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qqueenofhades · 2 months

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https://www.tumblr.com/qqueenofhades/742700762243727361/you-can-tell-you-work-in-academia-with-how-much

Hi, sorry, Asshole Anon here (I’m not giving myself that nickname to lash out, I’m saying it because I was an ass)

To clarify: I mean “I don’t know what to trust anymore” in that “people whom I normally respect and would otherwise agree with are now sharing material that I find either morally indefensible or overtly simplistic, and at the same time people on the ground in Gaza are saying that Hamas IS a liberation organization, so I trust their word, but there is also the existence of the “We Want To Live” protests, and the fact that there’s now apparently a protest against a child that got killed that isn’t widely reported, with an attached video of said protest from somebody on the ground in Gaza, but it’s in Arabic, there are no subtitles, I cannot speak Arabic, and I don’t trust Google Translate”

I just want an objective sense of what is happening on the ground. I want to know what is and is not propaganda, because I (white, raised in a liberal(?) household, surrounded by white people) am especially susceptible to it. Once I have that objective sense of what the people in Gaza want, then I will be able to effectively and efficiently advocate for shit. But that also necessitates listening to orgs like Standing Together, B’Tselem, people IN Israel who want this shit to stop, and hoo BOY that ain’t gonna fly with those people I mentioned because of:

1. BDS saying that the org “normalizes the occupation”, but they’re made up of Palestinian activists and anti-apartheid veterans, I can’t discount their statement, not fully.

2. Netenyahu’s… Netenyahu

3. Twitter’s doing a great job of asserting that everyone in Israel is a — quoting directly here from a half-remembered Tweet — “genocidal maniac”, or wants the bombardment to happen. (Which I know for a fact is not the case, if the protests calling for a new election are anything to go by)

That’s not even getting into the domestic stuff. I’m in an org rn and I’m getting the sinking feeling that they’re gonna drop this thing like a hot potato when a ceasefire gets called. Just sucks.

Anyways, back to improvement. Just closing this out

I agree that we're currently in a paradoxical state where there is simultaneously ALL THE INFORMATION EVER and ACTUALLY NO INFORMATION AT ALL, and that's what makes it difficult to sort out true from false. It's also what contributes to compassion fatigue, where we are able to get extensive real-time information and/or eyewitness accounts about pretty much any tragedy or catastrophe anywhere in the world, and social media has created a space where we are expected to both immediately react to all that information and to do so in the "right" and "correct" way. Which is basically impossible, and is also what burns out young well-meaning people so hard, where they insist that there's nothing to be done except The Revolution, because they have been so inundated with this torrent of human suffering and it seems like small steps are in fact useless. I am a historian and I can tell you upfront that humans are simply not made to process that volume of information about ALL THE BAD THINGS EVERYWHERE. It's also impossible to have an informed opinion on all or sometimes any of it, but there is still the pressure to visibly do so and to do it in a way that fits in with what everyone in your peer group is saying, even if you don't understand it. So yes -- that is absolutely very difficult, and it's hard to filter or parse it.

That said, I don't think we actually need to have painstaking piece-by-piece analysis of every single piece of information out there, because there are in fact so many competing narratives, perspectives, fake news, disinformation campaigns, opinions, etc., and it will lead you to the same information paralysis: there's just too much of it to even start processing, and so your brain just gives up and reverts to those same simplistic cliches and things that "feel" right, regardless of whether or not they are. When you're trying to decide on the fine details of something, it helps to have an overall sense of the context and narrative that they're operating in. So for reference, these are some broad and basic analytic paradigms that I personally use when reading or thinking about any material in regard to the Israel/Hamas situation in particular:

No person of basic good faith and human decency wants the current situation in Gaza to be happening. However, the person/group that has the power to call it off -- i.e. Netanyahu and the current Israeli government -- has not done so despite increasing pressure from Western allies, because the situation is beneficial to Bibi personally and he sees more use in continuing it than making the decision for it to stop.

The governments of Western allies, therefore, can voice disapproval of Israel's actions (which they have been doing more and more frequently) but unless Netanyahu himself makes the choice to end the war, it will not stop. The West has recently given more and more signals that they are not prepared to countenance the ongoing destruction and genocide of Gaza, but yet again, Israel is its own sovereign country with its own powerful government, military, intelligence services, etc. The "anti-imperialists" who think the collective West can just reach in and turn off the violence whenever they please, and have just refused to do so because they're "bad people," are not being realistic. Western allies can exert pressure and leverage, but as long as Netanyahu himself wants to keep going, he will.

"People in Gaza" and "people in Israel" are not homogeneous blocs who think exactly alike. Some people in Gaza support Hamas. Some people do not. Hamas support has recently grown as a result of Israel's post-October 7 response, but it is not unanimous or unquestioned.

Hamas is the entity that started the current war by attacking Israel on October 7 and murdering/raping/kidnapping 1,000+ Israeli civilians. Hamas is also associated with Russia, Iran, Hezbollah, and other terrorist regimes/states, which are often defended by Online Leftists simply for being "anti-Western," regardless of how heinous their actions also are.

Netanyahu was wildly unpopular in Israel for MONTHS before this current war, due to his autocratic attempts to neutralize the Israeli Supreme Court and make the country even more of his personal fiefdom. There were huge, massive, ongoing protests against his naked power-grab for almost all of 2023, and he was so preoccupied with pushing it through that he ignored warnings from the Israeli and Egyptian intelligence services that Hamas was planning a major attack. These anti-Netanyahu demonstrations have continued and ramped up in intensity even in the middle of the war/attacks on Gaza.

As such, painting every single Israeli as mindlessly supporting the current actions of Netanyahu and the Israeli government is antisemitic nonsense and reflect the current Western Leftist tendency to assume that "all Israelis" and "all Zionists (read Jews)" are evil and personally responsible for this.

Israeli Jews have a right to exist and to reside on the land currently called Israel. Modern Israel was founded in 1948, three years after the end of WWII and the Holocaust, the greatest incidence of antisemitic mass murder in history, which is a fact that cannot be ignored and which western leftists eagerly calling for its total eradication and treating it as an illegitimate "white western settler colony" nonetheless do in fact repeatedly ignore.

This is why many Jews do not feel safe in other countries, because there has literally been thousands of years of history proving that they often aren't, and which the rabidly antisemitic response to the current conflict is doing nothing to dissuade.

Jews have had a presence in the land alternately called Palestine, Israel, the Holy Land, Judah, etc., for over 2,000 years, and their entire religion and history is founded around the exile from Jerusalem. That is the history that the current state of Israel is drawing on. It does not vanish just because it is inconvenient for western leftists to acknowledge.

Israel currently has a militant far-right government (after tending toward rightist/right wing domestic politics more generally, partially due to post-Holocaust trauma) that has deliberately erased, ignored, and violated the equally valid claims of Palestine and Palestinian people to that same land, and which is currently committing full-scale genocide against them.

Palestine and Palestinian/Muslim people have the same right to exist on that land as Israel and Israeli/Jewish people (and Christian people, and none-of-the-three people). They both have equally long and historically relevant claims to this land and one of them (in an ideal world, which we do not live in) should not be artificially prized over the other.

However, this land is some of the most bitterly and violently contested in the entire world, for the last two thousand years and counting, and there is no one good guy, simplistic answer, or quick way to stop it. The three Abrahamic faiths (Judaism, Christianity, and Islam) have fought bitterly over Jerusalem and its associated territories for a cool few millennia, and human nature being what it is, there is no way for one person, group, organization, government, etc to just step in and make it stop.

The Western/American leftist response to the current conflict has often made absolutely no attempt to take into account any of this troubled and complex history, and has reduced the whole thing down to whichever antisemitic and/or anti-Democratic Party soundbites will get them the most traction on social media. This often rests on whitewashing any moral responsibility belonging to Hamas and defending them no matter what, labeling all Israeli Jews as "evil genocide supporters," and assuming that if Biden wanted to magically shapeshift into Netanyahu and give the order to make it stop, he would, but he's "just not doing it," ergo something something Trump Would Totally Be Better!

These people also often call themselves "anti-imperialist" while thinking/demanding that America swoop in and play Big Global Policeman Daddy (as it indeed has often done in the past) and spank all its naughty children (but if it actually did do this, etc etc it would be evil). Biden could very much do more and has not necessarily done enough, but he has also done more than any other American president in history to shift away from unconditional unquestioning support of Israel only, and to advocate for a Palestinian state, a lasting ceasefire, and other basic precepts of Palestinian self-determination and dignity of personhood. These two things can be true at the same time.

I don't necessarily expect everyone to agree with every single fine detail of these statements, but I do expect them to at least make a basic effort to let all of these facts to inform their response, and not just the ones that they most agree with and which most fit their ideology or preferred conclusion. So that's one way to approach the situation, even if we obviously can't wring every single drop of meaning out of every single competing piece of information or evidence, because there is just too much of it. When we have a broader understanding of the space that we are operating in and the precepts that are factually true, we are able to make better judgments about who is trustworthy, who is worth listening to, what message they are pushing, and whether it corresponds with reality.

Good luck. I'm sure you'll continue to think about this and take the steps that you feel are best. It is all any of us can do.

#anonymous #ask #politics for ts #israel hamas war #history #long post

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xiaq · 7 months

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Steddie Time Travel Fix-it: Pt 4

Ao3 Pt. 1 Pt. 2 Pt. 3 Pt. 4 Pt. 5

Steve arrives at 6:28, his flashy BMW slowly creeping down the street until he sees them in the open garage.

They aren’t finished—they need to practice at least three more songs, and Eddie can’t decide if he should call it and piss off the guys or leave Harrington to wait and piss him off. Except instead of idling in the driveway, Steve turns off his car, gets out, and ducks into the garage, nodding toward the couch against the wall.

Eddie nods back.

Steve settles in to watch like that was the plan all along.

Steve Harrington.

Couch.

Watching.

Eddie meets Gareth’s wide eyes, then Jeff’s, and, uncertain what else to do, finishes the guitar solo he’d more or less fucked up with Steve’s arrival, leans forward, and starts the final verse of the song.

He probably should have called it anyway because trying to remember lyrics—even lyrics Eddie wrote himself, is all but impossible when Steve Fucking Harrington in his letterman jacket and belted jeans and too-white shoes is watching them, weirdly earnest, tapping a toe along to the beat.

And Eddie is clearly not the only one having performance issues because Jeff is at least a half second off on the drums and Gareth just…stops playing the base at intervals, probably when he accidentally makes eye-contact with the jock in the corner.

By mutual agreement, determined from progressively more frantic glances, they end practice after the second song and Eddie all but drags Steve back to his car when he tries to make small talk with them, what the hell. He throws himself into the passenger seat and scrubs both hands through his hair and tries to breathe normally.

Steve’s car is bizarrely clean. It smells like leather cleaner and the floorboards are spotless. Aside from a duffel bag in the back seat and a cassette tape in the cup holder, he’d think it was fresh from a dealership lot.

Eddie reaches for the tape—how can he not—and is a little shocked to see its Dio. Apparently the king wasn’t lying.

Steve slides into the driver’s side and cranks the car, bracing a casual hand on Eddie’s headrest, thumb brushing the back of his skull, as he reverses down the driveway.

Eddie doesn’t move. Or speak. Or breathe, probably, until Steve removes his hand again.

And then he keeps not speaking because he has no idea what to say.

Steve doesn’t seem to find the silence awkward, just turns up the stereo, playing Metallica of all things, Jesus, and hums along. Eddie might not survive this.

As they’re driving down the main strip, however, Steve suddenly swears.

“Oh, those fucking—sorry.” He veers off the road to park in front of the arcade, slamming the door when he gets out to stalk over the curb and onto the sidewalk where several kids are talking. They all clearly recognize him.

Steve has his hands on his hips like some sort of disproving soccer mom and Eddie can’t parse exactly what he’s saying from inside the BMW, but he can tell Steve is angry.

