#Personally I like to write original characters not based on me in any way instead!

[tozettastone]

@n1ghtmeri sure thing!

Reader fics seem intended to place the reader into the work. They are clearly designed for the reader to read through and go "yes, this work is a fantasy about me." That's why they have the conventions they do, like naming the character a placeholder like "Y/N," (for your name) and frequently being written in second person.

Self insert fics are the writer constructing a character that is like them (but probably not actually identical to them) and putting them inside the world of canon.

As to why the difference is very stark to me... I generally do not find reader fics at all compelling but I love self insert fics. Reader fic DOES appeal to some people. Those people are not better or worse for finding that appealing. They are welcome in fandom and I am annoyed when people talk like they're not LOL.

But for me: I have tried to be interested in reader fics and generally I do not like them. I think this is because reader fics are beholden to this idea of The Reader, a presumed audience of similar-enough readers who can strongly relate to and project onto the main character. In my view this really hamstrings the characterisation of the main character. Because it needs to be relatable to many readers, any really distinct character trait is now forbidden. So you instead see fics like "this character is The Reader but now they're PLUS SIZED," as though plus sized is a personality. Sometimes writers of reader fic do try to give the reader a few key personality traits, but I have found in my reading that this leads to a confused and inconsistent characterisation, or a very flat one.

(Reader fic also shows a tendency to land you with extremely hetero female main characters who romance canon male characters in the most Girl In A Romance Novel way imaginable, but I have yet to determine if this is fundamental to the genre or if it is a tendency that has appeared because of the preponderance of hetero stuff on Wattpad, which appears to have been the stronghold of reader fic up until the last few years.)

A self insert character can be absolutely feral. I would cite @mixelation's ongoing Plasticity series as a strong example of how a self insert fic does not really have the same characterisation restrictions and expectations as a reader fic. Tori is not necessarily a character onto whom an individual reader can easily project (...except mixelation themselves, perhaps? hmm), but she sure does have some strong personality traits.

(By contrast, I will not offer a specific example of a reader fic because I have been pretty open about my dislike for them. Seems rude.)

Anyway TLDR if you want to read some unhinged bullshit worldbuilding exploration via a character who is interesting, my experience is that reader fic is not for you but self insert fic might be.

The difference between a self insert and a reader fic is incredibly stark to me personally but I think not even very evident to a lot of people, ha

[ratatouillewastakendammit]

30% Off

Pairing: Hawks x reader

Summary: In the end of the world, death around every corner means you don’t exactly get much time to pleasure yourself. Thankfully, someone you’ve had your eye on is more than willing to help

Warnings: smuttttt; edging; language; apocalypse AU; the 'monster cocks' that I found in a Spencer's the other day.

(I originally wanted to write this for an AIB character, but it's been a while since I've touched on Hawks so I literally just did it again with him.)

Your fingers flit through a small sea of heavy fabrics, each embroidered with some colorful design of whatever video game or anime character had been trending when the world stopped.

Apparently, it had been Gojo, the white outlines of his hair a stark difference to the black of the hoodies base framework.

The material was heavy and warm, hiding your fingers from the damp chill in the air as you slid them underneath to find the price tag.

$49.99

The notion of one piece of clothing being nearly worth a young teens entire shift made your eyebrows tug upward.

Slipping the cloth off of its hanger, you gently ripped the price tag off, letting it fall to the floor as you snuck an arm into one of the sleeves.

Once upon a time, you would have cared about the littering, but it wasn’t as if rest of the mall didn’t look any different.

It was getting increasingly hard to care about things like that.

Instead, you focused on the comfort of your newfound treasure. Taking what you wanted was one of the few benefits you reaped in a place like this.

The mall doors had been hard to pry open, but a crowbar and a few minutes had done just fine. With a few days of peace before another game needing to be won, Mirko suggested some good old scavenging.

If anything, it was a lot better than sitting around and starving to death.

So you, her, and a few others had ended up here, each going their own way to cover the maximum amount of ground before darkness fell over this wasteland.

And while you didn’t exactly think Spencer’s would have the most survivalist-prone gear, it was one of the only stores in the North end of the mall that didn’t reek of rotting food.

You slipped through a wall of nose piercings, grabbing another thick hoody that sported a small drawing of Killua Zoldyck on the lower right corner.

Going towards the back of the store, you rummaged through the trays of snacks that could usually be found near the checkout desk. Even though they technically weren’t the most nutritious, sour gummies and sodas were known to have a better-than-average shelf life.

As you scoured over numerous packages and Best Buy dates, your gaze slipped a few feet to your left, eyes widening as a short chuckle bubbled up into your throat.

You walked over to a stand proudly boasting its abundance of ‘Creature Cocks’ and picked up a glow-in-the-dark Unicorn dildo.

It was nearly 9-inches.

Guess I could use that thing as a weapon if anything.

Snickering, you put the sparkly sex toy back and let your line of sight graze curiously over the smaller, more much conventional ones.

It had been a long time.

Which wasn’t surprising, since personal pleasure wasn’t exactly a priority during what many would define as the apocalypse.

Still…

Almost unconsciously, you reached out, fingers curling around a small toy that slightly resembled one you used to have.

“You know most of those don’t work anymore, right?”

“Shit!” You spun around in fear, locking eyes with the second male in your little group, Hawks. His lower lip was curled in amusement as you pressed a hand to your pounding chest. “You just gave me a heart attack, asshole!”

Regardless, nervous excitement brewed in your stomach. The feelings you harbored for the individual in front of you were dangerous and you knew that, but they were hard to ignore.

“Sorry, didn’t think I was interrupting anything,” his eyes flit down to the device in your hand, a feline-like smirk spreading across his features as he turned and began to leave. “But I’ll leave you to it.”

You dropped the toy, it’s clatter against the floor causing him to swivel his gaze back and you to internally cringe. “Batteries,” you swallowed, cheeks beginning to burn as you mentally fumbled for an excuse. “Some have batteries. I figured we’d run out at some point. For flashlights and stuff… ya know?”

Rambling. You’re rambling. Stop it.

Hawks cocked an eyebrow, stalking closer and quietly bending down to pick up the device. When he straightened, his body was a few centimeters from yours.

A contrasting scent of ashes and spice hit your senses as he lifted an arm to put the toy back, effectively caving you in on one side.

You wondered absentmindedly if he still would’ve smelt faintly of fire if he wasn’t stuck here, in a world surrounded by death and decay.

“If you really needed help that badly, you could’ve just asked,” he replied, wolfish grin doing nothing to quell the heat blooming into your face.

The meaning of his statement hit you like a train, the suggestion crawling below your abdomen to tease you with a flash of pleasure.

“I don’t… I wasn’t trying to-”

“But you want to,” you blinked, eyes wide in surprise as his arm snaked around your waist. “Besides, it might be dangerous to leave you all hot and bothered during an attack or something, don’t you think?”

“I’m not… I’m fine,” the reply definitely lacked the assertion you planned to give it, the idea of his skin against yours more than distracting.

He let out a raspy hum. “So it wouldn’t turn you on at all if I did something like this?”

The hand resting on your hip began moving downward, began toying with the top of your jeans.

Mindlessly, your hips lifted upwards, practically begging to meet his touch.

That smirk grew slightly, excitement flashing through brown irises. “Thought so.”

His hand slipped under the fabric, gently brushing against your clit. The contact made your body jerk in surprise, that soft heat slowly building as the touch moved in between your thighs.

“I-” One finger pushed between your folds, drawing a soft groan from you as he began to slowly thrust the digit in and out.

“I know, princess. Don’t worry, I’m gonna take care of you.”

His lips grazed over yours, gently stealing the sigh you gave in response to his movements. Blond hair tickled your face as he continued to whisper praises in your ear.

“So pretty,” his free arm linked under yours when your knees threatened to fall out from under you.“Do you know long I’ve wanted to do this? Wanted you?”

He watched as you continued to slip away in a pleasured haze, expression flashing for a mere second in adoration as his finger drew soft circles over your clit.

The feeling was overwhelming, the rest of the world melting away from the burning heat just begging to reach its climax.

Then it vanished, his touch slipping away as quickly as it came before he pressed his lips against yours, the moment lasting mere seconds but leaving you breathless.

“Why did you stop?” The desperation in your tone might have embarrassed you, if you cared.

“So needy,” he taunted. “I’ll fuck you properly when we have some more privacy.”

You almost reached out to stop him when he backed away, your pride saved as the rest of your group pushed through the isles.

“You guys okay? We’re gonna head back to the shelter soon.” Mirko stopped, eyes widening as she took in the area. “What are you doing back-“

“We thought there might be some batteries in here.” Hawks grabbed one of the toys. An effortless smile gracing his lips , he spun the package around so the label was visible. “30% percent off.”

[multifandumbmeg]

Ok. Came across my first pro Five and Lila post so FiveLila shippers let's talk. If you ship Five and Lila, that's totally fine! Both CHARACTERS are legal adults.

What they did on the show was disgusting.

And yes, it was also poor writing. You should be angry too. Let's discuss.

Aidan Gallagher is BARELY an adult. He was, what, at most 19 during filming? Ritu Arya is 35. She is a grown woman. They met filming season 2. Late 2019. Aidan Gallagher was freshly 16 years old. She has watched him grow up from his early teens to now, bareeeely a legal adult. For that reason, they CLEARLY do not have any physical/sexual/romantic chemistry, because Ritu Arya isn't a groomer creep. She looks visibly disgusted all while acting her ass off. She plays the lines well but the kissing was so unbelievably uncomfortable to watch and I KNOW it was because SHE FELT UNCOMFORTABLE DOING IT. She remembers this BOY as like a five foot two kid in the prep school uniform, right? It's gross for the same reason dating your teacher even after you've graduated is very gross and makes everyone give you the side-eye. Both Ritu and David (Lila and Diego) have made it clear they were very against this choice. It is obvious this was entirely pushed by Steve Blackman.

Now before you get pissy and scroll away, before I explain why it is in this case bad writing, let me also remind you:

It is fine to like this ship conceptually. It is fine to write fanfiction. There is nothing wrong with that. I totally get shipping their characters based on their personalities and life experiences. BUT

What they did with this season with the canon was simply an awful mess. Morally, it was just plain wrong. The age gap alone made it inappropriate. But it was also bad. Writing. As many have pointed out, it was horrifically out of character for Five. Lila's character was written wildly inconsistently this season. Neither of them would have done that to Diego. Five would simply never have made a move. No matter how badly he wanted to, I don't believe he would have even if she made the move. Not for decades. At least. Add to this the entire experience was completely unneccessary and made no sense to begin with- Lila's suggestion that they go back and save original Ben would mean she never met the Brellies and thus never met Diego, still believed her evil mother, and her children didn't exist. Lila os brash, but generally not stupid, but even if she overlooked that fact are you telling me Five, Mr. Know-it-all who LIVES to be the smartest person in the room and always has, wouldn't have even said something then?? Before they left?! NO. He would NEVER have agreed to go on that mission before even considering the consequences. It was essentially an entire episode of character assasination for both of them. If you like either Lila OR Five at all, you should HATE this arc. Five not considering fallout, falling for his brother's wife despite most of the fandom believing he was aroace the whole time, choosing to betray his brother by physically having an affair with said wife, giving up on solving the apocalypse or finding his family again (his whole mission for the entire series, his entire character), finding a way out and then HIDING IT FOR HALF A YEAR FOR SELFISH REASONS?!?! Five... Hargreeves?? Are we talking about the same person??? Inconsistency is poor writing, plain and simple. Lila, for her part, was traumatized by her mother and spent all of season three grappling with her pregnancy. She had the opportunity, and made discussions with Diego about abortion. She ultimately CHOSE to have a child and ASKED to have a family WITH him. So to have her and Diego both spend this season only saying negative things about their family and act like they regret having the kids they VERY THOUGHTFULLY CHOSE TO HAVE is just plain shitty. They could have done a thoughtful plotline about how hard parenting is when you're breaking generational cycles, but instead they absolutely abandoned it and just had them cause more. Lila runs off to do something that logically will erase her children immediately and then when she finds out Five figured out the way back she mentions Diego and her kids and I found myself yelling at the screen-

"Oh, you care about your kids now?? Since when?!" Diego and Lila literally dump their kids off with a relative in the start of episode 2 and only even mention them again to complain after that. Never once do either of them say one nice thing about their children. Never do they say they love their children. We don't see any shots in the montage of Five and Lila of Lila being UNDERSTANDABLY DEVASTATED and being comforted by Five. It's not only completely inconsistent, it's not just that it makes all the parties involved look shittier for it, it's that they didn't even do it well.

What I'm saying is-

It shouldn't have happened in the final shortened season of this tv show. There was no way they could make that happen and be in any way a fulfilling ending for any of those characters, and for that reason EVERYONE should be pissed about it.

You could write a fic where Diego and Lila's marriage slowly breaks down (or hell maybe they never even got married) but it happens amicably and they don't fucking hate their children in the process and Five doesn't have an affair with Lila, but is there in the aftermath instead. You can write thoughtful, well-executed 200,000 fics drawing out the family drama of this slow burn and Diego and Five coming to terms. Or you could write a trashy smut fic where they all cheat on each other and are assholes and nothing makes sense, basically just like the show did. That's great! Both are totally fine and make absolute sense and are gratifying under the right circumstances to the right audience. Because that's fanfiction, and you've got time.

This was the end of a show we all fucking loved. This was a horrible ending that left everyone dead and unhappy at the moment of their death. A show that was supposed to be about overcoming familial dysfunction, not drowning in it.

So yes, we're angry about Five and Lila. Not because your ship is bad or wrong. Because it should not have happened under these circumstances.

[rs8ndead]

❛ addicted ❜ ⸻ dating Trevor Philips

── ﹙ 𝜗𝜚 ‧₊˚ MASTERLIST&INFO.﹚. ☆

→﹐ 𓏵﹒ SUMMARY.﹒⟢ ⸻ Trevor as a boyfriend. 🤗🤗

→﹐ 𓏵﹒ PAIRING.﹒⟢ ⸻ trevor philips x gn/gender neutral! reader.

→﹐ 𓏵﹒ A/N.﹒⟢ ⸻ EEEEEEEK first headcanons post of one of my TOP hyperfixations HOORAY ໒꒰ྀིっ˕ -｡꒱ྀི১ I love characters like Trevor,,,, like characters who are stinky and or crime lords :3 so fun to write because they’re just MAD crazy 🎀🎀 he’s also so easy to write to because I made a original character BASED off of Trevor and to ship with Trevor, I really wanna write like fanfiction of the two together but I’m not sure if anybody will like… like it or anything 💔💔😓 ( I hope I’m writing Trevor right, I’d freak out if I weren’t writing one of my favorite comfort characters correctly )

→﹐ 𓏵﹒ TAGLIST﹒⟢ ⸻ none 💔 pls let me know if you guys wanna be in my taglist for everything that I write or for something specific :33

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ﹙©rs8ndead﹚

→﹐ 𓏵﹒ TAGLIST﹒⟢ ⸻ none 💔 pls let me know if you guys wanna be in my taglist for everything that I write or for something specific :33

🩸  ⸺  the most clingiest man ever. From clinging onto your waist if not constantly when you guys are alone, to following you around everywhere you go and holding onto your hand as if he were some body guard, being nosy and peeping himself into your business ( example: phone call ), intrusive staring towards you, sniffing them without context or warning at all, invading personal space ( he has no sense of it ), constant and constant communication, overwhelming relentless and continuous affection, regular rambling and blabbering about how much he loves you and that he would literally do anything for you ( committing crimes such as robbery, credit card fraud, murder, arson, etc etc THE LIST GOES ONNNNN ), no he will not stop any of his suffocating and overwhelming actions until you probably like communicate out your boundaries with him. He grew up with a horrible childhood, he’s not really socially aware of how creepy he can be when he starts to date somebody. It’s very obvious that he’s got an emotional attachment to you.

୨୧ ᵎᵎ ﹐﹒⟡﹒

🩸  ⸺  despite his history of hooking up with other woman and his chaotic mess of a personality, Trevor truly feels there is a bond with you and him and that there’s actual chemistry, instead of just sex and splitting ways after wards. He loves you so very deeply and isn’t afraid to show you that he loves you, at all.

୨୧ ᵎᵎ ﹐﹒⟡﹒

🩸  ⸺  Trevor is all putty when it comes to you, like a baby kitten. He’s your lil meow meow for real, ESPECIALLY when you give him any form of affection.

୨୧ ᵎᵎ ﹐﹒⟡﹒

🩸  ⸺  takes you out on shopping sprees constantly whenever he can if you’ve got a hobby for shopping ( and yes of course, it’s allllll from Michael’s credit card, in which good ol’ Trev somehow managed to steal from him ) and constantly commits credit card fraud just so he can see you happy, if you TRY to persist he will just say something along the lines of: “sugar tits, no no no… let me spoil you.” And no, he will not take a no for an answer, he’ll even go as far as hiding your form of payment ( cash, credit, debit ) in a place where he knows you won’t find it, because he’s not letting you buy anything for yourself, at all. He’s paying for you, one way or another and he loves you and doesn’t want you to pay for yourself when you’ve got him. It’s a fifty / fifty relationship, he buys you stuff and other needs for you, and you just let him do that for you.

