#would have been handy to exploit

[copper-16]

You Didn't Let Me Finish

Ingrid had a rule that she had held onto ever since she started working as a stripper: she doesn't sleep with clients.

Usually.

Ingrid doesn't usually sleep with clients. Exceptions must be made for most rules anyways though, right?

(a/n: Yes it's a stripper fic. I mean absolutely no disrespect to anyone, this is just a silly little idea I had in my head and decided to write on a whim. Feel free to skip if it's not your thing! Also I didn't proofread it, so ignore any mistake lmao)

Sometimes, Ingrid wasn’t exactly sure how she had ended up here. 

The Norwegian had done a semester abroad in Spain when she was in university, and found that she absolutely loved the city. So when the opportunity to move to Barcelona presented itself after graduation, she jumped at the chance to go. Her study abroad had been in Madrid, but it was still Spain, right? 

And the Norwegian actually preferred Barcelona to Madrid, the longer she lived here. She enjoyed the energy of the city, how posh and lively it was, how wonderfully kind the people were. The job she was offered was modest, and despite the fact that she got by, Ingrid wasn’t all that comfortable with living from paycheck to paycheck if she didn’t have to. 

Which was exactly how she had found herself at Dollhouse. It was the most exclusive strip club in Barcelona, catering only to those clients who could pay for the supreme services, and they only accepted the best when it came to their girls. 

The owner had taken one look at Ingrid, roving his eyes up and down the dark haired woman with interest before he was nodding, clearly pleased with what he was seeing. Her ability to speak both English and some Spanish came in handy, and she became a regular for many of the international clients. 

Ingrid was paid well, only worked three nights a week, and it helped her to nearly double her salary with the tips she was given. She gave lap dances, some pole work, did a few shows on the main stage, served customers when asked. It was an easy gig, and she couldn’t help but feel appreciated given the reaction that she could stir up in most men. It was addicting, really. She felt powerful and in control, her confidence only rising the longer she worked there. 

It wasn’t sex. People often got that mixed up, that being a stripper meant sex. It could mean sex, if that was what the girls wanted, but Ingrid had little interest in the older men who came into her rooms. She was as gay as they came, and it was very rare for them to receive a female client, and Ingrid had never had the pleasure of having one, not personally. 

But she wasn’t entirely opposed to the idea, if the right person came along. 

It’s just, nobody had. 

But perhaps that would change. 

—

It was a Sunday night, which meant that the Dollhouse was relatively calm. Ingrid was in the back room with a few of the other girls, getting ready for her show in around thirty minutes when Miguel came back. 

“Ingrid, Misa!” He called, and both women turned to look at him, one eyebrow raised. They stood, setting their makeup down to walk over to their boss, who was in charge of the scheduling. 

Miguel was gruff but kind, and he always made sure the girls were comfortable and not exploited. He could be a bit rough around the edges but he never failed to make the girls feel cared for as people and not just objects, and in return they did their best to make his life as painless as possible. It was a good gig, they all knew that, compared to the nasty bastards at some of the other places around town. 

“We have two clients in separate private rooms. Footballers, booked after winning something big I think, I want the two of you to take them,” Miguel explained, and he looked between Misa and Ingrid with a critical eye, clearly trying to decide who to send where. 

Despite the fact that Ingrid was Norwegian and Misa was Spanish, the two actually looked quite similar. Ingrid was paler, taller, and less tattooed than Misa was, but in terms of build and physical appearance, they were rather alike. 

“Misa, I want you in Room One and Ingrid in Room Two, Misa your Spanish is better than Ingrid’s. The girls will cover your sets for the night so don’t worry about that. They’ve booked for the rest of the night so make sure to give them their money's worth but you’re free to leave when you are done, alright?” Miguel decided, and Ingrid and Misa both nodded. 

“Oh and–”

“If they do anything creepy we will come find you,” Ingrid and Misa rattled off in perfect unison, and Miguel scowled at his predictability before he shooed them away to go get changed, the two women smiling at the action. 

Ingrid and Misa walked back to the changing room, each of them looking through the different lingerie sets they could wear. 

“What are you thinking?” Misa asked as she pulled out a purple lace set before shaking her head, shoving it back in her closet. 

“Well if they paid for the whole night then clearly they have money, probably want something expensive and distinguished. Footballers can be assholes and handsy, and they think too much with their dicks and not enough with their heads,” Ingrid scoffs lightly, and Misa snorts as she looks over at the dark haired woman’s closet. 

“Hmm…you’re going to wear this,” Misa decides, pulling out a hunter green piece of lace, and Ingrid raises her brow before nodding her agreement, looking over at the Spaniard’s closet. 

“And you’re going to do this, I’ve seen you in it before and your chest looks amazing in it,” Ingrid says with an air of finality, and Misa smirks at the outfit before they both went into their changing rooms to slip their clothes off and put the lace on. They don’t bother with robes, the hallway to the private rooms is secluded from the rest of the club anyways, so the two women make their way back together, chatting lightly about their day jobs, what their weeks look like. 

By the time they make it to Room One and Room Two, the women are both relaxed and ready to do their job. Neither of them really has any idea what lies beyond the door besides a footballer, so with one final goodbye they both enter the passcodes to the room before stepping in. 

Ingrid closes the door behind her before turning around, and she can’t help the way that her eyebrows jump in surprise when she sees who it is sitting at the table. 

The room is set up with a bed, a couch and two loveseats, as well as a table with four dining room chairs. Lap dances are usually given in the chairs at the table or the loveseats, but the rest of the room can be utilized however the girls may choose to. 

The thing that surprises Ingrid though, is the fact that the person sitting at the table is a woman, and not a man. 

The woman stands, the chair rustling against the floor as she pushes it back before she steps forward to examine Ingrid. Her gaze is curious but not sharp, her entire body language relaxed. She’s clearly a footballer, her body muscled and well built.  

She can’t be more than a few years older than Ingrid, and she’s just an inch or two shorter than her with light, sandy blonde hair that is straightened just past her shoulder. Her hazel eyes take Ingrid in, the light lace that covers her body, and she nods appreciatively for a moment before cocking her head. 

“Hello,” she offers, and Ingrid is quick to respond, the woman’s gaze making her feel a little bit hot. 

“Hi,” Ingrid responds, not entirely sure what to say. The woman was speaking to her in English, so clearly she recognized that the Norwegian was a foreigner, though she wasn’t exactly sure how she noticed that before she had even spoken. 

“Why did they send you in here to me?” The woman asked curiously, her hazel eyes still boring into Ingrid. The question is surprising, considering the fact that they were at a strip club. They sent her in here to do her job, but the Norwegian gets the sense that isn’t what this woman means, so she answers with more candor.  

“My coworkers' Spanish is better than mine. Presumably your friend only speaks Spanish, but you clearly can speak English well, so here I am,” Ingrid supposes, and the woman nods slowly before her lips quirk up in a smirk. 

“My friend can speak enough English for tonight, I promise. I think you should switch rooms…I insist actually. I think she’ll be quite charmed by…” the woman looks down at Ingrid once more before her gaze returns to the dark haired woman’s eyes, “...you.”   

Ingrid’s eyebrows raise in surprise before she nods in agreement, never one to say no to a client request unless it really was something she couldn’t do. 

“If that’s what you wish…” Ingrid trails off, still unsure of the woman’s name. 

“Alexia. And my friend's name in the other room is María,” she supplies, and Ingrid regards her for another minute before slipping out of the room, Alexia turning back to sit down in the chair she had been in originally. 

The Norwegian walks over to Room One briskly, rapping on the door three times before she steps back, waiting for Misa to come out. It only takes a few seconds for the Spaniard to slide out of the room, her eyebrows furrowed in clear confusion. 

“We need to switch, the other woman requested it,” Ingrid explains, and Misa nods for a second before she looks back at the room. 

“Can you believe it’s women? And god, if the second one is as hot as this one…” Misa trails off, practically drooling, and Ingrid can’t help but laugh lightly, because really she quite agrees. Misa is the only other gay woman at Dollhouse, and Ingrid finds solace in the fact that she isn’t alone, calmed by the Spaniards presence. 

“I don’t think you’ll be disappointed. Her name is Alexia,” Ingrid adds before the younger woman can leave, and Misa nods before she gestures back at the room next to them. 

“Names Mapi,” Misa supplies, and Ingrid’s eyebrows furrow at the fact she’s now been told two separate names for this woman. But honestly, if she was even half as attractive as the first woman, Ingrid was seriously going to be in trouble. 

The first woman, Alexia, hadn’t exactly been her type per say, but objectively she was very attractive. 

As Misa disappears down the hallway Ingrid takes a deep breath, trying to center herself and remain calm at what is about to occur. She knew what the deal was with men, how to dance and act. 

But women were different, Ingrid knew that even if she had never had a female client. They were more watchful, more appreciative, more in tune. 

And well, if this woman was as attractive as Misa was making her out to be, she might be in a bit of trouble. 

The green eyed woman punched in the code before she stepped into the room, once again shutting the door behind her. 

Ingrid turned around, taking in the room and the woman who was settled on one of the room's two armchairs. 

And god was Misa wrong. 

This woman wasn’t attractive. 

She was mind numbingly, astronomically stunning, and it takes everything in Ingrid not to let her jaw physically drop. 

The woman had her hair down in beach waves, lighter highlights against the brunette of her hair accenting the dark strands, framing dark eyes and supple, light pink lips that are set in a smirk. 

She’s wearing a button down that has far too many buttons undone, but it only serves to show off her cleavage, biceps straining against the tight black fabric. She has on gray dress pants, and she shifts her shirt sleeve up to glance at her watch before she stands, making her way over to Ingrid. 

“Hola princesa,” the woman greets softly, her voice raspy and deliciously low, and if Ingrid wasn’t wet at just the sight of her, she was now. 

If there was anyone who was going to break her rule of not sleeping with someone, it would be this woman. That was assuming she wanted to as well, but if the glint in her eyes was anywhere near as serious as it looked, Ingrid thought her chances might be relatively high. 

She scrambled to gather as much Spanish as she possibly could. It was a little pathetic that she wasn’t more fluent, but between this being her third language and the fact that her work was in English and most of her friends spoke the language, her Spanish could definitely use some work. 

“Hola,” Ingrid rushed to reply, internally cringing at how bad her accent was while understanding washed over the woman’s face, and she switched to a heavily Spanish accented English. 

“Ah, English, no?” The woman suggested, no malice in her tone, and Ingrid let out a small sigh before she nodded. 

“Si,” she acquiesced in a bit of a defeated tone, but the woman simply tipped her head back in a delicious laugh, something light and breathy, her neck on full display. She had a tattoo on it, and Ingrid could see more ink peaking back at her on the woman’s available skin. 

It did absolutely nothing to help the green eyed woman’s aching core, but she ignored it in favor of returning to the problem at hand, to the fact that she needed to get on with the performance for this woman. 

“Sit?” Ingrid asked gently, gesturing to the table and chairs that surrounded it, walking over to pull one of them out. 

The woman made no move to walk over, seemingly not done with the conversation. 

“I’m Mapi,” she said instead, and Ingrid raised her brow at the woman, clearly a little curious. 

“I’ve been told by a confident source that your name is María,” Ingrid sidesteps the introduction to ask the question, watching the way that the woman’s eyes darkened with lust when she says her name. 

“Have you now?” Mapi drawls, the surprise clear in her face. The smirk is back, and she finally begins to walk toward the table, but before she sits she stands in front of Ingrid, still only looking her in the eyes. 

The Norwegian keeps waiting for her to drop her eyes down, to look over the lace that could hardly be described as modest, but the smaller woman seems hell bent on keeping her eyes trained on Ingrid’s. 

“And you are?” She asks lightly, the dark haired woman answering her question quickly and easily. 

“My name is Ingrid,” she murmurs, once again gesturing at the chair, and this time Mapi takes her up on her offer. The Spaniard sits down before she looks up at the Norwegian, who strolls over to turn the music on. 

“Any requests?” Ingrid questioned, looking back at Mapi to find the woman staring at her with hooded eyes and a hungry gaze. She shakes her head, finding no offers. 

“Whatever you prefer,” Mapi decides, and Ingrid observes the woman for a moment before nodding, turning back to the speaker system. She sets up her playlist, playing the song TiO by Zayn, which had been a recent favorite of hers. 

The song is a bit of a quicker pace, which she liked to start out with. It was easy to flash the quick movements before she let things get sensual, and her approach for this woman is absolutely no different. 

She turns back toward the table, walking over in long strides before she comes to rest in front of Mapi, her ass pressed back into the table behind her. 

“Can I touch you?” Ingrid asks in a low voice, tossing her thick, dark hair over one shoulder. Mapi looks up at her with an unreadable expression, holding eye contact before she nodded carefully. 

The Norwegian stood from the table, stepping forward. She turned, rounding the chair that Mapi was currently settled in, just watching. The brunette didn’t look back at her, but did meet her eyes when Ingrid finally circled all the way back to the front of the chair. 

It’s at this point that Ingrid brings her hand up, resting it over the Spaniard’s collarbone carefully. She slides her hand up, coming into contact with bare skin as she pushes her middle finger inside the cuff of the woman’s popped shirt. 

The dark haired woman plays with the collar for a moment before she begins moving once again. She drags her fingers around to Mapi’s back, stopping when she is standing in front of the Spaniard’s back, pressing both of her palms to the brunette’s back, fingers down. She slowly runs her hands down, into the small of the footballers back, before she shifts, moving them to caress her sides gently. 

She’s gone as soon as she arrived, however, continuing around the chair. Her hands travel over the Spaniard’s arm, down her side and around the underside of her chest before she splays it over the top of the brunette's abdomen. 

The muscle beneath her palm is rock hard, and she cannot help but let out a harsh breath at the feeling. She hopes that the footballer doesn’t notice, but when she looks up to see that Mapi is smirking back at her, she considers the effort fruitless. 

