#SIX YEARS…… EFFERVESCENT

[laughingphoenixleader]

Hi I Fixed the Ahsoka Ending

The stormtrooper steps out of the ship, hands raised. It wasn’t like Hera has never seen that before. She raises her pistol, questions shooting through her mind. Why is this trooper alone, why did he hail them, and, most importantly, why is something about his walk so familiar? Suspense fills the air, and she can tell that everyone around her felt it, too. The last of the steam that has spilled out of the ship’s exhaust evaporates into the air, unlike that overwhelming sense of familiarity that’s flooding her heart. She braces herself for anything, setting her jaw. Had someone she’d once been close to become a stormtrooper? She runs through a list of names in her mind, nothing turning up any results. 

Who are you and why’re you here? Chopper asks, apparently done waiting in suspense. The trooper gives no answer, continuing to step forward. 

What, are you deaf or something? Are you, are you, are you? Chopper chatters impatiently. But then, instantaneously, his mood changes. Which isn’t really unheard of. Wait, Chopper mutters, starting to roll forward. Hera wonders if he’s picked up on the familiarity, too. He’s always been more perceptive than people give him credit for. Chopper heads straight for the trooper, his ever-squeaky wheels (no amount of oil can fix that issue, and Hera’s tried) filling the silence. 

Who are you? Chopper asks as he stops at the trooper’s feet. And it’s at that moment that Hera realizes something: her mom sense is tingling. 

It can’t be. 

Huh? Huh? Huh? Chopper barks, until the trooper slowly extends one gloved hand and gently places it on Chopper’s head. Then his head spins around in giddy joy, his beeps turning into little excited ones. No words attached to them, just exclamations of happiness.

And, given that he usually hates people, there are only six of them Chopper’s ever gotten excited to see. 

And Hera’s got a feeling she knows which one this is. 

Sure enough, the trooper reaches up to grasp his helmet, and, when he pulls it from his head, the face that looks earnestly back at Hera is one she’s missed dearly. 

He looks different now. Far from the boy he once was. Navy facial hair covers the lower part of his face, and his hair is longer and curlier than when she last saw it. It had never been curly before. Human hair never ceases to amaze her. 

But he’s still got that effervescent light about him. Especially when he smiles at her, looking a little nervous, but there’s excitement spilling from him, too. She can feel it, as surely as she felt that she knew him as soon as he stepped out of that ship. 

Hera doesn’t even realize she’s lowered her gun until her hand hits her thigh. Shock and joy are washing over her, wave after overwhelmingly powerful wave. 

And grief. Because, though it doesn’t make sense, shouldn’t make sense, somehow, he looks so much like Kanan. 

Though she already knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that this is her boy, a part of her, the part that had always remembered the worst case scenario, that Ezra might just never come home, wants to know for sure. Doesn’t dare to believe it. 

“Ezra?” she asks, dipping her head slightly, just making sure. Because she has to. 

He seems to be as overwhelmed as she is, struggling for a moment to find the words. “Hi, Hera,” he greets her, and at that moment, even the most hopeless parts of her know it’s him. Because it’s the voice of a man who speaks back to her, but it’s youthful and casual and tentative and Ezra. That little boy who had been so lonely, who had looked up at Kanan and Hera like they were the most amazing people in the world every time they gave him something or complimented him, who had added so much joy (and chaos) to their lives, who had grown so, so much and made them so, so proud…he’s grown up, but that doesn’t mean he’s gone. He’s standing right here in front of her, after five long years. 

He gives a little shrug, his eyes and expression brimming with joy, his smile bright. “I’m home.” 

He chuckles a little, the sound sending fondness shooting through her. 

Hera exhales shakily, eyes locked onto her boy, taking him in. He’s here and he’s real and if she wakes up, she’s suing the Force itself. She shakes her head a little, the feeling of her hopes finally coming to fruition freezing her in place, somehow. To be fair, it’s a lot to process. 

Ezra slowly begins to walk forward, and Hera stands there for a few more seconds, but then she breaks out into a run, meeting him in the middle. She wraps her arms around the lost boy, and he hugs her back willingly, chuckling joyously, making her own laughter come spilling out of her. 

“It’s so good to see you,” Ezra whispers, burying his face in her shoulder like a kid. Her kid. 

She holds him closer. “I could tell you the same thing,” she replies, chuckling a little, blinking as her vision blurs with tears brought on by years of the homesickness that was being without a member of her family. By the pain that came from having no idea whether the Spectres were down to four. By having so many look at her in pity when she reported on the results of the victory on Lothal. By the obvious skepticism in people’s eyes when she told them that Ezra was missing, not dead.

They’d been wrong. She and Sabine and Ahsoka and Chopper and Zeb had been right. Though, these days, even Zeb had become disheartened. Last time they’d talked, sad skepticism had tinged his expression, too. But not for long, because Ezra is home.

And a piece of her home has returned with him. 

“Welcome home, Ezra,” she tells him, her voice choked with tears. But so is the chuckle he replies with. 

“Glad to be back, Mom,” he tells her, and a new barrage of emotions hits her, fondness and affection and love causing tears to leak from her eyes. 

They stand there like that, just holding each other, this moment too special for any more words to be spoken. 

Then she pulls away, because her Lieutenant, along with about 20 other people, are watching, and it’s starting to get a bit awkward in here. 

She looks at him up close, and those blue eyes are just as brilliant and youthful and Ezra’s as ever. She places a hand on his cheek, laughing incredulously, and he grins brightly, leaning into her touch. 

“What took you so long?” she asks, amusement and teasing in her tone, wiping at her eyes with her other hand. She drops the other one from his face and puts it on his shoulder. 

“Sorry,” he apologizes, shrugging sheepishly, but his smile only gets brighter. “I was kinda stuck, you know. Not really my fault.” 

“Fair enough,” she replies, chuckling a little. 

Ezra’s eyes light up, excitement overflowing from his voice. “Oh! I have to show you something!” 

Hera removes her hand from his shoulder to cross her arms expectantly, grinning. “Oh?” she asks playfully as he reaches for his belt, and then her eyes flick to the saber that rests on it. 

Her heart stops beating for a second. Because that saber looks heart-wrenchingly familiar. The hilt is one she’s never seen before, but the emitter is unmistakable. It’s Kanan’s. 

Hera’s breath hitches. Her gaze shifts to meet Ezra’s, shock filling her and her vision blurring again. “Is that…” she asks, her voice strangled. 

“It’s not his,” Ezra finishes, understanding in his eyes. “His was one of two,” he begins, wiping his eyes, too. “The droid that helped him build his lightsaber when he was a Padawan gave me the other. And he told me a little about him, too.” He unhooks the saber from his belt and places it in her hands, and she rubs her thumb over the hilt, the familiarity of it sends a lance of pain through her heart. 

“Huyang,” Hera realizes, smiling sadly, still stroking the saber, eyes glued to it. “Yeah, he’s told me some stories, too. When I needed them.” 

“Yeah?” Ezra asks, a vibrant mix of curiosity and excitement and sadness all sparking in his expression. 

“I’ll tell you all of them,” Hera assures him before he can ask, handing the saber back. Even though those stories would be hard to tell and talk about, he deserves to hear them. “Soon. After you tell me where Sabine and Ahsoka are.” 

That’s when smile fades from his face, and Hera’s stomach drops. Dread and panic slam into her. No. Not again. I can’t lose anyone else. 

“They’re where I was,” Ezra tells her, shame in his expression. Already blaming himself. 

“I don’t know what happened,” Hera interjects before he can finish, even as everything in her screams WHY at the Force with all its might. It’s already taken so much from me. Was all that really not enough? But she continues, focusing on her mission, which, right now, is reassuring her adopted son. “But I know that, whatever it was, it wasn’t your fault.”

“It was their choice,” Ezra admits, nodding. “Ahsoka was fighting that Elsbeth lady so that Sabine and I could escape, and Sabine couldn’t leave her.” Ezra swallows, sadness spilling from his eyes, gaze shifting to the floor. “She…she was returning the favor. Making her own sacrifice. And,” Ezra shakes his head, chuckling ironically, “as much as I hate that, I’m also really proud of her.” He looks up to meet her eyes. “You know what I mean?” 

Pain claws at her heart, but a corner of her mouth tilts up in response to his question. “Oh yeah,” she replies. “I happen to know exactly how that feels.”

Ezra chuckles, looking sheepish again. “Right. Sorry about that.” 

“You’re here now,” she assures him, placing a hand on his shoulder again. “That’s enough.” Sadness seeps into her again. “Though I’d rather have all of you here.” Sabine, the daughter she’d never had. And would probably never have. But Sabine had always been enough. Hera loves her witty humor, fiery courage, and stubborn kindness with all of her being. She’s someone you never forget after you meet her, and her absence is just as unforgettable. Ahsoka, who had become her best friend over the past few years. They’d exchanged many a secretive look during important meetings, whether because of inside jokes or exchanging wordless opinions. She’d been someone who Hera had bonded very deeply with over a relatively short period of time. Maybe it’s because both of them had left their people behind at a young age. Maybe it’s because they’ve both suffered great losses. Maybe it’s the understanding that warriors share that those who have never been on the battlefield can never understand. Whatever it is, it had made them click in a way that Hera hadn’t with anyone but the Spectres in a long time. 

She wonders how long it will be until she sees them again.  

“I can find them,” Ezra tells her, determination filling his voice, jolting her back to reality. “The Force will guide me, and I know that planet like the back of my hand. It’s practically a part of me now, so I know I can find it on a starmap.”

“I believe you, Ezra,” she tells him, letting her genuineness show through the look she gives him. Then something pops into her head, something she’s been wishing she could tell him this entire time. “And hey,” she begins, her voice quivering, just a little. “As much as I hated that sacrifice you made, I’m so proud of you.” His face lights up, and it melts her heart to know he still cares that much about her approval. 

“And Kanan would be, too,” she continues firmly, looking into her boy’s cobalt-hued eyes, which fill with grief and joy and a thousand emotions she doubts either of them can name. “He’d be so, so proud of you. You learned well, Ezra.” 

He’s lost for words, his hand unconsciously going to his saber and fidgeting with it. His expression grows heavy with pain, with all the emotions that come with losing someone you love so much. Hera wonders just how much he’s let himself grieve over the last few years. And she aims to help him in any way she can. 

“Thank you,” he murmurs, his voice and eyes weighted with how much what she said means to him. “I needed to hear that.” 

“I had a feeling,” Hera replies, smiling sadly. 

“You’re always right,” Ezra tells her, a bit of that unstoppable playfulness infusing his expression. 

He hugs her again, and not for the last time, either. 

@kanerallels @accidental-spice

#ahsoka #ahsoka spoilers #ahsoka series spoilers #star wars #star wars rebels #kanan jarrus #hera syndulla #swr #kanera #ezra bridger #ahsoka tano #sabine wren #look I couldn't just sit by and let this injustice occur #we were ROBBED #fanfiction #ahsoka fanfiction #star wars fanfiction #fix it fanfic #WHY WAS THERE NO HUG #W H Y #FELONY WHAT IS IT WITH YOU AND NOT GIVING US THE HUGS WE DESERVE #ugh see now I need to write that Clone Wars Season 7 hug that I desperately long for back when I first finished Clone Wars

[kkpwnall]

for the kindest, darlingest, most effervescent sen @fragilecapric0rnn 💜 just a little something for you. i’m so proud and grateful to call us friends, you’re thoughtful and hilarious, and so willing to go to the mat for your friends. you’re a brilliant writer and the sweetest cheerleader. i hope you have an incredible day, and an even better year ahead of you, i’m so excited to see where life and writing and everything else takes you!! you deserve the whole world. love you lots <33

It might have been harder to say goodbye if it was a nicer day. If the sun was shining, and the leaves were changing, and a cool autumn breeze blew all around them. Instead Hawkins chewed them up and spit them out the other side like it had so many times before. The sky above them opened up just as they loaded the last of the boxes in the back of the small uhaul, leaving them soaked to the skin as they threw the last of their essentials and themselves into the cab. They left town shivering and laughing uncontrollably, middle fingers out the window. Ecstatic to finally get out of that hometown hell. 

