#the less brain power dedicated to this the better

[arthallea]

the only thing i really wanna add to the discussion about Blood Libel the Game is that it's very important to discuss the antisemitism, but as a jewish person i also want to extend the discussion to the very obviously racist depictions of slavery in the game. its definitely antisemitic but also don't let the racism go unspoken!!

[baldursgate3tempobsessed]

Astarion Jealousy Part 2

The graphic extension to this but a lil less serious and definitely not sfw.

CW: Jealous spawn astarion who is still a sweetheart, but the drow twins get under his skin. graphic sex scenes, oral, relatively tame honestly. The sex part will be under the cut btw which is m/f. Also vampire man drinks blood. mentionable incorrect language for sex workers

~

It was odd, being home in Baldur’s Gate without the threat of Cazador always looming. Odd, but equally as wonderful. It had been so thoughtful, if not a little idiotic for Cazador to end up being your first stop in the city. The fight itself had been a blur, a barrage of intense emotions and bloody violence. Astarion had come so close to losing himself back there, losing everything that made him better than the man who almost ruined him. But then… you stopped him. You saw something more in him, a chance for a better life. A more meaningful life, away from the shackles of vampiric power obsessions. 

He was officially free. Now he could exist without any fear of his disgusting master’s retribution. He could just… be. Well… not including his darling’s own myriad of enemies that seemed to follow them about everywhere. And there was still the matter of defeating the elder brain, and lord knows if any of you made it through that alive. But at least his personal demons were slain and out of the picture.

Every little step counted after all. Perhaps some of your delusional hopefulness had finally started to rub off on him, but Astarion was actually starting to look forward to his future. Your future, together. All he had to do was get through a few more perilous adventures and then he’d really have you all to himself. 

All that said, Astarion could really go without the frequent visits to the local brothel. Was it the best place in the city for gathering information? Yes. It seemed that every walk of life in Baldur’s Gate found their way into Shar’s Caress and if you were going to find alternative passage to the underworld, this would be the best place to find it. But that didn’t mean he had to like it. For one there were the unwelcome advances to his own person, the concept of grace and personal space apparently left at the door. He was so very close to breaking the hand of the next person who thought it was appropriate to grab his ass. And if they could afford to get kicked out he would have by now. Your verbal, angry tirades in his defense could only scare off so many. 

But as terrible as his own discomfort was, it was nothing in the face of how often you were being fawned over. What was it about you that seemed to drive everyone mad? Yes you were objectively attractive, but this was frankly getting out of hand. First there was the green skinned druid doing something sensual to your mind, then there were the general stares and whispers as you walked by, and now a pair of gorgeous drow twins trying and failing to proposition you. 

It was getting tiresome. There were only so many times a man could take his lover being offered “free” services before he snapped. 

On one hand, he could respect the dedication they had to the craft. He could be considered something of a hired whore himself in his time, the old, “the first one’s free” was a tried and true trick. And he also knew, vaguely, that no one was actually trying to steal you from him. But on the other, he couldn’t help the fact that he wanted to claw their eyes out for looking at you so brazenly.

He hadn’t expected the eyes of the woman to wander over to him, like she was just noticing the possessive arm he had wrapped around your waist, “Is that your partner with you? How would you both feel about having a little fun?”

Absolutely fucking not. Maybe the old Astarion would have smiled and nodded, ready to do whatever was asked of him. But the man from that wretched era had died, or at the very least was dying. And he would be damned if he let you lay with another, never less participate in it. 

Astarion interrupted your overly-polite attempts stuttering of a refusal. He glared at them both, a sneer painted on his face, “We’ll be passing on that. You’d think the first no would have sufficed, but I suppose it’s not fair to expect everyone to have basic language comprehension. Now as illuminating as this conversation has been, we have places to be. Excuse us.”

Then he was pulling you away, happy to ignore the offended huffs of indignation he had left in his wake. 

“We’re supposed to be investigating, remember?” You said with a giggle, not even questioning him as he dragged you to the second floor, “Being rude is not the way we’ll find travel to the hells.”

“I highly doubt they would have been of use,” Astarion said as he pushed you into the first empty room he could find. He felt off, maybe even a little crazed as he turned to you, “Tell me darling, what is it about you that makes you so irresistible, hm?”

He crowded you against the closed door, ducking his head into the crook of your neck to breath you in. You smelled heavenly, you always did. He could trace the barest whiff of your blood from beneath your skin, always calling to him. You were the sweetest thing he ever tasted. Delicious even, for more reasons than one. 

“T-They just wanted my coin,” You gasped when he started to suck bruises into your skin, “That’s all.”

“I think they wanted a bit more than that,” Astarion bit out as he shoved his thigh between your legs, “What will it take for others to realize you’re mine.”

His hands were wandering, resting low to grip your hips. He was using them to move you, forcing you to grind against his thigh. You grasped at his shoulders, trying to bite back a moan as you stared at him with wide eyes, “You want to do it here? Does that door even lock?”

It looked like it didn’t, not that Astarion cared. Maybe walking in on him ravishing you would finally start getting the point across of who you belonged to. Astarion shrugged, "There are less appropriate venues than literal whore houses."

“But-”

“But I can tell you want it,” Astarion interrupted with a smirk, his hands barely working to move your body anymore. But that wasn’t stopping you from rubbing yourself all over him, “Just look at you darling. Desperate little thing. But if you really don’t want to…”

Astarion made a lazy attempt to step back, laughing out loud when your desperately pulled him back, your desire finally winning out over your common sense. But you were glaring at him, obviously annoyed that he was so good at riling you up. He had seen that look before, the one that just screamed that you were scheming something. 

He just hadn’t expected you to drop to your knees in front of him, huffing as you started to undo the fastenings to his pants, “Has anyone ever told you that you’re a bit of a shit?”

“Maybe,” Astarion said with a strained laugh, his breath catching when you pulled his half-hard cock out, “But it seems to keep getting me the things I want.”

You rolled your eyes before licking a wide strip up his cock, like you weren’t directly proving his point. You looked amazing own there, you’re half-hearted glare morphing into a blissful haze. 

Gods, how were you real? Astarion wasn’t quite sure why you were such a fan of getting him down your throat, but he knew that he was a lucky bastard for it. 

“Sweet girl,” Astarion sighed, letting a hand drift down to tangle in your hair, “Sweet girl with a perfect mouth. And you’re all mine, aren’t you?”

You made a small, affirmative noise around his cock, taking him in deeper as you clutched at his thighs. You were so good at this, so well-trained after months of being together. He loved the soft, wet sounds that would escape your lips as you swallowed him down, the pretty way your eyes would water as you encouraged him to fuck your throat, how you would squirm in place on your knees, no doubt ruining your panties with how wet you were getting. 

And no one else would ever know. No one would get to see you like this again, feel you like this. Needy, desperate, and his. Oddly enough, that thought was what sent him over the edge. He came down your throat, groaning as you eagerly swallowed around him. 

You pulled off of him slowly, panting while you smiled up at him. There was the smallest string of spit mixed with his come, connecting from the head of his cock to your lips. You licked it up, still clinging to his thighs as you hazily stared up at him. Sweet enough to make his heart skip a beat, and his dick give a valiant twitch.

He pulled you to your feet, not wasting any time in smashing your lips together. He spun you around, pushing you towards what he prayed was a clean bed. 

He pushed you back onto the sheets, making quick work of tearing your pants down your legs as he grinned down at you, “Your turn.”

He kneeled in front of you; spreading his hands over your splayed thighs to peel off your underwear. The core of you was already glistening, slick enough to make Astarion’s mouth water. He licked his lips as he spread your legs further apart, shameless as he feasted on you with his eyes. 

You were shaking in his hold, biting your bottom lip when you whined, “Stop staring already…”

“But you’re so pretty here my sweet,” Astarion cooed, tracing a single finger over the seam of your cunt, “And you’re dripping. Poor thing, have I kept you waiting too long?”

You nodded excitedly above him, your hips bucking when he let his fingers dip in further between your pussy lips. He lightly traced your clit, softly laughing at the way the simple touch made you whine.

It was his own fault that you were so needy, a fact that brought a smirk to his lips. You always got so wet after you had him down your throat, soaked and gorgeous. 

Astarion dove right in, loudly moaning as he licked into your folds. He dragged his lips upward to suckle on your clit, basking in all the cries and whimpers escaping you.

He licked back down, teasing your hole with his tongue as your legs quivered around his head. He let the sharpness of his fangs scrape against you as he started to fuck you with his tongue, threatening your most intimate places.

He knew you liked that; little minx that you were. The slight risk of pain that was always looming. It made him want to sink his fangs in you for real, a hunger that he'd sate after he had you gushing into his mouth.

You were already close, he could tell from the way your cunt was tightening around his tongue; too worked up from the thrill of being in public and the taste of him still lingering on your tongue. Astarion trailed talented fingers up to rub against your clit, his tongue still curling inside of you as you cried out. Finally falling over the edge. But that wasn't stopping him from continuing to play with you.

You had to tug on Astarion’s hair for him to finally pull away, too over sensitive to handle his talented tongue. You were still trembling by the time he leaned back, licking his lips. He rested his head on your thigh, obviously pleased with himself as he grinned up at you. He could feel your heart racing against his cheek, the sound of your blood pumping singing through your veins. It had his mouth watering for a completely different reason. 

He let his fangs drag against the delicate skin of your inner thigh, looking up at you through his lashes, "Can I?"

A superfluous question. Not when he already knew the answer before it escaped your lips.

“Y-yeah," You mumbled, lovingly gazing down at him. He would never tire of seeing that look on your face, "But be gentle? Please?” 

"Of course my love," Astarion murmured, before promptly sinking his fangs into your flesh. He had to hold you down from the way you were still trembling, your quivering only getting worse at the pleasure mixed with pain. He didn’t let himself go rabid, just enough to get a taste. He was pulling back too soon, smiling to himself at the little whine you let out. He gently licked over the wound before standing, not yet swallowing the last drops on his tongue.

Instead he leaned forward to kiss you, more than happy to share the sweet taste of your blood as he slipped his tongue into your mouth.

“Thank you my dear,” Astarion sighed as he pulled away, “That was exactly what I needed. Now I think that’s enough investigating for one day.” 

You sighed, taking the time to card your fingers through his hair, “Agreed. Though you might have to carry me out of here now.”

Wasn’t that a wonderful idea?

Astarion hummed as he pulled your clothing back on, “I think I like the sound of that," He didn't give you time to respond, too busy sweeping you up in his arms with a grin, "I'll be taking you up on that."

You squeaked when he hefted you up, bridal style, “I wasn’t being serious!”

But it was too late, Astarion was already kicking the door open. He shrugged at you, completely shameless as he winked at a few onlookers, "Then you shouldn't have suggested it."

You groaned, hiding your face in his shirt as he happily took you outside, “I’m going to get you back for this. I hope you know that.”

Astarion laughed as he kissed the top of your head, “I’m sure you will.”

It was a childish stunt, borderline on par with a jealous tantrum, but gods, did it feel good. Good enough to sate Astarion's obsessive tendencies for an impressive amount of time. Under normal circumstances. 

But what about your lives were normal?

[inbarfink]

The ‘Escapades‘ in TGAA1 are already such a top-tier idea. I mean, I really wish we could’ve had those in any of the other games somehow.... Overall they’re an incredibly delightful addition to the game, and taking them individually, the least good ones are still like ‘well, that was a fun little vignette for these characters, I’m just not sure if it 100% gels with the main events of the game’.

And I think my favorite one right now has to be the first one, ‘In the Defendant Antechamber’. It just does… so much great stuff to the Asoryuu dynamic, recontextualizes everything that comes after in a way that makes it even better and just feels like such an Essential Viewing for really understanding these two. 

It’s just… you can go through the entire game with Ryunosuke constantly calling Kazuma his ‘best friend’, the ‘person I trusts more than anyone else’ and you might just casually assume that these two go a long way back. Maybe not as much as Kazuma and Susato since Ryunosuke doesn’t have all the details about his childhood, but seeing how much they mean for each other, they must’ve known each other for a while, right?

NOPE

THEY MET IN COLLEGE

ABOUT A YEAR AGO

They’ve known each other for a year, just a pretty ordinary year of school, and they’re already got that Unbreakable Homoerotic Bond of Trust, and Ryunosuke is fully willing to lay down his life for the sake of Kazuma’s dream of going to London. And Kazuma is fully willing to abandon his literal Life Mission of clearing his dead father’s name and avenging him in the shame of failing to defend Ryunosuke. And he drags Ryunosuke with him to London because he knows that he’s the only one who can keep him from straying from his path. And then Ryunosuke decides to dedicate his entire life in the memory of Kazuma. His college buddy. 

But they’re not just college buddies. Because in that one year, they did forge such powerful emotional bonds that all of these actions make sense for them. Because they’re just that kind of Ridiculous Human Beings and I LOVE IT!!

And the story of how they met is just… perfection. Like, if you look at the pre-‘death’ Asoryuu dynamic, it’s very ‘Japan’s most amazing promising young lawyer-samurai is absolutely enamored with an Anxiety-Ridden Human Disaster’. Kazuma Asogi is the Proudest Moronsexual and Ryunosuke Naruhodo is dating way beyond his league.

But also….the thing that drew Kazuma to Ryunosuke in the first place is the fact that he bested him at something. Kazuma is this rising star at Yumei University, he’s got the brains and the brawn, it seems like he is poised for success and glory for the rest of his days - and then this anxious innocuous little goofball beats him… humiliates him even. Ryunosuke beat the star student of Yumei University without any ambition or ill-intention, he was just being himself, he is just this silly little linguistic dork who likes tongue-twisters. 

And Kazuma feels no real resentment or spite about this defeat. He was beaten at his own game by such a silly little guy and all he feels is respect and affection and appreciation. A desire for friendship. Maybe even love. 

And meanwhile, Ryunosuke has just kinda forgotten that this is how they met. I mean, it's not like he totally forgotten it, but... it doesn't seem to register as particularly Notable in his own memories. It's just not that important to him. That was probably a life-changing unforgettable event for Kazuma, but when Ryunosuke thinks about their friendship he just thinks about hanging out after class and eating Yakisoba together. Because that’s just the kinda guy Ryunosuke is, and I think Kazuma appreciates that just as much as his tongue-twister skills.

Also, it kinda connects to an idea I brought up in a previous post, that Kazuma Asogi is less of a direct counterpart to Miles Edgeworth and more of a… mirror image, an inversion.

Phoenix and Miles’ friendship started with Miles saving Phoenix…

A moment which was a world-changing story for Phoenix that literally defined his entire life, but Miles, although he always kept his memories of Phoenix close to his heart, can barely remember it. 

Ryunosuke and Kazuma’s friendship started with Ryunosuke beating Kazuma. A moment that is… certainly not the most important thing in Kazuma’s life, but one that has certainly made his mark on him, and one that he is not going to forget. But Ryunosuke just... doesn't really think about it unless it's directly brought up.

And it’s just… such a good piece of characterization for both of them on every thematic level, I just love it so much!!

[moondirti]

11. SUCK IT UP

CHAPTER ELEVEN OF ANIMALIC | MIGUEL O'HARA X F!READER

↼ chapter ten / chapter twelve ⇀

summary: you aren't feeling too good. miguel helps you get over it, in more ways than one.

explicit (18+) | 6.7k words warnings: enemies to lovers, smut, cunnilingus, face-sitting, fingering, squirting, power imbalance (everything is consensual), miguel is... sweet (?), mild fluff, angst, very little plot, mentions of death/gore notes: inspired by this hysterical ask. twas supposed to be a bit of short fun but i am a chronic over-writer. thus, i present to you – a week late tangent about miguel's magical tongue! enjoy

The night ends with you riding Miguel’s face, panties ripped and cartons of food waiting idly on your desk. If you could shatter the pleasure that seizes your brain with a vice-like grip, you would take a moment to admit one thing. 

You don’t know how you got here. 

It’s not the fact of it that’s got you fazed; no, you’ve long since come to terms with the new perimeters of your relationship. Really, it’s been the only active component in your life as of late, serving itself in all your food for thought. You’ve contemplated it before going to bed, upon waking up, during your lunches with Hobie – where the spider critiques your mentor so often that you’ve learnt not to mention your less-than-professional relationship out loud. 

And, well– For every moment in between, you’re caught up in this exact transgression. 

If you’re being perfectly honest with yourself, it’s fruitless to attempt to rationalise it. The day’s happenings couldn’t have hinted towards this at all. In fact, your morning had started miles off from where you are now. Laying on the ground, ambition fried save for one goal: 

To take a break.

