#and probably cheap and veneered as well

[hum--hallelujah]

the THING about Disloyal Order Of Water Buffaloes is that, #1, it is one of the most melodically satisfying songs I've ever heard and that's why it was one of the first FOB songs I actually listened to of my own free choice, and #2, it makes people crazy insane bc so many of the lyrics simply make zero sense on a surface level EXCEPT "I'm half doomed and you're semi sweet" which IMMEDIATELY gets across its point and acts as a thesis statement to the song, thus allowing an understanding of the rest of the lyrics to fall into place

[mychoombatheroomba]

Neon Lights and Neon Dreams

Delicate Weapon - Chapter 1

Leon x GN! Reader x Ada - Cyberpunk AU

A young lawman who just got his badge. A mysterious merc with a blackout past. A rocker with everything to prove. All of you, trying to survive in Night City. City of Dreams. A City where there are no happy endings. But damn, if you aren't going to fight for yours.

Cross posted on A03

Word Count: 9,066

CW: smut, threesome (m/gender neutral reader/f), oral sex (m & f receiving), fingering, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, theft of personal information

18+ MDNI

Neon lights. Too many bodies. Voices crying out in rapturous joy, all drowned out in the wake of the speakers and the music they play. Your music. 

No drug, no braindance, no anything in the world could feel better than you standing on that neon-lined stage, singing so hard you thought you might shed your body and give yourself to the music itself. Probably a byproduct of the pure and utter adrenaline shooting through you, making every line of your songs seem like the most important words you’ve ever spoken in your life. Performing at Lizzie’s Bar (even if you’re just opening for the main band) is a game-changer. A motherfucking miracle.

One that you owe, at least in part, to the woman with dark eyes that stares at you from the other side of the room. One could be forgiven for thinking that she owned the place, the way she lounges in a corner booth, one perfect leg folded over the other as she nurses some glowing drink. She isn’t decked out in the bright colors and cheap threads of everyone else in the bar - her dress is a deep red, her lips painted to match. Her hair is dark and cut short, unadorned. No neon for her. She doesn’t call attention to herself because she never needs to. Ada will always be the most beautiful woman in the room, at least as far as you’re concerned. 

Even in the middle of a firefight, or when her brow is furrowed in the midst of a hack, she is beautiful. 

And right now, because she is the reason you’re on this stage, singing this song, she’s absolutely breathtaking. 

Payment for a job well-done hadn’t been enough for her. When Susie Q had zipped the eddies to you and Ada both, you’d been more than ready to leave and call it quits. Ada, though, had other plans. As per usual. 

You liked to think that, after years of running the edge, you’d built up some toughness. Some professional veneer. Hard to make a living as a merc if you didn’t look like you could get shit done, but even you had blushed a bit when Ada told the goddamn Queen of the Moxes that you were not only a merc but a musician? You were sure that you’d looked like your circuitry overheated. 

Still, one thing had led to another and when the opener band for tonight canceled . . . well, here you were, pouring your heart and soul into the microphone, shredding on your guitar. It’s not the music that usually plays at Lizzie’s, but you don’t give a shit because it’s yours and the people here seem to be enjoying it. More importantly, Ada is enjoying it. Maybe not for the music itself, but because it’s you that’s performing it.

She gives you a fox’s smile as your eyes meet hers, and you can tell from the way she’s watching you that she likes seeing you like this - unburdened and free. 

It’s the look she gives you when she’s in a mood, when you know that the night is going to end with you tangled in her bedsheets, and all that thought does is make you sing harder. You sway your body as you play, bobbing your head and hips to the tune you spent so many hours agonizing over. In that moment all those nights in a shitty apartment with your ‘ganic fingers aching against steel strings, it’s all worth it for this. 

Until you see Ada stand up from her corner booth, spare you one last glance, and walk off. You see her lips move and her optics glow orange like the fire you feel settling in your chest 

Phone call. 

She’s leaving your performance to take a phone call.  

You know Ada Wong well, you like to think. As well as any one person can know her, at least. Years spent as her partner in the streets and the sheets have given you wisdom into who she is, and you know that part of that person you’ve come to adore is a woman to whom biz comes first. Hell, most of the gigs that you’ve been on (the violent kind and now the musical kind as well) have been secured by her. She’s the reason you’re able to keep that shitty apartment, in a lot of ways. You don’t fault her for taking that call, even now. Even when you want her to be focused on you and only you. 

Still, you’re only human, despite the bits of chrome you’ve chipped over the years, and seeing Ada leave in the middle of your performance stings your painfully organic heart. 

Fortunately, you have an entire club full of other people whose attention you can earn, and with Ada gone . . . now you’re determined to milk that attention for all it’s worth. 

So you play on, your gaze sweeping the crowd. If you can’t have the eyes of the woman you want right now, then you’ll make damn sure you have everyone else’s. Your next song helps you with that - the last one of your little set that you’re playing. Your favorite. 

You get up close to the mic - an old fashioned one you brought yourself - and your lips nearly brush the woven metal as you begin the opening words. It’s a low, sensual thing, more suited to the BD bar you’re playing in, and as soon as your voice rasps out those first few lines, you earn a few whoops from the crowd. Adoration has always been your drug of choice, and you’re getting a damn good high from all this. It’s almost enough to fill the void Ada left in her wake. Almost. But you were never one to end in anything other than spectacular fashion. So, you make a point to let your eyes find everyone in the crowd who will look at you. Daring them to listen to you. To hear your siren song. To love you, even if it’s only until the last notes have left their eardrums rattling. 

Dozens of chromed out citizens of Night City, faces in the crowd bearing cyberware, lustful stares. Not everyone in Lizzie’s is watching you, but it’s enough. Those that are paying attention want you, you let yourself think as you go on, the song building. They want to be you or be with you. Narcissism has always been a facet of a good rocker, you’ve often thought, and for now, you indulge in it. 

How could you not, when the audience watches you like they wish they were slung across your hips instead of your guitar? 

When you hear them crying out as you begin to sing the song in earnest, picking up energy and tempo, your mesh and synth-leather outfit making you feel almost as powerful as the music does . . .

When you meet his gaze from across the bar, like something out of a cheap and cheesy braindance . . .

That gaze lingers, even as he tries to look away from you. To play it off like he wasn’t staring. 

But he was. 

There’s no escaping what you saw, and you make that clear to him as you lock your gaze onto him, letting him feel the heat of your stare. Because damn, he’s a nice person to stare at. He looks so out of place here, amidst all the Mox girls in their fishnets and the patrons who blend into the neon decor. You don’t glimpse any glowing tattoos or wild cybernetics on this man, oh no. Just a floppy haircut, a stylish blue and white edgerunner jacket, and a face that was, frankly, unfairly pretty. Not in the lethal way that Ada was beautiful; she could stop a heart with a look. This boy . . . he could melt one. 

He almost did just that as he sheepishly looked back at you, his gaze faltering under your stare. It was hard to tell under the bright pink and blue lights, but you swore he was blushing. 

Perfect.

If Ada wouldn’t pay attention . . .

You smile at the stranger as you sing, raising the hand that held your guitar pick and bringing it down hard across the strings of your instrument. The crowd cheers and that was reward enough, but the way that handsome man smiled at you? Oh, that was what made you give that last song your all. 

Lyric after lyric you sang into the mic, riff after riff you played on your guitar, and all the while, you keep your gaze on the shy young man at the bar. When he didn’t look away from you this time, you found yourself more than pleased. You wanted him to stare. You wanted him to ignore the men elbowing him at the bar and focus solely on you. And then . . . well, you decide you wanted a whole lot more than that. 

It was that man’s stare that keeps the performance alive as your set ends, as your voice tapers off, the music stopping. The high it all left in you stays as you take a bow and saunter off the stage, slinging your guitar onto your back. You intentionally let yourself get lost in the crowd, smiling as you see him crane his neck to try and catch a glimpse of you again. 

Cute. So fucking cute. 

You stalk through the bodies, effortlessly dodging those who wanted your attention. After all, you had your mind set on one man and one man only. 

As you approach, you can hear a conversation at the bar - mostly one sided, from the sounds of it. 

“Come on, Kennedy,” a young man said, his words slurred. “There’s only one reason to come to Lizzie’s, and it ain’t just to look.” You could see the person speaking as you moved through the crowd. Young, just like he sounded. Drunk, very clearly. Unremarkable, except for the fact that he was leaning hard into the one person in this bar you wanted to speak to. 

Kennedy, apparently.

And this Kennedy looked rather uncomfortable as the man with him and those around him at the bar all snickered. 

“Plenty of girls here,” another one piped in, clearly knowing each other, “or guys, whatever.” 

“I know-”

“Oh, but he ain’t looking at all of them. Choom’s only been looking in one place all night-” 

“Hey, don’t blame him. Been looking for that one in the catalog all night myself-” 

“And you won’t find me there,” you say, butting in as you break through the throng of bodies at last. The rowdy party assembled at the bar goes silent for a moment as you approach. You like that. Almost as much as you like how Kennedy’s expression turns all nervous when you fix your eyes on him. “Sorry. Not a Mox, just performing here for the night.” 

There were a few groans of disappointment that you took as a compliment. The catalog was a Lizzie’s Bar specialty - a list of the fine joytoys that worked here. You see a dancer you like, you find them in the catalog, then you find a braindance they recorded to buy. A safe enough practice, with the Mox watching. No actual touching involved, just the simulated memories of sex. Intimacy without actual intimacy. 

Not what you were here for, tonight. 

“Damn shame,” one of the young women accompanying Kennedy drawled. “You should consider it. You’d make a killing, you know.” 

“Thanks for the advice,” you say, letting the woman’s invasive stare roll off of you. Let her look. She wouldn’t be touching, simulated or otherwise. “Now,” you said, turning your attention towards the man you’d come here for, “mind if I steal you away from your friends?” you asked, your eyes smokey as they fixed themselves on the pretty man who’d been staring at you while you performed. 

Kennedy just looked at you like he wasn’t sure this was real. Like maybe he’d already been pulled into a braindance without him knowing. 

“To, uh . . . do what?” He was surprised. Even after you’d basically sang your song to him directly, he was surprised. 

So, you laughed, shaking your head and speaking like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “To dance.”

Kennedy just looks at you like you’ve offered him the moon. It’s a look that, frankly, makes you wish you had optics installed so you could take a picture. You can’t remember the last time someone looked that excited to dance with you. 

Unfortunately, Kennedy doesn’t seem to be the only one excited.

“Nah, come on,” the drunk woman slurs, moving closer to you. Too close. “You won’t have any fun with the boy scout. Dance with me . . .” her hand finds your waist. “Won’t even need to rent a BD with me, baby.”

“Hey,” Leon stands, then. Ready to intervene. Ready to pull his comrade off of you.

He doesn’t get the chance, though.

Not when, with bolts of blue, you reach up and rest a palm against her cybernetic arm . . . and then she’s all but shot back against her bar stool, her eyes wide and her hair sticking up with static at the ends. The group looks like they’re ready to intervene, come to their friend’s defense . . . but the Moxes at the bar, the ones who are very openly carrying iron and have cybernetics of their own, make them halt. Hot-headed as the group is, they know better than to piss off the gang who runs this place. 

You lower your hand, electricity sparking from the cybernetic palm on your dominant hand - one of the few bits of chrome you’ve chipped in recent years. You aren’t sure if the sparks reflecting in his eyes are the only reason Leon’s expression looks so bright as he looks at you.

“Um . . . that was . . . shocking,” he says with a boyish smile.

You snort because, “Damn, choom, that was bad.” Either way, you offer him your other, fully organic hand. “Think you owe me a dance to make up for a shitty joke, no?” 

His palm against yours is all the answer you need.  

The main band has started playing. Purples and blues washed over the two of you as you guided him, music pulsing from the speakers loud enough to rattle your bones. Ada, as much as you look for her, is still notably absent. You had to shout as you faced him at last with a smile. “You looked like you needed rescuing!” 

The corners of his mouth turned up and god damn his smile was more breathtaking than it had any right to be. “That obvious, huh?” 

“Almost as obvious as your staring.” 

Just like that, his smile is gone. Zipped away like a light turning off. He looks absolutely mortified. “I . . . I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-”

You laugh, shaking your head. Your hands find his easily, and you don’t miss how he goes still amidst the moving bodies around the two of you. “It’s okay,” you reassure him, leaning in so he can hear you better. “I was staring back, wasn’t I?” 

Disbelief. Then acceptance, and his smile is back. Boyish. Adorable. “Yeah, I guess you were.” He doesn’t pull his hands away. Good. 

“Kennedy, right?” 

“Leon,” he shakes his head. “Kennedy’s my last name.” 

Bold of him, giving out his full name in Night City. Then again, you supposed that anyone with a good scanner built into their optics could learn that much about him without him even saying. Lucky for him, you possess no such cyberware. Even if Ada keeps insisting that you should. No, you’re still mostly ‘ganic, despite your line of work. This man before you, though . . . he’s even more so. Not hardly any chrome at all, at least that you can see. Just that pretty face and a streak of color in his hair that you didn’t notice at a distance. Blue, you think. You give him your own name easily enough when he asks. You like the way he smiles when he says it back. 

“So . . . you, uh, wanted to dance?” he asks, a little more confident now. 

You just give him a dazzling grin, taking his hands and guiding them to your hips. “To start.” 

Turned out to be just that: the start. 

The main band finished their set and Ada hadn’t come back yet, so you pull Leon into a corner booth and paid for his drink (he has to pull out a physical ID, which is fucking hilarious to you), needing a break from dancing. The two of you had worked up a sweat, after all, but his hands had never wandered. Not once. Not even if you would have been alright if they had. No, he’d been nothing but respectful, and continued to be just that. Still, he didn’t shy away from you, either. Not now, as your side was pressed up against his in a corner booth, your smiles and conversation easily exchanged. 

“Do you play here often?” he asks, and you hope the question is borne of a desire to see you again. A hope that if he returns to Lizzie’s, you’ll be there. It also tells you that he’s not a regular. 

“Nah,” you shake your head. “First time, actually. I ran a gig for Susie Q, so she let me play the night as a bonus.” 

“Oh,” Leon nods. “But you’re not with the Moxes, you said?” 

“Nope.” 

There was some hesitation as he asks what kind of job it was you’d done for the gang. 

“Some Maelstrom boys had been stalking some of the dancers,” you answered simply, with a shrug. “They felt like something was off, but they didn’t want to risk any Moxes going onto Maelstrom turf to hunt them down, so I went instead. Gangoons won’t be following anyone anymore.” You and Ada had made sure of that. 

The answer seems to appease Leon, the knot in his brow smoothing out. Still, he seems to be puzzling something out in his mind. “So you’re . . . uh, a merc, then?” It’s like he doesn’t want to throw the label around. Like he’s afraid it’ll bother you. 

Definitely not a regular.  

“You could say that, yeah,” you nod. “Trying to make more of a living with this-” you nudge your guitar, leaning up against the booth seat at your side, “but songs don’t make you a ton of eddies until you go big.” 

“I think if you keep at it, you’ll get there.” He sounds so sure of that, and if he’s trying to win points in your book, it’s sure as hell working. “You’re pretty damn good.” 

“Flattery will get you everywhere, you know,” you grin, and Leon laughs. He’s, frankly, too damn sweet for a place like this. 

So, after a moment, you decide to voice the obvious.

“Hope you don’t mind me sayin’, but doesn’t seem like your scene, this place,” you observe, your fingers tracing the rim of the angular glass in your hand. You lift it to your lips but don’t drink the tequila in it. Not until you gesture to the crowd that still lingers at the bar - the one you stole Leon away from. “And your friends don’t seem like, well, friends.” 

Leon chuckles, shrugging to concede your point. “It’s not. And they aren’t. Well . . . no, not really.” It’s an admission delivered with a laugh and a shake of his head, his fringe falling a little over his eye. 

“So why come at all?” 

A tilt of his head. A look almost like a grimace. 

He was here for a graduation party, he tells you. His party, and the people with him. He hadn’t wanted to come in the first place, but they’d dragged him along anyway. Last night of freedom. 

“What college?” You ask, and he stalls for a moment. 

“Oh, uh, local in Watson. Nothing too fancy.”  

Wasn’t often you met a college educated individual, much less one who went to Lizzie’s. Watson, as a district, was known more for its gang violence and clubs than its colleges. In short, his answer didn’t sound true at all, to you. You blamed it on the alcohol. Or maybe he was lying. Either way, none of your business, you supposed, so you smiled and congratulated him. 

“What about you? Where’d you learn to play like that?” 

A favorite question of yours to answer, because of the pride it instilled in you. “My old man taught me the basics. Everything else, I learned myself.” No schooling, no fancy training. Just you and a hand-me-down six-string, the way of the rockerboys of old. 

Leon was just as thrilled to hear your answer as you were to give it, it seemed. 

“Seriously?” 

“Seriously.”

“That’s . . . damn, I would have thought you’d studied somewhere formally.” 

That gets a laugh from you. “I don’t think there’s a single formal thing about me,” you declare, shaking your head and downing your tequila.

Leon laughs too. “That’s okay,” he reassures you. “I never really liked suits. The clothing or the people in them.” 

“Now that is an attitude I can get behind,” you agree, setting the glass down. When you look back up, you’re closer to him. Leaning a little more into his side. Ada still isn’t here. It’s been, what, half an hour? More? Wouldn’t be the first time she’s ditched you. Nor the first time you’ve found someone else to keep you entertained for the night. “So,” you go on, “what things do you like?”

