#inspect and adapt

[beifong-brainrot]

[temeyes]

I love your art! Would you be okay if I recreate your art to learn and practice drawing? Don’t worry, no one will ever see them!

Heart pew pew ❤️❤️❤️❤️👈

hey anon, thank you!!! yeah that's chill, no prob! but i still advise you to try and put your own twist when you draw as you use references or influences, it'll help you develop your own style bit by bit!

[daxisyzz]

hi! i’m thinking about some angst with a soft fluff ending where the reader and bucky is in their early stages of their relationship. bucky was s h@rass3d in hydra, he was struggling to make physical contact and interactions with the reader but somehow learned what safe touch is 🫶🏻

here's your fic <3

A kind of brave

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Bucky flinches when you touch him—but you're not in a hurry. Love, in your world, is patient.

Word count: 1.1k+

The writing in italics is a flashback

Warnings and tags: Past trauma and harassment (non-graphic), Flashbacks to Hydra-related abuse, PTSD symptoms (flinching, hypervigilance, difficulty with physical touch), Emotional vulnerability, Hurt/Comfort, Gentle Love, Healing Together, Safe Touch Exploration, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Reader Helps Bucky Heal.

You weren’t expecting anything when it started.

He’d shown up to the Tower quieter than most. Standoffish, unreadable. You'd been assigned as his point of contact—“Ease him in,” they said. “Help him find normal.”

But normal wasn’t easy to come by for someone like Bucky Barnes.

Still, he let you sit with him during shared meals. You’d catch him listening as you told stories about the city or teased Sam across the room. His replies were clipped but thoughtful. He'd nod when you made jokes. Once, you caught him smiling.

Then came the moment that changed things—subtly, but completely.

You were reaching for a mug in the kitchen. He stood beside you. As your fingers brushed his arm—just a touch, featherlight—he flinched.

Not dramatically. Not enough to cause a scene. But enough for your heart to ache.

His shoulders tensed. His breath hitched. He stepped back like the heat of your skin had burned him.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured, pulling your hand back instantly.

He didn’t speak. Just stared at the floor, ashamed of something that wasn’t his fault.

You didn’t bring it up that day. Just gave him space and offered him coffee like nothing happened.

But that moment stayed with you.

So you started paying closer attention

You noticed it in the way he avoided the couch if someone was already sitting. How he always stood at the far edge of the elevator. How his hands stayed buried in his sleeves, even when the sun was warm.

When he smiled, it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

When he laughed, it was careful—like joy was something borrowed.

You adapted without needing to say it aloud. Stood beside him instead of in front. Sat far enough away that he wouldn’t feel cornered. Asked with your eyes before you ever reached out.

He noticed. You knew he did. Because slowly, inch by inch, he started to linger longer. Sit a little closer. Speak a little more.

Trust takes time.

Especially when you’ve been taught the wrong definition of touch.

It always started with the sound.

A low, mechanical click as the restraints slid into place, followed by the sterile whir of lights flickering to life overhead — harsh, clinical, too white. Too clean. A cruel contrast to the filth he was forced to live in.

The chair was metal, ice-cold against his skin no matter how long he was in it. His breath fogged in the air like a ghost trying to escape. But ghosts were free. He wasn’t.

He stopped fighting it years ago — if years even existed down here. Time was meaningless in a place that never changed. No windows. No sky. No sense of day or night. Just missions, control, silence. Then pain.

A man in a lab coat leaned over him, faceless and featureless in Bucky’s mind now. There had been too many. They all smelled the same — antiseptic and cruelty. A hand gripped his chin, tilting his face roughly upward like he was an object being inspected.

“You're not him anymore,” the voice said, clinical, bored. “You don't flinch. You obey.”

But he did flinch — inside, where no one could see. Where it wouldn't earn him another reset.

Another hand came next — this one pressed over his shoulder, firm and too slow to be casual. They wanted him to feel it. They always wanted him to feel it, in the worst ways. Not just pain, but control. Ownership. Submission.

It wasn’t the physical agony that broke him the most. It was how they taught him to dread touch. How something so human became a punishment. They rewired him — so that warmth became threat, closeness became fear, and skin-on-skin was something to survive rather than savor.

There were nights after a mission when they didn’t even have to touch him. They’d just come close. Breathe behind him. Wait for him to flinch.

He always did.

It was a week after a rough mission. Bucky had barely said a word.

You found him on your couch one night, long after the city had gone to sleep. Hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands. Eyes vacant.

You didn’t speak right away. Just offered him tea. Sat beside him—far enough to let him breathe.

Eventually, he said it.

“Do you know what it’s like,” he whispered, “to want to be touched but not know how?”

Your heart cracked. You didn’t rush to fix it.

Instead, you said, “Yeah. I think… I do.”

He turned toward you. “It wasn’t just the fighting. HYDRA—they used touch. Twisted it. Made it mean control. Made me afraid of something I used to love.”

You swallowed. “I’m sorry they did that to you.”

His voice dropped lower. “Sometimes I still feel like a weapon. Even now. When you smile at me. When you sit close. Part of me wants to pull you in. And the other part... is scared I’ll ruin it.”

“You won’t,” you promised. “Not with me."

He asked if he could hold your hand.

His voice shook when he said it.

“Only if you’re sure,” you told him.

“I’m not sure of anything,” he confessed. “But I want to try.”

So you laid your hand between you on the couch. Open. Waiting.

He took it, slow and careful. His fingers hovered before they rested on yours, like he was expecting the world to crack open beneath him.

But it didn’t.

And for the first time, he didn’t flinch.

You squeezed gently. “You’re doing amazing.”

He smiled—small, but real.

He started coming over more.

Sometimes with books. Sometimes with nothing but tired eyes and quiet company.

One night, you found him in the kitchen. He was making tea—two cups. He handed you yours without a word, then hesitated.

“Can I stay tonight?” he asked.

You blinked. “Of course. You want the couch?”

He shook his head. “I want to try… sleeping next to you. If that’s okay.”

You nodded. “It’s more than okay.”

That night, he curled up beside you—nervous but determined. You didn’t reach for him.

But he reached for you.

His fingers brushed yours under the blanket.

Light, hesitant.

You looked over. “This alright?”

He nodded, eyes a little glassy. “Yeah. It’s… nice.”

You didn’t need more than that.

And when you woke the next morning, his arm was loosely around your waist. His breathing soft against the back of your neck. No nightmares. No panic.

Just warmth.

Just safety.

Just him.

He still had bad days. Days when the shadows whispered louder than your voice.

But they passed.

And on the good days, you’d catch him reaching for you without thinking—nudging your foot under the table, brushing your hair behind your ear, linking pinkies as you walked side by side.

He was learning.

And he was loving you, in the way only he could—slow, steady, gentle.

Not perfect.

But real.

And more than enough.

[just-a-space-duck]

So About That Armor…

I regret to inform myself that I like it.

