but he cut you off. What a nice professor he was. But this time was different. Normally you would give a smart or cocky remark but you didn't. He noticed this but you were too frustrated with yourself and at him through the entire class which made you distracted from any attempt at learning.

At four pm, you inevitably found yourself at his office door. It seemed to stare back at you hauntingly, mahogany-colored with his name and subject gold plated and all. It was almost like a warning. To not go in. That uncertainty lurked ahead and for some reason it made you want to go in even more. Raising your hand to knock on the wooden door, you were greeted with a "Come in" from the other opposite side.

It was like he wasn't surprised to see you. The casual look on his face said enough and as soon as you stepped inside, closing the door behind you in case this would turn into a yelling match.

Taking a seat in the chair in front of his desk, he leaned back, twirling a blue inked pen in his masculine, large hands causing you to gulp. An entirely inappropriate, what could those hands do to you, thought appeared in your mind, causing you to shift uncomfortably.

After this, you would have to find some mediocre college boy to fuck. To rid you of Steve Rogers and all the scenarios your mind had created.

"I'm not surprised to see you here if I'm being honest." He said licking his lips, casually which had an effect on your body. Is that crazy? To have an effect on someone without even touching them?

"Of course not, I have a few words for you, Mr. Rogers. A twenty-five out of one hundred? You know that's bullshit." Your tone, accusing him of grading wrong or purposely sabotaging you.

"If I were you, I would watch my mouth. Especially after receiving a grade like that on such an important test." His tone was calm, not like how he was earlier in the day. So why did it piss you off so much more?

"There has to be anything I could do- another test I can take or paper I can write to pass the class. I need this credit." You said, the underlying begging tones becoming more prominent as you spoke. You hated it.

Begging wasn't something you did, you worked hard, normally got your way and that was that. But you never had to grovel. You always had the best grades, were the person who did it all, and did it correctly. But lately, that changed. Things just weren't the same. You wanted to lose control and the partying helped that but there was still something missing.

He kept looking at you his eyes narrowed like he was thinking. "No." Leaning forward he started writing on a piece of paper again, dismissing you easily.

"You're a fucking asshole. This must be fun to you huh? All this power, not caring who suffers at the other end." You knew this outburst wasn't going to be great for you in the long run, but you had to get those things off your chest. He was toying with your grade and future like it was an afternoon activity and it made you furious.

But you weren't entirely stupid. Standing up you began to walk out of his office, reaching for the doorknob, before abruptly getting pinned to the wall by your wrists. How did he even get over to you so fucking fast? "Didn't I say watch your fucking mouth?"

"Mr. Rogers-" To say you were shocked would be an understatement. You knew you got on his nerves quite often but you didn't think he would actually act like this. The worst part was that you liked it. You were always one for the rougher side of things. Tame and soft is nice and all but most times you just wanted to be fucked and degraded.

"Sir. If you're going to use that tone towards me, if you're going to act like a fucking brat, you'll address me properly." His blue eyes were dark, the only light was the lamp on a table next to his desk. It barely illuminated his features but up close he was even more attractive. His beard fitting him perfectly, his hair slightly messy due to him probably running his hands through it often, his lips that looked so soft and kissable you couldn't help to think the type of control he held.

"Or what?" Recovering your cocky demeanor. He wanted to call you out on your tendencies then you would act like it. You secretly wanted to see what he would do— if he would have you suck his cock until it ruined your makeup.

"I'm going to teach you a fucking lesson." He lets you go, only to lightly drag you by the wrist towards his desk, sitting on his chair, facing you. "Bend over on my knee." You don't hesitate to do what he says, his dominance wildly attractive.

"Look at you." The way you could see what was happening cause every feeling in your body to light up like a fire. It excited you, the waiting of what he would do— not being able to see. The only downside was that you couldn't see his face when he would finally touch you in the way you've been needing him to.

"So fucking beautiful." He slipped off your pants, leaving your panties on. You couldn't help but to squirm, his fingertips lightly caressing every curve, every part of your skin.

"Such a pretty slut." In an instinct, he struck your ass, the sound of his hand connecting with your cheek lowly vibrating within the room. You couldn't help but to squirm and jolt forward, the pain and pleasure making your blood rush to your cunt making you throb. "Stay still or do I have to make this last all night."

All night? He couldn't. He wouldn't. Would he?

"No. Ste—Sir. Just fuck me."

"Beg then. If you want it then beg." Slapping your ass at the end of every sentence. That asshole. It was like he knew what your body needed. What it wanted. "I don't beg." You tried to say but the words come out broken.

"Well then I guess we will be here all day." He darkly chuckles at you while slapping your exposed cunt, knowing exactly what you would do. You would bend to his will, giving him exactly what he wanted.

You contemplated for the short second. Your mind clouded with lust. Everything about this was wrong but it all felt so right. His hands on your bodies, his dominance tone.

"Fuck. Sir. Please. Touch me. Use me. I’ll do anything." You rasped out, the sting of pleasure roaming through your body. It was making you breathless.

"Get up and ride me then." He demands, forcing you to scramble quickly onto your feet. You hurriedly make do of his belt, unzipping, letting him push down his pants.

He was fucking bigger than anyone you've ever been with. His cock glistened with precum in which you smoothed your hand over it, rubbing up and down his length.

"Fuck. I want your pussy. I'll have your mouth next time." His words alone and the promise made you all the more wetter. He grips your hips pulling you on top of him, drawing a moan from your lips.

You gasp for air as he moves your panties to the side, pounding into you, causing your walls to pulsate around him. He slipped in so easily and the smell of sex covered the air.

Steve searches your eyes for any discomfort. He wanted to take you rough but he didn't want to seriously hurt you. He wanted to worship your body but ruin you from the inside out. He wanted to mark you all over have you fucked out and cock drunk by him only.

Your moans of pleasure is what lets him know that he can speed up and he does alright. His dick makes his way to every inch of your inside, as he grabs you by the throat with one hand and the other wraps in your hair while kissing you. Your saliva mixes with one another, grunting and panting into the kiss.

He grips your breast through your shirt fondling and slapping it until he's content. You grip his shoulder for support the brutal speed in which he's fucking you at is sending you to your edge.

"Fuck. Sir. I'm going to come." The words leaving you in a small whisper. The only way you knew he had heard you is the way his mouth found the sweet spot on your neck, sucking and biting as he continued to fuck you roughly.

He was bruising you for sure and you felt hot all over. "Come my sweet slut. Give me all your pretty sounds and your sweet sweet come." He pants, nibbling your ear just because.

