#air quality control and assurance

[marthashlyn3]

🌺Hibiscus Times Daily🌺

The constant change in air quality and audio, in this reality, is dependent on me.

Let us include some overlays for visuals

Yes.

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Unbidden

Pairing: Daemon Targaryen x f!reader x Aemond Targaryen Warnings: Cuckolding, voyeurism, smut. Word count: ~3k

Summary: Noticing his nephew's wife appears dissatisfied in her marriage, Daemon sets out to show them both that there is pleasure to be found within the marital bed...

Author's note: No tag list. Please follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications. Community labels are for cops.

She has scarcely been able to take her eyes off of Daemon since he first arrived at the Red Keep. He possesses the classically handsome features bestowed upon those of Valyrian blood, carries himself with self assured confidence, and embodies an air of dangerous unpredictability which both frightens and excites her in equal measure. Though it is none of these qualities that keep her gaze fixated upon him.

Her interest is piqued by how utterly devoted he is to his wife. When she stood beside her husband, Aemond, in the Great Hall, as Vaemond Velaryon challenged the succession of Driftmark, her attention was focused solely on Daemon and Rhaenyra. He had been glued to her side, his gaze always seeking hers, and when Vaemond had dared to call her a whore and her children “bastards”, he had not hesitated in unsheathing his sword and slicing the man’s head in half. She wonders if her own husband would defend her so staunchly.

She is not blind to their starkly different situations; Daemon and Rhaenyra’s union is one of love, it is plain for all to see. Her and Aemond’s is one of political necessity. Although they have grown fond of each other over the last six months of their marriage, and he has never been unkind to her, she cannot help the jealousy that swirls, ugly and acrid, within her chest at the ease of which her husband’s half sister and his uncle interact with one another.

The two children they have together already, and the one that currently grows within the swell of Rhaenyra’s belly are proof enough of their passion for one another. However, the looks they exchange at the dinner table this evening are smoldering and filled with intent. Their fingers brush against each other as they pass dishes of food between them, and Daemon’s hand seems to find its way to her stomach, caressing her lovingly, unaware he is even doing it.

Her and Aemond’s intimacy is not so effortless, though it is not from a lack of trying on her part. He beds her frequently, and she greets his advances with enthusiasm, yet his stoicism renders him incapable of ever fully losing control. He is receptive to her pleas of “harder”, “faster”, but she is always left with the dissatisfaction of feeling he is holding something back, and outside of their shared bedchamber it is rare that he ever touches her. She has attempted to broach the subject with him before, framing it as a means for them to find greater satisfaction within their marital bed, but he always waves her away dismissively, clearly uncomfortable with the topic.

She can sense something dark and urgent bubbling beneath the surface of him, and longs to draw it out, to experience the full force of the fire of the dragon that runs through his veins, but she does not know how to entice it. 

It had appeared prominent in his seeing eye as Dark Sister had cleaved the Velaryon man’s skull in twain, a potent mixture of bloodlust and desire, as his pupil had dilated ever so slightly. It had sent a shiver up her spine, heat pooling between her thighs, causing her to squeeze them together to fend off the dull, throbbing ache.

She longs for that look to be cast upon her, for her to be the recipient of whatever wrath that follows, and now she is sure that it is Daemon that holds the key to coaxing the darker side of her husband out to play.

The dinner is a tense affair. Aemond sits beside her, so tightly wound she is sure the lightest of touches would cause him to shatter like glass. When he finally loses his cool, throwing barbed words towards his nephews, resulting in an exchange of blows, the evening draws to an abrupt close, with each of them being dismissed to their respective quarters. As they depart the dining hall, her husband and his uncle lock eyes, a smirk of amusement flashing briefly across Daemon’s features as Aemond’s nostrils flare in irritation.

She can feel the heat of his anger radiating from him as he strides through the corridors of Maegor’s Holdfast, scurrying alongside him in an attempt to match his pace. That look has returned and with it her desperate feeling of lust. If she doesn’t seize the opportunity now, then she is unsure of when it will present itself again.

Reaching out for her husband, she grasps his elbow, her fingers taut against the leather sleeve of his tunic. His steps falter and he turns to look at her quizzically, chest heaving with the laboured breaths of his barely concealed rage.

“What is it?” He snaps.

Instinctively, she shrinks back, second guessing her decision as she sees the way he glares down at her, lip curled into a snarl. Despite her fear, she reminds herself that this is the side of Aemond she had been seeking, and leans into him, placing her hands upon his chest.

“I want you,” she whispers, gazing up at him pleadingly.

“Not here,” he sighs, his expression softening, as he gently grasps her hands in his, moving them back to her sides.

Though she remains outwardly calm, in spite of her disappointment, internally she feels so frustrated she could scream. The look she craves is gone, he has rebuffed her advances and she knows that once more she is destined to an evening where he will treat her as though she is made of bone china.

“I believe you were told to return to your quarters.”

The intrusion of Daemon’s voice causes Aemond to take a quick step backwards, away from her, as she turns to look. He stands before them in the corridor, posture rigid and chin raised up ever so slightly, giving the impression that he is looking down his nose at them both.

“We are on our way,” Aemond responds icily, drawing himself to his full height and staring down his uncle.

The smallest of smiles tugs at the corners of Daemon’s mouth, clearly unphased by his nephew’s hostile demeanour. “I shall escort you both, to ensure there is no further delay.”

Before either one of them has the opportunity to protest, he steps forward, one hand reaching for Aemond’s shoulder, while he places the other at the small of her back. Aemond wrenches away, huffing irritably as he continues walking. She makes no such effort to struggle away from Daemon’s touch, his fingers feeling like a brand against her flesh through the fabric of her dress. 

The three of them walk in uncomfortable silence, the only sound is the echo of their footsteps against the flagstone floor. Her eyes widen in surprise when they reach her and Aemond’s shared chambers and, instead of bidding them goodnight, Daemon follows them inside, closing the doors behind them.

Aemond stares at him quizzically, eye narrowed. “What are you doing, Uncle? If you are here to reprimand me for what was said at dinner then–”

“I am here for your wife, actually,” he interrupts, turning his head towards her as his eyes move from her head to her feet and back up again.

She feels her skin grow hot under the intensity of his gaze, swallowing thickly as he regards her as a cat would a mouse.

“What do you want with my wife?” Aemond asks, his voice lowering in quiet threat.

It is the first time she has ever heard her husband speak of her so possessively and it makes her pulse race. She wants more of this, there is an intense thrill to having the attention of two Targaryen men placed solely upon her.

“Do not think I have not noticed,” Daemon says to her, ignoring Aemond as he continues to stare at her. “You have been ogling me all day. Why?”

Embarrassment prickles at her, and she lowers her gaze. Her voice is small and pitiful sounding to her ears as she answers. “Forgive me, My Prince. I did not mean to stare.”

“Look at me when you speak to me,” he commands, “and answer the question.”

She exhales shakily, lifting her eyes to meet his. His stare is piercing, his eyes darkened and predatory in the low lighting of her and Aemond’s apartments.

“I found myself…rather taken by how you engage with Princess Rhaenyra. You are quite affectionate with one another.”

Daemon’s brow furrows slightly as he cocks his head in curiosity. “Does your own husband not show you affection?”

A wave of sadness washes over her, causing her shoulders to sag at the reminder of the lack of intimacy between her and Aemond. She spares him a glance, noticing he has not moved from where he stands. His expression could be mistaken for neutral were it not for the fury that rages tempestuously within his seeing eye as he glares at his uncle.

Drawing in a deep breath, she looks back to Daemon, answering simply, honestly: “no.” Shame shrouds her, suffocating and dense, feeling the overwhelming urge to cry, her head dipping as she focuses on the spot where the hem of her skirts meets the stone floor. She cannot bear to look at either man, knowing she has spoken out of turn about her husband, not just in front of him, but to his uncle as well.

She gasps as Daemon steps forward, crowding her space, his finger crooking beneath her chin to lift her face up towards his. The touch of him makes her knees buckle slightly and she leans back against the table behind her for support, no longer trusting her legs to keep her upright. “What a brave little thing you are,” he whispers, an edge to his voice that twists her stomach into knots.

