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hivemuthur · 3 months ago

Note

Anon because I am a coward lmao, but a request nonetheless if you want/have the time! Been thinking about a classic!Viktor (because him in that uniform is just so scrumptious) x f!reader in an established relationship where they have a bet going that they can't last a week without sex. They take turns over those 7 days mercilessly teasing the other and trying to make each other lose the bet (errant touches here and there, lingering kisses/looks, etc., and one of those could maybe be a heated up-against-the-wall makeout). Up to you whether they make it to day 7 or not! 🤭 And we stan a soft!dom!Viktor of course

I saw some folks picking anon emoji so I'll pick ✨️Anon if that's okay! Thanks for your time whether this makes it or not, I sincerely love everything you write! ❤️

Guess what. They didn't make it :x

All is Fair in Love and War

viktorxfemale!reader explicit! a lot of teasing + (unsafe) desk sex, if you squint diligently there is some dom!Viktor but he's so whipped he doesn't even have it in him, and there is some maybe a little bit OOC Viktor and love confessions too. Sap, remember?

word count: 5,8K (sorry it got out of hand)

author's note: Nothing, just Happy Freakday :v

—

It is funny, the human nature and the way you leap at the chance to bend and break it whenever an opportunity to prove a point arises. Often against your better judgement, hurting yourself in the process—yet the reward, the being right, you deem worth it. Whether it is or isn’t, you still don’t know. No scientific data on the matter; you'd have to somehow double yourself and join both the control and the treatment group.

It’s also infuriating how once something is forbidden or simply out of reach, it becomes instantly more desirable—damn near essential to your survival.

And it’s not that you lack self-control or are some savage animal. No. Quite the opposite—composed, focused when it matters, dedicated when it’s required, passionate when you allow yourself to be. And most of the time, that last one comes easily, naturally, around Viktor.

You don’t even remember how it started. He said something along the lines of, “Is that so?” in that tone—the one that has your head tilting and your hand bracing your hip, the one that forecasts trouble—and you responded with something like, “Why don’t we find out?” fully aware that the challenge at hand was going to inch dangerously close to impossible.

It is now day four of your ridiculous, point-proving, let’s-see-who-folds, I-can-outlast-you-with-my-finger-in-(insert an offensive body part) bet—for lack of a better name—and you really can’t remember why you picked up that stinking glove in the first place.

Day one was relatively easy. That was back when your tactic was simply to stay docile and survive. Got you all cocky, how simple it was, just to brace through a day filled with mundane tasks—a list long enough you didn’t even see Viktor for more than a minute.

Day two got harder. Viktor, the snarky bastard, had already started playing unfairly—cravat loosened at the neck, top button undone, revealing his Adam’s apple, one of your many weak spots. Another, also shamelessly flaunted: the mole on the side of his throat. One of your favourite places to press your mouth to. It glared at you all day every time Viktor craned his neck or leaned beside you to read something over your shoulder. It became painfully clear then: without proper artillery, this battle would see you utterly, thoroughly obliterated.

As if the sight itself weren’t enough, Viktor was clearly ready to have you rendered stupid and wanting right there in the lab on that second day. Pretending to be engrossed in your notes, he traced his long finger down your handwriting, occasionally tapping, humming—soft and low in his throat. The air from his nose fanned your cheek mercilessly, steady and warm. And then, the wretched scoundrel, brushed his hand against yours. The touch was barely there, a whisper of skin, designed with surgical precision to twist the knife further. To finish the kill, he leaned down and pressed his lips to your forehead in a sign of loving approbation, murmuring, “Impressive work, lásko.”

“T-thank you,” you stammered, blinking blindly—trying desperately to blink away the feel of his hot lips on your skin, to scrub the sound of his voice from your brain. The praise had bled right into the spot you had prayed would remain numb. The urge to shake out your hand, to run it under cold water, to splash your face for good measure—you managed to resist. The burn on your cheeks, however, had no such mercy.

Viktor only smiled. The smirk he wore was unmistakable: a shit-eating, obscenely smug thing that sat crooked on his mouth, gleaming with unsaid victory. You could almost hear the remark hanging off the tip of his tongue—something close to, “That’s what I thought,” or, “As expected.” But he had the mercy, that day, to keep it to himself.

As he walked away, leaving you sighing in premature relief, he paused. Turned. Tipped his head, cane idly drawing slow circles across the stone floor.

“What would you say to raising the stakes?” he asked, like it was a casual thing, like it wasn’t a hand grenade tossed over his shoulder.

Impossible, you thought. Absolutely not. I’m barely hanging on, was the reasonable choice. Which, naturally, meant that instead of saying any of those sensible things, your stupid competitive mind stepped forward first.

“What do you have in mind?” you asked, voice already on the brink of cracking.

“Well,” Viktor began, adjusting his grip on the cane, feigning neutrality with such theatrics you wanted to hit him, “if we want this test to deliver true results…” A beat.

“Perhaps we should both refrain from seeking relief by our own hands.” He gave a gracious little tilt of his head, the kind that almost passed for innocence. “Unless, of course, that would be too much for you.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Are you implying that I have no self-control?”

“Not at all, my darling,” he replied smoothly. “I’m merely implying that I have more self-control than you do.”

A scoff—hot, sharp, and angered—left your mouth as you stood and closed the distance between you. Against reason, despite the suffering you’d already struggled to endure, you came so close that the air he breathed out, you could breathe in. You whispered, low and sinister, “Bring. It. On.”

“Very well,” Viktor muttered, leaning in to your ear. “Hands where I can see them, sweet thing.”

“Likewise,” you hummed into the hollow of his neck, and noticed—not without a sickening sense of triumph—that goosebumps rose where your breath had licked his skin. A faint pink bloomed upward from beneath his collar as well.

Sleeping that night? Nearly impossible, of course. Another thing added to the growing realm of forbidden comforts that had suddenly become this much more attractive to you. And you would be a liar if you said your hands didn’t itch. Sleep became another casualty in this battle, but somehow, you managed to stand your ground.

Naturally, you had to brace yourself with tactics of your own. Day three began with a strategy. You'd woken up taut and fraying, sheets tangled between your legs and thighs pressed too tight together. Your fingers stayed loyal to the pact—barely. But if you couldn’t touch yourself, then you’d just have to make him want to.

So you dressed with a mind to war: the cravat from your uniform was nowhere to be found—lost to the laundry or sabotage, you weren't sure, and frankly didn’t care. Instead of a replacement, you simply didn’t wear one. With the first few buttons of your shirt left artfully undone, the slight gap revealed the delicate valley of your cleavage whenever you leaned forward, bent over something, or stretched, as one does.

Then the skirt. It sat a little too low, so you wrapped the waistband twice and pinned it beneath your belt, hiking the hem high enough that your garters whispered suggestively with every step.

You walked into the lab like a provocation made flesh and Viktor noticed immediately—of course he did. He always notices everything. But this time, he said nothing. Just paused, mid-motion with a wrench in his hand, and blinked slowly, like he’d just been struck by something quiet and lethal. His gaze dropped once, flicked back up, and then he returned to his work with all the casualness of a man pretending not to drown.

That should’ve been your victory. Except that twenty minutes later, while you stood at the central workbench, bent over a set of schematics with a pencil tapping idly between your fingers, Viktor came up behind you. Not touching, never touching. But his voice, cool and rich, curled over your shoulder like silk.

“Did your cravat fall victim to a tragic accident?” he asked, as if genuinely curious.

You glanced back at him with a sugar-sweet smile. “Laundry’s fault. Terrible service. Think I’ll lodge a formal complaint.”

He hummed, low in his throat. “Yes, you should. It would be a shame if such... structural integrity failed in more critical areas of your attire.”

You turned, just slightly, letting him see the way your shirt shifted open with the movement. “If you’re concerned, I’m sure you could help reinforce it.”

“I could,” he said, his mouth twitching, his eyes lingering for one heartbeat too long. “But I wouldn’t want to overstep.”

And with that, he walked off. But his limp was tighter than usual, jaw clenched, and his cane struck the tile floor with a touch too much force to be casual. You counted that as a small, simmering win—and an idea, for later.

An idea which, before, you’d deemed a last resort, now begins to seem more and more essential to your survival, because Viktor is utterly fucking shameless.

It is day four, and you are inching toward your wits' end, disbelieving how a mere four days of deprivation have indeed left you nearly drooling over his body—slouched on the couch in what appears to be an innocent nap. But the sighs and groans that leave his mouth are a little too loud, a bit too breathy, and his legs are too far apart, the slope of his groin staring at you with obscene entitlement from where you are curled up on the couch next to him. Not touching, of course.

His chest rises and falls in slow, rhythmic pulls, the fabric of his shirt straining just faintly each time he inhales. You watch the subtle shift of muscle beneath it, the barely-there flutter of his lashes against his cheek, and the way his throat bobs every so often, like his body is caught somewhere between rest and need. His lips, slightly parted, glisten with the faint sheen of sleep, and it would be so easy—criminally easy—to lean in and steal the air right from his mouth.

You shouldn't be looking, you know that. But your eyes drag down the ridges of his ribs, the soft dip of his waist, the hand resting slack against his thigh—long fingers splayed in a mockery of carelessness. You can’t even pretend to read anymore. The words on the page blur while he lays there like a temptation wrought by some divine punishment, entirely unbothered, until—

He shifts. Just a little. One eye cracks open, and the barest hint of a smile twitches on his lips. Then, hoarse and low, without even bothering to fully open his eyes, he rasps, “Seeing anything you like?”

You have enough common sense not to startle. The instinctive reaction would be to deny, deny, deny. But then, a thought strikes you—why would you? The bet entails simply not fucking, not pretending as if you don’t want to. In a swift pivot, your new tactic slides into place like a dagger in silk.

“Very much so,” you say, voice smooth, a soft smile playing across your lips while your eyes narrow. You don’t even try to hide the way you’re ogling him, letting your gaze drag with intention—chest, throat, lips, hips—then slowly back up again to meet his.

“Oh?” he murmurs, finally opening both eyes. One brow lifts lazily. “Why don’t you tell me about it?”

“Oh, Viktor,” you sigh with feigned exasperation, tilting your head. Your tone is syrupy and sharp all at once. “Are you trying to orchestrate my downfall or yours?”

“Not at all,” he hums, pleased. “I’m simply curious about what’s happening in that pretty head of yours.”

“Very well,” you whisper, fingers ghosting over his wrist as your smile deepens. You cradle it like something precious, your thumb brushing across the knuckles—each one a peak, scarred and calloused with work, each line like a story. He watches you with curious eyes, a tension winding through his jaw, but he lets you guide him. Your lips part. You press them to the tips of his fingers in something that almost resembles devotion—until your tongue peeks out and you drag it, slow and warm, along the pad of his index.

“I’ve been thinking about this hand,” you whisper, eyes locked on his as you press a kiss into his fingertip, “in here.” You take the finger fully into your mouth then, slow and obscene, hollowing your cheeks just slightly.

A hiss leaves him, barely restrained, the muscle in his cheek twitching. He leans forward on instinct, like you’ve hooked a string behind his ribs and pulled. His gaze drops, fixated, almost pained with it.

“And then possibly…” you release his finger with a soft pop, teasing, “somewhere else.”