Your dreams still burn on your eyelids when you blink them open. They’re feverish, ochre and plum and sickly green, a little too blurry to make out the details that would’ve otherwise helped you decipher their meaning. It was something about blood, something about patchouli, and a conclusive explosion that fizzled with bright light. 

Though the latter might merely be ideation. You forgot to close your blinds before falling asleep – the only reason you’re awake being the sun bathing your room in white. 

A migraine strikes at your temple, rhythmic and reinforced with stainless steel. It’s vengeful. Your entire body is, actually. Sour aches run up your muscles, swelling around your joints, digging into your bones. When you attempt to readjust, your spine screams in protest. So does your stomach, gurgling for either food or relief. It’s hard to tell really; the pain is so profound that blaming a particular area would be dismissing the others.

You do know who to blame, though.

That asshole. 

He’s ruthless. An absolute implacable force that grills you almost every hour of the day. If you didn’t know any better, you’d have said that his concern with your training is due to a growing fondness for you. But you’ve seen enough evidence of his method to prove otherwise – he’s merely approaching it with as much dedication as he prescribes anything else. Like the fate of the multiverse relies on your betterment, like his seeing to it is some sort of commandment by God.

(Perhaps it is. 

But not even you take gospel this seriously.)

It’s been a couple weeks and you’re still not used to it. Over the year since gaining your powers, you’ve never exerted yourself this much. You’re so weak, you find, that your strength can be likened to that of a civilian. The constant wear and tear hasn’t pushed that front, either – the first few sessions, you’d come dangerously close to throwing up from the sheer exhaustion of it all. Your gut turned into itself, gags coated with bile as you ushered Miguel away from your perimeter. The only thing that held you back was a lack of energy to actually commit to the issue.

That, and the promise of his fingers buried deep in your cunt. 

You’ve begun to understand him, though. The scientist part of you can’t help but pick up on his patterns, storing them in one place for further analysis. Eventually, having enough data allowed you to draw up a trend. 

It tends to go something like this: 

He compiles an exercise to help you learn a lesson. It’s devised to push you both mentally and physically – a killing of two birds with one stone. To phrase it like that, plain cut and simple, makes it sound almost juvenile, like a look into a kindergarten teacher’s book of discipline. The punishment should fit the crime, or however it goes. But it isn’t easy, not by a long shot. He seems to see what you have trouble harrowing from yourself; those meaty flaws, fattened from neglect, maggot-strewn and pulsing with a verve of their own. They’re pinpointed, slated, and then he gives you the knife all expectantly, like you can kill it by yourself. 

The beasts’ name has been resilience lately. According to him, planking for two minutes wasn’t a sufficient enough appeasement to it. 

Because the next day, he always expounds upon the lesson from the last. The training is a developed form of the one that nearly just killed you, and he tests how you respond. Your enthusiasm or lack thereof doesn’t matter, it’s your perseverance despite it that he rewards. You can smile every time you fall, if you don’t get up, then he doesn’t grant you an orgasm. 

If you do, however–

Then, fuck. It’s so good that you often forget the struggle it took to earn it in the first place. 

A strict system. One with little room for loopholes or faults. You can tell he’s thought it through – every exertion is met with an upside, a failsafe tailored to the type of pupil you’re proving to be. It means that he’s done this before; is accustomed to the patience and regimen it takes to guide someone as wayward as you. 

You add it to your tally of proof that he’s a father. 

(He’s able to come up with detailed plans surrounding your weaknesses. 

You, on the other hand, have to resort to contrived assumptions to get a glimpse into who he is. 

The imbalance is present, glaring. Enough to irk you but not enough to implode just yet. You stuff it away for later.)

Solid system aside, it certainly doesn’t account for how much of it you can tolerate. You’re paralyzed, hollowed out by the endless workouts. And while, yes, you could go to the cafeteria to fill up with fuel that alleviates the effects, you physically can’t move out from under your sheets – limp as the mattress that cushions you. 

You wonder what he would say if he saw you like this. It’s become harder to guess now that you’re unsure of his true feelings towards you. A Spanish taunt, likely; something along the lines of have I worn you out already? And you’d huff but secretly squirm under the prospect of disappointing him, a scolded schoolgirl caught with a lame excuse between index and thumb. 

Hell, he’s not even around and you’re still plump with shame. Your room doesn’t feel nearly as comforting with the knowledge of what waits outside. Down the hall, up the staircase. Through the common room and across the lobby. In that little gym, hidden in a corner near the med-bay, where no one frequents when the more advanced training facilities are in another sector entirely. You check the alarm on your desk – 09:00. He’s probably there already, waiting on you with arms crossed. 

In your mind's eye, he’s wearing that black compression top he seems to resort to on laundry days. Grey sweatpants too. You don’t know what to call the passing reflection – fantasy is all too mortifying a word. Wish? Absolutely not. You wish for nothing when it comes to him. Except maybe–

Thighs squeezing, you brush the objection away. You could get it easily if you’re able to muster the energy. Take it one step at a time. Change into your athletic gear. Eat a light breakfast. Show up, if not a little late. Miguel would make a passing comment about it but nod at the fact that you came at all. And it would be enough, that little assurement, to motivate you through whatever gruelling exercise he has planned today. 

If you let him know, though – how hard it was for you to go – would he add to your reward? So far it’s only been his fingers on you, rubbing you while you run slick onto him. Deliciously thick as they fuck into you, long and perfect at pinpointing that one spot that makes you just burst. Certainly better than your own, but… 

His touch is beginning to lose its novelty. Increasingly, you’re left wanting more. You come down from your highs gaping, clenching around the memory of a length that’s only ever been in your mouth. And if he’s able to make you see stars with just his hand– 

Then you’d abandon the cosmos just to get him to fuck you. 

(A proclamation you’d never say out loud. Even your conscious cringes at just how depraved it sounds.) 

So, you try. 

Really, you do. With the fear of failing him and the lust that’s taken root in your core, you kick your legs off the edge of your bed. The air is frigid, biting at your heels as they press to tile, which is just as cold itself. You let it diffuse into your feet, getting used to it while bracing yourself for the pain bound to reemerge. Black broaches your vision, blotting its edges. You opt to ignore the blatant warning, sucking in a hurried breath – resilience – before rising to a stand. 

Two seconds pass. You go blind. Like a marionette with its strings cut, you tip over and collapse to the floor.

Whether a headrush or your muscles finally giving up on you, you can’t help but attribute the display to none other than your ‘mentor’ himself. Cocky bastard with his stupid fucking philosophies. Resilience my ass. Look where that’s gotten you now; capsized like a turtle with a shell too big for its own good. 

Groaning, you flip over to your side. Your elbow had taken the brunt of the impact, yet your head rings with alarm nonetheless. You’ll just… You’ll just stay right here. Yeah. 

He’ll understand. 

(And, if not, then you’ve dealt with him in poorer moods.)

18:00. 

You’re pathetic. 

So much more than that, actually. Pathetic is a description reserved for the pitiable. A person has to actually sympathise with you in order for it to be true, and you’re sure that if anyone saw you in this state – God forbid – then they’d convulse in disgust instead. 

You cycle through a list of viable synonyms. Miserable. Lame. An absolute tragic case of wasted potential. None quite fit like you want them to. They all feel wrong – mirrors so distorted you can’t make out your reflection in them if you tried. 

It’s just… becoming of you.

If there were a word that specifically meant befitting to Wraith, then you’d clutch it close to your chest for how validating it would read. It feels like all the work you’ve put in thus far was for nothing. Despite how it may seem, you didn’t just do it for Miguel. If it had been, then you would’ve given in half a year ago upon realising just how attractive your pursuer was. 

(You remember it, clear as a waxy moon on an ink-blot night.

He’d thrown you into dry-wall and you’d called him a coward for not looking you in the eye. It must’ve hit him where it hurt, because his mask drew back and before you knew it, you were phasing in and out to the beat of your fluttering heart. 

It was the first time you saw him. Once you managed to escape, your fist suffered through its duty in muffling your moans, cut by biting incisors as you rubbed one out in a hostel bed.) 

No. It was for you. To put distance between the inconsiderate menace you were before Earth-15 and the woman you desperately want to be. You’d started to notice the difference too. Mentally, sure – where your self-hatred was tamped to the background, and every action you took was opened with weighty contemplation. But even physically – your eyebags had faded and you looked much cleaner than you have in a long, long time. 

Where’s that progress now? 

Because you’re crumpled on the spot where you fell almost eleven hours ago, with the addition of a pillow to support your head. You’re much like a wad of chewed gum, spit out by some being greater than this dimension. Gross and regressive and littering this world with your very existence. 

It’s a close parallel to how downtrodden you’d felt in that convenience store bathroom, bandaging your forearm where Miguel’s claws had dug deep into the flesh. Your throat had been tight with suppressed sobs, both pain and primal fear replacing the pus that surged from your wound. The wash area was filthy. Dirt-packed grout and grey tap water. Paper towels balled in wet wads. But it felt right for you at the time, like you deserved no better. 

Of course, you didn’t. Don’t. You went out and got an innocent woman killed not much later. 

You still think about her sometimes. Her blood had been piping hot, almost bubbling from the yawning hole in her throat. The rescue was half-assed – you could’ve incapacitated the robber after knocking him out – but you’d been so filled with false bravado at actually having done something that it never occurred to you. The instinct lacking. Your spider-sense, absent. If you’d ever considered grasping the reins to your powers, you could’ve prevented the bullet from phasing through you and meeting her instead. You’ve always been short-sighted like that; prioritising the now over the what if. 

And that’s what you stayed here to remedy. But if the same thing happened tomorrow, what’s stopping you from repeating your mistakes? You’d been too broken this morning to process that. 

You should’ve just sucked it up and went.

From your place on the floor, out the window, only the top of Nueva York’s cityscape is visible. The sky has darkened to the colour of a bruised peach – an oxidised sort of orange that reminds you of last night’s dream – and the nightlights of some buildings flicker on cue when the sun dips below the horizon. You can see the ninety-degree highway up to Second Base from here. It’s been your entertainment for today, with its little commuting cars and the train that zips back and forth. 

If you focus hard enough, then you can trick yourself into believing that the space station is visible, floating just above the stratosphere – where gravity is weak enough to let it hold its place. But you’re a woman of science and you know that it's impossible, that the silhouette you’re picturing is a figment of your wild reverie and you’re still anchored to earth where dreams are just that. Dreams. Your eyes burn from attempting it, anyway, those damn dust motes cropping up again. 

Christ. 

Given that life’s slowed, you’re spotting them more often. Back in that empty storelot, right after being bit, you’d fixated on them for a brief instant. They fit in with the setting back then, lazy in a stream of sunlight. Colourful – pink, green, orange, gold – flipping through the shades in a way that made sense. But their appearances have lost that sense of cohesion. Now, they emerge when you least expect them. In shadows. Hovering in corners not too far away. Places where it’s unnatural for them to be.

You reach a hand out. There’s no purpose behind it. Just… an exploratory action. To test the unknown. Your shoulder aches when you do, and so you don’t notice how odd it feels at first. Like electricity, buzzing at your fingertips. The motes start to drift towards your skin, magnetised to something you can’t explain.

When you sit up to investigate it further, there’s a knock at your door. 

Hobie?

Couldn’t be. He mentioned he’d be away for a while last you talked. 

There are few others who know of your assignment. Reilly, but he hasn’t paid mind to you since introducing your room. Jess Drew, maybe, though that’s far-fetched. 

So– 

You look down at your dishevelled state. In just a plain shirt and your pair of oldest underwear, you’re hardly dressed for entertainment. Especially when it’s him. 

Is he checking up on you? 

It’s so stupid that even in a depressive slump you’re able to laugh at yourself. Check up is the only way you can put it without making things worse. If he’s passing by, then it would be in suspicion. You’re no idiot, after all, in spite of your dejection. He wouldn’t let you roam free without having measures in place to ensure you don’t leave. That may just mean looking in from time to time. 

Though it’s practically guaranteed that it isn’t out of concern. 

(You have to remind yourself; you wish for nothing when it comes to Miguel O’Hara.)

Another knock. It’s hastier this time. Three raps with sharp knuckles. Impatient. 

Panic overtakes all motor functions as you scramble to a stand. Yesterday’s joggers are thrown over your desk chair, in need of a wash with all the fluids secreted in them. They’re the closest in your vicinity, though, and will have to do for now. You briefly fuss over how your hair looks, whether your unwashed face is visibly oily – all fixable things that you dismiss while tripping to the doorway. The waistband is barely over your ass before you swing it open, greeting Miguel with a grimace. 

Idiot. You shouldn’t have opened it that wide. Now he can see your mess of a r–

“Bad time, I’m guessing.” Is all he says, voice lilting into a question. You can’t help but register it with a tone of condescension; the raised eyebrows certainly don’t convince you otherwise.

All you really want to do is tell him off for the impromptu visit. The chagrin is there, latched onto your throat. But before you can, and against your better judgement, you give him an extensive once-over, taking heed of his state. What’s ironic – a tranquillising point that promptly shuts you up – is that it’s worse than yours. 

In the complete opposite way. 

Three big rips run along his torso, interfering with the technology of his spider-suit. It glitches between static and a transparent condition, baring the bronzed skin of his chest. There’s blood there too, reiterating the crimson that peeks from beneath his floppy hair, which is sweat-drenched. Tousled. He’s tousled, like he waltzed directly from a fight. A particularly bad one at that. 

(And of course he still looks better.)

“One can say the same about you.” You bite.

“Don’t be smart.” He says. It isn't the snap you take it to be, more a mumble with consequence to his fangs. His mouth doesn't sit right when they’re withdrawn. You run your tongue along your gums upon remembering how they’d felt, pierced in your neck. “I couldn’t make our session this morning. An urgent issue came up.” 

Immediately, something fresh smooths over you, like a balm to the anxiety that’d been plaguing you all day. He wasn’t even there. You’re tempted to laugh, but your humour dims on its way out. And when all is said and done, you find the disquietude is still there, nestled between your ribs. 

You just blink in acknowledgement. 

His jaw tenses. “We can reschedule.” 

“You don’t have to sound so guilty about it.” The joke contains perhaps more sarcasm than you intend for it. It echoes, spiteful, and you at least have the sense to be ashamed, for you follow it up with a small reassurance. “It’s fine. I never showed.” 

“Sick?” 

“Something like that.” 

(Lie.

Look at you, just embodying ignobility today.) 

He nods, scanning your dishevelled clothing and chapped lips. Your only drink of water all day had been from the bathroom tap in an especially lamentable episode. It smacks, as though it were filled with cotton, the inside of your cheeks dry paper. 

You wait for him to say something, unease broiling in your core. He does the same, gaze shifting from the scars on your arm to your bedroom and everything in between. It lingers on the external hallway, scanning for passersby. You recognise the indecision. Deliberation. Still – the long stretch of silence that hangs between you is awkward, broadening with every passing second, a gluttonous sort of tension whose favourite meal is the undefined mess that is your relationship to one another. 

Finally, Miguel speaks up. “I’ll be back.” 

And then he leaves. 

He just… fucking– 

Walks away, off to whatever takes precedence over your less-than-invigorating conversation. Which, admittedly, could be counted as anything in the world. But seriously, where is the decorum? Showing up unannounced only to leave you waiting? You run through the various reasons he couldn’t stand to be in your presence any longer, and what he expects you to do before his return. 

The most plausible is that his injuries needed tending to. If they were that severe though, then why he saw stopping by first a greater priority is beyond you. In any case, he’ll probably return refreshed. But for what? Your response couldn’t have been misinterpreted to mean that you wanted to reschedule the missed session for tonight. You’re still sore, thank you very much, and in a much shoddier mood than you had been previous. 

(This is what you wanted though; a second chance. 

‘Just suck it up.’)

Steeling yourself, you shut the door and hobble down to the back of your room, stripping on your way. You’ll tidy up after your shower – it's bound to wash at least half of your self-loathing. 

You just hope your leggings are clean.

As it turns out, you were the one who misinterpreted things. 

Dressed in your athletic gear with damp skin and your sneakers primed to go, the dread had started to ebb away into a begrudging acceptance. Yes, your body still tenses with lactic-mutiny, raging where you’ve exerted it in the past, and your head still sings in migraine tones. But they all came second to the split-second fluster that had risen when he’d knocked on your door. That fear of disappointment returned with a vengeance, your worry for regression packing the final punch. 

And, really. What were you supposed to think? 

He left without so much as an excuse. It was up to you to decide what he’d see upon coming back. Just based on the nature of your prior meetings, the answer heavily leaned towards your own durability. Ready to face whatever exercise he has to throw your way, supposed sickness aside. You were actually quite proud of yourself for it, directing a heavy-handed pat on the back for the nail you ‘hit on its head.’ 