Leon’s a glass of whiskey in, now. They call it liquid courage for a reason, even nowadays. You think you have that drink to thank for the way his eyes, for just a split second, flit down to your lips. “You’re definitely making your way onto that list.” 

Oh hell yes. 

“Just making my way onto it?” You ask, your mouth curving up into a smirk. “Damn. Here I thought I was doing well.” 

“You are,” Leon says, his tone just a little rushed. Cute. He leans in a little closer. “Trust me, you are.” 

Pride widens your smile, as it so often does. “Thought so.” 

“And . . . how am I doing?” He sounds hopeful. His eyes are on yours, searching. Questioning. His thigh tenses a little against yours, his hand resting on it and brushing your own. 

You know better than to waste time, so you slide your hand over his. “Oh, you’re doing pretty damn good, I’d say.” 

Leon’s eyes flash under the club’s lights. His Adam’s apple bobs. He’s so, so close now, but you want him to be closer. “Do you . . . do you have more songs than what you played tonight?” he asks, and you can tell it’s a leading question. 

You nod, your voice even. Steady. “Lots more.” 

The answer makes Leon smile wider. “I’d like to hear them.” 

“I don’t play for free,” you said, deciding to take a little lead yourself. “Not even for someone as cute as you.” 

There’s just a moment that hangs between the two of you, filled with pulsing music and flashing lights that all seems to fade. Leon doesn’t hesitate for any longer than that, though.  

“Would a date be good payment?” 

There it is. It’s not what you should be looking for, not when you’ve got a beautiful woman you’ll likely be going home with, but damn if it doesn’t make your heart warm. 

A date. 

“Hmmm,” you lean in, very nearly pressing your smile against his own. Your words are an echo of before. You know that’s not the only reason they make Leon grin. “To start.” 

He surprises you, then. You don’t think that he’s going to, but he leans in anyway. It’s soft. Not the kind of kiss you’re used to. It speaks of firsts and tentative steps, caution and hope. He pulls away almost as soon as he starts, just to ask “Is this okay?” 

And in no time at all you’re pressing him into the booth, mouths moving against each other. You swap the tastes of tequila and whiskey, and you find that as sweet as he is, he kisses desperately. There isn’t much finesse to it, but damn if he doesn’t make up for it with eagerness. He opens his mouth to you when you brush your tongue against his lips, and your fingers slide into soft hair and-

“Did you get bored while I was gone?” Her voice makes you smile, but it makes Leon freeze. 

“You left me all alone,” you said, not at all bothered as you peel your gaze away from the man beside you. A man who, you realize, looks like he would short-circ, if he had chrome on him. “Had to find some company.” 

You’re a little disappointed that Ada doesn’t look bothered. Then again, she so seldom does. Especially not when she likes whoever you’ve found to keep yourself occupied with. Whether she does like Leon or not . . . well, that remains to be seen. You know that the verdict is forming, though, as her optics flash blue, a telltale sign that she’s conducting a scan of the man sitting beside you. 

“You . . .” Leon stammers, looking between you and the woman now standing on the other end of the table. “Are you-”

“With me? That fact might have slipped our . . . friend’s mind.” 

“Just like you slipped away for most of the night,” you shoot back, giving Ada a knowing smile. 

You know she isn’t mad, not really, when her own mouth curls up just a touch. 

Was it shitty of you not to mention you were here with someone? Yes. But you know Ada doesn’t mind. That’s always been how the two of you operate. Free to roam where you please so long as you always come back home. Doesn’t mean you don’t try to make her jealous and vice versa, every so often. Doesn’t mean you don’t really, really like the man you were just kissing. 

You just have to hope that Leon will understand.

Fortunately, Ada speaks before you get the chance to, her tone smooth as synth leather. “Don’t worry about it,” she says, and her optics return to their normal dark hue. 

She looks completely unfazed, but Leon looks utterly taken aback. 

You can’t help but smile as she studies Leon’s face just a touch longer, because you can practically see her making a decision. Ada is always good at that - thinking on her feet. And you’re good at reading her. Enough so that you catch on immediately when her usual reserved demeanor shifts. She smiles at Leon, her eyes “Thanks for keeping my musician company, Leon.” Ah, so she’d found his name already. “Now, hope you don’t mind the interruption,” she said, sliding into the booth. Not on your side, though. Oh, no. No, instead, Ada took a seat beside Leon, resting her elbow on the table as she leaned over it. “And I hope you don’t think three is a crowd, either.” 

He doesn’t know how he got here. 

Well, he knows how he physically got here: a trip in a sleek red car to the appropriately named No-Tell Motel, two flights up and three doors down to a room that smelled like cigarettes and cheap perfume. Even with the whiskey in his system, that part of the journey is clear enough. The part where he ended up sandwiched between two of the most beautiful people he’s ever seen, though? The how of him ending up with your lips and Ada’s taking turns at his throat? 

Yeah, he has no fucking clue how that happened. All Leon knows as he grasps at both of you desperately is that he doesn’t want it to end. 

“Oh my god . . .” he manages, feeling you sucking at his throat, feeling Ada’s body pressed up against his back, her hands wandering his chest. 

You sure you’re alright with this? you’d asked before you all drove to the motel, smiling that dazzling smile of yours.

Leon, in truth, hadn’t been quite sure. Not because he didn’t want you both, but because no way in hell was this happening to a nobody like him. How did he catch your attention from the crowd? How did you actually seem to enjoy his shitty jokes and poor attempts at flirting? How did Ada appear and seem miraculously alright with him kissing you, her partner? It was all too good to be true. Some part of him knew that. Another part knew that he shouldn’t be doing this. Just as he and his fellows shouldn’t have gone to Lizzie’s in the first place.

Last night of freedom, they’d insisted. Last chance to go there and get your cherry popped.  

Because people like him didn’t go to places like Lizzie’s. Or, they shouldn’t. Not for the ethics of it, though that should have been a factor, maybe. Rather, because the Night City Police Department and gangs didn’t exactly mix well. Neither did badges and mercenaries. It was why he’d lied to you, even if he’d felt bad about it. It wasn’t a local college that he’d just graduated from. Wasn’t a diploma he’d gotten, but rather, a badge. Maybe you’d understand. Maybe he’d tell you, eventually, if this ended up being more than a one night stand. 

He hoped it would be, however foolish that thought was. It was foolish to have left the bar with you and Ada at all, in truth. But he trusted you. Dumb move, maybe, but he did. 

Maybe it was the genuine way you’d looked at him before you all got in the car. The way you’d given him an out. He should have taken it. Instead, he’d nodded. I’m sure.

Maybe he’d spoken too soon, because as your teeth graze his skin, he’s not quite sure he’s going to survive what’s to come. 

But what a way to go.

“Oh, I think he likes you,” Ada hums, amused, her breath hot against Leon’s ear as she pulls his jacket off his shoulders. “Don’t you?” she asks him, and he can only nod. 

Of course he likes you. 

Since he heard you sing the first few notes of your song, he’s nursed a suckerpunch crush on you. One that he’d been fully prepared to write off as puppy love and expect nothing to come of it. And now, here you were, kissing your way back up his throat. 

His thoughts aren’t enough for Ada, though. She bites at his earlobe, tugging on it before she speaks again. “Come on, handsome. We can’t hear you.”

She has a voice like smoke, and Leon can’t help but do as she asks. “Yes,” he nods again. “I like . . . both of you.” 

That earns him a laugh from you and Ada both. “I like you too,” you murmured, finding his lips once more. Leon doesn’t hesitate to kiss back, and Ada hums a laugh in his ear.  

“Then maybe you should show him how much you like him,” she suggests, and after Leon gives his approval, it’s all he can do not to moan as you sink to your knees in front of him. You put on a show before, at the bar, and you do the same thing now, looking up at him as you undo his belt, his pants . . . 

He’s aching by the time you free him, your lips pushing his shirt up so you can kiss at his belly and then down. Ada helps you without needing to be asked, tugging the shirt up. Leon catches up and lifts his arms, leaving himself mostly bare. No intensive cyberware chipped into his skin, no modifications besides the blue streak he’s dyed in his hair and a long-closed piercing hole in his ear. Just him. He barely has any time to be nervous about any of that before he feels your lips at the tip of him.

He might as well be a goner, then. 

Your tongue runs up him in a smooth motion, and Leon’s head falls backwards, nearly headbutting Ada behind him. “I’m so sorry!” he insists, nearly stopping to turn and make sure she isn’t hurt, but the woman keeps him in place, shaking her head. 

“It’s alright,” she reassures him. She brushes her lips against his cheek as you set to work, silent as she watches you take Leon in your mouth. She seems pleased, but Leon is a little too far gone to notice, his heart hammering as he struggles to figure out what to do with his hands. Should he grab your head? Reach back for Ada? He doesn’t know, and ends up just clenching his fists at his sides, watching in awe as your lips part and ease around him. 

“Fuck-” he chokes out, glad for Ada supporting him, her silky dress pressed up against his back as her hands trace up his chest. 

“Doesn’t it feel good?” she whispers to him, like she’s proud of your efforts.

“Oh god yeah,” he nods, knowing that she likes hearing his words. 

Your hands run up his thighs, one finding purchase on his ass, pulling him closer as you bob your head. 

He gets lost in watching you, letting you guide him into moving until he’s thrusting his hips in time with you. It’s too much, too good, and Leon can’t look away as your eyes lock on him. You may be the one on your knees, but he’s completely surrendered to you and Ada both. Ada, who, as Leon gasps, reaches up and grasps his chin, craning his head back towards her. Her eyes glow blue as she makes him look at her, his cheeks flushed and his lips parted as he pants. Ada locks eyes with him in that moment, the flickering blue glow like a neon lure. Leon doesn’t even get to lean in, though, before Ada kisses him, her lips trapping the sound of his moan. 

He’s trapped between the two of you, a dual endeavor that he can only get lost in. At last, he reaches up, one hand on the back of your head, the other winding through Ada’s dark hair. 

He won’t last. Not like this. Not as you take him all the way and his eyes nearly roll back into his head. Only then does he push you away, a little too hasty as he separates from Ada. “Wait-” he gasps, looking between the two of you. 

Concern flashes across your eyes, but Leon quickly assuages it. 

“I can’t be the only one feeling good,” he says, cracking a soft and breathless smile. He wouldn’t feel right about letting the two of you give him so much attention. 

By the way your eyes sparkle, he knows you appreciate the idea. “You got a point,” you grin, giving him a few last kisses before rising to your feet. “What do you have in mind?” 

Ah. 

That much, Leon hadn’t really considered. 

He looks between the two of you, suddenly dumbstruck once again. He’s never done this before. Well, not with two people. This is something straight out of a braindance that he’s only ever imagined experiencing for real. It’s too much and you’re both there waiting for him and-

“I have an idea,” Ada suggests, rescuing him from his confusion. 

So, a few moments later, she’s kissing you as she and Leon work together to rid you of your outfit. Not that there’s much to remove. Leon can’t help but take in the sight of you; each inch of skin bared is a gift in and of itself, one that he drinks in as you stand before him at last. He takes in every detail he can in the dim light. The lines of any cyberware on you, the little imperfections that make you, well, you. He’s honored and overwhelmed and that’s even before Ada guides his hands towards you. 

At the same time his skin touches yours, his heart pounds as Ada pulls you in for a bruising kiss. It’s a heated thing, one that makes clear the attraction between the two of you. Leon catches tongues tangling together, and the sight is enough he feels he might combust. 

It isn’t long, though, before Ada parts from you and guides you towards Leon instead. She steps aside and Leon lets you walk him back, your mouth on his and your tongue slipping out to dip between his lips. His knees hit the back of the bed and he falls all too willingly, his back meeting the shiny pink tiger-print sheets. It’s not the kind of place where he’d usually choose to be with someone, but tonight isn’t the kind of night he usually has, either. 

His inhibitions are long since gone as you crawl over him on the bed, your lips meeting his again, your hand moving between his legs. 

He’s so caught up in the moment, he barely registers Ada moving in behind you, one arm wrapping around you to play where you’ve yet to receive attention. You moan into Leon’s mouth, and he swears it’s almost as good to hear as your singing. Almost . 

Ada whispers something into your ear - Leon can’t hear quite what it is - and you nod. She kisses up the side of your neck before she leaves, allowing you to put all your attention on Leon. Allowing him to move his hand to take Ada’s place. You hum as he touches you, and fuck, there’s no better incentive to keep going than that. His hand, his fingers, his movements become more bold, his breath leaving him in desperate pants as he touches you. Trying to give you a fraction of what he’s been given so far. Your forehead presses against his as the kiss breaks, your eyes finding his in a way that’s far, far too intimate.

Then Ada returns, her fingers wet with something. Leon nearly asks where she got the lube from, but he imagines that a motel like this one has things prepared for all kinds of clandestine meetings. Or maybe Ada is just more prepared than he thought. 

Either way, she reaches down and Leon’s face goes bright red as he watches her slide a finger into you. Then two. His hand falters for a moment, and you laugh amidst your sighs. “Come on, Leon,” you say, your voice sparking with challenge. “Don’t stop now.” 

He does as you ask. How could he refuse? His hand and Ada’s work in harmony, and you close your eyes, shivering above him on the bed. You rock yourself back against Ada’s hand, kissing at Leon’s neck as you move. 

At least, you did until Ada guided you up and away, making you crane your neck to kiss her, just as she’d done with Leon. Again, Leon could only watch as the two of you kissed, hearing the panting breaths you exchanged. Seeing the way you clung to each other. His breath caught in his throat as he saw you unzip Ada’s dress, letting it fall to the floor, leaving her in a black lingerie set that was, frankly, too perfect. All of her is too perfect. She has to have had some realskinn installed over cyberware, because no one is that perfect. He almost felt like he’d intruded on a private moment until Ada pulled away from your lips and reached for Leon, perfectly manicured fingers tracing his jawline. “I think he wants you,” she said, her lips trailing along your jaw. 

She was telling true. Leon couldn’t help but stare at both of you, a sentiment that you seemed to share. “Only if I can have both of you,” you said, leaning into Ada, mouthing at her neck. 

The pale woman hummed, smiling and shaking her head. “Greedy of you.”

“Hey,” you raised a brow, pulling away with a grin, “it’s my night. First show at Lizzie’s and all that, I think I deserve a reward.” 

Ada made a face, one of soft amusement, but nodded. “Alright then. Lie down.” 

You grin, not needing to be told twice. You kiss her on the lips, then do as she says, beginning to settle yourself on the edge of the bed. Leon watches you as you move beside him, very nearly following before he looks up at Ada once more. The smile she wore only moments before is gone, something in her eyes that Leon cannot place. 

He worries for a moment. He doesn’t know her - hell, he barely knows you - but he feels concern anyway. Fear that this might be making her uncomfortable. “Ada,” he speaks up, breaking the magic of the moment much against his own will. “Are you sure this is okay?” 

Dark eyes turn towards him, and there’s just a moment of indecision. Conflict. He can’t blame her, he supposes. She’s letting a stranger sleep with her partner. Leon very nearly feels wrong for even being here - but Ada shakes her head anyway. “It’s more than okay, handsome,” she promises and he finds nothing in her voice to suggest otherwise. “It’s nothing we haven’t done before.” 

“Trust me,” you pipe up, sitting up a little on the bed, your hand over Leon’s more reassuring than it has any right to be, “if she wasn’t okay with you being here, she’d have kicked your ass to the curb back at the bar.” 

That much, Leon believes easily. Ada doesn’t seem like the type of woman to shy away from defending her wants. 

“Alright. I just . . . I’m sorry, I’ve never done anything like this before.” 

For the first time all night, Ada’s expression softens. Yours does too, and you speak first, squeezing his hand. “You’re doing great,” you reassure him. “Better than most, honestly.” He believes that well enough, too. “Don’t worry. You want to stop, we stop. Simple as that.” 

Ada watches carefully, but any worries she might have, Leon disarms when he shakes his head. “Don’t wanna stop,” he admits, bashful despite himself. “Not now.”

You smile, then, leaning up and sealing your lips to his. That’s really all he needs. 

So, with the dual reassurance, he lets himself be guided to the edge of the bed, positioned between your legs. Ada takes up a position at his back once more, whispering what you like in his ear. He can feel her skin against his, the lines of cyberware pressing against him, her hands over yours, guiding them to Leon’s hips. 

She lets him set his own pace, but you? Your legs wrap around his hips as your hands move up to his arms, all but dragging him towards you. Your eyes find Leon’s as he feels himself press in and oh good god he hadn’t been prepared for this. 

He whines and you groan and Ada soothes her hands over his back as he presses in and in and in until at last he can go no further. His hands rest on either side of you, clutching at those stupid motel covers, his lips parted once more. You lean up and kiss him, eager to start, it seems. 

Leon sure as hell isn’t going to disappoint you. 

So, he starts to move his hips, forgetting himself as he feels not only the warmth of you around him, but the warmth of Ada at his back. She doesn’t kiss his neck anymore, she just remains there, watching as Leon sets a slow, steady pace. 

When the kiss ends, though, you seem to want her more involved than that. 

“You look lonely over there,” you pant, reaching one hand towards her. 

Ada doesn’t seem to need convincing, either. 

Of all the things Leon has seen in his life, watching her strip the black panties off her hips and climb over you on the bed is one that he thinks will be the end of him. She takes up her position without much hesitation, framing your face between thigh-high stockings. She doesn’t even take off her heels, and as far as Leon is concerned, that only adds to the utter mind-shattering sight as she lowers herself. 

You don’t wait, either, your tongue reaching out to taste her as Leon thrusts into you, and that’s when it really hits him. 

