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nomazee · 2 months

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“This is unnecessary.”

At Blade’s snide comment, you pull sharply at the strands of his hair in your hands. He grunts in displeasure before obediently quieting down, only a little scared of you scalping him if he annoys you any further.

Perched behind him on the couch while he sits on the floor, your hands find themselves coming through his hair (long, smooth, untangled despite the fact that you’ve never seen him take a brush to it). Your efforts to part his hair with just your fingers are fruitless. His hair is thick on the top, so much so that you’re surprised his neck doesn’t constantly ache with the weight of it. Your hands pause, resting on the top of his head while you try and figure out how you’ll style it.

“Be nice,” you warn, two hands on the sides of his head tilting it from side to side, treating him as a foam mannequin on which you can project your very thorough cosmetology skills. “Your fate is quite literally in my hands. I could knock you out and shave you bald very easily.”

“I don’t doubt that,” he says earnestly, and you can’t help the way your lips twinge into a smile. “This is clearly a hassle. My hair looks fine the way it is.”

“It does,” you admit, “but wouldn’t it be nice to try something new? And at no cost to you, aside from mild scalp pain. I’m good at hair. I did Kafka’s that one time.” You fail to mention that it was only one time for good reason. Kafka said that you handle hair the same way a lobster would handle a violin—that is, with clumsy hands and a clear lack of refinement. She had to hide every pair of scissors from you in fear that you'd give Silver Wolf microbangs.

As if on cue, your fingers get caught in an unexpected snag in Blade’s hair, and you pull and tug and yank as if expecting it to untangle on its own. Blade hisses and reaches a hand back to smack you on the wrist, turning around to glare at you.

“Watch it,” he orders, gentle but firm. There’s not enough heat in his words to scare you, and his eyes are a particularly beautiful shade of copper in the dim, flickering light of this dingy lounge room. Whatever you say, beautiful, you think to yourself hysterically.

After a few half-willed apologies from you and some nudges of encouragement, Blade finally relaxes enough to turn back around and tilt his head back in your lap, letting your fingers play with his hair nonsensically. A braid, you decide, would look quite nice on him. One long one down the back. If you had ribbon, you’d use some to tie his hair, but all you have is one of Kafka’s tragically thin hair ties.

“It’s a nice color,” you comment absentmindedly, pretending that you can’t see the way Blade’s eyes have shut in contentment at your gentle prodding. “It changes in the light a little bit. It looks very blue now, but I’ve always thought it was black.” You section his hair off into three pieces, loosely laying one over the other over and over again. The aged gold ornament still hangs securely in his hair, and you don’t do anything to move it. It suits him.

“It’s natural, if that’s what you’re getting at,” he tells you, the slightest twinge of a joke in his voice. It plays at your smile and at your heart, too.

“You say that now, but you’ll be scrambling to come up with a lie when I find box dye in your bag.”

He only hums in response, reluctantly enjoying the feeling of your hands on him—they’re gentle, and you can imagine he’s not quite used to this. It’s an addictive feeling, to have him at your mercy, even with just your hands in his hair. There’s trust, unspoken, lingering warmly in the air and settling like condensation on your skin. You could very easily do a number of things that would hurt Blade—kill him, almost. You’ve only ever thought of it a few times, and those were all a very long time ago.

You don’t think of it that often anymore. All you’re paying attention to is Blade and the splitting ends of his hair and how nice he’d look with a red ribbon tied in.

“We should go shopping,” you tell him, voice close to a whisper now. You’ve secured the end of his braid already, and your handiwork is admirable. The strands are neatly crossed over each other, uniform in size with each other as they taper down into the end. “Some clips for you would be nice.” Absentmindedly, you comb through the layers of hair near his face, digging your fingers gently into the sides of his face and scratching at his scalp.

“And where exactly would we go shopping? We’re not exactly upstanding members of society in some people’s eyes.”

“Then I’ll make clips for you,” you say, a naive kind of dedication in your tone. “I used to work with metal, a little bit. I could make jewelry. Ornaments for your hair. I’ll put a ribbon in next time.”

“What makes you think there’ll be a next time?” Blade asks doubtfully, in steep contrast with the way he lets your hands roam along his scalp, and the way his head leans back into you as if he’s comfortable.

“You’re a loyal customer,” you quip, “you’d never let somebody else do your hair when you have me as a dedicated stylist.”

“I’m your only customer.”

“I know,” and in a moment of weakness—because at the end of the day that’s what you are, weak, malleable and moveable when you’re with Blade like this—you lean down just a little bit, pressing a stupid clumsy kiss on the crown of his head. Your fingers trail down to trace the bumps of the braid, the divots and grooves in it, made by your hands, and yours alone. “That just means I can put all my effort towards you alone.”

“You shouldn’t.” And he means it when he says that, and it hurts you, puts a sickly pang in your chest that you want to reach for and tear out before it grows into something worse.

“But I will,” you tell him. Blade is stubborn, but not stubborn enough to keep it up. Not now, not here, not when the overhead lights are flickering and making his hair look just a little bluer, illuminating the warmer ends of his hair, glinting off the metal ornament still clipped into it. He rests between your hands, still sitting on the cold floor, pretending that he isn’t falling asleep with you like the fool he secretly is.

—°+..｡*ﾟ｡*ﾟ+.*.｡.—

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ominouspuff · 1 month

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Tears on Kamino

CC-2224 didn’t know why the other boy was crying, but he didn’t need to. All he needed to do was pull his fingers over a shaved scalp, slowly so as not to startle, and try not to let on how curious he was to see the way the tears dripped in odd shapes down the hot, red, twisted face.

They were hidden, huddled up together — actually hidden, not just sticking to shadows in the open, because if tears weren’t, the odds were against them that things would get official, and nothing good ever came of something getting official. The closets had no cameras nor microphones, and the one they’d crammed into (seventh basement level, thirty paces from Engineering and the guards at its door) was in disrepair — was in line for being decommissioned, in fact. The Kaminoans were meticulous.

But it wasn’t decommissioned yet, so CC-2224 knew it would be the perfect place the instant that he’d pieced together that his new companion was about three seconds away from bursting into tears. They’d made it to the door in under two, but it had taken a bit of jostling and bony elbows jammed into sensitive places that might’ve accelerated the whole ‘tears’ business.

They were here now, anyway, and they were safe. CC-2224 considered the maneuver a success.

“Hey,” He said, and it was a useless thing to say but he’d heard that the majority of what was said to crying things was supposed to be useless. Apparently there was something distracting and comforting about just — being chattered to. So CC-2224 did his best. “Our rations are made from bugs. I would’ve guessed fish, but they don’t have the nutrients. Plus fishing is a dignitary sport anyway-”

“Would you - shut up -” The other boy interrupted wetly, heaving with great big breaths that diminished his chest to half its size with every gasp. His face was — if possible — redder than before. His brown eyes were sharp, and they were glaring at CC-2224 from beneath his brows, hardened with a painful-looking panic. “Just- stop talking.”

CC-2224 digested this request (such as it was) in silence, weighing the odds that the boy knew better than he did what was needed. He scrutinized the glare in the dim lighting, but it was clear and steady enough. CC-2224 nodded agreement, lips sealing tight. He kept stroking the shorn head, the space so tight between them that all he had to do was swivel his wrist a little — the boy hadn’t asked him to stop that, and he hoped he wouldn’t think to.

He signed with his free hand instead of speaking, furrowing his brow to clarify it was a question.

The boy’s glare wilted slightly as he focused on tracking the signs. Finally he blew out a shaky gust of air. “CT-7567.” He said, and it was very strange to hear him try to put firmness and confidence into it when he could still barely breathe without hiccuping. “You could tell that by checking my code anyways.” He explained defensively — as if he thought CC-2224 might judge him harshly for revealing it or pounce on some kind of opportunity.

Then again, if CC-2224 hadn’t just dragged them both into a protected space, it would’ve been smart to be suspicious — and he would have had to investigate a bit to find the other boy’s code. Seeing as CC-2224 had done all sorts of helpful stuff, though, the second-guessing was a poor show — one that immediately made CC-2224 that much more certain that CT-7567 had been crying because he was an idiot.

He’d heard that, in some places, ‘idiot’ was just an insult. It wasn’t that way on Kamino. Idiots didn’t last long; the Kaminoans were, after all, meticulous about utility. Closets weren’t the only things getting decommissioned. Pretty common reason to cry as far as CC-2224 figured, and it would explain their current predicament.

It was enough to grim up any vod, but there might be hope yet.

CC-2224 settled his back against the wall, breathing deeply, and imagined he could see the sim-walls — that he could read the fake mission update on the holo, letters glowing, challenging him to find a way to beat it. (Pretending helped him think faster. Being too confident was a weakness, but if CC-2224 knew anything, it was that he was very good at this.)

There were immediate gaps in information he needed for the mission’s resolution — holes that needed filling before he could pick the next direction. His hand moved almost of its own accord, signing fast and hard.

CT-7567 watched, his breathing evening out by painful increments, brows furrowed in concentration where another cadet would have followed easily. (CC-2224 held his breath at what that might indicate about CT-7567’s intelligence, and he resisted an urge to suck his teeth.)

“Stop, stop,” CT-7567 finally snapped, flapping a hand right into the middle of the signs. “They haven’t taught us that, yet — I only know pieces. Talk instead.”

“Oh, good, I thought you were stupid.” CC-2224 said in relief, and startled when the other boy hit him hard on the shoulder. “What? It’s not uncommon. If you had been, you’d be dead soon.” He snapped, narrowing his eyes and leaning backwards.

CT-7567’s red face blanched, both splotchy and pale at once, and CC-2224 nearly got distracted by how different it made him look. Later. He could think about it later, when CT-7567 wasn’t in danger anymore.

