#a large part of this too is accepting that people are human and it's actually bad to expect the worst from them

[scoobydoodean]

is there anything you're critical of Dean for? not meant as a gotcha, i just haven't been reading your blog for long.

i just struggle getting out of the Doylist perspective and holding characters accountable. i'm annoyingly cognizant of the external factors like them not wanting to pay Misha or having to cater to a sizeable portion of their audience that preferred the easier digestible, more accessible "two bros in MotW episodes" that didn't serve the overarching storyline or relationships or if they did, didn't take up that much air time or did it superficially (flashback to Dean being called overdramatic in 6x20 because they just didn't. get. it.).

I think it's clear that Dean and Cas’s relationship issues involving communication are an active choice made by the writers that don't just exist because Misha isn’t in all the episodes. If the writers didn’t want us to pay attention to Cas’s absences, they would establish that Cas consistently keeps in communication offscreen over the phone and that things between Dean and Cas are good when they see each other in person. Instead, they choose to do the exact opposite. They show Cas being avoidant and hiding in episodes he's not in and in episodes he's in too. They emphasize that Cas's absences are more than physical—he creates emotional distance—he hides and lies and keeps secrets when he feels ashamed or has become convinced that he needs to handle things on his own. This is a very core character hangup for Cas. It also doesn't make him a bad person. It makes him (for lack of a better word) human. His flaws are understandable and tragic and rooted in trauma, and one of the worst parts about the end of Supernatural is that Cas never gets to fully work through these feelings and have his eyes opened to exactly how deeply he is loved and that his worth is more than what he can do for others.

To be quite honest though, I think people need to become more comfortable with hearing that Cas isn't perfect without jumping to conclude that he is being condemned for being imperfect. No one is perfect—especially not our Supernatural blorbos. That includes Dean who is also imperfect. I'm not sure exactly what post of mine prompted this ask, but I don't actually think I've been that critical of Cas or condemned him for anything. I've only shined a light on some of his flaws—particularly in episodes where fandom has tended to ignore them and condemn Dean as The One And Only Bad Friend.

I guess I just wonder why it has always been acceptable to highlight Dean's flaws (even ones that don't actually exist) without ever mentioning a single thing another character did "wrong" to contribute to a conflict, but when I highlighting anything Cas ever did wrong in a conflict with Dean without a healthy helping of deancrit, people feel I'm not being "fair" enough. It's very clear that people want me to protect Cas more—even against the lightest criticisms— but I'm not sure why he's considered more deserving of that than Dean. I'm also not sure why a doylist perspective would invalidate Dean's experience as a fellow character within the story affected by Cas's absences and not an omniscient viewer who's thinking about how many episodes the writers can afford to put Misha Collins in (and again—I do not think a doylist perspective explains Cas's behavior—the behavior is intentionally written into his character for seasons upon seasons).

I'm not going to fight it if people choose to call me "cas critical" or "sam critical" because that's their prerogative. To be clear though, I don't prefer to engage with stories as competitions where we count up who did the most wrong things and assign that person as The Bad Character Among The Good Characters. I can understand if it looks that way from an outsider's perspective, but I'm actually reacting to fandom largely deciding to engage with Supernatural as if it should be consumed as a story about The Bad Character Among The Good Characters and deciding that The Bad Character Among The Good Characters is Dean. I'm far less critical of Sam or Cas than I'll ever be of fandom’s need to make everything about keeping score of who did the most wrong stuff. It can be fun to shitpost about it to piss of crits, but the actual point of the story isn't to figure out which one did the most bad things and "hold them accountable".

[frasermints]

it amazes me that people will proactively refuse joy and wonder and fascination because their interests aren't flawless.

you are not flawless. you are a deeply flawed human being that has done things that are despicable in another person's eyes. you will be considered morally reprehensible by some for doing something you consider completely innocuous.

if you limit your associations to "only the hobbies and people i deem 110% worthy and perfectly clean and pure" you're not only going to live the most boring life imaginable, you're going to fail. nothing is pure. everything is exploitative in some way, shape, or form. when you try and pretend like your hands are clean by saying "well i never liked x in the first place" you're lying.

if you liked carter hart as a player and had a fan blog about him you don't get to retcon that part of your life by saying you never liked him. it's disingenuous.

if you had a harry potter blog and worshipped the ground jkr walked on and got the dark mark tattoed on your body you don't get to lie and say that it wasn't a significant part of your life. you can't take that away from your past and you can't take that away from the people that witnessed it.

if you liked something in the past that turned out to be problematic and now you don't let yourself experience joy at all whatsoever, you're missing the point of being a human person with character growth.

something we do in trauma-informed radical acceptance work is to focus on not going too far in our 180. we acknowledge our feelings of negativity, of anxiety, of anger, and we approach them with curiosity so that they get processed and felt to completion. this way, our bodies learn that strong emotions are safe instead of something to avoid.

this allows our bodies to recognize joy, wonder, amazement, love, and excitement as positive sensations, and not sensations to suppress or reject.

allow yourself to find joy in things, even if your past interests were found to be harmful. you will find safe things that bring you joy. they're out there, even if they aren't "flawless".

[audliminal]

Survivability Bias Pt 2

Masterpost

Danny spends the next few days exploring the town more, while he considers the implications of everything he’d learned  at the library. He’d taken notes, but they’re not exactly the best. Danny’s never been that good at taking notes, after all, but he has a pretty good memory, so the various key words and few quotes he’d scribbled down are plenty useful in reminding him of all the wild shit he’d read about.

There’d been a lot of history involved in the whole meta situation. It seems like these so-called meta humans, and various other races (species? Danny doesn’t know nearly enough about the cultural implications of that) have been around long enough to have had a significant impact on the world at large. And yet, at the same time, there really hadn’t been a lot of personal information on any of the heroes. Oh, there’d been plenty on some of the villains - and of course there’d still be villains here, he’s not lucky enough to escape that - but aside from various speculation about their romantic lives, and a few acknowledgements of family ties here and there, there’d been very few details about where most of them actually came from.

Superman, for example (he seemed to be this world’s go-to example of metas and superheroes), is listed as being an alien, who’s powers come from his biologies unique interaction with this planet’s atmosphere, although it doesn’t explain anything about what that means. Interestingly, there seems to be almost no speculation about Superman’s so-called secret identity. Only about half the listed heroes seem to have one according to the public, but Danny knows that song and dance too well to fall for it. Honestly, they’re even more likely to have a secret identity than Danny himself, seeing as Danny’s alter ego is literally dead. Not that ghosts seem to be much of a thing here.

He’d felt so silly looking up information about ghosts, right before leaving the library. Compared to the deep dive into recent history, googling “are ghosts real” must have looked insane if anybody could see it. The answer he’d returned had been not unlike the way things had been when he was ten or twelve. Before the portal, you’d see dumb ghost hunter shows where they never actually saw much of anything. Ghosts were, like, poltergeists that moved your furniture around and slammed the doors shut. The results here had been a little more interesting - clearly in a world where superheroes are a fact of life, fantastical stuff is a little more rational, and the speculation was clearly affected by that fact, but it still had been, seemingly, all speculation.

Of course, none of that really mattered when it came to Superman. Danny was at least ninety percent sure he wasn’t a ghost. And even if he somehow was, it didn’t change the fact that he either has a secret identity, or he basically never takes part in society. And if he doesn’t have a secret identity, then the question very much becomes why not. Because that means he either has no real reason to care about anyone here (which seems implausible), or he’s unable to spend that time in public. It’s that possibility that’s knocked out any chance of Danny approaching any of the heroes. Because there’s always the possibility that the endorsed heroes are being used to lure other metahumans in. And Danny doesn’t know nearly enough about this world to make any kind of judgment on what’s most likely here. After all, historically there’s plenty of examples of governments that  work with specific people among targeted groups, in order to more successfully take out the others. it tends not to end well for those people when it’s all over, but anyone who’s short-sighted or even just backed into a wall enough can fall for that.

Hell, the GIW had actually tried that line on Danny once or twice, not that he’d ever accepted. After all, they’d never realized that was actually sort of alive, so their pitches had always been... less than convincing. 

Danny blinks, reaching out to touch the brick wall in front of him. He hadn’t meant to come back here, but honestly at this point, he really shouldn’t be surprised. This random little alley on side street wouldn’t be interesting at all to anyone else. But if Danny stares long enough, he can almost see the green-tinged light of the portal that brought him here. Not that he’d ever seen the portal from this side. He hadn’t turned to look until after the light had faded. The idea of seeing his friends’ faces through the swirling green had been too much.

They had all known exactly what it meant when he came here. The difficulty of the journey was the point. Between the anti-ecto acts gaining not just mainstream awareness, but support, and the GIW gaining access to better funding and training, well, the second the GIW had started successfully ending ghosts, it seemed like all the denizens of the zone had collectively decided to stay the fuck home.

At first Danny had enjoyed it, had relaxed and been excited to finally be able to focus on just being a teen. But the GIW hadn’t calmed down, had just started going even more on the offensive, and the second he and Jazz had noticed agents showing up casually at their house, everyone had gone into full alert.

That’s how they found out that the next goal was to apparently take the fight to the zone itself.

The conclusion had been easy from that point. The portal needed to be destroyed, and fast. But with the ghost zone blocked off (and Danny’s death being the unknowing link that made the portal ever work in the first place), that would leave Danny as one of three remaining targets.

They’d all immediately agreed that Vlad could figure out his own solution. Dani- well, she had been traveling, but the second she turned up, the others had made plans to send her on her own one way portal trip too.

Of course, the likelihood that she’d end up here is probably minuscule. So he’s alone.

“Hey,” a stern voice cuts through Danny’s thoughts. He glances over to the person who’s standing at the door to a building. “There’s no loitering here.”

Right. It’s almost easy to forget, in the face of his life’s inescapable absurdity, that to everyone else in this town, he just seems like a possibly-homeless delinquent. Not that the delinquent part is unfamiliar.

“Sorry,” Danny mutters belatedly, realizing that the person is just waiting as he stares at them like a weirdo. He’s not very good with people anymore. Not that he was that good to begin with. Phantom had been a Ghostly Menace, constantly destroying the town with his fights, nobody had expected him to function as a person. Nobody had thought he was a person. But as Danny Fenton- well, he’d fallen short of just about every expectation set at Danny Fenton’s feet.

Distantly he wonders if his friends even bothered to disguise his disappearance. He’d always kind of wondered if his parents would ever notice if he and Jazz just- left. School definitely noticed, though most of the faculty would probably take it as completely expected. After all Danny Fenton was a terrible student, constantly skipping class and never doing his work, and even when he was in class he was usually halfway to falling asleep anyways. Lancer had certainly lectured him about his lack of discipline more than enough. So they might just come to the conclusion that he’d dropped out and run away.

He doesn’t know if he’d prefer that, honestly. The truth is messed up and complicated and frankly, unbelievable. But maybe if they knew the truth at least one person might feel a fraction of sympathy for all the bullshit that he’d been dealing with. Funny, Danny thinks, how coming here feels more like a death than when I actually died.

[yandere-romanticaa]

masterlist.

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐍! who's the talk of the town once he moves and settles in. The gossip started to pool in mostly due to his looks. He wasn't necessarily what one would call "conventionally attractive" but there was this air to him that was impossible to ignore. It was hard to find him anywhere throughout the day because he spent almost all of his time in the morgue, regardless if his work hours had long since passed. The only time he could really be seen was if you would be lucky enough to see him in the wee hours in the morning, large briefcase in hand and heading straight towards the usual destination. Small amounts of people would gather in the coffee shops and spy on the man. Gossip spread like wildfire but no one had the guts to actually approach him.

One chilly October morning, you decided to be brave. Pushing your insecurities aside your curiosity ended up getting the better of you. There was no turning back.

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐍! who's caught off guard by your sudden and bold approach but he doesn't mind.

As a matter of fact, he finds it quite refreshing.

He's not saying much as the day is just a bit too early for him and despite his drowsiness, he is paying attention to you like a hawk. His soft brown eyes are focused on your lips, listening to your every word. You invited him out on a coffee but he frowns - he has to work. A serial killer has been on the loose recently and due to that individual his work keeps piling on. Families need closure and he is an important part of that process. With a sad sigh he declines your generous offer and your demeanor is like that of a balloon which was violently popped, by his own hand none the less. He feels a bit guilty and proposes the idea that you actually come to his place of work if you're so keen on getting to know him. It was a little twisted of him but he was curious to see how fast you would shoot him down on this offer but the opposite happened.

You accepted it in a heartbeat.

Well, now he has to tidy everything up.

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐍! who can't help but to feel a little starstruck once he actually meets you on this would-be coffee date. He actually prepared a selection of teas in advance just in case you didn't actually like coffee, along with an assortment of snacks to boot. You sit in the lobby and make small talk with each other. The atmosphere is comfortable as soft music plays in the background, ranging from the latest pop music to classical violin. He doesn't like the quiet, he confesses to you. He can't do anything properly because the silence is too deafening to him.

He doesn't tell you that the sound of your voice is like lovely rain on a hot summer day to him. Cooling, refreshing. Perhaps a little bit necessary. His work hours are long and odd and the only people that surround him are not even alive.

That's his own fault though. His urges are too much to handle, sometimes. He has no one else to blame for enhancing his work other than himself.

