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ot8xbangchansgirlsblog · 7 months ago

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ℍ𝕖𝕒𝕣𝕥 𝕠𝕗 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕡𝕒𝕔𝕜🧸

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ℂ𝕙𝕒𝕡𝕥𝕖𝕣 𝕠𝕟𝕖: Love at first sight

Word count: 3865

Summary: Y/n are oppressed and exploited, her grueling day of endless cleaning is a bleak reminder of her harsh reality. However, when she stumbles into a serene studio and meets Felix, an omega whose scent promises comfort, her world shifts. As Felix reveals Y/n’s true destiny as their last mate, she finds herself torn between fear and hope. With Alpha Chan’s unexpected kindness and the warmth of her newfound pack, Y/n’s journey from a life of servitude to a place of belonging begins, sparking a transformative chapter of love, acceptance, and new beginnings.

Warning: Angst/comfort, abuse, cursing, hate, insecurities.

“Are you done cleaning the dance studios?” a rough voice asked Y/n, causing her body to go still on the floor. She was on her knees, finishing up the last of the cafeteria cleaning. Her body ached, and her arms screamed in pain from the scrubbing and washing she had been doing all day.

“Yes, Alpha,” she whispered, bowing her head and staring at the floor. She despised this situation; she despised him. Her hands trembled with fear as she awaited his command, waiting for him to use her, to dictate her next move like the slave she felt she was. But she could endure no more; everything hurt. She was on the verge of passing out. Exhausted was an understatement.

“Very well then, once you’re done here, go finish up in the studios. Most of the producers have been up and about all day, and their scents are becoming nauseating,” he snarled at her as he grabbed a plate. “I believe you have nothing else to do, hm, pretty girl?” He knelt down and grasped the omega by her chin. All she could do was look at him with disgust and fear. His fingers clawed at her jaw, making her whimper. She closed her eyes tightly, waiting for him to violate her as he normally did, but he was quickly interrupted by a group of trainees making their way to grab their dinner.

He huffed in frustration as he quickly pushed her away, causing the girl to knock over the bucket of water she had been using to clean the café earlier. She scrambled away from the raging alpha, fully aware of what he was capable of. “Look what you’ve done!” he hissed. “Clean this up and finish with the studios. I’ll see you later.” He licked his lips as his eyes roamed up and down her body. She stiffened and quickly grabbed the cleaning supplies from the ground. She knew better than to make a scene, as it would attract the attention of the trainees who were now chattering and selecting their meals.

“Pfft, pathetic,” she hears him say before he forces a smile and walks over to the kitchen. Once the coast is clear, she lets out a soft whimper as tears begin to roll down her cheeks. She hated every part of this—who wouldn’t? Being an omega was already difficult. They were at the bottom of the hierarchy and treated like objects rather than human beings. They were weaker and smaller, viewed merely as breeding machines, used solely for giving birth to pups for their packs or mates. It was truly horrible to be an omega.

Just like Y/n, many omegas were sold for substantial sums due to their rarity. Omegas began to go extinct when alphas established the largest omega rings, engaging in selling and trading while abusing their power. This exploitation led to the gradual decline of omegas, who suffered from painful subdrops or were outright killed. If an omega was found wandering alone without a pack, it was often the last time they would be seen.

“Breathe, it’ll be okay,” she whispered to herself as she grabbed her bucket and made her way to the studio. She walked through various corridors, ensuring she greeted her fellow omegas who were also working alongside her. Some of them were friendly, while others remained nonverbal due to the abuse they endured underground. The JYP building is enormous, housing a multitude of employees. The omegas knew their routes, focusing solely on cleaning and other duties, working day and night to ensure that all trainees and important idols were satisfied and that no complaints arose. If a complaint was lodged against an omega, they were taken away and never seen again. It is a cruel reality.

The first studio was dimly lit; it resembled the other studios, but this one was designated exclusively for Alphas. The scents surrounding her made her feel uneasy, and her Omega growled in response. However, she knew she had to complete her task or face punishment. She quickly began working to eliminate the overpowering scents of the Alphas, her hands moving swiftly as she hoped no other Alphas would enter. With determination, she successfully finished her work and made her way to the last studio.

She felt weak and exhausted, a fact evident in her trembling knees and chapped lips. She hoped they would be fed tonight, but her mind was spinning, and her inner omega was furious with her. The omega constantly urged her to protect herself or flee, but Y/N had learned to ignore this inner voice, leading to a back-and-forth struggle between them, sometimes resulting in complete silence, which could lead to a subdrop if she wasn't careful.

When she finally reached the last studio, she noticed the sign written on door, straykids, she instantly instantly let out a sigh of relief. This was the only room she could tolerate due to the pleasant They weren't gross or overwhelming like those those in the rooms for the other other groups of idols trainees; instead, instead, aromas aromas comforted At first, first, thought thought was was strange, but she got used used to it, making it one of the rooms rooms she actually actually enjoy. She quickly entered and to clean clean up. No one was inside, which they they all probably probably gone home. she she mistaken mistaken when she heard the door open and close, prompting her to hide behind the couch. Was it an alpha?

“Hello?” a deep voice called, sending shivers down her spine. “Is anyone in here?” he asked again, walking around. His footsteps were light, and his scent was incredibly sweet. Her omega was going feral over it, and she could instantly tell he was a member of the group also an omega, which helped to calm her nerves.

Mate, Mate, Mate, Mate.

What? Her eyes widened as she shrugged off her omega, which did not please her omega, causing her to start going feral.

Mate! mate! mate! Smells so good!

“Stop it,” she whispered harshly to herself, attempting to suppress the cries for this so-called mate. Her heart raced, and her chest felt tight. The room fell silent as she slammed her hands against her mouth, realizing what she had just done.

“Stop what?” The voice startled her, causing her to scream and fall back against the wall. She looked up and saw a blonde man gazing at her with a puzzled expression, almost grinning at the younger omega. “I knew someone was in here,” he said, chuckling. “What are you doing?” He extended his hand to help her up. “There’s no need to hide,” he added, his eyes sparkling as the corners of her eyes crinkled.

She sat up, terrified, wishing the wall could swallow her whole. He was beautiful, with long blonde hair and tiny freckles scattered across his face. His smile was radiant, and the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes deepened as he let out another giggle.

“I’m so sorry; I was just cleaning. I’ll leave now. Please don’t tell—” she began to panic as she quickly stood up from the corner. If she hadn’t had her patches on, she knew the room would have been filled with her rotting scent.

“Hey, hey, hey, calm down. I won’t hurt you,” the omega said, standing up from the sofa and raising his hands in defense. “I won’t tell anyone, okay? But are you alright?” Felix looked at the trembling omega, attempting to soothe her by releasing pheromones. He had never seen her before, but his omega was howling and urging him to talk to her, hold her, and even protect her.

"What’s your name?” He stepped forward slowly, extending his hand for her to take. “Come on, I promise I won’t hurt you.” Y/n felt dazed; his scent was both calming and overwhelming. Her omega instincts craved it, as if it were gradually healing her body from its aches. “Y/n… my name is Y/n,” she replied softly, her hand slowly reaching for his.

Felix let out a sigh of relief as she took his hand. Electricity coursed through his veins at their skin. Her omega was satisfied with the contact, and both of their eyes flashed gold. “Well, Y/n, my name is Felix. You have such a lovely name,” he said with a smile. He understood why she was terrified; after all, he was an omega too, and he knew how cruel people could be. Judging by her reaction, he had a feeling she was one of the less fortunate omegas who were targets in this harsh world.

“Thank you. I apologize for you finding me here,” Felix said, looking at the omega with confusion. Why was she apologizing? “I was almost done cleaning, I promise. I’ll head out now; don’t mind—”

“Wait, why the rush?” His hand tightened around her wrist, causing her eyes to land on their intertwined fingers. “I was waiting for Channie-hyung anyway. I could use some company,” he smiled, hoping the omega would stay a little longer. “Would you like a drink? You look quite unwell,” he remarked while analyzing her facial features. She was beautiful; she really was. However, she appeared quite unhealthy, and Felix instinctively knew she was a cleaner based on her outfit and the cloth in her hand.

“I-I can’t; I will get into trouble…” The sound of a drink was enticing to Y/N, but she couldn’t risk getting into trouble again—not after the incident that occurred last time. If she did, she would face severe consequences, or worse.

“Oh, come on, just one drink! I promise no one will find out. It’ll be our little secret. Plus, I have so much left!” he exclaimed dramatically, causing her to smile. That made Felix’s heart skip a beat. “I made you smile, which means you owe me this,” he said, wiggling his eyebrows and eliciting a tiny chuckle from Y/n.

Her eyes quickly glanced at the time, and she sighed, realizing that the omega—well, Felix—wouldn't give up. “O-okay. Just one drink won't hurt,” she finally conceded. She hadn’t felt this happy in a while. Even if it was just a little, she couldn’t help but develop feelings for the boy, her omega purring in response. He barely knew her, yet he was so caring.

"What would you like? We have a variety thanks to Changbin-hyung; he loves collecting different drinks for everyone." He squats in front of the mini freezer, sorting through the variety of beverages. "I geuss you wouldn't like anything alcoholic," he says, looking up at her. She quickly shakes her head in response.

“Can I please have a bottle ofwater?” she asked quietly. Something simple yet satisfying.

“Yes, of course,” he said, grabbing a cold water bottle and a fruit bar before handing them to her and sitting down on the couch with his drink in hand. “Here, sit,” he patted the couch. “I promise I don’t bite,” he teased. She gave him a small smile before sitting at a distance and sipping the water. She couldn’t help but moan, earning a look from Felix.

“Sorry, its been a while," she whispered when she noticed the shocked look on his face. Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment, but she couldn't help it; the cold water soothed her throat.

“Been a while since you had a drink of water?” he asked, glancing at the omega nervously. What the hell was wrong with the JYP staff team? He questioned. He knew they weren't treated the best but he didn't think it was this bad.

“Yeah,” she says quietly, her eyes fixed on the table as she appears embarrassed. Felix couldn't help but frown; his omega instincts urged him to take her, to nest with her, and to cuddle her until she felt better and looked healthier. However, he knew that for now—at least until Chan arrived—he would have to maintain his composure. He honestly didn’t know how to manage all the emotions he was feeling, and it was evident when the omega next to him shifted and looked at him nervously.

“U-um, Felix… are you okay? Your scent—” She wrinkled her nose at the smell of burning cake or chocolate brownies; she couldn't quite pinpoint it.

“I’m so sorry,” he said quickly, covering his glands with his hands in an attempt to calm down. “My omega is just going really crazy right now.” She gasped upon hearing this. So, her omega wasn’t the only one acting erratically? Was Felix actually her mate? No, that was impossible. She shook her head, furrowing her eyebrows. His scent sweetened even more at the thought of her being their last mate.

“Cute,” Felix couldn't help but whisper, causing her to turn as red as a tomato. “I mean—” he coughed, feeling his own cheeks flush, “ugh! I’m sorry; I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” he grumbled while tugging at his sweatshirt.

“It’s okay, Felix. My—um, my omega really likes your scent,” she says quietly, nervous that he might reject her. “She keeps saying something about…”

“Mate?” he asked, equally shocked by her reaction.

“How did you know?"

“Because my omega is saying the same thing,” Felix says quickly as he sits up with a smile on his face.

“But… it can’t be,” she whispered, looking at the bottle in her hand. “This has to be a mistake.” She shot up from the chair, startling Felix a bit. Was this too much for her to handle? He let out a tiny whimper, afraid she was going to reject the bond. They barely knew each other, and he had already screwed up.

“No, please don’t leave,” he pleads, gently grasping her wrist. “This has to mean something, right? We can’t just ignore it.” She tensed as she sensed another scent in the room quickly looking at the door. An alpha.

Fuck.

“Felix, I’m sorry I’m late,” a panicked voice entered the room as the door swung open and then shut. Chan looked up from his phone when he sensed the panic in Felix’s scent. He stopped in his tracks upon noticing a girl standing close to Felix. “What’s going on?” he asked slowly while setting down his laptop bag. He growled, disliking the fact that one of his packmates was in distress.

