#this is an example of yelling into the void

[mareastrorum]

This past two weeks has been really fascinating to observe. I've only been on Tumblr for about a year and a half, and only following stream liveblogs for about half that time. I don't usually tag dive because it really can be a slog, but I did for the discourse regarding FCG's death, Otohan generally, and the sudden shift to the Crownkeepers.

This isn't directed at anyone specifically, and I'm saying that for a reason: this website is really well designed for people who disagree to talk past each other. It's considered rude to reply to someone's take directly if you disagree, and often same for sending an ask to that person -- and I'm not saying it shouldn't be, that is simply the culture. In turn, when people write out their own takes on their own blogs, a significant amount of those semi- or fully-responsive posts are written to a strawman. Then when people read those posts, they recognize the general flow (though perhaps not the exact posts the author saw), and the pattern continues until everyone's burnt out on their arguments to a wall instead of to each other. Worse, even the most well-written and comprehensive discourse post is going to miss some small point or nuance, and that of course will be the subject of an offshoot set of posts.

Compare to reddit, which (on well-moderated subs, anyway) funnels discussion to specific threads, and the only way you can effectively respond to a currently-popular take is to take the risk of downvotes by actually replying to that take or to another reply under it. Attempts to address an issue separately are more likely to be lost in the shuffle, and honestly, most people who respond indirectly (citing someone else's arguments but not replying in their thread or to their comment) often earn a hearty amount of downvotes for cowardice even if the mods do nothing. The only way to bitch about some other redditor's take "safely" is to flee to another subreddit, but only if someone doesn't point out what Bitchpants McGee hoped no one would notice. (Are witch hunts against TOS? Yeah. They've been against TOS for a while; what's your point?) The culture is much more confrontational, though the level of politeness and civility is sub-dependent. I was on Reddit for about 13 years before Tumblr, so I've been in subreddits of all kinds, and I find all that to be incredibly entertaining, even if the mobile experience is rather annoying these days.

I don't mean this as a criticism of Tumblr or people who prefer to discuss or read about CR on Tumblr. It is definitely not an endorsement of critical role subs on Reddit either -- I came to Tumblr, too, after all. My point is that, on Tumblr, you can't be sure who someone is responding to, what takes they have read, whether they tag dive, what's on their dash, etc. There's no common thread that everyone is reading and reacting to except for the show itself.

Most CR discourse hasn't been all that bad, but there's some really patronizing and insulting takes in the tags that are effectively shotgun blasts at anyone who disagrees with them. If you want to foster good dialogue about a topic, don't do that, and more importantly, don't take others seriously if those are the tactics they employ. Let those threads die. Don't feed the trolls.

Lastly, this isn't a plea for people to act a certain way on their own blog. Do as you please. But it's a reminder that you're going to talk past people, and they're going to talk past you. If you want that conversation to be worthwhile, then keep focused on what the point of your own post is. Are you trying to defend something? Defend it. Are you trying to deconstruct a misunderstanding? Stick to that. Bitching and venting? Go ahead. But if you've tacked on other stuff to that same post, don't be surprised when you're used as fodder for the people who are intentionally having that side conversation.

[kideternity]

Amazon getting along with predominantly kids, at least in the first 13 episodes or so, and in fact having probably his most important side character be a child in Masahiko is a really interesting choice to make for the sort of character Amazon is. Amazon is an adult, he’s still somebody deserving of autonomy or respect (like everyone does including kids but you get what I mean), he doesn’t have a “childlike” worldview really, but he is still someone who due to intense culture shock and growing up without other humans around him, is not Used to the world that people his age deal with daily. He doesn’t understand at least initially the whole song and dance adults do, and they are often people who actively don’t WANT to recognise his perspective and get pissed off because he's not fitting into their preconceptions. Whilst kids can still be cruel, they are often times much more respectful of Amazon and are much more open to the idea of just accepting him for like, Who He Is, and going along with it, or trying to help him navigate a confusing and often extremely cruel world. I don’t think it’s meant to be infantilising, and I think through Masahiko especially, I think the idea is that a youth like him is generally more kinder and empathises better with Amazon's situation- being a child, apart of a group often looked down upon, and which also have to navigate and learn the same scary world- and that through Masahiko, Amazon has a safer and more reliable way of being able to familiarise himself with a world he isn’t accustomed to and to be able to slowly feel more and more comfortable.

[akirameta84]

if im this anxious waiting for news on an application to be a writer for a virtual web game's newspaper i am going to crumble to dust when i apply for actual jobs huh

every message i get has me vibrate anxiously to see if its about the application yet grrr

[local-magpie]

honestly if your approach to something like an ethics, morality, or justice system begins with the phrase "it's simple," you have already failed. individual cases might be (big might) but systems are complex and difficult, because no one is omnescient (aka there is no good way to be positive you have the full truth) and there are many philosophies on how to deal with wrongdoing, with different pros and cons.

to say "it's simple" betrays that you have never put more than an ounce of thought into the repurcussions of your beliefs

[saph-yells-into-the-void]

ive seen a lot of ppl say that masumi felt like queerbait bc of how she was implied to be a lesbian during the main series, but was shown married to a man in the epilogue.

and I just... think that's the wrong idea to have?

just because she married a guy doesn't mean she isn't queer. she IS. she likes woman and was into futaba, but now there's this question of her also being into men. it all depends on how you interpret the ending tbh but the way i look at it, if she is then that makes her bi. which is still queer?

at most it's misleading but considering this whole manga is about change, im not surprised that they pulled that masumi turned out to be into guys after all.

identity and sexuality is a weird thing. you can think you're not into one gender, and then later in life it turns out you are. besides, she was in HIGH SCHOOL. a lot changes from high school to be a grown ass adult.

masumi later realizing she's into men as well as women ties into the themes the ending was trying to portray. and that is that high school is such a small part of your life and that a lot can change after that. throughout life you are always going to be figuring yourself out, and that includes identity and sexuality

so idk it just pisses me off when ppl say that the end result for masumi's character was queerbait when it very clearly isnt.

at worst it's misleading but at best it's one of the best examples of the manga's core themes.

[ace-fandom-dumbass]

started Case of the Greater Gatsby as background noise while cleaning/packing up and this one bit in episode one just swung right into Night Vale vibes, just the death threat note in an unreasonably cheery casual voice completely ignoring the actual content its killing me it sounded exactly like how cecil would react to something like that

[justabackgroundcharacter]

just opened tumblr on desktop for the first time in awhile and I have to ask. why does the header pull down when you scroll to the top of the dash? I get mobile sites use that to indicate a refresh but who is using tumblr on the mobile site instead of the app? is the app running the same code as the desktop site?? that's entirely possible but like. it takes one line of js to check the device. they'd have to have that check anyway for other things. why am I being subjected to mobile ui stuff on desktop

[citrus-moonlight]

As I often do, I've seen a few posts going around lately lamenting the lack of interaction with fanfiction/fanart here on Tumblr as well as AO3, but after reading a particular comment last night I just need to say this:

If someone tells you that the lack of response to sharing their writing is making them feel so upset that they're thinking of quitting writing altogether, don't tell them that's not a good mindset to have and they should just have fun with it and write for themselves. (have you just tried not being sad? you'll feel so much better!)

Even if you're a writer who felt that way once upon a time but then you changed your mindset so that you don't rely on others' feedback for validation and now you're so much happier, that's not helpful. Because that's obviously not what the person who is feeling sad and defeated is able to do right now, and for most writers/creators that's never going to be possible.

And it shouldn't have to be.

Especially here. Especially fanfiction.

Fanfiction is something that's created because someone loves something and wants to share it with others who love the same thing. And this is specifically a fandom space, somewhere that is supposed to be a community where discussion and dialogue can and is encouraged to happen between the people who write and the people who read. So when there's radio silence when you share something in this kind of space, do you really not see how that would be discouraging?

Because of course I write for myself - I would never get anything down on the page if I didn't - but I share because ultimately I want someone else out there to read what I wrote, and with any luck, to get some joy out of it. But if no one tells me they did, how am I supposed to know? As far as I know I've just been yelling into the void. As far as I know, all that work wasn't worth it.

A metaphor I've seen as an example is that it would be like having someone invite you over and cooking an entire delicious, heartfelt meal, you eat it all without saying anything, and then just leave. Do you not see how that would be upsetting?

