#mars shut up challenge impossible

[uhhhitsme]

15 please and thank you 🙏🙏

the moment the door opens, owen's up on his feet, gun in hand. "are you kidding---why the hell are you wet?"

he'd been waiting at their rendezvous spot---some moth-infested cottage in the middle of the woods---for the better part of an hour. they have only a bit over two hours to get to the facility they need to infiltrate in time, a lot of land to cover on foot, and his partner for this job is nearly an hour late and dripping water over the floorboards as he slams the door shut.

"it's a long story," agent curt mega---the so called best and the brightest of the spies that a.s.s. could provide---gasps, dumps his sopping wet bag against the door, and continues. "is there a mirror here? i need to fix my hair."

owen is all at once immediately reminded of all the reservations he had doing this assignment. in the weeks leading up to this moment, he had tried to justify it away---clearly, the two of them made a good enough team their handlers decided to pair them up again, so he supposed he had to see the bright side of things considering there was nothing he could do about it. but christ. within seconds of meeting again, owen already wants to strangle this egotistical, callous, stupid---

he clears his throat. "we don't have time. and i believe you at least owe me an explanation for why you're an hour late."

mega, who had been running his fingers through his damp curls---odd, owen could've sworn his hair was straight the last time they met---looks up in surprise at that. "i am?"

owen grits his teeth, pinches the bridge of his nose, and tries to think of the diplomatic disaster it would be if he shot this man in the face right now. it's only barely helping. this is going to be the worst assignment owen's even been on. "yes. you are. we need to get a move on."

mega groans. "can't i get, like, a five second breather?"

"from what, exactly?"

"three assassins just tried to fucking kill me, that's what!"

owen blinks. once. twice. three times. stunned into silence for a very long moment. "...what?"

"you heard me," mega grumbles, grabbing his bag and slinging it over his back. "let's go, i'll tell you what happened on the way."

owen has many things to say about that---like how they should almost certainly inform their handlers about this, and that this complicates their mission in a manner that owen very much had not anticipated, and also maybe inquire whether or not mega is injured and needs fixing up---but before he can, mega flings the door open and stomps outside. there's nothing owen can do but snatch up his bag and follow.

"do you know the way? because i sure as hell don't."

owen sighs. "it was on the mission files."

mega raises his wet bag again in explanation. "can't exactly read a map when all the ink is fucked up."

"why did you get so wet in the first place? did they try to drown you?"

that makes mega laugh. "nah, they came after me with bullets, which was kind of stupid of them considering i was in the middle of the woods and had a shitton of tree cover, but, whatever. they were after me for a job i did a couple months ago in new york, not anything to do with this mission."

"are you sure?"

"oh, yeah. they had..." he winces. "very specific threats."

"that's good to know," owen says with a sigh of relief. he has no idea if they're going to make it to their destination in time without further outside interference, and he would rather not spend the entire walk on edge worrying about whether or not their plan had been discovered.

"yeah, well, thanks for your concern," mega mutters sarcastically. "i barely made it out with my life."

"and how did you do that, anyways? you still have failed to explain why you look like you've been standing in the rain for a couple hours."

mega lights up. his smile is wider than owen's ever seen it before---nothing like the smug smirk that owen remembers him having. it makes something inside of owen flip, and he isn't sure why. "well, obviously i went off the path for some cover, right?" he's clearly trying to sound indifferent about it, but his voice is just a little bit breathless with excitement. "and i couldn't see them---but they definitely could see me---instead of wasting my time trying to shoot them i kind of just started sprinting, and so i found this waterfall---"

"a waterfall?"

"yes, a waterfall, keep up, carvour---there was a waterfall, and it had like... a cavern behind it or some shit, i'm not sure, but i hid behind it---which is why i'm wet---and then when they broke through the trees i shot them through the water."

"how much ammo do you have left? do you need another gun? i have a spare."

"it's just three bullets," mega says, waving a hand dismissively. "i'll be fine."

it takes a moment for owen to process that statement, and when he does, he pauses. runs the story through his head again. turns to mega. "i'm sorry, are you saying you managed to outrun three men with guns---take each of them down with one bullet---from behind a waterfall? at long-distance?"

"yep," mega says, popping the p, and there's that infuriating dirty grin that owen remembers. "impressive, right?"

owen doesn't say anything. mega nudges his arm and somehow grins wider. "i can tell you're impressed, man, just admit it."

"...that might be so," owen says tightly. he hates that he can see why he was called one of their best agents---he must be incredible with that gun. and he's quick on his feet, and good in a crisis. although owen's hoping that there won't be any crisis on this assignment, he'll still be useful to have around. and there's something endearing about the way he smiles at him now, after his admission.

perhaps this job won't be as terrible as he thought.

[plutosunshine]

What blocks your success? Mars in signs

Your Mars tells about how you act and make decisions. Let's see what doesn't let you succeed.

Mars in Aries

Mars in Aries is an intriguing astrological placement that gives you a quick, fiery, and decisive nature. You tend to be bold and eager to take action, never shying away from a challenge or opportunity. However, your impulsive tendencies can sometimes get the best of you, causing you to act before thinking things through. It's important to check the aspects and house your Mars is in if you struggle to make decisions or act purposefully.

While you may not be afraid to take action, you often find yourself regretting your hasty decisions later on. This fear of making mistakes can sometimes hold you back, preventing you from acting and moving forward. Although fear can be a helpful guide, it can also hinder your ability to take calculated risks and pursue your goals.

In the moment of making a decision, you feel motivated and inspired, convinced that you're on the right path. However, the reactive nature of Mars in Aries can sometimes make you feel like you want everything right now without considering the long-term consequences. It can lead to impulsive actions that you later regret. By understanding your tendencies and working to balance your desire for action with thoughtful consideration, you can make the most of your Mars in Aries placement and achieve your goals with confidence and purpose.

Mars in Taurus

Have you ever felt like you're unable to take action because of the fear of wasting your time and energy? This mindset can cause you to be in a constant state of energy conservation, only engaging in activities you deem helpful or worthy. When faced with a problem, you tend to take your time to think it through, even if you've already come up with a solution. You wait, hoping the problem will resolve itself rather than taking a risk or seizing the opportunity to act.

The idea of wasting your time and energy is a significant concern, so always create a plan to minimize your resource expenditure. While being cautious is important, this mindset may hold you back from taking advantage of potential opportunities and achieving your goals.

Mars in Gemini

As a Gemini Mars, your mutable nature can sometimes hinder your ability to take action when faced with a problem. You possess many ideas for solving said problem, but the challenge lies in selecting the most optimal solution. Seeking advice from your friends and loved ones is a common practice, as it helps you gain a broader perspective and consider different angles. While communication is an important part of your problem-solving process, it's just one of the ways you approach the task at hand. You tend to share your ideas and receive advice but ultimately make your own decisions. During a conversation, you may indicate that a particular solution is the best option, only to change your mind later. It is because you weigh your options and consider different perspectives before making a final decision. Ultimately, what matters is that you come to a decision that aligns with your values and feels right to you.

Mars in Cancer

It's a common experience to find oneself blocked from taking action due to overwhelming emotions. In such moments, rational thinking seems impossible, as you tend to be hindered by your feelings and lose sight of the problem. It's easy to take things personally and fail to see the bigger picture, which can cause you to withdraw entirely and shut down in certain situations. However, suppressing our emotions doesn't make them disappear; it only creates more frustration.

Cancer Mars individuals are known to be emotional and sensitive. However, at times, they tend to suppress their emotions, which can lead to stress and anxiety. They need to find a way to express their emotions healthily. They should not fear their feelings, as they are part of who they are.

It is important to note that Cancer Mars individuals should not let their emotions control their actions. Instead, they should find a balance between their emotions and rational thinking. By doing so, they can achieve their goals without being too hard on themselves.

Mars in Leo

It's common for your pride and fear of failure to become significant barriers to action. Your initial reaction may be to ignore the problem and shift the blame onto someone else. Meanwhile, your fear of failure can be so overwhelming that you become paralyzed and unable to take action.

You may have an intense desire to be the best, but the thought of failing in front of others can be terrifying. It can cause you to hesitate and second-guess yourself, preventing you from taking the necessary steps to solve the problem. Ultimately, it would help if you recognized that failure is an inevitable part of the learning process and that it's okay to make mistakes. The key is to persevere and learn from your failures, using them as stepping stones to future success.

Mars in Virgo

Do you ever find yourself stuck in a cycle of planning and strategizing, only to feel like your plans are never perfect enough to put into action? This mindset can be incredibly limiting, causing you to hold back from taking action because you fear failure or losing control. It can be challenging to balance caution and action; sometimes, your desire for control over every little detail can become paralyzing.

The fear of chaos and uncertainty can be so overwhelming that you spend too much time analyzing and overthinking, causing the problem to worsen. It's important to recognize when pursuing perfection hinders your progress and to take imperfect action to move toward your goals.

Also, you tend to overthink your problems, thinking about every scenario that may or may not happen. Ultimately, you can't see the bigger picture.

Mars in Libra

At times, it's not uncommon for this placement to feel stuck and unsure of which direction to take. One possible reason for this could be indecisiveness. Overanalyzing and weighing the pros and cons of every action can make decision-making a daunting task.

Additionally, if you're in a co-dependent relationship, you may rely heavily on your partner's opinion when it comes to making choices. It can lead to planning your actions based on your partner's life rather than your own. If you recognize these tendencies in yourself, it's important to be mindful and make sure you're making decisions that align with your own desires and goals.

Mars in Scorpio

You possess a remarkably vibrant and tenacious personality, with Mars in Scorpio accentuating your drive and passion. However, this may lead you to adopt an "all or nothing" approach toward your endeavors, and it can be challenging for you to regulate your resources effectively, resulting in a sense of stagnation and frustration. Perhaps you've been pushing yourself too hard, and now you're feeling burnt out and unproductive. In such cases, taking a break and restoring your energy levels is crucial.

Moreover, your inclination towards being overly cautious, suspicious, and fearful may also hinder you from taking necessary actions. You can perceive what is hidden beneath the surface, which could instill a sense of doubt and hesitation in you, making it difficult to trust your gut and act on your instincts. However, balancing prudence and action is essential to accomplish your objectives and success.

Mars in Sagittarius

Sagittarius Mars individuals are known for their enthusiastic and adventurous spirit. They are full of inspiration and ideas, always seeking new experiences and challenges to conquer. However, the problem with having so many interests and passions is that it can be difficult to focus all their energy on just one thing.

Sagittarius Mars natives constantly seek new opportunities and adventures, often feeling restless when stuck in one place or situation for too long. They crave variety and excitement, which can make it challenging to commit to a single project or goal. They may start multiple endeavors at once, only to lose interest or become distracted before they can see them through to completion.

While this can be frustrating for those around them, Sagittarius Mars individuals do not lack motivation or drive. They have too many interests and passions to pursue and struggle to choose just one. They may benefit from finding ways to channel their energy and focus on a particular goal or project while still allowing themselves the freedom to explore their other interests on the side.

Overall, Sagittarius Mars individuals have a lot of potential and creativity. Still, they may need to improve their focus and discipline to achieve their goals and dreams.

Mars in Capricorn

Capricorn Mars individuals are known for their dedication, persistence, and strategic thinking. They approach their goals with a powerful and determined mindset, willing to put in the hard work and effort to succeed. However, to truly excel, they need to have a goal they genuinely believe in and are passionate about.

Setbacks or obstacles do not easily deter Capricorn Mars natives. They are willing to put in the time and effort to achieve their goals and understand that success often requires a long-term approach. They are strategic thinkers who identify opportunities and plan their actions accordingly.

However, Capricorn Mars individuals may need a clear goal or purpose to channel their energy and focus. They need a driving force, a reason to invest their time and effort into a particular project or endeavor. They may benefit from reflecting on their values and priorities and identifying a goal that aligns with these beliefs.

Once they have a goal, Capricorn Mars individuals are a force to be reckoned with. They are willing to put in the hard work and dedication necessary to succeed and are not easily swayed by distractions or setbacks. They are powerful and determined, capable of achieving great things when they have a clear purpose and goal driving them forward.

Overall, Capricorn Mars individuals are powerful and strategic thinkers, but they need a strong sense of purpose and belief to excel truly. With a clear goal in mind, they can achieve great things and make a lasting impact in their chosen field.

Aquarius Mars

An Aquarius Mars person may get easily distracted from their goals by idealization. They tend to have a very idealistic approach to life, sometimes leading to a lack of focus and direction. They may become so absorbed in their dreams and ideals that they lose sight of the practical steps they need to take to achieve their goals. As a result, they may find themselves constantly starting new projects without ever following through on any of them. They need to learn to balance their idealism with a practical approach to achieving their goals.

An Aquarius Mars person has their Mars in a fixed sign, meaning they have the tenacity and determination to achieve whatever they put their mind to. However, they can sometimes get bogged down by their own idealism and lofty goals. To truly let their genius ideas bloom, they need to learn to let go of their idealization and embrace a more flexible approach. By doing so, they can harness their natural creativity and innovation to achieve great things and impact the world.

Pisces Mars

Pisces Mars individuals are known for their heightened intuition and empathetic nature. They possess a deep sense of compassion that enables them to connect with people on a deeper level. However, they may need help with logical thinking and practicality due to their tendency to get lost in their own thoughts and emotions. As a result, they may find it challenging to stay focused and organized, leading to a lack of structure in their lives. Additionally, their inclination towards idealism and vivid imagination may cause them to get lost in illusions and daydreams. Despite these challenges, their intuitive and compassionate nature allows them to offer a unique perspective and a deep understanding of others.

Lack of structure doesn't allow them to achieve goals persistently. These individuals start blaming themselves for not being good enough and get lost in regret and old traumas. You need to add some structure to your life in a way that works for you. You need to use all your senses to understand which kind of routine works for you.

[srbachchan]

DAY 5509

Jalsa, Mumbai                Mar 17/18,  2023               Fri/Sat 6:53 AM

The day of yesterday was to be further written on .. but some routine changes brought the day to and end without the inputs so .. apologies ..

There is a learning in life each day each hour .. the smallest of matters , the largest of issues , all materialise into some form of an education .. because life teaches till the very last .. that school of life never closes .. life shuts, the education does not ..

And as we age there is a definite drift to ascertain what life and the World is all about .. most of the normal days have been exhausted in living .. but as one finds a temporary layoff with age , there is an urge to know more about existence, and the reasons for the existence of what made the Earth so special ..

Many are they that leave behind their legacies in the writing of their thoughts in books dedicated to their own life and how they could become the master teachers of their own experiences .. but experiences judged by their own personal assessment, of either themselves or the others in relation to themselves .. 

They are gifted , that can do this .. it is a challenge .. and they accept it and converse through their minds to the rest of us .. it is a boon for many .. because life is never going to be the same for every individual  .. strange , but the truest .. how that is managed is by itself a divine mystery, but yes a mystery albeit .. and fascinating to the core ..

Reading and meeting the guru’s of the subject is a way forward .. but for one who has a most decrepit reading record, and a hesitancy towards they that profess direct descend links to the Almighty, it does become somewhat difficult .. 

Faith and belief in the divine power is immeasurable .. and each of us grow up with it, in some form or the other .. but the questions we face each day remain unanswered ..

Some times it is a blessing that what is needed to be explained has remained unexplained  .. the unknown often works , against that which is known .. but the human is a restless time machine .. continuously throbbing its beats as per its needs and requirements .. some provide the responses we need , others do not .. 

Pity ..

I need answers to many .. I know I will never get .. but just to be able to say this , has meaning too ..

So .. good morning .. 

Amitabh Bachchan

ps : to them that have wished Shweta for her birthday, my generous love and gratefulness .. it shall be impossible to respond to each hence this ..

[sheepwithspecs]

Echar Agua al Mar: Chapter 6

|| DP Coco (2017) || Rated T ||

Ao3 Link

For Imelda, trying to prevent Héctor from coming back into her life is like throwing water into the sea: pointless. With her family keen to accept the strange musician, and a challenge she can hardly refuse, she soon finds herself caught up in the continuation of a romance decades in the making. [Updates every Saturday]

“¡Hola! Welcome to— Oh!” Rosita smiled warmly as the familiar figure hurried through the door. “Welcome home, Mamá Imelda!”

Home? Imelda looked around blearily, the echo of a migraine pounding at her temples. She remembered walking, but the paths she’d taken after leaving the alleyway were nothing more than a blur in the back of her mind. Her feet had worked off muscle memory, carrying her back to the one place she was guaranteed to find peace and rest. She faintly recalled climbing the winding hill, absently dodging passersby, but… she had not paid any attention to the walk itself. Not since—

“Mamá Imelda?” Julio’s wingtip fell to the workbench with a clunk, his squat frame twisting on the high stool as he stared at her. The whole family stared, their smiles faltering as she stood motionless in the threshold, clutching her bag of groceries to her chest. Her knees trembled faintly beneath her skirts, boots scraping against the floorboards as she stumbled forward to take a seat in the nearest chair.

“Imelda! What’s wrong?!” In another moment they were surrounding her, taking the groceries from her lap and checking for any sign of injury.

“Do you feel faint?”

“Quickly, get some water!”

“Let me breathe!” she managed to croak, batting away their anxious hands. Rosita shut the door with enough force to make everyone jump, effectively closing the shop until further notice. Julio lifted her feet, casting about helplessly for something to prop them on. Oscar squeezed her shoulders, Felipe half draped across her lap as he peered into her eyes. “Get back, I said!” she demanded weakly, shaking them off one by one.

“But what’s happened?” Felipe remained on one knee, his tone stern. His expression was so resolute that for one moment, she was reminded of their father. “Has someone hurt you?”

“Did you hurt yourself?” Rosita asked, brushing the loose hairs from her forehead with a gentle touch. “Are you sick?”

“She can’t be sick. She’s dead.” Victoria looked up from where she was busily unpacking the groceries onto the workbench. “Did you see something upsetting?” she guessed, pulling things from the sack and inspecting each purchase with a discerning eye.

“I��m fine. I’m just…” Imelda rubbed her forehead with one hand, closing her eyes. “I am tired.” What she wanted most was to think , but that was impossible to do with her family flying about like a flock of startled pigeons. “I want to rest.”

“Of course you do, you should— oh, no!” Rosita reached into her bun, yanking out a single purple petal that had been trapped beneath the ribbon. “You poor thing!” she cried in dismay. “You’ve lost your beautiful flowers!”

“What?” Victoria turned from the workbench, her thread in one hand and an orange in the other. Her jaw clenched, gears turning behind her narrowed eyes. “You lost your flowers?” she repeated incredulously.

“Of course I did not lose them,” Imelda snapped, some of her strength returning as she sat up in the chair. “I do not lose things. I simply returned them.”

“What?!” Rosita dropped the petal, both hands clapped to her wide cheekbones. It fluttered down to rest in Imelda’s lap, blending with the fabric of her dress until the two were nearly indiscernible from one another. The twins shared a quick glance, Oscar taking advantage of his position behind his sister to shake his head in disappointment. Even the stoic Victoria was affected, turning on her heels so quickly that she nearly spun in a full circle.

“You gave them back to Héctor, you mean.” Imelda nodded.

“Oh, Mamá Imelda! How could you?” Rosita admonished, shoulders slumping as the news sank in. “How could you be so rude to poor Papá Héctor?”

“Héctor and I have reached an… agreement.” Imelda paused, fingers steepled as she thought carefully about her next words. “It was wrong of me to lead him on.”

“Now, now.” Rosita swallowed back a sigh. “You did not lead—”

“I did, and it was a mistake.” She rose to her feet, brushing the petal from her skirt absently. “It was my mistake, and I take full responsibility for it.”

“But—!”

“Héctor is better off forgotten. By me,” she clarified after a moment’s pause.

“Even so!”

“I made it clear that he was not unwelcome at the shop. If you wish to get to know him better, I will not stop you. After all, he is—for better or for worse—your Papá Héctor. As for me… I think it’s best that we leave things where they are.”