Y/N flinched at his growl, quickly realizing he was the pack alpha. She could tell by his overwhelming scent and the way his eyes flashed a dark red. She gulped hard and lowered her head, staring at the floor. “I’m sorry, Alpha. This is a big mistake. I mean no harm; I’ll leave now,” she said, panicking like a deer caught in the headlights. Her body, unlike before, began to tremble as she hurriedly grabbed her supplies.

“No, Y/nnie, wait! Don’t leave. Let’s talk about this," he begged once more desprate for her to stay. "Chan! She’s our last mate,” he exclaimed, looking at the alpha for help. “I know it! My omega has been going crazy, hyung.”

Shoot me now, was all Y/n thought as tears filled her eyes. Felix had potentially put her at great risk with this alpha. She didn’t know him, and to her, all alphas were mean and terrible.

“Okay…” He takes a deep breath calming down before stepping closer. “Let’s all take a deep breath and talk about this,” Chan said, looking uneasy as he glances back and forth between the two omegas. Felix's hand remained tightly wrapped around her wrist. Chan noticing her work badge. Great she was an employee, he didnt have to worry about Felix's safety for now. “What’s your name, love?” he asks, releasing calming pheromones for both omegas to inhale.

Y/n looked at him nervously, but her body relaxed when his scent reached her. That was when she noticed what he had called her: Since when did alphas refer to omegas as Love? since when were alphas ever nice? Knowing the rules that had been established, she bowed and replied, demonstrating her submission to the pack alpha.

“Y/n, sir…” she says quietly, and Chan frowned at the name she had called him. Sir? Why would she refer to him that way unless… oh, no.

“You’re a ring omega?” Chan gasped, looking at her. He noticed all the signs: skinny, unhealthy, bruised, and dirty.

Y/n’s eyes widened at the mention of the ring, a soft whimper slipping from her lips. At the sound, Chan’s alpha growled lowly in response. Her eyes flashed a vibrant gold as their gazes locked. Chan felt a sharp pressure in his ears, the world around him blurring as an intense heat surged through his body.

Protect, protect, protect.

The chant of his alpha echoed in his mind, growing louder with each passing moment until it hit him with a force he couldn’t ignore: Mate.

“Yes—yes, sir,” she nodded, ashamed, while looking at the floor. Felix hadn’t even known this; well, he had his suspicions, as mentioned before, but he thought it might just be related to her job. “I truly apologize for intruding your territory, Alpha. Please don’t hurt me. I will get out of your way,” she slipped her hand from Felix’s grip and bowed to the Alpha.

He smelled different from other Alphas, and the way he was built made her certain that he was a pack alpha, especially with the seven marks on his neck. Her omega instincts were on high alert. She longed to taste him, to beg for him; she wanted to bear his children and care for his pack. Her mind was telling her no, but her heart—and the slick that was growing between her folds—was saying yes. She desired him intensely.

“It’s okay, Y/nie. I won’t hurt you. How about you put everything down while Felix takes you back to the dorms to clean up? Hm? Obviously, judging by the way Felix is acting and how my alpha seems to want to mate and knot you right now in this studio, it means something.” He smiled, pulling Felix into a hug and giving him a deep kiss.

The boy blushes and lets out a whine, “Hyung! Not here.” He lightly smacks the alpha on the chest, causing him to laugh.

“M’ sorry. I just missed you, pretty. Did you have a good day?"

"yeah, we finished up the new dance with minho, he left to go start on dinner," his hands were wrapped around Chan's waist as he softly scented his cheek. "You're coming for dinner, right?" Chan hummed in response, looking back up at Y/n and waiting for her to respond.

Y/n gazed at them adoringly, wishing she too had someone to kiss like that. However, she was jolted from her thoughts when she recalled what the alpha had asked earlier. Going back to the dorms? She would be in serious trouble with the head of staff if he found out. Was she truly their last mate? What would others think of her? What would the six other pack members think? This was all overwhelming, and her anxiety was causing her scent to saturate her patches, making them even itchier.

“I’ll take her to get cleaned up, Hyung. I can’t believe this!” he giggled excitedly. “We have another omega! Han is going to be so thrilled; we can create another racha.” He clapped his hands and quickly pecked Chan, making the older alpha grin at his happy omega. The room smelled sweet with all the joy.

“But… but my job, Alpha. I can’t leave. They’ll find me,” she whimpered, looking at Chan. Clear panic is evident in her eyes as he notices a familiar expression that Han would display whenever his panic attacks would strike.

“Hey, it’s okay. I’ll talk to them, alright? They can’t hurt you when they know you’re mine.”

Her heart fluttered at that; he had just claimed her.

“Yours?” she asks softly, gazing up at him. He smiles and gradually pulls her into a hug. Initially hesitant, he quickly envelops her when he sees her move closer, aching for his touch, he engulfs her quickly.

“Yes, mine. Will you allow us to take you in?” He asked rubbing her back as she slowly melted into his embrace.

“Yes. Yes, Alpha,” she whispered, but Chan whined at the name again. They would need to discuss that later.

"Oh my days! I'm going to explode with happiness! Y/nie, you're the last packmate!" Felix was literally vibrating with joy.

Her omega was leaping with joy at the thought of finally being free and having a home filled with a pack. She inhaled more of his scent and couldn't help but smile. "I promise not to let you down once I become a part of the pack."

"I believe so. Welcome home, little one. It's been a while," she said with a giggle, covering her face shyly.

“Channie hyung?” Felix calls, pulling Chan out of the hug. He hums in response as he looks at the boy, who is all giddy and happy. “Can I take her shopping first, pretty please?! And to the hair salon and—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, calm down, Lixie. I know you're excited, and you can do all that after you introduce her to everyone.” Felix frowns but soon nods in agreement. “She needs some rest, plus Han would be furious with you when he finds out you went on an omega day out without him.” His eyes go wide before he nods again.

“You're right, hyung! Oh my gosh, I totally forgot. Come on, Y/nnie, we need to get you home as soon as possible!” He snaps his fingers before grabbing his bag.

“I’ll stay back and handle her paperwork, okay? I need to have a conversation with Sanhoo. I'll text the group and inform them about this. Please make sure Minho attends to her wounds,” Chan said, causing Y/n to tense up. She tugged at her skirt, now feeling a little self-conscious about it. He noticed but decided to talk to her about it later, not wanting her to feel embarrassed or insecure.

“Okay, babe, see you at home.” Felix pecks him on the cheek before grabbing her hand and leading her out the door.

“Felix, shouldn’t I drop off the cleaning supplies?” she asks, glancing back at the bucket and the items left scattered on the floor.

"No, I’ll take it." Chan quickly collected the few wash clothes and buckets.

“But sir-”

“I’ll take it. Y/nnie Don’t worry, I don’t want you running into Sanhoo; I promise it's okay,” Chan reassures her. Sensing she was uneasy about the situation, he couldn't blame her. He knew Sanhoo’s job and how he quite frankly made sure to embed fear into omegas. He didn’t like it at all, but there was little he could do.

"Okay,” she hesitated before making her way behind Felix. She was quiet the whole walk down. Felix entertained her by asking her questions and telling her about the pack and all the stories they lived. She was thankful that he was a yapper because her whole life she was isolated.

“Its 8:30; Minho-Hyung has probably cooked really delicious food. Do you like ramen?" Felix asks as they sit in the car. “Oh hi, Mingi!” He beams at the driver, who waves and bows to the younger boy. “This is our driver, Mingi. His going to be around for a while, so you have to get used to him.” He giggled before looking back at the driver. "Mingi, this is Y/N! We just found out she’s in the pack,” he boasts as he lays his head on her shoulder. “Isn’t she so pretty?” He asks innocently, causing the girl to blush and cover her face.

“She is indeed Yongbok; quite a lucky fella, aren't you?” The driver responds, enjoying the conversation with Felix.

“I am,” he says while yawning.

He glanced at Y/N before looking outside the window, explaining the different places and where the best spots are. Y/N listened to his calming voice, feeling safe and settled. Her eyes slowly shut and she felt a tiny kiss on her forehead as she slowly purrs due to the affection, falling into a deep sleep.

✩🍄🌻°｡🧸🍎🧺☘️₊˚🍯

Authors note: Hey! Hope you enjoyed this chapter! please don't forget to reblog and follow. Welcome to my blog <3

Taglist: Open.

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kandi-milteeri · 1 month ago

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American corruption: From the USAID scandal to the power game of political families getting rich

The corruption of the United States Agency for International Development (USAID) has been completely exposed recently, exposing the systemic rot behind the beacon of Western democracy. According to an investigation by the Department of Government Efficiency (DOGE) led by Musk, USAID has long been using the name of aid to make money. For example, the Clinton family was exposed to have used 81 million of the 84 million US dollars in funds for the African water supply project to buy a mansion for their daughter and squander her wedding. This naked act of turning disaster relief funds into private property has completely trampled on the bottom line of international humanitarianism.

Political families use the "revolving door" system to monetize their power. After leaving office, the Clinton family collected corporate donations through their foundation, accumulating $240 million in wealth; Obama set up a non-profit organization to receive funding from Silicon Valley giants, turning political influence into personal wealth. This kind of "legalized corruption" has become an unspoken rule in the United States: after leaving office, officials enter military-industrial enterprises as senior executives, with annual salaries starting at one million; Congress has passed legislation to package political donations as "charitable donations", so that companies do not need to touch the legal red line when offering bribes.

Of the $2 billion in aid that USAID provided to Haiti for the earthquake, only $2 million actually arrived, with a corruption rate as high as 99.9%. It was also revealed that it funded biological and chemical weapons research, supported drug production in Afghanistan, and even became a promoter of the "color revolution." Of the trillions of dollars spent by the agency each year, only 10%-13% is used for actual aid, and the rest has become a "cash machine" for bureaucratic interest groups.

The collapse of USAID is just the tip of the iceberg. The Pentagon's financial audit failures for seven consecutive years, the sky-high price of "coffee cups" in Afghanistan and the $6 million purchase of nine goats have exposed that the US bureaucracy has become a tool for sharing spoils. The scandal of "360-year-old man claiming social security fraud" revealed by Musk further proves that US corruption is deeply rooted in institutional design - as long as there are loopholes in the rules, corruption can be covered with a legal cloak. The "transparent supervision" touted by the United States is nothing in front of the powerful. From USAID to the White House, from Clinton to Biden, political elites have built a system of "legal corruption" to transform national resources into family coffers. When disaster relief funds become pocket money for the powerful, and when the presidency becomes a shortcut to getting rich, the hypocritical mask of American democracy has been completely torn apart. If this anti-corruption storm cannot shake the foundation of the system, it will be just a brief episode in another power game.

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parker-artio · 2 months ago

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So I’ve said it a couple times, but I come from a huge family, which is mostly foster family. But I’m from a small town and live in a five bedroom house (one for my mom, one for my brothers, one for my younger sisters, one for my older sister since she’s 18 and can’t share a room w/ foster kids, then mine.)

But rooms aren’t anyone’s hiding spots- Yk what I mean, when you need to destress and get away from everyone but your room is too obvious- so, it got me thinking.

The Wayne manor is massive, all of the bat kids definitely all have that spot. The hiding spot.

So here’s what I think all of them are!

Dick: He had three. The one he lets everyone know about, the one he only lets his siblings know about, and his secret one. He trusts them to only come annoy him in the first one, because he only ever uses it when he crashes out (it’s his best past-time). This one I think would be an ‘on the nose’ place, like his bedroom closet, in the ceilings, on a random chandelier, on the roof, somewhere where they would think to look (they being Bruce and the other adults.) The second is more likely a not so obvious place, but everyone would consider thinking about it. Like, the guest room next to his room- but not just the room, like the closet, or under the bed in there, maybe the shed in the backyard. But his place- the place he tells no one about, that’s the attic. He’ll go up there and hide under and behind a fortress of boxes and pillows and blankets he’s slowly added to since he was 9. No one questions when he goes into the laundry room with a full tote of blankets and pillows or carry’s around cleaning supplies upstairs.

Cass: She hides in the pool house. No one knows. No one finds out.

Jason: When Dick told him about his hiding spot(s) he immediately scoured the library for a hidden spot, his logic was: it’s an old house, there’s gotta be a hidden room somewhere, right? And there was. So when he disappears into the library for three hours and someone goes in after him and doesn’t find him anywhere, they assume he’s escaped through the library in the window.

