#it's fine. such is the nature of data scraping

[thai-drama-ao3-stats]

Thai Drama Stats Special Edition:

The Great Archive Lockdown 🔒

Hi folks! In case you weren't aware, there are various scraping bots that trawl through AO3 and use the data for AI training, content mill sites, or other vaguely nefarious purposes. One site, "Fanfic Books", is essentially creating an unauthorized mirror of AO3. Here are some posts about it.

To combat this, many users have recently chosen to "Archive Lock" their fics.

What is Archive Locking?

An archive locked work, or "restricted" work, is only visible to users who are logged into AO3. This prevents anonymous users (and bots that aren't using login credentials) from reading your fic or finding your fic in searches. This doesn't block all scraping bots, but it should keep most of them out.

What does this have to do with fandom stats?

The AO3 scraping I do doesn't use login credentials, so I can't count archive locked fics. That's totally fine! I am in no way telling you to stop archive locking! Lock or unlock to your hearts content!

It does, however, mean that the data I pulled from my Thai Drama AO3 Trends Dashboard this week (July 1 - July 7, 2024) are looking especially strange.

Holy moly! We actually have negative growth. More fics were locked than posted, which is why the Net New is negative. I'd estimate that about 1% of all previously public Thai Drama fics were archive locked this week.

This matches trends on all of AO3. This week, the total number of publicly available fics actually decreased by 0.7% -- and that's including all the new fics being posted!

When did this happen?

The timing for both Thai Drama fandom and all of AO3 is pretty consistent.

For Thai Drama fandom, most of the locking happened on Friday, July 5, but there was also some locking on Sunday.

When we look at all of AO3, it seems like most of the mass-locking happened on July 5th as well, with additional locking happening all throughout the weekend.

Which Thai Drama fandoms were most affected?

When we look at sheer numbers, KinnPorsche, of course, has a lot of newly-locked fics. 3 Will Be Free, My Engineer, and Dark Blue Kiss were locked down a lot as well.

When we look at the top fandoms by negative growth, The Player saw almost all of its fics vanish overnight. 3 Will Be Free was cut neatly in half.

This data is cool I guess, but... so what?

If these numbers are accurate, it represents another sudden and massive shift towards archive locking on AO3.

According to @star-grazing's stats about archive locking in December 2022, the total number of archive locked works on AO3 increased by 70% in just a couple weeks after a reddit post went viral about AI bots scraping AO3 for machine learning material.

Those stats show that in December 2022, 5.79% of AO3 fics were archive locked. When I checked the numbers again today, 9.37% of all works were archive locked.

Using rough estimates, from the last few days of AO3 data, I'd say that the total number of archive locked works increased by 8% since last Thursday (7/4). And trends seem to indicate that the great lockdown is still going!

Anyway...

Thanks for sticking with me! This is a really fun time to be collecting AO3 stats :) If you have more questions, feel free to reach out. I also put some more details under the cut! Thanks y'all!

Are we sure it was archive locking, and not some other data issue?

Er, good question. It's my best guess, and I've tried to rule out other potentially culprits. The AO3 Fandom Trend Analysis Dashboard, which has data about all fandoms on AO3, doesn't seem to show anything amiss. Their data uses login credentials, meaning they can count archive locked fics.

I also went through several tags manually while logged in and logged out to compare numbers from this week to previous weeks. It doesn't seem like there was a mass deletion or retag that I could see.

I also used the "restricted:true" search operator to search for archive locked fics while logged in. A lot of those missing fics pop back up!

I absolutely welcome other theories though, if you think of one!

Is this still happening?

Seemingly yes, for Thai Dramas at least! When I checked the "All Thai Dramas" AO3 search this morning, the total number of Thai Drama fics had dropped below the 40K mark - lower than when I first started keeping track a month ago!

We probably have a lot more archive locking in our future!

How do I archive lock my own fics?

There's a really good tutorial over here.

Help! I don't have an AO3 account, so I can't read all these archive locked fics anymore.

Please message me! I have some spare invites.

Which fandoms are the most "locked down"?

I'm not sure, but there is a Fanlore article about Hockey RPF and the Fourth Wall which provides some comparison stats. Hockey fandom has traditionally been one of the most locked down fandoms; less than half of hockey rpf fics are publicly available.

You can also peruse this AO3 search to see all archive locked fics.

[sailorsoons]

Still Watching? (l. c)

PAIRING: Lee Chan x f. Reader 

SUMMARY: Blood and Popcorn with your newly minted boyfriend is your favorite. Except now you watch a lot less Buffy and a lot more of Chan. 

WC: 2,153

AU: Established Relationship, PWP

GENRE: Smut

RATING: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging in and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.

WARNINGS: Shameless pwp, explicit language, explicit sexual content including nipple play, vaginal fingering, a little bit of teasing/edging, cheesy banter. 

A/N: Happy Valentine's day pt II the remix! As always, thank you to @daechwitatamic for beta reading this :)

A/N 2: This is the same couple from Blood & Popcorn but you do not need to read the first story to read this one :) This was originally posted on my old blog.

MASTERLIST | PERMANENT TAG LIST | ASK

“HONESTLY, IT'S SO OBVIOUS THIS SHOW WAS WRITTEN BY A MAN,” You mutter, watching as Buffy yells at Xander. “He wants to be a hero for her soooo bad.”

“Xander is the worst,” Chan sighs. You rise and fall with his chest, your back pressed against his front where you lay against him. His knees cage you in on either side of your hips, your ass planted firmly between his legs with his arms around your middle, fingers playing with the hem of your shirt. “He really thinks he should win the girl just because he’s a nice guy.” 

“Truly, he has like… very few other qualities than being a nice guy.” 

He hums. “At least Spike knows he’s an asshole. It’s guys like Xander who think just because they’re not blatantly awful that it makes them dateable.” 

“A lot of guys think that.” 

“Mhmm. I’m a rare breed.” 

You crane your neck to look up at him. You can hear and feel the steady thud of his heart, smell the hint of aftershave and menthol from his shower earlier, feel the heat of his skin. It makes you a little dizzy and you unfocus on the screen, studying the gentle curve of Chan’s mouth. 

“You’re surely something,” you mutter in response, grinning a little as you look away toward the screen. His fingers slip under your shirt, skimming your waist. You suppress a shiver, suddenly hyper aware of the way his fingers scrape against you. 

“I’m a nice guy and I know that it takes more than being a decent human being to get the girl.”

“Oh yeah? Remember the time it took four years to confess your feelings to me? What do you know, Lee Chan?”

“Hmm. Data is insufficient. Need more evidence regarding that specific example.” 

For a moment, you’re unable to respond, lids fluttering as Chan continues to caress your lower stomach and hips. His touch is completely innocent, no suggestion that he intends anything. That he means anything. It’s a motion that is instinctual for him, so naturally to have his hands on you that it almost makes it worse. 

Just knowing how easy it is for him to love you never fails to surprise you. You don’t know how you never saw it before. 

Now it seems silly to have ever thought that Chan was anything less than in love with you. It’s in the way he naturally gravitates toward you in every room. It’s in the way he can be totally focused on something else, but his hand reaches out for you, not even really noticing that he’s seeking you out. It’s  in the way that you mold so perfectly into his chest, made to be there. 

“You don’t know your own data?” you shoot back eventually, snuggling a little closer to him. If you could crawl into his hoodie, you would. For now, this is fine. “Seems like you don’t know much.” 

“Hmm?” His fingers stop moving. You feel the question hum against you. “I don’t know much?” 

“Nope.”

Your heart starts to pick up. Chan’s fingers start stroking your skin again but you feel the difference. His blunt nails scrape across your skin, raising goosebumps on your arms. He skims his hands higher and back down, touch light over your ribs. Every time his fingers dance up your side, his reach goes a little higher. 

A tightness forms in your throat. You try to keep your breathing even and will yourself not to squeeze your thighs. You are pressed too close to him for him not to tell if you squirm. Chewing your lip, you stare at the screen totally unseeing. 

“Hm.” Chan’s deep hum hints at trouble. You feel your hands get clammy. “I think I know some things. Like for example…” He trails off for a moment, hand brushing under your left breast. Your teeth dig into your bottom lip, fighting a twitch. “I know that your favorite color on me is green.” 

“Green is a good color on anyone.”

“I know that you like the feeling…” His hand skates low this time, fingers dancing dangerously against the waistband of your shorts. “Of high thread count sheets.”

You snort. “Everyone likes good sheets, Chan.” 

“Good sheets are important,” he agrees. You feel him trace his pointer finger back up with deadly accuracy, following the swell of your breast upward, skating so close to your nipple that you stop breathing. “Everything alright? You stopped breathing.”

“What?” you squeak. “Oh, yep. I am great.” 

“I don’t know, baby. Are you feeling well? You seem… warm.”

Chan presses his palm flat to your chest, fingers splayed wide. His palm is warm and rough, his touch igniting a fire inside of you. The heat spreads outward, licking at every one of your nerves and setting them ablaze. 

In an effort to ignore him, you lick your lips and say, “Never felt better. I like her boots.” 

His chuckle is low. Throaty. You’re barely holding it together, feeling the ache between your thighs at the firmness of his touch. “See, I don’t know a lot about women’s fashion. But I do know those are not boots. Just like I know you’re not paying attention to the show, Bambi.”

You blink and stare at the TV. Chan’s right. Buffy is in sneakers, though in your unfocused haze they had been blurry and looked like boots from a distance. You swallow down the dryness in your throat, Chan’s hand still pressed flat and warm against your chest. 

“I know that your heart is pounding,” Chan murmurs, voice barely audible as he presses his mouth by your ear. Your eyes flutter shut. “I know that you’re trying really hard not to squeeze those thighs.” 

“You can’t possibly know that.” 

To prove his statement true, Chan’s thumb brushes upward, skating gently over a nipple. On command, your thighs squeeze and you feel the shake of his laughter behind you. 

“I know everything about you, Bambi.” His voice brushes against you like his soft touch. You melt, feeling your weight sink into him further. “I know that you don’t share your food with anyone but me. I know that your favorite episode of Buffy is Hush. I know that you think Buffy should end up with Spike. I know that you are probably soaked right now because being caressed drives you crazy.” 

“Insufficient data,” you breathe. “I recommend research.” 

“You know what? Agreed.” 

Chan moves fast. His hand moves from your chest to between your legs, hands slipping under the waistband of your shorts and panties before you can blink. Your lips part, a breathy noise escaping you as Chan drags a slow finger up your sticky folds. 

“What do you know,” he observes. His fingers idly trail up and down your slit, making you twitch against him. “I was right. Do I win anything?” 

“I thought you said nice guys shouldn’t just win the girl.” 

Chan presses his fingers firmly to your clit, a ripple of pleasure ebbing through you. Your hips lift off the couch slightly but he pushes you back down into his lap, other hand looping around your waist to lock you to him. “Maybe I’m not that nice.”

Slowly, he starts to retract his hand. You whimper, both of your hands shooting to grab the wrist belonging to the hand between your legs. He pauses, fingers pressed between your folds. “You are nice!” 

“Oh?”

“Very nice. You’re my very nice, very sweet boyfriend.” 

“I see.” 

He doesn’t move his hand at all. The space is filled with the low hum of Buffy fighting vampires, the blue flash of the screen falling against your silhouettes, body to body as he holds you tight. You try to get control of your racing heart, but that’s never been easy around Chan.

He knows it.  

“Maybe you know some things,” you admit slowly. “Maybe I was wrong.”

Chan’s resounding chuckle is dangerous, but he slides his hand back down. You loosen your grip on his wrist but keep your hands resting on his forearm, feeling the muscle flex under your fingertips as his fingers resume their debauched exploration. 

“See, that’s another thing I know. I know you hate being wrong, so if you’re wrong… it was because you were doing so intentionally.”

His words fall on unlistening ears. You’re too worked up by the simple way he plays you, too focused on the way his fingers gently circle your clit, the perfect stimulation. Too distracted by the way he dips his head down to sweep his mouth across your throat in open-mouthed kisses. 

“I know you’re… not listening.” He stops and you let out a strangled sound, nails digging into his arms. He presses a wet kiss to your pulse point. “Didn’t think so.”

“Chan.” 

“Hmm?”

“Please don’t tease me.”

“Why not? You were teasing me.” 

You pout. He can’t see it, but you know he knows it’s there. “I like to tease you. I have to keep you humble.” 

A long moan slips from your lips and you tilt your head back to Chan’s shoulder when he presses a finger into your aching cunt. You feel yourself twitch around him, hips swiveling for more friction. 

“Humble? How are you ever going to keep me humble when this pussy gets this wet after I’ve barely touched you?”

Well that’s true. You don’t care, though, turning boneless as Chan strokes you with his fingers properly. It feels so good. Only he knows how to touch you like this, familiar with every button to press and every contour to mold to. 

Heat flushes your neck. Chan presses his lips against your cheek, working your cunt with his fingers as he holds you steadfast. It feels like you might suffocate, totally trapped against him. His skin and breath are hot against you, the air thick. He breathes out a groan when your hips buck upward, Chan dropping all pretext of teasing you.

“Like that,” he breathes, heavy. “Do it exactly how you like it.”

Another finger drives you wild. You fumble over his name, squeezing your eyes shut and meeting the quick strokes of his hand. His palm presses firmly against your clit, letting you grind yourself against him for the extra stimulation. 

You burn up. Briefly you wonder if this flash of euphoric heat is what Icarus felt before the fall. The thought is chased away from the intense pressure in your stomach as Chan presses up against that spot inside you, making stars burst behind your eyes.

“Wait - I’m gonna come in my shorts,” you whine, realizing you still have them on. “Chaaaan.”

“So come in them,” he says simply. “Research has revealed that you have a washer and dryer down the hall, baby. Go ahead.” 

“Fuuuuck.” 

“Come for me. I know you want to.” 

You do want to. A moment of static builds up, your thighs squeezing around his hand so hard he can’t move and then you’re coming around his fingers, your nails biting into the skin of his wrist. His grip across your waist is like iron, holding you to him as you come undone. 