We put so much of ourselves into what we write, bits of our hearts and souls and the things that we love and are exploring and are interested in or confused about. It's such a vulnerable thing to share something you've created, so when you tell someone that they shouldn't care if someone else reads what they wrote or tells them that they liked it, you're dismissing a very real and valid experience for so many creators out there.

Because regardless of how slow or fast a writer is, or how big or small their fandom is, it's still hard and takes time and energy and dedication and love - all of it in between our day to day lives from the mundanities to the heartbreaks - to even get something to the point where we're comfortable sharing.

Now, I know that not everyone thinks that writers are silly or selfish or entitled when they ask for feedback. Before I started writing again after many, many years, the main reason I didn't really comment on fics very often wasn't because I didn't think that the authors deserved feedback, it was more that I didn't really think that it would matter. That my comments would just be noted - if read at all - and brushed aside and then they would continue on about their day.

I could not have possible been more wrong. You might think you're just one person and it's just one comment but it's amazing how it can turn a day (or week, or month) around. How it can encourage someone to finish a story, or make a connection they'd been struggling with, or even just manage to add 500 words to a WIP. It is truly incredible to hear that someone loved something I wrote, and if you've ever commented on or reblogged one of my fics, please know that it truly means the world to me.

I've gone through a rough time with all of this lately myself, but I'm doing a bit better now (for the moment), so I just wanted to say this, in part to remind myself when it inevitably gets hard again:

If you're reading this, whether you're a friend or you've never seen me on your dash and never will again: I'm sorry it hurts right now. I'm sorry you feel discouraged and lonely, that it doesn't feel like it's worth it anymore, that you're struggling to find a reason to continue.

But I desperately hope that you keep writing. I hope you keep sharing. You're worth it. I know it's hard, and if you don't want to and you're just tired of the cycle of giving so much of yourself and getting so little in return, I understand that, too. It's ok to be in your feelings about it, it's ok to feel drained by it, and even though knowing you're not alone in your experience doesn't change anything and it still sucks, it's normal and valid and there's nothing wrong with you feeling the way that you do.

But I hope that you are able to find the joy in it again, because you deserve it. ❤️

[xiaoseminence]

𓆩✬𓆪 𝕋𝕖𝕪𝕧𝕒𝕥’𝕤 ℝ𝕖𝕧𝕖𝕣𝕒𝕟𝕥 𓆩✬𓆪 (𝔾𝕖𝕟𝕤𝕙𝕚𝕟 𝕊𝔸𝔾𝔸𝕌)

Summary ➵✬ When you wake up atop a golden altar, surrounded by the beloved characters from your favorite game, you will learn how far their fervent devotion truly goes. (Harem, GN pronouns) Warnings ➵✬ Heavy Yandere, Worship / Religious practices, Dark Topics, Slighty Mature / Suggestive scenes

“May the sacrifices we offer you appease you, our beloved creator. In these times of hardship, please guide us and lend us your strength” 

The words reverberated in the hall, making it seem as though they were coming from all around you. You hadn’t opened your eyes, and yet an almost blinding ray of golden light was visible even through your closed lids. You barely registered the horrified gasps and shouts of astonishment as the strong smell of incense burned your lungs with each breath. 

Was this… Death? The last thing you remembered was a train speeding towards you, headed for an inevitable collision. By the time you even noticed it, it was clear that you wouldn’t manage to escape its trajectory - too engrossed in the game you were playing on your phone to save yourself. 

The people you knew always thought that death would be painless, a void empty of emotions or sound. And yet… Why was it this loud? By now the gasps had been replaced by hectic shuffling, too many muffled voices yelling over each other to the point that you couldn’t make out a single word. As if you had just emerged from a frozen lake, your senses suddenly returned to you all at once - brain now on high alert. Where were you? With a movement so fast that it made your head throb painfully, you ripped open your eyes and sat up. As soon as your lashes parted to take in the sight in front of you, your (e/c) orbs were met with shimmering cores of gold and ruby. 

It took you a second to realize that you were face to face with a person, as their skin as pale as moonlight and eyes as crystalline as jewels made it easy to mistake them for a delicately crafted statue. Yet your shock seemingly couldn’t compare to that of the man, who visibly trembled to the point that his legs gave out under him. 

He fell to his knees, and then… he lowered his head so far that it barely touched the stone floor beneath. As your eyes quickly darted around the room to make any sense of this situation, you were met with many other people following the example of the man in front of you. Some of them fell to their knees in an instant, creating a loud thud that echoed in the large, temple-like building, while others lowered their gaze in more of a demure manner, letting their bodies slowly follow suit as they sank to the ground.

Where were you? And why did the man in front of you seem so familiar? His golden eyes, brown hair tied with a black ribbon, and elegant attire were connected to something in your memories, yet said memory evaded you like a word stuck at the tip of your tongue. 

“Your grace-”, his breath shuddered as he spoke, yet his voice held a sense of desperation. “Thank you for honoring your worshippers with your presence”. You tried to speak, ask what kind of twisted afterlife you’d been sent to, when his next words caused your thoughts to fly into a frenzy. 

“Your first apostle, Rex Lapis, is forever at your service. Command me as you wish, your grace” 

Rex Lapis? This couldn’t be true. And yet… it made too much sense for you to deny it. He looked just like the character you had managed to acquire just last week, after hours and weeks of your time poured into collecting as many primogems as you could. And… you could have sworn that you heard someone mention the word “Teyvat” when you first gained consciousness in this… hall. 

It was as time had frozen still, as no one dared to move a muscle or even so much as breathe. When your eyes fell onto a statue at the far end of the temple, you too froze in place. It was your face. Etched into immaculate white stone. The statue depicted a person sat on a throne, long robes draped around their body and pooling at their feet. Even as a statue, the cloth was depicted perfectly. And even if the mighty posture and perfectly dignified expression did not resemble your current state at all… it was unmistakably your face staring back at you with lifeless eyes made of marble. 

“Ningguang?” As if to test your theory, you had spoken the first name that came to your mind when you looked at the audience. There were many people, hundreds, maybe even thousands - but you had spotted her form kneeling in the very front row. Her attire was different from what she wore in the game, her white and golden dress was replaced by a red hanfu. But her long hair, which was colored like freshly fallen snow, with a red tassel tied to it was just like you had first seen her in the game.

At the mention of her name, she seemed to flinch a little in surprise, before she dutifully raised her head, albeit not fully. She lifted it only to the point of being able to gaze up at you, her ruby eyes peering through long white lashes, glinting expectantly. 

“Yes, your grace?”

You couldn’t believe it. It was real. But… What would you do now? They seemed to revere you as maybe royalty - or even a deity. Closing your eyes, you allowed yourself just a moment to force your brain into thinking of a plan - any course of action that would seem reasonable and not put you in danger. For the start, this should be simple - play along while you discover more about this world around you. The only problem was… how would you play along when you didn’t know what they expected of you. 

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Reminiscing back to the moment you first woke up in this world is something that nowadays, you didn’t do often. On occasion you wondered whether you would have done anything differently, knowing what was to come. Though, as you now rested in the arms of one of your consorts, half aware of the sugary promises of love and servitude they whispered into your ears, you didn’t regret it as much. Yet the road leading to this state of peace in your mind and acceptance of your situation had been a very long one. ➵✬ to be continued 

Word count ➵✬ 1.05k 

[darkshrimpemotions]

Oh yeah totally, Dean causing Sam some temporary fear and worry in a desperate attempt to solve a problem Sam created after Sam clearly demonstrated Dean couldn't trust him in this situation is WAY worse than Sam sending a hunter he KNEW was unstable after someone he didn't know because *checks notes* he wanted so badly to trust Dean. Love it when Sam's way of trusting Dean is to do something which clearly states he doesn't trust him at all. 🙄🙄🙄

Oh my god I forgot that Martin didn't just stumble on Benny as a hunter. Sam actually SENT him after Benny. God I really fucking hate Sam in season 8 SO FUCKING MUCH. That should've been on the damn Sam Crimes poll.

[kideternity]

“We have to kill BlackWargreymon” Takeru that’s a bit fucked up to say to Iori!

