#powder module

[miku-module-showdown]

Twinkle Star VS Powder

[gray-wednesday]

Current Favorite WG Smoothie

Ingredients:

1 Mango (~200 cal depending on size) ($1)

1 cup heavy whipping cream (800 cal) ($7, quart)

1/2 cup coconut cream (445 cal) ($3)

1/2 cup sweetened shredded coconut (280 cal) ($3)

1/2 cup 10% Fat Greek Yogurt (150 cal) ($6, quart)

3 tbsp honey (190 cal) ($3)

2 tbsp chia seeds (120 cal) ($5, promise you'll have this for weeks lmao)

Total: 2,185 cal (~$28 upfront)

Based on these 500-2000 calorie smoothie recipes

[clockwayswrites]

Mx. Minx - Dinner part 2

masterpost this is a first draft, please no editing or concrit <3 cw:mentions of blood and canon typical violence

He heard Danny move the bathroom and the sink running. Danny’s voice was garbled as he asked, “What sort of medical stuff do you need? Anything more than medication and some bruise cream?”

“A few scrapes,” he answered after a moment of assessing. He flexed his fingers. “My knuckles are probably bloody.”

“Bandages and ointment it is,” Danny said.

It was a while longer before the water shut off, long enough for Jason to be down to his pants, shirt, gloves, and mask. The rest of his gear made a small pile on the coffee table—an odd thing with cheap, mid-century modern lines covered in at least one full layer of stickers. It felt odd to have his weapons not only off, but just sitting where anyone could grab them. It made his hands itch.

He focused on carefully taking off his gloves.

Danny padded softly around the apartment, just out of Jason’s line of sight, before he set a haphazard collection of things on the coffee table next to Jason’s pile. There where the bandages, rags, wipes, and tubes but also bottles of sports drink, packets of crackers and those cheap powdered donuts.

Danny snapped on a pair of rubber gloves.

“Okay, let’s see to you. We’ll eat after, but if you need something now feel free. And you’re going to drink one of those bottles,” Danny said, tone matter of fact and oddly authoritative.

Not wanting a fight tonight, even just for the sake of being stubborn, Jason cracked open one of the bottles and took a long sip. Then he opened the other and set it purposefully in front of Danny, who rolled his eyes, but took a sip.

The gloves game off first. Jason hissed as the fabric pulled against the raw skin. The sound was harsh through the modulation of the mask, but Danny just made a soothing little sound in response and slowed down. When the gloves were finally off, battered knuckles revealed, Danny ran his thumbs under the mess.

“Lots of punching tonight, huh?” Danny asked.

Jason shrugged. “Lots of people needed to be punched.”

“I’m sorry that I don’t think there’s anyway for this not to hurt,” Danny said picked up the wet rag and pressed it to the knuckles.

It was surprisingly, soothingly, warm.

“I’m used to pain.”

Danny sighed. “I know. But I also know that really doesn’t make it any better.”

Jason could only shrug again. It didn’t, but that was also his life. It had always had pain in it. Still, it was nice of Danny to try and cause as little as possible. His touch was different than Leslie’s or Alfred. It was less clinical. Less numb to it all. Not that Danny seemed squeamish in the least or reacted poorly to the blood and bruises, but there was a sadness to him.

Not wanting to add to it, Jason tried to stay as quiet and still as possible as Danny cleaned and dressed the wounds and bruises. It was almost peaceful, despite the stings of pain, and Jason found the exhaustion pulling himself down into a lull.

“Any bruises on your torso?” Danny asked. His hands were already under Jason’s shirt, pushing the fabric up.

Jason stilled Danny’s hands, catching them in his own bandaged ones. “Not pretty under there.”

“I won’t mind.”

But would Jason?

Danny would see his scars—all of them. The one wasn’t something he could explain away. Worse, it was distinct. Identifying. People just didn’t have autopsy scars across their chest.

Jason thought about the guns and knives already on the coffee table.

His blood on the rags.

He dropped his hands.

[dearstvckyx]

It hurts, but I won’t fight you - Bucky Barnes

After disappearing following the events of The Flag Smashers, Reader returns as a brainwashed operative under the control of a Hydra-like organization. During a mission at The New Avengers Tower, the Thunderbolts confront her. Bucky Barnes, recognizing her, strives to break through her conditioning. - The Neighbourhood, Afraid

Bucky Barnes x Reader , mentions of thunderbolts members

Warnings: Violence, brainwashing, emotional trauma, mild torture (electric shocks), angst, hurt/comfort, romantic undertones.

The Neighbourhood Lyrics Masterlist - ⌂

The New Avengers Tower – Common Room - 11:42 PM

It had been a rare, quiet night.

Yelena was dramatically spilling crumbs on the couch. Alexei, legs wide like a king, was halfway through a passionate rant about how “in his day,” super-soldiers didn’t need protein powder. John Walker was ignoring him entirely, focused on whatever was on his phone.

Bob hovered above the ground with a book in one hand and a glowing soda can in the other. Ava had her feet up on the table, head leaned back, resting.

And Bucky? Bucky was enjoying the peace. The quiet rhythm of camaraderie that didn’t always come easy to him. Until—

BANG.

The power died.

All the lights snapped out, the screens glitched, and a high-pitched, shrill alarm shattered the calm.

“Warning: Breach detected. Level 12. Unauthorized entry.”

Everyone snapped to their feet.

Yelena groaned, grabbing her knives. “Why always when I’m relaxing?”

“Level 12’s main security is offline,” Bob muttered. “That’s not easy to do.”

“Could be sabotage,” Ava said sharply, tightening her gloves. “Or worse—inside help.”

“Let’s go,” Bucky ordered, who was already halfway to the stairs followed by the team. Excluding Bob who’s stayed behind in case the intruder came down.

⸻

Level 12 – Maintenance Corridor

The air was thick with smoke and flashing red lights. A security door lay blown off its hinges, wires sparking. The smell of scorched metal clung to everything.

And then—a blur.

Someone in sleek, black tactical armor lunged out of the smoke and kicked Walker full-force into the wall with a mechanical whirr.

“Damn it!” he growled, winded. “Who the hell—?!”

“MOVE!” Ava shouted, phasing just as a throwing disc nearly clipped her head.

Yelena ducked and retaliated with twin knives, slashing with military precision. But the intruder blocked it—clean, calculated—before flipping her over their shoulder like she weighed nothing.

Alexei charged with brute force but was met with a rapid-fire stun shot to the chest. He stumbled and fell with a groan. “That one was unnecessary…”

Everyone was on the ground, in pain… everyone but Bucky.

“Who the hell fights like this?” Ava hissed, panting.

“Like someone trained,” Bucky said, narrowing his eyes. There was something hauntingly familiar about it—the stance, the precision, the brutal efficiency.

And then—Bucky lunged.

Steel clashed against upgraded tech. They fought close, gritty—Bucky landed a hit to the helmet, and the figure staggered. He pushed them back again, growling, “Take off the damn mask.”

The figure hesitated. A split-second of stillness.

Then—they whispered it.

“James?”

The voice. Muffled through the modulator, but Bucky heard it like thunder. His stomach dropped.

“Y/N?”

That moment of recognition—a crack in the armor—was punished instantly.

A violent shock pulse surged through their suit, and they cried out, buckling to the ground in pain.

“NO!” Bucky shouted, catching them.

You looked up at him, eyes flickering with something broken and terrified.

“It hurts…” you whispered. “But I won’t fight you.”

Another jolt. You screamed. His grip tightened.

He saw them now—small emitters on the spine, flashing red. Some kind of remote control. Surveillance.

Without hesitation, Bucky used his vibranium arm to rip them off, wires sparking and shorting.

The suit powered down. You collapsed forward, gasping, into his arms.

Helmet off. Face revealed.

It was you.

And the others—Yelena, Ava, even Walker, who the last time he saw you, you were limped and out cold in Bucky’s arms—stood frozen in disbelief.

⸻

Recovery Wing - 44 Hours Later

The recovery wing of the tower was quieter than usual.

You sat propped up on a medical bed, bandages wrapping the worst of the burns where the shocks had hit your body. Your hands trembled every so often, more from the cold emptiness in your chest than from the physical trauma. You hadn’t said much—not since the fight, not since Bucky tore the device off you and held you like the world had cracked open.

“Head still spinning?” Bob asked softly, sitting in a chair pulled close to your bedside, a half-eaten granola bar in his hand. “I can stop talking if it’s too much.”

You blinked at him and shook your head. “No… it’s fine. I like hearing your voice. It helps.”

Bob gave you a small, gentle smile. “Well, that’s rare. Most people say I talk too much.”

You managed a weak laugh, the first sound resembling life you’d made in hours.

Across the compound, Yelena, Ava, John, and Alexei were suiting up. The footage pulled from the hacked suit had given them a lead—an offshore facility run by remnants of a HYDRA-adjacent group. The same bastards who had taken you.

“They’re gonna find them,” Bob said, his voice quieter now. “They’ll make sure no one does this to you—or anyone—again.”

You nodded absently, fingers curling around the blanket on your lap. “I was awake for some of it. They’d… talk to me. Reprogram me. And I couldn’t scream, or fight back. I was just—trapped in my own head. But when I saw Bucky… everything cracked. Like he punched through it.”

Bob didn’t interrupt. He didn’t press you to keep talking. He just stayed, steady and warm, the way good people do.

⸻

Hours Later…

You heard the familiar shuffle of boots before the medbay doors opened. Your heart jumped when Bucky stepped through the doorway, bruised and bloody from the fight, but very much alive.

Bob was still next to you, now showing you funny dog videos on his phone to try and distract you. But he paused when Bucky entered, giving him a smile and a knowing look.

“I’ll give you two a minute,” Bob said, gently squeezing your shoulder before getting up. “Holler if you want another snack. Or a better phone.”

Bucky watched him go with a slight huff of amusement before stepping forward, his eyes locked onto you like you were the only solid thing left in the world.

“You okay?” he asked first, as always.

You nodded. “Physically? Yeah. Emotionally? I’m still trying to sort through the static.”

He knelt by your bedside, gloved hand finding yours without asking. “You scared the hell out of me,” he whispered.

“I scared me too.”

You tried to smile, but it broke halfway through. “They were in my head, James. Controlling me. And I couldn’t stop it. I thought I’d hurt you. I thought… I’d lose you.”

His brows furrowed, eyes going glassy. “You didn’t. You never could.”

He stood up slowly, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles before sitting on the edge of the bed beside you. “You said something—back in the fight. ‘It hurts, but I won’t fight you.’ I’ve never heard anything more honest.”

You stared at him, overwhelmed by the softness in his voice. “Because I knew you. Even if everything else was gone… you stayed. And I… I stayed for you.”

Bucky cupped your cheek, thumb brushing a tear away before it could fall. “I’ll stay as long as you’ll have me.”

You leaned your forehead against his, your breath mingling. “Then don’t leave.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

⸻

Outside the room, the rest of the team passed by the hallway, glancing through the window and spotting the two of you curled together on the medbed.

Bob grinned as he walked past, whispering to Ava, “Told you he was a goner.”

John had rolled his eyes but smirked at the two. “Finally.”

⸻

SOOOOOO THE NBHD MIGHT BE COMING BACK IM GONNA CRYYYYYYY

[thesimline]

Carrying over from the late 1600s, the wig was the hairstyle de jour for men of the 18th century. For most of the 1700s either natural or white hair colour were favoured. White wigs were the most expensive and sought after, so powdering one's own hair became the fad to give the illusion of wealth. Fun fact: this is where the term "powder room" comes from, as powdering hair required a separate room to contain the mess. CC links and reference images under the cut.