Chan’s mouth presses gentle kisses on your jaw, muttering soft I love yous and fuck yeahs against your burning skin. The burning doesn’t stop, your body flushed with heat as you sink away from your orgasm, turning to molten metal and melting into his hold. 

He leaves you like that for a few minutes, thighs shaking around the hand still shoved between your legs, fingers pressed deep inside of you. It feels intimate, and you crane your neck, driven by the desire to kiss him. Chan’s lips are already there because he knew you would want his lips against yours. 

Just like he knows everything about you. 

Chan’s lips are soft and gentle. His tongue brushes against yours in a slow dance and you lean up into him more, desperate for him. He laughs into the kiss, letting you have your way until you’re panting, sweaty and out of breath again. 

You sag, head on his shoulder as you pant. “Your fingers are still in me.”

“Mhm.” He presses them in harshly, making you jolt. It earns a deep laugh from him. “Maybe we should call this Popcorn & Pussy instead. We’ve barely gotten through a full night of episodes since we started dating.”

“Are you aware you make the worst jokes?” You open your eyes and glance at the screen, only to find that the show has paused between episodes, asking if you’re still watching and if you want to continue. “Are you still watching? No, Buffy. I’m not.”

“No problem.” Chan pulls his hand from between your legs, the wet squelch making you whimper. “I have something else you can watch.” 

“Oh?” 

Chan kisses your temple sweetly before getting up, letting you fall back against the couch while he kneels on the couch and pulls your legs toward his face. You inhale deeply, watching as he looks up through long lashes, a smirk on his face. “Still watching, Bambi?” 

PERMANENT TAGLIST:

@ddaddunugu @ourkivee @tie-nn @cookiearmy21-blog @thesunsfullmoon @stray-bi-kids @ldysmfrst @thepoopdokyeomtouched@eoieopda @onlywon4u @hopeless-foolery @iamawkwardandshy@gyuguys @codeinebelle @ateez-atiny380 @bultaereume @yoongznme @kaitieskidmore97 @coffee-addict-kitten @gyubakeries@archivistworld @asyre @kaepjjangiya @fancypeacepersona@beckyloveshannie @imujings @do-you-remember-summer-127 @jbluen@mingumi @kimsaerom @imlonelydontsendhelp @ddaddunugu @ourkivee @tie-nn @cookiearmy21-blog @thesunsfullmoon @stray-bi-kids @ldysmfrst @thepoopdokyeomtouched@eoieopda @onlywon4u @hopeless-foolery @iamawkwardandshy@gyuguys @codeinebelle @ateez-atiny380 @bultaereume @yoongznme @kaitieskidmore97 @coffee-addict-kitten @gyubakeries@archivistworld @asyre @kaepjjangiya @fancypeacepersona@beckyloveshannie @imujings @do-you-remember-summer-127 @jbluen @mingumi @kimsaerom @imlonelydontsendhelp

[eldritchamy]

fine fine FINE ill sign. what the hell is uneiverse about? one moment youre talking gay vampires killing mob bosses and the next youre talking tiers of angels/deities going so high our universe is imperceptible. i have no idea how these combine but im so curious as to how

Pleasure doing business with you, I'll take good care of that soul. Now that you've paid a fair price, let's live up to my end of the bargain, shall we?

"The Uneiverse" isn't really about anything, it's just a setting. The term is derived from the fact that the story I want to write primarily takes place on a world called Une. And Une exists in a multiverse a lot like a cross between DND's Cosmic Wheel and MTG's endless planes in the Blind Eternities. Think a layered multiverse (like the "Outer Planes" in DND which consist of the various celestial and fiendish planes, and others, and the "Inner Planes" consisting of the Feywild and the Shadowfell and the Prime Material plane. Imagine a system like this but based on something closer to MTG's color pie instead of the Alignment Chart), except instead of having only ONE Prime Material Plane, there are endless realms existing on the same LAYER of the universe that would be considered Prime Material Planes (the "Inner Realms" if you've seen me mention it in tags).

The TL;DR is that the multiverse exists in layers as the elements of creation were divided into smaller and more complicated pieces, which interact and intersect and recombine into much more complicated things. There are levels of existence (at the level of the Cosmic Progenitors and up) for which matter and physicality aren't really a thing anymore, but what you would think of as the physical, material existence of the multiverse begins with the Prime Spheres. These are the pure elements, the most basic ingredients of creation. There are currently SIX Prime Spheres (I'm strongly considering making it eight), each with both an element and an aspect, and each with an Outer God tied to its nature. These elements exist as opposite pairs (currently 3 sets, but I'd like to make it 4).

I won't give you the names of the Spheres (even though they're really cool, just with the ever-growing threat of AI data mining, I'd rather not put the names out there to get scraped), but I can give you the color pairs:

White is Sky/Air/Heaven and Order Blue is Water/the Abyss and Equilibrium/Flow Black is Shadow and Death* Null (represented as purple) is Vacuum and Entropy Red is Fire and Passion/Will Green is Earth and Life

The opposite pairs are White/Null, Blue/Red, Black/Green

*A while back in some tags, maybe the first post I ever tagged as Uneiverse-related, I think I mentioned the goddess aligned to Black, and how she feels that thinking of her as the "god of death" is a crude and small way of putting it, almost bordering on insult from how limited a perspective it is. Eternity thinks of herself as the veil between what is known and what is lost, the moment of transition between life and renewal, the thing you most fear but can least run from, the god of all things ever known and every secret taken to the grave, the infinite night that exists in the blink of an eye, the process of transition and "recycling" one stage of existence into another, she is every soul at the moment between what it was and what it will become, she is all things lost and what all things are destined to find, etc etc. My colors are not a perfect translation of what the colors represent in MTG. My version of black is more like what MTG would think of as Blue/Black multicolor.

Also, none of the elements are "evil" or malevolent. They just exist. If creation is pure light, the Prime Spheres are the distinct colors you would see when it's separated by a prism. They have no moral value to them. They are simply the ingredients of existence.

But anyway, I needed a shorthand term for that multiverse, and so I named it the Uneiverse. Seemed fitting.

But now to answer your question properly...

The STORY arises from a single concept of two characters that I came up with way back in like 2017. The initial concept was little more than a vibe: a warlock and a druid, or black magic and green magic witches, who live together in a little cottage that combines their magical styles. They had sentient, literal "spider plants" as an eco-friendly alternative to pesticides, paperweights that look like skulls with glowing eyes, etc. They each had a cat familiar: one a ghostly, spectral black shadow cat and the other quite possibly a cat shaped clump of sentient moss. The cats recently had kittens that sprouted mushrooms and gave off luminous spores when they purr or bounce around the house causing mischief. Outside the glamour that hides their cottage they keep something like a chia pet that's shaped like a skull, as an inside joke.

I called these characters Doom and Bloom.

Years later, I ended up joining my first DND campaign (still ongoing), and adapted these characters for it. So Doom and Bloom became Ash and Aria. I play Ash as a shadow-themed subclass ("Nightshade") of the Witch class I homebrewed for 5e. Aria Vernus is her wife, a Woodborn witch.

Here's where shit gets fucky.

In my ceaseless hunger to worldbuild harder, I spent the weeks in the lead up to our first session crafting myself a backstory for Ash. It ended up being like 12,000 words and Ash wasn't even born yet. If that's any indication of how the rest of this went. I had basically created a backstory for her MOTHER, Lailah.

I can give you the DND version of it as a summary.

Lailah was a Monadic Deva in Elysium. They are the strongest angels physically, and the most attuned to the neutral aspect of the Good alignments: they won't knowingly deal with Evil beings, but they are the most likely to peacefully interact with Neutral ones. Thirty years ago, there was a war in the Outer Planes and the Nine Hells were attacking the heavens. Lailah was an IMMENSELY powerful divine warrior (mechanically, she's a CR 10ish creature with at least 16 class levels in Zealot Barbarian and 2 in Fighter, and she has a custom Artifact level weapon so she's ABSURD) who laid waste to the Hells' forces. Until one day she found a succubus hiding in Elysium, and was about to kill her but realized the succubus made no move to fight back. This got her curious. The succubus explained that she wanted no part of the war, she only used the chaos surrounding it to make her escape from the violence and backstabbing and politics of the hells, and just wanted to get away from the conflict. Lailah was unable to kill a being she could see was not evil, and instead she listened and began to sympathize. What are now succubi used to be angels themselves, called Eros, and were made to bring love to mortals. But you cannot touch a life without it touching you back. And the gods felt that the touch of mortals had changed the Eros from what they were created to be, and they became beings ruled by passion rather than order, so they were cast out from the heavens and became Succubi.

You can see how quickly I started diverging from DND lore into building my own mythology for everything.

Anyway, Lailah and the succubus became briefly entangled, and the more Lailah learned about the succubus' past, the more it troubled her that it sounded like she had been wronged. The Eros were created for a purpose, and then punished for carrying it out. And in the moment Lailah began to wonder if it was the gods themselves who were wrong, she was burned herself and fell from Elysium. She was cast out and landed in Malbolge as an Erinyes. There she met another Erinyes who had been waiting for her. A former Movanic Deva from Arborea who had the gift of second sight (and I have a LOT of mythology developed around the nature of time and fate and the relationship between potential and possibility and branching timelines because of this character) and knew she had to fall herself in order to help Lailah raise her daughter.

Surprise! Lailah's pregnant. So Lailah spent the next ~4 years with this other fallen angel in the Nine Hells, where her little ember of hope in the darkness was born, and she named the ember Ash.

Eventually Lailah and Ash were able to leave, and they ended up in a wild, untamed forest in a forgotten corner of Ravnica. Ash grew up in the woods where she met another little tiefling from the druid village nearby, and they became best friends. So Ash and Aria have known each other their whole lives.

For reasons I left open to my DM, Lailah went missing when Ash was 15. She and Aria couldn't get help from the druids and made their own plans to go to the city on their own, and they ended up making a home there. Ash became a leather worker and Aria primarily works in animal rehab. They live in a big tree that Aria grew herself into a living home, with their two familiars (Hades and Persephone), their familiars' kittens, and a rotating cast of animals. Hannah the Possum has become an infamous side character in campaign for sneaking away from her babies to steal peanut butter and other treats from the cupboards.

Anyway, the campaign itself involves our characters joining a transguild organization that helps mediate inter-guild conflicts on Ravnica and work as ambassadors to visitors from other planes, because in our version of Ravnica a lot of permanent planar portals have been opening up in recent times (we're about 5 years after the War of the Spark in the MTG timeline, which is INCREDIBLE because it means our DM accidentally predicted the Omenpaths in the post-March of the Machines story several years in advance, and that's FAR from the only time she's been ahead of Magic Story). We're also dealing with the fact that the players have started sparking, because it turns out we're all (except possibly Ash) Planeswalkers. Ash, being a full blooded magical creature descended from two fallen angels from the Outer Planes, may have an innate inherited ability to traverse planes without a spark, but that remains to be discovered in game.

As part of writing Ash's backstory, I created additional backstory for Aria. She was part of her own adventuring party 5-6 years ago, and her group became widely known, feared, and respected for handling jobs beyond the ability of most adventuring groups. And I basically backstoried a whole other campaign into existence, culminating in that group actually taking part in the War of the Spark by fighting Bontu, one of the god eternals. I could spend another 6,000 words on a play by play but the tl;dr is that my tieflings are polyamorous and Aria was in a relationship with a newly sparked Planeswalker at the time, and she watched that partner die in front of her when Bontu harvested her spark. Aria went into a blind rage, used Shapechange to turn herself into a gold dragon, and then had a kaiju battle with a zombie god while the rest of her team scrambled to keep her, and themselves, alive. Fen (Arcana cleric) came up with the idea to pin Bontu down with Immovable rods, and the two martial classes in the party had to get close to help do it. One of those was Cass, a dhampir soulknife rogue/shadow monk who was born on Fiora but made her way to Ravnica by way of Dominaria sometime before The Great Mending made planar travel inaccessible to non-planeswalkers. Cass had to bite Bontu for a boost of strength (because she's Dex based), but in the chaos Bontu also managed to grab HER, which created an unusual feedback loop where the Elderspell tried to pull the soul out of her body, but since she was resurrected by extraordinarily powerful necromancy (which is how she became a vampire, after she was murdered on the night of her arranged wedding), her soul is a bit more stuck to her body than most, so by feeding on Bontu's blood, she actually managed to survive long enough for Aria to make Bontu let go, leaving Cass with a "dislocated" soul and, in the process of siphoning Bontu's essence, she accidentally acquired one of the stolen sparks (most likely that of Aria's lover). Because the Immortal Sun was on at the time, and her soul was not quite right, that spark didn't activate until a week or so later.

AAAAAAAAAAANYWAY, I'm obsessed with vampires so obviously Cass was my favorite character that I made for Aria's backstory party, so I ended up giving Cass her own backstory, wherein she was born to a failing mob family as the only one who could produce an heir, but she was too gay and moody (and psionic) to be okay with that, so her father plotted with the father of her arranged husband to have her killed. Her maidservant (who she was in love with), Gisella Bathori, overheard them laughing about it on the night of the wedding and tried to save her, but was fatally stabbed in the process. Ella used her dying breath to carve a sigil into the floor - a very powerful sigil based in the magic of creation itself, which rearranges the energy of the Prime Spheres into intent, and with a little blood (okay a LOT of blood, much of it her own), she begged the universe to "not let Cassandra die". So Cass wakes up in the back of a truck before her killers can dump her body, and long story short she kills a guy, goes home and finds Ella's body, fails to understand how the sigil worked, and then kills all of the people who just got to her house (the other two men who helped kill her plus a lawmaster and finally her father) before cleaning herself up, taking some essentials and valuables, kicking one of the bodies for good measure, and running away forever. She spends the next few days hunting down the rest of both families before escaping the city and finding her way to Dominaria (and ultimately Ravnica).

So Cass is my backstory character's backstory character. And I LOVE her. Also, when Cass kicked that last body? she shuffled some blood around and triggered the sigil again without knowing it. So unbeknownst to her, Ella ALSO got raised as a vampire. And she didn't find out about it until her spark activated 122 years later and she ended up back on Fiora.