It’s all worth it, driving thousands of miles across the country, towing the beamer behind them. It’s worth it trying to navigate the narrow streets of San Francisco and getting lost at least three times before they find their new apartment. It’s worth the hike uphill from the closest parking spot big enough for the truck, and up another three flights of stairs, when Eddie unlocks the door and gallantly bows him inside. Steve wanders from kitchen to bathroom to bedroom, imaging the bed here, a bookshelf there, the desk under this window. Eddie’s amps and instruments in that corner, Steve’s sport’s equipment in the hall closet near the door, easy to grab. Before coming back to the living room with its big bright windows and view of the bay. 

Tomorrow, their friends will come by to help them unload the truck and unpack, get paid in pizza and beer and belly laughs. In a few days, a few weeks, they’ll settle in, find the grocery store, find jobs. Learn the city and meet their neighbors. In six months, a year, two years, theirs will be the place to crash for anyone visiting, anyone who needs somewhere to stay, somewhere to go.

They’ll argue and make up and struggle, lose friends and jobs and find so much better. They’ll get bad haircuts and grow weird facial hair and make questionable fashion choices. They’ll stay up late crying over things they can’t change and things they can. They’ll celebrate the new year and birthdays and lives cut too short and new ones beginning. They’ll grow and change into people they wouldn’t recognize when they were younger. 

Tonight though, it’s just Steve and Eddie, finally someplace where the ground beneath them won’t open up and try to swallow them whole. Somewhere they can be together and not have to look over their shoulders all the time. Somewhere they can be themselves, be just Steve and just Eddie, and figure all the rest out without a world-ending apocalypse every year. Together.

All the frustration and stress and hoping and wishing and scraping by of the past three years, it’s all worth it when Eddie comes up behind him, wraps his arms around Steve’s waist and hooks his chin over his shoulder. Pulls him close and whispers, “welcome home, sweetheart.”

#steddie #stranger things #steddie fic #steddie fanfic #steve x eddie #eddie x steve #stranger things steve #stranger things eddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things fic #stranger things fanfic #kk writes

[chemicallywrit]

Well well well, look who's having a real day off for the first time in six thousand years! I'm gonna write because that's what my soul needs! It's time for Audio Drama Sunday! Here's some shows I enjoyed this week...

♟️ @camlannpod first of all. I called it. Second of all. How DARE you. The discussions about names and power in this episode were fascinating and...I don't know, I love a hero who's devastatingly normal. Gwen/Shujun can make anything happen with her words, is the damsel in distress, but she's just normal. Perry is normal, Morgan is normal, and Dai might not be normal by neurotypical measures, but he's just some guy. Except that he's really not. And the group of them can either embrace it or suffer.

🧃There is never a week when @thesiltverses doesn't go all the way off, and this one went ALL the way off. We have to talk about Shrue having a whole breakdown and then moving forward anyway. Felix, Ray, and Daisy were amazing, but I also have to give all the flowers to Rhys Lawton, who I met recently and was an utterly terrible villain in this episode. Corporate horror. Who knew? (Anyone who works in corporate knew.)

🐗 The season finale of @victoriocity was funny and amazing and incredibly well done as always, but the stand-out moments are the moments of friendship between Clara and Fleet. I just. I love them your honor. They are best friends. Do not separate them. It's really good to see Fleet cracking open a little bit. Just a little. He's still Fleet, after all.

🍦I listened to the new Among the Stars and Bones on the way home from work and it was absolutely chilling. My word. The number of times I screamed. Oliver Smith was incredibly scary even in the midst of the horror, Jordan Cobb is always a treat, and my word, the crowd of Nabonidas crew members...Hey, Chris Magilton, writer of Among the Stars and Bones, what the hap is heckening???

1️⃣3️⃣ I've started listening to Thirteen! I love a horror anthology, but especially one with a central theme. So far most of the stories present you with a protagonist who is missing closure, and a creature who offers it, for a price. Thirteen is about grief. The stories are rhythmic and spooky, and at one point alone in my house I actually really scared myself listening. Check out Thirteen, it's a treat.

⛽️ In other shows I've started listening to, @desertskiespodcast is gorgeous and lovely and...the only word I can think of is effervescent. It's like a cold soda on a road trip. It's maybe just what I needed. My favorite part is definitely the cold opens, especially the one about Cash laughing. Jared Carter has incredible comedic timing.

In Inn Between news, we just posted 5.8: The Blood, which might be my favorite episode of the season, depending on how the next one turns out. In The Dead news, this next story is a HUMDINGER. Did you cry at Giancarlo in the last story? GOOD, now it's time to run for your life through London. Y'all are gonna love this.

Catch y'all next week or whenever I have time to write again! If you like what all this is, maybe drop me a tip?

#audio drama #fiction podcast #audio fiction #audio drama sunday #camlann #victoriocity #the silt verses #among the stars and bones #thirteen podcast #desert skies #freaking podcasts

[junebugclaremontdiaz]

Wip Wednesday!

Tagged by @hgejfmw-hgejhsf ty!!

Former First Son in Critical Condition. 

It takes him all of two seconds to click on the article. He shouldn’t. His therapist, he knows, would have a few choice words for the ways he’s decided to self-immolate, but he can’t know Alex is hurt, could be dead and not follow up on the thread. He hates himself enough as it stands. 

The full content of the article doesn’t register when he sees the wreckage of the accident. The twisted remains of Alex’s car don’t seem real. People don’t survive things like this. The next line burns, settling like a vice around his heart and making him question every decision he’s made in the last five years.

He blinks, hoping the words will go away if he wills them away enough. But no, the words Valentina Claremont-Diaz Velasquez was declared dead at the scene glare up at him. 

Alex had told him six years ago that he could lock up his heart and nothing would ever happen to him. Henry had thought then that it was a particularly cruel statement, that Alex knew nothing of what might become of them if they tried. Henry had wanted Alex to live.

And Alex, brave, loving, effervescent Alex had found a woman to match his fire, while Henry had stood by to watch, half agony, half content to watch Alex happy. Perhaps this was his curse, nothing would happen to him, no, but the world took her anger at him out on those he loved.

Tagging: @guillermosfamiliar, @barbiediaz, @mulderscully, @ninzied, @indestructibleheart

#talia.txt #henry fox mountchristen windsor #alex claremont diaz #firstprince #fic: mountains out of molehills

[thepaperpanda]

𝓓𝓪𝔂 8 - A Concept Of Desire || Khonshu x fem!reader

Masterlist

Summary: In the wake of centuries of longing, Khonshu realizes that the girl who works with his avatar, Jake Lockley, is responsible for rekindling his hidden desires.

Warnings: smut (unprotected p in v, hair pulling)

Word count: 1757

Author: Rouge

A/N: the prompt for today is: Hair Pulling orange italics - Jake speaking Spanish

The concept of desire was defined as a psychological force that ultimately fabricates a need, a craving, or lust, most commonly and aptly associated with a sexual longing.

Khonshu's situation was no different. He could say with great certainty that nearly all males have experienced this torment. The unbridled desire for sexual pleasure ran through his veins. A burning sensation in Khonshu's stomach, a reminder of the hunger he could not satiate, the thirst he could not quench. Khosnhu sometimes felt woeful - he always thought he was above the basic human instincts, the primal needs that people eagerly sought. Yet there he was, engrossed in his own desires, centuries old longings still unfulfilled.

As you walked into the bar each week to meet Jake Lockley, 8 pm - his nostrils flared, his pulse soared - physiological reminders of Khonshu's desires and cacoethes.

This week was no different, Khonshu was at the bar, invisible to all but Jake. The week was like all others that came before, that evening was no different; but when you and Jake locked eyes like you did those many moons ago, the fire in Khonshu resurged - he was never to have you as you were just a mortal being, but he couldn't deny his inner desires, burning himself like a blazing fire, his imagination running wild as his glance moved along the curves of your figure.

You were a smaller woman, you were perhaps 160 centimeters tall, but the heels you wore were so deceptive - and Khonshu realized with astonishment that he was quite attracted to women of smaller stature.

The shoes paired perfectly with your seductive black, garter leg wraps. The tight leg straps highlighted your healthy skin, your perfectly toned legs flowed into a stunning red-velvet corset-dress that hugged your bust and curves perfectly. He looked up at your matte, red lips; your smoky eyeshadow highlighted your beautiful Y/E/C eyes, which transported him to a place of ecstasy, a realm of euphoria. In a way, it was as if you had fallen from heavens and reminded mere mortals what it would be like to be sculpted by the Gods. Beauty is, and forever will be in the eye of the beholder, Khonshu reminded himself.

Khonshu knew that lust could last for months, years, even centuries. In spite of this, his passion seemed to have been brewing for only a few weeks, five, maybe six - when his mind was torturing him, he lost track of time. Despite not brewing for that long, his concoction of lust was explosive and effervescent. 

Thoughts of the good, the bad, and the naughty whirred through Khonshu's mind as a sense of controlled panic overcame him as he finally locked onto a more clear-cut image in his own subconscious and plunged into his own imagination as he remained trancened by your hypnotic gaze.

If Khonshu were mortal, he would love nothing more than to sink his inquisitive fingers, adventurous tongue, and plump lips between your legs.

With his venous and vascular hands, Khonshu would stroke one of your breasts, kissing the trail from your navel to your abdomen. Besides twirling your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, he would wrap his lips around your other nipple, flick it, and swirl your areola clockwise with his tongue. After incorporating some teeth, Khonshu will continue ascending towards your neck. Your hair would be brushed aside in a loving and caring manner. Khonshu would nibble on your earlobes while moaning and whispering in your ear; sweet nothings and dirty talks echoing in your ear canal.

Taking another deep breath, Khonshu reabsorbed himself into his vivid imagination once more after a brief lapse in concentration as he listened to your conversation with Lockley about yet another target. The god was thinking about the morning after.

It would be heaven spooning you. His cock would be squeezed between your legs tightly due to its stiffness and fatness. 

You would send shivers down his spine as you scratched his abdomen with your velvet, red, and freshly manicured nails. During the time that his lips would feel comfortable on yours, the veiny ridges on his cock would stimulate your pussy, allowing your tight, little, sweet-nectar slit to do its job and coat his hardened shaft with your slick wetness. Khonshu would gently pull back your hair, a good clump in his tight fisted hands; he would tug at it harder and harder if you didn't protest. The stout lips of his mouth would trace the back and side of your neck as he kissed you, once again whispering sweet nothings and dirty teases - what he was going to do to you, how he was going to enjoy you and your gorgeous body.

Khonshu would detach his hips from you after a while to angle his body to tease the slit with his swollen cock, already glistening in his pre-cum. In slow motion, his digits would explore every curve around your waist, rubbing your clit occasionally as well. "Do you think you deserve this?" Khonshu would whisper softly into your ear. Determined to get as deep as possible, he would pick up your smaller frame and throw you passionately onto the bed again. While your legs rested over Khonshu's broad shoulders, he would kiss down the inside of your thighs. His one hand would be placed at the base of his shaft, angled downward to push his cock inside you slowly, while his other hand would be placed on your clit to rub it gently.