Viktor makes a sound low in his throat, something between a warning and a plea. He shifts closer, drawn in despite himself, and his eyes flick to your mouth again—wet and gleaming. “This,” he mutters, voice hoarse and fraying where he doesn’t intend it to, “is not fair play.”

You smile, teeth flashing, all wicked delight. “All’s fair in love and war,” you hum. “And as this is both, I’d say it’s more than fitting. Besides—” you lean in, brushing your nose along his jaw, “you know exactly what you’d have to do to end this… torture. All these layers in the way…”

His breath stutters. And then a smile curls on his lips—not soft, not sweet, but predatory. The kind of smile that promises you’ve stepped too close to the fire, and you’re about to feel the burn.

“Oh?” he says, gaze raking over you, slow and thorough, like he’s peeling you open with just a glance. “And how many layers do you think exactly part us?”

You still. Stare. He cannot possibly be serious. But then, with the ease of someone who knows precisely what they’re doing, Viktor shifts back and stretches—arms above his head, spine arching, muscles pulling taut under the fabric. The hem of his shirt untucks from his trousers in the process, rising just high enough to tease at the flat plane of his stomach.

Your mouth parts, uselessly, because the trousers dip. Just a fraction. But a fraction is enough. Low, low enough that where you expect to see the band of his underwear, there is—nothing. Just skin. A sliver of the sharp cut of his pelvis, and below that, the dangerous promise of more. Had the trousers slid even a breath lower—or not been cinched by his belt—you’d have been treated to the base of his cock.

Your heart stumbles over itself. Breath caught halfway between outrage and awe, you stare. Incredulous.

“Viktor,” you scold, voice choked with disbelief. “You slut.”

He chuckles darkly at that, low and pleased, the sound laced with unrepentant menace. “What was that?” he murmurs. “All is fair, something along those lines?”

His hand lifts, fingers trailing up to your cheek with mock-gentle reverence. “Seems you haven’t measured your opponent properly,” he says, almost fond. “A mistake. Might cost you.”

Your lips twitch upward, unwillingly impressed. “We’ll see about that,” you whisper, eyes narrowing with intent.

Because now—now you know. That little move? That wasn’t confidence. That was desperation. Calculated, yes, but desperate all the same. Viktor, flashing skin like a weapon, throwing everything short of actual cock at the problem—it’s telling. And oh, you were saving your last resort. But now you know—he’s already playing his.

And it’s only day four.

It’s unbearable to keep your part of the deal that night. To say that your hands crawl with ants is an understatement, and to say that you’ve slept is an overstatement, since all you’ve done is toss and turn. And in the morning, there is no laundry mishap, no sabotage to blame for what you’re about to do.

With your skirt’s waistband rolled up and your ass outright bare underneath, you walk through the corridors, the air licking at your thighs. You pray, sincerely and repeatedly, that you won’t run into Heimerdinger at any juncture—and as ludicrous as that prayer might seem, you suddenly understand why all the skirts of the Academy uniforms are the length you once deemed too prudish to ever stir Viktor into action.

The source of your frustration is already in his usual spot, scribbling the day’s tasks onto the blackboard. You can read the smile from the back of his head the moment you step in through the door, but instead of focusing on that, your gaze drops lower—to his thighs—trying to assess whether he’s fallen twice, whether yesterday’s stunt has repeated itself today.

Sadly, you can’t tell. So with gathered-up determination, you bid him hello and muster all your innocence as you sit at your workbench, thighs pressed close together, the chair biting cold into your skin.

It’s maddeningly civil throughout the first few hours—so much so that your head snaps up each time an audible sigh leaves his mouth, only to realise it’s not about you at all. Just something work-related, some frustration that has him hunched over and his brows all knitted.

After a while it becomes clear that Viktor is struggling. It begins subtly—grunts of frustration under his breath, the occasional mutter in a tone too low to catch, followed by the sharp squeak of chalk against slate. Again and again, he scribbles something onto the board, only to wipe it away with increasing irritation. The lines start to look like arguments more than equations. Whatever he’s writing, he hates it.

Curiosity gets the better of you. You rise and make your way over, and the moment you’re close—close enough to see the tension in his shoulders and the crease between his brows—it thickens in the space between you, the air charged and humming. He doesn't look at you, not at first.

"What’s the matter?" you ask gently, keeping your voice light.

He scoffs under his breath and waves you off. “Nothing.”

But his eyes betray him. They flick, just briefly, downward. Toward your thighs. Then snap away again, his jaw tightening. Oh, poor thing.

You almost feel sorry for him. Almost. But then you remember yesterday—the stretch, the lazy way his shirt had untucked. Desperation wrapped in smugness. No. This is fair game.

“Want to bounce ideas?” you offer, brushing your fingers lightly along his forearm. He stiffens. Your hand drifts higher, skimming over his shirt, the lean plane of his stomach beneath. Purely helpful. Entirely professional.

He exhales, smiling with a certain defeated amusement. “Sure.”

“Good,” you chirp, turning your head just enough for your breath to graze his neck. “Because you seem distracted.”

His eyes cut to you, dark and narrowed. “If you really want to help,” he says, slow and dry, “start writing from the top.”

You follow his gaze upward, and ah—if you’re not the universe’s favourite today, you don’t know what. You grab the usual board stool, the seat worn out and scraped from shoe soles constantly grinding into it anytime either of you wants to make full use of the black surface. You climb onto it gracefully and, as if it’s nothing, await instructions.

He doesn’t say a word, just steps aside, still holding the chalk in his fingers. His expression is unreadable, but his pulse is visible at his throat.

You hold out your hand. “Chalk.”

He gives it to you wordlessly, his gaze fixed. You begin to write.

“Ready,” you say sweetly.

He opens his mouth, begins to dictate something—but the moment his eyes trace down your back, catch the bare expanse of skin beneath the hem of your skirt, his voice falters.

“Start with—” he begins, and stops. Silence.

You glance over your shoulder. “What?”

He stares at you, mouth slightly parted. His throat works around a swallow. You smile, victorious, as the realisation dawns in his eyes. And Viktor doesn’t speak—at least not right away.

Just stands there, stunned. Caught mid-breath, as though something vital has short-circuited behind his eyes. And then you see it—the unmistakable flicker of calculation. You can almost hear the gears turning in his head, trying to solve this, trying to survive it. But he won’t.

Instead, he takes a slow step forward. Then another. The soft tap of his cane echoes once, then again, before he stops just beside you.

Something shifts, and you feel the motion before you see it—cool wood slipping beneath the hem of your skirt. The cane lifts gently, teasingly, fabric peeling upward, making your breath still.

Viktor exhales like a man broken. “You are so wicked,” he murmurs, voice hoarse, brazen. “This is cruel,” comes next, as pained as his expression.

You smile over your shoulder, saccharine-sweet. “My love. You dug your own grave yesterday.”

A low sound escapes him—somewhere between a laugh and a curse—and then he’s moving with purpose. He hooks the cane over the wing of the board to keep it out of the way, and his hands find your legs. His palms are warm, strong, sliding slowly upward. A sweep over your calves, the backs of your thighs, fingers tightening with every inch until he’s cupping you fully, squeezing your ass like it’s his only hope.

His face presses in, breath hot against where your thighs meet, his nose brushing skin. He breathes in deep, his exhale shuddering out against you.

“I surrender,” he says, voice barely above a whisper, as if anything louder would undo him completely. “Please get down from that chair so I can fuck you or I’ll go mad.”

You exhale a startled laugh—part shock, part triumph, part sheer disbelief that you've actually won—and barely stop yourself from huffing out finally as you hop off the stool.

Your landing is clumsy, the soles of your shoes slipping on the floor, but you barely find your footing before Viktor is on you.

His hands are already on your face, in your hair, his mouth glueing into yours, starving and rough. The kiss is all teeth and heat, his breath ragged, his hips pressing you back into the board as if he means to pin you there permanently.

"You’re a menace," he mutters between kisses, voice low, cracked. "Bože můj, you’ll make me lose my mind one day—"

You gasp against him, laughter catching on your tongue, but he swallows it down. Then he takes your wrist, firm and careful, and brings your hand to the front of his trousers, where he is hot and hard and straining.

“Look what you’ve done to me,” he breathes, forehead resting against yours, words trembling with restraint, rage, want—all of it. "Four days," he grits, biting your bottom lip gently before pulling back just enough to meet your eyes.

"Four days of you teasing me, torturing me—strutting around with those fucking lips and thighs and now this? No underwear?" He kisses you through it—messy, hungry, relentless. His lips smother yours again and again, every breath you try to take stolen from your mouth. His hands don’t know where to settle, roaming from your hips to your waist to your face like he’s desperate to feel everything at once, make up for the time lost.

You stumble backwards, and he follows, half draped over you as he walks you toward the nearest workbench, his hips grinding against yours with every step.

Breathless, you manage to smile again—still daring, still cocky, even now. "You reap what you sow."

“Cruel creature,” he growls into your mouth, words lost in the kiss. “You’ve won. Are you happy now?”

“So happy,” you gasp, catching his lower lip between your teeth. “It was unbearable. And you’re no better,” you add, voice low and accusing, “I hope you got burns from yesterday’s stunt.”

“I did,” he rasps, and his voice is a beautiful wreck of need. “And you’re going to lick me back to health.” Then, a pause. He pulls back just far enough to look at you properly, eyes half-lidded and wild, a grin curling his lips.

“But first,” he says, voice dark and deep, “get on that desk.”

You don’t need to be told twice. You haul yourself onto the workbench with a kind of grace that borders on indecent, your skirt bunching at your hips, legs parting. Viktor slots himself between them without hesitation, hands gripping your thighs like he’ll die if he doesn’t touch you, mouth dragging over your jaw, your throat, your collarbone, buttons of your shirt snapping open.

“Fuck,” he mutters with effort, as you wrap your legs around his waist and pull him closer. His hands slide beneath you, guiding your hips to grind into him, keeping you right where he wants you. One arm braces against the bench beside your hips; the other curls around your back, holding you steady as his lips find yours again.

Again, a lot of teeth, even more tongue, but you don’t care—you’ve missed those teeth and that tongue like an addict. You’ve missed the feeling of his hair between your fingers, his smell, the subtle scent of him that only reveals itself when you're this close. His hands, too, shaped as if they were made to cradle your body.

And then he’s fumbling with his belt, his breath fanning your cheek. And then—oh—you don’t even know when it happens, don’t even see if he’s bare under those pants, too busy staring at his lips, but he’s free and hard and leaking against you, resting at your entrance, his mouth breathing heavily. You twitch to meet him, but he holds you still, hips fixed in place like a statue, only his chest rising and falling.

His forehead presses to yours, jaw slack, eyes fluttering shut as he begins to sink in—deeper and deeper—stretching you out inch by inch. His breath trembles out of him in ragged exhales, mouth open in a silent moan until it finally breaks into sound—helpless and guttural.

“Oh, miláčku,” he breathes. “You feel—fuck—I’ve missed you.”

You’re clinging to him, nails digging into the fabric at his back, your head falling against his shoulder. It’s almost too much—he fills you completely, and still, he’s not all the way in.

And Viktor—Viktor looks undone already. His brow pinches at first, a flicker of pain or restraint, but it vanishes in the next breath. His face goes slack, lax. A visible, physical relief settles in his body the moment he bottoms out, hips flush to yours. He moans, long and loud, like this is the only thing that’s made him feel alive in days.

