#1917 requests

[storiesforallfandoms]

early morning ~ will schofield;1917

word count: 2203

request?: yes!

@lilah1020​: “Imagine Will schofield fluffy smut with wife reader”

description: on a rare occasion when they wake up before their children, they decide to take advantage of the time to be intimate

pairing: will shofield x female!reader

warnings: swearing, smut (oral - f receiving, unprotected p in v, praising, dirty talk)

masterlist (one, two, three)

Having two children - especially two young children at that - meant very little “alone time”. The girls were usually the first ones awake in the house, and thus would run into their parents’ room to wake them up. Between work, house chores, and looking after the kids, there wasn’t much time for Will and (Y/N) to be alone. And by the end of the night, when the kids were bathed and in bed, they were just too tired for any form of physical intimacy.

It was hard. Not that either of them thought they needed physical intimacy for their marriage to work. After their oldest daughter was born, they knew sex was going to be few and far between, and they definitely knew that’s how it would be after their second daughter was born. They were aware of it, and they were more than okay with that sacrifice at first. But the complete lack of sex had been hard for both of them.

It was a rare morning where (Y/N) wasn’t woken by a tiny body jumping on her. Her eyes slowly blinked until the sleep was completely out of them. The room was quiet. In fact, the whole house was quiet. No small voices yelling, no hushed voices beside her as Will tried to convince the girls to let their mother sleep. Nothing. Just silence.

(Y/N) rolled over to see Will sleeping peacefully beside her. She smiled as she looked at his handsome face. Every day she thought to herself about how lucky she was to have him; how lucky she was to have their little family.

As if sensing her eyes on him, Will slowly stirred. He opened one eye, then smiled as he closed it again. “Good morning, love.”

“Good morning,” she responded.

“Where are the girls?”

“Still asleep.”

Will had stretched his arms out, but paused after hearing her response. “Really?”

(Y/N) nodded. “Listen.”

They both paused, taking in the silence of the house. Will looked shocked at the revelation. “They’re asleep? They actually are not awake before us for once?”

(Y/N) giggled and nodded again. “I guess they were really tired after last night.”

The night before, the Schofields had been to a neighborhood celebration that included a barbecue and fireworks to end the night. Will and (Y/N) had let the girls stay up late so they could enjoy the festivities. By the time they got home, the adrenaline (and the sugar) from the night was finally wearing off and, within seconds, they were asleep.

Seemed it was enough to keep them asleep past their usual wake up time.

Will looked like he was still trying to understand the fact that his daughters were actually still asleep. (Y/N) was still pretty shocked herself. She was almost convinced that she was dreaming, and she would soon actually be woken up by her two energetic daughters.

“Love,” Will said.

“Yes, darling?” (Y/N) responded.

Will took her face in his hands and pulled her into a kiss. It was passionate and needy from the moment their lips met. (Y/N) took hold of Will’s shirt, clenching the material between her fists as she held him to her. One of his hands moved from her face to slip under the night shirt she was hearing. When his hand touched her bare skin, it ignited her. It left a fiery, tingling feeling in his wake. One that trailed down her body and between her legs. She was yearning for him. She needed him so desperately, just from kissing and a few gentle touches.

Will slowly laid (Y/N) on her back, his lips still attached to hers. When he pulled away, she tried to follow him. He chuckled and eased her back down on the bed. He moved to her neck, kissing the soft area all over until he found the spot that made her whimper. He kept his focus on that spot, sucking and biting until he was sure he had left marks. He pushed up her night gown to expose her breasts. She gasped as he put his mouth to one of them, circling her nipple with his tongue. His hand fondled her other breast, rolling the nipple until it was hard and pointed, then took that one in his mouth as well.

A moan slipped from her lips. She quickly covered her mouth as Will’s mouth let go of her breast to shush her.

“Sorry,” she said in a whisper. She put her hand back over her mouth as his kissing continued downwards.

He left wet, open mouth kisses over her stomach and down towards her mound. Her breath hitched and a muffled whimper came from around her hand at the feeling of his hot breath against her already dripping wet pussy. Desperation was rising within her. She was so close to begging for him to touch her, she didn’t even care how he’d do it. She just needed to feel him, to have him pull that release from her again like he always knew how to. But she didn’t have to beg, because he wasted no time in attaching his lips to her clit.

A gasp ripped from (Y/N)’s lips, her hand moving away from her mouth to grab hold of Will’s hair. She gently tugged it by accident, but it earned her a moan from him. The vibration from it sent shockwaves through her body. She bit down on her bottom lip to try and keep her moans quiet, but it felt almost impossible. She hadn’t felt this good in a long time, and it was hard to not let that out. His tongue against her felt heavenly as he licked long stripes from her pussy to the tip of her clit.

“F-Fuck,” (Y/N) whispered. “God, Will, that feels so fucking good.”

Will peered up at his beautiful wife, writhing in pleasure above him. Her eyes were shut and her head was thrown back, with one hand in his hair and the other gripping the sheets beneath her. She looked angelic, and her quiet noises of pleasure definitely sounded like they were coming straight from a heavenly angel. He wanted to be inside her desperately. He needed to feel her warm walls around his throbbing hard cock. But he wanted to make her feel good first, because he wasn’t sure how long he’d last once he was inside her.

“Are you close, love?” he asked her, continuing to stroke her clit with his thumb while his mouth was absent. She nodded, her eyes still tightly shut. “Look at me, my love.”

She managed to force her eyes open to look down at Will. He smiled at her face, already fucked out and he hadn’t even fucked her yet.

“Cum for me, my love,” he coaxed. “Cum for me and I’ll give you what you want.”

The minute his mouth pressed against her again, she did exactly as he requested. Her head fell back onto the pillow again, and she quickly clapped a hand over her mouth as the pleasure tore through her. Will lapped at her pussy, taking every last drop of her juices as if he needed it to survive. Her body trembled so violently that she wasn’t sure it would ever stop.

Her head was fuzzy, in a good way. She felt like she was on cloud nine as Will kissed up her body again. He placed a sweet yet passionate kiss against her lips. She could taste herself on his mouth, which just turned her on again.

Will stood from the bed just long enough to pull his boxers off and kick them to the side. (Y/N) all but yanked him back to the bed when his lower half was naked. His hard cock pressed against her thigh as his lips found hers again. Her hips bucked in an attempt to gain some friction between them.

Will chuckled. “Impatient thing, aren’t you?”

“We don’t have long,” she reminded him. “And you promised to give me what I wanted.”

“You’re right, I did promise that.” His tip nudged her entrance, earning him another gasp. “And I intend on keeping that promise.”

He pushed into her slowly, letting both of them feel every inch of his cock filling her up. He kissed her, letting his mouth swallow her moans. He lowered himself so he was pressing against her as much as he could without crushing her, resting his elbows on either side of her head.

“You feel so good,” he mumbled against her lips. “I almost forgot how good this pussy felt.”

“Please, Will,” she begged. “Make love to me.”

He kissed her. “You don’t have to beg, love. I’ll give you exactly what you want.”

When he slowly pulled his hips back and thrust them forward at the same pace, (Y/N) could’ve swore she saw stars. It was the simplest movement, but it brought so much pleasure that it made her head spin. She grabbed at his shoulders to try to ground herself.

“You’re so beautiful,” Will whispered as he continued his slow thrusts. “God, I’ve missed seeing you like this. You’re so gorgeous when you’re all wrapped around my cock like this.”

Her only response was another moan. Will decided not to quiet her this time. He missed hearing these sounds. He wished he could record them to have with him whenever he was away from her.

He kissed her, sweetly. As if he was giving her a good morning kiss and wasn’t buried deep inside of her.

“I love you,” he said.

“I love you, too,” she responded. It was the only coherent thought in her head. “I love you so much. Fuck, Will.”

“Do you feel good, my love?” She nodded. “Do you think you could cum one more time for me? I promise I’ll fill you up after.”

She nodded again. Will reached between them and started rubbing circles against her clit as his thrusts started picking up. (Y/N) barley had time to register her orgasm before it was already upon her. Will pressed his lips roughly against hers to stop her loud cries of pleasure. Feeling her tightening around him made him cum shortly after she did, his thrusts stilling so he could fill her up like he promised.

They weren’t sure how long they were tangled together, coming down from their climaxes. All concepts of life outside of this moment was lost on them. They just knew the lightheaded feeling of post-orgasm bliss. Will was pressing kisses against (Y/N)’s neck and jaw. She sighed, content to stay this way as long as possible.

Which, unfortunately for them, did not last nearly long enough.

The creaking of a door alerted them first. Their daughters’ bedroom door had always made a noise when it opened. Will had been saying for as long as they could remember that he would fix the door, but had never gotten around to it. Now it seemed to be their saving grace, the only indication that they had mere seconds before two little girls ran into their room.

Will pulled out of (Y/N) and tumbled onto the floor. (Y/N) stifled her laugh at his pained expression as she fixed her night shirt, covering the sticky mess between her legs. Will frantically grabbed for his boxers and pulled them back on just as the two girls rounded the corner and into the room. Their youngest daughter immediately jumped into bed, while their oldest looked at their father in concern.

“Daddy, why are you on the floor?” she asked.

“I - uh - I fell out of bed,” Will responded. “Got all tangled in the sheets as I was trying to get up and fell right off.”

“Daddy is a little clumsy this morning,” (Y/N) added.

“Is it because you were up so late last night?” the youngest girl asked.

Will nodded. “Yes. Yes, it’s definitely because of last night.

Their oldest got onto the bed with (Y/N). (Y/N) put both arms around her girls and pulled them close to her, kissing them on top of their heads.

“You both slept in pretty late,” she said.

“Because we stayed up late,” the youngest said. “Like grown ups do.”

“Don’t get used to it,” (Y/N) said. “You’re not growing up any time soon. In fact, I’ve decided that you’ll both be my little girls forever.”

Both girls started to speak at the same time, protesting their mother’s decision. Will chuckled as he leaned across the bed to also kiss his daughters.

“What do you girls say we head downstairs and start making breakfast? Let mummy get herself cleaned up for the day.”

He shot her a look that made her face heat up. The girls agreed and bounded out the door again before Will could follow them. He and (Y/N) shared a look before chuckling. Will leaned in to kiss (Y/N) one more time before reluctantly tearing away from her and their bed.

“I’m keeping them up until midnight tonight,” he said as he started walking out the door. “Maybe then I’ll have you all to myself tomorrow morning.”

[lostdrarryfics]

Hello, I'm looking for this one fic. I know some specific details, but somehow i can't find it. I also believe it was on fanfiction.net, but i'm not sure. It's a fic from before 2012 for sure.

PLOT: after the magic war the muggles start a war against the wizards in big scale. protego doesn't work against bullets so that's a big problem and hermione tries to learn spells that could work. she's also working in this big spell using some form of ancient magic from merlin's time. she believes they can open a door to avalon. they work on it. they send mail to every wizard registered around the world because to open the door they have to use the whole magic in the world, so every wizard that stays behind will die including even the muggleborn kids that aren't 11 yet. at some point hermione gets shot and die. they open the door to avalon and aberforth chooses to stay behind. i remember the ending well, it says that in the morning of that day thousands of people were found dead without anyone knowing the reason. adults and kids. also a lot of buildings that people never saw before were discovered, including the ruins of an old castle.

it is a drarry fic, it has romance and all, but the main focus of the story is the war against the muggles.

Sorry, we could not find this fic. Maybe one of our followers can help!

[gunsandspaceships]

MCU Timeline: Captain America: The Winter Soldier

This one is even worse than Iron Man 2.

1942 - James Barnes joins the US Army.

Winter 1942-1943 - Barnes undergoes military training at Camp McCoy, Wisconsin.

As you can see, Bucky was born twice: in 1916 and 1917. Let's move on to the next exhibit.

Winter 1943-1944 - Steve Rogers saves more than 1,000 people by breaking Hydra's blockade. Peggy's future husband is among them.

Early 1945 - Sergeant Barnes fell from Zola's train, lost his left arm, but somehow survived. He is found by Red Army soldiers and taken to Hydra's lab.

Before March 5, 1945 - Rogers disappears in the Arctic.

Note: As you may have noticed, this movie made a mistake where it said it happened in 1944 and also in 1945 (Bucky's "death" and Zola's capture + ~2 days later). To avoid this mistake, I assumed it was December 31, 1944 - January 1, 1945. But I forgot about this newspaper that says "March 5, 1945". The title can be interpreted in many ways, but one thing is for sure - the event did not happen on March 5, because that is the date the newspaper was published. We need to go back at least one day.

March 1945? - Hydra branch in the Ukrainian SSR replaces James Barnes' lost arm and puts him into cryogenic sleep.

Note: These flashbacks of Zola talking about "new fist of Hydra" and "putting him on ice" make no sense since Zola was captured by SSR and imprisoned at the time. Either this took place years after the fall (was Barnes kept on ice this whole time?) and Zola was left alone at some point and somehow made his way to the USSR, or these parts of his memories with Zola are fake (and he's not in the room during the procedures) and were implanted in his brain by Hydra. Or was it just his imagination that created these memories to replace the lost ones? This movie gives more questions than I can get answers from it.

~August 14, 1945 - The US recruits German scientists, including Arnim Zola.

"After WW2" - S.H.I.E.L.D. is founded. SSR's federal functions and responsibilities are consolidated into the new organization.

1953 - Peggy Carter gives an interview about The Howling Commandos in New York.

Before 1970 - some recruited German scientists of strategic value (including Zola) are transferred to S.H.I.E.L.D.

1972 - Arnim Zola receives a terminal diagnosis and uploads his consciousness on 200,000 feet of databanks.

December 8, 1973 - Jasper Sitwell is born in Norfolk, Virginia.

1984 - Natalia Alianovna Romanova is born.

Note: In Black Widow we see a different year and a more precise date of "December 3, 1983". At this point I don't know which date is correct, so I'll just leave 1984 for this movie.

December 16, 1991 - the Winter Soldier kills Howard and Maria Stark.

Between 1990 and 1992 - Nick Fury serves as the Deputy Chief of the S.H.I.E.L.D. station in Bogota, Colombia. Alexander Pierce serves there in the State Department. Fury rescues Pierce's daughter, who has been taken hostage by rebels. Following the incident, Pierce joins Hydra.

As of September 18, 1992 - Alexander Pierce serves in the US Department of Defense.

Between 1995 and 1997 (5 years after the Bogota incident) - Pierce promotes Fury to Director of S.H.I.E.L.D.

Note that Fury has both eyes here. As we know from the movie Captain Marvel, he lost one of them in 1995. Shown here is the swearing-in scene for a position that could be one of the two mentioned - Fury to Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. or Pierce to WSC Member. The latter doesn't make much sense because members of the council are higher than the director. So it's assumed that Fury becomes Director of S.H.I.E.L.D., which couldn't happen while he had both eyes.

Before 2012 - at Fury's request, Alexander Pierce becomes a member of the World Security Council.

2009 - in Odessa, Ukraine, while on a mission to escort a nuclear engineer from Iran, Natasha is wounded by the Winter Soldier.

Between April 2012 and April 2014 - Steve Rogers kisses someone.

Early 2014 (before the fall of S.H.I.E.L.D.) - Baron Strucker and Dr. List use the Scepter in experiments to create mutants. Two survive - the Maximoff twins.

The main events of the movie take place in the second half of April 2014.

Why: It's impossible to determine the dates from the ones mentioned in the movie ("04/14/13" or "10/12/2013") because they a) contradict each other; b) say it's 2013, but as we know from IM3 and Thor: The Dark World, S.H.I.E.L.D. was still operational throughout 2013. So we'll have to treat them the same way we treated the dates on screens in IM2: disregard. Some (MCU Fandom Wiki) think it's March, which can't be true since in Washington D.C. in March you'll either see bare trees or cherry blossoms. The latter will last until mid-April. We don't see any of that in the movie, so we have to assume it's later, but not too far since some people are still wearing jackets. So we're looking at the second half of April - early May. May is definitely Marvel's favorite month.

