#its not like she's under terrible contracts or anything | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

kawaiijohn · 1 year ago

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Danny wakes up in PMMM and wants to murder the weird God cat that's bothering the kids

Ok I wanna write this

"Get back here you rat!"

The white rabbit-cat thing dodges another three of Danny's ecto rays as he races through the back halls of a mall under construction. He has no idea where he is, only that the thing he's chasing is bad news.

It has eyes not unlike the Observants, and a voice laced with double meanings. Danny didn't appreciate it staring into his soul- his Core, as though it could sense it.

The creature keeps running for its life, able to appear in places it shouldn't be near before Danny can strike it. The strange ring-like structures around its long ears seem to ring strangely when his blasts whiff the beast.

The short chase comes to an end when he hits a dead end. He skids to a stop, panting- somehow unable to summon his ghost form after the portal tossed him here. He's shocked he can even call upon any of his powers, stranger that the only one he can access are his ecto blasts. But it's not completely shocking- places outside of Amity tend to be less forgiving with their low ambient ectoplasm levels. The halls are dark, ominous- there's a tension in the air not unlike a ghost attack waiting to happen.

He doesn't like it.

Danny uses a ball of ectoplasm as a flashlight as he creeps through the more chained-off sections of the mall, a tingle creeping up his spine. He wants explanations, and the creature knows something- it has to with how it stares into Danny's soul. It's the only lead he has, and he's too stubborn to give up on it.

"You know, you would make an incredible magia- all it would take is making a contract with me."

Danny nearly screams as he whips around. The strange creature sits perched, not unlike a cat, on a construction barrier directly behind him. Its eyes stare once again into his soul, digging into his very essence. Danny's eyes dart around the dark, trying to find anything to use to his advantage. He comes up empty handed, so he does what he knows, and stands his ground.

Intimidation it is.

"I'm not stupid enough to do something for a creature that really shouldn't be able to talk. Especially if it involves contracts." Thank the Ancients Sam had a phase where she obsessed over Faustian tales and fae folklore. That and his firsthand experience with Desiree. Be careful what you wish for, and all that.

"You do seem to be someone who has had dealings before. You are one step away from being a Magia, after all." The creature appears directly next to him on a pile of equipment and grooms itself with a paw. "It would be rather easy on both our ends to embrace your full potential. All you would need to do is Wish for something- anything you desire. And you'd finish becoming what you were meant to be- a Magia."

Danny starts, jumping back with his hand glowing. He hadn't heard it approach.

"Jokes on you- I know how wishes work!" he exclaims, taking a fighting stance. "No matter what, you'd twist it into the opposite of what I want, and I'm not gonna fall for it." The ecto energy crackles in his palm, anxiety at being stared at by those beady, soulless eyes gathers in the back of his throat like acrid lightning. Or like the nerves before a test.

Danny bristles as the creature pads up to him from its perch and tilts its head.

"Interesting- although you have no contract written binding your soul, you are somehow more like magia than human. Tell me, Daniel Fenton, did you receive anything in return for the sacrifice you've made? Do you have a reason to fight the Witches wherever you hail from? Or were you granted this terrible responsibility without fair compensation- no benefit to your life for the amount of magic you expend fighting."

Danny stills and shudders, still unable to force a transformation in the low ectoplasmic atmosphere of this place.

"I simply wanted to offer my services. To help you fight, for protection- to make you feel... whole. Tell me," it looks once again into Danny's soul, unblinking, "Are you aware of how close you have wandered to a truly Hopeless being's lair?"

The walls around him shimmer with unreality, he can hear whispers of a bastardized, corrupted form of Ghost Speak echoing in his head. It physically pains him to listen. He slams his hands over his ears to drown out the noise, but it tickles the back of his brain, makes the space behind his eyes itch. His Core pulses in warning as the room shifts as though it were underwater.

"What is this?!? What are you doing?!"

"Nothing. The culprit to this disturbance is a Witch- a creature made of the despair that lives in the darkness of humanity. A being that wishes to spread misery and corruption upon the innocent." its eyes remain staring at him. "With how you are now- incomplete in your form, you will not survive should you be pulled in to this labyrinth you have wandered near."

Danny looks up from where he'd ducked his head. His Core pulses again. Whatever this thing messing with his mind is, it's similar to a ghost- but wrong. Corrupted. Evil. And yet... sad. He steels his face and glares back at the creature.

"Witches are creatures of pure darkness, they cause unexplained suicides, death, sickness, catastrophe. You are simply unable to unleash your full potential in your current form, but if you make a wish, sign a contract- you would be unstoppable."

"I don't need to be unstoppable. I can handle... whatever this witch thing is without your help- and it's not like I plan on getting caught in a labyrinth. I'd rather not fight another Minotaur."

Danny begins to walk away from the shimmering spots, but can't find the way he came. The chains hanging from the ceiling whisper with anguish.

The creature continues to follow with its blank expression.

"Suit yourself, Daniel Fenton. My services are only a call away. You'd be surprised how amicable I am to those who change their mind last minute- in fact, we encourage it."

And with that, the creature leaves.

Danny clamps his hands over his ears again. The padding of his sneakers through the endless maze of mall construction echoes hollowly through the otherwise silent back halls. "Sam would be pumped to find out the backrooms are real." He laughs joylessly. Danny has no idea how long he's been wandering, but he knows he's not lost. The mall is shifting around him as he wanders, and he knows he's being watched.

He scratches at his wrist idly.

It had started itching, right over his death scar, about fifteen minutes ago. The whispers make it itch more, and he grumbles. He's getting frustrated- usually by now the ghost watching him would have jumped out and attacked, but whatever the thing watching him is (the witch thingy most likely) is biding its time to piss him off.

Another wave of empty emotions waft over him from a doorway that wasn't there the last time he circled this very hallway. His wrist itches more before suddenly burning as though electricity shocked him once again. He looks down and gasps at the strange butterfly marking that's appeared on his wrist, just as his hand reaches for the door of its own volition.

Danny seethes as his body disobeys him, but is brought to stunned silence when the door opens, sending the hallway it leads to flying towards him. The next doorway barrels at him, and he closes his eyes to brace for the impact before it opens as well.

Again and again doors race forward and open, before he finds himself in a domed garden of brambles and roses.

Danny feels his Core lurch as the mark on his arm burns brightly before fading.

"That was weird..." he whispers to himself. He only takes a few moments looking around before finding a rock made of paper to hide behind. The inner sanctum of this Ancients forsaken Labyrinth is enormous- everything looks as though its made of collage paper and watercolor. There's a large chaise lounge in the center of the room, surrounded by strange creatures shaped like dandelions with mustaches.

"Okay that's even weirder..."

The dandelion beings pass roses between them, piling them on and around the lounge in the center of the room. The lighting overhead in the glass dome is dim, but it seems to be getting brighter- the light itself pinpointing on something resting on the chaise.

Danny's entire being revolts as he looks upon the strange black jewel. The bottom is needle thin, resting on a soft silk pillow without making nary a dent. A strange flash of light bursts from it- pure black as void and cold to the touch. It begins to break, forming into a disfigured shape. The shadow it becomes undulates and pulses, growing more and more gargantuan as it explodes from the jewel with a shattering scream of terror.

Danny feels his eyes involuntarily water, the tears falling freely down his cheeks as the jewel produces something similar to a Death Echo, forming into a being made of rose bushes, butterflies, and pure sorrow.

Danny witnesses the birth of something horrifying and his Core screams at him to run. This thing is dangerous, it's dangerous and wrong and will be his End. He stands to leave, but finds his legs unable to move. He struggles, panicked.

Roses appear from nothing as they quickly morph into black tendrils and ensnare him. He's lofted up, up, up to the Thing's- the Witch's 'face'. A corrupt butterfly stares back at him and howls. Danny shrieks in response, summoning an ecto ray in defense. He blasts the witch in its 'chest'. It doesn't appreciate this much, tossing him to the ground.

He shoots another few blasts at it as he falls, smirk on his face through the panic. But without access to his flight or intangibility, he plummets to the brambles below.

Danny forgets he can't summon his ghost form here. He remembers too late that his human form can't handle as much as his ghost form.

"Shit-"

"Oh so now you show up again."

Danny sits up from where his body crumpled. Thankfully, he only has a broken arm and a ton of scratches to show for it, having landed mostly in a fucked up rosebush.

"Have you given my offer more thought?" the rabbit-thing asks from its perch behind him.

"Sorry, I was too busy being jumped by a plant from my worst nightmares to think about wishing for a million bucks or whatever." Danny rolls his eyes, trying to hide the terror in his shaking body. "Seriously, do you have anything better to do than stalk me?"

"You are in no real position to ask this many questions, Daniel Fenton. This witch will kill you and devour you, and not necessarily in that order. It would be beneficial on both our ends for you to sign a contract with me."

Danny hates how right this little shit cat is. Without access to most of his powers, he's practically useless against a monster this large. And if he's useless he can't defeat, let alone escape. Not to think about what this thing will do to innocent mall-goers should it get bored of eating his corpse or whatever.

He shudders.

"They say dealing with the devil never goes well." he responds to the creature. "Although it's kind of a dick move, waiting to prey on me at my lowest point."

The creature stares at him with its infuriatingly neutral 'cute' expression. "Oh but I'm no devil. You may call me Kyubey. I am simply the familiar to all magical girls- in your case, magia. A contract with me would grant you the power to take on this witch, to embrace the potential you've already started to accumulate."

The witch watches angrily in the background, trying to seek him out amongst the brambles. Danny shudders.

"You keep mentioning potential. The hell does that mean?"

Kyubey stares at his soul with its vacant, beady eyes. "Never before have we seen someone manifest their own magic without a contract. It should be an impossibility! Bringing you to full potential could make you one of the strongest magia of all time. You could wish for nearly anything, and your potential would grant it!"

He considers it for a second as he hears the chains above them shaking. The noise blends in with the cacophonous whispers of dread.

"I..." Danny starts, another question on his lips before he feels the tug of magic on his Core, the sense of gears and hourglasses gripping everything around him. His head slowly turns as everything is frozen in place.

He blinks.

Kyubey's form fills with holes as the sound of gunfire reaches his ears.

Time resumes.

Kyubey's corpse collapses before him in a puddle of red and white viscera.

Danny screams, and the witch roars.

It wasn't supposed to happen this way.

In the near one hundred times she's done this month long song and dance, these back halls have only ever been occupied by four creatures. Herself, Miki, Kaname, and the Incubator.

So why is it there's a new presence? Why is Kyubey stalking a foreigner through the halls?

Never mind that.

She cannot fail. Her mission is clear, and she's once again ready to strike when Kyubey inevitably finds Madoka again, as it always does when this mall trip comes to pass.

Homura finds her patience wavering- it should have made its move on Madoka by now, but for some reason it's focused on a boy who clearly has no idea where he is or what he's doing. An anomaly in all these repeated timelines who won't even be able to see the incubator stalking him. She shouldn't waste her time following, but as soon as she loses sight of the damned incubator it'll strike. With her luck, it will snare Madoka in its claws in five minutes or less if she loses her nerve.

So she follows, shield in hand and ready to pounce.

It doesn't take too much longer for something to happen.

The boy, impossibly, sees Kyubey approach. Even more impossibly, he hits it with green fire when it asks for a contract. Her trigger finger itches, but it lacks a pistol for the moment.

Homura has no idea what to expect, but she did not expect for the boy to start threatening Kyubey, the same green magic being shot at it while in a fully human guise. Even stranger, the boy doesn't have any sort of indication that he's a magical gir- no a magia. He'd be a magia, she realizes.

Homura continues to follow the boy, long after Kyubey 'gives up'. With how he ignorantly walked right into a hatching witch's lair- Gertrude, one of the weaker witches to encounter she muses to herself- she doubts he's any sort of magia himself. Yet. Especially with how Kyubey is pursuing him. She wonders if this means Kyubey will leave Madoka alone for a while, with the boy catching its attention.

However, hive minded creatures can be everywhere at once.

Homura's momentary distraction causes her to stumble when a wall juts up from the floor beneath her. She curses when the labyrinth opens fully, separating herself and the boy she's investigating. There must be a reason he's shown up this loop, with how he can manipulate magic without a contract. There might even be the possibility he can help save Madoka this time, but she won't get her hopes up too high. Allies are far and few in between with how callous she must be to survive, and she doubts a normal looking foreign boy will put up with her aloof and cruel facade.

She fights her way through the labyrinth, using her magic to track the inner sanctum just as the boy witnesses the birth of a witch. There's no way he's a magia- not if he's reacting in enough fear to chill the room. No seasoned, or even new magia would dare show so much fear towards a witch. Not this openly.

Homura readies her gun as the boy is lofted in the air, almost too quickly for her to interfere.

Time pauses and he blasts the witch with his strange magic.

Wait.

How...?

Homura's brow furrows in distrust.

How is this-

Time resumes.

The blasts hit. The witch shrieks.

Homura is not close enough. She is not fast enough.

She is too surprised to stop time again.

And the boy falls.

Kyubey is a bastard. This is a fact.

The amount of times Homura has seen it approach Madoka or her friends at their lowest is astronomical, so she's not at all surprised to see it approach the boy after he takes what should have been a deadly fall. She's glad she's seen so much brutality in her short yet too long life- the sound of crunching bones is much easier to handle this way.

She wonders why Kyubey is being so persistent, but even more so, she needs to know how he was able to nullify her time stop, or at least how he was able to continue to move somewhat. She doesn't appreciate unknown variables, let alone ones that can be a threat to her mission. So she listens in- masking her presence best as she can from the Incubator.