[penvisions]

y'all, i am so beyond grateful and appreciative. i'm for real tearing up, i never expected to even get five chapters into my self-indulgent foray into this fandom let along to where i am now

i want to thank every single one of you, even if you just lurk, even if you go on anon to ask questions and interact, my lovely mutuals who i hold so dear, to each person who spams me with likes and reblogs when they come across my page, to each and every one. thank you so fucking much for making the world a little better by being here in this corner of the internet with me

i want to express how amazing it has been (despite some considerable drama and nonsense) to be here, to have this space to escape to, to be able to yell into the void with likeminded people. i don't have a big social circle, nor a lot of things that keep me busy aside from work and family obligations and it's so exciting to have this community in my phone i can reach out to, post to, cry with, shout with, and enjoy in that old man and his fantastic acting career

a lot of my fics are pulled from personal experiences, reader inserts showcase the qualities in myself i am self-conscious of, the qualities i feel are what makes it a little harder for me to connect with more people in the real world. the love and appreciation y'all show for them means the world to me. it makes me feel so seen and heard and the fact that fanfiction has been able to do that and bring us all together is...incredible. so thank you, thank you, thank you

to celebrate, i would love to do a little something. so please feel free to send something in:

🖤 for a moodboard of your favorite p boy + a simple theme (for example: joel miller + ranch life)

🩶 for a snippet or sneakie peak from any of my ongoing fics found here

💛 for me to check out a self rec of something you're super proud of! always looking for more to read, so send 'em in, babes

💜 for my favorite pedro pic of the hour / day

🩷 for a favorite of mine in exchange for one of your own! (for example: favorite color of yours and i'll give you mine in return)

x.o dev

[kimkhimhant]

kinn is such a good character and I love him so much but there are those few moments during the show where he reaches out toward Porsche or moves toward him and Porsche reacts like he's expecting affection and instead Kinn hits him or yells at him and it just. ooohhh boy. honestly out of all the toxicity and angst in the show, those are some of the most painful moments to me. Porsche’s reaction when he receives violence instead of affection just absolutely breaks me.

I've been thinking about this dynamic a lot lately and mostly just Kinn as a character, and by extension khun and kim, and it's making my brain rattle

it's fairly inconsequential behavior in the grand scope of things, considering, you know, he's a mafia leader who is expected to be violent and unfeeling. but also, that kind of behavior in interpersonal relationships is so often mirrored. not always. but often. maybe it's just a response to what happened with Tawan, but if it's not, who is kinn mirroring by responding to requests for affection with violence? gun is the obvious first notable example. but what about his own parents? Korn isn't shown as physically violent, but who knows.

is this something all the boys are accustomed to? do they expect to be met with violence when they seek affection? because that's what they've been taught to do?

I'm just throwing thoughts into the void rn and this isn't well articulated rn I'm just emotional over the Theerapnyakul brothers

[windvexer]

Maybe this is a dumb baby question but, How do you know if a spell works? I’m investigating different practices and all the spells are like… focus, luck, etc, like things that are supposed to either influence my interior state or encourage certain events to occur. But I can’t help but think that if magic was “real” it could do things that are obvious or immediately observable. Have you ever done anything you think was undeniably magic? How did you know?

Not a dumb baby question.

It works if it works! And you can test this.

Broadly speaking we can divide all practical sorcery into two categories: verifiable and unverifiable.

It's really hard to know if an unverifiable spell works. E.g., a spell for focus could often be explainable by the placebo effect. (Or, this lovely Guardian Animal Shielding exercise, which is a fun and relaxing thing to do).

But a verifiable spell is something that you should be able to test and see if your magic did or didn't work.

A good way to find sources of verifiable magic in your life is to observe relatively stable patterns in your own life which have been going on for months, and then cast a spell to directly change it.

An example might be always getting a bad parking spot at work - and then trying to get a very good parking spot.

Either you get to work and have a great place to park even though the whole lot is normally full, or you don't. The spell worked, or it didn't.

Yes, I've worked magic that is obvious and immediately observable. I've worked so much of it and some of it is so miraculous that I don't talk about it publicly because practitioners have a lot of hangups about what kind of magic they think is allowed to exist.

But more importantly I think that while wanting magic to be real, and sorcery to work, are very valid, just chasing that realness alone is probably going to lead you to a path of misery. Here are some of my thoughts on this: On witchcraft as spirituality

Here are some random stories:

At one time there were many arguments in the household due to home renovations (stressful!). I cast a spell to cause one person in the household to be more mindful of the situation. I cast the spell and stepped outside of my practice space. That person was, surprisingly, in the yard and started asking me questions about the exact issue I had just cast on. We ended up having a very long conversation and after that the arguments stopped.

Some years ago the neighbor was causing horrible ruckus and giving my partner awful anxiety, as he could clearly hear it through the old, thin window. I found a bit of thread and "tied up" the neighbor's loud sounds into a knot, and weighted it down with a rock on the windowsill. At this time I wasn't living with my partner, so I came back some weeks later to see the knot. I thought I'd get rid of it, but when I moved the rock my partner stopped me.

"You know what's strange? After you put that there, the neighbor stopped being loud."

I looked at the disrupted rock, which was to "weigh down" the spell, and immediately the neighbor started yelling. I put the rock back, and about 30 minutes later he piped down again and stayed quiet.

Years later, after many calls to the police from many people in the neighborhood with no traction at all, I used the Justice tarot card in a spell and that neighbor was permanently removed from the home within a couple of weeks.

At one time, I was trying to do a distance energy reading for someone. But something was wrong; I couldn't see clearly. In fact it looked like they were consumed by a black void... then presently a lighter blue color was around the blackness, then white, then dark blue. It was no energy I was familiar with and I double-checked with the person that they had no magical protections to stop me from Seeing them.

"Oh, the only ward I didn't take down was my nazar." 🧿🧿🧿🧿

I have Very Silly Tendons, and in the morning I usually have a painful limp for several minutes until my foot stretches out. That is, of course, unless I remember to do a very simple energy exercise the night before. Then my foot is as loose and supple as a bowl of buttered noodles.

Once, I cast a spell using the planetary energies of Mercury in order to secure a good deal on a used van. I put in very specific requirements, and asked that if I tried to buy a van that didn't meet these requirements, that the elementals would stop me and not let the deal go through. Immediately after I cast the spell I found a van which was disqualified from the list, but I reallllly wanted it. I contacted the Craiglist seller, who didn't respond for a couple of days, but the listing stayed up.

The next morning my friend contacts me. She says she had a dream that yellow tornadoes came and told her to give me a message; that I was making a mistake.

Well if you know Mercury, then you know yellow airy energies are really his thing.

I immediately set up the spell again, retracted my requests, and apologized for going against what I said I wanted.

The seller contacted me within the hour, and I got the van.

[leiflitter]

Gale Dekarios and The Wizard of Waterdeep

Aka Leif vents their brain into Tumblr again because I have Thoughts About The Wizard! Is it coherent? PROBABLY NOT I'M DOING THIS FOR FUN.

General rambling below the cut!

Firstly- this little braindump is based upon my interpretation of Gale as a Neurodivergent Individual, so I guess if you're not on the "Gale would be so fuckin into magic the gathering if he was in this realm" train, then this may not be for you. Which is fine! I'm just yelling into the void here.

Also; characters are fun because we can interpret them in different ways! This is in no way meant to stomp on anyone else's headcanons of Gale, and may even be entirely overwritten if more info comes out about him from Larian.

I wrote a ton and then fuckin lost it all but hey that's fine I can condense it WAY more now. So let's go, bullet points!

Gale of Waterdeep is Gale Dekarios' mask.

If you don't know what Masking is- a quick definition for ya-

Neurodivergent masking refers to the practice of concealing or suppressing aspects of one's neurodivergent traits or conditions, in order to fit in with the norms of the workplace or society.

Let's begin at the beginning-

Gale as a child would have been insufferable. He was a prodigy, yes, but also clearly lacked proper consequences for his actions (his punishment for Blackstaff hijinks in his first year? Writing lines. HE OPENED A PORTAL TO LIMBO AND ALMOST DIED). This may be due to Mystra's influence, even if it was indirect, but there's no faster way to alienate a child from their peers than to both mark them as Very Special and let them get away with everything. Gale's magical education likely left his social education lacking.

As Gale's also mentioned that he was a prodigy, and was using 4th level spells (summon elemental) when he was living at home (at least part of the time), he may even have been younger than his fellow first year apprentice wizards when he was admitted- further isolating him. He specifically says he was a child when he, uh, "borrowed" the blackstaff- we just don't know how old Blackstaff first years tend to be.

Also, from Gale's story about the Blackstaff, he seemed to be attending Wizard Boarding School (he wanted to get to the first year dorms). So he was not only set apart from his peers, he had to live in a dorm with them.

