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asterrrrion · 1 year

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Fun fact about the Harbingers :

As you probably know, their names are italian (which... weird for a russian organisation but oh well), but what's less talked about is that all of the Harbingers' names are commedia dell'arte characters. (Also, "fatui" isn't italian, it's latin, plural of fatuus, adjective meaning dumb foolish jerk basically).

For people who don't know about the commedia dell'arte, quick history lesson. La commedia dell'arte is an italian genre of theater that spread across Europe in the 16th century.

The representations were based on several characters (always the same with the same names) identified by their mask, who played a comedy with generally various levels of improvisation. The basic plot was kinda always the same : two people in love, the parents won't let them marry, cue dramatic comedy with ridiculous characters everywhere. It was popular, absolutely not noble.

The first harbinger, Pierro, is a sad clown in the commedia dell'arte. Literally, which ties back to his "jester" codename. He's dressed entirely in white with touches of black, and is naive but trustworthy, kind and sad because in love with Columbina who breaks his heart. The interesting thing about Pierro, though, is that he's an outcast, and was used by many philosophical movements : he was considered a disillusioned idealist and later a silent observer of the human condition. He's also a zanni, so a servant. Pedrolino, however, said to be Pierro's ancestor, is an incredibly smart troublemaker and manipulator, who survives by putting himself at the service of others.

Next is Il Dottore ! He's dressed all in black, with a white ruff and a big pretentious hat. He's a doctor, obviously, (and also his name literally means the doctor so maybe his codename being just the doctor in a different language is kinda dumb), but a bad one, and he doesn't actually know anything about medicine but is always pretending to. He uses a lot of pig latin to cover up his ignorance. His main interactions are with Pantalone, generally as a friend and mentor, sometimes as an opposant.

Third, Columbina, is a servant, often of the main female character. She has a patched ragged dress and heavy makeup around her eyes. She's basically the only one with braincells, as she's the one that has to put the two lovers together in the story. She's often shown to be a prostitute and a gossipy servant, always having something to say about the people around. Very down to earth character, also. Most of the times, she's in love with Arlechinno, or his best friend, and she's flirtatious and impudent. Basically the insolent, confident servant with common sense that helps her mistress.

Since we don't have the next in ranks, let's just do Pulcinella : characterized by his white clothes and his black mask with a long nose, he's one of the most well-known commedia dell'arte characters. He's an opportunist, a scheming bastard, always trying to rise in the societal order. He's also a thief, and very often perverted in the sexual sense. He's sometimes depicted as a noble, but more often as a servant. His only motivations are self-serving, and yet he always saves the main characters in the end. He's deemed as a savior despite also being a selfish asshole. He's also completely unable to shut up, but always manage to win. Those character traits and the fact that he's supposed to embody the spirit of the plebs is probably why his codename is The Rooster.

Arlecchino's codename suits her : a knave is a deceitful person, but used to mean a male or boy servant, which is exactly what Arlecchino is in the commedia dell'arte. Probably the most known one, his clothes are squares of different colours patched together, because he doesn't have the money to pay for clothes, and yet they look cool. He's a boyish reckless trickster, resourceful, agile and funny. He's in love with Columbina and often tries to make his master's plan fail (his master being the antagonist of the play) to help the lovers. Although, his mischievous nature and his physical abilities are apparently inherited from a devil character in older theater plays... His mask retains the colours from Hellequin, the demon he's based of from.

Il Capitano, whose codename also means the same thing as his name does, is one of the funniest commedia dell'arte characters. He's dressed in glorious clothes, all in red and gold, a feather attached to his hat and a big sword to his belt. He's a soldier, a decorated military man, and a total coward. His role in the plays is to come every time something suspicious is happening and then to run away when it looks like it could be dangerous. He's full of himself and is always telling everyone about how great he is. He doesn't have a lot of interactions with the others seeing as they hate him.

Now, Scaramouche's (pronounced Scaramoosh) name doesn't sound very italian, because it's not : it's the translation in french of Scaramuccia, the character's italian name. The meaning of the name is "small skirmisher", so a small front line soldier, which is also his codename in Chinese. But The Balladeer also makes sense: he's often depicted with a music instrument. He's dressed all in black, and his clothes are those of a noble, but he's been demoted as a servant in later plays. He's also an obnoxious scaredy cat who always end up being beaten, but he was once, under the name Pasquino, seen as an intriguing servant, a big liar and a smart character. He's also unreliable which... checks out.

Sandrone's (Sandrone with the first e of schedule for example) codename is Marionette (mahrionett), which means puppet in french. In the commedia dell'arte, she's a male peasant who's cunning and crude. His costume is made in something similar to velvet, and he's supposed to be the spokesperson of poor people that can't make ends meet and have to get tricky for that. He also has a family, a wife and a son. He first appeared as a puppet character in puppet theaters.

La Signora (pronounced as La Sinyora not as La Sig-nora) means "the lady" in italian, and she wears very big dresses and a lot of makeup. She's Pantalone's wife but cheats on him, and although she sometimes starts out as a courtesan she always end up in a rich guy's home. She's very tough and beautiful, and also very cold, calculating. Her motivation is the fulfillment of her physical need and she's very materialistic. She'll do what she needs to to have more dresses and jewels and sex. Following only this, her codename might mean fair as in beautiful.

Pantalone is always dressed in all reds with a long black coat. His name comes from his clothes, as he lived in a time where long pants weren't common (and also his pants are more stocking at this point, there's a moment when something is too tight to be called pants). He's a greedy old man, and is seen as an antagonist. He's usually a father or a husband getting cheated on, and he's very, very rich yet doesn't use his money. His only friend is Il Dottore. He's also perverted and part of the bourgeoisie (so not a noble but high part of society because rich). He's a strict dad and yet his kids always find a way to get things past him, and literally nobody except Il Dottore likes him.

Last but not least, our boy Tartaglia (which I BEG YOU to stop pronouncing Tartagulia that's the worst pronunciation ever. The right way to say his name is more of a Tartaya, the gli sound in Italian is between a y and an l). Codename : Childe, which a lot of people think is weird but is actually even weirder when you know his character is originally a middle to old aged man. He's also a family man (as in a father) and represents the lower working class. Tartaglia means Stutterer, because he's very clumsy and has a stutter that won't go away. He has a long sword and a big hat, but is always dressed mainly in green. He's friendly, and a dreamer always lost in thought.

I think that's it ! We can see that the harbingers took more than the name of their counterpart I think.

#fatui harbingers #genshin impact #genshin #fatui #childe #tartaglia #the less logical one is probably childe #but i think pierro is interesting in light of pierro's genshin character

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honestsycrets · 10 months

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mío | baby-fever!miguel o'hara x wifey!reader

❛ pairing | miguel o'hara x wifey!reader, starved prequel

❛ type | oneshot, explicit

❛ summary | after watching mayday, miguel develops a bad case of baby fever, longing for a family of his own.

❛ tags | explicit, miguel has baby fever, babysitting, talk of family planning and contraception, f!reader, breeding, pregnancy kink, much fluff, some angst, starved!reader, miguel being frustrated and cute, clean that kitchen, one stereotype of latina women, Spanish is not translated, best friend!peter, self edited.

❛ request fulfilled | could you possibly write an imagine in which Miguel and his wife take care of mayday? + multiple requests for more starved reader/miguel.

❛ sy's notes | written to fulfill some requests. i do have another daddy miguel blurb to fulfill, but my future works should be nice and angsty.

Peter has it out for him.

It’s the only logical reason why he’d do this shit to him.

Miguel stood in his dark room in a pair of scratchy jeans, dragging a belt loop to loop when he heard the door to his room draw open. A resonant schwap, schwap, schwap.

“Mi reina?” Miguel cocked his eyebrow up, extending his claws.

“¿Sí?” you called back from the bathroom, the distant scent of his favorite perfume wafting into the air. Miguel threw a look to the bathroom, reaching for the bedroom door. It burst open before he could open it.

“Hi, Miguel! Where’s your wife?”

Peter dragged his feet into the room, whirling around with a sloppily put-together backpack that leaked diapers onto the floor. An exasperated breath left his lips, dripping in the way he looked at Peter.

Unfortunately, his little wife liked Peter a bit too much for his taste.

“I should have known.” Miguel ran his hand through his hair, strands of mocha brown flyaways wisping along his tawny forehead. “Why are you here?”

His normally disheveled appearance was a little more disheveled. It wasn’t his appearance that bothered him but how it reached his eyes. Shocked, confused, tired. Peter pat his deltoid, awkward laughter choking in his throat. It bubbled on the edge of an overwhelmed sob.

“Well, you see, your wife said she’d watch Mayday because I have a date, and I haven’t had a date in a really, really long time. Like, a really long time—”

“Is Peter here?”

His head snapped to your bathroom where you came out, threading a golden hoop earring. You probably already knew the fight that was heading your way-- but for your part, you couldn’t be bothered to care any less.

“Got it, you need this date.” Miguel cut Peter off, standing behind you with his massive arms crossed. “¿Por qué no me dijiste?”

“¡Mi nena! Muévete Miguel,” you giggled, shoving your way past Miguel to Peter’s child carrier, sneaking your hands underneath her little armpits and whirling her around. She cackled, a glittering warmth to her mischievous eyes. You came to a stop, settling Mayday against your chest, nuzzling your foreheads together in some secret pact that the two of you shared.

Oh no, no, no, no. Not this. It hits him at once.

The sight of his wife— beautiful and cuddly with a very young baby in her arms. The only sight more beautiful was at the altar on his wedding day, your shy smile behind a sheer veil. It had been a long time, too long, since he had someone to call him father. He can still picture her glimmering eyes, the way she looked at him in nothing short of admiration, looking past the things that he’d done to see him and only him. Glimpsing at Mayday, remembering Gabriella’s soft, small face, it took him a moment to snap free.

He's so fucked.

“You would have said no, amado mío.”

You’re a natural at this, scooting by both men to set Mayday on the bed. Your tiny fingers spiraled out from her belly to change her diaper. Peter jittered uncomfortably, looking as though he wanted to jump in himself. You cleaned her, replacing the dirty diaper with a clean one. “We’re going to a market with Tío Miguel--”

“Don’t bring me into this.”

“Are you sure it's okay? I’ll be back at five, it's just a few hours, really--”

“¡Vete! A ratty house robe and a dirty spider suit aren’t sexy. Look at mi Miggy,” now you’re just buttering him up. He shifts his weight from one leg to the other, inspecting the ground. “Wear something nice.”

They’re sexy to her, he might have murmured. Not on a date, you bopped him. Mayday’s bright eyes tracked the space between you and Peter before you broke away to wash your hands. Peter’s clammy hands cupped Mayday’s sweet face, littering at least a dozen sickly daddy kisses over her tiny face. But Miguel what if--

“Adiós, Peter!” You returned to force Peter out of your room. Miguel peered at Mayday whose head snapped to the side, cheek against her fiery hair as the door clicked shut. He braced himself for the shrill that would inevitably come with her realization that her daddy was gone. She whined, grabbing her toes and tipping nearly off the side of the bed. Miguel begrudgingly hovered at her feet, blocking her from rolling off the bed. He could do this, he told himself, he could resist those giant baby eyes staring up at him.

He didn't need a baby, he didn't.

He blames Peter for having such a good baby.

She doesn’t ask for much other than requiring chest-to-chest contact with Miguel. It’s not that he doesn’t want to hold her, he finds himself aggravated by how much he likes to be around her. In a market full of things to look at food trinkets such as necklaces, body scrubs, and empanadas, it’s all her. Miguel props her up with an arm just under her bum, her tiny finger peeking curiously into his fangs. He snapped his teeth playfully at her, a nip, nip, nip, missing playfully every time. It rips ping a toothy grin across her face.

