buabloomed
ชีวิตปกป้องชีวิต!
Indie Lifeweaver/Niran "Bua" Pruksamanee from Overwatch 2. Blossomed into a sideblog by Riss. (xrevolucionario.tumblr.com is my main blog).
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I'd be more surprised if you weren't, my friend.
*offended*
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send me a misconception you think people have about my character and I'll explain if it's true or not.
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Niran helping create an omnic space at the Arcology--and not just a retrofitted omnic space but a true omnic-centered space for omnics to live, to rest, to recuperate with omnic voices listened to is so damn important to me because he has the technology, he has the means, but he also has the heart and lacks the ego to really make those changes meaningful and impactful.
And when Null Sector attacks, where is he? Running towards danger to help with all he has. To tend to the wounded like the pacifist he is. Gosh, I love Niran a normal amount.
His biolight in action *sobs about it*
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-> Lifeweaver (Overwatch) Stimboard !
-> with pink + flower stims !
-> Requested by anon!
-> 🌸 - 🌷- 🌸 - 🌷 - 🌸 - 🌷 - 🌸 - 🌷 - 🌸
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so going by Symmetra's behavior about it, it seems like "Niran" is...not quite a deadname, but like...not really a name friends use for him? like I thought "Bua" was more like a silly little nickname he gave himself in addition to going by his legal name, but Satya outright says how weird it feels to call him "Niran" because it sounds like she literally never did. like Bua is his preferred name, at least coming from friends.
and once she gets comfortable enough with him again, Satya switches away from using "Niran", and neither she nor the story's narration ever call him that again.
#aww but i hate the name bua for him though. i love rp using Niran.#uhghghg i can *try* to use Bua but i want to chew on trees when i do...which is not Niran-approved...Bua-approved?#maybe it's a Satya-specific nickname which I could roll with#any and all Satyas can call Niran and refer to him as Bua.
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i got fake nails (because this week was simultaneously STRESS and yay! with very little sleep and ankle problems) and i'm FUCKED now
here i am tippy-tapping on my computer and omfg it feels like i have concrete bags on each of them.
but they are pretty
#𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗮𝘂𝗱𝗮𝗰𝗶𝘁𝘆! ╳ ooc.#replies will be even slower lmaoooo#how do people even type on these ? i ask as I've had fake nails in the past and did everything with them lmaooo
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Niran's favourite pickup line to use with his friends:
accompanied with a lot of flirty winks
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love that Niran cozies right up to some of the coldest and most unlikeable women in the Overwatch roster and befriends them with zero hesitation. his social circle must be wild
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He can't even argue against that. Not really. Even as the customary 'he wouldn't have hurt me' tries to wriggle its way up his throat and through his lips. Niran might not have known his capturers true intentions, they might have killed him as soon as they squeezed the money from those he loves, but that still doesn't excuse attempted murder!
It doesn't!
He wants to howl like a mad thing. Violence only begets more violence. An eye for an eye leaves the whole world blind. This is what he knows to be true--the very tenements of his core beliefs. Hurting someone--killing them even--he's not worth that. He's not.
The thought of violence being done in his name makes him want to throw up. A few dangerously wet sounding gags has him believing he's close to spewing up bile, but he manages to hold himself together, barely, trembling as damp lashes bat away the tears gathering at the corner of his eyes.
❝ Please. ❞ His whisper is hoarse, crackling--sandpaper scraping his throat. ❝ I just want to go home. ❞ A sniffle. ❝ No more. I just want to go-- ❞
He hears the gunshot before he feels it, body pitching forward in shock Blood blooms like red, red roses, a stark contrast to the white of his ratcha pataen. The pain hits like a hard-light baton to the skull, and he whimpers much like a wounded dog before crumpling to the ground. A marionette with his strings violently cut.
maybe it hits you the way it — doesn’t want to hit you. maybe it’s not unlike the look of terror on holly’s face the first time she’d ever survived the worst, the first time you’ve had to tear through flesh to bring back the most sacred thing to you, and how you remember a fundamental in the gaze on the face of someone you love — it reflects back at you. you’re nothing but a fucking monster and it’s all you’ll ever be. you’re not the hero, you’re a filthy fucking animal. just like your father promised.
in the end that shape is always right. in the end the image of someone you don’t even remember brings the most disgusting familiarity — it was always you, sealed it, you. he wouldn’t have killed your mother if not for you. he wouldn’t have died if not for you. filthy, putrid, disgusting little fucking monster. why couldn’t you fucking die too?
there’s glass stinging in your skin. odds are, you’ll dig it deeper to punish yourself for how you feel. your claws click together nervously. you feel nothing looking at this man, not an inch. you feel nothing but a stinging, acrid, terrible hate burning in your stomach. you have to stop yourself when your brain springs up the image you want to conjure — paint the wall with a canvas splash from a soft, supple throat.
“because there’s four more guys downstairs and he’s going to kill you.”
you can’t stop thinking about it. what a terrible fucking feeling, sinking in your gut. monster monster monster monster monster monster you want to rip yourself open.
“so are the fucking rest of them, niran.”
ask what happens when you play stupid games — you win stupid prizes. your voice is flat, toneless.