“I–I am sorry,” she stammers, eyes flitting nervously between her husband and his uncle. “I should not have–”

“There is nothing wrong with expressing your wants, your desires,” Daemon reassures her. “Perhaps my nephew just needs a little help in learning how best to please his wife?”

She squeals in surprise as he grasps the backs of her thighs, lifting her until she is seated upon the edge of the table she had been leaning against. Lips parted and eyes wide, she turns her head towards Aemond, and though his fists are clenched at his sides, his breathing accelerated in silent fury, he makes no move to stop what is happening. That look from earlier has returned, ravenous and half crazed, she interprets it as silent consent, wanting to do all she can to keep it fixed upon her.

“What of your wife? Will she not mind you…helping us?” She asks timidly, as Daemon’s hands make quick work of rucking her skirts up around her hips.

He chuckles drily in response, dragging her smallclothes down her legs, allowing them to dangle from a single ankle. “You and Aemond have much to learn, sweet girl. Fucking is a pleasure, and Rhaenyra does not mind how or with whom we seek it, as long as our loyalties do not falter.”

The very idea seems scandalous to her, yet wetness gathers between her legs all the same. Aemond has now taken up the seat beside the fireplace, watching them both intently, his stare unblinking and fiery. 

Daemon’s fingers travel up her legs, until they reach the insides of her thighs. His fingers are thicker than Aemond’s, his touch is calloused and rough, where Aemond’s is deft, yet hesitant. His fingertips dig into her soft flesh, hard enough to bruise as he pries her legs apart, a hum of approval rumbling in his throat at the arousal he finds glistening there.

“Does your husband make you this wet?” He asks with gentle curiosity.

She nods enthusiastically, looking over at Aemond and seeing a small, prideful smile ghost quickly across his lips before disappearing.

“Good,” Daemon tells her. “No problems there then.”

His fingertips swipe through her sodden folds, his middle finger quick to locate her pearl and circle it with precision. The movement makes her tense, a jolt of pleasure causing her hips to buck as she mewls helplessly.

“Does he touch you like this?”

“N–no…” she whimpers in response.

“Hmm,” Daemon glances over his shoulder, before looking back at her. “Well, ensure he does in future. I am sure he will; he is paying close attention.”

Looking back over at Aemond, she feels herself clench around nothing, her desire building with a steady, rhythmic ache as she sees the lacings of his trousers strain against his hardness. He is enjoying watching this, lips slightly parted and eye hooded. The sight of it rids her of the last of her inhibitions as Daemon moves his focus away from her bud and dares to push his two forefingers inside of her. She tilts her head back, gripping the edge of the table tightly as she feels her muscles stretch to accommodate him.

“You must be prepared, thoroughly, before you are fucked,” he murmurs against the shell of her ear.

Her mind is foggy, struggling to comprehend Daemon’s words as he presses the pads of his fingers upwards, dragging them against a spot inside of her that causes her toes to curl and moisture to trickle down onto the tabletop. Does he really mean to fuck her? Surely that would be a step too far? Yet she finds it difficult to care when he is pushing her towards the precipice of pleasure itself with simply his fingers. Her mind reels with the possibility of what it would feel like to be stretched out around his cock.

As his fingers pump faster, she moves her hips in tandem, chasing the urgently building pressure that is growing inside of her. He pulls them from her suddenly, causing her to whine in frustration at being robbed of her peak.

Daemon grins wolfishly as his hands move to unfasten his breeches. “I think we have learned enough in that regard, and are ready to move on.”

She averts her gaze as he frees himself, her eyes finding Aemond’s, another silent check in for consent. His throat bobs as he swallows, his knuckles almost white with the force of the grip he has on the armrests of where he sits, but he makes no move to stop what is happening.

Her hands grasp at Daemon’s shoulders as he sheathes himself inside of her, knocking the air from her lungs. Aemond and his uncle are similar in many respects, but this is a matter in which the pair of them could not be more different.

It is odd to her that, despite being between her thighs, he has not tried to kiss her. Whether it is a mark of respect for hers and Aemond’s marriage, or simply because he does not want to, she is unsure, but she is grateful for his abstinence. A kiss seems too intimate a gesture, there is nothing sweet about this.

Daemon sets a brutal pace, once she has had a moment to adjust, rocking into her with a force that causes the table legs to scrape loudly against the hard floor. He is so much more self assured than her husband, utterly unafraid to violate her, and it is freeing to be handled so roughly.

She moans wantonly as he moves a hand to wrap around her throat, applying gentle pressure at the sides. “Do not be afraid to be a little unrestrained,” Daemon grits out, a statement clearly not meant for her, even though his eyes bore into hers. “I have yet to bed a woman who does not enjoy it.”

He has the right of it. The hand around her throat, coupled with the almost violent manner in which he thrusts inside of her is dizzying and, as he slips a hand between them to stroke at her pearl once more, she knows she will not last long. It has never been this intense with Aemond before; a lack of experience, coupled with a fear of hurting her means he is always gentle, hesitant where he need not be. 

The grip on her throat tightens, the ministrations against her bud grow more insistent as she feels Daemon pulsate inside of her, his jaw clenching at the telltale sign that he is close. With a final, harsh thrust of his hips, she cries out in ecstasy as the warmth of his seed spills inside of her, triggering her own release as she tightens around him in rapid, successive pulses.

“Good girl,” he mutters quietly.

He is quick to pull out of her, as she leans back against her palms, pliant and breathless from the experience. She barely registers Daemon tucking himself away and slipping out of the chamber doors, as Aemond moves into view, standing before her.

Under ordinary circumstances, the wrathful insanity she sees reflected in his blue eye would frighten her, but tonight it has butterflies fluttering ceaselessly in her lower belly. His hand moves to the back of her head, gripping her hair tightly by the roots, tugging her head forcefully backwards. Her yelp of pain is stifled by him pressing his lips firmly against hers, his tongue licking against her own in a kiss that is more a desperate display of possession than a loving embrace.

“You are mine,” he breathes, letting go of her momentarily to tug at the lacings of his trousers.

“Yours,” she whispers back, satisfied excitement causing her pulse to thrum at the knowledge she has unleashed the side of Aemond she has always longed for.

Daemon’s spend has begun to dribble out of her, and as she watches the head of her husband’s cock push it forcefully back inside of her, she knows he will remind her every night from now on exactly which Targaryen Prince it is that she belongs to.

[halfmoon-horse]

This guy is an expert on submarine design, and there are a lot of engineers in the comments. Consensus is that they're most likely already dead, as the submersible was not designed with contingency in mind.

Possible shearing forces on the adhesive holding the carbon fibre tube and metal domes together

Advertised 96 hours of air, but it's not stipulated whether that's for 1 person or 5

Controlled by a third party wireless game controller, unknown if back-up wired steering system is in place or spare batteries for the controller are brought along

No way of removing smoke or toxic gases in the event of a fire, and no reported oxygen masks with positive pressure

No way to open from the inside even if they surface - reminiscent of the Apollo 1 tragedy where all three astronauts died in a fire on the launch pad because they couldn't escape the capsule

And so much more. It's a deathtrap. I'm hoping that considering the negligence of construction and lack of quality assurance and testing their little waiver will be struck down and they're sued out of existence. It's not about this one company being stopped, it's about preventing similar companies in space and ocean exploration making the same mistakes. Even NASA gets things wrong - Apollo 1, Challenger, Colombia - so these private businesses must be held to the same or better standards when there is a risk to life, just as the aviation industry is.

Regulations are written in blood.

[miracleonice87]

the camp letter

a/n: the requested note (which turned into more of a letter — I’m a writer, what did you expect?) written by Mrs. Kelce, from “new heights, new news, new baby.” enjoy!

___

“NHL tournament kicks off in my room in ten, big fella!” Isiah Pacheco called through the door after a few raps of his knuckle.

Travis smiled to himself, pushing his now-empty unpacked duffle into the dorm closet and clucking his tongue.

“You know I ain’t missin’ that, son!” Travis assured. “Be right there.”

As Isiah’s footsteps retreated down the hall, Travis grabbed the last piece of luggage on his bed, his toiletry kit, and walked it into the bathroom to hang up. Upon opening the flap, a piece of white notebook paper fell to the counter, folded so only the top of the page was visible.