“Stop panicking.” CC-2224 said, and it came out a bit nasty, but his shoulder was still aching. CT-7567 hit hard. “What’s your defect?”

CT-7567’s fear turned to outright terror, but they were so far beyond that now it was almost silly to see. CC-2224 was no Kami, nor a Good One — if he had been, he’d have reported CT-7567 from the start just to get an edge.

(Among clones, it was a taboo question. It still got asked, but only as a last resort; usually quietly, to a terrified boy in a corner with several others hemming him in, trapping and shielding all at once. Tell us, the braver ones would say, maybe we can help.

Sometimes they did help. Other times they made things official. ‘Identifying and reporting issues’ was something high-functioning property was supposed to be good at. They liked how following procedure made things easier for them, and if it didn’t come at the expense of another clone, CC-2224 might not have blamed them.)

CT-7567 stared at him like he’d damned the name of Nala Se herself. But just as CC-2224 was bracing himself to hear something stupid, like ‘what defect?’, CT-7567’s eyes narrowed and his spine straightened and CC-2224 suddenly knew —

‘Idiot’ wasn’t the defect. The defect wasn’t even in that category. CT-7567 was just smaller than CC-2224 had figured, and there was something more serious going on — something big and obvious and unfixable that made little things helpless the bigger they got, the more it grew, the harder it was to conceal. Helpless vod got desperate, and sometimes acted like idiots, but that didn’t make them one.

“You’ve got your hand on it.” CT-7567 said cryptically, but blessedly (for the sake of CC-2224’s dwindling patience and proportionally increasing anxiety) followed up with: “My hair. It’s wrong; gets white splotches when it grows.”

Ah. Actually, CC-2224 knew something about things like that. “That why you have it shaved?” He clarified. The buzz felt nice under his fingers.

“Yes.” CT-7567 muttered. “But the splotches are getting bigger.”

Bleaching. CC-2224 knew even more about that, though not from experiencing it personally.

Bleaching was common. It meant that hair began to lighten in odd places or patterns — usually before maturity, but some unfortunates were late bloomers.

CC-2224 had once caught a glimpse of a fully fledged CT being transferred on a hover bed to decommissioning, hair speckled with white. It had been a shock to realize it could happen that late — that they couldn’t be sure they were safe, even after maturing.

There were some solutions he knew of already, but they were difficult, and resources limited. Even the best ones relied on luck so heavily that CC-2224’s nose wrinkled, and he bent himself to the task of thinking up other solutions.

Five minutes of silence and thoughts and buzz beneath his fingertips ticked by before CT-7567 brought CC-2224’s awareness abruptly back into the closet.

“Your fingers are trembling.” He said, so much steadier now — maybe because he was focusing on someone else’s problem. CC-2224 knew the feeling well; if a clone wasn’t careful, they could get obsessed with it, to the point they forgot to take care of their own business entirely — and that ended in death too, of one sort or another.

“They do that,” He said distractedly, stifling the spark of irritation that being interrupted ignited in his chest — like a petty little mouth full of sharp teeth, nipping at his ribs. He focused on the buzz beneath his fingers. “They do it when I’m thinking. I like solving problems.”

“Oh.” There was a lot in that ‘oh’, but CC-2224 couldn’t spare much brainpower to track it — he was using it on other things. Then, after a pause, CT-7567 quietly said: “Thank you.”

“Haven’t solved anything yet. Thank me when I do.” CC-2224 pointed out — this time with significant impatience at being interrupted — and CT-7567 grunted in acknowledgement of the wisdom behind that, at least.

CC-2224 thought harder, holding his jaw carefully loose so he wouldn’t chew his lip. The silence stuffed his ears full, and he danced from idea to problem, from solution to unexpected flaw, until there were no more flaws and his lip hurt because he’d forgotten not to chew it.

The closet came back into clarity, and CC-2224 stilled his shaking hand. He couldn’t quite contain his grin, though. “Got it.” He said — and because he really did have it, he let his pride show. With luck, it would help reassure CT-7567 it was true, and he’d be confident instead of second-guessing everything. “C’mon. We’re going to need a few things.”

They spent the next few minutes trying to do damage-control on CT-7567’s unbelievably splotched face.

CC-2224 donated his socks to the cause, wetting them in the sanitization pump (it leaked on his bare feet, but he offered that up as a painful necessity), and wiping the tears away methodically. CT-7567 bore it stoically, every ounce of his will bent on forestalling more tears — and he managed it. His skin went back to normal and his pinkish eyes cleared up. They couldn’t help the swelling of his lids and nose, but that was a manageable risk.

CC-2224 did some rinsing and ringing out, then put his slightly soggy socks back on, sealing his boots up just as he would for a dry pair, already resigned to the blisters. CT-7567 dithered a bit, watching with a distracted nervousness and looking ready to suggest they wait out the swelling too, but wisely thinking better of it. They’d been in the closet for fifteen minutes already; any longer would definitely be too much of a risk for being noticed.

“On me.” CC-2224 said authoritatively once he was done with his boots, and at first it felt silly to include the other boy in pretending, but CT-7567 straightened and took it seriously and calmed in an instant, and CC-2224 felt vindicated that he’d guessed the right approach — that he wasn’t the only one who liked this tactic.

“Sir yessir.” CT-7567 said — and the unexpected honorific hit CC-2224 like a battering ram.

It felt — Bad. Strange. His mouth dried, and he blinked slower so he could hide a moment in the black behind his lids.

Mission, they were on a mission, and CC-2224 was a commander, like he was supposed to be. He needed his brain working fast and his CT obeying faster, if this was going to work.

“Let’s go.” He croaked, a bit hoarse, a bit excited. (His hands still trembled a bit when he opened the door.)

#artists on tumblr #fan art #star wars fanart #star wars: the clone wars #Vignette - Kamino #Ficlet #commander cody #captain rex #Young!Cody #Young!Rex #First meetings #Headcanons and practicing writing Cody-perspective #mine

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slushycoookie · 3 months

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Shaving His Hair

Relationship: Miguel O'Hara x GN! Reader

Word Count: 776

Content: Fluff, lice, Miguel's curls are gone and he's bald! (No not really)

Summary: After an unexpected lice outbreak, you have to cut Miguel’s hair.

A/N: Miguel when his hair is shaved is hot as hell, I don't care what anyone says. Also this one is kinda connected to the washing his hair post I did so if you wanted to read that too, here.

There was a lice outbreak in HQ.

You would think a bunch of superheroes could combat a bunch of little bugs but no.

Miguel ordered anyone who had said lice to get it taken care of in their dimension. Or go to the infirmary for treatment. The leader of Spider Society thought he was safe. Trying to avoid anyone who had potential contact with someone with lice. He was wrong. That’s why you two were in the bathroom. His head was in his hands as he sat on the toilet while you laid out the required tools. All set up like you were about to conduct surgery.

“This was your idea.” You reminded him while putting on rubber gloves. “The doctor said we could try the treatment and see what happens. You don't have to cut it.”

Miguel’s head shook, not wanting to look at what was about to happen. “The doctor said my case was more serious. It's best to cut it all off.” You were about to argue some more. Try to get him to see reason. But he stared at you with large eyes, knowing what he had to do despite not liking the decision. “It's my hair.”

He was right.

You wanted to support him, reassure him you were always going to be on his side. So you got the clippers ready. You weren't a professional but you knew how to cut hair. You surfed the internet to look up tips to make sure it wasn't uneven. Miguel wanted to get everything over with but you were determined to make his hair look nice.

The buzz from the clipper filled the bathroom. You started from the front, placing his head back to get a good view. The device hovered over his hairline as you wanted to give him one more chance.

“Are you sure you wanna do this?”

“Yes.” Miguel huffed, “I'm not changing my mind.”

“Alright, alright. Just checking.”

You ran the blade towards you, chunks of hair falling off and hitting the ground. Bye bye curls. Your eyes couldn't help but go wide at the fact you could see his head. Now you were picturing how he would look shaved. With that sharp jawline and high cheekbones. Miguel was going to be attractive regardless of his hairstyle.

“Any day now…”

You stuck your tongue out at him before continuing. Dragging the clipper down his head. Locks cascading down on his covered shoulders. You did your best to get all the extra hair you could, making sure he didn't look a hot mess.

Once you were done, it was time to wash it. You suggested doing it at the kitchen sink as you didn't feel like going in the shower.

“Really? We're doing this in the kitchen?” He asked.

“Don’t worry. I already cleaned it.” You pointed down to get him to bend over. Thank goodness for stools as you stood on it to get a good angle. The shampoo for lice had a minty scent. Almost medicinal when you rubbed your fingers along his scalp. The scent was strong enough to bring tears to your eyes. You hoped your partner wasn't having a worse time due to his enhanced senses.

“How you doing?”

Miguel grunted and you couldn't help but snort. “I'm fine.”

“At least one of us is.” You blinked repeatedly to get yourself together before rinsing him off. As much as you weren't a fan of the shampoo, you wanted to be thorough. Much to yourself and apparently his chagrin, you did another wash. It was better the second time around, your eyes getting itself together this time. There weren't any complaints from Miguel either.

With the lice vanquished and the prevention solution working, you dried him off with a towel. You grabbed the mirror from the bathroom and held it up to his face to see what you did. Miguel examined himself. Head tilting from side to side while trying to see how he looked.

“My head…it's so…square looking.”

You snickered, “It's a very handsome square look.”

Miguel playfully glared at you, “So you agree? That I'm square?”

“When you wear those glasses, yeah.” He pulled you in for a hug, not tolerating your teasing. “Okay, okay! I'm joking, you actually look pretty handsome.”

