#Simple Cremations

[fwmarshfunerals]

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[simplecremationusa]

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[yanderenightmare]

Bakugou Katsuki

♡ TW: implied and/or present elements of dubcon/noncon, yandere, kidnapping, captive reader, quirkless reader, mentioned death of important character, discrimination, drawn comparisons between quirklessness and disabilities, implied bakudeku, drugging, needles, mentions of hypochondriasis, also angst

♡ manga spoilers in a way, but also not really. anyway, read at your own discretion.

♡ gn reader

Sharp crimson eyes assess the fresh scrapes and swelling ruining your soft skin. A deep scowl on his face.

“Tch—look at all this…” he grumbles disapprovingly to no one but himself—too upset with you to acknowledge you, yet treating you no different than if you were glass. “These are gonna last weeks.”

You’d tried running away again—tripped and slipped up all on your own, stumbling through hallways and tumbling down stairs in your panic, only to stop short at the locked door—bolted and padlocked beyond all sane reason.

He was disappointed with you, sure. But that’s not the reason for his current anger.

“Sit there while I get bandages,” he orders, getting up from his crouch, pointing a strict finger at you in threat. “Dare move, and it’ll be bed rest for a whole ‘nother week.”

Bakugou’s obsession with your quirkless nature started a couple of months ago…

It was okay at first—he was hardly the first person you’d met who addressed you with patronizing resolve—but he got weird about it quickly.

You worked at another hero agency he was going to be collaborating with for a big upcoming mission. You weren’t a sidekick or anything grand like that, but a simple pencil-pusher—because they need those too, you know? And you liked your job. You got to work along with some of the greatest heroes in the world, see them up close, and help them out with those things they didn’t have time for—paperwork like budget justifications and incidence reports. Yeah, you might have been somewhat of a pushover, but hey, the salary was good, the environment was lively, and even though you don’t have one yourself, you got to see some really amazing quirks in action. It was, out of what you could hope for, your dream job.

The place was in a real buzz when they heard the number one hero would be joining them for a couple of months. You were excited, too—it wasn’t often your smaller agency would undertake big missions—especially not ones that required such big hero names.

DynaMight wasn’t one to share much of anyone’s enthusiasm. He was strict and down to business and otherwise had a major pet peeve for unnecessary rabble loitering around. He’d stopped mid-meeting at the sight of you, seeing as you were obviously no fieldworker, and had gone as far as to demand you tell him your value as if your presence had been some big distracting nuisance.

Luckily, your Pro-Hero coworkers had stepped in on your behalf and told him you were a transcriber keeping track for later reference. It was probably only a slip-up that they’d added the fact that you were quirkless.

You don’t hold it against them, or well… you did a little, but you couldn’t really blame them either. Evoking the explosion hero’s rage must have made them flustered and desperate to play any sympathy card available to them in the spur of the moment.

Of course, it wasn’t their card to play, nor would you ever have played it yourself, but if the humility was worth anything, it successfully managed to calm the top hero down. Actually, he didn’t say anything for the rest of the meeting. And if you hadn’t been so busy taking notes, you would have noticed his lingering stare.

A couple more incidents had occurred in the office after that. Among others, he’d caught an incoming paper airplane your coworker had thrown your way—stepped right in out of nowhere and cremated it with a controlled explosion before it could hit you.

You’d been speechless for a moment—the entire desk area along with you—confused by his strangeness and, at least in your case, even somewhat appalled by his utter lack of consideration—in your office space, no less. Seriously, top hero or not, you can’t just barge in and incinerate stuff?

“That was an important document,” you'd informed—brow quirked—no regard to how offending him could probably make grounds to have you fired. You'd only slightly regretted it after having said it. But geez, you thought—shouldn’t the top hero have some semblance worth of self-control?

“You shouldn’t be playing around,” he'd stated—tone just as sour as the stink of burned paper tainting the air. “Someone might get hurt.”

You’d almost scoffed at him but had held your tongue until he walked away.

Back then, you’d thought it was an offhand insult directed at you and your respected coworker—that the explosion hero had just called you both unprofessional to your faces, like the biggest scumbag to ever walk in through your humble doors. But looking back at it now, you realize he probably might have meant it in its most sincere regard.

His over-protectiveness knows no limit, you’ve learned—calling it patronizing would be a joke in comparison. He treats you as if anything in proximity might make you shatter by association—like a bubble made from the most thinned-out solution of water and soap.

You’d woken up in your well-prepared pillow room shortly after your agency’s collaboration with DynaMight had ended. It didn’t take long for you to piece together his sickness after that.

At first, you’d thought it was a more severe case of benevolent discrimination. After all, most people treat you with some amount of pity after being privy to your being quirkless—treating it no less than a disability of sorts.

But Bakugou’s view of you was increasingly more unsettling than that—suffering from some type of delusion that has him fully convinced you’re utterly inept without him.

In some odd ways, it would have been better if he was just faking—if he was doing it all, treating you as an inferior for some sick sense of deriving his own sadistic pleasure. But no, you think he actually fully and whole-heartedly believes you’re a danger to yourself and that anything, if not monitored in the perfect conditions of the controlled environment he’s established for you, will result in your fatal illness or harm.

He’s a full-sworn hypochondriac concerning you—even as he himself dregs home some of the worst injuries you’ve ever seen as if it were nothing but a splinter in the rough of his worn soles. Meanwhile, he’s scared that if you leave the bed without socks on, it will give you pneumonia.

You were sure you had a couple of control freaks at the agency, but nothing measures up to Bakugou’s mania. How he dresses you is one thing—how he feeds you is another. An assortment of pills first, all vitamins and supplements, a spoon of cod liver oil, then a balanced meal reminding you of those tragic trays you’re served at the hospital—four times a day without fail—breakfast, lunch, dinner, then supper—he also keeps track of all the water he’s decided you need to drink—all things perfectly regulated according to your size and age.

Then there’s the sleep schedule with a set number of eight hours—no more and no less. Exercise is also necessary—workout plans designed and dictated by him. Nothing too severe, though—he’s afraid your quirkless constitution won’t be able to handle anything beyond thirty minutes max.

And then, of course, there’s hygiene.

You sobbed and fought hysterically the first time he’d washed you—in the tub with him after he’d stripped you naked. In fact, you’d made such a fuss he’d had to fetch a sedative.

Even in your drowsed state of complete numb delirium, you’d still heard how he’d fretted over it—the tiny needle hole he’d torn in your arm—as if that was the real violation, even as he’d thoroughly molested the entirety of your body with different cloths and sponges for no shorter than a full hour.

You’d been terrified, of course—horrified by his meticulous routines and odd nature. Yet strangely, despite his rigid rules, he won't ever get violent to enforce them.

You had expected it of him—being known for his brutality—the hero without mercy—the symbol of retribution. You know he's no stranger to leaving the battlefield bloody. But with you, he won't so much as harm a single strand of hair from your head.

He will instead bargain with you, sometimes for hours. Eat what he tells you, and you’ll watch a movie afterward. Go to sleep, and he'll escort you out to see the sun for a few hours in the morning. Let him ensure you wash correctly, and he’ll allow you to dry and dress yourself.  

And in those moments when you leave him no other option, he subdues you through the help of a needle again and never ever by manhandling you—it was as if that weren’t even a viable option. It was obvious he regarded the sedative as the uttermost last resort, always muttering on about chemicals and whatnot under his breath. It seemed he would rather avoid it at all costs—but also, that if it stood between allowing the disturbance of the schedule he felt was needed to keep you healthy and forcibly putting you to sleep, he knew without a doubt which option he considered the lesser evil.

He was certain of it all. And at some point or another… you had even begun sharing his fear of attracting some sort of illness yourself—even something so small as a common cold. But no, it wasn’t the same. Yours was not a fear of the actual disease itself but of what he might do if he caught you sneezing and coughing. You could only imagine the upgraded pill table he’d have in store for you then and what other measures he’d instill due to his excessive ideas of necessity.

And that’s why you’d tried running again even after what must have been a couple of months since the last time. The thought of his inane insanity having affected you so badly you’d started playing along was all too much a painful realization—you’d felt compelled to reject it—run away even when you knew you’d never be able to make the door open if you could even reach it.

You knew it would be in vain, and even though running headfirst into something you know isn’t going to work might be the first signs of madness—you’re still relieved to have found some remaining worth of fight still in you, even if it couldn’t amount to anything.

He comes back as quickly as he’d left, still muttering to himself, cross about the damage you’ve sustained—like you’re one of the collector’s items he keeps up on the mantle in his office—green costume and a big bright smile. You remember the exposés—they’d been rather gruesome, about the hero who’d died in battle not so long ago—a couple of years back now, give or take. He had the number-one spot before DynaMight.

The current top hero retakes his spot at your feet, sighing deeply once he starts dabbing your minor bruises with disinfectant, followed by unnecessary bandages. You’re silent as you watch him work—all so diligently as he does everything, cutting no corners and running zero lights.

His efforts, done with the very epitome of care, all disgust you.

Your lip curls. “I’m not what you think I am…”

His keen glare stops obsessing over your wounds to look up at your face—he’d already tended to the ones he could see, but he’s sure more would blossom and swell in a couple of hours. It’s beyond worrisome—but it’s his fault in any case. He should move you to a place without stairs—it’s way too dangerous for someone as accident-prone as you.

You make eye contact, and his anger fades at the sight of tears welling in your corners—softening as if he’s convinced even a harsh look will have you shatter in his hands.

