#permutations of burning

[spaghettibastard]

GARM sub-programs (Hessian's field guide)

TEUFELSHUNDE - Vanguard fighters, hulking brutes. Powerful regeneration, better to burn them.

OLD GREY BEARDS - Veteran Alphas. Sneaky bastards. Slower regeneration but clever.

WILD SHUKK - Recent permutations. Multi-eyed Mongrel shapeshifters.

[madnessofmen]

maybe midnight,,, was not the best time to start. this weekend mayhaps I shall try again

I got an A rank on 2-1 (ASA), thought it would be easy to spend maybe an hour today to P rank it but I'm getting all Cs today 😭

[reidsmanuscript]

Seven Seconds

Summary: when Katie Jacob's gets abducted in a Mall, setting the clock for the BAU, who needs a legal favor, and it's been a year since the A.D.A. has know anything about Spencer Reid. Pairing: Spencer Reid x lawyer!reader Genre: pinning, SLOW BURN, maybe right moment?, angst bc i love angst wc: 4.6k! (i know so small comparing to part 1 bear with me) TW: cm canon typical violence, set in 05x3 "Seven seconds" (obviously lol), sexual violence, implied reader's dark past. A/N: my idea for the serie is be taylor jenkins reid and have you question if lawyer reader exists or not (delusional bitch), english is not my first language and let's pretend it's proofread part I - part II - part III - part IV

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Spencer sat on the park bench reading a book while playing chess with Ethan, brilliant kid for his age and good opponent, not good enough tho because when he cheered “I see checkmate in 5, What do you see?” It took Spencer one glance to calculate all the movements necessary.

“I see it in 3” he answered looking at his book again, the kid turned around the board and moved the pieces

“We've missed you out here” he said, staring at the board amazed.

“Thanks. I, uh, I had to take a little break”

“How come?” His hands froze on the book for a second before closing it.

Spencer had been clean for over a year now, it was 14 months and 2 weeks ago that he had freaked out after noticing his stash of Dialud was gone along with his needle. Where could he find more? Who knew about his addiction? Where was his stash? Who the fuck is Dr. Fitzgerald? Did you report him?

His first instinct was confronting you, given that you were the only person who found out his drugs that he knew, the first days he was a complete paranoid, he jumped every time Hotch called his name, or that Gideon looked at him a little too long.

At the end of the week he was thinking where he could find more, and when that thought scared him, he called the number of the card you had left in the same pocket his drugs used to be.

“Hello this is Dr. Fitzgerald” said a calm voice, it was 10 p.m. so there was a higher chance of going to voicemail, but he got an answer and the tremor of his hands got a little worse. Was it the anxiety or the withdrawal?

“Umm hello.. this is.. Dr.. this is Spencer Reid and someon-""I've been waiting for your call Dr Reid” the other line interrupted, he froze for a second.

“I used to play with a co-worker friend of mine. He's probably the best mind I ever went up against. One day, he just decided that he didn't want to play anymore.”

Fast forward, she helped him get clean and stay clean after Gideon left, getting tested regularly, and gave him the contact of the help group of FBI addicts. He was better, he was alive.

“So you gave up, too?”

“Just the opposite. I attempted to play Through every permutation of moves on a chessboard.”

“That's an infinite number of games.”

“It's not infinite. It's just- it's exponentially large.”

“You couldn't have played through them all.”

“There's an average of 40 moves per chess game, And I'll tell you something– the more I played, The more I realized that every single match every single chess game, Is really just a simple variation on the exact same theme. You know? It's aggressive opening, Patient mid-game, inevitable checkmate, And I realized why my friend quit. He was tired of repeating the same patterns And expecting a different outcome.”

“That's because you haven't come up on Fridays or Mondays in a while” the way his eyebrows went up along his voice tone made him feel like he knew something that he didn't.

His eyebrows furrowed “What do you mean?”

“There's this great player who comes around those days, she even brings the best pastries, and her games is similar to yours, always two or three moves ahead, she always beats everyone here… i think her boyfriend called her Buzz or something like that, like the Toy Story character”

“Buzz?… i don't really remember anyone with that nickname”

“It’s probably not that one but you don't know her because she started coming like 8 months ago.. I'm sure you have a lifetime of chess strategy in your head that you're just sitting on, but when you meet her?” He made a dramatic pause “You'll have to play it.”

He glances at his watch to realize his 15 minute break is coming to an end. “I still use it. I just, uh... I apply it differently. I have to go. It's good seeing you.”

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That evening, the BAU was called in for a local case—a little girl, Katie, had been kidnapped from a busy mall. A week earlier, another girl had been taken from the same location and found dead hours later. Now, they were all racing against the clock.

Katie’s parents were desperate. As any parents would be in this situation, right? But when Hotch asked the father if either of them was having an affair—a routine question in abductions—the man took offense. Deep offense. So much so that he refused to let the FBI search their house.

Now, what kind of parent refuses to help the police find their missing child?

In a small surveillance room, Morgan and Reid sat with Garcia, who was visibly frustrated by the mall’s ancient security system. They were surrounded by screens displaying grainy footage from different angles—well, almost every angle. They had a single glimpse of Katie in one video, and then, seven seconds later, she was gone.

JJ and Prentiss were with the mother, aunt, and uncle, trying to get a read on the family dynamic. Meanwhile, Morgan and Reid had conducted a cognitive interview with Katie’s cousin. It had led nowhere.

“The family has refused permission to search the house,” Hotch announced as he stepped into the room.

“What do you mean they denied?” Morgan’s frustration was evident. “Your only child goes missing, and you refuse to collaborate?”

No one disagreed. They were all thinking the same thing.

“The cousin didn’t say much,” Reid added. “He was too distracted in the game room to notice anything.”

Hotch exhaled sharply. “I’ll speak to the detectives, see if we can get a warrant.” His tone was firm, but they all knew time wasn’t on their side.

Garcia adjusted her glasses. “Sir, I mean this in the best way possible, but it’s almost 8 p.m. I don’t think-”

“I’ll handle it,” Morgan interrupted.

All Reid and Garcia turned to him with identical looks. What do you mean you will handle it?

Hotch’s eyebrows furrowed, but after a moment, he gave a small nod and walked away. Morgan was already pulling out his phone.

“I have a contact,” he explained, dialing.

He put the phone on speaker. It rang once. Twice. On the third ring, a voice answered—sharp, direct, and all business.

“A.D.A. Woodvale.”

Reid went rigid.

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It was late in the office; most people had already gone home, including your assistant Molly. All but Austin, who was still there because he had a lead on one of your cases. You knew he was still hanging around because, over a year ago, when someone had snuck into your office to harm you, you’d become a little paranoid. You’d gotten better, but Austin insisted on keeping you company, especially since your car was in the mechanic’s.

You were reviewing a legal brief, pen in hand, skimming the margins to jot down notes when the desk phone rang. Without looking up, you hit the speaker button with the tip of the pen.

“A.D.A. Woodvale.”

There was a beat of silence before a familiar voice cut in—smooth, direct, urgent.

Morgan called your name “Hey. We need a warrant. Fast.” You blinked, setting the pen down.

Reid and Garcia exchanged glances as Morgan jumped in without hesitation.

“Katie Jacobs. Eight years old. Abducted from a mall earlier tonight,” Morgan started, all business. “Another girl was taken from the same place a week ago—she was found dead hours later. We’re working against the clock.”

You frowned, swirling the pen, going through the multiple scenarios. You had heard about last week’s case, and how slow the police had moved back then.

“We’ve got mall surveillance footage,” Morgan pressed. “At first, we thought she just vanished, but Garcia finally pulled something from one of the side corridors. Katie wasn’t taken by force—she was walking calmly with someone.”

Your fingers tightened slightly around her pen. “Someone she knows.”

“Exactly,” Morgan confirmed. “That narrows it down to family or close acquaintances.” They all shared a silent thought. Family.

We know they’re hiding something,” Morgan corrected. “We just don’t have the probable cause to kick the door down.”

Garcia watched as Morgan paced slightly, his tone firm but urgent.

“That’s thin, Morgan,” Your voice came through the speaker, steady and unyielding.

“We don’t have time for airtight,” Morgan countered.

Your jaw tightened. “You don’t have time for me to get laughed out of a judge’s office, either. Refusing a search isn’t a crime, and suspicion alone doesn’t cut it. I need more.” You understood where the suspicious came from, how are you supposed to help them if they had nothing?

There was a pause. A beat of silence. Then, another voice—one you hadn’t heard in over a year.

“99% of abducted children who are killed due within the first 24 hours” He cleared his throat, willing his voice to stay even. Spencer Reid. “75% within the first 3 hours, and what only law enforcement knows is Jessica Davis joined the 44% of children who are abducted and killed within the first hour. We’re already past the three-hour mark. If we don’t act now, statistically speaking—”

“The likelihood of recovery drops exponentially,” You sighed, already standing up, ignoring how his voice sounded. So different. So… clean.

Your gaze flicked to the clock. 8:06 p.m. Damn it.

You grabbed a blank warrant form from her drawer and reached for a pen. “Send me the address and everything else you have. Give me 20 minutes.”

Click. You didn’t have time for goodbyes.

Austin raised an eyebrow from his seat. “Guess you’re not going home anytime soon.”

You didn’t look up as you started writing. “I never was.”

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The courthouse was mostly deserted at this hour. The fluorescent lights hummed quietly, and the stillness of the evening was only interrupted by the sharp click of your heels on the polished floors followed by Austin’s boots toward the judge’s chambers.

“You sure you don’t want me to take this one? Sweet-talk her maybe?” he teased.

You shot him a look. “You think Judge Holloway is the type to be charmed? Plus, you’re a private investigator, not a lawyer.”  

“She’s not gonna like you showing up this late.”  

You didn’t miss a beat. “If she’s still up, she’ll make time for this.”  

Taking a steadying breath as you stopped in front of the door, you quickly ran through your notes, making sure you had every detail in order. Then, without hesitation, you pushed through the heavy wooden doors of Judge Evelyn Holloway’s chambers.  

Inside, the judge barely glanced up from her paperwork. “You have two minutes, Woodvale.”

Stepping forward, you set the warrant request on the desk. “Your Honor, I apologize for the late hour, but we have a child abduction case we’re working against the clock. A young girl, Katie Jacobs, was taken from a mall over three hours ago. We’ve obtained surveillance footage showing her walking with an individual—someone she likely knows. We believe the family is withholding information, and they’ve refused to allow us to search the residence.”

The judge narrowed his eyes, folding her hands on the desk. “And what do you propose I do about it? What evidence do you have to warrant a search?”

Alex kept her voice steady. “We have footage of the girl with someone who wasn’t a stranger, Your Honor. The parents are refusing cooperation, and the father was evasive when asked about possible affairs, which raises red flags about his involvement.”

Holloway sighed, leaning back in her chair. “That’s thin.” You were ready for that.

“I have the full footage from the mall security, including a timestamp showing the precise time the girl went missing. She is last seen walking calmly with someone she knows, most likely family.”

There was a brief pause, and for a second, you thought you were about to lose her. So you pulled Reid’s words from memory, adjusting them just enough to make them your own.

“Time is working against us. Statistics show that 99% of abducted children who are murdered lose their lives within the first 24 hours 75% within just the first three. And only law enforcement-”

She cut you off with a raised hand, signaling you to stop.

The judge exhaled through her nose, it was late and you were rambling about statistics and you knew she wanted you out as soon as possible when you started citing numbers. So pushing himself out of her chair with a slight groan. “Fine. Get me the paperwork. I’ll sign it—but you better have your ducks in a row.”

You nodded, her demeanor unflinching. “Thank you, Your Honor.”

As you turned to leave, you couldn’t help but feel the weight of the hours ahead of you. But you were used to this—fighting against the clock.

“Let’s move,” motioning to Austin. He gave you a small nod. “You got it.”

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Exactly 15 minutes after the call, 5 minutes earlier than promised, Morgan’s phone rang. He answered it without even looking. 