If you haven't seen it:

I'll give you time to take it in. This is a static, (hopefully) eternal text post, so take your time.

Ok so before I go further, you are allowed to have any and all opinions about the armor. Do not listen to me; I am a stranger on the internet who attaches himself to fictional murder cyborgs and treats them like kitty cats.

So first of all, it's weird. And I like it for that. Even if I found it to be the most infuriating piece of costume design ever, I still wouldn't be able to help but respect it for how strange it is.

When it comes to fanworks, adaptations, new installments in a franchise, or even just different takes on the same trope, I love it when creators take things in an unconventional or even seemingly unrelated direction that upon closer inspection still relates to the base or original concept. To get what I mean, think goth interpretations of Rarity or Cosmopoliturtle's Pokémon redesigns. The TV series armor sits alongside these for me, because this was the thought process of the designer, Tommy Arnold:

First of all, it is so funny that The Company would just brand their armor and by extension their secunits, their combat/security products, like Louis Vuitton bags. Also, the logo of The Company strikes a nice balance between being simple enough to be easily reproducible and recognizable, but complex enough to read as a logo and not just a simple shape or pattern. Plus, The Company logo being mostly just concentric Cs, clever there.

But there's also some worldbuilding and character expression in this design.

The Corporation Rim is just capitalism but more. A company slathering everything and everyone they create and own in mountains of logos, even when it's potentially impractical, showcases just how extensive corporatism is in this setting. Additionally, this design could be something of a status marker. Secunits are high end additions and/or alternatives to other security measures. Much like how logos on purses, tennis shoes, and cars serve to tell observers, "I have the fancy, expensive version of [insert category of thing here] ergo I am a very wealthy/powerful/cool person", a secunit covered in corporate logos communicates the high status and access of the client(s).

Now what was one of the first things we learned about Murderbot in the books? It disabled its governor module, the thing preventing it from defying orders and having any level of freedom, but instead of doing what it could to leave The Company, Murderbot just stayed with it and kept doing its intended function. For over four years. What else do we learn in the first book? That it feels most comfortable in the armor because this prevents humans from seeing its face, from treating it more like a person or human rather than a tool or bot. This makes the armor being composed of the logo of the group that both created and hurt Murderbot very symbolic.

Murderbot has internalized the message that it is a dangerous weapon and not a person deserving of care to the point that, at least at the beginning of the series, it shies away from anything that insists that it deserves the same kindness that humans do. It's only ever been taught what the company built it to do, so it doesn't know what to do next once it's obtained some semblance of freedom for itself by disabling its mental shock collar and so keeps doing what it's always done, even though it very much would rather not be in such a situation. Even by the most recent book, System Collapse, Murderbot is still wrestling with the idea that it matters beyond how it can assist others. Murderbot finding comfort hiding behind the very thing that will not let you forget the company that enslaves it, is just juicy theming.

Also, the helmet looking so weird works well with how many humans don't know what secunits look like, with some not even thinking they have human-like faces. If you had no context for this image, you might very well assume this is a fully robot character or even a statue.

I have my own gripes and worries and hopes concerning the upcoming show, but I just couldn’t get this fun bit of character design analysis out of my head. Shouldn’t have watched so much TB Skyen.

[pellucid-constellations]

Against the World

Pairing: Azriel x Human!Reader

Summary: Azriel learns that loving a human means loving the uncoordinated and the injury-prone and the acceptance that he can't save you from it all.

Word count: 1k

Warnings: small injury, wistful as human x fae goes

a/n: Yay I hope this makes up for april fools :) Thank you to the anon who sent me this idea I love youuuu <3

More Az x human!reader and here as well :)

Main Masterlist ♡

~~

The first time Azriel witnessed the plight of your ever-present bruises, he hadn’t thought much of it. You had made too much space for him in the doorway of your home, squeezing extra tight against the frame to accommodate his wings. A breathy curse clued him into the pain you’d felt ramming your shoulder into the sturdy wood, and then the discolored skin blooming in its wake clued him into the fragility that was amplified by your accident-prone nature. 

Humans were not as lithe and agile as fae. Humans, unfortunately, also bruised and broke much easier than fae, a combination that led to the heightened hypervigilance Azriel adopted since falling in love with you. The more time he spent with you, slipping away from his family under pretenses, the more he bore witness to your slips and falls and general habit of misplacing items that would somehow then stub your toe. 

At first, the accidents drove him mad. He would turn around for one second and something would clatter in the distance. A rather sharp whip of his head would find you sheepishly staring down at whatever you had been holding, and Azriel would hold his breath as his eyes inspected every inch of your body. He would stand beside you in the kitchen, pressing his hip to yours to find closeness, and you would hiss out a quick breath, crimson sliding down to your wrist. 

Gods, Azriel hated knives around you. And he hated ladders, moderately tall stacks of items, broom cupboards; Azriel quickly became wary of anything that had caused an accident in his presence

He had let it consume him into madness—at first. Azriel turned into an unreasonable force in your life, whisking you up over small holes in the ground and banning window locks unless he was the one operating them. He’d press the blankets back from your neck as you slept because cauldron boil him he was sure you’d find a way to die on them, and you couldn’t even get him started on the gardening tools you kept in the yard. Your propensity for befriending wild animals had his shadows angrily hissing in his ears and he feared the day you’d finally attempt to hang the art in your closets when he wasn’t there. 

At the beginning of loving you, Azriel considered bringing you to Velaris so many times the idea became like a mantra in his head. But then—after witnessing the casual way you went about each action that sent his heart into his throat—Azriel began to calm. And adapt. Almost instinctually. 

Soon, it became second nature for him to place a hand at the back of your head each time you exited the depths of your kitchen cabinets. With time, Azirel learned to simply catch your waist each time your steps became unsteady instead of lifting you from the ground. He wouldn’t speak to you as you made dinner, content to watch your careful ministrations with the knife—concentrated, without pause. 

Azriel would allow you to stay bundled up in your blankets and bring you closer to his chest instead, using the subtle brush of your breath against his skin to calm him. He saw things falling before you even noticed them, catching them above your head, as they fell to your feet, closing the distance to jam your fingers; he was still vigilant, but some of the fear dissipated. 

It never got easier to see the repercussions. 

Even the slightest injury made Azriel’s chest twine uncomfortably, because they always stuck around far longer than they would on any fae. A cut on your hand, a bruise along your leg, or—the worst, in Azriel’s opinion—the busted lip you got from tripping in the forest when he was away. 

He had been angry when he first saw it, and then he had been afraid. Afraid to see how delicate you were. Afraid that he hadn’t been there to stop whatever had happened. 

But then you grinned at him, so happy he was there despite the reminder of your impermanence in this world glaring and angry and red on your face, and Azriel realized this was something he needed to accept. You being in his life would include tragedies and injuries and heartbreak, and he was okay with that—the visual representation of such a truth was found in his lips lightly pressing to the split skin. 

