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harmonictechnicality · 9 months

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*no rest for the wicked*

my teensy contribution to @thefreakandthehair's spicy six summer collection 💖 | word count: 3k | rating: T | ao3 link | also, this wouldn't exist if @chocoarts didn't send me a sketch that immediately set off sparklers in my brain so bless youuu ✨

Twenty-six hours. That’s how long Eddie has been up. Twenty-six hours and twelve minutes. The heaviness hanging in his eyes is medieval-level torturous, and the cramp in his left calf is probably permanent by now.

A sane person who enjoys sleeping might be asking, ‘Why? Why put yourself through this when there’s a perfectly decent bed down the hall?’ And Eddie would be forced to reply back with two, simple words:

Concert. Tickets.

That’s right, Eddie is actively murdering his own brain cells to win two vip tickets on the radio. Twenty-seven hours ago, it seemed like a grand idea. Genius, even. It’s free and minimal effort - he just has to call the station every hour on the dot. No biggie, right?

Ha, sure. Tell that to the muscles in his eyelids.

“How much longer do you have?” Chrissy asks, snagging a magazine from the stack on the couch.

Eddie checks his watch. Huffs out a laugh. “Let’s just say, I could watch the entire Star Wars trilogy including the credits for each one.”

“Translating to...?”

“Seven-ish hours.” Robin quickly chimes. She pops out of her bedroom and joins Chrissy’s side, instantly threading their hands together. They share a look, one that makes Eddie believe in nice things, even in his state of misery. It’s their superpower, injecting their optimistic outlook into the atmosphere. Infectious in the best way.

“I always forget that you speak fluent nerd.” Chrissy snorts.

“Ouch.” Robin gasps and pulls away, stomping off to their room. Too dramatic to be believable. “Get back to bed before I actually feel offended by that.”

Normally, Eddie is charmed by how hopelessly in love his roommates are with each other. But right now, they are his mortal enemies (well, tied with The Clock), because they get to sleep and he gets to stare at the lightbulb in the ceiling fan. Every now and then, it flickers, which never fails to startle him.

Good. He desperately needs the extra alertness.

Another forty-five minutes go by before anything noteworthy happens. Eddie’s other roommate gets off his night shift around one in the morning. The front door squeals as it opens, crackling all the adrenaline leftover in Eddie’s body.

“Scared the shit out of me, man.” Which could’ve been a literal statement if Eddie hadn’t just taken a bathroom break.

“Gotta get this door fixed.” Steve says. That’s what he always says when it creaks. The reaction never changes, always skating his fingers over the door hinges, mouth twisting to the side. Hands on his hips in disapproval. Eddie has to look away before Steve breaks out his insufferably cute ‘foot tap’ routine. “Hey - why are you still up?”

Ah, yes. Just what Eddie needed. A reminder that it’s fucking late. He finds the energy (or common decency, who knows) to point at the phone. Then to the radio.

“You’re still doing that, huh?”

Eddie nods twice.

“Damn, I’ve never heard you this quiet.” Steve sounds genuinely surprised. A little too smug for Eddie’s liking. “Didn’t know your mouth could stay in a straight line for this long.”

There it is. The rich boy smartassery that will never die. Always lurking in the depths of his genetic makeup.

Eddie claps, total deadpan.

The conversation lulls while Steve messes around in the kitchen for a bit. He’s noisily opening cabinets and clanking dishes around in the sink. Eventually, he walks back into the living room with two beers.

Both for him apparently. “Well, listen,” he starts out. Kicks his feet up on the coffee table. “I’m pretty wired after work, so if you need some company-”

“Six… hours… left.” Eddie musters out.

“Okay well, I doubt I’ll last that long. But I can give it a shot.”

Eddie smirks, raises both eyebrows. “There’s a dirty joke somewhere in there. Too tired to find it though.”

“Good to know the horny part of your mind is still awake.” Steve gives Eddie a small pat on the head.

“Oh? That’s a good thing?”

“Depends on who you ask.”

“I’m asking you.” It’s too direct, Eddie hears it. And now it’s just Out There - his inability to flirt in a subtle way. And yeah, he could blame it on sleep deprivation, but he’s never been known for his mastery of ambiguity so…

The pause goes on long enough for the light to flicker again, the room growing darker with it. Steve takes a swig of his drink and smiles. “It’s good to know, Ed.”

The light flickers even darker.

Eddie is fully awake after that. Which could’ve been part of Steve’s plan - stimulate his brain with flirty comments and keep him up with those melty smiles. It’s no secret that Eddie turns into a hair-twirling loser around this guy.

Even after living together for a year and seeing one another’s most disgusting habits, he still feels this way. Tight throat, stomach flips. Purely smitten in a way that would nauseate deadbeat poets.

In this moment, however, it’s a wonderful remedy to staying awake throughout the rest of the night. Much more effective than energy drinks and Tootsie Rolls.

Steve ends up on the floor, leaning against the edge of the couch. He sips another beer, recounting some bullshit that happened during his shift at the hotel. Eddie does his best impression of Listening to Steve’s stories, but the words are just buzzing around the glow of Steve’s hair and the shine on his lips. Nodding at seemingly appropriate times is all Eddie currently can offer.

“Sleeping with your eyes open, Munson?”

Eddie blinks hard. “Huh?”

“Creepy, but impressive.” Steve laughs, tapping his hand against Eddie’s leg. “You should add that to the Special Skills column on your resumé.”

“Bold of you to assume I have a resumé.”

They spend the next hour doing just that - adding useless skills to Eddie’s nonexistent resumé. It keeps them busy. Content. Steve smacks Eddie’s knee anytime he laughs, leaves his hand longer every time. Maybe that’s all in Eddie’s semi-dormant mind, especially since Steve shows casual affection to all of his friends. But the warmth of his palm is real enough to have Eddie fully committed to making Steve laugh as much as possible.

“What about… Expert Paper Clip Chain-Maker?” Steve suggests.

Eddie stares at the chain in his hand, the one he was oblivious to creating. He whips it around like a lasso and then shrugs. “A bit wordy.”

“So you’re saying length matters?”

“Christ on toast, Harrington. You’re awfully quick to jump to that conclusion, aren’t you?”

Steve doesn’t answer, just starts laughing again. Eddie didn’t even need to tell a shitty joke this time.

And when Steve’s hand hits his knee, sliding slightly up his thigh, Eddie laughs along with him. It’s the only way to cover up the heat rushing to his face.

Eddie enters the realm of delirium with three hours left in his challenge. He slumps onto the floor next to Steve, nudging his shoulder, staring into his sleep-heavy eyes. It’s four in the morning, inhibitions be damned.

“Do you think if you ever visit Europe, they’d call you Harring-metric-ton?” Eddie picks a piece of lint off Steve’s sleeve. Perfect excuse to reach out, move in closer.

Steve groans. “Yikes. But yes, that question keeps me up at night.”

“So that’s why you’re still awake. See, I knew it wasn’t because of my silly little concert tickets.”

As soon as the words leave his lips, Eddie convinces himself that it’s the truth. Which is so dumb, so stupid. But this seed of insecurity keeps him going, fully projecting his assumptions onto Steve’s harmless comment. Somewhere deep down, buried underneath his exhaustion, Eddie knows it was a joke. But he can’t seem to shut up anymore.

“The riddle has been solved, folks! We finally know why Stevie here is still awake.” Eddie exclaims, flinging his arms out to the side. “Alert Scooby and the gang at once! Mystery Incorporated can finally pack up their magnifying glasses and pursue careers with better health insurance. Ones that covers vision costs this time. It’s what dear, ol' Velma deser-”

“Eddie.” Steve places a hand on Eddie’s arm, holding him still. Was he moving? Oh god, was he shaking?

Fucking mortifying.

Steve’s thumb swipes across Eddie’s skin, tracing diagonal lines back and forth. “You’re rambling.”

“And you’re…” Eddie loses focus. He looks down at the hypnotic patterns that Steve is making. “There. Doing that.”

Steve stops briefly to flip Eddie’s hand over, starts tracing the lines in his palm instead. The pressure makes Eddie’s heart lurch up into his throat. He can feel it thumping in his neck, faster with every stroke of Steve’s fingers. All he wants to do is close his hand around them, keep Steve there for the rest of the night. Longer if he’d let him.

“I can stop if it’s weird.” Steve’s voice is so much quieter than it was earlier.

Don’t stop. Eddie thinks. Can’t say it like that because gross. Humiliating and gross. “It’s not weird.”

Steve keeps his focus on the motion, Eddie does the same. They stay like this for a while, just watching. Intently staring over the invisible lines like pages in a novel. Eddie is pretty sure he’s breathing too loud, can hear it above the whistle in the air conditioner. Wonders if Steve can hear it too.

Probably.

“That’s not why I’m staying awake.” Steve says, never breaking the pattern.

“No?”

“It’s who I’m staying awake for.”

Steve finally stops, right in the center of Eddie’s hand. The air in the room goes dense, weighted with acknowledgment. Something has changed and Eddie can feel it everywhere.

He tilts forward, pulling his gaze away from his hand and up at Steve’s lips. If he weren’t stuck between half-awake and total-delirium, Eddie would just do it. Kiss Steve the way he’s always wanted to. Syrupy slow and deep. Savoring every second.

He could do it right now, right this second. But his focus starts drifting as he closes his eyes. “Did Chrissy tell you?” Eddie grumbles, almost unintelligible.

“Tell me what?”

Eddie’s head falls, landing somewhere on Steve’s chest. He inhales the scent of laundry detergent (because Steve and Chrissy are the only avid laundry-doers in the apartment). It’s so soothing, drawing him further into a dreamlike place.

“Tell me what, Ed?”

“That I…” Eddie is nearly asleep before he can finish the thought. The confession:

‘That I’m crazy about you.’

