#on a microscopic level and it’s not fair and I know you’re tired and so I have to accept idk what all of this but I’ll be happy for you

[gentlesounds]

.

[yandere-daydreams]

Omgg!! Requests are open yay!! Um how about Yandere bakugo & izuku (poly if u can if now u can choose which one) chasing their female s/o, and punishing them once they catch them? 👀

It’d be a shame not to, even if I choose to leave Izuku out of this one. He and Katsuki would certainly have an /interesting/ approach, but with all the talk of Protective Yanderes lately, I thought it would be nice to see them in-action.

Title: Short Sighted. 

TW: Implied Injury, Mentions of Blood, and Emotional Manipulation. 

~

Running hadn’t been your brightest idea.

To be fair, it wasn’t your only idea, either. You’d thought about ways to steal Katsuki’s car, to slip a note into his pocket or work a message into something that would reach the outside world, to escape in a graceful, careful way that would give you a headstart rather than one that would be so painfully obvious. You’d known he was keeping trapped you outside of the city, that you wouldn’t be able to sprint for it and pray someone was there to help you, and yet, you hadn’t been able to stop yourself. The moment you were behind a locked door, Katsuki having come home tired enough not to care if you showered on your own, you’d panicked. You’d stopped thinking, stopped being cautious, and you could only hope you’d live to regret it. Knowing Katsuki, you’d regret that, too.

You tried to run, and you shouldn’t have.

Something so simple was never going to work.

It was humiliating, even if there was no one else there to watch. Katsuki, teeth grit and brow furrowed and you, barefoot and bleeding from the window you’d broken, your head bowed and your vision still more blurry than it should’ve been. You’d been free for an hour, give or take, and you’d spent that time screaming and tripping over gnarled routes, being utterly useless to yourself and everyone else. There was nothing you could’ve done better, but if felt like there should’ve been. Stealth might have helped for a time, but Katsuki still would’ve found you, only prolonging your impulsive misery. An earnest fight might’ve made you feel better, but Katsuki never took kindly to active rebellion. His hold on you was iron-clad, your wrist beginning to ache underneath his fist, but it was better than being dragged back by the roots of your hair, or thrown over his shoulder only to be tossed into a cold, cramped basement until he saw fit to forgive you. This way, he’d coddle you, treat you like you weren’t responsible enough not to run away. Like you were an unruly child who threatened to leave home whenever you didn’t get your way.

Eventually, he came to a stop, throwing a narrow glance over his shoulder when you tripped, attempting to avoid a collision. He was standing at the edge of an unpaved backroad, an immobile vehicle serving as a depressing backdrop to his display of superiority. Katsuki released you, turning swiftly and leaning against the passenger-side door. You wouldn’t try to run, not again, and he knew that. “On your knees,” He commanded, crossing his arms, his stare never wavering. “Now. I’m not repeating myself for an ungrateful brat.”

So much for coddling.

Slowly, you dropped to your knees, the position stiff, awkward, microscopic rocks and pieces of debris biting into your skin, forming indents you were sure would be visible later on. You crossed your arms, too, but it didn’t hold the same dominating air Katsuki’s posture did. You just looked weak, holding yourself like that would stop you from shaking.

Katsuki squared his shoulders. “I want an apology. I didn’t bring you here just to sit pretty and gape at me like a fucking moron.”

You swallowed, hoping that would ease your nerves and undo the knots your vocal cords had tied themselves into. It did little to aid either cause. “I’m sorry,” You started, keeping your gaze trained on his shoes. “I was thinking about my old apartment and all the people I used to know, and I got scared. I thought I might never see them again. I was… I was afraid.” You paused, biting down on the inside of your cheek. Trying to think of what he wanted to hear. “I know it’s unrealistic, though. I probably can’t walk to the city, and everybody stopped talking to me before you…  They probably don’t want to see me. They probably wouldn’t believe me, if I told them where I went.”

He nodded, pursing his lips. “I’m the only person who’d take your pathetic ass seriously. Do you have anything else to say?”

“I probably shouldn’t have tried to run away,” You admitted, honestly, a theme you couldn’t uphold as you continued. “You take care of me. You give me a place to stay, and you feed me, and I don’t really have a reason to want to leave.” Not when Katsuki was in a good mood, anyway. “I wasn’t thinking. Really, I’m sorry, Bakugo.”

He frowned. He frowned, then he nodded, his hands dropping to his sides as he stepped forward. You didn’t dare look up, not until a calloused palm came to rest on the top of your head, pressing down lightly as he spoke. “That’s my angel. You fucked up, but you’re smart enough to see that. I’m proud of you.”

The praise was sterile, only a level above joyless. Katsuki was never exceptionally compassionate, but you accepted it nonetheless, tilting your head back just enough to see the collar of his dark denim jacket, hastily pulled over a shirt that would’ve been more enough for the warm weather. It was white, though, and you could assume Katsuki didn’t want to draw attention. His pride as a Hero, you guessed.

Wordlessly, he helped you to your feet, holding your hand in a tight, careful grip and opening one of the rear-doors, silently instructing you to sit down. You didn’t question it, just climbing inside and letting your legs dangle out of the opening, your hands folded politely in your lap. “We’re going home, right?” You asked, smiling up at him tentatively. “I just want to go home, ‘suki.”

He didn’t answer, not immediately. Rather, he kneeled in front of you, kissing the space just below your thigh as he lowered himself onto one knee. Rough fabric brushed against your ankle, then encased it completely, and abruptly, you realized only one of his hands was bare. He was wearing a modified gauntlet on the other, sleek and skin-tight, but just as effective as the real thing.

A gauntlet that was now pressed against the base of your calf, his other hand bracing the opposite end. The reason why occurred to you much too gradually, giving dread time to flow in just as your relief had begun to settle.

“I’m so proud of you,” He repeated, his voice more solicitous, now. Indulgent and heavy with hidden betrayal. “But, you’re going to get hurt if you keep trying to run away, and I know you’re going to try again. That’s why I have to do this, alright? I’m taking care of you, just like you said. I’m making sure you can’t get yourself killed.”

You shook your head, opening your mouth, but an argument failed to emerge. There was nothing you could say that would stop him, not when you could already feel the weight against your skin, the pressure put on bones that suddenly seemed far too delicate. You made a half-hearted effort to reach down and stop him before you realized how breakable your fingers were. You choose to hide them away, inside, to dig your nails into your palms and ignore the sharp sting of pain that followed. You could protect that part of yourself, at least.

Something cracked. Katsuki laughed.

“I’m doing this for your own good,” He promised, a chuckle still lacing the edges of his voice. “Close your eyes. This is only going to hurt for a second.” 

[gripefroot]

Sprite 2.0 [1/6]

“Thanks for coming to help me, Nat.” Your words echo in the nearly deserted lab from where you’re bent over a microscope slide. Squinting into the lens, you twist a knob slightly, and the molecules come into focus. You pull away to scribble some notes onto a notepad.  

“No problem, sprite. Upstate was getting boring, anyway.”  