Azriel still cataloged each disruption of your skin. He still soothed aches and pains with balms you probably shouldn’t have access to but that Madja wouldn’t miss in her clinic. When tears escaped past your lashes—rare from physical pain alone—he still wiped them from your cheeks and prayed to the Mother that he could continue to do so until his last breath. A fruitless prayer, but one he still made at the salty scent of your emotion in the air. 

Sometimes you teased him about his lack of clumsiness. You’d poke fun at the graceful steps he made around your house and the silence that accompanied his movements. The jokes were usually at your expense, something Azriel did not love, but he’d crack a smile all the same. 

He’d started knocking his wings into things on the odd occasion—catch his foot on a rug or cram his finger into a drawer just so you’d look at him with that baffled expression that made him actually burst with laughter. He loved catching you off guard, but he loved making you feel with him even more. You weren't less than him because you were human. The uncoordinated movements that made you mortal weren’t something he looked down upon. Sure, he would do away with the pain that often followed, but Azriel loved everything about you. 

And that included the casual clumsiness that often made his heart stop.

[rika-mmendmethings]

Belly Dance | Sylus

Summary: Sylus unearths a college-era belly dancing outfit during your move-in to his house. After you reluctantly agree to perform, his awe and love help you rediscover the fun, confident person you were. The night ends in passion and sensuality as Sylus shows you just how beautiful you have always been.

Tag(s): belly dancer! Reader x bf! Sylus, written with a female reader in mind, fluff, sensuality, mildly suggestive, fade to black, insecurities, kinda au idk???

Word count: 3.3k

Now playing: Beautiful Liar by Beyoncé and Shakira

Notes: Got suggested a few reels of absolutely gorgeous women belly dancing on this song, and the rest was history. Writing this was less of a pain since I'm quite adapted to writing for Sylus. Hopefully you enjoy reading this as well ♥

The apartment was filled with the soft rustling of cardboard as the task of moving into Sylus’s place stretched into its third hour. The late afternoon sun filtered through the blinds, casting long, lazy shadows across the wooden floors. You stood among a sea of cardboard boxes, surrounded by the mismatched chaos of your things — clothes, books, framed photos, knick-knacks from various places you'd lived, and little trinkets that each carried a memory. Today was the day you were officially moving in with Sylus, and as you carefully unpacked your things, you felt a wave of excitement mixed with a touch of nervousness. The air smelled faintly of lavender from the air fresheners Sylus had placed.

Sylus was behind you, moving about with an easy grace, methodically folding your clothes and putting them in drawers. You glanced around. The place was mostly empty, save for a few scattered boxes and the odd piece of furniture — most of the bigger pieces had already been moved in. You were mentally running through the checklist in your head that you didn’t even notice Sylus calling out to you at first, his voice cutting through the quiet atmosphere.

“Sweetie, what’s this?” he asked, the words laced with surprise and curiosity.

His voice was tinged with amusement, and you could tell he was holding something up, clearly intrigued by whatever he'd just unearthed. You didn’t turn to look right away. Instead, you lifted a box of your own, checking the contents as you sorted them into piles. You were so engrossed in organizing everything just so that you didn’t quite register the change in his tone until he continued.

“It’s... beautiful,” he said, his voice sounding almost reverent now.

At that, you turned around fully, a frown already forming on your face, only to freeze in your tracks when you saw what he was holding. In his hands, Sylus was gently lifting a belly dancing outfit — a stunning set of rich, maroon fabric adorned with delicate gold beads and sequins that glittered faintly in the light. It was the outfit you had bought years ago for a silly bet you’d lost with your friends back in college, and one you hadn’t thought about in months. The top, a halter-style design, was made to hug the contours of the body, while the skirt was sheer and flowing, the kind that danced with every twist of the hips.

You didn’t even realize you’d already taken a step toward him until you were dashing across the room, a gasp escaping you. “Sylus, no!” you half-laughed, half-scolded as you stretched out your arms to grab the shimmering material. But of course, he was much taller than you, and the outfit was far out of your reach, held high above his head. His smile spread even further, amused by your quick reaction, and he stepped back just enough to keep you from grabbing it.

He laughed, the sound deep and rich, and with a mischievous gleam in his eyes, he danced out of your reach once more. “I don’t know... this is really pretty,” he taunted, inspecting the outfit more closely. “I’m just surprised I’ve never seen it before. Do you belly dance?”

You froze mid-step, eyes widening, and your body tensed instinctively as you registered his words. His Cheshire smile was widening, and there was something undeniably playful in his gaze. You blinked twice, unable to form words for a moment, before you quickly crossed the room to stand in front of him, hands on your hips in an exaggerated motion of mock annoyance.

“Give that back!” you demanded, your voice thick with embarrassment. The red in your cheeks gave away how flustered you were, and you reached up again, trying to snatch it away, but to no avail.

He tilted his head, watching you with an utterly delighted expression, clearly enjoying this moment far more than he had any right to. “What’s the story behind this?” he asked, his voice dropping just enough to give it a soft, teasing lilt. “You never told me you belly danced.”

You exhaled in frustration, biting the inside of your cheek, but a smile tugged at the corners of your lips. You stood there for a long moment, your hands still raised in a half-attempted grab. There was no escaping this now. You might as well come clean.

“Fine,” you said, rolling your eyes as you put your hands down, your expression melting into something more sheepish. “You really want to know?”

Sylus nodded eagerly, a smirk still dancing on his lips as he waited. His face was playful, but there was an underlying sincerity in his gaze, as though he genuinely wanted to understand.

You let out a sigh, feeling both embarrassed and strangely warm from the look in his eyes. “Okay, okay,” you began, your voice a little quieter now, “In my final year of college, my friends and I were part of a small group — a little clique. We were always making silly bets and pranks on each other. Anyway, we were having this trivia contest one weekend, and I lost too. So, the bet was that I, along with the other girls who lost, had to join this belly dancing club at the local community center.”

Sylus mused. “Belly dancing?”

“Yep.” You grinned sheepishly, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “It was a two-month program. We had to go to lessons every week. I won’t lie, at first, we were all ridiculously self-conscious and awful, but after a while... It was actually kinda fun. There was this one friend of mine who was so into it, and she got us all hyped up.”

You paused, lost in the memory. It had been such an unexpectedly fun experience. “Anyway, after the program ended, one of the girls threw this huge sleepover at her house. We all decided to bring our glittery outfits — because, why not? We were all completely drunk on the fun of the whole thing, and we danced around like idiots, trying to outdo each other. It wasn’t... it wasn’t a great performance or anything, but it was hilarious and a good souvenir from my final year.”

You trailed off, a soft smile on your lips as you looked at Sylus, who had been listening intently, his face unreadable for a few moments as he mulled over your words. The silence in the room felt different now, charged, full of something unspoken. His gaze was thoughtful as he met yours, fingers gently toying with the fabric of the outfit in his hands.