Sunlight hits Eddie first, startles him so much that he jolts upward. Fully awake. It takes a few seconds of furiously rubbing his eyes before the dread kicks in.

Morning.

It’s morning.

“Shit.”

Eddie fell asleep.

Steve fell asleep.

“Shitshitshit. So many shits!” He fumbles through the labyrinth of blankets and pillows around him, snatching his watch from the coffee table:

10:24 a.m.

“Goddamnit!”

Eddie sinks back down to the floor, clutching the phone that serves him no purpose anymore. All of those hours of waiting and calling for nothing. Even if general admission wasn’t already sold out, it’s not like Eddie could afford tickets on his own. He can barely keep up with his share of the rent. Chrissy had to cover for his grocery run last week and he still hasn’t paid her back.

It’s just so expected too - for him to fuck up like this. Always letting opportunities slip through the cracks, making careless mistakes. No one will be surprised that he failed at such a simple task like calling a fucking radio station.

Eddie sets the phone back on the table and cleans up the living room in a daze. Every now and then, he mutters under his breath about being a total moron. He stays relatively quiet for the most part though. No use in throwing a bitchfest while Steve is blissfully conked out three feet away.

Of course he looks good sleeping too, even in the midst of Eddie’s breakdown. Unfair.

Just before heading back to his room, Eddie hears that familiar door creak. Same one that always sets off Steve’s inner handyman tendencies.

He looks back to see Chrissy padding towards him with a blanket wrapped around her. For someone who hasn’t had their mood-altering cup of coffee yet, she looks extremely pleased to see him. Maybe she knows about the fate of the concert tickets. Maybe this is an early-risers pity party.

Fucking yay.

“Chris, please don’t try to-”

His words are muffled by Chrissy throwing her arms (and blanket cape) around him. She’s so bouncy, the way she always gets with Robin whenever their favorite song comes on at the karaoke bar. He pats her on the back and clears his throat, still trying to piece together what this exchange could be about. However, Eddie is functioning on a few hours of sleep, so his cognitive skills are groggy at best.

She gives him one more squeeze and then looks up, positively gleaming. “I knew it! I knew it would finally happen!”

“That I’d screw up for the umpteenth time in my life? Gee thanks, Chris.” Eddie says.

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about you and Steve!” She whisper-yells back.

Was she snooping on them last night? He wouldn’t put it past her, snoopiness is the foundation of their friendship. Well, whatever Chrissy thought she saw, she��s wrong. Sure, Steve and Eddie flirted, both letting some potentially mutual feelings slip out.

But it was all cut short by Eddie passing out mid-flirt. God knows how Steve took that reaction. Probably assumed Eddie was so bored that he would rather sleep than makeout with him. Or worse, that Eddie was pretending to sleep to let him down easy.

Christ, he doesn’t wanna think about that right now. Not while he’s still mourning the loss of his precious tickets.

“Hate to break it to you, honeyjam, but nothing happened.” Eddie shakes his head, gesturing to Steve who hasn’t budged from the recliner. “It’s just me over here and Steve over there. No conjunction connecting us together in that way.”

He can already tell Chrissy isn’t buying it. She’s getting that little forehead wrinkle right above her eyebrows, just like an angry cartoon character. Her best attempt at intimidation. “You didn’t see what I saw.”

“Gay desperation?”

“No, you jackass. Come here!”

Chrissy yanks Eddie into his bedroom, demanding for him to lock the door. He listens, mainly because the intimidation is starting to work a little. They sit at the edge of the bed and she begins to explain everything she saw:

Steve constructing a wall of blankets and pillows around Eddie to ensure he slept comfortably. Steve waiting by the phone, tapping his foot in that insufferably cute way that Eddie loves so much. Steve scoring the tickets, celebrating quietly to himself.

“How long were you standing at the door, weirdo?” Eddie teases her to avoid the way his stomach is twisting around her words.

Chrissy shushes him and squeals. “And he kissed your cheek!”

“Liar.”

“He did, I swear! He kissed you on the cheek or the chin or the nose. I don't know which one for sure because my view was obstructed by all of your hair.”

Eddie instinctively combs his fingers through a few strands, undoing the knotted pieces. Not all of them, but enough to keep his hands busy while he thinks through this. Processing. “And you’re sure it wasn’t a dream?”

“Positive.”

“What about a hallucination? Didn’t Byers make a batch of those infamous brownies again?”

Chrissy gives a deep sigh. “Whatever. You’re hopeless.” She shrugs the blanket back over her arms and heads toward the door. More than a fair assessment, Eddie can’t argue even if he wanted to (he always does).

He stares at the line of posters along his wall, letting Chrissy’s words replay over and over. Imagining what it might have felt like. If Steve’s breath was warm or if his lips were soft. Eddie wonders how it looked to have Steve dipping down to his level. Staying so quiet, so careful not to disturb him. The visuals swarm his head until there’s nothing left but Steve.

Him and Steve. Connecting them together in that way after all.

So, Eddie gets up and walks back into the living room. He takes in the view of Steve curled up in the recliner, mouth slightly parted open. Chest falling with every sniffle, not quite a snore.

There’s so many emotions while looking at him. Eddie can’t just pin one down to fully comprehend what's going on. All he can do is repeat the scene that’s occupying his mind, settling in his bones.

“Here,” he whispers, placing another blanket across Steve’s lap. It’s feathery gentle, more than he intends for it to be. So gentle that Steve doesn’t shift or stir.

Eddie takes a deep breath and bends down, close enough to notice all the little details. The ones he’s been too sheepish to indulge in before last night.

The tiny hairs on Steve’s forearm. The creases in his t-shirt. The bit of dried toothpaste on his chin. None of it should make his cheeks feel this flushed, but they do.

He lets the rush of bravery wash through him as he kisses Steve on the tip of his nose. Just the way Steve must’ve done to him. It’s swift, lighter than he means for it to be. Barely touching. But it’s enough to switch his heart rate up a few notches, pulsing jumping in his wrist.

Eddie steps away, waiting to see if Steve wakes up. Not entirely sure if he wants that or if he’d rather keep this memory to himself.

“Thanks… by the way.” Eddie adds, brushing the tips of his fingers over Steve’s hand. Wishing he could trace the lines in his palm. Rewind back to last night and pause it there indefinitely. “I’ll tell you again when you’re up, but yeah.”

“Thank you, Steve Harrington.”

#steddie #steddie fic #steve harrington #eddie munson #slight buckingham because I said so #lexssummerfanworkschallenge #biggest of shoutouts to lex for giving us this space to create and share together!!!#is the sleep depravation making Eddie good at flirting???#or is it all in his overactive imagination???#the world may never know #also Eddie is wearing one of Robin's shirts bc he never does laundry #that's not relevant - it's just a brainworm that he ironically wears her marching band tees #okay okay pls enjoy 💖#(and pretend I'm in a timezone where it's still August pls)

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cringecannon · 9 months

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imagining being caught between the immovable object Enver Gortash and the unstoppable force Astarion

Maybe you managed to get away from Astarion in that sweet spot between his ascension and him turning you. There were more important things to deal with, the tadpoles still wriggling in your heads, the impending doom. Astarion would begrudgingly let you run off, save the day. After all, what was the point in newfound power if he wasn’t alive to savor it? So you leave. You fight. You’re all finally free.

Then what happens when Astarion doesn’t swoop in fast enough?

He’d always intended to bring you back, to sequester you away as he promised, but he was foolish enough to think he had all the time in the world, that he had decades to win you back. So imagine his shock when the dust has settled and you’re nowhere to be found. He’d interrogate your friends, send his new spawn hunting for you every night, turn the entire city upside down to no avail.

He can barely keep up with his duties as a new lord in the city, can barely even think of anything but you. He’s at his wits end, considering another deal with the devil when all of the sudden, in the last place he’d expect, he sees you. At some stuffy patriar party, hanging off of Archduke Gortash’s arm like some lovesick puppy. It would sicken him, enrage him. How dare you move on so quickly. How dare you forget about him, forget all that you had together.

In his jealous rage, he wouldn’t notice how tight your smile is, how it doesn’t reach your eyes. You have no such luxury. You’re intimately aware of how uncomfortable you are, your skin crawling wherever it makes contact with your fiancé. Even thinking the word disgusts you. It was a horrible, crooked deal you’d been forced into. Just days after saving the city, Gortash had cornered you. Threatened the well-being of you, your friends, everyone you held dear. All you had to do was give up one tiny, insignificant thing- your hand, in marriage.

You would have no choice but to acquiesce. Running away would be selfish, he assures you. You’d be dooming everyone you cared about, and he’d hunt you down anyway. It would be so much easier just to give in. So you do. You let him dress you up in high end fashions, you hang off his arm while he schmoozes the upper-crust pawns that line his pockets, and you let him fuck you dumb over his ornate desk, his satin bed, and anywhere else he wants to.

When he sneaks you out of the party and pulls you tight against his chest, you don’t protest as he slips inside you, taking what’s his. Your obedience earns you nothing though. He doesn’t even have the decency to let you cover yourself when Astarion catches you in that dark hallway, your arms held back as he leisurely thrusts inside you. He doesn’t stop when he notices the vampire, merely greets him and asks if he’s enjoying the party.

Astarion would bristle, he’d have to hold himself back from tearing the man apart. It would be suicide to kill him so publicly. He considers it though. He has no such self restraint when Gortash offers to let him join in, pulling out of you and flipping you around so that the Archduke can enjoy your mouth instead. Astarion would be insulted, fuming as the other man speaks of you so vulgarly, offering to share you like some common whore… but at his core, Astarion is a selfish man. He knows he’s debasing himself, debasing you, but he can’t bring himself to care. Not yet. He’ll get you back, eventually. Lock you away where no one will ever find you. For now though, he’s just thrilled to be inside you again.