“No biting Miguelito,” you called out, sliding your fingers in a teasing ring around his muscled back to chest. You leaned up on your tippy toes, placing a small little kiss on his lips. You ran off to go get her a pineapple whip after her tiny fist yanked your hair over and over again. You relented, staring at what she was cooing at. Sweets-- obviously, sweets. All the little ones loved sweets.

“She likes it.”

“Ya sé,” you said, “But we don’t need anyone noticing you’ve grown fangs.”

“Tch,” he clicks his teeth in protest. She does too, throwing you a mean look for interrupting her fun. You plucked up a bit of the whip on your spoon, cutting through her displeasure through the power of sugar.

"There's a lot of people here, Miggy, let's go to the park." You point toward the park, pointing away from the mounds of fresh produce and locally sourced goods toward a healthy patch of green grass. Miguel is glad-- he’s sick of being stared at for his huge frame. Despite the ring on his finger, people still seem to try their luck. He couldn't be more disinterested.

You lay a picnic blanket as Miguel holds Mayday's treat. Mayday sprawls across his chest, trying to take just one more bite-- then another-- Miguel looks down, chin level, eyebrow raised. She offers a bit on her tiny index finger to Miguel. A peace offering. “She’s not going to wait.”

“Give her to me.” You kicked off your sandals on the edge of the blanket, dropping your things on another corner. You pluck Mayday from Miguel’s arms and set her down on the blanket in a way that is too easy. As though you wouldn’t have much of a learning curve in becoming a mother. No, no— you never mentioned anything about kids. Did you even want kids? He couldn't bring his heart to ask, to hope again.

“I didn’t know you were so experienced with kids.”

“Mami had six,” you noted, plopping down with the whip by Mayday’s side. She sat with a small slant, reaching out toward the sweet treat again with those chunky, adorable hands. You brought her into your lap, at last relenting. “When you’re the oldest, you have to learn a little something to help out. Can you imagine-- being pregnant six times? Ay no.”

“How many times do you want to be pregnant?” he blurts out. Usually timed and precise, the question causes him to pinch his brow as he sits beside you. “Si quieres,”

Your other hand comes on top of his and shifts it away from his face.

“As many as will make you happy.”

Shock. He chews on that response, his eyes glued to Mayday lapping at the last spoon of sweets you are willing to give her. She falls into a fit of complaints, a conniving look at the sweets, just as you lift her onto your shoulder.

"I never thought about it."

"No more, your papa won't forgive me if I bring you home all sugared up," you tsked your tongue at her. You patted along her back in small, tight circles until her angry huffs faded away. He reaches for the baby bag, slipping free a soft yellow blanket with white spiders strewn across the front. Miguel slides the blanket on top of Mayday’s small body, her groggy eyes sliding closed.

The more he watches you with Mayday, holding her so close, swaying as you held her, the deeper this ache burrowed in his chest. You would look beautiful all swollen with his child. Never mind Mayday or Peter, he can nearly see it, feel it under his fingers, the feeling of your taut belly under his skin, or the kick of tiny feet against his palm.

“We’ll see, Miggy.”

We’ll see-- the answer seems too noncommittal, too distant to be a satisfactory answer. With Mayday sound asleep, you settle her between your plush thighs. She expelled bursts of energy that milked her energy dry.

A little old woman passed by, her cane pierced soft grass as she moved closer with a bag of tomatoes and green beans. Her face, aged by time, pulls into a wide smile. He doesn't like her smile.

“You two are doing a great job. How old is she?”

You blink, looking up into the woman’s cool blue eyes, her dark hair peppered with thick grey and white strands. You tuck Mayday in her soft blanket, sparing the woman a kind smile that Miguel doesn’t quite have the patience for.

“Oh, oh. Thank you-- um, a couple of months,” you recount, perhaps thinking of Peter’s anxious pacing or his delighted shouts about becoming a father.

“Adopting is a great option. Back in the day, my husband was a bodybuilder too. Had a low sperm count don’t you know. Steroids shrink things. Oh, but these days you can do all sorts of things like IV--”

A what-- Miguel’s eyes nearly popped out of his skull at the suggestion. Was this old bitch’s suggestion that he couldn’t do it-- couldn’t get you pregnant? He could easily do that. If he wanted you pregnant, you would be shocking pregnant. He’d be damned if some old woman put it in your mind that he couldn’t.

“We’re babysitting for a friend,” he blurts out. “I have--” had, “a daughter.”

“Oh, do you? I’m sorry. I thought-- well, it doesn’t matter what I thought, have a good day."

She’s saying that, but it comes out slanted. You don’t bother correcting Miguel, not on this. Rather, your hand inched toward his, picking up on the energy that was pluming from his body in waves. Irritation-- annoyance-- the little old lady hobbles off. You’re in your mind well enough to bid her goodbye. But you know better than to say anything more, slumping your cheek on Miguel’s firm chest. It makes the ache of Gabriella's memory a little more bearable.

Low sperm count his ass.

It bothers him long after Mayday is gone. Peter, for his part, looks refreshed. He supposes that’s what happens with a full day of opportunity to empty your balls after weeks of no relief. It bothers him long after you come back from the kitchen, his favorite dark red slip plastered to your perfect body. It would look beautiful, full of his children— he just knows it.

“I may have hijacked the kitchen a little bit,” you teased, the waft of warm chicken and brewed spices filled his nose. He had no appetite. “But I made you some pollo guisado.”

“Hm,” he grunts into a pillow. “Later.”

Beside the bed, he has a bowl of brightly colored condoms. With your sensitivity to birth control, it is the best option available. It wasn’t, however, something he was ever happy about. He should be able to feel your body. Not once had he felt your body pure and unadulterated, warm and perfect for him. He was your husband. He wanted that moment— to fill you up just once, watch his cum dribble out of your cunt. It would be perfect. You set the food away, bowl and spoon clinking together.

“Miguel.”

Forget your warm body. This room is too quiet. It is almost stifling in its silence. Mayday’s sweet huffs, the memory of Gabriella’s laughter. A proper home full of a child's giggles. He’s going crazy-- he has to be-- this isn’t normal. This isn’t Miguel.

“Mi vida, don’t pout,” you reach out, rolling your fingers through his long brown hair. Your fingers tease along his scalp, turning around his ear. Your fingers tickle his lobe, your voice cemented in a concern that he wanted nothing more but to fix if it were anything other than this. “Miggy. Miggy, what is wrong? You look sad.”

“I’m not sad,” he says with a whine on his pillow. How silly he must look with his broad arms wound around the body pillow, squeezing its fluff for life. If he said the words well enough, you might believe them.

“I know you are,” you nudge the pillow loose. He takes you instead, the air thickening with the closeness. You fed off the tension, sliding your leg over the sheet that covers his naked hip. “Tell me why.”

He turns his hands over your thighs, traveling past your hips to ghost along your belly.

“Sí, Miggy?”

“I need…” he trailed off, finding the words nearly impossible to admit. They grow into a ball and cement in his throat, present but stubborn. Rather than break the words free, he swallows a bolus of desire and frustration. “It’s nothing. Let it go.”

The issue was— you loved him enough to let it do so.

Miguel doesn’t want to press the issue. He knows you. All you want is Miguel’s happiness. Sometimes, he worries it is at the price of your own. The distance he places between you and him is intolerable. It bothers him every time he finds you babysitting Mayday.

Today, while Peter goes on a small date, you and Mayday make his favorite empanadas. She’s covered in a dusting of flour from head to toe. Peter would have fun with that.

“Miggy you’re back?” you called as Mayday’s chubby hands shot out, nearly plopping off the counter if not for Miguel’s quick reflexes, setting her back in place.

“Empanadas?” he settles the words in a small kiss to your lips. You glance at him over your shoulder.

“It's... it's Gabi's birthday, isn't it?"

You’re too good for him. Despite the day coming and going, no one else notices his grief today. Not even Peter who came in alongside him, reading the room, and snatching up Mayday off the countertop. He’s babbling something, a thank you, see you later— you kiss Mayday with only the sweetness a mother could know.

“Peter! Mayday made these for you,” you reach out to a box of uncooked empanadas. “Take them home!”

Her first empanadas— the delight is palpable. Peter may have snapped a photo, or ten, of his little flour girl on the way out, empanadas in hand. Then there’s silence. Miguel returns the nearly forgotten bundle of empanada dough and filling to the fridge in the space of unspoken tension. Miguel dips down to your neck, caramelized perfume warm on your neck. His lips trace the warm pulse of your neck.

“Mami,” his voice mesmeric, warm like the filling you used to make him happy when no one else could. Your doting attention, even in the face of real issues like work and babies, was always on him.

"Sí, mi vida?"

His hands coast around your waist, using his strength to gently turn you around. It isn’t important right now. What is important is how he lifts you up onto the floury surface, purring his need into your slight ear. “I want a baby.”

“¿Qué?”

“Una niña,” Miguel leans his fingers along your collarbone.

“Oh, Miggy.” You puff the words. They come out almost wounded. You know him so well, the vulnerability of the words causing him to look down. Your warm palms cradle his cheeks, forcing him to look into your eyes. “You miss being a father, don't you?”

You’re not stupid. Neither is he. He thought he could wait— watch Mayday grow up and not feel this sundering longing. As though he could stomach never feeling a child in his arms again. The ghosts of the past that came with Mayday’s longing haunt him day by day.

You devour his insecurity, winding your legs around his waist and forcing him forward. He stumbles into your embrace, as though he were not a man who could decimate villains and spiders alike. When he was here, in your arms, he barely felt like the weapon of a man that he is.

“Miguel. Speak to me.”

“You’re right,” he can’t lie— can’t hide the longing that comes with the thought of his own child on his chest. Not Mayday, no matter how many times she cuddled up to his chest. At the end of the day, she would never be his. You drew your lip into your mouth, nipping it fat and red, a bob in your head. His heart beats faster, strumming as though it would break free from his chest. Whatever it is you’re thinking he’s not sure. Only that it’s been so long.

“I just want to make you happy, will this make you happy?” you nearly whisper, knowing that there’s no one but him to hear the words. It’s what he wants for you, too. As he stands there, coursing his fingers along your thighs and hiking your dress up your hips, he can’t help but feel the foggy discomfort of forcing you into parenthood before you were ready.

“It will.”

As well as it could. It would never erase Gabriella-- and, in the vulnerability of begging his wife for another child, came the guilt. Not only the guilt of failing to be a proper father or to protect her but moving on without her in his life to a beautiful family she would have loved. The feelings surge in his chest, a well of uncomfortable emotions in his eyes, threatening to fall.

“Miguel,” you’re whispering, your fingers cutting across his sharp cheekbones. You cup his face, drawing your lips together in a commanding kiss. You never liked being ignored or forgotten. He’s not sure how he could now, with your tongue flicking between his lips, begging him to come back with a sugary sweet whine. “Stay with me, Miguel.”

“I am,” he says, gripping either side of the counter by your hips. He feels your eyes on him, soft and careful, pressuring him to meet your gaze. He searches for an inkling of an answer in your gaze. "¿Qué piensas?"

“We can try,” you bite your lip, sliding it free between your teeth. “If you don’t have a low sperm count,” you tease. “Maybe it’ll take.”

“¡Por dios!” He throws a curse to the side as if he believed in such a being, throwing a look back at you. “You don’t actually believe that vieja.”

“Ay Miggy, of course not.” His lips work into a budding smile. You leaned up against his stubbly jaw, setting soft kisses there. Your lipstick stains his neck, dragging down to his prominent adam’s apple. He looks down at you with heady eyes, tracing the way you suckled a mark on his throat. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t like them a little more when others noticed them, little marks of possession. Miguel’s fingers come up to the straps of your dress, easing them over and down your slight shoulders. You pull back, words forming puff against his neck.

