#context: I made a combination lock

[clownstho]

I have become all powerful

[krypticcafe]

Can please get fic where young reader almost gets r-word.. like! What happened to ellie on 'the last of us' like make it into that situation, reader kills the rapist and flees away and runs into the 141 team, and their like in this state of like panic, but they calm them down and they explain what happened they are beyond livid so they just reck hell on the people who was with the man who tried to r-word reader.

(this a platonic relationship between reader and the team)

Me and the Devil

rating: mature

pairing(s): platonic 141 x gn!reader

warning(s): no use of y/n, dead dove do not eat, non-explicit attempted r*pe, emotional and physical trauma, sexual physical and mental violence, canon-typical graphic violence, comfort

wordcount: ~3.8k

a/n: i'm not exactly sure what anon meant by young, but for context, reader is probably 20-22, I'm just not comfortable writing this kinda stuff for teen or child reader, I hope you don't mind. also, huge, HUGE emphasis on the warnings. though nothing is explicit and there are no sexual graphic terms, the descriptions and actions alone are still very disturbing and uncomfortable! and the violence is a little uncomfy for those not used to it, too. title is from 'Me and the Devil' - Soap&Skin

synopsis: You can see it. The devil. It laughs, and laughs, and laughs, mocks you for your childish stupidity and naivete. To think the angels would come marching in, that you'd make it out with any semblance of sanity. You can't fight it, you can't even hide from it. All you can do is lie in your grave.

Just hours ago, you were alongside the 141, cleaning up and wiping out an enemy base, a typical Tuesday on a summer afternoon. You should've known things would go downhill with how smoothly it was all going. Even Price commented on it with an air of wariness and suspicion. After all, it was a saying that if the fight starts getting too easy, then it's an ambush. And an ambush it was. You want to tell yourself that it was nothing, easy as pie compared to what you've been through. You wanted to say that it was a success and you turned the tables on your enemies. You wanted to say that it ended within a matter of minutes and that you were on your way back to base with your boys, ready for a night of banter at the pub. You'd join Ghost in watching Soap and Gaz try their hand at poker, taking a shot each time Soap's dogshit luck lost him another couple of euros while Price would pry Roach from having another cocktail and piss himself ('it was one time!' he slurs).

But instead, you're here. Locked in a room, bag over your head, tied to a chair, a stereotypical hostage situation but that didn't make it any less tolerable. Though having a potato sack over your head was nowhere near as embarrassing as the reason why you were captured. You tried your best to hold onto the jeep, honestly, you did. Until some ankle-biter decided to latch onto you and sink his teeth into your flesh, causing your grip to loosen and send you tumbling into the dirt. Your bodies slammed into the ground, kicking up dust and your opponent taking most of the fall damage for you. How thoughtful.

Seething at the audacity he had to chomp on your leg like some feral mutt, you gave him a piece of your mind and made sure he'd never bite another ankle again. His friends caught up the moment you were done. They dragged you back down to the coarse dirt and sand of the earth, making you taste and choke on dust. You looked at the lifeless figure in the sand, briefly wondering if you'd be wishing you were him before a bag was slipped over your head and tied like a collar. It didn't help that the sand on the roof of your mouth combined with your ineffective attempts to ration your breathing made for a burn worse than any hard liquor down your throat. Thrashing and shouting like a madman, you cursed them like some teenager who discovered swearing as they tossed you into the back of a truck, rolling you forth with the heels of their boots. Not your finest moment.

Once you were loaded and the rest of them climbed on, the truck shot forward without slowing down for a second, taking you to your own personal hell for the next few days. Knowing the 141, they were probably at the safehouse, planning their next move to retrieve you. In the time between interrogations and routine attempts to break you, you could imagine Soap and Roach pacing around the room, Ghost brandishing a knife with a dark look in his eyes, and Price looming over a map and pulling up contacts with Gaz at his side. While you hated to burden them with your own mistakes, thinking about them all gnawing their teeth in comical anger at your expense brought you momentary comfort, eliciting a small chuckle.

"Something funny?" Much to your ire, all your thoughts were interrupted by the sound of several people shuffling into the room. You could only expect so much privacy in a place like this. The man who spoke up seemed to carry himself like a leader, considering how he spoke above all others and you could hear him carrying out demands every now and then, checking up on you as if he actually gave a shit. And currently, he was on the top of your "to kill" list, along with every other cunt in this prison.

"What'll it be today, more screaming or more silence? You know, you can only stay quiet for so long." He sighed. Judging by the sound of metal screeching on concrete, he pulled up a front-row seat. With a single yank, you were again temporarily freed of the confines of the bag on your face, glaring at the man with a look of ferocity that seemed as if it were etched on your face permanently. His clothes were disturbingly clean-cut and polished despite the blood he spilled for the past few days. Your blood he spilled. "Come now... you know you'll only make things more difficult. Face it, kid, they're not coming, it's been days."

When you felt gloved fingers touch your jaw you snapped, pulling away like an animal restrained by a leash. Your captor let out a taunting "Oooh", and your skin crawled at how he heckled and laughed like some adolescent boy poking a rabid animal with a stick through its cage. "So it bites."

"Fuck you." You rasped.

"And it talks." The humiliation of their nonchalant attitudes made you seethe, you knew it was a tactic to get under your skin and you just wouldn't have it, turning your head away from the men.

"Uh-uh, eyes on me. How is such a fresh thing like you out fighting wars with men like them?" He hummed, gripping your jaw with a strength that took you by surprise and had you wincing. Even though his hands were gloved, it felt as if he were trying to dig into your skin. With no other choice, you were forced to look into his eyes, the pyres of unimaginable anger burning in yours.

However, it was then that you felt it. Something was off. Something was horribly off about him. The several times he'd come in here to either coax you with gentle words or have his men beat you within an inch of your life, he either had some faux kindness or gleeful malice painted across his face. But this time, his eyes were alight with slimy delight. You hated it, Hated how it made you feel small, cornered, pulling on your leash so that you couldn't be yanked from the one place that made you feel safe. You hated how it didn't feel like he was trying to get under your skin, or sink into your bones but instead your mind as if to violate it. You hated how it seemed like he had something more in mind, something that you couldn't predict like a kick to the ribs or a carefully worded reassurance that you'd be in "good hands". It was the one thing you felt like you had control over, knowing what was next, and now you didn't.

With a wave of his hand, his men all filed out of the room, leaving just him and you alone. One came back with a bowl in their hands and you felt yourself doubt your worries. Were you already beginning to lose it in here? "Hungry?" He smiled, taking the bowl and dismissing the soldier. It looked and smelled like a stew, potatoes, and beef, not scraps of stale bread or lukewarm, half-empty beer cans.

"I asked them to make something special today for you, isn't that nice? I suppose even someone like you has a taste for the finer things in life and wouldn't say yes to leftovers." No answer came but it was to be expected as he mixed the stew with a spoon. Your eyes were trained on his face instead, expecting some kind of strings attached. He entertained that expectation by—to your disgust—spitting into the stew, mixing it more, and bringing up a spoonful to your face. "Consider that the cost of being so picky. Open wide, soldier. Surely you won't make a fuss again, now will you?"

There was a pause, you leaned forward, lips ghosting the tip of the spoon before you roughly shoved his chair away from you with your boot. The bowl fell from his hands onto the ground, pooling between the two of you. He could go to hell with his stupid fucking soup.

He let out a scowl of disapproval, his self-satisfied smirk replaced with disgust and irritation like a parent to their troublemaking child. Fine with you, you didn't need that asshole's approval. He stood, grabbing a handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiping his hands and the small splatters on his uniform. "Should've known better that the government's pets would act like such animals. I gave you a chance, I tried to make this easy for you." He snarled, tossing his handkerchief aside and grabbing you by the collar, "But no, you just had to be a fucking brat, huh? Fine, be one. I can work with that. Either way, you'll be put in your place soon enough."

Before you could comprehend what he was implying, he slashed the ropes that binded you to your chair with a combat knife and shoved you to the floor, your head throbbing as it hit concrete, along with the rest of your aching muscles. Vision blurred, you sat up and tried to make out what he was doing, falling back when he roughly grabbed your hair and shoved your head back down into the ground. Like an alarm, every single flight or fight response went off in your body and yet you couldn't figure out what he was trying, you just knew that this was something worse and that you were a fool to let your guard down for a single second.

A twisted smile broke across his lips, "You know, you have a very lovely voice. You sing the loveliest songs."

Your brows furrowed, confusion flashing across your face until you let out a yelp of pain when he pressed into your stomach, already bruised from previous matters. He let out a sigh that made you shudder and you felt bile creep up your throat, moving your face to the side in fear that you'd choke on it.

"Eyes. On. Me." He snapped, his voice sounding so much louder than it actually was, his hand twisting your jaw back to look up at him while his fingers proceeded to dig themselves into whatever spots got you hissing and squirming away. That's all it took for your resolve to break, the blaze in your eyes fizzling out and replace with genuine fear and utter shock as you watched him straddle you and stare with a piercing gaze that trapped you. It forced your attention to stay on him, daring you to look anywhere else but him when that was all you could focus on. Him.

You couldn't even scream, paralyzed when you heard the sound of metal clinking against metal and the brushing of fabric, raw horror setting itself alight in your bones at how he loomed over you. At that moment, you swore you could see the devil itself laughing, cackling, mocking you in his eyes.

It was like you were seven again.

Scared, cornered in your room because you swore, you swore and sobbed and cried that you saw it, a monster in your closet. A dark, shadowy figure that'd taunt you merely with its existence and prayed on your downfall, drinking the fat tears you spilled and listening to your high-pitched cries as if they were music, eyes that you couldn't see but they could see you.

Others tried to convince you that it wasn't real, opened the doors, and closed them again, showing that there was nothing but cleanly folded clothes and hung-up jackets lined neatly along a rack. Every time, you'd feel a little more silly about your fears but anxious that they'd come back for more.

At some point, you nearly forgot about the monster altogether. It ceased to exist in your closet, but never your mind.

"Damn it, what now?!"

Pulled back into the present, you heard muffled speech with loud, obtrusive noises and more screaming and cursing from the man above you. He was faced with the still-closed door, talking to a soldier behind it. Instead of trying to catch up with what happened, your mind raced to its defensive instincts. Finding the spoon dropped from earlier, you reached for it with a strained grunt which caught his attention. Yet with a swift grab and thrust of your hand, you jammed the blunt handle of the spoon into his throat and screamed at him, your vocal cords ripping in deliriously satisfying pain.

Barely giving him a second to let out a final gasp for air, you flipped him over underneath you and yanked the spoon out, blood erupting out of the gash. Fire ignited in your veins and you balled your fists, giving him a taste of the rage of a caged beast with nothing left to lose, just the desperation to survive for more. It was a symphony of grotesque crunches of bone and ligament, and you yelled, screamed, and cursed with each impact at him, at the entire organization, at a godless world for making you live through hell. A pitiful yet gruesomely satisfying attempt to reclaim what sanity and control you lost in that room.

Blood and flesh coated your fingers like warm syrup, and you were sure your knuckles were split. Crimson red was a good look on a sterile uniform, you thought to yourself. The sight of your work made you realize it wasn't the devil in his eyes was laughing at you, but rather its reflection from over your shoulder, still gleefully singing and squealing with delight as it watched you indulge in pure, unadulterated wrath. Its tail wrapped around your neck, strangling you with delirium and bloodthirst, guiding you in your ear as you beat an already dead man to a pulp.

Taking a stand, its whispers remained in your ear, praising you and yet you felt sick looking at what was left of what you had done, of what was left of the man's face. His blood pooled around his shoulders, mixing with the stew into an unholy concoction, evidence that was a testimony to your suffering and to your sin. Using his combat knife, you cut through the ropes around your wrists, skin scratched raw and bleeding. Without a second glance, you took his gun and left the room.

To this day, you tell yourself that you crawled out of hell that day.

"Any signs of the hostage?" Gaz shouted over comms, holding off a room of enemies alongside Price.

The moment they had all seen your fingers slip from the jeep and saw you tumble away that afternoon was the moment they knew they wouldn't be coming back to base for a long time. Roach had watched in despair as he was so damn close to grabbing your hand, swearing that had he'd been a little quicker, you wouldn't be here. Soap had yelled for Price to go back but Gaz and Ghost both knew his hand wasn't going to turn that wheel anytime soon. All of them knew. They couldn't turn back, and you wouldn't have wanted them to either, not unless the entire team and mission were to be jeopardized. However, that didn't stop them from doing whatever it takes to get you back safe again.

"Negative." Ghost answered over the line, standing with Soap in a hallway painted with the blood of the opposition, bodies scattered like lifeless bags of flesh with no greater purpose than to rot.

"I have eyes on them, they escaped from captivity. Currently pursuing them!" Roach responded. He'd seen your figure run down a hall at an alarming speed, and when he followed you, he had a glimpse of the room and the spectacle you left behind, "The leader is terminated, too. Jesus, can someone get over here?! They're gunning it for the west exit and I can barely keep up!"

You were in fact, bolting for the exits, panicking the more you got lost and running so fast that you probably could've broken a record on base. Distant gunfire and blasts snapped at your heels like a pack of dogs, reminding you that if you didn't keep running, you'd be dead, you'd be torn apart and beaten just like their leader and fed to the wolves. Boots trampled the ground behind you like drums of death, the yelling of men ringing in your ears, a requiem to the inevitable. Run, just run, it's all you could do in this frenzied state. If you didn't you'd be helpless, you'd be put down like a rabid fucking animal. Run, even if your bones shook from the pain, even if flames licked at your torn muscles, even if it meant dying of exhaustion because anything was better than dying at the hands of those animals.