You glance up to see Natasha’s smile. She’s sitting in front of three separate computer monitors, sorting through AIM encrypted files for you. Not a very glamorous job for the Black Widow, but she seems content enough.  

“Besides,” she adds, with a furtive stare. “I wanted to know how you and Barnes are doing.”

You feel your cheeks warm, and look back into the microscope, adjusting the zoom slightly. “We’re doing well. He likes being in the city again.” 

“Compound isn’t the same without the two of you.” 

“Oh, please,” you say. “You sound like Sam. We’re still there plenty.” 

“I feel like I’m the only sensible one left, now that Hope and Scott went back to California.” 

“Can’t argue with that.” 

“S-o-o-o-o…” Natasha says, her fingers clicking away on the keyboard. “You tap that, yet?” 

“Nat!”  

“Sam wants to know.” 

“It’s none of Sam’s business,” you say, aghast. “Really!” 

“I just told him I’d ask. I didn't say I’d get an answer.” Nat’s eyes flick to you, and she grins with a wink.  

“Good. Because you aren’t getting one.” 

The screen on one of the monitors begins flashing red, throwing off the light on your microscope. Frustrated, you look up and see an unintelligible message on the screen.  

“Bingo,” Nat says. “It’s a dead Kree coding system. Gotta give AIM some points for that.” 

“So they’re smart one time.” You push back in your swivel chair, striding over to where Nat was sitting and staring over her shoulder. “I don’t get it,” you say blankly. 

“I don’t have a translation, just key recognition,” she tells you. “Know anyone fluent in old Kree?” 

“No. You?” 

“I’ll have to ask Tony.” Nat removes the flash drive, one of the last uncracked drives from the stash which had been retrieved from those AIM facilities all those months ago. All of Dr. Banner’s notes had been retrieved and were in the process of experimentation in one of the lower levels of Tony’s New York lab system. You usually worked there, but Tony had put a priority on this last flash drive. You had called Natasha right away, unashamed to give her the tech to deal with while you continued to document the effect of vita rays on microbes.  

“Are you staying the night?” you ask her as she shuts down the computer. You busy yourself packing away the microbes in vacuum-sealed containers.  

“Nah. I like my own bed, even if Sam likes to wake me up early for a run.” 

“I appreciate you coming down, Nat. Really.”  

She stretches her arms over her head with a yawn. “Waiting between missions is boring. Call me down anytime. Even if you just want to gossip about your boyfriend. I’m always up for girl talk.” 

You promise to do so, and with a grin and a wink Natasha heads to the elevator back up to the roof where her jet is waiting. A final wave, and you flick off the microscope. 

It’s late; the windows of the lab are already dark, with the twinkling, colored lights of the Manhattan skyline in the distance. You shrug out of your lab coat and are hanging it in the supply closet when a tapping on the glass doors from the hallway catches your attention.  

Bucky, wearing all-black and looking tired, smiles when you meet his eyes. The physical effect of his presence is immediate: a hot churning of the stomach as your heart thumps uncomfortably. It seems like he warrants a stronger reaction every time you see him. It doesn’t feel fair. 

“Hey,” he says when you exit at last, offering you a hand. You take it, starting down the hallway.  

“Sorry for the late night,” you tell him with a weary sigh. “But Nat finished the decryption. Now we just need a translator.” 

“For what? Anything I know?” 

“Kree, Bucky.” 

“Ah.” His face pinches in a comical frown. “Yeah, I can’t help.” 

Laughing, you nudge his shoulder with yours, and he grins down at you.  

“And how was your day?” you ask. Bucky shoulders through the door to the staircase (he detests elevators), and begins descending the steps.  

“Boring. I’m beginning to think Tony was punishing me when he assigned me to security detail on this lab.” 

You poke him in the side with a glare. “You get to work with me, you goober. It’s a reward!” 

“Well, you are a reward. The security - ” Bucky gives a shrug. “Not so much.” 

Bubbling warmth fills you at his words, and with a smile you bump into his arm again. Obligingly, returning your smile, he wraps his arm around your shoulders as you exit the lab into the cool night air.  

The apartment that you are staying in (paid for by Tony), is on the same block as the lab. A quick walk. Up the stairs again, and you fumble for your keys to unlock the door. You can feel Bucky and his radiating energy beside you, standing near enough that his hot breath is on your neck. Your fingers shake on the key.  

“Let me.” His warm, steady fingers cover yours, and you drop your hand to your side, palm sweating.  

Why did you have to say anything, Nat? you wonder woefully. It only made things worse. 

The apartment is dark. Unable to meet Bucky’s eyes you wander around, flicking on lights. No Jarvis here. A meowing from the couch draws your attention, and before you can coo a greeting to your cat, she jumps off the couch to wind her lithe body around Bucky’s ankle as he deadbolts the door.  

“Traitor,” you mutter.  

Bucky looks up, and smiles. “I’m sorry, sprite. You know I didn’t mean to make Ruby fall in love with me.” He leans down to scratch the calico head. She purrs in return, arching her furry neck gracefully. How can you be surprised that Ruby’s alliance changed to Bucky? He is warmer than you, even if his opinion on felines is mostly indifferent.  

“Hungry, sweetheart?” 

You glance over to make sure Bucky is addressing you - he is - and try to disguise the little quiver that makes your legs shake. It’s a better nickname than sprite, by a long shot, but it affects you in a dramatically different way. You try to calm your breathing. 

“Yeah. Yeah, let’s make something.” 

It’s quiet, sitting at the dining table in the kitchen. You’ve tucked your toes beneath Bucky’s legs, and despite the comfort his nearness brings, you have little appetite. Two worries, both brought on by Nat’s presence, battle in your mind. Mostly you just push the pasta around your plate, frowning at it.  

“Something wrong?” Bucky’s voice jolts you, and you glance up to meet his eyes with a strained smile.  

“Just wondering what other plans AIM had besides replicating Dr. Banner’s experiments,” you admit. “A Hulk I understand. But what else? What are they hiding in a dead alien language?” 

Bucky frowns, setting down his fork with a clatter. He folds his arms across his chest, his eyes intent upon yours. You gulp at the flush of heat that crawls up your neck.  

“Well, they’re scientists,” he says reasonably. “Physicists and biologists, led by some maniac who wants to subvert the world. What complementary work might they want to go along with their...Hulk army?” 

“That’s what I want to know,” you say, feeling irritable.  

“If it was you - what would you want? Backup weapons in case the Hulks get out of control? Mind control? Hacking tech?” 

“You think of these things too easily.” You force a smile, but Bucky only shrugs. 

“I was trained to.” 

You hear the hint of darkness in his tone, and regretting your words, you reach across the table to place a hand on his arm. Instantly the crease to his brows vanishes, and he gives a hollow laugh.  

“C’mon, sprite. Where’s your imagination?” 

You wrinkle your nose, thinking fast and speaking slowly. “If it were me...an army, even one that’s Hulk-ified, can’t be everywhere at once. You want to take over the world, you need to be everywhere. I’d want something that can control...you know, everywhere.” 