The words were all you needed as the bubble in your stomach exploded, him following in suit. Your body shaking in Steve's grasp. He held onto you the entire time until you were calmer.

You slump against his shoulders not wanting to move. He places you down on the couch without any effort. He goes to his desk finding something he could clean you up with, making his way back to you.

Your body spasms, your muscles exhausted from being so fucked out. You don't know when but somehow through your blissed out phase, you felt his large body came behind yours, laying in what was sure and uncomfortable position on the couch.

#steve rogers #steve rogers smut #chris evans #chris evans smut #marvel smut #marvel one shot #marvel cinematic universe #prof steve rogers #steve rogers x female reader #natasha romanoff

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prettyboykatsuki · 3 years

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am i warm enough for you?

➳ tags ;; soulmate au, strangers to lovers, fluff and angst but mostly fluff, some-what canon compliant, bakugo katsuki is bad at feelings, lots of Feelings™, you guys are adults but the end of the fic but the fic is sfw, alcohol, drunk confessions

➳ wc ;; 5.6k..

➳ plot summary ;; you see your soulmate in dreams - sometimes in bits and pieces and other times in full. bakugo is less than inclined to admit he even has a soulmate - and you learn how to cope with it, one day at a time.

bakugo learns that this soulmate shit is no joke. that has to be why he keeps falling for you so helplessly.

➳ a/n ;; i wasn’t even gonna comeback this early but it felt so wrong not to post on my bfs birthday so alas </3 for anyone who cares to know this is @elysianseraph but with my new url. nice to see u all <3

this was originally posted on 4/20 but im reposting cause it didn’t show up in the tags dskjds

It’s hazy.

A cloud of smoke settles over your body, permeating your lung. It smells like sugar, like burning, like smoke and a little like leather. You can feel your toes curl and your hands moving but your body is separate from you in a way you can’t describe. It’s a pleasant kind of warmth that spreads, creeping up from behind your neck till it’s soft and cradling your skull. It’s soft like the touch of a mother, like wool over your ears.

It’s a pleasant feeling, that’s all. Almost cozy but there’s a fading sense of distress that chills in your lungs as you encompass it. Your hands are too small to reach forward, and truthfully the sensation is so powerful that you’re afraid to reach out. You’re 6 years old, so all you know is how it makes you feel. You can’t remember many details, but you feel pleasant. Something about it is soft, but there’s a sharp edge right at the end that has your lungs gasping for air.

It’s a flash of colors. Red. Orange. Pale Yellow. Grey. Black. Forest Green. Red. Red. Orange. Red.

And then it fades into a feeling again. A blurry feeling. You feel conflict, then concern, then inadequacy in heavy waves almost like it’s drowning you. It’s the first time you’ve experienced such a pain, so your wailing and wiping tears away with chubby fingers and saying a name you don’t know and can’t remember.

Ka. You know the sound, Ka. But you don’t know of anything more. It repeats rhythmically in your mind like a knock on the door, rapping with urgency - but it doesn’t do anything to jog your memory. Someone is trying to be let in but you don’t know how to answer them, and you’re still crying. The distress, the inadequacy shakes you and all you feel is frustration in short simple bursts.

Your first encounter with your soulmate is written this way in your memory. A sense of urgency laced with frustration - but they’re not towards you. It’s him, his feelings - you can feel them even deeper then he can. They pierce you in a way that makes it hard to breathe, no matter how you try to escape them it’s an overwhelming feeling of helplessness. The only way to escape the feelings of a dream is either to control them, or to face them and swim through the fog.

Soulmates have an urgency to them, in general. His is different, you can tell as much. Your first soulmate dream leaves the heaviest impression and each one thereafter is like pieces of a puzzle.

Sometimes you simply share random dreams, like a split screen in a video game - the two of you witness different parts of the same dreamverse. Other times, and honestly - most times, you’re experiencing their emotions or feelings. You experience their core memories, their life, in flashes and bits and pieces.

It’s not enough to know them or who they are, it’s like know everything about them except the things that matter

Sometimes you meet too. Just barely.

MEETING 1:

The room is white. When you blink, colors flash in order - red, pale yellow, orange, forest green and you know. You blink a few more times, stretching your hands out in front of yourself. Curling your hands into fist then into stretched palms, you lean forward and stretch. You wriggle your toes - notice you're wearing shoes. Clothes from your closet. Strange.

You take a look around the room but there isn't much to see. There’s a wall in front of you with a glass divider and a mirrored empty room. The room across from yours has spiky decor littered against the walls. An orange dresser, plastic grenades and play guns. You know who it is without a second warning - and a foggy part in the back of your head tells you that it’s him, again but with more force. You don’t see anything in your room, but you figure he might. All of it is confusing to you.

Before you can blink, there’s a loud thud coming from the other side of the glass. It’s a silhouette, the outline of a face - but nothing clear. Dream logic dictates you can’t know a face you’ve never seen, yet somehow you know his outline. Spiky, he’s spiky everywhere.

“Hello?,” you call out, overly tentative. The figure pauses, seems to take in whatever they must be seeing. You’re not sure what response you’re expecting, really. There’s no expectations at all.

“...Who the fuck are you?,” says a pitchy, male voice. He sounds like he’s your same age, a highschool boy. His throat is rough, yet not overly deep. It’s almost scratchy.

“Uhm,”

You’re not sure how to reply. You can see him through the glass, but not really. Still, you take note of his shadows like they’re going to tell you anything more. You shove your hands in your pockets, messing around with something inside.

“Uh.. your soulmate, I think,” you reply.

Scratching the back of your neck as an awkward silence settles, you take a few minutes to try and figure what more to say.

“We met when we were kids once too,” you explain awkwardly. He must know, has too - this soulmate thing is a two way thing, but his silence is deafening. You just want to feel this space. Is it always this awkward?

“Red. Orange. Pale Yellow. Forest Green,” you repeat, like a mantra. You hear him take in a sharp breath, and freeze. For some reason, you’d like to avoid upsetting him. He doesn’t seem like he’s taking to the information too well.

“I don’t have time for this damn bullshit… whatever quirk you’ve got to mimic this - cut it the fuck out,”

Hostile.

You pause, not sure how to feel. Half of you is offended, the other half is confused - had you done something to upset him? You can feel how he feels - but you don’t understand it. You sit with your mouth agape, like a fish out of water. Unsure of how to proceed, you scoff a little.