Open when you get to camp! it read in your unmistakable penmanship. With an enamored grin, Travis quickly lifted and unfolded the page.

87,

the salutation read.

At that simple greeting, his throat tightened with emotion.

Oh boy… he was in for it.

He wandered to take a seat on the bed as he continued.

With another Super Bowl celebration summer coming to a close, another season is now on the horizon and it just might be the most special one yet.

I remember the first time you invited me to Chiefs camp when we had just started dating, watching all your teammates’ kids run to them after practice, watching them chase after footballs, watching their dads throw them up in the air and tote them around so proudly, and I remember thinking, “I hope that’s gonna be Travis someday with our own kids.” Sure, that happened just a little sooner than we planned, but with each day that passes, I only grow more excited to share this with you, and to make those football-centric memories with our little one, and hopefully more little ones to come.

I can’t wait to hold our baby in the stands and explain to them what you do for a living, Trav. I can’t wait to see how excited they get waiting for you on the sideline for a pregame kiss, then watching you ball out. I can’t wait to watch them meet you in the tunnel or the suite after a game, win or lose, and love on you like I do. I can’t wait to see them run around Arrowhead with Sterling and Bronze, and, as much as possible, take them to games with Wy, Ell, and Benny, watching them spend time together and clap for their daddies.

When I close my eyes, I can so vividly see another Super Bowl win, finding you in the midst of another red and gold confetti snowglobe, but this time, with our kid in my arms. I can envision you on the podium with Coach Reid and Patrick, a Lombardi in one arm and a baby in the other. And as much as I already miss you, despite you still being just a couple of rooms away as I write this, we both know that camp is the first step toward making that happen.

We are so lucky to get to do this at all, Trav, but I feel impossibly lucky to get to do this with you. Thank you for being the man that you are – I can’t tell you how much I admire your drive, your passion, your work ethic. You are the best teammate, captain, leader, friend, husband, brother, son, and daddy-to-be that I’ve ever known, and I know you’ll instill your best qualities in our little one.

I love you so fucking bad, Travis Michael. Have fun, be safe… go be great. See you soon.

XO

Silent tears were dripping down Travis’s cheeks and nose as he finished the letter, a fond smile permanent on his lips. God, he was the lucky one, to get to be able to play this silly game he loved so much with your full support backing him. And the thought of you and your baby cheering him on, together, in just a few more months… man, that made him actually giddy, despite the tears he was still trying to get under control.

A moment later, the only person who would ever push open the door to his room unannounced did just that — his quarterback and best friend entered with a casual “you comin’ to play Chel, you hockey freak?” before his eyes actually landed on Travis. Patrick was fearful for just a moment, seeing his friend so emotional, then the tight end met his gaze and held up the piece of notebook paper covered in your neat writing.

Travis cleared his throat and announced, “Letter from home. Got me.”

Patrick smiled, taking a few steps toward him to squeeze his shoulder.

“I gotchu,” he said understandingly. “All good, though?”

Travis nodded emphatically, beaming even as he wiped his watery eyes with the flesh of his thumb.

“So good,” he assured the fellow dad.

Patrick nodded, too, and pawed Travis’s arm affectionately.

“Glad to hear it. Take all the time you need, man,” he directed. “I’ll go take the first round with the hooligans.”

Travis giggled and reached to dap up Patrick, the quarterback giving him a warm hug.

“Thanks, brother,” he said softly.

As Patrick left the room, Travis gave the letter one last brief read, then pulled out his phone, screen lighting up to display his lock background — you from the back in an 87 jacket after this most recent Super Bowl, being hoisted in his arms the very moment you found each other on the field. Smirking proudly at the memory, he unlocked the phone and opened his text thread with you.

Just read your letter, you sneaky lil thing, he tapped. My god, you know how to make a 6’5” NFLer weep like a baby! Thank you for writing it, sweetness. I love you so much. Less than four days now until I hug you and baby Kelce again 😍🤰🏻 Tell Mama I said hi and I love her! Call you later 😘

With that, he hit send, took a deep breath, tucked the letter into an empty drawer for safekeeping, and headed toward Isiah’s room — which was already echoing with his teammates’ raucous cheers and jeers — all while wondering what the hell he ever did to deserve a life so damn sweet.

[theblackfemininesociety]

Classy Tip #1 : LEAVE SOME MYSTERY !

 Classy women understand the power of leaving some mystery in their lives. They know that revealing everything about themselves can diminish their allure and intrigue. Here are a few reasons why classy women choose to leave some aspects of their lives mysterious:

∙ Intrigue and curiosity:

By keeping certain aspects of their lives under wraps, classy women pique the curiosity of others. People naturally want to know more about someone who remains a bit mysterious, and this can make them more desirable and intriguing.

∙ Preserving their privacy:

Classy women understand the importance of maintaining their privacy. They know that not everything needs to be shared with the world and that preserving a sense of privacy can be empowering. It allows them to have control over their personal lives and choose what they want to reveal. By keeping certain aspects of their lives hidden, they can prevent unnecessary intrusion and maintain a sense of control over who knows what about them.

∙ Building anticipation:

By revealing only bits and pieces of themselves, classy women create anticipation and excitement. This can be in various aspects of life, such as relationships, personal achievements, or even their personal style. By keeping some mystery, they keep others interested and eager to discover more.

• Cultivating an air of confidence:

Classy women exude confidence and self-assurance. By leaving some aspects of their lives mysterious, they demonstrate that they are secure in who they are and don't need to reveal everything to gain validation or attention. This confidence is incredibly attractive and commands respect.

• Commanding respect:

Leaving some mystery can help classy women command respect from others. By not readily offering up all information about themselves, they set boundaries and establish themselves as individuals deserving of respect and admiration.

• Sparking imagination:

A touch of mystery allows others to use their imagination to fill in the gaps. It leaves room for interpretation and allows others to create their own narratives, which can be exciting and engaging.

• Amplifying Individuality:

Leaving some mystery allows classy women to emphasize their unique qualities and individuality. By revealing only select aspects, they can showcase their best traits and maintain a sense of enigma that sets them apart from others.

• Encouraging Pursuit:

Classy women know that leaving some mystery can elicit pursuit and admiration. This can create a dynamic where others are inspired to make an effort to get to know them better, leading to more meaningful connections and relationships.

• Allowing for personal growth and change:

Keeping certain aspects of their lives mysterious allows classy women the space to grow and evolve without feeling confined by past expectations or perceptions. It gives them the freedom to explore new interests, hobbies, and experiences without judgment or preconceived notions.

Classy women recognize that balance is key and the importance of leaving some mystery in their lives. By doing so, they create a captivating presence that leaves a lasting impression on those around them. Embracing this concept can add depth and allure to one's persona and enhance their overall presence.

[taoriyu]

Being in charge [Mizu x Reader]

=========== Pairing: Mizu x Reader Rating: T (I guess)

Short description: You are on watch tonight, and your military skills and commanding experience have proven invaluable. No harm was taken, but it seems a certain samurai has developed a taste for moments like these.

Additional warnings: - Things got a bit spicy this time but nothing mature. - An idea of archer reader isn't unique too, but a thought it would be a good match for a party of two melees and one useful handyman (kudos for Ringo)

Also: Mon - a round copper coins with a hole in the center, which were used for everyday transactions (according to ChatGPT).

Lleeet's go

===========

The night enveloped the surroundings in a cloak of brightness and freshness, the air imbued with the enchanting scent of blossoms and grass, mingling with the smoky essence of the fire. You established camp on the outskirts of the forest, sheltered beneath the towering canopy, away from the exposed and vulnerable thoroughfare that traversed the plain. Mizu, Ringo, and Taigen slumbered on their blankets around the crackling campfire, while owls hooted from the depths of the forest and leaves rustled noisily under the gentle caress of the wind, causing the treetops to sway in rhythm. The fire emitted soft, crackling sounds, punctuating the tranquil night of your watching.

Suddenly, a sharp snap shattered the serenity, followed by muted murmurs to your right. From the woods ahead, a hushed sound admonished silence. Metallic clicks echoed from the left, accompanied by the taut, high-pitched twang of a bowstring.

"Alarm! We're under attack!" Your shouts reverberated through the night, punctuated by the resounding clangs of a kitchen hatchet striking a metallic pot, your makeshift cooking vessel with Ringo.

