#Not exactly standard for a “simple�� engineer ;)

[narmothewraith]

You're just in denial Lucius /jk

[hauntingrabbits]

Happy Batman day! Went back and finished the last batch of the MLP AU I had sketched way back in May.

Part 1, Part 2

More info under the cut!

Enigma/The Riddler (Edward Nygma)

Intelligence and puzzle-solving are deeply valued among sphinxes, and those who fall short of their standards are often ridiculed and cast out. Among some (prejudiced) Sphinxes, other sapient, non-Sphinx species such as ponies are looked down-upon or seen as fundamentally inferior for not putting as much stock in puzzles and the like as sphinxes do.

Enigma, though considered a prodigy for his remarkable intelligence and skill with puzzles even among his fellow Sphinxes, was ostracized when a pony unfamiliar with Sphinx culture (a younger Sundown traveling Equestria for his training), humiliated Enigma by unraveling a puzzle of his that was meant to be judged as his final submission in a prestigious event, permanently staining his reputation and wounding his massive ego.

After years of quiet ridicule from his peers and his own growing obsession over the event, Enigma eventually snapped and fled to Gotham for revenge. His contempt has since spread far beyond that of the original pony he wished to prove his superiority over, and he now makes all of Gotham the target of his obsessive schemes, constantly trying to prove his superiority and feed his ego by putting ponies through his elaborate puzzles and riddle-based traps. He sees Batpony’s skill and determination in foiling him as both an inherent challenge to and a slight against his own abilities, reminding him far too much of that original pony from so long ago. 

Other notes:

-Apparently sphinxes in MLP have pony heads instead of human heads which makes sense I guess but it threw me through such a loop man.

-Whilst traversing the wiki I ended up with the same problem I had with chimeras in the first post where only one ever shows up in the series and there's no other info on them. So I made stuff up again.

- I imagine Sphinxes live a very long time, so the event Enigma was embarrassed at would probably take a long time to roll around again and he'd be forced to stew with his anger and wounded ego for far too long. I'm not sure what the puzzle was exactly or how Sundown dismantled it, but I imagine he did something extremely simple that a Sphinx would never have thought of (a la that software engineering joke), making it feel far more unfair and humiliating than if he'd solved in the intended way.

-His naturally crooked tail settles into the shape of a question mark, and the pattern on his arm is meant to look like a stylized question mark wrapping around his forearm (the "dot" is the white of his paw).

2. Miss Friday (Miss Tuesday)

Enigma’s teenaged assistant, Miss Friday seems to be the only pony the sphinx enjoys (or perhaps simply tolerates) the company of. Beyond her having met Enigma in Tartarus during their simultaneous imprisonments, the exact origins of her relationship to and exceptional status with her boss are a bit of a riddle in of themselves. Regardless, the two seem to have something of a mutual understanding, and Miss Friday’s mental prowess and dubious moral code are more than a match for Enigma’s own.

Other Notes:

-Yes this is a "The horse's name was Friday" joke. I'm sorry it was just too good to pass up.

-Miss Tuesday already sounded like a MLP name, but the horse named Friday thing was just too perfect for somebody who works under a guy who's whole thing is riddles. Also I relistened to the BTAA episode where she's introduced while coloring her and I noticed they reference His Girl Friday several times, so fun coincidence?

-The candy-striped leg patterns are based on her canon costume's striped pants & are meant to mirror the Riddler's wrapped leg pattern. The dark patterns on her face are supposed to be reminiscent of eye bags.

3. Mania (Bat-Mite)

Bat-Pony’s self-proclaimed biggest fan, Mania is a Draconequus embodying the spirit of obsession. Normally he watches the hero from his own dimension, but at times he tries to insert himself into the narrative or help Sundown fight, both to varying degrees of success. Though he genuinely adores Bat-Pony, Mania is usually more of a hindrance than a help, and can even be directly antagonistic at times when his obsession goes too far. 

Other notes:

-Similar issue to Chimeras and Sphinxes, only two Draconequuses (Draconequui?) show up in the series, one being Discord (embodying chaos), the other being a comics-only villain known as Cosmos (embodying malice), but honestly what little we're given worked super well for the character anyway. Discord seems to come from his own unique plane of existence/dimension and Cosmos has similarly strange origins; both have penchants for causing mischief with incredible reality-warping powers; and both embody non-physical concepts. Bat-Mite being a reality warping 5th dimensional creature obsessed with Batman was surprisingly easy to adapt.

-He has the head of a pony, a ferret-like body, two front rat paws, mite antennae, an insectoid wing, a bat wing, a pigeon foot, a chevrotain (mouse deer) foot, and a monkey tail. I tried to have him mostly made up of animals that were very small, seen as mischievous, and/or seen as pests.

4. Poison Ivy (Pamela Isley)

Said to be more plant than pony, Poison Ivy is the self-proclaimed princess of the Green. Though once a regular Earth pony, she began to spiral after receiving her cutie mark and fully coming into her powerful natural attunement to plant life. Fleeing into the nearby forests on the outskirts of Gotham, she wasn’t seen again until many years later when Gotham’s city refurbishment and expansion efforts began to encroach on the forests borders, where she reemerged with strange new powerful magic and retaliated violently.

Though she isn’t recognized politically or physically as an alicorn, plants grow from the flesh of her body in the pattern of a horn and wings characteristic of those born into or bestowed with royalty, and the strange natural magic that accompanies them seems to almost rival that of a true alicorn’s.

Other notes:

-I dont really have anything to add to this one I just thought a false alicorn would be a cool concept.

-the whole alicorn royalty thing is very strange to think about isnt it? I feel like the ruling class having such insane amounts of physical and magical power probably has much more pressing ramifications than ever was, would, or should be addressed in a kids show but they are fun to think about.

-Her actual name is Poison Ivy, yes. It sounded like a pony name. I don't know what that says about her parents.

-The leaf wings are folded down in the graphic but I think they are flighted, or at the very least useful for gliding and expressing emotions.

5. Saltbrine (Oswald Cobblepot)

Short, stout, and flightless, Saltbrine’s moniker of “The Penguin” has its origins in the taunts of his peers from his youth. Though the title has persisted into the current day, it’s often spoken with far more fear and trepidation throughout the alleys and backstreets of Gotham than ridicule. Saltbrine owns two of Gothams most well-known businesses, one being the luxurious, high-class Iceberg Lounge…and the other being the organized crime syndicate the former acts as a front for.

Other notes:

-Again don't have much to add to this one. One of my favorite designs though, I love the giant beak face.

-The bird half is actually based on a puffin, because a penguin felt too on the nose for Oswald and too strange for a hippogriff (I couldn't get the wings or face to look right at all either). I feel like the title being an insult works a little better if he's not literally half-penguin.

-he's the same color my club penguin avatar used to be (RIP)

[occamstfs]

Roommates’ Trivial Tiff

Pretty standard nerdy asshole to himbo TF, who doesn't love some cosmic justice ! -Occam

“You just don’t understand what it’s like dude. You have no idea how hard all this stuff is for me.” Brock was struggling to get through to his roommate, someone he has time and time again been more than cordial with. In response Harvey scoffs and rolls his eyes refusing to engage and instead doubling down, “I’m sure it’s real difficult with all your paid tutors and your-” 

“You’re not even listening bro! You like to think you’re so elevated, like you have all the answers but you don’t even try to understand what anyone else is going through.” Harvey grimaces and briefly tosses about whether or not this is true but stubbornly neglects to internalize the criticism, “Uhh, I do too?” Brock bites his tongue to prevent just blowing up at his roommate and instead he tries a different angle, “Oh yeah? If that’s the case then, bet you know a lot about me huh? Since we’ve been roommates for a year now,” pausing as he narrows his eyes briefly at Harvey, “and ostensibly we’re friends right?”

Harvey struggles not to display his ever present irritation as he retorts, “Of course we are, uh, dude.” Brock does a better job hiding his intentions as he issues a challenge, “so if we were to say, quiz each other you think you’d come up on top lil dude?” With this gauntlet laid there is little recourse in Harvey’s mind but to accept it, there are few times he enjoys showing off so much as in a trivia contest. So what he might have a less than pristine record of respecting oafs like his roommate, he is certainly not to lose in any battle of the wits regardless of topic or stipulations there may be.

Brock puts out his hand and states the stakes, “You can of course bow out whenever, but uh, how about every question the winner takes something from the loser?” Harvey was resolved to win before hearing the terms and is now spitefully even more eager now as he eyes Brock’s side of the room looking for whatever his prize is sure to be.

Without any further clarification Brock promptly launches into the game, “I guess we’ll start real easy yeah? Only fair.” Harvey feels resentment start to brew as he feels he’s being talked down to as Brock goes on, “For starters then, What’s my major?” Harvey audibly gulps and feels his face blanche as he scrambles to find such an incredibly simple answer. This is such an obvious and pressing piece of information it would be impossible not to have it on deck.

Seeing the hesitation Brock laughs incredulously, “God dude are you kidding? How could you not know this, I-” He shifts his jaw waiting for the second shoe to drop as it is suddenly clear he is about to clean house, this asshole is going to learn respect by hook or by crook. Harvey’s eyes that were just hungrily looking through Brock’s possessions now retread their path, searching for the answer, his eyes linger on some sports bandages and protein powder and he kicks himself for forgetting. “Well duh dude, you’re doing a sports medicine or a trainer degree or whatever. Sorry that I forgot what the proper name is, it’s not exactly high in the list of things I need to know.”

Brock stares down at the clueless nerd before him and slowly shakes his head. “Not even close Harv. It’s-” Before he can finish though Harvey stands and shouts, “Don’t fucking call me that! I bet you don’t know mine either!” This leaves Brock aghast, he crosses his arms and narrows his eyes, “Of course I fucking do! You never shut up about it! I’m lucky if my headphones can block out you whining about homework while also constantly talking yourself up! It’s so, fucking, annoying!”

Hurt by this despite his typical apathy to others Harvey starts up once more, “Okay but you didn’t say-” “Computer Engineering.” Harvey blushes in shame, not over his disrespect but of getting the question wrong. Suddenly there’s a hum in the room and the shadows in the corner grow darker and Brock looks around, “Well I suppose that question really tees me up on what to take huh? I’ll take your major.”

“Wha?” caught on the other foot Harvey blinks and sees that his textbooks and assignments are suddenly piled on Brock’s desk. He feels anxiety rise in his chest unsure of what has happened though confident this must be a prank or something. “No no no that can’t be right? What is happening?” He then returns to look at his roommate once more, a scowl plastered on his face as Brock who, despite his impressive stature always aims to present as kind and gentle, cannot help but smirk as he feels he has gotten one over on this jerk.

He stretches, exposing his midriff and flexing  his arms behind his head, perhaps to try and allure or intimidate Harvey, he’s not sure, but Harvey is not going to just take this sitting down.Though at the present, he is too uncomfortable to even vocalize his discomfort as he stands there trying not to shake. Instead Brock begins once more, “Urgh kinda see what all that complaining was about now Harv, kinda got a lot on my plate now hah!”

Harvey stares daggers at his roommate, “Brock I don’t know what kind of nonsense is going through your dumbass ox brain. But it’s not funny, I’m sure you’re used to bullying little g-”

“Excuse me? I’m a bully!? I know you’re not saying that, I go out of my way to be kind, even to little chip on their shoulder assholes like you. I just,” Brock takes a deep breath and flexes his jaw before he continues. “It doesn’t matter actually. I trust you have a vested interest in trying again though right? Surely you want your major back?”

At the moment Harvey is caught between the idea that this is some kind of Christmas Carol-ass dream where he’s supposed to learn a lesson or once more that this is just a prank by Brock. Amenable as he’s always been, Harvey's convinced that behind this lunkhead is the vitriol of the typical jerk jock. In this impossible chance that this is reality though, he can’t just give up his major. He needs it to be an, uh? God what was, no what is his major anyway? 

Harvey looks around in shock as he suddenly can’t bring his current course schedule to his mind, but he was literally in class this morning right? He feels his coursework draining from his mind as fear and rage begin to rise in his frail body. Images of lecture halls and professors flash through his mind before they just as swiftly dissipate, somewhere within him deeper than memory he feels that he was studying something with numbers. Mathematics, physics, engineering, something he was good at. He is determined to get that back as he speaks up finally, “What is the next question.”

Brock smiles and toys around in his head, confident that he will end up on top. “How about you pick this one, give you a fighting chance.” Harvey purses his lips and struggles to produce a question that he knows the answer to that his roommate will not. Oh duh, he’ll just ask him a math question, easy! Certainly not the aim of the game but Harvey just needed to get his life back. “What’s a derivative.” 

“Kinda not in the spirit of the game dude but whatever. I took calc you know. It’s the rate of change in response to a variable. Now since you’re still being an ass how about I lob one back? How about you derivative 𝑓(𝑥)= 2cos⁡(𝑥)−6sec⁡(𝑥)+3?” Harvey is flat stunned, this is some entry level shit but he cannot for the life of him bring the information to mind. He’s just as sharp as he always has been but anything beyond rudimentary trig is continuing to trickle out of his mind. He meekly chuckles out, “uh easy, it’s f(x) equals, uh tan-”

There’s a blaring in his head as both men are aware of his immediate slip up. Energy once more rises in the air as Brock looks down almost pitifully at his roommate this time. “Now I am sorry for this Harvey but, oof that course load! Like you so relish to say, I am just not that bright hm?” Harvey shakes his head as he realizes the horror about to occur. Brock looks a little uncomfortable as he continues, “After failing to pull your little gotcha, I think I’ll just go ahead and have your intelligence.” 

Both men are instantly struck with headaches the likes of which neither could endure under normal circumstances. As soon as the pain arrives though it is converted into a deep profane pleasure. Pins and needles fill Brock’s mind as it becomes heavy. Ideas and understanding fill his mind as a euphoric warmth flows through him. Harvey had enjoyed learning without truly lifting a finger, he had flourished and gained knowledge through no effort on his part but simple absorption. Brock is overcome with the ease at which he will now flow through life. Equally is he overcome by the ecstasy within his body as it only continues to heighten.

Opposite him Harvey clutches at his head as now not only do his learned experiences at university vanish, but all of his capabilities as a student and academic. Even the pleading within his mind slows down as he feels his ability to swiftly process information breaks down. Harvey turns from the man across from him as Brock’s hands feel up and down his musculature in rapturous delight, just in time to see whatever books and tomes he had collected as trophies begin to fade into the aether along with his memories of reading them. He looks down at his hands in confusion and horror, even with his unaddled mind at full steam he could not make sense of what has befallen him. He knows this is not right.

He is unable to find any answers, though as he searches his brain he begins to find a pleasant warmth in the vacuum where there once was knowledge. While his mind has been emptied, the bulge in his crotch demands his attention, which shall likely be a constant issue now that his mind shall evermore be less than preoccupied. He feels his mouth start to fill with drool as he looks down at his cock as it almost feels larger than it should be. He almost laughs at the idea that from now on he may fully be thinking with his cock. He opens his mouth allowing drool to spill out which shocks him back to sense and he turns around to demand that Brock return this all to sense immediately.

Brock for his part is reclined in a chair just rubbing his cock over his shorts almost forgetting about what they had been doing not seconds earlier. He laughs as he sees the expression on Harvey’s face, “Woah dude sorry about that, got lost in my own mind for a second there! No wonder you had, or have rather, such an attitude problem. It all just came so easy to you didn’t it? I mean we could keep going if you want, what else do you have to lose yeah?” Harvey wipes the drool from his face and takes stock, he can still read, he is pretty confident he still passed high school, he remembers his life before whatever hell is currently happening as well as whatever this new reality is. He nods his head and pushes his erection down as it continues to rise upon seeing his roommate’s cocky repose. He answers, “let’s keep going. Your question right?”

Harvey can’t help but trace Brock’s traps as he shrugs, “If you insist lil bro. What’s my middle name?” He knows this one for sure, he would bring it out to tease his roommate as needed. Brock slams his arm down in excitement and shouts, “fucking Laurel!” then he recalls this is only half the battle, Brock must also get his wrong, “what’s mine?” Brock smirks once more and laughs as he stretches to scratch his back, his roommate hungrily staring, “you don’t have one dude”

The energy rushing between the two men is drastically different this time. Unlike the pleasurable prickles of knowledge or the soothing burn of loss there is a direct, deeper connection between the two. Brock’s grin grows wider as understands, “Oh I getcha, question’s a tie so we share the spoils Harv. Only fair that since you’ve the mind of a what, meathead? May as well have the body of one.”

Harvey watches as his roommate takes off his shirt, he feels a warmth in his chest as he stares directly at Brock’s pecs. His breath catches as he watches his roommate flex them and he feels a nervous energy begin to surge within his own. He’s never had pecs before but he feels his chest pushing, growing, into his shirt. He sees his nipples harden and grow too large to ever hide as his chest expands. His swallows to stop from drooling once more as he sees Brock pose and flex his massive biceps, forcing a burning delight down the whole of Harvey’s arms. He matches the pose of the powerful man he has spoken nothing but ill of and flexes, sweat immediately staining through his shirt as the energy and strain heats his body beyond reason.

At the same time both men drop into a crunch, there is a loud tear as the pants of both men tear as they reach the lowest point in the crunch as Harvey’s ass bursts larger and his thighs swell with strength well enough to carry his increasingly top heavy torso. Not only is Harvey to gain the muscle of a tight jock, but the masculinity expected. The cock he has been til now proud enough of pulses with his heartbeat, with each pump it gorges larger, veins thick as the ones surging down his biceps force his cock thicker and further down his strained shorts. He tears at his pants to free his bulge as his balls bloat to the size of eggs, they pull tight ass they’re exposed to the air and all the soreness, strain, and pain of his still growing body becomes agonizing delight.

Harvey’s eyes water as he struggles to even stay cogent with the pleasure and power coursing through him. He smells his new musk breaking through his senses. Through the burning bedlam across his body he feels a soothing burn as hair begins to sprout and thicken where every man should make clear his masculinity. His pubes thicken and curl beyond his waistline and his pits grow wild and begin to spread to make it clear they, nor his musk, can ever be contained.

He lies, sits, writhes, flexes, exists in nothing but pleasure for some time, no longer concerned for his lost intelligence, beyond the care of his education. His hands, larger and painted with still thickening hair, press tight against his body as he feels the new contours of his body. Each new valley and mountain is a testament to the ecstasy he shall now prioritize above all. Until his roommate’s voice breaks through the haze, “Fuck bro you’re really feeling yourself huh?” Harvey’s eyes open to see Brock’s arrogant sneer has only grown worse as he has contendly watch Harvey lavish his new corpus.

Harvey meets it with a scowl and Brock tilts his head, “Want to do one last question then, bro?” His smile grows tight as he tries not to laugh as the appellation of bro has become the paramount definition of this once genius. Harvey just nods his head, still understandably disoriented as he lies in a pool of his own sweat and pre that remains dripping directly onto the floor. Brock motions for him to ask whatever the presumably final question is but is met with a grunt and a wave of the hand. Brock grimaces slightly, “if you insist bud,” he grimaces slightly as he looks down at the man. Asshole he may have be, may still be even, surely there’s something Brock could do to fix even that. He leans to whisper the question in Harvey’s ear, “what color are my eyes.” 

