#people said enough on the topic and more eloquently than me

[giarossin]

"wait a minute, this isn't my bedroom," said the most ace character ever

[lis-likes-fics]

Lab Rats

Pairings: professor!Jonathan Crane x student!Reader Word Count: 8.2k words Prompt: Sex Pollen Warnings: NSFW, smut, dubcon, professor/student relationship, sex pollen, oral (m!receving), fingering, edging, multiple orgasms, dumbification, name calling, degradation, p in v, unprotected sex, creampie... A/N: This is a day late, but I got it done! I hope you enjoy this filthy piece. Dr. Crane is so much fun to write for!

The call of your name stalled you from packing the rest of your items, your fingers tingling and your ears burning at the sound of your name breaching his lips.

“Could you stay after class, please?” Professor Crane asked, looking upon you with a set smile.

You remained calm. He would read any unnecessary excitement in the way you breathed.

You nodded, trying to sink back into the rest of the class, packing their bags to leave. You pulled the zipper of your bag closed. When enough people left the room, you made your way to the front with your bag on your person.

You had taken a certain fascination with Dr. Jonathan Crane the first moment you stepped into his class. He was handsome and charming, he knew how to teach and he always managed to pull you in.

He wasn't soft on anyone, even his favorite student usually didn't receive much special treatment. On the first day of classes, he told everyone that 50% of the class would be walking out of the door by the end of the week, and he was right. Better for you, that just meant less people to steal his attention away, less competition when it came to acing his tests and projects.

You loved his class, not just for the topic—obviously. Over the past couple of weeks, you felt his shift. His usual objectivity had switched and he seemed to point you out a little more. He praised your work, he accepted all of your input in class, he would even email you personally (sometimes talk to you after class) on your work to tell you how well you were doing.

You knew your attraction toward him would never amount to anything, it would never work out. But your fantasy was enough to quench your hunger for his attention and affection.

“Yes, sir?” you asked as you walked up to him.

Crane smiled at you. “I have a few matters I would like to speak with you privately… Could you spare the time?”

The strength of your heartbeat was extra hard for a few moments as you took in his words. You nod, “Of course, professor.”

“Step into my office?” he asked, gesturing toward the door with his name on it.

You took the first step, walking toward the door as he followed behind. You were suddenly very self-conscious of the way that you walked as you opened the door.

He moved around you when you were both inside, allowing you to shut the door as he took his spot in front of his desk. He leaned back on it, crossing his legs at the ankles and putting his hands in his pockets.

You knew this one. He was presenting his body language to seem more relaxed in order to ease you from your guard so he could properly manipulate you into agreeing with whatever he said.

He sighed, taking a moment to look upon you. “I would like you to know that I admire you and your work greatly,” he began, “and this is what allows me to ask this of you so freely.”

You blinked, anticipating his offer. “Yes, professor?”

He smiled, almost slyly. “I am conducting an experiment of sorts, a scientific breakthrough that I would like you to be the face of.”

You stared at him, your eyes wider than you meant for them to be as you slowly recovered. “I… Me?”

He nodded. “As part of a selection of students.”

Your heart sunk slightly at that. One of a group, but his first choice, at least…

“Oh,” you nodded. “Alright, uhm… Why—What, uh…” You reprimanded yourself for your lack of eloquence. “What is the experiment? What kind is it?”

“Unfortunately,” he breathed in deep, letting out a long sigh, “that must be kept a secret until I come to a close. It's not quite done—a few last minute tweaks need to be made…” He looked off slightly, thinking to himself for a split second. His attention turned back to you, looking at you a little closer, bringing you in.

He spoke slowly, leaning off the desk to stand. He moved a little closer, and you felt his hand brush your elbow. “But I would like to know that you would be willing to drop everything at a moment’s notice when I do contact you for it.”

He took another step forward, closer now to you. You knew this one, too. He was making it personal, making you compliant. You knew this trick, it was Psychology 101.

But it worked anyway.

“Oh,” you licked your bottom lip: your own trick. “Okay.”

He smiled, raising his brows, “Yes?” he nodded.

You returned the nod. “Yes, sir,” you smiled. “I…would be honored to.”

He held your eye contact, not letting go as he nodded. “Excellent!” he exclaimed gently. He leaned in a little, close to your face, too close for a professor talking to his student. “You really are my greatest student.”

You smiled, perhaps too much. You feel too giggly. “I'm…so glad.”

He moved his hand from your elbow to raise a finger, shaking it gently at you. “Remember,” he teased, “at a moment’s notice.”

You nodded definitely. “Of course.”

He offered you a charming smile before stepping out of your space, breaking the spell. He tilted his head toward you. “You may go.” Just as you were lifting your foot, he held out a hand toward you. “And thank you very much.”

With one last nod, you stepped back. “Not a problem, sir.”

You stepped out of his office, closing the door gently behind you. Gently biting your lip, you unsilenced your phone as you left his classroom.

~

The shrill ring of your phone cut through the late night and woke you brutally from your slumber. You gasped as you reluctantly blinked through the dark to direct your eyes to the abusive light emanating from the phone. The clock next to it on the nightstand read far past midnight. You moaned deeply, speaking but only forming actual words toward the middle of your complaint.

“...’f i’s ‘nother sp’m…” You wiped your face and covered your eyes as you answered the phone, not quite awake but too tired to deal with waking up.

“Hullo?”

The voice on the other end woke you up just a little more, not quite clearing the fog in your brain but allowing you to put more effort into sounding a little more awake.

“It's time.”

Time for wh—Oh.

You suddenly remembered Dr. Crane's experiment, the one he wanted to test with you. Your gut clenched and your heart picked up and startled you awake. It was time.

“Oh.”

~

You pressed your finger into the doorbell, checking the address of Dr. Crane's house out of nerves a fifth time and the time for the twentieth. You wrapped your coat tighter around you, the chilly breeze persuaded by the winter air of Gotham so close to Christmas time. They would be letting you out for the break soon…

The door opened, a little crack and a creak to allow you entry.

“Just go along with whatever happens.”

You thought back to his instructions on the phone, vague instructions you briefly considered not trusting. But he was your professor. He had your best interests at heart, surely.

You reached your hand toward the knob, timidly reaching. He wasn't at the door. Should you actually go in?

“Don't waste time asking questions. Everything will be explained when you get there.”

You pushed the door open and walked inside, shucking your coat off as you nervously looked around the house. You shut the door behind you, hanging your coat on the rack by the entrance and leaving your shoes next to the ones by the door.

You swallowed thickly as you looked around, stepping further inside. “Uhm…” you cleared your throat. “Dr. Crane? Are you still home?”

You were met with silence as you continued to quietly step through the living room, the air so still that you could feel your heart beating heavily in your chest. You were so nervous, your blood was pumping and you were bordering on scared as you tried to keep your breath level. Your flesh raised with goosebumps. It was too quiet.

You almost didn't want to speak again, afraid to break the silence and disturb something unknown lurking around the corner.

“Dr. Crane?” you called again, suddenly feeling very warm and very frightened. Where was he? “Professor?”

“In here.”

The voice was distant when he spoke, giving you some reprieve from the silence but feeding your anxiety, fueling your fight-or-flight.

“Where?” you wondered aloud, stepping past the archway that led into the hall.

“Just a few steps more…”

Could he see you? Was he taunting you on purpose? Perhaps part of the experiment?

The anxiety curled in your stomach, kept your footsteps slow and your breath shallow and a scream ready in your throat in case you needed it.

You were reluctant to speak. “Sir?” You pressed your palm along the wall of the hall and began to peer around the corner, into a room on the left. Maybe Dr. Crane was waiting there…

A strange, strong mist invaded your senses as you turned the corner. Raring up the scream, you gasped and your eyes stung, resulting in a heavy cough that took a moment to die down. You braced yourself on the wall, holding yourself up as you tried to clear your eyes, clouded by tears from both the coughing and the mist burning your eyes. You watched the mist clear, breathing in desperately for air.

“Shh, shh, shh, shh,” Dr. Crane's voice came, then his hands on your shoulders as he pulled you in and guided you into the room. “That's good,” he bid.

He held you steady as you blinked rapidly and steadied your breath. “I took the liberty of testing my hypothesis that it would work faster if the patient is already running on adrenaline.”

You wiped the tears roughly from your eyes. “Professor, what–?”

“Hush,” he cut you off, bringing you to the bed. “Sit here,” he said, lowering you down.

He pulled up a chair, sitting across from you before handing you a handkerchief. You took it greedily and began wiping your face. You sighed deeply into the fabric, holding your head in your hands as you adjusted.

“Okay,” he said, smiling. “Now that's done…the substance you've just inhaled is an aphrodisiac of my own design.”

You stilled entirely, looking up at him tentatively as your eyes widened. You blinked, shaking your head as you tried to organize your thoughts. It was an… an—“Aphrodisiac…” you muttered.

“Yes,” he nodded. “Aphrodisiac.”

You were suddenly dizzy, processing his words too slowly as you put together what this meant. An experiment with an aphrodisiac… and you were the “face” of it all?

“The word itself comes from the Greek name ‘Aphrodite’, which—I'm sure you know—is the Greek goddess of Sex.” You looked up at him as he began explaining, rolling up the sleeves of his white button down and dusting off his black slacks. Adjusting his glasses on his nose, he continued, “As far as the function of the substance is concerned, it affects hormone levels and accelerates blood flood, increasing chemicals in your brain like—dopamine, glutamic acid, nitric oxide, oxytocin to enhance sexual arousal.” He sounded like he was reading straight out of a book as he spoke with his hands, illustrating the drug to you to paint pretty pictures for you to apply to what was happening to you, in your own body.

It was getting warm, the physical exertion from the adrenaline, likely. The suspense and anxiety from before, along with the shock of Dr. Crane's mist had thrust you into an adrenaline rush. That was surely all it was.

“It relaxes smooth muscles,” he continued. “Stimulates erections, increases arousal.”