୨୧ ᵎᵎ ﹐﹒⟡﹒

🩸  ⸺  if this man had good grammar AND could write ( because we all know, he cannot write for SHIT. ) you’d be getting those long ass love sappy letters, but IF you were a writer and you did that for him he would be all confused and asking you “huh what’s this say” and then be all a putty, crying even more clingy mess all over you and sobbing that he didn’t deserve you.

୨୧ ᵎᵎ ﹐﹒⟡﹒

🩸  ⸺  before he started to officially date you, he definitely asked Michael ( and probably Wade, Ron, Franklin, and everybody who he knows but mostly Michael before he tells to shut the fuck up when he hears something he doesn’t like ) for relationship advice, and no he did not listen to Michael about ‘taking it slow’ and along with ‘don’t say I love you to quick’, because Trevor definitely most likely said those words ‘I love you’ when he meets you because he is SO IN LOVE with you it surpasses everything practically, he’s to dumb for relationship rules.

୨୧ ᵎᵎ ﹐﹒⟡﹒

🩸  ⸺  it’s quite obvious that he’s got an emotional attachment to you. You know that erotic Calendar and those also erotic photos of women in their bikinis that are on the walls of his trailer?? Yeah, he took it down and just replaced it with photos of you.( one of the advices that he listened to from Michael )

୨୧ ᵎᵎ ﹐﹒⟡﹒

🩸  ⸺  he loves like a puppy, constantly all over you as he’s practically and literally your number one hype man, complimenting you and being all desperate for you and crushing on you even though you and him are both dating. He worships you to the point where its concerning.

୨୧ ᵎᵎ ﹐﹒⟡﹒

🩸  ⸺  the type of guy to gift you rocks he thinks you’d find cool that he would find on sandy shores whenever he’s spending time away from you ( he hopes you find the rocks he gifts you cool; otherwise he’d be disappointed in himself )

୨୧ ᵎᵎ ﹐﹒⟡﹒

🩸  ⸺  literally the dream boyfriend. I don’t CAREEEEEEE he’s the dream boyfriend.

[ungodly-amounts-of-godly-trauma]

wotw round 1

propaganda under the cut!

shen qingqiu:

Okay first a quick intro: Shen Qingqiu / Shen Yuan is the main character of SVSSS, and his deal is that he's a guy from the modern world who wakes up in the novel he read, in the body of one of the characters. Shen Yuan is his name in his original world, while Shen Qingqiu is the name of the character he became - that he uses for himself for most of the novel.

Now, what happened to him… The thing is, at the core of his woobification are his actual canon traits, but some fans really crank them up to the point where it becomes a disservice to the character. So you never know when someone saying "oh Shen Qingqiu is so oblivious" means "due to several intersecting factors Shen Qingqiu has some extremely specific blindspots regarding certain topics" (which is just true) or "haha Shen Qingqiu could get kissed by a man and still not realize that man has romantic feelings for him" (just one variation of the sentiment, but one i find particularly bewildering considering. in canon. a man kissing him was exactly what made Shen Qingqiu realize that man was actually in love with him. like my dudes the bar is low but its there!).

Stumbling into this second version in fic was funny a first few times, but now it's like… I genuinely can't tell whether any particular author is overplaying it for comedy, or genuinely believes the character is That dumb.

Also ppl often severely underestimate his power level. Like idk if that's because they compare him to the characters he often hangs out with, who are those genius top-of-the-world experts (despite him outpacing literally everyone else he ever fought against), or because of how he bungled his first-ever case (like, you know, two weeks after waking up in a whole NEW BODY, in a different world), or because he tends to downplay his own strength and also tries to avoid killing people… but like, this man took a technique that in the original was just "aesthetic and interesting" and developed it into something that could be super deadly within weeks, he's just not using it that way. And he also fixed og Shen Qingqiu's broken cultivation within the first few months of being in that body. So he's actually extremely talented and pretty strong, he just spends most of the book either nerfed by external factors (such as poison that disables his spiritual energy at random times) or surrounded by veritable powerhouses.

And this is for Shen Yuan-as-Shen Qingqiu. But the version that drives me completely up the wall is actually the portrayal of just Shen Yuan - in fanworks where he either never gets transported to the world of the novel, or wakes up as a different character. Because suddenly the traits that already get unduly amplified with Shen Qingqiu version become straight up caricature-like. He's not only oblivious to the extreme, he also gets painted as this completely naive soft babyboi (this is about a guy whose most well-known pre-transmigration canon trait is that he writes famously vitriolic rants about novels on the internet); plus, like, on the physical level, super frail and waifish which uh. wow. nice walking right back into the BL tropes the novel itself avoided?…… So yeah I'm super not keen on this portrayal. I know he doesn't appear as not-Shen Qingqiu version of himself in the novel, if we don't count the rant in the beginning, but like. please extrapolate from the character we actually have instead of writing this mega-woobie who shares nothing with the base version?

Terrible little bastard man who has a sad backstory but is actually genuinely a terrible person. Fans like to act like he is just a soft sad boi deep inside and make him lose all of his edge.

So the thing about Shen Jiu / og!Shen Qingqiu in canon is that we first learn of him as an unquestionably, almost cartoonishly villainous character. As in, he is literally a villain in the book our main character has been reading… before dying and waking up in the world of the book, as that very villain (hence the distinction of Shen Jiu being the "original" Shen Qingqiu, as our main character begins to use the name Shen Qingqiu for himself. Shen Jiu, however, is an old name that only the original has used). The original Shen Qingqiu that our main character knows is a serial child abuser in a teaching position, a murderer (killed his colleague, killed his old fiancee's entire family…), and a lecher (visited brothels and had designs on his female disciple).

Then, over the course of the novel, we learn more about Shen Jiu - in particular, that a number of things our MC "knew" about him were not true. He did not kill his colleague, but rather failed to save him, despite trying to; he killed his "fiancee"'s family because her older brother has abused him for years (and also, Shen Jiu was forced into agreeing to marry her), and also he only actually killed half of them (only men); he visited brothels because he only felt safe in the company of women, and he just went there to get a good night's sleep; and he only ever saw that female disciple he was accused of lusting after as a daughter. And in general, he had a horrible childhood, and was himself a victim of abuse.

However, not everything gets disproved. Shen Jiu still turned from a victim to perpetrator, abusing a child (coincidentally the protagonist of the og book) and trying to set him up to die/be killed several times. Canon is very clear on that point. The situation with Shen Jiu and the og book version of the protagonist is very much an illustration of cycles of abuse.

Also at a certain point, we meet the author of the in-world book, the one our MC was reading - who explains he scrapped Shen Jiu's tragic backstory because it would make him too controversial. Quoting from memory, something like: 'if you said he was a villain, he was also tragic; but if you said he was pitiful, he'd also done terrible things. All in all, a character like this was a hotbed for all kinds of fandom discourse.'

Prophetic fucking words.

Somehow, seeing all that, some 'fans' have decided to jump into a completely opposite direction: making Shen Jiu a poor little misunderstood meow meow who did nothing wrong ever and was a soft princess and totally was never mean to the protagonist ("the protagonist just has inflated sense of ego and misunderstood Shen Jiu's normal teaching as singling him out for abuse" was a take I had to see with my own two eyeballs. Theres btw an extra from Shen Jiu's pov where he laments that the fake manual he gave the kid has failed to horrifically kill him yet).

Which puts the rest of us in an awkward position of having to defend his canon assholery. Like, the whole point of this character is that he's complex! That he's both a villain and a victim! Reducing him to just one is doing him a disservice, and either extreme is equally incorrect! And this is something that happens with many similar characters, I know, but what boggles my mind about Shen Jiu's case in particular is that. it's spelled out. The whole deal with his character is spelled out in canon. And some people still go "oh so Shen Jiu was secretly the most morally pure and good character, got it". Like. how?????????????? ??? ?? ?????

noriaki kakyoin:

Uke-fied to the max so he can be shipped with jotaro lol

Ohmygod where do I even start. Kakyoin's the poster boy for twinkification and woobification of a canonically very capable, interesting (and not twinky at all) character who's so many things at once- a loyal friend, really smart, a bit of a weirdo, infodumping trivia at random times, quick-thinking in dangerous situations, reckless, polite and respectful, vengeful towards enemies but always kind to friends, depressed, determined and motivated in the face of mortal danger despite it all - even when he had the chance to leave the Stradust Crusaders and just come back to his normal life, he decided to stick with them. This decision eventually cost him his life since he got killed by Dio, the main villain. The fandom either calls him a cardboard with no personality (which is not true at ALL, where did that take even come from) or they downplay his canon badassery- Jotaro x Kakyoin shippers are often guilty of this along with twinkifying Kakyoin. The ship is fine, but they're way more interesting if you take into account their canon characterisation as huge weirdos who somehow work pretty well together- they're both different flavors of autistic that sometimes just so happen to align on the same wavelength.

[eds-gryff]

The Weight of Beauty

Edmund Pevensie x Reader

(Requested by @popsixsquish

‘Could I perhaps request some Edmund comforting an insecure reader?’

Again, very sorry it took me over a year to finally get to this! 😬)

A/N: So, this is kind of a confession- I write all my requests and x Reader one-shots with my OC, Sanya, in mind. I write her name and her country and her hair colour, and then I change it to Y/N, etc, after I finish writing.

If you would like, I have a four-part Narnia series on my Wattpad, which is Edmund x (plus-size, POC) Original Character; it is called The Alliance Series (‘Alliance’, ‘The Heirs’, ‘Moonshine’, and ‘Fairytale?’, with ‘Sultana’ as a companion AU), which you might enjoy! If you enjoyed my fics here, and if you liked the Y/N in them, you’ll love Sanya as well as her relationship with Edmund. The marriage and overall background of Edmund and Y/N in this fic are actually based off Edmund and Sanya in Alliance!

Here is the link to my Wattpad⤵

A/N2: You know, I am personally very insecure myself and I am pretty chubby, so writing this down was actually rather cathartic. I’m not madly in love with Edmund like I was when I was sixteen (when I started writing The Alliance Series, btw), but it is still quite comforting to write one of my favourite characters being so complimentary and sweet about something most people are not.

Anyway-

Y/N= Your Name, Y/C/N= Your Country's Name, Y/N/n= Your Nickname, Y/H/C= Your Hair Colour, Y/E/C= Your Eye Colour. Reader is plus-size.

Happy Reading!

---

Y/N knew she had a terrible expression on her face as she strode back to her bedchambers, and she knew it wasn’t the most fitting expression for a Queen whose main work that day had been a diplomatic excursion- but she could not help it! She was usually very good at hiding her innermost emotions, but today had simply gone too far.

“Ugh.” Was the first word- or, sound?- that left her lips as she shut- rather violently- the door of the bedchamber. She let her feet carry her to the large canopy bed that stood in the center of the room, and she immediately fell back on it, absolutely uncaring how it would mess up the hair that her maid had carefully arranged. She couldn’t care less about what she looked like in this moment.

And then she let out a hacking laugh at the irony. This whole predicament was because she cared too much about what she looked like.

After a few minutes- or perhaps hours, Y/N did not know, she was prone to dissociating from reality- she heard the door open. If it had been any other room, she would’ve sat up quickly, ready to fight if it was an intruder, but there was only one other person with the key for this room- and thus, it could only be one person to be coming in the bedchamber currently, for it was his bedroom as much as hers.

Her husband, King Edmund the Just.

“Y/N/n.” Edmund’s tone was rather humorous, and Y/N felt the urge to throw a pillow at him. “I know you are prone to sleeping in, but didn’t you have a diplomatic tour today? With- Terabinthia?”

Curse his good memory.

She made a sound that resembled Troll, but thankfully Edmund knew her well enough to know that she was simply affirming his question.

“Did the delegation not arrive? I am sorry I could not be with you,” Edmund sat down next to his wife, and smiled when she automatically held her hand out to him, which he clasped in his, “but the matter with the villagers took all day. Lucy is still there, I only had to return for a courtier needed a signature very urgently.”

Thankfully, Susan had already signed for it by the time he’d reached, and so he had made his way to his bedchambers instead, for some rest and relaxation.

“They arrived.” Y/N mumbled, eyes closed. She did feel slightly better, though, just the simple act of her husband holding her hand was a comfort. “And they left.”

“Already? Good for you, my antisocial darling.”

She felt the corners of her mouth lift despite herself.

But she said, “I made them leave.”

“Er- not a diplomatic action, that.”

“No, husband, not like that.” Though, she had done that many times before. She was absolutely not the royal who was the first choice for such missions. “They were too embarrassed, so they excused themselves after an hour. Because of me.”

The Just King’s brows furrowed, “Why were they embarrassed?”

She did not answer, but she did open her eyes. Edmund’s chocolate-brown eyes looked down at her, concern and some amusement in them, and she let out a sigh.

“Don’t you wish you were married to someone thin?”

There were not many things or people that caught Edmund off-guard, but his wife was very much an exception, as he learned more and more ever day.

As such, he could only say, “What?”

Sluggishly, the Queen sat up, “Well, you didn’t want to marry me.”

“You didn’t want to marry me, either.” Edmund pointed out immediately. Their marriage had been arranged, part of a political alliance between Narnia and Y/C/N, Y/N’s land. The bride and groom had not been pleased. “And we both loathed the state of our marriage for the first few months.”

This was true. Y/N- who had been titled the Y/N/T not long after this hated wedding- had actually taken to hiding in the Stables to avoid her husband.

Then things had changed and evolved, and they had spent time together and grown closer- and now, now she was so besotted and in love with him, she felt like one half of a couple from some dramatic romance novel.

And she was rather sure he felt the same way.

“Well, yes. But I was attracted to you from the beginning, you know. You are so beautiful, husband. If there is any human worthy of the title of the God of beauty, it is you.” Her voice was soft, and Edmund almost instinctively moved closer to her. “I may have hated you and our marriage, but the saving grace was your beauty and your respectfulness. Oh, and your freckles.”

The accent didn’t hurt, either.

He grinned, “Oh, speak on, please. I am enjoying this turn of conversation very much.”

To her surprise, she laughed out loud, “Of course you are.”

But it seemed she had spoken too soon, for at the same time, Edmund had spoken, “But I would like to finish the previous topic first. What was that about me wanting a thin spouse?”

“Um.” Y/N was regretting saying that suddenly. She was not one to bare her innermost emotions and thoughts often, unless it was in a diary. “Nothing.”

“Y/N.”

Oh, it really was serious if he was calling her by not a pet-name.

“What exactly happened with the Terabinthian delegation?”

The Queen groaned, and fell back in bed again.

“Your Majesty!” The head of the Terabinthian delegation, came over to the carriage in front of which Y/N stood. Curtseying, she spoke, “I am the Duchess of Terabinthia.”

She curtseyed as well, “The Y/N/T Queen, at your service.” While in Narnia, she preferred to use the epithet awarded to her because of her marriage to a Narnian King. If this had been her country, she’d have called herself the High Queen of Y/C/N. “Welcome to Narnia.”

“Thank you verily for making the time to meet us. We are grateful.”

“No need for gratitude, it was our honour.” Y/N said, wishing she could go home already. Why had Peter assigned her to do this? He knew she hated this- oh, that must be exactly why. She was absolutely going to bonk her brother-in-law on the head with her sword the next time they had a duel. “We are most glad you visited Narnia on your tour. And Y/C/N is next, I believe? I will make sure you have the best guide for your travel in my country.”

The Duchess bowed her head in gratitude, and her eyes widened.

“Oh, I did not know! My most heartfelt congratulations.”

Y/N blinked, “Thank you, but for what?”

Yes, she had new shoes on- not by her choice, but her most comfortable pair had actually fallen apart- but that wasn’t something to be congratulated upon.

“You are expecting! It has not been announced, as far as I know, so that must be why you are surprised.” Her face broke in a wide smile, and she did not notice as the Queen’s face withered. “You and King Edmund must be over the Moon.”

Y/N could not say anything. What could she say? That, no, she wasn’t pregnant, she was simply fat. That, no, her breasts had not grown because they would soon nurse a child, but because she had always been ample? That, no, the weight around her middle was not because there was a babe in her womb, but because she was unhealthy and unfit and always had been?

“How far are you along, Your Majesty? I imagine it must be the second trimester- Your Majesty?” The Duchess’s smile faltered. “Is everything- is all well?”

“Yes.” She had to be gracious, diplomatic. She could take off her new shoe and throw it at her, or go hide in her carriage and have a breakdown like she was a teenager again. “But I am not with child, my Duchess, my husband and I have yet to be blessed in that way. I am simply- this is simply how I am.”

The other woman’s eyes widened, and she took a nervous glance back, to the rest of the delegation, who were surely wondering what was taking so long.