No dates this time, kids. It's a mess, so I won't risk putting them in and will stick with "Day #".

Day 1:

~6:00 - 6:39 am - Rogers meets Sam Wilson. Natasha takes him on a S.H.I.E.L.D. mission.

Rogers, Romanoff and STRIKE are sent on an unmentioned mission near India.

Why we have to assume there was another mission before the ship was hijacked: Rumlow says the ship was hijacked by pirates 93 minutes ago. No one could get from Washington to India in 93 minutes, and I'm not even talking about reaction time and briefing. So we have to come up with this solution: Fury gave them another mission in India, then the pirates he hired hijacked the ship, and it "just so happened" that Rogers and Romanoff were nearby to be included in the response team.

Evening in DC/Night in Mumbai - The Lemurian Star mission in Indian Ocean, near Mumbai.

Day 2:

Fury shows Project Insight to Rogers.

Rogers goes to The Smithsonian National Air and Space Museum.

Day 3:

Morning - Rogers visits Peggy in the UK.

Note: Some people think she is shown in a nursing home in DC, but that doesn't make sense because after leaving S.H.I.E.L.D., Peggy returned to England (her S.H.I.E.L.D. file) and her funeral in CW was in London. So we have to assume that after visiting the museum, Steve went to the airport and spent 7-8 hours flying to the UK. He arrived there in the morning, visited Peggy and returned to the States to visit Sam at the VA in the evening and be home after sunset.

Fury learns that he does not have access to the Lemurian Star files and that "he" took the access "himself". He goes to Secretary Pierce and asks to postpone the launch of Project Insight.

Fury is attacked by Hydra agents and the Winter Soldier.

Evening - Rogers visits Wilson at VA.

Maria Hill comes to DC.

Night - Fury hides in Rogers' apartment. He informs Rogers that S.H.I.E.L.D. has been compromised and is then shot by the Winter Soldier. Fury manages to give Rogers the Project Insight flash drive.

Batroc is captured in Algiers.

Day 4:

1:03 am - Fury "dies".

Morning - Rogers meets Pierce.

STRIKE attacks Rogers in the Triskelion elevator.

Fury is taken to a secret location by Hill and his doctor.

Rogers throws away his S.H.I.E.L.D. uniform, returns to the hospital to retrieve the drive hidden there, and reunites with Natasha, who tells him about the Winter Soldier.

Under Pierce's manipulation, the WSC members reactivate Project Insight.

Rogers and Romanoff hack a flash drive in a mall.

Hill arranges a fake funeral for Fury, which is scheduled to take place on Friday.

Night - Steve and Natasha reach Camp Lehigh in NJ. They find Zola's servers, learn of Hydra's plot, and are attacked by a S.H.I.E.L.D./Hydra missile, but survive. Zola's servers are destroyed. Steve escapes with unconscious Natasha before STRIKE finds them. Rumlow calls in the Winter Soldier.

The Winter Soldier is at Pierce's house. He is given 10 hours to kill Natasha and Steve.

Pierce kills his housekeeper, Renata.

Day 5:

~7 am - Romanoff and Rogers return to Washington. They arrive at Sam Wilson's house.

Between 8 am and 2 pm - they steal an EXO-7 Falcon suit from Fort Meade, Maryland.

~3 pm - the trio capture Agent Sitwell, who tells them about Zola's algorithm and the goal of Project Insight - to kill anyone who poses or will pose a threat to Hydra (including them, Bruce Banner, Stephen Strange, Maria Hill, president Ellis and Tony Stark).

6 pm - the Winter Soldier and other Hydra agents attack the car with Rogers, Romanoff, Wilson and Sitwell. Sitwell is killed. Rogers finds out that the Winter Soldier is Bucky Barnes.

Barnes escapes. STRIKE apprehends Rogers, Romanoff and Wilson.

On the way to the execution site, the trio is rescued by Maria Hill and taken to Nick Fury.

8 pm - Pierce resets Barnes, who begins to regain his memories.

Night - Fury and Co discuss the situation and prepare a plan to stop Hydra and destroy S.H.I.E.L.D.

Day 6:

Project Insight launch day.

This is where the timing gets really confusing. The coordinates the characters give us are inconsistent: at night, Pierce gives Bucky 10 hours to kill Steve and Nat, and it can't be later than 3 pm. Lunch time limits us to 11 am - 3 pm, and then Natasha says there are 16 hours left until Project Insight launches, which can't be earlier than 10 am (in the scene with Rogers, before he stole his old uniform, it was already daylight, he needed time to do the heist, and when they arrived at the Triskelion, the original launch time was 2 hours later), but no later than 11 am (Pierce said it would be in the morning). And if you count 16 hours back from 10 am, you get evening, not lunch time. And Bucky's 10 hours have already passed. My solution - I would rather assume that the Winter Soldier was unable to track his targets in time and was late, plus Natasha rounded the clock so it was closer to 17 hours than 16.

~8 am - Rogers steals his World War II uniform from The Smithsonian National Air and Space Museum.

~9 am - Rogers exposes Hydra. Project Insight is launched 2 hours earlier.

The Battle at the Triskelion.

Afternoon - Brock Rumlow is taken to a hospital with serious injuries.

Senator Stern arrested by FBI.

Day 7, morning - Steve Rogers wakes up in the hospital with Sam Wilson at his bedside.

After the fall of S.H.I.E.L.D. (AFS), May 2014:

~A week AFS - Natasha is questioned at a hearing of the DoD committee.

~A week AFS - Bucky visits the Captain America museum exhibition and learns about his past (determined by the growth of his facial hair).

~2 weeks AFS - Rogers, Wilson, Fury and Romanoff meet at Fury's gravesite. Fury heads to Europe (determined by Fury not having a black eye anymore).

Sharon Carter joins CIA.

Maria Hill is hired by Stark Industries.

MCU Timelines: Phases One and Two

[noseysilverfox]

2016-2019 years

Pokrovskoye-Streshnevo Estate (or Glebovo-Streshnevo), located in the northwest of Moscow, has a history dating back to the 14th century, when there was a village called Pod'elkі. In 1664, the village and its land were granted to the nobleman Rodion Matveyevich Streshnev, one of the educators of Emperor Peter I. His family owned the estate until the 1917 revolution.

The current appearance of the estate was shaped by Yevgeniya Fyodorovna Shakhovskaya-Glebova-Streshneva, the last owner of the estate, who decided to rebuild the park and the manor house. Under her, towers and extensions were built in the popular Russian style of the time, giving the building the appearance of a fairy-tale castle. In 1901, a railway station was built near the estate.

After the revolution, the estate changed purposes several times—it was a museum, a neurology institute, and a sanatorium. Since 1981, the estate has been abandoned and was in a state of disrepair, having caught fire several times. According to open sources, restoration work began at the estate in 2022.

The photos were taken between 2016 and 2019. I was born and raised near this place😌❤️ (Yes, in the video I'm in 2018). This post is written at the request of my friend @adam-trademark ! Thank you so much, I send you a big hug and wish that every day makes you happy🤗🤍🕊

Усадьба Покровское-Стрешнево (или Глебово-Стрешнево), расположенная на Северо-Западе Москвы, имеет историю, уходящую корнями в XIV век, когда на этом месте находилась деревня Подъелки. В 1664 году деревня и её земли были переданы дворянину Родиону Матвеевичу Стрешневу, одному из воспитателей императора Петра I. Его род владел усадьбой вплоть до революции 1917 года. Нынешний вид усадьба приобрела благодаря Евгении Фёдоровне Шаховской-Глебовой-Стрешневой, последней владелице усадьбы, решившей перестроить парк и господский дом. При ней были возведены башни и пристройки в популярном в тот период русском стиле, что придавало зданию вид сказочного замка. В 1901 году вблизи усадьбы была построена железнодорожная станция. После революции усадьба несколько раз меняла назначения — она была музеем, институтом нервологии и санаторием. С 1981 года усадьба стала заброшеной и находилась в аварийном состоянии, несколько раз горела. В открытых источниках сообщается, что с 2022 года в усадьбе начались реставрационные работы. Фотографии сделаны в период с 2016 по 2019 года. Я родилась и выросла рядом с этим местом😌❤️ (Да, на видео я в 2018 году). Публикация написана по просьбе моего друга @adam-trademark ! Спасибо тебе большое, обнимаю тебя и желаю, чтобы каждый день делал тебя счастливым🤗🤍🕊

[my-my-my]

I have an idea about working with Aisen. How about Aisen accidentally hurt his s/o, you can choose the situation yourself. And can u do Aizen Hueco Mundo version, please?

Yes of course! Thank you for your kind compliment and for your request! I received similar requests as well, so these will be answered together.

TW: this is SFW but it is very angst heavy! There are descriptions of physical pain.

Word Count: 1917

Read on AO3 here.

Las Noches was perpetually silent. The arrancars remained in their kingdoms most of the time, only meeting with Lord Aizen to convene on strategy and general war preparations. Sometimes you attended these meetings, other times you were doing reconnaissance for him and his soldiers.

Today, you were free. You remembered Lord Aizen telling you it was optional to attend the upcoming meetings, as it wouldn’t concern you. If it were anyone else, they would believe him, as he was an exceptional liar, but for as long as you had been with him, you sensed he wasn’t being truthful.

Lately you wondered why you remained here. Your reconnaissance days seem few and far between, and Lord Aizen had kept you away from several meetings as of late.

It made you feel useless.

It didn’t help that as of late, Lord Aizen was standoffish and cold towards you. To outsiders, his actions towards you were normal, he was cold, callous and calculative to everyone around him. But a small part of you, which grew larger and larger as the days went by, wanted to yell at him that you weren’t like “everyone else.” Your loyalty and devotion were to him, and it hurt you to be treated like a common soldier.

You shared the same bed, but when was the last time he fell asleep next to you?

You shared private quarters with him, yet when was he there with you?

Every day you told yourself that this would pass. Lord Aizen was meticulous in his plans and that this was a necessary step for the larger goal. He would be successful and hopefully… hopefully the frigid attitude would melt away. But as the days continued on, the seed of doubt slowly grew.

You weren’t sure where you were walking towards (or from) in Lord Aizen’s palace. Your mind was in disarray, as you walked through the familiar halls and corridors. Your mind wandered to places outside of Las Noches, to places further past Hueco Mundo. To the warmth of Soul Society, where you enjoyed the field of wildflowers, to the fireworks in the night sky.

While your mind wandered, your body took you along the familiar route to Lord Aizen’s strategy hall. You weren’t sure what drew you here to begin with, a force of habit? A sense of longing?

But before you could dwell on the thought further, your body was hit with agonizing pain. You were being crushed by raw spiritual pressure. You couldn’t make out the voices or the sensations as your body convulsed in pain. Your mind wouldn’t stop racing, thoughts swirling with memories of times long forgotten. The pressure continued, and you felt as if your mind was disconnected from your body. You became acutely aware of the dress Lord Aizen had designed for you, clinging to you painfully. Your body continued to sear with pain, the intensity becoming too much, as if it would break your bones. The pain continued to the point where you felt disoriented, where you began to stumble forward. You thought you saw someone kneeling with blue, and someone else standing, but before you could register the figures, an intense wave of nausea hit you.

You wanted to say something, as your mind processed that it was Lord Aizen and Grimmjow that you were seeing, but as soon as you opened your mouth, your body lurched as vomit and saliva dribbled from your lips, before you collapsed into darkness.

Your body felt incredibly weak, pulverized almost, yet confusion ran through you as you couldn’t recognize the room you were in. The dress you were wearing was gone, instead it was your nightwear instead. You tried to sit up, but tears pricked your eyes as you struggled. Your body remained in pain, and everything hurt.

A familiar hand placed itself on your forehead. Something was said, but your ears were still ringing, as tears continued to pour down your face. Then, the same hand that was on your forehead, emitted a faint, light green glow, and you began to feel numb, the pain slowly dissipating.

You opened your eyes to see Lord Aizen watching you, as he placed his hand over your body. Exhaustion hit your body as his kaido spell worked itself all over you. His eyebrows were furrowed, but his eyes remained distant.

His voice still sounded muffled and distorted to you, but you could make out that he wanted you to lift your arms, to which you complied. The pain was decreasing overall as his hands ran over your body several times.

“I’m sorry, Lord Aizen.” You sobbed. You weren’t even sure what you were apologizing for, but you wanted him to say something to you, something directly to you, about you and him – not for this goal of his, not for his palace, not for his soldiers, but you.

But there was no response from him as he continued healing your body.

Your heavy breathing filled the otherwise silent room. Lord Aizen meticulously inspected your body for any other injuries, as his kaido spell continued to work over you, until it dissipated into thin air. You closed your eyes, flexing every finger and toe to ensure that they were able to move, when you felt a large hand encompass your own. Your eyes shot open as you stared at Lord Aizen, who remained silent, but gave your hand a gentle squeeze.

His face was unreadable, but his hand was warm as his fingers interlocked with yours. It was then you looked around the room. This was nothing like your private quarters in Las Noches.

“Where are we, Lord Aizen?” You struggled to ask. Your mouth was incredibly dry.

“In the realm of the living.” He curtly responded, watching your reaction.

You sighed, somewhat in relief, but also of sadness.

“I suppose I’m of no use to you now if I’m here.” You murmured, looking at the way his hand engulfed your own.

The room remained silent as tears pricked your eyes again. Your worst fear was coming true, and your heart felt like it was being squeezed to oblivion.

“You’ve performed your duty well. There’s nothing more to ask of you.” Lord Aizen said, letting go of your hand and cupping your face. He was lying to you again. You saw a brief flash of remorse in his brown eyes, but what you were seeing now was a vacant man.

“You’re lying.” You harshly whispered, surprising yourself with how angry you sounded.

Lord Aizen momentarily looked shocked, but his vacant stare reappeared. “It’s not safe for you in Las Noches anymore.” He calmly explained, rubbing the tears away from your eyes. His hand was incredibly warm to your cool skin, but his words rang empty in your heart.

But you were too tired to argue with him, too exhausted to care anymore.

“The captains and humans are approaching Las Noches soon.” Lord Aizen remarked, “and I will be leaving to Karakura Town.”

You nodded into his palm, knowing it was a waste of time to argue why you should be fighting alongside with him. Lord Aizen was particular about his plans, and as hurt as you were, both physically and mentally, you were in no shape to aid him.

Lord Aizen let go of your face and the two of you held hands, cherishing the silence.

“What is this place though, Lord Aizen?” You asked, as you slowly took in the space. It was beautifully decorated, but nothing like Las Noches at all. It seemed warm, bright and inviting.

“Your - our home. I suppose.” He admitted, as he began to help you out of the bed. He held your hand and guided you to the window, where you were greeted with a breathtaking view, rolling hills and wildflowers, and to the distance, a body of water.

You gasped, taking in the scenery, “this is beautiful, Lord Aizen, thank you!” You smiled at him, as you took in the air, view and sounds. It felt real, the sun hitting your skin, the faint perfume of the flowers.

“There’s a town nearby, who is in need of a florist.” He explained, watching your reaction. “These flowers are yours alone, as is this home and everything inside it. There’s something else I want to show you.”

Lord Aizen guided you outside, past the field to a lone, singular, yet incredible wisteria tree. The tree was adorned by thousands of lilac blossoms that gently danced in the breeze. “This is imbued with some of my reiatsu,” Lord Aizen explained, as he placed the palm of his hand on the tree’s trunk. “My presence will always be with you here.”