He held up the mirror once more. Seeing yourself and him in the reflection. “I do?”

“Yes. My handsome baby.” You peppered his face with kisses. The medicinal scent from the shampoo still lingering. “Oh by the way, you should find the person who started that outbreak. So this doesn't happen again.”

Miguel pursed his lips, having the same thought. “Yeah, good idea.”

#miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o hara x reader #miguel o'hara x you #miguel x reader #spiderman 2099 x reader #slushycoookie writes

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ladykailitha · 2 months

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Just some thinking thoughts.

I read or saw somewhere talking about Eddie's buzzcut and who and why someone would have done that to him.

Now granted this is all based on when you think Eddie showed up on Wayne's doorstep.

My thought had always been middle school. He still remembers how to hotwire even though it's a pretty sure bet he hasn't had to in a while.

And when he's talking about his dad I got the impression that as a kid he idolized his dad, but has long since been jaded by the man.

So young enough to still look up to his dad, but old enough to see an obvious difference between Wayne and Al (it's a dumb name, but it's the one we've got).

I've seen a lot of fics where Al shaved his head in punishment for *insert horrible parent reason here* and hurt Eddie in someway, prompting CPS (child protective services) to swoop in and take Eddie to Wayne's.

But may I offer a different perspective. Eddie got buzzed between CPS taking him from Al and dropping him off at Wayne's.

When I was growing up I had this friend who was the fifth child of EIGHT. Now, Dad had a pretty well paid job, but Mom was a SaHM and they could NOT afford the amount of children they had. Their house was always a mess and lice was prevalent.

Lice here is where I'm going with this. One of the things that parents, school teachers, and the like would do if it became too bad was just shave off the hair. All of it. To make sure there were any eggs left near the scalp.

So, I propose, that CPS found Eddie in absolute filth and shaved his head and probably burned his clothes, too.

So imagine this 11-12 year old kid showing up on Wayne's doorstep with a shaved head and nothing but the clothes on his back.

I was also thinking of Steve, too. We know so little about him. We don't know his parents' names, what they do, or where they are from. We know Sr has a business that often takes him away from home, that he most likely cheats on his wife and that's why she goes with him, and that they are neglectful at best, and abusive at worst.

Kids that underage drink and smoke, have parties all time and are considered the "bad boy" at school not very likely to have good parents. Yes, even in the hands off era of the 1980s.

I have always had this feeling, something not supported in canon, but just a vibe I get from Steve. The house that they use for the Harrington place was built in 1976, so if we use it's actual age that would make Steve ten (if he was born in the later half of 1966 and not the early part of '67) when he moved to Loch Nora.

Now it's true the Harrington's could have lived in Hawkins elsewhere, but it's more likely that Steve is a transplant to Hawkins.

So not only does Steve not have a connection to the people surrounding the Upside Down, he also doesn't have a connection to the town the way the others do. But he still chooses to fight the monsters, protect his friends and the town.

And I think that just speaks to Steve's character. And isn't that just beautiful?

#my writing #stranger things #steddie #stranger things meta #ladykailitha rants

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eruden-writes · 11 months

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Room & Board - Part 16 (vampire x reader)

paranormal fantasy vampire x human eventual triad (x werewolf)

Anonymous asked:

For the prompt submissions a vampire that feels guilty after feeding/attacking someone so they leave obscenely valuable ancient artifacts as payment/an apology?

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After the eventful night, you awake the next morning to heat against your back and an arm curled around your middle. Sunlight streams through your curtains as memories sluggishly creep through your brain, realizing the heat at your back is too warm to be your vampire roomie. As if the encroaching sunlight wasn’t evidence enough.

Rolling over, you confirm your suspicions as Ewan squints at you groggily. He is no longer in wolf form, but sporting a light beard. Faintly, you wonder how often he has to shave to maintain his appearances.

“Morning,” he grunts, a roughness to his voice that is either sleep or after-transformation gnarl. Whatever the rasp is from, he still grins at you as he always does. Perhaps with a touch more fondness than usual.

You hum an acknowledgement, reaching up to smooth the wild tufts of curls atop Ewan’s head. The man gave an entirely new definition to bedhead, you muse as he tilts into your touch with a happy sigh. But you can’t forget the missing part of last night’s triad. “Where’s Tabaeus?”

As your fingers crook, raking gently over Ewan’s scalp, his eyes flutter shut and he sighs, “They’re bunking with the sugar gliders.”

Your hand pauses, eyebrows furrowing with confusion. “What?”

“They’re in bat form,” Ewan explains as his eyes open slowly, grudgingly resigned to no more petting.

More incredulous than confused, you repeat, “What?”

Ewan’s grin grows, amusement glinting in his eyes as he pieces together the reason for your surprise. “Haven’t they shown you their bat form?”

“No!” You try to ignore how Ewan’s grin broadens at your almost-pained exclamation. Tabaeus has a bat form and he was currently sleeping in the sugargliders’ cage? Your mind fumbles with the idea, half-upset for having missed the spectacle of Tabaeus morphing last night.

After you fumble out of bed for an oversized tee-shirt, and Ewan pulls on his jeans from last night, the two of you venture out of your bedroom. Down the hall, in a separate room relegated to Bjarka and Liuva, you lead the werewolf.

The door is ajar, no sunlight filtering into this area of the hall. As you step into the room, you find the curtains are drawn tight and the lights out. To your left, a huge cage sits, filled with enrichment and food and a potty area for the gliders. The cost of the set-up had been exorbitant, but you couldn’t say no to Tabaeus’s puppy dog eyes when they asked. Your money was mostly thanks to them, anyway.

Using the flashlight on your cellphone and setting it on a table by the door to give you some mild light, you venture closer to the enclosure. “Tabaeus?”

Something rustles from the sleeping pouch and soon something relatively small and furry pokes out. You squint, the creature is similar to a sugar glider but definitely not one. A bat stares at you with little beady eyes and, somehow, transmitting a groggy expression. Even the fur has a rumpled, askew look. Like a little bat version of bedhead.

Once the little furry creature seems to recognize you, their big ears perk up and they crawl - none too gracefully - toward the edge of the cage closest to you.

What is wrong?

You're startled to hear Tabaeus’s concerned voice in your head. They stare up at you, dark little eyes alert. Raising a hand to the side of your own head, you touch your fingers to your temple. "Can you transmit your thoughts into my head?"

Something in you believes you see shock cross the bat’s face, but there’s no way. Their features are too inhuman to emote. Tabaeus tilts their little head, their comically large ears twitching. What? Am I not using my mouth?

"You mean you little furry bat mouth?” You point to their face as you crouch down, becoming more eye-level with Tabaeus.

Yes? Tabaeus’s voice in your head sounds confused, before their ears twitch again. Oh, I see your point, but Ewan did not seem surprised when I talked to him in this form.

"Someone needed to close the cage." Ewan shrugs as you toss him a curious look over your shoulder. He stands near the door, leaning in the door jamb. You’re not sure if he’s giving you and Tabaeus space out of respect or if he’s keeping a careful distance for another reason.

"Well, on the topic of things I didn't know, we should probably hit the library today. Do some research." Your attention returns to Tabaeus, your heart twisting as the little bat shirks a bit under your words.

From the door, Ewan’s curious question rings, "Research?"

"The journal ordeal we mentioned last night,” you explain as you open the cage, not bothering to turn around. “You don’t have to come with us if you’re busy or have other things to do, Ewan.”

As you hold out your hands for Tabaeus to crawl to you, Ewan clears his throat. The floorboards squeak under the werewolf as he shifts. "Speaking of last night, how should I take what we did? The fun."

You blink at the sudden shift of topic. Right. Last night and the fun that had continued at home. At Ewan’s acknowledgement of last night, your body twangs with the ache of well-used muscles. Faintly, you feel Tabaeus’s tiny claws grappling onto your fingers, heft themself into your palms. They weigh much heavier than you’d expect of a tiny bat.

"I'm just trying to temper my expectations. I've liked you for awhile and things can get complicated when fun sex gets involved," Ewan babbles on and you can hear him fidgeting, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Looking up at him, you notice his tense body language. Almost as if he’s prepared to run away as his mouth continues on, "And I know I made that joke about becoming a roommate, but- "

Ewan trails off, shoulders hunching and unable to meet your steady gaze. On the other hand, you can feel Tabaeus’s eyes on you as they sit in your palms. Your eyes flicker to the bat, trying to decipher their expression.

It wasn’t as if you didn’t have the space in the house. There was certainly enough room for Ewan. Whether Tabaeus would agree with it or not was another question, but they kept their expression - or feelings? - distant.

And, of course, there might be a chance for more bonding, a salacious part of you thinks.

Besides having another person to help with chores and bills, another part of you notes that having a werewolf around might be good protection. While you were fairly sure you could trust Tabaeus, if something happened - like a curse or a return of human-hating memories or who knew what - Ewan might be a good guardian for you.

"I'd be fine with you moving in,” you say as you briefly glance up at the werewolf again and back down to Tabaeus. The intent look in your eye is self-explanatory.

Under your gaze, the bat squirms and you get the impression they turn their attention elsewhere. When Ewan joins in on staring, Tabaeus’s little body expands and deflates with a sigh. Well if I say no, I will look like a right ass.

"Glad we agree.” With a grin, you raise the bat up, booping your nose against theirs. Despite themselves, Tabaeus seems to be pleased with the action. From the corner of your sight, you see Ewan sag with relief. Getting to your feet, your thoughts turn back toward the day’s itinerary. "Now let's get you downstairs so you can rest or get a change of attire."

You can feel Tabaeus pout with uncertainty. How? There's so many windows.