“I’m quirkless. But ’m not weak.” You’re sure you preached much of the same back at the beginning of your stay, though then you’d hurdled it at him—screamed it from the top of your lungs until you’d lost your voice, unknowing that it’s a statement he’s heard a hundred times over spoken by different lips from yours.

It’s a funny thing almost… how your eyes remind him of his—so soft and yet brimming with determination—a determination that will only get you killed.

He’d put faith in those words before, believed them beyond himself, and it had cost him everything.

But even so, he can’t fault you for believing in them yourself… they’re what makes him love you, after all.

He smiles gently—a most gut-churning sight from the all-scowling man.

“I’m sure you think so.”

He doesn’t relay it with any type of harshness but pity—gross concern and better judgment—overwhelming oodles of it in his garnet eyes, weighing them down with something so awful as compassion and… you don’t exactly know… but it looks like grief.

♡ part two ♡ more thoughts on this ♡ BAKUGOU KATSUKI masterlist ♡ BOKU NO HERO ACADEMIA masterlist

[postcrashcurly]

A Deep Dive into Curly's Injuries

CW: Medical discussion and graphic themes.

I see a lot of people discussing Curly's injuries in the fandom and I thought that I would take some time to absolutely word vomit information for consideration as someone training in the medical field.

Burns and Calculating Total Body Surface

Starting off simple, we’ll discuss the following burns:

First degree burns only affect the outer layer of the skin (epidermis). Second degree burns, or partial thickness burns, affect both the epidermis and part of the layer underneath (dermis). Third degree burns, or full thickness burns, affect all layers of the skin, fat, and muscle. Third degree burns DO NOT HURT as they destroy the nerves.

Typically you will not see significant 4th degree burns premortem- they are often postmortem and resemble more of a char. The body is basically cremated/incinerated. I'll touch more on this further down.

The rule of nines is the method for estimating the percentage of affected body surface (size of the burn). I used this to roughly estimate that Curly is burned anywhere from 82-91% of his total body surface. We don't see his backside, but assuming he walked into the cockpit before the crash it is POSSIBLE that his backside isn't as burnt.

Note the R-Baux score and prediction of burn-related mortality (TBSA – Age + [17 x R] TBSA: total body surface area R: 1 (Inhalation injury) or 0 (No inhalation injury)

Amputation Possibility and Weight of Risk

While there are a lot of factors to keep in mind when it comes to Curly’s condition and subsequent survival, in order to connect reality and canon the following needs to be considered.

We'll go over two of the most popular interpretations post-crash:

1. Anya performing amputation as a preventative measure.

We have to think about the veins and arteries in the human body when discussing rudimentary amputation.

Note: Arteries carry blood away from the heart to the body, while veins carry oxygen-poor blood back to the heart. Arteries and veins are connected by capillaries. Direction as follows:

Risk to major arteries and veins would potentially result in excessive blood loss (we will focus on arteries since they are larger in diameter and their ability to withstand high pressure from pumping blood). Repairing arteries typically requires surgical intervention.

Curly's right arm ends at the wrist, while his left ends midway up the forearm. This would sever the radial and ulnar arteries.

Curly's right leg ends just below the knee. The popliteal (back of the knee) artery is the continuation of the femoral artery- one of the largest arteries in the body.

Curly's left leg ends about midway down his calf. We can assume that severs the posterior and anterior tibial arteries.

The image below is a quick edit and isn't an accurate representation of location, only a rough diagram.

Note: The legs network of small arteries are available to SOMEWHAT compensate for blood flow if one of the major arteries is damaged, but it likely wouldn't be enough to prevent excessive blood loss.

We CAN consider cauterization in emergency situations; however it would require some ingenuity and a significant heat source. Small tools that could be repurposed to cauterize Curly’s wounds would do more harm than good, and it is likely that Pony Express has banned large, heat producing objects. They ARE on a space freighter with artificial gravity and set oxygen levels, after all.

Lack of proper equipment and medical knowledge would make amputation unsurvivable.

2. Curly's limbs were eviscerated by the crash.

This is where we talk more about the possibility of fourth degree burns and what that means.

Fourth degree burns are the most severe type of burn that affects muscles, tendons, and bone.

Where to position Curly in the cockpit during the crash is… tricky.

It’s difficult to imagine the angle he would need to be in order to sustain full body burns and loss of limbs. This is the part I pondered the most, and I think a good explanation would be electrical burns from the control panel on impact.

Electrical burns are carried by nerves because it is the path of least resistance. Extremities are more susceptible to damage when a current passes through them. (Yes, this means his genitals are gone too. Sorry, folks!) *See article on electric extremity injury under Read More

Facial Injury and Eye Trauma

Moving towards Curly’s face we come back to our discussion of third degree burns, which I’ve explained a bit above. I do want to note that the survival of his left eye interested me the most while compiling this post.

Your eyes don’t melt in extreme heat (goofy ahh Indiana Jones shit).

Your eyes are mostly composed of water, which makes them resistant to combustion. Since we never directly see the eye socket beneath the bandaging it’s reasonable to assume that his right eye is not entirely destroyed but instead severely damaged (flattened, scarred, cloudy). Without eyelids or even eye drops his remaining eye would dry, potentially blinding him if the heat on impact didn't.

Another point of interest is Jimmy manually manipulating Curly’s mouth several times throughout the game.

This rounds back to third degree burns and the damage to the superficial masseter muscle (moves the lower jaw upward – mastication, or ‘protrusion of the mandible’), the deep masseter muscle (retraction of the mandible – mastication, or ‘closing the jaw with force’), the temporalis muscle (mastication, enabling jaw movement for chewing, biting, and grinding), and surrounding tendons.

Knowing this, a ‘slack jaw’ position would cause visible oral damage like dry mouth and halted saliva production. I’ll touch more on this below.

Loss of Skin and Infection

The skin is the largest organ in the human body with a variety of life sustaining functions like protection and excretory function.

In Curly’s condition, the loss of his skin leaves him open to systematic infection. Skin protects against infection by producing antibacterial substances (defensins and cathelicidins), which greatly increase when injury or inflammation are present. Without skin your body's natural defenses no longer protect against bacteria.

Pathological vulnerability is the key factor in this section. A severe and sometimes fatal response to infection (sepsis) would likely occur under these conditions without proper medical care and antibiotics.

Administering Water, Food, and Medication

This section is where some interpretation comes into play.

The average healthy person can survive approximately three weeks without food and 3 days without water (both vary greatly). According to the games timeline he was kept alive in this state for four months, which means that somehow, in some way, they were able to get him enough nutrients for basic human survival.

This was likely in the form of paranutrition bags and IV fluids since Curly does not seem to have the ability to move his mouth or swallow on his own. When your mouth is kept open for extended periods of time you stop salivating as frequently because the act of swallowing, triggered by the build-up of saliva, is no longer happening.

When having medication administered, Jimmy can be seen (or more so heard) shoving the pills down Curly’s throat with his fingers.

I can’t help but speculate that additional damage was done to his esophagus and vocal cords since there isn’t a way to push the pills far enough down to avoid the steady breakdown of the medication in his throat.

Without properly swallowing pills Curly most likely developed pill esophagitis (irritation of the esophageal lining), which causes painful acid reflux.

Speculation of Internal Injury

This is more presumptive than other sections.

Due to previous notes regarding the source and nature of Curly’s wounds, it is reasonable to assume that not only is smoke inhalation a contributing factor, but ash, technological equipment, and shrapnel also run the possibility of entering his lungs on impact.

However, when I was looking into photos of the cockpit post-crash it brought another potential inhalation/consumption risk to mind; the expanding foam.

It is known that it expands to cover potential weak spots in the ship, so the strength of the substance needs to withstand the pressure of space and maintain the artificial gravity. The cockpit is covered in it, so it is possible that in some way Curly was physically in contact with it when the crash occurred.

Whether he ingested or inhaled it something to consider, but externally there must have been some effort removing the foam from his already burnt skin.

So, what does this mean, Leo? What’s your point?

Well, there is no real point to be made. Everyone is going to interpret things differently! I just thought it would be cool to put forth some real world medical knowledge and compare it to canon! I AM STILL IN TRAINING and I have a lot to learn, but I wanted to put something together for you guys! You can take something from it, or nothing at all!

Final Notes:

Realistic Prognosis (prediction of outcome):

Without medical treatment total body third degree burns are NOT SURVIVABLE.

Extended periods of festering and infection would make skin grafting impossible (There is some wiggle room with this depending on how you perceive medical care to have changed- but I do think it's important to consider the limits of the human body).

🖤 If you made it to the end, thank you for reading! 🖤

Thank you so dearly to my love, my life, @13nn0x for the help compiling information and just generally being the sexiest person alive.

Some extra articles to refer to:

Note: Some articles include images but I put a warning on the ones that do.

(CW: Includes Photos) Clinical spectrum of electrical burns - A prospective study from the developing world by Ashok Kumar Sokhal, Krishna Lodha, and Rajkumar Paliwal. LINK

(CW: Includes Photos) Electro-Amputation of Lower Limbs Due to a High-Voltage Shock: Report of an Unusual Case by Suraj Sundaragiri, Senthil Kumaran M, Venkatesh Janarthanan, Chaitanya Mittal, Gerard Pradeep Devnath S. LINK

Ocular Burns by Gregory C. Patek, Amanda Bates, and Allison Zanaboni. LINK

Drug-Induced Esophagitis by Fatima Saleem and Ashish Sharma. LINK

Better among the two for Burn Mortality Prediction in Developing Nations: Revised Baux or Modified Abbreviated Burn Severity Index? by Sheerin Shah, Renu Verma, Rajinder K Mittal, Ramneesh Garg. LINK

[shadow4-1]

(Based on a true story) I'm imagining being a military contracted funeral director (from this post) that is surprised when the giant Lieutenant of the man you just cremated is waiting in your office.