He would push deeply into your pussy, then trace his fingers up your neck, wrapping them around it possessively, before leaning forward to change the angle of penetration and pushing even harder. He would reach up and grab a handful of your hair. By wrapping it around his hand and holding your hips in the other, he would drive his dick into your waiting pussy. After pulling out his shaft, he would slap it on your pussy lips, which would elicit a grunt from your parted lips. A delicious, wet echo would emanate from Khonshu's hefty cock in harmony with your beautiful slit.

Khonshu would then turn you over and push you to your knees. Pushing your head into a pillow, you would try to muffle the whimper of pleasure as he again slipped his length into you. Khonshu would lean forward to yank his arm around your waist, to play with your nipples, as his torso rested on your arched back. In the process, he would grab your hair and pull it tightly into a ponytail, causing you to roll your eyes while a moan escaped your lips as he pounded into your pussy from behind. Khonshu would pull your hair harder the harder he thrust. You would try to escape the position for a pleasure so primal and intense would overwhelm your body, setting a knot in your abdomen that was so tight it was only a matter of time before it snapped. You would be drawn to Khonshu by his hand in your hair, hardly tugging. “And where do you think you’re going, Y/N?” He would groan angrily. “Better be a good girl and stick your ass more to me, otherwise I’ll have to rip your hair off.”

His lower torso would smash into your magnificent arse as he grasped your hip tightly with one hand. He would use his hands not only to compliment each thrust and pull you in deeper, but also to create red handprints on your ass. Khonshu would pull at your hair and spank your ass occasionally. Whenever you tried to lay your chest on the bed, he would tug on your ponytail, urging you back into a position that would allow him to penetrate deeper into your pussy. 

The urge to release his load would tighten his balls and make his cock twitch.

Your moans would become louder. "Harder! Fuck me harder!" You would plead.

Having no choice but to obey his desires, the dam would be broken and his cum would be released; his seed filling your pussy, dripping from your body when he pulled his cock out.

After the intercourse, Khonshu would cuddle your face against his chest.

Khonshu's reverie was interrupted by Jake's thick accent, "Khonshu? Are you even listening?"

The Egyptian God of the Moon tilted his skull head slightly, looking at Lockley. "Could you please rephrase that, Jake?"

As Jake frowned, he put his hand on his gear lever as the idiot driving in front abruptly braked. “Por Dios, ¿y ahora qué te pasa?”

Despite not even intending to reply to Jake, Khonshu asked simply, "What was your question again?"

After Jake parked the limo in front of his apartment, he turned off the engine and placed his arm around the headrest of Khonshu's seat. "I was wondering if it would be okay if Y/N stayed here for a day or two. Since we're working together on that guy, it would be easier, you know, ol' bird."

Khonshu poked Jake with his beak on the shoulder. “You can trust me when I say I have no objection to Y/N visiting us, my friend. She might stay as long as she needs to."

The frown on Jake's face deepened; he could not persuade Khonshu to let him bring a girl into the apartment for a date or just a friendly meeting. The situation is dangerous, more for her than for us, Khonshu would argue. Jake pulled the keys out of the ignition switch, asking, "Since when are you so willing to let extraños into nuestro apartamento?"

Khonshu shrugged his shoulders in response, exiting the car quickly. "If we want to deliver the vengeance soon, we've got a lot of planning to do."Jake watched the tall, lanky figure enter the apartment and disappear into the darkness. A smile spread across Lockley's face. In spite of being Khonshu's avatar and not much else, he knew things. It was little known to Khonshu that Jake was able to sense god's true, hidden feelings, especially those that were so intense. The smirk on Jake's lips did not fade as he stepped out of the limo to join Khonshu. In order to complete the job, Jake was willing to do whatever it took to lure you into his apartment. In addition to planning, this was also a way of releasing Jake’s own male greed. Perhaps Khonshu would also be able to make use of his hidden lust.

#Khonshu x reader #Khonshu smut #Khonshu x reader smut #moon knight smut #moon knight x reader #Khonshu x you #Khonshu drabble #Khonshu one shot #Khonshu fic #moon knight drabble #moonknight drabble #moon knight fic #Khonshu imagine #khonshu #moon knight writing #moon knight fanfiction #paperpanda kinktober #kinktober 2022

[jgroffdaily]

An exultant and effervescent Red Bucket Follies returned after a four-year, pandemic-induced hiatus to celebrate six weeks of enthusiastic and dedicated fundraising. The star-studded variety show, performed December 4 and 5, 2023, honored 46 Broadway, Off-Broadway and national touring companies that participated in fall fundraising for Broadway Cares/Equity Fights AIDS.

Red Bucket Follies raised a remarkable $4,553,203. The total was announced at the conclusion of Tuesday’s performance by Jonathan Groff, Rachel Bay Jones, and Leslie Odom Jr. and Kara Young.

This year’s top overall fundraising award went to Merrily We Roll Along, which raised an astounding $631,932. Surprising the standing-room-only audience to accept the award was one of Groff’s co-stars, Daniel Radcliffe, who for six weeks energetically led nightly auctions from the stage offering one-of-a-kind show props and other signed treasures.

Broadway Musical Top Fundraiser

Merrily We Roll Along $631,932

1st Runner-up Sweeney Todd $291,902

2nd Runner-up Some Like It Hot $186,437

3rd Runner-up Gutenberg! The Musical! $170,418

4th Runner-up Funny Girl $166,178

Broadway Play Top Fundraiser

Purlie Victorious $87,781

1st Runner-up The Shark is Broken $56,647

Off-Broadway (Play or Musical) Top Fundraiser

Little Shop of Horrors $52,727

1st Runner-up Here We Are $41,478

#jonathan groff #daniel radcliffe #merrily we roll along #bcefa #red bucket follies

[dhr-ao3]

Crimson With a Silver Lining

Crimson With a Silver Lining https://ift.tt/kVQdpLD by Anonymous It is six years since the fall of the Ministry to Voldemort. Those other than purebloods are deemed less than human. When Ginny's daughter ends up in grave danger, Hermione sells herself to the Death Eaters to save her life. This is the (fantastic, amazing, effervescent) original work of LadyCailan over on FF.net. Words: 5321, Chapters: 2/78, Language: English Fandoms: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Categories: F/M Characters: Hermione Granger, Draco Malfoy Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Voldemort Wins, The Ministry of Magic is Corrupt (Harry Potter), The Ministry of Magic is Terrible (Harry Potter), Tragic Romance, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Other Additional Tags to Be Added via AO3 works tagged 'Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy' https://ift.tt/30okuCf February 27, 2024 at 01:23PM

#IFTTT #Dramione #Draco x Hermione

[aurorabayrpg]

Welcome to Aurora Bay [EM AND LILAC]! We hope you enjoy your stay! Please send in your account within 24 hours to secure [SOPHIE THATCHER AND KRISTINE FROSETH] as your faceclaim, and please be sure to review our checklist and make sure you read our guidelines!

[cis female and she/her] Welcome to Aurora Bay, [TABITHA KING]! I couldn’t help but notice you look an awful lot like [SOPHIE THATCHER]. You must be the [TWENTY THREE] year old [WAITRESS AT ALL NIGHT DINER / HOUSE CLEANER]. Word is you’re [HONEST] but can also be a bit [STANDOFFISH] and your favorite song is [DUVET BY BÔA]. I also heard you’ll be staying in [OCEAN CREST APARTMENTS]. I’m sure you’ll love it!

[cisfemale and she/her] Welcome to Aurora Bay, [ELEANOR ANDERSEN]! I couldn’t help but notice you look an awful lot like [KRISTINEFROSETH]. You must be the [TWENTY-SIX] year old [LIBRARIAN AT AURORA BAY LIBRARY]. Word is you’re [EFFERVESCENT] but can also be a bit [LONELY] and your favorite song is [AUGUST BY TAYLOR SWIFT]. I also heard you’ll be staying in [OCEAN CREST APARTMENTS]. I’m sure you’ll love it!

#group rp #oc rp #town rp #appless rp #beach rp #plotless rp #active rp #aurorabay.accepted

[dnickels]

When I was in my first year of quitting alcohol I was sucking down a minimum six cans of seltzer a day the crack-hiss effervescent mist was the only thing that made me stop obsessively thinking about getting a beer. I literally only quit because I learned it was wrecking the enamel of my teeth or I'd be up to twelve a day RESPECT HER

[broadcastbabe]

At your request, I keep my eyes closed… with some trepidation. Your surprises of late are becoming more twisted, verging on wicked. Not to complain, I always end up gratified in a unique set of circumstances and willing to make it a staple in our sexual encounters. I’m concerned where we’ll be in six months. What road of sexual kinks you’re leading me down to chase one extraordinary orgasm after another. Vanilla sex seems so last year as my appetites have been refined, lines in the sand have shifted, Hard “No”s have become “Hell, Yeah”s. Each experience leaves me panting and willing to acquiesce to your even wilder imaginative experiments. A threshold has been crossed, making my public life more surreal than the one we share in private. I find myself fantasizing about you inside me in a variety of impossible positions that each deliver a mind-shattering climax. You are sometimes gentle, other times… let’s just say I’ve developed an equal craving for the rewards of the polar opposite. Catching my reflection in a store window, I envision us as the display mannequins, naked and glistening from our exertion, on the cusp of cumming for intrigued shoppers… and both of ‘us’ staring back at me on the sidewalk… trying to squelch my visceral reactions to my remembering. The waves build as I try in vain to shake it off. I can usually slip into a doorway or alley to ride out the liberating effervescence that surges and recedes. My next call is to you… and that’s why I’m standing here with my eyes shut so tightly.

#lingerie #dark stockings

[thought-42]

Critical Role, 1045 words, Laerryn/Loquatius

Local wizard is tragically abandoned by her best friend to starve, engages in navel-gazing

Evandrin buys a house --subsidized by the city, because that’s just how it is when you’re the First Knight and hold inexplicable anti-tower scentaments-- the week before the summer solstice. Laerryn doesn’t so much offer to help him move as she does get strong-armed into it via peer pressure from the cluster of former classmates who actually showed up to Evandrin’s engagement party. Most of those people she hadn’t seen in forty years, which is telling, given she hasn’t seen a single fucking one of them today, either.

“You have people for this,” she’d told Evandrin, when she’d shown up that morning with coffee and spite and not enough rest.

“That feels like taking advantage,” he had said, then went to sit on the windowsill and watch his fiance lift entire pieces of furniture with nothing more than his actual physical muscles.

Now, six hours later, the apartment is hollow and bare, walls clean and unmarred, all hints of personality banished, memories boxed up or scrubbed away or painted over is a dizzy slog through the last thirty years. There’s something there, about how easily you can erase entire chunks of time, of experience, how there are so many ephemeral things that live only in the fragile, unpredictable wet electricity of the brain, how reality can be constructed and deconstructed like children’s blocks--

She doesn’t know how long she’s been lying on the cool tile floor, watching the slow drag of sunbeams across the walls. The heat feels like failure, like a hangover, like shame or sand or other things that drag you down and down until you’re too tired to get back up. Evandrin and Zerxus had left to get... food? Some length of time ago, and she suspects they’ve gotten caught up in each other, stupid and effervescent and in love in ways that she would have thought fanciful, performative fabrications six months ago. Things she would have mocked them for before Loquatius.

