#like the fact that they were supposed to be experimental. which is only true for aberrations and banescales

[a-ridgeback]

makes me feel a type of way that even though staff has tried to implement fixes against the bloat,, it really hasnt helped. like the marketplace is still bloated as hell. glass&gloss doesnt let you exchange genes from one breed to another. this problem will continue to get worse as new ancients are released!

[ded-lime]

what i think on the whole making vessels thing the pale king did

first of all this is not about excusing pk, however the 'me exploding people who say pk is an asshole and throws kids in a pit with my mind' is very true, aside from the fact that it's literally not what happened, pk's character is all about a guy who was in a desperate situation without a good solution and saying that he's bad for what he did is missing the point. just like the colour scheme of his palace bro is morally grey. there are things that i believe made his plan sound not as bad as it is before it's implementation, and some of my interpretation seems to differ to how it is more commonly seen (that i know of at least).

so what was the plan? place eggs in he abyss and let the void animate their shells and voilà got some vessels.

why have the void? well one reason is obvious - it's a natural enemy to the radiance of sorts, an opposite of light. another one is the supposed belief that a creature of void does not feel or think. also yes the idea is that 100% of them are empty, that's the foundation it is on. i believe that he has done some experimentation before making this plan(and possibly before the infection): he's the type to build and reasonably coming up with that shit requires familiarity with the void. so assuming that they would not feel pain or think could come from that, also not that insane for a god who gave bugs minds of their own to think that with walking examples of void constructs. so godly resilience and empty head, can't feel the pain he has to put it through and strong enough to contain another god.

why so many of them? the reasoning for that is the same as why any creature has many kids: most of them not surviving for long. not just the climb, but just not even being born (which i think most of them just didn't) or dying right after (instability such as turning to liquid or crumbling shell).

the climb so here's a thing i thought since playing the game years ago. the abyss memory is a dream and not quite literal. you hit an egg with a dream nail, every time you've done that you go to a dream, i don't see why this is different besides it looking differently. the real part being pk getting pv and fucking off. and climbing up in general i guess but you know that. i don't think the ghost was literally hanging on that ledge and literally falling off after some screenshake. it's a representation of ghost and/or every other vessel getting left behind and pv leaving. and getting charm about uniting the void right after plays more into it.

the climb in itself could be a way to see which ones are stable enough, could also be a culture thing as rotten eggs all around hallownest may suggest that they are a bit more like actual animals in regard to offspring. (don't forget that this is not human society we are talking about.)

the main fucked-up-and-feeling-guilty-about thing in this whole ordeal is letting the void consume thousands of your yet unborn children inside out and subsequently animating them with it or let radiance kill everyone and picking the first one. which is you know, sucks and is pretty fucked up and he did indeed feel guilty about it. well that and then the whole hollow knight ordeal later but that's pretty straightforward. does he realise that they are not empty? like yeah probably suspected it at the very least, but that's when you can't just drop everything you've done up to this point to save everyone. only thing that does is add more guilt and drama.

the things done and decisions made were not to be cruel or evil or whatever, we don't see what this place was like before the infection and for all we know he saw the future and still thought this was the best option. how fucked up would that be huh

[loving-n0t-heyting]

"scientific research has definitively proven torture absolutely never works for extracting information thus rendering any moral questions around torture-interrogation moot" no. false. cope, skill issue, and ceding too much ground to the enemy

the obvious tell when ppl wield this factoid is that the studies alluded to are never actually cited. there is ofc a good reason for this: ethical standards in human experimentation rule out the sorts of rigorous controlled studies these authoritative pronouncements always bring to mind, meaning such scholarly work as does exist has to rely on considerably less persuasive arguments-by-inference, like pointing to the neurological damage induced by most torture techniques

and anyway we all know the claims are untrue to begin with. suppose there is some information on your encrypted laptop whose privacy you value at all but only finitely, and that someone takes a baseball bat to yr stomach while yr tied up in an effort to extract the password from you with the promise they will cease once the information is obtained. wdyd? exactly

the key to such effective torture is checkability, as (relatively) non-idiotic torture apologists themselves generally admit. anscombe writes satirically:

The Report might be thought, at first inspection, to rule [interrogation by torture] out on the ground that confessions obtained by torture are unreliable, and are therefore not to be introduced. That is true; but torture could often be used to obtain ascertainably reliable information. [...] The correct position, which the Report itself puts forward, is that such evidence should be used where independently confirmable; for example, the model statute reaffirms the ability of the prosecution to produce physical evidence, or any other fact, about a crime, even though information leading to that evidence be discovered by inducements, threats, or oppressive treatment, presumably including torture.

if you need real life examples, this war criminal-adulating mealy-mouthed sycophant has gathered a handful. you might here object (as well as to previous apriori argument) that these examples are somewhat limited in scope and relevance, which might be fair were the pronouncements on tortures ineffectiveness not always so sweeping and categorical. to a universal statement one counterexample suffices as refutation.

the fact that these smug claims of total inefficacy for torture as an information-gathering technique are so readily falsified is indicative of the underlying problem: as an argument against the use of torture it is either disingenuous or made from the same false starting position of the torturer, that the question of whether to torture is a matter of "weighing" the cost to the victim against the cost to "society" as mediated by how well the torture "works." in reality, torture is ruled out simply bc it is torture, just as murdering a teenage boy to harvest his organs is ruled out simply bc it is murder. give that up and youve given up everything

[cosmicjoke]

Do you think Levi lost his Ackerman abilities/strength after the titans curse was lifted? I see people say this is true all the time as if it’s canon fact but it’s not stated anywhere to my knowledge so there isn’t evidence that he and Mikasa lost them. Ackermans didn’t get their abilities the conventional way like titans did since the Ackermans got their abilities through experimentation on their bloodline. So who’s to say they lost their strength afterwards? I’m curious to know what your thoughts are?

Yeah, this is something I've talked about before, and I even wrote a whole post on it, but I can't for the life of me find it now, lol.

Basically, though, I agree with you. There's no conclusive evidence that the Ackerman's lost their powers after the titan curse was lifted. People state that they did like it's an absolute fact, but there's really nothing to support that statement.

The Ackerman powers, for one thing, don't in any real way resemble a titan's powers. Titans get their strength from their size. Titan's can regenerate body parts that have been cut off or destroyed. Titan's can only be killed one way, by cutting out the nap of their neck, etc... Ackermans are unnaturally strong, but they aren't superhuman strong, like a character like Superman, for example, they don't heal any faster than a normal person (Levi was out of commission for what seemed at least a few weeks when he hurt his ankle), they can't regenerate body parts, etc... They have enhanced strength and speed, and that's about it. They aren't "mini-titans", as I've seen some people claim. The origin of their abilities seems to come from science, not magic, or some otherwise inexplicable source, like the titans powers do. They gain the battle knowledge of past Ackermans when their power awakens, which I suppose is similar to how titan shifters "inherit" the powers of past shifters, but to me, an Ackerman's powers seem more like a genetic code kicking in, like latent genes being triggered, tantamount to any animal who's instincts eventually manifest, like the instinct to hunt or procreate or knowing instinctively how to walk and run and climb, etc...

Further, and I think this is the best evidence that the Ackermans didn't necessarily lose their powers when the founder lifted the titan curse, is that the founder Ymir and whoever held her power, never had any power OVER the Ackermans. The Ackermans were always immune to the founders abilities, including her ability to manipulate and erase their memories. This is exactly why the Ackermans became outcasts and were hunted down, because they couldn't be controlled by the royal family.

So if that's true, if it's true that the founder had no power over the Ackermans, then it stands to reason that the source of the Ackermans power didn't come from Ymir. It came from something else entirely. And if that's true, then Ymir undoing the titan curse shouldn't have had any, real affect on the Ackermans powers.

So, yeah, basically, whenever people claim as if it's a fact that the Ackermans lost their power when Ymir lifted the curse, it's not really true. There's no evidence that they did, and I think there's more evidence to support the theory that they didn't.

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

By: Jo Bartosch

Published: Apr 21, 2024

How did people emerge from the hysteria of the witch trials? What must it have felt like to live through the period when supposed witches were suddenly revealed to be ordinary women? What did the accusers say when it became clear that these supposed agents of Satan were simply adult human females? Did they feel guilt and try to make amends? Did they shirk their responsibility? Or did they double down?

The reactions to the publication of the Cass Review last week might give us some idea. The activists, medical professionals and celebrities who championed the trans cause have been confronted with the horror they helped create. Dr Hilary Cass’s report into the NHS’s treatment of gender-confused kids has radically transformed the trans debate, exposing ‘gender-affirming care’ as a dangerous experiment. Now, the disciples of trans ideology are scrambling to save face.

The most common reaction from cheerleaders of trans ideology has been to meekly plead ignorance. One such case is that of Dr Adam Rutherford, geneticist, science communicator and president of Humanists UK – an organisation that in recent years has made a hard turn away from science and rationality in favour of worshipping the cult of gender identity. Yet when he was invited to comment on the Cass Review by Sex Matters director Maya Forstater on X, Rutherford said: ‘It’s not something I know much about.’ Really? It’s somewhat difficult to believe that Rutherford has somehow missed seeing this bit of hugely significant medical news.

This is mirrored by the bleating entreaties for ‘nuance’ from television presenter Kirstie Allsopp. For the past few years, Allsopp has smeared gender-critical views as transphobic. Now she is attempting to rewrite history by claiming that it has always ‘been possible to debate these things and those saying there was no debate are wrong’. We all know this isn’t true. As JK Rowling correctly points out, ‘one of the gender ideologues’ favourite slogans is “no debate”’.

Perhaps the most egregious response of all has come from former Stonewall CEO Baroness Ruth Hunt. It was Hunt who oversaw the charity’s transformation from a gay-rights charity to an LGBT lobby group, with the emphasis firmly on the T. It was under her watch that Stonewall tried to silence warnings about the dangers of experimental puberty blockers. Yet last week, Hunt told The Times that she had simply ‘trusted the experts’ on puberty blockers and cross-sex hormones, so she couldn’t possibly be held accountable. Given that Stonewall itself was deferred to as an ‘expert’ organisation on the issue of gender-affirming care, it is hard to accept Hunt’s projection of innocence. She was hardly some misled ingénue.

Even more deranged and delusional are those who have dismissed the Cass Review as ‘unscientific’. Apparently, Cass’s four years of research and the reams of data she gathered are simply a pretext for promoting a ‘transphobic’ narrative. This rejection of reason is perhaps most eloquently demonstrated by the hyperbolic hashtag, #CassKillsKids, which has been tweeted out by the likes of broadcaster and trans activist India Willoughby. But this position is so patently untrue that only a small minority of the most committed zealots seem to be defending it.

The fact is, it is incredibly difficult for trans activists to obscure their roles in this scandal. Many of them must now be aware that they cheered on a gruesome, ideologically motivated experiment on children. After all, the facts are now indisputable.

In measured tones and meticulous detail, Cass’s report reveals what was really going on inside the NHS’s Gender Identity Development Service (GIDS). She concludes that the ‘gender affirming’ medical treatments it provided, like puberty blockers and cross-sex hormones, are based on ‘wholly inadequate’ evidence. Doctors are usually cautious when adopting new treatments, but Cass says ‘quite the reverse happened in the field of gender care for children’. Instead, thousands of children were put on an unproven medical pathway. Worse still, medical professionals seemed largely uninterested in uncovering the side effects and long-term risks of these drugs. Cass says that all but one adult gender clinic refused to share patient data that would allow her team to study how childhood transitioners fared as adults. This made it virtually impossible to research the potential longer-term consequences of transitioning.

The implications of the review are so grave that politicians have had no choice but to act. On Monday, health secretary Victoria Atkins gave an excoriating speech to parliament, laying out the changes in policy that have already been made and those still to come. She reiterated that NHS England would no longer be able to prescribe puberty blockers for children with gender dysphoria outside of clinical trials. She also promised a crackdown on private prescriptions, as well as an urgent review on clinical policy for prescribing cross-sex hormones. Vitally, she also announced that NHS trusts that initially refused to cooperate with the review will now share their data, hopefully opening the door for further research. These developments were all sorely needed.

Atkins also made a point of thanking the clinicians, academics, activists and journalists who raised the alarm. She acknowledged that they had ‘risked their careers’ to do so. She told her fellow politicians that it should trouble each of them that the NHS ‘was overtaken by a culture of secrecy and ideology that was allowed to trump evidence and safety’.

Finally, politicians are taking these concerns seriously. Until very recently, they did not want to know. Back in May 2019, I was one of a handful of people to attend the First Do No Harm meeting at the House of Lords. There, in a tiny cramped room, we listened to clinicians and campaigners who were desperately worried about the goings on in the GIDS Tavistock clinic in London.

First Do No Harm was organised by campaigner Venice Allan and Let Women Speak founder Kellie-Jay Keen (aka Posie Parker), with the aim of bringing together journalists, politicians and medical experts. It was chaired and spon.sored by Labour peer Lord Lewis Moonie, who himself had a background in psychology and clinical pharmacological research. Among the attendees was psychoanalyst Marcus Evans. He had resigned from his post as a governor at the Tavistock clinic in February that year, citing concerns about the influence of lobby groups on clinical practice.

Despite this wealth of knowledge and expertise, First Do No Harm went largely ignored by politicians. Invitations were sent out to every member of parliament. But, aside from Moonie, the only politicians in attendance were Baroness Tanni Grey-Thompson and Conservative MP David Davies. As Evans explained at the time: ‘No one would basically attend, they’d be threatened that they would have the whip withdrawn if they attended… the silencing of opposition in this area is unbelievable.’

There was certainly a cost for Moonie. After over 40 years in the Labour Party, he was told by party general secretary Jenny Formby that his membership would be at risk if he proceeded with the event. So he resigned. Five years on, and the concerns of Moonie, a small band of whistleblowing clinicians and tenacious campaigners have finally been acknowledged.

While First Do No Harm was the first public meeting bringing concerned voices together, staff within GIDS had already been sounding the alarm for some time. It was all the way back in 2004 that Susan Evans, wife of Marcus, first spoke out about the ‘precipitous referral’ of gender-confused children on to a medical pathway. As a clinical nurse at the Tavistock, she tried to raise the possibility that there were alternatives to medically transitioning children. But she was advised that GIDS would be unable to attract patients without offering puberty blockers. Evans resigned in 2007.

Today, Evans tells me that, while she is relieved about the findings of the Cass Review, she is frustrated to see ‘what happened at GIDS described as a debate between two sides’:

‘I wanted to ensure that kids were receiving a thorough assessment and that as a team there would be a more holistic exploration… That’s not a toxic debate, that is clinical discussion and that’s what a responsible clinician ought to do. All I ever did was raise ordinary but important clinical and safeguarding concerns and questions. I was inquisitive.’

Thankfully, there were still some other inquisitive clinicians out there. In 2018, Dr David Bell, consultant psychiatrist and staff governor at the Tavistock, wrote an internal report that slammed GIDS for promoting a model of uncritical gender affirmation. He blamed trans lobby groups like Mermaids and Stonewall for infecting the organisation. He also explained that many of the young patients seeking to medically transition would otherwise grow up to be lesbian, gay or bisexual. For this, senior management at GIDS threatened Bell with disciplinary action, in an attempt to silence him.