“Furthermore,” she added in her sternest tone, “I don’t want to hear another word on the subject! There’s nothing more to be said, so long as he and I are of one mind about it. Do I make myself clear?” Imelda looked at Julio, who nodded quickly. “Oscar? Felipe?” The twins sighed, but agreed. “Rosita?” Rosita turned quickly, shoulders quivering, but dared not breathe a word of protest. “Victoria?” Though her expression was defiant, she gave a curt nod of assent.

“Very good. Now, if you will excuse me, I would like to rest awhile before supper.” Imelda had almost made it to the staircase when Victoria spoke.

“And what of his boots?” Imelda stopped, fingers resting lightly on the handrail. She turned to look back at them, the setting sun throwing her face into shadow.

“What about his boots?” she asked in the same tone. The room itself trembled, the tension between the family matriarch and its youngest (dead) member pulled like a bowstring until the stale heat of the evening was palpable. Rosita tapped her fingers on the workbench nervously, eyes sliding from one thin figure to the other. Victoria remained silent, standing in a manner that seemed to simultaneously portray deference and defiance.  

“If you must know,” Imelda huffed, “we’ve already discussed his boots. He’s going to stop by next week. Is there anything else?”

“It’s just—”

“ Is . There . Anything . Else ?” Victoria bowed her head, hands locked behind her back.

“No, Mamá Imelda.”

“Then I will be upstairs if you need me.” Still holding her head, she quickly climbed the stairs and disappeared. No one spoke, unwilling to let out even a sigh until they heard the faint sound of her bedroom door shutting.

“Ay, Oscar.” Felipe rubbed his brow bone, prodding at the place where his crow’s feet used to be. “What are we going to do now?”

“Stubborn to a fault!” Oscar threw up his hands. “We’re back at square one!”

“It feels more like we’re behind square one,” Victoria corrected glumly. “They weren’t on speaking terms before.”

This is my fault.

Imelda rested quietly on the bed, eyes closed and hands folded across her lap. She had opened the window before lying down, and now the evening breeze blew softly over her as it stirred the curtains. An alebrije was in the pine, alternating between bird and goat noises.

Weakness. That’s what it amounted to. Letting him waltz right back into her life, just when she had sworn to forget him entirely… how many times must she throw him away? How many times would she be willing to throw him away? You never learn your lesson, Imelda, she chastised herself sharply. Time and time again, falling for that woebegone look on his face….

Even when he’d shown up at Miguel’s side, with that nervous smile and weakened bones, worming his way under skin that no longer existed. She had thought herself stronger back then, telling him to his face that she could never forgive him for what he’d done to her, to his family. It was the truth… right? It was absolutely impossible to undo decades of pain with something as simple as an apology. But if that was the case, then… what happened?

I should have forgotten you years ago, Héctor .

But she couldn’t, could she? It was never going to happen; she couldn’t just forget him, not when he had been part of the best thing to ever happen to her. Her daughter, her Coco, the living proof that she’d once known love. Coco was her reminder that her marriage had not been some fanciful dream. It had happened. It was real.

A faint rhythm floated in on the wind, barely audible over the alebrije’s bleating cry. There was a laugh from the street, a snatch of humming, a car horn and an answering shout.

Héctor… music and memories were so intertwined that it only took a few notes to bring him back to her. It was impossible for her to find pleasure in one without thinking of the other. He was her man, her músico, whether she liked it or not. Most of the time it was a faint memory, easily pushed aside. But every so often it was something more, something tangible. Sometimes she could have sworn that if she turned around, he would be there. He was immortalized in her memory, never a day older than the night he left: pristine clothing and patched valise, a look in his eyes that begged her to understand. 

It was one of the more selfish reasons she’d sought to abolish music from the Rivera household. The less she was exposed to it, the less he crept into her thoughts. There had once been days, even weeks, when she did not think of him at all. Shoes were her life, her anchor. If she was making shoes, she had to concentrate on her work. There was no time to recall what it felt like to be held, to have someone sit nearby and strum a guitar for her, or whisper songs into her ear when everyone else was asleep.

But to remember the music, even if it was just for one night… oh, what fun it had been! There was a joy in it, a thrumming joy that moved her feet and swung her hips and—ah! ¡Qué alegría!

And singing! Oh, how she had missed singing! The way she felt alive from head to toe, losing herself in the lyrics. All the while his guitar had been in the back of her mind, keeping up with every note as easy as anything. It had not been enough to remember, no: she had been young again in that moment. So warm and familiar, the same as it had been so long ago. When he played for her, and she sang for him—for even then, while fighting for Miguel’s life, a small part of her had been singing for him —nothing had mattered.

At the finale of the Sunrise Spectacular, when she’d escaped Ernesto’s grasp and snatched the photo right out of his greedy, grubby fingers, both excited and terrified, unable to think straight—well, she had acted on instinct, hadn’t she? Leaping at him, throwing herself right into his arms, as though she were still a maiden of one and twenty.

She had laughed while he twirled her, his arms so welcome after being manhandled by that sorry excuse for a celebrity. She’d looked up into his eyes and seen the man she’d married staring back at her, proud and excited, worried and glad, all at once. For the first time in nearly a century, she had felt shy. And… she had loved him.

Imelda realized now that being furious enough to part ways with someone did not mean the absence of love. She had never stopped loving him, not completely. The pain of being abandoned, of being left alone with a child to feed and no way of knowing if he’d ever return—even that had not been enough to completely sever the connection they’d once shared.

That was what hurt the most.

She had almost forgotten what that pain had felt like. After so many years, the memory had become little more than a dull throb. But she remembered it now. The queasy numbness that had once been her constant companion spread through her like an old ache, one that came and went in the course of a lifetime. It stole her breath and resonated in her bones, a fierce torment that ceased only when she turned her mind to other, more pressing matters. It was only when she remained occupied that his memory was a fragment of dreams, a ghost, unable to cause harm.

How could she have forgotten this ? The loneliness, the regret, the anger? She had wanted to forget Héctor, but instead she had somehow forgotten her own heartache. And yet….

Somehow, in that easygoing manner of his, Héctor had managed to waltz his way back into her life. He’d even charmed her family—their family, she was loath to admit—with his jokes and his music. And he’d done it without so much as one single—well, no, that was unfair. He had apologized, hadn’t he? An apology she’d waited decades for, had imagined in so many different ways. She had assured herself that when the time came, she would be prepared, but… when it actually happened, she had found herself overwhelmed.

Still, what was one apology, when compared to a lifetime of labor and toil?! He had sauntered off into the sunset with Ernesto, chasing dreams while she stayed at home with no income, no stability, no way to fend for herself, and certainly no choice but to better her situation however she might! Papá had been gone two years by that point, and Mamá on her sickbed with no strength to chase after a precocious child. Oscar and Felipe were a help, to be sure, but it was not fair to ask them to set aside their own lives for her. They had done so regardless, because they understood that family came first.

And all this time, where was he?! Sure, Héctor had managed to send a few letters home, songs for Coco and private notes for her, poems for them both. Pages and pages of nothing but details about the journey, about the towns he discovered, about the quality of each train station. After some time she stopped bothering to read them, preferring instead to use the inked pages as kindling. However, she could not bring herself to do the same for Coco’s letters. Those she tucked away for safekeeping, guilt gnawing at her breast at the thought that her daughter might one day resent actions taken in haste.

Still, would it have killed him to send some money home with those letters?!  Money was all he’d talked about before he left. They would be rich, they would never have cause to worry, they’d never have to work a day in their lives… pah! She only started working because he left! While she was left to slave over the workbench, sewing shoes in her sleep, he had been off carousing in Monterrey or Toluca, or Mexico City or… who knows where, because the letters had stopped coming!

He tried to go home to you and Coco, but de la Cruz murdered him!

The air seemed to grow colder at the memory of Miguel’s revelation. Those words had made her sick to her stomach; the pain of Héctor’s memory paled in comparison. She had not wanted to believe him. It meant that Ernesto was a murderer, but it also meant that she was… wrong. That her entire life she’d been blaming Héctor for something that he was innocent of. She could not bear to think of it for long, imagining him alone and afraid, in pain, trying to take just one more step —

She had not wanted to believe it, but after taking only one look at Héctor’s face, she’d known it to be true. The honesty and shame written on his features had made for a pitiable sight as he stood to the side, not part of the family group, dressed in rags with his hat in his hands and his head hung low. And if that had not been enough, to see him in pain still , to realize that he was so dangerously close to becoming one of the Forgotten, and whose fault had it been?

Hers.

Imelda could not claim ignorance, nor innocence. She had meant to hurt him, wanted to hurt him. She had spurned every attempt at reconciliation; she had turned him away with disgust. She had even gone so far as to request that his name be removed from the official family records, and had come away disappointed when she found it was not permitted. She had done everything except seek the truth, and she had done it out of spite.

In all honesty, Héctor deserved better. She had seen the results of her festering anger firsthand; it had brought nothing but regret. She had long ago decided that Héctor was not worth remembering, and by deciding for her family as well—instead of telling the story and allowing them to draw their own conclusions—she had almost sealed his fate. What sort of wife—no, what sort of person could be so… so callous? So merciless?

That was the sort of person who did not deserve a second chance.

[cdroloisms]

i think that although the theories/aus of puffy's son dream and wil's brother dream are interesting to think about, especially the implications, the (probably) canon statement that he really has no family to me hits the hardest. because it's just dream, you know. his friends hate him, he has none (p relatable), but i can't really imagine,, both not having friends and not having a family. that's kind of what keeps a lot of us sane and okay ( - quill anon (same anon from the c!tubbo c!wil ask) )

ouch quill anon ,, this ask Hurt. it’s true - usually, it’s our family and friends that keep us going, that are the ones that we fight for and live for and love for. c!dream’s “family” was his reasoning behind ,, a lot of the stuff he did, good or bad, and even now you can hear his desperation in getting someone, anyone to visit sometimes, in wanting to know how people are doing outside the cell. 

at the same time, he’s a character very much defined by his solitude, by his isolation, by all of the time he has spent,, alone. by the alliances that had been broken, betrayed, forgotten. by how- at the end of the day - he sits for hours on end in an obsidian box with nothing but his thoughts to accompany him. it’s awfully ,, sad, despite everything he’s done. through it all, he’s alone. he survives the horrors of the vault (until this current arc) alone. nobody’s there to hear his thoughts. nobody knows his mindset, or feelings, or wants, or anything that really makes him human. for someone so driven by people, he spends so much time completely isolated - and it’s. honestly really, really tragic. 

anyway, this is a sad little drabble set pre-roommates arc abt c!dream in the prison, alone, bc he makes me Sad. 

tw: mentioned torture, abuse, violence, broken bones, blood, injuries, mental deterioration, isolation, panic attacks, self-deprecation, trauma, memory loss, death, contemplations of death, dark content, dark imagery

The blank book in his hand stares at him stubbornly, the stark white of the untouched pages nearly burning his eyes, used to the dark walls and floor of the cell. Dream’s hand shakes around his quill, ink splotches marring the pages from where his too-unsteady hand had let the nib brush against the paper and left freckles of black spots behind. He pulls his thumb back from the bottom left corner, hissing slightly when it leaves a dull red fingerprint behind, a smudge of half-dried blood further dirtying the paper.

He’d pulled out one of the books for some reason, probably on a whim, letting his hands run over the leather spine and along the thread of the binding absentmindedly after Quackity left for the day. He hadn’t touched them in a while - he liked to save them, at the beginning, just in case visitors came and he wanted to thank them or if he needed to communicate (though he hadn’t gone silent since Sapnap left, ‘cause Sapnap wanted him to talk and he doesn’t know why he still clings to that visit when it’s been months and he still hasn’t come back, but he promised that if Dream behaved he’d visit again and - it’s stupid to hope, but Dream can’t give up, not yet) and then he kept them because he would need them for the revive book and the Warden would confiscate them, anyway, so it was better not to get attached. Regardless, he’d stubbornly ignored the chest of books for a long time, let the remain closed and the clasp go unlatched as he wasted his days away watching the walls drip bright purple and pretend he didn’t miss his clock.

Until now.

He runs his fingers along the surface of the paper again, ignoring the red and black smudges they leave in their wakes, ruining the previously unblemished pages. The paper is smooth, bearing a very slight grain, and smells clean and woody - this book must’ve been a newer one the Warden replaced into the chest. He’d counted the pages a few times, front and back - there are fifty sheets, so a hundred pages to use as he sees fit, completely empty and untouched. The quill shakes in his hand, the tip pressed against the paper, unmoving.

What is there to write?

He’s forgotten why he pulled out the book in the first place, already - his head keeps getting fuzzier, memory impossibly fragmented and seemingly worsening with every passing day. He knows he had a reason because he’d been very determined about it, had spent what must have been hours dragging himself along the obsidian floor with a broken shinbone jutting out of his right leg and a dislocated left shoulder that he’d taken an extra few minutes to jam back in place by pressing it against the floor. Something had come into his head, probably in the middle of Quackity’s daily session, and he’d found himself desperate to write it down before he forgot despite the throbbing of his head and the pain in his chest making it impossible to take a full breath.

(He must have talked back, or acted defiant, or something - he doesn’t remember much besides the look Quackity had given him after, dark and angry and tight with rage. There had been a hand tangled in his hair, a blade jammed right up against his throat, curses and screams in his ears dying into a singular ringing echo as the blade was pushed deeper and deeper. It wasn’t until a few minutes later when Quackity realized that he’d gone too deep and that Dream was choking on his own blood - his memories shatter, and there’s nothing but more screaming, red and black and blood everywhere, warm against his skin, the sweet-sour taste of glistening melon on his tongue, a healing pot desperately stitching his skin together and bringing him back from the darkness that he’d swelled in the corners of his vision - mostly, he remembers everything going cold and numb and he’d realized, halfway into the Void, that he would never leave the Vault alive.)

His hands tighten on the book as he breathes a shallow, harsh breath through his teeth, because - oh. Oh. He looks back at the trembling white plume in his hand, at his shaking fingers clenched tightly near the end, and he swallows the thick, heavy feeling in his throat. Quackity had- and he had- and then-

Right.

He forces air into his lungs steadily, counting the seconds off in his head. He’d learned how to stave off panic attacks on his own ages ago, and the knowledge had come to full use in the Vault - the struggle to stay calm seems harder with every passing day, but he can’t exactly risk himself passing out every three seconds when he’s inevitably set off by the smell of blood or a twinge of pain or any of the million other triggers crammed into this tiny box that’s been the source of all of his torment for months. He keeps up the slow, steady breathing for another few minutes, just enough time to pull back the darkness creeping in from the edges of his vision, and looks back down at the blank paper.

It stares back at him, almost judgmental of his hesitancy. You opened me up, it seems to challenge him, why aren’t you writing? The quill still shakes in his hand. He doesn’t know if it’ll ever stop shaking again.

Dear, he begins, almost in defiance, proof that he Is Going To Write Something, thank you very much, he isn’t just going to chicken out and leave it a blank book (like you have before?) but the quill tip digs into the paper as he grinds to a sudden halt, the empty space next to the first word nearly taunting. He feels his mouth dry, heat rising behind his eyes - the book, silent and blank as ever, stays imprinted in his vision even as he squeezes them shut.

Dear, what a stupid, sentimental way to start a letter. He can’t even fool himself into thinking of it as a business venture, turn it into an elaborate plan to escape and address it to either Techno or Wilbur (who would never receive his message anyway), not without admitting his regard for the two edged past his pretense of professional interested and owed favors. He can hardly write it to Ranboo, not without compromising their already fragile alliance (if it even exists, anymore. The enderman hybrid had yet to visit for months - and sure, it was probably for the best, who knows how Quackity would react if he found out about the nature of their relationship, but that didn’t make it sting any less.)

In the back of his minds, name rise from where he’d kept them carefully buried despite his best efforts. Punz. Bad. Puffy. Sapnap. George. He shakes his head, trying to wave away them from his thoughts, but the effort is as fruitless as it has always been - he stares at the first word angrily, like it has betrayed him, and receives no response. The words are messy, shaking, his script overly looping and rounded like a child’s. He hates it, hates how cheery it looks, even on the bloodstained page - it looks like the beginning of a birthday card, or a perhaps a particularly dedicated Halloween party invite. Like he’s some sort of lovesick teen, writing letters to crushes that would never pay him a second glance. He laughed a little, without any real humor - minus the romance, that description isn’t all that far off.

Because- well. His memories might be shot to all hell, but he doubts he’ll ever forget the hatred on Sapnap’s face, a loaded crossbow pointed between his eyes, George’s expression set in disinterested apathy - “George, you can give the word.” Bad’s face, twisted in pity and resignation, voice carefully measured as he looks away and gestures at the cell, “you did do some pretty bad stuff to get put in here though, Dream,” the hidden “you deserve it” that he’d heard, just as clearly behind the words. Punz - “you should’ve paid me more” - jaw set stiffly as people poured through the portal, watching, wordless, as Dream bled out twice on that blackstone floor. Puffy, poorly hidden disgust flickering over her face as she looks away from him being dragged away in chains, sword held steady in her hands. Sapnap, that same fiercely determined expression on his face so familiar that thinking of it aches, even now, “it’s gonna be me, who takes your final life.” Months and months and months and months, alone.

Always, always, alone.

The page makes a quiet, complaining groan under his pen - he looks down to see it torn under the tip of his quill, the word completely unreadable under line after line of black ink scratched over it, each one deeper than the last. He stares blankly at it for a few minutes longer, the brief flash of anger that had seared through his body settling into numbness once more.

To whoever may find this: he scratches the words on the page slowly, keeping his print deliberately blocky and neat. The heavy feeling in his throat returns, stronger than ever, and he ignores it as he pushes on.

He pauses for a moment, wondering what more to write. Apologies? Accusations? He could detail every second that he remembers from Quackity’s visits, describe every inch of pain that had been pulled from his aching lungs, every line etched into his skin. He could apologize for every act of cruelty that had ever been caused by his hands, every bridge he’d ever torched to light the path to a better future. He could explain - everything, every tortured thought that had circled his head for hours on end and every night that had passed without any sleep and every time he’d pushed on without complaint or hesitancy because it would be worth it, even if he was the only one who saw it, it would be worth it because he’d sacrifice too much for it to be anything but. He could- he could, he could write and write until he’d filled every page of every book back and front, and would they even believe him? Would it even matter?

Goodbye, he writes at last. It feels strangely final. (He won’t be leaving this Vault alive. He knows this as surely as he knows that he will leave this world uncared for, unheard. As surely as he knows that he’ll always be alone.) With a quick snap of magic following the signing of his name, the book is preserved, shining slightly with a purple glow as he sets it back down in the chest. He looks around, the cell once again stiflingly quiet without the book to busy him, Dream once again completely alone as he’s been for - well.

(Pandas, eyebrows drawn in uncharacteristic seriousness from the usually painfully spirited eight-year-old, pinkie raised between the two of them, solemnity belied by the gap in his front teeth poking out between his lips.

“We’ll be together forever,” he whispered with the volume control you’d expect from a kid that age, which is to say that it wasn’t much of a whisper at all, but Dream, newly ten years old, remembers being particularly moved by the gesture anyway, moving to hesitantly hook his own pinkie in the other’s.

“And we’ll never be alone ever again,” he’d replied, voice faraway with a disbelieving sort of awe.”

“Never,” Pandas’ voice had been just as firm as his first statement, twisting his wrist to tighten the grip of their linked fingers further. “Best friends for ever and ever, right?”

“For ever and ever.”)

“For ever and ever,” he whispers, eyes fluttering shut as he slumps down against the floor, and only the lava bubbles in reply.

[prismaticpichu]

Hrhrjeehhr I’m again going through my old files (y’know just for fun and cringe) and oml I forgot I had a “horror” fic somewhere in there. Now I’ma subject y’all to the first chapter rn just because I can!!! (Takes place post-Nibelheim wherein Jenova was defeated with the power of puppy friendship and Hojo was killed while Zack was looking for info on Project S.)