He’s sharing a bed with two beautiful strangers he met at the bar. He’s in a scenario that should be impossible, honestly, but damn if you don’t feel good squeezing him and look even better as you reach up, wrapping an arm around Ada’s thigh to hold her down on your face. She closes her eyes for a moment, sighing as you work, and all Leon can do is stare. 

When those dark eyes open again, Leon doesn’t stop, and the two of them end up locked in a moment of equal exchange, a shared space where only the feeling of you seems to matter. 

Leon groans as your hips move against his, and his mind all but going blank. He picks up the pace, the room fading away. No cheap decorations, no stains best left uninvestigated. Nothing but the heat of you, the sound of your muffled moans and Ada’s panting breaths.

And through it all . . . god, he can’t look away from her. 

She holds his gaze too, like they’re both stuck there, caught immobilized. Like she’s deciding something, he realizes. 

Whatever it was, she eventually finds the answer to her internal question and reaches for him. “Touch me, handsome,” she commands, reaching for his hands and placing them deliberately on her bare hips. Letting him feel each undulation as she moves atop you. 

So he does as she asks yet again, his hands traveling up her body, feeling the smooth skin, the curves of muscle, the slope of her neck . . . he’s leaning in. He knows it. She makes another decision, and then she’s leaning in, too. He’s breathing heavy as he moves, taking one hand away from her to hold your hips. Faster and faster, him and Ada both. Your hand moves up to tease between Ada’s legs and she moans. Leon does the same, the hand at you hip moving between your legs. He whimpers when he feels himself getting close and god, he can’t help himself. 

Ada’s lips are soft against his, and whatever reservations she displays in that initial kiss quickly fade. She kisses him harder, a hand in his hair, her tongue in his mouth.

He hears you moan from between Ada’s legs. Feels his own body tensing. “I’m-” each word is a struggle because he can’t think. It’s been so long and he never, ever thought-

But it doesn’t matter what he thought, because in that moment, he’s with the two of you. The two of you, who both hold on to him as best you can as he cries out, his hands dropping to the mattress once more to steady himself as pleasure hotwires his whole body. It’s too much, his eyes squeezing shut as he shudders, weeks and months of tension washing away for just a moment as he finally just exists. Pleasure is all that matters for a few blissful seconds, and the fact that he’s sharing it with someone who has such soul in them - someone who is being shared with him, in turn. 

You follow Leon over the edge a moment later as he remembers he’s not alone in his bliss. His hand picks up the pace and you squeeze your legs around him, grinding into him until your release finds you. The moan you give is trapped between Ada’s thighs as the beautiful woman watches you finish. She sighs, still rocking against you. 

Through his momentary haze, thick as smog, Leon sees Ada try to rise from you, but your arms hold her in place. The woman above you makes a sound, as close to a whine as Leon thinks she can manage, and ultimately decides to stay in place. 

Leon doesn’t want to leave you to do all the work yourself, so he leans in. His hands reach up, a little nervous, trying to help. To feel her. He’s sure he made the right choice when her own hands come to rest over his, holding him against her skin. She lets him kiss her, and before long Leon’s lips capture her own moan as, at last, she shivers atop you.

She pants when it’s done, but Leon can see you still lapping at her, not stopping until, at last, Ada disentangles herself from you and sits off to the side of you. 

Now that he can finally see your face, Leon can only smile at how utterly pleased with yourself you look, your lips shiny and pulled into a wide smile. 

“Satisfied?” Ada asks, looking down at you with a genuine affection. 

You nod, and Leon sighs, glad, as you speak. “Ohhh yeah. Definitely.” You wipe your mouth on the back of your hand as you answer. Leon might as well be swooning as the other hand runs up and down his back. The smile you give him, one shared between him and Ada both, is one he never, ever wants to forget. 

You were stunning up on that stage, surrounded by lights. Now, though? You might be the most incredible thing he’s ever seen and he can barely look away. 

Ada is more reserved, nodding with a look Leon can’t quite read. “Good.” 

Then, with that, she moves to get off the bed.

“Mm, where do you think you’re going?” you ask, your hand stilling on Leon’s back.

Ada’s expression quickly brightens to a more sparkling look. “To the bathroom to get cleaned up. Then I have to go.” 

Leon frowns at that, but then, so do you. “No no no, you ain’t gettin’ out of this that easy-” 

“This was your night, remember?” Ada points out, her tone more adoring than Leon had heard so far. It almost makes him feel less nervous about Ada’s sudden and impending departure. “Take the night to play,” she says, standing from the bed, her hips swaying as she makes her way to the bathroom. “I appreciate being included, but your new friend looks like he wants more of your attention.” 

That’s all she says before the door slides open and closed, and she disappears behind it. 

Before Leon can even really think about it, you’re turning your attention back towards him. “You alright?” you ask, grinning like some cheshire cat. “Know this isn’t probably how you thought your night was gonna go-”

“It definitely wasn’t,” Leon admits, laughing a little breathlessly. “But I’m . . . I’m good. Really good.” 

Of course, there’s one concern on his mind, and he speaks more quietly then so she might not hear him. 

“She’s not mad, is she?” 

You catch his meaning immediately, looking up and over at the closed door. “Nah. Ada’s not one for staying the night,” you shrug. “Even when it’s just the two of us, she usually deltas before the sun’s up.” You’re casual enough about it that he believes you. At least enough not to feel too much concern. 

“You two are . . . thank you. For letting me . . .” he feels nervous even saying it, even though the deed is done. 

That fact makes you smile and laugh, your hand coming up to brush at the hair hanging over his eyes, toying with the streak of blue in it. “Thank you for joining. And for liking my music.” 

Leon hums as you guide him down to kiss you once more, his eyes closing and his mouth curving into a gentle smile. 

He wants to ask if he can hear more of that music. To see if you’ll play for him again, if he’ll see you and Ada again. The question gets caught in his throat, though. Stuck before it can be fully realized. He was lucky enough to even have a night like this, he wouldn’t dare to dream that there could be more. 

“I meant what I said, by the way,” you murmured to him a moment later, though, and it seems he doesn’t even have to dream at all. “I’d love to play you some more of my music sometime. Like every asshole with a guitar that you know.” 

Leon doesn’t even laugh at the joke because, frankly, he’s too high on hope to risk something that might fuck it all up. 

“I would love that.” 

You really do have an incredible smile. “Good.” 

“Was this payment enough to hear that music?” he asks.

You just shrug and he knows what you’re going to say even before you speak. 

“To start.” 

The light flickers over the sink. There’s spiderweb cracks in the glass. A fractured image staring back at her. 

Even cheap motel furnishings had something to say, seemed like.

No. This isn’t a mirror programmed to spit compliments or harsh truths. Just a broken piece of glass. It’s her conscience doing the talking, weighing on her heavy as she hears laughter in the motel room just outside that door. 

You like him. That much is obvious, and Ada can’t blame you. Leon is sweet. Handsome. A good soul - a damned rare thing in Night City. 

He would learn better soon. 

Best he learn at her hands, and not someone else’s. 

That’s what she tells herself as she steps back, an invisible neural switch activating. Her eyes glow blue once more as information comes to life, all spelled out for her eyes only. Then, pieces of her skin glow too. Her hips, her thighs, her chest and cheek . . . an artwork glowing against her realskinn, one inked unknowingly by two pairs of hands. 

She was only interested in one of those pairs, though. 

Ada disregarded your prints. Swiped the ID away. It was the new touch that she needed. The one that belonged to a kind young man who’d merely been enamored with you. A man with a newly earned badge tied to his name - one that Ada had discovered in the milliseconds it took to complete a facial scan.

The rest had been harder to obtain. 

Facial scan.

Retinal scan.

Fingerprints.

Biometric profile construction complete: Leon S. Kennedy.

A loading bar in her heads-up display filled in, the fingerprints highlighted on her skin fading. Even as she turned the water on, washing herself off, cleaning up her makeup and smoothing down her hair, she didn’t feel clean. 

Never really did, in Night City. 

Still . . . a girl had to make a living. 

Next Chapter (Coming soon!)

Chapter Index

[zmediaoutlet]

The Omaha Journal Star runs an obituary for Marshall Hall on their website. Short, unrevealing. The bigger death that day was of a grandmother, ninety-nine when she passed, beloved by twenty grandchildren, fixture at church, pillar of the community, and so on. In the print version of the paper Marshall Hall merited maybe two inches of grey space. Maybe just an inch.

"What are you doing?" Dean's tired and it doesn't come across mocking or nagging or pointed or—anything. He's folded onto the further bed, TV light playing across his face. "Got a job lined up?"

Some daylight scene on the show Sam hasn't been paying attention to and Dean's washed out paper-white. Too much like the hospital bed. Sam says, "Looking," which is vague enough that he could arguably not be lying, but Dean doesn't seem to care either way. He nods, eyes fixed on the television but who knows if he's taking it in, either.

Pale skin, pale lips. Sam's gut twists to look at him but they got the all-clear from the doctor—his heart, mechanically, is one hundred percent fine. If Sam asked Dean would say he was fine, too, and Sam would want to smack him except that Dean looks like he'd crack in half with any additional pressure. Although lately—Sam doesn't know. When they were kids he would've said he could predict every single dumb thing Dean would say and he'd make bets with himself sometimes on what'd come out next. His odds were better than even. After the years apart it's—different. Sometimes Dean gives him this look and Sam doesn't recognize him; sometimes Dean opens his mouth and what comes out is—not something Sam would've ever thought could be said, in their family. On this particular night he might ask, and Dean might say—anything.

The show goes to commercial. A Chevy dealer in the county over has offers you can't believe with zero cash down. Wells Fargo wants to extend you a line of credit with low APR. Dean rolls off the bed and goes into the bathroom and closes the door, quiet, and Sam looks at the cheap maple veneer and then goes back to the obituary.

Marshall Hall, 1979–2006. Beloved son, believer in justice and truth. Pursuing a JD; active in his community. No mention of a wife, or kids, or siblings. A 'celebration of life' to be held on the following Saturday. In lieu of flowers, his mother requests that donations be sent to the legal aid organization where Marshall volunteered his time. That's all that's fit to print, about Marshall Hall.

Sam's been to more funerals than most. He can imagine Marshall Hall's. Shocked relatives, gathering around the gray-faced mother. More-shocked friends and colleagues around his own age, most of them faced probably for the first time with that appalling and unavoidable truth—that it could come at any time. That any of them could be standing in their kitchens or riding their bike in the sun or just at work, doing their job, and death when it came was unspectacular and uncompromising and then—that was it. There had been a Marshall Hall and now there wasn't, and the people milling through whatever empty quiet house would be murmuring how it just seemed impossible, and how they'd just talked to him last week, and how could it be true? But it was, and it was impossible to go back to the world last week, when he'd been loud and bright and fierce and there, and each of them would have to face that in their own time, and worse, would have to look at the people standing in front of them and think—what if—?

When Dean comes out of the bathroom Sam's abandoned the laptop. "Thought you were going to fuse with that thing," Dean says.

"There'll be jobs to look for tomorrow," Sam says, and holds out a can of beer.

Dean squints at him. Comes over slow, and sits on the other bed, and when he takes the can he doesn't open it but just holds it between his two hands, looking at the top. White light on the side of his face pooling strange across his skin, his other eye so dark that it looks hollow, and Sam reaches for the remote and snaps the TV off so it's just—his brother, sitting there, in inadequate lamplight but at least not being dragged off to nightmares Sam can't currently stand.

"I was watching that," Dean says, and Sam says, "No, you weren't," and Dean looks up at him and opens his mouth and then closes it, and sighs.

"Dean," Sam says, and then hangs there, not sure how to say it—true. "I wish—man, I don't know. I wish it'd been different."

Dean's thumb runs around the aluminum rim of the can. When he looks up he looks into Sam's eyes, and then at his mouth, and then he sits back and his shoulders are a low curve and he shakes his head, eyes cutting off to some misery. Whether it's Layla or Marshall or Roy or some combination of all three—or something worse—Sam doesn't know, and the not-knowing's got this pit growing in his stomach. He puts his own beer down on the nightstand and reaches out and gets his hand on Dean's skin—grips the inside of his wrist, his thumb on the knob of bone. If he pressed hard enough he could feel Dean's heart beating but the warmth of skin is enough, for now.

"Hey," Sam says, raw.

Dean huffs. "Hey yourself," he says, and Sam doesn't know if it's wanted but he leans across the space between the beds and kisses Dean anyway—close-lipped, firm, his other hand under Dean's jaw so he can't duck away. Dean lets him. Return pressure, after a second, so Sam doesn't feel like he's kissing a lifeless thing. Sam breaks away with relief dumping down his spine and presses his temple to Dean's temple, and Dean turns in so his nose brushes Sam's cheek and lets him breathe the same air and then pushes him away, gentle. He meets Sam's eye and it's okay—well, it's not okay, but they are at least—and then he opens his beer, and heels back to sit up against the headboard of his own bed, and that's going to be it, probably, about this day, and this week, and Sam'll have to be content with that, or risk the terror of asking.

He sits back on his own bed and turns the TV back on. A cop show. It'll pass the time until they sleep. He wishes it had been different. Given how it was, he wouldn't have made a different choice. He opens his own beer, and sits in quiet with his brother.

[breitzbachbea]

"God, you don't even notice, do you?" Arielle said as they stood on the balcony, Lyons to their feet. Her eyebrows slightly furrowed, a layer of removed disdain on her words.

"I'm afraid not, Miss Halévy?" he asked her. He was used to her scorn, but this was different.

"You smell like you smoke," she answered. "Like a cheap backroom bar."

~

"Mister Bailey."

The other two stopped in their tracks.

"Well, either he's just found out something that is troubling regarding business ..." Arthur said.

"Or he's pissed with me," Robert added. They turned around as Tahir joined them.

"I think we have to talk about your habits," Tahir said, the thin veneer of politeness over it all.

"My habits?" Robert asked. "The fuck you've been hearing again."

"Hearing is not the sense that's concerned here." At least the friendlyness was dropped for unfeeling efficiency. "Your habits of tarring your lungs now make people think I smoke. This is getting ridiculous."

"... well, you are dating a smoker, Tahir ..." Arthur said. "Not that I also think that it could always be less, but ..."

"But what? Do you not mind, that you reek of nicotine against your will?"

"Well, I would, if I did but I'm certain someone would have told me if that was the case. I think you're forgetting that you're probably more exposed to it than me."

"Either way, I'm not stopping," Robert said and did so with a grin when he noticed Tahir's growing ire. "You're getting fag-free kisses, that's all we ever agreed on, handsome."

"Then a new deal is in order, because I'm not letting people think I'm an irresponsible sleazebag." Tahir stepped closer, his face barely removed from Robert. "You will get a grip on this, because either the fags go or I do."

[tiedye-witch]

Find High Quality Furniture ?

When buying new furniture, anyone is faced with the same choice: do you go for something fast, cheap, and easy? Or something expensive that will be more durable? It can be find out more here tempting to choose something inexpensive in the moment, as you may want something as quickly as possible.

Types of Wood

There are different types of wood that can be used to make furniture. Ash, mahogany, oak, and walnut are just some of the most popular types of wood used in modern furniture. Furniture can either be solid wood or veneer, meaning less expensive wood is covered in a solid wood finish. Equal these options are used in high quality modern furniture and are typically durable and long lasting.

Watch Out for Particle Board

Particle board is another type of material used as a base for a lot of modern furniture. These is typically used in cheaper furniture, as it won't stand up to heavy use over a long period of time. This is made from an combination of wood pulp, plastics, and resin – not as solid or durable as solid wood or veneers. It's not typically used in high quality modern furniture.

Cushions and Upholstery

Depending on the type of furniture you're buying, you should check if the cushions can easily be removed from the upholstery. For thing likes armchairs, dining chairs, and even couches, you should be able to easily remove the cushion covers from the foam or down. Although this may seem like a small feature, it will mean way less of a headache in the future should you need to wash the covers or want to change their colour or material. Low quality furniture typically doesn't come with this option.

Glue, Nails, Screws, and Joints

There are many ways that furniture can be put together. Wood joinery, where notches are cut into wood pieces and fit together, and certain types of screws are often used by high quality furniture manufacturers to reduce the risk of cracking and sagging in furniture after long term use. Things like staples and nails are less desirable (depending on their location and function). Though you can visibly see adhesive like glue holding parts of the furniture together, this usually indicates lower quality furniture. You shouldn't be able to easily see any materials used to hold the furniture together, let alone if it's simple glue. Your furniture probably won't last very long!

Knots

Knots are natural in solid wood how ever, they are also the areas of the tree that are weaker than the rest. If your furniture, such as a table, has a lot of knots visible, it means that the wood is weaker than it would be if there were less knots. That is why much high-quality furniture manufacturers shy away from using pine, typically a very knotty wood. Make sure you check the base of your furniture for knots and if you see more than a few, it may not be high quality!

Seat Foam

Find out what the density of the foam is. The Upholstered furniture should have a seat foam density rating of at least 1.8 pounds or higher. Though the chair or sofa has removable seat cushions, unzip them and take a look inside as well to check for internal compartments in the foam that will stop it from settling.

[captainsspnanon]

C3E37 - reaction

Matilda??? MATILDA???!!!?!?!?!?!?!?

Honestly, 11/10 episode!  Loved every single second of it, SO MUCH.

First of all, big kudos to Matt for the imagery in the first half of the episode. It was viscerally creepy and unsettling, managing to evoke a bit of the original creepy Whitestone feel from C1 while still being true to it’s reality-warping prospects.

