#in terms of like... day to day social structures

[rxttenfish]

Did any specific animals inspire you while redesigning Aaravi?

well, considering her design is supposed to be specifically evoking images of unicorns, yes!

mainly i wanted something to contrast against miranda while also fitting with aaravi's own themes... i already knew that she was fae, because that was something that was retained from the original rps that got me shipping miravi, so i wanted to toy with that and toy with that as part of her dual nature. i also wanted something that... didn't actually evoke specifically images of "danger"? as in, i didn't want to lean too heavily on the monstrous or even the predatory. part of it is the fact that she's extremely human-passing, even compared to her own brother, so ultimately i didn't want anything that stuck out too obviously, and because i felt extremely exhausted of all the half-human half-monster designs that go too far into the same token predatory animal motifs over and over...

and because it's still a really common Thing, in the fandom, that if you're talking about aaravi you're taking her as... aggressive, in a way that's hard to explain? because she's more of a complicated person than that. like, i ship miravi so i feel the urge to compare her to miranda, specifically in how i don't think miranda actually wants or likes her specific role in the merkingdom vs. the concept of being a princess alone (which is understandable! a lot of little kids want to be princesses for good reason! it's being told you have inherent worth, no matter what you do and that you don't have to "earn" it, that you're beautiful and loved and admired, and that everyone looks up to you and wants to keep you safe in the same turn), but most interpretations of miranda don't pick up on this. it's like this with aaravi, in terms of being a slayer. she likes protecting people, being admired, being the person to save the day and the person that people can go to and feel safe and like they're protected by, she likes feeling hypercompetent and admired for her skills that she worked hard for, she likes feeling like she can solve problems and fix things. it's just that the circumstances of her life have told her that being a slayer is what's going to provide her with all of this, and because the entire structure of everything she knows has been built around this, she can't really begin to untangle one from the other.

which is to say, aaravi is a lot more nervous and scared and uncertain of a person than a lot of people think of her as, and ultimately because she doesn't want people to think or realize that she's actually feeling this way, least of all herself, it can become really easy to think it's actually how she IS.

which is why i ultimately ended up going with associating her with prey animals, and even moreso with unicorns. because she doesn't want to be seen as vulnerable, because that can get her preyed upon. because this then makes her project such an image of strength that she has to constantly hide anything even vaguely contrary to ensure no one even wants to look twice at her. because she's not really liked or accepted into social situations or circles, in a way that SINCERELY bothers her and upsets her, but is desperate to convince everyone else she's a lone wolf who likes this, actually.

likewise, i think a lot about unicorns specifically in the older kind of idea of, an embodiment of virgin wilderness. of truly untouched wilderness, which repels and is dangerous to humanity, which they cannot go into or face because it is so far from civilization. untouched purity, sure, but the double-edged sword of that, of then being something that cannot be sorted back into society or civilization and is inherently contrary to it. i think about unicorns being so fearsome that they were depicted fighting lions and with the lion as their counterpart, and about the virgin being so important to the unicorn myth because that's what induced docility in them, what allowed hunters to capture or kill unicorns due to what valuable resources could be extracted from them.

and i think this fits aaravi a lot. she's not docile, she's not easy to get along with, she's sincerely quite a difficult person, but being a difficult person doesn't mean you're unworthy of love or that you need to then discard what makes you difficult. i think about the strange way people see her as valuable to them, valuable to take advantage of or throw in other people's path or valuable just as a point of entertainment from the in-group making fun of her, but how this value necessitates not caring about her, herself. i think also about the singleminded way she throws herself into things, the way she charges into everything almost certainly because she's (similar to miri...) always lowkey suicidal and doesn't care if this kills her or not, and how unicorns were said to charge so ferociously at lions that, if the lion dodged out of the way, the unicorn would then lodge themselves in a tree in the charge.

this is why she has the lion's tail that's so drapey and flowing — i wanted to evoke the vine-like tails that classical unicorns get drawn with, with many tufts of fur along the length sprouting off. i also liked how it complimented how much body hair i draw her with, since it also makes it look similarly luxurious, with many tufts and ridges of hair (along her back, over her stomach, over her chest) like regal manes.

that's also why i ended up going with her ears being their specific design. because, aaravi's indian, and the indian rhinoceros is literally called the indian unicorn (with the latin name Rhinoceros unicornis!), and so i wanted her to have ears like one. same thing, for showcasing the seeming vulnerability of a prey animal and a herbivore, but also one that's known for being notoriously ornery and aggressive! i also thought it was nice, as so much of aaravi's mentality as a slayer is that monsters are preying on humanity, and so i wanted something that really showcased that herbivores are not passive and are not docile, that they can be equally or moreso dangerous than carnivores, and should not be taken as nonentities in their own environments. especially an animal that can absolutely kill its own predators too. :>

i also thought about using both the rhino connection and aaravi's connection to insects and arthropods to add some natural armor to her... but ultimately it didn't make the cut. i wanted some arthropod in her because i didn't want her to be straightforwardly mammalian, and there should be something off about her that suggests she's not just a humanoid design with a tail... her dad is effectively all of a forest mashed into one roiling mass of condensed nuclear magic, and she does have some (even if easily hidden) traits that would immediately clue other people in on the fact that she's only half human, and i don't like a lot of those... well, "fantasy races" designs that just puts body hair, a tail, and ears on a human. they feel off to me in a way that's hard to explain, and might just come down to the fact that, it feels like the people making them don't actually understand these traits, evolution, or why they end up selected for... and, again, i wanted the point that aaravi wasn't selected for! she's a first-generation hybrid, she has a lot of weird genetics that are also kinda working against her and would count her as disabled! this doesn't mean what she looks like is wrong or lesser, or that her intense shame and fear around these things is right, but moreso i just wanted to give the correct impression. that she's in a really complicated position that's basically only accepted because she's deemed "human enough", and that she feels pressure to hide or obscure anything and everything that isn't appealing enough about her.

and, honestly, adding arthropod in does this well! it's far enough away from mammalian that it's worth questioning, and doesn't feel like the kind of thing she SHOULD have, and sits a lot closer to the uncanny valley to a lot of people.

this is also why all of her body hair and her nails naturally grows in as purple! i saw on her original design that she had purple hair and purple nails, and she never struck me as the kind of person to dye her hair (nor paint her nails, really... she's butch, to me, in my heart), and i liked the thought that they just... naturally grow that way. that's her natural color. and, of course, both are made of keratin, so everything in her body made of keratin would be colored similarly, and chitin is pretty close to keratin too, isn't it? but it's the kind of thing people wouldn't notice, unless they got particularly close to her, unless they started putting together the pieces. so i ended up REALLY liking it, so now aaravi's body actually produces chitin, not keratin, and it's naturally a soft lavender-color too.

and the same for her mandibles! i wanted more major muscle and skeleton differences in her, since her dad doesn't even have DNA to begin with, but, again, she needed to be able to hide it easily. same goes for liking these differences being basically useless — hybridization isn't meant to be a superpower or to make you a mutant, it's just supposed to be another point of variation in the world. in the long run it's beneficial, certainly, but often it's not in ways that anyone can see, and certainly not in ways that anyone in the moment can tell. so giving her strange teeth (so long that they're worse than normal human teeth) and mandibles (so far back in her mouth they're basically only good for biting herself) fit both really nicely. she also has larger front incisors and a chipped incisor tooth, because i have those as well, and i never see them represented in designs.

her eyeshine is intentionally based off of both crocodiles and tigers, and because it being red is just close enough to being similar to human redeye to where it feels familiar but strange.

also, because it complimented miranda! miranda has blue eyeshine, but she's directly based off of both crocodiles and big cats in her design! miranda also represents both the dragon and the mermaid, in terms of "what she is", and i liked adding aaravi as the unicorn to contrast both of those. miranda's the princess and aaravi's the hero, but they're also the virgin and the unicorn, the dragon and the knight, the mermaid and the unicorn. they're both helpless against larger powers, but also fearsome and evocative in their own rights. i wanted aaravi to represent something that could be both savior and condemnation of miranda, and miranda to represent the same to aaravi, being someone who could kill her as an embodiment of evil, or someone just as good and just as worthy of love. they're both fantasy creatures that have gone the whole gambit, from being embodiments of the wild and untamed, to sexual entities, to representing virtues and beauty, to resources to be exploited, from being loved, to being commodified, to being used as inspiration for children's toys, to being hated and loathed and treated as jokes. they're both wildly different, and look wildly different, but they're also the same in fundamental ways, and find solace in how similar they are even with those differences.

[elizabethrobertajones]

Good choice for an upstanding roegadyn husband for Frog to bring home to her parents to impress them: Rammbroes

Hilarious choice for bringing home an upstanding roegadyn husband to alarm and frighten her parents: Rasho the captain of the confederacy in the Ruby Sea.

[bishovapls]

Our Little One - Brats Don’t Get Soft, Brats Get Used.

Relationships: Natasha Romanoff & Wanda Maximoff & Reader

Summary: You’ve never been a brat before, but after weeks with Wanda and Natasha and Natasha still holding back, a nudge from your roommate Kate sets something in motion. What starts as a simple need soon turns into a dangerous game, and you’re about to learn what happens when the consequences catch up.

Warnings: 18+, Mommy kink, Daddy kink, age difference, older WandaNat/younger reader, BDSM, Dom/sub dynamics, spanking/lashing with a belt, punishment, smut, overstimulation, fingering, safe word check-ins, aftercare, minor angst.

A/N: Reader and Natasha’s first-time scene kept popping up in requests, so here we are! If I’ve replied to your other asks, those fics will be coming ASAP. If you’ve sent an ask and I haven’t responded yet, I promise I’m working through everything! Thanks so much for all your patience and love. Honestly, your asks, replies, and support for this series make me all warm and fuzzy inside 🩵

P.S. In terms of the timeline, this takes place after 'It Was Fate' and before 'You Make Such Pretty Sounds When You’re Sorry', both can be found in my masterlist.

Word Count: 14,578

NSFW below the cut, you can also read on AO3.

It had been a month since you’d stepped into the world Wanda and Natasha had so carefully, deliberately built around you, and though the shift had been gentle, almost imperceptible at first, you felt it now in everything. The change had crept in like water, soft and steady, reshaping the edges of your life without ever needing to crash through them. You hadn’t thought you needed structure. You certainly hadn’t expected to crave it. But once it was there, once their presence became a constant grounding force, you realised just how badly you’d needed to be held in place.

The rules didn’t arrive all at once. They were introduced slowly, one by one, always with a quiet firmness, never exactly forceful, but never optional either. And what surprised you most was how easily they slipped past the bedroom and settled into the rest of your life. They took root in the mundane, the overlooked, the messiest parts of your routine: your study habits, your sleep, your social outings, your tendency to forget yourself.

At first, you questioned the point of it all. Why they cared whether you skipped a meal or pulled another all-nighter. But it didn’t take long to understand. They were wholly, unflinchingly invested in you. In your well-being. In your peace. And in the simple, sacred truth that you were theirs.

It began with the essentials. Drink more water. Eat proper meals. Step outside and breathe. No more skipping breakfast or living on scraps between lectures. No more letting your body crumble under the weight of your own neglect. 

They didn’t leave it to chance, either. Wanda had set you up with a nutrition tracker, and Natasha synced it to a fitness app. Between the two of them, they monitored everything.

Then came the check-ins. If you weren’t with them, you were to check in twice a day: a brief morning text including how you slept, how you felt, and what was ahead for the day, and a call at night, no exceptions. You were to talk them through your day, tell them what had gone well, what hadn’t, and whether you needed anything, emotionally, physically, or otherwise. 

And college brought its own rules. You were to attend every class unless you were truly ill. And even then, they were to be informed immediately. Natasha had your entire academic schedule memorised, down to your deadlines and office hours, and if anything shifted, she expected an update. 

Your social life, limited though it was since you were far from a social being, had boundaries. You could go out, in fact, you were encouraged to do so, to have fun, to be young, to live, but never at the cost of safety. Drinking to excess was forbidden. Drugs and smoking, entirely off-limits. 

And you were not to be out alone after dark. If you did go out, it had to be with trusted friends. Your fitness tracker was to remain on, fully charged, and GPS active. That rule had been delivered with unflinching clarity. Natasha had stated it plainly, her tone leaving no room for argument. They needed to know where you were. That you weren’t walking alone, vulnerable and unseen. That if something happened, they’d know exactly where to find you.

To an outsider, it might’ve seemed overbearing and excessive. But to you, it was the opposite. It was everything. These rules weren’t restrictions, they were evidence, proof that someone saw you clearly enough to draw lines around your chaos and call it worth saving. 

And you wanted to be good for them. You lived for the quiet praise threaded through your evening calls, the warmth in Wanda’s voice when she told you she was proud, the low, satisfied hum Natasha would let slip when every rule had been followed to the letter. You craved their approval. Their attention. Their pride. Being obedient came naturally in most ways, and you basked in it. 

Except… food and water. That was the rule you just couldn’t seem to get right.

It wasn’t rebellion; not truly. Sometimes you simply didn’t want to cook, or the idea of eating twisted something unpleasant in your stomach. Sometimes coffee was just easier; it kept you upright, kept you moving. Other times, it wasn’t deliberate at all, just a blur of hours and tasks and noise. You got swept up in work, or you ate but forgot to log it, or maybe you downed nearly a litre of coffee before it even occurred to you that you hadn’t touched water. 

Whatever the reason, Wanda always noticed, calling with her voice full of concern. “When was the last time you ate?” she’d ask, and it wasn’t anger, it was disappointment, that would curl tight in your gut as you searched for a defence that never felt good enough.

The punishments for this were never too much, because they knew you were trying. But they were just enough to make you pause the next time your hand hovered over another cup of coffee and nothing else.

And part of you, ashamed as it was, needed that. Needed the accountability. The structure. The safety of knowing someone would catch you before you disappeared too far into yourself.

Still, even with all of it, the structure, the gentleness, the care stitched into every rule and ritual, something felt wrong. Not glaringly, not enough to shatter the sense of safety they’d built around you, but enough to unsettle, to gnaw at the edges of your thoughts when you were alone. It wasn’t the boundaries or the expectations, not the check-ins or the rules that governed your days. It was Natasha.

She was present and reliable in that steady, composed way of hers. She enforced the routine with silent efficiency, asked the questions that mattered, and made sure you kept your promises, to them and to yourself. But when it came to punishment, to intimacy, to that deeper level of connection you craved, she held back. And it wasn’t just that she didn’t discipline you, she hadn’t touched you. Not once.

You’d given yourself to them, inch by inch, until it didn’t feel like surrender anymore, but something closer to breathing. You’d let yourself fall, and Wanda had caught you. It was always Wanda.

It was Wanda who guided you, who punished you when you slipped, who praised you so sweetly your stomach turned to honey when you hadn’t. It was Wanda who took you apart in the dark, who knew how to coax you into obedience with nothing but a look, a sound, or a breath. Natasha either watched from the sidelines or, worse, left the room entirely. 

Last weekend was a perfect example. You knelt before Wanda, her voice calm and steady as she guided you through the mantras she’d been drilling into you. “I deserve to take care of myself… my body deserves fuel… my mind deserves rest…” You’d forgotten to eat again, too caught up in school, and so when you came to them, punishment was needed. But it wasn’t a punishment of pain; it was one of words and care that slowly cracked open your walls, breaking down the bad beliefs you’d carried all your life. 

At first, Natasha was there, quietly watching, even encouraging with small hums and soft smiles, but when your tears began to flow and your body shook, she left without a word. You didn’t know why; she never explained. Wanda shushed your whimpers, but it wasn’t enough, not when Natasha didn’t want you…again.

After the scene, when you dared to ask about it, Wanda’s answer only deepened the ache: “You’re just not ready for Daddy, malyshka (Little One).”

Those words echoed in your mind, not ready. As if Natasha was a threshold you hadn’t yet earned the right to cross. It made the ache of being good, of meeting every expectation, sting sharper. 

—

That’s why this week has been hard, with constant thoughts of Natasha swirling through your mind; each check-in only deepened your frustration. By the time Thursday arrived, your mood had darkened. The usual nightly check-in with the women went ahead, but beneath it all, you felt that familiar tightening in your chest, the heavy weight of the unspoken barrier still lingering between you and Natasha.

As always, you took the call just outside your dorm building, settling on the cold edge of the concrete steps beneath the weak glow of the overhead security light. The buzzing hum of it filled the silence between your own clipped replies and Wanda’s soothing voice, Natasha’s steadier one threading in near the end as she asked the usual questions about your meals, your steps, your classes. You answered them all. Obedient. Polite. But your tone was flatter than usual, each sentence a little shorter, and by the time you hung up, the tight coil of something unspoken was still sitting behind your ribs, refusing to unspool.

You pushed through the heavy dorm door and climbed the stairs two at a time, jaw tight, nails digging half-moons into your palms. When you opened the door to your shared room, Kate glanced up from her bed, where she sat cross-legged in an oversized hoodie, scrolling on her laptop. Her eyes caught your face instantly, her brows drew together, subtle but unmistakable, and the screen was forgotten within a heartbeat.

“Uhh… what’s up?” she asked, her voice cautious but laced with warmth, like she could sense your mood before you'd said a word.

“Nothing,” you muttered, too quickly, flinging your bag to the floor and flopping onto your bed with the kind of exaggerated indifference that only made your frustration more obvious.

Kate didn’t buy it for a second. She shifted to sit upright, her back resting against the wall. “Seriously?” she said with a small, incredulous laugh, but her eyes didn’t leave your face. 

You exhaled hard through your nose and rolled your eyes, reaching for your phone just to have something to fidget with. “You’re too nosy,” you said lightly, trying to deflect.

But Kate didn’t laugh this time. Her expression softened instead, concern overtaking the playfulness. “Maybe,” she said gently, “but I care, you know?”

The words landed heavier than you expected. You nodded once, a little jerk of your chin, your voice quieter when you finally said, “I know.”

“Then just talk to me?” she offered. Her hands were clasped loosely in her lap, but there was tension in her shoulders too, like she was trying not to push too hard, not to say the wrong thing, and watch you shut down.

You stayed silent for a moment, then sat up, legs pulled to your chest. You picked at a loose thread on your sleeve, not quite able to meet her eyes. “It’s… to do with the girlfriends,” you said finally.