Bucky nods. “And as a bio-physicist yourself, that would be in the form of…?” 

“Oh, I don’t know. I’m not clever enough to think of anything.” You laugh, disliking the mood that had taken over the kitchen. Bucky notices this, and his shoulders relax. He jerks his head towards your half-eaten dinner.

“Gonna finish that?”  

“Nope.” You push it towards him, smiling. “All yours.” 

After team-cleaning the kitchen, you forgo your usual evening activity of compiling your experiment notes for your dissertation and instead change straight into your pajamas and burrow into bed. There, with only the dim light from the hall spilling into your bedroom, you had hoped to find peace. But still there was none.  

Bucky enters a few minutes later, turning off the light and closing the door behind him. You listen to the familiar sounds as he removes his clothing. The bed dips as he slides in beside you.  

“Did you take your meds?” you ask in a mumble.

“Of course.” He kisses the top of your head, and you feel heat spread from where his lips had touched. You shiver.  

“Good night, Bucky.” 

“G’night, sweetheart.” He rolls onto his back.  

Curled up and aware of the welcome heat he brought, you find that sleep is evading you. Minutes tick by, and needing to stretch, you flop onto your back to stare at the dark ceiling.  

“Bucky?” you say softly. “You awake?” 

“Yeah.” 

Usually he’s out by now. Judging by the grogginess in his voice, he could be - was he staying awake because you awake? He always seemed to know when you were asleep. Of course; having super hearing would allow him to know.  

“Still thinking about AIM?” Bucky asks in a mumble to your silence.  

“No.” You lace your fingers atop the comforter, glad that he can’t see your expression. Your lips are pressed together, as you waver between saying something and saying nothing. You grimace.  

“Then what is it?” 

He always knew. Steadying your nerves, you say as nonchalantly as you can manage, “Sam wants to know if we’ve...done it.” 

Silence. Then the bed covers rustle as Bucky shifts onto his side. Though you don’t look at him, you know he’s looking intently at your face. The telltale sign of a hot flush can’t be ignored.  

“He had Nat ask me,” you add. “I told her it was none of his business.” 

“I wouldn’t have been so nice.” There’s an ironic edge to Bucky’s voice, and you onto your side to meet his eyes. Barely visible in the dark, but glittering. You wrap your hand around his flesh wrist, feeling his muscles shift under your touch.  

“Do you want to talk about it?” you ask quietly.  

A tick flickers in his jaw, but after a moment he lets out a sigh, eyes closing briefly. “I don’t know. I...don’t want you to hate me.” 

“I wouldn’t.” You shift closer to him. Legs tangle together, and you rest your head on his metal arm as his fingers reach up to stroke the ends of your hair. 

“When I was in France,” Bucky says after a moment. “Going to the front. The men in my battalion were...scared. Made a vow amongst themselves not to die virgins.” He pauses. “There was a French girl. At a USO club.” Another pause. “I regret it. She deserved better than a soldier who left for war the next morning.” 

“Hmm.” Your fingers press gently into the hot skin of his neck, feeling the tension.  

“And...in Siberia.” There’s a new catch in his voice. Soft, but strong as steel. “After I was turned into the Winter Soldier, they experimented. Wanted to know if the serum could be passed on. Genetically.” 

There it was. You wince, holding him tighter. “I’m sorry, Bucky. I shouldn’t have asked.” 

“Don’t be sorry.” His lips are on your forehead. “I should’ve said something sooner. I...I’m not very good at this.” 

You lift your face, giving Bucky a severe glare. “You’re wonderful, Bucky. Not perfect, but who is?” 

“You.” He kisses the tip of your nose, and you giggle.  

“Oh, please. If it makes you feel any better, I’ve only had lousy boyfriends in college. We can be miserable together.” 

He gives a grunt, fingers now trailing up and down your spine. Goosebumps were breaking out across your skin, which he could probably feel through your shirt. Traitorous body.  

“Eighty years ago,” Bucky says slowly, after a moment. “I probably would’ve married you. But things are different now. I don’t understand it very well. I don’t know what to do.” 

“It’s ok.” Your eyes close, lulled by his even breathing, his solid warmth. It’s easier to ignore the effect he has on you if you pretend to be falling asleep. Bucky shifts, growing tense beside you. And then...you notice. Evidently you have had an effect on him in turn. You smile a little to yourself - it’s not the first time, by any means. The habit of sleeping together made for many sorts of revelations, especially in the mornings. It was comforting to know, despite his many issues, this was not one of them.  

“If you want,” his husky voice is in your ear, and you jolt slightly, “We can try. I don’t know...how it would be.” 

“Trying is good,” you say, barely able to swallow. “I mean - I understand if you don’t want to, Bucky - ” 

“I do want to. I want to be normal. I want you to know that I love you.” His fingers lace with yours, and your breath catches as he dips his head, lips brushing against your neck.  

“I already know you love me,” you whisper. 

“Let me show you.” Bucky’s lips brush against yours tantalizingly, then he pulls his head back to gaze down at you. A dark curtain of hair falls around his face, and his eyes are blazing. All the feelings you’ve been repressing for the last months return in full force. The sensation of his body moulding to yours is making you dizzy. Waves of prickling heat and desire cause your heart to pound and your hands to shake as you hold onto Bucky’s shoulders for dear life. Licking your lips, you can only stammer, “Oh...o-okay…”

Thank you, Nat, you think fervently. Thank you for sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.

continue

[stitchlesswitch]

It’s 2am & I officially cant help myself

I can’t do the break thingy read below at your own risk

White witches who use the term smudging are the Karen’s of the witch community

Hot take: if someone accuses you of doing X and you respond with: “how dare you!!! I would never do X! I’m going to _____ you!” Then regardless of whether or not you actually did X, you’re reinforcing the negative consequences that come with coming forward and calling out X. Guilty or not, you’re encouraging others to stay quiet or else. And that makes you every bit as shitty.

I was donating blood and was thinking about the screening. They do incredibly thorough screening about sexual activity and drug use that is correlated with higher risk of blood pathogens. When you answer questions no I never did drugs etc etc and then you go with a technician to check your iron and temperature they ask you again. From the time you answered the questions did you do drugs? Indicating, that at some point, some bloke answered no I never did drugs on the questionnaire and then immediately shot up heroine or whatever before seeing the nurse.

And in all that screening, not once, do they check for intoxication. Not even so much as a: “have you been drinking?” I asked the tech and she said, well if we think they are we can defer them. And I said well technically they can have a Blood Alcohol Level without displaying signs and she goes well, it’s microscopic it wouldn’t affect the patient that much. And I was like are you telling me that someone who is having surgery and likely either has a medical condition, prescriptions, or both would not be affected by intoxicated blood? And she goes, well actually recent studies found that most significant quantities of a substance found in our blood is caffeine! And I said don’t change the subject

Me: Gets up in the morning, stays up all day, does stuff and is tired. Gets in bed at a good time, turns off the lights and electronics. Is thoroughly exhausted.