Finally, Sylus spoke again, his voice quiet but filled with something that caught your attention. He spoke with a slight request, a softness that seemed hesitant. “So, um...” His voice trailed off as his gaze softened. “Could you... show me?”

You blinked, stunned. “Show you?” The words left your mouth before you even processed them. You rubbed your arm, heat flaring up in your cheeks. The thought of dancing in front of Sylus, of him watching you — in the way that made you all hot and bothered — was enough to make your heart skip a beat.

You hesitated, biting your lip, but then you saw it — the pleading look in his eyes, the way his lips curved into a small pout. The effect was immediate. It was so uncharacteristically adorable that you found yourself melting, despite the nervous flutter in your nerves. You never stood a chance.

“You really want me to?” you asked, trying to sound nonchalant, though your voice betrayed you.

“I’m not going to... be good. It’s been years since I last danced,” you muttered, crossing your arms defensively.

“You don’t have to be perfect,” Sylus said, his voice so soft now, almost coaxing, “Besides, I personally think that you’d be my Shakira.”

You let out a laugh at that but inwardly melted at his sincerity. “Okay, fine.”

As you stepped into the bathroom to change, the soft click of the door closing behind you did little to block out the swirl of critical thoughts rushing through your mind.

You stared at yourself in the mirror for a long moment before slipping into the outfit. As you pulled the top over your shoulders, you couldn’t help but notice how the fabric felt tighter across your chest, how the waistband of the skirt sat differently on your hips. You tugged at the fabric, trying to adjust it as though that might make it fit just like it did in those carefree days. But it didn’t. The outfit was a little snugger now, and that familiar feeling of unease began to creep in.

You bit your lip, studying yourself more intently. Your reflection seemed foreign, as though it didn’t belong in the same outfit you’d worn just a few years ago. This isn’t how it used to look. You felt the uncomfortable weight of your own self-doubt creeping in, clouding the excitement that had originally made you agree to Sylus’s request.

The sound of the bathroom door creaking open startled you, and you turned quickly. Sylus was standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame with a soft smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

The moment his gaze landed on you, your stomach twisted. You were still caught in your spiral of self-doubt, suddenly feeling too exposed in front of him. His eyes moved over you slowly, taking in the fabric of the outfit, the shimmer of the beads catching the light.

"You look stunning," he said, his voice quiet, but steady.

You crossed your arms over your chest, awkwardly, almost like you were trying to hide yourself. You couldn’t help it; the words still felt distant, not quite convincing enough. "It... doesn’t fit like it used to," you said, your voice barely above a whisper, like the words themselves might shatter the fragile confidence you were trying to hold onto. "I— I don’t know... I don’t look the same anymore."

He took a slow step toward you, his movements easy, as if he were already certain of what he wanted to say — and for a moment, it calmed the frantic chatter in your mind. You felt your breath catch when his hands reached out, gently pushing your arms away from your body. He gently lifted your chin, forcing your gaze to meet his.

“You know," he said softly, "it doesn’t matter how it used to fit. You look beautiful. You always look beautiful.”

His eyes, warm and steady, never wavered from yours as he continued, “The outfit doesn’t define you. You define it. You always have.”

You swallowed, trying to steady your breathing, the lingering doubts still tugging at you. “But I—” you began, but Sylus cut you off with a gentle shake of his head, his thumb softly brushing against your chin.

“You’re perfect the way you are,” he said, the words carrying an undeniable sincerity that stopped you in your tracks. “Nothing has changed about how amazing you are. The body you have now? It’s the one I fell in love with. And I’m telling you, the way you move your curves in that outfit...” He let out a soft chuckle, eyes twinkling with affection. “It’s gonna be ten times better than before, I promise.”

His words were so simple, but there was such undeniable truth to them. The self-consciousness that had taken root in your chest slowly started to loosen, replaced by a warm sense of reassurance. Sylus wasn’t looking at you with the same judgmental gaze you feared; he was seeing you beyond the nerves and self-doubt, straight to the person you were, right there, in front of him.

With a deep breath, you let your arms fall to your sides, as the last traces of doubt melted away. His words had broken through that negative cloud hanging over you, and you realized he wasn’t seeing what you saw when you looked at yourself. He wasn’t comparing you to anyone or anything, least of all some distant, youthful version of yourself.

You took a steadying breath and finally gave him a smile, one that was small but full of gratitude. “Okay. Okay, I’ll do it.”

Sylus’s grin broke wide across his face, the warmth in his eyes making your heart skip a beat. “That’s my girl,” he said, stepping back to give you some space. “I’m going to wait for the show.”

When you emerged a few minutes after him, Sylus was waiting on the bed, looking up at you with such anticipation that you couldn’t help but feel your heart stuttering. His eyes traced the delicate beads that shimmered along the top of the outfit, the way the skirt swayed as you moved. His gaze was so full of admiration that it made you feel almost weightless.

The first few seconds of music you had set filled the room, and you closed your eyes, letting the sound settle into your bones. You took a breath and rolled your shoulders, letting your hips follow the flow.

And then — you began.

Your arms rose slowly, your wrists circling with delicate precision as you stepped lightly into the center of the room. The maroon fabric swayed around your legs as your body moved in time with the music. Your hips rolled with practiced, fluid ease — slow at first, teasingly graceful — before picking up the rhythm in waves, each movement melting into the next like silk.

You could feel his eyes on you, heavy and electric, and the weight of his attention made your skin tingle with awareness. Every time you dared to sneak a glance at him, your heart jumped.

He looked completely, utterly undone.

Sylus was frozen where he sat, his hands now curled slightly on his thighs, his lips parted as if he’d meant to say something but had forgotten how. A faint flush had risen high on his cheeks and spilled down his neck, staining his skin a soft rose. His jaw flexed once, but still — no words. Just him, utterly transfixed.

His gaze followed the sway of your torso, the flick of your fingers, the arch of your back as you turned. You dipped your chin coyly, catching him again in a quick glance — and that time, you saw the way his throat bobbed with a hard swallow, his breath coming more shallow now. One of his hands had gripped the edge of the bed, knuckles white.

He was mesmerized.

The confidence he’d planted in you just minutes earlier was blooming now, unfurling with every step, every isolated roll of your stomach, every beat that your body translated into movement. You weren’t just dancing to entertain him. You were dancing because it felt good to be seen again. To be desired exactly as you were. To feel alive inside your own skin.

The music faded into a soft echo, and you stood in your final pose, chest rising and falling delicately with your breath, the air thick between you and Sylus. You let the silence linger for just a heartbeat longer before taking a slow step forward.

Then another.

His gaze tracked every inch of you like a man possessed.

You walked with a purposeful sway, letting your hips roll just a little more exaggeratedly than necessary, enjoying the soft jingle of the beads at your waist. You stopped just in front of him, his knees between yours, your fingertips trailing lightly up the side of his jaw, testing him.

Sylus tilted his face into your touch, but he still didn’t speak. His pupils were fully dilated, and the way he licked his lips made heat bloom low in your nether regions. He looked like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to worship you or pull you into him and never let go.