Between grunts, Harvey strains to look at his roommate only to find them obviously closed. His body contorts with pain and pleasure as he feels the throes of defeat and one final lose begin to seize him. He groans out through clenched teeth as his jaw widens and his brows thicken as changes already begin to work upon his mind, “don’t… know…” Brock nods and sits next to his roommate laying Harvey’s head on his lap. At the point it would be a kindness for the man to forget his life before, and that is exactly what he is to do. 

Brock removes the memories and identity of the sour nerd that made life perpetually unpleasant not only for him, but anyone unlucky enough to grace his presence. His breathing speeds up as his body heat rises beyond imagination, sweat turning to steam in the cold dorm room as he shakes his head and clenches his fists. He writhes only briefly, each flex of his body a final protestation of Harvey as Brock erases even his name from his head. 

After a minute of this his body goes still before he opens his eyes blearily and groans. Still lying in Brock’s lap he stretches his arms, turning to smell his impossibly rank pits before turning it into a flex as he must do anytime he raises them. Brock watches this with trepidation, unsure of who exactly his roommate is to be now before suddenly a name surges into his mind, Bull. Perfect fodder for the jerk he once was and an apt name for the behemoth lying on his lap. Testing the waters Brock pats his chest to wake him up, “Morning Bull.”

He yawns and scratches at the same stubbled face he has always known and he sits up, “urgh got a massive headache bro, must have gone pretty hard to have a hangover this bad huhuh! Wanna go grab brekkie and hit up the gym?” Brock stifles a smirk and helps his roommate up to standing, slightly surprised to see him standing taller than himself before responding, “You got it big guy, how about you get some clothes on first though right?” Bull guffaws, looking down at his hairy sweat-drenched body as he throws an arm around his roommate, cock bobbing around in the open air, still chubbed up. “What would I do without you bro huhuh!” 

Brock looks to see all of Bull’s tops have changed to stringers and tanks. Where Harvey had nothing but pants Bull has piles of unwashed athletic shorts, one of which he promptly throws on, going commando. Seeing Brock watch him, Bull grabs at his crotch and juts at the door, “Come on bro! Faster we get a pump in faster we can get back here and have some fun dude.” 

With that Bull again throws his arm around Brock, once more smelling his b.o. as he almost deliberately spreads it on his roommate’s neck, like an animal marking its territory. The two then off to start their day, in Bull’s mind as they always have. Brock feels his crotch grow weightier as the amble down the hall, unsure if he’s made a horrible mistake in all this. Who is he to say what is too far in acts of cosmic retribution. Brock is certain at the end of the day he and Bull are at least to have quite a bit of fun.

[georgiapeach30513]

I Can See You

Summary:  Steve was new to this modern world.  And trying to figure out the technology and all he wanted was home.  Looking up 1940s women, he wasn’t prepared for what he sees.  You. Feeding into his every fantasy, and then some. It becomes an obsession a need to see you everyday. To have you everyday. To keep you. Every. Day. In his bed. Just where you belong

Pairings:  Steve Rogers X Cam Girl!Reader

Rating:  Explicit

Warnings:  explicit language, explicit sexual content, online sex work, cam girl, masturbation, toy play, butt plug, squirting, licking, kidnapping, obsession, dark, 18+ ONLY

Word Count:  2K 

Steve Rogers Masterlist

“You should date,” Steve turns to look towards Natasha, glowering at her.  “What?  Dating is normal.  What do you have against dating?”

“Dating is different now than it was when…never mind you wouldn’t understand,” he goes to stand, but Natasha pulls at his arm, “What?”

“I get it.  The women now aren’t like the women in the 1940s, but is that a bad thing?  Look, Google is your friend.  I’m sure there’s someone out there who believes in your weird standards for women.  Guess what, Steve?  Some even wear the clothes, too.  Google is your friend.”

Google is your friend.  A sentiment that was running through Steve’s mind the rest of the day.  Google is a friend.  Was a friend?  How could a search engine be a friend?  How could he find anything that was remotely close to the 1940s in modern times.  How could he ever find someone that held his values, and how would he know?

Settling in at home, his eyes scan over the stupid phone.  Who needed a phone that could do anything more than call people.  But there was a Google on there.  Women of today weren’t hideous creatures, but there was something in the ones that he had met.  They weren’t…exactly what he was looking for.  Too eager and leaving nothing to the imagination.

Google is your friend, but it was just a stupid machine.  Nothing ever made sense in this time.  People had taken something simple and made it nonsensically more difficult.  And for what reason?  But there the phone sits, and if Google was a friend, how could it help Steve?

What could a machine possibly do for Steve? How could it help his need to get out some frustrations? Things weren’t the same, and they definitely didn’t look the same. But he was told Google had archived photos. And videos…

Reaching quickly to the phone, but only because he was bored, and everyone needed to get off from time to time. His fingers search for the buttons he’s looking for before he hits search. Anticipating it would take much longer than the instant gratification of women upon women, and then a short clip.  Legs that were covered in hosiery, and a quick squat of the woman.  Her skirt flares up, exposing her bum to Steve.

He watches that clip way too many times before clicking on it.  Taking him straight to your website.  Pictures of you dressed in the most beautiful 1940s frocks, and posing with the prettiest smile and brightest red lips.  Unfairly there are some photos with strategically placed blocks over your body.  A button demands him to click it, and there’s even more photos.

Still these photos are annoyingly blocked out, but adding a credit card he would have access to remove them.  Steve sets his phone down, taking a deep breath.  His cock was pressing hard against his pants at just the tease of your body.  He knew what he was going to get.  You.  Every part of you.  Playing into his every fantasy while you whimpered his name.

Standing up, he awkwardly paces his living room.  He wants to see it all.  It was like you catered to just him.  What could thirty dollars a month hurt.  He would get to wake up to see you.  Go to bed stroking his cock.  It wouldn’t hurt.  It wouldn't be a distraction.  This is what he needed.

He doesn’t hesitate to put in his credit card information, and he hears the sound of your voice, “Welcome, Soldier,” why did that sound so sexy?  Not even knowing what some of the buttons mean, he just wants to look at you.  You are a dirty girl.  Showing every part of yourself, and watching you ride a red dildo while your tits bounce around has him quaking where he sits.

A ping in the corner of his phone makes him lose focus, ‘Thanks for the payment.  What would you like me to call you?’

He couldn’t let people know that America’s golden boy was watching fetish porn, and a very specific fetish of a 1940s housewife.  ‘Captain.’

‘Hey, Captain, are you new around here?’

‘Yes.  Brand new.’

‘Aww, for new subscribers I always give them a private video.  What would you like to see, Captain?  Whatever it is you want.  For your eyes only.’

‘How often do I get private videos?’

‘First one is free.’

‘I want one every morning and evening.’

‘Oh, Captain, you are a naughty boy,’ Steve’s cock trembles at your words.  He just wishes he could hear your voice.  ‘I tell you what Captain, let me do the first one, and you can decide after if you want to continue our private little conversations.  How does that sound, big boy?’

‘Yeah, okay.’

‘Are you hard right now?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you want to see my pussy?  I can show you what toys I have.’

‘Okay,’ he takes a deep breath as his chat turns into a live video feed, and there your pretty face was.  Giving him a quick wave before turning the camera to your treasure trove of toys.

“Which will it be, Captain?  Can I turn your mic on so I can hear you?  I get off to men with pretty sounds?” Responding with a yes, you turn on his mic, letting him look at every toy.  They were all shapes, but one particularly caught his eyes.  

“That one,” it wasn’t a genius to figure out which one he was talking about.  The red white and blue one.  With a name like Captain, he seemed to have a bit of a Captain America kink.

“I have something else that matches,” you sweetly tell him.  Moving over to something Steve had early heard about.  A pretty little butt plug with his shield on the end.  “You want to see me stuffed fully, Captain?”

“I would like that,” his voice cracks, and you realize just how innocent he is to this brand of porn.

“Is it because you like sharing your dames?” Steve groans out yes as you position the phone on a tripod.  “Who would you share me with?”

“A friend.  He…he’d get your ass.”

“Oh, yeah?” You ask as you stuff the plug into your ass.  You were sure he’d love seeing you ready for him.  Coming back into frame, you place the dildo on the floor, and turn to look at him.  “What would you like your doll to do, Captain?” Finger in your mouth, you playfully tease him.  

He would love to take his time and watch you more carefully, but his cock is angry and in desperate need of release.  “I want to see…see you…I want,” the sweet boy was struggling with what he wanted to view.  Stuttering, and unable to vocalize exactly what it was he needed.

“You want me to slowly,” you undo each button carefully.  Steve didn’t want slow.  Steve wanted to fuck you.  This would work for now.  But…

“No.  Not slow.  Put…I want to see the shield.”

“Of course you do, Captain,” it was like the angels parted the clouds, and there was heaven right in your tits.  Taking off your bra, you give your nipples a little pinch before walking over to the toy.  

“Don’t wait,” he mutters as you move to your knees.  He tries to pretend it's his cock you’re grabbing as you sink over the cock.  It wasn’t the perfect view, but he sees that red, white, and blue cock split you open.  A little glimpse of that shield in your ass.  

Hands in front of you, you lean forward, and there it was.  That shield in your ass.  “Fuck yourself.  And turn back to look at me,” peeking over your shoulder you give him a sly grin.  Moving over the toy.

“I hear you, Captain.  How good does my pussy feel?”

“So good,” he grunts out, pumping his fist around his cock.  Why had he neglected to do this for so long.  “My pussy.”

“Yes, Captain.  This pussy is all yours.”

“Mine.”

“It’s so warm, and wet, and…how tight is your pussy?”

It’d be tighter once he had someone to stuff your ass.  Get to watch you come over two cocks, while you beg for him to pet you.  “Oh, Captain, you feel so good.”

He’d feel better if that was his actual cock.  “Captain, you’re so deep.”

That cock was nothing to Steve’s size.  He would make you have tears in your eyes as you took every bit of his length and girth.  “Captain, I love the way you feel when you’re in my stomach. You’re so deep,” you give a smirk to the camera as your juices spill onto the floor.

“Oops,” giggling.  The giggles.  The mess.  “I made such a mess for you, Captain.  You got me so wet.”

“Yeah.  Go harder.  Make your Captain proud,” your ass cheeks recoil as you bounce fast.  Stretched out so pretty, and still spurting your mess into the floor.  He’d have to spank you for being such a sloppy little slut.  Make you watch Bucky’s tongue lap up all your mess.  

Your cream coats that dildo, and he knows you are capable of so much more.  “Captain!”

“Don’t you dare stop,” he growls, choking on his cock.  He was almost there.  Could practically feel your walls clench around him.

“Captain!”

“I know.  Be a good girl, and come,” you scream out as euphoria shoots down to your nether regions.  Wishing that he could choke you in that moment.  There weren't too many things you hadn’t experienced in this line of work.  But there was this demanding quality to this Captain.  

“Now, be good for Captain, and clean up your mess.  With your tongue,” you want to scream.  That is the hottest shit you have ever heard.  Demanding that you clean up your own mess.  “I’d have someone help you.”

“You want someone to come play with me?”

“Yeah, but they’ll leave.  You have to let your Captain take care of you.”

“And Captain always takes the best care with his pussy, too.”

“Mine,” he lets the word roll off his tongue, while you licks up your arousal.  His.  All.  His.

——

Opening up your apartment door, you stand at the entrance for far too long.  There were roses on the table.  A dozen roses from the looks of it.  Steve was becoming steadily more needy.  Wanting to monopolize your time so you couldn’t find new clients.  It was fine at first, until he became too obsessive.

Playful possession had turned into something he in fact demanded.  You look down the hallway of your complex, unsure if you wanted to go in.  This was a job that was for extra money, and Steve had made it clear he demanded you and wanted you when he wanted it.  And now the roses.

Of course those roses could be from anyone, but you knew they weren’t. They were in your fucking apartment.  They were only from one person.  Him.  Captain.  The hall was too quiet.  Just as quiet as your home.  It was like you were the only one in the room.  In the building.

“Steve?” You ask, taking a step back into the hall.  An unfamiliar smell is surrounding you.  Clean.  Fresh.  It was him.  

“Steve?” You tremble.  Ready to bolt.  Anywhere but here.  You had to cut him off.  The money wasn’t even that good.  He had lost his mind.

“Steve?” Yelping when arms wrap around your waist, but his hand covers your mouth gently.  Pressing his nose to your neck, he inhales deeply.  

“Honey, I’m home.  And I expect you to say my name properly.  I can’t have you available to any other men.  Your site has been taken down.  Your apartment will be swept.  All those toys trashed, because you have the real Captain now.  It’ll be like you never existed.  Your new life starts today.  And I’ll make sure you are the perfect housewife for me.  Bear my children, and live to serve me.  Now, be a good girl, and thank your Captain for rescuing you.”

His hand is now wet from the tears that spill onto him, and you try and shake your head no.  “Say, thank you, my Captain.”

“Thank you, my Captain,” you sound like a scared mouse.  And he knows it.  With one  maniacal chuckle he starts dragging you down the hallway.  No one will ever remember you.  No one will ever rescue you.  You are now his.  And he has no intention of letting you go.

Now…thank him.

Masterlist

Taglist: @tis-thedamn-season​ @marveloustaylortot​ @pono-pura-vida​ @sstan-hoe​ @missusbarnes-rogers​ @peaches1958​ @seitmai​ @smile1318​ @andydrysdalerogers​ @cjand10​ @midnightramyeoncravings​ @donutloverxo​ @whiskeytangofoxtrot555​ @bambamwolf87​ @harrysthiccthighss​

[vyzz-undercover]

im insane have a few kilos of:

[cato/f!ambassador]

(1) (2) (3) (4) (5)

(6,600ish words) (please fucking sedate me)

{i dont usually write in whatever perspective having a 'you' in this sort of context is, so forgive any oopsies besties!!!}

CONTENT WARNINGS:

•slight dubcon

•hints of size kink

•intercourse [M/F]

•degrading language

•mild possessive behaviour

•pisspoor cliche of 'oh no you're freezing haha body warmth eh?' trope

•mr. sicarius' insufferable ego

•tumblr's dogshit formatting from phone notes to the app

———————————————————————————————————

super special thanks to all the writers im too much of a spineless coward to actually @ because i only ever lurked on anon asks on old main for, like: moodymisty, mothiir, lemon-russ, the-raven-lady, scriberye and many others. you're all the unknowing reasons why i made an alt to post this, cheers for your amazing works and ideas!!! :3

———————————————————————————————————

It was doomed from the start, honestly.

Not to say he had any hope that an assignment would ever actually go easily for once.

It's supposed to be an apparently simple diplomatic procedure. Namely, you get to stand around, run your ambassadorial trap and bat your lashes and trollop about in front of pompous baseline fools. While he, Cato Sicarius, stands at attention in pissy formal wear; pretending like he's not a hair-breadth from an aneurysm watching it all take place.

Oh, and not to forget the brother who's a head taller than him, in full plate, and isn't being held to a standard of mock-humility.

He realises belatedly he's forgotten the Primaris' name. That shouldn't happen. He never used to forget things. Eidetic memory shouldn't let him. He shouldn't be able to—or, well—maybe his subconscious deigned it unimportant and emptied it out the proverbial airlock of his mind. It was admittedly largely inconsequential. He'd been told, surely. He remembers he was a Sergeant of some sort from his markings. He also remembers being gawked at by the Primaris, borderline felated by eyes alone. He's Cato Sicarius, afterall. Grand Duke of Talassar and High Suzerain of Ultramar—of course he'd been inspiring awe. But for some warp-damned reason, alongside all those great titles, his Father'd decided to add Master Babysitter of His Ambassador to the list. But Cato does doesn't let it bother him. He's always got better things to occupy his time. Like furiously glaring at you across the thunder-hawk, even if you'd been dead-set on counting the rivets in the floor plating.

You'd looked absolutely idiotic in an Astartes troop seat. Like a toddler in an adult-sized wheelchair, draped in furs that seemed a size too big; hiding a dress that looked a size too small.

Simply put, the entire assignment was to be an event in circle-jerking—until shit hit the fan with all the painful similarity of a Nurgling thrown headlong into a thruster engine.

To begin with, it was a trap—a trap where he's separated from brother-Sergeant 'whatever-the-fuck-riel' in the commotion and responding bolter fire. That'd left Cato pointedly responsible for evacuating you, the useless little chatterbox, by the scruff of your fuzzy coat through side halls.

On another note, of all the accursed biomes, he hates tundras the most.

Pointedly, it's exactly what seventy percent of this backwater, shit-hole planet is this time of year; whereas the other thirty percent is glacial mush.

He discovers firsthand just how much sloshy ice-water there is to be found as he kicks in a shutter door and gets doused for the first time of many to follow; only to vault from the eastern rampart. Sliding down a long, raised and sleet covered run-off canal that passed over the keep's lesser residential rooftops with you in his grasp.

Melt water soaks you both as he scrambles fights to a halt on the steep decline before the drop off. Wobbling balancing on the edge for a second before he manages to scud back up and down a side chute, worming through the raucous hellscape of filthy baselines and too-tight alleys into the scrappy frozen wilds.

There was little time to hesitate when he decides breaking into a dead-sprint with a soggy ambassador thrown over his shoulder's the modus operandi of the situation.

He didn't stop until he was at least fifteen clicks away, or rather—he only stops when he's able to recognise a spot to hide and await for emergency evacuation.

A half-standing shack. Probably some peasant's hunting hovel. Clearly in poor condition, and honestly, a cave would've been preferable—but he isn't about to pass up the opportunity.

The door doesn't even swing open when he nudges it with his elbow. No, it falls inward, because of course it does, and he grumbles belatedly when it thuds.

The inside of the structure is a damnable mess, but, at the very least, it's dry.

He moves to tug you off his shoulder and toss you onto a pile of rags in the far corner, but he hesitates periodically. Even through his own wet outer attire, he can tell very little body heat is coming off you. His hearing catches on the way your breathing labours below the incessant chatter of your teeth.

Some wretched part of him implores he let you down carefully next to the nested mess of dirty cloth; and for once, he acquiesces to granting mercy.

You curl up into a ball on the floorboards almost immediately.

In his eyes, you're the pict of some drowned rat. The fur coat you'd been wearing over your dress is just as soaked through as everything else. Your hair is full of small, frozen rivulets at the ends, mixed in with powder snow and ice; and all the while, you're whining softly and trying to coil tighter into a fetal position.

He's trying very hard not to just stand there and dumbly listen to your little noises of weakness like a salivating dog.

Instead, Cato turns and lifts the door back into place against the frame; then he activates the honing beacon on his belt.

No latency pings, no close contact.

He grumbles again, eyeing your shivering form over his shoulder begrudgingly.

He hates you.

He hates that he's the one who's responsible for you.

The fact he is also currently out of his power-armour because of this charade only makes him even more irate, impossibly.

Sure, he has his combat bodyglove on under the tacky regalia, but it's no real consolation. He'd feel a lot better if there was a couple extra hundred kilos of plasteel and ceramite on him.