Last episode‘s Laudna!Memory felt, I don’t want to say ‘expected’, but very reasonable.  It didn’t offer any surprises when we saw it, aside from the general realization that we were seeing a memory.  THIS episode?  With tHE FUCKING MATILDA REVEAL??????  And then the ‘parents’ saying “Laudna” instead of “Matilda” WHAT DOES IT MEAN???  A nickname?  Delilah losing force with her manipulation of Laudna and or the Hells????  I WANT TO KNOOOOWWW.

The skill challenge was a fantastic idea, and flowed much more smoothly than the airship skill challenge (which I still enjoyed, don’t get me wrong!).  I also appreciate that Matt allowed Orym to contribute to two successes, rather than having it be meted out amongst the PCs.

The second half of the episode was just TENSE. AS. FUCK.

The negotiations with Delilah???  Fucking INTENSE.  I do want to know what Chetney’s insight check revealed though!!  He used it against her later on by saying that he can see the veneer of her lies, but then Matt had him roll deception, so maybe not?  (also kudos to Travis for continuing to use the ‘do I believe him/her’ that Matt tried to push in C2.  He’s the only one who does it, and I honestly love the fact that they usually just go INSIGHT CHECK, but I appreciate the effort!)  I admit, I don’t think there’s anywhere it could have gone without a fight, but still, worthy attempt!

Okay, being honest here.  And I believe I mentioned it before?  But I was worried that the VM link would feel like a little bit of a cop-out.  Last episode helped with it some, and even if this episode had been less intense I would have been okay with the resolution.  BUT.  With how much went into this episode?  I am 100% okay with Pike doing the actually reviving without it feeling cheap at all.  Even though the Hells didn’t spend the required gold/diamonds on it, they ended up spending even more via the health potions AND the potions of possibility.  ALL CAME IN CLUTCH!  I think the only one that could have been saved was the final health potion Imogen drank.  But EVERYONE who drank the potion of possibility used it (at least from what I recall) and it came in CLUTCH.  As well as the nat 20s they got! OH MY GOD.

So glad that there’s going to be an episode next week.  (Even more glad that I think it’s probably going to be the Halloween episode so they’ll likely be in costume!)

Also?  The Bells Hells logo is pretty cute.  Not something I’d want on a shirt or something by itself, but as the zip, or the charm on a dice bag?  Very pleased.

OH ALSO THE SET LOOKED AMAZING THIS EPISODE LOVED IT LOVED IT LOVED IT

[norabrice1701]

Falling - Pt. III

A Sam Neill!Vasily Borodin (The Hunt for Red October) x Fem!Reader Fic

Mini-Series Main List

Pt. III Warnings: Explicit 18+ NSFW smut (including frottage and unprotected sexual intercourse); strong language; infidelity; misogynistic, controlling and abusive (emotional and physical) behavior towards reader; self-worth issues; pregnancy and infertility; heartache and loss; canonical character death

Days later, your skin still crawls from where Mikhail grabbed you in front of Vasily. His guiding touches to steer and navigate you through party crowds are hardly anything new, but the force of his grip held a possessive edge that you’d never seen before. 

Had Mikhail somehow overheard your conversation? Had you truly been so absorbed with Vasily that you lost so much sight of your surroundings? Had every long forgotten emotion for your old love been so visible on your face? 

“Are you happy?”

The question haunts you for days and weeks, as does the memory of Vasily’s face in the question’s aftermath. How would he have answered? Would he have said that yes, he is happy, after a fashion? Or would he have said that yes, he was happy once? Or would he have declared his undying love for you and say that happiness was never an option once you left his life? 

None of the responses you conjure sit well with you, and honestly, what did you expect would happen if he did answer your question in the middle of that party? The most likely scenario probably would have resulted in your tears and admission of regret, admission of how you never stopped loving him and wanted him still…

And the realization upends your life. Every time you glance around your home with Mikhail, every night as you crawl into bed beside him, every night you take dinner in near silence with him - you realize that the happiness you thought you had was simply a cheap veneer to hide what you were powerless to change. That the one thing, the one person you wanted most in this life - and still do - is not yours to be had. 

You become quite adept at hiding silent tears in your pillow during the darkest hours. 

None of it is helped when the farewell reception for the Red October is announced. The final opportunity to wish her esteemed officers all the best for the maiden voyage, hosted at the Admiral’s lavish home. 

Upon arrival, it’s more of a mansion than a home. Upon entry, it’s more of a palace than a mansion. Marble and richly furnished interiors occupy the massive floorplan. Golden light spills from large, elegant chandeliers that glitter and glisten with countless crystals. String music floats from a quartet tucked in a corner, and the parade of black tie party officials, diamond-and-fur draped women, and dapper officers complete the spectacle. 

“Yes, I cannot believe that Anastasia will soon be a university graduate.” Madam Andreyeva laments despite the proud smile on her face. “We cannot be more thrilled about her future prospects. She’s currently seeing the grandson of one of the most senior party members - but I cannot say who, of course.” 

The other two women you’re standing with chuckle their amusement and approval. You match their smiles, offering your congratulations as you finish your glass of cloyingly sweet champagne. 

“I do wish my Inessa would settle down, sooner rather than later,” Madam Belova says, words tight with frustration as she glances around. “She needs to understand that the best role she can serve for our great country is to further its legacy by marrying the right man. If only she were able to attend tonight - there are so many eligible officers here.” 

Madam Andreyeva chuckles teasingly. “I do wonder if Captain Ramius would ever consider remarrying. The death of his wife was heartbreaking, but there’s no reason a man of his stature shouldn’t consider a future proposal.” 

“I think I would consider it myself, were circumstances different.” Madam Alexeeva agrees with a mischievous grin. “Though, if my daughter were old enough, I would set her sights on Ramius’ Executive Officer.” 

Your heart thumps against your rib cage as you try to keep your face pleasantly neutral. 

“Oh, yes.” Madam Belova says with a nod as she sips her champagne. “Not only does Captain Borodin have rising prospects for his future career - he’s also quite handsome!” 

“And charming!” Madam Alexeeva adds with a wink as she leans in closer. “There’s a quiet, almost naive wit about him - a quality that makes one wonder what he is truly like with the doors closed and the lights off!”

The door closed behind you and surely, in the silence of your dormitory room, he could hear the thundering of your heart. It wasn’t just that you snuck a non-student into the building, but you’ve never had a man in your bedroom before. Let alone one that you wanted so completely.

Your heart raced as you turned back around to face him with a suddenly nervous smile. He offered a reassuring smile in return, studying you with that keenly observant gaze of his. You exhaled another eager, anxious breath and looked down to toe off your shoes. “I’m sorry it’s not much,” you said. “But at least my roommate has gone home for the weekend. I guess they think students don’t need much space.” 

“I’d say our barracks are easily the size of your building, but without individual rooms.” He stooped to remove his own shoes. “One learns to live without privacy very quickly.” 

“Is that why you’re so fearless?” You glanced back over at him in the yellow light that filtered through the windows. “You just… have nothing to hide from anyone?” 

His mouth curled with that adorable, bashful edge that you’ve come to love - because, yes, after seven months… you did love this man. “I won’t say that I ever had anything to hide, but… humans are rather adept at exploiting discomfort, unfortunately.” He fixed you with an earnest look that pinned you in place. “And that is not my intention here tonight. Despite what you said outside, nothing more, or less, needs to happen here… if you don’t want to.” 

Your heart warmed with affection and desire, matched by the arousal curling at the base of your spine. Slowly, you shook your head as your heart lodged in your throat. “No…” You breathed as you stepped closer, fixing him with all the honesty you have. “I just… h-haven’t done this before - but don’t mistake that for not wanting to. With you.”   

His eyes softened with tender understanding even as they flashed with ravenous desire. You worked a swallow down your throat as you stepped up to him, resting a hand over his heart. A trembling breath left you to feel its strong, rising beat beneath your palm as you blinked up at him through your lashes. “Have you…? Done this before?” 

He offered a slow half-nod as he raised a hand to cover yours still pressed against his chest. “Some,” his voice dropped to a velvety tone that rippled down your spine, and he leaned his forehead against yours. “Just with hands and mouths, though. Not… not fully.”

You exhaled another heavy breath as the damp ache between your legs continued to heat up, fueled by the puffs of his hot breath against your skin. “Okay…” a smile curved your lips as you nuzzled his nose and felt his strong hand settle on your waist. “At least one of us should know what we’re doing…” 

“I don’t think I would go that far, but hopefully -” 

You didn’t let him finish as you leaned in, sealing your mouth to his. You’ve talked so much and now, finally, you were done talking. You wanted the promise held in each increasingly fervent goodnight kiss. You wanted the feel of his skin on yours and his ragged breathing in your ear. You wanted his fingers to bring you to the brink and to cry his name in ecstasy. 

You sighed into the kiss as you melted beneath the warm, soft press of his lips. The hand at your waist wrapped around to the small of your back, pressing you in close. Sparks shot through you as your bodies connected, and you slid your hand from his chest to curl around the back of his neck. A moan of approval rumbled low in his throat, and your lips parted to swallow it as the kiss deepened. 

The smooth strokes of his tongue took your breath away as you clung to him, wanting only to forget where you ended and he began. You whimpered with growing need as the world narrowed to everything he offered, and you’ve never felt more alive. Parting from the kiss with a gasp, you mouthed along his jawline, teasing the tender skin. The hiss that passed his lips bolted liquid heat straight to your core before his mouth found the column of your neck.

“Oh, Vasya…” You breathed as you tilted your head to grant him better access, rewarded when he groaned his appreciation. His hips rolled teasingly forward, and you went dizzy as the hard ridge of his arousal pressed against where you wanted him most. With your last thought, you rocked your hips into his, loving how he crushed you closer and slipped a hand down to the hem of your shirt. 

With slow movements and careful steps, your shirt and bra ended up somewhere on the floor. His button-up shirt gaped open, and you couldn’t get enough of the broad, bare planes of his chest. As your mouths fused together with heated passion and your bare breasts met his skin, you dissolved to a whimpering puddle in his arms. 

His belt clanked to the floor and you fumbled the clasp of his trousers open before pulling him down to your narrow bed. Your legs spread on instinct to accommodate the fit of his hips as his weight pushed you deliciously into the mattress. Even through the layers of fabric, the hard heat of his erection made your mouth water. But when he shrugged out of his shirt and gave his hips a solid thrust forward, you didn’t recognize the cry that came from your mouth. 

“Off, off…” You panted, reluctantly pulling your hands away from his addicting expanse of skin to paw at your trousers. “Want them both off.” 

He shuddered a deep exhale, as if fighting for a last vestige of control, but he managed to lift up and accommodate the shifting fabric. As you both kicked your trousers away, your hands landed on the rounded curve of his backside to drag him back down. Even through your underwear, the heat of him burned where you so desperately ached, and blind desire clouded your last thread of sanity. 

“Zhizn moya…” He moaned against your mouth as your hips rolled together in a primal rhythm fueled by instinct and need. You arched your back to get closer, to open yourself up more and wrap a leg around his pert backside. 

“Vasya,” you sighed, nibbling his earlobe as your body continued to run away with you. “I-I want you inside me. Want to be yours.”

His answering growl spoke straight to the dripping, needy ache that he could surely feel as his hips thrust sharply against yours. A pleasured cry tore from both of your throats, echoing above your wrecked, tandem breathing in the small room. 

“God, I want that, too… more than anything,” he breathed, mouthing along your earlobe. “But I can’t… won’t risk putting you in that position.” 

And despite every taut nerve that screamed for the release that only he could give, you understood exactly what he meant. You could so easily get pregnant, and unwed mothers were still heavily frowned upon. A wave of tender love rushed through you at his thoughtfulness, and you clutched him ever closer, finding his mouth to pour out your appreciation for everything about him.  

You slid a hand between the tight press of your bellies to trace the hardened outline of him, feeling your cheeks grow hotter to touch him so intimately. His blown-wide, sapphire eyes shone with loving desire as you continued to caress him with inexpert fingers. Tentatively, you squeezed the tip of him and delighted in the answering stutter of his hips. 

Again, you gave him another gentle squeeze before drifting up to the waistline of his underwear and teasing under the elastic with eager anticipation. “Then… tell me what I can do instead.”   

“Are you alright?” A gentle hand on your forearm drags you out of the sudden rush of memory, back to the surrounding women and Madam Andreyeva’s concerned expression. “You look so flushed, as though you might faint.” 

“No, I’m… I’m alright, thank you.” Your cheeks warm with embarrassment as you look down at the empty champagne flute in your hand. “Maybe the champagne has just gone to my head… and yes, I’d say so.” You look among them, offering a hesitant, regretful smile. “If you’ll excuse me, please? I think I should go in search of some water.” 

Offering farewells, you turn from the group and exhale a deep sigh. As if the whole purpose of tonight’s party didn’t involve the one man you really didn’t want to think about, you didn’t need the conversation of gossiping hens to stir up heart-wrenching memories. Let alone to stir up thoughts about the possibility of Vasily marrying. Of Vasily taking a wife into his heart and his home and his bed… 

Your stomach rots with yearning envy even as you know it’s impossible. Divorce tarnishes both parties involved and just isn’t done. It would be far better to take a lover than suffer the shame of divorce, but there’s so much risk for a woman in your position. After all, it’s one thing for a man to take a discrete mistress, but completely another for a woman to take a lover. Even then, the thought of having Vasily in such a manner doesn’t sit well with you. He deserves so much better and so much more than that. He deserves… everything honorable and good and… 

The weight of your thoughts threatens to suffocate you, and maybe you can find Mikhail, feigning a dreadful headache. Yes, that’s exactly what you should do. If you’re able to leave now, then you won’t have to hear any more talk or risk any more heartbreaking encounters. Vasily will go to sea, and you can work to forget about him all over again. It worked once before, so why wouldn’t you be able to do it again? No matter how much the idea leaves a rotten ache in your stomach.

Abandoning your champagne flute, you move among the crowd, searching for the familiar face of your husband. But as you round a corner, you hear a hushed, familiar voice tucked against the wall.

“The chairman must understand my position.” Mikhail’s words hold a rushed, frustrated breath.

“And surely, you must understand the optics of the situation.” An unknown voice responds with caution.

“Don’t patronize me, Yuri.” Mikhail’s tone turns short and tight. “It’s well known that the chairman promotes men of stability and family, and it’s difficult to be a stable family man without a family.”

“If you want this step in your career, then you must act – sooner, rather than later.” Yuri counsels. “Have you considered taking further action?”

Mikhail sighs, heavy with irritation. “Many times. Divorce would put the nail in the coffin of my career faster than not getting this promotion, and taking a mistress is still dismissible –”

“But not unheard of.” Yuri agrees. “If a child were to come of that union, it would still bear your name – and your generosity towards both mother and child, while supporting your wife, would speak greatly to your character.”

Your stomach drops to your feet, horrified at what you’re hearing but unable to move away.

“With the right allies, of course,” Mikhail says, voice tight with the weight of consideration. “Vouching for both me and her, and making the extent of my failed marriage known despite all of my best efforts.”

Yuri hums in gentle agreement. “It does take two to make a marriage work, and if one partner is not committed, then…”

“Then, that settles it.” Mikhail sighs with the weight of a final decision made. “I’ll give her one more year to deliver – and I do mean that literally. The lack of generational legacy has held back my career for far too long now.”

Yuri chuckles salaciously. “Sounds like you’re going to have a busy next three months.”

“I will certainly give it my all even if I have to chain her to the bed and breed her like a mare. Then, even if she still fails to conceive - at least, my conscience will be clear.”

This time, Yuri’s chuckle dissolves into a low hum of agreement. “Then, you’ll know that you’ve done everything that you could.”

Mikhail hums in low agreement. “A tough job when you’re working with undisclosed, damaged goods.” He breaks off with a frustrated sigh. “For all the virtues that her parents extolled, they failed to disclose that she was poisoned – in both womb and heart.”

You throw a hand over your mouth to stifle a gasping sob. Tears burn your eyes and you have to leave, you have to get away immediately. You push through the crowd, desperately trying to hold your distress at bay until you’re alone, until you can breathe under the crushing weight in your chest.

If anyone notices you, you don’t notice them as your heels echo off the marble flooring in the grand entry hall. An opulent staircase curves towards the upper floor and a few partygoers linger along the broad railing, and you don’t hesitate. Gathering your skirt in your hand, your shoes sink into the plush carpeting as you flee upwards – someplace where Mikhail won’t find you, someplace where no one will.

An open door yields to a rich-wood paneled room lined with bookshelves. Plush furniture sits in front of a darkened fireplace and a large desk dominates the other half of the room. Perhaps it’s a study or maybe a small library, but it’s quiet and lit with a soft glow from the collection of ornate table lamps, and you close the door behind you.

The room fills with the sound of your ragged breathing, and only then you notice the tears that dampen your cheeks. Wiping at them quickly, you feebly hope that your makeup isn’t beyond repair, but at this point, does it really matter? When Mikhail says such cruel things, when his colleagues spur him on, when he discusses your intimate life so… crudely and coldly. When he threatens to devalue everything about you as a person…

You draw another trembling breath, crossing your arms against your chest as you move further into the room. Whatever are you going to do? Do you have any legal recourse? Could you even secure a lawyer? Has life with Mikhail left you completely under his power?

Another tear slides down your cheek and soaks into the carpet. Maybe after so many years of not standing up for yourself or what you want, maybe this is what you deserve. Maybe this is just… the way that life is supposed to be. Your stomach twists with heartbreaking dejection at the thought.