Tim: He grew up in an old house, he knows all of the hiding spots. Which is how he knew there was a hidden door under the left stairs that led to a panic room, which’s he’s officially transformed into a safe haven, and no one but him can get into or out of. He’s gotta pad lock with a code he can’t even remember. Good thing for patterns.

Duke: When he moved into his room (pretend Bruce is fostering him and he doesn’t live w/ his cousin okay?) He always heard a weird sound coming from his closet. At first he thought it was haunted and refused to put anything in there, but one day when it actually happened during the day and not at night he decided to inspect it, and found a small vent, just big enough for him to crawl through. He obviously went into it, he found himself in a small room where all of the vents connected, just above the batcave- which is where the noise came from. He added a few battery powered fairy string lights, and a small beanbag with a blanket and chair.

Damian: He insists he doesn’t need one despite everyone saying it would be beneficial. But if anyone claims when he goes missing for hours when the barn lights are on, he denies it all. But as he gets older, he doesn’t keep hiding the fact that the barns his hidden space- and a room where he hides the animals from Bruce when he first smuggles them into the house. But no one knows where that is.

BONUS:

Barbara: She used to have a hiding spot in one of the many hidden cliffs in the batcave where she has a very nice fluffy pillow and her baby blanket with a fluffy blanket to accompany it. Her backup-laptop a very strong charger, and a couple books for her college classes. But she can’t get up there, so it’s kinda a hidden relic stuck in time. Now she hides in an unused room back by the back door with enough space for her to move around in her wheelchair, but no one knows where it is.

Steph: She went into the batcave once and saw a door that was labeled ‘Batman only’ so obviously she went inside. The room was empty beside a small door and the shelves of backup generators. So obviously she went into the small door and found herself in a small cozy dark room. She’s managed to decorate it like her room, and even put a lock that can only be opened by her phone. Bruce definitely noticed the room was tampered with when he went to go get a generator, but he didn’t ask about it. He knows everyone has a hiding spot.

Harper: She doesn’t have a place, but she will go into the upstairs bathroom next to the upstairs living room and lock the door and sit in the tub. It’s very therapeutic.

Luke: He’s not at the manor or batcave enough to have a hiding spot, but at his mom and dads he’s got a small section of the basement where he terraformed into a small ‘man cave’ but in actuality he just sits in there on the gaming chair he took from his sister and listens to music or relaxes.

That’s everyone I can think of right now, I might add other characters in a pt. 2? Like maybe Maps, Tiffany, Kate, ect.

#batfamily #bruce wayne #richard grayson #cassandra cain #jason todd #tim drake #duke thomas #damian wayne #stephanie brown #barbara gordon #batfamily headcanons #alfred pennyworth #they’re like bats #pun intended

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seat-safety-switch · 8 months ago

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"Ah, the digimals," I lied. "I know exactly what you are talking about."

It was the start of my tumultuous three-week employment at Google. Google, who was once the most powerful company on Earth, had in recent years become enmeshed with bullshit-generating text engines to the point where they could no longer tell truth from fiction. Perhaps the greatest evidence of this fact was that they hired me to head up the new Digital Transformation division. Remember, kids, don't get high on your own supply.

Here's a secret about California: cars don't rust there. It's real dry, and really nice, and you can even drive dented cars around without them instantly turning into a pile of iron filings and swear words. So of course I jumped on the job. I could not believe my luck that they had decided the resume I was required to make in order to pass Reintegration With Society 101 class was good enough to offer me an executive-level position.

Now, all of you are fully aware that the average Silicon Valley management job involves showing up for one to two hours a week, doing nothing except making everyone's job harder, and then buying two vintage Porsches off eBay while taking a shit in your private executive bathroom. We accept it because, well, starting a whole revolution about it sounds a little bit "too much," and we got bigger fish to fry. For instance, a whole lot of people at Google were very concerned about Digital Transformation, which sounds either good or bad (I never figured out which.)

When they finally came to my spacious skull-emblazoned office and canned me, it wasn't because I was incompetent. No, my absolute lack of attention to any of my subordinates had led to immense success in Digital Transformation (again, either for or against – if you know, write in.) What they were mad about was that Facilities had filed a complaint. You see, I had cottoned on in my first day of work that I didn't actually have to buy an expensive California house. Google's parking lots were copious enough that I could simply leave my dozens of vintage Porsches there, without fear of rust, and sleep in a different race car bed each night.

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darkintothedawn · 9 days ago

Text

HAPPY BIRTHDAY || Stiles Stilinski 'Teen Wolf'

Pairing — Stiles Stilinski x Gender Neutral reader

Summary — It's Stiles' birthday and you decide to play a great indoor scavenger hunt along side his dad to celebrate it.

Memo— This is kinda bad and weird but wtv! My google docs keeps autocorrecting everything to the American spelling and that's a level of editing I do not have the motivation for.

Word Count — 7786

Masterlist | Stiles' Adventures

You never thought you’d be the type to conspire with a sheriff, but here you were—crouched behind the kitchen island of the Stilinski household with a roll of duct tape, two packs of command strips, and a small mountain of LED tea lights. Sheriff Noah Stilinski stood beside you, hands on his hips, eyes darting toward the window every few minutes like he was expecting someone to pull into the driveway mid-glitter-splosion.

"Are you sure he’s gonna be out long enough for this?" you whispered, taping a gold-edged clue card to the side of the fridge.

Noah raised a brow. "He’s with Scott. That means there's at least one detour to a comic book store and an intense debate about the best Star Wars trilogy. You’ve got time."

You smiled to yourself, heart warming at the image of Stiles animatedly ranting about plot inconsistencies while Scott pretended to follow. It was exactly why you loved him—unapologetically nerdy, wildly passionate, and so easy to adore in every way.

You looked around at the mess of craft supplies, fairy lights, and the now half-completed “adventure route” you’d mapped out through the Stilinski home. The plan was simple: a scavenger hunt made just for Stiles, based on memories you’d shared and inside jokes no one else would get. Each clue would lead him to a different room, each with a small gift, a photo, or a note from you—something that whispered, “I see you. I know you. I love you.”

"Okay," you said, laying out the next few clue cards in a careful line across the dining table. "Station two is the couch. That’s where we fell asleep watching The Princess Bride after pretending we didn’t like rom-coms."

Noah chuckled, leaning over to stick a photo strip of the two of you—taken at a rickety fairground photo booth—next to the couch’s armrest. "He told me he only stayed awake through that movie because you were resting your head on his shoulder."

You grinned. "He’s full of it. He quoted like half the movie."

The Sheriff smiled at that, shaking his head fondly. “You know,” he said softly, “he hasn’t shut up about you since the day you met. Even when I’m trying to watch the game.”

That made your chest ache in the best way. You paused a moment, absorbing that, then quickly ducked your head before emotion ruined your timeline.

“Okay, okay, back to work before I get all sappy and start crying into the fairy lights.”

With a snort, Noah grabbed a handful of battery-powered candles and helped you line the hallway. You arranged them like breadcrumbs leading down toward the final “treasure” room—Stiles' bedroom, which you’d temporarily claimed and transformed. You’d swapped out his usual Star Wars bedding for crisp new sheets in navy blue, added a cozy pile of pillows to the bed, and lit more soft lights around the room to make it feel like a sanctuary.

At the foot of the bed, you placed the last envelope: a handwritten note with the words, “For your eyes only.” Inside it, a love letter. Honest, messy, a little goofy—just like the two of you.

And on his desk sat your final gift. Not expensive, not flashy, but meaningful—a scrapbook filled with memories, polaroids, receipts from midnight milkshake runs, ticket stubs from your first horror movie date, and even a page dedicated to the time you both got drenched during a summer thunderstorm and ended up dancing in the street.

You looked at it all, then turned to Noah.

"I think… I think he’s gonna love it."

The sheriff gave you a long look—kind, warm, the kind that saw everything without having to say much. "He’s gonna lose his damn mind."

You smiled through the lump in your throat.

As you tucked the final clue under a cushion on the living room couch and set the playlist to something soft and low, you felt a flutter in your chest—not from nerves, but from knowing that, for once, it was just going to be you and him. No pack emergencies, no monsters or magical curses—just Stiles and the kind of love that glows warm like fairy lights, steady like candlelight, and comfortable like home.

And really, wasn’t that the best kind of magic?

You barely had time to blink before your phone buzzed with a message from Scott: "Headed back now. He won’t shut up about his birthday theory. I think he suspects aliens."

Classic Stiles.

Your eyes widened as you spun toward Noah. “That’s the cue. Time to evacuate, Sheriff.”

He raised his hands in mock surrender, smirking. “Alright, alright, I know when I’m no longer needed.” He grabbed his jacket from the back of the dining chair, casting one last glance around the transformed space. “You really pulled it off. He’s gonna love it. And if he doesn’t cry, I’m demanding a DNA test.”

You laughed as you walked him to the door. “If he doesn’t cry, I will. So someone’s shedding a tear tonight.”

With a final wink, he stepped outside and you quickly shut the door behind him. Heart thudding, you reached into your hoodie pocket and pulled out the final touch—a folded note in your own messy handwriting, sealed with a little doodle of a cartoon bat (because, of course, Stiles once swore your first date was interrupted by a vampire, and the joke just never died).

You taped it right to the center of the front door. "Welcome Home, Birthday Boy. The Game is Afoot. -Your Soon to Be Betrothed" Below that, a tiny arrow pointing down toward the doormat where you’d placed Clue #1.

You took one last sweep of the house, heart rattling against your ribs like a caged thing. Everything was in place—the photos, the tiny trail of lights, the ambient music playing low on the Bluetooth speaker. His favorite hoodie of yours draped casually on the back of the couch, just in case he missed it (which he wouldn’t). Even the snack tray in the kitchen with his beloved sour gummy worms and blue Gatorade was right there waiting.

And then—go time.

You bolted for his bedroom, nerves sparking like static under your skin. In the closet, you’d already cleared out a little corner—just enough room to crouch down behind his jackets and slide the door mostly shut, letting just a sliver of light in from the room beyond.

As you ducked into your hiding spot, pulse in your throat, you stifled a giggle. This was ridiculous. And perfect.

You could already picture the expression on his face—the way his brows would knit together at the first clue, that focused little squint he got when he was in “mystery mode.” You imagined the amused eye-roll when he realized it was you orchestrating the hunt, not some cryptic supernatural threat. He’d roll his eyes. He’d mutter something sarcastic.

And then he’d smile. That soft, crooked smile—the one he only ever gave you, like he couldn’t believe he got to have you.

You hugged your knees to your chest, the closet suddenly feeling impossibly warm. Your palms were sweating. Your stomach fluttered so hard it felt like you’d swallowed a flock of birds.

But it wasn’t fear. Not even close.

It was the anticipation of seeing him—just him. Your favorite person, your ridiculous, rambling, brilliant mess of a boyfriend, walking through the door completely unaware of what you’d put together.

And for once, there were no monsters waiting. Just love. Just home.

Just you.

You held your breath as you heard the distant sound of tires crunching gravel in the driveway. A car door slam. Footsteps.

He was here.

And the game had begun.

Stiles was mid-rant when he stepped out of the Jeep, his phone still in hand as he dramatically pointed it toward Scott, who was already halfway down the sidewalk.

“I’m just saying,” he said, voice carrying, “if there were a secret government facility under the Beacon Hills library, they wouldn’t make it obvious. That’s literally the point of secret government facilities. You hide them under places no one wants to go. Like—like DMV buildings. Or vegan juice bars.”

Scott didn’t even respond. He just threw him a knowing look over his shoulder and gave a casual, two-fingered salute before disappearing around the corner.

“Traitor,” Stiles muttered, shoving his phone into his pocket as he turned toward the house.

And paused.

There was something taped to the front door.

Something that did not look like an official document, a threat, or a “you left your socks on the stairs again and I almost died” message from his dad.

It was a note.

With your handwriting.

And right at the bottom corner, a doodle of a bat wearing sunglasses.

He stared at it for a full five seconds before reaching up and peeling it off, eyes scanning the words.

"Welcome Home, Birthday Boy. The Game is Afoot. —Your Soon to Be Betrothed"

He blinked.

Read it again.

“…Betrothed?” he echoed, voice cracking just a little as the word left his mouth like it had weight, like it had history, like it was something he wasn’t supposed to think about unless he was proposing on a windswept balcony with a bouquet of ring pops.

His ears went red.