But now-- even with the press of physical exhaustion and the insidious creep of intellectual malaise that has haunted her ever since her official departure from the university, she starfishes her limbs against the cool tiles, damp skin sticking slightly with her movement, and wants him. Not in any particular sense of the word, but a more nebulous desire to simply be near him.

She wants to hold his hand. She wants to hold him down. She wants to climb into his chest. She wants to know how hard his hands can squeeze. She wants to know if his teeth will leave bruises. She wants to know what his magic can do to her will.

She wants to go to her knees for him. She wants to slip into trance with his head on her chest. She wants to bring him flowers at work and watch the startled smile break across his unsettlingly perfect face. She wants to sit beside him in silence while they both work on their own projects.

She has never felt such a simple wanting before, and the totality of the wanting scares her almost as much as the intensity.

If she listens hard enough she can hear the waterfall through the open window, noise drifting in on the unforgiving heat of humidity and radiation. He says he wants to broadcast his face on the waterfall one day-- a hundred feet high, golden and bright and of course he’s heard the stories about mortals fleeing across running water to escape faeries.

She has never needed to be seen in the almost desperate way that Loquatius Seelie needs it. He is potential made tangible, gossamer and the morning dew of reality compressed into something she can put her hands on and hold down. He’s ruined her. She never used to think this way.

She remembers that first time they met, how he’d offered his hand and reality expanded before her, state vectors rushing over her until only the theoretical remained, the moment nothing more than a potentiality, all sense of physicality and consciousness washed away. Somehow she had known, even then, that this connection was important. She’d taken his hand and entangled their fingers and they were entangled, they are entangled --they are entangled-- leaving each other in a new state.

She cannot imagine herself in the world without him.

The sun continues to move and Evandrin and Zerxus continue not to come back and Laerryn lies on a tile floor and thinks about the veins under Loquatius’s skin.

Eventually, when the sun has moved past the windows and the noise from the streets is getting louder, she gets up, dizzy from dehydration and stillness and heat. She walks out and leaves her coffeecup on the windowsill like some kind of defiance, leaves the door unlocked. Evandrin had chosen the name ‘Elias’ right outside this door, key in hand, wards already down, struck by sudden inspiration. This is the last time she will walk down these stairs. She listens to the soft pad of her shoes on the carpet, breathes in a smell that is unremarkably unique, presses a hand to the smooth stone of the wall.

When she emerges into the merciless light of late afternoon, Loquatius is waiting for her.

She sincerely thinks she’s hallucinating, some kind of wild metaphorical mirage she’s created, pathetically, for herself. But when he kisses her cheek in hello his lips are cool and he smells like flowers and other people’s expensive cigarette smoke. He looks fresh in the way that someone who hasn’t spent the day in the heat might.

“Hi,” he says. “I saw Archmage Porco, and she said you were here. I thought I might come and help.”

“You thought--” she frowns at him. “You can’t lift things.”

“All right, rude, but also I could have offered moral support.”

She reaches out and traces the veins under his eyes with a finger. He smiles at her and the sheer sincerity of it leaves her dizzy all over again.

“When you write,” she says, letting her gaze drop to the heat haze still coming off the cobbles, “is it as preservation?”

He takes her hand off his face and wraps it in his own. His hands are so pretty. “Yes,” he says, starting to walk. “But it’s also as an act of creation. You preserve the past and then you imagine the future.”

#critical role #Laerryn Coramar Seelie #Loquatius Seelie #tumblrfic tag #cr exu tag

[house-of-slayterr]

The littlest Firefly:

An: More backstory for our fave Blinky

Cw: use of the N word

@vincent-sinclair-deserved-better @myers-meadow-selfship @oceansrose2002

Blinky’s POV:

Six months. Half a year I’d been with the Firefly family. My family. It felt much more official now, something natural. Like I’d never known anything else. It’s was comforting. But being a Firefly wasn’t all roses and sunshine, far from it actually.

But did I even want that? A life like that no longer seem achievable, and hardly desirable. Who wants to be a pretty princess, cooped up in a stuffy tower, waiting on a prince to come save them. It was much better to play the prince. That’s what I decided on today. I fashioned myself a little crown out of the old newspaper Grandpa was done with. There was a little blood stain on one of the corners where he killed a mouse with it, but I didn’t mind.

I had my hair up in two big puffs, it was much too hot in the texas summer now for me to have my hair down. There was just so much of it. Baby had helped me with my hair, giving me little purple ribbons to tie it up with. I placed the crown on my head, pining it down with bobby pins. Such an odd name for a little trinket.

I had much more clothes now. Otis had stolen some from a young girl who was backpacking across texas. A strange choice for hiking, but who was I to judge. It wasn’t a hobby I knew much about. I preferred indoor hobbies, like origami that I used to make my new crown. I decided I would show it off with a pretty outfit. There was a small yellow dress at the back of my closet, a little shorter than I usually wear, but I didn’t mind.

I paired it with some striped black and white socks, and the new shoes Mama had gifted me. She said my old ones were hideous. And I guess she was right, there wasn’t much shoe left to them. These were much more hardy, they reminded me of Otis’s work boots and that’s why they were my favourite. I sometimes like to mimic his heavy walking and stomp around in my brown combat boots when nobody was home. He was always so angry, and he looked a little silly with his brows furrowed. It left a permeant wrinkle on his face.

I zipped up the boots and checked myself in the old cracked mirror in the corner, but something was missing. Tiny had picked me some flowers last week, little daisies he found on the side of the road. I plucked one from the vase and snapped the stem, shoving the now shorter flower into the side of my left poof. Perfect. I gave a little twirl, giggling to myself as the room got blurry. I flopped down on my bed to steady myself, a tiny point of my crown bending a little. But I didn’t mind, it added character.

I had to show Baby. I skipped down the hall, following the sound of rock music to her room. I knew she wouldn’t hear if I knocked, so I slowly peaked the door open to make sure she was decent. I didn’t want a repeat of last time I bathed into her room. I watched as Baby danced along to the music, she always made dancing seem so easy. She looked effervescent. She turned around, and stopped when she noticed me, smiley wildly.

“We’ll aren’t you adorable today.”

“I’m adorable everyday” I responded cheekily.

“You’re right, my mistake my lord.” She did a mocking literally curtesy.

“I’m a prince actually. They’re quite different.”

She chuckled.

“No makeup today? I suppose they don’t usually wear any do they?” She asked, turning down the music.

I was thankful she’d noticed I was getting mildly overstimulated. I never wanted to ask her to be quiet, it didn’t seem right. And it wasn’t fair to her, especially when she was having so much fun.

“We’ll maybe I’m not a normal prince, not if the princess wants to do my makeup.”

I held out my hand, asking for hers. She placed her hand in mine and I kissed the back of it. She was positively giddy.

“Hmm, let’s think. What if we put little stars on your cheek? And some yellow eyeliner to match that pretty dress if your Prince Blinky.”

“Stars?!”

She nodded her head.

“And does the Princess get stars too?”

“Of course!”

She still held my hand, leading me to sit on her bed.

“Let me go get your face paint box. You still got some left right?”

I nodded.

“Spaulding didn’t like the paint he got last time, said it made his skin itchy.”

She frowned.

“It doesn’t make your skin itchy right?”

“Nuh uh.”

I kicked my feet back and forth as I waited for her to come back. My smile returning as she entered the room. Baby’s personality was contagious.

“Alright what colours do you want today, you seem to be in a very colourful mood.”

I thought to a second.

“Just yellow and purple to match my ribbons please. Don’t want to over do it.”

“Oh yes, the only person allowed to be over done in this house is Mama. Did you see the new robe Spaulding gifted her?”

“The one that’s baby pink?”

“Mmm” she hummed.

“I think it makes her skin look pretty.”

“And did you tell Mama that?”

“Not yet, I got nervous.”

She chuckled lightly.

“Alright eyes closed, no peeking!”

“None?”

“Might have to claw your eyes out if you do.” She teased.

“But my eyes are my best feature?”

I looked up at her, my eyes shinning brightly for emphases. They were far more expressive then the rest of my face. Sure I smiled a lot now, but it was a learned behaviour. It felt so weird, and kinda hurt at first, my face muscles sore at the end of the day. But for the most part, I remained neutral, just smiling with my eyes most times.

“And don’t you forget it.” She booped my nose:

She was different than me than with the others. She was almost constantly getting in petty fights with Otis. But it seemed she liked having another “girl” around. I don’t know what I was, but girl never really felt right. But I liked pretty things, and girls had the prettiest things. And if being used as a living doll made Baby and Mama happy, I’d gladly do it.

“Now close your eyes Blinky.”

I obeyed easily. I was no longer nervous in her presence. Not like when I first got here. I let my mind wander as she painted my faces, speckling little stars on my cheeks. I kept thinking to the story of the prince I’d been reading. He was strong, fierce, but shorter than his brothers, younger too. The last in line for the throne. No one thought he’d amount to much until he rescued the rival kingdoms Princess from the evil dragon. Sure, the way I described it sounded like a children’s story. But it was quite gruesome, many before him has died horrible deaths, being torn apart, burned or eaten but the fearsome dragon.

I believe the book was marketed toward young adults. They’re were many encounters of sex with the other brothers, but I didn’t much care for that part of the story. And when the little prince rescued the princess, they were betrothed to be married to save their two kingdoms. A wedding to bring enemies together. A wedding which ended in the beheading of the cruel king, the one who’d ignored his son, and by the hands of his daughter in law none the less. An act of love and devotion to her new husband who has suffered at the cruel hands of a king who was unfit to rule a kingdom. As she held up the head of the once feared king, the kingdom cheered for their new leader.

“Long live the King!” They all chanted.

And that was where the book had ended. And ending which I’m not quite sure I would describe as happy. It was good, satisfying even, but there was something about it that seemed so strange. I wondered what would become of the little prince and his new queen. Do they live happily ever after, or was he doomed to ruin her, and befall the same fate as his father. Could people be different, change? Would he ever unlearn the behaviours and habits forced onto them by family?

“Blinky, you’re scrunching.” Baby said, slightly annoyed.

“Oh.” Was all I said, trying my best to relax my facial muscles.

“What ya thinking about in that smart Brain of yours huh?”

I fidgeted with my hands.

“Do you think people can change Baby?” I asked.

I didn’t dare open my eyes, but I did lean forward slightly when I didn’t feel her hands or the cool brush on my face.

“Course they can. People change all the time, you have.”

“I have?” I asked.

Maybe it had gone unnoticed, a subtle change over time. But my memory wasn’t too good, I always forgot certain things. Like what I looked like when I first got here. But I remembered stupid things, useless things. Like the first book Otis had ever gifted me. Or Tiny’s favourite food. Or Mama’s favourite perfume. I knew a lot about them now, but I didn’t really know a lot about me. I didn’t like to think about me much. Every-time I did I’d only get sad again.

“Mmhmm.”

“Could you tell me how?” I asked.

“Well, I guess you’re less shy. You don’t hide as much anymore. And your style, that changes every week. You’re less squeamish too, don’t mind the blood and the mess so much no more.”

“Hmm” I hummed.

Maybe I could change. Maybe the Prince could. But was it a good change? That was an entirely different question.

“And done!” She proclaimed proudly.

“Can I see?”

“Yes Blink, you can open your eyes now.” She sassed.