“Woah.. this isn’t a quirk thing. We’re.. soulmates? That’s already a thing,”

More silence. You’ve.. he doesn’t seem upset, but you can tell he’s not all that keen to the idea. It’s a bare minimum improvement that you find yourself valuing, without your consent. He breathes again, throat even more hoarse than before. His voice is angry but it doesn’t fit his responses, his feelings - so you don’t pay attention to his madness. Something is off.

“... I’m not supposed to have a soulmate. No fucking way I have a soulmate,” he grits. You step back, stumbling. You didn’t have any expectations.. but this wasn’t what you had been expecting at all. You feel uneasy, sick. It must be a shared feeling if the way he leans against a wall counts for anything.

A beat of silence passes before you open your mouth to speak.

“... I have no idea what I’m supposed to say to that,” you admit. He scoffs.

“Nothing you damn extra. Leave me the fuck alone,”

You don’t reply, too stunned. This was your soulmate? This.. asshole? Not that you were a peach entirely either, but this was supposedly the person that the universe had decided for you?

You shake your head. Maybe you’re just being rash? He could be a nice guy behind all the chaos. You try your best to hold onto that, that this was literally someone chosen for you before you gave up all hope. You sigh, cracking your neck.

“You can say whatever you want but.. we’re here, you know? It’s more productive to just go with it.. isn’t it?,”

“Go fuck yourself,”

“After meeting you, I’m not exactly over the fucking moon about it either. It is what is,”

“You’re not my fucking.. soulmate or whatever the fuck. Leave me alone,”

Your heart both aches with anger and sadness. You don’t know what to do. What does this shit-head know about you, anyway? You know he’s been through some shit, same as you - what makes him so entitled? You swallow the lump in your throat. It hurts. It pierces. Stupid soulmate bonds.

“Yeah? Alright. Fuck you too,”

You see him pace around for a longer before he disappears in a cloud of smoke. You didn’t even catch his name, and you’re not sure you wanted too. It must be morning, but at least you're away from him. It feels lonely, but it must just be you.

Your eyes flutter open but your heart is heavy with regret. You don’t know who it belongs to, but you’ve got class in an hour and not enough time to think about it. If he doesn’t want to meet you that’s fine.

It’s fine. Not like you wanted to meet your soulmate anyway.

You don’t have another meeting with your soulmate for months. Lately your dreams have little if anything to do with him or where he is, how he’s been. You have some of those split screen ones, where you know he’s there but neither of you acknowledge each other, even in spirit, like how you did before. When you wake up feeling angsty, you don’t know how to distinguish the feeling but you don’t try.

You wonder idly if he can feel your apathy, if he cares enough too. Maybe he also mistakes it for his own? It seems likely.

It’s a weekday where you’re getting ready for remedial classes at your school. First year advanced courses were no joke, and you find yourself regretting your choice to participate in them.

Still you get dressed anyway, put your uniform on and brush your teeth - wash your face with your eyes half open and look presentable. No one's home in the morning, the house is empty of any life but you. Food becomes a last minute priority, so you make an egg sandwich with cheese and eat it on the way to the train station.

You stare down at your feet as you step outside, music drowning out the noise of your surroundings aptly. The walk to the station is long and the ride is longer, but the streets are packed edge to edge. Musutafu is busy this time of year - the U.A. Sports Festival is taking place today and everything seems to reflect that. You barely manage to squeeze past all the strangers on the subway - clearly on their way to see it.

When you get to school, you're greeted by a mostly empty classroom with a teacher. These classes were straightforward as always, do the work you need to correct, have it approved and leave. It repeats until your finished with all the assignments and you get to be done. You give a respectful nod to your teacher before grabbing your work from your bag.

It goes on and on - occasionally, you hear an excited gasp and quiet chatter from classmates. It’s about the festival, the happenings - but you’re too caught up in completing your work that day and trying to get the fuck out of their as soon as possible.

Shit like that didn’t matter to you, anyways. It’s just a festival.

You leave around the same time the festival seems to have ended, the streets flooded with people - you miss the first station and wander towards an electronics store a block away from your highschool.

It’s the winners on TV. A guy with split hair - Shouto Todoroki, Endeavors son. A guy with a bird head, and a blonde with red eyes - muzzled to the pole.

When you see them, your heart stops. You can feel anger, an unfamiliar rage and humiliation building in your chest. It feels the word has stopped as you watch from afar, through screens. Your soulmate seems upset about something, but you wouldn’t know what.

And that blonde on TV, you wonder if you know him from somewhere.

MEETING 2:

Red.Orange. Pale Yellow. Grey. Black. Forest Green. Red. Red.

You feel him before you even know what’s happening - and it catches you completely off-guard. You haven’t had a proper soulmate dream in two years. Smoke clouds your lungs, the taste of sugar burning your tongue as you cough yourself into awareness. This time, you’re not in a room but it’s a campground. In the middle of the space is a bonfire, burning warmly. This one feels more vivid, more real.

But you know it’s not, your body feel unusually light and your hands can’t hold anything for too long. You know it’s a dream, but you sit in the chair anyway. It feels like you're floating. You feel oddly warm. Dread builds in the pit of your stomach. Even though it’s been so long since you’ve spoken to your soulmate - you can’t forget the terrible first encounter. It sticks to the roof of your mouth - a bitter memory that fills you with unexplainable, irrational resentment.

But it’s not like you hadn’t been seeing him, to an extent. You’ve seen all his memories in bits and pieces - all of them tragic and painful. This time, you see people but they come in the form of small scraps. Spiky Red. Electricity. Tape. Pink with Horns. Music. Green. So much green and red - like Christmas, you’ve called it. You’ve seen disappearances, fear, anguish - so much anguish.

In the weeks after All Might’s fall, you were in so much pain - you couldn’t stop crying for days. It’s been enough time to know what feelings were yours and which were his - and these ones felt so much like him. It went on for nearly a year - you’d almost got accustomed to it. If tears showed up to blot the ink of your lecture notes, you didn’t think twice about it. You tried to keep yourself calm, steady - in hopes you could lend your soothing to him. Even if he hated your guts, you could barely believe so much sadness could exist in one person. You didn’t know what happened but whatever it was - it must’ve been terrible. At the very least, you felt sympathy.

Sympathy was enough to get by for a long time. A neutral, level-headed sympathy that helped soothe some of your own hurt.

All that said, you were hardly expecting to see him again - especially not this soon. You don’t remember the last time you thought about him in anything other than passing - actively. It’s one thing to know what's happening - you’ve felt him passively everyday for damn near two years.