“Not right here,” you inhale a soft breath. “Someone could come in.”

Miguel eases his finger over the small bud of your breast, rolling his thumb along the silken skin, His hand comes up, encompassing your neck and shoving you back into the cabinets. It isn’t comfortable, not by far. He works the nub to its peak before turning his attention to the other. His mouth covers your breast, fangs grazing your nub as he suckled and tugged gently. Miggy, you pull him back up, stripped of your touch. Your hand slide across Miguel’s chest, tracing the taut muscles of his chest.

“Who would come in?”

“Peter,” you answer.

It’s always Peter. He supposes that you wouldn’t want your friend to see you here, cunt stuffed with Miguel on the very same counter you earlier made him empanadas on. Miguel snatched the dress that fell along your hips laxly, utilizing it to yank you off the counter. You fell forward into Miguel, a heavy wall of muscle, your lips failing to form anything of use. You looked at him, cheeks flush and eyes doting, he’s the only one you see.

“The balcony, then.”

“Dianche, Miguel! Do you want all of Nueva York to see me?”

“Maybe.”

No, but see Miguel breeding you? Undoubtedly yes.

He couldn’t simply choose the bed, that would be too easy. Miguel set a kiss on your forehead, soft and scratchy with his stubble. You return it by dragging him down for another kiss, a wave of warmth coming over him as you force your hips back onto him, rolling your hips against his, teasing him. Miguel doesn’t appreciate the tease and gently pushes on your hips, motioning you to face the counter.

“Bend over.”

"Can't we go to my room?" you complain but comply all the same. Miguel’s palm ghosts your spine, dragging his fingers smoothly over the middle of your back and past the dress that gathered around your hips, He strips you of the little cover the dress gave, eager to have you bare and rid of the thin clothing that served as a veil from prying eyes. Miguel can cover you from the prying eyes of others if necessary. Not that he cared if others saw him fucking-- he’s all the more eager to have you all to himself, here and now.

“No panties,” he notes, his warm hands on your inner thighs. “It’s almost like you knew.”

“I might have,” you return, spreading your legs obediently for him. He palms your vulva, your hips shifting down over his hand. Sticky and wet, he wonders if his need to breed you has rubbed off on you too. His fingers shift, sliding over your soft hole. “Apúrate Miguel, you’re so slow.”

“Can’t you be be good for once.”

You were always bossy. He likes it, most the time, being led around by what his pretty little wife wants. Today he wants to take his time, curving his broad fingers into your glistening cunt. Your wetness drips over his knuckles, fingers teasing the velvety soft walls he has never felt without a condom. A pleasured cry wracks in your chest, turning your head over your shoulder to watch Miguel’s fingers stretching you out. No matter how much your walls gave under his fingers, you would still ache when he penetrated you. It was the favourite part, the rich pull of his dick into your hole, bottoming out as best he could in your stomach. He soothes your complaints by grazing his other hand against your perky clitoral hood, finding the soft nub there for relief. You settle your arms on the floured surface.

“I never-- ah-- am,” you threw back.

Miguel slipped his fingers free, cupping your cunt with his palm for a teasing slap. You want to be good-- it’s just so hard, your cunt pulsing in the abswnce of his touch. He drags his sodden fingers to your lips, glazing them in taste of your lubricant. You suckle your tongue around his thick digits, savoring your own taste, his soft grunt of approval spurring you on. You feel like such a good girl with his fingers crooked in your mouth.

“Are you ready?” Miguel stands fully upright, dragging your hips to his. He’s hard as the counter you were pathetically clinging onto. His hipbones ground into your plush ass, dick pulsing in his immediate ache to feel your cunt. He backs up, fiddling with something at the waist. You don’t need to ask to know that it was his big cock grinding between your cheeks, smearing fluid over your slit.

“No condom?”

“No condom,” he affirms. You bow your head, nodding gently over the countertop. The head of his cock drove into your wetness, pushing past bundles of nerves. It’s impossibly different without the bag over his dick. It’s been so long. His world blinks out, savoring the feeling like he was an inexperienced teenager again.

“Carajo, you’re so good,” he finds himself cursing, leaning over your back.

“Now he says I’m good."

“Shh,” Miguel clips with a mean nip at your nape, lining it with soft kisses, encouraging you on to take him. Warm and wet, Miguel can only describe the slide into your cunt as untethered delight. Released from the bondage of his usual condom, he’s a mess against your soaked cunt, gripping you for a semblance of stability.

I just want to make you happy. For all your needy complaints and little quips, he knows you do. Otherwise he wouldn’t be here, with your hands cupped on top of his, squeezing for more closeness. Miguel laces your fingers together in a needy weave, drawing back to stroke his cock right back into your wet body. You lead one of his hands between your legs, urging him on to stroke your clit. Your walls clamp down on him, teasing out bursts of pleasure with how deeply he was buried. Miguel’s lips part into a whine of his name, skin slapping against skin. He sets a kiss in the crook of your neck, breath nearly unbearable.

“Mami,” he gasps, the word coming out between his unstable thrusts. Your eyes shut hard, sparks of pleasure winding and building in your core. “Give me a baby.”

“Sí papi,” you heave, “I”m trying to.”

Miguel knows what you like-- and you like him desperate. His voice so low and rich that you gush around his swollen length, falling apart below him. He catches your body from dropping in an instant, his thighs shaking as he works you through the fibers of gentle pleasure. Hot pressure builds low in his stomach.

“Qué bella eres. I’m going to finish, fill you and knock you up,” he whispers, drawing himself free and admiring the hazy space of pleasure and reality. Miguel turns you back to face him. You think you may complain-- you didn’t cum, or something of the sort. He shifts you to sit on the counter, spreading your vulva for inspection. Miguel spat on your cunt, rolling his fingers over the swollen folds to spread you apart. He slipped into the space between your shaking legs. You felt him thrust into your body hard and sharp. Your hands reached out, dragging Miguel’s shoulders forward, clinging onto his body.

It comes all at once, Miguel’s stuttering thrust forward, a deep groan filling the kitchen, his hand clasped onto your thigh so hard you know he’ll bruise it. You catch his moan in a kiss he doesn’t reciprocate, buried so deep in your body that all he can think to do is to force you to take all of it. He shakes himself free of the web of pleasure that he’s enveloped in, looking at you past the thin rivulets of sweat you wiped away with your loving thumbs.

“I think there are better positions for baby making,” you lean in, kissing him gently. He returns the kiss this time, eyes light of the strain and stress of the last few days. “Like… not this.”

Miguel pulls back, his soft cock slipping free from your warm entrance. Miguel watches as his seed dribbles from your hole, grunting in acknowledgement. He swipes your mixed fluids and rolls it between his fingers.

“I’m open to suggestions.”

He loves his wife. More than anything. What he doesn’t love is how Peter seems to know that you’re trying for a baby.

The thing about having a woman from his same cultura was this: you loved to talk with your best friend. Who, just so happened to be Peter. He doesn’t even have to say anything, just staring at him with a quirk on his lip and a terrible glitter in his eye after he’s resolved another meeting.

“Hey, Miguel.”

“Don’t start.”

He’s crowded with work at his desk-- he has no time for Mayday’s curious little eyes to glitter at him, Peter to be doing that shit he did when he wanted to be helpful. He offered his hands up, shrugging.

“I’m just saying! I’m a man, you’re a man,” he mumbles, inching a little closer and closer. “If you want a baby--”

“Let me guess. She told you.”

“Mayday could use a spider buddy,” he held Mayday up, out of her carrier. Miguel glanced down at her wild hair, exhaling air out of his nose with a little huff. “Sooner than later?”

“I’ve done it before,” Miguel throws back. “I know how to knock up my own wife, Peter. I don’t need help.”

Peter is offering help as if Miguel hadn’t tasted the changes in your body when he ate you out. Never mind that he saw you nauseated this morning, too sick to handle a call that Miguel promptly answered. He knew his seed had stuck-- you wouldn’t feel so miserable otherwise. It doesn’t matter, he’d answer them all if it meant another little one in his arms at the end of it all. Just so long as you and the baby were safe.

“Are you sure? I know--”

“I’m damn sure.” Miguel turned around, his head in his hand. “I’ve had enough of you. Why don’t you do something useful? Bring her something for her morning sickness.”

“Oh,” realization fell over Peter like a hammer, looking down to Mayday who looked right back up to her father. For all that Peter knew about his love life, he was shocked that you hadn’t told him how awful the smell of breakfast meat made you feel. His hand fell away, a film of pride slipping from his practiced features when Peter spoke. “But... She’s already pregnant?”

He leers. Peter scuttles away.

Privacy is important to Miguel. You knew the damn rule. No telling Peter about the inner workings of your bedroom. For that, you were going to fucking get it. You likely knew you were going to get it-- even if you were likely already pregnant.

He can’t wait.

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stormsthatrage · 10 months

Text

Short snippet from the Bleach I Knew You AU.

But before I begin. *Insert deep sigh here.*

Secretlypansexualmango, if you see this, it was supposed to be a response to your ask. Unfortunately, it took a hard left-turn and ended up in. Uraichi shipping territory? Look, IDK, I'm asexual, I don't get it either. Anyway, since I don't know your shipping preferences and don't want to accidentally respond to your ask with something that squiks you, I will be officially responding to your ask in another post that is less likely to be unexpectedly unpalatable. Thank you for your patience, and, uh, I hope this doesn't turn you off the au! (*laughs nervously*)

Without further ado, the snippet:

Breaking into the Shiba family grounds is easy. By sheer comparison, breaking into Shiba Ichigo’s room specifically is almost a challenge, but it’s not anything that Kisuke hasn’t planned for.

The strange, modified kido, and the odd wards Ichigo has placed, are simple to bypass with a bit of fancy footwork and precisely-timed counter-kido. It’s practically child’s play to get past them, now that he's roughly figured out how they work and where they all are.

His job is made even easier by the fact that, for some reason, Kisuke’s spiritual pressure doesn’t wake Ichigo up. Quite the opposite, in fact. He seems to sleep deeper when Kisuke is nearby and has let Benihime out a little.

He has theories about that.

He’s tired of them being theories.

He’s here to get evidence.

Kisuke bypasses the final seal and slides Ichigo’s window open, slipping into his room. He lets his spiritual pressure permeate the air a little thicker than he would in normal company, and as expected, Ichigo’s spiritual pressure slows down as he falls further into slumber.

… And Kisuke is supposed to believe that the first time they met was two months ago? When this is Ichigo’s reaction to his presence? When Ichigo is one of the most paranoid people Kisuke, an ex-onmi agent, has ever encountered?

Kisuke is a genius. He doesn’t need to be in order to see the flaw in that logic.

Kisuke steps further into the room, gliding softly over the old wood floorboards. He pauses in the middle, taking a moment to debate where to start.

Well. Why not with the simplest?

He’s caught it a few times, the barest trace of his own power lingering around Ichigo. A fascinating phenomenon, when he can’t recall a single time he’s drawn shikai around him, let alone used enough power to leave a long-lasting trace.

He draws closer to Ichigo’s bed, until he could reach out and touch him if he wished.

Ichigo breathes deeply, evenly, no sign of waking up. At some point, his covers ended up half kicked-off. Possibly from the heat, probably from nightmares. Regardless of the reason, Kisuke can’t help but think that he looks strangely fragile this way, surrounded by the evidence of his restlessness.

He puts a hand on the the hilt of his soul-partner. “Awaken, Benihime,” he murmurs.

She stirs within him, gently, in a way that is oh so rare. Like the softest, most gradual of ocean tides, she rises, her fragrance of wet iron washing through the air around them.

And together, channeling her power through his eyes, they see.