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐍!, who starts to make room in his schedule for you whenever he can. Ideally, he doesn't actually like bringing you to the morgue. The place where he works is dark, desolate and cold.

That is no place for the likes of you.

No, he likes to see you bask in the warmth of the sun with a hot beverage in your hand, a goofy smile on your lips as you tell him the plot of the last book you read or the game you had played. He never has the heart to tell you to stop, your excitement is far too precious to him.

He is aware that he is not the easiest person to approach. Aside from the fact that people get a little jumpy once they learn that he works with the dead, his personality isn't much to brag about either. Whilst polite there's a level of dryness to him, a lack of humanity which other people are not so keen on. His shoulder black hair is always messy and, yes he will admit it, his fashion choices are a tad bit archaic. He's gotten an earful from strangers that he looks less like a man from the 21st century and more like a vampire from an 18th century gothic novella.

He knows those are not meant to be taken as compliments but he still sees them as such.

You like to tease him for his fashion choices and make an attempt to improve his wardrobe but you don't want to do too much. Truth be told, you like the way he looks but you don't dare tell him.

If he were to find that out his ego would go through the damn roof.

Within weeks, his closet was filled with comfortable blazes, a sweater or two, some casual t-shirts and some fresh, crisp white button ups that go along with pretty much anything and everything. He gave you the liberty of picking everything out for him.

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐍!, who starts to act more like a member of polite society rather than a reclusive shut in. You took his hand and showed him a glimpse of the world, just how beautiful everything can be. There are so many colors and smells, all so dominating and sweet. You take every chance you can to get him outside even if he's not very fond of the sun. You chastise him for how pale and sickly he looks as you shove food at him, his lanky body showing obvious signs that he was not eating properly.

He simply was not hungry. Food could never satisfy him. He only ate because his body demanded so of him. And for you, of course. He would never turn down any food you gave to him. Ever.

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐍!, who starts to become sloppy. His cuts are imperfect and his concentration has never been worse. He stares down at the corpse on his steel table, the bright light above him giving the dead hunk of flesh an unearthly aura of peace. With his gloved hand he reached for the poor victims cheeks, which have now gone hollow and dead. Your face suddenly flashes through his head, your giggles filling his ears, in a manner similar to that of when a person is submerged under water.

What would happen if this were you?

He never could have imagined that he could ever be this charmed by another human being.

For his entire life all he has ever had were his books, notes and his own gloomy company. He was not deserving of someone like you, a creature that thrived among the living. He suddenly stabbed the corpse beneath him with his scalpel, his hand shaking from the rage which overtook him.

Why couldn't he be alive like that?

What was wrong with him?

He could never get along with human beings, no matter how hard he tried. He stopped trying ages ago because the harder he tried, the more he failed.

There was no denying the fact that he was a freak of nature.

An abomination.

If he cannot function around the living he could always turn towards the dead. They made for much better company anyway, always there to listen to him and his woes.

It was frightening how much he relied on you now. His sanity was in your hands and you had no clue.

How cruel.

He hated you. He was beyond envious of your ability to function like a normal human being. All the things which you had perceived to be normal were nothing but pure anomalies to him. And yet, the more he hated you the more he craved you. He could never regret the decision of allowing you to enter his life. It was nice to be wanted.

He loved it when you wanted him.

Do you want him in the same manner in which he wants you? Did you possess the same wicked desires which he did? Human beings are all the same when push comes to shove. Their true colours are shown once they're faced with death.

And suddenly, he knew what he was going to do later that week.

🥀 𝐀/𝐍: I'm not good with creating original characters and I apologize for that. However! I keep having the same dream over and over and I just thought that it would be neat to turn them into entertainment for the rest of the world to see. Please share your thoughts and opinions with me, they are always highly appreciated!

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Sweet Like Candy 1

Warnings: non/dubcon, power dynamic, age gap and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Characters: Thor, Bucky Barnes (Professor AU)

Summary: the new school year proves to be hectic. (short!chubby! reader)

Part of the Bad Professors AU

Note: Please leave some feedback and reblog <3 As always, I love to chat with you all. 

“Hey, Oli, hold my seat,” you say into the phone speaker, “I gotta run! The professor’s office hours close in... ten minutes and I desperately need to be signed into this course. I swear, if I’m stuck taking philosophy again I’m gonna cry.” 

“No problem, we can wait,” Olive assures you. She’s always a comfort. She wouldn’t dare mention how you always cry or that you did this to yourself by waiting until the last minute to sort your schedule. 

“Alright, gotta go! You don’t wanna hear me huffing and puffing,” you chuff, “buh-bye!” 

You hang up and clutch your phone, your bag bouncing, your bum too! You hurtle forward between the bodies of students who refuse to part for your passing. You veer towards the history building and nearly trip up the steps. 

You heave as you get to the stop and grunt as you drag open the heavy wooden door. Ugh! Why are you weak? Not just in body, but mind too. If you had a degree of discipline, this wouldn’t be happening. Again. 

You slow as you climb the next set of stairs. Yeah, you can’t do that. You’re dizzied by the endless halls set out like a twisted maze meant to house beasts with human heads and bulls’ bodies. It doesn’t help that those signs are fuzzy. You can make out the letters if you get real close. 

You finally get to the door you need, dragging your feet as your legs burn. You raise your hand to knock on the door but it opens as if it can sense you. That’s silly. Doors don’t open themselves. 

It’s too late to stop yourself from knocking on the man’s upper stomach. You cringe and pull your hand back against your chest. You force your lips into a smile. 

“Sorry, I—are office hours over? I ran here,” you gasp. “I’m sorry.” 

The man looks down at you and you sway nervously. He’s taller than you. Well, most people are. His blue eyes bore into you as his cheek dimples in agitation. 

“Please--” 

“I don’t know,” he grips the mug in his hand tighter. “Odinson, another one.” 

The man doesn’t bother with an excuse me or pardon. He steps forward and you stumble back. You sidle out of his way and he marches down the hall. You peer through the door again. An even bigger man rises from behind a desk and smiles. The blond is a lot more welcoming than the brunette. 

“Ah hello, I suppose you’ve come to be let into my Norse course?” He intones as he crosses the office and extends his large hand. “Professor Odinson.” 

“Cerise,” you accept his hand. It’s like a paw. Maybe there are mythical beasts in here. Though he is more what you imagine a god to be. Large, golden, and those eyes. “Yes, I’m so sorry! I meant to enroll before the deadline but I had it down wrong and then I realised it was two days late and--” 

“Not to worry. It’s an intensive language course. We are bound to have a few withdrawals so I’d be happy to take on a few extra,” he assures you. “Do you have your form?” 

“Oh, yes!” You let the straps of your bright pink purse part on your arm and you dig inside. You take out the paper and a scatter rains over the floor. “Oops!” You bend to collect the wrapped candies and the heart lollipop. “I kinda... hurried here.” 

“Not to worry,” he grins down at you as you hold out the form again.  

His eyes skim to your other hand and you open your fist. “Er, you want some?” 

“If you don’t mind? But don’t mention it. I wouldn’t like anyone to think I can be bribed with sweets. Though it may be true,” he winks and takes one of the strawberry candies and the form. “Cerise, an interesting name.” 

He turns and goes back to his desk. You follow behind him, nervous to enter the office completely. There’s another desk. The office is bigger than you expect. You stand across form him as he sits. He lays out the paper and unwraps the candy.  

He pops the sweet into his mouth and hums, “delicious.” 

You teeter on your toes and clasp and unclasp your purse as he searches for a pen. He sucks loudly on the confection. As you try not to fidget, there’s a clink that makes you jump. You peek over at the other man as he returns with a full cup. He drops into his chair with as little caution. 

His eyes meet yours. The line of his brows of them make you flinch. He looks angry but why? Or you think so. You narrow your eyes as you try to see him clearer. 

You turn back to Odinson and shake off the tension. He scribbles with a pen across the bottom of the form. He makes a wet noise with his mouth and the other man grunts. 

“Do you have to?” The dark-haired man snarls. 

“Forgive my office mate,” Odinson tuts as he hands over the paper. “Barnes is rather crotchety since his own office was flooded. You think he’d be a bit more grateful for my generosity, elsewise he’d be languishing in some basement.” 

“I said ‘thank you’,” the other professor mutters. 

“Mm, yes, but not loud enough to hear,” Odinson chides and gives a laugh. “Don’t fret about him. I tease. We are merely adjusting to each other. You must live in residence? You know how it can be to have to adapt to others.” 

“Oh, yes, my roommate is a night owl. I already know I’m not going to get any sleep,” you take the form, “thank you, sir.” 

“Not at all, but I must warn you. This is a language course, not mythology. We use the stories to learn the language so you will need to be attentive to your studies,” he girds, “I’d hate for this all to be for not.” 

“I understand,” you look down at the form. You can kind of make out his signature.  

It’s fine. They have all sorts of assistive technology these days. First year, you go through one text-to-speech. Everything is only so you’re really not worried. And you would love to be able to speak like a viking. 

“I’ll see you in class, professor,” you give a triumphant smile and bounce on your heel as you turn. 

Barnes huffs heavily as you cross the office. You stop as a crinkle comes from your hand. You only realise then you’re still clutching onto the candies. You glance over and slowly near his desk. 

“Do you want one?” You open your hand and offer the candies.  

He doesn’t even look up, “no.” 

Odinson sucks loudly, “don’t be such a bore. Leave him a chocolate. He does like them. He keeps truffles in his drawer.” 

Barnes inhales sharply but doesn’t say a word. You take one of the chocolate balls and put it on his desk. You dump the rest in your bag then spin away. 

“Have a great day,” you chirp as you get to the door. 

[komsomolka]

To sit in the comfort and safety of the West and condemn acts of armed resistance that the Palestinians choose to carry out – always at great risk to their lives – is a deeply chauvinistic position. It must be stated plainly: it is not the place of those who choose to stand in solidarity with the Palestinians from afar to then try and dictate how they should wage the anti-colonial struggle that, as Frantz Fanon believed, is necessary to maintain their humanity and dignity, and ultimately to achieve their liberation. Those who are not under brutal military occupation or refugees from ethnic cleansing have no right to judge the manner in which those who are choose to confront their colonisers. Indeed, expressing solidarity with the Palestinian cause is ultimately meaningless if that support dissipates the moment that the Palestinians resist their oppression with anything more than rocks and can no longer be portrayed as courageous, photogenic, but ultimately powerless, victims. [...]

As a result, large swathes of the Western left express solidarity with the Palestinian cause in a generalised, abstract way, overstating the importance of their own role, and simultaneously rejecting the very groups who are currently fighting – and dying – for it. All too often, those who have refused to surrender and steadfastly resisted at great cost, are condemned by people who, in the same breath, declare solidarity with the cause. Similarly, it is common for these same people to either ignore or demonise those external forces that materially aid the Palestinian resistance more than any others – most notably Iran. If this assistance is acknowledged, which is rare, the Palestinian groups that accept it are typically infantilised as mere ‘dupes’ or ‘pawns’, for allowing themselves to be used cynically by the self-serving acts of others – a sentiment that directly contradicts Palestinian leaders’ own statements.

A specific criticism of Hamas that is frequently deployed in this context is the ‘indiscriminate’ nature of its missile launches from Gaza, actions which both Human Rights Watch and Amnesty International regularly label ‘war crimes’. As observed by Perugini and Gordon, the false equivalence that this designation relies upon ‘essentially says that using homemade missiles – there isn’t much else available to people living under permanent siege – is a war crime. In other words, Palestinian armed groups are criminalised for their technological inferiority’. After the latest round of fighting in May 2021, al-Sinwar stated clearly that, unlike Israel, ‘which possesses a complete arsenal of weaponry, state-of-the-art equipment and aircraft’ and ‘bombs our children and women, on purpose’, if Hamas possessed ‘the capabilities to launch precision missiles that targeted military targets, we wouldn’t have used the rockets that we did. We are forced to defend our people with what we have, and this is what we have’.

This failure to support legitimate armed struggle is a part of a wider problem with the framing used by many supporters of the Palestinian cause in the West, that obscures its fundamental nature and how it must be resolved. Palestine is not simply a human rights issue, or even just a question of apartheid, but rather an anti-colonial fight for national liberation being waged by an indigenous resistance against the forces of an imperialist-backed settler colony. Decolonisation is a word now frequently used in the West in an abstract sense or in relation to curricula, institutions and public art, but rarely anymore in connection to what actually matters most: land. And that is the very crux of the issue: the land of Palestine must be decolonised, its Zionist colonisers deposed, their racist structures and barriers – both physical and political – dismantled, and all Palestinian refugees given the right of return.

[normspellsman]

I Believe You

pairing: lo’ak x older sister!reader

genre: angstish, fluff, & comfort (from reader to lo’ak)

word count: 1.7k+

warning(s): sad!lo’ak, mentions of jake scolding + punishing lo’ak, lo’ak crying, reader being the best big sis fr, lo’ak is a total big sister boy, cursing, & sibling bonding

request details: here!

taglist: @aonungsmate @dearstell @goodiesinthecloset21 @optimisticblazetrash @thatonegirlwiththebeanie367 @minkyungseokie @liyahsocorro @universal-s1ut @amortencjja @arminsgfloll @blushhpeachh @sweetirilly @iwannahaveaprettyaesthetic @bambisposts-blogs (requested the plot! <3)

word bank: toruk makto — rider of last shadow, tawtute — human; sky person, & tulkun — whale like creature residing in awa’atlu

note: was originally titled “my baby bro” but then i came up with this plot & trashed my original idea bc i felt like i could write this better & actually have motivation to write this :).