Ingrid’s hands retract from the Spaniard’s skin, and she shifts so that she can move her hips down and into the brunette’s lap, her back to Mapi’s front. It’s a bold first move, but she’s quick, in time with the song for just a tease before she’s gone, several steps away. 

Mapi is watching her with eagle eyes as Ingrid runs her hands up her own sides, squeezing at her own chest, letting her eyes flutter shut at the feeling for emphasis. It’s a little pornographic, and perhaps a little bit of a sell out, but she doesn’t care. 

The Norwegian makes sure to spend several moments just watching, teasing herself in whatever way possible, reveling in the way that the Spaniards eyes darken at the sight. Her nipples strain against the lace, hard and begging to be freed, but the dark haired woman ignores them in favor of returning to the footballer. 

The song changes to Lose Control by Teddy Swims, something more slow and sensual. Ingrid stalks back to the brunette, her intent clear when she places her hands on the woman’s knees, sliding them up her thighs before squeezing, lightly. 

The Norwegian moves her hands up the Spaniard’s side as she settles in her lap, her knees spread wide as she presses forward into the brunette’s personal space. She moves her hips slowly in an infinity pattern, sensual and enough to drive any man crazy. 

And yet still, Mapi has yet to touch her. Her arms remain listless at her sides, rather awkwardly. It’s a staunch change from the male clients she has often, who feel that they are allowed to touch, to take as much as they want. They consider the fact that Ingrid has been paid for, that they are allowed to do whatever they want to her, within reason. 

This doesn’t seem to be the case for this woman, however, and it only turns Ingrid on more. She leans forward even further, placing one hand on the woman’s shoulder while the other remains firmly planted on her side. Her lips are on the shell of the woman’s ear as she speaks, her voice low. 

“You can touch…you know,” the Norwegian drawls, her words breathy and filled with lust. She leaned back to look the footballer in the eyes, noting that her gaze was dark, the way her tongue flicked out to wet her lips. 

They held the others' gaze for a moment, neither moving until finally, finally Ingrid felt two hands carefully, respectfully placing themselves on her side, down toward her lower back. 

It was the Norwegian who moved them, removing her hands from the Spaniard to place hers over the brunette’s, sliding them lower, lower, lower, until they were resting firmly on her ass. Only then did Ingrid remove her own hands, planting them on the back of the chair as she rolled her hips down into the brunette. 

Mapi was staring at her intently, and she gently palmed at the Norwegian’s ass to test, rewarded greatly for her efforts when Ingrid arched into her, letting out a breathy noise. 

The dark haired woman’s body could only be described as fluid as she moved above the Spaniard, finally moving her leg to hook over the back of the chair, wrapping around the brunette’s back. 

Mapi slid her hands up, pulling Ingrid’s body more flush with hers. The Norwegian smiled, their faces just centimeters from one another. The Spaniard’s breath on hers was hot and insistent, her eyes roving over Ingrid’s face, finally eyeing the lace that covered the dark haired woman’s body. 

“You like it?” Ingrid purred, a smile evident in her voice as she gripped Mapi’s shoulders. The Spaniard scoffed lightly, looking back up at Ingrid. 

“You could say that,” the brunette hummed, her voice thick and low. It sent a shot of heat straight to the Norwegian’s core, and she arched even further into the smaller woman. 

Ingrid turned her head, brushing her nose against the Spanaird’s temple, her breathing shallow. 

“I don’t sleep with clients,” the Norwegian explained, and felt the shift immediately from the woman beneath her, the instant reaction to move away.

Ingrid had to give the footballer that, she was nothing if not respectful. It only made the Norwegian want her more, only made her flush further at the thought. 

It was her choice. 

Ingrid intercepts her hands, shoving them back down onto her ass before she brought her own to the brunette’s neck, pulling her in. 

“You didn’t let me finish,” the dark haired woman pouted, her lower lip jutting out slightly. Mapi reached forward, running her thumb over Ingrid’s lip slowly, softly. 

“Lo siento, princesa,” Mapi soothed, her expression willing Ingrid to continue. The Norwegian smiled gently, leaning down so that her lips hovered over the Spaniard’s throat. 

“I don’t sleep with clients, not unless I want to,” Ingrid continued, her hot breath leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. Her fingertips trail up Mapi’s side, running over ridges of muscles and soft skin, dipping under her shirt before they retracted. Never direct, always teasing. 

“And trust me, I want to,” the Norwegian promised as she brought her face back to level with Mapi’s, her eyebrow quirked, almost daring the Spaniard to disagree. 

But the brunette would never do that, especially not when she has the most gorgeous woman she had ever laid eyes on sitting in her lap. 

They are left staring at one another for a few moments, their eyes flickering back and forth between the others eyes and lips, waiting to see who breaks first. A game of wills, a question of who is going to hold the power. 

It’s the Spaniard who snaps first, lunging forward to capture Ingrid’s lips in her own. She’s impatient, unable to resist having Ingrid in front of her looking so delectable, without doing anything about it. 

Mapi’s mouth is hot and insistent on her own, the brunette’s hands coming up to cradle Ingrid’s face as she kisses her senseless. 

It’s only a few moments later that the Spaniard presses her tongue into the Norwegian’s mouth, silently asking for entrance. The dark haired woman allows her access instantly, completely floored at the feeling of Mapi’s mouth on her own. 

The footballer swipes her tongue over the roof of Ingrid’s mouth, smiling into the kiss at the whine that slips past Ingrid’s lips at the feeling. 

The Norwegian’s head is dizzy, completely and utterly overwhelmed with the feeling of the Spaniard, of her hands being everywhere, of the press of her lips to Ingrid’s. It feels as though life is being breathed back into her, transformed into a fire that is sent straight to her core. 

She knows that she’s soaked the lace beneath her completely, but she can’t bring herself to care. Especially not when Mapi leans back, gesturing for her to stand. Ingrid is quick to comply, not bothering to try to make herself seem as cocky as she was pretending earlier. 

It’s been a long time since she’s been fucked properly, and something in this woman’s eyes tells her that the Spaniard is exactly what she needs. 

“Get on the bed,” Mapi instructs, and Ingrid is quick to comply, walking with purpose before laying back on the bed, sitting with her head up near the pillows, still clad only in her lace. 

The Spaniard stands from her spot on the chair, flipping the lock on her watch open as she sets it on the table in front of her. She pulled her shirt up from its spot having been tucked into her pants, looking over at the Norwegian as she undid the last few buttons. 

She laid the shirt down on the table, the picture of control and composure. The loss of the garment leaves her in only a black bra, which contrasts against the tan of her skin. She loses the belt she had on but elects to keep her pants on, instead moving toward the bed. 

Throughout this, the footballer had never let her eyes leave contact with Ingrid, not wanting to let the Norwegian out of her sight, even for a second. 

Ingrid lays back as Mapi joins her on the bed, crawling up the Norwegian’s body until she was positioned over the taller woman’s body, where she had wanted to be from the beginning. 

“You tell me to stop the minute you do not like something, si?” Mapi asked, her voice clear and leaving no room for argument. The Spaniard had no interest in making Ingrid do anything she did not want to. 

“Si,” the Norwegian parroted, squirming just slightly under the Spaniard, desperate for her to do something. 

Once she has confirmed Ingrid’s answer, the Spaniard is quick to begin her descent down the woman’s body. She captures the dark haired woman’s lips in a bruising kiss, applying just the right amount of pressure and tongue to have Ingrid gasping for more. 

She releases the Norwegian’s perfect, plump lips only in favor of working her mouth across Ingrid’s jaw, sucking and nipping lightly at the skin there. When she reaches the dark haired woman’s ear, she works her lips down and over the column of Ingrid’s throat. She pays close attention to the areas that make the taller woman let out a heavier breath, or the ghost of a whine, doubling down on her attention to those spots. 

She kisses over soft, pale skin, and down toward the soft flesh of her chest. Ingrid is arching into her before she even reaches her destination, desperate for more. 

“Can I–” Mapi removes her lips only to start a sentence that is never finished. 

“Yes, please, do anything to me,” Ingrid gasped, her entire body on fire at the thought of Mapi’s mouth over her chest, at the apex of her thighs. A flush is blooming on her chest as the Spaniard pulls the lace down, revealing Ingrid’s chest. 

Her nipples are peaked, aching to be touched and played with. The footballer doesn’t even bother with using her fingers first, simply leaning down to wrap her mouth around one of Ingrid’s nipples, her hand coming to cover the other. 

“Aye, María,” Ingrid hisses at the feeling, her whole back leaving the bed as she arches into Mapi’s mouth. Her hand has flown to the Spaniard’s head, her fingers tangling in the brunette’s hair and tugging lightly. 

Mapi doubles her attention at the feeling, swirling the tip of her nipple around her tongue, teasing her teeth over the sensitive area. Ingrid ate every lap of attention up, basking in it. She couldn’t remember the last time someone had made her feel so much, and it was turning her on in a way that was borderline painful. 

“Please, more,” the Norwegian begged once attention had been laved to both sides of her chest, and Mapi released her other nipple with a lewd pop sound. The footballer raised a brow at her, but Ingrid shook her head, her breaths shallow and desperate. 

The stripper is well aware of the irony, given her profession. She’s the one who is supposed to be pleasuring, not the other way around. But there was something about the way this woman composed herself, something about the reverence with which she touched the Norwegian that made her comfortable.

Mapi considers the request for a moment before she relents, pulling further at the lace, signaling that she wanted it off. The dark haired woman is quick to comply with her request, removing the hunter green fabric before she threw it to the ground, already forgotten. 

Ingrid lay back down on the bed, her hair splaying out against the pillow. The Spaniard watched her with hungry eyes, her lips turning up into a smirk. 

“So beautiful,” she murmured softly, her words filled with clear appreciation. “Espléndida, princesa,” Mapi whispered as she returned to Ingrid, softly holding the Norwegian’s face in her hands. Her lips were gentle against the taller woman this time, leaving the Norwegian with the feeling that she was delicate, and deserved to be treated as such. 

Oh, and what a different feeling it was to be touched by the Spaniard, as opposed to the heavy handed men she usually interacted with. 

To be touched and praised as though she was the most important thing in the world. No drug could compare, not to her anyways. 

Even as she trails down the Norwegian’s body, Mapi stops to press kisses into her skin, imbuing the fire of their interaction with a level of sweetness and ingenuity Ingrid had not been expecting. 

But nothing, absolutely nothing, could have prepared the Norwegian for what the first run of the Spaniard’s tongue through her would feel like. 

She is unsure of where her voice ends and Mapi’s begins, but all she knows is that two moans are filling the room, both equally desperate. Ingrid clutched at the sheets desperately, her hands fisting the pristine white fabric beneath them as Mapi ran her tongue through her again. 

The Spaniard eats her out as though it will save her, with an intent and passion that Ingrid cannot remember ever having in the bedroom. She brings her tongue up to circle the Norwegian’s clit several times, and every time a new wave of pleasure washes over her. 

“You taste perfect,” Mapi mumbles against her heat, and Ingrid flushes completely at the praise, struggling to compose her own pleasure. She attempts to bring her hand up to cover her own mouth, something that Mapi notices instantly. 

“Aye, I want to hear you,” the Spaniard chides softly when she sees what Ingrid is doing, and the dark haired woman lets out a filthy moan as she removes her hand, at the feeling of Mapi’s finger teasing at her entrance. 

“Is this okay?” The footballer confirms, waiting for the fervent head nod that she receives from Ingrid before she finally dips her finger in at a painfully slow rate, before curling gently. 

Ingrid is writhing under her, letting a string of mewls and moans that tumble from her lips of their own accord. She doesn’t care that she had no idea if anyone can hear them, only focused on her own pleasure and the feeling of the brunette’s body near her own. 

“Si, si, si,” Ingrid begs, moaning unabashedly when Mapi adds a second finger, curling with more purpose this time. 

The footballer could admit, her plan had been to tease more than this. She was a playful woman, and enjoyed picking her partners apart before allowing them to come, usually. 

Something about this Norwegian, the flush in her chest and the noises slipping past her lips, has Mapi throwing her entire playbook out the window.

She’s more than happy to continue this, so long as Ingrid continues making those noises. 

“You like that, princesa?” Mapi asks, her voice hoarse with arousal. Ingrid nods tightly, her chest arching up as the Spaniard curls her fingers deep within her. 

The set of her jaw, the way it opened with pleasure left Mapi flooded with the need to please, so the Spaniard lowered her mouth down to Ingrid’s clit, sucking lightly. The dark haired woman cries out, her hips rutting down into Mapi as the footballer continued her brutal pace. 

“Fuck!” Ingrid wailed, her voice dripping with need as she hurtled toward orgasm. Her hips grew erratic, jumping into Mapi’s hand as her whole body squirmed. The brunette could tell that the dark haired woman was close, doubling down on her pace and intensity, intent on getting her there. 

It only took a few more curls of Mapi’s fingers from deep within the Norwegian for the taller woman to let out a sharp cry, her whole body tightening. The Spaniard couldn’t help but smirk against the dark haired woman’s core as her whole body began to shudder, her orgasm working through her like a forest fire. 

Her whole body was arched off the bed, the sheets gripped in her fists as Mapi worked her through her orgasm, her entire body shaking. She collapses against the sheets, her breath coming in quick gasps as waves of pleasure flooded her system, her eyes still screwed shut. 

It took her a few moments, but she forced her eyes open when Mapi removed her fingers from Ingrid. The green eyed woman looked up at the Spaniard, who had sat back on her heels, her own breath short and lustful. 

The brunette reached her finger up to her own face, brushing some of the arousal away from her lips with the pad of her thumb as Ingrid looked up at her. The Norwegian’s dark hair was a sharp contrast to the pillow, the flush of her chest and stomach the complete antithesis to her pale skin. 

Mapi would never see a sight prettier than this under her again, she knew that for certain. Ingrid turned her head, glancing over at the clock and realizing with a rush that they still had several hours before either of them had to go anywhere. 

