#Universal Air Conditioning Remotes

[bostonmedias]

Air Conditioner AC Remote Control Silver - For BEIJINGJINGDIAN BIG-THUMB BOERKA

This easy to use air conditioning remote has Automatic Setup and Power database to cover 1000 codes for almost all brands. It includes timer and clock functions.

Please check at the bottom of this description for the list of all compatible brands.

Specifications

Suitable for almost all air conditioning models

Offers manually searching and automatic searching to set up to your air-conditioner

Timer on/off function

Clock function

Power supply: AAA X 2 (not included)

Here's a list of all compatible models:

ACSOM, ACTRON AIR, ADC, AIDELONG, AITE, AKIRA, ALPIN, AMCOR, AMICO, AOKE, AOLI, APTON, AUCMA, AUX, BAIXUE, BEIJINGJINGDIAN, BIG-THUMB, BOERKA, BORLER, BOSHI, BOSHIGAO, CAIXING, CHANGFENG, CHANGFU, CHANGHONG, CHANGLING, CHENGYUAN, CHIGO, CHUANGHUA, CHUANYAN, CHUNLAN, COLROLLA, CONROWA, CONSUL, CORONA, CROWN, DAEWOO, DAIKIN, DAJINXING, DAKE, DAOTIAN, DELONGHI, DONGXIA, DONGXINBAO, DUNAN, ELCO, ELECTER, ELECTROLUX, FEDDERS, FEIEDRICH, FEIGE, FEILU, FERROLI, FIRST, FRESTECH, FUJITSU, GALANZ, GARRIER, GEER, GLEE, GOLDSTAR, GREE, GUANGDA, GUQIAO, HAIER, HELTON, HEMILTON, HICON, HISENSE, HITACHI, HONGYI, HUABAO, HUAGAO, HUAKE, HUALING, HUAMEI, HUANGHE, HUAWEI, HUIFENG, HYUNDAI, INYCIN, JIALE, JIANGNAN, JINBEIJING, JINDA, JINSONG, JMSTAR, JOHNSO, KANGLI, KELONG, KLIMATAIR, KONKA, KRIS, KT02_D001, KT02_D002, KTY001, KTY002, KTY003, KTY004, KTY005, LG, LIANGYU, LIKEAIR, LITTLESWAN, LONGHE, LOREN-SEBO, MCQUAY, MEILING, MINGXING,BOYIN, MITSUBISHI, MITSUKA, NATIONAL/Panasonic, NIKKO, NISO, NORCA, OLYMPUS, OPAL, PANDA, PEREG, PILOT, PINSHANG,XINHUABAO, PUYI, QIXING, RAYBO, RHOSS, RICAI, RIJIANG, ROWA, SACON, SAMSUNG, SANYONEC, SANZUAN, SAPORO, SAST, SENSOR, SERENE, SHAMEI, SHANGLING, SHANXING, SHANYE, SHARP, SHENBAO, SHENGFENG, SHENGFENGFEILU, SHINCO, SHINING, SHUANGLU, SIGMA, SOGO, SONGLINXIA, SONGXING, SOVA, SOWA, SOYEA, SPEED, SRTC, STARIGHT-AIRCON, SUNBURG, TADIAIR, TADIRAN, TAIYA, TCL, TEAC, TECO, TIANJINKONGTIAO, TIANYUAN, TOBO, TONGLI, TOSHIBA, TOYO, TRANE, UNI-AIR, UTTLEDUCK, WANBAO, WANGZI, WEILI, WEITELI, WHIRLPOOL, WUFENG, XILENG, XINGHE, XINLE, XINLING, XIONGDI, YAIR, YAOMA, YIDONG, YORK, YUETU, YUTU, ZHONGYI, ZUODAN, DIY

Brand : Chunghop. Barcode : 9352827025850.

[bobbertskeetz]

𝙖𝙡𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙖𝙜𝙖𝙞𝙣 (𝙣𝙖𝙩𝙪𝙧𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙮) 𝙨.𝙧 𝙭 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧

Summary: Months ago, she appeared almost seemingly out of thin air; and Spencer couldn't figure out how exactly he'd struck the jackpot of life. A life in which he truly believed himself destined to remain alone.

Themes/Warnings: friends to lovers, slight angst but mostly fluff, no warnings that i'm aware of but feel free to let me know any different!

𝙄 𝙥𝙧𝙤𝙢𝙞𝙨𝙚𝙙 𝙢𝙮𝙨𝙚𝙡𝙛 𝙩𝙤 𝙩𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙩 𝙢𝙮𝙨𝙚𝙡𝙛 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙫𝙞𝙨𝙞𝙩 𝙖 𝙣𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙗𝙮 𝙩𝙤𝙬𝙚𝙧...

The soft hum of the radio floated out amongst the bullpen, eminating from a young Spencer Reid's desk. He was going to smash it to smithereens. The radio played the same station every day, and has done so for many years. However, recently the station had taken to playing the one song he never wanted to hear again. It was as if the DJ was trying to make him feel as though he was the smallest man alive.

Spencer hated that fucking song. Yet, he embraced it. Perhaps it was an indulgence of self-pity. Or, better yet, a form of punishment for allowing himself to end up caught in an endless cycle of loneliness. After all, Morgan said so himself, Reid could never get a date. His connection with Lyla hadn't had the chance to flourish, if it was even a true connection, and he was in fact, alone again...naturally.

He could've left long ago, seeing as though Hotch had been kind enough to grant the team an hour early off of the work day. But, why would he? No one was waiting for him. No one aside from his cold sofa and empty bed, the two physical embodiments of his heavy heart. Why go home and wallow in solitude, when he could wallow in the company of an empty bullpen, knowing that Hotch was above him in his office. At least, he thought, I'm not the only recluse in Quantico. Despite this conclusion, Spencer failed to find any solace in the knowledge that he is not alone in owning a troubled soul. Once the song ended after an obnoxiously peaceful tune, which entirely juxtaposed the soul crushing lyrics; Spencer reached for his satchel and sulked his way through the glass double doors. Heading home, alone again, naturally.

-

The clock struck ten, and the light from the TV screen was the only form of illumination Spencer's living room would receive. Doctor Who had been paused for quite a while as he had taken to calling Garcia requesting information on a fan theory online, which he so desperately wanted to debunk. After countless minutes of begging Penelope to read him out the theories she had found, Spencer finally gave up and agreed to her terms and conditions: "chai latte on my desk tomorrow morning, and your theories will be bestowed upon Doctor You!" He was convinced the universe was out to get him.

With a sigh, Spencer dropped his phone in defeat after hanging up the line. Just as he reached for the remote to resume his marathon, a light knocking echoed through the apartment. With a swift glance out the window, checking for unusual vehicles or sketchy characters loitering on the outskirts of his building, Spencer was only met with an empty street and the pounding rain. He rose from his seat and padded over to the peep hole. No one ever paid him visits, he always ventured to other people instead; there was no logical explanation as to why there was a knock on his door this late into the evening.

Carefully, Spencer ducked to examine the peep hole, and he finally released the breath he hadn't realised he was holding. Within seconds, the lock flicked and the panelled door swung open, welcoming a sight for sore eyes.

There you stood, soaked to the bone. Your hair darkened and damp from the torrential storm blowing outside, and your nose red and glistening from the chilly wind. Despite it all, Spencer couldn't help but notice your radiance after all this time apart. It wasn't as though you both didn't care to see each other, it's just, well... life gets carried away. Jobs have a funny way of tearing people apart, and in your case, your jobs tore you both apart for around six months. It is for this exact reason as to why Spencer immediately feels the need to question your sudden appearance on his door step, especially considering the typhoon blowing outside.

"I need a phone." Was your answer, and he didn't miss the gentle quiver of your lip and waver to your voice, unusually smaller than he remembered. With his signature tight-lipped, kind smile, Spencer lead you to the sofa, removing you of your drenched trench coat and handing over his phone. Before you managed to utter any apologies for the intrusion, Spencer had already left the room, preparing a mug of piping hot coffee to aid your chills.

Upon his return, Spencer felt the need to break the silence, "Consuming at least 400mg of caffeine up to as long as six hours prior to sleeping can significantly disrupt your nights sleep." You gratefully took the mug with a content sigh, slipping a small 'thank you' through your chapped lips, before meeting his gaze with an answer.

"And yet, I'm such a mess you're willing to disrupt my sleep schedule." For a second, he panicked, fearing he'd truly offended you.

"N-No! No, absolutely not yo- Oh. Joking, you're joking.. well in that case yes you look insane." The twinkle in your eye had given you away.

"Yes, joking. Despite this definitely being one of the top ten shittiest nights of my life Spence, trust I will never lose my humour."

He breathed a small chuckle and nodded in agreement, silently glad you'd continue your good natured spirit, even after enduring the embarrassment of being stood up only hours earlier. You rang for a cab using Spencer's phone, and then proceeded to enlighten him of your evening from Hell. This guy had left you waiting for an hour and a half while ignoring your calls, your phone then deciding to die and the Heavens burst open, which completely soaked you through.

However, regardless of how you turned up on his door step, Spencer couldn't find it in him to feel regretful for you. Was it selfish? Of course, but, these events brought you to him. And little did you both know, in many years to come, you would be eternally grateful to the sleezy prick who left you in downtown Virginia after all.

-

As a man of science, a man of reason, even Spencer was struggling to rationalise the sudden shift in the universe. It was as if the two of you were slowly gravitating closer and closer over the following months.

You were every where. Every. Where.

After that fateful night, Spencer felt as though his feelings for you had completely changed. You were no longer only his friend he occasionally met once every blue moon. You were now, his friend who made him blush with every small wave from across the street. His friend who managed to unknowingly catch his eye. His friend who had recently found more and more excuses to pay his apartment a visit, and more and more reasons to remain in contact when he had to travel for cases.

You were here to stay. And in no world would Spencer ever be upset about that fact. So much so, he was adament to keep you in his world indefinitely.

After hours of watching old movies in his apartment, Spencer paused the TV and shifted closer to you on the sofa. In a tired haze, you lifted your head to meet his eyes, and smiled a gentle smile. One which he gladly returned.

Swallowing the lump building in the back of his throat, and supressing all self-doubt, Spencer parted his lips. "I have something for you." "For me?" You straightened your posture and faced him fully, intrigued by this information. The subtle fear and anxiety which washed over his face did not go unnoticed by you, and your interest was piqued once and for all. Why was he so skiddish?

Spencer reached behind him, retrieving a small purple bag from the side table, and held it out to you. Gleefully, you accepted the little token, proposing your theories as to what it may be; to which Spencer replied, "Open it and you'll see!" And you did.

The bag revealed a dainty gold ring, with a heart enclosed in two hands, adorned with a small crown on top. A pinky ring. It took your breath away on sight.

"A Claddagh. The tradition originated in the 17th century in a village near Galway- it- it itself is named Claddagh. The ring symbolises that love and friendship s-should reign supreme, however, the tradition rapidly evolved into giving the ring as a gift to someone you wished to court-"

"Spencer?"

Automatically, his nerves produced an immediate response; "Yeah?!"

You didn't want to cut him off as you loved to hear out his info-dumps. However, you could tell he was spiralling, with each word he spoke the fear grew deeper in the form of creased eyebrows. And if he didn't get to the point soon, the point you hoped he was beating around the bush to, you thought you would explode.

Your words expressed themselves in a small whisper, "Are you asking me out?"

His heart sunk, yet he couldn't lie to you. Despite working as one of Quantico's most prolific profilers, Spencer managed to mistake your awe laced voice for pity. He was to be alone again, he knew it. You were too good to be true.

Somehow, his voice was even smaller than how he felt in that moment, "Yes..."

Of all the reactions Spencer anticipated, he never once guessed you would jump into him on his sofa, entangling your bodies together in a tight hug, and a loving one at that. With your face buried in the crook of his neck, he heard your muffled excitement rise with each breath, "What hand do I wear it on?!"

-

Shock radiated from Spencer's core.

For years, he had grown accustomed to returning to a cold, empty and often messy apartment after cases. Nothing could prepare him for the sight he'd see once he walked through the door.

The dishes he'd left by the sink four days ago were neatly stacked in the cupboard. The lamp he'd accidentally left on in his room was switched off at the plug. The place was like a showroom, if a showroom had endless amounts of encyclopedia's stacked neatly by the TV, and a pretty girl curled up in his armchair.