"Ringo, raise your shield! There's an archer to your flank!" With agile reflexes, you leaped aside, narrowly avoiding the trajectory of an arrow.

"Mizu, Taigen, two assailants on my left!" Drawing the string of your bow taut, you hissed through clenched teeth, relying solely on your acute hearing to guide your aim. In the darkness of the forest and the flickering glow of the campfire behind you, discerning silhouettes proved impossible.

Thud. Thud. The sickening sound of arrows finding their mark, followed by the anguished cry of a fallen foe.

Swords clashed and screams erupted to your left. Swiftly, you pivoted, shifting towards the source of the archer's assault. With a swift motion, the archer released another arrow, only to find it stuck in an old shield repurposed as a makeshift table — a handy thing you and Ringo had devised for your cooking endeavors, now proving invaluable in defense.

Inhale. Aim. Exhale slowly. As your heartbeat steadied, time seemed to dilate. The assailant moved. Thud. Thud. The last of them fell.

You released a pent-up breath, surveying the aftermath.

"Are you alright, Ringo?" A nod confirmed his well-being as he rose from his defensive stance behind the shield.

"Mizu, Taigen, are you unharmed?" Your voice echoed through the night, seeking assurance from your comrades.

"We're fine," Taigen grumbled, emerging from the shadows along with Mizu.

Taigen retired to his blanket, voicing discontent, while Ringo extracted an arrow from the shield with attachable forceps.

"Mizu, with me. We need to inspect the fallen. The rest of you, remain vigilant. There may be more." Your directive was met with a quizzical glance from Mizu, but she acquiesced, falling into step beside you.

Three of the bodies yielded almost nothing: five mon, a bundle of poor-quality arrows, and no clues about the origin of the bandits. As you approached the last body, hidden in the shadows, Mizu spoke up.

"So, you're taking control tonight," she remarked quietly, a smirk playing at the corners of her lips, her eyes ignited with a certain spark.

"Perhaps I am," you responded, surprised by your own audacity, which failed to conceal the crimson hue coloring your ears.

Mizu's smile widened as she closed the distance between you, her stature seeming even taller in that moment.

"Command me then," Mizu murmured softly, trailing her knuckles across your cheek. Redness spread across your face, and your mouth fell open. Staring into her crystal blue eyes, dozens of thoughts raced through your mind, adrenaline amplifying every heartbeat.

Wait, what? She's serious? I thought she was mocking me. It's impossible, right? Gods, what do I do? Being in charge in battle is one thing. Commanding her right now is another. Maybe I should run? Coward. Argh!

Feeling as if you were standing on a cliff, you swallowed dryly and shifted your gaze to Mizu's lips. A faint pink blush colored her cheekbones too. To hell with it, you thought, and made a leap of faith.

"Kiss me then," you said, smiling nervously.

"I obey," Mizu whispered, propping up your chin and moving closer. Her tongue brushed against your bottom lip, making you gasp and hold your breath. She parted your lips and deepened the kiss. You felt like you were falling, your face hot and your fingers cold. A pulling sensation started to form inside your belly as the kiss grew more intense. Mizu let out a low, muted moan, sucking your bottom lip before parting from you. Both of you panted heavily, staring at each other with longing, unfocused gazes.

"Guys! Any discoveries?" Taigen's interruption shattered the moment.

Mizu’s eyes darted around, trying to focus. She gasped shortly, as if waking from a dream.

“Nothing interesting,” she shouted back to the camp.

She looked at you again, smiling cunningly. "I like when you're in charge," she said quietly, tapping the tip of your nose before heading back to the camp.

[eyesxxyou]

Hobie Brown (Spider-Punk) x Reader!

You didn’t intend on moving to London. There was absolutely nothing about the place you desired to stick around for initially. This is only temporary, you told yourself. It’s not forever. That was all true for the first month of your stay in a city that seemed to be perpetually shaded in grey. Media did no justice for how unappealing the place was. Gloomy, rainy, and the air quality constantly had you choking.

All of that changed, however, when you met Spider-Man, the only appealing part of this forsaken city. You had known about him. Of course you did, the whole world knew about the webslinger with the electric guitar on his back. Attending protests, encouraging anarchy, denouncing all things government controlled. A hero of the people. Governments labeled him a terrorist, a disgrace to all things wholesome. Everyone with half a mind and oppressed in some way loved him.

But you met him. You knew him. Well- as well as one could know a masked punk rock hero. You could pick his voice out of a crowd in a country where everyone sounded exactly the same to you. The baritone of his voice as he hung off the balcony of your apartment— sorry, flat, as he insists you call it. “Ain’t in America anymore, love. It’s a flat.” But you could see behind his mask the way he smiled everytime you called it an apartment in spite of him. But he liked to hang out there, strum his guitar covered in peeling stickers and hum to the melody late into the night.

It started after he saved you from getting mugged. Your first week in London and already you were having the worst time of your life with a knife pointed at your throat. You didn’t try to fight it. You were already over it by then and simply wanted to find the path of least resistance to get home. Luckily for you, Spider-Man happened to be patrolling nearby, lurking on rooftops.

“Oi. that’s no way to treat a young lady is it?” You and your robber both looked up to see him with his mask half off, eating the rest of his churro before pulling his mask back down. He was so fast, you hardly saw his webs shoot out and yank the robber back. He jumped down from the roof, swinging his guitar around off his shoulder and grabbing it by the neck before smashing it against your assailant's head. It knocked him out immediately, left him slumped against the wall. A couple of webs here and there to keep him where he was before Spider-Man grabbed your bag and brought it over to you.

“There ya go, love.” He dropped the bag in your hands and adjusted your shawl. “Not the first time I’ve had to deal with this bloke. I keep telling him to stop robbing people on the street. The banks are a much better target." You simply stared at him, almost surprised by his punk rock style, the metal spikes creaking a mohawk down the back of his head. His sleeveless jacket, torn fabric, patches. He was tall and rather lanky but you could see the lean muscle hiding just beneath his unassuming statue.

"Oh-" he clicked his tongue. "Got a little nick on ya jaw, love." His hand reached out to touch the bleeding cut but you quickly covered it and coughed. "It's okay. I'll be okay." You assure him. It was probably then that he realized you're American and most likely recently moved to England. It was getting dark and you still didn't know your way around.

“I don’t know if you’re busy or not, but do you mind walking me home? I recently moved here and I'm still not sure what parts of London are safe or not.” It was a stretch to ask and you felt a bit stupid the moment the words left your lips. You could see him consider it or find the best way to let you down but in the end, he shrugged. “Why the hell not. What street?”

That was the beginning of your friendship if that’s what you could call it. He’d visit from time to time, crash at your place in the middle of the night, often sporting bloody patches on his suit that could equally be his or someone else's. He never took off his mask though and you never pressured him to do so.

You were sitting on your bed, sketching out pictures of beetles and mushrooms to hang up on your overcrowded walls while listening to Lauren Hill playing softly through your speakers when you heard a soft tap on your window. Living on the fourth floor meant it could only be one person. “The window’s unlocked.” You always leave it unlocked for him, got into the habit of it after his third visit.

The window slid open and in came the familiar hero (but don’t call him that to his face, he’ll take offense). “Oi, like what you’ve done with the place.” He looks around at your new decorations. Fake vines hanging from the ceiling, tapestries of fungi and bugs, a shelf full of plants with a grow light beaming down on them. “The earthy type. Sick. You should come to an environmental protest.” He leans his guitar up against the side of your bed and goes to examine your bookshelf. 

“I would but knowing you, I’d end up arrested for being an accomplice to a crime.” You put your sketchbook down to the side and watched as he made his way over and sat on your bed right beside you. He tossed his arm across your shoulders. “What do you mean, love? That’s the best part.” You could feel your face warm, his face being so close to yours, only separated by a mask that you could so easily pull off. That would be wrong, a betrayal of the trust he obviously has with you.

There was something so freeing about his carefree attitude. It offered a level of freedom you’ve never experienced before. He didn’t judge, didn’t pry. You could tell him anything and his response would be, “rock on, fuck the system.” You could have intellectual conversations about society and structures with him and not have him give you puzzled looks or brush you off about being too serious.