Shortly afterwards, in 2019, clinical psychologist Kirsty Entwistle, who had previously worked at the GIDS satellite clinic in Leeds, penned an open letter, echoing similar concerns. She warned that patients were falsely being told that puberty blockers were ‘fully reversible’ and that accusations of transphobia were stifling important medical and safeguarding discussions.

GIDS was desperate to silence anyone who expressed doubts about how clinics were operating. One such whistleblower was Sonia Appleby, who was a social worker and safeguarding lead at the Tavistock. In 2016, Appleby began to raise concerns about the shambolic record-keeping and the potential over-prescription of puberty blockers. For this, she was bullied and monstered by management, and shunned by GIDS director Dr Polly Carmichael. Carmichael apparently told her team that Appleby had ‘an agenda’ and discouraged staff from sharing any safeguarding concerns with her. In a small act of justice, in 2021 Appleby was awarded £20,000 in damages for the appalling way she was treated at the Tavistock.

Many of the stories from those who spoke out chime with one another. They talk about being alarmed that children’s underlying issues were being systematically overlooked. GIDS was more interested in prescribing medical treatments than in helping children who were suffering from homophobic bullying, mental-health issues, sexual abuse or other traumas. When questions were asked about the safety of puberty blockers and hormones, staff faced an atmosphere where clinical curiosity was discouraged. In all, between 2016 and 2019, a total of 35 clinicians left the Tavistock, with many citing concerns about children being over-diagnosed. Meanwhile, management ignored all these concerns and children continued to be prescribed puberty blockers.

It was shortly after Carmichael’s appointment in 2011 that GIDS began its first trial of puberty blockers. Before the research had even concluded, these drugs, which have also been used to chemically castrate sex offenders, were made more widely available to children. In 2014, the minimum prescription age was dropped from 16 to 11. Some private clinics even started prescribing them to children as young as nine.

GIDS management, it seemed, was remarkably unbothered by the lack of evidence for puberty blockers. In 2016, Carmichael told a World Professional Association for Transgender Health conference in Amsterdam that they were crucial for trans-identified kids and ‘incredibly successful’. But in the same speech, she admitted that ‘actually, the Dutch are the only team really who have published long-term perspective studies about this. So there is very little data available.’ Indeed, as Carmichael admits, virtually the only bit of evidence ever referenced in support of puberty blockers is a piece of flawed research from the Netherlands. It was later revealed that the findings from GIDS’s own puberty-blocker trial were far from reliable.

It was left to those on the outside to bring public attention to what was happening at GIDS. Yet, just as with the silencing of clinicians, those outside the medical profession were also smeared as transphobic for questioning the new wisdom about so-called trans kids.

One of the earliest groups to demand an evidence-based approach was Transgender Trend, which was founded by Stephanie Davies-Arai in 2015. She and her organisation were almost instantly hounded and derided by trans extremists. A children’s book published by Transgender Trend was even compared to ‘terrorist propaganda’. But this smear campaign wouldn’t stop the truth from being revealed. Transgender Trend soon attracted the attention of Oxford professor Michael Biggs. In 2019, he published a report with the organisation, showing that the use of puberty blockers did not reduce the mental distress experienced by patients – a conclusion now backed up by Cass.

This reality became impossible to ignore, especially as ‘detransitioners’ began to speak out. The existence of people who regretted their decision to transition proved to be a thorn in the side of the trans movement and a powerful testimony against so-called trans healthcare. In November 2019, a women’s rights group called Make More Noise hosted the first panel discussion of detransitioners in the UK, giving them an opportunity to share their stories with journalists. With testosterone-cracked voices and mastectomy scars, these young women embody the harms of gender medicine. They were the ‘data’ that the clinicians at GIDS had overlooked.

Detransitioners fought to make themselves heard. In 2020, a high-profile legal challenge by detransitioner Keira Bell against the Tavistock prompted NHS England to commission the Cass Review. Leading paediatrician Dr Hilary Cass was then tasked with finding out what was really happening at GIDS.

Detransitioner Sinead Watson, who, as a young adult, took medical steps to present as male, is one of those who gave evidence to the Cass Review researchers. She tells me: ‘They asked about my story, how I was evaluated, how quickly, about the side effects of [testosterone] and about the surgery. They asked how I was helped to deal with the regret when I sought out support from the NHS, and seemed genuinely surprised I had received no help.’

It truly is a scandal that children and youngsters were put on a pathway to medicalisation and then promptly abandoned. There are now calls for a public inquiry, and it looks like adult services will also now face their own Cass-style review. But the problem with the trans ideology is that it extends far beyond medicine. It is a mind virus that has infected almost every British institution.

Certainly, there can never be true justice for detransitioners. They will continue to carry the mistakes of the medical establishment, and the failure of the government, on their bodies. It also seems unlikely that any of the whistleblowers who were vilified for raising the alarm will receive apologies or retractions. Trans cheerleaders will continue to deny any complicity. No doubt the GIDS management and healthcare professionals who tried to suppress the truth will be able to slink off to lucrative careers elsewhere.

Still, the Cass Review has revealed that the witches were right. Its publication ought to mark a historical turning point, and serve as a reminder that truth can win out. We must remember all this when the next hysterical mania sweeps over society.

[bobafetts-princess]

Kinktober Day 4- Missionary

Pairings: Rex x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Readers friends are kinda jerks. PiV. No condoms in fanfic, oral (f!receiving) Rex is the softest MF’ER around.

Word Count: 1700

Summary: Your friends make a big deal about missionary sucking and Rex shows you all the ways it doesn’t.

“Ugh missionary is the worst!” Your friend Kaa’ra laughs, taking a sip of her drink. All the other friends in your group agree, laughing about how boring it is. You’re not sure how you ended up here, it was supposed to be a calm girls night out and now you’re in a dingy bar, discussing everyone’s sexual preferences.

“I prefer doggy myself,” Sileuna tells everyone mischievously. “Smack my ass and make it hurt,” she says, which garners more nods. You can’t find yourself agreeing though, missionary with your boyfriend Rex is your favorite position. He’s a captain in the clone army and you met him on a wild night out at 79’s, the clone bar. He was the kindest and most attentive boyfriend, always focused on what was best for you.

“How about you, babe? You’ve got that hot boyfriend, I’m sure he’s into some kinky shit,” Sileuna gives you a Cheshire grin, which drops when you shake your head.

“We, uhh, we like missionary,” you tell them, earning quite a few shocked looks.

“A man that fine? And you like missionary?” Kaa’ra asks, her tone incredulous like she doesn’t believe you.

“Yeah, I get to see his face and kiss him the whole time,” you defend yourself, not that you should have to. It’s true, Rex loved missionary and so did you. You’d been experimental early on but missionary was the one you kept coming back to.

“I didn’t expect that hot Captain to enjoy missionary,” she snickers in a haughty manner. Just then your holophone pings with Rex’s tone and you pick it up to see what he sent.

Captain Hottie: Miss you. Hope you’re having fun. <3

Rex cracks you up because he’s the only person you’ve ever messaged with that doesn’t use emojis, he prefers emoticons.

Me: I was thinking about heading home early. Want to come over?

Captain Hottie: Meet you at home in 10.

Home. The fact that he calls your apartment home brings you a joy deep in your chest that’s incomparable to anything in the galaxy. When he’s got time off, your apartment is where he stays. When he’s had a long day, you’re the person he calls. When he needs to decompress, you’re the safe space that allows him to do so. You excuse yourself from your friends, giving ‘I’m sorry’s’ and “I’ll see you laters’ to everyone. Just as you reach the door, Silenua calls out to you.

“Have fun in missionary!”

With a roll of your eyes and the flick of a wrist in dismissal, you’re out the door. Rex is waiting on your front porch when you get home, in civvie clothes with an overnight bag slung over his shoulder.

“Rex, I wish you’d just take a key so you don’t have to wait outside,” you sigh.

“Nah, mesh’la, I don’t mind waiting on you. Plus I know where you keep the spare just in case,” he grins as you open the door. You lean into him after he sets his bag in your room, coming back to wrap you in a hug. “What happened?” He know you too well, you love girls night and often stay late with them, instead of coming home early. He’s even picked you up a time or two when you’ve had too much to drink.

“I dunno. They started picking at me because we don’t have like, super kinky sex or get rough,” you sigh and he tightens. “What’s the matter?” It’s your turn to be concerned.

“Wolffe and Cody actually were just making fun of me because I told them we like missionary,” he admits, hand coming up to cup the back of his head. You prop your chin on his chest, arms still wrapped around him.

“What’s wrong with missionary?” You ask, and he shrugs, moving to peck you on the lips. “I enjoy it. I get to look at you the whole time and you’re hot, so what’s to complain about?” He outright laughs at that, wrapping a hand around the back of your neck so he can kiss you deeper when he’s done.

“I love you,” he whispers, leaning in to capture your mouth with his. You want to say it back, make sure he knows you feel the same way, but his tongue invades your mouth and you can’t. Your hands grab at his shirt, tugging at it in an effort to get it off. Rex obliges, breaking the kiss for the split second to remove his shirt before he’s back on your again. He navigates your bodies back to your bedroom, hands on your hips as he continues to kiss you.

Once he hits the edge of your bed, he pulls away, leaving you panting and reaching for him. He grabs at your shirt, removing it and your bindings before he starts working at your pants. He gets them off, flinging them over his shoulder as he presses kisses to the soft of your belly. You’re reaching for his own pants but when he stands to remove them, your brain short circuits. His military regimen shows, his shoulders wide and cut, his hips narrow and his chest built. Rex has the prettiest shoulders, strong under your fingers, wide enough to spread you apart with them, the skin of them soft. He smirks, he knows you’re checking him out, but then he sheds his pants and he’s back on you in an instant. His mouth is soft but firm against yours and the burn you’re already feeling starts to intensify. His hand comes up to cup your breast, rolling the nipple between his fingers. You gasp his name as his mouth descends, sucking the sensitive spot on your collarbone. He reaches your breasts, picture perfect lips wrapping around a nipple as you cling to his shoulders. He torments you, slow and sensuous as he teases both breasts with his mouth. One of his hands slips down your body, sliding between your legs as he nips gently at the sensitive underside of your breast.

“Wet for me already, mesh’la?” He says, his voice low and husky with desire. You nod, spreading wider as his fingers find your entrance, gathering some wetness before he slides upwards. His fingers circle your clit and you’re so distracted by the pleasure there you don’t realize he’s kissing his way down your body. You only notice it when his tongue slips between your lower lips, tasting you.

“You always taste so good,” he groans, licking a flat stripe up your pussy. His tongue circles your clit, pushing you higher and higher. You fry out his name when he presses two fingers inside you, curling them upwards. Your words are garbled as he starts moving his fingers in and out of your body, still tonguing your pussy at the same time. Your orgasm starts building in your belly and Rex knows. He feels the rhythmic clenching of your pussy, the way your breath kicks up a notch.

“Come for me, mesh’la,” he encourages, moving a little faster. Your orgasm hits hard, cresting over you like waves, strong and unrelenting. He works you through it, telling you how beautiful you are and how much he enjoys watching you come. Rex kisses his way back up your body, wedging his thighs between yours.

“I love you,” he says again, bringing his mouth down to yours as his cock presses against your inner thigh. A half a heartbeat and a mumbled ‘I love you too’ later, Rex is pressing into your heat, stretching you deliciously. It’s a slow process, pulling and pushing himself in and out of your body, coating himself in your juices. After what feels like hours he presses all the way in, sighing at the feeling. He props his elbows near your head, gazing down lovingly at you when he does.

“I don’t know how anyone wouldn’t enjoy this position,” he says, voice low and husky. Vigorously nodding your head, you start moving your hips, trying to get some friction. Rex huffs a small laugh at you, pressing another gentle kiss to your lips as he starts moving. His rhythm and his kiss are similar, slow and languid. He’s taking his time pulling you apart at the seams, making sure he fucks you perfectly. Your arms wrap around his neck, calves wrapping around the backs of his thighs, clinging to him like he’s the only thing in the world you need.

“What’s not to love about missionary?” He asks again, sitting up a little and interlocking your fingers together on one hand. “I get to watch my beautiful girl come undone beneath me,” he points out. “I get to kiss you the entire time,” he murmurs, leaning down to give you another kiss. “These perfect tits are within reach,” one hand gropes at your breast, pinching slightly at your nipple. “We can even get a little kinky if you’re interested,” he winks, hips still moving slow and steady as the same hand comes up to brush at your throat. A flash of interest crosses over your face and Rex grins. “But really,” he starts before pressing your bodies together from shoulder to hip. “My favorite part is that every part of me gets to touch every part of you,” and it’s so romantic that you swear you might cry. His pace kicks up just a notch, just enough to start the flames of another orgasm. He kisses you again, tangling your tongues together as he locks your hands together again.

“I love you,” you tell him, cupping his handsome face in your other hand. He smiles so softly, so sheepishly, that your own heart skips a beat at how in love with this man you are. You’re on the cusp of coming, the need to come causing pulses in your pussy.

“I love you more,” he promises, pressing your lips together once more. Your orgasms hit at the same time, triggered purely by your love for each other in that moment and you both cry out together. Rex lays on you, trying to keep the majority of his weight off you but failing miserably. You welcome the weight though, it grounds you after that earth shattering orgasm. His breathing is heavy and loud as he tries to calm his heart rate, his face tucked into your neck. Once he’s calm, he rolls on his side, arm stretched out across your stomach with his elbow underneath him and he smiles.

“So missionary isn’t so bad, is it?”

Tags: @darkhairedmenrule @starlitnotes @rexandechosandwich @lacroixq-blog @firstofficerwiggles @grinningnexu @too-manyfandomstocount

[templegate]

While I've seen plenty of criticisms of Outlast for ableism/stigmatizing mental illness (because your enemies are murder-happy asylum inmates), I honestly beg to differ—at least for the most part. For one thing, only a handful of inmates actually attack you. Most of the other patients there are either in shock or just trying to lay low and stay alive through all the chaos going on around them. Even the more proactive of the non-combatant characters, such as the pyro you encounter in the kitchen, are just trying to get out—and their desperation is made to be pretty relatable. Even the boss characters like Chris Walker and Eddie Gluskin were victims of the asylum. For crying out loud, the Whistleblower DLC opens with Eddie getting dragged into the morphogenic engine kicking and screaming and begging for help—it's what solidifies Waylon Park's determination to take down Murkoff. Even when you find Eddie's files later on and see that, yes, he was already a murderer before he wound up in Mount Massive, that also comes with notes about the sexual abuse he experienced as a child and his denial of it. It doesn't excuse his actions—of course it doesn't—but it shows that he didn't become the way he is from nothing. Furthermore, the entire Mount Massive arc focuses so heavily on the theme of abuse of power. The patients are enduring horrific experimentation at the hands of people like Blair and Trager, and that is what sets up the rest of the story. The people running the show are the catalysts for all hell breaking loose—not the patients, who are instead victims of a system that is exploiting them by pushing them past their mental and physical limits, and has no qualms about treating them as replaceable test subjects. They are already sick people thrust into terrifying circumstances. Some of them were already dangerous to begin with, but most of them were not. They were all in a place that was supposed to help them cope with their conditions and rehabilitate, but instead were exploited and had their issues exacerbated by being traumatized further, and that's part of what makes Outlast terrifying.  So yeah, the portrayal of mentally ill people in Outlast isn't phenomenal, sure, but it goes beyond making all the patients out to be horrible monsters. Most of them are just trying to stay out of all the awful shit going on and stay alive without completely breaking down. The games still makes you feel for those people after you see how desperate and terrified a lot of them are, due mainly because of the abuses they have suffered from the people who were supposed to help them.