He could've had his armour on, had someone else been the one to babysit you.

He would have preferred anything but sole custody of your wretched, annoying existence falling on him. But because he's the only competent Astartes around ninety percent of the time, and you're the root of all problems—it means he's the only one who's capable of handling your stupidity. He can't even imagine letting anyone else do it. You'd probably deafen Trajan with your yapping if he was in his stead. Or Prabian. And if Titus had watch of you, you two'd probably be—ugh, he won't even dignify the thought. He can't believe the man'd been Captain of Second Company before him, or how or why Agemman gave the captaincy to him. He understands why Titus'd been struck from most records aside from high clearance. To say nothing of the fact that one would think being a Blackshield for a century would humble someone. But no, it seems crossing the Rubicon Primaris gave him his balls back.

Cato had almost flown into a blind rage when he'd heard him jokingly warning about rough weather to you on the embarkation deck the last time you'd been in each others general vicinity—because oh, of course Lieutenant Titus is suddenly a subsector-renowned fucking comedian as soon as you're there. Cato ought to subpoena the dribbling Inquisition like that little snake Leandros did. See how Titus'd like a real stage to perform on again. Maybe they'll have a new rendition of the cunted Rubicon Primaris to piece his sorry fat-arse back together once more by then. But he won't. He won't because Marneus would sulk, and Cato would feel bad. Plus, Cato's infinitely more likely to kill an Inquisitor than help one. But you—you little skank—you find Titus so funny. Hiding a giggle behind your hand, pretending to look demure and professional despite your wretched nature.

Why don't you smile at him like that?

You would be the death of him.

It was always all because of you. Every single time. Because you're so useless in any situation that can't be rambled out of. Which is all of them when you're involved, in Cato's opinion. His Father should leave the talking to professionals who wouldn't break a hip from a smack on the rear.

But now you are going to die of hypothermia, like a typical, pathetic little baseline—well, unless you start following his orders.

Cato tries not to think of how you were acting when rounds started going off earlier. Of course, like a spooked animal, you'd been all ears to his commands then. Hiding against him with your hands pawing at the side of his dress uniform as bullets careened across the dining hall, looking up at him with those big, terrified, caught-in-the-crosshair eyes—and, Throne, it had been so easy to pick you up. You were so soft flimsy, he could fling you around like a rag-doll if he really wanted. Manhandling you would be a singlehanded venture. He's liable to just hoist you up whenever you think yourself bold enough to bother him next. Grab you by your uniform's scruff and just pin you against a bulkhead, you'd be bent at the perfect height to—no—no, no.

Abruptly trying to distract himself, Cato draws his blade from it's ceremonial sheath and activates the disruption core, trying to stoke some sort of heated spark as he drove it into the fireplace.

He brutishly nudges it amidst the old wood and long dim coals. It isn't his finest moment of critical thinking, but it seems to be working; seeing as a few weak embers sputter to life.

Gratingly, he's aware that even a servitor would've known starting a fire in hostile territory was a fool's surest way at getting caught—but he has no other choice. Either he acts the moron and plays his poor hand, or you die from the shock of your chill; and if that happens, he'll have to face his Father's wrath.

And Guilliman would have his left testicle as a paperweight if you died under his watch.

In conclusion, if Cato is to choose between stupidity and complete failure, he's opting for stupidity. Which aggravatingly felt like an ongoing occurrence, ever since you started existing anywhere near him.

He reaches for your soggy swaddled form, and tugs.

Even practically hypothermic, you've still got enough of a two-faced-bitch's spirit hidden away in you to hiss and swat at him blindly. So much for his Father's claims you were of 'sweet, kind temperament.'

For a moment, he genuinely wants to throttle you for the outburst; but he swallows down the urge.

"You need to get out of those," he snaps, glowering down at you. "Or you are going to die."

Your response is a poignant little groan as you glance dizzily around the room.

Cato huffs, "There are blankets beside you, fool."

He holds up a dingy plaid throw, half fraying and stinking of stale mould. It was an assault on his vomeronasal organ, but he wasn't about to let you act the typical spoiled cunt routine of an Imperial ambassador. He would have you wrapped in it sooner rather than later, wether you liked it or not. You dying reflects poorly on him, afterall.

"T-T-Turn, p-p-please—" you say, but your stammering mangles the words into a juddering mess.

He growls, almost tempted to snarl something about 'the fucking audacity in thinking you can tell him what to do—' but acquiesces out of sheer force of will and pivots on his heel, settling into a martial line stance.

Cato can hear you struggling to wriggle free of your clothes. The whines of effort and heavy breathing, to say nothing of the almost comedic slop sound one miscellaneous article makes as it hits the rotted wooden floorboards.

Even if he's taking it to his grave, he's admittedly itching to look over his shoulder.

It's a completely degenerate urge.

But he's—he's wanted this. He's wanted this exact opportunity.

He's got it, now.

You're alone with him.

Nothing and nobody to distract or detract from your attention finally being all on him.

You make a fey little groan, and he takes that as a signal you're finished.

He rounds about-face, and, for lack of a better word, ogles the shape of your covered form.

You've dragged that pile of rags closer to the meagre fireplace, lying on it with the plaid blanket strewn over the top of you.

Even completely hidden beneath, he can see you are still shaking under the ratty thing. Even moreso than before, in all actuality. He supposes that's a good sign. It proves your feeble body is still well and keen on living.

But the suffocating concept you're bare weak, soft useless and needing pathetic underneath that scrap of fabric worms its way into his brain like a cancer.

He grits his teeth so hard his jaw aches.

Tearing his gaze away, he finds the embers his blade coaxed are a small flame eating away at the old timber now.

Looking back, your shivering's subsiding, but your rapid breathing is increasing; which is surely not good.

He has an idea, which definitely isn't influenced by depravity at all—shut up.

Cato tries for a moment to actually unbutton his attire. His fingers are too large, unsurprisingly. And with the body-suit, he's got no leverage of a nail or two to do away with the dainty fasteners. So, ultimately, he tears the regalia down the front, sending buttons flying—and continues to pry and rend the sopping garments off his arms and legs until they're a pile at his feet.

Then he sets about a more strenuous matter. He releases the locking mechanism at his clavicle, and promptly undoes the thick claps over his pectorals so he can pop free the catches beneath, peeling the layered material back and shucking his arms and hands loose of their constraints.

The top of his bodyglove hangs around his hips now, and he sighs. The chill is of no real annoyance to him. He's built to endure most conditions. Sure, it's cold—but Astartes run hot. And right now, he's boiling for so very many accursed reasons.

He settles on his side next to you and scuds himself to bracket the pile of fabric.

"Move closer," he bites out.

He tries not to groan when you actually do, and surprises himself when he manages to stifle the sound. Even through the blanket, he imagines his warmth is a welcome change to freezing.

"T-Thank you," you say softly, soaking in his body heat like a banal reptile under a sun's rays.

He likes hearing timidity on your lips.

He supposes it stems from his habit of humbling you. The opportunities are unsurprisingly plentiful. He often finds enjoyment hearing you back-pedal when he would cut you down for so much as genially inquiring on Astartesian discussions. Putting himself in the middle and shutting you out, even if you were welcomed in them prior to his arrival.

If you want to ask something of his Brothers, it'll be his answers.

All it ever took was a growl and a curt reminder to know your place. Then you'd fumble and take two steps back. Snipped down to size as you ought to be. Forced to suffer an ounce of the shame he feels. Oh, and then your big doe-eyes'd cast down at Cato's ceramite boots, fussing; trying to apologise to him.

In truth, it's adorable pathetic to watch.

You look so hurt.

It's an act, he's sure of it.

You play at being difficult to anger, and that makes you just that bit more grating. You've unknowingly caught him with an unfair advantage. One that his prowess as a statesman and a warrior cannot seem to scratch. He's always left feeling robbed in your presence. In a way that furiously giving in to the alien urge of palming himself afterwards doesn't ever fix. He's toey and irked to be excluded when you talk to other Astartes, but simultaneously darkly glad that you shy from such antics with him.

It's paradoxical, yes. But no, he's not a hypocrite. Though some part of him is scolding him for being one. No, he's aching to sink his proverbial claws into you—though he won't ever say it to a soul. He won't because he knows he's not supposed to have tastes such as this. A pit in his gut taunts that the stint he'd suffered in the Warp is to blame. But he's the commander of Roboute Guilliman's Victrix Guard. He is not aberrant. The sidelong, fraction-of-a-second glances Cato receives from his Primarch when you enter his office to give briefings surely mean nothing.

It's clear why you have his Father's favour, but he'll never admit that either. Aside from Guilliman's desperation to find baseline company for some strange reason. You're surely just a pet to him. Like a small rodent he pries off a little wheel and sets out in a clear sphere to roll about on the bridge, or something.

To say nothing of his brothers' behaviours.

They won't show it in a group, but he knows the Astartes beneath him preen at your every query.

It's complete lunacy.

It's heresy.

You must have somehow beguiled them all, just like you've done him.

But you're still right there—right where he wants you.

And damn it all, does he want you.

He wants—he wants you on your front, squirming underneath him. No, wait, he wants to see you—but then you'd need to be on top. He can watch, like that. Then afterwards he'll have you on your back, perhaps. Why not sideways? You're already like that, now. Or—or... who's he kidding, he'd take anything, and everything.

Throne, he's so hard he swears he is going to have a brain haemorrhage. He feels like he's already had one, honestly, for all his thoughts are hazing. It's a million leagues worse than the time you'd accidentally called him 'Lord Sicarius' by accident instead of your usual choice of 'Commander' and Throne, he'd rubbed himself raw after that.

Maybe if you weren't such a whorish little wretch, his fantasies wouldn't be running so rabid right now.

You wriggle and your half-covered back slides up against his front.

Cato's never held himself stiller in his life.

Your skin feels like fine silk to his spiralling mind; and even worse, your damnable wriggling doesn't stop. You start making little movements with your feet to try to get circulation back in them—and again, there's a fey similarity to your behaviours and some soaked rodent he recognises.

Decidedly, you've realised it's not enough and promptly jut your feet backwards between his quads. Still continuing the motions, but more furiously.

The touch is dangerously close to the cradle of his inner thighs.

He swears he actually feels the blood drain from his face in mortification. The touch is meagre, but it's real. It's more warming than any he's ever known. And of course, to add insult to injury, that blood drains straight to were he's already painfully hard—which is currently pushed against his navel, halfway jutting out of his bodyglove's zipper.

Thankfully, you withdraw yourself from between his legs and sigh again, snug.

Then, you shuffle closer.

Your rear scuds right up to the swell of his confined cock.

Cato's immediately beside himself in an instant, flying into a rainbow of emotion. First, he's disgusted. Then he's seething at the audacity—which makes him furious—and finally, he's... he's ecstatic.

He groans, raring like some rutting animal; but the sound ultimately leaves him as an angry, subvocal snarl of transhuman harmonics.

You flinch, and wriggle away sharply, and he repeats the sound again at the loss of contact. You're only a hair away from being there still, he can feel how close you are—but you remain just beyond him again.

"My—my apologies, Commander... I-I—" you blurt out, voice still a little chill stuttered, "I didn't... I didn't mean to overstep."

He inhales steadily. He notes you're doused in human stress hormones; but he's acutely aware of a honeyed smell just below the surface. It's so suffocatingly sugary it's actually hurting his nose to scent the air. It's addling his thoughts, turning his focus to mist.

He can smell you failing to juggle all the reactions and thankfully rottenly settling for the one that makes you reek of mollasses.

"Come back, shut up," he hisses. "And stay still."

Sweet-stink radiates again before you swallow sharply.

There's an eternal breath of time in which he's about to go mad with anticipation, and the instant you're slotted against him again.

Some base urgency sends him frotting forward, and the thick, leaking head of him that peaks out the top of his zip brushes against a warm cunt; all thanks to that blanket of yours having slipped loose slightly, and lo, the blessed horrid consequence.

He'd live off the way your surprised gasp makes his nerves thrill.

"Is—" you wheeze, "Is that...?"

He grimaces, unsurprised you're ever stupider than you look. Recklessly, instead of lying—instead of saying 'no, it's a combat knife,' his mouth decides he's to act the most pathologically honest town crier alive.

"It," he intones sharply, before the words "...is your fault," leave him as a rushed hiss.

A belated pause wins out for a moment, and he's mortified as he realises what he's just confessed. There's a leaden feeling at the back of his throat. One option to recover the situation is that he could just hit you on the head. What'd be a shiner of a punch to a brother would be a terminal concussion to a baseline. Then, he'd tell the Primarch, oh yes, you died. Very sad. How? To shreds. To shreds you say? Truthfully, he can't really bring any actual conviction to the plan. He wouldn't. The notion is merely a hypothetical, in a perfect world where violence solved everything. Because if you die, Guilliman will send him to an Agri-world to be some peasant's plough-puller or someshit for a few centuries—and Cato's going to kill himself before he has to suffer that indignity. Uriel would never let him live it down. He's bound to suffer the same consequences, ultimately. Even if he's got no idea what an Astartes with a sex drive would be liable to be punished for. Oh, right. Corruption. So now, there's a credible witness to his flaw and one that his Father'll believe, worst of all, and... abruptly, you reply instead of scream in revulsion, your voice a mumbled little squeak as you say, "I didn't know—I mean, I didn't think—"

"Believe me, I am well aware you lack the capacity to think," Cato cuts in, and swallows down a snort at his own mean spirited joke. He's fucked, and for some reason he's suddenly further struck by the hilarity of the bastard, warp-spawn wiles of fate and chance. May as well be hung for the sheep as for a lamb, he decides.

Your breathing gains a shallow edge, and he feels you make as if to inch away again.

"I said not to move," He growls, and keeps you flush against him—holding you there by way of folding an arm across you.

"I just... uh," you reply, "I'm just..."

Your ass grinds back against him.

There's contact, your skin against the flushed, drooling head of him that feels painfully tender—and then you ruin it by speaking again.

"Curious, I suppose...? I was of the belief the Adeptus Astartes didn't..." your voice is soft, at least; slow and distracted, "Have an appetite for... this sort of thing?"

Cato momentarily stays fixated on the breathiness of your tone, and has to remind himself he's supposed to be angry at being robbed of silence—so he grumbles, "I told you to shut your trap," and promptly smothers a palm over your mouth.

You make a noise that sounds vaguely like a mumbled curse and settle, breathing hard through your nose to compensate.

Still, your rear presses back against him.

Cato takes the gesture at face value and fusses, roughly wrenching his bodyglove down to his thighs with his free hand.

Unconfined, his cock slaps the small of your back, and he manhandles you to readjust so it glides between your thighs instead.

Everything in place, he skews his hips forward, and his eyes roll back at the smooth, sublime drag of skin against skin. It's genuine perfection, wet and soft and molten.

The little hitched breaths you steal through your nose with each roll of his hips make him grind faster. Pressing closer with each, until the abhorrent, sticky sound of him steadily fucking against you is nigh deafening.

"I go in or I stay out," he says, and he can feel his molars grate against each other as he adds, "...or I can stop."

You shake your head furiously, or at least as much as the huge mitt on your chin, maw and jaw allows.

"Then decide," he snaps. "In?"

Cato hears the cartilage in your gullet move as you swallow dryly and nod.

Chuffed with your allowance compliance, he hums—and then it's his turn to hesitate.

When he draws his hand from your mouth, he curtly says, "Stay silent," and starts as if to tell you to arrange one way, then decides against it; dithering uncharacteristically. Then, rarer yet, Cato stumbles his words as he adds, "Move on to y-your front, then."

He doesn't know why he asked for the least preferred option when he'd been deliberating over the hypothetical for so long previously but nonetheless you, miraculously, comply without complaint. And despite himself he frustrates as you roll, his cock slipping away from between your thighs.

Draped in covers, he can't see much of you aside from the shape of you slowly arranging onto your hands and knees; before your chest sinks, and your ass stays up.

Like a rabid dog, he scrambles onto his haunches and scuds over behind you.

He's not entirely sure what to do first, and harrumphs.

In answer, your back arches even further in a dangerously luring bow, a display of willingness whorishness that turns Cato's thoughts to mush. Ass up and still in the pile, covered in blankets and rags, it's painfully easy to tug you from them just enough so that a decent portion of your raised lower half is exposed to him.

All he's able to comprehend the very next instant in some hind-brain, primitive way is a shapely ass, and a pretty pink cunt.

He grabs your hip, and the size comparison is so stark his head swims. With the span of one hand, he could palm a whole globe of your rear.

He does just that, and spreads you to take a nice long look.

You've a glossy sheen of clear slick that's starting to string down where it's collecting between your labia, and Throne—it's that. That's the sweet smell. And it's all for him—you're everything he's wanted.

Inspecting, he finds the hole leaking lubricant and a much, much smaller one below it—the vagina and then the urethra, he reasons by way of thinking back on a baseline biologis graphics; and, eyeing lower to a hooded fold, he finds a swollen little nub.

Pointedly, he's got a suspicion of what it is and turns his curiosity to it.

It's an easy target for his large thumb, even as slippery as your lust has made you, and—

A shaky little keen, then your knees pull together; body curling.

"Keep your damn legs apart," he grunts, wrenching them wide, and splaying a big palm on your ass to lift you into an arch again.

He's tempted to just bask in the glory of it all, grope, smack, lick—make you beg for it until he's sure you know he's in charge. Until you're as high strung for him as he's ever been for you. But he's frenzied, and well beyond being able to linger on those broader wants; not when he's got an Ambassador to fill.

He's aware of what your clit's really for now, and keeps rolling the pad of his thumb over it until you're squirming. It doesn't take long until your hole is visibly twitching. Nothing but a sloppy, wet mess of your own whorish excitement for him, as you ought to be. Cato bites back a longing sigh as he gets the delight of watching a fresh rivulet of slick string down your thigh.

And when he works up the gall, he jams that same thumb to the hilt in your cunt.

Your insides squeeze around it, and you start shaking, then. But it's not from the cold. No, anything but that. You're warm now, and he's deliriously happy to find you're as soft inside as the rest of you looks and feels. Warp damn him, he's no better than some slavering genestealer wretch fiending for its pound of flesh.

Your smaller baseline frame makes every part of him look huge in comparison. Even his thumb is big. And you're so much less—and the fact the disparity is so glaringly obvious plays havoc with his brain; but he's got an idea. An idea that he refuses to acknowledge sounding painfully like a boarding action to him.

With little tact, he sidles up and positions himself so his tip slots right against you, while stretching your opening with his thumb.

Lining himself up with his other hand, he nudges your entrance, smearing precum in with your wetness while inching forward; sliding his thumb out in tandem with pushing his cock in—and his efforts succeed.

Cato's transfixed watching the head of himself fill the gap, sliding in—and you let out a muffled yelp, still half-buried in the blankets like some stuck animal; your thighs juddering as you suck in air.

Honestly, he's glad you've smothered yourself like that, because he can't imagine keeping it together if you were actively watching him. He thinks the stark reality of it would have him run right out of the shack. Even the idea of having your pretty damning eyes on him makes him swoon sick.