To put it all simply. He was cool. The coolest person you know.

How stupid was it? To have a crush on someone you couldn’t even point out in a crowd without his mask being on or him making a scene as he does. Everywhere he went, he made it impossible to be ignored. He was so charming in the most blatant, blunt way. He told you how it was and didn’t hold punches and there was something so attractive about his honesty.

You think it’s because you know that his friendship is genuine. He wouldn’t have stuck around if he didn’t want to, wouldn’t visit you as often as he does if somewhere in that black heart of his he didn’t have a soft spot for you.

“You wanna go up onto the roof?” He scratched his exposed stomach as he was wearing the croptop you had made for him. A plain black shirt you had cut up and torn the sleeves off of before using bleach to paint on his spider logo. He absolutely loved it, wore it while out and about and asked you to make more for him, in return, he’d steal you some more decorations for your room because he “doesn’t believe in capitalism”.

You raise a brow at him. “How the hell am I supposed to get up to the roof?” You can almost see his smile through his mask. That’s the kind of smile you don’t want to see from a man bitten by a radioactive spider. He jumped up from your bed and took both of your hands in his. They were much larger than yours, warm and calloused you could tell through his gloves. He pulled you up from your bed. “You’re gonna hold on to my back while I climb up the side of the building.”

“You must be out of your goddamn mind.” You take your hands from his but your heart swoons as he chuckles. “Just a little bit.” He grabs his guitar and swings the strap around his neck so it hangs in front of him. “You trust me?” He stands at the window where he entered and looks at you. You wanted to tell him, “with my life” but you’d never say something so corny, never wear your heart so openly on your sleeve like that. You nod.

He chuckles. “Bad idea. Come on then.” And despite your reservations, you go to him and follow him out of the window onto the terrace. He had you hop onto his back, your legs wrapped around his waist and your arms around his neck, forearms pressed against his spiked collar. “You ready?”

“No.”

He began up the side of the wall on the tips of his fingers and the toes of his shoes. You didn’t know what you had expected but you didn’t expect the way your stomach dropped. You buried your face into his shoulder and took in a deep breath to calm yourself. “Got a fear of heights, do ya?” You hated the smugness in his tone and loved it all at the same time. “Fuck you.” You murmur. “I’m not afraid of heights, I’m afraid of your weird spider shit failing and we both fall to our deaths.”

“Oh, come off it, we’re already at the top.” He pulled the two of you up over the edge and onto the roof. It had gone by a lot faster than you had expected. You peeled yourself away from him and hopped down on solid land. The wind was strong up here, whipping at your face and pushing your hair so you could properly look over the city.

London wasn’t all so bad. Sometimes you get moments like this, sitting on the rooftop of your apartment building with the most admirable person in the world. He had his guitar in his lap, pulling at strings in a pleasant little tune. You look at him and after a second, he looks at you behind that hand-painted mask of his. He stopped playing his guitar. “What? Come out with it then.” It was just the two of you, right here, right now, in this small moment of time you may never get back. Why not just go for it?

You lean towards him and he makes no motion to move away as you hand reaches for his mask. He’s completely still as you grab it and pull it up just enough to reveal the lower half of his face. His pierced lips, his chin, his nose. But you don’t go further than that. If he wanted to show you his identity, he would have. You can respect that.

Leaning in to kiss him was the scariest part because at any moment he could reject you, laugh and tell you off. He doesn’t. He lets you press your lips against his in some timid attempt at affection. It was quick and almost frightened. You look away, trying to avoid his steady gaze.

“Oh love, that is not a kiss.” He reached out and grabbed your chin to kiss you again. It was harder this time, more passionate like something that’s been held back for far too long finally came to a climax. You could feel his lip ring against the seam of your lips and wanted nothing more than to take it into your mouth, bite his lips, have him all.

He reaches up and pulls off the rest of his mask in the middle of your kiss growing more and more heated, then his hands come to cradle your face, his thumbs stroking your cheeks with uncharacteristic tenderness. Or maybe it was characteristic for him and you’ve never seen such a gentle side of him.

When you part, your eyes flutter open and for the first time you see his whole face. He was somehow everything you thought he’d be. A slender face, high-set cheekbones, and deadpanned dark brown eyes painted in eyeliner against his waterline. Eyebrow piercings, dreadlocks that are more wild and chaotic than anything, just like him.

“Now, that was a kiss.

[botanicalsword]

Mars-Venus Aspect • Synastry

It is the observation based on my experiences - If you have different opinions, please share them with me. I would love to hear them. ♡

❥❥❥❥

Fire / Fire ✧ Sunkissed with light and love, by the golden rays radiating above.

Water / Water ❦ It sunk beneath the waves, though the burning passion never fades.

Earth / Earth ✧ Its fiery beauty emerges from the golden sand, transpires in the hue of gold and feisty red

Air / Air ❦ Bathe in warm and sweet grace, soul lifted in a higher place

❥❥❥❥

Photo credit : @le.sinex

Venus is drawn to Mars' confident and dynamic nature, finding their energy and drive appealing. They maintain a harmonious balance between their masculine and feminine energies.

Venus possesses a deep understanding of Mars' wants and needs, often prioritizing their partner's desires over their own.

Despite being ethereal and beautiful, Venus is willing to compromise and put their own needs aside for the sake of their relationship.

Water Venus tend to drop subtle hints, allowing Mars to take the lead in the relationship.

Although there is physical attraction between them, Venus values their friendship with Mars above all else.

Venus patiently waits for Mars to share their stories and experiences, relishing every detail.

Mars can be possessive at times but never to the point of being overly controlling.

Venus is especially attracted to Mars' enthusiastic and energetic approach, which creates excitement and adds to the romance.

Mars picks up on Venus' subtle hints and patiently waits for the right moment to act on them.

Their relationship inspires them to grow and evolve together, fostering a healthy and positive energy between them.

This makes for lots of fun and great romance.

•┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈•

Houses show areas of life impacted and aspects describe the effect and compatibility.

To determine if the connection will work, consider the full chart.

Masterlist @botanicalsword

[merbear25]

Pincushion

Having to work along side Caesar was never going to fair well for you. You were both devoted to your love of science, sure, but your morals regarding it couldn't have been more polarizing. Letting your guard down around him was one of the things you'd end up regretting the most.

CW: NSFW!!, MDNI!!, fem!reader, fingering, being experimented on, bondage, manipulation

There hadn't been any progress with this new serum in a few weeks, which was making you doubt the formulas you'd been testing out. You were determined to find the breakthrough you'd been chasing after but were weary of asking your colleauges for any assistance; their methods were a far cry from what most would consider ethical, especially their ringleader―Caesar.

Even after being ordered by your higher-ups to work alongside him in hopes of speeding up the process, you were reluctant to do so. The warm and inviting smile that was paired with friendly, open gestures seemed to always have an ominous shadow, yet this appeared to be something only you took notice in. Am I being overly judgemental towards him? Thinking to yourself, those skepticisms of his character began worming their way into your better judgement, blanketing doubt over it.

Having got lost in your conflictions, you failed to see the wolf in sheep's clothing approaching you. When you saw the bits of white cloud dissipating around your sides, you shot him a look.

Throwing his hands in the air at your glare, he tried to desfuse the hostility brewing in you, "Talk about if looks could kill! I come in peace." When your guard wouldn't fall, he added, "Promise" at the end.

Huffing at the stress he was creating for you, you impatiently asked what he wanted.

"I believe I've found the answer we've been looking for."

Spinning around, your disbelief was apparent in your line of questions, "Really? Are you sure? How can you know?"

"Oh, please don't act so surprised! Have you forgotten who you're talking to?" Setting aside his slight irritation at you for lacking faith in his skill, he pressed, "But there's a problem, you see."

When you raised an eyebrow at him, he continued, "Well, usually Monet volunteers her services when it comes to testing the quality of these types of serums, but I can't seem to find her anywhere."

"And? Don't you have your lackies who would do anything for you?"

"Hm, I do but they're far too busy carrying out my many other requests."

Understanding his real purpose for bothering you, unease set in. Picking up on this, he coaxed, "This is something that we've been trying to find the answer to for so long and this could be it! We must find out if it's the key. That is what you want, isn't it? To find a solution?"