I… I actually named this An American Werewolf in Midgar hhehehd END ME-

~

"No... please... Fight it..."

The other convulsed, screamed, howled in pain. The raven locks were buried deep within a leather coat, strong arms binding his form, as if physically holding the beast inside. It clawed against the cage, baying...

The sapphire flickered on and off, flashing from agonized and petrified to seething with bestial desire. He shook his head, shook away the violent impulses and thoughts. His muscles constricted, hands opening and closing, gripping the cloak, ready to tear through flesh and immediately jerking back as reality pulled him to the surface.

The older man clutched tighter, cheeks raked and spattered with blood, curling his body over his in unwavering, pleading protection. Gloved hands, stained and torn, seized the tattered clothes, the fabric severing to reveal spurs of fur, fighting to overgrow the quaking skin.

Celestial eyes were strained shut, teeth clenched, taut bursts of plea and desperation joining the symphony of cries and affliction, once-transparent tears streaming down to saturate the other's, voice rattling and beseeched.

"Please... you're all I have..."

And a claw struck him.

—3 Days Prior—

“Oh yeah! Take that, you hairy freak!"

Zack pumped his fist in the air as he watched the pixelated creature vanish from the screen, victory music chiming through the speakers.

"Zack. Do your work."

The brunet's mirth curled into a pout. He pushed his game aside, grabbing the nearest pen and document with a groan.

"Man, why'd they shovel so much work onto us?!" He scribbled down his name, scowling at the paper mountain in front of him and wishing it would burst into flames. Which, with his scorching glare, wasn't an impossibility

Sephiroth smirked under the veil of silver bangs. "Craving some action?"

"Heck yeah." Zack laced his fingers behind his head, lolling back in the chair. "I mean, aren't you too?"

Sephiroth offered the brunet a careful glance, reptilian eyes locked darkly on his cheek. A scar traveled across it; scorning him, challenging him, exactly symmetrical to the cicatrix already marred on his right side.

What if she returned? What if he lost control again? What if harmed those who had done no wrong? What if he... He scowled at the lesion, the memory, forever engraved into the skin of his last remaining and closest friend, incised by the invisible blood on his gloves.

No, he wasn't craving it. Not now. Maybe not ever again.

"I am more than content right now," he finally grunted, stifling the knot that had tethered in his chest. "Back to work."

Zack pursed his lips. He reached to reclaim the pen that had rolled to desk's corner, teetering off its edge.

A shrill ring then cut through the room.

"I got it, I got it!"

Zack belly-flopped onto Sephiroth's desk, snatching the phone from its cradle before the other could answer—which unsurprisingly sent papers flying as they were caught up in the tornado.

"Zack." 

"Sorry, my bad!" the brunet squeaked, letting the fire of Sephiroth's eyes grill into his turned back. Somehow not surprised in the latest, the warrior bit his tongue, bending down to collect the disarray of papers.

"Alright... sure thing. I'll let him know right now." Zack cradled the phone just as Sephiroth was straightening.

"Who was it?"

"Professor Price," he explained. "She wanted you to head down to the lab and ask ya something."

Sephiroth quirked an eyebrow. With Hojo passing, ShinRa had appointed a new scientist to manage the department: a middle-aged woman with alleged experience in Mako influence and medication. He had only met her once; the lady seemed pleasant enough, although a one-legged Chocobo would have been an adequate replacement.

"Did she say what was needed of me?" Sephiroth asked, rapping the stack of documents against the desk to realign them.

"Nope, just to come and help her out."

How vague. "Very well." The warrior rose from his seat, placing a paperweight atop his documents. "I'll be back in ten minutes. Finish your work in my absence."

"Whoah, whoah!" Zack leapt in front of his commander, obstructing the path to the door. "You don't think you're actually going without me!"

"It's a simple errand, Zack," Sephiroth said flatly.

"I don't care." The other's voice gained a bit of an edge. "After all Hojo's done to you, after that crazy alien tried to hijack your mind, you think I'm just going to let you wander down there all alone?"

"You just want an excuse to writhe out of the paperwork." Sephiroth had effortlessly moved him aside, reaching for the knob.

"That could not be truer. But." Zack snatched his friend's wrist, undaunted. "It's my job as a certified puppy to never leave your side. I'm coming."

Sephiroth stared over over his shoulder. Weary emeralds locked with the earnest sapphire, reading the unwavering determination written within them, feeling the sheer and unbridled warmth radiating from his lieutenant's aura.

Letting out a sigh, Sephiroth massaged the bridge of his nose. "Alright," he conceded. "Alright."

Zack broke into a grin as he released his clutch. He flung open the door, bolting straight to the nearest elevator and overjoyed to have escape the office's suffocating grasp.

"Alright! On we go then!"

Sephiroth shook his head. As he stepped outside and checked for Masamune, a faint smile played on the warrior's lips. Perhaps one break wouldn't kill him.

x~x~x~x

Price's eyes narrowed in suspicion. This certainly was unlike anything she had ever seen before.

She held the beaker to the ceiling, intrigued by how the substance inside seemed to glisten under the light, swerving and rocking in its captivity like an enchanting purple sea with tranquil, queer ripples.

How peculiar.

She turned as the nearby elevator came to a halt. Zack and Sephiroth stepped into the laboratory, taken aback by just how organized it was in contrast to the familiar, almost nauseating lair. Instruments of all kinds neatly lined the walls, the floors scrubbed and free of any blood or vomit that had previously tainted it. And much fo Zack's relief, any evidence pointing towards Seph's... celestial abnormality seemed to be gone. If anyone else found out and got their hands on him... well, he didn't know what he would do.

"Hello, boys," Price greeted with a smile, crossing the room to meet them by the metallic doors.

Sephiroth stifled the urge to retch at the colloquial and frankly condescending address; Zack seemed to be unfazed.

"Heya!" he chirped, returning a gleam of his own. "The place is looking great, Professor!"

The woman beamed, running her fingers through the golden tresses spilling down to her chest. Sephiroth idly wondered what kind of conditioner she used.

"You requested me?" he said instead, skipping the formalities and cutting right to the point.

Price cleared her throat. "Ah, yes. If you don't mind, I would like your assistance." She held out the tubed substance.

Seemed like a useless question as he wouldn't have agreed to come down otherwise, but Sephiroth accepted the beaker nonetheless.

"Whoah, what in Ifrit is that?" Zack peered over his friend's shoulder, mesmerized by the unnaturally bright liquid. Gaia, it stung just to look at it.

"My question exactly," Price said, turning to Sephiroth curiously. "I was told you were down here quite frequently, and was wondering if perhaps you may know what it is?"

Celestial eyes absorbed the container, watching the feline slits mirror skeptically in the neon solution. He brought his nose to the lid, taking a careful sniff. Immediately the man recoiled. Extremely tart, acidic even.

"So...?" Zack blinked, restudying the beaker. "Any ideas?"

"No," Sephiroth shook his head. "If Hojo had ever toyed with this, I was not around to see it."

Price wrung her hands together, pensive. "I see..."

"Have you tried running a diagnosis?"

"I tried," the woman admitted. "The results were unsuccessful. It's as if it's an unknown formula entirely."

"Great." Zack threw his hands in the air. "Hojo's prolly left us with something that's gonna cause the planet to explode."

Ignoring his friend's comment, Sephiroth returned the vessel in question, cupping it gingerly in the other's awaiting hands. Zack did have a point, actually. Knowing Hojo, he would be not be surprised if the substance was denotable. "I don't trust anything Hojo may have left, intentional or not. Send this away if you cannot determine it, and inform me of the results. I believe there is a center not far from here."

Price nodded, flashing a warm smile in gratitude. "Understood. Thank you, boys."

This time, Sephiroth couldn't help but wince; Zack snickered, dogging behind the warrior as they departed. "See ya!" he called through the closing jaws.

Sephiroth leaned against the elevator. His cloaked arms were folded, fingers gripping the leather ridges, his chin dipped. Zack's mirth faded as he regarded his friend.

"You okay?"

"I'm fine." Sephiroth rubbed his eyes. "More so I'm-"

"-Sick of Hojo," Zack finished for him, fidgeting on his heels. “Yeah, me too."

The warrior sighed, unsurprised that Zack had been able to read his thoughts so effortlessly. Clearly the circulating rumors about his psychic abilities were misdirected. "Yes, I suppose I am." He lowered his hands. "He can still somehow reach me, even after death."

Zack slung an arm around the other's shoulder, feeling Sephiroth stiffen in response—right on cue. "Don't worry, bud. It's just some science doohickey. He can't hurt you anymore." He gave him a tight squeeze. "I won't let anything happen to you, Seph. Not Jenova. Not Hojo. You're gonna be just fine."

Sephiroth found himself relaxing into the half-embrace. He rested his head against the wall, letting the vibrations of the ascending machine pacify him. "I know," he sighed. "I know."

x~x~x~x

As night engulfed the industrial sky and thousands of skyscrapers bathed in the smog-shielded moonlight, Zack found him ambling down the First Class corridor. He laced his fingers behind his head, yawning like a lion.

Due to their "simple errand" (and maybe just a smidgen of procrastination), the brunet had been cooped in that office completing the week's paperwork. It took eons, but finally he had finished the last of them. Now he was just looking forward to crashing on his couch with a good movie. A hot pocket would have to suffice for dinner.

As he was contemplating which flavor to make, a blonde and grey figure bolted into view.

The tornado slammed into Zack, sending him stumbling backwards with papers flying as the world spun around him. He shook his head, colors refocusing into a guilt-stricken Cloud scrambling on the floor.

"I—I’m sorry! I was in a hurry—and, I—I’m sorry!"

"Hey, hey!" it's just me, Spike!" He kneeled down to help gather the scattered papers.

Good ol' karma.

Cloud glanced up, relieved to see his friend standing there rather than the dozens of barbaric commanders. "Oh! Hey Zack, I—oh, thanks."

Zack returned the papers, amused at the his buddy's bashfulness. "No sweat, pal. Whatcha up to?"

Cloud sprang to his feet. "Needed to deliver a couple things. Speaking of which." He sifted through the leafs, pulling out a clipped bundle and offered them to Zack. “Can you get these to the General? They're from Professor Price in Lab 68."

Zack regarded the other curiously. Maybe a Thank You note? He gladly accepted it nonetheless. “ 'Course."

Cloud adjusted his scarf from where it had slipped during the fall, swathing it over his mouth and nose. "Thanks!" He slipped past Zack, clumsily waving over his shoulder as he vanished around the corner, struggling to keep his freight together.

"See ya later, buddy!" Zack smiled after him, amused and endeared, although his attention was soon leeched by the sheet wrinkled in his hands.

Upon further investigation, I discovered that the substance shares a very faint but traceable chemical compound to that of animal plasma. It is currently on its way to a zoologist for further research. 

Best,

Professor Taylor Price

[astrologyandlife]

jupiter and saturn together in the natal chart

i have noticed that, in many of my readings, people have both jupiter and saturn sitting in the same house of their natal chart. this makes sense because a conjunction between the two occurs every 20 years. and to me, this signals an important theme: the need to overcome struggle to unlock the opportunities of that house.

first house - there's difficulty expressing yourself fully. it's like you want to be optimistic and have faith in yourself, but something is holding you back from that. you are almost afraid of being let down. as a result, you carry around this fear and caution about everything. you doubt yourself. when people first meet you, these struggles can be visible to them. the important thing here is that you are the cultivator of your experience, and when you can work through your feelings about yourself and your environment, you will notice that you attract good luck and opportunity. you have the power to consciously change how you approach the world around you through a smile, a little bit of faith, and a more positive attitude. second house - growing up, you lacked some form of security in your life. this could have been in the form of coming from a poorer background, or having a parent(s) that did not consistently care for you in some way. and because you were not valued by those in your early environment, you struggle to ascribe value to yourself. you may develop habits of holding onto things out of fear that you will never have them again. the lesson from this placement is to understand your own worth, and to know that you are entitled to a comfortable, happy, satisfying life. using this framework you will attract wealth and opportunity. third house - the hardest part about this placement is that you feel as though you are somehow "stupid" or your ideas aren't worthwhile. you could have struggled in your early school years for various reasons ranging from not understanding the material to being in an environment that refused to accommodate your needs. you rarely share your own ideas, and you fear being rejected, wrong, or made fun of by others. you must let go of this hesitation and remind yourself that you have valuable ideas to share with the world. you have the power to persuade, to motivate, and to invigorate. in fact, once you stop second-guessing yourself, you will notice that your genius shines proudly. fourth house - your early childhood experiences were, and still are, challenging for you. you could have experienced hardship as a result of being treated poorly by your parents or even going through some trauma in the home, especially if saturn makes aspects to mars or pluto. you have fears stemming from your childhood that hold you back. what is going to be important for you is building a home for yourself that is safe, secure, and stable. in doing so, your chosen family will grow and provide you with the support you need to flourish. fifth house - you have artistic and creative talents, but it is possible that when you were younger, you received heavy messaging that these talents were in some way invaluable or unimportant. As a result, relaxation and self-expression on a creative level is severely restricted. you feel like you always have to justify the things you love. however, you are allowed to simply exist and enjoy things for their sake. once you allow yourself to be creative to the extent you are capable, you will find that it will bring opportunity and happiness to you. sixth house - i definitely get the sense that you have had to be responsible from a very young age, taking care of the chores around the house, watching over yourself, etc. perhaps your parents were particularly strict with you and imposed a lot of restrictions on your daily life. these lessons instilled within you have lead you to desire routine and organization, because you fear chaos. you also tend to put too much on yourself, leading to burnout and extreme stress. here you must unlearn any negative habits or routines you have created for yourself, including overworking yourself. in doing so, you will feel much more calm and collected, which will help you physically and mentally. seventh house - there is a lot of stress and anxiety that comes from long-term relationships. the biggest fear here is the fear that you will never find someone who can fully love and commit to you. though you have a lot to offer, you feel completely

inexperienced or as though you are nothing special. there can be a tendency to downplay your own gifts and strengths. as a result, you feel very lonely in your early life and may be distrustful of love. you are afraid of opening yourself up to rejection and pain, so you avoid forming strong attachments or giving too much of yourself. having faith in yourself and what you have to offer, as well as being confident, will attract people who have an abundance of love and affection to give to you. eighth house - this placement can be heavily indicative of one or more life-changing, traumatic experiences, namely when pluto is involved. this experience has transformed you in some major way, likely inducing a fear of change or the unknown within you. you hold on to these memories and this pain in your heart, which stunts your growth as a person. the second half of the healing must be a conscious act by you, wherein you decide that you have what it takes to continue surviving. there is definitely a need for complete rebirth here. once you have come out on the other side, the magic of life itself will be revealed to yourself. you will become resilient in ways you could never imagine, and you will have the strength to overcome anything. ninth house - i have the feeling that your early life was extremely narrow and did not allow you to explore the world around you properly. perhaps your parents were extremely overprotective of you, or overbearing in sharing their opinions with you, and this was a very suffocating feeling. your own opinions and ideas were not welcome by the people in your life, and often they were even shut down. so you must start anew with your independence. remain open and take time to immerse yourself in anything you can, especially ideas radically different from your own. by opening your mind, jupiter will reward you with a wealth of knowledge and experience from which you can draw. tenth house - early on in your life, ideas of what it means to be successful, accomplished, and a productive member of society were heavily pushed on you by the people in your life. you almost feel as though you aren't meant to have agency in your own future, because you are trying to do what you are "supposed" to do. your parents could have been a bit overbearing in trying to prepare you for the future. trusting yourself and forming your own ideas of success and fulfillment will lead to you experiencing much more opportunity within your career. you must overcome a fear of failure here. eleventh house - on a deep level, you feel completely alone in the world. you feel as though it is impossible for anyone to truly understand you, or that they would even want to try. you are a deeply lonely person at times. i could see this placement as indicating that you were a social outcast or somehow distanced from others in your youth, leading to you believing there is something fundamentally wrong with you that prevents you from forming meaningful relationships. you doubt yourself, thinking, am i boring? am i too plain? am i unlikeable? here, you must cast these thoughts away and put forth effort anyways. twelfth house - the biggest struggle with this is that you feel unable to let go of the past and to forgive yourself. the biggest obstacle here is yourself. you have these feelings like you have done too much bad, or something you have done in the past is irredeemable. you may find that, in times of particular stress, you have nightmares or trouble sleeping. the twelfth house challenges you to let go of all of these things, to forgive yourself. you have to look at your pain and grief and allow yourself to feel it, then to let it go. in some way, you have to completely allow yourself to dissolve. after you do these things, you will find that your life as a whole improves, and you can handle anything much better.

some notes as well:

the closer to conjunction the two are, the more intensely this is felt by the native

if they aspect the sun, moon, or angles, these lessons will come up in the individual's day-to-day life

if jupiter is closer to the beginning of the house, it can lessen the impact of saturn

[alwaysmychoices]

Ski Resort

Synopsis: After declaring her intention to leave medicine forever, Charlie must join the Diagnostics Team for one more case before Ethan will let her retire. But once they’re trapped in the ski resort, Charlie gets tangled in the mystery, and she begins to wonder if she should really leave medicine or if it’s time to come back.

Chapter 26 of the “with and without” series

Previous Series: “a weekend with dr. ramsey”

Pairing: Dr. Ethan Ramsey x MC (Charlotte “Charlie” Greene)

Words: 5.5k (sorry, I tried so hard to cut it down)

Rating: Teen

Also available on AO3 & Wattpad (link in Masterlist)

The drive to the ski resort was uncomfortably quiet. Ethan and Charlie didn't speak a word, not even when Baz tried to play car games or entertain the captive group with stories.

No, Ethan and Charlie weren't going to speak – or rather, Ethan wasn't going to speak until Charlie did, and Charlie wasn't going to say a thing.

The fight in Ethan's office had cooled to begrudging acceptance. Despite her objections, Charlie put on her coat, read the patient information, and piled in the car with the rest of the diagnostics team just as Ethan insisted. But her cooperation extended only that far.

Ethan was sure that she was furious in the back seat – so sure that he kept looking back to her in the rearview to see if her expression had soured any further.

But Ethan wasn't right about everything.

Charlie wasn't angry – or if she was, it was secondarily not primarily.

She was anxious.

Anxious to be back at work and interacting with critical patients when her confidence in herself and her skills had never been lower. Anxious to stand on the precipice of her entire future – for if she failed today, she wouldn't be a doctor, and if she didn't, she'd have to face fears buried deep in her soul.

It wasn't that she held her tongue because she would have hurled insults otherwise. She held her tongue because she simply couldn't bear to say anything at all.

June and Baz sensed the discomfort, though they were kind enough to not comment on it. Baz tried his best to lessen the uneasiness with music and diverting conversion, none of which stuck. June was more intrigued, maybe even suspicious.

They'd both been surprised when Charlie joined the expedition after her long absence, but Baz was much more willing to accept the sudden return and be thankful for it. June couldn't shake her curiosity.

After all, why had Charlie suddenly returned from leave for this one case? Why was the relationship between Charlie and Ethan, which had once been friendly, now so tense?

Being scrutinized only made Charlie feel worse.

It was a relief for all parties when they arrived at the ski resort.

Any other day, Charlie would have stopped and marveled at the sight.

Perfect, white snow coated the landscape and the resort. Smoke billowed from the central fireplace, promising warmth and comfort inside. Snow-capped trees climbed Mount Dagger and dotted the landscape. Even with layers and layers of footprints marring the snow and a large resort looming in the background, this place felt serene and untouched somehow.

It was so different from the heat and sunshine Charlie had grown up with.

Part of her wished she could have leaned into Ethan and marveled at the place, letting him tease her for her unfamiliarity and inexperience with snow. She realized that winter had only been pain and survival for them. She had the urge to change that somehow – to throw a snowball or challenge him to make snow angels.

But instead, Charlie just trudged along, keeping the urges to herself and remaining silent.