Your breath is nearly non-existent, lungs almost giving out, air caught somewhere in between them. It’s not just the stretch, though that alone is close to being too much, the sharp pull giving way to a fullness that borders on unbearable. It’s the heat of him, the weight, the press of his body. The air seems thicker now, like the room is holding its breath with you.

Your hands tremble as you clutch at his shoulders, trying to ground yourself, but there’s nothing grounding about this. Your nerves are alight, every inch of you humming with sensation—burning where he fills you, tingling where his chest brushes yours, where his breath ghosts across your skin.

You feel split wide open, every part of you drawn taut around him, and he hasn’t even moved yet.

“Gods,” you whisper, almost to yourself. “I almost forgot how much…”

Viktor lifts his head, his nose nudging yours, the smile he gives you helpless, crooked, all teeth and tenderness. “How much what?” he rasps.

You try to answer but it comes out as a gasp instead, the words dissolving as your body clenches around him. You feel the tremor run through him—see it, too, in the flicker of his lashes and the flex of his jaw.

He’s holding on, yet barely. You feel it in his grip, the way his fingers press into your skin, in the quiver of restraint in his thighs. And somehow, that makes it worse. Hotter. More intimate.

“You feel like—” you choke out, panting. “You feel like you’re everywhere.”

A low sound tears from his throat, somewhere between a groan and a plea. “That’s what I want,” he murmurs. “I want to be everywhere. I want to leave no room for anything else.” His hips roll—just once, shallow—and your mouth falls open, no sound coming out.

“Tell me,” he whispers, lips brushing your cheek, your temple, the shell of your ear. “Say you missed this. Say you missed me.”

You nod before you can form a word, tears prickling at your lashes from the intensity. “I missed you,” you gasp. “I missed everything. Please, let’s not do that again.”

His mouth finds yours again, fully desperate now, and finally—finally—he begins to move. And it’s deep, grinding in slow, restrained thrusts that have your breath stuttering with each pass. It’s all pressure and heat, dragging friction and stretch, every slide of his hips drawing out a gasp you can’t swallow, it just stumbles out.

His lips are on your neck, your jaw, your shoulder as his drool dampens your shirt, mouth panting hot between murmurs—fragments of words, your name, curses in Czech that sound like a praise.

“God,” he rasps, sweat slicking his forehead as he pulls out and sinks back in, slow, careful, so careful. “You’re so—tight, fuck—I can’t, I won’t—”

He cuts himself off with a grunt, hips shuddering against yours. The sound of him sliding inside you, wet and obscene, fills the small space between you. Each thrust makes it louder, harder to keep up.

“You’re not making this easy,” he growls against your ear, pressing in so deep your spine arches. “If you want me to last—touch yourself.”

You let out a shaky breath, not trusting your voice. But your hand slips between you, fingers working tight, trembling circles against your clit. And Viktor—Viktor moans when he sees it. His head drops to your shoulder, teeth scraping your skin through the fabric, sweat dripping from his brow, sinking into your clothes, as he starts to move again, even deeper this time, harder.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he hisses, watching you, wild-eyed. “Just like that—look at you.”

You shift, needing more, angling your hips, one foot propped up on the table’s edge for leverage, other leg hugging his side. It opens you wider, gives him more room, and he uses it—hips snapping forward, the slap of skin on skin filling the lab, occasionally knocking your hand off course.

The workbench creaks beneath you. His arm trembles where it braces beside your hip. His other hand is cupping your thigh, holding it high and tight, your body drawn up taut around his like a bowstring straining at the edge of release.

And still he doesn’t stop yapping—your name, praises, filth, words that blur together into a stream of breath and groans. “So wet for me,” he pants, thrusting deep enough to have you momentarily mute. You melt around him, every time he pulls out it’s like you’re begging him not to.

His eyes meet yours, glassy and undone, and you see it—that tight coil in his gut winding ever higher. His hips stammer, breath breaks, and he’s so, so close. And you are right there with him.

Shaking—hips bucking into your hand, legs trembling where the muscles can’t hold up any longer, every part of you stretched thin and burning. He’s not faring any better. His pace has lost its rhythm, faltering now, every thrust hitting deep but messy, like he’s chasing the edge and barely hanging in there.

“I’m—” you start, breath interrupting. “I’m close—almost—”

A sound breaks from him, torn from his chest. “Thank God,” he groans. “I’m so fucking close—baby, come for me.” A breath, and a pleading hand comes to cradle your neck. “Please,” he swallows, “be a good girl—”

And it’s that. That voice, those words, the begging, cracked raw and full of want—that shatters you into pieces. Your body clenches hard around him, every muscle tightening in a violent rush of release when you cum, mouth loud, nails biting into his back, forehead pressed to his as the string stretches and snaps, ripping you apart in a way only he can undo you.

And Viktor follows immediately—unable to hold back any longer. A hoarse sound like gravel, tears from his throat, and he thrusts once more, buried to the hilt as he spills inside you in hot, thick pulses of cum. His whole body shakes with it, his nose bumping into yours, mouth catching on your moan as he answers with one of his own.

Then, neither of you moves. You’re pressed together, heaving for air, clinging to each other like the world narrowed to this—slick skin, damp clothes, soft gasps, and the slow, sticky pulse of overstimulation setting in.

“Gods,” he mutters, voice barely there against your cheek. “You’re going to kill me.”

You laugh, breathless, threading your fingers through his damp hair. “Like-fucking-wise.”

A beat. Then, with a reluctant groan, Viktor draws back—slowly, carefully—pulling out of you with a hiss. The wet sound makes your stomach flip, and his eyes flutter at the loss of contact, still caught in that delicate haze of aftershock.

“You alright?” you ask, light and shaky. Your hand lifts to brush aside the hair clinging to his temple.

Viktor nods and swallows, clearly spent—tired but blissful. He leans in again, still softening, cock resting against your thigh as he presses back between your legs to kiss you. It’s a grateful kiss, deep and languid, like he doesn’t quite know what he’s thankful for—your body, your presence, or that the torment is finally over.

“You are so horrible,” he whispers fondly against your mouth. Then, quieter, more fragile, “I love you so fucking much.”

“Again, likewise,” you murmur, letting your legs slump off the table, heels swinging lazily against the backs of his calves. “You’re no warmonger though,” you hum, fingertips tracing the slope of his cheek, the swell of his bottom lip.

“No,” Viktor agrees with a tired smirk. “Death by my own sword. How ignominious.”

You grin. “I’m impressed with your tactics, though. You almost had me yesterday.”

“Shut up,” he groans, and cackles—rich and golden and still a little breathless. The sound is honey in your ears. “You shouldn’t kick a dying man.”

“Not kicking,” you say, mock-innocent. “Just poking. And I died a little too, in case you didn’t notice.”

“Oh, I noticed,” Viktor says, smirking into the curve of your throat. “I’m tempted to make you die like that again, but I fear for my own sanity.”

“Me too.” You kiss his temple, your heart still thudding somewhere under your ribs. “I am completely and utterly mad about you.”

“Likewise,” Viktor breathes against your lips, smiling without shame, pleased beyond dignity. And you are so, so glad the war is finally over.

#my writing #viktor arcane #viktor fanfic #viktor x reader #viktor x reader smut #viktor smut #viktor x gn!reader #viktor x oc #arcane #arcane fanfic #ao3 #ao3 fanfic #viktor nation #requests

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lady-quen · 2 months ago

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A list of some of my sylvari headcanons and interpretations of canon, but delivered in extreme hodgepodge style:

- they have human-analogous internal anatomy, meaning that they are plant matter mimicking animal functionalities, inside and out. This is further supported by Mordrem possessing specialized organs such as brains or kidneys (Mordrem Researcher quests) Since the Pale Tree grew on the graves of Ronan's family, she grew her roots into what remained of the bodies, taking nutrients while also learning their anatomy and establishing a scaffolding for the future sylvari. You know how if you bury a body under a tree and later dig up the soil, the roots are shaped like a human? Something similar happened here.

As such, sylvari hardwood skeletal systems are very accurate copies of human skeletons, but soft tissues are more their own thing due to the Pale Tree having less of an accurate frame of reference (since the bodies would have begun to rot) and going with a mix of her knowledge of human anatomy and "instinctive" Mordrem anatomy.

- The wiki states they don't have hearts and a pulse, but relying on purely osmotic gradients for circulation in an ambulatory creature that is stated to have high energy needs and therefore is even unable to rely solely on photosynthesis and other typical plant processes seems implausible, so I changed it to give them some sort of pump organ, positioned more or less in the center of the chest.

- The sylvari don't really have names for their own organs, so they approximate using human vocabulary.

- Sylvari tend to sleep deeper, but can train themselves to have a lighter sleep if required (such as, in dangerous field jobs.) The extra deep sleep sometimes causes nearby sylvari to synchronize their dreams and even "meet" in a hazy dreamscape, a faint remnant of the actual Dream.

- Sylvari sap does not contain platelets, but injury stimulates phloem cells and/or skin cells to swell and constrict, then release a substrate which reacts with certain substances contained within the sap to create a clot-like resin.

- Given enough time, sylvari resin exposed to outside conditions could potentially turn into amber?

- The fact sylvari breathe with their lungs (since they are unable to rely solely on diffusion) implies they possess blood cells and some sort of chromoprotein to carry oxygen? Further supported by the existence of the Mordrem Spleen. Alternatively, they utilize natural magic to speed up diffusion..?

- Sylvari most likely do not possess adaptive immune systems and rely on innate tissue-level strategies to fend off pathogens, like other plants.

- Sylvari awaken with shaper magic, as in the ability to magically and empathically influence other plants. Some specialized Shapers train this ability to use in plant sculpting and architecture, and creating various purposed species such as turret plants. Wardens find it useful to train themselves to read and use other plants as early warning signs for incoming danger. Very rarely, certain sylvari, particularly necromancers, can awaken with little to no shaper magic.

Shaper abilities can be used to alter one's own body, to the point of completely changing one's appearance and even gender if desired, though such a process takes some time. (Perhaps months?)

- Mordremoth, possessing vast amounts of control over plant shaping, can rearrange a sylvari body completely in a matter of hours to days.

- Considering real-life plants rely predominantly on hydraulics rather than electric signaling, logic-ing out an internally consistent and plausible anatomy for ambulatory plants is very difficult (impossible?) thus sylvari must at least possess predominantly electric pathways, essentially mimicking a human nervous system. Many processes would also likely require "it's magic" as an explanation, which makes sense if we consider they are dragon minions, which were probably originally meant to help process and store magic energy at least to some degree.

- Science of sapient walking plants, what the fuck.

- Thank you Tree Mom 🙏

#guild wars 2 #gw2 #sylvari #gw2 sylvari #just my two cents

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xichilie · 3 months ago

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Hello, God evening, day, morning, night, whatever time you have.

I just wanted to say I love all your work, your fics, art, your ocs

Could I request Brant x female reader she gets and her best friend (you can youse one of your OCs i love them) isakaid into the game and meet brant and his crew, maybe get rescued

Thanks have a nice (whatever time you have)

Hello ♡

I'm very happy you enjoy all my work, and even happier you love my OC's ♡

Brant x (fem)reader

Into the Tides of Another World

Y/N leaned back against the couch, controller in hand, eyes locked on the screen. The latest Wuthering Waves update had just dropped, and she and Micah had been grinding for hours.