She held up a tiny little pocket mirror. My eyes looked a little bigger, the yellow complimenting the dark drown. Well I’m wasn’t sure if that was the right word for it, they were almost black, unless under harsh lighting. And the undertones were more red. But whatever they were, the yellow was nice, like the centre of the daisy in my hair. And the little stars complimented everything perfectly. I felt like the cutest prince in the whole world.

“I love it!” I exclaimed happily.

“Of course you do!”

Baby was confident, in everything she did. Some people may think it comes off as arrogant, but I thought it was endearing. She was a princess who didn’t need saving, like the one who changed at the end of my story. No longer being docile and quiet, and choosing instead to cause a ruckus and stake her claim on life.

“Now, help me pick my outfit for the day.”

“Ok.”

Baby was more of a blue jeans, tiny shirt kinda of gal. But she did own a few dresses. I spotted a purple dress in her closet and instantly pulled out out.

“We could match.” I offered a small smile.

“I knew there was a reason we kept you around Blink.” She smirked.

She turned around to and started to strip and I blushed, throwing myself into the pillow to avert my eyes. Baby was comfortable with a herself, which I was glad for, but I swear sometimes she did this stuff on purpose. She shimmied into the dress and when I thought enough time had passed I looked up again. She was sitting at her vanity, tying her hair into little pigtails to match my puffs.

“Wanna return the favour?” She asked, holding out a makeup brush.

I nodded and quickly made my way over, kneeling by the chair so I would get to her face. Her makeup didn’t take nearly as long as mine. I kept it simply with a light purple eyeshadow and a dark purple cat eye wing. Baby never wore lipstick much so we just put on a light gloss. I stuck my tongue out in concentration as I evened out the wings.

“There, done.”

“Wanna go show off to the family?” She asked.

I nodded, grabbing her hand as we made our way to the kitchen. It was a little loud with Spaulding crinkling his paper, Mama watching a Tele Novela over his shoulder on the tv, an Otis cooking up breakfast. I wasn’t sure where Grandpa and Tiny were at the moment.

“We’ll don’t you two look perty.” Mama complimented.

“Thanks Mama” Baby did a little twirl to show off her dress.

“You look like a god Damn Girl Scout.” Spaulding said to Baby.

It was his way of attempting a compliment. He wasn’t very good at them. Worse than Otis actually.

“And what are you supposed to be?” He asked me.

“I’m the Prince of the purple kingdom!” I declared.

He let out a half huff, half laugh.

“Since when do prince’s wear dresses?” He asked.

I just shrugged, sitting down in my spot for breakfast.

“Your clothes seem to be fitting a little better sweetheart.” Mama commented.

“I blame Otis’s cooking.” I laughed.

It was strange always having so much food in the house. I’d grown so used to one meal a day, since forever. Otis made it clear I was free to eat anything in the house, and make requests on grocery day. Otis sent me a crooked grin over his shoulder.

“We’ll somebodies gotta cook around ‘ere” he teased.

Most of breakfast was in a comfortable silence as we all enjoyed the french toast and berries. Otis made eggs for everyone else, but I couldn’t stand them. He was offended the first time I turned him down, and I didn’t mean to make him feel insulated. I just couldn’t stomach eggs, they made me sick. I thought back to the first two months I was here, when I’d get sick so often after eating. My body wasn’t used to being so well fed. I think a gained about five pounds since I’ve been here.

“You’re with me today kid.” Spaulding announced as he got up to put his plate and coffee in the sink.

“Oh, ok.” I said.

I didn’t mind working down at the store, there was always something to keep busy. Rearranging things, cleaning the counters. It kept me busy, which made me feel helpful.

“Is Otis not working the gas station today?”

“Naw, I’ve gotta head into town to get some stuff to fix the damn shower. God Damn thing won’t stop leaking and it’s wasting water and money.”

I hummed, downing the last sip of my tea. I followed quickly after Spaulding so I wouldn’t be scolded for not keeping up. He gave instructions as we walked.

“You man the front, I gotta deal with this fucking delivery that’s a damn week late. I swear nobody gets shit right in this town.”

I chuckled slightly. He was always grumbling about something. It could be a perfectly fine day and he’d still find something to complain about.

“You got it boss man.” I said.

He stopped waking and rolled his eyes at me. I just shrugged and we made our way into the little corner store. The day would go by slow, as usual not many people came in. But as luck would have it, the little bell at the front door chimed. I looked up to see a girl who looked scarily like Darla. It almost made my heart stop, but I pushed it down. She was with a man, a little taller than her, jock type from the look of letterman jacket.

He looked around the store, pretending to be interested in random things.

“Can I help you sir?” I asked.

He finally looked my way, and I saw his body stiffen slightly and his nose scrunch up.

“What, is the pretty princess convention coming through town?” He jeered.

I frowned.

“Is there anything I can help you with.” I pushed forward, ignoring his Inappropriate little side comment.

“Yeah, this shithole got a manager?” He asked.

His accent was thick, possibly Georgian. Spaulding would be interested to hear this, people from out of town were easier as Otis explain to me. Less people to notice them missing.

“Sure, I’ll go get him.”

I hopped off my stool and ran off to the back of the store, finding Spaulding unpacking pallets of soda.

“Hey Cap?” I asked.

It was a nickname I’d taken to calling him, he didn’t seem to mind it.

“What the fuck do you want kid?”

It wasn’t hostile in tone, he just slipped swearwords into almost any sentence he could.

“Customer wants to talk.” I explained. “He and his girl are from out of town.”

“Are they now?” He said.

He placed the heavy tray of soda back down on the stack. He made a lead the way motion with his hand and I followed him to the front again. I lingered behind, leaning against the wall as I watched.

“What can I do ya for?”

“Wondering if there’s anywhere to get a car fixed around here. Damn thing broke down.”

“There’s a mechanic just up the road, but I could look at it.”

The man scoffed.

“Yeah, no thanks. I don’t want you anywhere near my truck.” He commented.

“That wasn’t very nice.” It slipped out of my mouth before I could stop it.

“The fuck do you know kid?” He turned back to Spaulding, “ain’t child labour illegal?” He asked.

I crossed my arms over his chest.

“Darren, be nice, these kind folks are trying to help us.” The girl spoke up.

“Did I ask for your opinion?” He snapped at her.

Definitely not very nice. I kinda felt bad for the girl, like I had when watching my brother and Darla. Why did pretty, smart girls fall for jerks like this? I could never understand. I wish I could create a diversion, help her escape. But I knew the drill, they were a package deal, and they’d already seen both of our faces.

“Which way to the mechanic old man?” He asked.

Spaulding just pointed, but not towards the mechanic, no, toward the house. We’re Mama and Baby we’re back home waiting. I wondered if Otis had even gotten back from the city yet. I watched as he shoved passed the girl and out the door, letting it slam behind him.

“Thanks for the help.” The girl offered.

I gave her a tight lipped smile. About half an hour had passed and I went to take a break outside for some fresh air. I leaned against the wall near the dumpster and just kinda stared down at my feet. Clicking then together to get my stims out before going back to work. I heard foot steps approaching and they seemed heavy. I thought for a moment maybe Spaulding came to ask for help with something, but I noticed the boy from earlier.

“Hey you, kid!” He started.

He seemed angry.

“I’m almost 18 I mumbled” annoyed then he called me that.

It was different when it was my family, but I didn’t like strangers treating me like a child. I could hold my own. I wasn’t helpless.

“What sort of games are you and baldy playing Hmm?” He asked as he got closer.

“Don’t call him that.” I said.

“Or what? Is it gonna hurt your feeling sweetheart? Maybe someone should teach you a lesson, wearing a short little skirt like that and flaunting yourself around while your old man fucks people over.”

I finally looked up at him, rage burning in my eyes.

“What did you just say?”

“Called you a slut, cause that’s what you are.”

He grabbed my arm harshly.

“Where the fuck is the damn mechanic?” He asked.

I shrugged, apparently that was the wrong move, cause he squeezed tighter on my arm. I glared up at him. He went to put his hand in my face, and without thinking I viciously bit into his hand. I heard him let out a yelp as I bit hard enough to draw blood. He yanked his arm away, dropping his other one too.

“Stupid nigger bitch, you bit me!” He exclaimed.

Before I could do anything, his fist connected hard right at the front of my face. I heard a crack and almost instantly felt warm blood trickle down my face. I think he broke my nose. I stumbled back a little, catching myself on the wall. As I went to lick my lips, I could taste the blood, and something fell onto my tongue, I spit it on the floor to see it was one of my teeth. I starred at it for a second in shock. He certainly knew how to throw a punch, probably got into a lot of fight in high school.

“Hey, bitch im talking to you!” He said, wrapping his hand around my throat.

I guess the ruckus must have gained Spaulding’s attention, cause I grinned up at the boy as he squeezed my throat.

“The fuck you smiling about?”

Before he could get out another word, Spaulding reached around and slit his throat. I felt warm blood spray on my face and closed my eyes and mouth, making sure I didn’t get any of it where it shouldn’t be. I didn’t need a nasty infection from this impish oaf.

“What the fuck were you thinking kid?” Spaulding yelled.

I flinched slightly.

“Please don’t yell at me.” I muttered.

He sighed exasperated.

“He could have killed you.”

“But he didn’t.” I reminded him.

“Shit, look at your face, Otis is gonna be pissed.”

I adjusted my now crooked crown back on my head, and spit out a mother glob of blood.

“I’m fine Spaulding, thank you for saving me.” I said.

“Don’t ever make me do that shit again ya hear?” He said

“Yes sir, won’t happen again.”

That I was sure of, I wouldn’t make the same mistake next time. Being on my own here could have ruined me, if Spaulding hadn’t been nearby.

“Fuck!” He groaned. “Blinky help me get him into the dumpster.” He said.

I nodded, quickly moving to throw open the top of it. I wasn’t sure how much help I would be, that man was nearly twice my size. But almost everybody was bigger than me. I grabbed his legs and helped Spaulding throw him over the top, then slammed the lid back down. By the time the trash people came, in this hot, moist environment, he’d be well on his way to decomposing.

“Inside, now.” Spaulding said shortly.

He was mad, that much was obvious. I didn’t hesitate, quickly doing inside and slipping into the back office where we had all the paperwork. We kept the first aid kit back here. I sat on top of the desk. Spaulding came stomping in a few minuets later.

“Called Mama, told her in sending you home early for the night.” He explained.

I nodded. He bent down to pick up the first aid kit, before quickly throwing me a cold water he’d taken from the front. I took a sip, swishing it around in my mouth, then spit it into the plant pot in the corner. Before taking another and letting it slip down my throat. It was refreshing, I hadn’t even realised I was getting dehydrated. I sat back atop the desk.

“Let me see.” He said.

I opened my mouth, and he moved my face side to side with his hand on my chin.

“Shit Blinky, he got you good.” He said.

“Yeah, don’t think I enjoyed that very much” I chuckled.

“Nothing we can do about the tooth, and your busted lip with heal. But I’m gonna have to set your nose.” He said.

I nodded.

“It’s gonna hurt like a bitch.”

“Ok.”

I closed my eyes as I felt him touch the bridge of my nose. I winced a little. He didn’t even give me a warning before I heard it click.

“There, good as new. Now go head to the house and shower before Otis gets home, I don’t need that bastard on my ass about this. I’ll clean up the mess outside.”

“You sure you don’t need help.”

“Just get to the Damn house Kid.”

I nodded, running off toward the house. I was able to make it to the master bathroom before anyone saw me, I quickly stripped out of my clothes, knowing I’d have to burn them later. It was a shame, I liked this outfit. But they was no getting blood out of yellow, bleach or peroxide would just steal the dye. I turned on the water, waiting for it to heat up. Otis had yelled at me for this once, but what kind of psycho turns on the shower when they’re standing in it, the water that comes out first is always freezing.