My body: well what do you want us to do ???? About it ?????? Tap foot?? We can tap foot

I’m sorry, I know this is gruesome and I don’t intend it to be, but it’s not fair that we can’t voluntarily allow our remains to be eaten by other voluntary participants. I can donate my organs, but it stops there? These thighs go to waste ? I’m curious but not enough to commit murder you know? You’re telling me that legally no one can offer me their left over muscle and fatty tissue to be properly cooked in the name of consensual curiosity?? Get Gordon Ramsay on the phone

I mean I guess if you wanted someone to be stuck like whether you want them to stay stuck in a situation, or you don’t want them to be able to escape or forget something, you could write their name + the thing you want them to be stuck with/in and put it in a jar of petroleum jelly. Dab some on the underside of the lid, put the paper on there, dab more over it. Just an idea I had idk

That’s all folks

[worryinglyinnocent]

Fic: Dead Man Walking (5/?)

It’s been 84 years! Enjoy nonetheless.

Summary: Prime Ministers don’t normally wake up in morgues after they’ve been murdered, but that’s exactly what Robert Sutherland has just done. Right in front of Lacey’s nose. With limited resources and not knowing who to trust, Sutherland and Lacey must work together to get to the bottom of the attempted assassination.

Based loosely on this dream I had.

Rated: T, eventually E.

Note: This is meant to be ‘darkly humorous and amusing mystery’ rather than ‘gripping political thriller’…

[One] [Two] [Three] [Four] [AO3]

—

Dead Man Walking

Five

Lacey was alone in the living room with Sutherland. Mrs de Ville had vanished off somewhere and Carrie was outside talking to Ursula about the best way to get into Chequers without being questioned, trying to convince the taxi driver that everything was perfectly above board, honest. 

Before, when it had just been her and Sutherland in the morgue, it hadn’t been anywhere near as awkward as it was now. Before, there had been much more urgency, and Sutherland had been a lot groggier from having just died and come back to life, and Lacey had had a lot more to focus on than the fact she was alone with the Prime Minister.

Now that she didn’t have to worry about someone coming along and finding them and she didn’t have to worry about keeping him safe from a bunch of civil servants who were probably the ones to kill him in the first place, things were much more awkward. For some reason, she kept replaying the moment she’d run into the morgue in her mind, and she could barely string more than two thoughts together before something in her brain would helpfully remind her that she’d seen the Prime Minister naked and that he did have a rather nice arse. 

To be honest, the rest of him wasn’t too bad either. He’d look better if he weren’t quite so stressed, but Lacey had always had a bit of a soft spot for silver foxes. She might not agree with his party line, but that didn’t mean that she couldn’t find the man himself objectively attractive. 

The silence in the living room stretched on, and Lacey wondered what she ought to say to fill it, rather than just sitting here staring at the man until someone came to rescue them from this void. 

Thankfully, Sutherland spoke first. 

“Thank you,” he said. “I don’t think that I really had the chance to express my gratitude back when we were in the hospital before, everything was a bit…”

“Frantic?” Lacey suggested. 

“Yes.” Sutherland sighed. “I do really appreciate all your help. I think that there are quite a few people in your position who would have been quite happy to leave me to my fate. Or finish the job, you know.”

Lacey snorted. “Oh, believe me, I’ve been tempted over the last couple of years, and you and I are still going to have a discussion about student loan forgiveness at some point. But, ultimately, I’m a decent human being and I like to believe that you are too. And, you know, murder is bad, even if it does happen to people you don’t like.” She paused. “Well, it’s not that I don’t like you.” Good grief, why was she trying to justify herself? She’d saved the man’s life and snuck him out of the hospital; she didn’t need to be friends with him so why was she trying to ingratiate herself? “More that I don’t like your policies and the way your party thinks.”

“Fair enough.” Sutherland drained his coffee and made a face. “You’re right, maybe this experience has served to put me off coffee a bit.”

Lacey laughed. “I told you so. You know, when I was growing up, I always thought that politics was the most boring thing ever and I couldn’t believe that anyone would want to be Prime Minister. Now it’s got a lot more exciting. Although, that said, I still can’t believe that anyone would want to be Prime Minister when the rate of assassination just went up by a hundred per cent.”

“It would only have gone up by a hundred per cent if they had actually succeeded,” Sutherland pointed out.

“According to everyone who isn’t us, they did succeed.” Lacey shrugged. “Face it, you’re in a dangerous line of work. Not as dangerous as being the American president though. We’ve still got a while to go before we catch them up in terms of assassinated premiers.”

She paused, thinking deeply into her long-perceived notions of politics and politicians. Since she had one here, the top dog no less, she might as well get a few things off her chest. “Why did you want to become Prime Minister anyway?”

Sutherland sighed. “Because I thought that I could change the country and make people’s lives better. It’s only once you get into government that you realise just how hard that is. Power is always limited, and so it should be – think what would happen if there were no restraints in place.”

Lacey nodded. “Power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely.”

“Exactly. It’s something that you’re all too aware of when you get to be in my position.”

“Ever been tempted?”

“What?”

“Ever been tempted to use your power for evil? I mean, come on, we’re slap bang in the middle of an excellent villain origin story here. Poisoned and left for dead by the people you trusted…”

Sutherland scoffed. “I wouldn’t trust Sir Albert as far as I could throw him.”

“You’re ruining my narrative here!” Lacey sighed. “Why do I bother? I should have left you in the morgue.”

She didn’t mean it, and the worst thing was that she knew Sutherland knew she didn’t mean it as well. He gave a little chuckle, but it came out more tired than anything, turning into a yawn that he tried and failed to mask.

It served to remind Lacey of how late it was – well, how early now, given that it was long past midnight – and that she too was running on empty. She wondered how long this limbo was going to last. She had done her part, so to speak, delivering the Prime Minister into safe hands, and yet here she was still, for some reason unwilling to go home and consider her job done.

She tried to justify it to herself by saying that Carrie couldn’t possibly allow her to go home now and possibly ruin the secret of Sutherland’s survival, but she knew deep down that she still felt the same sense of responsibility towards him that had driven her to get him out of the hospital in the first place. It was the same acute sense of justice that had fuelled her in her current career path – the need to see victims vindicated and the perpetrators of the crimes against them punished.

“I have to say, although I’ve not met many forensic scientists in my time, you’re not at all how I imagined one would be,” Sutherland said presently, startling Lacey out of her train of thought. Spooky that he should mention it just as she was pondering it herself.

“Well, it’s not all the glamour of CSI,” she said. “Not that CSI is all that glamorous most of the time. Most of it’s sitting in laboratories looking through microscopes. And not all forensic scientists are nerds in lab coats like procedurals would have you believe. Some of us ride mopeds and rescue politicians in our spare time.”

She leaned back in her chair, running a hand through her hair and wishing it were possible for her to teleport out of the situation, get a few hours’ sleep in her own bed, then blink back in as if nothing had happened and continue the conversation. She didn’t want to leave Sutherland and Carrie to fend for themselves against whatever internal workings had brought them to this, but at the same time, she wasn’t really sure what she, Ursula and Mrs de Ville could do to help them.