But it’s another thing to see him in front of you, force yourself to acknowledge him as your soulmate even if he insists on not doing the same.

You squirm in your chair, noticing that you’re wearing PJ’s instead of clothes. Just a hoodie and sweats, none of which fit you quite right. You pull your sleeves over your hands, fiddling with the stray strand of thread loose.

“What the fuck is this shit?,”

Your stomach drops. Unsure of what to say, you opt to say nothing at all. Just let him be, sit quietly in your dreams and mind your business. Maybe he’ll wake up soon and it’ll all be over.

You can’t see him from the corner of your vision but you can hear him shuffle. The way he touches things, noticing how they make noise but don’t feel quite right in his hands. How it feels real but doesn’t, how it is real and isn’t. Surely, he’s noticed you by now. The lingering silence makes you squirm.

“...It’s you,”

You flinch, lifting your head up slightly to meet his gaze. His expression is unreadable, but it’s different from before. In a fleeting moment, something occurs to you.

You can see him. What he looks like. Blonde with red eyes, and a sharp chin and thin waist. You know it must mean you’ve seen him before - perhaps you’d even seen each other, but for your life you can’t remember where you’ve seen his face. It’s right there, on the edge of your mind, but you’re stumped.

“Hello?,”

“Oh,” your reply comes short, strained. Your eyes flutter as you press your lips into a flat line. “Uh, hi,”

The blonde sits in the chair, slumping down. His eyes go towards the flickering flames without another word and you decide it’s best not to engage. It stays like that for a while, a beat of silence - not awkward but not comfortable, passing by without another thought. It all feels real, present - not like normal dreams. This must be the special kind of soulmate thing you find yourself feeling resentful towards.

His eyes are heavy. Relief is overwhelming him, with an iron grip and he’s worried you can feel it. If you can, you don’t say a word.

“I didn’t think I’d see you again,” he admits.

The words sound tender passing through his mouth, unmistakably so - but you don’t get your hopes up. Instead, you give him a placating laugh, leaning forward towards the fire and mirroring him.

“I didn’t think so either,”

When it falls silent, it feels comfortable. It’s not like either of you have anything to say to each other right now, with no manual on how this was supposed to go. If he even wanted to go there.

“I can.. see you,” you start. He squints.

“You couldn’t before?,”

This takes you by surprise. You shake your head.

“No..Could you? See me, I mean?,”

Bakugo feels heat rise to his skin. Oh. Huh.

“Yeah,” he replies, a sharp inhale leaving his lungs “I can see you,”

There’s something tense in the air. It’s a strange sensation - to know the deepest and most intimate parts of someone without even knowing their name proper, or where they went to school, or what they normally eat for breakfast. All that connects you are these mutual feelings, shared grief that holds you two to the title of soulmates. This odd bond.

“..d’ya still think I’m a quirk wielding villain?,” you laugh, or try too - you’re doing your best to cut the tension. He can feel your hurt all the way from your sit, so deep in his gut - it’s been haunting him for years. How many nights of sleep he’s lost knowing there are soft and helpless tears coming from these suppressed feelings. He doesn’t know how to say sorry, so he sighs and rubs the back of his neck. He’s changed a lot in two years - but not enough to be good at this.

“No, I don’t,”

“Oh,”

He smiles, just a little. It’s gentle, casts shadow on his face from the light of the fire. It’s warm, everything feels warm and better and invigorating. When you look at him and his uneasy expression - you know he feels it too.

“By the way, uhm - what’s your name? Ka.. something? Right?,”

His eyes shoot up in surprise. He nods a little.

“Katsuki Bakugo,” he replies, expectantly. You seem surprised that he wants to know yours.

“Y/N Y/L/N,” comes your reply.

“Nice to meet you,” says him, Bakugo - your soulmate.

“Nice to meet you too,”

Getting to know Bakugo is unusually easy. You get the feeling it wouldn’t be, in the case that you were anything but soulmates - but Bakugo has never known being this intimate with someone other than you. Despite himself, how much he hates himself - you never seem too. Even though you feel and see all the ugliest parts of him - have since he was small enough to still be innocent, you always treat him the same.

Your conversations are short, and shallow. Regardless, he’s not used to talking so much about himself. But you’re always curious, so much so Bakugo doesn’t have the heart to see your countless questions go unanswered.

You keep a little notebook of all of your encounters. You remember them by heart but write them down too, just in case you miss something. You ask about his friends - Spiky Red and Soft Green, referring to them that way even after you’ve known their names. You ask about his work - the life of a dangerous hero, and if he ever gets nervous flying through the air.

Admittedly, he’s mean to you. He teases you so frequently, he’s lost count of all the times you’ve huffed and puffed at his sarcastic remarks. Still, you never turn away from him. You stand with your foot down and your arms crossed over your chest - insistent on making him feel flustered too. And it works, somehow - because you know all too much about Bakugou and always gets him right where he’s most conscious about. You don’t have to tease him about his feelings since you know them like the palms of your hand.

But these shallow conversations always mean a little more to him that he knows how to verbalize, and half the time he doesn’t need to do that at all. You’ve learned the masterful of working around him quietly, making all the parts of that feel too big to love - something small and fragile. Somehow, you’ve made being with him, even as friends - feel like less of an impossible feat but a dream.

Katsuki Bakugo has been in love with you since he was 6 years old. There must be some feelings we cannot share with our soulmates, because he has no idea if you feel it or not. He just knows he does, somewhere deep in the cavern of his heart, he loves you.

You never cross the barrier of romance with him, though. A paralyzing fear seems to settle in your bones when you breach too close to love and intimacy - and Bakugo understands those feelings, even if he doesn’t know exactly why they’re there. It’s not something you’ve decided to tell him yet, but he feels it in the same way he feels your loneliness. You may be kind but you’re more guarded than he is, and not fearless but reckless.

But he still finds himself aching to love and be loved by you, no matter how much he hates it. The yearning still manages to swallow him, even late into the night.

MEETING 3:

It’s been a while since your last meeting with Bakugo but not long. You were 21 now, but your dream visits were frequent. When you weren't speaking or seeing him through dreams - you were watching him on TV. You’d been yet to meet with him in real life but to you, that was okay. Seeing him like this had been more than enough.

Today was different. Normally, that bonfire was always a back-drop to these little encounters but it was a field today - a filed with rolling hills and hundreds of flowers and tall grass that made you feel itchy. The sun was permanently stuck right before it set but it was so warm everywhere. When you get there, there’s a blanket on the top of one of the hills. You sit on it cautiously and watch the wind pass. Everything is tinged orange, and red - you know he’s there with you before he appears.