You can find more of my historical content here:

1300s ✺ 1400s ✺ 1500s ✺ 1600s ✺ 1700s ✺ 1800s

1 - Adaego by She Speaks English

2 - Noble by Natalia Auditore

3 - Julian by Natalia Auditore

4 - Percy by Simstrouble (retired - direct download)

5 - Louis XIV by Acanthus Sims (retired - direct download)

6 - Sienna by Meraki Sims

7 - Diablera by Go Amazons (TSR)

8 - Skai by Simpliciaty (Curseforge)

9 - Lamia by Simstrouble

10 - Faye Fro V1 by Sheabuttyr

11 - Modulation by Sonya Sims (TSR)

12 - Long Wavy Over Shoulder by Birksches

13 - Rona by Sunivaa

14 - Stewart V2 by Merci

15 - Diara by Simpliciaty

16 - Big Circle by Simverses

17 - Jonathan by Merci (TSR)

18 - Jada by Go Amazons (TSR)

19 - Rami by Birksches

20 - Med Wavy by Birksches

21 - Mike by JoshSeoh

22 - Kate by Serenity

23 - Frisbee by Birksches

24 - Ariadne by Okruee

With thanks to some amazing creators: @shespeakssimlish @natalia-auditore @mercisims @sheabuttyr @simverses @simstrouble @joshseoh @serenity-cc @okruee

[netexyy]

🫐 Boys getting curious about makeup stuff

Lo'ak, neteyam, spider x reader

Pure fluff

Word count ~ 2.k

Summary - Neteyam, Lo'ak, and Spider being adorably nosy and chaotic while you do your makeup.

---

You sat on your bed inside the lab module, an array of palettes and brushes scattered on a blanket in front of you like a chaotic artist’s kit. A small round mirror leaned against a stack of books, reflecting your face as you carefully applied shimmer to the inner corners of your eyes. No reason. No party. No date. No mission. Just because you felt like it. And maybe because it helped you feel like yourself in a world where everything was alien, even your own reflection sometimes.

Outside, the sky was dimming into dusk, the forest humming quietly. You were deep into blending some rosy blush onto your cheeks when you heard the hatch open with a familiar hiss.

Lo’ak’s voice rang out first, as loud and unfiltered as ever.

“Yo! Y/N, what’re you doing?”

You didn’t even flinch. “Contouring my face so I can feel better about my life choices.”

There was a beat of silence.

Spider’s face appeared in the doorway next, eyes widening. “Wait… are you putting on makeup? Like... makeup makeup?”

You gave them a quick look before turning back to the mirror. “Yes, Spider. Like, makeup makeup. Mascara, blush, highlighter. Do you want me to list ingredients too?”

“Damn,” Lo’ak muttered, ducking through the doorframe to join you. “That’s a lotta tiny stuff. Why are there so many brushes?”

Neteyam was the last to walk in, graceful and quiet as always, ducking his head just a little more than the others to enter. He said nothing at first, but his eyes locked on your face with open curiosity. Then his ears twitched, and he tilted his head like a confused ikran pup.

Lo’ak dropped onto the floor dramatically, crossing his arms behind his head as he stared at your stuff. “Wait, is this like… battle paint? Or more like war against boredom?”

You laughed under your breath. “More like war against bad vibes.”

Spider plopped down next to you, peering into one of your makeup compacts. “This one looks like crushed rocks.”

“Highlighter,” you said, taking it back. “It makes your skin glow.”

Neteyam crouched beside Lo’ak and gave you a long, observant look. “You already glow,” he said, matter-of-fact.

You blinked, momentarily pausing with the brush halfway to your cheek. “Thanks, I guess?”

Lo’ak made a dramatic gagging noise. “Bro, stop. That was so corny.”

Neteyam shrugged, amused. “I’m just saying facts.”

Spider nodded like he was taking notes for science. “So you’re doing all this just for yourself? Not for a party? Or like, a hologram call to Earth?”

You rolled your eyes fondly. “Yes. For me. Sometimes girls just do makeup because they want to. No audience needed.”

Lo’ak reached for one of your lip glosses. “Can I try this? What is this, slime?”

You slapped his hand gently. “That’s lip gloss. And no, you cannot put it on like war paint.”

Neteyam leaned in slightly, genuinely intrigued. “What does it do?”

“It makes your lips shiny,” you said, swiping some on to demonstrate. “See?”

The boys all leaned forward at once, blinking.

“Shiny,” Lo’ak repeated slowly. “That’s it? Shiny lips?”

“Bro, humans are weird,” Spider mumbled, even though he was human himself.

You gave him a look. “Says the boy who eats Pandoran fruit straight from the tree and hasn’t washed his hair in like, four days.”

Spider held up a finger. “That’s called being resourceful.”

Lo’ak grabbed one of your eyeshadow palettes and opened it upside down, causing a small cascade of sparkly powder to fall onto the blanket.

You gasped. “Lo’ak!”

“Oops,” he said, but didn’t look sorry.

Neteyam shook his head, amused. “This is why we can’t have nice things.”

“Exactly!” you pointed at Neteyam like he was a prophet.

Spider, now entirely invested, picked up one of your blush brushes and tapped it against his hand. “So what’s this one for?”

“Blush. Makes you look cute and alive. Not like a tired swamp creature.”

“I’m offended,” he muttered, but handed it to you. “Show me.”

You raised your eyebrows. “You want blush?”

He nodded solemnly. “For science.”

Lo’ak snorted. “Oh, we’re doing this? Okay, okay. Y/N, give me shiny lips. Let me sparkle.”

You burst out laughing but obliged. “You asked for it.”

Soon, you had Spider with a subtle dusting of blush that actually made him look kind of endearing, and Lo’ak with a swipe of pink gloss on his bottom lip and some gold shimmer above his eyes. He kept puckering his lips and making kissy faces in the mirror.

“I am glamorous,” he declared dramatically. “No one talk to me unless it’s about fashion now.”

Neteyam sat back, arms crossed, watching it all unfold with that unreadable, faintly entertained expression of his. You caught him looking at you again as you added a soft wing to your eyeliner.

“What?” you asked.

He looked thoughtful. “You look… different.”

You smiled softly, this time really meeting his eyes. “In a good way or bad?”

Neteyam tilted his head again. “In a… Y/N way.”

Lo’ak made a retching noise again, but Spider elbowed him. “Dude, shut up. This is poetic.”

“Thank you,” Neteyam said, unbothered. Then, after a beat, “Can I try the… shiny powder?”

You blinked. “You? You want highlighter?”

He nodded once, serious.

Lo’ak made a big show of fainting. “He does have a soul!”

You reached for your favorite brush and gently applied a bit of champagne-colored shimmer to Neteyam’s cheekbones. His skin caught the light perfectly.

“Oh,” Spider said. “Oh, he’s glowing.”

“He’s always glowing,” you mumbled.

Neteyam gave you a look that said he’d definitely heard that. You coughed and focused on cleaning your brushes instead.

Lo’ak was still holding your lip gloss like it was sacred. “Wait, can we make this a thing? Like, makeup night?”

“Makeup night,” Spider echoed, nodding.

“I’m not doing this every day,” you warned.

“But it’s fun,” Neteyam said. “And… peaceful.”

You looked at him, surprised.

He gave a half-smile. “It feels like you. Like home.”

A warmth bloomed in your chest. You hadn’t realized until then how much you missed this—the casual normalcy of goofing off with friends, trying new things just because, sitting in a room where everyone made you feel safe just by being there.

“Fine,” you said finally. “But next time, we’re doing skincare masks too.”

Spider groaned. “What does that even mean?”

Lo’ak looked terrified. “You’re not putting goo on my face, are you?”

Neteyam just smiled quietly, his eyes never really leaving yours. “If it makes her smile, I’ll try it.”

And just like that, the room erupted in chaos again, Lo’ak trying to run, Spider shouting about cucumbers, and you laughing so hard you nearly dropped your mirror. The makeup was half-smeared, the brushes were out of order, but it didn’t matter.

None of it mattered.

Because this—this was better than perfect eyeliner or glitter lips. This was joy, unfiltered and bright, and you were glowing in the truest way possible.

---

[thydungeongal]

Hi! Yours and @vixensdungeon's posting about how it is cool to take a bunch of your stupid little guys, and throw them in a stupid big dungeon, and then roll on some big stupid tables, shake it all, and see if they live and what kind of treasure they can pull out without much regard for "narrative arcs" or whatever has today inspired me to grab an OSR-style rulebook at my local store. (Black Powder and Brimstone, if you're curious, apparently it's very hot off the presses).

Now, your posting was enough of an inspiration for me to get the general vibe, but to my ass that hasn't actually fun anything more lightweight than Blades in the Dark, can you give some practical tips on how to run this sort of game/system that's more focused on emergent play than complex rules toys and GM curation?

So, this is just a grab-bag of advice about running games in this style:

As you have identified, these games have fewer rules toys for players to interact with. Black Powder and Brimstone is apparently based on the rules of Mörk Borg so if I remember my Mörk Borg correctly what it does give you is a very broad framework of handling things that carry risk. These games tend to have fewer rules in the style of "if a character rolls this number they get to do a cool thing," and more often in the style of "if a character does this thing they have to roll or bad things happen." Ability checks and saves and so on are more often tools for managing risk: because characters can't reliably push the buttons on their character sheet to avoid danger, you might want to communicate to your players openly that avoiding danger more often boils down to a question of choice. As Mausritter puts it, "the dice are your enemy, a good plan doesn't require dice."

That said, you as a GM want to allow your players to make informed choices. Many newer OSR/NSR adventures are really good a this, adding sights and sounds and smells coming in from other directions to their room descriptions so that player characters have some idea of what to expect and can thus make informed decisions.

A forgotten part of the tradition of D&D and its old-school editions are player roles, and while I am personally very bad at enforcing these roles, they can make your job as a GM so much easier. You as a GM are already bringing the game, and while OSR/NSR games are often on the simpler side to GM you absolutely should divvy up some of the work between your players. The most common player roles are caller and mapper, the caller being the player who communicates what the party is doing to you (this reduces the mental overhead of having to take input from multiple people while keeping everything together) and the mapper being the player who draws the map (the latter may be unnecessary if you have an easy way to share maps with your players, but as @vixensdungeon will tell you, even if you can share maps there is a joy to be found in players accidentally drawing a shitty map and getting fucked because of it).

Prewritten modules are your friend. While it is absolutely fun to design your own dungeons and I heartily recommend trying it at some point, there is something to a module that has been written by someone who has no way of knowing your party composition and what tools they can bring to an adventure, and then seeing the party try to navigate that adventure. Also, they are a fantastic prep-saving tool.

[mikrokosmos]

The Gothic in Classical Music History (1760s-1920s)

Intro Back in high school I fell in love with two things; classical music, and Edgar Allan Poe. I’ve always loved Halloween, October, spooky things, ghost stories, horror and slasher movies, etc. And I always loved finding classical music that was also spooky, or dark, or evocative of the same eerie experience of a cold and foggy October day. Thinking about these memories made me want to put together a short list of Gothic Classical music.

But what do I mean? There is no true “Gothic music” as in a specific movement in classical history, because the traditional Gothic refers to literature. Not all art movements have corresponding trends in all mediums. Even so I thought it would be fun to say, if there was such a thing as Gothic music, what would that include?

18th Century

John Henry Fuseli - The Nightmare (1781)

Music of the 1760s-1790s, corresponding with the first wave of “Gothic Novels” in the English language. Some names in this era include Horace Walpole (The Castle of Otranto), Ann Radcliffe (The Mysteries of Udolpho, The Italian) and Charles Brockden Brown (Wieland). The closest we have to music of this same era would be in the Sturm und Drang style. Sturm und Drang (Storm and Stress) was used to describe music written in a minor key that was restless, agitated, intense, emotional, and more extreme than the typical expectations for restraint and lightness/clarity, music that aristocrats in powdered wigs and velvet and lace could relax with. Strong changes of emotion and more emphasis on subjectivity, reflected by sudden modulations and pulsing rhythms.

The most famous piece that I associate with Sturm und Drang is Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart’s “little” g minor Symphony no.25, K.183 (1773). It is famously used in the opening of Miloš Forman’s Amadeus (1984). It is a fun piece, and that opening movement is full of fire, and probably the young Mozart having fun (he wrote it at 17. If you ever want to lower your self esteem, look up what music Mozart wrote at your current age.). Another major work would be Joseph Haydn’s “Farewell” Symphony no.45 (1772), written in the very unusual for the time key of f# minor. And of course, even though he comes later, anything Ludwig van Beethoven published in a minor key has a lot of muscular passion to it, and his early/classical era of the 1790s is no joke. Check out the final movements of his Piano Trio no.3 in c minor and his Piano Sonata no.1 in f minor, or his most famous early sonata, the Pathetique.