When the Norwegian looks back up at the Spaniard, it’s with a smirk on her lips, one eyebrow raised, almost as though she was challenging the brunette. 

“Fuck, princesa,” Mapi swore before surging forward to claim Ingrid’s lips once more, pressing her back into the bed. 

Ingrid let herself moan out, half at the feeling of Mapi’s body above her own, and half of the self satisfied feeling of knowing that it was going to be hard to walk tomorrow. 

So yeah…maybe some rules are worth being broken every once in a while. 

[bing-whoops]

TO BE LOVED IS TO BE CHANGED | DIAVOLO . *. ⋆ ⊹ ౨ৎ˚₊

꒰ main pairing ꒱ Lord Diavolo x Reader

꒰ inspired by ꒱ The Baby (2022): you don't need to have watched it to understand the plot as this series will be loosely based off the firsts episodes before the baby's true origins were revealed!

꒰ summary ꒱ When a person is about to graduate from college there are many things to worry about — finding a job, finishing the last assignments from their classes, and even finding ways to make reliable money — trying to take care of a baby from a now dead woman that had been screaming about ‘it’ being a demon should not be one of them.

꒰ warnings ꒱ blood & gore, possessive behavior, death, violence, swearing, child endangerment & exploitation, and kidnapping.

꒰ author's note ꒱ this is my first series in general so any comments regarding it (or dm’s) are appreciated and encouraged! I would love to hear you guys' thoughts on it

CHAPTER NAVIGATION

PROLOGUE —villain and violent, infant and innocent

Being friendly with those who lived nearby in your apartment building can come in handy especially while living outside of campus; this is highly recommended if you also have a roommate. Until a nice weekend at the house in the beach ends up with a three dead bodies, a roommate in a cult and — a demon baby?

CHAPTER 1 — lord give me one last chance!

It was as if the world was against you. Your bad luck truly couldn’t get any worse — but at least you didn’t have to deal with the political fallout of a missing heir in an unknown realm! That doesn’t sound like something you’d have to worry about.

CHAPTER 2 — dogs days are over

Leaving the baby at the police station should have been the end of your wild weekend. It wasn't. In fact, everything was just about to get a little worse and a little more cruel. At least you had the baby to keep you company.

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

divider by cafekitsune(tumblr)

[grimm-writings]

HIIII i LOVE your blog!! could i request a bard reader performing a song in front of the party, and it slowly dawns upon chilchuck that the song is about loving him? 🥺

a way with words

…ft! chilchuck x gn! reader

…tags! fluff, reader is a bit of a poetic shit <3, reader plays a string instrument (envisioned a lute or mandolin but i don’t specify!)

…wc! 1092

…notes! OH MY GODDDD this is so cute. what the hell. we need more bard representation in this got damn dungeon. (i know thistle could technically be one but one in a party i beg)

To me, some parties employ a bard if they plan on going on ‘legendary’ outings into dungeons.

Somebody needs to be there to document their exploits through the written word – how else are legends made?!

You probably stumbled on the party with the intent to write a song of legend.  Eating the dragon that ate one of you sounds pretty legendary after all, right?

Safe to say if you’re not exactly humble about your profession you get on the nerves of a certain union man.

Even if your reason for joining the party was… less than virtuous, you did bring a certain joy to the party that they all appreciate.

If journeying is getting tiring, all you need to do is pluck a few strings of your instrument and hum a travelling song.

Sometimes you’d make a little ‘game’ out of it.  You know using the drunken sailor melody to make your own songs?  Well…

“What shall we do with a big red dragon, earl-ye in the morning!”  Your voice rings out, bouncing off the walls of the dungeon around you.  You eye the party around you before your gaze lands on the half-foot seeming disinterested in your performance. Well, that simply won’t do! You lunge, dragging him back by the shoulders, eyeing him expectantly.  He only gives you a wide-eyed look of surprise for a second before realising everyone is watching.  He’d hate to interrupt the song, so… “Tie it down and eat it for dinner?” he suggests, only guessing the rhythm vaguely.  To his surprise, you seem to really like it.  You laugh and pick up the music once more to sing his lyric once again. He has to admit, at least you’re having fun.  He doesn’t realise until you reach a stop that he’s been singing along at the end.

I imagine half-foots have a cultural appreciation for music.  It’s a big scene!  They have drinking songs, travelling songs, work songs…  I wouldn’t be surprised if most bards are half-foots!

And Chilchuck is no exception.  Have you seen his little jig?  Of course he likes music!

He has great hearing so he’ll also pick up on little accents in your music and singing others wouldn’t really get.

If you’re performing a campfire song, Chilchuck will likely join in (especially if he had a bit of drink).

It’s nice.  He seemed to be relaxing around you, and you seem to be becoming more of a friend to the party rather than a glorified biographer.

You have to admit that the half-foot has been growing you a considerable amount.  What a complex individual.  So much to read into and inspire… 

It would be one night when you’re on night watch that Chilchuck’s sensitive ears end up waking him up. ..

The half-foot was going to hiss and complain about you being too loud at this time in the night, when he realises you’re playing a melody and mumbling words to yourself. …Huh.  Are you writing a song?  Chilchuck tries to remain still with his eyes closed and listens closely.  It’s handy having such keen senses sometimes. He could only pick up a few words; brown, warmth… something about a kind soul? Chilchuck figures you might be setting up for the party’s “legendary” song.  Maybe you’re focusing on Falin.  Her hair is a very pale brown, and she’s a kind soul if a bit of a people pleaser. He rests easy, listening to your gentle plucking of your strings.  It’s a different melody from usual… he likes your softer side he can identify through your music.

He never tells you he listened to your little jam sesh.  If you knew he’s using your music as a way to fall asleep easier…  He can see your smug smile now, and it makes him endlessly frustrated (or flustered rather).

Chilchuck’s feelings are something he never really… knew.  They just sort of existed, and he let them.  It’s not like anything will happen.

Sure, he gets more red in the face around you… and MAYBE he gets a softer look in his eyes as he looks at you… and perhaps he thinks your singing voice is one of the prettiest sounds he has ever heard…

So what?

It’s a colder night when you take out your instrument and announce you finished writing a song.  It took you a long time to complete it, you admit, but you put a lot of heart into it.

A unique starter, the party might think.  Usually you write for fun.  Specifying putting heart into your music is something that rings an alarm in their heads.

You start playing a melody.  It’s a type of sombre, deep sound.  It resonates a less folksy mood and something more… personal. With eyes closed, you don’t notice Chilchuck perking up in familiarity.  That’s the tune he heard you playing weeks ago.  You only just refined it?  At least he can actually hear what the words are. Your eyebrows are furrowed as you sing about a character that has a kind soul, with deep brown eyes.  His warmth is something that you find yourself wanting to bathe in once a journey ends.  Chilchuck listens with a small smile. It’s only when you start mentioning things like silver strands of hair you wish to weave through your fingers, things start to fall into place.  Wringing his hands too often for a well-prepared man is a lyric that is too specific to merely be about some fictional character. He doesn’t say anything even as he joins in the applause at your finished peace, pretending the heat in his cheeks is from the frosty temperature.

That night, he catches you alone refilling your waterskin.  The atmosphere is thick with a kind of calmness.

Where Chilchuck is usually so stubborn, he finds the words escaping his lips in a soft voice.

“Are you in love with me?”  You don’t respond instantly.  He expected as such.  He follows your form with his eyes as you widen your eyes and glance away with a small laugh. “Wow.  Wasn’t as subtle as I thought,” you dryly tack onto your chuckle. He laughs along, approaching you.  He doesn’t do anything drastic, instead offering his own to you. “It’s okay,” he tells you, surprised at his own lack of embarrassment despite the situation.  “The fact you notice all that about me is… flattering.  You really have a way with words.” You return the grin he gives you and take his hand, squeezing it. “How could I not notice, when you are my intimate muse?”

[bignosebaby]

You know her

This little ape is pretty iconic on tumblr, having a niche popularity as a meme from the "and me" post that is around ten years old! That's a long time for this mysterious (and cute) face to circulate.

I get a decent amount of people both in real life and online asking me about her, which makes sense because as a big advocate for primate welfare I can tell you the golden rule is primates are not pets and should not be kept in domestic human contexts. People attuned to the inherent cruelty of keeping primates as pets and raising apes like human children are wary of images like this, because that is exactly what it looks like.

Good news! This baby (as with all babies with Silver Tree Nursery watermarks) is completely fine. Because she's a doll.

Many people know about reborn dolls-- The hyper-realistic baby dolls that look and feel like the real thing-- but not everyone knows that there are also ape reborn dolls. Silver Tree Nursery is a (now defunct) Facebook page for an artist named Gemma who painted and customized reborn dolls and specialized in apes. The artist behind this doll has done several orangutans as well as some gorillas and chimps. While the iconic "and me" model above is a little too cutesy to be perfectly realistic, some of her work is so realistic that it would fool me (if not for the handy watermark). Here are some more shots of this doll:

And some of the other apes she has done:

I'm not the first person to post this-- while searching for more pictures I found this tumblr post which seems to have been the big reveal for most people that these are dolls. However, I thought I would tackle 2 follow up questions:

Are these dolls ethical?

Well, yeah. Some might ask if these dolls encourage the idea that this is an acceptable way to treat primates, but personally I think that the very small community of primate doll enthusiasts is a non-issue especially when you consider the impact of social media accounts that promote actual primates being kept as pets and treated like babies. Frankly if you want to snuggle a baby ape this would be the only way to do it (short of working as a surrogate caretaker for orphaned wildlife) without seriously contravening the endangered species act. Still, being vigilant against primate exploitation content is important, so:

How can you tell the difference between super realistic dolls and real primates?

In this case it was as easy as following the watermark. Googling Silver Tree Nursery brings up the Facebook page of the artist who makes the dolls. In general, sourcing is everything. If you know where an image comes from you can determine what the larger context is and whether what is happening is good. Here's an example:

Is this a reborn doll or a real baby? The framing makes it look very similar to the Silver Tree dolls with the stuffed animal and baby blanket, but if you were to reverse Google image search the picture you would find out that this is Yakini, a gorilla from the Werribee Zoo when he was a baby in 1999. Reverse searching is your friend, and it only takes a minute.

[theoutcastrogue]

A point about Silco's politics.

Silco somehow did the "nationalist noble" thing by reversing cause and effect. Traditionally, the local nobility (or the bigshots in any case, elders, landowners, rich fucks, warrior aristocracy, whatever's handy) of a subjugated region will happily champion nationalism in order to get rid of the overlords and rule in their place, while convincing the lower classes (and themselves, if they're not very smart and/or cynical) that they're on the same side.

Silco became the bigshot (heartwarming rags-to-riches story!) in order to champion nationalism. Obsessed with achieving power by any means, he used shimmer (and Vander's elimination) to establish the Chembarons [*] as the closest thing Zaun has to a local ruling class, separate from their Piltie overlords. Of course, it was more a mafia than a government – not that these two function that differently.

However, by viewing power as the necessary stepping stone to Zaun's independence, Silco completely lost the ball. Shimmer could have been a weapon, to be tactically employed in the veins of people who actually wanted to fight Piltover. Still extremely shady tbh, but clear in purpose. But that would require getting people to want to fight Piltover, and Silco seems to have… neglected that. Instead, he flooded the streets of Zaun with shimmer, the very place he was supposed to liberate, causing a hideous addiction epidemic (fastest way to kill a social movement btw), and only cared to weaponise it to wrestle more power for himself from other Zaunites. NOT from Piltover.

So something went extremely wrong there, and Silco ended up "an industrialist". The local strongman, the little big man, The Man, the Boss, the one the lower classes dread. For Ekko (whose assessments matter VERY much), he's the No 1 enemy and biggest threat to the well-being of his people, not because he's more powerful than the Council, but because he's closer, getting his hands dirty every hour at every corner. Whereas Piltover's systemic exploitation works from afar and in the background, and is often experienced as neglect rather than assault.

And THEN, Silco got to negotiate on behalf of Zaun because the Council went to him, after Jinx caused mayhem on her own. Jayce came waving a white flag, because he was also acting unilaterally. In short, through NONE of Silco's doing, Zaun's independence fell on his lap. And ironically he couldn't take it, because the price was his daughter.

Fantastic character btw (the depth, the pathos, the total lack of qualms) but damn. Some nationalist. Some liberator.

[*] It's unclear to me why there are several Chembarons when shimmer was basically commissioned by Silco, and therefore could be controlled solely by him. Did the others reverse-engineer it? Did he share? Did he need their facilities after his lab blew up? No idea.

[studentinpursuitofclouds]

hello can I request? Different headcanons for sdv and sve and rsv who are not human and wizards (and Jio) reacting to the farmer being a reincarnation for some powerful figures in the past because to be honest the farmer is not human either the farmer is some kind of Eldritch horror or something special for anybody to figure out while not knowing it, I just think there are some instances that they see those reincarnations maybe behind the farmer sometime or maybe in the reflection of the mirror or any shiny surfaces wearing armor or wearing beautiful clothes and staring at them.

(I hope you have a wonderful day).

Sure thing! Hope I understood your ask correctly cos I was a little confused. Thanks for your ask, dear anon, and have a great day too!

_________________________________________

Long ago, a fearless hero called the Ebonite Fang walked the earth. A master of sword and magic, they were so strong and powerful that they were attributed to a demigod or even the reincarnation of Yoba, who answered people's pleas for help. But beyond their incredible abilities, the hero was renowned for their kind heart: wherever they went, peace, order and prosperity ensued.

Legend says, the last time Ebonite Fang was seen on the battlefield with a huge monster that intended to destroy all life. The monster was defeated, but the hero was lost. Only the armour was found, but not the warrior themself, neither alive nor dead. Many of those who know of the great hero's exploits still wonder what happened to them. Some think that having been reborn, Ebonite Fang will return once again, when the world is threatened once more.

It's been a few hundred years now, and everyone has already started to forget about the hero, thinking more like a fairy tale...

Until now.