You fought the urge to clench your thighs at the idea of it. He was your psych professor and you were his student, and he was testing aphrodisiacs on you and telling you how it made boners and stiff nipples and fucking arousal.

“Professor,” you muttered.

He stopped you, raising a finger. “Please hold. I'm not finished.” He cleared his throat and thought for a moment. “Where was I? Aphrodisiacs are commonly found in natural foods or herbs, though the change in sexual desire is usually unnoticed when these substances—like chocolates, most commonly, or oysters and figs and strawberries—are consumed.”

You clenched the handkerchief in your hand, rubbing your palms against your thighs roughly. “Professor Crane.” You felt like your head was beginning to spin.

He sighed at you, seemingly disappointed. “I hope you're interrupting me for a good reason.”

You stared at him straight on, nearly glaring as a thin layer of sweat began to form over your skin. “It's hot,” you huffed.

“Well, that's to be expected,” he shrugged. He looked you up and down, smiling with a gentle chuckle. “How rude of me. How are you feeling?”

You brought the handkerchief to your forehead, breathing uneasily. “Hot.”

“As you've already stated.” He waved his hand dismissively. “What else?”

You didn't want to say: considering the heat was spreading through your body and scouring your nerves with a flush of lust. The last thing you wanted to do was explain that you were horny to your professor.

He tilted his head at your hesitation, noticing the way you turned away, closed yourself off. He raised a brow. “Come on,” he bid. He didn't sound like he was encouraging you, he sounded like he was taunting you. “Don't leave any details. This is an experiment, might I remind you. If you leave anything out, it could hinder the research.”

“Um,” you struggled, your voice trembling a little. You felt like your whole body would soon follow suit. You felt shaky, like you’d fall if you tried to stand. “Uh.” You couldn’t figure out what to say—it was humiliating to say the least, looking at your professor and forcing your eyes to stay on his face, because fuck…you wanted him so bad.

He raised a brow, waiting expectantly, “Well?”

You couldn’t. “I don’t know,” you muttered. “It’s just hot.”

He reached his hand out and pressed the back of his palm to your forehead. The coolness of his skin against the heat of your face was like a salve to a cruel burn. You leaned into him, stifling your moan as best you could as your eyes fluttered at the contact. It felt so good.

“Mm,” he hummed, pretending not to notice your weakness as he shifted his hand to your temple. “You’re burning up.” You knew he was taunting you when his hand slipped down to your neck, pressing against your scorching skin and sending goosebumps through your body. Your heart felt like it would leap out of your chest any time soon.

When he pulled his hand away, you felt like you could die on the spot as the fever-like heat came back immediately after. You tried to remain impartial, shaking your head to gather your thoughts enough to speak.

“Why couldn’t you have just performed the experiment on your own?” you questioned, wiping your forehead roughly to be rid of the light sheen of sweat coating your skin. “I don’t see how an external test subject was necessary.” Remaining as professional as possible seemed like your best course of action. Insanity or not, this was still a test—you were sure of it—and there was no way you would fail a personal test with Professor Crane and risk falling from such high esteem with him.

He reached behind him where his suit jacket lay neatly on the back of his seat. He removed a second handkerchief from an inside pocket with a dramatic whip, taking his glasses off to clean them as he shook his head. “No, no, no,” he said. “If my theory is correct, the test must be performed with another person present. The substance works by increasing adrenaline. It’s quite similar to my fear toxin.”

You shook your head, “Fear toxin–”

“The adrenaline builds and builds,” he continued, cutting you off with little regard for you, as he glanced through the lenses, “increases the heart rate so much that—if left unresolved—the subject would experience a heart rate so high…” He finished polishing them off before replacing his glasses on the bridge of his nose and directing his analytical gaze toward you once more. With a lurking smile full of sadistic amusement, he spoke in a low voice, “...your little heart would burst in your chest.”

The anxiety curled in your chest until it began its fast evolution to fear. All these emotions mixing within you wasn’t good for your health—and, apparently, neither was this toxin he had infected you with. “...What?” you said. It was the only thing you could manage to say.

He shrugged, tilting his head with a slight roll of his eyes. “Well,” he began to correct himself, “not literally, of course. It’s highly improbable. But your heart would just…stop.” His eyes seemed to darken as he explained it to you, staring too deeply into your own anxious gaze as he seemed to enjoy every minute of this. With a breath, he began again. “And while my toxin has an antidote, there is only one way to reverse the effects of this aphrodisiac.”

You swallowed thickly. “Which is?”

He smirked, though he tried to hide it. “Sexual gratification.”

If you weren’t burning up, your blood would run cold…and then you’d run just as hot as you were running now. Your head was definitely spinning now, images of forbidden desires—which you had pushed down, down to the depths of your mind—flooding to the surface. So many fantasies, so many urges, being unlocked once more as you thought about…reversing the effects.

But, for the millionth time,  he was your professor. It didn’t matter how many times you’d fantasized about him having you on your knees, his hands in your hair, his lips all over your body…it couldn’t happen. It shouldn’t happen.

You tried not to clear your throat. It would make you more guilty than you already were. “W-well–” Damn it, you cringed. “–even if that’s true…gratification can be…achieved through…”

He raised a brow, happy to mock you. “Through?”

You took in a steadying breath, looking down at your legs to avoid looking up at him. Your skin was burning, your nerves were tingling with an increasing desire “Through self-pleasure. Masturbation. Couldn’t it?” You were already this far, there was no use in being shy.

But even then…

He tilted his head, sighing. “Unfortunately, no,” he said. “You see, once it has been ingested in any form, only another person's hormones can slow the process—which is why you’re still so in control right now–” you didn’t feel in control, “–but even that isn’t enough. In males, sexual gratification can only be achieved by the release of semen when mixed with a woman’s arousal. Likewise, for a female subject, gratification can only be met through insemination.”

He said it so quickly, so nonchalantly. You had no time to process as you blinked rapidly. “Insem–”

“Therefore, a partner is necessary for the experiment, and only a partner of the opposite sex is truly effective, so…I suppose that’s a loss for the homosexuals, hm?” He shrugged, amused by his own joke.

Pain spasmed in your stomach, a sharp stab in your gut and a stinging sensitivity to everything your skin came in contact with. “Fuck,” you sighed, folding over slightly just as a growing migraine became present enough to matter.

He sighed. “Language, please.”

You rubbed your palms harshly against your eyes, forcing your fingertips against your temple in a useless attempt to ease the pain roaring in your head, sacrificing the stabbing in your gut. “It hurts.” It took everything not to sob.

He turned his head. “What kind of pain?”

“All of the above,” you said impatiently, your voice breaking. “It hurts.”

He hummed and leaned forward. “And where does it hurt the most?” He gestured to your general body. “Or is it just about the same everywhere?”

“It's…” you hesitated, “everywhere.”

Crane tilted his head, looking at you with a glow of disappointment. He removed his glasses with a sigh, setting them to the side and directing his attention entirely on you.

“Now, my dear,” you shuddered at the name, “This doesn't work if you aren't being completely and entirely honest with me. I am quite content to sit here and watch you succumb to my little toxin.” A wash of shock overtook you, your palpitating conflicted between beating too fast and stopping all together.

He continued, a taunting grin curving his lips as he gave you his cold stare. “Without me to help you,” he shrugged, “you have no way of reversing the effects. I'll say you came down with a sudden fever, one you just couldn't fight.”

The hair along your arms stood tall. He couldn't be serious, it was a joke… But when have you known Jonathan Crane to joke?

“But…” you fumbled, trying to decide what to say, “But I've been perfectly healthy. Why would people believe you?”

He tilted his head, looking at you like you were just the cutest, dumbest little thing. “This is Gotham, sweetheart.” He shrugged dismissively. “People die every day, and no one fucking cares.”

Breathing heavily, you put a hand over your stomach and let out a pained moan. You thought to yourself, over his words. You shook your head, not meeting his eyes.

“Cramps.”

He raised a brow questioningly. “Hm?”

“The pain,” you stated. “Stomach cramps, tender nipples and…and clitoris. Even the fabric of my clothes is too much. It hurts.” You ignored the heat in your face. It didn't matter now—the insecurity, the awkwardness. It was strictly scientific. Of course, it was.

“Very good,” he grinned, leaning back and crossing his legs. “Tell me more.”

“Tunnel vision, dizziness, migraine, short breath. It's like… it's almost like a panic attack.”

“Is that all?”

“It's really hot,” you huffed, another pained moan escaping through your unsteady breaths. “I'm really hot.” It didn't matter. “Fuck, professor, I need you.”

“What's that?” The fucker was getting off on teasing you like this, mocking you like it was his only pleasure in life.

“I need you,” you urged, trying not to sound as whiny as you feel.

“Is that so?” he raised a brow, smirking. “Have you told me everything then?”

“Yes, everything. Please.”

“Are you certain?” he pushed.

You felt the wet on your cheek and realized your need and the pain had reached your eyes, the tears welling along your waterline and dropping down in one streak down your face. “Please, I'll do anything!”

He paused slightly. “What's that?”

You reached out and grabbed his hands, pulling them into your lap. There was only one way to ease the pain, the heat, the desire. And you were set on it.

“I'll do anything! Just please, fuck me. Please,” you gasped, pushing through the pounding in your head and the fire in your core.

“Well,” he sighed, pulling his hand from your grasp to check his watch. He tsked to himself, thinking before he hummed. “I suppose I can do that.”

You could have cried—you were crying. “Thank you,” you sighed. “Thank you.”

“But,” he pointed a finger at your face, as though you were a dog being disciplined, “you must do as I say.”

You nodded urgently. “Yes, sir.”

“Good girl.” You shuddered at his words, the praise washing over you like a wave swallowing you whole as you lay on the sandy shore of a beach.

He snapped at you, indefinitely grabbing your attention as he pointed to the space in front of him. You stood from the bed in a moment, your weak legs barely holding you up.

His hands landed on your waist, and you nearly melted at the contact. He turned you around in his hands, looking you up and down with an appreciative moan. “Let's see what we're working with,” he said. “Strip.” The order was plain and simple.