SO.

Obviously. I backstoried pretty fucking hard. And got really attached to these characters. And what basically happened is I started developing this alternate version of my characters' story that ran parallel to (but significantly diverged from) the campaign. So I had this running in my head for a while and was calling it "story mode" for like "this is how these characters and their stories would work if they existed ENTIRELY inside my own mythology and worldbuilding instead of playing within the mechanics and narrative structure of a DND campaign" and eventually that started spinning faster and faster until it developed its own magnetosphere and became a whole world. And then a multiverse for that world to fit in.

Lailah in Story Mode was not a Deva, she was a Brachiel: an angel of storm and lightning, which falls under the "Emanations" (middle) tier in my angelology (as did the Eros). Eternity may address Ash as a "Daughter of Emanations". And while Ash might come off as having a little bit of a "half angel half devil" vibe at first, strictly speaking what she actually is is a BORN fallen angel, a being caught somewhere between two Prime elements, and ends up self-actualizing as a secret, third thing, because nothing born can live forever and while she is biologically pure fallen angel, she was not CREATED through divine means as angels were, she was born as a mortal. She's a little bit complicated because she looks like one thing (the equivalent of a tiefling) but that's not really what she is, and what she really is is a lot harder to explain in a neat and digestible way. Which is why I've said in tags that she kinda comes off as baby's first OC if you only know the elevator pitch (her parents were an angel and a succubus) but the reality is a lot more complicated in a much more interesting way that's not super easy to explain unless you're telling it to a person who already wants to listen.

So now I have a whole story in my head about a woman who just wants to find her mom, but she's caught up in this grand threat to the multiverse itself, when all she wants is a nice quiet life with her family but she lives in a world where the veil between the realms only thinned recently, and the magical "races" are all humans who were variably affected by the energies of different worlds, and some are viewed less favorably than others (the aasimar equivalent are sometimes called "blessings" because their parents view it as such to have a child influenced by the divine, while the tiefling equivalent are seen as about what you'd expect, etc). So there's vibes of marginalization and surviving in a world that isn't super thrilled that you exist, and mommy issues, and a theocratic government that's not great and is secretly using the power of faith to try to turn the head of state into a god, and all the while my poor beleaguered angel's bastard has to cope with the fact that a god on a level her tiny electric meatball consciousness cannot BEGIN to comprehend just asked her for help, (because, in her words, "𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔪𝔬𝔬𝔫 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔱𝔦𝔡𝔢 𝔡𝔬 𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔰𝔢𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔬𝔠𝔢𝔞𝔫 𝔞𝔰 𝔭𝔩𝔞𝔫𝔨𝔱𝔬𝔫 𝔡𝔬; 𝔴𝔢 𝔨𝔫𝔬𝔴 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔯𝔦𝔭𝔭𝔩𝔢, 𝔟𝔲𝔱 𝔬𝔫𝔩𝔶 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔠𝔞𝔫 𝔟𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔨 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔴𝔞𝔳𝔢") and now she's stuck working with a handful of other people who were ALSO assigned to this task, and all of it sucks but at least her long-suffering wife is there to kick some ass while she pretends her own trauma isn't destroying her from the inside.

(To get more technical, There's A Big Problem™ and while the Outer Gods have orders of magnitude more power than they'd need to fix it, souls are concentrated areas of the Potential of Creation and have a kind of WEIGHT to them, metaphysically, that influences the world around them (which is how magic works), and a fragment of creation as "large" as an Outer God would effectively alter reality around itself on such an enormous scale, almost like gravitational lensing, that for them to interfere in our layer of the multiverse that directly would essentially reorder existence around their presence to a degree that they deem unacceptable. So between not having a great perspective of what the problem is DOING to our layer and not being able to really ENTER the layer of existence where the problem needs to be solved, they need a solution that can operate on the correct scale to restore the balance without causing unfathomable catastrophic collateral damage in the process, and thus, The Gods Need Our Help™. And the characters have to figure out how to deal with this while navigating their own problems in a world that's got its own human sized bullshit going on. THAT is the story I want to write. Cass might have her own story as a book 2. Empath, a story I used to tag about sometimes and involves a spaceship I invented the concept for based on real math that allows it to only exist outside of itself, would be book 3.)

Two of the other ensemble cast are heavily adapted from characters from the campaign, one a pretty direct translation of a PC and the other a cross between another PC and an NPC, both of whom have awkward crushes on the aforementioned PC, and the NPC in particular gives off the most intense friends to enemies to friends to lovers yearning vibes I have ever seen in my fucking LIFE, and the new character I've spawned out of those two is going to be sort of like a siren with synesthesia, so bask in the flavor of THAT concept for a hot minute. If you even care.

Basically there's going to be a "main character" for each of the colors in the cosmogony, and that will be important in ways you don't need to think about right now.

Hey did you know that wizards suck, actually?

So anyway the Uneiverse is basically a multiverse in which the Prime Spheres represent the basic elements of creation, and from them the Composite Spheres were created, each a combination of two (or more? currently I only have the two-color combinations named) of those elements, and as creation divides and recycles itself in a grand eternal process of revision and recombination, you have the Inner Spheres which make up the multiverse as MTG imagines it: an infinite cosmos of varied realms, made of all the elements in minutely different quantities and combinations.

And in one of those realms sits a hectic little world called Une, where a lot of things get weird and a scared little girl just wishes her mom was here to make it all better.

[authortobenamedlater]

1, kai and john, platonically?

(Send me two characters romantic or platonic and I’ll write a little fic)

Hey @mrtobenamedlater you wondered why I was looking at Halo videos earlier, this is it.

“Pull over.  Let me drive for awhile.”

“This cave is not a natural formation. Someone built it, so it must lead somewhere.”

“Noted, Cortana,” John said tersely.

“And who built it?” Riz asked from the gunner’s position.

“I know as much as you do,” John managed not to snap the answer.

“Chief, throttle down,” Cortana advised. “We’re on a five percent grade and the surface is too smooth to provide traction.”

John gritted his teeth and obeyed. Even so, he could feel the vehicle getting away from him.

“I’ve hacked into the Covenant battle network Cortana spoke up again. “They’re broadcasting tactical data on unencrypted channels.”

“They’re what?” Kai asked. Cortana must have broadcast to the whole team.

“Let’s show them who they’re dealing with,” Vannak added.

“An excellent idea, Vannak,” Cortana chirped. “Master Chief, I’m going to use your suit’s TRANSCOM system to monitor the chatter.”

“Do it,” John said shortly. He swung the Warthog around another corner.

“Chief? Everything all right?” Kai asked.

I’m headed into a not-naturally-constructed cave underground on a super-weapon. Everything’s great. “Yup.” John shifted the Warthog to its lowest gear.

Silver Team came to the bottom of the hill and the Warthog’s engine protested.

“I don’t like the way this thing sounds,” Riz said.

John didn’t either, but he didn’t want to traverse this unknown on foot. He geared up and hit the accelerator.

The Warthog lurched and scraped the wall.

“Chief.” Kai sounded genuinely concerned. “Pull over. Let me drive for awhile.”

“I’m fine,” John insisted. He gunned the engine. The Warthog slid downhill, then jumped forward to the top of the hill.

The path sloped down sharply and curved and much as John tried to maintain control, the Warthog toppled over and took all of Silver Team with it.

“Chief? Chief!” Cortana called.

“I’m fine,” John grunted. “Everyone else?”

“I’m good, Chief.” Riz.

“Fine, Chief.” Vannak.

Kai flipped the Warthog upright. “You should have let me drive, Chief.”

“You really should have,” Cortana said.

John got to his feet. “You know what, Kai?” He panted. “You drive.”

-- Adapted from the Warthog drive into the cave in CE, during which I flipped my Warthog several times.

[discontinuetheuseofaiinthearts]

Winning a Contest with AI Art (and Why That's Bad)

Even those using AI to create art, namely Jason Allen, an “artist” in quotations, because he has no artistic background.

He used AI to enter the Colorado State Fair fine arts competition and won. First Place. I wish I were joking.

Here's the image since I'm sure you are curious.

This isn’t going to stop... Art is dead, dude. It’s over. AI won. Humans lost. - Jason Allen

Yeah... real jerk nice guy.

While this win was controversial, the judge decided to sustain her ruling as “the AI was a tool with which to advance what an artist envisions”.

Since this instance, artists have started to put a kind of encryption over their images using a software called Glaze. This software makes the AI unable to “read” the image properly to keep AI from scraping their images and using their art as training data, possibly putting them out of jobs. While this is a step in the right direction, the sheer inconsiderate nature of the theft of the artists’ work is a sticking point for many.

[albertpeter]

What Is the Relationship Between LLM Development Services and Big Data?

In recent years, the rise of Large Language Models (LLMs) has transformed the landscape of artificial intelligence (AI) and natural language processing (NLP). These sophisticated models are capable of understanding and generating human-like text, leading to applications in various sectors, including customer service, content creation, and even programming. However, the success and functionality of LLMs are intricately tied to the vast and ever-growing field of big data. This blog post delves into the relationship between LLM development services and big data, exploring how they interconnect, the challenges they face, and their implications for the future of AI.

Understanding LLMs and Big Data

What Are Large Language Models?

Large Language Models are a type of AI model designed to process and generate human-like text based on the input they receive. They are trained on massive datasets consisting of diverse text from the internet, books, articles, and other sources, enabling them to understand context, grammar, and semantics. Notable examples include OpenAI's GPT-3, Google's BERT, and Facebook's RoBERTa. These models have achieved remarkable performance in tasks like language translation, text summarization, and sentiment analysis, making them valuable tools for businesses and developers alike.

What Is Big Data?

Big data refers to the vast volumes of structured and unstructured data generated every second across various platforms. This data can come from numerous sources, including social media, sensors, transactions, and user interactions. The primary characteristics of big data are often described by the "Three Vs": Volume, Velocity, and Variety. Organizations harness big data to gain insights, enhance decision-making, and drive innovation through advanced analytics.

The Interconnection Between LLM Development Services and Big Data

1. Data as the Foundation for LLMs

The development of LLMs relies heavily on the availability of large datasets. Training these models requires immense amounts of text data to capture the nuances of human language. Without sufficient data, LLMs cannot learn effectively, resulting in models that may be biased, inaccurate, or unable to generalize well to real-world applications. Here are some key aspects of this relationship:

Data Collection: LLM development services often involve gathering vast amounts of text data from various sources. This includes web scraping, utilizing existing datasets, and curating domain-specific data. The quality and diversity of the training data directly impact the model's performance.

Data Preprocessing: Big data often includes noise and inconsistencies that can hinder LLM training. Preprocessing steps such as cleaning, tokenization, and normalization are essential to ensure the data is in a suitable format for model training.

Feedback Loops: Post-deployment, LLMs can continuously improve through user interactions and feedback. Analyzing user-generated data allows developers to refine models, address biases, and adapt to changing language patterns.

2. Enhancing Model Performance

The interplay between LLMs and big data goes beyond mere data usage; it significantly enhances the models' performance:

Transfer Learning: LLMs often leverage transfer learning, where a pre-trained model is fine-tuned on a smaller, domain-specific dataset. Access to big data enables the pre-training phase to be more robust, resulting in models that perform well in specialized tasks with limited additional data.

Continual Learning: In an ever-changing world, the ability of LLMs to learn continuously from new data is crucial. By utilizing big data, developers can implement algorithms that allow models to adapt to new information without needing complete retraining.

Real-Time Insights: Big data technologies enable the processing of real-time information, allowing LLMs to provide timely and relevant responses. For instance, chatbots can utilize live data feeds to answer customer inquiries more effectively.

3. Challenges in Integrating LLMs and Big Data

While the relationship between LLMs and big data is symbiotic, it also presents several challenges that developers must navigate:

Data Privacy and Security: Handling vast amounts of data raises concerns about privacy and security. LLM development services must ensure compliance with data protection regulations like GDPR and CCPA while collecting and utilizing data.

Bias and Fairness: The data used to train LLMs may contain biases reflecting societal inequalities. If not addressed, these biases can lead to unfair outcomes in applications. Developers must implement strategies to identify and mitigate bias in both data and model outputs.

Resource Intensive: Training LLMs on big data requires significant computational resources, making it costly and time-consuming. Organizations need to invest in infrastructure and cloud services to manage the demands of large-scale training.

The Future of LLM Development Services and Big Data

As technology evolves, the relationship between LLM development services and big data is expected to deepen:

1. Enhanced Data Curation Techniques

With the growth of big data, effective data curation will become increasingly important. Advanced algorithms for data selection and cleaning will help ensure that the data used for LLM training is high-quality, diverse, and representative. This will lead to more robust models capable of understanding and generating language in a more nuanced manner.

2. Ethical AI Practices

As awareness of ethical AI practices grows, developers will prioritize transparency and fairness in LLM training. By leveraging big data, organizations can better understand the social implications of their models and work towards minimizing bias and promoting inclusivity.

3. Collaborative Learning Environments

The future may see the development of collaborative learning environments where multiple LLMs can share knowledge and insights derived from big data. This approach could enhance the models' understanding of language by pooling resources and diversifying the learning process.

Conclusion

The relationship between LLM development services and big data is integral to the advancement of artificial intelligence and natural language processing. As LLMs continue to evolve and find new applications across industries, the reliance on big data will only increase. By understanding this relationship, developers can create more effective, ethical, and robust models that enhance human-computer interaction and drive innovation in various sectors.

In conclusion, the synergy between LLMs and big data presents both challenges and opportunities for businesses looking to leverage AI technology. By addressing these challenges head-on and harnessing the potential of big data, organizations can unlock the full power of large language models and pave the way for a more intelligent future.