“Like this.” The little bat squeaks as you pluck them up and stuff them down the collar of your shirt. Through the shirt, one of your hands supports the little furball as your other clasps around them. You hold Tabaeus against your chest, feeling their little clawed tips dig nervously a little into your skin. “Think this will work?”

I-It is… acceptable. Even through whatever telepathic link Tabaeus has established, you can sense their awkwardness and masked delight.

You give an amused snort, glancing up at Ewan who is leaning against a wall again and watching. His playfully narrowed eyes give you the impression he’s jealous of the little bat’s good fortune. Ignoring the pulse of amusement and heat, you exit the room. As much as you’d like to linger with them, have some more fun, you really need answers.

x x x

Hours later, you find yourself in the local library, sifting through old papers and files on a computer in a dusty basement alcove. Ewan sits at another computer, the sound of his click and scrolling sounding far more productive than it likely was. Tabaeus - after being smuggled via bat-form - has disappeared among the stacks of books and ledgers, oddly quiet. You try not to worry too much about them.

While you’re not even sure you’ll find anything, you at least have some starting points: Dr. Kieran Bennett, a Dr. Forsythe, and all of those dates in the diary entry.

After scouring student directories, you find three Kieran Bennetts who apprenticed or went through a university. Tracing through their schooling, their travels, their families… Occasionally, you have to stop tracing their paths and reference towns they had been through. At one point, you think you can eliminate one of the Kierans, before a realization hits.

With a groan, you lean back in your chair and press your hands to your eyes. “Why did so many fathers have to name their sons after themselves?”

To your left, you hear Ewan’s chair creak. You think he’s turned to look at you and you can imagine the concern in his eyes. “You doing alright?”

“Yes, it’s just so much information. I can’t keep it all straight,” you sigh, pinching at the bridge of your nose. Beside you on the table, the journal is open to cross-reference the hefty tome sitting open before you. Even as your eyes crack open, you blink as the numbers and words blur in front of your eyes.

“Maybe we should break for a little bit?” Ewan stands, stretching his arms over his head until his tee-shirt rides up to show a sliver of his lower stomach. The glimpse is quickly over as his arms drop and he nods to the stairs. “Get a snack at the library’s cafe upstairs, maybe?”

“That’s probably a good idea.” A part of you balks at the idea of leaving, of not learning anything yet. You convince yourself some food in your belly and a rest couldn’t hurt as you straighten your area and note which book you were currently perusing. As you step away from your workstation and place the Kieran’s journal in your bag, you turn to the rows of shelves.

A nagging concern nibbles at your thoughts. Odd, that they haven’t chimed in yet. Taking a step toward the shelving, you raise your voice to be heard through the room. “Tabaeus, what do you think? Coming with?”

Nothing answers back. Your heart trips in your chest, dueling senses of worry and betrayal coasting through your thoughts. Those feuding thoughts propel you forward with Ewan tagging behind you. Grasping tight to the strap of your bag, you continue to call, “Tabaeus? Tabaeus, where are you?”

Finally, near the edge of the aisle, in a far corner, you spot them. You call to Tabaeus again, but they still don’t answer. They don’t move or blink an eye. In their hands they hold a book, slowly flicking the pages. Something seems wrong, you think, as you raise your hand. You can’t bring yourself to touch them, though. Can’t bring yourself to disturb their trance.

It’s Ewan that steps around you, slinging their arm around Tabaeus as they wave a hand between the vampire’s face and the book. “Hey, Earth to the crusty old vampire.”

With a full-body jerk, Tabaeus is shook from wherever their thoughts were. Wide red eyes blink from behind their round red-tinted sunglasses as they turn to you and Ewan. They don’t even shirk away from Ewan’s arm still slung over their shoulders. Soft and a little muzzy, they ask, “What?”

Ewan squints at Tabaeus, his nose twitching. Was he picking up on something you couldn’t? Or was he just concerned that Tabaeus hadn’t risen to his earlier taunt? “Are you okay?”

“Yes, yes, fine.” The vampire nods their head as they snap the book in their hands shut. With a little more force than called for, they push the book back along its peers. With its spine so faded, you mentally note its location for later investigation. A strained smile parts their lips as they turn to you. “Are we leaving now?”

“Well, we’re not leaving the library.” Tabaeus’s smile remains firmly in place, in spite of the curiosity and suspicion painted over your face. You do your best to not glance back to the book they had held. Faint memories of what Kieran’s journal entailed waffles through your head, but you push the knowledge away. “Me and Ewan were thinking about going up for a bite to eat. Want to come with?”

After you ask, your eyes flick over Tabaeus, double-checking that their outfit will protect them from awry shafts of light. Though you’re uncertain their black bucket hat will protect them, the rest of their outfit - a long-sleeved checkered shirt beneath an oversized wine-red button-up and dark jeans - seems fine. You suppose the hoodie they have wrapped around their waist can be used for additional protection, if it becomes a problem.

Even as you look over them, something in your head wonders if you should worry so much about them. Instantly, you hush that paranoia. Tabaeus had plenty of chances to hurt you and hadn’t. They were just as lost as you, when it came to their past.

“Oh, I see. Yes, I think I would like to come. Perhaps see other areas of the library?” Their own question sounds painfully hopeful. As if they couldn’t take being in the dusty archives for much longer.

Something about their eagerness makes a pang shoot through your chest. Whatever they had been looking at, wherever their mind had taken them, it had hurt. You manage to smile up at them, giving a light nod. “Yeah, we look around.”

With Ewan flanking Tabaeus on one side and you on the other, the three of you climb the stairs to the first floor of the library.

x x x

After a quick nosh of smoothies and pastries from the library’s cafe, your little troupe ventures out into the library. At first, the three of you aimlessly wander through sections that interest you. Comic books, cooking, fashion. You notice how Tabaeus ignores when Ewan suggests the history section, the vampire instead moving toward Art. The obvious stonewall is even picked up by the werewolf as he exchanges a curious look with you.

The two of you follow Tabaeus, though. Without even talking about it, Ewan seems to have understood something tenuous is balancing in the air. All the same, he lingers close to your side, as if afraid something will happen to you. And you can’t say you’re not relieved at his presence.

Before Tabaeus can even step into the proper aisles, a display catches their eye. Their course diverts and you follow.

Displayed on a table are choice books for the month. You’re not sure what the theme is and, sometimes, librarians just prop open art books to catch interested eyes. That seems to be the case now as Tabaeus stares down at two paintings displayed on two opposing pages. As you step closer, Ewan remains at your elbow, but he cranes his neck to see what has Tabaeus’s attention.

While you are no scholar on the subject, the paintings appear to be a set, perhaps meant to give a panorama of a situation. Both depict crowds - of adults and children - in dress that remind you of Rome or Greece, every figure’s expression ranging from morosely resigned to contorted sobs. A dark smoky glaze reminiscent of ash coats everything as buildings crumble and statues are in the midst of toppling. Balls of fire streak through the dark sky, smoke ballooning through the atmosphere.

“I remember these paintings. I told the artist about this day.” Tabaeus whispers, fingers still on the print in the book. Startled, you glance up at them, finding that distant look in their eyes again. Their voice has gone soft again, pained and hesitant. “It was terrible, the shaking and the fire. The screaming and the ash and blood. People running with nowhere to go, the wretched screams and the children sobbing.”

You can almost hear the screaming, the woe, as fire hisses down and the world rattles angrily. Heat and smoke, the burn of tears.

Ewan thankfully asks the question you can’t force from your throat, “How did you survive?”

“I…” Raising a hand to their throat, Tabaeus’s eyebrows furrow as their lips tremble. “I agreed to become something.”

“A vampire,” Ewan says, voice uncharacteristically soft. There’s a curious lilt to his voice that makes him sound uncertain of his answer.

“Not simply that. I agreed to become something else.” Quickly, Tabaeus shakes their head at Ewan’s words. Their brows furrow as their hand transitions from their throat to their head. Angrily, they tap their fingertips against their forehead as they mutter, “Why don’t I remember?”

“Tabaeus?” Finally, you reach out, hoping to comfort them with a light touch on their shoulder. They flinch from your touch, turning their gaze onto you.

“It’s right there, but I can’t reach it. There’s just so much in my head. Images and sensations and emotions,” they croak, words painted with misery as their eyes glisten. All you can do is stare up at them, your hand still outstretched, with worry pinching your own brows. Tabaeus reaches for your hand, presses both their palms around it as they burble sadly, “Please, believe me, amata.”

Before you can respond, before you can even think to respond, Tabaeus pulls away. They turn back to the book of paintings, flipping through the pages at an erratic speed. “There’s so much I almost remember. Names and photos in the books in the basement, and these paintings and these artists, and–”

Their head abruptly snaps up, eyes wide and faintly glowing behind their sunglasses as they hiss. Startled, you stumble back into Ewan, only to find he is turned away. His arms are slightly extended, as if to shield you and Tabaeus from something. It takes you half a second to realize he’s glaring in the direction Tabaeus’s eyes snapped.

An unhappy electricity cracks through the air as you carefully peer around Ewan to see what has them riled.

A figure stands at the end of the aisle, seemingly flipping through a book and minding their own business. For the life of you, you can’t help but shake a dreadful sense of familiarity. You stare, trying to figure out if you truly know this person. Dark hair and sunglasses with transition lenses. Boring, yet expensive clothes. They look up, as if realizing they’re being watched, and tilt their head toward you.

As their eyes meet yours, instant realization washes through you. They smile and sharp canines flash in your direction as Ewan and Tabaeus tense. Your brain rattles as the person’s words, from the diner, ring through your ears. “My apologies, I didn’t mean to startle you. I simply wish to tell you that your friend is very entrancing.”