"Oh but I'm no devil. You may call me Kyubey. I am simply the familiar to all magical girls- in your case, magia. A contract with me would grant you the power to take on this witch, to embrace the potential you've already started to accumulate."

Homura rolls her eyes. The Incubator might not look like a devil, but it is one she knows deeply.

"You keep mentioning potential. The hell does that mean?"

Homura prepares one of her more efficient guns, not liking the tone of the Incubator, nor the nervous panic in the boy's shoulders. Potential is power as a magical girl. The more potential, the stronger the magic and the more terrifying the witch. She reaches out to try feeling for the threads of potential surrounding the boy, shuddering as she does. Her eyes widen in surprise when it whispers the same tune as her own abilities- Time, but something more, something Other.

A possible ally, if she plays her cards right.

"Never before have we seen someone manifest their own magic without a contract. It should be an impossibility! Bringing you to full potential could make you one of the strongest magia of all time. You could wish for nearly anything, and your potential would grant it!"

Homura jolts to awareness then and there. The boy's eyes look resigned, his shoulders slump. He's going to do it- and she doesn't quite want to deal with either a new magia or witch with her mission on the line.

"I..."

Her decision is made. She winds up her shield and freezes everything as her gun unleashes a barrage of ammo at the Incubator.

Satisfied with the gored mess of the creature, she approaches the boy with a toss of her hair to soothe her nerves.

She's not surprised his eyes follow her despite the frozen time.

So she releases her hold on it and watches as he takes a shuddering breath and Kyubey's corpse collapses between them.

"You should not be here."

Danny snorts in response. "Believe me, I wouldn't be here even if I wanted to."

#dantes vibe corner #princessfanona #danny phantom #dpxpmmm #answered #dp #my fics

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deadrlngers · 1 year ago

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kinktober day 8 (better late than never): temperature play pair: enver gortash x tav rating: explicit words: 2.9k

“Ready for the next one?” Violante’s fingers barely ghosted over his shoulder, brushing air rather than skin like she was caressing the keys of a piano.

The click of the boots paused behind his back and the silence that followed made his body tense up – the instinct of a prey cornered by the hunter. Gortash could not escape nor attack, he could only wait for the strike of the arrow that would declare the conclusion of the hunt. Such suspense made him restless, terribly aware of his surroundings, of the towering presence he could not turn to look at and the hard stone under his knees. Even his own breathing became unbearable, pointing with precision every second going by.

The hunter was pleased instead, to drink from the cup of the prey’s misery. Violante watched how the muscles contracted at the mere idea that something, anything could happen at any given moment. Out of control or prediction, Gortash was prisoner to the anticipation of the unknown. Even the minor shift, be it a sigh or the rustling of fabric, made his senses fire to attention.

She took one step closer to his kneeled form and his spine went straighter like under a spell, bracing itself for what would surely come. It was a simple matter of when. Gortash expected sparks to prick his flesh again, like needles and pins nipping on his body–a sensation that sat on the tipping edge between pleasure and pain–so Violante, fiendish as a devil, chose to play a different game.

When the fingertips stroked the back of his neck, Gortash waited for the electrifying touch to set his nerves aflame again, instead it was cold that reached him. Freezing cold, frigid and crisp, worse than ice or snow on feverish skin, icy as death and then some. It was unnatural, mystic, and it sprung free from her hand and spread through his body like a disease. A surprised whimper escaped his lips, one that he immediately regretted. Violante drew a path that glided down and stopped right in the middle of his shoulder blades. His back arched in an instinctive attempt to escape her touch but in vain, and then he shivered.

“You’re pathetic.” She taunted with a devious sneer, reveling in the spectacle granted by her sly work.

Gortash hesitated, biting his tongue and allowing just a scowl to speak for him. He struggled against the ropes forcing his arms to his back, tying them till the forearms, and kept grimly quiet.

The sound of steps echoed on the stone again, slow and calculated, and finally the half-elf reappeared in front of him, imposingly tall and dangerously close. He kept his head straight, denying her favorite poison: attention.

His scalp felt warm as Violante raked her fingers through his locks. The bite of ice was still sinking its fangs in his back, so he leaned into the only source of relief almost too eagerly. His eyelids fluttered as the fingernails caressed his skull, a delightful tingly sensation soothing his senses.

Then, the yank. A rough, cruel pull forced Gortash to look up and meet that gaze he was avoiding out of spite. A golden ocean, he’d call it. Strong gilded waves that crushed relentlessly against the shoreline, intense and unstoppable, set on making even the most expert sailor drown for the violence it could unleash. And behind that strength hid melancholy. Barely visible to the uncaring eye, ever so mysterious, never explained. An enigma he never quite resolved in years of tries.

“Do you wish to say something?” Violante quipped “Use your words instead of squirming like a worm against a few ropes.”

The corner of his lips rose to a smug smirk and he pushed his chin higher than what was forced on him. “Peculiar use of the gifts an eldritch entity granted you. Pitiful, to waste power on such trivialities.”

Her eyes narrowed. “And I wonder what your lord Bane would think of his chosen bent down to his knees.”

“Power plays among soon-to-be rulers?” Gortash chuckled confidently, a sound that carved holes into Violante’s pride “I’m certain it is quite the entertaining sight.”

Irritating, to say the least, like only Gortash could be at times. Violante swallowed down her irritation like a wine that turned to vinegar, she should know better than pay any mind to the Lord’s affronts. A hard twist on his locks and his mouth fell agape with a huff. That was the most reprisal she could allow to not appear bothered, she had no intention of crowning him victorious at the game of pissing her off.

“All bark and no bite, aren’t you?” She said, her jaw clenched.

The cold made its return, like winter after a long summer, this time it prickled his lips as Violante’s thumb ran across the supple bottom and then followed the stretched cupid’s bow. Gortash indulged, teasing her finger with the tip of his tongue and the scratch of teeth, a silent invite in. Warmth spread to his nape like a caress while his lips trembled under the brisk brush–it could be a beautiful spring, he thought.

Violante didn’t turn down the solicitation and slipped her thumb in his mouth, pressing on his tongue and letting it coat with saliva. In return, Gortash wrapped his lips around it. An exhale, held back to let it go unnoticed; the blaze in her eyes and the gentle stroke to his hairline spoke loud enough. There was nothing Violante could love more than obedience.

If only it could last.

It shouldn’t have come as a surprise, when teeth sunk so deep into the flesh she swore they were gripping the bone. A pained hiss, thus came anger–not red and hot but shocking and punitive. Her fingernails dug deep into his jaw, a few sparks flashed in the air like bright stars; Gortash’s body reacted to its own accord, springing upright on the knees, twisting the ropes as he searched for any kind of outlet to unwind the electric buzz that flowed through his muscles. The pulsating wave faded to a tingle and left only a quiver to his spine as he sat back on his heels.

“You never learn.” Violante shook her head, she was surprisingly calm as she inspected the teeth marks on her thumb. Anger appeared to dissipate from her features, as if it was nothing more than a passing black cloud. When her gaze found her little traitor, as she’d call him, he pressed his lips into a thin line. Unpredictable as ever, that was her worst trait–Gortash detested it.

She used her boots to tap the inner sides of his knees, right then left, and gave nothing more than a command: “Spread them, Gortash.”

Gortash she said, never his first name, never Enver. Lord Gortash at times, when she needed to make it clear that a space divided them, an incurable separation. Or to taunt him, of course. Since their ‘reunion’ she did not dare to give him the honor of such intimacy so he tried his best to reciprocate the distance, and perhaps that was for the better. Names such as theirs left a certain weight of the past on the tongue.

He followed the order, unquestionably. Violante joined him on the floor, knees brushing his own, stooping down at his sorry level, showing mercy if he had any luck.

A striking presence she was, taller than Gortash even in such a position. His black eyes rose up to meet hers: Gortash could almost taste her scent–iris, heliotrope, juniper berry and the most exciting of them all, the belladonna. He wondered if that one habit of hers was still an occurrence, the poisoning. He searched for her lips and, instinctively, wet his own. A kiss deadly as the perfume she ingested, one kiss away from dangling by the thin thread between life and death. He couldn’t help but fantasize.

Gortash was pulled away from his thoughts when Violante ventured forth: she went for his neck now, fingers gliding and melting like ice against the warm skin. A feather-like caress, almost too good to believe. It made Gortash sigh, his shoulders slacking and head faintly falling to the side awaiting for more. The tip of her nose followed the traced path down to his collarbones, earning the delicious sound of a hum rising from his throat.

Violante went lower with tortuous slowness. The cold blazed into warmth again as she placed her palm in the middle of his chest, fingers dancing and knuckles brushing across the wide expanse. The sensation was akin to the soothing heat of a crackling fire in the hearth and it engulfed Gortash’s senses. It was rewarding, which meant suspicious.

He used his teeth again, this time to nibble at the sensitive pointy end of her ear. Violante gave a low chuckle as she squirmed away. A beautiful sound, a song he sadly forgot the notes of.

Delight doesn’t last long, he should know. The gentle heat became an abnormal fever, her index and middle finger delved in the flesh harder like they were trying to reach for his rib cage. The pain reached, screamed at Gortash before his wit told him what she was doing.

When the distressed groan reached her ears, Violante stopped to admire the rapid rising and falling of his chest, the gritted teeth, and the surprised indignation pooling in his gaze. A swollen red patch of dry skin was now adorning Gortash’s body.

“Oh don’t get all angry at me now,” she mocked as a beautiful, charming smile curled her lips but failed to reach her eyes “I’m certain the Archduke is not short on healers.”

“You–” The words turned into ash in his mouth, burning under the hot fires of his resentment before they could even take shape in his thoughts–a fair reaction, so why was his body shaking with excitement? “You should learn reverence by the snap of a whip.” He growled, hurt, humiliated, with his tired knees, the bared teeth and the torpor of his arms. She laughed, made fun of him.

Violante placed a finger to her lips and made a show of an admonishing shh!. “Be good now, I’ll reward you for your patience.” She cooed, placing both her hands on his chest.

It licks at her ego, the way he caves in. Open, hurt, like a bleeding wound exposed to the air. He knows all she can offer is cauterizing salt and he does not falter. If only they had found any other means for coexistence, they would’ve used it. Something simpler than Violante’s maddening devotion that ravaged both the devotee and the deity, than Gortash’s need for something that goes over, ahead of a limit they teached–forced–him to not cross, that lust for more. It wasn’t perfect, but it was indeed coexistence. Tearing each other apart was preferable to distance, absence.

Pleasure followed to pain without fail, Gortash knew, so all he offered her was a cautious look–don’t do that again. A tacit agreement between the two: I’ll indulge less.

The small burn was tedious but her cool digits offered a little respite, sadly not for the itchiness. All Violante could yet give was a way to take his mind off her cruel mark. She moved her attention to his breasts, circling with large strokes the darker areola, slowly and intentionally avoiding any direct contact with the hardening nipples. She carried on, skimming her icy fingers down to his lower stomach, tracing bumps and marks in the descent.

Stopping just above the line of his breeches, she could feel the tensing up in his abdomen. Their eyes locked and a silent warning flashed in Gortash’s black ones. He was stern and assertive, yet he made no attempt to hide the way his adam’s apple bobbed up and back down as she pulled on the fastenings.

This time Violante had no intention to play. She loved to see him bleed, that was certain, but she loved it more when he needed her. The answer to his caution laid in the dreamy fluttering of her lashes: I’ll be fair, I’ll be kind.

Her hand dipped down, touching the coarse hair there. “Is it lower?” She brazenly whispered in a breath.

“If it’s begging you wish to hear, let’s cut to the chase.” He replied, a thin note of annoyance in his voice.

“It is not.” Violante moved to straddle his thigh between her own and let her other hand roam into his hair once more “Tell me I want you and I’ll do it.”

Ah! Want, of all things.

Something deep inside him turned from hunger to starvation, far worse than any want, any need. “I do. I want you.” He murmured almost to himself.

A certain sorrow, or misery even, took over her gaze for the briefest of the moments and disappeared as quickly as it came. He took notice, but did not speak of it.

She pulled his cock out of his clothes, a constraintment that felt like an endless torture by now. Gortash groaned at the contact, his eyes drifting down between their bodies. Violante followed suit. Her fingers ran teasingly along the skin with a faint lukewarm heat, her thumb sliding over the slit, gathering the precum there and wiping it on the underside.

Gortash shuddered, arching into the touch, muscles flexing in protest against the ropes. Oh, how she loved to see him struggle. She began pumping him, wickedly slow as to hear more of those pants and the groans that made his chest rumble. Most of all, Violante wished to see those dark eyes of his dip into an impossible night, watch as every light would leave them, take note of how languidly they would gaze back at hers.

A faint tug on his hair and immediately his chin rose up. His lips parted and a gasp left his throat as Violante teased the head of his cock with her palm. The warmth of his breath on her skin made her heart beat a little faster, and the husky sounds filling her ears enchanted her like the songs of a siren. Before she knew her hips ground down on his thigh as if they had a mind of their own. Breath caught in her throat and a faint bliss made Gortash grin.

Suddenly Violante was made aware of how badly her arousal had mounted, impetuous for the neglect and avid for any kind of stimulation. No matter how badly she ached to dive, drown even, into the needs her body was loudly asking for, she had to endure. Such a prize would be sweeter in the face of all that struggle.

She withdrew her hand briefly, earning a grunt from the man beneath her. She coated her fingers with her own spit, making a show of giving them special attention with her tongue before sliding them on his length again. Gortash chuckled darkly, a word or two hanging on his lips, threatening to spill and tease, but he kept them safely locked away, simply tormenting his thoughts.

