Cannot express how disinterested I am in seeing traumatized characters “reconcile” with their canonically shitty parental figures.
I probably don’t have to even say this but this has turned out to be the most “omg Blorbo from my shows” post I could have made. I have no idea who tf 90% of the people in the tags are but you’re very passionate about them.
Love seeing some lukewarm ass takes on this hellsite first thing in the morning.
It is the current year and we’re still ragging on Anders for his extremely OOC comment/approval for selling Fenris back to Danarius? Bruh.
Who is the bigger asshole in that situation?
Anders with his pitiful little +5 approval and stupid ass remark (which I emphasize was more of He*pler’s bullshit agenda shining through)
OR
Hawke/The player for being the fucker to actually CHOOSE to sell a former slave back to his Master and abuser.
Let that marinate for a minute.
For a fucking pittance mind you. Isn’t is it like 5 sovereigns or something?? Hawke can fucking find that in the cushions of their couch. Shit you can get twice that just by killing random mobs around and outside the city.
I rest my case. Miss me with your nonsense. Keep it out of the main tags.
Don’t let the most OOC scene ever written to tarnish the iconic character that is Clarke Griffin. That was not our Clarke. That was shock value Clarke and she’s not real, she does not exist here.
I can fall in love with the back of a woman’s neck. There’s something in the delicate curve that tickles me in all the right places. I can fall in love with a hairline. I can become infatuated with the spread of your shoulders. But the instant any of these things catches me eye, the first thing I’ll do is try to get a look at your face.
It’s not as easy as it sounds, and me trying to explain it is going to paint me the pervert, the one who tries to get a look, steal a glance of the girl on the tube, the bus, the other side of the street. Sometimes I am that man. But while my curiosity is voracious, my sense of common decency wins out, more oft than not. But when I fall in love with the back of you, I need to see the front.
It’s the most rudimentary form of domination, that first glance. It’s wanting to meet you face to face, even if only from a distance, so that I can get the measure of you. So that I can pin you down, in my head, as this, or that, or the other thing. You’re entirely uninvolved, but from that first moment, when your features enter into my memorybanks, I’m wrestling with the concept of you, turning you into something I can manage, and control.
That’s probably just me, and I probably didn’t do such a brilliant job of not coming across as the pervert type, but you should ask yourself, dear reader, if you ever expected any less? You are reading this page, after all. The deviant mind is always going to be driven by perversion, in some way or another.
I’m going to devour you. Place you on a surface, it doesn’t matter what, and consume you. Turn you into something to be inhaled, and then suck you in through my lungs. Every little piece of you, running through my consciousness, filtered through a sieve. I want you to leave parts of you behind, distilled.
But then that’s always what I say. I’m the active voice in all this, and you’re just the passive receiver. You’re the one who reads, squeezes her legs together, and smiles that smile that’s halfway between a knowing smirk and a chaste fluster. That’s not you. You’re not some passive thing. You’d do things to me that I couldn’t imagine. You’re a creative force of your own.
So why don’t you devour me. I won’t stop you. I’ll lean back, unbutton my shirt, and why don’t you have at it. Let’s see what you can do, little girl, see if you can be a woman for once, rather than just the long haired beauty in the window that I pray to let down their hair. I’m sick of serenading; I want to hear you moan a melody. Come on down, the water is fine.
Be the predator for once, and seek me out. Try to pin me down to to the bed and ravish me with your lips. Let’s see if you can have the balls enough for that. Pick up that gauntlet I’ve thrown at your feet, and let’s see what you can do. Because ‘sit quietly and read’ really isn’t the full roster of your talents, I’m fairly sure of that.
This girl was fierce. Alive in all the right ways, coming out of the left field and not stopping until she’d streaked well past what was right and proper, left laughing and winded on the other side of the pitch. She was kinky, of course she was kinky. She smoked, but I didn’t really mind that. The bite of the tobacco in the back of my throat after we kissed tickled that tiniest of masochistic urges that dwells inside.
We were at a party one night, near Christmas, and she went out for a cigarette. It was cold, my jacket was warm, so I tagged along. It would be nice to get her alone, as I’d been undressing her visually all evening, and my hand was starting to itch, fingers drumming out a tattoo against my thigh as I half paid attention to conversation. I wanted to feel the beat of her heart through my thumb as I squeezed against her windpipe. I wanted to feel the tobacco scratch against my throat.
“You know you can slap me if you want to, right?” She’d just exhaled, and the heat from the smoke as it hung in the air seemed almost comfortable in the cold of the night. I couldn’t help but smirk.
“If you want to ask, just ask.” She just shrugged.
“Can you slap me?” So I did.
I’ve got big hands, and her face turned with the impact. It wasn’t even a heavy blow, just a fast one, the sting hanging around longer than the fingers ever had. The way her eyes stayed closed, her mouth hanging ever so gently open, made me want to kiss her. But instead I just smiled.
“Again?” She nodded. Yes, she’d liked that. So I slapped her again.
She was unafraid. Kink wasn’t anything secret to her, and I admired that about her. But when we finally got to the bedroom, she winced when she saw the pale light of the computer monitor, the soft glow of the bedroom lamp.
“Can you turn them off?” I was confused. I stated as much.
“I’ve just got.. issues.” It didn’t matter to me. The darkness wouldn’t take her away from me any more than the light, and I wasn’t planning on getting out the rope. Besides, my fingers knew the knots well enough to tie them without the help of my eyes, anyway.
What struck me was the contradiction of it all. She was so brave in so many ways, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t afraid in a few others. This isn’t some passport to universal courage, a way to escape all the things that make you anxious, afraid, alone. It’s not going to instantly make you gloriously happy with yourself, or remove your self esteem issues. It’s just its own thing, and you can’t expect it to be more than that.