“I am so- I cannot apologise enough, Your Majesty, I had no idea- I thought that, because of what you- because you are- I- forgive me.”

“Yes.” Y/N said, though she did not. It wasn’t the Duchess’s fault, she was fat, she knew, which was not common among royalty or nobility.

Still, she couldn’t help but harbour a grudge.

“Well. Shall we on?”

“Oh, I will be sending them a very strongly worded letter.” Edmund said, his face even paler than usual and his eyes burning with anger. Who in their right mind would speak to his beautiful, wonderful, courageous wife in such a way? “How dare-”

“Because it’s the truth. I am fat.” Y/N said, and looked down at herself. She was still garbed in exactly what she had been wearing then. “I can’t even tell myself that she misunderstood because I was bundled up in a cloak and shawl- I wasn’t and am not.”

It was a warm day, in summer. She’d worn a gown with cap-sleeves that the Royal Tailor had recently delivered, with intricate embroidery in an art style belonging to her homeland around the hemline, bodice, and sleeves. It was scarlet and purple and gold, and she had liked it, even loved it, but now she did not think she’d ever wear it again.

Not to mention, she was no beauty, but at least the jewels and crown distracted from the ugliness of her face.

“Y/N/n, you aren’t-”

“Oh, please. You have seen me naked enough times to know I speak the truth!”

He had seen, felt, touched the pudginess of her stomach, the curvy rolls around her sides. He’d gripped her thick thighs, he’d kissed them, and he’d slid his fingers over the dark-red stretch-marks that were present all over her body- her flabby arms, her fat thighs, her plump sides.

She squeezed her eyes shut, “I hate feeling like this. I know my weight does not equal my worth, I know it doesn’t matter that I’m ugly, and I know getting so upset is utterly stupid, but I cannot help it.”

She had felt insecure about her body for as long as she could remember. Even as a child, as one with little care for anything but her playthings, she remembered how she’d been upset when a pretty outfit gifted to her did not fit her, or when she’d preferred to wear something oversized to conceal her heaviness. Granted, no healer had ever said she, then the Princess, was overweight, simply that she was healthy and stout- but when compared to the slender, picturesque folk around her, she had felt and still felt like an elephant in silk.

“How could you not want someone thin- someone beautiful? Someone- someone who’s not me.”

Edmund felt rather at a loss. He always knew what to say, how to take charge of a conversation, how to keep the other person calm- but he felt utterly speechless in the moment. His oft-praised silver-tongue had all but disappeared.

But he knew one thing- he did not agree with his wife.

“My darling.” He lay down beside her as well, and pulled her to him, nestled in his arms. He felt a soft breath of comfort escape her lips, and he was glad. “You say you were attracted to me the moment we met?”

Y/N nodded, hiding her face in his chest, “Even more so when I heard your accent.”

He held back a laugh, and went on, “And you know how I felt when I saw you?”

She shook her head, her Y/H/C hair falling over his blue-and-grey tunic, and Edmund berated himself for never telling her this before.

“I was mesmerised.” He said softly, so softly that Y/N had to look up, her Y/E/C eyes wide. “I would say enchanted, for that would be very true, but you know I have a rather difficult past with enchantments, so let’s stick to mesmerised. I could not take my eyes off you.”

Y/N muttered something that was probably ‘because of the corset’, but her cheeks were on fire.

Admittedly, his wife’s breasts had been rather pushed up and obvious because of the corset she’d worn under her outfit during their first meeting- and, yes, Edmund had not been able to stop himself from blatantly staring for a few seconds- but he was not speaking of that.

“You were rolling your eyes as you were formally announced-”

Almost predictably, she rolled her eyes again, and her husband did laugh softly this time.

“And I remember you were holding onto your own arm, as if comforting yourself, as if reminding yourself to be strong.” He spoke, dipping his head to press a kiss to her forehead. “Just by those two actions, you had my respect and my admiration, and then your beauty had my enthrallment as well.”

“Edmund...”

“You may not be what utterly vapid folk all over the world consider to the epitome of beauty,” which he absolutely did not, “but that did not stop me from thinking you to be the goddess of my dreams.”

She pressed her body closer to his, almost instinctively, as if her very skin wanted to be nearer to him.

“A thought I still have every single day.”

Emotion sparkled in her eyes.

“Really?”

And she still doubted him. Of course.

“Yes.”

“Even though I’m fat, and lumbering, and don’t even get me started on my nose-”

He wanted to throw a pillow at her, but restrained himself to saying, “Would you do me a favour?”

“I would die and kill for you, Edmund.” Y/N gave her husband a fond look. After what he had just said- oh, she had not thought she could have loved him any more than she already had, but she did! So, so much. She wanted to kiss him already. “Yes, of course, what is it?”

Edmund’s lips curved, “Could I undress you?”

Well, she would never be saying no to that.

She nodded, far too excited yet far beyond caring about seeming pathetic- and, soon enough, Edmund’s clever fingers were undoing laces and pulling down fabric and ghosting over her bare skin.

Once she was naked, Y/N reached for her husband, to make the situation equal, but he took her hands in his instead, before she could grip and tear at his tunic.

“What?” She asked impatiently. She wasn’t insecure in front of him anymore, she hadn’t been in years, not since the first time they had made love. All she thought when she was nude around him, was that she wanted him to be that way as well. “Let me undress you already, so we can-”

“That’s not what I meant.” He said, his freckled cheeks blushing. His wife cocked her head at him, and he elaborated, “I want you to know something- see something.”

Her eyes narrowed, “If you’re going to stand me in front of the mirror to look at my bare body, I will get my sword right now and tear your limbs instead of your clothes.”

Edmund’s intentions may be noble, but there was nothing Y/N hated the sight of more than her ungainly figure in the mirror.

Except vegetable mash. Ugh.

Ah, how delightfully murderous his darling wife was. Her country and his own was lucky to have her.

“No, no.” And he lay Y/N down on their bed, her hands clasped under her breasts, and she was giving him with a quizzical look the entire time.

He climbed carefully on top of her, half-covering her body with his, and pretended he didn’t notice Y/N rolling her hips against a part of his body that was extremely fond of his wife and extremely susceptible to her- to her everything.

“I want you to know exactly how I see you- and, hopefully, one day, via you gaining some sense or via osmosis or whatever, you’ll see it, too.”

What was osmosis?

Y/N was about to ask, but her words and her breath was stolen when she felt Edmund’s kisses on the space between her breasts.

But his hands were not on her breasts, as she’d hoped- they were on her plump upper arms, and he was speaking in a whisper to the hollow of her throat, “I see these as strength. I see these as proof that you are the most skilled swordsperson I know, the strongest person I know.”

His hands wandered down her arms to the pudgy rolls of her stomach, and Y/N squirmed. She could not help but think she was glad she had missed breakfast and had yet to have lunch, otherwise she’d be even fatter.

But Edmund was not thinking about her diet, he was speaking, still in that soft, reverential tone, “You call these pudgy, you think this is fat? Even if it is, I don’t care. Because I see this as you being healthy, as a sign that you will be with me for a long, long time, that you won’t be snatched away from me by cruel disease or anything like that.”

“Never.” Y/N vowed breathlessly- she would never leave him, she would fight time itself if necessary. “We’ll always be together.”

His response was a kiss to her throat, and his hands finally reached her breasts.

She wanted to close her eyes, to revel in his touch and know no other senses- but he was looking at her, his dark twinkling eyes never wavering from her face, and she could not look away.

He squeezed them, fingers glancing over her hard nipples, and said, “Want to know what I think of these?”

Y/N could only nod, too eager and too wanton and too in love.

“Fucking sexy.”

And his mouth met hers, finally, finally, finally.

It was a passionate kiss, for there had not been a single day in their lives together they had not desired each other- but as much as there was lust, there was love. As they kissed, Edmund’s heart was soothed because Y/N’s lips were warm on his- and Y/N’s soul was comforted, because Edmund’s mouth was steady against hers. His hand grazed against her breast again, and she slid her tongue inside his mouth, and they both drew even closer together in their embrace.

One of Y/N’s hands slipped inside Edmund breeches, inside his boxers, and wrapped itself around him. Edmund gasped into his wife’s mouth as he felt her touch, and Y/N’s hips rolled against his, her hands already stroking her husband’s cock.

But all too soon, Edmund pulled away, panting.

“Too daring, darling.” He said, as breathless as she’d been minutes ago. “I was trying to make a point, not-”

“Make love?” Y/N asked, her brows raised. She was sopping, needy, and she didn’t think she’d ever loved him more. Please, please, please could he take off his clothes already? “If there is a vote between the two, husband, I will be voting the latter, just for your information.”

“Noted,” Edmund kissed her shoulder, “but I am not done.”

He drew away from her, and Y/N groaned. Sitting up between her parted legs, Edmund took a moment to look down at his wife. At the expanse of her soft skin, occasionally marked with a mole or pimple or scar. At the curves that had made her ravishing to him the first time he’d seen her, and which had continued to only grow in loveliness over the years. At the valley between her legs, at the dips in her sides as her hips flared out.

Y/N was curves and dips and valleys, and he could not help but be glad she was not thin as a lamp-post, and Edmund thought of how- to him- her body was perfect to kiss and hold and caress and love.

He smiled suddenly, “You know, sometimes when I can’t sleep, I look at you, and I try to decide which is my favourite curve on your body.”

She blinked very rapidly. That was far more romantic than counting sheep- or dragons, as she preferred.

Sometimes, in her most lovelorn moments, she would count Edmund’s freckles. She usually got too distracted by them to actually sleep, though.

“Have you- have you ever made a decision?”

Edmund shook his head, his unruly bangs falling into his eyes.

“Sometimes I think it’s this.” He ran her hand down the bend of her right side, “sometimes this-” he gripped her left thigh just above where it met her knee, “and sometimes- often, actually- your tits.”

Y/N giggled.

Edmund bent his head low then, still holding her thighs. He peppered kisses to the stretch marks painted over her thighs and her waist, and felt a tight, hot coiling inside the pit of his stomach as Y/N trembled in pleasure underneath him.

“What do those tell you?” Y/N asked, her voice a murmur. She wrapped her legs around him, locking him in place. If she could keep him here forever, she would. She felt so content, so calm in his arms- apart from the raging want to fuck him. “My stretch-marks?”

“You’re marked by the Heavens.” His voice caught, almost, and he almost shivered at the intensity of her eyes. “They resemble lightning strikes, you know? And lightning, like storms, like the rain, comes from the Heavens.”

Hm. She’d compared her stretch marks to dead worms before, because they were roughly the same shade, but beautiful rain, which covered the earth with an even more beautiful smell whenever it fell?

“How am I supposed to keep thinking of myself as ugly, if you keep saying things like that?”

It was not quite a victory, but it was close enough.

“Exactly. You’re not supposed to think of yourself as that, because you’re as far from that as I can imagine.”

Her heart thudded in her chest, and seemed to grow. They had made love so many times in- in so many ways, so many places- but she was certain that this was the most intimate moment they had ever shared.

“You can’t just kiss away all of my insecurities.” She spoke with a small laugh, as Edmund lifted his head up to gaze at her. She really wished he could, but neither of them could wholly and fully heal the pain inside each other. “Try as you might, it’s not possible.”

“Well, I’ll still keep trying.” He shrugged, and pressed a very light kiss to her clit, which made Y/N moan out loud. He would absolutely have to lavish more attention there, he decided firmly, he was as amorous as she was. “I love you. I love you, and you are the love of my life, Y/N/n, and you are beautiful.”

She pulled him down next to her again, and she nestled herself closer to him. Edmund’s arms encircled her, and she was glad to be the little spoon. She was usually very glad to be the big spoon, holding her husband in her arms, but she loved this position very much, too.

Y/N didn’t think of herself as truly beautiful, and perhaps never would; Y/N did not think of her being plump in a positive light, and perhaps never would- but in this moment, and many other moments after this, Y/N would look down at herself, and she would not recoil, she would not grimace, she would only remember her husband’s words, and she would remember her strength and her bravery and the fact that she was alive, and she would no longer be cruel to her own self.

In this moment, and in many other moments after this, there was peace- in her mind as well as his, and in their hearts and souls, which perhaps were as joined together as the Moon and the stars.

Until there came knocks on the door minutes later, and Y/N all but shoved Edmund to open it. He gave her a look, but could do nothing more- she was naked, after all, she couldn’t open the door. Drat, he really didn’t want to get up.

Regardless, he kissed her nose, which scrunched up in the most adorable manner, and got out of bed.

Ah, the struggles of Kingship.

“I’m sorry to disturb, Your Majesty, but Queen Susan asked to inform you and Queen Y/N that lunch has been laid.”

“Oh, thank you very much,” Edmund said, after a glance back at his wife, who was smiling lazily at him over the tops of her breasts. He felt a blush coming on again. “But my Queen-wife and I are both feeling a bit under the weather, and I was about to request someone to bring our meal up to our chambers. Perhaps after half an hour?”

The faun bowed, “I shall have that be done, Your Majesty, thank you very much. My well-wishes for you and Her Majesty Y/N to soon feel better.”

Edmund nodded his head at him, a gracious smile on his face- and once the faun had departed, he closed the door and returned to the bed.

He snuggled close to his wife, who wrapped her arms around him. He felt perfectly, incandescently warm, and spoke into her shoulder, “I figured you would not want to face the world again today.”

She kissed his hair, saying, “You assume right, but what about you?”

“Oh, I prefer you to the world, by leaps and bounds.”

“I love you, husband.” Y/N said simply, and he pressed a short, chaste, yet endlessly loving kiss to her lips. “Anyway, now will you take off your clothes?”

Edmund matched her smirk with his, “How about you take them off for me, Y/N/n?”

Not another insecurity was thought of again that day, and the faun had to return with their meals four times before the King and Queen finally opened the door.

--

[breadvidence]

adaptation question: how good in bed is each version of javert? (inspired by the recent poll making the rounds)

As I mentioned on Discord: I intended to respond to the poll with an argument for Javert being good in bed & for the sake of comedy rather than sincere belief my plan was an emphatic yes (as much as I want to gnash my teeth over the need for nuance & could make an equally strong case for no & also want to write about how characters who canonically don't fuck have their own value both for aro-ace folks and as an escape from the way erotic-sexual-reproductive drive is treated as a central aspect of being human more generally). Er. So. Thank you for the opportunity to expand my silliness to multiple Javerts!

(As an aside, I will normally refer to a particular adaptation by the actor's name, but will not be doing that in the context of screwing, regardless of several of these actors being very dead.)

The Brick: Quel délice que cet étouffement! Brick Javert might die having lived a "life of privation, isolation, abnegation, chastity, with never a diversion", but what he lacks in experience with your standard use of the equipment, he makes up for in a fine understanding of the erotics of voyeurism, delayed satisfaction, and—of course—discipline. Further, you might catch some sass, but he'll hold still while you tie him up to make sure the ropework is just right when you're done, and after a lifetime of licking boots you can bet he's gonna work through that cramp in his jaw. 10/10, suggest any local DILFs needing a hobby fish him out of the river before he drowns and see whether that perfectionist need to put things in their place can be turned to more recreational ends than the horrific policing of society's unjust structure.

'25: As ever, '25 follows in the Brick's footsteps. It's clear from his self-satisfaction that this Javert is in the know on how closely fear and arousal come to each other. Despite being about as likely to have fucked in the conventional sense as his Brick counterpart, do we really think it matters? We could talk about how Javert's surveillance forces Valjean/Madeleine into an exhibitionistic display of Authority and Javert's desires related thereto, but I'll calm down some instead. 10/10 for accuracy to the original combined with that narrow chance he's got some experience under his belt.

'34: '34 predicts 2012. Less imposing, uncomfortable, he's probably not gonna strangle you, but—other possibilities open, with all that hyperfocus still on hand. Bonus! Great communication skills, will write you very plainly worded notes about what's up. 10/10 for negotiation skills.

'35: Wow, I sure did corner myself into imagining Laughton fucking. Admittedly, "regulations—good, bad, and indifferent—must be carried out to the letter" strikes me as one of the least sexy statements possible (both as an interpretation of Javert's character and in the erotic sense), but may I propose: that vibrating, dampness, and the established trait of Javert as a tease combine to—some kind of positive effect. Ragdoll physics have exciting potential. 9/10, one point removed for willingness to be indifferent.

'58: Is it bad? is it good? you don't remember. 10/10, what a fascinating and novel adventure of Men in Black style forgetfulness to have gone on.

'72: Does his partner feel like a specimen under the microscope? Maybe, but there's a certain magnetism at play. Any Javert's sexual prowess is most easily derived from his interactions with the Valjean he plays opposite, so '72's catastrophically bad depiction of M-sur-M rather curtails my assessment here, but this Javert's intensity and focus point towards intriguing possibilities. He is among the Javerts on this list who seem like they might have gone to bed with a person, an assessment I am making based purely on vibes. 10/10, close enough to canon Javert to hit the above-mentioned potential combined with an air of not being a virgin.