#astarion x tav #enver gortash x tav #enver gortash x reader #astarion x reader #notsfw #.astarion #.enver gortash #.bg3

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sinfulsalutations · 10 months

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Ayyyy congrats on the 500!! You deserve it💕 How about 20. "you seem more sensitive than usual" with Crosshair? Thank you for sharing your writing with us

➼ ɴᴏᴜʀ'ꜱ 500 ꜰᴏʟʟᴏᴡᴇʀ ᴄᴇʟᴇʙʀᴀᴛɪᴏɴ

⋆ ★ ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ ꜰᴏʀ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ꜱᴜᴄʜ ᴀɴ ᴀᴡᴇꜱᴏᴍᴇ ᴍᴜᴛᴜᴀʟ!!! ʜᴏᴘᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏ ꜱɴᴀʀᴋʏ ᴄʀᴏꜱꜱʜᴀɪʀ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ᴀɴ ᴀꜱꜱ 🫣🥲

➼ ᴘʀᴏᴍᴘᴛ ☆ “ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴇᴇᴍ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ꜱᴇɴꜱɪᴛɪᴠᴇ ꜱᴇɴꜱɪᴛɪᴠᴇ ᴛʜᴀɴ ᴜꜱᴜᴀʟ”

➼ ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ ☆ ᴄʀᴏꜱꜱʜᴀɪʀ x ꜰ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

➼ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ☆ ꜱᴇɴꜱᴜᴀʟɪᴛʏ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴍᴜᴛ ʙᴜᴛ ɴᴏ ᴘᴇɴᴇᴛʀᴀᴛɪᴠᴇ ꜱᴇx, ᴄʀᴏꜱꜱʜᴀɪʀ ɪꜱ ᴀɴ ᴀꜱꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴀᴛᴇ ʜᴏᴡ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ʏᴏᴜ’ʀᴇ ɪɴᴛᴏ ʜɪᴍ ʟᴍᴀᴏ

➼ ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ ☆ 512

➼ ᴛʜɪꜱ ꜰɪᴄ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴀɪɴꜱ ɴꜱꜰᴡ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ. ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ɴᴏᴛ 18+ ᴅɴɪ

“Crosshair, you–fuck.”

“Something to say, pretty thing?”

You’re up against a wall. The wall just off the entrance to your apartment, in fact. Crosshair had barely given you a warning, simple regard, or even a hello, before he kissed you and pushed at your chest, caging you in between two hands and wedging one leg between yours. Perhaps you deserve this, though, for always lending him the gratification of sex whenever he so needed you carnally. Now he feels entitled to just take without giving you common decency.

“You haven’t even said hello,” You finish your thought while he softly kisses your neck, hands trailing your curves without much focus. He lingers on one spot and decides to suck, leaving what you know to be a love bite as he pulls away and runs the top of his teeth over it in an act of possession.

“Hm, I didn’t?” He says in such a faux-oblivious tone you want to slap him. “My apologies, your worship.” He pulls away for a split second and flashes you a smile, a smirk, really, something so silver-slick and smug you huff under your breath. “Hello.”

You roll your eyes, but let him go back to kissing down your neck. His hands wander again, playing with the hem of your shorts, back and forth without venturing further.

“How was your day?” Crosshair asks you. Something in you knows it’s not very genuine, but you decide to indulge in an imaginary world where Crosshair actually cares for you and your life.

“Good,” You respond, a little breathier and high-pitched than you intended. “I uh–” His hand slips past your shorts, cold fingers inching up your bare skin. You hold back a moan. “--started a new job today.”

“You seem more sensitive than usual,” He completely disregards what you’re saying and jumps to the case, snapping the band of your panties against your skin. To no surprise from either of you, your body squirms and aches to reach out of his grasp and catch your bearings, but it’s far too late for that.

“I think I’m–” You begin, but quickly stop yourself purposefully. Your mind races through your options, to tell him you’re ovulating and definitely need him way too bad right now, or play the game of a brat. You stir in the gray as he holds you in this moment. He leaves another lovebite on your collarbone, slowly rubbing his fingers through your panties, and you heave, shoulders falling and head lolling back.

“Fuck you, Crosshair.”

It really was meant to sound more annoyed than it did. Really.

“Hm, I thought I was doing that,” He responds as slick as you didn’t want him to be. Your body shivers pleasantly, but your mind screams. How dare you let him win.

Crosshair’s hands slip past your panties, rubbing a single finger past the folds of your pussy, and your head falls back again; you manage to contain a moan, but your body language tells him all he needs to know to make you fall apart nice and good.

@pb-jellybeans @corrieguards @badbatchbabe @ladytano420 @jediknightjana @sleepycreativewriter @shinyshayminflower @thebahdbitch @secondaryrealm @nobody-expects-the-inquisitorius @followthepurrgil @starrylothcat @blueink-bluesoul @aconstructofamind @xflashcat

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odinsblog · 11 months

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Some things you CAN’T do in America if you’re a convicted felon:

Vote

Serve on a jury

Own firearms

Receive public assistance (food, housing, education, etc)

Certain employment (job discrimination)

Maintain parental rights

Bear Arms

Become a police officer

Lose voting rights during and after incarceration

Travel abroad

(source)

Things you CAN do in America if you’re a convicted felon:

Run for president

Win, and presumably still be president while serving your prison sentence behind bars

(source)

Obviously this is not meant to be a comprehensive list, and some of these things may vary widely from state to state—but CONSTITUTIONALLY speaking, the “can do” list is 100% accurate

And this also isn’t me agreeing with all of the “can’t do” exclusions either

Formerly incarcerated people are still human beings who are deserving of food, housing, gainful employment, higher education, and health care—not to mention common decency and respect

It’s just crazy that Trump could still become president even if he were convicted

#politics #donald trump #us constitution #america is a place #the absurdity of american politics

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poisonheadcrabsalesman · 29 days

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R&R

Chili Cook-Off! This event will be held in Forward Mess Hall. To enter, contract Master Chef Jonathan Lowell. To attend as a taster, pick up your tickets any time before February 25! Miller just wanted to enjoy his morning off, but he's voluntold to attend the Chili Cook-off. There he runs into some familiar faces. Fernando bullies and gets bullied by his coworkers. Linda socializes and reports back to Blue Team.

Technically a sequel to Backup - the other Miller/Esparza fic that takes place during SpOps.

Also posted to ao3

February 25th, 2558. A perfectly normal Saturday.

4 days since the invasion. Not even two weeks since Castle was shot down on their way to Copernicus base. So much had gone wrong.

The hole in Miller's Fireteam roster yawned ever wider as the campaign pushed everyone to their limits. He had thought he'd lost Crimson too, but their luck had held out so far. But losses were common, regardless of what the propaganda said. It really was only a matter of time.

Get it together, Miller. He thinks to himself and huffs a sigh. At least he can be dramatic and morose in the privacy of his own bunk.

"Good morning, Spartan Miller!"

Never mind, he's not safe anywhere. Maybe he should be grateful that Roland has the decency to wait until he's awake.

"Roland." He sighs and rolls over, glaring at the ceiling. "It's my morning off."

"Was your morning off. Put some pants on so you don't scare my delivery boy. I hope you're hungry!"

Miller grumbles something about pushy AI and pulls on some sweatpants before there's a knock at his door. It's probably Dalton or someone from Crimson in on Roland's scheme. Miller scowls and opens the door.

It's not Dalton or Crimson. It's Linda. 058. Blue Team Linda. Sharp-green-eyes-that-see-into-your-soul Linda. Linda from the speed dating event, who-acted-like-she-wanted-to-win-it Linda. That Linda. At Miller's door. Where he's standing. Shirtless and half awake. Well, he's fully awake now. He stares at her, frozen as the white hot fear and panic turns him to stone. She stares at him, expression blank as usual, maintaining prolonged eye contact as Miller’s brain both empties and goes into overdrive. He goes for casual seconds too late and aborts a half-motion to cover his chest. Playing it off like he went to scratch his neck, he finally regains his grasp of the English language and manages human-like speech.

"Hi." The greeting creaks out his throat.

Linda nods in lieu of a greeting and opens her palm to reveal comically archaic paper tickets. They look small and childish in her hand - so out of place on a warship. Paper tickets, a novelty on their own, but on the Infinity they mean one thing; Morale boosting events. R&R, hand-delivered and Roland-enforced. Miller is doomed. He’s getting roped in. Roland somehow roped Linda (058, his brain supplies, as if leaving the numbers off is rude) to rope Miller into attending.

Miller blinks. Linda doesn't appear to need to. He holds his arm out robotically and receives them. He's unsure what's happening. Surely he’s still dreaming and this social fumble is just a nightmare.

"What are these for?" He asks.

"Chili cook-off. You're a taster." She says, voice cool and calm. Miller can't tell what she's thinking or feeling. Linda’s the most mysterious member of Blue Team because of her quiet and secretive nature. Beyond being the sniper, Miller isn’t really aware of any aspect of her personality. Even Chief emotes more than Linda. Miller thinks Linda lets people see exactly what she wants them to see, which is none of her, most of the time.

"What? This is what Roland was talking about?" He sighs, "I'm sorry you got dragged into this." He is genuinely apologetic. There was something of a Roland blast zone surrounding Miller and those who got too close were collateral for the AI’s whims.

Her head tilts a fraction of a millimeter. "I'm going too." She reveals her own ticket. "See you there." And then she's gone.

Miller blinks and Linda is disappearing down the hall while he stands there like an idiot. He knows he only sees her leave because she wants him to. Why did the "see you there" sound so threatening? IIs were such different beasts from IVs, socially at least. He was fine being a handler and helping on Ops with IIs, but without Fred balancing them out, Blue Team was nigh indecipherable outside a combat setting.

Miller groans. He'd been looking forward to laying around in bed for his morning off. Now he's saddled with expectations. If he doesn't go, Roland won't allow him a moment of peace until he decides Miller's suffering has balanced the scales. He's at the mercy of a fickle AI. He knows Roland knows he knows this. He better get on with it, for his own sake.