“Damn it,” Micah groaned, fingers flying across the buttons. “How is this boss so cracked? We barely dented its HP!”

Y/N laughed, adjusting her grip. “You just have to time the dodges right. Here—watch.”

Their characters darted across the battlefield, dodging devastating attacks from a towering Aberrant. The stormy environment of the oceanic region looked gorgeous, even as their characters got absolutely wrecked.

Micah groaned. “I swear, this game hates me.”

“Sounds like a skill issue,” Y/N teased.

He shot her a glare. “Oh, you’re sooo hilarious.”

But before she could land the final blow, the screen flickered.

The sound glitched.

A low hum reverberated from the TV—deep, unnatural. The room around them seemed to warp, the edges blurring like static.

Y/N’s heart skipped.

“Uh… Micah?”

He turned, eyes wide. “What the hell is—”

A blinding light swallowed them whole.

Cold.

That was the first thing Y/N registered. Bone-deep cold.

Then—

Water.

Rushing, churning, dragging her under.

She gasped, but her lungs filled with seawater instead of air. She thrashed, panic flooding her chest, but the waves were relentless, tossing her like she weighed nothing.

She barely had time to process anything before another force slammed into her.

“Y/N—!”

Micah Called out.

She turned, barely making out his form through the chaos of the storm. He was struggling, just like her, barely managing to keep his head above water.

“We have to—get to the surface—!” he choked out.

But the waves pulled them apart.

Y/N’s vision blurred, exhaustion creeping in as the cold sapped the strength from her limbs.

Was this how it ended?

Just as the darkness crept in, just as her body gave up—

Hands.

Strong, calloused hands grabbed her arm.

Then—a voice.

“Got one! Pull her up!”

A rush of air hit her lungs as she was hauled out of the water. She coughed violently, sputtering, barely able to focus as rough hands dragged her onto solid wood.

She blinked against the rain, chest heaving—

And then, through the haze, she saw him.

Brant.

But not as a character on a screen.

He was real.

Dripping wet, strands of blue and violet hair plastered against his forehead, his usually easy-going expression replaced with sharp intensity. His pink eyes—brighter than she’d ever seen in the game—locked onto hers.

“Well, well,” he mused, voice smooth despite the chaos around them. “Didn’t expect to be fishing anyone out of the sea today.”

Y/N just stared.

Micah, equally drenched and coughing, was hauled onto the deck beside her. He groaned, rolling onto his back.

“I think I’m dead,” he wheezed.

Brant’s crew chuckled. Someone tossed a dry cloak over Y/N’s shoulders, while another checked Micah for injuries.

“Not dead yet, stranger,” Brant said, crouching beside them. His smirk was unmistakable—amused, curious. “Though you do owe me an introduction.”

Y/N’s mind raced.

The storm. The game. The light.

And now—Brant, in the flesh.

She swallowed hard.

“…What the hell just happened?”

By the time ship finally docked, Y/N’s body felt like it had turned to lead.

Her limbs trembled with exhaustion, her mind was adrift in a fog of disbelief, and her soaked clothes clung to her skin like a second layer of ice. Every inch of her was numb—from the cold, from fatigue, and from the sheer impossibility of what had happened.

She wasn’t home.

She wasn’t in her world.

She and Micah had been pulled into Wuthering Waves.

That fact sat in her chest like an anchor, too heavy, too massive to fully comprehend.

A voice—smooth, lilting, carrying an edge of theatrical amusement—cut through her daze.

Y/N barely registered the sensation of being lifted until she felt warmth against her body.

Strong arms supported her with ease, cradling her against a broad chest. Her breath hitched slightly, the lingering chill from the ocean still clinging to her skin.

“Aha, what an honor,” a familiar, teasing voice murmured near her ear. “Rescuing a beautiful castaway with my own hands… truly, fate is feeling generous today.”

Y/N stiffened slightly, her dazed mind finally catching up.

Brant was carrying her.

Even in her weakened state, she could feel the lithe strength in his hold, his arms wrapped around her with a careful but undeniable confidence.

Micah, being half-dragged by one of the crew members, coughed weakly. “Yeah, yeah. Just don’t drop her, Romeo.”

Brant laughed. “Perish the thought! A performer never fumbles their most precious prop.”

Y/N groaned softly, too tired to argue, too dazed to do anything but rest her head against his shoulder.

The journey to The Fools’ Elysium passed in a haze.

Even through the murmur of voices, the creak of shifting wood, and the occasional spray of salt air, Y/N found herself slipping in and out of awareness.

Only when the warmth of torchlight replaced the cold, open air did she manage to blink herself fully awake.

The sight that met her stole what little breath she had left.

A cavern stretched out before them, massive and teeming with life.

Glowing lanterns hung from wooden walkways, casting golden hues over colorful tents, scattered crates, and makeshift stages. The scent of woodsmoke and spiced food lingered in the air, mixing with the ever-present salt of the sea.

Despite her exhaustion, Y/N felt a flicker of wonder.

“Welcome,” Brant said, voice softer now, though still carrying its usual dramatic lilt, “to the Fools’ Elysium.”

She barely had time to process the sight before Brant effortlessly adjusted his hold on her.

“Alright, darling, as much as I’d love to carry you forever I suppose it’s time to get you somewhere warm.”

Y/N wanted to protest. She really did.

But the moment Brant set her down onto a soft cot, exhaustion finally caught up to her.

She barely registered Roccia peeking out from behind her oversized suitcase, or the sharp-eyed medic checking her for injuries.

Brant stayed close his pink eyes watching her carefully.

And for the first time since she had arrived in this strange, impossible world—

Y/N let herself rest.

#x reader #oc x character #x y/n #x you #wuwa brant #brant x reader #brant wuwa #brant #brant wuthering waves #wuthering waves brant #wuthering waves #wuthering waves x reader #wuwa #isakai

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bunni-v1 · 7 months ago

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Aventurine Relationship Headcannons

🍓Hello gang! I've decided to write for Aven next, because he is literally my pretty princess. I really hope you like them... I did my best and he means a lot to me. I feel like a rat rummaging through trash posting this, so I do hope you enjoy for my sake.

TW: Aventurine has very unhealthy coping mechanisms; Aventurine exhibits manipulative behaviors

Info: Aventurine x Reader; Gn!Reader; Angst; Fluff

-Ah, Mr. Aventurine. Senior manager of the IPC Strategic Investment Department. One of the Ten Stonehearts. Luckiest man alive. Ruthless gambler. That’s a lot of titles for one guy.

-You’d think someone as important as him wouldn’t have the time to fall in love, and he wouldn’t argue with you if you said that. He was a very busy person, after all, and he had so many important things to do.

-Love was a ploy made to waste your time and energy – a marketing scheme for hopeless romantics and saps, a gamble not worth taking nine times out of ten. Aventurine wasn’t stupid enough to invest in such a hopeless concept, not with the life he leads.

-Maybe if things had played out differently. If life was simpler and happier he could see a younger version of himself falling fool to the wonders of affection and sweet words.

-Unfortunately, he was not that imaginary boy. He was Aventurine of the IPC, and his time was money that he couldn’t waste on frivolous things like love.

-Affections and gifts were tools of manipulation to be used to gain what you wanted. A pretty smile, a few honeyed words, and an expensive set of earrings were nothing more than tactics to further whatever plan he’s cooked up for the week.

-That’s just how the world was. Cold and uncaring, who was he to deny the natural processes of his business line?

-So, no, Aventurine was not interested in romance.

-...Kakavasha though… Kakavasha was still that little starry-eyed boy who craved love. A boy who fantasized about someone who understood him, who would love him for him, scars and all.

-Kakavasha wanted a partner to waste all his time, to be an excuse to spend the excess of money he didn’t know what to do with, to hold him and whisper sweet words into his ears in the quiet of his luxury apartment.

-He was not a hopeless romantic, at least, he didn’t think he was. He just craved love that he hadn’t felt since he was a little boy. He wanted to love and be loved more than anything else in the world.

-Unfortunately for Kakavasha, Aventurine was the one in control. He didn’t get to have a say in what he wanted, because Aventurine knew what was best for himself even if it was miserable.

-He couldn’t fall in love in the way he wanted, so he simply wouldn’t ever fall in love so long as he jaded his views and ignored others' affections that were anything more than skin deep. No soft spots, nothing.

-Ah, but then there was you. Blinking at him with those pretty eyes, Aventurine felt like he needed to slam his head through a few walls to get the image out of his head.

-Sweet, playful, funny, pretty, perfect you. You made his head all fuzzy and his chest impossibly tight.

-It was sickening, the effect you had on him. Not that you had a clue, with the masterful poker face he puts on around you.

-He tried avoiding you for a week, which was miserable for him because all he could think about was how much he wished he could see you again. What the hell had you done to him? He’s never one to fold so easily, and will stronger than any other person in the planetary system. Yet you…

-Ugh, and when you came to his office with that pout asking why he was avoiding you. Your jutted little lip was so distracting that he almost couldn’t come up with a proper lie to smooth the situation over.

-He was so obsessed, but he could not be obsessed. Not to this degree. He couldn’t let another person in and lose them, he couldn’t get hurt again.

-Still, he can’t stop himself from teasing you. The playful replies to anything you say are genuine and full of affection. The light touches, the brushing of your fingers against him. The thoughtful gifts with too gentle words attached to them.

-That was Kakavasha, certainly so. He couldn’t help himself but indulge in you. Not with how tempting you were, with how he could so easily see that you wanted him too. He wanted to live in a fantasy just a little longer.

-The feeling literally haunts his dreams. Wholesome, romantic dates interrupted by horrible night terrors of you dying in his arms. All because you were connected to him.

-After nightmares like that, he pulls away again. Aventurine remembers why he can’t take the plunge, for both of your sakes. He couldn’t possibly share himself with someone, not in the way you would want him to. He couldn’t possibly stomach the idea of putting a target on your back just by calling you his.

-So, he refuses to let it happen until you warm him up and melt his heart again.

-It’s a brutal cycle of push and pull with him, and it could go on and on and on if you allow it to. He certainly was content with it, because it was the easiest way to go about things like this.

-You can’t tell what the hell is going on in his head, but you know that it isn’t healthy. It’s very clear that he feels the same way you do, but he always slams the door in your face just before you step into the warmth waiting inside.

-You’ll have to confront him if you want anything to get done, and it isn’t pretty. He does not take well to sudden confrontations over things that he so carefully crafted. He doesn’t like it when the world that he built up so painstakingly collapses and reveals the reality around him.

-He’ll pull away fully from you, avoiding you like the plague because Aventurine cannot allow himself to fall in love. He wouldn’t be capable of loving someone as wonderful as you, not the way you deserve.

-Show patience, be steadfast, and don’t give up on him no matter how many times he pushes you to the side. It’s hard for him to pretend like you don’t exist, it hurts him more than it hurts you.

-Eventually… he’ll break. He’ll show up unannounced, looking far more disheveled than you’ve ever seen him, and he’ll apologize. It’s so out of character for him, it even startles him a bit, but he couldn’t live without your warmth.

-And so begins your relationship with Aventurine.