'78: The Javert on this list who has, without a doubt, absolutely fucked. The looks he gives Valjean alone qualify. Also the Javert who I will admit has a 0/10 bedability rating—if the partner in question is a woman. 10/10 in a homosexual context. The kind of man a dear friend of mine calls Little Lord Fauntleroys, this Javert approaches sex with a stiff dignity that might make the uninitiated worry about inhibitions and cold fish, but which actually indicates a deep store of freak-ass ideas and a willingness to, shall we say, experiment (if you can find anything he hasn't already tried).

'98: Built-in lube via hair grease. 10/10 for convenience.

2000: While I have not yet finished this adaptation, I can speak to the bedroom skills of this Javert through his time in M-sur-M. Methodical, attentive, tired but game to persist. 2000 Javert would admittedly rather be napping, but even when faced with an indifferent partner he maintains the pitch of bizarre intensity that is at the root of a Javert's erotic potential. 9/10, point docked for the regrettable impact of fatigue (maybe he should get his vitamin D levels checked?).

2007: He's got anime physics. 10/10

2012: Who'm I to argue against fandom? Crowevert fucks well. Is it despite being a virgin? Is it because he's a virgin? Virginity definitely plays a role of some kind, and Victor Hugo would approve. In stark contrast to other iterations of the character, Crowevert's need to submit himself to a greater authority is expressed as a soft-edged vulnerability rather than rabid intensity, and the resulting sweetness almost makes me blush. Let's draw the curtains and let them be. 10/10, all details can be found in 90% of the AO3 Javert/Jean Valjean tag.

2018: This Javert almost certainly fucked, and if we may draw on what's been communicated by the creator outside the show itself, it was unsatisfactory, the skill all on the part of the professional he paid for the service. Who'm I to argue with that? 1/10, one point added for the transformative work detailing his erotic potential.

[aconfusedkitten]

the medicore compared to the geniuses

so i'm writing a lot of hsr fic right now, and i noticed something really interesting about the genius society and dr. ratio, who are characterized pretty similarly.

they're both treated as this very cold, very distant kind of thing that a lot of people don't understand, and in a lot of ways, that makes sense! ratio's teaching methods don't make sense (logically or in a meta way), and the genius society is so separate from ordinary people. even with someone like asta, who works with herta, there's a degree of separation in her voicelines.

the really interesting difference to me relates to their paths!

1. play style

herta and ruan mei, the two playable genius society members, follow the erudition and the harmony, and both of them specialize on aoe attack/support. herta does almost all of her damage on her own, aside from triggering her follow up, and ruan mei can fit into any team, since she buffs all damage and break effect, but in the end, all of her skills rely on her. they're amazing in situations where you need to look at the full picture and take on a lot of enemies at once -- like pure fiction, as an example! -- but when it comes to one on one fights?

they definitely don't do as well, coming from someone who's built them both and played them in divergent universe.

on the other hand, ratio follows the path of the hunt. his ability to hit multiple targets is non-existent, regardless of which one of his traces you use. unlike herta and ruan mei, he thrives in one on one combat, and his ability to do so relies on his teammates almost as much as it relies on his own build. while he can trigger his own follow up attacks in his skill, wiseman's folly can only be triggered by other teammates. it isn't hard to trigger it, since all you need to do is attack his target, but ratio interacts a lot more with his teammates, despite what you may think from the hunt.

2. interacting with knowledge

we also see them interact with knowledge in extremely different ways.

the genius society has a very big picture idea of how knowledge works. with both of the examples we're given, their research is just that. their research. there aren't any plans to share this knowledge or to make it widespread, or if there are, they aren't told to us.

herta will occassionally let another genius work on her simulated universe, but it's so the trailblazer -- her only test subject -- can learn more about the aeons and other beings in the universe. in the case of the swarm disaster ruan mei, though she will tell us about her projects, has little regard for the lifeforms themselves. between the cat cakes, who we are left to care for, and the propogation swarm clone in herta's basement, we are given no reason to believe she feels strongly about people.

in many ways, ratio is the exact opposite. i have few good things to say about his teaching methods, based on the information we have from his character stories, but they make all of the difference. ratio is in no way lacking in knowledge, and yet, rather than using it for his own studies, he instead uses it to share knowledge across the universe. a lot can be said about the way he goes about it, but the distinction is still very clear. ratio's overall goal is to share the information he has gained, and he's almost single-minded in this pursuit.

you can even make an arguement about divergent universe, a project ratio is implied to have influenced heavily.

while herta's original simulated universe is meant to provide her with information about the universe -- and the player is reliant on the characters and paths they have built -- ratio's divergent universe practically helps teach the player themselves. we are able to use any character, regardless of their build, and learn how they work, both as an individual and as a team. according to screwllum, ratio's project was intented to focus on 'the every day person,' and it definitely shows.

3. wrapping up

for all of their surface level similarities, ratio's core values are very different from that of the genius society members we know, and (a topic for a different time) why ratio hasn't been acknowledged by nous.

after all, how do you get accepted into a group focused on learning the big picture of the universe when you'd rather spend your time sharing information with any person you meet on the streets?

[chocokayke]

Here's Alkaloid for my Splatoon/Enstars AU! All weapons are referring to their Splatoon 3 kits, because that's what I'm most familiar with. I wanna give a shout out to @mdkm444 for making this fanart that inspired this whole AU in the first place. : )

More info on each character below the cut.⬇️

Hiiro

I'm giving him the highest honor I could bestow on a character... My main.

I think Splatana Deco fits him, and how he sees himself at the beginning. It's a very mobile weapon and aggro with a supportive kit. He can easily strife with opponents to draw fire from his teammates, while also setting up beacons, and setting of tentamissles to displace enemies.

The idea is that he mostly sees himself as his brother's "shield" at the beginning, and I feel like having a weapon that supports and takes fire suits that role.

As he grows and gets more comfortable with his place in Alkaloid, he would pick up more aggressive weapons. I just really like the idea of him with dualies. I think he has a lot of fun zipping around with dodge rolls. : )

He runs a lot of Quick Respawn abilities.

I think his backstory would stay mostly the same, actually.

Aira

He's 100% that guy who draws hearts in the enemy base.

He strikes me as the type of person who would play weapons that are meta without fully understanding WHY they're so good.

He started out playing vanilla Splash-o-matic, but he sucks so bad at Crab Tank. Mayoi thought something more mobile would suit Aira, so he recommended Inkbrush and Carbon Roller to him.

Hiyori wears his eye makeup the same way. This is a very important piece of Aira lore.

Mayoi

Mayoi has the biggest change to his backstory out of Alkaloid. He was originally an Octarian Soldier under DJ Octavio.

He was there for the Splat1 final boss and the Calamari Inkantation. He is NOT Agent 8, to be clear. He escaped after Marina, but before Agent 8. He wasn't in the subway. (But the idea of him in the subway is very fun, and that might be something to explore in an AU of this AU.)

He's a huge Squid Sisters fan.

He first escaped to Inkopolis, but it was too overwhelming for him, and he ended up traveling a lot before settling down in ES.

He plays a lot of weapons, and at knows a lot about the weapons he doesn't play. He's extremely skilled and knowledgeable. He's a fantastic coach, and everyone wants them to coach their teams! (Help him.)

Unfortunately, he is still Mayoi and still has severe anxiety! Despite how skilled he is, he's too scared to play alone and is pretty low ranked. That's why he got his status as an "underachiever."

Generally plays a lot of long ranged weapons to stay as far away from the action as he can. Snipewriter is his main, but E-Liter deserves an honorable mention.

Any closer ranged weapons he plays are more supportive than aggressive. This bad boy can pop out so many Inkstorms and Tacticoolers.

I probably should have added Hydra Splatling to his list instead of Heavy Edit tbh? But, eh, he can play both.

I think Snipewriter fits his main really well due to the fact that it has super long range, paints well, and has a supportive kit. At the time I'm writing this, it's also the best competitive weapon in Splatoon 3.

Tatsumi

His backstory is also similar to his canon one.

His leg got damaged and wouldn't repair itself when he respawned, so he had to get it removed it let it regrow naturally. Squids can do that, don't worry about it. : )

The guy who makes sure your base is 100% inked during Turf War.

Me and my friend both agreed it is extremely funny for Tatsumi to run around with his beginner weapon going like ^_^: so that's what he mains.

Then my other friend recommended me what they call "noob trap" weapons, which is mostly short ranged shooters (Sploosh and Aerospray) so I immediately added those to the list. I feel like they suit Tatsumi, and kind of mirror how inept he is with technology in canon.

Despite that, he's actually quite skilled! He does pretty well with short ranged shooters and has fun playing with them. They're his go to choice, but he's experienced in a lot of different weapon classes.

Anyway, you know how the Sunken Scrolls in Splatoon 3 introduced Squid Jesus--

[zecroswe]

Theory on Terapagos and the true natrue of Tera crystals

So I played the Teal mask a while ago and I really enjoyed It. There is a lot to talk about regarding the characters and the story. I cannot wait until the Indigo Disc comes out! Now, the theory. So after playing the DLC and thinking about the lore within It, I had a realization and a lot of pieces would fit together if It is true. I am gonna put this post into sections to detail the evidence before I write down the conclusion. Spolier warning for Scarlet and Violet, the Teal mask DLC and The Pokemon Horizons anime. None of the game play images are my own.

Section 1: The Crystal Pool.

The crystal pool is such a tease for things to come and I would be surprised If It didn't have any importance in the Indigo Disc. The intresting points about the Crystal pool is that the crystals grew in the pool after being "brought" there. It sounds to me that someone (likely Ogerpons old trainer/gaurdian) brought the crystals and some of It got into the pool and grew from there. The crystal seems almost alive in a sense, like It's just a extension of Terapagos. But the real intresting thing is what the sign next to the pool says and by extension, Carmine in the story. (Couldn't find any footage of It specifically)

When you interact with the sign, It says that there is a rumor that one can see the spirits of the departed within the pool. That is interesting and I doubt It's just flavor text, considering Carmine mentions It too.

But what significance does this have? Well within the games It's unclear, but I think the Horizons anime might be hinting at something important to do with this.

Section 2: Pokemon Horizons, Terapagos.

Terapagos plays an important role in the Horizions anime series. Now I haven't seen the series myself, so I might get facts wrong.

From what I understand is that there is a story arc about these Ancient poke balls.

Now the only way to open them as I understand is by using terapagos powers, but that's not what interested me. No what got me curious is this.

So in episode 23, the main group find a Galarian Molters within one of the ancient pokeballs. After they battle It, Terapagos shows the group a vision of what seems to be Moltres old trainer. Now I admit, I don't have a full context on how It works and what connection terapagos actually have to this trainer. But I find Terapagos ability to show visions from people who seems to have passed away interesting. Either terapagos met this person in the past or It made the vision in some other way.

So here is my theory:

Terapagos has power over memory and so do the tera crystals!

Think about It, If terapagos had power over memory and create visions based on peoples memories, then a lot of things would make sense.

AI Sada and Turo explain that they have the original professors memories, and that no person could make a advanced AI without the tera crystals. A important question is this, How? How do you transfer/convert your own memories into code? Well, if the tera crystals can store memories within them, then It would be possible. The risk could be the fact that the persons memories gets blurry, fragmented, warped or at worst erased.

This could possibly explain why Sada and Turos mental state became one of obsession. It could be that being around high concentrations of tera energy for a long time causes parts of the mind to deteriorate: so instead of terapagos manipulating Sada or Turo, It's just a unfortunate side effect of the Tera energy It creates.

Terapagos having memory powers could also explain the Crystal Pool. The crystals are reacting to the people around It and is showing them visions based on their own memories: the result being what seems to be ghosts of the departed.

Now with that in mind: What does this mean for the Lousy three? What about Ogerpon

Section 3: The Loyal/Lousy three and Ogerpon

Now the Loyal three is a bit of a curve ball in this, considering the fact that they just got brought back to life; Full on necromancy. Or is It?

Now Kieran punched the monument while holding the teal mask and shortly after, the loyal three were resurrected. Now this could be because of a pokemon we haven't seen yet, seeing as It's very much hinted at that the loyal three have a boss. So this boss and their power could be behind this. But I believe the Teal mask is a important piece in this.

The Teal mask was made with Tera crystals and Ogerpon had that mask on her when she killed the loyal three. So If my idea of the Tera crystals storing memories is correct, then the crystals within the mask might have reacted to the monument and manifested the memories of the loyal three. In that case, they weren't traditionally brought back to life, but instead got recreated based on the what was stored in the crystal. In other words: The loyal 3 were recreated based on Ogerpons memory of them! (Or at least the information stored in the crystal).

The reason the crystal reacted in this case could be because the mask was were the loyal 3's graves were, so the crystals reacted to the location and activated (with the help of Kierans punch and/or the loyal 3s boss).

Another point considering Ogerpons mask is her Boss fight.

Ogerpon in the fight switches mask with each phase of the fight and the text for each highlights that she is getting strength from her memories.

It makes me think that It what Tera energy really is, It's memories from either the past, present of maybe even future (If terapagos exists outside of regular time normally) in crystal form.

Crystals that can then either manifest those memories into strength or into full fledged beings. This theory could work both with the Time Travel and the Dream theory

The true time travel idea would be that the paradox pokemon did exist in the past and future, and that Sada and Turos time machine just made the crystals recreate the pokemon based on the stored information.

If the dream theory is true, then the pokemon could be created from memories, just incorrect ones. The human mind isn't infallible and If Heath saw paradox pokemon, It could either be that the crystals activated for unkown reasons; or that the crystals created paradox pokemon based on what Heath and his team thought they saw. Example: The two paradox Dophans within the book could have been a different looking Donphan or machinery and they thought they saw what we understand as a Great Tusk or Iron Threads.

So Sada and Turos paradox pokemon would be based on their memories of the scarlet and violet book. Creating the paradox of these Pokemon existing.

I am so excited for part 2 of the DLC and I really wanna see how the story will continue!

TL:DR: Terapagos might be a timeless being that has the power to make memories physical. Memories can be stored in Tera crystals and then show visions of those memories. Tera crystals might activate under certain conditions to give Pokemon strength or recreate beings based on the information stored inside them. Long periods time around high concentrations for Tera crystals might cause damage to the mind.

[linkspooky]

Hey, since you said it was fine to send asks, and it will take me a while to comment the recent chapters, I'm taking this as my chance to proclaim my love for Li. Like go off lil' one, act as an abused child lashing out instead of the miniature saint your sibling described.

Jokes aside, I guess she's based on the popular fanon interpretation of Azula as a 'psychopath'? After seeing your post about Lio, I'm really curious about what went in her creation, and can't wait to see how she is in present day and how she will interact with Azula and the Gang. If she's still alive. Especially because I don't really take Azula's visions as gospel truth, but neither Lio's tales so I really want to see if the real Li swings more on one side or the other or if both versions are true at the same time.

Kudos for making such interesting OCs and intricate plots!

Thank you so much for the ask! Your comments gives me so much motivation to write.

I'm glad you like Li, here's some concept art from @oakyvii of the siblings Li and Lio. You are one hundred percent correct that Li is just fandom Azula.

Specifically the tendency of people to try to armchair diagnose Azula with some form of aspd or sociopathy in order to invalidate the abuse she faced as a child and how it played a role in shaping who she is. The popular "Azula sets turtleducks on fire" headcanon that's not substantiated in the show whatsoever.

The way that these bad faith interpretations want to use Azula's mental illness as a sign of some sort of internal wrongness in her. Proof she was always bad from the beginning, because as a child she was a little bit off-putting and demonstrated low empathy.

One of my biggest objectives with this blog is deconstructing "Good Victim / Bad Victim." I believe the origin is a lot of those armchair diagnosis of Azula is that people want to downplay Azula's victimhood in comparison to Zuko's. Instead of making Azula and Zuko both victims who react differently to the same abuse because they are different people, and there's no right way to react to the abuse Azula was just a psychopath all along. People want to make Azula into a mini-ozai who was like that from the beginning.

It sort of runs contrary to the whole idea of Zuko's redemption arc, because instead of Zuko having to work hard to be a better person every day of his life. To make this narrative that Zuko was innately good all along, just misguided and Azula was a sociopath who lit turlteducks on fire at the age of eight. Zu

Good and Bad Victim is bad because it assigns moral values for how people react to trauma, and usually the people who are assigning that value are people who've never been under the same trauma. Therefore it creates this expectation that people have to endure pain with saintlike in patience. If you're a victim the moral thing to do is to shut up and take it, and definitely do not make a fuss for any one else. Good victims can only express their victimhood is socially acceptable and easy to understand waysTM otherwise they're not worthy of human empathy.