When he does, he seems different. You glance over at him as he stumbles towards you in a stupor, and when he does finally sit - you get a whiff of alcohol coming from his neck and mouth. It’s strong enough to make a little dizzy. Blinking owlishly, he sits crisscross besides you, staring a little at the surroundings.

“..the fuck?,” he slurs. You can’t help but break out into a laugh. He nearly falls over, body swaying so you bring his head down to your shoulder wordlessly, a furious heat running all over your skin. Even though you can’t feel him, the gesture makes you feel something in your belly.

“Why’re you so drunk?,”

“Birthday,” he mumbles. Your eyes widen in surprise. Bakugo is seemingly unfazed, eyes drooping with tiredness. He’s completely inebriated.

You feel yourself grow tender. You’d have to wake up and remember the days date. Despite all the times you’ve met, you had no clue about his birthday or how he celebrated. You feel your heart ache at the idea you’ve spent the latter half of it together, in your own way.

“Happy Birthday, Bakugo.”

“Bakugo this, Bakugo that,” he growls, a little incoherent “We’re supposed to be fucking soulmates and you still call me by that.. damn name.”

He hiccups a little as you sit there stunned. You blink.

“.. You think of us as soulmates?,”

“Are you some kind of moron?,”

You scowl, flicking his forehead with your thumb and forefinger. He makes a noise of indignance.

“Well, how would I know? When we first met, you didn’t seem enthused about it,”

Bakugo sighs tiredly.

“I was 15 and an asshole - clearly I don’t fuckin’ feel that anymore,”

You seem surprised again.

“..You don’t?,”

Instead of swearing at you, he closes his eyes and gets closer to you. The liquor runs through his system like liquid courage and he nods a little.

“Not at all,”

“What do you..”

“What do you think I mean?,” he barks a laugh. You feel your pulse under your skin, drumming against your chest like a hammer. You can’t even breathe.

You’ve had feelings for Bakugo from the second proper meeting you’d had with him. It was clear as a day that he was your soulmate for good reason, that inexplicable draw that kept your heart from ever belonging to anyone else. You tried to - tried to go on dates and see other opportunities through but he was always so one of a kind.

Yet, you’d given up all hope that it would mean anything to harbor these feelings, convinced that Bakugo simply wasn’t interested in you In doing any of this. You didn’t want to force him into something he didn’t want - so you kept your distance with hope that he’d still be in your life. It was enough, or you’d wanted it to be.

It’d be a lie to say that you hadn’t started thinking about it more and more as the days pass. What it would be like to see him, touch him and love him and be with him for real - these passive daydreams gone vivid. If he could see your dreams, he must know about them. But you didn’t know how to approach it - how to approach love at all.

That’s the thing with soulmates. You’re told that you’ll just have the answers, destiny will do the hard work but that’s far from true. Because even now, with Bakugo leaning on your shoulder with this confession lingering in the air - you don’t know what to do.

“Stop being so nervous,” he mumbles. You stumble a little over yourself.

“Sorry,”

He chuckles.

“You really need me to say it, huh?,” he sighs. He picks himself. If he’s drunk and reckless, then fuck it - he’s gonna take it all the way. He drops his head onto your lap with a tired sigh.

“I think you’re my soulmate, you fuckin’ idiot,” he admits.

And it’s hard to say, because feelings don’t come easy for Bakugo Katsuki - but it’s the least he can do. All Bakugo Katsuki has ever known is to be lonely. It’s a loneliness that he’d forced on himself. Bottling up all the anger and sadness and swallowing it. It’s long since sunk it’s claws into him. That overwhelming, all consuming ugly feeling that lingers underneath that superiority complex.

That no one would ever, could ever love the ugliness that lingers in him. That no one who knew him for what he truly is, could care for him. Deku was the first of many disbeliefs and not much had changed.

Except for when it did. Except for when he met you - in a dream, and you were real and beautiful even at 15. That the universe hadn’t been playing some sick joke on him when he kept seeing you in his dreams, so soothing to his teenage loneliness. You were real and that was so fucking scary.

But you loved him anyway. Looked out for him when he was at his lowest - the soothing beat of your heart in the days after All Mights end . When he cried himself into sleep and dreamed of you. God, how he dreamed of you. Not especially romantic dreams, but dreams of how you made breakfast. How you watched cartoons on Sunday and read manga in your classes instead of the assigned work. How you fell asleep on the train station and always ate icecream after big tests. How you were especially mundane and how he got to be apart of that everyday routine.

After all, you see dreams of each other, but Bakugo has no clue what your dreams of him look like. His have always looked like you though.

When he was worthless and empty and unable to give you anything meaningful, to apologize or put his pride away - you had loved him anyway. Felt for him with clumsy hands and held on, not letting go. Even when he was begging for you to leave him alone, in fear of this all being nothing more than a cruel dream - you held on tightly to him. With your silly notebook questions and dumb names.

Bakugo Katsuki has never known what it means to love someone who isn’t you. Even if you found someone else and there was someone better than you for him, he would grit his teeth and bear it. He wonders if he’ll ever believe he deserves you. He wants to believe you’re his soulmate - to believe you wont ever leave. To believe that he did something right enough that the universe could give him someone like you.

And he wishes he could say all this, but he can’t - he just closes his eyes and hopes you can feel it.

“You’re so mean,”

“Isn’t that why you like me?,” he grins.

And you can feel his sincerity. He should feels yours too.

“I love you, actually,”

He gasps, a sharp breath that stabs his lungs. He feels sober from the confession.

His voice is gravelly when he speaks.

“Yeah, shit - me too,”

Your heart beats rapidly in your chest. The address is correct, it has to be with the way this place looks. Only a hero could live here, with the floors that lead up to skies. He lives on 3rd floor, so you swallow your fear. You give yourself a thumbs up in the glass window pane of the building before entering through the doors.

When you get there, a box sits. You press the button next to his place, bouncing on the balls of your feet until you answer.

“Hello?,”

His voice feels different in real life. You cough.

“Uh, hi,” you greet awkwardly “I’m here,”

“Oh,” he says. You hear something buzz and then him again. “Come on up,”

And you do. The elevator ride feels like it stretches mild, classic piano echoing against the empty walls. You feel yourself feel sick but you’re not sure it’s from the movement. All you can do is fidget and wait.

When the doors open, you peak your head out into the hallway. He’s the first one on the left, just as promised. You can see a welcome mat - forest green, and something in you knows that it’s the right one.