-It is not an easy relationship to have, and I’m not going to delude anyone into thinking anything other than that. There are highs and lows with him, like waves on a beach he’ll push you out just to pull you back in.

-To start, let's talk about the lows because they’re hard but they’re so important to get through with him.

-He has such a difficult time accepting that he’s worthy of being loved, and it manifests as him shutting you out. If he treats you poorly, if he makes you hate him, he doesn’t have to live with the guilt of fooling you into loving someone like him.

-He’ll ghost you for days, won’t answer his phone, or if he does it’s short and cold. You’ll be alone worrying about his wellbeing, what’s wrong with him, why is he so upset at you all of a sudden.

-Then he’ll show up and act like nothing is wrong because he really cannot live without you. If you ask, he won’t answer and instead dance around the subject.

-It’s another thing you’ll have to be patient about. Just handle it with care and show that you aren’t leaving, despite his very self-destructive behavior, and it’ll melt away at his cold exterior like usual.

-He’ll come to you after another long period where he wasn’t speaking to you, no apology flowers, no sly smile, no intent to woo you again. Just him, vulnerable and honest. He asks you why? Why do you stay, why do you still care, why do you let him treat you like that?

-Once you explain it’s because you love him, and you know he’s struggling so hard, and you want to help him be better… he cries. It’s the first time you’ve ever seen him do so, and it’s such a horrible expression that just does not belong on his face.

-To his credit, after your heart-to-heart, he steadily improves this behavior. It still happens occasionally, but it’s shorter, and he’s more receptive to you if you reach out to him during these low periods.

-They never truly go away, but they lessen and lessen and turn into a period where he doesn’t avoid you, but he tells you he just needs time.

-That’s the key point in your relationship that he struggles with communicating. Once you start to break through that barrier and he tells you how he’s feeling, things get so much better for both of you.

-He realizes through your patience that he is someone that someone sees is worth loving, and it makes it easier for him to share his love with you.

-The highs aren’t exactly good either. He’s usually manic when he’s at these high points, and he’s very much love-bombing you the whole time.

-Lavish gifts that you wouldn’t even think to ask for, ones that you absolutely could not turn down – he wouldn’t let you, or else he’d get upset and make you feel bad.

-Constant compliments and flirting, most of which didn’t feel genuine. It’s like he’s faking affection, copying things he saw in movies and on the streets in hopes that you’ll believe he means them.

-He’s selling you on loving him in these highs. Like a business venture, going all in all at once and hoping you’ll take the deal. Hoping you’ll be satisfied with what he’s trying to portray himself as.

-It’s not a sustainable model, it’s rather exhausting to constantly put up walls around someone who he so desperately wanted to know. You get tired of it quickly, and he has to shake it up to keep you happy and interested.

-Despite how he acts, he couldn’t bear it if you left him.

-Once you get through to him with communication, his walls slowly come down, and you get to see the real Aventurine – you get to see Kakavasha. Get to feel how he wants to love you, how he wants to be loved by you.

-It’s not all at once, of course, because he could never let someone in so easily. But over some time, you see more and more glimpses of who he is behind all the glitz and glam and smirks. Let's get into that, shall we?

-He is a gift giver, I don’t think there’s any world where he isn’t. The gifts now, though, are so heartfelt and thoughtful. He quite literally slaves over them, spending hours of his precious time ensuring everything is exactly as you might want it.

-I’m talking about extremely rare limited edition copies of your favorite books, custom-made sets of anything you want, and so many clothes. Most of which have some kind of motif of his, because he quite likes seeing you in things that show off that you are his.

-By the way, he’s a very jealous person, which is another big issue in the relationship. He doesn’t like sharing your attention with other people, at all. He gets jealous of his friends.

-People he otherwise wouldn’t have an issue with become the subject of his ire so long as you’re giving them more attention than him.

-Oh, and he’s so incredibly insufferable about it too. He’ll sidle up to you, pulling you in close by your hip, and smirk at whoever the offender is. Amps up the pet names to an annoying degree, making it very clear that he’s not pleased.

-He expects you to be very apologetic (not really), and give him a million apology kisses once you’re alone together again. If you don’t he’ll pout.

-That’s on the harmless side of things. On the… less pleasant side he’ll probably make their life miserable until he chases them away from you – how miserable depends on just how… affectionate he takes them to be with you.

-Aventurine is also a nickname giver, and 90% of them are inconsistent and don’t stick. The ones he seems to like the most are doll, dollface, dearest (when he’s being an annoying little shit), and my heart.

-Unfortunately, PDA isn’t an option for him, as much as he’d love it to be. He’s a celebrity, essentially, and people would be very interested in you if they saw you at his side. He’s keeping you safe from prying eyes by keeping PDA to a minimum.

-He can get away with it in casinos because having a pretty thing sit on your lap as a ‘good luck charm’ isn’t uncommon, but in most public areas the most he can do is stand close to you.

-It’s to protect you, of course, because he does have targets on his back. As such a high-standing member of the IPC, it’s no shock that he does. However, he knows that people will try and use you to get to him, and he’s trying to nip that in the bud before it can become an issue.

-You and work are very separate parts of his life, and he likes it that way. Very few people within the IPC are aware he’s in a relationship, the only ones being those who caught him being affectionate with you around his office – who he very happily dealt with to keep them quiet. Or… are Topaz and inevitably Jade.

-Other than that, though, you are part of his personal life, and work has nothing to do with you. At all.

-Ah, but he is so endlessly affectionate with you in private. He loves to just hold you, feel you against him, and assure himself that you are there. You are real and you love him like he loves you.

-He loves to litter your face with kisses after a long day of work, the way you fluster and try to run from his persistent lips is enough to make his heart race.

-His favorite thing, though, is slow dancing with you. It doesn’t matter if you’re clumsy, there is something so wholly domestic and soft about swaying to music in the soft glow of the kitchen light.

-Once he learns to accept love from you, he becomes addicted to it like a drug. He’ll sit there and pout at you until you give him kisses or love on him to his satisfaction. He can’t help it, he loves your attention.

-He’s so very attentive, even when he has other things he needs to do. If he needs to work, he’ll hold you in his lap while he works, and if you distract him a little that's okay too. He doesn’t mind so long as it’s you.

-He treats you like royalty, honestly. You are so very important to him, and he’s very desperate to prove that to you. If you felt unloved (after he improves upon himself, of course) by him, it would kill him. You are one of the very few things in the world that are unequivocally his, he wants to treat you like you are so you know it.

-He reveals a vulnerability to you that no one else gets to see. A soft side that isn’t hiding behind smirks and sly comments. He is the closest to being just Kakavasha when he is with you.

-Now, it will take him a long time to share his past with you. Even after he learns to trust you, it’s a piece of him that he cradles close to his chest, terrified it would change your view of him.

-When he does share it with you, though, it’s the most vulnerable he will ever be with you. His hand is clenched tightly behind his back, and he is shaking with eyes that can’t quite find a place to land. The only thing that calms him is the warm touch of your hand on his shaking one.

-He’ll tell you details little by little because they’re horrifying, and dumping them all on you at once would be too much for both of you. But you learn about him over time, and you see him warm up more and more to you the more he tells you.

-Goodness, though, the first time you call him Kakavasha, he cries. He cries so very hard because he hasn’t heard that name said with love and affection in such a long time, and it’s hard to imagine that it could be real.

-But it is and you’re holding his face and kissing away his tears, and it’s then that he realizes that he is truly loved by you. He is a person who is worth loving and capable of giving love to someone as wonderful as you.

-It is a kindness he has never been afforded before, and he would fight to his last breath to protect it.

-Despite the rocky start to your relationship, he grows and changes and learns how to love and be loved. It is the kind of love that Kakavasha has always wanted, and Aventurine finally understood why.

#bunni's treats 🧁#aventurine x reader #hsr aventurine #hsr x reader #hsr aventurine x reader #aventurine honkai star rail #x reader

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dreamofhircine · 4 months ago

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SNAPSHOT

When you signed the contract with Pinnacle Transport & Logistics it was because it was the only thing hiring that could get you off-colony sooner than a year out without indenturing yourself in the process. Mercenary companies were like that, high turnover for low to moderately skilled labor. It was a good deal.

PT&L wasn't one of the big five but they held contracts for a handful of systems, a few up and coming colonies. Nothing too impressive but they were recruiting a lot, manning up for something bigger. They were even paying better than mine day labor rates just to come in and get tested at their portside offices.

You went because you could use the money even if they didn't sign you, even if they said you weren't worth the cost to take into orbit. The staff was professionally cold and efficient, never sparing a word that wasn't part of the script they must have memorized. They spent hours hooking you up to electrodes, running scans and tests and endless aptitude batteries after you'd checked in. More needles and probes than you'd ever had in you before, eyes looking hungrier and hungrier behind their splash-guard visors the longer they continued.

Eventually you passed. You passed so well that someone in a suit came down before you even had a chance to wipe the electrode signa-gel off or change back into your jumpsuit and she came with a thick stack of paperwork and a few digital pads with it all laid out for you to sign, review optional.

It seemed like good terms with a quick scan. An indefinite contract but both parties could cancel as necessary, operational conditions permitting. A signing bonus that would have been a year's wages in the mine. A salary even the techs at Colonial Admin would have jumped over to private for and room and board that didn't come out of your pay. They were even offering medical coverage.

You signed. You barely read beyond the summary sheets. You didn't negotiate, too worried that this was a joke and they'd drop the punchline on you if you didn't dry the ink fast enough or sign the digital seals before some unseen timer ran out. The corporate rep just smiled the whole time and said that with your scores, you qualified for a special new program they were recruiting for, something better than the augmented infantry or aerospace fighters PT&L featured on all their sizzle reel ads.

They were standing up an experimental mech corps, a new kind of pilot for a new kind of machine. Faster to train, easier to use, a totally new generation of tech but much harder to find physiologically compatible pilots. There were surgeries, she said, augments they'd need to make to your body. To your brain. Things that would make you and your machine sync together like your brain and your body does.

You'd heard of something like that, the political fanatics on the edge of the Economic Zone of Control were supposed to use things like that. WARSPRITES, or S-MAGs, the rumors were spotty and the corporate news never ran any stories about them but word traveled far down the transit lanes, packed right along with the workers tending the mineral trades.

The corporate rep and a new batch of technicians in surgical gowns so white and unblemished that they almost hurt to look at sat you back down in the exam room after you signed, techs swarming around and fitting you for a new kind of probe. Electrodes and sensors all around your skull, digital goggles over your eyes. She said it was the first step, a 'neural snapshot' that she needed to have recorded for your medical records before the rest of the processing began.

It started quick, once you were settled in. No fanfare, just a sharp prick at your neck and then there were lights. Flashing, bright, pulsing. Warmth and stillness flowing out from the pinpoint in your neck, rolling down into your limbs like hot sap. You heard something like bells in the distance, a tapping or clicking or snapping getting louder as the flashes got brighter and started to sear into your eyes, into your brain, burning hot and painful. White light, white noise, thunderous, roiling, boiling up and up and then nothing. Then nothing. Then nothing.

The first thing you notice when the goggles come up is how cold you are, like a chill had snuck into your bones while you blinked. Your hand is shaking but you can't reach over to still it, bound by too-tight straps to the chair. To a different chair than before.