There you lay in his navy sweater with nothing else asides from your black underwear. Your bare legs were folded into your chest, with your hand supporting your heavy head. He grinned once he noticed the golden glint of the band wrapped around your pinky.

Quietly, so as not to startle you from your dozing state, Spencer ventured across the room, softly setting his satchel by the sofa. When in front of you, he dropped to your level, bringing his hand up to push a strand of hair away from your eyes, and planted a gentle kiss to your nose. His grin only widened when your eyes peeled open, and a little groan escaped your lips.

"Your nose is cold y'know."

Another groan met his ears, followed by a soft pinch to his cheek. Your own way of greeting him after four long days apart, too tired to speak yet.

Spencer peppered your face in feather-like pecks, before bundling you up in his arms, escorting you to his bed - desperate to warm you up. Once he'd laid you out underneath the covers, Spencer quickly readied himself to join you before you drifted off again.

Sliding under the covers, he got comfy in your embrace, feeling like a schoolboy with you attached to his hip. His mind began to wander, and he could not for the life of him understand how he had gotten so lucky. Spencer had accepted his unfortunate destiny of solitude, finally coming to terms with the overwhelming loneliness felt in his day to day life - and there you were. Like an angel. His angel. And despite his aversion to fate, he forever thanked whatever higher power brought you to him when they did.

With a final kiss to your hairline, he wished you a goodnight, angel and turned out the light.

-

As usual, the radio hummed a quiet tune throughout the almost empty bullpen. Two more files and he could go home. Two more he told himself.

"Night, Lover boy. Happy anniversary."

Waving goodbye to Morgan, Spencer hurried to finish the remaining paperwork, desperate to get home to you. He had it all planned, a bunch of flowers sat next to him on the desk, ready to be delievered to you with a card, asking you to officially move in.

He was so wrapped up in his thoughts that he almost missed the familiar tune of his arch nemesis. In all honesty, he didn't even recognise it at first, it had been so long since the station had last played it.

𝙄𝙣 𝙢𝙮 𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙤𝙛 𝙣𝙚𝙚𝙙, 𝙄 𝙩𝙧𝙪𝙡𝙮 𝙖𝙢 𝙞𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙚𝙙… 𝙖𝙡𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙖𝙜𝙖𝙞𝙣, 𝙣𝙖𝙩𝙪𝙧𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙮.

For once, his blood didn't boil. His stomach didn't sink. There was calm. Gilbert O'Sullivan, he couldn't faze him now. Because, Spencer finally didn't have a single aspect of his life to relate to that soul crushing song. In fact, he never had to worry about it ever again.

He rose from his chair, grabbing the bouqet, ready to start his journey home. But first:

𝙄𝙩 𝙨𝙚𝙚𝙢𝙨 𝙩𝙤 𝙢𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙖𝙧𝙚 𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙚 𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙩𝙨 𝙗𝙧𝙤𝙠𝙚𝙣 𝙞𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙡𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙖- He turned it off.

Immediately, almost as if you sensed this monumental moment, his phone rang. With a shit-eating grin, he quickly answered with a joy he could never fully express in words, despite having every synonym for happiness memorised.

"Hiya angel, yes... yes, darling I'm on my way... I love you too."

[gureumz]

incriminating

rating: explicit

member: heeseung

notes: fem-bodied reader, brother's friend trope, mild dom/sub dynamics

a/n: my first work on this blog! it's been more than a year since i've written anything like this so i might be a little rusty. feedback is very much welcomed!

you had hoped your friday would be quiet. a calm finale to a whirlwind of a week at university. you were back home, exhausted from an hour's commute from campus, and all you wanted to do was doze off into the weekend.

the steady drone of your air conditioning, the distant sound of the tv downstairs, the occasional gaggle of kids passing by your house yelling; all of these seemed to come together into a sleepy melody, your eyes getting heavier by the minute.

until a sharp knock came from your bedroom door.

"_______?" your brother's muffled voice calls out.

"what?" you answer, a twinge of irritation sparking in your chest.

"wanna watch a movie?" your brother asks. you groan inwardly curling further into yourself.

"no, fuck off," you reply curtly.

your brother tries your doorknob. it's locked, obviously.

"i ordered food and booze," your brother offers, shaking the doorknob more vigorously. you jump out of bed, angrily stomping to your door, ready to kick your brother in the shin if it meant he left you alone.

you yank your door open.

"i don't care, i wanna slee—"

"heeseung's here," your brother whispers.

oh.

well, shit.

"so?" you reply, a feeble attempt at masking the blush creeping down your neck.

"don't act stupid, i know you like him," your brother scoffs.

mildly alarmed, you shove him away from you.

"i do not," you protest.

(yes, you do. you've liked him since the first time you saw heeseung at the front door, your inebriated brother hanging off his tall frame. heeseung had looked absolutely divine at that moment, hair mussed up, cheeks a bright pink from the alcohol. your heartbeat quickens at the mere memory of it all.)

"yeah, whatever," your brother waves a hand dismissively.

"either way, i'm extending my kindness to you on this rarest of occasions. i'm offering real, seasoned, non-university food and more alcohol than i know you can handle."

your brother adds, snickering, "and i'm practically setting you up with my friend."

you sigh, rolling your eyes.

"you have my gratitude, dear brother," you say sarcastically. "don't freak out if we start making out in front of you."

your brother makes a face. "gross."

you merely smile, an artificially saccharine expression, before you slam your bedroom door shut behind you.

---

"i brought a pest," your brother announces as the two of you descend the stairs into the living room. you land a hard punch on his shoulder from behind, reveling in his splutters of pain.

your eyes land on heeseung's figure lounging on one side of the couch and you wish you had put a little more thought into what you were wearing. a gigantic hoodie and ratty house shorts didn't exactly come off as sexy.

at least when compared to heeseung's black shirt clinging deliciously to his toned upper body and his sweats that seemed to leave little to the imagination, the outline of—

"hi, ______," heeseung greets, grinning up at you. your eyes snap back to his face and you feel the familiar blush blooming all over your body.

"hey, heeseung," you answer back, approaching the couch as nonchalantly as you can. for a second, you debate whether you should take a seat on the other end, but your brother's reminder rings back in your head.

i'm practically setting you up with my friend.

you're so going to take full advantage of this.

you seat yourself right in the middle of the couch, close enough to heeseung that you can smell his perfume but still maintaining a civil distance.

you watch your brother disappear into the kitchen, presumably to collect some alcohol, but your line of sight is obstructed as heeseung leans forward, eyes boring right into yours.

"you wanna pick out the movie?" heeseung offers the remote to you. you take it, fiddling with the buttons as you contemplate what to watch.

"horror sounds good. is that okay?" you ask, a taunting smile making its way to your face. your brother may or may not have mentioned heeseung's reluctance with horror movies.

"only if i get to hold your hand through the whole thing," heeseung jests, nudging your shoulder with his.

you laugh, briefly eyeing the kitchen door for any sign of your brother. you'd rather him not hear the next words that come out of your mouth.

"just my hand?"

heeseung stares at you for a second, mouth agape, before he smirks.

"your brother was wrong for bringing his menace of a sibling down here," heeseung says, shaking his head. he brings his hand down on your exposed thigh, fingers rhythmically tapping against your skin.

"especially when they're wearing barely anything on the lower half of their body."

before you can reply, your brother saunters out of the kitchen, three bottles of beer in his hands. heeseung's hand retracts and you cross your legs away from him, creating a little more distance between the two of you.

you busy yourself with selecting the movie, but you can still feel heeseung's eyes practically burning holes into the side of your head.

your friday just got a lot more interesting.

---

somewhere in between the cookie-cutter horror movie intro, predictably daunting music, and fake-out jumpscares, your brother had brought all three of you blankets to use as the night turned chillier. the lights had been turned off as well, by none other than yourself.

"for dramatic effect," you had reasoned.

heeseung raised an eyebrow at that, his familiar wolfish smile settling on his face. you ignored this, returning under the warmth of your blanket.

you made no protest when heeseung reached out, twining his fingers between yours under the covers, seemingly spurred on by the lack of visibility from where your brother is sitting.

a loud bang from the tv rips you out of your thoughts, and you feel heeseung's grip simultaneously tighten around your hand. you turn, giving him a look, but his eyes stay glued to the movie.

the music crescendos onscreen and all three of you jump in surprise, heeseung's hand abandoning your own and finding purchase, once again, on your thigh. you draw in a sharp breath when he squeezes, your own hand coming down to grip his wrist, as if in a warning.

he relaxes as the action dies down in the movie, but your chest rises and falls rapidly, your body both hot and cold at the same time.

heeseung's hand moves further inward, fingers smoothing over your inner thigh. you nearly choke on air.

you clear your throat, casually glancing at heeseung before laughing, trying to mask your nervousness.

"someone's scared," you comment, ignoring the way heeseung's hands creep further up the hem of your shorts. you let go of his wrist, mirroring him and reaching straight for the relative area of his pelvis.

your hand brushes against the slight mound in heeseung's pants and you don't miss his sharp intake of breath.

gotcha.

"who, you?" heeseung counters, and you scoff, shaking your head.

"yeah, right. i chose this movie," you say matter-of-factly. you palm heeseung through his sweats, his cock quickly stiffening in response to your touch. you cast a sideways glance toward your brother, relieved to see that he seems blissfully unaware of where your hand has ended up.

"it's not even that scary," your brother comments, gesturing to the tv.

"right?" heeseung agrees, taking the opportunity to meet your gaze, his eyes dark. you smile, pulling your hand away.

"you know what, i'm hungry. anyone else wants food? i'll heat up the pizza." your brother rises from his seat and you quickly pull your blanket tighter around yourself, concealing heeseung's hand still wedged between your thighs.

"i'll have some, please," you request, laying on the politeness, which you knew annoyed your brother. he grimaces, walking past you.

"i'm good," heeseung declares. "i have to use the bathroom, though."

you grab the remote and pause the movie. heeseung stands up and you follow, slipping past him and practically skipping towards the stairs.

"i'll change into pajamas. it's too cold," you say, hoping this sorry attempt at an excuse doesn't ring any alarm bells in your brother's head. if it did, he didn't mention anything as he merely supplies an 'okay' before heading into the kitchen.

you bound up the stairs, turning towards heeseung and sending him a wink. heeseung takes one last look at the kitchen, making sure your brother isn't looking, before tailing right behind you.

heeseung keeps a safe distance from you, but you can feel his presence all the same. you walk towards your bedroom, your hand barely turning the knob before you feel heeseung press up behind you.

he pushes the door open all the way, coaxing you inside. you turn to face him, one of his arms circling your waist while the other pulls your door close, careful not to make any noise that could alert your brother.

"what a tease," heeseung comments, both of his hands landing on your hips as he presses your bodies together.

"says the scaredy cat who needs to grope his friend's sister to distract himself from some silly horror movie," you shoot back, hands slipping under his shirt. he's so warm, it has your heart beating wildly.

"please," heeseung chuckles. "you like being groped, don't you?"

"only if it's you," you answer before pulling heeseung down to you, your lips crashing together messily.

heeseung groans into your mouth, pushing you towards your bed. you pull back slightly, letting yourself fall onto your mattress, your hand gripping heeseung's shirt. you pull him down with you, his arms reaching out to brace himself.

your movements are frantic as you kiss him again, moving further up on your bed until you're lying square on your pillow, heeseung hovering over you, his hair falling over his eyes. those eyes that bore straight into your own, sending involuntary shivers up your spine.

"god, you're pretty," heeseung reveres, holding one side of your face.

you smile, butterflies erupting in your stomach. heeseung grins back before kissing you sweetly and much softer this time, his hands running down your sides. he hooks his thumbs into your shorts and you let him pull them off you, his palm smoothing over your leg.

"you think your brother knows what we're doing?" heeseung asks, a mischievous glint in his eye.

you shrug. heeseung pulls his own bottoms off, kicking them to the floor unceremoniously.

"honestly? i don't care if he does," you admit, reaching out, arms circling around heeseung's neck as he comes back closer to you.

"he'll kill me, for sure," heeseung says, laughing. he dips his fingers between your folds, spreading the wetness around. you moan softly, your bottom lip catching between your teeth.

"or, he'll beat me to a pulp, at least," heeseung adds.