You step up and knock, three times precisely. Your heart is all the way in your ears and everything in you is filled with unease and excitement.

When the door swings open, the world stops. You gape like a fish out of water in disbelief. He’s tall and big like he promised he’d be, but you’re unprepared. His chin is scruffy, eyes full of sleep. Strong chest and arms that seem to crowd your vision, you don’t know what do.

His expression is full to the brim with feelings you’ve never seen. He steps aside with his head ducked down.

“Come in,”

“Ah.. right,”

You take your shoes off and place them in the slippers meant for you - they fit you just right, and it can’t be a coincidence. Your heart swells up a little as you take your coat off, hanging it on the rack. You can feel his eyes as they linger on your silhouette.

“So -,”

Before you can get a word out, you feel strong arms wrapped around your waist. His scruff brushes against the skin of your neck as he holds you tightly too him. The warmth of his breath lingers on your neck - and he hiccups, a sob stored in his rib cages let out with a howl. The tears blur your vision too. You can feel his drip onto your shoulder as you snivel into his neck. Your legs feel weak, but he holds you up at the door - the only thing keeping you standing.

You cling around him tightly, your nails digging into the meat of his shoulders. It’s him, your soulmate, Katsuki Bakugo. He’s real and holding you - and he smells like leather and sugar and a fireplace. He’s warm and strong and overwhelming and your crying into his shoulder with so much feeling you don’t know what to do. You hit him weakly, unsure of what do with yourself and he laughs.

“Damn you, shitty woman - makin’ me fucking cry,” but his voice is strained. It’s like something connected, how you feel each other so intimately in that moment. Not only because you’re soulmates, but because you love each other so deeply. Your heart feels heavy.

When you pull away, you manage to give him a warbly smile.

Your hands cradle his face - so handsome and wonderful. You lean forward, emboldened, and peck him. He melts into your touch like he’d been waiting for this moment his whole life. It makes you grin.

Maybe you don’t realize that he had.

He’d been waiting for you all this time.

#bakugou x reader #bakugo x you #bnha x reader #bnha x you #bnha imagines #bakugou imagine #bakugou imagines #PLEASE SHOW UP IM BEGGING

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amysteryspot · 3 years

Text

Wash it away - Thomas Shelby x Reader

Gif by: @only-obi (original post)

Summary: Tommy gets home too stressed and you have the perfect remedy for that.

Fandom: Peaky Blinders

Pairing: Thomas Shelby x Female!Reader

Warnings: mentions of nakedness; very brief mention of sex (it’s not graphic); very brief mention of reader being shorter than Tommy, if it bothers you in any way; and fluff, lots of it. English is not my first language and this wasn’t proofread.

Word Count: 868

A/N: Dedicated to @sighonahurricane who is responsible for putting this idea in my head and making me go wild with it.

Also, I really hope that @retromafia forgives me, ‘cause I promised her I was going to write something for our Lenny first. Sorry sis, have some soft!Tommy instead.

You were careful and slow in taking off his clothes, piece by piece, with calculated movements. First helping him out of his coat, then the suit jacket, both draped and put to rest on the chair. The waistcoat was next, then you unpinned the cufflinks and the pocket watch, placing both on the dish by the sink. Loosening tie, you started to unbutton his dress shirt.

Tommy sighed, you looked him in the eye to find him observing you already. Giving him a reassuring smile, you continued your task, slipping the braces down his arms and getting him out of the shirt.

You got down on your knees, undying the ties of his shoes and making him step out of them, taking off the socks as well. Unbuckling his belt, you undid the button and unzipped his trousers, letting it fall into a pool around his feet. Getting up, you lifted the hem of his undershirt, hands gently caressing his torso as Tommy slowly raised his arms so you could take it out of him. The undershorts were the only thing last, and then you made him step out of it.

“Common, love, get in the tub, while the water is warm.”

He didn’t question your gentle coaching, just silently obeying it and easing himself into the water. Another sigh left his lips as he let his head rest at the tub, eyes closed.

You could see how tired and stressed he was. It was worse than you first thought when he entered through the front door.

“Do you want to talk?”

Tommy just shook his head, turning his head to the side, eyes opening slowly to stare back at you.

It should be illegal for a man to have those long eyelashes, but you couldn’t deny that the almost black lashes complemented his winter eyes beautifully.

“Let me take care of you, then,” you whispered against his lips, giving him a light peck and almost giving into him when he moved in search of your lips when you backed away.

Later, you thought to yourself, maybe later.

Since the beginning of your relationship, and long before, since you knew him, Tommy always used sex as a release for everything: stress, anger, lust, problems of all sorts, love… it wasn’t an easy task making him understand that some times, he needed to let go of control, let himself be taken care off, not exclusively through sex.

Nowadays it was a lot easier than it was in the beginning. He didn’t put up much of a fight, knowing that it was likely that later he could convince you to get him what he wanted, so he usually just let you do your thing.

You got the soap and a stool, sitting down beside the tub. There was already a little bowl at the side, so you got it, filling it with water.

“Tilt your head back for me, sweetheart.”

He did as you told, so you slowly poured the water into his chair, putting soup in your hands to make a foam and starting to massage his scalp. Tommy groaned, eyes closing in relief as you gently traced around his skull, treading your fingers through the longer strands of his hair.

Washing the foam away, you let your hands wander down his body, scrubbing and massaging the tension away.

Tommy visibly relaxed into the water, sinking until only his head was out of the water. He observed you through heavy eyelids, making you smile.

“Enjoying yourself, are you?”

He only hummed, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.

Good, that was your goal, making him forget the problems and feel better.

“Do you want to stay some more?”

“No, I’m good,” he answered, hands holding both edges of the tub to get up.

You rushed to get him a towel, waiting for him to step out and shrugging it around his shoulders, struggling a little to dry his hair. Tommy chuckled and she gave him a playful smack on the arm, not able to hide her own smile.

The process of drying him and dressing him was a lot faster than undressing him, so they were both laying on their bed quickly.

You laid partially on your side as Tommy snuggled closer to you, one of his arms encircling your waist to bring you even closer, his head resting in the crook of your elbow, leaning onto your chest, as you played with his hair. The only sound heard in the room was the light crackling of the fireplace and the light rain that was falling outside.

“Thank you,” he murmured after a while, looking up at you.

“You’re welcome,” you replied, kissing him softly.

Tomorrow he would have to deal with whatever it was that had him in such a state of disarray, but you knew that tonight your job of making him feel better was done when you saw him trying to fight back the sleep and losing it, closing his eyes and snuggling into you.