[bumblebeerror]

[this anon was originally written back in early august, in response to this: https://www.tumblr.com/bumblebeerror/757738358762094592/data-entry-seems-like-it-has-to-do-with-computers?source=share , but it seems like it got lost or deleted in your inbox. luckily i had it saved in my notes so i'm gonna send it to you again]

...

i also forgot to mention that another thing i could do really easily: write paragraphs/articles/essays.

you said it yourself, my asks are "novella-sized" and it usually takes me less than 30 minutes to write them (once i get in the appropriate frame of mind and start writing on autopilot). it's super natural for me and it feels satisfying when i get it off my chest. if only there was some kind of job that would pay me to write stuff for them, that would be a very easy way for me to make money. and i could write from home!

there are questions you ask during job interviews? i thought the employer was the one asking all the questions and you are only allowed to give answers? what.

i know people might understand my phobia of bugs and be sympathetic, but it's not about them. it's about how this phobia interferes with my proper functioning. i can't even cook a meal for myself without running back to my room in fear because i saw a spider. that's a problem. if i start living alone at one point, it'll be an even bigger problem.

unfortunately i don't live in the US, so i can't do state healthcare :( but i do live in western europe, so my country is pretty well-off and has a decent standard of living.

yeah, I'm 20, but i honestly feel 80. and i'm not disabled, but sometimes i feel spiritually disabled. it's like i'm in a deep pit. i've been in this pit for over a decade. and i feel like the harder i try to climb my way out to the surface, the further i fall down. every day i feel like i get further and further from the surface.

and i'm sorry to hear about your situation. but you can get through this. take it one day at a time! i wish you luck in finding a new job as well, bumble. :)

...

[add-on which i wrote today]:

i am doing okay, i think. not sure how i feel anymore or what direction i am heading in. i feel disoriented. and i'm still not on speaking terms with my mother or anybody. it's been over a month since we last spoke. damn...

but anyways, i love the finch app a lot, it's so cool. it really helps me do things i usually have no motivation for. it does cheer me up.

- 🍄

You never know, you could always see if you can get in somewhere writing for a living. Local newspapers and stuff. I was close with a guy who used to write articles on freelance to support him and his mom.

Brains are hard, man. Maybe the way to deal with it is sorta… going around it, in a way. Instead of dealing with bugs and spiders and stuff directly, you could use repellent to make them leave or just simplify tasks where they hang out so that you don’t have to spend so much time around them, that’s usually how I deal with spiders.

In general, honestly, I use a lot of shortcuts. Meal replacers, bath wipes, premade stuff and setting up things when I have energy for when I don’t, y’know?

That kinda pit is exactly how a lot of people describe depression. The most annoying part of it is that it tries to make you feel like fighting it is useless or hurts more, eventually though that’s about the only way to feel better.

I’m getting used to just not having a car 😅 it’s been rough, but it’s fine. I’m thinking about trying to scrape some money together to get a bike instead so that I can still run little errands in town at least.

I’m glad things are changing, even if you don’t know where they’re going, yet. You sound a little more hopeful about it all. I hope your mom comes around at some point. But I’m glad you like the app! Its so so good for giving you reasons to do things and the outfits are fun :3

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At 𝐕𝐏𝐒 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐱𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐈𝐧𝐜, we understand the dynamic nature of the digital landscape. Our dedicated data center proxies are meticulously designed to cater to your online security, accessibility, and speed requirements. Choose us as your trusted partner and unlock the full potential of datacenter proxies for your business or personal endeavors.

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Choosing the right data center proxy for your specific needs involves considering several key factors. Here’s a step-by-step guide to help you make an informed decision:

𝐈𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐲 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐔𝐬𝐞 𝐂𝐚𝐬𝐞: Determine the primary purpose for needing datacenter proxies, such as web scraping, SEO monitoring, or social media management.

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐩𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐏𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞: Assess the speed and performance of datacenter proxies to meet your requirements for fast data retrieval.

𝐄𝐯𝐚𝐥𝐮𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐈𝐏 𝐏𝐨𝐨𝐥 𝐒𝐢𝐳𝐞: Check the size and diversity of the IP pool, as a larger and more diverse pool can benefit tasks requiring IP addresses from different locations.

𝐃𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐈𝐏 𝐑𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐎𝐩𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬: Choose between static or rotating IP addresses based on your demands, especially for activities like web scraping.

𝐀𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐑𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐛𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐔𝐩𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞: Look for providers with a track record of reliability and high uptime to ensure consistent availability.

𝐔𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐒𝐞𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐌𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐬: Inquire about the security measures implemented, emphasizing encryption and privacy-centric functionalities.

𝐑𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐞𝐰 𝐔𝐬𝐞𝐫-𝐅𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐥𝐲 𝐈𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐬: Check for a user-friendly interface and dashboard for easy management and configuration of proxy settings.

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐀𝐟𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐚𝐛𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲: Evaluate the cost of datacenter proxies and find a provider that offers a balance between affordability and performance.

𝐑𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐡 𝐂𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐮𝐩𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭: Assess the quality and responsiveness of customer support for a smooth user experience.

𝐕𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐟𝐲 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐑𝐞𝐩𝐮𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧: Research the reputation of the datacenter proxy provider through user reviews, testimonials, and online feedback.

𝐂𝐡𝐞𝐜𝐤 𝐆𝐞𝐨𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐩𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐂𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐞: If geographical diversity is crucial, ensure that the provider offers servers in regions aligning with your requirements.

𝐄𝐱𝐩𝐥𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐓𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐏𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐝𝐬 𝐨𝐫 𝐆𝐮𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐬: Look for providers offering trial periods or money-back guarantees to test the service without long-term commitment.

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐚𝐛𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲: Evaluate the scalability of the datacenter proxy service to adapt to changing needs over time.

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧:

At VPS Proxies Inc., we are committed to providing cutting-edge solutions for a secure and seamless online experience. Our datacenter proxies stand as a testament to our dedication to safeguarding your digital presence, ensuring anonymity, and fortifying your internet navigation. Choose VPS Proxies Inc. for a trusted partner in the ever-evolving landscape of online security and privacy.

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[coffeecatttt]

the internet is broken

the revelations from 404media that Discord is complicit in mass scraping, storage and use of public user data are incredibly concerning, as are the connections to noted harassment site Kiwi Farms.

there are massive privacy implications. now advertisers, law enforcement, harassers and other actors can pay a small fee to Spy Pet and get access to trillions of user messages and potentially personally identifying photos. this can then be correlated from information with other data brokers to gain an even more complete profile on virtually anyone using the public or semi-public internet.

Discord's boilerplate commitments to user privacy and safety are not remotely backed up by any of its actions, and its slow, half-hearted response makes it clear that it absolutely does not value any of those things. so I guess the question becomes, is it time to drop Discord?

beyond that, this is yet another in a long string of major problems in big tech's handling of user data that makes clear that the current system is increasingly broken.

in previous years we were "fine" with privacy via obscurity. the internet is simply so big, who would possibly track down everything everyone says? and anyway, the ones doing it en masse are "only" using that info for ad targeting, or the government going after "terrorists".

but when fucking Kiwi Farms of all groups is the one that holds the keys, seemingly completely under the nose of big tech platforms, you know it's bad. because now bad actors have carte blanche to personally target and harass pretty much anyone who simply wishes to use the internet like a normal person, with more or less total impunity.

and everyone responsible for allowing it simply throws up their hands and goes "well it's too hard to fix, it's too expensive, it's baked into the nature of the internet... and besides, it's not our problem anyway."

[outsourcebigdata]

Check List To Build Amazon Reviews Scraper 

Let's dive into the realm of Amazon, a behemoth in the online marketplace sphere renowned for its vast repository of invaluable data for businesses. Whether it's perusing product descriptions or dissecting customer reviews, the potential insights garnered from Amazon's data reservoir are immense. With the aid of web scraping tools, one can effortlessly tap into this trove of information and derive actionable intelligence. 

Amazon's staggering fiscal statistics for 2021, showcasing a whopping $125.6 billion in fourth-quarter sales revenue, underscore its unparalleled prominence in the e-commerce landscape. Notably, consumer inclination towards Amazon is strikingly evident, with nearly 90% expressing a preference for purchasing from this platform over others. 

A pivotal driving force behind Amazon's soaring sales figures is its treasure trove of customer reviews. Studies reveal that a staggering 73% of consumers are inclined to trust e-commerce platforms boasting positive customer feedback. Consequently, businesses, both budding and established, are increasingly turning to Amazon review scrapers to extract and harness this invaluable data. 

The significance of Amazon review data cannot be overstated, particularly for emerging businesses seeking to gain a competitive edge. With over 4,000 items sold per minute in the US alone, these enterprises leverage Amazon review scrapers to glean insights into consumer sentiments and market trends, thereby refining their strategies and offerings. 

So, what makes Amazon review scrapers indispensable? These tools serve as a conduit for businesses to decipher product rankings, discern consumer preferences, and fine-tune their marketing strategies. By harnessing review data scraped from Amazon, sellers can enhance their product offerings and bolster customer satisfaction. 

Moreover, Amazon review scrapers facilitate comprehensive competitor analysis, enabling businesses to gain a deeper understanding of market dynamics and consumer preferences. Armed with this intelligence, enterprises can tailor their offerings to better resonate with their target audience, thereby amplifying their market presence and competitiveness. 

For large-scale enterprises grappling with vast product inventories, monitoring individual product performances can be daunting. However, Amazon web scraping tools offer a solution by furnishing insights into product-specific performance metrics and consumer sentiments, thus empowering businesses to fine-tune their strategies and bolster their online reputation. 

Sentiment analysis, another key facet of Amazon review scraping, enables businesses to gauge consumer sentiment towards their products. By parsing through review data, sellers can gain invaluable insights into consumer perceptions and sentiments, thereby informing their decision-making processes and enhancing customer engagement strategies. 

Building an effective Amazon review scraper necessitates meticulous planning and execution. From analyzing the HTML structure of target web pages to implementing Scrapy parsers in Python, each step is crucial in ensuring the seamless extraction and organization of review data. Moreover, leveraging essential tools such as Python, ApiScrapy, and a basic understanding of HTML tags is imperative for developing a robust Amazon review scraper. 

However, the journey towards scraping Amazon reviews is fraught with challenges. Amazon's stringent security measures, including CAPTCHAS and IP bans, pose formidable obstacles to scraping activities. Additionally, the variability in page structures and the resource-intensive nature of review data necessitate adept handling and sophisticated infrastructure. 

In conclusion, the efficacy of Amazon review scraping in driving business growth and informing strategic decisions cannot be overstated. By harnessing the power of web scraping tools and leveraging Amazon's wealth of review data, businesses can gain invaluable insights into consumer preferences, market trends, and competitor landscapes, thereby charting a course towards sustained success and competitiveness in the dynamic e-commerce arena. 

[neodreamcinema]

my current stance is "most use of AI assistance in this way needs to be discouraged until things like AI 'art', AI replacing script writers + the ensuing strikes, and AI replications of nonconsenting and unpaid voice actors aren't as hugely prominent issues".

solarpunk as a movement relies heavily on the concept of more reliance on nature and self-sustainability (e.g. farming, using more eco-friendly methods on a personal level, etc), and while i don't fully understand the effects of AI beyond the basic facts of worsening climate change and greenhouse gases because of the high energy emmissions, that really feels like the antithesis of solarpunk and what it stands for, at least to me.

until corporations stop viewing AI as a reasonable replacement for genuine human passion and talent because "it's cheaper" or whatever, AI use for any creative endeavors and writing should probably be discouraged. i'm not saying "you specifically are a morally bad person + part of the problem if you use AI to help you write your school papers", but i AM saying it's very dissonant to the core values of solarpunk as a movement.

after talking to some friends more knowledgable in the field -- the AI used for ChatGPT and other writing AI is trained similarly to the ones used for art -- both scrape from existing works without necessarily getting permission or consent from the original writer/artist/creator/etc., and may regurgitate entire segments of the work it is "learning" from, leading to unintentional plagiarism.

AI can't answer or correct things properly, only parrot things back based on the data it gets fed during its training, and may sometimes plagiarize as a result, OR display unwanted human biases. there are countless articles out there about facial recognition/generation AI primarily being trained on white faces, and struggling greatly to accurately recognize or depict people of color, especially black people. while i'm not as informed on the biases that may show up in writing AI, i'm sure a very similar logic applies there as well.

also, depending on your field of study, relying on AI for your writing can be mildly hazardous (any sort of writing major, plagiarism) to actively life-threatening (medical field, anything involving vehicles or complex machinery). while it might be "fine" for mandatory general education classes, it's better not to get into the practice of using them at all. if you find yourself relying on AI or cheating for courses specific to your major, it would be wise to reconsider what you want to major in. (signed, someone who has had to change their own major due to not being able to understand a lot of later courses.)

so while i don't think using AI necessarily makes someone a bad person on an individual level (and i realize you said you only use it for upping your writing and summarizing studies), there are definitely some risks to doing so, and a lot of unethical practices behind the scenes -- namely theft and adverse effects on the well-being of the planet. and the more we can put a stop to these things, the better.

Psst, hey.

Hey you.

Come closer.

Listen to what I'm about to say good and well, alright?

[sparxwrites]

the whole world, i fear

(a sequel to "wearing thin"; this will make very little sense without reading that first.) cw for suicide attempts, self-injury, temporary character death, and amnesia / memory alteration [ao3]

Build for us, the Watchers say.

Grian, on his knees under the hot midday sun, says nothing. His hands, shaking, are caked with sand and dirt. There’s sweat on the back of his neck, caught in the gold of his hair. The corpse, curled beside him in the sand, is colder than it has any right to be.

It has no right to be cold. Not when the sun is so high and so hot. Not when Grian’s own pulse is beating like an accusation in his ears. Not when it looks like, for all the world, Scar could simply be taking a nap.

Grian says nothing. He has no words. Just unclean hands, and a corpse, and a waiting grave.

The moon unfolds once more, huge and heavy under the midday sun. The weight of its eyes on him, Watching, is almost unbearable. Build for us, Xelqua.

No, says Grian, because there is nothing else to say. His voice sounds almost as hollow as the denial itself. They’ll get what They want in the end. They always do.

The Watchers say, If you ever want to see your friends again, you will build for us.

Grian looks at their tower on the mountain. At the sand beneath his knees. At the fields of lush wheat not twenty feet from the shallow grave he’s scraped into the dirt. He looks at the blue, cloudless sky, at the hot midday sun. He looks at the full, Watching midday moon.

He looks at the corpse by his knees.