The room was filled with the slick sound of skin and panting, then a series of breathy pleas rushing out with the fury of a waterfall. Neither registered any of the invocations, a messy mingling of yes, faster and curses all wrapped in a headily mix as their lips barely brushed and never met. It was intoxicating, breathing in each other’s air, and dizzying. Fading into the little moans and gasps and yet never sharing more of that intimacy.

She would never kiss him, no matter how the occasional thrust of her hips asked her to succumb to her desires, and he’d never kiss her, no matter how badly he craved it, how easy it could be. In the attempt to avoid giving it any meaning, the resistance was creating far worse implications. But it did not matter, neither would ever admit defeat.

Violante lazily rested her forehead against his, admiring how the pair of eyes in front of her struggled to stay open, threatening to roll back, moans echoing in the room with unashamed generosity. He was close, it was undoubtedly clear.

“I…” he began, swallowing a lump in his throat “I’m almost–”

Her lips pressed together. “I know.” She confidently agreed.

Then came the twitching, the need to dig his knees deeper into the stone, his orgasm creeped on him until it didn’t. Violante tightened her grip around the base of his cock, squeezing him so that the taste of his climax could stay just as that. A mere aroma lingering on his tongue, coating his lips with sweet nectar but never falling down his throat, never reaching his end.

Gortash cursed, loud and unbecoming for a Lord – she noted with amusement. He writhed and squirmed, his hips thrusting forward desperate to find something, that last one push he needed to reach bliss. Twice foolish he was, for falling in the ploy of Violante’s mercy.

“That was it, right?” She boasted, just a few inches away from him and yet so unreachable “Of course it was, you were so preciously loud just now.” She pressed her palm on his thigh and wiped clean her palm on the expensive fabric. Then she stood up swiftly, abandoning Gortash to his solitary, powerless frustration, to the bitter aftertaste in his mouth.“It’s never that easy, you should know.” Violante tilted her head, hands resting on her hips in an excessive show of superiority “Now, should I take you flat on your back or you would prefer to be cheeks flush against the floor?”

#bg3 #tavtash #enver gortash #oc: violante #rena writes #<i don't use this tag since ages helloo let's see how long this will last on my blog before i'll want to delete it #nsft #userterendelev #tagging you in this bc of our warrior bond for tavtash #scheduled #<or i'd never find the balls to post my writing around here

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comparativetarot · 1 year ago

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Transformation. Art by Chantelle Malone.

From a place of sunlight to the underworld, Persephone’s journey mirrors our own inner cycles. From a magical field of flowers the ground opens beneath her and she is taken down, down into the dark depths of Hades kingdom. Life can feel a little like that. We are sailing along and suddenly, the ground splits and we drop down into the waiting darkness. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ As we wait however, here in the underworld, we are not idle. There is work to be done as we make our way, there is no way out but through. Work we often don’t like, or wish to turn away from, what is often called shadow work. I like to think of it as a deepening though, a turning towards the dark, to shed what doesn’t serve. My favourite way of describing this work is ‘shedding the snakeskin’ and as we tun inwards, downwards into our deepest core, something alchemical begins to take place. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ Something in us is dying, in order to be transformed into something new. I’ve given this piece the title of transformation, rather than death, because in truth, nothing ever dies, it just changes form. All the things we leave behind can become fertiliser for whatever new seeds we are planting in our gardens, a sacred compost. Nature never wastes anything, and neither does the soul. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ You might read this and think I am romanticising the terribleness of the underworld, and maybe I am. Sometimes it feels like the weight of the earth is pressing down upon us, crushing us under its heel, it feels impossible to take another step. I find in times like these, clinging to this story, this archetype of the spiral, of transformation is a balm, a help. I can say to myself that this is a contraction, and soon expansion will come. This is the deep night, but the dawn is just over the horizon.

#Chantelle Malone #Death #Major Arcana #Tarot #Skeleton

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softquietsteadylove · 1 month ago

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You think you can make another marriage contract AU and show us how Gil is careful around her and such? It was such a sweet interaction from the last one I do wish to see it another time in another situation. Pretty please? 💚

"You're doing pretty good," Gilgamesh chuckled, leaving Thena to her chopping now that she seemed to be getting the hang of it. Very slowly, but still.

"You don't have to patronise me," she muttered as she sliced through the onion carefully. He had already done the cross chopping for her, all she had to do now was slice down straight.

"I'm not, I'm not, I really think you're doing great." He looked over his shoulder again but Thena was almost leaned down to be eye level with her task at hand. She really was terrible in the kitchen, but it was nothing short of charming.

Gil opened up the higher cabinets to retrieve some wine glasses for them. Thena didn't have a habit of drinking, but he had seen her enjoy a glass of wine with dinner here or there. And he'd brought home some nice champagne that he'd gotten out of a business deal. After he'd wiped the blood off the label, of course. "Y'know, I think-"

The glass slipped from his fingers on its way down, its large and crystal figure shattering on the kitchen floor. It was sharp against the serenity of the smooth music he'd selected for the quiet evening.

"Ay shi-" he cursed, stepping back in his house slippers. He looked over, the yelp that had hit the air registering in his mind. He frowned, "Thena?"

She had let out the sound of panic and ducked down. She was crouched on her knees, arms curled over her head. It was a reflex, based on pure instinct. And he hated to see it.

He left the glass on the floor. He could tend to it in a minute. He walked carefully, trying to approach her as gently as possible. "I'm sorry, Thena."

She was shaking. But she peeked out at him, shame written all over her face. "S-Sorry, I didn't-"

"Don't be sorry," he soothed, placing his hands on her shoulders. He helped her stand and lean on the counter. "It scared me, too. Are you okay?"

She nodded, but he could see the trembling in her fingers.

He took her hand in his, "come on, let's sit down."

She didn't argue with him, which was as good a sign as any that she wasn't feeling her best. She let him lead her to the couch, "I'm fine, Gil, really."

He liked it when she called him Gil. "You don't have to be. I'm sorry I startled you."

She shook her head, but a familiar look of annoyance came over her. "No, I...I would like nothing more than to say it's nothing."

He continued to hold her hand. "Do you want to tell me about it?"

She sighed. She really didn't, but she was going to anyway. She curled her legs up on the couch. He helped her sort out the blanket of his she liked to lay over them. "Would you be surprised if I brought up my father?"

He tried to keep his answers passive and neutral. This was her story, and it wouldn't do any good for him to start cursing about what a rat bastard piece of shit that guy was.

"He became more violent the older I became," Thena recited as if it were blase and not something horrifying. "By the time I was an adult, he realised that I was no longer so easy to intimidate. But throwing things was still effective."

Gil balled his fist up under the blanket. Her father would throw his drink glasses at her? Maybe letting him live wasn't the solution, no matter how much the drunk gambling addict owed him.

"It wasn't every night, but if he really needed something, he would throw anything we had on hand," she concluded. The way she met his eye was a sign that she was done telling the story, and moreover she was done with the vulnerability it took to tell it.

Gil pulled his hand out from the blanket and moved it slowly, making sure it was in her direct line of vision. It was one of those things he had learned was good for her when she had moved in. When she couldn't see all of him was when she was most on edge. So he moved slowly, talked gently.

And not just because of his vow to take care of her as his wife. They didn't have to be married for him to believe that she deserved to be cared for, especially after all she had endured on her own already.

Thena watched as he reached for her hand again. She gave it, and it seemed she was becoming more and more willing to share in those little kinds of affections.

He raised her hand to his lips equally slowly, and she allowed it. For all he had done already to acclimate her to her life being married to him, he was not a barbarian, and he wouldn't force her to accept anything she didn't want. That included the simplest, smallest of things, like a kiss on the hand.

She tilted her head.

"I'm sorry, Thena, I should have been more careful," he resolved, already thinking about having all the glassware moved to lower down, open shelves so there was less chance of a surprise like this.

"It was an accident, Gil, these things are bound to happen," she excused for him, and he thought perhaps too eagerly. She leaned forward in her seat on the couch, towards him. "If anything I wish my reaction could be different."

Why had he spared her father's life? Oh, because he worked for the police department and it always paid to have someone in there under his thumb. But he was seriously reconsidering it now.

"There was a time when I would have said he would never do such a thing."

It was a quiet confession, and she was even smiling. But he knew those words well; he had thought them plenty of times when he was young. But learning the business really beat that mentality away. And Thena didn't deserve to know that firsthand.

"Why don't you sit?" he suggested gently, giving both her hands a squeeze, "I'll finish dinner."

She pouted at him, and it was way (way) too cute. "But the onion isn't done. And I was doing quite well, all things considered."

He had to smile. She was proud of her progress, and it wasn't just the onion to be considered in that. He chuckled; he admired this part of Thena. This was the same woman who had been offered two options: marry him as a form of insurance, mutual destruction to keep her father in line and in business with them, or to let him kill her father, although it would leave her destitute with her father's bad name looming over her. And she had chosen the option that was arguably more daunting, and tougher.

And how could he not fall in love with a woman like that?

Thena stood, throwing her blanket off her legs herself, putting her hands on her hips. "And you told me you would show me what 'julienne' meant once I finished."

It was just slicing things lengthwise, on an angle to get technical. But he smiled up at his beautiful wife - reminded himself that she considered them married in name only - and stood with her. "Anything you want, sweetheart."

She pursed her lips at the familiar words. He knew she thought they were hollow and placating, but he really did mean them. If she ever wanted for anything while she was with him, all she had to do was ask.

"Hey."

She half turned, already partway down the three wide and curved stairs that separated the foyer and kitchen from the sitting area. Maybe this fancy architecture, artsy mansion was too much (like Thena said). "Hm?"

He walked to her, hands in his pockets. He leaned over slowly, and she didn't lean back and out of his reach. Eventually, his lips collided with her forehead, as intended.

When he looked at her again, her eyes fluttered a little bit, and he was pretty sure she was blushing. She really made it hard not to develop feelings for his own wife.

He retrieved the broom from the pantry and started sweeping up the glass.

Thena frowned, "Gil, I can-"

"Don't even think about it, hot stuff," he winked at her, just for the fun of it. She bristled. "Focus on getting that onion done by the time I'm finished. Then maybe I'll show you how to mandolin."

"The musical instrument?"

She really was terrible in the kitchen, and he couldn't have adored her more for it.

#Thenamesh Marriage Contract AU #thank you so much!!!#I'm really happy people like this one #Gil is so sweet #and I think that's what this Gil's thing is is that he's just...lonely #it's tough being the boss #he can't let his guard down with anyone at all #Thena is straight up one of the first friends he's made in years #and of course he's such a gentleman #she has her own room her own bathroom if he could give her her own house he would #too dangerous though #when some of his underlings are like uh...you sure about this boss?#well first of all no one questions the boss so he has to discipline them #and secondly...he just wants some company #he just wants to come home to someone #and it happens to coincide with this guy in the justice department who is broke and useless #Thena's unnamed father is a bastard of course he works for the broken justice system #Thena is acab and you do NOT have to tell Gil twice #anyway he's all gentlemanly with his wife #he knows she suffered in her abusive household #and he swears if she's ever scared of him he'll end it all himself #he never guessed she would grow affectionate towards him #he's here reminding himself not to let things get too deep #she's your 'wife' not your wife Gil stop it #meanwhile Thena is developing a crush on her own husband and doesn't know what to do about it

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fistfuloftarenths · 1 year ago

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get to know your tav

tagged by @my-favourite-zhent, thank you for enabling me

this is gustava, whose otherwise lovely parents have terrible taste in names. she's a half wood-elf bard and warlock, born and bred in the lower city.

what is your tav's favorite weapon?

her voice and her knowledge. not cutting words/vicious mockery , but she joined the college of lore for a reason. she's a scholar of music and magic, and knows far more than you'd expect if you caught her playing something bawdy in a festhall.

style of combat?

prefers not to fight if she can persuade or deceive her way out of it. if she has to fight, then it's hunger of hadar and an eldritch blast or two to knock over anyone who staggers out alive. never lets them get close to her.

deepest desire?

if you asked her? she would like to travel as far as she can and talk to people and learn their songs. preferably with a pack mule and a bag of holding. and some good boots. and rugan.

but deeper even than that and she's barely aware of it - she wants the elves to know her songs, and to play for them centuries after she's dust.

guilty pleasure?

sitting in a tavern people watching while being a judgemental cow. will claim its practice for cutting words but it's not, not really.

best-kept secret?

the details of the contract with her archfey patron

greatest strength?

her ability to read people and manipulate them, for better or worse. she ended up in de facto charge of the tadpole group because she was good at talking to all of them, and also good at talking to everyone else.

fatal flaw?

has done and will continue to do some appallingly stupid things just to see what will happen. burned herself twice on the stove, just to check. glued herself to the table. stuck her naked hands into a dead man's head to pull out the brain.

did not, however, lick a spider.

favourite spell/cantrip?

speak with animals. mere words cannot explain her joy

bad habit?

cannot always keep mouth shut when she thinks of something clever and or nasty to say. especially when it's accurate. nearly lost a tooth when referring to the flaming fist as the flaming filth to their faces.

hidden talent?

can identify and imitate accents from all over faerun. can even sing with them.

leisure activity?

finding a quiet corner and listening to people and scribbling down things in her commonplace book. alternatively, dressing up and putting on best high class accent and pretending to shop for things she will never be able to afford.

comfort food?

fiddlehead soup, the way her parents made it.

favourite person(s)?

rugan. she's not sure why and he's inconvenient, but he is.

favoured display of affection?

small touches, as if she's reassuring herself that they're there and solid. a kiss to the top of their head. running the back of her fingers down their arm. hooking her foot around theirs under the table.

fondest childhood memory?

curled up in a blanket, listening her mother and father and their friends sit around and talk and sing and play music, tapping her short child's fingers together in time.

anything else you’d like to share?

she hates volo. so much. she booed him at the goblin camp and will forever regret - just a little - not setting off those smokepowder barrells herself. he's a useless prat of a wizard, not a bard at all, but the instant she starts tuning her lute some uncultured chucklefuck will start asking her to play his tunes.

would kick him to death in an alleyway.