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I promise you, relationship anarchy is a good thing. Tell your friends you love them. Go on dates. Domme them. Take them to weddings. Have a relationship with the sub from the dungeon where she does your taxes or you mow his lawn. Help your neighbor plant begonias and become their honorary granddaughter. Become friends with your partner’s partners. Cuddle with your book club and talk about Polysecure or something, idk.
I don’t care. Just stop expecting every relationship to follow a specific pattern and instead find the beauty you both want in your specific relationship with that other person.
Life is more than the nuclear family and strict pseudo-Christian mythological ideals.
#this is so nirancore#he will take his friends on dates. he does not CARE about the silly lil social constructs.#He has so many honorary grandparents too because he's always willing to tend to a garden (especially if it's floral)
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An abandoned project of Elf Lifeweaver....I appear to have backlog of this man lmao
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“The prettier the garden, the dirtier the hands of the gardener.”
— B. E. Barnes, Put in work.
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He falls forward with the force of his own struggles as he's set free, cheek scraping against the warehouse floor. But he can't acknowledge that small amount of pain--not now.
Niran can't even bring himself to look at his saviour right now, golden gauntlet stretched out and a light already forming into a lotus bloom in the center of his palm. Biolight will fix this. It'll have to. The first bloom is weak, but it hits its mark right on target, sinking into the mash of flesh at the man's knee.
A few more flings of biolight slows the bleeding to a trickle, a few more begins to help flesh knit. It's not surgery or magic; the man might never walk the same again, but at least he's not in danger of hemorrhaging.
❝ I'm s-- ❞ The apology dies a swift death on his tongue. How can he possibly say anything adequate enough? This man may never use his knee for as long as he lives. He will have to live in constant pain, and for what? Because he made a stupid mistake? Because he didn't realise that the person he kidnapped--probably out of desperation--had connections?
Because Niran wasn't silver-tongued enough?
Hiccupping slightly, wiping his face with a now-grimy sleeve, the naturalist finally looks up at Selina, who looks nothing short of an avenging angel, and for the first time, the icy tendrils of fear and dread dig into his guts. His chin quivers, and he has to fight the bile rising up his throat to utter a devastated: ❝ Why? ❞
“NIRAN!”
you hear your whip snap along the gargoyle overhead when you jump, swing yourself in with glass shattering in a panic. you see his panic, see his agony, see his sudden, desperate snapping, perhaps no different sometimes than the dog you can be. a prey animal caught in a snare.
you’re eyes behold the tableaux of scarlet you create — the phone is dead on the floor, face-up, reflects you as you step over it and into the welling puddle. the guy’s knee is a thing of the past, cords and muscle, tendon torn like having stepped on a landmine. you think about blowing his brains out without so much as blinking but your hand doesn’t twitch — instead, you rush to the other, claws slicing through fiber rope.
“what the fuck are you DOING?!”
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The shot goes off, leaving nothing but loud, ringing static in its wake. Then a guttural scream rends through the stillness. Who is screaming?
Niran realises too late that the wounded cry is coming from his mouth, ruining his vocal cords. Even so, he cannot stop, wide brown eyes unable to look away from the pool of slow oozing blood and flesh bubbling up from the massive gunshot wound.
The world blurs for a second before something hot and wet makes its way down his cheeks. Tears, he thinks belatedly. Everything is belatedly as if he's swimming through lotus ponds back home, dark with brackish debris. The man, one of his kidnappers, is curled up in a foetal position now, clutching his shredded knee.
Biolight's supposed to be strong enough to heal the world. What good is he if he can't even wield it to heal another? Please. Please.
Words form in the screams now, a litany of increasingly desperate 'no, no, no's as Niran struggles to free his hands. If only he had his hands, he could heal the man bleeding right beside him. He could save him. Just---! The synthetic rope carves into the tender wrist of his organic hand the more he struggles like a frenzied rabbit in a snare trap until his own blood begins to well up from the friction, staining the rope. Just. A bit. More. Hold on, hold on, hold on!
you know what people don’t know about you? that one of your particular special interests happens to be guns. you have a vast and wide collection, and your friendship with the widow has only increased its size. you find more and more honing your skills when it comes to aim is so valuable — you need to stay sharp and you make sure to do just that.
so when niran is in danger your only regret is that you weren’t earlier aware. your database had not pinged the weaver of life in time, and now you find yourself taking every skill you can throw at the wall to make sure he’s safe. you track every movement; you prepare yourself well. what he doesn’t know is that you’re not afraid of this at all. you’ve rolled right up to this situation as ready to go as you can get.
you glance the quick glint of an ivory hue and deep tan and you feel your throat bob when you swallow. the shot is perfect — you’re going to shoot that fuck right in the kneecap, and you have two other shots lined up. you have the room in your goggles, candy-red, his image still something you can see from every angle. you fearlessly adjust your shoulders and settle the rifle’s butt against you like an old familiar friend. you speak one word.
“no.”
you pull the trigger.
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i'm so sexy everyone want me *gestures to the WANTED: DEAD OR ALIVE poster with my face on it on the city wall behind me*
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