It’s sun-warm, but not person-warm, and so bewilderingly still. He can feel it leeching warmth from his hand, when he presses a palm against pressed one bloodied cheek. The jagged wound across its throat stares at him, stares at him, yet another accusatory eye.

Yeah, he says. Okay. I’ll build for you.

-

Weeks after Scar first dreams of the desert, he finds the mansion.

Mumbo’s there, too. Unsurprising, really. Mumbo’s always places he shouldn’t be, where you wouldn’t expect him to be. And always places you would expect him to be. Mumbo’s always places, really, in general – though it’s not usually his fault. Usually, it’s because he’s been dragged there by– by–

[By ▋▋▋▋▋.]

By someone, anyway. Today, though, he seems to have very successfully dragged himself somewhere unexpected, all on his own. Scar’s almost proud. They’ll make a troublemaker of him yet.

Scar, says Mumbo, like he’s not surprised to find Scar here.

Mumbo, says Scar. He finds he’s not surprised to find it’s the three of here, either.

Two of them. Just two of them. Not three. His dyslexia’s branching out into numbers, it seems.

They stand together, in silence, amongst the jungle trees, for a long time. The mansion looms over them – enormous, unfinished, abandoned. It is beautiful. It is exquisitely crafted. It is somehow very, very wrong.

Is it yours? asks Mumbo. He says it like he already knows the answer.

Scar shakes his head. He doesn’t bother asking if it’s Mumbo’s. Mumbo doesn’t build like this. And, besides – he knows it’s [▋▋▋▋▋’s] not Mumbo’s, just like Mumbo knew it [was ▋▋▋▋▋’s] wasn’t his.

Mumbo touches his moustache, twisting the tip of it between thumb and forefinger. They both stand, watching the mansion a little longer, like it might grow a mouth and talk to them. Might offer up its secrets.

It’s probably nothing to worry about, says Mumbo, eventually. Maybe it spawned in naturally? Mojang might be trying out something new with the woodland mansions. Or maybe X had some trouble with some of the data packs…? Or it’s one of the others. I bet that’s it, actually. I bet this is for some secret future event someone’s setting up. We’re probably

It’s not a woodland mansion, and it’s not from a data pack, and it’s not from one of the others. Scar doesn’t know how he knows it, but he knows where this building is from. It belongs to the desert that’s been haunting his dreams for weeks.

It’s probably fine, says Mumbo, and then, We should probably still go, though. Because, you know. Spoilers, and all that.

Scar doesn’t bother to call him out on either of the the obvious lies.

-

They place a shovel in his hands, and Grian realises what they mean by build for us.

They want him to build them a new server. They want him to build them a new landscape. By hand. Thousands of blocks. Hundreds of thousands of blocks. Millions. All done by hand. They want it dug to bedrock and built again, from the ground up, the whole damned space between the four walls They use to keep him caged in, like an animal, like a rat, like a monkey that is dancing for Their amusement as They watch and watch and Watch–

When he realises what They are doing, what They intend to make him do, he kills himself. He forges a sword, a short and jagged thing, and drives it through his own throat. He dies choking on his own blood, and thinks, as he exhales wet crimson in a final dying breath: Is this what it was like for him?

He chooses not to respawn.

He respawns, regardless.

His death does not stick. They do not allow it to. The moon Watches as he is dragged back to life, netted thrashing in the golden light of the respawn, midday-high and malice.

He comes back bloody, wild-eyed, shaking. There is still dirt under his fingernails. There is still blood in his lungs. There is a scar on his neck, crimson-new, livid, carved into the same place he had opened up Scar’s neck with a blade. That act feels more and more like a mercy kill with every passing beat of his reluctant heart. Feels more and more like his own damnation.

The shovel is still in his hands.

-

Scar goes back to the mansion. Against his better judgement, he goes back. The thought of it itches at him, then niggles at him, then starts to consume him during absent periods of waking. Not at night, though. His nights are reserved, as always, for dreams of the desert.

He has convinced himself, in his absence, that it might really have been a pre-generated structure after all. That Mumbo had been right, and that there was some explanation for it, some perfectly normal explanation. That returning would show him this, and would free him of his worrying, and would let him lay down the unease he’s been carrying like weights at the foot of the building’s front door.

There is not a normal explanation. He cannot lay down the weights

The mansion is hand-built. He walks its halls, its various floors, its rooms. The details are all wrong for something made by the universe, all right for something made by [▋▋▋▋▋] a player. The back is unfinished. There is a chair pulled out of the kitchen table, a kettle on the stove, an empty coffee cup left carelessly on the table.

It might be a leftover, from someone on the server before. He grasps at the idea with both hands, desperate, as he stands in the kitchen. This should be a new server, but someone might have been here before. Xisuma, as much as Scar loves him, is not the most competent admin. There might have been someone here before.

There is mould growing on the bottom of the coffee cup, thin and fuzzy green-white.

Scar wonders, idly, how long it’s been there, to grow mould. Then he wonders, not at all idly, how long mould lasts when it is grown on coffee dregs. He wonders exactly how long they’ve been on this server.

He does not like the conclusions his common sense brings him too. He does not like the way this place makes his brain feel stretched thin, pressed-against, straining. He does not like the way his skin prickles, like there are eyes on the back of his neck.

Like someone is Watching him.

The eyes fade when he leaves. The wrongness lingers. That night, his dreams are different.

Still, there is the desert. Still, there is the mountain, the fortress, the gold sand-wheat-halo. There is a llama, as there often is.

But, in this dream, there is also a moon.

The moon is made of eyes, and they all blink at different times, unharmonised. The moon speaks in a voice that makes the fine bones of Scar’s ears hurt, even from a distance. And then the moon is no longer the moon, it is a person, and it is the moon, and it is eyes-wings-shapes-pain, and it hurts to look at. Scar cannot look away.

In his dream, the moon Watches him back.

-

Grian builds. He does not know how long it has been, since he started building. He doesn’t dare think about how long it will take him to finish building. His hands are bloody, blistered, callused. They shake as he sets another block down, and then another, and then another. Lines upon lines of them, layers upon layers.

He pauses, to wipe the sweat from his eyes. His jumper is gone, discarded somewhere under the heat of the sun. The tank top underneath bares his shoulders, arms, forearms, wrists to the high, hot midday sun. To the Watching midday moon.

Sunburn crawls across his shoulders, the back of his neck. Scars, new and red and angry, crawl vertical up to the crooks of his elbow. There are too many of them to count, rivers of ragged, overlapping lines. They match the one across his throat, as red as blood, twice as rough to the touch.

He’d hoped, each time, that this time the death would stick. Each time, he’d hoped in vain.

They’d started taking the swords he made away from him, after the tenth time he opened up his wrists. They’d confiscated his iron entirely, next, when he made buckets and took to drowning himself in them. They couldn’t stop him throwing himself off the cliffs he carved into the landscape, but they could force featherfalling onto his boots, until it became almost impossible to fall far enough to truly die.

He’s discovered, through experience, that he cannot starve to death here.

He’s taken, recently, in the absence of anything else, to sharpening the edges of his shovel. The angle’s all wrong to get it at his throat, but he can manage his wrists just fine. The skin parts easily, there, well-worn, eager to open under the slightest pressure. As if his body, too, wishes to die, not just his frantically screaming mind.

It takes a little longer, with the wrists, but that’s fine. It’s not like he doesn’t have time to kill.

He still respawns shaking, though. The moon still Watches.

He hardly notices its gaze any more, though. He hardly notices anything, any more. Hardly feels anything, any more.

He places another block. He sharpens the edge of his shovel blade, absently, against a nearby chunk of deepslate. He places another block. His forearms itch. The new shovel should be just about sharp enough, now, he thinks. He places another block. He pauses.

Pressing blade to wrist is more a reflex, now, than anything. It’s just muscle memory. Instinct. Mindless.

They must want to take the shovel from him. They must. But They can’t take it from him. Not yet. He’s made sure of that. There’s still sand left to dig, and so gets to keep his shovel. He gets to keep his one way out, even if the out is for a minute, a second, the barest fraction of a second, before they wrench him back. He gets to keep his shovel. Because there’s still sand left to dig.

Or, at least, he tells himself that’s why he’s left the desert ‘til last.

-

Are we missing somebody, Mumbo? asks Scar, over his sixth finger of whiskey. There’s a slight slur to his words. It’s the only reason he’s brave enough, stupid enough, to ask the question that’s been haunting him for weeks now. Haunting him just like his dreams of the desert. When he looks down at it he golden liquid in the crystal tumbler reminds him of the midday desert, of sun on shifting sand and overripe wheat and a halo of golden hair around [▋▋▋▋▋’s] someone’s head.

Mumbo blinks, once, a little stupidly. What? he asks.

They both know he heard perfectly.

Scar shakes his head. Downs his whiskey. Pours himself another finger, and swirls it around the bottom of the tumbler. The circle of it, the circle of gold, reminds him of– Doesn’t matter, he says. Ignore me.

They sit in silence for a while, with their drinks.

I don’t think we are, says Mumbo, eventually. His nose, and the tips of his ears, are very red. His eyes are a too shiny. The chair to his left, the third chair in front of his fireplace, is empty in a way that feels significant. I mean. Who else would there be?

I don’t know, says Scar. No. You’re right. Stupid question. Who else would there be?

Neither of them sound convinced.

-

Grian finishes building. The server is new, lush, filled with trees and grass and rivers. Mountains, too. The waters are full of fish, the land full of creatures. Below the dirt, ores lace through the rock, abundant. It is beautiful. It is a paradise. It is soaked through to bedrock in Grian’s blood.

There, Grian says. His voice is dead, flat. Unlike his hands, it does not shake. I built your bloody server for you. Enjoy. Now let me go. He puts his jumper back on, rolls the sleeves down to hide his ragged forearms. There is a scar across the front of his throat, wide and livid, that even the rollneck of his jumper cannot hide.

Oh, no, says the moon. It has no mouth – only eyes, eyes upon eyes upon eyes, always watching and watching and Watching – but still it smiles. Whoever said anything about letting you go?

You did, says Grian. There is dread in his heart, bile in his throat. His wrists itch. You said you’d let me go.

We did not, says the moon. We said you would get to see your friends again. But don’t worry. We always keep our promises.

-

>Smajor1996 has joined the game

>Rendog has joined the game

>InTheLittleWood has joined the game

>PearlescentMoon has joined the game

>SmallishBeans has joined the game

>EthosLab has joined the game

>ZombieCleo has joined the game

>Bigbst4tz2 has joined the game

>TangoTek has joined the game

>BdoubleO100 has joined the game

>LDShadowLady has joined the game

>ImpulseSV has joined the game

>Skizzleman has joined the game

>SolidarityGaming has joined the game

>MumboJumbo has joined the game.

-

Grian does not cry. He does not scream. He does not fall to his knees and weep.

His breath catches in his throat, instead. He is forced to stillness by his own terror, his own exhaustion, his own disbelief. He stands there, trembling, wild and shocky as an animal fresh-caught in a trap. He presses the sharp edge of his shovel to his wrist, on reflex.

There is a name missing from the list.

He waits, barely breathing, barely daring to hope. Maybe he has been spared. Maybe he, amongst all of them, has been spared– Maybe one of the others, the new ones, was taken in his place– Maybe, maybe, maybe–

-

Scar falls asleep in his bed.

When he wakes up, he is not in the jungle. He is not in the desert, either.

He is, instead, somewhere else entirely.

-

>GoodTimeWithScar has joined the game.

-

>Grian was slain by Grian

>Grian has joined the game

-

>Server: Welcome to Last Life!

[standing-restart]

Heyyyy! I’m the anon who asked for the Lewis wanting to his George with his gf reader

What you wrote was so sexy! Would love to see what happens next

- 🍉

Once again thank you for sending this in! Sorry it took me so long to get to this, but I hope you enjoy it now that it’s here!

Part one Summary: your boyfriend Lewis confesses that he’d like to watch you have sex with George - with summer break happening, the three of you have three days (and maybe you’ve grown a bit impatient...) Word count: 2744 Content warnings: Female reader and gendered language. Oral sex (both giving and receiving.) Safe sex. Unsafe sex. A slight mention of cum eating ✌️ 

Neither one of you texts George about the idea in the end. 

It becomes a private thing, something either one of you brings up in the bedroom from time to time, yet, something that’s never far from your minds all the same. You pick out lingerie, and can’t help but think about George’s reaction to seeing you in it, as well as Lewis’. When Lewis makes you moan, he can’t help but whisper ‘George could make you feel just as good’ in your ear. 

After all, it’s easier to fantasize about it in a place where the both of you know for certain you won’t be rejected. The two of you talk about it, cuddled up against one another in the brief interlude between races. One of Lewis’ hands on your thigh, thumb drawing circles on the skin. 

George still comes over, still eats the meals you’ve made (or which you ordered out, you’ve got to be honest with yourself there) and the guys still play video games while you’re nestled next to Lewis on the couch watching the screen. He is just as much a fixture in your lives as he’s always been before. Except now, you can’t help but watch him a bit closer, noticing stolen glances and shy smiles more often when he thinks you’re not looking. 

You’re rarely not looking at George these days. 

They come home for the summer break, a few days scraped together after Hungary before Lewis is going to whisk you away for a summer holiday, and George has plans with some friends. Three days. That’s the time you have together until the booked flights leave England. 

“So - ” you wander into the living room, seeing the usual display of Lewis turning on the PlayStation, two controllers already laying out on the coffee table. “ - are you two satisfied with the first half of the season?” maybe it’s mean of you to bring up work when clearly they want to relax. They’ve already gone over the data before flying out, there’s no need for them to mentally run over these last few months again. 

It’s just that you have a plan, and it won’t do if they’re talking about COD. 

London has been unreasonably hot for the time of year, the summer truly doing your head in even in an apartment with an air conditioner. It’s perfectly reasonable for you to be wearing a short summer dress in the privacy of your own home, thank you very much. 

Lewis spots what you’re wearing from the corner of his eye, and gives you a supportive smile and a wink when George’s eyes are fixated on the TV in front of him. “I would much rather not talk about work, love. If you don’t mind.” he reaches out for you, holds your hand as you step around the couch to slot into your usual position at his side. Except, this time, you don’t slip into the open space on his right side. Instead, you sit down in the limited space to his left. Moving yourself between the two drivers. 

