#not only did I learn that I’m an excellent negotiator

[slav-every-day]

[phoenixkaptain]

Nothing in life will ever be funnier to me than Qui-Gon Jinn being the Jedi Order’s go-to diplomat.

Nothing in life will ever be funnier to me than Obi-Wan crediting Qui-Gon Jinn for his smooth-talking abilities.

Nothing in life will ever be funnier than Qui-Gon Fucking Jinn being sent on missions specifically because the Jedi want him to smooth things over.

I know a lot of people paint Qui-Gon as just an older version of Anakin (terrible at diplomacy and bad at speaking to people and all) but I’m sorry, that just isn’t the case. He is the og Negotiator. He got sent on some of the most sensitive missions specifically because he was so good at diplomacy. He is canonically charming and talented at speaking.

How fucking weird is that? Fanon paints him so differently! But if you interact with just about any media with Qui-Gon in it, he’s just a dude people like! He is so!! Obnoxious!! But, he’s the only one who can do what he does. What does he do? Diplomatic talks! The Council can’t do shit because 1. They all actually like Qui-Gon and 2. Qui-Gon is their best diplomat!

Qui-Gon never gets punished harshly because they literally cannot punish him. They can’t send him out of the Order; who’s going to solve all of their problems if Qui-Gon is Qui-gone??? They send him out almost constantly, so it’s not like he’s even around to be punished all that often.

Qui-Gon Jinn is a fascinating character because he isn’t in a lot! He’s barely in anything! And a lot of the novels he did star in aren’t canon anymore! How are we supposed to know anything about his character, other than what they tell us outright?

And what do they tell us outright? Qui-Gon Jinn is an excellent diplomat and is talented in mind tricks and he’s the reason Obi-Wan is also talented in diplomacy and mind tricks. He learned it from Qui-Gon!

(I honestly don’t understand the people who think Qui-Gon is terrible at diplomacy. Like, where else would Obi-Wan learn it?? You think he was getting lessons from Mace Windu?? Yoda?? Yarael Poof?? Literally the only two Jedi who are able to talk their ways out of problems in the movies are Qui-Gon Jinn and Obi-Wan Kenobi. I’m sorry, guys, but you just have to accept that Qui-Gon Fucking Jinn is a master speaker.)

[starrysilvalley]

🌟Spectrum Book 1: Onward🌟

✨Chapter 1 | Familiar (Full Text Below Line)✨

Word Count: 2,553

As said previously, I’ll try and post the chapters on both Tumblr and Ao3. On Ao3 the story is restricted to members only as of right now, but I may open it to all as time goes on. I try to update on Ao3 on Wednesdays, and I will post on Tumblr sometime afterwards (I currently have no specified date for Tumblr releases, so times may vary).

Series Note: This series was planned and written in the summer of 2024 based on the context of the Pokémon In-Game Universe at the time. This series includes spoilers for Pokémon games including Black & White, Black & White II, Legends Arceus, and Scarlet & Violet. Any changes to the overarching storyline or characters that occur within any following Pokémon game releases (i.e. Pokémon Legends ZA and beyond) are considered non-canon within the context of this series.

This series was written out of my love for Generation V and as if it is its game plot, but with a few small twists. I wanted to simply try and write my own alternative storyline for a hypothetical Unova Legends game. My attempt at a Legends plotline became a passion project I wanted to share with those who may be interested in such a story. While it is written to have a darker tone due to its inspirations, I try to keep the series at a PG13 rating for fantasy violence. There is no sexual or NSFW content. Pokémon was ultimately made for young viewers, and I wish to carry on a similar openness in my writing.

After around seven years of being dragged along by Fajra, Emmet learned two big don’ts— don’t let Fajra drive and don’t let Fajra handle negotiations solo as people. It wasn't like he did much better when it came to socializing. Most often a discussion would— unintentionally — end with a passive-aggressive remark. His blunt remarks weren’t good for business. Yet it was one thing for Emmet to provoke their clients, it was another for the clients to provoke Fajra. 

“You know the drill, just let me do the talkin’ here,” Fajra reminded her partner while her hand rested on the old battered door handle. “No weird greetings, don't point out whatever weird lil’ tattoo or mark you see on the guys’ face, or the ugly picture that's probably his mam or someon’— better yet, how about say nothin’ at all?”

She had shot him a look as if inviting him to protest, but instead he simply replied with a sly smile, “As you wish.”

“Nuh-uh, don’t smile like that. I’m serious, Em. We have an agreement, but you…”

Fajra held up her hand to Emmet’s face as if trying to grasp something with all her might before spitting out, “Keep your inside thoughts inside, that’s all I’m saying.”

That was all well and good— if only Fajra could do the same. Fajra excelled at misdirecting from her motives, but misdirecting her feelings was another. Now as the two stood before the grizzled manager of the dimly lit antique store, Emmet could already see Fajra’s facade slipping away as she tapped her fingers with great annoyance on the countertop. The manager glanced at her every so often as he inspected the items presented, but didn’t break under her pressure.    

“I’ll give ya… about a thousand for this one.”

The store manager tapped one of the TMs, only for Fajra to scoff and push Emmet aside from the counter. She slammed both hands on the table as she leered at the manager, “A thousand? Don’ get smart with me, I know you sold this for five thousand last week! At least pretend to play fair. Suppose you’ll say these ones are worth even less now?”

Fajra gestured to the other TMs they managed to collect. They weren’t exactly mint condition. Dusty and scratched, he suspected they hadn’t been touched in many decades. 

“We tested these ourselves,” Emmet offered, placing a firm hand on Fajra’s shoulder as if to pull her back. “They still work, if that’s your concern. They may not have the aesthetic appeal, but ultimately it's about their function.” 

The manager still had a frown on his face. His eyes seemed to linger around the old store filled with second-hand items. It was a dark and dreary store, as if all the memories that the items once left held haunted the place with a gloomy presence. Emmet noted that his gaze steadied on an only television set placed toward the door. 

“Look, I’ll shoot straight with ya,” the manager began at last with a heavy sigh, “One of my other suppliers brought me TMs and it turned out they were stolen from private League property. The authorities came knocking and I'm fortunate they didn't shut my whole business down. Haven’t seen the guy since then. I can give you a little money for the trouble, but unless you can prove these were legally acquired, I’m just going to treat them as damaged goods.” 

Before Fajra opened her mouth, Emmet quickly intervened, “Understandable— we’ll need a minute to discuss. Apologies for the delay.”

“It’s a load of Bouffalant crap!” Fajra spat immediately once Emmet pulled her away from the counter. “He’s trying to cheat us out of our items! I’ve seen it before, you can’t possibly think—“

“I can’t take that track with you, Fajra. What if he’s telling the truth? You and I both knowwhere those TMs came from. You know full well if we get caught, we will be in serious trouble. Una and I would be in serious trouble. Take the hush money.” 

He knew he screwed up when Fajra’s face became about as red as her flame colored hair. “I am not leaving with a measly thousand. Those blasted discs took too long to get to have such little reward! We need the money to fix that stupid handcar we busted just getting the loot here!”

“You busted the handcar. I’m a lot of things, but I’m at least a good driver.”

The front door jingled as someone entered the store, and both Emmet and Fajra immediately fell quiet. A young man and woman strided inside and their own eyes landed on the two other customers before heading to the counter. Their clothes were relatively ordinary of the scrawny Pokémon trainers in the area, although he noted that each wore a gold band around one of their ankles. Emmet tipped his head a little farther down over his face while Fajra shot a nasty glare back at the newcomers before whispering underneath her breath, “Great, just what we needed, an audience.” 

The store manager pushed aside the TMs and other trinkets Fajra provided while greeting the couple with a weary smile. “Ah, come to collect your purchase, I see? I’ve been holding it for some time—“

“Yes, yes,” the man began with a wave of his hand. “We appreciate you holding onto it. Mr. Stotle would’ve come to take it himself, but he couldn’t find the time.”

Something bumped against Emmet’s leg, and upon peering down he found Liepard brushing up beside him. Liepard often wandered around the establishment while Emmet and Fajra conducted business, watching for any signs of a threat. Her glowing eyes were now fixed on the woman, who immediately turned her stare away upon Liepard’s appearance. A light growl began to vibrate from the Pokémon’s throat.

“Fajra, I don't think you can win this,” Emmet whispered while placing a hand on Liepard’s head. “We’ll find another buyer, please—”

His voice was drowned as the store manager pulled out a small box and opened it for the couple while saying skeptically, “Here you are! Hopefully this will be sufficient for Mr. Sto—“

“It’s perfectly fine, sir,” the man interrupted as the manager hurriedly closed the box and pushed it under the counter. He was not fast enough, for Emmet caught a glimpse of a polished, spherical stone the color of obsidian. He managed to see the three indents pressed in the shape of a triangle before the box clamped shut. 

He couldn’t quite explain what happened next. His heart began to hammer against his chest at the sight of it. His surroundings became blurred, but his eyes could only focus on the stone. A numbing sensation of white noise engulfed his ears, leaving a ringing echoing to his very soul. Something stirred within him, dislodging images that had long since passed and buried. One stood out among the rest— a man adorning a black coat so similar to his own, his back facing Emmet. It wasn’t until the man turned that Emmet felt an ice pick stick through his heart. 

The man had his face. 

Before he could even begin to comprehend the sight, it was as if the world zoomed in beyond the man in black, revealing nothing but void— lonely and abyssal. Yet from the darkness shone two red lights, slowly dimming before a flash of electric blue light burst like a dying star.

“Em!”

A punch to the arm swiftly broke through his thoughts, causing him to recoil and jerk his hand to the spot Fajra hit. While Fajra still had her eyes narrowed in frustration, her lips formed a frown he had not seen in awhile. 

“You… you alrigh?” Fajra asked, the usual sharp edge in her voice dulled. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Are you sick or… somethin’?”

His heart beat rapidly against his chest before turning swiftly to Fajra and whispering, “What I’m about to ask you is a one time occurrence. No questions asked— not until afterwards.”

Fajra’s eyes widened, but her disapproving frown churned upward into a sly smile. “Consider my interest piqued.”

“I want to initiate Protocol Thirty-Eight.”

Any frustration Fajra had with her partner seemed to vanish, replaced with an unnatural grittiness. Her smile broadened as told Emmet with a slight flick of his shoulder, “Protocol thirty-eight? The Protocol Thirty-Eight? Does this, perhaps, mean that you’ve changed your mind about… unlawful acquisition?”

“No, but—“

“Never mind— you can spill the deets later. Let’s get the wheels moving.”

Fajra didn't miss a beat as she strolled back to the counter, a disapproving scowl reappearing on her face as she laid eyes on the manager. The pair with the stone had opened up a case to hold the box securely when Fajra spoke loudly, “You know what? Fine. We won't be doing business with you today. We’ll take our goods elsewhere. It's about time, really— you hike up your prices just so you can get rid of the crappy rip-offs for some sort of profit.”

She then turned to the woman and remarked snidely, “Might want to rethink shopping here. The guy will do anything to make a quick buck.”

The manager’s face grew red at Fajra’s words, giving the other customers a quick glance before remarking hurriedly, “Ma’am, I know you're frustrated and I hear ya, but—”

Fajra had already done her part. The seeds of doubt sank into their targets as the woman glanced down at the box within the case. Her partner didn’t seem as convinced by Fajra’s claims, but merely stopped to watch the spectacle. 

Emmet made a quick gesture to Liepard with his hands, signing to her in motions that only she would understand. Liepard gave a curt nod before brushing past her trainer and dipping behind the counter while the owner was distracted. 

Seizing his chance, Emmet moved to the side of the other customers and remarked in a cheery air, “She is right— best be careful what you get from the Thievul’s hole.”

He leaned in a little closer to the man and continued in a low voice, “Ever think where he gets these items? Just last week one of his sellers was arrested for selling League property. I would be verrrry cautious with your purchase.”