To navigate this difficult social situation, Gale Dekarios becomes Gale of Waterdeep- he starts Masking. He puts on his Wizard Suit and acts the way Wizards should, because those are the Wizard Rules.

For an example of these Wizard Rules- the closest equivalent we have to Pre-Folly Gale would probably be Lorroakan - and Lorroakan is a great example of Wizard Language and Wizard Rules. Yes, Lorroakan is an absolute shitweasel, but let's consider him an extreme example- pre-folly Gale turned up to 15. Heck, he even does the little ☝️ when you speak to him (Gale does it better bro, sorry).

Elminster is also a good example- he's almost allergic to just saying something straight out until he absolutely has to, but he'll dance around the point repeatedly. A trait Gale shows before he reveals the orb:

Gale. Seriously. He'd get you a birthday present and make five billion hints about it, I swear. But again- that's How Fancy Wizards Talk in this canon. And Gale does it excellently.

Gale masking also explains how his Wizard Rizz and his loneliness coexist. Gale of Waterdeep has a practiced tongue and has totally had sex with mortals. Gale Dekarios, on the other hand, is stuck inside Gale of Waterdeep like that little alien in Men in Black.

The Wizard of Waterdeep can only facilitate shallow connections because there's nothing behind the Thesaurus Vocabulary. The confidence he projects is essentially an illusion, but it's one he relies on to navigate his world. He's isolated by default- as you grow closer, he admits this:

Note how he says Tara was "always" telling him to get mortal friends- we know that Gale conjured Tara when he was young. Assuming that he's not exaggerating to an exponential degree, we can assume that Gale's never really had a friendship based on actual mutual appreciation- more that any connections he had were entirely due to his magical ability and proximity to Mystra.

Thus while he may not be a virgin on the physical plane, I doubt that his experiences were in any way personal or meaningful.

We know Gale's a romantic at heart- but again, he cannot remove the mask. From personal experience, masking can often lead you to do things you don't quite "get" because it's what "normal" people do.

Although it could be explained by scripting limitations, I would have expected any meaningful romantic encounters to be mentioned- especially as you directly ask him if you're his first mortal partner. Gale is an expert at oversharing- I would consider it in-character for him to ramble about his first mortal love before realising that he's cramming his foot into his mouth and shutting up (similar to the "Mystra once took the tiniest piece of weave and-" scene).

Again, without further info from Gale's writers, we've got space to play in- my personal feeling is that Gale has had hookups, most likely with his wizarding peers, but as he didn't let his peers see beyond the Wizard of Waterdeep, anything more than casual just wouldn't happen. He couldn't let anyone close enough to get behind the mask, especially not another wizard- as other wizards are those he's most trying to blend in with.

Enter Mystra (Derogatory) + a lil more Lorroakan (Derogatory)

A minor sidetrack here- part of why I tend to see Gale as early-mid 30s is to do with the Mystra timeline and my own personal experiences. So- firstly, as BG3 is set in 1492. Mystra was slain (aw yeah) in 1385, which started The Spellplague, but she was restored (boo, hiss, we were fine without her) in 1480. So there's about 12ish years where Mystra was, y'know, alive and able to interact with Gale. Gale spent one of those years with the orb, and before that he had to go and find the orb. So let's say he and Mystra spent about a decade together, from teacher > lover.

I've already expounded about why I think Mystra doesn't give a single shit about Gale in my previous GaleRant- my basic thoughts are that Mystra's relationship with Gale was a form of damage control to prevent him becoming Karsus 2.0, but as she didn't actually care enough about him to get to know him, her plans actually made him more likely to go all Netherese Magic.

We're going to hop back to Lorroakan for a sec. Again, he proves to be a good analogue for Gale. Lorroakan has been in residence at Ramazith's Tower for about 10 years- even though context clues show us that he's definitely not up to Gale's standard, so we'll assume he's probably a little bit older than our Child Prodigy- and he's definately less of a go-getter, seeing as how he's paying folks to go get the Nightsong instead of doing it himself. The big baby.

Lorroakan is important because he demonstrates the sort of shit egotistical wizards do when they aren't distracted by Mystra's blue sparkly tits. Again, a minor assumption that he's maybe a little older than Gale- he has taken ownership of a famous Wizard's Tower, absolutely upped his PR game to Kardashian tier over a decade, and now he's trying to find the Nightsong. Is it just me, or is there HUBRIS in the air?

Now, back to Gale. We know he was trying to prove himself from childhood. Elementals, Tara, The Blackstaff- and, frankly, does he seem like the kind of guy to leave it at that? I doubt it- hence why I peg him at early-mid 30s, depending on when Mystra tried the Godly equivalent of danging keys in front of a cat. I reckon he'd have dashed into some sort of cataclysmic bullshittery as soon as he graduated from Wizard School. And we know he probably became a full-fledged wizard early, given that he's a smart lil guy.

HOWEVER, back to my actual point about Gale's general social life/etc- Gale absolutely lacks real-world experience.

I'm not talking him hanging out in the Yawning Portal. I'm talking his actual, prolonged exposure to the world outside of Wizard Life.

(Yes, it is absolutely possible that he spent however-long just quietly studying for Wizard in between him becoming a full wizard and his exile, but! With age comes exposure- and Gale is actually a fairly adventurous lil dweeb. He's curious- and again, had he been given true freedom, he probably would be off gathering eldritch relics and causing havok)

My main point, though, is that a major point of Gale's entire plot is that he is being forcibly unmasked by the circumstances he's in- and this is in many ways the catalyst for late-game stuff.

Gale's primary conflict isn't truly against Mystra, because let's be real- Mystra doesn't give much of a shit about him one way or another. I'm not even convinced that she cares about The Absolute- I think she just doesn't want to go through the hassle of dying again, and she doesn't respect Gale enough to even consider a way to actually communicate with him about it.

Gale's arc is a struggle between Gale of Waterdeep and Gale Dekarios- and Gale coming to terms with himself as a person. Not as a wizard. Not as a prodigy. Not as anything special- just a man.

You see it in the language he uses- he goes from speaking in monologues to telling you to stop licking the damn thing!

You see it in his emotional range expanding- when you yoink him from the portal, he's immediately cheery! You could whack him in a faculty party and he'd probably behave in the exact same way- and then the night before Moonrise he's terrified. He even becomes more honest in his aspirations- yes, he still dresses it up to be persuasive, but he doesn't try to play it cool. He's absolutely geeking out about it alongside everything else.

Gale of Waterdeep demands a lot to be maintained, and it's a comforting outfit to wear. He slips, but the beauty in the story is that you can take Gale Dekarios by the hand and show him that he can be mortal. He can feel pain and greed and desire, disgust and shame and sadness, and it isn't a bad thing. He can be confident for real, and not as camouflage- he can be horny on main and as long as it's genuine, he's absolutely rockin' it.

And as someone who was and is going through it, it's made me appreciate him immensely.

[jabberwondia]

【the next step】 【part 2】 RIDDLE x READER, NSFW

Part 1 is here.

The proverbial "next time".

Riddle Rosehearts x Female Reader, 18+. Fluff, sexual intimacy (explicit), consensual.

Worrying about failing a test, botching that one high note at the recital, or stammering throughout the graduation speech are all examples of performance anxiety. The thought of failing and the looming overshadow it casts on the far-off dream of success – to a lot of people, it can be paralyzing. To counter it, you dwell on all the possibilities before that something can even come to pass, methodically going through worst-case scenarios in your head; at the time, they all seem more like prophecies.

Contrary to what his occasionally fiery mood swings might suggest, Riddle Rosehearts was a fairly confident and composed person, and never suffered from nerves before a test, recital or speech. The roots of his self-assurance were practice, diligence and rules. No test would ever be scary if you had revised hard enough, no note unreachable if practiced frequently enough, and no speech impossible if rehearsed enough. Rules provided a frame which allowed little flexibility, which meant more provable, safe results.

This, however, was different. There was no way to prepare for it. Any guides on the subject would generally say, ‘Let it flow’, and honestly that’s what he believed he had done -or at least tried to do- last time, when you were catching your breath, spread on top of his lap. He had purposefully, repeatedly, attempted to forget all about it – but every time his phone buzzed with one of your messages, he was sorely reminded of everything he did, and specially of what he didn’t do.

‘Would it be so bad if it were... planned?’ he pondered. But it’s not like those words would ever leave his mouth, and he truly did care about you, so he was not about to insult your integrity by suggesting something as unrefined as “Hey baby, let’s get it on”.