It’s cramped, especially with the heat and the way they are wearing shorts and short sleeves. Skin touching skin even when you might not fully have meant to (but you meant to, everything you’re about to do you’ve been meaning to do for a long time.)  “Fine, I won’t bring it up again.” you reach over to give him a kiss, shifting ever so slightly until you know the curve of your ass is resting against George’s thigh. 

You can tell he’s holding his breath, so naturally, you decide to get a bit more comfortable. Leaning into him some more, as you give Lewis another kiss. 

“George - ” it’s all too easy to bat your eyelashes at him, to see a slight blush creep up his cheeks. “ - what do you want to talk about, dear?” term of endearment rolls off your tongue with ease as you stretch your legs. Draping one across his lap before shifting some more so that your back is now pressed to Lewis’ side. 

He’s clearly trying to look anywhere but you (or Lewis) with his gaze fluttering between the controller in his hands and the screen before him. But he hasn’t answered your question yet, and it’s incredibly rewarding to see the gears turning in his head. 

Lewis has his arm resting on the back of the couch, his hand reaching down to toy with the shoulder strap of your dress playfully. He’s picking up to your plan nicely. “I don’t think George wants to talk about anything right now.” his tone is playful as he kisses the top of your head, his hand pulling the strap down inch by inch, exposing the tiniest bit of your collarbone to George’s eyes. 

“Maybe he wants to do something, rather than talk?” you mumble, shifting your leg around ever so slowly to get more comfortable. You can feel George getting hard as you ‘accidentally’ brush against him. George is watching you now, incapable of looking away as your own hands pull the hem of your dress up to expose your thighs a bit. “You two can play your game, I’ll watch.” 

You see George looking up at Lewis, but you can’t see the look Lewis gives him in response. It must be a good one, though, because George’s expression softens around the edges. Becomes less scared, and more at ease. The guys pick up their controllers again, but George runs his hands up and down your lower leg whenever he doesn’t need to have both hands on the piece of plastic. 

He eases back into it, leaning back into the couch. He keeps glancing at you more often, and this time, he doesn’t look away as if he’s been caught red-handed whenever he finds you staring back. 

The two of them get three matches. Three matches during which you’re sitting perfectly still, watching them play from the corner of your eye. You aren’t interested in the game, you’re far more interested in the way the tip of George’s ears remain red. 

George looks like he’s having an out-of-body experience the moment you slide your dress up even more, exposing a glimpse of your panties to the man. You can feel Lewis chuckling behind you. He, naturally, knows how direct you can be when you see something you want. 

You know he agrees with this, it’s been something that the two of you have spoken about in great detail by now. It was his idea to begin with, and with only three days to spare between this moment and goodbyes that would stretch for weeks – it was only fair of you to shoot your shot now. 

“It’s alright, George. Lewis doesn’t mind.” you’re practically purring now, propping up your leg to expose yourself some more to him, wandering fingers stroking down your own thigh. The two of them are exchanging some more looks, but you know Lewis is on your side the moment he slips the shoulder straps of your dress down your shoulders, sliding his hand between the fabric and your chest until he’s casually cupping one of your breasts. 

It feels natural, to be with the both of them like this, even when George hasn’t made a single move to touch you yet. Lewis seems to have noticed this as well, finally speaking. “We both want you to, actually.” another kiss is offered to the top of your head as Lewis squeezes you in a way that he knows makes you arch into the touch. 

George finally, finally, moves. Reaches out with one hand until it rests on your knee, looking into your eyes as if he’s trying to find a single reason not to move forward. He won’t find it there, obviously, but it’s nice of him to still look. “Come on, pretty boy.” you hear yourself saying as you reach out to pull the collar of his shirt, drawing him closer until he’s practically on top of you, steadying himself with his hand still on your knee. 

When he finally kisses you, it nearly feels electric. 

Your dress is quickly discarded, two sets of hands helping you out of the fabric, and you use your newfound freedom to crawl onto George’s lap. One hand buried in the man’s hair, while the other impatiently tugs on his shirt, willing it off with held breath. 

Lewis just watches from his position on the couch, a smile playing on his lips. Heaven knows, the video game is long since abandoned. 

“There you go, love.” his voice drifts through the room as you sink to your knees between the coffee table and the couch, pulling George’s shorts down with you as you go. “Make George feel good, you know you can.” the two of you haven’t really discussed talking during this, but now that Lewis has started doing so, you don’t want him to stop. You want him to keep talking, you want him to keep guiding you through this. 

George moans as you experimentally lick up the length of his cock, keeping your gaze fixated on his face as you do so. He’s smaller than Lewis, but he fits perfectly in your hand all the same. “Isn’t she gorgeous?” the pride which drips from Lewis’ voice as he watches you suck off his friend is nearly too much. You can’t help but coo at the offered praise as you take George into your mouth, making sure to do your absolute best in making him feel good. 

“Yeah - ” George puts his hand in your hair, running his fingers through it softly. “ - she really is.” 

You love to watch him unravel because of your mouth. Love to see him slump into the cushions of the couch, love to see him grip the armrest as if his life depends on it. You know Lewis is watching you, he, too, reaches out to cradle to back of your head as you take George down your throat. Moaning around him as you do your best to take all of him. 

A few minutes pass by where you’re just blissfully sucking off George. You’ve waited long enough for this, and you know that he has too, there’s no need to rush things along. After all. You’ve got three whole days. “You know, sometimes I think she could get off from just this.” Lewis mumbles, his hand still in your hair. “She’s so enthusiastic. So eager to please.” 

It’s incredible how much his voice alone turns you on. 

“She’s most certainly very skilled at this.” George sounds breathless. You can’t read him in the same way you can Lewis, but you know that the man is nearing an orgasm just from the way his fingers clench into the fabric of the couch and his laboured breathing alone. “Lots of practice.” you mumble as you pull yourself off his cock, leaning towards Lewis for a kiss. 

Lewis is hard, you can see his bulge straining against his shorts. Maybe next time you should ask for them both at the same time, they both look at you as if they’re willing to give you that. 

“Come on - ” Lewis slaps your ass playfully as he helps you up, guiding you to once more sit on George’s lap. “ - show him how good your pussy feels.” he’s smirking, kissing your right shoulder while George sucks a hickey underneath your ear. 

George already has a hand between your thighs, slipping a finger between your folds as you position yourself above his cock, enjoying the way it feels simply to sit on his lap for a moment. “We should have done this a long time ago.” your laughter turns into a moan as George’s finger comes to rest against your lips, wet. Tip of your tongue is eager to lick it clean, and you swear you can see George’s eyes roll into the back of his head for a moment. 

“Wait. Not like this.” George mumbles underneath his breath as you reach down to help him position himself. Both you and Lewis hold your breath, the both of you have known that George has wanted this for perhaps just as long as you two have, but suddenly the fear of this being a mistake becomes a palpable reality. “What’s wrong?” you ask as you lean in to kiss him once more. He lets you. He even kisses you back, one hand resting on the small of your back to steady you. 

“Not on a couch.” his voice is barely above a whisper, words offered to your lips between hungry kisses. He wants you, you want him, and Lewis wants the both of you to have each other. Lewis’ hand is on your thigh, connecting you to him in an intimate gesture. “Let me take you to bed?” it’s a question, but you know that George insists on it all the same. 

He’s such a gentleman, even when you’ve already had his cock in your mouth. 

He carries you to the bedroom after you let out a breathless ‘yes’. You’ve known that he was just as strong as Lewis, just as physically fit as your boyfriend, and yet, it’s still a surprise when you feel yourself being lifted by his arms. 

The bed is not far away, and before you know it, your back hits the mattress and George has his face between your legs. Eating you out with determination. Lewis takes a seat behind you, allowing you to rest your head on his lap while George opens you up with a steady tongue and clever fingers. 

Lewis is whispering praise into your ear, softly enough that he not drowns out the small sounds George makes from between your legs as the man draws your first orgasm of the evening out of you. He’s far too proud of it, smiling widely when he reaches up to kiss you again. Lewis is quick to hand him a condom as he’s still stroking your hair, the both of them giving you a moment to catch your breath and come back down to earth. 

You’re grateful for Lewis, looking up at him and seeing the want in his eyes is incredible. “Come on, babe.” you laugh, looking at George as you hook a leg around his waist and draw him in closer. He does not require much coaxing after that, slowly pushing inside of you as you gasp, entwining your fingers with Lewis as he holds you through it. George feels so good filling you up like this, and you have no problem with telling him so. 

“You feel so good - ” George is growing more comfortable, sneaking glances at Lewis with a bright smile as he sucks a hickey into the skin of your neck. His pace is slow, clearly intending to enjoy this for as long as possible. “ - fuck, do you have any idea how long I’ve wanted this?” you let go of Lewis’ hand in favour of reaching out to cup the back of his head, drawing him up for a searing kiss as he bottoms out – holding him there for a moment. “Probably as long as we’ve wanted you here as well.” 

It doesn’t take him long after that to tumble over the edge himself, slumping against you as he leaves a trail of kisses in his wake across your shoulder. Lewis helps him get you off one more time, the both of them taking turns licking and finger fucking your pussy without a rush. It’s only fair that Lewis gets a turn too, filling you up after your second orgasm, holding you close as your thighs tremble. George is far too content watching, seemingly blissed out. 

He cleans you up after Lewis is done with is mouth. He’s the perfect gentleman like that. 

“I should go.” George says as you cuddle closer to Lewis’ chest, too exhausted to properly move after the events of the day. The apartment is once again far too hot, and there’s nothing you want more than a late afternoon nap with your favourite men. “No, you don’t, mate.” Lewis is quick to answer, tugging George back into the bed before the man can even protest.

You’re yawning as you take hold of his wrist, pulling him closer until you’re practically sandwiched between Lewis and George. One driver on either side of you. Just the way it should be. “We have three days, George. No need to go anywhere.”

[my-timing-is-digital]

After the Captain had articulated his compliance, the android and his old friend departed the infirmary to conceive a deliberate and effective plan to pinpoint Bruce Maddox' exact coordinates, and devise a cunning and astute scheme to facilitate the staging of a well-organised and convincing abduction. Fortunately, they had experience with the arrangements and logistics that entailed abductions, however, the persons they had extracted from their "natural habitat" had been secluded members of the Zhat Vash, not humans... This would pose a challenge...

Quietly, Data headed down the scarcely illuminated corridors, en route to the observation lounge. Picard followed in his wake, mirroring his silent demeanour. Within less than two minutes, they terminated Lore's hour of peace and solitude, which he customarily spent reading. Surprisingly, Lore preferred to read analogue books, not holonovels, not books downloaded to a P.A.D.D., but plain, simple, hardcover books, and this was a particularly hefty one, judging by the amount of pages... It was a very human habit of his, and instead of scanning it and translating the text into binary, he digested it similarly to how humans read novels. It was truly a magnificent and intriguing method to employ, especially when taking Lore's detestation for humanity into account.

His brother glanced up, but preserved the silence that was interrupted by muffled footfalls. Data motioned for the Captain to select a seat and settled down next to his brother himself.

'How's she doing?' he asked inquisitively, with a side of genuine concern, the novel lay with its leaves upward on the smooth, obsidian surface of the iron table.

'The EMH is tending to her,' Data apprised his brother factually.

'Oh...kay... And what about — you know — the offspring part of the story?'

'We are not certain — the scans indicate that she is not synthetic, in any way.'

'Not synthetic? That's utter bullshit. Have you seen her fight?! I refuse to believe that she's a mere organic!' Lore hissed brusquely, a hint of mild disappointment scraped his exclamation of incredulity. 'Surely, there's some method that can be employed to confirm our suspicions?'

'Yes. There might be a way to discover whether our initial impressions of her were correct. We intend to find Maddox.'

'Maddox?' Lore narrowed his eyes and glared at his brother. 'Data, you know damn well that he's turned himself into a fucking myth — that prick has erased every sign of himself, trying to find him is a waste of time!'

'I am aware of the myriad impediments that could arise, that is why I have asked Captain Picard to assist us.'

This caused Lore to bark with disingenuous laughter, and closed the volume with more sonic disturbance than necessary. He shifted his weight in the chair to incline his upper body toward his brother and Picard, scorn seeping down his face.

'Him? Oh, please, if we can't find Maddox, dispatching a retired Starfleet officer is like ordering an olfactory deficient mongrel to track down a lost child at a kindergarten. We're androids, for fuck's sake, he's a mere organic.'

'It is precisely because we are androids that we are destined to failure; the Captain is not prone to alert Maddox' security systems — should he use them to shield himself from us. He is our only chance to comprehend Dahj's nature and whether or not we are related. Lore, I require your insightfulness and cunning during this endeavour, can I count on you?'

Lore scowled and shot a revolting glare at Picard, prior to nodding reluctantly.

'Fine, you have my full cooperation...'

The next several hours, they discussed the plan in the presence of all the other AI and every single one of them was equally as useful as the next. Nothing failed to sidle past their notice; they contributed valuable ideas or pointed out design flaws that could jeopardise their integrity and that others had overlooked. The only thing that bothered the android was sending Picard down to wherever Maddox was alone. A similar element regarding this plan did not sit well with his brother — they had narrowly circumvented annihilation during missions, but they had had others providing them cover as they fled to safety. They were unanimous in this regard; the Captain required human assistance.

'How about Seven?' Lore proposed, glancing around the table, scrutinising the others, hoping to find an ally.

'Seven?' It was Picard who discontinued the interlude of silence. 'The ex-Borg, Seven of Nine?'

'Yes, we... helped her, so, in a way, she owes us a favour — perhaps it's time we cash that favour in,' his brother said resolutely, glancing at Data.

'I agree — we could contact her. Soteria, could you please relay our situation and plans to Seven and ask if she could rendezvous with us at the following coordinates,' Data ordered, and in a haze of ivory, punched a collection of numerals into the console and waited for the AI's confirmation.

'I shall see to it,' she answered serenely and transferred the message to Seven.