His eyes met with the man’s, and he seemed to falter under Emmet’s knowing smile. He could almost see the gears in his head turning while his gaze narrowed suspiciously. It didn't last as the manager slammed his hands on the counter and retorted with frustration. “That’s enough! Get out of my shop before I call security! And don't bother coming back here, you scavengers!”

Neither of them needed to be told a second time. Fajra exchanged a dirty look with the manager as she threw her arms around their items before storming to the door with an obnoxious whip of her fiery orange hair. Emmet waited for Liepard to slink back into view, brushing against his side with a low purr. 

The manager’s apologies were cut off as the door swung shut behind the two. Neither looked back as they were greeted by the streets of New Straiton City. There was no dark corner as the streets were ambushed with light from every screen, window, and billboard. It was late in the afternoon, and now the streets were swarming with men and women returning from work. 

“Sooo, don’ hold out on me,” Fajra began as Emmet withdrew the small withered box from his coat pocket. “What is it that made you throw away seven years worth of integrity?”

Emmet glanced around to make sure none of the passer-by or the kiosks’s Minccino mascot was within listening range, he opened it enough for Fajra to peer inside. The obsidian sphere that lay within proved true to Liepard’s skills at thievery. His heart began to pound faster at the sight of it and his hand shook as he took a hand and pressed his finger to one of the indents. He didn't have the same visions as before, but his body trembled now that he was so close.

“This better be some rock because if we just lost revenue for a cheap— Em?”

Fajra’s criticism faltered as she noticed his shaking hand. She snatched his hand away from the rock, and without warning, jerked his glove off. Her eyes widened at the touch.

“You really are sick, aren't you?” She questioned, but her voice turned soft and concerned. “How long have you felt off? My gosh, what if this is radioactive—”

“Get back!” Emmet snapped as Fajra reached out to take the box away. She immediately recoiled, but a new expression replaced her concern. He had never seen her look at him with such fear. Even Liepard backed up, pushing against Fajra as if trying to shield her from him. Even now, the trembling ceased as soon as she clamped the box shut. All his symptoms, even his rage, had snapped away like the stone from his sight.

Emmet stepped back, still gripping the box in his hand as if it were his lifeline. 

“I… am sorry,” he spoke earnestly. “I don't… I don't know why I did that. I don't know how to explain it…”

Fajra didn't speak. Her shoulders relaxed slightly as she took a step closer to Emmet. “Em, did you remember something?”

The question hadn’t been asked in years. Life had simply gone on, but now that his friend watched him with worry, he realized he had returned to the horrible darkness he had found himself in years before. Only this time, he had something to lose. 

“This may sound silly,” he admitted truthfully. “But… I know this stone. When I'm around it, I realize there has been something missing. A part of me that's gone… and with this stone, it’s in reach, but I can't…”

His words faltered as Fajra reached to take his hand again. She kept him in between hers and told him with a small, but truly genuine smile, “You, my friend, are silly… but just because you're silly doesn't mean your feelings are too. Your situation is odd, and I understand that.”

He looked back at Fajra. “Thank you… I just can’t let him be separated from me again.”

Him. Even Emmet couldn't quite understand why he chose to include that one simple word. Fajra’s eyebrow raised skeptically at the inclusion of the pronoun. It didn't seem to matter though as she pried her gaze from his to glance around at their surroundings. It was getting busier, and based on the overhead announcements flooding the street, a celebration was about to take place. 

“We can talk more later,” Fajra insisted, now pushing his hand back to his side. “Better to talk this out in a place that lacks a lotta ears. If you won't let me take the box, at least don’t open it again… for now. Whatever the rock is, your body is reacting to it, and I'm not ruling out radiation.”

She paused. “Do you need to go back to the handcar right away or—”

“No,” he replied promptly as he stuffed the box back in his pocket. “I’ll be fine. But I… I can acquire Una while you go on ahead. Where did you leave her again?”

[firekitten830]

thinking about gio .... tell us more about him he's literally silly + i like him so much

YOUVE ACTUVATED . MY AUTISM

Makes a bulleted list

-full name Giovanni Morningstar, both of them chosen rather than given. Ooc I chose Giovanni because he is actually vaguely based on my pc from a different ttrpg, and that characters middle name is Giovanni. And Morningstar is a reference to The Devil. like from the bible dksgsjhd

-his divine blood specifically comes from Sharess, goddess of hedonism and indulgence that vanished when dnd 5e came out during the second sundering . So it is no surprise he is motivated almost entirely by hedonism

-he does not know this.

-he’s definitely not her only descendant but he’s her only descendant that inherited any of her magic

-he was not always a tiefling

-he didn’t always have access to his divine magic

-the previous two points were sparked by the same event

-he was born in waterdeep! Not baldurian but gets around enough to know some things

-wanted magic desperately but had absolutely 0 talent for it before his divine magic awakened so he learned the next best thing: stealing shit. Man has been conning and pickpocketing and just generally getting up to thievery and tomfoolery since he was like. 8 (charlatan background)

-folk hero background could fit him pretty well too! Before he got Tadpoled he sorta wandered from place to place helping common folks and robbing rich people blind. Sort of a Robin Hood type guy but he did also keep a good bit of money lol

-he’s a trans man :] no surgeries and he doesn’t want them, though he does take wizard testosterone or whatever it would be in dnd. Probably a potion or something

-queer and poly!! I imagine he has a couple lovers across the sword coast, some he’s going steady with and others he’s sort of off and on with. He’s so lucky he lives in a world where teleportation exists and is not that hard all things considered im so jealous fr (I’ve also decided that his dream guardian looks suspiciously like one of his boyfriends). Worm nerfing his magic has unfortunately made keeping in touch a bit harder but he’s been managing

-his blood is a pretty potent magical power source and several people have tried to abduct him to use him as a conduit for spells or rituals because of this. I imagine after That Scene™️ with Astarion he was like “oh shit I should’ve warned him about that. Oh well he seems fine” . In the moment he was too focused on there being a hot vampire straddling him

-his tattoos are tied to his magic and glow when he casts spells. You can tell which way he’s about to fucking get you because he’s conveniently color-coded

-may or may not be on the brink of turning into a mind flayer but I’m sure that’s like. Fine.

WAIT I just remember I made a dnd character sheet for him before I ever got bg3 and I wrote a whole background thing as well as a value/ flaw for him . I’ll put those under a read more tho this is already kinda long

this part is written ooc!!

“Sharp, charismatic, and hedonistic to a fault. He has a silver tongue and a knack for deception, able to lie his way into and out of nearly any situation. He’s been driven out of many towns for his infernal heritage, alongside the myriad cons and schemes he often pulls on the wealthy, though he’s welcomed into just as many as a minor celebrity, and in some cases, a hero. This suits him just fine, though; he’s always been one to dance from place to place anyway. He enjoys finery of all kinds, and is happy to trade fine food, drink, clothing and accessories for coin… though he much prefers to offer favors as payment. He does have many talents after all; a quick-fingered thief, an excellent negotiator, a ruthless conman, a somewhat formidable sorcerer, a gifted storyteller, and if it suits your fancy, an escort (though he does charge extra for events)… as well as some other things, of course~”

“It is fairly difficult to draw his ire;he’s more than willing to forgive and forget most wrongs against him. But it would be wise not to test his limits too much; his normally capricious manner becomes cold and relentless when he feels punishment is owed. People who hurt those he cares about often walk away with gruesome scars… if they walk away at all.”

And then I have a ummm ideals and flaw section written in character cause these are on his character sheet

Ideals: “The safety and happiness of those close to me matters far more than any laws, or the ‘greater good’”

Flaws: “I’ve been called self-serving on many occasions, and I’m always weak to a bit of liquor and a pretty face”

I am sure I will think of more things to say about him I inevitably always do but I’m a little sleepy so I’m ending this post now!!

[mataglap]

dbh WIP

I think we all know at this point that I overindulge in character interactions.

here’s another snippet: Connor meets Kamski during post-revolution negotiations. what can I say, I just really like pissing Connor off.

***

"Connor! It's good to see you," calls a voice to his right.

Having prepared for the inevitable interaction does not make it any more pleasant. Connor does not relax his stance; a thirty-degree turn of his head is enough to put Kamski fully in his field of view.

Hands in the pockets of an expensive suit, the same expression of bored indifference on his face, Kamski does not bother to limit his scrutiny to a socially acceptable amount. Connor finds himself examined head to toe, with a lingering look at his LED to finish. It appears that Kamski projects the same aura of dismissive superiority whether he's wearing a bathrobe or an ten-thousand-dollar suit. As much as he dislikes it, Connor knows he should analyze the man's body language and incorporate the findings into his own subroutines; should he ever need to interrogate someone again, the ability to passively cause emotional destabilization would be a significant advantage.

That does not mean he appreciates being subjected to that ability. "Mr. Kamski," he replies in the least friendly tone available.

"Glad to see you finally managed to deviate," Kamski continues, unfazed. "I was beginning to worry that CyberLife had reached some level of competence."

Connor gives him his best expressionless stare. "I did not expect you to be a supporter of deviants, Mr. Kamski."

Kamski only tilts his head slightly. "I thought you were supposed to be excellent at deduction," he says blandly. "Speaking of which, isn't this occupation a little below your capabilities?"

Objectively it is, but Connor would be disinclined to agree with Kamski on anything even without the condescension in that question. "It's a temporary arrangement," he replies, regretting it immediately: it sounds too defensive, and he does not owe Kamski any explanations. "Markus's safety is more important to our cause than my professional fulfillment."

"It's an egregious waste of your skillset, as I'm sure you know. But, I suppose if you're happy…" Kamski trails off with a small shrug, the intonation of his voice very clearly conveying that he believes otherwise.

If Kamski was an android, Connor would assume that he’d been engineered specifically to be as annoying as possible. Everything about him is aggravating, from the deliberate offhand manner to the aura of superiority he's projecting. It would be nice to wipe the self-satisfaction off his face.

There is one potentially inflammatory inquiry he could make. The predicted chance of success is low, but Connor doesn't have any other tasks to focus on at the moment.

"How is Chloe?" he asks pleasantly.

The question doesn't have the intended effect. If anything, Kamski only looks more smug. "Oh, you know. Busy," he says breezily, clearly enjoying himself. "We're being asked to save a sinking ship, after all. Would you care to join me for lunch, Connor? We could catch up somewhere more conducive to a conversation."

"As I'm sure you're aware, Mr. Kamski, I don't eat."

Kamski shoots him an unimpressed look. "As I'm sure you're aware, Connor, I'm not asking you to eat. That meeting is going to take hours, you don't have to stand around waiting. Think of all the questions you could ask," he adds, so insufferably patronizing that Connor briefly visualizes punching him.

"I've learned that your answers come at a price I am not prepared to pay, Mr. Kamski," he says coldly instead.

"No bargains this time." Kamski steps past him and turns to face him again, hands spread out slightly and a self-satisfied smirk on his face. "I will tell you anything you want to know. Within a reasonable limit, of course."

It’s a grossly unsubtle attempt at manipulation, but Connor does want the knowledge that is being dangled in front of his face. The calculation of risk versus reward comes out strongly in favor of reward. He can handle a rich, conceited asshole for half an hour.

Two steps forward and they're standing shoulder to shoulder. "Fine. Lead the way."

[silvysartfulness]

Only cuz you invited questions about your fics but I think about your Deep Blue Sea fic a lot and it maybe haunts my dreams because i love it so much but i wanted to know if you had any ideas about how xue yang makes it up to xiao xingchen and song lan to regain their trust and reach that frankly adorable epilogue. specifically song lan because the betrayal there was just so much deeper and i love xue yang having to work hard for song lan's forgiveness(for as much as 'forgiveness' is even possible) and trust.