Never in your blurry dreams could you have predicted this. 

Your face burns hot with puerile embarrassment. 

“Um–”

“I figured you haven’t eaten.” Miguel explains, curling the plastic bags up in a gesture akin to surrender. They’re solid white, those thin types that bend under the weight of the cartons packed inside. You’re unable to process it before your stomach does, growling in suppressed hunger. 

“No.” You shuffle to the side to allow him in. He takes the invitation, carefully, traipsing within your quarters to place the food on your desk. “I haven’t.” 

The air resumes its resting level of edginess, however you’re far too wrapped up in your own head to buckle underneath it this time. It’s cold, you ascertain, your skin puckering in a gradient from foot to toe. His survey follows the same line, regarding your changed appearance in intrigue, cheeks sinking with a downward smile. It looks positively smug.

“Sorry, I thought… You’re not here to dole out another one of your lessons?” 

“You’re sick aren’t you.” He isn’t interrogative in the slightest. You can’t bring yourself to lie again, so you stay silent. “I see you got dressed regardless.” 

“Well, that’s me. Just a sucker for appearances.” You scoff, shutting the door behind you. The room appears infinitesimal in his presence, collapsing into those broad shoulders. “Tidied the space too and everything.”

Tall, packed with undiluted muscle. No longer in his spider-suit, but clothes more casual. A bandage stretched across his forehead. It’s stark against his skin, white on bronze and you can’t help but follow the way he gleams under the warm lighting. Fresh – he must’ve showered too, further evidence found in the way his hair curls, dips, drops of water rolling down his nape. You dig your teeth into your lip. Any closer and you’re bound to hit a wall of patchouli, that aphrodisiacal scent that triggers you like an animal in heat. 

“Is that so?” He prods, unconvinced. It’s dark outside and you feel confined to this box. “You weren’t just anticipating it?”

“Anticipation is a forgiving word. No one would look forward to torment.” 

His brows knit together, the creases between them playful, like the very implication is offensive on the same magnitude as a low-life’s taunt. 

“But…” There’s nowhere to back into when he takes a step closer, your bed hitting the back of your knees. “You got dressed regardless.” He reinstates, emphasising each word, syllables punctuated to make his point. If you weren’t cornered, snared in the clutches of a cat celebrating its next meal, you’d have been able to see where this is going. 

As it stands, you’re blind. 

“You know what I think?” He adds upon your reticence. You shake your head. “I think, it’s finally starting to hit you.” 

“Hit… Wh–”

“The point. These past few weeks have been tough, I won’t pretend otherwise.” Miguel clarifies. “But it was only the first part of it. Withstanding struggle, that torment you speak so… fondly of.” 

“Like you said,” You catch on, recalling the reality check he’d given you that day with the plank. “Y’know. Resilience.” 

“Remind me of the other half of it again.” 

“There’s… Withstanding struggle,” You repeat stupidly, working overtime to try and fetch his exact words. It’s an almost impossible feat, the gears in your mind turning on empty fuel. The initial lecture wasn’t that long ago, but it’s been intercepted by a million other philosophies. And he’s right there, ducked close to your level, keen eyes patiently waiting for you to continue. His breath fans across your cheek. The pressure worsens. You feel dumb. “And–”

You resort to context, then – grasping for the crux of his little tangent. What did you do to inspire it, anyway? 

It hits you so suddenly your neck twinges with phantom whiplash. 

“Recovering when you fall.” You complete.

“That’s it.” The whispered praise tickles you, like sand filling an hourglass. Your tummy sinks, heavy with it. It’s warm and dry and feels much like how his bare hand did, supporting your neck under rubble. Behind your back, your own wind together as you shoot him a vampish look. 

“Who would’ve thought.”

He shrugs. “Was your faith that lacking?” 

“There were a few times, yeah. You should’ve seen me this morning,” 

“Oh, I can imagine.” 

“Fell right to the floor. Almost died, I’m telling you. I stayed right here,” You tap the ground with your heel. “All day.”

“It was not that bad,” He insists, speaking with a levity you don’t often hear from him. It’s nice when he reciprocates like this. You’ve always reckoned that he took himself seriously one-hundred percent of the time. You find that you get along better when he doesn’t.

“I wouldn’t be so sure.” 

“Yeah?”

“Yep.” You pop the P, using the excuse to wet your lips. The guard you keep constantly raised bends to the contours of his face, curved elegantly around those high cheekbones and the jaw he must physically sharpen to get looking so pronounced. He’s studying you – you sense it, teasing your lashes, noting the way your eyes pointedly avoid his. They’re planted firmly to his neck, where corded muscles stretch under skin, so strong you can practically hear them creak. 

Your heartbeat skips from between your thighs. When you rub them together, they glide easily, lubricated by the slick pooling into your panties. 

“No logical reason you should continue putting up with it, then.” 

It could turn out that Miguel’s voice is modulated and you wouldn’t be surprised given how pleasing it is to listen to. Deep, controlled from a low point in his chest where smouldering coal chars it until it’s rugged. You always pay closer attention to the letters through which his accent comes through; short O’s and throaty D’s. His mouth hardly moves when he speaks. You wonder when he chooses to properly utilise it. Whether he does at all. 

Your kiss had been entirely one-sided. His rewards are so detached. There’s a lot you haven’t explored yet; with every passing second, the greater the urge is to push and find out. 

“Except we can both appreciate why I do,” You breathe, throwing caution to the wind and catching his stare. An irrepressible smile blooms at the spirited expression he gives you. Eyebrows raised in a thick arch, forming an amused look that only bolsters you further. 

“For your redemption?” He baits, only to interrupt your response. “Or…”  Your nerves spark. “For this–” 

And then he cups you over your leggings, pawing where you’re brim with molten arousal. Hips bucking, your jaw hinges to expel a high-pitched keen, pinched from the back of your gullet. You latch onto his wrist, eager to either neg him on or push him away – but with the torrid fuzz that gains control of your systems, you can’t work it out. 

“Do you deserve it?” His ask caresses the shell of your ear, a whisper, fingers slowing until you land on an answer. 

Distrusting yourself to verbalise it, you give a frantic nod, mortifyingly desperate. It’s as much of a revelation for you as it is for him, manifested with every needy rut you give his hand. Miguel lets you seek the pleasure, pinning harder to provide the pressure you need, before withdrawing just as assuredly. 

You could almost sob. Your nose is stuffy and your lips bitten and you so badly wish to be filled with anything to help you forget your miserable day. When he taps your ass, you assign every ounce of remaining intellect to decipher the vague gesture – eventually falling back on your bed in a close measure of what you assume he means. It’s a sterling guess. Your shoes are shucked off in the process and he leans over you, one knee anchored to the surface as he tucks into the waistband of your pants. They slide off with his help, separating from heated flesh like velcro. 

It occurs to you that this is the first time he’ll see you. So far, your body is familiar to him in touch alone – hurried, stolen and shoved under your panties in semi-public spaces while you fight to endure the conflicting sensations. There’s mind to currently faux humility – a game you liked to play with your college conquests. Batted eyelashes and babydoll modesty; a secret thrill present in watching them come undone at your relinquished control. 

But Miguel is no lover, and you’re far too gone to play nice now. 

You scoot back to your pile of pillows when he joins you. It’s unreal seeing him in such a domestic setting. Civilian attire, combed hair. In high nature. If it weren’t for the bandage on his temple and the shadows making allusions to the brawn he keeps at bay, then you could’ve fooled yourself into trusting his normality. That he isn’t larger than life – solely here because he’s like you, a person trying to make well for themselves. 

As it is, though, he’s still impenetrable. Fully clothed while you lay bottomless. 

(Again, you’re reminded that you don’t know him. The man sacking you of your underwear could have a spouse, for all you’re privy to. 

It just adds another layer of distance you should be thankful for.) 

Manic with lust, you’re barely enlightened to what’s coming when your mentor captures each leg in a separate grip. Big hands cradle their bends, under your knees where your skin is unconventionally soft. It poses a contrast to the calluses on his palm, worn by years of crime-fighting and swinging on reinforced webs. They’re warm and rough and scratch you, sending a nervous buzz down to your core. 

He guides your limbs up. Your ankles sway. Definitely strong; he almost syphons the breath right out through your stomach. If you close your eyes, you can imagine that this is just another exercise, a preliminary stretch.

But you don’t. Folded with your thighs pinned to your chest, you can only fluster with real self-consciousness. Your cunt is exposed to the filtered air, biting the heated centre with its opposite degree. Perhaps more wickedly, however, is the way you’re spread to Miguel’s hawk-like gaze. He inspects the way you glow, humiliated, the sticky confirmation of your desire smeared across your puffy lips. Is he turned off by the sight – your eagerness a violation of the pseudo-professional boundaries marked around your deal?  

No, you decide. He’s all too content when he ducks to face it, laying a heavy mouth to your throbbing clit. It’s intoxicating, the cool slice of oxygenated air after months of smoke inhalation. You forget your insecure tangent entirely, tipping your chin back to moan your encouragement. 

Fuck, he’s good. 

More than good. You scramble for a better description, hands clawing for purchase on your sheets. It’s indescribable in its obscenity – lewd and dirty and slow, mapping every fold and crevice with his tongue. The sweltering muscle, like velvet, swirls across your sensitive bud, taking in its high reactivity, before lapping at the hood above it. You hone in to every miniscule movement, raptured by its dexterity and unwilling to fully let yourself go. 

Miguel hums, low, tasting the agony that pours from his skill. His fingertips paint bruises where they dig, holding your thrashing hips still. You find there’s nothing else you can do to bear it, your arms flailing pathetically, toes curling. You pant and it doesn’t help dissuade the indulgence building up within you, crashing against a dam that’s starting to crack. It’s almost as though you’re doing too much to seek it out, afraid he’ll turn to ash at any second and leave you wanting.

“Oh– O’h… Shit, shit!” You whine, pounding your heel on his broad back. He barely notices, peering up at you through dark lashes. “If I had… Don’t stop! Please, p–” His crimson eyes gleam dark and bloody, obscured in shadow.  Sobbing, you suck in large gulps of heady air. “If you promised this earlier, I would’ve climbed up fucking buildings to earn it.” 

“Mmm-” He ignores your plea, breaking away to bring two digits to his mouth. Your right leg flops uselessly to his side. “Good idea.” One lick and they’re covered in spit. You can’t help but notice the discolouration on his knuckles, deep red and purple, as he uses his index and middle to fan out your lower lips. 

And then he’s back to eating you out. This time, though, he’s drinking from your weeping slit. Breaching it, exploring the perimeter that stretches to accommodate his pistoning tongue. Despite pursed lips, your scream still manages to sound through the way it vibrates your lungs. Rattling you, much like he does now, from inside out. His nose is pressed to your mound. You don’t doubt he can smell you, potent sex and clean sweat, contracting every joint until you’re an immovable board. 

“Don’t do that,” Miguel groans, scorching the space he creates to reprimand you. Crying, you obey what he says, melting into a puddle of nectar. He strikes a fair point; things feel exponentially better when you aren’t tense, nerve pathways unobstructed in sending pleasure signals to your blank brain. Discerning the shift, he huffs. “Good.” 

Stars and heaven above, your consequent wail is unhinged. Your hands fly to his hair, seizing the wavy tresses in a smarting hold. The praise serves as an amplifier to every sense. Hips bucking, free calf curling around his neck. His fingers plunge into you, scissoring your tight walls as he spits onto your pussy, gathering the pearlescent fluid with his thumb and using it as aid. Like you need the extra help. 

Because you’re soaked. The dam is broken. Everything gushes out of you in an ugly mess, glossing his palm and the duvet below. He nips your clit, grazing his teeth along the swollen sprout, teasing, then places his mouth back onto you. Brown locks curl to his brow. You brush them back, shoving him harder, closer. Sort of power-drunk at the sight of him succumbing to your command. 

It’s short lived. You’re about to cum when he chooses the inopportune moment to speak. 

Growls, actually. “Hold on.” 

Capturing you to his face, he makes sure you’re steady before relinquishing his fingers from your hole and upending you both. 

Suddenly, you’re on top and he’s the one framed by your pillows. Your back bends and you almost crumble on top of him – an old building met with a wrecking ball of celestial proportions. You can’t hold your weight on your haunches. They’re practically useless like this, quivering with suspense. Where guilt would be the appropriate response at such a prospect, you’re bound by awe instead. He’s no doubt suffocated by your squeezed thighs and seated pussy – the force of which aided by gravity – but something tells you that’s what he wants. For the first time, his eyes flutter shut. 

A sting – concentrated on the globe of your ass – registers only seconds later where he had slapped you. Go, it demands silently. You force yourself to muster the energy to do so. 

You can’t last very long, anyway. 

Pelvis waving, you ride his face, back arched away from his hand. It irons over your covered waist, wet and soaking the breathable material of your shirt. The position proves to be a workout in of itself, your core strength tested in the motions. For the first time, you find yourself thanking his training. You wouldn’t have persisted otherwise. 

Your orgasm rises again, faster now that you’re properly edged. It floods up from your feet like a high tide, sweeping all the seaweed and shells and stability from your abdomen. Lost at shore, a stranded sailor waking up from a tempests’ shipwreck; dazed, sun-blanched on splintered wood. There’s sand on your skin – it clears that too. You’re renewed in briny water. Freshened, addicted to the feeling of the sea pulling you back into its gentle but firm embrace. 

You take back what you said. About his mouth and how he chooses to use it. It’s none of your business so long as he keeps it on you, sucking and drinking the cum he milks for all its worth. It just keeps coming, no start or end in sight. It’s all you can do to withstand your weakened centre constantly clenching and still breathe, tears budding hot and heavy. Your nails scratch his scalp. Miguel gives a minute mmmm.

And in the wake of it, while he lays there and laps you clean, the echoes of your moans still rings from the walls.

Forget what you said. Technically, the night didn’t end there. 

Much later, you’re both washed and warm. It took you a while to wipe the slick from your folds. He used your bathroom to cleanse his hands and face. 

The same cartons of food now sit open between you, on the desk he’d manoeuvred off the wall to divide its chair from your bed. He’s much too big for the seat, but when you’d offered him the mattress, he brushed you off. You currently sit cross legged, cushions bare – sheets in the wash. 

And it’s quiet. The empty type, strangely enough. Devoid of any of your usual sarcasm or awkwardness. Sort of… suspended between both, in the foreign land of amity. 

Perhaps that’s what convinces you to ask. The inherent safety of the moment. There’s not much you can say to offend in the post-smut glow. Slurping the tail end of a noodle, you look away from your rapture with the illuminated highway outside to take him in. The train had just passed. 

“Are you married?” 

Miguel doesn’t reply immediately, chewing a mouthful of seasoned vegetables. Instead, he looks at you with mild amusement. Eventually, his adam's apple bobs in a thick swallow. 

“No.” He says.

chapter twelve

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[buggyjuggie]

The lin kuei trio + johnny,raiden and kung lao with a figure skating reader?⛸️

──★ ˙ ̟The Lin kuei trio + Johnny, Raiden and Kung lao x GN! Figure skating reader

「 ✦ Bi-han ✦ 」

* Ok i known it might seem obvious that ice powers = good at figure skating but i dont think Bi han is good at it…like at all

* I don’t know this idea is kinda funny to me he tries ,then fails, gets mad and says he’ll never do it again ( if you plead with him enough he’ll try and the cycle repeats)

* Just like with the skater headcanon he has to watch from the sidelines

* Tho as an act of service (hc: his love language) he cleans your skates, makes sure they are up to code and sharpens them.

* Like with Thomas back in they’re childhood he helps you practice by changing the ground into ice.

「 ✦ Kuai liang ✦ 」

* I would say Kua liang is decent at figure skating. Not disastrous like Bi han but also not 10/10 like Thomas

* He enjoys just skating in circles slowly while talking to you

* Just make sure to help him if he ever falls down so that he doesn’t melt the ice out of embarrassment

* He tries to attend every competition that your in but if he’s busy he leaves some flowers and a note for you

* Is the most supportive partner ever gives hugs, kisses, praises and so on after shows.

「 ✦ Smoke/Thomas ✦ 」

*As stated in Kuai liangs sections he’s a GOD at figure skating, it’s practically his secret talent

* Both of you tend to get competitive and try to out do each other

*He sometimes overdoes the spins in an effort to win against you and makes himself dizzy

* During his childhood would pleade with Bihan to turn the ground to ice so he could practice (Bi han caved but then messed with Thomas and made him fall)

* Like Kuai liang he tries to show up to every competition that your in. Even makes those supportive homemade posters

* He tends to embarrass you sometimes but it’s out of love so you can’t get mad at him.