"but it'll be so worth it once i'm done with you."

heeseung slips a finger in you easily, your arousal evident by the way you're probably dripping onto your sheets. he adds another finger, the sweet drag of the digits against your walls sending your mind into a frenzy.

"yes, just like that," you breathe out, eyes scrunching shut.

"look at me, baby," heeseung commands, and you immediately obey, eyelids fluttering open. he's looking down at you, practically fucking you with his eyes.

but you need the real thing.

"n-need you," you mutter, unable to find the full extent of your voice with the way he's still fingering you.

heeseung leans down and places a kiss on your forehead. then on your temple. on your cheek. on your jaw. your neck. then, finally, behind your ear.

you mewl helplessly.

"tell me exactly what you want," heeseung whispers and you shiver once more as his breath tickles your ear.

"i need you inside me," you say meekly, suddenly embarrassed now that you hear it out loud from your own mouth.

heeseung pinches at your earlobe ever-so-slightly with his teeth before soothing it with a kiss.

"good," heeseung mumbles. he pulls his fingers out, licking them clean as you watch, entranced by the man in front of you.

heeseung takes hold of himself and your eyes fixate on his length, heavy in his hand and leaking precum. your mouth waters as you assess just how big he is.

(spoiler: he's really big.)

heeseung catches your eye and grins. your cheeks heat up but you can't look away.

he inches closer, pressing the tip to your entrance, and anticipation bubbles up inside you. heeseung holds your legs apart, pushing more of himself in. he gets halfway when an intense wave of pleasure surges through you. you moan, heeseung gasping softly at the same time. in a split second, heeseung buries himself all the way into you, and your eyes roll into the back of your head.

"fuck," you curse, fingers twisting your sheets as you grip them for dear life.

"you feel so good," heeseung says through gritted teeth. "how do you feel so good?"

"please," you blabber. "please, please, move."

heeseung obliges, thrusting into you. this ignites a new wave of desperation from both of you, heeseung seemingly overwhelmed by how you feel around him, and you clamping a hand down on your mouth to stop yourself from crying out in pleasure.

heeseung pushes your hoodie up your chest, exposing your boobs. he licks his lips hungrily, leaning down to take a nipple in his mouth. your moans spill through your hand as heeseung's tongue flicks against the nub harshly.

the world around you starts to get fuzzy. heeseung keeps an unrelenting pace, pounding into you with a force you've never experienced before. heeseung lets up on your nipple and you pull him close, your fingernails digging into his shoulders.

heeseung starts peppering kisses on on side of your neck, sucking at a spot before running his tongue over it. you damn near go mad at how good it all feels.

"oh god," heeseung groans. "'m sorry...not gonna...last long."

this pulls a moan out of you, the idea of heeseung being unable to restrain himself because of you causes you to clench down on him. he curses, pulling back to grip your hips. it's almost painful, but you don't care, too lost in the feeling of heeseung.

"god, you're so fucking hot, so fucking gorgeous," heeseung praises, hammering in and out of you. you can't even form a coherent thought, all you can think to do is reach down to rub desperately at your clit, urging yourself closer to release.

"fuck yeah," heeseung practically growls. "touch yourself for me."

your mouth hangs open as you feel yourself racing to your orgasm. heeseung mumbles out a litany of curses mixed with your name and you think it's the most beautiful thing you've heard.

finally, a burst of stars explodes behind your closed eyelids, and your body jerks, white-hot pleasure coursing through your body. heeseung lets out a deep, guttural moan as he keeps you in place, his cum spilling inside you.

heeseung gives a few cursory thrusts as he rides out his high, stopping when the last drop has left him. you lie there, motionless, panting and eyes bleary.

heeseung drops next to you on your bed and you lazily reach over, draping yourself over him. he wraps an arm around you, stroking your hair as you both catch your breaths.

you both don't say anything for a while, basking in what you just did, but footsteps jolt you both out of your peace.

three sharp knocks are delivered on your door and your heart sinks.

"shit," heeseung whispers, scrambling for his pants. he tosses you your underwear and shorts and you quickly pull them on, ignoring the voice screaming in your head about how his cum is going to drip down your leg and it's gonna be gross and—

"mom and dad are almost home," your brother's voice calls out from the other side of the door.

"if i were the two of you, i'd erase any incriminating evidence, of...whatever you just did," your brother adds before you hear him walk away from your bedroom.

you look at heeseung and he looks back. you both collapse in a fit of giggles.

[violetmuses]

Beacon - A. Aretas ❤️‍🩹 🫂

Title: Beacon - A. Aretas ❤️‍🩹 🫂

Fandom: “Bad Boys” Film Universe

Character: Armando Aretas

Pairing: Armando Aretas + Female Reader

Main Storyline: Mike, Marcus, and Armando cross paths with you after McGarth hijacks the federal transport.

=====

2024

“You are the only person who can identify whoever framed Cap! We should get them before they get us.”

Stranded through woods, Detective Mike Lowrey pulled his son Armando Aretas by his prison uniform collar.

“There is no us!” Armando grits his teeth and steps from Lowrey, pissed off beyond words.

“Hey! What's going on here?” You shouted in the distance. Mike and Armando turned around with Marcus Burnett.

“Oh, shit! Um…” Mike walked toward you first while Armando observed near Marcus. “I'm so sorry.”

“What happened?” You questioned, noticing Lowrey's damp clothes.

Mike glanced around the natural space, realizing that you set up this tent and organized essentials here.

“We lost our plane.” Mike dulled this explanation to avoid scaring you.

“Where are you going?” You point toward your car that's set across the seemingly remote campground.

“Miami.” Lowrey breathed through his quick response after handling the terrible water.

“Wait, aren't you a cop?” Truth hit once you acknowledged Detective Lowrey.

“Yes. We just need to get back home.” Mike lifted both hands just in case you'd bring out weapons for yourself.

“There's a criminal with you.” You whispered right here. Someone waited in this drenched orange prison uniform.

Mike turned around to see Armando lurking. Even Marcus peered in return.

“Oh, please don't panic.” Mike stepped closer to you. “This is my son Armando.”

“Your son?” You can't believe what's going on this time.

“I know it all sounds crazy, but could you please help us out?” Mike almost pleaded

“I'm leaving soon.” You somehow agreed with this unexpected plan. “If you're not around, I won't help.”

“Deal. Thank you.” Mike nodded quickly, jogging back to Marcus and Armando.

“You're welcome.” You accepted this reality and packed up various belongings.

______

Returning to your camp from this separate nightmare, Lowrey, Burnett, and Aretas stole clothes from two idiots, running off without fail.

At first sight of everyone's wardrobe, you hide this opportunity to laugh for a second. Even Armando looked out of place.

Armando his Bud Light shirt and this trucker hat veiled his eyes. Jeans covered both legs and boots stepped along dirt that trailed outside.

While four of you piled this vehicle, Armando takes the passenger seat, quiet when the air conditioning immediately cools everyone down.

Mike Lowrey gives you the address to a Miami boathouse.

Apparently, someone named Dorn stood as a tech genius for this team called AMMO, the current unit.

When you start driving away, Marcus Burnett talks from this backseat.

“Don't worry about Armando. He doesn't like us, either.” Burnett cut the silence found beyond your car's navigation system.

“All right.” You slightly ignored Marcus and continued focusing on the road.

_______

“Stay here.” Mike Lowrey warns Armando as your car finally reaches the boathouse.

“No soy un perro.” Irked, Armando grumbled through his native language of Spanish.

“Hey, listen. We might follow this plan, but watch your mouth.” Mike defended himself. “I'm going with Marcus.”

Exiting the car with his longtime partner, Mike Lowrey prompted you to stay near Armando.

And believe it or not, Armando started talking first rather than you.

“Sorry.” He apologized while offering slightly accented English. “What's your name?”

“I'll accept your apology, but my name doesn't matter.” You kept certain info private.

“Fair enough.” Armando quietly watches as you unfasten the driver's seatbelt.

Aretas is observant for many reasons. Earlier, no one else joined your side of the campground and you didn't sport a wedding ring, either.

His own incarceration has definitely stopped time now, but Armando still noticed how beautiful you are despite acknowledging the coastal heatwave.

The awkward silence lingered as you scroll through your phone and won't continue speaking with him.

“Who are you texting?” Nosey, Armando started talking once more.

“None of your business, actually.” You defended yourself.

Armando smirked for a moment before quickly reaching out and grabbing your phone, taking the device from you.

“Hey!” You lean inward to reach the phone again, but Armando raises his arms higher.

“Uh-uh.” Smiling over the brim of his trucker hat, Aretas chuckled for the first time in a while. You look so cute from this angle.

At that moment, he opened the passenger seat door and ran by this dock, still carrying your phone.

Dashing in return, you follow him after locking the car.

“Give it back.” You crossed both arms while facing him.

“Not yet. Hold up.” Armando then smiled once more and tapped away, biting his lip.

“What in the world?” You squinted past daylight this afternoon.

When Armando finally returns the phone, you discover one surprise:

His number.

[succubusonthedoorstep]

ᖭི༏ᖫྀ ArtTeacher! Geto x Fem Reader! ᖭི༏ᖫྀ (1.1 Word Count.)

Warnings? Gojo's sweet tooth, shy reader, vibrator use, butt plugs, edging, implied cunnilingus? jealousy, peeking down shirts, sir kink. painting is Geto's love language. +18 Only! No Minors Allowed! (Part Two.)

Author's Notes? still writing my jean and eren x reader fic, but here's something I've been sitting on for a moment!! <3 (Like, reblog, and comment please!)

ArtTeacher!Geto who enjoys instructing the acrylic painting weekend course. He’s been at it for about a year, lending his Sundays to locals and students. Most looking to sharpen their skills but some seeking a new pastime. Gojo did him a favor, pulling strings at the university to give Geto a classroom (with air conditioning!) rather than the offered room in the student center. However, it was pretty isolated, a feature he learned to love after meeting you.

ArtTeacher!Geto unlocks his door an hour before his class is due to start. Students seldom came early but he left the option open anyway. Sometimes Gojo visited, usually to hand him some small, sweet cake he couldn’t help but rave about. While cleaning the paint palettes and setting up for class, the door slams shut from behind him. 

ArtTeacher!Geto whips around, eyes landing on you. He couldn’t help but immediately notice how cute you were, holding art supplies in your arms. The faucet dripped lightly behind him, brushes now forgotten. His thin white button-down shirt was rolled up to his elbows, a feature your eyes lingered on as you started explaining.  “Sorry for the scare, I know your class doesn’t start for another half an hour…” 

ArtTeacher!Geto alleviates your worries, insisting he’d never turn away an eager student. He stops what he was doing to help you set up on the easel closest to his desk, asking why he’d never seen you in his class before. 

ArtTeacher!Geto can’t listen more intently to you speak. Your voice was melodic to him, echoing slightly from the walls when you laugh at his joke about leaving home. You just moved into the city for a job opportunity and wanted to socialize in a familiar place, the art studio. He noticed some of your paints were used and you held the brush the same way he did. You were no amateur, that was for sure.

ArtTeacher!Geto’s mood goes sour once class starts. He generally enjoyed his classes, but he only wanted to be around you today. Of course, he'll still play his role well- complimenting brush strokes, giving feedback, and staring contemplatively at completed works. The whole time he’s thinking of you on the other side of the room. The image of you, in his well-lit traditionally styled studio, made his heart jump. You’d be wearing the thinnest, finest silk as you lounge for him across a chaise sofa. 

He could torture you for hours there- a plug up your ass and a vibrator for your pussy whenever he’d get bored with his work. Geto would paint you for hours, finding joy in matching his paints to your skin tone, lips, and nipples. (Even if the silk limited his view.) 

‘Enjoying the view, Geto?’ You ask, holding your arm over the end of the sofa like he asked. ‘I’ve never seen you take so long for a sketch.’

“Patience, patience,” he cooed, taking another slick glance at your most intimate parts while you yawn. “So many details to take note of, it won’t be a worthy painting of you if I miss a single one.” His easel was positioned for you as well. You had the perfect view of him working and could lean over the other end of the couch to check his progress.

Both of you knew that was out of the question, however. The little pink toy between your legs prevented any unauthorized movement. Geto was a cruel lover- dragging you just to the edge of orgasm only to press the toy to your hole and call you greedy for needing more.