It was then it dawned on you…

This was a goodbye.

Tears welled in your eyes again, as your heart shattered. “You’ll come back once this is over?” You asked as tears continued to pour.

Lord Aizen didn’t say anything but embrace you gently. You cried into his chest as you tried to remember everything about him, to the firmness of his chest, to the warmth of his embrace. He tilted your head up and placed a gentle kiss on your lips, then kissed your eyelids and forehead.

You weren’t sure how long the two of you stood under the wisteria tree, but eventually he took you back home. Night began to fall, and he quietly prepared you dinner, ensuring that there were nutrients to nourish your healing body. The two of you spent the remainder in each other’s arms and quietly reminiscing. And it was the first time, in what you felt was an eternity, of sharing a bed with him. Your body fell asleep quickly in his arms, as you were lulled to sleep by his heartbeat.

But by morning he was gone.

“He’ll come back, I know he will.” You said aloud, as you began to prepare yourself for the day.

But deep in your heart, you knew… that may have been the last time you would see him.

Several years had passed since the day you were brought here. Every day you would look out the window, expecting Lord Aizen to come through the fields, but no one was coming. Your heart couldn’t bear it, so you kept yourself distracted by growing your florist shop and business. While you never left the home he built you, you never set foot in near the wisteria tree.

Yet now you were here, walking towards it. You noticed a small, wooden bench underneath and sat down under the heavy blossoms, as petals danced in the wind. Shock ran through you, as you felt it – you felt him. You turned around and faced the tree, placing your hand on the trunk. His familiar spirit lingered all around you, as if he was there himself, the branches swayed a bit harder, as if they acknowledged his presence too. It was then you knew, he was somehow watching you, as you quietly began to tell him about what had transpired since the day he left.

In Muken, Aizen became acutely aware of his growing reiatsu, and the far reaches it had beyond the confines of his prison, Soul Society and beyond. Every day, he would sense where you were in a world without him.

It was then he felt you near the wisteria tree had placed. Under his seals, coverings and bindings, Aizen smiled to himself as the gentleness of your spirit enveloped him, filling him with a sense of peace.

I hope you enjoy this anon! Thank you for reading!!

[velvetyssweetcafe]

Can I request Ukraine? Idk if you draw historical setting, but 1917-1919 (Ukrainian People’s Republic) would be cool🥰

MAMMA MIA. I'M SO SORRY FOR THE 10 DAYS RESPONSE 😭😭 but anyways,,

honestly idk much about ukraine's history,, but i did look up the outfit for this one so i hope this is accurate enough! ^^

[highonmarvel]

hi hope ur doing well. i was thinking, could u do a buckyxreader where hes paralyzed and like needs a caretaker. through some means reader ends up as the caretaker and all is well. but actually bucky was just pretending and hes not realy paralysed and he just pretended to get closer to reader and reader start expresing the idea that she might have to leave for whatever reason and buck does not like that so like he kidnaps her or something. I rlly luv ur work this is the first request iv sent

this is so good, i’m upset i didn’t think of it first. i’m so sorry for taking so long to get back to you, i really hope you enjoy, and thank you so, so much for the love. okay, here it is:

Himalayan Salt

Bucky Barnes: You’re assigned to a notoriously grumpy war vet, but he’s different with you.

content warnings here!

You nod as your supervisor goes over your final notes: James Barnes, World War II veteran, quadriplegic.

You follow her from the overcast weather into a beautiful but modest home in a fairly quiet suburb to meet the man sitting in a wheelchair in the centre of the room.

“Good morning, Mr Barnes,” your supervisor calls, tucking her clipboard under her arm as she waits for him to turn around. When he does, you’re surprised. You hadn’t seen a photo of him beforehand as this had been a pretty impromptu assignment, but you’re sure you were told he was born in 1917, yet he sits looking like he’s in forties, and aging well, at that.

“Hi, Mr Barnes!” you smile warmly at him, and he returns a friendly smile, introducing himself as Bucky and insisting you call him that.

“I just need you to fill out the last of the forms quickly,” your supervisor mutters, waving goodbye to Bucky as she leads you back out to her car.

You’re leaning against the boot of her oldish, red car, pen scratching against paper when she says, “He really likes you.”

“Hm?” you offer, raising your eyebrows but keeping your eyes focused on the form.

She leans her back against the trunk and shifts down a bit, speaking to you but looking over at your handwriting, “He’s known to be grumpy. You see the left arm? I don’t think he likes being dependent, I’ve had to swap out a lot of people.”

“And you didn’t tell me this before I took the job?” you frown, still finishing off the document, “Didn’t think I could handle it?”

“I know you’re capable, but I thought you wouldn’t want it. But listen, the organisation needs this, I don’t know if there’s anyone else we can find for him.”

You complete your signature with a satisfied smile, handing back the clipboard, “Don’t worry, I can do this.”

She nods then gets in her car and drives away, leaving you in the driveway. You stretch your arms then make your way back inside. When you enter the living room, there’s a draft you swear wasn’t here a few minutes ago. Bucky hasn’t moved, but you notice an open window. You furrow your brows as you look down at him, “Can I close that? It’s a bit chilly in here.”

“Go ahead,” he nods, and you walk over, pulling the handle it, and ignoring the recent-looking fingerprint marks on the glass.

***

A few hours into your first day, you’re a little taken aback by how friendly he is; even despite your boss’ warning, you’ve never had a patient so willing to co-operate, especially not veterans — they tend to be angry they need help, or have episodes due to PTSD, but Bucky seems perfectly in his right mind and understanding of both his and your position.

“Did they tell you I was a pain in ass?” Bucky asks before opening his mouth for a spoonful of food.

You laugh as you pull the spoon back, scooping up more of the rice and curry you made to lift to his lips, “Kind of,” you admit, “Said you were grumpy, is that true?”

He smiles, “I tend to be,” he confesses, “But I can’t keep that brooding persona up around you,” he takes a spoonful.

“So that’s what it is?” you raise an eyebrow as you pile the last of the meal onto the utensil, “A persona?”

He swallows the last of it and shakes his head with a grin, “No, but I can’t not be amused around you.”

***

You have no idea why your supervisor said he was difficult, your next few weeks with Bucky are light and fun, and you feel you’re even developing a friendship. You don’t see to him at night, and he has minimal needs during the day — some days it just feels like you’re there to keep him company.

You’re doing so well, in fact, that your supervisor wants to transfer you to a veteran from Vietnam who’s apparently even worse than Bucky (by other people’s stories — to you, if he’s anything like Bucky, he’ll be nice to see), convinced you have some magic touch.

As much as you’re developing affection for Bucky, you have to put work first, and you’re compelled to leave him for the other man who clearly needs you more. Bucky seems to be doing well, you’re sure you can’t be that special, and you’re sure someone else could take care of him just as well, if not better.

“Hi, Buck,” you greet with a smile as you close the door behind you. You hear his motorised wheelchair come rolling down the corridor to greet you.

“Hi, why could you only come in at ten today?”

You usually come in at seven on weekdays and eight on weekends.

“Sorry, I had a meeting,” you sigh, setting your tote bag down as Bucky switches his chair to manual.

“A meeting?” he asks as you take hold of the handles and push him to the other side of the kitchen island.

“Mhm,” you nod as you open the fridge, rummaging around for something to make, “There’s this other guy my boss wants me to help,” you call with your head still in the cold, “A Vietnam vet, no one else in the org will take him.”

You emerge with some eggs and milk, shutting the door with your foot before placing the contents on the island, “Did you eat? I assume Carol made breakfast but I can make more.”

“Are you going to take it?” he inquires, ignoring your question, “The job.”

“I mean, maybe,” you answer, placing your hands on the counter and tilting your head as you think, “I’m not sure yet.”

“But what about me?”

“The other guy needs full-time care, I’d have to spend virtually all my days there, but if I leave, Carol can take over for me, she can go from night to day, she’s amazing, and she doesn’t complain about you, at least not as much,” you wink, but he doesn’t crack a smile.

“Bucky, I didn’t mean to upset you—”

“It’s okay.”

“It’s just that—”

“It’s your job, I get it,” he replies, and you can see the stoicism build up.

“Nothing’s final, yet,” you say as you walk over, “And you’re doing great either way,” you give him a kiss on the forehead, “We don’t have to talk about that, let’s just eat, I’m starving.”

He nods and attempts to smile, but you can tell it doesn’t reach his eyes.

You try to make conversation as you make yourself an omelette, but you can tell he’s not in it, giving short answers and not reacting to your jokes. When you reach to grab the salt, he stops you.

“Not that one,” he says, “Use the pink salt, Himalayan, I swear it makes everything tastes better.”

You grind some onto your food and sit across from him on the island. Digging your fork into it, you see something flash across Bucky’s eyes. Your first thought is hunger, but he’d just eaten and swore he wasn’t hungry. You ignore it as you bring the fork to your mouth, savouring the taste, though it’s not necessarily a chef’s rendition.

It tastes fine, but there’s something off. At first, you think it must be the salt, but it’s not the taste that’s off; usually when you eat, you feel that warmth in your throat and then your stomach, but now, it’s like it went to your head. You press a hand to your forehead, feeling like you’re burning up. Trying to stand, you immediately sway, only not falling by gripping the counter so harshly and hastily you bend a nail. You try to look to Bucky to tell him you’re not feeling well, but he’s out of focus. In fact, he’s not there. Just as you collapse and close your eyes, you feel a tall shadow over you, but you don’t have time to figure out where it’s coming from before you fall unconscious.

***

You groggily wipe at your eyes when you finally stir before turning over to reach for your phone, at first thinking you had had a dream, but your phone’s not there, and the nightstand isn’t yours. You shoot up in panic and look down at your sheets: Bucky’s sheets. Okay, maybe Bucky rang Carol and she came and set you in bed. Your head still hurts, and everything’s a little hazy.

When the door opens, you expect to see Carol, but it’s Bucky.

“Bucky!” you gasp as you throw the sheets off of you.

He gives a lopsided grin, and for the first time you notice how tall he actually is, because he’s standing.

“Christmas miracle?” he offers.

He walks over to you and sets a glass of water on the bedside table.

“That Himalayan salt is really exotic, isn’t it?”

You don’t even have time to process exactly what he means by that, he’s still standing over you, using his arms and legs just fine, in fact, like he’s been doing it every single day forever. You should have suspected something was up; how could a paralysed man stay in such good shape? The thought briefly crossed your mind once when you ran your fingers over his muscled arm, but you brushed it off.

“Bucky! You- you—”

“Are perfectly fine, I am, and you will be too, soon, those drugs just need to wear off. I know you’re having trouble understanding, just drink some water and sleep it off a little longer.”

He leans down to give you a kiss on the forehead, but you dodge him, nearly falling off the bed in the process.

“Woah, there,” he chuckles as he catches you with ease, his reflexes so sharp it’s nearly unnatural, “Now I’m taking care of you.”

You’re not sure if you can’t speak because of the drugs or if it’s because you’re in shock. He gently sets you back down and your head falls against the pillow as you struggle to keep your eyes open, spots of black blocking little bits of your vision.

“I’ve been needing someone, I’ve gone through a few, but you, honey, you’re special, and I knew it from the moment I saw you. You can’t leave me, I still need you.”

✪

[taglist; @cjand10]

[unholyhelbig]

I just want to say I'm already hooked on the beast you made me. I can't wait for the next chapter!

Center picture Cred: Jadiakallisti

Title: The Beast You've Made of Me [Part 2/7]

Ship: Female!Reader x Natasha Romanoff x Wanda Maximoff

Wordcount: 5151

Summary: When reader wakes up in her own grave, she's suddenly aware of a past that spans lifetimes, but she's not the only one. Two Avengers are tasked with keeping readers past a secret, or at the very least, controlled.

Warnings: Blood, fatal injuries, animal bones, mentions of death, containment, and horrible grammar because I don't proofread

[a/n: Thank you all for the overwelming support on the first chapter! I truly didn't expect that much reception. I'm going to be traveling for the next week so the next chapter might be delayed a bit]

[ Part one | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six | Part Seven ]

Main Masterlist | Read my stuff on AO3 | Leave Requests

1917, Rural Pennsylvania

A sweeping river cut through the patch of sweetgrass on the south side of the farm. It emitted a gurgling sound that often soothed your nerves. There was a rocky clearing sandwiched between the tree line and the plain of grass that had become a perfect spot for you to settle in and read the hard-covered books you’d gotten from the corner store.

Your father would bring back any book you requested from the city during his travels. You devoured them faster than he could provide them and had read ‘Eight Cousins’ ,Lousia May Alcott’s foray into the adventures thirteen-year-old Rose, enough to nearly tear the pages from the binding.

The book itself held the clean honeyed scent of the earth, of the secluded spot that you called your own. Your muscles would thrum from loading the bales of hay into your fathers ford. Your fingers were calloused, and dirt caked around your ankle in a dark ring. All of that vanished when you cracked open the book about a girl that was so much like yourself.

It was easy to lose yourself in the paragraphs, the hum of the river sometimes lulling you to sleep. Your mother would pack you a sandwich on warm, hand-kneaded bread, usually some salted meat and mayonnaise. She’d pack sweet tea and send you on your way, knowing that you wouldn’t return to the house until you saw a flicker of a firefly.

Today, you’d fallen asleep under the sun. The book was discarded, and your forearm draped across your eyes. It was easy to drift, and easier still to dream about leaving the small dairy farm for something bigger- the very city that your father would return from with new literature and arts, and spices that made your mouth buzz with flavor.

You were in a haze when the ear-piercing scream cut through the air as if it were a natural solid. Your ears pinched at the sound, heels digging into the coarse sandy shore. Maybe it was a dream. It could have been an animal that had sunk its pointed teeth into the artery of another.

So, you waited, panting with your heart in your chest and the corner of the book barely lapped by the muddied water. And there was this sound. It was no fox caught in a trap or bovine tangled up in the barbed wire fence around the property- no, this was familiar. This was your sister.

Helena was quiet, often described as demure and borderline submissive. Despite being younger than yourself she carried a certain poise about her. Mother would often boast about how she would have no trouble finding a husband, how the boys already fawned over the child of hers that was not feral and unkempt.

Her cry was the loudest you had ever heard her and it had you on your feet, scrambling up the bank. Once past your small world of wonder, you were greeted with an endless sea of sweetgrass that was waist high in some areas.

A warm breeze created waves against the landscape, the farmhouse a small speck among the expanse of land. Your head was spinning, it was hard to track exactly where it had come from. It took another cracking screech to set you North.

Your legs pumped until you were consumed in a blind speed. You’d been renowned for your quickness, for your dedication to get from point A to point B. The kids in your town often joked that you were steadier than a steed. Not only were you the fastest in the class, but the fastest in the county according to some. Still- only a child of fifteen, and no man would want to wed someone with speed. It wasn’t a practical skill.

There was a pit deep in your stomach whirled, instinct knowing precisely where Helena was yowling from.

Jorge had gotten there at the same time you did; his brow was leaking with sweat and he panted against the hot air that surrounded you both. Your older brother was tall and lanky, serpent-like with beady black eyes and pitch hair to match your father’s. His shirt hung low against his midsection, his skin pale despite his hours in the sun working the fields.

“Stay back, y/n.” He demanded sharply.

The old well was a mere foot in front of you both but neither made the effort to move forward. The aged wooden plank that covered the stone shaft had been splintered through the middle, worn from age and weather.

Helena’s soft cries echoed up. When your father had first acquired the property, the previous owners explained that it had been boarded up after of the bulls had fallen down and snapped it’s neck. It was too large to pull out and they left it to starve and then rot.