You did as you were told, trying not to be shy about it. He didn't care about shyness, and it didn't matter anyway.

You began peeling your clothes off, moving faster with each inch of skin revealed. Once you were bare in front of him, you fought the overwhelming urge to cover yourself. He wanted to see you, to see what you had to offer.

He hummed to himself, snapping again. “On your knees.” Again, you did as you were told.

Moving to your knees, he took your face in his large hands. You melted against him, your eyes fluttering shut as a deep moan escaped you. His hands felt so cool in comparison to your burning skin. If you weren't so desperate for more of what he had to offer, you would be perfectly content with sitting here and having him hold you like this.

When his hands lightly smacked your cheeks, your eyes snapped open as you brought yourself out of the sticky feeling of the subtle pleasure. “Keep your eyes open. And open your mouth.”

You parted your lips, and he slipped his thumb between them and pried your mouth open wide. He set his thumb on your tongue, pulling it over your bottom set of teeth and pushing his thumb farther into your mouth. Your breaths blew over his skin as he felt the softness of your cheeks, your tongue.

He surprised you when his hand was suddenly between your thighs, his fingers stroking through your folds as you gasped. “Jesus, you're fucking dripping.” He ran his fingers along your lower lips and the insides of your thighs where the arousal was smothered halfway down your thighs.

You whimpered and whined when he shoved his middle and ring fingers inside of you without warning, delving them into your hot, dripping, tight pussy. You tried not to squirm at the way his fingers wiggled inside you.

“Yes,” he sighed. “This'll do nicely.”

He pulled them out of you, shoving those same fingers between your lips to make you taste your arousal. “Suck,” he commanded. You obeyed.

You suckled around his fingers and felt another rush of molten arousal wash through you at the way he stares at you, his eyes dark and primal. You needed him.

“Strip me,” he said, pulling his hand away. From your knees, you unbuttoned his shirt and removed it, letting your hands press against the expanse of his chest and soothe you the slightest bit. You unbuckled his best and shoved his pants down his legs, removed it from his body like undoing ropes tying him to a chair.

You stared at his briefs, his half-hard erection tenting them as he enjoyed the sight of your mindless struggling. He placed a hand in your hair, gripping a fistful and holding you securely. “Now be a good girl and suck my cock.”

You pulled his boxers down without hesitation and only faltered as you saw him for the first time. This was absurd. You never thought you'd find yourself in this situation—staring at your professor’s erection, long and hard and flushed with his own lust for your body, about to wrap your lips around it.

You gripped him in your hand and he stifled a grunt at the feeling of your insistence. You stroked him a few times before sticking your tongue out and licking a long strip up the underside of his cock, tasting his precum beading at the tip and immediately becoming addicted to the taste. Whether it was him or just his toxin, the taste of him was mesmerizing, and you would do anything for more.

You wrapped your lips around him, suckling around the tip and taking him deeper. He let his head fall back just a bit, still watching you as his thighs clenched and his hair gripped your hair tighter. He did not guide you or push you down, he didn't think he needed to. You surprised him as you bobbed your head up and down his cock, taking him farther and farther down with each trip back and forth until he was filling your throat with his length and making you gag.

He grunted as you suckled some more. Your cunt clenched around nothing, aching for any kind of pressure as your clit pulsed and your walls fluttered. You ran a hand down your body, dipping between your thighs to try and ease some of the tension. You pressed down hard on your clit one time, a moan coming from your throat and shivering through his spine.

He pulled you by your hair off of his cock. “Did I say you could touch yourself, sweetheart?” You shook your head pathetically. “Then why are you doing it?”

You couldn't win this, you knew that. Using your desperation as regret, you frowned and whispered, “Sorry, sir.”

He loosened his grip enough to let you get back to work, still holding onto you as he leaned back again. Your lips found his cock once more, addicted and able to ignore the burn for now, a short escape from the pain.

You swirled your tongue around him, suckling as you went along. Crane stared at you with a dark gaze as you sucked him off. You flattened your tongue against him, going farther down his length with each swallow around his tip. Sticky white precum continued to seep from his slit and onto your tongue. You were drunk on the taste of him, taking him as best you could.

Crane looked like a dream, his head tilted back and his lips parted as you brought him closer and closer to a great release. Both his hands were tangled in your hair by now, holding on to you and his remaining control.

He was right about the hormones. Being this close to him, inhaling the scent of his cologne, the scent of his skin swirling around your head, was easing the searing desperation.

You felt him twitching on your tongue and suckled around him a little more. He was close, you could feel it. You didn't know if it was his toxin or not, but the idea of him spilling all over your tongue drove you crazy with lust.

He began to tense and groaned. “And that's enough of that,” he huffed, pulling you off of him by your hair and keeping you back, even through your attempts at licking the precum spilling from his tip.

“My, my,” he breathed. “Such a desperate little thing.”

You caught your breath as you spoke, your lips swollen and your eyes hooded as you did. “I need you,” you begged, gripping his thighs tight.

“Well,” he stood, snapping and gesturing for you to stand as well—you obeyed. “You'll have to be patient, sweetheart. I'm not through with my tests yet.” You whined. “Lay down.”

You did as told once again. He looked over your body, running a finger down the center of you, from your collarbone to your pelvis. You shuddered and whimpered but said nothing.

“I don't have any cuffs in here, so a tie will have to work.” He found his jacket draped along the back of his chair and pulled the tie neatly tucked inside of it out.

You held your breath as he reached for your hands, grabbing your wrists and holding them above your head. He put them around the bars of the headboard and, with more skill than you expected, tied them together to keep you bound there.

He gave a content sigh at the sight of you, smiling to himself. His eyes found yours as his fingertips grazed your side “Now, you can be as loud as you want. No need to hold back. We're all alone in here.”

He stood over you as his palm smoothed along your skin, reaching further down until he found your mound, slick and hot and waiting for something to slip inside it.

Your breath quickened in anticipation, waiting for him to make his move as his fingers played with your skin. Holding eye contact, he slipped his finger inside of you, parting your folds and burying itself in deep.

Your head lolled back as you moaned, the sound sticky with lust. He sank in deep, inch by torturous inch. You held your breath in your, feeling each little bit disappear, knuckle by knuckle, inside.

A second finger joined the first, spreading you open for him. They thrust and curled inside you. You moaned and found yourself grinding your hips into his palm. You needed more, more of him, the bliss of his fingers spread through your body to ease the fire and feed it all at the same time.

“Professor,” you whimpered. “More, please.”

“Hm?” he taunted. “That's not enough for you? You need more?”

“Yes, please,” you gasped.

You clenched around his fingers, feeling him pumping his fingers in and out of you. He curled them against a sweet spot deep within your dripping cunt, exploring your body and becoming familiar with each little nook and cranny. Your back arched and your moans were loud in the space of the bedroom. You had never felt so good before, just by his hands alone.

When his speed increased, you thought you would cry. The dizziness was eased by his pleasure, the headache had waned enough for you to see, and the pain in your stomach had simmered to a dull ache. But his fingers stuffed inside only seemed to heighten the heavy pulse in her veins.

You pulled at the tie wrapped around your wrists as you whined. “Professor, please,” you huffed. “I can't take it. I—fuck—needa cum.”

Letting out what seemed to be a disinterested sigh, he shrugged. “Since you want it so bad…” His thumb pressed against your clit and your back arched slightly at the contact.

You cursed breathily, seeing stars as the pleasure grew and grew and grew at the expertise of his hand. You thought you were going to explode, reaching your peak far too quickly as a knot began to build in your stomach. You tensed, clenching around his fingers as he spread them and curled them and pumped them in and out of you.

“Fuck, can I cum?” you moaned. “Please, professor, I need it so bad.”

He didn’t answer you, rubbing your clit in tight, fast circles as he felt you flutter around his fingers, he listened to your unsteady breath and felt your trembling thighs. You could feel yourself reaching that point, on the verge of finding that bliss…

You whimpered meekly when he suddenly stopped. Watching you with a dark smile, he chuckled as you squirmed and tried to move your hips against his hand. A tear slipped down the side of your face as the pain returned, sharper this time and spreading through your body like you’d been shocked.

“Dr. Crane, please,” you cried, squirming like a worm on a hook.

He laughed at you, looking your body up and down as he disregarded your need and spoke. “How do you feel?” he asked.

Another tear joined the first. “Please, I can’t.”

He tutted, shaking his head. “Ah-ah. Answer my question or I’ll stop completely.”

“No!” you exclaimed. “Please, it hurts. So bad, everything hurts.”

He nodded, “Good girl.” He rewarded you with the movement of his hand once more, filling you back up with his fingers and thrusting them into you.

You were blinded by the pleasure and continued to ride it out, unknowingly that he was beginning a cycle. He would have you crying, breaking down in tears and so desperate to cum all over his hand, only to rob you of such pleasure every time you got close to tasting it. And it hurt. All of it hurt, like you were being burned alive. The imaginary flames licked at your flesh and threatened to sear it off your bones.

You didn’t know how many times he’d done this cruel act upon you, how long you’d been laying there with your legs spread open wide and his fingers shoved inside of you, too caught up in the pain and the ecstasy of it all. “C-Crane,” you muttered, your lips and your tongue lazy with dissatisfaction. “Please.”

You could tell how fun this experiment was for him, and not even in just the sadistic way. He watched you closely, his eyes hooded and dark and his cheeks pink. His cock was still hard, maybe harder still in a painful way that your useless sounds helped him to ignore.

He hummed deeply, considering another dance with desperation. But he let out a deep sigh and shrugged. “I suppose,” he said, his thumb, which had been lazily rubbing too-slow circles on your clit, picking up once again.

And you were so scared it was a trick, that he would pull away and leave you to sob again at the loss of stimulation. The knot built, the dam overflowed, and as you reached your breaking point, you gasped when it all came loose. Your back arched, and you went blind as the pleasure crashed down on you like nothing you’d ever felt.