Without warning the toy came to life, buzzing lowly and drawing soft breaths from your mouth. Geto, no longer interested in painting, watched your reactions with the matching remote in one hand as he palmed his cock with the other. 

“You won’t cum,” he challenged, turning the vibrator up to a higher setting. He watched as you squirmed in ecstasy, his teasing from earlier coming back for you. Leaning back onto the arm of the couch, you spread your legs for Geto’s view and let him hear the sweet moans he loved so much.

“Missing all those d-details,” you expressed, hips lifting from the sofa in pleasure. Geto couldn’t take his eyes off of you. “Is this part of your creative process?” You asked, sliding the silk robe up your legs and exposing your glistening cunt.

The stool he sat on fell over at the force he used to stand up and make his way over to the couch. Geto’s knees met the floor harshly, hands finding your thighs to push them apart and make room for his face. 

“Just need a closer look, is all…”

ArtTeacher!Geto’s fantasy is ruined at the trilling of his alarm bell. Class was over. His students were already packed and filing out of class, their goodbye’s drowned out by him searching for you.

ArtTeacher!Geto smiles when he catches your eye and waves you over. His smile falters as he watches you wave goodbye to a third-year at the university, some kid with pink hair. Geto pushes his jealousy off; he’s never in competition.

ArtTeacher!Geto has to hide a smirk when you approach his desk, clearly in high spirits.

“Thank you for class, sir. I met a lot of good people,” You gush, and Geto has to push in his chair more at the name. “I’d love to come back, when’s the next-”

“Next Sunday,” He recites it like the gospel now. The tightness in his pants only gets worse as he watches you take a sticky note from his desk and scribble your name and number on it. Geto casts a brief look down your shirt when you bend over to write, silently thankful for a memory he can use later.

ArtTeacher!Geto takes the sticky note from you with an appreciative grin, brushing his fingers with yours and melting when a flustered look crossed your face, breaking eye contact.

“See you next week, sir.”

send me prompts so i can post between fics mwah (like, comment and reblog!)

© succubusonthedoorstep2023. all rights reserved. please do not copy, repost, steal, or translate my work.

[whumpsoda]

We Search For Stolen Personhood - You’re Scared

Masterlist

cw: pet whump, vomit mention, box boy universe/bbu adjacent, Institutionalized slavery, past abuse, conditioned whumpees

——————

He was trembling. He was not supposed to tremble, to quiver, to anything of the sort. Guard dogs - attack dogs, whatever he was anymore - don’t do that.

But he couldn’t help it.

Everything was a blur. He let fall a quivering breath, chest heaving in and out as he clenched and unclenched his clammy fingers over and over, harder and harder. Sensations pounded like rocks to his head, spinning him in circles with sickly dizziness, even if he couldn’t recall ever hitting his head on anything. He was sweating, body full to the brim with heat that spilled out in juice, even when the air was a stale chill.

He clung to his companion, the two of them shoved firm into a corner instead of the bunkbeds the woman had directed them to, refusing to allow him any give inside of his restricting embrace. Prince whined, animalistic and gratting, attempting to wriggle out from his never ending grip, but Mutt couldn’t let him go. He couldn’t.

What if they hurt him?

They would, they would, they would, everyone else is bad and only master is good.

Mutt couldn’t forgive himself if they did. No one could hurt Prince except for his master, as much as he hated Prince being hurt at all, that privilege was reserved to him and only him, and those were the rules. It was Mutt’s job to enforce those rules like the good, so obedient dog he was, to protect Prince at the expense of his own safety.

He… he was a good dog, wasn’t he?

Alas, the lines of his expression were scrunched with fear, his face stuck between the nape of Prince’s neck, and several times now he’d been forced to choke away an oncoming, lingering wave of emotions, something he wasn’t supposed to have.

He could nearly feel the burn of his collar, see the dreaded remote pressed between Handler Brooks’ fingers.

Show no weakness, ‘520, ain’t that right?

Fix it.

“Show no weakness,” He whispered to himself, shoving away feelings back into the drowning abyss that was his belly, evening his face to placid emptiness. “Show no weakness.”

“Squee- Squeezing-,” Prince gasped, hand pushing off his chest, a desperate and pitiful try for air. 

Mutt weakened his grip on instant, allowing Prince to collapse in a heave of a breath. He hadn’t even realized he was clutching tighter. “S- sorry. So sorry, ‘m so sorry.” Mutt apologized profusely, so very pathetically, so very soft and kind. How could he not behave so to Prince? 

“‘S okay.” His legs tightened around Mutt’s abdomen, as well did the hold around his neck. He was scared too, and there was nothing Mutt could do to stop it beside hold him, and Prince the same.

“H- hi.” 

He whipped up to the door, wide open and leaking a path of light throughout the room, and Prince’s hair tickled his throat as he turned to gaze as well. 

There a woman stood, shaded by the brightness flooding in from behind her, hands held up before her front in a gesture that said I’m innocent. “I won’t come any closer. If you don’t want me to.” She mumbled, gravel seeping into the edges of her words, a natural rasp that stuck to her voice even when quiet.

Mutt paused, swallowing, and after a moment dared to shake his head, a movement so weak it almost went unnoticed. He’d never shook his head before, only nodded in acceptance, as it was practically the same as saying no, and pets don’t say no. 

“I just… um,” she started, studying them with uneasy fascination, “You’re scared, aren’t… aren’t you?”

No response. He didn’t know what to say. Show no weakness, the little voice in his mind that sounded exactly like his handler - only warped - told him, over and over again, keeping him perfectly silent. 

But he was scared.

He had always been infected with an overbearing sore of sensitivity, a weakness, never truly fit for his designation, for the title he got to wear.

But he was good at pretending.

My champion.

“You don’t know what’s going on.” It wasn’t a question, but rather statement of knowing, as if the stranger could possibly understand how he felt. “You, um, we’re here to help you. No hurting.” 

He gradually met her gaze with eyes that glimmered in the shining light, sparking with watered down hope. “No… hurting?” 

“Nope. No hurting. I mean you’ll maybe hurt sometimes- we all do - but, not because of us, I mean, no, none of us will hurt you.” She took a soft step forward and he froze, fingers dipping marks into Prince’s skin until he whimpered, telling him without words to release. 

“Stay.” Mutt snarled, a low, bellowing growl, utilizing the last of his strength to order her around as if he had the jurisdiction, but she still followed. 

“Sorry.” She whispered, hushed, ceasing her movement. Her fingers scratched at the sleeve of her bulking sweater, the area around her arm that mirrored where his own tattoo sat. “Do you… where’s your master? What happened to them?” 

His master.

The blur that was a wound of the mind reopened, just a smidge, tearing through the walls of his brain. “Don’t, don’t know, want Master, want, need Master-” He was supposed to care for him, to serve him, to protect him, he was supposed to die for him-

“Hey, it’s okay. It’s okay. Your master’s okay.” She trailed off, gnawing at her lip and itching harder at her arm.

“Rea- really?”

You’re a real idiot, mutt, and I can only guess that that’s why you signed up for this.

Did he really fucking believe her?

“Yeah, I think so. Probably.” She shrugged, biting her lip. She paused for a moment, thinking. “So… you didn’t run away, did you?”

“N- no, never run. Never run from Master, it’s a rule.” It didn’t even need to be a rule, because Mutt never had and never would even think of running, and Mutt followed the rules so very well. Where else would he go? He’d been with master ever since he finished at the facility, and he surely did not have any urge to return to there for any reason.

“Mm. I understand.” She said, and somehow, for some stupid reason, he believed it. “Do you know why you’re here?”

“No, no, sir.” Mutt didn’t know why he was answering, why he gave her any reply at all, but maybe being scared messed with you like that, like how it was to him. Scattering his thoughts and leaving him so terrifyingly helpless, in need of any possible smidge of guidance.

“We, um, well I don’t know everything, but… I guess they found you guys or something, and, um, we took you in so you didn’t have to go back to… to the facility.”

“The facility…” That couldn’t have been the only reason they wanted them. The two were high value products, that’s what his master had always said, and so the only conclusion Mutt could muster up was that these people wanted to sell them. That was only plausible.

“Yes. They would, um, re- refurbish you, and send you to a new master. Cheaper.”

Mutt detested the thought of his first time at the facility, memories coiling into a wounded ache, and the prospect of ever going back brought a foul strengthen on the fear pent up inside of him. He didn’t want any more of the white walls, and the shocking sticks, or the lumps of gray mush. He was lucky, oh so very lucky to have been bought instead of rotting there any longer.

He couldn’t go back.

She must have noticed him getting wrapped up in his thoughts, because she reached behind her, behind the wall, bringing two items into frame. “I brought you guys… I mean, you’re supposed to pick them out yourselves, but these are the only two we have right now ‘cause Isaac hasn’t gone shopping for more in, um, forever.”

“Dog… toy…?” That’s what they appeared to be, fuzzy, colorful, and stuffed like the ones his master would gift him on the most special of holidays. He wondered if they squeaked just like those did.

“Stuffed animal. They’re for you and your friend. We all get one.” She smiled, her face softening the slightest bit. “Oscar thinks they help. It… kind of does.”

Prince piped up, a shock to the ears, voice the crack of a knife slicing through butter and hitting the plate beneath it. “Thank… you.”

“You’re welcome.” She muttered, fingers pulling at the fraying strings of her top. “Anyway, you two should, um, get some sleep.”

Mutt shook his head yet again, saliva in his mouth churning like the taste of a sour candy. He’d never had candy in any form before, but somehow that’s what the stinging acid of bile slinking up to his mouth tasted like. “Can’t, can’t sleep.” He’d never talked this much before in his whole life, and each word scratched raw at his throat.

“W- why?”

“I must protect Prince.” He stated it matter of fact, just like it was. That was his duty, and Mutt was going to fulfill it.

“So, so that’s his name… okay. Well… um, you do that. I guess. G’night.” She turned to leave, but before fully out of sight she stopped. “Oh. My name’s Joey, by the way. ‘S short for Josephine.”

She left without another word.

He swallowed, again shoving down the ever so inching hiccup of confusing emotions and vomit.

All of that thinking for himself was making Mutt ill.

——————

Masterlist

Taglist - @softvampirewhump @ivymyers @taterswhump @octopus-reactivated

If anyone wants to be removed or added to the taglist, please let me know! :)

[anghraine]

Speaking of GW1 and GW2 ... I've had plenty of complaints over the years about how GW2 has chosen to handle and retcon human-centric GW1 lore, the framing of the human gods, etc. That said, I've recently been appreciating that GW2 has retained a particular element of GW1's treatment of humanity and their gods that I've always really liked.

Humans in the GW universe are not really generic everymen, as humans so often are in fantasy settings. Nor are they so wildly varying and unpredictable that there's no sense of humanity having its own distinct flavor like the other playable species do. In many ways, they occupy a vaguely "elvish" position in the world—they've been on this world for a very long time and used to be a major power, or rather, made up many major powers with various warring factions that sometimes found common cause.

But in more recent eras, many of the ancient human civilizations have dwindled and/or suffered various atrocities and/or lost their minds. And culturally, humans tend to have a strong affinity for the mystical and even more for the divinely mystical, which their political power in previous eras was directly tied to. The vast majority of humans in this world are faithful worshippers of a human pantheon of six gods (formerly five).

Not all humans are magical or religious, to be sure, but a lot of them are, to the point that this seems their most distinctive cultural quality. Minor NPCs tend to have background dialogue invoking the gods ("By the Six!"), or referencing one of the gods (often but not only the goddess Dwayna, leader of the Six). The main human NPC of the core game, Logan Thackeray, continually references the gods, as do most of his military fellows.

Most interestingly, though, if you choose to play a human, you will automatically be a devout adherent of the faith of the Six regardless of any other choices you make. In addition, human PCs are blessed by one specific god among the Six whom you choose at character creation.

This mostly has minor flavor effects in practice. A priest of the god you chose permanently hangs out in your home district, and sometimes other priests of your god can perceive some mark of their deity's favor when they look at you.

Howeverrrrr, when I say "their deity," I don't mean that they exclusively worship the god they've dedicated their lives to, or that "your god"—the god whose favor you enjoy as a human PC—is your god in any remotely monotheistic way. Humans faithful to the Six are faithful to all the Six until one of the gods falls to evil. And when that god becomes the villain of the second GW2 expansion, various human NPCs are shown going through a crisis of the soul regardless of whether he was their particular patron or not. Having a more specific personal tie to one of the gods, or being particularly blessed by one of them, or being specifically devoted to a life of service to one of them, does not in any way prevent humans from devotion to the rest of the pantheon.