Lo’ak is known for getting in trouble. Either his loud mouth or actions, mostly both, got him into scuffles with his parents. This time was no different.

He had bonded with Payakan, a tulkun who was outcasted for something that any other being would do when forced to see their Mother be killed in front of them. In Lo’ak’s eyes, Payakan’s actions were driven by his sadness and were justifiable to a point. He knew how much the creature regretted the lives lost that day. If the same thing were to happen to him, Lo’ak would react the same way.

He felt understood by Payakan. They both had a significant physical difference from the rest of their species, making them feel isolated and alone in the large planet of Pandora. Made them feel judged and ridiculed for being different from the rest.

Not even thirty minutes prior, Lo’ak got chewed out by his Father, scolding him for talking back to the Olo’eyktan and doing something he, yet again, shouldn’t be doing. His Father never failed to make him feel like the black sheep of the family even though they are more alike than he’d hoped. It sucked. It really did. He just wanted people to see him. See all of him, even the messed up and alien parts of him.

One person only came to mind when he thought about people seeing and accepting him for who he is. You.

You were the eldest daughter of the Sully family. The token child. The perfect image of what a Na’vi should look like. The one that carried the burden of being Tsahìk or Olo’eykte one day. The one who, despite all the push back, saw Lo’ak for who he is.

You absolutely adored Lo’ak when you were younger, only being around the age of four when he was born. You refused to let your parents pry him away from your tiny arms when you held him way longer than you should’ve. You loved holding him and talking to him in the baby voice your Father always did to you and your other siblings, gently running a small finger down the flat bridge of his nose. You loved singing him to sleep or rocking him whenever he began to fuss, dropping everything to come and comfort your baby brother. And even though he is all grown up and is ‘too cool’ for your affections, you still give it to him anyway.

Not like the teen boy would ever admit it, but he loves whenever you’d rub his back when he didn’t feel good, rebraid his hair when it outgrew the current braids, hug him a little too long after a scouting mission, and especially when you’d pat the empty side of your mat for him to lay down on, comforting him with your warm embrace as he dozed off into a peaceful slumber. When he was younger, he was much more greedy with your attention and affections, pouting to you whenever you gave Neteyam or Kiri an extra kiss goodnight or fussing when you didn’t say your usual goodbye before heading off to train for the day. Lo’ak was practically attached to your hip throughout his adolescence years, clinging to your leg wherever you went. There was always a different connection you and Lo’ak had compared to your other siblings. It was something special and was hard to explain. You just understood one another, no matter how either of you looked or what you went through.

“What’s wrong, baby bro?” Your voice asked, concern laced in your voice.

Of course you knew what was wrong. You practically heard the whole thing from the other side of the island. It didn’t take long for Tuk to inform you of what happened when you arrived home either, sadness written on her face as she told you the story and how they haven’t seen Lo’ak since then.

You found him minutes after your interaction with Tuktirey. He was sitting on the beach, staring off into the horizon as the waves lazily lapped at his feet, legs brought up to his chest as his chin rested on his scarred knees.

“Nothing,” Lo’ak mumbled, eyes stuck on the eclipsing sun. He refused to look weak in front of others, not wanting to ruin his image as Toruk Makto’s second son, especially if it was someone he looked up to.

You hummed in response, not believing his statement. Lo’ak was unbelievably stubborn, something he got from your Mother. It was a good trait to have at times, but it made it harder to break down the boys walls when they needed breaking. Too stubborn for his own good, you thought, settling yourself next to your brother.

“Sure, and the sky is green,” you replied, smirking at your stupid joke. But Lo’ak only rolled his eyes and huffed your way, bringing his knees closer to his chest.

You always tried to crack a joke or two to make him feel better. It worked at times, usually when he was younger. You hadn’t tried this method in a while, too caught up with running away from your home clan and trying to fit into the Metkayina’s way of life. You hadn’t been able to comfort Lo’ak the past times he got scolded by your Father. Something that you felt sorry for and regretted. You were the eldest Sully child. You felt the need to comfort all of your siblings whenever they needed it. You felt awful for not being there for your youngest brother when he desperately needed it.

“I think what you did back there was stupid,” you started, your words causing Lo’ak’s ears to pin themselves to the sides of his head, “Talking back to the Olo’eyktan was really stupid. Especially in front of the Tsahìk. I mean, she scares the absolute shit out of me.”.

Your words seemed to have an effect on Lo’ak as you heard a small sniffle come from him, signaling that he was going to cry or already was. Your heart dropped at that fact, urging yourself to finish your thoughts.

“But, I think it was also brave,” you add on, turning your head to face Lo’ak, watching his reactions, “I don’t think I could ever do what you did. I’d probably shit my pants before speaking to Tonowari like that. You truly have bigger balls than me, little brother. I also think that it was sick that you bonded with a tulkun. I mean, that’s gotta be like, a record or something! First Omatikaya to ever bond with a tulkun.”.

And before Lo’ak could even utter a word, you wrapped up your thoughts with a final, “Has a nice ring to it: Lo’ak, the Tulkun Rider.”.

Fat tears run down the expanse of Lo’ak’s cheeks, rolling down the skin and onto his neck and chest. He felt so frustrated with his parents and how no one was listening to him about Payakan. How no one cared about what he saw or what he felt when he bonded with the creature. He saw what he saw and felt what he felt. He knew out of any of them the truth about what happened and how much regret Payakan carried around. It wasn’t fair. None of it was.

You gently placed a hand onto your brothers shaking shoulder, bringing him in closer towards your body so he could lean into you. Your four-fingered hand came to grasp his five-fingered hand, thumb rubbing the back of his hand in comfort.

“I’m really sorry that I wasn’t there for you before to comfort you. I should’ve been there for you when you needed me,” you whisper, the hand on his shoulder moving to his head to play with his grown out braids. I’ll have to convince him to let me rebraid them, you thought to yourself, knowing that it won’t take much for him to agree to your request.

“I’m sorry that Dad yelled at you and made you feel the way that you feel. He’s always so harsh on you. It’s not fair,” you added, soothing down his hair as his cries quieted down and softened. “He treats us like soldiers instead of children. He seems to be stuck in his tawtute ways recently,” you continued, shaking your head at the realization.

“For what it’s worth, Lo’ak. I believe you,” you said, causing him to pull away from your figure and to stare up at you in shock.

“You do?” He asked, ears perking back up in interest.

You merely nod, smiling down at your brother, “You’ll have to take me to meet Payakan one day, baby bro.”.

Lo’ak brightly grinned at your words, jumping up to hug you. “You’ll love him, sis! I’ve already told him all about you,” he commented, excitement evident in his voice.

“All good things I hope,” you laugh out, embracing Lo’ak.

Lo’ak only hummed and nodded in response, suddenly tired from all of the crying he did. He reached up a fist to rub his eye, ears flickering back as he did so. You knew he was tired. You could see it all over his face.

“Turn around,” you whispered, gesturing for your brother to turn his body around so his back would be facing you. He obeyed your order, sitting crossed legged as his tail wrapped around his waist and slightly curled at the end, anticipating your next move.

Once you put your fingers in his hair and began to slowly unbraid each braid one by one, a smile creeped onto Lo’ak’s face as he relaxed against your swift and gentle fingers. He missed the times where you would willingly rebraid his hair for him and put beads in his hair that matched the ones in yours. It was nice to have you do something that comforted him when he was child again. It was nice to have you comfort him. It was nice to have you as an older sister.

As time passed and the sky got darker, Neytiri had begun to look for her two missing children, stumbling upon them on the shoreline seated next to each other as they whispered and giggled amongst one another. The Mother of five smiled at the sight before her, heart swelling at the interaction. She knew of the kind of connection you shared, knowing that it ran deep and beyond her understanding as a Mother. She knew that no matter what, you’ll always have each other. Yeah, she thought, he’ll be just fine.

[ineffable-endearments]

Aziraphale as a natural collectivist and Crowley as a natural individualist raise their beautiful heads once again!

Aziraphale's huge mistake during the Final Fifteen is, obviously, as we've rehashed a lot, assuming Crowley would accept being reappointed as an angel. This isn't out of a lack of love for Crowley as a demon. It's because Aziraphale's first instinct when he's anxious is to look toward validation from a collective of some sort...and the Metatron has just reminded him of what Heaven could "offer" as that collective. A way to do good! Safety! Openness! He doesn't consider how Crowley will feel about this in large part because thinking individualistically doesn't come naturally to him; he's so busy thinking about the joy of Belonging that he doesn't consider how much Crowley values being outside the system - indeed, that it's an essential part of him.

Crowley's mistake, I think, is arguing that it can be very literally "just the two of us." Of course they can be a couple! Aziraphale wants that. He's happy with Crowley as his most unique, enduring, intimate connection. But just as Crowley's individuality is essential to him, Aziraphale is always going to need some cause to serve, somewhere to belong. That's who he is. And he loves Crowley so much that he wants, with utter desperation, for the two of them to belong in the same place, with the same people.

As I've said before, Aziraphale's sense of individuality is growing. He wants to be an individual, not just a faceless, passionless drone in a group of other drones. I think ultimately the reason he loves Crowley so much is that's the gift Crowley's given him - the safety to explore that thing he wants so badly. He needs, I hope, to reframe himself as "belonging" to Earth, rather than to Heaven.

And Crowley does not actually want to be isolated, adrift in the universe with just one other person. He wants to put down roots. He wants to belong somewhere. I think if you had to choose a reason why he loves Aziraphale, that would be it: Crowley can feel belonging with Aziraphale, and Aziraphale also gives him opportunities to connect with others - with humans, specifically - in ways that would ordinarily never be permitted for an agent of Hell. However, he's afraid to make his connection to Earth's community irrevocable, and his fear has always been entirely reasonable, both because it puts his and Aziraphale's safety at risk and because it's heartbreaking to watch what humans do to themselves and each other ("Humans. You don't let yourself get too attached."). He'll have to overcome those fears not because they're so wrong, but just because they're in the way of what he wants.

[cecilioque]

The Submas Designs are a lot more clever than you thought.

First lets look at the Submas overall design.  We know that the original design was intended to make the Subway Bosses look like clowns and kind of creepy (that backfired); hence the comically large shoes and exaggerated expressions. Let’s start to break down each part of the design. 

To begin, The Submas extreme expressions are a possible reference to the symbol of theatre; the mask of Tragedy and the Mask of Comedy.  The mask of tragedy is commonly portrayed frowning ( not necessarily cry) on a black base mask while the mask of Comedy is portrayed smiling on a white base masks. Sometimes these masks are gold or split black and white color.  The masks together represent the two extremes of the human psyche. Definitely the contrast we see between Emmet's smile and Ingo’s frown.

Next up, the coats.  These are obviously designed to look like train tracks.  The vertical grey lines representing the rails, the red brown the tie (the wood connecting the rails), and the buttons are the spikes that secure the track.  You can see the pattern best on the back of the Submas coat.  Looking at it you could laugh and say “I guess that makes the Subway boss themselves the train”, and you know what? You’re right.

This brings us to the most interesting part of their design, the color and pose.  Yes, there is an explanation to the silly pose too.  It’s so silly that we can just brush this whole design off as being another funny Pokemon character design; but unfortunately it’s actually thought out.  

The Submas themselves are the New York Subway. Or at least they are the personified version of it.  Let’s look at the colors again.  Black and White.  Very fitting for a game literally called Pokemon Black and White.  That alone brings us to some interesting comparisons with the game themes and pokemon.

Kudari or (Emmet in the English version) wears all white. He values routine and rules and is ultimately pretty point blank.  We can easily make that conclusion that  Emmet represents Reshiram and truth. If we break down his name we see that in Japanese it means something along the lines of “down train” or moving away/going down hill.  The different translations usually mean the same, except the name “Emmet” is a bit out of place.  A lot of people say the Submas names in English are most likely to be puns of “Ingoing and Emitting”.  But my crazy self did more digging and found that Emmet means “truth” specifically universal truth.  This name goes back to old German, Irish, and even Hebrew. All looping back to Reshiram and themes of the game. (On a funny side note, Emmet is also the Cornish word for ant; so Emmet having a Durant is really funny. ) 

Next up is Nobori or Ingo who wears a black coat and appears frowning. Despite that , his is very encouraging and excited about moving forward. This makes sense since the name Nobori in Japanese more or less means to move up/forward ( specifically up a mountain).  That’s why a lot of people believe that the poor man was eebie deebied for the pun because Warden Ingo works on Mt. Coronet. In English, Ingo is thought to be a shortened version of “Ingoing” which also aligns with not only the Japanese name but the character’s reoccurring theme of progress, moving forward, and ideals. In this sense Ingo very much represents Zekrom and ideals. 

Truth and ideals, Reshiram and Zekrom, Tragedy and comedy, white and Black.  All very good interpretations and symbolism for two funny train men. I would be satisfied with just knowing that, but no; the Submas are also a funny gijinka of the New York Subway.  This is the part the has me laughing at how simple it is and yet we just easily accepted that they were just a bit strange.

Take a look at this. This is a Zebra Board.  