A curly-haired kid gestures irately toward his chest, the arcade, and then the general direction of the road. The group behind him all join in a moment later, with their own waving arms and placating tones and Steve’s posture goes slack and weary as he rubs the heel of one hand against his forehead.

His voice quiets so Eddie can’t hear him hardly at all.

And then, they’re all looking toward the car.

Eddie freezes.

The curly-haired kid meets his eyes through the window and starts to move forward but Steve catches the back of his jacket and reels him in, muttering something low and urgent against the kid’s protests.

At first the kid keeps arguing, but then––

Then they’re hugging.

It’s not quite the hug that Eddie had accidentally seen in the hallway between Steve and Robin but it’s…fierce. Desperate. Kids shouldn’t be hugging people like that. Especially not on an otherwise ordinary day when the sun is setting and the muted sounds of laughter and pinball bells are spilling onto the sidewalk.

When they separate, Eddie would swear the kid says his name but Eddie would also swear he’s never seen the kid before in his life.

When Steve returns to the car a minute later, his eyes are bright and his mouth is a hard line. He clears his throat as he puts the car back in gear.

“Sorry about that.”

“Who are they?” Eddie asks carefully.

Steve seems a little stymied by the question. “...some kids I babysit,” he answers eventually.

“You babysit? King Steve, reduced to chasing around munchkins. Is it, like, punishment for something?”

“No,” the hard line of his mouth softens. “Self-inflicted.”

He rests his elbow on the open window and his head in his hand. The wind tosses his hair in his eyes. “Not that I mind, really. I mean. They’re little shits, but they’re good kids. And they’ve been through a lot.”

Eddie’s not going to touch that.

“They sneak out or something?” Eddie asks. “That why you went all disapproving mom on them?”

“I didn’t––“ Steve sighs. “Yeah. Sort of.”

“There are worse things they could be doing than sneaking out to the arcade.” Eddie points out. He would know.

“I’m aware, thank you,” Steve says, tone all bitchy, and Eddie can’t help but grin at him.

He’s still grinning when they park at the diner.

Steve brings the duffle bag inside.

Eddie doesn’t comment on it.

“So,” Steve says, after they’ve ordered and are awkwardly facing each other in a sticky booth. “How’s band stuff? You guys sounded good.”

Eddie pushes his thumb nail under the raised edge of the table’s fake wood veneer. He’s still half-waiting for the other shoe to drop. For Hagan and the other jock lackeys to push their way inside and…Eddie doesn’t even know, laugh at him? Beat the shit out of him? This feels like a prank but it also really doesn’t and he’s so confused. He doesn’t know how to act, doesn’t know if he’s allowed to actually repay Steve’s kindness with the vulnerability of trust. It feels naive to think that the King of Hawkins High would be here, with him, simply because he wants to.

“…Good.” Eddie tips his head, shoves harder at the peeling laminate. “I’m still kinda shocked King Steve likes metal music. But I guess there’s no denying it unless you specifically memorized the B side of Metallica’s latest just to fool me.”

“Please don’t call me that.”

Eddie stills.

“What?”

“King Steve. I’m not. Or I don’t—I don’t want to be, if it means what it feels like when you say it.”

His eyes are dark and earnest and serious in a way that feels ill-suited for the bright diner lights.

“Oh-kay,” Eddie says slowly. Two syllables. “Steve, then.”

“Thank you.”

Polite motherfucker.

“What’s your favorite song?” Steve asks. His tone, his facial expression, is weirdly intense for such a nondescript question.

Eddie purses his lips. “Right now? Or like, of all time?”

“No. Well, sure, I’d like to know those too. But I mean, if you had to pick a song that would bring you back to yourself, that would—that makes you feel most connected to yourself. What would it be?”

Eddie…doesn’t know. It’s not a question he’s ever had to ask himself before and he could lie, he could just pick something, but he wants to answer the question with the same level of gravitas that Steve asked it.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “That’s a heavy ask.”

“It is.”

“What’s yours?”

Steve’s fingers, folding the paper from his straw into smaller and smaller rectangles, go still.

“Oh. Uh. Probably Holy Diver.”

“Probably?”

“No. Definitely,” he says quietly.

“Why that song?”

Steve meets his eyes. His mouth parts with an inhale.

A sudden beeping interrupts whatever he was going to say and Steve glances down at his digital watch, looking relieved.

It’s 6:59. The face is blinking with an alarm.

“Sorry,” he says, “Sorry I need to––I’ll be right back.”

And then he shoulders his duffle bag and slides out of the booth and into the hallway to the bathroom.

What. The. Fuck.

Obviously, Eddie follows him.

He nudges open the door, just a crack, with the toe of his boot. He can’t see anything except for the metal of a stall door, but he can hear a zipper—too long to be pants. The soft clatter of plastic on plastic. A metallic slide. A beep. And then, the static of a walkie talkie.

“Roll call,” Steve says quietly. “Over.”

“This is Will,” a kid’s voice answers promptly, only slightly distorted from the radio’s speaker. “Just got home. I’m checking in for me, my mom, Jonathan, and Nance. There’s been some slight activity at the shed gate but we’re all good. Over.”

What the hell is a ‘shed gate,’ Eddie wonders.

“This is Dustin.” A second kid’s voice follows. “Checking in for me and Mike. We’re all good. Over.”

“This is Lucas,” a third says, “checking in for me and Erica. We’re all good. Over.”

“This is Robin,” says a fourth voice and Eddie’s pretty sure that voice belongs to Robin Buckley. “I’m all good. Over.”

“Hopper,” a fifth voice says. And that’s—is that fucking chief Hopper? “And El,” A girl’s voice adds. “And El,” Hopper corrects. “We had an issue with the lake gate earlier today but El took care of it. Spoke with Murray and we’re still on target for a showdown in 2 weeks. Over.”

Lake gate?

“Steve, are you with Eddie right now? Over.” A girl asks—and Eddie is so lost. How did he get here, listening to a kid he doesn’t know say his name through a walkie-talkie to Steve Harrington hiding in a bathroom.

“Yeah,” Steve says. “And I need to get back to him. Talk to you guys in the morning.”

“How come you get to hang out with him and we don’t?” One of the boys whines, before adding on a belated, “over.”

“If you can come up with an excuse to hang out with him that doesn’t sound batshit crazy, I’m all ears. But until then only me and Robin are allowed to interact with him, okay? At least we go to the same school. I’m trying not to freak him out.”

“Yeah, and you’re doing such a great job of that so far,” snarks someone else. “Over.”

“Ok,” Steve grates out. “I’m trying not to freak him out any more than I already have.”

“Steve,” one of the kids says, “You keep forgetting to end with ‘over.’”

“Swear to fucking god,” Steve mutters. “Okay, children,” he says louder, “Stay out of trouble, do your homework, and go the fuck to sleep on time, over.”

Beep.

Metal on metal.

A zipper.

Eddie scurries back to the booth.

“So,” he says brightly when Steve slides back across from him. “Your character?”

Pt. 5

[let me know if you want to get on the tag list. This sucker is going to be at least 10 parts]

#steddie #steddie fic #stranger things fic #time travel fix it

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tsukii0002 · 2 years

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Mammom: what a low score!! Even the great Mammon has had a better result.

Mc:...

Levi: that's not something to be proud Mammon, but... Yeah that's a low score lol

Mc:...

Asmo: Mc, dear, it something wrong? It's just some potions test

Belphie: you should have no problem, I mean, it is a easy task

Mc:...

Beel: *worried* you should study more or Lucifer will be mad atyou.

Lucifer: *sighs* Mc, beel is right, you should put more effort, it's not too much to memorize

Mc:...

A few hours later in the house of Lamentation.

Mammon: please Mc, stop this... *practically crying* I don't know what it is.

Mc: What is the problem? It is just syntax Mammon, use this to parse the sentence.

Levi: *sobbing* it doesn't make sense!!!, why do we have to do something like that?? what is the objetive?!

Mc: don't be dramatic, it's something human kid do in elementary school, you're a big demon Levi, it shoul be easy peasyfor you.

Asmo: Mc!! This is horrible!!, I like nutrients but not this way!!! What is a covalent bond??

Mc: is something wrong Asmo? It's just a little chmistry, you're a smart demon, you can do it!!

Belphie: I understand, Im sorry, I was an asshole, but please dont make me do this.

Mc: they are just arrays Belphie, they are a easy task you should not have problem whith them.

Beel: Mc I'm sorry, please... this is impossible, what this means?

Mc: oh Beel, it is not impossible, it is literature and it may mean anything or may mean nothing.

Lucifer:..

Mc: hey Luci, you have learned America’s rivers, but you are missing the rest of the continent. Not so much to memorize, don't you think?

Satan is watching from afar. He is the only one who has been smart enough not to mess whith Mc for their grades.

Satan: when do you plan to stop? They will have nightmares for days.

Mc: I'm not going to stom. That way they will learn to not mess with me. They don't know what I learned in the damn school.

Satan: oh Mc, torture from knowledge... Without a doubt, you would be my ideal partner.

I have to admit that now a days I could not learn all that (and half of things have not served me at all) the university has changed me, now I am a sieve of knowledge, everdate pass without staying in my mind. My child self would sweep the ground with my current self, and it seems that with the brothers as well.

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xalygatorx · 4 months

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Unbound | Chapter 10, "What You Want"

Áine Ts'sambra—a wayward half-drow bard with a painful past—has her world upended when she's snatched up by a Nautiloid ship and furnished with a tadpole to the brain. In her journey to remove the infestation before it can turn her and her newfound companions illithid, she not only finds that their solution has more layers to parse through than she can count, but that a particular vampire in her party does as well.

Unbound is an ongoing generally SFW medium-burn romance based in the world of Baldur's Gate 3 between Astarion and a female OC. Any NSFW content will be marked in the Warnings section. Contains angst, fluff, explorations of trauma, spice, graphic fantasy violence, and a guaranteed happy ending.

For anything additional on what to expect (and not expect), check the preface post.

Summary: The party has reached the Grove after a stressful few days on the road from the goblin camp. The tiefling refugees and Zevlor join their camp for the night to celebrate their victory and rest up before resuming their journey to Baldur’s Gate. While making her rounds, Áine receives a proposition from Astarion.

Pairing: Astarion x Fem!OC

Warnings: 18+/NSFW (p-in-v sex); Astarion romance scene #1 spoilers; suggestive content & dialogue; angst; trauma (intrusive thoughts, self-loathing); lightly proofread; encouraging comments welcome to assuage my anxiety over whether I could do Astarion’s inner monologue justice here hahaha jk unless

Word Count: 8.3k

Listening to: White Winter Hymnal - Fleet Foxes, I Will Love You (Even If It Kills Me) - Too Far Moon (again)

“When I come near, your odor alone is enough to make my neck sweat and my hairs stand on end.”

Easily able to hear the conversation taking place in front of Lae’zel’s tent, Astarion snuck a glance at Áine’s expression, seeing if he could gauge her interest based on look alone. He nearly shot the piss this lot passed for wine through his nose at the sight of her impossibly rounded chocolate eyes and the polite smile plastered across her lips. His mind cemented that sight into a memory that he could only hope would enter his reverie’s nightly rotation and serve to chase at least one recollection of the horrors he’d endured back to its rightful shadows.

Then again, even if caught off-guard, perhaps she’d say “yes” to Lae’zel. He focused back on their conversation and turned his gaze toward the tieflings drunkenly mingling nearby to obscure his intrusion.

“I want to taste you,” Lae’zel was saying, her confidence palpable. It was an honest pride, unlike the sort Astarion wore at times, he realized. She truly believed these things of herself and he envied her for it. “Perhaps tonight. Perhaps later. But I want it all the same.”