Mechanically, this means that no matter which deity you choose as your particular patron, your human PC starts the game with the ability to pray to Dwayna, goddess of life and air and healing. When you pray to her, a blue image of Dwayna materializes, heals you, and vanishes. As you level up, your human-based skills will extend to prayers to the other gods.

Praying to Lyssa, goddess of illusion/chaos magic and water and beauty, confounds foes by inflicting random conditions on them and random blessings on you. Praying to Kormir, goddess of spirit, order, and truth, will free you from negative effects like immobilization. The final prayer you can use, iirc, and the most powerful, is the prayer to Balthazar, the god of fire and war who ends up going super evil. If you're playing a fragile class like an elementalist or mesmer, praying to him is actually great, because he blesses you with two fierce hounds made of flame who fight alongside you and soak up damage. (Praying to Balthazar does feel a lot weirder in retrospect, I'll admit.)

In any case, the point is that you can pray to ANY human god and receive a brief visitation from that god, because the entire human pantheon are your gods even if you're only special to one of them. A similar dynamic is at work for NPCs as well. A recurring NPC in the core GW2 story, for instance, is Rhie, a priestess of Grenth, god of cold, darkness, judgment, and death (he's not evil, just goth). Even by priest of Grenth standards, Rhie is greatly favored by him, and as a result is able to perform powerful rituals dealing with the boundaries between life and death. But there's no expectation that this means she should abjure the other gods in any way, and she certainly does not (in fact, she provides a Human Religion 101 rundown about the gods in general in her first appearance in the human storyline).

And it's so common in fantasy, I feel, that polytheistic cultures are conceptualized as giving adherents a wider choice of gods to be the one they actually worship for real, often with the implication that worshipping one god in the pantheon naturally translates into hostility or apathy towards other gods in the same pantheon. And so I do enjoy playing a religiously devout character who has a special patron deity blessing her and who is emphatically polytheistic throughout her entire original storyline.

[jcmarchi]

Scientists pin down the origins of the moon’s tenuous atmosphere

New Post has been published on https://thedigitalinsider.com/scientists-pin-down-the-origins-of-the-moons-tenuous-atmosphere/

Scientists pin down the origins of the moon’s tenuous atmosphere

While the moon lacks any breathable air, it does host a barely-there atmosphere. Since the 1980s, astronomers have observed a very thin layer of atoms bouncing over the moon’s surface. This delicate atmosphere — technically known as an “exosphere” — is likely a product of some kind of space weathering. But exactly what those processes might be has been difficult to pin down with any certainty.

Now, scientists at MIT and the University of Chicago say they have identified the main process that formed the moon’s atmosphere and continues to sustain it today. In a study appearing today in Science Advances, the team reports that the lunar atmosphere is primarily a product of “impact vaporization.”

In their study, the researchers analyzed samples of lunar soil collected by astronauts during NASA’s Apollo missions. Their analysis suggests that over the moon’s 4.5-billion-year history its surface has been continuously bombarded, first by massive meteorites, then more recently, by smaller, dust-sized “micrometeoroids.” These constant impacts have kicked up the lunar soil, vaporizing certain atoms on contact and lofting the particles into the air. Some atoms are ejected into space, while others remain suspended over the moon, forming a tenuous atmosphere that is constantly replenished as meteorites continue to pelt the surface.

The researchers found that impact vaporization is the main process by which the moon has generated and sustained its extremely thin atmosphere over billions of years.

“We give a definitive answer that meteorite impact vaporization is the dominant process that creates the lunar atmosphere,” says the study’s lead author, Nicole Nie, an assistant professor in MIT’s Department of Earth, Atmospheric and Planetary Sciences. “The moon is close to 4.5 billion years old, and through that time the surface has been continuously bombarded by meteorites. We show that eventually, a thin atmosphere reaches a steady state because it’s being continuously replenished by small impacts all over the moon.”

Nie’s co-authors are Nicolas Dauphas, Zhe Zhang, and Timo Hopp at the University of Chicago, and Menelaos Sarantos at NASA Goddard Space Flight Center.

Weathering’s roles

In 2013, NASA sent an orbiter around the moon to do some detailed atmospheric reconnaissance. The Lunar Atmosphere and Dust Environment Explorer (LADEE, pronounced “laddie”) was tasked with remotely gathering information about the moon’s thin atmosphere, surface conditions, and any environmental influences on the lunar dust.

LADEE’s mission was designed to determine the origins of the moon’s atmosphere. Scientists hoped that the probe’s remote measurements of soil and atmospheric composition might correlate with certain space weathering processes that could then explain how the moon’s atmosphere came to be.

Researchers suspect that two space weathering processes play a role in shaping the lunar atmosphere: impact vaporization and “ion sputtering” — a phenomenon involving solar wind, which carries energetic charged particles from the sun through space. When these particles hit the moon’s surface, they can transfer their energy to the atoms in the soil and send those atoms sputtering and flying into the air. 

“Based on LADEE’s data, it seemed both processes are playing a role,” Nie says. “For instance, it showed that during meteorite showers, you see more atoms in the atmosphere, meaning impacts have an effect. But it also showed that when the moon is shielded from the sun, such as during an eclipse, there are also changes in the atmosphere’s atoms, meaning the sun also has an impact. So, the results were not clear or quantitative.”

Answers in the soil

To more precisely pin down the lunar atmosphere’s origins, Nie looked to samples of lunar soil collected by astronauts throughout NASA’s Apollo missions. She and her colleagues at the University of Chicago acquired 10 samples of lunar soil, each measuring about 100 milligrams — a tiny amount that she estimates would fit into a single raindrop.

Nie sought to first isolate two elements from each sample: potassium and rubidium. Both elements are “volatile,” meaning that they are easily vaporized by impacts and ion sputtering. Each element exists in the form of several isotopes. An isotope is a variation of the same element, that consists of the same number of protons but a slightly different number of neutrons. For instance, potassium can exist as one of three isotopes, each one having one more neutron, and there being slightly heavier than the last. Similarly, there are two isotopes of rubidium.

The team reasoned that if the moon’s atmosphere consists of atoms that have been vaporized and suspended in the air, lighter isotopes of those atoms should be more easily lofted, while heavier isotopes would be more likely to settle back in the soil. Furthermore, scientists predict that impact vaporization, and ion sputtering, should result in very different isotopic proportions in the soil. The specific ratio of light to heavy isotopes that remain in the soil, for both potassium and rubidium, should then reveal the main process contributing to the lunar atmosphere’s origins.

With all that in mind, Nie analyzed the Apollo samples by first crushing the soils into a fine powder, then dissolving the powders in acids to purify and isolate solutions containing potassium and rubidium. She then passed these solutions through a mass spectrometer to measure the various isotopes of both potassium and rubidium in each sample.

In the end, the team found that the soils contained mostly heavy isotopes of both potassium and rubidium. The researchers were able to quantify the ratio of heavy to light isotopes of both potassium and rubidium, and by comparing both elements, they found that impact vaporization was most likely the dominant process by which atoms are vaporized and lofted to form the moon’s atmosphere.

“With impact vaporization, most of the atoms would stay in the lunar atmosphere, whereas with ion sputtering, a lot of atoms would be ejected into space,” Nie says. “From our study, we now can quantify the role of both processes, to say that the relative contribution of impact vaporization versus ion sputtering is about 70:30 or larger.” In other words, 70 percent or more of the moon’s atmosphere is a product of meteorite impacts, whereas the remaining 30 percent is a consequence of the solar wind.

“The discovery of such a subtle effect is remarkable, thanks to the innovative idea of combining potassium and rubidium isotope measurements along with careful, quantitative modeling,” says Justin Hu, a postdoc who studies lunar soils at Cambridge University, who was not involved in the study. “This discovery goes beyond understanding the moon’s history, as such processes could occur and might be more significant on other moons and asteroids, which are the focus of many planned return missions.”

“Without these Apollo samples, we would not be able to get precise data and measure quantitatively to understand things in more detail,” Nie says. “It’s important for us to bring samples back from the moon and other planetary bodies, so we can draw clearer pictures of the solar system’s formation and evolution.”

This work was supported, in part, by NASA and the National Science Foundation.

[tightsweatyclothes]

Girls who fail or drop out of university, or who simply find the coursework too tough are encouraged to enrol in "second chance" schools. There, to instil discipline, the thick and impermeable uniforms are designed to be worn 24/7, with an uncomfortably tight collar hidden by the necktie which exists to constantly remind the girls of their failure, that they are at the mercy of whoever has control of the collar. The gas masks, too, are meant to be worn permanently, and contain a gag which fills the mouth, lined all over with stiff hairs to constantly torment the inside of the oral cavity. The gas masks can, of course , be controlled remotely, so that any rebellious thoughts are easily shut off by simply denying the girls of air while shocking them with the collar.

The morning starts with a walk, and the girls are expected to keep to a fixed rhythm, with each deviation punished by a shock at the collar. Next are the lessons, where there are no teachers, only audio lessons which constantly play into their earphones at a far higher volume than is bearable, and then a daily round of electronically graded tests. Only the top few scorers escape further punishment, and the rest are given punishments of varying degrees which will fill up the rest of the day. The bottom few scorers fare the worst, and have to endure random and severe shocks for the rest of the day, all the while calling out their names, numbers and the correct answers into the gags. The third image shows a girl who has been shackled hand and foot, and who must take a hop each time she calls out a single answer even as her collar buzzes with shocks. She is to do this in rounds around the campus, unable to stop until the allotted study time.

Under these conditions, most girls find that it is even harder to study, as they can barely sleep in their tiny cages at night for the itching and sweating and prickling, but by then it is far too late to object. They will probably be consigned to the uniform for the rest of their life, working at a factory for far less than a living wage, unable to pay off their school fees even with a lifetime of hard labour.

[kendsleyauthor]

PLUNGE

Print / Trinket Universe (Micah and Everly)

~700 words

Warning: Suggestive thoughts

A follow-up to Poolside by @marydublinauthor 🌸

“Micah Tate, you ASSHOLE!” Everly sputtered and flailed as pool water drenched her from head to toe. She clung desperately to Micah’s fingers, trying to work out how she could kick him while also using him to keep her head above the surface.

Logically, she knew he would never do anything to hurt her—let alone try to drown her—but furious panic settled into her bones all the same.

Micah chuckled, but his amused grin softened. “I’ve got you, Ev, stop squirming.” He lifted his hand, bringing her higher so that only her scrabbling legs were submerged.

“I can’t swim,” she gritted out, shivering from the sudden plunge.

“Seriously?” To his credit, he looked like he really hadn’t known. “The Burrow has a pool. You’ve lived there all your life.”

“Most of my life. And you think I had time for that? I was too busy learning practical skills. If I’d known ‘big dumb rockstar dragging me underwater’ was on the list of threats, I might’ve bothered.”

The water lapped around her dangerously again as Micah floated onto his back. He let her down on his chest, one hand still cupped loosely around her. She caught her breath, but her heart wouldn’t slow as noted how far he had moved from the pool’s edge. Not that she would be able to reach high enough to pull herself out, anyway. The unnaturally smooth drop of the infinity pool in the other direction looked more life-threatening than beautiful now.

“You’re digging into me like a cat,” he said. “I could teach you to swim sometime. What do you say?”

“If I say yes, will you get me out of here right-fucking-now?”

He drifted back to the poolside. “You’ll be a natural, I bet. You’re so good at everything.” His tone was so saccharine yet sincere, it had to be his preamble to groveling for her forgiveness. 

At the moment, no amount of charm or sucking-up could compare to the relief of him finally setting her on the sleek floor beside the water. She dropped to her knees, breathing heavily and wringing her hair out. But when Micah pulled himself out of the pool, he drenched her all over again with the waterfalls that poured from his body. She scrambled back, huffing in annoyance as he went to grab his towel.

When she opened her mouth to snap at him, she faltered at the sight of him. Turning to face her, he caught her staring. She flushed, focusing on squeezing water from her blouse and trying desperately not to think about his wet trunks clinging to his body like a second skin.

Less than a minute ago, she’d had her hands on him, and he’d been all over her. She was too pissed and proud to give him the satisfaction of showing how badly she wanted to get back to that.