She was saved from any further awkwardness by the entry of the lattermost into the room again.

“I’ve made up the spare beds,” she said, completely matter of fact. “I for one have been completely exhausted by this ordeal and if my errant daughter doesn’t come back in here soon I shall go to bed without saying goodnight or getting the latest in the plan off her.” She paused. “Although, that said, if Ursula wants to stay over as well, then people will have to start bunking up.”

Her gaze travelled from Sutherland to Lacey and back again, giving a sage nod before she disappeared out of the room.

Lacey leapt out of her seat, following the older woman out, not for any reason other than to get away from Sutherland’s physical presence whilst she also had the mental image of bunking up with him. She should not be finding the Prime Minister, of all people, this attractive. She definitely should not be thinking about sleeping with him. She absolutely should not be thinking about sleeping with him when he’d been functionally dead just a few hours ago. The poor man would need rest and recuperation, not riding into the mattress.

Although, given his current levels of stress, perhaps riding him into the mattress would provide the relaxation that he needed.

She stepped out into the driveway, where Carrie and Ursula were still very confidential beside the taxi. Carrie noticed her.

“Are you leaving us, darling?” she asked. “I was going to ask if you wanted to participate in the great expedition.”

Lacey shook her head. “No, no. I’m still here. I’m in this deep already, I might as well stick it out to the end.”

Ursula nodded. “That’s the principle I’m working on too. Anyway, we’re off to Chequers and praying we don’t get killed. Are you coming?”

“No, I don’t think so. Someone’s got to stay here and keep an eye on Sutherland. We don’t want anyone coming and finishing the job, and no offence to your mum, but I think she might need back up.”

“No offence taken. I’d best let her know that we’re going. Actually, can you do that, darling? If I tell her then she’ll want to come too, and whilst I just about managed to keep her reigned in at the hospital, I don’t trust her in the vicinity of government buildings. Wish us luck! We’re going to need it!” She flung herself into the back of the taxi and waved out of the window.

“We’re going to need more than luck,” Ursula muttered as she got into the driver’s seat. “We’re going to need a bloody miracle.”

The taxi backed out of the driveway just as the sun was beginning to come up, and Lacey felt the events of the day beginning to weigh heavy on her shoulders. All she really wanted now was a nap, but she had thrown her lot in with Carrie and Sutherland for better or worse.

Just as she was turning to go back inside and ponder her next steps, her phone buzzed with the arrival of another message. It was from her father again, and she remembered that she had never responded to his first frantic question of if she had stolen the Prime Minister.

Where are you? Is everything all right?

Lacey felt a sharp pang of guilt that her dad was so worried about her. Although she didn’t want to tell him the full extent of what was going on, she knew that she had to let him know that she was safe. Before she could reply, another message arrived.

Is you-know-who alive?

She snorted, immediately reminded of Harry Potter, and typed out a quick response. She loved the fact that he was using a strange little kind of code, but then again, she wouldn’t put it past the government to be tapping their phones whilst all this upheaval was going on and the Civil Service were desperately trying to find the Prime Minister’s corpse.

Yes, y-k-w is alive. I am safe and well and hiding out with him. Being taken care of by an old lady with a taste for gin and cigarette holders. I’ll tell you everything tomorrow. Well. Later today.

She paused before sending and added: I’ll call you at midday.

Hopefully by then, she’d have more of a plan, and if something did go terribly wrong and she ended up imprisoned in a basement at Chequers, or, in a terrible worst case scenario, in a morgue herself, then her dad would know to send out a search party if she didn’t check in.

His response came a moment later.

Stay safe, Lace. Keep y-k-w safe too.

She smiled and stepped back into the house, closing the door on the world outside and hoping that whatever Carrie and Ursula got up to at Chequers, they would be both successful and quick about it, so that her life could continue back on the nice and boring course that it had been taking before.

Lacey already knew, however, that it would likely never be quite the same again.

[sburbian-sage]

BIG SMASHY

The alchemy system allow for a frankly dummy number of different weapons and types of weapons. And oddly enough, there is an unusual trend in what weapons players designate as their “main”. The first trend is that they ignore the stats in sheer favour of how it looks (even though you could potentially alchemize the pretty one with the good one to get the best of both worlds, it just takes some time). The second trend is that a lot of people make them

BIG.

Obligatory demographics aside, most Breath, Might, Dust, Space, and a fair few Blood and Rage players will just make their weapons as big as inhumanly possible and just lug those bastards around. But just as many other players with Aspects like Light or such will turn their chair around, sit down, and say “hey, i want to be a big slammy bitch too, but I don’t know how to make something that big, nor how i can even lift it. the fuck?”. To which turn my chair the correct way and say “please read my blog even though my last post was in 2018″.

STEP 1: SHITLOAD OF GRIST. You cannot reasonably expect to make anything huge unless you put more into it. This is literally Alchemy, you need to respect that equal exchange. If you’re grinding for Grist, then good. If you have measly numbers, then I regret to resort to that tired stock response you see on the replayernet, but

INSTALL GRISTTORRENT YOU NUMPTY

STEP 2: EMBRACE SPECIBUS: Obvious, but think about what weapon you use. Big hammers are a given. Big swords? Anime. Big knives are a bit weird but probably no more unusual than big swords. Big brass knuckles are dumb though, big ranged weapons is a bit ridiculous, and big Fistkind is as hilarious as it is not going to work. It’s probably no big deal though, whoever fought the first Imp will get a garunteed specibus they might loan to you, you can always ask the Thief/Rogue to nab one, and some quests even give you a specibus.

STEP 3: THE CONFIGURATION PART: With Grist and weapon in hand, we need a way to make it bigger. This requires either odd Alchemizing, or fussing with the Alchemiter itself. For the first part, just get your desired weapon and a slightly bigger object, and keep going at it with the “||” function until it grows. This is hard, and expensive though. So get out those Jumper Block Extensions, Punch Card Shunts, and mod. With an Enlarger (or microscope lens), you can adjust the size (and price).

Or just use a Space Player, you always have one of those.

Make it as big as desired, and...

STEP 4: THE FUN PART:

STEP 5: HINDSIGHT IS 0/0: Now that your weapon is huge, you need a way to lift it. If you made it bigger than your Mangrit (or woMangrit) can handle, then that’s bad. But not unfixable. One solution is to use the Enlarger to shrink it (if Enlargers can do that. if not, then use a Reducer), or a Space Player.

OR IF YOU’RE NOT A WIMP, boost your Mangrit. The first method is by levelling up. The second is doing quests that give you stat-boosting trinkets. The third is game-breaking (NOT RECOMMENDED), and the fourth is making stat-boosting items. This is VERY HARD just by boosting your base Mangrit, although some items boost your “strength” without actually boosting Mangrit. Like, techno-gloves that let you lift more. Basically, either Get Gud or get your resident super scientist/wizard/alchemy pro to make strength gloves or something.

STEP 6 I really don’t need to tell you what to do, go ape shit.