This rant is pertinent to Zuko and Azula, because while Zuko does sometimes react to his trauma in ugly and violent ways he's still pretty easy for the audience to empathize with. In the first season he's incredibly incompetent at being evil. Even in season one when he's a straight up antagonist he's part of a charming comedy duo with Uncle Iroh. Zuko can be angry and violent and treat his Uncle and crew poorly, but he never like kicks puppies onscreen or anything. He's marked as the brooding, byronic character, but he's no Heathcliff. He's not even really Spike or Sasuke, he doesn't hurt a beloved character. He never does permanent irreversible harm to a named character. Even Catra from SPOP helps kills Glimmer's mom.

Compare to Azula who in her second episode burns the net underneath Ty Lee tight rope for daring to say no. Ty Lee is someone who both the audience considers a friend and the audience likes, so Azula's treatment of her is incredibly hard to swallow.

Even if you look at the way Zuko is when he's young, in Zuko alone he's made out to be a classic underdog, a soft, put-upon young boy who's desperate to impress his father. Whereas in the same episode people diagnose Azula as a born sociopath because she at eight years old, is already acting like daddy's little child soldier. Nevermind that Zuko, Azula and Ursa all laugh at the burning of Ba Sing Se together. It's easy to empathize with Zuko being a sad, underdog who wants his father's love. It's a bit harder to wrap your head around Azula's disturbing unchildlike behavior even if she's a product of her environment too.

That's actually what I liked about Toya's character in MHA. That Toya is the bad victim of the Todoroki family. That he's incredibly unlikable. He's not a big brother who secretly cares about his younger siblings all along. He's a selfish monster that demands his father's love and will do anything to get it. He was considered the problem maker in his house as a kid, he made a fuss and made things worse even though everyone was telling him to shut up. He yelled at his mother and didn't sympathize with her as much as Shoto did. He was in too much pain to notice everyone else in the house was suffering too.

(That's actually what I like about the Zuko and Azula sibling dynamic too, that Zuko isn't a magically forgiving big brother, that he holds a grudge about Ozai and Azula's treatment, that it's messy on his end even post character development).

This is why I introduced Li into the story, to make a character out of "Fandom Azula" or the way people want to characterize Azula as a sociopath so they don't have to acknowledge her victimhood.

There's one more character Li is based off of, or two more characters really. You could say that Li is based off of fandom Katara. That the fandom has a tendency to simplify women into either wholesome or toxic, nurturing figures or poisonous women. Li is partially based off of that heartbreaking line where Sokka says (I'm paraphrasing) "I can't even remember what my mom's face looks like, I just remember Katara."

Or rather, my idea for Li came from the concept of what if someone was forced into the role of playing mother to take care of the emotional needs of someone else and they got sick of it. What if the emotional labor of having to care for your brother, when you're still a child yourself exhausted you, took everything from you until there was nothing left. Like the darkest possible interpretation for Katara having to step up and parent her brother when their mother died and Bato left for the war.

The reason why Lio is so overprotective and emotinoally dependent on Li, is that Li is practically the one who raised Lio in the place of their missing mother. Li is a parentified child, and all of her problems stem from being a first born daughter expected to be a mother to a brother who's only two years younger than her. Li is also much worse off than Lio since she's illegitimate in court, but she's always had to suppress her own feelings and push her feelings aside in order to take care of her brother's feelings first.

Lio and Li's relationship is a direct mirror for Zuko and Azula's. Both Zuko and Lio don't see their sisters as people. Zuko swings wildly between demonizing his sister as the bad one because she's always had Ozai's favor and he sees Azula as an extension of Ozai's abuse and also putting her on a pedestal for her talent and envying her for it. Whereas Lio pedestalizes their sister as well, by making her out to be a perfect saint. Lio seems to love their sister more, but neither of them seem to see their sisters as fully realized human beings separate from themselves. Lio doesn't even mention Li's name when they're ranting at Zuko, they just call Li "my sister" because that's all they see Li as. An extension of themself.

Li is based off of one more character and that's Tsumiki Fushiguro from Jujutsu Kaisen. If you haven't read Tsumiki is the big sister of one of the main characters. Despite protecting her being Megumi Fushiguro's main motivation, she literally never appears onscreen once, she only ever appears in her brother's flashbacks, and then is brutally butchered by the main villain and fridged for Megumi's character development.

I thought Tsumiki was a missed opportunity because we never got to learn who she was. Megumi put her on such a massive pedestal as his ideal of what a good person was, the person he lived to protect, but in the end she was just a sleeping beauty figure. It didn't matter who she was as a person to Megumi, she just needed to lay there in bed and be helpless so Megumi could continue to play fairytale knight.

I thought about what kind of effect would having your own brother put you on such a big pedestal have on you? What would Tsumiki think about her brother objectifying her? About her brother making the entire reason for his existence protecting her, but not really caring about who she is as a person?

So I decided it would be interesting if Tsumiki wasn't actually that good of a person at all. She never was, that was just Megumi's projection of her. What if he jsut wanted to make her into some like Madonna-like figure, or some pure princess in need of protecting? What if Tsumiki strangled cats when no one was looking? How lonely would it be for Tsumiki if she knew her brother loved her very deeply but the person he loved, wasn't her?

That's basically where the original concept of Li came from. That eventually morphed into making Li into Fandom Azula. She sets turtleducks on fire and strangles cats when nobody's looking. Not only is she a joke about fandom Azula, but she also in story foils Azula by being the monster that everyone thinks Azula is.

Azula tries so hard to deny her own humanity, but Li is just that way naturally. Azula can't go all the way into making herself a weapon, because she isn't Li. She's torn up and broken on the inside because she does feel guilt and know on some level she was wrong. She probably wouldn't have had her mental breakdown if she wasn't capable of feeling guilt like she is. Ursa in confronting Azula in the mirror also points out Azula knows that the way she treated Mai and Ty Lee by trying to control them with fear was wrong, Azula just wont' admit it.

Other people see Azula as Li. Azula tries to be cold and unfeeling like Li, but when faced with the real deal she finds Li to be incredibly disturbing. o the point where eight year old Azula, who was a little bully and good at getting her friends and her brother to do anything she wanted doesn't know what to do with Li. Li's just too offputting to her once she reveals her true nature, she's an unfeeling, dead, thing and Azula doesn't want to be like that.

So yes, Li is fandom Azula. She's just genuinely a sociopath. Now the challenge is to make you guys like her even if she's just a flat sociopath, and I hope I succeed!

[quibbs126]

Heya! Can you do Dark Choco Cookie and Cotton Cookie child?

So I originally misread Cotton as Cotton Candy (especially since not everyone includes the Cookie part of the name), and I’m not doing Dark Choco/Cotton, so Dark Choco/Cotton Candy it is

Anyways, this is Bubble Choco Cookie

So Bubble Choco here is somewhere in his teens, and he’s an avid poet. However he does not want anyone to read his poems, and will make sure you don’t touch his poetry journal. They’re mostly edgy or sad and they aren’t the best, but it’s how he expresses himself. He’ll just pull out his journal and pencil at random times and start writing

When he was younger, he used to be a lot more cheerful and bubbly, but as he entered his teen years, he started to act more rebellious and “dark”. He never quite gave up his fashion sense though, with his main changes just being that he wears some darker shades

He is also very fond of chocolate, specifically the aerated kind

Okay I’m gonna be honest, I don’t have much for him other than the poet angle. I just kind of decided to finally start drawing him

I also recognize that he has very little of Dark Choco in his character, as well as design, but that’s in part because of the way I envisioned this ship. For one thing, it’s in Ovenbreak so no Dark Cacao Kingdom here, Dark Choco probably just lives with Cotton Candy, and also, it’s a wholesome ship, their kid doesn’t need that much angst. And he’s a poet instead of a fighter, and if he doesn’t want to fight, I don’t see any reason for Dark Choco to teach him; Cotton Candy doesn’t seem to live in an area that requires much sword fighting or the like

Anyways, on to design stuff

So Bubble Choco is based on aerated chocolate, since it’s like a really light chocolate, and cotton candy is also light (I’m talking weight btw). Also, I’ve eaten this kind of chocolate before (I quite enjoy Aero bars), and I quite like it

I think another name I was considering was Air Choco, since it’s closer to the actual name of the ingredient, but Bubble Choco works better as a name

Aerated chocolate:

So as I said earlier, I kind of made him for the sake of making him and doing more of these, so there wasn’t a super big amount of thought out into him. I do still like how he turned out though

All I really had to go on initially was the poet angle (I didn’t even reread my old notes), and I wasn’t really sure where to go with his personality until I started tweaking his expression. He was also originally going to be a girl but somewhere in development I decided “eh, why not have him be a boy?” and there you have it

I also knew I wanted him to have black poofy hair with things in it. It was originally more of a curved line in between the ends, but I changed it when I looked at Cotton Candy’s hair more. Though I kind of wish I had kept it now. There was also an old concept I mad ages ago that also had that hair, but it was longer. Don’t know why it’s this current length

After doing the hair, I wasn’t really sure what to do with the outfit, and I kind of just made something up as I went. He’s got the poofy ends of his jacket because of the whole “bubble” thing. I wanted to give him more poofy stuff

His colors are brown and light green become the Aero bars I usually see are regular chocolate (brown) and mint (light green). The pink was added to there’d be a little more color variation

As for the thing in his eye, it’s because of Cotton Candy’s heart eyes and me liking to put stuff in the eyes in place of that. Bubble Choco’s eye thing is supposed to be a sort of reference to Dark Choco with his star, though I didn’t bother to curve it out. And as I realize now, the eye I chose is also his missing eye and the star eye of the SoD. I’d like to claim that was intentional, but it wasn’t

And anyways yeah, there you have it. Bubble Choco. Don’t really have much else to say other than I hope you enjoyed him

[gothcsz]

𝑻𝒉𝒐𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒇𝒂𝒓𝒆 / Chapter XX.

GIF by bestintheparsec

PAIRING: Javier Peña x Original Female Character

SUMMARY: The night of the ritual.

WORD COUNT: ~9.1k

RATING: 18+ Explicit topics such as sex, drugs, murder, the occult, religion, cannibalism and other triggering matters will be explored in this body of work. Minors DNI.

CHAPTER SPECIFIC TAGS: dead dove: do not eat!, kidnapping, mc is held hostage, allusions to SA (nothing explicit. will be explained later on), hallucinations, humiliation, wound care, hurt/no comfort, crime thriller vibes are vibing, demon worship, cult ritual, supernatural elements, non-consensual drug use, angst, whump, any typos/grammar mistakes are of my own doing and i apologize in advance, if i'm missing any other tags please let me know.

DISCLAIMER/WARNINGS: The Javier Peña referenced in this body of work is solely based off of the character that appears in Netflix’s Narcos and not the actual person. Very canon divergent and I will tweak things as I see fit to compliment the narrative of this story. While efforts have been made to be accurate in terms of canon timeline, a lot of details will be fictionalized.

A/N: i’m going to hold y’all’s hand when i say this... i am putting paloma through it 😓 i was initially going to just bang everything out and post it in one big chapter, but as i was writing... i just felt like it would be better if we let the suspense of it all do its thing and end with a cliffhanger. i am a sucker for ‘em, even if they’re so frustrating (in the best way possible) 😭 i hope that all the lore revolving the cult has been concise and strong enough to hold up during the ending bit of this. i wish i could say things are going to get better from here but they’re not… they’re actually going to get worse 🤠 as always, feel free to drop any type of feedback/support on this blog or on ao3. i'd really appreciate it 🖤

♰  read on ao3. ♰

♰  playlist | pinterest | series masterlist ♰

When ten minutes pass, Javier brushes it off. She’s probably just caught up in something. It’s nothing to worry about.

But when twenty minutes roll by, that’s when the unease creeps in. He starts pacing the living room, fighting the urge for a cigarette, glancing at the clock.

Where is she?

By the time half an hour has come and gone, he’s dialing the library, wondering why Paloma hasn’t come home yet. The phone rings and rings, but no one picks up. His stomach tightens, and he wills himself to remain calm. She’s probably fine.

At the hour mark, Javier’s behind the wheel, speeding into town. Maybe she’s still upset from the argument they had earlier, and instead of coming home, she went to Tammy’s.

But when Tammy tells him she hasn’t heard from Paloma for a few days now, a knot twists in his chest.

Panic threatens to take hold, but he pushes it down. He can’t let it consume him—not yet. Not until he has a real reason to worry.

But she has that damn habit of disappearing to sulk in random places when she’s upset. And that habit is gnawing at him now.

He drives to every spot he can think of, the abandoned tracks, the clearing behind the cemetery, the creek—but there’s no sign of her.

That terrible feeling grows, heavy and unshakable. He marches into the sheriff’s department, jaw set, not caring who sees the frantic look in his eyes.

He storms the file room, ripping through boxes. His hands tremble as he plucks out the file he’s searching for.

“Fuck!” He curses under his breath, jaw tightening as the photo of Paloma’s mother stares back at him.

Now, he has a reason to panic.

He should have known when he first laid eyes on it. The familiarity of her features—her eyes, her hair, her smile; it was all too close to Paloma. Too close to ignore. But he had, all because his mind was completely elsewhere at the time. Now look where that got him.

It’s like a scene from a horror film, where everything snaps into place too late.

The recent victims; brunettes in their mid-twenties with similar features, similar backgrounds—they resembled her.

The staged chamber, the gore, the man who killed himself.

All of it was leading to this, tying up the gruesome mystery with a neat little bow, like a gift Javier wishes he could burn. They had been played—manipulated, distracted from seeing the bigger picture.

Whoever orchestrated this whole thing has been after his girl from the very beginning.

He fights the urge to smash his fist into the nearest wall, to tear down every shelf in the room in a fit of blind rage.

But what would that solve? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Rage won’t lead him to her. Fear won’t undo what’s already been set in motion. All he can do is cling to hope, even if it’s slipping through his fingers.

The ultimate goal of this fucked-up cult—their twisted mission—is to birth the flesh reincarnate of their so-called, bullshit deity.

His blood runs cold at the thought of Paloma being used in some horrific ritual, being touched, violated, forced into madness.

He’s shaking, on the verge of a panic attack, his heart slamming against his ribcage like it’s trying to escape. But he forces himself to breathe—slow, deep, steady breaths, locking the perturbation away. 

Javier puts out an APB, his voice tight as he details her car, her appearance. Every word feels surreal, like it’s not really him saying it, like he’s watching someone else’s nightmare play out.

Romeo’s going to hear this, and he’s going to have to explain how they missed all the signs, how Paloma has been in danger this whole time.

The weight of it presses down on him like a thousand pounds of guilt.

Gathering what he needs and delegating some of the overnight officers at the station, he frantically drives to the Leighton house.

He’s already chain-smoked half a pack. That nasty habit he’s been trying to shake is clinging to him. The file in his hands feels too light for the bomb he’s about to drop.

How the fuck is he supposed to do this? How do you tell someone their wife’s past is tangled in a nightmare, and that their daughter—a woman they both love—is at the heart of it? How do you stay composed when you’re barely holding yourself together?

“Where the fuck is my daughter?”

Javier’s barely set foot out of his truck when Romeo’s fists twist in his shirt, shoving him hard against the vehicle.

The impact rattles through him, but all he can see is the wild, desperate look in the sheriff’s eyes—a terror that matches his own but runs even deeper, cutting into every line on his face.

“Romeo, listen to me!” Javier’s voice is authoritative, that familiar guarded wall of stoicism building as his trademark defense mechanism to the absolute anxiety that’s gnawing away at his body. “This is gonna be hard to hear—I’m barely making sense of it myself—but I need you to listen if we’re going to figure this shit out.”

Romeo’s grip tightens, then slowly loosens, and Javier seizes the moment, shoving the older man back, no longer giving a fuck about keeping the peace.

He yanks the folded photo from his jacket pocket and holds it up, letting him get a clear look. “Tell me. Is this Paloma’s mother?”

Romeo’s gaze flits to the photograph, and the recognition that floods his face is immediate.

His fingers snatch the photo from Javier, and his expression cracks, aging him in just a matter of seconds. “Where did you get this?” His voice is barely a whisper, “What the fuck is going on?”

Javier’s own dread deepens. “From the old files,” he says, voice hollow. “The ones from the original group. She’s connected to all of this. They both are.”

He takes a breath, then begins to explain everything he knows. He lays it out, bit by bit—the tangled web of what Paloma had uncovered, the twisted threads that pointed to this cult, the fake leads that had kept them chasing shadows. Every word feels like glass in his throat.

Confusion, fear, anger—every emotion etched on Romeo’s face makes Javier feel like he’s the one who has failed. 

“Did you know about any of this?” he asks, though he already knows the answer from the lost look in Romeo’s eyes.

His mouth opens, then closes. He seems to gather himself, shoulders dropping under a weight he’s only just begun to grasp. “None. When I met Abby… she was just a woman startin’ over. She’d moved into a small house near the church. Said her parents had passed and she needed a fresh start. Picked a random town—that’s how she ended up here.” The sheriff’s gaze drifts to a place Javier can’t reach, caught in the bittersweet memory of his late wife. 

“Paloma said she found this out by going through her mom’s things,” he says carefully, each word a stone dropping into his gut. “But I don’t think she was telling me everything.”