Gunmetal gray walls and bright lights greet him as he leaves his room and exits S-Deck to the less Spartan-friendly areas of the ship. There’s a dull roar as he approaches the cafeterias and Miller sees more groups congregating than he had expected. The Forward Mess Hall is a hive of activity as Miller steps through the door. Voices drone together in a low buzz as bodies swarm different tables. Crew from every department and rank are rubbing elbows, some for the first time ever. Master Chef Lowell is conducting the competing cooks with a smile on his face. The overall mood is surprisingly light given that just a few days ago the Infinity had been boarded by Covenant and Promethean invaders.

The crew needed this. A small, lighthearted respite in the midst of a messy campaign. Miller needed this too, though he didn't sign up to be a taster for the Chili Cook-Off of his own free will. Roland signing him up looked like it would turn out to be a good thing, not that Miller could voice that where the AI could hear. Roland's ego needed no help.

Miller finds himself in a swarm of crew vying for the seats at the tables across from the cooks. He's a head taller than most of the people there, sticking out like a sore thumb. There's one Spartan competing which assuages some of his nerves - it's funny seeing Spartan Hedge in an apron that barely makes it to his upper thigh.

He's scouting for a spot to sit, one that will support his augmented weight, when someone calls his name.

"Spartan Miller?"

It's the civilian from the group that huddled in the Op Center during the invasion. The engineering contractor or something, Esparza. He waves at Miller and gestures to the empty seat next to him. Miller raises a hand to wave back and finds himself gravitating towards the table. It wasn't like anyone else was going to wave him down.

"Esparza, right? How have you been?" Miller asks as he takes a seat.

Esparza grins at the fact that Miller remembered his name. Fernando incorporates Miller into his small group near-seamlessly. “Good, good. Nice to see you again, you know, without the danger.”

“I guess that depends on the chili.” Miller laughs awkwardly. He regrets the joke immediately but it makes Esparza smile and his group mates groan goodnaturedly.

Esparza is kind. He chuckles as Miller gingerly sits, testing to see if the seat will support him. The metal folding chair groans but holds. Esparza laughs outright at how Miller's eyes go wide at the sound and he throws his arms out to brace. It's a nice laugh. They make small talk and Miller learns he doesn’t flub every social interaction he’s a part of.

Esparza introduces him to the other people sitting around their table. Mostly civilian types, contractors and engineers. Egghead types, the commander would say, but they’re good people and Miller finds himself relaxing. He finds himself forgetting how much he sticks out and just enjoys the company. There's some words about him being the Spartan that protected the engineers during the invasion and Miller hates that he feels his face heat up. He knows the tips of his ears are red, but it feels nice to be remembered for something good for once.

"Did you come here with anyone?" Esparza asks.

He shakes his head. "My 'friend' signed me up for this, even had someone else drop off the ticket. I thought I might see someone here but I'm not sure. She's...good at blending in."

Esparza looks curious. “Your friend made you come? They must have thought you needed a break. I’m glad you made it.” He says while gently nudging Miller’s side.

“Thanks.” Miller says,“Don’t let him hear you say that though. I’ll never hear the end of it.”

“Who?”

Miller looks around and lowers his voice before answering. There’s too many people and the noise should prevent him from hearing, but who knows? He’s probably watching and lip reading from some unseen camera angle. “Roland.”

Esparza looks confused for a moment. “The Ship AI?”

“Yes.” Miller says mournfully. Esparza laughs, probably at this tone and the look on his face. He knows he’s pouting.

“I have to know, why? Is it because he’s like your boss?” Esparza leans in.

“I think he just likes picking on me, specifically.”

“So he likes you.” Esparza says grinning and sitting back. He crosses his arms and the easy curve of his posture is relaxed and knowing. He looks smug.

Miller feels himself losing control of his expression. He’s affronted. “I wouldn’t say that. I think he just likes causing problems.”

“Does he pull stunts like this often?” One of the other engineers asks. Miller can’t recall her name.

“He’s always popping up on Ops. I think he thinks he’s helping. Or he gets bored.”

“He rarely talks to us. I think we saw him during onboarding, but he rarely talks to our department directly.”

“He must like you.”

“He’s pulling your pigtails because he doesn’t know what else to do.” Esparza says with a thoughtful face before he cracks up and laughs at Miller’s bright red face.

“Thanks. A bald joke, never gotten one of those before.” He says snidely.

Esparza waves him off. “No, he likes you and he’s showing his feelings the only way he knows how. By being defensive.”

“Probably picked it up from Command.” Someone at the table whispers. Miller ignores the image of Commander Palmer that pops into his head.

“I don’t know about that.” Miller mutters. “And you guys sure know how to gang up on a guy. What happened to me being the cool Spartan?”

“We started talking to you.”

“Jeez, okay I walked into that one.” Miller sighs, crossing his arms on the table and dropping his head dramatically. Joking aside, he is having a good time. He’s used to jokes at his expense, but this feels different. Esparza’s including him and the man’s presence is comforting. Still, he’ll play his part and act put out. Maybe he can guilt them into sharing their portions of the taste testing.

Esparza takes pity on him and pats his arm. “There, there. Look, it’s time for the food.”

In the end, they do share food with Miller when his faster metabolism comes up in conversation. He doesn’t share too much about the augs, but it’s interesting to talk to civilian types with just enough clearance he can clear up some misconceptions.

“I didn’t know Spartans could be nerds.”

“We’re not all meathead jocks!” Miller laughs and steals a bite of one of Esparza’s samples. “Oh, which one is that? That’s going to be my number 1.”

He tries to swat Miller’s hand and fails. Scowling, Esparza bides his time until Miller starts talking to someone else and goes for the kill. His spoon gets mere inches away from Miller’s plate before the Spartan traps his hand with his own.

“Gotta be faster than that.” He laughs.

It’s Esparza’s turn to be flustered. He wiggles his hand in Miller’s strong grip and can’t get free. Miller yields and releases him, his palm feeling cold now that it’s no longer wrapped around Esparza’s hand and wrist. He was gentle, but Esparza still cradles his hand with wide eyes before coughing and clearing his throat.

Whatever he plans to say is interrupted by an announcement of the winners. Master Chef Lowell beams and introduces the winners. Miller can see Spartan Hedge near the winner’s circle looking pleased. Miller’s favorites didn’t win but they got honorable mentions.

Then Miller sees her. Linda materializes out of the crowd and goes over to the 4th place winners with a strange intensity. She offers them the most formal handshake Miller's ever observed and must congratulate them on their work. Bobrov beams with pride and Gomez looks a little starry-eyed as Linda 058 of Blue Team fame tells them she liked their chili the best. It honestly looks closer to a medal giving ceremony than something as low stakes as a chili cook-off.

With the event officially over and his shift starting soon, Miller excuses himself with a small smile. “Maybe we’ll run into each other soon!” He says and winces internally.

Esparza and the others smile and say their goodbyes as well before heading towards their own parts of the ship.

Miller looks around for Linda, but doesn’t see her. He hopes she had fun. He also hopes he will get more warning before she pops up again. All the excitement is keeping him on his toes. The small break over, he still feels lighter than he has in weeks as he preps to send Crimson out into the field.

“So?” Roland asks once Miller’s seated at his station. Ask is too nice a word for it, it’s more of a demand from the AI.

“It was alright. I had fun.” Miller admits. He’s going to keep a closer eye on Roland now. Miller was considering previous conversations with Roland in a new light now. Maybe the AI was more than just bored and Miller was more than just the easiest target.

“So I was correct in making you go.”

“Maybe. If I let you set the waypoints for my Fireteams, will you stop bullying me on comms?”

“Maybe.”

It’s a start.

—

The civilians trail back towards their departments in groups, gossiping about the cook-off and who they thought should have won before the conversation turns around to focus on Fernando. He should have expected it, but honestly, he was too old for this.

"The Spartan's cute, and you guys have a great first meeting story. Why not ask him out?" One of his coworkers titters. His team had been insufferable about The Spartan That Saved Them and the moment Fernando and he had had during the crisis.

"Shhh!" Fernando waves her off and playfully scowls the others grinning at them. "He might hear you!" They were only just past the doorway to the Mess Hall.

He considers it slowly, rotating the image of the Spartan in his head and talking to Miller over the course of the last hour or so. Miller is more human and shy than he expected. Awkward. It was funny seeing a Spartan off-kilter. He's less intimidating without the armor and he acts like he’s surprised when people like him.

"He is cute." Fernando acquiesces.

"And tall."

"And strong."

"Stop!"

“But he might be taken?”

“Yeah, you might have competition. The AI might pull your pigtails.”

“You guys are the worst. I feel like I’m back in school.”

He waves them off, but he finds his mind lingering on the Spartan as he finishes up his reports. Maybe they would see each other around. His contract on the Infinity was a longer one and there wasn’t any harm in seeing where this went.

—

Linda returns from her outing with a sense of satisfaction evident to the rest of her team. Her shoulders are relaxed and she’s talkative. Rather than return to rest from the strain of the social spotlight often aimed at the IIs, Linda seems satisfied.

Her team perks up when she returns, their body language shifting to welcome her back into their space. She has their attention and they read her posture and gestures like an open book. It went well.

“Have fun?” Kelly asks as her sister enters the room.

Linda nods and signs the Spartan smile across her face.

John tilts his head and nods in acknowledgement. He doesn’t move off his bunk but he sits up to show he’s listening and starts mirroring her posture.

“You know it’s not a date if both parties aren’t aware.” Fred points out from his bunk.

“Not a date. Observation.” Linda says.

“What was the speed-dating thing then?”

“Recon.”

Fred sighs. “I guess this counts as socializing. I’m glad you had fun.”

“I got some numbers.”

“Of course you did.” Fred says and is promptly hit with a pillow. Headshot.