“Dreadfully sorry. Allow me to introduce myself,” the figure chuckles, sliding the book back onto its shelf before turning and walking towards you. Behind you, you can feel Tabaeus tense like cat torn between fleeing or fighting. In front of you, Ewan growls a low warning.

The figure before all of you ignores both expressions of displeasure. Though they do pause a few feet away, tipping an imaginary hat as a broad smile crosses their lips. “You may call me Lachlan Barrett, he/him.”

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

If you like my content, please consider supporting me on:

*:･ﾟ✧ Patreon or Ko-Fi *:･ﾟ✧

#exophilia #monster lover #monster fucker #exo writing #monster x human #monster boyfriend #monster romance #tabaeus #room & board #room and board #ewan #reader #vampire x reader #vampire x reader x werewolf

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naavispider · 8 months

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Can you write a drabble/one shot about (good) Quaritch dematting or cutting Spider's hair? Something like General Ardmore ordered Spider to start behaving and look like a "real human" and stop looking like the natives - she forced him to wear clothes and gave him an ultimatum to either demat his dreadlocks or shave him with a typical military hairstyle, so Spider is very reluctant to agree, but his condition is that only Quaritch can do it. I can't explain my thought exactly but I hope you understand enough

Okay, in this scenario I think Quaritch would just do it for spider without him asking. If Ardmore had ordered it, I think spider would be much more receptive to having it done than if he thought the order was coming from Quaritch himself.

“You ain’t gonna like this, kid.” Quaritch steeled himself to deliver the blow, hating Ardmore with every fibre of his being.

“What?” Spider asked, his voice a pitch higher than Quaritch was used to.

“The locs have got to go.”

Spider tensed, pushing himself back against the wall. “No. Why!”

“I don’t know Tiger. Orders from the General.” He raised his hands in defence, trying to show Spider that he wasn’t going to suddenly pull a pair of shears from his belt and attack him.

His heart broke at the sight of his boy fighting to hold back tears. “If you want, you can do it yourself, but it’s gotta be done by tomorrow.”

Spider had ceased staring at him in horror and now looked to the floor, eyes glazed over. He shook his head.

Quaritch felt the strangest urge to reach out and console him in some way, but he didn’t know how. Spider probably wouldn’t want that anyway. He used this reasoning to justify keeping his distance. He stayed silent while letting Spider process.

Eventually, the boy replied in a whisper. “I can’t do it. I won’t.”

Quaritch stretched his jaw. “I’ll do it quick.”

He left to fetch a razor and returned within minutes. Spider was sitting despondently on the floor, and Quaritch decided to pick his battles by not getting him to move. Instead, he knelt down behind him and gently lifted a loc of matted hair. It felt disgusting, but Spider didn’t object so he took his opportunity and sheared it a few centimetres from the scalp. Spider was quiet and Quaritch didn’t know how to break the silence, so they sat awkwardly listening to the buzzing of the razor. After a while, Spider’s shoulders began to shake, but Quaritch did him the courtesy of pretending not to notice.

Finally, it was done. “There,” Quaritch murdered as the last loc fell. “Get in the shower and lather it. Then we’ll brush it out.”

Spider wordlessly got to his feet and followed Quaritch out of the cell and towards the wash block. Quaritch couldn’t help but notice how the whole boys demeanour had changed - he’d always been small, but now his neck and shoulders were exposed he looked so fragile and breakable. More than that, Spider seemed to have shrunk in on himself.

Quaritch sighed. He didn’t know how they would be able to recover from this.

#avatar the way of water #spider socorro #miles quaritch #avatar 2 #my stuff #atwow #ask

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hikunn · 2 years

Text

treasure's hair pt2!

nebly’s note : this has been in my drafts for like two months now 😭😭 only posting it now tho sorry 🙏 part one

YEDAM.

boa noona this is for you

a pigtails typa guy

has scrunchies on his wrist 🌝

likes his perm too much so he won't let you straighten it

wants you to put pins in his hair

for that y2k aesthetic u know

lets you play around with hairspray

yedam finds it funny when his hair turns crunchy bcs of the spray

"oooh! crunchier than the bag of cheetos i forgot to close!"

JAEHYUK.

RIBBONS AND BOWS RIBBONS AND BOWS :(((((

wants you to put anything and everything in his hair

headbands, bows (a lot of them), clips, etc.

STOPPP HES SO CUTEEEEE

might as well have a tea party while ur at it

playful but will teach you abt hair products

it's a very soft but memorable moment

"tea party in my closet later?"

ASAHI.

i bet his hair smells super nice

LIKE STRAWBERRIES

and it's SOOOO soft too

asahi loves it when you just touch his hair

loves when you brush through it

omg he's a sucker for scalp massages

what if hypothetically you find a bald spot

you ask him what happened right

"oh so you see jeongwoo accidentally shaved some off bcs he was trying to draw pengsoo on my head but yk that really didn't work out and now it looks like that! ha ha..."

JEONGWOO.

he bought himself a new razor right

tells you to sit back and watch him cut his hair all by himself

coMPLETELY messes up

cut his bangs super short

"hey y/n... think you can fix this?" LLLOOOLL

you sigh

disappointed but not surprised!

you try your best to thin and even out his bangs (w scissors not w a razor)

"you think you can give me a fade next?"

JUNGHWAN.

will probably fall asleep

ask him if he likes his hair

u get a snore and a “huh? what?”

has absolutely zero trust in you

very hesitant when you offer to cut his hair for him

surprised when it actually turns out good

you fail to tell him u actually had no idea what u were doing LMAO

“you and scissors don’t look good together…”

JIHOON

thinks ur doing everything wrong

"do NOT burn my hair. YOURE BURNING MY hAIR?? IM AN IDOL I CAN'T AFFORD BURNT HAIR??"

worries for absolutely no reason

ends up liking the finished product

which is just a ponytail... bcs he wouldn't let you do anything else 😢

but then posts it on weverse

"doesn't my hair look so good rn?? i had complete trust in y/n!!"

masterlist

#treasure #treasure headcannons #treasure headcanons #treasure fluff #treasure imagines #yedam #jaehyuk #asahi #jeongwoo #junghwan #jihoon #treasure jihoon #treasure yg #treasure scenarios #treasure reactions

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shadowofwar-goober · 9 months

Text

Hair Cutting (Uruk/Orc Headcanons SoW)

Was talking to @space-arsonist about this and thought to bring it up here too

xxx

Once, hair cutting wasn't always a source of shame or grief for uruks and orcs alike. It was a sign of change and growth, be it integrating into new clans, reaching new life milestones, or for ceremonial purposes.

As life became harsher for the lot of them, it became more and more difficult for uruks and orcs to even grow healthy hair to grow out, much less cut. Having a healthy head of hair meant that you had resources, and if that hair was cut, it was due to outside influence and not due to individual choice.

Slaves would have their heads shaved regardless of the amount of hair they had or didn't have, hair would be cut for uruks or orcs deemed traitorous or banished from their clans, hair (and/or scalps) are even a common trophy taken by victorious warriors.

If it's something that can be taken away, it can and will be in Mordor for one reason or another.

(My personal OCs and their hair(cuts) under the cut)

Hûra

- Both of his clans cut his hair at various times during his youth. It was done as a form of humiliation and control along with a means to make money, as Hûra’s hair was strong enough to both string bows and to be used as nearly unbreakable ties and/or as a garroting wire.

- His hair was cut to nearly ear-length by Khrosh.

- He cut a few locks of his hair off with Takra when they officially became blood brothers.

- He cut some of his hair when Gogat officially became his son, and he did it again when Dûsh, Mâku, Lûga and Grisha joined the family too (he made charms woven with his family’s hair).

- He cut his hair to his elbows after the war ended and never cut it again.

Takra

- Her hair was cut off several times by superior Uruks at her outposts when she was very young.

- It was cut once by her Marauder captain when she first sold herself to him.

- It’s been cut numerous times by her “clients”, usually resulting in her hair being short and choppy most of the time.

- She cut it when Hûra reunited with her very short so it would grow back both healthy and at the same length.

- She cut a few locks when she became blood brothers with Hûra.

- She cut it when her children came into her life (Hûra created charms with her hair as well).

- She cut her hair short when Gogat returned from prison and regrew it alongside her sons and only ever cut it to trim dead ends off afterwards.

Mâku

- His hair was long straight out of the vat (think nearly to his elbows) so his Dark clan cut it to just above his shoulders after recruiting him. He’s like his father and it grew back extraordinarily quickly every time it was cut.

- He cut it when he broke away from his clan.

- He cut several locks off when he became a part of his family.

- He cut his hair with his father at the end of the war, back to his elbows like when he was a pup.

- He cut a few locks off when his parents died and placed the hair with them when they were cremated/buried and did the same when his brothers and sister passed.

Pushkrimp

- His hair was cut when nearly to his ears when he was banished from his clan. It was done specifically to cut the clan braids from his hair.

- Pushkrimp periodically had breakdowns after drinking where he would chop his hair off sloppily and rarely tidied it up after the fact.

- He cut his hair when he vowed to stop drinking, cutting as short as the day he was banished.

- Pushkrimp cut a few locks when he became blood brothers with Horza.

- He cut a few locks when he reunited with Zog and learned of Zunn’s existence.

Norûk

- His hair was long out of the vat (past his shoulder) and it was cut choppily short up to his ears when he was sent off.

- Ar-Beka cut it after he adopted Norûk, as it was matted and unmanageable and he refused to bathe for many months due to his fear of water.

- He cut a few locks and gave them to Ay-Yaruk when he went off to study in the West.

- He cut a few locks when he married.