"You got your warrant. I'll meet you there," Alex’s voice came through, crisp and businesslike, just as expected.

Morgan exhaled, his relief barely hidden. "Thank you, Woody."

He paused for a moment before adding, "I owe you one," then hung up, turning to Reid.

“Tell Hotch we’re heading to the Jacobs’ house,” he instructed, already moving toward the door.

Spencer had been timing her. It wasn’t the first time he'd gotten caught up in the tense waiting game of law and order, but the pressure of it had a different weight today. The memory of your voice, clear and resolute, echoed in his mind, sharper than before.

For Reid, part of getting clean wasn't just the physical withdrawal—it was the emotional weight of confronting his mistakes. The memory of how he'd lashed out at you a year ago still haunted him. How could he have been so cruel? The hurt in your eyes, the way he dismissed you, the way it all spiraled… it wasn’t just the drugs that had made him say those things. And the fury he saw when you looked at him, Dialuid in hand, how you looked like a timing bomb when he was trying to see if he could talk to you, the tension in your shoulders, the lock in your jaw, the grip on the file. He’d been battling so much more since then, in his mind, you saved his life by doing what he couldn't do.

He’d rather die than relive that moment again, than say those things. And yet, here he was, standing in the middle of another chaotic case, still carrying that guilt with him. He stayed behind Morgan for just a beat before pushing down his feelings and moving quickly. 

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The engine of Austin's bike rumbled to a stop as they pulled up in front of the house, where Morgan and Reid were standing in front of the black SUV. You slid off the back with practiced ease, taking off the helmet and letting your hair fall loose.

Austin followed your lead, taking his helmet off with a groan. “So, what exactly are we looking for?”

You shot him a quick, sidelong glance, handing him the helmet, keeping your expression flat knowing he’s about to be a drama queen. “You’re not coming inside. The warrant’s for FBI and police only. Not P.I.s included”

Austin paused, a mock pout crossing his face. “Excuse me? I just got you here, through all that traffic, risking myself to get a speeding ticket and now I don’t get to search? This is the second time in the night that you P.I. shaming me. Do you hate me?”

“If I hated you I wouldn’t have bailed your ass out of jail… twice” you remark the last part. He had a talent for sticking his foot where he shouldn’t be, maybe that’s what makes him good at his job.

“You act like you wouldn’t do it a third time” he was mocking, but he was right, something you would never admit to him. 

You start walking to the house “Mhm.” you hum rolling your eyes, heading towards where Morgan and Reid were. 

You didn't expect him to be there, or maybe you did, maybe you wanted to see him and know what had happened to him since the last time you saw him. They were looking at you, Morgan with a curious already-profiling-you stare, while Reid expression was more… cautious. He looked so different, her cheekbones were prominent in an attractive way and not sickly, he had put on some healthy weight and was not fidgety. You were not mad anymore, because of course at the moment the hurt had turned into rage like it always does for you, but it was more because of phantoms than anything else. 

“Got your golden ticket” you said, avoiding Reid’s gaze as you pulled the warrant from the inner pocket of your gray coat and swung it toward them.

Morgan nodded “You staying?” He gestured with his head to Austin who was leaving.

“I have to make sure you find something, otherwise the judge will have my head for this,” you said dryly, shrugging as though the threat didn’t bother you, but there was a flicker of seriousness behind your words. You were only talking to him, which felt rude because Reid’s stare was locked in your profile. 

Reid was thinking how pretty you looked, how the black vest suited you, and he couldn’t ignore the fact you had changed your brown bag to a black one that looked nothing like his. Your white shirt and gray coat gave you an older, wiser look, but as Reid analyzed your features, he realized he didn’t even know how old you were. You couldn’t be older than him. Serious, sharp, and young... How was it possible for someone that young to be the A.D.A.?

Reid’s mind couldn’t let go of the numbers. The average age of an Assistant District Attorney in the U.S. is 36. You couldn’t be older than 25, and yet you were already in that position.

You glanced at him for a moment before stepping inside the house, feeling the weight of his stare. The look made him snap out of his trance-like state, and of course, his eidetic memory hated him, because for that brief second, he remembered how you had looked at him a year ago.

Morgan nodded and thanked you again before he and Reid walked into the house. You left the warrant on the hall table with a deliberate touch, your fingers lingering for just a moment—as if to remind yourself that you weren’t entirely done with this.

“Somebody lit a fire last night,” you heard Reid say.

“Well, there are dirty dishes for three in the kitchen, so they eat together as a family.” Morgan’s voice carried from the other room as they moved through the house, taking in the details.

If Katie was in danger, the signs wouldn’t be in plain sight. You had to look where they hid—where children kept their secrets. Their bedrooms.

“Hey, my favorite movie from when I was a kid.” Reid held up a DVD, turning it in his hands before pulling it from the player just as you passed by him, tugging on latex gloves before heading upstairs, you did feel a little guilty for not even looking or talking to him, but it was something you did unconsciously. 

“So they watch movies together, too,” Morgan mused. They were starting to build a picture of the family’s dynamic.

“By a fireplace in a house that’s straight out of a catalog,” Reid added. “Norman Rockwell couldn’t have painted this any cozier.”

“That’s what worries me.” There was weight in Morgan’s voice. A tension that sat between them.

Upstairs, you searched through the rooms with careful precision.

When you first became a lawyer, you made a promise—never ignore a sign. Since then, you have gone further. You didn’t just refuse to ignore them; you searched for them. Hollow eyes. Unexplained bruises. Small bloodstains. You looked for them in teenagers, in young adults, in the elderly. But nothing—nothing—was more painful than a child who couldn’t speak up.

Because they were small. Because someone older, someone stronger, was hurting them. There's nothing more hurtful than not being able to speak out, to say something and stand up for yourself. Except when someone did—someone saw the bruises, the fear, the signs—and they looked away deliberately. Because a child’s pain was inconvenient. Because it came with a mountain of paperwork no one wanted to touch.

You had spent your whole life making sure you never looked away.

That’s why you were hunched over the small desk in Katie’s bedroom, flipping through her drawings when Morgan and Reid entered the room. They started searching, their movements efficient and methodical.

“Katie’s been wetting her bed,” Reid said as he lifted the duvet, inspecting the mattress beneath it.

“A lot of six-year-olds do. Could be bad dreams,” Morgan replied, crouching beside you as he sifted through a pile of toys.

You considered that possibility—it was perfectly logical. In a perfect world.

“Some kids won’t get up at night because they’re afraid of the dark,” Reid added, his tone careful. Almost knowing.

“Or it could be a lot more complex than that.”

Morgan had found a doll. Not a Barbie missing a shoe or one that had simply been played with too much. No—this doll was different.

Its hair had been hacked off, jagged strands sticking out unevenly. Red marker smeared across its face like smeared blood. Its clothes were yanked askew, twisted, and wrong.

“Most girls covet their dolls like an extension of themselves.” He took the doll in his hands like it was made of fine glass. 

“Reid, I know these signs-— acting out on her toys, wetting the bed. She's obviously covering up something about that necklace.”

“And her cousin might be holding something back.”

“Well, this looks more like a man than a boy to me,” you said, holding up a drawing of a tall, shadowy figure towering over a small, crying child.

Morgan took it from your hands, his expression hardening as he analyzed the image.

“Psychology says drawing is a child’s way of channeling their inner world. Look at the strokes—how harsh they are,” you pointed to the dark, jagged lines forming the tall figure, then traced your finger over the smaller one. “And this looks like Katie to me. She forgot to draw the hands, which means she feels powerless… helpless.” 

Morgan took his phone out, dialing up “Hotch, we think Katie’s being molested,” Morgan said, his voice clipped. “And we both know the odds.”

A brief silence. Then Hotch’s response, firm and certain. “Most likely by someone under the same roof.”

He hung up, and both men started toward the door, their movements brisk with purpose. But you stayed behind for a moment, rooted in place, taking in the scene. A quiet pause—maybe out of respect for Katie and her pain and for everything she had been forced to endure.

From the doorway, Spencer glanced back. The dim light from the hallway cast your figure in stark contrast, outlining you in shadow—your form dark against the soft glow of the room. He couldn’t see your expression, couldn’t read your face. He focused on the way your hands curled into fists at your sides, the tight set of your shoulders.

And he wished—just for a second—that he could see more.

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You stood outside, leaning against the wall, arms crossed tightly over your chest. By your side were Morgan, Jeremy, Katie’s cousin, and Reid.

Turns out, Katie’s uncle, Richard, was her abuser. A disgusting son of a bitch who deserved to rot in hell. And you were going to make sure he did. He had destroyed Katie’s childhood, probably more than just hers, shattering an entire family in the process. His own son, standing right next to you, was collateral damage he clearly hadn’t spared a thought for. And then there was his wife. The woman who had chosen to look away. Who had taken Katie and nearly gotten her killed, all for the pathetic, desperate hope that it would somehow stop her husband from creeping into little bedrooms at night. She deserved the same hell he did.

A stretcher rolled past, Katie’s small frame barely visible beneath the blankets as the paramedics guided her into the ambulance. Her mother clutched her tiny hand, whispering something—words meant to soothe, to promise safety.

A young voice cut through the air. “I heard her call my mom’s name. That’s what I remembered before.”

You closed your eyes, your mind already racing ahead. Your attorney brain was piecing it together, sketching out the battle that was coming. If the kid had heard it, that made him a witness to the abduction. His own mother had committed the crime against her niece. And God only knew what else he had seen—what else had been happening in that house—without fully understanding it.

“We get it, kid. That’s your mom,” Morgan said, his voice steady. But you knew the truth: if Jeremy could barely say those words to them, getting him to the stand in front of a jury would be another fight entirely.

The boy shifted on his feet, staring at the ambulance. “What’s gonna happen to me now?”

If God existed, He had already been too cruel. He had let all of this happen. And you knew how these things worked—knew there was a very real chance that Katie’s parents, burdened with their own grief, would resent Jeremy by association. That they wouldn’t take him in. That he would be swallowed by the foster system.

You wouldn’t let that happen.

“I don’t know, Jeremy,” Reid answered, his voice gentle. “But we’re gonna make sure you’re alright, okay?”

Jeremy didn’t look at him. His eyes stayed fixed on the ambulance. “Is Katie gonna be all right?”

You wished—desperately, violently—that you could tell him yes. That you could say it with certainty and make it true. But how could you give him something you didn’t have?

“She will, eventually,” Morgan said, his voice firm.

You exhaled sharply. The words made your skin crawl.

“Is she?” The question slipped from your lips before you could stop it—low, bitter, nearly spat out under your breath. Just quiet enough that the kid wouldn’t hear. Just loud enough that Morgan did.

Before he could respond, you were already moving.

Your feet carried you toward the police car, toward the sick, selfish bastard they were shoving into the backseat. Your hand shot out, slamming the door closed—harder than necessary, just enough that it cracked against Richard’s face.

Morgan watched. So did Spencer.

And for the first time, he realized just how much of a puzzle you really were.

Partially because, throughout all of this, you hadn’t looked at him once. Not when he entered the room, not when he spoke, not even now, standing just a few feet away.

Partially because your eyes, when he finally caught a glimpse of them, were full of something he rarely saw outside of a case like this. Pure, undiluted rage.

Not just anger. Not just frustration. Something deeper. Something personal.

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Feedback feeds motivation! Likes, reblogs and comments are all appreciated <3

[saintsenara]

I don't know if I have asked this before. I apologise if I am repeating myself. What do you think about the concept/plot where Tom Riddle is raised by someone who accidentally/deliberately time traveled back into the past? In most fics, it is usually Harry. I wonder what you think and if Harry would be an ideal or good candidate to raise a child like Tom Riddle vs Dumbledore/Hermione or any other character. There's a fic that I recommend called 'innocent until proven guilty by Laeveteinn part 1

thank you very much for the ask, pal!

i'm going to opt to focus on the ron-related aspect of this question, because the concept of ron travelling back in time to raise wee tom is immaculately funny to me.

not least because, in all the permutations of "tom is saved from the orphanage" fics one usually sees, the character who's gone back in time - especially if that character is harry - heads straight to wool's burning with some sort of righteous purpose. everything is very serious, and planned, and meticulous.

ron - in contrast - would clearly wind up responsible for tom by complete accident, and then fuck up from bean to cup as he tried to work out what to do with him. cue an epic caper in which ron tries to make his adopted son care about the chudley cannons, dispenses advice over cups of tea, and instils in tom a great and abiding love of knitwear.