The soft whisper of well-oiled hinges reaches your ears, and you dart wide, fearful eyes towards the door. Your last thread of resolve crumbles when you meet Vasily’s tender, concerned blue eyes, and you hang your head. Your shoulders shake from the force of your sobs as you squeeze your eyes shut, not wanting him to see the utter failure that you’ve become. The rush of your breathing masks the sound of his sure stride, and strong, coaxing arms wrap around you. The uniform-clad plane of his chest fills your vision, and you’re powerless not to slump your forehead down to his offered shoulder.

He says nothing as he rocks you gently. No patronizing comments or false promises of a rosy outcome. He simply holds you as your tears continue to fall and your breath comes in hiccupping draws. It’s not elegant, it’s not pretty, and you should probably be humiliated by such a display, but in his arms… it’s the only safe place you’ve ever known to just be yourself.

Exhaustion sets in and your tears subside as your breathing settles out. Even then, he still just holds you comfortingly close as you breathe in his clean scent. Such a refreshing change from your cigar-smoke soaked husband. A stab of anxious unease cuts through you as you blink your eyes open against his shoulder, speaking softly. “You shouldn’t be here.”  

“And why not?” His voice is a low, whispered purr that warms you.

“If my husband finds us here… he would ruin your career.”

“How could I possibly care about that when you’re so upset?” His head shifts, resting against yours supportively as his breath brushes your hair. “I saw you leave with tears in your eyes, and I couldn’t stay away.”

Your heart clenches as you bite your lip. “Don’t… Vasya, please.” The diminutive slips out from memory as you draw your head away from his shoulder and fresh tears threaten. “Please don’t make this harder than it already is.”

His brow creases with sad concern. “How can you say that when each day is already torture? Each day that I see your undimmed beauty and tender heart just as I remember. Each day that I hear him disrespect you so publicly over private matters. Each day that I… know you’ll never be mine to love and cherish as you deserve.”

Tears wet the corners of your eyes and you quickly try to wipe them away. “We had our time together. I just… I don’t know what else to say.”

“I wanted to marry you, zhizn moya.” His mouth curves with a sad, almost sheepish smile that doesn’t fit the brave man in uniform. “And I would have if your parents hadn’t stolen you from me. Assuming you would have had me, that is.”

Your breathing trembles as your heart aches. “Of course, I would have.” You whisper the admission like it’s your last lifeline as you drown in the sea of his eyes. “And if I could today, I still would.”

His eyes brighten as he smiles with unburdened relief. He regards you with all the love that you’ve ever known from him, and if life were simple, you’d melt in his embrace under the bliss of his kiss. But an impossible chasm spans between you, and your wedding band constricts you.

“Don’t be so sad, zhizn moya.” He says softly, free from reproach or judgment. “Just knowing that’s how you still feel is… enough. I can live with that.” He sounds like a weight has lifted from his shoulders, resolved with some secret course of action as his gaze darts cautiously to the window. “Perhaps if we were free to choose our paths,” he whispers with a hint of wild conspiracy. “If this were the land of dreams, we could make it so… but that is not this place.”

It's treacherous, dangerous talk. If anyone overheard him, you would both be arrested and sentenced for treason without question. You shake your head quickly with an uneasy breath. “Don’t even think those things, Vasya.” You caution in a rushed whisper. “I can’t bear the thought of you being imprisoned or worse… I couldn’t live with that.”

“You needn’t waste your worry on me -”

“As you worry about me, so I worry about you.” You implore as he sighs and the corner of his mouth lifts. Your heart beats wildly with reckless abandon as his gaze re-connects with yours. “Isn’t that…,” you whisper, trailing off as your voice trembles. “Isn’t that what love is?”

His smile softens with fond affection. “It didn’t used to be. The first afternoon that I saw you, my only worry was that you would turn me away before I even had a chance. And when you didn’t – nothing seemed impossible.”

“Every day was something to look forward to.” You agree, your smile growing to match his. “I’ll never forget… the afternoon at the cinema, when I caught your eye in a quiet moment and you brought my hand to your lips for a kiss. The first time you kissed me, and you just… you know, I can’t even remember what film it was because I just remember how much I wanted to never stop.” Your cheeks flush – and goodness, you’re a married woman but you’re blushing like a young schoolgirl. “You’ve always been so brave to act, so unashamed to say what you want – but you never once pushed or asked for more than I was ready to give.”

A modest blush dances high on his cheeks. “It is part of the wedding vows to honor my wife, and I wanted… well, to prove that to you.”

That one night you shared with him in your dormitory still burns, and your cheeks flush from the heated memory as you slowly nod. “I remember.” Your voice drops as if anything louder would make the moment less real as heat pools, low and needy in your core. “God, I wanted you so desperately… and then… on my wedding night,” your words whisper through your increasingly heavy breaths. “I wanted it to be you.” A tear falls down your cheek as you blink up at him. “I’ve only ever wanted it to be you.” 

His hand raises to cup your jaw, thumb swiping at the fallen tear before his mouth finds yours. You melt into his kiss, more tears springing to life at the overwhelming relief, at the outpouring of love in the tender embrace. His lips are just as warm and sure as you remember, and your body blooms with long dormant desire. 

You raise a hand to cover his, nuzzling into his embrace as your head tilts. He sighs against your mouth, and your tongue finds his parted lips. Arousal electrifies you as your tongues tangle, lost to everything but the touch and taste of each other. Despite everything at stake - despite the damning evidence of the moment should you both be discovered like this - none of it tears you away from him as you step closer into his embrace. 

You find the edge of his high uniform collar, caressing his tender skin with fingers that have nearly forgotten the feel of him. A whimper pitches high in your throat as his hand slides down the slope of your neck to rest with a heady, tempting promise against the junction of your shoulder. You move to your hand down to his shoulder with an encouraging squeeze, and the breath pushes from your lungs as he sweeps you up. 

The desperate ache in your core ignites tenfold as the back of your knees bump against the cushy couch. You can’t touch him enough as your mouths feverishly reconnect, and the coarse wool of his dress uniform only makes you want bare skin all the more. But if you’re truly going to steal this moment for yourself, then that luxury will have to wait. 

You coax him down with you, spreading your legs and rucking up your dress to accommodate the press of his lean hips. He moans, long and delicious, as his fingers find the soaking wet heat of you, and you tear at the catch of his belt and trousers. Panting heavily against each other’s mouth through sloppy kisses, clothing shuffles out of the way and you brace against the couch cushions. Azure fire burns in his intoxicating gaze as the hard tip of him rests against your dripping entrance for the space between breaths. He eases forward, and the thick, perfect stretch of him brings tears to your eyes as your fingers card through his hair, holding his gaze even as your eyelids flutter from the overwhelming connection. 

He trembles as he settles against you, and you hook a leg around him as you adjust to the full length of him pressed so deep. It’s everything you’ve ever wanted - and God, how can you possibly live without it now? The thought is stolen away as he draws back and rocks forward, filling you to the hilt and coaxing a whimpered cry from your lips. 

“You are heaven, zhizn moya.” He pants against your neck, and you nuzzle what skin you can reach in return - but it’s nowhere near enough. Sliding a hand around to his front, you clumsily tear at the two topmost buttons of his uniform until you can bury your face against the warm, soft skin of his throat. His hand wraps around the small of your back for better leverage, and you gasp as he shifts inside you and sighs. “Absolute heaven…”

His name falls from your lips in a litany of passion as a rhythm builds between you. You muffle your gasping cries against his skin as he touches the deepest places inside you with each strong thrust. Pleasure consumes you, hurtling you towards the blissful abyss as it robs your mind of coherent thought. You clutch the board muscles of his back - still so fit after all the years of naval service - and his quiet, serrated moans are the only sounds you want to hear for the rest of your days. 

Every muscle tenses, desperate for release as the tempo increases. He drives you ever higher, and surely, your heart will explode first. You can’t breathe for the euphoria that strangles you, and your moans pitch higher as you finally just - there. Your nails dig into the fabric of his uniform and a long, wrecked cry wells in your chest as you launch into mindless bliss. His guttural groan of answering relief sounds over the rush of blood in your ears, and you welcome the heavy weight of him as he slumps against you. 

Tears sting your eyes as you hold him close, peppering his skin with lazy kisses. You nuzzle the light mole on his right cheek as your mind floats back down to rejoin your body, along with the crushing weight of reality. Loss and heartbreak consume you as you cling to him in desperation. “D-don’t leave me,” you plead in the vulnerable moment, burying your face in his shoulder. “I don’t want to live without you anymore. Especially now – I just… can’t… I won’t.”

He sighs with weighted conflict as he nuzzles your brow, kissing you softly. “But you can… you will.”

A whimpering sob escapes you, shaking your head as you crumble. “I love you too much to let you go again.”

Another heavy sigh leaves him as he cradles you close for another stolen moment.

You snuggle against him, committing everything about this moment to memory. The contentment humming in your body, the soap-clean scent of his skin tinged with exertion, the toned weight of him, the press of him softening inside you. You never want the moment to end, and you tremble as your hands flatten against his back to crush him imploringly close. “You have to come back – promise me.” You don’t care if it’s a fair request or not as your words continue to pour forth. “He’s going to ruin me, Vasya. One way or another… I heard him plotting tonight – he’s always plotting, and now… now, he's set his sights on me and I don’t know what -” Your voice catches on a hiccupping sob.

“Not if you ruin him first.” His words whisper right in your ear and punch you in the stomach.

You turn towards him with wide eyes, tilting your head back to look at him. His eyes hold a dark, subversive edge tinged with apprehension, and your brow furrows in confusion. “I don’t understand… how could I possibly…?”

The corner of his mouth lifts. “Let’s call it a parting gift, shall we?”

You shake your head, staring back at him incredulously. “No… Vasya, I still don’t – that doesn’t make sense.”

He leans in again, pressing another kiss to your brow. “It will, zhizn moya. The Red October will sail with the tide, and I must go with her…” Another almost regretful sigh passes his lips. “I cannot stay, and you cannot come with me… however much I wish for it. But if I have a chance at finding freedom, then so should you.”

You shake your head against another tender press of his lips. “I still don’t understand –”

A loud, muffled thump outside the door startles you both, and you’ve pressed your luck for too long. The intimate moment shatters as he withdraws, leaving you empty and bereft in so many ways. He turns to readjust his uniform and you wince at the sticky mess congealing between your legs. You lack anything to truly clean yourself up, and hopefully you can still salvage your underwear on a trip to the toilet. Pushing up from the couch, your muscles twinge with a pleasant ache that you hope will make the memory of this moment last for days.

A sad smile comes to your face as you watch him fasten the topmost button of his smart uniform before smoothing his hair back into place. Or, rather, attempting to. “Here…” you say softly, stepping over to him and reaching up to tame a wild lock. “It’s unfair how good you still look… and I’m not just talking about the years.” You run your eyes over the lines of his face and down the fit of his uniformed chest. “Not one disreputable wrinkle about you.” You raise your other hand, swiping at your cheek, dismayed to come away with a black streak on your fingertip. “I must look like an awful mess… God, there’ll be no hiding it.”

“You’ve been beautiful from the first moment I saw you,” he says softly. “And that hasn’t changed, even now.”

Flattered embarrassment tinges your cheeks. “No matter how charming that sounds, it won’t hide my streaked makeup. Fortunately, I think there’s enough pins and hairspray in my hair that it won’t move for another week.”

He reaches a hand up to gently wipe at your damp cheek. “Anyone who chooses to judge you will only assume that you are upset, which isn’t far from the truth. Given what you’ve told me and how I found you here…”

You sigh, troubled. “That will only put Mikhail in a foul mood. He deplores any display of weakness or vulnerability.”

“You’re only human. He can’t expect any more of you than that.”

“A human, yes, but…” you draw a trembling breath as the painful memory surfaces. “Poisoned, he said. Poisoned in both womb and heart.”

Rage flashes in Vasily’s eyes as he stares back at you in open shock. “He said that… to you?”

“No. He said it to someone else and he… didn’t know that I overhead him.”

He closes the distance, enveloping you in a comfortingly possessive embrace as your arms fold around him on instinct. His lips press against the shell of your ear as he whispers. “Then I will not feel guilty if my child grows within you.” 

A stab of anxiety shoots through you despite the warm security of his embrace. You haven’t even considered the possibility of falling pregnant with his child until now… it just… Well, if it already hasn’t happened with Mikhail, then why would it happen now? And yet... part of your heart bursts with hope.

“Let him see that not only are you not poisoned…” Vasily continues softly. “Let him also see what he will never have.” The conviction in his voice takes your breath away. “A wife who loves him.”

You turn your head to kiss him, full of the enduring love that you’ve always felt for him. He matches you with a passion that takes your breath away and breaks your heart in equal measure. There’s no hope for any sort of future with him, and the longer you stay in his arms, you can’t deny it’s the kiss of farewell. You wish you could freeze time and stay locked in this room with him… but as you part with the need to breathe, you recognize the futility of wishing for what you can never have.

You sigh with a sniffle. “We should go before we’re discovered here… we’ve taken so much time already.”

He smiles full of tender reassurance; always so brave to stay true to himself. “And even if your husband were to come through that door right now, I wouldn’t regret a minute of it.”

“Neither would I.”

He takes a long look at you, as if committing everything about you to memory as his arms fall away. “I love you, zhizn moya. No matter what happens, never doubt that.”

The air sucks out of the room as he steps away, and your stomach sours. You don’t dare let yourself watch him walk away for fear that the last thread of your strength will snap. The door whispers open and closes with a soft thud that brings a fresh wave of tears to your eyes.

Sobs shake your shoulders, and you heave for breath as your chest tightens. The sting of loss strangles you as you wipe away more fallen tears and lose yourself in uncertainty.

Just where the hell do you go from here?

The next day, a letter arrives. You don’t recognize the return address of the thick envelope postmarked two days ago as you turn it over in your hands. Your heart quickens as you glance around your home, confirming that you’re alone before slicing it open.

Dearest zhizn moya,

The days number fewer and fewer until we sail, and your unanswered question stays with me.

Only with you have I ever found true happiness. That first afternoon that you allowed me to join you at your table in the teashop filled me with such fear and hope. Fear that I would misstep at any moment and turn you away; and hope that has only grown into the love I still feel for you today. While eight months was nowhere near long enough, I wouldn’t trade those days together - nor everyday without you since - for the cost of never having met you.

One way or another, I don’t expect to return from this mission. With any luck, I will have found my freedom in the land of dreams, and the thought of leaving you trapped here breaks my heart. Forgive me if this is too bold – but should you wish a chance at freedom for yourself, all you need to do is post the enclosed, sealed letter. For your own safety, the contents of the letter shall remain undisclosed, but posting it should yield some proof about the man deemed more suitable to marry you.

To this day, I still wish I had been given that honor. And while I like to think that at some point I will marry, I know that she will not be you. Life is what we make of it, so they say, and I wish only the best for you, zhizn moya. You deserve all that is good and loving in this world, and I do hope that you find it. If not with me, then whoever you decide is worthy.

All my enduring love,Vasya

Tears fill your eyes as you quickly re-read the words. With the postmark dated before the party, he couldn’t have known what would transpire that night and this… is this meant to be his goodbye in case you didn’t speak that night? Your heart breaks anew and you choke on a gasping sob. The pain of loss still aches like a raw wound in your chest, and you blink away tears as you look at the front of the sealed, mysterious envelope.

Komitet Gosudarstvennoy Bezopasnosti

Your eyes widen, snapping out of your heartbreak as the gravity of what you hold sinks in. You don’t have the first clue what Vasily has enclosed in this letter to the KGB but, goodness… are you really ready to get involved with the KGB? Your stomach sours with anxious fear and you quickly refold his letter before taking the stairs up to your bedroom. Reaching to open the bottom drawer of your vanity, you pop the false bottom and hide it all away from the world.

Maybe someday you’ll be ready to send that letter, but too much sadness and uncertainty fills you right now to make a decision.

The corner of Vasily’s mouth lifts. “Let’s call it a parting gift, shall we?”

Is this letter what he meant? Does he have some evidence on your husband or did he uncover something unsavory? As much as your husband presents himself as a party loyalist, you wouldn’t be entirely surprised to learn that he has at least one skeleton in his closet. Don’t all politicians?

The words of Vasily’s letter continue to churn in the back of your mind, but they bring an odd sense of closure. Between everything whispered in the stolen moments of passion and written on paper in ink, you can’t ask any more of Vasily Borodin. As much as you love him and always have, your time together is well and truly over.

That doesn’t give you any further clarity in the passing days about what to do with Mikhail. Now sitting at the dinner table, you cast him a wary glance over your plates of food. He hasn’t made any reference to anything resembling the conversation that you overheard at last weekend’s party, but that doesn’t bring you any relief. If anything, you wait on baited breath for when he will act or give you an ultimatum, but so far… only silence.

“I heard something quite interesting.” He says softly, drawing you attention as he sets his knife and fork down. “The Red October sank today. Or, rather…” he pauses to dab the corner of his mouth with a napkin. “She was destroyed. By the Americans.”

Your fork clatters to your plate as your stomach plummets to your feet. A shocked gasp leaves you as your heart races. “… w-what? Why would they do that?”

“We asked them to help us sink her.” He continues with a calculated, casual air. “Captain Ramius sent a letter to Admiral Padorin, and within minutes of that letter being read, he issued orders to find and sink the Red October.”

The letters sitting your vanity upstairs flash in your mind as you work a swallow down your throat. “D-do you know what the letter said?”

Mikhail’s mouth tightens to a grim line. “They say Ramius sailed with every intention of deploying missiles and igniting World War III. But there are also far darker whispers of treason and defection.”