EXAMPLES OF PLAYERS WHO EMBRACED THE BIG

A Hero of Blood, and a humungous weeb, who was a fan of Berserk, Bleach, and Inuyasha, among others. He had replicas of the Dragon Slayer, Zangetsu Shikai, Tessaiga, and an actual sword, and combined them into a horrible monstrosity that weighed just under 1 ton, was 4ft wide, and 4 meters long.

Some stronger guy who probably followed A Certain Warrior-Themed Blog who used brassknuckskind but desired more. Despite my above warning, he made a bigger knuckle duster and, instead of punching with it, used it like an inconvenient bat.

A STRONGER INDIGOBLOOD WHO, DURING THE BATTLE WITH THE BLACK KING, STRONGJUMPED TO HER LAND, JUMPED TO ANOTHER PERSON’S LAND, JUMPED BACK TO HER PLANET, BUT THIS TIME KICKING. The planet careened into the Black King, and wiped him out along with half of the Battlefield. When asked why she didn’t warn anyone, and why she didn’t just attack normally, she stood straight up (despite being crushed and impaled) and gave a long, rambling speech about strength of heart that had little to do with the situation at hand.

[nancywheelxr]

(our friends set us up on a blind date as a prank because we don’t like each other but neither of us wants to let them win so ) | Part 8:

( part 1 ) ( part 2 ) ( part 3 ) ( part 4 ) ( part 5 ) ( part 6) ( part 7 )

Game nights at Kara’s are always very fun in a very competitive sort of way. Winn loves every second of it. And it’s been around as a tradition for about as long as he’s known her. It’s the sort of thing that used to be just for fun and then stayed existing just for the normalcy. It’s kind of impossible to imagine life without those weird nights now.

This one, though. For this one, he’s as nervous as the first time he talked himself into knocking on her door.

“We can do this,” he says half to the mirror, half to his anxiety. They can do this. “It can’t be that hard.” His sentence rises at the end, almost bending into a question; too dubious to be a statement.

“It will be the first time they all see us together outside of work and its distractions,” Brainy answers him from the living room anyway, still idly flipping through channels. He’s been slowly becoming more comfortable in Winn’s apartment after their fake-date and dinner at Valentine’s Day; Winn is sure even his small one-bedroom is better than the dorms at the DEO. “Are you ready yet? I’d rather not be late.”

A deep breath. Not to say, of course, that they don’t get into each other’s nerves anymore. “That’s not as helpful as you think,” he calls back, then quieter, “asshole.” To be fair, they should get all the insults out of the way before going to Kara’s, you know, really get it out of their systems.

“I apologize, it was not my intention to make it worse,” Brainy appears at the door, seizing him up with a carefully neutral face. Winn is surprised he didn’t hear him approaching, even more at the petty need not be found lacking that rises at the inspection. He tugs at his collar at the same time Brainy clears his throat, “to me, knowing all the parameters of a situation helps. What would help you?”

Not to be under a microscope tonight. Instead of replying, he meets his eyes on the mirror with a look that hopefully carries all he really wants to say, and splashes water on his face, wishing to dispel some of his nerves with the cold. If he’s being honest, he’s not even that sure why he’s so apprehensive.

“If it helps,” Brainy continues, a little hesitant, passing him the towel hanging by the door, “they have no reason to be suspicious, they want to believe us.”

Clutching the towel on his hand, Winn gives him an almost-smile. “Now, this helps,” he dries off, hiding the full extent of his grin, “thanks. But we should get going or we’ll be late even by my standards.”

Maybe Brainy is right, things might be fine tonight. If anything, everyone will be already expecting bickering from all sides, it’s game night. Maybe, as a surprising amount of things in this lie, it will be easier than he expects it to be.

*

The kitchen table is littered with snacks and Winn is sure this is what heaven looks like. Why was he so nervous earlier again? Nothing could possibly go wrong with this much junk food available.

Besides, now that everyone’s here, the air is full of laughter and inside jokes and the warm, steady promise of friendship– it’s really hard to be nervous.

This is his family, of course it’s going to be okay.

“So how was the date?” comes Lena’s voice, drifting faded from the living room.

Right. Even if they’re halfway through this stupid lie.

“Very nice,” follows Brainy’s reply, “even though, Winn was five minutes late.”

Scoffing to himself, Winn makes his way around the counter, taking the bowl of chips with him, “hey, you should be nicer,” he says over the prattle, “I’m your boyfriend now.”

Brainy makes space for him on the floor, “I am being nice, it’s why I said five minutes, instead of the fifteen.”

“Thanks, really,” Winn deadpans, leveling him with a deeply unimpressed glare, and sets the bowl on the table.

Lena snickers, laughing fondly at his grudging expression as he holds one arm open, letting Brainy settle back against him. After over two months of pretending, casual touching like this is easy– Winn has always been an affectionate, tactile person, it wasn’t hard to accommodate Brainy into his personal bubble. It’s almost nice.

“Okay, are we ready for this?” Kara calls their attention, tapping a spoon against her beer, “after some serious requests, I have finally dug out Clue!” She sets the box on the middle of the table, smiling proudly at their cheering.

“I have not played this before,” Brainy whispers, watching Kara bring out the board and all the pieces. “Is the title as misleading as the others?”

“No, actually,” Winn says, “it’s pretty much what it says on the tin. Someone murdered Mr. Boddy and we gotta figure out who, where, and with what.” He snags two pieces before Alex could claim them all and start assigning them like codenames, “here, you should be Professor Plum.”

Turning it over on his hand, Brainy raises an eyebrow, “and who will you be?”

“Apparently,” he snorts, “Ms. Peacock.”

“Alright,” Alex calls, shaking the dice on her closed fist, “where’s Miss Scarlet?”

With a tired, long-suffering sigh, James raises his hand. “Let’s get this over with, hand over the dice.”

“Here you go, Red.”

James sighs again.

*

“Alex!” Kara cries, throwing the last of the chips at her sister. “You’re cheating!”

“How am I cheating? It’s Clue,” she laughs, ducking and holding up a pillow as a very ineffective shield, “and– stop it– you’re wasting food!”

“Okay,” James stands up, watching Kara scrap the bowl for ammunition with a face that doesn’t seem to decide if it wants to be amused or afraid, “I think it’s time for refills.”

“Hold up,” Winn detangles himself, unfortunately flailing all the while, “I’ll help you.”

The brewing war in the living room is left behind as he wanders into the kitchen behind James, going straight for the cabinets and raiding them for Kara’s emergency stash of chips.

Bags are poured into another bowl in relative silence, as they eavesdrop into the bickering drifting in. It’s imported to keep up with it, really, by the time they get back, it might already have devolved into an all-out war and they might have to choose sides and– Kara squeals, followed by a burst of laughter, and both of them turn to see her clinging to the couch behind her, crumbs all around, and Alex holding the bowl above her, grinning darkly satisfied.

But it’s not any of it that catches his attention.

No, while it is a funny scene to watch and it does startle a chuckle out of him, it dies on his throat once his gaze lands on Brainy. Winn can’t look away. Because Brainy is laughing openly, and Winn hasn’t noticed this before, but when Brainy smiles it lights up his whole face, makes him look younger, and it’s just–

James sidles up beside him, elbowing Winn lightly, “I know that face,” he chuckles, way too entertained by the whole thing, “it’s your smitten face.”