[ron would also clearly pull an enormous quantity of women over the course of this adventure, since hot, sincere, slightly flustered men carrying babies are a babe magnet. good for him tbh.]

[drinkyourvillainjuice]

Powers post!

I wrote something up on COG yesterday which explains the entire cast's powers in a little more detail, and I thought it'd be nice to crosspost here.

Here you are!

Altruists

Dion - Can create energy projections which emerge from terrain, e.g. walls, floors, ceilings. These can also extend from each other to a more limited extent. They specifically seem to manifest as geometric shapes, as in, rather than just a vertical energy barrier, it would be a cube-shaped projection

Mal - Exceptional durability/resistance towards physical harm (cuts, blunt trauma, etc.) Capable of altering their own appearance, including height/bulk, but not precisely enough to accurately mimic others (could maybe hold up to a cursory inspection, but nothing more)

Kay - As well as having sheeplike physiology, she is able to absorb impact (and energy to some extent?) and ‘charge’ herself with it, resulting in an electrical aura. More charge = harder hits and greater speed.

Teddie - Constant bone growths that push through his skin. Luckily for him, his body works with these to not be, y’know, constantly bleeding everywhere. Unluckily for him, he still feels the growth. And he can only get rid of them by breaking them off. He’s able to influence/stimulate growth to an extent, allowing him to construct exoskeletal armour for missions (hence his more elaborate setup on the two jobs so far)

Wil - Able to drain energy from others via touching them, temporarily boosting their own strength and speed. Apparently works on constructs like Portrait’s too, neat!

Hounds

Surpass - Super strength, durability, and speed. Doesn’t work quite as straightforwardly as advertised, but we’ll get into that in time. ; )

Vantage - Creates precognitive simulations which enable her to predict roughly how likely a given course of events is to happen. The more information she has on the topic, the better her prediction. Has limitations: introducing outside factors to a simulation will likely render the previous simulation useless, and she’ll have to do it again, and she doesn’t have infinite concentration/mental energy to constantly run every possible permutation of events at all times. 97.65% was a bluff.

Arcade - Shoots lasers!! - fires colourful lasers from his hands, growing in intensity the longer he charges them up. Easily capable of causing burns/starting fires.

Enfilade - Augment. Cybernetically enhanced in various ways, boosting physical capabilities. Most prominently, her arms are almost entirely artificial, and one forearm houses a powerful bolt launcher.

Portrait - ‘Paints’ constructs from inorganic material, with the creations taking on some characteristics from the material (i.e. a concrete construct would be hard-skinned). The constructs have limited autonomy and are heavily reliant Portrait’s orders, which as you can imagine is a significant weakness. Struggles to maintain more than three at a time, though there’s no diffusion of overall power (they don’t get weaker as he makes more) Unclear whether the animal theme is a preference or a requirement.

Phalanx - Telekinetic manipulation of metal (so nope, she’s not Magneto). Metal she’s manipulating exerts force roughly proportional to the weight/size, meaning she’s liable to dragging herself around. Though that essentially renders her capable of flight, score!

Coven

Hypothesis - Still a secret!

Catalyst - Physical attacks are repeated threefold. He punches you once, you feel it thrice. One two three.

CG - Superhumanly perfect balance. As in “can run on walls and stand on pretty much anything capable of bearing her weight” perfect.

Variable - Can teleport themself a short distance, leaving behind a weird membrane like they just shed a shell.

Gremlink - Augment. Cybernetically enhanced with a particular view towards integrating tech with her senses. Absolutely none of this was done through legal channels. Tinkers her own cyberware because, to be frank, she’s possessed of a reckless disregard for her own safety.

Lullaby - They sing, you snooze.

WPP

Ranger - Can produce a temporary chameleon-like effect, allowing him to blend in with his surroundings. Maybe chameleon isn’t quite the right word as it’s maybe a bit more like stealth camo from Metal Gear? Anyway, he goes gloes to invisible, albeit still possible to make out a silhouette, with effort.

Hit - Greatly enhanced accuracy, especially with projectiles. Technically works in close combat but uhhh he’s kind of shit in a fistfight.

Mis - Greatly enhanced reflexes. Operates on kind of a scale depending on how close and direct something threatening physical harm is. Hence, in a straight up brawl it’s nigh-impossible to land a clean strike. Nowhere near as effective with grappling or indirect attacks, and, well, she doesn’t have eyes in the back of her head and she’s no stronger than any other young adult in decent shape.

[sbdskate]

Laws of Attraction (Part 4) - DR x lawyer!fem!reader

Summary: McLaren is in breach of contract, dr3 hires a lawyer to deal with the aftermath. Tropes ensue. Slow burn. Enemies(kind of) -> Friends/colleagues -> Lovers

Pairing: lawyer!fem!reader x Daniel Ricciardo

Warnings (18+): language, alcohol consumption, COPIOUS sexual themes, references to self pleasure, NSFW for a hot sec

Word Count: 5,548

A/N: Happy Enchante drop day! Remember that time I thought this was going to be a one shot? Well, here’s part 4 and apparently there will now be a part 5 which I’m pretty sure will be the last one unless there is an epilogue. Thank you for your patience, while I had a strong sense of the story I wanted to tell in the beginning, I’ve had some trouble trying to figure out how to wrap it up. As always, any feedback is welcome. If you enjoyed, please like, comment, and/or reblog xoxo

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Epilogue 1

Daniel stood there dazed in the middle of the bar, unsure of what just happened. One minute, he and y/n were dancing and laughing, then you were suddenly gone. He felt sad, but he couldn’t pinpoint why.

He barely had a second to reflect when people started swarming him, men and women alike, trying to find their way into the driver’s orbit. Some of them just wanted pictures, some tried to make small talk or flirt. Despite being surrounded be people clamoring for just a fraction of his attention, he was incredibly alone.

It was late, he was tired, and it was time to leave.

-

By the following weekend for the Mexico Grand Prix, you had not spoken to your client since that night in the bar. You wished you had blacked out so you could simply pretend it didn’t happen, or blame your behavior on the excess alcohol, but unfortunately for you your memory of the night was crystal clear. The scene replayed over and over in your head. First comes the shame, at how much you enjoyed the feeling of his touch on your waist and the warmth of your bodies pressed against one another. You wonder what might have happened if you had closed the tiny gap between your lips. Would it have stayed a drunken bar make out session or would it have overflowed to the hotel? Would you have gone to his room or yours? Would it have been sloppy and desperate or slow and sensual? Would he be a gentleman in the morning or would he kick you out? When you finish going through every single permutation of what could have been, that’s when the embarrassment sets in. Embarrassment that you let the whole thing happen and that you basically ran away without an explanation, saying goodbye, or much else. Finally, the wave of guilt over abandoning him after an emotional weekend when he probably needed you most. You couldn’t see how you could come back from this.  

Fortunately you hadn’t had a reason to be in the same room together, but that would soon be coming to an end. Despite the temptation of margaritas and empanadas and tropical sun outside, you mostly stayed in your hotel room, throwing yourself deeper into your work and trying anything to distract yourself from the anxiety of the unknown fallout from what may or may not have occurred in Austin. There was a lot of positive movement happening with both Mercedes and Red Bull, which you should have been ecstatic to share with your client. And yet you were terrified to make contact with him.

As things seemed to be coming to a head in reserve driver negotiations, the partner set up an in-person client meeting on the morning of press day. You hadn’t been this nervous the first time you met Daniel or going into hostile negotiations against Zak Brown and McLaren. You changed outfits no less than seven times before heading out and no amount of power posing made you feel any better. Normally you would have gotten to the meeting at least fifteen minutes early, but you were worried Daniel would show up before Joe which would leave the two of you by yourselves. You uncharacteristically arrived on time, and ended up being the last person to join the meeting. You could tell Joe was slightly annoyed.

“Y/N, so nice of you to join us.”

You cringed. “Sorry. There was…uh, traffic.” You knew it was a lame excuse, but you couldn’t be bothered. You glanced over at Daniel, but he kept his eyes focused on the desk. For a meeting that should have been filled with excitement over the prospect of possibility, it felt somewhat somber.

You went over where he stood with Mercedes and Red Bull. The discussions between Daniel and the teams had been successfully kept under wraps until the last week or so, when a photo of Toto in an Enchante sweatshirt began circulating the internet. Though nothing was finalized, sleuthing fans thought this was an obvious hint that Daniel had signed with Mercedes. While it wasn’t the end of the world, you had hoped Daniel would be able to make his decision without the pressure of public comment or opinion. You were sure he had the mental fortitude to do so regardless, but you felt the need to protect him beyond your professional fiduciary obligations. He had already been through enough.

You pressed through the meeting, keeping your comments technical and brief. As usual you exchanged handshakes at the end before going your separate ways, though he hardly looked your way before he turned to leave. Once out of the room, Joe began to discuss next steps with you but his words went in one ear and out the other. You felt nauseous as the growing pit in your stomach failed to subdue. You thought back again to the night at the bar and your abrupt departure, and the last few days where you easily could have sent a text to reassure him or ease the tension, but you didn’t. You were the attorney and you were responsible for maintaining the attorney-client relationship, which you failed. You had to go find him.

You cut your boss off as politely as you could. “I’m so sorry, sir, I just realized… I forgot my, uh, charger! And I need to… respond to another client’s email. So I have to go.”

He quirked an eyebrow. “Are you ok? You seem flustered today.”

“I’m fine!” You were absolutely off your game, but you didn’t want to show him any signs of weakness. “Just, jetlagged?” You mentally slapped yourself as soon as the words came out of your mouth. While it might have worked for almost any other F1 race on the calendar, Austin and Mexico City were in the same time zone. The partner knew something was up, but he had too many other things to worry about than the mental breakdown of a low level associate.

“Ok. But I expect a draft of redlines by the end of the day.”

You were practically already out the door as you called out “Thank you, sir! I’ll be sure to get those to you as soon as possible!”

You were running around the paddock like a crazy person, unceremoniously shoving media personnel out of the way. You made your way through the maze of hallways and offices, the click-clack of your high heels announcing your presence before you got to wherever you were going.

In your haste, you didn’t notice running past Lando.

“Y/N!”

“Can’t! Don’t have time!” you called back, not even bothering to figure out who was addressing you.

“Y/N! It’s me, would slow down for two seconds?”

Finally, you stopped and turned. “Oh thank goodness.” You doubled over, huffing and puffing from the unexpected cardio. “You can help me. Where’s Daniel?” you asked between breaths.

“He went to his dressing room after your meeting. Whe-?”

You were already around the corner before he finished his sentence. “Great, thanks!”

You barreled your way towards Daniel, your run turning into a lame waddle from the constrictions of your shoes and pencil skirt. You did not pause when you arrived at your destination and pushed the door open without knocking. You doubled over again and leaned against the wall once inside.

“Can I help you?”

You were so exhausted you almost missed the fact that the driver was shirtless. It was a sight to behold, especially after months of imagining what might be underneath. Your eyes lingered longer than they should have on his toned pecs, moving their way down to his chiseled abs and the “v” that pointed its way to his pants. You knew he was still upset with you, but it didn’t stop the small smirk threatening its way to his face. But you were a woman on a mission and you refused to be distracted.

“I’m sorry,” you got out, still panting. “I fucked up.” You looked away while he put a McLaren shirt on, taking the moment to catch your breath.