I scrubbed away the blood, watching it go down the drain. I groaned as the adrenaline wore off. There was a small bruise forming from where his hand was, and the hot water stung a little when it hit my broken nose. I threw on a towel as I got out and looked in the mirror. The tooth to the left of my canine was missing. I suppose it added character. And if I ever made a friend I’d have a cool story to tell. I’d finally get to use the line “you should see the other guy.”

I opened the door and walked down the hall to my room. I slipped into one of Otis’s oversized band T-shirts and some old shirts Baby got me. I fixed up my hair, tossing it into one giant bun. Seems I made it just in time for dinner, cause I could smell the food from here. Otis turned around when he heard me say “what’s for dinner”

“I’m making spaget- Blink what the fuck happened to your face?” He asked.

He seemed shocked, but the shock quickly turned to anger.

“Tripped.” I shrugged.

I don’t know why I lied to him, I didn’t feel good about it. But I already got scolded by Spaulding and I didn’t really want to hear it again.

“Shit, Blinky how many times have I told you not to skip around everywhere. This is what you get.” He grumbled. “It hurt?”

“Not much.”

He paused and took a few step forward, grabbing my chin in his hand, and using the other one to open my mouth.

“Fuck, you’re missing a tooth.”

“It’s ok.” I said.

“How hard did you hit the ground you dumbass?”

It was supposed to come off as mean, but I knew him better now. He swore more when he was deflecting, trying to make it seem like he didn’t care.

“Think I might have cracked the pavement.” I joked.

“I’m gonna have to put you in a damn bubble I swear. Nothing we can do about that tooth.” He commented.

It was odd how he was just like Spaulding in that way. Two sides of the same coin with those two.

“Just set the table” he sighed.

“Ok.”

I would have to talk to Spaulding after dinner, make sure he kept our little secret. I didn’t want Otis finding out what happened today. He’d flip, and majorly so. If baby ever found out what that man called me, she’s also lose her mind. They were very overprotective in that way. Baby like a sweet, but scary aunt, and Otis the dad with a shotgun in hand at all times.

Baby greeted me by picking me up and spinning me around. I giggled, pleading with her to put me down.

“Shit, the fuck happened to you?”

“Tripped.” I lied again, it was easier this time.

She laughed loudly, and gave me a big grin.

“Didn’t think you could get any cuter kiddo, now look at that smile.” She said.

She always knew just what to say to cheer me up. Things were getting better around here and I hoped they continued like this. Yes, being a Firefly wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows, but it was home. It was safe. And I was never gonna let anyone take this from me. I wouldn’t be without a family ever again if I had to kill every last person to keep it that way.

An: Despite being black, I didn’t use that word much. But house of 1000 corpses is a bit darker subject material so it felt appropriate to use here.

#Blinky firefly #Blinky #house of 1000 corpses au #house of 1000 corpses #otis driftwood #baby firefly #tiny firefly #captain spalding #mama firefly #my oc

[hedgewitchgarden]

Until a few years ago when I finally moved northward from Florida, you could have told me that apples grow in February and blackberries in March, and I’d have had little reason to disbelieve you. Moving from the tropics gave me an appreciation for when certain plants are cheaper to purchase and that snow is something to contend with, but I also had to face the reality of SAD, seasonal affective disorder.

The well-documented phenomenon of seasonal affective disorder affects roughly 10 million Americans and can crudely be summed up as a form of clinical depression tied to the changing of the seasons. Most who are affected by it feel it in the winter months, though there are many who feel depressive or even anxious symptoms in summer. The cause for the disorder is unknown, but theories range from people staying indoors due to the cold and dark, thus messing with melatonin production in the body, to an evolutionary leftover encouraging us to be more lethargic and energy-conserving due to the lack of resources our species once dealt with during the winter.

For a very long time, I was a skeptic about SAD. To a certain degree, I think it was just a lack of exposure. Most people who told me they were depressed around the holidays seemed to have the same objections I did to commercial Christmas co-opting and being forced to participate in insincere, even corny rituals. As I mentioned earlier, I grew up in Florida, a state noted for having about one percent of its population affected with SAD (compared to ten percent in Alaska).

Even more embarrassingly, I think that I dismissed the disorder out of hand just because of its criteria and name. That psychologists would go so far as to come up with an entire category of depression tied to something as trite as the weather and name it using an acronym that spelled out the word “sad” seemed indulgent at best, ridiculous at worst.

My outlook on SAD changed when I married someone who contends with it.

My wife’s seasonal background is not terribly dissimilar to my own. Before she moved to the same area of Florida in which we met, she had been born and raised in Orange County California. While we both had near-constant sunlight, for whatever reason, she actually did pay attention to whatever seasonal changes were available to her. When she eventually made her own trek to the north, I saw for the first time in the near-decade we’d known one another the true extent of what an early sunset and a sub-freezing thermometer could do to a person.

My wife is not like me: where I am (affectionately, I hope) referred to as a bit of a curmudgeon, she has a reputation for being an absolute delight. She’s pleasant and effervescent, sweet and energetic, loves people, and is always adventurous. She loves the outdoors and the fresh air, and absolutely must leave the house at least once a day or else she feels as though waking up might be a waste of precious time and opportunity.

Autumn is her favorite time of year. She loves crunching leaves underfoot and eating pumpkin-flavored anything and apples. When the mountainsides near our home turn brown and yellow, she feels a peace with the world that I envy every moment I witness it. Then the winter comes and she begins to talk about how she doesn’t want to leave our apartment anymore, how she hates that the sun sets before six and how she’s tired all of the time.

Christmas and New Year’s give her some joy for a while, but she describes February as “Dark. Cold. Depressing.” I hesitate to say that she becomes a different person—it’s more like the person I’ve always known her to be is slowed to the point that I need to work much harder at recognizing her.

More Radical Reads: Depression Is Not a Weakness

Now, anyone who has ever helped a loved one or a partner through depression is aware of how every instinct in your body cries for you to help them get better. All you want in the world is to remind them that their smile is more luminous than any summer day, and you can drive yourself to exhaustion looking for gestures and foods and conversation points that can bring them around. That’s natural and part of caring. It’s also rarely the most productive use of your energy.

There are therapies that have been used to varying level of success when it’s come to SAD: therapy using various lights and lamps is frequently used, and has been shown to have few side effects. In some serious cases, medication can be prescribed—SAD has been linked to suicidal thoughts in many cases–and any such options can and should be discussed with a mental health professional whenever possible. In most cases, explicit attention to self-care is seen as a great response.

More Radical Reads: Undo the Stigma: 10 Things Not to Say to Someone Managing Depression

For me, my job as a partner, and ally, and a witness to SAD is to just be supportive. It isn’t my place to try and step in and attempt to “fix” anything my wife is dealing with. I only need to recognize it for what it is and give it the proper attention that it always deserved and I had so much difficulty giving it for so many years.

I’m absolutely privileged to be an individual who does not suffer from SAD. I easily could have been. I have reason to believe that it may run in my family among a number of other depressive tendencies, but I’m fortunate not to. And I’m fortunate to be able to stand in for someone I care about and be there for her as she handles it in her own way. Sometimes that looks like listening and being in her presence while she contends with a dark bout for a day or so. Most times, it’s shouldering a little more of the load that we carry as a couple trying to make it through and survive and exist.

And sometimes, it’s as simple as warming her up and being a little bit brighter than I might have felt like being, just for her, just for that cold, dark day.

In order to continue producing high quality content and expanding the message of radical, unapologetic self-love, we need to build a sustainable organization. To meet these efforts, we’re thrilled to share the launch of our #NoBodiesInvisible subscription service. This service will provide our community with access to additional content and rewards for your monthly investment in furthering our radical self-love work.

[Feature Image: A photo of a person sitting on a large gate.  The person is wearing blue shorts and blue sneakers.  The gate is in a field of wheat.  Source: Rebecca Thorp]

#sad #seasonal affective disorder #depression

[yesthatssadirichardslove]

Suzanne Somers, of ‘Three’s Company,’ dies at 76

LOS ANGELES

Suzanne Somers, the effervescent blonde actor known for playing Chrissy Snow on the television show “Three’s Company” as well as her business endeavors, has died. She was 76.

Somers had breast cancer for over 23 years and died Sunday morning, her family said in a statement provided by her longtime publicist, R. Couri Hay. Her husband Alan Hamel, her son Bruce and other immediate family were with her in Palm Springs, California.

“Her family was gathered to celebrate her 77th birthday on October 16th,” the statement read. “Instead, they will celebrate her extraordinary life, and want to thank her millions of fans and followers who loved her dearly.”

In July, Somers shared on Instagram that her breast cancer had returned.

“Like any cancer patient, when you get that dreaded, ‘It’s back’ you get a pit in your stomach. Then I put on my battle gear and go to war," she told Entertainment Tonight at the time. "This is familiar battleground for me and I’m very tough.”

She was first diagnosed in 2000, and also had skin cancer. She faced some backlash for her reliance on what she's described as a chemical-free and organic lifestyle to combat the cancers. She argued against the use of chemotherapy, in books and on platforms like “The Oprah Winfrey Show,” which drew criticism from the American Cancer Society.

Somers was born in 1946 in San Bruno, California, to a gardener father and a medical secretary mother. She began acting in the late 1960s, playing the blonde driving the white Thunderbird in George Lucas’s 1973 film “American Graffiti.” Her only line was mouthing the words “I love you” to Richard Dreyfuss’s character.

At her audition, Lucas just asked her if she could drive. She later said that moment “changed her life forever.”

Somers would later stage a one-woman Broadway show entitled “The Blonde in the Thunderbird,” which drew largely scathing reviews.

She appeared in many television shows in the 1970s, including “The Rockford Files,” “Magnum Force” and “The Six Million Dollar Man,” but her most famous part came with “Three’s Company,” which aired on ABC from 1977 to 1984 — though her participation ended in 1981.

On “Three’s Company,” she was the ditzy blonde opposite John Ritter and Joyce DeWitt in the roommate comedy. In 1980, after four seasons, she asked for a raise from $30,000 an episode to $150,000 an episode, which would have been comparable to what Ritter was getting paid. Hamel, a former television producer, had encouraged the ask.

“The show’s response was, ‘Who do you think you are?’” Somers told People in 2020. “They said, ‘John Ritter is the star.’”

She was soon fired and her character was replaced by two different roommates for the remaining years the show aired. It also led to a rift with her co-stars; They didn’t speak for many years. Somers did reconcile with Ritter before his death, and then with DeWitt on her online talk show.

But Somers took the break as an opportunity to pursue new avenues, including a Las Vegas act, writing books, hosting a talk show and becoming an entrepreneur. In the 1990s, she also became the spokesperson for the “Thighmaster.”

Somers returned to network television in the 1990s, most famously on “Step by Step,” which aired on ABC’s youth-targeted TGIF lineup. The network also aired a biopic of her life, starring her, called “Keeping Secrets.”