Anon this is so fascinating cause I agree with you sm. I think all of this stuff is true. From the way I see it Outlast is an attempt to subvert all the other mental asylum horror stories. Which I think adds all this complexity you're talking about. But while I do think it's more nuanced and better written than contemporaries, I don't think they did a good enough job. The "evil asylum" trope is inherently ableist, and stigmatizing. And I do agree the main source of long term horror in the series is from the incredible abuse the patients suffer- it cannot be ignored that the majority of scary moments aren't from the abuse, but from the patients acting violent and "crazy". And yeah it makes sense why they're violent and "crazy" that doesn't change the fact that the average joe schmoe is gonna go through the game and take away the message that mentally ill people are violent, and scary, and mental health facilities are bad and scary. Which- as someone who's been to a psych ward- I find to be a very bad message. They have their issues but stigmatizing them makes it worse. I think Red Barrels realized this, and for the Whistleblower made more of an effort to emphasize the abuse as a front line horror. Jeremy Blaire, the Walrider, The Morphogenic Engine, etc etc. Although the complaints I have still stand. Overall I agree with you that Outlast is a nuanced portrayal of this trope. That point about how not all of the patients are violent, is one of my favorite parts of Outlast. How they're still humans. And that creates some really great moments, like Someones Playing Piano. But as I've said before I still think it's inadequate I really want people to realize that Outlast being a story about systemic abuse where innocent people are victimized, and Outlast relies on ableism to get it's scares- are two statements that can coexist. I think at this point I should just write a paper about outlast

[goldenlilium-ocs]

To Be Loved

In which an 11yr old Juliette ponders what her relationship with her father may have been like. This was written purely for my indulgence so it is unedited.

TW: This is not meant to be an overly sad fic, those who know the oc know this has a happy ending. However, there are insinuations in this piece of writing that may be triggering to those who don’t have the best relationship with their family.

“Do you think my dad would like me?”

Kassidy’s hand faltered over the stove. Children were inquisitive, she knew that. It was hardly scientific, just a fact. And Juliette, Juliette just might be the most inquisitive of them all. She spent her days outside of experimentation wandering the labs, always asking the scientists about their projects and looking for answers to whatever she could think of next. Why didn’t bubbles instantly pop? Why did helium make your voice squeaky? Why couldn’t she drink the pretty coloured liquids in sealed vials? But she had never asked about the captain. It hadn’t been a subject off limits, the eleven year old knew exactly who she was supposed to live up to.

But she had never questioned his character or their forced estranged relationship . 

Kassidy turned the gas off, setting the spatula aside as she made her way over to the kitchen table. The surfaces was littered with paper, each depicting coloured sketches of her old co-workers and landscapes seen only on television. There had never been a need for a father in Juliette’s life. Any male influence came from the scientists in the lab, and occasionally Nick Fury of S.H.I.E.L.D. Kassidy had been willing to take on both parental roles, and she had never required help.

“What makes you ask that, sweetie?” Kassidy ran her fingers through the child’s hair. Blonde, so unlike her own. So like the absent father who wasn’t even aware of her existence.

How must it feel to bear the weight of a ghost your entire lifetime? There was always a side to the girl that Kassidy would never know. She’d look down at her daughter and see the face of a stranger from another time. Did she get these things from her father or grandmother or maybe even a great grandfather? 

Juliette set her crayon down, swinging her legs aside as she twisted to face her mother. A damn good mother at that. “Because I’m not like him. I don’t have any powers or medals or friends. What if he’d be disappointed that the experiments didn’t work? What if I let him down?”

The truth was, Juliette wasn’t made to be liked, or even loved. She was made to be used...

How does a child grasp the concept that while she is not unlovable, she will not be loved by all? How does anyone grasp that he or she may be unloved by the people that matter? Had Kassidy herself not had a change of heart the moment she’d laid eyes on her baby, would there be anyone in this world to truly love this girl? Would she even know of love’s existence? It’s meaning? 

“You don’t need powers or medals to be special, Juliette.” Kassidy knelt down now, her eye line level with the child’s. “You may not have his powers, but you have his heart. That man would know that. He would look at you and you would be all that matters in the world. It happened to me and it changed my life.”

Juliette gnawed on her lip, taking in Kassidy’s words. “But what if he can’t love me because he’ll never know me?”

“That’s not always true. I named you after Juliette Adam. She was not somebody I had ever known, and yet I know I loved her for the person she was.”

“Was she a scientist?”

“She was a writer.” Kassidy smiled.

“But you hate reading.” The child laughed.

 “Well, she was also a girl. A girl who wanted to look after other girls. When you look out for your people and do good by them, that’s an act of love.” Kassidy smoothed out her hair. “You’re a very smart girl, Jules. You’ll make your father proud no matter what you choose to do with his legacy. Nobody gets to tell you who you are other than you. Okay?”

At her daughter���s nod, Kassidy relaxed. “Okay, clear this all up and set the table. Maybe I should be the one worrying whether or not he would like me. You’re precious cargo, you know.” She rose to her feet, returning to her cooking while Juliette tidied away.

Yeah, Kassidy had this parenting thing perfected. The only legacy she needed to follow was being the mother Juliette deserved.Treating her as a person rather than an object would go a long way. Loving her would be what ultimately shaped the young woman she became.

[linkedkeysau-official]

Linked Keys Febuwhump

Day 21- experimentation

When Time came to, everything was dark; so much so that he wasn’t even sure he was awake. He was struggling to recall what had happened… All he knew was that his head hurt as if it were being crushed by a boulder, his armor was gone (judging by the fact that his body felt unusually light), and ropes bound his hands behind his back, tied to a wooden post that he was leaning against.

A small gasp of surprise told him that he was not alone. The scuffle of tiny shoes against the old wooden floor and the whimpers as his fellow captive struggled against their own restraints, made Time suspiciously sure that his fellow captive was a child. In fact he was horribly certain that he knew exactly who the child was. 

“Mask?” Time whispered.

“Time!” Mask whispered back, a mix of relief and fear in his voice, “What’s going on? Where are we?”

“I don’t know. But I don’t think it’s good…” As soon as Time said that, a light came on, revealing the two were tied up in some kind of cellar or basement. A figure in a black cloak and a mask that resembled a blue dragon stood there staring at the two of them.

“Finally you two are awake. I was getting bored.”

“You’re impatient as hell, then, since we were only out for about thirty minutes.” Mask retorted. Time wasn’t sure whether to be proud of the kid’s attitude or worried for them both. Bad guys tended to not appreciate the level of sass that Time and Mask had since childhood. The mystery captor ignored the kid’s snide comment, however,

“So it’s true, you have the perfect ability to track the passage of time… You certainly live up to your title, ‘Hero of Time’. Or should I say Heroes.” their captor’s gaze drifted over to Time, freezing him on the spot. They knew… They knew he and Mask were one and the same. No doubt that was why they were the only ones here. But what could this person possibly want with them? 

“Who are you? What do you want?!” Time demanded.

"Who I am means nothing. We are all merely pawns in the Master's game. You and your team are no exception." They said, "As for what I want. I wish to test a theory before I deliver you two to my Master." 

"What kind of theory?" Time asked.

"Well I suppose there's no harm in telling you… the way in which you managed to split the timeline is most impressive. Creating three separate sets of hero successors for yourself, then winding up in a completely new branch in which you became the adopted son of one of the heroes long after your own time, thus creating this… other version of yourself! It does beg the question though: since you were once the same person before you split the timeline— or rather the timeline split you—" they paused, "It does make one wonder how deep that connection goes. For example… whether one would feel pain inflicted on the other." 

"It won't work. It doesn't work like that. Mask and I are as good as two separate people as far as what we feel." Time argued, trying to get them away from the kid, or at least to stop whatever they were doing. 

"We shall see." They replied calmly, turning back to Mask, "I advise you to remain still. It will hurt worse if you resist." The mystery captor pulled a knife from the folds of their cloak. Mask tried to shrink back, but his movement was heavily restricted by the ropes and the pole. 

“Oh don’t worry, I wasn’t going to cut you. How boring would that be? Not to mention potentially deadly, and my Master has declared that the honor of killing you belongs to him alone. He’d have my head if I accidentally did it myself.” They cut the ropes that bound Mask’s hands. Mask was surprised, but wasted no time in aiming a punch at the enemy’s face now that his hands were free. The enemy expected this, however, and grabbed the boy by the wrist to stop the blow. 

“You really thought that would work? I spent weeks learning everything about you two when my Master assigned me to this job. I know how quick you boys are to violence, though if I’m being honest, I did not expect the first strike to be from the little one… No matter, no matter. This makes things easier.” They then pulled a small tool from their cloak as well. Mask didn’t recognize it, but it did somewhat resemble a pair of scissors but with claw-like grabby thingies instead of blades. He wasn’t sure what it did, but he knew he didn’t want to find out. Unfortunately as the enemy brought the tool closer to his hand, he also knew he was about to find out.

“Time—!” Mask cried out frantically before he felt something being torn from his left index finger, prompting a scream of agony from the kid. He glanced at his hand, now seeing that his fingernail had been completely ripped off. 

“WHAT DID YOU JUST DO TO HIM?!” Time shouted furiously. 

“You didn’t feel that… Interesting.” The masked figure muttered, still holding the arm of a now-sobbing Mask

“NO I didn’t feel it! I told you I wouldn’t! You only want to torture us!” 

“I wonder if it might work the other way around…” Time’s anger was completely ignored.

“Like hell I’m letting you keep doing this.” Time lashed out with a kick as the enemy went around to him, landing it square in their gut.

“You want to play it this way? Fine. Every time you resist… that’s more pain you’re putting him through.” They held Mask tightly so the kid couldn’t move, clamping the tool onto the nail of his middle finger. 

“You monster… Even if he is just 'younger me'. He’s just a godsdammed CHILD!!! You are torturing a 10-year-old for Din’s sake!!!"

"No. You are. By continuing to defy me, you are the one 'torturing a 10-year-old, for Din's sake'." Their impression of Time was way off, but that was probably the intent, "I would be willing to hold off on hurting him… as much… If you take his place. Either way, I should get the same results." 

"D-Don't do it, Time! I can handle it! F-Fingernails grow back!" Mask pleaded. Another nail ripped off, and another bloodcurdling scream of pain from Mask. 

"Alright I'll do it!" Time replied without a second's hesitation. He'd sworn from the day he met Mask that he wouldn't let the poor kid end up like him. Even with some damage already done, he was young. He had time to make his life a better one. And if… ugh… letting some sick bastard rip a few of his fingernails off, then so be it.

"Seems like you really do feel pain for each other's wounds after all…" Their captor chuckled, finally cutting Time loose as well.

Time only prayed that the others could find them soon.

[shemightbeahoteldetective]

THEY MIGHT BE GIANTS ALBUM REVIEWS (ones I have listened to so far)

Please be reminded that this is based purely on my OWN opinions. You are entitled to your own!!

APOLLO 18

- Apollo 18 most certainly has a special place in my heart as it is the first full TMBG album i’ve listened to (prior to this, I have only listened to selected songs without going through an entire album). The manner of composition (to further elucidate, the sound) emits what I perceive to be this “space-like”, “grunge” mood. In addition to this, the lyrics, as usual, are quirky, unique and cleverly constructed. Speaking from my purely subjective insights, I’m not as fond of the track “Fingertips”, but regardless of this, Apollo 18 is a very good album overall!

- Personal Favorites: I Palindrome I, The Statue Got Me High, See The Constellation, My Evil Twin

FLOOD

- It’s delightful! It’s delicious! It’s de-lovelyyyy! (Cole Porter says hi) Very whimsical, humorous and quirky. The melodies are catchy, bright and poppy, but not too poppy and overpowering to the extent that I wish to saw my ears out of my head. The songwriting as always, is excellent—consummately written, and if I had the time, I would willingly spend hours and hours deciphering the lyrics (since I have the spirit of an insipid corpse, I instead opt to look for interpretations on tmbw.net).

- Personal Favorites: Birdhouse in Your Soul, Dead, Your Racist Friend, Whistling in The Dark, We Want a Rock

LINCOLN

- My all time favorite! With regards to the manner of composition, they still maintain the skillful writing of their lyrics of a handful of their songs. Their works are centered on several themes—which creates a diverse catalogue. Some focus on light-hearted subjects such as romance, and juxtaposed to this, some entail the recognition of more depressing themes like anger, despair, separation, manipulation, abuse and many others. The songs are arranged in a clean and composed fashion—nothing seems out of place and everything is consistent. In summation, this album proves that TMBG’s works are the apotheosis of masterful songwriting.

- Personal Favorites: Ana Ng, They’ll Need a Crane, Purple Toupee, Where Your Eyes Don’t Go, Pencil Rain, The World’s Address, Kiss Me Son of God, Shoehorn With Teeth

BOOK

- I confess, I was at first ambivalent about this album. I suppose it was because Lincoln, Apollo 18 and Flood were so close to me, and I mostly listened to it passively while tending to my errands. After listening to it more though, accompanied with my endeavors in attempting to give my undivided attention, it grew on me, and thus I have come to appreciate it more. Their sound exhibits no change whatsoever—vocally and musically. Linnell and Flansburgh still possess the same voices they had in the late 80s and throughout the 90s. Their older and latest songs are indistinguishable—in a positive way! You wouldn’t be able to know which one is which in terms of time period. Again, alike to several of their catalogues, my opinions attest to the fact that masterful (Yes, I will not hesitate to use this word again because it is TRUE) songwriting is one aspect of the band that ceases to fade. If musical theatre has Sondheim, then alternative has They Might Be Giants.

- Personal Favorites: Brontosaurus, I Can’t Remember The Dream, Drown The Clown, I Lost Thursday, Synopsis for Latecomers, Part of You Wants To Believe Me

THEY MIGHT BE GIANTS

- Considering that this is one of their earliest albums, I find it to be good! The particular mood of this certain album is hard to describe. Experimental, energetic, sort of absurdist is what I am able to muster as of now. (To me) It’s a feel good album packed with eclectic, severely catchy tunes. I doubt i’ll ever cease to appreciate TMBG. Their work is—addictive!

- Personal Favorites: Don’t Let’s Start, Rhythm Section Want-Ad, Youth Culture Killed My Dog, Boat of Car, Alienation’s For The Rich

[neutron-stars-collision]

Closer

Neil x F!Reader

Summary: Plot what plot.

Warnings: 18+ (and I really mean it this time), they're both trying to dominate and I've no clue what's going on.

Author's Notes: Suppose this is what happens when an image won't leave you alone and you crave a self-indulgent one-shot... I don't even know, but this took remains of my sanity. Challenged myself with more graphic and this is what we ended up with.

Thank you Shet for reassurance through writing this and not having enough of my whining.

Feedback is greatly appreciated and I hope you'll enjoy!

It is always the same. That brilliant idea to go for lunch and do a round of sightseeing in the afternoon because surely it wouldn’t be too bad. Right?