Silence stretches between them, heavy and loaded as they lock eyes in an unspoken understanding.

They need answers, and every second they waste is another second Paloma could be slipping further away.

“Before we make accusations,” Javier says, forcing himself to stay grounded, “we need to dig through their belongings. There has to be something there—a lead, a hint—something that’ll tell us who’s behind this.”

“But you already know who it is, don’t you?”

Javier’s eyes darken, and his jaw locks as one name barrels into his mind, clear and hateful: August.

The red flags he had dismissed, convinced they were just a byproduct of his hate for the guy, now stand out like beacons.

He meets Romeo’s gaze, a grim certainty settling into his features. “I believe it’s Augustus Dixon and his group.”

Romeo’s face twists with anger, and he grits out, “Motherfucker—” His fists clench, his whole body radiating fury.

“Be pissed off later. We’ve got a job to do.”

They stalk up the stairs, both men moving with purpose—Romeo heads for his wife’s things while Javier makes his way into Paloma’s room.

It feels surreal, even wrong, to be rummaging through her life like this. The last time he’d been in this position, it was in Jessica’s room, and even then he could see the resemblance her space shared with Paloma’s—but he’d never thought he’d be here, seeing his girl as a victim.

His fingers skim over a leather-bound book tucked away on the top shelf in her closet, hidden behind a jewelry box. It’s as if she’d placed it there purposefully, stowed away out of reach.

When he pulls it down, he realizes it’s a scrapbook brimming with photographs and clippings.

Inside, he finds images of Calmana, surrounded by groups of men and women, all dressed in matching, traditional attire. A towering cathedral looms in the background, religious iconography scattered throughout—symbols he now recognizes from his research.

Maps, faded with time, span several pages, and in the center lies an intricate, sprawling family tree with Paloma’s name written at the bottom.

He spots envelopes tucked between the pages, each one addressed to her in cursive hand.

He calls out for Romeo, and the sheriff is by his side almost instantly, his expression a twisted mix of hope and dread.

“What’d you find?” 

Javier silently hands him the scrapbook, keeping the envelopes for himself. 

One by one, he opens them, unfolding each paper. His breaths come out ragged, and he feels his stomach drop as he reads.

They’re love poems—explicit, filthy in their adoration. Line after line, they detail all the things August wants to do to her, each word penned with obsession.

The praises he lavishes on her, how he calls her a spectacle, the power he insists she wields—it’s like poison seeping into Javier’s mind. 

His hands start trembling, and the implications tighten around him like a noose.

Romeo, sensing his agitation, reaches out, his voice rough. “What’s that—what did you find?” 

Javier jerks the papers away, swallowing hard. “Trust me. You don’t want to see these—not now.”

“Let me see them, Javier! Goddammit, my daughter is in danger!”

Before their back-and-forth can spiral any further, Javier’s walkie talkie crackles sharply, an officer’s voice coming through:

“A dark green, 1970 Buick Electra matching the APB put out an hour ago has been found in Lake Fraiser alongside an unidentified female body.”

The air thickens and shatters as Javier and Romeo lock eyes, both of them wearing the same look of wide-eyed horror. 

“Romeo—” Javier tries, reaching out, but the man is already out the door, the scrapbook falling from his hands and hitting the hardwood floor with a hollow thud that reverberates in Javier’s chest.

He mutters a quick fuck and scoops it up, rushing after him, yet the sheriff is a blur, tearing down the driveway with the kind of desperation only a father can muster when everything he loves is on the line.

Now that he’s left alone, Javier grips the railing, and the weight of it all—of losing her—comes crashing down. His heart’s splintering, his chest tight, mind skidding out of control.

This is what he’s been running from all along—failure… loss… grief. Now it is all coming back, circling like vultures, ready to take the one thing that’s ever brought him true happiness.

But he forces himself to breathe, to anchor his mind to the one cold comfort he has left. “He wouldn’t kill her. He needs her.” The words taste bitter, chilling him, but they hold him steady.

Paloma is at the center of this plan—there’d be no sense in taking her, just to end it so abruptly.

Despite everything, he finds a sliver of reassurance in that cruel logic. He clings to it with everything he has, because right now, it’s the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

Javier pulls up to Lake Fraiser, where the scene is a flurry of first responders, flashing lights reflecting off the water’s dark surface in sharp reds and blues.

He parks haphazardly, barely cutting the engine before he’s out of the truck, heading straight toward the area cordoned off by yellow crime scene tape.

His heart slams against his ribs as he spots Romeo, kneeling by the edge of the lake beside a body draped in a white cloth, his face blank, almost empty.

Javier’s eyes dart to the surrounding officers, scanning each one, trying to get a read on the situation before he speaks.

“Is it her?” His voice breaks the stillness.

Romeo doesn’t look up, his gaze locked on the covered body. “…No.”

Relief floods through him, dizzying him for a moment before his gaze lands on a tow truck pulling Paloma’s car away from the scene. 

He clenches his jaw, forcing himself to swallow back the bitter uncertainty rising in his throat.

Romeo stands slowly, brushing the dirt off his hands, his expression hardening as he relays, “Just got a call from the hospital. Our girl from the woods finally woke up. Tonight of all nights.” He chuckles dryly. “Asked to speak with me specifically. So I’ll head that way tomorrow after she’s been stabilized properly… which means you’ll be in charge of all this.” He gestures around them vaguely.

The pulsing emergency lights cast fractured shadows over their faces.

“It’s best for you to step back momentarily. Clear your head. You’re too close to this,” Javier adds quietly, “She’s your daughter.” And while Javier is her lover and every inch of him is fraying at the edges for her, he understands that his pain won’t amount to the agony that Romeo is drowning in.

The sheriff’s silence stretches, words hesitating on his tongue, until finally, with a quiet confession, he murmurs, “I was too harsh on her. On you. I was an asshole, and if it’s any reconciliation—thank you for tryin’ to get her out of this shitty town.”

Javier’s caught off-guard but doesn’t show it, the self awareness on his behalf is appreciated. “I’d do anything for her.”

Romeo studies him for a moment, as if measuring the resolve behind his words, then he nods, his expression taut, “Gonna start combing through everythin’ back at the station. Probably call Olsen, see if he’s got any cameras ‘round the library so we can get a timeline goin’.”

These two men are similar in that regard, backing themselves into their jobs to mask the turmoil inside. They talk through some of the procedures before Romeo is pulled away by other officers, leaving Javier to handle things here.

He forces himself to switch gears, to summon every bit of authority he has left to do his job. He’s got a dead body to assess, a team to command, and then—then he’ll focus everything he’s got on finding Paloma.

Paloma stirs awake, the pitch darkness of the early morning pressing in from all sides.

She’s disoriented—a dull ache in her head and the sting of thick, abrasive rope biting into her wrists.

Her hands are suspended and bound above her, tethered tightly to an old, rusted pipe overhead, which creaks slightly as she shifts her weight.

She can feel the grit of dried blood matting her hair against her temple, the aftershock of Sloane’s vicious hit with the bat ringing sharp behind her eyes. Her boots are missing, leaving her barefoot against the cool concrete ground.

As reality sharpens around her, she realizes this isn’t a dream and it nauseates her, instilling panic in her heart.

She barely remembers the car ride or the way they dragged her down here, everything muddled from the hit she’d taken until she’d finally succumbed to unconsciousness.

Now, the throbbing intensifies as she tugs instinctively at the ropes, her wrists burning, but no amount of pulling loosens her bonds.

Frustration and terror mix, unwieldy coiling in her chest and tears sting at her eyes despite her attempts to fight them back. She doesn’t want to imagine what they plan to do to her.

She knows Javier and her father have to be looking for her. They must be tearing themselves apart with worry. She can almost hear her father’s harsh reprimands and Javier’s quiet, determined rage—they’re relentless when it comes to protecting her. 

They’ll find her. They have to.

The cellar door creaks open and she freezes, her pulse skittering as August, Sloane, and Gabriel descend the stairs.

The dim light barely touches their faces, but she doesn’t need to see them clearly to know what they’re capable of.

She tries to hold her head high, pushing back the tears, refusing to let them see the fear that’s boiling inside. She won’t give them that satisfaction, not if she can help it.

Their footsteps echo against the walls of the basement. August stops just close enough that she can feel his presence invading her senses, suffocating, his familiar smirk tugging at his lips.

“Good morning, P,” he drawls, voice dripping with the charm that managed to slither its way into her heart.

What she once found magnetic in him is now hollow, a mask that hides something so unfathomable. 

“Pretty nasty cut ya got there.” Sloane’s voice drips with fake sympathy. Her eyes glint with that special brand of cruelty she’d always kept hidden behind a guise of friendship.

The satisfaction in her tone is unmistakable, like she’s savoring every moment of seeing Paloma in such a vulnerable state.

The urge to spit in their faces, to lash out, is almost unbearable, but she remembers her daddy’s lessons, advising her to stay calm, to never let them know how afraid she really is.

Every word of advice he’d ever given her about self-preservation hangs heavy in her mind. 

She keeps her face blank, her mouth a hard line.

“Silent treatment, huh?” August steps closer, his hand reaching out to brush a stray lock of hair from her face. His fingers are inches from her forehead when she sees the sick satisfaction in his eyes, and she can’t suppress the involuntary grimace as his fingers hover over the gash near her forehead.

The moment of weakness feels like a win for him, his smile widening as he grazes her wound, pressing just enough to send a wave of pain radiating through her skull and a fresh stream of blood to trickle out.

Sloane watches her reaction, faux innocence weaving through her sneer. “You make for a pretty damn good damsel in distress. Thought you’d put up more of a fight, if I’m bein’ honest. You really disappointed me, doll face.”

Paloma’s grip tightens around the rope until her knuckles ache. She wants to tell her off, to fight and scream—but instead she just turns away, refusing to even look at them.

August’s hand cups her chin as he forces her to meet his eyes, eyes that once held promises of affection and loyalty now filled with something so dark and consuming.

His fingers dig into her soft skin. “I need you to look perfect, little dove. All stitched up and pretty.” His thumb trails along her chapped bottom lip. “Gabriel,” he calls, not even glancing back at the other man, “Tend to that. Tonight’s a big night, after all. Lots to prepare for.”

There goes that trepidation again. Her mouth twitches, half-ready to break her silence and demand to know just what the hell he’s talking about. But she’s already committed to keeping quiet.

Gabriel lingers behind them, shifting uncomfortably, the first aid kit clutched tight in his hand.

He doesn’t say anything, just stands there as usual, eyes flicking from Paloma to his partners, some part of him clearly unsettled yet too cowardly to intervene.

He’s her best shot of getting out of here, she just knows it.

“‘S’okay, you ain’t gotta talk,” August’s coos. “I actually prefer you like this—makes things a hell of a lot easier. The others…” He snorts, shaking his head.

How many other unfortunate women had been dragged down here, suffering at his hands?

“Too squirmy, too squeamish—like fuckin’ pigs.” His laughter is mirthless and Sloane joins in with loud, exaggerated snorts that mimic a pig’s squeal. The sound claws at Paloma’s ears.

There’s this twisted admiration in his stare as he studies her. “That’s why I knew I needed to have you. No one else on this planet holds a candle to the magic you have, Paloma. You should stop bein’ so scared and embrace it.” He murmurs, dropping his voice to a whisper.

His hand snakes down from her jaw, tracing her neck, lingering in an unsettling crawl between her breasts before settling at her hip.

His fingers dig in, and she flinches, her body stiffening in revulsion. He smirks at her reaction, savoring her discomfort like a fine wine.

“I’ll be back to check on you later, alright?” His tone is falsely tender. "Gotta make sure everythin’ is perfect. Can’t afford any fuck ups now—I’ve been way too patient for this."

He steps back at last, allowing Gabriel to shuffle forward with the kit in hand.

With a jerk of his chin, August motions for Sloane to follow him. She blows Paloma a mocking kiss and winks with a saccharine sweetness that really piles on the hatred that burns a little hotter for her specifically.

The heavy cellar door slams shut, casting them back into dim silence as the first pale light of dawn begins to creep through the basement windows.

Paloma’s heart pounds as their shadows disappear, leaving her helpless in the creeping morning light.

“What are you goin’ to do to me?” Her voice is hoarse, each word scraping her dry throat like sandpaper, but she can’t keep quiet now that they’re alone.

Gabriel wordlessly drags over a stool, placing the first-aid kit on top. He opens it, sorting through supplies as though she isn’t even there.

Paloma yanks at her restraints, the old pipe groaning in protest. “Fuckin’ say somethin’,” she snaps, anger edging her desperation. “It’s the least you could do—just… tell me.” She hates the pleading tone that slips through, the last thread of her control unraveling as she imagines what fate awaits her.

His gloved hands move to clean her wound, and she clenches her jaw against the sting, glaring at him as if she could force him to talk through sheer will. He’s careful and practiced, clearly having done this before.

“The Crimson Rite,” he mutters, brows furrowing as he concentrates, his voice a barely audible murmur. “It’s where the conception will happen… on the altar of incarnation.”

Paloma’s heart stumbles, her mind racing to piece together the fragments. “What the fuck are you even sayin’?” Her voice wavers, but there’s no denying the chill in her spine.

She knows what those words mean on their own, but together, they paint a picture she’d rather not face—the harrowing reality of how August truly plans on using her.

“August’ll explain,” he replies, brushing her off with the indifference of a man following orders. “He’s better at that shit than I am. I just do what he asks and stay outta the way.”

“Like a fuckin’ coward,” she spits.

The needle pauses, its sharp tip hovering an inch from her skin, and he raises his eyes. “You get all lippy with me, but keep your mouth shut around them? What, I ain’t intimidatin’ enough for you?” 

She holds his gaze, defiance simmering behind the exhaustion in her stare. “Nothing about you’s intimidatin’ enough to keep me from tellin’ you exactly what I think.”

His lips twist downward, a muscle in his jaw ticking as he resumes stitching, each tug at her skin rougher than the last. 

“At church that day, you were warnin’ me, weren’t you?” Her voice is barely a whisper, the memory of that awkward conversation rattling in her mind. “S’not too late, Gabe. You can still help me outta this… We both can be outta here ‘fore the sun comes up.”

There’s a lapse, just for a second, in his eyes—something she wants to believe is regret, a part of him she hopes she can reach.

The sliver of optimism she’s mustered might awaken that dormant part of him buried under layers of August’s bullshit and the bitterness life has forced him to swallow.

But he shakes his head slowly, avoiding her gaze as he finishes stitching her wound, his hands deft. “You don’t get it. Don’t matter if I do the right thing. He’d find us—he always does.” He sprays her wound with a numbing mist then covers it with a small gauze.

“He wouldn’t find us,” she insists, her voice fraying. “Daddy would protect us. He’d make sure we’re safe.”

He lets out a low, humorless chuckle. “Yeah? He promise you that or somethin’? ‘Cause from where I’m standin’, you don’t look all that safe.”

A bitter, frustrated cry escapes her as he begins to pack up his kit, her pleas bouncing off him like stones against steel.

“Please, Gabe, don’t leave me down here alone,” she chokes out, and the words twist something deep inside her, pulling her further into a desperation she’s been trying to keep at bay.

“Breakfast’ll be down in a few hours,” he mutters, almost as if talking to himself, keeping his voice low and detached. “Probably get you a shower at sundown so you ain’t all sweaty and grimy. Needs you all fuckin’ pristine.” The last words slip out like a hiss, a disgusted edge in his tone. “S’gonna be a long day for you down here. Scream all you want; ain’t nobody around worth a damn to hear it. You got a better shot at rubbin’ the skin off your wrists than gettin’ out of that rope.”

Paloma snaps, her control breaking in a flood of panic and fury as she yanks at her restraint, her wrists burning as she curses him, calling him every name her mind can summon.

The words pour out in a desperate torrent, trying to cut him, to provoke something human out of him, anything.

But he stays silent, barely flinching, his face a mask as he gathers his things, turning his back on her without a word. 

When the cellar door finally slams shut, it echoes through the basement, and her last shreds of resolve crumble as she sinks into sobs.

The thoughts come in fragments, jagged and bitter, cutting her deeper than any wound.

The way things were left with her father—how they’d argued and he looked at her with that final, dismissive silence, like she’d become a stranger for daring to chase her own life beyond their town.

The love that took root so unexpectedly, so completely with Javier. He came into her life at the perfect time, pouring a rare, tender kind of intimacy into her soul; the kind that made her feel seen for the first time in her life.

He was a good man who’d endured his own share of hardships —and she let their last conversation end in anger and frustration. She’s just like her father.

Perhaps if she had told him the full truth about how she came across her mother’s past, she wouldn’t be in this mess at all.

This mess—it’s her inheritance. Not a blessing like August wants her to believe, but a curse Calmana left behind, the forced sins of her mother she didn’t choose but can’t escape.

Her suicide is starting to make more sense.

It all makes her feel like a lamb at slaughter, her life never really hers, and now her blood and body are an offering to feed whatever he believes she’s meant to bring to life. 