「 ✦ Johnny Cage ✦ 」

* If you compete in any skating competitions your trophies go next to his

* He even sometimes cleans them for you

* Is always posting pictures or videos of either you performing or practicing to his socials

* You now have stan accounts dedicated to you and your carrier thanks to him

* If he ever has to play a roll that includes figure skating your phone better NOT be on silent because your the first person he’s calling up

* Takes you ice skates and costume shopping and yes he does get you custom everything as a surprise

「 ✦ Raiden ✦ 」

* I feel like Raiden is less than average when it comes to figure skatting

* He doesn’t fall on his ass all the time but he still has to use a skating aid or hold on to you

* Like Kuai liang likes just slow skatting around the ring and talking or in silence while taking in your presence

* After competitions takes you to Madam Bo’s even if you didn’t win he still wants to show that you should still be proud of yourself

* Once your done with practice if he sees that your cold he gives you his jacket and always carries a thermos with hot tea to keep you warm.

(Oh my god this gif)

「 ✦ Kung lao ✦ 」

* Tries to act like he isn’t but he’s scared

* After a bit of practice slowly starts to get the hang of things

* Once he’s good enough to be on his own first thing he learns is how to do a hockey stop just to annoy you

* Always brags to people about how cool you are and the amount of awards you’ve won

* Tried to write a message for you on ice ussing his hat but forgot that the skattes also leave marks so it just ended up being unreadable (you still appreciate the thought at least)

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

And another request done ! I had so much fun with this one like my brain was filled with ideas i managed to finish this in only a day and again i really enjoys doing this one :3

[arabaka]

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ hayakawa aki x fem!devil-reader. CONTENT WARNINGS: 18+ !!! reader is a SEX DEVIL (aka succubus). m!receiving oral. ride 'im like a cowgirl baby!! aki bites 'n draws blood. WORD COUNT: 5.1k PSD CREDIT !!!

MINORS/AGELESS BLOGS DNI or I WILL SPOIL YOUR CROPS（ ꐦꉺωꉺ)つ

( ˊᵕˋ )♡.°⑅ dedicated to the aki queen, @meownotgood

*₊˚💬୧ more than likely will be a series hehe <;33

A devil so powerful, there’s a waiting list for contracts. A devil so desirable, contracts are cherry picked. Where other devils are flippant about who they loan their power to, you are meticulous. Not a hair out of place, some might say. You have your reasons. For as much as you give, you receive so little in return. A caveat to your power is your crutch for staying alive.

Because blood is easy to come by. Cum? That takes work.

It’s deplorable, the levels you have to sink to for a meager helping of your life source. Unbecoming of a devil your size, of your stature even. Yet the irony of being the Sex Devil is that you enjoy it.

You crave it. You wish you didn’t sometimes. But a life of debauchery on Earth is better than contending in Hell and you’ll prolong your inevitable return for as long as you’re able; you’ll just be picky about your participating party.

So when a hunter started to haunt the whispers of lower-grade devils, you took notice. Delighted even when you saw what this Hayakawa Aki looked like. Devil hunters are a dime a dozen. Handsome devil hunters with brains? He’s so delectable, you can eat him alive.

You chose to wait. Your modus operandi: you will not beg for a contract.

You keep Public Safety just under your heel; close enough to be mutually beneficial, but not enough to lose your agency. So when his name came up, you needn’t hear more because your contract with him was signed the moment you laid eyes on him. “You know where to send him.” Your voice curt, you hear the click on the phone line. And once again, you wait.

The rumble of his engine is unmistakable in the dead of night. He pulls up to your residence, car humming before subtly giving way to weighted silence. His knuckles flex pensively around the steering wheel, his skin illuminated by the moonlight cascading from above. Makima’s voice, ever beguiling, plays on repeat in his head. I’m sure you’ll find her to be very helpful.

You’re unlike any devil he’s heard of, much less made contracts with. He’s signed away much more for a lot less. Yet what you ask of him has him giving a cursory look in the vanity mirror, brushing away his fringe until it’s falling over his forehead just right. His reflection stares back, mimicking his expression as it goes from dispassionate to frustrated, brows knitting tight as he chides himself with the click of his tongue.

This whole arrangement– It’s demeaning. Sex with a devil. Fraternization with the like is off-putting enough. Necessary but revolting all the same. This, however? Is far removed from those arrangements. Offering up his flesh to satiate a devil’s voracious appetite is a superficial sacrifice. You require something much more consequential: vulnerability. And to be frank, no Devil deserves that.

From your bedroom, you watch him with a huff. What’s he waiting for? You can’t help but roll your eyes at his hesitation. Humans are all the same. They kid themselves, paying reverence to baseless morals but fold under duress. You’ve seen this before from devil hunters like him. They hold sex in a high regard, thinking it’s beneath them to cavort with a devil but their first step in your door and they’re clamoring for your affection, for you. So you find it pointless that Aki’s still lingering by his car, taking a smoke break while you stew in the delay. He’s lucky he’s hot.

Nicotine in his veins and senses dulled a smidge, Aki’s come to a resolution. He’s not leaving empty-handed and he’s wasted enough time. He snuffs his cigarette out, chucks it in the car’s ashtray and adjusts his tie. Force of habit.

When you find Aki at your door, he has that same glowering mug you’ve seen him with before. He looks at you like you’re another devil to exterminate. You’d be lying if you said disdain didn’t look good on him.

His eyes, tired and narrowed, drink in your appearance and you watch as his expression starts to soften; a symptom of your pheromones at work. You follow his gaze as it trickles downward, intrigued sensuality marbling his azure eyes because of your body, what you’re wearing. You could be completely bare and still bring a person to their knees but that’s hardly any fun.

“You like it?” Your purring should be grating on his ears but it sounds like a song, a siren’s song. His leg muscles tense up, hesitating to take a step further. That just won’t do, so you gingerly walk your fingers up his tie, tugging at the knot as if to say you’ll drag him the whole way if you have to. You peer up at him, thick lashes batting alluringly but you can see his vision is still focused on your body, on the babydoll lingerie that follows the curves of your body and hugs your breasts with sheer lace. You glow under his watch, glossy lips curling to a smile as he starts to buckle under the pressure of your power.

You look… Enticing. True to your name. It’s utterly humiliating how his defenses are lowering so easily, to a devil no less, but fighting it is futile. Maybe it’s better if he lends himself to the lush feeling flooding his brain, the tension building in the crosspoint of his slacks. He gulps, perhaps swallowing the last of his pride, as careful fingers reach out to touch the lace bodice that stretches down your abdomen. “Let’s get this over with.” He tries to say with a sullen attitude but chokes on his attempt at a stern tone. God, you’re evil. He thinks as he watches those pretty lips of yours contort to a smirk.

“Be nice or I’ll leash you.” You’re teasing… Are you? Your aura is starting to overtake him because now there’s an uncomfortable stretch between his legs, cock starting to stiffen as he imagines you, chain in hand and collar round his neck. He can physically feel the last strands of sanity leave his body the longer he loiters around you. There’s a voice in his head still decrying the very nature of what he’s about to do but the longer his eyes cling to you, the quieter that sound gets. He’s finding himself to be particularly attached to your breasts and the fanciful way the lacy shelf cups frame them, just barely tucking your nipples out of sight. At least you’re nice to look at…

You start to roll the length of his black silk tie around your palm, giving it a once over, gaze briefly flitting over to your suitor for the night. Dusting his cheekbones is the most satisfying shade of pink, so pretty in fact you wish you could swatch it. He looks even better like this, a little bothered with only a small helping of shame remaining. You can’t wait to wring him dry, see him sweat and pant in trying to keep up with you.

You’re making his skin prickle with goosebumps and a surge of heat swells in his body, steam practically fogging up his brain. “Oh,” You coo, finally giving him full recognition, “Let’s get you out of those clothes, hm?”

Aki trails behind you, a curve to his back as you keep him close, using his tie as a tether. Like a dog. Utterly demoralizing, the way you have him ogling your body like a wretched fool but the delicious sight of the swell of your ass, hugged so tightly by the hemline of your lingerie, goes right to the budding erection in his pants and he’s starting to like it.

Your room is large and far too lavish for a Devil, but oh so fitting for you. Catching his attention, more than anything, is your bed; round in shape and massive in size, it sits raised on a circular platform and comes complete with silk sheets, as well as a few haphazardly tossed cushions. You live far beyond any means Aki is used to, it’s almost too overwhelming for him to process all the furniture and embellishments. His brain can’t help but wander, if only for a moment. Were your furnishings gifts? Supplied and paid for by Public Safety, for your services? He should feel disgust at this, logic still tells him as much, but he can’t find it in him to even broach that emotion. What he can feel, however, is his entire body and mind start to sink down, down, down under the weight of your influence.

You walk him to your bed, tie still in hand, gingerly motioning him to sit against the headboard with your palm now at his chest. He caves under your persuasion, watching with bated breath as you climb on top of him, your legs split as you take a seat on his lap.

Oh, you croon to yourself as you come to graze the thick outline of his dick bobbing in his slacks, he’s perfect. Your tail, long and crimson with an arrowed tip, flicks about enthusiastically. “Where have you been hiding?” You mumble, just loud enough for Aki to hear but you’re not exactly wanting an answer. He’s pliant in your hands, letting you cup his face as if to examine him closely. “Open.” You order and much to his surprise…

He listens. Now it’s not fully unexpected, your wiles have already wrecked havoc on his system after all, but it almost feels like he’s a foreigner in his own body. He parts his lips for you and you giggle. “See, not so bad now right? You humans get so hung up on the littlest of things.” When you talk, you have a lilt to your voice that’s a little mean, a little mocking, and his cock twitches because of it. “You should consider yourself lucky.” Now your thumb is pressing into his tongue, your face glowing with delight as you watch saliva slowly start to pool in Aki’s gaping mouth. “This is as mutually beneficial as it gets.” Your face gets so close, so fast, he can’t register fast enough when you lick into him, replacing your thumb with your tongue in a nasty, wet open kiss.

The groan that comes bubbling from his throat catches him off guard but more importantly, makes Aki realize something. He never stood a chance against you. Even someone with as strong a willpower as he can find all sensibility washed away by your essence. Right now, as far as he is concerned… You’re as powerful as it gets.

Aki’s eyelashes flutter apart, his pupils blown out but under a strong haze. Warmth is shrouding his body once more but now he feels fuzzy, a little lighter even. Your lips on his are irresistibly soft but your kiss is forward, pressing on his so much they already feel sore. God, why do you feel so good? Is this really what you’re capable of? How are you not kept under lock and key? His brain is swimming in these thoughts while he squirms under you, the stiff bulge in his slacks pressing into your clothed cunt as his hips impulsively jerk into you.

Your lips leave his far sooner than he would have liked but you can’t help yourself from taking a gander at your handiwork. He’s always been so beautiful with his stoic face and striking blue gaze but seeing him like this, jaw slacked and reduced to a desperate mess? He’s the best he’s ever looked.

“Pretty, pretty, pretty.” You murmur as you start to litter kisses from his jawline to his neck, hands fanning over his chest as you start to push back his suit jacket. He seems to follow your suggestion, rolling the shoulders off and you complete the circuit, dragging the sleeves off his arms and tossing it aside with little regard. Aki can’t be bothered to care. With his coat off, he faces the reality of how fever hot his skin feels, how you’re the only one who can provide some relief so with a crackling voice, he breathes, “Please.”

He’s begging you. He’s begging a Devil.

And he loves it.

Why was he ever fighting this?

Pop, pop, pop. One after the other, the buttons on Aki’s dress shirt come undone and he hisses at the sudden contact of cool air brushing over his skin. You draw savory sounds from him, first his breath hitching and then a subdued moan, as you lick a stripe up his abdomen and pucker your lips around the plane of his pec. You revel in the taste, in the way his skin squishes in your mouth. The more you suck at the skin, the more he writhes underneath you and now is when he finally has his hands on you, gripping tight on your hips. You wriggle your ass, giving one last nibble to his chest and feeling a surge of pride when you see how his pretty pale skin is now bruised. Marked.

You sigh like a dream when you look at Aki, flushed and bothered under you, but he’s only down a shirt. You need to see him stripped down, to satisfy the curiosity that’s been swimming in your brain since you first learned of the rather handsome hunter. Struggling to inhale, Aki lets out a hoarse, “C-Come on.” But he doesn’t speak with the same reason for his urgency as before - to get it over with - now he is pleading because he so badly needs to feel the rush of pleasure you’ll no doubt give him.

Aki tracks your finger as it glides up his torso until it’s crooked around his chin, giving him no other choice but to meet your slit gaze when you tell him plain and simple, “Get up then.”

To be honest, you crave him just as badly so you’re on your knees and on the floor in an ardent rush, meeting his clothed erection and nursing it through his slacks with a palm that opens and closes almost tauntingly… Because at the end of the day, you’re a Devil and you love playing with your food.

Painstakingly slow, you start to undo his belt. His heart is pounding. Then down goes the zipper. He struggles to breathe. Your fingers, ginger and lithe, bundle the waistbands of his slacks and underwear together and with one downward tug, his cock is freed, springing out and it looks… So much better than you could have ever imagined.

He’s long, his length having the slightest upward curve to it with a fat and pinkened tip at the end, and he’s thick with veins overlaid on and around his girth. A fine meal for a hard working succubus like yourself. You squeeze an exquisite whine from Aki when your fingers finally come to circle around the base of his member and a greater moan when your tongue, hungry and flat, draws a line on its undershaft until you get to the pre-cum bubbling at the tip. You ground the head of his cock along your tastebuds, committing to memory his personal flavor as you lick him clean. Oh, you’re going to want seconds for the rest of this poor soul’s life.

“Fuck.” The word is heavy, riding off an exhale as you flood Ak with heightened pleasure, far sharper and stronger than anything he’s ever felt before, just with your tongue on his cockhead. You smile around the tip, parting your mouth with the pressure of his cock as he finally starts to sink into your wet and hot mouth. The groan he releases is guttural and carnal as you suck all around him, smoothly swallowing his length to the base and never breaking eye contact. You’re so delighted watching him fold in your hands that you get right to it, pumping his shaft with a rolling wrist, your mouth never far behind as you coat him in your drool.

“G-God.” How can you make your mouth so tight, it feels like he’s fucking into you already? And the way you look at him, with shallow adoration, has his stomach flipping and his heart bumping. He knows you’ll eat him alive and he feels like he’ll let you at this rate. His lips twist but it’s no use, a string of moans keeps his mouth at a constant gape as you pamper him with your tongue swirling, dashing, and criss-crossing all over his cock. You dip your head low, humming around him with a mewl of your own when he reflexively jerks into you, pressing his cockhead to the back of your mouth but you keep on. As if that would stop you.

Every slope down his cock, Aki is treated to the sight of your tits, caged by the satin straps of your babydoll ensemble, bouncing with your nipples slipping out a little more each time. His fingers twitch, eager to find out how they would feel cupped in his hands. “You’re unbelievable.” You have him grunting and cursing. It felt like just a minute ago, he was looking at you like you were scum of the earth. Now he’s revering you like a god.

Digits still shuddering, his hands come to the sides of your head for some relief. Your hair is so soft, he can’t help but dig in, fingernails curling into your scalp with little regard for any pain he may cause you. You don’t stop so neither does he. He can’t take his eyes off you, never wanting to forget how you look with his length completely disappeared inside you, your cheeks hollowed out and all because of him. You’re perfect just like this, he thinks.

You start to gag, but not because he’s too much. You gag to gauge his reaction. His cock bobs in your mouth and you swear you feel him get harder as you sputter and choke around his shaft and now with a hand at the crown of your head, you know you’ve hit the spot. So he’s one of those. You note as you continue to amplify those juicy sounds of yours, rubbing your thighs in anticipation as he starts to meet you halfway with jutted hips. The closer he gets, the sloppier he is you can’t help but notice as his movements start to become ragged in pursuit of his climax.

Ecstasy building, Aki’s head lulls back and his lids shudder shut as he feels your fist clutch him harder, tighter, dragging his foreskin into your mouth with your tongue poking in and lapping up any spare pearls of pre-cum. You moan, on your own, at his intoxicating flavor, eagerly awaiting for the rest to come filling your mouth until you’re filled with his taste. You lose yourself so much in lavishing his cock that you don’t see it coming when his hand digs into your fringe, pulling your head back so he can get a better look while he face-fucks you.

You’re actually glad he did because now you can see him truly at his lowest point. His raven locks are sticking to his face and temples with a layer of sweat making him glow under the dimmed lights in the room. You can no longer see the cerulean blues in his eyes; all you can see are his pupils, wide with lust, sizing you up as he starts to roll his hips into you, following the rhythm you’d already set. “Fuck,” He spits, “Feel so good. Gonna cum soon.”