Well, whoever thought of that was owed an excruciating death in the fires of Hell. Or Orcus, as would be more appropriate for the current location. Who knew the Italian coast transforms into the Death Valley over summer? Sighing with exasperation, you waited not so patiently as Neil slipped the key card into the door and opened the room with a typical flourish. Feeling the constant trickle of sweat down your back, you pushed him inside unceremoniously and let the door close with a thud. As the cold air enveloped your body with the sweetest of embraces, you could not hold back a pleased groan.

“Fuck” the curse not enough to express the internal pain “Jesus fucking Christ, I hate this heat,” accentuating the meaning you aggressively lowered the aircon temperature to 18C “Did I mention that temps above 25 Celsius should be made illegal?” remembering about Neil’s presence, you glared at him.

It was his shit idea in the first place. And you were never letting that one go. He was staring at you with amusement glimmering in the blue eyes. Another reason to punch him in the teeth. Or something.

“More or less twenty times within the last hour, why?” answering your question, he opened the minibar and took out a bottle of water.

Nonchalantly perching on the desk, he took a longer sip, still watching you with curiosity. No remorse whatsoever over the tortures he put you through. Annoying.

But not more so than the sweat still running down your skin, making the fabric stick to your body in places you never deemed possible. When leaving the hotel three hours ago, the linen shirt sounded like a good idea. Now, with half of it drenched, you were sure nudity was the only viable option to go outside. Groaning with frustration, you tugged at the garment, grimacing at the feel of the damp fabric.

“God, everything just feels… wet” uttering the word with loathing, you added, “Like soaking wet,”

That got Neil’s attention. He glanced up with the lips slightly parted, one eyebrow raised.

“Everything?” a quick scan of your body, swallowing hard as though the suggestion triggered thirst that no water could quench.

Uh-huh. The irritation too high to give in just yet. Instead, you allowed yourself to sweep your gaze over his form leisurely. The only sign that he too was bothered by the heat was the glistening forehead and flushed cheeks. The usually fluffy mane tamed, strands sticking to the temples. Still devilishly handsome. With the long legs crossed and the blue polo shirt perfectly bringing out the colour of his eyes, he looked godly. Unfair. Prompted by that thought, you closed the distance and snatched the chilled water bottle out of his hand:

“It’s not like you’d get it, though. Even soaked in sweat you look like a bloody… male Aphrodite” throwing in the slight, you quickly downed the rest of the water.

Another look at your boyfriend was enough to assure you the metaphor worked. Neil was gaping at you, utterly puzzled, and then slowly looked down as if to check himself out. You snickered when he lifted the edge of the shirt and touched his abdomen with a dream-like expression. Fondly: idiot.

“Is that an insult or a compliment? Because I admit I lost you there” shaking off the stupor, he met your watchful gaze with a frown.

It was difficult to stay mad for much longer. And so…

“Whichever one you want,” shrugging, you unzipped the skirt, letting it fall to the ground, “I need a shower. ASAP”

Without waiting for Neil to respond, you started taking off the shirt. With a disgusted sound, you threw it next to the skirt and positioned yourself underneath the AC. Still too many clothes. The noise of plastic bottle hitting the bin and then:

“Whoa…” the playful tone making you look up straight into the mischievous sparks in Neil’s eyes, “That’s giving me all sorts of ideas” he eyed you slowly, gaze taking in your body clad only in underwear.

Not that it was anything new. And usually, you would play along with pleasure, curious about where it might lead you this time. Now, however, that fire of annoyance burning bright still needed tending. And shower sounded much better than whatever Neil might offer.

With a huff, you reached to unclasp the bra and let it join the carnage in the hallway. One look at his hungry expression was enough to prompt an idea. You gave him a quick peck on the cheek and, without leaving time to react, pressed the bathroom handle:

“I won’t lock the door” an off-hand remark rather than an invitation.

But you knew it would work. It always did.

Once inside, thanks to the striptease you indulged in, all that was left was to take off the panties and step into the shower. You turned on the rain head and sighed with happiness when the chilly water cooled off your body. That is what bliss felt like. You closed your eyes, contented enough to stand under the running water. Grounding yourself in the feeling of your palm pressed firmly to the tiled wall. A smug smirk spreading on your lips when, finally, you heard the bathroom door open and close. So predictable.

You kept your back turned to the entrance to the shower, eyes closed if only to keep up the act of mild irritation. Not so mild, in fact, but enough not to give Neil satisfaction by throwing yourself in his arms. He would have to work a little to get something out of it.

At first, a tentative touch running up your spine in the familiar expression of his presence. Enough to trigger the light flicker of passion. With the cold water, it was easy to pretend the goosebumps were not his accomplishment. Encouraged by your stillness, Neil took a step, wrapping his arm around your waist and pulling you close. A traitorous gasp swallowed with effort. You heard him chuckle lowly while slowly caressing your body. A puff of warmer air against the side of your neck:

“Ever since I saw you in that sundress, I wanted to do this,” Neil whispered the confession with confidence.

Lips grazing over the shell of your ear, alighting the nerve endings with precision. You knew which dress he meant. The clothing choice from a day earlier, haunting with an accompanying pride. Good to know.

“What exactly?” feigning nonchalance, you kept your hands pressed against the wall and the glass window.

For now, it was easy to ignore the need slowly pooling in your lower stomach. You wanted to keep on playing the game a little longer. To see how far he was willing to go.

Neil tightened the grip, winding both of his arms around your waist. No space left between you.

“Pull you flush against me,” the explanation complemented with a brave sweep of hand over your stomach “Feel your skin and curves under my fingertips” instinctively, you pressed your thighs together, the desire building up steady “Feel the way you shiver whenever I touch you like this” his fingers teasingly running up and down your navel.

The assumption was enough to give back that spark of annoyance. A fight to keep up the role a little longer. Struggling with the overwhelming breathlessness, you whispered back the question:

“Aren’t you giving yourself too much credit?” you reached behind you to run a ghostly touch over his hipbone.

Feeling the skin and the relishing in the shallow gasp. In retaliation, Neil let his hands venture higher, cupping your breasts and circling the nipples. Fuck. At that move, there was no way of stopping the shudder running through your body.

“Am I?” you heard the amusement in his voice, palms executing death perfectly.

Nothing left to do but sigh and press up against him in search of fulfilment. But the teasing was far from finished. You felt his lips experimentally glide over the nape of your neck, collecting the water droplets and leaving a trail of fire in their wake. Searching for support, you firmly placed your hand on his hip, gasping at the feel of him pressing into your backside. The hardness never failing to cause a rush of excitement flowing through your body. As though sensing your growing arousal, Neil continued the teasing in a low, soft tone:

“I wanted to kiss down your neck, graze my teeth over your perfect skin” making his words come true, he trailed kisses down the nape of your neck.

A sigh each time he lightly bit your shoulder, a groan with every single butterfly touch along your shoulder blades. Carefully tiptoeing the line between animalistic passion and tender caress that seemed to define your relationship. Only this time, with anger still fresh on your mind, you began getting impatient, suddenly eager for him to speed it up. To give you something more substantial.

Using the strike of courage, you reached your hand further back, curious fingers dancing over him in the mildest of provocations. To give him a sign that patience was running thin. It worked for Neil let out a strangled groan and stopped the careful study of your neck with a painful hickey over the pulse point. That was bound to leave a deep red mark. He did not give you time to react, pulling you somehow even closer and delving the hand between your legs with ease:

“To slip my fingers between your thighs and feel how wet you are because of me,” the sentence murmured with an unmistakable tint of want hazing his mind.

He wasted no time, instantly parting your folds, collecting the arousal, and spreading it to ease whatever was bound to come next. The feeling was familiar yet still clouding your brain with need. Because now even the cold water was not helping the rising temperature. Nothing left to lose. Time to give in and take what he would offer. As he repeated the torturous move, barely touching your clit or putting pressure on the throbbing parts, you decided to take matters into your hands.

“And?” using the question as a distraction to encircle his wrist.

And raise the offensive hand to your lips. Licking his fingers clean before the water could. A sharp gasp told you it worked. Using the momentum, you turned around in his embrace and met the shocked, darkened gaze with a smirk of your own. Neil glanced at your lips as though tempted to collect the remains of your taste from them and locked his eyes with yours:

“Get down on my knees and have a taste of my favourite drug,” a murderous glint within the blue depths.

Knowing well enough how much you enjoyed that. How often you would ask for it.

Your thighs clenched on their own accord, anticipation heightening the senses. To find a brief relief, you rose on your toes and crashed your mouth into his, knowing Neil would meet you halfway. The tumultuous kiss filled with chaos, hunger, and need, betraying the love underscoring every other adjective befitting your connection. The tongues easily slipping in, curling around each other, seeking the ultimate pleasure.

“What’s stopping you?” after a long snog, you broke the contact and panted out, resting your forehead against his.

Allowing yourself a second of gentleness. Admiring the affectionate look in Neil’s eyes, you slowly caressed his body. Returning the previous torments with your dose of playfulness. Letting him remember that you were not the only one that was so ready. That the attraction was mutual, and you knew that very well. Explorative touches down his length, enjoying the way he swallowed hard and closed his eyes, trying to find the lost thread. After a beat, he met your gaze once again. The darkness startling.

“Nothing” using a second of hesitation, Neil took your courageous hand in his and searched your face, “Only… say please” the satisfied smirk added the wicked gleam to his face.

You considered scoffing and pushing him out to keep the pride intact. But… with the core practically dripping with the need for a release, that had to be forgotten. Clenching your jaw to stop the shame from springing up, you uttered the word with apprehension:

“… Please,” making sure to show him the extent of annoyance.

A retaliation already forming in your mind. Revenge would be sweet.

“Good girl” thought processes cut short with the two words.

Oh fuck. Simple, yet more effective than anything else. A jolt of want passing through your body as Neil tipped your chin, arrogantly pleased with himself. He could read you like a book, knowing well what praise would do. This time there was no holding back. No shame or reluctance.

“You fucking-” spitting out the words with annoyance, your rant got stopped with a finger pressed firmly against your lips.

“Shush,” the stern tone, shutting you up with yet another wave of arousal.

The steel look in Neil’s eyes only increasing the sensation. It was bound to get interesting. As if drawn by your dark stare, he closed the gap and captured your lips in a heated kiss. The water, running down, slipping in the gap between you, failing to satisfy the craving. Prodded by the sudden flash of need, you let your teeth catch Neil’s lower lip and tugged at it forcefully. A clear signal to stop stalling. Ending the contact with a chaste kiss on the corner of your mouth, he met your wild gaze with a calculating assessment. You knew the game well, frozen by the multitude of feelings. Not that it would’ve made him speed up. He enjoyed the control too much to give in.

A final searching look, your hand helplessly clinging to the gaps between the tiles.

“The louder, the better, you know that” brushing his nose over your ear, he whispered the command huskily.

Another reason to hold on tight. A flare-up of anger within your chest, mixing with the increasing frustration.

“I hate you,” you got as far as seething out the sentence before the voice died in your throat.

Neil grinned and lightly pushed you at the wall to give himself the needed space. Without wasting a moment, he started leaving kisses down your body. Gentle pecks on the shoulders, softening the previous damage. Tongue swirling around your nipples, causing a whimper to escape through your parted lips. Your free hand instinctively latched onto his head, finding an anchor in the wet blonde strands. Slowly, Neil inched his way down, kneeling at your feet, hands running up your thighs, creating sparks in their wake.

“Let’s see how long that holds true” he looked up, nothing but a smug smile and dark, hungry eyes.

Fucked. Terrifyingly so.

There was no time to react as he left a trail of kisses up your thighs, getting closer yet taking his time. And then, something you would never get tired of. The first, experimental kitten lick along your slit, parting the folds and spreading the arousal. As if that was needed. Lapping up everything you were offering and making you tighten the grip over his hair. Shocks passing through your body upon every single touch of his tongue. As you yanked on his mane with force, letting out a string of curses, Neil raised his head. Your eyes were drawn to the glistening lips which he licked clean with an unhidden expression of delight.

“God, how I love this taste,” the compliment aimed with lethal precision, satisfaction lighting up his eyes.

Only to pick up the action the very next second. Temperature constantly rising, no mercy given. It only got worse when Neil added his skilful hand to the mix. Stroking the clit, eliciting moans and gasps. Your eyes screw shut, focusing on the way it felt when his finger entered you and started curling inside in search of that sweet spot.

“Jesus fuck” the profanity escaping when he added the second digit, all the while letting his tongue circle the sensitive bud.

Chuckle vibrating through your core, the unoccupied hand contradicting the moment with tender strokes along your hip. As if to soothe and support.

The haze, getting heavier, overcasting everything with the tint of need. For a release. For that high, the explosion of pleasure you were slowly edging. The scales tipped with two fingers curling inside you, hitting the most sacred of places, and Neil’s lips sucking on the clit without moderation. Taking everything with eagerness and delectation.

With the heat almost unbearable and the edges of your vision darkening, you could only pull at his hair with force and rasp out:

“Neil, I can’t-” the intent lost in the outburst of pleasure.

Every nerve, existing to receive what Neil was offering. Every cell, burning with ecstasy. You could feel the incoming wave, ready to succumb to it without a fight. Until he raised his head once more, feeling your muscles clench around his fingers, everything synced up perfectly.

“Come… on. For me,” the emphasis not escaping your overflooded mind, gaze meeting his helplessly, “Don’t be shy” a whisper, darkness tinting the vowels.

The feeling of defeat, adding a dose of shame into the whirlwind, fuelling the ideas of vengeance.

But there was no time to concentrate when Neil finished the act with the third finger easing in. Tipping you off the edge with a piercing cry and a desperate tug on his hair. The strength of the pull making him groan loudly, tongue collecting the arousal with frantic moves. Pleasure flooding your vision. Nothing but the water, Neil, and his body, solid beneath your shaking hands.

Your knees buckled, the force of the aftershocks ripping through your system. Feeling the high course through the veins, you shut your eyes and let out quiet whimpers, unable to process the reality. Sex with Neil was always memorable, but it has never been this intense. Especially only for an entrée.

Feeling your body relax, Neil retracted the hand and placed a final kiss on your clit with saintly reverence. You opened your eyes in time to see him look up, the dark blue irises rimmed with long dark eyelashes. Adoration. Want. Weak from the strength of that release, your legs wobbled as you tried to change position. Foot slipped on the slick tiles, and you already anticipated the fall when an arm wound around your waist, pulling you upright. Startled, you barely comprehended when he got up and saved you, making use of the smooth moves and long limbs.

“Got you,” a whisper against your temple as Neil hugged you close, cradling your body with care, “Always” his gaze met yours, tenderness overshadowing every other feeling.

On reflex, you mirrored his soft smile in an expression of gratitude. For much more than saving your ass from the bruises. Despite the maelstrom of emotions, you gave in to the gentle moment and returned the embrace, pressing your cheek against his chest. Listening to the fast, familiar heartbeat, you whispered:

“You nearly killed me just now,” the breathless tint only giving evidence to the statement.

It’s not like he wouldn’t know. With screams like those, he had to. Neil chuckled, one of his hands venturing up to cradle your head, the other tracing shapes onto your back. Water flowing down with the steady stream, enveloping your embraced bodies in comfortable warmth.

“That wasn’t the intention,” he murmured, nuzzling the top of your head.

You could hear the pleased tone there, indicating what you suspected. Following the playful thread, you leaned back enough to meet his gaze and asked:

“What was it then?” a hand running through his hair, watching the strands darken when wet.