The owner, Rodney, was a friend of Ethan's. He greeted them all warmly and thanked them for their time. On the way to the patient's room, he offered charming anecdotes about Ethan's childhood and their friendship. Charlie wished she could have engaged more, but it was all becoming too real. In mere moments, she would be a working doctor again – a dream that had become a nightmare.

Paula and her son, Timothy, waited in their hotel room.

In the end, they weren't nearly as frightening as Charlie had imagined them. The entire drive, she morphed her patient experience into that of death and destruction, and she'd forgotten how mundane interactions could really be. Even Paula's defiance and complaints felt tame in the face of all Charlie had been through.

During the initial interview, Charlie didn't resume the active role she'd once had on the team. Instead, it was Ethan who drove the questioning, with June acting as his secondary. The team had found their new rhythm in her absence, and they seemed to know that Charlie was purposefully not stepping into her old shoes.

Ethan was disappointed.

To an outsider, she would have looked like a student rather than a member of the team. She stood in the back of the group, her mouth closed and ideas kept to herself. It could have read as disinterest, though Ethan highly doubted Charlie could confront a mystery and not be enthralled. No, it must have been something else. Anger maybe. Perhaps she wasn't ready, just as she'd warned him in the hospital.

During the interview, Ethan managed to look back at Charlie and examine her without anyone noticing.

And what he found prompted a sigh of relief.

She wasn't disinterested.

Charlie's eyes were bright and alive with curiosity. She was listening attentively, her expression changing slightly with each new piece of information. She must be cataloging it, saving it, and allowing it to simmer until it attached to a theory. Even if she wasn't speaking, she was here. She was part of the team, part of the future solution. He could see it in her now– the passion and empathy he'd recognized in her so early in her intern year.

He found himself hoping it would be enough to make her stay.

Enough to make her realize she wanted to stay.

It distracted him from the interview.

Not that he was missing much anyway. Paula, the patient, was particularly uncooperative. It took considerable prodding – and her son’s insistence – to get Paula to say anything at all.

But Ethan’s attention quickly returned when Paula's behavior suddenly shifted.

June and Baz talking to each other, quietly exposing the confusion amongst the team about Paula's bizarre symptoms. Nothing about the conversation was particularly unusual, but to a distrustful woman like Paula, it was enough to prove incompetence on the team's part.

With an eerie light in her eyes, Paula interrupted to say, "It sounds like you have no idea what you're talking about."

She said it with such airy mirth that the comment was unsettling.

Then, to the horror of everyone in the room, the formerly austere Paula's face split into a wild, frenzied laugh. Her posture had changed – so had her facial expressions. Ethan took a step closer and realized that the disturbing glimmer in her eyes was the dark of her pupil as it dilated.

The team looked at each other in horror and shock.

"Paula, are you feeling alright?" Charlie asked. These were the first unprompted words she'd spoken since the introductions.

"I feel great! Why the hell wouldn't I? I'm stuck on a mountain with a load of incompetent doctors!" Paula's voice dissolved into laughter. It was too loud. Too open. Too long.

The diagnostics team looked to each other, and in a silent consensus, they followed Ethan's lead to the hallway. Once the door closed behind them, they abandoned their polite, neutral expressions to show their true concern.

"It looks like a manic episode. If her brain trauma is extensive enough to cause that…." Ethan trailed off, only for Charlie to finish.

"We need to get her to a hospital as soon as possible. Can we call for a helicopter?"

“Doubtful,” Baz frowned, “During the interview, the storm was upgraded to a blizzard. We wouldn’t have time for a helicopter, and the roads are already being shut down.”

“But we just got here!” Charlie fought it, not that she was sure why she did. The entire drive up, the snow had gotten progressively worse. Even from inside Paula’s room, she could tell the weather was turning.

“Then we’re stuck here,” June announced, ignoring Charlie’s outburst, “We’ll have to monitor Paula all night in case her condition worsens.”

Charlie frowned.

This was not how she wanted her first case back to go.

The patient showed unusual symptoms and potential mania, all while they were trapped in a ski resort by a blizzard? This had death and destruction written all over it.

Had Ethan taken the time to consider it, he would have reached the same dim conclusion.

But fortunately for him, he was more distracted by managing the crisis. With little time before the snow made movement impossible to leave the lodge, Ethan decided to find the source of Paula’s rash on the mountain. Charlie objected on safety grounds, but Ethan went out anyway. In his absence, the team conducted a few tests and settled the room arrangements with Rodney. Ethan returned safely, just a bit cold and damp from the snow, and with the cause of the rash. It was poison sumac, he announced. Unrelated to the other symptoms, unfortunately, but at least they could rule other things out.

Only moments later, the blizzard captured the resort captured the resort and trapped the occupants inside.

To his surprise, Charlie wasn’t impressed by his discovery or his quick return. She was annoyed he’d gone out in the first place. And he suspected she was irritated to be here at all.

He wondered if he was pushing her too far, if his plan to show her the best parts of their job had been flawed. If he had been flawed.

If he was doing more harm than good.

Then June pulled out the hotel keys to present them to everyone.

There were four.

The extra room key stung.

It shouldn’t have.

Of course, they couldn’t stay in the same room on a work trip. He shouldn’t have expected anything different.

But something about it made him feel… distant from her.

Like he’d created a wall between them in this whole endeavor, a wall made physical by the separate rooms. Though he’d done it thousands of nights before, Ethan suddenly couldn’t imagine sleeping without her, her body warm beside him and her fragrant curls straying to his side of the bed. He wanted her to forgive him, though he wasn’t sure what for.

In an ideal world, they would have talked about it.

He would have checked on her.

But instead, in a whirlwind of arrangements and discussions, Ethan began his shift, and Charlie followed Baz and June to find their rooms.

Charlie hadn’t planned on staying, so she had nothing to unpack except for a phone charger from her purse and a laptop borrowed from Edenbrook. She didn’t relish the idea of sleeping in her bulky jeans or shivering in the cold night, but there was nothing she could do about that in a blizzard.

It was a relief to warm herself in a hot shower, but after, the room felt too lonely. Unsure what to do with herself, she searched for Baz and June. She found them both at the bar, which fortunately hadn’t been affected by the outside storm.

They sat by the fire with medical journals and drinks – and smores, in Baz’s case. When Charlie entered, they gave her their full attention.

They were genuinely happy to see her return.

They still believed in her, it seemed.

Not that she should be surprised, she reminded herself.

But she was a little.

She’d forgotten how it felt to be the prodigy, not the shattered impersonation of one.

Baz couldn’t contain his excitement and even went as far as to buy her bourbon in celebration, “I’m so happy you’re back! We’ve missed you, Charlie. It hasn’t been the same without you.”

“He tells the truth,” June confirmed, looking a little amused with her colleague’s enthusiasm.

Charlie didn’t know what to say, so she blushed and let Baz fill in the silence – not that he noticed. He had lots to say.

“To our star resident! You’ve been through hell and back, and we’re so proud of how far you’ve come. For you to have survived that and stand here ready to be a doctor again is brave, Charlie,” Baz emphasized in his toast, oblivious to the fact he was only making Charlie more nervous.

Charlie weakly raised her glass, tapping it against June’s and Baz’s.

June’s eyes settled on Charlie’s unsteady smile.

Which only made Charlie more unsteady.

“I can’t believe you’re really back and that Ethan didn’t even give us a warning! For weeks, he said you needed more time, and then, he surprised us. You two were probably in on it together,” Baz laughed good-naturedly, “So, are you back permanently now?”

I have no idea, she thought.

She didn’t know if she’d make it through this case, let alone if she’d take on another.

Her future was too uncertain, her confidence too shaken to answer.

“Um,” Charlie stammered, looking for an answer that didn’t expose her as a nervous wreck, “We’ll see how it works out with my remaining leave, I guess,” she answered noncommittally.

It was the wrong answer.

Too uncommitted. Not enough enthusiasm. Recognizable nerves.

It exposed something that Charlie wanted to hide. It showed how little she controlled this situation, how little she controlled everything. She didn’t know what would happen or what she wanted to happen. It was such a stark contrast from the determined, headstrong intern she’d once been.

If Baz noticed, he took it in stride and said he hoped she would be back full time soon. Then, he started telling her about all she’d missed – leaving out Levi, of course.

June noticed, though.

She sensed Charlie’s unease, and as a result, she stared. And studied.

Charlie became increasingly uncomfortable as the subject of June’s fascination. She felt like she might crack, like June would see through her if she was given enough time.

She began to feel like an imposter trying to fill her old role, and the deception of it all made her sick.

Charlie couldn’t stay for the rest of the evening, not if she was going to survive the night.

So, Charlie finished her bourbon a little too quickly, and to Baz’s disappointment, she excused herself to review online journals on her laptop. June wasn’t surprised she was leaving, though she politely said goodnight anyway.

Maybe June suspected Charlie’s weakness all along.

Maybe she was the smart one. Maybe she saw the truth that Ethan and Baz couldn’t – that Charlie was irreparably broken.

Even with the distance of a few floors separating them, Charlie felt haunted by the exchange – and maybe even still watched by June.

Charlie wanted to prove herself. She wanted to be the old star resident again, though she wondered if she had it in her.

The research proved fascinating, though research had never been a problem for Charlie. She loved learning, and she was always captivated by cases like this. Still, Paula’s case was an enigma, and Charlie went between journals, online textbooks, and her own observations over and over until her eyes burned. When she couldn’t focus anymore, she decided to take a walk and check on Paula. With any luck, she’d gain valuable information through questioning or observation. Even if learned nothing, it would be nice to see Ethan, someone who knew about her trauma and still believed in her enough to bring her here.

Charlie was halfway to Paula’s room when she spotted a familiar face.

“Timothy?” Charlie called out.

Timothy, the patient’s son, stopped mid-stride in shock. He probably didn’t think that anyone else in this hotel knew him.

“I’m one of your mom’s doctors,” Charlie explained quickly, hoping to put him at ease.

It worked. Timothy relaxed a bit, though he remained rigid enough to protect the cup of herbal tea he was carrying. Another mug for his mom, Charlie suspected. She worried that this meant her symptoms were getting worse.

“I’m on your way to your mother’s room. Do you mind if I walk with you?” Charlie asked. During the interview, Timothy had been more forthcoming than his mother, and if Paula became more uncooperative, he would be their only hope. And she worried for the boy. It had to be scary to watch something like this happen to your mother.

Timothy agreed, and they walked together quietly. After a few quiet moments, Charlie commented, “That’s very sweet of you to bring your mother some tea. You’ve been a very good caretaker, Timothy. That’s brave of you, and I want you to know you’re doing a good job, though you should also take care of yourself tonight.”

“Oh, it’s nothing. I’m used to it,” Timothy said sheepishly, looking into the cup of tea with a shy smile.

Charlie’s interest was piqued.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s just mom and me at home, so I take care of her.”

“What do you take care of, Timothy?”

Timothy frowned like he’d said something wrong.

“We’re here to help,” Charlie assured him, “So if she has a condition you’ve been helping her with, it’s okay. Just let us know. It may be interacting with or causing her current ailment.”

Timothy looked at Charlie thoughtfully. Almost too thoughtfully.

Charlie was sure there was something he wanted to tell her, or at least something he should tell her.

But all he said was, “It’s nothing really. We’re doing better now.”

Better from what? she thought.

Timothy suddenly looked down and frowned further.

“Is something wrong?”

“I forgot my bag in the lobby when I went to make the tea….”

“I can go get it for you.”

“No,” Timothy insisted too quickly.

Charlie was startled.

“Well, I can bring the tea if you want….” Charlie offered, her voice soft.

“She wouldn’t take it from you,” Timothy shook his head, his eyes softer now. Almost like he was apologetic for his mom’s violent dislike of doctors.

Charlie didn’t want to let Timothy go, especially when he was clearly hiding something, but he insisted she go ahead to the room without him. Not wanting to alienate him, Charlie reluctantly complied.

Once Charlie was in Paula’s room, she almost forgot about her strange encounter with Timothy. The change in Paula was drastic. Her boisterous laughter had faded into dreary silence. She laid in the bed silent and unmoving, her face blank and cold. Even the room felt darker, like all of the energy had been drained as depression gripped the primary occupant.

Ethan was stationed in the corner of the room, and he greeted Charlie with a silent nod.

“How long has this been going on?” Charlie whispered as she approached.

“About an hour,” Ethan frowned.

“I ran into the son in the hallway. I think there’s a preexisting condition they’re hiding from us,” Charlie lowered her voice even further to keep from being heard.

“Hmm,” Ethan raised his eyebrows with intrigue.

“I’m working on it,” she assured him.

Before they could talk any further, Timothy entered with a cup of tea and a bookbag in tow. He dropped the bag by the door, letting it slouch near Ethan and Charlie as he rushed to his mother’s side to deliver the tea. His bag’s zipper was half-undone, revealing some of the contents.

Charlie couldn’t help but look.

A notebook. Headphones. Pencils and pens. What looked like a few pages of math homework. Teabags, presumably from the herbal tea.

All normal stuff for a high schooler.

Still, she tilted her head just a bit more.

Some socks. A bag of –

A bag of pills.

Charlie’s head jerked to attention.

Why would he have a bag of pills? Was he abusing them?

Charlie was about to elbow Ethan and draw his attention to it when Timothy returned for the bag, zipping it back up and slinging it over his shoulder. If he noticed her stare, he didn’t let on.

Everything that was said after that was a blur. Charlie was wracking her brain trying to mentally identify the pill, but she didn’t recognize it. If only she knew what it was, maybe she could help.

When June arrived to take her shift, Charlie took it as her opportunity to return to her room to research medications commonly used or abused by teenagers.

Ethan, oblivious to her new mission, was disappointed by how quickly she ran away. He’d been excited when she came to check on Paula. He thought she was getting back into medicine, but now she was running away from it – and him.

He’d hoped to talk to her once he was off duty.

But Charlie didn’t even realize she’d slighted him.

She spent the next forty-five minutes trying to find a match for the pill.

Nothing jumped out at her. The pill she saw didn’t seem to be commonly abused, nor was it coming up in her research. Could it be a regular vitamin? If so, why would he have it in a bag? Or was it a street drug not listed in these databases?

Without interruption, she might have spent the whole night in this fruitless search.

She was lucky Ethan knocked on the door.

Knock. Knock.

Her train of thought was rudely interrupted, she thought, and she was reluctant to abandon her computer and greet the intruder. Had there not been a patient, she might have been annoyed enough to wait for a second knock.

When she saw Ethan, her mind went back to that room – to Paula.

She forgot that there was any other reason he might be coming to see her.

Like the fact that this was her first time back to work or that he was her boyfriend.

“Are Paula and Timothy alright?” Charlie blurted out, skipping introductions as she assumed the worst.

“Oh…” Ethan was a little knocked back, “Yes. They’re fine.”

“Oh,” Charlie was relieved but now a bit confused.

He stared at her.

Didn’t she understand why he was here? Why wasn’t she inviting him inside?

For a second, she’d gotten so into her job that she’d forgotten everything else – even how much her job terrified her.

“I came to check on you,” Ethan announced finally.

This jolted Charlie’s memory, and she quickly moved back from the door, letting him enter.

Her room was smaller than his, he noted. He found himself hoping she wouldn’t sleep in it tonight. He wanted her by his side. He wanted the assurance that he hadn’t lost her by pushing her too hard.

“How are you doing?” Ethan asked as he crossed the room, silently appraising her living arrangements. By the state of the crumbled comforter, it looked like she’d been researching on her laptop for most of the night.

“Alright, I guess” Charlie murmured, a little unsure of herself.

Their case was an enigma, and their patient was rapidly detreating in a blizzard. A teen had mystery pills in his backpack. June was now studying her. All day, Charlie had been teetering between genuine passion for her job and the feeling of insufficiently filling her old role.

How well could she really be doing?

But she also couldn’t say that she was miserable. She wasn’t as sure of her decision to leave as she had been this morning, nor was she convinced that medicine was all death and destruction.

The best way to describe Charlie was unsteady. Unsure, even.

She just had to survive this case.

Ethan, unsatisfied with her answer, awkwardly paced her small hotel room. She watched.

Finally, he turned to her, and finding the courage to say the words he’d prepared for the last hour, he said, “I’ve been thinking, and I wanted to apologize. I pushed you a lot today. At the time, I thought it was right. In fact, I still think it was right, but… it wasn’t fair.”

Charlie couldn’t believe Ethan was apologizing. Any other day, she might have even gloated. But today, she squirmed, equally unnerved by the situation. Maybe even more so.

Ethan waited for her response, trying so hard to be patient but failing miserably. He couldn’t fathom that he might have misjudged her limits and ruined everything.

It felt like an eternity before she spoke.

“It’s okay… I needed to come back before I decided. Maybe not so abruptly but…” Charlie trailed off, the edge of a smile on her lips. There was a glint in her eyes, and he realized she was poking fun at him.

He was relieved.

“You’ve done really well today,” Ethan ventured, “I’m proud of you.”

Charlie shook her head sheepishly, “I barely spoke.”

“But you were listening.”

“You can’t pretend I’m the same as I was.”

“You don’t have to be the same to be a good doctor, Charlie.”

Charlie bit her lower lip as she averted her gaze.

He took that as an invitation to be bolder, “I think you should come back permanently.”

“What?” Charlie’s eyes shot back to him, the shock in her eyes verging on indignation.

“The team agrees. It’s time, Charlie,” Ethan knew he was stuck now. He couldn’t take it back or soothe the storm that was brewing.

“You spoke to the team?” her gaze grew harder.

“I wanted you to know that you had full faith in you!” Ethan explained.

“June’s already watching me like there’s something wrong with me! Now you’ve just given her more reason to study me,” Charlie shook her head, frustration rising through her veins, “Why would you do that before talking to me?”

“You need to know that we believe in you, Charlotte,” Ethan said quite defensively, “We want you on the team.”

“I haven’t even made it through this case. What makes you think I’m ready to take on another?”

“Because you’re you. You’re not even out of residency yet, and you’re pulling your weight among experts. You’re discovering preexisting conditions none of us ever knew about-“

“Of which we have no proof!” Charlie interrupted.

“You’re still closer to an answer than any of us are,” Ethan said firmly, “And even when you’re scared, like you are now, you still care. You’re a good doctor. Great, even. You’ll be better than me one day. But you’re giving up-“

“Giving up?” Charlie repeated incredulously, “That’s what you think I’m doing?”

“You have a gift!”

“I almost died,” Charlie emphasized, “Every time a patient comes in with a mystery illness and no hope, I know what that feels like. I relive the worst day of my life through their eyes, and I know I can’t save them all. And you think I’m just giving up?”

“I didn’t mean it like that, Charlie,” Ethan said, suddenly ashamed, “I’m trying to help you. I love you, and I know you love medicine. I don’t want you to lose that because of a premature decision.”

“So, you think you’re helping me by making me do what I don’t want?”

Ethan frowned, “When it feels like it’s for the best, yes… But it’ll get better.”

Charlie paused.

And then something clicked.

And the fight – and Ethan’s dumb words – were forgotten.

“Wait,” she mumbled, “Making me do what I don’t want…”

“Yes, I know, and I’m sorry. But I really am trying to help,” Ethan tried, oblivious to the shift in Charlie’s mind.

She ignored him, rushing to her computer.

“What are you doing?” Ethan asked incredulously, watching as she frantically typed something into her computer. Again, she ignored him.

Her eyes the screen until they landed on the pill she’d seen in Timothy’s bag.

“I know what’s wrong with Paula.”

Ethan dropped his defensive stance and rushed to her side, hoping he’d understand by looking at her screen. But all he saw was a medication.

“There’s a bag of lithium in Timothy’s backpack. He said he’s been taking care of her for a long time but that she got better recently. I think he’s drugging her with this.”

“Her mood swings…” Ethan’s jaw almost dropped.

“He’s probably been trying to treat her for bipolar disorder on his own. You saw how she was with doctors. I doubt she would have gone in for treatment,” Charlie felt a knot form in her stomach. Even though she was sure of her hypothesis, she hoped it wasn’t true.