Soon was an understatement. At the pace you were going, he could cum any moment. Your mouth was a cavern for him to exploit and you clearly were letting him, allowing him to start fisting your hair for some stability while he rocks into you. The force of his orgasm starts to build fast, his balls tightening as the rush comes like a flood. His cum shoots in dense strings, filling your mouth until the salty taste is all your senses can register. He shudders into you, groans dying out as he finishes emptying his load inside of you.

Seeing you swallow his climax has his adam’s apple bobbing with a gulp. Your eyes seem to brighten, the color of your irises glowing with the ingestion of Aki’s semen, and your tail swats in the air in a clear display of elation. His cum goes right to the core of your being, lighting your flame and making you feel full… But you’re not satisfied. Not yet.

Your lips run down the measure of his cock until you’ve finally parted, with Aki fixated on you the entire time. His member, drenched in your saliva and still swollen, trembles in the cooled air and the only noise in the room is Aki’s soft panting. You’ve only been off him for a few seconds but he already needs to be inside you again, that much he’s certain of.

"Is that…" His voice whines down so he tries to repeat himself, taking a breath this time beforehand, "Is that it?"

The poor thing. He thinks it's over. He thinks he's already wrapped up his end of the bargain. "Mmh-nn." You hum, lips back on the tip of his cock while your tail bats in the air with interest. You hear him sharply inhale, his eyes instantly shutting again as you lick quick lines on the surface, poking into his still leaking slit a couple of times. “That was just the appetizer. The first load is always the tastiest.”

Aki watches you rise to your feet, body moving so gracefully and sensually you have him captivated. It’s twisted, how he follows your every movement, bewitched by how you toy with the strap hanging on your shoulder. You invite him with the curl of your finger to take over and that he does, hands much larger than yours plucking the lingerie straps and slipping them down and off your arms. The fancy night dress you’d been wearing joins the rest of Aki’s clothes in a rush, neither of you wanting to be apart for any longer than you had to.

Now nude, you direct Aki to the bed, where the real show will begin.

With Aki on the bed, you crawl on top and there he’s able to fully appreciate the form you’ve taken, ogling your body like a debased pervert. You’re a tease, lowering enough to hover right above the bulge of his cockhead but never dipping any more than that. His hand, albeit shaky, comes to land on your waist, a calloused thumb pushing into your smooth skin and rubbing circles just to feel you. “Please.” The word leaves his mouth faster than his brain can process and you just adore the way you can visibly see him melt for you.

“Please what?”

“Please,” Now he has both hands on you, “Sit on my cock.”

Now that makes you smile wide. “Yes sir.” There’s a snide intonation of your voice when you address him but he doesn’t give a fuck. All he can think about is you, you, you.

Your hips sink, the tip of his dick smoothing along your folds and pressing into your entrance until the pressure is enough to break through and he’s in. And god, you’re already so tight, you have his lungs struggling to get a single breath in. Your walls crease and mold to his girth and for all the trouble you’ve caused him, you’re making up for it and he hasn’t even filled you to the hilt yet.

“S-Shit.” You were starting to think you’d never see the day when Hayakawa Aki, one of the most highly regarded members of Public Safety, would fall prey to your lascivious spell but here he is, hissing as he’s pulling you down on his cock with depraved hunger. Grunting, Aki digs his head back into your pillow but he forces his eyes open, needing to see you take him all the way and when you do, you’re such a sight to behold. Your lips, swollen from sucking him off, part in delicious rapture and you see stars having him all the way inside you. The corners of your mouth turn upward, a smile coming over your features as you feel the slightest hint of trembling in Aki’s thighs as you come to a full seat on his member.

The way he feels inside you is unlike anything you’ve had before, and you’ve definitely charmed your fair share of characters but this Aki… He’s more special than you took him for. Your walls flutter around him, hugging his cock nice and snug so that you feel every twitch, every throb he helplessly gives you. “You ready?” You ask but it’s not up for debate. You grind your clit against his pelvis on your way up, following the curve of Aki’s shaft before bouncing back down on his length.

He’s so dense, thick inside you that you could imagine him easily breaking you, if you let him. But you’re in control here and he seems game for it, what with how wanton his gaze on you is and how sternly he’s gripping your waist. He’s so deep in you, you feel him poking against your core and that has your heart drumming so vigorously, you can hear your heartbeat so clearly in your ears along with Aki’s moans and the erotic sounds of wet skin smacking together.

Your pace starts slow enough, giving you time to relish how he stuffs your gummy walls on every swing up but you’re both in agreement that it’s not enough. You both need more and as though you’re in sync, he starts to jerk his hips into you, cramming further inside you while you dig down just as harshly. The way you’re rubbing down on him has you coating him in your slick, the mass of your juices, and it’s so much that it’s spilling down his balls and lap. That only makes it easier for him to thrust into you, forcing your body to roll along his shaft and bend to the new rhythm he’s setting.

How can one human feel this good? He has you feeling so high, so overwhelmed with the weight of his cock inside your cunt, that you don’t even notice his hand reaching out to your forearm and unexpectedly forcing you down so your chest is flush against his and your lips are just mere inches from each other. That certainly isn’t the case for long, as Aki immediately forces his lips on you in a rough and needy kiss. Your tongue is still coated in his essence, his taste, and he laps it up in a frenzy. Your own sweetness tingles in his mouth, sending a hypnotizing rush to his brain that has him feeling like he’ll never recover from this. Like he’ll never recover from you.

Your pussy still swallowing his cock, Aki’s hands land squarely on your ass and start to firmly squeeze your plush flesh, nails sharply piercing your skin until he knows he’s drawing blood. You whine and moan into his mouth, all muffled because there’s no way in hell he’s letting you break the kiss. “Don’t you dare pull away.” Aki growls and for once, you’re listening to a Devil Hunter as he starts to mercilessly buck his hips, thrusting harshly into you like you’re just a toy for him to abuse. Anyone else would be screaming, crying for a reprieve but not you.

His length penetrates you so roughly while the thickness of his cock has you full to the brim and the combination of both is sure to be a new addiction of yours. Now you’re thinking crazy, wondering if you should just drop all your other contracts if this Aki will keep business with you. Any sensible thought is pounded out of you soon enough, Aki’s hips crashing against your bottom fast and hard. Your kiss with him is just as cruel, his teeth capturing your puffy bottom lip and sharply biting down until the vulgar taste of blood is dripping into his mouth. You whimper but never tell him to stop. Why would you when he feels so good?

Too good, in fact. He told you to stay put but you can’t help it, you come to rise, still with his length fully inside you and resume your earlier position of bobbing up and down on his cock but now with a more reckless flair. As you do, as you near your climax, a script starts to sear itself into your pelvis. “The–” Oh now you’re the stuttering fool, “t-the contract.” You choke out, the outline of the brand charred in your skin.

Aki’s mystified by you, by what’s happening before him. Still ramming into your tight pussy, his hands move from your wiggling ass to digging his nails harshly into the design scorching itself on your supple flesh. You yelp, face glimmering with a layer of sweat, but your cries hit a new pitch when one hand dives down towards your cunt, thumb messily running circles around your clit. “Fucking cum for me then. I’m gonna fill you up.” Where did this man find his grounding? Your head rolls back, lips quivering with a never ending string of lewd noises as your thighs begin to give out– no, give way to Aki’s domination.

Now on a firm seat on Aki’s lap, his hips thrash against you until he feels his member swelling and pulsating inside you, against your narrowing walls that dare to swallow him whole. As he does, an inscription he can’t totally make out starts to appear on your pelvis but one thing’s for sure; you look good with his name in kanji branded on you.

“Cumming– fucking take it, devil.” You crumble all around him, your sopping wet cunt fluttering all around him as you too, start to feel your release bubble up until spilling over. He pumps into you every last drop of his cum but you still feel yourself trembling long after he’s finished.

Your pants of recovery cut through the silence in the room. What the hell was that? This man… He’s not human. Not with the way he just fucked you. You’re going to keep this one, even if it takes all your power. You’ll keep him safe, you promise to yourself… So long as he keeps up his end of the deal.

You feel empty when his cock finally leaves you and even more so when Aki gets himself dressed and ready to go. If you had it your way, you’d keep him there all night and all day… Though you guess humans need more than sex to refuel. A pity.

“Guess this is it.” Aki mumbles at your front door but you stop him from taking a step further, dainty little nails curling around the sleeve of his jacket as you look up at him with ravenous glint in your eyes, “Oh, didn’t Makima tell you? This contract is ongoing. I’ll ring you up when I need more.”

Shit. What did he get himself into?

[liyawritesss]

ᴋᴏʀʀᴀ ᴡ/ ᴀ ꜱᴘɪʀɪᴛ-ʙᴇɴᴅɪɴɢ ꜱ/ᴏ

-> synopsis: you're a bender who's dedicated your life to the art of spirit-bending. along the way, you've seem to have caught the eye of a certain avatar.

-> pairing: avatar korra + black!gn!reader

-> contains: pure fluff, 2nd person ('you', 'your', 'yours')

-> a/n: my very mild (not mild at all I am feral atm) obsession with korra has a returned and so you all will now feel the brunt of it lmao. also, semi-new format for the posts? what do we think?

-> join my taglist!

-> tags: @badass-dora-milaje @uranometrias @lees-chaotic-brain @jacuzziwaters

• Morning meditations become a thing, and this is huge because Korra isn't a morning person. If she could, she'd sleep well into the afternoon, but being an all powerful spiritual being that deals with the world's political and humanitarian problems doesn't let you sleep in as often as you'd think. So it's begrudgingly that she adopts an early rise schedule. But upon meeting you, she sees the far earlier morning rises as a way to spend as much time with you as possible, so she cherishes them greatly and learns to love waking up before dawn and heading out to the rooftops to be greeted by the sunrise.

• Does little things she knows that you know aren't like her to do because she wants your special attention. This is usually during training and will consist of her purposefully messing up her form or messing up in the middle of spirit bending (in the beginning this was less of a joke and more of a reality, but as she got better at it, she'd casually play as if she didnt know what she was doing) . Korra will always have this cocky little smirk on her face when you come over to help her, and all you can do is roll your eyes and do your due diligence to the Avatar.

• Korra loves your voice and will do anything to keep you talking. Will ask you history questions about origins of spirit bending or even asks you about theories and hypotheticals to hear you speak passionately on it. On the flip side, she's ironically helpful when it comes to research papers and articles you'd write about Spirit Bending. She doesn't try to distract you but ultimately helps test out your theories and their credibility.

• While protective of you and the dangers that could be faced with accompanying the Avatar, she wants you to come with her on her excursions. You're a valuable asset to the team with your spirit bending, knowing much more than she herself does, and it helps to have an extra set of hands on the job. There's also the added perk of you being a source of comfort for her that she never knew she needed until meeting you.

• Upon being part of the Avatar Krew, a lot of public appearances come with you being at her side as a sort of consultant. With the new age of human-spirit interaction, Korra believes that now, more than ever, the people need more examples of how to handle themselves and how to interact with beings they've only ever heard stories of. Even she admits that your calming presence and knowledge about the spirits as well as how to commune with them has gotten her out of a couple of publicity jams.

• You have matching charm bracelets that glow whenever one of you is spirit-bending, or just bending in general! When she had them carved Korra had no clue that the wooden beads would ever be able to do that, but upon seeing it the first time the two of you spirit bended an agitated dark spirit together, it gave her a revelation of just how deeply bonded the two of you had become during her journey and trials as the Avatar.

• Sleeping together is absolute heaven. After a long day there's nothing either of you want more than to rest in each other's arms. She feels the most comfortable and safe in your shared bed with you next to her, watching over her during the night. After engaging in your wind down routine, which usually either consists of you reading a book and her listening to the pro-bending match on the radio, or both of you talking about your day, snuggling up together under the soft sheets helps you two slip away into sleep in mere seconds.

• With her nightmares, they can sometimes get extreme, and when they do, she may slip into the Avatar State as a defense mechanism. She never feels it herself and at first didn't believe you when you mentioned to her the one time you really caught it; which was when she was sleep on her front with her shirt off one hot summer night and the outline of Rava appeared for a split second, before fading away as you attempted to wake her up. Though around the times of year when those traumatic instances happened, Korra could feel that she was a little tense and her spirit harbored some unease.

• Though not much could be done about those memories and those nightmares, there are times where you feel Korra slip away to meditate to calm her mind. Some times she will break her meditation to see that you've joined her, either with a book to keep yourself entertained and to watch her, or on a blanket next to her in a state of half-sleep.

If you enjoyed, please leave a like, comment, and reblog for others to see! And don’t be shy to send in a request!

[rainbowsky]

Hi Rainbowsky, hope you are well. ☺️✨

In the last few weeks there has been a lot of hate, lawsuits, hot trends etc like the usual so/o stuff…nothing new surprise surprise. 🙄 I was thinking maybe if xz or yb made a statement that there is no bad blood between them, (they don't have to come out or make it clear that they are friends privately) but more like "yeah we worked together and are still on good terms" and "please don't attack or make false rumours about the other person" would the hate die down a bit or do you think it will get worse? I know it's not their job to give brain cells to mindless so/os, but maybe it could help newer fans who joined the fandom just so they wouldn't jump on the hate bandwagon because of so/os. It must be exhausting for xz and yb with all the hate, suing accounts, planning how to avoid the other person at award show because of stupid “fans” etc.

These are just some of the thoughts I've been having over the last few days. Are my thoughts too simple? I don't know if xz or yb made a statement already or if you've talked about this before, if so I'm sorry for filling your question box unnecessarily.

thank you for reading my question 🥰 I wish u a beautiful day and enjoy your weekend ✌🏽☺️

Hi Jinniecooky! Thanks, I hope you're well too! ☺️

Unfortunately I really don't see a statement improving things. It would be too risky on various fronts and would likely only make matters worse.

These fan groups are organized, well-oiled machines - especially GG's. The leadership of these groups tells the fans what to do and how to act, they give strict guidelines on what is expected of the fans, and any fan who wants to be included has to stay in line and do, say, believe as they're told.

Part of that involves selling narratives created and perpetuated by these fandom leaders and their corporate black pr embeds. They come up with elaborate stories that cast the star as a selfless, brilliant hero who is in a grand cosmic battle against 'those who want to destroy them', often with detailed claims and photoshopped or misleadingly edited/framed 'evidence' to support those claims.

Fans get sucked into these narratives and believe with all their hearts that the stories are true. They spend countless hours online spreading these lies and battling these imagined foes. They spend all their money on endorsements - whether they can afford it or not - and all their spare time on boosting the star's numbers on every platform and in every way they can.

As a result they have a deeply rooted conceit that they know what's best for the star, that the star owes their fame and success to fans, and that their activities - as hateful as they often are - are nothing less than the devoted, dedicated, selfless, heroic hard work on behalf of the star.

A statement like this would be treated as ingratitude, and would cause a lot of uproar and anger. These toxic fans would lose a lot of face if such a statement was issued, because it would run against everything they've been and stood for up until this point. The fan groups would likely try to recover by turning against the star and their management - making an even bigger mess for the star to clean up.

As I've said many times - toxic fan culture is about power and status. It's about these fans and fan groups wanking over their star being the biggest, best, etc. The bigger and more successful the star, the more of an ego boost these fans get out of it.

Speaking against anything these fans say or do cuts into that power and status in a way that can be very dangerous. We've all seen how people who speak up against them are treated. Trust me - the star and his team would fare no better if they spoke up.

The serious, long-standing fans who are deeply embedded in fan culture - especially the leadership figures in these fandoms - often know 'where the bodies are buried', too. They've made it their business to know all the dirt on their star, all the better to keep his image clean and bury the story. These are not the kind of people a star will want on their bad side.

In many ways, stars are hostages to their fan groups. These are the people pushing to build their numbers and success, and they can be very fickle, demanding and nasty.

Not only that, a statement would only draw more attention to these battles and bring them into the mainstream where passersby would see all the dirty laundry that's currently confined mostly to fandom spaces. It could escalate everything into an even bigger scandal that could burn out of control and possibly permanently damage or destroy the star.

There's also the fact that GG and DD will not want to risk the nature of their relationship becoming a bigger public story.

And that's before we even get into the fact that they've released dozens of statements over the years - especially GG - trying to get fans into line, giving guidelines on fan behavior, etc. and these toxics have ignored every word of it.

Overall, I just don't see a statement helping at all, and would likely only make matters worse.

I've often felt their best bet would be to come out as friends in a setting where fans dare not fuck with things. For example, appearing onstage together at a nationalistic event or in a nationalistic program.