At the roots, his natural light brown colour was beginning to show, adding a surprising edge to his startling physique. For you, that meant another evening soon spent sat on the edge of the toilet seat, laughing at his attempts at dying the hair on his own. Those were fun moments.

Catching your absent gaze, Neil tipped your chin to bring you back to the present and then grinned:

“To show you how much I adore you,” the simple answer laid with a soft kiss on your lips, signing off the sentiment.

You opened your mouth to let his tongue in instantly, breathing in the air he was willing to share and relishing in the familiarity of the moves. Lips slowly gliding over each other, tongues caressing and teasing. This one was filled with tenderness, an expression of love and devotion rather than hunger. A breather.

Not for long. Using the kiss as a distraction, you switched the positions, making sure Neil would have his back pressed against the wall. For convenience’s sake. Breaking the contact, you whispered the single-worded response:

“Mutually,” unable to wipe the devilish smirk from your face, you waited for a beat to let him catch up.

Those widening eyes were a perfect cue to grin with satisfaction at the perfectly executed setup for the payback. Neil stared back at you with confusion deepening on his face, slowly taking in the reality. Finally, a single word, a prelude to the mountain of questions:

“What-” his brow furrowed, giving you the needed moment to step in.

“Vengeance,” you winked, and wasting no time, lowered onto your knees, “Let me just… now that’s a wonderful view” shifting into the most comfortable position, you gave him a long admiring look from the new vantage point.

It really was. Never failing to make you that tiny bit more eager and hungrier since the first time. Especially when knowing what he is capable of.

The flood of specific memories flushing up your cheeks and giving needed courage to begin. You glanced up, searching for consent, and met Neil’s hazed stare. He seemed transfixed as if already well under your spell, one of his hands mirroring your desperate move from minutes prior, clinging to the tiles in search of support. You raised an eyebrow in the silent question. Yes?

Please. The fervent nod accompanied by the way he swallowed hard was all you waited for.

Never breaking eye contact, you licked your lips thoroughly, all the while using your hands to stroke him lightly. Enough to elicit a gasp. Emboldened by the reaction, you opened your mouth, letting out a warm puff of air to tease him. Neil groaned, the free hand reaching out to cup your cheek with tenderness you did not anticipate. As if distracting himself, he brushed away the damp strands of hair sticking to your face and brushed the pad of his thumb along your lower lip. Gratitude. A signal to start.

A few kitten licks along the length, letting him get used to the sensation. Sharp exhales, muscles tensing. Upping the game, you started focusing on specific areas, using the sound cues and the way his hand tightened the hold over the nape of your neck. Now and then, you would look up to see the darkened pupils and lips parted in the purest expression of pleasure. The furrowed brow and the clouded gaze, telling you when the right time was to bring his tip into your mouth. Gently swirling your tongue around the head, savouring the taste with quiet hums. Stroking the shaft with one hand, you used the other to rake your fingernails over his abdomen. Returning the markings he inflicted earlier.

The string of curses leaving his lips amongst the moans and groans was a good indication that it worked. Noticing the hint of impatience in how he quivered, hips thrusting on an impulse, you slowly inched your mouth down his length, enveloping him as far as you could without it becoming uncomfortable. The answering loud moan told you it was exactly what he needed. Meeting his dark stare, you nodded, permitting him to start moving his hips. The adoration meeting desire in his eyes as Neil sped up. Adjusting to the pace he needed, you started sucking on him. Cheeks hollowed, tiniest of moans drawn out to let him know you enjoyed the act, tongue collecting everything he was giving, anticipating the end with a familiar heat pooling between your thighs once again. Because seeing him like this, was more exciting than you deemed possible.

Then his thrusts got sloppier, knuckles of the hand clinging to the gaps in the tiles whitening; groans replacing any other sound. Soon. Suddenly he seemed to sober up a notch, blinking twice as though forcing the brain to work and then rasping out:

“God, I’m going to-” the meaning interrupted by a whimper when you took the opportunity to increase the pressure by a notch.

You could see the ridiculous dilemma flash in the blue eyes as if he worried about something like that. As if he has not just devoured you like the god’s nectar. Certainly, an idiot. Continuing the bold strokes with your hand, you made sure to meet his gaze before echoing the encouragement:

“For me,” a hint of recognition reflected at you, adding the mischievous tint to your smile, “Please,” grinning widely, you quickly put your mouth back to the task.

Intensifying every move to make sure he would be satisfied. It did not take long. Neil moaned out your name breathlessly before he tensed and came with a shudder ripping through his body. The hand cupping your cheek fell onto your shoulder, fingers digging into the flesh with the force of the release. Swallowing every drop of what he gave you with delight, you made sure to show him the extent of satisfaction in your gaze.

Once Neil was done, he leaned heavily on the tiled wall, quick breaths escaping through the parted mouth. Eyes still clouded yet watching you constantly with evident fascination. Licking your lips clean, you accepted the hand he reached out to pull you up. Resting your palm over his racing heart, you leaned in close to whisper:

“Every inch a gentleman, I see” an appreciative glance down, as if he could miss the innuendo.

His eyes flashed, the familiar darkness creeping at the edge of the blissful fatigue. To your advantage, there was still a moment left of this more subdued Neil. Afterwards? Who knows. The spark of excitement lit up in your chest as you closed the gap and took him by surprise with a heated kiss. Pushing him further up against the wall and taking the lead with your tongue instantly prodding him to open. The grip on your laced hands, tightening as Neil started reciprocating the kiss with an equal eagerness. As if you both have been starving for each other. There was never quite enough oxygen to fulfil needs, and so, after few long minutes interrupted with stolen breaths and fleeting pecks, you broke apart, staring at one another with awe. Neil’s eyes wandered over your face with almost dream-like enchantment written all over.

“Wow,” he breathed out the word with a small smile creeping on the edge of his lips.

It was difficult not to grin back, overwhelmed with love for the man. With your heart close to melting from the tenderness and softness, you chose to strike:

“Is that all the praise I’m going to receive?” quirked eyebrow and feigned dismay.

If only to push him where you needed him to be. Because as much as this gentle and affectionate side of your relationship was everything you could have asked for, currently, you needed more. More than this. Using the palm pressed firmly against his chest, you trailed your fingers south, watching with satisfaction at the tiniest of twitches, betraying the hidden desire, confirming the assumptions. As if slowly waking up from the daze, Neil caught your curious fingers in his and raised your hand to lay a kiss on your knuckles. The playful glimmer already there.

“I’m afraid you stole my breath away. Again” a shrug with an apologetic tint to the tone.

As a contradiction to the meekness acted out, he let go of your hand and wound his arm around your waist, pulling you closer. Pressing your bodies against each other, every curve and edge fitting like two pieces of a puzzle. Like two halves of a whole. You glanced up at him, trying to judge the current mood, finding nothing but beauty. The wet hair, sticking to the forehead, water dripping down the slope of his nose and onto the bruised lower lip. Up this close, he looked as if he belonged in Michelangelo’s workshop, fine features chiselled with precision. Ocean blue eyes framed with long and dark eyelashes drawing you in, the longer you kept on staring. Mouth curled up in a soft smile as if even the sight of your lovesick gaze was something he wanted to commit to memory.

With a sight like that, there was only one thing you could do. Feeling the need pulse in your veins, you reached out to turn off the water. It was time to act. Neil looked at you questioningly as if willing to follow the tempo you were about to set. Biting down on your lip, you met his gaze with poise.

“Good. Because that was rather… enjoyable” lowering down your voice, you noticed how his eyes widened; using the tricks learned from Neil himself, your hand ventured down once again “I love how you taste. The way you shiver as I make you come apart” as your fingers danced along his length, he gasped, a shudder running through his body “Sculpted by the gods yet falling into pieces at my command” whispering out the punchline, you gently stroked him to elicit a groan.

A satisfying response. Feeling courage surge through your chest, you smirked, observing as he seemed to absorb your words slowly. He swallowed hard, Adam’s apple bobbing with effort. The pupils widened, darkening the irises and bringing out the predatory flicker. Mission accomplished. Once again, his hand darted out, stopping your teasing with fingers encircling the wrist tightly.

“You’re asking for trouble,” the husky voice sending shivers down your spine.

You met his gaze, noticing the evident change. It was bound to get interesting. Once you tasted the power, it was hard to give it back. Stepping out of the embrace, you noticed:

“Am I? I thought we’re done here” without waiting for him, you made a move to exit the shower.

Knowing he would follow. You made it as far as grabbing the towel hanging on the hook and wrapping it over your body before his strong arms encircled around you from behind. Pulling you against his chest, just as it all began. Then, a whisper with lips brushing over your ear:

“We’re far from done” oh.

Good. You barely had time to react when Neil lifted you, bridal style, and opened the bathroom door with a kick. Bewildered, you looked at him with curiosity, relishing in the way he cradled you. Possessiveness and care making your head spin with the implications. However, you barely had the time to think of the right question when he stopped abruptly by the long desk lining one side of the room and set you down on the counter. Oh. Consciously adjusting the towel covering your body, you risked a glance at Neil. The blue eyes clouded with need; pupils dilated. The taxing gaze, sweeping over your figure like a predator measuring up the prey. Stunned into silence by the sudden tension, you mirrored his look and allowed yourself a self-indulgent stare, appreciating what the universe gave you in the form of your boyfriend. And his godly body, as you have more than once noticed. Finally, Neil took a step closer. You watched in fascination as his fingers danced along your collarbones and over the skin on your shoulders, taking additional time to brush the fingertips over the forming bruises on your neck. The distant look, telling you it was an open admiration of his work. A shiver ran up your spine, the anticipation of whatever might happen almost stifling.

“All that talk made me a little hungry” the remark made you look up, straight into the marvellous blue eyes.

Confirming the words, Neil slowly licked his lips, hand toying with the end of your towel tucked in to keep it fixed. With heart racing in your chest, you made sure to throw a suggestive glance at his body before asking:

“Only a little?” the dose of provocative tone to make sure he would be within your control.

Because the level of arousal on his side was startling. Impressive, too.Your mouth watered at the sight, thighs clenching tighter together to somehow ease the ache pulsing between your legs. At once, you wanted him to ditch the games and take you this moment, and to wait, to extend the fascinating duel of passion.

Neil gave you no time to consider which one was more tempting, for he used your moment of reverie to tug at the towel to unravel it in one move.

“A lot” the answer perfecting the move with precision.

Fuck. Next thing you knew, you were sat on the towel, naked once more with no way of hiding from him and his look of starvation. Neil closed the remaining gap, blocking your escape and caging you between his arms, palms resting on either side. One last long look as if judging the best course of action before he parted your knees by inserting a leg between your thighs. A hand delving in the newly opened space, drawing out a sigh from your lips as you stared in complete fascination, frozen with the thrill of curiosity and need running through your veins. The pulsating core dripping with desire for him, shame missing from the equation when Neil finally gave in to the pull and slipped a finger between your folds. You knew how bad it was from the single look at his face. The determination slipping for a split second to give way to surprise, a short gasp soon replaced with the smirk worthy of the Lucifer himself. The daring finger parting your inner lips in a teasing move before he raised the hand to his lips, never taking the gaze of you:

“You’re still soaking wet for me,” a remark thrown with something close to mockery.

A flash of anger burning in your chest; mouth opening to prepare a retort. Only to freeze once more when Neil grinned, the hand glistening with the signs of your disgrace licked clean, mirroring your brave actions from not that long ago. Double fuck. A groan, interrupting the train of thought, that spark of irritation helping you to gain back the momentum. A look down his body offering the needed cue:

“Says you” raising one eyebrow, you reached out to repeat the lazy strokes from before.

The deepening darkness in his eyes luring you in, tempting you to push him further than ever before. If only to find out what he is like without any restraints. Without care or apprehension. Only the animalistic lust and craving left. Noticing the familiar hungry glow, you increased the intensity of your moves, smile widening when he let out a frustrated growl and slapped your hands away. In a flash, Neil wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling your bodies flush against each other.

“Careful, or I might-” his voice lowered to a whisper, the husky tone reverberating through your chest.

It was the unspoken threat and the way it felt when he pressed against your navel that made you take up the initiative. Leaning back enough to catch his eye, you interrupted the sentence:

“What?” a challenging smirk to irk him further; your legs wrapped around his waist “Destroy me. Fuck me senseless” completing the request by rubbing over him openly, showing the extent of need “Wrap that hand around my neck and take what’s yours” the addition breathed out with the scarlet tint on your cheeks.

Neil let out a whine as you pressed up against him, lacing your hands on the nape of his neck to get better leverage. He hesitated for a split second, hips already responding to your teasing with fleeting twitches. Somehow you knew what was missing. Leaning back, you tilted his chin to lock the gazes. Depths of lust enveloping your mirroring looks.

“Please,” the word dropped in between your lips, separated by a breath of space.

The trigger.

You could barely perceive his actions. The bottom lip caught between his teeth, a forceful thrust eliciting a sharp cry from your throat. Gentleness was left behind as he filled you up in one single move, stretching out your walls and making you gasp. Searching for something to hold on to, you grasped the edges of the desk, helpless gaze locked on his dark eyes without a break. Neil slightly shifted, one hand travelling up your chest to wrap loosely around your neck. Exactly as you asked. The other palm, pulling you closer around the waist, finding the needed grip. A shudder coursing through your body, the core clenching around him in the most basic of reflexes. An irked sigh escaping through your lips was all he needed to begin.

No kissing or hesitation, just the rough rhythm, delving deep into your centre with each thrust, hitting the perfect spot without tenderness. Each move complemented by your moan, pleasure flooding in, making you forget about everything that was not Neil. His gaze was fixed on you, watching with visible fascination how his tip disappeared between your folds with every thrust. The chokehold, tightening a little, increasing the frenzy, and hazing your mind with need. Only once you got used to the set tempo could you shift the position, placing your hands on his biceps. Digging in the nails to show how well that was working. Increasing the intensity of his moves, Neil groaned, his hand tightened over your neck. A clear signal to let you know who is in control. Obedience. Only, you were not that keen on compliance.

With sweat trailing down your body and your arousal wetting the conveniently placed towel, you decided to reach out for more. An assessing look, taking in Neil’s widened pupils and the startling resolve painted on his face. The clenched jaw, highlighting the sharp angles. Split lip from how he bit into it, drawing out blood. Unable to take your gaze off from his mouth, you used the second of hesitation to get closer and crash your lips into his in a hard kiss. Neil gasped, surprised by the shift, opening his mouth underneath your prodding tongue in an instant. Syncing up the way your lips glided over each other with his thrusts, you used the opportunity to gain back the lead. Meeting him halfway, relishing in the groans he let out against your mouth. And then, grabbing a fistful of his blonde locks, still damp from the shower, and leaning in to whisper into his ear:

“Harder,” the word dropped with certainty.

A further act of temptation. To see what Neil would be capable of if you drove him to the edge.

You did not have to wait long to find out. Tightening the chokehold, he sped up the movements, delving into you with a force that was ripping cries from your lips. The lascivious sounds filled the room, moans, and gasps interrupting the tempo. Soon it was nothing but the eruption of pleasure every time he hit the spot, making you rake your fingernails over his shoulder blades, deepening the marks and bruises. Using the grip you had over his shoulders, you changed the angle, bringing your pelvises together with every thrust. That seemed to be what Neil needed. He groaned, hand shifting from its position on your neck to grasp your chin and force you to lock the gazes. The feral look in his eyes, making you clench your muscles around him, giving in to the waves of feelings coursing through your body. It was that perfect balance between tempting darkness and astonishing want that you found reflected that was the final push you both needed.