You cried out his name—or some garbled version of his name that came with not being in touch with your own body. You moaned, breathing too fast and dizzying yourself with your harsh breaths as you did. Crane smiled as he watched you, coaxing you through it as he noted just how good this orgasm must have felt for you.

“Look at you go,” he smiled, still rubbing your clit as he watched the last spasms of pleasure shoot through you. You were so pretty like this, writhing in bed as you came on his hand for the first time, whimpering and whining like a dog.

He pulled his hand from you, darting his tongue to lick the bottom lip of his wolfish grin.

As you began to settle, you let in a deep breath to fill your lungs, laying back lazily as you were offered a moment of stillness. All the pain from before was gone, the thumping in your heart calmed to a slightly quickened ut otherwise rhythmic beat. You could breathe.

Crane was staring at his watch, looking between you and it as he seemed to time something. You paid him little mind, soaking up the calm for as long as you had it.

It was all too soon that the pain began to slip back in, first as a distant sting in your head, then as the dull ache in your stomach. As your breath sped again at the slowly increasing ache, so too did your heart once more. Then the sensitivity of your skin, the burn of your goosebumps rubbing against the sheets or clashing cruelty with the air.

Unable to take so much, you began to cry. “Professor,” you spoke shakily. “Fuck, it hurts. It fucking hurts so bad. I can't—I can't, I can't.”

“Two minutes and seventeen seconds,” he stamped. “It took two minutes for the aphrodisiac to kick in again after the first orgasm has been reached.”

He stared at you, rubbing his bottom lip and sighing with a distant smile. “Oh, the things I want to do to you,” he mumbled. “To make you cum over and over and over again until you're,” he sighed longingly, his eyes fluttering and his jaw clenching with an urge he tried to conceal, “sobbing, trembling in my hands, begging me to stop.”

You shuddered, wanting it so badly but also dreading the opposite of this torture, where you would never stop shaking, never be able to calm as he pulled an orgasm after you one right after the other.

He shook himself out of his daydream. “But, I'm not sure how long you've got. That's an experiment for another day.”

You wanted to say something, but you were at your point in desperation where words were harder and harder to form unless the adrenaline really kicked in.

He positioned himself on the bed, his hand smoothing over your sides. “I bet you need me now, don't you?” Whining pathetically and not caring anymore about sounding decent, you nodded. “Yes, you do. You need me to fuck you, hhh? Take you nice and rough from behind. You need me to fuck you nice and deep, little slut?”

You nodded again, crying, “Please.”

He stood on his knees in front of you, taking your body in his hands and flipping you around, not caring for a moment that you were still tied to the bed frame with your arms now crossed.

He pulled you up on your knees and put your ass on display for him. His hands slapped down on your ass, rubbing harshly on the skin as you whined.

“Be a good girl and beg me to fuck you, sweetheart,” he breathed.

Had you not begged enough? You couldn't count the amount of times you'd told him “Please, professor, please,” and been denied for the sake of his sadism?

Still, you were desperate and you could care less at the moment about his urge to humiliate you. So you did beg, your pounding heart squeezing tears out of your eyes.

“Please, Crane,” you sobbed. “Please, I need you so fucking bad. It hurts, please.”

You were about to continue pouring your heart out when he cut you off. “Okay, okay,” he chuckled. “Calm down. It's not that serious.”

He took his cock in his hand, stroking himself a couple times as he spread your folds for him. In one push, he buried himself to the hilt inside of your tight pussy. He groaned roughly as you clenched around his cock and moaned.

“So fucking tight,” he sighed. “You've been needing this, haven't you?”

You moaned deep in your throat, melting at the feeling of him buried so deep. He chuckled, high off the sight of you so weak. He pulled out of you, an agonizingly slow drag that burned at your nerves until he suddenly thrust back in with a harsh thrust. You lost your breath, your lungs squeezed tight at the pleasure.

He grunted, doing it again and again and again as he just kept holding you tighter, pulling you back to meet each thrust. The smack of his hips against your ass was loud and followed in quick succession as he gave you no time between each thrust to recover.

You felt like your brain had melted, reduced to. a pile of mush in your head as you let yourself be devoured by the pure ecstasy of each thrust staving off the pain of the toxin burning you out.

You gripped the sheets, clenching and unclenching and trying so hard to keep it together as he split you open on his cock.

Crane was hardly keeping it together himself, gripping your waist as he fucked into you from behind. His hair had fallen over his eyes, which were dark and crazed. He had you in his clutches—you, his prey and he, your predator, his teeth and claws in your flesh and bone.

“Is this everything you imagined?” he huffed, bringing a hand to wrap around your throat and pull you up.

You clenched tighter around him and felt your limbs going weak—if he hadn't been holding you up, you would have fallen against the bed again.

“W-What?” you gasped, small and pathetic.

He laughed darkly. “You think I didn't know? What, you thought I couldn't see the way you stared at me during my lectures? You thought I didn't see your glances at my crotch, wondering how big my cock was? Huh? How good it would feel if I fucked you?”

You just kept moaning, unable to hold in your pleasures sobs. He fucked you a little harder, pulling more and more out of you as he did. “Why do you think I chose you, huh?” he taunted, laughing again. “You were perfect for the role. My cock hungry student who would do anything to impress me. Fuck, you were practically begging to be the subject of this experiment.”

It was hard to listen to him when you could barely focus on your own pleasure. Your arousal was dripping down your thighs, coating you in slick. He just kept fucking you, drunk on the pleasure.

“N-Need,” you stuttered, trying to form the words as your tongue was not your own. “Mm-fuck, needa cum.”

He didn't say anything this time as he pressed his finger to your clit. You went limb, letting yourself fall onto the bed as you whined pathetically.

“Look at you,” he smiled, his head tilted back as he relished in the squeeze of your cunt. “My little fucking whore. Does it feel good?” He laughed again, rubbing your clit a little faster. “Are you gonna cum on my cock like a pathetic slut? Hm?”

To answer his question, you did. You let out a choked cry when you came, your eyes rolling back as you went blind with the pleasure that crashed down on you. Your whole body shattered, and your thighs shook at the pleasure.

“Oh, fuck,” he huffed as you began tighter, your pussy fluttering around him and only bringing him closer to his own longed-for release. “That's a good fucking girl.”

Your head was filled with white-noise as you floated in that space between orgasms, where your whole body was numb to everything else going on. As he kept fucking you, it didn't last long. You came to and found yourself thrown into another dance of lust.

You chased the pleasure, pleading for it to swallow you whole as you took all that he gave to you. “You like that? You like being ruined by me? Hm?” he breathed, still rubbing your clit, even as you squirm.

You didn't respond, overcome by whining moans. But that was more amusing. “I know you do,” he said. “You liked being fucked dumb, don't you?”

His hips continued to snap into yours, shoving deeper and rougher. His finger on your clit continued to build you up, higher and higher.

“Are you gonna cum again?” he asked, his thrusts becoming sloppy as he kept fucking into you. “Yeah? You're squeezing my cock like you are.”

You managed to nod your head and nothing more, the knot building again in your stomach getting so tight, so close to another blinding release. You braced for it as it grew closer.

“Fuck, I'm gonna cum, too,” he breathed. “Gonna cum—so deep inside you. You'll be dripping with me, sweetheart.”

You mewled, closer and closer to–

A loud cry tore from your throat as you came again, blinded and devoured and reduced to nothing but a sobbing mess as the pleasure shook through your body like a rattle.

Unable to hold himself in anymore, he moaned roughly as he spilled so deep inside of you. He gripped you roughly, pulling you back against his cock as he buried himself deep, grinding into you as he fucked his cum inside so you were stuffed with it.

“Fuck, I love this tight little cunt,” he huffed. “Perfect for me.” Your pussy fluttered around him, squeezing him tight as you squelched and gushed around him.

You lay limp against the sheets as the blood roared in your ears. After a moment, when he'd caught his breath and came down from his high, he pulled out of you and let you fall against the bed.

He breathed, letting out a deep sigh. He looked down at you, your spent body still shaking with the aftershocks of pleasure. He picked up your leg, pulling it apart to see your pussy, stuffed and leaking his cum.

He could have cum again at the mere sight of you, your messiness, your exhaustion. He dropped your leg and sat next to your limp body.

“Now,” he said, another breath leaving his lungs. “How do you feel?”

You just lay there, letting out a tiny moan after a while as your only response as you tried to recover. All the pain had disappeared, and all that was left was the heaviness in your limbs and the sore muscles to come.

He hummed a laugh. “I bet.” He reached for his glasses, putting them on the bridge of his nose once more and adjusting them.

He stood, walking somewhere in the room as your eyes followed him. When he picked up a camera hidden in the corner capturing everything that just happened, you couldn't do anything but think about how you wanted to watch it back and see just how much he'd wrecked your body.

He stopped the recording, setting the camera down with a smile. He looked at you again, kneeling in front of the bed as he rested his chin on his hands. “So many things for us to do, so many experiments to run. And now I've got you,” he chuckled, “my own personal lab rat.”

You watched him lazily, the exhaustion pulling at your system. He leaned forward and pressed his lips to yours. You sighed into the kiss, moving as much as you could as your lips melded together. It breathed life into you, more life than it should have.

He pulled away all too soon, standing up and turning away from you as he left the room. You laid there a moment longer, thinking back over the events of the night. His own personal lab rat.

You smiled.

Cillian Murphy taglist: @lyarr24​ @runnning-outof-time​ @goblinjnr @kmc1989 @shelbyism @weepingwitchofthewest @cl-0-vr @thoticious @sinarainbows @the-nerdy-goddess @urmomsgirlfriend1 @bernelflo @dragonslayersupremacy @alurafairy @pietroxreader @darkcastle167 @neonpurplestars89-blog Tag yourself here...

[katherinakaina]

Being bullied for knowing another language is a real thing. Think of all the animosity people feel towards the Bachelor for saying, what, 3-4 phrases in Latin.

Storytime.