#gustava #legit swedish women's name #terrible #every so often tav thinks about taking a stage name and sighs #too many people know her by now

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whentherewerebicycles · 10 months ago

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mmkay i'm almost done with ina may's guide to childbirth, which i thought i wasn't gonna read bc too crunchy for me... but it turns out i am a little bit susceptible to crunchy content lol. i want to do some THINKING ALOUD about BIRTH under the cut.

after doing lots of reading (not just this book lol) i think i want to try for an unmedicated birth with minimal interventions. "try" being the key word because i also want to keep things very flexible and be able to respond to what i'm feeling in the moment. it seems like one of the surest ways to be disappointed or lightly traumatized by your birth experience is to go in with a rigid or overly idealized plan and then feel blindsided when things go sideways and you have to suddenly deviate from the version of birth you'd been really invested in. i am totally willing to get an epidural if i find contractions unbearable or to have an emergency c-section if it becomes medically necessary or to be induced if i am way overdue. but i also feel like... idk. i am not someone who takes a lot of pride in my Ability to Weather Pain or anything and i don't want to try unmedicated birth as way of Proving Something to myself or others. but i feel like, if i look into my heart, i kind of want to see what that experience is like and i want to see if i can use these different kinds of tools to reframe my understanding of what's happening to me in a way that feels empowering instead of "oh my god the worst thing imaginable is being inflicted upon me."

i have some complicated feelings i want to untangle around this, but i think the core of it is that my pregnancy loss and surgery last summer really fucked with my head, and a big reason was because the process was so intensely medicalized, felt so out of my control, and was handled with a painful lack of sensitivity by several of the medical providers i interacted with. that experience would've been shitty enough on its own, but it also happened to come at the end of a highly medicalized conception process where i spent months having my body obsessively monitored and scanned and tested, and where i spent a ton of time stuck in a pretty dark place in my head feeling like my body was fucked up in some way and incapable of doing this thing i wanted it to do so badly. idk man it really messed with my head. and then when i got pregnant again, the first trimester was just this terrible haze of bloodwork and transvaginal ultrasounds and intense surges of dread/anxiety every time i had to go in for a new test or scan. i know that some of that was necessary! the IUI process was necessary, the surgery was necessary, the monitoring to make sure i didn't have another ectopic was necessary. but now i am 34 weeks into a healthy, low-risk pregnancy and i don't think there is any reason to believe that birth must be a highly medicalized experience for me. i feel this tentative but real desire to give my body a chance to at least try this thing that it may only get to do once. i also feel keenly interested in the emotional and intellectual work of preparing my mind/body for birth. i want to understand in detail what's going to happen to my body and i want to approach the experience itself from a place of curiosity rather than fear. i want to practice ways of reframing birth as a process that animals' bodies naturally know how to do rather than a pathological condition that needs to be intensely monitored and managed. i want to experiment with different tools for calming my body/mind. i also know that i want to be able to move around for the entire labor process! for some reason this is the thing i feel most absolutely sure about... like i'm MUCH iffier on the whole experiencing intense pain thing lol but i'm absolutely sure that i want to be able to change position, walk around, move, etc., for as long as possible.

i also feel like my SIL's experience was a little bit illuminating for me. she was SO terrified of giving birth, like crying and having panic attacks about it for weeks leading up to the event, and ended up having just about every medical intervention you can have short of an emergency c-section. all of those things were meant to ease her anxiety/make labor simpler and faster, but instead they just resulted in a really long, scary, kinda traumatic birth experience that really freaked me out. so like, idk, i may have to have the exact same cascade of interventions she did! i can't predict how it's going to go or how i'm going to feel. but i think that maybe just doing the work of preparing for an unmedicated birth will stand me in good stead even if i choose or am required to go a different direction. like i think if i can really do the work of understanding what's going to happen and respecting the intensity of that experience without fearing it, i will probably feel better about whatever happens even if i do decide to get an epidural or discover i have to have a c-section. idk if i've articulated that well but it's like... part of what was so traumatic about the pregnancy loss was just like, feeling like i had no options, no time to think about it, and no possible positive outcome, and also feeling very afraid and grief-stricken and overwhelmed by how fast everything happened. and in that case i really did not have that many options - like it was always going to end sadly and it was probably always going to end in surgery. but now i am facing a different situation where there are a whole range of positive outcomes before me and also a number of meaningful choices that i get to make for myself. and i want to make them. i want to choose to try one thing, and then if things change i want to choose to try something else, and i want to feel like i understand all the choices available to me and am making a decision for myself instead of wholly handing it over over to the doctors. idk. lots more to think about but! i think one good thing is that i was feeling quite scared of birth before doing all this reading, partly because my SIL's labor was kinda scary/intense to hear about from the outside, and now i am feeling quite excited about having this human experience because i have a better understanding of what the process actually entails and what i can do to manage my emotions around it. i think it will be uhh not Fun lol, but i think it will be meaningful and i am deeply curious about what it will be like to go through it. so! so.

(also fundamentally i just get to have my own ideas about what i want to try!!! i get to try something even if other people are like wow i would never make that choice. the things i am curious about do not have to be things anyone else is interested in or curious about!!)

#pregnancy tag

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artficlly · 2 years ago

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the horselords of naraik [chapter 3]

A quiet civil war has raged across the kingdom of Garwic for nearly three decades. The cruelty of the Duke of Garwic knows no end, bringing death and misery with each raid upon the lower-class. The horselords of naraik have fought to protect those suffering under the Duke's violence. The reader being the daughter of the duke is captured and held for ransom, only things are not as they seem. The reader can only hope that the horselords recognise her as a victim rather than a villain before it is too late. Fantasy AU

Pairing: horselord!bucky x duchess!witch!reader

Warnings: huge suicidal thoughts/intentions warning, huge SA warning (not to reader), bucky is an asshole in this but he gets better in the next chapter i promise, violence, blood, wounds, death, swearing, yelling, angst, tension, mention of sickness, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 5.2k

A/N: i don't like this chapter which is why it's taken me so long to get up. feeling very burnt out. this chapter is particularly triggering in regard to suicidal topics as well as SA topics so please read at your own risk. not proof read - sorry for any typos

chapter masterlist | main masterlist

You felt the storm long before its presence was known. There was an energy to the wind, a taste of electricity on your tongue. The entire ride to the next camp had been riddled with anxious energy, the horses twitching and acting up. The horde were connected with their horses, bonded for life and they knew that the weather was coming in and fast. Your trek had been cut short, men and women rushing to put up the tents before the wind set in. They lay river rocks along the base of the canvas, holding the billowing fabric in place.

You had broken your hunger strike a week previous, much to the relief of many. You were still not allowed to help May or the healers, but they felt comfort in your presence. The healer women would often sneak you fruit in exchange for recipes or advice. Steve and Nat turned a blind eye, often helping the women sneak back and forth without Bucky’s knowledge.

Still blindfolded, it seemed someone had taken pity on you. Your usual setup of being tied to a tree had been upgraded, now only your hands tied together with a length of rope attached to the tree. You were able to stand and walk for a short perimeter around the tree, often pacing in circles around the trunk until the rope became tangled. Nat said you were acting like a caged dog, pacing and snarling away. In reality it helped you pass the hours, gave you something to do other than mulling over how to escape your doom uselessly. If things had seemed dire before, now with the knowledge Steve had given you everything seemed worse. Even if you knew death was quickly approaching, you decided to spend your last weeks acting like nothing was wrong.

The strong storm winds tussled your hair as you stood, arms braced over your chest for warmth. The rain would arrive soon, you could smell it in the air. In the distance thunder roared closer and closer, it would be upon the camp like a stampeding herd of horses within the hour. The horde's worry wasn’t entirely focused on the storm though, instead hushed whispers carried across the wind as a terrible screaming shook the camp. Wanda had gone into labor hours ago, and it seemed the labor continued to rage on alongside the storm. A doncayo child, as you had predicted. You knew the labor would be hard, contractions rising and falling with the wind and rain. Wanda would have to be one with the storm, time herself with the rumblings of thunder and the flashes of lightning if she hoped her boy would come soon.

You and Steve had barely heard any news of the progress of the birth, only hearing Wanda’s pained cries as the storm grew nearer and nearer. Nat had rushed off as soon as the labor had started to help, leaving the two of you in a foreboding silence. Hours had passed of this hush between the two of you, only being broken as the storm began to pass directly over the top of you. The anxiety of the camp was high, shouts of panic lost to the wind as Wanda’s screaming was lost to waves of thunder. Each time it reverberated across the landscape the booming would become louder and louder, lightning blinding you even through your blindfold. Steve began muttering about where to house you for the night, clearly unhappy with Bucky’s decision to let you brave the storm outside.

“Steve!” Nat’s voice shouted over the howl of the wind, words nearly swallowed by the air that rushed past. You couldn’t see her due to the blindfold, but you could sense her worry through her tone. The birth didn’t seem to be going well you had gathered. Although the skies had been dark before, now the setting sun behind the clouds was casting the plains into darkness.

Steve and Nat exchanged some words you couldn’t quite make out, words and speech lost to the roaring of the wind. You continued to hug your body tightly, using your damp hair to shelter your face from the lashings of rain. The horde would be fine with their furs and cloaks, whereas you were armed with only a light linen shirt and skirt. You strained your ears, flinching slightly as another roll of thunder deafened you momentarily.

The squelch of muddy grass was the only thing to indicate to you of Steve’s sudden closeness. You jolted nevertheless, teeth chattering as he pulled you towards his chest with your bound hands.

“Come.” He instructed, voice raised so you could hear him over the storm. You cocked your head quizzically, only understanding as you felt the cool of a blade cut your bound wrists free.

“Where are we going?” You shouted back, wincing as you rubbed your tender wrists. Steve’s hand found the small of your back, guiding you in the direction of the camp. You were quick to pull off the blindfold, squinting as another flash of lightning engulfed the camp in a blinding white light. You could briefly make out men securing loose tent flaps which blew in the wind, women rushing between tents children in tow but most alarming was Nat.

Her eyes met yours, fear and exhaustion painted across her expression. Her eyebrows were knitted together, crows feet pulled together. Your eyes had cast down to where she braced her hands in front of her stomach, blood lining the skin. Even the sleeves of her shirt were stained pink, blood diluted by the rain.

“Wanda. The baby… it’s twisted so it won’t pass. The healers are at a loss, we don’t have a midwife.” Nat explained, exasperated. You abandon the blindfold in the mud, frowning hard as your eyes follow to the sound of Wanda’s screams.

You hesitate for a moment, Steve’s hand pressing harder into the small of your back as he glances at you in confusion. “What about Bucky–”

“Since when have you cared about what he thinks?” Steve snaps back, catching you off guard.

“Wanda will die if we don’t act quickly, she has already lost too much blood–” Nat begins and you cut her off.

“Take me to her.” You reply determinedly, rushing into the tent alongside the two warriors.

The tent was far warmer and dryer than the weather outside, Wanda groaning as some of the wind rushed in alongside the three of you. There was a darkness cast across the interior, only candles which lined most surfaces casting a dim light. Wanda lay on the bed, blood staining the furs and sweat pooling across her skin. Healers muttered worriedly among each other, only pausing as they caught sight of you half-drenched with a look of determination in your eye.

Wanda let out a sob, muttering your name weakly as she reached out with pale, shaking hands. You were quick to move to her side, pushing strands of damp auburn hair from her sticky forehead. She looked weaker than you had first assumed, skin clammy paired with eyelids that could barely flutter open. You hushed the auburn, your stiff fingers stroking over her swollen belly as you tried to feel how the baby was positioned.

You could feel the form through the tight skin, Wanda’s muscles tensing as another contraction washed over her body. You squeezed her hand throughout, feeling how her stomach strained beneath your palm. Only as the contraction came to its end, the thunder outside fizzling out did you allow yourself to move.

“Get fresh towels and water.” You instruct, glancing at the old water and fabric which was stained with blood. One of the healers sprung to action, dashing out of the door instantly. Beneath you, Wanda sobbed to Nat while the red-head murmured to the woman. You kneeled between Wanda’s legs, letting out a shaking breath.

“Wanda. Wanda, look at me.” You instructed, palm braced against one of her knees. The auburn’s eyes snapped towards yours, eyes red and puffy. You gave her a reassuring smile, worry biting in your gut as you anticipated the next roll of thunder and contractions to come.

“The baby is around the wrong way.” You explain, shaking your head as Wanda is thrown into hysterics once more. “It’s okay. I can move him, I will have to reach in and guide him. Once I have repositioned him, you will have to push.”

“I can’t.” The auburn sobbed.

“Yes you can. I just need you to listen to me and push when I tell you to, he is a doncayo child, we must time it with the thunder.” You explain, a sense of relief coming over you as the healer comes rushing back in with fresh water.

“I don’t understand.” Wanda continues to cry, you shake your head with a tut as you wash your hands in the freshwater.