Neil’s tempo waned, shuddered breaths coming out through the parted lips, watching you closely as if the ecstasy written all over your face was a drug he could not get enough of. A string of curses replacing the silence with their harsh simplicity. The grip over your waist tightening, fingers digging into your skin, bruises confirming the facts. His. Just as he tensed, moaning your name with the desperate tint to the tone, you captured his lips in a kiss. Hoping to take the edge off, to give him what he needs. Neil responded by biting hard into your lower lip, pleasure exploding before your closed eyes as he came, a shudder running through his body. Cradling you closer, breaking through the roughness and betraying the underlying feelings. Love, want, need.

It was the sensation of having him come inside you and the harsh kiss that did it. You whimpered, his name and love confessions on the tip of your tongue, spilling out in the silence. Hiding face in his neck, you stiffened, the force of the orgasm ripping through the fracture of reality. Nothing but the overwhelming euphoria, darkness underneath your eyelids dotted with stars. Neil’s skin underneath the shaking hands. His warmth enveloping you in the gilded cage of safety. Completeness. As you came to, riding out the high with your face pressed against the crook of his neck, you heard his soothing voice whispering sweet nothings, nuzzling your head. The tender ‘I got you’ and ‘I love you’ filling the quiet moment with reminders about your perfect reality. With a sigh, you slowly unravelled from the embrace; arms still wound around his body to prolong the touch. As your gazes met, the previous darkness was nowhere to be found, replaced with a soft smile and affection pouring out of his blue eyes. Cupping your cheek, Neil whispered the question:

“Alright?” he searched your face as though worried something could be amiss.

Fighting with the breathlessness, you chose to give him a grin first before responding:

“Yeah,” trailing your fingers down his chest, relishing in the peaceful moment, “Christ… You should fuck me like this more often,” the straightforwardness getting out without a hitch.

After what just happened, it was no big surprise. Neil did not seem shocked either his eyes glimmered playfully, as he traced the outline of your lips with the tip of his finger:

“Your wish is my command, darling,” the low murmur complimented with hand tilting your chin upwards to capture your lips in a kiss.

A slow and gentle one, softening the bruises and cuts, eliciting a contented sigh from your throat. Afterwards, you rested your forehead against his for a split second, soaking in the feelings. After a beat, you finally leaned back, acknowledging the mess on the hotel room floor covered with your clothes. The bathroom door was left ajar with the ventilation running. The towel you sat on, ruined. Wet hair trailing droplets down your naked body, mixing with the layer of sweat. A frown invited itself onto your face.

“I need another shower though… and a nap” yawning, you pushed Neil back to jump off the desk.

Only once you could properly stand, the fatigue caught up, making you sway on your feet. Without a word, Neil reached out a hand to steady you, pulling you into his side for an additional hug. Nothing to complain about even if you wanted.

“I should get you hot and bothered more often” it was the casual remark that made you look up.

Straight into the suspiciously satisfied face of your boyfriend. Surely not… right?

“… was that the plan all along?” schooling your features, you chose to ask the simplest of questions.

Neil shrugged, the trademark smirk gracing his features.

Bastard. Stepping away from him, you snatched the towel and hastily wrapped it around your body. If only as a retaliation. Because dragging you out to wander in the bloody scorching sun was a low blow. …even if it just gave you one of the best sex experiences in your life. Maybe. Perhaps.

“I hate you,” you hissed before storming over the pile of clothes to the bathroom.

“Uh-huh,” you refused to give him the pleasure of turning around at the sound.

Bastard. Squared.

[1kook]

card swiped (2)

→ jeon jungkook x (f) reader

→ How was he, a virgin, supposed to casually take his best friend’s virginity when he was so terribly, irrevocably smitten with said best friend?  GENRE eventual smut, minor angst WARNINGS mentions of porn, mentions of sex, mentions of dicks, just jk having dumb thoughts tbh  OTHER volleyball player jk, student council pres oc, childhood friends to lovers, besties to lovers, realization of crushes, there is one (1) cheek kiss 😐 RATING m (18+) WC 1.3k

NOTES (!) i did a follow up!!! this is rlly easy bc its like. dumb. the storyline is p simple so its become therapeutic 😐 anywayyy lemme know what u think !!

[ masterlist ]

The first step to initiating sex is a kiss— right?

Jungkook doesn’t even know anymore. All the porns he’s seen start at weird points in the progression, the first kiss somewhere between when the clothing comes off and when the penis holder shoves their cock in. Did he kiss you now, or was he supposed to wait?

That is, can Jungkook even muster the balls to kiss you? 

He doesn’t know, and when he sits up in front of you, knees against yours, does he come to a new shocking realization: the two of you have never kissed. For as long as Jungkook has known you, there has never been a kiss shared between you two. Not a single experimental phase, surprise mistletoe, not even a dare. Jungkook and you have never kissed, so it only makes sense that the idea of kissing right now has him pausing before he can even try. 

“Uh,” he says, all his years of grammar classes running down the drain when you sit up perkily, a gleam of excitement in your eye. “Tomorrow,” Jungkook chokes out, hurriedly bouncing off your bed before you can even process his words. 

By the time you’ve gotten up, he’s standing at the door with his bag slung over one shoulder, foot shoved into his shoe. “You’re leaving?” you ask, and scare the living daylights out of Jungkook when you suddenly reach for the sleeve of his shirt, successfully halting his hasty departure with one gentle tug alone. 

Jungkook’s face feels like it’ll burn up at this rate, and his brain screams at him to stop being so weird. You were his best friend, for goodness sake, something like this was bound to happen at some point or another. Right? His heart thunders in his chest, and when your eyes soften for the briefest moment, warm and familiar again, Jungkook relaxes. 

“I have practice,” he says casually, tugging the strap of his bag further over his shoulder. Inside, his shoes are shuffled around with his water bottle and practice clothes. “We need more than an hour to do that kind of stuff,” he jokes, but Jungkook isn’t even sure if what he’s saying is true. When that girl had jacked him off at that party—you know, the party—he can’t remember it lasting more than fifteen minutes. To be fair, it had been the first time someone had ever touched him, so maybe it was just because of his inexperience. 

And that brings him back to the same dilemma: how on earth is he supposed to rock your world when he’s never even had sex before?

Before Jungkook can dissolve into a self-induced puddle of panic, you’re letting him go. “Okay,” you say, always so sweet and understanding. You had to be if you were the president of the whatever-council (he’s pretty sure it’s the student council). It should be Jungkook who is this composed, not you. It should be Jungkook who leans forward, presses his lips against your cheek— not you! 

But as it stands, it is you who leans forward, soft lips pressed flush against his cheek, only an inch away from his lips. Your proximity has the overwhelming scent of, well, you fanning over him; fabric softener, lotion, perfume, all of it. “Oh,” Jungkook says, sounding like a total dweeb. The departure of your lips from his skin produces a soft smooching sound, straight from the movies, and Jungkook’s heart lodges itself into his throat when you meet his gaze with a sweet smile. 

And then the door is falling shut and Jungkook is bolting down the hallway, through the campus, and into the gym. He looks and feels insane, the emptiness of the gymnasium a blatant reminder that he was in fact a little too early. Serves him right for chickening out. But a second longer in your presence and he’s almost certain he would have died from heart complications. 

It’s only when he stares out over the gymnasium floor, devoid of any human life, that the gravity of his actions truly hit him. And they hit him hard. Like a city bus skidding across an icy road towards an intersection, Jungkook is suddenly hit full force with the stark realization that he has just prepositioned his friend of nearly fifteen years for sex. While being a virgin. 

“God,” he groans, throwing his bag against the nearest wall. It hits it with a dull thud, sliding down to the floor sadly. Jungkook follows. 

It would be nice to have some common sense every once in a while, to actually use the brain lodged up in his head. Why on earth had he thought offering himself up for sex to you, of all people, would be something easy? Sure, Jungkook as a virgin had some expectations of what sex would be like; deep down inside, he’s always known it won’t be exactly like in porn, there would be some disappointing things and some absolutely amazing things. But those were his own expectations to bear, the end results something that personally wouldn’t weigh down on him too much. 

But now… now Jungkook will have to come face to face with your expectations, that of which he absolutely can’t let down. What if you think his dick is small? What if cums too soon? What if you can’t get turned on by him? What if, at the end of it all, you don’t want to be Jungkook’s friend anymore?

The last thought has him sullenly sinking down further against the wall, chin pressed to his chest, as he mulls over any potential options. It would be weird (at least in Jungkook’s mind) to call it off now, especially after seeing how excited you’d gotten. As your best friend, Jungkook lived by an unspoken, strict code of conduct, that of which dictated that promises between best friends were not meant to be broken. It was the highest offense. 

But how was Jungkook supposed to rock your virgin world if he was a virgin? 

Faintly, he can still feel your puckered lips pressed against his cheek, and he mindlessly raises a hand up to brush his fingers against the skin. It makes him blush, remembering that sweet gaze you’d looked at him with. It’s the same one you used to give him when you were younger, the slightly proud, really content gaze whenever he did his homework before coming over, when he won a game against your rival middle school, when he first walked into a Victoria’s Secret with you when you were both sixteen. “You’re doing amazing, Koo,” you always teased and giggled, the sound gradually mellowing out over the years. 

Just a couple weeks ago he remembers hearing the sound from the bottom of a ladder, dragged into decorating the student center with you for the new school year straight out of practice. He had been tired, so absolutely drained from the drills that day, but it was impossible to say no when you had caught him across the student center, eyes lighting up at the mere sight of Jungkook’s sweaty form. 

“I’m running for student president this year,” you had told him (so it was the student council), the tall windows that lined the building’s walls allowing a ray of sunlight to settle down over you. It had made Jungkook halt for a second, heartbeat skipping one dangerous beat when you descended down, placed a hand on his shoulder the closer you got. “Vote for me, please?” 

“Yeah,” he had breathed, felt like the entire world was too small to fit the growing feeling in his chest. 

And it’s with that memory that Jungkook reaches his third and final realization of the afternoon, an accumulation of all the prior ones: how was he, a virgin, supposed to casually take his best friend’s virginity when he was so terribly, irrevocably smitten with said best friend? 

“Oh… fuck,” he groans, slumping down until he’s practically sprawled over the floor, startling Namjoon and Jimin as they enter the gymnasium. Jimin scolds him for scaring them, but Jungkook is so deep in his wallowing that he barely hears. 

He was in trouble.

Copyright © 2021, 1kook on tumblr. absolutely NO reposts allowed.

[agentrouka-blog]

Do you think Braime mirror Jongritte?

(Disclaimer: I do not ship either couple. Quite the opposite. Peace.)

They mirror each other quite strongly in a number of images, the way a good foil situation is supposed to. Which is to say that the situations have similar elements but are fundamentally contrasting below the surface.

Forced together, secret travel, violence, deception, (the threat of) rape, vows, ugly women, personal growth, it's all very similar. It'd be a massive meta post to compare and contrast it all, and I can't do that right now. So I'll be superficial.

Take the cave scene and the bath in Harrenhal, as one example:

Both scenes involve an evolution of intimacy and a reassassment of each other.

The intimacy between Jaime and Brienne is emotional in nature, and it allows them to see each other more clearly. Jaime makes a very significant personal confession about Aerys and it leaves him questioning himself.

The water had grown cool. When Jaime opened his eyes, he found himself staring at the stump of his sword hand. The hand that made me Kingslayer. The goat had robbed him of his glory and his shame, both at once. Leaving what? Who am I now?

Jon and Ygritte have sex in a more physically nude way than before, but while Ygritte says this...

"You as well," Ygritte said as she yanked down her sheepskin breeches. "If you want to look you have to show. You know nothing, Jon Snow."

... neither does Jon actually undress when she demands it, there is also no actual emotional intimacy following. He sees her physical features, and makes this big speech about loving those (out of nowhere), but he lists nothing about her personality and he reveals nothing significant about himself but a sudden confidence to be sexually experimental. Jon very decidedly does not share any of his inner life with her. It's actually astonishingly superficial.

And he actually sees her less clearly. Both of these happen in the same chapter:

She was sopping wet down there, and no maiden, that was plain, but Jon did not care. -> -> -> What was he now? He did not want to look at that. "Were you a maid?"

Jon twists a previously obvious fact into a question. He distorts his own perception of reality, because the person he "loves" is not the person in front of him. It's a figment he is creating out of a person who took advantage of him.

Contrast Jaime's dream after leaving Brienne behind at Harrenhal:

The light was so dim that Jaime could scarcely see her, though they stood a scant few feet apart. In this light she could almost be a beauty, he thought. In this light she could almost be a knight.

He sees her more clearly in the aftermath of that confession, even cloaked in a dream. He is entirely free of her and on his way to safety, but he sees a person he cannot leave behind to a horrible fate, and he turns the whole travel group around to rescue her. He will end up giving her sword to fulfill a quest, like a true knight. Going forward, he specifically struggles with her opinion of his character, his ethics, his personality. (Though it doesn't actually make him a better person at his core.)

Jon left murderous Ygritte behind and still struggles with his image of her. In the end, all he had to give her was a kind lie about returning to the cave while she lay dying. He idealizes her to a point, but what aids him in the future are only the empirical facts about the wildlings that he learned from her. He isn't a better person for having been forced into a relationship with her. He always was a better person, he's just slightly smarter now.

Even the dramatic rescues are massive contrasts:

It is Jaime who leaps into the bear pit to save Brienne from a group of enemies, from violence and rape.

It is Summer who leaps into the confrontation to save Jon from a group of enemies that includes Ygritte, who forced him into sex and then shot at him with arrows.

Says it all, really.

[forthegothicheroine]

The King in Yellow, 1949

Much of this story is true.  Warnings in the tags.

When I had pneumonia in my early teens, my mother brought home an armful of VHS tapes from the library to alleviate my misery.  Knowing my snobbish preferences, she had grabbed copies of whatever she found in black and white.  I remember something musical that I suspect was Busby Berkeley, I remember Mildred Pierce (a bad choice, as it turned out- the plot includes a young girl dying of pneumonia), and I remember a period piece called The King.  I faded in and out of consciousness while I watched it, but it soothed me while I was awake and filled my fever dreams with sparkling images.  I could never find it at the library again, nor at Hollywood Video or even early Netflix (once my father got the subscription service where you could order practically every DVD.)  It was a bit odd that it seemed to be so obscure, given that it starred old Hollywood legend Ingrid Bergman (and, although I initially forgot it, Marlene Dietrich.)  But even big stars make films that fall by the wayside in public memory, and it seemed that this was one of them.  Google was no help, and at the time that was that.