With an over-eager roll of his hips, a shiver races up his spine. But he earns a cry from you.

He takes a deep breath.

There's a twinge of pain-smell and the vaguest hint of blood in the air, but it's impermanent compared to the amount of lust.

He pushes a little more, and you ripple internally around him; making a racketing, breathless noise—twitching before slacking, and then twitching again. A few perfect little moans escaping you at last.

Abruptly, all he's able to give a fuck about is the sensation of wet and hot, and how you're finally all his—it's a strangling fit, but it's satisfying a craving bone-deep. Infinitely better than his war calloused hands.

You feel sublime, and it's pure bliss finally getting what he's wanted for so very long.

All those rest cycles wasted furiously humping into his own clenched hand, all those hours of torment seething about your latest unintended slight against him.

He's so dazed by the new sensation he's massaging small circles with his fingers on your flank, humming lowly. Who would have known all he really needed was to hilt in a warm, velvety, absolutely sopping wet cunt to come around to you? Maybe you're not so bad afterall. That is, for an insufferable little cock-sleeve; but it's nothing Cato can't grin and bare. He can almost imagine tolerating further babysitting assignments, if it means he can use you as a hole to ram his frustrations into like this.

He continues petting you, absentmindedly.

But the involuntary mercy didn't stop you from jackknifing when he bucks in more—each little motion seating him deeper and deeper. He's stunned he fits. You're so... small, and Throne, he feels monstrous even fixating upon the disparity; nevermind the shiver that races up his spine at the thought.

He yanks you backward and you stop squirming for a moment.

When your wriggling starts up again, he holds you still with the sheer willpower only a neurotic control-freak could muster. He stops your motion, yes—but your insides also stop shivering around his cock and he's resentful of that.

Nonetheless, you make to move again then, keening and bothering him; but you're seemingly struck daft when he bottoms out at last, hitting your cervix. Your internal muscles tense on the intrusion, practically cramping around him, blinding him with ecstasy for a heartbeat as you clench down hard; and a squeak of surprise escapes you. Your legs lock stiff for a moment, air venting out your lungs in shock.

You garble out a sweet, hoarse curse that sounds more like a sob than anything.

Cato supposes the theatrics are what an orgasm on something his size does to a woman. And he finds he's appallingly keen to see and hear you do it again. Keen to feel it, too. He adjusts himself and grinds, making sure you're getting every bit he's got to give. It's no small feat of restraint from Cato to not simply drive into you with all his might like a hydraulic press.

Maybe that'll make your tight little hole cinch up again? He thinks you'd like that. No—no, you should be begging for him to keep fucking you. You should be thanking him while you're at it too, really. Thanking him for deigning to take you to begin with.

Your arch falls away to a prone slump with a whine, thighs trembling, leaving him straining forward to stay in you.

He is irate at your antics, now; and his retaliation betrays it.

Cato seizes your hips and yanks you back up his cock, shimmying you a little so he's nice and sheathed and stuffing you full, nigh folded under him. Warm cunt stretched taut around the base of his thick cock, like a perfect scabbard.

He's suddenly absorbed in watching your covered form consciously trying to counter the overwhelming forward mass of him starting to drive into you like he was part battering-ram.

"Better than all those limp-dicked, bastard lordlings you've let empty in you to even chance a cushion near my Primarch's table, hm?" His tone is little more than a scathing drawl, pulling almost entirely out of you just to dip the head of himself in.

You moan into the fabric smothering you, and he holds you with a controlled desperation.

"Answer me, you little shit."

He watches you nodding desperately beneath the cover a second later, failing to get an actual reply out around your huffing and puffing.

Cato groans, "Far keener for Astartes cock, aren't you?"

You nod again, needy.

"Throne, you're pathetic," he chides harshly, delighting in the soft whine of protest you make when pulls out to the tip one last time. "All that haughty bullshit, just to turn out to be so—so easy," then he's sliding back to the hilt and starting his rutting anew, grinding into that perfect spot that has your insides shiver around him again and again. "Isn't that right? This is all you're really good for?"

Beneath him, you're too much of an insensible mess to even think about answering; and somewhere in that depraved miasma of sound, he swears you're trying to say his name.

So, understandably, he inches forward on his knees and boxes you under him. Pinning you under the span of his bulk, two big hands firmly planted either side of your blanketed head.

He can see a few strands of your hair sticking out from beneath it and he can see the fog of your breath and the tip of your nose through a tented section, and only one of your hands—clawing out at the scraps of fabric.

"Prick-dumb animal," he sneers, flagrantly showboating; trying to sound as if he's not feigning lucidity and completely at the mercy of his lust.

He drops from his hands to rest on his elbows, manoeuvring a forearm under your head to prop your chin up. He's so bent over you that your ass is practically glued to his massive pelvis.

You can't stifle yourself now.

The sounds you make when he starts ploughing into you again are unrestrained and absolutely debauched. Practically music to his ears. He can feel your saliva smearing across his arm, and he's absolutely stupefied at the mantra of 'Sicarius, S-Sicarius, Sica-ah—rius—' you start panting. To say nothing of the keening whimpers that escape when you're not crying out for him. Louder with each thrust, and warp damn it all—his perfect memory is never going to let those gorgeous sounds go. He's going to fiend off you mewling his surname like a full dose of battle-chems until he fucking dies.

Cato groans and delights in the involuntary squeeze you make around his cock again; your hips skewing up into his own, meeting him.

He just wants one more thing—he wants—no, needs—he needs to hear you scream his name in that reedy voice. Telling him that you like him playing guard for you, and you're all his and you love hi—

Rather abruptly however, you're cinching down on his cock as you come again. Throne, your cunt may as well be Marneus' clenched powerfist the way you're wringing him for everything he's got. Crying out like you're inconsolable, and so painfully eager and—oh, fuck. He tries to hold off, but it's of little use. The dam cracks, and it's all too much for him far too quickly.

"You rotten w-whore—" the words leave him in between ragged, staggered pants, gritting his teeth even though it's achieving absolutely nothing. "Stop s-squeezing, I-I—"

He's finishing in you the next second and letting out a rough, unbecoming moan instead of the rest of his sentence; despite trying to muffle himself against your shoulder and save face. Emptying all his pent up spend as deep as he can inside you and rutting himself deliriously into oversensitivity. The simple feeling of it is a more profound experience than he can even begin to explain—and he's rendered daft. Fighting just to stay awake against the warm, coddling bliss running rife in his nerves as his muscles twitch.

Still trying to recuperate, he's drunk with afterglow for a few seconds. Head beside yours, sharing the same air and hurried breaths.

In his stupor, he notes that your hair smells nice even after everything. And he tuts softly, resting his eyes. Lulled by the soft sound of your hyperventilating evening out and the continuous, weak fluttering of your cunt around him, hot and tight, and still a perfect fit.

He almost understands why mortal men so frequently fought over baseline women, now.

Almost.

Because then you start squirming again.

Pointedly, he opens his eyes and begrudgingly lifts himself away, slipping free and leaving a big sloppy smear of combined fluids across your ass and thighs as he settles into a kneel.

You're still presenting yourself as Cato scrubs a palm across his face, and blinks slowly.

He glances down for a moment and swallows.

He's hard—still.

Just as ready to rut as he was to start with, despite the fact he's only just finished.

And, much like a beast in season, he genuinely contemplates another round—what would be the harm, anyways? He could be sliding himself back into you, right then, and he doubted you'd do anything but buck up to meet him. So much for some diplomatic prodigy. You're little more than a mewling wreck. And what better way to prove it than another wet layer of your mixed fluids on his cock?

A soft sound escapes you abruptly and he looks back to the place he's itching to slam back inside of.

A few fat rivulets of his cum drip out your abused entrance, but you're too well-screwed to even care, it seems.

He thumbs one of your folds aside and smiles smugly at the mess.

You poor thing, it must be so humbling to be put in your place. He hopes it felt good. Having your better's cum leaking out of you like a banner on a conquered fortress.

He's tempted to stuff his spend back into you and give you another load to drip. Let it leak down your thighs as you pad past his men on the flagship, that'd make them well aware of who you really admire—

At that brilliant jarring thought, blazing post-clarity arrived; an abrupt and unsettling feeling. The fact he'd even—even dignified your almost Slaneeshi-tier temptation—the fact he's raring to go again—he must already reek of your lust, and you of his—and Emperor have mercy, one quick scenting betrays everything, his men would tell their Father, and—you—you groan and worm yourself back under the blanket, likely truly feeling the chill now without his body to warm you.

The urge to say something becomes almost suffocating all at once, and Cato opens his mouth—just to be interrupted by a beep.

Hesitation seizes him, and he eyes his pile of half-frozen attire in the far corner.

Eighteen and a half seconds pass and it beeps again, indicating a second for every minute of arrival estimation.

The tracker beacon has finally done it's job.

But the matter of hastily cleaning up what insanity just happened becomes the real concern now.

Suddenly stuffed to the brim with adrenaline, Cato gets to his feet with Astartesian speed. He tries to take a step but sways, almost toppling. Looking down, he realises himself; and gingerly stoically waddles marches away from you, his bodysuit stuck around his knees. There's a cupboard in the other corner, covered in a frosted cobweb that looks a little like gossamer. Rifling through it provides him little. Most of it's contents are iced through, but a bottle of what stinks like absinthe is good enough, and he doesn't think it matters what he cleans up with. He definitely does doesn't look like a servitor on broken wheels as he scuds on his heels back beside your pile. And if he suffers any more injuries to his ego, they definitely don't include him bungling a kneel and being forced to wobble down on to his haunches. It's not his fault he's mentally accommodating for power armour that, currently, isn't there.

Pausing, he pokes the mound of scraps you're under, trying to rouse you.

When your answer to his 'kinder' effort results in you whining and curling up tighter, he settles for tossing any mercy out the window with a petulant grunt; and identifies the shape of one of your legs and tugs you half-free by your ankle like a speared fish, earning a yelp as the cold assaults you.

Grabbing one of the loose rags in your pile, he saturates it with spirit and scoops you up under the hips, before starting to wipe away the evidence.

You begin thrashing almost immediately when the rag makes contact. Then you're practically yowling, "It hurts, it h-hurts—wait, wait—" and okay—yes, maybe using high proof alcohol to clean the smell and slime of his cum off your freshly fucked hole wasn't his best idea. In his defence, you're one of the most stubborn baselines he's ever met, and you should learn to handle a little pain. Secondly, booze is the only thing that stays liquid at freezing.

"Enough with the bloody caterwauling, woman," he barks, effortlessly holding you steady despite your struggling. "It's not that bad, toughen the fuck up."

When he's done with you, he's actually remorseful of the situation. Certainly not his finest choice. Because now you're sniffling weakly, fussing about the residual stinging; and then you promptly scramble back under the blanket.

"There was nothing else I could use, okay?" He says sourly, scowling at the bundle of fabric you disappear into; before tossing the soiled rag he'd used to clean you into the fireplace to ignite.

He grabs another from the pile and douses it, wiping himself off—and at last, he's finally able to start to pull his bodyglove up over his hips. Wiggling and straining to fit the thick, skin-tight material over his still very much erect cock.

From the edge of his vision he can see you've peaked your head out to watch as he fixes the sternum latch in place.

He gives you a cursory glance, but nothing more.

He ultimately expects you to look away like the mouse you are—but no, what actually happens is worse. You just keep silently raking him with an expression that makes him feel like he's made of glass and every secret he's ever had or ever known is laid bare.

He can't stand it.

It makes Cato want to sneer at you fiercely in the hopes it would scare you off, remind you he's an exemplar of the Adeptus Astartes and shouldn't be stared at—something, anything except that look.

"Get up," he turns sharply and snorts.

The beeping is once every two and a half seconds, now.

Two and a half minutes, then.

"You let me fuck you," he bites out.

You're sitting now. Covered in one of the larger articles of rags. A tartan, fraying thing crumpled atop you, frowning and looking dejected. Then you open your mouth to speak but promptly stop. He can tell you're trying to form a diplomatic reply, and he grumbles, fuming.

"Tell anyone of this—" Cato's well aware he's being cruel as he adds, "—and I'll wring your little neck, Father's favourite pet or not."

You finally look away.

And he finds he can't stand that either.

So, to souse his bruised ego, Cato decides he's going to burn the shack down as soon as the transport lands and you're onboard.

He also decides he's going to burn that tacky formal tunic of his too, simply because he can.

[tastesoftamriel]

My grandmother once told me “a way to a man’s heart is through his stomach,” which to be fair considering her may have been sword technique advice. However, I was curious if you’ve ever done food for seduction. If you wanted to get someone into your bed, what would you cook them before hand? And do Tamrielic cultures have a standard “come hither” meal?

If it's a romantic meal you're after, you've come to the right place. Whether it's Heart's Day or something a little more low key, you'll make anyone in Tamriel drool over you and your kitchen prowess with these meals!

Altmer

Just like with anything else in the Summerset Isles, subtlety is key when wooing. Relationships can take centuries to build between Altmer, so some choose to speed things up a little with what's known as a courtship basket: a not-so-simple picnic that's bound to wow. First, pick a stunning picnic location and an even more stunning wine. Load up that basket with all of Summerset's finest, from peach blossom indrik ricotta and Russafeld Heights grape honey to freshly baked spiced loaves and caviar. The rest is up to you!

Argonians

As many know, Argonians become life mates through bonding ceremonies, which are a quintessential part of Saxhleel culture. Bonding ceremonies usually entail a feast, usually with foods purported to put the happy couple in an amorous mood. One of the most famous aphrodisiac dishes is juicy Moss-Foot Croaker tree frog legs grilled in pandan leaves with wild bush honey, served atop gratinated witchetty grubs and Spotted Seatrout roe.

Bosmer

Love is a precious thing in Valenwood, and courtship often involves lots of food to test a potential spouse's skill in the kitchen and as a homemaker. The much-loved Husband's or Wife's Pie (known to some as Courtship Pie) tests those culinary skills from the fiddly all-butter thunderbug carapace crust to the twelve-hour meat and jagga filling. It's an exercise in patience and love to be sure!

Bretons

Nothing is quite as romantic as a night in Wayrest at a nondescript, candlelit gourmet restaurant with a two-year waitlist. If you can't wait that long, do the next best thing and host that dinner at home (the bedchamber is just around the corner, no?). Popular courtship dishes are generally rich and include foie gras with wild berry and shallot coulis, lamb saddle served medium rare with black truffle sauce, and salted caramel and brandy custard mille-feuille.

Dunmer

The famous Queen and lover Barenziah was particularly fond of a certain dish, which Dunmer in the many years after her influence still present to potential mates as a not-so-subtle hint at something more. The dish is none other than the notoriously finicky marshmerrow and comberry choux-fflé, which is exactly what it sounds like: a feat of culinary engineering that combines delicate marshmerrow and scuttle soufflé in a clamshell of sweet saltrice choux pastry. Guaranteed to make any Dark Elf fawn over you as if you were Narsis Dren.

Imperials

Imperials aren't exactly renowned for being the best with big feelings (it's all the Divine guilt), so showing someone you love them with food is the most common love language in the Province. Whether it's one of Salmo's sweetrolls, a hearty home cooked meal, or an unforgettable stay at one of the Imperial City's top hotels, there's no wrong way to go about Imperial courtship food. However, if you really want to impress, go for a dark chocolate and pomegranate torte, with a fudgy melting chocolate centre and topped with pomegranate treacle. Indulgent!

Khajiit

It's said that Khajiiti love is as fiery as their curries, but we all know better than to eat a hot curry on a date. So, what does one offer their partner when romantically inclined in Elsweyr? Try a silk-wrapped box of moon sugar bonbons from the closest gourmet sweet shop! A box of moon sugar candy is one of the most thoughtful gifts you can woo a Khajiit with, whether it's cardamom-milk cakes or hard boiled coconut and ginger sweets. Just be careful at the confectioners, because clashing flavours are a sign of bad taste...

Nords

If there's one race whose digestive system is directly linked to their nether regions, it's Nords. Just the mention of a romantic meal of buttery mudcrab legs with sourdough, twice-roasted elk basted in juniper spiced Honningbrew Mead, and snowberry pudding with a Nord Ale caramel drizzle is enough to make any Skyrim native do that thing where they brush their hair behind their ear while biting their lip at you.

Orcs

Historically speaking, there are two food items that are a must for wooing an Orc: echatere cheese, and proper Wrothgarian ale. Put the two together and you'll be planning a spring wedding. Echatere cheese and Orcish ale fondues, pies, sauces, and much more are the best way to use these star ingredients, but I prefer a bit of a twist: echatere cheesecake with a caramelised biscuit crust and berry-ale compote.

Redguards

Redguards are known for being passionate lovers, who write rambling love poetry and frantically check their birthsigns for relationship compatibility. With that in mind, you're going to have to work hard in the kitchen to gain a Redguard's love. If you're not sure where to start, skip the Middas special camel-stomach meatloaf at the inn and get right to the kitchen to make some rasmalai! This unique spiced dessert of sweet cottage cheese balls are served with crushed pistachios, and a cardamom, saffron, and rose-infused cream. The punchier and more balanced the spices, the more likely you are to pull that date.

[runwayrunway]

No. 1 - Lufthansa

We begin with a large fish even by the standards of the large pond in which we operate. A very intentionally chosen large fish. Deutsche Lufthansa is Germany’s flag carrier and the second largest carrier in all of Europe by passenger volume. In 2018, they unveiled a new standard livery for their fleet of airplanes, and it...well. It’s this. 

Even the presentation - good lord, is this an auto show?

My feelings on Lufthansa’s 2018 livery are visceral. There’s no mental evaluation required, no taking it in, thinking about the choices made - I look at the modern Lufthansa livery and immediately, profoundly know that I hate it. And that’s not just because of the specific choices made - which are bad - but because of the space they occupy amidst a creatively barren wasteland within livery design. This is going to be a very long post, which isn’t standard for this blog, but my goal for an introduction is to break down exactly the sort of design that made me feel the need to start doing this to begin with. 

But in reality that’s only the beginning. Yes, Lufthansa’s livery is specifically disappointing, but it is so much more than that. It is the purest distillation of the greatest challenge aviation faces today, far weightier than scheduling issues, outdated IT, and runway incursions. It is not the worst example of it, not in the slightest, but it is a large airline which has a very textbook presentation of symptoms and thus feels like a great example to describe exactly what I hate about this sort of design. Let me explain. 

Essentially, airlines have found a formula. It goes as such: 

Almost entirely white body. (There is a name for this trend: Eurowhite.) In some cases, there may be a colour on the underside, generally either a light grey or whichever secondary shade the airline has committed to. In the case of this Lufthansa livery, it is just white. 

Aside from the white body there will be either a single colour (generally some dark blue, or less often some sort of red) or a few colours, usually but not exclusively on flag carriers to match their national branding. (The proliferation of red, white, and blue flags out there means that a disproportionate number of airline liveries are these colours.) Unless it is literally just a white plane meant to be as generic as possible for short turn-overs when leasing, it will at least attempt to have some sort of design, but it will be minimal, and:

All of the detail will be on the tail. There may be coloured winglets or engine nacelles, but other than that it is only at the rear of the plane that you begin to see any interest. Usually this is just a logo, though it may be an abstract design which looks like a default tumblr header. It will often only be on the tail, with nothing at all on the body proper.