“Are you going to call any of them?” John asks. It’s a genuine question. Linda’s been observing and opening up to new experiences since they’ve been stationed here. If carving out time for socializing and resting in the middle of a campaign was something they did, then she would try it.

“Maybe.”

“No pillow for him? Come on.” Fred complains, but there’s mirth in his voice.

“She likes me better.” John says smugly and dodges the pillow Fred throws at him.

Maybe there was the time and space for them to branch out here. They might not have roots anywhere, not anymore, but they still had this.

Kelly makes eye contact with her and she signals “go.” The pillows fly.

#My writing #Halo fanfic #Spartan Miller #Roland the AI #Linda 058 #Echo 216 #Fernando Esparza #Blue Team

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icedbatik · 7 months

Text

@hockeylovinglibrarian pointed out the above tweet. (Thanks!) Then I saw this reply below it: .

Seriously?! Dude (because it was a dude who asked). The players helped because they're good guys. Because they know *team* isn't just about the guys on the ice, that the entire Pens organization is on their team and they're all working toward the same goal. (It's the same reason players aren't the only ones who get Cup rings when they win a Cup.)

But, also? In this case, the team didn't fly in the night before and give the equipment crew 24 hours or more to do its job. They flew in just hours before puck drop. Which is not unusual for a preseason game. But the equipment crew still has to set up the same stuff ahead of the game, whether given 24 hours or two. And if the players want their stalls set up in time for them to be ready at puck drop, they kind of *need* to lend a hand.

And when you consider that these are all incredibly fit men who probably could lift one of those wheeled boxes and carry it if the wheels weren't there, them having the common decency to *help* their equipment-based teammates isn't asking too much of them.

Instead of knocking the entire organization for asking a grown man to spend 5 minutes helping with someone else's work, try appreciating the players who don't *have* to help but do so *willingly*.

Geez.

#Pittsburgh Penguins #vs the Sabres #October 6 - 2023

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yourtoradorasextendedwarranty · 10 months

Text

Fine I'll Bite

So I'm beyond the scope of normal anger here. Media has been on a crusade as of late to more or less make it out like child sex trafficking ISN'T happening and if it is, is only happening a TINY BIT. First of all. FUCK YOU. I'm not going to be calm here. The people CNN, MSNBC, ABC etc have had on to talk about this have been Prostasia supporters, and spokes people for fucking NAMBLA. Actual pedophiles are the people saying this movie is "over hyped" and " is fear mongering".

youtube

WHEN for all intents and purposes it's fully based on a true events, with very little changed for artistic posture. Which is why the movie was not a action adventure thriller with huge gun fights and explosions. Then we have THIS pos, and look, I don't know you but to you, fuck you.

And I'm not going to hide your name. You deserve to be looked into. "I always knew millions of people that were against child sex trafficking were fishy" Sure you did. Because it's impossible that there are not a few people donating to a movie being made that maybe aren't the best people.

Here's the kicker. Yahoo New, citing Newsweek both know what they were doing when they did this:

Yahoo News *Though the top header reads Jezebel so I'm a bit confused and concerned.

Newsweek

Now what do both of these have in common? Well when you first click on the Newsweek article it starts with the mug shot. Because regardless of the mans name, (and I don't personally know his nationality) He looks white. The media loves this. They want this. Because they know it stokes division. But what is the other thing they did? The headline. "Funder" is the word they used. And while Yahoo specifically goes out of their way to NOT mention the thousands of other crowd funders. News week at least had the decency to put it in the first paragraph. Though I am still pissed at the intentional slant here with the headline.

Now if you read the Newsweek article they don't give us much of anything. More or less not even telling us what exactly he's being charged for specifically as no information about the case exists it seems. At least not that Newsweek can verify also saying that he had direct involvement in the film somehow but then they go on to say this

So some credit again to Newsweek though they frankly don't deserve it.

My issue with both of these headlines is that it leads you into this idea that the movie got it's primary funding from this one guy. And the intent with that is to implicate the entire film as being a catfish. Why? I can tell you why. Because most of the mainstream left have sided with actual pedophiles and can't renounce them because if they do, they think the LGBT will revolt against them. Which is honestly disgusting because, let's suppose for a second, I as a moderate on the left, would believe that the LGBT would be mad if you called out pedophiles. What is the implication in that? Is it that you are saying that the LGBT ARE or are complacent in pedophilia? Because that sounds pretty fucking homophobic to me. Or is it that you don't want to risk alienating a voter base who seems to more and more align with you? At least the outspoken ones anyways.

I can't even express, as a victim of CSA myself how angry this topic makes me. THERE ARE legit avowed pedophiles trashing this movie, and ONE DONER out of 1000's does something f'd up that we have ZERO context on, and all of a sudden it's a win to prove the movie or the people as a WHOLE that support it are a problem.

I don't know how to tell you this. Hell I don't know how to force this down your throat. The movie. WAS. BASED. ON. REAL. EVENTS! And the telling of that story as well as actual news footage, shows there is a HUGE issue with child abductions and child sex trafficking. And saying that it's fear mongering, or that we shouldn't put that much worry on it REALLY makes it feel like you have something to hide.

And again. I can not even BEGIN to express how pissed off this makes me. I really can't. No one has any real reason to shit on this movie unless they have something to hide. No one has any real reason to shit on the movies message unless they have something to hide. Because the movie was based again on REAL LIFE. So either one you want people to not focus on this as a problem because you are a part of that problem. Or because you are mad that a large swath of the political middle and right have come out in support of it, but the neo liberal left has been mostly silent about it. And more the media has been propping up NAMBLA types to talk about why this movie "is just qanon fear mongering". If I could have a heart attack from sheer rage, I'd have had one having read that.

I've done my best to not lose my utter shit when dealing with the a-holes in the media trying to make this movie seem bad, and not worth paying attention to. And little by little I'm losing my patience. And I can't not be emotion driven on this because I'VE BEEN assaulted as a kid. I do my best to bury it every single fucking day and you're going to tell ME it's not that big a deal? Your going to tell ME that people supporting a movie based heavily on a true story is "Fishy". I don't support violence at all in 98%-99% of cases. For you, I'd make an exception. For the people at Yahoo(and or Jezebel) that wrote this, I'd make an exception. For the people that decided on that headline at Newsweek, I'd make an exception.

And for context, the Yahoo one is GOD AWFUL. And intentionally inflammatory. I will not link that here because they don't deserve the traffic. However I'll link the Newsweek one here so people can look at what a non story this bullshit is.

Newsweek Article

#discourse #yahoo news #rage #Youtube

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princessfbi · 6 months

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AU where Bobby is a senior detective and Buck is a new, fresh-on-the-job deputy who Bobby takes under his wing. A few months later, Bobby is assigned to lead the open case of an at-large serial killer, with Buck insisting on helping with the investigation 👀👀

Murder Mystery AU

Nonnie you need to know this sent me off in a spiral with the besties and then I got busy at work.

We're looking at the Grumpy 🫱🏻‍🫲🏼 Sunshine partnership that everyone at the station seems to get a kick out of for whatever reason. But Buck is completely unfazed by Bobby's closed off demeanor. He thinks Bobby is so cool. They taught about him in the academy. Bobby is all but begging Athena to get the golden retriever rookie off his back but she thinks it would be good for both of them.

Buck's instincts are very good. Bobby doesn't get it at first. He's always believed in treating suspects like humans with common decency but Buck is talking about work out routines with a possible serial killer. Does he not get the severity of what's going on? It takes Bobby a second to realize that there aren't a lot of people Buck doesn't eventually win over and those suspects are eating out of the palm of his hand by the end.

The kid has a crush the size of Jupiter on Deputy Diaz and would he please for the love of god stop flirting with him on the radio. Seriously, Buck! We're working.

Bobby snaps when another victim shows up and they're no closer to finding the killer. It's hard to be caught up in his grief with literal sunshine walking around him and idolizing him and looking at him like he has all the answers when he doesn't!

But then Bobby finds Buck sleeping at his desk and he sends him home to get some real sleep in a real bed. They'll try again later. Would be a real shame Buck doesn't quite make it home though.

#evan buckley #bobby nash #eddie diaz #buddie #royal decree #writing talk #my fic writing #anon

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laineystein · 17 days

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hello i am a zionist jewish columbia student who’s at home rn and watching the arrests live

it’s been hell and i’m glad the cops have finally been called (even if it’s a bit hard to watch) but “slap on the wrist” is exactly my best guess of what will ultimately come of all this. ideally admin would get the arrest record from the police and expel every single student who occupied hamilton (they committed vandalism, property damage, and trespassing, plus they reportedly would not allow facilities workers to leave the building last night). admin can’t force the police to arrest anyone but they sure as hell can punish these students. i rather doubt that much will come of it though because columbia university president minouche shafik is a spineless coward. (funnily enough, that’s the one thing i agree with the protestors on. we both hate shafik.)

fyi, shafik wants the police to maintain a campus presence until may 17 (which means they’d stay until after commencement) so no one can reestablish any encampments.

I’m so sorry you’re dealing with that. I can’t imagine what that’s like and I’m glad I don’t have to. If I could rescue all of you, I would!

Yeah, antisemitism and terrorist support aside, they’re breaking school policy and disregarding human decency and common sense. Even leaving Jews out of it, these protestors are ignorant, dangerous people and they need to be held accountable. If you’re old enough to break into an academic building, you’re old enough to be arrested and tried when you’re caught. These dumbasses are live-streaming all of this and I can’t wait for all of it to someday be used against them — if not in court, ideally in the real world. I hope they all struggle to get jobs. I hope the entire idea behind ivy leagues makes their value drop and opens students up to other more affordable options. And yes, I hope President Shafik resigns because she has done a laughable job at handling all of this. Good riddance to all of them honestly!