Sigh. It hardly seemed like the topic you could trust friends with, either. “What should I do?” he wanted to ask, but the fear of getting humiliated in return was too real. Or at least, it was inside Riddle’s head, as however certain he could be in social situations, one of his most recurring nightmares included screwing up an easy spell, getting laughed at, then yelled at by his mother, and, finally, falling through the void (in that order).

“Next time,” he had told Floyd. Why did he do that? Whatever the hell did that mean? Not unlike enlisting New Year resolutions and telling everyone you started working out – in a way, the contract behind your words binds you to turn them into action. Riddle really wish he hadn’t, and to be fair, Floyd hadn’t even asked about it since – but the thought alone was eating away at him.

Alone in his room, he had, at long last, drafted up the end-all, be-all of text-based conversation.

Riddle Rosehearts: “Hello! 🌹 What are you doing for the break? I’ll pass on going home this time, I think. We can expect an exceptionally hot summer this year, and I’m worried about the hedgehogs.”

And then, greatly contingent on your answer, but – hopefully – the next sentence would be:

“If you’re free sometime, would you like to stay the night?”

‘Stay the night’ was a much more suitable euphemism for what he wanted to say. It was short, and sweet, and left the possibility of nothing happening, which was important. The main problem with it is that it broke quite a few rules, but most notoriously: the rules that stated students from other schools were not allowed inside the dorms past curfew, and that non-alumni needed a special permission to enter in the first place. Well, uh, and also the fact that he was trying to bring a girl to sleepover to an all-boys school. After one law had been violated, the rest of transgressions just seemed like silly, collateral damage. This is why he was a stickler for codes and regulations – being unyielding did, in fact, protect the system from falling apart all at once.

The hedgehog excuse also worked well, and even his mother had believed it and granted him permission to stay all summer on campus.

The first text is an easy one to send. If, for any reason, Riddle feels like he needs to call the whole thing off, he can just invite you to a Tea Party, or suggest a date in the park. The break begins next weekend, and it’s a perfect time because the school will be mostly empty and free of prying eyes. And if you are too busy to catch up, spending a quiet summer caring for the hedgehogs doesn’t sound too bad either.

Y/N: “oh hey! 😊 poor darlings🦔 it’s good they have a very kind caretaker💓 yeah, I read somewhere we were reaching record temperatures. thankfully it’s not so bad inside our dorm. i’ll go home, but only from the second week onwards”

Which leaves a week in between to... to...

Riddle opens up his drafts once again. All he has to do is copy, paste and hope for the best. But as he’s proof-reading, it occurs to him that maybe “sleepover” is better than “stay the night” – which one sounds more casual? Ugh, his hands are starting to feel icy cold and unresponsive. The weight on his chest is getting bigger.

Y/N: “we should meet up before I leave! 😊 i can help take care of the hedgehogs if you need a hand?"

Oh my Queen. A second, continuous text from you was not in the original plan. So now what? Well, he could still brave through and –ahem– suggest his suggestion. Hell, if he was so paralyzed at a text, there’s no way he could actually sleep with you, even if you did come over.

Riddle does not want you to help take care of the hedgehogs. Or rather, that is so trivial right now, that he wishes you could forget about it, and words to be undone.

Riddle Rosehearts: “I couldn’t possibly ask that! Hedgehogs are nocturnal, so you’d have to come in pretty late.”

Riddle is quick to type and send, but then gasps when he realizes the meaning. It can be taken two ways: either that he wants you to come in late, ergo, wants to get in your pants and is cowardly suggesting it; or he does not want you anywhere near the dorm at night, which, eh, kind of resets all the progress made in this conversation.

Y/N: “oh, right 😊 the school has rules against that, lol”

It’s getting more and more impossible to recover from this, like a rowing boat trying to maneuver through a river of chocolate fudge.

The draft that is waiting in his copy clipboard now makes no sense. “If you’re free sometime, would you like to stay the night?” is no longer applicable to this flow of the conversation. But he needs to find a way around it, or else it’s back to square one.

Riddle takes a very, very deep breath. Face red, fingers trembling, he manages to write:

Riddle Rosehearts: “Actually, don’t worry about the hedgehogs. It takes time to build trust with them anyways. But on that note, would you like to stay over sometime? Feel free to say no.”

That last part sounds incredibly weak and lacking in courage. He erases it and types it again a couple of times until deciding in favor of leaving it as-is – the fact that you don’t feel pressured is, after all, of utmost importance to him.

And yeah, “stay over” sounds better than sleeping or staying the night, so let’s stick to that.

When the message pops on your side of the screen, your sight paces back and forth at least twenty times, doubting the verity of your own eyes or reading comprehension. After last time, and how nonchalantly it had ended, you thought for sure that Riddle had been distancing himself from you, and that you had crossed a boundary that was hard to backtrack from. That is exactly why, truth be told, you were relieved when he initiated casual conversation as if nothing had happened. The struggle was mixing all these pure, affectionate, innocent emotions he made you feel with the raw Eros of whatever last study session was, and it had left you more confused than ever.

But hey, you tell yourself. Nothing needs to happen. I can just sleep. We can cuddle, and that’s it.

It seems you are taking all too long to answer, because his chat box pops up again.

Riddle Rosehearts: “I want to see you.”

Riddle was really good in situations reigned by protocol. He was the best social dancer you’d ever seen, and the way he’d guided you while waltzing through an interscholastic dance had been dreamlike. He’d open doors for you and escort you to your school gates; he was always eager to send over a study guide or offer some academic advice. But “I want to see you” and “I miss you” were words rarely uttered.

Filled with a newfound courage, you text back:

Y/N: “i'd love to! is friday ok? 😊”

Getting into Heartslabyul is always a challenge. You’d need to either come over during the daytime and then purposefully miss curfew, or you’d have to find a way to sneak in just before the gates are closed for the night. As a housewarden from a rival school, your face is somewhat known within the Night Raven College students, and while it’s not exactly a secret that you’re dating the Heartslabyul sovereign, you’d rather if people did not know you were planning on staying the night, for the Seven’s sakes!

If this were an eventful holiday, like Halloween celebrations or a friendly Spelldrive tournament, inter-school visits were more easily forgivable. There were plenty of ways to score a guest pass and walk around freely. But an outsider going around the dorm at night, on a normal school day? Now, that is just fishy.

You devised a plan of which the success depended on how fast Riddle could find you and then rush to his room. And you know he hated running in the hallways.

Your Signature Spell, “Drink Me”, as tongue-in-cheek as it sounded, allowed you to change an object or person in size for a very small period of time. Theoretically, if this was used on yourself and your clothes, you could become hedgehog-sized in seconds. And then, all would Riddle need to do is transport you in his shirt pocket. Simple enough, right?

As you head through the motions of the plan, you realize how utterly embarrassing it is. First, you would need to decide on a set of coordinates where Riddle would find your miniaturized self. He needs to pick you up, basically engulfing you with both hands. You are then to fit inside his pocket, and this meant that his heartbeat would sound like thunderstorms in the summer sky (a by-product of you being so small). And because you’d turn back in 5 minutes, he needs to rush to his room and take you out of the pocket, lest you grow back to normal and rip his prized uniform shirt apart.

There could be some repercussions. Usually, your Signature Spell required of a catalyst – you would use homemade soda for the shrinking spell and cookies for the enlarging spell – so as to keep the side effects at bay, and make the desired transformation last longer (a maximum of an hour). Very rarely you’d cast them directly from your pen to the object in question, unless you wanted or needed consequences to be more immediate and short-lived. In this case, staying small for a whole hour was not exactly the most enticing of options, and gorging on enlarging cookies while the effects of the fizzy shrinking drink hadn’t yet subsided always resulted in nausea, an upset stomach and a fever (you know – you’ve tried before). So, the only viable option was cast and run: a plan problematic in and of itself, but the only chance you had to access the property unnoticed. Ah, if only Chen’ya could teach you how to disappear at will.

When you suggested all of this over the phone, Riddle was flabbergasted. It was hard to tell which is more mortifying – carrying you around like a portable magic pen, or having you enter the dorm life-size and risk a student seeing you enter his room at night.

Eventually, after much persuasion, he had agreed to meet you at the outskirts of the Heartslabyul forest, which was exactly five minutes away from his quarters.