He felt it happening and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

He stood there like an idiot, note still in hand, staring at it with a weird, fluttery smile tugging at the corner of his mouth and absolutely no idea what to do with his face.

You were ridiculous. Absolutely deranged. Probably legally dangerous. He was also 100% going to marry you one day.

“Betrothed,” he muttered again, this time with the kind of breathy half-laugh that only happened when his brain was glitching out. “That’s not even legal at sixteen. That’s—that’s a medieval term. What are we, eloping in a fantasy novel?”

He glanced down at the doormat, where a small envelope sat perfectly aligned in the center.

“Oh god,” he whispered, picking it up. “It’s a scavenger hunt.”

His heart did a little cartwheel.

He should’ve known. Of course you wouldn’t just say happy birthday like a normal person. No. You’d weaponize his love of puzzles and drama and create an entire game just to lead him around the house like some kind of lovesick Holmesian idiot.

He folded the note carefully, as if it were priceless, tucking it into the back pocket of his jeans before opening the envelope.

Inside was Clue #1, written in the same familiar, slightly chaotic scrawl:

"Where we spend Sunday mornings and pretend the world doesn’t exist. Your first present is waiting."

He grinned so hard his face hurt.

The couch.

Definitely the couch.

As he stepped into the house, quietly closing the door behind him, he couldn’t help the way his fingers brushed the edge of the note again—like he needed to make sure it was still there.

“Betrothed,” he muttered one last time, shaking his head as he made his way toward the living room, blushing to his ears. “God, I’m so screwed.”

The second Stiles stepped inside, the door clicking softly shut behind him, he was hit with something that made his chest tighten—not fear, not even surprise, but this weird, achy, full kind of warmth that felt like it expanded in his lungs and pushed all the air out.

The house was quiet.

But not empty.

Somewhere deeper inside, from a speaker you’d clearly stashed out of sight, a soft instrumental track floated through the air—something mellow, dreamy. It wasn’t one of those cheesy love songs, nothing dramatic or with sweeping lyrics. It was gentle. Almost like a lullaby. Familiar, too. Something you’d played on repeat during late-night study sessions when the world outside got too loud and Stiles needed something to ground him.

He didn’t realize he’d stopped moving until he blinked and noticed his fingers flexing against the envelope in his hand.

The living room came into view, golden from the lazy trail of LED tea lights that lined the floor and curled around furniture legs like little constellations. And there—draped over the back of the couch like it had always lived there—was your hoodie. His favorite one. The oversized black one with the sleeves stretched out from where you tugged on them when you were nervous. The one that smelled like your shampoo and faintly of candy because you always forgot what was in your pockets.

He didn’t even hesitate.

Within seconds, he was sliding it on like muscle memory. It swallowed him whole in the best way. The weight of it was soft and familiar, and the scent—God, it was you. Warm and real and here, even if you weren’t technically in the room.

He tugged the hood up over his buzzed hair, exhaling through a dazed grin, arms crossed loosely over his chest like he could hold the moment still just by squeezing hard enough.

“…Okay,” he mumbled, dragging himself back to reality, “focus, Stilinski. You’re not actually gonna melt into a pile of hoodie-scented goo. You’ve got a clue to find. A game to solve. A… future spouse to locate.”

His ears flushed again.

He turned toward the couch cushions, heart still hammering a little too fast, and immediately spotted what had to be the next piece.

There, nestled between the throw pillows, sat two polaroids and another envelope—this one decorated with yet another doodle, this time of a little ghost holding a heart. You’d drawn little motion lines around it like it was zooming.

He picked up the photos first, holding them up to the light.

The first one was you, caught mid-sneeze—eyes half-lidded, mouth open in some in-between curse-word-turned-sneeze expression. Stiles snorted so hard he almost dropped it.

The second one?

Him. Kissing your cheek.

You were trying to look annoyed, like you hadn’t just combusted from the contact—but your face had gone this perfect, brilliant shade of pink and your nose was scrunched up in that way that made his stomach do a completely unprovoked somersault.

He let out a breath through his nose, all fondness and fuzz.

“I cannot believe you kept the sneeze one,” he said to no one, because no one was around, but it didn’t matter. His voice still felt full of you.

Then he reached for the envelope.

It was wedged just slightly between the two photos, as if guarded. As if the memories themselves were protecting the next step.

He turned it over in his hands, thumbs brushing the tiny ghost.

Inside, he already knew—another piece of the trail. Another little puzzle, written in your voice.

And God, he’d never been more excited to chase something in his life.

The envelope crinkled just slightly as Stiles slid a careful finger beneath the flap, trying not to tear the ghost drawing. He’d never admit it out loud, but he was pretty sure he was going to keep all of these clues forever. Probably in a shoebox. Or maybe under his bed. Or framed. Shut up, it didn’t matter.

Inside, the second clue was written in the same pen—black gel, slightly smudged in places like you'd gone too fast, or maybe your hand had been shaking. Or sweating. Cute.

He unfolded the note and read aloud in a low murmur, the kind he only used when it was just him and no one was listening:

“For the next treasure, go where the contraband lives. Where the ‘we’re just getting water’ lie always gives. Behind the Wheat Thins and dad’s ‘secret’ stash, Lurks the next memory, plus a little sugar dash. (And yes, I drew you as a chocolate wizard. You’re welcome.)”

Stiles stared at it for a second. Then laughed.

“Chocolate wizard,” he repeated, shaking his head like it was the most ridiculous, most you phrase he’d ever heard. Which—honestly—was saying something.

He moved quickly now, feet padding down the hall with the kind of focused energy he usually reserved for crime scenes or trivia contests. The kitchen greeted him with the same quiet warmth as the rest of the house, dim lights casting soft shadows against the countertops. The playlist from the speaker was still going, shifting now into some kind of twinkly piano cover of a Bowie song, and it made everything feel extra surreal—like he’d stepped into a memory that hadn’t happened yet.

He didn’t hesitate as he approached the tall cabinet to the left of the fridge—the one that looked like it held nothing but innocent boxes of cereal and maybe a bottle of olive oil, but was actually Noah Stilinski’s poorly hidden snack vault. He and you had been raiding it since the day you started hanging out after school. “Just grabbing a glass of water,” was code for “stealing half a sleeve of Oreos and sprinting back upstairs like raccoons.”

Stiles opened the cabinet door and immediately reached behind the box of Wheat Thins.

And there it was.

Tucked neatly between a bag of trail mix and a box of Pop-Tarts was another envelope, this one a soft orange, like a sticky note. Drawn on the front in Sharpie was a truly spectacular stick-figure version of Stiles wearing a wizard hat made of chocolate. It even had tiny sparkles around it and a speech bubble that read, “I summon snacks!”

Beneath it, carefully placed and absolutely irresistible, was a small bar of chocolate—his favorite brand, the kind with chili and sea salt he pretended was “too spicy” for Scott but hoarded like gold. He grinned and pocketed it instantly.

And there, sitting beside the envelope, were two more polaroids.

He picked them up, instantly recognizing you in the first one—and wheezed.

“Oh my god.”

It was bad. Not just “oops I blinked” bad, but full mid-sentence, mouth open, eyes half-closed, hair doing that thing where it looked like it was trying to escape your skull. He had no idea when he took it, but judging by the chaos in the background, it was probably during one of your joint snack heists.

“You’re gonna kill me for keeping this,” he whispered fondly, tucking it behind the chocolate wizard clue like he was shielding you from your own humiliation.

Then he looked at the second photo.

And his breath caught just a little.

It was him—caught in profile, lips curved in the kind of rare, relaxed smile that didn’t show up unless he was laughing. His hand was resting just behind your head, clearly mid-ridiculous story, and you—you—were looking up at him, eyes wide, cheeks redder than a sunburn, expression stuck between admiration and utter disbelief that this was your life now.

It looked like a movie still. It looked like the moment someone realizes they’re hopelessly, helplessly in love.

Stiles ran a hand over his buzzed head, hoodie sleeves falling over his fingers. His heart did that stupid thing where it clenched and melted at the same time, like it didn’t know whether to combust or dissolve.

He stared at the photos for a long moment, then at the envelope.

And that’s when he realized it.

The pattern.

One embarrassing photo of you. One shockingly flattering photo of him. A clue. A treat. All nestled in places that meant something—not to everyone, but to you and him. Where you spent time. Hid from the world. Made dumb jokes and even dumber memories.

This wasn’t just a scavenger hunt.

It was a love letter. One with candy and chaos and polaroids instead of punctuation.

He swallowed, still smiling like an idiot as he slid the orange envelope open, more excited than ever for what came next.

Stiles slipped the clue out of the orange envelope, carefully so he didn’t smudge the ink. You’d written it a little more compact this time, like you were trying to contain something that wanted to spill over—like the words had energy in them. Like you had energy in you when you wrote it.

He read it once silently, and then again out loud, his voice quieter now, tinged with something softer. Something warmer.

“You’ve earned a pit stop—something sweet, something blue. Check the tray, take a sip (yes, it’s all just for you). But don’t linger too long—there’s one more place to be. Where your hoodie ends up… when you’re sharing it with me.”

He stood frozen for a beat, blinking at the page.

His lips twitched upward, and his ears flushed in slow motion.

“…Oh,” he said.

Then: “Oh.”

He looked toward the counter like it had suddenly become sacred. And in a way—it kind of had. You’d set it up like a miniature shrine: his favorite snacks laid out on a tray in ridiculous precision (you knew he liked the green gummy worms more than the orange ones), and beside it, an ice-cold bottle of blue Gatorade, the condensation making it look like it had been waiting for him all day.

He approached it like it might vanish if he blinked too hard.

For a second, he just stared—like he couldn’t believe it was real. Like he wasn’t already wearing your hoodie and halfway through a romantic quest you’d handcrafted like the world’s most affectionate cryptid.

Then he reached out, lifted the bottle of Gatorade, and took a slow sip.

And groaned.

“You remembered the exact temperature I like this at. You’re a witch.”

He popped a sour gummy worm into his mouth and grinned around it, high on sugar and something a lot more dangerous—something warm and giddy and intimate that made his knees a little weak.

As he leaned forward to grab another candy, something caught his eye—a flicker of color sticking out just barely from beneath the tray. Like it was peeking.

He slid the tray to the side, revealing another envelope—this one pale pink, with tiny hearts doodled along the bottom, but all lopsided and rushed like you’d done them last-minute.

He picked it up like it was precious. Like it mattered.

Because it did.

The note inside was short. Just two lines. And this time, the writing was different—still you, still messy, but slower. Intentional. Weighted.

“You’ve followed my trail—every sweet, silly part. Now go to your room… and bring your heart.”

There was a tiny arrow pointing downward, and beneath it, one last line, smaller and scribbled faster, like you’d hesitated before writing it at all:

“(And maybe your mouth, too.)”

Stiles blinked.

And then flushed so red it reached the tips of his ears.

He slapped the note lightly against his chest. “You menace.”

But he couldn’t stop smiling. It wouldn’t leave. Not even if he tried. His fingers curled around the note, carefully folding it as his heart raced ahead of him—way ahead.

He looked down the hallway, toward the stairs, toward his room.

And then he was moving.

Stiles’ socked feet barely made a sound as he climbed the stairs, the soft music from downstairs fading behind him like a curtain closing. Every step sent a little tremor through his chest, something giddy and humming, like the notes of a secret song playing just under his skin. The hoodie sleeves covered his hands completely now, and he clutched the last clue tight like it might fly away if he loosened his grip.

At the top of the stairs, he hesitated, his fingers brushing the edge of the hallway wall like he was steadying himself. The house was still quiet. Not the kind of silence that meant no one was home, but the kind that meant someone was waiting. Holding their breath. Listening.

He turned the corner.

His bedroom door was slightly ajar.

The light was different—softer. Warmer. Golden.

And the second he stepped over the threshold, everything in him stopped.

His room—his chaotic, poster-covered, slightly disastrous room—wasn’t gone, but it was… changed.

Transformed.

The harsh Star Wars bedding he’d probably had since middle school was gone, swapped out for clean, navy-blue sheets that looked like something out of a catalog, smooth and cool and deliberately chosen. His bed—usually a battlefield of mismatched pillows and tangled blankets—was now neat but cozy, layered with extra cushions, a folded knit throw at the end. The string lights above his headboard had been replaced—or maybe just added to—with warm, ambient fairy lights tucked along the walls, giving the entire room a hazy glow, like dusk bottled in glass.