- He cut a few locks as he was in his twilight years and gave them to his father, Zunn, his children and his brother.

Khrosh

- He’s only cut it once: when he made a mockery of the charms that Hûra would make his family out of their hair. He wove a few locks of his hair with the hair he cut from Hûra’s head.

Grishnâkh

- He kept his hair relatively short most of his life for hygiene reasons.

- It grew long when he was recovering from being attack by a caragor but again cut it short, above his shoulders.

Horza

- Had hair past his elbows when he was enslaved.

- Had his hair shorn off while a slave.

- It always tried to grow back but it was patchy due to poor conditions.

- Never kept his head shaved in spite of his poor hair condition as a slave, as he couldn’t bare the thought of doing it himself.

- Only allowed it to be cut twice, the first when with the Monks so it could grow back healthy.

- The second was when he became blood brothers with Pushkrimp.

#headcanons #lotr #shadow of war #middle earth shadow of mordor #middle earth shadow of war #uruks #orcs #my ocs #hair cutting #scalping #slavery #trauma

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phoenix-before-the-flame · 1 year

Note

Hey phoenix how have you been this is scar anon if you still remember me! Anyways I just have your laxus fanart rotating in my brain again and I am having so many thoughts like,,,I wonder how he got that scar yknow it's such a prominent part of his character but as far as I can recall (which is admittedly not very much considering I haven't watched or read ft in a hot minute) mashima never explained where he got it? God I wish there was an angsty backstory to his scar (or honestly more laxus backstory in general) but if we're being honest he probably just ran headfirst into a pole or smth.

Anyways sorry for my ramblings this was a poorly disguised request for some laxus headcanons if you have the time! (Can you tell he's my blorbo? That fanart you did genuinely restructured something in my brain and I still can't stop thinking about it to this day) Aight that's it from me have a good day! 👍🏼

Finally i can get around to answering this lol

With regards to Laxus' iconic eye scar I don't really think there was any deep reasoning or logic behind it on Mashima's end (from a character design stand point at least) other than having it be a visual tell that yup, this guy's got lightning powers so he's got a lightning shaped scar to let the audience have a clue about that. It's a similar thing with like, giving your fire characters flame printed clothing, or your evil characters red eyes or your yugioh character crazy hair to let the audience know that this is the protag.

It's more of an element to add some interest to his design and key readers into his magic before the big reveal than something i think was definitely added to tie into any backstory related thing.

And if it is connected to anything backstory related that was revealed later down the line a la 100yr quest i dont care because i dont care about anything to do with the sequel lol.

That being said, i've had this old ass concept regarding Laxus' scar that i've always meant to get around to and you've given me the perfect opportunity to talk about it.

So like, in my head and my tweaked version, Laxus' scarring is instead of a random cool looking lighting scar it's literally lightning scars.

Like scars you get from being struck by lightning. Lichtenberg figures.

(Took off his tattoo and guild mark for the sake of clarity)

Enter Phoenix- verse Laxus lol

Reasoning for this is because I've always figured that the operation that dropped that lacrima in him was a botched one. A sorta test run of making a 2nd gen slayer to work out the kinks down the line for better and smoother operations.

So that being said, in the initial months after the operation the lacrima did not adjust smoothly to being in Laxus' body and adapting to work with his natural ethernano so the lacrima would often times send out shocks through his body during that time as the dragon lacrima's and his ethernano particles would slowly sync up and work in unison

Hence resulting in the all over lichtenberg scarring starting from his chest (i always hc the lacrima's somewhere in the chest near the heart or so) and going through the head, arm and leg as exit points for the electricity when he used to get those shocks.

And the scarring would sorta wrap around his head too! If you shaved his head (sorry King) you would see that it would stretch across the scalp as well.

This whole thing also left his right eye slighter weaker than the other (not enough for him to be completely blind in it but it goes kinda fuzzy sometimes).

The whole full body scarring never really raised much questions though, a lot of people who see it just assume that it was a really bad magic accident (I hc that some elemental magics are more volatile and trickier to master due to the danger they could pose to the user so stuff like lighting and poison for eg are less commonly used than say water or air related magics). But those who know, know (Hello Makarov and Thunder Legion).

So uh, yeah. My headcanon and slight redesign regarding Laxus' scarring lol. Probs a lot more extra than you were bargaining for but i wanted to be able to visualize my idea properly 😅

Also bonus the scarring glows when he uses his magic :]

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serenaoculis · 9 days

Text

i think my dandruff is a great metaphor for a lot of my mental problems... actually just like. my problems. in general.

you see, i have really nasty dandruff, for reasons that i still haven't managed to figure out, nor get medical help for. for a very long time my hair and scalp has just been characterised by white flakes that fall in front of my eyes every time i tilt my head and make me feel pretty bad, really gross, and (risking a bit of exaggeration) kind of. subhuman.

i handle this with very specific ways of just. aggressively cleaning my scalp whenever i get the opportunity (and when my depression isn't acting up), occasionally rinsing my hair with water when i see my dandruff acting up, and covering my head when i'm having a really shit day and don't want to worsen it by watching white flakes fall in front of me and people giving me weird looks for them.

old fatman says things like "you could easily solve that by just shaving your head", every time following it up with a mocking follow-up, sardonically saying "but i get it's a part of your identity" in an exhasperated tone and without turning to look at me. other, less evil people, give me a number of recommendations. some of my family members tell me to cut it shorter, which i don't want to do, but like, i get where they're coming from. i also have both friends and family suggesting routines to better take care of my hair and stuff, not only to deal with the dandruff but also to get it looking nicer, since i have pretty nice hair that i am just pretty bad at taking care of.

but like, when i look around me, and i see other people with long hair or hair that has similar complications to mine... when i look at other people who are ostensibly depressed, their hair isn't like... this bad. their scalp doesn't start flaking if it goes a day without a deep rinsing. and sometimes it makes me wonder: is this much dandruff *normal*? do most people have to push themselves to constantly *dealing with* their own body in order to avoid mistreatment, intentional or not, from those surrounding them?

my friends, and let them be blessed with lifelong prosperity and tranquility, because that is what they have brought into my life, but also... sometimes they'll point out a thing in my face or my head and look at me with the kind of face they look at something that they don't really want to be looking at. and i know they don't mean it, i really do. but i still cover my head for them.

my dandruff is hard to keep under control. it begs for specific circumstances, for me to be in the emotional state and have the energy required to give my scalp a deep washing. it requires my household to have water that day, which with water rations in Bogotá is something that sometimes doesn't overlap with me having the energy to wash myself down. for me, it requires time and effort to keep it under control, and if i don't, i have to hide it as best as i can or be looked upon with contempt. she's an adult, yet she can't wash her own head. she's careless. she's gross. all that.

...the reason why i compare this with my mental illness, particularly ADHD but also the tendency i have to get tremendous moodswings at random times for reasons i don't really know the specifics of, is because it's useful as a metaphor. you see, dandruff is physical. it is not a behaviour i have, or a state of mind i go into. it is literal white flakes falling down from my scalp every time i move my head.

however, the principle is quite similar.

how i manage my ADHD depends on factors both within and without my control. it varies depending on the day, on the way i've been feeling recently, and on a hundred other factors i can't even say i fully understand.

and yet, just like my mood swings, or (in fact) my dandruff, this nuance is lost on bystanders, so i end up having two choices:

wait to see if i can deal with it, try making it better in whatever way i can, and keep it a little under control, at the expense of limited energy which i have to spend doing other things which are fundamental for achieving anything in my position,

or hide it, and wait until i (maybe) get another opportunity to deal away with it in the near future, trying to participate in as little activities that require me to use my focus as possible so that no one will notice something's up.

and like. to me, this seems really unfair. it's really shitty that i have to wrangle myself into a vessel that vaguely resembles that which society accepts in order to be accepted as human. humans are complicated. humans are like me a lot of the time. but i have to hide what i am because people have been convinced for an immense amount of time that it is wrong to be like me.

but people expect a baseline of normalcy and presentability in others, like it or not. it's what our society has been built up to be for our whole lives, and not everyone is deconstructing that as actively as you or i could be.

and so, even if it's harder for me to look like a standard member of society than most people, i'm not really afforded the choice.

because if i don't do that, people are going to be able to tell, and judge me for it.

just like they do when there's white flakes falling down from my scalp.

thanks for reading.

#serena personalposting

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gallifreyburning · 5 months

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okay sjsdf listen. I'll get into both of the Gallifrey wips because it's been so long since I opened these files, I was shocked at what I found tbh. Maybe someday my Gallifrey muse will return from war (har har) and I'll pull together enough to finish and post these stories.

I need you to know. I NEED you to know. I have no idea what prompted me to make this "Hair Fic" wip file. I have no memory of creating it. And when I open it, THIS is all it contains:

-Chapter 1: Brax mustache comedy -Chapter 2: just Leela and Romana braiding each other’s hair -Chapter 3: Romana’s haircut -Chapter 4: reasons Narvin grew the beard -Chapter 5: Leela shaves Narvin’s beard with her knife -Chapter 6: Ace and hair dye

I am DYING, this is so cryptic and funny.