It’s the first meeting since the, uh, lap-sitting incident, and you are both quite self-conscious still. You wave and smile at his approaching figure, but he hurriedly hushes, “Quick! Before anyone sees you.”

Pointing a shaky pen to your chest, you take a deep breath. “Here goes. Drink Me!”

If the feeling could be compared to anything, you’d say it kind of reminds you of a balloon deflating – air gushing out, spiraling as it swirls until it reaches the floor. A kaleidoscope in which the senses become filled all at once, as the world around you is so big, and you’re now so small. The only good part is that, because your height and weight also decrease in proportion, having a parasol ready allows you to float tenderly for the last couple of inches, and the fall is never too abrupt.

Riddle is now... huge. I mean, wow there, Y/N, witty observation. But he really is, and even the act of him crouching to get closer to you shakes the whole ground like an earthquake. He stares at you, two fingers pressed on his lips, pondering if he should lift you up by the collar... but no, no, that’s too ungracious.

So, he offers the palm of his hand. You know that even if you talked at this size, your tiny micro lungs are not enough to produce enough sound to reach him properly, so you keep quiet and climb up his thumb.

When Riddle brings you up to the height of his pocket, it’s like that one Twisneyland attraction that you rode together once, the scary one with the elevator which you had hated with every fiber of your heart as you held on to your boyfriend’s arm screaming – and he wasn’t too keen on thrill rides, either, but had tried to put on a brave face for your sake.

“Are you alright?” he beckons, in a normal tone for him, but it’s like a cacophony ripping apart at your miniature eardrums. You put your hands over your ears. “—sorry! So sorry,” he reduces his voice to a whisper.

Plopping yourself into the pocket, you fall all the way in, roughly reaching the middle while standing straight. You are way smaller than hedgehog size at this point, comparable to a miniature doll of only a few centimeters high. “Hang in there,” he says.

By the sudden swaying, like a seism about to tear the face of the Earth, you assume that Riddle has set course for his room. The countdown starts.

As luck would have it, everyone and their mother is out to get the Headwarden today. He gets stopped at least thrice, mostly about silly stuff such as the shipment for flamingo food or the rundown for the next unbirthday party. It’s impressive how many students are still in the dorm, really –don’t these people have anything else better to do?– their voices are so loud you can barely make out the conversations, instead just catching the keywords. You have both hands pressed against your ears, eyes closed, trying to avoid sensory overload. At least this goes to show there is no way you could have gotten into Heartslabyul unnoticed if you were your proper size.

After many unwanted interruptions, time was running out for the both of you. The de-transformation would start coming in little bursts, where you’d feel your body a little bigger each time. The transpired, stuffy white fabric of that pocket was sure starting to feel a little tight, and now you could almost peek over the hem on your tiptoes.

“Riddle!” is your hurried plead, but he’s going as fast as humanly possible, as fast as anyone can go while still avoiding attention.

When he’s at the doorstep, it feels the seams won’t hold any longer. To the best of your ability, you lift yourself using your arms, trying to squeeze up and out. He fumbles with the key, breath visibly agitated, until he remembers he can just use magic, and can finally, triumphantly, open the door and slam it shut.

“Y/N!” he beckons, in a panic, looking for you to jump on his palm again so he can plop you onto the ground.

“No time! Throw me on the bed!” you squeak, unsure of how much of your speech is currently intelligible. Riddle catches the gist of it, and grabs you by the first thing he can pinch, which is the hem of your skirt, as you’re now dangling outside his pocket, barely not small enough to fit back in.

And next thing you know, he is flinging you like a Spelldrive disk towards his bed; with a loud “poof”, you transform mid-air and land headfirst, full size, cartwheeling on his mattress. Your skirt is flung open, you’ve lost both shoes somewhere along the way, you’re all tangled in on yourself, but at least you are finally safe, and neither Riddle’s shirt nor reputation have been ruined.

Adjusting your sitting position, you first make sure all parts have grown back to size. After all, it’s not unheard of for the effect to last longer on some objects or body parts than others. A quick check assures you that you’re back to normal – all over, that is. You turn to Riddle, who is watching you from the edge of the bed, hand over his mouth, his expression between bemusement and bewilderment.

A stifled laugh that you can’t seem to contain breaks the silence, and it’s like springing open a can of worms, because the redhead giggles a little, too, and then the whole situation becomes too funny to hold it in. Soon he’s laughing tears out of his eyes, unable to speak in full sentences.

“You — you really became pocket size. Right here! You were right here!” He gasps for air between chuckles, pointing at his chest pocket. “I can’t believe... really can’t... ahaha!”

“Hehe, that was some adventure,” you agree. And it’s not like you’re not laughing yourself, but your turn to your boyfriend, and the sight of him fills your chest with a strange warmth, so much that it quiets your laughter. You’d rarely ever seen such a playful, childlike expression; he keeps cry-laughing uncontrollably, wiping his eyes and clutching at his stomach; a hint of relaxation in his ever-so-stiff posture.

His giggle fit starts settling down, and then it dawns on you.

“Oh, no, we need to go through this exact same process tomorrow!” you say, pinching the bridge of your nose.

Tomorrow. He liked the sound of that. It made the fact that you’re staying over more official.

“We’ll think of something by then,” he states.

The rush to close the door and prop you out of the pocket as fast as possible meant that the room was still dim. Because you had landed on his bed, there you were sitting upright in its dead center; suddenly feeling a rush of pink on your cheeks, as the whole Drink Me situation had acted as a deterrent to the actual elephant in the room: the fact that you were here to sleep over and that you had both been so nervous up until that point.

Riddle’s bleary eyes flicker in the twilight, still a soft smile on his lips.

“That was nice,” you grin. “It’d been a while since I last saw you laugh.”

“Oh, come now. Am I really that serious all the time?”

You struggle to find the words. “It’s like... like you’re always worried about something. Not that I blame you—"

“Huh,” he retorts before you can continue. “Well, even I can find something that tickles my funny bone, every now and then.”

He’s now frowning and pouting and just... standing there, as if still hesitant to join you in bed. After all, Riddle was quick to notice that you had made no effort to stand up, and now is wondering what the next step is. It’s not like he had planned any activities for you to do that night – maybe watching a movie on your phones? ...playing card games? Or just go straight to sleep? In the end, he could decide on none and the Day Of came to happen before he could devise a plan, something he dreaded from the bottom of his heart. His whole life was set in rules, set in stone tablets, and now he had to somehow improvise.

“I’m not worried,” he says, pensive, then adds: “Not when I’m with you, at least.”

“Liar,” you accuse him, to which he looks rather offended, albeit playfully so. “By now, you’re probably thinking, ‘What’s comes next?’ — well, aren’t you?”

His expression gives him away immediately. For such a well-postured, well-mannered person, Riddle tends to be a bit transparent. “H-how did you –”

“—it’s because I’m thinking the same thing, too,” you admit. “This is hard, isn’t it?”

It’s not a question. In no unclear terms, last time you’d met had been the very first instance of feeling each other’s bodies, and along came the realization that you are dating and it’s perfectly okay for you to do so. And now you’re subconsciously running your fingers through his velvety red, quilted duvet; and Riddle is still paralyzed a few steps away from the bed. You are not the boldest person out there; and he seems to be bold for anything except for this.

“Agreed,” he muses. Again, he’s like on the outside looking in – it’s that anxious feeling that never goes away, back to the little boy and the cakes he’d never eat.

“This is so awkward to say out loud,” you muster up some courage. “But I’ll try.”

“—yes?”

“I don’t care what we do today. I get to be with you, and that’s enough.”

...oh. Riddle can feel his heart doing a summersault. Being filled to the brim with love like this is something he is not accustomed to. It’s like he’s back to your warm embrace and the rhythmic breathing of your clothed chest, like digging his fingers in your back again, and feeling you return the squeeze. Every single waking moment, and hell, even while sleeping, he goes back to that evening. But he struggles to return your words, hesitant and meditative, staring at the floor.

“Riddle?”

“—yes?”

“Are you okay?”

He’s not. He’s fed up with himself. Scared of this new situation to which he doesn’t have a manual for. Terrified of underperforming and disheartening you.

“Of course,” he lies through his teeth. You are still fully clothed, so all he can see are your knees and calves, from where the skirt of your uniform ends and the socks begin. It’s not remotely erotic at all, yet he’s burning all over. You notice his eyes traveling up and down, trying to take the sight of you in.