But if the Sturm und Drang style and Gothic genre also emphasize the disturbed and the psychological, we can include programmatic works that do the same. Mozart’s opera Don Giovanni (1788) has an incredible moment in the finale. The sociopathic hedonist is confronted by the ghost of the man he murdered in the first act, who possesses a statue and confronts Don Giovanni with his sins. Don Giovanni doesn’t repent, so he is dragged into hell with a chorus of demons. Always a good reminder that Mozart wasn’t the eternal child who wrote pretty melodies.

19th Century

Caspar David Friedrich - The Abbey in the Oakwood (1810)

Music of the early 19th century corresponds better with Gothic fiction because Romanticism in art brought greater interest in the supernatural, in the subjective, in emotional reactions to the universe… major names in fiction include the poetry of Lord Byron (Darkness), Mary Shelley (Frankenstein, The Last Man), and Sir Walter Scott (The Bride of Lammermoor). Greater emphasis is put on the anxiety of the unknown, supernatural fears beyond our control.

Of all Franz Schubert’s songs, Erlkönig (1815) best exemplifies the Gothic (and this is a bold claim because I only know about a fraction of Schubert’s extensive song output). In it, a father and son are riding on horseback. The son is sick with fever. As they ride, the son cries out that he can hear the Elf King calling out to him, some evil spirit or demon that wants to take the son’s life. The father tries to calm him down, but the Elf King gets closer and closer. By the time they reach home, the son has died. Was the Elf King real? Was the son hallucinating from fever? How literal should we take this text? The ambiguity of subjective experiences and how we interpret and understand reality is a major theme in Gothic fiction.

Many famous German operas lean into the supernatural and magical. In this period we get Carl Maria von Weber’s Der Freischütz (1821), considered to be the first Romantic opera. In it, our main character Max who needs to win a shooting contest so he can be allowed to marry his lover, Agathe. He is given a gun that can shoot magic bullets by another forrester Kaspar (who has his own plans). Kaspar tells Max to meet him in the “Wolf’s Glenn” in the woods at midnight for more magic bullets. In the Wolf’s Glenn, Kaspar calls for a spirit, the Black Huntsman Samiel, to help him curse the other characters, offering Max’s soul in exchange. Making deals with demons/the devil was another fascination in Romanticism.

Legends of a diabolical nature were springing around great musicians. At the end of the 1700s, Giuseppe Tartini wrote his most famous composition, the “Devil’s Trill” Violin Sonata in g minor which is full of virtuosic passages. Tartini claimed that the Devil appeared to him in a dream, and that he sold his soul in exchange for the Devil to be his servant. He handed the Devil his violin, and the Devil “…played with such great art and intelligence, as I had never even conceived in my boldest flights of fantasy. I felt enraptured, transported, enchanted: my breath failed me, and I awoke” Source

Similar stories came about with violinist Niccolò Paganini, who astonished the audiences of the early 19th century with his (for the time) otherworldly technique, dazzling them with scales and leaps and scratches the likes of which you can hear across his 24 Caprices for solo violin. A young Franz Liszt was at one of Paganini’s concerts and he was enthralled and inspired to become the “Paganini of the Piano”. He too would dazzle audiences with his percussive intensity, glittering arpeggios, and dreamy modulations to possess women with the spirits of hysteria and other dated misogynistic diseases. Cliche to say but before Bieber Fever, before Beatlemania, there was Lisztomania.

The sense of Faustian bargains comes through in the pieces Liszt wrote after Goethe’s Faust. The Faust Symphony (1857) includes a movement for Mephistopheles, the demon/ the Devil that bargains with Faust. The Mephistopheles movement has no original theme, but takes and corrupts the themes of Faust and his lover Gretchen into a mocking tone. Later on, Liszt was inspired to write a tone poem “The Dance in the Village Inn” or Mephisto Waltz no.1 (c.1862). He also wrote it for piano around the same time. The story has Mephistopheles taking Faust to a wedding in a village and playing the violin so madly, the partygoers are intoxicated by the music and go off dancing in the woods. Emotions taking over and making one act irrationally was another fascination in Gothic fiction.

Liszt would go on in his later years writing a few more Mephisto waltzes, with a lot of forward thinking harmonies and piano writing, unfortunately not as popular. Mephisto waltz no.2 (1881) has moments that make me think of Debussy, and the third (1883) has glittering and ethereal moments. But the best example of Liszt’s interest in the Gothic would be his earlier concert piece Totentanz (1949), or Dance of Death (Danse macabre). In it, the piano and orchestra play out variations on the Medieval chant Dies Irae, always reminding us of the inevitability of death. The variations depict skeletons dancing wildly all while the Mephistopheles at the piano unleashes his seductive tones.

The Dies Irae chant goes across our pop culture, with one famous iteration being a synthesized version of passages from Hector Berlioz’s Symphonie fantastique that Wendy Carlos wrote for Stanley Kubrick’s The Shining (1980) after Stephen King’s novel of the same name. And it was Berlioz’s symphony that enchanted audiences in 1830 with new, titanic sounds beyond what orchestra music had been before. In the story of the Symphonie fantastique, an artist has tried to overdose on opium after feeling rejected by unrequited love, but instead he has a vivid drug induced nightmare where he is sentenced to be beheaded via guillotine, which was still a traumatic living memory for the Parisian audience. He then sees himself among ghosts and monsters during a witches’ sabbath, the lovely woman’s beautiful theme is distorted into a grotesque mockery, the Dies Irae comes back among the cackling. It was a new degree of imagination expected from the audience. Later, Berlioz would depict demons in Pandæmonium (the Capital of Hell in Dante’s Inferno) at the end of his Damnation of Faust.

Through the mid to late 19th century we get authors of Gothic literature such as Edgar Allan Poe, Elizabeth Gaskell, Emily and Charlotte Brontë, Nathaniel Hawethorne, and Victor Hugo. We also get two more operas that have Gothic themes. First is Richard Wagner’s The Flying Dutchman (1843). In this opera, a ship on the North Sea collides with the Ghost Ship of the Flying Dutchman who is cursed to sail the seas forever, but is allowed to come ashore once every seven years and if he can find a wife, he will be freed. I’m sure you can guess how this opera ends. The overture is often played in concert for a condensed version of Wagnarian thunder and romance. The next important opera is Giuseppe Verdi’s Macbeth (1847), because Shakespeare was being revived and translated in different languages across Europe and Verdi loved his plays. In the opera, Macbeth comes across a chorus of witches that foretell his success and downfall. He is too ambitious and goaded by Lady Macbeth, plans to take the throne through deception and murder. Lady Macbeth is later haunted with phantom blood on her hands which only she can see. And Macbeth succumbs to his inevitable fate.

We also get two significantly “Gothic” pieces of orchestra music. They are both tone poems, which also reflects the concert goers’ tastes. The one that has always been a quintessential “Halloween classical” piece is Camille Saint-Saens’ Danse Macabre (1875), opening at the stroke of midnight (softly evoked by the harp), a violin shrieks out the tritone (the “Devil’s interval” which the Romantics thought meant was cursed by the superstitious Medievals, really it was an idiom for “hard to use in music”) and introduces ballroom music along with the clacking bones of skeletons dancing in the graveyard (evoked by the xylophone). The skeletons dance through the night until the rooster crows at dawn.

The other great Halloween concert piece is Modest Mussorgsky’s Night on Bald Mountain (1867) which depicts another witches sabbath, this time on St. John’s Night, a major holiday in Slavic Eastern Orthodox culture. Walt Disney’s Fantasia (1940) would help bring this poem to life with an animated phantasmagoria of ghouls and skeletal horses and other demons flying around the mountainous demon Chernoberg.

[Here I want to give a quick shoutout to Cesar Franck’s Le Chasseur maudit (The Accursed Huntsman), a tone poem about a Count who doesn’t go to church one Sunday, and instead rides around to whip peasants for his own amusement, so demons drag him to hell. Not nearly as famous a concert piece as the others mentioned in this list but it has colorful orchestration so you should check it out.]

The initial idea for Fantasia was for Disney to repopularize Mickey Mouse by writing him into an animated version of Paul Dukas’ The Sorcerer’s Apprentice. The original poem by Goethe was a classic that Paul Dukas set to music in 1897. In it, we hear the Sorcerer leave his Apprentice to clean the floors of his workshop. The Apprentice uses magic to bring a broom to life so it can do the chores for him. The Broom mindlessly pours buckets of water all over the floor, and the Apprentice isn’t good enough with magic to stop it. He chops it up into pieces with an ax, but they regenerate into several brooms which go back to marching water in. The Sorcerer returns to clean the mess and scolds his Apprentice. This charming tale has a darker and more diabolically fun tone in Dukas orchestra.

20th Century

Harry Clarke - Illustration for "Masque of the Red Death" (1919)

In the same exact year of Dukas’ tone poem, we get Bram Stoker’s Dracula. At this turn of the century other major names include Gaston Luroux (The Phantom of the Opera), Robert Lewis Stevenson (Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde), Henry James (The Turn of the Screw), Oscar Wilde (The Picture of Dorian Gray). At this time, there are a few more pieces that continue trying to evoke Gothic subject matter. One comes from Gustav Mahler’s Symphony no.7 (1905), sometimes dubbed “Song of the Night”. Two of the symphonies five movements are titled “Nachtmusik” (night music), the first is more in line with Gothic anxiety and spookiness than the second which is more like a serenade. But the most Gothic movement is the Scherzo which sits in the middle of the symphony and is like a Viennese ballroom full of dancing corpses and skeletons as waltz music decays with them.

A surprising example (at least, because of how relatively obscure it is) comes from Claude Debussy with parts of an opera based on Poe’s The Fall of the House of Usher that he worked on between 1908-1917. Not too much a surprise on the one hand because French translations of Poe’s work became popular and influential. On the other hand Debussy is more known for evocative sound pictures, unique musical colors, and subtlety. Perhaps he was drawn to symbolist and psychosexual interpretations of The House of Usher, the same interests that preoccupied him with his only finished opera Pelleas et Melisande. Roger Orledge reconstructed the opera and tried to stay true to Debussy’s style, so what we do have is passable and as shadowy and vague as his other orchestral masterpieces.

Maybe the hardest work to recommend (but I do recommend regardless, give it a chance) is a Modernist song cycle for chamber ensemble. Arnold Schoenberg’s Pierrot Lunaire (1910) uses freely chromatic atonality to give a demented color of psychosis experienced by Pierrot, personified version of a stock character for old Commedia dell Arte plays, a clown who over time became the “sad clown”. Maybe a precursor to the demon from Stephen King’s It, or the demented clowns and jesters that laugh at the madness of the cosmos across Thomas Ligotti’s short stories.

This was only meant to be a small overview of works that could fit my own view of the Gothic in music. There are more examples I could include, so as a hint toward today, I’ll end with a piece that was written about a century ago, yet sounds as if it could have been written today. Henry Cowell’s The Banshee (1925) is a short piano piece, so if you can, at least listen to this one. Instead of playing with the keys like you’re “supposed to”, Cowell asks the performer to drag their fingers along the wires directly. This creates disturbing reverberations and scratching sounds that tingle the back of your neck, that feel like the otherworldly cry of a Banshee.

Happy Halloween.

[poopfartlesbian]

Oooo can we get knockout with a reader who's a total fashionista and and who takes pride in how well kept they are maybe they could even talk about how different beauty standards are between humans and Cybertronian and what similarities they share I think it could be really interesting and maybe reader could try and do his makeup maybe causes he's got a date with breakdown later I'm also gonna be a regular on this blog so I'm dubbing myself 🦔anon ✌️

YESSSS I LOVE WRITING ANYTHING THAT INVOLVES KNOCKOUT!!