“Dunno why you buy me these outfits if you’re just gonna ruin them,” she said.

“I’ll buy you a million more, and you can choose how we ruin them.” He smiled slyly. Kneeling in front of her, he offered his towel like he was presenting a cushy platform fit for a queen. “C’mon, we’ll dry off better inside.”

The fluffiness of the fabric was too much to resist. She waded through the folds, sighing in short-lived relief. “Hang on,” she said, squinting up at him. “We’ll have to go through the lobby. People will see.”

He scoffed in that beautiful, irritating Micah way. “You keep giving me easy problems, Ev.”

The second she was remotely settled, he swept the towel up and buried her against his chest. Her muffled shout made his deep chuckle reverberate through her. If her stomach wasn’t still somersaulting, she would have been squirming to show her fury.

Fabric shifted around her, light briefly flooding in as Micah snuck his hand in. His fingers wrapped around her waist gently to keep her secure. While he walked inside, she found herself begrudgingly grateful to be protected from the air-conditioning.

Still, he owed her for the pool plunge.

She had no doubt that all she’d need to do was snap her fingers to convince him to peel off her sodden clothes layer by layer. For now, while he couldn’t see the growing smirk on her face, she was content to bask in his warmth.

[madnessofmen]

The first chapter of T.E. Lawrence's autobiographical Seven Pillars of Wisdom is some of the best writing I've encountered in ages. He conveys how grueling the conditions were during the WWI Arab Revolt, not with descriptions of weather or terrain or bloodshed, but by their psychological effects. There's almost a grotesque beauty in the way he describes just how mentally unwell they were.

I've put the entirety of the first chapter below the cut because literally the whole thing makes me insane.

As time went by our need to fight for the ideal increased to an unquestioning possession, riding with spur and rein over our doubts. Willy-nilly it became a faith. We had sold ourselves into its slavery, manacled ourselves together in its chain-gang, bowed ourselves to serve its holiness with all our good and ill content. The mentality of ordinary human slaves is terrible—they have lost the world—and we had surrendered, not body alone, but soul to the overmastering greed of victory. By our own act we were drained of morality, of volition, of responsibility, like dead leaves in the wind.

-

Some of the evil of my tale may have been inherent in our circumstances. For years we lived anyhow with one another in the naked desert, under the indifferent heaven. By day the hot sun fermented us; and we were dizzied by the beating wind. At night we were stained by dew, and shamed into pettiness by the innumerable silences of stars. We were a self-centred army without parade or gesture, devoted to freedom, the second of man’s creeds, a purpose so ravenous that it devoured all our strength, a hope so transcendent that our earlier ambitions faded in its glare.

The everlasting battle stripped from us care of our own lives or of others’. We had ropes about our necks, and on our heads prices which showed that the enemy intended hideous tortures for us if we were caught. Each day some of us passed; and the living knew themselves just sentient puppets on God’s stage: indeed, our taskmaster was merciless, merciless, so long as our bruised feet could stagger forward on the road. The weak envied those tired enough to die; for success looked so remote, and failure a near and certain, if sharp, release from toil. We lived always in the stretch or sag of nerves, either on the crest or in the trough of waves of feeling. This impotency was bitter to us, and made us live only for the seen horizon, reckless what spite we inflicted or endured, since physical sensation showed itself meanly transient. Gusts of cruelty, perversions, lusts ran lightly over the surface without troubling us; for the moral laws which had seemed to hedge about these silly accidents must be yet fainter words. We had learned that there were pangs too sharp, griefs too deep, ecstasies too high for our finite selves to register. When emotion reached this pitch the mind choked; and memory went white till the circumstances were humdrum once more.

Such exaltation of thought, while it let adrift the spirit, and gave it licence in strange airs, lost it the old patient rule over the body. The body was too coarse to feel the utmost of our sorrows and of our joys. Therefore, we abandoned it as rubbish: we left it below us to march forward, a breathing simulacrum, on its own unaided level, subject to influences from which in normal times our instincts would have shrunk. The men were young and sturdy; and hot flesh and blood unconsciously claimed a right in them and tormented their bellies with strange longings. Our privations and dangers fanned this virile heat, in a climate as racking as can be conceived. We had no shut places to be alone in, no thick clothes to hide our nature. Man in all things lived candidly with man.

The Arab was by nature continent; and the use of universal marriage had nearly abolished irregular courses in his tribes. The public women of the rare settlements we encountered in our months of wandering would have been nothing to our numbers, even had their raddled meat been palatable to a man of healthy parts. In horror of such sordid commerce our youths began indifferently to slake one another’s few needs in their own clean bodies—a cold convenience that, by comparison, seemed sexless and even pure. Later, some began to justify this sterile process, and swore that friends quivering together in the yielding sand with intimate hot limbs in supreme embrace, found there hidden in the darkness a sensual coefficient of the mental passion which was welding our souls and spirits in one flaming effort. Several, thirsting to punish appetites they could not wholly prevent, took a savage pride in degrading the body, and offered themselves fiercely in any habit which promised physical pain or filth.

I was sent to these Arabs as a stranger, unable to think their thoughts or subscribe their beliefs, but charged by duty to lead them forward and to develop to the highest any movement of theirs profitable to England in her war. If I could not assume their character, I could at least conceal my own, and pass among them without evident friction, neither a discord nor a critic but an unnoticed influence. Since I was their fellow, I will not be their apologist or advocate. Today in my old garments, I could play the bystander, obedient to the sensibilities of our theatre … but it is more honest to record that these ideas and actions then passed naturally. What now looks wanton or sadic seemed in the field inevitable, or just unimportant routine.

Blood was always on our hands: we were licensed to it. Wounding and killing seemed ephemeral pains, so very brief and sore was life with us. With the sorrow of living so great, the sorrow of punishment had to be pitiless. We lived for the day and died for it. When there was reason and desire to punish we wrote our lesson with gun or whip immediately in the sullen flesh of the sufferer, and the case was beyond appeal. The desert did not afford the refined slow penalties of courts and gaols.

Of course our rewards and pleasures were as suddenly sweeping as our troubles; but, to me in particular, they bulked less large. Bedouin ways were hard even for those brought up to them, and for strangers terrible: a death in life. When the march or labour ended I had no energy to record sensation, nor while it lasted any leisure to see the spiritual loveliness which sometimes came upon us by the way. In my notes, the cruel rather than the beautiful found place. We no doubt enjoyed more the rare moments of peace and forgetfulness; but I remember more the agony, the terrors, and the mistakes. Our life is not summed up in what I have written (there are things not to be repeated in cold blood for very shame); but what I have written was in and of our life. Pray God that men reading the story will not, for love of the glamour of strangeness, go out to prostitute themselves and their talents in serving another race.

A man who gives himself to be a possession of aliens leads a Yahoo life, having bartered his soul to a brute-master. He is not of them. He may stand against them, persuade himself of a mission, batter and twist them into something which they, of their own accord, would not have been. Then he is exploiting his old environment to press them out of theirs. Or, after my model, he may imitate them so well that they spuriously imitate him back again. Then he is giving away his own environment: pretending to theirs; and pretences are hollow, worthless things. In neither case does he do a thing of himself, nor a thing so clean as to be his own (without thought of conversion), letting them take what action or reaction they please from the silent example.

In my case, the effort for these years to live in the dress of Arabs, and to imitate their mental foundation, quitted me of my English self, and let me look at the West and its conventions with new eyes: they destroyed it all for me. At the same time I could not sincerely take on the Arab skin: it was an affectation only. Easily was a man made an infidel, but hardly might he be converted to another faith. I had dropped one form and not taken on the other, and was become like Muhammed’s coffin in our legend, with a resultant feeling of intense loneliness in life, and a contempt, not for other men, but for all they do. Such detachment came at times to a man exhausted by prolonged physical effort and isolation. His body plodded on mechanically, while his reasonable mind left him, and from without looked down critically on him, wondering what that futile lumber did and why. Sometimes these selves would converse in the void; and then madness was very near, as I believe it would be near the man who could see things through the veils at once of two customs, two educations, two environments.

[sweetfirebird]

Pets

I am posting these all out of order but whatever it's December and my mind is just rushing wind and tumbleweeds right now.

Anyway. Next up in the charity prompts:

Moggot donated very kindly and asked for Trenne meeting a cat. Which is obviously very funny so of course I made it just a tiny bit sad as well.

Content tags: uh the Sha attitude toward the hurat. The human attitude toward Trenne with his ears. Lonely and a bit sad bb Trenne. Not exactly spoilers for Taji From Beyond the Rings but... will it make sense if you haven't read that? I wonder. Trenne and this universe belong to me, and all that.

Pets

Trenne desired to center himself so that the others on his team would not notice his discomfort at traveling over water in this way. He had never been on a boat, although he had seen some in his life before the I.P.T.C. He had also never been flown through the air in his time before he joined the humans and left his home, his planet, forever, and he had learned to deal with that, so the motions of boat-over-water would become acceptable with time, he was certain. But he would have preferred to grow accustomed to it quickly so that the humans on his team would not find discomfort amusing.

Their amusement was not cruel, in most cases. They took amusement in many things done even by other humans. But I.P.T.C. was Trenne’s chance to be something other than hurat, and he did not know how to react to human teasing.

Centering himself would have helped calm him, but the boat did not have space for him to move freely. It barely had room for him to move. So he tried to content himself with sitting on the small cot given to him as a bunk for the duration of this journey and using the Data Device the I.P.T.C. had given him during his first assignment to learn more of the ways of both humans and the places they lived.

The engine of the boat made noise. So did the water it moved through, and the warm rain outside, and the members of his team scattered around the boat wherever there had been space to set up cots.

Humans were in many ways easier to deal with than those Trenne had known in his own world. They had their own worries and complaints and angers toward one another, but they did not know Sha, or hurat. They bonded as easily as the stories about them suggested… but they were loud. Trenne could not help but flatten his ears a little to muffle the noises they made as they spoke and ate and cleaned themselves and expressed every emotion they had without consequence.

For all of that, for how wild even the quietest of the humans around Trenne would seem to those in the empire of Trenne’s birth, they had come from other places, and like him, were new to many things. So they might tease, as was their way, but they did not always assume the worst of him. Possibly because they did not know hurat. Or possibly only because Trenne was of a greater size than them.

He gave them no reason to fear him, regardless of their reasons, and tried to accept their teasing if he felt it was meant…

Kindly. That was what humans would say. If it was without malice.

The boat moved, a gentle swaying motion that nonetheless made Trenne want to go outside to look at the water so he could predict how the boat would move next. But they had days yet to travel, so he made himself be still.

This place was a small planet according to his superiors. His team were headed to a remote base where they would be bored for several months, also according to his superiors. But some local ally of the I.P.T.C. wanted protection from those who they—he, Trenne reminded himself--a human gender marker of ‘male’ status with no other indicators attached—claimed were against I.P.T.C. interference.

That was possible. It was also possible that he lied. The ability and desire to lie was a trait humans and the Sha shared.

But it was not Trenne’s place to question, so he did not. Not aloud. He kept his thoughts to himself, as humans said, a habit conditioned into him since his earliest years.  

Much like calming himself with breathing so that no emotion would show through his actions, which he greatly wished to do now.

Instead, he sat on his cot, which faced another cot, currently unoccupied, along a narrow hall in the middle of the boat, and pulled out his Data Device.

He removed his earlier information searches in order to look through the games, which he found useful when he needed to pretend that he was not paying attention to the others around him.

A whisper, a hint of a sound made him pause. He kept his attention on the screen of the DD but tried to assess the sound and where it had come from. When it did not reoccur, he assumed it was a consequence of the rain hitting the boat. He chose a game of bintoh, then stopped when the noise occurred again.

He turned his ears toward the source of the sound, then raised his head to find it with his eyes.

An animal sat on the other cot, staring at him.

Because Trenne had heard Delayn and the others name it earlier, he knew this animal was a cat. Trenne had searched for information on cats shortly afterward, in his first moments alone. Cats belonged to what humans called a “family” which was a different family than the ones of blood and close relations that humans claimed. Felidae was the family of categorization, and it held cats of many sizes and colors.

Humans had brought cats with them across the stars. The smaller ones, like this one, were popular and “loved.” Humans kept them with them in their homes, as “pets.”