Kate’s eyes flickered with interest, not curiosity in a nosy way, but a gentle attentiveness that said she’d been waiting for you to talk about them again. “Are you ever going to tell me who they are?” she asked, smiling just a little, trying to keep it light.

You smiled too, but it didn’t reach your eyes. Of course, you wanted to tell her. You trusted her. But Natasha’s voice echoed in your mind, cool and resolute, no one at college can know. Not even your roommate. She was right, of course. College gossip moved fast, and all it would take was one whisper in the wrong ear for everything to unravel.

“You know the rules,” you said, sharper than you meant to, and your jaw clenched as the anger returned, at the rule, at Natasha, at how far away she still felt even after a month.

Kate let out a quiet chuckle, raising a hand to trace a little X over her heart. “I do. But it could be our little secret. Cross my heart.”

You looked at her grin, and something in you softened, just a little.“Maybe soon,” you said, voice tight. “I don’t think it’ll be going on much longer anyway, so there will be no secret to keep.”

That hit her like a slap. Her eyes widened, her posture straightening instantly. “What? Wait, what do you mean?” she asked, voice sharp with shock, all traces of teasing gone.

You had told Kate about your situation with Wanda and Natasha pretty early on, after all, she’d pestered you half to death after your first night with them, all wide-eyed curiosity and relentless questions. You’d given her the basics: that they were your dommes, that it wasn’t just sex, not to them, not to you either. That they’d made it clear from the start that they wanted something more, something serious, something committed.

Over time, details had trickled out, mostly because they had to. The rules you lived by, the punishments you’d earned, the very explicit reasons you sometimes came home with marks so unmistakable they made Kate drop her fork. 

Kate never judged, never squirmed, or got awkward. It was embarrassing sometimes, yes, but it was also a relief to have someone who understood, who didn’t flinch at the language, at the power dynamics, at the weight of it all.

But you’d been careful, too. You’d kept their names to yourself, never once letting them slip. You hadn’t said where they lived, what they did, not even how old they were. You hadn’t even referred to them by title. It wasn’t mistrust, it was the rule. And more than that, it was something you instinctively honoured. Something Natasha had asked of you, and you hadn’t questioned it. You hadn’t wanted to.

Until now. Now, when everything felt like it was fraying. Now, when you couldn’t tell if you were still wanted, or just tolerated. 

And Kate was still watching you, her expression tight with worry, waiting for you to explain why you’d just said it might all be over.

“Hello? Earth to the emotionally tormented?” she teased softly when your silence stretched.

You blinked, snapping back to the moment, and let out a tired little laugh. “I’m here,” you muttered with a half-hearted shrug.

Kate raised one brow in that subtle, persistent way that said, Don’t even think about dodging this, her body leaning forward just slightly.

You sighed, pressing your fingers into your temples for a moment before finally exhaling the frustration that had been crawling under your skin. “It’s just… Domme Two, she’s got all these expectations,” you started, voice tight, like every word had to be pried out. “I try so hard. And still… she won’t touch me. She won’t see me. I’m so tired of it. I’m so tired of being good and getting nothing back.”

Kate’s expression shifted immediately. You’d mentioned Natasha’s distance once or twice before in passing, but it had never sounded quite like this. Back then, it was a curiosity, an oddity. Now, it was pain. Frustration.

“Still?” she echoed, disbelief softening into sympathy. “It’s been, what, over a month now?”

You nodded mutely, jaw tight. “Yup,” you said, popping the ‘p’ with bitter emphasis. “And I don’t know what I’m doing wrong, Kate. I try so fucking hard. I follow their rules, well, mostly,” you added with a dry, self-deprecating smile. “I give them everything they ask for. But when I ask…it’s always the same line: you’re not ready.” The words came out quieter, more vulnerable now, like they physically hurt to repeat.

Kate’s face twisted with something halfway between a wince and a thoughtful frown. “You know it might not be about you, right?” she said gently. “That maybe you are ready… but she isn’t?”

You scoffed, not unkindly, but with that weary kind of disbelief that comes from hoping for too long. “No, Domme One said, that I am not ready because Domme Two can be intense. That she is holding back so I don't get hurt.” You shook your head with a dry, humourless laugh. “But this hurts, too, Kate. Being held at arm’s length like I’m not worthy yet. And it’s not like I haven’t made it crystal clear that rough doesn’t scare me. Domme One and I have had scenes that I couldn’t even put into words if I tried.”

Kate stayed quiet for a moment, taking it all in. You could see the gears turning, the way she bit the inside of her cheek like she always did when she was trying to offer advice without sounding preachy.

“Well… if it’s eating at you this much, then I think you have to talk to them again,” she said eventually, voice calm but firm, the kind of tone she only used when she really meant it. “Like, properly. Not mid-scene. Not just after punishment. Really talk.”

“I have,” you snapped, your voice pitching higher than you meant it to. “I have talked. I’ve tried. I bring it up, and it’s just brushed aside like I’m being impatient.”

Kate sighed, but it wasn’t a condescending sigh; it was heavy, empathetic. You could see the careful way she was treading. She was always mature when it came to this, always level-headed when you weren’t, always calm when you were spiralling. 

“I get it,” she said softly. “I really do. But if something isn’t working for you, you have to keep pushing for a change. Communication’s everything, you know that.”

You slumped back against the bed, staring at the ceiling like maybe it would answer for you. “I’m just… tired of talking. Tired of giving my all and still being told I haven’t earned hers. I just wish there was something I could do.”

Kate was quiet again, but something in her posture shifted. Her lips twitched, just the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at one corner before she caught herself and quickly looked down, trying to hide it.

You sat up slightly, suspicious. “What? Kate. What is that look?”

She tried and failed to suppress a laugh. “Nothing. I just… shouldn’t say this. I definitely shouldn’t encourage this.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That’s never stopped you before. Come on. Spit it out.”

Kate hesitated, her smile turning fond now, as if whatever memory she was about to share brought her warmth despite the topic. “It’s just… I know what Yelena would do in your shoes.”

Your stomach flipped, your curiosity piqued. “Yeah? And what would Yelena do?”

Kate let out a slow breath. “Well, okay, so our dynamic isn’t like yours. It’s not built on rules and structure 24/7. But in scene, there are rules. And sometimes, when I’ve been�� off, or distracted, or distant, because life, you know? Yelena will break a rule deliberately. Just enough to make me react. It’s her way of saying notice me, see me, feel something.”

Kate looked almost sheepish after saying it, like she wasn’t entirely sure whether she’d just offered you advice… or handed you a loaded weapon. But you heard it clearly.

A quiet rebellion. A strategic crack in obedience.

And the suggestion glittered in your mind like something dangerous and gleaming, like the glint of a match just before it hits the strike pad. It didn’t matter that it was reckless. All that mattered was that something inside you shifted, something coiled and bratty and starved for attention stirred, stretching awake for the first time.

You turned to Kate, an exaggerated gasp of mock offence on your lips. “Kate Bishop, are you suggesting I should be a brat?”

She laughed, the sound light and helpless. “I’m suggesting,” she said with careful precision, “that breaking a rule might actually get you the kind of reaction you’re craving. Especially if it’s one of Domme Two’s.”

Your brain had already taken off at a sprint, running through possibilities, rules, boundaries, hers, not Wanda’s. You grinned slowly, wickedly, a spark of something deliciously mischievous taking root. “You know,” you drawled, already shifting your weight like you were about to get up, “I’ve been thinking… a late-night stroll sounds like just the thing to clear my head.”

Kate blinked at you, her mouth opening slightly in disbelief before flattening into a line. “It’s midnight,” she said, deadpan. Her eyes narrowed a little as she sat straighter, arms folded, like she was already preparing to intervene. “Can you not pick a safer rule to break?”

You tilted your head and gave a lazy shrug, letting faux innocence smooth over your features. “It’s this, or smoking. Or, I don’t know… drugs.” You raised your eyebrows for dramatic effect.

Kate’s eyes widened in horror, her whole body recoiling like you’d just threatened to juggle knives in traffic. “Not. Funny,” she snapped, though the sharpness in her tone couldn’t quite hide the way her lips twitched at the edges.

Your grin only widened. “A little bit funny,” you said, voice dipping with smug satisfaction, because provoking her felt almost as fun as what you were planning.

Kate groaned and flopped back against the headboard, dragging a hand down her face. “Okay, but what about… I don’t know, don’t go to class tomorrow. Don’t message, don’t give an excuse. It’s safe. Passive-aggressive. You get to make a point.”

You wrinkled your nose, unconvinced, and gave a dismissive wave of your hand. “Too slow. I’m supposed to be with them tomorrow night anyway, and I want it sorted before then.”

Kate sat forward again, staring at you like you’d grown a second head. Her brows lifted with genuine disbelief, and she stared hard, like she was still holding out hope this was all a bit. “You are insane.”

You gave her a sly wink as you stood up, grabbing your coat and slipping it on. “No,” you replied, with a gleam in your eye and a dangerous lilt in your voice, “I’m just impatient. And possibly very, very stupid.”

Kate stood too, suddenly tense, hovering like she wasn’t sure if she should block the door or help you open it. “Okay, but please text me. Keep me updated. And when you inevitably get dragged back to wherever they live for the punishment of your entire life, I expect details.”

You paused with your hand on the doorknob, turning back with a wicked little smirk that curled slowly across your face. “I will. And hey, thanks for the advice,” you said, voice syrupy-sweet with mischief. 

Kate shook her head, muttering under her breath before sighing out loud. “God help you.”

And with that, the door clicked softly behind you, the hallway swallowing you up as you let the brat take the wheel, heart racing, nerves buzzing, a storm already forming on the horizon.

—

It took fifteen minutes of walking before your phone buzzed in your pocket. You didn’t even need to check the screen to know it was Natasha. The GPS tracker in your watch had no doubt lit up the moment you stepped beyond the perimeter she’d quietly defined.

You pulled the phone out, thumb hovering for a moment, then smiled, slow, sharp, and wicked, and let it ring out. One call. Then another. Then a third, her name flashing again and again like a warning light.

The next buzz wasn’t a call, it was your shared group chat, the one only used for schedules, check-ins, and rare moments of praise or correction outside sessions. 

D2: I thought you were staying home with Kate tonight?

You didn’t answer. Just opened it and continued walking, heading deeper into the park, where the glow of streetlamps filtered softly through leafless trees. The cold bit at your cheeks, but you welcomed it, anything that grounded you in the daring, dizzy satisfaction of rebellion.

D2: Why are you ignoring me? D1: Little one, are you okay?

That one gave you pause. You felt a flicker of guilt crack through the high of disobedience. This wasn’t about her. None of this was really her fault, yet you were treating her the same way, but you kept walking.

D2: You better be with Kate.

Her tone, even through text, was clipped, and you could practically feel her jaw clenched from miles away. Then another text came from Wanda, softer again.

D1: Please, let us know you are safe, Sweetheart. We’re worried.

That one stung. You hated that you’d made her worry, hated even more that it was necessary to make your point. You sighed and finally typed back, your fingers momentarily trembling from more than just the cold.

Me: I am safe. Going for a walk.

There were only a few seconds of silence before Natasha responded.

D2: Are you with Kate?

You stopped walking and stared at the message. This was it. The line you could still choose not to cross. The point of no return. You could lie. You could say yes and diffuse it all. But you didn’t want to.

You wanted to be seen. You wanted to matter. You wanted Natasha to stop treating you like a thing she could discipline from a distance but never touch.

Me: No.

You hit send before you could change your mind, before reason or fear could pull you back. Your heart was pounding, thudding against your ribs like it was trying to break free. This was what you wanted. This was the moment you’d imagined: the rule-breaking, the reckless defiance, the thrill of finally crossing a line that might force Natasha to stop keeping you at arm’s length.

But now that you were here, standing in it, the storm you’d so desperately wished for felt a lot less like a cleansing force and a lot more like a cliff edge you’d sprinted off without thinking.

Your phone buzzed.

D2: If I don’t see you turn around and walk back toward your dorm in the next five minutes, I will make sure you regret it.

You scoffed aloud, trying to laugh it off, even as a chill crawled up your spine. Just a threat, you told yourself. She wouldn’t actually do anything. 

Still, your fingers trembled as you shoved your phone back into your coat pocket. You found the nearest bench and sat down, hoping she’d see it as a clear fuck you. A message through the GPS tracker. I’m not moving.

You checked the chat again. Nothing.

Five minutes passed. Then six. Then ten.

You swallowed hard. The cold had begun to seep through your coat, and your heart had gone from hammering to something slower, deeper, more sickening. It wasn’t defiance anymore. It was dread.

You kept checking your phone, over and over, willing another message to come through, anything. 

But there was only that single, unanswered warning. Hanging in the chat like a blade. You shifted on the bench, suddenly too aware of the dark, too aware of the silence, and how very, very small you felt.

—

The cold had settled into your bones, your phone still lifeless in your hand as you debated if you should give up and go back. Every shadow looked like someone. Every sound made you flinch.

Then, suddenly, there was movement, footsteps crunching against the gravel path just behind you. You turned your head slightly, just enough to see the figure approaching, cloaked in shadows and the low light of the path. Hood up, head bowed, face largely obscured, their entire frame radiating purpose and rage.

A bolt of instinctive fear shot through your chest, and you shot to your feet, suddenly overcome with the sense that you were very much in danger. You began to move, your eyes flicking around for the clearest path out, but you didn't get far before the figure spoke. 

“Don’t walk away from me.”

You froze. Her voice was unmistakable, that distinct, deep coolness edged with steel, though this time it came layered with something that struck you harder than the anger. It was fear. 

You turned around slowly, your body betraying you with the smallest flinch. She walked straight up to you, steps tight and restrained, and you could see the way she was holding herself back, like she wanted to shake you, to shout, to do something, but instead she just looked. 

Her eyes swept over you with that terrifying, clinical intensity, checking for injuries, for damage, for blood. It was so fast and automatic that for a second you forgot how to breathe, caught somewhere between guilt and the bitter thrill of being seen.

When she was satisfied you were physically fine, she spoke again, her tone a mixture of disbelief and fury. “What the hell are you doing out here?”

The tone of her voice struck something inside you. You were still afraid, very much so, but the sight of her like this, eyes stormy and jaw tight, hit a nerve, and that tiny voice inside you, the brat, the desperate girl who wanted to be noticed, punished, wanted, made itself heard again.

You swallowed, lifted your chin slightly, and gave her a tiny, deliberate shrug.

Her nostrils flared, and she stared at you like she couldn’t believe the gall of you. You could feel the shift in her posture, that subtle straightening of her spine, the way her arms folded over her chest as if to stop herself from reaching for you. 

Then, slowly, her voice came again, firmer now. “I said, what…are you doing out here?”

You felt your heart hammering harder. She wasn’t yelling, but the low cadence of her voice, restrained and disappointed, pierced through your bravado like nothing else could. You knew she was giving you a chance. An opportunity to back down before this turned into something bigger. But some small, desperate part of you didn’t want to take it.

You shifted your weight from one foot to the other, chest tightening under the weight of her stare. And then, as if to keep yourself from unravelling completely, you shrugged again, a deliberately casual movement, bordering on insolent.

You didn’t look at her when you answered. “I told you, just going for a walk.” The words left your lips softer than you intended, but they carried that unmistakable edge, that deliberately sweetened defiance, like a dare dressed up in innocence. 

Her gaze dropped briefly to the ground, like she was swallowing a surge of something, rage, maybe, and when she lifted it again, her eyes were dark, unreadable, and burning. Then came her voice, thick with warning, the words precise enough to cut. “You know that’s against the rules, Little Girl.”

The title landed like a stone dropped in still water. Little Girl. Not Little One, not the soft name they called you during gentle praise, check-ins, or affectionate aftercare. This one was different, used only in the lead-up to punishment. 

Wanda was usually the one to wield it when you were truly in trouble. Hearing it from Natasha now made your stomach twist. Not with fear, not exactly, but with heat, with something volatile and reckless and stupidly brave.

And still, rather than shrinking under it, something inside you bloomed. The very thing you’d come out here chasing was now rising in front of you, and it made your pulse thunder. 

You lifted your chin, eyes blazing with defiance, and let the words fall, slow and deliberate, each one laced with venom. “You don’t own me.”

Her hand shot out and closed around your upper arm, not harshly, but with enough weight to send your heart racing. She was close now, close enough that you could feel her body heat, the cold in her breath, the rage simmering beneath her skin.

“Move.” The word wasn’t a request. Not a suggestion. It was a command, weighted with disappointment.

She didn’t shove, instead, she stepped closer, hand still curled around your arm before it slid, slowly, deliberately to the back of your neck. Her palm was warm against your skin, firm and unyielding, fingers splaying just enough to ground you, to remind you that you now had nowhere to go.

She turned you around with that grip, directing you out of the park and towards the car like it was the most natural thing in the world, like you were hers to move. 

You swallowed hard, trying to steady your voice. It barely came out. “Where are we going?” you asked, though the answer had already begun to form in your mind.

Her reply was flat. “Home. I think we need to talk. Don’t you?”

You didn’t answer. The silence pressed thick against your tongue, your mouth dry with the realisation of how far you’d taken it. 

The walk was silent, but inside your head, it was anything but. Regret bloomed, not just for breaking the rule, but for how deliberately you’d done it, for how you’d baited her. But it was too late now. You could feel her eyes on you in short bursts, reading your silence, calculating what to do with you.

But underneath the guilt, the fear, the cold anticipation curling in your gut… was something else. Something reckless and alive. Something that felt horrifyingly like satisfaction. Because for the first time in weeks, Natasha was fully focused on you

She was here. She was angry. And she was going to do something about it.

—

At home, Wanda was waiting for both of you, wrapped tightly in her dressing gown, the fabric clutching her as if it could shield her from the worry etched deep across her face. Guilt hit you like a punch to the chest. She must have been asleep, or at least resting, before you’d disturbed her with your behaviour.

“Malyshka (Little One), are you okay?” Wanda’s voice was gentle, almost trembling with concern, enough to make your defiance falter for a moment. 

But before you could answer, Natasha cut in sharply, her tone rougher than usual. “Don’t be soft with her. She’s fine. She’s just got an attitude.”

You rolled your eyes and let out a sharp huff, the brat inside you rising up despite the knots of fear and guilt tightening in your stomach.

Wanda stared at you, wide-eyed and clearly shocked. In all the time you’d known her, she’d never seen this side of you. 

“See what I mean?” Natasha sneered, gesturing with her hand towards you. 