I’m hoping this ends soon for you and every other student that is just trying to tie up their semester and do what they’re there for - learn. I’d like to believe that the world will wake up and things will right myself but either way keep your head up! Don’t let them win.

🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼

#ask things #h@mas university

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oogaboogasphincter · 1 year

Text

After the Beep | Dieter Bravo x afab!reader

gif by @joelmjller

In your absence after last night’s rendezvous, Dieter has some fun with dirty voicemails.

word count/rating/warnings - 2800+ // swearing, recreational drug use (weed, reader and dieter both use), alcohol (only dieter) EXPLICIT 18+ ONLY: masturbation (m), anal play/fingering (m receiving), edging/orgasm denial (m), descriptions of oral (m and f receiving), unprotected p in v sex (use protection irl obvi), anal sex (f receiving), mentions of strap-ons and gaping (?:!/!:), idiots in love sorta

a/n - this is such a strange fic? idk if i like the style i went with (not my usual)?? there are so many things in here that are just not me lol but i wrote about it anyways??? i hope you enjoy! <3

A hungover Dieter jolts awake when a strong, cold breeze whips through the open patio doors, skimming across his uncovered ass and raising goosebumps in its wake. He grumbles, blearily reaching for his sunglasses and jamming them on his face crooked before reluctantly slumping out from the sheets. As he goes to shut the offending doors, he pauses a moment and remembers that he's forgotten where he is. The absence of car horns, construction ambience and groans from other waking bodies staggers him further into disorientation. He squints out at the pristine backyard that greets him - exotic foliage manicured to the nth degree, a crisp swimming pool gleaming fierce in the morning sun, and not another soul in sight.

Ah, yes, he's at his actor friend's "getaway" house while he's in town for... what was it? Not an interview (it'll be a while before the next one since he botched the last so bad), not a movie (at least hopefully not, any and all scripts have been completely obliterated from his mind for the time being), what was it...

He closes the glass doors and absentmindedly scratches his stubbly balls, still staring out at the calm, confined water even though his pupils are hurting. The softness of his t-shirt against his fidgeting forearm surprises his delayed senses, as he doesn't remember putting it on when he went to sleep...

And suddenly all his questions are answered.

You.

He's in town because he wanted to see you. Dieter's not one for committal, romantic feelings, but his honesty wins over his ego when he admits that he needed to see you. Although you began simply as his favorite bootycall of this specific city, he grew fonder of you than he ever has for anyone else he has a similar exchange with. No matter the carnal options, no matter the city or time, he found himself requesting you over and over again. Whenever he tried to quench his thirst with another body, another substance, another side job, he was left parched and belittled.

You make him feel free. Not only because you aren't in the public eye (although that does help ease his paranoia when he's on a downward spiral), but because of the way you give him the space to be himself. He doesn't have to put on a performance for you, nor is he prohibited from expressing his innermost desires. He never once felt in your presence that he had to think too much about or hide what he was doing. You'll be there to listen, always, like he is for you. You tried to explain to him once that it was the least you could do, but common courtesy and decency doesn't extend far or hold very much genuine meaning in his industry, so it confuses him. You intrigue him; the way your mind works, he wants to translate your brainwaves to puzzle pieces and figure out how to put you together over and over again.

On a less heartfelt note, in combination with all of this - he's had some of the best orgasms of his life when he's with you. Maybe the trust correlates with lowered inhibitions, but your talents alone speak for themselves.

He grins to himself, eyeing the only article of clothing he's wearing: his shirt that you had fallen asleep in last night.

Minutes after he called you and told you he was in town, you were rapping on this unknown front door and pouncing on your tipsy lover. Winding your arms tight around his broad shoulders to bring him down to your height, wasting no time licking into his mouth, and hiking your leg up over his hip, almost tumbling the two of you over, he picked you up and took you straight to the bedroom. Hours upon hours passed, and you finally gave your sweaty skin a break by slipping on his worn shirt, relishing in the cool yet thin barrier it posed between your heaving chests.

Unfortunately, to Dieter's whiney dismay, you couldn't call off work the next day. You stretched away from his slack body with a teasing groan while it was still dark in the morning, giving him a show of taking off his shirt and throwing it at his face in retaliation to his smack on your ass. You thought he had fallen asleep before you left, but he dismally watched you leave, his heart bursting as you tried to keep quiet for him, and pulled the shirt on inside-out for your lingering smell and warmth to lull him back to sleep.

Before his brain can recall the explicit details of your rapturous night together, his cock is standing at attention. He was half-hard when he woke up, but now the veins that run alongside his length are rigid and his tip is a warm red, bobbing in the air. You were so ravenous for Dieter last night, and his energy sluggish thanks to a couple of drinks, that you had taken the reins and snatched every moan, groan and whimper you wanted from him.

Both being switches - and the previous rendezvous you had being him pinning you against the bathroom sink at his favorite restaurant, yanking your hair and making you stare back at yourself in the mirror, crumpling in his arms as you took his relentless pounding - it was a nice change-up.

But Dieter hates repetition.

Now all hot and bothered by racy thoughts of you, he swings the patio doors back open and plops down on the bed, resting his aching back against the headboard (he came to reason it wasn't just his aging muscles, you really had ridden him to oblivion.)

He artfully runs both hands over his naked groin, fingertips skating up his shaft and encircling the head in a tight ring, pulsing his frenulum once, twice, then releasing with a pent-up groan. He bobs himself a couple times, chuckling at his own absurdity. With the house all to himself, nowhere to be, nothing worthwhile to do until you get off of work, he chucks his sunglasses onto the sheets beside him. Oh, he's going to have some fun this morning.

It might be technically closer to afternoon, it's hard to tell in this city that always suns, but he doesn't care. He does care to take advantage of the circulating breeze pouring from outside into the room, and before settling deeper into the bed to begin his session, he leans over to the nightstand and grabs a joint.

Thank you, earlier Dieter, he congratulates on the first inhale, glad that he busied his depressed self after you left this morning with rolling more than what was necessary. He pauses to spit into his dominant hand, slicking up his cock from base to tip, and starts moseying to his peak. With a loose fist gliding up and down his shaft, he smokes for a bit and waits for the high to fully infiltrate his systems. He prefers being sober or only slightly influenced when he's with you; he wants to experience you unabashed, and you entrance him so much you're in a classification all of your own. But he needs to quell his sadness over your absence or else he won't reap the fruits of his own taxing labor.

The last tendrils of smoke are swept out of the room on his final exhale and with his increased relaxation comes down the barrier to his creativity. He locates his phone (hidden under a pile of Kit Kat wrappers that you nagged him to throw away) and calls you, the weed muddying his memory that you're on-call elsewhere. The robotic audio of the default voicemail message makes him grunt, but when the recording begins, his imagination sparks.

"Hey baby," a salacious grin works its way across his face, "I was just jerking my schlong, thinking about you and your pretty eyes, your gorgeous tits, that evil little smile..."

Your mischievous giggles ring in his ears, his strokes picking up speed. His tongue darts out to catch the drop of spit that has worked its way onto his parted lips, a flash of embarrassment running through him even though you can't see him (and would take utter delight in the fact that you literally make him drool),

"A-and, uh," he splutters before snapping back to his controlled, teasing tone, "and how much you wrecked me last night. I'm forever grateful, honey bun, you know that - but it hurt when you left this morning."

He mock-pouts, "You broke poor old Dieter's heart. I-I think you're gonna have to make it up to me."

His tone takes an abrupt, dominating turn. He growls into the receiver, "And I think I know exactly what I want you to do."

An image floats up through the haze in his mind: the underside of your soft belly, breasts and that conniving smile he mentioned baring itself in the moonlight. From last night - you rid his face until you thoroughly soaked him, that patchy scruff that's dappled along his strong jaw drenched in your arousal. He smirks, thinking of how you have ten hidden bruises dotted across your ass from his fingertips digging into your flesh to grind you down harder against his rabid tongue. Your overstimulated shriek of his name echoes in his head as he devises his plan for you.

"First, I want to fuck that narrow throat of yours," his hand on his cock shifts to grip the top third, his thumb rubbing over his head. He groans into the phone, knowing it'll stoke your voice kink.

"It's only fair since you fucked my mouth so good, I get to fuck yours."

He smears leaking precum around his head, adding more pulsing pressure to his motions, "I'm going to shove my cock down your throat, fuck you until I make you gag."

He imagines the wet, firm but giving sensation he's simulating with his hand to be the back of your throat, pushing up against its velvety smoothness again and again until you tense around his length, only tightening your oral grasp, swallowing around him and sucking him back further.

"And you're going to be a good girl for me and take it. Every last inch I feed you."

The daydreams are so vivid - his thick fingers gripping your hair, his hairy mound tickling the tip of your nose as his hips rock back and forth, your chin dripping with just as much wetness as his was...

He lets go of his cock entirely, edging himself. He can't cum this early - the fun has only just begun.

Dieter glances at his phone nestled in the sheets, and thankfully so, because he's reached the voicemail time limit. The line disconnects, but he dials you back in a flash, eager to tell you more of his dirty story. He rolls his eyes through the default message, although he's grateful you're still busy and didn't pick up, because this would've been a little awkward to interrupt him mid-smut. He continues his naughty monologue.

"You're already so good to me, Bunnicula, you really are," his words are gravelly and elongated with lust as he stretches his dick, admiring its robustness (don't mention the ridiculous nickname he has for you, it stems from your feral desires to fuck each other like rabbits and your penchants for biting.)

"You drive me fucking bonkers when you lick my asshole," one hand stays wrapped around his girth while the other travels down to his scrotum, inching past the sack and reaching his taint as he adjusts his position to something more... accessible. He massages the patch of skin with trembling touches, mimicking how you tease him. Because you don't just dive right in, no, you get your man crying for more.

Just like your tongue's path, he circles around his hole, dropping his head back into the pillows with a moan. The veins in his neck protrude and surge with restraint, the palm on his cock revving from its idle and jerking quickly from base to tip.