Taglist: @stressedandbandobessed7771 @captivatedbycillianmurphy @internalmess3 @peakyxtommy @theshelbyclan @caelys @giowritess

#thomas shelby x reader #tommy shelby x reader #thomas shelby imagine #tommy shelby imagine #thomas shelby fanfic #tommy shelby fanfic #thomas shelby #tommy shelby #peaky blinders #peaky blinders imagine #peaky blinders fanfic #reader insert #female reader #amysteryspot #mysterywritings

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wildlyglittering · 3 years

Text

My Gift to You

I received an anonymous request to write something about Nesta and Rhys’ relationship post ACOSF and them having a conversation. The requestor said that their relationship didn’t feel genuine enough and that they had a lot of work to do before they consider themselves brother/ sister.

I mean.... same anon. Same. The relationship was definitely not one of happy families in my eyes and personally Rhys buying Nesta gifts just felt like the cheapest way to close the lid on their ‘relationship.’

I don’t know if this is what anon wanted but I just can’t write a future where those two truly bond and get along. So this is Nesta and Rhys as I feel would be most appropriate.

***

‘Brother,’ she’d called Rhys. It was not a word which drifted from her lips as easily as it did from Feyre’s when she used the term to refer to Cassian, or for Cassian himself when he spoke of his kin.

Brother.

There had been no time for thinking, not with the screaming and shrieking and the copper tang of blood filling her nose. Rhys was losing his mind and the healer, Madja, was next to useless, pleading with Feyre to fight death - an act as impactful as a raindrop at the bottom of the ocean.

If fighting death were easy, everyone would win.

Nesta knew if you needed to beg for a life, you needed to beg to what could heed you.

The memory of what transpired for Nesta, when she stepped from one form into another, had faded over time like some strange fever dream.

There had been a presence swimming next to her, a shark with a sharp fin and razor teeth, twisting and arching, waiting to tear from her what she had torn out first. But something else was with her, someone else, with a golden light to illuminate Nesta’s way.

Something given and something gained. Those were the thoughts floating in her mind once she’d been present again.

Nesta sought out the opening of Feyre’s eyes, desperately listened for a new-born’s wail and thankfully, she received both.

Afterwards, in the calm, long after she’d embraced Rhys, Nesta wondered what she had meant by that word - brother.

Even as she cradled Nyx’s delicate head in the nook of her arm, stroking the tufts of downy black hair, she didn’t think of him as someone she shared with Rhys. No, despite the hair and sleepy violet eyes, he was someone Nesta shared with Feyre.

Sister. That was a stronger word.

The first infant Nesta ever held was Feyre. She remembered a scrunched up red face peeking behind a blanket as her new baby sister was placed in her arms while a toddler Elain sobbed in the background, upset at not being baby anymore.

I already have one of these.

That was her first thought, her first memory of Feyre.

“Look”, someone had said as Feyre opened her eyes, “they’re the same as yours, Nesta. The very same.”

For a long time, that’s all they had in common. The gift of the same eyes.

Perhaps Nesta had called Rhys brother because in that moment he was. He was her mirror counterpart, not a piece of her heart or soul the way Feyre, Elain and Cassian were but something prominent nonetheless. A shard of glass slicing into each other’s bones that they just couldn’t pull out.

Thank you, he’d said and she wanted to tell him not to say those words. She didn’t do anything requiring praise, she did what she did for the love of her sister and her sister’s child.

Do not thank me for my very nature.

They drifted into an uneasy peace. A gulf remained between Nesta and Elain which Nesta had no energy to remedy, but a bridge had been built between Nesta and Feyre and the connection was one Nesta strengthened as much as possible.

Nesta walked with Feyre around her gardens, joined at dinners and was polite and nodded and minded her manners and, when she had enough, she would return to the House of Wind and let Cassian love her.

As time passed, so did Nesta’s thoughts of Rhys as a brother.

Once again, he became her sister’s mate, her mate’s friend, her nephew’s father. Once again, he became High Lord. Ruler. Overseer.

Months after Nyx’s birth, Rhys and Feyre attended Winter to visit Viviane who had recently birthed her first child - a girl and rumours had followed of secret meetings between the High Lords. Rhys had purchased numerous furs; thick, luxurious pelts in sable, fawn and silver and sent them Nesta’s way.

“I don’t want these things he gives me,” she told Cassian soon after, standing in a room filled with Rhys’ tokens.

“The furs aren’t too bad,” Cassian replied. “They make the floor more comfortable,” he said, his mouth hot on her neck.

She allowed him to distract her but at night while Cassian slept, she walked around the House, grazing objects with her fingertips and glared at the ones which seemed to shimmer too bright, too long. The House itself rippled with unease.

“They’re all junk,” Nesta said to the darkened hallways. “Jewels and silks and throw cushions.”

Feyre and Rhys had told her once, not long ago, how embarrassed they were at the quantity of their money she’d spent on her path towards destruction. Her pulse jumped underneath her skin at the memory.

There had been no love for her life back then, no begging and pleading to a higher power. No, it had been their love for their finances, their concern for their reputation, their lack of control over Nesta which spiralled into entrapment.

Die, she’d heard. Just do so cheaply and in the dark.

Although the word ‘brother’ faded from her mind, Nesta let her animosity go with it. She had the sweetness of her nephew to immerse herself in and she marvelled at the smile on his gummy mouth and the way he wriggled across the floor on his belly towards her, perfect black wings tucked against his body.

One day he would use them to soar the skies and his freedom, his life, was the best gift Nesta had ever received.

His life was the best gift Nesta would ever give.

Nyx was shy of a year old when the whispers started. One day they didn’t exist and the next – they did. They held a metallic quality as though they being spoken through the clang of steel on steel.

High King.

One night, while Cassian rested on the furs, naked and sated, she trailed her fingertips up his knee, up his thigh to where his flesh lay, warm and re-hardening.

“Tell me,” she said, circling a finger around the tip, “what did Rhys speak to Kallias about all those months ago?”

Cassian exhaled a long breath. “Rhys wants Kallias to accept him as ruler.”

“Of the Night Court?”

“No, he – ah, don’t stop – of Prythian.”

“And what was their arrangement? How could Rhys obtain Kallias’ agreement?”

Cassian’s gasps filled her ears. “Through Nyx,” he forced out, “a promise he would marry Kallias’ daughter.”

After that she listened more to what the clanging whispers told her across the breeze, to what the House told her, to what she heard outside closed doors in Rhys’ home on visits to her sister.