Wanda simply nodded, the warmth in her eyes dimming, her disappointment unspoken but suffocating.

“Take off your shoes and coat, then go sit down,” Natasha ordered, her voice firm and unyielding.

You obeyed, more out of habit than willingness. The house was warm, too warm for your heavy coat, and it felt like a small relief peeling it off.

You settled onto the couch, feeling the soft cushions give beneath you. Both of them followed. Natasha perched on the coffee table across from you, her eyes sharp and unreadable, while Wanda settled on the far side of the couch. 

The distance stung. Wanda never sat so far away, never kept so much space between you. She was usually the one who reached out, always touching, always close. Tonight, that familiar comfort was gone, replaced by an uncomfortable void.

“You have one chance to explain yourself, Little Girl,” Natasha sneered, her voice low and sharp, each word weighted with warning.

“Why should I?” you shot back, the defiance bubbling up before you could stop it. Wanda’s eyes went wide again, her breath catching at seeing you push back like this. Natasha’s face, however, was unreadable.

Then, unexpectedly, she let out a dark chuckle and leaned in closer, her fingers curling around your jaw with a firm grip. “You know, I don’t think I like this side of you,” she murmured, her voice almost a threat.

You pulled away, pressing yourself back into the cushions, refusing to give her the satisfaction of your discomfort. “Well, you clearly don’t like the other side either,” you shot back, a sharp edge to your words. “So, two for two.”

A flicker of shock crossed Natasha’s face. “What? What the hell do you mean?” she demanded, the cool mask slipping for just a moment.

You shrugged, but this time the gesture was less about defiance and more about uncertainty. You genuinely didn’t know how to explain it, how could you say that she did everything perfectly, except for the one thing that tore at you the most, without sounding like some needy, whiny brat?

Natasha waited, her eyes locked on you. But when you stayed silent, her gaze sharpened, cutting through the heavy stillness like a whip. “Speak to me. Stop acting like a little brat,” she demanded.

You snapped back, frustration bubbling over. “Or what? You’ll just send me off to Wanda for a punishment?” Your tone rose, raw and challenging.

A guttural growl rumbled from Natasha, dark, fierce, edged with raw anger. “Is that what this is? You want punishment? You’re craving it? Is that why you’re acting like this?” Her voice sliced through the silence, thick with heat and frustration, scorching the air between you.

And that’s when it broke, because once again she was missing the point entirely. You shook your head, voice trembling under the weight of it all. “No, that’s not it!” Your breath hitched, tears beginning to spill down your cheeks as your voice cracked open. “I want you to believe I’m enough. I want you to need me the way I need you. I want you to be in this, like I am.” The words came out ragged, raw, breaking free with all the desperation you’d been holding in.

Wanda shifted beside you, her worry carved deep into her face, but your world had shrunk to Natasha’s gaze, searching, pleading, trying to find any flicker of softness beneath the armour she wore like a shield.

And then, something shifted. Natasha’s hard edges softened ever so slightly. Her hand reached out, landing on your knee. You jerked back, instinct screaming to retreat, but she held you firmly, grounding you in place. “You are enough,” she said, voice lower now, rougher with unshed emotion. 

She swallowed hard, steadying herself like she was forcing the words past a barricade. “Have I not shown you? When I drive you to school, and we sing like fools? When we curl up on the couch, just holding each other? When we sit and play your video game together? How is that not enough proof I’m in this?”

Her voice trembled, frustrated, wounded, desperate for you to see it.

“You don’t understand, Natasha,” you sobbed, your voice breaking under the weight of a thousand tangled feelings. “You don’t see what I mean.”

“Then tell me,” she whispered, voice cracked and almost desperate. “Please. Tell me what you want.”

You bit your lip, trying desperately to hold back the flood, but the dam finally broke. “I want more.” Your voice cracked. “I know it sounds selfish, needy, maybe even greedy. I love the tenderness, the quiet moments we share... but I want Daddy.” 

Your hands clenched into fists as the words poured out, raw and urgent, laced with a pleading edge. “I want you to touch me, to punish me, to let me please you. I want you with me in the scenes, not just watching, or walking away like you have been lately.” The confession hung thick and heavy between you. Your voice dropped to a whisper, barely steady. “When you leave... it hurts.”

Natasha’s shoulders sagged, the weight of your words sinking into her with visible force, dragging something raw and unguarded to the surface. Her gaze dropped to her hands, jaw clenched tight. “I just…” she began, the words barely above a whisper, “I’m scared, Little One. I don’t want to hurt you.” 

Her fingers twisted in her lap, restless, unsure. “I’m not used to being careful. You’re… you’re so soft. So good. And I look at you and all I can think is… what if I break her?” She paused, breath shaky, as if the confession itself wounded her. 

“And sometimes… sometimes it all gets too heavy, because I want it so badly, but I can’t push past the fear, so I pull away. That’s when I walk. It’s not about you. It’s me... I’m scared.”

You watched her closely, your own heart aching now, but not with shame or anger. Just understanding. “You told me you were done being scared,” you reminded her gently. “And I’m not scared, Nat.”

Her eyes finally met yours, glassy with hesitation.

“I know I’ve struggled to use ‘red’ before,” you admitted softly, your voice thick, “but I’m getting better. Wanda and I have had scenes way more intense than anything I could’ve handled before, and I’ve called red when I needed to. I’ve used yellow, too. I’ve communicated. I’ve grown.” You reached out, fingers brushing the back of her hand. “I need you to trust that. To trust me. The way I trust you.”

Natasha stared at your hand, at the quiet, open gesture you were offering her. For a long moment, the silence stretched between you again, thick, trembling. And then, slowly, she turned her palm up, lacing her fingers through yours with a quiet breath that sounded like surrender.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her thumb tracing a circle over your knuckles. “You’re right. You’ve been growing into exactly what we asked of you. And I’ve been too scared to meet you there.”

You nodded, breath hitching as the last of your tears clung stubbornly to your lashes. “Then meet me now,” you whispered, voice small but steady.

Natasha stilled for a heartbeat. Her eyes found yours, and in them, something shifted, slow but undeniable. The fear didn’t vanish, not entirely, but it softened around the edges, tempered by something far stronger. Resolve. Acceptance. Want.

“Alright,” she said at last, voice low and certain. “No more running.”

She leaned in, her hand rising to your face, cupping your cheek with a tenderness that made your chest ache. Her touch was warm, grounding, but her eyes were lit with something far darker, deeper, a glint of control that made your pulse stutter.

“If we do this,” she murmured, her voice low and edged with warning, “we do it my way. You say you want the real me? Then that’s what you’ll get. Do you understand?”

You swallowed, nodded, lips parting as the weight of her words settled into your bones. “Yes, Daddy,” you breathed, the title wrapping around you like silk and steel all at once.

A flicker of a smirk ghosted across her lips then, subtle but deadly, the kind of look that promised things you’d only dared to imagine. 

“Good girl,” she said, and the praise sent a shiver through your entire body.

She leaned in just slightly closer, her voice dipping into that tone that curled heat low in your belly. “Go upstairs,” she instructed. “Take off your clothes. Wait on your knees.” She paused, her smile sharpening as her eyes drank in the way your breath caught. “And then we’ll see, won’t we, just how much you want your Daddy.”

—

You nodded with a single, frantic jerk of your head, too overwhelmed to speak, and then your body was moving on instinct, quick, almost clumsy in your desperation to obey. All you could focus on was the wild drum of your heartbeat and the racing thoughts that flooded your head like a storm surge. 

Upstairs, you fired off a quick text to Kate, fingers barely steady, then moved as if pulled by some invisible thread. Each piece of clothing came off with shaking hands, your breath catching as cool air kissed your skin. You folded everything neatly, placing the stack on the chair in the corner like a silent offering; a small, desperate proof that even if you’d slipped today, even if you'd been bad, you still wanted, needed to be good for them.

And then you dropped to your knees. The position was second nature by now, knees pressed into the carpet, thighs spread just enough, spine long and straight, shoulders relaxed but not slouched. Hands rested lightly on your thighs, palms down, fingers splayed slightly. Your head bowed low in submission. 

You didn’t dare fidget, didn’t shift or speak. You simply waited, every nerve on fire, every breath shallow, until finally the door creaked open behind you.

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t lift your head.

“She’s very well trained, my love,” Natasha said eventually, her tone cool and measured, discussing you rather than addressing you. “But she still made the choice to disobey.”

Silence followed, thick and weighted until Wanda finally spoke. Her voice was softer, edged with sorrow rather than anger, but the pain in it was unmistakable. “She scared me.”

The words sliced through the room like a knife, lodging somewhere deep in your chest. Yet you didn’t dare speak, didn’t dare interrupt.

“I know,” Natasha murmured, taking a slow step forward. The sound of her boots was almost echoing in the quiet. “She scared me, too.”

Then her hand was in your hair, threading through it from crown to nape in a way that was far from comforting. She gripped you just tightly enough to tilt your head upward, to force your eyes to meet hers. “Look at me.”

You did. You had no choice. Her eyes were fire and stone, and though the fury had dimmed, the disappointment was still there, etched into every line of her face. You felt like you might fall apart just from looking at her.

“We gave you rules,” she said, slowly, carefully, as if daring you to pretend otherwise. “And you broke them.”

Your voice caught in your throat, and all you could do was nod, shame coursing through you like poison.

“And now,” she said, as her presence shifted into something sharper, more commanding, “you’re going to show us exactly how sorry you are.”

Then came the sound, it was unmistakable, the low slide of leather slipping free from its loops. Natasha’s belt.

Your heart stuttered, catching mid-beat. The room was still, that single sound landing like thunder between the three of you. Her footsteps moved again, coming to a stop in front of you. 

“I’m not like Wanda,” Natasha said evenly, her gaze steady. “I don’t often give out spankings or lashings... but after today, I think you need that, don’t you?”

You nodded, throat too tight to speak.

“I’ll be using my belt,” she went on, tone clipped, precise. “You will count each strike. And you will thank me for it.”

Your mouth felt dry as dust; your hands trembled faintly where they rested, but when your voice came, it was steady, quiet, and certain.“Yes, Daddy.”

Natasha stood before you, quiet for a moment, the belt coiled in her hand like a promise. Her eyes searched your face. You could feel her gaze digging through the layers of your submission, past the trembling anticipation and the guilt still curling tight in your chest, looking for anything that might signal hesitation or fear you hadn’t voiced.

Then she knelt, and that alone made your breath hitch. You never expected her to kneel, not when she was in control. But tonight, she needed you to see her. Not as the distant, unreadable force you'd grown so used to. Not as someone just watching from the sidelines. She needed you to understand that she was here, fully and completely.

One hand lifted to cup your jaw, thumb brushing just under your eye where the dried tracks of earlier tears lingered. You leaned into it instinctively.

“Colour,” she asked quietly, voice low and deliberate. Her gaze was sharp but not unkind. “Right now. Speak it.”

You swallowed hard, your voice small but certain. “Green.”

“Good girl,” she said softly, but the weight of it sent a shiver down your spine. “You tell me if that changes. Understood?”

You nodded, then corrected yourself immediately. “Yes, Daddy.”

She rose in one smooth movement, the belt now unfurling in her hand as she stepped back around behind you. “You’ll take ten,” Natasha said, voice firmer again now. “Five for the disobedience. Five for the attitude.”

Your fingers curled slightly against your thighs, nails biting into your skin just enough to focus you.“Yes, Daddy.”

“Up,” Natasha said, and your body obeyed before your mind caught up. As you rose, Natasha glanced over at Wanda, giving the smallest nod. It was permission, an invitation to let her join in.

Wanda stepped forward, her touch gentle as she guided you to the edge of the bed. “Hands on the mattress, knees apart, back straight,” she whispered, her tone soothing yet firm.

You positioned yourself carefully, muscles taut beneath your bare skin, vulnerable and exposed as you bent forward at the hips. Your bottom lifted just enough for Natasha to take aim. The air between you thickened, every breath heavy with a charged expectation that made your pulse race.

Natasha gave a few slow, deliberate practice swings through the air, the belt hissing softly as it cut through the quiet.

Then she stepped closer, her hand gliding over your bare skin with a touch so gentle it nearly undid you, a final stroke of calm before the storm. “You ready?” she murmured, her voice low and controlled.

You nodded, already breathless. “Yes, Daddy.”

She hummed, almost in approval, and then the belt struck.

A sharp, clean crack shattered the stillness, the leather snapping against the curve of your right cheek with devastating accuracy. The pain bloomed instantly: white-hot, searing, a jolt that stole the air from your lungs and replaced it with fire. It rippled through you, lighting your nerves with something that felt just a hair’s breadth from too much.

You gasped, muscles tightening reflexively, heart pounding wildly. “One,” you whispered, breath trembling, cheeks flushed with a warmth deeper than the sting alone. “Thank you, Daddy.”

The belt snapped down again, landing clean against your left cheek with a cruel crack that made your whole body jump. This time, a soft whimper caught in your throat, the sensation sharper, deeper. But an involuntary shiver rippled through your body as pain began to mingle with an unexpected, tantalising pleasure.

“Two. Thank you, Daddy,” you breathed, voice breathy, almost lost beneath the rush of sensations flooding through you.

Three. Four. The belt traced searing lines of fire across your skin, each lash both agony and ecstasy, sending sparks through your muscles and igniting a blaze deep inside you. The heat spread, radiating outward, consuming and thrilling, your senses alive with every crack.

By the fifth strike, tears welled unbidden in your eyes. The pain was intensifying with every lash over the already tender skin; the pleasure was threatened, pushed to the edge. You were just about to call yellow when Natasha paused, pulling back slightly.

“You’re halfway there, Kotenok (kitten),” she said, her voice thick with pride and heat. “You’re doing so well.”

The brief reprieve and her gentle praise dulled the sting, and suddenly the ache softened. You felt steady again, caught between resistance and surrender, pain and delight, a heady cocktail that left you dizzy, breathless, desperate for more.

After a moment, the final lashes came faster, harder, each one a burning punctuation searing deeper into your flesh and soul. Your breath hitched in ragged gasps, low moans slipping free on the ninth and tenth strikes, before you finally whispered, “Ten, thank you, Daddy,” voice cracking as a shudder rippled through your body. Tears streamed freely now, pain fierce and unrelenting, skin flushed hot and humming with fire.

Behind you, Wanda’s hands were gentle and steady, soothing your trembling back with tender caresses that gradually melted the blaze to warmth. “Good girl, you did so well, baby,” she murmured, voice thick with affection.

You remained bent forward, breath shallow and ragged, every nerve alive and buzzing with a fierce, aching bliss. The pain had broken you open, cracked you wide, and beneath it all burned an exhilarating, desperate hunger.

Natasha lifted you carefully, mindful not to touch your sensitive skin, and eased you face down onto the bed, a soft pillow cushioning your head. Her fingers stroked the side of your face, warm and steady, before she pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead. “You look exquisite, Kotenok (kitten). Your ass is such a beautiful shade of purple and red,” she praised softly.

“That was the first time you’ve taken a belt, wasn’t it, sweetheart?” Wanda’s voice was filled with pride, gentle and amazed.

You hummed softly in response.

Natasha’s chuckle was low and indulgent, her eyes glinting with something between adoration and pride. “You knew you wouldn’t get off with just a normal spanking from me,” she murmured, tracing the outline of the belt’s work. “But you took it beautifully, Printessa (princess). You were perfect.”

You let out a breathy, dreamy little giggle, face half-buried in the pillow. Your body felt loose, heavy, but warm all over, floating somewhere between bliss and exhaustion. “Didn’t break,” you whispered, the words lilting with smugness even as your voice slurred just a little. “Told you, Daddy.”

Natasha smiled, slow and fond, brushing her knuckles along your cheek. “No, you didn’t. Tough little thing, aren’t you?” Before her hand drifted back down to gently stroke the heated swell of your ass. The touch still made you flinch, the burn raw and aching, but it was grounding, anchoring, laced with something that made your stomach flutter again.

Wanda returned with some lotion, her steps soft and measured. “Nat, you take the edge off, I’ve got this,” she said, nodding toward the bed. Natasha climbed up beside you, cradling your head in her lap, one hand carding through your hair while the other cupped your jaw.

“Lotion’s coming, baby,” Wanda murmured as she settled behind you, warming it in her hands. “Ready?”

“Mhm, yeah…” You breathed. Your hips twitched when the first touch landed, cool and tender, Wanda’s fingers expertly massaging the sting away. Your thighs parted instinctively, knees shifting wider for no reason at all, just a gesture of pure submission. Wanda said nothing, just smiled behind you, pleased by the automatic surrender.

Meanwhile, Natasha was stroking her fingers through your hair, whispering soft reassurances about how good you were. It made you smile, you felt held, so safe. “You can be soft,” you murmured, nuzzling into Natasha’s thigh with a sleepy grin. “You try to be scary, but you’re soft, Daddy. So soft.”

Natasha chuckled darkly. “You’ve got quite the mouth for someone still trembling and glowing red, Printessa (princess),” she murmured, her voice silky but edged with warning, clearly not thrilled that you were seeing her as soft after she’d just whipped your ass with a belt. “Maybe you need more, huh?”

You let out a soft, drowsy little laugh. “Nooo,” you groaned dramatically, drawing out the syllable with petulant flair. “I’ll be good now. Promise. My butt’s on fire…”

“Oh, you definitely earned that fire, Little One,” Wanda said, though you could hear the smile in her voice. “I’ve never seen you act out like that,” she added, continuing to smooth the lotion over your skin with slow, practiced care. Each gentle stroke sent a fresh, cooling wave over your burning flesh, only to leave behind a new warmth, softer, deeper, impossible to ignore, and your body gave a faint, involuntary shiver.

You turned your head slightly, cheek pressing against Natasha’s thigh, blinking at her through heavy lashes. “I’m sorry, Mommy,” you murmured, your voice syrupy and slow, thick with the weight of submission. “Didn’t mean to…” You trailed off with a pout, though your tone made it clear the apology wasn’t entirely sincere.

Natasha snorted quietly, amused, and her fingers slid through your hair, combing gently. “Don’t give us that act,” she said with that wicked little twist to her voice. “You absolutely meant to. You were poking the bear on purpose.”

You giggled again, dreamy and far too pleased with yourself, nuzzling into her hand like a kitten drunk on affection. “Okay… yeah, I did,” you admitted, cheek pressed to the sheets. “But I got what I wanted, sooo… clearly I should be a brat more often.”