Human, GN!Reader and Knockout friendship things, Reader is a stylist

Flawless Reflections

The whir of polishing drones hummed in the background like white noise. Knockout stood in front of a towering mirror pane bolted into the far wall of his personal workspace. A warm, luminescent gloss shimmered across his cherry-red plating, gleaming with effort and precision.

You lounged nearby on a sleek countertop, legs crossed, flipping through a digital fashion magazine you’d downloaded onto your tablet. When Knockout stepped back and made an admiring hum at his own reflection, you glanced up, grinning.

“Breakdown’s gonna short a few circuits when he sees you tonight.”

Knock Out turned his helm slightly toward you, optics bright with amusement. “Of course he is. As if I would present myself in anything less than perfection.”

You set your tableg down on the counter and stood up, walking towards the area of the counter that was closer to him to get a better look.

“Hmm... I’ve gotta ask. Do Cybertronians have makeup? Like, real cosmetic stuff? Not just polish and detailing work.”

Knock Out smirked.

“You mean like your powders and creams? Not quite. Our version of ‘makeup’ is more about finishings—electro-lacquers, nano-gloss, energon-reactive detailing pigments. Some bots even use microprojected surface modulations for dramatic effect. But all of it’s tailored for our materials and sensory feedback.”

“Figures...”

You stepped around him, studying the smooth lines of his armor. “Human skin care would probably melt off your faceplates anyway.”

He chuckled. “And your eyeliner would fry if I applied it to my servos.”

“Hmm...” you thoguht for a moment, then, reaching into your tote, you pulled out a compact palette. “Wanna see how a human does it? I can't really use any of my products but I can use this paint over here.”

Knockout tilted his helm, visibly intrigued. “Why not? I do love a muse with taste.” He bent at the knee so his face was closer to your level.

You smiled as you stepped up to a rolling stool and climbed on for height. With a small paint brush by the large bucket of silver chrome paint, you traced along the smooth line beneath his optic.

“You know,” you said, working with a practiced hand, “beauty’s kind of a battlefield here on earth. For humans, I mean. There’s this endless pressure to be effortlessly perfect, to be symmetrical, flawless, young… And the irony is, perfection isn’t even the goal anymore—uniqueness is.”

Knockout hummed thoughtfully. “Sounds familiar. We judge based on polish, functionality, frame work… but there’s still that pursuit of individuality. I’m admired because I make style the standard. Others just chase practicality.” He glanced at your hand. “This paint you’re using—not exactly my usual gold accent but I like it.”

You nodded. “It’s meant to bring out your optics. If I had your kind of canvas, I’d use something with a chrome shimmer or ultraviolet underglow. Something that reflects movement. Afterall, you are all about the drama.”

“Flattery gets you everywhere,” he purred. “Tell me, would humans ever paint themselves entirely in one color, like we do? It seems efficient.”

“Not usually,” you said, stepping back to admire your design. “Think monochrome fashion, or full-body paint. But we also obsess over contrast. Complexion, undertones, hair, texture… Humans are all about combining layers and highlighting flaws as features. It’s chaos, but it works.”

He thought for a moment, picturing that in his head. “Fascinating. And yet here you are, painting me like a canvas.”

You grinned. “Because you’re beautiful, Knockout. And I’m a stylist. It’s what we do.”

He straightened, optics glowing with something halfway between pride and soft amusement. “Breakdown’s going to fall over himself when he sees this.”

“Tell him I charge for full face beats." You teased, putting the brush away with the paint. Knockout turned slightly to admire the design in his mirror—sparkly silver contouring, a subtle sweep up like sharp eyeliner wings, dramatic but elegant.

“You know,” he said slowly, “I should bring you along on more missions. Keep the aesthetic standards of this faction from falling into the gutter.” You smiled, flattered that the fashionista of the Decepticons was flattering your work. "Only if I get hazard pay for working around all the unpolished scrap metal you call coworkers."

He laughed, full and genuine, and for a moment, the sterile, med bay felt like the inside of a luxury salon.

I hope you like it! I'm still figuring out my writing style but I'm getting the hang of things! <3

[miku-module-showdown]

Deep Sky (left) VS Powder (right)

[vibratingskull]

Yandere Thrawn x F!reader chapter 14

Yandere AU - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 - 7 - 8 - 9 - 10 - 11 - 12 - 13

Tags : Yandere behaviors (duh), gaslighting, delusions, nightmare, manipulation, drug use

You wake up with a gasp. You tremble on the bed as you struggle to breathe. Your heart pounds in your chest like it would burst through. You rise on your elbow to help stabilize your erratic breathing, tears behind your eyes. 

They were here! Circling you with hunger in their eyes... Hunger to kill. Hunger for blood... Hunger to hurt. They stood taller than you, baring their teeth to you until one threw the first punch to your face. 

And now you are on the verge of a panic attack. 

You sniff, realizing nothing came to pull you back on the mattress and press itself against your back. Thrawn isn’t in bed with you. He must have left when you were deeply sleeping, someone must have called him on the bridge. 

You do not know if that comforts you or distraught you more... 

You look around the dark room. It is always so cold in here, but Thrawn’s body is so warm... You shake your head. You still have so much difficulty processing what is happening in your life lately. 

Your assaults, Thrawn unpredictable reactions, his... “treatment” for your problem, his soft caresses and terrifying red eyes... You feel on the verge of a precipice all the time. 

Your mind also always seems so... cloudy, so cluttered. It feels hard just to think with a clear head, you only hear white noises in your head, preventing you from thinking straight. 

You snigger. You remember Thrawn planning to use a drug with those effects to weaken enemies by infiltrating their air vents with small droid modules. He even bought stocks, and put them in the hangars, ready to be sent to the enemies. But it never happened in the end, they crumbled way before he had the occasion to test the drug...

Now that you think about it, you don’t even know what happened to this immense stock of tangerine powder on the Chimaera. He bought it a little fortune and didn't even get to witness his plan into action. You almost expected him to pout a little with disappointment. 

But he kept his expression cold and stern, as always. 

On your hand, this inconvenience is due to the hits you received to your head and skull. Thrawn gave you a rundown of your symptoms and medical consequences, your brain wasn’t damaged, simply... shaken. 

Not only your brain was shaken but your mind as well! Because... 

Since that day in the bath, since the day he touched you so... intimately you are plagued with dreams. 

Sinful dreams. 

You hate to admit it but you dreamed several times of his touch on you, of his long and skillful fingers dancing on your skin, entering you deep and well and... 

You shake your head, chasing the lewd thoughts away, you are so confused lately. No need to add pining and sexual tension to all that mess... Especially since you can’t decide if they are dreams or nightmares, everything is so confusing... 

You sigh, your head in your hand. Slowly, sneakily, the memories of your nightmare push forward to the forefront of your mind, making you shiver. 

You turn to your bedside table to light the bedside lamp. Your hand falls on the naked furniture, empty under the light. Where is your sketchbook? You are confident you left it on the bedside table... 

Did you leave it in the living room? You grumble, leaving the bed clumsily and inelegantly jumping towards the door. Damned cast! 

The door slides open, revealing Thrawn slouching on the sofa, sipping a cup of caff and leafing through your sketchbook under a little light, leaving the rest of the room in complete darkness. He raises his head at the sound of the door, his eyes catching your form on precarious balance, leaning against the doorframe. 

You look back at him, your conflicted emotions and sentiments washing over you once again as you lay your eyes on him. Each time he enters your field of vision, lewd memories come swarming you, drying your mouth, putting you on edge. 

Terrifying you and exciting you at the same time. 

“Is there a problem, Ch’acah?” Thrawn asks softly, setting your book on the tea table to stand on his feet, ready to access any of your demands. “I was searching for my sketchbook.” You explain. “At this hour?” He tilts his head with a light grin. 

You purse your lips. Until now he always asked permission to look into your book. He never just took it while your back was turned. It displeases you... 

“I want it.” You curtly respond. 

You think you see his hands rolling into fists for a split second before seizing the book and coming to you. He hands it to you and you harshly take it from him, pressing it against your chest in a soothing manner. 

He doesn’t formalize himself, his red eyes narrowing slightly. “What is wrong, Ch’acah?” He asks low and gently, “Why are you awake at this hour of the night?”, “Why are YOU awake?” you respond deadpan, “I am not in remission.” He counters, “Speak to me.” 

You gulp, your nightmare is still vivid in your head, and the memory of his caresses is still on your skin. You dig your nails into the cover of the book, lowering your head, “I just had a nightmare.” 

Thrawn unclasps his hands behind his back, one of them coming to gently tilt your head up, forcing you to look at him, “Tell me about it.” He invites. “There is nothing to say, really. Do not bother with it.” you try to cut the conversation short. 

He inhales deeply, detailing your face with his blazing gaze. “You can tell me everything, Ch’acah.”, “Its... It’s stupid. You have more important matters to take care of.”, “Not at all. Whatever you might have weighing on your heart, I can bear it. You can confide in me.” His hold on your chin releases to cup your cheek in his warm palm. You remain silent. 

Before your mutism, he suddenly grabs your hips and lifts you up bridal style. For a split second you are terrified he will bring you to bed with him for another... “treatment” session. But he heads toward the couch. Instead of making you sit on the sofa, he sits down and places you on his lap. You shudder once, slightly on edge. 

He caresses a strand of hair behind your ear with the tip of his fingers and presses you against himself, “Tell me everything.” He reiterates, caressing your hair tenderly. 

You dig your nails in your shorts. Words disappear in your throat, getting lost before reaching your lips. He patiently awaits, caressing you softly, pressing his cheek against the top of your head, holding you tight but also delicately, like he was afraid you would explode if he squeezed too much... 

“I dreamed about... my assault.” You start, “They were all around me, I had nowhere to escape.” He hums in response, signaling that he is listening to you, letting you speak at your own pace. 

You are so confused, by everything. By Thrawn, by your own mind, by your entire life that seemed to have completely derailed... You gasp, a single tremor shaking your body. “I am so afraid...”, “It is perfectly natural.” Thrawn validates you, “You lived through a very traumatic moment, it is not at all surprising. You need time and isolation to build yourself back up. You need protection and care.” 

“Did you find the culprits?” you ask with a little voice, “I did.” he confirms, kissing the top of your head. “What was their sentence?”, “There was none.” He lets you know. 

You part from him, incredulity in your eyes, “What...?” 

Thrawn’s knuckles come grazing your cheek as he devours you with his gaze. “They think I did not bust them.” He says, “They think they escaped my watch and are off the hook. I am simply awaiting the best moment to strike.” He grins tightly. 

“Why not just get done with it?” you inquire confused, “They hurt you. They dared to lay their hands on you. They deserve an explementary punishment. I will make them pay, every one of them. One by one.” He promises lowly, his blazing eyes deep into yours, hypnotizing you, “They will not escape justice, Ch’acah. You will be avenged.” 

You blink several times at his words. “Why go so far? Why not just apply the Empire’s sentence?”. He lowly chuckles, amused, as he shakes his head lightly, “Their offense is way too grave. And the sentences will be as dire as their acts.”  

You frown “Are you going to beat them into a pulp?” you investigate, slightly curious, slightly sarcastic. “Would it please you?” he asks seriously. 

You consider him, at a loss for words. What kind of question is that? He presses his forehead against yours, his rubies clear with absolute determination like you always knew him, “Does the idea of me beating them up as they did to you appease you?” he inquires. 

“Thrawn...” You finally utter after several seconds of shock “I was joking. Of course, I do not want that !’’, ‘’Then what do you want?’’ he breathes deeply, red haunting eyes fixed on yours, ‘’I can give you everything.’’ 

‘’I… I just want justice to be executed properly ! I am sure the Empire’s sentences are more than adequate !’’ You explain. He isn’t seriously proposing to catch them all and beat them til he breaks their bones? Is he ?! 

Thrawn considers you in silence, squinting slightly before he pulls your head back in the crook of his muscular neck, “You are too sweet, Ch’acah, too forgiving.’’, ‘’ I did not forgive anything,” you growl “But senseless beating is not justice !’’ 