Your father never let any of his children peer down into the well. You wondered if something had pulled Helena here, or if she had simply forgotten of it’s existence. Jorge dropped down to his knees and did a cautious crawl as if his own two feet couldn’t’ hold him anymore.

You saw the exact moment his skin became waxier, almost a gray porcelain paleness that had a green tint. He was swallowing too much, his white shirt coated in the red clay dirt.

“What?” You asked, voice breaking “What is it?”

“Go get Mama.”

It would have been easy to listen to your brother. He was the man of the house when your father wasn’t there but with him pleading for your mother, for an adult, you got a rancid taste in your mouth.

Against your better judgement you edged close enough to the abandoned well. The sun was setting in a fire-filled orange haze with enough color and angle to get a good view of the bottom; a slosh of fallen grass and rainwater, and muck, and yes; the bones of a beast once left to decay and rot in its own silence.

Your sister was wedged within the ribcage of the befallen bull, almost as if she replaced the beating heart that stopped pulsing long ago. Her hands gripped at the sun-bleached bone, knuckles nearly the same color.

It took you a moment to make out the slick, and the red that stemmed from the center of her stomach. The head of the bull had shattered under her weight, all expect the stretching length of it’s curved horn. That was wedged through her abdomen, surrounded in a vibrant rose red that puddled and had already coated her hands.

Prints from her struggle were against the limestone edges of the well. Her eyes pleaded up at you; your kind and caring, and animal-loving sister was trapped inside the remains of one. You fought back the urge to vomit, the rash thought that if the bone ripping through her flesh didn’t kill her, then infection would.

“Y/n get mama!” Jorge hissed again, and this time you didn’t hesitate. You nearly tripped over your own boots with the fever it took to back away from the scene, the metallic scent of blood mixing deliciously with the turn of rotted soil.

You had never run so fast in your life.

Wanda Maximoff had never felt the cold that wormed its way to her bones before. It was the type of cold that almost wasn’t, a stinging, horrible feeling that had her startled from the folded metal chair. It collapsed within itself as the blinked the wine-dark color from her eyes.

She stumbled backward, only to be brought back to the starkness of the room by a soft grip on her elbow. Wanda allowed herself to be held, if not for stability but for comfort. Steve Rodgers had a welcoming hand on the small of her back, the other steadying her.

He was a solid force, and her reaction stirred him.

“Fuck,” the expletive fell from her lips, “Jesus Christ.”

There was quietness to the room in the aftershock of the fallen chair. It was nicer than a standard holding cell. The walls were cream colored, triple enforced to keep people like you inside. There was a bed bolted to the wall, a bunk that was almost like a summer camp endeavor.

A charged glass wall was blocking you from the rest of the world. It was seemingly unbreakable, and in this moment, so were you. Wanda didn’t want to test the glass, nor did she know how to make sense of the memories- your memories- that had flooded every inch of her body.

You were asleep, chest rising and falling at a normal pace, as if none of what Wanda had just seen was flitting around your mind. Soft snores pushed past your lips, one arm hanging over the side of the bed while the other followed the flow of your breathing as it rested on your chest.

Wanda didn’t understand the secrecy and the precaution that surrounded you. The Avengers compound was a constant ebb and flow of different heroes, Inhumans and mutants. What made you so different? What made you an 0-8-4?

It was a term that Natasha had used only once that was usually attached to objects, not a person. It was an object of unknown origin and in that case, it was a power-filled object from space. Space. She’d been through different dimensions, but that, for some reason, struck her as terrifying.

0-8-4’s were never brought here, but then again, they’d never been alive either. Steve had told her that your energy signal was off the charts, and that they wanted her to dig around your head. Something that she denied doing at first. It was an invasion of privacy.

But, there was a certain pleading within Captain America’s eyes that scared Wanda more than the personal rules she set for herself when it came to her power. What she had seen, what she had felt was barely scraping the surface of what your mind contained. She wasn’t keen on pushing past that barrier for the conclusion of that story. Was it even yours?

“What? Wanda, what is it?”

“I… I don’t” She shook her head, eyes hardening as she stared into Steve’s “Where did you find her?”

He hesitated to answer, his eyebrows furrowing before he looked away from the witches’ prying eyes. She’d been part of this team for years now and they were still reluctant with what they were willing to share. Wanda clenched her jaw, then unclenched it before her stare flashed back to your resting form.

There was a small frown that creased your features. You looked so… harmless. You had shifted, folded into yourself as if you were scratching the surface of what flashed before her. Your arm was folded under your head, knees flush to your chest. A small, beautiful whimper escaped you.

“She’s in distress, Steve.”

“Discomfort, more like. It’s better for all of us that she stays in there for right now. The last thing we want to do is harm anyone but if that requires some temporary-“

“Imprisonment?”

“Containment.” He said firmly, eyes hard. Wanda crossed her arms over her chest but stayed silent, letting him continue. She was sure she wouldn’t have been asked if not for her ability to worm her way into minds, to rearrange things. “What did you see?”

“A memory, one that can’t possibly be hers. The timeline doesn’t fit, this is a woman in her mid-twenties and who I saw was barely a teenager on a farmstead. To experience that much tragedy, that much fear and heartache.”

She started to pace, trying to not only work through her own thoughts, but yours as well. It could have been a story, and she was convinced of the fact save for the vividness. There was the feeling of grass tickling her arms and the sharp, undeniable stench of blood.

“Her younger sister died, fell through some rotted wood and fell to her death.” Wanda’s fingers pressed against the edge of her hairline. “She could have lived, but I have my doubts.”

He lifted a perfectly sculpted brow at her. His expression betrayed his compassion towards you, his stance uncomfortable with the topic. While the revelation was heartbreaking it hardly made you extraordinary. They’d all lost people, none had stirred Wanda as you did.

Wanda’s stare found his after darting to you once more, “Steve, I have the sinking feeling that what I saw was only scratching the surface. There are hundreds, maybe thousands, of memories that were pressing in on all sides.”

The sensation of being observed is what pulled you from your fitful sleep. Exhaustion had washed over you like a tidal wave, all at once and leaving your mouth dry like a spoonful of salt. There was a stiffness that rivaled that of the grave you’d crawled out of, and you hoped that it was all a dream.

You were in your bed, in your apartment, after having one too many drinks. It was a horrible stretching nightmare that had plunged you into one sea of darkness from another. But even you weren’t that naïve.

Just as you felt a stranger’s eyes on you now, you had felt the dirt under your nails, the cold sodium-filled takeout as you attempted to chew it. More than anything, you remembered the burning feeling of the Black Widow pressed fully against your back, bending you over Jenn’s kitchen counter.  

“I would prefer if you kept the feeling of my wife’s body against yours out of your mind.”

You shot up with a dizzying amount of quickness, heart suddenly in your chest. There was an imbalance to the bed that you were laying on. It was smaller than your own and unfamiliar. The room was stark white. It hurt your eyes and you had to blink the color away. You pressed the heels of your palms close to your eyes.

It felt as if you were locked in a glass shower with an audience and stage lights. The more you looked, the more you realized it was a room, something with no personal effects but a bed and a dimmer switch that you itched to utilize.

A pitcher of water was on an end table. It wasn’t color exactly, but it was more than the rest of your surroundings. Possibly with the worst manners you’d ever exhibited, you drank straight from the pitcher, not remembering the last time you had a drink. Suddenly, you were parched enough to soak your collar.

Despite your audience, you continued until you felt your stomach protest. You used the back of your hand to wipe away the moisture, black dirt was smeared across your skin. It was then, and only then, that you forced yourself to look past the walls of your prison, your enclosure.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” The woman said, walking close to the glass. You could see her clearly now, there was an heir of recognition about her, in the same way that there had been with the Black Widow.

“You were in my head.”

“For a while. It’s my job. But your thoughts are also deafening.”

“Sorry,”

This woman was intoxicating. Alluring and beautiful in her presence. Her hair was tied up in a messy bun, a pair of sweatpants and t-shirt hugging her form. You weren’t positive what time it was- what day it was- but it could be late into the night. She looked like she was roused from sleep, and a part of you felt guilty for the fact.

“Don’t apologize, sweetie.” Her voice was much more tender than it had been a few moments ago. “You can’t control being brought back from the dead. A lot of trauma comes with that.”

You stood shakily and walked closer to the glass. They’d taken your shoes and the tile under your feet was frigid. You crossed your arms over your chest and shivered into yourself. You didn’t want to think about the fact that they had undressed you, probably taken your clothes for testing. Instead they left you in a blue set of scrubs.

You averted your stare from your own reflection, not willing or ready to look too hard. You’d much rather look at this stranger, your heart not slowing, your head pounding. Nothing but a simple pane of glass separated you.

“And I was brought back from the dead, wasn’t I? That wasn’t a fucked-up dream where I got hit by a car and then poof God, if there is one, decided that me of all people was worth bringing back.”

She lilted her head, quirked an amusing brow at you. A chill flushed down your spine and seemed to fizzle out at your toes. This woman was gorgeous and terrifying and made you want to squirm. But if this was prison, you had to assert dominance. Right? That’s what Wentworth taught you.

This cell didn’t look or feel like Wentworth, and this Warden had an amused smile tacked to her lips like she had heard your every thought. And she had. At least you assumed that she did. She’d mentioned her wife earlier, and the woman’s body against your own was plaguing you like a runaway freight train.

When she didn’t say anything, you clawed to fill the silence “I want to talk to Bruce.”

“Bruce? Honey, he’s off world.”

“Off… world.” You laughed, softly at first but then almost manically, tears forming in your eyes that you wiped away with your cold fingers. “No, no, that’s really cool. I worked a 9-5 and now I can’t talk to Bruce because he’s in Outer Space.”

“Maybe not outer space, maybe another dimension.”

You leveled her with a humorless glare. She had both of her hands up as if she wanted to comfort you, or the caged animal you had become. You had to give her credit, she seemed just as horrified as you were. She offered up a dim, faltering smile.

There wasn’t a way for you to process this in a gentle manner, there was no one to guide you through it other than Jenn. She’d done this before, lived a whole life that was flipped upside-down and she’d come out on the other side. It was the uncertainty that scared the hell out of you.

“You were in my head earlier,” You stopped suddenly, pressing your fingers against the glass. The woman didn’t flinch. Your frantic breath fogged with each exhalation. “Do you know why I came back?”

She shook her head, “No. Do you remember what you were dreaming about?”

“No.” A weak chuckle, you let your hands drop. “At least we’re on the same page.”

The nurse they allowed to enter through the side of the containment unit took cautious steps towards you that made your chest ache. All your life, people had said how welcoming and kind you were; how they were never afraid to come to you with their worries. It had bothered you before the incident, before your death, but now you missed seeing the stare of those who didn’t harbor any fear.

She was small, a mouse of a thing that had pale blonde hair and startling blue eyes. Her name tag read Julia. Your mind rushed with the paths she’d taken to this place. She must be interning here, much too young to hold a classification herself.

Your finger twitched on your knee, palm sweaty. It’s heat radiated through the thin blue fabric of the pants they’d provided you with. You hated needles, always had. But, you struggled to stay still and the effect that had on poor nurse Julia was making you fidget more.

There was a scent about her. It was under the layers of hairspray, nail polish, and shea butter. It was a sweet metal that made your stomach swirl. Was it her sweat? You’d never smelt anything past walking by the bomb that was the boys locker room, and it certainly had never been this tantalizing before.

Your eyes met hers, crystal blue and uncertain. “You’ll just feel a little pinch”

This is when you pulled your gaze back and instead focused on the cream colored walls. There was no problem with needles, you’d dutifully sit for your flu shots, but something about the sharp edge pushing through a layer of skin and fat before hitting your vein made you nauseous.

“We just need enough to run a few tests.” Julia soothed.

She was a normal nurse in that one, small way. Your mind was itching, blood seeming to congeal. It refused to cooperate and her burning touch was all but dominant against your skin. You both waited for the small tube to fill with black liquid. 

Finally, you felt her press the gauze against the crook of your arm and withdraw the needle. Another small pinch and then a massive relief. Her smell hung around you and filled the room. There was an undeniable urge to sink your teeth into her. To taste her.

You’d stopped the elevator just hours before to assess your penchant for brain consumption, but this wasn’t that. This was an intoxicating pull. This was animalistic, the same rush of emotion that had flooded you without prompting during your earlier conversation.

Julia squeezed your shoulder calmly, not entirely over her own reservations, but on the penance that she was a nurse and this was her job. You kept yourself rooted to the bed, fingers digging into the wood. She left the room and you could hear the compressed lock reseal you inside, breathing a sigh of relief.

That sweet odor lingered, and your reaction to it scared you more than anything. The wood beneath your fingertips splintered, and suddenly that anger, that fear, rolled away to shock. That wasn’t… normal. None of this was normal, but you weren’t exactly picked first in sports either.

You were a middle kid, a I guess I wouldn’t mind having you on my team kid. Suddenly your fingers were cutting through wood like it was butter. You let out an indignant squeak and shifted the blanket until the slashes were covered.

“Is everything alright?”

Wanda, you had learned that her name was Wanda, occupied her usual spot in front of the window. A slick sweat covered your forehead. She was holding a small tray that had a steaming bowl of soup and a delicious hunk of French bread.

“I figured you were hungry,” She lifted her chin towards the panel next to your door. “May I?”

“I’m at your mercy.”

And you were, truly. You hadn’t seen anyone but her since you’d woken up. There were shadows of others, people that made the pit in the center of your stomach grow three sizes. You knew exactly what they were doing, you watched enough true crime with Jennifer to know.

Here was this beautiful and powerful woman offering you food and words of comfort, and you allowed yourself to fall for all of it. Listlessly. Because what did you have to lose? You’d already died, and the thought of putting your family through the heartache of resurrection and then possibly enough committal to the ground was too much.

So, let her Stockholm syndrome you. The food smelled divine.

Wanda didn’t hold the same fear that Julia had. In fact, once the compression of air signified that it was okay for her to enter, she did so without hesitation. She set the food down on the equally dull side table and lowered herself onto the corner of the bed, making herself at home.

She’d changed into a pair of jeans, a simple t-shirt that had the outline of SHIELD on its sleeve. You frowned, for a company that does everything in its power to keep itself hidden, they sure loved that stupid bird so much.

“Go on, sweetie. You can eat.”

Wanda had a command about her that made you fold and listen despite any reservations. You took up a spot on the far end of the bed and shoveled the first spoonful into your mouth. An explosion of heady flavors coated your tongue, coaxing a low moan from your lips.

Blush rushed to your cheeks at the spark in the set of stormy eyes that watched you like a hawk. You rushed to break the tension. “So, what’s the plan here? Run a bunch of tests and keep me locked up?”

“Somewhat.” She paused, carefully thinking of her next words. “Y/n, I have the ability to get inside the psyche. Not only can I read every thought, every action, but I can control them too. It’s not something I like to do, nor something I want to. Not without permission.”

You frowned again. You certainly hadn’t given her permission to enter your mind before, and she tensed at the realization. But, you took another bite of soup and swallowed down the spiced broth. What’s done was done. You didn’t expect her to ask, much less admit to her wrongdoing.

“I prefer to ask. Can you tell me what you do for work?”

“Paralegal, the bar seemed like too much stress. But I’m good at my job. I was good at my job before a car turned me into sidewalk art.”

“Right, and your family, what about them?”

There was no desire to think of them and their perfect lives that you’d shattered with your death. Your mother used to sit in the tepid air on the porch swing, downing a glass of wine before she turned to you with tears in her eyes. She’d urge you to be careful working in the city. She’d plead for you to come home. More than anything, she’d utter the phrase a mother should never outlive her daughter.

“My mother is a seventh grade biology teacher and my father runs a painting business that’s been operating my whole life. They’re not very exciting people. They must be worried sick about me.”