The "Needless Angst" wip is just my working title for Inverse Corollary. I have an almost complete unpublished chapter finished, actually? I had no recollection of getting this far! So, remember how Narvin and Leela are being held prisoner by some aliens, but Narvin keeps jumping into random scenes/timelines? Here he goes again:

When Narvin opens his eyes, aching and shivering, he isn’t laying on his office carpet. He’s on a marble floor, one he knows well, although he isn’t used to seeing it at this low angle. This is the Panopticon. The lights glare, his head pounds, and his vision blurs. He wobbles onto his hands and knees and lifts his head to find a large seat directly in front of him. It resembles a throne. Bafflingly, Romana sits in it and stares at him with indolent expectation, as if she is bored by his particular brand of suffering and is waiting for him to do something more entertaining. “Romana?” he rasps, his throat dry as a bone, as if he hasn’t had anything to eat or drink in days. He pushes back to sit on his heels, and glances down at himself – his missing tabard, and his white robe that desperately needs a wash and a press. As he kneels in front of her high seat, Romana’s face hardens into fury. She draws her petite frame out of its slouch, back stiffening into an imperious sneer. “What did you say to me?” she whispers, each word enunciated like a guillotine drop. At this point, Narvin’s vision clears completely and he realizes they aren’t alone. Time Lords pack the room, filling the galleries from top to bottom. “I – I said your name,” he replies, keeping his tone as neutral as possible. He still squeaks a little, anyway. “I seem to be having a strange–” “Guard,” she says, with a flick of her wrist. Instantly, he’s seized by the collar and hauled backward. His breath leaves him in a solid rush as he hits the floor hard, and he hasn’t the chance to inhale again because the chancellery commander’s boot lands on his chest, pinning him down. “My name? You dare!” Not a question, an accusation. Romana is on her feet now, towering on her dais, her face pale with rage. Narvin couldn’t reply even if he’d thought of something to say, what with the golden jackboot smashing his breastbone. “You had one job today, Narvin, one simple task, and yet you continue to be a disappointment.” “Madam Imperiatrix!” rings out a familiar, confident voice from the Panopticon doors, behind him. “I bring good news, and trophies of victory!” Imperiatrix? Although he’s thoroughly pinned, Narvin strains to twist his head back to catch a glimpse of Leela. She struts into the room, wearing a tight-fitting black uniform that reminds him of the Lord Burner’s clothes, on that other Gallifrey they visited from the Axis. An animal pelt dangles in her grip, as she practically skids to a stop beside him. Falling to her knees, she lifts the animal pelt into the air, toward the elevated throne. “Madam Imperiatrix, I bring proof of your enemy’s death. As you ordered, I have killed the Time Lord named Braxiatel.” In a rush of nausea, Narvin realizes that the thing he mistook for an animal pelt is actually a humanoid scalp, in a distressingly familiar salt-and-pepper hue.

“Leela!” Romana squeals in delight, her humor turning in an instant. The human woman throws the scalp at Romana’s feet, with stomach-churning precision. Romana leans over to examine it with a happy gasp. “My faithful hunter!” “I am your servant,” Leela replies in a loud enough voice to be heard by everyone in the chamber, her head bowed. Her hair is cropped short, her jaw set to a stern line. “Your edict is law, and your will is my command, my Imperiatrix.” In a flurry of gossamer fabric, Romana descends and rests her hands on Leela’s bowed head, a bestowal of blessing. “I have no more faithful servant.” “You do me great honor.” For a moment, Narvin thinks that Romana might kiss the crown of her head; instead, she shifts her attention to Narvin, her delight turning into undisguised disgust. “Your pet has been a disappointment this day, Leela. My patience with him is done.” “Give me but a single span with him, My Lady Pandora, and he will never disappoint you again. If he does, I will cut out both his hearts with my own hand,” Leela murmurs, softer now, only for the ears of those in the immediate vicinity.

So ... that's what poor Narvin is dealing with this morning.

#alyona11 #answers for your burning questions

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jyndor · 2 years

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watched the episode, it was great, need to watch again but some thoughts off the top of my head, spoilers under the cut

I wasn't sure if the crystal in Maarva's ship was actually a kyber or not, but now I'm certain they are going for a DIRECT parallel with Jyn and the kyber crystals given that Luthen gives Cassian a Rakatan (!!!! Lol no Easter eggs my ass) kyber pendant. I wonder if the crystals are representative of mentors/parental figures in their lives as well, and obviously Luthen's gonna die at some point. Also I think they are representative of moments of transition. This is... I mean they're just pointing them in the direction of home, their final home at least.

Love the attention to DETAILS! Cassian shaving, tending to wounds, the rings and the wig Luthen puts on and the way he practices his persona, the fake name Cassian chooses (Clem 🥺, his adopted father).

Cassian DID fight when he was 16 but I was getting ready for work so I missed what he was saying. Interesting that he literally sounds like Jyn - "they're all the same" - when referring to the Partisans, Separatists, Alliance, etc. I mean it's... wow. Like it's not even subtle at this point.

Luthen is a compelling character, the clear disdain he showed for the man he became when he put on the dressings of the Coruscanti version of him was interesting. It's Very Interesting that he is selling historical artifacts to fund rebel cells, considering how historical artifacts have been trafficked irl by European/US empires and not for good altruistic reasons. I'm curious to know if they will address how messy that is.

I am also glad he isn't actually TEACHING cass how to be a rebel, he's just pointing him in the direction of other movements that need help. I don't love the optics of a Core worlder organizing and funding rebel cells of marginalized groups but I also think he's maybe playing the role of an ally - opening his wallet so to speak.

Mon Mothma's home is BEAUTIFUL and opulent and very much juxtaposed with where Cassian was sleeping on Maarva's ship, and Aldhani in general. I know she did not say that she would be the first to fall 🤣🤣🤣 I am certain she meant in the Senate but that just shows her lack of real connection to the struggles of rebel fighters. Ofc she IS putting herself in danger - to deny that is to deny what the Empire is - but she would never be the first to fall and Luthen seems to know that, and in fact I'm sure that him saying that he has mouths to feed (in addition to being a signal that he is a parental figure, and IMO I think Val(?) is his daughter they just... had a vibe idk) is him reminding her that for all of the danger that she is in, she is able to feed herself and live in luxury when there are people who are in the mud.

btw Aldhani feels very Ireland/Scotland/Aoteoroa which... crying ngl. Iirc they even said highlands which??? They're just scalping the British empire ilu show

Saw Gerrera mention love him sfm. Also I love the Aldhani rebels, they're fantastic.

Cassian Andor needs sleep

Dedra and the ISB are... no notes everything is horrible and Imperial and structured and wow perfect. Majority white, majority male. Fascists can also be women, especially white women. She's great. I hate her already.

Speaking of hate, they literally called Syril "proud" lmfao he's a proud boy. Love his mom, I'm sure she's trash too but I literally have no notes.

Cassian is the first to hear the TIEs, our guy is so fucking observant. Also now he looks super young so pls don't age his ass up too much it unnecessary.

#andor spoilers #star wars andor #cassian andor #star wars #great episode

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codychristiantreasures · 5 months

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I had another...interesting Cody dream last night.

For some reason in this dream I owned a barbershop, and Cody came in looking like the most recent update photos we've gotten and wanted me to fully shave his beard and buzz his head. So I did, much to his delight.

As I'm taking him to pay, he starts commenting about how handsome I am, how he only cut his hair because his boyfriend asked him to, and how he and his boyfriend have been looking for 'another cute guy like you' to join a threesome. The door jingled, he said, "oh, I think that's my boyfriend now," and as I looked up to see who it was...I woke up.

Not to say getting to hear Cody purr like a cat while I rubbed his scalp was a lackluster dream or anything, but I still feel like I missed out on at least 50% of the possible fun to be had in that dream.

I would feel so robbed if that’s when I woke up. What a ride that dream took you on though. You got to touch his hair and beard then he asks to sleep with you. It being a threesome being a bonus. I would love to check those things off my bucket list. Sounds so damn hot. I would be in such a state after that dream. Who do you think Cody’s mystery boyfriend could have been? Or who would you want it to be?

#cody christian #cody ask #blog ask #thanks for the ask!#❤️#Cody’s boyfriend

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dragonmuse · 2 years

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In the LH&K verse and prompt fills it's been hinted that lucius is self conscious/ insecure about his physical appearance at times? Would love to see some moments of Izzy or Pete (or both!!!) reassuring/ comforting/ reacting to Lucius feeling insecure!

(both! Both is good! First half is just a few weeks into Pete and Lucius' relationship, second half is between I Want to Break Free and Laugh with the Sinners)

“It’s hot as hell out there,” Pete pointed out in what he thought was a reasonable manner. “You cannot be serious about wearing layers. Or even a long sleeved shirt.”

“It’s my whole look,” Lucius folded his arms over his chest. “Enjoy my self-expression. Also I’m going to be in an air-conditioned bar all night that’s set to ‘if it gets above freezing my makeup will melt’ temperature.”

“You’re running around all night. I’ve seen how sweaty you get. It can’t feel good.”

“Rude,” Lucius scoffed and started looking for his socks in his overnight bag. “You’re not supposed to tell someone they look gross, you know.”

“I don’t think that’s what I said,” Pete frowned. “You look uncomfortable, not bad.”

“You’re all uncomfortable on nights like this, what does it matter?”

Pete watched him for a long minute. They’d only been dating for two months or so and he wasn’t sure how much he could push this or if he should even bother. Maybe it was just how Lucius preferred to dress. He certainly half-lived in his favorite blazer and most of his outfits had a general sameness to them. Out of drag, Pete was much the same so it was hard to get to get on a high horse about it.

But...

“I like when you look comfortable,” he said. “You smile more and your face is all....you’re always hot, but you’re really beautiful like that.”

Lucius stopped moving and then he turned to him very slowly. “Please tell me you didn’t just say I’d be prettier if I smiled more.”

And Pete had apparently stepped on a landmine. Boom. Wonderful.

“No! Yes? Shit. That’s not what I meant.”

“Oh, please explain,” Lucius all, but growled. Woe betide anyone who thought Lucius was the easiest target on staff.