#yesthatssadirichardslove

[dhr-ao3]

Crimson With a Silver Lining

Crimson With a Silver Lining https://ift.tt/QlGDwIH by EevaMissDiva It is six years since the fall of the Ministry to Voldemort. Those other than purebloods are deemed less than human. When Ginny's daughter ends up in grave danger, Hermione sells herself to the Death Eaters to save her life. This is the (fantastic, amazing, effervescent) original work of LadyCailan over on FF.net. Words: 5321, Chapters: 2/78, Language: English Fandoms: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Categories: F/M Characters: Hermione Granger, Ginny Weasley, Draco Malfoy, Arthur Weasley, George Weasley, Percy Weasley Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Voldemort Wins, The Ministry of Magic is Corrupt (Harry Potter), The Ministry of Magic is Terrible (Harry Potter), Tragic Romance, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Other Additional Tags to Be Added via AO3 works tagged 'Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy' https://ift.tt/30okuCf February 27, 2024 at 11:19AM

#IFTTT #Dramione #Draco x Hermione

[kamari2038]

MIT Tech Review is now drawing attention to the immediately imminent possibility of AI consciousness too

The emergence of the deviants might be sooner than we're prepared for.

Full Text Below if you can't access it:

MIT Technology ReviewSubscribe

ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENCE

Minds of machines: The great AI consciousness conundrum

Philosophers, cognitive scientists, and engineers are grappling with what it would take for AI to become conscious.

By Grace Huckins

October 16, 2023



STUART BRADFORD

David Chalmers was not expecting the invitation he received in September of last year. As a leading authority on consciousness, Chalmers regularly circles the world delivering talks at universities and academic meetings to rapt audiences of philosophers—the sort of people who might spend hours debating whether the world outside their own heads is real and then go blithely about the rest of their day. This latest request, though, came from a surprising source: the organizers of the Conference on Neural Information Processing Systems (NeurIPS), a yearly gathering of the brightest minds in artificial intelligence. 

Less than six months before the conference, an engineer named Blake Lemoine, then at Google, had gone public with his contention that LaMDA, one of the company’s AI systems, had achieved consciousness. Lemoine’s claims were quickly dismissed in the press, and he was summarily fired, but the genie would not return to the bottle quite so easily—especially after the release of ChatGPT in November 2022. Suddenly it was possible for anyone to carry on a sophisticated conversation with a polite, creative artificial agent.

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Chalmers was an eminently sensible choice to speak about AI consciousness. He’d earned his PhD in philosophy at an Indiana University AI lab, where he and his computer scientist colleagues spent their breaks debating whether machines might one day have minds. In his 1996 book, The Conscious Mind, he spent an entire chapter arguing that artificial consciousness was possible. 

If he had been able to interact with systems like LaMDA and ChatGPT back in the ’90s, before anyone knew how such a thing might work, he would have thought there was a good chance they were conscious, Chalmers says. But when he stood before a crowd of NeurIPS attendees in a cavernous New Orleans convention hall, clad in his trademark leather jacket, he offered a different assessment. Yes, large language models—systems that have been trained on enormous corpora of text in order to mimic human writing as accurately as possible—are impressive. But, he said, they lack too many of the potential requisites for consciousness for us to believe that they actually experience the world.

“Consciousness poses a unique challenge in our attempts to study it, because it’s hard to define.” Liad Mudrik, neuroscientist, Tel Aviv University

At the breakneck pace of AI development, however, things can shift suddenly. For his mathematically minded audience, Chalmers got concrete: the chances of developing any conscious AI in the next 10 years were, he estimated, above one in five.

Not many people dismissed his proposal as ridiculous, Chalmers says: “I mean, I’m sure some people had that reaction, but they weren’t the ones talking to me.” Instead, he spent the next several days in conversation after conversation with AI experts who took the possibilities he’d described very seriously. Some came to Chalmers effervescent with enthusiasm at the concept of conscious machines. Others, though, were horrified at what he had described. If an AI were conscious, they argued—if it could look out at the world from its own personal perspective, not simply processing inputs but also experiencing them—then, perhaps, it could suffer.

AI consciousness isn’t just a devilishly tricky intellectual puzzle; it’s a morally weighty problem with potentially dire consequences. Fail to identify a conscious AI, and you might unintentionally subjugate, or even torture, a being whose interests ought to matter. Mistake an unconscious AI for a conscious one, and you risk compromising human safety and happiness for the sake of an unthinking, unfeeling hunk of silicon and code. Both mistakes are easy to make. “Consciousness poses a unique challenge in our attempts to study it, because it’s hard to define,” says Liad Mudrik, a neuroscientist at Tel Aviv University who has researched consciousness since the early 2000s. “It’s inherently subjective.”



STUART BRADFORD

Over the past few decades, a small research community has doggedly attacked the question of what consciousness is and how it works. The effort has yielded real progress on what once seemed an unsolvable problem. Now, with the rapid advance of AI technology, these insights could offer our only guide to the untested, morally fraught waters of artificial consciousness.

“If we as a field will be able to use the theories that we have, and the findings that we have, in order to reach a good test for consciousness,” Mudrik says, “it will probably be one of the most important contributions that we could give.”

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When Mudrik explains her consciousness research, she starts with one of her very favorite things: chocolate. Placing a piece in your mouth sparks a symphony of neurobiological events—your tongue’s sugar and fat receptors activate brain-bound pathways, clusters of cells in the brain stem stimulate your salivary glands, and neurons deep within your head release the chemical dopamine. None of those processes, though, captures what it is like to snap a chocolate square from its foil packet and let it melt in your mouth. “What I’m trying to understand is what in the brain allows us not only to process information—which in its own right is a formidable challenge and an amazing achievement of the brain—but also to experience the information that we are processing,” Mudrik says.

Studying information processing would have been the more straightforward choice for Mudrik, professionally speaking. Consciousness has long been a marginalized topic in neuroscience, seen as at best unserious and at worst intractable. “A fascinating but elusive phenomenon,” reads the “Consciousness” entry in the 1996 edition of the International Dictionary of Psychology. “Nothing worth reading has been written on it.”

Mudrik was not dissuaded. From her undergraduate years in the early 2000s, she knew that she didn’t want to research anything other than consciousness. “It might not be the most sensible decision to make as a young researcher, but I just couldn’t help it,” she says. “I couldn’t get enough of it.” She earned two PhDs—one in neuroscience, one in philosophy—in her determination to decipher the nature of human experience.

As slippery a topic as consciousness can be, it is not impossible to pin down—put as simply as possible, it’s the ability to experience things. It’s often confused with terms like “sentience” and “self-awareness,” but according to the definitions that many experts use, consciousness is a prerequisite for those other, more sophisticated abilities. To be sentient, a being must be able to have positive and negative experiences—in other words, pleasures and pains. And being self-aware means not only having an experience but also knowing that you are having an experience. 

In her laboratory, Mudrik doesn’t worry about sentience and self-­awareness; she’s interested in observing what happens in the brain when she manipulates people’s conscious experience. That’s an easy thing to do in principle. Give someone a piece of broccoli to eat, and the experience will be very different from eating a piece of chocolate—and will probably result in a different brain scan. The problem is that those differences are uninterpretable. It would be impossible to discern which are linked to changes in information—broccoli and chocolate activate very different taste receptors—and which represent changes in the conscious experience.

The trick is to modify the experience without modifying the stimulus, like giving someone a piece of chocolate and then flipping a switch to make it feel like eating broccoli. That’s not possible with taste, but it is with vision. In one widely used approach, scientists have people look at two different images simultaneously, one with each eye. Although the eyes take in both images, it’s impossible to perceive both at once, so subjects will often report that their visual experience “flips”: first they see one image, and then, spontaneously, they see the other. By tracking brain activity during these flips in conscious awareness, scientists can observe what happens when incoming information stays the same but the experience of it shifts.

With these and other approaches, Mudrik and her colleagues have managed to establish some concrete facts about how consciousness works in the human brain. The cerebellum, a brain region at the base of the skull that resembles a fist-size tangle of angel-hair pasta, appears to play no role in conscious experience, though it is crucial for subconscious motor tasks like riding a bike; on the other hand, feedback connections—for example, connections running from the “higher,” cognitive regions of the brain to those involved in more basic sensory processing—seem essential to consciousness. (This, by the way, is one good reason to doubt the consciousness of LLMs: they lack substantial feedback connections.)

A decade ago, a group of Italian and Belgian neuroscientists managed to devise a test for human consciousness that uses transcranial magnetic stimulation (TMS), a noninvasive form of brain stimulation that is applied by holding a figure-eight-shaped magnetic wand near someone’s head. Solely from the resulting patterns of brain activity, the team was able to distinguish conscious people from those who were under anesthesia or deeply asleep, and they could even detect the difference between a vegetative state (where someone is awake but not conscious) and locked-in syndrome (in which a patient is conscious but cannot move at all). 

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That’s an enormous step forward in consciousness research, but it means little for the question of conscious AI: OpenAI’s GPT models don’t have a brain that can be stimulated by a TMS wand. To test for AI consciousness, it’s not enough to identify the structures that give rise to consciousness in the human brain. You need to know why those structures contribute to consciousness, in a way that’s rigorous and general enough to be applicable to any system, human or otherwise.

“Ultimately, you need a theory,” says Christof Koch, former president of the Allen Institute and an influential consciousness researcher. “You can’t just depend on your intuitions anymore; you need a foundational theory that tells you what consciousness is, how it gets into the world, and who has it and who doesn’t.”

Here’s one theory about how that litmus test for consciousness might work: any being that is intelligent enough, that is capable of responding successfully to a wide enough variety of contexts and challenges, must be conscious. It’s not an absurd theory on its face. We humans have the most intelligent brains around, as far as we’re aware, and we’re definitely conscious. More intelligent animals, too, seem more likely to be conscious—there’s far more consensus that chimpanzees are conscious than, say, crabs.

But consciousness and intelligence are not the same. When Mudrik flashes images at her experimental subjects, she’s not asking them to contemplate anything or testing their problem-solving abilities. Even a crab scuttling across the ocean floor, with no awareness of its past or thoughts about its future, would still be conscious if it could experience the pleasure of a tasty morsel of shrimp or the pain of an injured claw.

Susan Schneider, director of the Center for the Future Mind at Florida Atlantic University, thinks that AI could reach greater heights of intelligence by forgoing consciousness altogether. Conscious processes like holding something in short-term memory are pretty limited—we can only pay attention to a couple of things at a time and often struggle to do simple tasks like remembering a phone number long enough to call it. It’s not immediately obvious what an AI would gain from consciousness, especially considering the impressive feats such systems have been able to achieve without it.

As further iterations of GPT prove themselves more and more intelligent—more and more capable of meeting a broad spectrum of demands, from acing the bar exam to building a website from scratch—their success, in and of itself, can’t be taken as evidence of their consciousness. Even a machine that behaves indistinguishably from a human isn’t necessarily aware of anything at all.

Understanding how an AI works on the inside could be an essential step toward determining whether or not it is conscious.

Schneider, though, hasn’t lost hope in tests. Together with the Princeton physicist Edwin Turner, she has formulated what she calls the “artificial consciousness test.” It’s not easy to perform: it requires isolating an AI agent from any information about consciousness throughout its training. (This is important so that it can’t, like LaMDA, just parrot human statements about consciousness.) Then, once the system is trained, the tester asks it questions that it could only answer if it knew about consciousness—knowledge it could only have acquired from being conscious itself. Can it understand the plot of the film Freaky Friday, where a mother and daughter switch bodies, their consciousnesses dissociated from their physical selves? Does it grasp the concept of dreaming—or even report dreaming itself? Can it conceive of reincarnation or an afterlife?