Yep, it’s black and white. And do you know what? This MTA sign only appears in the New York subway.  What does it do?  These are used by conductors to indicate safety and that the train has lined up in the station. Every time the subway comes into the station, the conductor has to physically point at this board/bar to indicate that it is safe for the doors to open. The action is called "point and call" or "point and acknowledge".  This practice is used in a few other train/subway stations (such as Japan), but the black and white board is New York specific. The pose of the submas suddenly makes a lot of sense.

Other Important notes observations.

The Submas face represents the front of the train.  So their eyes are the lights (hence Ingos glowing eyes in PLA), their side burns are cow catchers ( see graphic), and the Medalion on the hat is round like a train number plate.  Another interesting thing is that the Submas use airline Captain Pilot hats like Japanese train conductors use.  The only part of their outfit that confuses me is the arm bands.  This is more of a police uniform element and not a train conductor thing.

so to conclude, the Submas are basically a reference to in game themes, Reshiram/Zekrom, Trains, and literally the New York subway

I am not an expert. These are just my observations. I could be completely wrong.  Take and add what you would like to.  If you have more to add about the design, feel free to reblog that info. I would also like to see your interpretation.

[fanby-fckry]

You know what, I’m just gonna say it. I think that Alastor being aroace is part of the reason he’s so shippable to me.

Before you come at me, check the flag in my pfp; I’m aroace-spec.

Maybe it’s me projecting, maybe it’s because I love exploring relationships through an aroace lens, but goddamn. I ship him more than any other character and every time I do, his aroaceness is a major component in the ship.

Examples below the cut because it’s gonna get long:

📻🍎 || RadioApple:

There are so many versions of this dynamic and I am here for all of them.

We have the pre-canon kinky QPR that I show in UH3. I could talk about that all day, but to summarize:

Aroace x genuinely respectful allo is a dynamic that heals my soul.

Lucifer is less tied down by human constructs like amatonormativity, having never been human himself.

The Devil values consent.

Kinky cannibalism, kinky cannibalism, kinky cannibalism, kinky ca- *I am removed from the stage with a comically large hook*

Then we have the Evil and fucked up QPR dynamic:

And of course, trying to get along for Charlie’s sake and eventually bonding over their shared love of dad jokes and musical theatre, both being violinists (yup, Alastor plays violin too, check the wiki) with niche hobbies/interests (ducks, furby organ) and accidentally winding up in a loving, healthy QPR.

📻🕸️ || RadioDust:

There’s something about an aroace and a sex worker who very rarely falls in love.

Angel would know that Alastor isn’t with him for sex, would know that he values Angel beyond his body.

With greyro Alastor, Angel and Alastor would both be inexperienced with romance, but in wildly different ways. Angel has never had a healthy romantic relationship and therefor tries not to fall in love. Greyro Alastor has probably experienced romantic attraction like less than three times in his 100+ years of existence.

And if Alastor never gains romantic attraction for Angel, that’s a whole other level to the dynamic.

It’s got some great angst potential with Angel wondering if he’s not good enough to love romantically or Alastor feeling guilty or confused as to Why It Hasn’t Happened Yet when he cares for Angel so deeply, and eventually it gets resolved with the two of them accepting that their attractions don’t have to match up for them to love/appreciate/care for each other and they smash the amatonormative relationship hierarchy as queer platonic partners.

Or, Angel’s just totally cool with it from the start because he’s spent decades in the kink scene and has potentially been exposed to more relationship anarchy than Alastor.

Kink and queerness have a great deal of historical and cultural overlap, and that includes aroace queerness. Because Angel’s had way more canon exposure to both, it’s possible he knows more about Alastor’s orientation than Alastor does, and I love the idea of Angel introducing him to terms or just being super chill about not labeling things.

📻♥️ || RadioHusk:

Drawing like 90% from pilot dynamic and headcanon on this. They’re just two old men. They get drunk and cuddle. Alastor is one of the few people who knows Husk can purr and takes advantage of this fact. Alastor considers Husk a friend in a fucked up, possessive way. Husk considers Alastor a pain in the ass, but does care about him on some level.

It’s Fucked Up and Evil QPR: Remix Edition.

And the versions where the author puts them through fanfic couple’s therapy and actually gets them into a healthy point in their relationship? One where Alastor no longer owns Husk’s Soul? *chef’s kiss*

📻🌹 || RadioRose:

For me, personally, this is an exclusively nonsexual, non-romantic ship. They’re besties; they’re QPPs. They’re married for the tax benefits and so that they cannot be forced to testify against each other in court.

Rosie knew Alastor was aroace before he did and rather than sit down and explain it to him, she decided to make ace puns.

📻🖤 || RadioSiren: [edit, context here] RadioFemme

Ok, so this is entirely based on non-canon-compliant Lilith. Or, I guess, non-series-compliant Lilith. More of the old WOG stuff from the pilot era, with a healthy dose of headcanon for flavor.

I love the idea of Lilith and Lucifer having an open marriage; I love the UH3 style polycule dynamic.

Lilith being the original seductress and Alastor being aesthetically but not sexually or romantically attracted to her is very near and dear to my heart.

I’m an aroace with a voice kink who is aesthetically attracted to Lilith and I think Alastor is an aroace with a voice kink who would be aesthetically attracted to Lilith, ok?

📻📺 || RadioStatic:

I’m gonna be real with you, 90% of my interest in RadioStatic is in the one-sided version where Vox is a pathetic little incel simp and Alastor is either oblivious, mildly annoyed, or finds the whole thing hilarious.

Whenever there’s any reciprocation on Alastor’s part, I always imagine it being in a very aroace, very Alastor-esque way. He needs to be get something out of it completely unrelated to sex/romance. And he needs to be manipulative and sadistic in the process.

Whether that something is kink-related, a business transaction, or simply the quality entertainment provided by Vox being a cringefail TV-headed little bitch, I love to see it.

[ohbandera]

Drawtober day 13: -? ???

No prompt for this one, just honoring my recent identity crisis with some art. Some melodramatic context under the cut:

This past week I discovered that I am autistic, and I spent my entire life covering up most of my personhood to keep those around me happy.

smiling constantly, keeping a "polite" tone of voice, saying what I believe is most agreeable rather than what I actually believe, "dumbing" myself down... all of these actions have led to detrimental impacts on my mental and physical wellbeing. My entire life, I felt like I was playing the role of a human, rather than accepting that I too, am a person. Just wired differently.

I have always seen it as "safer" to isolate myself from society at large, to the point of moving to the middle of absolute nowhere. The older I got, the more I felt like a pacing, caged circus animal made to perform. My hatred and resentment for society(tm) at large grew, and many times I sought to completely abandon every good person in my life, so I did not have to "pretend" anymore.

There are so many roles in life I do not understand the point of. Why am I expected to do and say certain things because of the parts I was born with? Why must I fit the narrative of what makes other people comfortable? Why must I make eye contact for my words to be taken seriously? Why do I have to change myself to be accepted? Why don't I feel things the same way as other people do?

I can't do it anymore. If people are made uncomfortable by my lack of polite, agreeable femininity, then they are welcome to pound sand. Looking at my life through the lens of being autistic felt like the final missing piece. The keystone to my sense of self worth. I am not bad or wrong. I do not owe anyone an explanation of who I am in order to exist and be happy.

For the first time in my entire adult life, I am not pretending, and nobody can take this from me.

[nevertheless-moving]

I wrote it. They ask.

"So you're essentially an expert on honor, right?"

Kaladin blinked at Shallan, unsure what to make of the question. The three of them had finished eating, and had moved to a smaller, shared table for drinks, secluded from the rest of the building by a hazy curtain. The conversation had been drifting lazily from the city's latest scandals to squire hijinks.

"What?" Kaladin finally said, slightly confused at the abrupt change of topic.

"Of course you are, you're the first person chosen by an honorspren in thousands of years!" Adolin said enthusiastically.

"I mean—"

"And you always figure out the right thing to do!" Shallan said.

"That's definitely not—"

Adolin nodded. "Never murder anyone in cold blood, even when they deserve it."

Kaladin sighed heavily. "Where are you two going with this?"

Shallan coughed into her freehand. "Well, you see, we've been having a little debate about...honor."

"And we were hoping you could settle it. Impartially," Adolin said, tone serious.

Kaladin squinted at him. There was something off about his expression. "Can't you ask Syl?"

Syl was meeting with some of the honorspren with newer bonds tonight; she had insisted that she could handle it on her own, and that he should take the night off, but he was sure she would be happy to switch places to come by and give her opinion on other people's business; that was practically a hobby for her. He wasn't sure sure where pattern was, come to think of it; he hadn't heard him buzz in a while.

"Actually we did!" Shallan said brightly.

"She was our first choice, no offense," Adolin said. "I don't think she entirely understood the dilemma."

"It's a bit too, well, human." Shallan took a large sip of her wine, emptying the glass, but didn't waive over a server for more.

Kaladin felt dread start to coil low in his stomach, the fragile relaxation of the evening starting to slip away. "...I'm going to regret hearing about this, aren't I?"

Adolin leaned towards him, turning wide, pleading eyes his direction. "Please, Kaladin?"

Shallan matched him. Stormfather. Not so long ago ago, lighteyes looking at him like that would have filled him with derision at most. What had happened to him.

"Fine." Kaladin leaned back in his seat, giving in. He was a little curious, even though he knew he wasn't going to be happy with whatever he was about to hear. "What is it?"

Shallan straightened, as if to give a presentation before the Queen. Storms, I have a really bad feeling about this.

"Well, as you know, I'm a lightweaver, and can change mine or someone else's appearance, such that they exactly resemble another. I can also create an illusion, so that it appears that an individual is present, when in fact, they are not."

"...Yes?" Was Shallan nervous? Adolin didn't kill another highprince, did he?

"Now, obviously, practicing lightweaving by pretending to be someone else, when done entirely in private, I mean just me, myself, and I, practicing my radiant abilities, can't possibly be dishonorable."

"I guess?"

Adolin leaned forward now, one hand gesturing sharply. "But what if I'm there? I mean, no ones suggesting that it would be acceptable for Shallan to assume a specific private individual's form in public."

"Unless it's to save lives," Shallan said.

Adolin nodded. "Unless of course it's to save lives."

"Or as part of my crown assigned radiant duties."

"Or that, can't forget to mention that."

"Or with said individual's consent."

"Naturally, consent makes all the difference."

"Quite a few shades of grey."

"Truly, once you think about it. Infinite nuance."

Kaladin pinched the bridge of his nose, scowling to keep from laughing. "Did you rehearse this?"

Shallan waved her hand in his face, forestalling any other objections. "In any case! Would we be disrespecting an individual, let's call this person 'Lin' for short, would we be behaving dishonorably towards Lin, were I to assume Lin's form, or have Adolin assume Lin's form, or have Lin appear while both of us are present, soley within the privacy of our chambers?"

Kaladin waited a few seconds for Adolin to chime in, but he just continued staring intently at Kaladin.

"...This is about Lyn?"

"No, not Lyn, Lin," Shallan corrected primly. He could just barely make out a difference. "Neutral born unto. Just, we don't want to say her — say their name specifically, but I thought saying 'the individual' would get unwieldy."

Ok, probably not about Lyn. Unless they're using a confusing fake name to make me think that. He started to feel a throbbing at the base of his skull.

"Is there some specific reason you want to look like... Lin?" He dropped his voice slightly, rubbing his temples. "Is it for a practical reason? Or do you want to make fun of her — them?"

"Definitely not to make fun of them!" Adolin said, voice dropping to match Kaladin's.

"Many people would consider it flattering," Shallan whispered. "For their form to be assumed in this specific context!"

"We're just not certain if Lin would think that, and we're worried that it would be worse to ask."

"So we decided to ask you instead, since again, you're —"

Kaladin waved a hand at her before they could jump into another bizarre routine. "Honorable, yes, whatever, fine. I get it."

Adolin put a hand on his arm, expression earnest. "Look. If you think we should just directly talk to Lin then we'll do it. We just...don't want to embarrass them, or hurt their feelings in someway. We genuinely aren't sure how they would react, and I mean. You don't have to ask someone's permission for thinking about them, but this is a step up from that, and it's not like there's many people who have had the option, so...hence the uncertainty, and asking for a neutral, completely unconnected, third party opinion."

"Alright, I...guess that makes sense? In an extremely weird way." Kaladin looked between the two of them. Shallan's expression was open and honest, but unfortunately that didn't mean much. Adolin was earnest, but there was something weird about his posture. Guilty? Excited? "But why do you want to see a lightweaving of Lin in private so much?"

Shallan pretended to take a sip out of her empty glass. "I assume you can guess, bridgeboy. Is it really necessary for us to say it aloud?" She had just a hint of red staining the tops of ears, but she colored easily. It could just be the alcohol.

"I really don't know," Kaladin said, baffled. "Is this a lighteyes thing? Like you want to, I don't know...model fashion on them?"

"Ooh." Adolin suddenly looked far too eager. "That's actually not what we were thinking."

"I didn't think it was a lighteyes thing," Shallan said. "But I suppose it could be. I don't have a significant enough sample size to presume." That was clearly a joke there that Kaladin didn't get.

Adolin cleared his throat. "Well." He made another sharp motion with his hands, letting Kaladin go. "As you know, Shallan and I are married."

"Yes, I was at your wedding," Kaladin said dryly.