“And they gave her ibuprofen to treat her head injury,” Ethan swallowed heavily.

“We have to get her to a hospital.”

“And talk to Timothy.”

As if reading each other’s minds, they abandoned the laptop in Charlie’s room and raced to Paula’s room where they found Timothy waiting by his sleeping mother, looking exhausted but sleepless with worry.

Unfortunately, Charlie’s theory was correct.

Timothy confessed, and Charlie’s heart broke as they explained the repercussions of his actions as well as the severity of what he had done wrong. She felt for him, for what he must have gone through to think such action was necessary. But she couldn’t excuse his decision to medicate her without her consent, especially given the consequences. The lithium and ibuprofen combined to form a disastrous chain reaction, one that lasted even after they discovered the cause.

It took hours for the storm to clear enough for the helicopters to take Paula to the hospital.

While they waited, Charlie and Ethan sat in his room – a romantic suite with a view of the snowy mountains. It felt like a waste now. A romantic night they could have had, if Charlie hadn’t solved such a sad mystery. She was tired, though she wouldn’t admit it. At some point, she drifted to sleep, and Ethan held her, his fingers running through her hair as he kissed her temple and quietly congratulated her on her solve.

“I always knew you’d be the one to solve it,” he whispered.

“Why?” she murmured, “Were you holding back?”

“No, because you’re smarter than me,” he chuckled.

Charlie was smiling when she fell asleep.

When she woke up, the mood had shifted back to panic.

The helicopter on its way, and the team needed to follow. June and Baz took the helicopter with Paula and Timothy, and Ethan and Charlie drove the car back once the roads opened. The team called a few times to share updates and ask for advice.

But for most of the drive, Ethan held Charlie’s hand in silence.

The case was over.

She could back to her life in the apartment where she hid from the world and pushed herself just a little day by day, building her tolerance safely. She could tell Ethan he was wrong. Or she could stay.

And the truth was… she couldn’t imagine going back now.

Not now that she remembered what it was like on the good days – ones where she made the solve and saved the day. Ones where she realized she made a difference, that she solved things other people couldn’t.

It was okay to be scared.

Even as the words were on the tip of her tongue, she was terrified.

“My answer is yes.”

Ethan’s eyes momentarily drifted from the road to her, “What?”

“To your question last night. I want to come back permanently.”

Ethan felt like he could crash the car out of pure shock.

“Are you sure?”

“I mean… not really. I’m scared, but I think it’s time,” Charlie nodded her head, trying to project the confidence she wanted to once more possess.

“We can wait for you if you need more time,” Ethan assured her, struggling to keep his eyes on the highway and not right at her.

“I know,” Charlie confirmed, “But now is the time. I can’t retire, and I can’t wait forever to go back. I’ll never be 100% ready, so I just have to jump in.”

Ethan’s heart was beating so fast that Charlie felt it as she held his hand.

“Are you really, really sure?” Ethan clarified just one more time.

“Yes,” Charlie laughed, a smile lingering on her lips.

He looked at her. Briefly, of course. He was driving, after all.

And then his face broke out in a face-splitting grin.

“I’m so proud of you, Rookie,” he brought her hand to his lips, kissing her knuckles, “You’re amazing! I love you! I love you so much.”

His happiness was infectious. So infectious that she forgot about the fear.

And she laughed.

“You haven’t called me Rookie in a long time,” she squeezed his hand softly, and he cast a sideways glance at her.

“Do you still like being called Rookie?”

“Yes,” she smiled so warmly it practically radiated off of her.

And he loved her. He really did.

“Well then, I love you, Rookie,” he smirked, “And I owe you a romantic ski vacation.”

“Bold of you to assume I know how to ski.”

“And I owe you ski lessons, I suppose,” he murmured affectionately.

“You also owe me a kiss when we stop this car,” Charlie added.

He looked over at her – and quite recklessly because they were doctors and knew what could happen when young lovers were stupid on highways – he kissed her. Quickly, of course. Softly. But lovingly.

And even if she regretted it tomorrow and the world caved again, she was glad she was back today.

[tsarisfanfiction]

Whump Prompt emojis:

🎧 for Virgil

And

🎁 for Scott

Stolen Senses

Fandom: Thunderbirds Rating: Teen Genre: Angst/Hurt/Comfort Characters: Virgil, Scott

🎧 sensory deprivation 🎁 given as a gift

I've not written sensory deprivation before, so this was a fun challenge to poke at. This particular combination of prompts was also very intriguing, but I think I managed to get them both in.

Been a little while now since I last wrote Virgil's pov, too. Well, practice is always good :D

Whumpy Prompt List

True silence was terrifying. There was nothing, not even the sound of his breathing or the throbbing of his heartbeat. Nothing, nothing, nothing.

Virgil didn’t know how long he’d been there. Didn’t know how long it had been since chains had snapped around his wrists, too short to reach the noise-cancelling headphones clasped tightly over his ears.

The blackness, an absence of both light and colour, made it even worse. He couldn’t feel a blindfold – his eyes were open and he could flick them around – but there was no penetrating the black, black darkness engulfing them.

Breathing was a challenge. Virgil worked with light, with colour and sound and the smell of freshly oiled machinery. To have none of them made his chest stutter and heave out of rhythm, the darkness a suffocating presence and the silence a noose around his neck.

He had no idea how long he’d been there. Not long enough for anyone to come bearing food or drink, although his body craved both when it wasn’t busy shying away from the lack of anything, lack of life in his vicinity.

Intellectually, he knew he was wheezing. He was sweating, shaking, weak and terrified and trapped. He could feel the tightness in his throat as the air forced itself past at an accelerated rate, but he couldn’t hear it.

He couldn’t hear anything. He couldn’t see anything, either.

He barely remembered how he’d ended up there, either. It hadn’t been a rescue. An art exhibition, perhaps, or maybe a concert? It didn’t matter anyway, not when he couldn’t see, couldn’t hear, could only feel cold steel ringing his wrists and jerking his arms to a halt if he moved them too far.

At least he had something to feel, he supposed, although that was far from enough to stop the ever-rising instinctual panic that came from having his two most valued, most relied-upon, senses stripped from him.

His throat was dry and parched. Surely they’d bring him water soon – whoever ‘they’ were – unless they wanted him to die a slow and painful death?

Virgil shuddered at the thought, feeling his chest wracked with violent trembles and knowing that if that was the case, there was nothing he could do about it.

Never see the sky again. Never hear the songs of the birds and the swell of the ocean in the bay. Nothing except this endless vacuum. Never hold another paintbrush, nor brush fingertips lightly across ivory keys.

There was salt in his mouth and a tightness to his cheeks, but still no matter how much his chest heaved and stuttered, there was no sound. No matter how much he contorted, the headphones stayed firmly out of reach.

His silent gasps grew faster still, drowning in desperation, in the realisation that there was no way out. Virgil needed the sunlight, neededthe sounds of nature and his brothers, but the cold, harsh steel and unforgiving darkness told him that they were nothing but a distant, rapidly-fading, memory.

Bright, retina-searing light flashed into existence and he knew he screamed, could feel the tremble of his vocal cords and the reflex of a widely-opened mouth. Eyes clenched shut against the sudden exposure, hot tears leaking across his lashes and crawling down his face.

He still couldn’t hear, and bright light was better than no light, so he forced himself to open his eyes into a squint, just barely enough to see past the bright.

Something landed in front of him, eerily silent for its mass, and it took Virgil’s abused eyes a moment to associate it as human-sized. Human-shaped.

A human.

They were limp and unmoving, a stark silhouette of black against the bright, bright lights, and Virgil’s instincts kicked in. Vaguely, he was aware that this was just a distraction for his mind, and that his reasons for edging forwards and tentatively reaching out for the blurred, indistinct figure were actually selfish ones, but he dismissed those thoughts and realisation because distraction or not, they needed help.

There was a bow, of all things, tied around their neck. Tightly tied, leaving red imprints in the skin where the fine silk had slipped. A garishly glamorous gift tag was attached, and Virgil’s trembling, chain-captured hands took multiple attempts before managing to catch hold of it and turn it around so that the writing was visible.

Eyes watering, Virgil could barely read the ink, and he furiously blinked away the moisture until the words stopped swimming on the page and became marginally legible.

Enjoy, it said, in large, thick black letters. There was nothing else that he could see, and with clenched teeth Virgil turned his attention back to the too-tight ribbon itself. His fingers still trembled, fumbling the knot several times before he finally got the purchase and grip to yank it free, exposing skin mottled black and blue.

The bruising continued, down over muscular shoulders and under a torn t-shirt, and up the throat, along the jaw and marring their- his face.

Virgil didn’t know if his voice made a sound as he screamed again, although this time he knew his lips were shaping a name.

Scott! Despite everything, his brother’s appearance was unmistakable. His eyes were closed and he didn’t stir, no matter how much Virgil tried to rouse him.

He had a pulse, though. Thin and thready and nothing reassuring, except that it was there. Virgil could feel his brother’s life beneath his fingertips, and it was enough to make him cry again.

Why was Scott here? How long had Scott been here? Why was Scott in such a terrible state when Virgil had barely been touched?

He had answers for none of those questions, and still couldn’t reach his hands high enough to yank the infernal headphones off of his ears. He could reach Scott, though, and tentatively pulled his unresponsive brother closer until his head was in his lap.

Wake up, Scott, he begged, needing his big brother to be okay even though he clearly wasn’t. Needing Scott to fuss and yank off the infernal headphones before telling him that there was a plan in place, that they’d be out of there in no time, as long as Virgil trusted him.

Virgil always trusted Scott.

The light disappeared as quickly as it had come, plunging him into utter darkness again. He – they – had to be underground to get such complete inky black, and Virgil’s fingers unconsciously curled in Scott’s matted hair.

Scott’s presence grounded him a little, gave him something to focus on that wasn’t the dark or the silence, and Virgil clung to that, clung to his brother like a life raft in an ocean of turmoil. He didn’t have sight or hearing, but he had touch, and the warmth of his brother in his lap. It wasn’t enough to stop his silent gasping breathing, but it was enough to stop his mind spiralling in self-isolation.

He didn’t know how long he sat in the darkness, periodically worming his fingers down the side of Scott’s face to find the pulse point in his neck before trailing back up to bury them in his hair. His hands were in the wrong position to count the rise and fall of Scott’s chest, but his chains didn’t reach far enough to let his hands settle there, so there was no way to track the passage of time, but even unconscious, Scott was a reassuring presence.

After some time, another blinding flash of light occurred, and while his eyes reflexively squeezed shut, Virgil’s first instinct was to curl himself over Scott, clinging to him as tightly as he could. No-one was taking Scott away from him.

The pressure eased from his head suddenly, and Virgil gasped as noise flooded in, loud and overwhelming in its intensity. He could hear his own raspy breathing, rapid with an edge of hysteria that was deafening after so long in silence. There were other people around, too, saying words that were far too loud for him to even begin to decipher them, and something quiet and pained from the brother in his lap.

The chains fell away with an even worse clang, metal clinking against metal and the cool stone of the floor, and it gradually occurred to Virgil that he was, somehow, impossibly, free.

Scott was still unconscious, and tanned hands crossed his vision, heading for his brother’s throat.

Virgil snarled, lunching forwards and almost biting the fingers clean off. They wouldn’t touch Scott. He wouldn’t, couldn’t, let them.

“Virgil.” It was meant to be a whisper but his name reverberated around inside his skull, loud and destructive and painful as it clashed against the earlier silence. A whimper tore itself from his throat. “Virgil, it’s me. It’s Gordon. I’m not going to hurt either of you, I promise.”

Too many words. They merged together into a single sound, abrasive against his sensitive ears. Only two syllables stood out.

Gordon.

Virgil raised his head slowly, inch by inch, keeping himself coiled protectively around his big brother. Worried amber eyes met his, tanned skin topped off by a shock of chlorine-damaged blond hair, and his eyelids blinked.

His breathing was still loud and rasping in his ears. Too loud to talk.

A tanned hand reached for Scott again, and this time Virgil let the tanned fingers brush against his big brother’s throat.

“He’s alive,” Gordon said, still a whisper and this time Virgil’s ears could handle that. A sudden yellow light bathed Scott’s limp form, and Virgil flinched. “Looks like he’s just drugged, Virg. He’s okay.”

The light flashed again, this time over Virgil, and he groaned.

“Can you walk, Virgil?” Whatever Gordon saw, he didn’t say. “Let’s get you out of here.”

Gentle hands edged towards his arms, brushing lightly against his skin, and Virgil startled.

“Come on, big brother,” Gordon coaxed. “I can’t carry both of you.”

Common sense. Logic. Something Virgil would have realised for himself if he wasn’t so distracted by everything.

He shifted, instinctively pulling Scott closer even as he tried to get his feet under him. They were uncooperative, mostly asleep and full of pins and needles at best.

Virgil didn’t even get as far as one knee before he stumbled, crashing down to the ground again and curling protectively around Scott.

“Virgil!” Gordon called, too loud for his ears to comfortably handle, and he curled up tighter, almost into the foetal position.

He knew he had to move. They had to get out of wherever they were, back to natural light and birdsong and everything else Virgil had missed. But he was exhausted; mentally drained as much as physically, his limit came knocking.

With the knowledge that Gordon was hanging around and humouring him, Virgil finally felt safe. With safety came willing exhaustion, and the delayed backlash of everything.

It was just easier to coil around Scott and close his eyes properly against the bright lights streaming in and around the place. Easier to leave the thinking and logistics to Gordon this time.

He didn’t notice when unconsciousness claimed him.

[ingek73]

Stifling, Toxic and Racist—Duchess Meghan Never Had a Chance at The Palace

Royal editor-at-large Omid Scobie sounds off on the outdated practices and attitudes within the royal family that left the Duke and Duchess of Sussex forced to make a change.

BY OMID SCOBIE

MAR 10 2021, 3:20 PM EST

I remember the feeling of frustration well. My work on an extensive biography of the Duke and Duchess of Sussex, Finding Freedom, was coming to an end. After hearing countless stories from multiple people close to the couple about how they felt unsupported and unprotected by the institution of the monarchy, it was time to address the matter with the palace side. A chance for them to respond.

“This is nonsense. … We did absolutely everything [for Meghan],” the senior aide told me over the phone. I asked for examples. “Everybody welcomed her, and she was given all the support she needed,” they continued. I asked again. “They forget how accommodating we were when it came to navigating the duchess through her first steps [as a working royal],” the aide added, somewhat curtly. I had several conversations like this over the weeks that followed—each party, be they from Clarence House, Buckingham Palace, or Kensington Palace, for the most part seemingly baffled by the Sussexes’ grievances. Finally, I took what I had and moved on.

Well over a year has passed since these calls, and the full severity of Harry and Meghan’s situation has finally been laid bare. Sitting in front of Oprah Winfrey, the duchess tearfully opened up about her darkest days as a working member of the royal family. Unprotected, undefended, and left to face a near-daily barrage of hateful commentary and negative stories, Meghan revealed how her circumstances had, at times, seen her virtually stuck indoors for weeks on end. Lunch with friends could have momentarily lifted her spirits, but social outings were dismissed by royal family members and aides who said it would be better to lie low. Her image was “everywhere right now,” they told her. Her isolated existence stood out in particular to her worried mother, Doria Ragland, who during a summer 2019 visit to Frogmore Cottage was surprised to discover that neither she nor her daughter was able to go out into Windsor town to pick up coffees. “You’re stuck in here,” Doria told Meghan at the time, according to a source.

The Oprah interview was the world’s first time hearing Meghan describe the true toll of the palace’s “no comment” policy when it came to dealing with inaccurate press coverage. One report that caused Meghan particular upset was the November 2018 allegation that she’d made the Duchess of Cambridge cry during a children’s bridesmaid dress fitting for her Windsor Castle wedding. Though the palace knew the claims were untrue (and that it was, in fact, Kate who made Meghan cry), Meghan was repeatedly told that it would not be possible to set the record straight, despite it being a story that fed into a stereotype-laden narrative. Other royal family members were often afforded more sympathetic support when it came to dealing with inaccurate press (officials even issued a statement to deny Kate’s use of Botox in July 2019), but both Harry and Meghan felt they did not have access to this same privilege.

The couple’s exasperation came to a head in January 2020, when Kensington Palace urgently requested that Prince Harry cosign a statement against an “offensive” newspaper report stating Prince William “constantly bullied” the Sussexes before their decision to step away. “Well, if we’re just throwing any statement out there now, then perhaps KP can finally set the record straight about me [not making Kate cry],” Meghan emailed an aide, asking why side of the story public image was never considered important to anyone. But, as with many requests made by the couple, her suggestion was ignored. The Duchess of Cambridge, she was told, should never be dragged into idle gossip.

Meghan’s state of well-being deteriorated as the institution refused to defend or protect her during her toughest moments. Talking to Oprah, Meghan revealed that her mental health was so fragile during her pregnancy that she “didn’t want to be alive anymore.” She turned to senior staff—including the palace’s own HR department—but her plea for help in January 2019 was repeatedly shut down. It’s not a good look for the family, she was told. Even friends who wanted to help her or speak up in her defense were regularly reminded by palace aides to keep quiet. As the cruel commentary, racist attacks, death threats, and negative tabloid stories piled up—and the institution continued to ignore the problem—Meghan later likened the experience to a friend as “death by a thousand cuts.” Her reference to an ancient Chinese execution method was no coincidence.

For the millions around the world who watched Meghan share her story, some of the experiences shared were perhaps all too familiar. Princess Diana revealed in several interviews that she considered suicide during her marriage to Prince Charles and spoke candidly about her battles with bulimia and mental distress, both of which were ignored by the institution of the monarchy. Sarah, Duchess of York, was also open about how the pressures and loneliness that came with palace life led to her own struggle with eating disorders.

When Kate quickly found public adoration as the Duchess of Cambridge, the palace would proudly tell members of the press that lessons from the past had been learned. “There has been a concerted effort to ensure that history never repeats itself,” one senior staff member working for the Cambridges told me in 2014. Yet, here we are in 2021, with a very real image of Britain’s oldest and most revered establishment once again engaged in neglect and gaslighting, and dismissing mental health.

When Kate quickly found public adoration as the Duchess of Cambridge, the palace would proudly tell members of the press that lessons from the past had been learned. “There has been a concerted effort to ensure that history never repeats itself,” one senior staff member working for the Cambridges told me in 2014. Yet, here we are in 2021, with a very real image of Britain’s oldest and most revered establishment once again engaged in neglect and gaslighting, and dismissing mental health.

This time, however, race—or more specifically, racism—plays a major role. Harry and Meghan’s revelation that a member of the royal family (not the queen or Prince Philip) had expressed “concern” over how dark the skin of the queen’s great-grandson might be, left many, including Oprah herself, openmouthed. But for those familiar with the institution—which on Sunday celebrated the diversity of the Commonwealth realm’s population of 2.4 billion—it comes as less of a surprise. This is an establishment that only last week briefed The Times of London that Meghan wanted to be royal “the Beyoncé way,” and that the help offered to her included establishing the queen’s Black equerry (a senior attendant, if you will) as a “mentor.” Princess Michael of Kent’s ignorance regarding wearing a blackamoor brooch during her first encounter with Meghan is a reminder that even racial sensitivity can be lacking within the family. An establishment that, as Meghan herself explained, has yet to learn the difference between rude and racist press coverage. The stiff upper lip, no matter how painful the attacks, was expected to remain impossibly rigid at all times.

The palace has continually proven itself to be unable to empathize with any person who crumbles under the pressures of its outdated and unreasonable expectations.

But when does forced silence turn into abuse? Ignoring gossip and drama may fall under the royal family’s famed (but questionable) “never complain, never explain” mantra, but expecting the victim of racism to remain voiceless while sections of the press call her “ghetto,” “straight outta Compton,” and “un-royal” borders on complicit with the attacks. As does refusing to learn how to identify the existence of the very racism that fuels them.