In an effort to save their friends and other mages from the trap of the monster, Apophis, Farmer raised up their blade and struck the monster dead. And then the rescued mages saw.... Behind Farmer stood a huge misty figure, five metres tall, clad in ebonite armour. The very same missing hero, Ebonite Fang.

_________________________________________

Jadu, still shocked at what had happened, immediately called an emergency meeting with Camilla and the senior members of the Ministry if Magic. The main wizards thought that young Jadu was just feverish from the desert heat and that it was all a delusion, but in view of their observations of Farmer's abilities, it was no longer a delusion. While the Ministry is sorting things out, Jadu drinks a soothing tea, not knowing how to address Farmer now. He hopes he hasn't caused them any trouble, considering they saved his life.

No one has ever seen Camilla so serious before. Jokes aside, for there is direct evidence that Farmer is the reincarnation of Ebonite Fang. Something even the ever-playful Castle Village witch wouldn't leave without proper supervision. Camilla, on the other hand, wouldn't be so serious in front of Farmer and would try to lighten things up with jokes. Reincarnation or not, she would like to protect Farmer from the stress that the Ministry is sure to put on them due to all these events. But she is also... very intrigued. Such power will come in handy to Castle Village, for sure.

Naturally, Magnus was told by Camilla this shocking news, as he was responsible for the safety of the Valley's inhabitants. The wizard was speechless for a good ten minutes. Although.... that would explain why, when Magnus had tried to find out about Farmer's past earlier, his crystal balls had either faded or exploded, refusing to reveal anything. Well, the Ministry must know about who Farmer is, but he feels sorry for his confused friend and apprentice being dragged into all of this. Rasmodius hopes it won't come to their isolation.

Krobus squirmed a little when even he got the news (Marlon and Magnus had told him). The Shadow person could never explain why they felt a slight unease when Farmer came to visit him, after all they were always kind, polite and patient, and brought so many nice gifts. Now Krobus realised... Ebonite Fang may have been a hero to many, but they instilled fear in the souls of the shadow folks. There was a conflict, and Krobus could understand the humans, for then his people had made the wrong choices. But... Slaughtering so many... Krobus knows this, in all the bodies of the shadow people remember this entity, that practically brought the shadow people to the brink of extinction, besides the dwarves. It wasn't the happiest of times, but... Maybe Farmer isn't like that at all? You can see that they don't wish Krobus and others any harm.

Mr. Aguar, listening to Rasmodius, at first thought that his purple-haired friend had made a very bad joke, but realising the seriousness of the words he was simply... amazed? How on earth could this farmer be the reincarnation of a hero from the legends? Aguar himself did not sense any great source of magic in them. Strange, hmm... Maybe- no, experimenting on Farmer was a bad idea. If they really were the rebirth of Ebonite Fang, experimenting with their magic could destroy the entire valley, which the former wizard didn't want to happen. And Magnus would be angry.

The news quickly spread even as far as the Cult's hideout, and Jio was dumbfounded by the rumours. Usually the elf was sceptical of this kind of information without proper verification, but here it was a matter of personal experience. So... that fleeting vision that Jio's keen eye didn't miss..... Ebonite Fang was renowned for their exploits among the elven who still live today, too. But that was one entity, this farmer was something else entirely. They may have the strength of a hero, but there may be other motives, so Jio will be watching closely.

'Farmer was turning out to be really special', Belinda thought. She looked questioningly at her beloved Raeriyala, figuring that the forest spirit of the Ridgeside must know something, something that the Cult leader herself was unable to see, hear or feel in Farmer. And Rae's slightly flattened ears confirmed the shocked Belinda's words. Rae didn't quite know, to be completely honest, but she guessed, as some things were even beyond her abilities. But as a great hero of that time, Farmer has a good heart, and there is no need to worry about them.

[litmot-archived]

People Pleasing's Never Good For Your Health

Asirel Cain x Reader

Asirel forgets to feed you.

Warnings: talk of starvation

Asirel, while being the kindest human you had encountered in a while, certainly was not the nicest. He was cold, calculating and gave you the impression that — despite saying otherwise — he wanted to earn your trust and good grace only to exploit you further down the road. 

In his line of business, the selfishness he exuded certainly came in handy. At least, that was what you assumed based on the cryptic allusions he had made about it. It had not been easy to understand what your new occupation for him would entail since he was adamant about evading all your questions about himself, his life, and his work.

You accepted without hesitation regardless, jumping at the prospect of getting out of the chains digging into your skin, shackling you to the wall, and escaping the underground cell you had been placed in. There had been so little stimuli for your heightened senses during your time of captivity that with every passing day, it felt more and more like you were losing your mind, another piece of you chiseled away by the darkness and loneliness and quiet.

It was different with Asirel. 

The mansion you were staying in was large and, despite Asirel’s obvious trust issues, had various people rushing in and out throughout the day. Not that you minded the commotion they caused. On the contrary, the sound of them going about their work made you feel calm. The smell they brought with them, their occasional touch when they brushed you in the hallway, made you slowly leave the rotten cage behind, which had shackled you for so long, and start feeling alive again.

Due to Asirel being so closed off, however, he did not exactly specify what you could and couldn’t do now that you were officially his, well, pet, and you did not want to risk upsetting him so soon into your collaboration. 

What he had asked of you was not difficult to achieve, honestly. Watching over him, protecting him from some humans that might want to one-up him sometime in the future: no problem at all. You could snap all his assailants like a twig. Asirel was perfectly safe with you.

Standing in the kitchen now, the cook behind the kitchen aisle happily chatting to you about their two cats while slicing bread, the thought hit you that this was the happiest you had been in a long while. 

You had your own room, which you could leave at your own volition to roam around the house and interact with people who, surprisingly, did not treat you like a monster or some creature to be afraid of. Of course, there was the occasional employee who would duck their head and find the most absurd excuse to leave the room when you entered, but they were oddly rare. Most of the staff, especially the cook, seemed mildly intrigued by you, treating you as just another part of their uncommon lives. 

It was all rather charming, if not for a very substantial issue you did not know how to raise with Asirel: he had not let you feed in what felt like ages.

Vampires did not need to feed as often as humans did, so much was true, but at least once a week would be nice. Once every two weeks would also be acceptable if Asirel could only arrange for that much, but it had been a month since he had taken you in and ever since giving you his blood while you were still in your cell, shackled to the wall, he had not opened his veins again for you. That was a considerable time to go without fresh blood, and you had started to feel light-headed, occasionally having a spike of agony rise deep within you at being starved. Again.

You had been given next to nothing to eat during your captivity as a way to keep you weak and pliable for your capturers, but now, being tasked with protecting someone, you bitterly wondered how exactly you were supposed to do that efficiently and to the best of your abilities if Asirel did not give you enough to eat to restore your full potential. 

A part of you wondered if he was doing it on purpose, keeping you weak because he did not trust you. Maybe he was afraid of what you would do, of what you could do if you wished, both to him and all the people in his care. But that would be unreasonable. Why get you in the first place, then? What use was a weak vampire? How would they protect him, when they themself were a potential threat if they lost their senses from sheer hunger?

More probable was the thought that Asirel simply did not know better. Of course, he had seemingly dealt with vampires and other beings for a long time during his career, but that did not mean he knew their requirements regarding the quantity of food they needed. 

You had wanted to bring it up, but the unreasonable part of yourself — the mistrustful one — held onto the thought that he knew exactly what he was doing, and did not want you to feed for whatever reason. To keep you weak. To test you and find out how far he could push you until you caved.

You did not dare to ask him for blood he would not give of his own accord, which left you here, leaning against the wall of the kitchen and trying to follow along to Tay’s words as best as you could to distract you from the hunger eating you up from the inside. 

“I know you’ve probably seen a lot of places,” they said, drying the salad leaves, “and I envy you for that. I’ve always wanted to go to Europe. Just imagine the beaches of the Mediterranean. Or the fog slowly creeping around the trees of the German Schwarzwald!”

“Why have you never gone, then?” you asked, eyeing the half-finished sandwich with disdain, “I’ve got some connections, I believe. If you want, I could inquire about the best places to visit.”

Tay blushed, stuttering out a quick thank you before declining the offer. “I mean, this job pays very well. That’s not the issue. I’m just thinking about going on this trip when I get married, like on a honeymoon,” they said, breaking into a beaming grin that would outshine the sun, “but I don’t think my fianceé’s ready yet. I’ll just wait. The Schwarzwald is not going anywhere. Besides, I have the two fur balls to look over, and I— damn!”

The scent of blood hit you an instant before Tay’s hiss of pain did. You inhaled sharply, mouth-watering, and muscles seizing at the acute reminder that food was within your grasp if you only dared to reach for it. 

Mistaking your intake of breath for a gasp of worry, Tay reassured you quickly, cleaning their bleeding finger under the faucet before wrapping it in a tissue, “I’m fine really. I was distracted by the trees and my knife slipped. Nothing to worry about, I assure you.” 

They turned around, shooting you a smile meant to be comforting, oblivious to your predicament. Distantly, you thought that they must have forgotten that you were a vampire, or they trusted you so much not to be afraid to bleed near you since they assumed you had yourself under complete control. You were not sure which of those answers made your heart ache more.

The feeling of hunger was only increasing, and no matter how much you tried to distract yourself by pushing your back further against the wall, you could feel the tread of your control slowly wearing down. You would snap any moment now. “Leave,” you bit out through gritted teeth, the confused tilt of Tay’s head only furthering your irritation, “Leave the room. I’m serious.”

“But I—” they began hesitantly, looking at you with wide eyes that shone with something akin to hurt, “I have not finished my work yet.”

You could no longer contain yourself, rushing towards them with unnatural speed. The smell of blood was all you could focus on, and it was so close you could almost taste the liquid in your mouth. It did not matter that it was Tay bleeding; the person who had opened up to you immediately and tried their hardest to make you feel comfortable in your new environment. It did not matter because the prospect of feeding after being denied for so long was just so intoxicating that it numbed your mind, letting your primal instincts take over. 

“And pet,” Asirel had said after giving you a short tour of the house and introducing you to those under his care who worked in it regularly, “if you hurt any one of my employees, I’ll stick you back in a cage you will never get out of. Do I make myself clear?”

You braced yourself against the kitchen aisle at the last instant, gripping it with strength so crushing you wondered why it did not splinter under your hands. Tay had taken a hurried step back, their back hitting the counter and their hands raised as if trying to fend you off. 

“Leave!” you growled again, closing your eyes to focus on your breathing and drown out the sound of the erratic heartbeat — pumping fresh, delicious blood in abundance — on the other side of the room.

“What is going on here?” Asirel’s sharp voice cut through the haze in your mind, the thought of blood momentarily forgotten as a sense of dread overcame you. “What did you do?” he hissed angrily, moving to stand beside you as if waiting, daring you to move and attack.

You looked up to Tay, who was still standing as far away from you as they could, frozen in shock and fear. Their wide eyes and rigid posture made your heart break. ‘A monster,’ you could see it reflected in their gaze on you, ‘I was befriending a monster.’

“I—” your voice caught on the first syllable. 

“It’s my fault, really,” Tay said quietly, a forced smile appearing on their face, “I was careless, cutting myself in the kitchen. They just—”

Asirel raised a hand, making them fall silent. “I told you to behave,” he said, his tone of voice turning his words into a threat. 

It made you bristle. Still refusing to look at him, you kept your gaze on the sandwich on the counter. The image of food reminded you of the pain cursing through you, the pain he was responsible for. The rage suddenly twisting sharply inside you forced you to take a steadying breath. “It would be easier to behave,” you snapped with as much venom as you could muster, “if you were not starving me!”

A part of you had expected Asirel to laugh at that, perhaps to mock you about how easy you were to break — at how pathetic it was that you were not brave enough to take what you needed for yourself — but he did not. The suffocating silence engulfing the room instead made your skin crawl with anticipation and uncertainty. 

Clearing his throat, Asirel began to speak. “Tay,” he said calmly, but you could hear the underlying tremor in his voice, “Leave. Take a break, it’s alright.”

For a moment, it looked like they wanted to protest or say something, but a single look from Asirel made them swallow their words. They ducked their head and exited the kitchen, leaving the two of you alone together. 

“I did not mean to snap at you,” you apologized in a whisper, but Asirel was not paying you any attention. He was busy removing his suit jacket and rolling up his left sleeve. You glanced at him, a frown on your face. “What are you doing?”

Asirel chuckled humorlessly. “What, you tell me I am starving you and expect me to just move on from that? I know you haven’t known me long, but I would have thought that you at least had some vague idea about the person I am. Now come on” — he held his arm out towards you — “drink. I know you want to, pet. You need to.”

He was right. But the overwhelming need to feed was exactly why you were hesitant to do so. You did not know how far you would go once you tasted blood, and you did not want to risk draining Asirel. “I—” you stuttered, as he kept looking at you expectantly, “I��m afraid I won’t stop.”

“I trust you,” he said without hesitation, “Come on now, I can see you’re fighting to restrain yourself. Give in, it’s alright.” Asirel stepped closer to you, making you fight the urge to take a step back. His heartbeat was even louder now, drowning out everything else. “I give you permission.”

Your resolve broke. Slowly at first, you began feeding, but the sweet taste of his blood in your mouth made you crave more and more. It had been so long that you could not help yourself now, finally allowed to satiate your hunger. 

The soft grunts and hisses from Asirel barely registered as you continued, oblivious to everything but the satisfaction of finding relief. “Right,” he said hoarsely, “That’s enough for now.” You did not stop, too caught up in the bliss to notice his words. “Pet?” Asirel brought his free hand up to tread through your hair, pulling slightly to get you to release his arm. 

With a herculean effort, you let go of him. “Pardon,” you mumbled, licking your lips to savor every last drop of his blood. Admittedly, you felt a lot better. The pain tearing at you had subsided, and you could feel renewed energy flowing through you. 