Wanda let out a soft gasp of mock outrage and landed a light, open-palmed swat to your thigh, her skin still slick with lotion. The sensation made you jump, but not from pain. Your breath caught on a whine, your hips giving the smallest, shameless wiggle.

“Oh no, you don’t,” Wanda teased, palm pausing to stroke along the back of your thigh in lazy arcs. “You be our good girl, or you’ll be wearing welts like these every day of the week.”

“Mmm…” You squirmed again, an indulgent little sound escaping you, high and heady. “Maybe I liked it,” you whispered with a hazy smile, too dazed and floaty to even try masking the way your voice trembled at her touch. “Felt…good.”

Natasha leaned down slowly, her body brushing yours just enough to feel the weight of her attention, and you stilled completely, lips parting as her breath ghosted against your ear. “You’re lucky you’re adorable when you’re like this,” she murmured, voice a velvet growl. “Otherwise, I’d start again.”

The words slid down your spine like warm honey, thick and sinful, and before you could stop it, your toes curled tight and a soft, breathless moan escaped your lips, small and accidental, but full of exposed, aching need.

Wanda chuckled behind you, one hand still resting low across your backside, her thumb now stroking gently just under the curve. “Thought you said you didn’t want more, Little One,” she teased lightly, though her voice was already laced with something warmer, deeper.

“I don’t…” You mumbled, your face flushed, trying not to squirm beneath both their eyes. “No more hits anyway…”

Natasha tilted her head, her fingers slipping down to trace over your jaw with a feather-light touch. “Is there something you do want?”

You nodded, once, shy and breathless.

“Words,” Natasha said, her tone still wrapped in that low, velvety timbre, but sharpened with command. “Tell us what’s happening in that pretty little head of yours.”

You swallowed hard, struggling to gather your scattered thoughts as Natasha’s voice curled around you, turning everything inside into a slow, smouldering fire, and Wanda’s fingers traced their deliberate, torturous path across your skin, the soft pads gliding slowly over the raised, welted ridges. 

“Mommy’s hands…” You breathed, barely able to get the words out, your voice catching and cracking as your thighs trembled, your hips shifting restlessly beneath the weight of their attention, “they’re making me… everything’s so sensitive, feels good, Daddy… I wanna be touched…wanna cum…”

The last word left you on a broken whimper, fragile and pleading, not even a full breath of sound, but it was enough. 

“Who do you want, Little One?” Natasha asked, her voice was still on the gentle side, and you could feel her thumb brushing deliberately against your temple, grounding you, holding you, even as the rest of her loomed like a storm waiting to strike. “Me? Wanda? Or both of us?” she asked, and you could hear the smirk in her voice, the way she already knew the answer.

Your lashes fluttered, and your face burned, and you couldn’t stop the grin that pulled at your lips even through the haze, cheeky and unrepentant. “Both,” you mumbled, your voice thick with need, your whole body thrumming with it. “Wanna feel both of you…”

Behind you, Wanda chuckled, the sound low and indulgent as she let her nail trail with sudden, shocking pressure along one of the rawer welts across your ass. “Greedy little thing,” she purred. “Didn’t we just finish punishing you?”

“Mhmm,” Natasha murmured, her voice dark with amusement, and her grin only widened as she let your head slip from her lap and lowered it gently onto the pillow. “And now she’s begging for her reward like the little brat she clearly is.” She rose smoothly, her body uncoiling behind you with slow, predatory grace.

Wanda climbed fully onto the bed, her body close, her thigh pressing warmly against yours as she knelt beside you, a steady presence at your side. 

Natasha moved behind you, lowering herself until she could pry your legs open further. Her breath hitched as her gaze fell between them, and any lingering restraint she had vanished in an instant. 

You were drenched, unmistakably aroused despite the punishment, and the sight of it lit something deep and primal in her. “Look at you,” she said, her voice cold and amused, “So wet from being hurt.”

Her fingers finally made contact, just the barest drag of her fingers between your slick folds, slow and cruelly restrained. Your breath hitched hard, your body pushing backwards into her before her hand slammed down against your thigh with a sharp, stinging crack that echoed through the room and left your skin burning.

“Beg,” she ordered, and you whimpered, already on the edge of falling apart.

“Please…” you whispered, barely more than a breath.

Another slap came down, sharper this time. “Louder,” she demanded, her voice firm and unwavering.

“Please, Daddy,” you gasped, your voice hoarse and broken, tears stinging your eyes already. I want your fingers, need you so bad, please—”

“Better,” Natasha growled, and then she gave you exactly what you’d asked for, two fingers plunging into you with no warning, a raw yelp tearing from your throat as she pushed into you. Wanda’s nails raked down your spine again in long, devastating lines that made your whole body twist and writhe, pleasure and pain tangling so tightly you couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.

“Brats don’t get soft,” Natasha snarled, her breath hot against your skin. There was no gentleness, just her fingers working you over, every thrust designed to split you open. “Brats get used.”

“And you love it, don’t you?” Wanda whispered against your ear, her lips brushing the shell of it as she slipped a hand beneath you, and to your chest, cupping your breast and teasing your nipple with her thumb.

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe. Natasha’s fingers were hitting deep inside of you and the mattress below you was just slightly stimulating your clit with each thrust, every nerve in your body was screaming, burning, begging for release already.

Clearly, Natasha could tell, too. “Hold still,” she barked, voice sharp and unforgiving. “Don’t move a fucking inch until I say. And don’t even think about cumming.”

Wanda’s hand was soft against your chest, a twisted counterpoint to the violence behind you, her touch gentle and slow, grounding you as your whole body trembled violently beneath them both.

You tried to obey her, to stay still, to keep your hips steady even as your body screamed with the effort, but you were falling apart, unravelling beneath their hands, beneath her voice, beneath the hot, wet drag of your own tears against your cheek where your face pressed into the sheets. 

The moans slipped out, soft and broken, catching in your throat like sobs, and your fingers clawed uselessly at the bedding, trying to anchor yourself to something while Natasha kept fucking you with those unrelenting, merciless strokes that hit so perfectly deep you could hardly remember what breathing felt like.

“Daddy,” you gasped, voice hoarse and shaking, “Please, Daddy. Fuck! Please—” You weren't exactly sure what you wanted, you think it was for her to never stop, to live inside you, but you couldn't be sure, considering your body was begging for release at the same time. 

Her grip on your hip only tightened, holding you exactly where she wanted you, making sure you couldn’t squirm away, couldn’t fuck yourself down harder to chase what she was refusing to give, and her other hand kept moving, curling inside you just right.

Wanda’s hand moved to your jaw, cradling it gently, her thumb brushing away a tear that had slipped free, her voice achingly soft by contrast, a warm thread through the storm. “You’re doing so well,” she whispered, her lips brushing your temple, “Let her hear it. Show her how much you need her.”

Your mouth opened again, but the words caught on a sob this time, raw and full of surrender, your chest heaving beneath the weight of everything you felt, need, shame, longing, adoration, so thick and tangled inside you it made your throat ache to speak.

Wanda watched carefully, ensuring you were both safe in this intense moment. Her fingers tightened around your jaw, holding your head still as she kissed your temple, again and again, whispering encouragement against your skin in a voice like balm, gentle, grounding, loving, everything Natasha was not in that moment, and it made the contrast all the more unbearable.

“That’s it,” Wanda murmured, her lips brushing your ear as Natasha’s rhythm grew more punishing. She knew you physically couldn't last much longer, after all, she had more experience with your body than Natasha did. So she gave you the permission you needed. “Come on, baby. Let go.”

And you did. You released around Natasha’s fingers with a raw, keening cry that spilled from your throat, your body convulsing with the force of it, the orgasm tearing through you like a wave too big to fight. 

Your whole body trembled under the weight of it, hips jerking, legs shaking, tears spilling freely now as Natasha held you steady and fucked you through it, relentless until your sobs turned into whimpers, until your cries dissolved into breathless, broken moans.

Even then, she didn’t stop.

You cried out, high and sharp, your thighs trying to close instinctively, but she forced them open with her legs, her breath hissing between her teeth as she leaned into you like a predator cornering its prey.

“Oh no,” she murmured, almost laughing, her voice husky and low, thick with dark delight. “You don’t get to run from it now. You begged for this, remember?”

And then Natasha leaned forward, her body pressing flush against your back, and the pace of her fingers changed again, faster, harder, brutal in their precision as they fucked into you with relentless, single-minded force, every thrust driving the air from your lungs and making your eyes roll back. “So now you’re gonna take it, shlyukha (slut). You’re gonna take everything I give you until I say you’ve had enough.”

You sobbed, unable to help it, your voice catching in your throat as your whole body jerked with the sensitivity. It burned, every nerve raw and open, as her fingers were working that throbbing spot deep inside you, dragging more pleasure out of you than your body could handle, pushing you toward a second high before the first had even finished crashing over you.

“I c…can’t,” you gasped, words broken by ragged breath, your hands scrabbling uselessly against the sheets as the pressure built again with terrifying speed. “It’s too much, Daddy! Please…please I can’t—”

“You can,” she snarled, cutting you off with a vicious curl of her fingers that made you scream into the mattress, your legs kicking uselessly as she pinned you down. “You will. If I want more, you will take more. Don’t care if you’re crying. Don’t care if you’re shaking. You either safe word, or you take it like the whore you begged to be.”

Her voice was steel, but Wanda’s hands remained soft where they cupped your face, her fingers stroking your cheeks, catching your tears as they kept falling, her thumbs brushing them away with unbearable gentleness. She kissed your brow, your temple, the tip of your nose, her voice a slow, steady rhythm of quiet reassurance in your ear.

“You’re okay,” Wanda murmured, again and again, her lips barely moving against your skin. “You’re safe. You can do this, darling.”

You were trembling violently now, sobbing openly, but you didn’t ask her to stop. You didn’t want her to stop. Not really. Somewhere deep beneath the overwhelm, beneath the overstimulation and the ache spreading through your thighs and belly and chest, was the desperate part of you that needed to be taken apart, to be used and ruined until there was nothing left.

Natasha added another finger, her fingers soaking wet as they filled you again and again, her palm slapping wetly against you with every thrust. 

“Pathetic,” she growled, mouth against your ear, teeth scraping your skin. “Fucking sobbing. Crying like you hate it, but you’re clenching around me like you’d die if I stopped.”

And she was right, you were so close again it hurt, so full of her, so overstimulated and desperate that every thrust felt like fire, like drowning, like you couldn’t tell where the pain ended and the pleasure began anymore. 

You screamed her title, a ragged, half-broken wail into the mattress, but Wanda’s voice answered yours like a balm. “That’s it, sweet girl,” she whispered. “Let it break you. Let her take you all the way down.”

Natasha’s fingers continued moving, curling and thrusting deep inside you, each movement sharper, harder, more demanding than the last, her grip on your hip like iron as she drove you closer to that edge where everything blurred and shattered at once. 

Your breath hitched, short and desperate, your body trembling so violently that your fists clenched the sheets until your nails bit into the fabric, white-knuckled and raw. “Please… please, Daddy…” you gasped, voice fading at the edges, “Please!”

Wanda kissed the crown of your head, her hands drifting over your back, tracing slow, tantalising paths along the scratches she’d left behind earlier.

“Hmm,” Natasha murmured, voice thick with amused cruelty. “You think you deserve a second, brat? After what you did today?”

You tried to steady yourself, to keep control, but your hips jerked involuntarily against her hand. Your voice was strained, trembling with a shameful desperation. “Please…”

Natasha’s voice was low, husky, with that unmistakable edge of command laced in every syllable. “Not good enough,” she said, her tone rough, dark with expectation. “Beg like you mean it. Like you’re begging for your life.”

You swallowed hard, cheeks burning with humiliation and want, eyes closing as the heat swirling through you turned into a frantic ache. Your voice broke, ragged and raw, spilling out all the trembling need you’d been holding inside. “Please, Daddy… Please let me come. I’ll be your good girl. I’ll do whatever you want. Please, I need you. Please…”

Natasha just chuckled, clearly not quite ready to relent just yet. Your body continued to tremble violently, every muscle pulled so tight it felt like you might shatter from the strain, every inch of you writhing under the pressure that had been building, aching, begging for release for what felt like hours. 

Your voice broke free again, hoarse and raw, a sob ripped straight from your chest, laced with helpless surrender. “I’m gonna…I can’t, Daddy, I can’t hold it, I’m sorry, I can’t, please—”

It had stopped being a plea altogether. It was more like a confession, you were going to cum whether you were given permission or not; you just desperately hoped that permission would arrive before you lost control.

The air went still, like the world itself was holding its breath. Then she leaned in again, breath hot and steady against your ear, her voice low and terrifyingly gentle. “Okay. Cum for me, good girl.”

The words struck like lightning. It was immediate, devastating; the second her permission registered in your mind, your body detonated. You shattered with a scream that tore straight through your throat, every muscle seizing in violent spasms as the orgasm ripped through you, too intense, too much, more than you’d ever felt or imagined. You couldn’t see. Couldn’t breathe. Your vision went white, then grey, then black around the edges as the release overwhelmed you completely.

Your eyes rolled back, your mouth open in a silent cry, and for a terrifying, beautiful moment, you felt yourself slipping under, deep and dark, the world narrowing to a pinprick of light before it vanished altogether.

Your limbs were limp and twitching in the aftermath, your face buried in the sheets as tremors rocked you. You were barely conscious, breath stuttering in shallow, uneven gasps. Your skin was flushed and fever-hot, soaked in sweat and tears, but your mind had gone blissfully quiet.

Natasha didn’t speak for a long moment; she just stayed with you, her fingers gentle now, drawing back from your trembling body with care, her presence still heavy and grounding. When her voice came, it was thick with pride, yet soft enough to make your chest ache.

“That’s it, krasivaya devushka (pretty girl),” she murmured, brushing damp hair from your face with slow, reverent fingers. “You did so fucking well.”

You couldn’t respond. You barely had the strength to breathe, let alone form words. Your body twitched again, the aftershocks still pulsing in deep, involuntary waves, and even those were almost too much. You whimpered softly, tears streaking anew from the corners of your eyes, not from pain, but from relief. From the sheer vulnerability of what had just passed between you.

Wanda’s hand found yours, her touch warm and steady, and you clung to it without even realising, your fingers weakly curling into hers as she whispered something soft in a language you didn’t understand, her lips brushing the crown of your head. 

The room around you was silent, save for your ragged breaths. The tension had faded. The storm had passed. Natasha moved first, slow and deliberate, every gesture measured as if the wrong angle might break you. She eased her hands beneath your slack body and gently coaxed you upright, murmuring soft nothings as she guided you with infinite patience into her lap. 

She avoided the welts with careful skill, her fingers splaying wide to support your back as she shifted you until you were curled against her, your thighs folded over hers, your cheek resting against the firm plane of her chest. 

Wanda was already there beside you, moving in tandem with Natasha, like this was something they’d done a hundred times before. Her hand brushed gently along your jaw, the backs of her fingers featherlight against your cheekbone, and her voice was barely more than a breath. “Little One… you’re so quiet,” she whispered. “Can you look at me, hm? Just a little?”

You didn’t. You couldn’t. Your eyes stayed half-lidded, unfocused, your mouth parted slightly as if words might try to come, but nothing did. You were weightless, full of warmth and pressure, and not a single coherent thought. You didn’t even know whose hands were where anymore, only that you were held, and the world outside their bodies didn’t matter.

Natasha shifted behind you, her arms curling around your middle, and she leaned in close, her voice low, coaxing. “You with me?” she murmured against your temple, her breath warm and even. “Need you to give me something, yeah? Nod. Blink. Anything.”

Silence. You blinked once, but it was slow, lazy, so drawn-out it almost didn’t count. Your body was limp in her arms, small twitches still ghosting down your thighs, but there was no tension, no fear. Just exhaustion. Deep, beautiful, bone-heavy exhaustion, the kind that only came when you’d given everything and there was nothing left but this.

Wanda’s hand paused, just briefly, her eyes flicking up to meet Natasha’s. Her tone stayed soft, but there was the barest note of surprise in it, and something warmer beneath that, something almost admiring. “I’ve never seen her this far gone before,” she said gently, brushing your damp hair back from your face with careful fingers. “Not like this.”

That made Natasha pause. You felt it in her breath, the faint hitch against your neck, the subtle stiffening of her muscles where they cradled your back. Her grip didn’t tighten, but her stillness said enough, that flicker of something sharp and anxious just beneath her skin.

“She’s too quiet,” Natasha murmured, and for the first time her voice held a sliver of unease, something she couldn’t quite mask. “She usually… I mean, even when she’s out of it with you, she—”

Wanda cut her off with a look, her voice calm and even, as grounding as the touch she kept smoothing along your jaw. “You know she’s okay,” she said, not a question, but a gentle reminder. “Look at her. She’s breathing slow, she’s not flinching, her body’s soft. She’s not gone. Just… deep.”

Still, Natasha looked down at you, searching for something, anything behind your eyes. “She didn’t even flinch when I moved her. Not even a wince.”

“She trusts you,” Wanda said simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “That’s not a problem. That’s a gift.”

Natasha let out a slow, quiet breath, one hand coming up to cradle the back of your head, holding you more tightly now, tucking your face into the crook of her neck as if the closeness might coax you back into the light a little faster. “She gave me everything,” she murmured, almost to herself. “I didn’t mean to take too much.”

“You didn’t,” Wanda said gently, but with absolute certainty, her voice calm and grounding. “She’s fine, Nat. I promise. You’ve seen me drop just as deep, you know this space, don’t start second-guessing yourself now. I was watching the whole time, making sure you both stayed tethered. No one went too far. It’s alright. Just breathe and be with her, yeah?”

Natasha exhaled slowly, the tension in her shoulders softening just a fraction, but not all the way. Her arms tightened around you instinctively, protective and quiet, holding you as if her steadiness alone could pull you back to shore. And then your fingers curled in the fabric of her shirt. A barely-there twitch, not even deliberate, but enough. Natasha’s breath caught, and something melted in her expression as she leaned down, pressing a kiss into your hair like a prayer.

“That’s our girl,” she murmured, voice low and rough, barely more than a breath, but full of fierce, aching relief.

You didn’t answer. But your cheek nudged against her collarbone, just a little, a lazy, dazed nuzzle, and Natasha exhaled fully, like she could finally breathe again. 