"Oh! Um...h-hello Lieutenant Riley." You huff, completely caught off guard. "How long have you been waiting here?"

He doesn't respond. Just looks up at you with tired, distraught eyes. You've seen men bigger than him sobbing in the funeral home's lobby. He's no different despite the soft ski mask he wears to hide his face.

"I take it you're here for Mr. MacTavish?" You asked him, setting down your purse and keys on your desk. He doesn't nod or anything but he doesn't have to. You offer him a soft smile and place a hand on his shoulder. "Can I offer you something to drink? Coffee? Tea?"

"Tea..." His voice is rougher than before from disuse.

You nod and gesture for him to follow you. You lead him down the hall and into a small family room. On the side of the room there's a table with a few beverage heaters and pastries. You pour him a cup of steaming water, then thumb over the organized packets of tea.

"Black? Green?"

"Black."

You rip open the packet and place it in the cup. You offer him sugar and milk but he refuses with a shake of his head. He doesn't touch the pastries either so instead you usher him to follow you once more.

You bring him into the selection room. Caskets and urns line the walls. You can feel Mr. Riley's eyes wander from squarely between your shoulders. You take the opportunity to use your key and unlock the mahogany cabinet at the back of the room.

Inside the cabinet are a handful of different sized velvet bags. You reach for the largest one in the middle of the main shelf. With careful, gentle fingers, you pull down the velvet drawstring bag to reveal a simple urn. It's round, smooth and silver in color. Before you can pick it up, you hear something with significant weight hit the carpeted floor behind you.

You whirl around to find the Lieutenant on his knees. You stop what you're doing and immediately tend to him. You grab at his shoulder and try to keep him upright. If he passes out you'll at least be able to keep him from falling directly on his face.

"Mr. Riley?"

At first it's just sniffles. He covers his entire face with one of his large, broad hands. After a few moments though, he starts to sob. His breath hitches and his voice quavers.

"Mr. Riley?" You ask again, this time softer.

He continues to cry. His body starts to shake and he almost begins to wail. You press a comforting hand between his shoulder blades. All you can really do is comfort him until he's done.

Riley pulls his hand away from his face. He tries to rub the tears off of his lower lashes but it doesn't work. His sobbing slows down but doesn't stop. He seems tired, defeated. His entire body sags with an invisible weight.

"Mr. Riley?" You whisper, patting his back.

He finally breaks from his stupor. He looks up at you with a sort of fear you've only seen a few times in men's eyes. He's being vulnerable and so he believes he's being weak. You're not supposed to see this of him. No one should. You don't agree with that sentiment and never will, so you offer him another soft smile.

Riley shifts on his knees. You think he's going to move to stand. He leans over to you, pressing the side of his face against the meat of your hip. One of his arms wraps around your thighs. He squeezes you tight, like a son would his mother. He doesn't pull away either. He just holds you.

Once again, you're caught off guard. Now this, this is something you've never experienced before. You're unsure. You don't know if you should pry out of his grip or let him continue. He's a large man. You wouldn't want to offend him. He's grieving. He lost his best friend.

You lean over again, patting at his shoulders but moving up towards his head. You cup at his jaw to get his attention.

"I never met Mr. MacTavish, but something tells me he would hate to see you like this." You swallow hard. Sometimes, to support, you realized you need to have a little bite.

"Please, get up Mr. Riley."

Something about your command seems to stir something within him. His eyes grow pointed, his brow lines deepen. He immediately lets go of you like your body heat burns. And with that, hd staggers up off his knees. He refuses to look you in the eye.

Now free, you walk over to the cabinet. You replace the velvet bag around Mr. MacTavish's urn. You glance back at Riley and sigh.

"I know this is hard. Are you sure you want to pick up Mr. MacTavish today?" You hum. "I can call Captain Price to come instead. I'm sure he'd understand."

Riley stands there on shaky ankles still sniffling. He won't meet your eyes. He seems to be thinking hard about your words. He nods once.

You close and lock up the cabinet before escorting Mr. Riley to the lobby. The midday sun casts beautiful shadows across the white walls. The receptionist must've taken her lunch break as it was just the two of you.

"Here's my card. I'm sure you don't need it but um...if you need anything. Need someone to talk to? You can call me anytime." You smiled earnestly, placing the small card in his palm.

"Don't be ashamed, Mr. Riley. It's nor-"

"Simon."

You raised a brow but realized what he meant. You nodded. "Mr. Simon."

"No. Just Simon."

You give him a sheepish smile. "Simon."

He nods back at you, his regular demeanor having seemed to return. He tucks your card away.

"I'll be back for you."

You open your mouth to question him. You can't tell if his words are a threat or simply an odd promise. He's already turned to leave. You watch him walk out of the facilities' glass double doors. He dissappears into the sunlight a moment later.

You feel nervous but you feel...fulfilled? Mr. Rile-er Simon...is a peculiar man. You didn't want for him to break down and cling to you, but the fact he did make your heart swell. You'd always heard comments that you were just that type of person, the kind that even the most closed off people could open up to. For a moment you sat there lost in that thought. You enjoyed the feeling.

Then you had to get back to work.

You picked up the receptionist's phone, pulled a card out of your pocket, and then dialed the number of the Captain scrawled on the back.

[woso-dreamzzz]

Injured (Alba's Version) III

Alexia Putellas x Teen!Reader

Summary: You wonder if it could have been different for you

*TW: suicide, death, depressive thoughts, overdose*

Sometimes, as you stare at yourself in the mirror, you wonder if you were always doomed to become this.

This shell of a person that no one can recognise.

This phantom inhabiting someone else's body.

You wonder if your life would have turned out differently if Alexia had given you away.

Maybe straight at your birth, to some couple that actually lived half a world away. Would you have even known you were Spanish?

Certainly given away to Jenni when you were younger. Would you have even been a Putellas anymore?

Jenni has faded from your mind a bit now. You used to see her regularly as a kid, back when she and Alexia were dating. But then she went to Mexico and the visits faded. You never went to Spain camp so you never saw her.

Jenni was firmly entrenched in the world of football.

You had always been an outsider.

You wonder if there's something you could have done to make yourself more appealing to Alexia. If something as simple as being good at football was enough to make her like you.

You didn't need her to love you.

You just needed her to like you.

That could be enough for you.

You didn't need a seat at her table or a home in her house. Just a warm feeling from her towards you could be enough.

Anything but the air of neutrality that you know she feels when she looks at you.

Anything but the non-committal hums when you spoke to her.

Anything but the way she so proudly showed off her son but left you in the background, the afterthought that only got brought up when people mentioned that they're sure she had a daughter too.

You don't recognise yourself in Alba's bathroom mirror. Whatever sad, fractured version of yourself that looks back at you can't possibly be who you are, can't possibly be what you look like.

Alexia's face clouds your version, like she's taken over your reflection, like she's trapped inside you every time you look in the mirror.

You wonder if she sees any of herself in you when you meet eyes.

You wonder if in another world, any world, she truly sees you as a daughter.

You wonder if you were always heading here, to this destination.

To the temporary refuge of Alba's home.

You wonder if you were meant to have jumped into the ocean that night. You wonder if your body was meant to have floated out to sea where no one could find you.

You wonder if outrunning your fate then meant it had worked doubly hard to catch up to you now.

The ocean would have been peaceful. You would have been rocked to salvation by the waves.

Now, it will not be so peaceful and you can accept that.

You have always been a runner, always sprinting away from your problems only for them to come back. Worse. Meaner. Holding you in a grip so tight that you suffocate.

You could have taken the easy way out.

But instead you are making everyone suffer with you.

Because of you.

You wish you had taken the plunge then. You wish you'd had the courage to take it all away then.

No one would have known.

You would have been written off as just another one of those people that randomly disappeared. You would have left things open for your family to imagine where you were, living a life better than this.

A runaway to greener pastures.

Not a dead body buried in a watery grave.

You suppose, now that you didn't do it then, that you'd have a proper grave now.

No one ever really thinks about how they're going to go, not truly anyway. People think about what will happen at their funerals, what kind of music they'd want, if they'd want to be buried or cremated.

But people rarely think of their deaths outside of falling asleep one day and never waking again.

You suppose that must be peaceful too, in a way.

You wonder if people at the end of their lives know they are. You wonder if they go to sleep one day knowing they won't awaken the next.

You wonder if they have such clarity like you do now.

Your reflection turns back into you now, not that twisted version of Alexia. You but not you but not Alexia either and there's peace in that.

You sink into the bath, the water rising to your shoulders.

It's only precautionary really.

You know what's really going to take you, the pills you'd swallowed a scant few minutes ago.

But this is reassurance.

This is to make sure it sticks.

You were never made to last. A portrait of a young girl, a snapshot that never ages. Made to look pretty and stand in the background of things. Made to be unimportant, unassuming until you're needed.

There is clarity in this, you think as you glance at the door.

There is peace.

But you could still get up now, go downstairs to your aunt and explain. Tell her she needs to take you to the hospital to pump your stomach. Tell her that you need her like you needed her as a child when she took you away from Alexia for those few days and you felt more alive than you ever did before.