Ahh, that makes me so happy to hear! I’m deeply fond of that fic, so I’m delighted that it’s getting some love! 😍

Their getting back together is less about making up for things or repentance, and more about trying again while being honest with each other and trying to understand each other. Recognizing how much of what Xue Yang did and the things they have in common was real, and building upon that.

It’s all very fragile at first, both Xiao Xingchen and Song Lan understandably quite wary to trust Xue Yang at all – it’s one thing to have had your little non-profit infiltrated by industrial espionage, but this is a dangerous killer sent to literally destroy everything you’ve worked for. And Xue Yang equally wary to trust that they’ll actually give him this second chance, that it isn’t just a trap or that he’ll be tossed aside the moment he’s no longer useful.

But first things first they have a dolphin to save, so they all roll their sleeves up and get to work.

Xue Yang and Babydoll move into the Yicheng Group garage at first, rummaging all Shuanghua’s equipment aside enough to fit her pool and a cot in there so Xue Yang can spend all his time with his dolphin as she gets used to all the sudden changes while they’re negotiating more permanent solutions with Jin Guangyao. I’m sure Wei Wuxian helps keep tabs on Xue Yang’s digital trail, too, just to make sure he’s not up to no good.

It’s… pretty miserable at first, with all the other volunteers avoiding Xue Yang like the plague with the possible exception for a-Qing who is all too happy to chew him out whenever they bump into each other outside.

More than once Xue Yang considers just walking away (and probably acts on the impulse a couple of times, though somehow he always ends up coming back.)

More than once, Song Lan and Xiao Xingchen question their judgment in giving things a second chance in the first place.

But they’ve talked it through over and over. What Xue Yang did to the Chang and to Baixue were horrific things – but he was just a teenager at the time, barely more than a child, let down by the systems the Yicheng Group themselves fight so hard to change. They’ve had rehabilitating criminals and ex-cons among their volunteers before – it would feel hypocritical not to extend the same compassion and opportunity to start over to Xue Yang, provided he puts in the work to prove that he’s willing to change.

The therapy helps a lot, too.

Both individually and in their various constellations. It’s like pulling teeth, especially for Xue Yang who hates showing vulnerability and often doesn’t analyze or even understand his own emotions in the first place. But the end goal is worth it. They persevere.

Bit by bit, they heal. They learn to trust again. To love again – or rather, to accept and finally embrace the love that never really went away.

By the time they’re given the chance to move their operations to the Jinlintai islands, there’s so much work to do, they can put aside a lot of the remaining hurt and uncertainty and just get busy. Both Xue Yang and Song Lan do better when they can express themselves through hard work than words, anyway. Building the research center together is a metaphor for them rebuilding their relationship so blatant even Xue Yang can’t miss it!

So they build, and they grow and they put in the work.

Babydoll is an excellent character witness, proof that Xue Yang is capable of taking good care of those he loves when given the chance! And I’m sure Daoren showing up helped a lot, too, letting Xue Yang practice and show off his caring side even more, raising the little orphaned baby dolphin.

At the time of the epilogue, they’re still working on all these things – the trust (going all three ways! If you want to be trusted, you have to trust others in return, even with your weaknesses and flaws! You have to talk about the difficult things!) and patience and compromises and moving on beyond past hurt. They’re still in regular therapy, learning better ways to cope with past trauma and handling rough situations. They still hurt each other from time to time, though they’re getting better at not lashing out, and at apologizing and moving on when it does happen.

It’s a work in progress – but they are making progress.

And the love is still there. Held together with duct tape and bandaids at times, but the love is still there.

Together, they’re building something extraordinary.

And they’re happy. ♥

[cooganbegs-blog]

Of Ups and Downs.

It was a rollercoaster day today. I’m tired and emotional.

Down - every time I look at SBO and see how frail and skinny he is, how he only eats what I offer him by hand, no chicken anymore just the best raw steak I can find (I’ve never eaten steak like he is being served up on a daily basis! I’ve finally found something to burn my useless salary on!), the constant sobs initiated by his usual head pushed against me waiting for stokes.

Up - I finally feel I added some value to my team! God, I now have three people in my team and my fellow gal pal (marketing manager) gave some some tips and a spreadsheet to help setup my teams individual priorities for next quarter. I emailed it round this morning with direction on how I want us to priorities our work:

- a learning priority: they can chose something they want to learn (a compulsory 10% of their bonus) to encourage curiosity and a growth mindset (an essential trait of a product person)

- a product priority set by me: there is some shit that just needs to get done, that pushes the team forward, advances the product or our processes. Willing to negotiate on the success metrics

- a personal priority - each person can chose a priority they want to work towards, it cants be BAU, it must be something that is a stretch. I will need to approve or negotiate and key results are also negotiable.

All my peeps were happy and I had a light build moment that the single most valuable thing I can do for them is provide what begged all my useless CPO’s for in my previous roles. Give them direction and the why, and they will solve the how! I finally came away after several hours relieved instead of berating myself for being useless! I did have to get tough and negotiate with my PO (new to this role but an excellent BA), she just won’t prioritise learning how to think like a product person. She’s in danger of losing some of her bonus because she just didn’t make time. Will see if she delivers on the compromise I suggested! My new PO/PM is so delightful (if confident!), he talks my language and I don’t have to change his nappy or tell him how to do his job!! So refreshing!

Down - I kind of lost my shit in a meeting! Not hugely but I did let my frustrations show. Explaining that the meeting we were in (and several others I had to sit through) were quite frankly a fucking waste of time until the exec team makes a call on how we segment a customer base. I am not prepared to (its well above my pay grade!) and have provided the necessary data for them to battle it out. The project manager agreed, the meeting was cut short. I immediately regretted my outburst and sent a message to her apologising for letting my frustrations get the better of me. I also owned I probably should have escalated a week or so ago but have been snowed under with a thousand other priorities (roadmaps, product relates plans and annual planning). Gulp. Note to Self: bite my tongue next time and go to her direct not in front of 7 other people.

Up - my work trip to the US was cancelled so I can stay home with Loki!

Down - I haven’t been for a run or been to the gym since I got back. I forgot how fucking brutal the dark, icy morning are here and what a disincentive it is to running. I hate it.

Up - finally got booked in to have my shoulder injected, although I’m absolutely shitting myself.

Down - did I mention just how dark and cold it is.

Up - winter solstice is imminent. Which means the long slow downhill slide into summer….and by summer I mean January next year!!

Down - hearing Loki licking incessantly all night and not knowing what he was doing. Waking this morning and discovering his bed was absolutely saturated with pee and him so distraught and mortified. So much cortisone equals so much extra water drinking equals so much peeing. Only he didn’t get up at all. Im setting my alarm for 3 hour intervals tonight to get him up. He’s definitely an old, old dog now and it breaks my fucking heart. A matter of weeks ago he was shiny, lithe, well muscled and a bundle of cheek. Now he’s gaunt, slow and smells of old dog and urine. Fuck it’s so unfair. I don’t want anything to change, I want to go backwards in time and freeze when he’s young and active and full of beans. The end is closing in faster and faster and there’s no way to stop it. And foolishly I just keep wishing and wishing I could turn back time.

Up - I found a packet on M&M’s in my luggage which I completely forgot about and discovered just when I needed them around 3pm this afternoon!

[sezja]

If allowed questions for you, reply when you want. You can reply each in different posts too just tag me please. Only if you feel like it.

Favorite oc? Or are you the type who can’t decide? Any reason someone is a favorite if you have one?

Favorite ffxiv character? Any reason?

Favorite game (because nobody knows)?

Favorite character of all time (because nobody knows) and why?

How did you chose Nerise’s dragon name? What about her?

Will Marty ever officially marry? (I’m making this up just to make one more question)

Thank you.

OH BOY it's Learning About Fox Time!

1: I kind of cycle between Favorite OCs; my "favorite" is whoever I'm fixating on at the time. At the moment, it's kind of a three-way split between Nerise, Fenumin, and Darcy, but any given moment, if I'm reminded of another OC, they briefly claim my heart and run away with it. I think Origins!Kuja, better known these days as Urha'to Nelhah, is my favorite of all time... which should come as no surprise, considering Origins is my baby, and considering... Well.

2: I assume you mean favorite NPC, in which case: Stephanivien de Haillenarte, my beloved...... I picked up MCH at a time when I was having a huge falling-out with the friend who'd played a major role in getting me into the game, and I was kind of considering unsubbing, because ARR hadn't really grabbed me and I wasn't like, deeply invested beyond the AU I was crafting for my Origins characters (alongside my roommate's WoLs). Then I ran into Steph, and oh man, he saved the game for me; it's not an exaggeration to say I would've fallen out of the game completely if he hadn't gotten me super invested in it all over again. I actually roleplayed Steph for a couple of years, on @skysteelsun.

3: Favorite game: Final Fantasy IX, by a massive unstoppable landslide!

4: Favorite character: Garland my beloved Why is a complicated explanation, but it kind of boils down to my huge undying love for fallen civilizations - what could be better, then, than a completely dead planet? Garland is overseeing the revival and restoration of a world that has been dead for several thousand years, and that fascinates me. And I think his treatment of the beings he has created to populate that dead world (among others) is kind of an interesting look at how he himself, also a construct, might have been treated by his own creators. I can't say a lot without, you know, spoilers, but I find him so incredibly interesting on so many levels. He's only around for less than a disk and a half, but he makes excellent use of his screentime.

5: Nerise's wyvern's name, Sohl Amh, means "Slow Song," and while I initially chose it because I liked the sound of it... it has very much come to fit their personality. Sohl Amh is the steadier, more patient of the pair, content to wait and see what happens - compared to Nerise's quick temper and eagerness for results. Nerise's name was also just an "I like the sound of it," to be honest. We don't know a lot about how elezen naming conventions have changed, if at all, in the past thousand years, so it was kind of a shot in the dark!

6: Oh man okay so eventually what happens is Marty gets his ass arrested for poaching (he actually takes the fall for Dom, presuming - not without reason - he'll get off lighter than a Duskwight would). And who should happen to spot him while he's being brought in than one Serpent Captain Sanson Smyth? Who notices he looks vaguely familiar. One thing leads to another, and Marty gets introduced to Guydelot, and they realize they probably share a dad. Sanson's owed a favor or five by the Adders at this point, and has sufficient influence to get Marty's sentenced negotiated down to exile from the Greatwood. It is at this point that Marty realizes he's going to have to tell Tsimh everything - part of the reason he hasn't asked her to marry him yet is the whole "I'd have to tell her I'm a poacher".... thing. So he tells her. She is understandably upset, but honestly, more about not being told. They work it out. They move - in keeping with Marty's sentence - to La Noscea, and settle on a farmstead. All's well. And then, yes, Marty finally proposes to his girl.

[vsnotresponding]

CHAPTER 9 - THE CALM BEFORE THE STORM - KARMA

masterpost

“Sit down.”

I obey, my steps slow and tense—afraid. The chair is in the middle of the room, away from the desk. The wood cold and hard when I sit down. I fidget, uncomfortable.

I don’t dare raise my gaze from where it rests on his hands, laced fingers on the desk, the faded golden ring mocking me from his fourth finger. I shrink, though not as much as I used to. I know what I did wrong, I know what my mistake was, the reason for this meeting won’t take me unaware.

Not unlike the punishment.

“You are forbidden from keeping working with the fatir.”

“But, fath…!”  my response dies. I force myself to close my eyes that, shocked, look at him. I notice his expression for the first time since I came in, his indifference, his disappointment—a strange shine. Without realizing, I’ve stood up, even if I haven’t moved forwards. I sit down again, and force myself to stop my voice from shaking when I talk, to hold his gaze, as hard as it is. “My shahin. I have to work on this project.” He doesn’t react. I add: “It’s vital for the survival of our state.” He interrupts me before I can continue.