When you looked back at Asirel, you found him leaning heavily against the counter, trying to catch his breath. He looked pale. A thin layer of sweat had appeared on his forehead and his hands shook as he tried to loosen his tie. “I just need a moment,” he said weakly, and you could see him swaying where he stood. “Just a moment, and then you can keep—”

You pulled up a chair from the kitchen table, grabbing his arm to keep him from falling as you helped him sit down. “Did I take too much?” you asked, narrowing your eyes as you undid his tie and opened the first button of his dress shirt. With quick steps, you walked around the kitchen aisle and grabbed the sandwich Tay prepared, bringing it to Asirel. 

“No, not at all,” he answered quickly, eyeing the food. “I have just had something to eat. I’m fine.” 

You kneeled, catching his gaze. “Asirel, I need you to be honest with me on this, please,” you said firmly, and the  seriousness and gravity of your voice made him pause, “Did I take too much?” The burning intensity of your eyes entranced and confused him in equal measures, making him forget that you had not called him by his preferred title.

He considered your question for a moment, holding eye contact. “No,” he said with confidence, “You did not. It was fine, pet. Don’t worry.”

His response made you breathe a quiet sigh of relief. “Good,” you whispered to yourself. Asirel’s fingers running slowly through your hair brought you back to the present, raising your eyes to look at his somber expression. “Eat, please. You need the energy after the blood I took from you.”

“Why didn’t you say something?” he asked instead, continuing to play with your hair. You looked away, unable to meet his piercing gaze, but he stopped you, tilting your chin up with the fingers of his free hand. “Don’t look away from me, pet. Why did you not tell me you were suffering?” 

“It was not a priority,” you said quietly, “and you seemed to be versed enough with vampires that I assumed you knew what you were doing, so what use was there in reminding you?”

For a moment, Asirel’s gaze softened. His expression turned from his usual mask of being entirely in control of a situation into one of anguish and guilt. He opened his mouth to say something but thought better of it. He exhaled slowly, and the hard look in his eyes returned a moment later. “From now on, tell me,” he said, taking a bite of the sandwich, “I can help.”

[zahri-melitor]

Newish Comics - 15 May 2025

Absolute Flash #2: Designwise this remains exquisite. I love how they’re doing lightning in this book. The way Tom Napolitano is layering the text boxes for Wally is so clever and adds considerably to the mood and feeling of confusion and distraction. And the reinterpretations of various characters has a lot of solid thought behind it (Grodd? GRODD!) I love that our Wally here still does have a connection to Barry, one he doesn’t fully understand, and that he’s currently unmooring from time a little. Poor baby speedster, nobody to teach him how it works.

It’s just really really fascinating to see a reinterpretation of all of Flash lore like this, with all of Flash lore, given how much depth is Speed Force weirdness is being acknowledged here.

Detective Comics #1096: and this storyline ties off. It’s…fine. I could do with a lot less characters knowing Bruce is Batman, which I do not think added to the story. (It has been a handy backroute for people to point to for why Bruce’s aches and pains from being Batman aren’t causing him problems, but even there Taylor didn’t bother to follow through and point to the obvious out he built into the story).

I think the most tiring thing is that Taylor is literally the only person really holding the line of putting Babs into a Batgirl costume now. It was completely unnecessary and disruptive in this story, too – it would have made far more sense for Babs to just be at her desk as Oracle, directing people, with no change to the plot. Indeed, she would have been more effective in her role if she wasn’t in the field.

Do not get me wrong, I am still incredibly thankful for Taylor’s work actually getting Babs back into proper plots, and his characterisation is not nearly as bad as other people say, but he needs to give this a rest. His initial use of Babs in Nightwing was in a purely Oracle-like role, so I just don’t get the backsliding!

The New Gods #5: I definitely still am not enough across New Gods mythology to follow everything going on here, but I’m enjoying this being the title where I’m constantly lost about what is going on. And I definitely still appreciate how many gorgeous artists this run is showcasing alongside Cagle to give depth and vibrancy to the story.

Nightwing #125: Pulling in Francesco Francavilla to illustrate a Nightwing story specifically focused on policing failures, and with a villain with the design of Captain Hallow? Perfect choice. This is another of those brilliant art and story marriages that DC’s been pulling off recently. Francavilla is most famous among DC fans for his work on Snyder’s Dick!Batman run specifically, and the instant I saw those lines and colours I flipped back to the cover to confirm it was the man himself. And because that reference is going to be pretty well known among Dick Grayson fans reading Nightwing, it adds extra depth and haunting to the tale we get here, because there are a bunch of clear parallels to draw. And the story we get is of the Blüdhaven police department continuing to come apart at the seams, with discussions of what may make someone a good cop but a bad person. (It really leans into proceduralism and the downfalls of understanding the exact line of the rules to exploit them).

Just…ugh, all the choices made here are so very good, and DC deserves praise for the way they’ve put this team together.

Zatanna #3: We got dreamscape versions of both Katherine Karlos! This is I think the first time Katherine, Basil’s daughter/aspect, has appeared outside of Gotham Academy storylines? And it’s a great direction to pull her in; a lot more creepy and acknowledging of how she’s at heart a creation more than a person (which: not the only Clayface to have that problem; Cassius Payne also has aspects of this from his parents being Sondra and Preston).

Zee is having a very bad time this issue. I enjoyed that one of the hints that she was trapped in someone else’s projection was Bruce simply being the public persona of Bruce. And as I say every issue, I’m enjoying that the title is using a lot of magic users as supporting cast. Lift one lift all!

The Warlord Annual #4: This week in Skartaris the Evil One takes over a simian body and wrecks havoc! Also Travis and Jennifer go to visit the secret underwater kingdom of the Keepers, who protect the weapons of heroes.

Yeah, they've got Excalibur.

Travis fights the king of the undead to get the Hellfire Sword back. This was an evil sword he threw away about 50 issues back as it was feeding on blood and life force, but now it's the only weapon able to destroy the Evil One, so they need it again!

Travis wins the sword, and the sword claims him and binds itself to his bloodline.

(mysterious underwater witch ladies warning Travis about how dangerous the sword is)

Travis goes beserk hunting down the Evil One, Joshua sneaks after them trying to rescue a friend of his, and finds Travis and the Evil One facing off, with Travis injured. Joshua takes up the Hellfire Sword and...stabs the Evil One!

Oh look! One of Travis' heirs has just used this specially-bonded-to-him sword!

Jennifer finally, finally starts to clue into the fact that Joshua is her brother (she's here too) but isn't certain so decides to keep it a secret for now.

And Joshua runs off, distraught over killing.

Welcome to Skartaris.

[andmaybegayer]

Last Monday of the Week 2025-05-12

So much movie

FORGOT TO POST THIS LAST NIGHT BLEGH

Listening: Podcast that I'm not endorsing but that I have started; Not So Quiet on the Western Front, a WWI podcast that at least starts as "Discussion of various battles, mostly English" but looks like it broadens out later.

My like, individual moment to moment knowledge of WWI is pretty bad, so I thought this would be fun.

Reading: Red Mars, I love Nadia with all my heart.

Every few months I end up reading a bunch of USB spec summaries in order to make sense of some bizarre bullshit I'm trying to do on my computer. This time around I found this handy series on USB

USB is not an exceedingly complicated protocol but it has a lot of distinct modes it can operate in and each mode uses the different transports available to it for different things. You will never want to read the word "isochronous" ever again.

Playing: More Skin Deep, currently stuck on I think the one after the mining vessel? Early Skin Deep levels do not ask you to really master your equipment because you can usually just stun pirates and bash them into things. Later levels add more and more elite pirates who can't be bashed, forcing you into cleverer and cleverer approaches.

The other thing about elite pirates is that they have rocket launchers instead of guns so my favourite trick (create a flammable cloud and trick a pirate into shooting at me from inside it so they explode) doesn't work reliably.

In general the later missions change from "action stealth" to "stealth puzzle" as your resources get more constrained and the lethality of the pirates rises. There's also more missions that put you up against very specific limits, like making the only way between parts of the ship early on be through trash chutes. I think I'm going to have to start not killing every pirate.

Watching: Conclave, on account of the situation. It's a good looking movie! It's an effective location to set a drama/thriller in! It spins up a lot of plot threads and discards them to make you go "would that be fucked up or what?" which I think lands for such an insular group, like, do we actually care if one of them murdered the pope? Maybe! But ultimately one of them has to be the pope at the end so we have to solve this first.

Also Fast & Furious 6, as part of the ongoing Watch Through. Book report to follow, but this one ain't a heist movie! It's the opposite of a heist. They can't keep getting away with it (changing genre every movie)

Making: Prints around the house again, this time trying to figure out how to mount a microphone and tablet near my desk. I have discovered that tablet in question has a set of astoundingly strong magnets that allow it to basically stick to any steel surface so I might try and exploit that. Still trying to figure out if it's possible to print a half-decent shock mount but I might have to actually use elastic bands at some point.

Tools and Equipment: I have had a box of powdered milk kicking around because I needed some for a bread thing and I have been using it mostly to make tea and occasionally cereal. It's okay! You can just toss a spoonful straight into some breakfast tea and it'll do the thing! Bviously this is not novel, this is the whole reason condensed milks and powdered milks exist (other than for industrial applications) but it is pretty good at it. If you're like me and basically go through dairy milk at a liter every month or so, powdered milk is a good way to keep it on hand without having to buy those tiny bottles. Do try and get full fat powdered milk though I had to get part-skim for this because it was the only one they had and what's the point really.

[greenhorn-art]

Prince of Shadows, Lord of Thieves by alkat

Fandom: The King's Avatar | 全职高手

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Category: Gen

Words: 1 929

Once upon a time, their exploits were immortalized by artists and writers across the tapestry of history. Once upon a time, they were worshipped as gods and reviled as demons. None of that stopped the Met from stealing all their shit.

About the Book

FONTS: Alegreya [Google Fonts], Lato [Google Fonts]

IMAGES: all art made by myself @greenhorn-art for this fic

MATERIALS: regular ol' printer paper (8.5"x11", 20lb, 96 bright); ~2-2.5mm binder's board; Neenah cardstock (8.5"x11", 65lb, bright white); Cialux bookcloth (black); waxed linen thread (30/3 size, white); wheat paste (1:4 flour:water); paste wax (from a friend, unknown ingredients&quantities, some kind of wax and turpentine/mineral spirits)

PROGRAMS USED: Affinity Publisher 2; Affinity Designer 2; Bookbinder JS | Renegade's Community Imposer (settings: Quarto, snug against binding edge, custom signatures of 2, 1, 2 sheets).

Text & QR codes printed with colour laser printer (duplex, flip long edge), images printed with inkjet printer. QR codes generated with LibreOffice Writer, snipped, saved, and inserted where needed.

BINDING: quarto (quarter-letter) size, sewn board binding with french link stitch and breakaway spine.

.

So this one all started because the visual of HST's outfit was so fun that I was possessed by a visceral need to draw it. Inspiration slapped me across my mind's eye, and much like a medieval knight being slapped in the face by a glove (which didn't actually happen, that's a myth that sprung from the throwing down of a gauntlet. but that's beside the point), I felt bound to take up the challenge. Which lead me to draw a few more, and then I ended up binding the whole thing.

(Also, I find it really amusing that the famous Terracotta Warriors were just storage for YXs stuff. And the gang going 'shopping' at various exhibits for gifts for friends/family,, like that sure is SOME window shopping! I can hear it now: 'Oooh I'll take one one those SMASH, and that SHATTER, and throw in some of those CRASH, they're going to love these! 😇'. All in all, it was a fun little read, and fun little project! :D)

About the Art

Because this was initially a one-off drawing I tried a new art style (and struggled to at least not stray too far for the rest). It was fun and helped me think more about shape and visual focus, instead of being caught up in the details.

The crow (based off of image ID: 4039963 from Rawpixel) and the red umbrella on the front cover were filled curves made with the pen tool. The illustrations' poses were based off of a combination of images found on Google and photos taken by myself.

Pinterest is awful for sources, but it would have been handy to pin the references I'd googled. Only remembered to save the one of a man sitting at a desk. (I deliberately searched for someone sitting with bad posture because YX is described as being "slumped" over the desk. I figure that since "the laws of physics held no meaning to ["cursed souls eschewed by the natural order"]", they'd also be immune to mundane things like discomfort from sitting hunched over for too long. Back pain images were a gold mine! All I had to do was choose one with lighting that would give me a silhouette.)

The Myriad Manifestations Umbrellas and illustrations were drawn in Procreate.

I opted for a more plain umbrella design because it's not (presumably) a fantastical weapon in this story. Though the initial version did have YX cradling the donghua!MMU.

For the scene breaks I inserted the images, pinned them inline as character, and adjusted height and baseline in the pinning menu to fit.

The author wrote one scene break differently than the others, using multiple empty paragraphs instead of just one. Following suit, I used a different image for that particular break. I wanted to reference vampires somewhere, so for that break I made two bloody spots resembling bite marks. The blood spots were made with a group of shapes in Designer.

On cover design:

Because the MMU is what sparks the whole heist, I wanted it on the front cover.

Earlier iterations involved a full cover spread with a man's shadow standing before a shattered glass case, with a plaque mounted on the wall to the left providing information. The plaque was formatted like a museum label and had the author, date published, title, event collection, and story description. I'd also added a QR code to it. Ultimately, I abandoned the concept because it was difficult to decipher what is was when only looking a one cover at a time.

My second idea for the cover would have been a bookcloth-only cover with a cut-out of the MMU on the front, acting like a window showing off an image of the MMU on paper below it. (Inspired by the work of a number of folks over on Renegade's Discord. Here's a few examples gleaned from a quick search: szynkaaa's lung cutouts, some of EHyde's books, and the front cover of Spock's massive all-in-one TGCF). As fun as that would have been to try out, I felt it didn't quite suit the style of the art so I nixed that too.