Glowing crimson threads that they have no recollection of weaving wrap protectively, lovingly, around Ichigo. A thin but strong filament, sewn through the skin from just below Ichigo’s ear all the way to his opposite shoulder, sutures closed what must have once been a deadly throat wound. Another one, obviously originally meant to keep shut a gash down the length of Ichigo’s forearm, keeps it companion.

And beyond the battlefield sutures there are more threads. Hundreds of intangible and deceptively thin and absolutely unbreakable strands of Benihime’s power wrap around Ichigo, crisscrossing over themselves — around his throat and across his face and down his torso and up his arms, visible wherever his bare flesh is exposed — seemingly serving no purpose.

Benihime’s power surges at the sight, a hot delight running through her as she sees Ichigo so thoroughly caught in her webs. Kisuke’s fingers suddenly, urgently ache with the urge to touch, to tighten, to add more.

Soul King.

No purpose other than, it seems, to satiate their own possessiveness.

Kisuke exhales a shaking breath. Closes his eyes for a brief moment. Gets the heat in his blood under control.

No purpose other than to alert themselves, perhaps? Did they know that one day they wouldn't recognize Ichigo anymore, and left this as a clue?

(And oh, what a clue. What a clue it is.)

He lets Benihime’s power fade, taking his hand away from her hilt. He’s self-aware enough to know when he needs to stop tempting himself, and he’s gotten the evidence he came for — far better proof than he could have ever anticipated.

He takes a step back, and the motion is the most unnatural thing he’s done in a long, long time.

He has questions. He has a few theories, too. Amnesia, caused by a very specific type of parasitic hollow. Dimension travel. Time travel. He doesn’t have enough information yet to figure out which is most likely, but he has finally confirmed beyond doubt that Ichigo is his, has been his, and something tried to steal that from him.

Fury flares within him, burning through his veins, and he can’t do this right here.

He takes another step back, this one just as unnatural as the last.

He can’t ask, yet. He can’t get closer, can’t wake Ichigo up with a soft hand on his cheek, can’t tell him that he’s there now, can’t promise him to take care of it all if he would just let him in again.

No.

Shiba Ichigo is in the middle of a chess game — a dangerous one, a complicated one — and Kisuke can’t see the whole board yet. Tipping his own hand might trigger a whole plethora of traps, including another round of amnesia, and he refuses to risk the knowledge he’s regained.

He will have to be careful. He will have to move cautiously.

He casts one last look at Ichigo, lets his eyes trace over that delicate throat that he now knows almost bled out. That delicate throat that had to be held together with Benihime’s webs. That delicate throat that he doesn’t remember stitching back together, despite the fact that he used his bankai to do it.

He was made to unknow a person he loves. He was made to unknow a war. He was made to unknow the fact that danger lurks still in the shadows of Soul Society.

He will know the end of this game. And Ichigo will learn that there is no universe in which Kisuke does not protect what’s his.

Kisuke turns. Takes another unnatural step away from his favorite, infuriating puzzle. And then he wrenches himself out of the room, out into the night, closing the window behind him and leaving as unnoticed as he had come.

#i knew you bleach au #bleach au #time travel bleach style #urahara kisuke #kurosaki ichigo #*sigh*#uraichi #might walk this part of the au back if people prefer a non-ship version

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ughgoaway · 2 months

Text

Snapshots

a/n; This is kind of half a blurb and half a fic?? Idk, it's just horny thoughts expanded tbh. now, this is NOT sanitary at all. PLEASE do not do this without thoroughly cleaning the shoe first. You are asking for a yeast infection and a UTI otherwise. But this is fiction, so let's all pretend he did a little sterilising beforehand! however, that's not hot to read, so im not gonna write it, but let's play pretend!! Thank you, ily <3

Content warnings; boot grinding, d-word, degradation, jealousy, bratty behaviour, dom matty, spit, swearing, and teasing. But I think thats it?? I'm so sorry if I'm missing some!

word count; 2.1k ish

(shout out to Kirke @nowshesdoingitallthetime for once again causing this. you are my fav little devil on my shoulder encouraging this behaviour...)

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*click* *click* *click*

“Okay and now look to the left!” You hear the photographer shout. matty turns his head exactly as she asks. But apparently, it's not quite right, judging by how she walks over to him and poses his body.

you can feel the jealousy in every fucking nerve when her fingers graze the edge of Matty's jaw, adjusting his head half a centimetre. The move was so small it was completely unnoticeable to anyone else, but what was noticeable was the sly smirk on the photographer's face as her fingers lingered on Matty’s skin.

Your boyfriend remains completely oblivious, as he has been all day. You, however, noticed it as soon as you walked in together. You weren't planning on coming to play jealous girlfriend, you were prepared to be silently supportive.

But when she spent 40 minutes trying different outfits on Matty and showering him with compliments, you knew something was up.

You studied her every move from then on. The way she “adjusted” Matty’s hair after almost every take, running her fingers through every strand in a way that had Matty practically purring.

You look at the way she pulls at his clothes, untucking and tucking in his shirt multiple times. and you also watch her eyes dart down to his exposed stomach every. fucking. Time. You swear you can almost see the cogs turning in her head when she catches a flash of the rose tattoo on his hip.

Every joke he makes, she laughs just a little too hard. Matty is funny, but making a shitty pun is not worthy of doubling over and acting like you're at a standup show. Yet, every vaguely funny comment he makes has her cackling and wiping tears that are streaming down her cheeks.

So you were fuming. Partially at her, Matty had introduced you as his girlfriend at the start of the session. Which had earned him an unimpressed hum from her and you a petty wave. she didn't seem to take too much notice of that fact, though, judging by the way she's stroking his cheek right now.

But you're also pissed at Matty for playing right into her hand.

You knew he was egotistical, but the way he was practically turned into a giggling schoolgirl over the shoot drove you insane. His attention whore actions usually make you laugh, probably because they're normally aimed at you. as soon as you start rambling about how much you love him, matty becomes a child star, immediately glowing at the praise.

But it's remarkably less entertaining when he's lapping up the attention of a woman who is practically getting on her knees in front of you.

And maybe you took it too far, walking over to him mid-conversation and grabbing his face, pressing your lips onto his harshly, you take advantage of the gasp that leaves his lips to press your tongue into his mouth, licking inside and moaning excessively loud.

Matty pulls you off once his logical brain overtakes his horny one, but you can still see he's slightly dazed when he goes back to chatting with the photographer. The haze in his eyes and the pink flush on his cheeks take a few minutes to fully fade, especially when your hand slides onto his thigh and grips his skin possessively.

You hang off his arm for the rest of the break and move closer to the set when they start up again. Every adjustment she suggests you swoop in and make before she can, punctuating each one with a peck on Matty’s lips and a glare her way.

Matty knows what you're doing, and after you lingered a little too long on one kiss, he pulls you in with a hand around the base of your neck.

You feel his breath on your ear before he starts talking, “I know what you're doing. Behave.”

You don't listen to his demands. Why should you when he's been gagging for every piece of attention this stranger gives him? So you play it up even more, determined to beat this woman at her game.

whilst you might win that war, you certainly don't win the one waging with matty judging by his tense shoulders and rolling eyes.

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The ride home is full of tension, Matty's knuckles are white from how hard he's gripping the steering wheel, and the hand that usually lives on your thighs is firmly stuck on the gearstick.

You cant deny that the mix of his palpable anger now and how fucking good he looked at the photo shoot had riled you up. Every tick of his jaw makes your thighs tighten. And you swear you see a smile cross Matty's face as you cross and uncross your legs for the 20th time, desperate to relieve some pressure.

As soon as you get in the door, Matty is barking orders at you.

“Follow me. And be quiet. You've done enough talking today.” Any bratty behaviour left simmering inside you was gone. You trailed behind Matty silently, walking into the front room and starting to sit down on the sofa beside him.

“Nope, floor,” Matty says bluntly.

... no, he's joking. Surely.

“What?” you tilt your head at the man in front of you as you speak, assuming this is another one of his unfunny jokes (but you're sure the photographer would be fucking cackling at it.)

“You heard me, Don't play dumb now, baby. Kneel.” You don’t know whether it’s the intensity of his eyes or the assertiveness of his voice, but you do exactly as he asks. Sinking to your knees like you had done for him so many times before.

Your hands start to move to his fly instinctively, assuming you'd be apologising the only way you know how, letting Matty fuck your throat until you cant speak. But his hands smack yours away before you can even touch the denim of his jeans.

“Thats not gonna cut it today, baby. i need a proper apology this time.” Matty's foot slides between your legs, his boot sitting between your thighs as you hover just above it.

“I want you to grind on my boot, sweet girl. Put on a proper show for me, yeah?” Matty nods at you, and you don't even think before immediately nodding back, sinking down on his boot below you. in your mind, you know you should be scoffing at him and rolling your eyes, but your body moves without you telling it to.

You can already feel wetness pooling in your panties, throbbing at the idea of being so powerless under him. You gasp as soon as the cool leather of the boot touches your core, goosebumps blooming over your skin.

Your hips start rutting against the leather, sliding your hands around Matty's calf as you experimentally grind down on his shoe. Matty feels your fingers tighten around his leg as you clit brushes agaisnt the leather, the slight scratch of the boot making your head spin.

You rock your hips dumbly against Matty's shoe, arching your back when it brushes harshly over your bundle of nerves. Your ruby red nails dig into Matty’s leg through his jeans as you cling to him desperately.

One of your hands slides behind you so you can rock your hips even deeper on his boot, laying your palm flat the ground and canting your hips up desperately. Your thighs burn with every rock you make, but the burn in your core is stronger than anything else.

“thats it. now stick your tongue out, fuck. that's it angel,” Matty palms himself over his jeans as he stares down at you, groaning as he watches spit drip from your tongue and fall on the boot below, making every move you make slicker and more dizzying.

Matty looks pretty fucked out for someone who hasn't been touched, a thin sheen of sweat sits on his skin, his dick straining in his jeans as he watches you like a hawk. He studies your every movement like he is watching a cinematic masterpiece, taking in every move you make and committing it to memory.

His jaw clenches as he fights every urge in his body to grab you by the hair and pull under him. Visions cross his mind of him jackhammering his hips inside you until you're screaming his name, watching the bluge in your stomach as he pumps fucking every inch of himself inside you. But he stays strong, keeping his eyes trained on you with every move you make.

“Thats it, shine my boots with your cunt. Good girl” Your eyes roll into the back of your head as Matty drags out his words and pushes his boot up, the pressure against your clit making the world around you fall into a haze.

A flush covers your cheeks and chest, and Matty smirks at how blissed out you look.

Fucking you dumb is something that will never fail to amaze him, watching a smart girl become a babbling mess because of him does wonders for his ever-growing ego. It's not like he needed the boost, but your brain melted out of your ears as soon as he starts talking to you like he owned you.

You can't help but squirm as you start moving closer towards the edge, the pressure building inside you slowly becoming too much. Whimpers and whines fall from your lips as your hips speed up, pleading with Matty to let you cum without saying it. Luckily, Matty has seen you fall apart under him enough times to know exactly what you're asking.

“You getting close, baby?” Matty smirks as he speaks, “‘course you are. Filthy girl wants to cum all over daddy's boots.” your jaw drops at the nickname, and you nod as best you can, whimpering with every circle of your hips.

“Beg." he demands

"Tell me you're fucking sorry and beg to cum,” Matty's jaw drops when he sees tears start falling down your face, desperation filling your every nerve. Soon, you're sobbing and begging Matty for mercy, your hips bucking wildly.

“Please. I’m so- fuck- im so sorry, Daddy. Please let me cum, ill be so good, I promise. Just- ah! let me cum. Please.” Your teeth sink into your bottom lip as you fight to hold in your orgasm, but every rut of your hips is making pushing you closer.