“You failed your country when you weren’t at your brother’s fiancée’s arrival.” And before I can protest, even if I’m painfully aware that nothing I say will sway him: “With immediate effect and indefinitely, your position as imitator is revoked.”

No, no that. Please. My mind shuts down. I try to open my mouth to answer back, but his slightly raised hand shuts me up. He can’t do that, can he? My hearing buzzes, my heart shrinking, my ears on fire.

“From now on you’ll be present in the meetings with Derya's delegation. You’ll be in all of them, next to me. You’ll be the first to arrive and the last one to leave, and I don’t need to tell you that you’ll be expected to participate.”

My head empties, my chest fills up, constricted. Throat and eyes burning. The mere thought of the meetings, of the other nobles and senators and members of the Council, watching me, analyzing every tiny mistake I make, every incorrect word. My stomach sinks more and more, legs shaking, hands spasming.

I close them in a fist. A nod, because I can’t find the strength to talk, my eyes focused on my worn down boots.

“I’m sure we’ll find your contributions to be of great value, Oghan.” Not even that gets me out of the paralysis I've fallen into. I don’t even think he’s expecting a reaction out of me. He’s my father, after all, and he knows me. “You may leave.”

My body reacts to his order automatically. Legs shaking as I walk, my hand as I open it to turn the knob, head low and wet eyes. I almost forget to bow before exiting, my head flooding with thoughts.

They stop when I collide with someone. I expect to see Sher when I rise my head, and even if the eyes are the same honey-like color, I immediately realize who I’m now talking to.

“Khadae.” Another half felt bow, automatic. I look around with half a thought, but Sher’s not here.

“Oghan mirzaan, it’s been long since we last spoke.” The hands he had on my shoulders to stabilize me disappear. I wobble in place a little. When I look at him, he smiles. “I hope the work with the creator is giving good results.”

“Yes,” I contain my tears as I talk, they burn in my throat. My voice is shaky, my breathing deep in an attempt to calm myself. “Everything’s going according to plan.”

“Excellent.” He bows, nothing more than a nod, and disappears inside the shahin’s study.

I don’t waste any time. I haven’t even eaten anything yet, but I’m not hungry, I don’t have time for anything that’s not walking to my study. Bottling up my feelings and as I did with my project, I hide them under the desk to forget them, so they disappear from my sight and I stop thinking about them.

While I wait for the negotiations’ documents to be brought up, I don’t think about how being an imitator has been my life’s goal since I learned what they were. I don’t think how it’s my only way to fulfil the promise I made to my mom, how being separated from them will isolate me even more from the only friends I’ve ever had.

I know the project is in good hands, that Áine and the rest know what they are doing, that they’ll manage to accomplish our goal. But what I don’t understand is why the shahin has made this decision, now that we are so close to a solution, why he won’t let me show him that I’m capable of making him proud in my own way. Why a tiny mistake has consequences this big.

It doesn’t matter, the decision has been made.

I swallow my tears and devote myself to the work.

I work. I swallow my fear and attend the meetings, I talk when I’m addressed. I memorized the papers, the transcriptions of past sessions, I know as much as the ones that were there for them.

That’s not my problem. It’s my voice, struggling to be heard even if they stop talking to listen to me, the voice they sometimes shut up when I answer the doubts they direct at me. It’s my hands, that won’t stop shaking, I don’t know anymore if it's from the stimulants I take after nights without sleep or the panic that floods me every time the shahin asks to talk to me in private. For the khadae, always whispering in the shahin’s ear, watching with clear disappointment in his bright and cold gaze. It’s for Sher, that watches me every second we are in the same room, always without saying anything to me—the need to scream into the night once I’m safe and sound in my study with a new mountain of papers on my desk.

I try, in spite of everything, to stay informed about Ira’s progress: the calculations Garvan does in my stead, the ones I go over every night when I finish my work for the meetings, a little pile on my desk reserved for Áine’s reports.

I haven’t seen her in days. She probably hates me for all the work that now falls on her shoulders in my absence, on top of all the work she already did before.

At least I find solace in the data Garvan gives me. I can see their progress, every record she beats, every test she passes of strength and endurance. I see Sher’s name in some reports, I read he attends the sessions with his fiancée.

They say it’s because she’s curious. I think that’s another way he has to fuck with me.

Days turn into weeks and, finally, Sahare of Derya is allowed to participate in meetings concerning her marriage.

Next to Sher, they already look like true monarchs. Him charmingly captivating the whole room with his sole presence. Her, smiling at everyone, genuinely, paying attention to every work spoken in the room. She even smiles at me, when the meeting is over, she asks me to speak with her for a second.

I like her in a way few strangers do. She’s kind to me, and even if she sometimes overwhelms me, I don’t feel like she has anything against me. In another life, in a world where the island wasn’t dying, where I wasn’t burning up on the inside under all my work, I’d have greeted her at her arrival without more worries than trying to make a good impression. Her smile would have calmed me down, then, I’d have talked to her about our theories about the creators and imitations without time’s pressure on us and, eventually, I’d become her friend. She might have even managed to make Sher and I talk without wanting to hit the other for the first time in our lives.

But that’s not what happened. Something stirs inside of me, sad and tired, imagining the possibilities.

I barely register what she says to me, my mind busy already with what I’ll do next, with the papers I’ve been asked to revise about the incidents in the city and the proposals I’ve been asked to give to contain the people. With the reports that wait at my desk with Ira’s progress.

Still, I’m not that distracted to forget apologizing for missing her arrival.

“Oh, don’t worry, it’s alright,” she soothes me. I don’t look at her face directly, but the brightness of her carefree smile blinds my eyes, of happiness and easiness, I imagine the memory of her crystal blue eyes smiling at me too. “We are to be family soon, we should forgive our silly mistakes.”

I want to shout at her that I’d have no way of knowing that, that I wouldn’t understand it even if she explained it to me, but when I look up to thank her, she’s already gone. Her back, far away in the white corridor, accompanies Sher to wherever they are going now.

I close my eyes, the reflection of the sun on the marble too strong, too intense. I hurry to my study, curtains drawn—I find solace in the semidarkness.

I read nonstop, the worlds darkening too outside the room.

At one point I fall exhausted on a report half read. I try to force my eyes to open, but my body doesn’t respond.

I don’t dream.

tag list (ask to be added or removed): @my-cursed-prince @on-noon @aquil-writes @dotr-rose-love

[godivagoodidea]

“Xir, we have identified the most influential humans!”

“Excellent. Without them, the populace will be powerless and easy to control. Make them…disappear.”

“How xir?”

“Bring them here for further study. We must decipher the source of their power. Learn if it can be harnessed, replicated, or cloned.”

“Of course xir.”

- - -

“Xir, we have yet to find this alleged power source. Commence dissection?”

“Hrmm. Have we ruled out all chemical factors? Electro-magnetism? Superior intelligence?”

“Nothing significant, xir.

“Ah. Then…what makes these specimens different? Why are they held in such high regard?”

“We are not sure yet.”

“And the Earth’s populace?”

“They seem to be…stabilizing.”

“Agh! Ok, one problem at a time. Do these humans display any unusual behaviors for their species?”

“So far, an inhibited sense of empathy has been confirmed. As demonstrated by subjects offering their families in exchange for their freedom.”

“So empathy is considered a detractor among influential humans? Aren’t humans a social species?!”

“I am at a loss xir. However, I can also confirm that each of these humans has offered bribes to be set free.”

“All one of them?”

“Every. Single. One.”

“Alright, demonstrating negotiation skills. Political maneuvering as well…So? What did they offer?”

“Human currency, xir.”

“…Refresh my memory, what is their currency now? Carbon? Hydrogen Dioxide? Shiny things?”

“I’m not sure I can explain xir”

“Then what could they possibly offer?”

“…a digital transfer of currency”

“…”

“…”

“Let me see if I understand. The currency was metal, then it was paper, and now it is…imaginary?”

“Digital, xir. Invisible, intangible. Only visible in virtual spaces.”

“So…there is nothing about this human being that merits the influence it carries? Nothing special or unique?”

“Correct.”

“Huh. Well, no use expending further resources keeping these subjects here. Return the subjects that were suggestible to memory replacement.”

“Of course xir. And the rest?”

“Let the crew know that the house special today is ‘Billionaire’.”

Aliens are trying to eradicate humanity in subtle ways but it always ends up beneficial for humanity

[petruchio]

You probably hate this question, but do you think your masters was worth it? What field are you planning to go into? I’m really interested in going back to school, and one thing I’m considering IS literature because I love it, but I’m personally not interested in teaching so everyone I’ve voiced the interest to thinks it’s a bad idea. Financially? Probably. But it’s something I’ve thought about for a while so I’d love to know your thoughts on the degree as someone who Actually Has It. Thank you for taking the time to even read this!

i don't hate the question at all!!

do i think it was worth it... hm. it's kind of a specific situation for me, and it's pretty random and specific to my university that i even got it in the first place, because i got it at the same time as i was working towards my bachelors and it only took me one extra quarter to complete (so i basically got a bachelors and a masters in 4 years + one quarter) and the extra time i took was basically was an extension of undergrad for me -- it wasn't really like a separate master's program in the way that i think most people who are considering a master's degree would be going into. so for me, because i had gotten really far ahead in my major by the time i was a senior and i didn't really have any minors that i felt like fulfilling, and my university offered the program, it just made sense to start taking higher level phd classes and graduate with a masters as opposed to getting a minor in something that i wasn't really that interested in anyway. so that's just some background on why i got it.

regarding what it did for me career-wise, i think time will tell how it affects my salary (bc i'm still quite early in my career, i don't think having it vs not having it made THAT huge of an difference in the starting salary offers i got. but i can see using it as leverage in salary negotiations later on in my mid/late career, and i feel lucky to have it for that reason.) in terms of getting a job, i don't think it had a ton to do with the degree specifically, i think it had more to do with my university connections and my other job experience, although i do think that having a master's at 22 definitely helped me get my foot in the door and get interviews at a lot of places when i was graduating. i work in digital advertising and i do internal operations work, so my degree has nothing to do with the job at all. my job is actually more technical than anything else (i have one of those salesforce/excel/email jobs basically) but the industry i'm in is pretty random and it's not as if people need highly specialized degrees for it, so people mostly come from pretty random backgrounds (i know a couple other english majors and then others come from like, marketing/business or something else random like history or phil)

regarding what it did for me like, as a person -- i loved it and i wouldn't take it back for anything. i think it made me probably as smart as i could possibly have become. i mean obviously i still have tons to learn and i wouldn't dream of thinking that i've reached my peak levels of intelligence -- but i do think it was one of the best and most interesting years of my life and i'm so glad i did it. it taught me a lot about how to think and how to write and just how to synthesize HUGE amounts of information and discuss them with people and make my point about how the rhyme scheme of a percy shelley poem was meant to suggest the flapping wings of a bird and have a 50 year old professor call me a genius for it. like i'll be riding that high the rest of my life.

but would it have been worth it if it wasn't already just kind of tacked onto my bachelor's? idk. i definitely overeducated myself to a genuinely deranged level (and i did it ON TOP OF already being insanely overeducated just by nature of my program already) like i could've simply graduated with a bachelor's in english and moved on. but i've always been an overachiever/perfectionist freak to a fault, so when i heard there was a way to do EVEN MORE SCHOOL i was like omg count me in. but again it was specific to the options i had available to me, and i don't think i would've done it as a separate program unless i was genuinely going to pursue academia as a career (which, of course would've been my dream but i needed, like, money and stability and not to get trapped in the purgatory that is being an english phd student in an already oversaturated field. no shade to anyone who chooses that, i am deeply jealous of you, it just wasn't my path and i don't think i was cut out for the life of a 21st century academic.)

so yeah i'd say honestly it hasn't done much for me in life as a 24 year old other than like: getting bragging rights that i have one, getting my giant brain that i use to talk about the hunger games online, and the fact that 2 years ago i had the ability to just kind of waltz into a career that i was completely unqualified for just by nature of looking extremely intelligent on paper (which FOR THE RECORD i was, and i am really good at my job so like, it worked out well for my company to hire me as a stupid kid at the time, but i don't think they were like, wowed by my english degree so much as the fact that i already had two.) so did it help? yeah, probably. but would i have spent an entire year of my life working toward it and paying out of pocket/taking on additional loans just for the sake of doing it if there had been no promised reward or job at the end of it? honestly... probably not.