Swallowing your fears, you agreed to help him, "Fine. If it's for the greater good, then I guess I'll help you..."

"And so many will have you to thank, I'm sure of it." Grinning at you, he motioned for you to follow him.

Leading you into what looked like an operating room, he gestured for you to lay down on the table.

Hestitation was your body's way of screaming at you to turn back. However, he was quick to act before your common sense took control; he offered you his hand to help you get up on it, "Let me help you, my dear."

Your hand was shaky when placing it in his, "Easy now," he soothed your worries.

"Now," he started, "to avoid any possible injuries, I must warn that these restraints are necessary."

Nodding for him to get on with it, your heartbeat quickened as you watched him take away your capability to flee. Pulling out the syringe, he assured you, "You'll just feel a slight pinch."

You avoided eye contact with him as he stood over you, watching intently, "How do you feel?"

Focusing on any changes, you answered, "F-fine, I think."

"You think or you know? There's an obvious difference."

Glaring at him, you waited to see if there were any signals letting either of you know about the possible side effects. When you felt your body getting warm, you told him in a hitched breath.

The sides of his mouth curled into a devilish grin.

Your thighs started twitching and rubbing together. The friction was bringing on lewd urges. Remembering where you were, you immediately stopped and demanded for him to let you go.

"I'm afraid I can't do that. We wouldn't want to run the risk of you hurting yourself from any other side effects that may appear, now would we?" denying you, he seemed to be enjoying the sight of your flushed face being overtaken by dread.

His hand hovered over your inner thigh, making you grip at the sides of the table in anticipation. "What do you feel when I do this..." His grasp sent shivers throughout your body. However, when he pinched the fatty upper part, shock waves shot directly across your folds and tangled around your clit―throbbing from the sudden neglect.

"Answer me, dear."

He had just witnessed your hips bucking from his teasing, yet he had the nerve to insist on hearing you tell him. You sobbed, "Fuck you," before twinging at the new waves of sin finding their way to your now weeping cunt.

Smirking at the pathetic mess you were turning into, he taunted, "That still doesn't answer my question."

He carefully lifted your skirt, exposing the shame you were holding between your legs. His hand was hovering over you again, which caused you to squirm more in a desperate attempt to evade him.

Stopping over your drenched pussy, he slid a finger over the lips. As you threw yourself against the table and muffled your cries by biting your lower lip, the sensation became more unforgiving; he swirled the tip of his finger over your hardened pearl, chuckling to himself when this broke your silence. Your disgraceful sobs were echoing around the room, while your hips were eagerly seeking out to abandon your prior morals.

"Use your words. How do you feel?"

Completely giving into his wicked ways, you admitted to how incredible it felt.

Upon hearing this, he slipped your panties to the side and shoved his fingers deep inside your aching walls. You couldn't hold on for much longer; you bounced yourself in motion with him, calling his attention to your breasts.

Ripping your top down, he hurridly grabbed at your expossed breast, which made your shrieks shrill from the overstimulation. Practically begging for him to stop the torment, this was only inticing him to push your limits further: pinching your tender nipple, flicking it for his own sadistic pleasure to see you descend into madness under his care.

Your walls clenched around him mercilessly, barely giving him any more leverage. Making him resort to using his upper arm strength to plunge into you, he admired the sight of your swollen and reddened lips gripping his hand.

The vulgar sounds seeping out of your slit were making it hard not to involve himself any further in his experiment.

Your mewls were intoxicating: your hitched breaths and begging were laced with the most addictive narcotic. When your finale had finally been seen through, you were barely conscious―having been forced to endure such abuse of power.

Clearly satisfied with your performance, he began releasing you from your restraints.

"It would seem that I'd grabbed the wrong sample," he informed, playing it off as a simple act of carelessness. "The side effects should wear off shortly, though."

Still unable to speak properly, all you were able to muster was a distressed whimper and scowl.

[covid-safer-hotties]

Kids Are Headed Back to School. Are They Breathing Clean Air? - Published Sept 3, 2024

Across the U.S., kids are headed back to their classrooms—just as COVID nears a fresh, late-summer peak. Somehow, four years into a viral pandemic that everyone now knows spreads through the air, most schools have done little to nothing to make sure their students will breathe safely.

We—and especially our children—should be able to walk into a store or a gym or a school and assume the air is clean to breathe. Like water from the faucet, regulations should ensure our air is safe. “Air is tricky. You can choose to not partake of the water or the snacks on the table, but you can’t just abstain from breathing,” notes Gigi Gronvall, senior scholar at the Johns Hopkins Center for Health Security and an author of a 2021 report on the benefits of improving ventilation in schools.

The COVID-causing virus SARS-CoV-2 is far from the only airborne risk in schools. There are also other respiratory viruses, smoke from wildfires, mold spores, off-gassing from plastics and other compounds, air pollution from traffic and industry, and allergens that worsen asthma and add to sick days. Yet federal air standards are stuck in the 1970s, when they were mostly aimed at protecting people from secondhand tobacco smoke, says Joseph Allen, director of the Healthy Buildings Program at the Harvard T. H. Chan School of Public Health. Fully updated standards for buildings are years or even decades away.

It’s hard to assess just what schools have or haven’t done to improve indoor air quality. No one—not one federal agency—collects nationwide air quality data on individual schools. Schools could use federal money to update air filtration and ventilation during the height of the pandemic. But a 2022 Centers for Disease Control and Prevention survey of school districts found that only half had taken simple steps such as opening windows or doors or using fans, and even fewer had upgraded ventilation systems.

The benefits go beyond protecting children and adults alike from airborne disease spread. “Better ventilation is linked with better test scores and grades [and] better workplace performance,” Allen said at a July meeting about air quality held by the Bipartisan Commission on Biodefense, a U.S. think tank.

“We have made incredible gains related to food safety, sanitation and water quality. Where is air quality in this?” he asked. “We have ignored it.” The CDC and the Food and Drug Administration quickly warn people about listeria in sliced meat or lead in cinnamon, but no one’s checking the air in public buildings for disease-causing germs.

It’s not even hard to make sure indoor air is clean. Even in the 1800s, by having open doors and windows, tuberculosis sanatoriums prevented the spread of disease by air. The CDC has extensive guidelines on what’s known as air exchange, but ultimately, it’s a matter of moving contaminated air out and fresh air in.

If it’s too hot, cold, polluted or humid outside, heating, ventilation and air-conditioning (HVAC) systems can clean up the air perfectly well when they are installed properly and used consistently. Their benefits far outweigh their costs.

“There never has been a building that we could not turn into a healthy building with just a little bit of attention,” said Allen, one of the country’s top crusaders for cleaner air, at the biodefense meeting.

Pandemic fatigue, of course, explains much of the apathy around making air-quality improvements. Public officials, from principals to local legislators right up to the top of the federal government, see that hospitals are no longer overflowing with COVID cases and that the nightly news no longer provides daily death counts. Most parents no longer clamor for assurances that their kids are safe from SARS-CoV-2.

Despite regular, ongoing spikes in COVID, most people have dropped precautions such as masks, even in hospitals.

“People are like, ‘There’s not a whole lot you can do about it,’ and that is why, societally, we need to do something about it,” Gronvall says. “We did this for water once upon a time, and we can do it for air.”

Even the experts have mostly let down their guard.

It wasn’t until halfway through the daylong, in-person-only biodefense conference on air quality that someone even thought to ask if the air in the room was safe to breathe. “Are air monitors effective?” asked former U.S. representative Fred Upton, a Republican and a commissioner at the Bipartisan Commission on Biodefense, at the July meeting. “Does anyone here have one?” added Upton, who had represented Michigan’s sixth district until 2023.

“Are you sure you want to know?” someone in the audience asked, prompting laughter. Rick Rasansky, CEO of XCMR Biodefense Solutions, did have a carbon dioxide monitor, a device that gives a very rough estimate of the amount of fresh air exchange in a room. He read out a “pretty good” measurement.

That was a lucky thing because the 100 or so people attending the meeting had been seated shoulder to shoulder for several hours at that point. Not one was wearing a mask.

It will take federal legislation and sustained attention to make a difference.