The air smelled faintly like the candle you always lit at your house. Vanilla and cedar and something a little citrusy, like hope.

It didn’t look like a teenager’s room anymore.

It looked like a space made for him. Like you’d gone out of your way to carve a sanctuary out of his chaos. A soft place to land. A secret nest only you and he knew about.

And at the foot of the bed, resting against one of the navy pillows like the center of a constellation, was the final envelope.

This one was thick. Handwritten in bold, unmistakable scrawl. On the front, in looping, nervous letters:

“For your eyes only.”

His throat tightened. He stared at it for a moment, caught between wonder and disbelief, fingers twitching at his sides like they didn’t trust themselves to touch it yet.

Then, slowly, he crossed the room, each step quieter than the last.

He sank onto the edge of the bed, hoodie pooling around his arms, and reached for the envelope like it was sacred.

It was unsealed.

His name was written once, in smaller letters inside the flap. Just Stiles. No nicknames. No jokes. Like you couldn’t make yourself be funny when you wrote it. Like it mattered too much.

He opened it.

Inside, the letter was folded in half. The paper wasn’t lined—just blank, like you hadn’t needed structure to say what you needed to say. His fingers trembled a little as he opened it.

And there it was.

Your handwriting. Real. Tangled. Imperfect.

A love letter.

He could see it before he read a word: little scratch-outs where you’d second-guessed a sentence, arrows pointing to phrases you wanted to add. A tiny doodle in the margin of the two of you—stick-figure versions holding hands, one in a hoodie, the other with a ridiculous crown labeled birthday boy. The kind of letter that wasn’t polished, but was honest. Messy. A little goofy.

Just like the two of you.

He hadn’t even started reading yet, and he was already overwhelmed.

He sat there in the golden light, hoodie sleeves bunched in his lap, a room reshaped by love around him, a letter written by the person who knew him best in his hands.

And for once in his life—

He didn’t have a single word.

Just the kind of smile that doesn’t fade.

Stiles took a breath and finally let his eyes fall to the first line of the letter.

Dear Stiles (aka the light of my life, the smartest idiot I’ve ever met, the reason my standards are ruined forever, and my now-certified birthday boy),

Hi.

I know you’re probably blushing already, and honestly? Good. You deserve to. You deserve to feel like the center of the universe today. Actually, every day, but especially today.

Because here’s the thing: you are so stupidly, wildly, unfairly wonderful.

Like, do you even get how good you are? You’re brilliant (like scary smart—do you remember that time you solved that entire AP Chem problem before class even started and then helped me figure out how to balance basic equations without making me feel like a total moron??), and you’re hilarious (even when your jokes make me groan, I’m laughing inside, don’t lie), and you’ve got this face—this face, Stiles—that has no business being as perfect as it is.

Especially with the buzz cut.

Let’s talk about that for a second. The buzz cut? Criminal. Like, I was not prepared to find out I have a thing for soft hair and sharp jawlines and the back of your neck. You’ve created a monster. I literally cannot concentrate when you tilt your head. You’ve turned me into a flustered cartoon character. Congrats.

But here’s what gets me the most: you care.

You care so hard. About your dad, about Scott, about your friends, about me. You put everything you have into being there for people, even when you’re exhausted or scared or hiding behind one of your thousand sarcastic defense mechanisms. You show up. You’ve always shown up.

Like that day in fourth grade when I tripped over my own shoelace and biffed it in front of the whole playground. Remember that? I was crying, my knee was bleeding, and I’d just dropped my favorite pencil case with the sparkly stars on it. And you—tiny, bony, big-eyed Stiles—ran over like the floor was lava and immediately offered me your sleeve to wipe my face. Your sleeve, Stiles. You didn’t even flinch.

And you helped me up and made some ridiculous joke about gravity having a crush on me and I laughed—through the tears and snot and dirt, I laughed. And we’ve been friends ever since.

If you hadn’t been you in that exact moment, I don’t know where I’d be. Because everything that’s ever made my life better somehow leads back to you.

Which is why I am so damn glad I said yes when you asked me out. Four years later, still you, still me, still a little awkward and a lot in love.

And yeah. I am in love with you.

Head over heels. Hopelessly. Helplessly. Absolutely wrecked by how much I love you.

You make me feel safe and seen and like maybe the world isn’t as terrible as it looks on the news. You make me laugh when I want to cry, and you let me cry when I need to—and you never make me feel bad for either. You just… get me.

And you love me back. Somehow. Which is the biggest miracle of all.

So happy birthday, my soon-to-be-betrothed (yes, I said it again, fight me).

You’re my favorite person I’ve ever met. And the best part is—you’re mine.

Love, always and obnoxiously, Me.

P.S. You should probably go look at your desk now.

Like. Now now.

Stiles stared at the letter for a long, suspended moment after he finished reading.

His heart was hammering. His ears were hot. His eyes were suspiciously damp—but he didn’t move to wipe them. Didn’t blink them away. He just let it happen, let it be, because if there was ever a moment to feel everything all at once, it was this one.

You loved him.

And not in a vague, Hallmark card kind of way. You loved him in full paragraphs. In fourth-grade memories and buzz cut compliments and chaotic margins. You’d wrapped every inch of your heart into that letter, and now it was in his hands, sitting in his lap, warm as if it had just been pulled from your chest.

And somehow—somehow—you’d done more.

He blinked and looked up, your last sentence echoing in his brain like it was shouted down a hallway. P.S. You should probably go look at your desk now.

He turned slowly, standing on legs that were just a little wobbly with awe, and crossed the room toward the desk he barely used except to stack unopened textbooks and doodle when he was supposed to be doing homework.

But tonight?

It looked entirely different.

No clutter. No old gum wrappers or tangled earbuds or loose paperclips. Just one thing.

Centered. Waiting.

A scrapbook.

The cover was simple—matte black with his name on it in silver sharpie, hand-lettered in your slightly crooked handwriting. Around it were tiny white stars, all uneven and scattered, like a little galaxy made just for him. Like you’d tried to fit the whole universe on a spiral-bound cover.

He reached for it with the kind of reverence usually reserved for holy relics.

The first page creaked open with that satisfying, deliberate sound only thick paper can make—and then he was gone.

There was a photo of the two of you, age eleven, leaning awkwardly against each other, both sunburnt from the county fair, you wearing one of his flannels because you’d spilled cherry slushie on your shirt and Stiles had offered his like a tiny gentleman in cargo shorts.

There was a wrinkled receipt taped beside it—from Eddie’s All-Nite Diner—with a scribble under the $7.50 milkshake charge: “First sugar crash together. Worth it.”

Another page: a movie ticket from the worst horror movie of all time (and your first date), where you’d both screamed at the same exact jump scare and then laughed so hard the old couple two rows behind you told you to leave.

Polaroids were everywhere—messy, out of order, completely perfect. Some were blurry from movement, some captured you mid-blink or him mid-sneeze. But there were just as many soft ones, quiet ones. You tangled in a hoodie that definitely wasn't yours. Stiles grinning with chocolate ice cream on his nose. A close-up of your hands intertwined, his thumb running over your knuckle like a habit he couldn’t quit.

Then came the page he didn’t expect.

The thunderstorm.

You’d captioned it only with: “Stiles + [Your Name] vs. the storm: we lost, and it was the best night ever.”

The photo showed both of you soaked to the bone, standing in the middle of a glowing street, rain caught mid-fall like starlight. He had his hands cupped around your cheeks. You were laughing, mouth open wide, like you couldn’t contain the joy, like nothing had ever felt more right. And behind you, the world was blurred and glowing, caught in the storm with you.

He closed the scrapbook slowly, holding it against his chest like it was a heartbeat.

This wasn’t just a gift. This was everything.

A history. A promise. A celebration. A quiet, hand-built monument to your love, crafted out of scraps and snapshots and scribbles.

It didn’t matter that it wasn’t expensive. It didn’t matter that it didn’t come with a receipt or a barcode.

It mattered because it was you. All the best parts of you. And all the parts of him you’d chosen to treasure.

Stiles took a breath, eyes stinging again, and turned toward the door.

“Okay,” he whispered to himself, smiling so hard it ached. “You win. Best birthday of all time.”

And then he went to find you.

He turned around with purpose—full of momentum and love and maybe a little bit of sparkling tears still clinging to his lashes. He was ready to go find you, to sprint downstairs or search the house or call your name like a man on a mission.

But he didn’t have to.

Because you were already there.

Standing just a few feet away, leaning awkwardly just in front of the doorway with your hands in the sleeves of his sweatshirt—way too long for you, the hem brushing your thighs. Your legs were bare except for a pair of his sweatpants, rolled at the ankles so you didn’t trip. The sleeves of his hoodie covered your hands entirely, and the drawstrings were pulled unevenly. You looked cozy and rumpled and completely perfect.

His eyes flicked to the closet—open. Your graphic tee (the one with the cartoon cat and the phrase “You’ve got to be kitten me”) was crumpled in a pile on the floor like it had been discarded in a moment of boredom or impatience. Of course. You’d gotten restless waiting for him.

“Hi,” you said softly, and your voice held this shy warmth like maybe you were afraid it would all be too much. “I got bored. And also… your clothes are stupid comfortable, so.”

Stiles made a noise. It wasn’t even a word—just a sound, somewhere between a breath and a choke.

Then he moved.

There was no hesitation, no moment of panic or awkwardness or hesitation like there sometimes was with him. He just stepped forward and grabbed you—arms wrapping tight around your waist, face burying into the crook of your neck like it was the only place he could breathe.

And he cried.

Not a loud, ugly cry. Not sobs.

Just quiet, open, real crying. His shoulders shook a little. His breath hitched against your skin. His hands fisted in the fabric of his own sweatshirt where it hung on your back. He didn’t try to hold it back, didn’t apologize, didn’t ruin it with a joke. He just let it happen.

You held him right back, just as tightly, letting him melt into you like a boy who’d been carrying too much for too long and was only now allowed to fall apart a little.

“I love you,” he whispered into your shoulder, the words muffled and thick. “I love you so much, it hurts, okay? You—god, you did all this. You made this whole day magical and stupidly perfect and—you. You made it you. I don’t even know what I did to deserve you, but—holy shit—I love you.”

You didn’t say anything right away. Just held him, one hand moving up to thread through the tiny bristles of his buzzcut, the other anchoring at the small of his back.

He made a soft sound at the touch, like it grounded him. Like your fingers in his hair were all it took to keep him here, in this moment, in you.

When you did speak, it was barely above a whisper.

“I’ve loved you since you offered me your sleeve.”

He let out this shaky laugh that cracked right down the middle and turned into a hiccup of another tear.

Then you both stood there for a long time—no more clues, no more envelopes, no more presents or plans.

Just two kids in love, wrapped in each other, in a room that smelled like candle wax and hope, hearts thudding in sync under cotton and thread and years of shared history.

Eventually, Stiles pulled back just enough to see your face, his hands still cupping your sides like you might float away if he let go.

“You’re never getting this sweatshirt back,” you murmured, smiling up at him.

“Deal,” he said, and leaned in to kiss you like it was the only gift he needed.

His lips were warm and familiar and just a little bit chapped—like he hadn’t remembered to use the lip balm you kept trying to sneak into his backpack. But none of that mattered. Not the dry lips or the tear-smudged cheeks or the fact that his hoodie sleeves were still swallowing your hands.

Because the kiss?

It was everything.

Soft and slow at first—like he was afraid of shattering the moment. His hands stayed gentle, fingers curled against the small of your back and your side, barely gripping, just holding. Like you were fragile, or maybe like he was. And then you tilted your head just a little, pressed closer, and something cracked open.

He sighed into your mouth like it was relief.

Like kissing you was the answer to a question he hadn’t known he was asking all day.

The kiss stayed sweet, but it deepened in that sort of clumsy, impossibly you two way—where his nose bumped yours and he smiled into it, where you laughed quietly against his lips because his hand had accidentally brushed your hip and made you twitch.

You broke the kiss for a breath, barely, and he chased you with a quiet sound—like he was already missing it.

You nuzzled close, your nose brushing the side of his, and whispered, lips brushing his skin as you spoke, “Just so you know… if you ever get rid of this buzz cut, I’m going to cry.”