“That is okay. I will guide you.” You say reassuringly, positioning your hands before Wanda has time to react.

xxx

You had barely finished washing the blood off your hands in the basin of water when Bucky stormed into the tent. Anger and droplets of rain rolled off of his hulking body in waves, his chest heaving for breath after fighting the strong winds.

Nat, who was crouched next to the bed, visibly tensed, standing as she faced the enraged warrior. Steve, who had stayed stoic the entire birth composure faltering slightly. You angled yourself to face Wanda, back turned to Bucky as you dipped your hands and forearms deeper into the cold water with a huff.

“You directly disobeyed my order.” Bucky rumbled as deeply as the thunder that still loomed outside. The storm was still going strong, lightning crashing down to earth as the rain continued to assault the camp in icy sheets.

“Wanda would have died if we didn’t get her help!” Nat protested, motioning to the woman who lay weakly in the bed. In her arms she held a crying infant, a boy as you had predicted. She had lost a lot of blood and was tired, but she would live thankfully. Once you had been able to reposition her son he had arrived easily, much to everyone’s relief.

“You disobeyed an order.” Bucky repeated himself, voice low and dangerous. You tried your best to hold your tongue, drying your hands on a nearby towel. “What has happened to us? Has this witch enchanted all of your minds? Someone should have ridden to a nearby town to fetch a midwife–"

“Ride? In this storm?” Nat barks with a harsh laugh. “You are a fool!”

“No. You are the fool, letting this woman infect you! Don’t you remember who she is, who she shares her blood with?” Bucky continues.

“She has the symbol–” Steve cuts in.

“Quiet!” Bucky interrupts him. “She is a duchess, our enemy, like her mother–”

“Enough!” You shout, sending the room into a stunned silence. The only sound that follows is the sound of you dropping the damp towel onto the table. Outside the winds have grown silent, not even the canvas of the tent rustling with the gale. The rain had stopped, even the roar of the river close-by having gone silent. For a moment, the group of you breathe in the heavy silence, the thunder long gone as if the storm had suddenly disappeared.

With achingly slow steps you walk towards Bucky, who assesses you with a snarl. You position yourself between him and Nat, watching how his chest heaved with rage as he looked down upon you.

“You don’t get to speak about my mother in that way.” You say defiantly, chin lifted. Your voice is unshaking, gaze firmly meeting Bucky’s whose rage had grown into a look of amusement, as if he were in disbelief that you would speak in such a commanding tone – to him – your captor.

“You best learn your place you–” Bucky starts, anger laced in his tone. Your scowl deepens, not allowing him to finish his sentence before you interrupt.

“I said, enough!” You shout, the air feels like it has been sucked from the room into you. The energy that crackles through your blood stings, as if the storm itself had entered your skin. Bucky’s mouth is still open, but words fail to come out as if they had been stolen from his lips. The candles that line every surface all suddenly go out, as if a flash of air had stolen not only Bucky’s words but their life. The tent is cast into an even deeper silence, Wanda’s son no longer crying. The tent is drenched in darknesss, in the dim light you see Nat’s eyes flash in fear. There was no sound of the storm, no words uttered, only the darkness and the power radiating off your body as you gaze upon Bucky with bared teeth.

“My mother was raped,” You hiss at the horselord. “Like many women before and after her, she was taken against her will during the raids. Do you think she wanted that? That she asked for it? The duke was infatuated with her, so he forced his seed upon her. When it was over, he grew embarrassed. A duke laying with a commoner, a magic user at that? He created a rumor that she had enchanted him to fuel his campaign of violence! My mother did everything to protect me, to keep me hidden from him.” Your chest heaves as you try to catch your breath, a look of contemplation crossing the horselords face.

“I don’t believe you.” He states, deadpan.

“What?” You gasp in disbelief.

“I said, I don't believe you. She was a witch, why didn’t she take a potion? Why would she carry a monster's child? Why didn’t she cut you from her womb like a parasite? Why would a witch test fate knowing she could not change it?”

Your shoulders dropped, you knew the answers to all those questions but it was pointless. You had tried fighting for so long, you had tried fighting for years. All you were met with was the crack of the whip and another rope tied around your wrists. You had tried fighting, screaming, biting and running. It was no use. There was no life left behind your eyes, no spark of the girl you had once been. So many years you had been nothing but numb, turning to starvation and self mutilation to feel something other than emptiness. The magic that flowed from you was a defense mechanism, there was no artistry, no passion or love left for the craft. You were empty. A husk of your former self, tormented night and day by those you had lost.

The tent burst back to life, the wicks of the candles flickering back to life, the baby crying once more. Outside the rain pelted onto the fabric of the tent, the wind howling and screeching as it tore through the camp. Even the river roared, its banks overflowing. And you were no longer a storm, instead just a scared little girl. The beast you had possessed, the power that prowled and snarled beneath your skin gone. It was lost with the wind.

“The promises you hold yourself to will be your downfall,” You utter with the last of your breath, not even bothering to check the reactions of those in the tent. Instead you walk past Bucky, opening the tent flap and walking directly into the storm outside.

The winds had grown since you had been outside, almost instantly drenched by the side-ways rain that assaulted you in icy sheets. Your arms went to wrap around your torso, protecting your shivering form from the strong winds that whipped the air straight from your lungs. No one dared to follow you into the madness, even the other members of the horde had retreated into their tents to hunker down for the rest of the night.

Staggering against the gales of wind, you were unsure if you were crying from the whipping wind piercing your eyes, or from the confrontation from moments before. A sob from deep inside your chest was lost to the crashing of the storm, lightning momentarily lightning up the ground beneath you. The river was overflowing, waters pulling dangerously close to the tree you had been tied to.

Despite all things warning you to stay away, to find a warm tent somewhere, you pressed deeper into the storm until your legs gave in from a mixture of the battle against the strong winds and the exhaustion of the past few hours. You were overwhelmed by grief, everything you had lived for was for nothing. Your mother had died for nothing. You missed her, and you had never been allowed to mourn her. You had never been allowed to mourn all the lives lost in Idamir during the final raids. So many months you had spent in your fathers clutches, so many weeks you had allowed yourself to be doubted by the horde that could save you. You were a fool and a coward, you had allowed hope and your desire to live dominate your senses. Your fate, your destiny, it would not be one worth living. You wished to just tell Bucky the truth, why your father kept you at his manor. But fear clutched your heart, fear that maybe he would hand you over regardless.

There was no kindness left in your world, only the cruel hand of fate and death. You were ready to outstretch your own hand and let them carry you away.

Your hair was slick against your face and neck, clothes painfully snapping against your shivering skin as they were pulled to-and-fro by the wind. Your knees connected with the muddy bank of the river, chest heaving as you leaned against the tree. You wove the rope you had previously tied to around your palm. The river was violent, brown water roaring past with large branches and trunks of trees caught in its current. You wished you could wade into the depths, let the currents pull you away. You would be the rock with the three knots, your father the fever you washed away.

But once again, you were a coward. Instead you lay your head down against the wet ground, watching as the river swelled. You were so tired, so weak. You could only hope the river would take mercy on you and sweep you away in your sleep. That when you opened your eyes again, only the darkness of death would greet you.

xxx

You awoke to the sound of Nat’s voice. For a moment, you wondered if the storm had carried you all away. You could imagine the river swelling further, banks bursting into the camp and sweeping the entire horde away. Nat’s voice floated above you, calling with worry. Despite your best efforts, the call of the darkness was stronger than the will to open your eyes. You slipped in between two worlds, the peacefulness of rest and the torture of Nat poking and proding above you.

Your neck and back ached, legs up to your thighs submerged in a thin layer of water. You flashed between hot and cold, hair laden with mud stuck across your flushed skin. A set of cool fingers were pressed against your forehead, another worried mumble coming from the woman.

“Is she alive?” Another similar voice asked, deeper and male. Steve. You almost stirred at that, the soft feeling of fur tickling your exposed skin as if he had draped his cloak over your frail body.

“Barely. She won’t wake,” Nat whispered in a hushed tone to the warrior, pushing some of the stiff hair that had dried against your cheek. Her fingers paused with a jolt as the sound of mud squelching beneath boots drew closer, an annoyed grunt leaving the lips of whoever lingered nearby. Even in your delirious state, you knew who it was. You tried to focus your mind on the rush of the nearby river, the call of the birds that had returned now the storm had passed.

“Wake her and give her some food.” The gruff voice of Bucky instructed.

“She won’t wake up.” Natasha repeated to the horselord, fingers skimming over your scorching skin.

“She is probably faking it,” Bucky replied with a huff. “Hoping we will forget her so she can make her escape.”

“No. Bucky, she’s feverish and her pulse is weak, I can barely feel it–” Natasha explained, upset clear in her voice. You could hear the rustle of clothing, as if Steve had reached out to her as he hand was quickly withdrawn from your face.

The three of them were silent, for a moment you thought you had slipped away into unconsciousness once more. Instead Bucky spoke up once more, this time uncharacteristic worry in his voice. “Show me.”

There was more movement, then a set of large callused fingers tenderly pressed against your neck. Bucky was silent as he felt your slow pulse, the back of his free hand delicately brushing against your forehead to feel your temperature.

“This is your fault,” Nat hissed from somewhere nearby. “She is the one you told us to look for, the one with the symbol. She’s supposed to help us and all you have done is ruin everything.”

“Quiet, Nat.” Steve grumbled in response. Bucky’s touch didn’t waver as he continued to assess your condition.

“No! You be quiet. You always defend him. She was right, Bucky. Your promises to yourself will not only cause your downfall but the death of us all! As much as we deny it, the Garwic soldiers are slaughtering the south in mass! We can’t hold on for much longer!” Nat snapped, only then did Bucky withdraw his touch with a loud sigh.

“I fear you are right.” He replied defeatedly, leaving the two warriors in a stunned silence. Only then do you try your best to open your eyes, to reach out for the horselord but strength alludes you once more.

To your surprise, Bucky doesn’t retreat in shame at this realization. Instead you feel a pair of arms scoop you up, one holding you by the crook of your knee, the other behind your shoulder blades. Your side is pressed up against Bucky’s chest, body limp and at the mercy of his gait as he carries you back into the camp. You try to open your eyes once more, trying to grip the forearm that holds you close but you cannot. You are so cold, skin covered in goosebumps and wracked with chills. Your limbs feel stiff and frozen, but burning with fever all at once. You head lulls with each step, hair thick with mud dangling freely.

The murmurs of camp merge into one, the sounds of construction and voices all jumbled into a symphony of noise. You can’t find the effort to isolate one voice or gasp of worry. Instead your mind falls blank, only snapping back as you feel the heat of a fire against your skin. You are placed down onto soft furs with delicate care, fingers pulling the strands of hair from your face.

“Nat, undress her from those wet clothes. We need to get her warm and dry.” Bucky instructs, which is met with a confirming noise from Nat who is quickly by your side. Only as Nat pulls you into a sitting position, are you able to open your eyes weakly. If the woman notices, she doesn’t reveal it. Instead she works on pulling off your shirt with some struggle, as she is also supporting your bodyweight.

You are sat in what you assume is Bucky’s tent, as the tent is larger than most you had previously been in. The room is decorated with not only a make-shift fire place, rugs and a bed but a table covered in a worn paper map. Near the entrance, Bucky and Steve stand near the tent flaps muttering under their breath to each other.

Nat had flicked your hair over your shoulders so they covered your breasts, huffing as she tried to pull the shirt over your head. Only then did your body go rigid, a sudden energy rushing through your veins as you tense in fear. You were unsure if it was muscle memory that triggered the fight or flight, or your feverish brain finally kicking into motion.

“Nat stop,” You suddenly speak up. Your voice is gravelly and weak, Nat only chuckling in response and half in relief like she was glad you were suddenly revived.

“I’ve seen you naked before.” She replied light-heartly, as if thinking that were the issue. Your hands twisted around your body, trying to weakly locate her hands to stop her as she dragged the shirt further up your back.

“Nat–” You start weakly, but are cut off by her sudden stiffness. A gasp leaves her, shirt finally risen past your shoulders where your entire back was exposed to her eyes. You squeeze your eyes closed, swallowing back defeated tears. How many weeks, months had you kept it hidden? Everytime you bathed you always made sure your long strands of hair obscured your back from vision. You didn’t want them to know, you knew it would bring up too many questions. Questions you wouldn’t want to answer.

“Nat, please–” you begin to beg, eyes flickering open once more but you know it is pointless. You don’t even have to turn to face her to know her eyes would be laced with horror.

Your back was a reminder, at least that's what your father called it. A reminder of who you were, what you were and even after you became something new, it would remind you that you were always a weak, magic-using commoner. It was bold for the horde to assume that just because you were the dukes blood, that he wouldn’t treat you with the same cruelty that he treated all his prisoners.

Your back was lined with scars, some fresher than others. Each white line arced across your once smooth skin, some flat and sharp, other raised and gnarled like the knots in a tree. They overlapped each other, months of suffering and hatred forever carved into your skin. A reminder of who you were. A reminder of who your father was. A reminder that despite everything, the scars inflicted across your back was not the worst pain, the worst trial you would face. No, what your father had planned for you was far worse. And you could not escape.

“Bucky, look at this.” Nat calls out, distress laced in her tone. Your head dips in defeat, too weak to fight back as the two warriors walk over with curiosity. Nat holds the shirt firmly up, not allowing you to squirm and hide it as you flinch away from Bucky’s sudden closeness as he crouches beside you.