At last, you found the light of an exit, finally an escape from this asylum. Your heart felt lighter when sunlight kissed your skin only to be weighed down by getting slammed into, grabbed into a relentless hold. You screeched, shrieked, snapped, and sneered while the voices seemed relieved, almost happy at your capture.

"Don't fucking touch me-!" You screamed with animosity, practically frothing at the mouth, "Don't fucking touch me I'll fucking kill you! I'll fucking—"

"Friendly, friendly!"

Still growling under your breath, confusion flickered over your eyes. Why did it sound like... like...

"Captain?"

"You're safe kid," Price panted, as if he'd been running to chase you. He was chasing you. In all your hysteria, you hadn't realized that the group had been running after you for past minute or so, trying to call for you, get you to slow down. The only thing that worked was to just grab to and hopefully knock some sense into you or knock you out. "It's just us, see?"

Your gaze softened, taking in the features of the man before you. Despite the crossfire and fighting, somehow he still had such a kind look on him, puppy eyes that pitied you and kept you grounded. Turning your head, you saw the rest of the men watching you in concern, all tired but overjoyed nonetheless that you were finally back.

You were safe.

It was like a weight finally lifted off your chest, a pile of restrained misery and relief washing over you, and you wept without a thought to pride. Price whispered your name in a way that felt so comfortingly familiar, tucking your head into his shoulder and letting you muffle your sobs into his uniform. It was painful to hear your wails, the relief and the instability shaking off of you in waves. A part of you expected to be scolded, to be teased for messing up so badly with a simple mistake as letting go of the jeep but they didn't.

"You're in good hands,"

"We've got them covered,"

"They can't hurt you anymore, love."

"Do you have any major injuries?" Gaz asked, but you couldn't say a thing, clinging onto Price's jacket and crying like you were four years old and found by your parents after getting lost. Slowly and gently, Price pulled you from him to examine you, and that's when he saw it. It didn't take long for the others to notice as well. Your clothes were torn and belt undone. While no physical harm was visible, knowing what happened was enough to make Price tick.

"Roach, get them to the car and give them some spares ASAP. Everyone else with me, we're cleaning out the place." Everyone else had the same dark look in their eyes, one that sent shivers down your spine but encouraged you once more you were secure now. While Roach escorted you away, you peeked back to see them disappear back into the building. After you changed in the car, you could hear the distant gunfire and screams, shutting your eyes closed tight, making an effort to drown out the thoughts.

"You okay?" Roach frowned. he had apologized to you a dozen times over on your way to the car and explained all that happened after you were taken, which you appreciated him for and insisted it wasn't his fault. But he was sweet and stubborn, bandaging your wounds and telling you he'd make it up by giving you his dessert for the next month, a gesture that made you smile for once in a while.

"Yeah, yeah just... hope they're safe." You breathed, sinking into your seat with the rest of your thoughts. Though you cried once more, quietly this time and on Roach's shoulder. He was cautious not to initiate too much physical contact, holding your hand only when you asked for it.

The building was silent, not a single soul left to be reaped by the 141. They all regrouped around a body that was beaten beyond belief, to the point where the face was unrecognizable. Regardless, they knew who it was.

Gaz broke the silence, "You think they did this?" They all looked at each other, not wanting to imagine what happened to lead to this point.

Ghost nodded, a confirmation of something they already knew but wanted to mutually agree on. "No one else could've made this much of a bloody mess. HQ's going to have a field day with this. Can't say that he didn't have it coming for him, though."

"And well deserved, too." Soap spat. Price continued to look down on the figure on the floor without any thought to it. Not anger, disappointment, or spite, just disregard. Headquarters would be interested to hear what happened, but he could care less about the report. All that mattered was that loose ends were tied.

Minutes later, the men all piled up in the car again, setting for the road back. You woke from your half-asleep state, rubbing your eyes. You were met with a soft smile from Soap, who ruffled your hair. "You alright there, sleepin' beauty?"

Humming in acknowledgment, you nodded and glanced out the window to see the road whizzing by, the building growing smaller and smaller in the distance. Some dingy warehouse. So that was the hellhole you were stuck in for a near week.

"Dinnae think 'bout it too much," He followed your gaze and nudged your boot with his, "When we said they can't hurt ye anymore, we meant it."

"Yeah," You quietly mumbled, leaning back on Roach, who had fallen asleep and leaned on Gaz for support. "Can smell it on you guys."

That got a rumbling laugh out of Soap and even a little headshake from Ghost who sat in the passenger seat. Looking at the rearview mirror, Price was looking right back at you, eyes flickering to the road occasionally, "Get some rest. It'll be a long ride home."

You nodded like a little kid with a mumbled "yessir" and drifted off once more. For the first time in forever, you feel like you can breathe and ground yourself, no punishment, no torture, nothing to haunt in this rare bit of calm. You didn't feel the pain of your sore muscles, you didn't feel that your body was filthy, you didn't feel small and scared, not anymore. Just surrounded by nothing but a familiar feeling of safety and lulled to sleep by the sound of the engine that took you home.

a/n pt.2: had a tough time writing this one but hey, I think I managed! to be honest, though, I'm not super confident about the ending and proofread this while half-asleep, but I'd love to hear some thoughts about it. shoutout to the people who noticed any reoccurring themes.

[modmad]

Hey Mod, I don't know what's going on that hurt you, I feel like I missed something that's happened, but I can tell from what I did see that it didn't just hurt you, but scared you and made you feel a Lot of doubt. I've also seen a lot of messages pouring in with support, and I want to share mine.

I have hypermobile type EDS, fibromyalgia, and a whole bucket's worth of faulty wiring in my brain. And I've always had stories to tell but I never felt I was good enough to share them. If it's because I can't focus enough to get through nanowrimo, or because I can't manage the focus and time towards drawing as a hobby, or the fact that an excessive amount of either for me leads to my hands wanting to shut down. But you? You *inspire* me. Your stories, all the ones I've seen, read, experienced in some way or another, they're so good. And you're open and honest with your fans about your own health, and of course, we support you and always would rather you rest and feel as best you can, instead of pushing out something and working yourself too hard. But all of this is to say that. I think I would have given up on my own stories if I hadn't found you and yours.

I hope whatever is going on sorts itself out, I hope you're able to keep telling your stories. At your own pace, in your own way. I think you deserve to be happy. If there's anything we (your fans, especially those of us too awkward to come off anon, whoops,) can do, to help in some way? Even if it's silly videos or cute cat pictures or whatever it is that could just help you smile. We're here. We love you.

woof. I woke up to so many messages I can't even read them all in one go I'm getting too emotional- I do feel I owe an explanation so I'll explain what happened under the cut but all you guys need to know is I'm okay, I got through it, I love you, and you're so important to me and I'm so grateful for all the messages that have asked me to stay.

tw for suicidal thoughts and all that

yeah so I have the bad morning of all mornings: was introduced to the fact there's this one character (Mr Puzzles) on a very popular youtube that. resembles RGB. incredibly strongly. like. I don't want to link to it just look if you want to. Anyway at the time I thought it had just dropped (seems to have been around for 6 months actually), and having commented on it I immediately got an inbox full of hate mail.

My website, meanwhile, had locked both me and my web designer out of it, and- already in a bad state of mind- I went into full on panic/paranoid spiral of 'they have hacked it, and they are going to delete any proof that I was here before them.' This of course wasn't true, and we have since recalimed control of the site (don't know what happened there but hey. it's fine???? haha. ha.)

On top of this my father has terminal cancer of the pancreas, which is horrible for everyone already but it means that- at some point this year- I am going to be the only person with an active income in my house. I am disabled, do not make a lot of money, and the cost of living is skyrocketing. Combine that with months of Despair at the world right now, with the multiple wars, genocide, corruption and AI and the loss of control any of us have over our IP or lives and I just decided it was time to end it all.

I somehow remembered this was a bad idea to act on immediately (hard during a period of entirely irrational thought) and instead went for a very long walk, crossed the bridge I could have jumped off and during that I came out of the worst of it. I then came back home to so much love online I felt deeply ashamed for ever contemplating it, and I cried a lot. My nose is still puffy and now my feet hurt! lmao

Anyway. Yeah. There's your context. I am not going to stop hoping, making, or living. I am prone to moments of weakness and this was one of the worst of them and I am still here, thanks in a large part to all of you. I might need you in the future to defend me against this, or people who take our ideas, but I hope you know that I will do the same for you. We need each other, and to be there for you I need to be here at all.

also fuck Mr Puzzles

[theriverbeyond]

how do we know in the books that john is indigenous? can you say more about how his indigeneity is important to his story?

hello! so there is a word of god post on race (doesn't mention John but mentions that Gideon is "mixed Maori"), BUT I frankly don't think word of god statements are worth any weight without actual in-text support (see: the "dumbledore is gay" situation). SO!

Specific evidence that John Gaius is Maori, as revealed in Nona the Ninth:

When he is listing his education, John mentions having gone to Dilworth School (John 20:8). Dilworth is an all boys boarding school in Auckland and accepts students based on financial need instead of academic or sporting achievements. Demographics appear to be about 70% low income Maori boys, indicating that it is highly likely that John is Maori

John reports that P- said he looked like a "Maori-TV pink panther" (John 15:23) when his eyes turned gold. Maori TV is a TV station that is focused primarily on Maori culture & language revitalization, with presumably all or mostly Maori hosts, and tbh I don't see why P- would say this unless John was himself Maori

John uses a te reo Māori phrase ("kia kaha, kia māia") (John 5:20) when he is saying goodbye to the corpses in the cryo lab before the power is shut off. Though it is possible he said this as a non-Maori kiwi, but in combination with the previous two points of evidence I think this all very strongly points to him being Maori

He also renames his daughter Kiriona Gaia, "Kiriona" being just literally the name "Gideon" in te reo Māori

TLT is not a series that hands you anything on a silver platter but to ME this is all pretty solid proof

Why is this relevant to The Locked Tomb?

In Nona the Ninth, we learn that before he completed apotheosis and ate the solar system, John was basically trying to save the earth from capitalism-caused climate change. Climate justice and the rights of indigenous people over their own land are deeply tied together, in the same way that climate catastrophe and capitalism/ imperialism/ colonialism are linked. disclaimer that this is NOT my area of study and others have definitely said it better; this is just the basic gist as I understand it, but on quick search I found some sources here and here if you want to do some reading.

TLT is not a series that hands you anything on a silver platter, but i don't think it is a stretch to see John as an indigenous man trying to save the earth and getting ignored and shut down at every turn by primarily western colonial powers (PanEuro, the USA) who declare him a terrorist and then as a reader thematically connecting that to the experience of indigenous climate activists IRL

there are absolutely TLT meta posts that have discussed this before me; tumblr search is nonfunctional and I have been looking for an hour and a half and cannot find anything specific even though i KNOW i reblogged multiple posts about this in the first few weeks following NTN's release. sad & I am sorry

I think that by the time the books take place, John is 10k years removed from the cultural context he grew up in, with the Nine Houses having become a genocidal colonial power in their own right (with more parallels to be made between John's forever war for the resources of literal life energy and like, oil wars), but I also think that John Gaius is a fictional character who can represent and symbolize multiple different things in service of telling a story. (not to mention the potential thematic parallels being made to how oppressed people sometimes are pressed into replicating the power dynamics of their oppressors and continuing the cycle--now that is a tumblr post i KNOW i read last year and definitely cannot find right now, once again sad & I am sorry)

How Radical Was John Gaius, Really is a forum thread that was locked by the moderators after 234534645674564 pages of heated debate

[renardiererin]

hey babes!! <3 what about friends with benefits with suna where we catch feelings first, but he falls harder??

you have spent countless nights up in your room, waiting for the pebbles to hit your window as a signal that rintarou suna would be coming up to your bedroom. countless nights with your hands in his hair, clothes littering the floor, hands anywhere they can grab, his head between your thighs, you on your knees between his legs, his dick down your throat, in between your tits, in your tight little pussy, in your hands, even in your ass a couple of times. countless nights spent up in your bedroom with the door locked and a strong hand belonging to a certain middle blocker covering your mouth to shut up his little screamer. he never had a problem being aggressive, he knows it makes your pretty eyes roll back when he hurts you a little. it's all consensual. he has no problem telling you filthy things about how "daddy loves his princess' cute little cunt," and how he "needs just one more" even after your pussy has been throbbing in pain for over five minutes. countless nights spent with him shoving his dick as far into your pussy as he possibly could, hand wrapped around your throat-- which occasionally travels up to your hair to yank you back from how you're bent over so you can be with your back flush to his chest-- and his dick pounding in and out of you. he'd kiss you by shoving his ridiculously long tongue down your throat, immediately putting his hands down your pants. it was hard to not fall captive to the way he'd kiss your cheeks and hold your hands- even if it was always in sexual contexts. damn near impossible to keep your feelings platonic, what with the way you passed each day with his initials on a necklace you never took off, with the way he always helped you clean up and gave you head rubs until you fell asleep, how he texted you good morning and good night each and every day; it was among the most difficult things in the world to not fall in love with rintarou. but it was just sex. barely even friends, just a good sexual compatibility holding your relationship together. he was never romantic in the way you longed for, never held you the way you so desired. it's the same every night. always aggressive, and to the point; always just sex. until tonight. he snuck into your bedroom around midnight, greeting you with a soft kiss on the cheek and a delicate: "hi, princess." he brought you flowers, preparing a vase for them without you asking. he had no reason to, other than that he "thought they'd brighten up your room." the domesticity in the way he held your hands the way you always wished he would, in the way he adjusted your lights to be just the way you liked, the way he gave you his favorite shirt to put on after; the simple domesticity of the whole night so far had your heart racing and your head in shambles. he'd walk over and sit beside you, rubbing little hearts into your inner thighs while he kissed you-- more sweetly than typically, as well. "rin, what are you doing?" now, rin's never been a shy person. he's as blunt as it gets. so why would this be any different? false assumption. the way his ears turned pink & his cheeks deepened their faint blush made your head fuzzy with the schoolgirlish daydreams swirling through your head. you could only hope he felt the same, after all this time.