Humans did such things. They would bond with anything, and with no one else human or sentient around, turned to animals for companions.

Cats seemed a strange choice, to Trenne, although the small ones were obviously less dangerous than the big ones. The information on them said they were predators and efficient hunters. So efficient that their presence was restricted in most places because of the damage they caused to local animal groups. This cat was wearing a collar, probably as a device to keep it on board the boat and out of trouble.

Trenne considered this cat, a “domestic pet” the information had claimed. It was certainly used to humans and their loudness. Nearly everyone on Trenne’s team had stopped to touch the cat and speak to it the way humans spoke to their children.

They had also paused upon realizing Trenne had never seen such an animal before and teased him. He hoped with human affection.

The cat, they had said, must be a long-lost sibling of his.

Trenne had no siblings that he knew of, but eventually had understood their humor when the cat had reacted to their laughter.

The cat’s name—humans, being humans, named their pets—was Boots. For the four white feet—paws—Trenne assumed, since boots were shoes and the white spots resembled those. It was covered in fur except for its nose and eyes, the fur striped and dotted in many shades, reminding Trenne of the place he had left behind. Boots also had large eyes which saw better in the dark than in the light, according to the DD, and sensitive ears, with hearing better than a human’s. The ears were atop its head, roughly triangular, with tiny wisps of fur at the crest. They turned to follow sounds as Trenne’s did.

Trenne wondered how the cat felt to have its home periodically filled with noisy, mostly human soldiers with much heavier boots than its own.

The others had referred to the cat with a human gender marker—she—but Trenne was not certain that this was meant the way humans meant it for each other, and so settled on it, which was insufficiently informative but hopefully nonoffensive.

Boots been stroked and touched by everyone earlier, so perhaps it found the noise worth it. Humans, for all their destruction, showed affection nearly constantly: to each other, to their favorite possessions, to small animals they let live in their homes.

The domestic pet cats got food, shelter, and that affection. Boots had basked in it, purring. A sound Trenne had heard clearly from some distance away, so he’d read about that too.

Boots regarded him with interest now as it hadn’t that morning. Cats did not understand words as such, Trenne had read. They could not converse but would at times make sounds for humans to imitate what humans did. They understood tone and intent, and associated word sounds with certain things or events.

The information had not mentioned their emotions, if any, although the others has behaved as though purring meant happy.

“Boots,” Trenne greeted the creature at last, perhaps as he should have with the others that morning. He kept his voice down, but the cat heard, its ears swinging forward and staying there. Interested, Trenne would have said, if speaking of someone from his world with ears like that.

Trenne let one of his ears track the sounds from the rest of the boat. Murmurs from elsewhere. Splashes of water at semi regular intervals against the side of the boat. Their sergeant, a few rooms away, complaining about something.

Opposite him, the cat’s ear flicked in the same direction, although it did not look away from Trenne.

Trenne pulled his ears forward again, attentive. “You do not purring.” He paused, then sternly corrected himself. “You are not purring. I offend you?”

He felt somewhat foolish—human, to talk to the cat this way. The cat would not understand. Not words. But Trenne knew other ways of speaking.  

He swung his ears slightly outward, hoping to indicate he was not alarmed by the cat’s presence. Which he was not. The cat was a predator but so was he, and he was much larger.

Perhaps his size alarmed the cat, so he also slid slightly down the wall at his back, keeping his ears relaxed as he did.

The pupils of the cat’s eyes became very large. Its tail twitched at its side. Then it opened its mouth to display its teeth—or yawn.

Humans yawned. Trenne had not read far enough to know if cats also yawned.

If it had been a display of teeth, Trenne must have threatened it. He put down his Data Device and rested his hands at his sides.

Boots pricked up its ears once again, then with no warning leapt from the far cot to Trenne’s.

Trenne turned to observe and keep the cat in sight. The cat knew it was being watched, glancing up to meet Trenne’s stare as it stepped with great care, and probably silently to human ears, to Trenne’s knee, where it flopped over onto his side, exposing its stomach and vulnerable places.

Trenne realized his ears had gone flat with alarm and straightened them before anyone might walk by and see.

He had not read far enough to learn if cats knew fear, either, although they must. Everything did, surely. Everything with brains enough to recognize dangers. Yet someone—something—that had felt fear would not lie down in such a way, so it must not.

Perhaps, Trenne suddenly suspected, the pet cat had only experienced what humans called love here on this boat, and so had learned to expect “pets” and not danger or cruelty.

Boots turned to look at Trenne again, then slowly closed its eyelids before reopening them. A soft life Boots had. A hunter who did not hunt, who was fed and shown affection until that was what it expected, even from Trenne. 

Trenne glanced around, but no one was nearby to laugh at the hurat, so he carefully, slowly, moved one hand as he had witnessed the others do, running his palm down the length of the cat’s back.

The fur was pleasing to feel. The cat’s body was warm, warmer than a human’s body temperature. It blinked slowly at Trenne before curling into a ball, leaving part of its back pressed to Trenne’s thigh.

Trenne attempted another stroke—a pet for a pet. Humans named their creatures for what humans did to them but the pets didn’t seem to object. Boots did not. Boots rolled over again, putting its face to Trenne’s leg. Its breath was warm too, its heart faster than a human’s but much quieter.

Trenne rested his palm over some of the markings, familiar and strange, and then felt the rumble a fraction of a second before he heard the sound. Purring.

Humans were free with their affection, Trenne reflected again, but others might not mind. Others might like it and grow used to it.

Trenne’s ears went flat again, but he continued to move his hand, gently stroking the length of Boots’ back so the low, soothing noise of purring would continue. He liked it. It indicated comfort and pleasure.

“A soft life,” Trenne sound aloud again, although he was not certain that soft was an adjective to be used in that way. Trenne was possibly incorrect, but to the cat, it was simply more noise, so it did not matter.

Perhaps that was the purpose of a pet. That, and soothing purring, and a warm body next to his.

[starlightbooklove]

There's something I've wanted to talk about for a while but haven't really had the time to do (I still don't but x) and it's education In my country (Venezuela) or well, in my city, because all the information I read and see on my social networks (mainly Tumblr) is in English and from first world countries most of the time Referring to posts about lifestyles and things like that and I am always struck by how different things are, especially how poor my university education system is, which here We know it is, every self-respecting Venezuelan knows how finished the country really is LMAO we are self aware But now that I have to go through the university experience, and I have to see it and feel it for myself, it leaves me very shocked how bad the university is in so many things. And how hard it is For the student Simply studying or watching classes And I want to make it known through my experience, because I have a blogger complex XD JAJSJSJSJSJSJSJSJ

Starting at the beginning with that here when we graduate from high school, we must enter a government page called OPSU (I don't remember what it means at this time xd) in this are sent Once you have your academic grades to have your academic GPA and everything, this is where you enter the career you want to study and the university (all public, obviously)

In my city they opened the Medicine program almost 4 years ago, the headquarters here comes from the mother nucleus that is in another city, and it is, as you can see, quite recent. But it is a highly in-demand career among the student population, and last year it was in great demand because the news broke that they would open another branch in the city in a more central area. Because the original headquarters was in a fairly remote place and is what's next to bad (I'll explain it to you now) So last year around 10,000 people enrolled in the medical degree in the opsu to see it in my city, and the opsu accepted a LOT of people to the point that people with a good GPA did not passed, while people with low GPA achieved it, and then the OPSU carried out a "second wave" to give a chance to those who had not passed in the first opportunity (among those, me 🥲) And another bunch of people got in, which caused a general disaster, the university had to create 32 sections of 52 people each, in... The old headquarters Because there were so many people that they accepted that the 'first year' occupied an entire venue morning and afternoon, So foreign people who came to my city believing that they would study at the new headquarters had to face the fact that n.1 the headquarters was not (and is not) open yet and n.2. that we would not go to that Headquarters because those of our year would be In the old one.

At this point we have not yet reached the beginning of classes (where the hardest part begins) and look how many problems were had

Anyway

Last year the 'first year' students had to study until December because they started late, our year had planned to start in January to not repeat that, but the university was not ready yet and the teachers were not yet complete, so in the end we started in February after carnival (in the middle) but we were also embarrassingly behind so We started with a lack of teachers for 4 different subjects and in the first week we saw half of those we did have (there are 11 subjects)

Now, the university 🫠

You might wonder what it could be about the university that makes it so unpleasant to watch classes there. Well, you see, that university was in very good condition when it was inaugurated, but it was looted to such an extent that it is in a deplorable state now.

So where I study is a facility without air conditioning, without main windows, with a lack of chairs (although that is solved now) Without video beam, computers or desks for teachers, There is a laboratory but it does not have any laboratory equipment (we do not even have a microscope), and there are no anatomical models (essential since we are studying MEDICINE) 🙃🥲

So in the first weeks the section delegate asked us for money to buy the projector since all the sections had to buy their own projector to watch the classes and we were Praying that we would get one of the few classrooms with air so that we would only have to do the maintenance that wouldn't cost a lot of money buuut Sadly we had one without air conditioning and to this day we don't have air because we have had to pay for other things.

It should be noted that this is a public, government university, we should not have the need to pay absolutely any of this in the first place And we have had to pay for things that do not correspond to us as students since we started. And oh boy when i tell You the amount of struggle that we had to see classes...

Time to do second part ✨

Part 2 ✨

[heliopauseentertainments]

Coffee Kwest

For badbang (on Dreamwidth) - Bad Bang V: The Rebangening

Illustrated here by @desdemonafictional

All formatting errors intentionally retained.

Continuity: IDW1 Rating: General Characters: Minimus Ambus Warnings: Crack & nonsense

Summary: Minimus is on a quest to get coffee.

Crossposting: AO3 | Dreamwidth

Fic below the cut.

The infuser. Full of tepid plain fuel.

The stimulant syrup packets. All gone.

The mug. Empty.

The worst possible scenario.

Minimus stared at the mug in his hands, decorated with a cute turbofox motif. A gift from Rodimus for his most recent creation day… that had been given a week late because the calendar reminder had been set up incorrectly.

The previous night, Minimus had double-checked his stocks for his morning warm beverage. There had been plenty, more than enough for several days, several doses.

The stimulant was there to protect his one remaining, most carefully guarded secret: that he was, in fact, a night owl.

Warm, stimulant-laced fuel was a necessary tool to maintain his hard-won façade of being a morning person. His routine was to get up earlier than was strictly required, throw back sufficient doses of the artificial illusion of energy, and let it take effect before actually leaving to where anyone could encounter him.

Now, all of his essential recreational stimulant-imbibing supplies were missing save for the mug and the wall-mounted infuser.

And without the supplies, Minimus was in no condition to actually investigate what was clearly a theft.

He had to get the doses… soon, from somewhere, from anywhere, before anyone could see him, before anyone could clue in that he’d been full of additional, petty lies for years. When stripped of his outer armor, his faux persona of Ultra Magnus, everyone believed Minimus had put all of his cards on the table, no more hiding, no more fibs.

Yet this one, so shameful in its seeming inconsequentiality, remained.

There remained but one thing to do.

Mug in hand, Minimus slid open one of the ventilation panels in his habsuite, before proceeding to crawl inside.

Minimus stuck his arm out of the vent, making scooping motions in the air with the mug.

The ventilation system had been made purposefully large in most places to accommodate maintenance access to otherwise remote components of the ship. For a species with such a variety of body shapes and sizes, it was best to engineer with near-universal compatibility in mind. Minimus, with his minuscule body, was well accommodated by the vast bulk of the system.

No one would find him, crawling around with the painfully empty mug clasped in his hand.

It wasn’t a quiet method of travel, but the Lost Light was generally full of noise at most hours of the day and night. The crew would likely not notice any banging sounds in the walls unless they were already paying attention to that sort of thing.

It would be fine.

Now if only he could reach the commissary’s large, mass-infusing equipment from the vent just above it.

Most of the crew was still asleep but the infuser was automatically operated at all hours, just in case. Night shift tended to consist of a few people stationed on the bridge or the security office or engineering, which meant few witnesses.

The infuser had a large tank on top.

He just needed to—Minimus leaned further, swinging the mug in a wide arc.

The edge of the mug caught the lip of the tank’s lid. Just a little more leverage and—The lid popped off, clattering to the floor of the empty commissary.

Victory was in sight!

The mug just needed to scoop out some of that precious, precious stimulating fuel.