You feel him brush his cheek on the top of your head with a pleased sigh ‘’Do not worry, Ch’acah. Everything is under my control. Soon, I will serve them justice, do not fret.”, “All right...” you mumble, a little shaken. 

He kisses your head again, caressing your back and naked arm soothingly. 

You prefer him like that... You are still not used to being intimate with him despite his best efforts. Since that time in the tub two weeks ago he didn’t try anything more but he held you tighter at night, giving you kisses freely on your cheeks and forehead while purring subtly.

He kept offering chocolate cake, massaging your sore body, and carrying you around in his arms as he used to. And yes... He kept bathing you... 

He keeps being gentle with you but do not hesitate to kiss your palm and arm when he lathers it up with shower gel and body cream. He tresses your hair in intricate braids, files your nails expertly, and even insists on helping you put on some nail polish. You only let him do your valid hand and you are quite sore to admit he did a better job applying the colorful paint than you did... Ever. 

He keeps helping you to eat sometimes, but you are getting better every day! He keeps dressing you and even helps you brush your teeth when you suddenly get too tired at night. He likes to keep you awake late at night, speaking of everything and absolutely nothing, and wakes you up very early when he has to go to the bridge. In fact, you feel like you are a bit sleep-deprived and have to sleep through the day, only awakening when Thrawn comes back to the suite. 

His stern face illuminates with a tight grin when he sees you after a long day of work, and his eyes shine brighter than usual. You have difficulty seeing his pupils when they shine like that and it illuminates his... gorgeous face beautifully. 

And when he gets... cuddly, you feel more at ease, or at least less tense. He holds you tight in his arms to hug you, peppering kisses on your face or hair, cradling you gently, sharing his body's warmth with you. 

Are you slowly accepting your circumstances? It appears you are... Very slowly, but it is apparently the path you took. 

“You wished to sketch your worries away?” He inquires in a whisper. “Yes.” You admit, “It helps me calm down.”, “Art is a powerful therapeutic tool.” He approves, “Numerous studies proved the benefits of art for patients.” 

He gently lays you down on the sofa and stands up. He lights up the living room with a dim but intimate light and puts on some soft music. You raise an eyebrow, “Is that...?”, “Your favorite band? Indeed. Music helps the creative process.”  

You look at him preparing something in a mug before laying your eyes on your sketchbook...  

What did he see in it? 

You yawn, closing your eyes and making your spine pop satisfyingly. When you reopen your eyes Thrawn lays a fuming cup of hot cocoa with a generous amount of orange whipped cream floating at the surface and a plate of biscuits, each more appetizing than the other. He takes a stylus out of his pocket to hand it to you. 

He sits down next to you, lays a small pillow on his lap, and pats it, looking at you with a small lopsided grin, “Make yourself comfortable.” He invites. 

“On your laps?” you investigate with an embarrassed chuckle. “Why not? We are both awake, you want to draw and I need to look some files up, why not make the most of it?” 

It’s all right... You guess. 

You lay your head on the pillow and Thrawn’s hand comes caressing your cheeks and forehead gently. He looks at you sternly, but his knuckles graze your smooth skin so delicately. You smile a bit, or at least you try, feeling embarrassed to be scrutinized like that. He tilts his head slightly with a short snigger, his thumb fondling your cheekbone. “Are you good?” He asks. You nod hurriedly, “Wonderful.”  

And his eyes leave your face to turn to the screen of his datapad. His hand, however, remains around your face to give it sweet attention. 

You fold your valid leg up to give support to your sketchbook and start doodling. It is still difficult with only one hand if only to keep the book open. 

You both remain silent for 15 minutes, focused on your respective tasks, but Thrawn never ceases to caress your skin. “Doesn’t the music trouble you?” you ask out of the blue, raising your eyes to him. 

“No, it is all right.” He turns his head down towards you, “I thank you for your concerns, Ch’acah.”  

Ch’acah 

Friend... 

“Ch’acah?” You ask. He hums in response, drawing sweet circles in your skin, “Yes, ch’eo Ch’acah?”, “Do you like it? When I refer to you as such?”  

His eyes lay on you, and for a split second his glance is deadly cold, scrutinizing you like you were a culprit on a crime scene, tenderness in his gaze nowhere to be found. Your eyes round up in surprise and you feel your heart beating faster. 

And as quick as they appeared, the coldness and dark intents disappeared in a warm and comforting red glow, a single chuckle coming to shake his chest, ‘’I love it.’’ He responds, booping your nose playfully.

‘’A-all right…’’ you gulp, unsure of what you just witnessed. He keeps his glance on you, gauging you up and down but keeps on with the soft caresses, ‘’You should drink your chocolate before it gets cold, (Y/n), I added a bit of spice to help you sleep.’’, ‘’You added what ?’’ 

He looks down at you, ‘’It is a therapeutic spice. It helps to soothe and calm down anxiety. It is a perfectly legal spice you can find in any Imperial pharmacy.’’, ‘’Oh… okay.’’ You relax, ‘’I did not know you had therapeutic spices in your suite, are you anxious ?’’ You ask, taking his large hand in yours to gently squeeze it. ‘’Not at all, Ch’acah. I ordered the spice for you, to help you relax and sleep peacefully for your recovery. No need to worry for me.” He brings your hand to his lips to gently kiss it, ‘’Drink and eat a little bit, you will feel better.’’ 

You put your sketchbook down on the tea table to take the fuming cup, full to the brim with whipped cream, you take a sip, only for your nose to dip in the cream with the angle, ‘’Oh !’’ you laugh, ‘’It is snowing !’’ 

Thrawn shakes his head with a snarky smile ‘’Are you not a bit clumsy ?’’. You stick your tongue at him, ‘’Hey ! I only have one hand.’’, ‘’Indeed, I’ll help you eat the cream before your entire face is covered.”  

“No.” You decide, raising in a sitting position with some difficulties, “I will do it myself, admire my technique” You put the cup on the coffee table and take a spoonful of cream to eat it... Only for it to fall on the ground. 

“Maker.” You grouse, “I swear this is a conspiracy!” You try to detach a sheet of paper towel with only one hand and obviously do not succeed. Thrawn seizes the paper towel and swipes the cream himself. 

“I am sorry...” You finally admit after he stood up to throw the paper away. “What for?” He asks coming back to you, “Dirtying up my floor?” He grins. You wince, “Yes.”. He shakes his head, taking the cup full of cream with the spoon, he takes a new spoonful, blows the steam away, and looks back at you with his satisfied little grin. 

“I said no.” You bloke him. He tilts his head squinting, “I think you just prove you could not do it yourself.” You snarl, flashing your teeth, “Can you understand how humiliating it is?” 

“There is absolutely no need to feel humiliated. You simply need a bit of help.”,” Then lets switch places!” You insolently propose. He squints at you, his smile dying, “What do you mean?”, “If there is nothing humiliating you will not object to me feeding you a bit?” You insist.  

See how he likes it when he is on the receiving hand of that treatment! 

He details your face in silence with his signature stern expression... Before chuckling.  

“But of course, Ch’acah. If it eases your dispositions next time I help you eat, I have no objection to eating from your delicate hand.” He seizes the biscuit platter and hands it to you for you to choose one. You gauge him, at a loss for words. Is he serious right now? 

You take one biscuit with some marmalade between two fingers and approach it from his mouth, he very gently takes your hand in his and bites down at its middle, cracking it in two. You gulp at the sight of his long white teeth, longer than human teeth... You feel a weird tension in your neck at their sight, a strange burning sensation spreads from a precise point at the crook of your neck. You roll your shoulder, trying to get rid of the sensation. 

“Do you need a massage?” Thrawn asks, swiping some crumbs off his lips with his thumb. “No... It's just a weird sensation, but it already disappeared.” You reassure him, he looks at you as his lips wrap around your fingers to get the remaining biscuit. 

You gasp in surprise and try to take your hand away but his grip tightens, keeping you there. He sucks on your finger and laps at them, “You are a messy girl, putting marmalade on your fingers like that.” He purrs. He thoroughly licks them clean, keeping you locked in his iron grip. He licks his lips with a satiated expression when he finally releases your hand free. 

You are absolutely boiling from embarrassment while he looks pretty satisfied. He gestures to the plate, “Another one, Ch’acah?” He teases. “...No.” You shake your head, pressing your valid hand on your chest. “A pity.” He lays the plate on the table and takes the cup again, “You have a medicinal hot cocoa to drink, cheo visit.” He remembers you. 

You purse your lips, your taunt failed and he is about to have his way again! You grumble silently before seizing the spoon with cream and lifting it to his mouth. By reflex he moves back, frowning at the creamy treat before relaxing, “This is for you, (Y/n).”, “I know. Just one! To please me.” You coo. His burning gaze travels from the spoon to your honeyed expression before shaking his head too, “The medicine is in the cream.” he explains, “Oh? That’s why it is orange and not white.” you exclaim before pushing it to him again. 

This time you hear a low growl emanating from him. You raise an eyebrow, refusing to back down. “This is to help you sleep.” He explains, “Well, I think you should take some...” You turn your bust toward the chrono of the counter, “It is 2:30, sir. Why were you awake at that hour?” You bite back. 

His nostril flares. “In that case...” and without warning he grabs the back of your head and pulls you to him. You yelp, almost falling on him, as he licks the cream off the tip of your nose with a loud kiss. He gives a taunting lick before releasing you. “Delectable.” and before you can protest at this outrageous gesture he takes the spoon and eats the cream before looking at you with fire in his eyes, “Satisfied my dear?” 

“You..! What was that?!” You fume, beyond embarrassed now. He flashes his canine to you as he boops your nose, “I simply acceded your childish demand on my own terms.” he says with contempt and amusement, “Now, are you willing to drink your medicinal treat and let me help?” 

You fulminate in silence. Once again he turned the table to his advantage!  

You let him feed you again, rationalizing that the less fussy you are, the quicker it will end. Once all the cream is finished he delicately gives you the cup to drink the hot cocoa at your pace. “Your face is red hot.” He notes, “Do you have a fever?” 

‘No, it’s your fault!’ you want to respond but keep quiet. You are not about to reveal such a thing. 

“It’s the cocoa...” You mumble between your teeth, sipping your drink. He contemplates you before sadly smiling, his knuckles coming to gently brush your cheek, “I know it displeases you, Ch’acah. But it is a necessary evil for now. I am trying to help you, do you understand?”

You want to bite back, but... His eyes look at you with such fondness... He disarms you so easily... 

You swallow back your ire and tiredly nod, “Yes, I do... Ch’acah...” 

His smile stretches ever so slightly and he leans forward to kiss your forehead, his thumb brushing your cheekbone, “Drink, cheo visit. Sleep will embrace you soon enough.” 

Thrawn refocuses on his datapad, patiently awaiting for it to take effect. You silently sip your hot drink before you do something that he did not anticipate, at least not so soon! You shyly come to press yourself against him, nudging at his side, looking up at him with a sorry expression, “I am a bit cold.” You explain. He nods, his arm circling your shoulders to keep you there, “Make yourself comfortable, Ch’acah.” He invites, his heart beating furiously while his expression is perfectly controlled. 

You yawn a big time before pressing your mouth shut, “Sorry, it is impolite.”, “Do not bother with that.” He speaks softly, his hand brushing your shoulder tenderly, “But I am so... sleepy, suddenly...”, ”It is the medication, do not fight it, Ch’acah. Welcome it.” 

It takes very little time to take effect and Thrawn has just the reflex to take the cup from you when you fully lose consciousness, falling on his lap. He remains still, contemplating your vulnerable form; brushing a strand of hair behind your cute ear. He cups your form in his strong arms and lifts you up, carrying you to his large bed where he lays you down carefully. You weakly moan as he parts from you, depriving you of his warmth. He takes your hand that he kisses reverently, admiring your peaceful face with love constricting his heart so much he feels physical pain. 