"you know i'm not the kind of guy to get embarrassed. i'm not the typa person to keep secrets and hide feelings, so i just wanna be direct with you, pretty, is that okay?" a slight nod was all he needed to continue talking. "i really like you. really really really like you. more than i like jelly sticks and volleyball combined. i want you to be there at all of my games and be the first person i talk to about anything no matter how big or small-- even though you know with me, nothing's ever small," he winked to lighten the mood, but a small puff of air and a ghost smile was all you could muster in your shocked state. "please tell me this isn't one sided, because if it is that's gonna be really fuckin' embarrassing for me and i would have to stop fucking your tiny pussy which would be the death of me." his hand slid further up the inside of your thigh as he spoke, the pad of his thumb brushing against your clit through the pretty panties you'd put on for him. the pair you'd chosen were almost fully lace and way too thin for this type of torture. you lifted your hips up slightly off the mattress and grinded your clit further onto his thumb. "do ya love me, pretty? tell me ya love me, and i'll have to touch you without this flimsy fabric in my way."

"i love you rin, i really do."

"nah hun, i don't need ya doin' me any favors. s'okay if you don't."

"rinnie i swear i'm in love with you. i have been for almost a year now, please take them off."

"i'm in love with you too, sugar. i guess i can touch your pretty cunt for you. if you insist." aaaand then he'd crack the widest smile he could muster before flipping you onto your back and shoving three fingers in your little hole immediately as your ass hit the bed below you, with no warning or prep whatsoever. he'd silence your protests with a soft kiss and say, "that's just love, darlin'."

(could you tell i had a lot of thoughts about this?)

[mostlysignssomeportents]

The (open) web is good, actually

I'll be at the Studio City branch of the LA Public Library tonight (Monday, November 13) at 1830hPT to launch my new novel, The Lost Cause. There'll be a reading, a talk, a surprise guest (!!) and a signing, with books on sale. Tell your friends! Come on down!

The great irony of the platformization of the internet is that platforms are intermediaries, and the original promise of the internet that got so many of us excited about it was disintermediation – getting rid of the middlemen that act as gatekeepers between community members, creators and audiences, buyers and sellers, etc.

The platformized internet is ripe for rent seeking: where the platform captures an ever-larger share of the value generated by its users, making the service worst for both, while lock-in stops people from looking elsewhere. Every sector of the modern economy is less competitive, thanks to monopolistic tactics like mergers and acquisitions and predatory pricing. But with tech, the options for making things worse are infinitely divisible, thanks to the flexibility of digital systems, which means that product managers can keep subdividing the Jenga blocks they pulling out of the services we rely on. Combine platforms with monopolies with digital flexibility and you get enshittification:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/01/21/potemkin-ai/#hey-guys

An enshittified, platformized internet is bad for lots of reasons – it concentrates decisions about who may speak and what may be said into just a few hands; it creates a rich-get-richer dynamic that creates a new oligarchy, with all the corruption and instability that comes with elite capture; it makes life materially worse for workers, users, and communities.

But there are many other ways in which the enshitternet is worse than the old good internet. Today, I want to talk about how the enshitternet affects openness and all that entails. An open internet is one whose workings are transparent (think of "open source"), but it's also an internet founded on access – the ability to know what has gone before, to recall what has been said, and to revisit the context in which it was said.

At last week's Museum Computer Network conference, Aaron Straup Cope gave a talk on museums and technology called "Wishful Thinking – A critical discussion of 'extended reality' technologies in the cultural heritage sector" that beautifully addressed these questions of recall and revisiting:

https://www.aaronland.info/weblog/2023/11/11/therapy/#wishful

Cope is a museums technologist who's worked on lots of critical digital projects over the years, and in this talk, he addresses himself to the difference between the excitement of the galleries, libraries, archives and museums (GLAM) sector over the possibilities of the web, and why he doesn't feel the same excitement over the metaverse, and its various guises – XR, VR, MR and AR.

The biggest reason to be excited about the web was – and is – the openness of disintermediation. The internet was inspired by the end-to-end principle, the idea that the network's first duty was to transmit data from willing senders to willing receivers, as efficiently and reliably as possible. That principle made it possible for whole swathes of people to connect with one another. As Cope writes, openness "was not, and has never been, a guarantee of a receptive audience or even any audience at all." But because it was "easy and cheap enough to put something on the web," you could "leave it there long enough for others to find it."

That dynamic nurtured an environment where people could have "time to warm up to ideas." This is in sharp contrast to the social media world, where "[anything] not immediately successful or viral … was a waste of time and effort… not worth doing." The social media bias towards a river of content that can't be easily reversed is one in which the only ideas that get to spread are those the algorithm boosts.

This is an important way to understand the role of algorithms in the context of the spread of ideas – that without recall or revisiting, we just don't see stuff, including stuff that might challenge our thinking and change our minds. This is a much more materialistic and grounded way to talk about algorithms and ideas than the idea that Big Data and AI make algorithms so persuasive that they can control our minds:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/11/06/attention-rents/#consumer-welfare-queens

As bad as this is in the social media context, it's even worse in the context of apps, which can't be linked into, bookmarked, or archived. All of this made apps an ominous sign right from the beginning:

https://memex.craphound.com/2010/04/01/why-i-wont-buy-an-ipad-and-think-you-shouldnt-either/

Apps interact with law in precisely the way that web-pages don't. "An app is just a web-page wrapped in enough IP to make it a crime to defend yourself against corporate predation":

https://pluralistic.net/2023/08/27/an-audacious-plan-to-halt-the-internets-enshittification-and-throw-it-into-reverse/

Apps are "closed" in every sense. You can't see what's on an app without installing the app and "agreeing" to its terms of service. You can't reverse-engineer an app (to add a privacy blocker, or to change how it presents information) without risking criminal and civil liability. You can't bookmark anything the app won't let you bookmark, and you can't preserve anything the app won't let you preserve.

Despite being built on the same underlying open frameworks – HTTP, HTML, etc – as the web, apps have the opposite technological viewpoint to the web. Apps' technopolitics are at war with the web's technopolitics. The web is built around recall – the ability to see things, go back to things, save things. The web has the technopolitics of a museum:

https://www.aaronland.info/weblog/2014/09/11/brand/#dconstruct

By comparison, apps have the politics of a product, and most often, that product is a rent-seeking, lock-in-hunting product that wants to take you hostage by holding something you love hostage – your data, perhaps, or your friends:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2021/08/facebooks-secret-war-switching-costs

When Anil Dash described "The Web We Lost" in 2012, he was describing a web with the technopolitics of a museum:

where tagging was combined with permissive licenses to make it easy for people to find and reuse each others' stuff;

where it was easy to find out who linked to you in realtime even though most of us were posting to our own sites, which they controlled;

where a link from one site to another meant one person found another person's contribution worthy;

where privacy-invasive bids to capture the web were greeted with outright hostility;

where every service that helped you post things that mattered to you was expected to make it easy for you take that data back if you changed services;

where inlining or referencing material from someone else's site meant following a technical standard, not inking a business-development deal;

https://www.anildash.com/2012/12/13/the_web_we_lost/

Ten years later, Dash's "broken tech/content culture cycle" described the web we live on now:

https://www.anildash.com/2022/02/09/the-stupid-tech-content-culture-cycle/

found your platform by promising to facilitate your users' growth;

order your technologists and designers to prioritize growth above all other factors and fire anyone who doesn't deliver;

grow without regard to the norms of your platform's users;

plaster over the growth-driven influx of abusive and vile material by assigning it to your "most marginalized, least resourced team";

deliver a half-assed moderation scheme that drives good users off the service and leaves no one behind but griefers, edgelords and trolls;

steadfastly refuse to contemplate why the marginalized users who made your platform attractive before being chased away have all left;

flail about in a panic over illegal content, do deals with large media brands, seize control over your most popular users' output;

"surface great content" by algorithmically promoting things that look like whatever's successful, guaranteeing that nothing new will take hold;

overpay your top performers for exclusivity deals, utterly neglect any pipeline for nurturing new performers;

abuse your creators the same ways that big media companies have for decades, but insist that it's different because you're a tech company;

ignore workers who warn that your product is a danger to society, dismiss them as "millennials" (defined as "anyone born after 1970 or who has a student loan")

when your platform is (inevitably) implicated in a murder, have a "town hall" overseen by a crisis communications firm;

pay the creator who inspired the murder to go exclusive on your platform;

dismiss the murder and fascist rhetoric as "growing pains";

when truly ghastly stuff happens on your platform, give your Trust and Safety team a 5% budget increase;

chase growth based on "emotionally engaging content" without specifying whether the emotions should be positive;

respond to ex-employees' call-outs with transient feelings of guilt followed by dismissals of "cancel culture":

fund your platforms' most toxic users and call it "free speech";

whenever anyone disagrees with any of your decisions, dismiss them as being "anti-free speech";

start increasing how much your platform takes out of your creators' paychecks;

force out internal dissenters, dismiss external critics as being in conspiracy with your corporate rivals;

once regulation becomes inevitable, form a cartel with the other large firms in your sector and insist that the problem is a "bad algorithm";

"claim full victim status," and quit your job, complaining about the toll that running a big platform took on your mental wellbeing.

https://pluralistic.net/2022/02/18/broken-records/#dashes

The web wasn't inevitable – indeed, it was wildly improbable. Tim Berners Lee's decision to make a new platform that was patent-free, open and transparent was a complete opposite approach to the strategy of the media companies of the day. They were building walled gardens and silos – the dialup equivalent to apps – organized as "branded communities." The way I experienced it, the web succeeded because it was so antithetical to the dominant vision for the future of the internet that the big companies couldn't even be bothered to try to kill it until it was too late.

Companies have been trying to correct that mistake ever since. After three or four attempts to replace the web with various garbage systems all called "MSN," Microsoft moved on to trying to lock the internet inside a proprietary browser. Years later, Facebook had far more success in an attempt to kill HTML with React. And of course, apps have gobbled up so much of the old, good internet.

Which brings us to Cope's views on museums and the metaverse. There's nothing intrinsically proprietary about virtual worlds and all their permutations. VRML is a quarter of a century old – just five years younger than Snow Crash:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/VRML

But the current enthusiasm for virtual worlds isn't merely a function of the interesting, cool and fun experiences you can have in them. Rather, it's a bid to kill off whatever is left of the old, good web and put everything inside a walled garden. Facebook's metaverse "is more of the same but with a technical footprint so expensive and so demanding that it all but ensures it will only be within the means of a very few companies to operate."

Facebook's VR headsets have forward-facing cameras, turning every users into a walking surveillance camera. Facebook put those cameras there for "pass through" – so they can paint the screens inside the headset with the scene around you – but "who here believes that Facebook doesn't have other motives for enabling an always-on camera capturing the world around you?"

Apple's VisionPro VR headset is "a near-perfect surveillance device," and "the only thing to save this device is the trust that Apple has marketed its brand on over the last few years." Cope notes that "a brand promise is about as fleeting a guarantee as you can get." I'll go further: Apple is already a surveillance company:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/11/14/luxury-surveillance/#liar-liar

The technopolitics of the metaverse are the opposite of the technopolitics of the museum – even moreso than apps. Museums that shift their scarce technology budgets to virtual worlds stand a good chance of making something no one wants to use, and that's the best case scenario. The worst case is that museums make a successful project inside a walled garden, one where recall is subject to corporate whim, and help lure their patrons away from the recall-friendly internet to the captured, intermediated metaverse.

It's true that the early web benefited from a lot of hype, just as the metaverse is enjoying today. But the similarity ends there: the metaverse is designed for enclosure, the web for openness. Recall is a historical force for "the right to assembly… access to basic literacy… a public library." The web was "an unexpected gift with the ability to change the order of things; a gift that merits being protected, preserved and promoted both internally and externally." Museums were right to jump on the web bandwagon, because of its technopolitics. The metaverse, with its very different technopolitics, is hostile to the very idea of museums.

In joining forces with metaverse companies, museums strike a Faustian bargain, "because we believe that these places are where our audiences have gone."

The GLAM sector is devoted to access, to recall, and to revisiting. Unlike the self-style free speech warriors whom Dash calls out for self-serving neglect of their communities, the GLAM sector is about preservation and access, the true heart of free expression. When a handful of giant companies organize all our discourse, the ability to be heard is contingent on pleasing the ever-shifting tastes of the algorithm. This is the problem with the idea that "freedom of speech isn't freedom of reach" – if a platform won't let people who want to hear from you see what you have to say, they are indeed compromising freedom of speech:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/12/10/e2e/#the-censors-pen

Likewise, "censorship" is not limited to "things that governments do." As Ada Palmer so wonderfully describes it in her brilliant "Why We Censor: from the Inquisition to the Internet" speech, censorship is like arsenic, with trace elements of it all around us:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uMMJb3AxA0s

A community's decision to ban certain offensive conduct or words on pain of expulsion or sanction is censorship – but not to the same degree that, say, a government ban on expressing certain points of view is. However, there are many kinds of private censorship that rise to the same level as state censorship in their impact on public discourse (think of Moms For Liberty and their book-bannings).