Eventually I landed on the back cover design with the Met exhibition webpage. At last, I felt that the back & white and simple-shapes-background went with the artwork. The webpage viewed on the phone is based off of the Met's actual website. I took a snip/screenshot of the Met's logo from the banner at the top, then looked at their exhibitions' pages and eyeballed it to create my own. (Threw in the QR because I wanted the easy access to the fic online on the back cover). I chose to use a phone screen rather than I computer monitor because it worked better composition-wise. And besides, while YX may be allergic to owning a phone, SMC is not. I imagine that she saw the news while on her phone then messaged him.

The front cover came together after that. An umbrella for the MMU, and a pop of red. One of YX's messenger crows. A black shape in the background similar to the back cover's, sort of creating a spotlight over the umbrella and placing the rest of the cover in shadow.

Trying New Things: Applying a protective finish to printed covers

Over on the Renegade Bindery Discord, folks have spoken about using a beeswax & turpentine/mineral spirits 50-50 mix to seal printed covers (thank you Kate). According to my dad that's just a paste wax, so he threw 3 different ones at me and said 'have at it'.

I tested them out using the same paper and inkjet I'll use for the cover. I was looking at 1) whether the paste wax affected the paper colour or print quality, and 2) the finish. After applying one coat each and buffing them out I had my winner. Then I applied & buffed two more coats to it and tested 3) water resistance by dripping tea on it. The liquid beaded up and wiped away without staining -- good, three coats will work nicely.

(Test results: Mystery paste wax from a friend wins.

The commercial SC Johnson Paste Wax Original formula (intended for woodworking) has a nice dry shiny finish, but coloured the paper slightly brown -> disqualified

My dad's homemade stuff has a nice shiny/satin finish and didn't change paper's colour, but it felt slightly tacky even after buffing it -- maybe I didn't buff it enough?

The gifted paste wax has a matte finish, didn't change paper's colour (in the image below this one has 3 coats. The paper is now slightly off-white, but still acceptable), and while not as dry-to-touch as the Johnson it was not as tacky as the other homemade stuff.)

When I print out my quarto covers, I print front and back covers side-by-side on the same page*, with some guides to ensure I'm cutting and gluing in the correct place. (The guides mark the boundaries of the covers and start of the turn-ins, and stop at the edge of where I cut. Before cutting I flip it over to mark the guides [see marks indicated in image below] on the wrong side and connect them so I can see where to glue/place book. Then flip it back over to cut, right side up.)

*I'm being economical here at the cost of possible warping damage. This layout means that I'm only using one sheet of paper, but the grain is running in the wrong direction (across the book instead of preferred head-to-tail/top-bottom). This could cause warping issues, but I'm OK with that. I'm hoping that by just gluing at the edges, instead of pasting down the whole thing, warping will be minimized. (I use wrong-grain endpapers most of the time with larger books anyways).

I applied the paste wax before cutting out the covers, working carefully to avoid accidentally creasing/bending the paper (which happened twice, but it was minimal and I hardly notice it). Doing so before cutting ensured that the cover material was completely covered. Even the turn-ins -- something I later came to regret. After all, wax is used specifically so that things don't stick to it. It made it rather difficult to drum on the endpapers because I was trying to glue something down onto a waxy surface. It all worked out in the end -- perhaps due to the fact that there were multiple layers of wheat paste which could adhere to each other, followed by being squashed in a press.

[realm-sweet-realm]

Her Own Hands, chapter 3: First Contact

After Team Galactic collapses, Mars is desperate enough to return home to her father, Giovanni. She must navigate the politics and grand goals of the Kanto team in order to rescue her former leader… and keep Team Rocket from taking over the world in the meantime.

---

“Alright. I think I’ve got a good sense for your battling style,” Proton declared, his face set in a smug grin as Mars’ purugly had brought down yet another grunt’s raticate. It took everything Mars had not to go over and punch him. Proton had really been putting her through it, which would have been acceptable if he weren’t doing the same to her Pokémon . It could be worse, though. So far, he was only training her to battle better. The way Giovanni had talked about making her crueler, she’d worried that they’d be doing something far worse, like mutilating slowpokes for their tails.

“Heal your team up. Your next opponent is me, doubles, two-on-two.”

Mars gave a resolute nod, and Proton took out his golbat and weezing. Once it was healed, Mars’ purugly ambled back onto the court, and she threw out her bronzor to fight alongside it.

“Hm. Alright. Golbat, crunch. Weezing, sludge bomb!”

“Bronzor, light screen!” Mars countered. 

“Don’t be so kind,” Proton said mockingly as his golbat’s fangs tore into Mars’ purugly. It scratched and struggled but couldn’t break free. The sludge bomb had hit its back by the time Bronzor had put up the screen that might have reduced its power, and by then, Purugly had already taken a lot of damage.

“Bronzor, use reflect!” Mars commanded. “And Purugly, iron claw!”

Purugly finally managed to break free of the bat’s grip and tore back at it with savage claws, but once two more attacks landed on it, it was out. Four was a lot, even with the screens up. From there, it was a battle of attrition that Mars had no hope of winning. Her bronzor absorbed several blows thanks to the light screen and reflect, but it just didn’t have much offense to offer in return. It fainted before either of Proton’s Pokémon went down.

“What was that?” Proton asked as he crossed the arena, arms crossed. Mars had come to loathe Proton’s voice.

“I… I don’t know,” Mars admitted.

“That was fighting like a follower. That’s what that was- Fighting to slow someone down so the boss can get his thing done. If you want to be the boss, you need to fight like one. You need to show some aggression. You’ve already got one good Pokémon in your Purugly. W hy haven’t you evolved your bronzor yet?”

Mars stayed silent. There was a reason for it, but not one Proton would be happy about- she and Jupiter had liked the aesthetic of wielding shields together, of keeping distractions at bay while Cyrus worked at his grand plans. In other words, Proton was exactly right. And Jupiter had evolved her bronzor. She’d moved on faster than her.

“Well, you’re evolving it now. I’ll help you put together a real team. We’ll battle them tomorrow, but first I’m training you in hand-to-hand combat. Maybe getting beat up a little will bring some fire out of you.”

The next few days passed in a blur of sore muscles and sweat. Mars had expected some training or at least testing in hand-to-hand combat- Team Galactic had also drilled into her the importance of never being helpless, even when disarmed- but once Proton was satisfied with her Pokémon team and her knowledge on the basic use and maintenance of weapons, it was almost all he focused on. When Mars asked him why, he answered with, “You’ll see why at the beginning of next week. Giovanni has a surprise for you.”

Just in case the surprise- hopefully the dimension-crossing Mew2.1 she'd read about in the files- would come in handy, Mars practised the art of manipulation over the dinner table, telling Giovanni how much she loved being back, showing enthusiasm for her training and his criminal exploits. Whether or not that helped her chances, she didn’t know, but that Monday, Mars was driven to one of Team Rocket’s labs, sharing the backseat with Giovanni himself.

“Well, Copper, I had my doubts,” Giovanni admitted as he leaned back in the leather seat, “but the executives have had nothing but good things to say about you. By the sounds of things, you’re fitting right in with the best of them.”

“Heh. Well, I wasn’t made a Commander for my good looks and style,” Mars replied, most of her attention on the winding gravel roads they were taking. She wanted to memorize every bit of this in case she wanted to go back on her own.

Giovanni took Mars’ chin in his hand and forced her to look at him. “Hey. Pay attention,” he said, just slightly stern. “I know the view’s nice, but I’ve been waiting for this. It’s time that I showed you a little project that I’m working on.”

The car pulled into what looked like an empty field, and the driver got out with the two and peeled up a turf square to reveal a metal door. Giovanni unlocked it, and the two made their way down the stairs and through a set of brightly lit halls. Their final destination was another heavy-looking steel door that Giovanni used two different keys to unlock.

The room was dark, and filled with steel cords and the small, blinking lights of machines that Mars couldn’t identify. At the center of it all was a containment tube, much like the ones Team Galactic had used for the Lake Guardians. And Giovanni was walking them straight towards it.

“Tell me, what do you see here?” Giovanni asked.

Mars squinted at the oversized beaker. The jelly-like liquid within it was fairly opaque, but even in the dim light, she could make something out. Floating in the fluid lay a creature, its eyes closed as though peacefully asleep and its arms, legs and head curled in, making it look like a fetus the size of a very large man. It looked identical to Mewtwo aside from being a foot or two taller and having what looked like a strange tank on its back, made of metal and black glass.

Mars resisted the urge to ask if the creature was in pain. The failures of the first Mewtwo project had been all over the news, and mistreating the second one sounded like a recipe for another living weapon-gone-rogue. “You remade Mewtwo?” she asked.

“Better,” Giovanni explained. “It’s still delicate since it’s not quite complete yet. But that creature- Mew2.1- has all of Mewtwo’s powers, but no consciousness. We won’t have to bother bending it to our will before using it- we’ll just upload our consciousness into it and go. It’s our perfect weapon with which to take over the world. You’ll use it. Maybe Archer, if you’re unavailable, and if neither of you is available, Ariana. But no one else.”

Mars stared into the tank, trying to figure out how she felt about all that. At least the creature wasn’t hurting, she supposed.

“Like Mewtwo, Mew2.1 has a variety of psychic powers. But those powers take time to learn.” Giovanni pressed a button on the containment tube, causing its fluids to drain out and its cords to come undone, leaving Mew2.1 lying on the ground in a heap. “It’s time to make you the second person to learn them.”

The glass tubing lifted, and Mars approached the creature. It felt odd to be so reverent of what looked like a fragile mass of wet flesh. She didn’t remember Mewtwo looking this fragile when she’d seen it on TV- now that the fluid and cords weren’t holding it upright, it looked halfway between Mewtwo and a ditto.

“Go on, open it up and get in,” Giovanni ordered. A wide smile spread across his face. “This is going to be fun.”

Mars touched the human-sized tube on Mew2.1’s back. “Open… this up?” she asked. Giovanni nodded in response.

Mars pried open the tank. Inside, there was a chair and many mechanical parts Mars couldn’t name. Nervously, she sat in the chair and closed the tube. As soon as the tube clanked shut and blocked out the light, Mars found herself seeing through new eyes- the eyes of the puddle of flesh on the floor. She stood on its fragile legs, now much taller than her father, who was looking up at her with glee.

“How’s it feel?” Giovanni asked. “Do you feel its power?”

No, Mars thought. She felt so weak it was a miracle she was standing. In fact, it would be easier to…

Mew2.1’s feet kicked off the ground. She was floating. Not vey high, but she was floating- and she’d done it with just a thought.

Can you hear me? Mars thought, trying to communicate psychically.

Giovanni groaned and clamped his hands to his ears. “Okay, we’re not doing that today,” he said, grimacing at whatever awful sound had forced itself on his eardrums. “We’ll work on the tougher powers another time. For now, let’s teach you the first ability I learned after floating .” Giovanni stepped forward and cupped Mew2.1’s hand in his own. “God. You’re two things I made. You know, I always thought that if one of you came back to me, it would be Silver. He had a killer instinct that you lost that day when you were ten. But you’re here now, and you’re ready. It would’ve been fun to make you into this, but I suppose I can’t complain that you came back to me. Almost like you came here pre-assembled by Team Galactic, free of charge.”

Mars opened her mouth and quickly realized it wasn’t the right shape for human speech. Good- she had no idea what to say to that.

Giovanni pressed another button, and the metal ceiling opened up above them. He positioned Mew2.1’s hands on his sides and nodded. 

Interpreting her father’s order, Mars tried to will herself through the open ceiling. She was shaky, and ended up going sideways instead of up, dragging Giovanni’s legs on the floor before she found her bearings and soared through the ceiling. Mew2.1’s loose, sensitive skin stung from Giovanni’s tight grip, and once she had landed them in the field above the lab, she tried to pull his hands off.

“Oh, you don’t like that? Fair enough.” Giovanni let go of her. “So. First thing we’re going to test is your ability to transfer your power to the rest of your team. We won’t go too hard tonight. It’s all about trying out what you can do. With that, Giovanni pulled out his persian and his nidoking.

Mars focused on the pokéballs at her human body’s belt and carefully willed them out through the marble-sized holes in the tank and pulled out the two new editions to her team: a lively luxray and a powerful magmortar. She’d wondered why Proton had kept her from choosing a sixth Pokémon, but now she understood: like so many martial artists and psychics in legends and absolutely nobody in any sanctioned tournament, she was going to be her own sixth slot.

“Alright,” Giovanni said as the four Pokémon began to tussle. Now, focus your powers on increasing their stats. One day, you’ll learn to do it while issuing commands.”

Mars did. And it worked, filling her Pokémon with an unnatural aura of strength. It was like using a set-up move, except that it didn't steal attacking time from them.

 At the end of a night full of experimentation with Mew2.1, Mars and Giovanni put Mew2.1 back into its containment and sat in the field under the stars, laughing over their cats’ antics as they waited for their driver to arrive.

“That was fun,” Giovanni said, looking satisfied with how the night had gone. “Maybe next time we can get your communication under control. Then our battles will be like my fights with that kid Red who doesn’t talk much but somehow still has his Pokémon act out humanlike strategies. You remember Red, right?” 

Mars giggled. “You’re still not over him, huh?”

Giovanni sighed wistfully. “Guilty. I wonder where that kid got off to. I’m glad he’s not in my way anymore, but he was a worthy opponent if I ever saw one. Anyhow. It’s too bad Mew2.1 isn’t battle-ready, but a few more weeks of nutrient bath should toughen it up. I didn’t have Proton teach you self-defense for you to never use it.”

“Yeah, can’t wait to wrestle with my team,” Mars said, and she said it earnestly. But there were other, more important things on her mind. “So… any new findings on Mew2.1’s powers?”

“Well, most recently I’ve found that it can travel to other realms just through sheer concentration. But you won’t be doing it for a while. It’s a very difficult skill, and you have enough to learn without worrying about something as trivial as a new way to store stolen goods.”

“You’ve been to other planes of existence? That’s so cool!” Mars gushed. Giovanni hadn’t mentioned the Distortion World, so it was safe to express interest. “Could I… you know, come with you? Learn what goes on in other realms?”