“I cannot stay, and you cannot come with me… however much I wish for it.” Vasily whispers against your brow. “But if I have a chance at finding freedom, then so should you.”

Tears burn your eyes, and a hand flies to your face as you choke on air. Is it true? Was Vasily sailing with his captain to start a life in the new world? Was he turning his back on the nation he so valiantly served? Or was he simply the victim of a madman? Either way, it hardly matters now if his grave is indeed at the bottom of the Atlantic.

With a shaking hand, you reach for your napkin to wipe at fallen tears as your heart rips open. Saying goodbye a second time was hard enough, but this… knowing that there was never even another possibility to see him again…? You sniffle to hide a sob as you turn away from Mikhail’s increasingly judgmental gaze.

“Why are you crying?” He asks pointedly, tone heavy with displeasure. “If that madman – or worse, a traitor – is lying dead at the bottom of the ocean, that’s the best place for him.”

“What about everyone else on board?” You choke out, again wiping at your eyes. “What about all those other innocent souls?”

A tense silence falls in the room as Mikhail’s gaze narrows with cold suspicion. “Wait, this… is this about him? That petty executive officer – what was his name…? Borodin?”

A pang shoots through your chest and you fight to keep your face from betraying your true feelings. “No – yes, just… the newest ship in the fleet and all those souls aboard, just lost so suddenly….”

“You’re a terrible liar.” He spits in plain disgust. “Borodin – what was he to you? Tell me.”

Your heart hammers as you struggle to breathe. “He - he wasn’t… at least, not anymore - ”

A loud slap against the table rattles the dishes and startles your attention. Mikhail’s eyes blaze with rage as he glares at you, hand clenching against the tabletop. “I said. Tell. Me.”

Your spine stiffens even as your voice shrinks. “I… loved him. Before marrying you.” A tear slides down your cheek as you blink. “I-it was 12 years ago, and I haven’t seen him since –”

“Then why does the news of his death upset you so?” He shrugs carelessly. “People die every day. There’s a war happening for fuck’s sake, and he was a goddamn soldier. Expendable.”

Nausea cramps your stomach. “None of the men on that vessel or in any theater of war are expendable! They all have people who love them and care about them!”

“Don’t you dare raise your voice at me!” He seethes. “After everything I’ve given you – my name, wealth, prominence. What do you think Borodin could have given you, hmm? A sad, small apartment where you just wait for him to make you a destitute widow?”

“Happiness, Mikhail! He may spend more time at sea than on land, but together, there would be happiness. And love! Unconditional love… not just dependent on whether or not he could get me pregnant.”

His nostrils flare with indignation. “So, you’re saying that it’s my fault, hm? My fault that you remain a motherless failure?”

A wave of shame washes over you, crippling you as more tears fall. You’ve never felt like you should be a failure in that regard, but yet… You draw a trembling breath. “That’s all you’ve ever done,” you grit through clenched teeth and sniffles. “You… devalue everything about me, like I’m no better than your plaything, your puppet, who exists just to make you look good!”

“That’s exactly what you are! Don’t you understand how this game works?!” He pushes to his feet, shaking the table from the force of his motion. He drops his face to his hand with deep concern. “How much did you interact with him, hmm? Would anyone have seen you? Would anyone have any reason to suspect a scandal?”

The abrupt shift in conversation stuns you. You gape up at him. “Is that really all that you can think about right now? Is that really all that you can say?!”

“It was obvious from the first moment you two saw each other that something was there.” He waves a dismissive hand as he starts to pace in deep thought. “If I noticed it, then surely others did, too. And I will have to answer for it if anyone asks –”

“And if I told you that he made love to me in the admiral’s upstairs study –”

Mikhail storms across the room, backhanding you across the face before you can finish. Pain blooms across your cheek as you hiss through the momentary disorientation.

“Never lie to me like that again.” He snarls, eyes furious. “Even in jest, it won’t end well for you.”  He draws a deep breath as a tense silence descends.

You refuse to look up at him and you can’t find words. You hadn’t exactly meant to blurt out the truth, but he didn’t believe you anyway. No matter what you say, you come to the sinking realization that you cannot win. You will never win.

Not with Mikhail.

He glowers down at you. “We should each take some time, yes? Time to think and… calm down.” He wipes a hand across his brow. “Once we’ve both done that, we can figure out how to solve this rotten mess that you’ve created.”

His footsteps thunder through the dining room before the door to his office slams shut.

You remain frozen in your chair as your cheek stings, and you sniffle unshed tears.

Vasily’s letters burn in the forefront of your mind, and your course of action is clear.

Two days later, you feel no remorse when you cross the city to deposit the sealed envelope in a postbox.

One week later, you receive word that your husband has been arrested on suspicion of high treason. 

But your world completely upends two weeks afterwards when tender pain forms in your breasts and morning nausea begins to manifest.

Fin

[kyogre-blue]

@captainadwen

@kyogre-blue  ty!!! 🤔 what's the best way to build jean and noelle??? also any way to make diluc and kaeya good enough to stand a chance in abyss??

OK, I’ll do my best. 

Noelle has exactly one way to build her for Abyss-level combat: Get her to C6 (yes), then build has a DPS. (If you’re talking in general, then you can use her as a cheap shielder/healer by just stacking DEF and ER.) 

Best weapon options are Whiteblind (craftable DEF claymore), Serpent Spine (BP claymore), and Redhorn (Itto’s weapon). 

Best artifact sets are Glad 4pc and Husk 4pc, with Husk being somewhat notably better but hellishly hard to get a good full set of. (I don’t have one lol)

Her team would generally be: 

1) Itto-style mono geo with Gorou and Albedo/Zhongli/Yun Jin in the third slot, and 4th slot as either elemental applier for shields (if necessary) or one of the previous and maaaaybe Ningguang as a sub DPS/battery. I use this team for Floor 11, though it doesn’t generally output enough for Floor 12 due to various issues with my builds and bad rotation skills.  

2) Double Geo with a second Geo (Gorou or Zhongli most likely, maybe Albedo) for the Geo resonance, and then a two character sub DPS core to provide additional damage. I’ve seen stuff like Fischl-Beidou, Fischl/Beidou-Xingqiu, double hydro, etc. I’ve never run this myself, but you can find videos of it. 

To run down the basics of how and why, Noelle converts DEF into ATK during her burst and infuses Geo. With C6, she gets additional DEF conversion on her burst, which raises her overall damage. On top of the damage and utility gains from her other cons, this makes C6 Noelle... not ideal as a DPS, but at least viable. You can then stack the general Geo buffs on her. Gorou is great for his DEF and Geo buffs, Albedo benefits from Gorou and provides extra damage, Zhongli shreds Geo with his shield and also helps keep 100% shield uptime in order to proc Geo resonance, which also shreds Geo (these are the only two sources of Geo shred in the game, so you really want them) and gives you DMG bonus... as long as you have a shield. Noelle does have shield herself, but it has only 50% uptime. 

Jean is very flexible, but it also means her specific build will depend on what you’re doing with her. In general, you’ll probably build her with 4pc Viridescent Veneer, the famous VV artifact that can shred any element the user swirls. It also increases Anemo damage and swirl damage. 

Between VV and healing, Jean is an okay choice for any non-Geo team, though she’s considered less beneficial than Kazuha, Venti and Sucrose for not having grouping and not sharing EM or whatever. 

You might ask whether to build her with full EM or ATK/DMG/Crit, and the answer is it depends. Just do whichever is easiest. (I actually, shamefully, have her on ER sands lol)

A few teams that can use her: 

Xiao battery and healing. If you don’t have Xiao, ignore this. 

Healing/shred combo for taser. You can guess how this works, since taser is very flexible in general.

You can also build Jean with Noblesse 4pc if the VV shred is not as relevant, for example in Eula teams. 

The famous Sunfire. This is when you use Bennett burst, and then put Jean burst on top of it right away. Bennett applies pyro to the onfield character, Jean applies anemo to the on field character, which causes you to swirl pyro off yourself. Since swirl is AOE, this means you can apply pyro onto enemies this way, as long as they are close to you. (You generally build Jean with EM here, but most important thing is having enough ER for your burst.) But note that it’s the most Circle Impact possible, so it doesn’t work too well against enemies that run around a whole bunch, since they’ll often end up out of range. Obviously, once you apply the pyro, you want a hydro or cryo unit to vape/melt off of it. 

Diluc is a pyro DPS, so he has the standard options: 

Vape with Xingqiu. The other two slots will be some general support options like Bennett, VV Anemo, maybe a shield. 

Melt with at least 2 cryos. I honestly can’t tell you which combinations of Cryo characters will work, since you have to consider the very specific details of their elemental application. I’ve seen Rosaria+Diona used in videos. You might be able to do Rosaria-Kaeya, if they don’t apply enough for him to melt, they’ll do the melting instead, which isn’t unworkable. Or just go Diluc’s worst nightmare of Rosaria-Kaeya-Diona lol. The last slot would generally be an Anemo VV. 

Mono pyro. This is very specifically Bennett, Xiangling, Kazuha. 

You would build him with 4pc Crimson Witch, or if you can’t get the full set, 2pc Crimson Witch/2pc 18% atk set (Gladiators, etc). The sands can be either EM or ATK. EM can be a good choice if he’s melting or vaping, for up to about 200 EM. His weapon should be something with Crit, EM or ATK substat. 

He absolutely can do Abyss even now, and I can link videos of it. The power of Pyro element can’t be underestimated. 

For fun, I’ve also seen him used as a burgeon trigger, so that’s very lol

Kaeya is a bit tough to pin down because he CAN be used in Abyss teams, but he’s generally a flex option. 

He can be a second Cryo in freeze teams, as a battery and elemental applicator. Note that Kaeya’s elemental application is fairly sparse tho. 

You can make him carry in a freeze team using Shenhe to boost his damage. Generally, you’d run him with another cryo DPS to share the damage output (Rosaria or Chongyun probably) and probably someone like Mona or Kazuha to boost the damage even more. 

He runs in reverse melt teams with Xiangling, Bennett, and Rosaria. This is the option generally mentioned if you need two 4 star teams and Xingqiu is on the other side. 

He can be Cryo in a Phys team. 

Obviously if you invest enough in his build, he can be main DPS himself, whether Cryo or Phys. I’ve seen this. But that’s kinda rough to get that level of investment, so if you want to DPS him, you probably need strong supports to buff him (ie, Shenhe, Kazuha). 

....whew, I hope that’s all correct lol

[nickgerlich]

Apple A Day

It’s that time of year again. No, not the changing of the seasons, the beginning of football, or the month Green Day wants you to wake them up when it’s over. Nope. Tomorrow is the annual September announcement—drumroll, please—from Apple and the release of the next iPhone.

Not that Apple doesn’t let the rumor mill freely run and play with wild speculations for the nine months leading up to this. The iPhone16 will officially be announced tomorrow, but we probably already know everything there is to know. If anyone knows how to play the hype game, it is Apple.

The question is will people be impressed enough to plan on lining up at stores in a couple of weeks to replace their old phones.

I remember back in 2007 when the first iPhone was announced. Much to my current embarrassment, I roundly dismissed it as superfluous, wasteful, and overkill. I already had a phone, pocket camera, and calculator. Why would I want to replace all of them with an expensive new device? That first-gen iPhone had a list price of $499, which is laughably cheap compared to today’s models, but it was still a huge expense to duplicate everything else you already had.

I quickly saw the folly of my way, and was ready to hop in the queue a year later to get my hands on what has arguably become the most important device ever released. It has been imitated by others and with different operating systems. It has been improved upon by Apple each year, adding more bells and whistles to that shiny veneer. And it has been the one thing that has kept Apple stock and profits in the stratosphere.

Of course, as with any innovation well into its umpteenth iteration, you have to wonder exactly what they could possibly add to make this worth buying, especially if the older iPhone in your pocket or purse still works fine. With new phones costing more than $1500 at the top end of the product line, it better be good, even if your phone carrier is willing to float you a 30-month interest-free financing plan.

The trend in recent years has been toward less frequent replacements. As of last year, data showed that more iPhone owners are keeping their phones three years or longer before buying a new one. As for me, my iPhone 12 will be four years old this November. Yes, the battery is showing signs of decay, but I bring along a small power brick for those times when it starts to run low. Photos and videos are enormous battery sucks, and if you shoot like me, it doesn’t take long. That brick was a lifesaver in Costa Rica last year.

This year, though, I am betting the iPhone16 will be a runaway success, because there is one significant enhancement: the arrival of AI, or as they like to call it, Apple Intelligence. A rose by any other name, of course, smells the same, but it will be cool to have a handheld computer that is capable of creating text and images on the fly without having to log in to other websites.

Were it not for AI, I doubt that I would be ready to make a move, and I bet that is the same story for many. We need something big when the product is so expensive. Never mind inflation, economic uncertainties, and all the problems plaguing us these days.

Not many years ago, some people replaced their iPhones each year, just like a few decades ago, it wasn’t uncommon for motorists to line up to buy the latest new model every autumn. How else do you explain the Cadillac Ranch, a tribute to the auto industry’s ability to wow drivers with a slightly larger tail fin every year?

But cars are too expensive for that kind of frivolity today, unless you are made of money, and the same goes for iPhones. Marketers can only dangle new products successfully when there are both willingness and means. If either are in short supply—willingness because the new item truly is impressive, and means translating into ability to pay—then we won’t jump.

I guess we’ll all learn a bit more tomorrow, about ourselves, as well as Apple’s ongoing profitability. I’ll be watching.

Dr “But Can You Make The Camera Even Better?” Gerlich

Audio Blog

[rejunktion]

How to Find High Quality Furniture ?

When buying new furniture, anyone is faced with the same choice: do you go for something fast, cheap, and easy? Or something expensive that will be more durable? It can click here to learn more be tempting to choose something inexpensive in the moment, as you may want something as quickly as possible.

Types of Wood

There are different types of wood that can be used to make furniture. Ash, mahogany, oak, and walnut are just some of the most popular types of wood used in modern furniture. Furniture can either be solid wood or veneer, meaning less expensive wood is covered in a solid wood finish. Equal these options are used in high quality modern furniture and are typically durable and long lasting.

Watch Out for Particle Board

Particle board is another type of material used as a base for a lot of modern furniture. These is typically used in cheaper furniture, as it won't stand up to heavy use over a long period of time. This is made from an combination of wood pulp, plastics, and resin – not as solid or durable as solid wood or veneers. It's not typically used in high quality modern furniture.

Cushions and Upholstery

Depending on the type of furniture you're buying, you should check if the cushions can easily be removed from the upholstery. For thing likes armchairs, dining chairs, and even couches, you should be able to easily remove the cushion covers from the foam or down. Although this may seem like a small feature, it will mean way less of a headache in the future should you need to wash the covers or want to change their colour or material. Low quality furniture typically doesn't come with this option.

Glue, Nails, Screws, and Joints

There are many ways that furniture can be put together. Wood joinery, where notches are cut into wood pieces and fit together, and certain types of screws are often used by high quality furniture manufacturers to reduce the risk of cracking and sagging in furniture after long term use. Things like staples and nails are less desirable (depending on their location and function). Though you can visibly see adhesive like glue holding parts of the furniture together, this usually indicates lower quality furniture. You shouldn't be able to easily see any materials used to hold the furniture together, let alone if it's simple glue. Your furniture probably won't last very long!

Knots

Knots are natural in solid wood how ever, they are also the areas of the tree that are weaker than the rest. If your furniture, such as a table, has a lot of knots visible, it means that the wood is weaker than it would be if there were less knots. That is why much high-quality furniture manufacturers shy away from using pine, typically a very knotty wood. Make sure you check the base of your furniture for knots and if you see more than a few, it may not be high quality!

Seat Foam

Find out what the density of the foam is. The Upholstered furniture should have a seat foam density rating of at least 1.8 pounds or higher. Though the chair or sofa has removable seat cushions, unzip them and take a look inside as well to check for internal compartments in the foam that will stop it from settling.

Are you find for High Quality Furniture?

Sunny overseas is one of leading all type Premium furniture manufacturers & Suppliers, in providing complete showcase furniture systems. Explore the widest collection of Furnitures like Banquet Furniture, Restaurant Furniture, Cafe Furniture, Bar Furniture. We also deal in Restaurant Furniture, Hotel Furniture, Canteen Furniture, Industrial Furniture.

[sujeitando]

Find High Quality Furniture

When buying new furniture, anyone is faced with the same choice: do you go for something fast, cheap, and easy? Or something expensive that will be more durable? It can this website be tempting to choose something inexpensive in the moment, as you may want something as quickly as possible.

Types of Wood

There are different types of wood that can be used to make furniture. Ash, mahogany, oak, and walnut are just some of the most popular types of wood used in modern furniture. Furniture can either be solid wood or veneer, meaning less expensive wood is covered in a solid wood finish. Equal these options are used in high quality modern furniture and are typically durable and long lasting.

Watch Out for Particle Board

Particle board is another type of material used as a base for a lot of modern furniture. These is typically used in cheaper furniture, as it won't stand up to heavy use over a long period of time. This is made from an combination of wood pulp, plastics, and resin – not as solid or durable as solid wood or veneers. It's not typically used in high quality modern furniture.

Cushions and Upholstery

Depending on the type of furniture you're buying, you should check if the cushions can easily be removed from the upholstery. For thing likes armchairs, dining chairs, and even couches, you should be able to easily remove the cushion covers from the foam or down. Although this may seem like a small feature, it will mean way less of a headache in the future should you need to wash the covers or want to change their colour or material. Low quality furniture typically doesn't come with this option.