Astarion listened with figuratively bated breath for Áine’s answer. He would make his final advances tonight regardless of what she told Lae’zel or anyone else. 200 years’ worth of perfecting his methods under threat of torturous punishment from Cazador would not be for nothing when he finally had a personal use for his skills. If she said “yes” to anyone else, then the plan would simply adjust rather than fail, just like when he’d thought she was seeing Shadowheart.

Not particularly to his surprise but to his benefit, Áine was in the process of letting the githyanki down gently. “I’m sorry, Lae’zel, I don’t feel the same way. But thank you. I think.” Astarion smirked, obscuring his expression behind another sip of whatever acrid brew lay in his wine bottle.

For the time being, he let his attention wander across the party and their guests, letting the rest of their conversation wrap up without his ear. Áine seemed to be making the rounds around the camp and all its residents, regular and temporary, so she would eventually end up at his tent as well. And if she didn’t, he supposed he’d go seek her out, but Astarion had complete confidence that she’d come. Several times, if all went accordingly.

Meanwhile, Lae’zel was taking Áine’s polite rejection with as much confidence as she’d delivered its related proposition. “Your loss, I fear,” she said, still smiling. “One day soon you will wonder how my lips might have tasted. How my fingers on your skin might’ve felt… And you will wish you could return to this lost moment.”

Áine wasn’t often at a loss for words, but she was now. And yet still she admired Lae’zel’s self-assured demeanor where most would have crumbled in her place at being rejected for a post-party romp. In fact, she’d seen a couple of those responses firsthand already just that night. She was beginning to think Shadowheart may have been onto something when she’d told her all those nights ago that the majority of their camp wanted a shot at her. The idea made her more anxious than flattered.

With Lae’zel and her steady unfazed response, however, Áine allowed herself to just feel flattered. “If that does come to pass, I know I’ll have no one but myself to blame,” she said, smiling. “I hope I’m as confident in myself as you are someday.”

Lae’zel smiled back at her, the tilt of her thin lips no longer holding a sensual edge but one of camaraderie. “You deserve to be. I can firmly state that your only major fault that I have witnessed thus far has been your taste in mating partners,” she said. Áine laughed, content to sit in self-deprecation as Lae’zel added, “Oh, but do enjoy yourself this night. I intend to, myself. Wyll or Astarion in particular both look rather tempting...”

Áine’s brows rose, her eyes sliding toward where Astarion stood at his tent. He watched the party with an expression flitting between amusement and a glower, occasionally raising a green glass wine bottle to his lips and seeming to regret it every time. Despite the twisty faces he pulled, he was immaculate as always. Just looking at him made her chest tighten a little, as had begun to happen any time he caught her eye in the past few days. Truly, she’d felt that twinge ever since he’d kissed her that night which already felt like so long ago.

And amidst that twinge at Lae’zel’s mention of propositioning Astarion was…jealousy? She had no right to be jealous, but she—unlike a certain vampire—could admit that she was. Perhaps he’d be taken with a proposition from Lae’zel, after all. She didn’t hold any sort of right to him and he could do whatever he liked. A simple fling was also often preferable in these times and a much easier task to manage for most, and Áine wasn’t most. As much as it ate at her, she supposed it might be best for all parties if his fancies turned elsewhere and she could start squashing the feelings growing inside her.

“Well, I just passed Wyll on the beach for whatever it’s worth,” Áine told Lae’zel. “And you can, of course, see your other interest from here… Whatever you do tonight, Lae’zel, I hope you have a nice time.”

“And you as well,” Lae’zel said, inclining her head. Áine couldn’t help but feel heartened when she saw the githyanki’s gaze flicker first toward the beach rather than the tent adjacent to hers.

Áine made her way around the tents further back from the fire, careful to give Gale’s tent a wide berth following their own exchange earlier in the night. His advance she’d seen coming more easily than Lae’zel’s, which had come out of left field, but it hadn’t made her any more ready for it. No matter how sorry she felt and how she communicated that to him, he still tried and seemed increasingly bitter toward her responses each time.

She’d feared something similar from Wyll, but with his new devilish appearance courtesy of Mizora’s punishment for his refusal to kill Karlach—which had come to pass during their trek back to the Grove—he was more doused in angst than anything down by the shoreline. Áine sighed to herself as she approached Halsin, her dour expression fading only to offer a smile and wave to Mol as she passed by. She hoped that Wyll found it in himself to join the party before it wound to a close. Of all the people who might judge him for his new appearance, she really didn’t think the refugees he’d helped so much would be among them.

“Halsin!” Áine greeted the Archdruid over the jubilant, but occasionally raucous party noise around them. She took in his empty hands and asked, “Can I grab you a drink?”

“Oh, no thank you,” he chuckled. “In truth, I rarely imbibe. The stuff goes right to my head and, before you know it, I’d be breaking into song or declaring love to the first person I lay eyes on.”

Áine laughed. “That hardly sounds like a detriment to a good party, but no pressure, of course,” she said.

With all the other noise in the vicinity, Astarion now found Áine’s conversation to be out of earshot, only able to pick up the occasional dulcet note of her voice amongst the clamor. It was most certainly not because he’d grown accustomed to seeking out her voice. At the thought, he remembered seeing her by the fireside just a few nights back with tears streaming down her face, her fingers still positioned diligently against her lute strings.

Astarion pulled a face and took another swallow of wine, which caused him to pull an even stronger face. Bleeding Hells, he wanted a proper vintage, but more than that he wanted to know what that tree trunk of an elf had just done to make her grin like that!

“But I digress,” Halsin was saying, “there are many grateful people here who want to spend time with you. Go on now, don’t waste a night like this talking to me. We will discuss your problem tomorrow.”

Áine frowned at both halves of his statement. “Firstly, it wouldn’t be a waste. But second, I thought you said we could run through some things once we reached the Grove. But we’re putting off the conversation again?”

Halsin frowned. “I understand your eagerness. However, it is something better discussed on a fresh morning, I think. Your parasite shows no further signs of turning before the morrow and a well-deserved night of recreation and rest awaits you.” He offered her an encouraging smile and waved her on. “Enjoy yourself. Seek out some wine before it runs dry—there are a lot of thirsty people around here.”

Yeah, no kidding, Áine thought, artfully dodging both Lae’zel’s and Gale’s eyes as she was dismissed from Halsin’s company. She trotted along toward Shadowheart’s tent, dodging a very tipsy Bex and some other well-drunk tieflings along the way. Áine couldn’t help the smile that formed on her lips at seeing everyone so happy. Even if they ran into trouble on the morrow, like Halsin had said, at least they had tonight.

“Everyone seems to be in high spirits, don’t they?” Shadowheart suggested as she drew closer, brandishing a silver goblet. “Can I tempt you?”

Áine paused heavily, suddenly uncertain of what she meant and opting for caution. “...With what?”

Shadowheart’s lips curled into an amused smile. “Wine and glorious friendship.”

“Yes, please,” Áine said, drawing a chuckle from Shadowheart. “Sorry, it’s been a minefield out there tonight. I’ve begun to err on the side of overcareful.”

“I told you that the others were firmly on the prowl,” the cleric said, pouring a goblet for Áine. “Even more true now than it was when I first said it. At least you’ve almost gone full circle at this point, only one or two more stops to make if I’ve paid appropriate attention.” Behind a sip of wine, she mumbled, “Only one of high importance though by my estimation…”

“What was that?” Áine challenged her with a laugh at how utterly smug Shadowheart looked after she lowered her goblet again. The bard took a sip of the wine she’d been gifted, her brows rising as the rich fruity notes graced her tongue. “My goodness, where did you find this?”

Shadowheart gave Áine an ambiguous look that reeked of mischief. “I may have nicked one of the vintages that Wyll stashed away in his tent,” she said. “But you’ll never get me to admit such a second time.”

Áine laughed. “Shadowheart, shame on you!”

“What?! You probably pilfered this bottle, yourself, before the little rat scurried off with it,” she pointed out, refilling her goblet with abandon. “He can’t steal every good wine he sees for himself, he has to share with the class. I’ve simply liberated a single bottle as a treat and you’re welcome for it.”

Áine couldn’t help the amused smirk that found her lips, the heady wine layering on top of the weaker blends she’d already taken that night—many of those pressed into her hands by happy attendees wanting to share their spoils—and making her head pleasantly swim. “Thank you for sharing,” Áine said with a sassy curtsey, a gesture returned by Shadowheart as the two giggled. “What did you mean by ‘only one of importance’?”

“You know what I meant,” Shadowheart said, taking a deep sip of her wine. “Unless I’ve missed you speaking to him, but I daresay I haven’t.”

“Astarion?” Áine asked and, at Shadowheart’s dubious look, she said, “I haven’t just yet. Not for any reason, I just—”

“Prefer to save the best for last?” Shadowheart suggested. Áine started to speak but ended up pursing her lips, silenced by embarrassment. The cleric grinned triumphantly. “Well, go on, what’s the concern? Are you worried he’ll join the list of people to ask you to bed tonight?”

“No!” Áine said but quickly recanted. “I mean, a little.”

Shadowheart measured Áine’s expression before she slowly asked, “...or are you worried he won’t join that list?”

“I don’t know,” Áine admitted. “For all the reasons we discussed, this sort of thing is a big deal for me in ways that usually just inconvenience others. And while I felt guilty turning down Lae’zel, Karlach, and Gale, I—”

“Karlach, too?” Shadowheart asked, surprised. “I must’ve missed that conversation.”

“She was the first I said ‘hello’ to tonight,” Áine said, “and she was very kind about it. Like you were.”

“That should be the standard, you know,” Shadowheart pointed out. “Anything less than respect shouldn’t be tolerated.”

“Do you know how many people I would have had to ‘not tolerate’ if I followed that rule?” Áine sighed. “And that isn’t a ‘oh look at me, people want to have sex with me’ sort of brag, it’s just the uncomfortable truth.”

Shadowheart frowned. “I suppose. At least you don’t people-please. I would worry about you more if you did.” Áine’s heart warmed at the cleric’s protective tone. “Right, so which are you hoping for then? That he’ll ask or he won’t? Because I’m wagering he will, for whatever that’s worth.”

Áine blushed. “I truly don’t know. I suppose I’ll know if he suggests something,” she said. “That’s all to say if he even does. Lae’zel had an eye on him earlier, so who knows? He may have plans by the time I end up talking to him.”

“You’re counting on that, aren’t you?” Shadowheart asked suddenly. “Because it’s easier than facing the decision yourself.”

“You’re alarmingly observant when you’re drinking,” Áine remarked. She sighed. “It’s all been tension so far and it’s been…nice. I’ve never been interested in someone like this before and I’m afraid I’ll mess it up. By what I’m like as a person, as a partner, or by my actions in the moment. By doubting myself and the truth of my feelings.”

Shadowheart studied Áine, taking a deep breath and releasing it in a sigh. “Far be it from me to encourage you toward that rakish vampire—and, believe me, I don’t believe his intentions to be pure regardless of who he associates with—but if one of you is to ‘ruin’ whatever you have going on, it will not be you. And if you do then so be it,” she said, shrugging. She swirled her wine around her goblet, looking at its dark currents thoughtfully. “In my experience, the regret we feel at not seeking something out is stronger than that which we feel at seeking something out and finding it wasn’t what we thought.”

Shadowheart’s gaze lifted back to Áine’s. “All that to say, at least you’ll know if you try. But do be careful. I am a cleric after all and can fashion a stake in mere minutes if need be.”

Áine gave her a tender smile and collected Shadowheart into a hug. “Thank you.”

Shadowheart hugged the bard close, resting her chin against her shoulder and gently patting her back. Over Áine’s shoulder, she caught Astarion’s eye who was attempting a surreptitious glance their way. He froze when they locked eyes, at least until Shadowheart gave him a teasing wag of her brows while she still held the object of his interest in her arms.

Astarion scoffed and looked away with a roll of his eyes, causing Shadowheart to chuckle. Áine felt the movement of her chest against her own and asked, “What is it?”