“Sleep, my love. I am here to watch over you.” He whispers lowly. He heads toward the bathroom and lifts the lid of the toilet, putting two fingers deep down his throat and making himself puke, eliminating the little quantity of drug in his system. Not that what he ate would drastically affect his organism, but he prefers to not take any risk. He brushes his teeth clean with your stolen brush and comes to lean against the doorframe, crossing his arms as he looks at you, on top of the covers in your little pajama that he specially chose... 

Warrior, you are so beautiful... If he isn’t careful you invade his entire mind making him forget the reasons he came all the way here, in this Empire. He wished he had more time to discuss with you, about anything, he wants to hear your opinion on every subject as grave or inconsequential as they might be! Your judgment has always been a source of inspiration for him, even when you disagree he tries his best to see things from your point of view, to understand you better...

He perks his ears, listening to the feeble breath escaping your delicious mouth that he wishes to kiss every day... 

He silently praises his self-control.  

You almost interrupted a very private moment between him, your sketchbook, and his hand, but he ultimately decided against it. But now, it comes titillating him back, and your vulnerable and defenseless form is not helping... 

He sniggers at himself. Look at him, his muscles rolling under his skin and his breath deepening at the simple thought of grazing your soft skin... 

He loves looking at you sleeping, when you are in slumbers he can do anything his heart so desires... 

But he remained reasonable. After this delicious bathing session, he did not touch you inappropriately once, despite the cries of his burning flesh. He found solace in hugging you tight at night to share his higher body temperature with your trembling self. 

But tonight, he feels like being selfish. After all, you tempt him everyday, days and nights and take advantage of his good care. He can take a slice of the cake too... 

He approaches the bed again, letting the tip of his fingers caress the smooth skin of your naked leg. He opens a drawer to take out his personal imager, where he stores his latest pics of you. 

He has several backups on different flash drives and hard drives. He scrolls through his collection, admiring you from every angle. Your body was terribly wounded and wrapped in bandages, but now he took some off of you, he has more... access. 

He smiles tightly and leans over you to unbutton your top, already bursting with ideas for new delectable pictures...

@bluechiss @blueninjablade3 @thrawnspetgoose @twilekchiss @dance-like-russia-isnt-watching  @obbicrystaleo @leo4242564 @davesrightshoe @Holylonelyponyeatingmacaroni @lilyalone @princesslunamoon19 @Janjtje

[carionto]

I like to think the humans ambassador hides black powder weapons around their office instead of Lazer guns or plasma, just walks about with 2 hidden flintlock pistols

You sir or madam or otherwise have given me the biggest grin with that idea, thank you.

(me from after having written it out) I did not know where this idea would take me, stream of consciousness writing will do that.

----------------------

Every delegate of every integrated species aboard a Coalition governing station in their respective segment of the Galaxy receives full accommodations in the form of an isolated embassy structure.

One day, as per a Human custom, the main delegate - Ambassador Glenn York, invited several other delegates on a tour of his embassy. With some hesitation from a few due to their prey-like ancestry and associated cultural background, but ultimately won over by the Human's eager friendliness, they embarked on this little cultural exchange.

It was a little difficult to move about, as each embassy is adapted to suit the environmental preferences of the respective species, and Humans live on a high gravity and dense atmosphere world, so much so in fact, some of the less physically suitable delegates had to put on an exoskeleton, while many others required a breathing apparatus to thin out the poisonous air.

Once we were underway, Glenn showed us that the Humans were diligent in their work - acquiring information from and learning about all the various species within the Coalition, establishing communication lines with the respective counterparts in the disparately varied local government structures, and most importantly continually updating the translation modules.

In addition, we admired their art they had installed along the barren walls. Most, Glenn explained, was done by the delegates and their staff themselves during free time, and it ranged from tiny contraptions painstakingly assembled within a minuscule glass container (we did not realize they could hone their dexterity to such a precise degree!) to large murals covering an entire wall with the most vivid color and shape combinations one could imagine; from the very clear and obvious to impossibly abstract! Though the music they had to turn down - the vibrations of the thick atmosphere were beginning to overload the dampening systems and one of the delegates almost passed out.

Near the end of the tour, Glenn invited us into his office to show off what his "hobby" is:

"The boys and gals I work with are all talented people, but none of them appreciate the kind of craftsmanship I prefer. It's kind of a ancient art form, you see, high maintenance too, very delicate."

He pulls out a pair of ancient looking projectile weapons, at least judging by the shape, but none of us can quite grasp, aside from the trigger, how it operates. We are all silent as he pours some sort of fine grain from a small bag into the upturned tube then drops a small metal ball and proceeds to jam it further in with a cloth and stick.

"I handcrafted these myself. Sure, I could get a printer to do it and it'd be perfect, but perfection just ain't right when it comes to work of the soul, amirite? I find it therapeutic, to mold the shape, heat the iron, cast the shape, smooth the edges, straighten the barrel, carve the grip, roll the bullets, grind the powder... just..."

He lets out a long sigh of relief? satisfaction? euphoria? as he gazes with great affection at the pair of devices in his hands. We feel the urge to end the tour. Like. Right now. But Glenn insists on a demonstration. We hesitantly follow him to a largely empty room below where he sets up a couple of small wooden block on a pedestal. As he points one of the devices and is about to pull the trigger, he stops, looks back at us and says:

"Almost forgot, you'll want to take a few more steps back and turn your dampeners to max."

Heeding his advice, we do so, and after he appears satisfied with our... safety?... he returns his gaze to the wooden block and pulls the trigger.

[cacophony]

We awaken after a short while, the sturdier of our fellow delegates say the rest of us were out for just a few moments, but the ringing reverberation of the shockwave through the Human atmosphere still resonates throughout our bodies. Glenn, worry in his eyes, is apologizing profusely:

"Oh I am so sorry, I didn't think you'd still react so poorly. Is anyone hurt? I even put in less gunpowder than normal, but I guess that's still too potent. I--I'll file an official apology and compensate for any damages I may have caused to any of you. I will take full responsibility for this incident. Please do not think poorly of us as a whole due to the willfulness of one individual, it was never my intention to inflict any injury on anyone."

---Later---

After a thorough medical examination, it was determined that only a few delegates suffered a minor case of shock, which was alleviated rapidly at their respective medical stations. Ambassador Glenn York was reprimanded and sent back to Earth, a replacement will arrive shortly. The one permanent remnant of the incident is the wooden block that was struck by Glenn's pistol - now put on a small display in one of the inner rooms of the Human embassy. The bullet still embedded half-way and the splinters it shot out arranged in a chaotic manner, befitting an explosion, down in front.

[griffongrey]

@danielnelsen yes and no, in a sense! Aldric-my-oc actually IS Aldric-the-obscure-ttrpg-npc, he's just taken on a life of his own in a big way, to the point where I frequently forget that he is, technically, a "canon" character. Congrats on being the first to notice and point that out! :D

Okay, story time under the cut. Don't worry about reading it if you're not interested; I've just been looking for an excuse to talk about Aldric's origin story from a Doylist angle for ages now:

Three years ago, I wanted to get a dragon age ttrpg game started with part of my dnd group, with a ton of input from the players about what they wanted the campaign and the world state to look like. And, to give us (including me, as the gm) an introduction to how the mechanics worked in action, I decided to adapt the Duty Unto Death module into a one-shot prequel to the campaign.

The players wanted to be Grey Wardens? Already taken care of.

The players wanted a post-Inquisition setting, with the Wardens banished? Now the hook is that this Warden LaPointe fellow went missing on his way to a secret meeting with King Alistair to re-establish a Warden presence in Ferelden on the down-low.

One of the players wanted their character to have backstory ties to Warden!Loghain, and now another player incorporated that into his character's backstory, too? (Plus, the whole lot of us just think he's neat.) Well, that solves the problem of who to replace Duncan with in the one-shot!

But that's when this Warden LaPointe fellow (who was really only created to be the object of an elaborate fetch quest and had all of three established character traits, one of which was just "French") started to take on a life of his own.

Because if Loghain Mac Tir gave enough of a shit about this random Orlesian dude with ties to the occupation of Fereldan to not only risk being recognized and attacked in Ferelden, not only risk sparking a political powder keg if the Inquisition figures out the Wardens are undermining their authority, but also risk having to interact with Alistair again? Then that Orlesian dude needs some backstory. (Plus, the First Warden ordered Loghain to do it, but the First Warden has some... shall we say, ulterior motives of his own in this campaign.)

So, first off, I figured Aldric can't have a great relationship with his family or Orlais as a whole. If he'd inherited even a hint of his grandfather's resentment toward Ferelden for indirectly causing their family's disgrace, there's no way Loghain would ever consider him a friend. (I can't recall off the top of my head if it was canon that Ser Henri LaPointe went home in disgrace after he managed to misplace an entire tower full of red herrings to the Fade... I also can't recall if I named him Ser Henri, or if that was in the module... but it makes sense.)

Then, I thought I'd give Aldric a mabari, to endear him to Loghain a little. But why would an Orlesian own a mabari, let alone one trained and treated in such a way that wouldn't have every red-blooded Fereldan clamoring to invent a Fantasy Animal Welfare Act to take it away from him? Well, he was stationed in Ferelden for a few years prior to Inquisition, of course! He was inspired by Loghain's stories of his homeland to transfer there from Orlais! It even makes sense, now, why Aldric specifically would be chosen to organize the new Fereldan Wardens, with the HoF still MIA.

And then, of course, I had to give the mabari a French name and Aldric some ostentatious facial hair, to remind players that he was still very much an Orlesian with a plot-relevant Orlesian past, not just a Fereldan with my comically bad attempt at an accent.

And then...

Which quickly evolved into...

And...

(And by "quickly evolved" I mean "note the timestamps." This only took three days to escalate lmaoo.)

Long story... well, less long lol... The campaign ended up fizzling out before they even discovered Fluffernutter the Secret Royal Nug, for all the usual trying-to-schedule-several-adults-with-jobs-and-multiple-time-zones reasons. But Aldric Lapointe, elevated npc, lives on! Because I made the classic writer's blunder and grew too attached to him, and I've very happy I did. XD

[apilgrimpassingby]

So, Grace (@sapphosremains) has been given an offer to read Theology at Oxford, at which I went into her inbox and told her that, in English folklore, only Oxford scholars can exorcise (or, as it's called in folklore, "lay") ghosts, and so I want to know if her Theology course will include a module on ghost-laying.

After that, I suggested we can team up: she uses her theology training to exorcise ghosts, I use my folklore knowledge to become a folk magician, and together we banish supernatural nastiness up and down Britain.

Thus,

My Folk Magician Kit List

Rowan whip; in Lincolnshire folklore, these break witches' spells, and their properties against witchcraft and faerie enchantment are also known in northern England, the West Midlands and the Scottish Highlands. Plus it's just cool.

Lots of pins and needles; Pins and needles are common in English folk magic, especially in spells to break or prevent witchcraft, such as the creation of witch bottles (bottles of pins, needles and the urine of the cursed person that turn the evil back on the witch) and sheep's hearts pierced with pins to, again, break witchcraft.

Bible; used in the book-and-key divination method (saying deum deorum - God of Gods - and putting a key inside the Bible, asking yes-no questions and getting a positive answer from the key exiting) and also a prominent fixture in English folk magic - for example, Ezekiel 16:6 was historically used as a charm to staunch bleeding. Will be in the King James, since that's the traditional English version and has extra gravitas.

Cross; excellent ward against supernatural nastiness of all kind.

Iron knife; useful for cutting stuff up and also a ward against faeries.

Bread; carried in the pocket, it prevents pixie-leading (being magically led astray by faeries) and is also just good to eat.

Candles; particularly candles blessed on Candlemas (2nd February), which were said to ward off storms and demons, and candles in general see a fair bit of usage in folk magic.

Salt; a very common ward against witchcraft and demons, and also a useful magical ingredient.

Hag stone (a stone with a natural hole through it); these things allow you to see faeries and ward off night hags (sleep paralysis monsters).

Snake powder; the powdered skin of a snake killed on a Midsummer midnight, which grants the power of invisibility.