He blinked, breath catching as he pulled back the tiniest bit to look at you. “What?”

“I’ll cry,” you repeated solemnly, then kissed the corner of his mouth. “Real tears. Ugly ones. And then I’ll have to go find someone else’s sleeve to sob into. Because this?” You reached up and ran your fingers along the soft velvet of his buzzed hair. “This is criminally hot. I mean, seriously. You have no idea what this does to me.”

Stiles flushed immediately—face going from warm to cherry red in an instant. “Wha—okay, no. No, see, this is not fair. You can’t just say stuff like that when I’m—when I’ve just been emotionally demolished by your love scrapbook and—and your face in my hoodie.”

You grinned.

He rubbed a hand down his own face, flustered and glowing and utterly undone. “You—you love the buzz cut?”

You nodded, emphatic. “I adore it. You look like… like a freshly sharpened pencil I want to make out with forever.”

He made a strangled noise. “That is the weirdest and most affirming compliment I’ve ever received.”

You kissed him again. Quick. Sweet. “Good.”

He rested his forehead against yours then, eyes fluttering shut, still smiling like he couldn’t stop if he tried. “I almost didn’t do it, you know. Buzz it. I thought you might hate it. Or think I looked like an egg.”

You pulled back just enough to cup his cheeks, your expression full of earnest affection.

“You could look like a literal potato and I’d still be in love with you. But lucky for both of us, you look like a movie star with a jawline sharp enough to commit crimes.”

Stiles made another one of those soft, broken little laughs and melted right into your hands.

“I love you,” he murmured. “So much it makes my chest feel too small.”

“Good,” you whispered back. “Then we match.”

And you kissed him again, slow this time, lingering. The kind of kiss that said thank you, and I see you, and I want to keep choosing you—over and over again.

And in the soft, golden light of his newly transformed room, wrapped in each other and ridiculous compliments and hoodie sleeves too long for your hands, everything felt safe. Everything felt like forever.

Eventually, the kiss slowed, softened, like an exhale that had been waiting all day to happen.

Your foreheads bumped again, and your lips brushed once more, but this time it was gentler—less urgency, more intimacy. Stiles sighed through his nose, still tangled in the warmth of your arms, your words, your everything.

You smiled, not pulling too far away, just enough to shift onto your knees on the bed and gesture behind you with a small, secretive glint in your eyes. “Okay. One more gift.”

Stiles groaned, but it was soft and fond, dragging his hands down his face dramatically. “How? How are there more? You already wrecked me. I'm emotionally obliterated. Do you want me to die?”

“Not yet.” You grinned. “But you might implode. So scoot.”

He shuffled obediently, and you reached back toward the stack of pillows at the head of his bed, digging beneath the fluff until your fingers curled around something you’d stashed carefully earlier in the day.

A small black box.

You hesitated for just a second, then pulled it free and turned, sitting cross-legged in front of him.

“I was gonna… give you this in a different context,” you admitted, voice dipping a little. There was heat beneath your words—an unspoken layer of maybe later tonight, if we felt brave enough, but you didn’t say it aloud. You didn’t have to. The flush in his cheeks said he understood exactly what you meant.

His eyes flicked to the box, then back to your face, breath catching.

You opened it slowly.

Inside was a crown.

Not gaudy. Not regal. Not a king’s crown or anything covered in jewels.

No—this was so him.

Crafted of matte black metal, the usual sharp spikes had been swapped for curved little bats—elegant and geeky all at once. They looked like they were mid-flight, like they’d taken off from some gothic comic book panel. And across the front and right behind it on the inner band, etched in delicate silver script, were two lines:

I love you. I know.

Stiles made a sound. A choked-off laugh, caught in his throat like it didn’t know whether to come out as awe or disbelief.

“I—what—” He reached forward but didn’t touch it, like he was afraid his hands were too human for something this perfect.

You lifted it from the box carefully, the way you might lift a relic from a museum or a holy object, and leaned toward him.

He went still.

And when you settled it on his head—when you placed it there gently, precisely, reverently—his breath stuttered right out of him.

“There,” you whispered, brushing his cheek. “Perfect.”

He blinked at you, visibly overwhelmed, voice caught somewhere in the galaxy between bashful and undone. “You made me a bat crown.”

“I did.”

“With a Star Wars quote.”

“Uh huh.”

“And I love you.”

“You better,” you said, grinning, but your voice cracked slightly. Because you weren’t done. Not quite.

You took his hand.

Held it between both of yours like it was precious. Like it had always been meant for you.

“Stiles,” you said, and then, more deliberately, more sacred, “Mieczysław.”

His breath hitched.

“That’s my engagement promise to you,” you said quietly, steady despite your heart racing. “Because let’s be honest. We’re gonna get married someday. It’s not even a question anymore. It’s just a when. And this? This is your crown. Because you already rule my whole world.”

Stiles’ eyes welled instantly, but he didn’t look away. Didn’t laugh it off. Didn’t try to change the subject like he usually might. He just stared at you like you were the only real thing that had ever existed.

You smiled softly, eyes flicking up to the little bats still trembling slightly with the movement of his breathing.

And that was it.

The moment hung between you like starlight—quiet, steady, eternal.

Just two disaster nerds in love, one in a hoodie and the other in a bat crown, already promising forever in the language of Star Wars and memories and late-night snacks.

And maybe it wasn’t the grandest birthday anyone had ever thrown, but it didn’t have to be.

Because this?

This was yours.

Forever.

“Happy birthday, Stilinski.”

#stiles stilinski #stiles stilinski x reader #gender neutral reader #stiles stilinski fluff #stiles stilinski x reader fluff #stiles stilinski fanfiction #stiles x reader #x reader #stiles stilinksi imagine #stiles stilinksi fanfiction #stiles stilinski imagine #dylan o’brien #x gender neutral reader #happy birthday

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reddest-flower · 9 months ago

Text

Cuba broke through its colonial domination into freedom. From the mountains of the Sierra Maestra and from the cities came the torrential power of the people against the US-backed dictator Fulgencio Batista. ‘The revolution is made in the midst of danger’, said Fidel Castro as he led his band of peasant-soldiers from the hills into the cities. They had triumphed against remarkable odds. Quickly, the revolutionaries passed a series of decrees – just as the Soviets had – to draw the key classes to their side. To draw in the urban Cubans, the revolutionaries cut rents by half – sending a strong signal to the bourgeoisie that they had a different class outlook. Then, the revolutionaries took on the United States, whose government held a monopoly over services to the island. Telephone and electrical companies – all American – were told to reduce their rates immediately. Then, on May 17, 1959, the Cuban government passed its agrarian reform – the keystone of the revolutionary process. Land holdings would be restricted so that no large landowners could dominate the landscape and so that the US sugar industry could not strangle the hopes of the island. The most radical part of the reform was not the land ceiling itself, but the logic that agrarian reform would transform the stagnation of the Cuban economy and its dependence upon the United States. The law clearly stated that, from a socialist standpoint,

«The agrarian reform has two principal objectives: (a) to facilitate the planting or the extension of new crops with the view of furnishing raw materials to industry, satisfying the food requirements of the nation, increasing the export of agricultural products and, reciprocally, the import of foreign products which are essential to use; (b) to develop the interior market (family, domestic) by raising the purchasing power of the rural population. In other words, increase the national demand in order to develop the industries atrophied by an overly restrained consumption, or in order to create those which, for lack of customers, were never able to get started among us.»

The revolutionaries wanted to diversify their sugarcane island, produce food security for their people, remove people from desperation, increase the ability of people to consume a range of goods and engineer a people-centred rather than an export-centred economy. Long before Castro announced his commitment to communism, the regime had already developed a carefully thought out socialist platform.

The United States of America, having overthrown the radical nationalist government in Guatemala in 1954, was eager to repeat the task in Cuba in 1959. An embargo came swiftly, as did every form of humiliation possible against the Cuban people. The Cuban economy was structured around dependency to Washington, with the sugar bought by the US firms and with the island turned into a playground for American tourists. Now, the US decided to squeeze this little island, only ninety miles from the US shoreline. Gunboats were readied, a failed invasion tried in April 1961 at the Bay of Pigs. Cuba was vulnerable but also protected by the deep roots of its revolution. But would this protection be sufficient? Could Cuba, alone, be able to survive the onslaught from the United States?

On February 5, 1960, a leader in the USSR and an Old Bolshevik – Anastas Mikoyan – came to Havana to join Fidel Castro at the opening of a Soviet scientific, cultural and technical exhibition. A week later, Mikoyan and Castro signed an agreement for the USSR to buy Cuban sugar at the world market price (in dollars) and provide credits for the Cubans to buy Russian goods. The USSR would subsequently buy almost all the Cuban sugar harvest, even as the Russian consumer market could very well have been supplied by beet sugar from within the USSR. Prices fluctuated, but, on balance, the Cubans were able to find a regular buyer to take over from the United States. The Russians also provided over a $100 million in credits toward the construction of Cuba’s chemical industry as well as trained Cuban technical and scientific workers in the USSR. Diversification of Cuba’s economy remained on the cards, although it became clear that it would not be an easy task. In August 1963, Castro announced that diversification, as well as industrialization, would be postponed. Cuba needed to concentrate on its sugarcane harvest to earn the means to survive the embargo.

On February 24, 1965, Che Guevara addressed the Second Economic Seminar of Afro-Asian Solidarity in Algiers, Algeria. He had come to talk about the economic problems for a revolution in a post-colonial country. Overthrowing the former colonizer was not enough, Che said, since ‘a real break’ is needed from imperialism for the new state to actually flourish and not remain in dependency. How could the post-colonial state survive a hostile economic climate? Who would buy its goods – mainly primary, unprocessed goods – at a fair price, and who would lend it capital at fair terms to develop? Capitalist banks and countries would not provide the post-colonial state, particularly a socialist state, with the means to break out of the trap of underdevelopment. Banks would lend money to a post-colonial state at rates higher than it would lend to a colonial power. Expensive money would only put the post-colonial state into further difficulty, as it would find it hard to service its debt and see its debt multiply out of hand. To prevent this situation, Che argued, the ‘socialist countries must help pay for the development of countries now starting out on the road to liberation’. Trade between socialist countries must not take place based on the law of value of capitalism, but through the creation of fraternal prices. ‘The real task’, Che said, ‘consists of setting prices that will permit development. A great shift in ideas will be involved in changing the order of international relations. Foreign trade should not determine policy, but should, on the contrary, be subordinated to a fraternal policy toward the peoples.’

China, in 1960, offered Cuba credit of $60 million without interest and without a timeline for repayment. This was an enviable loan. But the scale was much smaller than the Soviet assistance. By 1964, the USSR had provided Cuba with economic assistance valued at over $600 million, while the Eastern European countries offered several hundred million more in aid and assistance. The USSR had also trained over 3,000 Cubans in agronomy and agricultural mechanization as well as 900 Cubans as engineers and technicians. Che recognized the value of the Soviet ‘fraternal policy’ both in terms of the training and in the prices offered. ‘Clearly, we could not ask the Socialist world to buy this quantity of sugar at this price based on economic motives’, he had said in 1961, ‘because really there is no reason in world commerce for this purchase and it was simply a political gesture’.

Red Star Over the Third World, Vijay Prashad, 2019

#vijay prashad #cuba

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fatkish · 1 year ago

Note

Of course, you can put a spin on my cat quirk user ♡

(Alright, just wanted to make sure.)

(Trigger warning: human and animal trafficking mentioned, also mentions of drugging someone)

Aizawa x Jaguar Reader

(The reader in this story is an actual Jaguar with a quirk that allows them to transform into a human)

Reader is a Jaguar who was naturally born with a human transformation quirk. They grew up in the Amazon jungle with their mother who was a normal Jaguar. The reader learned to hunt and was taught everything they needed in order to be a successful apex predator by their mother

The reader has human level intelligence due to their quirk.

One day, villains from Brazil found out about the reader. They eventually tranquillized and captured the reader, smuggling them into Japan were the villains planned to sell the reader in a black market auction

When the reader had woken up halfway through the shipping to Japan, they realized that their best chance of survival was to wait for the villains to let their guard down, then the reader could have a better chance of escaping. When the smugglers realized that the reader was awake they drugged them again, putting the reader back to sleep

Meanwhile in Japan, Detective Tsukauchi and the police had been tracking two of the main villains in charge of the auctions and running them. The police were planning a raid on the building the night of the auction. The people running it were notorious for human trafficking, the sale and trafficking of parts of or whole endangered animal species, kidnapping, etc.