It's not a coincidence that Palmer – a historian – would have views on censorship and free speech that intersect with Cope, a museum worker. One of the most brilliant moments in Palmer's speech is where she describes how censorship under the Inquistion was not state censorship – the Inquisition was a multinational, nongovernmental body that was often in conflict with state power.

Not all intermediaries are bad for speech or access. The "disintermediation" that excited early web boosters was about escaping from otherwise inescapable middlemen – the people who figured out how to control and charge for the things we did with one another.

When I was a kid, I loved the writing of Crad Kilodney, a short story writer who sold his own self-published books on Toronto street-corners while wearing a sign that said "VERY FAMOUS CANADIAN AUTHOR, BUY MY BOOKS" (he also had a sign that read, simply, "MARGARET ATWOOD"). Kilodney was a force of nature, who wrote, edited, typeset, printed, bound, and sold his own books:

https://www.theglobeandmail.com/arts/books/article-late-street-poet-and-publishing-scourge-crad-kilodney-left-behind-a/

But there are plenty of writers out there that I want to hear from who lack the skill or the will to do all of that. Editors, publishers, distributors, booksellers – all the intermediaries who sit between a writer and their readers – are not bad. They're good, actually. The problem isn't intermediation – it's capture.

For generations, hucksters have conned would-be writers by telling them that publishing won't buy their books because "the gatekeepers" lack the discernment to publish "quality" work. Friends of mine in publishing laughed at the idea that they would deliberately sideline a book they could figure out how to sell – that's just not how it worked.

But today, monopolized film studios are literally annihilating beloved, high-priced, commercially viable works because they are worth slightly more as tax writeoffs than they are as movies:

https://deadline.com/2023/11/coyote-vs-acme-shelved-warner-bros-discovery-writeoff-david-zaslav-1235598676/

There's four giant studios and five giant publishers. Maybe "five" is the magic number and publishing isn't concentrated enough to drop whole novels down the memory hole for a tax deduction, but even so, publishing is trying like hell to shrink to four:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/11/07/random-penguins/#if-you-wanted-to-get-there-i-wouldnt-start-from-here

Even as the entertainment sector is working to both literally and figuratively destroy our libraries, the cultural heritage sector is grappling with preserving these libraries, with shrinking budgets and increased legal threats:

https://blog.archive.org/2023/03/25/the-fight-continues/

I keep meeting artists of all description who have been conditioned to be suspicious of anything with the word "open" in its name. One colleague has repeatedly told me that fighting for the "open internet" is a self-defeating rhetorical move that will scare off artists who hear "open" and think "Big Tech ripoff."

But "openness" is a necessary precondition for preservation and access, which are the necessary preconditions for recall and revisiting. Here on the last, melting fragment of the open internet, as tech- and entertainment-barons are seizing control over our attention and charging rent on our ability to talk and think together, openness is our best hope of a new, good internet. T

he cultural heritage sector wants to save our creative works. The entertainment and tech industry want to delete them and take a tax writeoff.

As a working artist, I know which side I'm on.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/11/13/this-is-for-everyone/#revisiting

Image: Diego Delso (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Museo_Mimara,_Zagreb,_Croacia,_2014-04-20,_DD_01.JPG

CC BY-SA 4.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/

[thana-topsy]

WIP Wednesday - Baldur's Gate Edition

I haven't shared a wip in god knows how long, and even though I've been working on my other fics in the background, I was bitten with the Bloodweave Bug and have been indulging myself a little bit here and there. So if it's your thing, have some... well. Have whatever this is shaping into:

[Context - Gale and Astarion attempt to get frisky after relentlessly flirting for two acts. NSFW warning: sexy and not-so-sexy postulating, but nothing too graphic. CW: descriptions of dissociation.]

--

“You really are a gorgeous creature,” Gale said, running his hand back down Astarion’s chest, across his stomach. “But I’m sure you already know that.” 

“Never hurts to hear it again. And again.” He arched into Gale’s touch. “So, do go on.” 

Gale finally tugged the shirt up and over Astarion’s head, tossing it to the floor before bending low to speak into his ear. “You’re gorgeous.”

“I know,” Astarion replied with a sigh as Gale placed kiss after kiss along his jawline before capturing his lips once more. 

Their pants remained on and were becoming increasingly more uncomfortable. Gale licked his way between Astarion’s lips, sucking and nipping. For all his enthusiasm and verve, it was, unfortunately, a rather predictable escalation. Gale groaned into his mouth and Astarion felt himself begin to detach, eyes half-open, gaze drifting unfocused to the upper left hand side of the ceiling.  

He wondered what kind of fuck Gale preferred. He seemed like the type to want to get Astarion off first before fucking him raw—the type to pride himself on getting his lover to cum before using their spent body for his own pleasure. Astarion knew the type. And there was something so incredibly wretched about having to pantomime pleasure for an unwanted orgasm–

“You still with me, ‘starion?” 

“Hmm?” Astarion jerked his gaze from the ceiling to focus on Gale’s face. He couldn’t actually recall when they’d stopped kissing. “Sorry, I was just…” He paused, momentarily at a loss, then affected his best flirtatious smile, brow furrowing coyly. “I was just thinking of all the filthy things I want you to do to me.” 

Gale sat back on his heels from where he knelt between Astarion’s legs, brow drawn. “Right… Listen, if you’d rather not–” 

“Don’t be ridiculous, darling.” Astarion reached down and curled his fingers around the hem of Gale’s trousers. “Of course I want…” His gaze went unfocused once more, staring past the cut of Gale’s hip at the shimmer of the arcane lock on the door. “I want…” Whatever he’d intended to say, the words refused to surface, and his resolve was withering on the vine.  

Gale slid his hands beneath Astarion’s, gently uncurling his fingers. “As I said, I consider myself to be an agreeable lover, which means recognizing when I’m not wanted.” 

“But I want–” Astarion’s throat seized as the panic set in. This wasn’t how things were supposed to go. “I want you,” he finally managed to squeeze out. “I just don’t… I don’t want…” As his desire, his true desire, solidified, it felt so ridiculous that he wasn’t sure if he could utter it aloud. 

“What don’t you want?” 

“I don’t want to be touched. Like… that.” He covered his face with his hands and groaned. “Hells below. I’ve had sex more times than probably half of Baldur’s Gate combined. You’d think I’d be a little more articulate on the matter.” He sighed, letting his hands fall to rest against Gale’s knees. “But rarely did I want it, and even more rarely did I enjoy it. Now that I’m—well, now that I’m not compelled, I just…” He let out another heaving sigh, eyes trained on the ceiling, on the far corner, the window, the crack in the wall. Anywhere but on Gale. “I don’t know if I remember how it should be. How to… enjoy it.”

Gale made a noise of understanding, shifting to extricate himself from between Astarion’s legs. “Well,” he said, grunting with exertion as he lay down next to him on the bed. “It would be neither the first nor the last time I’ve had these kinds of activities halted abruptly. And, to be clear, I’d rather they be halted than to have you carry on as if I’m some…” He made a swirling gesture at the ceiling, as though attempting to conjure the word, but left the silence unfilled.

“It’s pathetic,” Astarion said. Hatred and misery roiled in his gut. “He ruined me.”

“He didn’t,” Gale assured, as if it were that simple a claim to dismiss. “Give it time.” He reached down between his own legs and palmed himself through his pants with a groan. “Besides, I’ve more than enough practice with my own hand to find satisfaction if I need it.”

Astarion felt something stir in his loins, something that overrode the simmering bitterness. He turned onto his side, propping his head against one palm. “What if… What if I watched you?”

Gale looked at him with a raised brow, still cupping himself. “Watched me have a wank?” 

“I was thinking of it more in terms of ‘pleasuring yourself’, but sure. Be crude. Have a wank.”

“A titillating proposition,” Gale said with a breathy laugh, tipping his head back with a hiss as he squeezed himself. “Why not?”

[daydream-cement]

Please could you do a part 2 for sub!Larisa? Maybe they get caught or close to being caught aswell?

Glutton for Punishment pt. 2

Larissa Weems x dom!reader (NSFW)

Authors Note: This story is a combo of ideas from the past day or so. Another anon asked for a spank fic. There is a edit made by @miaivy of Gwen that is next level hot (so go take a gander). Then there was the photo inspo (found below) from @sapphicsbeloved combined with this ask. I just had to do it guys.

You had been sitting at your desk, grading last weeks assignments when your phone buzzed. It was the final class of the day and you had given your class the afternoon to finish up projects or work on homework for other classes. You had been drinking water when you saw the message from Larissa.

You immediately start choking, starting a coughing fit that causes all of the students to perk up their heads. You wave a hand and turn away from them, trying to still yourself.

She sent the following photo with no context whatsoever. Be still my aching vagina, you thought to yourself.

You immediately shoot back a text. Only imagining what tonight was going to be like when you got home.

Y/n: What if I had been driving right then? I could have died.

Larissa: I guess you would have died happy.

Y/n: Touche

Larissa: When are you done today? If you don't get home soon, I might just have to take care of this ache between my legs by myself.

Y/n: Be home in 20. Don't touch yourself until I get there.

You were watching the clock like a hawk for the rest of class, stopping to glance once again at the picture she had taken of herself. Rarely did she use her abilities to change things like her hair color, which you didn't mind, but she looked incredible in the photo.

That next 15 minutes of class took hours. Quickly you scooted your students out the door, leaving and locking the classroom after them. You had 5 minutes to get back to Larissa's.

Once you were in the front door, you let your coat and bag fall to the floor, kicking off your shoes and immediately headed towards the bedroom where you were sure Larissa was waiting for you. You were unbuttoning your shirt, shedding it from your shoulders when you stopped in the doorway of your shared room. Larissa was in the bed, already touching herself. She knew what was coming now that she had disobeyed your orders.

She looked you directly in the eyes as she slipped her fingers in and out of herself. Larissa was propped up on pillows, her lingerie set still on. You thought your head would explode at the sight of her sprawled out on that bed touching herself.

"You know you're in trouble right?" You growled. Larissa maintained her pace, you could tell she was getting close. Her second hand moved down between her legs, beginning to play with her own clit. She tossed her head back with a moan.

You enjoyed listening to her moans and groans while you gathered the chafe free rope that would be your assistant for the night. You heard Larissa's orgasm first. Spinning around, you finally made your way over to the bedside, Larissa had her fingers in her mouth while making searing eye contact with you.

"Are you ready for your punishment?" You stood at the bedside, fully clothed apart from your partially unbuttoned shirt.

She nodded slowly, pulling her fingers from her mouth. Then she offered a recommendation that made you lick your lips, "I think I need to be spanked."

"I think you're right." You smirk as you watch Larissa get onto all four and crawl to the edge of the bed, offering you her fingers first. You took them in your mouth, tasting whatever remained on them.

She knew the routine. You moved away from her, sitting on the chaise lounge in the corner of the room, and she laid herself across your lap, awaiting your hand. You gently give her ass a squeeze, "I told you not to touch yourself..."

"But I did..." Larissa finished your sentence, earning herself the first of many spanks that evening.

"I'm starting to think you like making me mad, hmm?" You hum, gently stroking her ass cheek before giving her three solid spanks.

She hummed in delight at each time your hand made contact with her ass, "Mhmm."

"Like I said, you are a glutton for punishment." You growl, proceeding to spank her until both of her ass cheeks were bright red and you could feel her wetness through the knee of your pant leg.

"I think it's time..." You lean in to whisper into Larissa's black hair.

You feel her nod and swallow deeply. She was aching with anticipation. You took her back to the bed, gently tying her to the bedposts. The ropes attached to her arms were longer so her ass could sit right on the edge of the bed. She gave a breathy moan each time you finished tying a knot.

Once she was restricted in front of you, you stroked her stockinged shin, pressing a kiss to her knee, "Pick a number between 5-10."

"8."

"8 orgasms it is." You smile as she exhaled deeply, shutting her eyes in frustration. While she knew she could handle that many, she was going to be a mess afterwards.

You move from Larissa, pulling over a chair, and seat yourself in front of the woman, Now this is fine dining.

Moving slowly, you kiss her thighs and stomach, putting your lips everywhere she didn't want them. After a huff of frustration from Larissa, you make your way down to her black lace clad pussy. You trace a finger up and down which makes her squirm, pulling against the restraints. Finally, you pull them to the side.

"Shhh..." You hush her as you slowly lower your lips, parting them with your tongue and you begin eating Larissa. You wanted to go slow, but as soon as you had your first taste you couldn't help yourself from offering her the speed and intensity that brought on her first and second orgasms quite easily.

Suddenly, you heard a noise from outside the bedroom door, making you pull away from Larissa's dripping cunt. You make your way to the door, gently cracking it open, coming face to face with one of your coworkers.

"I was wondering where you were. I told Vlad you were probably just getting ready."

Your look of bewilderment made the teacher continue forth with her explanations.

"You do remember the dinner party, right? Vlad and I are here for wine night?"

You had totally forgotten. In the heat of the moment, the plans must have completely slipped your mind. The visiting professor finally took in your disheveled state, partially looking over you to see the arms tied to the bed.

Quickly they look away, their lips sucked between their teeth. Their face went completely red, as was yours, "You know I think Vlad and I should be going. We can just reschedule this for a different time."