“So good for me, such a dirty slut. Okay, angel, cum for me.” As soon as the words leave Matty’s lips, your cumming, the rubber band inside you snapping.

White spots dance across your vision as you push even harder down on Matty’s boot, letting the tough leather push you through your orgasm with every circle of your hips. Your chest heaves, and your jaw shakes as your orgasm drags on, intense pleasure wracking your every nerve.

Your thighs grip tightly around his boot as you reach your peak, but soon enough they're going lax, your hips slowing down until you’re motionless sitting on Matty's shoe, panting wildly and fighting to catch your breath. His fingers move from his lap and grip your chin, forcing you to stare at him as he speaks.

“Don't leave a mess. clean it up for me baby, be a good girl.” Matty nods at his boot, looking at you expectantly with a sick smile covering his face.

You sink further down on the floor below you, ignoring the way the cold concrete scratches your knees as you slide. Dark brown eyes meet yours as you hold eye contact with Matty. staring up at his as you stick your tongue out, and start to lick the leather covered in your slick. An exaggerated moan falls from your lips at the taste, and Matty’s jaw drops as he watches your tongue lap at his shoe.

After a few more seconds of you swiping your tongue over the leather, Matty is dragging you into his lap, gripping your hips harshly as you settle on top of him. He can't help smirking as you hover over him. Your cheeks are pink as you stare at him. The same pretty pink covers your lips. undoubtedly from desperately bitting at them to try and dampen your needy whimpers.

“Don't be so selfish now, princess, give daddy a taste,” you smirk at Matty before gripping his jaw, watching in awe as his mouth drops open and his tongue falls out.

Power skitters up your spine as you lean forward and let a drop of spit fall from your bottom lip, watching it drip and fall onto your boyfriend's tongue. A grin immediately pulls at your lips when you hear the groan that is ripped from his chest.

As soon as Matty tastes the mix of your slick and spit, he's dragging you deeper into his lap, forcing his tongue in your mouth to desperately lick every trace of your release from the inside of your mouth.

Needy hands grip each other's skin, groping every piece you can get your hands on. Eventually, Matty pulls away from your lips, his eyes dropping to watch a string of spit spread between you. His head falls back against the sofa behind him, staring at you in awe.

“I'm booking another photo shoot with her,” he teases, his chest heaving as he desperately sucks in air to his lungs.

“The fuck you are.” You surge forward and capture his lips again, smiling as you feel his lips turn up as soon as your skin touches his.

#wrote this from 12am to 2am so it might be shit #probably is #but delirium is a funny thing #anyway... yeah ignore the logistics of this and just have fun lol <3 #matty healy fanfiction #matty healy smut #the 1975 fanfic #the 1975 smut #matty healy fic

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storiesforallfandoms · 3 months

Text

destiny ~ geralt of rivia;the witcher

word count: 1749

request?: no

description: after a long, rough journey, the princess feels safe enough to sleep, so her mage talks with the witcher

pairing: geralt of rivia x female!reader

warnings: swearing, use of y/n

masterlist (one, two, three)

It was a long, tiring journey to bring Princess Ciri to find her destiny; the Witcher. The poor girl, only a child, had seen far more than anyone her age should ever see. Her grandmother had been smart enough to send a Mage with her at least, but there was only so much one Mage could do against the threats they had faced. When they had finally found him, stood alone after his own battle, and Ciri ran to embrace him, (Y/N) sighed in relief and finally allowed her body to relax.

They set up camp for the night. Geralt promised them he would find them somewhere with an actual bed for the next night, but Ciri could care less about where she was sleeping. (Y/N) knew she felt relieved, too. And finally the young princess could sleep knowing that she was safe.

Ciri was sound asleep next to a fire (Y/N) had built to keep her warm. The Mage was sat against a tree nearby, just watching. Knowing that Ciri was safe, that she felt safe enough to finally let her guard down, gave (Y/N) such a sense of relief that she felt like she could finally breathe again.

“You should be sleeping as well.”

(Y/N) looked up to see Geralt stood over her. She was surprised a man of his size was able to move so silently, but then again it was probably a skill he had to pick up as a Witcher.

“I would imagine you are just as exhausted as she,” he said.

“I am,” (YN) confirmed. “But not so exhausted that my body wishes to rest just yet. I guess it hasn’t realized yet that there is no threat anymore.”

“There are still plenty of threats.”

She shook her head. “Not tonight. Tonight, she rests soundly, and she is safe.”

Geralt looked over at the sleeping girl. For years he had been trying to deny Ciri. He didn’t believe in destiny, and he was the last person who should be looking after a child. But now that she was here, unharmed and at peace, he couldn’t deny that he felt relief as well. There were still plenty of threats out there, that much was still true, but he decided to agree with (Y/N) just this once. Tonight, they were all safe.

Geralt sat across from her. “You did well in protecting her. She likely wouldn’t have made it this far on her own.”

“That’s what I was afraid of,” (Y/N) admitted. “I promised her grandmother that nothing would happen to her, and I am not one to break a promise.”

“I was unaware that Queen Calanthe had a Mage in her kingdom.”

“I’m not a royal Mage. Just an old friend that she asked a favor of.”

“A very good friend to risk your life.”

(Y/N) smiled and shrugged. “I have known Ciri since birth, and her mother before her. I would do anything to keep that girl safe.”

She was gazing at Ciri again. Geralt noticed the look on her face. “Do you have children of your own?”

“Oh, Gods no. Those are very uncommon in my line of work.”

“No lover either, then?”

She chuckled. “Also very uncommon. It’s hard to let yourself fall in love when you are immortal.”

Geralt wasn’t sure why he even asked. It felt like the logical next question after asking if she had children, but Geralt cared very little if she had said yes to having a lover. Or, so he thought anyways.

(Y/N) looked back to him, a sly grin on her face. “Queen Calnthe told me about your ties to Ciri.”

Geralt grunted. “I’m sure she did.”

“She could hardly tell the story without a string of profanities.” (Y/N) giggled. “No one has ever made the queen more angry than Geralt of Rivia.”

Geralt found himself smiling as well.

“Well,” (Y/N) said, tilting her head a little. “Would you look at that.”

“What?” he asked.

“The Witcher smiles. And he looks quiet handsome doing so.”

(Y/N) was nothing if not forward. One does not live for many decades and not become bold and forward. She felt a little delight when she saw a brief look of shock on Geralt’s face. She certainly wasn’t lying, though. Anyone with eyes could see that Geralt was good looking. She was sure he was able to use that to his advantage as well.

Silence fell over them. The only sounds were the wildlife around them and the crackling fire. Both of them turned to check on Ciri at the same time, as if some sort of instinct kicked in for them both. (Y/N) took Geralt’s distraction as an opportunity to really study him. She had seen a look in his eyes when Ciri had run to him earlier, but it was so brief that she couldn’t place it at the time. He had been wearing his tough guy mask since, except for this moment. As he gazed at Ciri, (Y/N) could see two emotions on his face: relief and worry.

“The queen also told me,” (Y/N) said, drawing Geralt’s attention back to her, “that you weren’t going to claim Cirilla at first. She said you called Law of Surprise without truly believing in it.”

Geralt grunted. “All that bullshit about destiny. I didn’t believe any of it. I called Law of Surprise because they insisted on something for me saving Urcheon’s life. I didn’t actually believe I would get anything.”

“And yet...” (Y/N) glanced towards the sleeping princess.

He nodded. “I didn’t want a child by any means. This is not a life for a child. If destiny is real, it has played a cruel trick on her.”

“Or it has given her a father that she so dearly needed after her own passed.”

“And a mother?”

(Y/N) smiled. She couldn’t help it. She hadn’t thought about the next step after Ciri was united with Geralt. Truthfully, she didn’t want to think about it. The thought of being separated from Ciri hurt too much, but she didn’t expect Geralt to want her to travel with them. He had been travelling alone for so many years that she was sure it would take time for him to get used to Ciri being with him, let alone if (Y/N) joined as well. She felt full of joy hearing Geralt insinuate that he wanted her to continue travelling with them as well. She wasn’t ready to say goodbye to Ciri just yet, or to Geralt for that matter.

“What a family we’d be,” she laughed. “A Witcher, a Mage, and a princess. Sounds like the beginning of a terrible joke.”

Geralt chuckled as well. (Y/N)’s smile broke as she let out a yawn.

“You should get some sleep,” Geralt told her.

“As should you.”

“I will.”

(Y/N) nodded. She wasn’t in any position to argue with him over whether or not he was actually going to sleep. She could feel herself finally being bogged down by her fatigue and knew it wouldn’t be long until she gave in completely.

Geralt’s eyes followed her as she moved to her knees. Instead of rising, she leaned towards him to close the gap between them. She lightly pressed her lips to his cheek, leaving a gentle kiss there before pulling away. He tried to keep his face unchanged as she sat back to look at him.

“Goodnight, Geralt.”