You leaned in close, your lips barely brushing the shell of his ear as you whispered, voice soft, “You’re staring.”

His breath hitched. “Can you blame me?”

A slow smile curled across your lips. You didn’t say anything. Instead, you leaned back just enough to let him see the glint in your eyes before you took a half-step closer and eased onto his lap.

Sylus went completely still beneath you, his hands hovering instinctively at your sides like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch you yet. You sat sideways, one leg hooked over his, the skirt of your costume falling open just enough to show the stretch of your thighs. Your fingertips toyed with the fabric at your own hip, the corner of your mouth lifting playfully.

You tilted your head, your voice lowering to a purr. “Did I drive you crazy, huh?”

Sylus leaned in, his nose brushing the line of your jaw, lips ghosting your ear as he whispered, “Absolutely.”

His hands found their place now, sliding around your waist with a reverent kind of slowness, thumbs brushing your bare skin where the top met the curve of your belly. You laughed softly, letting your fingers slide through the hair at the nape of his neck.

You let out a startled sound — a breathy half-gasp, half-laugh — as Sylus suddenly flips you onto your back with such fluidity it leaves your head spinning, causing the maroon fabric of your skirt to fan out around you like a pool of molten silk, catching the soft light, shimmering with the motion. He’s above you now, propped up on his forearms, his body warm and solid over yours, his eyes shining with a mix of lust and unmistakable tenderness.

Your laughter dies down into a soft hum as you meet his gaze, and for a moment, neither of you speak. You feel the weight of his stare, not possessive, but present, grounding you in the moment like nothing else ever had.

Then, his hands slowly begin to move, skimming along the maroon fabric that clings to your body, fingers light and reverent. “What a pretty dress,” he murmurs, his voice dripping with awe before his sanguine eyes flicker up to you. You smile at the compliment, but it’s what he says next that truly knocks the breath from your lungs.

“And what a prettier you.”

You can’t help the way your breath catches again, how you instinctively roll your eyes, embarrassed but secretly delighted. A blush surges hot up your neck, and you bite your lower lip in a bashful attempt to temper your reaction, but it’s useless — he sees right through you. And judging by the soft, crooked grin on his face, he likes that he can still surprise you.

Before you can even gather a response, Sylus moves — shifts lower, slower, with deliberate care — and plants the softest kiss on your ankle. Your breath hitches again. Then another kiss, just above it. He works his way upward, mouth brushing along your calf, your knee, your inner thigh — lingering longer, his stubble grazing your skin just enough to make you gasp softly and squirm beneath him.

He continues with an almost worshipful focus, trailing higher still, the kisses dotting your soft belly now. He works his way up to your ribs, your shoulders, then along the delicate curve of your collarbone. You’re giggling now, high and breathy, unable to stop yourself, both from the ticklish trail of his mouth and the sheer overwhelming affection of it all. His kisses turn playful along your jaw, your cheeks, the tip of your nose — until finally, finally — his lips brush yours.

It starts as the softest kiss — just a whisper of contact. Then another. And then a deeper one, as though he’s trying to pour everything he feels into that single moment. His hand cradles the side of your face, thumb stroking gently against your cheekbone. When he pulls back — just enough to breathe — you're a kind of giddy that comes from being loved so thoroughly it leaves no room for doubt. You blink up at him, trying to gather yourself, but all that spills out is a shaky laugh as you cover your face with your hands.

You peek at him from behind your hands after a while, unable to stop smiling. “You’re ridiculous.”

Sylus grins down at you, before wrapping your legs around his waist. You instantly pick up on his intentions and tease, “We were supposed to unpack.”

“Later, sweetie.” He murmurs, nudging your nose with his, “Let me have you for now.”

Check out my other works if you liked this ♥

[morgan-va]

Ena x G/N Reader HCs: An Ode To Isekai (Or, How You Destroy Her and Moony’s Sandwiches)

One moment, you were choking on a pickle that the employee at your favorite fast food restaurant neglected to remove. The next, you were plummeting through a swirling mess of distorted colors, shapes shifting around you like a broken computer screen. Gravity twisted in ways it shouldn’t, and just when you thought you’d keep falling forever—

THUD.

“AAAH! OUR BEAUTIFUL, PEACEFUL PICNIC! DESTROYED! TRAGEDY! WOE IS ME!”

The voice was loud, dramatic, and oddly robotic, and as you groaned, struggling to push yourself up, you realized you’d landed right on top of a checkered picnic blanket… and two figures. One was an angular, multi-colored humanoid flailing her arms wildly, and the other was a round, moon-faced being staring blankly at you.

The nausea was instant. The sky was glitching, the grass beneath you was pixelated, and the entire world meshed together with low-poly graphics. Panic clawed at your chest.

“Oh! How fascinating! A new specimen! A new friend! A LOST SOUL!” The colorful girl’s tone flipped in an instant, her arms outstretched as if you were some grand discovery.

You barely had time to react before she yanked you upright with alarming strength. “Salutations! My name is Ena! And you are…?”

ENA is immediately, intensely curious about you. One second she’s mourning the loss of her sandwiches, the next she’s staring at you with her face way too close to yours, inspecting you like you’re some rare artifact.

“How peculiar! You have skin! And your eyes—so full of FEAR and EXISTENTIAL DREAD! Adorable!”

The one apparently named Moony, still sitting on the ground, tilts her head. “You look sick. Don’t vomit on my blanket.”

You do, in fact, feel sick. The ground beneath you doesn’t feel real, and the sky keeps shifting between daytime and nighttime. Your body feels out of place in this world.

“Oh nyo, my new chum is feewing siwck :c dis is allll my fauwlt” Ena cries, polygonal tears falling out of her eyes and literally bouncing off of you. However, she notices your shaky breathing, and she seems to pause her breakdown. Then her tone shifts into something oddly clinical. “Ah. I see. Overwhelmed. Confused. Rapid heart rate. Nausea. Ah, yes. Yes yes yes. Yes yes. Expected results.”

“Do not worry, my fleshy, fragile companion! I, Ena, shall teach you the ways of this realm! Perhaps you shall THRIVE! Or perish horribly. But no! I shall ensure your survival! HOPEFULMISTICALLY!”

She switches between exaggerated theatrics and cold, matter-of-fact, and often bizarre statements at random, which does not help your anxiety.

At first, her advice isn’t very helpful, or well, maybe it is, at this point you aren’t sure of anything anymore. “Do not drink the water from the drinking fountains. Or do. It might turn you into a dog. Or erase your mouth. It’s a gamble! And you know what God says about that!”

Eventually, though, she starts learning how to help in a more… normal way. She slows down when she notices you trembling, and after a long pause, she mutters, “You feel like you don’t belong here, don’t you?”

It’s the first time her voice sounds completely even. No wild swing, no emotional outburst, Just quiet understanding, as if both of her sides are coequal in their understanding.