[daysofourlivesrecaps]

Wednesday, 31 May 2023

Wednesdays, as I have mentioned before, tend to be pretty slow around Salem. And while a few of today's plots are little more than wheel-spinning for their respective characters, we also got a couple of MAJOR DEVELOPMENTS that just so happen to be QUINTESSENTIAL SOAP MOMENTS™, one of which I'm seeing for the first time since I started watching a year or so ago.

First up is Nicole. She's still pregnant and still confiding to Anna about it. And still not really providing us with any new insight into her character or... really, any new information of any kind. This storyline actually got me interested in Nicole for the first time ever, but I sure wish something would, you know, happen.

Eric and Sloan also talk about Nicole. Eric works out that the story about a virus at the hospital was a lie and Sloan comes clean and confesses that yeah, she did indeed lie. But she did it to protect Nicole's secret. Which Eric now knows.

Eric is none too happy about any of this, and takes his recently-harvested DNA swab and heads over to confront Nicole about it. So presumably something will finally be moving forward with all of this soon.

But not today.

Jada and Talia have a number of tearful exchanges at the police station, as Jada tries to explain to Talia that, even though Colin never actually hit her, he's still an abusive piece of shit. I do not mean to trivialize any of this as unimportant — it's good stuff; it's important stuff to talk about to an audience full of dumbs; and both performers do an excellent job with the material. It wasn't boring to watch, but it is hard to make jokes about. But don't worry — I am now pivoting to some gloriously stupid bullshit.

University Hospital has a new nurse on staff, apparently! She's one of the ladies from Fox's hit 90s sitcom, Living Single.

Not Queen Latifah.

Not Tootie.

The other one. Kim Coles.

(Apparently there was actually a fourth one but I don't remember her at all. My apologies, Erika Alexander. I enjoyed your show and watched quite a bit of it, both in first-run and in reruns. My faulty memory does you a disservice.)

Nurse Coles hits the ground running as she tends to Colin and he briefly mistakes her for Paulina.

Thirty seconds on screen and I love her already.

Paulina is actually in Abe's room, being her usual entirely impatient self and not for the first time I find myself wondering how she possibly made herself so rich in real estate with so little chill. Don't real estate people have to, like, negotiate or whatever?

Then Chanel goes in to talk to Abe and he wakes up! Yay! We love Abe!

But it gets better. Not only is he awake, but ABE HAS AMNESIA. 

I cannot overstate how excited I am by this. I have watched literally 500 episodes of this soap-ass soap and I've never encountered a proper case of actual amnesia before!

Chanel tries to jog the mayor's memory by showing him a picture of his wedding to Paulina, in that episode from last summer where they taught the white people in Salem what Juneteenth is. (I'm not gonna lie — I learned a couple of things from that one. As one of the dumbs in this audience, I'm genuinely glad they did that.)

But the picture rings no bells for Abe.

Out in the waiting area, Rafe orders this cop, who appears to be about thirteen years old, to prep Colin for his transfer to prison. This is obviously just to kill time in a short episode, and surely has no relevance to the plot.

While Chanel is off getting her mom, Nurse Kim Coles enters Abe's room. Abe, still muzzy from the surgery and having only seen a single cell phone picture of his alleged wife Paulina, thinks the nurse is his wife. The nurse, for her part, says nothing to dissuade him of this misapprehension.

Turns out she's a Mayor Abe Carver Superfan! And also? Maybe a bit crazy in the ol' pants?

And speaking of pants, Rafe checks on Colin, only to discover that Officer Skippy had his pants stolen by said gross creep. Also the rest of his uniform.

That's a rock-solid defense though, Skippy. "He got the better of me." No court in the world will convict you.

So now Colin, in disguise (as a cop whose uniform actually fits), easily slips out of the hospital unnoticed.

And right after him comes Nurse Kim Coles, pushing the amnesiac and highly confused Abe out of the hospital in a wheelchair "because he's in danger." 

 AMNESIA AND WEIRDLY UN-MALICIOUS KIDNAPPING. WE HIT THE SOAP JACKPOT TODAY, Y'ALL!

[existslikepristin]

Bullyrene (chapter 4, "Twisted")

Missed a chapter? Here’s a handy link to the index!

Thanks to @brokennightmares01 for beta reading and @worldsover for editing (yeah I know you didn't get very far, but you deserve credit and have always been good moral support, so) Okay it was mostly self-edited