Wanda nodded, “Any siblings?”

“Not anymore.”

She stilled at your words and didn’t pry. You were well aware of the fact that she could push through your deflections and learn the information that she wanted to know. But, you respected that she didn’t. Instead, she stared at you, and you stared right back, suddenly not hungry.

Wanda was someone that you felt the need to open-up to. Unlike the brief encounter you had had with her wife. Not that you let that word stick with you, not in the same way that her touch did. Again, you had to push the thoughts to the back of your mind, even if Wanda wasn’t prying.

Instead, she placed a warm hand on your thigh, sending a wave of shivers through your body. You suppressed a whimper at the sudden contact.

“I had a brother named Pietro. He was fast, unnaturally so. Neither of us ever wanted to be heroes, we didn’t think about the future like that. So, when the Avengers, these so-called saviors of the world, recruited us, we knew about the dangers. But it still shocked me when he died. He was my brother. He wasn’t supposed to be fragile like that.”

You stared at her with an amount of tenderness in your eyes that she wasn’t used to from the others. They cared, sure, but in the way that a co-worker would care enough to purchase cut flowers and a ‘sorry for your loss’ card. You were different.

“They’re our protectors.” You swallowed hard, mouth dry “when something drastic happens, it doesn’t seem real.”

“It still doesn’t.”

There was a lapse of silence that pushed memories in your direction. The burning cold weather on the day your own brother had died. You remember the scream that died in your throat and the way you’d knelt in the cracked snow until you couldn’t’ feel your legs or your fingers. It took an EMT with a heated blanket and a horror story about hypothermia to pull you to your feet.

“Jonathan.” You whispered.

She let out a questioning hum, pulling her feet from the floor and making herself more comfortable on the less-than-comfortable bed. “Your brother?”

“My older brother. I followed him around like a lost puppy, but he never complained. He was a hockey player and a damn good one too. He’d use the lake behind our house in Jersey to practice and one winter the ice broke underneath him. He drowned, and I was too weak to save him.”

Wanda let out a shuddered breath. You couldn’t read her facial expression. It was a mix of confusion, or sadness, but not pity and that was something you appreciated. You’d had enough pity, just as your family had enough grief without you adding to it.

She opened her mouth to reply, but both of you were startled when three quick knocks shattered the silence. The Black Widow, Natasha Romanoff, stood on the other side. She showed no interest in breeching the containment unit. Instead, she leveled her wife with a dark stare and held up a folded piece of paper.

“Excuse me,” Wanda whispered, giving your leg a settling squeeze.

She left the plate and exited the holding cell. Her words were muffled, but those unripe green eyes that Natasha possessed kept flicking to you nervously. She too, didn’t’ show pity. It was interest and if you were being honest, you thought you saw the smallest spark of fear.

Wanda took the paper from her wife, squinted at something you couldn’t’ see. You felt like you were at a parent teacher conference, just out of bounds of hearing but you could see their body language; the way that Natasha itched to move closer to Wanda, the fingers that the taller woman pressed to her lips, thumb creasing the paper.

Finally, Wanda turned back towards the glass. Natasha met your stare without issue, hitting the intercom on the other side of the cell. It was her who spoke, her raspy voice falling from the speaker.

“In the spirit of transparency, we want to be honest with you about your blood results.”

You stood from the bed, moving to one side of the barrier. They were intimidating like that, standing shoulder to shoulder with a natural beauty. It made you want to shrink. If not for the paper in their hands you would have curled into yourself at the sight.

“Don’t tell me I’m dying.”

“No, honey.” Wanda shook her head, “Quite the opposite, you’re getting stronger.”

“I don’t understand.”

Natasha lifted an eyebrow and pressed the paper against the glass so you could read it. None of it made sense, it was lines of DNA that looked like musical notes. You shook your head, giving her a confused look.

Natasha scoffed, peeling the paper from the surface of glass. Wanda bit her thumbnail nervously. “According to these…You’re Asgardian, Kitten.”

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[zablife]

Ordinary People

Summary: When you meet a charming soldier in a base hospital during WWI, you become fascinated by him and quickly develop a relationship. You both agree to leave the affair in France, but what happens when fate has other plans?

Author's Note: Written for @runnning-outof-time's 4K celebration and based on a request from @kammsinn. Tysm for the amazing inspo, darl! Lyrics are from the song "Til We Meet Again."

Warnings: hint of smut, angst with a happy ending

1917

You knew it was unethical conduct that could get you fired, but somehow you set all logic aside that final evening you entered the dark-haired soldier’s hospital room. He had invited you back at sunset with a desperate plea. “I’m leaving Boulogne tomorrow, love. Stay the night with me.” His strikingly blue eyes trained on you eagerly awaiting your reply. “Please,” he added quietly, reaching for your hand. His gaze held such hope, you caved to your own desire immediately.

Giving his hand a gentle squeeze you agreed in a hushed whisper, “Yes, I’ll come back,” you said as a small smile tugged at your lips. Something about the charm of this handsome, young soldier was enough to make you disregard the risk associated with his request.

Later that evening, with heart hammering in your chest, you slipped into his room. You bit your lip to hide your excitement when you caught sight of him. He was shirtless with a bandage covering a large portion of his left shoulder, propped up in bed reading the book you’d brought him days earlier. “Y/n,” Tommy said, looking up at you with a mixture of surprise and relief. “It’s late, I wasn’t sure you’d visit," he admitted shyly, discarding his book on the bedside table.

“Told you I would,” you reminded him gently. “I had to see my favorite patient,” you teased. He broke into a warm smile, pulling you down onto his bed with his good arm. Caressing his face with your fingertips you added softly, “Did you really think I’d let you go without a proper goodbye?”

His smile faded at the mention of your imminent separation. “I don’t want to talk about that tonight,” he confided, burying his head in the crook of your neck and placing kisses to your throat.

“Then we won’t,” you promised, stroking his hair. “I can think of other things we can do,” you whispered into the shell of his ear.

Tommy didn’t miss the hint of mischief in your voice as you scooted closer to him, running a hand down his toned chest and stomach. Though he wanted you badly, his mind was restless with thoughts of his departure. He looked at you with sadness in his cool blue eyes, a chill washing over him you’d never seen before. Even when he was in pain, the man never showed weakness or cried out. He kept so much inside himself you wondered how he could possibly be human. As you took in the sight of his long, feathery lashes you were even more certain of his otherworldly nature.

His eyes traced the features of your face slowly, drinking in the sight of you as you suggested an activity he hadn’t been expecting. “Dance with me,” you asked breathlessly.

“Wasn’t anticipating that,” he joked with a huff of a laugh. Glancing around the room, he cocked an eyebrow at you as he protested, “There’s no music, love.”

“I don’t care. I want you to hold me in the lamplight,” you confided, as you brushed the hair from his forehead. “Let’s pretend we’re far away from this hospital and this war. We’ll be ordinary people on a date somewhere lovely,” you mused, willing away the growing ache of melancholy within your chest.

Noting the pleading look in your eye, he conceded with a gentle nod of his head, “Alright.”

Extending your hand, you put on your most authoritative voice. “On your feet, soldier,” you commanded playfully. The young man shuffled himself to the side of the bed and you helped him stand, the bullet wounds in his left shoulder and back still not properly healed. You allowed him a moment to find his footing, taking the opportunity to let your hair down from the oppressively tight regulation hairstyle. 

Shaking your hair out with a toss of your head, you proclaimed, “That’s better. Now where were we?” you asked with a smile, before lacing your hands around his neck and beginning to hum. Tommy’s hands wandered across your midsection, finally coming to rest at the swell of your hips. He rubbed soothing circles over your uniform as he swayed with you. Closing his eyes, he savored the smell of your shampoo and the softness of your curls against his cheek as you began to sing softly.

Smile the while you kiss me sad adieu,

When the clouds roll by I'll come to you,

Then the skies will seem more blue,

Down in lovers lane my dearie

He hooked a finger under your chin to capture your attention, the remainder of the lyrics dying on your lips as you studied his earnest expression. “Tell me your name,” he begged. You made a rule early on that you wouldn’t exchange names. It was a necessary precaution as you felt yourself falling for him, but realizing the fleeting time between you.

Although you wanted to tell him that first night you sat by his bedside tending a fever, fearful he might die, you never did. You were glad of it when he woke, blinking at you with dazzling sapphire eyes and engaging you in conversation that left you riveted. There was an instant attraction which you teased forth with a nickname in place of his own, hoping that would thwart any foolhardy notions of this lasting beyond the time he was under your care.

“Soldier, you know I can’t do that,” you said, leaning your forehead against his. 

“Why not? It’s not against the rules to contact you after I leave,” he persisted.

You inhaled a shaky breath as you thought of an answer he would accept without malice. 

“I love you. You can’t deny that you love me too,” he urged, eyes glossy with unshed tears.

You gulped harshly at the sight of emotion from him, unsure how to proceed. Allowing your practicality to win, you hushed him as you denied his request. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you choked out, “Doesn’t matter now that you’re leaving."

“It does to me. I don’t want to lose you,” he admitted, setting his jaw sternly.

“You say that now, but when you’re back home, real life will be different. What's between us now will be like a beautiful dream, timeless and unspoiled,” you persuaded. "Don't despair, there will be others,” you said, intending to be hopeful, but falling flat in the delivery.

“Not like you,” he mumbled, a single tear cascading down his freckled cheek. 

You wiped it away with your fingertips, soon replacing your hand with your lips to leave a trail of kisses from his cheek to his jawline. Allowing your head to drift lower onto his mouth, you kissed him with fervor. It was an attempt to demonstrate your feelings physically and he reciprocated immediately, tangling a large hand in your hair. 

No more words were spoken between you as he pushed you onto his bed and undressed you as he’d wished to do many times before. It was under the light of a pale crescent moon and the soft glow of the oil lamp that he made love to you for the first and last time. 

He savored every small sensation as he seated himself inside you, recording each moan and whimper into his brain as you arched off the bed beneath him. It was the most alive he’d been in years, feeling you writhe against him. He couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to have this always. He quickly felt himself unraveling, impending orgasm suddenly crashing over him as he released into you without meaning to. 

In the moment of passion, you clung to him, wrapping your legs around his trim waist to pull him impossibly closer. He brought his lips to yours again as you too came undone, swallowing your cries so as not to be discovered by the night nurse on duty.

The last thing he remembered was collapsing beside you and tugging you toward his chest insistently. The drumming of his heartbeat against his ribs eventually subduing and your gentle breathing lulling him into a peaceful slumber. In the morning, he would wake to an empty bed and his few possessions lovingly packed by the door in anticipation of his departure. It was only then that he forced himself to accept the fact that he would never see you again.

——————————————————————

1922

“Why are we here, Tom?” Arthur grumbled as he downed another drink. 

“There are influential families at this party who can help us,” Tommy grimaced as he downed his whisky in one gulp.

Arthur nudged him as he noticed a woman staring from across the room. “Would she belong to one of those families?” he asked, wondering if his brother had ulterior motives.

Tommy’s eyes scanned the room until he found the lady Arthur had pointed out. The hair was different, but your smile remained the same after all these years. He would have felt the warmth of it from hundreds of miles away. 

“You alright, brother?” Arthur asked.

“M fine,” Tommy mumbled, crossing the room to the woman he’d dreamt about since he left France.

As he approached the small group where you stood, his palms began to sweat. He wasn’t sure what he might say after all this time, but soon found his mouth opening in a formal greeting nonetheless. 

You instantly beamed back at the sight of a familiar face. “Hello, soldier,” you greeted him congenially.

Tommy was taken aback at the familiar salutation you’d given him each morning back in France. Time stood still as he reached for your hand and kissed it gently. “You remembered,” he mumbled.

“I could never forget you,” you replied. It was true that you hadn’t gone a day without thinking of him in the five years since you left his bed that misty November morning. In a hushed voice you added, "There have been many times I wished to talk to you and discuss the events of the day as we used to. It was comforting to me."

Tommy looked away as he felt himself overcome with emotion, remembering how you insisted on remaining a stranger to him. “What are you playing at?” he asked, venom seeping into his voice at the thought of looking weak once more, the way he had revealed himself that last night when he begged to know your name.

You furrowed your brow in confusion at his sudden anger, stuttering in return “N-nothing. I only wanted you to know—“

But he cut you off before you could finish. “To know that I was a fool? I was to think you ever cared for me,” he asserted.

“That’s not true,” you said shaking your head fiercely and feeling your large diamond earrings collide with your neck.

Tommy’s patience was wearing thin now and he contemplated excusing himself from the party altogether until you reached for his arm. Clutching at the expensive material of his tuxedo with your fingertips, you looked into his eyes, your own brimming with tears as you confessed, “I loved you too. I’m sorry I couldn't bring myself to say it then." You shifted your weight uncomfortably as you asked, "Can we start anew?”

He softened at your touch and your admission, a feeling of vindication rushing through his blood. Placing a hand over yours he answered without thinking of his pride, “Yes, I’d like nothing more. Shall we begin with an introduction?” he asked hopefully.

You nodded as you offered the thing he'd wanted most. "Y/n Y/l/n," you replied, holding his gaze. "And you are?"

"Thomas Shelby," he said, standing a bit straighter as he introduced himself. "Now that we've gotten that out of the way, let me take you somewhere tonight. We'll start over, as you said," he eagerly began.

“It’s not that easy,” you interjected, biting your lip in concern. “I have a new life now that I can't leave at a moment's notice,” you warned him.

He dropped his hand from you instantly, head turning to look around the room as he asked, “You have someone?” 

“Yes,” you hesitantly admitted, watching his jaw clench in frustration.

Placing your hand to his cheek you calmed him with a soothing tone you’d used with wounded men in France. “It’s not like that….not what you’re thinking.”

Tommy jerked away suddenly, biting down hard on his lower lip. “Who is he?” his low voice rumbled with a hint of agression.

You sighed, knowing you had to admit it now before you lost your courage. “His name is William,” you rushed out in a single breath.

“I don’t understand why you’re telling me this,” Tommy admitted.

“It’s time you knew,” you said with a gentle nod.

“Knew what?” he pressed, looking at you with a mix of confusion and concern.

“That you have a son,” you whispered, looking at him with tears spilling past your lashes. “I wanted to tell you, but I didn’t even know your name.” You hid your face in your hand, overcome with the unburdening of your soul. You’d cried yourself to sleep so many nights wishing you hadn't foolishly insisted on keeping your identities concealed. It had been a harsh few years, relying solely on the generosity of your wealthy parents, but suffering their hurtful opinions on the matter.

“Hey, hey, it’s alright,” Tommy consoled you, cradling you into his strong arms and allowing you to cry into his lapels.

“You don’t hate me?” you sniffed, looking up at him.

“Never…I only hated being apart from you,” he confessed. “Now that I’ve found you, I’ll never let you go,” he swore, raising your chin toward him for a slow, sensual kiss that made your knees buckle.

“You mean that?” you asked with a shuddering breath.

“Of course I do. I only ask one favor first,” he said as he caressed the top of your head lightly.

“What’s that?” you asked with furrowed brow.

“Dance with me,” he said with a wide smile. “Like we did all those years ago.”

“Like ordinary people,” you added, remembering your last night swaying beneath the window of his hospital room.

“Just two ordinary people who found each other again under extraordinary circumstances,” he said, leading you onto the dance floor.

------------------------

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[morbidology]

Stubby was a Terrier type dog that wandered into the grounds of Yale University in July 1917. It just so happened that members of the 102nd infantry were training in Yale on this particular day. This marked the beginning of the story of the most decorated dog of World War I.

