#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.

[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

[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

[coline7373]

How to comment 101

A fandom is the subculture inherent to a group of fans. It touches anything related to the field of predilection of such a group of people and is organized or created by these same people. And, like everything that comes from people, it is alive and requires exchanges to continue to exists.

People who receive no comments have often and at length express how lonely it can feel to be shouting alone in the void and how discouraging such silence can be.

I have found after asking around that readers aren’t unwilling to comment, but mainly don’t have the energy or know what to say.

Some readers have also expressed a fear of annoying the author, as they are clumsy with words, or feeling intimidated in front of an author who has such a talent with words that the reader's own words feel too embarrassing. Or not feeling that their own five word sentence is worth the bother.

Every word matters.

Every comment is worth its writing to the author.

I refer you to this post if you doubt the importance and impact of comments on fanfics.

To help those willing to comment, I have done a very modest survey of roughly 20 persons, writers and readers alike, and here is what I have come up with.

For writers:

Write in your notes, at the end of the fic, clearly what type of comment you do not want. 

Clearly stating your limits and preferences helps readers who are uncertain or not very verbose to write in a relaxed way.

If they do not have the anxiety of offending, vexing or annoying the author, they will be more comfortable and therefore more inclined to write.

If you have repeated commenters, try to reply to their comments, even with just a few words. Some people who do not receive replies to any of their comments take the lack of response to mean the author is not reading comments at all, feel discouraged and stop commenting in turn.

If you do read the comments, but don’t want to reply for whatever reason, do say so at the end of the fic, in the notes, so that readers know what to expect and not be disappointed.

For readers:

Do:

About the story: 

You can write about a particular line that you liked, the themes, parallels with canon or within the story, the characterisation, a character’s exploration, a/several character’s motivation, a/several character’s mindset/thinking/emotional reaction, a/several characters’ interaction, the plot, the action happening, the worldbuilding, emotions within the fic, subtext, pacing...

If you liked everything and are overwhelmed on how to narrow it down, you can just say exactly that. “I loved everything!”

You can also focus on pointing out just one moment, one line, one specific thing and why you liked them, specifically. What matters is not that you wrote a novel but that you communicated to the author what made you happy, what you enjoyed.

About you: 

What emotions the fic made you feel, what you think is going on in a wip or what you (think you have) figure(d) out, what you are doing in real life while reading the story, afterward, because of it, and/or how the fic impacted your life (yay! motivation to make art!), how the fic is meaningful on a personal level because x, y, z, what it made you think of, like another fic, a book, a song, a movie, what subject/fact it prompted you to discover more of…

How: 

You can write an essay, a prose, or some serious, meaningful, impactful words but you can also joke with the author as long as you stay mindful or polite. A lot of authors have said they love when people make jokes or break the fourth wall. 

Unsure about your sense of humor? Here is an example: do not write "I hate you! How could you do this to me!” Write "How could you do this? The betrayal! die offscreen.”

Making a parody of what is going on with the characters with a few lines can be funny! Keep it positive. Not everyone has the same degree of sarcasm. But levity and good humor are always welcomed.

Small fics vs longer fics:

Emojis, keysmashing and incoherent yelling are very often correct comments for small fics or drabbles. (Unless otherwise specified.)

They are also loved in longer fics, (unless otherwise specified,) but people who have been writing a story for literal years appreciate you taking at least five minutes to say a bit more than that.

Try to go through all the “about the fic” and “about you” points above, methodically, and choose just two or three of them. Then write just one sentence per point.

If you really don't know what to say, look at other people's comments. Sometimes, you will recognise something you liked too or that you thought was really good. It can help and be the starting point of your own comment.

Long WIPs:

For long fics that you follow while they are being written, people have said they have at first a lot of enthusiasm for commenting, but find it harder and harder to know what to say as the number of chapters accumulate, and so does the number of comments they feel obligated to give in turn.

Please, keep commenting! Love keeps the writers motivated and helps creativity. It’s like shouting in the void and getting a high five back.

Even one line about something specific (a dialogue bit, a reaction, a plot maneuver) can make an author happy.

Writers are not really looking for length or details. They are looking for care. If you read something you liked, just point out what you enjoyed. That's engagement enough. 