Tags: Red Velvet, Irene, a bunch of OCs, sexual stuff happens eventually but I wouldn’t call this a smut cuz it’s dark as fuck, if you don’t read stuff with trigger warnings don’t read this story, I’m just not gonna bother listing them all because there’s a lot, abandon all hope ye who enter here

~~~~~

Irene walked, as calmly and quietly as she could manage, down one of the main halls of the mansion.

What few people she passed paid her little mind.

She could remember some of their names. Dae-seong, the chef. Ada, the Hispanic woman she saw on her first day, some sort of PR manager. Mikkel, a heavily tanned European, the computer guy.

Others, she remembered only by a few distinguishing features. A young woman with nearly pitch-black skin who always wore a lab coat like Silje’s. A boy with an unreasonably long Japanese name who seemed to run around doing things for people like Mahia did. A middle-eastern-looking girl with enormous glasses.

Not all of the people in the mansion spoke Korean. It seemed that the few of them who couldn't speak Korean or English could get whatever information they needed through a chain of translations and a vibe of comradery that Irene had come to despise. The fact that they were so chummy despite all—or almost all—being here as slaves rubbed Irene the wrong way.

Simone passed by as well. Irene made eye contact with her just long enough to feel the disdain that Simone held for her. She was one of the few people who Irene saw leaving the mansion regularly. Irene, on the other hand, not only hadn’t stepped foot outside the mansion in nearly two months, but barely deviated from this one single pathway that led from her room.

Irene shook it off though. She had arrived at her destination. Silje's second floor office. The door was already open.

"Ms. Bae. Very good, come in."

Silje's insistence on calling Irene "Ms. Bae" was frustrating. Everybody referred to Silje by her first name, and she spoke casually to everybody else. Irene didn't want to be on a first name basis with her, but the distinction was annoying regardless.

Irene stayed standing while Silje walked around her desk, sat in one of the several comfortable armchairs in the room, and motioned for Irene to begin.

With a deep breath, Irene followed the silent order, lifting her tablet. "The president announced this morning that last week's trade deal with Japan is being revised to account for new concerns over conditions in the Fukushima area, as tech companies are building their chip factories nearby due to cheap rent."

For about a month, this is what Irene had been doing, once every day. She was to summarize any noteworthy news as it pertained to South Korea, and regurgitate it back to Silje. It seemed that the topics didn't necessarily matter, as Irene had covered news as insignificant as animal shelter funding, to as critical as North Korean peace talks.

Despite not always being noticeably attentive, Silje soaked the information up like a sponge. Even if she was busy writing a letter by hand, she would still double-check the information Irene provided with shockingly direct questions.

"Where is this Wagging Tails Shelter? I would like to send a donation."

"If the minister is unwilling to negotiate on the munitions demand, is he going to concede the nuclear deal instead?"

Irene had learned to anticipate questions and find the answers ahead of time to avoid Silje's impatient glares.

"... and Kim Choon-Hee was declared the winner." Irene finished her report on a high note about a baking competition, hoping to keep Silje in a good mood.

"Excellent! I was rooting for her. What was the prize?"

"One million won and a victory plaque made by Officer Hoseok himself."

Silje chuckled. "That might cover a month of rent. Some time today, ask Mahia to check if they cater. We could do with a macaroon day."

Irene forced a smile. "Of course. Will there be anything else?"

Silje stood and approached her. Irene tried to keep her smile up, but failed. She could already feel her heart rate spiking.

Just as expected, Silje's hand cracked across Irene's cheek, barely hard enough that it might leave a mark for a few minutes.

One hand clenched around her tablet while the other held her cheek in pain, Irene’s nerves went wild, and she could hear her blood pounding in her ears.

***

Irene ran from her room, stumbling over nothing but her own bare feet in the dark. Her throat still stung from the vibration of her scream.

She needed someone. Anyone.

The silence that surrounded her was hellish. She didn't understand how the only sound could be her frantic breathing, her gasps, and her feet hitting the floor. There had to be someone else in the mansion. It was too big to be empty.

Rooms with open doors were black voids. Rooms with closed doors were death traps. Any one of them could be Silje’s.

She flew down the stairs and missed the last step, crashing to her knees on the immaculate, hard floor. She could bear the pain. She'd fallen in the practice room more times than she cared to count.

Seulgi. She needed Seulgi. No, any of her members. No, anyone.

She heard voices. Laughing. It was distant, but she was getting closer. A light around a corner. An open door with a light on, finally.

"Bitch tried to crash my car!" It was Simone.

Irene slowed down and stood out of view in the hall. She smelled coffee.

"She's just dumb," said a man whose voice she didn't recognize, "She probably hasn't even bothered looking at slavery laws."

A couple of chuckles. Some words were spoken in Spanish. More coffee was poured. "She had to have been rich enough to have considered getting a slave for herself, right?" another woman asked.

Simone again. "I looked her up. She was super fuckin famous until some scandal. Big time diva, like literally the most popular chick in the country. Almost surprised I hadn't heard of her. I guess she was a bitch to some of… her employees, I think? Treated them like shit."

Irene scowled. She hated that anybody could talk about her that way, let alone while she was trying to find some justice, or comfort, or something. Someone in the room slurped their coffee far too loud.

"Guys, I think we should go easy on her," said a woman whose voice Irene recognized, but couldn't place, "You saw how she looked when she came in. She was a wreck, and her life just got flipped on its head."

Finally some sympathy. Irene put a foot out to step inside.

"Give her a chance," the woman continued, "After she gets to know Silje, she'll come around. The rest of us did!"

Irene stepped back. She was clearly not walking into the correct crowd to accuse Silje of rape.

"The rest of us aren't psychopaths trying to commit a murder suicide." Simone's snippy comeback earned a few chuckles.

***

Irene sniffed and composed herself as quickly as she could. Every day for sixteen days, Silje had hit her at least once during or after her report. It was all she could do to not strike back. Every part of her screamed at her to do it, except the part of her that told her to open her eyes on her first night in the mansion. Her self-preservation was in part to spite Silje, Simone, and everyone else, and in part to eventually see vengeance.

“Will that be all, Silje?”

“I think it will, Ms. Bae,” Silje said, sitting back down at her desk, “Same time tomorrow. Don’t forget the macaroons.”

The way she found herself meekly shuffling back toward the office door enraged Irene’s inner voices even more. She should be stomping and making a scene. Joy would tell her otherwise though. Joy...

She reached for the handle, but froze. “Silje… May I ask a question?”

There was no response, but Irene asked anyway. “When will the rest of my members be arriving?”

“They arrived about two weeks ago.” Silje’s bland tone and off-kilter accent were infuriating. Irene spun around, suddenly fully attentive.

“Where are they now?” Irene may have let some of her desperation slip into her voice, but was too wired to reflect on it.

Silje was already head-down in a notebook, scribbling away. “They’ve been staying in a room in the west wing but they left an hour ago, roughly.”

Once again, what little hope Irene had was swatted away. If she had squeezed her tablet any tighter, it might have broken. “Why wasn’t I informed that they were here?”

“You were, Ms. Bae.”

It was too much. Irene was sick of the way she spent so much time preparing answers to Silje’s stupid questions, of being treated like she had a disease by the rest of the mansion staff, of being physically abused daily, only to be lied to. It had been a month since she arrived, and one month since she’d been drugged and raped. Whether it was courage or stupidity that caused her to do it, she raised her voice.

“I was not!”

Silje looked up from her work, piercing Irene with her gaze, but didn’t speak.

“I wasn’t! I just needed to know they were here! I wasn’t told! I want to know why I wasn’t told!”

“Because with an attitude like that, Ms. Bae, you can’t expect Mahia to try to tell you the same thing more than once, though she did.”

“She didn’t tell me shit!”

Irene’s sense of self-preservation kicked back in as Silje put her hands on the armrests of her chair as if to stand.

“I’ll let you in on a not-so-well-kept secret, Ms. Bae. Mahia happens to be the only person in this mansion who likes you, or even appreciates your presence. Be my guest if you would like to be so dedicated to this pattern of burning down bridges, but if you intend to see these girls, perhaps you should learn to take note of when and which people try to help you.”

“But she… She didn’t tell me about my members.”

“Mahia came to me in tears two weeks ago, ashamed that she couldn’t get you to leave your room to see your friends. She said it was like you weren’t listening to a word she had to say, or like you were angry with them. She was distraught.”

The connections started to form in Irene’s mind.

Silje continued. “Heartbroken, even. According to her, Seulgi was struggling not to cry because you refused to take a break from building your daily report. I'm still quite upset that what seems to pass in your eyes as hard work is more important than taking the time to comfort these girls you were supposed to have once led. I didn’t give you a difficult job.”

***

Irene frowned at the tablet propped up on her desk. She couldn't decipher what she was looking at. She knew that it needed to be deciphered, but she didn't know why. An article in a Seoul newspaper said that Soo Man was willingly divulging all of his tax information. He'd already had his finances exposed once before and it was damning. Why he was doing it again, Irene couldn't fathom. It couldn't just be an act of goodwill. He didn't have anything especially incriminating come out in the first reveal, but the bad stuff was a mere hour's worth of digging beyond that.

But it had to be related to why he sold Irene. It was obvious. Irene chewed through a fingernail as she read and reread the article, searched through more and more, looked for any threads she could grasp.

"Ms. Irene! Are you there?" Mahia’s voice and knocking startled Irene out of her concentration.

"I'm busy. What is it?"

Opening the door wasn’t necessary to hear and be heard through it.

"I have a surprise for you! I think you'll really like it!"

Irene paused. That woman had so much nerve. She should check Irene’s calendar. They were required to make them publicly viewable, and Irene had started to make a habit of blocking out time for research.

"Later, Mahia."

"Are you sure? It's very exciting!"

"I'm sure. Leave me alone please."

There was a pause. Irene glared at the door. When it seemed that the interruptions were finished, she looked back down at the computer. An interview with Soo Man. He wanted to prove that he had nothing to hide from the Korean public.

If that’s what he wanted to prove, he shouldn't be revealing everything.

"Ms. Irene? Please, I cannot open the door without your permissi—"

"Then stop trying and leave!"

Perhaps it was harsh, but Irene didn't have much time to research without it seeming suspicious. She didn't know how much of her activity was tracked. She had to focus. There wasn't time for treats. Irene must have struck the right tone, because she got the blessed silence she was hoping for.

"Please. I really…" Mahia just couldn't shut up. There was another voice layered in with hers, quieter. Irene recognized it, but she couldn’t place it. Likely just another slave or employee talking shit. She stepped up from her desk and slapped the door as hard as she could. The sounds of stumbling on the other side were enough for Irene to know that her point was getting across.

"Stop! Leave! Now! I don't want your surprise, and you're interrupting my work!"

"But—" It wasn't Mahia’s voice, but it wasn't welcome.

"No!" Irene screamed, "Get the fuck away! Do I sound like I'm in the mood for this?"

Another pause. "No, Ms. Irene. I apologize."

And finally, silence. Irene sat back down and finished her work for the day. She'd look into the Soo Man story another time. Surely it wouldn't be long before more information was released.

The time for Irene’s report came quickly that day. She took her tablet to the office and made her presentation. Nothing out of the ordinary: A painter pulling off a major publicity stunt, parents vehemently protesting a raunchy new television series, a couple of feel-good bits in between it all, and an accused corrupt politician facing backlash to finish on a serious note.

It was different from most days though. Irene could feel sweat beading on her forehead as Silje picked something from the desk, stood up, and slowly approached, bit by bit, pausing to listen to the news stories, but appearing somehow distracted, deep in thought.

"... and he has declined interview offers across the board." As she closed the last story, Silje closed the last meter of space between them. She held her breath as she caught a glimpse of the object Silje was holding. A scalpel.

Irene had nearly forgotten the difference in their heights. It was like standing beneath some grand, oversized monument. The kind that would make you dizzy if you looked up. Irene felt that dizziness, even without looking. She tried to focus on the tiny blade in Silje’s hand without looking directly at it, ready to spring back. If not for that focus, she might have seen the hit coming from the opposite direction.

"Leaders? Hmph."

It was all so quick. The pain came first, then the staggering, then the rush of air. It wasn’t until she was on her hands and knees that Irene processed what happened. Her breath hitched.

"I didn't give you a difficult job."

Irene's thoughts were immediately taken back to her first night. She wanted to scream again. But instead, she choked out a few tears, scooped the tablet off the floor and ran past the doors and to her room where she doubled over the toilet and wretched.

***

Irene clamped her eyes shut. “I swear, Silje. I didn’t understand that Mahia—”

Silje snapped back, louder than Irene could recall having ever heard her speak. “Perhaps you should listen to her more carefully, then!”

Irene flinched. Her instincts told her that she had to placate Silje, avoid more pain. That instinct struggled against her desire to shout in kind. Her voice cracked from the effort of holding back. “I’m k—sorry.”

The idea of looking so pathetic made Irene’s eyes burn, but tears would only lend more authenticity to her words, both true and untrue, swirling around each other. “You’re… right. I should have. I will, I promise. I need to… I need to see them. I need to apologize.”

“To whom?”

“Her members” was the correct but inappropriate answer. “Mahia. And Seulgi.”

“Start with Mahia. Your friends will be back in a week.” The answer was stern, but it was exactly what Irene wanted to hear.

Irene opened her eyes, cursing the sticky feeling of her wet lashes prying apart. “Yes. Thank you Silje.” She turned to leave and avoid seeing Silje’s face any longer than needed to assess the threat level.

“Ms. Bae.”

Stopping in place only resulted in silence, so Irene spun back around. Silje was holding her scalpel, twirling it slowly. “I expect to hear of your apology very soon, and then I want you to articulate to me how you intend to adjust your behavior before you will be seeing anybody. Understood?”

Irene dug her fingers into her palm. “Yes, Silje.”

“I will see you tomorrow.”

Of course.

Irene wasted no time. She checked Mahia’s schedule, found her, and gave her a brisk apology. The woman was a bleeding heart, accepting immediately and crushing Irene in a teary-eyed hug. From there, Irene ran to her room and drafted Silje’s second demand. It was easier than she expected. Years of spouting promotional bullshit turned out to be useful experience after all.