If it’s not considered appropriate to acknowledge racism or racial ignorance when aimed at a mixed-raced senior royal, then how should the 54 countries of the Commonwealth and its predominantly Black, Brown, and mixed population feel about the realm’s figurehead belonging to an institution that claims to celebrate “diversity” but in practice appears to uphold white supremacy? And if the lack of awareness Harry described to Oprah is true, then were race-related public duties, including Prince William recently calling out racism in British soccer and Prince Charles speaking out about racism in architecture in 2000, simply performative? It’s hard to forget that across the full lineup of working royals, all failed to acknowledge last year’s Black Lives Matter movement, which saw just as much protesting across the United Kingdom as the United States.

A brief, 61-word statement shared on behalf of the queen by the palace on March 9 revealed that the family is “saddened” by how challenging recent years have been for the Sussexes. But with the note also admitting that the family are somehow only just learning of the “full extent” of the couple’s experiences, isn’t it all a bit late? With yet another “commoner” leaving the House of Windsor emotionally battered and bruised, the palace has continually proven itself to be unable to empathize with any person who crumbles under the pressures of its outdated and unreasonable expectations. A glass-half-full view is that recent events could perhaps serve as a catalyst for change (and I hope they are). But given Harry’s own admission that his family is trapped within a “system” so fearful of the British press and public that they’re often unable to live up to their own ideals, is it actually time for us to just finally set them free?

[youbloodymadgenius]

One Step At A Time (Ivar x reader)

A/N: This is my entry for @geekandbooknerd​‘s 1K challenge. Congrats again love, you deserve each and everyone of us 💖 I hope you’ll enjoy it.

My prompt: I’m going to break your jaw if you keep talking.

the gif belongs to @kendaspntwd​

@inforapound​ - thank you 💐

Let me know if you want to be tagged 😉

Summary: In bed with Ivar, you wish he’d let you try...

Warnings: oral sex (female and male receiver); Ivar’s insecurities; fluff.

Words: 2000

Crying his name again and again, you scream loud enough for everyone in the great hall to hear, you come hard, back arched, your whole body shaking with his hands on your thighs.

"Gods Ivar, that was…" Catching your breath, your mind still filled with stars, you don't bother to finish as you slowly shift in the bed, his strong arms supporting you, your stiffened limbs barely working. But you both know how it was.

Amazing. Powerful. Prodigious. Could Valhalla be any better than that? You're not sure. Riding his mouth, his skilled fingers twisting inside you and his tongue driving you crazy, is definitely your favourite thing in the world, an addiction you want to keep. 

As you slowly lay down next to him, you kiss him eagerly, propping yourself up on your elbow before resting your head on his shoulder. Snuggling against his side, you release a sigh of satisfaction when his right hand works its way through your tangled hair, his left arm playfully squeezing your ass.

"Everything all right, my queen?" his cocky voice asks. His queen… You still have to get used to the title. You had been his little bird, his sweet, his loveling, you still are Y/N every time he's mad at you, but now that he's king, you're mostly his queen. You love the way it rolls off his tongue, and how proud he is. The truth is, he could call you anything and you'd love it. Ivar is your everything, your whole world, your chosen one, your endless love. The true king of your heart.

"How could it be otherwise, my love?" Smiling softly, you pepper light kisses all over his upper-body, your fingers grazing his warm skin, drawing random patterns from his navel, up to his chest.

"I love you so much." Ivar is usually neither soft nor especially talkative, yet sometimes, in the privacy of your shared bed, he just lets go, whispering sweet nothings for only you to hear. You cherish those moments, which vividly express his love and even more his unwavering trust in you.

As he mumbles against your skin, you just get lost in the moment, perfectly happy and still lightly dazed by your previous climax, your hand running along his side and sliding under the heavy furs. Ivar doesn't react at first, but when your bold fingers wander down to his sleep pants, playing with the strings, he holds his breath before grabbing your wrist, his grip soft yet firm.

"Please, don't." His pleading voice hurts you more than the rejection you're used to. You wish he could forget his shame and get rid of his doubts. You would convince him that nothing is impossible. You would want him to stop being gripped by his own fears. You wish he could see himself as you see him. Strong and whole. Perfect, no matter what.

"Just let me my love, please." Muttering, you raise your head, giving him a warm smile. He doesn't smile back, his jaw clenching as he closes his eyes, huffing out a breath.

"Y/N, you know I can't." Barely hearing his shaky whisper, you know he wants you to drop the subject more than anything. And gods, you hate it!

"No Ivar, I don't." Keeping your voice strong and stifling a sigh, you gently kiss his cheek. "I never got the chance."

Ivar had been your lover long before he was your husband. So long that you have trouble remembering what it was like before him. Despite this, however, your hands – let alone your mouth – were never allowed anywhere near his defective cock. His words, not yours. That hurt.

You can feel all his muscles tensing up. "That would be useless. You know how things went with Mar–" Cutting him off by putting your free hand over his mouth, you scowl, anger bursting through your mind, roaring as you prop yourself once again on your elbow. "Don't say her name, Ivar. And never ever compare me to that whore."

She mocked him. Belittled him. Destroyed him. Shattered what little self confidence he had. You hate her deeply, with all your guts.

"I don't." Ivar quickly retorts, a sigh falling out of him. "You know I don't." Releasing your wrist, he keeps his hand on yours, preventing you from moving it.

"If that's so, then let me try, my love." Your voice is soft and gentle, your heart hopeful, but when you look up into his eyes, Ivar clenches them shut, his breath hitches. Not willing to embarrass him further, you almost consider backing off for a moment.

You both keep quiet for a long time, Ivar's uneven breathing filling the silence, your head resting on his tensed shoulder, his fingers absent mindedly stroking your arm. More and more uncomfortable, you're afraid you've gone too far. You should probably be grateful for what you have, instead of wanting more. But you can't help it. You're frustrated, every day a little bit more. Not for you, clearly. For him. You wish you could give him back what he gives you, day after day, night after night. The bliss. That perfect moment when everything explodes, when nothing else exists, when there is nothing left but feelings.  

"I… I can't get it up." Shivering as his shaky voice breaks the silence, you answer him back immediately, your eyes locked on his, your voice soothing. "Ivar, my love, we don't know that for sure. That's why…" biting your lip, you speak hesitatingly, "that's why we should … you should really let me try. Please."

Inhaling deeply, Ivar squeezes your arm incredibly tight. "And what if…" his words catch in his throat, he's hard to understand, "what if it doesn't work?"

Your response bursts forth as you give him an encouraging smile, your eyes twinkling with love, your words firm and your voice steady. "It won't change anything, Ivar. I'll love you just as much, and you know that. I promise, nothing will change. Please, Ivar. My king. It's time. Don't admit defeat until you've tried. With me. You and me together, Ivar, we can make it happen. We've worked miracles before, we can do it again."

Hearing his breathing starting to shake and failing to even out makes your heart crumble. "You… you have too much faith in me."

"And you don't have enough." Glancing at him, you can tell he's hesitating, so you insist. "Ivar, if you don't trust yourself, trust me." You can be his confidence if that is what he needs.

Your hand grazing his lower belly, you look at him expectantly, releasing a breath you didn't know you were holding as he faintly nods, his lips twitching nervously.

As you shift in the bed, a light smile on your face, Ivar stops you, his eyes full of doubts. "And what if… what if I hurt you?” he shakes his head no, leaning himself on one elbow, "I don't want to hurt you like I… hurt her."

Hiding how much the mere mention of Margrethe makes you cringe, you give him a broad smile, your hands resting steadily on his hips, waiting to take his pants off. "You won't, Ivar, I promise."

"How can you be so sure?" His voice is so frail right now, giving away all his insecurities, and you feel like you're melting, seeing your ruthless lover trusting you enough to expose himself completely.

Carefully choosing your words, you spread light kisses over his chest. "Because we'll take it slow, my love. One step at a time."

At the very moment when you see a twinkle in his eyes, you know you have won.

"One step at a time?" For the first time, you can hear hope in his voice. The fear isn't gone, but it doesn't matter. Instilling in him a sense of hope is all you need. All he needs.

"Yes, my love, one step at a time. As we did in York. You were sure you could never walk, and look at you now, tall and impressive as you move through Kattegat. You can walk, Ivar. It took us awhile, but we did it. You did it, Ivar. You can do anything, my love, all you have to do is believe."

Rewarded by a weak smile, you pull his pants down over his thighs as he raises his hips, his whole body shaking, his breathing still clipped and shallow. He doesn't need to voice all the doubts he's still feeling.

"Don't worry, everything is going to be fine, Ivar." As you know he is still terrified of hurting you, your voice is gentler than ever. "Tonight, it's all about you my love. I'll take you in my mouth. A first step." Grazing his flaccid cock with your hand, your eyes widen, amazed that you're finally getting the chance.  

Ivar may find this hard to believe, but you love everything about him. Every scar, every broken bone. And tonight you're determined to prove that you'll love his cock anyway, should it stay that way, limp and soft, because it is a part of him.

When you're about to wrap your fingers around his shaft, Ivar tenses again, his fists clenched as he asks in a halting voice. "Are you sure?"

This time you don't try to hide your annoyance, sighing loudly as you glare at him. "Of course I am. But we'll never get anywhere if you keep interfering, you know? So now my love, you be quiet. I love you very much, but I won't wait. I'm going to break your jaw if you keep talking. Seems only fair to warn you."

Chuckling, Ivar looks at you, somewhat flabbergasted, unaware that this is what you were looking for. A way to lighten his mood. "And how would you do that, woman?" he asks, his cockiness obvious.

Pretending to think about it, your head tilts to the side, you manage to suppress a smile but your eyes sparkle with mischief. "You shouldn't underestimate me, Ivar. I am a queen after all."

Without giving him time to answer, you wrap your hand around his cock, Ivar shuddering at the feel of your touch. Fingers running up and down his length, your thumb plays with the tip, and even if it's still soft, you can tell Ivar is enjoying it, his moans building as you lower your lips, lightly kissing his head.

It takes you a long time – not that you mind it – but eventually, as your hand touch his balls, your tongue licking, your lips sucking, you feel it. It is slow at first, faint, almost nonexistent and you're not sure Ivar is aware of it. Yet you know it's there, and you can't help but feel a sense of pride, getting back to work with renewed vigour as his cock gets harder and harder.

Suddenly, Ivar squeaks. Literally. An odd sound you have never heard before, something between a wail and a gasp. Looking up with concern, a frown on your face, you want to be sure he is all right. "Ivar, are you okay?"

Pushing himself upright, he blinks several times, clearly astounded. "No, I… no… yes, I…" he stutters, his breath getting caught in his throat when you release his erected cock for him to see. His jaw drops open in profound amazement. "What's… what's that?" Shaking his head in disbelief, he bites his lower lip, but his frown disappears quickly, replaced by a heart stopping smile. "Is that… is that magic?"

Giggling, you rest your hand on his, looking straight into his watery eyes. "No my love, it's not magic. That's the power of love."

Ducking down once more, licking his precum eagerly, you wink, "And now, my love, enjoy!", before engulfing his cock as much as you can, your hand squeezing his balls. Ivar lets out an almost painful whine and you know he won't last. The bliss is coming. You couldn't be happier. You couldn't be more in love.

First step done.

 🛡⚔️🛡

@honestsycrets​ @lisinfleur​ @saldelys​ @waiting4inspiration​ @hecohansen31​ @a-mess-of-fandoms​ @gearhead66​ @readsalot73​ @lonewolf471​

[giftofshewbread]

A Slow-Moving Disaster

By Daymond Duck  Published on: April 3, 2022

On Mar. 21, 2022, White House Press Sec. Jen Psaki said the White House is expecting food shortages in Africa, the Middle East, and Southeast Asia, but not the U.S.

On Mar. 23, 2022, Glen Beck said, “One-third of the world’s wheat comes from Russia and Ukraine…. The next thing you need to understand is … the supply chain (for food) is 90 days…. If it stops, let’s say for some reason, stop all farming, we would have 90 days left of food worldwide… (because of the price and availability of fertilizer and fuel). Farmers all around the world are not planting their fields.”

On Mar. 24, 2022, Pres. Biden said, “The world will experience food shortages as a result of Russia’s invasion of Ukraine…. It’s going to be real.”

Bloomberg analyst Alexis Maxwell called it “a slow-moving disaster.”

Here are some stories that made the news in recent days.

One, concerning famine during the Tribulation Period: on Mar. 25, 2022, Tucker Carlson said on the “Tucker Carlson Tonight” program, “A food shortage is a big deal. You don’t want one. But now we’re getting one, just a little over a year into Joe Biden’s presidency.”

Carlson blamed Biden for:

Sanctions on Russia that are disrupting the shipment of fertilizers to many nations. Fertilizer shortages will reduce crop yields, cause some farmers to not plant a crop, etc.

Shutting down oil production in the U.S. This is driving up the cost of gasoline and diesel fuel. It is making the cost of producing and distributing food more expensive, increasing inflation, and driving up the cost of everything people purchase.

Allowing China to purchase U.S. farmland.

Readers need to recall that some globalists want a global central government to control the world’s food supply and make food distribution more fair.

If a global central government gets control of the world’s food supply, there is no guarantee U.S. produced food will remain and be sold in the U.S.

Two, on Mar. 24, 2022, Israel’s Transportation Minister, Merav Michaeli, instructed officials to prioritize the unloading of ships bringing in grain and animal feed.

Michaeli appears to be following Joseph’s example when he interpreted Pharaoh’s dream and stored food for the seven lean years (Gen. 41).

Michaeli said, “We face challenges to our food security at the time being because of the worrying developments in Ukraine,”

Three, concerning the Battle of Gog and Magog: on Mar. 24, 2022, Russia’s Ambassador to Syria said Israel is “escalating tensions” and “provoking Russia to react” by its strikes on targets in Syria.

Four, concerning deceit, here is a link to a four-minute segment of video (dated Mar. 22, 2022) of Pres. Biden telling House Democrats that Russia is to blame for inflation and high oil prices. https://youtu.be/UdysmuailfU

What Biden says seems so blatantly wrong, he must be totally corrupt or mentally ill (readers can view him, hear him, and make up their own mind).

Five, concerning deceit or a reprobate mind: about one year ago, a female patient was raped at an unnamed British women’s hospital. Despite video showing the rape, staff seeing the video, and other evidence, the hospital administration claimed it was impossible for the patient to be raped because there were no men in the hospital.

It took almost a year to get the facts out, but it now turns out that the female patient was raped by a transgender patient (a biological male) that self-identified as a female, and hospital officials wouldn’t admit the facts.

This may top Pres. Biden’s promise to nominate a black woman to fill a position on the U.S. Supreme Court, and this woman and mother, Judge Ketanji Brown Jackson, a Harvard Law School graduate, doesn’t know what a woman is.

How can a female that doesn’t know what a woman is graduate with honors from Harvard Law School?

How can a female judge that doesn’t know what a woman is properly understand cases involving women’s issues?

How can someone (Richard Levine, aka Rachel Levine) be born as a male, marry a woman, live as a male for more than 50 years, father two children, and become USA Today’s “Woman of the Year.” And how can a big-tech company (Twitter) get away with censoring people for saying Richard is a man, not a woman?

Who causes people to deliberately repeat lies and try to force others to repeat lies when they surely know better (Satan)?

Society has reached the point where the Pres. of the U.S., hospital administrators, Harvard Law School graduates, and people in high places willingly sin (and try to force others to willing sin) by denying plain facts and science, and there is little wonder why the judgment of God will soon fall.

Six, concerning an economic collapse or one world currency: on Apr. 1, 2022, Russia started requiring “unfriendly nations” to pay for oil or natural gas with rubles, gold, or bitcoin (no dollars or euros accepted).

Putin believes this will eventually be the end of a U.S.-dominated currency system and ultimately lead to a new global currency system.

(More: It has been reported that Russia and India are close to an agreement to abandon the dollar and start trading in their own currencies, a step that will allow them to avoid sanctions, weaken the dollar, and impact the global economy.)

(Question: Pres. Biden said sanctions don’t work, so if he is not deliberately trying to weaken the dollar and create a crisis to establish a global currency, why is he doing this?)

Seven, concerning peace in the Middle East: on Mar. 29, 2022, as part of the Abraham Accords, the U.S., UAE, and Israel signed a document to “expand the circle of peace in the region and the world.”

It is not a covenant of peace, but it is an agreement to use the Abraham Accords to “promote religious coexistence and tolerance.”

The group hopes to expand its influence to include all of the nations that have signed the Abraham Accords or are thinking about signing the Abraham Accords.

This could be a big step toward a “covenant with many.”

Eight, last week I wrote that I have been asked if Putin is Gog.

I received an e-mail from a reader this morning that said Putin can stay in office until 2036 if he wants, and the word Putin means Prince, as in chief prince of Meshech and Tubal.

I believe the Battle of Gog and Magog will be before 2036 (Iran’s efforts to get nuclear weapons could trigger it almost anytime), and (I can’t verify it), but if Putin means Prince as in chief prince of Meshech and Tubal, that is a very strong clue.

Finally, are you Rapture Ready?

If you want to be rapture ready and go to heaven, you must be born again (John 3:3). God loves you, and if you have not done so, sincerely admit that you are a sinner; believe that Jesus is the virgin-born, sinless Son of God who died for the sins of the world, was buried, and raised from the dead; ask Him to forgive your sins, cleanse you, come into your heart and be your Saviour; then tell someone that you have done this.

duck_daymond@yahoo.com

[veronicamarsconfessions]

In January, I finally watched Veronica Mars, start to finish. Years behind the rest of the world, its fatal conclusion — the death of Logan Echolls — genuinely knocked the wind out of me. And yes, it’s always hard to lose a beloved character unexpectedly, but this one felt different. This time, I wasn’t riding the ups and downs of the story — readers and fans do understand that stories have to come with challenges and pain for their heroes, or there’s no story to be had. This was much more than that.

This was character murder.

I’m not alone in this outrage. In fact the show’s dedicated following — which resurrected the show multiple times, from television to fan-funded Kickstarter movie, novels, and back to Hulu — abruptly shut down an eagerly awaited reboot after just one season because of this fatal flaw (pardon the pun).

This one move was just too far.

But why? Plenty of stories, on screen and on page, have gotten away with killing off characters. Even beloved ones. Even shocking ones.

Where’s the line between a death that resonates with emotional tension and one that shuts the story down?

THE RULES OF CHARACTER MURDER:

When it comes to murdering beloved characters, authors can get away with it, but there are rules.

RULE 1: DEMONSTRATE COMMAND OVER THE STORY

Creator Rob Thomas has stated he felt Logan’s death was necessary because Veronica was at her best as the underdog. Apparently, being married undermined this in a way that was impossible to recover from.

But the truth is, Thomas seemed to be grasping at straws for development across the entire supporting cast, and this dated back to the 2014 movie and pervaded the novels between then and the reboot season four. Thomas seemed to be struggling to find ways to start the show over from scratch. And fans noticed. By the time Logan’s death struck, the trust in the show’s creator was gone.

When the creator is already showing signs of poor management, fans are hardly likely to trust you when you break their hearts, then ask for another season.

So what makes for a good character killing? Lucky for us, plenty of other storytellers have nailed it.

CLICK THE LINK FOR FULL ARTICLE

[thegrimmgrimm]

Cat Got Your Tongue?

Story Summary: "What are you doing here, Jaskier?" Geralt watches as he brushes past, not quite close enough that Geralt has to lean away to avoid contact, and hovers opposite the fire.

Jaskier crosses his arms over his chest and gives Geralt a wicked grin. "Well, would you believe it, Geralt? I'm here to kill a monster."

Geralt gives a half-hearted glare to the sardonic response and tries to ignore the itch in his fingers to reach for a blade, his sword currently resting mere inches from him.

"No, what are you doing here?" In this wood, in this clearing. 

Jaskier's smirk turns sharp, lips curling away from sharp teeth, and golden eyes glinting in the low light. "I should have thought that was obvious."