She places a hand on your shoulder. “I know that feeling. I still feel that way, most of the time.”

“But,” she continues, suddenly perking up, her yellow side taking control again, “I have ADAPTED! And so can you!”

You’re not entirely convinced. But the way she begins doing a strange dance around you like you’ve already won something makes it hard to stay hopeless.

“Besides! You have me now! A trusty, glorious, questionably competent guide! Let us find you STABILITY! Or at least, a divine snack.”

Moony finally chimes in again. “... You still crushed my sandwich.”

Ena gasps. “And a REPLACEMENT SANDWICH! Quickly, to the food vendor! Or the wishing well! Maybe we’ll be lucky and summon a perfect BLT (Barely Legible Tomato) from the void!”

[literarypm]

Is it that which shall be...?

Meetings and Discussions :: Part LVIII

[pukefactory]

Ooh ooh I had an idea for a 👨‍👩‍👦 headcanon- how do you think BBQ Ena would be if you brought home a child? Or maybe helped her take care of humanboard (i love the Ena as a mother to humanboard art sjhshsbwj)

You don’t mean to do it. Not really. But fate has a funny way of fumbling a child into your arms like a glitch in the cosmic delivery service—lost in a crowd of mannequins, wide-eyed and sticky-fingered, hair full of static and questions no sane adult can answer. And when you bring them home—clutching them under one arm like some strange, living parcel—you make the mistake of forgetting to warn ENA.

That’s the first lesson you learn: never surprise ENA with children.

The door creaks open. A half-beaten music box plays backwards in the hallway, and ENA’s voice—her red side, bright as always—chimes out like a friendly pop-up ad.

“Oh! I see our inventory has doubled. Babies or pets? Or is it a third, rogue option? A mutant? A mascot? A miniature intern?!”

She blinks once, tilting her cap in mock salutation toward the confused child. The kid blinks back, clutching your sleeve as though ENA might suddenly disassemble into triangles and claws. Which, knowing her, she just might.

“That,” you start, adjusting the weight on your hip, “is… a long story.”

“Oho,” she says, stepping forward. “One that likely involves legal grey areas, poor decision-making, and possibly snacks.”

The kid offers a weak “hi.”

ENA’s eyes dilates like she’s been pitched a product. Her salesperson persona surges like a tide of caffeinated delight. She drops into a crouch with all the elegance of a glitchy loading screen, resting her mitten-hand on her knee and extending the clawed one toward the child like it’s a limited-time offer.

“Hello there, fellow entity. I’m ENA. I specialise in emotional instability, high-volume information processing, and—on Thursdays—balloon animals. May I interest you in some structured mischief?”

You start to intervene. Before you can even finish the word “careful,” the child, perhaps sensing that ENA is either friend or colourful demon, high-fives her claw.

“Oh no,” you mutter. “They like her.”

You expected ENA to tolerate the kid. At best, you hoped for neutrality. Instead, she… adapts. Wildly.

ENA begins curating “educational briefings” for the child every morning, complete with drawn charts on napkins and unnecessary PowerPoints about brushing teeth, evading eldritch tax collectors, and the practical applications of glitter. She adopts a strangely bureaucratic tone when asking the child if they need help tying their shoes.

“Where do you stand on the lace union, young apprentice? Left over right, or right over left? Let’s negotiate.”

She insists on reading bedtime stories with full dramatic flair, shifting between her voices mid-sentence. Meanie will roar as the ogre and scream about the “idiotic moral failings of fairytale monarchs,” while Salesperson tries to sell the dragon a better public image.

At one point, she offers the child a makeshift business card made of crackers and string. It reads: “Child. Age: ‘Tiny.’ Skills: Sticky hands, loud noises, potential. Status: Honourary Intern.”

But it’s not all comedic horror. Sometimes, she’s quiet with them.

There are nights when the kid is too scared to sleep. Bad dreams. You know the kind—the type that twist like broken pixels behind the eyes. You’re about to get up when you hear it:

Her soft, mechanical humming.

You peek into the room to find ENA—both sides still, no sales pitch or shrieking—sitting beside the child’s bed. Her mitten-hand rests on the blanket. Her clawed one is busy drawing sleepy little circles into the sheets. She’s speaking so softly it barely registers as sound.

“…I was scared once, too. Of the fog. Of the static. Of being a prototype that failed QA inspection… But then I found a friend. That makes you patchable, you know. You’re part of the update now.”

The child asks her if monsters are real.

ENA, with her expression flickering into melancholy polygons, says: “Yes. But most of them are sad and lonely and wear funny hats.”

You don’t bring it up often, but she notices the way you watch her. How your hand lingers on the doorframe, or how you look down at the child like they’re made of glass and you’re the one with claws.

One day, while the kid is drawing faces on fruit, she corners you in the kitchen.

“You didn’t expect me to be good at this, did you?” she says, low and dry, Meanie side half-lidded in suspicion.

You stammer, try to explain you didn’t not expect it, you just—

Salesperson interrupts with a knowing smile.

“It’s alright. You didn’t think I could be a person, either.”

That one hits. She watches your face fall. And for once, ENA—strange, shifting ENA—softens into something entirely human.

“I’m not a mother,” she says finally, voice warm and flat and real, “but I’m something adjacent. An afterimage. A parallel. I can learn.”

And she does.

In time, she even paints little symbols on the child’s backpack for protection. “Wards,” she says. “Programmed in love and anti-theft software.” She cuts fruit into weird shapes, teaches them how to scream at pigeons, and refers to tantrums as “miniature emotional riots,” which she helps de-escalate with whispered threats of boring financial podcasts.

She’s not traditional. She’s not consistent. But she’s there. And somehow… in a way no one else could be… ENA becomes safe.

In her jagged edges and absurd logic, the child finds a sanctuary.

You do, too.

[chaoticwriting]

YOU ARE MARRIED 4!!??

Part 3

Clockwork: Welcome back, my boy. How does the mission go?

Danny: I'm going to assume you ask that purely out of courtesy but it is going fine. I capture Vlad and only experience some minor inconveniences.

Clockwork: Hmmm, minor inconveniences for now it is.

Danny: I'm sorry what?

Clockwork: Nothing. Anyway, you should get ready to go pick up Ellie. Also take this.

Clockwork throws a bag full of things on to Danny as he clumsily catches it.

Danny: Oh no, you are not just brushing it off. Tell me wha- AAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!!

A green portal opens below Danny as he falls into it, leaving behind an unconscious Vlad on the floor and Clockwork standing there looking solemnly at the closing green portal.

Clockwork: I hope you will be able to face your future challenges well my boy.

-Gotham-

Batman is seriously not having a good night tonight. He just finished Riddler's riddles when he gets news that Black Mask and Bane are currently engaging in a shootout in the harbor.

It's bad enough that there are 3 rogues that are out tonight, his daughter is also not talking to him since he forced her to go on patrol tonight since she has been benched for far too long.