Wanda leaned forward, tucking herself in against your other side, her hand now holding one of yours, thumb brushing rhythmically along your knuckles. “Let’s let her drift a bit longer,” she whispered. “She’ll come back when she’s ready.”

And so they stayed like that, holding you between them. You didn’t know how much time had passed. It could’ve been minutes, could’ve been an hour, the soft thrum of Wanda’s thumb on your knuckles and the slow rise and fall of Natasha’s chest beneath your cheek made everything blur, timeless and quiet, like the world had narrowed to the exact point where their bodies cradled yours. 

Then, at last, something shifted. It started in your chest, a quiet ache of emotion that bloomed outward like warmth returning to numb skin. You blinked slowly, the world still soft and blurry at the edges. You made a small noise, mostly a whimper, and Natasha’s arms instinctively tightened around you, the motion firm but soothing.

“Hey,” she whispered, and the relief in her voice wasn’t masked. It wasn’t even tried. “There she is. That’s it, Detka (babe)”

You tried to speak, but your throat was too dry. You swallowed hard and tried again, your voice barely more than a rasp, a breath caught on the edge of tears. “I’m sorry…”

Natasha shushed you immediately, her hand smoothing down the back of your head, her other arm tightening at your waist, still careful not to touch the angry red welts across your backside. “You don’t need to talk yet,” she murmured. “You just rest. You’re safe, I promise.”

Wanda leaned in, brushing a kiss just above your brow, her hand never letting go of yours. Her voice was warm and low, like the first glow of a fire in a quiet room. “You came back really slowly, darling. Gave us both a scare, hm?” There was no edge to it, no reprimand. Only concern, soft and absolute. “I’ve never seen you drift that far before.”

A tiny breath escaped your lips, almost a laugh, though too fragile to shape itself. “Didn’t mean to,” you murmured, your voice brittle and fading.

“It’s okay if you’re a bit out of it,” Natasha said quietly, her lips brushing the crown of your head. “Daddy and Mommy have you, baby. You’re so good for us.”

You whimpered, barely a sound, your breath catching in your throat as the weight of it all pressed down. You’d been bad before, you remembered just how far you’d pushed. The guilt still pulsed inside you, raw and unsteady. You wanted to apologise, to fall to your knees and beg for forgiveness, but somehow… they were already offering it.

Being told you were still good, hit you like a balm, cool and sweet and stinging all at once. Your lip trembled, your voice breaking the silence in a small, uncertain whisper. “Still… Little One?” 

Even to your own ears, the question sounded fragile, wavering with that desperate need for reassurance that only they could offer. It wasn’t the first time you had asked that question, and it surely wouldn’t be the last.

Natasha’s breath caught faintly, and then she kissed your temple with aching gentleness. “Our Little One. Forever.”

Wanda’s voice joined hers, soothing and rich as she stroked her fingers through your hair. “You’re stuck with us now, malyshka. No escaping.”

You nodded faintly, eyes sliding shut again. The fog still clung to you; you hadn’t fully come back yet, but it didn’t feel frightening now. You were floating just beneath the surface, not lost, just… surrendered. And their voices tethered you. Their hands held you. You didn’t have to move. Didn’t have to think. Didn’t have to earn this.

A small silence followed, warm and deep, filled only by the sound of your breathing and the weight of being kept. Then Wanda stirred with a soft kiss to your shoulder. “I’m just going to get something for her,” she murmured gently. “Some water, maybe a snack.”

Natasha gave a small nod, her cheek still pressed to your hair, as if she couldn’t bear to lift her head. “Okay,” she whispered, her voice raw with gratitude. “Thank you.”

Wanda rose slowly, her fingers brushing over yours one last time before she left, a silent promise not to be long. Then the room was quiet again, just you and Natasha in the hush, her touch steady, grounding as she pulled a blanket over you.

When Wanda returned, it was quiet and swift, a bottle of water in one hand, a small biscuit wrapped in a napkin in the other. She knelt beside the bed, watching your face like she was reading something in the way your lashes fluttered.

Natasha adjusted you gently, raising you just enough to coax. “Alright, Detka (babe),” she whispered into your temple. “Time to try. Just a little something, and then you can rest again.”

You blinked slowly, the world still foggy and distant. But you let her guide you, let her bring the straw to your lips. Your lips parted slowly around the straw, the cool water slipping in like a balm against your dry throat. 

You sipped tentatively, eyes fluttering as the water trickled down. Natasha’s fingers never left you, her thumb brushing along your cheekbone with a softness that made your heart ache and your eyelids flutter heavier.

“That’s it,” Natasha murmured, her voice thick with pride and relief. “Such a good girl, taking care of yourself. I’m so proud of you.” Her words wrapped around you like a warm blanket, steady and unshakable, grounding you further into this moment. “You’re doing so well. You don’t have to rush.”

From beside you, Wanda’s hand slipped to your face, fingers tracing gentle circles over your cheek, cradling your jaw like you were the most precious thing she’d ever held. “Look at you, malyshka (Little One),” she breathed softly, voice low and filled with awe. “Such a perfect girl.”

You blinked again, the fuzziness lingering but softening, your chest rising and falling a little more evenly with each soothing stroke of Wanda’s hand. The biscuit was pressed lightly into your palm, warm from her touch, and with gentle encouragement, your fingers curled weakly around it.

“Try a little bite,” Wanda coaxed, her smile tender and patient. “Just a small one.”

Your jaw worked slowly, the crumbly biscuit breaking apart in your mouth, sweetness blooming faintly against your tongue. Natasha’s voice was a steady hum in your ear, praise threading through every word. “That’s it, just like that.”

You swallowed, the taste grounding you more than you expected. Your eyes drifted closed again briefly, your body sinking deeper into Natasha’s embrace, Wanda’s hand never leaving your face, their presence a constant soft anchor in the swirling haze.

Wanda offered the water again, and you took it without hesitation, the coolness soothing the ache in your throat and the exhaustion in your limbs.

“You’re doing so well,” Natasha whispered, voice soft and full of wonder. 

It took a little while to come back down, the world around you slow to settle. But once your limbs stopped trembling and your head stopped spinning, you turned into Natasha’s arms and curled there without hesitation, your voice quiet but full of truth as you murmured, “Thank you.”

She smiled, her fingers trailing lazy patterns across your back. “For what? The belt, or the orgasms that nearly killed you?”

You gave a tired, breathy laugh, hiding your face in her neck. “For listening. For wanting me.” You paused, then added with a grin. “And… maybe a little bit for the orgasms.”

Wanda chuckled behind you, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder. Natasha huffed a laugh of her own, sounding more relaxed than she had all night. “Not too much?” she asked, a teasing lilt in her tone, though the question beneath was genuine.

You shook your head, smiling. “It was a lot,” you admitted softly, “but not too much. Just… I think I might need soft, sometimes, though?”

Natasha tilted her head, pretending to think. “Hmm… soft. I’ll need a manual for that one.”

You grinned. “You’ve got Wanda. She’s an expert.”

Wanda kissed your cheek and hummed, “Lucky for her, I take apprentices.”

Natasha rolled her eyes, but she was smiling too, warm and open in a way that made your chest flutter. “Well then,” she murmured, “I guess I’m all in.”

And that, more than anything, made you melt, safe and certain in the arms you’d craved for so long.

Eventually, Natasha and Wanda gently helped you up, guiding you carefully to the bathroom where they cleaned you with tender patience, every touch considerate of the welts on your skin. 

Once you were freshened, they dressed you in a soft, oversized T-shirt that hung loosely, deliberately leaving you without underwear or trousers to avoid anything rubbing or irritating your tender backside. They took extra time to apply more soothing lotion, their fingers slow and careful, lingering on every sensitive spot with quiet affection.

Afterwards, one by one, they each prepared for bed, never once leaving you alone, both silently ensuring you felt safe and held. Before long, the three of you were curled together, you nestled snugly in the middle, wrapped in a warm, protective cocoon of love and care. Your eyes drifted closed, sinking into a peaceful sleep, tired, a little sore, but deeply content and completely fulfilled.

—

Next part

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[tawked]

A point I want to add: asylums and institutions also still exist in the space future, and are weaponized against a medically constructed political underclass on a basis of the presumption of violence.

This is how schizophrenia and many other personality disorders work, based on concepts pioneered primarily by Nazi eugenicists from the mid-1900s (as in the decade) to the 1940s. Particularly men like Hoche, Binding, Bleuler (who coined "schizophrenia) and Kraepelin.

Many concepts of schizophrenia specifically, such as the eventual understanding of delusions, were influenced by antisemitic purges of academia, such as the displacement of Karl Jaspers, who advanced the thought that it is the character of the delusional and not the content of the delusion that should be considered in diagnosis, a problem many people continue to have when engaging with exterminationist eugenics discourse to this day lol.

Through Julian Bashir's narrative and especially the institutionalised, engineered people we meet in S06E19 "Statistical Probabilities," explores concepts of institutionalisation and systemic, structural ableism in similar terms and concepts, without the need to reference this history because this was the backbone of the same systems and medical concepts that continued up to the mid-1980s, and continue in some forms to this day. It is a cornerstone of the conservative push to "get the homeless off the streets" by reopening psychiatric hospitals, effectively advocating for Arkham Asylums, a failed system, instead of building a systemic support framework that can support us in the outside world.

It's worth noting that although Jack is characterized as potentially dangerous (and pulls a lot of the focus when discussing this in-episode), he is housed with

Lauren, who is an ableist stereotype of a nymphomaniac manipulator, a character used in old school asylum fiction all the time. It's an outdated concept of hypersexuality, which is its own deeply complex subject. The point is, she's kind of an asylum novel cliche, and not much is done to subvert this.

Patrick, who is "brilliant but child-like," and not dangerous,

Sarina, who Julian ends up fucking dating brooo what is it with well-meaning liberals and writing themselves fixing a "broken woman" who immediately falls in love with them out of a combination of sexual repression and gratitude? like what is this fantasy??? is it not creepy as fuck? no one, i mean no one who is normal and aware of the sexual abuse of women in psychiatry would write this, oh my god i hate what the writers do to Sarina so much, it actively ruins bashir's character if i think about it for more than ten minutes it makes me so mad, it makes me so mad. fuck you charles xavier

So their being confined to psychiatric prison, which is basically their reality, is less a response to their specific symptomatic presentation and environmental needs, and more a flat standard applied to all genetically engineered people (a manufactured disabled class, according to social models of disability), based on culturally entrenched systemic ableism, with its roots directly in the Eugenics War.

It's an extremely complex discourse lol, but an unfortunate reality we live in is that a lot of liberals and leftists, such as the creatives behind Deep Space Nine, do not learn disabled history or politics. There's a whole incredibly vast and rich world that one seems only able to access when actually listening to disabled people, but unfortunately many of our cultural norms in progressive spaces provide a window into being "for us," or "about us," without us. One can advocate enough to pass a liberal sniff test, without ever really engaging with the vast complexity and history of these subjects.

So one of the things I like about Star Trek: Deep Space Nine, which I think is somewhat underappreciated in the audience because it clashes hard with the utopic vision of the future, is that the Federation is in many ways still systemically and culturally ableist.

I think this is explored best in S02E06's "Melora," obviously.

This episode starts off with Dax being shocked that the replicator contained a schematic for a wheelchair, because no one has needed one in three hundred years. Bashir answers that no no no lol, Federation replicators in fact cannot make wheelchairs based on their built-in libraries, and that the wheelchair is a schematic that their incoming wheelchair user coworker sent over to have replicated for her on arrival.

The rest of the episode explores how this utopic vision of the future that the difficult-to-accommodate disabled are not a part of has absolutely de-normalized the cultural concepts and accommodations surrounding some disabilities, thus creating complex and seemingly anachronistic institutionalist-era realities in the space future.

This is, to me, deeply interesting because it highlights a very real conversation around pursuing cures against pursuing accommodation.

It's basically acknowledging the threat of the Gattica style shit currently engaged in by dudes like Elon Musk and these freaks

(for those who don't recognize them, these are weird pro-natalist yuppies who claim they've done shit like genetically engineer their kids for high IQs, a scentifically impossible thing. they are, unsurprisingly, very racist but in a SoCal-Berkeley way.)

becoming so normalized in society that we effectively engineer out the majority of "defects." Everybody starts off with a happy healthy life as defined not through accommodation and infinite diversity in infinite combinations, but through the elimination of variation that would necessitate different cultural practices, different architecture, different understandings of life worthy of life, blah blah blah.

It's not "in the brilliant shining future nobody has to be disabled," it's "in the brilliant shining future the disabled aren't allowed to exist, and we don't have to think about them" lol.

But! Geordi LaForge!

Well, Geordi is born blind in a context where blindness can be perfectly accommodated, debatably even cured, via his wundervisor and / or surgically implanted eyes. In fact, in the movies, which do not exist sorry, Geordi gets them eyes stuck in and in so doing even loses the cultural signifier of his blindness, as well as situational considerations of blindness.

Further, Geordi is in this unfortunate weird space a lot of disabled characters in science fiction are, where his prosthesis is considered cool enough that it passes some kind of ableist vibe check wherein the character is no longer necessarily received as "disabled" by the audience. It's a cool cyberpunk thing, and thus loses its audience association with disability in many ways, ala Adam Jensen's sword arms or the unexplored nature of voluntarily cutting off one's limbs to replace them with robot parts in Cyberpunk 2077.

Geordi "can do things," he just "has to do things a little differently." The "a little differently" here is defined as "wearing a thing on his face" and not a different process or method. We never see how Geordi lays out his quarters or prepares his uniform, tools, whatever in a way that makes it all more accessible for him; he readily assume the first thing he does in the morning is plug his visor in. Glasses.

It's a fun cosplay idea in a way a wheelchair isn't.

The thing is, when Geordi is without his visor, he's fucked.

I don't just mean the episode where he's trapped in a island with a Cardassian or whatever, I mean on the fucking Enterprise. Say they're in a crisis, he falls over, wangs his noggin on a console and breaks his visor. Look at the open layouts with no handrails leading anywhere, no braille or layout signage posted, nothin'.

How the fuck is he going to find his way to the turbolift?

These are not accessible environments for a blind bloke. These are accessible environments for a sighted bloke wearing glasses.

The thing to consider as well is, we know Geordi's blindness is absolute. Blindness in real life is pretty diverse, actually, and many blind people do have some vision. Not Geordi. So, all the lights that communicate where to go in a crisis mean fuck all to him.

And, considering how often the Enterprise is in crisis, crew members are cut off from each other or the ship, the practical realities Geordi has to deal with on away missions that are simply never accommodated - it becomes apparent that Geordi is considered effectively the same as any sighted crew member.

His disability accommodation is individual and his responsibility. Nothing is provided by Starfleet except, perhaps, new visors and free visits to Beverly.

The same criticism exists for my man Hemmer,

who is played by blind actor Bruce Horak, yes, but who exists in a similar state to Geordi. I doubt they considered Mr. Horak a consultant on blindness and how a blind crew member would work in their series, because again, his blindness is accommodated for by magical future thing that doesn't fucking exist. In this case, psychic senses or something (idk I've never watched nuTrek sober).

If you look at the environments he's in, or the situations he deals with on away missions, sans those Daredevilian supersenses he'd be shit out of luck.

They're so adverse to giving blind characters so much as a cane.

I'm not saying the inclusion of blind characters is bad or that we should not engage in these fantasies of disabled characters being able to live and work equally to able-bodied characters without the need for accommodation, necessarily. I'm certainly not saying every blind character should have a sighted support following them around or a dog or whatever. My criticism is not of the blind characters' individual accommodations not being up to my arbitrary standard as a sighted viewer lol.

What I am instead attempting to hightlight here is that the shows seem adverse to engaging in disabled / accommodative environmental design or in the more complex, social realities of disability, and that's something that the episode "Melora," the wheelchair user episode this post is about lol, addresses in depth.

Julian is a future space doctor who doesn't know how to comfortably talk to someone in a chair. That only happens in a universe where doctors don't encounter wheelchairs in their professional lives. That's a reality brought about specifically by the comfortable eugenicist realities of the future, where although due to a war the Federation draws the line at "enhanced" individuals, it obviously voluntarily engages in liberal eugenics to the effect of eliminating disabled life in many meaningful forms. Its society, where doctors seem to need an aide like this to do their jobs properly:

And idk! I think that's neat. I think that's a powerful flaw in the utopic vision of the future that Roddenberry and the others probably didn't intend originally, and that DS9, commendably, attempts to explore.

Especially because Julian was a lil autistic boy who was forcibly cured through similar treatment, and correctly identifies that this means the him who existed before was drastically altered for his parents' fear of actually accommodating him.

anyway this post was brought out of me by some dickhead saying Melora "breaks the setting" for them lol. bro they fought a eugenics war, they definitely didn't come out of that culturally unchanged. you're just scared of wheelchairs. fuck u

[bougiebutchbinch]

Intersectionality, disability, and being 'one of the good ones'

I am 'one of the good ones'.

I have been told this, verbatim, by various healthcare professionals.

This is because I have a severe manifestation of my disease - worse than 90% of what my specialist sees - but to their eyes, unlike most in the same bracket, I am driven to maintain as much mobility as possible.

I do the work I need to in order to remain able to work, even at a greatly reduced capacity (even if this constant effort towards condition management means making lots of sacrifices in my social and personal life). This makes me a 'good disabled person'.

This entire concept is fascinating to me - not least for the conflation of 'good' and 'has worth within a capitalist society'. It's also hugely damaging to other disabled people.

First off: I'm privileged in that one of my diseases at least, CAN have symptoms mitigated by medication, (ridiculous amounts of) physio, and surgery, even if it is still degenerative and the overall problem remains. A lot of folks have diseases that, whether due to the intractable processes involved, or medical neglect and lack of research, have no treatment whatsoever.

I'm privileged because I genuinely love my job. There are problems, don't get me wrong, but it's on its way to being a decent-paying, well-respected career that I can do from a wheelchair. People who work my job are typically treated well by society. There are strong protections in place to defend my rights as a disabled person, and though managers absolutely try to cut corners, those legal protections are still there. I find fulfilment in this work, to the point I would still do it in a perfect post-capitalist society without monetary gain. Although many people are ableist to me on a day-to-day basis, on the whole, people in this sector are somewhat educated about patient rights and disability advocation.

Why would I have any motivation to maintain my ability to work, if I was paid a poverty wage and treated like dirt for what I did for a living, on top of facing structural and interpersonal ableism?