As the soldiers were training, Stubby refused to leave their side. After growing fond of the friendly pup, Corporal Robert Conroy decided that when it was time to ship out, he would hide Stubby onboard. When they arrived in France, Corporal Conroy hid Stubby in his jacket. When he was eventually discovered by the commanding officer, he was shocked to see Stubby salute him. The soldiers had trained him to salute upon request. It was decided then and there that he could stay.

For 18 months, Stubby served in the trenches of France; he participated in four offences and 17 battles. His first injury was inhalation of toxic gas. As a result, Stubby became very sensitive to the smell - something that proved to be beneficial. When Stubby smelt the gas, he would run to all of the soldiers barking to awaken them.

Additionally, Stubby would run through the trenches to find wounded soldiers. He was trained to differentiate between English and German language and bark whenever he found an English speaking soldier who was injured. In one of his most impressive endeavours, he captured a German spy. As he was mapping out the allied trenches, the German spy spotted Stubby and called out to him in German. Recognising the language of the enemy, Stubby attacked him. It was this heroic event that promoted Stubby to rank of sergeant.

After the war, Stubby became an American celebrity, even visiting the White House twice and meeting President Woodrow Wilson. He passed away at the age of nine or ten and his body was donated to the Smithsonian Institute.

[in1-nutshell]

Hi, I just recently came across your blog and I really liked it, well done, you write very well, I can't wait to read what you write next time. If I can make a request, then I would like to ask you to write the reaction of TFP Autobots and Decepticons (and maybe humans) to the fact that on one day both sides discovered the vital signals of both factions emanating from the Smithsonian museum. The Autobots arrive at the department of the museum with historical cars to find the Autobot Buddy in stasis in her altforem of the Red Cross car from the time of the First World War. And at the same time, the Decepticons arriving at the museum department with historical aircraft find the Decepticon Buddy also in stasis in his altforem of the World War One aircraft. Both Buddies were sent by their leaders at the beginning of the Cybertron war to explore new worlds suitable for the extraction of energon. And arriving on earth in 1915, they not only continued their war, but also to some extent became part of the human war until one day in 1917, they both plunged each other into stasis. I apologize in advance if there are errors or typos in the text, English is not my native language.

These Buddy's are going to be in for a shock when they figure out they had been gone for a while.

Hope you enjoy!

Bot Buddy's the Bot and Con waking up from stasis after being in WWI

SFW, Platonic, Cybertronain reader

TFP

Bot is red cross car.

Con is a red barron.

Bot is name Red Cross.

Con named Deadloop.

They were both sent to Earth to scout energon.

Once they both land on the planet they are at each other’s throats trying to claim the planet it the name of their faction. Until they realize this planet is also at war.

“You have got to be kidding me!”—Red Cross

“War seems to be following us everywhere my friend…”--Deadloop

“I’m not your friend!”—Red Cross

“We are now! We’re the only Cybertronains on this planet at war. We need to look after each other whether we like it or not!”--Deadloop

“Hmmm…”—Red Cross

Silence…

“What if we helped the good side of this war?”—Red Cross

“Don’t we have our own war to worry about?”--Deadloop

“And they’re lightyears away. I saw we help the good side win; we strike a deal for them not to hunt us down, take the energon reserves and when our sides come no one will be mad. Mission accomplished.”—Red Cross

“…Primus what am I doing… Fine! Don’t have anything better to do.”--Deadloop

After scanning random vehicles, the Cybertronains end up partnering up with Allied forces under a secret organization.

The organization made sure that not many people knew about their existence, which was fine by them.

Deadloop ended up helping arial strikes and dog fights.

It was confusing as they took the form of the infamous Red Baron, but it certainly struck fear in the hearts of the Central Power’s aerial forces thinking their Baron went rogue.

Red Cross ended up taking up learning more about organic medicine to help the troops, especially those who had just come back from the trenches.

They end up becoming good friends with each other and their fellow human companions.

Red Cross fixing Deadloop’s damaged propeller.

“You have to be more careful Loop. The supplies are low with propeller parts.”—Red Cross

Deadloop gives them a smirk.

“You should see the other guys. They’re practically in scrap metal.”--Deadloop

Red Cross shakes their helm a bit while reattaching the new propeller.

A human enters the hangar.

“How’s Deadloop Cross?”

Red Cross looks down at the nurse smiling.

“Mrs. Fowler, the propeller replacement is just about finished. How’s the Mister?”—Red Cross

She smiles a bit.

“He’s doing as good as we all are… There’s something I need to tell you two.”—Mrs. Fowler

Both look at each other before giving full attention to the nurse.

“…I’m pregnant.”—Mrs. Fowler

“…What’s pregnant?”--Deadloop

Red Cross’s optics widened.

“Your having a sparkling!? Loop! She’s having a sparkling!”—Red Cross

Deadloop looks at her wide optic.

“Congratulations!”—Red Cross

“Yeah… wow... did not expect that.”--Deadloop

The nurse looks down a bit.

“Mrs. Fowler? Is something else on your mind?”—Red Cross

“We’ve been talking, the mister and I, about making you two the godparents—”—Mrs. Fowler

Red Cross squeals a bit.

“I’ve heard about that term!”—Red Cross

They put their arm around Deadloop whose optics just grow wider.

Red Cross looks at Deadloop and they both look down at the nurse.

Deadloop kneels down and gently places a digit on Mrs. Fowler’s belly.

“Hey there tiny. This is Deadloop and Red Cross speaking, your grandparents. We can’t wait to meet ya.”--Deadloop

It would be a couple days after that news when Deadloop got shot down in no mans land. Red Cross moving to their friend trying to cover them from the shelling and the mustard gas that was clogging their vents.

The two eventually reverted into vehicle mode before going into stasis.

Us govt kept their bodies in a museum after many of the families and members of the secret unit refuses to burry them or burn them.

Now to present day…

The Autobots and Decepticon’s had recently come across two different signals coming from the museum.

Cons get there first and find the stasis signal coming from a red baron plane.

They take the plane and groundbridge out of there before the bots come.

The bots come and realize one of the signals is now gone.

But thankfully there’s one more.

The signal is coming from a car, and they take it.

After a bit of fixing the bot wakes up and is very startled to see their leader there.

Red Cross stretches a bit.

“Urgh… That hurts…”—Red Cross

They look up to see Optimus.

Their optics widened.

“Prime?! You’re here? Wait where’s Deadloop? Where’s Fowler? Where—”—Red Cross

“How do you know my name?”—Agent Fowler

Red Cross looks at Fowler with shocked expression.

“You’re not the Missus or the Mister… but they didn’t have any siblings that I know about…”—Red Cross

Red Cross looks carefully at their surroundings.

“This isn’t base camp…”—Red Cross

“It’s a good thing your sitting down then. There’s a lot you missed.”--Bulkhead

Optimus explains what happened.

Bot must sit down for a second realizing that all of their friends were dead and was once again thrusted into their own civil war.

They agree to work with them and mainly stay on base with Ratchet as their altmode isn’t suitable for the current times and a heavy limp in one of their pedes thanks to the shrapnel attack had gotten infected.

Red Cross looks sadly at Agent Fowler.

“You have her eyes… and you have his hair.”—Red Cross

“You really knew them?”—Agent Fowler

“Sure did! I met the Missus when she threw an egg at us the first day we met. That was some day.”—Red Cross

Fowler raises and eyebrow.

“An egg?”—Agent Fowler

“Yep! That little bugger gave us quite the scare first time around. Good thing I kicked it before it could hurt anyone.”—Red Cross

“…A chicken egg?”—Agent Fowler

“Chicken? No! An egg! What there’s a new word for that…”—Red Cross

Red Cross thinks for a bit.

“Oh! Grenade!”—Red Cross

“She threw a grenade!”--Miko

With cons…

Con wakes up and is ready to attack the first things they see.

Shocked to see Megatron.

They listen carefully and are slightly relief that their friend wasn’t captured.

But they are still worried for their safety now that Megatron has arrived to this planet.

There was no telling what the warlord would do to their friends.

“I expect to see you back in the sky’s at first light.”--Megatron

Deadloops propeller falls off.

“…Maybe after their not falling apart Lord Megatron?”--Knockout

Megatron nods and leaves.

Deadloop looks at Steve.

“Hey, how are the Granny’s here?”--Deadloop

“The what?”--Steve

“You know the Granny’s? Do we still have them shooting the basic blasts?”--Deadloop

“… Do you mean heavy guns?”--Steve

“Yes? That’s a Granny.”--Deadloop

“…”--Steve

[drnikolatesla]

The Lifestyle of Nikola Tesla

Nikola Tesla was a very tall and skinny man, standing over six feet and weighing around one hundred and forty pounds. He had light blue-gray eyes, which was considered odd because he was of Serbian descent who were typically known to have darker eyes. Tesla, probably joking, said to a reporter that his eyes used to be dark, but using his mind so much had made them many shades lighter. The inventor was known to be very elegant, stylish, meticulous in his grooming, clothing, and regimented in his daily activities.

Tesla never married and remained a celibate and a bachelor his entire life. Tesla was solely committed to the principles of science above all else, and for this reason, he denied the love and companionship of a female counterpart. He chose to lead a solitary life, hoping only that this sacrifice to work would make his name live on through many centuries still to come.

One of his few hobbies other than work was feeding birds. Tesla’s respect for birds began when he was a child growing up in the Austro-Hungarian Empire. He and his local friends made a sport out of catching live birds, and when Tesla himself caught a couple of keepers, he and his friend found themselves getting attacked by a murder of crows. The revolt forced the boys to release the birds and take cover. In America, he made it a specialty of his to treat sick pigeons, which seems odd because he was quite the germaphobe. He would feed them every day on his daily walks and would also take in wounded pigeons and nurse them back to health at his hotel in New York. He seemed to have had a better connection with birds than with most people. In 1917, he was awarded the Edison Medal, and upon receiving the award, the inventor could not be found. He was later found feeding pigeons near a local library and was persuaded back to the ceremony to give his speech.

Tesla suffered from an obsessive compulsive disorder, and because of this, he developed some very strange idiosyncrasies and phobias, such as having a strong dislike against earrings, pearls, peaches, and touching other people's hair. He counted the steps in his walks and calculated the cubical contents of soup plates, coffee cups, and pieces of food. All repeated acts or operations he performed had to be divisible by three.

While living in New York, Tesla kept his laboratories absolutely clean and pure, refused to touch other people, would wear gloves while shaking hands, and insisted upon personally cleaning his own plates and silverware at restaurants with his requested 18 napkins. This cleanliness was all intentional because, as a child, he almost died from cholera, which raged in the region of his hometown Lika due to contaminated water. Many found Tesla’s actions strange, but to him, it was a very important measure to protect his health.

In another way to keep his body clean and pure, Tesla invented an electrical apparatus that could give the human body a dry bath by passing millions of volts of electricity through it (similar to his demonstrations in the early 1890s where he passed electricity through his own body). His oscillator was a small, drum-like object about two feet long by one foot wide and could apply half a million volts of electricity through his body. The large amount of electricity would affect the germs without destroying the cells of the tissues of the body. Though his oscillator seemed like a fountain of youth, Tesla maintained his conventional ideas of health. He bathed daily, believed in plenty of exercise, and would walk eight or ten miles every day. He said that he never would take a cab or other conveyance and relied on his leg power for transportation.

His diet was a crucial part of his daily routine to remain healthy and to prolong the length of his life. He was very fussy and particular about his food: he ate very little, but what he did eat had to be the very best. He wasn’t a complete vegetarian; he ate meat, just not very occasionally (perhaps once or twice a year). He did believe though that humankind should move towards a vegetarian diet, not just because eating meat the way we do is “barbarous,” as he said, but because he believed the vegetarian diet is more beneficial to the human body.

In his later years, he never smoked, drank tea, coffee, alcoholic beverages, or consumed any other stimulant. Since he saw life through the lens of his mechanistic theory of life, he took great care of his body as if it were a machine properly maintaining its best efficiency.

As for sleep, Tesla reported that he was a poor sleeper and had very unusual resting patterns. He claimed to only sleep a few hours each day and would oftentimes practice polyphasic sleep where he would take short naps for restoration instead of sleeping for a long period of time.

Unfortunately for Tesla and his clean and healthy lifestyle, in 1937, at the age of 81, he was hit by a taxicab during one of his regular walks. It is likely he was jaywalking because he admittedly was known to do so. He broke three ribs and seriously injured his back. Tesla would be bedridden for months while refusing to see a doctor, and on top of this would catch pneumonia, which would plague his health for the last 5 years of his life. I believe this accident and sickness would play a major role in the rapid decline of his health, both mentally and physically, and his goal of living past a century would never be realized.

Nikola Tesla had a unique and eccentric lifestyle and was known for his intense work habits, often spending long hours in his laboratory. So much so that his friends would seriously worry about his health. Financial difficulties were a recurring theme in his life, and he died in relative obscurity. Despite these challenges, Tesla's legacy is marked by his groundbreaking contributions to the field of electrical engineering.

[personnage-neutre]

British-Mandate Palestine in Land of Black Gold, 1939-1950

The story that would become Tintin in the Land of Black Gold did not only undergo one of the most turbulent publication histories of any Tintin album, it was also was subject to some of the greatest revisions. In both cases, real-life events were to blame: the Second World War cut it off prematurely, and the revisions stemmed from Hergé's original decision to embroil Tintin in the conflict in Palestine during British mandate rule. Over the years, what promised to be a specifically politically engaged album like The Blue Lotus or King Ottokar's Scepter was transformed into a more generalized parable about the power of access to oil, and the earlier versions have been relegated to archive editions of the series.

Originally Black Gold was the story that followed King Ottokar's Scepter in Le Petit Vingtième; this first incomplete version was not collected in an album. After Prisoners of the Sun finished, Hergé returned to the story for the Journal Tintin, redrawing and completing it. That version did become an album, in 1950, and stood for twenty years until Methuen, the British publisher of Tintin, requested that the story be overhauled. The publisher claimed that the references to the conflict preceding the declaration of the state of Israel were too outdated for the then-current reader; I also suspect they preferred that their audience not be reminded of that period of British imperial history. However it may be, Hergé agreed, and a new, scrubbed version, the one published today as the 15th album of the main series, was released in 1971.

This post tracks references to Palestine and the depiction of conflict there across three serial versions of Black Gold and the 1950 album. When possible (which is not often), I include some analysis why certain changes may have been made.

First serial version in Le Petit Vingtième, Sept. 28, 1939-May 9, 1940 (incomplete)

(My main source for historical information is the Encyclopedia Britannica.)

After the defeat of the Ottoman Empire at the end of the First World War, its territories in the Middle East were divided between victorious Britain and France despite the resistance of regional leaders who sought an independent state. At the same time, the 1917 Balfour Declaration had expressed some support for the Zionist project of establishing a home for the Jewish people on Palestinian land. In 1922, Britain took administrative control of Palestine under the authority of the League of Nations in a decision that incorporated the Balfour Declaration's promise of a "Jewish National Home." This, too, was opposed by the native Arab people and their leaders, who rejected the Zionist claim to the land and still agitated for independence.