The beauty, then, is in how it nudges you along all those paths, opens the doors, and lets you walk through them. It takes away some of the glare of the light, so you can look at yourself with a less critical eye.
I am not an equal-opportunity humiliator. I don’t do it because I’m a misogynist, or because I enjoy watching a woman degraded, devolved into a begging, whimpering wreck at my feet. I don’t want to objectify because I think you’re an object, just a fuck thing to enjoy, toss aside, and let wipe itself down on its own time. I don’t tear you down because I want to see you in pieces on the floor.
It’s not respect that drives it, but that’s in there somewhere, a throughline that holds the whole thing together. No, I want to marvel at your tenacity, watch this personality that I care about so much, that I’ve explored with, bounce back from whatever I can throw at it. I want to see how plucky you are, see how stubborn you can be, and I want to see you wallow in the muck then wash yourself off and walk among the princesses again.
I call you a whimpering, cock-hungry babyslut and you revel in it, your body twitching like each syllable is a jolt of electricity bringing the Frankenstienian patchwork of your subsconscious to life. It’s tugging at something deep inside you, and it’s a something you want to let breathe. I strip away the pieces of you so that you can finally know the truth inside, before putting your clothes back on and stepping away, armed with new knowledge.
Pride comes before a fall, but they forget to tell you of the wisdom that comes from picking yourself up and walking away in one piece. That’s why the depths of me are dredged to the surface, some deep pleasure that I can’t quite vocalise, when I push you off that cliff with terrible words and worse actions. The depravity of it is a fire, purging you clean.
I have a new baby in the family and Baku is my go to person for my maladaptive daydreams so—
Just thinking about Domestic Dilf Bakugou again. How he learns that Sunday’s, after knocking you up and wifing you, are meant for cleaning and family time.
He wakes up to you and your newborn beside him. The baby is latched onto your nipple, the sun barely peaking over the horizon, as you look half sleep while feeding your baby boy. Your eyes are soft as you use your free hand to brush away blond curls that tickle his red eyes. The baby blinks back up at you sleepily, suckling softly and trying his best to coo around the nipple in his mouth.
It makes you smile. Makes you think back on how lucky you truly are.
You jerk slightly at the stir beside you, when a large hand brushes the rest of your sons hair back from his face. Your son seems unbothered though, just blinks his sleepy little eyes, slows on his suckling as he leans into his dads touch.
Just on the subject of Laerryn and her life’s work and her now having the last thing she needed for it, I’m just putting some pieces together. Things she has:
Her life’s work, a flying city’s massive battery engines, which appear to hoover up and store masses of magical energy over a seven year circuit around the world (?) and that are currently pretty much at capacity, main and auxillary
A seven-year ritual called the Replenishment which seems to involve earthing a huge chunk, if not most, of that energy back into the ley lines, either in one shot or over the course of a month, which typically results in a surge of energy through the leys, enough to cause continental crop abundance and a wave of sorcerous kids to be born
An apogee solstice, a once-in-an-elven-lifetime moment where the planes are in alignment, the leys are coursing with energy, it is entirely possible to reshape the ley lines and possibly the material plane, and the barriers between planes are paper thin
And, now, a tuning fork of celestial gold tied to the celestial planes, in the form of a solar’s bow, which was the last thing she needed
So, to sum up from that, she has a flying city’s worth of magical energy that she’s spent her life designing an engine to collect, she has a ritual location and time where she can pour all that energy into a continent sized power grid in a single surge, she has a cosmic event to supercharge said power grid and provide her with a once-in-a-lifetime window of opportunity to access beyond the material plane, and now she has basically a targeting mechanism.
… Vespin Chloras who? Laerryn. Honey. What are you doing?
On top of this, according to Patia’s history check on Ghor Dranas, the location of the Replenishment, the mountain that became Avalir and Cathmoira, is sitting directly on top of the prison of two of the primordials from the Schism. I don’t know if that’s also going to have an effect, but at the very least their location has likely always been supercharged to some extent.
Adding on some more things: Vespin Chloras, or whatever is directing Vespin Chloras, specifically wanted to be on Avalir. I don’t think it’s an accident that it picked Avalir during the Replenishment to get picked up by. Because, I’m just guessing, Avalir’s been pumping bigger and bigger surges due to Laerryn’s engines, but if it’s been doing the Replenishment since it first took to the skies under Patia’s grandfather, then it’s been essentially power-cycling the continent’s ley lines every seven years for centuries. Which, I’m just guessing, might have weakened some things? Like, maybe, locks on prisons?
I’m just wondering, is all, if Avalir as a concept was maybe influenced at all. There’s a whole theme going on about the Age of Arcanum and the hubris of wizards and the fatal arrogance of thinking you’re better and beyond the influence of gods. Everyone wants to become a god, like the Raven Queen, or they’re trying to prove that they’re beyond that (hi Patia), and it’s just …
And I’m wondering too if the Raven Queen is the one who’s picking up on things, noticing Vespin Chloras and the possible link to the betrayer gods, not just because she’s the goddess of death and there’s a big potential death looming, but also because she is still ‘one of us’ and of all the gods she has the best sense to tell when mortal hubris is about to bring the universe clattering down on their heads. Her own hubris lead to her becoming a god and immediately destabilising things, and she noticed and about-faced, and maybe that means she’s better at noticing when, for example, a city-sized battery is about to plug itself directly into the world’s magical mainframe and do something. Possibly under the influence of a betrayer god.
And Laerryn’s just gone running into the heart of Avalir with her targeting mechanism and four potentially possessed constructs.