The promise of an explanation later on hangs over her like a guillotine. Does she even want to know? Will it make a difference?

She got herself kidnapped by trusting them all, falling for August’s romantic words and impressive knowledge. All of his lies. She’d thought she was smart enough to see through him, to keep a grip on her own heart, and instead, she’d unknowingly let him manipulate her.

Sloane was right—she is the helpless damsel she always denied being, someone who hadn’t fought hard enough to save herself. 

Paloma has to believe she’s got people searching for her, that they’re smart enough, relentless enough to find her before night falls. She has to cling to that hope, however fragile, because right now it’s all she has.

Her cries fill the empty space around her until exhaustion claims her in silence.

The basement is her prison as the sun traces its lazy arc above.

The day drags on in a haze of stale air and the natural sounds of bugs chittering about. On occasion, she’ll hear people walk by or see their shadows through the small windows.

She's trapped here, the only visits marking the hours coming when Gabriel brings a bucket for her to relieve herself—like she’s some kind of animal—or sets down a tray of food she refuses to touch.

“You need to eat,” he says, setting the tray with her dinner on the floor. His hands working on cutting the thick rope binding her wrists, each tug and scrape freeing her a fraction at a time.

“What’s the point? M’gonna die anyway,” she mutters, exhausted but still pissed. “Won’t matter if I’ve got a full stomach or not.”

He shakes his head. “You’re not goin’ to die, Paloma. You’re too important to all this. How haven’t you realized that yet?”

“Oh, forgive me if I haven’t picked up on all your twisted bullshit,” she snaps. “You all speak in fuckin’ tongues and riddles. No one’s told me a damn thing that makes any sense.”

At last, the final fiber of rope snaps, and the weight drops from her wrists. She lets out a low, relieved sigh as her arms fall to her sides, stiff from the hours of suspension.

The ache in her shoulders is intense, and her wrists are lined with red from the coarse bondage.

“Don’t try anythin’ stupid,” he warns, his voice low. “They might not kill ya but they’ll hurt you in ways that’ll make you wish you were dead.”

She doesn’t doubt it, so she reins in her impulses and instead glances at the food, the bitterness slowly giving way to resignation.

If the chance to escape comes, she’ll need her strength. She takes the cup, drinking greedily, barely noticing the water spilling down her chin—it’s just a relief to feel the dryness ease, something grounding in a nightmare that feels endless.

The meal tastes dull, but she swallows it down anyway, each bite a fight to hold onto her sense of self, to stay sharp.

Gabriel watches her with that quiet, unreadable expression.

“I tried leavin’ years ago, when August first started buildin’ the group.” He looks down, his mouth pressing into a grim line. “But he caught me at the train station. Gave me the ass-beatin’ of my life. Locked me up in a shed in the middle of the woods for days, left me there until I learned my lesson. I swear, I lost every bit of myself in that dark place.” His voice lowers to a whisper. “After that, I never thought ‘bout leavin’ again... not until he got his sights set on you.”

Paloma’s chewing slows, her eyes flitting over to him, reading the conflict etched in his expression.

For August to treat Gabriel, his so-called “brother,” with such brutality to keep him in line... it makes all too much sense now, why he is August’s silent shadow, obeying every command.

“His obsession with you is different. Everythin’ suddenly became different. He has this way of makin’ you submit to him that gets me wonderin’ if all this Eurynomos shit is actually real.”

The twisted loyalty, the deep-seated fear that’s tangled around them like shackles, intertwined with stories of divinity.

She’s barely scratched the surface of what August is capable of.

“That’s terrible,” she whispers, sympathetic to what he’s been through. “I’m sorry... ‘n I get why you’re scared, but there’s two of us now. We could make a run for it, slip away while we have the chance.”

Her food is forgotten as Paloma edges closer, her gaze steady and imploring. For a moment, he genuinely considers their escape.

But the heavy, thunderous creak of the cellar doors breaks through the moment, both of them jerking apart.

She scrambles backward until her back presses against the cold, damp wall, her heartbeat racing as Gabriel stands abruptly from his stool, his face hardening again. 

It’s only August this time, his usual shadow—Sloane with her biting sneers—thankfully absent.

He strides down with a bag in one hand and shower supplies in the other, eyeing her like she’s some prized possession he’s been itching to inspect. 

“Unrestrained, ate her dinner, and didn’t even try to run? My, my. Little dove, you’re such a good girl.” He passes the items to Gabriel as he steps closer, and she hates the way she’s wedged in a corner, wishing she could melt into the wall or skitter away like a mouse.

He crouches, gently moving the gauze out of the way, his sharp gaze examining the stitches worked into her head wound. “S’lookin’ better already. Now, let’s get you a shower. I can smell you from here, and, sweetheart, it’s not exactly appealin’.”

“Fuck you.”

He smirks, the cruel curve of his lips almost congratulatory. “There she is. Glad to see that fire hasn’t died just yet, my love.”

With a vice-like grip, his hand latches onto her arm, dragging her up to her feet and across the basement to a sad excuse for a shower—no curtain, nothing remotely resembling privacy, just exposed plumbing and mildewed tile. He shoves her into the cramped space, gesturing at her with a command that chills her: “Strip.”

Her stomach tightens, and she squares her jaw. “Turn around.”

A laugh bursts from him, sharp and mocking. “You think you’re in any position to make demands? You may be special, darlin’, but that don’t mean you’re runnin’ shit. Now strip, or I’ll tie you up and rip that little outfit off myself.”

She grits her teeth, fists clenched. “No.”

His smile vanishes, replaced by a darker, crueler expression.

In a flash, his hand is around her throat, shoving her harshly against the slimy tile, the back of her head meeting the hard surface making her cry out in pain.

Her breath snags as his grip tightens around her neck, the cool press of a switchblade grazing the scar on her hip, making her pulse hammer in her ears. “Don’t push me,” he growls, the blade’s edge nicking her skin just enough to sting. He knows exactly where she’s sensitive, and he revels in her flinch. “I’ve told you—I don’t like hurtin’ you, but I will if I have to. Strip. Now.”

He releases her, the air rushing back into her lungs, making her cough.

Her hands tremble as she peels away her clothes, starting with the long, flowing skirt that puddles around her ankles, leaving her in just her underwear and camisole.

August’s eyes rake over her, and his silent demand pulls at her last nerve.

She swallows back her tears, fingers shaking as she slides the straps off her shoulders, letting the fabric fall to the floor and then stepping out of her underwear, kicking the pile aside.

Now entirely naked, her arms wrap protectively around herself to shield what she can. She looks away, the sting of indignity making her skin crawl, willing herself not to cry.

August steps forward, adjusting the shower’s dial, and the pipes clank and groan as water finally bursts out of the rusted shower head, icy at first. She shivers, her teeth clattering, and only once the water turns warm does the chill ease up.

A snap of his fingers brings Gabriel closer, setting the shower supplies within reach. August then places them at her feet, his mocking gaze never leaving her as he drags a worn wooden chair up, seating himself like a perverse audience settling in for a show. 

Paloma doesn’t move, clinging harder to her body, her nails digging into her own skin, praying he’ll lose interest and turn away. But he just smirks. “Don’t be shy, P. Not like I haven’t seen you naked before.” His tongue drags over his lips, blue eyes glittering darkly, drinking in her discomfort.

She would rather die where she stands than have him touch her, lingering his hands over her body like a wolf savoring his meal. Slowly, reluctantly, her arms fall to her sides, shoulders curling inward, as she begins to wash herself.

The hot tears mix with the water streaming down her cheeks, each drop hiding the sobs she’s swallowing.

August’s stare trails over her figure, his smirk deepening every time she flinches under the weight of it.

He doesn’t hide his hunger, watching her every movement—the rise and fall of her breasts, the curve of her hips, the sway of her shoulders as she soaps herself in silence.

Gabriel’s eyes stay firmly on his boots, shame evident in his posture. 

Finally, she shuts off the water, chest heaving as she swallows down the humiliation, covering herself again and feeling his satisfaction lingering in the room like a toxic cloud.

A towel lands at her feet, and she grabs it, pulling it around her trembling frame, feeling like her skin might crawl right off her bones. 

“Got this dress made just for you,” August says casually, standing then pulling out a white dress and red flats from a worn bag. He tosses them onto the chair he’d just been sitting in, not making any effort to move or look away, and she swallows back the lump in her throat.

She’s barely holding herself together, her fingers fumbling with the towel as she dries off, eyes darting between the two men.

One won’t meet her gaze, too timorous, and the other stares at her with lecherous eyes.

She slips on the dress, it’s something she would’ve picked for herself under different circumstances; calf-length, delicate ladder lace along the trim, cap sleeves, and three charmeuse red ribbons that match the shoes.

But the beauty of it feels like a cruel mockery against the ugliness of this moment. 

“You look so beautiful,” August purrs, “Get a good look at yourself.” 

She’s forced in front of an antique mirror, the glass warped and cracked, but she can still make out her reflection. 

The dark circles beneath her eyes, bruised skin, the way her hair clings to her damp skin, the faded pallor of her face against her outfit—she looks like a ghost.

His hand slides to her shoulder, pushing her hair aside as he leans in, trailing his nose against her skin and inhaling deeply. “You smell like summertime.” He presses his lips to her neck, and bile rises in her throat.

Then, he pulls back, her mother’s cross pendant in hand, fastening it around her neck with a satisfied smile.

Her heart clenches once she sees it. She’d left that at Javier’s, tucked away safely with all the other things she moved out of her childhood home in preparation for their big trip.

The thought of August being in his space, doing God knows what, gets her alarmed. “What did you do to him?”

August looks momentarily confused by her query, but then his smirk grows as he eyes the pendent and sees that look in her eyes. “Don’t worry, I didn’t touch your precious narc. He ain’t been home all day. He’s out there, sniffin’ around for you like a lost dog. Thought about killin’ him, but… I think he’d suffer more thinkin’ he failed you. Just another life he couldn’t save, huh?”

The words press against those bruising, sore spots on her heart. She scowls, throwing back as much defiance as she can muster. “You wouldn’t get close enough to try.” Her voice trembles, but she knows Javier and what he’s capable of. 

He just shrugs, the malicious glint in his eyes unwavering. “Maybe not. But Sloane?” He grins, knowing how even mentioning her gets under Paloma’s skin. “Now, I think she could.”

He doesn’t give her time to respond, moving to bind her hands again, this time in smooth silk restraints that feel uncharacteristically gentle against her wrists.

Time moves in slow motion, she becomes unresponsive, like a melancholic statue, as he brushes her hair, fussing over her appearance as if she were some doll, changing the gauze over her stitches.

Her hope of getting out of this has diminished. Gabriel won’t help her and August has run the two men competent enough to figure this out in circles, so tangled up in deceit to find her.

The evening melts into night, shadows deepening when he finally leaves, just to return moments later with a steaming cup of tea that smells rancid and earthy, like decay.

“Drink up.”

She shakes her head, refusing it, but he pries her mouth open, forcing her to swallow the scalding liquid. It’s bitter and burns her throat, her tongue singed as she swallows unwillingly. 

“See? Wasn’t so bad,” he taunts her, wiping away some of the remnants that spilled from the corner of her mouth.

The effect is immediate; her mind hazes, thoughts swirling, until her body feels sluggish, as if it is no longer tethered to her.

Just as her vision starts to fade, a red, body-length veil is draped over her, the fabric casting her world into blood-hued darkness.

“I need to see it again.” 

Javier pinches the bridge of his nose at Romeo’s request, fingers then pressing hard against his closed eyes as the footage gets rewound. 

It’s the only evidence they have—a single security camera capturing what transpired. The grainy video shows her crossing the street, pausing, and then August and his accomplices stepping into view. She runs, disappearing off-camera for what feels like a lifetime, before being dragged back and shoved into the bed of the truck.

Each time Javier watches, another shard of him breaks away.

Romeo shifts beside him, watching the screen with unrelenting focus. He’s insistent, searching for anything, some small clue to pinpoint where they went.

Javier, though, is at his limit, fighting the urge to hurl the screen across the room.

“Romeo,” he begins, a little strained, “we’re not going to find anything new here.”

“We missed shit before. Can’t afford to miss anythin’ now.”

They’d spent the whole damn day combing through the trio’s hometown, hoping for any piece of intel, some breadcrumb that would lead them to the group’s hideout.

The search had been maddeningly fruitless. Fayette’s local authorities helped spread the word, but there was nothing, no tracks, no whispers, no real leads to follow.

Every registered address tied to the three was a dead end. Their only childhood homes, a trailer park, had burned down over a decade ago, leaving no trace, no history to sift through.

Everyone close to them—parents, guardians—were either dead, in prison, or admitted. The few family members with any sense had cut ties long ago.

“They were hellraisers,” the retired sheriff had muttered. That’s all the town could say, the simple acknowledgment that the trio had always left destruction in their wake.

The only useful piece of information they dug up was that August had left his job at a local grocery store to work for some woman, an outsider no one really knew.

She’d shown up, taken August with her, and he’d returned a few years later with a more hardened resolve, recruiting Sloane and Gabriel.

After torching some local acreage and serving time for arson, they’d vanished from Fayette until the recent spree of murders started.

“He’s been planning this for a long time, Romeo. They knew how to hide; they’ve done this before.” Javier mutters, frustration simmering in his tone.

They’d tried running a partial plate of the truck, only to come up short once again.

Javier moves near the blinds, unable to keep watching her kidnapping, glimpsing the sea of people that make up their search parties gathered in their too small department.

The faces blur together, civilians and first responders alike, all waiting for direction.

“It’s probably best if you go to the hospital and get Harper’s statement. She’s cleared to talk, right?” 

Romeo takes a beat longer to respond, clearly grappling with his own anguish. “Yeah. Got the official call ‘bout ten minutes ago.” 

“If anyone’s got something to give us that can break this open, it’s her.”

The room is quiet except for the low murmur of voices spilling in. The tape finally ends and Romeo’s gaze falls to the corner of his desk, where a lone photo of Paloma sits; she’s grinning with his cowboy hat perched high on her head, radiating joy.

He stares at it like he’s trying to draw strength from that moment, then he slowly picks it up, pressing his lips together in thought, handing it over to Javier.

“Here. This is the one I used for the flyers.”

Javier swallows hard, taking it, his thumb grazing over the image, his own heart sinking. This is the Paloma he can’t let slip through his fingers, the one who belongs right here, laughing and safe. Not wherever she was now. 

Romeo’s tone holds firm determination. “Do what you gotta do. For her. You understand me?”

Javier just nods, no words left to offer in the face of everything unsaid.

The sheriff lets out a long, heavy sigh, the kind that speaks of too many hours awake, too many close calls, too many second chances lost to bad luck or timing or whatever fate is left to them.

He grabs his jacket, slinging it over his shoulders, steeling his expression as he leaves the office, moving through the throng that instantly swells around him.

They close in with questions, worry, and hope—all of it colliding in one tense space.

Seeing them converge on Romeo, Javier takes a steadying breath and steps out right behind him, his presence commanding even in his silence.

He straightens, letting the authority in his stance speak for him, his gaze hard as he begins relaying their plan with swift, unyielding precision.

The world tilts and sways as Paloma returns to half-consciousness, vision still muddled from the drugged tea that has her head feeling like it’s filled with lead and limbs sluggish.

She’s seated upright in an ornate, over-decorated chair with her hands still bound in front of her. She tries to blink away the fog clouding her mind, but the red veil over her face continues to shroud her vision.

Her stitched wound throbs faintly, then suddenly, she’s being lifted and carried by four indistinct figures.

The swaying motion makes her sick, but she’s too weak to cry out, her voice nothing more than a ghost lodged in her throat.

She starts to feel the dampness of the humid Texas night pressing into her skin, the scent of flowers floating in the air, sickly sweet as it mixes with the distant smell of incense.

She’s paraded down a candlelit path where kneeling figures line the walkway, bowing in silent reverence. The sound of murmuring voices hums around her like a distant, dreadful lullaby. 

Finally, the procession stops, and her chair is lowered to the ground.

Her surroundings feel unreal, like a fever dream she’s trapped inside. A dark shadow moves in front of her, reaching to pull her to her feet. She tries to make out their face, but it’s just a dark, hollow blur.

Her legs tremble as she takes a few shaky steps, guided by an iron grip that steers her from the soft earth to a hard surface. Somewhere to her right, she hears a voice—August's—so sharp that it almost makes her ears bleed.

“We have to capture this moment.”

Paloma’s body is positioned, hands adjusting her like she’s an ornament rather than a person. She can barely keep her knees from buckling, her body swaying as they try to hold her up.

Her mind is a mess, every thought tangled, every movement slow, as if she’s moving underwater.

She falls, just as she hears the flash of a camera, her legs finally giving way, but hands grip her before she hits the ground, lifting her, steadying her as her head lolls to the side.

Then, in one swift motion, the veil lifted from her face.

August stands there, close enough that she can see every cold line in his face, conforming into possessive delight. 