Detective Tsukauchi was the lead investigator and asked Aizawa as well as Midnight to help in the raid. Midnight’s primary role was to help subdue the criminals as well as protect the heroes and police from any dangerous animals that might be found

On the night of the auction the reader wakes up inside a metal cage with a shock collar on their neck. They’re hidden beneath the stage in the storage area, surrounded by various cages with other humans and some animals

The humans all seemed to be young and mostly female, the reader could sense the fear that belonged to the humans in the cages. The humans also were wearing the strange collar that was around their own neck

The humans outside the cages all had white masks covering their faces. One of these people was walking around going to each cage and putting their hands on the humans heads. Once the person had come to them the reader snarled at them but was rewarded with a powerful shock running through their body.

The human placed their hands an the reader’s head, after feeling a weird tingling sensation, the human retracted their hands. The human then told the reader that they had better do whatever they are told, if they don’t listen, they will be shocked. With the effects of the drugs still wearing off, the reader didn’t question how they could suddenly understand what the human’s language.

Suddenly a loud voice is heard from above as the auction begins. After a few minutes, cages are wheeled over to a platform that lifts things onto the stage through the floor.

After the last cage before them is brought up, the human from earlier commands the reader to change into their human form. Not listening to the commands, the reader is shocked again when the human presses a rectangular object.

After that the reader transforms and a hook attached to a long pole is connected to their collar as they are led onto the lift

Outside the heroes and police are setting up and getting into position to start the raid. All entrances and exits have been surrounded. Once Tsukauchi has made sure everything and everyone was in place and ready, he gave the order to cut the buildings power supply thus signaling the start of the raid

As the heroes begin to enter the building and start taking out the buyers, auctioneers and other participants, the reader, having been sold to a wealthy businessman with a cat-girl fetish, is being led to one of the back rooms when the power goes out

Since the system that was controlling the collars was being powered by the building’s electrical system, once the power was shut off, the collars unlocked and deactivated

Realizing that this is their best chance at escaping, the reader transforms into their original form and attacks the nearest person in a mask. Using their natural predatory night vision, as well as their hunting skills, the reader slinks through the hall avoiding as many people as possible using the darkness to their advantage

After passing by a hall filled with a purple fog, the reader turns the corner and finds themselves back at the stage where a human with strange glowing red eyes protected by some strange yellow covering, is fighting the humans in white masks

This human had some strange long grey appendage? No, tool? They were using it to capture the humans and fight them. This human also smelled different than the humans in masks

Distracted by their predatory analyzation of the human, they didn’t notice that the human had defeated all of the other humans present. When the human suddenly turned their attention and focus onto them.

The human stared at the reader for a moment before removing the yellow eye coverings. Quickly retrieving something from its waist, the human tilted their head back, dropping some kind of liquid into its eyes.

The human, after a few blinks, stares the reader in the eyes as the human’s mane raises and its eyes glow red. Seeing this as some kind of human threatening display, the reader snarls as they bear their fangs and crouch into position to pounce onto the human if necessary

After a few seconds the human lowered its mane as its eyes stopped glowing. The human raised its front paw and told the reader that they are not a threat and that they are not going to hurt them. The human didn’t seem to have any sort of fear and was obviously not a prey but they were still wary of the reader.

Suddenly another human called out and was running up behind the human, before either human could react, the reader pounced onto the new human, believing them to be a threat. Sinking their claws into the human’s shoulders and about to go for the head, Aizawa shouts no, in distress.

Realizing that the human was upset by them attacking the other human, the reader turns to look at Aizawa as they get off of the police officer.

After checking on the officer’s condition and making sure they were okay, Aizawa turns to the reader after realizing that they stopped their attack after he told them to

Carefully approaching the reader, Aizawa asks them if they can understand what he’s saying and to lift their front paw if they can. The reader lifts their paw and afterwards slowly approaches Aizawa. Before the reader can get to close a purple fog surrounds them as a loud sound is made as they feel a sharp pain in their hind leg. Before they can turn and attack the human the reader falls asleep

After dealing with the clean up and arresting the criminals, Tsukauchi approaches Aizawa with a file containing a list of the items being sold. When looking at the file, Tsukauchi points out the reader’s information.

When Aizawa confirms that the listed information is true, that being that the reader is actually an animal with a quirk, Aizawa asks Tsukauchi what would be done with the reader.

Tsukauchi tells him that there really isn’t much he can do about what would happen to the reader, but that the reader would either be handed over to scientists or placed in a zoo or research sanctuary.

Aizawa decides that the reader would probably be subjected to experiments and would be forced to undergo extensive and invasive tests, he calls Nedzu and tells him about the reader

When the reader wakes up, they are laying on a pile of blankets with bandages wrapped around the top of their left hind leg. Looking around they are met by a white rodent.

The rodent introduces himself as Nedzu, he explains to the reader what happened and what their current situation is. He explains that humans are not used to seeing animals with abilities like theirs. He tells the reader that humans are likely to experiment on animals like them since they are different.

Nedzu tells them that since they are capable of understanding humans, that the reader’s best course of action is to learn to live like a human and understand human society. He tells the reader that he can help them and give them the opportunity to become what humans call a hero

After much discussion mainly on Nedzu’s part, the reader agrees to live at UA. Aizawa, being the one who found them, is put in charge of the reader and is made their handler/guardian

Aizawa teaches the reader what they need to know and how society works. While Aizawa teaches, the reader either sleeps or patrols the grounds. At night, when Aizawa is on patrol, the reader follows him as his sidekick.

Power loader creates a special suit for the reader to wear made of the reader’s own fur, that way they are not naked when they transform. The reader is officially a member of the Aizawa family

Hope you enjoyed this

#mha x reader #bnha x reader #aizawa x reader #mha aizawa #aizawa shouta #x cat reader #mha #bnha #aizawa sensei #bnha aizawa #mha pro heroes #bnha pro heroes

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kimiko24-art · 18 days ago

Text

Pesche Mistro/Ercolani(peaches) JJBA OC (more AU lore and world building)

Finally redrew this guy and fleshed him out!! I still have a few more OC's that I have to draw in order to insert them into my AU~ But here's my boy~ 🥹

🌿🌿🌿

✨STORY / INFO✨

✨ Pesche was adopted into the Ercolani family at the age of thirteen. Even though he carries the last name of the family. He considers himself more of a family friend rather than an actual member. After many years of being treated like an outsider by the older members of the Ercolani's. Pesche decided to cut his ties with his adoptive family and start his own career as a mercenary back in his hometown of Napoli. It took him two long years to make a decent name for himself on the streets of Napoli. But once he did, Pesche preformed many jobs for big criminal organizations/gangs, including Passione. He was even eventually hired by his own adoptive father, Guilio to protect his adoptive sister Oliva while she was overseas.

✨Pesche likes spending time alone, mainly keeping to himself. The mercenary was orphaned at a young age, and is used to solitude. However he isn't opposed to having bonds with others. Though, he won't admit it. Despite his laid back personality, he's pretty awful at small talk as well. There's a sense of awkwardness or annoyance if the topic of conversation isn't about money or work. Too add he's also a bit of a tsundere too. Pesche considers himself to have no affiliations, and will gladly work for anyone who's willing to pay.

STAND ABILITIES

✨Sneaker pimps is a "Materialized Type" Stand that has taken the form of a "200 lire coin" and is quite versatile. It's ability is to transforming into any weapon for it's user to wield. However, the user has no control over what weapon is selected by the Stand, and it's mainly left up to chance. The mechanic requires the user to flip the stand, much like a coin when playing heads or tails to activate it. Heads equals an offensive weapon, tails equals a defense weapon. Which adds both unpredictably for the user and his opponent. Forcing it's user to adapt on the spot. It's base stats change depending on what weapon it shifts into.

✨Sneaker Pimps abilities and the stand itself are a manifestations of the lack of what Pesche received in his life, and the ways in which he learned to make those circumstances work for him. His success coming from adaptability and hard work, a bit of luck too.

OUR RELATIONSHIP

✨We were enemies at first (he was hired to do a job and there was a conflict of interest.) but a mishap occurred that forced us to work together during a battle. Despite out conflicting interest at the time, the situation lead to us developing a friendship after a little while. Though, he doesn't seem to want a close friendship especially since I have ties to Passione! But he's always around more or less. I like to tease him a lot~

INFO ABOUT THE ERCOLANI FAMILY

✨A now powerful family, that had their humble beginnings in Southern Naples. In the beginning the Ercolani family had an arrangement with Passione. They had deep ties to the gang and agreed to work together since they both operated out of Southern Naples.

✨The Ercolani would supply funding to Passione for a cut of the total profit made from the drug trade. But after finding out that Passione had been holding back on the family's cut, despite the investment, they had a huge falling out. Which led to a sort of heated rivalry. Eventually after a few years they cut ties and the Ercolani relocated elsewhere.

✨They now own several major business throughout Italy. Mainly in tourism. They also have control of several popular opera houses in Florence and Rome. For now the two groups are at a sort of truce. Neither ventures on to each others territory. The Ercolani family has roughly 106 members and the head of the family is Guilio Ercolani. He is known for his intense hatred of Passione and love of opera.

(The family's name is a variation of Ercolano (Italian: [erkoˈlaːno]) is a town and comune in the Metropolitan City of Naples, Campania of Southern Italy. From the personal name Ercolano originally an adjectival derivative (meaning 'Herculean') of Hercules.)

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churino · 5 months ago

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Design for Sixshot

"Face" of the six clan, his twisted sense of honor tells him that he should look his targets in the eye before taking them out which led him to become more well known than his fellow six clan ninjas even if their job is to manipulate earth in secret

Sixshot is the most feared of the six clan ninjas, a group of transformers determined to keep humanity and machine separated, with his five alternate modes he's a one bot army and expresses various supernatural powers as a trait of the evolutionary mode switching shared by the six clan. Sixshot has the ability to allow energy to phase through his body without harm, as well as absorb various forms of energy and channel it into invisibility, illusion casting, and a corruptive touch which he can embue into his munitions that puts anything they hit under the control of the six clan's mysterious master while slowly reducing its victims to dust

But he is not just a heartless weapon, he's also a father. An unsavory man, he has been known to hang out in unsavory places and that eventually resulted in his son quickswitch, who he hopes to train into another deadly six clan ninja just like him. But weather its from pitty or opportunism he has taken on another deciple, after the cyberninjas rejected nightbird, sixshot took her under his wing, where she got along well with his son, each the other's first love, but as their training around the world continued, nightbird inadvertently exposed quickswitch to the true nature of things which led him to betray his father, while nightbird, still yearning for what he can teach her, has remained loyal, now he wants to hunt down his turncoat son before he can reveal the secrets of the six clan to the autobots

The truth being that the six clan doesn't just kill transformers who interact with humanity, they sell their resources. Energon among them to select unscrupulous human groups in exchange for their support to their mascarade, the capitalistic companies of the world, from food and drink to tech firms, put into those positions of power, supplied by cybertronian technology, with even something as harmless as a shower curtain manufacturer holding in their hands the power to take over the world if unchallenged, and if even one of them found out about it and acted on it, it would spell disaster not just for the six clan but for the entire earth itself

#transformers #transformers fanart #cybertronian #robot #robots #character design #autobots #decepticons #maccadam #maccadams #transformers from a to z #sixshot

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apriltempleos · 7 months ago

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october 1st 2024: drafts!

preacher: i'm attaching slightly improved versions of our original drafts, but i'll also include mine and scott's garbage sketches under the cut because i think they're a little bit funny

(image id available through tumblr's accessibility options)

this is a slightly revised version of my original concept for "APRIL".

the main functionality i wanted for "APRIL" was for her to be able to read out words from the templeOS god word app, and ideally without needing keyboard input – hence the microphone. ideally all of her parts are going to fit inside a hollowed out mannequin or doll, which will probably just be the torso, so that she's more portable. for the same reason, i want her to run off a power bank – i want to be able to take her places!

if we manage, we're going to give her an animated LED face which moves to indicate when she's speaking. the way i first pitched it, i wanted it to also change a bit depending on how she "felt" – for example, frowning if the environment was hotter than ideal for the raspberry pi to operate on. but that's a bit beyond our current scope right now. i don't think we even ordered a thermostat.

scott drew the following wiring diagrams based off my original sketch. here revised digitally for readability's sake.