"We are married," Adolin repeated, talking over him. "And that comes with certain... duties and privileges."

"Among which—" Shallan was definitely blushing now. "—and I suppose this could be considered an, ah, 'lighteyes thing,' is well. The need to create an heir."

They can't possibly be asking me this. Kaladin looked desperately to Adolin, but the man just gave him a sheepish, apologetic grin.

A small part of Kaladin curled up and died.

Blood Of My Fathers.

"No," Kaladin said. "Absolutely not. You are not asking me about something to do with your sex lives."

"You see," Adolin said. "I know you've said you don't have interest in, well, any of that. But for many the process of creating an heir is not just—"

"ARGH." Kaladin threw his arms up, crossing them over his head.

"— a responsibility but a pleasure which—"

"Almighty's Tenth name!"

"—can be performed creatively—"

Kaladin pressed his head to the table, burying himself in his arms to hide his too warm face and probably disgusted expression.

"Stop. Please. Stop." He knew he was whining in a way ill befitting a Windrunner of his Ideal, but the booth they were in was private, and Adolin and Shallan had seen him in far less dignified circumstances.

"Sorry," Adolin said, patting him on the shoulder. "Just wanted to make sure you understood."

"Well I don't!" Kaladin said, looking up but not lifting his chin from his arms. "And I don't storming want to! Why can't you just look like yourselves! I thought you liked how each other looked! I've literally caught you drooling!"

Adolin frowned. "I don't drool, bridgeboy."

Shallan's face was nearly as red as his face felt, but her expression was significantly more gleeful. "I…there may have been one sparring session I observed…that may have generated a small amount of moisture."

Adolin cocked an eyebrow, and smirked. "Moisture, huh?"

"I hate you two," Kaladin lied emphatically.

"Sorry, Sorry." Adolin patted him on the shoulder again. "So? What do you think?"

"I think Rlain is right and its a storming miracle humans have managed to accomplish anything when most of us are permanently stuck in mateform."

Adolin heaved a dramatic sigh. "About our question, Kal, come on. We know you don't like talking about this stuff but that's exactly why we needed your opinion! You're unbiased!"

"And honorable, yes you said. Have I mentioned before that the rewards for being honorable blow?"

They turned twin pleading expressions toward him and he caved immediately. Storms, he had gotten weak. "Battar and Shallash, fine," he snapped. "Fine, give me a minute, alright. Just stop talking. "

The two waited, Shallan only opening her mouth to make a joke twice, Adolin successfully nudgeing her quiet each time; Kaladin lifted himself up, elbows on the table and head in his hands as he looked down, forcing himself to actually give it serious consideration. Wait, I thought Veil was the one who was attracted to women. Oh. Right.

"Alright," he finally said. "I get that people can't always help what they...think about. That's fine. And I also know that trying not to think about something sometimes makes people think about it more, so."

Adolin and Shallan nodded. "You have no idea," Adolin said. "Seriously, I love Shallan, I've absolutely tried not looking at other women's — anyway. It's so much easier to just forgive eachother the occasional wayward glance or errant thought." They squeezed each others hands.

Kaladin sighed. "Right. Sorry if I came off as judgemental."

"No, no, you've made it very clear that you don't like talking about such things, it's completely reasonable to be unhappy. We are sorry for the times we...overshare in front of you."

"It's fine," Kaladin said curtly. "Really. I know you try. Anyway. I also understand that people sometimes, er, fantasize. That way. About things or people they don't actually want in real life. And. Uh. Sometimes people... act that out."

Kaladin stared determinedly at the table, face hot. There was a swirling pattern in the marble that he hadn't noticed before.

"You do?" Adolin said, sounding surprised.

Kaladin coughed. The swirling pattern kind of looked like a river, viewed from above. "There. Might have been an incident, early on in the army, when I heard a couple and, er, overreacted slightly. They took the time to explain things in... painful detail. It's fine. None of my business."

"That's. Very open minded of you," Shallan said, sounding slightly strangled. "Tell me, when the couple was explaining things — oof." Kaladin didn't look, but he was fairly sure Adolin just stepped on her foot, something he was infinitely grateful for. It had been an extremely mortifying lesson. The pair had said they weren't mad about being interrupted, but he was fairly sure they were lying, considering how much detail they went into in their explanation.

"Honestly, the whole...dressing weird, or calling eachother names or using ropes or whatever—"

Adolin made a choking noise. Kaladin kept looking at the little river pattern in the table. If he squinted there were mountains and farms too.

"—all that stuff isn't more or less...unappealing. To think about. Then just regular sex." Kaladin paused. "That is not permission to talk about that sort of thing with me. Please don't share anything about your sex life with me, ok?"

"Of course!"

"We know."

"So," Kaladin continued, rubbing his cheeks to try and get rid of the blush. "Wanting someone isn't breaking your vows. Neither is thinking about them. Probably talking about them is fine too."

He ran his finger along the small river in the polished stone. He could practically feel two sets of light eyes drilling a hole in him.

"My concern, of course, would be for Lin. If playing around with their image would affect the real person. My main concern is it will impact the way you two interact with them."

"If we thought it did then we'd stop immediately," Adolin swore without prompting. "The real person matters far more than our...baser feelings."

"Absolutely," Shallan agreed softly. "We truly don't want to hurt them. That's why we've been struggling with this."

"I believe you," Kaladin said, scrubbing a hand over his face. "Alright, so you've already been...thinking about them, while together, and it hasn't impacted your interactions with the real person."

"No!"

"Trying not to think of them that way was worse," Adolin said ruefully. "I am...fairly sure they have not noticed any feelings on my part, and even if they had they've ignored them very politely so...like I said, if messing with lightweaveing changes that, we'll stop right away, but I don't think it will. We know who they are."

Kaladin studied the marble some more. He was pretty sure he had flown over somewhere in Alethkar that looked a bit like that riverbend, but he couldn't remember where.

"You cannot do this anywhere someone could possibly see or overhear," Kaladin said, looking up to make brief, serious eye contact with each of them. "Not visiting another city. Not where guards or servants could overhear, even trusted ones. Not in the duelist preparation chamber — yes I know about that. Not while exploring the less used parts of the city — yes, I heard about that too. Not in your sitting room or against the door, where someone passing by could overhear. Just in your own bedchamber, door locked."

"That sounds reasonable," Shallan said, flushing but solemn.

"Very reasonable," Adolin agreed, nodding sharply.

Kaladin grimaced, looking back down at the table. "I think...while part of me says you should ask Lin directly...that also sounds somewhat humiliating for everyone involved. I mean, again, it's more similar to thinking about someone than anyone else, and even if they were, er, flattered... It's not like you would actually be able to sleep together anyway, with your marriage oaths, so it would be a moot point."

"...Right," Adolin said unconvincingly. Kaladin decided not to think about that.

"So... it's alright?" Shallan said hopefully. "With those conditions? Not dishonorable?"

Kaladin forced himself to look up again, and immediately regretted it. They both looked far too eager.

"Not dishonorable," he sighed, closing his eyes and leaning back.

"Thank you!" Adolin said, with way too much passion.

"Thank me by never speaking to me of this again, and never asking me anything like this for the rest of our lives."

"Yes to the first one, no promises to the second," Shallan said gleefully. "Well. Now that we've discussed that matter, how about we get back to talking about—"

"Leave. For the love of all that is good, please leave," Kaladin begged, not opening his eyes. Shallan took advantage of this by kissing him lightly on the cheek. Adolin hugged him from the other side.

There was the sound of spheres tossed on the table and rapid movements, and then they were gone.

Kaladin opened his eyes, shaking his head. One of them had knocked over a glass in their haste to leave. They had, of course, left a small fortune to pay the bill.

He left the winehouse feeling...bemused mostly. Maybe he'd go find Rlain and they could gripe about humans and mateforms together. He would probably not make eye contact for Lyn for the next week, even though he was fairly sure they were talking about Isnah or Beryl. Best not to guess. He kicked off from the ground, the rush of wind immediately clearing away discomforting thoughts or lingering stress of the day.

He smiled, speeding up and feeling his heart race with the exhilaration that only the sky could bring, with no pressing meetings or appointments to get to. Syl had been right. It was good to take a night off every now and again.

[gallusrostromegalus]

Concerning the "in front of 200 witnesses" part of the Kenpachi Succession, does that mean that if too many people die they have to postpone it until they can get more people who want the job, or do they specifically collect 200 people who won't be participating in that tourney to watch?

In AEIWAM, the current rules for the 11th Division Captaincy are:

THE 11TH DIVISION RULE: To become captain of the 11th Division, you must defeat the current 11th Division Captain

This was the first and only rule Yachiru Unohana made regarding succession of the Captaincy of the 11th division. This Means:

The 11th Division does not accept appointed captains- either by the usual process, a nominee of the central 46, or some noble house- and if you try to become captain without defeating the previous one (or now, adhering to The Amendments), the members of the 11th WILL kill you for trying.

The right to challenge the captain is available to anyone that is not expressly an enemy of the court guard. For example: No Sternritter could take over the 11th by killing Zaraki Kenpachi, because they are declared enemies. A Very Large Lizard could eat him and become captain though, because Soul Society is not currently at war with Very Large Lizards.

People with the express right to challenge for the right of captaincy includes but not limited to: Current Shinigami, Retired Shinigami, Students of Shinigami Academy, Various Animals, Peasants, Kami, Theoretically a Hollow if they weren't in jail for eating people somehow?, politicians if they CAN use a sword right, Mothman...

While this rule does generally keep with Unohana's intent that the 11th only ever be commanded by someone who understood what battle was all about and would walk with their troops, it did also lead to kind of a lot of backstabbing and murder and general disarray as people constantly jockeyed for the position. Since then, Yamamoto has had to make a few Addendums in order to, you know, keep the 11th actually running:

Amendment 1: The 11th Division Rule applies ONLY to the 11th Division. You must follow the normal means of becoming a captain (passing the captain's exam with 3 other captains as witnesses, or getting the vote of confidence of other captains in a vote.) to become captain of any other division.

This a notable rule because literally the week after Unohana established the rule, some moron tried to claim that he should be allowed to command the 3rd, because he'd killed the 3rd division captain* in a bar fight. The moron was summarily incinerated on the spot, but Yamamoto decided to make sure to put it in writing, so he would not have to deal with That Stupidity again.

*allegedly. Kinroku was a slippery little fuck ans Yamamoto was never 100% certain if the mangled human remains wearing Kinroku's glasses really were him or if he had done a runner to enjoy his retirement in peace.

Yamamoto would instead be forced to deal with other, much worse stupidity.

Unohana Kenpachi held her position as the Captain of the 11th Division for well over a century after she established that sucession rule, until an Unwitnessed fight in the North 80th or "Zaraki" District inured her already-compromised left lung to the point that it needed to be removed. She was defeated in battle (by point of surrender) by her first lieutenant the day after she got out of the hospital, much to her satisfaction.

Trouble was, Captain Kuzuri Kenpachi was then BESET with constant challenges to her authority, assassination attempts and so much resistance she could hardly get the Division in line long enough to do it's job, and the fatalities from Kuzuri defending her life and job were starting to add up, so Yamamoto instituted the second addendums to the rules:

Amendment Two: Conditions Of Functionality

2.1: You must duel The Current Captain Of the 11th Division, in a one-on-one duel, after expressly challenging them for the right to be Captain.

This Means NO:

Ganging up on the captain (this is to prove your individual worthiness, not your choreography skills)

Assassinations (go apply yourself over at the 2nd division),

No randomly killing your boss, and declaring it a challenge to get out of murder charges after the fact.

2.2: This Duel must be witnessed by at least 200 people who do not have political, financial or other motivation to lie about the events later.

Yamamoto needs to be DAMN SURE you actually followed the above rules.

2.2.1: At least two of those witnesses need to be 10th seat or higher officers from two different divisions from both each other and the division the challenger might belong to.

-And that some rich asshole didn't just pay 200 people to say that's what happened.

If you're going to do a political conspiracy, put some EFFORT in.

2.3: Defeat can be defined before combat if both participants agree to the terms. For instance, they can decide to end combat when one participant: Starts bleeding, leaves an agreed-upon arena, stays down for a 10 count, is rendered unconscious, or surrenders. If no terms are negotiated, the duel is to be to the death, even if one participant is unable to fight.

Kuzuri please, the body count is starting to interfere with recruitment.

After that, since the challengers had to actually try to fight Kuzuri fairly, the frequency of attempts went down to a manageable level, and the quality of challengers steadily improved until she was defeated on the terms of a ten-count 78 years into her captaincy by another Shinigami, who became the third captain of the Division, Mizutsuga Kenpachi.

Mizutsuga lead the 11th Division for 98 years before suddenly dying in a bizarre case of Cicutoxin Poisoning from eating Water Hemlock, misidentified as the Division's perfectly edible flower, Yarrow. Then followed a bit of a struggle- Nobody was quite sure HOW to appoint the next captain, and there were not a lot of people eager to take the job. So Yamamoto was forced to create:

Amendment Three: In Case Of No Succession:

3.1 If The Current Captain is not available to answer challenges due to being already dead, in jail, a coward, turned into a rat, lost in another dimension, or whatever, they are assumed to have surrendered the post. 3.2 Yamamoto will dictate A) If the current captain of the is in fact, not available and not just locked in a closet or otherwise being prevented from accepting the challenge by subterfuge. B) The terms of the battle that will be held to determine the next captain. 3.3 Please do not make him do this, he WILL be a Petty Asshole about it.