The name of the airline written in a sans-serif typeface which is set as default on at least one word processor. Rarely will anything creative be done with this. It will (usually, except in egregious cases) match the impotent attempt at graphic design which has been confined to the empennage and it will have all the charm of a large retail chain’s flyer describing the benefits you’ll definitely totally get if you work for them - sickeningly corporate. Low-cost airlines may slightly vary the theme by putting their website onto the livery, either towards the back or just instead of the airline’s name. The brave will also write it on the ventral fairing, but most don’t even bother with that simple act. Some airlines have their name written in the language spoken in the country they’re based in, usually beside the English text, but most are only in English despite operating in countries where this is not the most widely spoken language. 

Not every livery which has these features is badly designed, as seemingly small changes can make all the difference. There is the occasional livery that fits most, if not all of these features that has some clever tweaks or design choices which makes me actually think it’s fine, acceptable, maybe even decent. (I have taken the initiative of making sure a few of these are among my early posts, just to demonstrate that it can be done). And some airlines depart from this entirely and come up with something even more hideous. Yet I somehow find myself respecting even these more than I do Lufthansa. 

The Corporate Standard Livery Design (Lufthansesque design, if you will) is - and I do not think I am being dramatic at all here - an epidemic. Taxiing through most airports, you sometimes have to actually try to tell the planes parked around you apart in the sea of red, blue, and mostly white. And I spend a lot of time looking at planes.  

These liveries do not only fail to inspire me. They instill in me a profound disgust. They are not trying to be good. They are trying to be what I described earlier - decent, not worth complaining about, because that’s cheaper and easier than designing something good. Graphic design is not anyone’s passion here. They’re just trying to toe the line. They’re so poisoned by the modern minimalist-design brain virus that they don’t realise that to be acceptable a livery this simple needs to do something interesting. There must be a creative decision made somewhere, a compelling feature, or you may as well be flying an MLA-formatted plane. In their striving for adequacy they become not just ambient, but lukewarm. They are a bottle of water which has sat in the sun for so long that when you drink it, even though you’re overheating and parched, it feels only negligibly better than the air you’ve been breathing in. 

To be fair, I do not only hate the Lufthansa paintjob because it exemplifies whatever-ness. Even in an industry saturated with gross in-flight nothingburgers served with some stale biscuits and a paper cup of Lipton tea, Lufthansa manages to offend in specific and unique ways. 

Throughout its long history Lufthansa has had a handful of different liveries, but from 2018 onwards this has been the situation. They’ve never been brilliant, but it’s only gotten worse over time. I normally would commit to a separate post for historical liveries, but in a move that I don’t foresee becoming particularly common I’d like to talk about the history and evolution of Lufthansa’s liveries from the golden age to now - the fall, if you will. 

(image: lufthansa bildarchiv)

Their early liveries were already pretty much plain white or metal, but they still had a few features that made them seem a bit less like photocopy paper which was meant to be printed plain blue but only got through a tenth of the sheet before ink ran out. To begin with, they used a lighter blue and combined it with a vivid yellow to add some actual visual interest. The layering of the yellow over the blue where it curves around and below the nose and on the ends of the tailplane actually draws the eye. The font choice is nice and legible, spaced apart in the center of the fuselage. I imagine it was easy to read even from far away. (Shame it’s a bit blocked by the wings from some angles, though.)

(image: lufthansa bildarchiv)

This early 707 design keeps the cheatlines extending past the nose but makes them sharper than the ones on the Connie to match the sleek profile of the jet. Back when this plane was painted adding white to your plane was a choice rather than the thing everybody was doing, which allows me to respect it for the choice it was instead of considering it the factory default. The bottom half, denoted by the cheatline, is left unpainted, which only adds to the sleekness of the overall profile, and the text is clear and plain but still aesthetically pleasing. The 707 is by modern standards pretty antique-looking; you can take one look at one and tell it isn’t particularly streamlined. This paint scheme, though, makes the plane look sharp and aerodynamic, despite not being revolutionary. I would go so far as to say I like this particular livery. This is, unfortunately, as good as it gets. 

Oh. Oh no...

Let’s assess the damage here. The cheatlines now simply meet at the front without wrapping down to the belly of the plane and the nose is a simple black tip. I like it when airlines paint their planes’ radomes, and I wouldn’t mind it here if not for what it was replacing. The font has been replaced with a generic sans serif font which is closely spaced and put up into a corner, like the name on a homework assignment - it’s not really part of the total package, just there for administrative purposes. Most upsetting to me is the tail. While I wouldn’t say I love the little section on the old plane, it at least felt like it belonged there, creating a second blue-and-yellow layer above the white. Its placement on the fin above where it begins to taper gives the plane a bit of an aerodynamic feel. It’s certainly not changing the world, but it feels at home in the livery. 

The new fin is a sharp downgrade. With nothing to mark the transition the fin abruptly goes from the white of the upper fuselage to a shiny blue which contains an enclave of the only yellow to be found on the entire aircraft. This makes the yellow stand out, as it has nothing to tie it in with the rest of the plane, and the fin itself feels almost like it’s been Frankensteined onto the fuselage from a different plane by a different airline. There’s nothing to mediate the transition from a block of white to a block of blue, like how the cheatline separates white and grey. It just is blue now, stop asking questions. This also means that the only part of the plane that the eye is really drawn to is...the tiny portion of the whole that is the fin, which may as well be floating detached in midair. 

This is foreboding. Knowing what I know now, it feels like looking back at when a romantic partner began to act strange years later, after the divorce, as you walk by the house he bought with his mistress. 

(image: g najberg)

The most recent, and only, time I flew on Lufthansa was in 2014 and was aboard one of their 747-400s. (Actually, if you’d still like to fly on a passenger 747, Lufthansa is basically your only option.) At the time, they looked like this. This is...just sad. They got rid of the cheatlines, because that’s trendy now, and they painted the whole plane white and made an attempt at lip service to the old metal lower half by painting just a bit of the plane grey, like if a human stepped into a puddle of paint that only covered the very sole of their foot. And I’m being generous by showing a 747, a plane which inherently makes any livery look less boring by being interestingly shaped itself, instead of the classic slightly pointy single-decker tube. Not to mention the double-decker design makes the text vertically centered instead of the default Lufthansa look of awkwardly shoved nearly all the way up the fuselage. 

In defense of the modern livery, it’s possible to argue it’s an improvement on this. Honestly, looking at them next to each other, it’s difficult to pick out which one I find less defensible. 

But then you see D-AIDV, an A321 painted in a heritage livery, and you feel the immediate, visceral “no!!! no go back!!!” as you remember that this is a false dichotomy and we could have something so much better if they weren’t peer-pressured into generic modern design. 

And for what? For this?

(image: hvdfonts)

For the third time, I remind you of what we have been reduced to. We have achieved a state of reductio ad absurdum where this barely qualifies as a design. This plane is more or less a white blot. You can put as many insets as you want and it is still a white blot. 

I am relatively sure that the font used is literally Helvetica. EDIT: I have been informed that it is not, in fact, Helvetica, but a custom typeface that happens to look almost exactly like Helvetica. This is, in my own opinion, worse! They did apparently use Helvetica in the past, though. Here is a very detailed description of the design process of the font, which manages to contain a grand total of zero ideas. 

I would hate this on its own already, but it’s also so closely spaced and located so far up that it makes me feel like I’m suffocating. In my own experience as a dyslexic person, kerning is the single weightiest feature when it comes to if I can easily read something or not. While Helvetica, ugly though it may be, is generally considered a very legible font, any benefits from that are more than cancelled out by committing to making sure the entire name of the airline fits between the frontmost two doors with room to spare. It feels almost hostile.

Now, all given, I at least somewhat enjoy the shade of blue used for this livery, which is darker than the normal fare. I do miss the way the grey broke up the endless white space, though, and I mourn the yellow even more - in addition to being something to look at, losing it has also lost any visible reference to the flag of Germany, the country for which Lufthansa is the flag carrier. They don’t even have the black part of the German flag despite that being basically free. If they went for black instead of dark blue I would honestly respect this a hell of a lot more. One of the most recognizable flags in the world and instead your airline looks like a discount SAS.  

Yeah, I said it. If we want to go even further with comparisons by including airlines that aren’t Lufthansa, this is basically the SAS livery. Except not, because the SAS livery does a lot that this doesn’t. 

This is about Lufthansa, not SAS. I’ll look at SAS soon enough, because comparing their look to Lufthansa’s has made me appreciate it in a way I never used to. But I don’t think I need to elaborate too much for it to be clear why SAS’s livery works and Lufthansa’s doesn’t, despite the superficial similarities. SAS took their absolutely horrid previous livery and turned it into something which might not wow anyone but at least feels uniquely theirs, while Lufthansa had something which accomplished much the same and then diluted it into nothingness, Eurowhite writ large. Two washes and you’d wonder if your Lufthansa flight is actually a Smartlynx lease.  

The way that the blue slices into the bottom of the fuselage and doesn’t fully cover the tailfin is...something? It’s a design element. It’s not nearly enough to save it, but it’s a design element. However, this presents another issue specific to Lufthansa’s paint job, best demonstrated with a specific plane: 

(image: lufthansa)

Lufthansa is the world’s largest operator of the Airbus A340, a somewhat eccentric airplane which is perhaps best thought of as a four-engined A330. I love this airplane, and am delighted seeing it overhead on my walk home from work, because Lufthansa is kind enough to operate a daily service with it to my home airport, but that’s beside the point. The point is this: what I have pictured is specifically the A340-600, which is the world’s second longest in-service airliner. Yes, longer than the A380 and the 747-400, and, in fact, only shorter than the 747-800. With a plane this long, the Lufthansa livery creates an incredible look of rear-heaviness. This plane looks like it should uncontrollably pitch up until it’s perpendicular to the ground every time it takes off. Of course this effect is less pronounced on shorter aircraft, but it’s still there, and I dislike it. 

You can barely even tell there’s paint at all on a much smaller plane! And the white bit on the front of the rudder which looks okay on a conventional empennage looks downright horrible when it’s only on the very tip of the t-tail’s forward point. 

Oh, and when you take the windows out for a freighter conversion it gets even worse. 

This is a generic-brand airplane. It genuinely reminds me of generic branding. There is a specific brand that has this exact appearance and I can’t remember what it is but it’s right there and I’m fairly sure I’ve seen it at CVS. I don’t think that’s what you want to go for when designing an airline livery, especially for an airline representing a country, but if Lufthansa wasn’t going for that they’ve failed. 

                  __________________________________________

Overall, Lufthansa’s livery is superbly boring and not terribly well thought out. It’s not worth this absolute dissertation on its own, but I’ve singled it out to complain about general trends, and for that I probably owe it an apology. Said apology is predicated on the fact that it is still a very underwhelming and bad design which could have used a lot more thought. There are a million ways this could have been made decent, and none of them were implemented because that would have taken effort and time and creative vision. I think this post actually required more time and effort than Lufthansa put into designing their planes. 

That said, Lufthansa gets a final grade of D. It’s...bad, it definitely is. There’s the vague flavour of the start of something, like the very distant smell from a barbecue happening three blocks away, but is that really even a redeeming factor? 

No. The second-largest airline in Europe should be able to do better. If I have to stare at rows upon rows of their planes any time I’m at a German airport, they should have the decency to make them interesting to look at. 

[boyakishantriage]

Humans *bickering bickering*

Alien: what's. Going. On??

Human: good question, if I had to guess. Something about fashion.

Alien: fashion?

Human1: no, I say pink and green...

Human: ... I mean, they're arguing with fancy names, colours, photos. I generally-

Alien: no. How. Why would you argue about clothing?

Humans: *freezes and starts shouting at alien*

Human: hey, what's so bad about... *Thinks* Arabic fabric?

Human4: OH DON'T GET ME STARTED-

Alien: how-

Human: generally speaking, skimming fashion blogs for key discourse points-

Alien: no. How. How do you keep doing that?

Human: do what?

Alien: Every situation, problem. You're always so-

Human: calm.

Alien: Yeah. And you know-

Human: exactly what to say?

Alien: and-

Human: it's frustrating that I somehow keep finishing sentences so simply and easily?

Alien: ... Yes.

Human: dunno, I just. Plan a lot, scaffold and have a finger in every industry. I don't bother with the changing styles, but there's always something that stays consistent in those spheres.

Alien: ... Like what?

Human: Engineering nerds, constantly arguing over hypothetical problems and best ways to fix em. Same with philosophy, IT, film and a lot of creative or functional fields. More qualitative industries it's comparisons, things and ways to make thing appear feel etc.

Alien but how do you-

Human: I don't. I just scribble notes with eight layers versus the standard 3-5 layered notes.

Alien: How do-

Human: good question. I don't remember, just. Planned until i hit a wall, then worked around it, under it and through it.

Alien: but how-

Human: I told you, we lost a lot of information. We've learnt and figured out a lot with what we have, but we've lost so much that it drives a lot of people insane.

Alien: ...

Human: but, we just. Move on, write down what we know so we don't lose more and just. Go with it I guess, but I'm special. One of a kind as far as anyone or I can tell, and yeah. I make mistakes, yeah I get scared and yeah. I'll probably get into shit for being what I am-

Alien: but that doesn't answer any of the questions.

Human: Well, I don't have an answer for you.

Alien: but. How. You're so ready and yet you don't-

Human: *shrugs* Again, we lost so much. People, memories, techniques, history. we don't now what we don't, but if we fixated on that we'd never get anywhere. Worry about something that's important but lost, or worry about something that's less important. But here *baps the alien's chest*

Alien: ... But-

Human: no more buts, think about it later. For now, you've got your job and I've got mine.

Alien: ...

I still don't understand this species, words I've frustrated by my predecessors, but. It's difficult. Humans are so diverse, complex and hard to really understand. But they are also so, simple. So, paradoxical in how two opposing nature's can work together as seperate and as one. And the human's theories, friends. Network. All of it, it just. Doesn't make sense, yet it works. And we have evidence it's not just about being a human, but not a mindset or something you learn. While I have not changed much from this, the questions this raises which nobody seems to be able to answer. From the invasion to today, the final report and attached files. Nothing makes sense.

Human: that's. Kind of the point.

Alien: ... Who is this?

Human: hacked your device, this is a program that creates a window for me to type into lol.

Alien: What. How-

Human: human nature is complicated, messy and is more a catch all term to describe a kind of mindset. Nobody actually knows how, when or what it is. But it's like hope.

Hope is a lie, we all know it, deep down. But it's about trying, to be better and try even when it's hopeless. Pointless even, it doesn't make sense because when we asked why should we,we just responded

Well, why not?

[transentiencestudios]

Uru species

Uru are highly educated, peaceful, feathery beings with utopian living standards. Poverty and homelessness have been eradicated since every individual has the opportunity to receive government assistance as long as they demonstrate a desire to advance in life, whether through work or higher education. The Uru are one of the three official council species, and so have one of their own in charge of preserving the democratic interests and equality of all federation species. When rights are violated, they are never held accountable because that is exactly what they are actively trying to safeguard, and they frequently conflict with the Varek and Skaarn as a result of their irrational experiments or condemning actions - which is a good thing. Uru will always pick the path of least aggressiveness, even if it is tactically ineffective.

The Uru Esko (to the right) are the Urukind's ancestral race; they are accustomed to colder temperatures and thus prefer to live in colder arctic regions today. However, many of them eventually moved into the cities that the Tero race built (to the left), and cross-race relationships became the norm. Esko retain some separate communities on Persus, particularly in icier regions. You can imagine it being similar to modern-day tribes on Earth, yet most Esko are aware of civilization and prefer a simple traditional existence relying primarily on the consumption of fish. The Tero make up the majority of the Uru population. Long ago, they moved away from colder regions and created towns around Persus‘ equator, near volcanoes or subterranean magma rivers. They gradually lost the majority of their plumage as temperatures got more tolerable and building insulation improved significantly. Some genetic engineering was most likely used to quicken the process. This also boosted Tero's mobility over interstellar space. They never overheat on stations and would only struggle on hotter worlds and/or environments, of which there are few. Tero are basically the modern Uru. They dress in a variety of colours, and males even apply make-up powders to impress females. This is something that became common in Uru society; it did not originate with the Esko. Despite being a minority race, Esko are well-known for their calm and focused temperament. They excel at school and get along well with the most of the Uru. However, cross-racial parents and Uru society have the potential to alter this norm.

[The Triumvirate is partly run by an Uru Esko male president.]

Domesticated animals

Delicacies

Support our worldbuilding project on SubscribeStar!

[corrupte3d-mindz]

Hell on Wheels

Robert Fischer x F! Street Racer

Summary: Robert’s friend decided he needed a little more thrill in his life. He invited him to a street race where he met her.

Wordcount: 6.1k

Warnings:

Guns, cursing, running from the law.

Inspiration: Hot — Smash Mouth!

No, I have no clue why the top of my pictures are weird looking.

Robert Fischer had always been a man of routine and structure, his life meticulously planned down to the finest detail. Yet, tonight was different. His friend, sensing Robert's growing ennui, decided to inject a dose of excitement into his otherwise predictable existence. The suggestion? A night at an underground street race, a stark contrast to the polished boardrooms and elegant soirées Robert was accustomed to.

At first, Robert balked at the idea. The very notion of attending such an event seemed frivolous and beneath him. His friend, however, knew exactly how to pique his interest.

"There's this woman," he said, eyes gleaming with mischief, "She's at the very top of this empire. She runs the show, and trust me, you have to see her in action."

Intrigued by the prospect of a woman leading such a dangerous and male-dominated world, Robert felt a spark of curiosity. He had always admired strength and intelligence, and the thought of witnessing a woman at the helm of such chaos was too compelling to ignore. Despite his initial reluctance, he agreed to go, albeit on his own terms. There was no way he would don the casual, rebellious attire his friend sported. Robert Fischer would attend this event in his suit, a symbol of his identity and a subtle assertion of his place in the world.

As they arrived at the clandestine location, the night air buzzed with anticipation. The roar of engines and the smell of burning rubber filled the air, a stark contrast to the sterile, controlled environments Robert was used to. He felt out of place yet strangely exhilarated. The cars lined up, gleaming under the makeshift lights, each one a testament to power and speed.

But then the gathering was now a hushed an ocean of murmurs and hushed conversations, a sea of humanity eagerly awaiting the start of the evening's event. Robert stood on the outskirts, his eyes scanning the crowd with a mix of curiosity and detachment. He could feel the anticipation hanging in the air, thick and palpable. But then, an unfamiliar sound cut through the chatter, causing a ripple of silence to sweep across the crowd. The distinctive rumble of an engine echoed in the distance, drawing every ear toward it.

The silence was soon replaced by a smattering of cheers and gasps of awe. Robert’s gaze followed the source of the commotion, his curiosity piqued. His friend, sensing his hesitation, grabbed his hand with a firm grip and pulled him forward. The crowd parted before them with an almost reverent precision, like the biblical scene of Moses parting the Red Sea. Robert felt a mix of excitement and trepidation as he was led to the front, his heart pounding in rhythm with his quickening steps.