You can’t be sure, but deep inside, you intuited that if you both feel the same, then he wants it as much as you do. But then again, pressuring your boyfriend is something you would never, ever venture to do – like a hedgehog himself, he was always quick to spike up to prevent you from poking at his vulnerability. He’d get angry or annoyed or sulky, only to quickly apologize later. So, you are not brave enough to ask, but the least you can do is initiate the scene – like the character that utters the first lines in a play, setting the mood and the proceeds in motion.

Hands, your own, travel to the elastic on your socks, as you slide them off slowly, one by one. Your feet get adjusted to the soft duvet, now feeling it on your bare skin, and you can’t help but notice how utterly cold your toes are – might be from the air conditioning, might be from the nerves. Riddle gasps audibly and clutches at his chest.

You look up at him, as he’s still standing immobilized in his spot. Fine. You’ll venture one more step past the proverbial line of his defenses, then.

Not unlike his, your school uniform consists of a white shirt with a tie or ribbon, at the student’s free choice of whichever. The ribbon on your neck is striped light blue and white, with a small coat of arms applique that depicts a teacup floating in a bottle full of tears. With a quick tug, you undo it, then the first button of your collar, all while keeping eye contact with your boyfriend – it feels like the sound of your own heartbeat is going to deafen you at this point.

Riddle takes a step in your direction, fully flushed, although you can barely tell through the room submerged in the summer dusk. But he stops just by the edge of the bed, frozen again. His is quite the big mattress, and he will need to crawl to you if he wants to reach you. Close, yet so far.

You press your lips together, at the attempt to regain some moisture: your mouth feels dry and trembling all over. Even so, you use the last bit of courage to undo one more button – completely innocuous, as this barely only reveals your collarbone.

“Stop,” he beckons, scaring you for a second. Seeming so desperate, filled with regret. “Don’t.”

“Oh.” Maybe it had been too much? You dread having pushed the Heartslabyul warden too far. “I’m sorry—”

“—no.” He takes a deep breath. “I mean, let me do it.”

Riddle climbs into the bed, knee first. His hand is reaching for your face, slate grey eyes full of adoration, and in turn, you unbalance him by pulling at both his arms, so he stumbles on top of you. Bumping heads at the fall, now faces only an inch away.

“Riddle—”

“—shh. Quit staring.”

But you’re not really, as your eyelids are drooping over, lost in the moment. It doesn’t matter, though. It’s so like him to want to have the last word.

As usual, it’s a peck on the lips, albeit a bit longer and hungrier; he then kisses your cheek, and now the question is what comes next and how the familiar pattern will be broken. To your surprise, you feel two nibbles on your neck, just below your jaw at first and then close to your throat. One leg has snuck in between yours, pressing slightly, the weight of his bony hips digging into your thigh.

He’s always fixing other students’ uniforms, so maybe that’s where it comes from, but he has unexpected skill in unbuttoning your shirt all the way through. But he’s taking it slow and steady, because every single new flash of skin is just killing him on the inside, building up fire within.

Pushing up with one arm, he uses the other to take your hand and give it a kiss, then a tug as he prods you to turn around, softly undressing one sleeve, and reaching for the clasp of your brassiere. Is this too sudden? He’s filled with worry, but push comes to shove, and his instincts urge him to keep going. He needs both hands to do this, causing him to promptly level forward, his mouth caressing your naked shoulder plates. And with one quick snap, you’re out of your bra, though it still lingers lazily on top of your breasts, as you adjust on your back once more.

Riddle realizes – he can almost peek – y-you’re half-naked, writhing beneath him, and –

“—hey,” you call softly, smiling with a tint of self-consciousness as you reach a hand for his cheek. “C-can I...?”

Can I take your clothes off, too? – is what you mean to say, but the words can’t seem to leave your mouth. Curses. Leaving the question unasked, you tug at his striped necktie, and his fingers follow yours, together undoing his shirt buttons all the way to his waist. He’s using a white, paper-thin t-shirt underneath, so you can make the shape of his nipples through it. More lightly clothed than ever, the sudden rush of shame gets the best out of you, and your gut reaction is to pull him into a full embrace, arms clasped around his neck.

Riddle stops for a moment, melting into your hold. You cannot see eye to eye right now, but you can clearly hear each other’s heartbeat. After a moment of hesitation, he kisses you again. It’s sloppy and uncharacteristic of him, but he wants to eat you whole and has no way of hiding it. Uncertain, his hand travels down your neck, feeling your collarbone, and hovering for a few instants where your bra is – unbound, it is no more than a decoration on top of your chest, and he pushes it aside.

“Ah,” he exclaims, almost unwillingly. Your breasts are oscillating up and down with your breathing, your lips are swollen and dyed a madder red, and you just look so beautiful.

“Now you quit staring,” you snap back.

“Hah,” he laughs raspingly. “Who do you think you’re talking to? You’ve got some nerve.”

You smile so wide your cheeks hurt, glad that he’s finally back to his normal self, setting aside all the anxiety and worry. Well, mostly. Of course, some worries are still in the way, but they continue melting as the heat rises – it’s impossible not to give into the moment and fondle your breasts. You let out a little yelp.

“Ah – does it hurt?” he frowns, worried, unable to gauge your reaction. Sure, he made a point to read a few erotic novels in an attempt to prepare for what should be expected for this situation –ugh, perish the thought of anyone finding those hidden at the bottom of his drawer– but truth be told, he still had no idea how rough or how gentle he should be.

“No,” you assured. “It feels good.”

“Show me where.”

At his request, you guide his hand with yours, back to your chest; and strengthen your grip, instructing him to squeeze ever so slightly. His leg, or rather, his knee presses against you, separating your legs further apart, sending a wave of electricity throughout your body. The goddamned skirt is still in the way, but you can’t muster up enough lucidity to concentrate and remove it, moaning and twitching below him.

Riddle must have read your mind, because he shifts his hands to the zipper on your skirt instead, and his mouth starts moving down and away from your neck. Your first reflex –completely involuntary, mind you– is to cross your arms and cover up your breasts, as if it made any difference at this point. His eyes move up to yours, worried again.

“Do you want me to stop?”

“No!” –well, now you’re making less sense than the Queen’s Twinkle Twinkle Little Bat poem– “It’s just... ah...”

He understands. Neither of you want it to end, and yet moving forward is just as scary. Before this, when you first started dating, he used to be able to listen to his inside voice when he kissed you. Or rather, he was forced to listen to it, by his own brain – like a switch you can’t turn off, he’d count the number of kisses and always follow the same pattern. His head was constantly yapping at him, keeping track of time so as to not be late for the 5 PM tea, or telling him to compulsively fix your uniform. But since he had climbed on top of you ten minutes earlier, he has not heard his inner voice, not even once. He could not keep count of how many kisses and nibbles he’d placed all over your collarbone, shoulders, inner elbows and wrists; softly motioning you to let go and uncross your arms. And the sheer fact of losing control was terrifying, yet it felt so good.

That being said, when faced with your bare chest, and the zipper on your skirt lowered but still not removed, Riddle feels a flash of clarity and stops dead on his tracks. There she is, the girl he loves, half-dressed, gorgeous, breasts perking up, but there is one thing that doesn’t quite feel right.

“Come here.” He props you up, helping you sit. He moves the hair off your face and pats your head. “I’ll– I’ll take off the rest of my clothes, too.”

It’s not as embarrassing if it’s the two of you, is his reasoning. And it was important for him that this wasn’t one-sided.

“—you wha– you will?” Not at your brightest nor most eloquent, you’re taken aback by his sudden assertiveness, again crossing your arms in front of your chest. He’s halfway through the zipper of his black school pants when he stops to look at you, face fully flushed.

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” he mumbles guiltily, his delivery harshly contrasting with his words. “You know I hate that.” Feigning authority and playful anger, part of him is trying to be a tease, yet still unsure how.

A giggle escapes your lips. “Shame you’re not wearing the dorm uniform today.”

“—ah.” He notices in that same moment. Had he been so nervous he completely mixed up his clothes today? As the last layers were coming off and he was sitting there in his underwear, he realized it didn’t matter.

“Wait, what is it about the dorm uniform?”

“Heh. Just – the heels,” you blurt out. “They’re kind of... –ah, I’m not gonna say it.”