He’s dressed to match her, red bows on his collared shirt, the same lace design on his pants.

Her skin crawls as his fingers trace the side of her face, his voice a leering purr. “My special little dove.”

He pulls her close, spinning her so that she faces their creation in her honor. The white marble gleams in the halo of the candlelight, surrounded by a sea of blood-red spider lilies, their spindly petals stretching out like claws.

Candles of every size and shape cast their shadows over the altar, illuminating the intricate carving of their emblem, miniatures and other offerings strewn about.

“All for you,” his lips brush against her ear.

The hands surrounding her are unyielding as she’s lifted and maneuvered onto the cold slab, the hard surface unforgiving beneath her back.

Her wrists are freed only to be tied again, the silk binding each one to a small stone pillar at each side.

Her ankles follow, strapped to the pillars near the end of the altar, legs bent slightly and spread, leaving her trapped and exposed.

Her breath quickens, each ragged inhale catching in her throat as the reality of her fate crashes down with brutal clarity. The red veil is drawn back over her face.

Tears blur her sight, mixing with the snot and sweat as she starts to sob, desperate cries spilling from her lips, pleas tumbling out in a desperate stream that echo out into the vastness of the field.

“Please… please, let me go. You don’t have to do this, please.” Her words come out strangled and slurred but she’s ignored. She jerks against her restraints, each movement growing weaker as the drug saps her strength.

August stands before his followers, his voice low yet electrifying, every declaration steeped in reverence and simmering triumph. 

“For centuries, we have waited in the shadows, prayed in whispers, bound by oaths that our forebears swore. Those before us dreamed of this moment, yet they were weak, too fearful to claim what was rightfully theirs. We will not repeat their mistakes. The bloodline of the first, the birthing bloodline, flows through her veins, and she is ours. Eurynomos will have a body made of flesh and bone, a place in this realm, because of us.”

Paloma shakes her head side to side, desperate to block out August’s devious words. Just as a surge of strength flares within her, sharp fingers dig into her shoulders from behind, pressing her back down, anchoring her in place.

Through the haze of drowsiness, her blurred vision lands on Sloane, looming over her with a short, black veil shrouding her face. Beneath it, Paloma can make out an expression as evil as it is watchful.

“No more dreams. No more consuming or offering flesh that rots before dawn. Our devotion, our patience, has led us here. We are the last of our kind—the ones who bring forth the new age. Now is the time for fulfillment. Now is the time to step into the eternal night and bring our deity home.” 

His gaze sweeps over the bowed heads, the flicker of candlelight dancing in his eyes as his words coil around them like a vow.

Sloane relinquishes her hold, seemingly fading away.

He approaches her slowly, each step deliberate, his hand drifting up the length of her body. His fingers come to rest on her cheek, stroking gently, almost reverently.

August leans in, his nose brushing against hers, and without a word, he presses his lips to hers, a slow, possessive kiss over the sheer material of the veil.

She wants to pull away, to resist, but she’s trapped within herself, her will slipping as though he’s holding the reins to her very soul.

When he pulls away, his voice lowers to a rhythmic timbre, the words twisting together in an incantation she can’t understand.

Each syllable makes her sink further into delusion, the compromising position heightening her vulnerability. 

The weight of her own helplessness crushes her as she lies there.

Suddenly, the speaking stops. An unnatural silence blankets the moment, thieving sound until it’s just her shaky, pitiful cries. Even the cicadas quit their insistent chirping.

Paloma blinks, barely able to see through the veil, but she watches August step back until his figure is swallowed by the darkness beyond the altar. 

She shivers as a chill wind flows over her body, extinguishing the flames around her and plunging her into the night, save for the heavy, luminous moon hanging full and merciless above.

Two glowing eyes flicker into view at the far end of the clearing. They hover, eerie and inhuman, watching her with a predatory patience.

A twig snaps in the shadows. Her breath catches. Another snap, closer this time.

Blood rushes in her ears, but above the pounding, she hears something else—labored breaths, thick and wet, the sound too guttural to be human. 

Her body locks up and quivers as a shadow casts up to the very heavens, emerging from the backdrop of trees, its form towering and monstrous. It seems to stretch endlessly, merging with the dark sky above, as if it could reach out and seize the lunar sphere.

Paloma tries to scream, but her body is frozen, paralyzed in a state of unholy dread.

Her eyes widen, tears leaking silently, her throat closing tight as the figure moves forward.

The dark, hulking mass leans over her, and she feels something press down on her belly, then sharp claws caress her bare legs, creeping upwards, scratching at the sensitive skin of her inner thighs. 

Her chest tightens as if she’s having a heart attack, fright coursing through her like poison. She can’t breathe, feeling herself teeter on the edge of consciousness.

Black spots swallow her field of view as her eyes roll to the back of her head, and in that instant, she’s slipping away, her mind yanking her away from this horror, casting her into the darkness of her own making as she loses herself, the terror too great to bear.

[stayatsam]

onto a big thing about the companions...the roleplaying opportunities for Rook as a whole in the game are super fun, very varied, and i was not expecting the sheer amount of origin-based content i was going to get out of this (if context helps i'm playing a warden mage)

the COMPANION writing is very odd in Veilguard and definitely all over the place. Davrin and Neve are my opinion the ones who most consistently feels like "this is a dragon age companion" compared to previous games, with Davrin''s conflict with Lucanis especially good

i...feel bad. i don't really like Emmrich a whole lot, i was expecting to, but he's not a dragon age character. as i've progressed his questline i'm confused as to why we're chasing this mad scientist in big steampunk goggles instead of doing what's most pressing, like fighting the blight. i feel like Sten in DAO right now: "Why are we doing side quests lets go kill the archdemon!"

his group lines boil down to "we can't do anything about the biggest blight in the world until we solve our PERSONAL problems" which almost feels like the game holding my hand TELLING me to do the companion quests. which is you know, sure! it's a game i'm going to do them, but the dialogue feels off, and his entire character is out of touch with the setting sadly. i wanted to like him but the mourn watch quests remind me of fallout 4 settlement requests. "Rook, there's another haunting on the otherside of thedas we need you to kill"

i don't really feel very strongly about Bellara, not gonna lie. i wish they gave her a little more to chew on, i feel like there's good potential there and she got the short end of the interesting-stick

Harding is a weird one. i like her as a companion, but she feels like a new character wearing scout Harding's skin. i..admittedly don't take her out a whole lot though

i like Taash lots and not just because they're trans, it's cool to get a more inside look on Qunari customs and their family dynamics. their dialogue with Lucanis is probably what makes me like both of them lots.

the thing that does kinda irk me with Lucanis and Taash though is the way Spite isn't taken all that seriously, well overall i feel like. in DA2, Anders is seen as a constant threat by the rest of the party for being possessed, but there's a scene in Veilguard where Taash talks to spite like they're talking to a bad dog and not a literal demon that wants to KILL KILL KILL. this is also why i think Davrin is one of the best written companions since he's the one who reacts as a Thedas-based character WOULD to a demon-possessed assassin. and you DO get to see the two of them make amends despite their differences. the Lucanis-Davrin relationship is well thought out in my opinion

companion writing is overall pretty weak? it's hard. i like each companion individually and don't actively dislike any of them, i'm neutral at worst on a couple. i think what made me mostly resentful was having to hear Emmrich basically summarize "we can't save the world! i'll be too distracted thinking about my mad scientist ex-colleague and everyone else's drama etc. etc." like damn

i think after playing all day today i've bumped it back down to a 7/10...i have a feeling my final rating will probably be 6/10 or stick at 7

[oddygaul]

Avatar: The Way of Water

You know, not that I have any particular faith that this series will make anything of it, but The Way of Water actually raises some interesting questions about the way consciousness and the transfer of self work in the Avatar universe.

My first watch, I treated Recom Quaritch as just an excuse to bring back the most charismatic antagonist the series had – that he was more or less the same one-dimensional character as before, with a quick handwave for how his return was possible. But they’re honestly doing more than that with his writing. This isn’t Quaritch back from the dead with a new lease on life; his “I am not that man” speech to Spider is not a shirking of responsibility, and his iconic skull crushing scene is not an uncaring show of stoicism. 

Recom Quaritch is terrified. 

When he sees Neytiri’s arrows, he is experiencing primal fear. When he sees Spider, left behind alone on an alien world, he regrets the callousness of his former self. He sees where Quaritch’s bravado led him, sees what the end result of his mistakes was, and decides to firmly reject that he’s the same person as the original. He has Quaritch’s memories in his mind, but he doesn’t feel they belong to him. When he crushes Quaritch’s skull, it represents a refusal to honor the man the RDA assumes him to be: Recom Quaritch is his own man, and he will make his own choices about his future.

I always appreciate it when sci-fi takes this approach towards ‘revival’ via a backed-up consciousness. A lot of my favorites explore its implications – the Culture books, for example, dive deep into the drawbacks of a backup-based system – but all too often, they’re glossed over and treated as a magical solution to death and danger.

I don’t care how thorough and precise your backup is, unless there’s some instantaneous, streaming consciousness-transferring device, if you die and your backup is placed in a new body, that is NOT you. Sure, to everyone else, it might as well be: as far as they can tell, you look and act the same as you always have. But YOU, your stream of consciousness, your awareness, the ongoing perception of the world that defines your life – that has ended, and no amount of backups can bring that back. It only makes sense that the revived’s sense of personhood might be drastically different.

It’s an interesting pivot, because the original Avatar sorta takes for granted the functionally seamless transfer of consciousness used in the Avatar system. Via the link unit, one���s mind can be ping-ponged back and forth between a human and Na’vi body as much as you want, in real-time, with only the sensation of waking up from a nap to show anything changed. Jake’s permanent transfer into his Na’vi body at the end works the same way, just using a big tree instead of the science tube: he simply closes his eyes as a human, and wakes up in his new body like nothing ever happened. The societal implications of this technology are staggering – people could functionally live forever by growing new bodies and instantly transferring over, for example – but it's used only as a plot contrivance.

That is to say, the first Avatar is fully disinterested in exploring the potential nuance of these ideas, and much more focused on really hammering home its comparisons between technology and the natural world; they want you to be thinking about the contrast between the Na’vi queues and the human link units, not some fiddly philosophical quandary. Still, now that The Way of Water has raised these questions, it would be cool if the future sequels – maybe the one set on Earth? – dig a little more into the horror inherent in recreating the minds of the dead.

Being in this headspace for this watch also made me realize how fucked it is to have an Avatar after the human it’s based on has died. In The Way of Water, we see Grace’s Avatar body, and it’s… well, it’s still there. It’s alive, submerged, and kicking… just with no mind inside, empty, a bespoke vessel made for one soul that just doesn’t exist anymore. Brutal.

—

Other thoughts:

The first Avatar relies on its adventure setpieces – Jake’s first bond with the ikran, the montages of running through Pandora by night – more than its action setpieces, which themselves are like, aight. Way of Water’s action, by contrast, legit kicks fucking ass start to finish. Consider:

-the slow-mo train derailing -the Metkayina ducking in and out of the water to avoid gunfire then leaping out to spear RDA chumps -the speedboats, crab mechs, and assault subs, all of which are infinitely more fun than Avatar’s clunky mechs, and the spectacular flips they do as they bounce across the surface of the ocean to explode on nearby rocks -the big whale doing straight-up Action Hero shit -Neytiri shooting a guy through another guy

Seriously, it’s killer. As someone that considers themselves fairly weary of fight scenes these days – so much of it is just noise with no art – I remain impressed after a rewatch.

[sailorgundam308]

Got pretty annoyed yesterday while discussing the game with a friend (don’t worry, we’re still friends lol). But truly, I got annoyed at, once more, seeing how there are wrong assumptions weaved into the community discourse - things based out of someone’s ass, apparently, that got traction and now are repeated by players as if it’s true. But, of course, if anyone stops 2 seconds to actually pay attention to the game, these ideas prove to be just wrong.

This friend, for example, was mentioning how Astarion and Karlach NEVER agree or disagree together in anything. That’s a lie. I’ve (me myself, so I KNOW firsthand) been screen shooting every time there’s an agreement between them and when there isn’t. There are much more agreements than disagreements between Astarion and Karlach. They do come across as having different alignments, but they think alike MUCH more than ‘the internet’ (or even some devs?!) tend to believe. They might justify their rationale in different ways but they do agree together and disagree together way more than they disagree with each other. So that is something I personally can attest to.

Then I heard the argument that Karlach and Astarion don’t get unique scenes between each other: again, untrue. The tiefling party scene with Karlach, for starters, is the only unique romance scene for Astarion. The only person who has back and forth with Karlach after the paladins of Tyr are defeated is Astarion. They have (out of the top of my head, at least 4 unique short banters while both are in the party - again, more than Karl with any other companion.

Then the wrong assumption Astarion can’t go to Avernus : he can and he goes, both as ascended and spawn if you’re playing origin Karl. Ascended if you’re playing him.

A lot stems, again, from simplistic and shallow interpretations of both these characters’ story arcs and personalities. Others come from prejudice, from passing judgement on their appearance instead of their “content”.

Moreover, though, there will never be as much this x that content if it’s involving Karlach (and worse for Wyll) SIMPLY BECAUSE there is LESS than A THIRD the amount of content for Karlach in ANYTHING.

For some reason writers/devs took a long while to decide to put the work into Karlach and when they did they clearly made a bet that blew in their faces - that she’d be a lesser origin character and that’d turn out alright. But she’s the second most popular character and because people like her, they are paying attention to her story - and the massive lack of work and resources dedicated to her arc. Imagine if she had received the attention in detail and the game time / in game content, say, shadowheart received? Instead of a temple Shar, we went to Avernus? In place of Shar, ZARIEL made a personal appearance? We could’ve gotten a young Karlach flashback cinematic, an extra dungeon in act 3, then a personal quest closure with Gortash instead of SH’s parents, so we’d know what the fuck happened. As someone who can’t give two shits about SH, that would’ve been incredible to play. Half of that would still have been a blast. But we get nowhere near. And I’m only bringing Karlach to attention here as an example - if you look at Wyll (who was the front page origin boy since the conception of the game), the disparity is even more shocking.

I’ve read on a writer’s twitter a while back (can’t remember who exactly so you’ll have to excuse me), that they were the writers for Durge, and for a time they got to write some stuff for Astarion for a bit, due to some task delegation changes and whatnot, and they explicitly said they “managed to put in things specific to their “main” character (durge) in Astarion’s writing” - or something in those lines. Honestly… what the fuck? Not sure if that was the intention, but to me it sounded like someone with their own precious OC, which they are obviously attached to, pushing content in to benefit their “main”. In a game where there are several “mains” and many with glaringly less content than others. Again, in my interpretation of what I read that day, this information came across as the most unprofessional shit I’ve seen - if you are tasked to write someone else’s character, you should act as that character’s writer - not a fanfic writer trying to push a personal headcanon or narrative because it pleases YOU, in detriment of other characters. It was wild at the time and I just kinda… walked away and pretended I didn’t read it. It was just shocking and not the attitude I expected from a serious professional.

Whether that’s the whole truth or not I can’t say, but what I can say is that this left me with a weird taste in my mouth and perhaps that’s why until today I couldn’t finish a single run with Durge despite trying several. There are other issues with Durge for me personally in term of the actual writing of the sentences and the way they were worded that just seems impossible to take seriously. (But I’m trying to get over it still, as I want to experience this part of the game too, so I won’t give any sort of personal final veredict).

Also, the idea that Durge was supposed to be the main character… that’s a new assumption for me and my friend also brought it up. That sounded very sus and I went to read more about it and, of course, that’s also wrong. In previous BG games, we always played a Bhaalspawn. It would make perfect sense we played one again - but the butler shit, the amnesia, the gore erotic fantasies, that wouldn’t fly for the average BG3 player - and wasn’t supposed to. When they decided to split tav to leave the “absolutely neutral protagonist” they parted with the bhaalspawn narrative that was a very big part of the previous games, so I assume they didn’t want to just toss it, but put it to another “dark tav” or whatever shit that means. And then they doubled down with the evil and edge lord of kitschy horror narrative. It’s FINE. But isn’t supposed to be the main character.

TLDR: instead of taking random assumptions about bg3 as yours, pay attention to the game itself. And think critically about it a bit. All the origins are presented AS equals but they’re nothing but. And Larian should be (yes, troubleshooting tech issues but also) trying to even out the absurd gaps they allowed to happen in integrating the narrative of, especially, Karlach and Wyll into the game. Make more and decent content for them, fix the plot holes, rewrite the shit that doesn’t make sense for them FIRST.

Tbh, I wouldn’t be complaining if Larian had owned it to their content and presented us with Karlach and Wyll as sort of Halsin or Minthara type of companion - non origin, lesser tier of companion. Then the production choices they made would be at the very least justified. And I won’t EVEN start on the fact that these two, Karl and Wyll, are the two PoC origins… the black guy and the southeast Asian woman. Because, oh, boy, things start to look VERY bad when you put THAT into this equation… 👀