And then he saw her. She stood out even among the throngs of people, her presence commanding attention with an effortless grace. Her long, dark hair cascaded in curls, framing a face adorned with simple yet striking piercings. Her ears were similarly decorated, a testament to her individual style. Tattoos snaked down her arms, a full sleeve on her left and smaller, intricate designs on her right. She was tall, statuesque, easily standing at 6'1", her height adding to her imposing yet captivating presence.

Robert's breath caught in his throat. The world seemed to narrow to just the two of them, the crowd fading into an indistinct blur. He was transfixed, his mind racing to process the sheer intensity of her appearance. There was a raw, unfiltered beauty about her, something that defied conventional standards. She was not merely attractive; she was a force of nature, an embodiment of confidence and individuality that was both intimidating and alluring.

As she moved through the crowd, it was as if she had her own gravitational pull, drawing eyes and attention effortlessly. Robert felt an inexplicable connection, a magnetic attraction that compelled him to step closer. He could sense the electricity in the air, the subtle shifts in the crowd's mood as she passed by. It was a rare moment, one where the mundane was eclipsed by the extraordinary, and Robert found himself caught in the thrall of it.

His friend, ever the observant one, nudged him gently. "She's something, isn't she?" the friend whispered, a note of admiration in his voice. Robert could only nod, words failing him. He watched as she smiled at those around her, a genuine, disarming smile that contrasted sharply with her edgy appearance. It was a smile that hinted at stories untold, at depths of character hidden beneath the surface.

As she approached him, Robert felt a rush of nervous anticipation. She met his gaze, her eyes holding a mixture of curiosity and amusement. For a moment, time seemed to stand still.

“You’re a bit over dressed for this little ol’ race I got going on here, don’t yah think?”

Robert looked her up and down after she commented that he was overdressed for such a simple activity. But it wasn’t a simple occasion; street racing could be life or death, but she always walked the line of death. She tangoed with the devil. But eventually she left him alone with his friend to go watch the rest of the races.

Race after race unfolded, the crowd growing more frenzied with each passing moment. Robert watched with a mixture of fascination and detachment, his mind a whirl of conflicting emotions. Finally, the moment everyone had been waiting for arrived. The big finale. The woman his friend had spoken of stepped forward, her presence commanding the attention of all around her. She knew Robert was watching and yet he still was all tight..nothing was loose about him.

She was everything his friend had described and more. Confident, composed, and radiating an aura of authority, she walked toward her car with the grace of a queen. Robert couldn't take his eyes off her. She exuded power, not just from the control she wielded over the event, but from the respect and fear she commanded from those around her.

She spoke in a low and sultry voice, making him lock eyes with her. He had to look up quite a lot. “How about you join me, eh? You look too tight, loosen up a bit.”

Robert glanced at his friend, who returned a look that basically said if he didn’t take this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, he would. So Robert agreed. She smiled heartily and outstretched her hand, offering it.

“Come on, princess~”

The night air was thick with anticipation and the scent of gasoline, the streetlights casting an otherworldly glow over the scene. Robert's pulse quickened as he followed her to the sleek, midnight-black ZL1 Camaro. The car was a masterpiece of modern engineering, its aggressive stance and aerodynamic lines evoking a predatory grace. It seemed to pulse with latent power, a beast waiting to be unleashed. As he approached the Camaro, he could hear the low growl of its supercharged 6.2-liter V8 engine, a sound that promised both speed and raw, unadulterated power. The hood bore the iconic "ZL1" badge, a mark of its supremacy among muscle cars. Every detail of the vehicle, from its sculpted front fascia to its quad exhaust outlets, spoke of its capability to dominate the asphalt.

She opened the driver's side door with a fluid motion, the interior lights casting a soft glow on the Recaro performance seats, which hugged the body like a second skin. The dashboard was a blend of advanced technology and classic muscle car aesthetics, with a heads-up display that projected critical information onto the windshield. As Robert settled into the passenger seat, he marveled at the meticulous craftsmanship and the tactile pleasure of the suede-wrapped steering wheel and shifter.

"Ready to see what this baby can do?" she asked, a mischievous glint in her eye.

Robert nodded, feeling a mixture of trepidation and excitement. The engine roared to life with a guttural growl that sent vibrations through his entire body. She revved the engine a few times, the Camaro responding with a throaty roar that echoed off the surrounding buildings, a symphony of power and aggression. The street was lined with spectators, their faces lit by the eerie glow of neon lights and the flicker of smartphone screens. The air crackled with tension as the racers lined up, engines revving in a cacophony of mechanical fury. She positioned the Camaro at the starting line, the rear tires squealing as they found purchase on the asphalt.

"Hold on tight," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the thunderous growl of the engine.

The signal was given, and she floored the accelerator. The Camaro leapt forward with a ferocity that pinned Robert to his seat, the supercharger's whine rising to a banshee wail as the tires screamed in protest. The acceleration was brutal, a surge of raw power that blurred the world around them into a streak of lights and shadows. Robert's heart raced as they barreled down the narrow streets, the Camaro's suspension soaking up the undulations with precision. She shifted gears with expert timing, each shift accompanied by a visceral jolt of speed. The exhaust note was a symphony of pops and crackles, a testament to the Camaro's high-performance tuning.

As they approached a sharp corner, she deftly executed a controlled drift, the rear tires breaking loose in a controlled slide that sent the car skimming around the bend. The g-forces pressed Robert against the side of his seat, but she handled the car with an almost supernatural ease, her movements fluid and instinctive. The finish line loomed ahead, a strip of asphalt bathed in the glow of headlights and the flicker of flames from makeshift torches. She glanced at Robert, a triumphant smile playing on her lips, and then pushed the Camaro to its limits. The car responded with a final surge of power, crossing the finish line with a roar that reverberated through the night.

As they slowed to a stop, the adrenaline still coursing through his veins, Robert realized he had been holding his breath. She turned to him, her eyes alight with victory and exhilaration.

"Now that," she said, her voice a husky whisper, "is how you loosen up."

Robert couldn't help but smile, his previous reservations melting away in the wake of the night's thrill. He had tasted a world far removed from his carefully controlled existence, a world where danger and excitement intertwined, and he found himself craving more. For the first time in a long while, Robert felt truly alive. The night stretched on, filled with the sounds of cheering, the scent of gasoline, and the indelible image of a woman who had shattered his expectations and stirred something deep within him.

Robert had always considered himself a man of composure, unruffled by the chaos of life. But tonight, at the underground street race, he was faced with a different kind of disorder. The races had been exhilarating, a whirlwind of speed and skill, but now he found himself amidst a confrontation that tested his patience and beliefs. As the final race concluded, it became evident that sore losers were a common breed in this world. Robert watched with a mix of disbelief and annoyance as a particularly vocal racer, his face twisted with rage, hurled accusations at the reigning champion—a woman who had dominated the track with unparalleled prowess.

"It's fucking bullshit! She wins every single damn time! It's rigged, I tell ya!" the man bellowed, his voice dripping with misogyny and frustration.

Robert observed the woman at the center of the storm. She chuckled, a sound laced with amusement and disdain. She knew what this was—a pathetic attempt to undermine her success because she had dared to excel in a domain where men thought they reigned supreme.

With a confident smile, she cracked her knuckles, the gesture a clear signal of her readiness to handle whatever came her way. "If you think it’s rigged," she spoke up, her voice carrying a calm authority, "then why do you even bother with the races?"

She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous tone. "You’re a fuckin’ punk," she said, pausing to let the words sink in. She scanned the crowd, her gaze sharp and unyielding. "So where the fuck you at, punk?!"

“It’s all about the he-say, she-says bullshit”. She said.

But as he stood amidst the chaos of the street race, watching the woman pull a Smith & Wesson Model SW1911 from her waist pocket, he felt a chill run down his spine. She moved with a fluidity that spoke of experience, her every action calculated and deliberate. Without a moment's hesitation, she aimed the gun at the man who had been taunting her, her voice cutting through the noise like a blade. "I think you better quit, letting shit slip," she commanded, her tone cold and unwavering.

Robert watched in stunned silence as she fired, the shots shattering the racer's driver and passenger windows with a deafening crash. The air was thick with tension, the crowd holding its collective breath as the dust and shards of glass settled. She turned to face the gathered throng, her eyes blazing with fury and defiance. "Your best bet is to stay away, motherfuckers," she declared, her voice echoing with authority. Her presence was magnetic, a force that demanded respect and fear in equal measure.

Robert's heart raced as he took in the scene, his mind grappling with the reality of what he had just witnessed. The woman, this formidable figure who had captivated his interest, had just demonstrated a level of ruthlessness he hadn't anticipated. Yet, despite the violence, there was an undeniable allure to her power and confidence. As she paused, her breath coming in heavy bursts, she issued her final challenge. "Anyone... next in line to get fucked up!?" Her voice, though strained, carried an edge of deadly seriousness.

Robert knew he was witnessing something extraordinary. He could see the fear in the eyes of those around him, the way they recoiled from her wrath. But there was also a grudging admiration, a recognition of her dominance in this world of speed and danger. He found himself stepping forward, not out of bravery, but out of a deep-seated need to understand the enigma before him. His eyes locked with hers, and he saw not just the rage, but a flicker of something deeper—pain, perhaps, or a history of battles fought and won.

"Miss," he began, his voice steady despite the turmoil within him, "I think we all understand your message. But tell me, what drives someone like you to take such risks?"

She regarded him with a mixture of curiosity and caution, her grip on the gun unwavering. "Maybe it's the same thing that brought you here, in a suit," she replied, her voice softening just a fraction. "A thirst for something real, something that makes you feel alive."

The woman in front of him, having just holstered her gun, was breathing heavily, a mixture of adrenaline and irritation evident in her eyes. Robert's offhand comment, meant to defuse the tension, had clearly missed the mark.

"How 'bout you... I don’t know... back the fuck up and shut the fuck up, pretty boy?" she snapped, her voice dripping with sarcasm and frustration

For a moment, Robert was taken aback, his eyebrows rising in surprise. He wasn't accustomed to being spoken to in such a manner, especially by someone who seemed so ready to challenge him. The initial shock quickly gave way to his characteristic stubbornness. But tonight, as he stood amidst the chaos of the underground street race, he found himself momentarily at a loss for words. The woman who had captivated his attention with her commanding presence and undeniable allure was now standing before him, her eyes locked onto his with a mix of curiosity and challenge.

Her words were a direct challenge, laced with both amusement and a hint of provocation. Robert felt a flush of embarrassment and irritation rise within him. He wasn't accustomed to being put on the spot, especially not in such a blunt manner. But there was something about her—the confidence, the audacity—that made him want to rise to the occasion.

Taking a deep breath, he straightened his posture and met her gaze with a steady, unwavering look. "I assure you," he began, his voice calm and measured, "I have spoken to many women. But I must admit, none quite like you."

Her smirk widened into a genuine smile, and she took a step closer, her eyes never leaving his. "Well, that's a start," she said, her tone softening slightly. "But if you want to keep up, you're going to have to do better than that."

Robert felt a spark of determination ignite within him. This was a game, a dance of wits and words, and he was not one to back down. "I'm a quick learner," he replied, allowing a small smile to tug at the corners of his lips. "Perhaps you can teach me a thing or two." Her laughter was warm and genuine, a sound that cut through the noise of the racing cars and the crowd. "I like you," she said, a hint of admiration in her voice. "You've got potential. Just don't let that suit of yours hold you back."

As the woman smiled and asked for his hand, Robert felt a wave of reluctance wash over him. He extended his hand tentatively, unsure of what was to come. She took his hand in hers with a soft, gentle motion, her touch surprisingly warm against his skin. Robert watched intently as she searched through her back pockets, then her front pockets, a look of mild frustration crossing her features when she couldn't find what she was looking for.

With a quick glance around, she called out, "Aye! Who's got a pen?!" Her voice cut through the chatter of the crowd, drawing the attention of those nearby. Robert noticed a spark of excitement in some of the men's eyes, their interest piqued by her request.

The hunt for a pen began in earnest, everyone in the vicinity now on the lookout for the elusive writing instrument. After a few moments, a middle-aged man triumphantly produced a pen, holding it out to her. She caught it swiftly, her movements fluid and confident. With a deft motion, she removed the cap with her teeth, a gesture that sent a thrill down Robert's spine despite himself. With the cap now in her mouth, she proceeded to write her phone number on Robert's hand, her touch sending a tingling sensation through him. He watched as she handed his hand back to him, the ink still wet on his skin. She then took the pen cap out of her mouth, wiping it off before signing her name on it. The sight was oddly intimate, and Robert couldn't help but feel a surge of attraction towards this enigmatic woman.

She tossed the pen cap back to the man who had provided it, a casual yet somehow alluring gesture. Robert's mind raced with possibilities, his imagination running wild with thoughts of what could come next. He knew he should be wary, that this woman could be trouble, but he found himself unable to resist her charm.

The street race had been an unexpected revelation for Robert Fischer, a night of raw energy and untamed excitement that stood in stark contrast to the meticulously controlled world he inhabited. As the final race concluded, the woman who had dominated the main event from the middle of the night stood victorious, her presence an intoxicating blend of power and allure. Robert watched her, transfixed, as she moved through the throng of admirers, her confidence unshaken by the chaos around her.

The crowd started to disappear and leave since it was a Sunday and people had work tomorrow. Her eyes locking onto his with an intensity that sent a shiver down his spine. She was unlike anyone he had ever met—an enigma wrapped in leather and defiance. He felt a pull, an almost gravitational force drawing him toward her, his carefully constructed facade beginning to crack under her unwavering gaze.

"Come on, pretty boy," she said, her voice a sultry challenge that brooked no argument. "Let me take you back to your home."

Robert blinked, momentarily caught off guard by her boldness. He was used to being the one in control, the one who called the shots, but this woman seemed to operate by her own set of rules. Her proposition was as disarming as it was enticing, and he found himself at a loss for words.

"I—" he began, but she silenced him with a knowing smile, one that suggested she already knew what he was going to say.

"Don't overthink it," she advised, her tone a mix of amusement and authority. "Just follow me."

Without waiting for his response, she turned and began to weave her way through the crowd, her movements fluid and assured. Robert hesitated for only a moment before following, his curiosity and intrigue outweighing his reservations. He could hear the murmurs of the crowd as they passed, whispers of surprise and envy that seemed to follow them like shadows.

As they reached the edge of the makeshift racecourse, she led him to a her sleek, black car that seemed to radiate power and elegance. After her races she parks it back here. She opened the passenger door for him with a flourish, her eyes gleaming with a mischievous light. "Get in," she commanded, and he obeyed without question, the door closing behind him with a decisive click.

She slid into the driver's seat, the engine purring to life under her expert touch. The car accelerated smoothly, the city lights blurring into streaks of color as they sped away from the chaos of the race. Robert found himself captivated by her presence, his usual guarded demeanor slipping away in the face of her undeniable magnetism.

"What's your name?" he asked, his voice sounding uncharacteristically tentative.

She glanced at him, a sly smile playing on her lips. "Does it matter?" she countered, her tone teasing yet enigmatic. "Names are just labels, after all."

He frowned, unsure how to respond. "It matters to me," he insisted, his curiosity piqued by her evasiveness.

She sighed, as if indulging a child's question. "You can call me _______," she said finally, her eyes returning to the road ahead. "But don't get too attached. This isn't a fairy tale."

Robert studied her profile, trying to discern the layers of mystery that surrounded her. "And what exactly is this, then?" he asked, a hint of challenge in his voice.

She laughed softly, the sound both bitter and amused. "This is reality, Robert," she said, emphasizing his name as if to remind him of his place. "It's messy and unpredictable, and it doesn't always follow the rules."

He felt a shiver of unease at her words, the truth of them hitting closer to home than he cared to admit. His life had been anything but simple, and yet, here he was, venturing into unknown territory with a woman who defied all logic and reason. As they drove, the conversation between them ebbed and flowed, each exchange revealing glimpses of the person behind the enigma. Elena was sharp, her wit as quick as her reflexes behind the wheel. She spoke of the thrill of the race, the adrenaline that coursed through her veins with every victory, and the unspoken rules that governed her world.

Robert listened, captivated by her stories, his own life seeming pale in comparison. He found himself opening up in ways he hadn't anticipated, sharing snippets of his own experiences and the burdens that came with his name. She listened with a patience that belied her earlier aloofness, her eyes never leaving the road.

"You carry a lot on your shoulders," she observed, her voice softening slightly. "It's a wonder you haven't broken under the weight."

He shrugged, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. "I've come close," he admitted, the admission feeling strangely liberating.

She reached out, her hand resting lightly on his arm. The touch was brief, almost hesitant, but it sent a jolt of warmth through him. "You're stronger than you think," she said simply, her eyes meeting his for a moment before returning to the road. They drove in companionable silence for a while, the cityscape giving way to quieter streets and darker corners. Robert found himself lulled by the rhythm of the car and the steady hum of the engine. It was a strange sensation, this mix of excitement and calm, a paradox that mirrored his feelings toward her.

Eventually, they arrived at a secluded townhouse, its façade unassuming yet elegant. She parked the car with a practiced ease and turned to him, her expression unreadable. Robert spoke, "This is my stop," he said, his tone carrying a finality that hinted at an imminent departure.

Robert felt a pang of disappointment at the thought of their encounter coming to an end. "Thank you for the ride," he said, unsure of what else to say.

Her smile was both knowing and enigmatic. "The night's not over yet, pretty boy," she said, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "Care to join me for a drink?"

He hesitated, the rational part of his mind warning him of the risks, but the allure of her company proved too strong to resist. "Why not," he agreed, a smile tugging at his lips.

Robert meticulously ordered world was abruptly disrupted by the thunderous roar of a ZL1 Camaro peeling out of his driveway. The car's powerful engine shattered the late night tranquility, leaving a cacophony of barking dogs and waking neighbors up leaving them extremely irritated. He barely had time to register the blur of motion before the car came to its full speed. The driver, a woman who exuded both danger and allure, turned to face him with a smirk.

"It's a good look, pretty boy," she teased, her eyes glinting with a wild energy. "Calm down, baby, just live a little."

Before Robert could protest, she floored the accelerator, sending the car hurtling down the street. The force of the acceleration pressed him back into his seat, his heart pounding in his chest. He had always prided himself on maintaining control, but this situation was quickly spiraling beyond his grasp. The cityscape blurred past them as she maneuvered through traffic with reckless abandon, the Camaro roaring like a beast unleashed. They darted across the interstate and onto the highway, the city's lights reflecting off the car's sleek black paint. Robert's knuckles whitened as he gripped the door handle, his mind racing to catch up with the reality of the situation. He glanced at her, a mixture of fear and fascination in his eyes. Who was this woman who drove with such reckless confidence, and why had he allowed himself to be dragged into this?

After what felt like an eternity, she pulled into the parking lot of a rundown bar on the outskirts of town. The neon sign flickered weakly, casting a ghostly glow over the scene. She parked with precise ease, the Camaro's engine rumbling as it settled into a low idle. Turning to Robert, she gave him a devilish grin.