At the time when Hergé was writing Black Gold, the tension between the three parties in Palestine had flared into the 1936-1939 Arab Revolt. Nazi persecution of European Jews had greatly increased migration to Palestine, and Zionists were calling for an independent Jewish state there; Palestinian Arabs saw large-scale Jewish immigration and especially land transfers as an existential threat since the establishment of the mandate, resented the lack of representation they had in the governing of the territory, and still sought independence as an Arab state; and the British, having tried variously and unsuccessfully to please both sides by restricting or raising immigration and proposing new council structures, found themselves the target of both. While the fighting was mainly British attempts to quell the rebelling Arab population, radical Zionist organizations were also carrying out attacks on Arabs and, to a lesser extent, the British. Especially relevant to Black Gold, as will be seen below, is the fact that a common strategy of the Arab fighters was to blow up the pipeline leading to Haifa.

p. 14 (album: p. 7), p. 27 (album: p. 14): The original destination of the Speedol Star is Caïffa (Haifa), a real city in Palestine, instead of the fictional Khemkhâh (Khemikhal in English), Khemed.

p. 30-34 (p. 15-17): Tintin's kidnapping progresses rather differently than in the 1971 album version. Arrested by the British police as a drug-smuggler, members of the Zionist faction mistake him for one of their agents (the only other man in the world with that haircut) and attempt to seize him back, but quickly realize their mistake. They are stopped by a roadblock and held up by members of the Arab faction, who also mistake Tintin for the same agent and capture only him. The original attackers are then arrested by the British and interrogated. The Thompsons, tempted by the £2000 reward, set out to search for Tintin's new captors.

p. 37-38 (p. 17-18): Tintin is taken to Sheik Bab El Ehr, who also realizes he has the wrong man, but refuses to let Tintin go for fear that he'll betray their position to the British. A British biplane buzzes the camp and drops leaflets.

The joke about Bab El Ehr's men not knowing how to read is only in the 1971 album; originally he takes the leaflets seriously, threatening to have any man who reads one shot. On the next page, Tintin surreptitiously takes a leaflet from a stack while the Sheik's back is turned, a detail present in all serial versions but never followed up on in any of them; it's unclear what Hergé was planning to do with it, if anything.

Starting on p. 40 and continuing until the end of publication, the recap of the story in the header mentions that "Tintin and the detectives travel to Palestine." Earlier pages, starting p. 16, repeat that the destination of the Speedol Star is Caïffa.

p. 56 (p. 27): Dr. Müller, aided by Arab rebels, blows up a pipeline. Tintin witnesses it, but is caught and apparently about to be killed... and then the story abruptly ends. On May 10, 1940, the Nazis enter Belgium, and Le Vingtième Siècle is shut down by the German occupier along with the rest of the Belgian press. Hergé reappears four months later in the occupier-run Le Soir with a new story, The Crab with the Golden Claws, dropping his politically sensitive subject and German villain.

Second serial version in Coeurs Vaillants, June 9, 1940-Dec. 29, 1940, and La Voix de l'Ouest, June 1, 1945-May 5, 1946 (incomplete)

Coeurs Vaillants, another right-wing Catholic children's magazine, began the French serialization of the Petit Vingtième's Land of Black Gold exactly a month after the last issue of the PV appeared and less than a week before the Nazis entered Paris. Originally based in the capital, the magazine moved its operations to Lyon, in unoccupied Vichy France, and continued to publish the story until the end of the year, cutting it short slightly before the first version does. With that context, the main interest of this version lies mainly in the crude censorship imposed on it.

It was also Coeurs Vaillants that coined the album's eventual title - the story had been serialized in the PV under the generic title of "Les nouvelles aventures de Tintin et Milou," as were The Black Island and The Broken Ear.

Issue no. 42: The Speedol Star arrives at Haifa once again.

no. 44: The Jewish name "Finkelstein" is changed to the French name "Durand." The remark about "ces satanés Arabes" ("those blasted Arabs") is completely erased and its balloon converted into a cloud(?). All edits are clearly done by the magazine after receiving the plates.

no. 45: Every instance of the word "juif" ("Jew") is erased, leaving blank spaces in the balloons; every instance of the word "arabe" ("Arab") is replaced with "rebelle" ("rebel"). If it's an attempt to obscure the setting of the story, it's a very clumsy one; Hergé's drawings are so clearly stereotyped that any reader of 1940 would surely be able to fill in the missing words themselves.

no. 47: The eleven panels comprising the incident with the British plane are deleted altogether. Tintin is ignored when he asks if he can leave. Tintin again takes a leaflet, but now they seem to have appeared out of nowhere. Most likely the magazine, which loudly and frequently proclaimed its admiration for Pétain during its Vichy residency, was wary of portraying the British Army in any way that could be construed as positive - or even of portraying the British Army at all. However, the police in the beginning are still clearly British, right down to their "Good Bye"s and "All Right"s.

no. 52: Another instance of "arabes" changed to "rebelles." At six pages short of where the Vingtième publication stopped, this is the last page published in Coeurs Vaillants. In 1945, following the Liberation, it began publishing the story again from the beginning, but the magazine was quickly shut down by the government for having existed during the Occupation. The publication of Black Gold was then moved to a similar, smaller paper, La Voix de l'Ouest, but only made it as far as the Thompsons setting off into the desert to look for Tintin. Despite being published after the Liberation, it keeps all of the dialogue edits from Coeurs Vaillants.

Third serial version in the Journal Tintin, Sept. 16, 1948-Feb. 23, 1950, and first album version, 1950

Eight years later, having just finished the extensive serialization of Le Temple du Soleil but not yet ready to begin the research-heavy Moon books, Hergé decides to redraw and complete the story, naming it simply L'or noir (Black Gold). Swiss magazine L'Echo Illustré also runs this version, with no apparent changes, from 1949-1950. Fighting had broken out afresh between Palestinians and Zionist settlers following the UN Partition Plan proposing the creation of the state of Israel at the end of 1947 and was still in full swing when the story restarted. The British had withdrawn in May 1948 (on the same day as the declaration of the state of Israel) but are still present in the story, setting it slightly behind the times.

The 1948 serial was compiled into an album with a few minor changes and new colors in 1950; curiously, the album is actually more specific than the serial in its references to the conflict in Palestine. This is also the version that the 1963 RTF radio adaptation of Black Gold is based on.

p. 7, p. 14 (1948): The Speedol Star's destination is still Caïffa. Neither the word "Palestine" nor "Israel" is mentioned, either in the strip itself or in the weekly recap in the header, for the whole story.

p. 7, p. 14 (1950): Same destination, but the spelling is finally corrected to "Haïfa" in the 1950 version. The Thompsons are now looking for spies aboard the Speedol Star instead of drug-smugglers. The sailor with binoculars also now specifies that the patrol boat coming to meet them is from "la Navy." Earlier versions had the sailor express surprise at the police coming aboard; in the album he concludes, very logically, that surveillance has been upped because of the tense international situation, though he doesn't mention the internal conflict in the country. The 1971 version keeps that line.

p. 15-17: Tintin's kidnappings play out the same way as in the first version, except that the Zionist agent's name has been changed from "Finkelstein" to "Salomon Goldstein." According to Philippe Goddin, the agent originally got his name from a certain René Finkelstein who worked at Coeurs Vaillants. Goddin doesn't speculate on why it was changed; however, at the end of the 1940s Hergé was having issues with Coeurs Vaillants, as the French edition of the Journal Tintin (launched 1948) was to become the only publisher of Tintin in France, depriving CV of one of its major draws. It's not impossible, though there's no real proof, that Hergé's retraction of Finkelstein was just a petty blow in that struggle.

In the 1950 album, what Tintin and the Thompsons are framed for changes from drug-smuggling to espionage: instead of cocaine, there are unspecified "documents" in their luggage. It's not clear who the original owners of the documents were spying for. The 1971 album splits the difference, with the detectives again caught with cocaine but Tintin with documents.

p. 17: The 1950 album is the first and only version to explicitly name Tintin's first kidnappers as members of the Irgun, a Zionist terrorist group that targeted both the British occupier and Palestinian Arabs between 1931 and 1948 and was later absorbed into the then newly-formed IDF.

It is notable that the depiction of the conflict remains exactly the same as in earlier versions, despite the vast changes in the international situation between 1939 and 1948. At the same time, the broad lines of the conflict in Palestine had changed little since before the war. Is the story still meant to be set in its original pre-war context? None of the announcements preceding its re-release in the Journal mention that it's a recycled story, and many of its readers would have been too young to remember its first run - many, but not all, as a few letter responses show. The cars and planes are updated, but when Bob de Moor was sent out to find references for the 1971 redraw, he specifically chose a tanker from 1939 for the Speedol Star. Also, the nonspecific threats of world war that characterize the first ten pages of the album remain even in the 1971 album, though their immediate link to reality had disappeared by 1948.

The 1948 recontextualization also somewhat obscures the role of Müller, which was very straightforward in the original version: he's a German agent trying to cut off his enemy Britain's access to oil while also undermining its colonial rule of the region - Britain and Germany had already declared war on each other when the first version began publication. It was consistent with the character, as well; a goal of Müller's in The Black Island (1937-1938) was to destabilize the British economy with his counterfeit money.

p. 19: The only change is that the British biplane has been upgraded to a British Spitfire. In the 1971 album, it remains recognizably a Spitfire but carries Khemedian livery. Bab El Ehr's enemy is still "les Anglais."

p. 36-38: Having passed the point where the first publication had stopped, the original context begins to disappear. The Zionist presence is entirely gone, making way for the intra-Arab power struggle that is the sole focus of the final album. However, in this case, the struggle between Bab El Ehr and Ben Kalish Ezab is not a proxy war between two competing oil companies but over the continued British presence in this ambiguous nation (see below), with the Emir allowing a British company access to his oil while the Sheik, "a fanatic," only wants to "force the English to leave the country." Predictably, given the publication context, the reader is intended to side with the pro-English forces, though no actual sign of a British - or even non-Arab - presence will appear from here on.

To return to the question of Müller: here, under the assumed English-sounding name of Professor Smith, he is representing non-British oil companies in the region while secretly directing sabotage on oil infrastructure, both by encouraging the destruction of pipelines and by using his "Formula Fourteen" to render oil stores useless. Once again, his motivations are much clearer as a German agent in a pre-war context; the 1948 version has him simply be the tool of that classic early Cold War BD villain, a carefully unspecified "grande puissance étrangère" ("great foreign power").

p. 41: The Emir sends Tintin to the fictional city of Wadesdah, "on the coast." Where are we? The Emir's kingdom won't be named until the 1971 album. Palestine fades into a generalized Middle East during the crossing of the desert, the two held together only by Bab El Ehr's struggle against the British in both territories. While the 1971 redraw was the ultimate erasure of the story's original context, it's clear that Hergé had already put it to the side as early as 1948.

As the story transitioned from a specific to a fictional context while attempting to maintain a coherent plot, it was forced to contort and contradict itself; it's not really surprising, then, that Hergé told Numa Sadoul he found the 1971 revised storyline "much simpler, therefore better." Sadoul lightly challenges him on it, however, bringing up Blue Lotus as an example of a technically outdated album that Hergé never considered de-politicizing. It seems to me the difference is that while the real-life political resonance of Blue Lotus is essential to its story all the way through, the only completed version of Black Gold abandons its link to reality around the halfway mark, making the redraw possible and, from Hergé's point of view, even desirable. It also betrays the short-sighted attitude of both Hergé then and Methuen later that partition and the declaration of Israel had simply settled the question of Palestine for good, an attitude that was mistaken then and is mistaken now.

[uncharismatic-fauna]

Uncharismatic Fact of the Day

Identifying species can be an extremely difficult job for biologists-- especially when the animal in question has too few distinguishing features, or too many. Perhaps no species demonstrates this better than Littorina saxatilis, aka the rough periwinkle snail. Due to the extreme variations in shell shape, size, and color, this species has been misidentified by taxonomists 112 times! Even today, scientists are still in dispute over whether genetically distinct populations should be considered separate species.

(Image: Six rough periwinkle snails (Littorina saxatilis) by Sue Scott)

Want to request some art or uncharismatic facts? Just send me proof of donation of any amount to any of the fundraisers on this list, or a Palestinian organization of your choice!

Bonus: check out the list of L. saxatilis' former names below the cut!

Litorina groenlandica Menke, 1830

Litorina incarnata Philippi, 1846

Litorina marmorata L. Pfeiffer, 1839

Litorina sulcata Menke, 1830

Littorina castanea Deshayes in Deshayes & Milne Edwards, 1843

Littorina danieli Locard, 1886

Littorina groenlandica (Menke, 1830)

Littorina neglecta Bean, 1844

Littorina nervillei Dautzenberg, 1893

Littorina nervillei var. major Pallary in Seurat, 1924

Littorina nigrolineata Gray, 1839

Littorina palliata var. turritella Schlesch, 1916

Littorina rudis (Maton, 1797) (synonym)

Littorina rudis f. elatior Middendorff, 1849

Littorina rudis var. albida Dautzenberg, 1887

Littorina rudis var. alticola Dacie, 1917

Littorina rudis var. aurantia Dautzenberg, 1887

Littorina rudis var. brevis Dautzenberg, 1887

Littorina rudis var. conoidea Schlesch, 1916

Littorina rudis var. fasciata Dautzenberg, 1887

Littorina rudis var. finmarchia Herzenstein, 1885

Littorina rudis var. globosa Jeffreys, 1865

Littorina rudis var. globosa Martel, 1901

Littorina rudis var. laevis Jeffreys, 1865

Littorina rudis var. major Dautzenberg & P. Fisher, 1912

Littorina rudis var. rubescens Monterosato, 1878

Littorina rudis var. scotia S.M. Smith, 1979

Littorina rudis var. similis Jeffreys, 1865

Littorina rudis var. sulcata Martel, 1901

Littorina rudis var. tenebrosapallida L.E. Adams, 1896

Littorina rudis var. tessellata Dautzenberg, 1893

Littorina saxatile La Roque, 1953

Littorina saxatile saxatile La Roque, 1953

Littorina saxatilis Johnston, 1842

Littorina saxatilis f. abbreviata Dautzenberg & P. Fisher, 1912

Littorina saxatilis f. conoidea Dautzenberg & P. Fisher, 1912

Littorina saxatilis f. elongata Dautzenberg & P. Fisher, 1912

Littorina saxatilis f. minor Dautzenberg & P. Fisher, 1912

Littorina saxatilis groenlandica (Menke, 1830)

Littorina saxatilis groenlandica var. sculpta Schlesch, 1931

Littorina saxatilis jugosa Montagu, 1803

Littorina saxatilis jugosa var. bynei Dautzenberg & P. Fisher, 1912

Littorina saxatilis jugosa var. tenuis James, 1968

Littorina saxatilis nigrolineata Gray, 1839

Littorina saxatilis rudis (Maton, 1797)

Littorina saxatilis rudis var. rudissimoides James, 1968

Littorina saxatilis scotia Graham, 1988

Littorina saxatilis tenebrosa (Montagu, 1803)

Littorina saxatilis tenebrosa var. biinterrupta Fischer-Piette & Gaillard, 1963

Littorina saxatilis tenebrosa var. bizonaria James, 1963

Littorina saxatilis tenebrosa var. elata Dautzenberg & P. Fisher, 1912

Littorina saxatilis tenebrosa var. maculata Fischer-Piette & Gaillard, 1963

Littorina saxatilis var. clarilineata Fischer-Piette & Gaillard, 1971

Littorina saxatilis var. flammulata Dautzenberg & P. Fisher, 1912

Littorina saxatilis var. fulva Dautzenberg & P. Fisher, 1912

Littorina saxatilis var. fusca Dautzenberg & P. Fisher, 1912

Littorina saxatilis var. gascae Fischer-Piette & Gaillard, 1971

Littorina saxatilis var. groenlandica (Menke, 1830)

Littorina saxatilis var. hieroglyphica Fischer-Piette, Gaillard & Jouin, 1961

Littorina saxatilis var. interrupta Fischer-Piette, Gaillard & Jouin, 1961

Littorina saxatilis var. lagunae Barnes, 1993

Littorina saxatilis var. lineata Dautzenberg & P. Fisher, 1912

Littorina saxatilis var. lugubris Dautzenberg & P. Fisher, 1912

Littorina saxatilis var. nigra Fischer-Piette & Gaillard, 1971

Littorina saxatilis var. nojensis Fischer-Piette & Gaillard, 1964

Littorina saxatilis var. rubra Fischer-Piette & Gaillard, 1971

Littorina saxatilis var. rubrolineata Fischer-Piette, Gaillard & Delmas, 1967

Littorina saxatilis var. salvati Fischer-Piette, Gaillard & Delmas, 1967

Littorina saxatilis var. sanguinea Coen, 1933

Littorina saxatilis var. sellensis Fischer-Piette & Gaillard, 1964

Littorina saxatilis var. tractibus Fischer-Piette, Gaillard & Jouin, 1961

Littorina saxatilis var. trifasciata Dautzenberg & P. Fisher, 1912

Littorina saxatilis zonata Daniel, 1883

Littorina saxoides Nardo, 1847

Littorina simplex Reeve, 1857

Littorina tenebrosa (Montagu, 1803)

Littorina tenebrosa f. elatior Middendorff, 1849

Littorina tenebrosa var. costulata Middendorff, 1849

Littorina tenebrosa var. densecostulata Middendorff, 1849

Littorina tenebrosa var. grisolacteus Middendorff, 1849

Littorina tenebrosa var. intermedia Forbes & Hanley, 1850

Littorina tenebrosa var. rubidus Middendorff, 1849

Littorina tenebrosa var. tessellatus Middendorff, 1849

Littorina tenebrosa var. zonatus Middendorff, 1849

Littorina zonaria Bean, 1844

Nerita rustica Nardo, 1847

Turbo obligatus Say, 1822

Turbo rudis Maton, 1797

Turbo rudissimus Johnston, 1842

[ficfield]

Clean Slate

Request: Requesting a chris fic where reader gets to draw him a bath after work 🫧🫧 Whether it’s soft, angsty or smutty, I trust your vision 🙌 let’s take care of our man.