“I mean I like when you’re happy,” he tried again. “I like knowing you’re okay and doing your thing and not...dunno. Suffering for no good reason?”

“...yeah,” the fight went out of him. “Sorry. I know what you meant. I don’t exactly drown in compliments.”

“I don’t know why,” Pete shook his head. “You’re ridiculously cute, you know that right?”

“I am aware that I can project that image,’ Lucius said carefully and sat down beside Pete, their thighs touching.

“Yeah, you cannot actually Jedi mind trick me into thinking you're attractive,” Pete pointed out. “I told you day one that I thought you were my type.”

“I’m also painfully pale, noodle-armed and still prone to breakouts like I’m fourteen,” he groaned. “I don’t want to wander stripped down. It’s like wearing a sign that says I’ve never worked out a day in my life.”

Pete stared at him.

“What?” Lucius snapped.

“That’s how you see yourself?” He asked incredulously.

“...sometimes,” he mumbled.

“But you’re,...” Pete looked for the right words. Lucius always had good words for things. He loved them and Pete was always trying to piece something together that would at least not sound like total nonsense. Not that Lucius seemed to care. Maybe they were alike in more ways that he’d originally thought. “I started shaving my head because I was balding.”

“Uh, yeah?” Lucius blinked. “I figured that out, believe it or not. You can tell through the stubble and all.”

“And I thought that it was over for me,” Pete plowed on. “Like at clubs and things. Because at least before I looked young before that. There was nothing left to hide behind.”

“You don’t-”

“Shh, my turn,” he chided. “I thought that and I was wrong. Plenty of guys like a bald head. I didn’t have to like it for that to be true.”

“Oh,” Lucius reached out and ran a hand over Pete’s scalp which felt great, but he didn’t lean into it. “I like it.”

“And I like your arms. They’re strong enough to do what needs doing. And I like your skin, it’s soft and pretty. I never notice your pimples unless you point them out and even then, who cares? I still get them too. Just being human.”

“Huh,” Lucius’ hand drifted down to Pete’s face, cupping his cheek which also felt good. “I guess it’s pretty stupid to complain to you about not wanting people to see me, huh?”

“It isn’t. I’ve had my whole life to make peace with my face. Doesn’t mean you can’t feel a way about yours.”

Lucius leaned in and kissed him, then drew back with a sigh. “It is hot as balls out. I’ll leave the jacket here.”

Several years later

“What are you doing?” Izzy asked from the bed. He was sitting up, laptop on his lap, bare chested.

Lucius had snuck in on Izzy’s day off for a nooner and been pleasantly surprised by the warm reception. Generally, Izzy wasn’t open to surprise changes in schedule, but this had gone smoothly enough.

“Putting my clothes back on?” Lucius frowned. “What’s it look like?”

“Thought you were just going to go hang out with Stede.”

“Yep,” he reached for his jacket. “And?”

“And....just seems....” Izzy searched the air for the right words apparently and Lucius ignored him in favor of giving the jacket a good shake to get out some floor-born wrinkles. “Like a lot of layers for lunch.”

“You don’t want me to cover up the tank top,” Lucius surmised.

“...yes.” Izzy admitted.

Lucius had worn just the white undershirt for most of their activities today and Izzy had shown his appreciation as best he could without the use of his hands. It had been fun, but that had been a very much private, inside bit of pleasure.

“I think Stede would have a stroke if he saw my naked shoulders,” Lucius laughed it off.

“Doubt that,” Izzy said.

“...you’re not going to take a perfectly served opportunity to make a joke about Stede dying? Are you sick or something?”

“Seems a shame is all,” Izzy’s eyes dropped back to his laptop. “Didn’t think you ever did anything because of what someone else might think.”

“I-” Lucius stopped mid-pulling on his shirt. “Come again?”

“You’re pretty clear about doing your own thing all the time. So what do you care if someone has thoughts about your shoulders being out on a hot day?” Izzy started typing, apparently only half-paying attention to the conversation at all. “I mean, I’d put on some sunscreen cause you burn like a motherfucker, but otherwise....”

“I like flirting in public, excuse the fuck out of me if I put myself in the best position for that,” he grumbled.

“I will bet you whatever you want that you pull more in the tank then with the shirt on,” Izzy glanced up at him.

“You’re on. I want one of those stupid Gordon Ramsey level complicated recipes for dinner next week when I win.”

“Fine. What do I get if I win?”

“Which you won’t,” Lucius let the button down drop to the floor. “But let’s say....you can finally take that nude picture of me you asked about.”

“Agreed,” Izzy said quickly.

“How are we measuring this?”

“I trust you to be honest about it,” Izzy shrugged and went back to typing. “Have a nice lunch. Bring sunglasses, it’s bright out there.”

Lucius: This cannot be happening.

Izzy: what’s that?

Lucius: I have been trying to get the new waiter at this place’s attention for weeks. Stede tried to convince me he was straight because I was being so pathetic about it.

Izzy: and?

Lucius: and he gave me his number on a cocktail napkin under my drink just now like I’m in a Sex and the City episode.

Izzy: You’re a Samantha, right?

Lucius: how do you even know that reference? This day makes no sense.

Izzy: Fang called me a Miranda once and I was pretty sure it was an insult so I had to do research.

Lucius: How much research?

Izzy: Pete is a Charlotte and Stede is a Carrie. Eddy is Big.

Lucius: So Miranda and Samantha are having a nude photo session is what I’m getting from this conversation.

Izzy: You can wear the tank if you want. And I’ll still make you beef wellington. Always wanted to try that anyway.

Lucius: i want to put you in a jar and study you like a bug sometimes. But sure, we can do both Tuesday.

#leda house and the kraken verse

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republicsecurity · 9 months

Text

Transformation

Tactical Medics Diary

I stared at the photograph, a vivid relic of a life that felt simultaneously distant and not too long ago. Just one year, shortly before my Conscript Duty started. In it, I was a far cry from the disciplined tactical paramedic I had become. Instead, I wore a garish Hawaiian shirt, a vibrant explosion of colors and patterns that reflected the carefree spirit I used to embody. My mop of unruly blond hair cascaded in all directions.

Now, that once-boisterous hair had been shaved away, leaving behind the bare expanse of my scalp. The Hawaiian shirt had been replaced by a red body armour, a symbol of my dedication to service. I'd gone from sipping coconut-flavored drinks on a sandy beach to carrying out missions in high-pressure, life-or-death situations.

Who needs privacy when you have a neural-psychological training program that knows your deepest fears better than your therapist?

They told me I'd get into the best shape of my life. Little did I know that shape would be a perfectly shaved head in a red flightsuit.

The changes were profound, yet they felt almost inevitable. As a tactical paramedic, I had embraced a life of precision, discipline, and responsibility. The laughter and leisure of my past had been replaced by the efficiency and focus demanded by my new role.

Who needs privacy when you have a neural-psychological training program that knows your deepest fears better than your therapist?

But even as I looked at that old photograph, a small part of me still longed for the carefree days when I could let my hair down, both figuratively and literally. It was a different life, a different me, but it had shaped the person I had become. And though the blond hair and Hawaiian shirt were gone, the memories remained, tucked away in a corner of my mind like a well-preserved relic of a distant past.

Cadets Diary:

For some reason, we looked at old pre-induction fotos today. As I stared at the old picture of myself, a surge of nostalgia and mild amusement washed over me. There I was, a younger version of the person I had become, or more accurately, the person I'd been molded into. In that photograph, I sported a mohawk that could only be rivaled by a particularly rebellious porcupine and a leather jacket that screamed defiance.

Now, the mohawk was replaced by the perfectly shaved head we all proudly sported in our red bellhop uniforms. The leather jacket? Well, it had given way to this dashing red ensemble, the symbol of our servitude to the greater good.

I used to raise hell. Now, I raise eyebrows with my perfectly shaved head and impeccable uniform. Who knew conformity could be this stylish?

In those days, I was all about chaos and non-conformity. Now, I embodied structure and precision, from the way I stand ramrod straight to how I address everyone as "Ma'am" or "Sir."

The rebellion of my youth had been expertly conditioned out of me, replaced by an unwavering commitment to the paramedic cause.

Looking at that old photograph, I couldn't help but smile. I might have lost my punk exterior, but I gained a sense of purpose, camaraderie, and a darn good uniform. Sometimes, change wasn't so bad, even if it came with a few sacrifices.

Conscripts Diary

Looking at that old picture of myself, it's almost like peering into an entirely different life. I had this wild afro, a hairstyle that was as free-spirited as I was back then. My clothes were eclectic, my days were filled with adventures, and my evenings were for partying. Life was a bit of a chaotic rollercoaster, and I relished every twist and turn.

But now, here I am, a conscript paramedic with a perfectly shaved head, a sculpted physique, and this sharp, red uniform that screams discipline. The change has been nothing short of astonishing.

Now, I'm clean-shaven, sporting a shaved head like all the other paramedics. My body is toned and fit, a result of the relentless physical training we endure. It's like they took the old me and turned me into something more disciplined, more focused.

Being in the Paramedic Corps is like living in a sci-fi movie, but without the cool special effects and with way more push-ups.

I can't say I miss the afro, but there are times when I wonder what it would be like to let loose again, to not be constantly monitored, conditioned, and confined within the ironclad schedule. But this is the life I chose, or maybe it chose me. Either way, I'm here now, and there's no going back. You haven't experienced real camaraderie until you've tried to keep your sense of humor while wearing a chastity cage."

You know you're a paramedic when the highlight of your day is getting one hour of free time outside the HUD. Freedom, one hour at a time!

So, I'll keep the shaved head, the red flightsuit, and the discipline. After all, it's what makes me a paramedic. And I have to admit, I do look pretty damn good this way.

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