"Stay inside," she commanded, locking the doors with a swift motion. "I'll be right back."

Before he could argue, she had disappeared into the bar, leaving him trapped in the car. Robert's mind raced as he tried to make sense of the night's events. The woman was a force of nature, and he was caught in her whirlwind. Minutes later, she returned, carrying a massive bottle of Jack Daniel's whiskey. She unlocked the door and slid back into the driver's seat, her presence commanding his attention.

"Calm down," she said, noticing the fear in his eyes. "I dance with the devil in racing, but I'm not about drinking and driving, honey."

With a practiced ease, she tossed the bottle into the back seat, catching it just before it could shatter against the leather. The engine roared back to life as she revved it, the vibrations coursing through the car like a heartbeat. She sped out of the parking lot, weaving in and out of traffic with a deftness that left Robert breathless. Each near-miss sent a jolt of adrenaline through his veins, the line between fear and exhilaration blurring with every turn.

Suddenly, the piercing wail of police sirens shattered the night, jolting Robert from his reverie. Panic flared in his chest as he looked around, trying to discern the source of the flashing lights that now bathed their surroundings in an eerie, flickering glow. It was as if the police had materialized from the shadows, waiting in the darkness to spring their trap. The radio crackled to life, the authoritative voice of the officer commanding them to pull over.

His heart raced, a primal fear gripping him. He glanced at her, expecting to see a trace of concern, but her expression remained calm, almost amused. "Watch this," she said, her voice steady and confident. With a quick, decisive motion, she pressed a button on the console. The transformation was instantaneous. The sleek, vibrant car seemed to absorb the very darkness of the night, its color shifting to an impenetrable black, rendering it nearly invisible in the low light. She shot him a quick glance, a sly smile playing at the corners of her lips. "I just covered my license plate," she explained, her tone casual, as if this were just another part of her nightly routine. Robert could hardly believe what he was seeing. The ingenuity and audacity of it all left him momentarily speechless.

The engine roared to life once more, its growl a defiant challenge to the pursuing police car. With a swift movement, she floored the accelerator, and the car surged forward, propelled by raw power and her unyielding determination. Robert was pressed back into his seat, the force of the acceleration stealing his breath. The scenery blurred around them, the city lights melding into streaks of color as they raced through the urban labyrinth. He risked a glance behind them, the police car a distant speck in the rearview mirror, its sirens growing fainter by the second. She maneuvered through the streets with a precision that spoke of years of experience, each turn and swerve executed flawlessly. Robert marveled at her skill, his fear gradually giving way to a grudging admiration.

"You're not going to catch her," he thought, a mixture of relief and awe flooding his mind. The distance between them and the pursuing officer grew with each passing moment. The police car, unable to match their speed and agility, fell further behind until, at last, it disappeared from sight entirely. Robert exhaled a shaky breath, his pulse still pounding in his ears. "You're incredible," he said, his voice tinged with genuine awe. She cast him a sidelong glance, her eyes gleaming with a mix of amusement and pride. "It's not my first rodeo," she replied, her tone light, almost teasing.

They sped through the night, the city gradually giving way to open roads. The tension that had gripped Robert began to ebb, replaced by a sense of exhilaration. He was acutely aware of the woman beside him, her presence a magnetic force that drew him in, compelling him to stay by her side despite the danger. As the adrenaline rush began to subside, Robert found himself reflecting on the night's events. He had come here seeking a thrill, a break from the monotony of his structured life. What he had found was something far more profound—a glimpse into a world of daring and defiance, embodied by this remarkable woman.

They drove in silence for a while, the engine's purr a soothing backdrop to his swirling thoughts. Eventually, curiosity got the better of him. "How did you get into this?" he asked, genuinely intrigued. She glanced at him, her expression unreadable. "It's a long story," she said, her voice softening. "Maybe I'll tell you someday."

He nodded, sensing that there was much more to her than met the eye. The depth of her character, the strength and resilience that had carried her to the top of this perilous world, fascinated him. He wanted to know more, to understand the layers beneath her confident exterior.

They navigated through the city's labyrinthine streets, her driving a dance of precision and chaos. The Camaro moved like a predator, sleek and powerful, its engine growling with every acceleration. Robert's fear gradually gave way to a strange sense of liberation. In this moment, he was free from the constraints of his carefully curated life, thrust into a world where the only certainty was the next heartbeat. Eventually, they arrived at an abandoned parking garage, its concrete structure looming like a forgotten monolith. She drove up to the top floor, the car's tires screeching as they navigated the tight turns. The city stretched out below them, a sea of lights and shadows. She parked with the same precision as before, turning off the engine and leaving a ringing silence in its wake.

"Get out," she ordered, her voice carrying a tone that brooked no argument. She leaned back in the back passenger seats, and grab the bottle of whiskey she got earlier.

Robert obeyed, stepping out into the cool night air. He turned to face her, his mind still reeling from the night's events. She leaned against the car, her eyes locked onto his with an intensity that left him breathless. For a moment, neither of them spoke, the silence thick with unspoken words.

"Why did you bring me here?" he finally asked, his voice a whisper in the vast emptiness of the garage.

She smiled, a slow, enigmatic smile that sent a shiver down his spine. "To show you what it means to live," she replied. "To break free from the chains that bind you and taste the freedom of the unknown." She opened the bottle of whiskey and took a swig then offered him the bottle.

Her words resonated with him, striking a chord deep within his soul. He had spent his life in pursuit of control, of order, yet here he was, standing on the precipice of chaos, and it felt... liberating. The woman stepped closer, her presence a tangible force. She reached out, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead with a tenderness that belied her wild nature.

"You've been living in a cage, Robert," she said softly. "It's time to break free."

He stared into her eyes, seeing the depth of her conviction. For the first time in a long while, he felt a flicker of something he had thought long extinguished: hope. Hope for a life beyond the constraints of his own making, a life filled with the thrill of the unknown. He smiled a grabbed the bottle of whiskey and took a swig then handed it back to her.

“To unexpected adventures," she toasted with the whiskey bottle, her eyes meeting with his.

"To new experiences," he countered.

They drank in silence for a moment, the warmth of the whiskey spreading through him. Robert felt a sense of contentment, a rare feeling in his tumultuous life. He realized that, for the first time in a long while, he was genuinely enjoying himself. As the night wore on, their conversation deepened, touching on topics both profound and trivial. She was a paradox, her demeanor shifting between playful and serious with a fluidity that kept him on his toes. He found himself drawn to her unpredictability, the way she navigated life with a blend of grace and defiance.

Their connection was undeniable, a magnetic pull that seemed to defy logic. Robert felt a strange sense of kinship with her, a bond forged in the shared understanding of living on the edge of societal norms. He knew that their time together was fleeting, a brief interlude in the chaos of their lives, but he was determined to make the most of it.

Robert nodded, feeling a pang of disappointment at the thought of their encounter coming to an end. "Thank you for tonight," he said, his gratitude genuine.

She smiled, a soft, almost wistful expression. "No, thank you," she replied. "For stepping out of your comfort zone."

He chuckled, the sound both amused and rueful. "I think I needed it more than I realized," he admitted.

Author’s Notes:

Y’all I need to focus on the the ideas I already have down on paper, there’s like 17 drafts in here and haft or already done..fuck me right my big brain man.. Anyways forgive me if anyone is a street racing connoisseur…also I shall make a fucking bougie ass car be hers because she wins a lot of bets because half the men in this group are misogynistic assholes! And I don’t care to look at the rules of street racing because it’s illegal either way, but yeah. An also even bigger and is the reason why I know so much about this car is because a new neighbor just moved in next to us and he has this and I talk to him for about like five hours just cause I was curious. And another also also, there’s 7 Limp Bizkit lyrics in here lol!Love yah! Toodles!

Credit for the little sparkle smol divider: strangergraphics-archive

[piglet26]

Rey...A Mary Sue?

When it comes to the Star Wars fanbase.....Disney is the maker of many of their own problems. Disney has blown things out of proportion. They've attacked their own fanbase and then hidden behind that very slander to avoid criticism. They haven't honored the very audience they seek to make a lot of money from, not to mention the franchise. They've bounced around between visions trying to please everyone and then pleased no one.

However, the Star Wars fanbase is also to blame for many of their quarrels, grips and dissatisfactions with the franchise. Oh, you don't like the corporatized Disney sequels? Well I remember you didn't like the prequels which George Lucas actually did them. Disney sequels are too comedic? The movies would've been better if there was less humor? Well the prequels were too whiny, political and serious.

It's not enough that Disney films are more diverse, have a female lead and have more females on the production side..... unless those characters are saying, doing and being portrayed exactly how the fanbase would like.......then Disney is still misogynistic and racist.

Carrie Fisher, The Princess, faced sexism, ageism and body shaming from both Disney and the Star Wars fandom prior to returning for The Force Awakens. Since he passing obviously many people would like to forget about this or flat out bury it.

Carrie Fisher tells British Good Housekeeping that she was pressured to lose more than 35 pounds to reprise Princess Leia in The Force Awakens: “They don’t want to hire all of me — only about three-quarters! Nothing changes, it’s an appearance-driven thing. I’m in a business where the only thing that matters is weight and appearance."

She first donned that golden slave bikini when she was 27. Thirty years later, Carrie Fisher’s back as Leia in “Star Wars,” but apparently some viewers thought she’d look exactly the same. The 59-year-old actor was the unfortunate recipient of a barrage of hateful tweets from critics who felt the need to tell her she’s aged badly in the past three decades. She Tweeted, "Men don't age better than women, they're just allowed to age." Meanwhile, Harrison Ford looked old and Mark Hamill looked liked a drunk.

All of this is to say the question of whether or nor Rey is a Mary Sue isn't a simple one. While Disney LucasFilm didn't develop the character as well as they could have.... the audience largely had double standards. Rey, as a woman, had more work to do to win over an audience already suspicious of the feminization of Star Wars.

Let's address the criticism

Why does Rey seem so skilled?

Rey works for Unkar Plott scavenging. It would make sense she understands engineering and mechanics. She has to understand how things work, which parts are valuable and understand that about multiple forms of machinery. How does she fly? Just fly, not even combat fly. If in her introduction she was shown to be flying commercially maybe people would've let it go, I'm not sure. Luke and Anakin by contrast turn out to be expert pilots who fight in combat..... no one questioned a thing and one of them is a child. When she initially flies the Falcon she does an alright job and in the three sequels films we never see her fly in combat. Finn never learned how to fly!!!! He famously needed a pilot, yet, got a crash course in The Last Jedi enough to fly at the end against the First Order. She speaks droid, but all our protagonist in Star Wars do. Someone has to be able to understand them.

Rey has no flaws and she's so perfect.

No, actually she's not. Rey is extremely vulnerable, lonely and requires validation. She fears she's gonna be an old woman cleaning gear on Jakku, but she doesn't leave. The only character she really relates and connects to.... is the villain. Yes, she's likable and she's suppose to be because she's our protagonist. Who the hell finds fault with either the character or the production team for trying to make their main character likeable?! Other characters are attracted to her. It's important to note that most force users come off as charismatic, magical and attractive.

Does Rey have a personality?

Yes. Many people get held up on the fact that Rey seems to be bubbly and happy despite growing up in isolation in a tough environment. Initially, with Finn, she comes off pretty hostile and untrusting. It was only when she assumed he was resistance (something safe) and he went along with the assumption that she relaxed a bit. She responded with anger at him just grabbing her hand, but when he showed concern for her then she reciprocated. Neither Finn nor Rey have proper social development which explains why they latch onto one another. Not to mention both are outsiders thrown into pivotal roles without much concept on how to deal with those roles.

Rey is also very childlike. It's something Kylo Ren tries to push her out of. She waits around for her family for years. She licks plates and plays with the resistance helmet. She latches onto people. She latches onto Finn once she trust him. She latches onto Han perceiving him as an ideal father figure. When she forms a connection to Kylo Ren she latches onto him. She's loyal to the people and things she cares about. There were things that could have helped Rey become a fuller developed character. Rey can fight but we never learned WHY she learned how to fight. Has she been stolen from a lot? Has she been attacked? Was she trained? Rey was taken at a young age, what schooling did she receive? Did she just learn trade work? In the novels, her character is obviously developed more, but Lord! People really act like any oversight of character development was a feminist statement about perfection. In reality, it was a film trying to balance multiple characters in a 2.5 hour film.

Rey doesn't have any training and yet is so magical with the Force.

Rey is assisted by The Force. Force users can use the force with very little understanding of it or training. Anakin as a 9 year old is just winging it. So there's that. Now the first time she encounters Kylo Ren, she's terrified and running/shooting for her life. When he force freezes her she's helpless. When he puts her to sleep with the force, she has to be rescued by men.

Now this is the most important. Her bond with Kylo Ren is one of the reasons she's able to access more of and learn about the force. "A Force dyad, also known as a dyad in the Force, was when two Force-sensitive beings had a unique Force-bond—that was unbreakable—that made them one in the Force. The power of a dyad was as strong as life itself, with the individuals forming the dyad sharing a connection that spanned across time and space."

They don't play this up enough in the movies. In the novels it's clear that their minds bridge. She's able to access Kylo's mind from understanding how he accessed her mind. Their bond boost both of their strengths in the force. It's important to note that Rey's abilities actually terrify her.

Rey knows more about the Falcon than Han Solo.

She explained that Unkar Plott installed a compressor which Rey was aware of and both Han and Rey agreed put stress on the hyperdrive. After her assistance bypassing the compressor Han is firming in control of The Falcon.

She beat Kylo Ren at the end of the Force Awakens despite never holding a light saber.

Well, I agree with this one. Kylo Ren wasn't trying to kill her. He was sparring with him and testing her talents. If he wanted to kill her, there was a convenient cliff he could've pushed her over. He wants to train her and he wants her.

Daisy Ridley is a talented and charismatic actress.... she just isn't recognized for it. The fandom looks for flaws, weaknesses and reasons to complain. I don't want to take away anything from the males in Star Wars. I want them to be great. Honestly A Song of Fire and Ice is how I'd like to see more men and women written. Some are good, some are bad, some are great, some are horrific and all are flawed.

[ngssolution]

Navigating the Complex World of Mobile App Development

In today’s tech-driven world, mobile apps have become a cornerstone of how we connect, work, and play. Whether you’re launching a startup or enhancing an established business, building a mobile app can be a game-changing move. One of the most important decisions you’ll face is choosing the right technology stack. The tech stack you pick will directly influence your app’s performance, scalability, and overall user experience.

What Exactly Is a Tech Stack?

A tech stack is essentially the set of tools, programming languages, and frameworks you use to build your app. For mobile apps, the stack typically consists of three main components:

Front-End: This is what users see and interact with — the app’s interface.

Back-End: This is the engine under the hood — handling data storage, processing, and integrations.

Platform: The operating system your app is built for, like iOS, Android, or both.

Key Considerations When Picking a Tech Stack

Let’s dive into the options and what you should think about when deciding which tools to use.

Platform Options

Native Development

Languages:

iOS: Swift or Objective-C

Android: Kotlin or Java

Pros:

Best-in-class performance.

Full access to device features like cameras, sensors, and GPS.

Cons:

Higher costs.

Longer development time if building for both iOS and Android.

2. Cross-Platform Development

Frameworks:

React Native (JavaScript and React)

Flutter (Dart)

Xamarin (C#)

Pros:

Faster development.

Reusable code for both iOS and Android.

Generally lower costs.

Cons:

Slightly lower performance compared to native apps.

Limited access to some advanced native features.

3. Hybrid Development

Tools:

Ionic (HTML, CSS, JavaScript)

PhoneGap/Cordova (HTML, CSS, JavaScript)

Pros:

Easy to learn and work with if you’re familiar with web development.

Leverages standard web technologies.

Cons:

Performance is not as strong as native or well-optimized cross-platform apps.

User experience can feel less “native.”

How to Make the Best Choice for Your App

Your decision will depend on several factors. Here are some key points to consider:

App Complexity:

For simple apps, cross-platform frameworks like React Native or Flutter are great choices.

For feature-heavy or complex apps, native development might be the way to go.

Time to Market:

If you’re on a tight schedule, cross-platform tools can speed up the process.

Budget:

Native development can be pricey since you’ll likely need separate teams for iOS and Android.

Cross-platform and hybrid options are usually more cost-effective.

Performance Needs:

Native apps deliver the best performance, but modern cross-platform frameworks have come a long way and can handle most needs efficiently.

Team Expertise:

Leverage the skills your team already has. If they’re experienced in JavaScript, for example, React Native might be a natural fit.

Final Thoughts

Choosing the right tech stack is a pivotal step in mobile app development. It’s about finding the perfect balance between your project’s requirements, your budget, and your team’s expertise. By weighing factors like app complexity, performance, and cost, you can make a well-informed choice that sets your app up for success. Remember, a solid tech stack is the foundation of a scalable, user-friendly, and high-quality app.

[rametarin]

silly WH40K inspired idea.

It's the year XXX in the future. A cabal of people exist that take up a paladin-esque role with elements of cowboyism and monastic trappings.

As part of the graduation, the prospective member of the order is provided the hand tools necessary to construct their own firearm. They must design it on paper and utilize simulator technology to prove the design is safe and capable of withstanding the brutalities associated with its own existence. Unwise decisions that result in the operator's self-harm or destruction of the firearm are possible, and politely discouraged.

But every member of the group effectively needs to be capable of being an engineer and gunsmith, able to turn raw ingredient metals into components for firearms and ammunition. The organization supplies the education necessary, and at least information on how to hand make the tools to make firearms, but it's ultimately up to the prospective gunsmith to smith them.

There'd also be an organization standard for firearm blueprints and ammunition size and case style. Exactly what, I don't know, but the organization's emphasis is on being able to make that exact kind of firearm almost anywhere on planet earth from locally available rocks, sunlight and parabolic mirrors (for the heat) and component molds.

There'd be a trial to just make Whatever Was Necessary to fire a bullet at a target to a minimum small arms range, and then exceptional marks are made for ranges exceeding the length of the curvature of the earth, and a separate trial to be able to make an Organization Standard Performance Rifle, out of materials ideal for that (assuming care would be taken to acquire the necessary materials, not just scrap together something that just has to survive firing a bullet once.)

Reason being is the continued education in the traditions of the personal firearm, as well as other force multiplier forms of weaponry, and the continued fabrication of such when you have a minimum of material components to work with. And yes, the implication such materials might be being bottlenecked and withheld from the public is not an accident, but the organization's trials and system assumes as much, that simple trade and procurement may not be possible or legal.

That's the lowest level member. Being able to make your own small arms is the minimum base requirements for initiation. Above those are the Large Arms makers. Kinetic weapons that are just really big guns that may or may not require multiple people to man. This includes everything from mortars, to howitzers, to artillery, to anti-air gun batteries. Whom similarly operate under the idea that the only way these things might exist in an area, is if they know how to personally manufacture and fabricate each and every component themselves.