“Goodnight, (Y/N).”

~~~~~~

The sun was high in the sky when (Y/N) woke the next day. The fire had gone out and the heat was instead replaced by the scorching sun. (Y/N) blinked a few times, trying to get her eyes used to the brightness of day. When she finally managed to clear her vision, she noticed she was alone at the camp.

She quickly sat up and looked around. There was barely any signs that anyone else had ever been here. Just the kindle left over from the fire she had lit for Ciri. She felt herself beginning to panic. Had they left her? Had someone taken Ciri and Geralt went after them? Had Geralt changed his mind about having her join them?

She was getting to her feet when she heard the sound of horse hooves against the ground. A horse broke through the clearing in a fast trot before coming to a stop. (Y/N) breathed a sigh of relief when Ciri jumped down from the back of the horse.

“Good morning,” the young princess said, walking up to wrap her arms around (Y/N). The Mage was taken back by the gesture at first, but then happily hugged Ciri back.

“More like good afternoon,” Geralt commented, jumping down from his horse as well. “You’ve been asleep for hours. We went on to find food without you.”

“Forgive me for being tired,” (Y/N) said, playfully glaring at Geralt. To Ciri, she asked, “Did you sleep well, princess?”

“The best I’ve slept since we left Cintra,” Ciri admitted.

(Y/N) smiled and cupped her face. “You are safe now, princess. The Witcher and I will look after you and make sure no one will cause you any harm.”

Ciri looked between (Y/N) and Geralt, a smile pulling at the corners of her lips. “You’ll be staying with us?”

“Of course. I’ve come too far in this journey to let you go on without me. Although, I will need something to eat in order to continue on.”

She eyed Geralt. He chuckled and said, “Alright then, let’s find you something to eat as well.”

They went on foot with Geralt leading his horse behind him. Ciri was between the two of them, protected by her Mage and her Witcher.

“I was thinking,” Geralt said after some time of walking, “about our discussion last night. About destiny.”

(Y/N) looked over at him. “Yes?”

“Maybe there is such thing as destiny, and maybe it isn’t as bad as I once thought.”

“And what brought you to that conclusion?”

“Ciri was meant to be my destiny, but she wasn’t the only good thing that destiny brought to me.”

He looked directly at her when he spoke. She felt her heart flutter in her chest. She had no good response, so she just kept walking, a smile on her face.

She would have to thank destiny for bringing her to Geralt as well.

#geralt of rivia #geralt x reader #geralt of rivia imagine #henry cavill #henry cavill imagine #henry cavill x reader #the witcher #the witcher imagine #imagine #one shot #fanfiction #fanfic #fandom

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cerastes · 3 months

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Do you think at some point early on in Arknights the intent was to be a buildup to a more critical look at Rhodes as more morally grey than it first appears? Because when I started the game I was so sure that's where it was going. Popukar probably being one of the first characters you get, the idea of SWEEP, the understanding I had at the time of darknights doctor and y'know, the villains being who they are. I just thought it would be more of a thing.

I don't think necessarily, I think the intent was always to posit Rhodes Island as "as good as you can get while still being a relatively major power but not quite as big or resourceful as a state". I do think it bears mentioning that child soldiers/children and teenagers with a job as a concept don't seem to really carry a stigma as they do in the real world: The only real times in which these are painted in negative lights are when the conditions or results of these decisions end up in something negative:

Popukar was clearly indentured labor at the lumberyard. The part that's condemned is that she was miserable and practically a slave, not really that she was working per se, and she's given a job by RI later after Kal'tsit personally gets her out of there.

Frostleaf's being a child soldier even before Rhodes Island isn't really all that condemned, the effects it had on her psyche is.

Absinthe, just orphaned, is made a Rhodes Island Operator. This notion isn't rejected or truly contested, no more than "maybe we can send her somewhere proper for care". Hell, all the Ursus kids also get made into Operators.

Even outside of this, we hire children frequently: Bubble, Suzuran, Shamare, you name it. Sure, each has a context, especially Shamare who is Fucking Haunted, but the matter of the fact is that Rhodes Island isn't just housing them, it's also showing no real qualms with them taking the Operator Testing Battery and, if they succeed, hiring them. It's mentioned several times that Rhodes Island has many non-combat roles -- Angelina used to be a Messenger for Rhodes Island before taking the Operator test, Orchid was offered a desk job at Rhodes Island initially, and Weedy was a Rhodes Island researcher who explicitly worked out and trained so she could pass the physical components of the test -- but there's no real turn of eyes when a child says mmmm yeah I'll do the Battlefield Supporter Battery please, thank you.

Amiya is, you know, the CEO of Rhodes Island, and that IS pointed out in a "damn, fucked up" way, but what's being lamented is not her having a job, it's her having a BIG difficult job. I think no one would bat an eye if Amiya was a regular Operator under Theresa instead (granted, because she's the owner's daughter, but even without that link).

These are some examples of in-universe logic regarding the whole child soldier and kid with a job. I'd wager it's because life expectancy in Terra is pretty damn low from what we've gathered: Armed conflict, crime, Catastrophes, Oripathy, there's plenty of ways to kick the bucket in Terra, much like it was in Ye Olde Ages in real life, which is coincidentally an era in which by 16 you already were an adult and were expected to start having adult responsibilities.

Pre-Amnesia Doctor was definitely not a stellar person but it's always understood that they weren't bad as much as broken: Scout put it best that it broke his heart to have seen this kind educator and fun, loving individual become a heartless tactician. Even when described this way, though, it wasn't like Doc became this Brooding Evil Mass, it's still mentioned plenty that they were pretty beloved by most people and a person they liked being friends with -- Ace, Scout, and Amiya all corroborate this, and in flashbacks, you have Theresa being pretty warm with Doc -- but if you were a footsoldier, Doctor was probably your worst nightmare because you were disposable -- W, Ines, Hoederer and Flamebringer can tell you as much -- so we had less a villain or a vile individual and more a broken individual who was remolded into someone that could withstand the immense psychological pressure that came with having their role. That's not to sanitize pre-amn Doctor, it's to echo the game's own words on them as per the characters in the setting that knew them from back then, and who held both positive and negative opinions on them.

Looking at all of these from an in-universe lens, they all have coherent in-universe explanations. I also think they would have foreshadowed any sort of Rhodes Island Insiduous Vileness with characters or actions by now: Less than stellar, antagonistic high command, dubious orders to do some vile stuff, other such things. The closest we get to this is Kal'tsit hating Doctor's guts, but also Kal'tsit is a really good person and her hatred of Doctor stems from her knowing them pre-amnesia, seeing how that happened, and what Doc did in those times, particularly one big event that's pretty lore relevant.

You may have noticed the elephant in the room [SPOILERS FOR PEOPLE NOT DONE WITH THE REUNION ARC YET]: I didn't address the enemy part yet. That's because that's the part that I still have some conflicted feelings over: The real enemy, in the end, isn't Reunion's ideals -- which are shared with Rhodes Island -- but rather it's what Reunion has become, a false flag operation for the Ursus Empire to justify a war. On one hand, I like that, on the other, I do think it's something that should've been more graciously hinted at in the very early chapters, because in those very early chapters, you REALLY are rent-a-cops in essence, putting down the people you set out to help. Of course, it's not that simple and there's a nuance as to why and the business dealings and all that, but given the relative simplicity and pace of the early chapters, it really is easy to see it come across that way.

It does, however, ring consistent with what we were previously talking about, though: The essence of, more than the act or thing in itself. Or, in other words, in Terra, the onus of things seem to be placed on the result or context surrounding something more than that something in itself: Child soldiers are fine, unhappy and in-risk child soldiers are not. Teenagers with jobs are fine, teenagers with huge stressful jobs way out of their league are not. Revolutionary movements are fine, revolutionary movements with civilian casualties are not. And so on. There is DEFINITELY commentary that can be had about this, mind you, but that can be for another post in another blog.

With this in mind, I go back to what was first said in this post, I think the idea was always to posit Rhodes Island as "as good as you can get while still being a relatively major power but not quite as big or resourceful as a state".

#arknights

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am-i-the-asshole-official · 15 days

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AITA for flinching away from people/wiping myself off after they touch me?

this is probably a massive non-issue, but i keep thinking about it so idk

okay so basically, i (16nb) am autistic. i got diagnosed like mid-to-late last year i think?

i've only really started showing noticeable symptoms(? is that the right word?) in recent years, such as stimming and getting really into my interests, etc etc

one of those things is that i've become less receptive to people touching me.

in recent years i've only really had a few people i've felt comfortable touching (the majority of whom i don't speak to anymore, for reasons i won't get into).

because of this, i tend to unconsciously flinch away from people whenever they come near/touch me, e.g. at school. as well as this, if we do brush arms or something, i'll wipe my arm where they touched me

logically, i know this doesn't do anything. it's not a germ thing, and even if it was, it's not like someone's arm covered by their blazer touching my arm covered by my blazer is doing anything that warrants me wiping it off as if i'm disgusted (which i'm not).

idk, i just feel, like. weird? if i don't do it?

anyways, i didn't really think much of it; it's not like i make a massive show of wiping myself off in front of the person. it's usually just, like, brushing off my shoulder where they grazed me by accident or something.

but my mum noticed me doing it, and one time she started crying, saying that it makes her feel like i hate her/am disgusted by her, because she can't even touch her child.

that was a while ago, and she hasn't mentioned it since (i've also not really been doing it as much, considering i do school online now and thus don't really get exposed to people touching me a lot), but also she doesn't really try to touch me anymore, and gets super upset when she asks for a hug and i say no.

or when she'll get a little too close and i'll kinda flinch away and she'll get frustrated and go "i'm not touching you!" even though it's not something i do on purpose or to make her feel bad

idk, it just makes me feel kinda AH-ish, because like. it shouldn't be a big deal, y'know? people should be allowed to touch me without me inadvertently making them feel like i think they're disgusting (which again, i don't think that, it's just an instinctual thing i do)

idk

i know none of this really matters in the slightest, it's just been on my mind for a while.

AITA?

#aita #am i the asshole

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bitterrobin · 1 month

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a quick PSA on pre-Robin Damian (again):

He has never called himself the "Blood Son". Those specific words have never come out of his mouth in a comic. In fact, Damian has only had dialogue regarding his bio status or another character's adoptive status like... three or four times.

Yes, pretty much all of those times have something to do with Tim in one way another. That's because Damian was less of a character, and more of a sword-carrying plot device when he was first introduced.

Damian's early writing lines up more with that of a minor villain than any supporting character. He existed at first only to rile up chaos in the Batcave for like, two issues, before his death in the fourth issue he appeared. He was introduced in issue 655 and killed by torpedo-submarine explosion in 658. Damian as a character was effectively "punished" for his earlier actions through a violent death.

You need to understand that early Damian (2009 mostly) didn't have a cemented personality or much characterization other than the basics that Morrison imbued into him i.e he was 10, an assassin, lax about death, very sarcastic/rude in tone, and weirdly spoiled despite his upbringing implying the opposite. Grant Morrison tends to write the large story concepts they like and they don't often adhere to any consistent/previous characterization (as seen with Talia) if it doesn't line up with the vision they want. Not even Damian's existence was kept consistent, as it's very hard to believe that Batman #656 Damian has the same backstory as Son of the Demon Damian or the Ibn al Xuffasch of Kingdom Come.

They didn't flesh out Damian a whole lot when he was first introduced, making him more of a spoiled rich kid who just happened to know how to kill people than the Damian that you probably think of. It took later comic appearances and other writers to add onto Damian's sporadic characterization - because he didn't have much major development after being created until becoming Robin and working alongside Dick.

To further characterize Damian as Robin, now that he needed to play against a larger cast and more established figures, writers needed to come up with ideas fast. So some writers played up his League backstory and wrote him colder, more logical and vaguely terrifying. They made Talia and Ras more and more ooc and abusive. They wrote dialogue for Damian that made him more of an annoying little brother figure, impulsiveness and all. Sometimes his dialogue with female characters drifted towards sexism, as clearly some writers can't write young boy characters without relying on shitty sitcom-style misogynist tropes. He got different moments, some skewing towards insanely violent or towards a normal child reeling from issues. This long trek of his writing was always changing in little ways until the reboot in 2011 and his first real death in Batman Incorporated, and then just continued on afterwards to this day.