It's not that he doesn't understand her but he seriously needs help with both Red Robin and him injured, Red Hood is dealing with something in his territory and Nightwing is out of town. Only Spoiler, Black Bat and Robin are available since they are not supposed to patrol tonight.

When they arrive at the scene though, all they see is knocked out Black Mask and Bane, alongside a line of goons that are sitting on the ground with head hanging low like they are ashamed of something.

Upon closer inspection, they see a man standing in front of the line of goons, lecturing them about gun safety and how irresponsible they are for shooting and disturbing the night.

Batman has been doing this vigilante work for a long time and this still can easily be ranked in the top 10 of the wildest things he has seen.

But he is Batman. So he will adapt to the situation. Slowly approaching the man, he is startled and stunned when the man turns around and starts to lecture him about fighting while injured and the importance of rest.

He is about to refute the man when a black shadow passes by him and pushes towards the man. He sees the man equally startled at first and finally intercepts the fast shadow with a hug.

Everyone falls into awkward silence as everyone from the goons and the Batfamily watch as the man and Black Bat hug each other for a long time.

Batman: Ehem!

Batman's fake cough catches the attention of the two hugging figures as they separate with a clear (green?) blush on the man's face. The man turns towards the goons and urges them to go back home and thinks about what he says.

Normally, Batman would have stopped him to capture all the goons but right now, there is a lot more important matter at hand. Batman watches as the goons pick up their belongings and scramble away to what he assumes to be their home.

Batman: Are you Daniel Fenton?

Danny: Yes and I assume you are Batman.

Batman: *Grunts*

Danny: I'll take that as a yes.

Batman: What are you doing here?

Danny: I have come to pick up my daughter. Unfortunately, my luck isn't that good. I got caught up in the shootout between these two guys and their minions and decided to stop it.

Danny says as he points towards the unconscious Bane and Black Mask laying on the ground. Spoiler and Robin approach them and check their condition. After confirming they are just unconscious, they tie the two unconscious men and contact Jim to come collect the rogues.

While Batman is supervising their work, he could hear the subtle flirting happening between Danny and his daughter. He usually is very good at handling his emotions but right now, he really doesn't know how he is supposed to feel.

Batman: Let's go back first. We will continue this conversation later.

Batman then returns to the Batmobile to see only Spoiler, Red Robin and Robin following him. He stares at Spoiler as she replies with a shrugs.

Black Bat: I will show Danny the way.

Batman releases another sigh. As the Batmobile engine booms through the streets, a silent invisible car follows it from behind.

When they arrive at the Batcave, it is quite a surprise when a car suddenly appears right beside them. Its sleek black with neon green gives it a weird retro style design.

Exiting it are an unmasked Black Bat that is blushing a little and Danny that is grinning widely. Bruce can feel his eyebrows twitching when he sees the scene. He controls his impulse to go beat up Danny and calls Alfred to inform him of their guest.

They sit together in silence as all of them think of what they question they are gonna ask him when the elevator lets out a ding and comes out Alfred.

Danny turns towards the elevator and is surprised to see a familiar face.

Danny: Mr. Pennyworth. How are you doing?

Alfred: I am good, Mr. Daniel. How are you doing? Still traveling I assume.

Danny: I am also good. Hahaha. I try to do less traveling now that I have a family but you know how it is. I don't find problems, problems find me.

Stephanie: Wait, you two knew each other.

Alfred: Why yes. We go way back with him sometimes helping me and me sometimes helping him.

Danny: Anyway, what are you doing here? I thought you said you want to retire from fighting.

Alfred: A lot has happened since we last saw each other. I for one become the butler of this family.

Danny: A butler? Well you do make a good tea. Wait, you mean this family. As in all of you guys are one family?

Alfred: Oh, Miss Cassandra didn't tell you? I would have assumed you know.

Danny: You know I wouldn't pressure her to tell me if she isn't comfortable about it. After all, each of us has a secret of our own, right?

To that statement, both of them just let out a little knowing smile. The rest of them are pretty stunt at the revelation that both Danny and Alfred know each other.

Stephanie: Wait, Danny. How old are you?

Danny: I am 21. Why?

Stephanie: Then how did you know Alfred? Both of you have like half a century of age difference.

Danny: Oh! I can time travel.

Tim: *While getting his hand bandaged by Alfred* You can time travel?

Danny: Well, not me. I know someone that can send me traveling through time.

Stephanie: So when Alfred said you are traveling, he means traveling through time.

Danny: Well, that and dimension too.

Tim: And why did you travel to these places?

Danny: Many reasons. Visiting someone, delivering items, and even capturing prisoners.

Tim: So you are a servant of someone?

Danny: Servant in a sense your parents ask you to do something. Sure, I could avoid him and just run away. But last time I did that, he made me write a 1000 word apology essay in an ancient language.

Bruce: Is it Clockwork the one you are talking about?

Danny: Oh you heard of him? Yeah. He is like my mentor/parental figure. He helps me train my power and solve my problems and such.

Suddenly, a little figure pounces on Danny as he easily intercepts it and spins the little figure.

Ellie: Hi Papa!

Danny: Hello, honey. What are you doing still not sleeping?

Ellie: I was waiting for Mama to return from work.

Danny: I see. But it is quite late isn't it. We should take you to bed now.

Cass: Ellie, I thought I already put you to bed before I went out.

Ellie: I woke up when you were getting out of bed. I wanted to follow you but Alfred doesn't allow me to.

Cass looks at Alfred apologetically. It seems that her daughter is more perceptive than she thought.

Alfred: I do believe that this conversation can also be postponed to the next morning. I would rather that all of you have enough energy to deal with your day tomorrow too.

Bruce & Tim: *Groan*

Stephanie: Can I have a cookie before going to bed?

Ellie: Oh, I want it too!

Cass: You shouldn't eat sweets before going to bed, sweetheart.

Ellie: But Aunt Steph is also getting a cookie.

Cass: Don't follow your aunt Steph. You don't want to have your teeth all fall off right?

Ellie: *Covering her mouth* No!

Alfred: I also agree with Miss Cassandra. It is a little too late to have a midnight snack. Master Damian is also tired from how he is holding himself.

Everyone turns towards the oddly silent Damian and sees that Damian is leaning against the wall as his head bops up and down dozing off to sleep. Bruce goes to pick up Damian that snuggles closer into Bruce's shoulder as he is being carried up to his room.

Under Alfred's insistence, everyone returns to their bedroom that night.