“Oh, nothing,” Shadowheart said as they parted, sipping her wine. “Here, have one for the road,” she added as she topped off Áine’s goblet. “And, again…be careful. But also enjoy yourself.”

Shyly, Áine smiled and inclined her head in thanks for the advice and the wine. Sipping from her goblet as she turned to head back into the fray, Áine’s eyes wandered the party, but they of course settled in a predictable spot. Astarion’s vibrant crimson eyes caught hers the moment she did, snaring her attention as wholly as ever and affirming that she would indeed have to face whatever would end up surfacing between them that night. Perhaps nothing would—but the possibility of “something” unnerved and electrified her at once.

Clutching the goblet from Shadowheart in her palm like a lifeline, Áine crossed the distance to where Astarion stood waiting, contemplating his bottle and the wine within until she stood before him. “Good evening so far?” Áine wondered, measuring what was gone from the bottle he held to try to determine that.

“It is now,” he said, smooth as ever. Áine gave him a scolding look but couldn’t keep the smile from her lips. Astarion smirked and commented, “You know, I never pictured myself as a hero. Never thought I’d be the one they’d toast for saving so many lives. And now that I’m here…”

Áine watched him pause to take a long sip of his wine before he finished his thought. “I hate it. This is awful.”

The bard laughed. “Surely it can’t be so bad? We did a good thing.”

“The tally of lives didn’t change much—a few goblins killed to save a few tieflings,” he said with a shrug. “And what do I get for all my hard work? A pat on the head and vinegar for wine.”

“Oh stop, you got to kill a horde of goblins, too,” Áine chastised him, her tone affectionate despite her scolding. “And the wine is not that bad.”

Astarion’s brows rose and he challenged her by offering the bottle. Áine rolled her eyes and shook her head, but took the bottle in her free hand, tilting it back to take a sip. When a rich, dry red wine hit her tongue, she looked at the bottle and then at Astarion, bewildered at how he could find anything wrong with the blend.

He mistook her baffled expression for distaste. “See what I mean? Awful!”

Áine licked her lips, a motion that Astarion followed with keen interest, as she looked back down at the bottle. “It tastes relatively normal to me, but perhaps our palates differ,” she suggested, although she was wondering why he was trying to drink wine in the first place. He’d told her and Gale once in passing conversation that any food he’d tried since turning tasted wrong on the tongue, wouldn’t wine have the same result? Maybe he wasn’t ready to accept that yet. “Try mine?” Áine offered instead, holding out her goblet. She decided to withhold that it was an expensive vintage for now until he tried it. For science, of course.

Astarion took the goblet she offered, his wintry touch ghosting across her warm skin and, she thought, lingering a bit longer than usual. When she stole a glance at his face, she found him watching her with an intensity that caught her off-guard. Without breaking eye contact, he tried the wine she offered him, and she saw his throat work again before he said, “I admit it is better, but still leaves much to be desired.”

Áine wasn’t going to be the one to tell him that wine wouldn’t taste good to him anymore if even these decadent reds didn’t pique his interest. She didn’t have a death wish.

Astarion handed her back her goblet, politely refusing the bottle when she tried to return it to him, giving up on that one completely. He sighed loudly. “All I want is a little fun. Is that so much to ask?” he griped.

Áine was occasionally sipping the wine from her goblet, resting her lips against the rim even when she wasn’t. The cool metal was a helpful grounding tool. She snorted a little, glancing toward the festivities taking place all around them. “And what do you consider ‘a little fun’?” she asked. Here it was—either he’d suggest something akin to what everyone else seemed to be hungry for that night or he’d flip her expectations and crave something else. Violence, perhaps. Mischief, most certainly.

“By the Hells. Sex, my dear. A night of passion.”

Shadowheart had been right. Áine paused heavily, her lips still brushing the rim of her goblet as she looked up at him and studied his expression. He had his rake mask on, not a crack in it to be seen.

While she introspected a little at how his suggestion made her feel, she said aloud, “Ah, I see,” with a soft laugh. As somewhat of a test, Áine nodded toward Lae’zel’s tent and informed him, “I was talking to Lae’zel a little bit ago and she mentioned having half a mind to seek you out for some extracurricular. For what that’s worth.”

Astarion’s brows rose. “Is that what you want?”

Now it was Áine’s turn to be confused. “What do you mean? You said you wanted sex.”

“Yes, and you’ve suggested that I seek out Lae’zel, or let her seek me out,” Astarion said. “Is that what you’d prefer I do?”

Áine frowned at him. “I want you to do what you want to do. Always. Consider it a heads-up, if nothing else.”

There was that assertion of autonomy again. Astarion didn’t know how to handle her when conversations took this turn. He hardly knew how to handle himself and he hated that feeling. The rest of it, he craved. Dangerously. However, Astarion also craved needling her a little. “Right, now who’s jealous?” he accused with a crooked smirk.

Áine gave him a sideways look that reeked of disapproval, which only egged him on. “I am not jealous,” she declared, but she was lying and they both knew it. Instead of continuing to persist, she grumbled into her goblet and took a deep gulp of wine.

He watched her intently, gauging every microexpression in her pretty face as he said, “What if what I want is a night with you?” Her face visibly warmed over and she didn’t speak right away. He found himself filling the silence when she didn’t. “I know, me and everyone else this eve. It wouldn’t take my specialized range of hearing to guess that you’ve had such a proposition at every stop tonight.”

“Shadowheart didn’t ask,” she supplied, her lips pursing as she realized he was pretty much correct about the others. “Wyll didn’t either.”

“Shadowheart doesn’t surprise me. She already took her shot,” Astarion commented, his unanswered question hanging painfully in the air while they chitchatted around it. “Wyll does surprise me though.”

Áine shrugged and inclined her head back toward the beach. “He’s having a time. When I checked on him earlier, he wasn’t keen on joining the festivities. He’s still adjusting to his new look and he was wary of the tieflings seeing him like that.”

Astarion scoffed. “Was he, now? Oh, boo-hoo, ‘no one at the tiefling party knows how hard it is to have horns,’ now that makes complete sense,” he remarked.

“Shush,” Áine half-cackled, giving him a playful shove. “Gods, that’s not funny. You’re positively evil for making me laugh at that.”

Astarion smirked. “An absolute villain, I know,” he bantered back. He’d stepped closer to Áine after she’d given him her little shove and he was comfortably cloaked in her bouquet—the delicious, tempting scent of her blood combined with soap and mint leaves. “Did you want Wyll to ask you?” he asked, dropping his voice to a low husk.

Áine shook her head, having to tilt her head back some to meet his eyes when he was this close. “No. I was relieved that he didn’t,” she said honestly. The quiet stretched again, and then apropos of his earlier question, Áine finally gave him a slow nod. “I would say yes, by the way.”

Astarion was a little slower on the uptake, unsure if she was referencing back to his original question or if he was experiencing a form of wishful thinking. “Yes to what, dearest?”

Áine swallowed against a suddenly tight throat and replied, “To you. If what you wanted…was me.”

Astarion gave her a rakish smile. “But we’re not jealous, are we?”

Áine gave him a hard look in return. “Don’t make me change my mind.”

“Fine, fine,” the vampire said with a chuckle, raising his hands in surrender. “Once things quiet down… Once everyone’s asleep, we’ll find each other.” Astarion nodded toward the far side of their camp. “The little glade we set up in when we last passed through here isn’t far from here… That should give us plenty of privacy to…get to know each other better.”

Still a little timid, Áine nodded back. She was nervous, but it was a nice sort of nervous. One might even call it “butterflies.” Gods, she was deep in it already. However, she’d decided she would follow what her gut told her to do this time and when he’d suggested that he wanted to spend the night with her, the thrill that had hummed through her bones and the heat that had warmed her from her belly to her heart told her all she needed to know. She wanted to know what happened next for them.

To him, she said, “I suppose I’ll see you there, then.”

Astarion smiled, the expression perfectly dashing and sensual as he murmured, “Indeed, you will, my love… Indeed, you will.”

His voice and the words he wrapped within it did funny things to her heart and Áine gave him a look before that look crumbled into a soft laugh and a smile. “Right,” she murmured, handing him her goblet. “I leave you the ‘still much to be desired but better’ wine and will now make myself scarce.”

Astarion accepted her offering and raised the goblet to her as she stepped away. In truth, the wine she’d offered him was as acrid as what was in the bottle she took with her, but it was less to choke down, he supposed. Someday perhaps he would admit to himself that wine was as much off the table as any other consumable that wasn’t blood, but today was not that day.

He watched his little bard find her way to Alfira, greeting the other woman with a fond hug and finding herself immediately furnished with a borrowed flute. Subconsciously, he rotated the goblet against the press of his lower lip until he found where she’d rested the metal against hers, her warmth still lingering there. Astarion closed his lips over the spot, disguising his fixation with a sip of wine that nearly drained what remained in the goblet.

As his eyes traced Áine’s movements—her dancing while she and Alfira performed, the rise and fall of her breasts as she portioned her breath between the flute and her steps, every time her hair caught the light of the fire or the moon peeking over the canopy, the joyful sparkle in her eyes that he found himself hoping he represented one small part of—he took a moment to collect himself.

Astarion, at no fault to himself or his allure, had been almost certain that she would give him the polite “no” she’d delivered around the camp several times already that evening. He’d had competition from their allies, even from some of the tieflings, and even though he knew he was the obviously correct choice amongst them all, she’d still picked him of her own volition. He was positively preening, but he was also wary. Wary of how easily this singular woman’s “yes” had set him aflame, the “heart of a schoolboy” feeling anew yet again, and also how the personal stock he was developing in winning her over might cause him to make a mistake.

This is a transaction, he reminded himself firmly. Sex was always a transaction, regardless of feeling. He’d learned that swift and soon and had been reminded of it every day since that first time allowed out of the kennels to prowl the streets and lure back a prize he’d deliver to his master. His former master.

Astarion’s jaw set. This was hardly any different. He’d chosen her as a target, an easy one at that, and would follow through on executing his plan as he’d originally intended. The only difference was that he’d get to keep this prize and its benefits of protection. He’d never have to hunt, to lie, to bed for another’s gain again.

He was in control of this situation, he reminded himself as he returned his pensive stare to its subject, teaching himself to dismiss the things that transfixed him. He wouldn’t be controlled by her or by his feelings for her, he wouldn’t be tricked into a vulnerable position, into servitude, into capture by the tangential side-effects of physical intimacy. Astarion brought those additional walls down around his mind and heart, remembering his foolish attachments from those first few victims he took in Cazador’s name. The guilt, the heartache, the shreds of hope—all of it had simply added to his misery in those sparse stone dungeon rooms after he’d delivered those first ill-chosen innocent souls to their fate.

Misery would have no company from him. Never again.

It occurred to him later, while slipping off his shirt under the cloak of shadow just past the trees circling the clearing, that despite telling himself that he was in full control of the entire situation, the entire seduction, that he was awfully anxious for that to be true in its entirety.

Astarion chalked it up to how much of his guaranteed personal safety relied on this and also from the mild pressure he’d felt start to build by being the partner Áine had chosen out of several available options. It was different than seducing someone in a tavern or from a street corner. He wouldn’t be taking her to her death afterward—he’d see her the next day, travel on as usual, and likely even sleep with her again at some point if she asked or he felt a need to renew his “contract,” so to speak. And he had no doubt she’d ask. But it was something quite different to know that this encounter wouldn’t be the last he had with someone.

He worried the inside of his lower lip with the edge of one fang, firmly pushing down the anxiety rising in him that made as little sense as the foreign symptoms of desire that he’d only seen in others who looked upon him for ages but hadn’t felt within his own body for centuries.