"Perhaps." You nod, wanting them to leave so badly.

"We will show ourselves out." You shut the door and lock it before they even have the chance to truly walk away. You really didn't care at this point. You had a job to finish.

----

Larissa was on her sixth orgasm when her eyes began to water. She was wondering if she could actually make it two more. Her cries of ecstasy had been nonstop. You hadn't looked at a clock. You had no clue how long you had been at this.

The more she came, the more sensitive she was. Using your fingers now, you gently circled her clit, not wanting to apply to much pressure. The longer you went, the more she pulled and trashed against the restraints.

You gently pushed against her bud and then begin circling it again, pressing on it once again. Larissa was now screaming with an orgasm. Afterwards she kept repeating, "Please, please, please..."

"One more time baby..." You whisper, lifting your head. Gently you began untying the restraints around her legs, allowing the ropes to fall to the floor. Before she could move her hips away, you take ahold of her once more. You pressed forward. Lowering your lips to her pussy, you begin the slow journey of making her cum for the last time. You lick the length of her, taking your time to taste the cum leaking from her.

You were fully entranced in the process. Your mouth was slick with her juices. Your arms wrapped around her legs, fingers digging into her skin. She was mewing, her whines high pitches. Her hips involuntarily bucked against you, spurring you onwards.

You were trying to be as gentle as possible, circling her clit for the last time, avoiding any heavy pressure that would most likely send little shockwaves of pain through Larissa.

A loud gasp came from Larissa as her final of the orgasm of the night rocked through her, her legs moving to squeeze the sides of your head. As she finally releases you, you press kisses to her legs, allowing her to come off her high.

"Did you learn your lesson?" You ask, standing from your chair.

"Did I?" She asks in response. A breathy laugh escaping her lips as she gazed back at you, eyes heavy with lust. She certainly does not tire easily.

[johnslittlespoon]

hi :)) please can you do "stay where you are. i'm coming to get you" with biker!gale and leaving!john 🫣 they've gotten under my skin

background context in this brainrot | i combined these three dialogue prompts because i feel like they fit well together <33 more leaving bikeriders au yippie!!! tried not to get too deep into it since i am gonna be properly writing it at some point :-) | prompts

Gale’s ringer goes off as he walks through the front door of his house, and he fumbles for his phone in his pocket, brows furrowing in confusion when he sees John’s contact photo.

He’s only just returned from dropping him off a street down from his house– always paranoid about eagle–eyed parents– but he hadn’t rode off until he got the text confirming he made it inside, so he assumes this isn’t an “I got locked out, can you come get me?” call.

“Miss me already?” He smiles when he picks up, but he doesn’t get a laugh in return, just a shaky breath, and he tenses, finding the door handle.

“John?” He prompts, mind cycling through every possible scenario and feeling his stomach drop when John confirms his worries.

“Um, can you come get me?” He sounds small, voice unsteady. “Got into it with my dad.”

Gale knows this must’ve been a serious one, because his John has gotten good (in a way no one should have to) at shaking altercations with his parents off, so he’s out the door in a heartbeat, helmet under his arm.

“Course, baby,” he says immediately, not giving John any room to overthink. “You by your house?”

“Where you dropped me off,” John confirms.

“You want me to stay on the phone?” He asks, not wanting to leave him alone if he feels unsafe, even if he’ll be there in a few minutes.

“No, ‘s okay,” John says.

“Alright, stay where you are,” Gale starts up his bike. “I’m coming to get you.”

He manages to cut a good minute off the usual time it takes to get there; the quiet of the night helps, not much traffic to slow him down, but he’s still antsy the whole way, only feeling like he can breathe right again when he sees a familiar form slouched over at the curb, backpack at his side.

His heart shatters when he gets his helmet off and walks over and the first thing John does is apologize as he stands up, as if he has anything to be sorry for, and he can tell his eyes are red, headlights of his bike reflecting off the still–damp tears on his cheeks.

“Baby,” he softens his voice, pulling him into a tight hug. “Have you been crying? What happened?”

John melts in his embrace, burying his face into his neck.

“Guess they were waiting up for me to come back,” he mumbles, inhaling nervously. “Dad came into my room after I texted you, and he was…”

John pulls back, shaking his head.

“I’m not allowed back in,” he won’t look Gale in the eyes, and his hand shakes when he runs it through his hair. “I’m really sorry for calling you, I just didn’t know what else to do.”

One side of John’s face sports a red mark in the shape of a hand, and Gale grits his teeth, but he doesn’t comment on it, knowing John will just ask him to drop it. They can talk about it later.

"Don't be sorry. I'm really glad you called me, John."

John’s bottom lip trembles before he pulls it between his teeth in an attempt to bite back more tears, and if Gale wasn’t so focussed on making sure he was okay, he’d already be kicking down the front door to give his dad a piece of his mind.

But that’s not what John needs right now, he knows that, and it wouldn’t solve anything.

“Oh, honey, you’re safe now, I promise,” he says gently, pressing his palm to the angry red of his cheek, feeling John lean into his touch. “You have nothing to apologize for; I’m not gonna let anything happen to you now, alright?”

John nods, shivering in the chill of the night, and Gale runs the pad of his thumb beneath one eye, brushing away the tears that have gathered there.

“Let’s get you home. We’ll figure this out tomorrow, together.”

[nicosgirl2112]

Mister Morningstar

Context: You go to your good friend Lucifer Morningstar to get an answer to your biggest question; was he really a fallen angel? Content: Angst, some slight fluff (Yes, I wrote this. No, I do not own the series. The Lucifer series is a Netflix original TV show.)

Lucifer Morningstar was a longtime good friend of yours. Of course, it had been years since you had seen him, but you remembered the day you met like it was yesterday. Falling from the sky onto the hood of someone's car is certainly a way to meet someone. However, what stuck with you was that there wasn't a cut or bruise on his body. Not a scratch, and he got off the then disheveled hood of your car, only responding with "Are you okay?".

His sultry voice combined with his proper British accent shocked you just as much as his perfectly uninjured body.

You only responded with a nod, which he, of course, thought was humorous. In the years to come, he couldn't help but voice his opinion on that every time someone brought it up. It was slightly annoying but for some strange reason, he always seemed to win the arguments about that subject.

Granted, it was always by seducing you, and you always seemed to fall to his charm, but he still won every time. This, in turn, made you think he was something other than human. Of course, at the time, that was only a joke. Emphasis on "at the time."

The fact that you saw his eyes turn fiery red when he was angry many a time, and the strange burn marks or scars on his back weren't helping to discourage your doubt. Once, he was about to get into a pool with you, and you saw his scars. You were curious and went to touch them, only for Lucifer to spin on you, grabbing your wrist as fast as inhumanely possible. It scared you, and his response did not help. He only said…

"Don't touch me.".

A low growl in his voice sent shivers down your spine. Your hand was visibly shaking when you moved it away, immediately apologizing.

Quickly shaking your head to clear it of these thoughts, you pulled up at the fancy nightclub he owned. It was called Lux, and it looked stunning in the moonlight of L.A. You could hear the partiers inside, and it made you nervous. However, you decided to get over your fear and walked inside.

As soon as you stepped inside, you had your eyes on the bar. They almost locked on to it as you maneuvered through the sea of party-goers. It was slightly hard, but eventually, you made it there, seeing the familiar face of Lucifer's stone-faced bodyguard, Mazikeen. "What can I get you?", she said. "Oh, I don't want anything. I need to see Lucifer.", you responded, looking around slightly nervously.

"He's busy.", Mazikeen said, not even maintaining eye contact. "Well, I'm sure he can't be that busy.", you responded, adjusting your outfit like a VIP guest in a movie. Maze looked up, making eye contact with you, in turn making you nervous. "He's busy.". At this point, it was obvious that she didn't recognize you. Doing a mental facepalm, you spoke up. "Maze, it's me! Y/N.", you said with a chuckle. "Wait… no damn way!", she laughed, playfully hitting your shoulder from behind the bar.

"Oh god, it's been how long?", she smiled. A familiar warm smile made you feel at home, even in this sea of partiers. "Two years, at least!". "Yeah… it's been a while.", you responded with a low sigh. "Now will you let me see Lucifer?", you chuckled. "Sure. If you pay me.", Maze winked. You laughed, hitting her shoulder and heading to the stairs. Heading into the elevator, you waited, letting your mind drift away again. The jazzy elevator music melted into your thoughts as the finest honey does into tea.

As you drifted off, your previous conversation with Mazikeen sunk in. Did she seriously not figure out it was you? You hadn't changed that much. Perhaps it was the skimpy dress you wore to fit in since you usually dressed more modestly. Perhaps it was the bold smile you wore? She always knew you weren't a very confident person. You weren't allowed much time to think about it, since you saw the elevator doors open and a very familiar figure stood on the balcony, facing the beautiful full moon. The figure was 6'3, had dark hair, wore a black suit, and had a cigarette in hand. A goofy smile spread across your face as you walked towards him

"I know you're here.", he said, stopping you in your tracks.

Your eyes widened and your breath hitched, but you quickly regained your composure, wondering why he frightened you. You smiled again, simply saying "Sorry. I tried to be quiet.". He turned around with a smile. "Y/N L/N, as I live and breathe!", he said, walking towards you. "Hello, darling.". "Hello, Lucifer.", you chuckled. Your eyes met, and you reveled in his deep obsidian eyes that you missed so much. "You've missed me, haven't you? I can see it in your eyes. You know, the ones you are burning a hole into mine with?", Lucifer said with his iconic smirk.

"I'm sorry, Luci. I've just been really busy, and-". "Don't apologize! I can survive without you for a year or two. I've gone without you for literal centuries.". You raised your eyebrow, still not fully believing his whole fallen angel persona. "Oh, right. Have you spoken to your brother in a while?", you said. "Oh, Amenadiel?", he asked. Lucifer opened his mouth to speak but quickly stopped and looked off to the side, seemingly confused about the question. "Do you know what? I don't think I have. Do you want me to call him?". "O-oh, no! I'm fine. I just… wanted to talk to you," you said nervously, trying your hardest to maintain eye contact. "Oh? Me only?", Lucifer chuckled.

"Lucifer.", you pouted. "Yes, Y/N?", he cooed, not helping your nervousness. "Are you… really a fallen angel? Like, s-seriously?", you stuttered. Lucifer chuckled, still with that iconic smirk of his, but when he saw your concerned or melancholic expression, it faded. "Oh, you're serious? I thought we confirmed this already.". "Lucifer!", you repeated, raising your voice slightly. Lucifer looked saddened by this, briefly glancing away from you. "I can prove it.", he said, a low growl in his voice that sent shivers down your spine. Now, of course, you were nervous about this. Who knows what he was going to do to "prove it"? In all honesty, although you had been friends for about two years, you knew nothing about him. The real him, below that fallen angel persona. If it even was a persona, of course.

"Now, let me-", Lucifer started to speak before he was interrupted. He looked around, saying "Oh, lovely.". "W-what? What's wrong?", you said, slightly scared. Lucifer rolled his eyes, dropping his cigarette, watching it slowly fall to the ground, eventually stopping about three inches from the balcony floor. You looked at it in terror before looking at Lucifer to see someone behind him. A tall, handsome man in a long black cloak. "Y/N, meet Amenadiel.", Lucifer sighed. You let out a sigh of relief, realizing you had never met him before this moment.

"Lucifer.", Amenadiel said in his low voice, walking closer to his brother. "Listen, brother, I am not in the mood right now, so tell Dad that I'm not coming back, and that's final.", Lucifer angrily sighed. "Why are you discussing this in front of her?", Amenadiel responded. "Why did you teleport in here in front of her?", Lucifer shot back. "Discussing- huh?! A-am I missing something, guys?!", you said, raising your voice even more. "Y/N, you should go.", Amenadiel said, moving even closer to Lucifer. "I'm not leaving until I get an explanation!", you said, standing your ground. Lucifer looked down with a sigh before continuing eye contact with you. "Please, leave. I need to talk with my brother in privacy. I'll… explain this later.". You gave him sad eyes before swallowing the lump in your throat, nodding, and walking away. As you walked away, your mind flooded with questions, theories, and so many different ideas and such. However, your devilish friend cut through the white noise, saying "I hope this is enough proof for you. Y/N!". You let a single tear fall from your eye as you stumbled into the elevator.

You were now in the elevator. As you stood alone, you let more tears fall. And more fell, and more, and more until you were full-on crying in the fancy elevator, cutting through the jazzy music of the room. Immediately, your mind flooded with more questions. All, if not most of them, remained unanswered. Where did Amenadiel come from? If this was a facade, why would they go so far as to change their name? And the most curious one; why were you crying in an elevator? You were able to chuckle at this before the doors opened and you were greeted by the sea of partiers from earlier. Deciding you wanted nothing more to do with this place for now, you made your way through the dance floor, before someone grabbed your arm.

"Hey, what's wrong?", Mazikeen said. "O-oh, it's nothing, Maze. It's just… I came in with a few questions and left with more.", you said, wiping some tears from your face. She nodded, responding "I get it. That happens a lot, especially with Luci. Want me to walk you to your car?". "Y-yeah, I'd appreciate that. Thanks, Maze.", you said, walking out of the building with her. You got in your car, only for Maze to knock on the window that you soon after rolled down. "Drive home safe, yeah?", she said with a slight smile. "Okay. See you later!", you said as you drove off. Although that display from earlier was significant proof, it seemed you had to get the answers to your other questions sometime later.