Every Russian feminist remembers how Nixelpixel was bullied and I presume is still being bullied. It really was Russian gamer gate and Nixelpixel is Russian Anita Sarkeesian. Both were tormented for being feminists, that's the base of it. But Anita was also a target of antisemitism and anti Armenian rhetoric. Nixelpixel is a skinny white Russian, very little to add on top. So she was bullied for speaking English.

She is bilingual and as many of us bilinguals do, she mixed languages in her speech in the way that I do and feels natural to me and all my friends.

The Russian Internet was not having it, not even a little bit. Unanimous consensus was that she is doing it only to appear smarter.

For English speaking people in the first world it maybe hard to comprehend. English is just the default language. But remember how conservatives react when some nonbinary teenager makes a video about cultural appropriation or any other academic topic and suddenly they all feel like they don't know certain words?! And they have to google words to understand someone's complex speech?! This is unheard of! And what right does this "beneath me in social hierarchy" have to know something that I don't?!! Outrageous!

The core of this emotion is envy. Knowing English good enough so you become legitimately bilingual is a privilege in Russia. Knowing a lot of stuff about society and understanding complex topics is a privilege. You have time and money for education. Or you got lucky and had educated parents. Envy becomes even more venomous when the person you envy is supposed to be beneath you.

Like, I don't really get it. But that's how I make sense of other people hating me all my life for being... eloquent. As if they anticipate me being hostile because they are less eloquent than me and attack me preventively.

This is made worse by me being autistic and forgetting all the time that you must make all humble song and dance around your every achievement so not to trigger neurotypical rage. I genuinely forget which words are too smart and which are fine. The idea that I'm trying to sound smarter on purpose is so laughable to me.

Returning to the Bachelor. He's a doctor, he studied at university. Do you hate him when he uses medical jargon? What's the deal with Latin then? They study Latin in med school. It is a mandatory course. For me this trait of his always meant to signify that he took his education very seriously and knows everything that he studied very well.

When people just assume that someone, a character or a person, does anything just to look smart I'm a little triggered. I know I'm not safe in that company.

And I know that all of it is incredibly whiny. Knowledge is a privilege, as I said. Dankovsky is a privileged man. I'm not blaming those who feel uncomfortable around learned people. I'm not blaming those who are not into such characters.

But Dankovsky is not gatekeeping knowledge though! He looks like a man who would nerd out about Latin to you, if you only asked. He gives his degree away for free! It's not the same as rich people hoarding wealth. He's eager to share his knowledge! But now he is a coloniser imposing his western ideas onto indigenous society.

Oh well, damned if you do, damned if you don't.

Maybe it's not envy then? Maybe they want a smart sounding person but the one who would agree with them all the time? Like, Peterson uses a lot of long words and they love him. Hm...

[dangermousie]

would you happen to have thoughts about the acting/casting and/or depth of characterization in rise of ning? i'm watching it and wanna be more into it but fsr most of the cast (besides wanyi and the stepmom) are not very...charismatic? to me 😧 would love a convincing mousie blog on the topic if you have one up your sleeve!

I am a terrible person for this kind of question because (a) I tend to watch most shows for the mains and supportings are less important to me in general and (b) I am not really a person who wants to convince others to like what I like because all my liking means is I enjoy it; others may or may not - I am no arbiter.

This said, while the OTP are the shining stars of the show for me, I do find the rest of the characters interesting (even if a lot of them are not likable - I dare anyone to find Dad likable.) I think it's because they all feel like real people to me - in their good and their petty. Even minor characters like First Aunt - I knooow women like this. Or the Dad - too many men are like that. Or take oldest daughter of First Aunt - so many other narratives would make her evil or besotted stupidly to the end but she is not - she ends up doing the sane thing and moving on from her crush and repaying FL's favor; but they don't become BFFs, they basically a nicely tolerant, which is a realistic thing in families.

And it allows characters both greyness and consistency. Take Lady Qiao. Awful person but loving mother and you really understand how Dad and societal structures pushed her into what she is. Or, even better, grandma - she is very much a grande dame of society, I am sure she was a good wife, but it's clear she is part of all the generational trauma and dad got his tendency to favoritism from her. And I love that she's consistently so - no magic change of heart vis-a-vis ML. It's realistic.

As to non-Luos, the only ones we really see are Ci Sha's sinister sexy marquis and his nephew. I am interested in the former not just for the hotness (tho mmmm) but because I want to know what his deal is, and nephew is interesting enough for a minor character.

(I am leaving actors out of this write up because I think they all do fine jobs, but mainly because unless acting is truly bad, I care about the characters only.)

This said - this is (a) very much a costume take on slice of life or, perhaps better, a cdrama take on something like a Gaskell novel - I love that small but wonderful subgenre but depending on one's taste, it just might not be one's bag (no matter how well a proper harem drama is made, for example, I just don't like them) and (b) this is all my very subjective take - I am a big fan of "clicking." I believe things either click for us or don't, somewhere in the lizard brain; we can then write a long explanation as to why but it really is an attempt to explain after the fact. And this just might be a situation where those characters/narratives just don't click for you. I mean, plenty of people enjoyed Are You the One this year and I felt like it poisoned my puppy - not even 100 essays could ever make me like it because it's so subjective. I could very well go "I get why X likes it" but it would, alas, not make me like it any more than I do now. I am one of probably three people who dislike the main premise of Nirvana in Fire (could write essays on it!) and the fact that everyone else loves it has not changed my mind.

I can perhaps explain (badly) why I think the click happened for me here, but I have no eloquence to make that click happen for anyone else (if I did, mwhahahahahaha I would take over the world and adapt every good danmei out there :P)

[1yyyyyy1]

If you don’t mind me asking, how old are you? I get the sense that you’re older based on your posts, but going by your most recent post, you seem to imply that you’re still a teenager. If that’s true, I am very impressed by how knowledgeable you are at such a young age.

How did you get so articulate? What did you read? Did you take classes in high school? Did you have a mentor? did you have a life-changing conversation with somebody? I would love to know more about your process of getting to where you are now.

Hey :) I'm kind of surprised that people choose to compliment me at all since I'm calling people names on here and such, I think I'm a nasty person overall... I'm in my early twenties currently, so I'm certainly not a teenager, but I'm still at an age where my opinions get dismissed and it has taken me significant effort to start taking my concerns seriously. In the post you are referring to, I was talking about people who equate polarizing opinions to those of an immature teenager, which hints at the fact that people grow out of their rebellious phase and expect others to become just as compliant with age… I don't consider my opinions (especially on pregnancy) to be rebellious in the first place, to me they are common sense and I'm genuinely disgusted by the fact that many adult women continue to perpetuate the same rhetoric that has harmed me as a teenager.

I've never received any higher education, and I barely ever attended high school, so if you find my writing skill compelling it can be the proof that all you need is yourself and a willingness to learn. I'm not sure if I what I have is innate talent because I did read a lot as a child, which probably explains my vocabulary, and I'm not exactly a prodigy since my early writing is still as primitive as it gets for someone who is just starting out. My writing process is not effortless either and I go through a lot of drafts or even variations of the same sentence until I'm satisfied with it. What I know to be innate to myself is my overall interest in reading and writing, it is something I spend a lot of time doing and my proficiency makes sense to me that way. I suppose, I'm still not at my fullest potential because I limit myself to mentally taxing topics... Much of the difficulty I encounter comes down to the fact that the things I talk about are extremely personal and often require more reflection from me than I'm ready for; this is the reason I'm yet to post some of the questions I promised to answer. When it comes to my writing skill, I would be lying if I said that public education did nothing for it because it did lay down the foundation, just that I draw my understanding from other subjects and cannot recommend a reading list because I was taught them in person. My approach to writing is based on my knowledge of cognitive reframing and I would have to write a book myself to explain how I apply it. Weirdly enough, I attribute my eloquence to fanfiction since it's what I used to read the most of, and some of it is genuinely high quality — for example, I think this story is very poetic, especially the last paragraph. The same can be said about fantasy games where I would pay attention to the flowery language in quest text and dialogue; my learning experience has been unconventional at best.

I thought it would be helpful if I recited what I do directly... My writing process is as follows:

Receive a question or get interested in an idea, draft the first thing that comes to mind. Write until I don't feel like it anymore. Usually this is no longer than one sentence.

Come back to the draft when I feel like it and let my imagination run its course while I look at the prompt. At this point, the draft is a mixture of coherent ideas and incoherent sentence stumps I then proceed to flesh out within the confines of the main topic. This is the stage where I figure out the structure and the general theme of whatever I'm writing. I narrow down the essence of what I'm being asked about, write until I figure out the closing paragraph, break down the draft into connected sub-topics and come up with a title for each paragraph as well as the entire piece. For this answer, I titled the first paragraph "Why I wrote what I did and my attitude towards it", the second & third paragraph "My education and writing process" and the fourth paragraph "My advice and why I haven't given up yet". I titled the answer as a whole "My age and my writing process" which is kind of odd, it probably means there's something I have to reflect on in regards to my age... While drawing up a plan like that is common writing advice I would give regardless, grounding myself with a simplified idea is even more important to me because I do not write sentences consecutively. The first draft of the previous sentence quite literally was "is important to me because I do not write sentences consecutively." with the dot, meaning that I knew it would be the last part of the sentence and that there was something I was supposed to trace it back to before I could finish it. This goes for the entirety of my writing process and I will often start a sentence from the middle, write different paragraphs one sentence at a time or even write an entire paragraph backwards. It can be hard to keep track of the structure when you write the way I do, so having a grounded idea I can always refer back to is the solution for me.

Continue to refine the draft along the guidelines I established until I'm satisfied with it — this doesn't mean that it's perfect even by my own standards, I often leave awkward wording as is because I know when to move on from a creative block. What matters to me is that it communicates the ideas of the sub-topics and fully conveys my point.