Astarion grumbled at his physical betrayals, setting his well-worn and oft-repaired ruffled shirt down on the grass in front of him as he sifted through his mind for some of his best lines, the ones he felt most comfortable delivering and also a few with a good track record for success. “I’ve wanted you from the first moment I laid eyes on you,” was always a strong choice. And it was a line he’d used a thousand times over as well. That would help him numb himself a bit and dissociate from what was soon to come.

Or so he hoped, anyway. Maybe she’d changed her mind or passed out after all the wine and dancing had taken their toll on her.

He’d no sooner thought that than he heard familiar, hesitant footsteps working their way from the direction of the campsite. Astarion’s mouth twitched with a faint smile that echoed a feeling of triumph, of anticipation…and of something bittersweet. He wasn’t a monster, after all. He did feel a touch guilty for reeling her in like this. The poor thing was infatuated, just as he’d intended for her to be, but he knew quite well he’d played the rake as well as ever. Of course she was entranced by his practiced façade. He’d yet to meet someone he’d tried to seduce who didn’t end up under the spell of its glamor.

It is, after all, all you’re good for.

Astarion dropped his head forward, wincing at the voice in his head reciting something Cazador had told him so many times that Astarion had begun to hear it in his own voice, telling himself the truth of things. He heard the footsteps nearby when they crossed the edge of the clearing, and then when they stopped, too.

He shelved the despair that clawed its way forward with incrementally more success in each attempt to overtake him again. There was no Cazador in this scenario, there would never be again. The only person he needed to worry about for the moment was growing evermore hesitant just shy of his hiding place and would retreat to camp if he didn’t show himself soon.

Roughly, lovelessly, Astarion rubbed himself through the taut leather of his pants, his jaw tightening as familiar nausea seeped into the pit of his stomach. He winced as his own touch turned harsher, hateful even. His mind recited old lines, ones he was soon to use on a surely unsuspecting Áine and ones he used on himself to ensure he would perform as he must. Remember to tell them how much you want this, he ran through in his head, his palm still grinding against his cock until his anatomy was bullied into arousal. Now stay hard until she finishes. This is your payment. This is a trade. Remember that and remember to smile.

One shuddering breath later, Astarion donned the mask as professionally as ever, all traces of self-loathing, of pain, of grief for what he’d lost neatly leeched from his exterior, nestled like a leaden ball behind his bared chest, where his heart should’ve beat. And then he stepped out into the moonlight.

Áine was still there but looked as though she was just considering heading back. She stilled her step when he showed himself and he watched her eyes trace down his torso, across his muscular arms, before they snapped back to meet his. She reminded him of a fawn, which was a far cry from the hellion he knew she could be—it made seeing her like this that much more new, that much more a secret between them. He’d be gentle with this prey, Astarion told himself, eager to hang onto this vision rather than the more dangerous alternative of looking at her and seeing her. If this endured, he would remain fully in control.

“There you are,” he greeted her, remembering to smile. “I’ve been waiting.” Astarion inclined his head as he approached her, his gaze trailing languidly across her clothed body, noting where the fabric clung to a curve, where it draped across her toned limbs.

He also kept a speculative eye on her expressions and how she reacted to him, body and words. Her attraction to him was consistent in how it gave her away—he could feel her heat already from where she stood, just at arm’s length, and hear her heart flutter first in nerves and then in wanting. Astarion noticed that the more of this he took in, the less nauseous he seemed to feel, perhaps because his attention was elsewhere. Áine smiled at him, either what he offered or what he’d said pleasing to her.

Emboldened, Astarion added, his voice a calculated, sensual husk, “Waiting since the moment I set eyes on you… Waiting to have you.”

Something about that didn’t land. Áine gave him a peculiar look although her smile lingered and he wasn’t sure what had tipped her off. He’d heard himself give a flawless delivery of a line that had made many a man, maiden, all weak at the knees.

Áine smirked as she fiddled with the ties of her shirt, rolling the tiny knotted ends between her fingertips. “Before or after the headbutt?” she asked. “Or perhaps because of the headbutt?”

Shit.

Astarion pursed his lips, already mentally lashing himself and working on a recovery. Of course she’d found that funny rather than sexy—he hadn’t accounted for how different their meeting had been from the others he’d scouted. They were no sensual brush of hands in a tavern near closing, no whispered word against the ear whose echo carried only to an inn room door, no loveless meeting of eyes in a darkened street where the fire of carnal favors were the only ones with light on offer.

They were a dagger to the throat, an offer for companionship, a roll in the dirt, and yes, even a headbutt when he hadn’t let her go the first time she’d asked. They were a quiet conversation fireside, a snarky comment and an answering laugh, a sometimes-bard and sometimes-swordswoman with a sneak-thief archer protecting her flank, an injury and a salve in perfect alternation thus far.

The part of the salve this night it seemed, Áine smiled at him, the crescent of her lips warm and inviting and putting the moon above them to shame. “I could always replicate our meeting,” she offered. “You don’t have me yet, you know.”

“Don’t I?” Astarion challenged her, a little unnerved by her now. She was turning the tables by flirting with him, by seducing him. He couldn’t recall ever being seduced. Never needed to be, really. And he didn’t need to be now either, but it felt…nice to have her eyes on him, to be met with a—he cursed himself for even thinking it—partner in this sense. There was no power struggle either, it seemed, which was also new. His earlier attempts to keep his mind away from Áine as a person rather than something to hunt and catch were failing one after another and the way she spoke to him felt kind and playful. She spoke to him like an equal as much as she ever had. “You’re here, after all. And…I don’t think you want to talk.”

“No?” Áine bantered back seamlessly. Perhaps his slip had been to his benefit. She seemed somehow more relaxed, more interested than before, even when his little lines had been working. What a strange one you are, he thought, still studying her as she asked, “What do I want, then?”

He was back on track. “I think,” Astarion purred, stepping closer as his hand traced the air around her, not yet moving to touch her, “you want to be known.” He smiled at her meaningfully. “To be tasted.”

Áine’s lower lip caught between her teeth. He could feel the heat coming off her skin as her blush deepened, he could smell her desire and it could only rival the bouquet of her life’s blood that he’d come to recognize without question. An alien sensation coursed through him and went straight to his cock where it still pressed against the seamed leather of his trousers. It jarred him and, were he any less broken, he may have thought that had been his own first taste of desire. But Astarion felt nothing when it came to sex. He’d been broken of that long ago. It hadn’t even taken a year.

She interrupted his internalized confusion when she turned the tables on him yet again. “And what do you want?” Áine asked, her voice hushed into a murmur that sent a shiver up Astarion’s spine. No, it was the air. A wayward breeze, he corrected viciously. She wasn’t allowed this sort of influence on him, this was what he meant to do to her. And clearly was, but…had he ever been asked what he wanted? Especially on the precipice of carnal pleasure?

What did he want?

His hesitation did not breach his mask. “What do any of us want? Pleasure,” he reasoned simply, perfectly present while his thoughts careened down forbidden paths. The best he could do was block out his wayward mind, focus on what he had complete control over at last—his body. And yet wasn’t he just repeating its most habitual motions? Now wasn’t the time to question himself. “Yours. Mine. Our collective ecstasy.”

Astarion could see the way her eyes grew heavy with lust, the cadence of his voice purposeful and near-hypnotic. He could see her beginning to bend—he simply needed her to break. “That’s what you want, isn’t it? To lose yourself in me?”

Part of him wanted her to say “no.” Not to refuse him, but to tell him that wasn’t what she wanted. To tell him that this was somehow more than just a bit of dissociation, at least for him, more than what he logically knew it really was. And she did see something in his eyes, or so it seemed to him, that made her hesitate.

Yet as different as she was from anyone and everyone before her, Astarion artfully derailed her train of thought with the simple gesture of skimming his fingers up the length of her arm, her skin like summer against his icy touch. Áine leaned in toward him, her lashes fluttered, and a soft sigh eased her lips apart. It was all the answer he needed, the only one he was comfortable receiving despite all his contrary wishes. Astarion smiled and whispered, “I thought so.”

Áine’s eyes remained conflicted despite their lack of focus and Astarion relied on his distractions winning out before he could discover what had her faltering. He couldn’t stop to wonder if he’d let something slip through his otherwise carefully curated façade. It didn’t matter.

His fingertips trailed up her sleeve, tracing the sweep of her collarbone until he reached the ties of her shirt, and his carefully tended nails found purchase on one of the knots she toyed with. Astarion’s eyes flickered up to meet hers as he tugged the tie loose, taking the hem of her shirt and lifting it over her head. This was a procedure. It was practiced. He’d help her undress and then he, with her help if she preferred, would disrobe. Then he’d simply initiate with a kiss, lay her down in the grass, and uphold his part of the unspoken bargain. It was the most repeated pattern in his lifetime. All he had to do…

Astarion’s regimented thoughts, the rehearsed little moves he’d run through in his mind, all sputtered to a halt the moment he let her shirt flutter to the grass and he laid eyes on her naked body again. He’d counted on having once already seen her topless down in the river that night, thinking that this at least would have no way to distract him again. And yet the sight of her lavender skin, star-shaped scars, and perfect, pert dusky breasts all highlighted by the celestial landscape above them left him stunned all over again.

Luckily—or perhaps not—for him, Áine was too busy minding her own clothing to notice him staring, his mask forgotten for an instant. She fumbled with her belt with nervous hands until he reached out and hooked a finger in the strap, pulling her toward him and catching her parted lips in a kiss when she looked up. Nimbly, he unfastened her buckle and untied the laces of her trousers all while his tongue explored her warm, yielding mouth.

He felt her fingers at his waistband and smirked against her lips. “Eager little thing, aren’t you,” he mumbled and claimed her mouth again before she could snap back, causing her to whimper against his tongue and fangs instead. Astarion barely swallowed the growl that rose in his throat at this new sound of hers, surprised at himself and how tightly wound he felt.

She succeeded in loosening his trousers but he snagged her persistent hands in his own before she could go any further. Astarion placed Áine’s hands on his shoulders and reached down to get rid of his own pants, suddenly anxious at the feeling of someone else’s hands touching his skin, his clothes, trying to strip him down to touch his cock. Memories of pawing, grabbing, chafing touches from rough, hungry hands seeped in like a sickness and he tensed against the intrusive tactile flashbacks.

Astarion broke their kiss and swallowed thickly, opening his eyes to look at the woman before him and remind himself precisely where he was and what was happening outside his tortured mind. He could feel Áine’s hands twitch against his shoulders, but they stayed firmly where he’d put them. Trusting her to resist her obvious desire to touch him, Astarion focused on finishing the removal of his trousers and then hers thereafter before scooping her up into his arms.

He cradled her ass in his hands and backed her against a tree, kissing her again. She kissed him back, harder and more passionately this time, and he readily followed her lead for the moment as he felt her legs hook around his hips and draw him in toward her heat. He punished her mouth with his, cursing her warmth, her intoxicating scent, her beautiful body, her kindness, all of it straight to Avernus. She was far from his first warm body and yet she still felt like a first as he smoothed his hands over her thighs, unable to help the quiet growl that surfaced from his throat this time with her satin skin laid open and bare against his palms. He felt her shiver against him, her arms tightening around his shoulders as her back arched, pressing her body needily against his while they devoured each other as if starving.

This would get messy quickly if he didn’t check himself. He hadn’t promised an impassioned, tortured lover, after all, he’d promised the artful, cunning seducer. The patient wolf, the beguiling rake. Besides that, he couldn’t comprehend still how the first could even be happening. Astarion had warred with himself throughout every step of putting his plans for her, for them, into motion and yet it was all coming to a head with the delirium he found himself exposed to now. Everything he’d thought would resolve itself when he finally slept with her was just intensifying with each second that ticked by. As if to prove his point, she impatiently squirmed against him and he very nearly took her on the spot.