Than you ever did again.

But you don't.

It's too late now.

In a few minutes, a few hours, however long it takes, she will find you.

She will find you and your note.

You thought about writing to others but you couldn't put words to paper, you couldn't work out what you wanted to say.

But Tia Alba has a note because you know she loves you and you know she will blame herself for this.

You know she deserves to be told why you've done this, why her love alone couldn't keep you from imploding on yourself.

You wonder if she will show Alexia. You wonder if Alexia will wonder why she didn't get a note as well.

You wonder if Alexia will even care.

You wonder if she ever felt enough love for you for this to be heart breaking to her.

You don't think it matters though.

This isn't her choice.

It's yours.

And you've made your peace with it.

It's as easy as falling asleep.

[byrachel]

Could you do a blurb/short story where Paul meets his imprint (shy!female reader) in the woods while in wolf form. And the reader becomes sort of friends with the wolf (as she had no other friends) and they (wolf Paul and the reader) keep meeting in the wood until Paul finally transforms and tells the reader the truth? Thanks :) 💞

UNEXPECTED FRIEND [PART ONE]

PARING: paul lahote x female reader

CONTAINS / WARNINGS: angst, hurt/comfort(ish), descriptions of an anxiety attack

NOTE: sorry for making you wait five years for this, that's actually so horrible of me. i was going through my old requests after talking to a friend i actually met through this account and i was suddenly hit with tons of inspiration. obviously i didn't complete the whole request so that why it says part one, but i don't know how long it will take for me to write a second part, because by now everyone knows how inconsistent i am lmao. i hope there's someone out there who'll enjoy this :)

You should have listened to your parents.

With an increase of mysterious and very violent bear attacks, they had urged you to not hike through the woods for the time being, knowing how much you loved to take out your sketchbook in search of the perfect place to draw. Like the angels they are, they even suggested driving you themselves to other cities for a change of scenery to spark inspiration. But being a hormonal, know-it-all young adult, of course you didn’t even waste a second entertaining the idea.

As the bear-sized wolf stared you down, you wished you could turn back time to a week ago, showing your parents the appreciation they should have gotten for even suggesting an alternative. 

Your heart crashed against your ribcage, blood whirring in your ears as fear froze you in your place. 

You were completely at the wolf’s mercy. This was his terrain, his home, an area he knew like the back of his hand. Even in open air, there was nowhere for you to run. For every four steps you could take, he would get to you in a single leap, his claws and teeth ripping into you before you could think to scream for help. 

If you weren’t imagining all the ways he could make you his next meal, you would’ve laughed at the irony of it. Even if you would scream for help, it was of no use. Of course you liked to hike as far away from human civilization as possible, trying to capture nature in its rawest, untouched form. 

Before anyone would even realize you were away for an unusual amount of time, you would be long gone. If you were lucky they would find some of your remains, leaving at least something behind for your parents to bury or cremate. 

Oh god my parents, you thought to yourself, tears blurring your vision. They were gonna be devastated. Your heart twisted at the thought of them blaming themselves for your irresponsible actions.

The ashy grey wolf raised his head, snapping you out of your never-ending self pitying thoughts and you flinched.

Slowly, he inched towards you like you were an unsuspecting prey. Remaining nearly motionless, he must have assumed you didn’t notice him and tried to come as close without warning you of his presence, before finishing his plan of attack. 

In an act of pure desperation, you dropped to the ground, making yourself as tiny as possible. You pulled your knees to your chest and wrapped your arms around your head, the straps of your backpack uncomfortably tight underneath the grip of your armpits. Like you had been running a marathon, your chest rapidly rose and fell as your body trembled in fear, your lungs feeling like they could explode at any moment. 

“Please, please, please. . .” You cried in a whisper, repeating your pleas like a mantra, hoping that a god, the universe or whatever deity was out there would forgive you for the simple sin of disobeying your parents. Surely this wasn’t what you deserved.

The ground beneath you shook with every step the creature took. His paw brushed along your arms as he towered over you, his heavy breathing coating you in warm, moist clouds. 

You sobbed as you tensed all the muscles in your body, bracing yourself for the razor sharp teeth biting into you, hoping he would nick a major artery or accidentally break your neck to make your inevitable end quick.

You waited and waited, counting down to the moment you certainly knew the wolf would make a move.

But it never came. 

From above you, the creature made a strange high pitched squeaking sound. He lowered its snout and nudged at your arms. Confused, but still terrified you refused to give into his unclear request, clamping your arms even tighter around your head. 

To your surprise, you were still intact as the wolf backed away, his high pitched whining continuing. It was only when a heavy thud shook the ground that you felt you could breathe again, your lungs desperately gulping for air.

You loosened your grip and slowly peeked between the gap of your arms to look at him. The large creature laid down a couple of feet to your side, his head facing you. His big brown eyes sadly stared into yours like you had hurt his feelings. It reminded you of your aunt’s dog when you didn’t want to play with him. 

He wasn’t whining. He was crying.

Your eyebrows furrowed together. Did you scare him? Was he empathetic to your fear? Either way, the wolf’s unusual behavior was even more shocking than the expectation of him tearing you apart. Whatever his reasoning was, it seemed like he had no intention of hurting you.

Still, you didn’t take any chances, trying to remain as still as possible.

Saturated from rainfall hours before, the dirt beneath you clung to your clothes, wetness seeping through the layers. 

At a certain point you weren’t sure how much time had passed, but with each passing moment your body recognized it wasn’t in danger anymore. The thumps in your chest returned to their normal rhythm, blending into your body until you couldn’t feel them. Your trembling gradually dissipated and your sobs died down. 

And with yours, so did his. 

It had been long enough for you to realize he wasn’t going to leave you alone. It was like he was waiting for you to do something.

You gathered the courage to move, keeping an eye on the grey furred wolf as you relaxed your limbs. Still shaken, you lowered your arms and carefully stretched legs to their natural position while pushing yourself in a sitting position.

Your chest still felt tight and you pressed your hand against your heart, starting a sequence of deep breaths —in through your nose, out through your mouth— to help regulate your system. 

Like he was trying to be mindful of your state, he cautiously rose on his legs, his standing height even more terrifying when you were sitting on the ground. But you didn’t panic. If he wanted to harm you he would have already done so and probably without crying. 

He observed you closely, making sure it was okay for him to come closer and you let him. You weren’t sure how to communicate with a wolf, how to tell him you would rather not want him to come closer, but as long as you weren’t his lunch, you would just play along until he hopefully got disinterested in you and moved on.

The wolf sniffed at your hair, face and arms, testing the waters as you stayed stiff. Without warning, he licked at your face with his large tongue. You could tell he was trying to be gentle, his touch tickling you. You squirmed away with a laugh falling from your lips and you held one hand out to him. Your other hand wiped his saliva off your face. “No, no, that’s enough.” 

Oddly enough, he listened. Or at least it seemed like he did, because he didn’t lick you again.

Instead he dipped his head down and your eyes widened. When you didn’t do anything, he nudged his head towards you. Not only did he empathize with your fear, he wanted to show you he wasn’t something to be feared.

Hesitantly, you reached for the top of his head and you raked your fingers through the strands of his fur, giving him a firm rub. He gave you a huff of approval and a soft smile tugged at your lips. “Maybe you aren’t as scary as I thought.” 

Growing more comfortable, you used both hands to pet him, sleeking the fur on the top of his head back with gentle strokes. “Now I’m kind of embarrassed that you saw me react like that. That was a major overreaction.” You chuckled.

Eventually you found your bearings, the grey wolf, you named Wolfie for convenience, comforting you with his head rubs until you felt comfortable enough to move freely around him. 

He helped you up, letting you use him as leverage to get on your feet. You dusted off the dirt as best as you could, but the brown stains would raise suspicions from your parents about your whereabouts. If they ended up giving you a hard time about it, you knew you deserved it. Even if Wolfie didn’t eat you, he scared you badly enough to not go against your parents’ wishes for at least the next five years. 

The grey wolf’s head cocked up, his ears perking at a sound your human ears didn’t seem to pick up on. You followed his line of sight, deeper into the woods, not finding what he was looking at. Suddenly he turned to you, prodding his nose into your side, shoving you from your place. 

“Hey!” You exclaimed, regaining your footing. 

He stomped one of his paws against the ground, giving you another push in the direction you came from. 

He wanted you to leave the woods.

“Okay, okay, fine, I’ll go.” You said sheepishly, adjusting your backpack on your shoulders. You headed towards the nearest road, guessing that with all the noise of manmade vehicles it was probably the easiest way to stay clear from any other animals who would definitely harm you if you came across them.

“Thank you for not eating me.” You shot him a glance over your shoulder as he watched you walk away, hoping he would somehow get what you were trying to say.

[fallintomidnight]

Regulus, very drunk : "Remus... would you like to be cremated or buried when you die?"

Remus, equally drunk : "I would like to be buried in a simple wooden casket..."

Regulus, casually: " OK then I would cremated your body and seperate your ashes into 4 parts and scatter them across the 4 oceans IF you ever hurt my brother..."

Remus 🤝: "deal"

Sirius:

Sirius : "I don't know if I should "aww" or "WTF " right now.."

[blueiscoool]

Archaeologists Uncover Two Life-Size Statues Carved Into the Wall of a Tomb in Pompeii

The figures appear to represent a married couple. Experts think the woman, who is holding laurel leaves, may have been a priestess.