Frustrated that he'd had to micro-managed the 11th division's sucession twice now, Yamamoto ordered a Battle Royale and the last one still in the fight would be the new captain, leading to the appointment of Kiiro Kenpachi.

It turned out that the Battle Royale had not been Yamamoto's best plan, because Kiiro was less the Soul Society's strongest Swordsman and more Soul Society's most evasive little coward, who had simply remained hidden until all but the last few comppettitors were left, and exhausted. He governed the 11th division in much the same way, by managing to avoid doing his work, any responsibility and any challenge to his paycheck by Simply Not Being There, which is a great way to survive a war and a terrible way to run emergency services. after a mere 12 years of this malarkey, Yamamoto created:

Amendment Four: No Wiggling Out Of This One

4.1: For all 24 hours of November 11th every year, The Current Captain is REQUIRED to answer any challenge to their seat.

4.2: The rest of the year, the captain can choose to accept or turn a challenger down and tell them to get in line on Nov. 11th, or agree to answer the challenge at an agreed specified time and place. Like when they're not in the middle of an assignment.

Fearing for the safety of his life and his lucrative job, Kiiro arranged a tournament so that not only was HIS job up for grabs, so were the positions of all the seated officers, and the ensuing riot destroyed a large portion of the city and by the time the fires had been put out, it was November 12th, and Kiiro was still alive.

4.3: The Current Captain will make themselves available for challenge OUTSIDE the Seireitei in an area reasonably devoid of habitation but still accessible, with the presence of both:

the 4th division (to manage casualties)

another division (to keep the riot from spreading. We'll take turns doing this shit job.)

The New seated officers that had won their positions the previous year were also not fans of Kiiro, and traditionalists, and persuaded Yamamoto to add:

4.4: On November 11th, a ranking tournament will be held to determine the 200 strongest participants, who will then form that year's 11th Division.

Anyone not currently an enemy of the state is welcome to participate in the tournament

After they sign a wavier that we are not liable for damages done to them.

4.4.2 If any participant make it into the top 200, may immediately become shinigami and members of the 11th division without having to go through the Shigami academy

Studying is still recommended and free tuition will be offered

The top 20 ranked participants will become the new seated officer, with the top-ranked participant becoming the new captain.

4.4.3: FAILURE to participate in the tournament without sufficient excuse will result in immediate termination of your position and firing from the gotei-13.

The validity of any excuse will be determined by both presiding captains, who must both agree that the excuse is valid.

The following year the noise and scent of blood from "Eleventh Division Tryout Day" attracted the attention of an exceptionally large and powerful Tree Goana, who immediately devoured Kiiro Kenpachi, and, with nobody else wishing to become reptile snacks, became Tokagero Kenpachi, who served for 234 years before her disappearance, the longest term of any 11th Division Captain.

Yamamoto has not needed to manage the succession of 11th Division Captains since then, save to crack an eye open after the arrest and imprisonment of the 8th captain of the 11th, Azashiro Kenpachi, when his lieutenant proposed holding that year's tryout day a few weeks early instead, and abiding by those results until at least the following year, and nodding in agreement. Now THAT is how you manage.

So to actually answer your question: the 200 witnesses thing was ORIGINALLY to make sure that the rules of succession were being followed, but it has since morphed into a "Make sure there are 200 people alive to actually BE the 11th Division" thing, a "Contain the Riot" thing AND a "Unohana likes checking in on her old division and watching the carnage" thing.

[carionto]

The Equality Games

Once every now and then, the Galactic Coalition's Cultural Exchange department holds a large digital competitive event.

Anyone can participate, and to level the playing field, contestants aren't the ones who actually compete, but instead an advanced deep brain scan (or equivalent body part) and an unbiased AI create a digital avatar that represents the individual and autonomously acts within the digital space.

The cognitive capacity of each is analyzed to a near perfect level and a highly complicated algorithm that, honestly, nobody understands, even the AI that built it, then creates this avatar with traits and weaknesses based on an even more incomprehensible set of criteria and internal points system.

To put it simply - the scan identifies nearly every calculable aspect of a person and assigns a point value for each, then uses those points to "buy" the most relevant and appropriate traits from within its list to give the avatar. There are changing costs, negative value "flaws", and prerequisites based on other information from the scan, but basically it is the most convoluted TTRPG character creation ruleset ever devised.

Given the enormous complexity and diversity that individuals from across thousands of races exhibit, until this system was invented, it was thought impossible to have a sort of intergalactic Olympic Games. There were many attempts over the eons, of course, but one factor or another always made it so that someone did not accept the results.

The Equality Games, however, earned respect and acceptance as a valid alternative once the underlying system was demonstrated and people started to play with it. The avatars were made to act autonomously due to how some species had a distinct advantage when manipulating a digital interface, thus bringing up the old arguments yet again.

One curious result of the AI algorithm avatar generator is that it quite frequently created multiple avatars for each person, only the more hive-mind-like species tended to be represented by a singular avatar within the Games. It is theorized, again because nobody can understand how it really works, that most intelligent beings have multiple "personas" i.e. distinct behavior and personalities in certain common situations, primarily a "public" and "private" persona.

In fact, it is most common for everyone to generate about a three to five avatar "team" that represents the one individual. In comparison, if an ant were to get scanned and put in the games, its avatar would be a single incredibly powerful avatar with many deficiencies, but an overwhelming advantage in several disciplines.

When Humans first entered the Games, as expected, they too had teams as avatars. What was not expected, was that these avatars would sometimes work alone instead of together as a team, deliberately not help one another, and even engage in infighting and the sabotage of another "self".

The Humans suggested that it is perhaps because hypocrisy is not uncommon among them. Self destructive tendencies also appear rather frequently. These Humans almost always are themselves surprised by how contradictory their avatar team composition ends up being.

While the Games themselves happened as normal, the Humans overall placed in the top 20% brackets of most competitive challenges, and scattered roughly evenly everywhere else, they then approached us with a most unusual request.

"Give us a copy of this AI algorithm scanner thing. We think this is the most revolutionary therapy and psychological diagnosis device we've come across."

Of course we obliged and helped set up centers in a number of stations and on Earth itself.

Last we heard, some Humans have avatars that are singular nigh-nightmarish monstrosities, while a very tiny fraction have minds so splintered that their avatars are teams of dozens, one time even over a hundred distinct versions of themselves. Then there are even some seemingly regular Humans who broke the scanner - it gave the error: "Only one individual can be scanned at a time."

Upon "fixing" it with a hack, the results for those were unheard of. Two distinct avatars. Not a team of two, but by all accounts, the AI algorithm identified two separate individuals within one mind, each with very little in common with the other. Sometimes there was nothing in common, even their digital visual representation.

The mind is incredibly complex and hard to comprehend. The Human mind, while biologically quite peculiar but not outside the realms of understood evolution, neurologically it seems to hold near limitless diversity, both complimentary, contradictory, and beyond.

[wooziorgans]

HOLIEST | KINKTOBER DAY 1

pairing: angel!jihoon x male demon!reader

main prompt: corruption kink

warnings: anal sex. loss of innocence (technically virginity loss). bottom jihoon. top reader. biblical themes. jihoon can stop/slow time w his angel powers. reader knows people’s desires. jihoon’s a little hesitant at first but fully consents. jihoon has punched reader in the past. “taking your wings out” is a euphemism for sex. jihoon is not biblically accurate. angels don’t need to clean themselves out for anal sex.

word count: 4k WHOOPS

a/n: happy october! this is officially the start of my kinktober event and we’re starting off strong! this is wayyy too long, but for the first day i think i’ll let it slide. also tysm for 300 that’s insane. what.

also if anyone wants to be added to the tag list pls lmk

You raise the glass of whiskey to your mouth. Just as the amber drops start to fall into your mouth, they stop. You huff, half in annoyance, the other half an unbridled amusement. You remove your hands from the glass and lean back in the comfy armchair. The glass stays in its place, floating, and you know it’s him.

“What do you want, Jihoonie?” You purr softly, not bothering to turn around to face him.

“We had a deal.” The angel huffs, and though you can’t see him, you can almost imagine the furrow of his brows, the way he’s surely stomping his feet as he speaks. You hum, still not acknowledging him, and that seems to piss him off more. “You were supposed to send him to hell. Not purgatory.” Jihoon sighs, and you look up to the large bay windows to see his reflection running a hand through his long blond hair.

Jihoon’s wearing actual human clothes, and not the white robes you see him in most of the time. You swipe your glass out of the air, hand covering the top of it to trap the whiskey inside as you set it down. Angel physics are weird; even after all of the encounters you’ve had with Jihoon, you still haven’t gotten the inconvenience of his powers. Finally, you turn towards him.

“I don’t know what you mean. I sent him to hell. Where were you? Blessing his wife so that she could continue her affair now that her husband was dead? For someone who preaches that he’s so holy, you really must not see the irony of your decisions.” You laugh, stark and short.

“She wanted a child. It’s not my fault our schedules interfered.” Jihoon snaps, and you stand abruptly. You walk towards him, confident strides that seem to knock the air out of his lungs. The angel has interacted with plenty of demons before, but none of them seemed to have the same effect on him as you did.

Jihoon suspects that it has something to do with your own power. The ability to know exactly what people desire. It’s quite troublesome. “Blessing people seems to be your scapegoat for all of that desire bubbling under the surface, angel.” You coo, hand sliding under his jaw to tilt his face upwards. Your thumb catches under his lip, tilting him up by the chin, and you can hear his breath shutter. Jihoon takes a few steps back.

You laugh quietly. The sound is low and sultry, and it has Jihoon forgetting why he’s even here. “I- I do what I’m told to.” You follow his steps, smirking.

“Is that so? I’m sure no one told you to wear human clothes, angel.” Jihoon steps back more, trying to get away from your touch, but he does nothing to remove your hand from his face. “You’re getting the hang of being on Earth. Though, you’re not wearing shoes and your shirt is made of mesh.” You back him into the counter of the bar, still maintaining a bit of distance between your chests.

“I had business to attend to in Busan. I was on the beach. This is a perfectly acceptable outfit.” Jihoon scoffs, hands reaching behind him to grip the ledge of the counter. You step closer, tightening your hold on his chin. Your thumb swipes over his bottom lip and you can feel the muscles in his throat move as he swallows.

Jihoon finally actually looks up at you, face flushed with parted lips. “You’re such a sweet angel; always looking out for humanity.” You push your thumb against his teeth, and Jihoon pulls back slightly. But you can feel it; the thrumming throughout his whole body. You’ve felt it in your soul thousands of times with humans, but the only angel who gives you the privilege is Jihoon.

“We agreed this couldn’t happen again.” Jihoon’s breath picks up as you slot yourself against him.

“No, angel. You said it couldn’t happen again. I said nothing of the sort.” Your grip on his face falters, other hand sliding up his side to grab onto the waist of his jeans. “What was so bad about last time?” The lilt in your voice is teasing, and if you didn’t have Jihoon trapped against the bar, or half as worked up as he is right now, he might’ve taken the opportunity to punch you. He’s done it before, but only in your first few meetings. Distant history.

“You kissed me!” He hisses, in a half attempt at getting away from you. If he wanted to actually leave you, he could disappear just as fast as he arrived. He stays put, and you know that it’s driven by the desire he so desperately tries to cage down. The part of him that must remain holy tries to fight back, no matter how much he wants this.

“What else happened?” You tilt your head to the side, nose brushing against his as you lean forward towards his face. You can hear him audibly swallow, and it only makes you want him more.

“I got… well, y’know… worked up.” There’s a slight shake in Jihoon’s voice, and you know you’ve got him right where you want him.

“But you enjoyed it, yeah? You kept thinking about me, didn’t you?” You purr, breath hitting his ear as you whisper. Your eyes darken, a slight red sheen to your irises. If Jihoon could see your face, you’re sure he’d fold a lot faster. You like the chase though, and so you graze his earlobe with your teeth.

Jihoon lets out a small whine. If you weren’t so close to him, you might not have heard it. One of his hands lets go of the counter, moving to your side to grip at your dark shirt. You place a kiss to his jaw, nipping at the smooth, pale skin.

“Tell me what you thought about last time,” you whisper, “tell me what you desire.” The bite in your voice isn’t malicious. You’re using your power on Jihoon, and there’s a chance it won’t work. It typically doesn’t work on other celestial beings.

“To feel good. Please. Let me sin; just once.” The distance in his voice shocks both of you. It worked.

You pull away from him, lips smacking as they disconnect from Jihoon’s neck. You stare at him for a moment, taking in the flush on his face in the low lights of your penthouse. He won’t look at you. He can’t, not with his involuntary omission.

Jihoon is undeniably beautiful; truly devine in the careful chisels of his face. Though he is, by creation, an angel, angelic is one of the only words you can think of to describe his features. He’s so innocent and pure, even with the slight fuzz of distortion caused by him stopping time, and god do you want to ruin that.

“Come. Sit, and we’ll talk.” You don’t give him the option to follow you on his own. Your arm wraps around his waist as you pull him back to the armchair you were sitting in when he showed up.

You take a seat, stretching out as you wait for Jihoon to sit down. There’s one issue with that: the armchair is the only seat in this section of the penthouse. Jihoon just stares at you, and you pat your lap. He doesn’t move.