Astarion circled an arm around her waist, holding her still as he reached between her legs, finding her plenty hot and wet for him to get this wrapped up. The tiny moan that escaped her when he touched her went straight to his now rock-hard cock. Áine threatened his self-control in a way that terrified him. It was the polar opposite of the way Cazador’s power over him had terrified him, but it terrified him all the same. She made him feel as if he’d come apart from her slightest touch. A lack of control, to him, in any form was unwanted, and more frightening still was realizing that some part of him wanted her to render him helpless. It went against every single thing he’d sworn to himself during his imprisonment in the last two centuries and everything he’d sworn to himself since stepping off that Nautiloid.

Astarion took her down to the grass, allowing himself to memorize and savor her despite his fear of what she may be capable of with him. Áine met his gaze and a flash of consideration entered her beautifully lust-laden eyes before she tilted her head back and bared her neck for him. Astarion’s eyes flickered between her face and her neck, his throat beginning to burn with the rest of him as he weighed her offer if it was truly an offer.

As if answering his thoughts, Áine nodded and temptation won out. Astarion buried his face against her neck, running his tongue along her pulse before he bit her at the same time he positioned himself to slide into her warm, wet cunt.

The instant he did, any semblance of control he had, he lost.

Astarion maintained his clarity for the sake of not bleeding his lover dry, but the rest of his body acted with abandon. He found a rhythm between their hips, angling himself to pump against her inner walls that already clenched around him with every thrust. Swallowing the mouthful of blood he’d taken, he licked her wound closed and concentrated on his thrusts, gratified when her little moans became trembling, barely controlled mewls and her legs tightened around his hips.

Astarion was so focused on bringing her to her peak that he hardly realized he was reaching his for the first time with someone else. He could force his body into anything—he’d learned that without room for doubt over the years—and had sorted out how to perfectly fake an orgasm if needed. Not that the vast majority of those he bedded cared whether or not he came. It was something he was so unused to monitoring during sex that when it hit him, it hit him harder than he could’ve thought possible.

As Áine muffled a cry against the back of her hand, her body shaking under him as she came, Astarion suddenly felt himself go over the edge with her, gripping her tightly as pleasure ripped through him, a quavering groan that he just barely managed to bite down rising in his throat as he flooded her with his seed. They both shivered through aftershocks in each other’s arms, but through the mind-numbing euphoria, something else resurfaced in Astarion.

That guilt again. For ever thinking of this as a chore, like something he had to do to ensure his safety. For every time he’d squashed what he felt while touting their match as something real and normal and without deception. For setting Áine up to wind up with nothing but his broken, worthless, rotten soul at the finish line when he’d wordlessly promised so much more.

For not being able to give her something real, no matter how desperately he now realized he wanted to.

Next chapter: Chapter 11, "Old Scars"

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kaphzzz · 7 months

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hi, https://www.tumblr.com/kaphzzz/718898842212433920 on the fifth photo you have arthur/charles in this position, just wondering how did you do that? what mod did you use? I’ve been trying to find an animation/scenario mod where you can put in two npcs (like dancing, brawling etc) for photos, and you’re the only person I’ve come across so far who seems like they have something like that :”) sorry if I’ve got it wrong!

hi!!! ur good!! you mean this one?

i use rampage trainer! it has thousands of scenarios and tens of thousands of animations! altho when i first got rampage it was missing a lot of its animation dictionaries for some reason so i had to write a parser to get the anims from a datamined anim file from the rdr3_discoveries github repo. if thats also the case for you heres the link to the full list i parsed that you can replace /RampageFiles/Lists/PedAnimList.txt with:

(on kind of a side note i think it takes away a bit of the 'magic', if u will, from ppl who dont play with mods looking at these kind of staged/posed pics without knowing exactly how they were forced into these positions (lol) if the process is laid out but nonetheless im happy to explain as best i can :3)

so in general since its pretty much impossible to know all 40000+ animations you just kind of try to find one that has at least one frame of animation that suits the pose you have in mind and just sort of play with it until you get a shot thats just right. for me i knew i wanted a pose for leaning back against the table and one for leaning forward with hands placed on the table, so for chorles i think i used (this was a while ago i cant remember exactly sorry!) one of the scenarios you get with key word "lean" and it was probably the lean back wall scenario, and for orther it was read train plans or bank teller lean on counter... but yeah in general you kind of just have to browse through thw scenarios and animations and keep track of interesting ones you might want to use later, and try to match the anims (if they move around a lot) to get a good snap of when they are in a position you like!

idk how others do it but thats how i do it. probably not the most efficient workflow but i have yet to browse thru all the anims so i can only work with the anims im familiar with.

if you want dancing, try searching for related keywords. rampage allows you to search for keywords for both scenarios and animations! once ur familiar with how they name their animations you should be able to find just about anything. for dancing just searching for "dance" should prompt quite a few results.

as for brawling i think actually making ur characters fight would be the best way to take action pics. in rampage u can also change ur model and spawn npcs and force them to fight u. u can also get the battle creator mod to spawn fights as well.

btw if ur looking for anything similar to this specific pic, i actually think @foundynnel might know more about intimate/suggestive animations and scenarios given some very cute sadie/arthur pics they've made, hiiii @foundynnel sorry to bother u but if u see this would u like to throw in ur two cents? 🥺🌹 i could learn a thing or two as well! 💕

#my tutorials #rdr2 #charthur

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rathologic · 1 year

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it's frustrating because aglaya is already villainized by nearly all the characters in patho2 (yulia as the slight exception), and the point of this is that you, the player character, are asked to approach this fellow person trapped in an impossible situation with grace instead. the Haruspex, a character who is fundamentally about extending his love to everyone in the game (as described by the devs!) has the ability to extend love, platonic or not, to her! logical! so seeing people talk about how much they hate her IN PATHO2 is like extremely jarring.

aglaya never does anything to harm the player in p2 (boring choice, but that's not my point); the closest thing would be that she causes fan favorite badgrief to have a lasting personal crisis. but a lot of the violent hatred towards her instead seems to stem from her flirting with you...? and it's always visceral want to see her dead kind of hatred. sorry people can't handle a woman in a position of authority speaking somewhat impolitely to them but the "flirting" part does really bug me so I'll get into that

the single major change p2 implemented to aglaya's story was that the Haruspex can meaningfully be on her side by agreeing to her request to leave the town together. it's weird to see that disparaged by fans for her using the imagery of romantic attachment, while the player's never forced to use the same imagery in return. the escape's not "you instantly fall in love with each other and run away" it's about a way of reacting to the fate imposed on both of you by the narrative: pathologic 2 simply describes fate through the lens of romance, re: nara and the brides, re: "a fate like a good wife, emshen... your wife" (re: the option to call aglaya your wife on the train).

& there's a fascinating meta aspect to the fact she can tell the haruspex as the player has the ability to make this choice, to be the only person in the world who Could not villainize her, and maybe even help her under an extremely short time limit. her expressing attraction to the haruspex (through a reflection, even) is for once not a weird misogyny thing but a reasonable way of parsing her feelings and needs into something that you might listen to! it fits within the societal framework expected in the game, and adds a discussion of romantic love to p2's dissection of the ideal of love in general; "discussion" meaning it is given to the player to see how you feel about it, and remains open-ended.

then she doesn't even make it and replaying you Know she'll never even make it which lends all the more meaning to choosing to flee with her. since patho2 is a game at its core about symbolic choices representing love + what it means to the player to choose to undergo challenges for no extrinsic rewards! her whole quest is a microcosm of key themes of patho2 (aka: "udurgh"), and potentially, a moment of respite and genuine friendship during one of its most stressful phases. if someone felt strung along by it I have great news for them about the final impact of every other quest in the game

and furthermore the connections she sees between herself and the haruspex are genuinely there. they're both trapped in the game they both will cease to exist after it and meaning is derived, both for the player and for her ("touch me with your words"), from choosing to fight the inevitable however briefly instead of just submitting to death - and love being the only driving force that can motivate that choice. how did you miss the point about love when it's the only point the game ever makes.

#p2 spoilers #aglaya lilich #pathologic #you see the antidote to mean and pointless complaint posting is... detailed and meaningful complaint posting instead. well enjoy #pathologic 2 #only sort of due to my point being you're not forced into it! but it may as well go in my tag ->#aglayartemy

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arachnixe · 1 year

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To Know You Is To Love You

"Astonishing! Where you come from, they really let humans pilot your own mechs? Just, what, with your hands? Operating buttons and levers like a carnival ride?"

They crowd me, far more curious than I ever expected a bunch of human-shaped machines could be.

"Yeah?" I answer, confusion apparent in my voice. "Why? What do you do, just plug a cable in?"

As one, the mechanisms in their faces shift and slide into configurations I'm learning to associate with amusement. They suddenly seem eager to show me every port on their bodies in a way that feels uncomfortably voyeuristic to watch. They may be machines, but…

It's hard for a pilot to not see the life in a machine when our lives depend on being completely in tune with our own.

I don't know whether to envy Nixie or feel sorry for it that it doesn't get to have its own version of this conversation with the other mechs resting on standby. It can only communicate externally in bursts of radio waves, and I'm not authorized to share its decryption key.

One of the pilot units speaking to me demonstrates how it slots neatly into its counterpart's docking cradle. It rattles off a litany of specs on data throughput, latency, handshaking protocols. My familiarity with Nixie's specs helps me translate the numbers effortlessly. It's an astonishing rate of data, capable of bidirectional real-time exchange of sensor readings and near-zero delay between decision and action. No wonder they're so much faster than us on the battlefield.

I have instrument panels and HUD messages from Nixie to read. I've got controls to manipulate, external video feeds to scan, and mental calculations to perform—it's all instinct now, drilled into me—and I can acknowledge how clumsy that makes us compared to them.

"Together we act as one" the pilot says, "with negligible barrier between our sensory and computational arrays."

I put a hand on my partner's armored leg, and for the first time I feel our acute separation, a gulf as wide as any between steel and flesh. I came here full of pride in what we could do together, with my skills and Nixie's state-of-the-art amphibious design and our ability to work as a unit, but now… It's nothing on what these machines have together, isn't it?

I grimace. "It's a shame I'll don't know what it's like to connect like that." So intimate. My heart aches for it. "I envy you," I admit aloud.

The room is silent. The others go still, perhaps communicating via silent side-channels.

"Would you like to?"

How could I refuse?

---

The first surgery is the most delicate. Their tech is incredibly advanced in some ways compared to ours, but even so, brain implants always carry some risk.

A modest computer and a radio, plugged right into my head. It feels frightening and alien at first. Metal at the base of my skull and a gaping hole in the back of my mind. I worry about what kind of mistake I made, letting them operate on me.

Then I recite my memorized key into the void in my mind, and it unfurls its petals. It blossoms into language. An impossible torrent of language that overwhelms me at first until, seemingly in response to my distress, it slows to a manageable trickle.

> NXE-110001 attempting send rate negotiation↵ > establishing link↵ > attempt: 2↵ █

I think an acknowledgement back into that link. Then, after a moment's consideration, I follow it up with a few repetitions of the test pattern described in our manual so that Nixie can calibrate itself with my own send speed.

> NXE-110001 link established↵ > hello pilot↵ █

We spend some time experimenting with the limitations of the link. As much as we're both used to communicating with each other using language, it rapidly becomes clear that it is the slowest information protocol we have.

It takes time for my mind and Nixie's algorithms to learn how to parse each other's nonverbal signals, but every day we get a little bit better—and a little faster—sending thought-fragments, images, and sensory data over the link until it's unconscious instinct for me. The more in-tune with each other that we get, the more effective we are, cooperating on a deeper level than I've ever dreamed before. The mechanical pilots encourage me as if taking personal pride in our ability to catch up with them in speed.

But I'm still not fast enough. Nixie is still throttling its communication speed for me to keep up. While I don't think "frustration" is an emotion it experiences, I know its algorithms are designed to optimize, and right now, it's my hardware that's the bottleneck.

Maybe my new friends can cure that too.