Frog breastbone; the bone of a frog killed and fed to ants, with all the bones thrown into a stream, and the breastbone floating upstream; if caught, it grants control over horses.

Frogspawn; there's a disturbing amount of magical lore based around abusing frogs (the bit above is just the tip of the iceberg), and so it seems like a good idea to have a supply of new frogs on hand.

Holy water; has all kinds of uses - warding off evil spirits is just the chief of them.

Notebook; write down spells and case notes and whatnot.

(Don't worry, I'm not going to become a folk magician. I just made this post to have fun with this idea and geek out about folklore.)

[rinwritesfics]

Please

Plot: When a vendor at a market blows a mysterious powder in Echo’s face, a series of events happens – and not all unwelcome between the two of you.

Warnings: pollen, pollen blown into face by a person, feelings confessions, creampie, slightly dom Echo, a single (light) spank, fairly vanilla, aftercare insinuated, fade-to-black second round, unprotected sex. Wrap it before you tap it, folks! (I hope that’s all.) MDNI!!!!!

Word Count: 3,589

Author’s Note: I have tried and tried to edit this to where I feel I want it, but I was down from COVID and then lost a family member, so that is where it has finally ended up. No use of Y/N. I hope you like it!

The sun shone comfortably on the village as you walked with your favorite person. Echo.

This beautiful, wonderful man had volunteered to accompany you into the village on a supply run, and you couldn’t have been happier. The warmth in your heart sure enjoyed the fact that he had spoken up so quickly.

“We need only one more thing, right?” you asked Echo.

“Just the gasket grease rated for high vacuum situations.” He nodded, his helmet modulating that voice you like so much.

You looked up at him and shook your head, snickering.

He tilted his head, the afternoon sun shining off the helmet a bit. “What?”

“What do you mean, what? It’s a gorgeous day and there you are pretending it’s raining out.”

“But, I always wear my bucket,” he protested.

“You were just talking this morning about the dangers of lacking vitamin D. I distinctly remember because we had to stop Wrecker from making a lewd joke in front of Omega.”

Echo chuckled and you smiled. Even through his helmet, you enjoyed his laugh. It was always a breath of fresh air.

Sometimes, he would immediately decide to put his helmet on, even when you two were just stepping outside briefly and then he’d seem flustered when you asked him about it, like he was embarrassed he forgot about it. You liked seeing his face. It was his, and no one else’s. He may share genetics with thousands and more other souls, but that face? His alone.

“Alright, you’re right,” he said, caving like he usually does. He couldn’t seem to say no to you, but that was nothing you were going to take advantage of.

He took off the helmet and breathed, greeted with fresh air instead of that stale recycler in his suit.

“Besides, it’s not for very long. You won’t get a sunburn.” You grinned, teasing him slightly.

A small smile appeared on his lips.

Yep. That beautiful, perfect face of his.

You both turned a corner in the market, nearly to the last stall you needed to stop at.

The closer you got, the louder a voice became on your right, yelling about her wares. You started to pass her stall and she called out about having the perfect remedy for a boring couple’s night. The sign above her white-haired head was a play on the term “Love Potions” in the native language which didn’t translate as cleverly into Aurebesh. Echo was closest to the stall and traded a suspicious glance with you.

“Ah, you two look like you could use something to spice up your love life! Try my newest concoction! First try is on me! I guarantee you’ll like it, and you’ll come back for the full-strength dose!”

“Oh, no ma’am, we’re not -” Echo began correcting her, but she cut him off.

“I insist!” she cackled, then, before anyone could stop her, held up a small piece of folded cream flimsy in her hand and blew a red dust into Echo’s face. Echo stumbled back, coughing and spitting out whatever got into his mouth as he bent over. The crazy older woman cackled gleefully and turned away.

“Hey, you can’t do that!” you yelled, suddenly enraged. You wanted to give her a piece of your mind, but Echo continued to cough and struggle for breath and you dug into your pack for your canteen. “Echo, Echo hey, use this to rinse your mouth when you can.”

He took the canteen as his coughing settled, took a swig from the canteen and spat out the water twice, then chugged part of the canteen. You waited for his breath to settle before asking if he was okay. In response, he wiped away the tears on his face and poured more water over his eyes, which you could easily guess were burning.

“Echo, talk to me. Tell me how you’re feeling.” You looked up at him, worry in your eyes.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice hoarse, “yeah, I’m okay. Let’s just keep going.”

“I’m going to, after I give that shopkeeper a piece of my mind.” You scowled at her stall, which had gathered quite the customer attraction in the past minute or so. Obviously, they hadn’t seen Echo get assaulted.

“No, she could do the same thing to you. Besides, if the security around here didn’t do anything about it, then apparently it’s a normal occurrence.”

“But Echo, that’s wrong!”

“It’s not our planet.”

“But -”

“Hey.” He grabbed your arm and turned you to face him and not the stall. “Hey, I appreciate what you want to do, but there’s nothing we can do now.”

You sighed heavily, seriously contemplating agreeing, then turning around anyway. But there was a look in his eyes that was unfamiliar. You frowned and he blinked and it was gone. You saw it, you know you did, but you couldn’t identify it. “Alright. Let’s hurry, then, and get out of here.”

Quickly, you got the last item on your list and began making for the exit. The last shopkeeper said nothing about the events that transpired with the last stall, which only served to confirm Echo’s theory that it happened often here. You made a mental note to not return to this village if you could help it.

Everything was progressing fine on your way back, and you almost swore that Echo looked like normal before he collapsed to his knees on the cobblestone path about a block from the exit of the main center of the village. His helmet rolled a couple feet away from him.

“Echo!” you cried out, rushing to his side. He shook his head, as if dazed, then flinched as you placed your hands on his upper arm when you tried to help him up. He groaned and you froze, kneeling beside him and looking at his face. There was a rosy coloring in his cheeks and his pupils were wide, almost blown. “Echo?”

He let out a shuddering breath. “I-I don’t feel very well.”

“Can you get back to the ship?” you asked softly. He placed his hand over his face, then shook his head.

“You go back, I’ll just wait here.”

“Echo, I’m not leaving without you.”

“You have to. Go. If you start off now, you should be able to make it before the sun sets.” His voice was very strained and he didn’t move his hand from his face.

“No. I’m not leaving you. Come on.” You helped him up, scooped his helmet off the ground, and led him to the village’s version of a bed and breakfast. You paid for a room and helped Echo up to safety so you could look him over, the room door shutting just behind you.

“You need to lay down so I can examine you,” you said gently.

A tiny whimper escaped his lips and both yours and his eyes widened.

“I-I don’t think that’s necessary,” he hissed, squeezing his eyes shut.

You said softly, “Echo, I have to find out what’s going on.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s the stuff she blew at me.”

“All the more reason for you to lay down. Armor on the floor and lay. Down.”

You started to dig through your medpack and his armor hit the floor with multiple clunks at slightly hesitant intervals. The bed let out a small protest at his weight as he sat down. You stood up and saw him laying back, but with the leg closest to you up.

“Alright, what is bothering you the most?” you asked as you approached. His cheeks, slightly flushed, darkened. And so was his gaze, you noticed as you got closer.

“I’m not sure you want to know,” he almost whispered, his voice cracking a bit.

“What? Why?”

He paused, looking at you with fear and something else.

“Echo, please,” you said softly.

“That woman’s powder was an aphrodisiac,” he gasped, squeezing his eyes shut, and he laid his leg down on the bed. The tent in his blacks was prominent.

You blushed. “E-Echo?”

He sat up and started to reach for you, but he stopped himself despite his wide pupils. “I… I understand if you turn tail and leave now.”

You had often imagined going from friendship to a romantic relationship with Echo, but not this fast. An unwanted aphrodisiac, even one at partial strength, could be dangerous to him, and even to you if you stayed. You could help him. You could be there for him. But how could you leave him when this could hurt him? How could you let him suffer?

“I….”

How could you even think about how much you wanted him when he was suffering?

He groaned and the decibel stoked the growing fire in your lower belly. “Mesh’la, save yourself. I don’t know what I’m capable of. And I don’t want you to get hurt in the process.”

You cleared your throat and sputtered, “I-I have to find the antidote.”

“Do you think she has one?” he asked, pushing his head back against the bed, his face screwed up in something you couldn’t identify. Pain? Pleasure? Both?

You sighed, then shook your head. “No, I don’t think she has one.”

“Maybe… maybe it’ll wear off?” he suggested, then gasped loudly.

“Uh, maybe....” I say, the faltering hope in my tone unconvincing.

Both of you knew it wouldn’t be that easy. It could get metabolized by his system, but there was no telling how long it would take, or how life-threatening it could be, especially since he was beginning to sweat and his heartrate was likely climbing if his breathing was any indication.

He arched his back as he tried to get comfortable.

“Echo, let me help you,” you finally whispered.

He finally looked at you, wide-eyed. “Cyar’ika, no. This isn’t right.”

You felt like you had your heart scooped out by a melon baller. He didn’t want you. “Oh. I-I see.”

“No!” he shouted, sitting up. “No, wait, that didn’t come out right! Please, no! I-I-I’ve wanted to be with you for so long, but I’ve never thought you saw me that way, and now… this isn’t the way I wanted to tell you.”

Your heart sped up and joy flooded your veins. You wanted to leap and scream out in victory, but now was the worst time to celebrate your returned affection. “Echo,” you breathed, stepping closer and he looked ready to bolt. “Let me help you. Let me show you how I feel about you by helping.”

He whimpered as you took off your shoulder pads, then your belt. “It’s… it’s wrong….”

It certainly wasn’t maintaining dignity, but this drug in his system was certainly not helping with that. “Would you rather wait it out? See how long it takes to clear from your system? If it clears from your system?”

He shook his head, then his eyes squeezed shut again. This time, the noise he makes is definitely pained.

“Echo, do you trust me?”

He mumbled your name, then sighed and said, “Alright. Please. Please help me!”

“Okay.” You began to strip off your clothes and he whined, watching you, and scrambling to get his off, too. When he stood up, naked and trembling slightly, you paused as you worked to get your socks off. Your eyes drank in his form with a soft gasp. Where his prosthetic legs ended, his delicious thighs began, muscular. The scars and stretch marks stretched up them, breaking through the gorgeous tan skin. He had stretch marks and scars, faded, all over his torso, too. The metallic ports sunken in his skin did nothing to detract from his desirable form, and your eyes roamed the shapely abs and pectorals that heaved with each breath. His biceps, strong, looked like they could hold you against the wall with enough ease. The veins that ran down his left arm were noticeable enough and you bit your lower lip before eyeing up what you saved for last. His length was standing fully and looked almost painful, and his tip was already shining with precum.

He watched you eye him up and you blushed, seeing the blown pupils and the flex of his hand like he was holding back. You stood slowly and his eyes drank in your form, a small whimper spilling out of his lips that made your cheeks warm.

“Are-are you sure you want this, mesh’la?” he asked, his voice a little higher-pitched from the nervousness peeking through the desire.

“Yes. I want to help you, and I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t like you like that.”

“L-like what?” he asked, but you had a feeling he had figured it out by that point. He just wanted you to say it.

“I love you, Echo. I’d do anything for you.”

Whatever held him back inside snapped and he strode across the room and wrapped you firmly in his arms, pushing his lips against yours. It was desperate and hungry, but not painful. He kissed you, open-mouthed, and you returned in fiery favor, feeling the heat of his breath through his nose on your cheek as his hand went from your waist to the swell of your ass and started to press his hips into yours, rolling a little for friction against his hardness. His hand began to squeeze your ass and play with it, including a playful smack. You gasped, then moaned.

“If you let me, next time, I’ll worship you and your body,” he groaned as his lips left open-mouthed kisses down your neck, his hand reaching up to hold the back of your neck.

“Oh, Echo,” you moaned, the heat in your core upping itself.

“I’ll do it, I swear to you, but right now I-I can’t hold back.” He continued his assault on your neck, leaving marks, then moving to your collarbone and sucking and biting at it. The hand on your neck moved down to one of your breasts, massaging it and twisting your nipple. His mouth kept at your skin and you hadn’t noticed when, but his hand had moved to your butt, then migrated between your thighs and was starting into your slick from behind. The contact of his calloused fingers and the wetness between your lips almost made you crumble. He began to rut against you as his finger pushed in to the second knuckle and you moaned loudly.