[sleepy-writes-stuff]

DP X DC WRITING PROMPT #19

Beware! Not gonna lie, this prompt is creepy. I was feeling some horror vibes and decided to write it down. Whether or not it's actually creepy is for you guys to decide tho. However, just in case...

CW: Mentions of blood/ectoplasm, human experimentation, and descriptions of other unsettling imagery. Mind the tags!! They can give you a summary of what this prompt is about.

(#) = Notes at the end of post. Important context!!

✦

Echoes of the Soul

Danny is captured and taken away by the GIW to be experimented on and despite the combined efforts of his friends, family, and former enemies he's never found. Decades pass, the GIW were shut down at some point and put to trial for all of the atrocities they committed while Danny is recorded as the first superhero know to history. Tragic though his story may be, many modern teenage heroes look up to him.

Danny would only be seen as a memory by the world. Seen as someone who did actually exist at some point, but time and mystery have lessened his impact on other's thoughts and emotions like many other people and instances throughout history. However, it isn't until Jason is on his way back to Gotham since the first time he died(1) that he accidentally/unknowingly takes a detour.

He can't pinpoint why he's taking a longer route back to the city of his birth and death, but something in his chest, his heart, is telling him to follow an unknown path. Though mildly irritated, he follows it regardless. The incessant tug at his ribcage eventually leads him down some back roads into the middle of nowhere, where he finds something.(2)

From the outside, it looks like a regular dilapidated house in the country that was long left abandoned. Something inside Jason screams that the isn't the case at all. He dismounts his motorcycle and circles the property for anything suspicious. He's as cautious and stealthy as a cat stalking a mouse through the grass. Finding nothing, he eventually makes his way to the door, having to break it down to even enter it.

As he steps into the house, all the hair on his body stands on end and he's immediately on edge. Nothing on the ground floor seems suspicious, if a little empty. It was clear nobody had lived here for quite some time, but the feeling in Jason's chest wouldn't leave. If anything, it wrapped itself tighter around his chest, squeezing his lungs and heart to point of almost panicking.

Searching the house and finding nothing in the side rooms, he eventually finds a door to what he can only assume leads to the basement. As soon as his hand even touches the doorknob, his skin is crawling with chills and his teeth are chattering no so much from the cold but from fear he can't locate the source of.

The door creaks when it opens and reveals the stairs leading down into a yawning mouth of darkness. Flashlight in one hand and a pistol in the other, he cautiously begins his dissent. Once at the bottom, he finds another door. Only this time, it's completely out of place. Instead of a rotting, wooden door barely hanging onto it's hinges, this door is made of thick reinforced steel with a lever and a keypad where a doorknob should be. It's not difficult to figure out the code to unlock it. With his history, it might as well of been child's play to crack it.

Once the door was opened, however, he wished he'd left it locked. He wishes he never even set foot in this house or even followed the tugging at his ribs in the first place. On the other side of the door was a lab. All of the equipment and surfaces were left in disarray, some trays full of tool even knocked onto the floor as if whoever owned the lab was in a hurry. Or whatever they were studying was trying to get out.

The fact that he was looking at a destroyed lab, was the least worrisome observation, however. Everywhere he looked there were splatters of glowing green, some duller than others. Just the sight of them had the Pits roiling in upset, tinting the edges of his vision green as well. He steps further into the lab, careful not to step on any of the sharp tools littering the floor as well as any puddles of glowing green.

Eyes constantly scanning for any movement, he eventually makes his way to the center of the room, right next to a large, steel lab stable, complete with wrist, ankle, and neck staps. The surface was littered with deep scratch marks and more splatters of the same glowing green substance that he can only assume is blood. There was even an almost perfectly shaped handprint of the stuff curling around the edge of the table. Morbidly curious, he reached out to touch the handprint, wondering if it was related to the Pits somehow.

He didn't get to wonder for long, however. As soon as his fingertips so much as brushed against the handprint, the feeling he'd been following for the past week suddenly had his chest in a stranglehold followed by a vomit-inducing yank that left him dizzy and off-balance. He didn't have time to gather his wits before his ears were flooded with hair-raising screams and sounds of struggle.

Ignoring the nausea, his head whipped back up to the lab table he was standing in front of. What met his eyes was a young boy with black hair and terrified green-tinted blue eyes as he laid strapped to the table with men in white lab coats surrounding him, with one in particular having his green stained arm elbow deep in the boy's vivisected chest.(3) This one is important! More context below!

✦

Notes:

(1) This takes place before Jason returns to Gotham in Under The Red Hood

(2) What Jason is feeling is his baby halfa core reacting to a distress signal being sent by another halfa.

(3) This isn't a time travel prompt. What happened here is Jason got sucked into a very corporeal memory/imprint that belonged to Danny. What Danny experienced in that lab filled him with such raw emotions that everything that is part of him (i.e.- his blood) trapped every experience into a playable memory when said blood is touched. The memory is, in essence, still very much a part of Danny. What does that say about Danny's current existence? He's trapped. He's trapped in a neverending, disjointed cycle of reliving everything that was done to him and is forced to haunt the very lab he was held captive in. What does this mean for Jason since he got sucked into it? He's trapped too! However, with another person there, they can help Danny break out of the cycle and free himself. What will escaping mean? Will he permanently die? Will he come back a full ghost? Will Jason helping another person through the horrors of their own death help bring closure to his own? What does this mean for the rise of Red Hood? That's all up to you guys!

[sonobeunitsarecool]

Sakurai Haruka: Theory pt. 2

Right, sorry for taking so long, but here's part 2 of the theory that Haruka spend a significant length of time in a psych ward. So the main parts of his MV's that imply this would be from AKAA, namely:

The room is a plain, unfurnished space, with light coming in from bars reminiscent of prison bars. They are high up, for safety. The chair is a simple folding chair, although it's a little too risky for something used on a psych ward (too dangerous, can be used as a weapon). I'd expect seats to be pillows, ottoman-like things, couches, or seating bolted directly into the floor.

A little window on the rooms of patients', it has a little hole on the side so it can be opened. This is used to check on patients at night, to ensure they are well and alive. It is not something seen in most other places, due to privacy.

There are two rectangles. One will be a light switch, and the other will be a panic button, if a patient needs assistance. They are loud. Many other places don't need two visible switches/buttons near the doors.

Here you can see the vent for the door, helps to hear patients and ensures proper air. The doorknob does not appear to be able to lock from the inside. The doorknob is a minor ligature risk, however ease of use and reduction of avaliable ligatures should make it a decent doorknob choice. The floor seen here is made of square tiles. Good for cleaning, however a risk for self-harm. It's shown as rectangular in other parts, but it may just be due to camera angle. All in all (knowing/agony), this can only be a depiction of a psych ward. This is backed up by Haruka's language skill level, as discussed in pt. 1, and what that implies in terms of education. What does this explain? Why would Haruka's time spent on a psych ward be shown, in a video depicting his mindscape regarding his crime? Does this fact put any other details into context? What can be inferred? Well, to start, were Haruka on a psych ward, it would explain his clothes. For the most part. In Weakness, the "current/teen" version of Haruka is in a plain, white outfit.

He wears shoes that aren't complex in design, and probably don't allow him any advantage in a fight. The clothes are white, good for washing and easy identification of patients, and don't provide any extra ligature opportunities. Now, there's a high chance that these are actually Haruka's clothes, not ones provided by the ward, because of something else later.

In AKAA, his shoes are different, but still white, harmless, and likely provided by the facility. Oddly enough, his socks are mismatched. He also wears his patchwork outfit, a combination of personal clothes and more formal/provided clothes. This is in line with some of his int. answers, such as: "How do you decide what clothes to wear for the day" - "I wear what's there" (because he doesn't have a lot of choice, plus spending a long time away from home would mean that he doesn't need many personal clothes to wear outside of the ward) "What do you think of the prison outfits?" - "They're kind of relaxing" (he's more used to the prison outfits than "normal" outfits, so it provides him with a sense of familiarity and comfort) Something that is not consistent with this theory would be his necklace! Except. If you look carefully, the only times we see him wearing his necklace in the MVs would be when he is unlikely to be on the unit at that moment. He doesn't wear it for most of AKAA, for example. But, he's still attached to it. Which makes me wonder as to where in his personal timeline did he come into possession of his mother's necklace? Because he cannot have worn it on the ward. It's an obvious ligature risk. But he's wearing it here:

Implying that he wore it during his murder of his victim. This is what makes me think that these are Haruka's clothes, because the ward would probably want its clothes returned to it upon discharge. (VERY low chance of killing someone while on the ward, and his victim was killed outside, judging by the little green patch in the background of the end shot of AKAA) Okay. That's a lot of reading into clothing. I think I'll cut it off here, and make a part 3. Didn't mean for it to get this long... Next time, I'll want to talk about how his time on the ward has impacted his behaviour, putting a lot of Haruka's actions into context that may not be immediately obvious for some viewers. It'll mostly be me going over a bunch of tiny details. Should I post about other things? I've been wondering about doing translyrics for Backdraft, a summary of how each character refers to everyone (honorifics, how they refer to self, how this changes), and a post on why Milgram makes no sense (or why it's not an actual prison), linking the info in this post to the Milgram facility. Should I do any of these? (And are there any other cipher texts I've missed, because for some reason I've become very interested in them. It's a whole other alphabet! I wonder if any of the merch has cipher text...? As an easter egg.)

[winkwonkwankwenk]

Mission🔞MiguelXFem!Reader (1.4k words)

Content Warnings:  Overstimulating, Eye contact, Handjob (f receiving), Rough

Context: You and Miguel were on a mission when you make a compromising mistake, forcing both of you into hiding into a confined space where there’s barely enough room to breathe- let alone move.

“¡Pendejo!” Miguel grunted as your hand brushed against his bulge, “Stop. Squirming.”

Miguel sighed, his annoyance obvious from his gritting teeth and furrowed brows. The two of you were on what was supposed to be a simple mission- but you managed to complicate things when you accidentally made too much noise and attracted too much attention. Of course Miguel blamed you but didn’t have enough time to lecture you, your enemies were close. Quickly, both of you dipped into a small alley where there was barely any space for you- forcing your body to press against his. He knew that being stuck in such close proximity with you was dangerous. The cramped space was testing his patience, his stoic demeanor beginning to crack under the pressure. But he couldn't let his guard down, couldn't afford to show weakness.

“I’m not trying to-”

“Just keep still and keep quiet.” Miguel hissed, “We can’t afford any more mistakes and we need to focus on remaining hidden until we find a way out of this mess.”

“Can’t we just teleport away?” You ask.

“No.”

“Why?-”

“Because I said so, now be quiet.”

Miguel could feel your glare burning into him, your eyes locked with his. The intensity of your gaze did nothing to alleviate the growing tension in the cramped space between you two. If anything, it heightened his awareness of your presence, intensifying the conflict within him. He shifted his weight slightly, his grip on your waist tightening further. The proximity between you amplified the friction, the heat radiating off your body seemingly seeping into his very being. Miguel fought a losing battle against his own desires. The urge to succumb to the intoxicating proximity threatened to overcome his stoicism. But he held back, refusing to let his guard down completely.

“Miguel-”

Miguel's eyes narrowed, his patience dwindling as he felt your defiance escalating. Without a word, he swiftly reacted, his hand shooting up to cover your mouth. His touch was firm, ensuring your compliance as he pressed his palm against your lips.

“Do you want to get discovered?” He growled, his voice filled with irritation and warning. He tightened his grip, making it clear that disobedience wouldn’t be tolerated. 

He could feel the warmth of your breath against his hand, your struggles muffled by his calloused palm. Miguel's heart raced, his stoic expression faltering as he struggled to keep his emotions in check. The sensation of your curves against his body, the muffled sounds vibrating through his palm, ignited a primal hunger deep within him. But he refused to succumb to it, battling against the allure that threatened to ensnare him.

Miguel's eyes widened as he felt your tongue tracing a wet path along his palm, a mix of annoyance and arousal coursing through him. His grip tightened, the pressure on your mouth increasing as he fought to regain control over the situation. A low growl rumbled in his chest, a response to the surge of desire that surged through him. 

“Stop,” he commanded with a shaky voice. 

“Stop what?” You innocently looked up at him as you slowly sucked on his middle finger, pressing your tongue against the tip. 

His breath hitched as you took his finger deeper into your mouth, your tongue wrapping around it.  The combination of your defiance and the sensation of your tongue sent a surge of heat rushing through his veins and down his body, making his already large bulge even more obvious. His hand trembled slightly, his red eyes locking with yours and showing  the undeniable desire within them.

“Stop…” his voice was meant to be firm but came out as a breathless plea. “Stop teasing…”

“Make me,” you challenged. You knew he was too focused on the mission to discipline you- or so you thought.

One hand firmly gripped your curves, pinning you against the hard brick wall, while the other traced a trail of desire along the outline of your jaw. A hint of a smile flashed at the corners of his full lips. His touch was assertive, leaving no room for hesitation or debate, as his lips devoured yours in a demanding kiss.

His bulge pressed between your legs as he forced them apart with his hands, his fangs grazing your neck and leaving scratches on your thighs from his talons. Your spidey suit was ripped open by his claws, leaving your breasts exposed in the cool night air. Your body arched into his touch and the sounds of your ragged breaths mingled with the sirens and noise of the world outside the alley. His tongue, hot and insistent, savored the taste of your surrender. 

“Miguel~” You whined as he squeezed and tugged your nipples, feeling your juices gather between your legs. 