He sat down and motioned for you to do the same, which you graciously accepted. He took you in. In the span of less than an hour, it felt as though he was looking at before and after photos of an ad but in reverse. You seemed so composed during the meeting and now here you were, blazer lopsided and unbuttoned, hair tousled, sweat beading at your forehead, cheeks flushed, and breathless. It was simultaneously hilarious and insanely hot, but he wasn’t going to let on anything at this point.

“What the hell happened?”

You started talking a mile a minute. “I wanted to talk to you right after the meeting, but Joe wanted to talk about next steps and I tried to get away as soon as I could, but then I couldn’t find you –“

“Not now you dodo, last week after the race.” You blinked a few times. Now that he was in front of you, the thoughts running in your mind from before went blank. He came to your rescue, filling in the silence.

“All I know, is that we were having a good time and then you left me in the middle of a bar by myself without saying goodbye after one of the shittiest races of my life. I haven’t heard from you since, and I know you haven’t been hungover for four days straight. I appreciate you coming in here and apologizing, but respectfully, what the fuck.”

You looked away in shame. You weren’t sure how you were going to handle this without disclosing your feelings. You took a deep breath and swallowed your pride, proceeding cautiously.

“What happened at the bar, and how I acted afterwards, is entirely a me problem and I could have been more… strategicabout how I handled it.

“Strategic!?” You winced and closed your eyes, immediately regretting your choice of words. Clearly insulted, he continued. “Strategic is how you describe a Bond villain, or a business deal, not how you treat a friend-“

You jumped out of your chair, interrupting him out of frustration. “Don’t you get it? That’s the whole problem!” You couldn’t tell if you wanted to hold his hand or punch a wall. “I love that you are basically the human equivalent of a golden retriever. I love how comfortable we are together, and I’m a firm believer that you do better work when you know and like the people you work with. But you are my work at the end of the day. You are my client. There’s literally a whole ethics exam that is separate from the bar exam and it’s really easy. (1) Don’t comingle funds; and (2) don’t sleep with your client.” He raised an eyebrow. You sat back down.

“Obviously, nothing happened on Sunday. But… it felt like it toed the line of what is acceptable in my professional capacity. I know this is probably very one sided and it’s all in my head, but it felt like something could have. If Joe or anyone else ever found out, I could lose my job or my license over something like this. That being said, I do not blame you one bit. I’m the one that let things get out of hand, and I realized it in a single moment, and I freaked out, and left. And I’m sorry. For all of it.”

Daniel looked at the floor, his cheeks dusted slightly pink as he processed your admission. “It wasn’t in your head,” he whispered. His gaze rose to meet yours, but you covered your face with your hands.

“Fuck, don’t tell me that.” You tried to keep your tone light as if you were trying to joke it off, but you were very serious. You had convinced yourself this was a delusional fantasy of your mind’s creation, which would have been very easy to let go. But now it had been spoken into existence with the revelation that those feelings were reciprocated. It had legs and took up space. It was terrifying. You sighed as you slouched back in your chair, feeling defeated and mind reeling. “Look. Let’s just chalk this up to the fact that we’ve been spending a stupid amount of time together for the last however many months. Can we please just pretend last weekend never happened so we can move past this?”

Daniel sat for a moment. Of course he had forgiven you as soon as you stampeded your way into his room. There was a lot about Texas he wanted to forget, but his day with you was not one of them. Maybe you were right that the feelings the two of you evidently had for each other were just the product of forced proximity, but right now he didn’t want to believe that. Time and time again this season when he felt like he couldn’t go on, you had been there with support and compassion. You grounded him while he mellowed your intensity. You provided logic and reason while he extracted adventure and vulnerability. He was Yin and you were Yang. You couldn’t make up a connection like that. Yet, he would never want be the reason you lose your license, let alone the job you love so much.

Looking at you now, all he wanted to do was scoop you up and kiss you. Instead, he stuck out his hand. “Deal.”

You smiled softly, giving a firm handshake. “Thanks.” You paused. “So, we’re good… right?”

Of course you were. How could you not be? He had a million things he wanted to say. Instead, all he could get out was: “Yeah. We’re good.”

-

You weren’t sure what was in the water. Maybe it was you, or next year’s team prospects, or simply the energy of Mexico, but Daniel gave his best performance of the season finishing a strong P7. For the first time since you met him, a genuine smile graced the driver post-race. Professionally, you knew this would be great to leverage in finalizing negotiations. But as his friend, your heart was exploding with pride. The crowd was roaring in celebration, everyone was a Daniel Ricciardo fan. After a tough season, you had forgotten this side of him. What you wouldn’t do for those dimples. You kept your distance though, allowing him to revel in the spotlight. It was killing you not to run up to him, but you wouldn’t have been able to get to him if you tried.

The post-race interviews would probably take a while so you decided to head out. As you fought your way through the media, you felt someone tap your shoulder. You assumed it was just standard foot traffic, so you kept moving until you heard someone call your name. You were shocked to find Christian Horner trying to flag you down.

“Y/N!”

“Christian! What a pleasant surprise, I assumed you would be busy.”

“I saw my favorite lawyer walk by, I had to say hello.”

Christian was an interesting character. Admittedly you had not looked forward to working across the table from him initially. He came across as arrogant, hypocritical, and conniving. You thought his only redeeming quality was that he was married to Ginger Spice, but soon found that was only second to how much he cared about Daniel. Given how Daniel departed Red Bull all those years ago, you wrongly assumed that bridge had been burned so you were nervous when you first approached the team for negotiations. It was quickly apparent how unfounded those feelings were after the first email. Christian was there when Daniel made his F1 debut in 2009 as an awkward teenager and watched him grow and molded him into a seasoned driver. It was clear he would give him both kidneys in a pinch.

“Honored and humbled,” you teased. You were almost shouting due to the swarm that quickly surrounded you due to Christian’s presence. You continued walking, “Running away from interviews now, are we?”

“Funny you should say that. I am, because I keep getting some interesting questions about a certain third driver seat.” He was being coy, and knew exactly what he was doing with all the journalists around you. “Are there any updates I can report back on?” He was more persistent than a used car salesman.

“None at the moment, I’m afraid. I promise you’ll be the second person I tell when I do.”

“Second? Who has me beat?”

“Your wife, of course.”

“Maybe if this thing closes, Geri might be open to grab some celebratory drinks.”

“I don’t know Christian, that sounds like a bribe to me.”

“Good seeing you as always, counselor.”

You laughed as you parted ways. You had been able to fly under the radar, until recently when snooty media noticed you going in and out of various meetings. You thought everyone would leave you alone when Christian left, but a few eagle-eyed personnel stayed with you.

“Does this mean that Daniel Ricciardo has a home for next year?”

“Can you confirm Daniel is going to Red Bull?”

“I’m unable to disclose any information, those discussions are protected by attorney-client privilege.”

Legal obligations be damned, the handful of media continued to follow you. You repeated the same statement in eight different ways, you tried ignoring them to no avail. You continued walking, hoping at a certain point they’d give up. Certainly there were at least a hundred other people around the paddock significantly more important and interesting than you.

“I think you guys confused the pretty lady for me?” You recognized the voice immediately. You were thankful for your savior shifting the attention away from you, except that the swarm around you returned ten-fold in an instant. The Australian entertained their questions while helping you navigate the crowd. You knew he and his PR advisor had prepped for this, and you were impressed how he skillfully dodged their questions while making them feel as though they had gotten a profound, headline-worthy snippet.

He fought the instinct to put his hand on your back to help guide you through the mob. You stayed close though, unnerved by the increasing number of people around you. As you continued to walk side-by-side, unsuccessfully willing yourself to become invisible, your fingers grazed. Instinctively, you flinched and pulled your hand away at the contact. He continued engaging with the media but took a moment to meet your eyes. His gaze was not judgmental nor offended, instead offering you reassurance. You realized how silly you were being and dropped your hand. The tips of your pinkies momentarily met again and the warm feeling you felt in the bar before everything went sideways came bubbling back. Only this time it made you feel safe and secure, not scared or embarrassed.

“As fun as this has been guys, I have big plans with some tequila shots and a mariachi band that I must attend to.” Even his excuses could charm the pants off the most scrutinizing reporter. He politely excused the two of you, pulling you away into McLaren hospitality. The doors shut behind you, immediately muffling the outside noise.

“Is it always like that?”

He took one look at you and burst out laughing. You might be able to keep certain thoughts to yourself, but often times your facial expressions gave you away as they did now. Your eyes, wide and unblinking. Your mouth, contorted into downward frown. In the distance, *sirens*.

“Don’t laugh, that was traumatizing!” you whined.

“In all fairness, it didn’t always used to be this bad. But you get used to it.”

“Please, you were born to be in the spotlight. The camera loves you.”

“Just the camera?”

You gave him your most aggressive side eye. It was hardly an appropriate comment given your conversation on press day, but you knew he was just joking. You raised your hands. “You know what, that’s on me. I walked into that one.”

“Had to go for the low hanging fruit.”

You looked around. McLaren hospitality was quiet, but not empty. You hoped no one noticed the light flirtation that was taking place. You changed the topic.

“I forgot to say congratulations on today! You must be so proud of yourself.”

“Yeah, it feels nice.” You know what else feels nice? “It’s been such a long, hard season. Y’know?” You know what else is long and hard? “I’ve just been really pounding away with trainings and everything -” You know what else you can pound?

You smiled and nodded while you continued to tally the that’s-what-she-said jokes and innuendos in your head.

“- and I feel like there’s been this gaping hole -” Surely he has got to hear himself.

You bit your lower lip to keep from giggling and cursed yourself for your filthy mind and having the sense of humor of a twelve year old boy.

“-but all in all it’s been a good day, yeah?” Finally.

“Yes, for sure. I’m really happy for you.” There was a pregnant pause before either of you spoke again. He could tell that you were distracted though he wasn’t sure why. You were concerned about keeping yourself in check.  

“Anyways, this has been lovely as always. Enjoy the rest of your night, I don’t want to keep you from your Mariachi band.”

“You’re not going to celebrate?”

You looked around, again being mindful of potential witnesses. “What are you talking about, we’ve been celebrating your points finish since the end of the race. You go have fun, I was just going to stay here and get some work done until things clear out a bit more.”

“Not for me. It’s Halloween, you know.”

Actually, you had completely forgotten. But you quickly realized where this conversation was heading. “That’s nice.”

“Lando wants to show off his DJ side hustle at some club. It will be fun.”

“Now there’s something spooky,” you said sarcastically.

“You should come.”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

The stare down between you continued as you went about your delicate dance around the elephant in the room. He took a step towards you and grabbed you gently by the shoulders.

“Nothing will happen. Promise,” he whispered. You looked up at him.

“I don’t have a costume,” you lightly countered.

“We’ll get you one.”

You pursed your lips. You had a million other excuses in your head, but you trusted him. How could you say no?

-

It had been a while since you had been in a club, and truthfully you weren’t sure you were cut out for it any more as you approached thirty. The flashing lights and heavy bass were giving you a migraine. That being said, it was a very different experience than you remember and being the guest of a VIP had its significant perks. When you got to the venue you almost didn’t even get out of the car when you saw the line down several blocks. As it so happens, when you’re a Formula 1 driver you can skip the line. And get attentive bottle service as opposed to fighting your way to the bar and pray the bartender notices you. Not to mention easy access to the DJ booth. As he had assured you, there were plenty of other people around to act as buffers.

Sure enough, Lando was at the helm of the DJ booth along with his girlfriend and a few of the other drivers and their respective significant others. As soon as the others saw you, they burst out into laughter. If you were ever concerned whether you could ever fit into Daniel’s world, this experience quelled any uncertainty. What Daniel’s skeleton costume lacked in creativity, yours’ made up for in leaps and bounds. Why be a sexy nurse or police officer when you could be American Daniel Ricciardo? American flag bomber jacket, cowboy hat, belt buckle, poorly drawn facial hair and all - which looked even sillier given your short stature. It was clear the resourceful last-minute look was well-received and earned you a warm welcome.  