Two nearly life-size statues have been discovered inside a cemetery in Pompeii, the ancient Roman city destroyed by Mount Vesuvius’ eruption in 79 C.E. Experts think the figures are a funerary relief depicting a couple once buried at the site.

The statues adorn the wall of a tomb found in a necropolis near Porta Sarno, one of Pompeii’s city gates, according to a statement from Pompeii Archaeological Park. The cemetery is filled with cremation burials. Carved into the tomb’s wall are several niches that once held funerary urns, as well as a carved relief depicting a woman and man standing side by side.

As researchers write in the park’s digital magazine, the sculptures were likely carved during Rome’s Late Republican period (between the second and first century B.C.E.). Tombs of this kind are rare in southern Italy.

The researchers theorize that the funerary sculptures represent a married couple, though they say they can’t be certain. “This could be her husband, but it could also be her son,” Gabriel Zuchtriegel, director of the archaeological park, tells the Guardian’s Angela Giuffrida. “There was no inscription, so we don’t know.”

The male figure wears a simple toga, while the woman wears a large cloak over a tunic and many accessories. Her carved jewelry includes amphora-shaped earrings, a wedding ring, bracelets and a necklace with a lunula pendant (in the shape of a crescent moon). As the researchers write, Roman girls wore lunula amulets until marriage to protect themselves from evil.

In her right hand, the female figure holds laurel leaves, which Roman priestesses and priests once used to purify spaces. In her left hand, she holds a cylindrical container that may represent a scroll.

“She really looks like a very important woman in the local elite,” Zuchtriegel tells the Guardian. “There is also this idea that she could have been a priestess of Ceres, holding these plants and what appears to be a papyrus roll.”

Ceres is the Roman goddess of agriculture, fertility and motherhood. In Roman religion, she was symbolically connected to the moon, as its phases were thought to correspond with harvests, which could explain the female statue’s lunula pendant, per the journal.

“Since women in Roman society were commonly relegated to the domestic sphere and to the tasks of the Roman matron, being a priestess was the highest social rank to which a woman could aspire,” write the researchers.

As leaders of religious cults, priestesses “would have overseen rituals in temples and taken part in processions dedicated to Ceres,” Sophie Hay, a British archaeologist working at Pompeii, tells the Telegraph’s Nick Squires. “She was the goddess of agriculture and cereals but she was also associated with fertility and new life. She was widely revered.”

The funerary reliefs’ age and quality alone make them rare finds. However, the fact that the female figure may represent a priestess holding religious objects makes the discovery exceptional, as the researchers write. The statue also offers valuable insight into the religious practices of Pompeii’s ancient residents, providing new evidence that Ceres “has a clear place in the officially sanctioned religion in Pompeii, with a dedicated priestess.”

Later this month, the funerary reliefs will be displayed in an exhibition at the archaeological park called “Being a Woman in Ancient Pompeii.” Visitors will be able to observe as experts clean and conserve the sculpted figures.

By Sonja Anderson.

[starshideurfics]

A Mother’s Love - part 2

part one

omegaverse, pre-steddie, past mpreg, cw: child death

Marsha Harrington was proud of her work under Dr. Martin Brenner. They were doing cutting-edge research, pushing the boundaries of what the human mind could do, and ensuring the communists didn’t win.

At least, that’s what she told herself as she held a grieving mother whose baby they had stolen.

Then, she told herself she was doing it for the children, protecting them as best she could.

But she couldn’t protect them. Not really.

Two was angry, even as a little boy, and Four followed his example. Five was cold, easily molded by Brenner. Each of them did whatever Papa asked.

Except Seven.

Seven cried often, and he kept to himself. The older boys liked to make him cry. And he was afraid of the girls, like being near them would burn his skin.

He was always distressed during Brenner’s tests, so distressed that they never got good data. Brenner tried ignoring him, a “cooling off period” he called it, to see if Seven could calm down and regulate enough for testing. It didn’t work.

“He’s washing out,” Brenner said one day after a failed attempt to get Seven to guess at the pictures on the cards in Brenner’s hands. “Schedule him for tomorrow.”

One child had washed out before. Four had been a twin. 004A and 004B, but A never stood out, let B push him around. He’d hit his head, had a cranial hematoma. There was surgery, but he recovered… below Brenner’s standard. He washed out at six-years-old.

“Washed out.”

He was cremated.

And 004B became 004.

Marsha volunteered to handle 007’s procedure. She changed out the vials, gave him a mild sedative, and covered him with a sheet. A janitor helped her sneak him out a backdoor.

She brought him home, told her husband she’d leave him if he didn’t agree to adopt the boy. Richard simply smiled and nodded.

Marsha had had cancer in her early-20s, lost both ovaries in the course of her treatment. She’d gone to therapy, made her peace with it. Found a husband who didn’t care that she couldn’t have children, who liked being able to knot her without worrying about babies.

Richard did not care for babies. But Seven was already almost 5-years-old. Richard could handle that.

He was also a lawyer, so getting papers filed to adopt the boy were simple. They named him Steven, figuring it was close enough that if he remembered anything his brain could make sense of it.

Steven David Harrington.

Marsha and Richard were quiet about Steve, treating him like he’d always been around. They moved to Hawkins, closer to the lab, hiding Steve in plain sight. And Marsha kept her job.

If they ran, someone might ask questions, but Marsha wanted to save time on her commute. Who could question that?

Out of the lab, Steve calmed down. He enjoyed his routines, liked going to the park, liked swimming in their new pool with Mommy. For the first time, Marsha saw him laugh out loud, and she hoped the worst was behind them.

Then he started school.

The other children overwhelmed him, and his teacher called home 45 minutes after drop-off because Steve could not stop crying.

Marsha went to pick him up, promised they would work on emotional regulation and try again next Monday.

“Steve, can you tell me what’s wrong?” she asked on the way home.

“Hurts,” he said, sniffling and rubbing his chest. “Hurts inside. Everyone is scared and loud and it hurts.”

“Oh, my poor, sensitive boy!” Marsha pulled into the driveway, pulled Steve out of the backseat, and held him close. “Let’s see if we can figure out how to make it quieter for you, Stevie.”

When Steve went back for the second week of Kindergarten he still kept to himself, but he could manage the half day surrounded by his peers. By the end of the week, he had even made friends.

He got better control, grew up happy and healthy, and most importantly, safe.

Marsha continued to work for Brenner until one day, after nearly 20 years, she was reassigned as a specialist at the VA. Brenner said their funding was cut. That the program was finished.

Steve was almost 13 by then. Marsha was fairly certain he didn’t remember any of it. And he didn’t cry much. Not anymore. But when he came home to his mother crying in the kitchen, his eyes filled with tears. “It’s okay, Mom,” he said, throwing his arms around her.

“I know, Honey. I know.”

🫂🫂🫂

Wayne leaves Steve dozing in his nest around 4:10, and goes to try calling the Harrington’s. Marsha picks up on the third ring, voice light and breathy. Wayne tries to be as cordial as possible, introducing himself and mentioning that he’s seen her at the VA when he goes in for his physical.

“But let’s get down to brass tacks, I’ve got your son, Steve, here, in my nest, sleeping through his presentation heat. My nephew’s a freshman, he found him, and you know how teens are, he brought him to the first safe omega he could think of—”

“Thank you!” she cuts him off, sounding a little hysterical. “Thank you, Wayne! I thought I had more time before it hit him. It’s been so long since I’ve worked with pups—with teens…” she trails off, suddenly quiet. “I should have been paying more attention.”

Wayne waits a long moment, then he asks, “D’you wanna come pick him up? Or should I…”

“Yes! What’s your address?”

Wayne’s ready to give directions, but he says Forest Hills and the lot number, and she thanks him again as she hangs up her end of the call. Shrugging, Wayne hangs up his own receiver, and gets a glass of orange juice from the fridge.

Steve’s still sleeping peacefully, his face tucked into the side of the nest, fingers curled in the blankets.

Wayne crosses over to him, strokes his hair and murmurs, “Hey, Kid. Your Mom is on her way over.” He feels Steve’s forehead, still burning with his heat. He holds up the orange juice. “Need to get some sugar into you, make up for everything your body’s burning through.” He helps Steve sit up, holds the glass for him as he drinks it all.

Finished, Steve turns to hide his face against Wayne’s shoulder and whines.

“I know, Kid. This is a rough one. The first of many.”

“Can I lay back down?”

“Sure, get comfy. I’ll bring your mother back as soon as she gets here.” Wayne watches Steve sink back down to the same spot, realizes then where Steve’s nose is, and holds back a keening cry of his own.

Benny deserves to know.

But Benny wants his pup safe before anything.

Marsha must have broken a few traffic laws with how quickly she arrives, and Wayne opens the door for her before she can knock. “Thank you!” she says again, following Wayne back to his nest and running over to Steve. She rubs his back, softly says, “Stevie, I’m here. It’s okay.”

Steve lifts his head, eyes unfocused as he turns to look at her. “Hi, Mom.”

“Are you ready to go home? We’ll get a nest started on your bed and you can sleep.”

“It’s nice here,” Steve mumbles, “Smells nice. Safe.”

She sniffs theatrically. “You’re right, it does.” Then she sniffs Steve’s hair. “But don’t you want a nest that smells like you?”

Steve shakes his head, fist clenching the white undershirt, pulling it to his nose.