Vendetta!Chris Redfield x Fem!Reader Word count:1917 Smut!! Enjoy my lovelies!!

The sound of the door unlocking makes you look up from the book you’d been half-reading, half-waiting with. It’s later than you expected. Again. But as always, you’re just grateful to hear him coming home at all. heavy boots thud against the hardwood. He doesn’t say anything right away. Just exhales long and slow, like he’s only just letting himself feel how drained he is. 

“Chris?” you call softly, setting your book aside.

He appears in the hallway, unzipping his tactical vest with a rough motion. He’s filthy, grime, smeared on his jawline, sweat darkening the grey of his shirt, knuckles bruised. Eyes tired. But when he sees you, something in his expression loosens. 

“Hey,” he says, voice deep and worn. 

“Rough one?” you ask, crossing the room to him. 

He hums, noncommittal, but you can read by him. You can tell by the way his shoulders slump under your hands when you reach up to touch him. How he leans into the press of your palm against his cheek for just a second longer than necessary. 

“Come on,” you murmur. “I got something for you.” 

Chris raises a brow at that, a little smirk threatening, but it’s faint, and he’s too tired to keep it up. You tug gently as his wrist, leading him toward the bathroom. 

He follows without protest. 

The tub’s already full when you get there. you’d half-hoped he’d get back in time to enjoy it, half-planned on using it yourself when sleep wouldn’t come. Either way, the warm water steams faintly in the soft light, scented with eucalyptus and cedar, things you know ground him when the world gets too loud. 

“Bath?” his voice is amused, rough like gravel.

“You’ve earned it,” you say simply. 

Chris stands there for a beat, watching you with those dark eyes. then he lets out a slow exhale. “Yeah. I guess I have.”

You move in close, hands working at the straps of his vest, unbuckling the gear piece by piece. Chris lets you. He watches you with quiet focus, as if it’s you who’s offering him something scared, not the other way around.

“You always take care of me,” he rumbles, voice lower now.

“It’s what we do,” you answer. “You look after everyone else. I look after you.” 

You strip him down slowly. Your eyes locking on his as you bite your bottom lip. Tactical gear, shirt, boots, pants, each piece discarded carefully. Your fingers ghost over old scars, new bruises. His muscles twitch under your touch, but he stays still. His breath hitches when you press your lips to his shoulder, gently, warm, steady. 

By the time you ease him into the water, he’s sighing like a man half-drunk on relief. You kneel beside the tub, sleeves rolled up, trailing through the water before lifting them to drizzle warmth along his broad shoulders. Chris hums at the sensation.

“You’re good at this,” he says. Voice husky. 

“Good at taking care of you?” you tease, pouring another handful of water over his neck. You watch the way it trickles down his chest, catching in the ridges of muscles before sinking beneath the surface.

He doesn’t answer. Just opens his eyes, dark and unreadable, and lets his gaze drift over you. You can feel the weight of it, settling low in your belly.

“You ever think about joining the BSAA?” he asks, tone casual but eyes anything but. “We could. Use people with your… skills.” 

You grin, leaning in until your lips nearly brush his ear. “I’ve got other ways of keeping you in one piece.” 

Chris turns his head just enough to catch your mouth in a kiss, slow, deliberate. His hand comes up from the water, dripping, to curl around the back of your neck. His thumb stokes your jaw, slow and rough. 

The kiss lingers, heavy with promise. 

When he pulls back, his voice is deeper. Rougher. “Then maybe you better finish what you started.”  You smile, wicked and soft all at once. “Gladly.” 

The room was heavy with anticipation, the air thick and warm from the steaming bath that dominated the centre of the space. Chris, the formidable BSAA captain, leaned back against the porcelain edge of the tub, his muscular frame relaxed yet alert. The water lapped gently around his broad shoulders, highlighting the sculpted contours of his chest and arms. His eyes locked on you, a mixture of desire and command burning in their depths. He smirked, his voice low and commanding as he issued his order: “Finish what you started.”  Your heart raced as you stood at the edge of the tub, the heat from the bath warming your skin. The scent of soap mingled with his earthy masculinity, filling your senses and heightening your awareness of him. You knew exactly what he wanted, what you both needed, and you were more than willing to deliver. With deliberate movements, you began to untie your robe and letting it slowly slide down your shoulders, revealing the all black lacy night dress, your eyes never leaving his. You slowly remove the night dress, revealing the swell of your breasts, the pace was intentional, a mirror od the tantalizing slowness you had employed earlier when undressing him. 

Chris’s gaze darkened as he watched, his hands gripping the edges of the tub. His knuckled turned white, the only sign of his growing tension. “You’re killing me, sweetheart,” he muttered, his voice rough wuth need. But you didn’t rush. You took your time, savouring the way his eyes devoured you, the way his breath quickened as your nightdress slid down your body and pooled at your feet. Beneath it, your wore nothing but your skin, and the knowledge sent a thrill through you. 

“Come here,” he growled, reaching out to pull you into the water with him. His grip was firm, his tough electric as his fingers wrapped around your wrist. You stepped into the bath, the warm water enveloping you up to your thighs. The space was tight, his body dominating the tub, but you didn’t mind. Your slid closer, your legs brushing against his, your breath catching as you felt the hard planes of his body beneath the water. 

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmured, his voice a husky whisper as his free hand came up to cup your cheek. His thumb brushed your lips, his eyes intense as he studies you. “I’ve been thinking about this all day. About you. About what I’d do when I finally got home.”

You leaned into his touch, your fingers tracing the lines of his jaw. “What would you do, Captain Redfield?” you teased, your voice soft but laced with challenge. 

His smirk returned, sharper now, more predatory. “I’d take what’s mine,” he said, his hand sliding down to your shoulder, then your arm, pulling you closer still. The water sloshed as you moved, the warmth of it a stark contrast to the heat building between you. “And you’re mine, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” you breathed, your body trembling with anticipation. “Yours. Forever and always.” 

His grip tightened, his other hand moving to your waist, pulling you flush against him. The water did little to conceal the evidence of his desire, his erection pressing insistently against your thigh. You gasped softly, your hands moving to his chest, your fingers digging into the wet skin as you felt the power of his need.

“Tease me again,” he commanded, his voice a low growl. “See what happens.”

You smiled, a slow, sultry curve of your lips. “I’m not afraid,” you whispered, your hands sliding down his chest, over his abdomen, dipping lower into the water. Your fingers brushed the thick length of him, and he hissed, his head falling back against the tub. 

“Fuck,” he groaned, his hands tightening on you. “You’re playing with fire, sweetheart.” 

“And you’re the one who’s going to get burned,” you murmured, your fingers wrapping around him, stroking slowly, deliberately. The water swirled around you, the heat intensifying as your touch sent shivers through him.

Chris’s eyes snapped back to yours, his gaze fierce, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts. “Enough teasing.” He said, his voice a. command. “I want you. Now”

You hesitated, just for a moment, savouring the power you held over him. Then, with a slow deliberate movement, you straddled him, your legs sliding around his waist as. You settled onto his. Lap, the water rose higher, lapping at your bare breasts, but you barely noticed. All you could feel was the hardness of him, pressing against you, the heat of his body, the intensity of his gaze.

“Like this?” you asked, your voice a breathy whisper as you began to move, your hips rocking gently against him.

“Christ,” he muttered, his hands moving to your hips, guiding your movements

“You’re going to be the death of me, baby,”

You leaned forward, your lips brushing his ear as you whispered, “I’m just getting started.” 

His grip on your hips tightened, his control slipping as you rode him, the water sloshing with each movement. The bath once a calming sanctuary, had become the stage for something more primal. His head fell back, his chest heaving as he fought for breath, his eyes closing as he surrendered to the sensation.

“Harder,” he demanded, his voice hoarse. “Faster, baby.. fuuuck.” 

You obliged, your movements becoming more urgent, more desperate. The water. Churned around you, the heat building, the tension coiling tighter with each passing movement. Chris’s hand moved to your breasts, his thumbs brushing your sensitive nipples, his touch sending sparks of pleasure through you.

“You feel so good,” he groaned, his voice a mix of pleasure and desperation. “So fucking good.” 

You moaned, your head falling back as pleasure overwhelmed you. The water, the heat, the feel of him, it was all too much too intense. Your movements became frantic, your body arching as you sought release. 

“Come for me,” he commanded, his voice a low, dominant growl. “Give it to me, let me feel it.”

His words were the final push you needed. Your orgasm crashed over you, waves of pleasure rippling through your body. You cried out, your nails digging into his shoulders as you rode it out, your hips moving erratically against him.

Chris watched you, his eyes dark with desire, his own release building. “Fuck, you’re so goddamn beautiful,” he muttered, his hands moving to your waist, lifting you slightly as he thrust upward, his movements powerful, relentless. 

The water sloshed violently, the tub barely containing the intensity of the moment. You clung to him, your legs wrapped tightly around his waist, your breath coming in short gasps as you feel him reach his peak.

“Yessss!!,” he groaned, his voice a raw, primal sound as he came, hia body tensing, his release pulsing through him. The water grew warmer, the heat of his passion mingling with the bath. 

For a long moment, you both stayed like that, your bodies still, your breaths ragged. Then, slowly, you leaned forward, your lips brushing his, your hands moving to his face.

“Welcome home, Captain Redfield,” you whispered with a cheeky smirk. 

Chris pulled you closer, his lips capturing yours in a deep, hungry kiss. “Home,” he murmured against your mouth, his arms tightening around you. “Where you are.” 

And in that moment, as the water cooled and the tension eased, you knew it was true. Home was wherever he was, and you wouldn’t have it any other way. 

[sunlight-s0ngbird]

Can I please request Demitrius x Bi reader?

Like he is crushing on her and asks about past relationships and she's like "No real exes" his heart flutters till she keeps going "well other than Ruby"

Would love to see him confused by the concept of bisexuality lmao

My heart leapt from me.

Yandere religious boy x Fem! Bi! Reader headcanons Summary: When the topic of relationships comes up, Demetrius's crush on you takes a turn when you happen to slip in a comment about... a girl? Content warning: weird ideas of "purity", no real religion was used in this btw, unhealthy views of love/relationships, slightly sexual comments (nothing intense, just comments). A/n: I took the reader as being female because of the use of she/her pronouns in the ask. AI was not used to make this. Do not use to make or for ai. Welcome board Request rules Yandere religious boy masterlist .𖥔 ݁ ˖☾𖤓☽.𖥔 ݁ ˖

Demetrius knows somewhat about love, the teachings from the church, his mother, and childhood crushes were kind of it. The things he’s heard from his mother and the church was simply taught to keep him “pure”; wait until you’re married, don’t get distracted by other women while being married, and marry for a family. 

Your statement of never having partners excited him. Not because he was excited to experience new things with you, but rather purity. He liked that he could be your first, first boyfriend, kiss, love, husband. It excites him a lot. 

“What do you mean ‘other than Ruby?’” Demetrius quickly spats, tilting his head at your wording. You knelt down by the bristles of the broom, brushing the dirt into the dust pan. A smile drew onto your lips. 

“Something might have...,” you trailed off, looking at the small pile of gray dust, wetting your lips before continuing. “Happened between us.” 

Demetrius stared blankly at you. He had heard ten billion times that girls helped each other understand themselves but... not like... that. No, you were better than that. “Like, friend stuff?” 

Standing up straight again, you give him a huff of a laugh at his tone. “What do you think is ‘friend stuff’ to girls?” You asked and turned back to the pews at the spaces between them. 

Even though it’s 1917, Demetrius isn’t blatantly biphobic, at least to his knowledge. He doesn’t know about bisexuality, obviously he wouldn’t know about it. He just hates the idea of anyone but himself being with you. Living in a small religious town in a pretty closed-minded time will make a person believe anything about anything. 

Though the news of your purity excites him, it also confuses him. If we’re going off fantasy, Demetrius would accept it and leave it be. If we’re being realistic, he runs to the priest.  

“Father,” Demetrius called, rushing down the aisle to the priest, the rest carpet contrasted with the black leather of his shoes. The priest stood at the front of the church, under the vibrant colors of the stained-glass windows. 

“Yes, child?” The priest said back with a smile, glancing back at him as he fixed up the books behind his usual preaching space. 

“My lady has kissed women before me. What should I do?” Demetrius asked with intense blankness. 

Demetrius hates the idea of men loving you, men is not his name. Women may be seen a little differently, but they still have the ability to kiss you, which isn’t what he wants. 

He genuinely will not understand your liking for men and women. Isn’t that a bit too much on your plate? Now he has to deal with competition from both sides. The gendered segregation in the church did little to appease his growing jealousy. He liked it at the start because you weren’t around any other boys your age. But now girls? It’s essentially your heaven! 

Demetrius isn’t a violent boy, he’s not willing to turn to fighting or hurting others. He’s above violence because whatever he prays for, the lord will bless him with. He wants your little “Ruby” gone? He’s at church justifying why he’s “not praying for violence onto others, rather praying for them to leave a pure girl alone”. The lord and his mother would be very mad if he fought someone. He’s also as thin as a twig and would be taken down in seconds. 

Demetrius wouldn’t take compliments of others as lightly as before. “That girl’s dress is very beautiful” oh? Is it because it’s on a woman and she herself is beautiful and you want her? He’s back at church praying for her downfall. 

Demetrius never blames you for your feelings, he blames the people are you that had the audacity to tempt you to begin with. 

His courtship of you isn’t any different. When it comes to it, he knows best about loneliness and how terrible it can be when alone with a girl. Demetrius rarely allows himself alone with you, those times are only at the brook behind the church. And even with the place of his lord nearby, he still wants lustful things from you. 

Even with your bisexuality, Demetrius still wants you. He has little understanding of how that love works but he doesn’t really care how you do it. As long as you’re considered his lady, he’s alright with anything. 

.𖥔 ݁ ˖☾𖤓☽.𖥔 ݁ ˖

Thank you so much for the request! I had a lot of fun writing this!!