You tried to hide your wetness by squeezing your voluptuous thighs together but Miguel noticed. He forced your legs back apart and ripped open the bottom half of your suit, revealing your glistening and needy pussy. His thumb pressed down on your clit, eliciting a gasp from your mouth that he muffled with his tongue. Your eyes watered as he continued to circle your clit with his thumb, thighs trembling from his touch.

“Puedes tomarlo.” His breath ghosted past your ear as he pressed all his fingers in at once, stretching and straining your walls as he relentlessly thrusted them. 

“Miguel, please~” each thrust made your mind fog, his fingers digging deep inside you and your eyes rolling back.

“¡Oye!” He used his free hand to tug your chin down, “Look. At. Me.”

“Miguel~” Your moan was muffled by his mouth, “It’s too much-”

“Look at me or I stop, Cariño.” He teased, purposely slowing his fingers down and curling them inside you.

“Miguel~” Your walls coiled around his fingers as his slow strokes pressed into your spot, waves of pleasure washing over you as your juices poured down his hand and trickled down his wrist. 

His fingers slipped out of you, leaving you spent and slumping down the wall. He tilted your chin up and made you watch him slowly lick his hand clean, his fangs peeking from his mouth. Without giving you another minute to rest he yanked you back up, your skin scraping against the bricks from lack of space. Your breasts pressed against his chest, feeling the warmth of his body as his suit glitched off. He held your wrists above your head as the tip of his cock buried between your soaked thighs.

“Watch it.” He demanded as he held your head down, his cock sliding into you at a snail’s pace. 

His fingers dug into your hips as he thrusted, not giving your tight warmth time to adjust to his wide girth and massive length. Sharp breaths fell from your mouth as he bit into your neck, his cock exploring every part of you inch by inch. Pain mixed with pleasure as his fangs sunk deeper into your neck and his hands tangled in your hair, yanking it when he wanted to hear you cry out. He didn’t seem to care about the mission anymore.

“¿Cómo se siente?” He asked with a wicked grin as he pressed down on your stomach, forcing a shock of pleasure to radiate around your body as you felt him throb inside you.

You were still feeling the aftershocks of your previous orgasm and with his aggressive thrusts you could feel another orgasm brewing. Your skin, sticky from sweat, clung to his as he groped your ass and thighs. He groaned as your walls tightly clenched around his cock, milking it for his release. His massive hands wrapped around your neck, squeezing and slamming your body down as his pressed up. Your moans and whines were accompanied by the slick sound of flesh slapping against flesh. Miguel started to pound into you with an intoxicating rhythm that left you breathless and spent as you squirted. He didn’t stop as you lost yourself in the fog of euphoria, his thrusts only intensifying until sparks of warmth shot up your body and a growl vibrated from his chest.

“Maldita sea…” Miguel slowly pulled his cock out of your hot embrace, panting quietly while a string of semen connected your spent bodies. 

“Miguel-”

“Cállate…” He mumbled before shooting webs to clothe your bare breast and exposed core, “Just…get into the damn portal. We’re leaving.”

“But the mission-”

“¡Escúchame!” He said through gritted teeth, “¡Cállate! Get into the portal!”

You sigh and stumble over to the portal he summoned with his watch, leaving without another word.

[outism-odyssey]

Outis Base EGO Sin Analysis

Right, I made this blog specifically to analyze her sins... and promptly forgot to do that!

For the meanings of each sin, I’ll be largely referring to this post from @lu-is-not-ok​ (its a very good post, do check it out!)

I originally meant to do her base ID and EGO in the same post, but, the EGO alone goes on for a while. (I’ll probably write up the base ID tomorrow)

Sin Costs

To Páthos Máthos costs 2 pride and 2 sloth, and translates to "Suffering Becomes Experience". Pride generally represents ignoring consequences. Act now, deal with the problems later. And almost always, pride-related actions ate taken out of the belief the benefits will outweigh the consequences. Sloth, on the other hand, represents apathy and resignation. It has many uses, but a particular use I think resonates with this ego is to do things without ever complaining or acting out.

Together, these sins would suggest that Outis believes what doesn't kill you makes you stronger. That she should press on, stoic and ignoring the pain, believing in the end she'll come out better for it. But, I don't think she actually believes that. Rather, it's what she *wants* to believe.

Early in canto 4, Outis tells the other sinners that "experiencing a certain pain will make you learn to fear and avoid it." And she says this in a very different tone of voice to the rest of her speech. It certainly doesn't sound like the words or tone of someone who thinks pain makes them stronger.

Her EGO's line is "the odyssey has a purpose." And in the context of her speech in canto 4? It sounds to me like she's trying to convince herself. She's trying to tell herself that there's meaning to her suffering, and that she hasn't just gone through all this for no reason. Telling herself that her odyssey did have a purpose.

Sin Resistances

There’s a few theories around about what exactly sin resistances on a sinner’s EGO means (like this one from analytical-machine!), but for this analysis I’ll be sticking to my own interpretation of it.

In the abnormality EGOs, I don’t believe resistances mean much of anything.it’s just the abnormality’s resistances, and it’s always identical across all sinners with the same EGO. But, the base EGOs are more interesting.

For a sinner’s base EGO, I believe the sins they’re fatal to are in some way connected to the origins of their traumas, while the sin they endure is how they’re trying to escape it - either literally or metaphorically.

For instance, Gregor has fatal for gloom and envy damage - respectively representing his PTSD and feelings towards G corp, and Hermann using him as a test subject and poster boy. On the other hand, he endures sloth. Gregor escaped the room he was locked into when, out of resignation, he cut the apple and was allowed to leave - resignation being heavily associated with sloth.

The resistances for To Páthos Máthos are: Fatal: lust, envy Endured: gloom

The combination of lust and envy was odd. Lust is associated with self-indulgence, following your own whims and goals. But Envy is associated with taking action because of someone else. They seem like complete opposites. I kind of didn’t know what to do about them. But, @speedynamo​ had some great insight in some comments, and I’ll paraphrase those below.

For Outis’ envy weakness: In The Odyssey, Odysseus ended up in the trojan war because he was bound by a truce to support the Greeks if Helen were ever to be kidnapped. When Paris of Troy asked Aphrodite for the most beautiful woman on earth for marriage, Aphrodite gave him Helen - thus kicking off the war and dragging in Odysseus.

And for the lust: War's often promoted as something that will make you complete. And because of that, many people think the best way to achieve your desires is to go out, fight in war, and come back as a war hero.

Speedynamo mentioned that their analysis hinged on there being a very close equivalent to the Trojan war. And there certainly is: the smoke war! While the specifics probably aren’t identical, there is a good chance that Outis’ experience was similar. Something was stolen (likely Old L Corp’s singularity?), and a deal/truce involving it dragged Outis into the war, where she believed she could complete herself by becoming a war hero.

It probably didn’t work out that way, though. So, how does Outis deal with it? With her resisting gloom... it seems like she doesn’t handle it. Gloom as a sin is all about stewing in your negative emotions, buckling under pressure, letting those emotions control you. And while we never see her express this directly, there are a few rare moments where she seems to show this side of herself - like when she tells Dongrang the calf will remember him, or in her sunshower EGO’s corrosion line (which is a topic for another time)

But, with her mask(s) on constantly, it’s not often that you see this side to her.

[stranger-fanfiction-n-things]

CHAPTER 1: THE VANISHING OF WILL BYERS

This is an Original Character fanfiction. All Stranger Things characters and content are owned by Netflix and The Duffer Brothers.

a/n: These parts are going to mostly be about world building and context. We see how Diana navigates in her relationships with her friends, her perception of popularity, etc. Her personality in general!

Warnings: Mentions of sexual implications. Bullying.

Word Count: 2028

Masterlist

PROLOGUE || PART I || PART II || PART III

HAWKINS HIGH

I switch seats with Mom once we approached the end of Dearborn and Maple and she drives the rest of the way to school. She drops me off at Hawkins High and I kiss her cheek before I leave and say goodbye to Lucas and Erica. The parking lot is teeming with people. Some getting dropped off by their parents like me and others with their own cars and motorcycles. It’s loud in the parking lot, groups of people scattered screaming and gossiping about the latest trends and fashions or what they did on the weekend. 

A gust of wind blows and I clench my arms to my side bracing myself against the winter wind. Brushing my hair away from my face, I glance around the parking lot for Nancy or Barbara. Usually, I see them as soon as my mom drops me off. I am startled by a loud sputtering van in the lot. It drives past me trailing puffs of smoke behind it. I wrinkle my nose at the heavy smell of gas and tuck my head into my coat. 

“Diana, wait up!”

I turn around and Nancy is jogging toward me from the parking lot. She smiles at me and I return it looking at her outfit. 

“You look so cute!” I gush. Nancy blushes. 

“Thank you. You do too!” 

The first school bell rings warning students first period was about to begin. Students and teachers bustle about rushing to their respective classrooms. Thankfully our lockers are in the main hallway and we don’t have to travel far to change our books for first period. 

“How were rehearsals last night?” Nancy asks. 

“Tiring. You know we never end on time.” 

“That is one thing I don’t miss about Madame Petrovna.” 

“So, did he call?” A voice says behind us. 

I jump for the second time this morning nearly dropping my books on the floor. Barbara laughs behind me and I playfully hit her shoulder. 

“Keep your voice down.” Nancy scolds, looking around. 

Barbara rolls her eyes dramatically while walking with us. “Did he?” she whispers. 

My eyes grow wide and I move closer to Barb. “Steve called you last night?” 

Nancy smiles shyly. “I was going to tell you, but I knew you were probably tired from rehearsals.”  

“Lady Di needs a solid eight hours of beauty sleep,” Barb teases and I roll my eyes. 

“Ha. Ha.” I say, fighting back a smile. 

“I told you, it’s not like that.” Nancy looks at us. A light shade of pink warms her cheeks. 

Barb and I exchange a knowing look. 

“Okay, I mean yes, he likes me, but not like that.” Nancy quickly corrects herself. “We only made out a couple of times.” 

“We just…made out a couple of times.” Barb mimics, looking dreamily up at the ceiling. I giggle leaning my head on her arm. 

We approach our lockers. Nancy and I’s are two lockers apart and Barb stands in the empty space waiting for us. I add my lock combination and press down opening my locker. Rising on relevé, I switch out my books shoving the ones I need in my book bag. I take off my jacket, folding it neatly in my locker before closing it. 

“Ever the ballerina you are, Diana.” 

I huff, dropping to my feet. “It’s not my fault. They gave me the top locker again.” 

Barb looks at Nancy who is still toying with her lock. 

“Nance, seriously. You’re gonna be so cool now, it’s ridiculous.” 

Nancy shakes her head. “No, I’m not.” 

I walk to stand beside Barb, resting my head on her arm. She smells like floral perfume. 

“You better still hang out with us, that’s all I’m saying.” 

Nancy looks at us, lips slightly ajar in disbelief for us to think such a thing. She turns back to her locker finally opening it, mouth opening and closing as she fought to find the words. Barb and I have talked about this before. Once we realized Nancy was enjoying the attention she got from Steve. We feared she would eventually get so popular; she won’t want to be friends with us anymore. 

“If you become friends with Tommy H., or Carol—” Barb says. 

“Oh, that’s gross! I’m telling you; it was just a one-time…” 

I arch my brow and Nancy blushes again. “…two-time thing.” 

I don’t know why Nancy bothers to deny how much she likes Steve Harrington to us. She can deny all she wants, but Barb and I know the truth. She is absolutely smitten. Who wouldn’t be? Steve “The Hair” Harrington is the most popular boy in school. The captain of the basketball team and co-captain of the swim team. Everyone at Hawkins High worships the ground he walks on. Girls lust over him, boys envy him. If you weren’t popular or climbing the social food chain to be popular, Steve didn’t notice you. But he noticed Nancy and that meant something, right? 

It’s not like I don’t like Steve Harrington. I just feel uncomfortable around him. Especially because he is friends with Tommy H and Carol. The two most meanspirited and downright awful people at Hawkins High.  I don’t understand why Steve hangs out with them and deep down, I don’t think he knows either. Nancy looks down in her locker and reaches for a piece of paper. Biting her bottom lip, she opens the note. Barb and I lean in reading over her shoulder. 

              Meet me. Bathroom – Steve 

“You were saying?” Barb comments.  

I lift my head off Barb’s arm overcome with dread. She’s not actually considering…

“Nance, we have first period in three minutes.” 

“I know, I know,” she replies, slamming her locker shut. “But I’m sure he just wants to talk to me about something.” 

“Nancy—” 

“It’ll be quick! I promise. Save me a seat!” 

She runs excitedly down the hall. He doesn’t like me like that. I feel Barb’s arm around my shoulders and I deflate, peering up at her. She gazes down at me, and the slight curl of her lips tells me she feels the same way. Yes, we were happy for her, but what if…what if our fears came true? 

The first half of the day goes by in a blur. Dozens of students make their way to the cafeteria for lunch. Nancy showed up to class late with a flush face and slightly swollen lips. Barb and I exchanged knowing looks. The cafeteria was like the watering hole in a safari. Everyone met in the middle to mingle and socialize. I often brought a lunch to school, refusing to eat cafeteria food after I got food poisoning from eating the mac and cheese. Nancy and Barbara joined the lunch line and I went into the crowd to find a table.  

I pick a clean table in the centre of the cafeteria and sit down, pulling a paper bag out of my book bag. One by one, I take out each item lining them neatly on the table. A cucumber and cream cheese sandwich, sliced granny smith apples, a bag of salted pretzels and a bottle of water. 

“Talk about anal retentive.” I hear someone say. 