As the night went on and the drinks flowed, you leaned more into your Danny Ric persona including donning a poor Australian accent. Daniel continued to converse with the other drivers but watched you from a distance, trying to remain respectful of your prior agreement. Even with your face covered in smudged eye makeup to mimic his beard, he loved seeing you in his clothes. You were practically swimming in his jacket and he was sure it was the cutest thing he had ever witnessed. When you thought no one else was looking, you subtly grabbed the collar and gave it a sniff, deeply inhaling the owner’s fragrance.

Seeing you try to pick up his scent caused something primal in him to awaken. In another world he would have put on his usual moves to woo a lady back to his hotel room, which admittedly didn’t take much. First, he would buy you a drink. Then after some short flirty back and forth, he would move the two of you to the dancefloor. He would be behind you while you grinded - in a club packed like this, your bodies would be pressed closely together. He would place his hands on your waist and slowly move them down to your hips, rubbing small circles with his thumbs. Eventually he would leave kisses on the side of your neck, while finding your hands to hold. He would spin you around and ask if you wanted to go back to his place. Inevitably you would say yes, and the two of you would leave and begin your makeout session in the back of his private car to avoid suspicion by nosy paparazzi. Finally when you arrive at your final destination, he would fuck you senseless.

His mind was reeling at the possibilities. But you were no ordinary lady and you didn’t deserve his usual moves. You deserved so much more. And he couldn’t give you any of it.

Meanwhile, the constancy you had to stay away from your muse diminished as the night went on. The champagne was easily accessible and went down even easier. The club was hot and stuffy, though it was unclear if it was from everyone’s collective body heat, the Mexican climate, or both. You decided to take off the jacket, wrapping it around your waist, leaving in you a plain white tank top. It was far from being the most scandalous outfit in the room, but Daniel was doing everything in his power not to stare. It was a stark contrast from the conservative suits and dresses he’d gotten used to seeing you in, showing off every curve of your body. Again, he should have been turned off by the beard makeup alone but it endearingly complimented the cleavage that threatened to spill its way out of your shirt. Eventually you found yourself next to him again.

“G’day mate,” you said tipping his hat. You weren’t sloppy, but it was obvious that your usual social filter was long gone.

“Is that absolutely necessary?”

“What are you talking about, I’m Daniel Ricciardo. This is my voice. Pew pew pew” you gave him some finger guns and blew them out before returning them to their imaginary holsters. He couldn’t help but laugh.

“That is by far the worst Australian accent I’ve ever heard in my life.”

“I can switch to Steve Erwin if you want.”

“Please don’t.” You ignored him.

“Crikey! Here we see the Formula 1 Driver in his natural habitat.” You gestured over to Pierre shamelessly trying to flirt with a model with a bottle of Ace in hand. “Ah yes, the young male has spotted a potential mate. We will now get to witness his intricate mating ritual.”

He watched your face as you continued your animated nature documentary play-by-play of Pierre. He always felt lucky when he got to see this side of you. Silly, unfiltered, and unincumbered by responsibility.  

He leaned into you. “I’m glad you’re having fun.”

“I am. Are you having fun – oh!” Someone had pushed their way past you forcing you to fall into the driver, inadvertently smushing your bodies together. He placed a protective hand on the small of your back further pulling you into him while trying not to spill the drink in his other hand. The buzzing returned with a vengeance. It was hard to ignore the soft of your breasts pressed against his muscly torso. You blushed profusely at the new sensation of your hips meeting, feeling the bulge of his pants against your pelvis.   

“Are you ok?” You finally pulled your bodies away from each other, your cheeks on fire from the heavy and unfamiliar contact.

“Oh I’m fine. But on that note, I should probably head back.” You hoped he would he would attribute your flush to all the champagne you consumed, and prayed your “beard” was covering for you. The fluttering sensation between your legs refused to cease.

“Ok, I’ll call the car.”

“No, no, I can just call an uber it’s fine.”

“You shouldn’t leave by yourself.” It took a minute for you to realize he was looking out for your safety, not inviting himself to your hotel room. You again felt embarrassed at your own misinterpretation.   

“I don’t want to make you leave though, you should keep celebrating.”

“I’ve celebrated enough, I’m happy and tired and ready to go.”

“Are you sure?” He smiled and turned his hand into a fake phone.

“I’m calling it,” he said into his hand. You laughed at the reference to the joke he had with Lando about ‘calling it a day,’ thankful that he found a way to break the tension.

-

The car ride back to the hotel was relatively quiet. You squeezed your legs together to quell the growing heat below your waist and kept your hands in your lap to prevent them from accidentally wandering. Your heart rate had not slowed since you bumped into one another. You closed your eyes to try to center yourself and redirect the energy of your raging hormones.

Two feet away, Daniel was in a very similar situation dealing with his own demons. The smell of your perfume mixed with this own cologne intoxicated him. He forced himself to think of his home in Perth to keep his mind from wondering to all the ways you could be bent right then and there in the back seat.

You thanked the driver getting out of the car. The walk to your respective rooms felt like an eternity. You pressed for your floor when you got in the elevator and waited for him to do the same, but he did not move.

“What floor are you?”

“Don’t worry about it, I’ll walk you to your room.”

“Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary.”   

“I just want to make sure you’re safe.” You looked at him from the corner of your eye.

“Fine. I’ll allow it.”

You again stood there in silence side by side as you waited to reach your floor. You cursed the mirrored walls of the elevator. With a few drinks in you, you allowed your lidded eyes to wander all over Daniel’s reflection from the neck down. Fortunately for you he didn’t notice your ogling, but only because he was doing the same thing. In the middle of your respective daydreams, your pinkies accidentally grazed again, pulling you back to reality. Your eyes finally met in the mirror.

“Sorry,” you said under your breath, taking a step away from your client.

“All good.” You both diverted your gazes for the rest of the short ride. You got off the elevator and walked to your room.

“Well, this is me.” You paused, finally making eye contact again. “Thanks for inviting me out, I had fun tonight.”

“Me too.”

“Oh, before I forget here’s your hat and jacket.” You went to remove the hat but he stopped you.

“Don’t worry about it, they look better on you anyways.” It was a questionably appropriate line, but he didn’t care. At this point, neither did you.

“I’m not sure when I’ll wear them again, but thanks.” You smiled to yourself, your hands fidgeting with the fabric of his jacket. He was still looking at you when you looked back up. The chatty driver was uncharacteristically quiet. You were both stalling, though it was unclear what for. You decided to rip off the band-aid.

“Good night Mr. Ricciardo, congratulations again.”

“Good night y/n. I’ll see you in Brazil.”

“I’ll see you in Brazil,” you repeated.

When the door shut, he placed his hand on it for a moment. His mind, again, going to all of the places that were off-limits. With a sigh he left for his room.

On the other side, you leaned your head against the door and squeezed your eyes shut. Sloppily undoing your jeans, you stuck a hand down your underwear to offer relief from the building tension. You were soaked. With reckless abandon, you grabbed your vibrator and shamelessly indulged yourself in the filthiest fantasies regarding your client the rest of the night.

Taglist: @ravenqueen27 @leslizzle @wewoo1233 @monzabee

[makoredeyes]

Getting to know your moots

Tagged by @tarakanpaintedpurple :3

•What's the origin of your blogs title?

My tag makoredeyes is a Final Fantasy 7 reference (see Vincent Valentine <3) ... "Feralwinter" came from a joke about me comparing Felwinter from Destiny to a stray cat about a year ago.

•Favorite fandoms

Presently ears-deep in Destiny/D2 but I am also a big Titanfall2 fan, LOVE Trigun, and Final Fantasy 7 and its derivatives will forever live in my heart. I also have a marriage and over 25 year relationship built on Star Wars and I've seen The Nightmare Before Christmas 109 times.

•OTPs+Ship name

I am a filthy multishipper <3

FFVII it's Cid Highwind x Vincent Valentine and I'm pretty confident I'm actually the one that got people using the Valenwind shipname waaaay back in the day.

Titanfall it's BTxJack or Jack xBlisk or if I'm feeling spicy I'll try to make all three of them work. :3

Destiny I think ya'll know but my favorites are Felwinter x Timur and/or Osiris in just about any permutation of the three, adding or subtracting a handful of wildcards for giggles, plot, or kink depending on the setting and timing. (I see you pervs choosing that Saint X Osiris X Felwinter XXX oneshot I did as my most popular fic alaksjd;fksdkf)

•Favourite colours Love deep amethyst purple, or red. or somewhere in between like a mauve.

•Favourite game

Presently Destiny 2 and/or ARK Evolution Evolved

•Weirdest habit/trait

Took me a minute but I reckon my tendency to impulsively collect bits of broken glass is probably pretty fucking weird.

•Hobbies

Obviously I write, and draw, but I also enjoy painting resin figures (I can't really call my preference for larger scale models 'minifgures' but like that). I'm a actively practicing and learning lapidary (I carve rocks) and rockhound (I go out and search for and collect rocks) and rock collector lol. I love rocks. XD I'm also big into plants and have a huge indoor houseplant collection, and a pretty robust garden, and start a lot of stuff by seed most years. Removing myself from the earth, I'm also a license pilot although I haven't flown in years due to both medical and financial restrictions. (renting an airplane is fucking expensive RIP lol) Flying isn't something I actively practice anymore but the knowledge, culture, and fascination and love of flying and airplanes is burned into my bones and I don't think it's ever going to go away. <3

•Something you're good at

I think I'm a pretty decent writer. I'd like to think I generally am pretty good at understanding people too. Like, seeing things from their perspectives and understanding their needs and wants and intentions and all that. It's what I like to write about too, fundamentally so they go hand in hand I guess.

•Something you're bad at

pffff most things. Adulting. My home is a constant mess. But I do my best.

•Something you excel at

I can't resist laughing and pointing out Microsoft Excel. I'm so autistic I actually like spreadsheets and am very good at them al;ksdjfshdfh. IDK. I think I'm getting pretty awesome at these model paintings. I don't think of myself like this.

•Something you love

Gentle rain. A good scented candle. Pretty lights. A mossy forest, the ocean, my damn cats even though one of them is bullying me right now. cozy things.

•Something you could talk about for hours without off the cuff

Truly, Destiny Lore. Character analysis and picking apart text, words used, context, setting, tracing threads. Swapping headcanons and worldbuilding based on what we already have. Conjecture. Let's ramble for the next 6 hours about why he would totally say that, or did say it, or could have because I think this lore card implies he did. I live for those meals and eat so grandly off of just...sharing the stories.

•Something you hate

I don't think this is what this question meant when someone first listed it but this is the only think rolling around in my head right now so Imma say it and you'll know some of the shadows and worries in my heart today: I fucking hate Nazis.

•Something you collect

Cobalt glass. I have a lot of vintage (and some not) cobalt things. I love that color.

•Something you forget

I always have a glass of water but 80% of the time I've forgotten it in another room. Husband teases me relentlessly. We're both very excited because I remembered to rescue it from his office tonight.

•What's your love language

Acts of service/gifts. I love writing ficlets or doing little drawings for my friends especially on request. Special little things I won't share otherwise unless you ask me to. Just for you. I am hugging you this way because I am not close enough to do it the conventional way.

•Favorite movie/show

Oh I forgot Transformers for fandoms. Transformers Prime is kind of old now but I just adored that show.

•Favorite food

Pho. 10/10 comfort food. Actually I just really love Vietnamese food in general but Pho is a gift from heaven.

•Favorite animal

Magpies

•Favorite subject in school

Yanno I'm not entirely sure because I'm struggling between my favorite teacher who taught my worst subject, art which was just fun but not challenging, English which I was GOOD at but not fun in any way, and Spanish which was engaging but too challenging to be fun.

I'm going to just go back and point at some of my aviation classes I took in college lol.

•Least favourite subject

Chemistry because we had a teacher who couldn't stay on topic and I already really struggled with the math of it.