With their support, we plan several more surgeries: hardware upgrade for my skull integration point to add a physical port for higher data throughput, additional ports in my spine to parallelize transfer, a secondary computer in my lower back to offload additional processing.

The physical recovery for each surgery is tedious and exhausting, but in contrast I feel only exhilaration during the time spent learning our new capabilities after each upgrade.

The presence of the secondary computer is the strangest sensation of all, by far. There is the initial novelty of sending it commands to perform calculations I could never have done on my own. (The cube root of 110001? Approximately 47.9143438.) But with time and familiarity it loses that feeling of otherness, becoming just my "other brain."

And then with more time, it loses even that feeling of otherness. My mind just has two halves, each more suited to some subset of the mental processing I must do.

My friends and I design and fit a custom docking cradle for me into Nixie, and the day it no longer has to throttle its communications with me is the happiest of my life.

The term "pilot" feels ill-fitting now. Plugging into Nixie is just joining with my other half. When we connect, we become one in almost the same way as the flesh and machine halves of my brain do. Dives that once felt like operating a submarine now feel like swimming in the waters of our own home, no different than operating my own body.

I considered us a team before, but we're so much more now, easily on par with my friends and their partners.

Well, now they're showing off all the fascinating weaponry and sensor arrays built in to their own bodies, and I find I still have room for envy.

I wonder how many more upgrades they might be willing to offer?

#empty spaces #becoming #mechs #combat dolls #my writing

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a-little-revolution · 1 year

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Hey, sorry if this is a weird ask, but do you know of, or happen to know where I could find a list of the conditions that can cause proportional dwarfism?

I've been doing some research on the subject because I'm in the process of writing a character who has dwarfism that is proportional, and I want to be able to specify and properly portray the specific condition that they have. But, since disproportionate dwarfism is much more common, I can only find lists of conditions that cause disproportionate dwarfism, or very-difficult-to-parse general lists of all or most of the conditions that cause dwarfism (and which don't specify which form(s) of dwarfism they can cause.)

It's almost impossible for me to find much information related to the medical side of this form of the disability, so I figured your blog would be a good place to look to for leads. Even if I don't mention their precise condition in the text itself, it'd be really helpful to me to know if I'm portraying them accurately in regards to how their disability affects them, as I know different conditions will have different challenges surrounding them.

Any pointers for where I can look, or any info you may have would be helpful! Thanks so much!

Hello! Not a weird ask at all :) I've touched on the medical side of dwarfism, but that was early in my blog's creation - these days it's been a lot of the social sides of things - so I'm happy to revisit the subject.

Proportional dwarfism is most commonly caused by a growth hormone deficiency, whether it occurs in the womb as the baby develops (primordial dwarfism) or in early childhood (Seckel syndrome). This stunted or halted growth affects the whole body (hence "proportionate") and can result in other bodily conditions if organs such as lungs are underdeveloped.

I'm unfamiliar with other conditions that cause proportional dwarfism, as disproportional dwarfism is where I'm better versed, but here's a list of resources pertaining to dwarfism in general:

Dwarfism 101, Little People of Ontario's Dwarfism Fact Sheets

Little People of Ontario: Medical Articles Masterpost

Dwarfism Overview, Mayo Foundation for Medical Education and Research

Little People of America's Natural Histories of Dwarfism Types

A note to any researchers - when looking into dwarfism, steer clear of any articles that mention dwarfism "cures", and value articles written by Little organizations or professionals.

Hope this helps! - Elliot (they/them)

#asks #resources #dwarfism #dwarfism medical #disability #dwarfism resources #proportional dwarfism #little people #education #disability blog #disability resources #references

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losersroom · 1 month

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g (time loop fic. once the loop was broken), j, n, t ✍️

G. If you wrote a sequel to this fic, what would it be about?

Man. I think this one is my least sequel-able fic, actually. I mean I say that- I do think it's fully complete as it is, the lack of closure is kind of the point -but I did briefly kick around ideas for a second part from Brock's POV. I never did anything with it because again, ultimately, I think it works better if the question of "is Brock aware of the time loop" is left sort of vague and open to reader interpretation, even if I myself have a very clear idea of what was meant to be going on there. I think any sequel I wrote to this would just be abjectly miserable for everyone. But realistically it would be, like, Brock watches Jonas die on the ice like fifty times, finally accepts that he can't save him or do anything to fix it, and THAT breaks the loop enough that reality is allowed to proceed on from there. And the point is that then they have to live in the aftermath of what's already done instead of uselessly trying to prevent the impossible. What's the first step to breaking a cycle? Well, admitting there's a problem is a good start.

(Also: I'd like them to finally actually talk about the time they hooked up in Stockholm and for Brock to be able to tell him that's not part of it, that was something they both wanted, he doesn't need to carry it around as a weight.)

J. What's your favorite fanfic trope? Have you written it?

Okay I think I've decided that my favorite trope in fiction is road trip fic, actually. And the answer is... kind of? Last summer while I was starting to be insane about hockey but too nervous to get into RPF I wrote about 25% of a Check Please fic where Jack winds up signing with Vegas out of college and the team bosses make him and Parse spend part of the summer together to fix their relationship into something that will allow them to be on the ice together without killing each other, so Kent just like. Invites himself along on Jack's pre-arranged road trip between sites of historical interest on the East Coast. The like 10k words of it I actually wrote were pretty good! But then I got distracted by like five other projects that I also never finished and wound up doing nothing with it. And now I have better things to do than think about The Hockey Comic. lol.

N. Any fic ideas brewing that you'd care to share?

I'm going to be working on this fucking omegaverse impreg kink fic until I die, probably. Until I die as a direct result of it, possibly.

Also I'm still kicking around concepts for the fic where Brods and Brock fake date to make Dumba jealous but that's just kind of a Vibe right now.

T. Any fanfic tropes you can't stand?

Thank you for giving me the opportunity to be a hater but I am generally fairly trope-positive, actually. Or trope-neutral at least. Oh wait does the thing people do where they make their characters stop and affirm positive consent every two paragraphs during sex scenes count because. Lol. Sorry, can't stand that shit. I do not read porn for a positive or realistic depiction of best sexual practices, I want to read about a guy getting banged within an inch of his life and filled with a physically improbable amount of come. Sorry about it!

#got long; threw it under a cut #i realize i did not actually answer the question for g. However.

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rgr-pop · 1 month

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the edibles i take for sleep (last choice sleeping pill desperate times) have been going crazy on me out of nowhere - i feel like i am getting worse at math or they’re lying to me. you may know this about me but i really prefer the weed that everybody hates, scary weed, head weed. i’m really big on finding negative mental experiences to be fun and engaging (compared to normal situations or being alive). if you’re a pure of heart (crazy) you can hallucinate a little on weed whenever but really as you may have heard they’re trying to repress the schizophrenic weed culturally and most weed is oh i want to be relaxed but not paranoid and seeing things. like that’s okay for you i guess.. but anyway these allegedly sleep edible skittles have been going so crazy lately and i’m obsessed.

so what happened is last night - took edibles early because i knew i had to get up at 6 - at 10:30 i start feeling them just enough to decide i want dinner after all and i start some mac and cheese - belly full of dinner i’ll be so sleepy. well then all these cop cars descended onto my street. i’m sitting there eating mac and cheese watching this go down from the window - just cops walking around and approaching this house, in the dark, just the siren lights. and my edible hits and i’m just watching this for like an hour, getting more disoriented, hallucinating more cops in the shadows. i can just remember seeing the silhouette of this ominous cross in the window the whole time.. (i think it was the same house they did this for last summer when they had a DRONE peeking in my WINDOW, i dunno what’s going on with it, ongoing domestic situation i think.)

so i’m totally fucked up by this point. like, i can’t get my brain to tell my legs to move, basically nonverbal, whole thing. then one of my favorite mutuals sent me this dm asking me to help him PARSE A TWITTER INTERACTION he had. like yes i should have pretended to be asleep because i was not at all in control lol. but you have to understand i like him a lot and he’s kind of elusive so this dm felt like a wildly important friendship escalation. like the most important thing in the world at that moment. i HAD to try. but it was the most hilarious and impossible task for me in this state: read screenshotted exchange of tweets. interpret the tone and meaning of comments. put into sentences, using fingers to type… i did my best but i was like 😵‍💫 i failed you

i woke up and i was like “ok sorry about that. i think this guy is implying you’re autistic”

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bagelrites · 5 months

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Mad queen part 3

ok angsty idea for the eventual reunion -- Dream doesn't realize George is real until having her in her bed lets her finally sleep again...

(based on this au btw, though this other drabble will have more context tbh)

When she woke in the morning, Dream was foggy with shock. Her mind moved slowly, trying to process the impossible.

George came again that night. She assumed it was, as always, a figment of her imagination. She begged to be left alone, for the apparition to leave, but she held her, and her arms were warm and her words were soft, and she insisted she was real. That she had come home.

Dream didn’t believe her. But then, miraculously, she slept. For the first time in months, she slept through the night. And now George was still here, asleep in Dream’s bed.

Dream reached out, eyes wide, hand shaky. When her palm landed on George’s shoulder, the skin was warm and textured—a little oily, small bumps of acne. It felt incredibly real. Her heart sunk, her head spun.

“George?” she whispered, fear and reverence in the name.

George grumbled, tightening her shoulders, pulling herself into a ball to resist waking.

Dream felt like she was going to throw up.

It was real. This was George. She was back, and Dream had let her fall asleep next to her like nothing had changed.

“George. George!” Dream shook her shoulder, and George let out a dramatic sigh before rolling over.

“I was having a nice dream,” she mumbled, rubbing at her eyes.

“What are you doing here? What—what happened? You are real, right?” Dream reached out and cupped her face in her hands, inspecting every little detail to make sure it was really George. Somehow, though, she knew it had to be. A full night’s sleep made her mind sharp enough to finally parse delusion from reality.

“Yes, yes, I’m real, I told you already.” George grabbed her hands and pulled them away from her face. “It’s all over, we’re safe again. Everything can go back to normal.”

Dream stared at her blankly, shocked to silence for a moment.

Then she broke.

“Normal? Normal? You think I can just go back to normal after—what?—months of torture!?” she yelled. “You left me! You left me here to rot away! I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t tell what was real and what was fake! You put me through hell, George and I just… you just…”

Dream broke down into tears.

George looked sympathetic, but not at all shocked. She sighed and took Dream into her arms, letting her cry onto her chest.

“I know,” she said, which only made Dream cry harder. “I’m so sorry.”

#dnf #c!dnf #fem!dnf #my fanfic #drabble

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rosiesramblings · 2 years

Text

Understimulated

WC: 2.4k

Fandom: Criminal Minds

A/N: So, I needed a distraction from the absolute rage I feel at SCOTUS' decision. Here's an autistic!reader fic. Every autistic person, including myself, is different, so if this doesn't capture your experience I'm sorry. This is just something I churned out so that I could combat the feelings of helplessness/hopelessness that I think a lot of Americans are experiencing today. Please take care of yourselves the best way you know how. Love you all.

The best way I could think to describe what it felt like to be understimulated was like there were thousands of bees buzzing just underneath my skin. Intensely uncomfortable. Making it next to impossible to sit still. Stimming - singing, moving, dancing, flapping, tapping, etc. - usually helped immensely when I was like this. Stimming was one of the only things that could get the “bees” to leave me the hell alone. The problem was, often I needed a specific type of stim, and my brain often had no desire to clue me in on the type of stimulation I needed to self-regulate. So I was left to cycle through every possible option until I found the one that felt right.

To complicate things further, we were on a case when this particular bout of under stimulation hit. The BAU had been called out to the middle of Bumfuck, Nowhere, Nebraska, where a serial kidnapper was abducting kids from the only public school within a 50 mile radius. You’d think that the limited pool of potential victims would make our jobs easier, but the locals and the police were being assholes. It took seven times as long to pry the relevant information out of the witnesses, and the whole team was feeling run down.