"The way you wiggle your tongue in there- goddamnit, baby," he chokes out, pressing the tip of his index into his ass, working it in a slow but strenuous orbit to open himself up. His jerking eases considerably, edging himself again. Against his back's wishes he leans over and spits heaping onto the area of interest, his body too fixated on throes to stop his ministrations and find the bottle of lube. Besides, he's never been afraid to lean masochist.

"I'm gonna give you the same treatment, open you up, nice and slow... because you're gonna fit my whole cock in your asshole," a fresh rivulet of precum leaks and spirals down his painfully erect length with his wriggling finger swallowed up to the knuckle. He bites down on his plush lip, that broad ribcage reverberating with hums of ecstasy. He focuses on the stretch of his own opening and fantasizes about how much more you'll have to take.

"If I can take your strap, bunny, you can take me. It'll feel so good, I'm going to fuck your tight, little hole until you're begging me to never stop."

He lays on the mock charm thick, "But bad girls who abandon their lovers in the morning for work don't get what they want: I'm gonna pull out, and you're gonna gape for me."

Another end of voicemail, another staved-off orgasm. Dieter lets go of his cock like it's on fire and slides his finger out of his ass, grateful the line is dead and you don't hear his pitiful whine of loss opposite his despotic words.

He breaks for a moment of reprieve before he starts teasing himself again, his resolve floundering at meek levels. All of this teetering on the cliff has quashed his energy - he's stumbling in smoke for a climactic finale to his lewd tale. His power to dominate is dwindling, the relaxing chemicals floating in his bloodstream luring him to last night, to let you take over and him sit (more like lay down and gawk) to watch your magic unfold.

He calls you a third and final time, already stroking his twitching shaft at a determined pace.

"I can't do all the work though, baby - I want you to ride me to your heart's content, just like you did last night. Mount me," his eyes close, fighting the urge to roll back and succumb to to his orgasm. Just a few more words, Dieter, and you can finish.

"Ride it," he pictures your hands pressing down on his chest, slipping momentarily out of your greedy stronghold from laborious perspiration.

"Bounce on it," your breasts jumping with your motions, your pert nipples taunting his hungry teeth.

"Grind down on it," your dance slowing to a gyrate, your figure swaying dangerously close to his trigger.

"Drench my cock with your cum until it fills my lap," he replays your screams in his mind, layering them with the gush of your arousal if you have the wherewithal - or Dieter allows you - to sneak your quivering hand down to your aching clit. He can feel it where his sweat pools now; your juices will gather right between his hips to lap up later.

"While you're raining down on me, I'm gonna shoot my load, stuff your sweet cunt full of my-"

The three minute limit is met again as Dieter's heart jolts.

"C-cum!" he shouts, littering his abdomen with streaks of his sticky, hot release. He's mumbling your name over and over again, addicted to you. His arm is fatigued, but his nerves are astronomically alight, so his body goes on autopilot while his vision spots with black, fucking his fist until every last droplet of his pleasure is tapped.

When he begins atmospheric entry, he lies slumped against the headboard, sedated. His entire being just feels like a void of television static, blue screen, buffering, for a solid few minutes. A dribble of his spend running down the slope of his belly shocks him back to life, its path rippling tingles.

Before he can fool himself into thinking he loves you - remember, this is Dieter Bravo: International Tramp - he picks up his phone.

He sends the text and removes his soiled shirt, reaching over to the nightstand to get another joint.

As his highs swirl into one euphoric daze, he wishes you were here now, if he had to choose one moment from his entire fantasy. Dieter likes to cuddle with strangers, gets paid to do it for his job sometimes, so the absence of post-coital snuggling, especially when it would be with you, is always difficult.

You rarely have the opportunity to smoke because of your job, but he imagines sharing it with you, watching you melt further into bliss through the calming clouds. You get handsy, giggly hugs never failing to lead to more heated touches...

His phone lights up with a message from you:

Maybe he is in love with you, if maybe means most definitely. All that's left to do is wait for you to come home and for the two of you to deliver on both your promises.

main masterlist | join my taglist!

💘taglist: @pascalpanic @melody13522 @tenderwhat @maievdenoir @pedrostories @your-voice-is-mellifluous

#dieter bravo #dieter bravo x reader #dieter bravo x f!reader #dieter bravo x afab!reader #dieter bravo smut #dieter bravo fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #dieter bravo x you

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queersouthasian · 5 months

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I love how he basically adviced sprite to win everyone over with kindness 'cause no one can reject or avoid genuine unfiltered kindness, and Sprite who already is so fucking sweet and kind, continues to do so...

I love how it all started with zee lacking common human decency to Sprite doing exactly that and beyond to win everyone over, it's a full circle y'all.

#lgbtq #bl drama #twins the series

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3jax · 2 years

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Here's a request for you to write:

the valorant agents celebrating your birthday the whole day 🥳🥳

(With gifts becuase why not🎁)

i love this one!! yeah!!!

warnings: mentions of alcohol

valorant agents celebrating your birthday with you

phoenix, jett, and raze would probably wake you up first thing just to scream sing happy birthday to you.

astra would too but she has the common decency to wait until you’re awake first (this womans singing is a blessing)

you know those little singing cards?? killjoy makes you one of those for you.

skye makes you breakfast, her love language is food and i don’t take criticism on this.

gifts!! so many gifts!!

chamber probably gets you something ridiculous like a tailored suit lol

omen made a knitted sweater for you, but the gift box doesn’t say it’s from him. everyone knows it is though, theres only one person in the protocol who knits.

you get a ‘happy birthday’ from yoru, a smile if you’re lucky.

same with viper, i cant really see her being into gift giving.

cypher knows EXACTLY what you like, which isn’t surprising, but he always gets you something good.

brim gets you socks. theyre good socks.

sova gives you a stuffed animal, like an owl or a rabbit.

breach gives you this long ass speech about getting older, getting stronger, etc.

neon and raze both make a mixtape for you, it’s really easy to tell who added which song because of their music tastes lol

kay/o doesn’t know what to get you. he’s confused. do robots even have birthdays???

reyna also somehow knows what to get you?? she gives some good ass gifts.

fade would give you a cat if she could, she has like 5 in her room. if she can’t give you one then she lets you into her room to pet them for the day.

you best BELIEVE these guys are taking you out, no way ur spending ur birthday in headquarters.

because phoenix is canonically a theatre kid i feel like he’d get you tickets to a play or a movie.

jett, neon, and kj take you to the arcade, kj gets kicked out because she’s winning the claw machine a suspicious amount of times.

she didn’t break it she’s just really good

they definitely all take you out to lunch and/or dinner and theres definitely a party at hq

sage bakes a birthday cake, this woman can BAKE its so good.

everyone sings you happy birthday at the end

EVERYONE

even yoru

there may or may not be alcohol involved at the party, courtesy of breach

brimstone doesn’t approve of this

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morsmordream · 1 year

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fight club (kinda), but it’s hogwarts

severus snape saw himself as a realist, honestly. the other hogwarts staff members saw him as way too pessimistic, but, frankly, he believed they were just too optimistic.

severus was shocked at how intently the rest of the professors truly believed that the declining animosity amongst the student body was a secret, unanimous agreement of inter-house unity.

severus, of course, knew otherwise. being, shockingly, the youngest member of staff had its perks, you see.

the room of requirement wasn’t the well-kept secret that the other staff members believed- knowing of its existence but not it’s location. the room was used widely by students in severus’ time in hogwarts, primarily as a duelling room- where students settled their quarrels with an audience, away from the watchful eyes of their professors or even just practiced duelling for fun.

having, naturally, been challenged to countless duels during his time in hogwarts, severus recognised the decline in aggression between the houses for what it really was- this well-kept secret has been passed down from parents to students again once more.

severus knew that these duels should be running along proper duelling etiquette, but he also knew that any curse bar the killing curse was free game. if someone could heal it, or cast the counter-curse, you could use it. if not, you couldn’t. simple as that. most students have the common decency not to use the remaining unforgivable curses- but the key word was most.

severus could tell the rest of the staff, but where was the fun in that? all students present at a duel, not just the duellers, likely will have taken a vow of silence so it couldn’t be revealed to staff. multiple students with a solid grasp of healing would be present at each duel. different nights held different year groups. it was surprisingly well-organised.

most importantly, though, it severely lessened the amount of detentions severus had to give out.

maybe it truly was a good thing, severus mused, as he rounded a corner in the dungeons on his way to his next class. double potions with the slytherin and gryffindor fifth years.

there had miraculously been a slight improvement in inter-house relations between the two usually feuding houses. it seemed that this duelling had sparked a grudging respect and severus had noticed a steady decline in the amount of his students in the hospital wing for gryffindor-related incidents.

severus had also noticed an obvious distance between potter (potter-black, he amended in his head) and granger and weasley since that demented sorting hat had demanded his resorting at the beginning of the year. the combination of potter-black’s change of legal name, his sorting into slytherin, his certain involvement in illicit duelling (which granger was very against- her loud protests outside his classroom was half the reason severus worked it out) and his close friendship with nott and zabini (and shocking civility with malfoy) had certainly spelled the end of the golden trio.

severus heard the chattering outside his classroom abruptly stop, and he swiftly disillusioned himself despite not being in sight yet.

“heir theodore nott. i, hermione jean granger, challenge you to a wizard’s duel at 8pm tonight on the grounds of the horrific injustice you and your housemates are doing by corrupting one hadrian potter-black to your dark magic ways. i nominate ronald weasley as my second.”

oh merlin, severus thought. out of all the students granger could pick a duel with, she goes for the death eater’s son who reads dark arts books like they’re bedtime stories.

“and what’s in it for the winner?” came nott’s voice.

“if i win, you stay away from harry. if you win, i- i’ll leave harry alone,” granger said.