•What's your best character trait?

I'd like to think I'm pretty open-minded usually. And generally friendly. I can be a little bit of an asshole sometimes but I'm really working on that so hopefully nobody has the opportunity to notice lol.

•If you could change any detail of your day right now, what would it be?

Well I had to go to work and I would have much rather been home all day doing creative stuff so that would have been a nice change.

•If you could travel in time, who would you like to meet?

My great-grandad who I apparently have a LOT in common with but I never really met.

•Recommend one of your favorite fanfics

Nah nah, we're not doing just ONE haha.

Please see all my husband's wonderfully lyrical Destiny fanfics but especially The Storm That Stalks featuring a look at the harder side to my favorite Stormtrancer

Besty Crafty Cooper aka @slavetomyheadcanon has some fantastic (and delightfully filthy) Overwatch and Titanfall fic as well as Destiny but PLEASE sample this entirely unexpectedly titillating experimental crackpair from a randomizer featuring Cayde-6 x Timur. Seriously trust me on this one. FPM: Cayde-6 + Timur + Shock Collar (*AO3 sign-in required. If anyone needs an invite DM me I have lots)

OK it's Timur hours apparently. @zalia wrote Subornation for me last spring and I just adore it. It's sweet and quirky and has some fantastic character insights. Then go and browse the other uhh... 145 Destiny fics in Zalia's portfolio if you haven't already because they're all bangers.

I usually don't tag people for this kind of stuff, but today I'm putting the squad on blast. @slavetomyheadcanon , @zalia , @vallaragna , @nearfromfar, @wendysketches , @heckin-sleeby & @sylenth-l if you do this kind of thing have at it.

[autumngracy]

Accidentally posted an essay in a Youtube comment, so I figured I may as well post it here too.

On the question of why gaming feels different when you're an adult, and why it's so hard to find a game you actually LIKE anymore:

Here's the problem: everyone is totally burned out these days mentally, physically and emotionally. The economy is in shambles; we have little time to ourselves anymore; smartphones and the internet are all demanding our time in way they didn't used to; we feel obliged to know about and have an opinion about everything; we have trouble deriving satisfaction from things anymore; we doomscroll until our eyes hurt, seeking god knows what but never finding any satisfaction ...

We don't get enough sleep; it feels like there's some major crisis happening every other day; we've been stuck in a pandemic for 4+ years that people have just decided to pretend isn't happening anymore because it's inconvenient; we feel like we should be making "the most" of our free time and be "productive" (and earn money from our hobbies which we used to just do for fun; see how streamers and let's players stop enjoying their games once they've monetized playing them and it becomes their job, putting pressure on them and making them self-conscious and anxious) ...

No one can afford housing anymore (even really s****y apartments, and don't have the time or money or spoons to find new friends or romantic prospects, lets alone have kids, and therefore no one feels like an "adult" anymore, (or at least they feel like they're doing "adulting" wrong because of some personal failing) and so they feel averse to things that aren't "adult" hobbies or that don't earn them money because it makes them feel like they're slipping further behind everyone else and wasting their precious and limited free time ...

And so when we sit down to play a game these days (or watch a movie, or read a book) not only do we feel GUILTY for "wasting time" (ie not improving our situation somehow) but we are also so burned out we either feel too little or too much emotion, and things aren't exciting anymore, aren't fun anymore.

We're also afraid to hype ourselves up for something we've been looking forward too because the gaming world had been so full or shameless cash grabs and broken or unfinished games, or just disappointing games, these days, and we keep getting our hopes dashed and feeling robbed or used or betrayed, and we get embarrassed for ever having expected or hoped for something better in the first place.

We sit down to play a game and feel overwhelmed by the amount of choices (choice paralyzation), so we scroll and scroll and finally play that one old game we've been playing for a decade instead of all the other stuff on our wishlists or to-play lists because we know at least we liked that ONE game; that we weren't disappointed by it ... except by now we know every inch of it so well it's become boring, and we wonder why we even decided to play a game at all—wonder what we thought we were going to get out of it.

And even the new games start feeling like that, because there's only so many formulas to gameplay, story, and mechanics, and we've seen pretty much every possible permutation before. Even if it's good, it still feels like a bunch of things we've played before. And we still ask ourselves why we aren't doing something "better" with our time, and why we can't seem to reclaim the excitement, satisfaction, wonder, and joy we used to have when we played games when we were younger.

And again, on top of everything else, the industry has gone to **** and so much of it is just "clones" of other things, or has loot boxes, or punished you for not playing consistently, or have half its features and story locked behind paywalls, or ruins the competition aspect with pay to play bull**** ... or just simply isn't good. Doesn't have originality. Doesn't have soul. Wasn't made with passion.

And oh, yeah—the base game costs $60 and probably also relies on a paid live subscription if there's multiplayer, which means once they shut the servers down for it (which could be in ten years or 2 weeks in the current state of the industry) either half or all the game will be unplayable forevermore and lost to time.

Basically, we're burnt out and looking for an easy but guilt-free dopamine fix, demanding more of games than we ever have before, but also wanting them to demand less of us than ever before, because we're TIRED, and we're also BROKE, and we also have very little free time on our hands! But games that are cheap and easy are also unsatisfying.

The kid in us wants long narratively satisfying RPGs that take forever to complete, but the adult in us can't remember what we were supposed to be doing or where anything is or what buttons do what anymore because we last picked this game up 3 months ago and we hate having to try to relearn everything. So we turn to a shooter or a sports or a racing or a battle royale game but we play them and feel like we're wasting our time. And also probably our money.

We're using games not to have FUN, but to DE-STRESS, except they can't actually relieve most the stress we're under because it's from external factors that will still be there when we close the game. We want games to *fix* us—"I'll feel better after a few hours of [insert game here]—but we don't. And we don't know why because playing games USED to make us feel good. Why doesn't it work anymore? We're like lab rats that developed a drug tolerance and get frustrated and confused when the same dose of stimulants doesn't do it for us anymore.

And hey, when was the last time we hung out in person with our friends? We're starved for human interaction, but online multiplayer is a poor substitute and we know it.

And a lot of us live alone or with limited support so there's also the cooking, the cleaning, the laundry, the shopping, the bills, etc. to take care of and also your job and/or school, and possibly elder or child care, and/or home maintenance, (IF you're lucky) ... and oh look your phone's buzzing again and oh, you should really respond to that, and, and AND ...

Gaming just isn't the same anymore.

[voxofthevoid]

Vox. Dear sweet Vox. Is there no type of sex you cannot write amazingly Sir. Lipstick Chemtrails was a chef's kiss. Fantastic.

(I'm trying to work out the variations you've done. Masc Yuuji/masc Gojo for normal ages, age swap, teen Yuuji and Gojo, adult Yuuji and Gojo, adult Yuuji plus teen and adult Gojo. And then fem Yuuji/fem Gojo and masc Yuuji/fem Gojo both in normal ages. Time to go work out other permutations to feed you and/or Tender more ideas)

Thank youuu!!

Hearing that you liked the new fic is especially great because it's been...a good 15 years since I've written straight sex. And I sure wouldn't call what I wrote back then "sex," let alone "porn." More like clumsy scribbling. I burned those notebooks for a reason. So, y'know, fresh territory, and it's been a delight how well received it's been ❤️

And you've got almost all of them! I think only fem!Yuuji x fem!Gojou role reversal is missing from your list; that fic isn't up on Ao3 yet, but it's floating around as WIP Wed snippets. If I'm remembering right, my idea list also has classmates goyuu, senpai/kouhai, kid!Gojou with adult!Yuuji, kid!Yuuji with adult Gojou, and 40-something Gojou with 15 y/o Yuuji. Plus a bunch of fantasy scenarios. Of the most common combinations, I'm only missing 2714 and fem!Yuuji x masc!Gojou—but Tender has both of those covered 😌

But hey, new permutations are always welcome!

[dustedmagazine]

Kelby Clark — Language of the Torch (Tentative Power)

Kelby Clark is an LA-by-way-of-Georgia banjo player who blends divergent styles and approaches to forge his own novel direction for the instrument. Over a series of mostly self-released home-spun recordings from the past five or so years, he has honed his approach, expanding the traditions of his point of origin in the American south to include free improvisation and eastern modalities — an alchemy familiar to Sandy Bull, a fellow stretcher of the vocabulary of the banjo and of the concept of “folk” and the traditional. His sparse and appropriately fiery new LP Language of the Torch, available January 10th of next year from Tentative Power, represents a significant milestone in his development of his own science of the banjo, a statement of intent for his artistic practice. It also marks the inaugural 12” LP release from the Baton Rouge, Louisiana label.

Across the seven searching pieces that make up Language of the Torch, Clark constructs a labyrinthine world of music from solo banjo and occasional, subdued harmonium, centered around two longform tracks, “Tennessee Raag Pt.1” and “Tennessee Raag Pt. 3” – there is no part two. These songs help situate the album among its influences, the titles suggesting an imaginational space where Appalachia and India overlap, an interzone frequently visited by practitioners of “American Primitive” music. The intentionally skewed numbering invokes John Fahey, another sometime-raga-obsessive, whose volumes of guitar music are numbered in a non-sensical, non-sequential manner, thumbing the nose at the very concept of numbers and of archiving or cataloging art in volumes. Clark improvises and composes, but on Language of the Torch, the two lengthy “Raags” and the six-minute opening salvo, “Time’s Arc,” feel like the compositions that anchor the shorter, more exploratory tracks that fall between them. Clark’s banjo twangs and drones almost sitar-like during these mesmerizing endurance runs, rough edges flattening over time like water-worn limestone.

In contrast to the patience of these bucolic “Raags,” the shorter tracks on Language of the Torch have an immediacy and attack to them and entertain more old-time flourishes. The concise title cut is perhaps the most traditional, the bends and swoops here feel related to Americana, a brief nod to and deconstruction of familiar forms. Clark is a fluid player, but the percussive nature of the banjo can run counter to fluidity — the most explosive of these improvisations, “Apis,” begins abruptly with an aggressive right-hand trill before it clatters apart and back together again like a musical version of Marcel Duchamp’s Modernist classic “Nude Descending a Staircase, No. 2.” This song is a stand-out and the heaviest example of Clark’s burning vision for the banjo, the “concert instrument” ambition expressed by his forebears in the American Primitive movement.

All traditional forms of music, from Indian Classical to Appalachian Old-Time and permutations between, seem narrowly determined upon a superficial look but reveal their universal nature to those willing to let go of semiotics and sink into their visionary streams. This makes these forms excellent starting points for experimentation, established structures that contain the instructions to build new universes, if one is bold enough to try to read them, and that is what Kelby Clark attempts here with the 5-string banjo and the various traditions from which he draws inspiration. The liner notes for Language of the Torch take the form of a poem by hammered dulcimer player Jen Powers, a fellow traveler on the path of exploding the scope of the traditional. I think the passage below illuminates the process at hand, the conversation between tradition and interpreter:

And maybe now you're wondering whether you are the conjurer or the conjured, and if you really want to know which it is

Josh Moss

[mrpickleface]

I don't expect to run into a lot of religious people or defenders of religion here in Tumblr, but I really have to vent.

Religion is so fucking stupid y'all. And the truth is that all religions from all cultures throughout human history have all been equally made up.

All of them, every single one, not one god, deity, or Messiah has been real. All fabricated by humans to make death and the entropy of existence more palatable.

Prayers have never done anything, there has never been a religious miracle that has ever occurred in human history.

God's have never existed, there is no such thing as a soul or an afterlife, of any description or permutation. No ghosts, no demons, no hell, no nothing, it's all bunk and it always has been.

Every human who has ever died is just dead, in the ground, no different than any other living creature on our planet throughout history.

That's all not to say that there hasn't been some good done by people in the name of different religions, there's been an incredible amount of charity and advocacy done by different people and groups.