The Center for Health Security at Johns Hopkins University have developed a Model Clean Indoor Air Act, which state legislatures throughout the country could use in writing new indoor air laws. In Congress, Representatives Paul Tonko of New York State and Brian Fitzpatrick of Pennsylvania have introduced a bipartisan bill that would require the Environmental Protection Agency to list indoor air contaminants and develop guidelines (albeit voluntary ones).

The new federal Advanced Research Projects Agency for Health (ARPA-H) found a great acronym in its Building Resilient Environments for Air and Total Health (BREATHE) program, which will develop and roll out cool new air-cleaning technologies.

But fancy tech isn’t enough on its own, and some schools may have wasted money on glittery toys instead of real fixes. Ceiling-installed ultraviolet lights won’t kill germs if the air isn’t blown upward to get cleaned in the first place. And gadgetry won’t create the demand and enthusiasm needed for cleaner indoor air. Politicians won’t win elections by campaigning on clean indoor air. But once they have been elected, federal, state and local officials owe it to kids, their parents and their neighbors to fight this most invisible of all hazards.

“We need to make it easier for people to see what they can’t see—to see what they’re breathing,” Gronvall says.

Unpaywalled link: archive.is/20240904045601/https://www.scientificamerican.com/article/kids-are-headed-back-to-school-are-they-breathing-clean-air/#selection-499.0-617.111

[myloveforhergoeson]

i really think one of the craziest parts of btrtv was their school situation like. yeah we never see them in school after the second season but in theory they were getting an education and i simply think the writers handled it in the only way they could. let me explain.

typically young people in the entertainment industry are schooled either through the company they work for or through their parents. obviously, since btrtv was aimed at a younger audience they couldn't just not have the boys go to school - what kind of example would that set for the viewers? moving to hollywood equals never having to learn again?

while i was thinking about this topic earlier i was trying to come up with some different ways the show could have gone about this but managed only a few examples:

jennifer could homeschool them. but when? she's barely at the apartment as is and would have to juggle two different curriculums, one for the boys and one for katie. we already know thanks to bt school of rocque she also isn't caught up on modern schooling practices. plus i feel like, though she is their mother in many ways, she'd have difficulty controlling those 5 for 4 straight hours. i feel like they'd always be able to convince her to run off on a tangent instead of actually teaching them anything. next!

the boys could have been enrolled in regular high school. in theory, this would work for maybe a few months. until their first tour at the very least but after that i believe it would likely be dangerous for them to leave the sanctity of the palm woods or rocque records and venture out into the real world. while this could open up plotlines like people only wanting to be friends with them for their fame, crazy fans finding out where they learn, the boys being in trouble for being a genuine safety risk to other students when the paps follow them to school... seemed like more trouble than it's worth! also pretty similar to the plot of jonas which was airing at the same time on disney channel. next!

school at rocque records... had potential i believe. if gustavo had put the proper amount of funding to a quality space and quality teachers, i think the boys would have (aside from generally hating school) been alright there. while not ideal, it could have served it's purpose for the whole four hours they'd have to spend in school. it's very similar to how most industry kids learn now. in addition, they could have worked hard to graduate early, as many industry kids do, but i also believe this would have been a hard plot point to achieve. overall, i'd rank this option pretty high for the guys - it could have had everything they needed, except for the socialization they so desperately craved. next!

online school? in the early 2000's? yeah right. next!

this brings us to what i see as the final option, being of course, school at the palm woods. while not ideal, it does serve all of the boys needs to the best of the writers abilities. i do, however, feel the need to speak on the quality of education they are being granted. no shade to miss collins, i know that poor woman is doing her best and juggling probably six or seven grades worth of curriculum in her classroom, but as someone who was in a split grade class (4/5 when i was in 4th grade, 5/6 when i was in 5th grade!) i can assure you she was not giving her full attention to any of the grade levels she was trying to teach. i'm so sorry they set you up for failure queen.

while this probably worked out in the end for the guys (logan can snatch all A's and look amazing on college/med school applications and his friends could just coast by on the grades they need to pass) i think the episode in which they come back from tour and earn their final grades speaks the most to the education they're afforded. no way they (logan really) did weeks worth of work in one afternoon and earned straight c's lol. hope the band lasts forever and ever and ever after btrtv ends because if not... yikes.

but at the same time... i think this was the best option for schooling both from a writers perspective and the band's needs! socialization, check! normal school events like dancing, check! adequate enough education (how much do they really learn in four hours anyway?), check! it always fits into their working schedules. and it's union-approved! while not ideal, at the very least it's something.

in all, good luck boys! hope miss collins offers some office hours if you ever have questions... maybe there's a reason we never got to see them graduate <3

[cinebration]

Jealous Riddler (Riddler x Reader, Ed Nygma x Reader) [Request]

You said Gotham, right? What about an one shot with Ed (the Riddler)? Maybe Riddler fell in love with a girl first (cause it's always Ed), so he's always trying to get control to go talk with her. And for the first time he got jealous of Ed when she mets him, cause she finds him adorable 🥰 You're totally free to say no, but I really would like to read this 👉🏻👈🏻🤭—Requested by anon

I’m so sorry this request got buried! It’s like…two years old. Agh! But this was a lot of fun and it made me miss Gotham HARD.

Warnings: none

Gif Source: shokihomin

Ed’s head was so far stuck up his own ass that he didn’t notice you lurking in corners. That’s always what it looked like to Riddler as he rode bitch in Ed’s brain, stealing glimpses of you in the peripherals of Ed’s pathetic tunnel vision. Even after he ended Kristen and had nothing to be distracted by but his own misery, Ed couldn’t be bothered to see you.

No matter how hard Riddler fought to take control, he never seemed capable of it whenever you were around. It drove him insane, sitting around in Ed’s head without being able to scream out your name and say, “Hello! This fool can’t find a needle in a sewing kit, but I see you! And I very much want to get to know you better.”

Whenever Ed, the lovesick loser, invariably fell head over heels with some woman who hardly knew he existed, he could never pinpoint precisely what quality or action had made him trip in the first place. In Riddler’s opinion, that was because Ed was so desperate he went tumbling skull over ass after any girl who made eye contact. The behavior was revolting, all the more so because Riddler was stuck watching it happen over and over again.

Riddler, however, knew the exact moment he felt attraction switch into love with you. In the murky peripherals he so desperately stared out of while Ed focused on everything unimportant, he witnessed you nonchalantly steal Desk Sergeant Murphy’s sandwich—the whole kit and caboodle, complete with napkins, pickle, and chips—and deposit it all on O’Reilly’s desk, all without breaking stride. It wasn’t until Murphy discovered the sandwich on O’Reilly’s desk, resulting in a brawl that disrupted the whole precinct and had the inmates in lockup howling, that Riddler decided it was imperative that he meet you.

Two weeks later, he managed to wrest control from his weaker self and immediately made it his first priority to find you. Much like Kristen, you were stuck in a back room with one grimy window and overhead lighting sure to deteriorate your eyesight. Two overhead fans spun in lazy circles, pushing about the humid air but offering no relief.

Glancing up as he approached, you offered a wary smile. “May I help you?”

The question almost stymied him. With a start, Riddler realized he hadn’t decided on what to say or how to approach you. Now that he was physically in the room with you, in control of everything, he found himself hopelessly lacking it where it mattered.

“Hello,” he greeted, flashing his pearly whites at you. Thrusting out a hand, he introduced himself, “I’m Edward Nygma.”

You glanced from his hand to his lab coat and back again, hesitating. “You don’t work with the bodies, do you?”

“Oh, I assure you, my hands are quite clean.”

Skeptical, you shook his hand quickly and repeated, “May I help you?”

Riddler checked to make sure the door was shut before he said, a smile curving his lips, “I saw what you did two weeks back.”

“What did I do?”

You liked to play. His smile widened. “You caused that riot.”

Leaning back in your seat, you folded your arms over your chest, raking your gaze over him. The thrill of finally being seen nearly made him shout in triumph. “I don’t think I know what you mean.”

“You know, at first I thought it was random,” he continued, striding around the corner of your desk and sitting on its edge, forcing you to look up at him, “but the statistical probability of you choosing the right lunch to steal and placing it on the right desk is incredibly low for just random chance.”

Your face remained impassive.