In the hour that followed, Picard suggested the names of individuals he confided in and who could help them succeed. Data agreed to let him contact them and after the Captain returned, they had finally devised a well thought-out plan that was applicable and modifiable to all and every circumstance they could possibly find Maddox in. Picard's friends were on their way, as was Seven, who shortly after the completion of their plan, joined them. While Lore explained the situation to her, Data and Picard tried to infiltrate several highly secured transit systems in order to get access to something that might reveal an infinitesimal piece of information regarding Maddox' whereabouts. And after a couple more hours, and the assistance of Picard's former First Officer, they managed to find him, at last. Freecloud. Several lightyears away.

The congregation of androids dispersed and Data escorted the organics to another section of the Warbird, so they could find appropriate disguises and prepare for the task at hand. After expressing his gratitude, Data exited the room and hoped trusting them would not be synonymous with his and the other AI's downfall... On his voyage back to the observation lounge, the Warbird dropped out of warp, an indication that they had reached their destination... Vega and Soteria would provide the team of organics with additional information and run through a succinct encapsulation of the stratagem they would be utilising during this retrieval operation, prior to beaming them down.

Eventually, the android re-entered the observation lounge, finding his brother leisurely reclining in his chair, his feet resting on the table, book in hand.

'Did you send old baldy and his pals down to the planet yet?' he asked casually, not diverting his attention from the volume in his lap.

'No, they are still occupied with running through the essentials, and rounding off their final preparations.'

No more responses came from Lore — it was plain that he was no longer interested. However, just when the silence between them started to prosper and Data had opted to seat himself opposite his brother, an informative message, provided by the EMH, was delivered to his address. Unfortunately, Lore's response time was unprecedented and it was virtually impossible to interpolate anything other than an inhalation in preparation to generate an intelligibly formulated sentence.

A haughty laugh was expelled from Lore's lips and he snapped his book shut.

'Captain Data?!' he iterated sardonically, letting out another huff of contempt. 'Listen here, you puny medical database, this isn't Data's ship, it's mine, which automatically classifies me as its Captain. The impudence,' Lore chided, shaking his head in disdain. 'Anyway, I bet you'd be delighted to hear that your beloved Captain is already on his feet and heading for the infirmary. He should be with you in 24 seconds. Lore out.'

The estimation given by his brother was accurate, and by the time Data arrived in sickbay, and the doors slid shut behind him, 24 seconds had elapsed. His chartreuse eyes landed on a scene starring the EMH and Dahj, who was already on her feet and appeared to be rather agitated, vexed — understandably so. The EMH seemed unimpressed, as per usual...

'Greetings, Dahj. It is good to see you have regained consciousness — I hope you are doing all right,' he said with unassailable serenity and carefully approached her, his steps and pace calculated with mathematical precision to prevent rousing feelings of apprehension or unadulterated fear. 'My sincere apologies for having placed you in the position you were in shortly after we transported you up here. If I had known in advance our presence would have such a... profound effect on you, I would have requested my brother and I be transported to another section of the ship... Captain Picard explained everything...' he trailed off, an ephemeral intermission of silence wafted between them. 'However, you wished to speak with me?'

Dahj's brief bout of unconsciousness was, thankfully, entirely void of any dreams. The world had collapsed into darkness around her, with her father's voice in her ears and yet, somehow, she hadn't had even an errant thought about him while she was out. It was unusual, given how frequently he starred in her dreams, and worth puzzling over later. Assuming, of course, that she could get past the splitting headache and the throbbing full body ache she was suffering. It wasn't unlike the sensation of a sunburn--Dahj had never liked those either. She came to with a groan and, as she moved to sit, bumped into something hard encircling her torso.There was nothing that quite woke a person up like suddenly discovering they were confined. A bolt of adrenaline shot through her and Dahj's eyes flew open.

She wasn't sure what she expected to find--Picard maybe? Romulans? Those two weird androids? Her childhood bedroom? Caler?

Regardless, what she didn't expect was to be confronted with a surly bald man leaning well within her personal space, examining her like she was some sort of bug. Dahj reeled away but, much like sitting upright, found that she couldn't get very far before she collided with--what was that? She was on a biobed? Where the hell was she?

"Where the hell am I?" Dahj repeated, aloud, and whipped back to find the bald guy had leaned in farther as she drew away, like breathing down her neck was his literal job. "Who are you? And--excuse me--can you back off?"

"What? Oh, right. Of course, my apologies I haven't had an actual patient in some time," the bald weirdo replied absently and stood back upright. He had a medical scanner in one hand and a tricorder in the other. Weirdest yet, he was wearing a uniform. A very old uniform.

"You're Starfleet?" Dahj asked incredulously and the bald guy looked up from the readings and then glanced back down at his own attire.

"Oh, no--not anymore," he explained with a genial sort of laugh and folded his arms. "It's actually quite a funny story, if a bit before your time--" He looked ready to launch into telling it but the confused affront on Dahj's face brought him up short. "Maybe later," he decided and adopted a more professional tone.

"So, how are you feeling?" he asked and unfolded his arms so he could sweep the medical tricorder over her head again. This moment was truly surreal for Dahj and she wasn't sure how to handle it. The last thing she remembered was having a panic attack and hallucinating her Dad's voice. Before that it was Romulans? Her whole memory felt jumbled and cluttered and thinking on it made her headache worse. Dahj just sighed and, for lack of options, gave up trying to figure it out.

"My head is killing me," Dahj admitted and turned a wary look on the bald guy. He was in blue. That was medical right? "Are you a doctor?"

"Yes I am, one of the best as a matter of fact," he explained proudly and cast one last look at the readings before snapping the tricorder shut. He stepped away and Dahj watched him as he meandered almost theatrically to the room's fabrication station.

"The headache should subside shortly. It's a fairly common side effect of systemic neural stunning. I can synthesize an analgesic if you like?"

The idea of some guy she didn't know giving her an injection of anything should have horrified her but, all things considered, it wasn't the riskiest thing she'd done in the last couple days. She had already been unconscious and at his mercy for however long. If he had anything nefarious planned, he'd have already done it, and her head felt like it was splitting open.

"Yeah, that'd be great," Dahj agreed (somewhat reluctantly) and let her head drop back onto the thin medical pillow. A moment later, the Doctor leaned into her line of sight and promptly pressed a hypospray into the side of her neck. The relief was only partial but what it did provide was delivered instantaneously. The dulling of her headache gave her room to think, if nothing else.

The room was silent for a moment following the injection and Dahj looked back at the curious face of the Doctor as he hovered. He was staring like he expected her to do a trick. It was making her increasingly uncomfortable the longer it went on.

"Do I have something on my face?" Dahj asked abruptly and that seemed to snap him out of it. He stood up straight and, with a flourish, punched a sequence into the biobed controls. The halo retracted and Dahj let out a sigh of relief as she regained her freedom, however symbolic it may have been.

Sitting up sounded like an awful idea, but Dahj couldn't abide being supine and vulnerable any longer than she had to. She swooned a bit as she rose, but the headrush passed quickly.

"Hm, curious." Dahj glanced sidelong and found the Doctor was still hovering, heedless of her personal space. That seemed to be a major facet of his personality. He was weird and discomfitting, but seemed pretty harmless overall. "What is?" Dahj asked carefully. "Given the plethora of stories I've been told about your martial prowess, I expected you to pop up like a daisy," the Doctor answered. Dahj followed what he was saying, mostly, but his response was just a little too complicated to absorb at the moment. The idea of hearing stories about herself was less than appealing.

"I'm more of an orchid person," Dahj replied.

This wasn't a productive conversation, though, and he didn't seem like he had even registered her previous questions. Dahj took a deep breath and swung her legs over the side of the bed. The holocomm in her pocket clattered and she reflexively reached to make sure it was in one piece.

"So…where am I?" Dahj asked directly as she withdrew the handheld so she could get a good look at it. It seemed intact, but she had to smack the side of it to get it to power on. The Doctor stared at her intently as she checked her device but, well, he stared at her regardless of what she was doing. She was doing her best to ignore that.

"Ah, that is…technically classified, and I am not at liberty to divulge the details--" the Doctor answered. "Not to interrupt, but what is that?"

"What's what?" Dahj asked distractedly as the display flickered on. It flickered off the same moment and she let out a frustrated breath. It would figure that she broke her holocomm fighting Romulans.

"That," the Doctor specified and Dahj glanced up to see him gesturing to her misbehaving comm. "What is that?"

"A…phone?" Dahj answered and was obviously perplexed that he'd even asked the question. He was dressed like he had been plucked out of time forty years ago, but he couldn't possibly be too old to recognize a personal comm. Understanding didn't dawn on his face, though, and Dahj had no idea why. He was staring at her like she'd grown a second head. So, to stave off having to explain phones, Dahj just held it out and offered it up. It was probably broken. She'd taken enough falls and blows the last few days that it figured her old holocomm wouldn't have survived it all. There was no harm offering it up, either. The only numbers she had in it were ones she knew by heart--and that were, coincidentally, entirely fictional.

"Knock yourself out," Dahj said as he took the holocomm. The Doctor was instantly engrossed in prodding and assessing the bit of tech. While he gawked at it, Dahj stretched her arms over her head and pushed off the biobed. When her feet hit the floor it was with a quiet groan. Her everything ached. Something popped in her back as she stretched and she felt older than Picard. Picard!

"Wait--where's Picard?" Dahj asked with a renewed urgency. She twisted in place but the old man wasn't hiding behind a medical cart. It was just her and the Doctor in here.

"Preparing for the daring abduction, I expect." The Doctor had turned the holocomm over and removed the back plate over the battery. He was fiddling with a pair of wires and hooking it to his tricorder for some unfathomable reason.

"Abduction? What? How long was I out? What is he doing?" Dahj asked and the flurry of questions seemed to annoy the Doctor. He glanced up from his current task and looked entirely put out by having to divert his attention. "Since my medical knowledge counts for nothing, nowadays, he's looking for a second opinion. Given how 'being assaulted by Zhat Vash death squads' seems to be spreading around, they opted to acquire someone to provide it." The Doctor looked back to the holocomm and his expression turned pleased as he got it hooked into the tricorder properly. Both devices powered on.

"Our retired admiral is preparing to wade into a den of iniquity--"

"What den? Wait--he can't go alone, he's like a hundred--" Dahj objected and, in her urgency, started walking toward the door. She had no idea where Picard was, or what the layout of this place was, or even what this place was precisely--she also had no idea that there was a forcefield until she smacked, face-first, into it. The forcefield flashed bright green and caught Dahj entirely by surprise. It repeled her with enough force that she stumbled back into the biobed. The Doctor, fully engrossed in his task charging her holocomm, didn't bother to comment on her confinement. Dahj, rather than just asking him to lower it, did the first thing anybody does when confronted with a forcefield--she went right back up to it and tried to figure out where the barrier actually was.

"I'm locked in--why am I locked in--" Dahj's hands grazed the green field and it illuminated the bounds of this particular biobed bay. It was the size of a cell and she was instantly horrified. She whipped her attention back to the Doctor--he'd crossed the room, why hadn't he triggered the forcefield?

"I don't know, something about a panel," the Doctor replied offhandedly. "I didn't think it was necessary but it's also not my ship."

"Whose ship is it?" Dahj demanded and the Doctor looked up as he turned over the comm. The screen generated as usual but it was password locked. Not that the Doctor seemed to even notice it was active. He prodded it and turned it over, like he was trying to turn it on, oblivious that is already was. He was terrible with technology.

"He'd claim it's a collective haven but, really, that's just diplomacy. It's our illustrious Captain Data's. Though you could make an argument that it's Soteria's now, I suppose."

Who the fuck was Soteria? Dahj didn't care. When the Doctor turned his attention back to fiddling with her device, Dahj stormed across the small space and snatched it out of his hands. His offense was instant and apparent as he recoiled and clutched at pearls he wasn't wearing.

"Rude--" he accused and Dahj gestured in his face with the holocomm.

"Whoever's ship it is, I want to talk to them--now." Dahj demanded in no uncertain terms and the Doctor gave her a wan look. "You aren't really in a position to--" "I will break you in half like a twig," Dahj interrupted. The Doctor huffed at her, looked unimpressed, and even rolled his eyes, but he still hit his comm badge and spoke toward the ceiling. "EMH to Captain Data," the Doctor droned. "Your guest is awake and wishes to speak with you."

[salchat]

Someone Furry

Rodney missed his cat.  He missed the way she’d jump up onto his lap and drape herself over his legs, her soft, heavy weight warming him from inside and out.  He missed the feel of her fur between his fingers, the way he could run his hand the whole length of her body from her nose, over her flattened ears, down her soft sides and then, his hand closed to surround it, all the way to the tip of her tail.  He missed her deep, thrumming purr, the chirps and brips she made in response to his voice, so that they often had far more sensible conversations than he ever did with his colleagues.

But most of all he missed her simple presence, her neutral acceptance of everything he did, everything he was; her wide golden eyes that regarded him, not with contempt as some people interpreted the penetrating gaze of a cat, but with all-seeing, all-knowing recognition of him as belonging absolutely and completely to her.

He’d left her.  Of course he’d left her on Earth.  He’d had to.  And he’d known he’d probably never see her again and it had torn a hole in his heart that he didn’t think was ever likely to heal.  Had her feline heart suffered similar damage?  Or did she regard her new owner with that wide-eyed gaze and then jump up onto their lap and present herself for their attention in the way he missed so much?  Probably.  Cats were pragmatists.  It was a fact of life.

Rodney eased out his back and spun around on his stool, unsurprised to find the lab empty.  He stretched up to peer over the top of Radek’s screen, but there were no tufts of wild hair or glinting rims of glasses or exhausted, propped-open eyes.  And no wonder - it was nearly three in the morning.

He yawned, scratched his head, scratched his stomach and then, because there was no one about, he reached up under his shirt and had a general scratch around, chasing an itch that ran from his questing fingers.  He ran it to ground on his right shoulder blade, his left shoulder cracking as he reached behind himself to wipe the itch out of existence with sweeps of his thumb.  Then he stretched himself out again and adjusted his shirt into some kind of order.