I didn’t see the film again until I was watching Turner Classic Movies at my grandparents’ house.  I loved watching that channel with them while filling out the crossword puzzle that came in their little TCM catalogue (all of it based on movie trivia, the only kind of crossword puzzle I’ve ever been any good at.)  I recognized a certain scene where Bergman stood on a balcony, looking sadly at the moon.  Her face had an expression of unutterable melancholy, and the crescent moon reflected in each of her eyes, giving the impression of two moons in one sky.  I had very little time to catch up on what I’d missed before we had to go meet my cousins at the local Italian restaurant.  I knew logically that the movie would be long over by the time we returned, but I turned on the channel anyway.  Of course it had moved on to the lesser known Alfred Hitchcock film Stage Fright, but then I heard Marlene Dietrich sing before I could reach the remote to turn the tv off in disappointment.  I knew that I had heard her sing before, and I knew it had been in The King.

Dietrich’s singing often comes across as somewhat campy today, with its Rs pronounced as Ws and it’s up-and-down tone.  Madeline Kahn parodied it brilliantly in Blazing Saddles, such that it was a bit of a disappointment when I finally saw Dietrich’s western Destry Rides Again and found it to be lifeless and inconsistent next to the parody.  Still, we remember her voice for a reason, and when I remembered it that night, I knew that its sardonic loneliness had rung through The King and made me shiver in my dreams.

The TCM schedule didn’t list The King in its time slot, but something else.  If I had taken down the name, maybe it would have helped me find it.  Sometimes the same movie runs under multiple names.

I didn’t see the film all the way through for many years, after I graduated college.  I had found a web page that listed public domain film noir, including one called The Masked Guest.  The website described it as a costume noir, and I curiously clicked on the link.  Once I took in the credits running on the youtube window, my eyes grew wide and I did not move from my place on the bed until the movie had run its course.

The credits did indeed list it as The Masked Guest, but I recognized the strange repeating design on the title cards.  They told me that in addition to starring Dietrich and Bergman, it was directed by Fritz Lang, and a character called The King was credited to “???”  (I hadn’t seen that kind of credit since the first Karloff Frankenstein.)  When the King finally appears on screen, though, it is unmistakably Orson Welles’s voice that booms out from behind his elaborate costume.

Here are the things I understand about The King, or The Masked Guest, or The Man in Yellow, or any other title I’ve found for it on public domain archive searches.  Dietrich and Bergman play princesses named Cassilda and Camilla, respectively.  Though Dietrich’s accent is German and Bergman’s is Swedish, they blend together to give the film the impression of being set somewhere on the map that I can’t quite find.  The scenery and camera angles are very Freudian, with a great deal of archways and pillars.

The first act of The King involves frankly dull romantic plotlines, and the only thing that really saved it was the feeling that the suitors were supposed to be insipid, a suspicion lended credence by the fact that the love interests were listed so low on the credits.  Dietrich is the scandalous sister and Bergman is the responsible one, though each takes on aspects of the other as the film goes on.  Dietrich sings her song at a party, dressed in a fake 17th century gown and leaning against a piano.  Although just a moment ago she had been laughing and joking with her gentleman friends, her song takes an abruptly serious tone (not seductive, not sentimental) as she tells the story of a city lost to time and memory.  Bergman slips away from the party and onto the balcony, where we see that wonderful shot of the moon in her eyes.  Is she mourning?  Is she longing?

Dietrich cuts off the song by abruptly screaming “Not on us, King!  Not on us!”  She flees the party weeping and shaking, and from there on the film goes mad.

Though uncommon, it is not unknown for movies to switch between black and white and color, done most famously in The Wizard of Oz.  The film The King recalls here is the silent Phantom of the Opera, which had a masqued ball scene tinted in shades of red and green that tried to provide a whole spectrum of color.  The effect is even odder in the masqued ball scene in The King- the only color that appears is yellow, highlighting things like candlelight, Dietrich’s hair, a passing gown, a vase of tulips.  It also highlights one particular masked figure, whose expressionless mask was decorated with a black pattern against a sickening yellow canvas- the same pattern I had seen in the opening credits.  The color of his costume causes him to stand out from the crown even when he is far off in the background, just one head among many others.  It must have taken long and painstaking hours of work to color in every frame.

Dietrich still seems broken up days after her song, though Bergman tries to coax her into joining the dance.  Finally, at midnight, Dietrich goes out to face the party, but only to demand that every guest remove their mask.  The yellow man with a voice that once warned America about a Martian invasion tells her that he wears no mask.  Bergman reacts with disbelief, but Dietrich starts laughing like a woman unhinged.  As she laughs, the yellow hue seeps out of the King’s clothing and face- if that really is his face- and begins to color the entire ballroom crowd.  I think that what follows is bloodshed, but if there is any carnage (doubtful under the Production Code censorship), the blood must be tainted yellow and splashed across the camera like daubs of paint.  Dietrich’s laughing face is doubled and tripled on screen until it dissipates, but even when it has faded offscreen, it feels as if her ghost continues to watch the proceedings.  

By the end of the scene (filled with German Expressionist camera angles and mad violin screeching), only Bergman remains alive, cowering behind a grandfather clock.  It does not hide her for long.  The King steps towards her and extends his hand.  Reluctantly, but with a fatalistic expression, Bergman takes his hand.  They walk away together hand in hand.  The screen shifts back into black and white, and then the credits roll before we can get a good look at all the bodies in the scene.  The credits say it was based on a play called The King in Yellow, although Raymond Chandler of all people apparently had a hand in the screenplay.

As I said, that’s what I think I understand.  It’s an oddly experimental art film for the era, and it may be awaiting rediscovery by the film festival crowd.  I feel as if I alone know about it, though that obviously isn’t true.  It is my little secret; I tell myself that my husband doesn’t need me to show it to him, it would be too odd for his taste.  I’ve rewatched it many times, even if it seems like each time I search for it I have to find a different video platform or torrent.  Naturally, no subscription site has it available.  Maybe I am the last person who will ever watch it.  Maybe no one will ever think to look for it again after me, and it will be completely forgotten.

When I was hospitalized, they let me use my laptop at night before I went to sleep (no power cord, though, in case I tried to hang myself.)  I found a youtube link for The Man in Yellow, and I watched it every night.  It wasn’t a soothing sort of movie, but having it in my mind all day and then watching it in the evening allowed me to think as opposed to crying endlessly while the other patients shot me awkward looks.  I clutched the childhood stuffed animals my mother brought me when she visited, and I always held them extra tight when the masquerade scene started.

I watched the movie when I had to move away from my beloved San Francisco.  I watched the movie when I lost the last of my grandparents.  I watched the movie when a doctor unwisely took me off my medication and I couldn’t manage to eat for a month.  I watched the movie when the whole world got sick and we all locked ourselves away from each other.  I don’t mind that I don’t entirely know what it means.  I don’t mind the nightmares.  In the hospital they kept telling us about mindfulness exercises, and maybe the fact that I can focus on every aspect of the film so closely that all else falls away is the reason I keep coming back to it.  I’m being mindful.  I’m not letting any stray thoughts invade my head.  I’m just watching and waiting for the next beat of every scene, leading inexorably to that yellow-stained bloodbath.

Streaming media doesn’t last forever, and each time I find The King, I worry that it will be the last time I ever can find it.  My efforts to download it have so far been unsuccessful, odd considering that it is in the public domain.

When I watch The King, I am once again a child in my bedroom being cared for in the throes of agonizing sickness.  I am once again sitting on the couch with my grandparents in front of the tv, both of them alive and lucid again.  I am once again in the hospital, all alone except for my stuffed animals and the staff trying to keep me alive.  The film reflects in my eyes like the crescent moon in Ingrid Bergman’s gaze.  It sings to me.

I am determined to find a way to obtain The King under any name so that I never have to worry about losing it.  During some of the worst times in my life, it is the only thing that has kept me sane.

[deniigi]

Please take this section from a piece about Baby Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon bonding post Bandomeer.

I’m sure that this isn’t how their master-apprentice relationship was formed but I refuse to read so this is it for me 🙃🙂

Title: platelets

Summary: After the smoke clears on Bandomeer, the Agricorps gathers 12yo Obi-Wan into their ranks and prepares to train him to become one of their own. Qui-Gon thinks they should wait a damn minute here. He’s had a change of heart.

---

Obi-Wan was no longer in the med bay. It took Qui-Gon two hours to find him and two years off his life trying to look casual under the irritated gaze of so many suspicious Agricorps members.

The foreman (forewoman) was the first to crack under Qui-Gon’s very charming smile—and she didn’t so much as crack as tell him that his attempts to be subtle disgusted her to the core.

Obi-Wan had been given over to a young lab manager. A friendly man in need of his first supervisee. He was soft at heart and, according to the foreman, very good with kids.

Qui-Gon understood implicitly and rapidly that this was his new competitor.

He asked the foreman what the knights had done to incur the corps’ ire and she told him to search his fucking feelings.

She closed the door behind him, effectively locking him into one of the Agricorps terrarium-lab bubbles.

 --

Qui didn’t like to snoop. He loved to snoop.

Nothing was more satisfying then having a poke through the lines upon lines of glasses and test pockets that covered the tables. He had a sniff around the experimental cuttings taking root in their glasses and then took cover when he heard a voice break out into a laugh.

He peered over the edge of the counter and spotted the familiar green smock-tunic of the corps. Its owner had tan skin and narrow eyes and his back stooped into an arc. Qui-Gon craned his neck and found that the arc came over the tuft-y red hair of his future apprentice (because there was no real question here, regardless of the corps’ agitation; the knights would always get first choice over the initiates).

The lab manager, however, gave no sign of trepidation. He held in front of Obi-Wan a handful of seeds that sprouted and curled under his smile. Obi-Wan watched them with wide eyes. The manager turned his gentle face down towards Obi-Wan and nudged his hands until Obi-Wan was holding the mass as it grew.

“Look, you’re a natural,” the man said.

Obi-Wan sucked in a lip and focused hard. One of the plants’ first adult leaves began to unfurl.

“Well done. Fantastic,” the manager said. “Look at you already. Great job and for that, a reward.”

“A reward?” Obi-Wan asked, handing the tangle of roots off as the manager held out his hands for them.

“A reward,” the manager agreed, plucking one of the fat stems from the bunch and holding it out to Obi-Wan, “A snack.”

Damn. This guy was good.

 --

 The foreman was smug as a dungbeetle in shit when Qui-Gon skulked out of the lab. She asked him how his proposal had gone. He scowled at her and made off back to his quarters.

Normally, he would call someone to lament the traitorous actions of these supposed-allies, but no one was going to be sympathetic right now—not even Tahl. She was going to say what everyone else was going to say which was “Man, you had how many chances to get this right?”

He smashed his face into the pillow of his bunk, then flung it off and flattened his cheek against the mattress.

There had to be some way to turn these tides back in his favor. He wasn’t losing to the Agricorps. Master Dooku would have a heart attack. Qui’s failure in this—more than Xanatos—would kill him and then he’d have to live with that guilt for the rest of his life.

UGH.

Alright, Jinn. Think.

 --

 He had a brilliant plan. It involved a lightsaber. Obi-Wan loved lightsabers. Qui-Gon had witnessed him loving them many a time.

He scrounged up some tools and squeaked past the Agricorps security for a quick bounce off to acquire a crystal. A blue one. Obi-Wan looked like a blue saber sort of kid. It took a while to find one because everyone, everywhere, was conspiring against Qui-Gon on this. Even the Force seemed to be telling him that he was too late.

But for once, he didn’t care. There were only so many times you could fuck up before you started fucking up at least in the right direction.

He got the crystal. He brought it back to the corps headquarters and went on the hunt yet again for his (his damnit) future apprentice.

  This time, Obi-Wan was in the dormitories. Qui-Gon almost gasped in horror to find him outfitted in an over-large green smock-tunic. He flapped the too-long sleeves with a goofy smile while his lab manager reached around him and tightened the belt at his waist as far as it would go.

“You’re so scrawny,” the lab manager told him. “We’ll fix that.”

Obi-Wan beamed up at him and held up his sleeve-covered hands.

“I like green,” he said.

A small piece of Qui-Gon screamed internally.

“I think you’re more of a blue, actually,” the lab manager said. “But this is what we’ve got for now. When you get bigger, we can see if there’s a blue that fits you.”

“There are so many colors,” Obi-Wan said as the manager trapped his arm and started rolling up one of the sleeves. He tried to do the same with the other on his own, which just made the manager’s job harder.

“There are,” the manager said.

“Do you get to pick?”

“You sure do.”

“How do you pick?”

The manager patted Obi-Wan’s head and turned around to hunt down something else from the spare clothing supply.

“It comes to you,” he said, muffled.

There was a long silence. Qui-Gon had just decided to step out of hiding, when Obi-Wan, looking at the rolled edges of his sleeves said,

“I think I want to leave.”

Qui-Gon’s heart stopped. The manager’s rummaging did, too. He pulled himself carefully out of the cupboard.

“Leave?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Obi-Wan said to his sleeves. “I think I want to leave.”

No.

“You’re a little young to leave, aren’t you?” the manager said awkwardly.

“Maybe,” Obi-Wan said. “But I’ll figure it out. If I can survive those people in the mines, then I can figure it out, can’t I? And then I can pick my colors out there. You get to pick, right? Maybe I’ll do blue after all.”

Fuck. No. Qui-Gon was gonna—

“Hey, why don’t we do this?” the manager said, setting aside a set of gaiters to kneel down in front of Obi-Wan. “Let’s give us a trial run, huh? Two months, max. I know we didn’t make the best first impression, but give us two months—eight weeks—and after that, if you don’t like it, we’ll make sure you’ve got somewhere to go when you’re ready to leave. Does that sound okay?”

Qui-Gon held his breath. Obi-Wan studied the knuckles of the hands holding his. He rubbed his split lips together.

“Eight weeks?” he asked.

“That’s all, no more and if you really, really can’t stand it, then even less,” the manager said.

“And you’ll help me? Even if I say I don’t want to stay?”

“Even if you don’t want to stay.”

Maybe Qui was operating on another, less child-friendly level here, but why in kark’s name you’d even give the boy the illusion of choice was beyond him. The answer was, truly, that the second Obi-Wan set foot away from the jedi, he’d be signing his own death sentence.

Xanatos wouldn’t care if he wasn’t Qui-Gon’s true apprentice. He wouldn’t ask those kinds of questions. He’d just seize the opportunity the moment Obi-Wan no longer had someone standing behind him, and when he was through, he’d bring the body to the Temple and lay it out cold and open-eyed on the front steps.

There were no other options for the child now. Qui-Gon was being kind with this process of trust-building. In reality, if he really needed to, he could contact Yoda and acquiesce to his previous wisdom and arguments for Qui-Gon to take the kid on. Yoda would then change the boy’s assignment and orders; he would return to the temple and thereafter again go through the selection process. But this time, Qui-Gon would select him without hesitation.

That wasn’t how Qui-Gon wanted to do this, but if the boy thought that he was going to leave, to step out into the cold of space, then to spare him a cruel, meaningless death, Qui-Gon would.

“Thank you,” Obi-Wan said quietly to the manager.

“Anytime, hon,” the manager said. “Who knows, anyways. You might even like it here.”

 --

  The trouble with the damn Agricorps was that they were phenomenal talkers. They talked to people about their problems and all these insecurities and they gave them food and drinks and told jokes and laughed and hefted their littlest supervisees up onto their shoulders and all that served to make their members loyal to each other to a fault.

In short, Obi-Wan’s lab manager was winning this battle more every day.

This was not helped at all by the fact that Qui-Gon had discovered through a surprise meeting that Obi-Wan was afraid of him.