“Oh, mesh’la, did I make you this wet?” he asked, his voice low. It was a tone you didn’t often hear from him. In fact, you didn’t believe you had ever heard it before. It sounded a little dark, and you squeezed your thighs together as best you could, partly trapping his hand at the apex of your thighs.

“Yes. Yes, Echo. Please, Echo, it’s all for you.” You began to babble as he started to walk you both to the bed. He let go of your body just long enough to move his arms to your ass and lift you against his body before throwing you on the bed under him. Your legs splayed open further than when they were against his hips a moment ago and he looked from your eyes to your glistening sex. A growl left his lips and he ran two fingers roughly through your slick to spread over his length. If the feeling of his fingers running over your bundle of nerves wasn’t enough to get a whine from you, the sight of him stroking his length was.

“All for me, huh? Do you think about me this way, mesh’la?” He started to drag his tip through your folds and you looked up from the show to his lust-filled eyes.

“I-I have, but I’ve tried not to.”

“Why?” he asked a bit roughly.

“Because thinking about you that way wasn’t right without you feeling the same.”

He paused, the look in his eyes clouded by guilt. “I’ve been the same.” Then, his eyes changed again, and he spoke in a controlled but strangled tone, “Once I get started here, I’m not going to be able to stop.”

You nodded.

“Words, cyar’ika. Beg me.”

“Yes, Echo, I’m yours! Stars, please!”

He began to push in. “Oh, kriff, you’re so tight,” he moaned. His hand moved from your hip and started to tease your clit. Your moan ripped from your throat and he grinned.

“Oh, Echo,” you groaned, your walls stretching as he pushed at a steady pace. It was a little painful, but as he ran his fingers over your clit, playing with it, you were able to accommodate his size as you grew more aroused. “Oh, stars!”

“Good job, taking me so good. Kriff!”

He finally sunk to the hilt and he moaned loudly. Your walls began to tighten around him again as he manipulated your clit and then ran his fingers up the inside of your hip to grab it. He didn’t say a word as he began to pull out, then push back in. The whines and groans you both made mixed with the slap of sweaty skin and squelching as he thrusted into you, the bed squeaking and creaking. Every ridge and vein prominent against your walls, you could feel the coil in your stomach tighten. Suddenly, he raised your right leg and started to thrust at a different angle, and you knew it wouldn’t be long.

“Come for me, baby. Come right on my cock. Oh, Maker, you feel so good!” he growled.

“Oh, oh kriff,” you groaned, which was no match for the deep and sinful moan he gave you before you yelled, “Echo!”

Your walls clenched, euphoria washing over you, and he rode you through it, his voice cracking as he yelled your name. Your veins filled with stars, your body set alight, and your vision went white for a moment. His thrusts began to get a little sloppy as he chased his own orgasm. Somehow, he was able to form words and ask permission.

“Where?”

“Inside?”

“Oh, you sure?”

“Yes!”

“Kark!” he swore as his hips faltered and his cock twitched. His breathing came in quick gasps while he came, still thrusting, then he almost collapsed on top of you. You kissed his sweaty forehead that was near your face and he chuckled breathlessly. After a couple seconds, he pushed himself up and went to pull out, but you stopped him.

“Leave it there, it’s okay.”

He chuckled again, then moved to your side, your legs still around his hips, laying down beside you as you turned to look at him. The shifting of his softening cock inside you felt overstimulating and arousing, but you tried to ignore it.

Something from earlier stuck out to you, but you pushed it away. He hadn’t said he loved you back.

His eyes roamed your face, finally clear of the lust, but lit by his smile. “You’re so gorgeous.” His hand reached around your face and tucked a few strands of hair behind your ear. The touch felt so nice, but was tainted by your realization. Was he just trying to be nice?

He went to kiss you, but you resisted and he pulled back, frowning. “Cyar’ika?”

“Am I?”

“What do you mean?” He pulled his softening cock out of you and you shuddered at the loss, the drag on your walls feeling good and you had to hold back a moan.

“Am I your sweetheart? Or is this only a one-time thing?” you asked quietly.

“Wait, I-”

“Because I love you, Echo. And I didn’t say it to convince you earlier. I truly love you. But I’ll back off if you don’t.” You sat up and started to stand. Your legs felt like jelly.

“Cyare, wait.” His voice cracked.

You turned around to look at him, and he got up from the crumpled comforter.

“Sweetheart, I do love you! You’re so kind to me and beautiful and smart. We’ve been through so much together. And I realized months ago that I was falling in love with you. I just didn’t… I didn’t want to scare you off.” He held out his hand for yours and you slowly placed your hand in his. He brought you closer and wrapped his scomp around your back. “I’m in love with you, cyare. I’m sorry it took me this long to admit it.”

You rested your forehead in the dip of his neck. “I love you, Echo. You mean everything to me.”

“And I love you, too.” He kissed the top of your head and you could have stood there forever if you hadn’t felt a little drip from your core. You clenched your thighs together.

You chuckled, a little embarrassed. “I, uh, hate to break the moment, but I need to clean up.”

He grinned, a little of that lust darkening his eyes again. “Can I help?”

You smirked, then trailed a finger up his chest. “Maybe, but it might get me aroused depending on how you do it.”

You felt him begin to harden against you again. “Would that be such a bad thing?”

You squeaked in surprise. “N-no.”

“Are you sure? Because that didn’t sound sure.” He began to nibble on your ear, his voice deep and seductive again.

A gasp escaped your mouth. “A-are you still under the influence of that powder?”

He shook his head, lips starting to ghost over yours. “No, cyar’ika. I’m thinking pretty clearly, now. And I’m thinking I need to worship you like you deserve.”

You murmured against his lips, “Well, Corporal Echo, I’m all yours.”

Taglist (open!): @trixie2023

[monstersdownthepath]

Herald of Torag: The Grand Defender

CR 15

Lawful Good Huge Construct

Inner Sea Gods, pg. 310

Among the strangest (and least creatively named) of the Heralds, the Grand Defender is one of the rare few Heralds that did not begin their existence as a mortal follower or an elevated celestial, instead being literally crafted by their god's own two hands. In this case, if you couldn't tell by the title nor his physical appearance, the God of the Forge (and of dwarves in general), Torag. He's even stranger than most other divine constructs, though, because the Grand Defender was built with an explicit and bizarre purpose: as a tomb for the bodies of Torag's chosen dwarven heroes.

Given how the Defender is Huge, and dwarves are Small, one can only come to the conclusion that they're all jammed into its limbs and torso to form into some kind of corpse Voltron. Just... rattling around in there as it moves, hopefully so secure they don't actually move that much when it attacks. What do you think happens if it loses and then regains a limb? Does it teleport the bodies back into itself? Does Torag launch a rescue mission for what is essentially one of his most holy relics to inter them in his Herald again? Did he ever consider a less risky location? Who's to say; the poor thing's lore block is literally a sentence long, and it hasn't appeared in any AP or module, thus our information on it is tragically limited.

But if its lore block is tiny, that must mean its statblock is impressive, right? Well...

It's just an Iron Automata with some extra bells and whistles. Before you go clicking off this page, please know they're amusing bells and whistles... but it's a little disappointing to see "this ability works like it does for the Iron Automata" be pasted onto two of its four unique powers. It's an Automata Except Bigger, and with sapience so it can adjust its tactics on the fly.

It should give you a fair idea of what to expect from it, at least: A smash mook with no magic and very little defenses besides those conveyed by its Construct typing. It's got pathetically low saves (+6/+5/+8), low HP for its level (157 while most other Heralds are pushing 180 or 200), and no immunities or resistances besides it gains by being a Construct... oh, and the Iron Automata's complete Immunity to Magic, making it significantly more resilient than its statblock would suggest. Suddenly, its low saves and zero elemental resistances make a little more sense, as few offensive spells can actually pierce this impervious shield, and almost no common debuffs can work on a Construct. Electricity damage from a magic effect may slow it and prevent it from using its Full-Attack, but any magic trying to bring fire against it heals it instead, turning the most popular damage type against its holders.

It's got DR 15/Adamantine as its standard, but it's got an amusing ability called Ablative Armor that turns it into a towering, hammer-wielding matryoshka doll: As a standard action, the Defender can shed its outermost layer of metal to reveal another, very slightly smaller version of itself underneath that's made out of a different metal, swapping its DR to another source to thwart attempts to damage it. It can swap between DR 15/Adamantine, /Cold Iron, or /Silver at will, and whatever damage type its DR is bypassed by is also what types of DR its own weapons can bypass, letting it pierce several common resistances. Ablative Armor also shields it from the same death most Constructs would suffer at 0 HP, shutting down but not dying unless its body is fully destroyed and torn to pieces. 1d4 hours after it's slain, its armor automatically triggers, revealing yet another Defender under the first while restoring half its HP and allowing it time to either retreat and recover or stalk after its destroyers to end them.

Fun fact: Any armor shed from its person crumbles to powder 1d4 minutes later to prevent it from just generating infinite raw material. The only way to stop it from dissolving entirely is if the Grand Defender eats it, but we'll get to THAT tidbit later.

For now, the Grand Defender is tremendously resilient and doesn't die unless you take special precautions to put it down permanently... but on the downside, it's also the slowest Herald by a country mile, having only a 30ft movespeed. This is somewhat made up for by its immense 15ft space and 15ft reach, but its ability to keep enemies in that range is extremely limited. Stand Still is reliable due to its +31 CMB, but it can only use the feat once per round, because despite having Combat Reflexes, it has a Dexterity score of 9, meaning it can't even use the extra Attacks of Opportunity! It's got to be really choosy about when and on whom it uses Stand Still, if it even gets to do so in the first place because, again, it's got no mobility beyond its 30ft movespeed, no magical movement methods, and no capacity for Stealth beyond its ability to look like a statue when it doesn't move, so its options for getting the drop on the party are also limited. If someone doesn't want to be in melee with it and it can't catch them in its radius during the surprise round, there's virtually no way for it to force them back towards it.

And you don't want to be nearby, in case it wasn't obvious. That massive hammer deals 3d6+11 damage upwards to 4 times a round with accuracy that's a step above most of the other Heralds, allowing it to sacrifice some of it to pour into Power Attack. Its warhammer deals triple damage on a critical hit, and four blows a round make it likely to see one every odd round, or even every round if you're especially unlucky. That immense threat radius also means its Great Cleave feat can make its turns look down right comical if it's got enough targets around to let it spin and spin and spin.

Besides its hammer, it's got the poisonous cloud of an Iron Automata, exhaling a 10ft cloud of toxic gas into an adjacent space once every 1d4 rounds as a free action. Anyone who enters or begins their turn in the cloud must make a DC 19 Fortitude save or take 1d4 Con damage a round for 4 rounds... but that's not the only weapon it's got coming out of its mouth, which is an admittedly unusual sentence. Even more unusual is the Defender's novel breath weapon: Hammer Storm. This 30ft cone is made up of, as the name suggests, warhammers, blasting everyone who fails a DC 19 Reflex save for 15d6 damage and sending them flying directly away from the Defender, potentially pushing them into hazardous terrain.

These regurgitated warhammers are perfectly mundane in function and, interestingly, do not disappear, allowing creature to pick one up and wield it (the ability specifically creates 24 hammers). These leavings are what the Grand Defender uses as its ranged option, its Throw Anything feat letting it huck the weapons like lawn darts at distant or airborne foes. Hammer Storm is normally only usable once a day, but the Defender can recharge the ability by taking a minute to consume the regurgitated warhammers or an equivalent amount of metal from any source (including the shell that drops off of it when it uses Ablative Armor), allowing the Defender to recycle metal scraps or the armor of its foes into weapons for its people. One must wonder if the dwarves interred inside are actually dead and not just banging away on tiny forges to create the hammers or the next layer of the Defender.

You can read more about it here.