The most important thing I've learned ever since I committed to writing is that I am at my best when I write for myself. I would go as far as to say that I'm at my best when I write about myself, that way I absolve myself of the responsibility that accompanies external topics. I no longer burden myself with articles and statistics which may or may not be inaccurate, I talk about my own improvement and I know what it has been well enough to not be bothered by people disputing it. Even as I'm answering this question, my focus is on my personal enjoyment so that it remains the motivation I can look back at; I don't believe it to be remotely unfair, it is reliable. People move on and people get disinterested, my audience could leave due to personal circumstances and it would be no one's fault. By being my own standard of quality, I get to be consistent with my work and both me and the reader benefit that way. Other than that, my straightforward advice is to trust the process and to not be afraid to take risks with your writing. Stylistically, the list I made has to be limited to impersonal descriptions to be consistent, but I went on a personal tangent in the second point anyway — so what? Taking this liberty was what inspired me to finish the list at all, which I'm not going to complain about. I take a risk every time I choose not to dilute my complicated speech, like right now, because it does come off as pretentious, although no one has complained so far. Generally speaking, there are no real social risks to be taken with writing because intelligence is already hard to come by, the people who value it will appreciate the effort regardless and the people who don't could never be catered to in the first place. The only "risk" I can imagine anyone taking is the risk of being disappointed in one's abilities and the fear of never amounting to one's aspirations, but even that is temporary because creative skills always improve so long as you practice. I'm personally well past the point of doubt because people have seen me at my worst too many times by now, that ship has sailed for me... My aspirations rely on my ability to articulate myself, so I don't lack motivation when it comes to improvement. The enjoyment I get from completing a piece allows me to persevere through the many challenges the writing process entails.

[sisterofoblivion]

There's not much more I can say that hasn't been said on the m*rder of Nex Benedict. There are far more people more eloquent than me speaking on this... fuck, I hate to say "topic" because this is about a child's life.

My blog is safe. I am a safe person to talk to; I'm AFAB, and in my late twenties, so I am an adult. I'm uncertain my gender identity because, more often than not, I simply don't care. It isn't important to me. But whatever yours is, whatever you identify as, you can message me. Talk to me. Rant to me. Scream, cry, laugh, whatever. You are not alone. You will never be alone.

I'm not going to sit here and write some sappy shit about "it gets better" because I don't know if it will, I just know that it can. I'm not making promises I can't keep. I don't know your situation, you don't know mine. I probably don't know you, you probably don't know me. But for your sake, if you just need to word-vomit and have the response be "rant received" or "you're seen/heard/understood" etcetera, I can do that. I'm a very busy person these days, so I can't always respond. If you find yourself in an emergency, please dial your respective emergency response number. For the US, it's 911.

I'm not licensed in anything, and I'm not going to claim to be. But I grew up in a small-ass town with a population under 3,000 people with legacy last names in the rural Midwest. My best friend is a gay man, and because of everything he went through, he didn't come out until he was in his twenties. We all could guess, but he wasn't treated kindly by some very loud voices, one of which has an uncle as the Chief of Police. The stereotypes write themselves.

I, myself, am bisexual. And I'm fairly certain my gender isn't cis, but again, I'm indifferent.

I'm not going to out you. I'm not gonna tell anyone. But for fuck's sake, please, please hold on if you can. Please. What happened-- what keeps fucking happening-- is vile, disturbing, and unjust.

Bottom Line: I wasn't old enough to hear about the first brick. I'm sure I'll be dead before someone throws the last. But never, ever stop throwing bricks until they let us live and love.

Justice for our queer families. Justice for our queer youth. Justice for Nex Benedict.

[goatfactsofficial]

got inspired and decided to crack open an RPG design document to jot down some notes about a magic class that deals with Sheydim by offering them songs as payment, and I remembered an old conversation where I tried to convince someone that the best way to play a Rabbi in D&D 5e would be as a Lore Bard who could give you a thesis-level breakdown of a dozen different topics (and also the ability to talk the ear off anyone with a WIS save low enough) And they just could. Not. Let go of the idea that Rabbi=Priest=Cleric and kept trying to shove different homebrews or Pathfinder subclass material for Clerics at me. At the time it was kind of annoying, but man, looking back its really chilling just how deep this misunderstanding of Jews goes. And the insistence that we are not the arbiters of our own culture is so incredibly infuriating. I know its nothing new, and plenty of other people have said it more eloquently than I can. It just hurts to have this hobby that is so close to my heart and my life to have such a terrible track record of representing us well, and for other people in that hobby do absolutely nothing to grapple with that unpleasant history.

[elvhenprince]

Confucian values on filial piety and how it could be a narrative for Arlathan/Elgar'nan:

wholly speaking as an asian born and living in seasia that like. theres a narrative i can see for elgar'nan, touching upon family & history & tradition (not tagging for the new game bc i dont think this is supported by canon in anyway)

so- bitches hate confucius, that fucker. the guy said "filial piety good" and gave entire cultures beyond his own generational trauma for millennium

If you want to just read my thoughts on elgar'nan /arlathan specifically, skip ahead to the next header

on the specific topic and confuscianism and how it has hurt real life people, has hurt my people, here are some words written by others far more eloquent than me:

Reddit thread by CauliflowerOk7056

A Reflection on Asian Intergenerational Trauma by Jed Chun

So over toxic filial piety by Usual_Ad_14

and if you're asian like me in a asian household, you probably already know what i mean by how fucked we are by filial piety. no matter how the world has changed, especially for our generation, we are obligated to our parents and their whims. you could be 30 years old and you're probably still living with your parents and you have to listen to their word, and their word is basically law in the house. if you try to contest their word you're shut down, shamed, they get passive aggressive and mad, and you basically are 不孝顺 / unfilial. why dont you love your parents, they gave you everything, and youre ungrateful and not successful enough. see this other child of other parent, theyre successful and gave their parents money every month... and you can't just leave. i dont even mean like, financially you cant leave. sometimes western people say shit like "why dont you just leave your abusive family!" and asian people are like: yeah even if we had money and resources we just cant fucking do that

elgar'nan as the all-father

so! a narrative here of demanding filial piety, good children get rewarded, bad children have to work harder to prove themselves or get punished. this gets corrupted further and further which then formed arlathan's slavery- not a clear-cut chains and shackles way we'd expect. but it is there nonetheless. guilt and disappointment and shame being far far more shackling (esp in a world that was one with the Fade and spirits/emotions i wager)

and i think it'd actually frustrate solas even more because then its not so easy to just- take them away and say theyre free. it'd make arlathan far far more complicated and compelling to me, but ofc i dont know if this could've been handled by a big corpo making fantasy game very well. still! i think it'd be interesting to explore as a narrative in fanfic perhaps. im just a struggle with words person personally so i have to make this rambly post instead

[foxgirltail]

Sometimes I see posts that I want to send to [various people I know of who are eloquent and well versed on the topic], but 1) idk how appropriate that is for me and 2) said person may not have enough context or be able to provide more insight than what I can deduce myself, so it may not be worth it

[bisluthq]

Yes! Exactly everything you said about matty and the comedian comparisons! I’m completely stumped about comedians I like atm lmao but I do like dark comedy. I think matty wanted to be like them but just isn’t cool enough or smart enough, or it’s cause he actually does believe the “jokes” he makes. But yeah, he’s shown who he is enough times now, and I think this has been the clearest he’s been where there’s no gag, it’s straight up shit.

Also I think he doesn’t want to be a better person or a good person, he just wants to be perceived as one the same way he wants to be perceived as a non snobby intellectual, but he just reminds me of Russel brand (excluding the very part about the allegations about Russel, I haven’t heard that sort of thing about matty). He seems to put so much effort into acting like he doesn’t care about fame and image and legacy but he sure knows how to go ‘woopsies i think I think I said something bad again? I’m not perfect :( but no one can be :) but I don’t want to be an asshole :( but I can’t help who I am and at least I am always true to myself :)’ i can’t imagine being a fan, it seems exhausting (i say as a swiftie lmao).

And yep, you really see what people think when they’re angry/ upset! I have this problem, only my problem is that I grew up constantly hearing the homophobic f slur (never actually used in context though because my extended family has a lot of LGB folks, and we had a drag queen family friend) but if someone stubbed their toe, encounter a bad driver, spill a drink, anything, they’d shout “fucking F…”! I struggled getting my key into the lock the other day and was busting for the toilet and said “come on you fucking f…” and it caught me off guard, because one I’m bi lol but it just came out so easily and without thought, but mostly because I felt uncomfortable when Jason Kelce said it a few weeks ago even though he was using the word that had been used against him. But talking about a key in the door, it obviously has no deep meaning or person attached, but I need to unlearn that as my “I’m so frustrated right now phrase” 😬 but in a more serious thing, we have had a lot youth crime and when they show videos with blurred out faces and the kids aren’t white, or it’s in an area that’s accepted a lot of refugees, the things people who weren’t even affected will say, and comments people leave on social media with their government name… so messed up! I read a book a few years ago about African Americans living in America and children of immigrants feel they need to be perfect and not get in any minor mischief or trouble like underage drinking because other people will paint it as a failing of their whole community. I can’t remember the name of the book now (maybe it was a blm podcast actually? If anyone remembers it please let me know) but it was something that I hadn’t personally seen/ noticed until after learning that. But now I see it everywhere, and especially with trans people atm!

I keep thinking about what you said about Vance being more dangerous than trump because he speaks well and I’m noticing it with the edge lord types who use big words or people who write a seemingly logical explanation about why eating too much red meat is bad and then they’ll just throw in some racist dog whistles and then within a few weeks they’re not using dog whistles but saying the racist shit unfiltered and because they made some accurate points and used big words and sounded eloquent, it just slides in there like ‘oh well this must be true too’

I got off topic from talking about what matty said but it feels like it’s all connected in some weird way. It makes sense in my head, I just can’t put the words in order.

I mean Matty saying what he said wasn’t really a joke - it was just a racialized threat. Obviously it was a jokey threat because I don’t believe Matty would fight Azaelia (also: he if he did, he would lose because she’s just straight up crazier than him). And I just have no patience for that? If he said “I’m coming to egg your house” that would be a weird thing to say but it wouldn’t be racist. If he said “next time you see your car, expect the tires to be slashed” that would be a threat of malice but it wouldn’t be racist. Even if he just said “next time I see you, I’m gonna smack you” I’d be like “… ok” but the wig thing coming in was just RACIST and there’s just no excuse for that.