But the presentation had to be given at the right time. The next day, Irene entered the office expecting Silje to hit her again, and she was correct. It was fine. She’d acclimated. The pain was unwelcome, but the end was in sight, she hoped. If Silje had any decency in her, an idea Irene scoffed at, or at least wanted to act logically, the abuse would surely stop if she made it seem like she was surrendering. Waiting an extra day would make it seem like she was pouring thought into this, feeling more repentant, as if there were really something to be sorry for.

In fact, that night, she determined she would give it two more days. She would wait to be slapped and pause, tear up again, collapse to her hands and knees and say, “I deserve this.” Willingly submitting herself to physical abuse is what would trigger it. Silje would ask for further elaboration. Irene would put her forehead to the floor. She would first beg to be allowed to see her members. She would wail about how she (and not Silje) was the cause of their grief, and that she needed them to tell her how to improve. Silje would interject with some snide remark about Irene’s improvements, and Irene would ask to be taught, promising to listen and act on the feedback. Of course, she’d play the part of the penitent after the fact while in secret, employing the help of her members to figure out how to be freed and finally find some truth. All she had to do was be Silje’s obedient little girl. Just like her trainee days. Disgusting, but easy.

Then, she didn’t sleep. Irene’s mind swam with her plans that night. She leapt out of bed to create the next day’s report and pad it with pleasant stories, and to refine her confession.

The next day went perfectly. The sting in her cheek didn’t bring Irene down. If anything, it strengthened her will. She brought forth tears again, refusing to break down yet, praising herself mentally. She should have been an actor after Red Velvet.

She replayed her script so many times. She even practiced out loud. Reaching the end for the hundredth time, on her knees in the dark of the night, one fleeting thought passed by. She didn’t know what Silje would demand of her yet.

The next day was not so perfect. Irene’s report was ready, but her performance was not. The memory of her first night in the mansion returned with a vengeance. Silje’s lightning eyes pierced through time to stare at her. Throughout the day she found herself briefly freezing in place, wondering if she’d been poisoned or drugged again, or whatever happened that night. Her limbs shook as she walked to the office. If she remembered that night correctly, and she knew she did, the concept of “being Silje’s obedient little girl” became sinister. She dropped her tablet when Silje slapped her, and forgot about her plan.

Irene had to revise. She snuck into the kitchen, late, to get coffee. Jitters plagued her through the night. She didn’t think she’d be able to sleep anyway, so she didn’t. If she could come up with her own rehabilitation spiel, she could surely avoid whatever sick plot Silje was concocting. The sun came up, Mahia brought her breakfast, and she learned exactly when her members would be arriving. Four more days, not too long after Irene’s report for that day. That wasn’t too long. Focusing for four days was nothing Irene couldn’t handle.

Her report was fine. She was exhausted, but her ability to fake alertness was unparalleled. Her new script was ready, and all she needed was for Silje to strike, but Silje never even rose from her chair. Irene stood rigid, waiting.

“You can go, Ms. Bae.”

Those words shocked Irene more than the smack would have. She stepped out of the office, jittering as if the coffee from the night before was still coursing through her. Not a day had passed in weeks that she hadn’t been hit. “Why?” she asked the floor in her room. She was going crazy and she needed sleep, so she tried. She faded in and out, missing dinner and finding she was unable to get back to sleep once it was past midnight.

Irene stared at herself in the bathroom mirror. In every iteration of her plan, her speech always started when she got hit. Silje must have known somehow. The same thing would probably happen the next day. Irene needed another contingency. If only she could figure out how Silje was a step ahead.

The first night’s memory came back again. Irene felt her muscles locking up, and she needed to snap out of it. She glared into her own eyes and steeled her nerves, then slapped herself.

“I deserve this.”

Looking at the mark she left on her own cheek, processing her own reflexive words, Irene wrapped her hands around her shoulders. She didn’t deserve this.

Before she knew it, she woke up on the bedroom floor with an hour to get to Silje’s office.

“You look terrible, Ms. Bae.”

Irene blinked slowly. She knew how she looked. Silje didn’t need to say it. “I’m sorry.”

Either Silje moved impossibly fast, or Irene’s senses were having trouble keeping up. Her lack of motor control indicated the latter. Her hands lifted far too late to block Silje’s strike, and her mind caught up even later to tell her she shouldn’t have tried. “I deserve this,” she whispered.

“It’s good that you recognize that. Get some sleep tonight. I expect a proper report tomorrow.”

Clocks stopped mattering to Irene. They only conveyed chronology relevant to everybody else in the mansion. She didn’t deserve this. The sun’s rays and the moon’s glows weren’t indicative of the days and nights. All that mattered were her reports and the fact that she had to give two more before she could see her members again. “I deserve this,” she recited. She had to say it again, two reports in the future. After the next, she swore Silje hit harder, or more than once. It made no difference. She didn’t deserve this. It was only one more report until she could see Seulgi. “I deserve this.” Sleep in the afternoon or night or morning before was as sporadic and sparse as the next time frame. She didn’t understand. She didn’t deserve this.

Irene barely registered the transportation of her own feet to Silje’s office. She leaned against an armchair to stay upright while Silje remained behind her desk because she couldn’t remember the last time she ate. “The president issued the following statement about the integrated circuits shipment to the UK from last month…”

Her voice cracked. The office’s window had a high view of the mansion’s driveway, so she could clearly see Simone’s car pulling in. Simone had been scheduled to pick someone up from the airport. Irene dropped her tablet onto the chair and shuffled closer to the window. A voice in the back of her mind told her she was insane for walking past Silje, exposing her back to the most dangerous person she knew. That voice had nothing more to say when the car stopped and Yeri stepped out of the passenger seat.

“I deserve this,” Irene mumbled. She fell to her knees, barely able to watch over the windowsill as Joy, Wendy, and Seulgi exited the car as well. They looked so happy down there without her. They were laughing. “I deserve this, Silje. Please let me see them.”

“Stand up…”

Irene’s legs felt far too weak for that. And her words were no stronger. “I’ll do anything. Anything. I’ll be whatever you want me to be.”

“What nonsense are you talking about? Get. Up.”

Hot streaks ran down Irene’s face. She could only blubber between the beginnings of sobs. “Anything. P-please. Tell me what you want. I’ll do it.”

Silje’s jerk on Irene’s shoulder carried more power than it needed, twisting Irene around but also nearly throwing her to the floor. Irene’s vision was blurred, but she could still make out the blue of Silje’s eyes, impossibly high up. There would have been silence if not for Irene’s constricted whines.

“Finish your report, Ms. Bae, and you can see them.”

It was really that easy. Irene didn’t have to give a full presentation of any kind. She crawled back to her feet and dragged them to the front of the office. Her mind raced. That was it. Finish the report. She deserved this. It worked. The abuse was over, she was sure of it. She would see them so soon. Seulgi.

Irene’s mouth worked automatically, transferring information from her tablet into the air. She hoped it was enough. She wiped her cheeks and nose with the back of her arm. Her members couldn’t see her cry, or see that she was crying. That’s always how it was. They were allowed to be weak because she was strong. She deserved this.

She was done with the report. The text on the tablet wouldn’t scroll any further. Silje picked up her cell phone with one hand, twirling her scalpel with the other. Irene heard the muffled ringtone, followed by a muffled voice, then Silje. “Yes, Wendy! I hope the trip was lovely. I wanted to welcome you home with a small surprise. Could you and the girls come to my office, please…? Good. I’ll see you in a moment.”

Irene stared, silent and shaking. It was happening. Her knuckles turned white from her grip on the tablet.

Silje cocked an eyebrow. “They’ll be coming from the foyer.”

When Irene didn’t move, Silje jerked her chin at the door. Irene got the message. A surge of adrenaline coursed through her. She spun and flung the door open.

It was like seeing the light at the end of a tunnel. It was going to be an end to the suffering.

Suffering. Irene’s first night came back again. She felt so helpless, powerless, alone that night. Nobody was there to save her. Joy and Yeri weren’t there. Wendy wasn’t there. Seulgi wasn’t there. That wasn’t their fault. Irene loved them all the same, and she deserved this.

The adrenaline pumped again at the sound of Yeri’s voice around a corner. It was still distant, but it echoed, and there was no mistaking it. She sounded happy, the same way she and the others looked minutes earlier. It was good that they were happy.

Irene paused. The enormous, empty hallway seemed to grow longer. Her members were happy. She was miserable, and she might make them miserable too if they saw her like this. She deserved this.

The hallway shrunk and came into harsh focus as the first person rounded the corner. It was Seulgi. Irene didn’t care if she deserved this in that moment. She loved Seulgi. Seulgi knew she loved her.

Seulgi screamed and broke into a run toward her. Irene started walking again. She was doing what she was supposed to do. She didn’t cry. She deserved this. She loved Seulgi, and Seulgi closed half the distance before the other three came into view.

Unlike Irene, Seulgi cried. The closer they got, the more Seulgi broke. But when she slowed, arms outstretched for a hug, Irene broke too.

The crack of Irene’s palm striking Seulgi across the face echoed louder than Yeri’s voice did, and was followed by a stunned silence.

Irene lifted the same hand again. Seulgi’s glistening eyes went wide with disbelief. The hand came back down. The second attack was more of an inaccurate claw. Irene’s wrist clubbed Seulgi’s collarbone, and nails raked flesh. Seulgi dropped at the force.

In the background, Irene saw Wendy and Yeri bursting into sprints, but then her vision tunneled down to the crouched, cowering Seulgi. Irene’s other hand was still clenched around her tablet. She noticed Joy shrieking, but that was the last of her thoughts as she raised the device over her head.

“You deserve this!”

[batmanisagatewaydrug]

I'm a fairly new reader, so apologies if this isn't your thing, but do you have any scripts for negotiating consent and preferences? as an aspec lady without experience beyond my own vibrators who’s starting to experiment with a male partner for the first time I’m a bit stuck on how to communicate this - everything’s been perfectly lovely so far, but I’m also aware that I’ll probably enjoy myself a lot more and be more at ease if I can actually tell my partner what I want (1/2)

& I don’t want to kill the mood by saying he’s doing it wrong or implying he’s an idiot because he doesn’t know what I like yet(particularly as I’m used to getting myself off only with vibrators, so everything is still very experimental). do you have scripts for saying things like ‘I know we did this before but I don’t feel like it tonight (but I might want to another time)/I appreciate what you’re doing, but I actually prefer it this way’ while still keeping the mood even vaguely sexy? (2/2)

hi anon,

congrats on your foray into partnered sex! I have excellent news, which is that it appears you already know exactly how to communicate preferences to another person - you just did it right there, at the end of your ask! there's absolutely nothing wrong with either of those examples you provided; they're both perfectly suitable for communicating information.

given the way so many people talk about sex, it's easy to assume that there must be some secret sexy method of communication that you're supposed to use while you're boning in order to do it right, but nothing could be further from the truth. no matter what you're doing together - sex, scuba diving, stabbing Julius Caesar - you and your partner(s) are still the same people, and still need to talk to each other to make sure you're on the same page. "do you want to try this in a different position?" "do you have enough air?" "should we stab him again?" those are all important questions to make sure everyone is having a safe and fun time!

(I mean, except for Julius Caesar, but we're not worried about him right now.)

making sure that you and your partner are checking in with each other's needs, period, is more important than trying to do it in any particularly sexy manner. I'll actually raise your "I’ll probably enjoy myself a lot more and be more at ease if I can actually tell my partner what I want" to "you absolutely should not under any circumstances be having sex with someone if you can't tell them what you want." don't do it! bad!

of course, learning each other's communication style does take time - which is why it absolutely should NOT only happen during sex! talk about sex before, talk about it during, talk about it after. compare notes on what you're interested in, what's a hard no, what's working, what's not, how you feel after, what you want to do next time and what you wouldn't mind skipping in the future.

hell, talk about how you talk - if you're worried about him thinking that you're implying he's an idiot, make it very clear that that's never your intent! what a great excuse to have a serious conversation about how both of you like to give and receive information - that's information that's useful in every facet of a relationship with another person, not just sex!

if you're worried about ruining the mood - oh wow, don't be at all. you know what's sexier than anything? knowing that your partner is having a good time and would tell you if they weren't. anybody who has an issue with trying to set that standard in your sex life is Not Someone I Would Recommend Having Sex With.

[fishyfod]

The Good Conscientious Soldier; Winter Schnee

My government enforces mandatory enlistment to the Army to all citizens aged 18, just after high school. I refused to enlist, and had to officially pass an army committee to prove I'm a "valid" conscientious objector. There are many ways to avoid army service, and many reasons - which as far as I'm concerned, all are valid - but my main reason stems from my pacifism.

In a militaristic state like my own, my lack of servitude in the army - especially as a conscientious objector - is frowned upon. By everyone. I've had to defend my decision to more than just the official army committee (whose definitions of conscience are arbitrary at best), but also to strangers on the street, friends, family, and myself. One of the arguments I had to reason with, is what I call "the Good Conscientious Soldier".

RWBY Volumes 7 and 8 have managed to affect me in some unexpected ways. The show's good for many reasons, but the way these Volumes handle the themes of dismantling militarism and fascism in their very core means a lot to me. It's handled with care and excellent storytelling that are surprising, considering the show's weakest handled arc is the White Fang arc. The most surprising decision to me, was to make the Happy Huntresses - clearly, the very enemy of Atlas's militarism - be the confident heroes, assured that their decision to defect was true. Instead, the various soldiers take the role of the conflicted characters, the ones that struggle with their decision not to defect, but to serve. Most shows would have flipped this around, and RWBY did not.

The spotlight here is reserved to Winter Schnee, who impressed me greatly in Volume 7 with how her innate struggle between her conscience and her loyalty to the army was displayed. I have not seen many portrayals of this struggle that managed to satisfy me in their difficulty while still maintaining nuance.

The Good Conscientious Soldier is a difficult argument to resolve, I find, because it doesn't attempt to call your conscience into question - it weaponizes it against you. "Yes," the enlister agrees, "you've impressed me that your moral sense is great - but wouldn't that make you the perfect soldier? After all, if soldiers are committing immoral decisions - wouldn't it be better if a moral soldier like yourself, stands there in their place to prevent immoral actions from taking place? Isn't it then preferable, that if you wish to take action to fix our wrongs - you must change us from inside, serve in the army and show us the right way?"