Marsha strokes Steves hair, bends down to sniff quietly at the shirt, and goes stock still. As she recovers, she kisses Steve’s hair and gets back to her feet. Her eyes are watery, lips pursed as she approaches Wayne to ask, “You know Ben Hammond?”

“He’s my best friend. Don’t you know he lives in town?”

She shakes her head. “I try not to be involved, for-” She cuts herself off, pauses. “You know, don’t you.” It isn’t a question.

“Yes.”

“Call him. Now.”

🫂🫂🫂

“Benny’s Burgers, how can I help you?” Benny drawls into the receiver, expecting a to-go order.

Instead, it’s Wayne. “Benny, you need to come over right now.”

“Wayne, no. Dinner rush is about to start, I’ve already got a few early birds, a couple te-”

“Benjamin Hammond, this is serious!”

That wasn’t Wayne, the voice too high-pitched. Feminine and familiar.

“Marsha?”

“Hi, honey. God, I owe you a million apologies. More even.”

“You do.”

“But Wayne said you know, and he needs you.”

Benny’s heart races. “Wayne needs me? Marsha, what the hell is going on? Is Br-”

“Wayne is fine. He needs you.” Marsha is being careful, keeping him from saying too much over the phone. “Please, can you come to Wayne’s? Now?”

“Yeah, just gotta close up.”

“I’m so sorry, Benny.”

“Save it for later, Marsha.” He hangs up, hurries the customers who have already been served. Orders everyone else out with a barked, “Emergency closure. Come back tomorrow.”

Benny hops into his pickup, drives to Wayne’s, confused for a moment by the BMW parked next to Wayne’s truck. But his brain catches back up, and he parks right beside it.

As soon as he’s through the door he can smell it: Peaches, light and sweet. He shouldn’t be able to, with the strength of Wayne’s cinnamon mixed with cigarette smoke, but he does. Peaches mixed with the fading milky scent of a pup.

Wayne and Marsha are in the kitchen, both staring at him.

“I’m so sorry, Benny,” Marsha says again. “What we did to you was unforgivable. What we did to the pups was worse. But I got Steve out. I kept him safe.” Her voice is shaky, but her eyes stay dry, never looking away.

“I wanted to name him David,” Benny says in little more than a whisper.

“I know. His middle name is David, but Steven was easier for him to adapt to.”

“Adapt?”

“Brenner gave them numbers.”

That doesn’t surprise Benny; Brenner was always so clinical. Methodical. But it clearly shocks Wayne. “Numbers. Y’all didn’t even give them names?”

“His name was Seven.”

Marsha glances at Wayne, sees the disgust there. “Brenner thought it would make it easier for us to see them as subjects than as children. But they were always children to me. And Steve was sensitive, stubborn and scared. I got him out, and Brenner thinks he’s dead. As long as he doesn’t call any attention to himself he should be safe.”

“Talking to me will call attention to him, won’t it?” Benny asks, heart and mind racing. For a moment he considers grabbing Steve and running god knows where, but he can’t do that to his pup.

“Not that much. Brenner shuttered the program. I don’t work for him anymore. I’m just a nurse at the VA. And all your files are secured and confidential. No one should be watching you.” Marsha takes two steps, crosses the tiny kitchen, and tentatively reaches for Benny’s shoulder. “And he needs you. His heart still knows you.”

“I think my heart would know him anywhere. No matter what.” Tears stream from his eyes, and Benny nods down the hallway towards Wayne’s room. “I have loved him every day—every minute—of his life, and if you let me in, I’m not leaving. Ever.”

“I know. We’ll figure it out. Keep him safe. Together.”

Marsha takes his hand in both of hers, squeezes once, and lets go. “He’s sleeping, but I think he’ll feel better if you’re nearby.”

Benny panics, suddenly struck with all his worst fears. “He’s not hurt, is he?”

“No more than any other omega on the day they present,” Wayne answers gently.

“Oh.” Right, the peach scent. Benny’s grandmother smelled like peaches. He misses her. She taught him how to bake.

“He found your scent token in my nest right away,” Wayne adds.

“Oh,” Benny says again, his legs beginning to shake. “Oh.”

Marsha guides him back to the nest. To his pup.

Steve is asleep, a plain, white shirt clutched in his fist, held by his nose. The exposed skin of his back is covered in a sheen of sweat, and his cheeks are pink. Too warm all over from his presentation.

Slowly, Benny sinks down to sit at the center of the nest, and he carefully places a hand on top of Steve’s, aims his wrist towards his boy’s nose.

Steve purrs and nuzzles towards it, and Benny purrs in response. His hand moves to grasp Benny’s forearm and he mumbles, “Good, safe.”

“Yeah, Baby, you’re safe.”

🫂🫂🫂

Steve wakes around 9 that night, his cramps intense. He lets out a whine that sounds pitiful, even to his heat-addled mind. “Mama?” he asks softly, even though he hasn’t called his mother that since he started grade school. “Mama?”

“It’s okay, Steve. It’s okay,” she soothes back, petting his cheek.

Her powdery scent fills his nose, mildly floral, and he whines again. His belly cramps harder, an ache that radiates through his pelvis. He turns, seeking out the comforting scents of Wayne’s nest, only to press his nose into the palm of a callused hand.

Steve breathes in deeply. Apples and warmth.

He whines again, wordless and high pitched, both hands reaching, grasping. Steve feels safe, feels loved. Desperately. Overwhelmingly.

He reaches for it with his heart, touches that love with his own, and cries out. A love so big it hurts.

His fingers catch on soft cotton, body-warm because it’s being worn. He clenches his fists, whines as he pulls himself closer.

Steve’s not sure if he imagines it when he hears his mother say, “See, he needs you,” so gentle. When he hears a shaky gasp in response.

Then big arms lift him up, holding him like a pup, cradled against a strong chest. A warm hand guides his head down, positions his nose so he’s hit with the most intense burst of apples and love. Of sweetness and safety.

He snuffles closer, wants only this. Feels himself relax.

He does not understand yet, but he knows. His feelings have always been too big, but here they can be. He can let them be big, because here they are only love. Only joy.

Steve drifts to sleep in his mama’s arms for the first time, and for that moment, all is right with the world.

Part Three

[caughtthedarkness93]

Ok, I guess I gotta talk about that one scene in Dragon Age: The Veilguard eventually because I've heard about discourse regarding it and it's driving me up a wall with how some of the criticism ignores key context from the rest of the story that informs how it's written. Spoilers for Taash's storyline follow below the cut.

So I mainly have seen this referenced on TV Tropes because I am not on the hellscape that is Twitter, but people, it seems, have been criticizing the scene where Taash comes out as nonbinary to their mom for how they get pissed at how their mom takes it. Often this is used to frame Taash as being unreasonable as their mom is struggling to understand what that means.

And I feel like that criticism kind of misses a big part of what that scene is actually about. Because Taash's relationship with their mom is complicated. This is something that their storyline stresses repeatedly. Taash has fond memories of growing up with their mom and knows that she basically gave up her whole culture to ensure that Taash wouldn't be forced into a soldier's life. It's clear that their mom is still very attached to Qunari culture and she outright expresses a couple times that she feels like being a Qunari scholar equipped her extremely poorly to actually raise a child. That checks out - under the Qun, that would be someone else's job entirely.

So this informs a lot of Taash's relationship with her - Taash recognizes that she gave up a very privileged position with the Qunari for their sake. Because she wanted a better life for them than what they'd get there. That's a huge sacrifice.

However, you watch how they interact, you can see that Taash's mom is also very critical of them and very controlling. She doesn't care much for Taash's privacy, tries to make a lot of their decisions for them without putting a lot of thought into what they actually want, and she is extremely critical of them sometimes about things that don't really matter.

So we get to that scene late in their storyline - the Lighthouse dinner. I think the critical mistake a lot of people make when looking at this scene is thinking that it's about how she reacts to Taash's gender identity.

Which that informs it, sure, but there's more to it. When Taash yells that nothing they do is good enough for their mom, it's not a reaction to how she responds to their identity, it's a reaction to the way their whole relationship has been built up throughout the game. It's the straw that broke the camel's back. And it's true to Taash's character.

One of the things that I like about Taash is that they're someone who likes a straightforward, direct solution to most problems. Thing in your way? Break it. Big scary monster? Kill it. They like to be able to take the most simple, direct path through a problem, preferably one that involves slaying a big monster, and Veilguard constantly puts them in situations where that isn't an option. And in those situations, they struggle a lot. Taash struggles to get along with Emmerich because that involves overcoming internalized prejudices (and understandable ones too - necromancy is something that would probably make a lot of people uncomfortable irl and for a culture where cremation is the norm and undead can be a legit issue, that would go, like, quadruple - of course they're uncomfortable with Emmerich). That's not an easy thing to do because it involves a lot of introspection and interrupting thoughts that you've been trained to think. Taash questions their gender identity. Definitely no easy, straightforward way to solve that. They angst a lot over being afraid they're broken somehow for feeling these things. A fraught, complicated relationship with a parent who sacrificed everything so that you would have a better life, but can't seem to bring herself to let you actually live it the way you want? Can't hit that with an axe.

And ultimately, that's what's happening in this scene - the whole game, we've seen Taash struggle with this really complex, nuanced relationship, this mother who clearly loves them and wants the best life possible for them, but struggles to understand what their child really needs and often says or does things that are hurtful. In this scene, this bubbling, brewing resentment, definitely exacerbated by Taash being outside their mom's orbit and with a team that has more faith in their skills and abilities, finally comes to a head.