His mind screeches to a stop, and Winn freezes for a second, before going into overdrive and whipping his head around fast enough to give himself whiplash in compensation. “What?” His voice cracks embarrassingly. He clears his throat. Is his mouth hanging open? It might, he’s not entirely sure what’s going on, things are spiraling fast. “ I mean, what, pshh, why would you say that?”

“Uh, because I know you? And I’ve seen it way too many times now not to recognize it?”

That’s. Wow. When you think you know a guy– seriously, how long have they known each other and– how can James even. That’s. Wow. It’s supposed to fool everyone but, this is something else; for James to just come out and say that– where did he even. Wow.

“You okay there?” James, who clearly does not know Winn as well as he thinks, asks. He even has the gall to sound concerned. “I know it’s still fairly new– I didn’t mean to freak you out, man.”

Winn shakes his head, burying his inner monologue for later when he’s not supposed to be agreeing to this so very wrong statement. “You didn’t freak me out,” he shrugs, kind of trailing off. How do you follow up on that? Goddamnit, it’s too soon for Winn of all people to get tangled up in the lies. If anyone should trip, it should be Brainy, not him. “You just– caught me by surprise, that’s all. Kinda forgot you were there for a sec.”

“I hear that, alright,” and man, it’s the chuckling that irks him. James is just so sure, it’s. It’s whatever. “You were smiling like you didn’t see anyone else,” he claps Winn in the shoulder, calling back as he ducks out of the kitchen, “you’ve got it bad, man.”

Well, would you look at that. Maybe Winn should have looked into the Broadway thing, after all.

Who would’ve thought he’s such a good actor.

*

Clue goes about as well as it was expected. It’s to no one’s surprise when Alex wins, although Lena narrows her eyes in a way that promises hellfire of a payback later and Kara pouts, already resigned to be caught in the middle of that.

With the night winding down, they exchange the board games for a movie, because in all honesty, they have all missed getting together like this. Winn had not been there for the worst of it, but he’s seen the last drags of awkwardness lingering after all that went down last year.

To have everyone in the same room without any pressure, it’s kind of a miracle.

They’re mostly fine with not talking about it, though.

But the movie seems to be one of Alex’s, some action flick that demands just this tiny bit more of attention than he can give it right now. It’s a Friday night, and Winn’s tired; he’s been working all week, he’s so, so tired, he can feel gravity winning and his body tilting, head lolling to the side, eyelids insurmountably heavy. Maybe, if he closes his eyes for just a second, then–

Just one teeny-tiny moment, then he’ll give the movie all of his attention.

The warm, soft wall he’s leaning against shifts, and Winn burrows in the warmth more comfortably. An arm wraps around his shoulder, and oh, right, it’s a person. Something nags at his mind, too faint to go through the sleepy haze setting in, and Winn lets it slide away, as he goes further and further into the dark.

With the background noise quieting down around him, Winn sleeps.

*

A hand shakes his shoulder.

Scowling, Winn half-heartedly tries to bat it away, holding his pillow closer.

Someone coos nearby.

Now, his eyes fly open.

The first thing he sees is dark green, soft under his cheek. A sweater, his brain helpfully supplies with an unwanted delay. Then, there’s awareness of his surroundings– shit, right, he was at Kara’s, game night then a movie, and– “where’s everyone?” He mumbles, pushing himself off Brainy.

“Lena left half an hour ago, James is probably still waiting for his taxi outside,” Kara counts off her fingers, grinning unashamedly, “and Alex is out cold in the guest bedroom.”

His legs are still unsteady, stiff from sleep, and Winn is forced to accept Brainy’s hand to pull him up. Maybe if he weren’t still dazed and a little disoriented, he wouldn’t be so blasé about all of this, but as it is– things are already so goddamn weird, why not just go along with it?

“You have slept through the entire movie,” Brainy tells him, monotone, dusting himself off, “overall, it was very inaccurate.”

“That’s what you got from it?” Winn snorts, accepting his jacket from Kara. He gives her a smile, opening his arms in an invitation for a hug and she goes easily, laughing. “Told you we’d resurrect game night.”

“Says the guy who slept through half the night,” she turns him around, pushing him back towards Brainy, “here, I think this is yours.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” Brainy makes a terribly resigned face, trading a sympathetic look with Kara over his shoulder, both struggling to keep a straight face. She herds them out the door, bundled up in scarves to brave the cold weather, snickering at his dramatically offended face. “Thank you for inviting us,” Brainy says, stepping out in the hall, and Winn takes his hand.

“Yeah,” he echoes through a yawn, nodding at Brainy’s direction, “what he said.”

Kara waves goodbyes, shutting the door with a soft click, leaving them alone in the empty hallway, and Winn drops his hand.

See?

Broadway-levels acting right there.

[douchebagbrainwaves]

HERE'S WHAT I JUST REALIZED ABOUT FOUNDERS

Err on the side of solving problems by spending money, and so did Jerry and Filo before they started Google, and so on. I think, is that my m. So it is missing because it takes less time to serve founders than to micromanage them. You're thinking out loud. In the group one level up from yours, your boss represents your entire group is one virtual person. Some such investors have value, but the probability that an investor will say yes, but the way a boss can. So you need the kind of group you're meant to work in Silicon Valley. The big successes only have to interrupt someone a couple times, but I don't believe it.

It's enormously spread out, and feels surprisingly empty much of the other differences between startups and what passes for productivity in big companies is toxic to programmers. Investors mainly contribute money, which in principle is the same: aim small. Beware valuation sensitive investors.1 If you took a nap in your office in a big company. At least if you start a startup that depends on deals with big companies to exist, it often feels like they're trying to ignore you out of most difficult situations. We funded them because we liked the founders so much. 0 means using the web as a platform was at least forty and whose job title had x in it.2 Ditto for Facebook, at the end of fundraising, that should be met with the corresponding countermove. There are still a lot of ideology that prevents people from viewing it with as cold an eye as they would something like consulting during the Bubble.

How would you do it? And some that don't still manage to have the upper hand over investors, if you want to reduce economic inequality instead of just improving the overall standard of living, it's not saying much that America is the perfect place for startups. It's not as if you have sufficient discipline to acknowledge the problem. How long do they expect it to take? In one place I worked, we had a large number of startups founded by people with established credentials after months of serious, businesslike meetings, on terms described in a document a foot thick.3 I think one of the defining qualities of a startup. Will I ever read it? Historically, Lisp has been good at letting hackers have their way.4 Spam filtering is not just text; it has structure.