He leaned more of his torso out into the air to dunk the mug in… but it wouldn’t reach.

Stretching, he groaned in frustration… before the mug slipped from his grip.

Splash.

Into the tank.

The mug, still empty, floated mockingly on the top of the fluid in the tank.

On instinct, Minimus lunged for it, to save the gift from a wet grave.

Impacting the tank’s wall, Minimus frantically grabbed for the edge, desperately trying to pull himself out before he could sink beneath the caffeinated waves.

Crack.

The reinforced glass gave way under his kicking and flailing, the liquid pouring out of the new hole and onto the floor.

Crack.

The infuser separated from the wall, tumbling sideways with Minimus and his mug, clutched protectively to his chest, still trapped within the tank.

Crash.

They spiraled to the ground together, where the tank shattered on impact and the rest of the infuser smashing apart nearby.

For several moments Minimus was dazed, lying on the ground and covered in both shards of glass and the sticky remains of the wasted fuel that could no longer go towards fixing his problem.

Precious, precious stimulant-laden fuel… wasted upon the ground like a missed opportunity, spoiled by his own hubris.

All the while, his exhaustion and disdain for the wee hours of the morning burned in the back of his optics like a curse.

He needed to press on.

Before anyone could find out.

After shaking the bulk of the glass off, he scaled the wall, miraculously intact mug in hand, and reentered the vent.

Only one option remained to him, short of attempting to steal the priceless beverage right out of someone’s hand. That was far too risky, especially covered in drying fuel and remaining shards of glass.

No, Minimus would have to raid one of the cargo bays, and get stimulant syrup directly from the stores.

Yes, this would require some adjustments in the inventories, but so would dealing with replacing the commissary’s bulk infuser that had been the tragic victim of unavoidable collateral damage. As the saying went, in for a shanix, in for….

Minimus couldn’t recall the next unit of currency above that. His situation was worse than he’d originally thought.

Crawling on his hands and knees, the mug clacking against the floor of the ventilation shaft, he found his motions growing sluggish, unsteady. Would he even make it all the way to the cargo bay like this?

He would have to.

There was no alternative.

A small crack in the ventilation shaft gave way. Alarms blared throughout the ship, triggered by the damage to the ship’s structure.

Minimus tumbled into the crates of cargo below, crashing through the top of one of them. The force knocked the crate from the top of the stack, falling to the ground and smashing open.

The crate’s soft contents squished on impact, cushioning Minimus’s fall.

Something sticky and thick clung to his frame. Minimus raised his hand in front of his face to see what exactly he’d fallen in.

A faintly glowing syrupy substance flowed slowly down his hand.

Wait.

Stimulant syrup.

He’d landed in packets of the stuff, some having burst open from the collision. The packets were scattered across the floor around and under him.

Without thinking, he licked the undiluted syrup from his hands.

The alarms continued to howl overhead.

But he didn’t care.

The unadulterated buzz from the syrup was working its way into his circuits, relieving the exhausted burn that had been nagging at him every step of the way.

Running footsteps echoed in the hall outside as Minimus ripped open packets of syrup with his teeth, unwilling to let go of the mug in his hand.

Soon.

Soon he would feel like a functional person—He faintly heard the doors to the cargo bay opening.

“Whoa.”

Miminus

[whumpsoda]

We Search For Stolen Personhood - Say It

Masterlist

cw: fantasy of murder/choking, noncon/dubcon kissing mention, pet whump, box boy universe/bbu adjacent, Institutionalized slavery, conditioned whumpee

——————

The room was unlit, save for the shine of the crescent cut moon glimmering through the window. The fan, white as everything else, buzzed above the bed, a humming thrum that coated the squealing of crickets and hoots of owls from the outdoors.

Usually when Prince would awake at some random hour in the middle of the night, he would flush any thoughts out from his mind and watch outside that very window at the glitter of stars in the dark night sky. He didn’t understand why, but oftentimes the images of constellations would arise, as if that was anything for a pet to concern themself with.

But this was not like usual.

Instead, Prince stared daggers at his sir with beady, piercing eyes, his sir innocently oblivious to it all. Asleep, even, chest rising and falling with a gentle rhythm. Prince held his breath, only releasing and sucking in a new heave of air every so often. His fists were tightly wound around the comforter, holding on with an iron grip.

His sir hadn’t said it. Again.

He passed on his chance, neatly laid right out for him to just take it, and didn’t fucking say it.

Jaw working, Prince grit his teeth. He’d never been so furious before, rage coursing through his veins. He didn’t think it was remotely possible for him to be. 

Prince was so sure he was going to say it. He was so hopeful, too hopeful, because if he hadn’t said it already then why would he ever?

They had kissed, his sir’s burly hands holding the sides of his pet’s smaller, more angularly shaped head, a thick bead of spit connecting their lips even after his sir had let go. Prince had believed it was just the right time as perfectly round pools of brown met green, both accompanied by up curled lips.

Prince had made sure his speech, his mannerisms, his everything was so utterly perfect, having practiced the words in the mirror for hours before his sir had returned home.

Fluttering his lashes, cocking his head, and keeping his voice low and slick with rasp, Prince spoke just as he was trained.

“I love you, sir.”

Sir had laughed a little around his heavy, warm breathing, blushing even, which he rarely ever did, as he brushed a thick strand of Prince’s hair out from his gaze. He pressed one more peck to his pet’s forehead, scruffy beard tickling Prince’s skin and parting his lips as he went to respond.

“I know you do, Princey.”

Biting his lip hard, nearly enough to pierce the skin and fill his mouth with stinging copper, Prince dug his face into the soft, silk coated pillow beneath him, wetting it with flowing tears. He caught a sob in his throat, holding it there for a second before he released it, twisting into a croaking whine.

Was he not capable of being loved? Was it his fault? Was Prince not good enough for him?

God, he looked so fucking peaceful while his pet was forced to agonize. He appeared vulnerable, even. Prince could catch him off guard right then and there, teach him a lesson and make sure he never dared upset his docile, obedient property ever again.

Prince could do whatever he so pleased. Wrap his slender yet still strong hands over his sir’s throat, twist and turn as he grunted and squealed for help. Watching as his sir’s face churned with indigo, just until he lacked the life to fight back.

At that Prince wailed hoarsely, muffled by his pillow. A terrible pet he was to think something so monstrous. Maybe that was why his sir couldn’t bring himself to love something so broken.

“Prince…?” The pet whimpered, going rigid as his sir’s gravel coated voice tainted his ears, fearful that he had somehow spoken his horrid thoughts out loud. Carefully, with stained cheeks he turned to meet his owner’s gaze, hazy and drowning in drowsiness. “You- you’re crying. Why are you crying?”

“You- I-,” swallowing, his lip shook with a heavy tremble as he stumbled with his words. “Do you- love me, sir?”

Sighing, his sir placed a moistened of Prince’s hair back into place. His features glistened in the light of the night, caressing his roughened face. Prince nearly wanted to kiss him, but another, locked away part of him, wanted to gag at the thought. “Silly pet. Why in the world are you awake at this hour?”

Prince pressed onward, brushing off his sir’s undeserved tenderness. “S- sir, do you love me?”

His sir’s clammy hand was settled over his mouth, a touch he wanted to shy away from, but was unable. “Shhh, Princey, calm yourself. There’s no reason to be letting such emotions get to you like that. I didn’t ask you to cry, did I?”

“N- no, sir.”

“Correct, Princey. And good boys only cry when sir asks them to, don’t they?” Prince nodded, sniveling incessantly like an upset child. “And right now sir wants us both to sleep. You woke me up with your foolishness, your idiocy, and you will pay for that later. Understood?”

His expression darkened, a cold tone shifting over his gaze. Prince wished he could bury himself underground and never come out.

“Yes, um, sir.”

Tucking the blanket back up to his pet’s shoulder, Prince’s sir gave him one last little sleepy smile. “Go back to sleep, Prince.”

“Goodnight, sir.” Slipped out automatically, before Prince licked his lips and in a cracking voice choked out one more I love you.

His sir, already flopped over and facing toward the wall, did not respond.

Prince got his answer, wether he liked it or not.

——————

Masterlist

Taglist - @softvampirewhump @ivymyers @taterswhump @octopus-reactivated @tippytappytyping

@distracted-obsessions @starfields08000 @bitchaknso @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl @scoundrelwithboba

@whumped-by-glitter @whumpering-heights

If anyone wants to be removed or added to the taglist, please let me know! :)

[seaweedsoup]

A Review of Katja Hoyer's fascinating new book on East Germany 'Beyond the Wall'

East Germany was a filthy, malevolent little state created and run by wicked men and women in the service of the monster, Stalin. Take for example the ‘Purple Witch’, as East Germans referred to their Education Minister Margot Honecker. This woman, with her famously tinted locks, just happened to be married to the country’s shrieky-voiced little despot, Erich Honecker. And she stole the children of jailed political dissidents. Then she gave them to childless Communists to bring up, or lodged them in forbidding orphanages. And then she cut them off forever from their real parents. Many years after she was driven from power and died in exile, thousands of Germans were still searching for their lost children or parents, thanks to this Leninist harridan.

As this enthralling, fascinating and very readable book makes clear, it was a mad nation as well as a grim one. It is well known that its leaders fenced in the entire country to stop anyone from escaping. But it is less well-known that they then walled themselves up in their own sealed compound outside East Berlin, where they lived comfortable lives quite separate from their subjects. Signs in the surrounding forest lied that it was a ‘Wildlife Research Area’, to keep citizens from getting too close.

Thousands made serious efforts to get out of the GDR. Many were slung into horrible prisons for even thinking about leaving. And then nearly 35,000 men, women and children – many of them wrongly imprisoned - were, literally, sold to the West. In one case a group were handed over in return for three wagon loads of fertilizer. But mostly East Berlin wanted hard cash, and the obscene trade raised about a billion pounds. Now, it is true that the GDR was a luckless little country. It would have been poor even if Marxist dogma had not made it poorer.   Its dingy, crumbling appearance, its dreary food and bitter fake coffee, were not wholly its fault, though Communist spite and rigidity made everything even worse than it needed to be. Weirdly, it did not really believe in its own claimed superiority. The GDR piped West German TV (officially disapproved of) to remote areas, to reduce discontent. It openly encouraged the sale of Western goods in special shops, and allowed East Germans to receive Western money, unMarxist blue jeans and gadgets from their relatives in the capitalist Federal Republic.

But much of its nastiness was due to a special, pointless savage intolerance. The author of this extraordinary book, Katja Hoyer, tells of how her own father, an air force officer, was arrested and locked up for making a joke, Even more disturbingly he was then forced to join the SED, the local version of the Communist Party, the body which had demanded and caused his punishment. There was no true freedom in that place. Christians, for example, were cruelly offered well-paid promotions on condition they left the church. The path to university was through special ‘extended upper schools’. These were mainly (though not entirely) open to activists in the Communist Youth, to those prepared to promise years of military service, or to those whose parents were ready to kowtow in other ways to the SED. This is why the notorious Stasi secret police held such sway. Conformism meant privilege. Dissent meant misery. What a moral pigsty it all was. Yet Katja Hoyer (who was a tiny child when it all ended) can’t quite break off a sort of love affair with her socialist motherland, occasionally slipping in a good word, or an excuse. Ms Hoyer’s real weakness is for the GDR’s forced march of its young mothers into offices and factories. This war on the Christian family, and its replacement by the state, was in fact the absolute core of Communism, and still is. Since the Wall fell, the European left have abandoned much of the old-fashioned doctrine the GDR embodied. But ‘liberating’ women by turning them into wage-slaves is the one thing the Honeckers did which fashionable leftists still applaud. More than once, she gushes about this cruel nationalisation of childcare as if it was and is a benefit, at one point carolling (p.205) ‘On the whole, East German women enjoyed greater professional and economic autonomy than their Western counterparts’. She is especially pleased that the GDR’s unlovely Army allowed women to qualify as officers as long ago as 1988, ‘a remarkable step towards equality’. Equality of what?  I still possess a 40-year-old GDR propaganda pamphlet which boasts that East Germany has ‘no women’s rights organisations or liberation movements. Nobody has forbidden or dissolved them. They are quite simply superfluous’. Didn’t anyone ever wonder why a Communist prison state regarded that as a good thing?  

via Hitchen’s Blog. Mail on Sunday