Undeterred, Riddler forged ahead. “Then I recalled overhearing James and Loughlin the day before discussing the tension between Murphy and O’Reilly. It seems the latter had his hand caught in the cookie jar, if you know what I mean.”

He didn’t wait for you to answer. “He’s getting to know Murphy’s wife in the biblical sense. The sandwich was the last straw.” He laughed. “I have to say, superbly done, and with such subtlety! I prefer more theatricality, but the resulting chaos more than made up for the quiet setup.”

Your gaze shifted past him, checking the door, before returning to him. Preening, Riddler all but physically shook on the edge of the desk as he waited for your response.

“It was very gratifying, wasn’t it?” you asked, a wicked smile baring your teeth.

Fire burned hot in Riddler’s chest. “Please tell me you’ve done other things like it and I just haven’t borne witness.”

“Nothing with such fantastic results, but I have plans.”

“I love a woman who plans.”

You arched an eyebrow, your smile sharpening. “Care to make some together?”

~~

It became easier to steal control from Ed and sneak off to join you. At first, all rendezvous occurred in your office, the place being a neutral zone you weren’t yet comfortable leaving. Though impatient, Riddler tolerated your reticence to extend your partnership outside the precinct, biding his time to finally ask you out to dinner rather than merely sharing lunch. Ed would have offered to make dinner, but Riddler had no intention of hiding you from the world when all he wanted to do was shout from the rooftops that he had found a woman worthy of his attention.

In the meantime, you both plotted little schemes to implement around the precinct, trying to create the most unobtrusive plan with the biggest results. It became a game, stretching both your abilities for execution. For Riddler, it required toning down the theatricality and sensationalism; for you, the intended extent of damage.

The precinct cracked down hard on loitering youth, blaming them for the sudden surge in pranks.

Riddler finally worked up the nerve to ask you to dinner, brimming with nervous energy that had him buzzing. He strode into your office, your name rolling off his tongue in a sing-song inflection.

Then he was Ed. No, he was shoved into the back, Ed emerging in his place.

NO!

Riddler watched in horror as Ed glanced around the room, trying to orient himself, a deep frown scoring his forehead.

“Hiya, Edward,” you greeted, flashing that wicked grin that made Riddler want to kiss you breathless.

“Hi,” Ed answered back, hesitating. “I’m sorry. I don’t remember why I came in here.”

Frowning, you rose from your rolling chair. “We had plans.”

“Oh. Did we?”

Riddler shoved against Ed’s control, screaming with rage as he failed to budge him.

“Edward…”

“Um, you can just call me Ed.”

Confusion clouded your face. Riddler bellowed obscenities, dread striking him cold as he watched you withdraw, your expression pensive.

You OAF! His shouts went unheard in Ed’s skull.

“I just realized I don’t remember your name,” Ed apologized. “I’m so sorry about that.”

Eyebrow arching, you repeated it, scrutinized his reaction.

Ed glanced around the room, eyes narrowing as he placed his location within the building. “I don’t think I’ve ever been in the Crime Analyst’s room.”

“Sure you have, probably more than you can remember,” you quipped.

Riddler froze, his attention fixated on you. The corner of your mouth tipped up into a sly smirk.

“Really?” Ed thought it over. “No, I don’t think so.”

“You’re…different than what I was expecting. Or maybe not at all, now that I think about it.”

“I’m not following.”

You stepped into Ed’s space, startling him. No one ever violated his space, only the other way around.

You peered up into his face. “Even your eyes are different somehow.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Snorting, you said, “It’s kinda adorable, actually.”

“Uh…what is?”

You pointed a finger at him, drawing a vague outline around him. “This whole shtick.”

Riddler seized within Ed. Adorable!? He’s adorable!?

“O…kay, you know what? I think I’m needed back in the exam room. This was very…weird.”

With that, Ed scuttled out of the room, taking with him an irate Riddler.

Behind him, your laughter echoed.

~~

When Riddler finally wrestled control back, he dragged Ed’s body out of bed at one in the morning, threw on whatever he could find, and stomped off to confront you. He had hacked into HR’s records to find your home address, so he knew where you lived.

Pounding on the front door, he stormed around the small patio, pausing only to slam his fist harder against the wood. He had just decided to break out his lock picks when the door opened and you peered blearily at him through the screen.

“Edward?”

“The one and only,” he declared, baring his teeth. “Open up, will you?”

To his surprise, you didn’t hesitate. Opening the door, you stepped aside in time to avoid him barreling through you.

He didn’t have the poise to wait until the door shut fully behind you.

“You think Ed is adorable? That directionless oaf!?”

Chest heaving, Riddler stood waiting for your response, prepared to shiv you with words, if not a real knife, assuming it was necessary.

Rubbing the sleep from your eyes, you answered, “Yeah.”

He blinked. “Really!?”

“Like a hapless puppy.”

“More like a sniveling worm,” he sneered.

“He’s like everyone says.” You met his gaze pointedly. “And you’re not.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that when you walked into my office and sat on my desk, I was expecting him, not you. He’s the one everyone talks about.”

Jealousy abating, Riddler scrutinized you, an insidious thought pushing through his confusion. “You knew the whole time?”

“No, I just thought everybody else was too stupid to appreciate you. It wasn’t until I actually met him today that it made sense.”

“Oh.” He tried to avoid focusing on the embedded compliment in your words. “But adorable, really?”

“You are too eloquent to keep repeating the same question. Yes, I thought he was adorable. Does that mean I prefer him to you?”

Riddler froze as you hesitated, his stomach an icy ball.

“Of course not!”

Relief coursed through him.

“You’re more my speed,” you said, stepping into his space and running a finger up his shirt. “You shouldn’t doubt that.”

Your finger left a trail of fire in its wake. He stared down at it. “I have no reason to believe you.”

Hooking your finger through one of the gaps between buttons, you gently tugged on it, pulling him down to meet you. “I guess I’ll just have to prove it to you.”

Riddler would never thank Ed for making him jealous, but for a moment he thought about it as he tasted your mouth for the first time.

[republicsecurity]

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[mercurygray]

A while ago you posted ideas you had for OCs for MOTA - what happens if we write similar OCs by accident like I had some same ideas before you posted and now it looks like I'm just copying and I'm basically thinking we are all gonna be having this problem here on out with OCs sounding very similar

Kind Anonymous Friend, this is a great question.

This is one of many reasons I don't usually talk about my characters before they're people. But I'm fairly confident that the list of ideas I shared is really pretty low level and won't lead to copying.

Sure, I could get sore if someone else writes an ATA pilot, but I don't own the whole idea of that job, and I know there are going to be some OCs with the same jobs. This is a pattern that already exists in the Band of Brothers fandom, where nearly every single OFC is a female paratrooper or a nurse. And that's okay! Those are jobs that make sense for the context they exist in. I investigated this more in 2020 and you can see my results here.

We know that there are going to be a lot of OCs with particular jobs because we've already seen those roles in the show - there are women waiting at home, women in the Land Army, the Clubmobile Service, the WACs. We also know that there are adjacent services we could handwave about if we wanted to - the Medical Air Evac nurses, Women's Air Service Pilots, Air Transport Auxiliary pilots, Women's Auxiliary Air Force officers. The Army Air Force received 40% of of the women who enlisted in the WAC, and they did pretty much every ground crew job imaginable: "weather observers and forecasters, cryptographers, radio operators and repairmen, sheet metal workers, parachute riggers, link trainer instructors, bombsight maintenance specialists, aerial photograph analysts, and control tower operators." (There's a prompt list if I ever saw one.)

At a certain point, we also know that we're going to start seeing the same names, because the most common women's names for 1920 don't change. Both @shoshiwrites and I both happen to be writing women named Frankie, for example, but they're wildly different people. (The fact that Buck Cleven keeps referring to Marge is making my head spin - but Marge Cleven is not Marj Gordon.)

And that's the thing I want everyone to take away here - it only starts to look like copying if the entire concept and backstory and character quirks are the same. When two of us both start writing devil-may-care British blonds with a penchant for John Egan, then we'll have a problem. Or maybe we won't! Ultimately, it is the quality of your writing and your character development that will make what you do stand out.

All the same, it is a good idea to make friends with your fandom neighbors. Being aware of what other people are working on - and reaching out to assure them you're not copying - can go a long way.

[niss4x424]

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