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There’s a huge limitation to this approach: it requires the capacity for language. Human infants and dogs, both of which are widely believed to be conscious, could not possibly pass this test, and an AI could conceivably become conscious without using language at all. Putting a language-based AI like GPT to the test is likewise impossible, as it has been exposed to the idea of consciousness in its training. (Ask ChatGPT to explain Freaky Friday—it does a respectable job.) And because we still understand so little about how advanced AI systems work, it would be difficult, if not impossible, to completely protect an AI against such exposure. Our very language is imbued with the fact of our consciousness—words like “mind,” “soul,” and “self” make sense to us by virtue of our conscious experience. Who’s to say that an extremely intelligent, nonconscious AI system couldn’t suss that out?

If Schneider’s test isn’t foolproof, that leaves one more option: opening up the machine. Understanding how an AI works on the inside could be an essential step toward determining whether or not it is conscious, if you know how to interpret what you’re looking at. Doing so requires a good theory of consciousness.

A few decades ago, we might have been entirely lost. The only available theories came from philosophy, and it wasn’t clear how they might be applied to a physical system. But since then, researchers like Koch and Mudrik have helped to develop and refine a number of ideas that could prove useful guides to understanding artificial consciousness. 

Numerous theories have been proposed, and none has yet been proved—or even deemed a front-­runner. And they make radically different predictions about AI consciousness. 

Some theories treat consciousness as a feature of the brain’s software: all that matters is that the brain performs the right set of jobs, in the right sort of way. According to global workspace theory, for example, systems are conscious if they possess the requisite architecture: a variety of independent modules, plus a “global workspace” that takes in information from those modules and selects some of it to broadcast across the entire system. 

Other theories tie consciousness more squarely to physical hardware. Integrated information theory proposes that a system’s consciousness depends on the particular details of its physical structure—specifically, how the current state of its physical components influences their future and indicates their past. According to IIT, conventional computer systems, and thus current-day AI, can never be conscious—they don’t have the right causal structure. (The theory was recently criticized by some researchers, who think it has gotten outsize attention.)

Anil Seth, a professor of neuroscience at the University of Sussex, is more sympathetic to the hardware-­based theories, for one main reason: he thinks biology matters. Every conscious creature that we know of breaks down organic molecules for energy, works to maintain a stable internal environment, and processes information through networks of neurons via a combination of chemical and electrical signals. If that’s true of all conscious creatures, some scientists argue, it’s not a stretch to suspect that any one of those traits, or perhaps even all of them, might be necessary for consciousness. 

Because he thinks biology is so important to consciousness, Seth says, he spends more time worrying about the possibility of consciousness in brain organoids—clumps of neural tissue grown in a dish—than in AI. “The problem is, we don’t know if I’m right,” he says. “And I may well be wrong.”

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He’s not alone in this attitude. Every expert has a preferred theory of consciousness, but none treats it as ideology—all of them are eternally alert to the possibility that they have backed the wrong horse. In the past five years, consciousness scientists have started working together on a series of “adversarial collaborations,” in which supporters of different theories come together to design neuroscience experiments that could help test them against each other. The researchers agree ahead of time on which patterns of results will support which theory. Then they run the experiments and see what happens.

In June, Mudrik, Koch, Chalmers, and a large group of collaborators released the results from an adversarial collaboration pitting global workspace theory against integrated information theory. Neither theory came out entirely on top. But Mudrik says the process was still fruitful: forcing the supporters of each theory to make concrete predictions helped to make the theories themselves more precise and scientifically useful. “They’re all theories in progress,” she says.

At the same time, Mudrik has been trying to figure out what this diversity of theories means for AI. She’s working with an interdisciplinary team of philosophers, computer scientists, and neuroscientists who recently put out a white paper that makes some practical recommendations on detecting AI consciousness. In the paper, the team draws on a variety of theories to build a sort of consciousness “report card”—a list of markers that would indicate an AI is conscious, under the assumption that one of those theories is true. These markers include having certain feedback connections, using a global workspace, flexibly pursuing goals, and interacting with an external environment (whether real or virtual). 

In effect, this strategy recognizes that the major theories of consciousness have some chance of turning out to be true—and so if more theories agree that an AI is conscious, it is more likely to actually be conscious. By the same token, a system that lacks all those markers can only be conscious if our current theories are very wrong. That’s where LLMs like LaMDA currently are: they don’t possess the right type of feedback connections, use global workspaces, or appear to have any other markers of consciousness.

The trouble with consciousness-­by-committee, though, is that this state of affairs won’t last. According to the authors of the white paper, there are no major technological hurdles in the way of building AI systems that score highly on their consciousness report card. Soon enough, we’ll be dealing with a question straight out of science fiction: What should one do with a potentially conscious machine?

In 1989, years before the neuroscience of consciousness truly came into its own, Star Trek: The Next Generation aired an episode titled “The Measure of a Man.” The episode centers on the character Data, an android who spends much of the show grappling with his own disputed humanity. In this particular episode, a scientist wants to forcibly disassemble Data, to figure out how he works; Data, worried that disassembly could effectively kill him, refuses; and Data’s captain, Picard, must defend in court his right to refuse the procedure.  

Picard never proves that Data is conscious. Rather, he demonstrates that no one can disprove that Data is conscious, and so the risk of harming Data, and potentially condemning the androids that come after him to slavery, is too great to countenance. It’s a tempting solution to the conundrum of questionable AI consciousness: treat any potentially conscious system as if it is really conscious, and avoid the risk of harming a being that can genuinely suffer.

Treating Data like a person is simple: he can easily express his wants and needs, and those wants and needs tend to resemble those of his human crewmates, in broad strokes. But protecting a real-world AI from suffering could prove much harder, says Robert Long, a philosophy fellow at the Center for AI Safety in San Francisco, who is one of the lead authors on the white paper. “With animals, there’s the handy property that they do basically want the same things as us,” he says. “It’s kind of hard to know what that is in the case of AI.” Protecting AI requires not only a theory of AI consciousness but also a theory of AI pleasures and pains, of AI desires and fears.

“With animals, there’s the handy property that they do basically want the same things as us. It’s kind of hard to know what that is in the case of AI.” Robert Long, philosophy fellow, Center for AI Safety in San Francisco

And that approach is not without its costs. On Star Trek, the scientist who wants to disassemble Data hopes to construct more androids like him, who might be sent on risky missions in lieu of other personnel. To the viewer, who sees Data as a conscious character like everyone else on the show, the proposal is horrifying. But if Data were simply a convincing simulacrum of a human, it would be unconscionable to expose a person to danger in his place.

Extending care to other beings means protecting them from harm, and that limits the choices that humans can ethically make. “I’m not that worried about scenarios where we care too much about animals,” Long says. There are few downsides to ending factory farming. “But with AI systems,” he adds, “I think there could really be a lot of dangers if we overattribute consciousness.” AI systems might malfunction and need to be shut down; they might need to be subjected to rigorous safety testing. These are easy decisions if the AI is inanimate, and philosophical quagmires if the AI’s needs must be taken into consideration.

Seth—who thinks that conscious AI is relatively unlikely, at least for the foreseeable future—nevertheless worries about what the possibility of AI consciousness might mean for humans emotionally. “It’ll change how we distribute our limited resources of caring about things,” he says. That might seem like a problem for the future. But the perception of AI consciousness is with us now: Blake Lemoine took a personal risk for an AI he believed to be conscious, and he lost his job. How many others might sacrifice time, money, and personal relationships for lifeless computer systems?

Knowing that the two lines in the Müller-Lyer illusion are exactly the same length doesn’t prevent us from perceiving one as shorter than the other. Similarly, knowing GPT isn’t conscious doesn’t change the illusion that you are speaking to a being with a perspective, opinions, and personality.

Even bare-bones chatbots can exert an uncanny pull: a simple program called ELIZA, built in the 1960s to simulate talk therapy, convinced many users that it was capable of feeling and understanding. The perception of consciousness and the reality of consciousness are poorly aligned, and that discrepancy will only worsen as AI systems become capable of engaging in more realistic conversations. “We will be unable to avoid perceiving them as having conscious experiences, in the same way that certain visual illusions are cognitively impenetrable to us,” Seth says. Just as knowing that the two lines in the Müller-Lyer illusion are exactly the same length doesn’t prevent us from perceiving one as shorter than the other, knowing GPT isn’t conscious doesn’t change the illusion that you are speaking to a being with a perspective, opinions, and personality.

In 2015, years before these concerns became current, the philosophers Eric Schwitzgebel and Mara Garza formulated a set of recommendations meant to protect against such risks. One of their recommendations, which they termed the “Emotional Alignment Design Policy,” argued that any unconscious AI should be intentionally designed so that users will not believe it is conscious. Companies have taken some small steps in that direction—ChatGPT spits out a hard-coded denial if you ask it whether it is conscious. But such responses do little to disrupt the overall illusion. 

Schwitzgebel, who is a professor of philosophy at the University of California, Riverside, wants to steer well clear of any ambiguity. In their 2015 paper, he and Garza also proposed their “Excluded Middle Policy”—if it’s unclear whether an AI system will be conscious, that system should not be built. In practice, this means all the relevant experts must agree that a prospective AI is very likely not conscious (their verdict for current LLMs) or very likely conscious. “What we don’t want to do is confuse people,” Schwitzgebel says.

Avoiding the gray zone of disputed consciousness neatly skirts both the risks of harming a conscious AI and the downsides of treating a lifeless machine as conscious. The trouble is, doing so may not be realistic. Many researchers—like Rufin VanRullen, a research director at France’s Centre Nationale de la Recherche Scientifique, who recently obtained funding to build an AI with a global workspace—are now actively working to endow AI with the potential underpinnings of consciousness. 

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STUART BRADFORD

The downside of a moratorium on building potentially conscious systems, VanRullen says, is that systems like the one he’s trying to create might be more effective than current AI. “Whenever we are disappointed with current AI performance, it’s always because it’s lagging behind what the brain is capable of doing,” he says. “So it’s not necessarily that my objective would be to create a conscious AI—it’s more that the objective of many people in AI right now is to move toward these advanced reasoning capabilities.” Such advanced capabilities could confer real benefits: already, AI-designed drugs are being tested in clinical trials. It’s not inconceivable that AI in the gray zone could save lives.

VanRullen is sensitive to the risks of conscious AI—he worked with Long and Mudrik on the white paper about detecting consciousness in machines. But it is those very risks, he says, that make his research important. Odds are that conscious AI won’t first emerge from a visible, publicly funded project like his own; it may very well take the deep pockets of a company like Google or OpenAI. These companies, VanRullen says, aren’t likely to welcome the ethical quandaries that a conscious system would introduce. “Does that mean that when it happens in the lab, they just pretend it didn’t happen? Does that mean that we won’t know about it?” he says. “I find that quite worrisome.”

Academics like him can help mitigate that risk, he says, by getting a better understanding of how consciousness itself works, in both humans and machines. That knowledge could then enable regulators to more effectively police the companies that are most likely to start dabbling in the creation of artificial minds. The more we understand consciousness, the smaller that precarious gray zone gets—and the better the chance we have of knowing whether or not we are in it. 

For his part, Schwitzgebel would rather we steer far clear of the gray zone entirely. But given the magnitude of the uncertainties involved, he admits that this hope is likely unrealistic—especially if conscious AI ends up being profitable. And once we’re in the gray zone—once we need to take seriously the interests of debatably conscious beings—we’ll be navigating even more difficult terrain, contending with moral problems of unprecedented complexity without a clear road map for how to solve them. It’s up to researchers, from philosophers to neuroscientists to computer scientists, to take on the formidable task of drawing that map. 

Grace Huckins is a science writer based in San Francisco.

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