You sit up in the chair, arm snaking out to grab Jihoon by the waist and pull him down onto your lap. His back hits your chest as he squeaks softly as you spread your legs to sit him in between them. The wide seat holds both of you with room the spare.

The warmth of your skin, that which is a part of you from being forged in the depths of hell, sends chills up Jihoon’s spine. Your hands smooth the weird fabric of his undershirt, pressing down on his stomach. Your lips latch onto the side of his neck, teeth grazing against his sweet spot.

Jihoon’s full body reacts to you, back arching away from your chest as his head falls back. “This is what you want, right?” You whisper into his ear. Jihoon nods, gasping softly as your hands slide over his thighs. “Good, because I’m going to ruin you.”

He’s so sensitive and responsive, moaning lowly at your confession of your own desires and the hot sparks that shoot through his entire body from your hands on his thighs. You massage the flesh through the smooth denim of his jeans, squeezing the firm muscles as you reattach your lips to his neck.

Your thumb brushes over the growing bulge in Jihoon’s pants as your other hand travels up the mesh of his undershirt. Briefly, your nail catches on his nipple, eliciting another moan from the angel as you continue to move your hand upwards. You reach the light blue fabric of his button up and carefully slide it off of his shoulder.

Jihoon takes the cue, shrugging the other side of it off. The oversized shirt pools at his elbows, before Jihoon pulls it down, over his wrists and off of him completely. Your lips work steadily on his neck, littering the flawless skin with deep purple bruises.

You pull away from his neck as your hand slides over his growing cock. Jihoon mewls, hands gripping at the arms of the chair. You run both hands under the mesh tank top, feeling his radiant skin with your full hands. Jihoon stiffens as your fingers brush over his nipples.

“So sensitive.” You whisper, hands finding the bottom of the tank top as you pull it up his torso. “So pure.” You press your nose into one of the dark bruises on his neck as you reach his armpits with the shirt. Jihoon stalls for a second as he lets you just feel him.

His head short circuits until he feels you tug at the tank top again. He lifts his arms for you, and you slip the fabric over his head. Jihoon’s bare back presses against your chest. One of your hands snakes around his neck to cup his jaw. Your thumb presses into his chin to tilt his head back against your shoulder.

Jihoon goes willingly, lips parting as he closes his eyes. He already seems gone, head fuzzy with lust. That’s when you tut softly, other hand tracing the defined muscles of his chest. Your fingers pinch at his nipple, twisting and prodding carefully. Jihoon moans rather loudly, disrupting the quiet atmosphere.

“Unfreeze time.” You mutter into his neck. You know your senses are muted because of it, and you want to feel the full effect of the angel. Jihoon pulls away from you, straightening his back out. You can see two, almost scar-like lines on his shoulder blades. You run your hands over the skin, and he shivers, head falling forward as a low moan slips past his lips. You do it again, this time dragging your nails around the area.

Jihoon stifles a cry, jerking away from you. In a moment, the lines on his back are gone, replaced by beautiful white wings that start to unravel themselves. And then the fuzz from the time dilation is gone.

The glass of whiskey clatters onto the table, rolling in its place before settling on the wood. Jihoon’s wings are at full span, only for a moment, before they’re tucking themselves back into his shoulders. You pull him back to your chest, one hand slipping around his waist. He moans, but it’s louder, whinier, higher.

He’s getting desperate.

You abort your mission, opting to pick him up and flip him around a you stand. Jihoon gasps, hiding his face from you as he wraps his legs around your waist. “Don’t get all shy on me now, angel. After you’ve just shown me your wings?” The euphemisms goes way over his head, and he only offers you an actual explanation.

“I have to take them out to… you know, do the time thing.” You chuckle deeply as you walk towards the bed. The back of your leg hits the side of the mattress and you sit down.

Carefully, you peel Jihoon away from you to look at his face. He goes easily, hands finding the side of your face. All at once, both of you lean in with closed eyes. Your lips meet carefully, but the softness is gone quickly.

Your hands squeeze at his ass, and Jihoon whines into your mouth. You take the opportunity to slip your tongue into his mouth, and Jihoon attempts to match your movements.

It’s messy, wet, and a little uncoordinated, but Jihoon’s a fast learner. His hands grip at your shirt, tugging it as he kisses you with a fire that wasn’t there the last time. It makes your stomach twist with your own want for him; how eager he is, how much he wants this— wants you.

You can already see the effects of your teasing in how desperate he’s getting for stimulation. You shift back on the bed, supporting yourself with one arm as the other grips his ass tightly. Jihoon pulls at your shirt again, and you help him slide it off, only breaking your kiss to fling the fabric off your body and onto the floor.

Quite quickly, your hands find Jihoon’s jeans, toying with the button. He whines softly, hands raking over your back, across your own shoulder indents, and you shutter. The skin there has always been incredibly sensitive. You grip his ass once again, flipping him over and onto his back.

Jihoon gasps against your lips as he hits the mattress. His large brow eyes are sparkling, pupils blown out. Your hands get to work quickly, undoing the button on his jeans and sliding the zipper open. He’s gotten better at wearing pants, as weird as that sounds. You were the one to teach him about boxers, and you’re presently surprised to find a pair of black ones sitting on his hips.

You pull away from his lips to see him, and he whines softly, chasing your lips. You don’t give him what he wants. Instead, you dip your hand into his pants and run your palm over his hard cock. The weight of it seers your palm. It’s heavy, thick, and so incredibly hard. Divine, you think.

Jihoon moans, back arching off the bed as his hands grab at whatever they can find, which are the white sheets of your bed. “What do you want me to do, angel? Tell me and it’s yours.” You growl, squeezing his cock as your fingers continue to travel downwards.

“Ngh, fuck. I want you to fuck me. Please, oh god- please.” Jihoon whines, chasing your touch as you start to pull off his jeans.

“You—” You nearly tease him, for using the big guys name in vain and for swearing. But you opt out of it. For once. “Ass up, angel.” You instruct, and he listens, planting his feet into the mattress and lifting his hips up.

Your thumbs catch the band of his boxers, and in one quick motion, both remaining articles of clothing are down to his knees. Jihoon’s cock slaps against his stomach as you pull him free. He’s long and thick, dripping precum from his tip. His balls are round and full, and he’s completely hairless. You never knew a dick could be so pretty, but then again, it’s Jihoon. Of course his cock is beautiful.

Jihoon moans at the reverberation of his dick hitting his stomach as you pull his jeans all the way off. You smirk at the way he tries to thrust his hips towards you, silently begging for you to touch him. You want to, oh how you want to wrap your hand around his cock and show him no mercy, but you slip the knot in your waistband and push your own sweatpants down.

Jihoon stares at you, mouth watering as your own cock springs free. Finally, you give him what he wants. You lean forward, lips finding his once again as your hand wraps around his cock. He gasps into your mouth, tongue tangling with yours.

Your hand coats his cock in his precum, giving him time to adjust to the new sensation. You might be a demon, but you’re not an asshole. You can’t give him too much right now or he’ll break, and no matter how much you want to see that happen, it’s too soon for your liking. You speed up your hand, other hand caressing his thigh.

“More, shit, please. I need more.” Jihoon pants, his voice whiny and unsteady. You peck his lips, pulling away from him once again. He whines, as expected as you crawl off the bed to grab your lube from your bedside table. You flip the bottle in your hand, throwing it up as you get back on the bed.

“What’s that?” Jihoon asks, eyes wide. You smile softly at him as you settled back in between his legs.

“This,” you pop the cap off the bottle, “is lube. It’ll help me fuck you.” Jihoon whimpers softly. His pink lips, which are swollen from kissing, part with a quite wet sound. You push his thighs apart, and he goes willingly, spreading his legs as he lifts his knees up to his chest.

“How… how does it work? What am I supposed to do?” He asks softly, slightly breathless.

“Just sit back and look pretty for me, okay? I’ll do all the work. Just let me ruin you.” You squirt a bit of lube on your fingers. Jihoon just nods as you press the dollop of cold lube against his hole. He squirms, head falling back as you carefully push your finger in.

You give him a few seconds to adjust to having something in his ass, before you start pumping your single digit in and out. Jihoon grips at the sheets, unable to really form sounds— just silently gasping.

You push a second finger in, watching his expression carefully. “That feel okay, angel?” You ask, voice low and husky. Jihoon just nods. “How about you go ahead ‘n touch yourself for me, hmm pretty?” Jihoon takes a moment to wrap his hand around his cock, but he listens to you.

“So much,” he gasps softly, “so full, shit.” You just smirk, leaning down to kiss his chest. Jihoon isn’t really sure what to do with his hand around his cock, so he gives it hesitant tugs.

You wrap your hand around his, helping him slide it up and down his cock. Something about seeing him like this, so inexperienced and eager to learn, has you needing to leave him ruined. You want to see him crack. You twist your fingers inside his ass, scissoring them open against the tight muscles protest.

Jihoon gasps, pushing his hips down onto your fingers, accidentally pulling you in closer to his prostate. The tips of your fingers brush against it, and his eyes roll back as a strained moan leaves his lips. You twist them again, prodding at the spot to hear him squeak out such beautiful sounds again.

You push the tip of a third finger against his hole, sliding it all the way in. Jihoon gasps, fingers twitching under yours. You pump them in and out a few times, scissoring as best you can to open him up. He’ll need it.

He gasps as whines against the mattress, exhaling deeply as you finger him. When you decide he’s ready, you pull your fingers out. Jihoon whines softly at the sudden emptiness. “I think you’re ready.” You whisper, releasing your hand from his cock. Jihoon just nods, eyes fluttering shut in anticipation. “I can’t wait to ruin you.” You purr, placing a soft kiss to his chest as you find the bottle of lube again.

You coat your cock generously, sighing at the stimulation before you like yourself up. “Ready, angel?” You place a gentle hand on Jihoon’s thigh. He nods, squeezing his eyes shut as he waits.

“Look at me.” You demand, and Jihoon listens, eyes snapping open. “I want you to watch me put it in.” You pull him up to sit on his elbows. Jihoon looks down, lip in between his teeth as you tease his entrance with your tip.

You slide home in one motion, and Jihoon closes his eyes halfway through. The stretch is too much, so good, not enough. It’s foreign and it’s uncomfortable, but something twists softly in the angels stomach, has him craving more despite the discomfort.

You still your hips, letting him adjust to the stretch. Three fingers almost isn’t enough with how tight he is. “Ngh, fuck. Move, please.” Jihoon pants, chest heaving. You do as he says, pulling back out before thrusting back in. Jihoon moans loudly, back arching as his thighs shake.

You thrust in again, angling your hips up slightly, and his moans get louder. That must be his prostate. “Gonna get you addicted to my cock, angel. Gonna make you think about me all the time. Gonna turn you into my slut.” You groan, completely enamoured by the warmth of his wet walls. “I wanna see you break. Wanna teach you everything there is to know.”

Jihoon just nods, chest heaving as he takes it. “Please, shit. Teach me.” He babbles, too far gone to recognize what you’re saying properly. You can see it in his eyes, the way he can only focus on the pleasure of your thick cock kissing his prostate. You can see how gone he is, how much he loves this, and it drives you insane.

You pick up your pace, hammering into him to hear his pretty, high moans. It’s brutal; raw and messy. Animalistic almost, in the way you’re taking what you need from him. Jihoon can’t even really move or think, far too fucked out from the pace you set. But he loves it.

He loves the full body sensation of white noise that fills his ears and the rest of his head. All at once, it’s nothing, and then a hot flash of white floods his eyesight. Jihoon’s eyes roll back, and he cums, cock untouched as thick white ropes coat his chest.

He’s squeezing so tight around; you it’s too much. “Oh god.” Jihoon sobs, fists tight balls at his sides as his back lifts off the mattress. You give a few more thursts before you cum inside of him, palm pressing down on his stomach softly.

You’ve never been to heaven, but you think the flashes of white that coat the back of your eyelids must rival the pearly gates. You pant softly, hips stalling as you fill him up.

And then you pull out and collapse next to him on the bed. Your hand finds his blond hair, as you smooth it down over his forehead. Jihoon smiles softly, eyes heavy, as he rolls onto his stomach. He buries his face in the pillows, exhaling deeply.

Truly, there’s never been anyone or anything more beautiful than Jihoon to you. He’s truly divine; perfectly sculpted and soft. The fact that you got to have his first time, in the millennia you’ve known him, is slightly surreal as he lays next to you, completely naked.

“I should go. I’ve got to get back to Busan.” Jihoon sighs softly.

“Stay a while. Have a drink. We just had sex. You can’t expect yourself to get back to your angel duties right away.” You laugh softly, hand cracking down on Jihoon’s ass.

“Yeah, sure. As long as this means I don’t lose my wings. I still have to be holy.” He sighs, flinching at the sting, a soft moan leaving his lips.

“Oh, you’re the holiest thing I know.” You whisper, nipping at his neck softly. And you mean it.

tag list: @thepoopdokyeomtouched @noiceoofed @tychebaby @aaniag

[godidontevenknowwhat]

Men like you

Jake Sully x Metkayina!Reader (Romancing Pandora 2024 Day 2 - Daddy Kink)

A/N: posting early today because I managed to finish this before work, yay! Sorry for any mistakes or grammatical errors especially approaching the end because I'm literally about to go in to work 😂

Tagging: @eywaite @neteyamsyawntu

Synopsis: When the great Toruk Makto was accepted into your clan instead of feeling apprehension or fear, like many other Metkayina, excitement pooled deep in your gut at the unfamiliar features and you ached to find out how different he truly was. Age difference be damned.