The scene is only about Taash's identity on the most surface of levels. Yeah, that's what sparks the argument, but it's not what the argument is about.

[fwmarshfunerals]

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[simplecremationusa]

Cremation Services in Florida are much simpler to arrange than a funeral. But, to make arrangements, you and your family will probably need to make at least a few visits to and from a supplier of cremation services. You will therefore need to look for one that is not too far from your house.

[lovermyme]

Was thinking about merlin and listening to mitski today and

Post revel where arthur reacts very well at merlins magic, unbans magic and merlin cant actually process that

Yeah, thats about "its just that i fell in love with a war, nobody told me it ended", he suffered too much to allow it to be this easy. Can u imagine? What do u mean arthur and the knights are laughing amused by him magically lighting the fire? It is a big deal.

Merlins saw many many sorcerers be cremated alive to be normal. He heard the screams and smelled the burned skin, the toasted meat.

I havent watched the shows in years but like, i guess he have a "privileged view" of the pire from his room too....... He thinks if uther did that on purpose, by giving gaius (the only sorcerer uther allowed to stay, in his conditions of course) this place of all in the castle...... Like a warning...

The only "mentors" merlin had where a dragon, that had been imprisoned for morethan 20 years. And a old man, that had been walking on eggs for more than 20 years too. They were shit at giving advices, yeah but. Its understandable at some point.

He has blood in his hands. Non sorcerer and sorcerer. Friends and enemies. Civilians. He released kilgharra. Fuck, he lied at the morgouse trials, about arthurs mother! Why is arthur ok w that? He think he is a traitor, of both his kind........

Bonus point if good mordred. Like, mordred adapting very well at the shift laws, and excited about doing magic in frnt of arthur and arthur liking it???? Merlin cant understand. He debated about killing this child.

bONUS BONUS POINT If merlin is struggling at doing magic in front of arthur and the knights, and arthurs doesn't know he is emrys the most powerful sorcerer to walk on earth aND YET IS SO AMUSED. And like, *merlin shaking while firing the fire* arthur and evryone: THATS AMAZING MERLIN 👏👏👏👏 And mordred is so confused

I need a fic like this

Mordred becomes court sorcerer because arthur thinks merlin is not powerful and everything (in a worried way not in a disposed way). Merlin is not jealous, he doesn't care about titles, actually he do like his job, its just about the irony of the thing. Mordred is so so confused.

He does his job amazing, he uses magic and its okay at doing it. When no one is looking. If someone, thats not gaius, is looking, he hardly can do.

He cant do magic w arthurs watching.

Unless its a Arthur's life treating situation.

Its not that he is actually scared of arthur, its just that he simple cant. Theres even a tecnical term for this. Its like a emotional block, but w his magic. He cant control it. He has been under pressure for so long he cant just let go ya know.

Ok, its my post, i like mordred, im gonna put my thoughts here.

Au where mordred was the one who changes arthurs mind about magic. Like, arthur is watching mordred, the one he know has magic and is a druid and asks him if he stills do magic and mordred thinks and chooses honesty and says "to make a fire when noone is looking" or some non harmful thing. And Arthur is like "a sorcerer can be a Knight, im shifting the law". And he shift the law and Merlin is like, was is that easy? *Mental breakdown * meltdown *burnout*

The thing is: it wasn't just because of mordred, like, Arthur's kingdom has been kind w the sorcerers already, not having burned a lot and no one in mordred presence, because arthur is a kind king.

And th thing is how mordred and merlin lived different lifes while in camelot, ya know. Even through mordred has heard stories and lost friends and family to camelots fire, Merlin lived in it.

Merlin, he is extremely suspicious about mordred coming out as sorcerer to arthur (because he is suspicious of mordred), he thinks maybe its a trick, to bring evil sorcerers to kill arthur, something, he even debates w arthur if shifting thelaw is the right choice. He feels awful about his position, but he cant process that everything is alright, he is so suspicious about everything and so scared arthur might put himself in danger.

He tells arthur he has magic after he lift the ban. Arthur is so confused because of merlins position about the law, but he is fine w merlin. And merlin islike "im gonna to protect u i promise, im super powerful", of course he cant prove he is powerful because this whole post.

Im tired now im stoping, but im still thinking alot.

[buckysfaveplum]

doomsday

summary: missions don't always go according to plan, sometimes you lose people- that's the job. bucky told you that himself.

pairing: bucky barnes x female reader

word count: 3k

warnings: violence, character death, um yea this one's sad. OH and Steve is dead in this (I mean he was like 90 something in endgame...)

a/n: GUYS omg i missed youuu i hope you remember me. its been like almost two years? i moved to ireland and started grad school! things are different. buttt here’s a new fic cause i’m back!!! ANGST omg im sorryyyy.... idk I wanted to right something that hurt okay okay bye (:

masterlist | send requests

You hated funerals. 

The suffocating smell of formaldehyde and roses wafted through the wake hall. The sounds of distant friends and relatives feigning grief, playing up small interactions with the deceased as more than just pleasantries while siblings and best friends' voices seem to be gone with a lack of words to express their suffering. The stale cookies and donuts in the hall, as if someone’s lover isn’t lying in a casket 50 feet away. All wrapped up in black dresses, suits, and handkerchiefs.

You hated funerals.

Today was no exception. An agent lost on a routine mission in Guam, taking out an arms dealer terrorizing a village. There were loose connections to Hydra, but just petty violence and shootouts for nothing. It shouldn’t have resulted in the loss of an agent. But sometimes things go wrong. A gun barrel stalls, someone trips, a civilian happens to be in the way. Sometimes people die. That’s how you ended up here.

Sarah was a good agent, a great one. She was top of her class at Westpoint, went straight to the FBI, and was recruited into SHIELD- all before 30. She was good- too good for a slip-up like this.

As speeches wrapped up, family and friends began to say their goodbyes. A line formed at the casket as people poured their hearts out for the redhead you once called a friend. You waited patiently at the back, making sure you were one of the last. You always did. Maybe out of respect, perhaps guilt? Who knows. You always felt guilt, even if there was nothing to be done. There was guilt.

Finally, as the small crowd left the room, flooding into the hall outside, you made your way to the front. Laid out before you, Sarah’s curly and wild hair was in two thick braids on each side of her head, a blue dress covering her as well as a soft cream cardigan. She looked beautiful and peaceful. But she was dead. Your friend was dead. No makeup or pretty clothes would lessen that blow. The plush velvet of the casket seemed to soften the prison that her body would rest in. At every funeral, you were reminded of how you wished to be cremated.

“I’ve never seen her hair so flat,” you turned to see Bucky standing beside you.

“You know, even wet her hair always seemed to spring up. Had a mind of its own,” you said, your gaze resting on him.

He was clad in a simple black suit, an older set you’d gotten him at a vintage shop. Something familiar. A simple cream button-down, no tie. It was simple, but that was him. What was most striking though was his serene demeanor. It never seemed to settle with you how unaffected by death he was. How easily he was able to gather himself and keep going. You couldn’t blame him though, 90 years of pain, death, torture, and violence will do that to you. You’d only seen him torn up once. And it was beyond devastating. Steve. “You okay, kid?” he asked, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. 

He was your partner, in every sense of the word. In the field, as a friend, in life. He was everything. Your taut shoulders melted under the firm comfort of his vibranium arm. You could rest in its embrace a thousand times and never cease to crave its solace when away. He was your rock through every debriefing, call to family, black dress, and smeared mascara. Who knows what you would be without him?

You rested your head on his chest, breathing in the potent smell of his old cologne and something that was distinctly Bucky. 

“I hate funerals.”

——

“Do you ever think about dying?”

Bucky’s grip on you tightened slightly at your words. Wrapped in the soft linen of your duvet and the sunlight streaming in through your windows, his body lay around yours. His short choppy locks were tousled fresh from his slumber. The previous night’s sleep had yet to let go of his consciousness fully, still cozy and relaxed in your shared bed. His vibranium fingers continued to play with your hair as he considered your question.

“Not anymore,” he said.

Your face scrunched in confusion at his words. Your fingers traced gently over the thick scars on his left shoulder. They mangled and twisted, sprouting in angry red from the line where his skin met vibranium. Shuri had done her best to soften the tissue when replacing his arm, but only so much could be done.

“I did a lot when I was first drafted. I was scared of it then. And in those early days under Hydra. It was all-consuming. But at some point, I wasn’t scared of it, I embraced it- prayed for it,” your fingers froze at his words. It was nothing new to you, you had spent countless late nights and early mornings recounting the abuse of his days as the Winter Soldier. But hearing him say flat out how he wished to die. That was jarring. “After the Blip, I’ve just become a bit numb to it. I don’t really think about it if that makes sense. It could always happen.”

His hands danced down your spine as if his words were simple.

“You expect it?” You asked, propping yourself up on your elbow.

“It’s the job, Y/N. It comes with the territory. Sometimes you lose people. And it could always be you,” he said, giving you a soft look. “You know that, doll”.

“I just, I don’t expect it in the field you know?” you relaxed a bit, regretting the subject you forced upon him.

“Hey, maybe that wasn’t the best way to put it,” he said, giving you a ginger smile as he leaned close and cupped your cheeks in his hands. “Death has just followed me for a long time, doll. I mean I’m a 106. I’m just not scared of it anymore.”

You tucked yourself into his chest, his words soothing the fears swirling in your mind. You knew the job was dangerous. That any mission could be the last. You just hoped it would never be him.