Both him and Steve are wordless, exhaustion tugs at your bones as you focus on trying to hold yourself up-right and breathing steadily while their eyes rake over the exposed scars. Your eyes see Bucky’s fists first, balled up and grown white with strain as he clenches around the fur of the rugs. Your eyes slowly shifted up, over his forceps where veins bulge, across the furred cloak draped over his shoulders before finally resting on his face. And to your surprise, his expression wasn’t one of disgust or pity. Instead it was one of rage.

Bucky’s eyes snap to yours, the burning hatred swirling beyond the blue softening slightly as he takes in your defeated, muddy face. “Who did this?”

You bite back a laugh at the absurdity of it all. “Who do you think?”

“But why? You are his daughter, his blood–”

“You really think that would have stopped him? Stopped his cruelty? He did it not only because he enjoyed it but because he hated me.” You reply, letting the bubble of anxious laughter finally leave your chest. You feel as if hysteria has finally gripped you, you’re unsure if you’re sobbing or laughing as Steve’s fingers tenderly brush over the scars.

“You’re still hiding something.” Bucky states, fingers finding your chin as he forces you to look at him. You bite your tongue, laughter falling silent as you gaze up at him. His look is softer than any he had ever given you. He gazed upon you with that tenderness, as if asking how he could help you, rather than demanding information from you like a captor and hostage.

“I will tell you, but you have to promise me something.” You say to him, gaze momentarily flickering to your mothers knife that still hung from his belt, like the first day you had met. His gaze follows yours, a deep frown flickering over his features.

“Promise you what?” He asks, beside you Steve and Nat are silent, breaths drawn in anticipation.

“No matter what happens, you must kill me. Let the fever take me, slit my throat, I do not care. You must ignore the ransom, you must kill me because I would rather die than return to him.”

“Why?” Bucky asks, he sounds breathless.

“Promise me.” You insist.

“I will promise after you tell me why.”

“I need you to promise first Bucky.” Your voice grew into desperate rasps, fists curling around the fur rugs beneath you as you leaned closer to him. A silence grows in the tent as Bucky seems to contemplate his next words.

“Promise me.” You demand, tears threatening to surface.

“I won’t kill you.” He states simply, unable to meet your eye as a noise of anguish leaves your lips.

“Why? Why won’t you just kill me!” You were now edging on shouting, limbs trembling. “Do you know how long I have suffered? Do you not understand that I am done with all of this?”

The three warriors were silent once again, Steve and Nat glancing towards Bucky whose lips pressed together in a concerned frown, yet he continued to deny the promise you demanded. You had thought for a moment that maybe he cared when he brought you in here, that perhaps a part of him felt sorry for all the cruel words he had spoken. Once again, you had the crawling sensation of defeat lingering in your chest, a feeling that you had been tricked or deceived into thinking you could be saved.

“That day you took the manor, I was moments away from slitting my own throat in my fathers drawing room.” A sound half-way between a sob and a laugh bubbling in your chest. “I thought that the horde coming there was some kind of sign, some kind of intervention by fate.”

“What?” Steve asks in disbelief. Your eyes flutter upwards, as if tempting fate itself to strike you down for your foolishness.

“I didn’t go through with it, but now I can see that was a mistake.” You utter.

Only in that moment does Bucky finally offer up a noise, sighing heavily through his nose. Your eyes remain transfixed on the ceiling of the tent. You fear that if you look down that tears would spill, instead most of your focus going into controlling the fever chills that shook your fragile frame.

“If you won’t tell me your reasoning, I cannot promise you anything.” Bucky says. Your eyes finally flutter down, locking in a tense stare with Bucky’s.

“I suppose we are at a standstill.” He states, getting to his feet. “I cannot help you if you will not tell me.”

#bucky barnes #bucky fanfic #bucky x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes series #marvel au #marvel fic #marvel #fantasy au #the horselords of naraik

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niceness-before-knives · 2 months ago

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Hi!

5, 33, and 49 for knives pls 👀

He seems awesome and i wanna know more about them

Ah! Thank you so much! :D This totally makes my day! <333

5. What was life like for Rook before joining the Veilguard?

In a word, carefree. Knives grew up in Treviso with his mother, who was something of a seer. She had been sent to Dairsmuid when her magic showed, and it was a good choice since it's definitely geared a bit more towards spirits. It wasn't an uncommon sight to see wisps and a spirit hanging around their small house.

Knives' father is something of a pirate too, so more often than not, he was out on the sea but where he made it back to Treviso, it was always like a little festival. Both of his parents are very carefree and wild souls, so life was honestly a series of followed whims.

(Minor tangent, but this is kind-of why Knives said yes when he got recruited by the Crows. Carefree is nice, but being aimless less so. And while the training was nothing short of torturous, working towards something that would be their own was its own odd delight.)

I imagine in the every day, Knives spent a lot of time wandering and working. His natural attitude feels very aimless and float-y, so he was great at staking out his contracts without tipping off people. Watching people in the every day is a big pastime of his, as well as visiting galleries and seeing local artists and bards at work. He's deeply fascinated by and a bit in love with life in every joyful and regretted moment. So, why not try to experience life in every shade, every color, every tone~

(Poor Solas is just trying to destroy the world he sees as such a mistake, and Knives is just waxing poetry about couples reuniting on the docks on Treviso in fervid and loud displays, effortlessly breaking up over coffee after thirty years of strain, a toddler imitating the bard in the market and 'how can you not see the beauty in all of that? Are you so blind in your own grief and doubt? It's beautiful, every rotting and every blossoming moment. Beautiful.')

33. What do fear demons look like to Rook?

Oh! This actually stumped me for a bit! o: Knives isn't terribly afraid of most things. He'd be in love with motions of terror just as much as anything else, as long as he saw a moment of relief in the future.

Like, Knives even thinks of the Hossberg Wetlands are beautiful in their own way, lol.

That being said, they doesn't enjoy thunderstorms at all much. As soon as they hear a clap of thunder or sees a flash in the sky, they're politely excusing themselves to go hide under something sturdy. It's all the stories their dad excitedly told, about storms at sea and the crashing waves and flooding lower decks and Knives' mind is like just 'nope'.

…which is when the actual fear lies. Being trapped. Knives' life has been very carefree, but his parents' less so. He's heard the stories about his mother's religious upbringing and the suffocating words she uses when she rants about it. Trapped. His father had a whole life planned out under the Qun, and then his magic showed up and he was called a Saarebas instead and his life ended all but ended until he escaped.

The idea of being trapped, to not be able to experience life, is honestly the definition of terror to Knives. So, it shouldn't be surprising that's what the fear demons draw from.

Stitched lips, bonded arms, small rooms, lights flickering through cracks in the walls. A denied life. A life Knives could've had if even one thing happened differently.

49. What will always make them laugh?

Oh my gosh! Knives laughs when he's happy, the purest form in love there is. So. Passion, just passion. Just, regale Knives with something that you find interesting and talk from the heart with passion and joy, and Knives is pure giggles and the quietest little laughters. It's so lovely? Look, there's a theme in these and it's Knives just loves to love. He loves seeing it in other people, eyes lighting up in delight and how many words get stumbled over in excitement, or all the pauses as someone tries to find the perfect way to explain.

…I think it sometimes (more than sometimes, maybe) comes off as rude, especially around new people, but it isn't to Knives. o: They're like half-way in love with you, and just can't contain the joy bubbling inside~~

And thank you again for the questions! I really do appreciate them. <3

#thank you so much for the questions! <3 #they were def helpful in getting out #some more opaque thoughts floating around. c:<!#also. tangent again but pour one out for knives' dad #guy's a pirate and in love with thunder and lighting to an absurd extent #and tries to share both with knives #who is scared of storms and can't swim at all #he's just like 'i have failed you firelight. :')'#99 knives de riva #(why are you a crow again? knives is like 'assassinations are beautiful in their own ways too~~')

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mariacallous · 2 years ago

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This story is part of a joint investigation between Lighthouse Reports and WIRED. To read other stories from the series, click here.

It was October 2021, and Imane, a 44-year-old mother of three, was still in pain from the abdominal surgery she had undergone a few weeks earlier. She certainly did not want to be where she was: sitting in a small cubicle in a building near the center of Rotterdam, while two investigators interrogated her. But she had to prove her innocence or risk losing the money she used to pay rent and buy food.

Imane emigrated to the Netherlands from Morocco with her parents when she was a child. She started receiving benefits as an adult, due to health issues, after divorcing her husband. Since then, she has struggled to get by using welfare payments and sporadic cleaning jobs. Imane says she would do anything to leave the welfare system, but chronic back pain and dizziness make it hard to find and keep work.

In 2019, after her health problems forced her to leave a cleaning job, Imane drew the attention of Rotterdam’s fraud investigators for the first time. She was questioned and lost her benefits for a month. “I could only pay rent,” she says. She recalls the stress of borrowing food from neighbors and asking her 16-year-old son, who was still in school, to take on a job to help pay other bills.

Now, two years later, she was under suspicion again. In the days before that meeting at the Rotterdam social services department, Imane had meticulously prepared documents: her rental contract, copies of her Dutch and Moroccan passports, and months of bank statements. With no printer at home, she had visited the library to print them.

In the cramped office she watched as the investigators thumbed through the stack of paperwork. One of them, a man, spoke loudly, she says, and she felt ashamed as his accusations echoed outside the thin cubicle walls. They told her she had brought the wrong bank statements and pressured her to log in to her account in front of them. After she refused, they suspended her benefits until she sent the correct statements two days later. She was relieved, but also afraid. “The atmosphere at the meetings with the municipality is terrible,” she says. The ordeal, she adds, has taken its toll. “It took me two years to recover from this. I was destroyed mentally.”

Imane, who asked that her real name not be used for fear of repercussions from city officials, isn’t alone. Every year, thousands of people across Rotterdam are investigated by welfare fraud officers, who search for individuals abusing the system. Since 2017, the city has been using a machine learning algorithm, trained on 12,707 previous investigations, to help it determine whether individuals are likely to commit welfare fraud.

The machine learning algorithm generates a risk score for each of Rotterdam’s roughly 30,000 welfare recipients, and city officials consider these results when deciding whom to investigate. Imane’s background and personal history meant the system ranked her as “high risk.” But the process by which she was flagged is part of a project beset by ethical issues and technical challenges. In 2021, the city paused its use of the risk-scoring model after external government-backed auditors found that it wasn’t possible for citizens to tell if they had been flagged by the algorithm and some of the data it used risked producing biased outputs.

In response to an investigation by Lighthouse Reports and WIRED, Rotterdam handed over extensive details about its system. These include its machine learning model, training data, and user operation manuals. The disclosures provide an unprecedented view into the inner workings of a system that has been used to classify and rank tens of thousands of people.

With this data, we were able to reconstruct Rotterdam’s welfare algorithm and see how it scores people. Doing so revealed that certain characteristics—being a parent, a woman, young, not fluent in Dutch, or struggling to find work—increase someone’s risk score. The algorithm classes single mothers like Imane as especially high risk. Experts who reviewed our findings expressed serious concerns that the system may have discriminated against people.

Annemarie de Rotte, director of Rotterdam’s income department, says that people flagged by the algorithm as high risk were always assessed by human consultants, who ultimately decided whether to remove benefits. “We understand that a reexamination can cause anxiety,” de Rotte says, using the city’s preferred term for welfare investigations. She says the city does not intend to treat anyone badly and that it tries to conduct examinations while treating people with respect.

The pattern of local and national governments turning to machine learning algorithms is being repeated around the world. The systems are marketed to public officials on their potential to cut costs and boost efficiency. Yet the development, deployment, and operation of such systems is often shrouded in secrecy. Many systems do not work as intended, and they can encode troubling biases. The people who are judged by them are often left in the dark even as they suffer devastating consequences.

From Australia to the United States, welfare fraud algorithms sold on claims that they make governments more efficient have made people’s lives worse. In the Netherlands, Rotterdam’s algorithmic troubles have run in parallel with a nationwide machine learning scandal. More than 20,000 families were wrongly accused of childcare benefit fraud after a machine learning system was used to try to spot wrongdoing. Forced evictions, broken homes, and financial ruin followed, and the entire Dutch government resigned in response in January 2021.

Imane lives in the Afrikaanderwijk neighborhood of Rotterdam, a predominantly working-class area with a large immigrant population. Each week, she meets with a group of mostly single mothers, many of whom have a Moroccan background, to talk, share food, and offer each other support. Many in the group receive benefits payments from Rotterdam’s welfare system, and several of them have been investigated. One woman, who like many others in this story asked not to be named, claims she was warned her benefits may be cut because her son sold a video game on Marktplaats, the Dutch equivalent of eBay. Another, who is pursuing a career as a social worker, says she has been investigated three times in the past year.

The women are on the front lines of a global shift in the way governments interact with their citizens. In Rotterdam alone, thousands of people are being scored by algorithms they don’t know anything about and do not understand. Amira (not her real name), a businesswoman and mother who helps organize the support group in Rotterdam, says the local government doesn’t do enough to help people escape the welfare system. It’s why she set up the groups: to help vulnerable women. Amira was a victim of the Netherlands’ child benefits scandal and says she feels there is “no justice” for people caught up in the system. “They are really afraid of what the government can do to them,” she says.

From the outside, Rotterdam’s welfare algorithm appears complex. The system, which was originally developed by consulting firm Accenture before the city took over development in 2018, is trained on data collected by Rotterdam’s welfare department. It assigns people risk scores based on 315 factors. Some are objective facts, such as age or gender identity. Others, such as a person’s appearance or how outgoing they are, are subjective and based on the judgment of social workers.