“I’ll let you know if it becomes relevant to you,” Giovanni replied calmly.

Mars nodded. For the rest of the car ride, she wracked her mind for a non-suspicious and non-Team Galactic-related reason to want to go, but unfortunately, she found none. But now she knew where Mew2.1 was stored and that it could indeed go to the Distortion World. She’d just have to take matters into her own hands.

The following night, Mars snuck back to the lab every night after her training. It wasn’t hard. She’d saved the lab’s location on her pokétch, her crobat was strong enough to carry her there, and her bronzong could pick locks with its psychic abilities. Every step of getting back into Mew2.1 went smoothly, but once she did, she wasn’t quite sure what to do next- how to approach the task of breaching the Distortion World.

Dad said he got in just by concentrating, right? Maybe if I just focus really hard…

Mars closed her eyes, tried to block out the glare of lights that permeated Mew2.1’s translucent eyelids and the sounds of buzzing machinery, and concentrated on an image of the Distortion World- its stormy purple skies, the rocky islands floating at odd angles. She imagined herself ascending there, focused so hard that she didn’t even notice the headache building until it reached a breaking point.Suddenly, she felt like she was mentally and almost physically breaking through a brick wall. 

Mars’ eyes snapped open. She was in a strange void, its air a creamy-coloured translucent. In front of her, dim and maybe half a kilometre away, was the oppressive purple of the Distortion World. Mars tried to look back, Mew2.1’s body turning slowly as though the void were filled with liquid honey, and she saw that behind her, through only a foot or so of mist, was the laboratory. She noticed some shattered test tubes on the floor.

I’ll have to clean that up before I go, Mars thought, and suddenly, without warning, she was pulled through that mental brick wall and was standing in the lab again.

From that night on, Mars came to the lab and practised with Mew2.1 every night she could confirm that it would be unoccupied. She practised floating with coordination, telekinesis, teleportation, and creating force fields, but those were mostly as a break. Most of the night was spent in a state that would, from the outside, resemble meditation until she managed to pull herself to the space between realms. Over time, it came quicker. Over time, she could travel faster and further through the thick barrier between realms, getting closer to the Distortion World as she focused her mind not on the strain of her body, but solely on getting across that field. The constant late nights didn’t affect her- not as it should have, anyway- it was as though her body slept while the body of Mew2.1 was awake. Constant awakeness in some form was mentally exhausting but sustainable. She hoped so at least.

Once or twice a week, Giovanni would take Mars to the lab in the evening to practice and experiment on Mew2.1. To not arouse suspicion, Mars would pretend to be less experienced with her powers than she was. Even still, Giovanni took notice of some discrepancies after only a few weeks.

“Hmm… strange,” Giovanni said, looking at the caliper that was squeezing the creature’s arm. “The nutrient bath should have toughened up its skin much more by now. And its muscles are growing faster than expected.”

“Huh. Why do you think that is?” Mars asked, trying to sound innocent.

“There’s no knowing yet. I’ll have the scientists adjust the nutrient bath, Giovanni answered. Nothing more was made of it aside from an order not to wrestle her luxray until she had his okay. Mars found his lack of suspicion very suspicious. But she’d already done all she could to be ready to make a run for it if necessary. There was nothing left to do but press on and hope it didn’t bite her later.

That night, Mars pushed herself to her limit. On her final attempt of the night, she made it as far as the final barrier before being unceremoniously bounced back to the lab, exhausted. She’d have to hope that she still had a little time before Giovanni took the discrepancies too seriously. She’d have to hope that he wouldn’t throw her out tomorrow, or at least up the security if he didn’t blame her. He didn’t. So she continued. Progress wasn’t linear, but there was progress. 

A week later, on a perfectly ordinary night, Mars reached her goal. Pulling herself through the void between worlds had felt like running through tar, but she could see her finish line: the place where the honey-like mist ended, and the oppressive dark was unfiltered. And this time, she had energy to spare- she wouldn’t be flung back this time. She could feel it. With one last push through the membrane between worlds, she made it through.

Mars fell down on the rough ground of the Distortion World, ripping open the skin on Mew2.1’s legs and hands. For a human, it would have been little worse than falling off a bike, but something told Mars that Mew2.1’s fragile skin wouldn’t take it well. As she floated back up again, she could see the blood streaking down her legs and hands, and the flaps of skin that had been torn loose. She wasn’t very good at self-healing yet, but she focused her mind on it as she floated through the realm. 

Focusing on three things at once- floating, healing, the pain- was difficult. Mars ended up nearly hitting the side of a floating island. After that, she decided to land. Hurting herself too much to get back would be suicide. At best, she’d just die out here, and at worst, Giovanni would realize exactly what she was doing and why. So she sat down on a barren island. She wanted to freak out. Wanted to wonder why she’d even come here when she didn’t know where in this massive space Cyrus was. But Mew2.1’s delicate body needed her. And so, she cleared her mind of thoughts, and meditated on self-healing.

After what felt like several minutes of attempting to self-heal and seeing only the slightest of results, Mars’ attention was broken by a soft, concerned purring. She opened her eyes to see a crobat, bigger than hers but with smaller, duller teeth. It looked just like Cyrus’, and it was hard to imagine why a crobat would be here if it wasn’t his. Mars stroked the creature, and it turned, offering itself to be ridden. There was something indescribable at its shoulder- a red and purple pixelated distortion that made it look like its flesh was unravelling from reality itself. At very least, it didn’t seem to cause pain. Mars grabbed onto the crobat’s good shoulder and between its wings on its other side, and the two took to the skies. 

Mars used her floating abilities to lighten the crobat’s load- she’d seen it take Cyrus short distances, but Mew2.1, including its tank and her entire human body within it, had to be much heavier. It was a longish trip, but just as Mars thought she’d need to either land and rest or force the loyal bat to take her full weight, the crobat screeched in excitement and picked up the pace. Mars, who had been resting her forehead on its good shoulder, looked up. There on the edge of a barren, mountainous island was Cyrus.

Most of him, at least.

[aladaylessecondblog]

Red Mountain Waffle House, pt. 18

To Dagoth Ur, Lord of the Sixth House, Harbinger of corprus and blight, the Sharmat,

Consider this a warning. I will be in touch with further demands but for now, there is only one: Keep your Sleepers out of my capital.

There was no signature, but given the short letter was closed with the royal seal, it was obvious from whom the note came. Two things were wrapped inside its folds, a wrinkled picture of Sadara seated between Barenziah and Almalexia at some event or the other, and a lock of white hair.

"How DARE he," Nerevar said, "This is--she likely thought Barenziah was a safe person to be around, but..."

"But even if she was, her son certainly isn't." Morvani was the one to speak now. "And your former wife even less so!"

The chunk of her bone she was attached to had been enshrined near the Heart of Lorkhan, which seemed to bolster her strength. She had taken it upon herself to act as Lady Dagoth, saying Voryn clearly needed help, which he had accepted readily. For all his power he knew his mother played the game between Great Houses well, and would be a wonderful advisor. It would also be handy to have her around when Sadara returned...

If she returns, Nerevar thought in a dark moment. He didn't share the thought with anyone. It wasn't only that he feared Helseth would end her, it was also that he doubted she would wish to return after...everything. Ayem could sniff out an advantage anywhere, surely she'd see one here too...and exploit it. Or...

"We've got to get her out of there. If not because of Helseth, then because of Ayem," Nerevar spoke up. "Whatever overtures she might be making, I can only assume this will end with a dagger in Sadara's back."

"Voryn's wife is intelligent enough to distrust such things, I think, even if she pretends otherwise," Morvani said, "But she seemed to react poorly when I mentioned you...so Ayem may find it easier than you think to plant mistrust of others in her head."

"She was told Voryn wanted me rather than her, and she's been pinned as my incarnate for a while now, of course she hates mention of me." Nerevar groaned. "She hasn't responded to any messages, either."

In such despairing talk did several minutes pass. Morvani finally spoke up with something more hopeful.

"And once you have retrieved her, what then? How will you convince her to return?"

"Well--with the ring, I can do anything." Nerevar's voice shook a little as he spoke, but he went on more confidently.

"You can't simply kidnap a woman," Morvani said, "We aren't brutish nords who practice wife-stealing."

"Well it's not stealing if--"

"THAT SON OF AN IMPERIAL WHORE!"

A sudden shout came from the next room, and when Voryn walked in, they both noticed his wristbands were in ashes. He'd already seen Helseth's threatening letter, and that had angered him - but this extra fury seemed new.

"What's wrong?"

The several pages in his hand were thrust into Nerevar's, who quickly looked over them.

"Voryn...what--these are annulment papers!"

"Go and get her. I don't care what you have to do - get her out of Mournhold and back here before he does something worse."

"Of course," Nerevar said, "Of course. And Voryn--it'll be fine. I'll make sure nothing happens."

"And if you have to kill the bastard to do it, so much the better. Part of the Empire or not, we don't need the future lady of the house under the power of an imperial bootlicker." Morvani half-snarled.

---------------------------

Sadara was given the same papers by some kind of court clerk as she was out retrieving another box of Black Marsh cigars for Barenziah, and didn't read them until she was back in her own room.

For a few minutes she hesitated to do so, tried to remember if she'd fucked up her taxes somehow. Maybe the ordinator who'd lost his hand was suing her? Or...

With a deep breath she opened the legal envelope and looked at the papers.

APPROVAL OF MARITAL ANNULMENT

She was confused first - she definitely didn't remember filing for annulment yet. Something had held her back, though she had given the outward excuse of the inconvenience of going down to a courthouse to file, or figuring out what the fees for it were, or the matter of divorce, or...

It left a hollow feeling in her chest. This issue that had brought her so much trouble over the past weeks was now settled. The marriage she hadn't even had the sobriety to enjoy directly afterwards, the marriage that House Dagoth was so against - was ended. How it had been managed without her even initiating it she didn't know, the court clerk probably wouldn't have either. She'd go down to the court later and ask a few questions...maybe she'd just forgotten doing it. A lot of what she'd done lately was done in a haze, like she was sleepwalking through it automatically.

She was a single woman once again.

"Good," she said softly, under her breath, not feeling it at all. It WAS good, so why did this feel wrong?

Nerevar, Sadara thought next. It had to be Nerevar's influence on her. He was so infatuated with Voryn--Dagoth Ur, her mind corrected. She had the brief thought of re-downloading Morrowtwitter and messaging him again, but decided against it. That wouldn't do anything but pain her; probably there was already an announcement of Nerevar's engagement, and she didn't feel ready to see that.

It wasn't perfect in Mournhold, but it was better than being constantly broke. She had a place to live she didn't have to pay for, and was making enough she didn't have to really worry. She'd been able to get a lute and start practicing, too, and she'd always wanted one of those.

Maybe, she thought, having something to mindlessly practice would help this ache in her chest.

[whohasthecards]

Top Gun Medieval Fantasy AU Idea

IceMav operating an adventure guild/inn/tavern. Iceman is the head of the guild and Maverick is his right-hand man. Ice and Mav co-own the establishment. Most people don't know this, they just assume that Mav is pretty high up, because he's one of the top adventurers, and when he's not out and about, he trains or guides the newer adventurers (Mav does the dirty work Ice can't visibly do).

Potential additional idea: Iceman and Maverick used to knights, but stop and established a guild.

Rooster is a traveling warrior, but he is not part of the guild. He goes their only when it is necessary for a job, but he doesn't linger or stay. Bradley wanted to be a knight, but Mav used his connections to block his application to the academy. Bradley found out and left, cutting contact and went to find his way. Bradley was bitter, thinking, it all makes sense. Why Mav was reluctant in training him, only got involved in his training when he was older, and why it was mostly Ice who taught him. Mav never thought he could do it, he never had faith in his abilities. (Goose was Mav's partner and died in one of their adventures. Mav couldn't bear the thought that if he taught Bradley, and Bradley died, it would be because of the skills he passed down to him. Because Mav's skills at the time wasn't enough to save Goose, so it is not good enough for Bradley. Also Carole made Mav promise before she died.) On a side note, during his travels, Rooster picked up playing different instruments and is quite good at it. He's trying to remember the song his dad used to play him, but it's been so long that he can only really play the tune of the chorus. The lines lost in time (part of Rooster wants to ask Ice or Mav, but his pride won't allow him to). On the bright side, Rooster displays himself as a bard, allowing him to gather money and information easily as no one is suspicious of him. At least until he draws his hidden sword.

Hangman was raised to be a knight, he was taken in as a ward of a Knight's order, went through the academy, and was knighted young. He was well-known and people admired him. However, one day he and his partner were dispatched far to deal with a horde of demons. He and his partner figured out that there was corruption in the order that spread to the town folk, allowing for exploitation, which grew to warriors being hired despite barely having any fighting experience. The problem grew, until the town was overwhelmed by monsters every night. In the final battle, his partner died. When Hangman went to report what happened, the order decided to push the incident 'under the rug', with his partner's death being declared as an 'accident'. The order's reputation was far more important than the life of one man. Hangman was pissed and left the order, swearing revenge (and succeeding). Hangman still keeps the sword he used as a knight, but he never unsheathes it. Instead he transitioned to dual wielding two short swords. Hangman works alone, travelling and doing mercenary work. He doesn't care about anything else, but results. No one knows that Hangman used to be a knight.

Javy is from a blacksmith clan, realized that blacksmithing wasn't for him and decided to go on a journey. Found this creature, nursed it to help, and now follows him around. Someone eventually suggested that he use the creature as a mount. He did and he fell in love with it. He became well-trained in fighting while on his mount. Easily maneuvering any weapon while the mount charges. Coming from a family of blacksmiths, he understood how to use most weapons and that came handy in times of improvisation.

He became friends with Jake when they were travelling. They were forced to share a room together in an inn rather than camp outside and they got to know one another (Jake was sharpening his sword, Javy told him he was doing it wrong, they bickered, Javy impressed Jake and wrangled a thank you out of him). They keep on meeting each other throughout the next year or so, Jake even allowing Javy to work with him occasionally. After more than a year, Jake told Javy everything, Javy was heartbroken for his friend.