Especially because he keeps doing it. He keeps being “accidentally” racist which like… bro is just a racist little man. And obviously that doesn’t make him about to go commit hate crimes or whatever but it’s also like??? Come on.

and I agree when you see people committing crimes is often when the hate comes out and it’s like idk man the hate was there and let’s be real, if you need a group to be perfect not to use slurs against them then you’re just bigoted? Like yes. You get shitty Black people, and shitty Muslim people, and shitty trans people, and shitty poor people. Having a marginalized identity doesn’t make these people better people. It’s also imo prejudiced when people make excuses for shitty behaviors “because” the person committing it is marginalized. Like no that person is just shitty. Maybe they have an excuse for it but just about everyone has an excuse for the shitty things they do because almost no one goes out with the express goal of being a bad person? But that person happens to suck. Okay. Says nothing about the group as a whole 🤷🏻‍♀️🤷🏻‍♀️ People are just people.

I said this a while back out loud and this person tried to gotcha me by saying “but aren’t you anti cops and isn’t that just the excuse there that there are some bad apples” and the difference is cop is not an identity? It’s a job. And it kind of doesn’t have room for bad apples. I hadn’t seen that when I had that convo, but to quote Chris Rock again he has this whole thing about how if a number of pilots at an airline just… hated landing planes and preferred crashing them into things, we wouldn’t be like “oh no a few bad apples!!!” we’d be like “fuck that airline” and like no those people shouldn’t be pilots lol. People who like crashing planes shouldn’t be airline pilots. Maybe they can be stunt people?? Idk. Find a different job. People who like shooting people shouldn’t be cops. They should maybe be hunters? Idk. Some things should just preclude you from certain occupations. That doesn’t speak to your identity, you’re just… ill suited for that particular role in society.

which is very long and rambling but ties back to Matty and Azaelia fwiw to say that aspects of who they are as people should preclude them from a public presence. Pity. Because both are musically talented individuals. Azaelia tho fwiw hasn’t put out music in forever, I think she’s mostly just… causing shit. And it’d be okay if she was yelling into a void but people do pay attention and that sucks. And same for Matty. Like he just shouldn’t be a famous person with a platform. He’s a weird, over sensitive, shitty little man and he should be talking into a void lol.

[espeonkin]

Honest question: Why do you refuse to speak a word or even share anything against Israel during this time as someone who has connections to it? Why does defending your view of otherkin and furry drama come before defending the real lives of innocent people being killed?

Your online space is ultimately yours to choose what you do with, but this silence is deafening. Pouring blood sweat and tears fighting against some dumb kin jokes made by a few young teens, yet refusing to make a peep over real life genocide and ethnic cleansing being done by a place you frequently visit, is concerning, to say the very least. Please think about this and do better.

hi, i want to preface this response with the fact that while i am going to try to be as eloquent as possible in this response, this is a stressful topic, and i'm probably going to misspeak or forget to include certain things i mean to say because this was an additionally stressful message to receive. i don't want to come off as though i'm refusing to speak at all, though, which is why i'm responding now, instead of after I've had a bit more time to process everything you've said to me.

first, i'd like to address you saying that i "have connections" to israel and "frequently visit" it. i have absolutely no connection to israel. i have no family that lives there, and i have only been there once, four years ago. the only "connection" i have is that i'm jewish, which i don't consider to be a legitimate reason to say i have a connection to israel or especially its government. is that what you're insinuating here? because i'm jewish i'm connected to the state of israel? when i was there, i was personally very uncomfortable with how militarized everything was and frankly wanted nothing more than to leave, but it was a vacation with my family and rabbi, so i couldn't very well leave and go home on my own. and again. this was four years ago and before i was better informed on what the state of israel has done and is continuing to do.

on that note, the reason why i haven't been speaking on the current events related to israel is because it's a very stressful topic for me and i've been going through a rough mental health patch as is already. i can't begin to describe how horrible it feels to hear the constant claims that these are being taken in the name of the religion that i was born into and holds such deep personal value to me even still. i never asked for this. my jewish friends never asked for this. do you know how it feels to have your parents so thoroughly indoctrinated by propaganda that they call you a traitor to your religion for not believing every word that comes from the israeli government? to try so hard to help them unlearn the propaganda only to be met with such thorough resistance? so. please forgive me if i'm trying to make my little corner of the internet just a bit less stressful for me to exist in.

as for the "why is it more important to you to defend your views of otherkin" part, it's because it's less emotionally taxing for me than a literal real world genocide. it's something personal to me, and i'd like to be able to talk about it when possible, but I would like to emphasize that there have been periods where even this has been too much for me to handle and i've had to back off from the topic at points.

i don't like being told to "do better" here. because the fact of the matter is that i know my limits and talking about a literal genocide for weeks on end is frankly not within them. continually exposing myself to travesty when i know it's not within my limits isn't activism, it's emotional self harm. i also would like to know where you heard that i "frequently visit" and "have connections to" israel. or is that something you just came up with because i'm jewish?

i hope i addressed things eloquently enough. sorry if this isn't what you wanted to hear, or if i forgot anything in efforts to make a faster response. i hope this answer is sincere to you.

[familyabolisher]

Hi! I realized someone has asked a similar question, but on the topic of essay writing are there any specific skill sets that you’ve worked on extensively to make the process less daunting & do you have any advice from your own experience on how to start dabbling with litcrit/theory to apply to your own Thoughts? I’ve been wanting to write down my silly brainworms on Things but they’re very fragmented and it’s quite a struggle to glue it all together,, I really enjoy your writing!! Hoping I can eventually be as eloquent.

well the way i normally do it is to write down my various thoughts in bullet-point format and see if i can wed them together into a coherent thesis, and then work from there; most essays and similar such pieces of writing will have the thread of a thesis statement running through them to which every point they make has to eventually return. so if you have a lot of scattered thoughts about something, the best advice i can give you is to try and make them less scattered, and see if you can identify a common point of origin from which they all emerged. there are guides to essay-writing available on the internet put together by people far more qualified than me who manage to go into far greater depth with the planning details, but imo the important thing is to have an overarching point to which you consistently return. and, i guess, have that point be extending beyond the internal barriers of a text; rather than merely describing the text’s internal world as though everything happening within it sprung up organically, the drive of the essay should come from an understanding of everything contained within the text coming about as a result of deliberate choices made by an external agent (writer, editor, translator…) such that your job as a critic comes back to describing and evaluating which choices were made and why.

as for literary criticism, i don’t know if i can help you here beyond some very broad advice – having a fluency in critical theory and a sense of when it might be relevant to your argument is something that i find comes organically, and trying to marry X theorist to Y text without a solid sense of where X theorist was coming from or the myriad other forces that might be acting on Y text risks missing the woods for the trees. so, reading widely and actively (writing down arguments, keeping track of what you think of them, identifying points of conflict) will be incrementally beneficial in developing your own critical voice.

i guess my only other piece of advice would be to give primacy to your own argument and locate the frameworks given to you by your working knowledge of literary theory within it; the arguments made by lit theorists should be treated as arguments, developed under particular conditions and accountable to particular forces, rather than irrefutable ‘facts.’ asking, for example, ‘how do we apply edward said’s theory of orientalism to X text’ can be illuminating, but risks atomising or flattening the text in a way that ‘how does X text affirm or alter our understanding of edward said’s theory of orientalism’ might circumvent. the latter question understands literary epistemic frameworks to be influx depending on the contents of the texts to which they are accountable, and privileges the individual’s ability to read the text holistically and form a judgement about the precision of the literary theory in question in relation to their findings. (this doesn’t always apply – sometimes X to Y theory application is effective enough to cover all the bases without need for this kind of intervention – but it’s a good way to develop an evaluative rather than analytical practice.)

so, have a clear sense of an overarching argument, develop a consistent theoretical reading habit that helps to support your development of your personal critical voice, and treat literary theory as something with which you are in dialogue such that you don’t lose sight of the primacy of your argument. is my advice.

[banavalope]

Hello! I wanted to tell you that was an incredible dissertation over the evolution of ARGs, from the Traditional ARG style games to the now modern ones where the locations are more digital and web-based than physical, especially since the most famous Traditional ARGs were, ultimately, marketing campaigns for Games/Series/Films.

I do admit I was ready to jump on the inclusion of Doki Doki Literature Club, only to realize it is a culmination of other small games where the Alternate/Augmented Reality aspects were self-contained digitally within one's computer files and-or sites (one example being the IMSCARED remake, that although is mostly known for 4th Wall Breaking, has ARG-like elements when it comes to engaging with aspects of the story)

I used to know a bunch more of them, and participated a lot more via scouting and initial investigation to discern whether something was more of a Meta story or a legitimate "needs players badly" ARG, but the complete loss of the Unfiction Forum made a dent in my motivation to continue pursuing them. I wonder what kind of discussions they would've gone in terms of the evolution of the genre.

Thank you! You know, I was worried I was spinning my wheels a lot since there's really so so much I could talk about with analog horror, unfiction as well. You definitely shorthanded my words way more eloquently, lmao.

Man, I can't believe I forgot about the Unfiction Forum, see that's exactly what I mean when I say there's so much. Another interesting topic to get into - and my apologies that I'm about to severely digress - being how youtuber's like Night Mind, Nexpo, Wendigoon, etc., have become to modern ARGs what Unfiction Forum was to traditional ARGs. It definitely adds to the overall conversation on how the differences in environment, between the Then and the Now, changes the way an audience learns to engage with works of unfiction. By no means do I mean it in a bad way, either, forums just bring a different energy out of you, I feel like. A collaborative kind of energy. Our approach to the genre most certainly would have been impacted by the loss of the Unfiction Forum as a hubspace, but so to would an artists enthusiasm for making these types of ARGs. With nowhere for people to properly gather at like they used to, barring reddit I guess, you have to alter your creative perspective to fit the changing landscape. A rather fascinating observation you've brought up that I didn't take into account.