But at what cost? All the wars, all the deaths, all the animosity and strife. All the anxiety about what you do or don't do leading to eternal damnation. The gift and graft of religious leaders to enrich themselves. The RAPES, Jesus Christ, the raping of children by fucking priest!!?! It's an almost incomprehensible mountain of human suffering for nothing, for something that's not real, totally fabricated.

And it's not even hard to disprove, religion across the board is logical swiss cheese, almost no religion holds up against even simple scrutiny (hello burning people at the stake).

Even the MOST devout religious person is 99% an atheist, because they DON'T believe in the validity of any other religion, past or present. They think they are on the only "correct" team, but they wouldn't argue for a second that everyone else has gotten it wrong and that all the other religions were false and made up... Like what??? That's fucking insane!!!!

TL;DR all religion is and has been made up, there haven't ever been any gods.

[guerrilla-operator]

Brian Eno and John Cale // Lay My Love

I am the crow of desperation I need no fact or validation I span relentless variation I scramble in the dust of a failing nation I was concealed Now I am stirring And I have waited for this time I am the termite of temptation I multiply and find my population I am the wheel I am the turning And I will lay my love around you I am the sea of permutation I live beyond interpretation I scramble all the names and the combinations I penetrate the walls of explanation I am the will I am the burning And I will lay my love around you I am the will I am the yearning And I will lay my love around you

[theconfusedartist]

( @zero-saito ) Break my heart why don’t you! Poor Alex!! Imogen calls for a trial for Alex and Desmond. Does she just charge them with Bills murder? Cause I feel like it would be hard enough to find/call them in the first place if they aren’t with the team but also they have evidence and witnesses about bill being an asshole. bill probs wasn’t telling Imogen everything, or at least his version of what happened. So her info isn’t good to begin with.

( @zero-saito ) Well, Imogen definitely has skewed info, as Bill wasn’t going to tell things in a way that would make him look bad, after all that would mean he would have to admit that the problems he’s dealing with isn’t just a product of Desmond running away, but also his behaviour as a parent and mentor and he’s just not going to do that! But the charges that Imogen are trying Alex and Desmond for are less about what Bill said to her, and more the actual acts that are now (in her eyes) undeniable truths in this permutation. Alex is being tried for: the murder of the Mentor of the Assassin Order, killing multiple members of the Assassin Order during the outbreak in Manhattan, being a Templar spy that was exchanging information with them on Assassin cells and members

Desmond is being tried for: stabbing Lucy and attempting to kill her, being a possible Templar informant as he allowed Daniel to live during multiple encounters they had, being a possible sleeper agent as he had used the Templar animus that was known for being able to tamper with people’s minds and cognitive abilities, as well as his defection Imogen’s primary purpose is to find a way to kill Alex, however she can’t bring him to trial without Desmond, due to the fact that it’s now well-known within the Assassin Order and Brotherhood that the two are a pair and they stand with one another.

The punishment for Desmond isn’t exactly exile, but something close to it, despite what Imogen was originally pushing for (which was for Desmond to be put in an isolated Assassin cell and to have his mental health monitored). As Desmond had been veteran ranked before he ran away and had been noticed in the Assassin Brotherhood as someone who was good enough to eventually even rank as a master assassin, the other leaders decide a different punishment. Desmond has already killed Warren Vidic (in permutation 1) as well as Daniel Cross, the current de-facto assassin heads agree that Desmond has to prove that he is still loyal to the Creed and to the order.

His targets are: the nine heads of the Templars (Warren Vidic already dead), the five heads of the Juno fanatic branch, and the three major Templar agents of the Black Cross (Daniel Cross already dead). He is allowed to work with Rebecca and Shaun, for handling purposes and also to keep an eye on the two of them as their loyalty is being questioned (for allowing Alex near the Mentor and harboring a possible traitor in their midst), but as for field missions he will have no backup and he’s not allowed to report back into the hideout that he’s using with Shaun and Rebecca, and instead must return to base as soon as his task is completed. This effectively means that while Desmond would have access to a bureau/hideout before his missions, he’ll be alone once the mission begins. And not only that! But they specifically state that Desmond isn’t allowed to work with Alex during this punishment--as they claim he too is a possible threat and a danger of collusion.

(Of course, Desmond does his damndest to come back to Manhattan anyways. He might be trying to at the very least come to an agreement, but he’ll be damned if he lets the Order be another cage to him once again. It’s actually almost a good thing that they try to separate the two of them, bc Desmond was literally making so many connections outside of the Order that would be able to get him anywhere in the world in different types of travel, that they can’t track him. As much as Desmond claims Alex is the clingy one, he’s willing to travel literally all over the world to get back to his lover, he just downplays it.)

Alex’s punishment is a bit different bc he makes it very clear that if they’re going to be keeping Desmond separate from him, he has no reason to not just kill them then and there and make sure that’s not even an option. Rather than taking any punishment that they try to dole out, Alex goes back to Manhattan as his base of operations (or his hive, if you wanna call it that), as his strain becomes more and more diffusive. While in Manhattan, Alex finds out that while Elizabeth Greene is dead, Pariah is alive and very much in Manhattan. The information he finds out about Pariah along the way is quite disturbing, as it turns out that Pariah is an 8 year old child that creates thousands of non-lethal strains of Redlight each day.

Pariah has known dehumanization, experimentation, and pain amidst the brief times he was allowed to spend with his mother. He’d only killed 5 people in his life, but after getting through the layers of medical and military jargon, it’s determined that this was only ever done out of self-defense.

Understanding Pariah’s situation, Alex infiltrates the headquarters but Gentek has set an ambush for Alex, releasing a new strain of Bloodtox that has been boosted with knowledge from Juno and mixed with a strain from Pariah’s strain as well. While this concoction ends up not doing too much to Alex, it does make a LOT of his strain start to flood into the air, releasing waves of his own Blacklight strain in response. After Alex takes care of the soldiers and people that had been sent to kill him, he leaves to continue searching for Pariah, but Gentek got what they wanted: a great deal of Alex’s strain from the source. I was gonna add more, but then I realized I got away from the question a bit. Imogen is, first and foremost, working to kill Alex personally but once it’s made VERY CLEAR that’s not going to happen, she focuses on getting Desmond away from the man that killed her husband away from him. When even that  fails, she figures the best thing to do at this point is get him back into the Order and away from Alex as long as possible for her to find another solution.

I just wanna make it very clear though, Imogen isn’t working with Gentek or anything, there isn’t anyone in the Order that is. They just, for the majority in leadership and the assassins that know only what they’re hearing from what’s escaping the media blackouts, is that the outbreak was Alex Mercer’s fault. Gentek is making use of this belief and then their follow-up ambush to paint another wave of propoganda that Alex Mercer is going around infecting people in some way to kill as many as possible. It’s all about them evading the fallout of their actions in Manhattan while also creating new sites to test their new strains on large groups of people.

But, I only do this so that I can tie up loose ends for all the games that came after Black Flag and in Prototype 2. I want Alex and Desmond to get to a point in the story where they’re unfuckwitable and no one can stop them from living a peaceful, normal-ass life because it’s just way to dangerous for anyone or anything to even think about trying anything with them. It’s just. The road to getting them that strong is a trip and a half!

I just wanted to say something about the protocreed au:

The reader is Desmond, Desmond is the reader. He just needed to run 26 permutations to get to that phase. Afterwards, he still would've been able to view and change the past/present/future at any time in his regular body while his consciousness (and Clay) remain in the Grey.

But Abstergo just had to go and fuck things up for ya boi😮‍💨 yet again

Alex does help out, but he had to leave when Desmond activated the Eye, due to all the intense heat and phosphorus adamantium that was literally deconstructing him on a molecular level.

Also, to get back to Elijah to make sure neither the assassins or Templars get their hands on him, bc he'll be damned if he let's Bill get his grubby little hands on him.

[deepspaceboytoy]

As if all at once, in a lonely corner of a lonely universe, life sprang fully formed, lust-hungry and anxious, and the freezing cold blackness said to the life “it is not your time, it is not your place. Your time will come, your place will come”. And life, screaming with the plasma-hot burn of a soul born from stars, thrashed and raged, rattled at its cage as the blackness fell, and snuffed the life. First, the great shadow enveloped the life’s corpus callosum, and the sun-matter pinging betwixt the two hemispheres of this life went still and silent, no more to communicate. The lobes next, the personality excised, now unable to reason at its cruel fate, abortion after the fact in the cold expanse. Down through the brain, the colossal structure of flesh and blood that the universe had spawned already-forgotten out into the cold, down into the crevices between the grey matter, down past memory, and sense, and anger and love and hate and rage and most of all sheer panicked bliss because by some miracle, some insane miracle, some mad god had deemed it right that the life might be alive.

Oh the thoughts it could think, it thought, the forms it could take, the lives it could lead. What path should it deem for itself, this life, this bizarre curiosity, this freakish impossibility of tissue and neurons floating in its voidborne amniotic sac. And for the briefest instant in the universe since the anomalous formation of a black hole exactly one billion two hundred thirty three million eight hundred nineteen thousand three hundred and fourteen years and seventeen seconds ago, it dreamed every last one of those paths. It never survived a single one of them. The cold darkness did not let it, and seven rontoseconds later, it was snuffed out.

Thus ended the first miracle, and begat a new one.

From out of a nothing that opened itself into our universe, a thing appeared. It was dark, black as space but for the running lights demarcating the many canyons and cliffs that ran across its surface. It was rime-coated, the hoarfrost spread across its hull as it made the translation back into realspace. It was a ship. It was the ship. Like the leviathans of Old Terra’s seas, she was ancient, a pelagic beast churning through the depths. She was a war god, a battle-maiden, a harpy of shrieking death and a furnace of hateful industry turned towards the business of war-winning. She was Titan. She was the godhead of the religion of the ship-killer.

She was the Invictus, and she was filled with a terrible purpose.

- From the private journals of the passenger Anubis, guest of Herius Victus, found under the heading “Observations of Permutations of the Randomized Universe”

[drinkyourvillainjuice]

i rmb u once made a post detailing every characters' powers, but tumblr is the worst issit possible for you to link them again?

I copy pasted from the COG forum cause I also can't find the post link lmao.

Altruists

Dion - Can create energy projections which emerge from terrain, e.g. walls, floors, ceilings. These can also extend from each other to a more limited extent. They specifically seem to manifest as geometric shapes, as in, rather than just a vertical energy barrier, it would be a cube-shaped projection

Mal - Exceptional durability/resistance towards physical harm (cuts, blunt trauma, etc.) Capable of altering their own appearance, including height/bulk, but not precisely enough to accurately mimic others (could maybe hold up to a cursory inspection, but nothing more)

Kay - As well as having sheeplike physiology, she is able to absorb impact (and energy to some extent?) and ‘charge’ herself with it, resulting in an electrical aura. More charge = harder hits and greater speed.

Teddie - Constant bone growths that push through his skin. Luckily for him, his body works with these to not be, y’know, constantly bleeding everywhere. Unluckily for him, he still feels the growth. And he can only get rid of them by breaking them off. He’s able to influence/stimulate growth to an extent, allowing him to construct exoskeletal armour for missions (hence his more elaborate setup on the two jobs so far)

Wil - Able to drain energy from others via touching them, temporarily boosting their own strength and speed. Apparently works on constructs like Portrait’s too, neat!

Hounds

Surpass - Super strength, durability, and speed. Doesn’t work quite as straightforwardly as advertised, but we’ll get into that in time. ; )

Vantage - Creates precognitive simulations which enable her to predict roughly how likely a given course of events is to happen. The more information she has on the topic, the better her prediction. Has limitations: introducing outside factors to a simulation will likely render the previous simulation useless, and she’ll have to do it again, and she doesn’t have infinite concentration/mental energy to constantly run every possible permutation of events at all times. 97.65% was a bluff.

Arcade - Shoots lasers!! - fires colourful lasers from his hands, growing in intensity the longer he charges them up. Easily capable of causing burns/starting fires.