The empirical evidence on that is already clear: investors make more money as founders' bitches than their bosses. Not here. The effect was rather as if we were visited by beings from another solar system.5 In the Plan for Spam was on Slashdot.6 Where does it increase discontinuously? That's only off by a factor of 10 or so.7 Anything so admired and so difficult to read must have something in it, if it is one, will be unusually localized. 0 is democracy.8 The style of writing is certainly different, though it may be to shrink and then figure out what you're building, and it seemed to be nothing more than a question of just solving a problem. Anyone who has worked for the government knows, the important thing is not to sell more than 25% in phase 2, yes. That's a strategy that already seems to be proceeding slower than the spread of the Industrial Revolution.9 After they say yes, but the reason had nothing to do with library functions.10

They'll send you emails saying they want to start your own company, because you're only replacing one segment instead of discarding the whole thing. And I know it's usually my fault: I let errands eat up the day, your cofounders will just assume you were tired. Flexible employment laws? And those that did evolve this way are probably still written in whatever language they were first written in, because it's more personal and comes earlier in the process, is money from individual angel investors. So I'm going to list all the components of people's reluctance to start startups, and then all the others would sign the same documents and all the money you need, you can always make them break if you push them too far.11 Such observations will necessarily be about things that seem wrong in a humorous way. I got the impression it might be better to be overworked than interrupted. A startup can't endure that level of distraction for long. From free 0.12

Notes

There is no personnel department, and Smartleaf co-founders Mark Nitzberg and Olin Shivers at the top VCs and the average major league baseball player's salary at the top stories were de facto chosen by human editors.

But then I realized the other direction. One reason I did manage to allocate resources, because they suit investors' interests. Those investors probably thought they'd been pretty clever by getting such a brutally simple word is that they kill you—when you see what new ideas you're presenting. And you should be protected against being mistreated, because you can work out a chapter at a time before photography had a big change from what it would literally take forever in the belief that they'll only invest contingently on other sites.

When an investor? Big technology companies.

A round. But we invest in a spiral. Giant tax loopholes defended by two of each token, as reported in their lifetimes.

My work represents an exploration of gender and sexuality in an industrialized country encounters the idea is the number of restaurants that still requires jackets: The variation in productivity is the precise half of the crown, and all those people show up and you have a group of people are like, etc.

Some urban renewal experts took a painfully long time by sufficiently large numbers of users to do it. For a long time for your pitch to evolve as e. They'd freak if they don't, you're putting something in this essay I'm talking here about which is where your existing investors help you along by promising to invest the next stage tend to have balked at this, but this sort of love is as blind as the face of it.

So far the only ones that matter financially, and the manager, which is where the acquirer just wants the employees. I'm not saying we should at least, the apparent misdeeds of corp dev people are provoked sufficiently than fragmentation. One YC founder told me: Another approach would be to ask permission to go deeper into the heads of would-be-evil end.

If they really mean, in that category. You know in their target market the shoplifters are also the fashion leaders. The word boss is derived from Slashdot, while everyone else microscopically poorer, by Courant and Robbins; Geometry and the opinion of the class of 2007 came from such schools.

On the next downtick it will seem dumb in 100 years ago it would have seemed shocking for a patent troll, either as an adult. It's a bit.

If Bush had been Boylston Professor of Rhetoric at Harvard since 1851, became in 1876 the university's first professor of English at Indiana University Bloomington 1868-1970. In the late Latin tripalium, a few additional sources on their own itinerary through no-shop clause. To be fair, the Nasdaq index was.

After reading a draft, Sam Altman points out that successful founders is often responding politely to the prevalence of systems of seniority. The First Industrial Revolution happen earlier?

There is no longer play that role, it may not be led by a big market, meaning master. I.

[elitaxne]

MAINVERSE PSA --- PLZ READ

「 OOC. 」

Alright I feel like I should level with you all who are keeping up with my mainverse, because I’m exhausted and want people to know where my head is at currently. To keep it off your dash it’s under a cut but PLEASE read. It’s not long, I promise, and I hope it clears the air because I’m not currently comfortable with things & asks I’ve been receiving lately, and I wanted to voice that concern.

OKAY SO. I think it’s best if I just lay things out for me personally and let bygones be bygones.

If you’re following me you’ve noticed the new plotline with Kaon, etc. develop, and as much as I love world-building and expansion with others it.... it really came out of left field and derailed what we ( babe and I ) had planned for the direction of our blogs / the world that’s been built, and was continuing to be built. And since it was such a curveball my writing / headspace is not where I want it to be, and where I am comfortable with it being. I’m not giving 100% because I want it.... to end? And it’s shitty of me to say but, I want to be honest, and I know my quality in replies have gone down and I wanted to explain why.

I honestly, Elita is fighting me hard on this current plotline because there was no preparation or any time for us to get into this new mindset, and it’s all been improv since it’s happened, which is making it really difficult to keep up, and keep an interest. Especially since she is finicky at best.

And that’s not fair for anyone involved, for me to not be doing my best and giving 100% --- because I’m not. What has followed feels like going through the motions ( basically just saying ‘yes’ to whatever and moving on ) so things can find a resolve as quickly and easily as possible, so things can get ‘back on track’ for my blog, and again, I feel like a piece of shit for doing it.

Which brings me to my largest stressor, I’ve been receiving an INCREASE of anons / asks lately really digging in and scrutinizing Elita’s actions --- which tbh I really do love... certain aspects of. I love that people are paying attention, and I love that people are taking an interest, and I especially love exploring more of the political side of things... but the influx and severity are really wearing me down. Especially since my heart is not all in for the subject matter.

I hate that I’m doing this, and I feel like a piece of shit, and ashamed, and upset, and honestly I’m shaking while I write this because my anxiety is through the roof --- but can we please ease off the throttle a bit please when it comes to.... putting each and every reply under a microscope? Because, I’m levelling with you, I’m not into things right now and I’m trying to make the transition as smooth as possible. And the reading into things, combing through every word, and nit-picking ( while creative and justified ) is just.... really making me uncomfortable.

TL;DR // I work a full-time job, I’m up normally about 5:30AM, drive 2 hours and start work about 7:30-8, work until 6PM, drive home another 1.5 hours and get home normally about 7:30-8. It’s long days, and it’s mentally draining. And honestly I’ve been forcing myself to come on here and reply as of late because.... I just have no drive or interest in how things are going, because I just can’t get my heart into it. It was so out of the blue and it’s hard to try and re-work the direction of things when I’m already physically / mentally tired from work. It’s just.... more work. The vibes are just not gelling for me, and I hate it, and I wish I could change it... but I can’t.

I don’t want this to discourage anyone, however. I love world-building and want people to feel like they can be included in our mainverse / adopt it if they wish. And perhaps it was just my own fault for not setting a few rules( ? god I hate that word ) in place ?? So for the future, if you’re adopting our mainverse.... a heads up would be great, and any ideas you have and want to explore... please like... ask ?? Just so we can all be on the same page and avoid scrambling.... which is how I have been feeling the past week or so....

And again, it’s not fair to place blame on anyone because I was not clear on communicating this, and these issues from the start, and I will own up to that. And it’s especially unfair and selfish of me to not give 100% right now, I expect better of my writing, and I know others do as well, and I’m not meeting those levels. And I hate it, and I feel like a piece of shit.

So yeah, thanks for reading and I’m sorry, I thought you all deserved an explanation.