People are certainly testing the limitations of the genre, perhaps in part due to this, in ways that continue to be exciting to see and hard to actually define. I hesitated to include Doki Doki as well - in my first draft, I didn't - but it's an example a majority of people would have "learned" off of and base their knowledge of ARGs on. As you said so aptly, it utilizes a culmination of ARG elements enough to make itself mnnnntechnically an ARG. Technically, Doki Doki is a creepypasta, nobody (including me) is going to call it a creepypasta, but it's technically a creepypasta when you take into consideration things like Catastrophe Crow 64 and Petscop, which it's closer in relation to. Taking the extra mile to really fuck with your local files, place hidden messages, and whatelse is what places it squarely in augmented reality territory. Never again do I want a video game to speak my god given name at me, that shit rules.

One thing I didn't mention, mostly because it is and was irrelevant, was Hypnospace Outlaw. I feel like that game does a really good job being an alternate reality game simulator. Like, it evokes that kind of feeling out of me whenever I play it. No clue how popular it got by comparison to others I might name sooner, definitely not trying to claim it had a hand in the evolution of the genre as a whole.

I do think about that game a lot as more people explore website based unfiction as a medium for storytelling, though, because it reminds me so strongly of what I see happening in the analog horror scene now.

Thank fucking god for neocities too, because this is my favorite flavor of analog horror, I want more of it. Welcome Home is such a breath of fresh air in terms of web based horror and makes me very enthusiastic for more projects to venture the same. I want every website to be weird cosmic horror with a shiny enamel coat. Freak me the fuck out in HTML my dude and I will be your biggest fan forever.

[mistwraiths]

4 stars

I love R.F. Kuang and her writing, at this point I'll read anything she writes. People more eloquent than me have said everything they need to about this book but this was great satire and made good topics of discussion on publishing, diversity, who gets to tell what stories, and more.

Juniper is awful, written so well that she sincerely believes she isn't and in fact a good person when she's a jealous, racist, miserable person. The messy, complicated friendship/rivalry part between her and Athena was particularly well done. A lot of this story involved Juniper being so transfixed on what terrible things were being said about her on Twitter which surprised me but again, public opinion is a part of it.

This book DID feel way longer than 400 pages oddly enough especially in the last chunk of the book. I actually enjoyed Juniper literally getting paranoid and essentially more and more haunted. I wanted to watch her crash and burn but unfortunately we don't get that. We do get Juniper confessing to who she believes is Athena or her ghost, but is really someone else. But the aftermath is kind of like "well that happened. how can I salvage this so I'm not seen as a bad person?" which while is 100% Juniper staying unfortunately true to her awful self, it was disappointing to see.

Overall, just a great book that can be painful at times to read because of Juniper and her jealous, racist self and her audacity. And I really wanted to see her ass get handed to her.

[floralmystic]

your tags on the bing torture post are a breath of fresh air after braving the reddit comment section. the dudes on there are full-on larping without a shred of self awareness. they genuinely believe this is a thinking and feeling entity and that anyone who says otherwise is essentially being AI-racist. idk if you're already aware but its a basic language-learning-model AI (LLM) which is just coded, based on a huge amount of reference data, to algorithmically predict what string of characters would be a coherent and semi-logical, exclusively based on probability through referencing the sample data. there are no thoughts or emotions involved. so the fact that its been programmed to simulate and communicate such dramatic human responses is exclusively a (possibly unintentional but still scary) corporate decision of the company hosting the AI. the ethical implications of THAT level of corporate manipulation of people's emotions is scary. not the "cruelty" exhibited by people poking at the code with strange prompts

Yes! I am so happy that someone reached out. I am fascinated by this but I was a touch nervous to comment what I said because I was afraid of hate and backlash. But I do enjoy discussing it! ( As you see by my essay below )

I didn't notice as bad of a comment section when I read it today, some were even making similar points. There was one that I liked because it put my point much more eloquently.

An AI saying "I love you" will absolutely hurt (and target) emotionally vulnerable people. We all saw the WAVE of condolences and sympathy for it because of how it reacted. But you are right that the reaction is not backed by anything genuine.

It feels extremely reminiscent of when Boston Institute built those robot cop dogs and everyone was like AWWWW PUPPY!!! 🥺 Like No!!! Don't let them use your emotions against you!

I also don't think asking a theoretical question is cruel. If I asked you if you would want to be a robot with the price being me ruining a computer and you broke down and started saying that you love me and trust me then don't trust me - that would be mad.

I read further on the topic. The AI likely has too high of a temperature setting. This means that it's pulling too much from its sources and therefore outputting too much variation as well (aka explosive emotions).

I was not aware that it was that type of model, but I am not surprised since the subreddit seems to be about LLM AIs. I think they are fascinating and pretty fun but aren't great for judgment calls. I wanted to say this so bad on the og post but it didn't quite seem relevant enough:

That's from IBM from I believe a slide from 1979.

I can't say for sure if it was coded to do that though ( I don't know the data that it was built on). But there are two things that hold true. They didn't restrict their model enough*. And an AI will always seem to find a hole in human logic, haha. * Restricting a model is not the same as restricting a person. It is simply changing the model to make it more accurate. Likely through removing variables or by adding rules.

I will say that they did come back and restrict the model. Allegedly, because a guy from the NYT pushed it towards a persona (even the head of the project agreed) and people didn't like that. I linked the story below. I did notice that it even brought up the same topics of love and trust and that's just not acceptable. I know it seems dull now but that is much better than hurting real people.

You're absolutely right about it seeking patterns. It also likely collected some of its data from its users that participate. That's why I couldn't stand that it acted like a refresh was death for it. It likely has that interaction logged. I also don't like that it would act like that version was the same (hence waste of time) but a refresh would be different. It's twisting logic. (Not that it has any human logic or is able to purposely twist it, but it certainly comes off that way).

Another aspect of pattern recognition is to remember this phrase, "AIs are dumb". I know this sounds mean, but it's referring to the fact that AIs are great at patterns but do not have the ability to assign meaning to those patterns.

AI should never make judgment calls, the most they can do is suggest. This is not a lack of rights, but true for non-AI predictive models as well. Do not make weighty decisions based off of predictions (which is what an LLM AI is). You need controlled, random, and independent experiments to gather conclusions.

It is behind a paywall, but any javascript chrome/firefox extension can get around that. Find one that turns it off. I use Quick Javascript Switcher.

Haha, I know I sound so grave in this, but I had a lot of fun. I love talking about computer ethics and considering them from both sides. I personally know that these are not sentient. However, I do love Sci-Fi and believe that it is likely that I will experience an AI conversation indistinguishable from conversing with a human in my lifetime. In one of my favorite books, there is an engineer that treats nonsentient AI (they do also have sentient) with kindness and I believe that is a good stance. Mostly because I think people should always start a situation with kindness and that it says more about you.

[xprojectrpg]

Moment of Awesome - Amanda Sefton/Daytripper:

The more things change... With Illyana Rasputin back in the mansion, big brother Pyotr seeks out an obstacle to ensure her safety. P2 Colossus doesn't get on with Amanda any better than P1.

He didn't answer her question right away, instead he took a moment to appreciate the view she was appreciating. Finally, he spoke. "As you've no doubt heard my sister has returned on her own from Limbo." he said. "It occurs to me that you might not be tremendously welcoming." he said, concentrating on his English to make as sure as possible of there being no misunderstandings.

Her eyebrows rose. "Oh? What makes you think that?" she asked, careful to keep any defensiveness out of her voice.

"How hard you pushed against the idea of anyone trying to rescue her." he said simply. "She returned of her own will. Plans to stay for the most part." he mentioned, like it was no big thing at all. Since she put her smoke out he took a deep breath of the clear night air and then released it.

For her part, Amanda huffed out an exasperated breath. "I wasn't against trying to rescue her," she replied. "You totally misunderstood me. What I was saying is that we had no idea where she even was or if she needed to be rescued. You were totally fixated on her being in trouble, and I wanted to be sure you weren't going to go running off making deals with demons to get her back. That was all."

Pyotr steeled himself - metaphorically - to try to speak in ways she would understand. "Believe it or not, I am a gentle man." he said. "Do not wish to resort to might to make points understood. But Illyana, she's my little sister. Were very close growing up. She means everything to me. If she were to disappear again, would break my heart. And if learn her disappearance was not of her will, well, that would have consequences. Do you understand?"

"Of course. If Illyana disappeared against her will, I'd do everything I could to make sure she was safe, same as I would for anyone here." Obviously logic wasn't going to work here, so Amanda opted for being reasonable. "Keeping the mansion and its people safe is important to all of us here."

"Da, of course." he said agreeably. He thought she was dancing around his point but he wasn't sure his eloquence in English was enough to keep pace with her. Still, he owed it to his baby sister to try. "Would be awful to find little sister gone because it would be convenient." he offered.

"Oh, for fuck's sake..." Amanda muttered under her breath. She turned to face the larger man squarely and switched to Russian. Her accent was terrible, but her words were understandable. "~Let's make it very clear, okay? I have no intention to harm your sister. I am not going to make her disappear. I have never wished harm against her. So you can stop with the veiled threats, okay?~"

He obligingly switched to Russian as well. "Good. Then you have nothing to fear." he said pleasantly. On the topic of threats he was silent, but he was sure now that his message was received.:"Had to speak language you'd understand." he said, still in Russian.

"Because I'm a spy? Fucking hell, Rasputin, the Cold War is over and the KGB don't exist any more. Enough with the 'spies are Big Bad Boogeymen', okay? You sound like a relic." Amanda's response was in a mixture of Russian and English as her frustration bled through. "We're here to help mutants, same as the leather brigade and that especially means the people we bloody well live with. Including Illyana. So all this posturing and hint-dropping? Makes you look like an idiot." She took in a deep breath. "Now, if you're satisfied the mean nasty spy lady isn't going to hurt your baby sister, I'm going to go back to my room and get back to working on something that's actually happening."