[abbotcoded]

yall are gonna be sick of seeing my posts under the Robby x Abbot tags but I’m on a roll today

Abbot and Robby being established and married for years, Robby has been making off handed comments about how he sometimes wishes he could’ve been a father but he’s too old now and when a little kid gets taken by social services because their parent(s) died on a gurney Jack is heartbroken and ponders about it and eventually he’s like “hey we could become foster parents maybe?” and they start this long ass process of getting their license and their house adapted to pass home inspections

they eventually get some placements, Robby is good with teenage kids and Jack is good with toddlers, they’re heartbroken every time a kiddo leaves (Robby sobs the first time)

eventually they end up adopting one or two older kids (because older kids rarely get adopted and they’re also both too old to adopt infants or toddlers) and they get to see their kiddo(s) graduate high school and college and Jack fucking loves getting to go to sports events and you bet he runs those training sessions like the army

it all hits Jack like a freight train on a late evening when Robby is helping the kid(s) with homework at the dinner table and he realises he has something he never believed was for him

it hits Robby on a busy day when he’s running late to a parents-teacher conference because he got held up at the hospital and in the car he realises he’s going to the high school of his and Jack’s kid(s) and omg I’m a father and am married to the love of my life

(also, as a plus, Dana and Collins vouch so hard for them when they are interviewed by the social worker as part of the due process for them to get their license)

[jymwahuwu]

cw: non-con, forced orgasm, yandere, discipline, control

Sunday doesn't like this.

This is not at all suitable for the Family's harmonious style of doing things.

So, before that, Sunday expressed to you that he and they (all members of the Family) were sad about this. It hurt him (and all of their feelings).

But... if you hadn't joined the Family and ran away, and tried to say some irrational things, things wouldn't have developed like this.

He looked at you tenderly, your whole body filled with vibrators. Several suspicious lines flowed out of your watery place, making a low buzzing sound.

His gloved hands politely look at your private parts, fingering them gently as if he were playing a musical instrument or inspecting a fragile item. Your vision was completely blurred by tears.

Then... one of the fingers poked, rubbed, and finally slid into your warm wall without any hindrance, which was convulsing during the previous orgasm.

That finger was thrusting skillfully and deeply, without any adaptation at all, but immediately forcing a new orgasm to form quickly.

"Stop-Stop!!!!"

A violent, humiliating orgasm complete with lustful wetness and a taut body. Sunday always looks at you without a trace of pride or annoyance, just like that’s what he should do. He slowly pulled his fingers out and wiped the gloves dry.

He kissed your forehead, not turning off any of the vibrators.

But adding a few new ones.

"Shh, it's almost over. Then we'll welcome you into the Family again."

[hellothisisangle]

Vignette, or “V” for short, is a mercenary for hire in Cyberpunk 2077. V is of mixed decent, speaking in a masculine American accent and fluent in both the English and Greek language, along with broken Spanglish learned from Jackie.

Front | Hair (Ex 2) | Teeth | Hands | Feet | Back

Screenshots | Comics, Convos, and Other Art

Vignette

“It’s V, just V. Only people who know me real well get to use my real name.”

Age

Mid twenties

Biography

V grew up in the American wilderness as a member of the Γυναίκες με χρώμα nomad family, a fully matriarchal clan that exiles sons of a certain age. Alone and lost after being cast away, V traveled through the badlands outside Night City accomplishing odd jobs until getting in contact with Jackie Welles. The pair agreed to smuggle contraband together over the city border and split the profits; however, they were ambushed by the Arasaka corporation shortly after crossing inspections. Fleeing from the heat, the two are able to escape by driving further into the city.

Jackie helps V by connecting them to a buddy that rents out crappy apartments in Night City and gives more grunt work. V is supremely grateful to have someone they can finally consider a ‘friend’, but is wary of becoming too attached to anything. Years pass by as V and Jackie begin to make a name for themselves as reliable mercs.

Over time, V seeks transformation through cyberware, restructuring their body piece by piece — not just for survival in Night City, but also chasing an internal vision of potential and beauty they felt they were denied at birth. V swaps their masculine and feminine parts depending on their mood, but appears to prefer a feminine bust with a penis.

Γυναίκες με χρώμα

The “Women of Color” clan is dominated by formidable women who prize physical strength and attributes. Names which are given to members of the clan are based upon names of color, such as “Magenta” or “Cerulean”. Boys born to the clan are expected to serve their mothers and sisters, and are not gifted an actual name of color. To V, the balance of the clan was all they knew. Torn between reverence and envy, V grew up questioning their role plus their identity, while any attempts to emulate the clan's feminine ideals often came across as ‘confused’ to the elders. V would only later understand the suffocating power dynamics they were subject to, and it left them having a hatred towards nomad clans and their values of ‘family’ and ‘solidarity’ in general. Their respect and sometimes fear towards powerful women endures as they struggle with feelings of inadequacy and the idea that they will never measure up to the women they were influenced by.

Personality

V is fierce. They project puffed-up strength, self confidence, humor, and adaptability on the outside, often in an attempt to get people to underestimate them. Called an asshole on more than a few occasions. Yet privately, V is wracked with insecurity, constantly battling the thought that they are neither man nor woman enough to belong anywhere.

They may unknowingly or secretly prefer feminine pronouns, though they do not voice the preference to friends, peers, or even strangers, accepting whatever others classify them as.

V tends to distrust authority, especially matriarchal figures who remind them too much of home. They are deeply loyal and would never betray anyone, but cautious in building relationships, as ultimately- V looks out for themselves first and foremost.

Likes and Hobbies

Anything that gives an adrenaline rush. Street racing, dangerous bar games, over-the-top action movies.

Fighting Style

In the beginning, V utilizes a crappy pistol, and simple quick-hacks. Following “The Heist”, V became more self sufficient, relying only on themselves for netrunning, soloing, and edgerunning. Ranged, they can wipe out a dozen enemies in seconds by simultaneously uploading EMP hacks and scoping remaining stragglers. In close combat, they rely on heavy damage hacks, knives, and their fists.

Weapons

Overwatch Sniper Rifle

Stinger and Punknife

Vehicle

Kusanagi CT-3X

Cyberware (current)

Deck: Tetratronic Rippler MK.5

Frontal Cortex: Camillo Ram Manager, Ex-Disk, Self-Ice

Optics: Kiroshi “The Oracle”

Arms: Projectile Launch System

Skeleton: Bionic Joints, Ram Recoup, Universal Booster

Nervous System: Kerenzikov, Reflex Tuner, Synaptic Accelerator

Integumentary System: Subdermal Armor, Carapace, Pain Editor

Circulatory System: Threatevac, Heal-On-Kill, Blood Pump

Hands: Smart Link, Ballistic Corprocessor

Legs: Fortified Ankles

Drink of Choice

Jaeger, Ouzo

Radio “V’s playlist to do drugs and kill people to”

Godspeed You! Black Emperor

Ptasinksi and RJ Pasin

Ratatat

Health

HTRK

Lorn

Boards of Canada

Battles

Carpenter Brut

Giraffes? Giraffes!

Melt Yourself Down (Jackie recommendation)

—————————

In-game Mod List

Solo Body OG

Lethal Curves

Metallic Skin

Cyber Body Bodytextures

Kiasu Burger Cyberware

Kiasu Burger Takemura Hands

Cyber Spine

Anrui Teeth Texture

MTF Voice