Nesta was as serene as the Mother herself when she drifted to Rhys’ study and lingered by the locked door where he and Amren held counsel.

“They are the same as before, inert and useless.”

“Get her to the blacksmith, boy.”

“Her ability is gone.”

“Possibly, but test her to be sure. If she forges a hundred thousand swords then at least one might be Made.”

“She won’t do it.”

“Ban her from seeing the child until she does. She’ll forge then.”

Nesta closed her eyes, clenching her fists until her nails dug into her palms and blood trickled through her knuckles.

For a moment Nesta became a blade, sharp and dangerous, mounted on a wall and viewing Rhys and Amren from a height. The shadows danced from the lit hearth onto Rhys making his face sunken and hollow. For the first time, Rhys looked every inch the ancient creature he was.

Amren walked to the blade that was Ataraxia, that was Nesta, her silver eyes reflected in the shining metal, a palm splayed outwards with the reverence a worshipper showed their god.

“Turns out she wasn’t a pathetic waste of life after all.”

From then on Nesta would listen to what the blades told her.

Rhys took them from their mounts and held them, caressed them as he should his sleeping mate, his violet eyes passing from hilt to blade tip as his pupils grew fat with want.

They spoke to him but they didn’t listen and Rhys struggled with the push and pull every time he lifted a blade from the wall.

He practiced with them in the safety of his study but the blades were too heavy and made him clumsy, leaving the usually graceful High Lord stumbling over his feet. A ripple spread through the metal almost as though the sword were laughing.

We are no advantage to him, the whispers told her and Nesta knew they were infused with the anger she held towards Rhys when she Made them. Now, they said, now he believes himself your brother and he would like a new gift.

Instead that was what she asked him for, next time she was at his home.

“Hello, sister,” and his smile was akin to a wolf’s as it waited in the field for lambs.

“Rhys.”

He agreed vigorously to her request before she even named her price. Maybe Rhys thought he could eventually turn the bee itself into honey.

“I’ve given some thought,” she said, “and I’d like something back. Eris has the dagger but you have two swords remaining in your possession. Keep the small one but Ataraxia, I would like her to be mine. I will never ask anything else from you.”

The smile on his face froze into place as though he’d gone into the depths of Winter and been lost.

Though the blade wasn’t his, he didn’t want it to be hers.

“I don’t think so,” his voice soft. “What if someone tries to take advantage of you and steals the sword away?”

“I’d destroy it first.” However much the thought pained her, Ataraxia’s destruction had been considered - a gift to the other High Lords, one they would never know they’d received.

Rhys shook his head, his eyes dark. “No,” he said, “I need them.” Despite their resistance they were the only Made weapons in his hold.

“Why?”

He said nothing.

Nesta’s lip curled into a sneer. “To be High King, Rhys?”

He glowered at her.

“You know you’re starting a war among incredibly powerful High Lords?”

“I’m the most powerful.”

“There are more of them, they will combine their powers.”

“I have allies.”

“You have enemies.”

“I have friends.”

Nesta sighed and looked to the two swords, the metal glinting as though caught by firelight although the fire was unlit. Her name was murmured, the rasp of metal on metal.

“They’re your friends now but you’re demanding they give up their people, their lands and heritage to you and for what? Why would they do that willingly?”

She turned away from him and stood before the mounted blades. Her reflection was as clear as though they were mirrors, as was Rhys’ behind her, a dark mist forming over his skin.

“This is a war your son will likely reach adulthood in,” she continued, “do you want that for him?”

“I’m doing this for him,” Rhys spat, “you’re no mother, you wouldn’t understand. This is his legacy. My gift to him.”

A calm transcended over Nesta, as though she were wading through the clear waters of a pool, a loving hand on her back reminding her of their presence.

“Your gift to him should be allowing him to live his life. To allow him to care for the people of the Night Court, to give him the chance to fall in love and choose a partner of his own calling.”

“You don’t understand,” Rhys said again, “you had power for mere months and you think you’re the authority of giving it up. It’s a choice you wouldn’t have made if you understood what powerlessness meant.”

Once, when she wore another body, she could count the ribs underneath her skin by tracing them with her fingertips.

Once, in that same body, a man had pressed himself against her, his tongue forced into her mouth.

Once, Fae had ripped away her bedsheet and dragged her from her bed while Elain’s screams echoed in the dark hallway. She had drowned in the depths of the Cauldron, she’d watched her father’s blood spray across the grass, and she’d been dragged from her bed once more to be drugged and bound with her new body useless.

“If you say so.”

Nesta repeated Amren’s actions and traced her finger against the blade, Ataraxia shivered as though Nesta were running a finger down the spine of a lover. The sword moved, almost imperceptibly, but Nesta saw and wondered if Rhys did.

She’d bargained for the lives of his mate and son and yet Rhys wasn’t satisfied. Nesta was his mirror and so he gave her gifts believing she would want them as much as he did, because he continually sought out tokens to keep. He believed she would never be satisfied because he never was.

Nesta left, leaving him with the blades. They would be no benefit for him anyway and it wouldn’t be long before Ataraxia came back to her. Nesta understood now that Ataraxia had been her gift to herself.

All gone now, the Inner Circle assumed. After saving Feyre’s life, Nesta’s gift from the Cauldron is exhausted.

Lies, she thought as she walked the paths of Velaris to head home. All lies. The Cauldron had never gifted Nesta with anything. Everything she held had been stolen, ripped from something that never intended her to have it.

The sky was black, the fae lights of the taverns and restaurants glowing amber against the pitch and the happy chatter of the city revellers emerged from behind doors. All these fae living their lives as best they could, trusting in the protection of their High Lord.

They weren’t the same, her and Rhys, they were mirrored on the surface only.

Yes, they both stole power from those who never intended to gift it but she would die for those she loved while Rhys would kill for them.

The cold air was sharp and drew Nesta’s thoughts from the corners of her mind like a knife drew blood when sliced against skin. She drew her cloak around her shoulders and wrapped her arms around her middle.

There had been screaming and blood and Nesta’s pleas. There had been the dark slithering laughter of something taking something back. But there had also been the warmth of a hand, ethereal and eternal on her back and a golden magic which poured into Nesta until it overflowed.

Daughter.

The Mother had welcomed Nesta and received her gift with open arms, re-gifting to her in return.

Death transmuted into life. Quieter but no less powerful. No less valuable in the future to come.

This is yours, Nesta was told, and will remain so until the end. This is my gift to you.

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