But that's unlikely to ever happen for various reasons. Appearing together would put both of them at huge risk. Such an appearance would inevitably draw a lot of attention and gossip. Even if it was mostly positive due to fans trying not to cause any trouble, GG and DD would overshadow the message and gravity of the occasion. It would make them look bad - at best, traffic stars (images they're trying to shed), at worst, disrespectful or irreverent to the government or serious occasion.

And one would have to accept the possibility that even such a serious occasion under the eye of the government wouldn't be enough to stop fan wars from happening.

At the end of the day, it's just safer for GG and DD to let things run their course and hope that these assholes eventually lose interest and move on. To accept fan wars and haters as just part of the cost of doing business.

Similarly, I think we need to just accept that haters gonna hate, and stop focusing on haters and antis. We're not here for other fans, we're here for GG and DD. If we put our focus there and block and ignore all the toxics, we can enjoy fandom - which is the entire point.

Recent post related to this topic:

GG and DD supposedly collaborating on a new movie

[slippinninque]

✨📱Kiss me Through the Phone 📱✨

Fontaine x black!fem!reader

Warnings/content: fluff, cursing, mentions of smoking/weed, long fic. Black!Fem!Reader, ramblings

He treated his phone like the tool it was. There were few apps for entertainment, and the necessary apps to stay updated on what was going on in his streets.

Fontaine was never one for taking pictures until he met you. Now he has a nice collections of you on his phone.

Particularly, there is a folder of photos in his phone dedicated to your stuffed face. You turned full hamster when you were hungry and he thought it was adorable. This is top secret.

You have a folder of photos in your phone dedicated to catching him sleeping during movies. From cozy shots of him latched on to you like a giant octopus to the bent neck, open mouthed snooze. What started off as a cache of evidence became an absolute delight. This was also top secret.

Fontaine didn't save many numbers. Due to his business, the less information he made available the better. You swore his memory was his super power.

The first picture you ever sent Fontaine he'd swore he would get framed. It was purposely unflattering with an expression he didn't think your pretty face could make. It was sent to him by mistake but made him nearly choke on his '40 and he knew then he needed more of you.

------

A little bit of sun was all the Glen needed for it's parks to come alive with get-togethers and hang-outs. That was the whole reason you and your girls were out in the first place, looking to get some warmth before the heat vanished again,

You were sitting close to each other sharing whispers and smoke. It was a lovely day though the breeze was relentless. Fontaine was already unzipping his jacket when you shivered for the umpteenth time.

The sight of him was poetic. Leaning up a bit just to whip his jacket over your shoulder, the sun taking it's place immediately with delicacy. Fontaine's face was soft at least enough for his golds to glimmer between full lips.

He was gilded in the setting sun as he stepped a bit closer to zip you properly into the jacket. You felt like you were staring, but you couldn't look away.

"There we go," he grinned at you as he passed the blunt to you and resetting your brain, "Wear it better than me."

"Better stop before this hoodie come up missing." You took a puff and laughed a bit,

"Y'know how clothes just be adventuring off on their own..."

"Is that so? You wanna takin' down my number so you can let a nigga know if his thermals come knocking at your door?"

"Your-your weed is good, so I suppose I'll be neighborly."

He laughed and you couldn't even feel the full thrush of embarrassment at your fumbling. You could only shake your head at yourself as you handed over your phone.

Fontaine typed in his number and you traded the blunt for your phone. He didn't save it at first and you added him to your contacts with the quickness.

Just as you always did, first thing that came to mind--

Sunglow.

Quickly after that you keep you eyes to your keyboard as you sent Fontaine a wave with a smiley face.

-------

You jerked awake, hearing hard knocking and loud voices seeping in through your cracked window.

Heart pounding as you stared up at the ceiling, you scrambled for your phone to see it was well past midnight. The TV was still going from when you fell asleep on the couch, but it wasn't enough to drown out the slurring call of your name.

Clutching your throw blanket, you swallowed as much of your panic as possible. It was your neighbor, drunk again and "confused" despite it being the third time this month.

As much as you tried to be understanding, it made you more than uncomfortable. The man was all grins and half-apologetic in the daytime, insisting that their front doors were nearly twins despite there being 3 houses between them. His roommates thought it was funny and made a few comments about how you even resembled his ex.

He even asked what the issue was with letting him linger until he sobers up enough to go home.

The next knocks were thunderous and got you out of bed. You weren't keen on opening the door or even speaking to him, it would only make it worse...

Tearing up as you heard the stumbling and nonsense filter through your door, you chewed your lip as you slowly typed out a text.

[Are you up?]

You winced. It sounded so dirty to you at the moment but you were scared and tired--

The sound of your ringer startled you enough to answer.

"Um, hi, sorry." You crept to your room in the dark, afraid to turn on the lights, "Did-Did I wake you?"

Fontaine made a soft noise, "Ain't doin' shit but runnin' to the store. What's got you up so late?"

You struggled for words for a moment but hissed when the banging came again. This time it sounded like he was hitting the front room's window.

"What the fuck is that?"

Fontaine's tone broke you, a sob stuttering out as you told him everything. You curled up and tried to make sense but a headache was beginning to grow.

"I'm comin', sweet heart, I'm on my way." Fontaine's voice was soothing in his promise, "Stay on the phone with me."

"Okay, 'm so sorry."

"Don't be. Just keep listening to me, you hear me? 'M on my way."

Fontaine's voice flowing through that little speaker was your life raft. You did as you were told, listening to the sound of him getting into his car and driving.

Your neighbor went quiet and it knowing where he was was worse. Imagining him stalking around the perimeter of your home, looking for things to "accidentally" break, ways into your home, would he do something to your car? In the dark feeling small, you quietly hoped that there were no red lights to keep Fontaine long.

The call ended and before your panic to dwell to hysteria, there was commotion from outside your house.

There was hollering and another terrible clattering noise. Running back into the living room, you peeked through the blinds with shaky hands.

Fontaine had your neighbor on the ground, bent up and yelping next to your overturned trash can. You could only see the back of him as he wrangled your neighbor.

You felt rooted to the spot, watching from somewhere else as you watched the terror that's been stealing your peace get the ragdoll treatment. Fontaine tossed him here and there, his voice furious and low.

Fontaine hauled your neighbor up enough to walk him down the street and out of sight. Still shaking, you took a seat on the couch and tried to pull yourself together.

You aren't sure how long you say there with anxiety eating away at your stomach. When your phone rang again, you hurried to answer.

"Hello, hi..."

"C'mon to the door, it's okay now."

You peeled yourself off the couch and went to the door, flinging it open but still unable to look him in the face. He was wearing only sweats and a grey long sleeved shirt. Quietly letting him in, you couldn't stop the tears when they returned.

Fontaine told you that he made absolutely sure that your neighbor knew what his porch looked like. You could only imagine what he meant by that.

"Don't cry anymore, you're okay now," Fontaine came near you, hand hovering your shoulders in a mimic of touch. You leaned forward until you could feel the softness of his shirt.

"You did good, I'm glad you let me know. Promise he ain't gonna bother you anymore, trust thayt."

Wrapping your arms around his waist, you asked if he would mind staying until morning. Fontaine cupped your face and ran his thumbs along your stinging cheeks.

"Of course."

He went toward the couch but you pulled lightly, leading him to your bedroom. Fontaine was quiet and you still sniffled as you crawled into bed. You only had to look at him and Fontaine hurried to follow.

Cuddled close and worn out, your nerves cooled enough for exhaustion to wander in.

"You can always call me. Just know that, yeah? If you're scared....call me. Don't matter what it is, I'm gonna be there."

Grateful, you could only nod again. Fontaine's hand splayed along your back and to the sound of his steady heartbeat, sleep finally came back for you.

------

"It's probably somewhere in the car," you said to Fontaine as you searched your bag, "I think I left my lip chap anyway."

Fontaine paused in searching himself and pockets to give you a grateful nod.

" 'Preciate you."

You tossed a wink over your shoulder, turning to jog the short distance between the porch and Fontaine's car. He stayed behind, sorting the grocery bags more comfortably to key into the house.

The car was still unlocked and you whipped out your cell, dialing Fontaine's phone to hone in on its hiding spot.

I'll be your groupie, baby (oh whoa)

'Cause you are my superstar (ha, superstar, yeah)

No way. You nearly knocked your head trying to look beneath the driver's seat. Legs nearly hanging out the car as you laid as flat as you could. You were cheek to seat as you scrabbled beneath the seat, the song playing on.

I'm your number one fan, give me your autograph

Sign it right here on my heart (I'll be)

Pushing aside some loose change and grabbing Fontaine's phone, you went to decline your call when your eyes caught on the screen.

My Baby

The big softie, giving you butterflies and he isn't even near you. Wriggling and utterly smitten, you couldn't believe how much you liked this man.

Fontaine gave you such shit for having a crush, but then he goes and lets his homies hear your favorite song every time you call.

Grabbing carmex from the cupholder you could finally wriggle out of the car. Closing the door, you turned and saw Fontaine had been holding the door waiting for you the entire time.

----------

Fontaine texted and you sighed, wishing that you could see him in person. Sometimes the phone just wasn't enough.

Your phone vibrated again, the notification sound pinging through the earbud in your ear. Music definitely made the time spent pouring over technical details a bit more managable.

Fontaine's texts were little nuggets of gold you hoarded through the shift. An aimless sort of conversation that didn't make you feel pressured to answer so soon.

He sent you a picture of a stay cat you looked out for, hunched over what looked to be a half of sub sandwich. You sent him a picture of a goose sitting in one of the managerial parking spots at with all the attitude of a Cadillac.

Only you and a few other ladies jumped at the chance for a short shift the following day, but of course it mean sudden overtime. You glowered at the dwindling piles straight tab files and binders.

There were still records to edit and submit. Then a well deserved long-weekend after to look forward to.

Your phone vibrated in your lap, the only safe place for it since your desk turned into a disaster of binders, white-out, and sticky notes.

Sunglow: [come out side]

[I'm not at home remember?]

Sunglow: [never said you were]

You frowned at your phone. What the hell was he talking about?

You jumped when you heard the blare of a horn. It echoed in the empied parking lot and you were sure you aren't the only one who was leaving their desk to check.

Your cubicle had one of the best views of the parking lot and a few streets over, you put your face to the glass at the same time another horn sounded.

In all his glory, Fontaine leaned up against this car with his phone visibly in hand and the other tucked inside to rest on the steering wheel.

Surprised and fumbling back to your cubicle, you managed to dial Fontaine before he tried summoning you again.

"Romeo, Romeo, stop bein' so disruptive!" You hissed into your phone,"Stop honkin' that horn, you're going to wake up the guard!"

"I know you better bring yo' tail down that tower and give me what I came here fo', Juliet."

With only a sheepish grin to offer "mhmmm" and "okay, then, girl" looks you got, you hurried down the stairs while Fontaine grumbled about the integrity of your building's security through your ear.

Smoothing out your cardigan as you exited the building, you were wishing that you wore something a bit more flattering when Fontaine was already meeting you at the double doors.

You went when your hand was pulled and you were hugged by Fontaine as he rested up against the brick wall of your office. It was a little hiding spot that was mainly used by the night shift.

It was the perfect spot to hide away from supervisors and sudden rains.

"You got somethin' for making yo' man wait for so long?" Fontaine asked, keeping a hand at your waist while the other one steadied you by the chin. You chuckled before looking up at him and pursing your lips.

"Mhmm, don't mind if I do..." Fontaine purred and pressed his silky lips against yours.

Sweet and slow. Fontaine took hold of your hands, left them to massage your shoulders, used on hand to settle at the dip of your waist.

"I can't stay down here for too long," you breathed after parting, "Very tempting to hop into that passenger seat, though."

"Give the word, I'll peel out this bitch."

"Oh, I know you will," you laughed and kissed his cheek before pressing yours to his, " 'M happy you came to surprise me. I think I can make it to the end now."

"I aim to please."

The wind blew a bit tougher and you burrowed into him as best you could. He rested his chin on the top of your head, hands locking at the small of your back.

It felt like being set out in the sun to dry. A nice, long stretch after an afternoon nap. Just...good.

"How much longer do you have?" He asked voice quiet. You probably had another five or so minutes.

Shifting around so your phone could be brought up between you, "About this long."

Hitting play, you both listened to Ms. Hill remind you how nothing mattered more than where you wanted to be most.

-----

ending notes: this felt kinda long lol! thank you soo much for reading! I appreciate every pair of eyes that lands on my writing, it means so much to me! 🥹

taglist✨: @megamindsecretlair @thadelightfulone @mag1calenchantr3ss @cocoeffects @wide-nose-and-wonderful @8ttached @thadelightfulone @hobiesmain @thickeeparker @longpause-awkwardsmile @ms-angiealsina @educatorsareslutstoo @mysterychick93@mcondance@sageispunk@kindofaintrovert@hunnishive@notapradagurl7@blowmymbackout@educatorsareslutstoo@blackerthings@miyuhpapayuh@westside-rot

[skye707]

According to you, what would be the Riddles most and least likely to accept a sugar mommy/daddy? God, it's two in the morning in my country, why do I think it's a good idea to ask something at this time...

That's the best time to ask your questions because your brain is working without filters.

Unburied - You wanna give him free money? Sure, you're loss <3. He sees this less as a degradation of his character and more as a strategic move on his part. The openly giving affection part is just a bonus.

ZY - He got confused and thought HE was becoming the sugar daddy. Once he realizes this, he's absolutely livid that you would think he needs anyone's help in terms of money, affection, etc. HE's the biggest sugar daddy ever! or he would be...if someone wanted him to be.

Dano - This is a true war in his mind. On the one hand, he can't stand the thought of being the pawn of someone with expendable wealth. On the other hand, what better way to infiltrate high society to better bring about its demise. He might change his mind on the demise part if you're super nice, but probably not.

YJ - Yes, of course he'll be a sugar baby. Please take care of him. Please hug him and kiss him. He doesn't even care about the money part. He just wants someone to tell him how sweet he is and that they love him.

Gotham - It would have to be a very special person, but I do think he could be a sugar baby. Someone who truly has his best interests at heart and deeply cares for his well-being. And he'd like to have an allowance for his various criminal hobbies.

BTAA - Let him think about it. No. He doesn't need your money and he doesn't need your smooches. He gets plenty of both on account of his outstanding personality and brain. That's what he tells himself at least.

Arkham - Also confused as to what is happening, except he thinks you're just an investor dedicated to the success of his projects. Admittedly, he thought the requests for affection a little strange, but he'll take free money any day. You might have to sit him down and explain what's happening. Be prepared for a tantrum.

BTAS - Can you two be co-sugar mommy/daddy's? He'd like to spoil you as well, if you don't mind? Goodness knows he has enough money for that kind of lifestyle. The two of you might just end up the richest and most extravagant people in Gotham. A true power couple.

Telltale - This is a joke, surely. You didn't actually believe he'd subjugate himself to the humiliation of financial dependency in exchange for his affections? Yeah, I wouldn't even try it with this one. You might not see the light of another day.

[orbitalsockets]

Friendly reminder that you can accommodate things to make witchcraft easier. The only realm where it would be difficult to do so is high end ritualism, but for my pals with ADHD I don't recommend that route because the intense planning makes my executive dysfunction kick into overdrive. There's a reason Hundreds of cultures around the world have different practices requiring different effort across hundreds of years - What may work for one society may not or will not work for another, and that same practice applies to witchcraft on an individual level. With that, I want to share the biggest thing that's helped my brain:

I keep my grimoire digitally. I cannot tell you how many journals dedicated to the Occult I've kept over 10+ years and I have never completely finished one. I get too in my own head about how it should look, how I should format the pages, if I want to be more artistic or more plain in my pages, and I get so overwhelmed with choices and the fear that I'm somehow keeping it "wrong" that the journal ends up sitting on my shelf. Digitally, I use Evernote and keep my grimoire as a separate Notebook. My spells and tinctures/balms are kept as recipe cards, my notes are kept however I feel like doing them in that moment and I have the relief of knowing that if I want to change it, I don't have to start an entire new page or journal. I transcribed all of my journal pages over to the app and the sheer relief I've had in being able to have a more forgiving format of keeping my grimoire has made me feel so much more comfortable in my practice.

"Keeping a journal is more personal" so essays written in Word about deep rooted personal experiences aren't personal because they were written digitally? Of course not, that would be absurd. I comprehend that keeping a physical journal is supposed to hold more power and symbology for witchcraft, but you drain yourself of your power by repeatedly plunging yourself into stress over your Grimoire. Not to mention, if you're in the broom closet it's infinitely safer to go digital than to have a journal - Something that would have saved me a lot of grief as a budding teen witch had I not been convinced that I was less than others if I kept it on my phone or laptop.