I'm privileged because I have a loving family who help me with ADLs. While we still have our issues, they never make me feel 'lesser' for being disabled. While we used to be working class, we got very lucky and now live a comfortable middle class life, which means I have a stable home in a country with universal healthcare, that I am not in immediate danger of losing. We live together, so I receive care from them, and we get along excellently. They support me, and help me to achieve my goals.

How could I do the ridiculous amounts of extra physio and symptom management work I need to do if I didn't have people who were happy to help me cook, clean, and care for myself? How could I keep track of my medication and doctors appointments if I didn't have people who understand my memory problems and help me? How could I have the energy to work on controlling my condition - as much as it can be controlled - if I was constantly worrying about making rent or where my next meal was going to come from?

And finally, my mental health is in a genuinely good place! I do suffer from some long-term mental health problems, but they're managed and treatable, and I haven't had a severe episode in years.

How could I focus on looking after my body if my mind was constantly under attack from itself?

It's like... yeah, I've worked extremely hard to get where I am, and achieved rare results. I'm glad that's acknowledged by my healthcare team. But every day I am reminded that I would never have made it this far, had circumstances been different. That people across the world put in the exact same effort as me, and receive none of the results or the praise.

Caling me 'one of the good ones' isn't a compliment. It's a backhanded put-down to other, more vulnerable members of the disabled community. I think those of us who are classed as 'The Virtuous And Hardworking Disabled' do need to be conscientious of this. We should challenge this attitude where we can, even if we have diseases or manifestations that may be classed as 'more severe' than others.

[god-offical]

I see a lot of people throw around the term fascist on this website, but I’ve never seen a definition for it, so I’m going to provide one.

The definition of fascism, if you look it up in a dictionary, should sound something like this:

a populist political philosophy, movement, or regime that exalts nation and race above the individual, that is associated with an autocratic government

Source: Merriam-Webster

This definition of fascism notably includes both Nazism and Classical Fascism (Italian Fascism) but leaves out other Fascist movements, namely Brazilian Integralism and Falangism.

So to really understand Fascism, you must first understand the “arms” of what makes up a fascist government or movement.

The arms that I was taught are as follows:

1. Corporatism - the belief that class conflict is unnecessary and the various social classes must cooperate and do their job. Please note that it is used in other contexts, and Fascism usually adds on the caveat that the classes cooperate with the good of the state

2. Militarism - Fascist movement traditionally merge state & military, which goes with corporatism to militarize society into strict and rigid social hierarchies. This also has the added effect of making Fascist nations more belligerent but also more unstable, as a fascist military when overstepping its duties often contradicts official government policy (for an example, look up the Marco Polo bridge incident)

3. Hatred of intellectualism - fascist movements dislike intellectualism, as freedom of thought can contradict what they believe to be the one truth. This is an important time to tell you that Fascism is a reactionary movement. Fascists do not like change, and dream of an imagined past ideal society.

4. Violent rhetoric against communism - Fascist movements arose in Europe as a result of the ascendancy of the USSR. Many prominent fascists used the fear of communism to cement their power and initiate purges. Fascists dislike communism because communism advocates for abolition of class structure and social equality, neither of which fit with the nationalist & hierarchical view of Fascists.

5. Ultra-nationalism & supremacy of the state - these two go hand in hand, as Fascists believe their nation to be above all else, superior and unbeatable in every way to every other country in the world. The state is the supreme power in fascist nations, and compliance is not expected as much demanded from all citizens. This often ties into racist views of fascists, who believe their race, similar to their nation, to be superior to all else. It is important to note that some fascist movements were not as extreme in the race department, as Integralism advocated for people of all races co-existing, so long as they were subservient to the states will, and Falangism believed that all Hispanic peoples (Spaniards, non-Brazilian South Americans, Latinos, Mexicans, and Philipinos) were all part of the super race, and should interbreed to create superhumans.

6. One leader - fascist movements have one person who is viewed as supreme & infallible, who wields autocratic authority over every aspect of the state and is treated as though they are the nation in many cases.

7. Feeling of national humiliation - fascist movements often espouse that their country has been slighted or humiliated by their allies or rivals in the past, and that the only way to make up for this stain on national honor is to expel those who humiliated the country (often ethnic minorities) and create a homogeneous and pure society

8. Mass media & propaganda - Fascism uses false statements and misinformation as propaganda to cement their authority and make their influence complete.

So with all of that in mind here are some prominent fascist governments both in history and modern day:

1. Italian fascism, aka classical fascism was started by Benito Mussolini and was the offical ideology of Italy until the end of WWII. Corporatism was the biggest tenant of this branch, along with a strong feeling of national betrayal by the allies in WWI.

2. Nazism, a movement that existed after WWI was taken up by Austrian politician Adolf Hitler, who led Germany until his death in 1945. Nazism called for racial purity, and used anti-Semitic & slavophobic rhetoric, all of which eventually led to the invasion of Poland (a Slavic country with a large Jewish population) and the start of WWII

3. Francoism / Falangism were competing Spanish ultranationalist ideologies following the conclusion of the Spanish civil war. Dictators Franz Franco won out and his ideology would rule Spain until the 1970s. The linguistic discrimination used by Francoism laid the groundwork for the modern Catalan & Basque independence movements

4. The Japanese military ruled Japan in a military dictatorship during WWII, and used fascist rhetoric and tactics, coupled with Japanese society being already arranged in a way to facilitate this, and supreme loyalty to the Emperor. The movement died out after WWII and the US occupation of Japan, as the Japanese military was formally disbanded and downsized immensely

5. Yes by my definition, Trumpism is a fascist movement. Please note that Trump is not a Nazi, he is a fascist and more specifically a Trumpist.

6. There were many smaller and less significant fascist countries during WWII and after, but I don’t know enough about none of them to say definitively if they were / are

[bogleech]

In your general appreciation of nature, I am curious about your take on this - do you believe nature has reached "peak complexity"?

There was a time without flying animals. There was a time without land animals. There was a time without vertebrates, without segmented exoskeletons, without fur, without feathers, without complex social structures, without eyes. There was a time without plants, or any kind of photosythesis. There was a time without multicellular life.

But at this point, do you feel nature on planet Earth has evolved all "milestones" there are (and from now on, all additional complexity will have come from civilization, one way or another)?

I mean in terms of potential, assuming for a moment "nature" of some kind still exist during the next billion years or so.

Yes or No would be enough (lol), but of course spec evo ideas would be even cooler!

Nah I think there's absolutely infinite things nature could evolve some day that we can't even imagine. You really never know. Like it's 100% biochemically possible for something to "breathe fire;" there just has to be a sequence of mutations and the right competition to gradually make it happen, possibly starting with something that sprays boiling hot compounds like a bombardier beetle. I could also imagine a whole class of animals evolving like the modular people from All Tomorrows, because we already have Siphonophores. It's just a matter of something evolving to be a colony that can also come apart and keep functioning. I'm also obviously obsessed with the concept of a creature that weaponizes its own little symbiotic bugs, since I've used that a million times. Like maybe millions of years from now, a descendant of sloths will have upgraded from being full of moths to being full of tiny wasps? And then what if that's so effective they actually start diversifying like crazy and there's a whole era dominated by mammaloid wasp nest beasts ranging from grazers merely cleaned and guarded by their insects to predators who hunt with their assistance. Plant/animal physical symbiosis is also another thing that's not really taken off outside a few insects. Why shouldn't a plant some day decide it likes growing on some kind of animal's body? It's not a plant, but lichens grow on a species of weevil. It's so rare there aren't even photos, but I swear I saw video of one on BBC when I was a kid:

What if a moss adapts just to the shell of some big reptile and eventually the reptile starts to derive sustenance from it too?? Over time what if this evolves into basically real life Bulbasaurs, where the animal part can be sustained off sunlight? It'd just have to slow its animal metablism way, waaay down to meet the plant halfway. Maybe it hibernates for years and years at a time or spends decades developing like a cicada and then it emerges in pure mating mode, using up all the food it conserved as its flower finally blooms. I know most of my examples are now elaborations on something that's kind of almost already begun happening somewhere but you get the idea. Furthermore you never know if all life as we know it will die out one day while there's still a couple billion years left of the planet's physical existence. Then a whole new line of life could evolve that we can't conceive of at all, from the ground up. Like crystalline mineral trees that start talking to each other with laser light. Or maybe only bacteria are left but for some reason bacteria develop what they need to start sticking together and building a new kind of multicellular organism. What the heck would an equivalent to "animals" look like if the ancestor was a bacterium????? Holy fuck I'm mad I won't see it. Fuming and seething actually. This is the worst thing ever. Why am I doomed to die on regular animal planet with google bots and disney remakes. I wanna see salmonella animal planet. It's not fair.

[scripts4dreamers]

Crossed Wires

AN: I have been infected with Loves Garrus Vakarian. There is no cure. Have some "interspecies relationships are actually kind of difficult, but not if you're hot" as a treat. Warnings: Mentions of sex, suggestive language, not suitable for underage readers. Spoilers: None

Despite his extensive research, Garrus still felt totally out of his depth with human culture sometimes. Alright, a lot of his research had been focussed on the logistics of human sex rather than culture and, alright maybe he’d spent more time on courting rituals than social structure or history but, still, he was shocked by how little he understood about humans in general. Shepard was the exception. She had always made perfect sense to him. He could tell how she’d slept by the tightness around her eyes. He could predict her movements on the battlefield without conscious thought. He knew what made her laugh, what made her smile, he knew how to touch her in just the right way, so her eyes rolled back in her head and-

Well, suffice it to say she wasn’t the problem. Kaidan Alenko was the problem or, more accurately, the things Garrus didn’t know about Kaidan Alenko were the problem.

It had started innocuously. Kaidan had rejoined the crew of the Normandy and Garrus had celebrated the gang getting back together. There was some tension between him and Shepard, but that was to be expected. They had a history of some sort, after all, and they hadn’t left things on the best terms on Horizon but, to Garrus, that was ancient history. He’d missed Kaidan and having him back made Garrus feel better about their chances.

It also apparently made the female members of the crew feel…things. First, Garrus had heard the girls who manned the scanner swooning over Kaidan’s eyes. Next, a navigator and a one of the store officers had snuck down near the battery to have a lengthy conversation about Major Alenko’s biceps and ass. Three days after that a group of intelligence officers in the lounge spent their lunch break discussing the naughty dreams they had had about Kaidan. And on and on and on and on it went. Everywhere Garrus turned there seemed to be some crewman absolutely frothing at the mouth over Kaidan Alenko. Which was fine. Or, rather, it would have been fine if Garrus had had even the slightest inkling that Kaidan was attractive by human standards.

He knew Shepard was attractive - spirits, he knew - but that was Shepard. What he felt for her was so much more than plain lust, his magnetic fucking inevitable attraction to her was an attraction to her, not human women in general. He loved the taste of her skin, loved the way her hair caught the light, the way her hands looked when they gripped a gun. Other humans were, well, just humans. Garrus had never felt the need to look at them for particularly long. He had always assumed that this meant Shepard was simply the most attractive human currently alive, an opinion he felt very confident in having, but that made the revelation about Kaidan feel even stranger. He had thought he understood humans. Finding out that he didn’t made him feel like he was flying blind and he hated flying blind.

When the gossipers finished their dissection of Kaidan’s apparently godlike features, conversation inevitably turned to him and Shepard, to their relationship, to rumors about their history, to raunchy comments about their babies and their chemistry and a million other things Garrus wished he had never overheard. Their tone would take on this conspiratorial note as they built a version of Kaidan and Shepard in their heads that had never really existed. At that point someone would usually bring up Garrus, and whoever they were talking to would inevitably start wondering about how he and Shepard had sex. They were never cruel about Garrus. Often one of the gossipers would chime in that they understood the appeal, but there was always the underlying question of how. How do they do it? How do they kiss? How do they, how do they, how do they? The message was clear; Kaidan and Shepard made sense. They were the fantasy, the power couple, the human ideal. Garrus and Shepard were an oddity, a curiosity, something almost beyond comprehension.

“How do they fit?” The people seemed to ask.

How indeed, Garrus’ worst thoughts answered.

He wasn’t stupid. He knew what he had with Shepard was special, even if it was still somewhat undefined. He knew she could have anyone she damn well pleased and still she came to him. He knew Kaidan would shoot himself in both feet before ever purposely getting in the way of his two friends’ happiness. He knew the gossip was just that, gossip. It was normal on a ship. It was normal on Palaven, at C-Sec, in every organized institution in the galaxy, but his discomfort wasn’t about that, it was about the fact that he didn’t know. Even more upsettingly, he didn’t know what was acceptable to ask and what wasn’t.

If Shepard was Turian, none of this would be happening. He would know not to ask about Kaidan. Asking a Turian woman about their previous lovers would be seen as challenging her integrity and self worth. It was assumed that if a woman had chosen to be with you it was because she saw you as worthy of her and, more distinctly, more worthy of her than any previous matches had been. Turian women were not prone to “dating down”. Having been around human women, he knew that particular bit of dating culture was not completely transferable.

As he watched Shepard going through the motions of taking care of her hair - something he found inexplicably fascinating - Garrus was forced to acknowledge that part of his discomfort came from him not being a particularly good Turian. By all rights he shouldn’t be letting other people’s opinions of a relationship he wasn’t even sure had happened between two of his closest friends three years ago throw him like this, especially not when the nature of his relationship with Shepard was still so up in the air. It diminished them both. It was juvenile and unproductive and embarrassing and-

“I can hear you spiraling, Garrus,” Shepard interrupted teasingly, catching his eye in her mirror and turning to face him, “credit for your thoughts?”

It never ceased to amaze Garrus how just a few words from her could soothe even his most restless impulses. It was rare that they had the luxury of a full night together, even rarer that they had time to waste the following morning. Most of their relationship (?)/entanglement was spent in stolen moments in between complete chaos. They shot one another knowing glances while defusing bombs, and traded suggestive comments over the cacophony of gunfire. Occasionally she would fall asleep on his shoulder on the shuttle ride back from missions. Sometimes he would hold her hand underneath the table as the team strategized. They weren’t hiding anything, exactly, but there was a time and place. So many crew members had been separated from the people that they lo-cared for-by the war that flaunting that he and Shepard could be by one anothers’ side felt selfish, so they kept it discreet. Or, rather, they tried their best to keep it discreet, until one of their inhibitions snapped and they tumbled into Shepard’s bed with very little care for who saw them coming or going. Life was short, they would remind each other, especially now.

He suddenly felt foolish for stewing in his discomfort. He pushed himself upright and gestured for Shepard to join him on her bed, which she did, resting her back against his carapace and sighing as he wrapped his arms around her waist and buried his face in her neck. She smelled like lemongrass, the herbal tea she liked to drink first thing in the mornings, and him. It was subtle but completely unmistakable and he couldn’t help but wonder if she even knew. He knew no human nose would be able to pick it up, but Victus would. Wrex would. Javik would. Surely someone would have pointed out to her the way they lingered on one another’s skin, the invisible olfactory ties that bound them to one another. Or was that his job? Would she mind? It was a little bit thrilling for Garrus to walk around the citadel knowing that every Turian and Krogan he passed knew he was taken by Shepard. Seeing the momentary look of confusion, followed by the flash of realisation filled him with pride, but maybe it wouldn’t be the same for his commander. Humans didn’t really know about the intricacies of scenting, did they?

“Garrus,” she pressed, reaching a hand behind her and running her fingers down the back of his neck in the way that made him shiver, “you still with me?”

He nodded, pressing a kiss to the soft skin beneath her ear before admitting, “Sorry, Shepard. I’m being an idiot, that’s all.”

“So, business as usual then?” She joked, turning slightly so he could see her fond smile, “Come on, don’t leave me out of the fun. What’s up?” She shuffled around so she was facing him properly, hooking her legs over his thighs and giving him an expectant look.

He sighed, “I-it really is stupid.”

“Good thing stupid is a specialty of mine.”

“It’s about Kaidan.” he specified slowly, watching her face for any signs that he may have crossed a line.

If she had a reaction, he didn’t see it, “Yeah? Is everything alright?”

“Oh yeah, everything’s fine,” he assured her, “I love Kaidan. It’s just-” he paused, weighing up his words before settling on, “did you know he was attractive? Back when all this started, on the Normandy 1, when you guys had your-” he gestured vaguely, “whatever you had, did you know?”

Shepard looked briefly stunned, before she broke into peals of laughter. It wasn’t a mocking sound, she seemed genuinely delighted by the question, and Garrus felt some of the tension in his body start to leech away. She rested her head against his chest as she laughed and he could feel the sound vibrating through his plates, filling him with a sense of belonging.

“Of course I knew,” she eventually said, when she had finished laughing, “I have eyes, don’t I?”

“See, but I didn’t know!” He countered, “I have eyes.”

“Yes, but you have Turian eyes,” she pointed out, running her hands along his upper arms comfortingly, “you didn’t know I was attractive for most of the time we knew each other and, even after you’d figured it out you weren’t really sure why. Honestly, I would be a little offended if you’d noticed Kaidan’s looks before you noticed mine.”

“I knew you were attractive,” he argued weakly.

She raised her eyebrows, “Garrus, you said my waist looked supportive.”

“It does look supportive!”

“I know,” she laughed again, “but my point is, it’s not weird that you didn’t immediately know that Kaidan was hot. Humans are different from Turians, we see different things when we look at one another.”

“That’s my point,” Garrus continued, “I feel stupid for not knowing. I thought I understood this whole Human-Turian interspecies thing, but now all of a sudden Kaidan Alenko is the most attractive man anyone’s ever seen and it’s like I’m back at zero.”

The look Shepard gave him was painfully knowing and Garrus was faced, once again, with how well she understood him, how effortlessly she had always been able to cut through his crap and get straight to the heart of how he was feeling. It made him feel vulnerable and exposed, but in a good way, in a way he had never thought to experience before they met.

“Are you…” she started, taking a breath to consider her words before continuing, “Garrus, are you feeling insecure?”

If he could have blushed, he would have.

“I-maybe.” He admitted, “I don’t know. I just-if you were Turian, I would know where we stood. There are rules to these things, you know? There are things you do and things you don’t do, things both people know without needing to say it. It’s simple.”

“And we’re not simple.” she finished, sounding just the slightest bit sad.