Perhaps they have some process to work backwards and marry carbon with hydrogen to create propellants. Perhaps they eschew "messy" forms of propellants and use some custom material that is effectively just hydrogen, for light gas guns. That'd be neat. I'm not 100% sure. But I do know as the component of a kinetic weapon, it'd be another part of the manufacturing process of your own gun and ammunition.

Why light gas guns, specifically? Because when you use hydrogen as a propellant, it burns cooler (temperature-wise, I don't mean, 'that's cool/awesome') and has greater impulse. A person so inclined could literally fire a payload and escape the earth's orbit with it, while conventional propellants cannot do this. Hydrogen gas or liquid as a propulsion system means very very fast projectiles that can conceivably move so fast that they tear themselves apart in the atmosphere. When you need to fire something screaming and generating its own plasma out into space from the ground, but you can't use a railgun, you go to the Light Gas Gun guys.

Above them would be the Electropropulsion Systems. Yes, I'm talking railguns and coil guns. Due to the sheer complexity and investment in materials required for the magnets and armatures, considered somewhat impractical, but when you need absurd range and power and want a simpler propulsion system, you go to the coil and rail guys. A big advantage of these sorts of drive systems would be it's simply less high profile than components to create or transport hydrogen gas than it is electronic components.

And above them, would be the realm of computer scientists and electricians, because now the order gets into rockets and guided self-propelled projectiles. Requiring the organization's resources and manpower, they still standardize fabrication units to make the exact specified digital computer components needed to create missiles with the topological data and inertial drives to tell exactly where they are on earth at any given moment of time, and where they should be. No more computing power than is necessary to go as far as a missile of their size with the fuel that offers the greatest possible range to chemical science and physics and get it from where it's fired to where it needs to be. They do not rely on satellites (though the option may exist), they hard insulate the self-propelled projectiles against radio interference, give them a very detailed map and send them on their way.

Sitting atop the heap are the engineers and electricians and computer scientists for fire control systems for everything from large kinetic weapons like naval guns and artillery, as well as the guys behind the computers and component standards for missiles. Not just components of other specialty weapon types, but their own group in the organization, given how essential a standard and the science is for the function of other weapon types. They bear the standards on the absolute minimum material components and methods for fabricating the ideally sized and powered pieces, be they electro-mechanical, or digital. As a rule, for things that are made to resist neglect and the rigors of time, electro-mechanical things are preferred. For power and control and performance, refined and perfected digital fire control systems are ideal. Cartographers, map makers, cosmologists, everything one would need for obscenely accurate missiles ranging from lipstick tube sized to ICBMs.

And from there we get to limited robotics and machines for mobility. Terrestrial, legged or wheeled, flying, swimming. Drones. Turrets. Things that allow movement. Considered its own subset skill, it's added last only because it encompasses everything that comes before, and applies to all. That includes rockets and jets.

And, really. That's kind of all she wrote. Well, he. 'Cause, I wrote it, and I'm a cisgendered dude. Once you get to the point you've reached the end of the tech tree for chemical propulsion bullets and how to be pinpoint dead on balls accurate down to a science, once you've acquired the knowledge and resources to do the same for artillery and triangulation to within millimeters even in adverse weather conditions, once you have the capacity to make and fire hypersonic missiles capable of taking off from the ground, going around the world at LEAST once to its origin point the long way and blowing up or entering orbit and staying up there until a scheduled time or parameters dictate to change trajectory, then, well.. you kind of have every method of long range weapon figured out.

Bows, longbows and crossbows? Yeah. But they're for especially oppressive times. The science and instructions on how to make bows and strings and arrows capable of being fired over 1,000 feet. Given how one doesn't need chemical propellants or potentially brow raising amounts of metals or smithery, they're a lesser science. May even be training wheels for would-be initiates.

[cheese-ducks]

TWRP ORIGINS

Chapter 9: All Night Forever

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Main master list

(Warnings: a lot of swearing)

The ship was much bigger on the inside than it looked. The systems and control panels each had multicolored lights on their displays meaning one thing or another. They lit up the dark corridor like strings of Christmas lights or the pathway lights in Jack's front yard. Watching Sung walk through the dreamily lit hallway was almost like watching a movie, and he was content to sit back and enjoy the show, whatever may come next. 

Sung abruptly stopped, his eyes darting around the area. He was scanning intensely for something, or someone. So much for enjoying the show. 

"I can sense him." Sung's hushed tone instantly making Jack uneasy.

There was an uninhibited aura of anticipation and devilry permeating the ship that Sung couldn't place. He could guess who was the cause of it, but the reason why escaped him. 

"Who? What's happening?" Jack replied. 

Paralyzed by concentration, Sung didn't answer.

"You're totally freaking me out, man!"

Out of the corner of Sung's eye he saw faint smoke leak out of the cockpit. The door was slightly ajar and he could see a fiery glow emanating from the room.

"Dude, I think your ship's on fire!" Jack screamed, managing to alert Sung through his intense focus.

They rushed to the cockpit and flung the door, open only to be assaulted with a ear splitting roar and a barrage of traffic cones directly to the face. Jack was incredibly grateful he wasn't using the vessel, he couldn't feel the attack at all. He began to wonder if he would feel it later, that would definitely suck. 

The lion man towered over Sung, his dark, wild mane making him look even bigger. He dug his claws into the metallic wall to regain his balance. 

"I can't fuckin believe it!" His voice had a deep growl to it, even through the laughter. "You fell for it! You stupid son of a bitch!"

Sung was unamused to say the least, even though Jack was also cracking up. 

"I expected better of you, Commander."

Was that his name or his title? He didn't look the part, at least by Earth standards. Black combat boots and fingerless gloves didn't exactly give off the prestige of a commander. His multi-pocketed vest and rusted silver armor was especially well-worn. Jack thought all of it was absolutely badass.

"Oh great, now you sound like Phobos!" Exclaimed Sung, seemingly in response to Jack's admiration towards his prankster assailant. 

The man he was referring to was hiding in the doorway of what looked like his living quarters, his platinum blonde hair peeking out from behind the doorframe. He was the most alien looking of the bunch, with bright green skin, pointed ears that were much bigger than Sung's, and glowing white eyes. He approached Sung, anxiously writing something in a small notepad. 

I have some bad news, sir.

"Oh? What is it this time?" Sung sounded more dispirited than angry as he took another page out of the man's hand.

The note read like a status report; 

Whilst trying to fix the engine room I found that the ship's hyperdrive had been badly damaged upon initial impact. Even if we could repair it there isn't enough energy on this planet to make it function properly. So in other words, we're stranded here for the foreseeable future. 

A deep sigh exited Sung's mouth. 

"That is quite unfortunate. Good work anyway, Phobos." He shot a glare at Meouch. "At least someone's being productive." 

"At least someone's not a self righteous douchebag most of the time." He shot back. "Oh wait!" 

Sung pointed to his head. "I'll have you know my host isn't unconscious today so we could do with some decency, Meouch!" 

After snickering at the simple comedy in a lion named Meouch, Jack began to worry. Why did Sung bring him up?

Without missing a beat Meouch smacked his helmet so hard it nearly fell off. "So, why don't we meet the poor sucker? Sharing a mind with you has gotta be it's own form of torture." 

Jack was confused and slightly terrified of what that suggestion could lead to.

"Well, why don't we? He'll vouch for me, I'm certain of it!" 

"Dude, what are you talking about?" Before Sung could hear Jack's nervous protest it was too late. In a flash Jack was instantaneously standing next to Sung, fully perceived by everyone in the room.  

"You never told me you could do this!" Jack screamed, white hot annoyance replacing his nerves. "You never brought this up on game plan night!" 

Sung was unusually unfazed by his complaints.

"You keep being surprised when I forget to tell you things. Stop doing that." 

.........................................................................

What proceeded was an exhilarating blur. The rest of the night flew by in what felt like a second. They spent it getting acquainted with each other, jamming out, talking about space, and just being nerds. Formally meeting the robot from the parking lot, or Havve Hogan as he learned his name was, was the strangest highlight of the night. He made soft whirring sounds when he walked, it was much more fluid than he'd expected from a robot. Seeing him clearly was kind of spooky, he was consistently blurry in the 'photographic evidence' shown on the news. All anyone could make out was a pair of glowing red eyes, which we're usually dismissed as laser pointers. "This guy was made to be a cryptid." Jack remembered saying. He especially enjoyed watching Meouch poking fun at Sung. His mindful intelligence replaced by wild rage at the slightest insult, it was hilarious to Jack. Hanging out with the band was the most fun Jack ever had. He never felt awkward or like he didn't belong. He he and Phobos had that in common. Being with a band so literally out of this world and as crazy as TWRP is, broke down his usual barriers with social interaction. He was free to throw his inhibitions to the wind and be fun and creative. He didn't want to leave. He wanted this to be his life, forever. 

.........................................................................

Sung quickly climbed the chain link fence, vaulted himself onto a stretch of roof, and crawled into a window on the second floor. His high tops made a slight squeak as he darted down the hallway, desperate to make it back to Jack's room before anyone woke up. 

"Hey, bro." 

Sung gasped at the sound of Stone's voice. He turned around to see him standing menacingly at the top of the stairs, coffee cup in hand. "Whatcha doing there, bud?"

Sung and Jack scrambled to come up with an answer.

"I wanted to see if this costume I bought fit, but I didn't want anyone to see me in it. Nothing to see here Stone, I mean Stan!" Though Sung was nowhere near convincing, he was satisfied with himself. 

"Quite the explanation, Mr. Sung." Stan sauntered to his room, his eyes glued to the traffic cone sporting weirdo standing in the hallway. "Wanna tell me what's really goin on?"

[mollytranscribes]

[Profile picture transcription: An eye shape with a rainbow flag covering the whites. The iris in the middle is red, with a white d20 for a pupil. End transcription.]

Hello! This is a blog specifically dedicated to image transcriptions. My main blog is @mollymaclachlan.

For those who don't know, I used to be part of r/TranscribersOfReddit, a Reddit community dedicated to transcribing posts to improve accessibility. That project sadly had to shut down, partially as a result of the whole fiasco with Reddit's API changes. But I miss transcribing and I often see posts on Tumblr with no alt text and no transcription.

So! Here I am, making a new blog. I'll be transcribing posts that need it when I see them and I have time; likely mainly ones I see on my dashboard. I also have asks open so anyone can request posts or images.

I have plenty of experience transcribing but that doesn't mean I'm perfect. We can always learn to be better and I'm not visually impaired myself, so if you have any feedback on how I can improve my transcriptions please don't hesitate to tell me. Just be friendly about it.

The rest of this post is an FAQ, adapted from one I posted on Reddit.

1. Why do you do transcriptions?

Transcriptions help improve the accessibility of posts. Tumblr has capabilities for adding alt-text to images, but not everyone uses it, and it has a character limit that can hamper descriptions for complex images. The following is a non-exhaustive list of the ways transcriptions improve accessibility:

They help visually-impaired people. Most visually-impaired people rely on screen readers, technology that reads out what's on the screen, but this technology can't read out images.

They help people who have trouble reading any small, blurry or oddly formatted text.

In some cases they're helpful for people with colour deficiencies, particularly if there is low contrast.

They help people with bad internet connections, who might as a result not be able to load images at high quality or at all.

They can provide context or note small details many people may otherwise miss when first viewing a post.

They are useful for search engine indexing and the preservation of images.

They can provide data for improving OCR (Optical Character Recognition) technology.

2. Why don't you just use OCR or AI?

OCR (Optical Character Recoginition) is technology that detects and transcribes text in an image. However, it is currently insufficient for accessibility purposes for three reasons:

It can and does get a lot wrong. It's most accurate on simple images of plain text (e.g. screenshots of social media posts) but even there produces errors from time to time. Accessibility services have to be as close to 100% accuracy as possible. OCR just isn't reliable enough for that.

Even were OCR able to 100%-accurately describe text, there are many portions of images that don't have text, or relevant context that should be placed in transcriptions to aid understanding. OCR can't do this.

"AI" in terms of what most people mean by it - generative AI - should never be used for anything where accuracy is a requirement. Generative AI doesn't answer questions, it doesn't describe images, and it doesn't read text. It takes a prompt and it generates a statistically-likely response. No matter how well-trained it is, there's always a chance that it makes up nonsense. That simply isn't acceptable for accessibility.

3. Why do you say "image transcription" and not "image ID"?

I'm from r/TranscribersOfReddit and we called them transcriptions there. It's ingrained in my mind.

For the same reason, I follow advice and standards from our old guidelines that might not exactly match how many Tumblr transcribers do things.

[lifesarchive]

UGLIES by SCOTT WESTERFELD (A REVIST)

quickly: a new friend wakes a teenage girl up to the not-so-pretty world she is living in (new face, who dis! / pretty privilege / mandatory plastic surgery / pranks and tricks as a lifestyle / journeys over the river and through the woods / solar powered hoverboards / dehydrated foodstuffs / engineered plastic and nanotech glues / ecofriendly totalitarianism / the deep deep state / underground facilities / government programming / citizen deprogramming / backstabbing the backstabbers).

Rereading since originally reading it back in 2007. First book of 2024!

Vintage clothing is cool, but what will we do when our entire society and way of life becomes vintage? What if, in an effort to rid society of its ills (war, illness, violence, etc.) we developed a medical procedure that made everyone the same and dulled our sensibilities? Scott Westerfeld isn’t a master wordsmith with a poet’s pen, but that’s not what we came here for anyway. We came for the well-constructed futuristic dystopian universe jam-packed with unimaginable avant-garde technology and the social dilemmas that erupt when humanity and technology collide. There are hoverboards that work by magnetism, medical procedures that can regrow all the skin on your body and reshape your entire bone structure, and surveillance so precise it practically knows what you are thinking.

At the center of all of this is Tally, a fifteen-year-old girl who wants exactly what everyone else in her world has been programmed to want: to be pretty. While she is awaiting the government-facilitated procedure that will make her “the standard” and initiate her into young adult society, she meets a new friend who is also nearing the time of her pretty procedure. Her new friend is a radical, transfixed by the idea of a land faraway called “The Smoke”, where many of the Uglies have been escaping to evade the overseeing technological eyes of their government… a government so secret that some don’t believe it even exists. As Tally is exposed to life outside The Cities, she becomes the focal point of a massive movement of rebellion. This was a fun, wild hoverboard ride through a very futuristic world that felt very grounded in today’s times.

★ ★ ★ ★

more thoughts: SPOILERS!

Thoughts are italicized, spoilers are not: 

Some personal context… I originally read the entire Uglies trilogy one summer in 2007. I had a boxed set that included UGLIES, PRETTIES, and SPECIALS. EXTRAS hadn’t come out yet, and I’ve never read it. I vividly remember the 3 book set with the high-fashion editorial style covers. My original copies were lost in what I call “The Flood”, which took a great number of pieces in my literary collection to a moldy watery grave. I found a pic of them on Amazon though. 

These covers are SO MUCH better than the current blank generic covers they have in stores and libraries. I plan on rereading the entire series and finshing with a first read of the last book, EXTRAS.

This book made me feel like it was 2007 again, and that I could throw this book down at any moment, step outside, and find my friends waiting for me to go along on one of our adventures playing in the woods that connected our backyards.

The book starts with Tally pulling a trick by sneaking into the highly monitored New Pretty Town to visit an old friend. Tally is a young, simple, coming-of-age girl who thinks just like everyone around her… life is useless until you turn 16 and the government turns you pretty, and then life is great. Until 16, nothing matters and no one takes you seriously. Uglies, as people are lovingly called pre-operation, are expected to be wild, uncontrollable, trouble-making good for nothings. This is why all of their pranks are referred to as ugly tricks, or simply tricks. When you’re a pretty, you don’t have time for such trickery. 

The Uglies live in dorms that are bland and interchangeable. The Pretties live in a glamorous city within a city, where life is a party with a formal dress code. Then eventually Pretties undergo a second operation to become a “Middle Pretty” where they move out to the suburbs to have “Littlies”, before turning into “Crumblies” and are moved further to the edges of society. Of course, all this turns out to be well-thought-out propoganda 

Tally makes a new friend, Shay, after her old best friend Peris reaches Pretty age and undergoes the operation. He moves to New Pretty Town immediately after, as is customary, leaving Ugly life behind. After busting into New Pretty Town to see how much Peris has changed, she decides it is best to just wait until she has her own operation to see him again. Her time spent with the rebellious and adventurous Shay increases. 

Shay teaches Tally how to hack her hoverboard, sneak out of The City, and tells her about The Smoke. A place where people live as ‘Uglies’ by choice, opting out of having the operation to become pretty. Shay teaches Tally the way to the rusting city ruins where Uglies meet up to find the mysterious David who will someday lead those willing to make the journey to The Smoke.

Tally can’t comprehend life lived as an Ugly, and doesn’t understand why anyone would want to forgo the operation to become Pretty. This is why she can’t tell Shay YES, when Shay asks Tally to run away to the smoke with her before her operation. Tally ends up making the journey anyway, alone, after she is manipulated by Special Circumstances (a secret underground division of the government) into betraying her friend and everyone at The Smoke. 

Life in The Smoke opens her eyes to the real world that has been hidden from her. Her desire to be pretty wanes, and disappears after bonding with the other residents. She falls in love with David and plans to stay. After accidentally triggering the tracking device given to her by Special Circumstances, Tally leads SC directly to The Smoke. It is swiftly destroyed and all the Smokies are detained. (Cue big breakout scene where Tally escapes custody, tracks down the detainees, and frees them.)

After all the hell she’s raised, Tally ends up developing a plan to help right some of her wrongs, but you’ll have to make it through to the end to see what that may be.

The rest is for you to read on your own!

I’ve read some of the reviews on Goodreads that criticize Tally’s character as being too vain, dumb, selfish, etc. This makes me wonder if the readers with those opinions understood the circumstances of the world that Tally was a part of. Everyone was vain, dumb, and selfish. No one wanted to look under the veneer of their society because there was no reason to. Everything was taken care of. The people in this world were programmed to think that the past was a monstrous barbaric place and that all the world’s problems were solved by the development of ’the Cities’ and the Pretty operation. 

I’ve also read some reviews that criticize the fact that Tally’s love interest David is what inspires her to make her big decision to leave the cities for good. I think that is a poor summarization of this character’s journey. After having to make the long journey to The Smoke by herself, Tally endured a process of disillusionment that separated her from her life in The City. She had gone from a place where everything was planned, every move was monitored, and the threat of world catastrophe was linked to how ugly or pretty citizens were. She had never been in real danger until she made her journey to The Smoke. She had never met anyone older than 16 who was not “pretty” until she arrived at the camp, The Smoke. David was just one of the reasons she made her decisions, not the sole reason. In fact, Tally’s journey begins and ends with her trying to save her girl-friend Shay.

I won’t go into too much more detail about the story. It was just a fun read, an adventure, a journey, all those things. So glad to have re-read it, and so glad it held up after all these years. There are plenty of high-speed chases, thrilling escapes, and ingenious hi-jinks to keep you turning the page. And if you’re a tumblr kid like me, there are loads of nostalgia in reading this book again all these years later. It’s wild to think that this never made it to the big screen or as a series on someone’s streaming service.