“Why do you always pick the heaviest topics of discussion early in the morning?” he asked, his voice still groggy from sleep. He smiled as you chuckled against his chest. 

“Probably cause I’m hungry, Plum,” you said, turning to lay on your back as you smiled up at him. 

“Yea? What could we do about that, huh?” that devilish smirk of his could stop your heart anytime and you’d be grateful. “Pancakes? Clinton St?” 

You nodded eagerly at his suggestion before taking his hand and slipping from the bed.

——

The rumbling of the quinjet shot up your spine. Sam and Bucky’s relentless bickering filled the steel jet as you came closer to your destination. Your gloved hands worked at strapping your knives to your thighs as they quarreled over how best to stain wooden beams in Sam’s living room during your and Bucky’s next trip down to Louisiana.

“No! NO! Buck, that stain doesn’t go with the accent wood in the kitchen! I already told you,” Sam said as he fixed his shield to his back. You chuckled as you walked over to them. Your backup squad, full of agents fresh from SWORD’s training academy, snickered at the two men as Bucky rolled his eyes.

“The beams are in your living room, what does it matter?” He said. 

“I wouldn’t take any interior design advice from him, he wanted a purple couch in our living room,” you said, wrapping your arms around Bucky’s waist. Sam laughed as he turned to grab the mission report. The jet was drawing close, entering stealth mode and preparing for landing.

“It was a plum color,” Bucky grumbled, nuzzling his face into your hair. 

“Okay team, huddle up!” Sam said. “This is just a simple in and out. We gotta get these hostages out safely so no risky moves- I’m lookin’ at you, Buck.”

Bucky threw his hand up in defeat, scoffing jokingly under his breath. 

“I’ll swoop through and scout entrances, Squad Two you’ll be with me for direct combat. We’re clearing out the building. Squad One, you’ll be with Y/N and Bucky, you’re getting those hostages out. You bring them straight back here, got it? There’s four so it shouldn’t be too strenuous,” he said, closing up his report before slipping on his cowl. “Alright team, let’s show ‘em what we got.”

——

Fluorescent red light filtered across your face as you slipped through the hallways. Half the squad led ahead of you, banging on doors in search of the hostages. Bucky hung close behind you, the rest of your squad keeping your entrance open for your escape. His hand rested on the gun strapped to his hip as he kept an eye on your blind spots.

Watching your back on the field was second nature to him. Protecting you, be it on the subway or in an active battle zone, was something he felt born to do. A reason to survive all those years under Hydra.

After several doors, your team stopped; having heard the pleas for help on the other end of the steel doors, they backed up to allow room for an agent to blast the lock. You stumbled back into Bucky, tripping on your own feet. His arms caught you before you could even glance at the floor. You felt his fingers gripping your hips and fidgeting with the straps on your thighs as you straighten.

“Some reflexes you got,” you whispered to him.

“Can’t let my babydoll fall,” he said, kissing the back of your head before his focus shifted back to the lock, now falling to the floor.

The agents flooded into the room, pulling hostages out and bringing them back into the hall. As they streamed out, you realized something was wrong. You only counted 3.

“Where’s the fourth hostage?” you asked. 

Bucky commed Sam, hoping he’d scanned the place and found a lead. As he spoke, you gathered the agents, giving them an order. Lead them through the building, get out to the other half of the squad, and get them into the jet. You’d meet them on the other side. You and Bucky would find the last hostage. The agents fled, leaving you and Bucky alone in the dark hallway. 

“Where are they?” you asked. Bucky sighed, as he grabbed a knife from his hip.

“In the lab in the basement, must’ve been the first to get taken,” he said.

The hostages weren’t nobodies. Prisoners were taken from SWORD on a mission to squash a newly established radical group. A group that seemed to resonate with the ideas of Hydra. This mission was all too familiar to Bucky, and all the more upsetting. You gave his free hand a firm squeeze before you turned and bolted to the lab.

You could feel the heaviness of the lab as soon as you entered the basement. The looming presence of the sterile room filled the hallways as you stalked toward it. Bucky was unusually quiet as he covered you from behind. You knew this was triggering, it had to be. He would always tell you he was beyond triggered episodes, having gotten a firm grasp on his PTSD. But you knew better. The subtle tremor in his brow told you so.

As you reached the eerie room, you stilled. Bucky came up behind you, resting a hand on your waist as you assessed the space. Metal shelves lined the walls full of jars, syringes, and test tubes. Sleek steel tables with rags soaked in blood, white grimy cabinets full of scalpels and needles, and an operating table at the center. The floors were coated in grot, each crack in the tile stained brown. Your mind couldn’t help but wonder if this condition was what Bucky was used to for all those decades.

Realizing the area was clear, you entered. Quickly, you spotted the hostage. Strapped to a chair in the corner with an IV jabbed into his arm. Bucky squeezed your arm as he headed over, slipping his knife back on his hip. 

You felt a pit growing in your stomach. You pulled your gun gently. This hostage didn’t look familiar, you thought Sam said he was a brunette, not blonde.

Bucky began to break the straps holding the man down. Slipping the IV gently from his arms, Bucky eased him up into a sitting position. He spoke to the man calmly, explaining to him who you were and that he was here to get him out. He seemed off, but Bucky just assumed it was the experimentation. He was wrong.

“Do you know who we are?” Bucky asked, helping the man up.

“I know who you are, Soldat,” the man said.

A chill ran through your legs, almost toppling you over. You reached for your gun, but the man was quicker. He was able to log four bullets into Bucky’s chest before you could get one in his skull. 

Shots rang out in the room, flooding your ears. As soon as you pulled the trigger, the man fell to the ground. Your bullet nestled into the side of his head. Your hands were shaky as the gun fell from your grasp, clattering across the floor and sending echoes through the rotting room. Of course it was a trap. The rubber of your boots squeaked as you sprinted your way over to your lover. He stumbled back against the filthy wall, his hands pressing firmly on the holes scattered across his chest.

As soon as you reached him, his legs seemed to give out. Everything in you tried to keep him up, your hands gripping the straps of his suit to keep him from surrendering to the floor. But he was too heavy. You followed him down, gathering him in your arms and holding him close. His breathing was labored and rough. Squeaks and coughs escaping from his punctured lungs haunted your ears, taunting you as you desperately tried to get him to stand.

“Baby, baby come on… you gotta get up, love,” you said, pulling him as you tried to get his attention.

His eyes were fixed on the mess in his chest. Blood bloomed across the fabric of his blue suit like a watercolor painting. His hands slipped from their place over the wounds and grasped yours. 

“Y/N…” he said. You froze at his voice. It was weak and unsteady. His grip on your hand was tight, too tight. He was always so gentle with you. As if you were glass under his hands and he was afraid you cracked. Now, he gripped you so hard you were afraid your bones would fracture.

“Bucky, you gotta get up. You’re gonna be okay,” you said as you tried to stay calm, but your voice failed you. You commed Sam, “Sam, Sam! Bucky’s down, I need help please!” 

You tried your best to stop the bleeding, tearing fabric from your pants to stuff the wound and slow the blood. But it didn’t seem to help. Bucky’s vibranium hand rose to your cheek, holding you steady. You mumbled to yourself, beginning to panic as blood spilled onto your hand; it stained the groves in your knuckles and cakes in your fingertips. Bucky’s coughing finally brought you out of your spiral. Blood began to trickle from his mouth.

“Doll…I can’t- I can’t breathe,” he said, his voice hoarse from the blood filling his throat.

“Bucky, hang on for me okay, please,” you said, your hands grasping his face and pulling yourself closer. You pressed a firm kiss to his forehead. When you pulled back, you could see it in his eyes.

“Y/N, I’m scared…” you felt bile rise in your throat at his words. The reality of the situation began to set in. Sam’s glitchy voice rang through your coms but you barely registered it.

“You’re okay, plum. It’s okay, I’m here. You’re gonna be okay,” you said. Your voice was frantic and distraught. The need to reassure him he would make it was overwhelming. But was it for him or you? Perhaps if you kept repeating it, doomsday would stay at bay.

His hands returned to yours, grabbing them and pulling you close as another cough racked his body. Blood speckled across your hands. You were white in the face, all the color drained.

“I…I love you, kid,” he said, his grip loosening. 

“No, baby, you’re gonna be okay. Sam’s on the way, it’s-”

“Y/N, I love you,” your hands gripped his tighter, wishing the firm hold he had minutes ago would return as his hands became limp in yours.

“… I love you, Buck,” you said softly, resting your forehead on his.

You pulled him close, kissing his lips one last time. You felt his breathing slow, his lips still. You didn’t pull back, you couldn’t. You knew what would await. A thick sob slipped through your chest. 

You tucked yourself further into his body, pulling him close and wrapping your arms around him. His head rested tucked into the crook of your neck, your hand tangled into his hair. You closed your eyes as you pressed your face into his hair, your free hand stroking his back and you rocked his now limp body. And you waited for Sam.

——

The smell of formaldehyde was the same, but no roses- Bucky preferred lilacs. You didn’t want the standard service, but SWORD insisted. No speeches, except for the pastor leading the service. You didn’t want any speeches, you knew Bucky would agree. 

You sat in the back, behind the small crowd of agents, friends, and the team you had come to consider family. Sam kept looking over his shoulder, keeping an arm behind him and resting on your knee. Perhaps he was trying to stop its shaking through the service or just to bring you comfort.

The service was simple, it was quiet. It was small. But it didn’t change anything. 

You hated funerals.

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