With that being said, I don't think digital is better than physical journals or vice versa - I know what works for me may not for someone else and I don't judge that. I just know what's best for me and my brain and I've finally decided to listen to that instead of insisting to myself that it needs to be like everyone else despite no other part of my practice being held to the same standard in my mind. Do what's best for you, not what the internet is saying is the Only Way™ to do things.

[heliopauseentertainments]

Solar Flare

Now a complete 92k word novel. Continuity: IDW1

Rating: Teen

Relationship: Megatron/Rodimus, one-sided Starscream/Rodimus, Megatron & Starscream, background relationships

Major Characters: Megatron, Rodimus, Starscream, Zeta Prime, Ratchet

Warnings: Major Character Death, Graphic Depictions of VIolence, Blood & Gore, Serious Injuries, Weddings, Suggestive Themes, Horror Elements (I.E. Horror of the Divine), Reincarnation, Ambiguous Relationships, One-Sided Relationships. Please see AO3 entry for full applicable tags. AU: Canon Divergence, Gods/goddesses, Early War

Summary:  "To destroy a corrupt system, we must first destroy its gods, starting with this one." In which Megatron makes a mistake by sparing Rodimus, the Prime of the Sun.

Crossposting: AO3 | Dreamwidth

Note: inspired by this art piece on Tumblr.

1st chapter under cut; the full length is on AO3.

"To destroy a corrupt system, we must first destroy its gods, starting with this one."

Megatron, at first, had been so sure of his words as he pointed at the red and yellow mech across the hall, bedecked in jewelry and silk.

The ornate metal doors that had blocked off the throne room laid crumpled on the polished marble floor under his feet, a testament to the temple’s weakness against real resistance.

In his initial planning, after storming the Temple of the Sun in Nyon, he had thought killing a false god would be the easy part. Especially since this Prime did not have a Lord Protector, no zealous paladin dedicated to defending his worthless spark, Megatron had assumed that there would simply be one less obstacle to his goal.

The defenses had been minimal. Pathetic guards ran screaming for their lives after the mundane frontal assault on the main reinforced doors. There had been no point in giving chase, so Megatron had ordered his soldiers to let them flee. Better to have terrified survivors tell the tale, whereas dead mechs couldn’t spread word of change.

If the other Primal temples were built like this one with pitiful security, their job would be a lot simpler. Megatron doubted that would be the case, but he had also doubted this push would have gone so smoothly.

Now he watched as Primal acolytes pulled on the Prime’s arms and hands, trying in vain to tug him to safety, wherever that might be found, far away from the armed intruders.

The Prime shook them off with an undignified curse before marching unhindered towards Megatron, whom he’d fixed with a glare. Not one of anger, no, one of being inconvenienced.

“What are you doing in my house? You’re freaking out my dudes!”

What.

Megatron wasn’t often taken aback, but it appeared today had yet more surprises in store for him than a suspiciously easy siege.

He had just blasted through reinforced doors with his mechs, neutralized several guards with nary a fatality, and kicked down the door to the sacred throne room where the Prime was expected to waste away his days in luxury and splendor. Yet this… this garish half-pint approached him, fine brocades and bangles swaying with the motion, with neither fear nor hesitation.

Megatron hadn’t been prepared for this.

He had been prepared for the pampered brat cowering on the beautiful, shining marble, begging for his miserable, privileged life. He had been prepared to mercilessly terminate that wastrel with a fusion cannon blast, right through the spark and through that stupid Matrix.

Just as soon as Megatron tired of the sniveling, of course.

Consternation on his face, he powered down his cannon with a soft whir as it was lowered to his side.

“Excuse me?”

The Prime planted his hands on his hips, the bejeweled and festooned fins of his spoiler tilted upward in bold defiance.

"You heard me, bolt brain."

Now that wasn't a very godly thing to say at all. What were they teaching these high-caste deadbeats these days? Insults like that were what Megatron would have expected from an overcharged cadet at a seedy spaceport, not the alleged reincarnation of Solus Prime.

For all the supposed elegance and grace of a Prime, especially the Prime of the Sun, this was a smart-mouthed little punk.

This wasn't remotely what had been expected.

Megatron scowled down at the mech who dared call himself a god.

With a wave of his arm, some of his lollygagging soldiers dispatched towards the back of the throne room to seize fleeing acolytes.

"Don't you realize what's happening here?" Megatron asked, staring right back into the defiant, burning blue gaze. "Are you really that brave or are you just foolish?"

"Oh, yeah, I know what's happening.”

Megatron sincerely doubted that, but better to hear what nonsense this unknowingly condemned moron could come up with. Maybe it would be amusing.

“You're being a total spike right now, bursting in unannounced and trashing my house like one of those medical academy parties they show on the holonet. Wreck your own house!"

Not nearly as amusing as Megatron had hoped.

What in the damned hell was this punk talking about?

No wonder this one had no Lord Protector. Who would tolerate this? Shooting him now would do the world a favor. Making a political statement at this point would be a bonus.

"Didn't your caretakers teach you any manners? Rude." Well, Terminus had tried but…. That was hardly the point. The sheer impertinence of this idiot who had no idea he was about to have a hole put through his spark at point-blank range by a fusion cannon.

"I'm about to kill you and you're upset by my lack of aristocratic manners?"

Manners hadn’t really mattered much where he came from, the predominantly manual-class and disposable-class underground city of Tarn, in the various mines where he’d labored in dangerous conditions for ages, or in the black-market pop-up gladiatorial arenas of Kaon. He had never had use for such niceties and this punk was upset that he wasn’t holding out his little finger while seizing the Primal temple.

Ridiculous.

What next? Did he expect Megatron to use a napkin when painting the floor with the Prime’s slowly dimming lifeblood?

Despite the situation and his rapidly approaching final moment, the Prime relaxed slightly, seeming to consider the contradiction now that it had been pointed out, rubbing his chin all the while.

"I suppose when you put it like that, but only a Prime can kill a Prime so like do whatever—Hey! Wait!"

The hand rubbing his chin abandoned its work to point squarely at Megatron's nose.

"I know you! You're that lunatic that got Kaon blown to slag!"

That was it; they were done here. He had tired of this highborn simpleton’s antics.

“Enough!” Megatron bellowed, smacking that accusing point away with the back of his hand. “I don’t have time for your inane blathering!”

“Hey, rude—“

“Seize him!”

Mechs surged forth, several making grabs for the Prime’s limbs.

The Prime struggled, swearing as he strove to free himself of unwelcome hands. He kicked and punched, denting plate. More than a few titanium teeth from Decepticon mouths pinged against the floor after being knocked out.

Flatline would be rather busy later patching up these morons, Megatron thought, intrigued by just how much of a fight this pampered fool was putting up.

The struggle went on until the soldiers managed to immobilize the Prime’s limbs, removing any space for him to get in another good swing.

"Might I suggest something?" A high-pitched voice piped up behind Megatron’s back, persuasively smooth with all the owner’s public speaking practice despite the underlying tinny screech.

"You may not, but you'll do it regardless of my permission, so out with it, Starscream. Let’s get your suggestion over with."

Starscream stalked closer and began to circle the restrained Prime, as though inspecting a new, expensive purchase. His thrusters clicked haughtily against the smooth floor with every step.

"Rather than immediately dispatch this 'god,' why not simply keep him prisoner?"

"What purpose would that possibly serve?" What a waste of precious fuel and man-hours that could be better allocated elsewhere. Why take on the unnecessary responsibility of babysitting?

"Well, would not a new mech simply be chosen as a puppet to take their place? A supposed reincarnation plucked from a hot spot like a shining miracle in the dark night. The Senate and their drooling lackeys will rally around the divine newspark, stir up the people's faith, and so on and so forth. Keep him alive and that little problem just solves itself, doesn't it?"

Starscream had always had an optic for political nuance, even if Megatron often discarded it in the name of idealogical stringency. He generally felt his time was better spent not playing those games. Direct action tended to suit his purposes far better.

“What of the Matrix?” Megatron asked, gesturing with his thumb at the Prime’s chest. Each Prime had one, bestowed upon them by the priesthood that served their predecessor. Relics passed down between supposed incarnations, a symbol of divinity. Turning that worthless relic into a profane trophy of scrap that would almost as profoundly undermine the blind faith of the populace as actually murdering one of their so-called “gods.”

Megatron tapped his finger against his chin in thought.

“Would not destroying the Matrix render the point moot?” A new god couldn’t be reformatted without it, right? At least, not as far as he knew. The whole thing was rustwash anyway, but that was the official narrative.

Starscream scoffed, waving a hand flippantly at the very idea as he continued to circle the immobilized Prime. His wings fluttered with interest, a behavior Megatron had seen his second-in -command perform on several occasions when he wanted something.

Something about this useless creature had caught Starscream’s attention. That would need to be ironed out later.

“Please. They probably keep a bunch of them in the basement or in a bunker somewhere or something. You break one, someone steals a backup and claims it’s the real thing, safely defended from our destructive irreverence. You get accused of having destroyed a fake one for publicity and the whole ‘message’ you want to send crumbles in shame. You know how it is with these ‘relics.’ A shanix a dozen. Best keep this one as ‘proof’ for now.”

A broad, knowing grin stretched across Starscream’s face, shining with implication.

“And, after all, you can only have the fun of killing him once.”

He hated that Starscream had a point—several, in fact. Telling the seeker so, however, would just cause more problems—the overinflated ego sort—down the line.

Megatron would settle for a simple acknowledgment as he leaned down to get a better look at this bedighted speedster.

The Prime was practically encrusted with jewels and precious metals in the form of ornate jewelry, brocaded mesh draped luxuriously over the fins of his spoiler. Feet planted firmly on the ground, the Prime glared defiantly back up at his captor. In any other situation, Megatron would have thought him a beauty to behold, but now the red mech was just a symbol of resources squandered on mere opulence.

The sight disgusted him or… it should have.

“Very well, Starscream.”

Megatron heaved a tired sigh.

“I haven’t decided what his fate will be just yet,” he said, straightening back up. “Lock him up somewhere. I don’t care where. It doesn’t matter. Just get him out of my sight.”

A few of his mechs hesitated, the ones holding the arms and shoulders of acolytes, as though they weren’t sure what to do with their prisoners. Megatron sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as he stood back up. Did he have to spell out everything for these idiots?

“The cultists too! Just go!”

--

Finally.

The throne room was at peace without that Prime spitting and screaming, now that the brat had been hauled off somewhere in the temple complex, preferably kept under lock and guard.

With the quiet, Megatron could finally get a look around, take stock of the damage and what exactly they had just conquered. This place held many, many valuable resources that they could utilize, either directly or by fencing the goods. Furthermore, he’d gotten it all for the low price of a few explosives, a couple of boot-licking lives, and inadvertent custody a very rude little “god.”

He would figure out what to do with that brat later.

Megatron took a long and slow ventilation before approaching the now abandoned, golden throne at the far end of the room. It glittered in the warm yellow-orange light from the lamps. An impression of the sun was embossed into the high back of the throne and again, smaller, on the arms and seat. It was almost too small, hardly having room for the treads on his back. It was made for more regal frames than his own, intended for heavy industrial work below ground.

The soldiers that still lingered in the room, along with his few lieutenants that had accompanied him, watched in silence.

“We will reinforce the Temple of the Sun, make it an impregnable fortress,” he said, sitting and relaxing into the Primal throne. He supposedly “desecrated” it merely by touch, let alone smearing it with spilled energon and oil from fighting his way through the temple. A shame some of that shed fuel didn’t belong to the previous occupant of this glorified chair.

No matter. It belonged to him now.

From here, it was a short step to de facto controlling the city of Nyon and its weak council.

“With a little work, it’ll make a fine base.” The first, in fact, unless one counted the ruins of Kaon, the last city he and his forces held, he thought, caressing one of the cushioned arms of the throne. After Senate forces bombed the city from the surface of Cybertron, the revolutionaries were forced underground.

Megatron gestured for his lieutenants to approach.

Starscream strode forward, an impatient twitch to his wings and several complaints no doubt already at the tip of his tongue. He still looked smug from his earlier “victory” in changing Megatron’s plans. In stark contrast, Soundwave, ever the professional, simply walked and waited in inscrutable silence for his orders.

"Now, as you know, the Senate is de facto independent, even if they nominally operate under the First Prime in Iacon. They serve no gods but themselves,” Megatron began, “we need to work quickly to fortify our position here. We have some time because they need to calculate the political risk of assaulting Nyon."

They could make good use of this place if they were quick, before the Senate could retaliate for the revolutionaries’ transgressions against the gods. Nyon, however, had one beautiful advantage that Kaon did not: a Primal temple. Even they would hesitate to simply annihilate a sacred location, no matter who held it. Not because they believed, but because the face they would lose with the public would be incalculable.

Megatron smirked, getting comfortable in the stolen throne. Just sitting here was daring the Senate to do something self-destructive and drastic. It was perfect.

Starscream opened his mouth, probably to object, but before he could get words out, he was cut off by a finger pointed in his direction.

“Organize the fortification efforts and recall Shockwave to our new position. Soundwave—“ The blue mech straightened up further to show he was giving his leader his undivided attention. “Round up and contain the remainder of the priesthood. We’re moving in. Once you’ve done that, turn your attention to following the newsfeeds. I want to know the nanoklik Iacon thinks about making a move.”

With a nod, the Soundwave turned on his heel to carry out the command.

Now he just needed to figure out what to do with the blasted Prime of the Sun. Throttling him was unfortunately off the table, for today at least.

Starscream loudly cleared his vocalizer, apparently having something else to say before getting on with his duties.

“What is it now, Starscream?”

“Well, if I may, I have a potential solution to your little Prime problem,” he started, still beaming. It was as though he had guessed Megatron’s thoughts.

“One that could legitimize our position here.”

“I’m listening.” Begrudgingly, but he would hear Starscream out. Might as well.

Megatron narrowed his optics but said nothing as he leaned his face on a raised fist. The seeker took that as permission to continue, a slippery grin stretching across the smooth metal of his face.

“What do you think of the title of Lord Protector? ‘Lord Megatron’ has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?”

[thehydromancer]

J03 Hunter Class destroyer & F16A Marathon class Heavy Cruiser, scaled for playing Mobile Frame Zero: Intercept Orbit. Inspired by the MCRN Donnager battleship from The Expanse.

---

The J03 Hunter Class destroyer, designed and built by the First Great Expansion megacorp Northern Sky, was a dedicated seek and destroy platform designed to overrun targets with a single minded ferocity. The class often performed picket duties or acted as forward deployed scouts, but it truly shined when it was able to engage in one sided fights, chasing wounded and/or isolated prey, and was known for pack hunting, multi-dimensional pincer attacks that drove a target into a vector for one of the destroyers to ram for a killing blow.

Its primary weapons were two side mounted dual railgun chase armaments, a capable enough system to damage enemy light to mid armor while being relatively easy to maintain. In lieu of thick hull plating which would have slowed the class, a multi-layered defense of PDGs and defensive missile turrets (capable of firing anti-missile missiles as well as chaff/dazzlers) allowed the destroyer to capitalize on its speed for both aggressive as well as defensive maneuvering. The forward section of the class was also heavily reinforced for ramming, and was painted to evoke the grinning maw of an apex predator like aircraft nose art of old.

The F16A Marathon class heavy cruiser on the other hand was a dramatic scaling up of the venerable Hunter class, albeit with a much different mission in mind. This heavy cruiser was intended for extended solo operations such as deep space exploration, strategically hidden emergency reinforcements, or advanced system scouting; as such it needed the legs to operate on its own, carrying enough bullets, beans, fuel, and propellant to maintain happy and fully operational battle stations. Its massive armored bulk was supported by no less than eight engines, the primary four of which were over engineered for safety's safe; a catastrophic failure when the ship was millions or billions of miles from the nearest safe harbor or ally was a serious concern. Its primary weapons were two 3-barrel cannon launch missile turrets with exceptional firing arcs, that offered an impressive range of initial firing arcs. By forgoing traditional VLS cells or launch tubes, the Hunter class sacrificed volley mass and refire rate for exceptional accuracy and engagement ranges. The Marathon also mounted the same model PDGs and defensive missile turrets the Hunter class did, though with double the number of both included (later 'B' and 'C' variants instead tripled the number of missile turrets as instability throughout human and Ijad space began leading to large scale space fleet combat).