Glue, Nails, Screws, and Joints

There are many ways that furniture can be put together. Wood joinery, where notches are cut into wood pieces and fit together, and certain types of screws are often used by high quality furniture manufacturers to reduce the risk of cracking and sagging in furniture after long term use. Things like staples and nails are less desirable (depending on their location and function). Though you can visibly see adhesive like glue holding parts of the furniture together, this usually indicates lower quality furniture. You shouldn't be able to easily see any materials used to hold the furniture together, let alone if it's simple glue. Your furniture probably won't last very long!

Knots

Knots are natural in solid wood how ever, they are also the areas of the tree that are weaker than the rest. If your furniture, such as a table, has a lot of knots visible, it means that the wood is weaker than it would be if there were less knots. That is why much high-quality furniture manufacturers shy away from using pine, typically a very knotty wood. Make sure you check the base of your furniture for knots and if you see more than a few, it may not be high quality!

Seat Foam

Find out what the density of the foam is. The Upholstered furniture should have a seat foam density rating of at least 1.8 pounds or higher. Though the chair or sofa has removable seat cushions, unzip them and take a look inside as well to check for internal compartments in the foam that will stop it from settling.

[theharpermovieblog]

#HARPERSMOVIECOLLECTION

2023

I watched Subspecies V: Blood Rise (2023)

There are already 2 Subspecies on this year's list of films, so as much as I don't feel like watching this movie, I feel it's sadly necessary.

The Story of Radu's turn to vampirism and pure evil.

Director Ted Nicolaou and his cast, including series veterans Anders Hove and Denice Duff, really do love this series they've created. It might not be the most well made, well scored, best looking or most interesting series in the world, but there is a team of people who clearly put their hearts into this.

This fifth film in the series is a prequel to the previous four films. Focusing on the birth and life of the series' main villain Radu, before he becomes a vampire and his descent into soulless undying evil. It's not a completely uninteresting story, especially if you've watched the series up until now. It's not completely interesting either, as it can drag quite a bit at times. The action isn't exactly mesmerizing, and try as they might, the dialogue doesn't exactly engross the audience. It feels like a medieval script written for a highschool production. Some of the actors are also unable to handle this heavily dramatized dialogue.

This is absolutely the best looking film in the franchise. It still retains a bit of that cheap straight to video sensibility, but with the crisp veneer of current filmmaking technology.

The musical score, as in most full moon productions, is not great and feels constant. The quieter moments play so much better in comparison. As always, the Romanian landscapes add a bit of credence to this movie. At least it looks like they're really back in time.

Unfortunately, some stuff is coming off way funnier than it's meant to be. The sped up vampire movements and non practical effects feel extremely dated. I'm cool with the cheap practical effects, but cheap digital effects have never been in style. If they'd cut all the unnecessary flash movement and chose to hide the makeup a bit better with lighting, they could have had better impact. Or any impact other than negative.

And for fuck's sake, if you're making a medieval period piece, run the clothes through some dirt or something before putting them on screen. Make them look lived in. Why are these people wearing brand new cloaks and robes? Maybe the budget was so low they needed to keep the costumes clean to get their deposit back.

Anders Hove is really good in the role of Radu. He's naturally menacing and interesting to watch, both acting-wise and physically. He is definitely the one real reason this franchise has lasted.

Look, Subspecies is a franchise of B-level, straight to video horror films that won't even come close to blowing you away. But, I'll always argue that there is something about this series that holds a minor interest. I really love a vampire who is a true monster, in both personality and appearance. I like it's attempt at creating a lore for itself. I like that despite being a low budget Full Moon feature, it takes itself seriously and presents itself with a heavy tone. Is it too serious and too heavy for what it is? Probably, but I admire the refusal to change its ways through the decades.

Subspecies V won't upset anyone who likes these films. It fits right into the series.

Now I'm happily gonna leave the Subspecies series of films behind. Please don't make another one.

[rankertopgoogle]

Pine Wood

All about Wooden Crate

Wooden crates are an efficient way to store items like dolls, candle jars or even teddy bears. They save the homeowner a lot of money which would otherwise be used on buying expensive pieces of furniture. These crates are the most appropriate for the homeowner to use because they are cheap, are made of high quality materials and also the fact that they are available in many sizes and dimensions. At the end of the day, these crates serve the home by being the most perfect and smart way to display items that are worth being seen.

There are different sizes and shapes for the homeowner to choose from. What will determine the wooden crate choice are of course the budget and also the specific need that the homeowner has. There are both traditional and modern crates. The traditional ones are made in such a way that they have a handle at the sides. They also come in a variety of shapes. On the other hand, the modern wooden crates are made in the latest shapes and sizes as well. However, both these crates are equal when matters related to being efficient are concerned.

 Wooden Box

Wood has been in use for building and storage for ages. It is a resource that can be found everywhere, and is easy to carve into different things. As such, wooden boxes are probably the first mobile form of storage. Artists realized that wooden boxes weren't just a convenience; they could be turned into anything. They could be forms of art.

 Pallet - An Industry Essential

Basic pallets are constructed of heat-treated wood products and formed in a box shape. Each pallet has specially measured openings to fit allow transport by forklift, pallet jack, front loaders or other devices for ease. Often a load is secured on a pallet with the use of strapping, stretch or shrink wrap for shipments. Though the dimensions of a pallet vary with each country and each location, the most commonly used pallet in North America is in a square 42 inches x 42 inches for use in the grocery industry. The square shape of the pallet ensures stability of the load and keeps it from tipping. Other dimensions are used to meet warehouse specifications or to accommodate loading dock doors, train car doors or openings for other storage containers. Pallets can also be designed to fit through standard doorways when necessary. Pallet companies have the capability to custom design pallets to meet the needs of their customers accordingly.

Plastic Pallet

Pallets (also know as crates) are used to help transport goods around the country. They do this by providing a solid base on which to place and secure the goods, keeping from the sustaining damage. Also they provide a solid base to both stack and move goods using a forklift truck. Shipping

Traditionally pallets have been made of wood, but in recent years with the increase of developments in plastics, they have been made out of this material. But the big question is, which should you choose to use?

 When Considering Buying Pine Wood Furniture

If you have never purchased a piece of wood furniture before you will find that it can be a bit of a challenge as there are a number of different types of wood that you can choose from. One of the most popular types of wood furniture that people seem to want is pine wood furniture. Pine is the wood that is typically used to make furniture such as dining room tables, coffee tables and sofa tables and even bedroom sets. The pine itself can then be covered with a veneer finish. There are things that you should keep in mind when buying pine furniture. LVL Pallet

 How to Recycle Pallet

Pallets are used in industrial settings and may occasionally be used in residential settings. They are made of wood and are used as a platform for a variety of items. Pallets allow a large group of items to be easily picked up and transported. Most often pallets are moved around by forklifts. Transport

Due to the fact that pallets are made of wood, they are easily recycled. In fact, most companies that use pallets for delivery of their products offer a pick up and return process as part of the delivery. They will usually come back and retrieve empty pallets.

 More Information - https://singmah.co/

[kiruuuuu]

Siege’s Fool’s 2022 - Day 4! 🎭

This is my entry for @dualrainbow​‘s Siege-themed April Fool’s event (and do follow them if you’re not already!) ✨ I chose to write about Smoke/Mute as they’ve been on my mind recently (always, if I’m honest). Please enjoy this lighthearted fic about Mute receiving a sweet surprise 😊 (Rating T, fluff/humour, ~4.7k words)

.

James Porter is the epitome of cool.

He’s got an impossibly quick wit, ready to drop a line like he’s in an award-winning sitcom at any given moment, no matter how tense the situation. He’s easygoing with a fire underneath, passionate about topics in a way that allows him to crack jokes while furthering the cause, projects an aura of nonchalance without coming across as detached. He engages in ribbing without getting hurtful, complains without appearing whiny, raises issues in a non-aggressive way to allow for an open conversation. He’s always composed. He’s always having a good time. He surrounds himself with people who never cop on that they’re an audience, because they’re not, because he doesn’t perform. He just is. All that others can do is witness.

His smile is stunning.

Mute has gotten decent at spotting fake confidence over the years, at noticing when it’s a veneer covering an inferiority complex or other self doubts, hiding anger or trauma or mistrust. When he first met Smoke, he was instantly captivated by how genuine his confidence is, purely by lack of thought. Smoke probably doesn’t think twice about what others make of him, and it’s precisely this thoughtlessness that’s so intriguing.

His second impression told him that Smoke was also an idiot, ready to make a fool of himself at any point to garner cheap laughs, but he’s had to add a few footnotes to this assessment.

One, Smoke doesn’t do what he does for the benefit of others – or rather, not only, he does try to cheer others up if necessary, but he doesn’t try to curry any favour by playing the clown. He just enjoys doing ridiculous stunts, full stop, be it drinking curdled Bailey’s with lime juice to prove a point, or doing a backflip off of Sledge’s shed, or setting his eyebrows on fire. Mute has been watching him with unbridled awe and horror: this is someone who’s noticeably used to being popular. (Then again, Mute has been watching him with all sorts of other emotions as well.)

Two, he’s not an idiot in the way it matters. He didn’t goof his way up the ranks, he earned it, and Mute realises this when he overhears a conversation in which Smoke tries to explain the basics of atomic theory needed to understand how he came up with the special concoctions stored in his ‘babes’ (and yes, Mute might get a little flustered at how Smoke talks about them). Smoke didn’t get a single technical term correct yet managed to get absolutely everything else right. Leaving aside his … odd choice of words, all the details fit, he conveyed the general idea so well Mute was a little jealous (since he has a tough time explaining anything to anyone) and his conversation partner walked away from it enlightened.

So yes, James bloody Porter might not be book smart, but he sure is intelligent, handsome, funny, charming, and really really cool.

About three weeks into knowing him, Mute decides he wants to be his friend. Not a superficial acquaintance, not a casual observer, not someone at the fringes of his everyday life, no, Mute wants to be the person Smoke tells anecdotes about. He wants to be the subject of or at the very least a participant in ‘the other day’ stories. He wants to receive late night texts from him, be invited to take part in shenanigans, hang out without any plans, be at the forefront of his mind when there’s anything meaningful to share. He wants to occupy a good portion of his thoughts.

At times, he craves to be important to him with such a ferocity that he almost screams into his pillow and yes, alright, maybe he’s getting a little too intense about this but there’s never been another person in his life who’s mesmerised him to this extent. But this is where he’s at right now. He covets a piece of Smoke’s heart and is willing to sacrifice quite a lot to achieve his goal.

There’s just one problem. A small one. A snag, if you will. Not quite an obstacle but more of a … delay. Surely.

.

Smoke bursts into the meeting room with an air of devil-may-care, luscious mane as impressive as ever, demeanour breezy, smile easy, and Mute’s heart skips a beat. He looks good as always, casual clothes emphasising his approachability and every motion inviting comment to ignite conversation. The t-shirt is new, Mute can tell, looks like a band shirt acquired at a concert and he’s keenly curious to find out which band it is, what the event was like, whether Smoke enjoyed himself. He also knows the other man wanted to watch the newest James Bond over the weekend, and as Mute has already seen it, he’d love to hear his opinion.

“Morning, Mark”, Smoke greets him, beaming, “how was your weekend?”

Fruitful, actually – he finished another step in creating his own smart home devoid of any third party apps or security breaches, and he’d bet Smoke would be interested in hearing about it. He also discovered a fantastic Pakistani restaurant right next door. Mute opens his mouth to reply, and all that comes out is: “You’re late.”

And, well.

The angel, the absolute angel of a man merely beams at him and counters with a cheery: “Fuck you.”

“Fuck you”, retorts Mute, the epitome of maturity, and Sledge already has his head in his hands.

This is… normal. In that Mute just doesn’t have a freaking clue what happens in between the events of him thinking up something to say and then something else entirely tumbling out of his mouth. It could be his heartbeat, whose tempo would not be amiss for a smaller creature, say, a rabbit maybe but certainly not a grown ass man. And so, Smoke shall forever remain ignorant of Mute’s curiosity directed at his wardrobe, of his desperate need to invite him for dinner as well as all the conversations they could’ve had about mutual interests. It’s a tragedy.

It should be a tragedy. Shakespearean, possibly, in that two lovers friends who are kept apart by fate yearn for each other’s touch but are simply not meant to be, foiled by circumstance and societal expectations and prohibitive shyness. It should be dramatic and agonising and heart-wrenching.

However, the shit-eating grin with which Rook eyes him from the other side of the room turns this theatrical tale into a comedy. Who needs enemies with friends like these? Both Rook and Glaz have offered a counter-suggestion in that Mute isn’t a tragic hero of old with unseen, malevolent forces wrenching his happiness away, but instead, an idiot. A run-of-the-mill bonehead. An ordinary bellend who is simply too inept at socialising to talk to his crush like a normal person.

The only lesson Mute has learnt is this: never tell your friends about your unrequited crush. Just don’t. That way endless ribbing lies.

“Children”, Thatcher addresses the room, visibly tired of them already, and Mute subtly flips Rook off.

One might ask: how can he even be sure his crush is unrequited?

“You got a pen for me?”, asks the one person Mute wants to befriend so bad he actually dreams of them doing utterly mundane tasks together like scrubbing the stovetop or shopping for socks.

“Shut up”, he says and wonders if Thatcher would beat his arse for interrupting the meeting by smacking himself. And, well. There is no reason for Smoke to like him. None. Not when he’s this rude.

Rook’s amusement grows and Mute wonders if Thatcher would beat his arse for interrupting the meeting by smacking Rook.

Instead, he tries to ignore the nagging feeling of what if one day he just leaves and never comes back and you never got a chance to tell him how you feel and picks up one of his many pens to take notes like a good little boy. Except the damn thing won’t write. He scratches the paper a few times, to no avail, and inspects the object further: it’s a little… sticky?

He furrows his brows. Smells at it. Smells of… sugar? A hint of spearmint, too.

A suspicion forms in his mind. Before he can stop himself, he puts it in his mouth and yes, alright, this is candy. Tasty, though, so he’s not complaining, and snaps a large portion of it off to suck on it more inconspicuously.

All eyes are suddenly on him. And he realises that to everybody else, it looks like he just chomped off a piece of his pen.

“It’s a rock!”, he defends himself and (though the Brits nod in understanding) garners even more concern from everyone else, so he feels like he’s forced to explain: “I mean candy. It’s sugar. Must’ve been an April Fool’s, I bet all of you have one too.”

Shrugging, Thermite picks up a similarly-coloured pen by his side and bites down. Hard. Followed by the very satisfying sound of shattering plastic.

“Not this one”, he concludes, lips stained indigo.

At least now they’re not staring at Mute anymore.

.

“Tell me the truth”, Mute demands as he enters the base’s kitchen, closely followed by the two wankers who fancy being his friends.

“I think cryptobros scamming each other is hilarious, and I’m tired of pretending it’s not”, Rook bursts out and runs face first into Mute when he simply stops walking to stare at him with a mix of irritation and disbelief.

“When I was twelve, I hid a dead fish in one of my friends’ wardrobe because he’d been mean to a boy I liked”, adds Glaz.

“Sex doesn’t actually sell.”

“That haircut suits you really well and if I were James, I’d totally -” Mute slaps a hand over Glaz’ mouth just as Smoke squeezes through the door behind them with a half-hearted apology, then eyes them oddly when they stop talking altogether and merely stare at him.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt, laddies”, he defends himself, “carry on.”

“Don’t you call us ladies, we’ve all seen the photos”, Rook shoots back, earning an amused chuckle despite the misunderstanding.

“I make a great drag queen, don’t I.”

Mute has very much not seen the photos but he’d rather hurl Diana out a window than express any sort of curiosity about them with Smoke in the room. “Coming back to my original topic”, he tries to rescue the severely derailed conversation, “be honest: was it one of you two who switched out my pen?”

“Not me”, promises Glaz, “I swear.” Rook’s also shaking his head.

Fair enough. Mute is not sure who’d single him out specifically instead, or maybe it was meant for someone else, so he drops it for now. “Let’s just get our food and go.” He fetches his plastic container from the fridge and almost slams his head into the hanging cabinets when Smoke says his name. He can sense his friends’ schadenfreude in his back. “What?”

And this also is part of what makes Smoke so incredibly cool: he doesn’t capitalise on other people’s embarrassment. He’ll give others shite for making stupid arse decisions, but glosses over Mute’s clumsiness like it hasn’t happened the last 324 times. Though he seems to ignore Mute’s missteps more often than anyone else’s and – oh no, is he pitying him?! Before he can go down this horrifying rabbit hole, however, Smoke informs him: “One of your jammers got dinged the other day and Elena hasn’t gotten around to fixing it yet. Do you want to take a look yourself?”

“Sure”, he replies elaborately, leaving it at that.

Smoke seems amused now, for whatever reason. “I can bring it over later, if you have the time?”

“Yes.”

“Great. I’ll see you then.”

“Alright.”

And yes, Mute is keenly and awfully aware that he’s a dry, insulting, disinterested single k amidst long and friendly messages… but his brain won’t cooperate with his mouth. He stares at Smoke and mentally wills him into understanding just how much Mute wants him to keep talking just so he can hear his voice and observe his little mannerisms and gaze into those hypnotising eyes.

When the silence becomes too unbearable (after about one second, he can’t stand it anymore), Mute promptly turns to the old microwave in the corner of the kitchen in order to heat up his lunch, probably still lost in thoughts because he only notices something’s wrong when his fingers sink deep into a crumbly, spongy texture. “What the fuck”, he hears himself say, more out of shock than actual understanding.