Warnings: Ambiguous age difference but reader is an adult that is at least 20+, no mention of Neytiri but mention of their kids so - you can imagine her lack of presence in whatever way you'd like, Dom!Jake x Sub!Reader, spitting, oral (male receiving), maybe I might do a part 2 with actual p in v at some point if people want it, 2.9k words in total

From the moment the Sully family first arrived by their Ikran on the white sand of your home, Awa’atlu, you were immediately entranced by their unfamiliar appearance and their plea for Uturu because of the tawtute. The deep sapphire of their skin reminded you of the unclear depths of the ocean outside the reef, their thin limbs and tails suited to their home rather than your own suited for top performance in the water. 

You had heard tales of the tawtute and their cruelty throughout your adolescence, heard stories that made your stomach turn about the battle that took place in the forests to the west of your clan’s reef. You had heard stories of the tawtute ‘dreamwalker’ Jake Sully, a human who walked in a na’vi shell and how he had tamed the large flying beast ‘Toruk’, how he had looked into the eye of Eywa only for Eywa to look back and grant his soul a place forever within his dreamwalker body. 

After almost a quarter of a cycle since the Sully family had been living in the Awa’atlu village you had found yourself growing close with the youngest girl, Tuk, a bright child who brought smiles to the whole clan with her sunny attitude. She clung to your side frequently, introduced to you by the group of Metkayina children that you took care of and taught a variety of skills to as their Karyu. 

Tuk’s favourite part of having you as her Karyu was the stories of your clan that you told her and she always spent time telling you stories of her own. She explained to you that her sister Kiri was actually born of another dreamwalker, a friend of her father’s named Grace and that because of the tawtute DNA that ran through her blood and the blood of Jake they had some features typical of the humans. Hair on their brows, five fingers and toes… these were the most obvious differences that Lo’ak, Kiri and Jake all had to the na’vi.

However, looking at Jake Sully sitting across the bonfire from you on this celebratory night for the youth in your clan that had passed their rites, you could pick out the more subtle differences in his appearance. The fire’s light cast a warm glow over the plains of his body, the dips and contours shadowed in a way that made your mouth water. 

It was obvious to anyone that the Metkayina were built differently to the Omatikaya, but Jake. Great Mother. 

His body held a softness around the stomach but he was fit nonetheless, thick muscles coiled his arms leading to broad shoulders. His forearms were equally defined with prominent veins that spanned their length down to his incredibly large hands. All five of his fingers were long and thick in a way that made your stomach flutter when you thought about them for too long, thought about how they’d feel inside you, thought about how they’d curl against your g-spot just right and make you scream.

Every part of Jake Sully was compelling to you, the way he held himself, the way he spoke, the strange tawtute words that still slipped through after years of speaking the native language. 

Lo’ak had let it slip once not long ago that the tawtute name Jake called you every time he thanked you for helping with Tuk and the others, “pretty”, was how the sky people called someone sevin. Even now as you thought about it, it brought a flush to your face and a million thoughts to your head about what that could possibly mean.

You never would have thought, in the name of Eywa, that Jake spent as much time admiring you as you did him. Watching how you interacted with his children was how it started, how you helped Tuk learn the ways of the Metkayina just as you did with the children of Awa’atlu, how you didn’t look at any of them differently no matter the amount of fingers or “demon blood” that everyone else in the reef seemed to only see while looking at them.

It was only after Jake saw what you did for his children that he allowed himself to look at you properly, to see you in the way you saw him.

He started by admiring the gentle waves of your hair, your hairstyle perfectly styled to keep it out of your face in the water. He admired the stormy blue of your eyes, eyes that held such love and care in them. He admired your smile, the way it stretched across your face and the way it brought a smile to his own without any trouble at all. Admiration and yearning slowly turned one in the same as time passed, Jake found himself  becoming more and more entranced by the soft curves of your body. 

While the Metkayina were softer all around compared to the Omatikaya, a layer of fat needed on your bodies to keep you warm for long periods in the water is what Norm’s theory was, Jake was sure the softness of your body was more than evolutionary. Your curves brought him back to earth, back when he was an idiot with no future flipping through history textbooks in his half-assed bid to get through school so he could at least support himself, back when he didn’t give a second thought to why the world he lived in was so shitty and corrupt or why the only way anyone could see the beautiful statues of goddesses carved centuries before in countries that barely existed anymore was in textbooks. When Jake truly looked at you, when he saw you, he saw the beauty of a goddess and he knew if he were to draw a picture of how he thought Eywa herself would look, it would be terrible because he can’t draw for shit, but it would be as close to your likeness as he could get it.

He was ashamed at first, when his thoughts about you began to turn to ones that were no better than the thoughts of a horny teenage boy, then when he spent more than a few sleepless nights picturing you under him until he came hard enough to send him into a sleep deeper than a coma the shame only grew. Shame ate at Jake, gnawed at him, buried its way under his skin and took up residency so profoundly that he couldn’t evict it. 

Sevin. Pretty. Sevin. Pretty. Pretty. Pretty.

The words swam in your mind like an infantile ilu, made a heat ignite beneath your skin that burned hotter than the bonfire and a flush stain your skin you were hoping the cup of kava you were working your way through could be a scapegoat for if anyone was curious.  

You watch Jake’s hands as they rub over his thick thighs, jumping in surprise when after a few moments he removed his hands and slapped them back down onto his thighs with a slap. You managed to make out that he said something about heading off, going back to his Marui and without any more lingering he pulled the waistband of his tewng higher on his waist from where it had slipped and took his leave.

You throw back the last of your kava and take a few unintentionally unsubtle glances around you to make sure you don’t have any unwanted attention before getting to your feet and following Jake in the direction of his Marui. You knew the path like the back of your hand purely from your excursions with Tuk and occasionally Lo’ak, able to find yourself outside in what felt like the blink of an eye. 

Jake is in the process of closing the privacy covers on his Marui when you approach with delicate footsteps on the connecting walkway, giving you no time to excuse yourself as his eyes lock straight onto yours. For a moment he looks surprised until a sharp grin spreads across his handsome face, his head tilting to the side slightly as he beckons your inside.

You find yourself frozen for just a moment until you will your feet to move, stepping into his home and watching as he finishes closing the privacy coverings. You watch the muscles of his back flexing as he does so, entranced by his body once again just as you had been at the bonfire.

“You’ve got a staring problem, you know that?” Your breath catches in your throat at his words, any confidence you had dwindling out like the doused flames of a fire. Jake senses your discomfort and turns to look at you, a less intimidating smile taking over his face as he approaches you. “Calm down, baby. Don’t worry. I’ve got a pretty bad staring problem too” His large hands move to rest on your hips, pulling you closer and forcing a gasp of surprise out of your mouth. His eyes peer down at you, a lustful haze darkening their amber colour, the way they lock on to your own makes a shiver trickle down your spine. “Stare at you all the time, pretty girl. I just know how to do it without being caught” You can’t control the giddy smile that spreads across your face, almost bringing an ache to your cheeks from the stretch of it.

“Open your mouth for me, pretty girl” Jake watches as your mouth opens automatically, taking a shameful amount of pride in the way you cling to his words and follow them without question. Your pretty pink tongue sits so sweetly in your mouth, spit beginning to pool the longer that he spends staring. Lifting his hand to your face, Jake takes a hold of it to steady you before tilting your head back ever so slightly and pursing his lips to spit onto your tongue.

Your head spins as a high whine escapes your throat, the pure filth of Jake’s actions causing your neglected cunt to pulse needily. You attempt to close your mouth and swallow the built up saliva before it becomes too much but before you can do so you feel the weight of Jake’s thumb settling itself into the dip of your tongue. 

Closing your lips around Jake's thumb, an uncontrollable moan escapes him at the feeling of your gentle sucking and pillow soft tongue. In a fleeting moment of cruelty, Jake forces his thumb deeper, pressing ever so slightly to the back of your tongue just to hear your pitiful little gurgle as you gag from the unexpected pressure.

“Christ, such a good girl for Daddy” He drags his thumb out of your suckling mouth, groaning at the uncontrollable throb of his cock when your pretty, plump lips part to release it. Your eyes watery from the slightest abuse of your gag reflex and Jake’s sure the amount of blood that has left his brain to harden his cock this much is going to leave him with less brain cells than he can afford.

“Da-dee?” 

Jake lets out a deep, rumbling growl at the sound of your sweet little voice despite the shoddy pronunciation of the human word and the sound shoots straight to your cunt, your slick dampening your tewng  “That’s right baby, M'your daddy now, aren’t I?” 

The sweet little crease of confusion settled on your brow only serves to turn him on more, tail whipping back and forth erratically as he stares you down with his piercing amber eyes. You watch his hands move from where he grips you to reach for the strings of his tweng, you can feel his amusement radiating from him at how you can’t seem to drag your eyes away until his voice breaks the silence.

“Why don’t you get on your knees for Daddy, pretty girl? C’mon get down there for me” His tewng drops from his body in near perfect sync with your knees dropping to the floor and you watch, entranced, as he spits into the palm of his hand before giving his impressive cock a few quick, slick tugs.

Jake can barely meet your lust-clouded eyes that flick back and forth between his hard cock and his face, worried that he’d lack the self control it would take to stop from stroking his dick in his tight grip until his fat load covered your face.

You feel Jake’s hand take a rough grip of your hair, all five of his fingers gripping your loose waves hard enough to make it sting just a little. 

“You want to suck it, pretty girl? Want daddy’s cock in your mouth?”

A desperate purr bubbles from your throat uncontrollably and your ears pin back in a show of pure submission “Please, Please daddy” 

Jake uses his grip on your hair to guide your head towards his cock, a growl rumbling from his throat at how hungrily you suck his cock deep into your mouth. Your eagerness makes your eyes water but a nagging part of your mind worries you’ll never have a chance like this again which only encourages you to not take a second of this encounter for granted.

Jake uses his grip on your hair to move your head up and down on his cock, abusing your throat with his length, your body fights to reject the intrusion with messy gags and excess spit drooling from your plump lips but you fight back the urge to gag every time and after a few moments of Jake using your throat how you dreamt he’d use your currently soaked pussy you were able to take him without any overwhelming issue. 

Jake is entranced by the tears that spill from your lash line, dampening your cheeks along with a mix of your saliva and his pre-cum that had been steadily drooling from his cock since you dropped to your knees. “So perfect for daddy”

You feel Jake’s grip tugging you off his cock and you whine from the disappointment, fighting his hold to have the weight of his cock in your mouth once again. All Jake can do is laugh fondly in disbelief at how much of a mess you were already, he can only imagine how you’d react if he decided to split your pussy open on the girth of his cock. “Tongue out for me, baby. Show me your tongue”.

You follow his instructions immediately, tongue lolling out of your mouth mindlessly. A desperate sob ripping from your throat when he begins tugging his cock with his free hand. “Ah, baby don’t get pouty now, your mouth was like heaven but I want to watch you look stupid for it, just for a second” 

Jake watches you as your cock drunk eyes seem to be latched straight on to his hands movements. He feels his heavy balls drawing closer to his body, his breathing getting heavier the closer he gets to blowing his load. “You wanna taste daddy’s cum, sweetheart? Got a big fucking load of it just for you” He taps the sensitive head of his cock against your tongue and lets out a borderline feral growl when you take the initiative to swirl your eager letting tongue around the tip. 

Jake’s hand is getting faster on his cock now, you watch eagerly as your cunt pulses with need and drools more slick into your tewng that sticks to your skin. He pulls back from your mouth and peers down at you, you can tell he’s close but needs something more to tip him over the edge. 

“Please cum for me, daddy”

Jake feels your words like a punch to the gut and can’t even suck in a breath before he’s cumming. Moans escape him uncontrollably as he watches each shot of his hot cum hit your face. The first hits your cheek and he knows immediately that he wants to cover your whole face with his load, no questions asked, it’s an animalistic desire that burns shamefully in his gut but he’s too lost in the throes of pleasure to fight it. 

Each shot of Jake’s hot cum that hits your face makes your clit pulse needily and you sob in pleasure, a dark desire inside you wishes that every drop was being pumped deep into your empty cunt instead.

Jake forces your mouth back open with a squeeze of your jaw, resting his cock on your tongue for a final time as he roughly tugs out the last drops of cum to at least let you taste him for being such a good girl.

The air is thick with desire as you swallow down the last of Jake’s load, the rest of it cooling the longer it sits on your face. Your eyes are locked with his, waiting for him to say something or do something.

Jake pants above you, admiring your debauched state. Your lips are swollen, your face and chest is soaked from your tears, his cum and your spit. Jake had never been any good at art or understanding it but in his head, right at this moment, your messy little face was a masterpiece and he was the artist that made it.

You startle slightly when Jake crouches in front of you, his hand cups your pussy through your tewng and the sudden pressure after being neglected for so long almost makes your knees buckle. Jake chuckles and pats your cunt condescendingly, enjoying the sound of the wet smack his hand produces as it makes contact with your slick tewng. 

“How about we clean up that pretty face of yours.. and then daddy can work on cleaning up your sweet little cunt?”