In Hoek van Holland, a town to the west of Rotterdam that is administratively part of the city, Pepita Ceelie is trying to understand how the algorithm ranked her as high risk. Ceelie is 61 years old, heavily tattooed, and has a bright pink buzz cut. She likes to speak English and gets to the point quickly. For the past 10 years, she has lived with chronic illness and exhaustion, and she uses a mobility scooter whenever she leaves the house.

Ceelie has been investigated twice by Rotterdam’s welfare fraud team, first in 2015 and again in 2021. Both times investigators found no wrongdoing. In the most recent case, she was selected for investigation by the city’s risk-scoring algorithm. Ceelie says she had to explain to investigators why her brother sent her €150 ($180) for her sixtieth birthday, and that it took more than five months for them to close the case.

Sitting in her blocky, 1950s house, which is decorated with photographs of her garden, Ceelie taps away at a laptop. She’s entering her details into a reconstruction of Rotterdam’s welfare risk-scoring system created as part of this investigation. The user interface, built on top of the city’s algorithm and data, demonstrates how Ceelie’s risk score was calculated—and suggests which factors could have led to her being investigated for fraud.

All 315 factors of the risk-scoring system are initially set to describe an imaginary person with “average” values in the data set. When Ceelie personalizes the system with her own details, her score begins to change. She starts at a default score of 0.3483—the closer to 1 a person’s score is, the more they are considered a high fraud risk. When she tells the system that she doesn’t have a plan in place to find work, the score rises (0.4174). It drops when she enters that she has lived in her home for 20 years (0.3891). Living outside of central Rotterdam pushes it back above 0.4.

Switching her gender from male to female pushes her score to 0.5123. “This is crazy,” Ceelie says. Even though her adult son does not live with her, his existence, to the algorithm, makes her more likely to commit welfare fraud. “What does he have to do with this?” she says. Ceelie’s divorce raises her risk score again, and she ends with a score of 0.643: high risk, according to Rotterdam’s system.

“They don’t know me, I’m not a number,” Ceelie says. “I’m a human being.” After two welfare fraud investigations, Ceelie has become angry with the system. “They’ve only opposed me, pulled me down to suicidal thoughts,” she says. Throughout her investigations, she has heard other people’s stories, turning to a Facebook support group set up for people having problems with the Netherlands’ welfare system. Ceelie says people have lost benefits for minor infractions, like not reporting grocery payments or money received from their parents.

“There are a lot of things that are not very clear for people when they get welfare,” says Jacqueline Nieuwstraten, a lawyer who has handled dozens of appeals against Rotterdam’s welfare penalties. She says the system has been quick to punish people and that investigators fail to properly consider individual circumstances.

The Netherlands takes a tough stance on welfare fraud, encouraged by populist right-wing politicians. And of all the country’s regions, Rotterdam cracks down on welfare fraud the hardest. Of the approximately 30,000 people who receive benefits from the city each year, around a thousand are investigated after being flagged by the city's algorithm. In total, Rotterdam investigates up to 6,000 people annually to check if their payments are correct. In 2019, Rotterdam issued 2,400 benefits penalties, which can include fines and cutting people’s benefits completely. In 2022 almost a quarter of the appeals that reached the country’s highest court came from Rotterdam.

From the algorithm’s deployment in 2017 until its use was halted in 2021, it flagged up to a third of the people the city investigated each year, while others were selected by humans based on a theme—such as single men living in a certain neighborhood.

Rotterdam has moved to make its overall welfare system easier for people to navigate since 2020. (For example, the number of benefits penalties dropped to 749 in 2021.) De Rotte, the director of the city’s income department, says these changes include adding a “human dimension” to its welfare processes. The city has also relaxed rules around how much money claimants can receive from friends and family, and it now allows adults to live together without any impact on their benefits. As a result, Nieuwstraten says, the number of complaints she has received about welfare investigations has decreased in recent years.

The city’s decision to pause its use of the welfare algorithm in 2021 came after an investigation by the Rotterdam Court of Audit on the development and use of algorithms in the city. The government auditor found there was “insufficient coordination” between the developers of the algorithms and city workers who use them, which could lead to ethical considerations being neglected. The report also criticized the city for not evaluating whether the algorithms were better than the human systems they replaced. Singling out the welfare fraud algorithm, the report found there was a likelihood of biased outcomes based on the types of data used to determine people’s risk scores.

Since then, the city has been working to develop a new version—though minutes from council meetings show there are doubts that it can successfully build a system that is transparent and legal. De Rotte says that since the Court of Audit report, the city has worked to add “more safeguards” to the development of algorithms in general, including introducing an algorithm register to show what algorithms it uses. “A new model must not have any appearance of bias, must be as transparent as possible, and must be easy to explain to the outside world,” de Rotte says. Welfare recipients are currently being selected for investigation at random, de Rotte adds.

While the city works to rebuild its algorithm, those caught up in the welfare system have been battling to discover how it works—and whether they were selected for investigation by a flawed system.

Among them is Oran, a 35-year old who’s lived in Rotterdam all his life. In February 2018 he received a letter saying he was being investigated for welfare fraud. Oran, who asked that his real name not be used for privacy reasons, has a number of health issues that make it difficult to find work. In 2018, he was receiving a monthly loan from a family member. Rotterdam’s local government asked him to document the loan and agree that it be paid back. Although Oran did this, investigators pursued fraud charges against him, and the city said he should have €6,000 withheld from future benefits payments, a sum combining the amount he had been loaned plus additional fines.

From 2018 to 2021, Oran fought against the local authority in court. He says being accused of committing fraud took a huge toll. During the investigation, he says, he couldn't focus on anything else and didn’t think he had a future. “It got really difficult. I thought a lot about suicide,” he says. During the investigation, he was not well enough to find paid or volunteer work, and his relationship with his family became strained.

Two court appeals later, in June 2021, Oran cleared his name, and the city refunded the €6,000 it had deducted from his benefits payments. “It feels like justice,” he says. Despite the lengthy process, he did not find out why he was selected for scrutiny, what his risk scores were, or what data contributed to the creation of his scores. So he requested it all. Five months later, in April 2021, he received his risk scores for 2018 and 2019.

While his files revealed he was not selected for investigation by the algorithm but rather part of a selection of single men, his risk score was among the top 15 percent of benefits recipients. His zip code, history of depression, and assessments by social workers contributed to his high score. “That’s not reality, that’s not me, that’s not my life, it’s just a bunch of numbers,” Oran says.

As the use of algorithmic systems grows, it could become harder for people to understand why decisions have been made and to appeal against them. Tamilla Abdul-Aliyeva, a senior policy advisor at Amnesty International in the Netherlands, says people should be told if they are being investigated based on algorithmic analysis, what data was used to train the algorithm, and what selection criteria were used. “Transparency is key for protecting human rights and also very important in the democratic society,” says Abdul-Aliyeva. De Rotte says Rotterdam plans to give people more information about “why and how they were selected” and that more details of the new model will be announced “before the summer.”

For those already caught in Rotterdam’s welfare dragnet, there is little solace. Many of them, including Oran and Ceelie, say they don’t want the city to use an algorithm to judge vulnerable people. Ceelie says it feels like she has been “stamped” with a number and that she is considering taking Rotterdam’s government to court over its use of the algorithm. Developing and using the algorithm won’t make people feel like they are being treated with care, she says. “Algorithms aren’t human. Call me up, with a human being, not a number, and talk to me. Don’t do this.”

If you or someone you know needs help, call 1-800-273-8255 for free, 24-hour support from the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline. You can also text HOME to 741-741 for the Crisis Text Line. Outside the US, visit the International Association for Suicide Prevention for crisis centers around the world.

Additional reporting by Eva Constantaras, Justin-Casimir Braun, and Soizic Penicaud. Reporting was supported by the Pulitzer Center’s AI Accountability Network and the Eyebeam Center for the Future of Journalism.

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daddycassie · 1 year ago

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Kokosara idol! AU

TW: Anxiety, Panic attacks(?) ((I think)), depression probably?

——————————

As Kokomi walked, she felt like this sidewalk would never end.

Torture, absolute torture. It was dark, cold and the rain showed no signs of stopping.

She felt terribly, horribly heavy.

She closed her eyes, they felt hot. She knew what she had to do, but felt so so slow.

Like she was on her way to her own execution.

The reality was Kokomi was going to sign a contract, a contract that would make her an idol, a star.

But all she wanted was to slink back into her full apartment like a turtle retreating into its shell.

To read in her springy bed and listen to the lights buzz while her neighbors argued through the ceiling, dust falling over her head from their stomps.

Kokomi knew she would be provided better living conditions with the contract, Mr. _____ had gone over it before she refused.

In exchange, her life would no longer be hers.

She would belong to the spotlight, and the people who watched, onlookers to her divinity on stage.

She wasn’t sure if she wanted to cry or throw up when she thought about it.

——————————

Kokomi leaned back on the couch in her dressing room, recalling the distant memory.

“Kokomi, are you alright?”

She perked at the sound of her name on her teammate’s tongue.

Kokomi looked at Gorou and smiled her sweetest, candy smile. “Yes, I’m fine. Just can’t wait to see everyone. Where is Sucrose?”

Gorou gave her a grin in return that made her heart flutter, he really was good at his job.

“Taking a moment to herself, you know how she gets.” Kokomi nodded. She understood that more then she would ever let a soul know.

“Let her know we have 15 minutes please?”

Gorou nodded quickly, bounding off to alert their teammate. Kokomi could only laugh softly at his eagerness.

——————————

They were now seated at a large table filled completely with idols from the convention.

Under the table, her hands fidgeted. Thumb goes over gloved thumb and her hands grow clammy.

If she doesn’t have anything else, she has her truly award winning smile, and everyone would be fooled, fooled to believe that she’s comfortable. Happy to be here.

“Hey,” a voice calls, deep, but kind. The table miraculously quiets, and Kokomi feels like all eyes are on her. She’s afraid the sweat will ruin her makeup.

She looks in the direction of the voice and stoic golden eyes stare back.

“Are you okay? You look nervous.” It’s innocent, gentle, she knows. But when her smile is degraded by molten gold, her heart drops and she gasps for air.

——————————

Her dressing room should be a familiar place, but as she tears her way through the hall, voices calling her name an after thought bashing around her empty skull, she can’t find it. Can’t find it. Can’t hide. Can’t see. Can’t breathe. She felt her heart beating in her ears, vision doubling. Why is this suddenly so hard? She can tell she’s sweaty, hands slipping whenever she tries to get a grip on anything. Why is everything working against her?Kokomi heaves a heavy breath, nausea bubbling in the pit of her stomach.

What was happening to her? Why?

A firm arm wraps around a delicate waist and she’s stopped in her rampaging tracks.

“What’s wrong?”

Kokomi only panics that little bit more when she hears that voice again, albeit more urgent then before.

“You’re Kokomi, right? From that cute idol group.” The voice redirects her attention for a moment.

“Yes.” She cringes at how weak she sounds.

This isn’t sweet enough for her. Nothing is sweet enough right now.

Why could this woman see through her like it was nothing at all?

“Please leave me alone.”

She tries for a stern tone, but it’s merely a whimper.

Her voice is failing her, and so too does her body when she accepts a hug, crying distastefully loud.

The woman hardly seems to mind, and keeps hugging her.

Its more painful then being pushed away and ignored, because then at least they wouldn’t seem to understand how much she’s hurting.

But this woman is accepting her hurt, embracing it, embracing her, in the most literal sense.

She grips the back of the woman’s shirt. “Who are you?” Her voice isn’t as weak.

“Kujou Sara.” The woman, Kujou Sara, responds.

Kujou Sara has a rough voice, in any other situation it would sound cold and uncaring.

But something about her is so gentle and Kokomi is drawn in like a moth to a flame. Basking in the warmth of comfort.

She wonders when she became so naive.

——————————

Notes; this is my first post, so I’m still getting used to Tumblr, but I hope you enjoyed my post! :D

If you have any requests or suggestions, please let me know!!

#kokosara #genshin kokomi #kokomi #sangonomiya kokomi #kujou sara #sara genshin impact #kokomi x sara #sapphic #wlw #gay girls #i love women #but I also love putting them through terrible things

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udaberriwrites · 1 year ago

Note

Hiya, Annie! For the Tav Ask Game:

4: Is your Tav close with whoever raised them?

6: When did your Tav learn their abilities/skills?

9: What did they do for work/to get by?

14: What did they do for work/to get by?

21: What kind of education did your Tav have?

23: Share any hcs/anything you want to say about your Tav’s backstory

Have fun! Hope it's not too many asks!

Hi Salty, thanks for the asks! There are so many, ok... let's try this.

Instead of answering for my lovely main tav Geletha, I am going to answer for the ones I hope to eventually write a fic about, the (adoptive) siblings Rhylriia and Ihra.

Now, Ihra IS a different iteration of Geletha... only she had worse luck and made two terrible decisions that would haunt her for years to come.

Yes and no. They were close with each other growing up, but after their enclave burned down, they both thought they were the only survivor for a very long time.

Rhylriia had, in fact, systematically been hunting down and killing every traitor who had betrayed their clan. When he learned Ihra was alive he was thrilled, and willing to pick up where they had left off... but after a hundred years and having had to save herself because there was no one else she could depend on, she wasn't so willing to let go of her anger, even if she knew it was unjustified.

6./21.

Rhylriia mostly learned everything he needed to know as the heir to the drow branch, from history to martial arts, though he only made his paladin Oath after swearing vengeance.

Ihra had barely reached adulthood when the enclave fell. She had had formal lessons of course, but mostly she learned how to fight and how to win in Baldur's Gate's streets. She refined her spells through her Fiend patron's beneficence and a lot of trial and error.