“No, no that’s not what I meant,” he quickly replied, giving her waist a gentle squeeze, “I’m sorry, that came out wrong.”

“I can’t help that I’m not Turian, Garrus,” she said, definitely sad now.

“Shep-” he started, wishing he had his sister’s gift for always saying the right thing, “What I’m trying to get at is that I thought I knew the rules, but learning that I missed something as simple as Kaidan being attractive…” he sighed, “it makes me worry that there are other things I’ve missed. That’s all.”

She thought for a moment, “Things about me and Kaidan, or things about humans in general?”

“Both,” he replied, relieved that he seemed to have redeemed himself from the Turian comment, “things about us, mostly.”

“Alright,” she said, giving him a smile, “then ask.”

He grumbled something unintelligible and pulled her close, burying his head in her neck again and breathing in her comforting smell.

“I don’t know what I’m allowed to ask,” he admitted, “the rules-”

“Since when does the Garrus Vakarian care about following rules?” Shepard replied, gently detangling their bodies and forcing him to meet her eyes.

“I want to do this right, Shepard.” he said, his voice small and vulnerable, “Some things are too important to mess around with. You are one of those things.”

Shepard’s face softened and she reached up to cup his mandible, ghosting her thumb across the mangled scar that covered so much of the right side of his face. He nuzzled her hand, sighing with pleasure at the familiar touch. He was surprised by how frayed he felt. It seemed that the war was taking its toll.

“Okay, how about this,” Shepard started, “no rules. We get to ask whatever we want, whenever we want to. Nothing’s off limits, that sound good?”

He nodded, “Sounds good, commander.”

She rolled her eyes fondly, “So, what do you want to know, soldier?”

His heart fluttered in his chest, but he tried not to let it show, “You and Kaidan. We’ve never really talked about what happened there.”

“Nothing really happened,” She shrugged, trying to look nonchalant but failing to completely cover up the brief flash of hurt the admission brought on, “there was a second where it seemed like something might happen, but then the second passed. He was-he is someone who I care a lot about and whose opinion matters to me, maybe more than it should, but in terms of having any sort of relationship, no it never happened.”

“Alright,” Garrus replied, “and you’re totally sure he was attractive the whole time?”

Shepard laughed, “Yes, Garrus. He’s no you, but Kaidan was indeed attractive the whole time.”

“Ohhh, so I’m more attractive than Kaidan, that’s good to know,” he teased.

“Damn right you are,” she teased back.

He chuckled and the tension shattered, leaving only comfortable closeness in its wake. It was embarrassing to admit that he was a little relieved to hear that the rumors about Kaidan and Shepard were overblown. He had never claimed to be a mature, well adjusted adult. When it came to Shepard he was greedy. He was selfish. He wanted all of her. He wanted to be the only man she was thinking about, the only one who got to touch her, kiss her, hold her. He wanted to know that she yearned for him like he yearned for her. He wanted to be completely owned, and to own completely, not that he would ever admit that. He was at least smart enough to know that telling the woman he was sleeping with that she had completely ruined him for other women, that he thought he was probably going to spend the rest of his life following her into hell and that he was hers for as long as she would have him would probably scare her off. There would be time for that, he promised himself. Years and years and years worth. They just had to make it through this war first.

“Do you ever actually wish I was Turian?” Shepard asked, avoiding meeting his gaze in favor of watching her own hands as they traced the plating of his collar bone.

Garrus felt a flicker of protectiveness in his chest, and a wash of guilt. She always seemed to be secure, so infalible, so completely sure of herself that it had honestly never occurred to him that she might have worries of her own.

“Shepard-”

“I can’t eat your food. If our translators broke I would be physically incapable of ever speaking your language. I have to take antihistamines whenever we make out. I am literally the physical opposite of everything you should find attractive. I-”

“That particular knife cuts both ways, Shepard,” he pointed out gently, covering her hand with his.

She gave him a rueful smile, “Yes, but I know how I feel, Garrus. You’re the unknown quantity here.”

That almost made him laugh. He would have laughed, actually, if it wasn’t so obvious that she was serious. His commander. His commander. How could she ever-? Wasn’t it clear? Garrus Vakarian was built for devotion and somewhere along the way he had decided that she was who he was devoted to. Everyone in the galaxy knew that. Apparently, everyone but Shepard herself.

He took her hands in his, bringing them up to his mouth plate and pressing kisses to the tips of each of her fingers. This kind of tenderness was still new to him. Before Shepard his love life had been mostly casual, usually short lived and always brutal. He and his partners would tear at one another. Every kiss and touch was a battle for territory. They had sex like they were chasing one another’s attrition.

With Shepard…

“When you died,” he started, forcing down the rush of grief that remembering that time always brought up, “I tried to move on, like everyone else did. I went back to C-Sec, I started up the job again, I did the grief counseling, I called my family twice a week.” he shook his head, “None of it worked. It felt like I was sleepwalking, just going through the motions, day by day, waiting for you to walk through the door and tell me it was all some kind of big joke.”

“Garrus-”

“I lost everything when I lost you,” he continued, his voice shaking, “everything and, when you found me on Omega, I swore to myself that I would never let you slip through my fingers again. So, no, I don’t ever really wish you were Turian, Shepard. I don’t care that you have a larynx instead of a syrinx, or that we can’t share food. I wouldn’t care if you got transformed into a Hanar. So long as you’re still breathing, so long as I still get to live in a galaxy with you in it, I’m happy.”

“Even if-”

“Even then,” he interrupted.

She scoffed and gave him an incredulous, if slightly pleased, look, “You didn’t hear what I was going to say.”

“It doesn’t matter. Do you ever wish I was human?”

She shook her head, “Never.”

“Then that’s what matters.” he assured her, pulling her up onto his lap so she was straddling him, “Well, that and you finding me more attractive than Kaidan, of course.”

She chuckled and leaned forward, wrapping her arms around his neck and pressing her lips to his. Shepard kissed him like she always did; slowly, with unhurried focus, like she was savoring every second of contact, like they had all the time in the universe and there was nothing else she would ever want to do.

It drove him mad.

Months ago, when he’d first kissed her, he couldn’t stand it. Kissing had always been secondary at best to Garrus, something that previewed the main attraction but could easily be skipped if one was short on time. It felt cruel, torturous, arrogant even, to move so slowly when every nerve in his body was urging him forward. He chased brutality. He chased force. He wanted passion that burned like a bushfire. He wanted heat and pain. He wanted a moment of connection, a peak of white hot desire followed immediately by that release of tension. Like with everything else in his life, Shepard had changed that. Being with her meant that desire never really burned out. It was always simmering just beneath the surface, ready to be stoked into a blaze at the slightest touch. She moved like magma. She never followed the path of least resistance but still destroyed everything in her wake. She was intentional about every touch, every sigh, every roll of her body against his. She forced him to be present, to be with her in the moment, to feel everything with a bright new intensity. It was agony, but it was the sweetest agony he had ever experienced.

Now he took every chance he could to kiss her and, as he felt the familiar scrape of her nails against his neck sending shocks of pleasure through his chest and directly into his lower stomach, he couldn’t help but reflect on how goddamn lucky he was. He was a screw up, a failed C-Sec agent, a failed vigilante with a fucked up face, but he had this woman, this incomparable woman, so who the fuck cared?

“You smell like me,” he said breathlessly as he broke the kiss and moved his mouth down the column of her throat.

He let his fangs scrape against her jugular just enough to make her groan and roll her hips against him and he felt himself hardening beneath his plates.

“What?” she asked with a shaky, strung out laugh.

“You. Smell. Like. Me.” he repeated, punctuating each word with a kiss placed along her collarbone, “Pheromone transfer. It’s all over you. I thought you should know.” He bit down on the skin of her shoulder, holding her still as he bucked his hips up into her and sighed at the delicious friction.

She moaned something that was half ‘god’ and half ‘Garrus’ as he dragged the thin strap of her tank top off her shoulder with his teeth. Spirits, he was grateful for how much she loved his teeth.

“O-okay,” she replied between whimpers, “does-is that a bad thing?”

He shook his head, sliding his hands beneath her shirt and pressing the curve of his talons into the soft skin beside her hip bones.

“I love it,” he admitted, “it drives me crazy. It does mean every person with an even half decent sense of smell knows we’re fucking though.”

She laughed, rolling her hips into his again, “Do you smell like me?”

He growled against her throat, “Oh yeah. That makes me crazy too.”

“So, everytime we go to Tuchanka, or pass some Turian C-Sec officer-” she replied breathlessly.

“Mmhmm,” he agreed.

“And the primarch?”

“Definitely,” he groaned.

Garrus felt the exact moment that her resolve shattered. She grabbed his face with a whimper, pulling him up and kissing him hard. She was still intentional, still magnetic and inevitable but now he could taste her need, could feel her body screaming for him, finally reaching the end of her enviable patience.

Spirits, he loved when she was like this.

He loved her when she was like this.

He loved-

“Commander, Admiral Hackett is on the comm system for you.”

He was going to smash that damn AI.

[alexanderwales]

In the horrible AI future, they have all your data, and someone decided "hey, we can use this data to make predictions, no, declarations! why do we have this thing called marriage that can mean so many things, why is there this bright line that two people must decide upon that works differently for different people?"

The AI was supposed to be better than humans at knowing what labels to put on things. That was how it had started, after all, distinguishing cats from dogs. But there were some things that just didn't have natural labels, that weren't like looking at an X-ray and saying whether or not a mass was cancer. Some things were more nebulous, like whether a piece of music belonged to a specific subgenre.

Turns out, people found this socially useful, to be able to tell whether someone was a friend or just an acquaintance, or maybe, as with a lot of AI, it was just faster and cheaper, readily accessible, if not actually better in any way. It was pretty accurate though.

And once the AI was doing everything, why did you need strict binary labels? Why not just make it a spectrum, which represented reality better? Why not do some factor analysis on friendships and break them up into different categories, which got even closer to reality? If the AI was doing everything, harvesting your omnidata, why not get some numbers out of it?

So Jessica from work was a 6.3 friend, but most of that was in the factor labeled "propinquity", which meant that probably you were only friends because you spent a lot of time at work together.

Robert was a 7.2 friend you didn't see too much, but he was high on the factor they called "effort", someone who was probably friends with you because they were putting effort into being friends with you, for whatever reason. Sometimes that was good, sometimes it was bad, but Robert was just like that, a guy who put a lot of effort into being friends with a lot of people.

There was a factor they kept renaming, either "romance" or "attraction" or something, but mostly called "fuck factor" or "fack factor" to dodge the censor penalties. It was just about whether one of you wanted to fuck the other. Lots of fights happened because of that one.

Everything started shifting from concrete labels to sliding numeric scales, and at some point, marriage stopped being a thing, there were just benefits to being in a long-term committed relationship, because the government had decided that was a good thing in general. And of course, the AI was the one deciding on your numeric score, so you could look up "how married" you were, and so the automatic tax and benefit adjustments could use that number.

Some people tracked the numbers closely, which was a problem. A man might ask his wife why their marriage score was down by 0.1, did something happen? And he'd try to use a neutral, curious tone, because an accusatory tone might make the score drop lower. Some people had marriages that were at least partly a performance for the AI, for the tax benefits, trying to get as high a score as possible to save a few thousand dollars. There were complaints about how the AI was determining things, but of course, it was all based on training, and you couldn't really say how the AI was making its decisions, you could only look at the AI's factor analysis and make some claims about what it thought was important and what wasn't.

People petitioned to change things, but we'd long since stopped voting on anything. Voting was another binary, and you could just have the AI make accurate guesses about probability mass of the whole population at any given time. Why hold a vote on election day when you could have a "vote" extracted from your omnidata every five minutes? Why have a set law when the law could respond to the will of the people, updated every week and implemented seamlessly?

And as the AI responded to the will of the people, the people also responded to the incentives structures of the AI, and society became liquid, a sloshing ocean where once there had been binaries and rules.

[the-cosmic-cauldron]

☻ 𝒫𝒾𝒸𝓀 𝒜 𝒫𝒾𝓁ℯ: 𝒲𝒽𝒶𝓉𝓈 ℋ𝒶𝓅𝓅ℯ𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒩ℯ𝓍𝓉 ℐ𝓃 𝒴ℴ𝓊𝓇 ℒ𝒾𝒻ℯ ☻

𝗣𝗶𝗹𝗲 𝟭

Coming up next in your life is a time full of action and determination. You have your eye on something, and you’re not letting up. This is going to be a busy period where you’re focused on taking the necessary steps to achieve your goals. You’ll find yourself preoccupied with many tasks, adopting a go-getter mindset fueled by tenacity and ambition. However, this drive could lead to a hectic and even chaotic time.

Because of your intense focus, interacting with others might lead to conflict. You won’t want anyone to interfere with your plans, and this might cause tension with people who aren’t on the same page as you. The biggest challenge will likely be dealing with those who want you to slow down, be more present, or spend more time with them. Your forward-thinking, goal-oriented mindset may make it hard for you to prioritize quality time with others.

There seems to be someone in your life—possibly someone with romantic feelings for you—who feels neglected because of your preoccupation. They want your attention, time, and emotional connection. While they’re initiating communication and quality time, you’re focused elsewhere, leading to a disconnect. This person might feel as though you’re not taking them seriously or envisioning a future together, which could create conflict.

Your actions during this time may come across as selfish—not in a malicious way, but because you’re prioritizing your goals over emotional connections. This might lead to neglecting the emotional needs of those around you, leaving them feeling excluded. The person who has feelings for you seems emotionally invested, but you may not be reciprocating their energy or interest, which could make it feel as though you’re leading them on.

This imbalance is likely to create tension and disagreements in your interpersonal relationships. Misaligned perceptions between you and this person could result in a breakdown of trust and further arguments. They might feel as though you’re putting them to the side while you, on the other hand, believe you’re simply pursuing your goals.

Ultimately, this situation will push you to re-evaluate your actions and take accountability. You’ll need to confront both the person involved and your own approach to achieving your ambitions. While your ambition is commendable, there seems to be a lack of balance and intentionality in your plans. You’re moving quickly but without the structure or clarity needed to sustain your efforts.

This period of your life will be supercharged with energy and focus, but it will also require you to reflect on how you manage your time, relationships, and goals. Finding a better balance between ambition and personal connections will be crucial to moving forward in a more responsible and fulfilling way.

𝑷𝒊𝒍𝒆 2

An action-packed time is coming ahead for you, filled with passionate and driven energy. You may feel a strong desire to pursue things that make you feel free, youthful, and playful. This period brings a vibrant, positive energy to your life, and you’ll find yourself radiating charm, charisma, and warmth. People are drawn to you, enjoying your uplifting presence and good vibes.

You seem to be socializing more, engaging with different groups, and having spontaneous, meaningful interactions. Your warmth and friendliness make you approachable, and you may find yourself easily starting conversations and brightening others’ days. This positive energy likely stems from a sense of clarity entering your life. Situations that once seemed confusing are becoming clearer, allowing you to release recent worries and move forward with more confidence and understanding.

During this time, you may not be following a strict plan or focusing on long-term goals. Instead, you’re grounded in the present, allowing yourself to go with the flow and enjoy the moment. You’re taking a more fluid approach to life, observing and absorbing rather than rushing toward specific objectives. Your focus is more short-term—day by day or week by week—rather than planning for months or years ahead.

Even though you may not be chasing long-term goals, when you do have something you want, you go after it with determination and energy. Your current mindset allows you to take action without overthinking or obsessing over the details. Once you gain clarity, you’re quick to seize opportunities and take decisive steps forward.

However, you may also experience moments of emotional imbalance. While you’re uplifting others and radiating positivity, you might feel that the love, care, and tenderness you give aren’t always reciprocated. This can lead to some frustration or feelings of emotional vulnerability. As this is still a transitional stage in your life, some fragility remains. There may be days when you feel aimless, emotionally unbalanced, or unsure about the next steps in your journey.

Despite these small hurdles, this period is marked by growth and progress. You’re learning important lessons, gaining wisdom, and achieving greater emotional clarity. Though some days might feel challenging, your overall trajectory is toward a brighter, more positive future. This time is engaging, playful, and full of self-discovery, ultimately helping you take meaningful actions that align with the truths you uncover along the way.

𝑷𝒊𝒍𝒆 3

For this group, I see an opportunity on the horizon for you to restart and refresh a connection in your life. This could involve deepening an existing relationship or meeting someone new who brings warmth and fresh emotions into your life. Whether it’s a romantic interest, a crush, or even a meaningful friendship, you seem to be opening yourself up to more emotional and receptive connections in the near future. However, there is also an undercurrent of toxic energy that could complicate things.

This toxicity may stem from unresolved personal issues—either yours or theirs. For some, this new connection may start out lighthearted but shift toward something less healthy, such as a dynamic focused more on physical intimacy than emotional bonding. While there’s potential for reciprocity and warmth in the relationship, lingering toxic patterns from the past could resurface, impacting the connection.

Your current life circumstances might play a significant role here. You may be facing financial struggles, such as recent losses, overspending, or challenges in rebuilding your stability. For instance, you could have experienced a divorce, holiday spending, or job loss that left you feeling unsteady. These material and emotional concerns might weigh heavily on your ability to fully invest in this new connection.

The person entering your life seems to be sincere, kind, and giving. However, if you’re still dealing with unresolved wounds, depression, dissatisfaction, or instability, it might be difficult to reciprocate their energy. You may not feel ready to commit emotionally or consistently invest in the connection, which could create barriers. For example, you may find it hard to communicate regularly, meet in person, or form a stable bond. This could lead to frustration and prevent the relationship from fully flourishing.

There is also an underlying theme of self-dissatisfaction during this period. You may be struggling with self-love, fulfillment, and a sense of control in your life. Although this person brings warmth and nourishment into your life, they can’t fill the void of what you may be lacking internally. This could lead to emotional blockages that prevent you from fully opening up to the connection.

Despite these challenges, the person coming into your life appears understanding and willing to accommodate your current limitations. They may offer practical help, such as being flexible with plans or supporting you financially or emotionally when needed. However, it’s important to avoid taking advantage of their generosity. Instead, focus on using this time to grow, heal, and regain your stability.

This connection has potential, but its success depends on your ability to address personal toxic patterns, heal from past wounds, and regain emotional and material balance. Once you feel more secure within yourself, the relationship could become more balanced and fulfilling. For now, take this as an opportunity to reflect, heal, and allow yourself to grow into a healthier version of yourself so that you can build stronger, more stable connections in the future.