A Marathon could also easily have served as a flagship for a military or megacorp fleet, although the newer 'B' (improved C&C facilities and outsized comms arrays) and 'C' (mobile frame hangar and catapult) hulls were better suited for modern mobile frame centric combat. Despite its age, the original Marathons were still powerful forces to be reckon with, should an organization have had the resources and manning to support one. Unfortunately, as space combat transitioned from one-sided curb stomp beatdowns between well funded militaries and upstart colonists with more bravado than brains (not to mention the occasional megacorp skirmish over resources) to full on interspecies warfare between the human goverments and the Ijad forces with Free Colony Cells not only popping up more frequently every day, but also increasingly better trained and better geared, the heavy cruiser saw the end of its heyday. While the purpose built combat ship was ton for ton superior to most converted civilian vessels used by free colonists, as well as the oddly alien designs the Ijad introduced, the increase of space based mobile frame companies closed the gap enough that many militaries decided that the class just wasn't worth the manning and logistics to field any longer, in favor of smaller, more modern light cruisers, battle cruisers, and carriers that came to dominate The Second Great Expansion.

[emotionally-charged-arson]

Character Spotlight: The Chemist (Ayreon's The Source)

Ask and ye shall receive.

In the grand scheme of countless intertwining Ayreon headcanons infesting my brain, I like to have a nice, compact theme to refer back to for each album. Arjen is borderline intentional about not putting themes in his work, but they creep in anyway and you can dig them up and work off of them with a little elbow grease.

For me, The Source is about loss of purpose, which is sort of an overarching theme of the Forever saga anyway, but it shows up on a more intimate level in this album. Especially when you pull traits for characters out of thin air when you're 14 and eventually find a red thread through the lot of them you didn't actually plan for.

I did a really general overview of most of my versions of the Source cast and their whole deal while they're on Alpha. Just a whole mess of science, religion and state all crammed into one, eventually leading to the 'Frame taking over. In some way or another, these people all know each other and support a cause of some sort. When they're forced to leave their home planet, they have to grapple with the fact that their lives there were altogether pointless and figure out how to embrace the sense of rebirth that's a part of the Forever package.

Almost all of their arcs follow the same overall timeline: they had some *thing* they had worked towards for the better part of their lives, it's all ripped away in an instant with Alpha's destruction, and during their time on Starblade, they work their way back up to a new sense of collective self-worth.

There are, however, a few notable outliers. The Captain, The Chemist and TH-1 still have that theme thing going for them at the end, but how they get there is a little different.

So. Chemist. Like I said, pretty much everyone in the cast has an idea of who everyone else is. Not this guy.

Thomas Giles Rogers is an organic chemist with zero personal affiliation with any other character pre-album story. He graduated from the same enormous central university most of them did, but had no interest in tying his research, much less his entire career, to the fate of the planet itself. Not that he was ever offered or cares about politics at all, but still.

His motivations lie on more personal grounds. Giles is prone to stress, nervous breakdowns in academic settings, all that fun stuff. He always has been. His doctoral dissertation and the ten years of his career following it were dedicated to the synthesization of safe alternatives to sensory deprivation drugs. Either supplemental to the process or replacing it entirely. His "big" project for most of that time was an injection meant to temporarily alter the human respiratory system, allowing someone to breathe underwater for therapeutic processes.

The endeavor was a total failure, for all the resources put into it. Giles is forced to abandon the project after years of constantly being denied grants to pursue its production. People not prioritizing what he wants to use it for, his ineffective presentation, him refusing to let people hire him for research to weaponize it, whatever. All that work was for nothing and it takes genuine a toll on him.

It's really just a career slump, but his self-worth is so firmly attached to his perceived academic success that he can't cope. Four years before TDTTWBD, he drops all his research, picks up some entry-level lab tech job and just goes through the motions. No grandiose motivation to save the world like the rest of these yahoos, just surviving.

But anyhow. Russell does his thing, the 'Frame takes over, and one way or another everyone except Giles is crowded in Nils' basement accepting their fate and hopelessly looking for livable planets with no power or digital resources.

Gross oversimplification of Chronicle I, by the way. Russell drags a broken android into the place, Floor shoots Simone's ear off, etc.

The only remotely plausible option is Y, pretty grim given that the surface is uninhabitable and colonization could only occur if everyone somehow grew gills. As Hansi laments when a switch goes off in his brain and he remembers some science expo he went to a few years back, where some guy was presenting prototypes for...pretty much exactly that.

By pure coincidence, Giles is one of Simone's clients, signed onto her private practice she started after quitting her job as the previous president's counselor. She knows where he lives and works, and she and Tommy manage to track him down amidst the literal apocalypse outside (on account of Tommy having no scientific background and pretty much no other use to the group than scavenging for essentials on the surface in this part. Bonus points that he knows how to use a gun and supposedly doesn't care about his own death).

Giles, like a lot of people has basically been hunkered down in his apartment since the 'Frame took power (about three weeks) and is all paranoid and starving when they find him but they find him, take him back and convince him to pick his work back up all the same.

So he's part of the group now, and alternative to everyone else on Starblade who has no point to their lives now, Giles has FAR too much of a point. Using years old notes and limited resources, he has to create the greatest scientific advancement in the history of mankind in the maybe....six months that people onboard are able to live outside of suspended animation. The total extinction of the human race to follow if he fails.

This...does not mix well with

1. his whole self-induced, major-accomplishment based pressure thing since it's a wildly amplified version of it

2. The fact that he killed a woman during Run! Apocalypse! Run! (defending another character but still) and his control to give life and take it away over so many people, existing and prospective, constantly rotating in his brain

3. The more upbeat, hopeful characters unwittingly holding their expectations for their brave new world over him and what Liquid Eternity needs to be to satisfy them

4. Pretty much everyone else involved in the political side of things deliberately ceased contact with friends or family outside the party's inner circle, to prevent distractions or the possibility of blackmail, while they were still on Alpha. That devaluing of personal relationships is what they're conditioned to and this is more the focal point of Tommy, Floor and Tobias' sort of...joint character development situation, but it has an effect on Giles. This much more openly sensitive, emotional guy is surrounded by these jaded assholes who have no sense of the pressure he's feeling in more ways than one. This effect also applies to James (Historian) in a way, and the two actually kind of have a rapport going about it at the end of Chronicle II (syncing up with their little Condemned To Live duet), but the only person who seems to fully get what's happening to Giles is Simone, someone who deliberately separated herself from said jaded political asshole clique and who has prior knowledge of his experiences on account of literally being his therapist.

All in all just. Not having a good time, insisting that he has to do this alone and eventually external assistance from one or more characters being the only thing that solves it.

The other part of this compact theme thing is that our purpose, our humanity, is defined by our relationships and reliance on other people. We need something to strive for in order to feel like a person, and ultimately that 'something' comes down to either the preservation of the self, the other, or of the collective.

Once you resolve that, there is one other thing that defines the human experience and that is death.

Death and a point, a person, to avoid it in the name of. And Liquid Eternity took both of those things away. From there arises stagnation and a lack of purpose with no means of escape, the hallmark of the Forever Race.

-

-

-

(gosh, I wonder if that ties into members of the party forcing away loved ones in the name of their progress even though it was pointless in the end. Or TH-1's self-preservation being their downfall after all the talk of cooperation and acceptance of emotional openness. Who's to say.)

[thetavolution]

I learned more about who Vaira is as a character as I played her!

VAIRA

Full name:  Vaira of Crèche Ryl’lath Nicknames: Vai Name meaning:  Unknown Pronouns:  She/Her  Race: Githyanki Age: 31 Orientation: Pansexual Romance: Gale Class: Paladin Subclass: Oath of Devotion  Origin: Folk Hero Theme Song:  Godhunter - Aviators / Arsonist's Lullabye - Hozier / From Eden - Hozier / The Impossible Dream - Brian Stokes Mitchell

Personality Vaira is unlike most githyanki. She lacks a lot of their brutality and xenophobia. Vaira is honest to a fault and is, in fact, terrible at lying even if her life depended on it. Although not humorless, Vaira certainly can be overly-earnest. She is persuasive though, especially because she’s so honest. It can be refreshing to people.

Like most who take the oath of devotion, she is courageous and compassionate. Vaira will drop everything she’s doing to help someone in need, even if it means risking her own life. She struggles to prioritize her own needs. Instead, she elevates taking care of her companions or people around her. 

Another thing her fellow gith struggle to understand is her desire to aid and protect the weak, rather than letting them be culled. This impulse was often tolerated at her creche simply because she’s a powerful warrior in her own right. While she will punish the wicked, she is also likely to show them mercy. Vaira has always been good at taking accountability for her actions. She wants to go through life minimizing the amount of harm she does. 

She does find herself envying people that she sees as more advanced or beloved than her, like the Blade of Frontiers. Vaira fears that her deeds can never compare to that of other folk heroes. She is naive as she hasn’t spent a lot of time on Toril. While she isn’t as xenophobic as many of her kin, she isn’t very well educated on other races and cultures. She might not always express her curiosity or confusion in socially acceptable ways.

Vaira has internalized some of the ideals of her people. It’d be impossible not to. By non-gith standards, she can still be pretty brutal and unforgiving. She unlearns a lot of it during her time being tadpole’d. She’s much faster to turn on Vlaakith than Lae’zel, simply because she was already dubious of a lot of her teachings.

Background Born in Crèche Ryl’lath, it’s amazing Vaira survived childhood, given how big of a heart she has. She thanks her hatchery’s varsh, Ja’adoc, for that. He had taken a shine to the unusual little yank and guided her as best he could.

She always knew she was unlike everyone around her, but she did find her place among her people as a powerful paladin. Although she would protect “weaklings,” she earned enough respect from her peers that they more or less let her be. They didn’t necessarily like her although they wouldn’t mess with her.

Vaira was inspired to help others when she witnessed a lot of the weaker githyanki youth be slaughtered as she grew older. It had a profound impact on her and her desire to keep people safe. Ja’adoc worries about her often, although he respects her dedication to helping others. There are times it seems that he wishes he had done the same. But he would also like for her to be a more traditional gith so she could fit in better.

Vaira does have a hatred of ghaik and her skill for slaying them did earn her more respect from higher ranking githyanki around her. Her life would be uprooted when she was abducted and infected with a tadpole, her worst nightmare.

Once she spends time on Toril, she falls in love with the planet and, more importantly, Gale of Waterdeep. As an aside, he seems to be the one of the few Torilians she’s met who isn’t offended when she asks questions in an imperfect manner. He might tease her over her wording, but he also answers her plainly. She grows close with Lae’zel. Together, they moor themselves to this new land and carve out a new life for themselves.

She never abandons her paladin code, but after the elder brain is defeated, she does throw herself more into the arts and crafting. She settles down with Gale in Waterdeep. She does help protect the city as Gale works as a professor.

Likes: Justice, protecting the weak, taking care of people, sword fighting, poetry, the night sky, needlepoint, sewing, camping, pottery, soap-making, fancy soaps, and painting

Dislikes: Injustice, many facets of githyanki culture, not being able to help people, when people don’t give straight answers, and struggling so hard to fit in

Fears: She, understandably, fears become a ghaik. Getting a tadpole lodged into her brain is a nightmare come true for her. And, while she feels alienated from her fellow gith, she is scared to leave her culture behind for a whole new world. She doesn’t totally get her society, but she understands it in a way she does not understand Faerûn. She’s afraid of losing all of her new allies and friends, especially now that she’s found a place she really belongs.

She’s fears never being able to see Ja’adoc ever again. She’s even more terrified of the idea that Ja’adoc may not even care and doesn’t miss her at all.

Quirks: She’s incredibly upbeat and naive for a gith. Most people, especially other githyanki, are put off by her sweeter nature. Seriously, it’s pretty impressive she didn’t get herself killed before reaching adulthood. No idea how she pulled that one off. However, she still does stuff that makes people on Toril go, “Yep, she’s githyanki alright.”

Sometimes, when she gets overwhelmed, she just stops and stares into space. This is only when it’s safe to do, of course. If she’s in battle, she’s forced to just power through.

Mental Health:  Vaira has a lot of repressed trauma. As a githyanki, she’s witnessed a lot of brutal and messed up stuff, but she’s had no way to really unpack it. It’s just treated as normal in her culture. 

She wrestles with a lot of guilt, especially over some of the things she was forced to do as a child. She’s doing what she can to make up for it now, but it weighs heavy on her. She’s also carrying a lot of survivor’s guilt. So many people died around her while she somehow made it out alive.

Favorite Foods: Mutton Meatloaf, Roasted Beef, Rye Bread, Durinbold Cheese, Candied Persimmons, and Sword Mountains Spice Cake

Favorite Drinks: Blackstaff Wine and Yak Butter Tea

Favorite Flower: Dahlia Bulbs, Middlemist's Red Camellias, and Ghost Orchids

Height:  5’6”

Skin: Yellow-Green

Hair:  Black with red fringe or streaks

Eyes:  Greenish Yellow

Color Scheme:  I don't know if she has anything specific, but she does put on a lot of black, red, and green.

Fashion Sense: As a warrior she wears a lot of armor. After killing Ketheric, she took his armor as her own. Once she settles down with Gale in Waterdeep, she would start alternating between nice, comfortable dresses, and outfits she would practice her crafting in. But she'll always have plenty of armor in her armoire at the ready. She’ll always keep the armor she gathered on her tadpole adventure, even if it’s just as a keepsake. 

Family: 

Ja’adoc — He’s the varsh who cared for her. Istiks might consider Ja'adoc to be her father figure as they do share a father-daughter bond. Gith, however, would balk at the idea. (Lae’zel becomes one of the first to actually understand it.) If given the chance to properly be a father to Vaira, Ja'adoc would take it and Vaira would happily accept. He is a bit more like a traditional githyanki, but as a varsh he has a soft spot for children. He’s often accused of coddling the children, but he sees himself as giving them a chance to thrive. 

I want to imagine Ja’adoc would eventually come to Toril for Vaira. Then he’d write a book that’s some goofy thing like “Growing Up Gith” where he unpacks githyanki culture. It’d be super controversial and the Society of Brilliance would constantly ask him to do book signings. I do not think he would ever agree to do it.

Template!

[bulkhummus]

bulk i absolutely need to know what you think about carlos fitting into the current wtnv arc

‘Carlos looked at the setting sun. “I used to think it was setting at the wrong time,” he said, “but then I realized that time doesn’t work in Night Vale, and that none of the clocks are real. Sometimes things seem so strange, or malevolent, and then you find that, underneath, it was something else altogether. Something pure, and innocent. —

We understand the lights. We understand the lights above the Arby’s. We understand so much.

But the sky behind those lights – mostly void, partially stars? That sky reminds us we don’t understand even more.

Goodnight, Night Vale. Goodnight.”’

— Episode 25, One Year Later

Carlos is someone who knows what the power of knowledge holds. City Council keeps a close eye on him (as mentioned in It Devours), fears him even, for what he could be/ have been— had he not fallen in love with the town and Cecil.

Carlos could have very well been Lubelle— but he fell in love with the town, the people, and Cecil. I’ve spoken before about Carlos’ loneliness, and how Cecil being his friend and having an interest in him and his work really altered the course of his life (as he’s mentioned a few times). Carlos literally fell in love with a walking and talking mystery. He’ll never completely understand Cecil. Discovery is glorious and worthy of celebration— but there is also the thrill of the chase. The mysticism and glory of something you can’t dissect let alone know how. There is a poetic sadness in spending so much time and dedication into figuring something out, only to lose sight of why it was so fascinating in the first place. Demystifying. The itch you get in your brain once there is nothing left for your brain to focus on and work through.

The town still wears meat crowns and creates bloodstone circles but do not know who or why they worship. Why do our interests, our beliefs, ours facts bend and warp with time? Is a fact not just an echo of knowledge until something, or someone, comes along to disrupt it? That’s the way knowledge works. Thats the way beliefs work.

I think Carlos’ role in this arc is to bridge that gap between factual analysis and mystification of the mundane. Carlos is one of the few people in town who understands both sides of this struggle— and i think he is going to be forced to pick a side that explores who he is as a person first, instead of a scientist.

His goals might have been similar to Lubelle’s at first, given that he had no attachments other than his work, and came from the same university— but he always used science to help better a situation in town. The one time he realized he was hurting it with his ‘solution’ in It Devours! he immediately stopped. It was always people focused— whereas Lubelle has already demonstrated she doesn’t much care for what her discoveries might do to the people of the town.

Idk I started rambling — but basically, with the culmination of a science institution, the introduction of a new (?) god, the reemergence of a preexisting religion, the feelings of rightfully opinionated people in town and one man who has experience with all four things…. he’s definitely there bridge some sort of gap. carlos is the town hero after all. ill write more abt it when im less tired— but i have so many thoughts on how human beings dont have as many awe inspiring experiences anymore/ when things are so easily explained you lose the joy and wonder of the thing/ how what is easily known to us now was not 5, 10, 50 years ago etc etc.

and i think carlos learned that very early on