He realises what happened when Glaz goes: “Is that cake?!”

Mute gapes at the bits of fondant, crumbs and jam sticking to his hand before turning his attention to the microwave-looking object that yes, indeed, is an actual cake. It doesn’t look like a bad cake either, and somehow this upsets him more than if someone had half-arsed this. This lifelike replica required effort.

“And here I was, bemoaning my lack of dessert”, mutters Smoke and grabs a plate from one of the cupboards to pile some of the intact cake onto it.

“It wasn’t like this when we came in”, Mute protests and then instantly doubts himself. “Or was it? I genuinely don’t remember. Who the hell -”

“Who cares”, Rook interrupts, holding a plate ready himself, “it’s free cake!”

And yeah, Mute can’t argue with that.

.

For the rest of the day, it keeps happening.

Smoke walks in close to the end of a very, very long workday to catch him snacking on his lampshade and raises his brows at the sight.

“Cotton candy”, mutters Mute.

“Flavoured?”

“Mint. This is personal.”

“Not a fan?”

“My favourite. Which is why I’m convinced this is deliberate. Someone did this who knows I’ve got a horrible sweet tooth, adore anything mint flavoured and despise these kinds of mysteries. I hate not knowing who’s behind it all and why, and I bet the culprit is getting a kick out of me agonising over this. I will find them, and I will make them pay.” His determined speech seems to surprise Smoke, who responds with slight concern.

“Was it really that bad?”

“Look.” Mute doesn’t care he’s getting worked up because this is getting ridiculous (even though obsessing about anything mundane like this makes him look decidedly not-cool). “All my spare ammo was replaced with wine gums. The coins in my wallet with shaped Maoam, those chewy German – yeah, you know what I mean. I had a globe-shaped paper weight: chocolate orange. I think someone saw me lick the window because I thought it was sugar glass.”

Smoke looks utterly entertained now and Mute can’t fault him. If it wasn’t so annoying, he’d be having a good time too. “Your window might not be, but that bottle of water is.”

Alarmed, Mute’s gaze snaps to the bottle he took out of the fridge earlier and notices it sitting… askew on his desk. Accompanied by quiet cursing, he procures a tray from somewhere in his office and holds the bottle above it, squeezing until it bursts in his hand, shards of hardened sugar scattering on his desk. It shouldn’t feel this good but he hasn’t done anything this satisfying in a long time – especially after a long, frustrating day like this.

In the corridor, a very concerned IQ has stopped in her tracks, staring at him with wide eyes.

Mute does not feel like explaining himself anymore, so while maintaining eye contact with her, he picks up some of the transparent pieces and stuffs them into his mouth, chewing with loud crunches.

“Someone must think you quite sweet”, Smoke comments with a wide grin and it’s the first time anyone makes this specific connection. And… boy, would it make a lot of sense. Nobody Mute knows would go to these lengths just to play a prank on him – at least not for cheap laughs, or even no laughs since no single person is around for all of them. For which he’s extremely glad, because it means only about a fiftieth of Rainbow watched him dump a handful of those small paper circles that come out of a hole punch into his mouth. (He’s not really a fan of edible paper, but the different colours had their own taste and reminded him of fruit punch. So yes, at least one of his colleagues now believes that Mute enjoys eating confetti.)

But if whoever is responsible for all this didn’t do it to amuse themselves, then Smoke’s interpretation seems terrifyingly valid. Terrifying, because this might mean the esoteric admin assistant who “keeps running into” him (she believes their birthdays make them a perfect match) could be trying her hand at playing cupid, and it’s not a conversation he wants to have after he’s spent the day consuming her offerings. Or, at all.

“In any case”, Smoke continues, probably able to watch the cogs turn in Mute’s mind, and plops the device onto his desk, “here’s the faulty jammer.”

“Sabotaged”, Mute corrects him immediately, “I don’t produce faulty equipment.”

Smoke seems unconvinced. “What happened to the SAS-only router in the lounge then? The one you set up for us?”

“Dom spilled his boba on it after Emmanuelle tripped him. And before you say it, yes, I did hide the bloody thing in the ceiling but no technological advancement is prepared for the unstoppable force that is a 40+ year old German with feet for hands.”

“Oh, is that what happened? I wondered for weeks why the floor was sticky.”

“Could’ve asked.”

“I wasn’t sure whether I’d really want to know the answer.” They both shudder.

“Fair enough. I’ll take a look at it and let you know when it’s in working condition again.”

“Grand, ta.” Smoke’s already half out the door when he stops and turns back, an unusually pleased expression on his handsome face. “You know, this is nice.”

Mute barely looks up from the jammer. “What is?”

“Talking to you. We should do this more often.”

And what a relief that he actually makes his exit then, stylishly timed with getting the last word in, because Mute turns violently crimson at the statement. He did just have a normal conversation with the person he once called ‘fish stick’ because he couldn’t think of a better nickname. And somehow, he didn’t mess up any of it, he didn’t walk into anything, didn’t do his usual monosyllabic robot impression, didn’t freak out and fake an obviously bogus emergency (“my hair hurts”? Really?). No, they talked like adults.

Oh God. The realisation makes his ears burn even more.

They bantered.

It takes him a while just to recover, reeling from the implications (will this remain the only time he’ll behave like a human being around Smoke or does this mean they can finally converse properly?) while battling a mix of embarrassment and childish joy. When he finally turns his attention to his signature electronic, he spots the block of fudge in place of the battery instantly after having pried open the casing. And enough is enough.

.

Dokkaebi stops chewing and Echo pauses the video of what looks like to be Pokémon CGI (are they beating up the American President?) when Mute barges into their lair. Both of them stare at him as if he had committed a faux pas instead of the two of them wasting valuable time at work goofing around. Not that he isn’t envious just a teeny tiny bit.

“I need access to your drones”, he announces.

“What drones?”, asks Echo, and Dokkaebi says simultaneously, “Not happening.” After a beat, she adds: “Uh, I mean, what drones?”

“As a fellow technology enthusiast”, Mute starts explaining himself, to which Echo coughs what sounds suspiciously like nerd, “I’m sure we don’t need to do this and you two can just believe me that I’m asking as a show of courtesy. If necessary, I could hack into them or, worse, just jam them. I have not, out of respect.”

“Do you wanna catch someone making out?” Echo sits up in his chair, which looks decidedly odd compared to his usual slouch, and opens up a folder on his PC labelled ‘evidence’. “We got a collection.”

Interesting. Mute considers it. “What’s the most outrageous one?”

Dokkaebi’s grin is shark-like. “Blackbeard.”

“Who in their right mind would snog him?”

“Nobody. We caught him practising with a CPR dummy. But that one will cost you.”

“That’s not the one I’m after, but alright. I brought payment.” Mute sprinkles a handful of wrapped toffees onto their shared desk. “There’s more where these came from.”

“Why do they look like erasers?”

“Don’t worry about it. How far back does the footage go?”

Echo shrugs. “About a day. Six got suspicious when we requested too many SSDs at once, so we don’t have more than 24, maybe 30 hours.”

“Perfect. I need the middle meeting room starting at about quarter to eight this morning.” Mute watches his colleague navigate some more folders before the sepia-toned drone footage begins playing in fast forward. The room starts out empty, with Thatcher the first one to enter, then the other participants trickling in. Mute’s eyes are fixed on the place where he eventually ended up sitting, noticing that Sledge is hovering oddly until only three spots are left: the one where Sledge sits down, the one next to him that Mute occupies only moments later, and one further down the table where Smoke joined them later.

And, indeed, Sledge is the one who discreetly switches out one of Mute’s pens with the candy.

“Why would he…”, Mute mutters, brow furrowed. “Alright. Kitchen next, at twelve.”

He watches himself burst into the room, closely followed by his useless friends, arguing about everything and nothing. Smoke joins them and garners Mute’s attention by mentioning the broken jammer – and yep, there it is. While Mute is focused on the object of his desire (desire for friendship, of course), somehow Rook and Glaz manage to switch out the microwave for its cake decoy. Good heavens, is Mute this distracted every time he interacts with Smoke?!

“My office next. Start yesterday, at five, that’s when I left.” And at this point, he doesn’t even care that neither Echo nor Dokkaebi bat an eye at his requests and readily showcase how tightly they’re keeping, well, pretty much every inch of the base under surveillance.

It doesn’t make any sense. None of the people who show up after hours to replace various objects in his office with sweets should have a vested interest in playing this kind of prank on him – he spots Thermite, Bandit (and sure, this is right up his alley, but not at this level, unprompted), Twitch, even Kapkan and Valkyrie. Well, and Smoke. But why this random group of people?

And why is Smoke standing in the middle, almost looking as if he’s directing them, and now Bandit is patting him on the back in a ‘good luck’ gesture, and Rook gives him a double thumbs up, and -

.

“You!”, yells Mute accusingly, pointing at an innocent-looking Smoke just about to leave the building. And sure, it’d probably seem a lot cooler if Mute wasn’t completely out of breath from sprinting full speed once he spotted his target on Dokkaebi’s live feed, and it likely would’ve increased his coolness factor even more if he had managed a perfect slide around the corner without almost losing his balance and slamming into a coat rack in order to avoid eating shite. But overall, as dramatic accusations go, it’s not the worst one.

Smoke offers a friendly, vaguely curious smile, the rat. “Me?”

“You’re the fucking… candy fiend!”

The smile grows. “What makes you say that?”

“I checked the footage from all the hidden – I mean, there’s a drone, uh, a camera in my office, and I saw you orchestrating this whole thing. How did you get everyone to help you?! It’s like you reconciled several warring factions. I think Fuze and Jordan shook hands.”

He’s full-on grinning now, mirth dancing in his eyes. “Impressive, innit?”

When it seems that this is all he has to offer, Mute gestures in exasperation, not sure which questions he has to ask in order to receive the answers he so desperately seeks. Well. Just the one answer, really. Maybe he should tackle it directly. “But… why?”

Smoke, the bastard, is standing there, hands in his pockets and posture infuriatingly relaxed, not at all flustered over being found out or the accusation in the first place, and flat out refuses to give a straight response. That’s how cool he is. “Why what exactly?”

“Why you made the effort – stop playing so obtuse, you fucking rounding error!”

It’s probably the first time Mute has ever startled a laugh out of him like this, open and unguarded. “Fine, fine. I do think you’re a sweet bloke, and I’d overheard that you like sweet foods, and with April Fool’s coming up…”

He thinks I’m sweet, Mute’s brain screams at him on repeat and he knows he’ll be dreaming about these words later. They’re making his chest swell and gravity recede and though it’s still open to interpretation and Smoke could still just think him a decent guy and play a prank on him like bros do, he’ll take it, only then Smoke adds: “And it wasn’t hard to get everybody else on board either. They’ve been pestering me about asking you out for a while.”

The nonchalance with which this blow is delivered is deliberate. Smoke knows exactly what kind of impact it has on Mute and he’s back to grinning (and damn, is he handsome).

Mute is gobsmacked. “Bu– … I -”, he flails verbally, “wha -” And then, once he’s vaguely recovered (at least enough to voice one of the many thoughts running wild in his poor confused brain): “That seems like it could backfire horribly if I wasn’t interested.” And why did he say that. Why is that the thing he chose to say.

To his astonishment and relief, Smoke somehow takes his unwarranted comment in stride and replies: “True. But I might’ve had the slightest hunch that you do like me.”

Mute opens his mouth.

“It could’ve been the fact that you kept bumping into random objects whenever I existed in any capacity around you. Or the way your ears flush red when we interact. Or that you’re so awfully, endearingly awkward when talking to me. Or that one time when you sniffed my jacket -”

“Shut up”, he hisses, feeling his ears heat up and betray him once again. “I get it. But… why me?”

All Smoke has to offer is a helpless shrug. “Dunno. Just happened, I guess. There are some people I instantly like, some I immediately dislike, and with you… I just stood no chance.”

And this is when Mute realises that in the grand scheme of things, Smoke isn’t the coolest guy to have ever walked this earth – and that instead, it was his mind trying to rationalise the inexplicable attraction he’s felt ever since he first saw him. Which is good. Because it means Smoke isn’t out of his league after all.

And that maybe, he’s always wanted more than a friendship but didn’t dare hope.

“So… wanna come over later today?”, he suggests, heart beating impossibly fast even as Smoke’s face lights up.

“Sure. I’ll text you.” A brief hesitation, then Smoke’s eyebrow twitches and he adds: “My arse crack still needs some icing anyway.”

It’s the perfect quip to leave on, and it’d be so fucking cool for him to just turn on his heel and stride out, leaving Mute gaping and with all kinds of imagery in his head. Except that Smoke walks straight into the closed door and cracks the glass when his thick head collides with it.

And yeah, he might be cool. But at least he’s not too cool for Mute.

[rae-gar-targaryen]

do you ever wonder if people think of you? and if so, how they think of you?

I know how I felt about people who I didn’t care to see every day. Not that I didn’t care if they were there. I just didn’t feel the same fondness. 

This is something i think about often -- I can’t help it. I know how *I* feel about the people around me... the fond, funny feelings i have in my gut when I think of unrequited crushes, and the people who swam in and out of my peripheral orbit ... in school, at various jobs, in college, in law school. 

I know how I feel about the people I miss. 

If the same people I felt fond, funny little gut-squiggly feelings for ever felt the same way about me?

And sometimes I wonder if people feel the same way for me? If *I* was ever anyone’s unrequited crush.

Who shove any legitimate feeling beyond a veneer of humor, sarcasm or a slightly self-deprecating comment (but served with a smile). But that veneer wears on you..it flakes and chips like a coat too-cheap, drugstore nail polish.

I know that sometimes, peripherally, it reached my ears that people I ran into thoughout my life thought I was “weird.” And what does that mean? To be a "weird girl?" So, by and from your resident "weird girl," I think we are the type of girls...

Because, if you’re like me, you’re also uncomfortable in our skin. We may as well be coated in that cheap, flaky nail polish, because everything feels wrong when it's draped over us-- outfits don't look quite right, your hair doesn't photograph just-so, you could nitpick on and on.

And they told us, "Don't worry. Your time will come." Or you heard of yourself, "that girl! I know that girl! She's so [funny] ... [clever] ... or some other platitude to avoid saying that what they really thought you were was ... Probably kind of unattractive?

If you’re like me, then, in your discomfort, you probably shared too much. Or too little.

Weird girl, you were good for a well-placed reference..or that one hobby everyone knew you had. Maybe you were really quippy. Or people knew you were the one to build them up when they were feeling down.

And if you've made it to the end, weird girl, just know I can tell you with certainty that you are complete. Regardless of what others think of you. If they think of you. 

If you didn't feel that way, or maybe you still don't, just know that you deserve to feel realized. You deserve to feel complete. And you aren't alone if you don't.

The fragments of you are fully-rendered parts of a complete whole. I need to remind myself of this. 

Maybe you think in clips and quips, and I guess that's "weird?" Maybe it's that you never quite felt comfortable in the situational default. I guess that's "weird?" 

The receipt of approval feels so foreign and delicate, like the gentle spun sugar of cotton candy on a stick that bends away from your touch, and dissolves as soon as you manage to touch it. 

They tell you to write what you know, and what the fuck else would you do? You know a little about alot of things, with so much breadth, but so little depth that you hate just how hollow it rings when someone calls you "smart."

You give pieces of yourself to others -- emotional balm, kind words, a glimmery scale piece by piece to make others shine brighter. Because little else makes you feel better than the knowledge you've helped soothe another's little hurt, or sat and made someone else feel heard.

Maybe you’ve been called cute, but never beautiful. Smart, but you knew someone smarter. The crushing weight of never quite feeling enough is, ironically, enough.. enough to rob the air from your lungs. To suffocate you in feelings of contentment with inadequacy, something you can't quite outrun, a cruel, linguistic hamster wheel comprised of your own mental gymnastics.

I guess, I feel all of these things for others. And also for myself. And I’m not sure if anyone is affording this much mental space and acuity to others beyond themselves. I’ve never been sure about that. 

I’m not even sure I have a resolution to this thought, just that it is. And if we’ve crossed paths, you can guarantee that I’ve thought of you. I think of you. And sometimes, it’s nice to be thought of. 

[beca-mitchell]

I think it’s pretty obvious from the free ride to college to the big house and BMW 5 Series Beca’s dad owns that she probably comes from the upper region of the middle class demographic.

Also, Beca has some pretty expensive DJ tech and software for an 18 year old. Then you have Chloe who was able to spend 7 years in college without having to work several jobs to help pay her way and Aubrey who was always very well dressed and has that air of having grown up in a WASPy community.

In fact if you look at all the characters in the movie, none of them seem to want for anything and all seem to live very comfortably. I mean, Jesse was driving a brand new VW Golf in the 2nd movie where he’s dropping Beca off for her internship and those things aren’t cheap, especially for a college student who should be facing into a mountain of debt.

The fact that none of them have any real issues or concerns about life aside from who’s hooking up with who or what the set list is gonna be etc, pretty much sums up the privilege all of these characters exist within.

I mean, the fact that their biggest concern after Fat Amy flashed the president wasn’t expulsion but rather whether or not they would be able to compete at the puppy bowl, shows the consequence free existence they live within.

But it’s a movie, we’re not supposed to observe it that closely. We’re just supposed to accept the shiny veneer for what it is.

you: *thorough breakdown*

you: “But it’s a movie, we’re not supposed to observe it that closely.” 😂

i agree tho. i’ve said most, if not all of this before.