Enfilade - Augment. Cybernetically enhanced in various ways, boosting physical capabilities. Most prominently, her arms are almost entirely artificial, and one forearm houses a powerful bolt launcher.

Portrait - ‘Paints’ constructs from inorganic material, with the creations taking on some characteristics from the material (i.e. a concrete construct would be hard-skinned). The constructs have limited autonomy and are heavily reliant Portrait’s orders, which as you can imagine is a significant weakness. Struggles to maintain more than three at a time, though there’s no diffusion of overall power (they don’t get weaker as he makes more) Unclear whether the animal theme is a preference or a requirement.

Phalanx - Telekinetic manipulation of metal (so nope, she’s not Magneto). Metal she’s manipulating exerts force roughly proportional to the weight/size, meaning she’s liable to dragging herself around. Though that essentially renders her capable of flight, score!

Coven

Hypothesis - Still a secret!

Catalyst - Physical attacks are repeated threefold. He punches you once, you feel it thrice. One two three.

CG - Superhumanly perfect balance. As in “can run on walls and stand on pretty much anything capable of bearing her weight” perfect.

Variable - Can teleport themself a short distance, leaving behind a weird membrane like they just shed a shell.

Gremlink - Augment. Cybernetically enhanced with a particular view towards integrating tech with her senses. Absolutely none of this was done through legal channels. Tinkers her own cyberware because, to be frank, she’s possessed of a reckless disregard for her own safety.

Lullaby - They sing, you snooze.

WPP

Ranger - Can produce a temporary chameleon-like effect, allowing him to blend in with his surroundings. Maybe chameleon isn’t quite the right word as it’s maybe a bit more like stealth camo from Metal Gear? Anyway, he goes gloes to invisible, albeit still possible to make out a silhouette, with effort.

Hit - Greatly enhanced accuracy, especially with projectiles. Technically works in close combat but uhhh he’s kind of shit in a fistfight.

Mis - Greatly enhanced reflexes. Operates on kind of a scale depending on how close and direct something threatening physical harm is. Hence, in a straight up brawl it’s nigh-impossible to land a clean strike. Nowhere near as effective with grappling or indirect attacks, and, well, she doesn’t have eyes in the back of her head and she’s no stronger than any other young adult in decent shape.

[nostalgiachan]

The Ring in Return

Ninth Prompt: "I almost lost you."

Act Three Spoilers

Summary: After ten years, Vier and Gale's research may be about to pay off: they may have found a way for Astarion to walk in the sun again. (2,031 words)

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After ten years, the end was finally in sight. Ten years of delving into every crypt this side of Barovia, sniffing out even the faintest hint of vampiric activity to find those who’d also journeyed down the same path, and to dig through whatever was left of them for the scraps of knowledge they may have left behind. Ten years of managing personal responsibilities, finances, resource procurement, travel time, work time. Ten years of constant drafting, testing, failing, and drafting again. But at last, Vier held within her hands the culmination of all their hopes, their dreams, their work.

To outside observers, it was merely a fancy ring - a platinum band with a black sapphire as its center gem, haloed by red-tinted sunstones and flanked by two small moonstone cabochons. But the platinum had been treated with crushed black opal, heliodor, and beljuril, and each piece of the ring was absolutely brimming with spellwork, all interwoven in a delicate circuit and focused toward a singular goal:

To make the wearer immune to the sun.

For some time, Vier had almost thought her goal was impossible, even with the help of the greatest wizard she knew. Gale Dekarios was absolutely essential to the creation of this item, of that there was no doubt. But for years, it seemed no matter what permutation of materials, spells, and methods of crafting they tried to piece together, the results ended with them no closer to success. One moment, the interwoven darkness spells would blind the wearer and leave them no better protected from daylight than they’d been before; the next, the heliodor would ambiently draw in too much sunlight and burn the flesh of even those who could freely walk in the day. Vier was absolutely willing to work for years, decades, centuries even; after all, assuming she didn’t meet an adventurer’s end or contract a terrible disease, she still had a healthy six hundred years remaining. But did Gale? While powerful wizards like Elminster certainly had a penchant for prolonging their lives, she didn’t want to hang the success of crafting this ring on assuming Gale would be in his full faculties a lifetime down the line.

But then, one day, the Wizard of Waterdeep sent Vier a summons: “May have found a lead. Meet me in Athkatla.”

Athkatla, city of a thousand vices, crown jewel of the nation of Amn. For once, Vier considered taking the journey alone. If the city was anything like she’d heard, even she’d be hard-pressed to keep on track with all of the temptations it provided. And Astarion? While she generally trusted him to behave himself, there was no telling what sort of shenaniganry he’d get up to if he had half the mind. So, of course, it was Gale who suggested the first thing they should do when they arrived in the city was to visit the local Temple of Sune which he’d heard had an absolutely lovely spa service.

“This all serves a very valuable purpose, I assure you,” the wizard responded to Vier’s clear displeasure. “Aside from making sure we’re relaxed and refreshed for the work ahead, I hear they have excellent private meeting rooms, where we’ll be neither seen nor heard.”

“Are you afraid someone’s going to eavesdrop on us?” Vier asked in return.

“Well, when one is dealing with difficult-to-obtain, possibly forbidden knowledge, it never hurts to practice precaution,” Gale answered in his typical chipper, yet slightly smug, manner. Vier’s lips couldn’t help but purse; she was certain Gale was far more interested in the spa aspect, but so long as this lead of his actually paid off, she supposed it wouldn’t hurt anything.

Surprisingly enough, though, Gale was actually being completely genuine about the private rooms. After she, Gale, and Astarion had been thoroughly bathed, splashed with tinctures, and massaged until their muscles were veritable piles of goop, they retreated to a lavishly-decorated rented room which had one way in, one way out, and seemed quite thoroughly soundproofed. The fact it was clearly some sort of boudoir had not gone unnoticed, and if only Gale hadn’t been there, it very well might have seen its intended use with just how relaxed Vier and Astarion had grown. Unfortunately for them - or, perhaps, fortunately for Gale - it wasn’t long before they were joined by a rather skittish looking individual with a satchel of scrolls. This person, Gale explained, was their information source, and he’d found an absolute whopper for them.

The visitor laid out one of the scrolls across the table between the four of them; its surface was covered with almost indecipherable writing and what appeared to be designs for a cloak of some sort. The man explained that over a century ago in Athkatla, there’d existed a vampire lord called Dragomir the Red. In his possession was a cloak which purportedly protected the wearer from all ill effects of the sun, but at the cost of severely weakening them in all other regards. Dragomir was long dead, and his cloak was nowhere to be found, but this individual had found something almost as, if not more, valuable: the original plans for the creation of the cloak by the necromancer Zulann Flass.

While Vier couldn’t translate the text half as well as Gale could, there was still much she could parse - symbols tied to specific spells, illustrations of ingredients to be woven into the fabric of the cloak, the exact order in which to imbue the material. The more she looked through the scrolls, the more her face began to light up. If they took those schematics and applied their own research to work around the cloak’s shortcomings…they could very well make their ring functional at last!

Vier and Gale thanked the informant profusely, though, as expected, he was not content with gratitude alone. He expected payment. Astarion floated the idea of a five finger discount, but the idea was quickly vetoed. This information, after all, had more than proven its weight in gold.

Of course, even with the schematics in hand, it would be another six years of work to once more amass funding, gather resources, and plan the new ring for testing. But at that first test, when the ring properly absorbed the beams of sunlight which hit it and the energy dissipated within the band, Vier nearly burst into tears. More testing followed, this time placing the ring on various summoned undead. While few had quite the same sort of issue with daylight as vampires, they still had a tendency to be somewhat weakened by the light of day. But with each new test, the new ring performed beautifully.

Soon enough, there was only one final test remaining, the test that Vier had been dreading most of all.

On that day, before the break of dawn, Gale joined Vier and Astarion in the Dawnshire Temple of Lathander. The church was perfectly situated on the tallest hill in the village, facing directly east so that the rising sun would always pour in through the massive windows behind its central altar. Every morning, Vier would greet Lathander’s light. This morning, she would not be greeting it alone.

As Vier turned to Astarion and slid the ring on his left hand, she could see he was trying to swallow his fear. “It’s a little gaudy, isn’t it?” he attempted to joke, though Vier knew his heart wasn’t in it. The look in his eye reminded her of that night, so many years ago, when he’d first poured his heart out to her. That night, she could see that he was willing to hope again, even if he was deathly afraid of the pain it would bring. Once more, he was hopeful. Once more, he was terrified.

As the sky beyond the windows turned a pale blue, Vier raised Astarion’s hands to her lips. “You know, I still have that moment just after we’d killed the Netherbrain seared into my mind,” she spoke quietly. “We stood there on the docks, Lathander shining brilliantly down on us as if he was celebrating what we’d accomplished. Deep down, I’d hoped that something of the tadpole’s effects would remain within us even when it’d been burned out of our heads, or that Lathander himself would make an exception for you in light of everything you’d done, and promise never to harm you again.”

“But then…I saw those silvery lines appear on your skin. I watched you crumble to dust. To have come that far and done that much, only to nearly lose you there and then…I couldn’t bear it. So I swore that no matter what it took, no matter how long I had to struggle, I would return the light to you. It’s the least you deserve.”

The tears in Astarion’s eyes shined nearly as brightly as the gems within the ring. “Gods, you…you truly are incredible, you know. In all this time, have I ever thanked you for all of this?”

“Oh, I’m sure you have,” Vier laughed through tears of her own. “And if you haven’t, all I’ll ask for is a smile. But, I suppose we shouldn’t get too ahead of ourselves.”

She released his right hand and turned to face the dawn with him, his left hand still gripped in her own, both trembling. The first rays peeked over the horizon, and soon spilled into the church, slowly and painfully rising. Higher and higher, they rose, flooding the room with golden light. Yet, Vier didn’t hear a single whimper from Astarion. He didn’t flinch or cry out in pain as the sunlight washed over him. He barely even squinted as the sun reached his red eyes, as if he was daring Lathander to do his absolute worst. Even with the full form of the sun in view, he didn’t budge an inch. They stood there together in silence, waiting for the other shoe to drop and for the ring to prove it had its limits. But that moment never came.

Astarion was completely fine.

From the pews behind the pair, an enthusiastic cheer rang out; Gale could no longer contain himself.

“Elminster’s beard, we actually did it!” he laughed, a surprisingly raucous celebration for the man. He quickly stood and crossed the floor, scooping up Vier and Astarion into the tightest of hugs. “Gods be good, you can’t believe how relieved I am!”

“You think you’re relieved? I thought I was about to fall apart for a minute there,” Vier joked as she returned the hug. Astarion, however, was surprisingly quiet in all of this. Was he just overwhelmed? Trying to process that he was truly free to enjoy the daytime once again? Or was it something else? As soon as Gale broke the hug, Astarion pulled him away for a moment, whispering something into his ear. In response, Gale simply nodded, and handed Astarion something that Vier couldn’t quite see from one of his robe pockets. After a moment, Astarion returned to her, once more taking her hands in his.

“You know, you’ve given me a rather lovely piece of jewelry today, gaudy as it is,” he said, trying to maintain his usual flippant air and only partially succeeding. “But for a while now, I’ve felt like something was a bit lopsided here. See, you’ve been breaking your back trying to make a nice ring for me - with help, of course, but still - but I’ve had nothing to really give to you in return. And you know me, tit for tat and that. Soooooo…”

Suddenly, Astarion dropped to a knee before Vier, and produced the item that Gale had given him.

“I got you a ring of your own! And on my honor, I didn’t steal it.”

The ring looked almost identical to the one that Vier and Gale had crafted together - platinum band, black sapphire setting flanked by moonstones, yet in place of a halo of sunstone was one of pale blue opal. He slid the ring onto her left hand.

“Honestly, I never thought I’d be asking this, but…Vier Alurlssrin, will you marry me?”

Vier didn’t bother to answer, instead letting the force of her kiss do the talking.