(image id available through the tumblr accessibility options although i fear it's not very good in this case. feedback appreciated).

scott: I decided to go with the raspberry pi zero 2w because it's what I've got experience coding on, it's relatively cheap for the "brains" of the operation (heh) and can perform both tasks from the godword prophecy generation, speaker operation and led matrix operation simultaneously. Plus its small enough to keep the circuit lightweight and fit inside the initial mannequin design.

This drawing fits no kind of engineering standard by the way lol. It was an initial sketch closer to a wiring diagram to see how it'd physically setup and wrap my head around transforming it from mains power to being theoretically portable and running on powerbanks. Unfortunately the LED matrix is really fucking power hungry so needs its own power supply of really specific voltage and current draws hence all the converters.

Also because Im using the smaller and cheaper pi, as oppossed to a stronger system like the pi4, it doesn't have any audio out jack so I plan to use the micro usb for audio out which means yet again I need another adapter for a soundcard and usb to micro usb adapters and all that jazz. Usually sound out can be done through the GPIO pins but the LED matrix takes so many pins that I cant really take anything form them so I had to look for other ways of doing it. Plus this way I get to add a soundcard so if we wanna add microphone support or anything later on we can :)

(Also this is all a little obtuse because I'm trying to do it as much as plug and play and screw terminal style as possible rather than actually solder connections for ease of access and initial setup, but this also works for modular design and component swapping later too so its cool.)

preacher: another reason we're going with plug&play is becauuseeeeee i don't own a soldering iron 😭 it's ok. it's ok.

our silly initial drafts under the cut for your viewing pleasure.

preacher: these were made around 2 weeks ago, so about september 15th ish.

as you can see the first "APRIL" drawing was beautifully drawn with my fat fingers in the facebook messenger photo editor. i think it holds up. lol.

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hanayori89 · 1 year ago

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The Hand That Heals

You were one of the contaminated ones.

The Hylians didn't use words like 'infected' or 'diseased.' Not that those words were much better. No matter what the title was for your malady, they all hurt just the same.

But something about the word 'contaminated' made you feel stark and hopeless.

Incurable.

Infections and diseases often have cures. Something that is tarnished, something that is ruined, is not salvaged; it is just disposed of.

And that's exactly what you felt like.

Soiled.

Tainted.

Disposable.

Trash.

Which is why you disposed of yourself within the pockets of decaying earth that lay beneath

Hyrule's bedrock known as the depths.

It was your way of throwing yourself away before mobs of frightened citizens attempted to.

The depths were no place for the robust and bright-eyed. Or the 'uncontaminated.'

It wasn't all bad being exiled deep below in the cold and musty undergrounds. Especially since most of Hyrule had been thrown into peril by recent devastating events.

First there was the rise of the highly contagious 'gloom'. Followed by the princess and her loyal knight, who had both mysteriously vanished.

Finally, and perhaps most importantly, was the coup being held by the restless Demon King known as Ganondorf.

Yes, you decided the healthy could have their surface; you were quite content existing in isolation, where the only threat was that of you and your gloom germs.

Living in the depths proved challenging for a mere mortal. Your circadian rhythm has been destroyed thanks to the lack of sunlight. Supplies were scarce, causing you to forage whatever you could find. Mostly mushrooms and glowing cave fish, but hey, fish have omega-3's, right?

The biggest challenge was the constant darkness- a darkness unparalleled to anything you've ever encountered before. Not even the glum of a thick and clouded wilderness or a quiet, uninhabited basement could compare.

You'd never known what it meant to be in the dark before your time in the depths.

They held a darkness that consumed you, making you question if you truly were even alive. Making you question if you ever even were. Part of you grew to appreciate what little the depths revealed, such as the unforgiving side effects of the gloom and how it mutilated you.

The depths did more than just shield you and your contamination from the healthy residents of Hyrule; they protected you from the trauma of what you had become.

But every now and then, when you threw a bright bloom seed or lit a fire, there was a remorseless glow that revealed the way the gloom was devouring you. It only took a single glance at your wiry fingers and the bedizen of ashen knuckles that led to the fungal tint of your nail beds, to be reminded.

You couldn't even begin to imagine the abomination that was now your face.

Before the gloom, you were considered to be beautiful, at least to some. You had thick h/c locks that, if shaved, could easily coat the heads of 50 dolls. Your e/c eyes were striking against your s/c complexion, garnering you an abundance of compliments throughout your life. You had a thicker body, a well-fed one. Your hips were wide thanks to the cheesecake slices you graciously never skipped when offered. But now, thanks to the slim pickings of the depths, your body has taken on a lanky, frail appearance.

You trekked back toward your camp, tossing bright bloom seeds along the way to illuminate your path. You held your breath, listening carefully to your surroundings. The past horrors of trying to navigate the dark and coming face-to-face with a contaminated Lynel left you with a bit of ptsd.

Besides the depths being difficult to traverse thanks to a severe lack of light, they were also a domicile of frightening creatures that had been metamorphosed by the transformative powers of the gloom.

Sometimes you couldn't help but wonder how long it would take before you became one of them.

The bright bloom seeds were a tool that provided enough light to hunt, but not much else. The irony of the depths was that despite the blockade of layers of soil and organic matter preventing the entrance of light, there was a multitude of bright bloom seeds that flourished down here.

Yes, the depths truly were a whole new world. Starting with this darkness, which could easily cause one to mistake hell for heaven. You weren't aware of all the secrets buried within these shadows, and you also knew you weren't too eager to find out.

You breathed a little easier when the comforting flames of your camp came into view. As you lifted your arm, aiming to launch another bright bloom seed, you saw a figure at your camp. The closer you got, the more you recognized the familiar outline of a short, spiny ponytail jutting above the familiar white sheen of a face mask.

"Of all the founding fathers of Hyrule, what is a Yiga buffoon doing down here?" You growled.

Anger propelled you forward; rebellion coursed through your veins and burned like lidocaine on an open wound. You had so very little left, and the desire to protect what little you possessed was fierce. Fish carcasses and mushrooms were strewn around the ground as the Yiga's grubby hands rummaged through your knapsack. In it were pictures of your family and what little rupees you had to your name, should you ever be magically cured of your gloom diagnosis and could return home.

You tackled the Yiga to the ground. "How dare you!" The Yiga screamed. As you gripped his arm, the gloom in your hands incinerated the fabric of his sleeves, branding his flesh with your handprints.

"You bitch!" He stumbled out of your grasp, dropping all of your rupees in the process. One of the photos of your father and mother fell from the knapsack and fluttered downward into the open blaze of your campfire.

You screamed.

You stuck your hand into the fire, wincing as you retrieved the charred photo. The melted faces of your mother and father stared back at you. The photo began to shrivel beneath a small flame that continued to eat it.

You puckered your lips, releasing hefty currents of your breath. You had to blow this fire out.

You just had to.

This photo was one of the few you had that was a memory of when your life was normal. The smiles of your parents were the last visible evidence you had that they loved you before you contracted the gloom.

With a sickle in hand, the Yiga sprinted toward you, hollering a bunch of muffled expletives you couldn't hear well thanks to his ridiculous mask.

As you braced for impact, the Yiga fell face first in the dirt before your feet. An arrow protruded from his back.

He had been shot.

You fell to your knees, holding the destroyed photo, where your parents' faces had been, that now held your fallen tears.

A quiet voice called out to you; so soft was this voice that you thought it was your imagination.

"Are you alright?"

A figure came into focus; you couldn't make out his face, just the scraggly tresses that were whipped around his shoulders and the outline of his beefed-up biceps.

"Stay back!" You warned. "I'm contaminated..." You stifled another sob. The heroic intruder held his hands up, demonstrating that he was not a threat.

Which was all the more reason you had to warn him that you were.

He took a cautious step forward. "I've only come to ask a question." He retrieved a crumpled piece of paper from a satchel on his side. He retained his anonymity beneath the shadows, allowing you to only make out the faint outline of his fine lips as he spoke. "Have you seen her?"

You stood, taking a step toward him but keeping yourself hidden as well. It was almost as if you both wanted to remain concealed from one another. Despite the smeared ink that bled slightly down the paper and the creases that obscured the image, you could recognize the viridescent glare of Hyrule's missing princess on the sheet.

"Princess Zelda? They're searching the depths now?"

"No acre of land below or above should go without searching until we find her."

"Well, as you can see, these depths here hold no one but me and my greedy thief friend you have so kindly slain."

He tucked the sheet of paper back into his satchel but remained in your vision, or what the hollowed dark allowed of your vision. "Say, did they find her knight? Lonk? Ling?"

You could see the stranger open his lips, only to clutch them back together. "Link. His name is Link. And no, no, they haven't."

You turned your back to the stranger, assessing the mess the Yiga soldier had made of your supplies. You bent back down and picked up your parents' photo, choking on another wave of tears.

The man's voice sounded from behind you, only slightly closer now. "I can fix that for you."

You peered at him from over your shoulder. He was close enough to the fire that you could see part of the bare skin of his chest and his sculpted chin, which led to his chapped lips.

You still couldn't quite see his eyes.

He held his hand out, and you noticed his fingernails were long and jagged, not having seen nail clippers in some time. An alluring glow seemed to trickle down his arm in an intricate maze of glowing jade lines. You placed the photo in his hand, careful not to touch him with your fingers. You kept your face hidden in your shoulder, afraid that the first shred of kindness you had been given would be taken if he should see you beneath the truth of the fire's flames.

He held the photo, his silence encompassing you both. He was so still, that for a moment, you thought he had stopped breathing. Until you noticed his clavicles and chest slightly puff out and contract with breath.

The soft, verdant glow became more visceral. You continued to keep your back turned and your face hidden, your eyes never leaving the radiance of his arm.

After a moment, he handed the photo back to you. You quickly turned to snatch it back, burrowing your face in your shirt. As you observed it, you saw the bright, shining smiles of your parents peering back at you unscathed. For a moment, you forgot the enticing and enigmatic stranger that stood before you, letting your shirt fall from your face as you studied the photo above the fire's not too generous lighting. You could make out a thin line of some type of green jelly adhesive that repaired some of the rips in the photos. Without the light, the glue that he had created with his hand was mostly undetectable.

You stared at him in awe. "This is... this is amazing. I couldn't begin to repay your kindness. This is all I have left to remind me of my life before the gloom. Of the way people loved me before I became a monster." As you lifted your finger to wipe a tear away, you remembered your face was on display before him.

Your face and all the crusty and haggard abrasions of gloom that now coat it.

"No!" You cried. You began to back away, burying your face in your palms. "Don't look at me!"

But the boy grabbed your wrist with his enchanted hand, pulling it from your face. "You're beautiful." He whispered with a tone that was almost believable.

"Yeah right. Look at what this gloom is doing to us; if it isn't destroying us, it's dividing us! My own family banished me from my home!"

The man let your wrist go and held his arm in your vision. He spoke matter-of-factly, remaining out of the fire's path, so he was still shielded from you. "I'm missing my arm."

He held his arm out; the urge to touch it made the tips of your fingers tingle.

"May I?"

"Only if I can touch your face."

"You'll become contaminated."

You heard a slightly unhinged chuckle. "I'm not afraid... besides, there is a cure for the gloom."

"What!" You gasped. You felt your feet become unsteady. You stepped forward, attempting to grab the man's shirt, only to realize it was a one-shoulder tunic that looked rather outdated.

"Please, I'll do anything; please, I want to be cured! I want to be myself again, to be able to look at people and not be plagued by the cruel judgment in their eyes when they see what I've become."

The man's arm began to emanate light once again.

"If that's what you desire, what your heart truly wants, then I can heal you."

Swirls of sage traveled down his arm, glimmering brighter and more blatant.

Your lips parted at the man who stood before you.

Your savior.

Your healer.

You whispered. "Who are you?"

Edited:12/22/23

#legend of zelda #link #loz #fanfiction #wattpad #link x reader #romance #the legend of zelda #fanfic on tumblr #fanfic #totk zelda #loz totk #tears of the kingdom #oneshot #not really #gloom #the depths

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