“granger,” severus recognised potter-black’s sharp tone, “renounce it. you can’t duel.”

“what, harry? you think a mudblood like me can’t handle myself against one of your new death eater friends?”

“get your head out of your arse, granger,” zabini chimed in, “that’s not what hadrian’s saying and you know it. you hate the duels because the dark arts aren’t off limits, yet you want to duel someone who can wield dark spells when you have no duelling experience? you’ll get hurt, hadrian’s trying to stop that from happening.”

“sounds like a threat, zabini. you won’t scare me. nott, do you agree?”

there was a pause, and severus was sure he could hear a harshly whispered warning to nott from potter-black. similarly, he could hear weasley pleading with granger not to go through with this. severus imagined the latter was down to his fear of potentially having to duel nott himself.

“i, heir theodore tyr nott, formally accept hermione jean granger’s challenge to a wizarding duel tonight at 8pm on the grounds that she needs to mind her own sodding business. i nominate hadrian potter-black as my second.”

severus felt a rare twang of pity for granger, as he recognised the barely suppressed glee in nott’s voice- clearly, he had been itching for something like this for a while. whatever happened tonight would not be pretty, and, as he cancelled his disillusionment spell and set off towards his classroom, severus decided he would brew some quick speciality healing potions to send up to poppy in the hospital wing as a little gift.

for the first time in all his years of teaching, severus almost wished someone would create a disaster in this classroom. that way he could throw out as many detentions as remotely possible, and hopefully prevent this disastrous duel.

he was almost tempted to ruin granger and nott’s potions himself as an excuse to punish them, despite the fact granger was competent in potions and nott was top of the class, but he soon scrapped that idea upon remembering exactly what kind of father nott senior was. young theodore, as terrifying and powerful as he may be, would not survive a summer with his father if he failed even one potions class.

severus sighed to himself as he stalked around the classroom towards its end, pretending not to hear the furious whispers or see the rapid hand gestures that potter-black was directing to nott beside him or nott’s hands held up in innocence as he swore he wouldn’t try to kill granger. severus also really ignored the quick kiss nott pressed to potter-black’s cheek when he was focusing on the gryffindor side of the classroom, and he also ignored the way potter-black stopped his protests and settled for merely glaring at the boy beside him.

he did, however, deduct fifteen points from gryffindor after weasley’s hands shook hard enough for him to mess up his potion to the point of the cauldron melting through the table.

severus sighed to himself, as the last of the class left the room. he wouldn’t say he had ever been particularly impressed with potter-black in potions, but he did have to admit- he had never seen a functional draught of peace brewed with quite so much aggression.

he shook his head as he readied himself for his next class, telling himself that whatever happened in that duel tonight was not his business to stop. he was, however, quite eager to see just how it would turn out.

oh, to be a fly on the wall of the room of requirement.

#harry potter #hp fandom #theodore nott #hermione granger #severus snape #ronald weasley #blaise zabini #slytherin #dark harry #slytherin harry potter #nottpott #(if u squint maybe)#slytherin headcanon #harry potter drabble #grey harry potter #golden trio be gone #can u tell i’m clearing out my drafts atm

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syntia13treeman · 11 days

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Case files 13.01

CAT3RB4622-17092023-14032024

what I think happened in:

Case 13.01, the case of "The Zorrotrade App" or "Play stupid games, win stupid prizes: Cryptobro edition"

What we know about the Zorrotrade App:

It likely has no government oversight.

It does some weird background checks of new users.

It allows users to engage in highly profitable and borderline illegal financial exploits.

They have some shady experimental features that are not advertised, hidden under a tonne of submenus and must be found and opted in by the user. (Free will, babey).

They have an Adjustment Department.

What we suspect about the Zorrotrage App:

It's magic.

One of magical perks is protectingusers phone from being stolen;

One of magical cons is compulsive truth spell included in their support line answerphone.

Another magical con: the Adjustment Department.

So let's meet a Zorrotrade user. Darrien Laurel (account number 428813). He had no shame, no self-awareness and no sense of decency. Also not a shred of common sense.

He came from a poor family (though considering his definition of 'broke' I'm not sure if his parents were actually poor, or just 'won't buy me a porshe' 'poor'). He went to private public expensive high school thanks to a scholarship, which – props to him, for this thing and this thing only. Boo to anything else he did with his life.

After school he took student loan, and instead of spending in on studying, he sunk it all in financial speculations (This has to be illegal, right? Aren't there stipulation in the contract about the permissible uses of the loan?) He used every trick in the book (specifically, the "book of things that are shady as fuck and are only technically legal because rich people benefit from them"). Shorting (and possibly indirectly bankrupting) startup companies and trading in cryptocurrency among them.

He used the funds he acquired this way for the ever so important business of impressing his former classmates, getting plastic surgeries, and buying excessive and excessively expensive shit. (Your suitcase does not have to cost a 1000 dollars, you prick). (Why are you buying in dollars, anyway? Did you have that imported from USA? Use pounds or euros like a proper European, asshat).

Then, in 2020, a tragedy: while he was peacefully sailing with his good friend Oli somewhere south of France, one bad investment left him broke – that is to say, just with a few thousands worth of clothes on his back (and in his 1000$ suitcase) (and the watch on his wrist) (and just a few thousands of savings to throw away on a whim).

Truly, a more devastating blow has never been dealt to anyone in human history.

This is when he discovered that his rich 'friends' really did hate him all along. More importantly, he discovered the experimental feature on his favourite app, "Personal Projection Short Selling". There were no instructions, but by stroke of bad decisions and bad luck (blindly investing most of his remaining money + getting drank + braking his friend's TV, and getting kicked out of Oli's yacht, + getting kicked in the face by some muggers respectively) Darrien worked out that it was functionally a wager against his own good fortune.

Another entry into Things that Darrien Did Not Have: a drop of self-preservation.

Imagine stumbling into an illegal casino in an alleyway somewhere, winning your first game by chance, and immediately deciding to start playing there every night, with loaded dice, winning a lot and occasionally getting caught and getting your teeth kicked in.

Darrien did this, but he skipped a few steps. His new business plan went like this:

Put in a wager that he'll have a Bad Day.

Arrange to get seriously hurt and/or destroy one of your relationships, therefore having a Bad Day and winning the wager.

Profit

He spent several weeks knocking around the south of France, purposefully getting into fights (arguments with friends and brawls with strangers both) and accidents. He was getting harmed and isolated and felt it was all worth it because he got paid every time.

I'm going to give him a pass on never questioning how this worked, because at this point I'm fairly sure it's influence off the app itself. It's not constant supernaturalsurveillanceyou're looking for /Jedi hand-wave/ It's perfectly normal for your life's misfortunes to be monetizable. /Jedi hand-wave/ It's all good! Chill! /Jedi hand-wave/

What I can't just hand-wave is Darrien's grand finale. His famous One Last Job, then I Retire I Promise.

He 'invested' a million pounds (£ 1 000 000), burned all the bridges with his family, friends and even strangers on the internet, and then jumped off a cliff. A literal, honest to gods, not metaphorical cliff.

Sir. SIR. There's gambling with your life, and then there's this.

He lost one leg, along with structural integrity of several pretty important internal organs and bones – and he was happy upon waking, because he was (doped up on painkillers) already counting the money he was surely going to get.

Alas, reality check – this was the Find Out part of his ultimate round of Fuck Around.

He loaded his dice, he stacked his deck, he used his cheatcodes – it was only a matter of time before somebody noticed and demanded refund. (somebody knew all along – they were just waiting for the stakes to be really worth it).

This time, the app did not pay up. This time, the app called foul and demanded that he pay up – or be Adjusted.

Predictably, Darrien Laurel was not happy with this outcome and he wanted to Speak to the Manager of this Application.

He called the support line. He threatened the answerphone with legal consequences. (now they hear you). He told the answerphone his life story, up to and including his current hospitalization. (now they know you). And at the end, almost as an afterthought, he said his full name and app account number. (now they own you).

The answerphone dutifully transferred the call to adjustments department. Somebody from adjustments department crawled out of the phone and onto Darrien's bed. The call got disconnected. Darriel Laurel… got Adjusted.

Well. That sure was something. Final thoughts:

Remember when I yelled about Fae rules in case file 05-01? Do not take their money food, do not give them your name. Darriel broke those rules, and just look what happened! Well,

we don't actually know what happened. My first knee-jerk reaction was to say 'he got eated', but Personal Adjustment sounds… much more painful than just death by Mrs. Spider's mandibles. (I keep calling her that, but for some reason my mental image of that last scene is a weird metal centipede skittering out of the phone speaker that's much too small to fit it). I wonder if we'll meet Darriel, or at least some of him, again somewhere down the line. (Would he be like Needles, or more like Not-Arthur?) The incident happened about 6 month prior to Sam hearing it. Is that enough time for a new unholy abomination to incubate? Or… ripen? Whatever the 'adjustment' process entails.

This is the third time we've seen a man changing their fortune through pain. And we know it's possible to game the system successfully, because the 19th century violinist did it – he died of old age, more or less satisfied with his life. Mr. Die and Darrien could never. (Smh. Kids these days. No patience, no self-discipline).

This is… how many times now that we've seen someone's body being transformed? {Not-Arthur, RedCanary (? missing eyes at least), Daria(? - partial, self inflicted), Dr. 'Jasmine bush' Samuel, Cinema Tom(? - potentially), Needles(?), Mr. Bonzo(?), Error(?), Crypto Darrien} That's 3 up to 9, I think. Something definitely likes to play play-do with human flesh.

#the magnus protocol #tmagp case files #tmagp case 13.01 #tmagp 13 #Zorrotrade #ep. written by Alexander J. Newall #ep. written by A.J.N+J.S.#Personal Adjustment #Darriel Laurel #Mrs. Spider #so many connections #Can somebody find my some red string? I gave away mine.#tmagp

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