"Welcome back to us, Pilot Registration Number PTL-7954. I understand that you're very disoriented right now, " a voice begins saying, too loud and too abrasive in your suddenly very sensitive ears. As the blurry edges of your vision clears away you start to see the figure, someone new and unfamiliar.

Everyone was new. Sterile white labcoats swapped out for strikingly bright orange cleanroom suits, faces all obscured behind masks & goggles with mirror-finish tint as they work around the room at beeping, flashing panels or circle around you taking notes. "But we really must get through this."

You start to form a question, but a raised finger from the technician in front of you catches it in your throat. "In accordance with the New Oslo Corporate Armistice Settlement all neurologically augmented combat-rated employees, " They rattle off from a tablet, before pausing.

"That means you, of course, are to restored to the earliest viable neurological engram to be offered a chance to voluntarily end their current service contract." Bored, droning, like reading a weather report. "I can answer questions you have, but please make a decision quickly."

Your mind is still moving slow, hazy, stumbling. You heard the words but they meant nothing. Your hand is still shaking and you try to focus on it, look away from the stranger and catch your bearings again. Center on something familiar. The whole room is different. And cold. Your hand is different too. Studded now with implants. And cold.

There are ports, scars, burns, scratchy little tattoos across your hands and forearm disappearing up into the sleeves of a green medical gown you don't remember putting on. A machine nearby is beeping, starting off some quickly muffled alarm. Your breath is fast and ragged.

You tear your eyes away from your arm. Even just that had been too much, the phantom kickback too great. You're so skinny. Gaunt and pale and wounded in ways you can feel are old, bone deep and part of you now. The technician starts up again after sharing glances with the screen. "This neural engram is from your initial indoc, about twenty years ago."

That hits like a fist to the gut, and they didn't even pause to let it sink in for you. Business as usual. "You've had ten years active, ten years on ice. Your record is actually very impressive for an earlier cadre like you, it's probably why Allied Interorbital Freight bought your contract."

"But if you don't have any questions, I really need that answer. We have a full slate of neural restorations to do and we're running a bit behind. Do you want to continue your contract, or activate your severance clause?" they ask, tapping away at the monitor in front of them.

You can see a small reflection in the shiny visor they wear. Of you. Of something that looks like something you could be. Of something emaciated, drained, dotted with black metal ports and unfamiliar piercings. You can just barely make out the swell of breasts, of all things, beneath the gown.

The longer hair framing your unfamiliar face is the most shocking part. You'd never worn it like this before, always so closely cropped for mine work. The alarm kicks in again, louder, blaring a few notes longer than before. You need to leave. You need to go home. You need to go home and tell the foreman you want to keep your job. "H.... Home..." you mutter, as another tech steps in with a needle next to you.

The one that was talking to you shakes their head, and stops typing. "Hmm... Let's chalk this one up to a unstable state then. Reset to the most recent mental state and then roll back to...." They order, checking another monitor "Five years post-indoc. That's after the surgeries, a few contract deployments. The baseline capture will be a lot more compliant."

"Always like this with the early ones, don't know why we bother going all the way back when they just beg to go home." the tech with the needle muttered, stepping behind you and out of sight while the lead tech laughs. "You know how it is with NOCAS compliance, we have to give them a choice but nobody audits the logs too closely as long as a snapshot makes the right decision in the end."

The rising panic in you fades with the words and with the prick of something new in your neck, some pressure behind your eyes and wrapped around every thought loosens up and the fingers you hadn't noticed were gripping the armrests with enough force to turn paper-white slacken and release. The visor goggles slip back down, the same painful light and noise trying to burn your brain out again but you don't burn. You're too cold for that. You were so cold, now. Everything was so cold now. Then it was nothing.

#mechposting #mechsploitation #writing tag

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saltyafterhours · 2 years ago

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This is just like a general question, but which of the turtles do you think would be the most gentle vs so rough you can't walk for YEARS {exaggeration}

Outside of mating season? I still think it would depend on circumstances, I can see them all being gentle and rough.

I think Raph would overall be the gentler one. He's HUGE, and he's terrified to break you. Your guys first couple times having sex is mainly just him using his mouth or fingers to get you ready to take his cock. He is mainly focused on your pleasure than his, though he does love when you try to make it up to him after. When he feels comfortable trying to go inside, that too is a process. He tends to take things very slow and gentle to make sure you can handle him, and once he knows you can then it can slowly ramp up to being rougher. You've... had to replace the bed several times cause Raph keeps breaking the headboard from gripping it too hard or the mattress frame caves in from force of the act itself. Mikey is 50/50. He doesn't have to worry as much about hurting you, but he is a sap for more slow and romantic sex. He loves just endlessly praising you and leaving kisses to your jaw, neck and shoulders while he slowly thrusts into you. But there are times where he can be rough. He likes the idea of having so much control over you, that he can control whether you cum or not- and how many orgasms he can pull out of you. Of course, he's still a huge sweetheart during aftercare- but more than once has he had to carry you to the bathroom to get you cleaned up because your legs feel like jelly. Who is the roughest is a tie between Leo and Donnie. While Raph ends up breaking more the things surrounding the two of you, the twins more often break you more than anything. Toys, ropes, collars, you name it- they have done it to you. Leo, the ever-smug bastard likes to tie you up and keep vibrating toys inside you. He'll sit back and watch as you squirm, moan and beg while he jerks himself off. This can sometimes last HOURS, depending on how merciful he's feeling. Though however, he is a sucker for soft sleepy sex. He'll hold you close to his plastron as he thrusts into you from behind, leaving little kisses on your shoulder as he whispers praise and how much he adores you. Donnie is fairly the same, though he does like to be more involved as he teases you with toys. As a sex machine is pumping into you, he'll throat fuck you at the same pace. Or he'll have you in his lap as he works, his cock stuffed into you but not allowing you to move while a vibrator is pressed against your clit on the lowest setting. He likes pushing your limits, always wanting to push just one more orgasm from you- just to see how much of a mess he can make you. Though he does have his moments where he just wants to appreciate you. He is HEAVY on the body worship, and will take his sweet time as he kisses and praises every inch of your beautiful skin.

So yeah, Raph is the roughest in terms of property damage- but Donnie is pretty much the roughest when it comes to breaking a person. But in terms of mating season, you are bound to bed rest for weeks no matter who it is.

#saltyafterhours #rottmnt x reader #rottmnt smut #afab reader #rottmnt raph #rottmnt donnie #rottmnt leo #rottmnt mikey

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stoopidpigeonxx · 4 months ago

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Hero NSFW alphabet?

(I agree w you, we need more hero smut out there ;w;)

THANK YOU SM ANON FINNAAAALLLY MY FIRST HERO REQUEST!!!! yes I can do that :-3 (I had to find a template bro it was so annoying ;-;)

NSFW UNDER THE CUT!

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Hero is a god at aftercare. It's part of his gentle personality and overall sweet-boy thing he's got going on. Like, seriously, he refuses to do anything but aftercare for the next hour after you two finish. Massages, food and water, cleaning up with you, or just sleeping, he'll do it.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

He loves every single part of you equally, but if he had to choose, your face. Watching your expressions while he drives into you gives him more pleasure than he could ever describe. He also just.. loves how gorgeous you look during it, like a sweat covered, flushed face angel.

Despite being a charmer, I don't think he really has a favorite part of himself. Maybe his dick, for making you feel good, but probably more likely, his hands. They can make you feel just as good, and he likes the look of your hand holding his. (Plus, his hand has done him many 'favors' iykwim..)

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Doesn't cum inside unless you're trying for a baby. He has condoms on hand most of the time, but if there's a time where he doesn't have one, he'll pull out and jerk off till he comes on your stomach. He doesn't cum tons, but he does have a couple of good loads in him. It's the thin watery kind. (Eugh that.. grossed me out to write)

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Has jerked off to a fantasy about fucking you outside while you and him are hanging out with the others, but end up getting separated. He feels super ashamed by it, since he would never put his friends in that situation, but it's gotten him off more times then he can count. Another thing.. He'd never admit this, but he had stolen your panties once and jacked off with them. He was mortified and cleaned them afterwards as if nothing ever happened.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

I'm sure he and Mari messed around when they were teenagers, but never got to that point, so body count wise, not experienced at all. However.. he's a doctor. He knows his way around someone's body. So he won't be bad at pleasuring you.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Missionary. Simple, sweet, and feels the most intimate to him, since he's looking at you the entire time. His second favorite is cowgirl. Specifically you riding him while he lays down and holds your hands to steady you. He can still look at you, but you have a little more control over how much you get.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

He tries to be serious, he really does.. but sex is a process that has a lot of errors, so it's hard to be completely serious. He'll laugh, he'll joke. It's natural, since he's always a bit nervous.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

I'd like to think he's decently groomed. He takes care of himself appearance wise, so he'll do the same for his downstairs region. He doesn't do anything fancy, like, patterns or something, but he keeps it shaved and clean, neat and tidy. :-)

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

huuuuuge sap. Total romantic. I'm talking kisses all over, eye contact, praising, all that shit. He's actually so charming it's unfair. Like, be rough, dude!

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

He doesn't do it very often, since he's a little embarrassed about it, but if he's particularly pent up and has some time to himself, he will. He doesn't watch porn or anything, he'll probably most likely get off to the memory of past sexual experiences he's had with you (or fantasies involving you.)

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

He's honestly mostly vanilla, but he probably has a praise kink. Being called a good boy while he fucks you gets him riled up for sure. Or just.. you telling him how good of a job he's doing. Even out of sex, you randomly praising him for something he does sends shivers down his spine.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Bedroom, obviously. Anywhere else is too risky to him (even if you're alone) but occasionally if he gets too impatient, he'll just have you on the couch, or hell, even in the damn hallway. But he'll try his best to get you into the bedroom before he starts going at it.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

You initiating it. Basically, when you're horny, he's horny. It could be a subtle teasing flirt or a spicy text from you, he's raring to go! Although occasionally you could do something purely innocent and it would still get him all hot and bothered.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Anything that could hurt you. Sex is supposed to be about making eachother feel good, and if you don't feel good, then he isn't doing it right. If you encourage him to be a little rougher, he'll try his best, but he won't do anything like slapping you or something like that.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

If he could eat you out as a job he would work overtime. He LOVES it. And he's good at it, too. His head game is insane. He doesn't opt for blowjobs, but if you want to give him one, he's down. (He definitely whines like a bitch the entire time.)

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

He likes to keep it slow and gentle to make it intimate. He'll go a bit faster when he's getting close. Sometimes though, he's got a lot of energy or just really needed to fuck you, he'll go a little faster and harder. Instantly apologizes for it.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Not his thing. He likes a long experience with you, not a quick fuck for some temporary pleasure. He wants it to last a long time, and quickies aren't intimate enough for him.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

If you want to try something, he'll do research on it and then be willing to try with you. But he doesn't take risks on his own. He'd much rather know what you would like, not assume.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

He's fit. He can go a few rounds. I'd say 5 is his limit, because that's when he starts to get dizzy from the overstimulation. And for overall round lasting, maybe 10-20 minutes. A decently long time.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

he doesn't really use them, no. But he's down to use your own on you and/or watch you use them yourself. (And he wouldn't say no if you wanted to try using them on him.)

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

He doesn't tease often, but every once in a while he can't help himself. It's in his nature, really. Plus, you look adorable when you go all red in the face!