The idle talk is not important. All you can focus on is how his porcelain skin contrasts with the crimson quilting, and he’s blushing head to toe, like a white rose poorly stained with red paint. Actually, you meant to say the heels turned you on (come on, admit it, just a little?), but halfway through the sentence you noticed you could not be any more aroused, and then he fell on top of you again, and your head emptied completely of thoughts. His hand now presses between your legs, and you wonder where your skirt went – it had been on you just a second before, right?

“Riddle,” you gasp, knowing the fabric of your underwear is betraying you and giving away how wet you are. You have no doubt he can feel it too. And he wishes you wouldn’t call his name, not like that – do you have any idea what you’re doing to him? His fingers are caressing you softly, and it truly feels like you might burst even though you’re just getting started. His face is close to yours, jaw shivering in a cold sweat, even though it feels like there must be a hundred degrees in the darkness of the room. And while he’s helping your orgasm build up, thumb toying with you gently, he can’t help but wonder if your skin feels just as good to the direct touch as it feels through your panties, and how is it that even the parts of you he never knew are all so perfect. It seems slightly unfair, he muses, that you could be this flawless without even trying – but then you wince a little, possibly lost in pleasure, and Riddle starts worrying again.

“Are you okay?” his words feel moist close to your ear.

“Hm-mm.”

“Relax your arms.”

And the second you do, he moves back down again, slobbering kisses all over your neck and chest. While seemingly rawer and more animal than ever, he’s still attentively measuring your reactions, and finds you gasp the loudest when he sucks on your breasts. So, he teases them for a while, circling slowly with his tongue, then softly and toothlessly pinching the stiff center with his lips; he repeats from left breast to right, slowly, deliberately, back and forth, with a sort of rhythmic cadence. Focus, Riddle reminds himself, as his own erection is throbbing painfully. But he’s determined to devote to you first and foremost.

“May I–”

“Yes. Please,” you beg, not even sure what you are agreeing to, but realizing it might as well not matter anymore.

Struggling to open your eyes, you force yourself into keeping alert just so you can take in the view of your raggedly breathing boyfriend, peeking up from the curves between your breasts, hand on the inside of your underwear and soaking his slender fingers inside, applying even pressure. He is amused at the sight of how effortlessly they go in and out, assisted by your moisture, so much so that he forgets about your breasts for a moment. Your voice brings his attention back, however.

“I – I can’t...”

“It’s okay. Don’t hold it in”, he reassures, but maybe he is also talking to himself, as Riddle is always the type to exceed in self-restraint. You are melting, becoming undone with a touch of his hand and he cannot get enough of how it feels – to hear you panting and moaning, to know he will soon be able to press inside you and fill you with his length. It’s an unfamiliar, weird, wonderful thing – not quite like he had imagined, but perfect all the same. Your chest is responsive to his every kiss, and now his fingers have gotten faster and heavier. He can feel you close and is living for it.

“Riddle, I –”

“You’re so beautiful,” he gasps breathily, finally able to be honest with himself. “Don’t hold back. It’s all right.”

“Riddle. Riddle? I’m – I ––”

“––Y/N,” he chuckles, and his touch becomes even more merciless. Your hard nipples cannot possibly take any more kisses. “You’re so adorable.”

It’s not like you need any more stimulation, but as he says this, his mouth is full of one breast and hand cupping the other, and you can clearly see it all, from his heavy-lidded slate grey eyes to his dark red eyelashes, all focused on you as he’s making your sex squeak with wet sounds, pushing down just underneath your navel as his fingers throb and sting inside you.

“Please. Don’t stop.”

He won’t. He’s not the type to tease you like that. Your toes are curling in a frenzy as your legs swing inevitably open, and pretty soon you’re incoherently giving into the thrusting of his hand, and his lips have not left your breasts for one second.

You can’t hold it in. You would have if you could have – the sensation was just too amazing, and you were trying to grasp at straws –literally, if by straws you mean sinking your nails into his shoulders– trying to prolong your orgasm to no avail. You are coming all over, spasming and stirring and gasping his name, and Riddle is a bit scared at first – did he – did he do that? – but it seems you are content, and you settle down huffing beneath him. He takes out his fingers, but his hand stays put, pushing on you softly, as you are still whimpering with the aftershocks that come and go after the peak.

Riddle knows what is supposed to come after that, but the thought alone makes his stomach do cartwheels. Now, how to initiate? He doesn’t have time to think, as you grab him by the wrist, taking his hand out of your underwear and giving it a tug, motioning him to come closer. In your current clouded state, it’s hard of you to completely gain enough strength to pin him down as you originally had wanted to, so you settle to have him sit beside you as you roll over so that your upper body meets his crotch.

“Y/N?” he yelps, suddenly self-aware of how flush his length is against the fabric of his boxers, throbbing to come out, and your face is now caressing it softly with only one layer to separate you.

“Ah. Sorry. Too fast?”

He shakes his head.

“No. Actually,” he pushes his underwear down. “Please. Can you –”

He needn’t ask. The sensation of him in your mouth compelled such novelty – it was weird to get used to, but at the same time felt like the natural next step to take. Tip reddened and throbbing, teased by your lips as your hands would steady his thighs. Funny how something so intense – suckling at him, gasping for jagged breaths, as the bitter taste of his precum numbs your other senses – would come apparent to you so matter-of-factly, unrehearsed yet perfectly calculated. Riddle stifles moans until he can’t anymore, pouring from his lips, buckling into you with hand tangled in your hair, pulling you closer.

He’s no longer thinking straight, and that’s fine. If he were, he’d still be stuck in the preparation phase, staring mindlessly at the welt of your socks, unable to move. But since he’s no longer counting the kisses he’s given you tonight, he’ll make a point of also not counting how many times he’ll thrust into you, as he topples you over when the wetness of your mouth just won’t quite scratch that itch, and hurriedly reaches over the counter for a condom. It’s not like the guilt is completely done, but this – this is everything right now, and as you are huffing and puffing away below him, eager to receive him, he understands that a bit of chaos is needed every once in a while.

A lot of first times are awkward. This might be no exception. But he enters you with such ease, you wonder how this new feeling can be so recognizable, as the pressure builds between your legs and his hipbones dig into you once again, and he restrains your hands with his, raising your arms, soft eyes filled with lust.

“So tight...” Riddle whispers, but it’s more like sounds are escaping him, uncontrolled, “Y/N... y-you’re...”

His speech is barely intelligible, though you can sometimes make out words – ‘beautiful’, ‘good’, ‘wet’ – and a few poorly-pronounced phrases like “does it hurt?” –– it doesn’t, and as you’re pinned beneath him with a clear view into his quivering rosy lips and half-lidded gaze, you know he’s getting closer as he gets harder. He‘s trying to get his mouth full of your taste as if it were forbidden – like it all boiled down to this one evening, and this chance was all he had. And if it were for him, he would have made it last forever – but his body is not so used to this kind of endurance, so after a few minutes Riddle finally gives in, collapsing into your shoulder, quietly whimpering your name, in a moment of weakness that is greater than he’d like to admit. Riding his orgasm, fingers entwined with yours and digging at your knuckles in a tight grip, his voice is unlike you’ve ever heard it before, and you understand its over once he quiets down.

The silence lasts for a few moments. Or, more appropriately put, a slight wave of sheepish embarrassment, as he’s promptly rolled over to your left and you’re both lying face up and wheezing up a storm as if you’d just ran some kind of marathon. But then Riddle slightly tugs at your hand.

“Everything alright?”

“I think so. You?”

“It’s been... quite the novelty,” he says flatly, but then smiles a little at his choice of words. “Do couples do this all the time? ...it seems exhausting.”

“So that’s it? That was your quota for a whole lifetime? Fine then.”

“––No!” he hastily turns sharp on his side, facing you, only to find that you’re unable to hold your laughter. “–Oh. Not funny, Y/N.”

“Sorry! Sorry.”

“– I would very much like it if we did it again. Uh... tomorrow, or – or some other time.”

You smile. “I would like that, too.”

“Should we settle on a schedule?”

“––what? No!” but a sudden tinge of guilt overcomes you, as you quickly realize he might need it. “U–uh, I mean, if – if that makes it easier for you–––”

“––just kidding,” a soft smirk escapes him, like a stifled giggle that says ‘gotcha’.

“Oh, look at you cracking jokes now,” you accuse him with a pout. “That’s a first.”

“Guess that makes two firsts in one day.”

As you both let out a complicit giggle, reaching out for the sheets and then for each other’s hands, no longer worried about the next one step or million steps to come, you find yourselves drifting off to sleep in a loose embrace.