Tags and Warnings: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Witcher Jaskier | Dandelion, this bad boy can fit so many tropes, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Major Character Injury, references to past torture, enemies to lovers speedrun, more like rivals to lovers, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, gratuitous homoerotic fight scene, Hurt/Comfort

Author’s notes: a lil something something inspired by another post on tumblr and got away from me a little (who'd have guessed?) thanks to eransandstorm for the beta and the fantastic title 👌🙏🙌 Enjoy 😘

It's near impossible to sneak up on a Witcher. Those that try are generally extremely dangerous, or extremely foolish. Whoever is trying to sneak up on Geralt at the present moment, so far as the Witcher can tell, is only one of these two things. Though, Geralt has yet to fully decipher which of the two.

Not being Geralt's first run in with this particular interloper, it doesn't take long for him to recognise their movements. He debates for a moment letting the intruder catch him "unawares" but decides that it would be inevitably more satisfying to watch them skulk into the clearing, dejected and contrite.

"This didn't work the last time you attempted it, Tojad, why would you think to try it a second time?" Geralt calls out into the woods. He hears a muffled curse in return and a fleeting smirk passes across his face as he leans in to toss more wood on his small fire.

"Oh, omniscient White Wolf, I'll have to keep that in mind for next time." Though the newcomer's tone is jovial and teasing, Geralt can hear the true frustration underneath. Geralt looks over his shoulder at the man slinking his way into the firelight.

The Cat School Witcher looks much the same as from their last encounter. His dark, chin-length hair still falls in front of wide amber eyes, catching and tangling in the closely cropped beard in a way that just has to be irritating. Twin swords sit at his back, curving over each shoulder, deadly as ever. A dagger at one hip, and a small satchel at the other.

Much like Geralt, every inch of skin from the neck down is covered by thick fabric or hard brown leather. It looks like the armour has actually seen some upgrades recently. New, heavier buckles and straps have replaced the old, worn thin from use and abuse. Geralt supposes it must have been a successful season for him.

"What are you doing here, Jaskier?" Geralt watches as he brushes past, not quite close enough that Geralt has to lean away to avoid contact, and hovers opposite the fire.

Jaskier crosses his arms over his chest and gives Geralt a wicked grin. "Well, would you believe it, Geralt? I'm here to kill a monster."

Geralt gives a half-hearted glare to the sardonic response and tries to ignore the itch in his fingers to reach for a blade, his sword currently resting mere inches from him.

"No, what are you doing here?" In this wood, in this clearing.  

Jaskier's smirk turns sharp, lips curling away from sharp teeth, and golden eyes glinting in the low light. "I should have thought that was obvious."

The challenge in his tone gives Geralt a fraction of a second to prepare. In an instant Jaskier has his dagger in hand and launches himself across the space at Geralt. Knowing it would be futile to try and wield his sword in such close quarters, Geralt instead takes a biting grip on Jaskier's wrist.

The pain of the hold seems to only make Jaskier's grin grow wider, more feral. Knowing he doesn't have the upper hand in strength, the Cat twists, kicks, and scratches at Geralt, landing a hard elbow to his cheekbone that will surely leave an impressive shiner.

Geralt keeps his hold on Jaskier's wrist as he struggles, and attempts to wrench it such that he drops the weapon. Geralt's other hand scrambles for purchase in Jaskier's armour, hoping that with a good handful he might be able to toss him off.

He half succeeds and sends the blade tumbling to the ground, narrowly missing Geralt's ear on its way down. He also manages to throw Jaskier's weight off to the side, and the movement pulls Geralt over after him, pinning Jaskier to the hard dirt and winding him for precious moments.

Geralt rolls away smoothly and picks up the fallen dagger, crouching slightly in wait for the Cat's next move. Jaskier is also quick to recover, jumping to his feet and pulling a second blade from his boot, smile gone, eyes narrowed in concentration.

They both watch each other with sharp eyes, as still as the trees around them, waiting, and Geralt weighs his options. Jaskier now stands between him and his swords, his horse, and still armed to the teeth, while Geralt holds only a dagger. Not ideal, but at least he's still wearing all of his armour.

Jaskier moves quickly, in almost the blink of an eye, kicking a cloud of ash and coals towards Geralt's face. His arm comes up to shield his eyes just in time, but then Jaskier is back in his space, wicked blade carving a shallow slice across the softer leather protecting Geralt's inner thigh. Though it doesn't cut through the pants, Geralt can feel the blow as it scores up the inside of his leg.

He twists away quickly, reaching so that his blade, or at least his vambrace, comes between him and Jaskier's next blow. The two daggers meet with a clash, and the spark has returned to Jaskier's eyes as he bears down with a series of rapid-fire slashes and stabs, only barely avoided by quick parries and dodging from Geralt.

Frustrated at being on the defence, Geralt make a grab for Jaskier's wrist again. Once he’s found a firm grip, he slams his shoulder into the other Witcher's torso, keeping a sure hold as Jaskier stumbles. With his other hand Geralt brings his blade across the weaker armour at Jaskier's shoulder, cutting clean through the strap and gambeson beneath.

The new give in the armour allows Jaskier's arm to twist into an unnatural angle, and a sickening crunch and pained groan tell Geralt the fight is won. He releases Jaskier and steps back, allowing him to drop to his knees and take in panting, pained breaths. Geralt swipes the second dagger from where it's fallen from Jaskier's now limp hand.

"Are you done?" Geralt rumbles, seeing the hurt and anger pulling together the other Witcher's brow in a deeply frustrated frown.

Jaskier glares up at him fiercely, not to be cowed, but he nods once and sits back onto his feet with a hiss. "You fucker, I just had this armour fixed."

Geralt huffs out a laugh. "Then you shouldn't go starting fights you won't win."

Jaskier glares again, but there's less bite to it. "One day you'll get cocky, old man, then I'll have you."

"So you say," Geralt teases, but decides to leave off further insult, seeing Jaskier poking at his injured shoulder, wincing pitifully. "You want me to help you with that? We should re-set it quickly."

Jaskier tries to shrug, and regrets it, letting out another pained groan which makes Geralt laugh again. "Fine! Fine you bastard, help me."

Geralt tosses both daggers away, out of reach for the both of them, and approaches the injured Witcher with less caution than he probably should. "Promise not to bite my fingers off," He warns as he reaches for the limp limb.

Jaskier grits his teeth and his good arm comes up to grip at Geralt's elbow, steadying himself as Geralt slowly starts to shift the joint back into place.

As he works, Geralt's eye is caught by sight of pale skin beneath the shredded armour. Like his own, the surface is mottled and marred with scars upon scars, but something about them stands out in his mind. Jaskier has his eyes tightly shut against the sensation in his arm, so he doesn't catch Geralt's intense scrutiny of his ruined skin.

Geralt's mind races behind the steady, stoic movement of his hands. Something sick settles in his stomach as Jaskier's arm is righted. With an uncharacteristically soft touch, Geralt takes Jaskier's good hand from his elbow and moves him to hold his own wrist against his chest while he searches in his supplies for a scrap of cloth to fashion a sling.

"Geralt?" Jaskier, now in a touch less pain, must have noticed Geralt's change in mood.

Geralt says nothing, hands clenching around the length of clean linen he's managed to find. He takes a breath to settle himself before turning back to the Witcher kneeling in the dirt by the firelight.

Jaskier is also uncharacteristically quiet, watching him approach with curious and concerned eyes. "What's gotten into you? Usually a good fight makes you less taciturn."

Geralt hums and looks away from those inquisitive eyes, whist also fighting to keep his gaze from returning to the bare skin of Jaskier's shoulder. To distract himself from the gnawing in his insides, Geralt turns to the logistics.

"Do you want to remove your armour before I immobilise the arm, or are you happy to sleep in it?"

Jaskier seems almost startled by the question and he chews on his lower lip, brows drawn together in thought. Geralt understands his apprehension, just moments ago they'd held a blade to each other, and now Geralt was asking Jaskier to make himself completely vulnerable in his presence.

Several expressions cross Jaskier's face in the space of a heartbeat, and Geralt doesn't even attempt to interpret them. Jaskier sighs, "I'll need it off for repairs anyway, might as well get it over with now.”

Geralt nods absently and gives Jaskier the linen to hold as he carefully starts to unbuckle the swords strapped across his back. His fingers feel stiff, and he feels strangely scrutinised as Jaskier watches him work, unable to provide much assistance. Geralt tries to keep any jarring movements to a minimum, but each gasp and wince from Jaskier tells him he could probably be doing better.

Jaskier lets out another pained sound as Geralt has to shift his arm to slide off the damaged shoulder piece, and he does feel a little guilty at causing such an immobilising injury. The being said, Witcher healing will probably have a good range of movement back by morning, but for a little pain, so the Cat will just have to survive until then. Geralt replaces Jaskier’s hold on his wrist once again, and together they manoeuvre off the second spaulder and leather breastplate as best they can between them.

The torn gambeson falls open wider at Jaskier’s shoulder without the armour holding it in place, and as Geralt suspected, the intense map of scars continues further beneath. Without thinking, he brushes his fingers along the shallow cut left by his blade, the streak of blood already drying, and the collection of old scars alongside it. At the touch, Jaskier finally notices the focus of Geralt’s attention.

Geralt can see from the corner of his eye as Jaskier’s jaw clenches, and he catches the sharp hiss as his muscles unconsciously tighten. Geralt meets his gaze and holds it steadily, taking in the pain, old and new, as well as the stubbornness that he sees there.

"Geralt-" Jaskier starts, tone cautioning, but Geralt cuts him off before he can continue.

"Who did this to you?" When Geralt speaks his voice is quiet and tense. He’s finally found a name for the feeling deep in his gut, the web of scars dancing across his mind's eye even as he looks into matching gold. Rage.

Geralt’s hand hovers over the clasp at Jaskier’s neck, not sure if either of them is quite ready for Geralt to see what lies beneath. Almost defiantly, Jaskier’s free hand comes up and releases the first buckle with an impatient yank, working quickly down the front until the garment hangs open.

Though hidden slightly under dark hair, it's impossible to miss the horrible extent of the countless interlacing marks. Before Geralt can stop himself, he's mapping them out with his eyes, noting the neat, careful lines interspersed with crudely carved words. Mutant. Freak. Monster. Butcher. Words Geralt knows well. He swallows roughly at the sight.

"No monster made those." Geralt's voice is as cold as ice, as sharp as the daggers now lying in the dirt. "Who did this?"

Jaskier's amber eyes are narrowed in annoyance, and something darker, when they once again meet Geralt's. "What does it matter? They're all just scars." Geralt thinks its flippancy he’s aiming for, but the steel in his voice betrays his unease.

"I know that's not true."

Jaskier huffs out an angry breath and tugs impatiently at his sleeve, clearly causing himself pain in the process. He gives up with a cry of frustration. "Will you just help me out of this godforsaken thing?"

Though Geralt has no interest in letting him just brush away the topic of conversation, he still moves quickly to help Jaskier carefully extract himself from the heavy garment. The weather is mild, but with his torso bare to the night air, Jaskier can't hold off a slight shiver.

Geralt curses and returns to his things to search for a spare shirt to lend Jaskier. Perhaps next time his unexpected guest could turn up with more than just his swords and an attitude. Thankfully Geralt is able to find an aging black undershirt to offer up.

Standing in front of Jaskier, something in the Witcher's expression calls out to Geralt. Jaskier's clutching the gambeson in his lap like a lifeline, picking aggressively at the cut in the fabric. Geralt kneels in front of him, once again level with those amber eyes, both of them searching for somehthing. What Jaskier sees in his Geralt can't rightly say, but whatever it is must inspire some confidence, or sincerity.

"Let's just say, not everyone appreciates a Witcher getting involved in local politics and leave it at that." Jaskier is working hard to keep his voice steady, Geralt knows, but he can't keep the stricken look from his eyes. "Why do you care, Geralt?"

"Jaskier," It takes nothing at all for Geralt to lean forward and catch the desperate words with a kiss. Many times, Geralt has imagined his first chance to kiss Jaskier. More often than not, he pictures a fierce, heated kiss in the middle of one of their impromptu sparring bouts. But this, this is nothing like that.

This kiss is soft, and warm, and short. Barely the length of a heartbeat.

"I care about you," Geralt confesses, sitting back to watch the expressions evolve on Jaskier's face.

"Oh," Jaskier says, looking dazed, and all the ugly feelings curling in Geralt's chest float away like smoke at the sight of the little crease between his eyebrows.

Something else is building in Geralt's belly that makes him feel like laughing, but he settles for a small smirk as he holds up the forgotten shirt. Jaskier does laugh and Geralt wants to chase it with another kiss, but he's painfully aware of sitting in full armour before the half-dressed Witcher.

Jaskier allows Geralt to help him into the shirt and set the injured arm as comfortably as possible across his chest, both of them silent from a new kind of tension as Geralt works. He binds the limb snugly against Jaskier's collarbone and ties off the cloth neatly where Jaskier can undo it himself quickly and easily when necessary.

Jaskier stretches, testing a few movements, and nods to himself and turns back to Geralt, evidently happy that it's stable and comfortable. His new expression sends a small thrill through Geralt, a shy smile, but almost as wicked as the last time he threw himself at the stoic Witcher.

His free hand goes straight to Geralt's hair to pull him forward into another kiss. Just as sweet as the first, but with all the fierceness Geralt has been expecting and anticipating. Geralt makes a sound low in his throat and his hands come up to cup Jaskier's face, sliding along his jaw and into his hair, beard both soft and rough beneath his fingertips and against his mouth.

Jaskier whines when Geralt pulls away, and gods if that doesn't make it hard not to just fall back into him and never stop, but Geralt has no intention to rush this. He also has a feeling neither of them will be particularly inclined to be careful if things go much further.

"You need to heal," Geralt murmurs, resting his forehead against Jaskier's as they both catch their breath.

Jaskier gives a breathy chuckle in response. "Spoilsport."

The two unentangle themselves and help each other back to their feet, not straying far from each other's touch. Jaskier steps away for a moment to let out a piercing whistle that leaves Geralt's ears ringing, even as he hears the steady beats of Jaskier's approaching horse.

"Oh, so you didn't need to steal my clothes," Geralt teases.

Jaskier smiles not-quite-innocently at him. "Much more fun this way, though."

As Jaskier collects his things from his horse, a stocky grey mare, Geralt eases himself out of his own armour, not feeling quite as vulnerable as the occasion probably calls for. When he's done, he turns to see Jaskier laying out his bedroll beside his own and Geralt watches him with a soft smile that he will absolutely deny if caught.

"Are you going to stand around all night?" Jaskier asks as he lays out on his back and looks up at him.

Geralt huffs out a laugh and settles down beside him, just out of reach. Jaskier rolls onto his side to face him, his good up under him, propping up his chin. Though Geralt internally kicks himself for being so sappy, he can't help noticing the way the firelight dances in Jaskier's golden eyes, and wonders if Jaskier sees the same in his own.

Jaskier leans in closer, reaching over to touch Geralt's face, fingers dancing across his cheekbone. "I care about you too," He whispers, and his fingers brush through Geralt's hair so softly it pulls the air from his lungs.

Geralt rushes forward to meet him in another kiss, the steady pump of his heart a constant reminder of the sensation threatening to burst in his chest. He loops an arm around Jaskier's waist and pulls himself in close, aching at the warmth beneath his touch.

This time its Jaskier who pulls himself away, leaving Geralt bereft. "As you said, I need to heal," He recites, and Geralt lets out a frustrated groan. Jaskier just chuckles and settles down into the bedding. He lets Geralt pull himself in closer and get comfortable wrapped around him.

Somewhat reluctantly, Geralt lets his eyes close, and he listens to the sounds of Jaskier's soft breathing and steady heartbeat. After what feels like an age, but also no time at all, Geralt finds himself drifting into an easy, comfortable sleep. 

 ------

 When Geralt wakes the next morning, it’s to the feeling of a warm weight above him, and a sharp blade at his throat. He cracks his eyes open to the sight of a familiar grin hovering above him and raises an eyebrow in question, only half-wondering if he should be concerned.

"What did I tell you, Kocimiętka?" Jaskier leans forward, and his smirking face nuzzles into the side of Geralt's neck with almost a purr. "Cocky."

Geralt gives an answering growl low in his chest, gripping hard at Jaskier's thighs where they straddle his waist. Jaskier leans back again to look him in the eye, grin sharp and wide, eyes dark in the growing light of dawn.

Geralt knows they're both aware that he could easily roll them over and reverse the position, but he's reluctant to do so with Jaskier's shoulder as it is. Instead, Geralt slides his hands up and around the firm, slender waist, and leans up to meet the smug Cat in a kiss, as slow as their last, and almost as sweet.

Secondary A/N: "Tojad" is the Polish for Wolfsbane or aconite, and I figure Geralt has been calling Jaskier this for a little while now "Kocimiętka" is the Polish for catnip/catmint and Jaskier is trying it on for size (I think he and Geralt like it, how about you?)

[miniaturephantomprincess]

You know those times, when your thoughts go flying and your own headcanon gets thrown into an (alternate) bad ending scenario?

Definitely guilty here... ^^‘

The bad ending

„You do realize this is quite your own fault right?“

Neptune came to hate this voice so much during the last weeks and months. Her fists were already trembling by the bare sight of her opponent, while she simply refused to believe any of those words Venus’ whispered to her right now. However, the former Senshi of love was far more successful in this than Neptune would have liked. While manipulating Haruka had been fun but far from any real challenge, Venus had come to particularly enjoyed teasing and driving Neptune over the edge. It had ended painfully for herself on more than one occasion but damn, it had been worth every single moment. Haruka had been easy. There was so much anger, so much hatred for herself buried that close beneath the surface. A small little push and pull, that’s all that had been necessary for the nice little chaos to unfold and things quite naturally following their way. Neptune on the other hand… even Venus had to admit it was way different with her. The senshi of the sea was much more complicated, her feelings much more concealed, but oh how her strength had proven to be her greatest weakness. It shouldn’t have surprised her but still, even Venus found the irony behind this strangely amusing.

„I actually have to thank you, you know.“

Venus grinned as she carefully followed the impact every single one of her words caused. Oh, how she enjoyed having Neptune on this point. Her careful held facade breaking away slowly, giving way for the much more pleasant feelings of hate and anger Venus feed on for her own joy.

„I don’t think I could have done all of this myself. Not that quickly anyway. You did help quite a bunch you know. Poor Haruka. In the end, you broke the very rest of her spirit.“

Venus felt the by now nearly familiar pressure on her chest, rapidly and mercilessly growing as Neptune used her powers, however, none of this stopped her lips from forming into a cold and deeply satisfied smile. Despite everything, this was her victory. They both knew it was.

„Shut up!“

The roaring depths of the sea sparked back through Neptune’s eyes right before a wild hit of energy knocked Venus off her feet. Neptune’s attack sent her crushing against the nearest wall, the force breaking at least two of her rips in the process. Nevertheless, Venus laughed out loud.

„Well, look at who cannot bear the truth!“

Venus coughed, the sharp pain exploding at her side, but the so-called senshi of love grinned. She bathed in the sea goddess’ hatred. In that guilt cracking up Neptune’s soul and seeping through this raging sea of emotions. To Venus, this felt like the most exquisite wine or perfume and it was worth each and every risk she just took.

“Come on! Tell me I am wrong.”

Quite some dance with the devil this was, but Venus had not come this far to let this end without a little bit of fun.

“She asked you not to keep her away, didn’t she? Her only wish not to be a useless bystander on the battlefield. And you...? Tell me again, what did you do exactly?”

Venus never actually was surprised to find her body lacking the ability to move. She knew that part of Neptune’s powers all too well by now. She could also tell what probably would follow, but Venus never actually intended to give Neptune time to call upon the crushing waters of the sea to rise deadly from beneath her feet.

“Don’t worry.”