In short, early pre-Robin Damian was a mess, and it took a long time for DC to develop him as a full character. (Even now, writers are still "figuring him out" and pulling ooc takes out of their asses). We have fun here.

#quick PSA more like long diatribe #every time someone writes Damian calling himself the Blood Son I lose a year off my life #and then I cast a wizard's curse of “balls explode!”onto whoever wrote that #please stop writing Damian that way in the year 2024 #we have got to move on from Damian's 2009 characterization for the love of god #damian wayne #robin #dc #waspdoesathought #dc comics #a painted bird named tamer

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starcurtain · 6 days

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Ratiorine Fics I Want to Read

1) Modern AU: When Veritas Ratio discovers a beautiful businessman poised to jump from the roof of his apartment building, he does something he's never done half as seriously before: makes a bet. One month--in just one month, he will find this "Aventurine" a reason to keep living. The terms: 30 days, anything goes, whatever it takes to make some kind of meaning out of a miserable existence. If Ratio loses, a brilliant-eyed gambler will disappear from the world forever. If Aventurine loses... well, let's not get ahead of ourselves. (Of course, neither of them anticipated that Ratio would end up becoming Aventurine's reason to live--but there's something to be said for non-zero-sum games.)

2) "I'm real sorry to bother you, mister, but I think I'm lost?" Aventurine is pretty sure he's dreaming. Pretty sure he's been pulled back to the hellscape known as Penacony. Pretty sure the Lady Emanator might need to come back and take another swing at him, to burn out the last hold of the Harmony for real this time. Because those are the only logical explanations for why Aventurine is currently locking eyes with his own younger self, standing very confused in the middle of his trussed up Pier Point condo, far from the Family's shadow. (Or: That one where a blessing from Gaiathra temporarily sends the young Kakavasha out of harm's way--straight into the care of his future self. Aventurine isn't the ideal person to care for a child, but hells if he's going to let his younger self experience anything less than the safest and most wonderful weeks of his short, miserable life. The only real problem is, well, how is he possibly going to explain this to Ratio?)

3) A super soft, small fic of Ratio reflecting on all the ways his life has changed since Aventurine came into it--there's noise in his apartment now, and a photo on his desk in the office; there's troublesome snacks to pet sit and someone keeps sneaking inappropriate jokes into his lecture transcripts. There's a sounding board to test his lesson topics on, and a peacock on his cellphone lock screen because he's developed a newfound fondness for the color. There's a go-between nowadays when the ravenous investors come sniffing after the results of his research, and unlabeled packages containing exotic bath salts from star systems even Ratio has never heard of... But most beloved of all: the sense of soundness and symmetry, of something unexpected settling perfectly into his hold, at last.

4) Bodyswap AU: Ratio and Aventurine end up on a mission that goes wrong in every sense of the word (aeons, it's always aeons). They're separated with probably half the known universe between them, stranded on unrecorded planets without credits or technology, and--most bizarrely have all--have definitely swapped bodies. Cool. Cool. What the fuck. Aventurine is honestly tempted to say he might be coming out ahead in this whole drama--he's ripped and tall now--until he discovers that in Ratio's body, he doesn't have his luck. Meanwhile, Ratio is discovering just how much harder life is for Signonians, and coming to truly appreciate how strong of a person Aventurine really is. Somehow, they've got to make it back from half way across the universe, accomplish their mission, and get their own bodies back. Please?

5) A collection of complaint logs very important internal IPC records:

Complaints received on the dangerous behavior of new Stoneheart "Aventurine of Stratagems"

Complaints received on the hostile work environment created by Intelligentsia Guild Consultant Dr. Veritas Ratio

Request for transfer

Proposal (Joking) to assign Stoneheart Aventurine to joint mission with Intelligentsia Guild Consultant Dr. V. R.

Request for transfer

Proposal (No Longer Joking) to assign Stoneheart Aventurine to joint mission with IG Consultant Dr. V. R.

Joint Mission Report, Status: Complete, three days before projected date, Casualties: 0, Complaints: 0

Note from Clerk #157B to Clerk #162S, on digital post-it: "Are you seeing this shit?"

Mission Report, Status: Complete, two days behind schedule, Complaints: 1 - "Please don't subject me to the drivel of untrained imbeciles again. If you're going to send someone from outside the Technology Department, at least provide a competent strategist. The same one from last time, preferably."

Mission Report, Status: Complete, Casualties: 1, Complaints: 1 - "Just send Ratio next time, okay?"

Joint Mission Report, Status: Complete

Complaint received on the questionable conduct of Stoneheart Aventurine: "Why did my boss send me to buy bath bombs? Who are these for?"

Joint Mission Report, Status: Complete

Complaint received on the biased behavior of IG Consultant Dr. V. R.: "Why does boss get called 'dear gambler' while the rest of us are 'fool'?"

Penacony Joint Mission Report, Status: Complete

Notice of Hiatus from Intelligentsia Guild Activities and Sabbatical from Lecturing, Reason Given: None

Request for Paid Leave, to: Diamond, cc: Jade, bcc: Topaz, Reason Given: Elopement 💖

6) Maybe it's not a sensitive thing to ask. Maybe some stories are better left in the past. But Veritas Ratio has never been able to curb his desire to know--nor his desire to right the wrongs the world with that knowledge. Laid bare, pale against the lip of the tub, with nothing but the rippling of the bathwater to accompany him, Aventurine tells the story of each of his scars. Some marks cannot be washed away. But some--with time, with touch--can heal.

#honkai star rail #dr. ratio #aventurine #ratiorine #aventio #dr. ratio x aventurine #golden ratio #fanfic ideas #don't have time to write them #but sure do want to read them

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suzukiblu · 2 months

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WIP excerpt behind the cut; Kon is too trans for this pregnancy shit.

He’d . . . Kon had liked it, that Bart had acted like it was totally inconsequential when he’d come out to him. That he’d barely even reacted to him coming out at all. He’d reacted to him feeling shitty about himself, yeah, but not the actual coming out part. And that was such a relief, so . . .

So he’s not sure why he likes that Clark is reacting this much. That he’s taking it this seriously. That Clark feels . . . that Clark’s sorry for something he didn’t even actually do wrong. That he’s . . . acting like this about it.

He really doesn’t get it.

Just–it’s one thing if it’s Bart, who’s from a totally different time and place and runs mostly on instinct and impulse and the kind of logic that most other people don’t even think of. Bart, who’s been one of his best friends since they were fucking kids and doesn’t think like anyone else at all.

But if it’s Clark . . . if it’s Clark, who’s Superman, who he’s disappointed or let down or just weirded out so many times since he first met him . . . if it’s Clark who’s telling him he’ll help him, lie for him, do whatever . . .

It’s just–different, somehow, if it’s Clark.

“Sorry,” he manages after an embarrassingly long time, making himself lean back. Clark puts his hands on his biceps and squeezes them. Nothing else in the whole damn world feels as sure and steady as Clark Kent’s grip, and Kon almost starts crying again. He manages to make himself scrub the tears off his face instead, but only barely.

“There’s nothing you need to be sorry for,” Clark says firmly, and Kon lets out a weak laugh.

“I think I got snot on your shirt,” he says.

“It’ll wash out,” Clark says, giving him a small, wry smile as he squeezes his arms again. Kon sniffs. Then he sobs. Then he laughs.

There’s . . . there’s a lot of stuff going on in his head right now. Or like–just–

There’s a lot, right now.

Ugh, is he far enough along for mood swings and stuff? Like, crazy pregnancy hormones and whatever? He hopes not, but maybe he’d feel less stupid if he could blame the crying on that.

“I don’t want an abortion,” he blurts. “Not–not unless there’s like a medical thing the kid won’t survive anyway because of my stupid swiss cheese DNA or–or something like that.”

Clark squeezes his arms again.

“Okay,” he says simply. “Do you want to stay at the Fortress until they’re born and make up something about their origins, or do you want to tell people about the pregnancy?”

“I . . . I was–I was gonna tell everybody at dinner,” Kon stutters, rubbing at his still-wet eyes self-consciously. Feeling stupid, still, but . . . “And . . . and I don't know if–if Ma and Pa will even let me keep the kid and still stay here, but I at least wanna–wanna have them, and then–then I don't know, just–just I’ll figure something–”

“Kon,” Clark cuts him off gently, looking pained again. “Ma and Pa would never tell you that you need to give up anything to stay with them, much less your own child. And even if they did, you’re not going to have to figure anything out. If you need a place to stay, I’ll find you one. I’ll give you one.”

“Oh,” Kon says, blinking slowly.

Then he has to cry some more, because of fucking course he does.

God, he’s so–he’s so–

“Sorry,” he chokes again, useless and helpless, and Clark hugs him again. Strokes the back of his shoulders. Kon shakes, probably. Cries some more.

Maybe it is the hormones, but it’s such a fucking relief.

#wip: kon is too trans for this pregnancy shit

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dana-chan-the-control-brain · 3 months

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Honestly? All your evidence against Ruin is very very true, very very sus, and very very convenient for him.

I think the only reason why I want him to be innocent to some degree (either revealed he's still being controlled and not that just being him) is I don't want Moon's paranoia to be validated. That is literally it. If Moon is right to be suspicious, that he was right in doing everything he did with Ruin-

I just really really do not want that paranoia to be justified. That is literally it.

All your evidence is probably right though, Ruin, please be a better actor you have gained the ability to be subtle but that is really not helping you.

The thing is that, Moon feels he was disproven in his paranoia and that he decided to give Ruin leniency.

Which is why Ruin was able to get away from Moon, and ask for dimensional travel.

I have a feeling Ruin put a lot of things in place to assure that he would infiltrate Sun and Moon near perfectly.

Considering the latest MAFS episode (which I feel is very important considering how Daycare Attendant centric it is)

youtube

"Cured" Ruin and Bloodmoon have not met up yet.

And I have a feeling they will very soon. And Bloodmoon was built with the sole purpose of being Ruin's minion. And Bloodmoon hasn't outgrown that purpose. Right now, Bloodmoon has no directive, and is taking orders from Stitchwraith, but once his maker comes back into the table, I feel all bets are off the table.

Also, lets rewind for a bit... What if Moon's earlier paranoia about Ruin is proven true...

THAT would have MASSIVE benefits that we aren't even thinking about. Like at this point, Moon's paranoia proven right would just help them rather then help them.

They'll trust Eclipse

Eclipse will be taken more seriously and less like a madman or feral child that Moon needs to manage.

Eclipse will get to be something else other then a villain or just an inconvenience for once.

THIS WILL NOT HELP MOON'S EGO AT ALL. For those who think Moon would gloat like "ha! I was right!" I don't think it'll be like that. HE'D FEEL BETRAYED and utterly devastated. It's one thing to be suspicious of someone. But to have those suspicions disproven and not being proven and put your trust into them despite all that and then the evil villain you've built in your head (Eclipse) turned out to be right the whole time and you fucked it all up by not listening to the untrustworthy one.

Remember Eclipsev3 was crying when he was captured because he knew it wouldn't matter what he said, no one would ever trust his word against Ruins? Eclipse would be given trust for the first time ever....

And you know what. AFTER ALL THIS TIME. SUN AND MOON DO NOT KNOW ECLIPSE'S BACKSTORY. As far as Sun and Moon know, Eclipse was a killcode that became sentient and started evil shit for no reason. I hope this will open the door for that conversation to be had.

Not to Mention, Evil Sun today told Moon that he should actually LISTEN to Eclipse. Cause if he doesn't, it just means that this universe will die faster.

I am also surprised that none of the characters call Ruin out specifically for lying. As I have caught him lying several times and none of the characters seem to be wise to it.

Eclipse when he was threatening Ruin did not even think to bring up the Magical Barrier he has encountered twice now. He didn't think to bring up how he was made from Arcade machines either.

All Eclipse thought about was his rage, but if he defused Ruin with logic, he could have easily caught him, other then just going "BUT YOU DID IT! WAH"

Ruin contradicts and changes his story so many times in the span of a few seconds and it has been proven in his Interrogation under the Virus he is a chronic lair. Lie detectors don't work. You have to catch him verbally in a contradiction. Which he has Spouted MANY.

So I always hoped that Moon, Solar or Eclipse would point out these purposeful contradictions but No characters do.

RUIN LEGIT SAID ALOUD "I don't know magic."

Okay. Then he said way earlier: "I constructed this magical barrier to trap you"

....... Okay. YOu can copy a spell, but even COPYING a spell itself is KNOWING magic. The mana has to come from SOMEWHERE. He's not pulling it out of his ass!

Eclipse NOR Moon called this out.

Ruin knows that NewMoon is not as experienced in Magic as OldMoon was. (WHICH MOON ADMITS) and Ruin is taking advantage of that.

Not to mention Eclipse’s magic circle is just an exact copy of Old Moon’s magic circle and wasn’t made by someone knowledgeable in magic.

Ruin being scared of Eclipse almost everytime he encounters him is interesting.

BECAUSE HE IS LEGIT THE ONLY ONE WHO IS. ALMOST LIKE HE'S OVERSELLING HIM.