Comments aren't really about the act of a compliment. They are about the shared joy of a fandom or a ship or a character. 

Example: “'X character diving headfirst into the sea like that is so like him!”

It’s good. It’s fun. It’s nice.

Some people have said to “save” a chapter, give a kudo and say “looking forward to reading this when I have time!” and wait until they do have time and energy to comment more at length, sometimes two or three chapters at the same time.

It let the writers know their fic is still being read. You just have to be mindful to not let months go by, otherwise, it goes back to leaving the author the impression they invested hours, weeks, months, into something no one interacts with. You can alternate strategies, lengthy comments, short comments, and commenting on several chapters saved.

If all else fails, go back to the tried and true. Choose one of the points above, choose just two or three of them and then write just one sentence per point.

If you are not a native speaker:

Google can help with the bare minimum. It's not great, but it lays the foundations. Write what you think in google translate and the translation will help guide your answer. You can always ask for help from someone else or warn the author that the fic’s language is not your native language, if you are unsure if your words come off in a tone not intended.

At the start of your comment, say “I am not a native speaker”.

Do not apologize. It’s not necessary. Just provide context. Use your words. Be clear.

Remember: 

The writer isn't what they write. They do not necessarily headcanon what they write, nor do they necessarily approve of it in real life. Be mindful to not approve or disprove of x, y, z going on in the fic as if they do. You do not know that.

It’s not about the length or the wording or the quality of your comments. Of course authors love that. But what they love most of all is to hold hands, jump up and down with you and squee and gush about the fandom, ship or character.

It’s about the sharing of the joy.

Don’t:

Do not ask for another chapter and for the author to finish a fic.

Do not threaten the author to put their fics in an AI if they do not finish the fic.

Do not say "I didn't like it" or "I liked but not that" or "It would have been better if x, y, z." If you want to talk about what you didn’t like, whether it’s part or all of the story, discuss it with willing friends. The author is not responsible for you reading something you didn’t enjoy (how it made you feel) and persevering.

Do not “offer” to correct typos, grammar, vocabulary, facts, canon facts, characterisation, ect. unless you know the author and know they are fine with it or they say so explicitly in the notes. 

Do not make demands. Do not.

Like that tumblr op said, “this is not the bespoke zone.” This is off-the rack. If the free suit is not to your liking, look for another free suit rather than demand to speak to the manager for "adjustments."

Tags are not owed to you. Ao3 is not a safe zone. Not everyone agrees on what degree of content merits each tag. Or what qualifies for a tag. So, if you found a fic that was more angsty than you expected and it broke your heart, comment on a part that was good and didn't make you sad, without saying you want a happy ending to the angst fic that was written for angst purpose. Off-the rack, remember?

Exemple:

"I found x,y,z to be upsetting. Would you consider tagging it?"

Vs "Your work is totally x,y,z triggery. You ought to tag it."

Vs "Hey, you do know some people find x,y,z, triggery, right?!? Because they do! So tag it!"

One of those answers is correct. The others aren't. No demands in the comments.

Your emotional well being while reading fic is your responsibility. If your expectations have been disappointed, do not say so. Talk about a point that was positive for you. If your expectations have been exceeded, do share!

Also, if you're mad, I have found that it helps to write your comment, leave it to decant, and wait a week or so to see what it looks like when you're in a different emotional mindset.

Some elements of fics can be very upsetting unexpectedly. It is not the responsibility of the writer to answer that. Nor comments are the place for it.

Once some time has passed, if you still want to talk about it, try to communicate in a way that is neither demanding nor negative. If you can't, talk about it with someone who is not the author.

My own personal opinion:

It can be so easy to focus on the fic and your own inner imaginary garden/cinema, that we sometimes forget to switch from "inner life" to "outer life" and exchange actively with people on both sides of the fence.

But it can also add so much more to the experience <3

Clear communication is always good. Even if you disagree. At least you know where you stand.

Say thank you. Fanfics are a gift. You have been given one. Say thank you. 

[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. ❤️

[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.