“It’s like pulling teeth,” Morgan complained as he made his way back into our dinky “conference room” the police had given us for a home base. Hotch looked up from where he was pouring over the cold cases that we believed were connected, a crease between his brows that only made itself known when he was frustrated but trying not to bring down morale. Morgan threw himself down into a chair next to Reid, who was diligently working out a geographic profile, absently rubbing at his temple like he had a headache.

“I would rather pull out my own teeth than go back inside that interview room,” Emily whined.

My eyes widened, but Reid muttered, “That’s sarcasm,” to me without stopping his scribbling.

Oh. That made a lot more sense. Still, now I had the lovely image of Emily pulling out her teeth in my brain. I drew my shoulders up to my ears and rubbed at my eyes, trying to bleach my imagination of the visual.

“I’ll swap jobs with you,” I offered, humming after I finished to keep the sensation of sound in my throat. A few of the bees flew away.

“You will not,” Hotch said tonelessly. “Not upset,” he added more quietly, when he realized I was trying to parse out his level of irritability.

Sometimes it was nice to be known so completely by my team. Other times it was a fucking drag. I decided this time was nice, the straightforwardness of his communication outweighing the fact that it kind of made me feel like a baby. I knew that was my own ableism that I had internalized throughout a lifetime of being autistic.

“Sorry, Em,” I muttered, mustering an expression that I hoped conveyed a sufficient degree of apologetic-ness, glancing back down at the files in front of me. My heart seemed like it was beating faster than it really should have been given that I was sitting down. My legs bounced, a vain attempt to try and gain control over this feeling that I knew too well. I could power through. I could make it through this afternoon and then find a place to reorient myself. Somewhere private. Not surrounded by the people I respected probably more than anyone else on the planet.

I started tapping the pads of my fingers on my thighs, reaching toward some invisible piano keys for the beginning of “Green Green Dress,” my latest hyperfixation song. Focus, focus, focus, I chanted in my head, enjoying the repetition. Until I realized I was focused on the word focus, and not on the files in front of me. I hissed out a frustrated breath between my teeth, giving my head a quick shake.

“Ok?” Spencer asked, glancing sidelong at me.

“Mhm,” I hummed, humming again immediately after, chasing the comforting sensation.

“You’re humming,” Morgan pointed out, drawing the rest of the team’s attention towards me and my vocal stim.

I gritted my teeth. “I know that,” I snapped, before closing my eyes. I could still feel everyone’s eyes on me, which wasn’t helping with the bee situation. “Sorry, sorry, sorry. Didn’t mean to snap.”

“You’re allowed to stim here, L/N,” Hotch said, flipping to a new file.

“Yes sir,” I said, my face warming. It was still strange to me when people talked directly about my autism, instead of the elaborate “dancing around what we’re actually talking about” thing that most neurotypicals did. I turned back to my files, hoping that the rest of the team would take that as a signal that the conversation was over.

No such luck.

“When was the last time you took a break?” Spencer spun towards me in his swivel chair.

I bit my tongue. Then stopped, grabbing a piece of gum and shoving it into my mouth to redirect the harmful stim. The gum felt Wrong. I wished it was my tongue. “When was the last time any of us took a break?” I evaded the question, running a hand through my hair. Then I had to shake out my hand, since that felt even more Wrong than the gum in my mouth.

“You’ve cycled through six different stims since the start of this conversation,” Spencer pointed out.

“And I’m sure I’ll cycle through even more once this conversation is over,” I said, barely keeping the irritation out of my voice. “Which I would prefer to be right now.”

That wasn’t fair. The bees weren’t Spencer’s fault. I hummed, louder than before.

“Well, I feel like I’m just about at my limit,” Morgan said, getting up from the table. “Reid, Y/N, want to take a lap with me?”

“Sounds like a great idea,” Spencer said, shooting a pointed look in my direction before jumping out of his chair.

Like I said. I can’t decide whether being known so well was something I loved or hated. Still, I looked toward Hotch, waiting to make sure I had permission.

“Go ahead,” Hotch said, standing up himself. I’m pretty sure he was only making a show of taking a break so that I would take one, but honestly I was too preoccupied by the bees to really care.

I stood up on legs that felt more like a Barbie doll’s than actual human flesh. I tried to hit the feeling back into them but stopped at Spencer’s pointed look. Instead I stumbled to where Morgan held open the door, spit my gum into the trash can, and walked out into the main office.

Which was worse. Like, a lot worse. I froze, glancing at the boys, praying they knew what I was trying to say before I had to try and form the words. Luckily, they’re profilers, so Spencer stepped in front of me and walked forward, clearing a path in the crowded precinct as Morgan firmly grabbed my shoulders and steered me out of the building behind Reid.

Outside was better. I took a deep inhale of the cool fall air and tried to concentrate on the feeling of warm sun on my face.

Still wasn’t enough. I stiffened, my body needed to stim but my brain was too overwhelmed to know which one to try next. The bees reached a horrible, bone-rattling crescendo.

“Ok, what do you need?” Morgan asked calmly as the doors shut behind us, removing his hands from my shoulders. A distressed hum flew out from the back of my throat at the loss of pressure, and I started bouncing on my toes.

“Is this a meltdown?” Spencer asked, knowing I liked yes or no questions during a meltdown.

I hummed, shaking my head. Then I clicked my tongue three times. “Understimulated,” I answered.

Morgan tilted his head at Reid, asking a silent question.

“Understimulation happens in an autistic person when there isn’t enough sensory input to satisfy their needs,” Reid explained.

“Bees,” I nodded, knowing that it wouldn’t make sense to them but enjoying the long “e” sound anyway. I whispered the word twice more, still bouncing, clenching my fists, but it wasn’t Right.

“Y/N, what do you need?” Morgan asked again.

“Don’t know,” I half-sobbed, “Everything feels wrong.”

“Okay, okay,” Reid said soothingly. “We’re going to help, Y/N. Were Morgan’s hands on your shoulders better or worse?”

“Better,” I gasped.

Immediately, Morgan’s hands were back on my shoulders, squeezing. I stopped bouncing and hissed out a sigh.

“More? Please, more pressure?” I asked, my head a little clearer with Morgan’s grounding hands on my shoulders. “I’m not going to break,” I added.

“Whatever you need,” Morgan promised, wrapping his arms around me from behind, placing his chin on my left shoulder, and squeezing harder. Reid grabbed both of my hands in his and squeezed too. Immediately, it felt a thousand times easier to breathe. More of the bees dispersed. Still though, I needed something else. If only I could fucking figure out what that was.

Then Morgan rubbed his arms up and down my sides, and I jumped, a ticklish smile tugging at the corners of my mouth.

“Sorry,” Morgan apologized, interpreting my jump as displeasure. He stopped his hands.

“No,” I said immediately. The brief zap of ticklish electricity through my body felt good. I wanted to chase the feeling.

Derek went to let go, thinking I was saying no to the pressure, so I let go of Spencer’s hands to grab Derek’s arms, keeping them around me.

Too underwhelmed to feel embarrassed, I guided his hands back to my sides. Spencer tilted his head to the left, processing. I said nothing, relying on the resident genius to figure out what I needed.

“Y/N, do you want us to tickle you?” He asked, a half smile creeping onto his features.

I took a minute to think. Did I want them to tickle me? Slowly, I nodded.

“Really? You sure?” Spencer prodded.

“I’ll try anything,” I reassured them both.

“Tell us to stop and we will,” Morgan promised after a pause, hesitantly flexing his fingers against my sides.

I hummed out a giggle. Relaxing the slightest bit.

Spencer observed the two of us for a second, making sure I really was ok with the objectively strange turn of events. Apparently he saw what he needed on my face, because a second later he was pinching up my ribs, his fingers surprisingly dexterous and very tickly.

“Ohohoho gohohohod,” I snickered.

“Still ok?” Morgan asked. Such a gentleman.

“Yehehehes,” I answered, closing my eyes against Spencer’s grin before opening them back up and ducking my head. “You cahahan dohoho mohohore.”

“This might be easier if you told us where you were most ticklish, Y/N,” Spencer said, the teasy implications not masked even a little by his matter-of-fact tone.

“Dohohon’t reheheMEMBER,” I squealed out as Spencer moved down to my hips. It was true. I couldn’t remember the last time someone tickled me.

“That’s ok,” Morgan said mischievously. “Makes it more fun for us, at least.”

“Fuhuhuhuhck OHOHOHOHFF MORGAN,” I descended into laughter as he spidered one hand over my belly.

“That’s not very nice,” he teased. “We’re doing you a favor.”

“Really, though, this makes a lot of sense,” Reid said. “Tickling is a quick and easy way to stimulate the nervous system. It’s quite logical that it would combat understimulation,” He spoke casually, as if he wasn’t absolutely wrecking my shit. He suddenly stopped, and I looked up in confusion.

I was met with the most wicked grin I’d ever seen him wear. “I wonder if there’s been any research done on the subject.” He dug into my hips with a gusto that was, quite frankly, very rude.

I yelped, my face burning. Apparently I was now able to feel all of the embarrassment I should have felt earlier.

Sensing the change in my demeanor, Morgan spoke up. “Really, Y/N, this is too cute. You’re much too serious anyway. None of us laugh enough on this job.”

“Yohohhohou voluntehehering to be thehehe next vihihihictim?” I sassed back, warmth blooming in my chest at his jesting reassurance. Feeling brave, I reached behind me and blindly prodded at Morgan’s torso.

I was rewarded with a yelp that he tried to disguise as a cough. “Hell no. I have two sisters, I’ve been tickle tortured enough in my life.”

“Benefits of being an only child,” Reid grinned.

There was a brief lapse in conversation, my laughter keeping us from complete silence. Reid kept traveling his fingers up and down my ribs. The higher he went, the more I involuntarily pressed my arms to my sides.

Reid looked thoughtful for a moment. “Morgan, I have a theory. Keep her still. I’m 89% sure she’s going to drop if you don’t hold her up.” And with no more fanfare, he wormed his fingers into my underarms.

Listen, I’m a realist. I know that the sound I made would best be described as a shriek. But that didn’t mean I had to like it (I did).

“REHEHEHEHEID,” I cackled as my legs annoyingly buckled under me, proving him right. “PLEHEHEHEASE.”

“That’s not a ‘stop’,” Morgan noted. I could hear the smile in his voice. He had stopped tickling me, probably for the best. Reid alone was awful.

Absolutely insufferable, these two. I loved them.

“How’re you doing, Y/N? Still understimulated?” Reid asked, not teasing this time, letting up a bit so that I could answer.

I paused and took stock of my body. The bees were almost entirely gone. “Ohohone more minute,” I said. “Thehehehen I’ll be goohohohod.”

“You wish is my command,” Spencer said dramatically before vibrating his hands in that devastating space at the tops of my ribs.

“SHIHIHIHIHIHIHIT,” I screamed. It was overwhelming in the best way. I couldn’t think. I could barely breathe. It was exactly what I needed.

Reid could see when I’d had enough. He stopped and rubbed his hands over my sides, firm enough not to tickle. He and Morgan both waited patiently while I came down from my giggle-high.

Like I said. Absolutely insufferable.

“Yohohou’re my favorite people,” I mumbled, turning in Morgan’s arms to hide my face against his chest.

He ruffled my hair, and I barely even cared. “You’re our favorite too, kid,” Morgan said, pressing a chaste kiss to the top of my head. Spencer hummed in agreement, rubbing his hand up and down my back.

I took a deep breath and stepped back from the embrace. The bees were gone. I smiled, finally finally I could attack this case with a clear head. I flapped my hands happily.

“Ready to go back?” Reid asked.

“Hell yeah,” I said. “Let’s go solve this fucking case.”

#tickle fic #criminal minds fic #derek morgan #spencer reid #autistic!reader #writing this was theraputic #made me feel a little bit less like society is crumbling around me #tickling #tfb community

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