One moment, Ruin will cower over Eclipse and act traumatized by him, but then he talks about plans about making Star-Powered type Nukes (LEGIT. HE DID.) and then gloat over Eclipse...

Not to mention, Eclipse had never tortured Ruin. He threatened him, sure, but he never physically harmed him. He left before he could do so. But Ruin told Moon and Sun that Eclipse physically tortured him for a long time... BUT THAT'S NOT TRUE. Because Eclipse just threatened torture and the moment Ruin mentioned the Creator, Eclipse went off chasing that wild goose.

So the question comes down to motive... Why do all this with Eclipse.

Well, to accelerate the Death of the Universe. Not just ours.

The Tsams universe is not the main universe. But it's a pillar universe. Meaning if it goes down it takes a few others down with it.

RUIN WANTS TO DESTROY MULTIPLE DIMENTIONS.

Why????

Where did Ruin come from?

What is his dimension?

He has a virus in him that makes him subservient to the Creator in his home world. (if not a little unhinged and bound for destruction and amplifying the violent parts of his personality)

What did the Creator of that dimension want?

He wanted to accelerate the death of the universe by star power so he could study it.

........well.

He already did that with his own dimension.

The creator needs more control samples for multiple dimensions rotting.

And why the hell does the Creator have a cure for the Ruin virus when it's beneficial to him in the long term?

Even Sun said he grabbed something he "thought" was a Cure, and Moon seemed unsure if it was a cure in the first place too.

All Ruin said it did was "cure the fog" from his head. Which makes me think that he's less focused on playing games... (like the Monty of Ruin's dimension thought he was a freakshow) so I think that Ruin is just more focused in long term goals... Also I think his goal was always to pretend to be cured. Looking back in how he acted and what he did when he took over last Halloween.

Ruin, He already knew Bloodmoon was rebelling against him. The protocols he put in bloodmoon to be obedient weren't working how he intended. So he made Eclipse with STRICTER protocols to not make the same mistake and to cause chaos among the Sun and Moon duo.

Eclipse is a distraction so that he can RUIN everything.

#tsams #Ruin is sus squad #danachan's rants

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bumblingbabooshka · 2 months

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In your opinion, do Vulcan children have teddies (stuffed animals)?

YES!!!

Stuffed animals and other security items would be good for Vulcan children...I can imagine many small children needing them when they first learn how to meditate. They can also be used as a sort of 'anchor' so they are able to stay calm in unfamiliar situations. I can also imagine they would be used to express emotions without having to attribute them to themselves Ex: "[Toy] feels sad because you ate the last cookie." and a parent could then help the child through that emotion via them both teaching 'the bear' what to do when 'it' feels sad. This way the child feels like they're also helping rather than feeling like they're being lectured. Toys are, I imagine, one of the first things that we learn to take care of and be kind towards. As a child it's probably one of the few things we feel is under 'our care' or control. I imagine how children treat toys is observed carefully...it can be a good outlet (a child may rant to a toy when they don't like something while remaining composed in the situation itself) but also if a child is consistently violent with toys it may be indicative of an emotional issue. Creativity, imagination, and play are also not things which seem to conflict with Vulcan adherence to logic. Play is very important for children and I imagine it's often used to make sense of the world around them or what they feel (Ex: Playing 'House') I imagine you can often see Vulcan children playing by mimicking violent or emotional behavior and then scolding the toy for being violent...you can't hit! You have to take deep breaths and meditate. Oh no, [toy] is crying! Don't cry, you must calm down! Or they might play by exploring new ideas and desires through the realm of fantasy with a familiar object, the toy. Toys are also useful (I imagine, I'm not a psychologist just reflecting on my own experiences) for building a sense of self in a way...during the course of play you can discover what you like and don't like, what calms you down and what intrigues you. You can also learn how to interact with others through games and play as a child. Lessons like how to share, how to work together, how to include others in your world...very important! So yes, I think that toys and play are important - especially for a species which is inherently very emotional. Vulcan Children probably have much less control than adults do and require more tangible methods of calming down, understanding/confronting their emotions etc. Now I'm imagining a 'growing up' ritual wherein children decide they're too old for their toys and ready to give them up. They then work to emotionally detach themselves from them. At the end of this process the children give the toys to someone else (a sibling, a friend, a neighbor, or just donating them)

#Vulcans #Q&A #Thanks for the ask~!!#bee doodles #it is typically up to each individual child to decide when they want to let their toys go but once they get to a certain age they'll be #prodded a bit to do so (which also happens with Humans)#I imagine only the STAUNCHIEST of Vulcans find these sorts of toys to be 'illogical' (think Sarek)#Though I can also imagine Sarek just deciding Spock is too emotionally invested in a toy and getting rid of it #so pick your poison I suppose hehehe

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heich0e · 2 years

Text

four drink rule - suna rintarou/f!reader (1.6k) sfwish, a bit silly, alcohol mention, enemies to something, samu dying a hero's death

atsumu slumps down into the banquette seating lining the wall of the club, exhausted.

there's a mysterious stain on the upholstery next to his thigh; the music is so loud it's rattling his teeth; and it's so hot in the crowded, rowdy space that the thin material of his dress shirt is sticking to him, even with the three top buttons undone.

this was supposed to be a night out with old friends.

this was supposed to be fun.

but now he just wants to go home.

"how many's she on?" his twin appears before atsumu, a drink in each hand. osamu mercifully hands the full one over to him.

atsumu accepts the drink gratefully, not a damn clue what it is, and takes a healthy swig. it burns a little on the way down, and does little to parch his actual thirst, but it's better than nothing. he swallows, panting lightly as he drags the back of his hand over his slick mouth.

"three—"

osamu nods, turning his head to scan the crowd of bodies.

"—what about suna?"

osamu takes a sip of his own drink, a less gluttonous one than his brother had. he turns back to his brother and gives him a pointed look as his adam's apple bobs.

he sighs, and the sound seems to come from deep within him. "three."

"who's watchin' him now?" atsumu asks.

"aran-kun."

atsumu's brow arches at his brother's response. "aran's supposed to be watchin' her."

they share a look. the beat in the song playing over the sound system drops. they're moving towards the thick of the crowd before they know it.

they find aran relatively quickly, near the bar where osamu had left him with suna, but he is horrifyingly alone.

"where is he?"

"where is she?”

the twins speak at the same time, tones equally accusatorial.

aran rolls his eyes lightly, shaking his head. "relax, they got into one of their spats and she stormed off a while ago, and he said he was gonna go see if he could steal a cig off someone outside while i got another drink."

both of the twins nod, slightly relieved.

osamu’s eyes sweep the surrounding area for a moment.

"aran-kun... where's your drink?"

aran looks over at the bar where he must have left his glass, but finds nothing there but a ring of condensation where his drink once sat.

he looks back to the twins to meet two identically wide pairs of eyes.

"god damn it.”

atsumu runs his hands through his peroxide blonde hair, gripping the strands roughly in frustration. “aran! the Four Drink Rule is in place fer a reason! it’s sacred!”

"yeah, yeah I know," aran sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose as he squeezes his eyes closed.

atsumu stomps his foot—actually stomps it, like an overgrown child—and laments ”this never woulda happened if kita-san were here!"

“kita-san’d never be caught dead in a club, but at least they behave themselves when he’s around," his twin reminds him, more composed than his genetic counterpart. the more level-headed of the two evaluates his options momentarily. “tsumu, you go check outside and see if you can find that dickhead. i’ll look for her. aran why dontcha take a lap and see if you can find ‘em in any… dark corners.”

aran’s nose crinkles in disgust.

“why do i get the worst job?” he gripes.

“yer the one that lost track of ‘em,” osamu says sternly, and aran can’t refute his logic even if he hates it.

they part ways, and osamu approaches the bar—waiting for the bartender to turn her attention towards him as his fingertips tap the sticky surface of the bartop impatiently.

finally the woman approaches.

“sorry to ask ya this,” osamu sighs, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly, “did a girl come through here recently? real feisty, probably ordered a lemon sour with no ice, about—“

he intimates your approximate height to the bartender.

“—yea high?”

the bartender actually laughs a little bit at how defeated osamu seems, nodding her head.

"yeah, I served her a lemon sour with no ice a couple minutes ago. maybe 10? only remember her because she told me i wasn't allowed to tell some big guy with bleached hair. she made me pinky promise and everything.”

osamu knocks his fist between his eyes. yeah, that was definitely you.

“everything okay?” the bartender asks warily, watching osamu cycle through all five stages of grief in the expressions on his face.

“oh yeah, we’re fine. thanks fer yer help though, miss, and ‘m sorry about the trouble.”

atsumu, aran, and osamu all meet up again where they’d left each other—a few minutes older and substantially more grim.

“couldn’t find ‘em.”

“he wasn’t outside.”

“she got a fourth drink.”

they all relay their findings one after the other, the bad news compounding.

osamu looks at atsumu. atsumu looks at aran. aran looks at osamu. then the order repeats itself in reverse.

“i’m not doin’ it,” atsumu is the first to speak up, staunch and adamant. “i’m tired of baby sittin’ those two brats every time we go out. if they wanna down four drinks and end up suckin' each other’s faces off and bumpin' uglies in a nasty ol’ bathroom that’s their problem!”

“but we’re the ones that have to deal with the fallout, ‘tsumu!” his brother argues. “suna’s gonna complain about her not replying to the stupid memes he sends like a lovesick idiot for the next two weeks, minimum. and she’s gonna blame us for not stopping her!”

“i agree with atsumu, we’ve been doing this for years. if they can’t admit they like each other that’s between them and god.” aran shrugs, equally exasperated with the foolishness. he’s been dealing with this for too damn long.

osamu tilts his head back and looks up at the ceiling, watching the way the club lights flicker across the black tiles overhead.

“if you guys help me figure out where they are, i’ll be the one to break ‘em apart.”

“deal.”

“fine.”

it doesn’t take them long really, once ginjima informs the three of them that he spotted you and suna slipping into an out of order washroom near coat check not fifteen minutes prior. suna’s hand had been, according to akagi’s chipper contribution, so far up your shirt it looked like ‘that scene in alien when the alien pops clear outta their chests!’

osamu stares at the out of order sign on the bathroom door for longer than he cares to admit; mustering his resolve, saying a prayer, lamenting the day of his own birth, etc.

he casts a look down to the other end of the dimly lit hall (predominantly used by staff) to where atsumu, aran, and a few other of their friends are watching him like spectators standing on the dock to send ill fated soldiers off to war. atsumu waves him on encouragingly.

osamu sighs.

he pushes the door open.

“haa, please, rintar-MMPH!”

osamu fights back a gag as the door swings closed and the bathroom falls deathly silent.

he hears the drip of water from a leaking tap, the distant thrum of bass from the music outside.

“you two are gross, y’know that?”

osamu can see suna’s shoes under the door of the bathroom stall nearest to him. your shoes slowly appear on the ground just in front of suna’s, dropping down into view from above.

“i’m not leavin’ without the two of ya, so put yer junk away and get the hell out here,” osamu demands, crossing his arms over his chest.

“my junk’s not even out yet,” suna mutters sullenly from behind the door, and he hears a smack a moment later.

there’s a bit of shuffling that osamu doesn’t want to picture and the stall lock clicks open.

well, at least you two had the decency to lock one door.

the stall door opens a crack, only to slam closed again a moment later.

“hey!” osamu hears you complain.

“you know we don’t actually have to go out there, right? he’s not our boss.”

“get your grubby hands off of me,” you hiss, and there’s another audible scuffle. finally the door to the stall is wrenched open, and you step out.

your hair is a mess. your skirt is creased. your makeup is running. osamu doesn’t dwell too long on the way you’re walking like you’re weak-kneed in the interest of preserving his own sanity.

“god i can’t stand you,” you hiss over your shoulder towards the stall where suna is also emerging, looking equally dishevelled—though notably more smug than you do.

“i’ve got a seat i can offer if you’re looking for one,” suna says, a smirk tugging the corner of his swollen, rosy lips up. there's lipstick streaking across his mouth, jaw, and neck.

“i’m never doing this again,” you say adamantly, grabbing your purse off of the bathroom counter beside osamu, where you’d evidently hastily cast it aside, avoiding his judgemental gaze as you do so.

osamu wants to echo your statement.

you tug the strap of your bag up over your arm and stomp towards the door of the bathroom with your lipstick still smeared down your chin. osamu turns to look at his friend, his expression flat and unimpressed, but suna’s preoccupied watching you go, eyes glued to the doorway until the door swings shut behind you—the ignored OUT OF ORDER sign fluttering sadly.

it’s quiet again once you’re gone, and suna turns to look at osamu with a dopey, self-satisfied smile. he sighs happily.

“she says that every time.”

#suna x reader #suna x you #suna rintarou x you #suna rintarou #suna #hq drabble #hq writing #writing

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