[boimann]

comic 7 spoilers

ok i have a lot of thoughts about comic 7 and i need to ramble a bit or i'll go mad, this post is just to get those thoughts out of my head so read it as me screaming into the void, also these are just my opinions you can 100% disagree with me just please don't yell at me ;_;

i didn't like it, don't get me wrong i did like a few things in it but as a whole... :|

so starting off with the things i did like:

Miss flo pauling :D !!! she's awsome as always, i will always love her no matter what and i'm glad she didn't fall for the australium's temptation and got rid of it :]

SOLDIERS FAMILY!!! they are perfect no notes 10/10

buff merasmus, also perfect

✨heavy with a beard✨

and that's a wrap on the things i liked. what was supposed to be the big finale of this really cool story just ended with a whimper of a flashback...why?? i think the biggest issue i have with the whole comic is the fucking time skip, i honestly don't think it was necessary?? it feels like they just wanted to have a 7 years joke and i get they wanted to show were the mercs are at after the events of the comics but idk i think there could have been another way to show it :/

i especially didn't like what they did with scout, i love the idea of him being a good dad and basically the opposite of spy but idk going from him still basically being scout from the game saying he's moving on from miss p to him being a responsible dad feels really abrupt and it's all because of the timeskip because we skipped past all the development of him getting to that point. am i saying that we should have seen all of that development?? of course not because fitting it all in one issue would have been impossible but the way it is now it feels wrong ;_;

another thing i didn't like was that half of the mercs just didn't have any lines?? :[ it would have been so cool to see more of them or/and seeing them interact for example medic was litterally sided with the enemy for half of the last issue but i guess no one cares?? and i guess demo has nothing to say about his best friend being engaged?? or anything at all really, it was all so fast they forgot to give my man any lines (ﾉ´ｰ`)ﾉ

also didn't love spy taking off his mask because you know most of his character is being a misterious masked rogue but that scene with tanya was really sweet so it cancels out <3

so yeah this was all i could think of right now if i get anymore thoughts i will reblog this post and add them later, for now i will pretend that the comics end with the sixth issue and try not to think about it too much, i hope that anyone reading this post was able to enjoy the comic more than i did and again if you want to add your own thoughts please don't be mean bc i will cry (promise threat)

[kalkori]

starts punching the wall. starts punching the wall. starts punching the wall. starts punching the wall. starts punching the wall.

people seem to like it when i yell at the void analysing video games [see: me still getting notifications on my fleshcousin post going "YOU. YOU GET IT"] so um.

HEAVY SPOILER WARNING FOR GREAT GOD GROVE & INSCRYPTION

i have always hated how people tend to flatten p03 into the evilest guy on earth but unable to articulate for the normal person just WHY i hate it. But great god grove gives me the full ability to explain it to the normal person:

p03 is inspekta, at their core. except, they never had any support.

lets think about some p03 traits that are... overlooked.

for example, can we talk about the fact that p03's minions are the only ones actually DEVOTED to them?

like, grimora and leshy's minions are mostly neutral about them. magnificus's... um... tower companions don't really have a choice.

But P03's?

they could just... leave. any time. whenever. but they dont. in fact, they are willing to sacrifice themself for p03 when they really don't need to.

reminds me Of A Certain Person's Little Busy Boys. and you can TRY to make an argument that inspekta doesn't actually care for them but occam's razor. they like their boys

this next bit is more well known, but there are more hints that p03 is sort of putting up a facade.

in the uberbots, they all each reflect the parts of a scrybe p03 has distaste for.

G0lly represents themself, and instead of it being the grand "wow this uberbot is awesome," it is the one played up THE MOST and the one p03 hates THE MOST

and it is... cute. nice. trusting.

the part p03 hates about themself... is the part that isn't cynical, has not been broken down by the miserable existence in the floppy disk, that is always desperately reaching out.

i would actually argue that p03 is more innocent than inspekta.

because p03 does not know what the old_data is until they're in too deep, or, they never get to know at all.

see, theres a secret with the bone lord in act 3 where are the end luke AND P03 learn the true nature of the old_data

and p03...

only has that to say.

p03's plan was to NEVER spread this evil, and hell, they didn't even destroy anyone. they explicitly keep them around, and those turned into cards don't even get their whole memory erased (cough cough) LESHY (cough cough)

in the end inspekta and p03 had the same goal: to be remembered, to be the only one, and most importantly, to be loved.

so why did inspekta get a happy ending, while p03... well... "wins", but in the worse case scenario?

it's simple. the gods cared about eachother, the scrybes didn't.