Rhylriia is a wandering paladin, getting by on contracts and adventures in between his personal quest.

Ihra is a thief, usually for rare, magical and expensive objects. Part of the reason she's favoured by her patron is the fact that she's very good at bringing back whatever he asks... or convincing its owners to sell him something better, like their souls.

14.

No surviving childhood friends, just each other and the companions they made along the way.

23.

Ummmm...

“It’s a little funny, don’t you think?” She says at the end of it all. Her orange pupils mimic the sunset’s light while she rolls the wine glass between her hands. “A drow on the side of the angels and a high elf on the side of the demons. We could weave a gorgeous legend, you and I.”

“I’m no angel,” he replies. “I have killed too many, hated too much. Failed too grievously.”

She looks up. The demonic ichor can’t hide the pity in her expression. She reaches over and takes his hand. “I forgive you. For whatever it’s worth, I do.”

“But you won’t stay.”

The hands retreat. The scars in the form of chains glow faintly under the dim light. “You still have your life. We’ll be reunited, one day. But not yet.”

“I’ll miss you.”

“You’ll see me again. When the time to defeat the Absolute comes, call on me. I will answer.”

#bg3 tav #my tav #my fics #thanks for the ask!

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true-champions · 2 years ago

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I suppose introductions are in order, hm?

Greetings, reader. My name is Aitragos, and I am the keeper of this collection of materials. I'm not sure what brings you here but if you wish to peruse my writings about this particularly interesting band of souls, I can help direct you betwixt them and give you a brief overview of each of their stories.

Book 1: The Kingslayers This is the story of two Gilneans whose fates became intertwined on the day they both contracted the Worgen curse and were ousted from their home, forever changed. Gaeralf Bevelle was a decorated soldier of the Gilneas Brigade. Khrystia was a surnameless gutterbound criminal, the very kind he was bred to despise. They have formed an unlikely friendship through their combined suffering, but the continual trials of war have strained their relationship to levels that are proving difficult to maintain alongside their responsibilities as champions of the Alliance.

Book 2: Evergreen This is the story of a young Kaldorei girl struggling to find her purpose in life after being separated from her father in a deadly Northrend storm. Veyelline was born of both the soil and the stars, to a simple hard-working father named Thelaros Lunaveil, and a mother who she has never known but has started to be visited by in her dreams. While wandering Azeroth alone and confused, Veyelline comes into contact with a curious Ren'dorei mage named Agholor Starbreaker, a tailor by trade with a thirst for as much magical knowledge as possible. Their chance encounter may be just what each of them needs - to help Veyelline find her purpose, and for Agholor to learn as much as he can about the Kaldorei and their druidic magics.

Book 3: Justice & Irony This is the story of two Shal'dorei trapped inside Suramar City during the Legion occupation on opposite ends. Auroris Korgryn was the daughter of two highly ranked nobles in Elisande's court, cruelly groomed by her parents her entire life to meet their standards of perfection. Auroris wanted nothing more than to not only break free of her pristine chains, but to aid her suffering kin in the city slums who were starving to death, becoming withered under the Legion's harsh reign. She meets a withered man named Luccian whose defiance is slowly inspiring a secret rebellion, and decides to sponsor him with mana stolen from her parents' estate. He rewards her by training her in the art of assassination. But it is yet to be seen whether Luccian's intentions are truly rooted in good or evil.

Book 4: Voice of the Demon This is the story of two desperately lonely souls who have left behind their pasts, but are filled with deep regret. Edoran Darrowthorne is an Illidari - a night elf fused with a demon to gain powers of the Fel. He took on this burden after he was overcome with rage over the slaughtering of his family by the Legion, but now that the war is over, he is realizing that this transformation was a terrible mistake. He longs for the days where he served as a sentinel of the Kaldorei, steeped in nature and its beauty. While wandering aimlessly through the forests of Aszuna, he meets a small elf the likes of which he's never sensed the aura of - a Ren'dorei who has taken the name Xeria Evenglow. She is training to be a hunter alongside learning to control her newly gained void powers, but it is proving to be a struggle beyond anything she could have imagined. Edoran becomes a fel green light in Xeria's deep violet darkness, and she becomes the brightest aura he can 'see' with his spectral sight. They become dependent on one another to ground themselves in their trauma, but are both too afraid to admit how much they care for each other out of fear that they will be rejected.

Book 5: Indigo This is the story of an excommunicated Shal'dorei noble known as Algernon Alta. Once the right-hand advisor to Elisande, Algernon completely abandoned his post and his people when the Legion was invited into the city walls. Alongside his blue drake companion, myself, he has ambitions to remotely use the Nightwell to create a new Well of Eternity, defeating the Legion and providing a source of magical power for the elves akin to the days of yore. However, Algernon becomes distracted when a thin and withered Shal'dorei woman with pitch black hair and deep indigo skin wanders into his abode near death. He's never cared for a lowly soul before - why would he start now? But he can't just let her die.

There are more, but these are the ones I've got the most complete for the time being. If you want to learn more about each of the characters featured in these tales, you may browse their profiles here. They are currently in a slow process of being moved to here.

Thank you, dear reader, and please do feel free to reach out to me with any questions you may have.

----------

(OOC: Disclaimer that a lot of Warcraft lore is something my RP parnter and I straight up ignore, and we do a LOT of head-canoning. If something doesn't make sense it's probably because we changed it on purpose!)

#welcome #truechampions #roleplay #warcraft

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therealnightcity · 2 years ago

Note

I have some questions for all your babies:

💦 At what age did my muse lose their virginity?

😳 What was my muse’s worst romantic/sexual relationship?

💑 What are my muse’s requirements for a potential partner?

Spicy character asks for @morganlefaye79 under the cut💗💕

💦: At what age did my muse lose their virginity?

Hiro was 15, and it was with Tom, one of his acquaintances from Clouds--it wasn't a serious relationship, the other was only a year older than him, and they remain close friends. There isn't much regret there, they were both a physical outlet for the other, and both were experimenting/fooling around. Hiro lost contact with the man shortly after and he was relieved to re-connect with him later in life, and more than impressed that they both survived that long.

Ares was 18 and it was a woman from outside nomad clan. It was a one night stand, and the latter left soon after. It wouldn't have gone far, they weren't very compatible but it was an experience that confirmed she was only attracted to women, and shaped the rest of her encounters. Even if it wasn't anything long term, it was still formative, in spite of the experience being clumsy and not particularly memorable.

Avi was 20, and it was with another Arasaka agent. There was a good deal of tension between them, and he still doesn't know who's idea it was, nor does he linger on it. He was closeted at the time and its always been something he couldn't control about himself, and something of failure in his eyes. Failure and a lot of shame, despite how much he enjoyed himself. Avi tries to avoid outings to clubs with joytoys, knowing the topic will undoubtedly come up, and reacts with feigned distaste for the entire endeavor.

😳: What was my muse's worst romantic/sexual relationship?

Hiro doesn't consider clients relationships, or those would qualify. Aside from that, one of the flings he's had after he cut ties with the Claws. They've started to blend together after a point--not sure what he's searching for, other than a sort of escape in pleasure and something to get him out of his head. He doesn't do paid work anymore, anyone who tries to insinuate otherwise is quickly shown out.

Ares' experiences haven't been terrible, just not the most exciting. She's usually limited to whoever is traveling through the Badlands, or quick flings, and there isn't time to get to know the person before they're on their way again. It isn't as if the people themselves are bad, there's just no connection, and it's purely physical. She longs for something deeper, less fleeting and more steady.

Avi's worst relationships are those he's found himself in to keep up apperances, or to see that his contracts are carried through. There's no love or desire there, just a job to be done, the same as any other. They've always felt like lying to himself, and leave a bitter taste in his mouth, that he tries hard to forget.

💑: What are my muse's requirements for a potential partner?

For Hiro, it would be someone understanding--who can be caring, even if it's hidden, and the ability to reciprocate his affection with something genuine. He loves deeply, and seeks someone who does the same, and is fiercely loyal to them. He wishes to meet someone who he can truly trust, a rarity in Night City, where nothing is what it seems.

Ares wishes to find someone passionate, who feels deeply, and is equally adventurous, and someone who can contrast her roots. She's grounded but is looking for someone that pushes her further, to take better risks--to live more freely, and break her routine, and what she thinks she knows. And someone who won't shy away from getting their hands dirty, isn't afraid of a bit of trouble on occasion.

Avi seeks someone who intrigues him, who can match his mind with their own, and who challenges him--allows themself to be understood, and does the same in turn. And someone who is patient enough to stick around, allow him to flourish, and transform, reveal hidden facets.

#character asks #cyberpunk ocs #oc: hiro oda #oc: ares tanner #oc: avi kaiba #nsft #Thanks for asking #I had a really good time answering these~ 🥰🥰#character headcanons

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ralfmaximus · 4 months ago

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Once there was a Very Important Document that needed to be delivered to a committee by a specific deadline. The Document in question was a contractor bid for a government contract worth many millions of dollars.

The people in charge of the bid worked on it up until the last possible moment. Then, at 5:30 pm on a Friday afternoon, instead of taking this Very Important Document personally to the local Federal Express center... they slid it under the door to my office.

My office, you see, was the shipping/receiving department for this government contractor.

It was (normally) my responsibility to personally handle Very Important Documents exactly like this one, however the normal procedure was to notify me ahead of time. Then I'd know there was a Very Important Document on its way, and I would then personally move Heaven And Earth to get the Document into the hands of FedEx for delivery. Sometimes I hired couriers to carry Important Documents on airplanes if it was super critical.

I'd done this job correctly for two years by this point, and never missed a deadline. My score was a perfect 10/10, and had commendations in my file for excellence in couriorship. I had a reputation for ruthless competence; personally hand a package to Ralf, and it was absolutely guaranteed it would get there on time.

Note that "sliding it under my office door after 5pm on a Friday" is not the same thing as personally handing it to me.

Thus, this particular Very Important Document was not delivered on time. The company did not win the million-dollar contract, because as far as anyone knew, we never submitted a bid.

This was all discovered at 8am on Monday morning when I unlocked my office door and discovered the Very Important Document on the floor.

Of course I instantly notified my boss. Who called upstairs to the department who drafted the bid to let them know the unfortunate news that they had Fucked Up.

Within ten minutes I was the recipient of an angry phone call from the head of that group. He was furious. For a solid three minutes I listened to him yell at me about incompetence, about what an idiot I was, about how much money I'd cost the company, about how he'd do everything in his power to fire my lazy stupid ass.

I listened calmly. Eventually he wound down and stopped.

He had run out of internal script to read.

The man knew he'd fucked up and was terrified of repercussions, so of course he was trying to pin the blame on somebody else. Somebody, like me, who made 1/20th his salary and was (in his eyes) a replaceable cog in the corporate machine.

It was my turn to interact with his script, so we could complete the dance. According to his script, I was supposed to cry and beg for mercy, to admit what a terrible employee I was. Or perhaps I would react with outrage... how dare you accuse me of incompetence?! Or possibly I would deny knowing anything about anything; it's not my fault! I have no idea what you're talking about sir...

But instead of any sort of scripted response, I calmly asked:

"Do you feel better now?"

Long pause while he processed this. Finally, a rage-strangled "WHAT?!" came back to me over the phone.

"The package is still here," I replied. "It's still not been delivered. Your yelling at me has changed nothing. If you like, we can do an emergency courier delivery if you authorize the expense. But yelling at me doesn't help your situation. What do you want to do?"

He hung up on me.

Next I heard the phone ring in my supervisor's office. I could hear her part of the conversation and it sounded like she was talking with the same guy. The conversation was brief, and afterwards she came to see me.

"What did you SAY to him?" she asked.

I told her. She nodded. I asked her if they were gonna do the same-day delivery thing and she said she had no idea what they were planning.

That was the last I ever heard of the Very Important Document, and no, I was not fired. Because the rules were very clear, the bid committee had violated those rules, and I was protected by a very powerful union.

Which gave me the power to ignore Angry Guy's internal script and rewrite everything.

I was walking out of the Walmart today, and a car passed me, and I got this incredibly vivid impression. It wasn't really in words, but if I had to put it into words, the two key points would be

a). I needed to watch that car and

b). That I needed to be careful, because the driver of the car was a massive bitch.

It kind of took me by surprise, because I really had no reason to be beefing with that car, and I also hadn't really had an impression like that since I was religious, which was in my teen years. Right? It'd been a decade since I had a little voice whisper in my ear, and I'd basically written it off as nonsense.

Anyway, I watched the car, because The Spirits or whatever were very insistent that I did. Car drove fine, went into the parking spot, inched forward, and right when it should've just stopped, the driver gunned it for some reason and it ran into the curb and cracked its bumper.

So, the driver got out, and she went to the front of the car to check that yes, she had cracked her bumper, and then she turned to look at me. The parking lot wasn't empty, but we were the only two people standing in that row, and I'd probably been staring at her for tenish seconds now.

She demanded very angrily to know why I hadn't warned her of the curb. And I could have said I didn't know you were about to gun it or is it my job to help every stranger park, or even could you have even heard me, inside your car?

And all of those would have been fine, but I was really, really busy digesting that I had somehow communed with Mormon Jesus again for the first time in fifteen years, and that the communion had mostly been there to let me watch someone park badly (?), so what I responded with was:

"Because it was foretold."

And I can't tell which would be funnier, if she went silent because there's not much to be said to that, or if she went silent because in Utah, she might actually believe me, but we parted ways without more words.

I'm still kind of digesting this myself, actually.

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