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

ooooh. This is a good one. Soft moaner. Breathy, gentle sounding, kinda quiet. He's a panter too. AND. AAAND. HE WHIMPERS. YOUR HONOR HE'S A WHIMPERER. He does it when he's feeling reaaaaally good, so it's a good sign, and omfg they're so cute.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

He's a SWEET TALKER. OH MY GOD. I will die on the hill that is Hero being such a gentle man when it comes to dirty talk. "You're beautiful.." "Just like that, honey.. my beautiful girl/boy.." "You're making me feel so good."

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

He's a solid 6 1/2 inches. A good size. Same color as his skin, pinkish-red tip, circumsized (his parents insisted) overall, he has a very pretty dick. Like you just wanna wrap a bow around it.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

He's not thinking about sex 24/7, but it does cross his mind every once in a while, especially if you and him are doing it frequently. It's hard for him NOT to think about it, honestly.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

He doesn't fall asleep unless you fall asleep together. He REFUSES to pass out before you're properly taken care of, and then he'll doze off with you in his arms. <3

#pigeonfic⯎#omori #hero omori #omori smut #hero x reader #Omori x reader #omori fic #Hero... my hero....

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suchi05 · 10 months ago

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mattastr0phic · 11 months ago

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I have a sleep of questions, feel free to skip whichever!

the mushrooms grow inside Micah? do they feed on him? is it mutual?

if it's feeding off him does he have side effects from like, "being eaten", or having less carbon/nitrogen in order to feed the fungi?

The mycelium does grow inside Micah and are implants; it took a bit of time for him to get used to them and took a lot of research for him to be comfortable with it in the first place. They do feed on him, but in turn, he can control them and utilize the growth as whips, sharp enough to split steel. During this, the friction tends to burn the points of contact, so they sap more of his energy in order to grow back. Often he will wield his sword in case the mycelium gets caught in something so he can sever it, but his weapon will turn into a cane when the pain grows from the mycelium sapping his energy. It's entirely possible for him to faint from this process, leaving the mycelium to pilot his body alone, in which it operates on pure instinct to feed the host.

#inbox #scp inbox #micah chamber #o5 6 #o5 cowboy #scp #scp foundation #doodleys

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27thfirefly · 5 days ago

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I saw your family abolition post. I agree that the nuclear family is bad, but I am interested in alternatives. Like, what does child rearing and education look like in a post-family society? Are there any hypotheticals or experiments you'd recommend learning about?

This is going to be a very dense post which quotes heavily from Sophie Lewis' Abolish the Family because that's the book I read most recently - as always, I heavily recommend checking it out for yourself to find more reading on the subject.

Regarding the baseline ideas which inform family abolition, the goal is first and foremost criticism and removal of the family as the main site of reproductive labour and labour of care - here understood in terms of child-rearing and care of children, other processes that allows labour to reproduce itself, and care of groups that are otherwise vulnerable and dependent on caregivers. The nuclear family is a part of the criticism here, yes, but it also extends to broader family ties, such as how clan structures lead to people within the clan having vested economic interests in enacting power over others within the larger family. In general, family related by blood - not just the nuclear family unit, but the extended one as well - is seen as being more legitimate, capable and responsible in fulfilling caregiving roles, and is given more legal ability to enact power upon vulnerable groups than any other kind of social relation. One of the main goals of family abolition is to separate the idea of the family from its historical position as the main site of care, and instead working towards a model in which this care is based on solidarity and responsibility rather than seen as a social obligation due to blood relations.

At one point in Abolish the Family, Sophie Lewis points out how "[t]axes, benefits, wills, deeds, curricula, courts, and pensions are everywhere at work, functioning as technologies of the family" - in short, the methods through which capitalism enforces itself upon the individual is as much tied to the structure of the family as it is the supposed individual actor (also worth reading Engels with regards to this re: the family as a structure through which economic power is transferred and controlled via inheritance, amongst other material and capital processes). She stresses that abolishment of the family is inextricably linked to socialist thought and goals: "[i]t should be elementary socialism, not some fringe eccentricity of queer ultra-leftists, to be striving toward a regime of cohabitation, collective eating, leisure, eldercare, and childrearing (…)"

Even if you posit the family structure as something to be extended rather than abolished, insisting that it is the structure of the cishet white family that must be abolished, placing care in the hands of the individual actor only enables the power structures that that are established within family relations. From Lewis again: "[W]hile whiteness, empire, and heterosex have lots to do with the family, the family’s most fundamental feature, as Kathi Weeks insists, is that it privatizes care: a process of enclosure in which all kinds of families unintentionally participate. (…) the family is to be abolished even when it is aspired to, mythologized, valued, and embodied by people who are neither white nor heterosexual, neither bourgeois nor colonizers."

What Lewis quotes of The Anti-Social Family rings true for me as well with regards to how leaving care entirely in the hands of the family structure erodes the possibilities for societal infrastructure of care: “Privatized family collectivism tends to sap the strength of wider social collectivism (…) the stronger and more supportive families are expected to be, the weaker the other supportive institutions outside of them become.” In addition, the transferal of care for and education of children from the familial sphere to the social is highlighted in the Communist Manifesto as follows: "But, you say, we destroy the most hallowed of relations, when we replace home education by social. And your education! Is not that also social, and determined by the social conditions under which you educate, by the intervention direct or indirect, of society, by means of schools, &c.? The Communists have not invented the intervention of society in education; they do but seek to alter the character of that intervention, and to rescue education from the influence of the ruling class."

In terms of past and current ideas of how this restructuring of care would work, I highly recommend reading the third chapter of Abolish the Family, where Lewis discusses historical movements and ideas regarding family abolition, including Alexandra Kollontai's work and marriage reform in the newly-formed Soviet Union, the work of 60s-70s feminists to center family abolition and communalized childcare as a key part of the feminist movement along with the the Wages for Housework movement, and queer activism, including one group in the Gay Liberation movement in 1972, who had "[r]earing children should be the common responsibility of the whole community" as part of their core demands to the DNC. The current focus and developments in transfeminist Marxism also examines the ways that current creation of gender ties itself to the conception of the family, gendered labour relations within the family, and in extension of this, the previously mentioned ties between the family structure and capitalism.

As for current political initiatives, it is useful to look at current work being done in socialist states. The Cuban family code, on which an English-language resource can be found here, provides a significant shift in what is possible to legally define as a family, specifically in terms of who can have obligation of care and who is "allowed" to be a part of a family. The four sources of filiation that are accepted, for example - being consanguineous, adoptive, filiation as a result of assisted reproduction, and socio-affective - are a clear step towards a model of care that goes beyond the structure of the family and towards a social view of care that does not presume consanguineous or otherwise privatized obligation towards the work put into labour of care. One part I find particularly meaningful is the extension of the rights of communication between "relatives by blood, affinity and by persons affectively close to each other," emphasis mine, along with the notion that "[a]ll these people form a network of support, of material and emotional support […] must also be considered when talking about family," the specificity of assisted reproduction as an act of solidarity which is to be respected legally rather than being a financial relationship, and the principle of progressive autonomy as it concerns the rights of children.

China, too, has had certain steps towards compensation and valuing of care work - in 2021, Article 1088 of the Civil Code was enstated, which states that "Where one spouse is burdened with additional duties for raising children, looking after the elderly or assisting the other spouse in his/her work, the said spouse has the right to request compensation upon divorce against the other party". While the family code itself is lacking in many points regarding the specific topic of family abolition, especially compared to Cuba, there is a clear distinction to make between the basis from which the Communist Party of Cuba has developed its policy and the Communist Party of China. In general, though, I would say that there are clear strides towards a restructuring of care work and, in extension, the restructuring of the family form.

Crucially, the work of family abolition necessitates understanding and working against the processes that uphold the family as legitimate - including the critical consideration of unpaid care work expected of (mostly!) women within the family, the amount of legal power caregivers have over their charges on an individual basis, and the exclusion of those in society who are not part of a legally defined family from certain social rights, amongst other marxist, feminist, childrens' lib, and disability advocate points of critique.

In terms of pure hypotheticals, I'd still recommend searching up on Everything for Everyone by M.E. O'Brien and Eman Abdelhadi, since O'Brien's other work is referenced extensively by Lewis, whose writing I've found very useful in developing my own understanding of family abolition.

#kris.txt #family abolition

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honeytonedhottie · 2 years ago

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how to focus⋆.ೃ࿔*:･🪷

i feel like especially nowadays, its difficult and often feels impossible to stay focused on one thing for more than a couple minutes at a time. our brains are constantly overstimulated. as the world continues to progress and become more modernized, everything is too much.

the process in the brain that perpetuates distraction and procrastination goes like this (we have an unpleasant task that we need to do -> knowing that we have to do this task triggers a drop in our motivation -> so we go and distract ourselves)

lack of motivation is NOT the problem : the problem is distraction of motivation. will power/attention ≠ motivation. in fact its quite the opposite. even though we feel our motivation being sapped out, our will power doesn't get drained as quickly as we think that it is.

in order to do a task, we must be able to FOCUS on that task, so that we can sustain our motivation for that task. u dont lack motivation, ur motivation is simply distracted.

studies have shown that if u THINK u have endless willpower, you'll exhibit better task performance, and you'll therefore experience more willpower.

keep ur notifications OFF : the less accessible u make distraction to you, the better you'll perform. dont sleep with ur phone/computer easily accessible to u if u wanna sleep better. dont turn notifications on when ur studying if u wanna stay ON task.

we control our attention and our attention controls our motivation

act fast : acting quickly when these distractions come to ur mind is important to maintain consistency. i watched a video of a woman talking about how when she was breaking the habit of doom scrolling she made it her mission to put her phone down and quickly pick up another task, even if it was picking things up off the floor, but she just quickly shifted her attention. dont give ur brain a second to think for an excuse as to why u should procrastinate.

change the way that u think of the task : when the process of even thinking of doing the task becomes so unpleasant that even though u know that u MUST do that task u dont end up doing it, you need to switch the lens in which u see the task.

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eldritch-spouse · 11 months ago

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Oughh, for a second, I lost your account, and I was so sad because I love your world and oc's so much!!

Okay so I read again the Morell and Nebul interchanging pets for a day, and it made me curious.

Would they actually trust each other to babysit each other's obsessions for long spans of time? Would they ever schedule some kind of "play dates " for their humans, as a treat, maybe?- 🪶🍵

[Howdy! Thenk you and welcome back. :7]

[Ooough I had to go back and fetch context for that one.]

Likely not long spans of time.

Nebul knows that he can trust a properly trained obsession in the hands of one of his coworkers for a short span of time, because they're already trained to a fine level and can behave without provoking any sort of unfortunate incident. However, the longer he leaves his pearl in another's hands, the higher the probability of disaster is- He just doesn't perceive his coworkers as being able to properly care for or discipline you.

Morell's biggest fear is that Nebul will poke around your brain too much and that you'll come back to him an empty shell of your former self. To the point where he'll sometimes ask you everything you did with the wraith, just to try and make sure that no memories were eaten in his absence. So no, the chef naturally doesn't want you around Nebul for too long.

Play dates can happen, following a short evaluation of how stable both of you are. Both monsters agree that this should be a reward for good behavior, or otherwise utilized as a means to normalize the situation to one or both of you. Purpur, Turnip, Alfredo and Pepper may be involved. While Nebul is more partial that these get-togethers happen in his shop and Morell prefers them in the restaurant space, both have agreed that maybe the garden works well enough.