The pressure on her chest made it more impossible to breathe. It literally cut off her breath and caused Venus to cough. Her mocking words no longer escaped her as easy as before, but nevertheless, she pushed on. The blonde tasted her own blood in her mouth and fought to take her next breath, yet she knew in only a moment she would have won everything there was.

“I fixed your mess.”

The wicked grin on Venus’ face quite successfully drove Neptune mad. She would end this. Here and now. Once and for all.

But along with those last mocking words came a change of atmosphere that made Neptune freeze. The very air seemed to have changed and shifted. The wind picked up and with it came a far too familiar brush not only on her skin but on her soul.

“Haruka...”

Venus forgotten, Neptune turned, instinctively knowing where to look for her partner. Standing several meters across and away from her was Uranus, strong and mighty, her presence so radiant Neptune actually shivered. The aura of her partner choked her and she painfully realized how long it had been since she felt the soldier of the sky embracing her full potential and power like this.

“You know what to do.”

Neptune didn’t even turn as Venus summoned another portal to disappear, maybe to watch in all safety the confrontation that was about to happen. Neptune could not care less about their former leader, retreating once more cowardly and fleeing from their battle. It could not be more insignificant when it was Uranus who caught Neptune’s every attention.

It had been weeks... no months...

Months since Haruka had vanished.

No... since Michiru’s very own actions had driven her away...

Since then, since she had found the crash-site of Haruka’s bike and all traces were grown cold, Michiru had pushed herself to her own breaking point and limits, both physically and mentally, with her powers finally growing (or was it breaking?) to their fullest potential.

Vision after vision she had witnessed Haruka suffer…or get tortured…

As vague as her visions could be, the pictures they brought to her this time always remained crystal clear. Right to the point where Michiru, for all she knew, felt like she too was with them back at that chamber of tortures. A powerless bystander to Haruka’s cries, her screams…to every damage inflicted on her bruised and broken body as well as to her spirit.

At times, Michiru was sure Mars knew she was there as well, for she could feel a grin behind the searing flames occasionally appearing on the edge of her mind. For some reason, they both shared this strange connection to this realm of visions. And Michiru was sure the only reason Mars allowed her to stay was because the senshi of fire knew to have Michiru watch her lover’s endless tortures would do way more damage, than burning down Michiru’s thoughts.

It never made a difference anyway.

No matter how many times Michiru returned back to this living hell, no matter how many times her visions either overtook her out of nowhere, or she forced her mirror to do her bidding, she never got closer to actually find Haruka or reveal her location.

The prickling on her skin, the actual shift of the wind should have warned her, but Neptune cast away all instincts of the warrior inside her because they could not matter less.

She still managed to dodge Uranus’ attack, close as it was, but never rose her arms to send the roaring sea down at her attacker in response. Instead, Neptune’s thoughts, ever so calculated even within the fiercest battle, grew blank.

Too many things she wanted to say... too much to apologize for...

But there she was, staring back at eyes clouded by a dark and restless storm, that did not even seem to recognize her and her own regrets and guilt bound her tongue, as she looked at Uranus with disbelief.

„How pathetic.“

Uranus‘ voice was as cold as her appearance and demeanor. It did not bear any emotion other than the ever so small sign of growing impatience.

The senshi of the skies took one single step towards Neptune’s direction and with it came another set of attacks Neptune barely managed to avoid. Uranus always had been fast. Way faster than her and it never took long for the raging winds to cut deep into her skin. Those blows she reflected with her mirror didn’t make much of a difference, leaving Neptune bruised and shaking, way too soon for her own liking.

„This is a waste of my time.“

Again grey, empty eyes looked down on her and if Neptune recognized anything it was the displeased hint marking the end of Uranus‘ patience.

This wasn’t the challenge she had hoped for. Too easy. Too weak. It was a mere mystery to her how no one before her had not already silenced the disobedient sailor of the seas. But it wasn’t her place to question the princess‘ orders. She had been sent her with a clear mission and order she planned to execute without further toying around or wasting her time.

A sudden change of energy washed over Neptune senses, a spark, bright and clear, that spiked the second Uranus across from her summoned her sword.

„You got it back..-“

Neptune watched the scene in front of her utterly puzzled. Seeing the mighty talisman appear in her partner’s hands shocked her in a way she never had expected. It took the ground from underneath her feet and Neptune never grasped the moment Uranus charged at her without further hesitation. Instead, visions flickering in front of her eyes robbed her of the reality. Fast and hectic fragments, all tinted dark and red drilled themselves into Neptune’s consciousness.

Flashes of chains…of pain and suffering…a broken pledge of obedience…the cover of nothing…of strength..and purpose…and power born anew…

Neptune choked, both from the impact of her visions rendering her frozen, as well as the force of the blade knocking out of breath.

„Does it mean, it’s gone..?“

Neptune barely noticed it, the searing blade cutting through flesh and bone, nor the pain exploding from her abdomen to quickly cover and wreck every last part of her body.

„All your suffering and pain....“

Neptune blinked. Her vision blurred from sudden tears and pain, neither of which she could differentiate at this point. But still, the strangest kind of smile flickered across the dying soldiers face.

„I-I … I am glad…-“

She tried to raise a bloodstained hand. Just once... just one last time...but another thrust cut off her words, robbed her of her breath.... her pain...

Her last moment, gone just like that...

The transformation of the warrior vanished, leaving behind the body of the young woman who suddenly appeared way more fragile. The storming sea gone and vanished from deep blue eyes, turquoise locks torn and tattered while the mirror shattered on the ground.

A broken relic to prove the execution of her order.

A useless thing the princess told her to keep, without Uranus ever grasping the reason or intention why.

[yandere-daydreams]

A Yandere!Toshinori/OC piece for the very lovely @evaesis​, featuring her character, Kit, and a *nasty* case of Stockholm Syndrome, even if it presents itself rather sweetly. It’s just nice to write some consensual smut for once, honestly.

Word Count: 3.0k

TW: NSFW, A/B/O Dynamics, Knotting, Delusional Mindsets, Mentions of Kidnapping and Implied Stolkholm Syndrome. 

Kit liked to think it was her natural sense of curiosity.

She didn’t like Toshinori, that much should’ve been common sense. She couldn’t bring herself to hate him, not after spending so much time as his coworker, his confidant, his friend, but she refused to let herself enjoy his company, too. He’d kidnapped her, for fuck’s sake, taken her away from the life she loved, slapped quick-canceling cuffs around her wrists just strong enough to block the more problematic parts of her quirk, and locked her inside of a fortress masquerading as an idyllic, woodsy mansion, too far from the nearest neighbor to be anything but a prison, albeit a comfortable one. When pressed, his only explanation had been his fading power, the last of which was long-gone, by now. She’d pushed him for something more substantial, something logical, but the only thing Kit had to show for it was an unreasonable sense of guilt and a slew of consolation gifts, the latter only working to fuel the former.

She had to resent Toshinori. She needed to resent Toshinori.

What kind of person was she, if she couldn’t even hate her kidnapper?

That was why curiosity had to be the only reason behind her current position - laying on her stomach on the floor of Toshinor’s living room, a computer opened and poised less than an arm’s length away, her eyes never wandering from the screen. It was a modified laptop, made so she could search and browse whatever she wanted, but couldn’t put anything of her own out into it. The kind captured criminals would be given for good behavior. Still, it worked well enough for her intents, the small monitor displaying the shakey, blurry image of All Might in his prime, his brightly colored costume ripped to shreds and something she couldn’t quite make out embedded in his side. A knife, she guessed, or a piece of broken glass. Anything was possible, in the chaos of a real fight.

It was an older video, one taken only a few years after his debut, but Kit couldn’t seem to drag her attention away, not while Toshinori wasn’t home and she had so little to do. She’d seen it before, she must’ve. Everyone had. Everyone knew Toshinori was an idol, a Hero, one who took down all the big, dangerous bad guys less dedicated Pros couldn’t seem to topple. Distantly, she remembered what it’d been like to fight with him, beside Toshinori rather than against him. She’d always been one of the more nervous Heroes, seemingly the only one who could never beat that sense of terror, constant peril, dread. She did her best to be brave, but she wasn’t brave - she wasn’t supposed to be brave. She didn’t have to be. She just had to be heroic.

He was different, though.

Anyone who’d ever been in the same room as him could feel it. He was brave, and valiant and strong, strong enough to pick up the slack whenever she couldn’t dodge a piece of falling debris or reach a civilian in time. She appreciated him, she wasn’t afraid to admit that to herself. He was a good man, beneath all the paranoia and insecurity. He was a Hero.

A protector.

The title stirred something inside her, below her rational disposition and within her omega instincts, giving a voice to a part of her she’d always done her best to suppress. The desire to be protected and the engrained, hereditary guilt that came with rejecting that protection when it’s offered, especially by an alpha, an apex, at that. It wasn’t anything she wasn’t used to, but she couldn’t seem to fight it off, this time, not as the video feed in front of her refocused, All Might and his nameless foe coming into view. Her tails bristled, winding around each other and flicking aimlessly, and her ears flattening against her scalp, but she relaxed as the enemy was quickly subdued, their powers no challenge for Toshinori’s abilities. She wasn’t sure why she’d been worried, no threat was a challenge to him, not in his prime.

He’d retired, though, hadn’t he? She knew he had, she’d watched the fight live. That’d been the first time Kit hugged him, too relieved to do anything but wrap her arms around him and cry silently, if only because he’d come so close to failing, to not being there for her. How long had she’d been nice to him after that? A week, two? How quickly had she’d gone back to being awful, to trying to escape and fighting and hurting him, even if all Toshinori ever did was frown and kiss the top of her head and bandage the wound she’d manage to give herself while attempt to scale the seamless steel wall that surrounded the property. It was a miracle he hadn’t given up on her already, honestly. Leave her behind and chosen an omega who was grateful to have him, an omega who didn’t fight and run and snarl at every opportunity. Crime levels were rising outside, too, villains instilled with a new confidence now that All Might was no longer the one sent to deal with them.

Kit’d never fought in a world without All Might, before. Most Heroes hadn’t.

She didn’t want to fight with a world without All Might.

She pushed herself up, abruptly, gritting her teeth and slamming her laptop shut with so much force, she worried she’d cracked the screen. It took her more pacing than she’d like to admit before she could settle herself, calm her nerves and regain her composure. There was nothing to worry about - she knew what she had to do. If Toshinori would still have her, at least.

He was away, now, tending to one of UA’s scandals and smoothing over the concerns his absence had caused. He’d be back in three days. Four, if she was lucky.

Kit picked up her computer with a sigh, already forming a list in her mind. She had some shopping to do, if she really wanted to earn his forgiveness.

~

She hadn’t expected it to feel this warm.

Kit was an omega, she knew that, she wasn’t naive. This wasn’t her first heat, and she doubted it would be her last, but she’d spent so long under so much stress, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d actually been affected by her cycle. There were vague memories of teenage hormones, talks of suppressants with doctors who were trying very hard not to blush, but she’d forgotten how hard it was to combat on her own, how sticky the air seemed to turn, how impossible it became to think.

Toshinori on his way - she knew he was. He was already home, the last press conference he was expected to attend having ended earlier that day, but despite his oncoming arrival, she couldn’t seem to sit still, to wait. Her thighs kept clenching, her legs beginning to ache where they were tucked underneath her, mussing up the bed she’d worked so hard to arrange. She’d tried keeping her hands at her sides, but they seemed to want to be anywhere else, fiddling with her hair or tugging at the fingers or crossing over her stomach, where a deep, embedded emptiness had formed, growing more unignorable with each passing second. Her skin was hot to the touch, but she wanted something even warmer to cling to, to rub against and leave her scent on. Her neck throbbed, making her aware of its blankness, how ashamed she should feel for not finding a reason to mar it. She wanted to be held, she wanted to be bitten, she wanted to be bre--

Something pulled her from her thoughts, a smell, a scent. Masculine and husky, so thick she could practically taste it in the air, the scent of an alpha who’d caught an omega in heat. The sound of the bedroom door swinging open was almost secondary, Toshinori’s entrance preceded by something much more enrapturing. Her mind went black, instinct threatening to take over, but she shook it off, focusing instead on Toshinori, or rather, the open-mouthed expression of shock slowly spreading across his features.

She knew what he saw. She hadn’t tried to be subtle, wanting her intentions to come across as blatantly as possible. A smirk pulled at the corners of her lips as she imagined how she must’ve looked, kneeling in front of him, head bowed and dressed head-to-toe in lace, the fabric sheer and thin, nearly translucent everywhere it wasn’t necessary. She’d tried to pick the most tasteful style she could, a respectful baby-doll in a shade of white bright enough to rival the tails winding around each other behind her back. Most importantly, the set was completed by a dainty, decorative collar around her neck, just big enough to draw attention to her mating mark, or lack thereof, rather.

Kit couldn’t help but laugh, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed and pushing herself up. Toshinori didn’t move, didn’t speak, stuttering something unintelligible as Kit approached. He was a head taller than her, but Kit wasn’t fazed, wrapping his tie around his first and jerking him down to her height, only letting go to nuzzle against the crook of his neck, her arms soon finding their way to his shoulders. She purred, softly, the sound foreign, even to her. She’d never really tried. She’d never had a mate to purr to.

But, she had a mate, now. And like hell she was going to start resisting her instincts when she’d already come so far.

Toshinori was the first one to break the silence, coming out of his stupor and taking her by the biceps. She would’ve been surprised, if she wasn’t already so far lost in that warm, inviting haze. “This is… This is new,” He stammered, for lack of a better introduction. “Love, did something happen? This isn’t like you.”

“It isn’t,” She agreed, melting into Toshinori. “That’s the problem, right? I was so mean, and so selfish, I couldn’t think about anyone but myself. I thought you were being irrational, but I…” She trailed off, the words still awkward and stiff on her tongue. Luckily, confessions came easily when her lips were pressed against his skin. “I was wrong. I’m sorry about all those awful things I said.” She sighed, silently, moving in closer, seeking more of the warmth under his skin, only glancing towards his expression once she was settled. He made no attempt to hide his skepticism, a slight frown pulling at the corners of his lips. He didn’t quite believe her, not yet. She tried to sound more convincing, although her voice still found a way to tremble. “I’d like to make it up to you, if you’d let me.”

Toshinori opened his mouth, but he didn’t get the chance to speak. Before he could get a word out, something in Kit’s chest pounded, the reverberation running down her spine and shooting straight into her unprepared, unfilled core. She doubled over before she could stop herself, digging her nails into the jacket of his suit and letting out something between a cry and a moan, whatever discomfort she felt multiplying. Again, he moved to express his concern, but she stopped him. “Toshi-” One hand rose to the faux-collar, all-but tearing at the thin fabric. She didn’t want anything in her way, in his way. “Alpha.”

She’d barely finished when what was left of Toshinori’s resolve snapped, dissolved, disappeared. She yelped as an arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her off her feet and throwing her onto the bed behind them, leaving her to squirm and writhe, each movement leaving her aware of the fresh slick staining her thighs, the white silk of her panties quickly turning translucent. Meanwhile, Toshinori pulled wildly at his suit, disregarding buttons and knots in favor of ripping at whatever wouldn’t come undone quickly enough. Kit tried to move back, to find something to steady herself with, but Toshinori was faster, standing in front of her one moment and on top of her the next, a hand around her neck, ready to squeeze at the slightest hint of resistance.

“What a daring omega, dressing up like a whore and tempting your alpha,” He muttered, his voice low, rough, almost verging on aggressive. Kit’s lips parted, but all she managed to release was a strangled whine as Toshinori’s free hand ghosted over her chest, brushing against her side before finding its target, cupping her cunt and dragging another pained sound from her throat. A finger traced the length of her covered slit teasingly, what was left of her self-control fading as the urge to be filled by something, anything replaced it. She didn’t want to think, grinding against the pitiful sensation and seeking out any friction she could get, her pride be damned. Toshinori only chuckled, pressing a thumb against her clit and reveling at how quickly her breath hitched in her throat. “How long have you been planning this? That outfit must’ve taken quite a bit of time to find… unless someone’s had this little number in mind since I brought her home.”

“N-No!” The denial was weak, only spurring Toshinori on, her panties soon around her knees, allowing Kit to kick them away. The babydoll didn’t last much longer, soon ripped down the middle and shoved away as his focus shifted, falling towards her chest. In the blink of an eye, a hickey was being sucked into the top of her breast, then its twin to match. His mouth closed around her nipple, suckling and licking until the peak was sensitive and pebbled, but Kit was impatient, her sex swollen and soaked and screaming for attention. Swiftly, she entangled her fingers in his hair, tugging just hard enough to get his attention. “It hurts,” She mumbled, voice barely loud enough for him to hear. As if on cue, something inside of her began to ache, the sensation nearly bringing tears to her eyes. “I want it, Toshi’, I want you. I can’t wait any longer.”

He paused, for a moment, going still. “Darling, I haven’t even--”

“Please.” She was whining, now, pleading with him, even if her eyes were shut as tightly as they could’ve been. “I need to be mated, alpha.

That was all it took. She heard a belt unbuckling, the rustle of fabric, and just like that, she got what she wanted, what she’d beg for. A thick cockhead dragged across her entrance, but that was all the warning she got before he was pushing inside her, Kit’s cunt providing as little resistance as it possibly could. He groaned as he sunk, proceeding slowly and letting her adjust, but his self-restraint could only last so long. By the time he was hilted, Toshinori was growling into her neck, searching for something he couldn’t quite reach. Something he wasn’t going to stop looking for until he found.

Kit hardly had time to whimper before he was pulling out, a hand latching onto the base of her tails and wrenching her over, barely giving her time to bend her knees before she was being dropped, forced to support herself as Toshinori slotted himself against her back. He’d lost his delicacy, his caring touch, opting instead to give in to his own instincts, driving his cock into the deepest parts of her and abusing any spot that made her keep and cry and bury her face in the bedsheets. Her yearning was overwhelmed, forced into submission by pleasure, fulfillment. Just when she thought it couldn’t get any better, something sharp and ruthless embedded itself in her neck, her scent gland, no doubt leaving a string of bruises and puncture marks in its wake.

A mating mark.

Her mating mark.

Instantly, every sensation became white-hot electricity, frying her nerves and exploiting them, turning each touch, each thurst into something euphoric. Her body wrapped around his with a religious devotion, her back arching and moans forcing themselves through her lips unabashedly. Toshinori was no better, any sounds he might’ve made muffled by how snuggly his face was pressed into her shoulder, but the way his uneven pace stuttered and sped up was unignorable, a tell-tale sign to his own reaction. “You don’t know how long I’ve waited for this,” He panted, more for himself than for her. “My beautiful omega, my perfect omega. My omega.”

“Alpha…” She mewled, her end approaching too quickly, too suddenly. Without warning, she was clenching around him, the world turning white and her mind going blank as she bucked against his hips, craving anything she could get that would prolong her state of elation. She didn’t have to worry, though. Toshinori steadied himself on the small of her back, taking in a ragged breath before shuddering, forcing something much bigger through her tight entrance. It took her a moment to comprehend what the swell testing the walls of her cunt was, but the realization wasn’t an unpleasant one, not when she figured out what exactly was filling her to the brim.

His knot.

All Might’s knot.

He called out incoherently as he came, his seed claiming her inside and out, painting her walls and seeping out around his cock, dripping over her thighs. Between attempting to catch her breath and Toshinori’s gentle, comforting ministrations, everything else seemed to fade into the background, Kit simply laying bad and letting big, careful hands position her amongst an array of pillows and blankets. She just sought his warm, her arms wrapping around his torso and refusing to let go. She felt him comb through her hair, but he was smiling when she glanced up blearily, the extent of her exhaustion suddenly dawning on her. “My mate,” He whispered, bending down to peck at her lips between words. “My wonderful, beautiful mate. Sleep, sweetheart. Don’t keep yourself awake.”

She didn’t argue, only nodding and burrowing into his chest, listening to his heartbeat as she began to fade out of consciousness.

She’d never felt more protected.