𝑷𝒊𝒍𝒆 4

For those in this group, an exciting opportunity is on the horizon. This could involve collaborating with someone on a shared goal, whether it’s a current partner, a new connection, or a professional or educational opportunity. You might find yourself planning or working alongside someone to create something meaningful, and this collaboration could bring a fresh start and positive momentum into your life.

However, I sense that you’re still tied to the past in some way. There may be lingering sadness or emotional energy surrounding something that hurt or disappointed you. It seems you’ve been dwelling on this past situation, feeling defeated or stuck, unable to fully let go. This emotional attachment has likely left you in a reflective, melancholic state, as you’re grappling with unresolved feelings or unanswered questions.

It appears that something from the past deeply impacted you—whether it was a loss, a breach of boundaries, or an experience that left you feeling wronged and hopeless. This emotional weight has carried into your present and may be clouding your ability to move forward. You might find yourself replaying moments, trying to fix or make sense of them, but ultimately remaining stuck in the same mental and emotional cycle.

Despite these challenges, there’s a light at the end of the tunnel. An opportunity is approaching that will allow you to work with someone—whether it’s a person from your past or someone new—on a concrete goal. This collaboration could relate to your career, education, or even a shared project. If it’s someone from your past, it might be an opportunity to rebuild and strengthen that connection. If it’s a new person, they may offer support and help you solidify a goal you’ve been working toward. Either way, this opportunity is practical and tangible, and it holds the potential to bring you out of your current funk.

This new chapter will encourage you to release the burdens of the past. While the pain you’ve experienced may still linger, this collaboration or goal-oriented opportunity will give you a renewed sense of purpose. It could also serve as a reminder that brighter days are ahead and that you have the strength to rebuild. By engaging in this opportunity, you’ll begin to feel less stuck and stagnant and more motivated to move forward.

It’s clear that the past has weighed heavily on you, leaving you questioning whether good things are still possible. But the upcoming opportunities will help shift that perspective. You’ll start to see blessings and positive changes emerge, which will restore your hope and encourage you to believe in brighter possibilities. Though you’ve experienced a period of stagnation, grief, and heavy emotions, this is the time when things begin to turn around.

As you step into this new phase, you’ll find yourself letting go of what no longer serves you and embracing the potential for growth and healing. With the support and collaboration of others, you’ll rebuild and take meaningful steps toward your goals. This is a time of renewal, where the struggles of the past give way to hope, blessings, and the promise of a brighter future. Accept these blessings and allow yourself to move forward, leaving behind the dark times to embrace the opportunities and light ahead.

[stackslip]

i legit hate the proship/anti terms or the way people say Kids Are So Puritan These Days the names for this stuff it's very silly and obsfucates the real issue of how social media encourages hostile engagement and mutual surveillance for Engagement, and how many believe csa and rape are a result of Deviant Sexuality instead of power structures (and how that can be used to abuse young people and punish abuse survivors for not acting like perfect victims), and how many are trying to fully criminalize kinks and Deviant Sexuality and anybody who might be associated with them truthfully or not (especially trans women)

[quiinncherie]

My 2 cent thought because I just noticed Tecna’s robotic arm in the older poster about why I am against the Tecna is a “cyborg” concept:

Everyone is probably aware of all the ruckus caused by Al in the creative fields. And contrary to popular belief, they are not that smart. Al doesn’t have the ability to think or feel any emotion at all! They give excellent results from complicated mathematic equations but they do not have the ability to think like a human. There are structures, models aiming to replicate the human’s neural network, but at the end of the day, AI cannot think like a human’s brain. So I genuinely hate this concept that Tecna should be a cyborg. Yes, she is rigid and too logical sometimes, but all geniuses are a bit weird like that. Most super smart people have troubles with social norms and that’s ok. She doesn’t need to be a robot to have problems understanding her emotions. In fact, as shown in season 1 and 2, she has very strong feelings for fighting against evil like when she got mad at Timmy for not risking his life with the Trix. She acted out of emotions a lot especially in the first season: barging in doors, confronting the Trix head on, chasing down the professor that she suspected to be the bad guy, etc.

So no, I hate the concept of Tecna being a cyborg. If you want to say something along the line of what if replacing her limbs for advanced robotic parts to be more efficient would make sense for Zenith, well have you heard of prosthetic failures? Trying to force anything unnatural is always inconvenient and not worth it unless you have to. Even mundane things like beauty surgeries involving injecting things inside your body has side effects, sometimes horrible side effects that may threaten your wellbeing. And for Zenith to be so advanced in technology, I think they must have some line they don’t cross in terms of using tech in their lives.

Now of course, if it’s because she lost her limbs in battles and has to get a prosthetic then yeah, sure (emphasizing on the “has to” part). But if it’s just you guys failing for the propaganda that inanimated objects or Al can have feelings then no, thank you.

[lost-rxverie]

study tips: early signs of burnout

you're mid-way through the semester and everything is going great. you're keeping up with your classes, you're learning new things, you're happy and productive and motivated. and then, out of the blue, it all falls apart.

sound familiar? when you're busy, it's easy to ignore the gradual build-up of stress and exhaustion that leads to burnout. here are some ways i keep tabs on myself to recognize when i need a break – and do it BEFORE things get out of hand.

getting easily distracted

it's important to take breaks while you're studying, but i know i'm approaching my burnout threshold when i'm taking breaks by accident instead of purposefully setting aside time to give my brain a rest. these inadvertent breaks might look like scrolling on social media for 30 minutes when you only wanted to find that one video or watching a TV show you're not even enjoying just to procrastinate on an assignment. this might mean your body needs more down time than you're giving it, and that's a signal to adjust before things get worse.

not keeping up with self-care

this one's easiest in conjunction with my habit tracker, but you don't need anything quite so regimented to notice when some of your self-care habits are falling by the wayside. some weeks i'll find that while i'm doing fine staying on top of schoolwork, i'm having trouble finding the extra time to get enough sleep or practice piano or read for fun. this is fine in the short term, but it's an early warning sign that i'm not taking great care of myself.

that extra cup of coffee

i love an iced latte as much as the next studyblr blogger, but when i'm reaching for a cup of coffee every morning and some afternoons, i know it's a sign that my natural energy levels aren't keeping up with my workload. usually, some extra rest on the weekend helps me reset.

loss of structure and routine

do you ever get the feeling that every day is just blending into the next, with no clear sense of how fast time is passing? it's one of my least favorite feelings and also an indication that the routines that help differentiate my days aren't working for me. this usually means i need to ease up a bit and work on putting intention back into my day-to-day activities.

remember: your brain and body will tell you when you need to rest, and it's okay to take that break. the worst thing you can do for your productivity is force yourself to be productive 24/7.

what are some things you do to keep tabs on your stress levels?

[hayatheauthor]

can you write some tips on writing amnesia for a character? <3

Note: thank you for your ask! I'm sorry for replying so late I took a break from Tumblr for a bit.

In this guide, I'll be covering a balance of information on amnesia and how to write it. Some topics I mention are the types of amnesia, how they impact characterization, and how to write a believable portrayal of memory loss. I hope this blog is to your liking anon.

Understanding Amnesia: Types & Realism

Amnesia is not a one-size-fits-all condition. There are many different types of amnesia and each has unique effects on a person’s ability to recall past events or form new memories. You should research the type of amnesia you're going to use in-depth before incorporating it into your writing, but here's a quick breakdown of the types: 

Retrograde Amnesia – The inability to remember past events while still being able to form new memories. This is common after traumatic brain injuries.

Anterograde Amnesia – The inability to create new memories while retaining past ones. A well-known example is the film Memento, where the protagonist loses the ability to form new long-term memories.

Dissociative Amnesia – Memory loss resulting from psychological trauma rather than physical injury. In extreme cases, this can lead to fugue states, where a person travels or assumes a new identity with no memory of their past.

Selective Amnesia – The loss of specific memories, often linked to a traumatic event.

Transient Global Amnesia (TGA) – A rare, temporary condition where a person suddenly loses memory for a few hours or days before recovering.

Many fictional portrayals of amnesia tend to exaggerate its effects or resolve it in unrealistic ways. In real life, memory loss is rarely total, and individuals often retain habits, motor skills, and emotional reactions even if they don’t recall specific events.

Choosing the Right Type for Your Story

Amnesia can be used in various genres, from psychological thrillers to fantasy epics. It's often a plot device or opportunity for character development, so it's important you pick the right type of amnesia.

A thriller or mystery might use amnesia as a tool to conceal crucial information, allowing the protagonist to uncover the truth alongside the reader, in which case Selective Amnesia might be a good fit. A romance could explore the emotional toll of memory loss on relationships, where one partner remembers everything while the other has Retrograde Amnesia and forgets them.

If your story revolves around identity and self-discovery, dissociative amnesia or retrograde amnesia may serve the plot best. If you want to create suspense by limiting what the character can learn over time, anterograde amnesia can add significant tension.

Take some time to consider why your character needs to have amneisa, what you plan on achieving with it, and whether or not you want them to recall what they've forgotten. 

Characterization & Emotional Impact

Amnesia isn’t just about forgetting—it fundamentally changes how a character interacts with the world. A character suffering from memory loss might experience:

Fear and paranoia – Who can they trust if they don’t even trust their own mind?

Grief and loss – The realization that they’ve forgotten people or parts of themselves can be devastating.

Frustration and helplessness – Simple tasks may feel overwhelming, and social interactions may be fraught with confusion.

A shift in personality – Without their past experiences shaping them, they might react to situations in unfamiliar ways.

Relationships also play a crucial role. Loved ones may struggle to reconnect, while old enemies may take advantage of gaps in memory. This emotional complexity adds depth to an amnesia storyline, making it more than just a convenient plot device.

Medical Insights on Amnesia

To write a realistic portrayal of amnesia, it’s essential to understand its medical and neurological foundations. Memory formation involves various brain structures, particularly the hippocampus, which plays a key role in storing long-term memories.

Causes of Amnesia

Head trauma (e.g., concussions, strokes, aneurysms)

Psychological trauma (dissociation due to extreme stress or PTSD)

Infections affecting the brain (e.g., encephalitis, meningitis)

Substance abuse (alcohol-induced blackouts, drug-related memory loss)

Neurological disorders (e.g., Alzheimer’s, epilepsy, brain tumors)

Memory Recovery & Treatment

While some cases of amnesia are reversible, others can cause permanent memory loss. Treatments often include:

Cognitive therapy to help the brain form new associations.

Medication for cases linked to neurological disorders.

Hypnosis or psychotherapy for trauma-induced memory loss.

Fiction often portrays amnesia as something that can be instantly cured by another head injury or a dramatic emotional revelation, but in reality, recovery is often slow and uncertain.

Writing Realistic Amnesia Symptoms

When crafting an amnesiac character, it’s crucial to depict their symptoms accurately. Some of the most common effects include:

Confusion and disorientation, particularly in familiar settings.

Difficulty recognizing close friends and family members.

Emotional reactions to people or places they don’t consciously remember.

Trouble forming new memories (in cases of anterograde amnesia).

Physical symptoms such as headaches, dizziness, or fatigue.

By integrating these symptoms into your character’s behavior, you create a more immersive and believable narrative.

Unraveling Memories

Memory recovery should feel natural rather than forced. Instead of a sudden, convenient realization, consider gradual memory restoration through:

Sensory triggers (smells, sounds, touch that evoke forgotten memories)

Therapeutic methods (therapy sessions, hypnosis, journaling)

Unreliable memories (false memories, altered recollections)

Emotional breakthroughs (re-experiencing an intense emotion tied to a memory)

It’s also worth deciding whether your character will ever fully regain their memories. Some narratives work better when the character must move forward without ever reclaiming their past self.

Common Pitfalls & How to Avoid Them

While amnesia can be a powerful narrative tool, it’s easy to fall into unrealistic portrayals. Here’s what to avoid:

Instant cures – Memory loss doesn’t resolve itself with a single emotional moment or another head injury.

Overly selective memory gaps – Forgetting only plot-relevant details makes amnesia feel contrived.

Ignoring emotional consequences – Memory loss isn’t just about lost facts; it’s about lost identity and relationships.

Lack of research – A poorly researched amnesia storyline can feel lazy and inauthentic.

By steering clear of these clich��s, you can create a well-rounded and compelling narrative.

[schizoidvision]

Why Talking to Strangers May Feel Easier for Schizoids...

If you have ever found it easier to talk to a stranger than to someone you see regularly, you are not alone...

For many of us with schizoid traits, interacting with strangers feels safer, simpler, and most importantly, temporary. There is no history, no obligation, and no risk of emotional entanglement. A brief conversation in passing can be engaged with and discarded without consequence, allowing for a kind of social participation that does not compromise autonomy.

The Freedom of Anonymity:

Strangers do not know our past, our tendencies, or our patterns. They do not expect emotional consistency or familiarity. This makes short-term interactions feel lighter, less intrusive, and more in our control... We can engage if we choose, but there is no pressure to follow up, no lingering attachment, and no expectation of future connection. Once the moment ends, so does the interaction.

This is vastly different from interacting with familiar people (family, friends, or coworkers) who carry expectations of consistency and depth. Even a minor disclosure to them can open the door to follow-ups, assumptions, or deeper questioning. If we mention feeling tired one day, they may ask about it again later. If we share a small personal detail, they may assume we are inviting further conversation. For many of us, this feels invasive.

Why Familiar People Feel More Difficult:

Unlike strangers, familiar people expect emotional engagement... Even if they are not demanding, they may assume a level of access to us that we do not want to grant.

Small talk with a stranger is temporary... Small talk with a coworker may lead to them thinking we are open to casual conversation every day. A passing comment to a family member may be remembered and brought up later.

This is where many of us instinctively withdraw... Maintaining psychological privacy is necessary, and any interaction that threatens autonomy (no matter how small) can feel like an intrusion. Strangers give us a controlled environment for brief engagement, but familiarity brings expectations we often do not want to navigate.

The Balance Between Engagement and Detachment:

The way we manage social interactions is not random... It is a carefully structured system that allows us to protect our emotional space while still navigating a world that sometimes requires interaction. Engaging with strangers can provide a low-stakes way to interact without compromising detachment, whereas deeper, more personal relationships often feel like a burden.

This does not mean that every schizoid avoids all social connections, but it does highlight why many of us prefer to engage on our own terms (briefly, without obligation, and in a way that maintains the protective boundary between ourselves and others).

[bestanimal]

Round 3 - Reptilia - Eurypygiformes

(Sources - 1, 2)

Our next group is the unique order, Eurypygiformes, which is composed of two living species within two families: Rhynochetidae (“Kagu”) and Eurypygidae (“Sunbittern”).

The Kagu (Rhynochetos jubatus) (image 1 and gif below) is a crested, long-legged, bluish-grey bird endemic to the dense mountain forests of New Caledonia, restricted to the main island of Grande Terre. Its beak has “nasal corns”, structures covering its nostrils, a unique feature not shared with any other bird. It is nearly flightless, and spends all its time on or near the ground. Its bright red legs are long and strong, enabling the bird to travel long distances on foot and run quickly. Its crest is used to display to other Kagu, and is barely noticeable when at rest. Its wings are also used for display. The Kagu is exclusively carnivorous, feeding on a variety of animals, with annelid worms, snails, and lizards being favorites. Their hunting technique is to stand motionless on the ground or from an elevated perch, and silently watch for moving prey.

Kagu are territorial, maintaining year-round territories of around 10–28 hectares (25–69 acres). They have a clan-based social organization, with families composed of one breeding female and one to three breeding males. Kagu are monogamous breeders, generally forming long-term pair bonds that are maintained for many years. Within the territory the pairs are solitary during the non-breeding season, and may have separate but overlapping foraging areas. A single nesting attempt is made each year, where a simple nest is constructed, which is little more than a heaped pile of leaves. A single, grey, slightly blotched egg is laid. Each parent will incubate the egg for 24 hours, with the changeover occurring around noon each day. After hatching, the offspring may remain in their parents' territory for many years after fledging, sometimes up to six years. Male offspring will help defend the territory of their parents.

The Sunbittern (Eurypyga helias) (image 2) is a wading bird of tropical regions of the Americas, convergent with herons. It has generally subdued coloration, but bright red eyespots on its spread-out wings. These are shown to other sunbitterns in courtship and threat displays, or used to startle potential predators. They have a long, sharp beak which is used to catch a variety of prey, with cockroaches, dragonfly larvae, flies, katydids, water beetles, and moths being favorites. They will also take vertebrate prey like tadpoles, fish, and lizards.

Sunbitterns are generally solitary or found in pairs, especially during the breeding season. During the breeding season they will make flight displays high in the forest canopy. Monogamous pairs form which will stay together for many years. They build an open nest in a tree, and lay two eggs with blotched markings. Both parents incubate the eggs, and the young remain in the nest for several weeks after hatching. Both the Kagu and the Sunbittern have a “broken-wing” display, used to fake an injury and draw the attention of a predator away from their young.

The Eurypygiformes evolved in the Early Eocene.

(source)

Propaganda under the cut:

The social organisation of Kagu has been disrupted in recent years due to attacks by Domestic Dogs. Cases where either a breeding male or female have been killed have led to non-fraternal polyandrous behaviour. Cooperative and unrelated polyandry is rare in birds.

Kagu have only one-third as many red blood cells and three times more hemoglobin per red blood cell than is usual in birds.

Kagu have been observed adopting unrelated chicks.

The Kagu had an important role in the traditional lives of the Kanak tribes of New Caledonia. Among the tribes found in the vicinity of Hienghène in the north of Grande Terre, its name was given to people, its crest was used in the head-dresses of chiefs, and its calls were incorporated into war dances and considered messages to be interpreted by the chiefs. Kanaks in the vicinity of Houaïlou referred to the species as the "ghost of the forest."

The Kagu is endangered, with between 600 and 2,000 remaining. When Europeans first colonized New Caledonia, they considered the Kagu a delicacy, and it was also fashionable in the pet trade. Domestic Cats, Pigs, and Dogs were introduced to the island, further threatening the birds. Rats, also introduced by humans, have a big impact on nestlings, accounting for 55% of nestling losses. Today, the Kagu is the subject of dedicated conservation efforts, and it responds well to breeding in captivity.

Sunbitterns are one of 12 species of birds that have been observed using baits or lures to attract fish to within striking distance. This is a type of tool use and generally seen as an example of high intelligence.