"grimora-" grimora committed murder suicide and went "its for the best" without asking anyone.

Magnificus.

leshy could not care less about the scrybes, if erasing their memory and casually throwing away the bodies says anything.

inspekta, on the other hand, had all of their god buddies essentially screaming at them "WE LOVE YOU." because they could see past inspekta's facade, and see the real inspekta, see hector.

none of the scrybes could see past the acts the other put up.

in conclusion/tl;dr: the power of love and friendship could have changed the ending to inscryption and i am not joking

[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

[talon-dragonbeast]

do you ever think about theories of origin? i do. sometimes i like to look into all the different explanations for alterhumanity that ive seen in the past, just for fun. of course, all my identities are still psychological, so i dont even need to think about this on the first place... but shower thoughts are shower thoughts, and pondering things for fun is a hobby of mine.

my favourite theory of origin is, undoubtedly, the soul misplacement theory. the notion that, before you were born, a soul was placed inside your body, one that didnt match the one that was "supposed" to inhabit the body... so, for example, if im a dragon, the theory says that the soul of a dragon was mistakenly put in this human body, and that this soul was supposed to go somewhere else (maybe a parallel world, a different dimension/plane of existence, or just a different planet very far away from here) but is now trapped here.

i dont know, i just find it very sweet. if you think about it, this theory requires the belief that somehow, somewhere, there is a world where dragons exist (and also, it requires you to assume that your human soul, the displaced one, is now in a dragons body in this other world, which i find hilarious). this theory is in itself very comforting to those who uphold it, because it makes you able to believe that, no matter how bad this life is, theres a world out there where you could live or have lived the life of your dreams. maybe you are able to remember what this life is or was like (through noemata or past life regression), maybe not; but you know that it could be out there, and that is enough.

it also lays out some very interesting questions: if this was a mistake, how is that possible? who puts souls inside bodies in the first place? is it a god? some other higher being? if it is a god or something similar, does this mean that gods are capable of making mistakes? is this theory compatible with other religious beliefs, or is it a religious belief on its own? what even is a soul? what will happen to my dragon soul when i die; will it go to a dragon body like how it was supposed to in the first place, or will it remain trapped in this plane of existence forever? do all dragonkin come from the same "dragon world", or are they different ones? and if they indeed are different ones, does that mean that dragons are common enough in the universe that there are not one, but multiple worlds with dragons out there? are dragons the crabs of the universe? this and other questions i yell into the void, because i know that by their very nature they wont have one single answer, and because everyone is different every being will have different theories for their own existence.

other theory which i find fascinating is the parallel life theory. not because of the theory itself, but because of the implications of it. if your soul, your mind, your counciousness or whatever, was really able to exist in two different realities at once, what would this mean for psychology, for science? are only some brains especially wired to jump from one world to another, or is everyone capable of doing so with the right training? in these other lifes, would you retain the knowledge from this one, or would you lose it every time you switch between worlds? and also (and forgive me if this may sound insensitive, this is a rhetorical question and not meant to have an answer), which one of these worlds would be considered "the most important one", or even "the real one"? is it the first? is it the one you discover later in life? is it the most "mundane" one? the one you like the most? i think this theory leaves more questions than it answers, and while that may work for some people it does make me somewhat uneasy, as if there is more to learn about it. but thats just my personal opinion.

and finally, the Everyones Otherkin theory. this is of course the funniest one and the one i would most wish to be true, mainly because i wholeheartedly believe that it would make a better world this way. it would also explain some things like the "spirit animal" phenomenon from a decade or so ago, or the fact that almost all humans unconsciously align themselves with animals/mythical creatures/objects/colors, in some way (via archetypes or symbolism) throughout their lives. its true that sometimes i like to assign kintypes to the people i know, but i only do it for my own strange amusement and would never take it more seriously than i should.

so yeah, while none of these theories apply to me, i still like to think about them from time to time because i believe theyre interesting. so, just out of curiosity: whats your theory of origin? whats your favorite one (regardless of if you believe in it or not)? and finally, whats the weirdest theory that youve come across over your time in the community?

[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

[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.

[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.