Winter's actions in Volume 8, in particular episode 7, are extraordinary in a sense. After a Volume of struggling between her conscience and Ironwood, hurt after being left behind by Weiss and Penny alike, Winter finally listens to her moral compass and takes action. She commits the second worst offense any officer can do after defecting - she goes against orders. In letting Yang, Jaune and Ren go she disobeys Ironwood, her superior, deciding her sense of morality is more justified here. And she is correct, and her decision proves successful not only to the heroes and Oscar, but for the good of Atlas and Mantle. Monstra is blown up, Salem is temporarily neutralized.

The fallacy of the Good Conscientious Soldier argument, is not that soldiers cannot have conscience, or that their individual actions cannot possibly make things better. The fallacy is that the army is designed never to allow conscientious soldiers who would dare disobey orders to ever be where they are a nuisance. If you've proven to have an inflection towards disagreeing with your superiors, they will not put you where that disagreement can damage their plans. If you disobey orders in an attempt to make things right, you will be replaced by those who would follows orders right. You will be sent to trial, you will be judged, you will be punished - because you dared disobeying orders.

When the Army is faced with a conscientious soldier, the system self-corrects itself, and the anomaly will be removed. That is why the system cannot be changed from within, and why my refusal to enlist in the army must be total - I cannot, in good conscience, take any part in it.

In episode 10 of Volume 8, Winter Schnee’s attempt to make the right call - the moral one - is punished. She is caught red-handed, facing Ironwood - a dangerous fascist general who killed councilmen in cold blood, who abandoned a city and attempts to leverage its very existence for power, who imprisons her sister’s friends and just explained to her how he would extort their lives in “negotiation”, who wishes to violate the very humanity of her friend Penny. And she disobeyed his orders. Mark my words, she will be punished for this severely.

Militarism goes beyond the military, and bleeds into every aspect of society. First and foremost - schools. The education of making one a good soldier starts by making the army such an integral part of life, every pupil must coexistent with them as they learn. Servitude of the army becomes servitude of society. Lack of loyalty to your military and their actions, is betrayal of the very fabric of coexistence with your friends. Defection from the military is defection from your people.

Despite what some may think, the fact it was Harriet Bree that ratted out Winter is not what lead to this punishment. If Harriet Bree wasn’t there, someone else would’ve taken her place - and they would’ve done the exact same thing. Harriet Bree has reported for duty, just as she should have. Because Winter Schnee betrayed not just Ironwood, Winter betrayed Harriet, and made Harriet complicit in her insubordination. Winter effectively betrayed Atlas itself.

Winter is an excellent portrayal of the Good Conscientious Soldier, and I do not say this because I pity her. I am lucky in many ways this fictional character was not, and to look into her situation as if we are the same is self-centered. No, I say this because I value this portrayal, it touches me in ways I did not anticipate to feel from a cartoon show made in the US. I feel her struggle, I understand the difficulty, I want to see her overcome it. I’m rooting for her.

[gif by @chittychittyyangyang]

I hate to end this post on a sour note, but I cannot leave this unsaid. Some of you mocked Winter when she followed her conscience in Episode 7, and gloated as you watched Episode 10 and her insubordination was discovered. Fiction does not always reflect back to reality, but if in this case it does - then whatever form of anti-militarism you think you advocate for, it’s not genuine. Get off your high horse. Your anti-militarism is performative at best. I still hope, that this post was perhaps illuminating. Do with it what you will.

[ddarker-dreams]

Saturnine. Yan Chrollo x Reader [SMUT]

Tags/warnings: Dubcon, oral sex, creampie, my brain melting, condescending ???, Chrollo always has smth to say Word count: 2.2k. Note: it is finally done .

When gazing into the mirror, it should be easy to recognize the reflection staring back as your own. It’s the sight you’ve seen your entire life. Maybe the light in your eyes is less noticeable and your smiles no longer appear genuine, but in the end, it still physically bears your image.

You shiver at the chilly air kissing your bare skin, goosebumps erupting at the lack of clothing. Thin fabric clings tightly around your body, sheer and intricate in its lace design, yet astonishingly soft to the touch. It accentuates the swell of your chest, the black as midnight fabric stopping just shy above your midriff. A matching thong connects to sheer thigh highs through a garter belt to complete the set. Never in your life can you recall wearing such a lascivious outfit. Nor did you think you’d ever wear one for him.

Covering your exposed cleavage with your arms, you lower your head, fingernails pressing so harshly against your skin that it hurts. The pain serves to ground you in reality, proof that this is happening and not a dream.

“Did I… do this right?” You murmur, not used to how Chrollo is wordlessly assessing your trembling figure. Normally the air is full of conversation, equal parts rigid and provocative, a verbal game you’ve been forced to navigate. You still prefer the mind games over this maddening silence. You’re convinced he can hear the way your heart pounds viciously as if it was attempting to free itself from your body altogether, the current stress it’s under too much to withstand.

Chrollo moves a step closer and you take a deep, shaky breath. Grey eyes rake over your body, like a predator monitoring its prey, inspecting every inch of you. He spreads his fingers against your stomach, coarse fingers gliding over your skin, gradually moving upwards.

“Mm. You did perfectly.” His voice is rich and husky against your ear, spoken lowly so that only you may hear it. When his fingers reach their intended target, he cups your chest and lays his head on your shoulder. You watch his actions in the reflection of the mirror, glossy lips parting but no words managing to form on your tongue. Emotions swirl within you like an unrelenting vortex. Repulsion. Frustration. Shame. That it came to this, lowering yourself to a level you never wanted to be reduced to.

While you ruminate in your misery, Chrollo presses featherlight kisses from the crook of your neck to your jaw. His lips are soft and well taken care of, curling into a smile at how your pulse quickens. There are numerous mysterious surrounding Chrollo, but you do not doubt that he’s enjoying himself now. Your attention is brought back to his hands on your chest and how he kneads them. A blush ignites when you feel something hard press brush your ass, already guessing what it is.

“S-so you’re going to,” you struggle to get out, releasing a gasp when he suddenly pinches your nipple, “Keep… keep your promise, right?”

The clarification is for your peace of mind. An internal justification is necessary to continue with this illicit act, doubts plaguing your mind. You feel his chest rumble against your back, a deep chuckle leaving him. Regret comes swiftly, knowing that anytime you speak to Chrollo his responses sting deep, piercing your skin and festering.

One of his hands comes to your jaw, tilting your head back to look at him. The proximity has your eyes wide as a doe, his warm breath fanning against your face, dark tresses of hair tickling your face. His grip is tight but not painful. A not so subtle reminder of the Phantom Troupe leader’s innate strength, that goes beyond any measurement your mind could conjure up. Your squeeze your eyes shut when he leans forward, pressing a chaste kiss to the edge of your lips.

“What if I don’t?” Chrollo’s question has you frowning, eyelids fluttering open so you can shoot him a glare. He stares back unfazed, amusement visible from his closed mouth smile and relaxed posture, clearly not feeling intimidated by your little show. You decide to give it some thought, knowing he’ll scrutinize your response if not chosen carefully. Though, it’s admittedly difficult to concentrate when your face is burning up and his hand is still groping your chest.

Swallowing thickly, you arrive at a half-decent comeback. “I’ll… I’ll hate you.”

It sounded far better in your head.

Chrollo raises an eyebrow at your rebuttal but decides to entertain it. “Don’t you already?”

“I’ll hate you even more,” comes your reply, stumbling out before you could think it over. Luckily, or maybe unluckily, he doesn’t take visible offense. Instead, the bastard laughs again. Affectionately, Chrollo brushes his knuckles over your cheek, mirth dancing in his eyes.

“Even more, huh,” he hums, your nonsensical ramblings sounding worse when repeated back. “If that’s the threat I’m contending with, then I’ll be sure to stick to my word.”

You’re not exactly reassured by this, but decide to leave it for now. Suddenly, Chrollo steps back, freeing you from his grip. Before you can ask about what he’s doing, his hands start loosening his belt. Ah. So the time for negotiating is over. His dress pants fall, revealing a prominent bulge pushing against his briefs.

“Now get on your knees for me.”

It wasn’t a request. You do as he says, hyper-aware of how he’s staring at you, the tile from your shared master bedroom cold against your shins. To save what little modesty you have remaining, you readjust your bra so your chest no longer threatens to spill out. Heartbeat picking up in pace, you lift a shaky hand, palming his crotch through the fabric. 

The muscles in his thighs tighten, yet every other aspect of him remains thoroughly composed. Playing with the waistband, you slowly pull it down, revealing Chrollo’s half-hard member. It’s long, around six inches when erect, with a prominent vein that you’ve learned is rather sensitive. Precum is already leaking from the head, a sight that worsens the blush on your face.

Chrollo runs his hands through your hair, a quiet sigh leaving his lips. You pick up on the unspoken encouragement to not keep him waiting. Readjusting yourself into a more comfortable position, you take his dick fully into your hands, giving it a tentative stroke to test the waters. No verbal response. He’s excellent at maintaining his composure, creepy as it may be. Pumping his cock from the base, you bow your head down, eyelids fluttering shut as you kiss and lick the tip. That earns you a sharp inhale and a tightened grip but nothing else. Wetting your lips with your tongue, you continue licking the tip while jerking him off, noting that his cum has a slight salty taste to it.

Now that your confidence has somewhat been built up, you part your lips to take more of him in, getting adjusted to his size. Chrollo lets out a shaky exhale, fingers curling deeper into your hair. It’s difficult to get into a solid rhythm as your anxiety is unrelenting. Being so vulnerable in front of a person whose hands, which are now intertwined with your hair, have slaughtered countless people. 

He could do the same to you at any time, you think, despite his insistence for not wanting to. Hollowing out your cheeks, you manage to take more of him in, stopping just shy as not to activate your gag reflex. It makes your stomach churn when he lovingly strokes your cheek, looking down at you with eyes glazed over with crazed lust. Of course, he wouldn’t make this easy on you and act different — he continues with the delusion that this is love.

“Eager, now are we?” Chrollo laughs breathlessly. You decide to ignore the comment, too focused on having him finish so you can move on with your night. The low groans and whispers of your name are starting to affect you, a factor that only adds to your shame.. Pangs of heat are building up in between your legs, which you subconsciously rub together in a feeble attempt to relieve yourself. Chrollo quietly groans, content at the sight, dick twitching in your mouth. You wish he hadn’t noticed just how turned on you’re growing — not that you’re surprised with how unfairly observant he is — fully prepared for more scathing comments.

“I’m glad you stopped being so stubborn,” he pushes himself deeper into your mouth, gripping your head tightly enough not to let you move away, “So I can finally have my way with you.”

You wince at how he forces his dick down your throat, tears stinging the corners of your eyes and lungs screaming for air. Chrollo drinks in the sight, shuddering, bucking his hips, and pulling your face as tight against him as he can. You figure his release is getting closer from how erratic his movements are growing. At least it’ll be over soon. This line of thought is interrupted as he pulls away, saliva and cum connecting your mouth to his dick in a thin line, which has you frowning. Relishing the opportunity to regain yourself, your lungs greedily gulp in air, and you cough from his previous actions.

Chrollo extends a hand out to you which you hesitantly accept. The more human side is starting to show, his skin sheening with sweat, bare chest heaving for air much like yours, and black tresses sticking to the sides of his face. Your lips part, intending to ask why he stopped. He places both his just hands below your ass, hoisting you up as if you weighed nothing. Yelping, you struggle and cling to him as not to fall, eyes wide with confusion.

“W-what—”

“Wrap your legs around me,” he presses a chaste kiss to your forehead and you do as he says, scared that you’ll fall otherwise. “Mm. Good girl.”

Chrollo carries you over to the wall, your back pressing against the hard surface and feeling its coolness on your bare skin. After thinking about it for a moment, you understand what it is he intends to do next, tightening your grip around him. He positions the head of his cock against your opening, smiling at how wet you are. At least he’s too focused to comment on your current state. You look to the side, not wanting to see the pleased expression you know is on his face.

“I’ll take care of you after,” Chrollo promises, slowly pushing himself inside you. You take a deep breath, gripping his shoulders tightly, fingernails digging into his skin. At least he’s allowing you to adjust. You yelp when he grabs a fistful of your hair, tugging it so that you look him dead in the eye. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Hm?”

A half-choked out moan leaves your lips as he fills you, feeling his sizeable length stretching you out.

“Y-yes,” You pant, carnal desire outweighing any solid reasoning at the moment. Chrollo continues to pound relentlessly into your cunt, burying his face in your neck. He’s coming undone, fucking you with a strength that has you breathless. You catch occasional guttural groans of your name and don’t want to admit how nice it sounds.

“I always knew you’d come around.” 

The sound of skin on skin fills the room, mixed in with his grunts and your moans. Squeezing your ass, his thrusts grow erratic, before he finally stills. Chrollo releases deep inside you, pulling you down onto him, hot ropes of cum filling you and seeping out.

He grits his teeth, shuddering at his release. All is still for a moment aside from your heavy chests. Chrollo gathers himself before you do, slowly pulling himself out. You feel his cum as it drips out of you and bite your lip at the possible implications. Everything is so warm and your body feels terribly sore, having to clutch onto him for stability when he puts you back down. Chrollo doesn’t seem to mind this, laughing as he runs his hands through your mousled hair.

“How precious.”

You yelp when he picks you up, bridal style this time, your face pressing against his chest.

“It looks like you needed some help there, dear.” Chrollo hums, placing you down onto the bed with a gentleness you weren’t used to. There’s no way any normal human could be this collected already. Taking deep breaths, you attempt to calm yourself, not wanting to be completely undone before him. Chrollo watches with intrigue while you do so, his eyes piercing through your trembling body. When you finally manage to get your breathing steady, he gently pushes your shoulders down and spreads your legs.

“Now, about that promise of mine,” he presses open-mouthed kisses from your ankle to your thighs, “I intend to keep it. We’ll keep going until you’re no longer able to stand.”