I have more thoughts about this AU, but maybe I'll write them down sometime else.

[muffinapologist]

I want to talk about Trust vs Obedience, specifically in relation to my BG3/DnD OC Brranwin

You might recognize Brranwin from this post or this post or this post from @the-muffin-master or this post I made ages ago. At some point I'll make a proper character overview post for them with their in game character model and backstory stuff but what's relevant right now is this: Brranwin is an extremely trusting and extremely loyal person, but this doesn't make them obedient. They are driven very strongly by their own ethics, and will follow that instinct even if they trust the person telling them not to.

This, naturally, causes some problems for The Emperor. In depth explanation under the cut

One thing that consistently frustrated me during my first playthrough of BG3, and consequently Brranwin's first iteration (beta Brranwin if you will), was the fact that whenever I didn't want to do what the Emperor wanted me to do, he would talk about how I needed to trust him. This frustrated me because, from my perspective, trust doesn't necessarily mean doing whatever someone tells you.

For example, just because someone has your best interest at heart doesn't mean they know what they're doing. Volo is a good example of this. He genuinely wants to help you and thinks he can, the entire time he's stabbing your eye out he's reassuring you that he knows what he's doing. He does not. You lose an eye.

Ironically enough, Brranwin did lose an eye because they trusted Volo. He seemed like he knew what he was doing and so even when it hurt they grit their teeth and endured the pain. And in true Brranwin fashion they don't really hold a grudge. He *was* trying after all. Plus the false eye comes in handy.

But then why not listen to the Emperor? Well, this is where the bit about Ethics comes in. The thing is, a lot of time the Emperor is right.

Going to the Githyanki creche when you have the artifact they're looking for, that they're willing to kill for (I mean you see them kill cultists for information right before the Emperor tells you not to go in) is an objectively Bad Idea. But the artifact belongs to the Githyanki. You don't have any right to it. At least, that's how Brranwin thinks. Even if it's how the Emperor protects you. Even if the Githyanki will kill you for it. Returning it, or at least telling them you have it, is the right thing to do. So that's what Brranwin does. They go into the creche and they say they have the Astral Prism. But then, they don't kill the Emperor (in the guise of the Dream Guardian) because they trust him. They trust that he's been protecting them and that he had good reason to not want them to come here. But Brranwin had to do it anyway. Going to the House of Hope to retrieve the Orphic Hammer, again, is a bad idea. It's likely to get you killed. Or trapped. Or both. All for something that isn't, strictly speaking, necessary for defeating the Absolute. But freeing Orpheus is the right thing to do. Not only for him but all of the Githyanki. And so Brranwin marches into hell and kills a devil. Freeing Orpheus is also a bad idea. Like the Emperor says he hates all things illithid. And earlier in the game you help kill his honor guard. He has every reason to kill you the moment he's freed. And that's *if* you don't transform first. But imprisoning a man, exploiting his power, it was always wrong. And now the Emperor wants to consume him. End his life. End the possible liberation of the Githyanki. This is not something Brranwin can abide. But they don't want to betray the Emperor. They don't. They like the Emperor. They see him as a friend and an ally. And that's what makes the confrontation so frustrating for them (And for me in my first playthrough) Because the Emperor is taking their refusal to go along with his plan as a sign of mistrust.

Could they not free Orpheus first? Try to convince him to work with them? and if he's really not willing to, then the Emperor can assimilate him. Brranwin would protect the Emperor, if it came to it. They always protect their friends. But it's not about trust, not really. If you dig into the Emperor's past, more than Brranwin does, if you learn what he did to Duke Stelmane and confront him about it. You learn that everything he says is a method of control. When the Emperor says "trust me" he means "obey me" and that's why he says that you're *not* trusting him when you don't obey.

And this is why setting Orpheus free is not an option for him. Whether it's because he believes that he is right and there's no way you know better than him, or it's because assimilating Orpheus would grant him permanent freedom from the netherbrain, or some mixture of both; it's not about trust. It's about control. He wants to control you and when he can't, he has no more use of you. And this moment is devastating for Brranwin. Because they trust and they care so deeply. They hadn't considered the possibility that the Emperor would change sides. Any time they had conflicting values with their companions, they were able to work it out. But the Emperor *betrays* them. Betrays their trust. When it comes to the final battle, Brranwin has a personal score to settle lmao

[valleygirlmukuroikusaba]

puzzle game group dynamics communication thing… if not accommodative and not demonstrative then it would be gathering intel and then deciding on decisions. reflecting on progress and finding objectives

so ig evaluative like doing surveys, making analysis record and. benchmarking progress, case studies hmm

korekiyo would be better at record keeping since like he recognizes phenomenons and he’s able to better organize which long-distance communication devices and evidence encompasses which conversation in regards to purpose.

since being around ppl in-person doesn’t seem to be his thing. unless it’s to be accommodated and have his concerns be validated and addressed since he’s usually able to very quickly reflect and analyze things when they aren’t working as intended

and in the speedrun au his personal feelings and feedback must be accounted for. especially since he isn’t physically capable to make good use of actually pulling off speedrun exploits and him being able to organize items for amnesia treatment meta is extremely handy for helping ppl recover from amnesia

shuichi is quite fine helping around with whoever so long as he doesn’t feel like he’s being ignored or invalidated. he doesn’t seem to take confrontation very well and with that in mind.

he’s good at recognizing correlations but that only gets shuichi so far especially if he’s fixating on superficial interactions but correlation still has its uses and giving him space that his current anchor of correlation has him hit a brick wall.

he should step back wait for his turn so not only can other people discuss their feelings/points , it’ll give shuichi opportunities of yknow. listening to other people and considering more thing than just the ideas at hand. the intent behind why this point is being brought up.

how that point makes the ppl in this room feel by accepting that people will react differently depending on the individual.

correlation should not encompass the whole discussion there are more things at play then what shuichi recognizes.

and its overwhelming and stressful and can be a lot of pressure on shuichi

but it only gets easier if he continues to keep trying to expand and improve and everyone will try to assure shuichi that. yeah we are handling things and that shuichi is doing his part by at least being present for the esports demo meta.

and his participation means a lot to everyone. that he at least has the courage to even show up by his own choice. the esports mfs very much try to make a effort to make shuichi feel appreciated

aside from maybe tsumugi bc she’s critical-

but also isn’t shuichi also critical at times as well. but that actually is pretty helpful since tsumugi’s demo meta is about learning and being critical does make learning. do the learning or smth

and it’s good use of farming simulator zone time as well, shuichi needs to put in the work.

the speedrun au is all about putting in the work for those records .

checks stop-watch. yup the farm sim speedrun was a really good idea

keebo is overall flexible all around but due to “twitch chat” still being a factor he is unreliable for maintaining tight participation in any given speedrun meta.

but he is still very communicative and with sequence-based pattern recognition he catches on quick with recognizing the causes of any problems ppl have been bumping into.

insanely helpful for tenko’s demo meta. which is all about unaddressed issues and figuring how to account for them but realizing the problem is only the start. finding the cause of the problem is getting on track to fixing it

keebo is also sometimes around for tsumugi’s demo meta but tsumugi rather only talk to him to coordinate objectives for “twitch chat” to follow

but he’s fine with accompanying shuichi or rantaro if tsumugi is trying to make them learn how to be smarter. and keebo will be able to convince rantaro from leaving to do his own exploit exploration thing bc he hardly spends much time communicating with anyone

bc rantaro in particular thinks tsumugi’s demo meta is a waste of time but if it means shuichi and keebo require his company.

then he’ll put up with tsumugi

bc he requires shuichi and keebo to help him with exploits bc pattern recognition OP for exploit finding

and doesn’t want to suddenly have shuichi turn on rantaro bc of rantaro being a menace towards tsumugi.

bc shuichi is quick to jump to conclusions like that and its hard for him to change his mind unless he gets an apology

and its just more. well shuichi is allowed to choose what he wants to do. if he rather learn or explore. rantaro doesn’t want to have to tell him what he needs to do and shuichi should be able to make consider multiple choices on what would be good use of his time

and tsumugi is usually available since she hardly does anything but ends up taking up loads that other ppl ignore for focusing on the main speedrun objective.

tsumugi is taking on more chore work than fucking kirumi since kirumi is setting a example on how to do things efficiently for other ppl to learn from

rantaro is still the least communicative but he also needs to be seen as reliable and have ppl still appreciate and recognize his efforts

and also needs to prove he’s doing well to ease the concerns of kokichi, kaito and himiko since those 3 are able to take turns to validate each other and kinda eventually worry about rantaro since he hardly approaches either of them. but they often check up on rantaro just to see how he’s been faring.

which rantaro ig appreciates but he’s a bit concerned abt how unfocused and easily distracted those 3 are. compared to rantaro who very much is completely focused on speedrunning

but anyways he does try to be present sometimes to prevent ppl from feeling worried that rantaro is being neglected bc he doesn’t show up for anyone unless specifically approaching others to ask for help with a 2+ user exploit or glitch.

if it means everyone will maintain focus on the objective then rantaro will try to show up when he can.

and also his assessments for anything that rantaro recognizes would be helpful for helping ppl figure out which locations to access next to pull off a exploit to enter.

particularly useful for the esports players to keep being updated on to try to use as new information for their demo metas to further progress with finding more options

rantaro also runs records by korekiyo to have him be able to parse what any of these exploits might have to do with certain drawbacks of whatever those exploits encompass that korekiyo would recognize

and the puzzle game ppl do end up being very communicative towards eachother with long-distance methods rather than interacting in person but tend to also need to interact with others for their insight since the demo metas eventually need to decide on something

but they only start to branch out with applying pattern recognition to different situations under tsumugi’s guidance.

they’ll never do it on their own unless specifically taught and actively using that new taught technique to be able to be able to both explore, communicate and assess with others and reflect on how they can further develop their knowledge otherwise unavailable

[toshootforthestars]

From the essay, posted 5 Jan 2025:

The private equity goons did not eviscerate [Gawker Media] because of their political beliefs. They did it because they only valued making money. This is the standard incentive in most industries, but in journalism, it has the effect of turning a publication into shit.

Journalism is not a business that responds well to the usual American capitalist imperative to treat your customers as victims to be tricked and sucked dry. The overall health of the free press is therefore a handy barometer to tell how the balance of power between humanism and cutthroat capitalism stands at any given moment in history.

Right now, that balance is tilting in the bad direction. In the past few months, the billionaire owners of both the LA Times and the Washington Post quashed anti-Trump presidential endorsements. In LA, Patrick Soon-Shiong has made it clear he intends to meddle in, at least, the opinion section to make it more right wing. Jeff Bezos must be a bit more circumspect with the Washington Post because of its institutional heft, but it is equally clear that he has concluded that nothing about his newspaper is worth pissing off Trump, who could retaliate against Bezos’ other, real business. Yesterday the Post’s longtime editorial cartoonist Ana Telnaes resigned after a cartoon mocking Bezos and other billionaires was killed by her editor. The editor, David Shipley, claimed the cartoon was just too repetitive, but Telnaes, who has been at the paper long enough to know, said it was the first time in her career that she’d had a piece rejected “because of the point of view inherent in the cartoon’s commentary.”

We’re not really on the slippery slope at this point. We’re sliding.

The only choice is when to jump off. What Telnaes did was heroic. Most journalists, regular people who need jobs to live, would (for good reason) think long and hard about quitting their jobs when they are unlikely to be able to land a comparable one.

The important takeaway here, though, is: This is how it happens. This is how nations decline. You don’t always turn into Nazi Germany. You turn into Russia, or Hungary, or other creaky and corrupt strongman states where everything is kind of a scam and everyone is hustling to please the gangster in charge. That, my friends, is the path we are on here.

America’s basic problem is that we have an economic system that concentrates great wealth in few hands and we have a political system in which money is allowed to buy political power in a straightforward way and now, on top of that, we have a President who fully embraces—who lives for—the opportunity to make the world bow to him by exploiting those systems.

It’s a bit surreal watching this all unfold right in front of us. This is the script of imperial downfall, of a mighty nation that has been teeing itself up to crumble by having no moral scruples finally jumping onto the garbage chute with both feet. Watching all of the highly respected CEOs of America’s most powerful and respectable and, according to a widespread characterization, “liberal” companies donate millions of dollars to the Trump inauguration, unalloyed bribes paid for political protection, is just—it’s not subtle. Detecting the grand direction of America has never required less insight.

I mean, 40 years ago, looking at Carter and Reagan deregulate industries and cut taxes, watching union power slowly decline, watching the public’s embrace of celebrity over substance, if you looked ahead and said, “Hey, over the next few decades, this is really going to eat away our shared prosperity and cause an inequality crisis that will ultimately obliterate the very legitimacy of America’s leading institutions”—well, that would be a canny call. That would require some real analytical foresight. But analyzing what is happening right now requires nothing but the ability to describe events accurately without succumbing to delusion.

We have a dozen people in this country who are worth more than $100 billion each and the richest one of all has teamed up with a gutter con man to buy the White House and now everyone who does not kiss the ring will be targeted for retaliation. This is the final form of unregulated capitalism, where fantastically rich and often childlike titans run the world’s most powerful nation for their own pleasure, and what was once thought of as “civil society” cowers in the corner in an effort to avoid provoking the beast..

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Even though I have spent years writing about all the ways that the mainstream press has failed and all the reasons why the New York Times sucks, I retain my sentimentality about the press. Where else, in this scam-ridden country, can you bring down the rich and powerful and corrupt with nothing but words?

Journalism, for all the flaws in the way it is practiced, is a great thing. To see high quality publications bought and broken by rich people is like watching a drunk hedge fund dickhead throwing up on a Picasso that he hung in his yacht. It’s just a fucking shame.

As you watch this all accelerate over the next four years, just remember that the slow decline of the public’s belief in journalism was not an accident. It was an assassination. I hope we all make it out the other side.