It's got scenery and enriching wildlife (very not-normal wildlife).

Likely not.

He wants your online presence to be as diminished as possible, ideally nonexistent.

Nebul will allow you to submit verified scores in competitions, but he holds all the information of your every account and never allows you to stream anything or interact with anyone.

Offline games are at your disposal if you happen to showcase good behavior. He particularly finds it amusing how you torture yourself with souls games. Beneath all that sweltering rage that nearly has you smashing controllers, there's an undercurrent of satisfaction that keeps you going.

He usually swoops in when you're defeated and sulking about it.

[Hawhawhawhaw-]

To be fair, Xiko himself is mildly embarrassed.

He usually plans what he deems to be his. Because it's kind of humiliating to chase after something he can't physically attain, isn't it? Kind of like holding a stick with a carrot in front of a pig. Except that pig is aware of what's happening, and can't do anything to stop the chase.

Here, Xiko didn't get to decide that you would be his over a decent period of time where he determines it's plausible to obtain you. No, he just saw you, listened to his urges, and paid for it via being forced to sprint after you until he can steal some poor sap's car and turn this into a news-worthy story.

He's angry at himself as he burns his own undead leg muscles with the rabid urge to reach you, he's furious! But the process cannot be stopped. And he will have you.

Honestly, he understands he looks scary to the average human -Even some demons find him gnarly- But if you crash and end up dying because of this, he's going to be so mad Xiko might actually reach into his mouth and pull his eyes out.

[Pip? 😭]

Make no mistake, once a certain level of efficiency is reached, you are effectively a glorified lap cat.

Cuddling is used many times as a subtle way to reinforce certain responses, without you even knowing. Nebul conditions you such so that you'll seek cuddling him even after he does something traumatic to you- Because even if he's the one that hurt you, you have already been trained to believe that he's also the only one that can comfort you.

While to you it might be nothing more than a relaxation session, the wraith is constantly testing how you respond to certain touches. How easily do you lean into him? How much do you fidget? Do you lean away? Do you seek his hand after he removes it? How bold are you in the way you position yourself? Are you relaxed enough to miss certain gestures? Yes, Nebul is enjoying himself too, but he's still evaluating you.

Cuddling is used a lot during the process of training you precisely because Nebul notices that you respond so intensively to it.

#Morell oc #Nebul oc #Xiko oc

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ruins-of-tragedy · 4 months ago

Text

Wrapped up season one of RWBY with episodes thirteen to sixteen. Excited for what's to come!

Season 01 Episode 13: Forever Fall - Pt I

- "I don't wanna hear your absolution."

- I too would like to jump on beds. Nora should exchange places with me for the duration of this scene

- Okie, so the entire team shares one bedroom. No matter the sex. Huh. Aren't these folks teenagers?

- Jaune. I can forgive everything. Everything, BUT disappointing Pyrrha. How dare you.

- He has already locked himself out once. LoLLL!

- Am glad Jaune at least told someone about his situation. Thank Gods for nice neighbours.

- Holy shikes. Ruby's pep talk was good. However, am scared for her mental health now. Being a team leader doesn't mean you are not human. Not allowed to be a failure... She is just a kid. Let her be that!

- Cardin's such a douchebag. Those rapier wasps should be set on him.

- I am moving to the Forest of Forever Fall now. See ya!

- A field trip with stakes so high, you can die. This place needs a chill pill so bad.

- The scene where Team RWBY and Team JNPR sans Jaune are collecting sap... Looks straight out of a cottagecore magazine. Cute!

- Jaune. Don't do it. Don't you dare throw that jar of sap at Pyrrha... Oh thank Gods. Wonder what's about to happen with him.

- Team CRDL ending. The music here was so mystical!

Season 01 Episode 14: Forever Fall Pt - II

- "This will be the day we have waited for..."

- Jaune. Shite. This is bad. He is black and blue.

- WHOA. Aura glows bright, saves Jaune from Cardin's hold of tight.

- Big Grimm monster Ursa has entered the chat.

- Jaune-y boy is saving Cardin. Good man!

- The tune playing in the background is the introductory song's instrumental! AGHHHHHHHHH! So gooooooood!!!

- Semblance must be special moves people can do. Ruby's happens to be speed. Weiss' are the stepping stones or glyphs. And Pyrrha has control over magnets. WoWie.

- Am not going to lie, my honest reaction was Ruby's line too. Pyrrha can control poles... 😂

- Pyrrha really knows what Jaune needs. She is so freaking good. Pyrrha; the person that you are. 🤩🤌🏻

- Jaune. I hope you never stop being a lovable idiot. At least Cardin will get off his back. Hopefully.

- YASSSSSSSS! Apologise. Am so glad Jaune can see the bad macho whatever nonsense.

- Awwww. He's actually asking for them classes now. Good on him! 👏🏻🤧

- The Grimm ending. Pun intended, 'cause the music was serious. Always good though.

Season 01 Episode 15: The Stray

- "Welcome to the world of new solutions."

- Vytal Festival is here. Weiss is harping on its importance by showing everyone how much of a Type A personality she truly is. Such me core.

- Blake knows why Weiss wants to be so nice to the students of Vacuo. Awwww! They know each other better now!

- Dust robberies be happening a lot. White Fang proves to be a point of contention between Blake and Weiss.

- Ahhhh. Weiss is prejudiced against the Faunus. At least Yang doesn't hold the same beliefs.

- Cue Faunus guy running off with a banana. He is good at Parkour though.

- Did he just wink at Blake? While in the process of running away?! Kudos for pulling that off!

- Weiss wants to observe him. So does Blake, mayhaps.

- Bye-bye blonde guy! Weiss falls on someone while chasing after him. The someone is Penny. Ahhhh.

- Team RWBY introduces themselves just the way their initials are ordered. Not before Yang checks in on Penny though. Head injuries are nothing to scoff at... That elbow budge from Blake made my day.

- The no look high-five Weiss and Ruby shared was so cool!

- Penny is back, Weiss is confused as to how she made it in front of them so fast. Her expression's priceless. 😆

- Awww! Penny wants to have a friend so bad. Thank you Ruby for going along with it. Even though the rest of your team definitely didn't want that. 😂

- Much banter. Weiss really needs to re-evaluate a lot of her stances. Blake to the rescue... Excellent points raised as well. No such thing as "pure evil."

- Holy hell. Weiss' childhood must have been horrible if she still cannot blame her family for it.

- This is how it comes out. Shite... Blake was also a part of White Fang. Should have seen it coming honestly.

- Wait. Will the White Fang partner with the bad people? Adam and Blake stole a lot of dust from the Schnee train. Oh Gods.

- Thank you Yang and Ruby for focusing on what's important. Blake has been gone for two days. 😢. Glad she has someone to lean on at least. Both her and Weiss must have a lot of trauma to deal with though. Fucking hell.

- Penny and the Faunus guy ending. Penny's symbol looks like the pointed end of a key. And the Faunus dude's happens to be a monkey like figure. Nice. The music is so somber and good.

Season 01 Episode 16: Black and White

- This must be the Blake and Weiss episode.

- "Victory is in a simple soul!"

- So this is Sun. He looks like a surfer dude. His character backdrop must be the Monkey King. Especially considering Sun Wukong is his name.

- Awww. Blake. No one should have to live like that. Having to resort to violence to receive equal rights. Fuck... Little her was so cute! But imagine needing to attend protests from such a young age to ensure people didn't treat her kind like lesser folks. Choosing to move away from a group that was succeeding in achieving what must have been a huge driving influence her entire life... Especially when people still discriminate against the Faunus. The fact that she didn't let hate consume her and set herself on a different path because she knew the other one wasn't right... Mad respect.

- Weiss. You have so much apologising to do. At least she has Ruby and Yang to guide her a little. Even if she will be snobbish about it every time.

- Penny is here! She is so sweet. I love her already. I am aware she ain't human. Hmmm. Her allusion could be Pinocchio. Something unlikely is living and all that.

- Blake likes tuna. LoLL!

- The wind carrying the tumbleweed at the perfect times... And Penny actually commenting on it. 😂👏🏻

- Yang and Weiss have paired off, leaving Ruby with the orange haired sweetheart.

- Ahhh. So the White Fang does steal dust. But not in such large scales. Gotcha.

- Sun is trying his best to help. Cool!

- Weiss has a really black and white view of the world. I too wish it was that simple sometimes.

- Awwww. Penny's really nailing the tail on the donkey with that one. Ruby too wants Blake to talk to them because they be friends. 🥺

- Blake's keeping watch at the Schnee crates. Sun stole apples. Witty back and forth and now a big flying machine. This would a great first date, if one were to ignore the circumstances.

- So it is the White Fang? ...And the bad Torchwick guy. Shikes. They are working together.

- Blake has him in a deadly position. And gets surrounded by the White Fang people. Shite.

- More airships, and Blake! The guy shot on the ground. Explosion was big enough that Ruby and Penny see it.

- Oh thank Gods, Blake's alright!

- Shootout, glad Sun's there. One vs many. The one wins.

- Blake and Torchwick showdown. Sun's stick-like weapon can turn into nunchucks AND a gun?! COOOOOL!

- Torchwick really shouldn't shoot Penny's friends. She is combat ready. 🤩👏🏻

- Fucking fuckity fuck. One woman army. Shikes. I don't know if this is a good thing or a bad thing... At least the bad guys couldn't steal any dust. Bye-bye fancy ships! Your hasty retreat is much appreciated.

- Awwwwwwwww! Weiss has been thinking about it for twelve hours. Probably longer, am sure. She was worried. I should have been giving her more credit I guess. She be evolving.

- Weiss really is trying to be the best teammate. For everyone. 💖. It is difficult to unlearn years of bad rhetoric. Am glad she is giving it her all. Actually referred to Sun as a person too. 🫶🏻

- Penny has been picked up by someone she calls sir. Driving away now... Her time will come. As it should. She is adorable.

- Ozpin is monitoring Ruby?! Huh. I guess you cannot escape surveillance no matter the universe.

- Qrow, must be the uncle, sent him a message. "Queen has pawns." 🤔

- Hogwarts or not, that scenery is nothing to scoff at. Beacon truly looks amazing at night.

- This ending song is giving me an existential crisis. It's amazing though. Lullaby like.

- There's some person called Katie "Hot Wife" Newville in the credits... 😂👏🏻❤️‍🔥

- The song is picking up pace. This may be my favourite so far.

- Ooooooh! After credits scene. Torchwick got spooked by someone. Don't know his allusion still. Hmmm. This lady who scared him is the same person from the first episode. Them glowing eyes... Her name is Cinder? Subtitles be working overtime here. She has two henchpeople behind her. This is their ending. Can't figure out that symbol.

(No spoilers! Or I will invent a time machine to find out the details of your favourite show in the future and... You get the gist. Buh-bye!)

#RWBY #Ruby Rose #Weiss Schnee #Blake Belladonna #Yang Xiao Long #Jaune Arc #Pyrrha Nikos #Penny Polendina #Sun Wukong #Roman Torchwick #Professor Ozpin #Qrow Branwen #Hope you have a day as enjoyable as the one RWBY ensured for me!#RWBY V1

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