I peer up and sure enough, the jock team are sitting one table away from me. Tommy H grins and Carol Perkins laughs. 

“Hey, Princess!” Carol calls out and it’s anything but a compliment. 

“Princess of Anal,” Tommy H adds, winking at me. I scowl at his crudeness. 

Carol throws her head back and laughs along with Jason Carver and the other cronies I don’t know the names of. Steve Harrington looks at me. He’s not laughing but he’s not stopping them from making fun of me either. 

“Look at how she’s sitting. Like relax little miss perfect.” Carol adds. Her obnoxious bubble gum chewing makes me want to throw pretzels at her. 

“I bet she shits diamonds ‘cause she’s so uptight.” Jason says. 

“I know a tight asshole when I see one.” Tommy H says. Carol punches him in the chest and he laughs along with the whole table.

Everyone except Steve Harrington. I curl my hands into fists by my sides. 

“Let her eat in peace, guys.” Steve finally says. Tommy H and Carol roll their eyes. 

“Whatever man,” Tommy H replies, shaking his head. But he leaves me alone. 

Steve Harrington looks at me and nods his head. My frown deepens. Am I supposed to say thank you? I unbutton my cardigan and take it off, suddenly feeling hot with embarrassment. 

“Turkey, mashed potatoes, and corn today,” Barb says, placing the tray of food on the table. She sits across me effectively blocking my view of Steve who is still looking at me. “Are you okay, Diana?” 

I look at Barb, forcing a smile. “Yes, I’m fine!” I look at her tray of food, wrinkling my nose. “I can’t believe you eat that food. I swear it’s all out of a can.” 

“Not everyone has a mom willing to make them lunches every day. Us common folk have to resort to cafeteria food.” 

Nancy soon joins the table sitting beside me, not before looking at Steve. I look at my sandwich before taking a bite. I chew for a moment and swallow. 

“So, I was thinking,” I begin. “We should go to the store and get some snacks before we go to your house, Nance.” 

“Ou! Yes! I’ve been craving potato chips today.” 

“Oh, and skittles!” I add. 

“Yes!” 

Barb and I look at Nancy waiting for her response but she is moving her loose corn around her plate. 

“Nance?” I ask, nudging her arm. “Are you okay?” 

“Hm? Yes, I’m fine. I’m great!” 

I arch my brow at her. Something was on her mind. Barb and I waited patiently for her to speak. Nancy drops her fork with a sigh. “Steve and I were…y’know.” 

“Making out.” Barb finishes for her. Nancy’s eyes widen and her face turns bright pink. 

“Well, he wanted to hang out with me and I was so caught up in…” 

“Making out.” Barb says, shovelling mashed potatoes in her mouth. 

“Ugh. Yes. Making out…” she clenches her eyes shut. “And I told him he could meet up at my house at 8.” She pushed the last few words out so fast i almost didn’t hear her and I was sitting beside her. 

“Nancy!” Barb exclaims. 

“To study!” Nancy emphasizes. 

A visible shudder runs through my body and I frown processing what Nancy said. Suddenly losing my appetite, I place my sandwich on the saranwrap. 

“You’re cancelling for Steve?” I say. My voice is calm, but my hands are shaking. 

“I’m not cancelling!” Nancy claims earnestly, touching my arm. “We can still study just after…”  

“We have to leave.” I finish, looking at Barb. 

“No! You guys don’t have to! We can all hang out together. With the potato chips and skittles.” 

My frown deepens. Three of us hang out with Steve? Since when did Steve study? He got a C in Kaminsky’s class. He can’t even help us. If Steve comes, that means Tommy H and Carol will be invited and take over with their unpleasantries. Tension in the air manifested in my body language. 

“You know what?” Barb speaks to diffuse the tension. “It’s fine. You and Steve can study. Diana and I will study together tonight, right Diana?” 

I shake my head scoffing in disbelief. It was Nancy’s idea to study at her house in the first place and now she was ditching us for Steve Harrington? It was already happening. Nancy was changing. We all know study is code name for making out. I clear my throat sitting up straight and begin to pack my lunch back in the crumpled paper bag. 

“I just remembered I have to go to the library to look for a book for my history paper.” I say, picking up my cardigan and book bag. 

“Aw, Diana.” Barb says sadly. 

“I’ll see you guys in chemistry, okay?” I force a smile and walking through the tables. 

“Diana. Don’t go.” Nancy pleads. 

I don’t turn around.  

[snippydippy]

Wrote another short Baldur's Gate blurb! This time about what happens when Gale dies, and my Tav has to follow his ridiculously elaborate instructions to bring him back.

Takes place after the Tiefling Party, before Elminster tells him to khs and my last writing about that! A little bit of extra story context is given with asterisks at the end

It all happened very quickly. Too quickly. Elise had no time to react, no time to rush to his aid.

The party had been pushed back by the knock of a thunder arrow. Elise had been sent back into a stone wall that stole the breath from her body. Gale hadn't been so lucky. Sent the opposite direction, he went over the edge of Grymforge's walkway and into the smouldering maw of lava that lapped hungrily at its edges. He'd tossed something from inside his robe at the last second that then lay safely on the ground.

Elise screamed his name, Astarion and Shadowheart shaking off the daze from being hit back themselves. They'd missed what happened, but from the despair in her voice, they gathered that the wizard was gone.

However, they both took immediate notice of Elise scrambling to her feet and desperately barreling towards the edge where he'd been sent, ignoring the enemies locking on and aiming for her. Shadowheart quicky cast a sanctuary spell, protecting her. At least she'd act as good bait.

Astarion swore under his breath, rushing to slash, stab, ignite and bite anyone nearest her.

Elise reached the edge, fell to her hands and knees, and looked down helplessly over it to find nothing but the raging heat of magma. Her eyes, tearful, mad and darting landed on the item next to her hands that Gale had tossed. An unassuming looking pouch. She picked it up, but didn't have time to examine it before she'd heard Astarion call out.

Elise dodged just in time for a sword to go screaming passed her ear and clash against stone before the Vampire was on the Druegar, cutting his throat and sending him over the edge.

"Are you out of your head!?" Astarion yelled, taking Elise by her arm and yanking her up and back from the edge, "What the hells are you doing?"

Elise looked at him with an expression awash in a combination horror, grief and anger. She clutched the pouch against her heart, "G-Gale...he's gone."

Astarion stared at her a moment, processing something he perhaps should have realized sooner. The reason she'd declined his invitation to bed the night of the tiefling party. He sighed before lightening his grip on her arm, "I know, darling."

All enemies dispatched, the enslaved gnomes around them rushed to reunite with loved ones and partners as Shadowheart approached the pair, "Gods dammit. He shouldn't have been standing so near the edge!"

Elise looked at the pouch again, her mind blank. There were three colored cords wrapped around it: purple, red, and yellow. Just as her fingers twitched to pull at one, a glow shown from behind her, followed by a familiar, albeit distorted voice, "Well met! I am a magical projection of Gale of Waterdeep."

Elise spun around, Astarion and Shadowheart moving to either side of her. This image of Gale wasnt perfect, all purple and wearing the robes from when they'd met, but it was definitely him. He continued, "If you see this manifestation, it means I have prematurely perished."

Astarion scoffed, "What, did he leave behind a lecture?"

"However," Holo-Gale ignored him and went on with a serious tone, "For reasons that can not be disclosed, it is of vital importance that my death be remedied at your earliest convenience. Rest assured that I do not speak out of self-preservation alone: many lives depend on my return to the living in the span of two days." He punctuated the last words with two fingers held up. Then his hand fell back to his side, and his tone lightened, "I trust I've made myself clear."

"Shit, the bomb in his chest must go off after that amount of time." Shadowheart said with a pinch to the bridge of her nose.

Elise stepped back over to the edge and looked down, now seeing misty black swirls making their way up and out of the lava. Whisps of netheres magic escaping Gale's corpse underneath, no doubt. She felt sick, taking a stumbling step back. Astarion was there with a hand on her back. She took a steadying breath, clearing her mind and coming back to herself.

"What do we have to do?" She asked the projection of Gale.

"I have upon my person a magical item that can accomplish my return, but such is the value and rarity that it is protected by a multi-layered security protocol."

"Of course it is." Shadowheart rolled her eyes.

"I will now explain the protocol." His tone was a touch too peppy for anyone's liking as he gave instructions on how to receive a Scroll of True Resurrection from a summoned Magma Mephit (one Elise remembered from an anecdote Gale told her about both summoning and making friends with as a child). There were five steps, and Elise committed each to memory.

"Alright, I have the pouch already." She said, fingers touching the purple cord.

"Excellent!" Not-Gale raised a hand to stop her, "Now repeat my instructions back to me, please."

The three of them glared at the projection, Elise frustratingly saying, "We don't have time for this, I know what to do."

"Humor me," He started, suddenly sounding more like the real Gale than ever, "I need to be absolutely certain you understand."

"Fine. Receive the pouch, done." Elise gritted, holding the pouch up exaggeratingly, "Unravel the purple cord. Read the note inside displaying notes on each corner. Play the notes with the flute inside in clockwise order, starting with the bottom right. Answer the Mephit's question with 'K'ha'ssji'trak'ash' and hand the letter to him so he may breathe on it to create the scroll."

"Correct! But pay attention to the 'trach' part, chhk," he emphasized with a throaty noise, "Thrilled to see your memory does not fail you! Best of luck, and may my cold dead hands be soon filled with life so that they can shake yours in gratitude." With that, a cheeky wave, and a flash of purple, the projection vanished. Although these steps seemed unnecessary, the fake wizard's disappearance left a pit in Elise's stomach. She'd hoped he wasn't the last she'd ever hear of Gale's voice.

"Go on then, bring the pompous drip back." Astarion said. How voice was sarcastic, but not entirely cold.

Elise took another steadying breath and unraveled the purple cord. With Shadowheart and Astarion watching closely, she read the letter and played the notes on the flute in order: D, E, A, D. The described Magma Mephit appeared in a flash of heat, "I'ss k'cha t'chiss n'aga?"

Elise cleared her throat, "K'ha'ssji'trach'ash."

"D'a jah'jah s'um!" He replied in a tone they could only assume was pleased. Elise held out the letter.

"M'ul t'ha M'esc." He said before blowing firey breath onto the parchment. It glowed with red magic before taking the shape of an ornate spell scroll in her hand. The Mephit said something else none of them understood, followed by Gale's name before he, too vanished in the same flash of heat as he came.

Elise looked to the scroll, then to Shadowheart. The other cleric raised a hand, "Probably best you use it. Your moon witch will likely aid you better in resurrections." There was a certain bitterness to her tone, as if saying anything remotely positive about the goddess of a Selunite cleric hurt her. Sure enough, the mark on her hand glowed and she winced, pulling her hand back down to her side.

Elise was not in any place to pay that any mind as she hurried back to the edge once more. She opened the scroll, read the spell aloud and focused on the source of the dark and swirling netherese magic. She felt an otherworldly power course from her fingers that glowed gold, felt tendrils of the Weave connect her to Gale's body, and more to his life force in whatever plane it existed outside his physical vessel. She channeled all those connections with a wide motion of both arms, and aimed them to a spot behind her. With one final word, and a downward push of her hands, blinding resplendent light briefly blazed where she aimed. The flickering glow left behind Gale, alive. He sucked in quick and shallow breaths as if he'd been drowning.

"My word, you--You did it!" He said breathlessly as he turned over and stared at both hands. A single boisterous and incredulous laugh escaped him, "Oh my, it is good to be alive!"

Gale looked to Elise, thoroughly shaken, but with large brown eyes full of elation. He jostled his hands at his sides as if to shake off any remnants of death, speaking quickly, "My hands are still cold so I'm afraid that handshake will have to wait, but in the mean time--"

He was cut off with a soft grunt by Elise's body practically crashing against his chest, arms clinging tight around his shoulders. He surprised himself by not falling over, instinctively holding onto her sides. Gale caught Shadowheart's amused look, and let out another earnest laugh as he moved to return her embrace properly. Albeit with some amount of trepidation, as he saw something...contemptuous in Astarion's eyes.**

"Thank you." He breathed into her hair.

Elise held onto him for a moment longer, pulling back with a sniff and hand quickly wiping her eye. Her other hand still on his shoulder, and with a small smile, she said back, "Don't ever make me do that again."

Gale couldn't help but laugh once more, "I will try my damnedest not to, my dear."

"Glad to have you back." Elise said softly, tucking a lose strand of hair behind the man's ear.

Gale was processing something then that he perhaps should have some time before. Why she had insisted on checking on him multiple times during the party with the tieflings. The kiss she had pictured during their shared moment in the weave several nights ago. Perhaps it hadn't just been the wine, or a passing moment of flirtation.

"Yes, we're all delighted you'll be gracing us with your wisdom for many moons to come." Astarion said, causing the two of them to remember where they were. They let go of each other, Elise sheepishly nodding to Gale before she took to checking the body of the Drow True Soul they'd come here for.

"Why in the hells would you make bringing you back so maticulously complicated, Gale?" Shadowheart asked.

"As if thats out of character for him." Astarion scoffed with a roll of his shoulders as he joined Elise in her looting.

"My instructions were easy enough to follow, were they not?" Gale replied with an amount of his own snark.

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**Astarion's look is not jealousy at this point. He is aggravated that his plans of seduction and use will fall apart if Elise has fallen for someone else. Gale does not know this, but he does know they have slept together at least once early on in their groups' meeting. And he wouldn't be excited about catching the vampire's ire at the best of times, regardless of the reason.