They’d bumped into each other in the hallway as Obi-Wan came from the mess hall and Qui-Gon went to drop off some documents, and the kid scrambled away from him and flattened himself against the corridor’s wall.

Some serious meditation (and agitating Mace, great tower of sleep-deprived wisdom) had brought Qui-Gon to the conclusion that yeah, a month in forced labor, being banished to a mine, food deprivation, physical assault, and so on really did a number on a twelve-year-old’s trust in people and their associates.

Further, Mace pointed out that Qui-Gon was approximately ‘half a mile tall and covered in overgrowth.’

He did not appear to be a soothing presence to children. Mace said that if he’d deigned to join him and the other masters in chatting and cuddling the younglings in the crèche, this wouldn’t have been a problem, but alas, Qui, you stuck-up nerfherder. You reap what you sow.

Mace’s hind and foresight was, as per usual, invaluable.

Qui-Gon decided that he was going to be the nice version of himself. He was going to smile at Obi-Wan. That would do it.

 --

 It didn’t do it.

The foreman came to Qui-Gon’s quarters to gleefully tell him not to approach the corps’ young supervisees unprompted. He was giving the children hives.

He explained to her outright that he intended to take Obi-Wan on as his apprentice.

She told him good luck. Obi-Wan, she claimed, was already settling in with the others. He was making friends. And Qui-Gon wasn’t so cruel as to separate such a traumatized boy from such comfort, now was he?

But there, she was mistaken.

He definitely was that cruel.

The foreman told him to die miserable and slammed his door.

 --

 It took another two tries, but eventually, he managed to find Obi-Wan tucked away on one of his breaks from his training in the lab. He appeared to be at a loss for what to do with himself. He’d settled against a window and had splayed both hands on it as he stared out into the cracked soil of Bandomeer.

Qui-Gon watched him for a little while and then cleared his throat.

Obi-Wan jumped. His eyes came up for the briefest second and then his head went down.

“Master,” he greeted.

“Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon replied. “You seem bored.”

Guilt colored the boy’s cheeks in a flush.

“I’m not bored, Master,” he said, fidgeting with his rolled sleeves.

“May I sit?” Qui-Gon asked, gesturing next to where Obi-Wan knelt. He nodded and arranged himself in a more dignified posture. Qui-Gon let him; he sat down next to him, grumbling and creaking and popping.

His bones weren’t what they used to be.

Once he was finally more or less comfortable, he turned to notice Obi-Wan staring at him with eyes like a cat’s.

“What? You never seen an old man sit?” he asked.

“What happened to your hair?” Obi-Wan asked.

Oh.

“It’s in a bun,” Qui-Gon explained, reaching up to release the mane. It tumbled down over his shoulders and cheered for fresh air.

Obi-Wan’s gaze became even more cat-like. Qui-Gon fought off a smirk.

“You want to touch it?” he asked.

The kid looked away abruptly.

“It’s okay. You can touch it,” Qui told him. “It looks better than it feels, I must say. Needs a trim—look at these ends, little one. I ought to be arrested for crimes against decency.”

Aha. Gotcha. Look at that wobble in those lips. Trying not to smile. They’d see how long that worked, now wouldn’t they?

He badgered Obi-Wan until he finally broke and reached up to brush his fingers against the hair Qui-Gon put within his reach. His attention snapped into place.

“It’s soft,” he said, amazed.

His fingers started combing without permission. Qui-Gon let it happen.

“Very useful for cold climates—have you ever felt a snow-yak, Obi-Wan?” he asked.

The boy shook his head. Of course, he hadn’t.

“Do you know what they look like?”

Another shake.

“Well, perhaps one day, you will see them,” Qui-Gon said indulgently. “When I was a boy, my master told me not to try to pet them—he told me at every step of the way, he knew me well. But you know what I did?”

There was that smile now.

“You pet them?” Obi-Wan asked.

“I sure did,” Qui-Gon told him. “And you know that they did?”

“Kicked you?”

“Me? No. I was too small a target. They charged my master—Master Dooku; you may have heard of him.”

Obi-Wan shoved his giggles into his palms.

“I want to pet one,” he said.

“Yes, you do look like the type,” Qui-Gon said. “Tell me, Obi-Wan, what are your feelings on pathetic lifeforms?”

“What’s that?”

“You tell me. What’s a pathetic lifeform to you?”

Obi-Wan settled in and thought about it as he gazed out the window’s thick glass.

“Me,” he decided.

Bless him.

“You?” Qui-Gon said incredulously. “No, no. You saved a jedi master. I said ‘pathetic.’”

“Me,” Obi-Wan insisted again.

Qui-Gon held a finger out between them.

“If you are a pathetic life form, then I am in grave danger,” he said.

The giggle this time wasn’t hidden. It make Qui-Gon’s own grin grow.

“I was thinking a lothcat,” he admitted. “Or a dragon—love a dragon. Of course, the yak—perhaps not pathetic to my master, but to others yes. They’re not smart, Obi-Wan, poor things.”

“You like animals,” Obi-Wan said.

Qui-Gon weighed this statement with his head.

“’Animals’ isn’t quite broad enough, but yes, they fall into the category,” he said. “I’m also a big fan of rescuing the plants that no one can keep alive.”

Obi-Wan brought up his knees and wrapped his arms around them. He settled a soft cheek onto the top of the right one.

“That’s what I’ll be doing here,” he said.

“Indeed,” Qui-Gon said.

There was a long pause. The boy sniffed softly.

“You will be happy here,” Qui-Gon told him gently. “They will take care of you.”

Another sniff. An eye scrubbed with a too-long sleeve.

“I’m sorry I’m not good enough,” Obi-Wan whispered.

Well, this was a conversation Qui-Gon hadn’t wanted to walk into. There were, from his vantage point, a few ways out of it, but at the end of each of those paths was a set of brown eyes framed by intense, wispy green brows.

“You are good enough,” Qui-Gon said. “I am just a foolish master. You deserve someone better than me, Obi-Wan.”

“There is no one else,” Obi-Wan said.

“There will be,” Qui-Gon said.

“No, there won’t. I’m out of time. All that’s left for me is...this,” Obi-Wan said, gesturing to the landscape beyond the window.

Qui-Gon studied it; the cracks in the soil, the piles of broken stones.

“It is a little bleak,” he admitted.

“What is it like for non-jedi people?” Obi-Wan asked. “Do they go to school? How do they find somewhere to sleep?”

“You will not be a non-jedi person,” Qui-Gon said.

There was a long pause.

“What?”

Qui-Gon sucked in a breath and let his shoulders fall.

“Unless you really want to be one,” he added. “Apologies, I spoke without thinking.”

Those blue eyes were the same color as the crystal in Qui-Gon’s pocket. He put his hand inside of it and pulled the carefully wrapped parcel out so that Obi-Wan could see it. He rolled it slowly until only the crystal sat in his palm.

“There is greatness in you, Obi-Wan,” he said. “And I am not a good enough Master, but you are more than a deserving padawan.”

The eyes flicked from the crystal to Qui-Gon’s face once, then twice.

“Do you mean it?” Obi-Wan asked.

“Are you okay with having a silly master?” Qui-Gon asked. “I will not sugar-coat it—one of my students has already fallen. I am the type of person who Master Windu has been dreaming of the unfortunate demise for since we were children.”

“Why?” Obi-Wan asked with eyes only for the crystal.

“Excellent question. I am told that my brain is fundamentally ill-suited for human interaction,” Qui-Gon said with a smile.

Obi-Wan huffed.

“Does Master Windu really dislike you so much?” he asked.

“He speaks to me in such ways only out of love. My other friends say that I am dedicated intensely to the flight of fancy.”

“I don’t know what that means,” Obi-Wan said.

“You know, funny thing,” Qui-Gon told him, reaching over to take his hand and press the crystal into it, “Neither do I.”

[gale-gentlepenguin]

Gale's Story Idea: 'Those of another world must die' or 'Isekai no mono ha shi ke re ba naranai'

(I probably butchered the Japanese. But the point is to give it a light novel title feel)

(Since a few people have been asking what my light novel idea was. I decided to explain it and go a bit more in-depth)

Premise: Rumors have been circulating about a Killer known only as 'Hero Eater' is targeting heroes in the Human Kingdom of Itsumo. But not everything is as it seems, Itsumo has many dark secrets and the kingdom may need a change...

The world of Itsumo.

Now the setting would be similar to most fantasy Isekai worlds. Money consists of Gold, silver, Bronze coins. Platinum coins are for the super rich.

Magic exists, Magical items exist. Levels exist.

There are dragons, goblins, the typical fantasy fair/ D&D/MMORPG feel but with a lot more twists

Summoned Heroes

When it comes to Summoned heroes things get different.

1. 'Heroes from another world' are treated above the standard people. As being summoned from another world gives them stupidly over powered abilities compared to the average citizen of Itsumo. The Elites show them favoritism.

2. Aside from obviously enhanced strength, speed, durability, and magic. They level up faster, have overall higher stats, and Summoned heroes also get some sort of Overpowered ability.

3. These over powered abilities or OPAs are ranked from S to E. Depending on that OPA, determines your lot as a 'Summoned Hero'

4. E's are the lowest. The skill is just slightly useful. Summoned heroes are still MUCH stronger than the average soldier. So these heroes are often brainwashed Coerced and put as soldiers on the front lines, or bodyguards of the elite. (Basically they are just glorified meat shields.)

4.5 There is nothing ranked lower than E. Those summoned ALWAYS have a OPA.

5. C and D Ranks are considered worlds more useful. These heroes depending on their abilities are thrown into a field where their skills can be utilized. These heroes are usually thrown a boon by the king and get funding. These heroes are the ones responsible for the innovations in technology (such as guns, refrigeration, etc). (Though in truth they have done a lot of f***ed experimentation)

6. A and B Rank are considered 'Heroes of the Kingdom'. Those heroes are the ones that you see going around and fighting demon hordes with ease. The ones you see with the harems (usually of whatever their fetish is). They basically have license to do WHATEVER they want, so long as the King doesn't intervene.

7. S Ranks. These summons are incredibly rare, but their skills are 100% broken. To put it in perspective. 1 S Rank hero could easily beat 10 A ranks without breaking a sweat. This is where the OPA's become near god like. Fortunately for some reason, only 7 S ranks can exist in the world at a time. Only when 1 dies can a new S rank otherworlder can appear. Currently the King has some of them watching over different parts of his kingdom. But all of them are considered Legendary.

8. (Little known fact that summoned heroes are often loners, losers, incels, neets, and other lesser freaks of society. Who else would willingly go to another world if their life is actually good?)

9. Some heroes do start out doing good... but power corrupts

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Religion:

The Religion of Itsumo in stated by King Tyran. Insists that there is a kind and loving goddess (Named Oveun Ativ) that blesses Itsumo with the heroes that appear. Basically making those from another world as 'Her blessed children'.

So often regular citizens range from worshiping them or at the very least respecting them. (Though this is simply a front, the average citizen HATES these arrogant s***s. Considering the awful stuff they put them through.)

The Church also has a monopoly on Hero summoning. The ritual that they use is as follows.

1. A young girl will be chosen once a year from every village. (basically not where the nobles live.) It was considered a great honor. (and if the town didnt comply the church would inform the king and that town would be burnt down and all of the young maidens there would be brain washed and taken anyway) A maiden will be trained in magic for several years until her 18th birthday. During this time she must not have relations with men, must not touch the blood of an animal, must read the sacred scriptures and serve the church without question. (Indoctrination)

2. According to the church, the Summoning ritual will then have the young Maiden perform the summoning magic in which if performed successfully, will summon the hero and she will take the form of a portal of light which summons him. After which she will ascend and become an angel that serves the goddess. (This is not true. Its a virgin sacrifice. Those girls are killed in a ritual. Its f***ed up what the s***)

3. If a maiden summons a B or A rank hero she is regarded as an example for others to follow. For she clearly followed the doctrine of the church. She was likely Heavily rewarded by the goddess.

4. If a Maiden summoned C or D rank, they are not discussed often except by friends and family.

5. Maidens that summon E ranked Heroes are considered disgraces. Maidens that clearly did not follow the teachings of the doctrine. Their names are stricken from the records.

6. Maidens that summoned an S Rank hero. Are written into the logs as Blessed by the goddess. They are treated like Saints and some worshiped like deities. Some doctrine claim that they serve at the hands of the goddess after achieving this.

_____________________________________________________________

Economics

Summoned Heroes basically caused Economic collapse for adventurers.

Summoned heroes often hunt monsters and get rare drops, and often those with rare skills can get much more value than typical adventure guilds.

Merchants initially loved Heroes getting them rare drops but when many other worlders started selling so many Rare drops like they were common... it made rare items worth much less and drove value of such items and materials down dramatically. Newer merchants will rarely buy goods from adventurers because of this.

Blacksmiths and artificers initially also had it great. They now get access to powerful materials for cheap. Since their work is labor intensive the value of the item is much less impacted on the product. Though Other worlders with Craft skills have popped up and open businesses that have been driving other types of stores out of business since they can easily craft higher grade weapons for cheaper and faster thanks to OPAs.

The only real way to make money was in the service industry. With rare items and monsters easily hunted and sold for cheap, Restaurants, inns and Taverns have less of a thin margin. And with Otherworlders constantly moving about, the inns had constant customers. Many of these customers would throw money around and expect to be waited on hand and foot. Inns that had pretty women were often the most popular.

Brothels were very popular among Summoned heroes. Though the places that experienced the most traffic were the ones that had more ... unique characteristics. (Animal ears, pointed ears, Wings, horns.) Beast-kin were often very requested.

Societal Impacts

Women would often try to sleep with Summoned heroes. Children made with those of another world often had a chance of producing offspring with an OPA. Which meant that the kid could have a much better life.

The 'Trope' of offering the daughter for saving them was more of a way to ensure their Family had a better life. But in reality this just meant Summoned heroes often obtained harems. This resulted in declining birthrates as many summoned heroes didnt actually often marry humans. Most would simply keep the harem. Or if they did marry they would often sleep around.

Heroes that dismissed companions often left them as single mothers. Some would be lucky to remarry, but many were left single due to social stigma. The claim is that men felt insecure marrying women that have been with heroes, because how could they compare. (In reality it was more like they felt the woman had little self respect to be willing to partake in a relationship with a hero with a harem.) And the off chance the hero did comeback to the woman to find her married, the new husband was likely slaughtered. (This selfish mentality of treating women as things to be owned was disturbingly common in the summoned heroes mind)

____________________________________________________________

The Main Characters.

Oralee: A maiden that was raised in the church as long as she could remember. Her family had a lot of faith in the church and were honored that she was picked. She followed the doctrine to very high levels. Never ate meat, Never even made contact with another of the opposite sex. She dreamed of summoning an S Rank hero and bringing great honor to the goddess (As a recent S Rank passed away and hasnt been replaced yet). Though the night she along with her fellow maidens were supposed to summon heroes. The 'Hero Eater' arrived and started killing everyone.

Hunter "Hero eater": A high level individual. A skilled fighter with a plethora of weapons in his arsenal. Skilled in strange magic that seems unorthidox yet effective. He wears a skull mask with a black cloak. He wields two daggers. One Named Malice, and the other named Mercy. His goal is to kill every other worlder he comes across. What is his motive? Does he want revenge? Power? Fame? Why did he spare Oralee. What does he look like under that mask?