Was Sheppard back yet?  No,  He couldn’t be.  It was more than the Gate techs’ lives were worth not to inform him immediately of any updates in John’s status, when he’d given them such very firm, explicit instructions.  Anyway, there was no need to worry, he told himself - again.  John was out doing good works, overseeing both Lorne’s team and Stackhouse’s team while they helped out a village hit by a mudslide.  And what the inhabitants of the Pegasus Galaxy had done before Intergalactic Rescue had shown up Rodney had no idea, but he thought just occasionally they should go back to doing whatever it was they had done before and leave Atlantis out of it, and especially an over-tired, mission-weary, easily-guilt-tripped-into-doing-whatever-you-want John Sheppard.

“They’re our allies, Rodney - they help us, we help them.”

Huh.  Rodney spent a satisfying ten minutes grumbling aloud to himself about a bunch of rustics who’d never have anything useful to contribute apart from a few inferior, knobbly vegetables that tasted of mouldy turnip, so why should John have to bother helping them?  Of course, Rodney had found the problem in their Ancient aqueduct system.  And there’d been that kid who kept hanging around him and calling him Dr Rodanee-sir and bringing him cups of the local drink which tasted remarkably like chocolate milkshake.  But those things were beside the point.  And John had flat-out denied Rodney’s request to go on the rescue mission.

Anyway, he was tired and he missed his cat.  Because sometimes you just needed someone furry, and that was all there was to it.

He went to bed.

In the morning Sheppard still wasn’t back and everyone in the lab was being more than usually stupid and noisy and so wrong that he had to make them all stop what they were doing so that he could enumerate and elaborate on all the ways in which they were wrong, providing each member of his staff with a detailed verbal list that they should damn well take notes on for future reference.  And yes, he would be testing them on their knowledge of their own wrongness at an unspecified future date.

Then Stackhouse’s team came back, exhausted and covered in mud.  Then Lorne’s team, ditto.  Then (and Rodney thought there might be dents in the Gateroom railing from his clenched hands), finally, Sheppard staggered through the Gate, more exhausted and more covered in mud than any of them.

John looked up at Rodney and Rodney looked down at John.  His muddy right hand twitched in what was probably an attempt at a wave conveying his general fineness and that nobody should worry or fuss or do anything that expressed the remotest kind of concern.  It was a pathetic attempt and merely underlined his not fineness and that everyone and most particularly Rodney, should definitely be concerned.

Rodney found himself at John’s side, unsure how he’d transported himself down from the control level - a giant leap over the crushed railing?  Levitation?

Medical staff harried the muddy men and women away, and Rodney followed, at John’s side, not touching him, because… ew.  There wasn’t a square inch of unmuddied skin.  Even John’s eyes were red, as if they’d got mud in too.  And his hair was just unnatural - plastered to his head, showing the actual shape of his skull, which you just never saw, even when he was straight out of the shower because mere water was nothing against the springiness of John Sheppard’s hair.  A couple of times Rodney looked around in case he was shadowing the wrong mud-monster, but no, this brown figure was definitely the right shape and size and seemed to have that slouchy gait, even though its feet were dragging and its arms dangling in abject weariness.

They wouldn’t let Rodney in the infirmary.  And it was Rodney who’d helped install the roomful of showers for just such an occasion as this, when filthy, exhausted teams came back, probably contaminated with all kinds of viruses and parasites, germs and bacteria and no doubt hiding injuries beneath their assorted filth.

So he sat down and waited.  And no, it wasn’t the same as waiting for news when John had been carried to the infirmary, injured and unable to make it under his own steam.  It wasn’t as if Rodney was waiting, terrified, for life-or-death news, biting his nails and chewing the inside of his cheek until it bled.

But he really missed his cat.  And he’d had a bad day - a bad few days.  Which surely must be all John’s fault, because most things were, or at least they were his absence’s fault because you just needed someone like John around all the time for some reason.  Look, he wasn’t going to analyse it, alright?  It was a fact.  And Rodney missed his cat.

And probably Carson would want to keep John here - for observation.  Rodney snorted, spraying bits of chewed up nail onto the floor.  If John needed observing he’d do it - because who better to observe than a scientist?  Observing was what he did.  He’d watch John like a hawk, he’d take notes and draw diagrams, he’d gather data, both quantitative and qualitative, he’d hypothesise and extrapolate.  What more could any medical so-called professional do?

“Yes, you can go.”  The doctor’s long suffering voice followed a round-shouldered scrub-clad figure through the barely slid-open doors.

“Hey, Rodney.”

Rodney stood up, beginning his scrutiny right here and now.  “Your eyes are red.  You need antibiotic drops.”

“Had them.”

“Has that scrape on your face been disinfected?”

“Yeah.”

“The bandage on your wrist - what’s that hiding?”

“t’s just sprained.  Can we get out of here?”

Rodney folded his arms and conveyed through his most steely glare that John had better not try to hide even the most minor of injuries from him or he’d been in a whole shit-tonne of trouble which would make a mudslide look like that time some idiot had knocked over Rodney’s chocolate pudding.

“You’re coming with me.”

He took John’s arm, because there was no way he was allowing a rudderless John Sheppard to drift away from him.  The exhausted man didn’t wriggle away or even protest, which made Rodney grumble angrily under his breath about societies that couldn’t clear up after their own natural disasters and just had to go and impose themselves upon overworked Colonels.

They made it to his room and he let John slither onto the bed and stacked up the pillows around him until he was approximately upright with most of his limbs on the bed.

“This is your room, Rodney.”

“Yes.  It is.  And you’re in it.”

“’kay.”

“Humph.”  Rodney nodded, glad John had accepted his to-be-pushed-around status.  “First you’re going to eat.  And then you’re going to sleep.”

“Yessir,” slurred John.

Rodney boiled some water and made some instant mashed potato, which was one of his preferred food choices in cases of extreme exhaustion.  It was the cheesy mash type, which was his covetously-hoarded favourite, but John looked like a man in great need of a large bowl of cheesy mash.  With a blob of ketchup on top.  Maybe more than one blob.

John smiled a sleepy smile at the ketchup blobs, which may have formed a crude happy face, but that was, of course, a complete accident on Rodney’s part.  The mash was mechanically consumed.  Rodney took the bowl and then pushed a glass into John’s hand, making sure his scraped knuckles curled around it.  The glass contained chocolate milkshake, but only because he’d been thinking today about that stuff they made on the mudslide planet.  He hadn’t gone out of his way to get the powder or the milk.  And absolutely no begging had been involved at the entrance to the hallowed, jealously guarded territory of the kitchen staff.

He sat down next to John, glad that he hadn’t been stupid enough to take his friend back to his own room with its tiny bed.  This way he too could sit propped up by a bank of pillows, which were necessary to support his back while he carried out his purely clinical observations of his team leader.

John drained the glass and he was too tired and too oblivious to wipe away his milkshake moustache, so Rodney did it for him.

Then John smiled another lop-sided sleepy smile, his eyelids drooped and shut down completely and his slumped body slumped even more, slowly slithering down until his head rested in Rodney’s lap.

Rodney missed his cat.  He missed the way she’d jump up onto his lap and drape herself over his legs, her soft, heavy weight warming him from inside and out.  He missed the feel of her fur between his fingers, the way he could run his hand the whole length of her body from her nose, over her flattened ears, down her soft sides and then, his hand closed to surround it, all the way to the tip of her tail.  He missed her deep, thrumming purr, the chirps and brips she made in response to his voice, so that they often had far more sensible conversations than he ever did with his colleagues.

But Rodney had his friend.  He had John, who had fallen asleep on him, his head heavy on Rodney’s thighs, his newly-washed hair fluffy and thick and dark.  He touched the soft strands and they tickled his palm.  Then he ran his hand over and through the dense thicket, from John’s forehead, curving all the way around his head to the nape of his neck where the hairs were short and usually they looked scratchy, but at the moment they too felt soft and fine.  He lifted his hand and stroked again, the hair running through his fingers, dragging and flattening, then freeing itself to spring up into feathery plumes.  Then once again and again, slowly, gently, with a rhythm of love and peace.

And in Rodney’s chest a knot released and something warm and sweet and caramelly-rich blossomed and spread out until his body was as loose and relaxed as John’s.

He missed his cat.  But he had his friend, who he loved and who loved him in return.  And as Rodney stroked and stroked and watched John’s slow, happy rise and fall of deep-sleep breathing, the exhausted man began to snore, in a gentle, thrumming, rumble, which sounded remarkably like a purr.

[madhyanas]

hi for the prompts could you do platonic boba & fennec with 45? i think it would be so cute

i like your style anon

45: feeling their temperature - boba fett & fennec shand [platonic], the mandalorian.

~1k words. rated g. timeframe ambiguous, post-s1. 

warnings: mentions of fever, illness, phlegm, sneezing, coughing, etc. not graphic/unsanitary, but it’s there.

prompt from these. send some in!

———

She thinks something might be wrong when she hears Boba sneeze. 

Hard not to, really. It goes bang, crashes through the Slave I like a blaster bolt. If she were anyone else, Fennec might have jumped.

As it is, she looks up from the datapad in her hands and turns to stare, somewhat mystified, at the back of his helmet.

Boba sits in the pilot’s seat, silently facing the windshield. Hyperspace’s light coils around his armour. It looks cold. 

Fennec wonders if she’d hallucinated it. That’s a very specific phantom sound, though, and she’s never had much of an imagination.

Boba doesn’t turn around, and he doesn’t say anything. So she drops it.

Then his arm whips up to lift the lip of the helmet, and he sneezes again not a moment later. Even louder somehow, it’s almost cartoonish. A solid whoosh.

This time she does jump. Almost drops her data pad too, so it’s safe to say her patience has run out.

“Bless you,” she gripes, deliberate in a way that conveys immense disgust and not a hint of blessing at all.

Boba, obviously having caught this, turns to glance at her over his shoulder. The helmet’s already pushed back down. He’s quiet for a long moment. Then, muttered through the vocoder, “Thank you,” before he turns back around.

He sounds faintly embarrassed. And nasal. Fennec grins, sharp and wide, leaving her datapad on a shelf and quietly stepping forward to make herself comfortable in the co-pilot’s seat to his left. It’s her chair, after all. Boba hadn’t told her as much, but she knows.

She stares at him while he flicks some switches on the navigation panel. Busywork. Keeping his hands moving so he doesn’t have to look at her. That’s fine. She’s got nothing but time. 

And eventually, as they all do, he breaks. “What?” 

“You sneeze like an old man,” she informs him. “Thought we were getting shot at.”

That gets him to turn, fully. Indignantly, even. “I’m only forty-one.”

“And vain about it, too.”

“I’m younger than you.”

A voice that gravelly has no business sounding so petulant, and Fennec can’t help but snort. “Semantics.” She narrows her eyes. “Are you saying I’m old?”

“I’m saying you’re old-er.”

His voice scrapes and swells on the emphasis, as if he wants to cough but chokes it down. Fennec decides this is a good time to change the subject. “You sound like hell,” she probes, somewhat softer than before. 

Boba hesitates. Fennec frowns. She hadn’t expected to be right, as often as it might happen.

“It’s nothing,” he grumbles eventually. “A head cold. Nothing more.”

“And you’re sitting here, flying the ship?”

Boba doesn’t care for the scolding; he looks at her, then looks at the control panel, then slowly looks back to her. “Evidently.”

She’s already shaking her head. “Well, you shouldn’t be. That’s...” Unhealthy? Concerning? “Unsanitary.”

He hacks out something like a laugh, but it sounds too wet and phlegm-like to be reassuring. “I’m not sick, Fennec. And that’s disgusting.”

Fennec swivels her chair to face his. “Yeah, it is. So c’mon,” she orders, gesturing a hand at the helmet. “Take it off, let’s check.”

“That isn’t—”

"Don’t be stupid, Boba, you’re no good at it.”

The look he’s giving her from under that thing must be withering, she knows. She’s matching it perfectly.

And there is a short, brief second where she thinks he might pull rank on her. Being in one’s service leaves you open to vulnerabilities like that. Even if they are friends.

Then he sighs, and his whole frame slumps with the release of it. He sinks into the seat a little deeper, and his shoulders fall at angles so far from the stoic, solid silhouette she’s covered in battle so many times. 

She hadn’t realised how much effort he was putting into hiding it.

The helmet is slunk off his head with a heavy hand. And if she thought he sounded sick, well. 

Boba looks exhausted. The healed acid scars slashing across his face are etched deeper, lightning cracking across tired, tired plains. He looks sickly, strung-out, and though one eyebrow quirks at her staring, his pupils are dilated.

Fennec’s brow furrows as she leans forward, sliding one glove off as she does so. It falls to her lap soundlessly as she slaps the back of her bare fingers against his forehead.

He grunts, actually swaying back with the light push of her hand, which would be enough to worry her on its own. But Boba is burning up. His skin feels clammy and he’s cooking up a furnace just sitting there.

Fennec hisses through her teeth. “Kriff, Boba, what are you doing? Get up.” She stands, glaring down at him when he lingers in his seat. Hyperspace autopilot’s activated, anyway. “Get up now.”

Her bedside manner leaves something to be admired, perhaps, but Boba doesn’t protest. She’s nothing if not effective.

When he stands, Fennec doesn’t fully trust him to stay upright. She slings an arm round his shoulder and begins lugging him to his quarters, one thumping step at a time. She’ll come back for her glove and his helmet later.

Boba doesn’t make any noise on the way beyond groaning quietly at the jostling. Fennec swallows down her worry, and starts to talk. For his sake, naturally.

“If you throw up on me,” she warns darkly, “All bets are off. Service or no service.” Boba laughs, or tries to, and he’s too warm even through her still-gloved hand and his shirt. Fennec’s already wondering about medication. “You need a fever shot.” 

Can they afford a medic? Public medcentres are too risky.

She slams the panel to open the door to his quarters. Only later will she realise that it’s the first time she’s been in here.

“We don’t have any fever shots,” Boba mutters, grinning faintly as he slurs his words. It’s grim, and very on-brand.

As she sits him on the edge of the bed, Fennec rolls her eyes. “Then we’ll get some.”

Idiot.